CHAPTER XIII.

THE MIDNIGHT FIRE.

Confident that he had ample time to report Colonel St. Leger’s flight to his superior, and learn when and how that officer intended to engage the Continentals, before any of his enemies could disclose his identity, Ira, after parting with his lieutenants, walked rapidly on to the nearest picket-post of the British camp.

Here his first trouble began. In no way could he convince the sentinel that he had a right to pass through the lines. The fellow was a Hessian, who could not read, and the scout’s paper, written both in English and German, directing that he be allowed to go in or out of the camp at all times, was of no avail. Therefore the captain of the guard had to be summoned.

He knew Ira, and permitted him to pass the picket, but, to the surprise of the lad, held him up at the guard tent until his arrival could be made known to the commander of that division, General Fraser. At length an order came for him to be allowed to report to the commander-in-chief, and he went on, believing it was the nearness of the enemy that had caused this unusual caution on the part of the British officers.

When he finally reached General Burgoyne, that officer, instead of greeting him with his usual warmth, merely nodded towards a camp stool, saying:

“Sit down, Master Le Geyt, I will hear your report in a short time,” and then he left the tent, remaining away at least ten minutes.

On his return he gazed searchingly at the scout for an instant, and then, with an apparent effort to control himself, said:

“I am ready to listen to anything you have to tell me, sir.”

His manner convinced the lad that something was wrong; but he was there and must speak, therefore, acting as if he suspected nothing amiss, he began:

“I believe, General Burgoyne, that you have heard of the battle of Oriskany through Captain Brant, therefore know of its outcome, and I need not dwell upon it.”

The officer merely bowed assent.

“The ill-feeling created there,” Ira continued, “soon showed itself throughout the Indian encampment, so that when I first visited it some of the warriors had departed, and before I came away a bare hundred of the original force remained.”

“You are sure you said nothing to hasten their departure?” the general inquired pointedly.

“I only told them that large reinforcements were on the way to strengthen the fort, which was true, sir. I passed Colonel Arnold with twelve hundred men as I went up country.”

“It makes a difference sometimes how even the truth is told,” the commander said, and again he gave the scout a searching glance.

“Yes, sir,” the lad admitted; “but to continue my report, Colonel St. Leger, finding himself deserted by his allies, and unable to stand against the Continental reinforcements, decided to abandon the siege. Retreating to Oswego, he has sailed for Canada.”

“What!” screamed General Burgoyne, and it was evident there was dismay in his tones. “St. Leger gone without any order from me? Without sending to me for a force sufficient to meet the rebels? Are you certain, sir, that you are telling me the truth?”

Ira flushed a trifle; but answered gravely:

“It is as I have said.”

For the third time the commander gazed fixedly at his visitor, and then remarked:

“I have a few questions to ask you, Master Le Geyt.”

With no little misgivings the lad replied simply: “Yes, sir.”

“Did you not tell me that you conducted the courier, George Preston, to Master James Graham’s in safety?”

Instantly the question was asked the lad knew that in some way the officer had obtained an inkling of his real character. There was nothing to do but brave it out, therefore he replied promptly: “No, sir.”

“What then did you tell me?” thundered the enraged officer.

“I reported that I had made the journey, and left the courier in safe hands.”

“Read that,” the general cried, pushing a letter towards him. It was on a single sheet, and the words were written plainly.

“General Burgoyne, Honored Sir: I write this to make known to you the real character of your scout called Ira Le Geyt. He is a rebel. He delivered me into the hands of the rebels, and I have been imprisoned by them for weeks. But they did not find the papers I carried, and when this reaches you I shall be on my way down the river to deliver them. I trust it may be in time to secure the aid you desire. The bearer of this will tell you more about the young man. For the King,

“George Preston.”

“Pray tell me, are those statements true?” the general asked sternly.

“No man need incriminate himself,” Ira replied with a pale but resolute face.

“Captain Howell declares that he saw you on Sugar Loaf Mountain the night the guns were spiked, and that he has reason to believe you guided him to the place where the dam was built, using information he gave you to accomplish that purpose. Have you any answer to make to these charges?” the general demanded.

