The Project Gutenberg EBook of Then Marched the Brave, by Harriet T. Comstock This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Then Marched the Brave Author: Harriet T. Comstock Illustrator: Anna S. Hicks Release Date: June 30, 2005 [EBook #16156] Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE *** Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Josephine Paolucci and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net Then Marched the Brave By Harriet T. Comstock Author of "When the British Came," "Molly, the Drummer Boy," etc. Illustrations by Anna S. Hicks PHILADELPHIA HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY BY THE SAME AUTHOR MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY WHEN THE BRITISH CAME Fifty cents each Copyright, 1904, by Henry Altemus "'I CAN SEE NO ONE BUT THE GENERAL,' JANIE SAID." See page 133. CONTENTS CHAPTER I PAGE Andy McNeal 13 CHAPTER II A Stranger in the Night 26 CHAPTER III The Crowning Of Andy McNeal 43 CHAPTER IV Through the Cave 62 CHAPTER V A Suspicion 74 CHAPTER VI Then Marched the Brave 88 CHAPTER VII Andy Hears a Strange Talk 99 CHAPTER VIII At Headquarters 118 CHAPTER IX Peace 130 ILLUSTRATIONS "'I can see no one but the General,' Janie said" Frontispiece "Andy was at the oars now" 37 "'Good day, my pretty lass!'" 51 "Burr ventured a question" 81 "It took all of Andy's courage to don the female attire" 113 THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE CHAPTER I ANDY McNEAL It was in the time when the king's men had things pretty much their own way, and mystery and plot held full sway, that there lived, in a little house near McGown Pass on the upper end of Manhattan Island, a widow and her lame son. She was a tall, gaunt woman of Scotch ancestry, but loyal to the land that had given her a second home. She was not a woman of many opinions, but the few that she held were rigid, and not to be trifled with. With all her might she hated the king, and with equal intensity loved the cause of freedom. In the depths of her nature there was a great feeling of shame and disappointment that her only son was a hopeless cripple, and so could not be offered as a living sacrifice to the new cause. Janie McNeal held it against the good God that she, His faithful servant, must be denied the glorious opportunity of giving her best and all, as other mothers were doing, that the land of the free might be wrested from cruel tyranny. To be sure, Andy was but sixteen. That mattered little to Janie; young as he was, she could have held him in readiness, as did Hannah of old, until the time claimed him—but his lameness made it impossible. Among all the deeds of courage, he must stand forever apart! Poor Janie could not conceive of a bravery beyond physical strength. In her disappointment she looked upon pale Andy, and she saw—she hated to acknowledge it—but she saw only cowardice written upon every line of the shrinking features! The patient blue eyes avoided her pitying glance. The sensitive mouth twitched as the boy listened to her oft- repeated laments. Janie had never seen those eyes grow steely and keen; she had never seen the lips draw into firm lines, or the slim form stiffen as the boy listened to the doings of the king's soldiers. When the neighbors came with thrilling tales of daring done by some loved one, Janie made some excuse for sending the boy upon an errand or to bed; the contrast was too bitter. And Andy, sensitive and keen from suffering, saw through it all and shrank, not from fear or cowardice, but unselfish love, away from the stir and excitement and his mother's sigh of humiliation. He lived his life much alone; misunderstood, but silently brave. His chance would come. Andy never once doubted that, and the chance would find him ready. And so he waited while the summer of 1776 waxed hotter and hotter, and the king's men, drunken with success after the battle of Long Island, pressed their advantage and impudence further, as they waited to see what the "old fox," meaning Washington, meant to do next. What his intentions were, no one, not even his own men, seemed to know; he kept them and himself well out of sight, and the anxious people watched and wondered and grew restless under the strain. Now upon a certain July night Janie McNeal and Andy were sitting at their humble meal. The door of the cottage stood open, and the song of evening birds made tender the quiet scene. Suddenly hurried, yet stealthy, steps startled them. Was it friend or foe? "'Tis from a secret path, mother," whispered Andy, catching his crutch. He knew the way the king's men came and went, and he knew the paths hidden to all but those who dwelt among them. His trained ear was never deceived. "'Tis a neighbor," he murmured; "he comes down the stream bed." Sure enough, a moment later Parson White's wife ran in. Her face was haggard, and her hands outstretched imploringly. With keen appreciation of what might be coming, Janie McNeal put her in a chair, and stood guard over her like a gaunt sentinel. "To bed, Andy, child," she commanded; "'tis late and you are pale. To