CHAPTER XIII.
The stars were shining bright and clear in the heavens, where the gray light of early dawn was beginning to pale a few on the eastern horizon, and the remains of the rain-clouds were driving toward the sea under the chilly north-west wind that ended the rain-storm.
A numerous force of men lay clustered in bivouac round the smoking camp-fires, and at one fire, separated from the rest, General Stark was walking to and fro, talking to Adrian Schuyler.
“And you say the girl galloped away from you, and would not even give you her name?” he said, inquiringly.
“True, General.”
“Why didn’t you chase her and bring her in?”
“For two reasons, General. First, she had just rendered us an important service. Secondly, her horse was too quick for any except mine.”
“Umph! sorry for it. Never mind, she’s a friend of yours, any way, and we’ll pay her for it, Schuyler, if she comes around. But you have brought me good news. I’ll have those fellows before the sunset to-night, and Burgoyne may whistle for his rations.”
At that moment the clear note of a bugle, a little distance off, rose sweetly over the silent landscape, blowing the reveille, and Stark paused and consulted his watch, with a low chuckle, saying:
“I tell you what, Cap, our boys may not be as smart-looking as your Prussians, but you’ll find them pretty prompt for all that. I don’t believe your great Frederick could put his men under arms any quicker than Jack Stark puts his Green-Mountain Boys into the ranks. Look there.”
Adrian looked round, and smiled in approbation.
At the close of the long-call the whole bivouac had changed its appearance as if by magic, and where there had been rows of slumbering figures, now stood long ranks of armed men, rapidly assuming the order of perfectly straight lines. The voices of the sergeants calling the rolls rose on the morning air before all the bugles had ceased blowing, and the camp assumed an appearance of order and bustle, not often seen outside of regular troops.
Schuyler expressed his surprise at the discipline exhibited after so short a training, and Stark abruptly broke him off.
“No wonder, lad, no wonder. These are not German louts picked up anywhere, with heads like oxen. These are free men, come down from the times of Cromwell, with hardly a change. It needs only that they should see the necessity of order, and they’ll come to it, fast enough. Ha! what’s that?”
His last words were elicited by the sound of a shot coming from the picket-line, closely followed by two more. In a moment Adrian Schuyler was on his feet, and standing close to his horse, which was tied to a tree near by. The little squad of rangers under his orders, the only cavalry in Stark’s command, was already ranged near by, answering roll-call; and the captain sprung on his horse, with the intention of calling them out, when the voice of Stark prevented him.
“Let it go, Cap. ’Tis but a single man, coming this way!”
Adrian followed the General’s pointing finger, and distinguished the outline of a galloping horseman, rapidly approaching the fire in the gray dawn.
Presently up dashed a man on a black horse, and halted suddenly in front of the fire. Of his figure all that could be seen was a shadow in a loose cloak, and a shadowy hat was slouched over a face of marble paleness.
The strange horseman addressed himself to General Stark, as directly as if he knew him well, saying in a deep, hollow voice:
“John Stark, if you wish to save your country, march on the enemy at once. Reinforcements are coming up, and will be here by sunset. Exterminate what are here, before the others come up, and God speed you. Farewell.”
Then, before even the quick-witted General could guess his intention, he was off, and galloping through the camp at full speed. Stark shook his head as he looked after him.
“Yonder goes a strange man,” he said to Adrian, “and if I did not know him, I should say a spy.”
“What, do you really know him?” asked Adrian, eagerly. “I, too, recognized his face, but only as that of an apparition that—”
“What apparition?” queried the General, sharply. “What do you mean by talking of such stuff, sir?”
“Only this, General,” said the hussar stoutly, “that the face I just now saw under that shadowy hat is none other than that of the creature your men call the Mountain Demon. I saw it only once, but I shall not forget it in a hurry.”
Stark uttered his customary grunt, but made no further observation on the occurrence, and very soon the duties of the camp took them both away.
By the time the sun was up, the whole force was scattered round the fires, busily engaged in cooking breakfast, and a short time after columns of march were formed, and the little army of patriots took up their march to the gay tune of the drum and fife.
The British bull-dog and the German boarhound stood stubbornly at bay behind the brown trenches in the little curve of the Wollonsac. At the summit of a hillock stood a battery of four brass pieces, behind which, rank upon rank of riderless horses stood patiently at their posts, awaiting the result of the battle. The whole of Baum’s force was made up of dragoons, who fought desperately on foot, to defend their led horses.
All around the camp the grim circle of patriots was pressing closer and closer on the British, in a ring of white smoke, through which the red flashes of rifles shot incessantly. The rattle of musketry was, and had been for three mortal hours, “one long clap of thunder,” as Stark himself afterward wrote.
And still the battle hung in suspense. The General’s horse was shot under him, and he rushed about on foot, his drawn sword gleaming in his hand, encouraging his troops to stand up against the fearful fire. The Americans had no artillery, and no bayonets on their rifles, but they rushed on to the charge with just as much vigor as veterans, and still the battle wavered.
It was just at this doubtful moment, when the least influence, one way or the other was important, that a loud, ringing cheer was heard over the roar of the musketry-firing, and through the white smoke rushed several horsemen at full speed, riding up the hillocks on whose summit the English battery was planted.
First on a charger as black as jet, rode a tall, thin officer in the broad-plumed hat and black curling wig of many a long year before. His black velvet coat and bright steel breastplate were those one sees in the portraits of Louis the Fourteenth of France, and he waved a long rapier in his hand, of the same antique fashion.
Even in the momentary glimpse caught of him amid the battle smoke, men marveled at the paleness of his face, and at the weird fire in his cavernous black eyes.
Following him closely was Adrian Schuyler, with his score of mounted rangers, but all seemed to be under the sway and control of the pale man on the black horse. A moment later, the black charger was among the guns, and the long bladeflashed in the air, as the pale rider smote right and left with fearful strength.
Then like a wave, the handful of horse dashed on the dismounted dragoons and cut their way through. It was but a trifling aid, but all-sufficient.
The sight encouraged one party and discouraged the other proportionately.
With a roar and a volley, the Americans followed, and the German dragoons broke and fled.
Past the swaying, helpless herd of led horses they were driven, too much harassed to be allowed time to mount. Pell-mell after them followed the Green-Mountain Boys, and Bennington was won.