THE MISSING MESSAGES.
The sun had been up a full half hour the next morning when Joe awoke.
Raising his head he looked about him. He was alone. Springing to his
feet he hastened to the door. The camp-fire had been built; the
breakfast was slowly cooking; but Ira was nowhere to be seen.
A low splash, as though some one was wading across the pond, reached his
ears. The tent faced south, while the approach to the island by the way
of the brook was from the east. He was obliged, therefore, to step
outside his shelter in order to obtain a view of the direction from
which the sound came.
The moment he did so he found it difficult to suppress the cry of alarm
that rose to his lips, for there, not more than two rods away, was a
stranger, who, having just put on his huge boots after wading over to
the island, looked up in time to catch sight of him. Instantly bringing
his rifle to his shoulder the intruder called out in loud, gruff tones:
“Stand where you are, youngster. Any attempt on your part to get a gun
will force me to fire.”
Seeing his words had the required effect, he came a little nearer, and
continued:
“Your companion ran away when I came up. Is it he, or you, who has my
iron cross?”
For an instant Joe could do no more than stare at the speaker. Could it
be that the real Ira Le Geyt had escaped from the hands of General
Schuyler, and in some way traced out the lad who was intending to
personate him in the British camp?
“Who be ye?” he finally questioned, using the time he gained thereby to
examine the newcomer carefully.
He certainly resembled the other Ira. This fellow did not appear to be
quite so tall; he was more stout; his hair was a shade or two darker;
his nose was more prominent; and he looked older.
There was a greater difference in his dress. He wore high top-boots, an
English hunting suit of costly material, a belt of polished leather,
containing a brace of pistols and a silver-handled knife, while on his
back was a huge knapsack, apparently filled to overflowing.
Scarcely had Joe learned all this, when the answer to his query came in
an angry voice:
“Who am I? You ought to know. Again I ask, have you my iron cross?”
This settled matters with the listener. Here was the real Ira, and the
thing to do was to outwit and capture him, call back his friend, and
then their plans might go on as arranged. With this object in view he
edged slowly along towards the intruder, saying innocently:
“I never saw you before, an’ I’ve nothin’ belongin’ to you, sir, but—”
and with a tremendous bound he caught his antagonist’s gun, tearing it
from his grasp. Flinging it away, he seized the owner by the body,
pinning his arms to his sides, and then finished his sentence, “I’ve got
you.”
To his surprise there was no struggle. Instead, a voice he knew well
cried out laughingly:
“Well done, Joe; but you must admit I as neatly fooled you. I guess I
shall be able to play my part at the British quarters.”
“It looks like it, I swaney,” Joe said a little sheepishly. Releasing
his prisoner, he stepped away a few feet and looked him over again, this
time more critically.
“It beats anythin’ I ever heard of,” he at length declared. “Though I
knew you were goin’ to rig up in some way, I thought the real Ira had
stolen a march on us, an’ got into camp—leastwise, you seemed like the
real Ira to me, though I’ve never set eyes on him. Unless the red-coats
know him better than I do, they’ll take you for him, sure.”
“Of course it is possible more than one of the British officers may know
Le Geyt,” the lad said thoughtfully, “or some person come into the lines
who has seen him. But I think the risk is small. His visits to this part
of the state have not been frequent, and, while his name is familiar,
his face and form are not. I flatter myself I have a make-up that quite
resembles him, and believe I can successfully carry out the part. Let us
have breakfast, and then I will be off.”
As he spoke he dropped his pack beside the gun, and, going to the fire,
helped himself to the smoking food. Joe followed his example, and they
ate almost in silence.
The meal finished, Ira removed his huge boots, and, adding them to his
bundle, started down the brook. His comrade followed as far as the great
maple, and from there watched, as he, after resuming his foot-gear,
walked slowly toward the British camp.
