CHAPTER II.

THE MISSING MESSAGES.

The sun had been up a full half hour the next morning when Joe awoke. Raising his head he looked about him. He was alone. Springing to his feet he hastened to the door. The camp-fire had been built; the breakfast was slowly cooking; but Ira was nowhere to be seen.

A low splash, as though some one was wading across the pond, reached his ears. The tent faced south, while the approach to the island by the way of the brook was from the east. He was obliged, therefore, to step outside his shelter in order to obtain a view of the direction from which the sound came.

The moment he did so he found it difficult to suppress the cry of alarm that rose to his lips, for there, not more than two rods away, was a stranger, who, having just put on his huge boots after wading over to the island, looked up in time to catch sight of him. Instantly bringing his rifle to his shoulder the intruder called out in loud, gruff tones:

“Stand where you are, youngster. Any attempt on your part to get a gun will force me to fire.”

Seeing his words had the required effect, he came a little nearer, and continued:

“Your companion ran away when I came up. Is it he, or you, who has my iron cross?”

For an instant Joe could do no more than stare at the speaker. Could it be that the real Ira Le Geyt had escaped from the hands of General Schuyler, and in some way traced out the lad who was intending to personate him in the British camp?

“Who be ye?” he finally questioned, using the time he gained thereby to examine the newcomer carefully.

He certainly resembled the other Ira. This fellow did not appear to be quite so tall; he was more stout; his hair was a shade or two darker; his nose was more prominent; and he looked older.

There was a greater difference in his dress. He wore high top-boots, an English hunting suit of costly material, a belt of polished leather, containing a brace of pistols and a silver-handled knife, while on his back was a huge knapsack, apparently filled to overflowing.

Scarcely had Joe learned all this, when the answer to his query came in an angry voice:

“Who am I? You ought to know. Again I ask, have you my iron cross?”

This settled matters with the listener. Here was the real Ira, and the thing to do was to outwit and capture him, call back his friend, and then their plans might go on as arranged. With this object in view he edged slowly along towards the intruder, saying innocently:

“I never saw you before, an’ I’ve nothin’ belongin’ to you, sir, but—” and with a tremendous bound he caught his antagonist’s gun, tearing it from his grasp. Flinging it away, he seized the owner by the body, pinning his arms to his sides, and then finished his sentence, “I’ve got you.”

To his surprise there was no struggle. Instead, a voice he knew well cried out laughingly:

“Well done, Joe; but you must admit I as neatly fooled you. I guess I shall be able to play my part at the British quarters.”

“It looks like it, I swaney,” Joe said a little sheepishly. Releasing his prisoner, he stepped away a few feet and looked him over again, this time more critically.

“It beats anythin’ I ever heard of,” he at length declared. “Though I knew you were goin’ to rig up in some way, I thought the real Ira had stolen a march on us, an’ got into camp—leastwise, you seemed like the real Ira to me, though I’ve never set eyes on him. Unless the red-coats know him better than I do, they’ll take you for him, sure.”

“Of course it is possible more than one of the British officers may know Le Geyt,” the lad said thoughtfully, “or some person come into the lines who has seen him. But I think the risk is small. His visits to this part of the state have not been frequent, and, while his name is familiar, his face and form are not. I flatter myself I have a make-up that quite resembles him, and believe I can successfully carry out the part. Let us have breakfast, and then I will be off.”

As he spoke he dropped his pack beside the gun, and, going to the fire, helped himself to the smoking food. Joe followed his example, and they ate almost in silence.

The meal finished, Ira removed his huge boots, and, adding them to his bundle, started down the brook. His comrade followed as far as the great maple, and from there watched, as he, after resuming his foot-gear, walked slowly toward the British camp.

He would have been greatly excited had he witnessed what befell the traveler a few moments later. Emerging from the ravine, he had gone but a few rods when a stalwart Indian leaped from a thicket and grasped him by the shoulder. The next instant a half-dozen more surrounded him. Though offering no violence, it was clear they intended to make him a prisoner.

Instead of being disturbed by this mishap, the captive seemed to rejoice over it. He smiled pleasantly, laid his hand gently on the shoulder of the man who first seized him, and who was apparently the chief of the party, saying in the native tongue:

“My brother, you are from the great camp by the lake.”

A grunt of assent came from the captor.

“Take me there at once,” the prisoner continued with some show of authority. “I have important business with General Burgoyne, the commander.”

His words were not without their effect. Releasing him, the Indian said in a tone of inquiry: “Ira Le Geyt?”

“Ira Le Geyt,” the youth repeated, and at the same moment he drew from the bosom of his coat the iron cross.

At sight of the bit of metal the chieftain gave a peremptory order to his men to fall in behind him, and then, side by side with the captured lad, strode away towards the encampment.