The scout remained silent.

“How far you are responsible for the defeat of Baum at Bennington, and the flight of St. Leger, which you now report, I probably shall never know. But one thing is certain, sir. I have facts enough to hang you,” and the enraged officer looked at the scout as if it would be a pleasure to do it.

The lad returned the look without a token of fear; but made no answer.

“Possibly you think I do not know who you are,” General Burgoyne continued after a moment; “but wait,” he stepped to the door of the tent and spoke to some one who was evidently standing there to be summoned.

The false Ira arose to find himself face to face with the real Ira Le Geyt. On one face there was a smile; on the other a frown. The look one gave said: “I will kill you”; the look the other bestowed, said: “You cannot do it.”

During a full minute the two stood there. Then the real Ira spoke.

“Give me that cross.”

Without a word the young scout drew it from his bosom and, unfastening its chain from his neck, handed it to the rightful owner. He pulled it apart, and taking a tiny paper from the hollow tube, passed it to the general, who read:

“Fort Edward, June 1, 1777.

“To all officers of the Northern Army:

“This is to certify that the bearer of this paper is Lieutenant Philip Schuyler Jr., my son. He will personate the Tory, Ira Le Geyt, at the headquarters of General Burgoyne. You may rely upon all information he sends you.

“(Signed) Philip Schuyler, “General Commanding.”

Before any other could speak, the young Tory, his eyes flashing, said:

“It is as I have already told you, general. This fellow, with a squad of soldiers, seized me while I was crossing the Hudson on my way to meet you at Lake Champlain, and carried me to Fort Edward, where I was imprisoned. They took not only papers, but my entire outfit, including the clothes I had on. I did not understand why then, but learned later. When your courier, Master Preston, was thrust into the dungeon with me, he told me how an Ira Le Geyt, who was serving as a scout for your army, had betrayed him into the rebels’ hands. Then I saw through the Schuyler plan, and knew that as long as the son, using my name and wearing my clothes, was at your headquarters, nothing but disaster would befall you. I tried desperately to escape. I offered bribes to the guards; I attempted to tunnel out of the fort, but failed. When the new commander, Gates, came, I persuaded him I had been wrongfully confined for weeks, and he ordered my release. I hastened here, too late, I fear, to be of any service. But in justice to myself, I demand that the man who has deprived me of my rights be properly punished.”

“Don’t fear about that, Master Le Geyt,” the officer replied with a cruel laugh. “Out of justice to you, and because of injustice to me, this fellow shall be hanged. I only wish I could string the father up beside the son. In all my military career I never met with, or heard of, so infamous a scheme as they have conceived and carried out. I can see, as you have suggested, that all the disasters have come through this young rascal. I will put him under guard to-night. To-morrow he shall be tried and sentenced. Before another twenty-four hours have passed, he will be executed.”

He called out, and a sergeant with four men entered and took the prisoner away.

Within the stout walls of a log hut, which had been turned into a temporary prison, Philip (for now he should be called by his right name) was left to himself. Naturally he could not avoid dwelling upon the horrible fate that awaited him, for his conviction and execution were foregone conclusions. Many a man had been sent to the gallows by far less evidence than could be brought against him. In the heart of the British camp as he was, he might not look for rescue. There was little hope of escaping through his own efforts.

He recalled all that he had been able to do, through the place he had held in the British camp, for the Cause he loved. The stores at Bennington on which Burgoyne depended for the sustenance of his army, had not been secured, and in the attempt to obtain them that officer had lost a thousand men. The reinforcements he ardently expected from New York had not come, and they could not arrive now in time to save him. St. Leger had been frightened away, and with him had gone the last hope of the British commander for any addition to his forces. With his army weakened, on short rations, and unable to retreat, he had but one alternative, which was to face a foe that outnumbered him. From the human point of view there could be but one outcome, defeat, and with that defeat all the plans of Lord Germain, the war secretary in London, would be shattered. Philip was satisfied. Remembering all he had helped to accomplish, he could, if necessary, surrender up his life.

