The expression on his face that night, however, was one of decided anxiety, as he conversed with the officer before mentioned.
“How long has this been going on, baron?” he asked, at length.
“For a whole week, General, as near as I can find,” was the reply, in very pure English, for Baron Reidesel prided himself on his accent.
“And you say that the Indians are beginning to leave us?”
“General, they have already left us, in large numbers. If something be not done to stop the panic, to-morrow they will leave in a body.”
Sir John Burgoyne looked anxious and perplexed.
“Would to heaven the Government would not employ them at all,” he said. “They do us more harm with their atrocities, than their services balance. That unfortunate affair of Jenny McCrea has raised public feeling against us to a fearful extent, and now, when they might be most useful, they are frightened to death, and deserting, because of some masquerading rebel, who plays tricks on them with raw-head-and-bloody-bones apparitions. Have the soldiers heard of the panic, baron?”
“I regret to say, General, that our own outposts are catching the infection, since the Indian chief, Creeping Wolf, was killed in sight of our pickets. The man or demon, whichever it be, seemed to laugh at their bullets, and disappeared, so they say, in a blaze of red flame.”
“Bah!” said Burgoyne, contemptuously, “’tis some conjuring trick. It can not be possible that our men are so foolish as to fear it. I must see that the rounds keep them awake. The fellows grow lazy, and dream. I shall visit the pickets myself to-night.”
Baron Reidesel brightened.