CHAPTER VIII.

THE HUNTED LIFE.

We will again return to the fort. It was the day subsequent to the arrest of Captain Sherwood and the disappearance of Imogene Lear.

These unlooked-for events had furnished sufficient matter for the gossips of the garrison; but now something else had turned up which bid fair to overwhelm them.

In fact, the whole community was wild with excitement about an apparition that a dozen or more affirmed to have seen the previous night, pacing to and fro upon the parapets.

The soldiers became superstitious, and were collected here and there in groups of three or four discussing the matter.

“I tell yer,” exclaimed a burly-looking fellow of one of these crowds, “my eyes never cheated me yet, nor did they last night. It wor he; I am sure of it!”

“But, Tompkins,” said another, “how could it have been the cap’n? for I kept close guard at his cell-door all night, and I am certain he _was_ there, too.”

“Can’t help it, if ye did,” chimed in Putney, the scout. “Bill and I saw Sherwood on th’ parapets, as sartin as we live. He wor all-fired pale, and wore a long, white, shaggy cloak that looked awful enough to make one’s teeth chatter and the hair to stand up straight.”

“I reckon that’s so, Put,” said Bill; “my legs shake just a leetle now.”

“I wouldn’t take that post on the parapets for half the world,” said a third man.

“’Cause you’re a scarish one,” growled the man opposite him. “You’d ought to be a woman! I’d take it for nothing, and if the ghost came near me he’d catch some cold lead for his trouble.”

At this remark the crowd enjoyed a short laugh at the “scared fellow’s” expense.

“This cap’n is a tricky one, comrades,” said Putney, “and ye’d all better look out for him in the futer, or he’ll fix some of ye.”

“He’s the devil’s own!” added Bill.

Such was the talk concerning the ghost, or whatever it might be, which they had seen. All who had witnessed the phenomenon declared that it was Captain Sherwood; but when the mystery was examined into, it was proved beyond doubt that the captain had never left his cell once during the night.

This was strange indeed, and no one could solve the enigma. The captain began to be regarded with superstitious awe. He heeded it not; there were more serious troubles that weighed upon his mind.

It was the day on which his trial was to take place; and as the hour for assembling the court approached, he began to grow a little uneasy.

He had hitherto forgotten his own danger in his great sorrow for the lost Imogene; but now, he awoke to a clear sense of his own condition, and took a glance at the means that were to extricate him from it.

The situation was indeed becoming alarming, for he was well aware that should it in any way be proved that he was the dreaded Iron Hand, his life would be worthless.

“What could he do?” he asked himself. “There is some terrible mistake, and I fear me it will not be rectified until too late!”

The moment at length arrived, and a court was detailed to examine into his case. Upon its decision the fate of Edgar Sherwood rested.

The assembly was quite large, consisting of the troops and nearly all the civilians living in the vicinity. There were three judges, clad in the martial vestments of their profession, and maintaining a gravity worthy of the occasion, and becoming their rank.

In the center was a venerable-looking man, whose whole exterior bore the stamp of long-tried military habits. It was Colonel Hall, who was the presiding justice of the court. His associates were officers selected from the troops that garrisoned the forts situated near Lake George.

Their demeanor was mild, but bore a grave reserve. Before these arbiters, Edgar Sherwood was ushered, under the custody of two armed men.

A profound and awful silence succeeded his entrance, while every eye was turned upon him. Then Colonel Hall arising, spoke in the deep tones of one used to wield authority:

“Let the prisoner advance.”

Edgar proceeded with a firm step into the center of the apartment. All was now anxiety and eager curiosity.

“Captain Sherwood, you are aware of the reason for this tribunal, are you not?”

“I am.”

“Perhaps it would be prudent,” said one of the judges, “to inform the prisoner, that he is not bound to answer any questions that will aid in his own condemnation.”

Edgar nodded, and Colonel Hall proceeded.

“You are charged, sir, with being an officer in his majesty’s service, and of remaining in the Continental army in disguise, for the purpose of acting as spy. What have you to say to this?”

“That it is false!” exclaimed Edgar, in a tone that echoed throughout the room.

“On what ground?”

“On the ground of my conduct heretofore.”

“This, undoubtedly, will have some weight, sir, but not sufficient to counterbalance the testimony of witnesses. Have you any other?”

Edgar paused, and seemed to commune with himself for a moment, then answered with a look of dejection:

“No, none. I am deserted, and there is no one to speak in my behalf. Let the case take its course--I must abide your decision!”

“But, take time to reflect, sir; you must have something more to offer in defense!” said the judge, quickly.

“Nothing.”

At this, there was a frightful calmness in the manner of the judge that seemed to appall the assemblage, and a murmur of pity arose from some.

