Black Nick, the Hermit of the Hills: A story of Burgoyne's Surrender

By Frederick Whittaker

An unearthly figure of gigantic hight, but lean and attenuated as a skeleton, terrorizes American soldiers and Mohaawks. The figure was clothed in a tight black garment with steely gleams that covered it from head to foot, and a pair of short, upright horns projected from its close skull-cap, leaving exposed skin a face of deathly pallor, with great, burning black eyes, and a mustache that pointed upwards in true diabolical fashion.

Who—or what is this monstrous figure, and what does it portend for those it has made its enemies?

A thrilling dime novel first published in 1873! Introduction by Karl Wurf.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Nov 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667660509

Book preview

Table of Contents

BLACK NICK, THE HERMIT OF THE HILLS

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

INTRODUCTION, by Karl Wurf

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

BLACK NICK,

THE HERMIT OF THE HILLS

Or, The Expiated Crime

FREDERICK WHITTAKER

A STORY OF BURGOYNE’S SURRENDER

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Originally published in 1873.

Published by Wildside Press LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

INTRODUCTION, by Karl Wurf

Black Nick is a sensationalistic dime novel first published in 1873. It’s set during the latter days of the American Revolutionary War, when the British and American armies were locked in a do-or-die struggle for the future of the Colonies..

To place the story in context, it involves events leading up to the surrender of the British General John Burgoyne. Burgoyne surrender at Saratoga, New York on October 17, 1777, after battles with American forces under General Horatio. With the British suffering heavy losses during both engagements, Burgoyne retreated with a weakened army to Saratoga, where he ultimately surrendered. This marked a turning point in the American Revolution, as it prevented the British from dividing New England from the rest of the colonies. It also proved a deciding factor in bringing active French support to the American cause.

John Trumbull’s painting (below), from the Capitol Rotunda, depicts General Burgoyne offering to surrender his sword to General Gates.

Black Nick complements historical facts by adding a supernatural-seeming figure, who intervenes against the British and their Native American allies. Details are lurid and would have thrilled audiences of the day.

Modern readers will no doubt be less familiar with General Burgoyne and the battles of the American Revolution than the audience at the time of publication. The surrender was so famous in its time that artist John Turnbull chose it as one of four Revolutionary War battles—along with the battles of Bunker’s Hill, Trenton, and Yorktown—to depict in the Rotunda.

As for the author, Frederick Whittaker was a Civil War cavalry officer, a best-selling author, and a controversial biographer of General George A. Custer, the American cavalry officer killed at the Battle of the Little Big Horn in June 1876. He was born in England in 1838 and immigrated to New York as a child when his father fled to avoid debtor’s prison (and likely deportation to Australia).

At age 23, Whittaker volunteered to help the Union fight the rebellious South, joining the 6th New York Cavalry, lured by the glamor of the horse-riding wing of the army. Eventually rising to officer rank, he fought with distinction in some of the war’s major engagement, including Gettysburg.

Whittaker met Custer in 1875 at the New York offices of a magazine that was publishing the lieutenant colonel’s memoirs, and the two soldiers found they had much in common and became friends. Custer’s death at the infamous Battle of the Little Big Horn at the hands of Sioux and Cheyenne warriors in 1876 changed Whittaker’s life. Within six months of the defeat, Whittaker published the two-volume, A Complete Life of General George A. Custer. He depicted Custer as a fearless and brilliant soldier, a great man, one of the few really great men that America has produced. Whittaker cast blame for Custer’s defeat on Major Marcus Reno, who had retreated with his contingent of the 7th Cavalry, allowing the Native Americans to focus on Custer’s command. The charge against Reno set off a debate over the battle that continues to this day.

In the 1880s, Whittaker began to explore spiritualism, especially the belief in communication with the dead. (This was a common and acceptable pursuit in the 19th Century, especially for the bereaved.) However, his interest in the subject matter clearly extend much earlier, as the supernatural overtones in Black Nick clearly attest.

He died May 13, 1889, in his Mt. Vernon home when he fell down the stairs and the pistol he customarily carried holstered discharged. There has been some dispute over whether it was an accident or suicide—he was heavily in debt at the time of his death, and his wife was able to claim a widow’s pension from the army. She claimed his death was suicide and caused by stress from his wartime service. The War Department proved sympathetic, and she received a monthly widow’s pension until her death in 1925.

