“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.”