He would have been greatly excited had he witnessed what befell the
traveler a few moments later. Emerging from the ravine, he had gone but
a few rods when a stalwart Indian leaped from a thicket and grasped him
by the shoulder. The next instant a half-dozen more surrounded him.
Though offering no violence, it was clear they intended to make him a
prisoner.
Instead of being disturbed by this mishap, the captive seemed to rejoice
over it. He smiled pleasantly, laid his hand gently on the shoulder of
the man who first seized him, and who was apparently the chief of the
party, saying in the native tongue:
“My brother, you are from the great camp by the lake.”
A grunt of assent came from the captor.
“Take me there at once,” the prisoner continued with some show of
authority. “I have important business with General Burgoyne, the
commander.”
His words were not without their effect. Releasing him, the Indian said
in a tone of inquiry: “Ira Le Geyt?”
“Ira Le Geyt,” the youth repeated, and at the same moment he drew from
the bosom of his coat the iron cross.
At sight of the bit of metal the chieftain gave a peremptory order to
his men to fall in behind him, and then, side by side with the captured
lad, strode away towards the encampment.
They were not long in reaching the first outpost. To the guard the
Indian uttered the two English words, “King George,” and was allowed to
pass with his entire party.
Once within the lines the chief sent his followers to their quarters,
and then led his companion swiftly across the enclosure to the tent of
the commander, which he entered without ceremony.
“General! Ira Le Geyt!” he said, and then vanished.
Two men turned to face the newcomer; one in the uniform of a
major-general, the other in the garb of a private citizen, for their
backs had been toward the entrance, while they were giving undivided
attention to a rude map or chart which was spread out upon the camp bed.
“I beg your pardon for this intrusion, General Burgoyne,” the young
scout began, bowing low before that officer, “It was due to my
conductor, one of your Indians, who ran on me in the forest.”
“It is all right, Master Le Geyt,” the commander replied good-naturedly.
“Indeed, your coming is most timely. My companion, who, by the way is
Master George Preston, a courier who came from Quebec with us, and is to
go on to New York with a message for General Clinton from Lord Germain,
and I, were trying to trace out on this map the best route for him to
follow down the river. Perhaps you, who, I am informed, are familiar
with this entire region, may be able to help us. Would you advise him to
take the east or west side?”
Ira stepped to the bed, ostensibly to examine the map, which proved to
be a crude and inaccurate affair, but really to gain time in which to
think over the situation. Here was work for him immediately. If this man
had a message for General Clinton from Lord Germain, the War Secretary
in London, it was altogether too important to be allowed to reach its
destination. But how should he prevent it, and obtain possession of the
paper?
He cast a furtive glance at the courier to ascertain the kind of man he
had to deal with. The look was hardly reassuring. Clearly George Preston
was not a man to be easily thwarted. Forty years of age, nearly a giant
in strength and stature, with a face that suggested courage,
resourcefulness, and faithfulness to duty. It was certain he had been
selected for the task assigned him because he could be thoroughly relied
upon.
All this the lad took in during the brief minute he stood silent, and at
once decided upon a plan which he believed would enable him to
accomplish his purpose. Then he said in answer to the question asked
him:
“Both, sir. He better make directly for the river from here, and,
crossing it, go down the west side until below Albany. Then, recrossing
it, follow the east side to his destination. In this way he will escape
the main forces of the enemy, and so lessen his chances of being
captured.”
“That is what I told you, Master Preston!” exclaimed the general in
triumph. “I need the aid of Clinton too badly to run any risk of your
message failing to reach him. Take the safer way, even though it
involves a longer journey. Twenty-four hours delay in the delivery of
the letter is nothing, if it in the end reaches the general.”
“My chief objection to the plan lies in this:” the courier said quietly.
“It is unlike the route laid out for me in St. John. I had rather obey
the letter, as well as the spirit, of my orders.”
