THE LAST BATTLE.
A silent and dejected cavalcade was slowly emerging from the woods
behind Burgoyne’s quarters, on the morning of the 7th of October. It
was the returning party under Butler, disappointed of their aim, beaten
and dispirited.
The partisan, after his ducking in the lake and the flight of his men,
had certainly evinced rare courage, for he had actually returned to the
assault on the following morning, provided with a quantity of torches
of flaring pitch pine.
Under the stimulus of plenty of light, the dragoons had behaved better,
although nothing could induce the Indians to venture back. They had
thoroughly explored the first and second cave without any further
annoyance, but neither did they make any more discoveries. By what
means the three strange apparitions had managed to execute their flight
over the lake, remained a mystery, but they had evidently vanished, for
not a trace of living creature, save bats, was found.
Chamber after chamber, grand, beautiful, grotesque, and horrible, was
passed, but they heard no more the mocking echo of demoniac laughter.
Full of rage and disappointment, Butler returned to the outer air,
to find that his Indians, useless and superstitious as they were
underground, had made an important discovery by the light of day,
outside the limits of the cavern.
The tracks of three horses were found, quite fresh, at a little
distance from the cave mouth, and they led toward the camp of Burgoyne,
from another ravine.
The back trail, when followed, led to another opening in the hillside,
and it became evident that the tenants of the cave, human or
supernatural, had escaped.
The brow of the partisan grew dark and gloomy when he heard the news,
but he made no remark. Even since the plunge into the subterranean
lake, he had been much depressed in spirits, and now it was with sullen
apathy that he agreed to the proposal of Sir Francis Clark, and led the
return to Burgoyne’s camp.
The distance was so great--nearly forty miles--and their pace so slow,
that it was not till the dawn of the following day that they came in
sight of the English army, and started to hear the first guns of the
decisive battle of Bemis’ Hights, better known as Saratoga.
Sir Francis Clark started when he heard the sound, and when a second
report came booming through the woods, he gathered up his reins, turned
to Butler hastily, and said:
“Excuse me, colonel. Bring on the party as slowly as you like. _My_
duty takes me to the General.”
Then waving his hand, he struck spurs into his thoroughbred, and
galloped off down the road, at full speed, toward the sound of the
distant firing.
Butler hardly seemed to notice his departure or the firing. The whole
air of the man was that of gloomy depression, with a certain expectant
apprehensive look, as if fearing coming evil. He rode slowly on, while
the sound of the cannon became more frequent, sounding dull and hollow
behind the encircling woods.
The men behind him conversed together in whispers. They did not seem
to have the eagerness of Sir Francis Clark to go into the battle. Old
soldiers seldom do. They know too well what is coming. The German
dragoons that followed Butler were all veterans, and though they would
go into any danger unmurmuringly, there was a kind of stolid caution
about them that prevented any eagerness.
Besides, the gradual approach, at a slow pace, to a battle, that one
hears, but cannot see, especially if the prospect is limited by woods
in all directions, is peculiarly depressing to the boldest spirits, and
causes unwonted silence to most men, who would march gayly on, in an
open country.
Thus the dragoons following Butler ceased to converse at all, and
pressed silently on behind their dogged leader, who took his way
forward on the narrow, dusty road, the boom of guns growing more and
more frequent, and answered by the more distant reports of the cannon
from the intrenchments of Gates.
At last, an opening appeared in the trees ahead, and a white cloud of
smoke was visible, hanging in the air over a stubble field, beyond
which a little brown house nestled in the corner of a wood.
The sight seemed to have an effect on Butler which hearing had failed
to produce. Instinctively he gathered up his reins and quickened his
pace, while his eye roamed over the battle-field with a practiced
glance. It was evident, to a soldier, that no serious fighting had yet
begun, for the guns were firing at regular intervals, and the scarlet
lines of the grenadiers stood behind them, while the dark green masses
of the Hessians were scattered over the ground to the left, near the
glaring stacks of arms.
On the American side, all was quiet. No motion could be perceived
behind the dark curtain of the woods, flecked with gold and crimson as
it was, in the tints of Indian summer.
Occasionally, however, the distant report of a heavy gun was followed
by the whirr and hum of a round shot, which came high over the trees,
and plunged into the ground in front of the British lines.
“Artillery duel--much noise and no damage,” muttered Butler, in a tone
of scorn, as he watched the scene. “If I had my will, they would try a
night attack. The cursed Yankees can beat them at shooting.”
His course led him toward the rear of the British, and he was nearing
the line, when something caught his quick eye, and he halted.
Three figures on horseback were riding slowly toward the American
lines, in a hollow that hid them from British view, and he recognized
them in an instant.
One wore the broad-plumed hat and strange, antique dress of the
mysterious being that had haunted him so long, the second was Adrian
Schuyler, in his gay hussar trappings, and the third was the same girl
who had a month or two before caused such a shock to the generally
immovable courage of the partisan.
Butler uttered a low, inexpressibly savage blasphemy, as he looked at
the three figures, riding so tranquilly past, with their backs toward
him, and evidently unconscious of his presence.
“Now,” he muttered, in a tone of intense eagerness, “now I have them at
last, in daylight, and they shall fool me no longer. What if the girl
does wear _her_ face? _He_ at least, I know, and hate. I have shamed
him once, and now I’ll have sweet revenge, if I lose life for it.”
He turned in his saddle, and drew his sword.
“Men,” he said, in a low voice, “yonder are three rebel spies. Follow
me and take them, if it costs us all our heads. Will you come?”
In a moment twenty swords were out, and the soldiers answered him with
eager assent.
“Charge!” shouted Butler, driving in his spurs, and away he went at
full speed after the three quiet equestrians.
The tall cavalier in the Louis XIV dress turned quietly in his saddle
when he heard the thunder of hoofs on the road behind him, and spoke a
few words to his companions, with a gesture of contempt.
Then, as Butler came within a hundred yards, the two black horses and
the dapple-gray started at a tremendous rate of speed, which speedily
distanced the lumbering dragoons, and taxed the utmost exertions of the
steed of the partisan himself, to maintain his place.
In vain he plied his spurs. His horse was doing its best and nothing
could be gained. Presently the road gave a turn round the wood, and
they came in sight of the American lines, as also within gunshot of a
long rank of horsemen, in the white frocks of Morgan’s riflemen. The
tall cavalier pulled up, and turned to meet Butler, at that sight,
while Adrian and Diana rode on.
The dogged courage of the partisan never failed him, though his men
were not within supporting distance. He thundered on to meet the
stranger, and broadsword and long rapier met with a savage clang.
“_Alphonse de Cavannes! I have you at last!_”
“_Pierce Harley, your time is come!_”
Hissing the fierce greetings between their teeth, the combatants closed
in a mortal struggle.