CHAPTER XV.
Two months have passed away, and the scarlet and gold of the fall is on all the vast forest that borders the Mohawk river.
In the English camp near Bemis Hights, General Burgoyne is holding a council of war with his officers, and the tall, burly form of Colonel Butler, in the dark green frock of the Johnson Greens, is conspicuous among the scarlet of the Generals. Butler has his left arm in a sling, still, from the effect of Adrian Schuyler’s cut, and his face is heavy and lowering as ever, as he urges some measure on the council with great energy.
“I hardly think, colonel, that the end warrants the risk attending the expedition,” said Burgoyne, at last. “This unfortunate affair at Bennington has crippled us badly, and we must not risk the little cavalry we have left on an uncertainty. The enemy’s parties are bold and wary, and there is no assurance that the whole party will not be taken prisoners or killed.”
“General Burgoyne,” said the partisan, grimly, “I stake my head on the result. I have not lived in this country for twenty years, without knowing every secret path. I will take your men by a way that no rebel shall hear of, and if I do not clear up this mystery of the Mountain Demon I will consent to be shot.”
“Your death would be a poor satisfaction for failure,” cried Sir John. “What do you expect if you succeed?”
“To save the army,” said Butler, boldly. “A month ago we were in good position, our allies swarming all round our flanks, bringing us news of the enemy. This juggler or demon has done more to drive away the faithless hounds of savages than anything else.
“While he remains a mystery not an Indian will stay in your camp. Let me once expose and unmask him, and they will flock to your standards anew. General, I speak as I feel, strongly. Twice has this fellow caused me to fail in my plans by his diabolical appearance, frightening away all my followers, and once even myself. At last I hit upon a clue to his identity, and Sir Francis Clark’s story confirms my suspicions. The place where he disappeared is well known to me, and if you will give me one squadron of dragoons, I engage to bring the impostor back, and with him our reassured Indian allies. I say that the gain is well worth the risk.”
When the partisan had finished, there was a deep silence in the room. Even Burgoyne felt the force of his words. It was true that his Indian allies had deserted him, wholesale, till he was left alone in an enemy’s country, without the means of obtaining intelligence, while his situation daily grew more desperate.
Excepting for the short intervals at the battle of Bennington and the flight of St. Leger, the ubiquitous visitor who had haunted his outposts so long made its appearance nightly,sometimes in one shape, sometimes another. Though chased and fired at, horse and rider were never harmed. Sometimes in the same likeness in which it had loomed through the battle smoke of Bennington, sometimes in the shape of the enemy of mankind, sometimes as a living skeleton gleaming in fire through the darkness, every night when the moon was absent the specter appeared.
The Indians were thoroughly cowed from the first when a white female figure was seen on the croup of the black horse, misty and ghost-like, as happened at the first visit. The wanton murder of poor Jenny McCrea recurred to their minds and they guiltily believed that her ghost was haunting them.
When the last Indian had fled, there was a short respite from this persecution of the outposts, only to return in a new form.
Since the flight of St. Leger, the English soldiery, harassed as they were by short commons in the day were deprived of sleep during the night by constant alarms. When the camp was at its quietest, and all were hoping for a quiet night, suddenly would come the blast of a horn, followed by shouts and shots, and they would see a squad of fiery figures on fiery horses galloping through the pickets cutting down the surprised soldiers.
Before a resistance could be organized, the unearthly visitors would disappear; leaving their marks in the shape of two or three videttes or sentries shot down. The attacks were never serious, never pushed far, but they occurred every night, sometimes in one quarter, sometimes in another, always coming suddenly and without a moment’s warning, till the pickets began to become demoralized, and the men could hardly be induced to stand guard at any distance from the camp.
It was under these circumstances that Colonel Butler, the partisan, offered his services at the council of war, to solve the mystery of the demon and his crew.
General Burgoyne was the first to break the silence that ensued on Butler’s speech.
“Gentlemen, you have heard Colonel Butler. You know the risk. We have but one squadron of cavalry left. Shallwe venture it? General Fraser, are you in favor of risk?”
“I am,” replied the officer addressed.
“And you, Philips?”
“Decidedly.”
“And you, baron?”
“Certainly. If we lose them, we are no worse off, behind our works. If we stop the enemy from annoying us, we have gained something.”
“Enough, gentlemen. Sir Francis Clark will accompany Colonel Butler, and guide the party to the place to which he tracked the strange being when he followed him, a few weeks ago. The council is dismissed.”
On the afternoon of the 5th October, a strong party of dragoons left the English camp headed by the bold and wary partisan who has figured in our pages under so many different names, in reality the most trusty spy and best leader of Indians in the pay of Burgoyne. Of his former history even his commander knew nothing, save that he had joined to volunteer his services at the taking of Ticonderoga.
Some baleful spirit seemed now to animate the partisan, urging him on to feverish eagerness, as he hurried the departure of the dragoons, and rode off, accompanied by Sir Francis Clark. The sound of the American bands behind Gates’ intrenchments, could be distinctly heard; for, since the battle of the 19th September, the English had moved forward to within cannon-shot of the American lines, where they had fortified themselves.
Butler shook his clenched hand at the enemy’s quarters with a look of rage, muttering to Clark, as he rode away:
“Let them blow and whistle, Clark. Once give me back my Indians, and we’ll soon sweep them out of the path.”
“If we can not do it without Indian help,” said the aid-de-camp, coldly, “I see but little chance of success. The Indians are but unreliable cattle at the best.”
Clark was by no means an admirer of Butler or his allies. In common with most of the cultivated English officers, he fell a strong repugnance to the employment of such barbarous allies.
Butler laughed sardonically.
“Ay, ay, that’s the way they all talk when ill luck falls on a man. I am no leader of pipeclayed grenadiers, and you look down on me. But by the light of heaven, Sir Francis, once let me get my warriors back, with my old corps of rangers, and I’ll show you that Indians can fight.”
The officer made no answer, and they rode on into the woods, till they struck the blaze that Sir Francis had made with his sword, which they followed without much difficulty.
Once on the track, the partisan took the lead at a rapid pace. His keen and practiced eye read the signs of the forest with far more ease than the aid-de-camp, even though the latter was following his own trail. The length of time since the blaze was made, and the faint nature of the marks would have puzzled the officer not a little, but to the partisan the task was but child’s play.
On they went at a pace of seven or eight miles an hour, through the rapidly darkling woods, till they found themselves, at sunset, in a country broken by ravines, where the blaze abruptly ended before a thicket of wild raspberries, which hid the entrance to a narrow gorge in the side of a hill.
Here Butler dismounted, and examined the vicinity carefully, when he announced to the aid-de-camp that a party of Indians were in the vicinity, and that he was going to seek them out and call them to his assistance.
The marks of moccasins had not deceived him. When he sounded a peculiar call on his turkey-bone whistle, it was answered almost immediately, and, soon after, a war-party of Mohawks made its appearance.