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.