CHAPTER 1

THE WOOD FIEND

In the midst of the lonely forest, that stretched in an almost unbroken line of solitude from the head-waters of the Hudson to the Mississippi, during the last century, a small party of Indian warriors, in full war-paint, treading one in the other’s footsteps, to the number of five, stole into a little clearing formed by the hand of Nature, and halted by a spring.

The sun was about to set, in an angry glow of crimson, that portended bad weather. The fiery beams shot aslant through the open arches of the forest, and the trunks of the trees stood out, as black as jet, against the red glow of evening.

He has not been here, remarked the warrior who seemed to be the leader, as he scanned the earth around the little spring with a practiced eye.

The pale-faces are all liars, said a young brave, disdainfully, as he leant upon his bow. When was a Mohawk known to break his word?

The Panther Cub is wrong, he said, quietly. There are good and bad pale-faces. I have never known the white chief to fail before. He has been stopped on the way. He will soon come, and show us how to strike the children who have rebelled against the great father who dwells beyond the sea.

The Mohawk needs no white teacher, returned Panther Cub, in the same tone. I can find a house to strike, and scalps to take, long before the morning dawns, if need be.

Has the Black Fox lost his eyes, that Panther Cub thinks he is the only Mohawk that can see in the night? asked the old chief, sternly. Let the young warriors be silent, while they have chiefs on the same war-path. We have eaten of the white father’s bread, and he has ordered us here to await his messenger. Black Fox will stay.

As he spoke, he leaned his rifle against the tree by which he stood, drew up his blanket around his shoulders, and took his seat in dignified silence.

The other warriors, as if determined by his example, proceeded to make their dispositions for the night. A flint and steel were produced, tinder was found in a dead tree, and a small glowing fire was soon started, around which the Indians clustered, eating their frugal meal of dried venison and parched corn in silence.

These Indians were a small scouting party from the flankers of Burgoyne’s army, who had been dispatched through the woods to the west of Albany, to meet an emissary of the British Government, who was to give them certain instructions.

Slowly the sun disappeared as they clustered round the fire, and the crimson glow died away in the sky, to be replaced by a murky mass of cloud of dark slaty gray, rapidly becoming black. Overhead the stars shone out, but the clouds began to gather and hide them from view, and a low moaning in the tops of the trees warned the hearers of a storm brewing.

Suddenly, as if by common consent, every Indian sprung to his feet, and grasped his weapons, as the sound of snapping sticks, and of horse-hoofs in rapid motion, approached the spot. There was no underbrush in those primeval forests, as yet innocent of the ax of the woodman, and a horseman could be seen in full career, rapidly approaching the little glade.

At a word from the chief, the four warriors resumed their seats by the fire, while the old leader himself stalked forth from the group, and drawing himself up, awaited the coming of the stranger, in an attitude of dignity, grounding the butt of his rifle.

The newcomer proved to be a man of large size, with a stern, determined face, gloomy and lowering in expression. He was dressed like a farmer, and well mounted on a stout horse, carrying holsters on the saddle, from which peeped the butts of large pistols. Otherwise the rider was unarmed, only carrying a horse-whip. He checked his horse, and dismounted before Black Fox, who addressed him with the grave reminder:

The Night Hawk is late.

I couldn’t be earlier, Fox, returned the other, in the Mohawk tongue. I was fired at by Schuyler’s pickets, and chased out of my path by a patrol of the cursed mounted rifles of that fellow, Morgan. Here I am at last. Go back to the General, and let him know that the rebels are rousing everywhere. Schuyler has sent orders to rescue the fort beyond Oriskany at any cost, and they will march in two days from now, a thousand strong, under General Herkimer, to raise the siege. Have you a swift runner here?

The Panther Cub has long legs. He shall carry the Night Walker’s words, said the chief, sententiously.

Good. Let him run to General St. Leger, and warn him that his rear will be attacked, said the spy. "For the rest, back to Burgoyne. Tell the General his foes are gathering. He must spring like the wild-cat, or he will