THE SKIRMISH.
It was evident that both men recognized each other as old enemies, for
they met with a ferocity that told of undying hate. The long rapier and
the broadsword clashed together and played in circles of angry light,
and the horses wheeled and bounded, obedient to hand and heel, as if
they shared every wish of their masters.
The combatants were by no means unequally matched. The dark stranger
with the pallid face was much the taller, but his long, lean frame
lacked the compactness and solid force of the Herculean partisan. The
inferiority in strength was fully made up by an activity and fierce
energy that bordered on the supernatural, and the stranger fought with
all the vigor of the demon he had so successfully personated.
The partisan, without the lightning velocity and energy of the other,
had yet a towering strength, joined to consummate skill with his
weapon, that made him a terrible antagonist. His horse was much heavier
than that of his foe, and seemed to be equally well trained. Whenever
they clashed together, the heavy steed of Butler sent the slight black
charger reeling from the shock, and the fierce blows of the partisan
beat down the guard of the unknown at every encounter.
The pale cavalier, however, found his revenge in the more insidious
and deadly thrusts, which he found occasion to deliver at intervals,
with his longer and lighter weapon; and twice did he draw blood with
his point, while he received in return a single slash only, which fell
short of its full intention, and plowed a long gash in his thigh, with
the point of the broadsword.
All these cuts and points passed in the space of half a minute,
during which the two men fought with a fury that must have completely
exhausted them in a short time.
Then the combat was interrupted as suddenly as it had begun, by the
thunder of hoofs close by, as the German dragoons swept down on the
contending parties, with loud hurrahs, in a cloud of dust!
He who had been called De Cavannes broke away from his enemy as the
dragoons rushed in, and was soon surrounded with foes, whom he bandied
with a coolness and vigor that showed the great difference between them
and their leader. Then came a counter rush of hoofs, with the cracking
of rifles and the whistle of bullets, and down galloped a troop of
Morgan’s redoubted Mounted Rifles, yelling their war-cry. In the midst
of the new-comers rode the dashing hussar, Adrian Schuyler, his pelisse
flying behind him, his saber waving, while the dapple-gray charger
swept on like a storm-gust.
In the first assault his sword clashed against that of a German
dragoon, and then darted through a man’s body up to the hilt like a
flash. The hussar’s horse, rushing on, actually bore the poor wretch
out of his saddle by the leverage of the sword, and Adrian was not
able to extricate it in time to guard a blow from one of the German’s
comrades. The long, straight broadsword, whistling as it came,
descended on the summit of the tall fur cap, and clove it down on the
hussar’s skull with crushing force, stunning him so that he fell over
on his saddle-bow, confused and almost senseless. How he might have
fared is doubtful, had not De Cavannes, at the same moment, caught the
dragoon across the face with a backhanded slash of his long keen sword,
that divided his nose, and sent him reeling back in his saddle, giving
Adrian time to recover himself.
Then the conflict waxed furious.
Morgan’s men were superior in numbers to the dragoons, but their arms
were by no means equal to those of the others in a close fight on
horseback. Few had any thing but rifles and pistols, and those few who
carried short hangers knew but little of their use, compared to the
well-instructed German swordsmen.
On the other hand, their numbers and courage told in their favor. Many
clubbed their rifles, and laid about them with a vigor that laughed at
the broadswords. Where a man was cut down or run through, some comrade
would fell his slayer with the butt of a rifle. Only the terrible
partisan, Butler, made his heavy sword of more weight than the clubbed
rifle. He raged through the fight, driving back the stoutest riflemen
like children, with his enormous strength. Meeting Adrian Schuyler,
when the press prevented maneuvering, he beat down his guard, and
felled him to the earth with a single stroke, then turned to face De
Cavannes, who was making toward him through the swaying crowd.
But such savage fighting could not last long. Strong and brave as were
the dragoons, the increasing numbers of Morgan’s men bore down their
opposition by sheer weight of horse-flesh, and the whole mass drove
down toward Burgoyne’s lines, struggling and shouting, but too closely
packed to allow the use of weapons of any size.
Then, at last, the hunting-knives of the riflemen came into play, and
they made it too hot for the dragoons, who, one by one, broke out of
the fight, and fled toward the English army, pursued by the shouting
riflemen.
Even the generally indomitable Butler was fain to turn his horse, his
vengeance unsatisfied, and quit a fight in which he had only overthrown
one of his enemies.
Adrian Schuyler, stunned and bleeding from a head wound, scrambled to
his feet in the dusty road, and beheld De Cavannes, dismounted, and
approaching him as if to assist him.
It seemed as if some mutual understanding existed between the two,
however originating, for Adrian evinced no surprise at the other’s
coming. He staggered slightly and put his hand to his head, saying
faintly:
“I fear, count, that I have not done you credit to-day. The villain has
escaped, and ’tis my fault.”
The mysterious stranger smiled gravely, as he answered:
“Boy, you did your best, but fate must be fulfilled. He will not escape
forever. No! If he did, I should almost believe there is no God of
Justice.”
Seen by the light of day, the strange being was of noble figure. His
great hight and spare make did not detract from, but rather added to
the air of mystery and dignity that surrounded him. His pallid face,
not now distorted by assumed expressions, was noble and intellectual
in outline, and the antique dress that he wore, with the flowing,
black, full-bottomed wig, added to the majesty of his looks, while the
long, black mustache evinced that its wearer must have been a cavalry
officer, that facial ornament being peculiar to the mounted service, in
those days.
“Are you badly hurt, _mon ami_?” he asked, with a slight French accent.
“I don’t know,” said Adrian, faintly. “I feel stupid and weak, but
there is little pain. I think I have a cut on the head.”
De Cavannes advanced and examined the wound of the other with great
care, and nodded his head as if reassured.
“There is no great harm done,” he said. “The sword must have turned
in his hand, and your cap helped you. But you cannot go into battle
to-day. Your General has been superseded by the vain fool, Gates.
Let us depart. When the battle is over it will be time to see to our
purpose.”
Slowly he led the hussar away to his horse just as the first scattering
rifle-shots told that the contest was opening in earnest, and when the
volleys of musketry pealed out from the wheat-fields, Adrian Schuyler
was resting by a spring in the forest, while the beautiful Diana was
bathing his head and binding up his wounds.
* * * * *
It is not our purpose to describe the battle of Saratoga in these
pages. That has been well done in the glowing pages of Irving, Headley,
and Lossing; and to attempt the task were but a repetition of their
words. Let the reader imagine the increasing thunder of answering
guns, the rapid roll of the volleys, and the charging cheer of the
English, Hessian, and Yankee volunteer, the field wrapped in bluish
clouds of smoke, where the fierce powder-smell stings the nostrils, and
the spiteful red flashes answer each other out of the haze, where the
bullets hiss and the round shot hum, while the grape-shot come by with
a heavy swish, and in the midst of all, wild Arnold rages up and down
like a lion at bay, driven to frenzy by his foes.
Alas for Arnold, that his greatest and most glorious field should have
been his last! Nevermore to direct the tide of victory thereafter, on
that stricken field he leaped to a light of glory, from whence, three
years later, he was to plunge into an abyss of infamy, covered with
the curses of honest men, his only hope of mercy lying in friendly
oblivion.
Let the field of Saratoga go by, with its well-known result, while
we turn to the few characters of our story around whom our plot has
revolved, and draw the shifting drama to a close.