CHAPTER VIII.
The night brooded over the white tents, and glimmering fires of a great army, which lay on the open ground near Saratoga. Street after street of tents and marquees, in martial array, stretched its long lines, now silent and dark, perpendicular to the color line. Outside the camp glimmered embers of the few fires that were left burning, and some distance off, on the plain, and amid the little patches of wood, were the brighter fires that told of the outlying pickets.
Occasionally, the distant challenge of a sentry would be heard, to be followed by the same routine of “Who goes there?” “Rounds.” “Halt, rounds, advance one with the countersign. Countersign correct. Pass, Rounds, and a-all’s well!” The last words drawn out into a long, musical call, caught up and repeated along the line of outposts.
Inside the camp there were no lights, save in one spot, around the headquarter tents, which were clustered, in apparent confusion, in the vicinity of a large, half-ruined house, in which the commander kept his private quarters.
In these tents lights were burning, fires were kindled infront, and a number of officers were writing at different desks, while orderlies, at short intervals, entered and emerged from the quartermaster-general’s tent.
In the large, old-fashioned parlor of the farm-house, which was still comfortably furnished, and lighted with two wax-candles in silver candlesticks, a stout officer, in the scarlet uniform of a lieutenant-general, was walking up and down, with his hands behind his back, occasionally stopping to speak to a second officer in the dark green uniform of the Hessians, who stood in an attitude of attention, to listen and answer the questions of his commander.
General Sir John Burgoyne was a handsome and intellectual man, a little past the prime of life, and by no means the tyrannical blockhead he has been represented. On the contrary, his literary abilities were quite considerable, his powers of mind great; and, up to this time, his campaign had been conducted on sound military principles, his army having carried all before it.
The expression on his face that night, however, was one of decided anxiety, as he conversed with the officer before mentioned.
“How long has this been going on, baron?” he asked, at length.
“For a whole week, General, as near as I can find,” was the reply, in very pure English, for Baron Reidesel prided himself on his accent.
“And you say that the Indians are beginning to leave us?”
“General, they have already left us, in large numbers. If something be not done to stop the panic, to-morrow they will leave in a body.”
Sir John Burgoyne looked anxious and perplexed.
“Would to heaven the Government would not employ them at all,” he said. “They do us more harm with their atrocities, than their services balance. That unfortunate affair of Jenny McCrea has raised public feeling against us to a fearful extent, and now, when they might be most useful, they are frightened to death, and deserting, because of some masquerading rebel, who plays tricks on them with raw-head-and-bloody-bones apparitions. Have the soldiers heard of the panic, baron?”
“I regret to say, General, that our own outposts are catching the infection, since the Indian chief, Creeping Wolf, was killed in sight of our pickets. The man or demon, whichever it be, seemed to laugh at their bullets, and disappeared, so they say, in a blaze of red flame.”
“Bah!” said Burgoyne, contemptuously, “’tis some conjuring trick. It can not be possible that our men are so foolish as to fear it. I must see that the rounds keep them awake. The fellows grow lazy, and dream. I shall visit the pickets myself to-night.”
Baron Reidesel brightened.
“The very thing, General. If we keep up their spirits, they will recover. I only hope we can gain the Indians back.”
“There is only one way, that I see, baron. We must catch this fellow who disturbs us, and hang him. Doubtless it is some rebel spy. One good thing. St. Leger sends me word that Fort Schuyler must soon surrender, and that will encourage the waverers. Then, Baum’s dragoons must be at Bennington by this time. Let them bring us provisions, and I’ll make short work of Schuyler’s militia. Go and ask General Fraser, and Philips, and the rest, to come with us, baron. I’ll be ready in five minutes, and will make a grand round of all the outposts.”
“Very good, General,” was the reply, as the baron saluted and left the apartment, while Burgoyne, mechanically putting on his sword, stood by the fire, moodily cogitating.
He was roused from his reverie by a slight noise in the room, and looking, started in amazement.
A man of wonderful hight, but gaunt as a skeleton, stood within six feet of him, looking at him out of great cavernous eyes, that glared from the midst of a deadly pale face. The man was muffled in a long black cloak, and his face was shadowed by a broad slouched hat. He stood regarding Burgoyne in silence.
“Who the devil are you, sir?” asked the General, angrily, as soon as he had recovered his first shock.
“Your fate,” answered the stranger, in a hollow voice.
“My fate?” echoed Burgoyne, contemptuously. “Perhaps, then, you are the masquerading rebel who has frightened my Indians?”
“I am the demon of the forest,” answered the other, in the same hollow tones.
Burgoyne laughed scornfully.
“Indeed? Then you are just the man I want to see. Here, sentry?”
He strode to the door and threw it open, expecting to see the sentry usually stationed there.
There, across the threshold, lay the dead body of the soldier, in a pool of blood!
Horror-stricken, Sir John recoiled a moment. Then, whipping out his sword, he stalked up to the stranger, saying sternly:
“Youhave done this, but, by heaven, you shall not escape.”
The unknown remained impassive, with his arms folded, and only smiled sardonically.
“I told you I was your fate,” he said. “Be warned in time. Go back while you may. A week hence will be too late.”
“Fool,” said the English General, contemptuously, “you may frighten superstitious savages with your hocus-pocus, not me. Surrender, or you are a dead man.”
For all answer the stranger advanced on the General with folded arms, while fire and smoke began to issue from his mouth!
Incensed at the exhibition, Burgoyne made a violent thrust at the other with his sword.
The weapon snapped on the stranger’s body as if it had been made of glass, and the next instant Burgoyne felt the pressure of long, skinny fingers on his throat, which he in vain tried to throw off, while the stranger, with gigantic strength, pressed him backward and backward, till he lay bent over his knee, slowly choking to death.
What would have been the result of this scene is not doubtful, but, just at that moment, the sound of footsteps was heard in the passage, with the clank of spurs and swords.
The terrible stranger cast down the nearly senseless body of the General with a crash to the ground, and stood up.
A moment later, several general officers came up the passage, and paused with horror at the sight which met them.
The murdered sentry lay across the threshold; Burgoyne,apparently dead, lay on the floor by the table, while over him towered a gigantic figure, extendingblack, shadowy wings, his pale face and burning eyes glaring from between upright black horns, while fire and smoke came from his mouth!
A moment later there was an unearthly laugh. The demon flapped his wings over the table, and out went the lights in intense darkness! Through the gloom came the hoarse shout:
“Ha! ha! ha! ha!!! I gather them in! I gather them in!”
Then came a thundering report, as of the closing of a door and all was still. The apparition had vanished.