CHAPTER VI.
Captain Butler, for such was the name by which the partisan seemed to be known, took the parchment extended by the prisoner, and examined it closely.
“Why, this is only a commission,” he growled. “What do I care for that? I want your dispatches, Captain Schuyler, since that seems to be your name.”
“I have none, on my word as an officer,” said Schuyler calmly.
“Then what were you doing on the road to Derryfield?” asked Butler, bending his shaggy brows on the other.
“On duty,” was the laconic reply.
“What kind of duty?”
“That is my own affair and my General’s.”
“Who is your General?”
“General Philip Schuyler.”
“So,” said the ranger leader, musingly. “Are you a relation of his?”
“His second cousin.”
“On his staff?”
“As an aide—yes.”
“What uniform is that you wear? I know none such among the rebel ragamuffins.”
“It is the uniform of the Zieten regiment of hussars, in the Prussian service.”
Butler looked at the other with more respect. At that time, the name of Frederic of Prussia was as famous as that of Napoleon, twenty-five years later, and the Tories, while despising the “rebels,” held a great reverence for the few foreign officers who had found their way into the American service.
“Have you, indeed, served in the Zieten Hussars?” be asked.
“Seven years,” said young Schuyler, proudly.
“You must have been a boy when you entered.”
“I was—a cadet.”
“And what brought you back here to link your fortunes with these rebels, sir?”
“My country. She was in danger, and I owed her my life.”
“What orders did you carry to Derryfield?”
The hussar smiled slightly, and remained silent.
Butler looked at him with a gloomy but hesitating manner. He did not seem so much incensed against the hussar since he had discovered the famous corps to which he belonged.
“Look here, captain,” he said, suddenly, altering his manner to one of complete cordiality, “there can be no use in hiding the truth from me. I have no ill-feeling against you for treating me so roughly. It was war-time, and a hussar should always be on the alert. But why should an officer of your experience take a side which must be the losing one in this struggle, when a commission in the king’s service awaits you, if you wish? Already General Burgoyne has your cousin enveloped in the toils, at Albany, and another week will see the rebels cut in half, from the lakes to New York. I know why you went to Derryfield. It was to try and rousethe Vermont militia. But it is of no use, I assure you. Who is in command there, by the by?”
Schuyler again smiled, but made no answer.
The partisan leader frowned in a vexed manner at that.
“Captain Schuyler,” he said, in a low, grating voice, “remember there are Indians round you. For the last time, what was your errand?”
“For the last time, Captain Butler, I will not tell you.”
Butler changed his manner to its old repulsive sullenness.
“Very well. Your blood on your own head.”
He spoke a few words in the Mohawk tongue, and Schuyler was seized and bound hand and foot in an incredibly short space of time, then cast down at the foot of a tree, and left between two guards, to sleep if he could.
The last words of the partisan had led him to anticipate immediate torture, at least, but such did not seem to be the intention of his captors. He was left to himself, in a position far from uncomfortable as regarded warmth, with a tree overhead and a fire near him, while his bonds, though secure, were by no means painful.
Meanwhile, the few simple preparations of the Indians for camping out had been completed, and the whole band lay stretched around the fire, with their feet in close proximity. The leader had wrapped himself in a cloak and lain down a little apart, and every thing was quiet, as Adrian Schuyler softly raised his head to look for his chances of escape. He counted his enemies, and found that there were only thirteen Indians and six soldiers present, including Butler. Where the other bands had gone, he could not tell, but none were there.
Young Schuyler had not served under the best light cavalry Generals of Europe without acquiring much fertility of resource and boldness of character. To be left alone was, with him, to plan some means of escape, and as he lay there, he considered that in the morning his chances would probably be desperate.
He lay quite still for some time, till he heard the deep breathing of sleepers on all sides. Then he rolled over to one side, nearer one of his guards, the knife at whose belt excited his hopes.
The instant he moved, a deep voice accosted him from behind a neighboring tree, saying, in English:
“Roll back!”
The hussar obeyed, and his heart sunk as he did so. He was evidently watched by a hidden sentry.
A moment later the man moved out from the tree against which he had been leaning, a stalwart ranger of the “Johnson Greens.”
Without another word, he grounded his rifle-butt, and stood leaning on the muzzle, looking at Schuyler with grave attention. From that moment the young officer saw it was useless to move till that gaze was off him.
Resigning himself to his fate, he pretended to go to sleep, and insensibly the warmth and silence lulled him into a doze, from which he woke with a sudden start, after a lapse of time that he could not compute exactly.
When he looked round, the fire was burning low, and all was in gloom. The sentry had left his post, but Schuyler could distinguish the dark outline of his form leaning against a tree. Silently as he could, the hussar rolled over once more toward his nearest guard, and this time there was no warning from the sentry. With his head bowed on his hands, which were clasped on the muzzle of his rifle, the latter was sleeping and snoring audibly.
The prisoner raised his manacled hands to withdraw the knife from the sleeping Indian’s belt, and was already in the act of touching him, when a sudden interruption occurred to the quiet—an interruption of the most awful character.
A bright glare of red light shot over the scene from above, and the astonished hussar beheld, in the midst of the branches of the tree over his head, a blazing ball of crimson fire.
On a lower branch, stood a gigantic black figure, which Schuyler recognized, with an indescribable sensation of awe and superstition which he could not conquer, as the very embodiment of the traditional idea of the Genius of Evil himself.
The gaunt, gigantic figure, with short, upright horns on its head, black from head to foot, with steely gleams; the deathly white face, with great burning eyes and pointed mustache, curved upwards in a malicious grin of triumph;all were the usual and traditional aspects of the fiend in art.
For one moment the horrible demon stood erect on a branch, holding another above his head, while he brandished a bundle of darts in his left hand.
Not a soul in camp was awake but Schuyler, who fancied himself for a moment the victim of nightmare, so inexplicable was the vision to his senses.
Then there echoed a triumphant laugh from the tree, and a deep, hoarse voice roared out:
“Ha! ha! ha! ha!!! I gather them in! I gather them in!”
Even at the second word, every man in camp started up, and stood gazing spellbound at the fearful figure.
Then, with a final yell of fiendish laughter, the demon leaped down on the head of an Indian, and cast a shower of his darts in all directions. Every one went with fearful force and unerring aim straight to the heart of a victim, and four men fell writhing to the earth in as many seconds.
Then, with a low wail of inexpressible terror, white and red, without venturing a blow or shot for defense, flew in wild dismay in all directions.
As for Schuyler, he was too much astounded to move. His bonds also prevented him, had he been so inclined. He lay mutely gazing up at the extraordinary apparition as it stood over the fire dealing death around it, expecting his own death to follow.
Suddenly, almost in the instant that his captors fled, there was a loud explosion in the top of the tree, and the red glare vanished to be replaced by a profound darkness, in the midst of which the wild laugh of the specter sounded fearfully distinct, while the rapid rush of feet through the leaves told of the flight of every one else.
Adrian Schuyler lay perfectly still. He was not naturally superstitious, but the strange events he had witnessed were enough to rouse the fears of the bravest. He remained where he had fallen, listening to the receding feet, after which all was silent.
How long he lay there he could not tell. The stillnessof death hung over the forest for hours, but he feared to move, least he might attract the notice of the strange creature. Where it had gone to, he did not know, but he fancied it must be near, from having heard nothing of its departure.
Thus the hussar lay on his back by the glimmering embers, till the doubtful light of dawn stole over the scene, and revealed the empty forest to his view, with a heap of corpses lying by an extinguished fire.
The demon had vanished.