BENNINGTON.
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 blade flashed 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.