bed!" Andy took the crutch, and, without a word, limped to the tiny room in the loft above. Boy-like, he was consumed with curiosity. He knew that the speakers, unless they whispered, could be overheard, so he lay down upon his hard bed and listened. And poor Margaret White did not whisper. Once alone with her friend, she poured out her agony and horror. "My Sam," she moaned, "he is dead!" Janie and the listener above started. For three years Sam White, the erring son of the good parson, had been a wanderer from his father's home. How, then, had he died, and where? The news was startling, indeed. "Margaret, tell me all!" The firm voice calmed the grief-stricken mother. "He was coming home to get our blessing. He heard his country's call, when his ears were deaf to all others, and it aroused his better nature. He would not join the ranks until he had our blessing and forgiveness. Poor lad! he was coming down the pass last night, not knowing that it was sentineled by the enemy. He did not answer to the command to halt, and they shot him! Shot him like a dog, giving him no time for explanation or prayer. Oh! my boy! my boy!" Never while he lived would Andy forget that tone of bitter agony. "He's dead! My boy for whom I have watched and waited. Dead! ere he could offer his brave young life on his country's altar. Oh! woe is me, woe is me!" For a moment there was silence, then Janie's voice rang out so that Andy could hear every word. "As God hears me, Margaret, I would gladly give my ain useless lad, if by so doing, yours might be reclaimed from death. Your sorrow is one for which there is no comfort. To have a son to give; to have him snatched away before the country claimed him! Aye, woman, your load is, indeed, a heavy one. To think of Andy alive, and your strong man- child lying dead! The ways of God are beyond finding out. It grieves me sore, Margaret, that it does. It seems a useless sacrifice, God forgive me for saying it!" The women were sobbing together. In the room above, Andy hid his head under the pillow to shut out the sound. Never, in all his lonely life, had he suffered so keenly. Love, pride, hope, went down before the hard words. In that time of great deeds, when the brave were marching on to victory or death, he, poor useless cripple, was a disgrace to the mother whom he loved. Where could he turn for comfort? He limped to the window, to cool his fevered face. He leaned on the sill and looked up at the stars. They seemed unfriendly now, and yet he and they had kept many a vigil, and they had always seemed like comrades in the past. Poor Andy could not pray; he needed the touch of human sympathy. All at once he started. There was one, just one who would understand. But how could he reach her? The women in the room below barred his exit that way. A heavy vine clambered over the house, and its sturdy branches swayed under Andy's window. No one would miss him, and to climb down the vine was an easy task even for a lame boy. Cautiously he began the descent, and in a few minutes was on the ground. He had managed to carry his crutch under his arm, and now, panting, but triumphant, he went quickly on. A new courage was rising within him—a courage that often comes with despair and indifference to consequences. No matter what happened, he would seek his only friend. He took to the stream bed. It was quite dry, and the bushes grew close. No prowling Britisher would be likely to challenge him there. Ah! if poor Sam White had been as wise. Andy's face grew paler as he remembered. For a half- mile he pattered on, then the moon, rising clear and silvery, showed a little house near by the stream bed and almost hidden by vines. Everything about the house was dark and still. Andy paused and wondered if he had a right to disturb even his one true friend. Noiselessly, he drew near, and went around to the back of the house. Something startled him. "Mother!" It was a young, sweet voice, and it came from the shadow of the little porch. "'Tis I, Ruth!" faltered Andy. "You, Andy! And why! Have you heard about our Sam!" The girl came out into the moonshine. She was tall and strong, and her face was very pretty. "Yes; I've heard, Ruth;" then, coming close, Andy poured out his misery to the girl who had been his lifelong friend and comrade. She listened silently, once raising her finger and pointing toward the house as if to warn him against arousing the others. When he had finished there was silence. It was not Ruth's way to plunge into reply. "Come," she whispered presently, "I am going to tell the bees. Hans Brickman told me to-night that 'tis no fancy, but a true thing, that the bees will leave a hive if death come unless they are told by a member of the family. The bee-folk are overwise, I know, and I mean to take no chances of their leaving. With the British at hand, honey is not to be despised. Come." Andy followed, wondering, but biding Ruth's time. She was a strange girl in all her ways. Without speaking, the two went through the little garden and paused before the row of neat hives. Then Ruth bent before the first. "Sam's