They were not long in reaching the first outpost. To the guard the Indian uttered the two English words, “King George,” and was allowed to pass with his entire party.

Once within the lines the chief sent his followers to their quarters, and then led his companion swiftly across the enclosure to the tent of the commander, which he entered without ceremony.

“General! Ira Le Geyt!” he said, and then vanished.

Two men turned to face the newcomer; one in the uniform of a major-general, the other in the garb of a private citizen, for their backs had been toward the entrance, while they were giving undivided attention to a rude map or chart which was spread out upon the camp bed.

“I beg your pardon for this intrusion, General Burgoyne,” the young scout began, bowing low before that officer, “It was due to my conductor, one of your Indians, who ran on me in the forest.”

“It is all right, Master Le Geyt,” the commander replied good-naturedly. “Indeed, your coming is most timely. My companion, who, by the way is Master George Preston, a courier who came from Quebec with us, and is to go on to New York with a message for General Clinton from Lord Germain, and I, were trying to trace out on this map the best route for him to follow down the river. Perhaps you, who, I am informed, are familiar with this entire region, may be able to help us. Would you advise him to take the east or west side?”

Ira stepped to the bed, ostensibly to examine the map, which proved to be a crude and inaccurate affair, but really to gain time in which to think over the situation. Here was work for him immediately. If this man had a message for General Clinton from Lord Germain, the War Secretary in London, it was altogether too important to be allowed to reach its destination. But how should he prevent it, and obtain possession of the paper?

He cast a furtive glance at the courier to ascertain the kind of man he had to deal with. The look was hardly reassuring. Clearly George Preston was not a man to be easily thwarted. Forty years of age, nearly a giant in strength and stature, with a face that suggested courage, resourcefulness, and faithfulness to duty. It was certain he had been selected for the task assigned him because he could be thoroughly relied upon.

All this the lad took in during the brief minute he stood silent, and at once decided upon a plan which he believed would enable him to accomplish his purpose. Then he said in answer to the question asked him:

“Both, sir. He better make directly for the river from here, and, crossing it, go down the west side until below Albany. Then, recrossing it, follow the east side to his destination. In this way he will escape the main forces of the enemy, and so lessen his chances of being captured.”

“That is what I told you, Master Preston!” exclaimed the general in triumph. “I need the aid of Clinton too badly to run any risk of your message failing to reach him. Take the safer way, even though it involves a longer journey. Twenty-four hours delay in the delivery of the letter is nothing, if it in the end reaches the general.”

“My chief objection to the plan lies in this:” the courier said quietly. “It is unlike the route laid out for me in St. John. I had rather obey the letter, as well as the spirit, of my orders.”

“A good practice, truly,” General Burgoyne replied heartily, “and one that proves you are the man for this work. But our friends in St. John did not know what might arise, and therefore left you to your own judgment. I am exceedingly anxious that you use every precaution possible to carry Lord Germain’s message safely through the enemy’s lines.”

“You cannot be more anxious than I,” Master Preston said calmly, “and I have something more to say, provided our friend here is all he claims to be. It may be over-caution on my part, but if I recollect rightly, he has nothing but the word of that Indian to back him,” and he gave the officer a glance which caused him to flush slightly.

“Master Le Geyt answered so fully the description I had received of him,” the general replied somewhat haughtily, “that I was at once satisfied he was all he claimed to be. Nor is the Indian’s word of so little value as you seem to think. He must have known the young man, or he would never have brought him here. But since you have your doubts, he can, I am sure, show what will convince us that he is as trustworthy as yourself,” and he glanced confidently at the youth.

“I thank you, General Burgoyne, for so much confidence in me,” Ira replied, “and I commend the caution of Master Preston. He has a perfect right to demand full proof of my identity before giving me any information which might be of value to an enemy. I will then, with your permission, hand him my credentials first,” and, ripping open the lining of his coat, he took out two slips of paper, which he gave to the courier.

“The first is my commission as a scout from the general here,” he explained. “The second is from our good friend, Lord Germain, and bears his official seal. You will see that he vouches for my loyalty, and suggests that General Burgoyne employ me during this campaign. I believe it was this paper that led the general to send me the other, though he had never seen me.”

“I also had a personal note from the Secretary, giving me a description of you, and setting forth in detail how you could be of special service to me,” the commander hastened to add. “Are you satisfied, Master Preston?”

“I ought to be,” the latter declared, “and to prove it I will now make a disclosure, general, which I have up to this time withheld, even from you.”

As he spoke he took a small package from his coat pocket, and opening it, brought to view three papers.