The silence lasted but for a moment, and then the witnesses for the prosecution were ordered by the justice to come forward.

Hank Putney, the scout, was the first called.

“Do you know the prisoner?” asked the judge.

“I do,” returned the man, casting a careless glance at Edgar.

“How long have you known him?”

“Wal, let me see,” and he began to count his fingers; “about--about--I reckon since Jenuary last.”

“During this time, have you ever noticed any thing suspicious in his conduct that would lead you to believe him a British spy?”

“Yes, yer honor, somethin’ tarnation strong, I should say.”

“State it.”

“Wal, it wor th’ day afore yesterday that it happened. Bill Hawkins and I wor sent out to s’arch for him, as ye thought him either taken prisoner or shot, one or t’other; but ’twas no such thing. About night, we come across a band o’ these Tory and red-skin devils, and there, right in th’ middle of ’em, wor our cap’n lookin’ as big as all yer honors put together. He wor ev’dently their boss, for th’ devils wor all obeyin’ his orders, and trottin’ their legs off to serve him.”

“Now, my man, you are aware that you are under oath?”

“Oh sartin, yer honor!”

“Are you positive that the prisoner before you and the man you saw as a leader in the Tory camp, are one and the same person?”

“Sartin, as my name is Hank Putney!”

“That will do.”

During the scout’s examination, the most intense interest prevailed among the listeners, for it was understood that the whole case rested mainly upon his testimony.

The accusation was so plain, the facts so limited, the proof so obvious and the penalty so well established, that escape at once seemed impossible.

The next witness was Putney’s companion, Bill Hawkins. His testimony fully corroborated the scout’s in every respect. He swore that he had seen Captain Sherwood in the midst of the Tories, in command of the band known as the Tory League.

“How do you know that he was in command, and that he is their chief, Iron Hand?” asked the justice.

“Heard the red-skins call him that name,” replied Bill.

“Was he, at this time, dressed in the uniform of the Continental army?”

“No, not exactly. He had on huntin’ clothes like the Injuns. He also wore a white, shaggy jacket, jist like the ghost had last night.”

“Never mind, Hawkins, what the ghost had, but the prisoner,” said the justice, smiling. “You think he was clothed in some garment made of white, shaggy fur?”

“Yes, yer honor, jist that.”

“Are there any more to testify in this case?” asked the judge, glancing around the room.

There was a brief silence, and then Putney, with the assistance of a soldier, conducted a man to where the judges were seated.

The stranger stopped and looked around him at the crowd in wild dismay, until at length his eyes rested upon the prisoner, when he gave a sudden start, but immediately recovered himself.

However, all perceived this strange conduct on the part of the new witness.

“Who is this you have here?” asked the judge.

“A prisoner we captur’d last night,” said Putney. “I calc’late he’s one of th’ cap’n’s gang; he seems to know him.”

“My man, who are you?” said the judge, “and what do you know about the prisoner?”

The stranger hung his head, but did not reply.

“Speak out, I conjure you!” cried the judge. “If you can give any information in this matter, that will serve to clear up the mystery, you shall be set at liberty.”

These words seemed to take effect upon him, and he appeared to be more at ease.

“Do you know the prisoner?” again asked the judge, eagerly.

“Shall I have my liberty if I tell?”

“Yes, I pledge you my word you shall.”

The man again held down his head, and after some moments, ventured a sly glance at Edgar, who all the time seemed to be regarding him with astonishment. Turning alternately red and pale, apparently doing battle with himself, he replied:

“He’s the Tory chief, Iron Hand.”

“My God!” cried Edgar, starting to his feet with a savage look. “What new enemy is this that dare utter lies so foul! Merciful Heaven! is there no hope for me? Am I to be condemned on the testimony of such villains?”

The stranger, with a look of fear depicted on every lineament of his face, sprung behind the soldier.

“Keep him off! keep him off!” he screamed, “he’ll kill me!”

For a short time the court-room was a scene of intense excitement, and the judges arose to quell it.

“Remand your prisoner,” said the justice, to the officer who was in charge of Edgar.

After a short consultation, the tribunal gave their verdict against Edgar; and Colonel Hall, though his heart bled with pity for the sad fate of his young friend, saw before him nothing save his stern, uncompromising duty, and with trembling hand, signed the death-warrant.

It briefly stated, that Edgar Sherwood had been detected within the American lines, as a British spy in disguise, and that thereby, according to the laws of war, he was liable to suffer death, and that the court adjudged him to the penalty--sentencing him to be executed by hanging, on the morning of the following day.

The sentence of the court was communicated to the prisoner, who received it with perfect resignation. The assembly dispersed, and the judges retired to their own quarters with unmoved exterior, and the consciousness of dispassionate integrity.

