THE FIEND OF THE OUTPOSTS.
The scene of confusion in the room was, for some minutes, quite
animated. Burgoyne’s subordinates rushed in, with drawn swords, calling
for lights, and feeling around in the darkness with their weapons. Then
came the tramp of feet and clash of arms in the passage, as a number of
the headquarter dragoons came running in, some carrying torches, and
all with drawn pistols.
The room was thoroughly explored, and the mystery deepened, for not
a trace of the intruder was found. There lay the murdered soldier,
and there was the commander, in the arms of Baron Reidesel, slowly
recovering from the rough handling he had undergone, but nothing
remained of the demoniac visitor, save the overturned candlesticks.
General Fraser--the quartermaster-general--General Philips, Sir Francis
Clark, and most of Burgoyne’s staff, searched the room, trying to
discover some means of exit, but found none. Every panel was sounded,
but none seemed hollow, and the General himself put an end to the
search by saying:
“Let it pass, gentlemen. Some ingenious scoundrel has been here, but he
is doubtless away by this time. We will visit the pickets. It shall
never be said that his majesty’s officers were frightened by a juggler.
Order up the horses.”
“But you are not fit to ride out, General,” objected Philips.
“I am always fit to do my duty, sir,” answered Burgoyne, coldly. “Come,
gentlemen, we have wasted too much time already.”
The courage of the commander was evidently far from being shaken by his
appalling visitation. He had not said a word of its nature yet, and his
staff were still puzzled, but Sir John’s decided manner overbore all
opposition, and they silently followed him to the horses, which were
already in waiting. Then, as calmly as if nothing had occurred, the
General proceeded on his trip to the outposts.
Burgoyne’s manner was absent and thoughtful as he rode along,
mechanically taking the direction of the outposts. Two dragoons rode in
advance of the party to answer the challenges, and they soon arrived at
the picket reserve, toward the American army.
The officer in command was called up, and taken aside by the General,
who questioned him closely.
“Has any disturbance occurred in your front to-night, sir?”
“Not yet, General, but--”
“But what, sir? Speak out.”
“We are led to expect one, General. Last night, it seems, that one
of the Indian scouts was murdered in sight of our advanced posts. My
predecessor warned me. A man on a black horse galloped by, and flames
of fire seemed to come from his mouth, they say. The moon was up, and
this Indian fired at the horseman, and then turned and ran in. The
horseman followed him, changing into the likeness of--I only tell it as
I was told, General--of the devil himself. Within fifty feet of this
reserve he overtook the Indian, and pierced him with a javelin. Then
came a red flash of fire, and the apparition threw the dead Indian over
his saddle, and fled like the wind, laughing in tremendous tones.”
“Did the sentries fire at him?”
“Yes, sir. They sent a regular volley after him, but he only laughed
louder and disappeared into the woods.”
Sir John Burgoyne remained, silently musing over this story, but he
made no comment. He was, in fact, quite puzzled.
Just as he was about to speak, an exclamation from one of the soldiers
caused him to look round.
Then he struck his hand on his thigh with a muttered curse.
“By heavens! there he comes again. Now let us see if he fools me a
second time.”
It was indeed true. The same weird figure that has already been
described, was galloping up, on a black horse, flames and smoke
proceeding from his mouth, while a stream of sparks came from the
muzzle of his horse. He was coming from the extreme right of the
picket-line, galloping recklessly past the videttes, while shouts,
cries, and shots, followed his course as he came.
Burgoyne turned to Sir Francis Clark, his favorite aid-de-camp.
“Sir Francis,” he said, in the sharp, quick tones of a superior giving
orders, “take the escort with you, and follow that fellow, till you
catch or kill him. He is a rebel spy, and doubtless wants to draw some
of us into an ambush. If he leads you to the rebel lines, come back and
report. I shall know how to deal with him. If not, follow him, till
your horses drop, and shoot down his animal, if you can. Away, sir.”
The aid-de-camp bowed low, and drew aside. The demoniac stranger was
still coming fearlessly on, in a direction that would bring him near to
their front, and Clark, gathering the twenty dragoons that composed the
escort, rode out to intercept him.
On came the demon in silence, the red sparks streaming from horse and
rider, as if about to charge the whole party.
Then, as he came within sixty feet, he uttered a loud, taunting peal of
laughter, and wheeled off toward the line of videttes.
“Gallop, march!” shouted the aid-de-camp, firing his pistol, and
dashing after. A volley of carbine bullets whistled round the wild
rider, but away he went, fast leaving his pursuers, the same loud,
taunting laugh coming back on the wind.
Away on his track went the whole party of dragoons, headed by Sir
Francis Clark, and in a few minutes the line of videttes was reached.
The alarm had already become general, and at least a dozen shots were
fired at the flying horseman, while a single vidette rode at him with
drawn saber.
Sir Francis, better mounted than the rest, was close behind, as the
demon met the dragoon. He heard a clash of weapons, and the wild rider
darted out unharmed, while the soldier threw up his arms and fell back
off his saddle, dead!
There was no time to lose, however. Shouting to his men to follow, the
English officer galloped on, keeping within thirty feet of the other,
till they reached the woods. Then, with a shrill laugh, the demon rider
darted under the arches of the forest, and Clark followed.
The moon was not yet up, and the darkness in the woods was intense,
but still the foremost horseman galloped on as if horse and rider well
knew the way. Sir Francis followed, almost alone, for the dragoons were
already strung out behind, owing to the severity of the pace.
Presently a crimson glow flashed up ahead, and the officer perceived a
long, flaring flame, that streamed from the head of the demoniac figure
in front, revealing the short black horns and the long cloak streaming
out behind, exactly like huge wings in appearance.
Amazed, but still resolute, the aid-de-camp followed on, still riding
at the same rapid pace through the arches of the wood.
The hoof-beats of the following dragoons grew fainter and fainter, and
still the two horsemen galloped on in a direction due west, away from
both armies. How long they rode, Clark could not tell, but hour after
hour passed by without any change in their relative positions. The
aid-de-camp rode a splendid horse, one of the few thoroughbreds then in
America, and horses of that blood, as is well known, will gallop till
they drop.
At the pace at which they were going, four hours of this work took them
many a mile from settlements of any kind, till they entered a broken,
limestone region. Then, of a sudden, the red flame went out on the
demon’s head, and, with a loud, mocking laugh, horse and rider plunged
into a narrow black gully, almost hidden in bushes.
A moment later, Clark pulled up, thoroughly bewildered, in thick
darkness. The light that had guided him had disappeared, and he was
alone in the woods.
Too wary to venture himself in an unknown region, the officer sat in
his saddle, musing on the best course to pursue. Then, with a muttered,
“That’s it,” he turned his horse’s head on the way homeward.
The animal, with the well-known instinct of his species, took up his
march without hesitation, as Clark had foreseen. The officer drew his
sword, and gave a slash at every tree he passed, leaving a white streak
in the bark.
“You may hide, master juggler,” he said to himself; “but if I don’t
track you to your haunt by daylight, it will be because there is no
virtue in a blaze.”