“This,” he said, “is the letter to Sir Henry Clinton; this is my passport into any and all of our army lines; and this is the document I wish to show you. You will notice, General Burgoyne, that our friends at St. John were not in ignorance of the best route for me to follow in going to Yew York, and also will understand the real reason why I hold for the path they have marked out.”

Unfolding the paper with these words of explanation, he showed his companions a carefully prepared route of the entire distance he was to travel. Each day’s journey was laid out; every stopping place, with the name of his host, was written down, and, now and then, beside a name was a peculiar mark.

“Note these references,” he continued, “are concerning those men who are to give me special tidings as to the number and position of the rebels in their vicinity. James Graham of Hubbardtown, where I make my first stop, will tell me the latest news about Fort Ticonderoga; William Erskine will report as to the condition of affairs about Fort Edward. The other men will in turn post me about matters in their neighborhood, so that when I reach my destination I expect to be the bearer of information to General Clinton which will greatly aid him in despatching a force up the river to join you at Albany.”

Before he finished speaking Ira had read and fixed in his memory the names of the men who were to assist the courier. He knew some as rank Tories, but there were others who had the reputation of being friendly to the Cause, and, therefore, were allowed to come and go freely in the encampments near them. This revelation of their true character he regarded of sufficient value to repay him for all the risk he had run in entering the British camp.

“I had not thought of that, Master Preston,” the commander admitted. “The additional information you gain may be worth the chances you take in following that route. It is clear the authorities at St. John believed it would be. But I advise you to travel only in the night, and lay quietly in quarters during the day.”

“Precisely what I have planned to do, general. Leaving here to-night I count, unless I lose my way, to reach the house of Master Graham before sunrise. After that I shall have no trouble, for, if need be, a guide can be furnished me from station to station.”

“And you may have a guide to Master Graham’s door,” the young scout said modestly. “That is, if you are willing to accept my humble services.”

“I certainly am, and thank you for the favor,” the courier answered heartily. “It removes the only anxiety I had about this first stage of my journey. We will start about nine o’clock, if that suits you.”

“Perfectly.”

“And you, General Burgoyne, can have your letter to Sir Henry ready by that time?” he asked.

“Yes; but I hope you have some safer place than your pocket for it and those other papers,” the general replied, as Master Preston began to wrap up the documents he had exhibited.

“Don’t borrow any trouble on that score, my dear sir,” the man replied with a peculiar smile. “I may be captured, and my garments picked to pieces, but I assure you the missives will not be found,” which declaration was credited by one, and doubted by his other hearer.

An orderly now appeared, saying that General Fraser was without and desired an interview with the commander.

“Show him in,” was the reply of that officer, and then, turning to his other visitors, he added, “I shall be busy during the remainder of the day, but an half-hour before you begin your journey I will be glad to see both of you here. The tent at the right, Master Le Geyt, has been prepared for you,” and then he turned to greet his subordinate, who had already entered.

“I shall spend some hours in a much needed rest,” the young scout announced to his companion, when they were outside; “but will join you at sundown, if you so desire.”

“I will call for you when I come to report to the general,” Master Preston replied, and then hastened off to his own quarters.

Ira left his tent but once during the day. That was just after dinner, and for a stroll in the forest. He was absent about two hours, and on his return brought a fine string of trout he had caught.

“A present for the general,” he said to the courier, whom he chanced to meet soon after he entered the lines.

“I wish you had taken me with you,” the latter cried enthusiastically as he inspected the speckled beauties. “If there is anything I enjoy more than running the lines of the enemy, it is angling, and you have the finest catch I have ever seen in this country.”

“Then that shall be a bond between us,” was the hearty response. “I knew of a pool a mile or two from here, and could not resist the temptation to pull out a string. You’ll be here in a few hours?”

“Yes,” said Master Preston, strolling on, apparently unsuspicious that his new acquaintance had been out of the camp for any other purpose than that of fishing.

Their interview with General Burgoyne during evening was brief. He gave a letter he had prepared for General Clinton, to Master Preston, who asked to be excused for a few moments. Somewhere in the outer darkness he concealed it about him, for when he returned he said:

“I’ve put it with the others, sir, and promise you that it shall not fall into any hand than that for which it is intended.”

Ten minutes later he and his guide had left the encampment, and were gliding swiftly and noiselessly through the forest toward Master Graham’s.

Several times the heavy step as of some belated traveler caused them to shrink back under the cover of the dense brush until it had ceased. Now and then came the cry of some wild beast to startle them, but they kept steadily along the trail until nearly midnight. Then they had arrived at a small brook, which crossed the path at right angles, and here Ira, who was in the lead, stopped.

“Our journey is half done,” he announced. “We may as well halt here, and have something to eat.”