* * * * *

It was on the night after the trial, that a solitary traveler might have been seen pursuing his way through a thick wood situated about ten miles from the fort.

He was possessed of a powerful frame, being full six feet in hight, and was clad in a hunter’s garb, consisting of shirt and breeches made of skins.

In his girdle was placed an ugly-looking knife. His head was adorned with a fur cap that hung down over the upper part of his face, which gave him a somewhat singular appearance. His hair was coarse, matted, and fiery red.

As he proceeded on his way, his conduct to any observer would have appeared decidedly suspicious. Every now and then he would stop and listen attentively, and after casting a searching glance about him to satisfy himself that no one was following him, he would move on again.

The night was quite dark; an easterly wind, accompanied by a chilling dampness, gave unerring notice of an approaching storm. But the traveler, heeding it not, pushed on with long strides, until at length he reached a mysterious-looking hut standing at the foot of a hill and hemmed in with large rocks and stunted oaks, whose foliage nearly concealed it from view.

Here he stopped and gave a peculiar whistle. The door was cautiously opened, and an armed man appeared at the entrance.

“Hank!” said he, in a whisper.

“Here, chief--open th’ door,” answered our friend, Hank Putney, the scout.

The door was now thrown wide open to permit the traveler to enter, and then closed and securely barred. The two men uttered no words of greeting, but approaching one side of the room, they sat down before a half-extinguished fire.

“You must be nearly chilled through, Hank,” said the man. “Here, take some of this,” and he handed the scout a flask.

Putney seized it with avidity, and placing it to his mouth, took a deep draught.

“That’s right good old stuff,” said he, smacking his lips, as he returned the bottle.

“Yes; this is the cordial our Whig neighbor had stored away in his cellar,” said the Tory, chuckling.

“Ha! ha! ha!” roared Putney; “he wor a clever old chap to keep it for yer, chief.”

“Very accommodating indeed, I should say, for it was just what my larder was sadly deficient in at the time,” and he indulged in another suppressed laugh. “But come, tell me what news you bring, Hank, for I am getting impatient.”

“Wal, it’s all right!” exclaimed the scout, bringing his fist down on the palm of his hand. “He’s to be hanged to-morrow!”

“What! have they convicted him then, of being Iron Hand, and a British spy?”

“Yes.”

“Capital! Give me your hand, worthy friend; you have done me inestimable service,” and the Tory chieftain seized the hand of his companion, with apparent cordiality.

“Yer writin’, chief, and my swearin’, are goin’ to stretch his windpipe to-morrow mornin’,” continued Putney, with a swaggering air.

“Ha! ha! ha! Well, that is a good joke, and well played, Hank.”

The man’s small gray eyes sparkled with delight, and he could hardly restrain himself, so great was his joy at this piece of news.

“What fortune!” cried he; “just what I wanted. Here, let us drink our fill--drink to the man who dies to-morrow.”

“Here it goes then!” and Hank raised the bottle to his lips. “That his journey in th’ world herearter may be a jolly one!”

“Ay, my worthy fellow.”

As the fire, at intervals, brightened up and filled the room with a red light, it cast the forms of the men in fantastic shadows upon the wall.

Theirs were strange pictures--faces that portrayed the evil side of human nature, and any one observing them while hate and joy beamed thereon, would have involuntarily retreated with a feeling of horror and disgust.

“How about the ghost, Hank, did you see it?” asked the chief, with a roguish twinkle in his eye.

“Ye devils, didn’t I though! Ha! ha! ha! ye played yer part well, chief,” and Putney’s sides shook with laughter.

“The fools,” said Iron Hand. “You can frighten them all to madness.”

“They reckon the cap’n’s a wizard, and ’ll bring ruin to ’em all.”

Iron Hand apparently did not hear this last remark, but sat musing for some moments before he spoke.

“Did they condemn him on your testimony alone, Hank?”

“Mine and Bill Hawkins’, th’ chap I had with me th’ t’other day when I got th’ writin’.”

“He believed he swore to the truth?”

“Oh, o’ course!”

There was another pause.

“I thought I’d make it a bit stronger, howsomever, so I brought down one of th’ League from th’ lower camp,” continued Putney. “We made him believe that he wor my prisoner. It wor Sandy Jim, and he’s a trump. He swore that th’ prisoner was Iron Hand, and they let him go for doin’ it.”

“You have done this job so far, Hank, in superb style; you are my best man in the whole band. Now if you will go back and aid in bringing our plan to a successful issue, you shall be a rich man the day you return and prove to me that this mortal enemy of mine is _dead_!”

“Agreed!” cried Putney. “I’d better start now, or th’ mornin’ will overtake me afore I get back to th’ fort,” and with a parting farewell the two men separated.