Philip Schuyler was calm when, on the following day, he faced his accusers. He did not attempt to deny his identity, or make excuse for a single act. He did not flinch when he was sentenced to be hanged twenty-four hours later as a spy. When asked if he had anything to say why sentence should not be pronounced upon him, he replied:

“I knew I ran a great risk when I consented to do the work I have done. I am glad I was permitted to do so much. I only regret I could not longer have escaped detection in order to accomplish more. I shall die happy because I have surrendered my life for a Cause which I know, and which every one of you gentlemen knows, to be holy.”

To his surprise he had a visitor during the afternoon. It was old David Daggett. After assisting Captain Brant to carry Hiram Le Geyt back to his home, the old man had again turned his face toward the Hudson to learn something of his grandson Ira.

Arriving in the camp shortly before noon, he had found the lad, and heard the story of his imprisonment, of the false Ira, and of the latter’s sentence. He rubbed his hands in glee.

“I want to see him!” he cried. “I want to tell the young devil just what I think of him. I’ll stay until to-morrow to see him die.”

To humor him, General Burgoyne gave orders that the old man be allowed to visit the condemned lad.

There were other prisoners in the guard-house, and after his sentence the young scout had been carried to a two-story house used as the barracks for a company of soldiers. In one of the upper rooms of this he had been placed in solitary confinement. There was a guard outside the door, a company of soldiers below, and sentinels around the building. Every avenue of escape was supposed to be closed, and the young lieutenant awaited the hour of his death.

Here David Daggett came. When allowed to enter the room, he stood for a time gazing at the prisoner, who arose to meet him, while a smile played on his lips. Without being invited, he sat in the one chair the chamber contained, and still stared at the lad. Then he laughed long and loudly.

“It just tickles me to see you,” he at length said.

“What is there about me that pleases you?” Philip asked.

“It makes me laugh to think how you will kick and squirm to-morrow, when the rope is put around your neck,” was the cruel reply.

That the captive made no reply, seemed to anger him. “If I had my way you wouldn’t hang!” he cried. “You’d burn! burn! burn! The Indians know how to torture their victims, when they kill them at the stake. I wish you might be scorched to pay for that fellow you saved at Fort Stanwix. He ought to have died, and you ought to burn. Every rebel in the land should be burned. I’ll tell the general to burn you—” and ran from the room.

But when he went to General Burgoyne with his request, he was told that the sentence of the prisoner could not be changed. He brooded over the answer.

“I’ll change it,” he muttered, and with a cunning look in his eyes, he went to the building in which the prisoner was confined, walking around it again and again.

The structure had been intended for a shop, with living-rooms above. At the rear was a small lean-to, once used as a stable. In this last a large amount of rubbish had collected. The sharp eyes of the old man took in all this, and his plan was formed. Late in the night he slipped out of the tent he occupied in company with his grandson, and made his way to the rear of the barracks.

“The soldiers can get out,” he muttered to himself; “but that young rebel can’t. I’ll burn him, burn him up!”

Into the shanty, unobserved, he crawled. In the farther corner he pulled some of the most inflammable material together, and then took out of his pocket his flint and steel. Into the rubbish the tiny sparks fell. Slowly the flame grew. He waited until it was under good headway, and then slipped away to his tent.

Ten minutes passed, and then the alarm rang through the encampment. “Fire! Fire! The barracks are on fire!” some one shouted, and others took up the cry.

Ira Le Geyt awoke and called to his grandfather, but the old man apparently slept soundly. Not until having been shaken vigorously did he arouse himself, and then, rubbing his eyes, he asked innocently:

“What is it?”

“Some building is on fire,” his grandson explained and ran out.

David Daggett followed in the direction of the blaze his hands had kindled. The lean-to was gone; one side of the house was a mass of flames, and with an exulting cry on his lips: “The rebel will burn! the rebel will burn!” he hastened to join the crowd that had collected around the doomed building.