On a rock beside the stream, amid darkness that could almost be felt, surrounded by a silence that seemed oppressive, the two in silence partook of the food they had brought with them. Quenching their thirst from the rivulet, they were about to resume their tramp, when came the hoot of an owl from the rear. It was repeated at a short distance down the trail, and a moment later sounded nearer yet, but from up the brook.

“Can it be we are followed and surrounded?” the courier asked apprehensively in a low tone.

“It is a singular circumstance,” his companion admitted in a whisper. “There it is again,” and, listening, they heard the cries again in precisely the same order. Then came the sharp snap of a twig as though some one was approaching.

“The way is open to the right,” Ira continued in the same low tone. “Quick! we may yet escape.”

He led the way down the stream, going as rapidly as the darkness and underbrush would permit, his comrade keeping close at his heels. After a while the ground became soft and miry, and the bushes were so dense as to render progress exceedingly difficult.

“We must take to the brook,” Ira said to his companion. “Pull off your boots!”

“But is it necessary?” the courier asked. “Can’t we wait here awhile, and then go back to the trail?”

“Listen!” was the answer. Through the stillness of the night came to their ears the sound of footsteps.

“I have it,” the young scout whispered to Master Preston. “We’ll take to the stream here, and keep it down a few rods to where another brook joins it, which last we’ll follow. It will enable us to work toward the old trail, and at the same time throw our pursuers off the track.”

Stepping into the water a moment later, they waded slowly and cautiously along to the tributary of which Ira had spoken. Entering this they began its ascent. During a half hour they kept on, pausing occasionally to learn if they were still followed, but no sound broke the stillness of the forest.

“Those fellows have lost our trail; can’t we leave the brook now?” the courier at length asked, becoming tired of his slippery and uncertain footing.

His companion’s answer was also a question:

“What’s that ahead of us?”

Master Preston stepped beside his guide, and then replied:

“It is a fire of some kind!”

“A camp-fire,” was the rejoinder. “I can now see a tent beyond.”

“What shall we do?”

“Keep straight on. Whoever may be there are probably fast asleep at this hour.”

Noiselessly they advanced.

“We are in a pond,” the courier whispered an instant later.

“That’s a fact,” his companion agreed, “and that is Boulder island. I know where we are now. I don’t think we have anything to fear, still we’ll keep our guns ready for immediate use.”

The next moment they gained the shore of the island, and stopped in front of the fire, at the tent door. The canvas dwelling was empty.

Ira laughed loudly.

“This is a joke on us!” he exclaimed. “See! there are the fellows’ fishing rods. They were doubtless out hunting when night came on, became separated, and are trying to find each other and their camp. We’ve run away from men who had no thought of pursuing us,” and again he laughed heartily.

Before his comrade could speak a cry came from the main shore.

“Hello there! Who are you in our camp?”

“I ought to know that voice,” the young scout said to the courier. Then he replied:

“Is that you, Joe?”

“Yes, but who are you?”

“Ira Le Geyt.”

“Hurrah!” came back across the little pond. “We’ll jine ye in a minute.”

There was a noise as of splashing water for a moment, and then two young lads came into the dim light of the camp-fire.

“Glad to see you, Ira,” they both exclaimed, shaking hands with him, and he introduced his companion to them.

“Master Preston, this is Joe Fisher and Late Wentworth, two friends of mine, who are of the right sort.”

When the courier had acknowledged the introduction, his guide continued:

“Was it you who were hooting like owls up where the stream crosses the Hubbardtown trail?”

“Yes,” Late replied. “We were separated, an’ tryin’ to come together again. Why do you ask?”

“We thought it was some one who wanted to hem us in on the trail, and so took to the brook,” the young scout explained, “and here we are, three or four miles out of our way.”

“Well, ye better stay until mornin’,” Joe said. “You are both welcome to our shelter an’ fodder, such as it is. Ain’t that so, Late?”

“I reckon,” his camp-mate replied, “an’ if we don’t turn in soon, mornin’ will be here ’fore we get a wink of sleep.”

“I leave it to you, Master Preston,” Ira said. “Shall we go on, or stay?”

“Go on,” he answered. “I must reach my destination before light, if it is possible.”

“Very well,” his guide replied, stooping to pick up the big boots he had thrown down upon reaching camp.

The courier bent over for the same purpose, but before he could recover himself, Late and Joe seized and threw him to the ground. Ira came to their aid, and in a few moments the man was bound and disarmed.

“What does this mean?” he demanded with an ugly glance at the young scout.

“That I want the papers you carry,” Ira replied quietly.

“Find them then,” he retorted with a grin.

His clothing was examined, his boots, hat, belt, the stocks of his pistols and gun; but the important papers could not be found.