“He may be dead and scalped by now,” sneered Colonel Visscher.

“Look you, Visscher,” said the old General; “it iss I who am here to answer for your safety.  Now comes Spencer, my Oneida, mit a pelt, who svears to me dot Brant und Butler an ambuscade haff made for me.  Vat I do?  Eh?  I vait for dot sortie?  Gewiss!”

He waved his short pipe.

“For vy am I an ass to march me py dot ambuscade?  Such a foolishness iss dot talk!  I stay me py Oriskany till I dem cannon hear.”

A storm of insolent protest from the mob of soldiers greeted his decision; the officers gesticulated and shouted insultingly, shoving forward to the edge of the porch.  Fists were shaken at him, cries of impatience and contempt rose everywhere.  Colonel Paris flung his sword on the ground.  Colonel Cox, crimson with anger, roared:  “If you delay another moment the blood of Gansevoort’s men be on your head!”

Then, in the tumult, a voice called out:  “He’s a Tory!  We are betrayed!” And Colonel Cox shouted:  “He dares not march!  He is a coward!”

White to the lips, the old man sprang from his chair, narrow eyes ablaze, hands trembling.  Colonel Bellinger and Major Frey caught him by the arm, begging him to remain firm in his decision.

“Py Gott, no!” he thundered, drawing his sword.  “If you vill haff it so, your blood be on your heads!  Vorwaerts!”

It is not for me to blame him in his wrath, when, beside himself with righteous fury, he gave the bellowing yokels their heads and swept on with them to destruction.  The mutinous fools who had called him coward and traitor fell back as their outraged commander strode silently through the disordered ranks, noticing neither the proffered apologies of Colonel Paris nor the stammered excuses of Colonel Cox.  Behind him stalked the tall Oneida, silent, stern, small eyes flashing.  And now began the immense uproar of departure; confused officers ran about cursing and shouting; the smashing roll of the drums broke out, beating the assembly; teamsters rushed to harness horses; dismayed soldiers pushed and struggled through the mass, searching for their regiments and companies.

Mounted on a gaunt, gray horse, the General rode through the disorder, quietly directing the incompetent militia officers in their tasks of collecting their men; and behind him, splendidly horsed and caparisoned, cantered the tall Oneida, known as Thomas Spencer the Interpreter, calm, composed, inscrutable eyes fixed on his beloved leader and friend.

The drums of the Canajoharie regiment were beating as the drummers swung past me, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, sweat pouring down their sunburned faces; then came Herkimer, all alone, sitting his saddle like a rock, the flush of anger still staining his weather-ravaged visage, his small, wrathful eyes fixed on the north.

Behind him rode Colonels Cox and Paris, long, heavy swords drawn, heading the Canajoharie regiment, which pressed forward excitedly.  The remaining regiments of Tryon County militia followed, led by Colonel Seeber, Colonel Bellenger, Majors Frey, Eisenlord, and Van Slyck.  Then came the baggage-wagons, some drawn by oxen, some by four horses; and in the rear of these rode Colonel Visscher, leading the Caughnawaga regiment, closing the dusty column.