THE EXPEDITION.
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. Shall we 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.