“A good practice, truly,” General Burgoyne replied heartily, “and one
that proves you are the man for this work. But our friends in St. John
did not know what might arise, and therefore left you to your own
judgment. I am exceedingly anxious that you use every precaution
possible to carry Lord Germain’s message safely through the enemy’s
lines.”
“You cannot be more anxious than I,” Master Preston said calmly, “and I
have something more to say, provided our friend here is all he claims to
be. It may be over-caution on my part, but if I recollect rightly, he
has nothing but the word of that Indian to back him,” and he gave the
officer a glance which caused him to flush slightly.
“Master Le Geyt answered so fully the description I had received of
him,” the general replied somewhat haughtily, “that I was at once
satisfied he was all he claimed to be. Nor is the Indian’s word of so
little value as you seem to think. He must have known the young man, or
he would never have brought him here. But since you have your doubts, he
can, I am sure, show what will convince us that he is as trustworthy as
yourself,” and he glanced confidently at the youth.
“I thank you, General Burgoyne, for so much confidence in me,” Ira
replied, “and I commend the caution of Master Preston. He has a perfect
right to demand full proof of my identity before giving me any
information which might be of value to an enemy. I will then, with your
permission, hand him my credentials first,” and, ripping open the lining
of his coat, he took out two slips of paper, which he gave to the
courier.
“The first is my commission as a scout from the general here,” he
explained. “The second is from our good friend, Lord Germain, and bears
his official seal. You will see that he vouches for my loyalty, and
suggests that General Burgoyne employ me during this campaign. I believe
it was this paper that led the general to send me the other, though he
had never seen me.”
“I also had a personal note from the Secretary, giving me a description
of you, and setting forth in detail how you could be of special service
to me,” the commander hastened to add. “Are you satisfied, Master
Preston?”
“I ought to be,” the latter declared, “and to prove it I will now make a
disclosure, general, which I have up to this time withheld, even from
you.”
As he spoke he took a small package from his coat pocket, and opening
it, brought to view three papers.
“This,” he said, “is the letter to Sir Henry Clinton; this is my
passport into any and all of our army lines; and this is the document I
wish to show you. You will notice, General Burgoyne, that our friends at
St. John were not in ignorance of the best route for me to follow in
going to Yew York, and also will understand the real reason why I hold
for the path they have marked out.”
Unfolding the paper with these words of explanation, he showed his
companions a carefully prepared route of the entire distance he was to
travel. Each day’s journey was laid out; every stopping place, with the
name of his host, was written down, and, now and then, beside a name was
a peculiar mark.
“Note these references,” he continued, “are concerning those men who are
to give me special tidings as to the number and position of the rebels
in their vicinity. James Graham of Hubbardtown, where I make my first
stop, will tell me the latest news about Fort Ticonderoga; William
Erskine will report as to the condition of affairs about Fort Edward.
The other men will in turn post me about matters in their neighborhood,
so that when I reach my destination I expect to be the bearer of
information to General Clinton which will greatly aid him in despatching
a force up the river to join you at Albany.”
Before he finished speaking Ira had read and fixed in his memory the
names of the men who were to assist the courier. He knew some as rank
Tories, but there were others who had the reputation of being friendly
to the Cause, and, therefore, were allowed to come and go freely in the
encampments near them. This revelation of their true character he
regarded of sufficient value to repay him for all the risk he had run in
entering the British camp.
“I had not thought of that, Master Preston,” the commander admitted.
“The additional information you gain may be worth the chances you take
in following that route. It is clear the authorities at St. John
believed it would be. But I advise you to travel only in the night, and
lay quietly in quarters during the day.”
“Precisely what I have planned to do, general. Leaving here to-night I
count, unless I lose my way, to reach the house of Master Graham before
sunrise. After that I shall have no trouble, for, if need be, a guide
can be furnished me from station to station.”
“And you may have a guide to Master Graham’s door,” the young scout said
modestly. “That is, if you are willing to accept my humble services.”
“I certainly am, and thank you for the favor,” the courier answered
heartily. “It removes the only anxiety I had about this first stage of
my journey. We will start about nine o’clock, if that suits you.”
“Perfectly.”
“And you, General Burgoyne, can have your letter to Sir Henry ready by
that time?” he asked.
“Yes; but I hope you have some safer place than your pocket for it and
those other papers,” the general replied, as Master Preston began to
wrap up the documents he had exhibited.
“Don’t borrow any trouble on that score, my dear sir,” the man replied
with a peculiar smile. “I may be captured, and my garments picked to
pieces, but I assure you the missives will not be found,” which
declaration was credited by one, and doubted by his other hearer.
An orderly now appeared, saying that General Fraser was without and
desired an interview with the commander.
“Show him in,” was the reply of that officer, and then, turning to his
other visitors, he added, “I shall be busy during the remainder of the
day, but an half-hour before you begin your journey I will be glad to
see both of you here. The tent at the right, Master Le Geyt, has been
prepared for you,” and then he turned to greet his subordinate, who had
already entered.
“I shall spend some hours in a much needed rest,” the young scout
announced to his companion, when they were outside; “but will join you
at sundown, if you so desire.”
“I will call for you when I come to report to the general,” Master
Preston replied, and then hastened off to his own quarters.
Ira left his tent but once during the day. That was just after dinner,
and for a stroll in the forest. He was absent about two hours, and on
his return brought a fine string of trout he had caught.
“A present for the general,” he said to the courier, whom he chanced to
meet soon after he entered the lines.
“I wish you had taken me with you,” the latter cried enthusiastically as
he inspected the speckled beauties. “If there is anything I enjoy more
than running the lines of the enemy, it is angling, and you have the
finest catch I have ever seen in this country.”
“Then that shall be a bond between us,” was the hearty response. “I knew
of a pool a mile or two from here, and could not resist the temptation
to pull out a string. You’ll be here in a few hours?”
“Yes,” said Master Preston, strolling on, apparently unsuspicious that
his new acquaintance had been out of the camp for any other purpose than
that of fishing.
Their interview with General Burgoyne during evening was brief. He gave
a letter he had prepared for General Clinton, to Master Preston, who
asked to be excused for a few moments. Somewhere in the outer darkness
he concealed it about him, for when he returned he said:
“I’ve put it with the others, sir, and promise you that it shall not
fall into any hand than that for which it is intended.”
Ten minutes later he and his guide had left the encampment, and were
gliding swiftly and noiselessly through the forest toward Master
Graham’s.
Several times the heavy step as of some belated traveler caused them to
shrink back under the cover of the dense brush until it had ceased. Now
and then came the cry of some wild beast to startle them, but they kept
steadily along the trail until nearly midnight. Then they had arrived at
a small brook, which crossed the path at right angles, and here Ira, who
was in the lead, stopped.
“Our journey is half done,” he announced. “We may as well halt here, and
have something to eat.”
On a rock beside the stream, amid darkness that could almost be felt,
surrounded by a silence that seemed oppressive, the two in silence
partook of the food they had brought with them. Quenching their thirst
from the rivulet, they were about to resume their tramp, when came the
hoot of an owl from the rear. It was repeated at a short distance down
the trail, and a moment later sounded nearer yet, but from up the brook.
“Can it be we are followed and surrounded?” the courier asked
apprehensively in a low tone.
“It is a singular circumstance,” his companion admitted in a whisper.
“There it is again,” and, listening, they heard the cries again in
precisely the same order. Then came the sharp snap of a twig as though
some one was approaching.
“The way is open to the right,” Ira continued in the same low tone.
“Quick! we may yet escape.”
He led the way down the stream, going as rapidly as the darkness and
underbrush would permit, his comrade keeping close at his heels. After a
while the ground became soft and miry, and the bushes were so dense as
to render progress exceedingly difficult.
“We must take to the brook,” Ira said to his companion. “Pull off your
boots!”
“But is it necessary?” the courier asked. “Can’t we wait here awhile,
and then go back to the trail?”
“Listen!” was the answer. Through the stillness of the night came to
their ears the sound of footsteps.
“I have it,” the young scout whispered to Master Preston. “We’ll take to
the stream here, and keep it down a few rods to where another brook
joins it, which last we’ll follow. It will enable us to work toward the
old trail, and at the same time throw our pursuers off the track.”
Stepping into the water a moment later, they waded slowly and cautiously
along to the tributary of which Ira had spoken. Entering this they began
its ascent. During a half hour they kept on, pausing occasionally to
learn if they were still followed, but no sound broke the stillness of
the forest.
“Those fellows have lost our trail; can’t we leave the brook now?” the
courier at length asked, becoming tired of his slippery and uncertain
footing.
His companion’s answer was also a question:
“What’s that ahead of us?”
Master Preston stepped beside his guide, and then replied:
“It is a fire of some kind!”
“A camp-fire,” was the rejoinder. “I can now see a tent beyond.”
“What shall we do?”
“Keep straight on. Whoever may be there are probably fast asleep at this
hour.”
Noiselessly they advanced.
“We are in a pond,” the courier whispered an instant later.
“That’s a fact,” his companion agreed, “and that is Boulder island. I
know where we are now. I don’t think we have anything to fear, still
we’ll keep our guns ready for immediate use.”
The next moment they gained the shore of the island, and stopped in
front of the fire, at the tent door. The canvas dwelling was empty.
Ira laughed loudly.
“This is a joke on us!” he exclaimed. “See! there are the fellows’
fishing rods. They were doubtless out hunting when night came on, became
separated, and are trying to find each other and their camp. We’ve run
away from men who had no thought of pursuing us,” and again he laughed
heartily.
Before his comrade could speak a cry came from the main shore.
“Hello there! Who are you in our camp?”
“I ought to know that voice,” the young scout said to the courier. Then
he replied:
“Is that you, Joe?”
“Yes, but who are you?”
“Ira Le Geyt.”
“Hurrah!” came back across the little pond. “We’ll jine ye in a minute.”
There was a noise as of splashing water for a moment, and then two young
lads came into the dim light of the camp-fire.
“Glad to see you, Ira,” they both exclaimed, shaking hands with him, and
he introduced his companion to them.
“Master Preston, this is Joe Fisher and Late Wentworth, two friends of
mine, who are of the right sort.”
When the courier had acknowledged the introduction, his guide continued:
“Was it you who were hooting like owls up where the stream crosses the
Hubbardtown trail?”
“Yes,” Late replied. “We were separated, an’ tryin’ to come together
again. Why do you ask?”
“We thought it was some one who wanted to hem us in on the trail, and so
took to the brook,” the young scout explained, “and here we are, three
or four miles out of our way.”
“Well, ye better stay until mornin’,” Joe said. “You are both welcome to
our shelter an’ fodder, such as it is. Ain’t that so, Late?”
“I reckon,” his camp-mate replied, “an’ if we don’t turn in soon,
mornin’ will be here ’fore we get a wink of sleep.”
“I leave it to you, Master Preston,” Ira said. “Shall we go on, or
stay?”
“Go on,” he answered. “I must reach my destination before light, if it
is possible.”
“Very well,” his guide replied, stooping to pick up the big boots he had
thrown down upon reaching camp.
The courier bent over for the same purpose, but before he could recover
himself, Late and Joe seized and threw him to the ground. Ira came to
their aid, and in a few moments the man was bound and disarmed.
“What does this mean?” he demanded with an ugly glance at the young
scout.
“That I want the papers you carry,” Ira replied quietly.
“Find them then,” he retorted with a grin.
His clothing was examined, his boots, hat, belt, the stocks of his
pistols and gun; but the important papers could not be found.