dead!" she whispered, "but do not fear. We need you, so do not leave the hive." From hive to hive she went, quite seriously repeating the sentence in soft murmurings. Andy stood and looked, the moonlight showing him pale and intent. At last the deed was done, and Ruth came back to him and laid her firm, brown hand upon his shoulder. She was a trifle taller than he, so she bent to speak. "Not even your mother knows you as I do, Andy," she said. "She thinks a lame leg can cripple a brave soul; but it cannot! Why, even being a girl could not keep me back if I saw my chance, and I tell you, Andy, your lameness may serve you well. I have been thinking of that. I do not believe God ever wastes anything. He can use lame boys and— even girls. Sam was not wasted. The call made him brave and good. He was coming home a new creature just because he had heard. When I saw him lying dead, shot by those lurking cowards, something grew in me here,"—she touched her breast. "I have not shed one tear, but I loved him as well as the others. Somehow I knew that since he had been called, it was because he had a work to do, and since he is gone I mean to be ready to do his work. Andy, I am as strong as a boy, but—" here her eyes sought his—"I am a girl for all that, but you and I together, Andy, can do Sam's work!" The young voice shook with excitement. "I, Ruth? Ah! do not shame me." Andy's eyes fell before the shining face. "Shame you, Andy? I shame you—I who have loved you next best to Sam! Come. Father has gone to bed, there will be time before mother returns. I want you to see Sam." With bated breath the two entered the living-room of the cottage. The place had been made sacred to the young hero who was so early called to his rest. Flowers everywhere, and among them Sam lay smiling placidly at his easily won laurels. For the first time Andy gazed upon the face of death. The gentle dignity and peace of the once wild boy awed and thrilled the onlooker. He was dressed in his Continental uniform that was unsoiled by battle's breath, albeit, an ugly hole in the breast showed where the gallant blood had flowed forth. "It's—it's wonderful!" gasped Andy. "But we're not going to let him be wasted, are we Andy?" There was a cruel break in the girl's voice. "We'll do his work, won't we? We'll show the Britishers how we can repay, won't we, Andy?" "Yes," breathed the boy, unable to turn his eyes from the noble, boyish face, that was lighted by the gleam of the one lamp; "we'll show them!" "See, Andy" (Ruth had gone to a corner cup-board and brought forth a three-cornered cap), "this is Sam's; I found it in the bushes. Mother says I may have it." She placed it upon Andy's head. "It just fits!" she exclaimed. "If the time comes, Andy, you shall wear the cap. It will be proof that I trust you. You will help if you can, won't you? Promise" Andy." "I promise, as God hears me, Ruth." In the stillness the vow sounded awesome. The two clasped hands. All the sting was gone. A great resolve to be ready to dare and die made Andy strong and happy. "Good-by, Ruth." "Good-by, Andy, lad." Out into the still night the boy passed. On the way back he saw Mrs. White, but he hid beneath a bush until she had gone by. He reached home, found the door barred, and so painfully reached his room by the aid of the friendly vine. CHAPTER II A STRANGER IN THE NIGHT That was to be a night of experiences—the beginning, the real beginning of Andy's life; all the rest had been preparation. After reaching his room, he flung himself wearily upon the bed. How long he slept he could not know, but he was suddenly aroused by a sharp knock on the outer door below stairs. He sat up and listened. All was still except the trickling of a near-by waterfall, which had outlived the dry weather. For a moment Andy thought the knock was but part of a troubled dream; he waited a moment, then, to make sure, limped over to the stairway and peered down into the room below. A candle stood on the pine table, and, at a chair near-by, knelt Janie McNeal, bowed in prayer. She had heard the knock, but not until the lonely prayer was finished would she rise. That was Janie's way. A second knock, louder than the first, sounded, and with it the woman's solemn "Amen." "Be not so hasty, stranger," she muttered, as she withdrew the bar; "learn to wait for your betters." The door swung back, and into the dim light of the bare room stepped a tall man in Continental dress. His hat was in his hand, and he bowed before Janie as if she were a queen. Andy drew back. No such stranger had ever visited them before, and the boy gazed fascinated. "Pardon me, my good woman," the rich voice said; "much as I dislike disturbing you, I fear I must crave a few hours' rest and lodging, and the service of one to row me across the river ere break of day. I have been told that you have a son." Andy quivered. "A lodging, sir, is yours and welcome," Janie replied, motioning the stranger toward a chair and closing the door after him. "I ever keep a bed in readiness these troubled times. We are loyal to the cause, and I would serve where I may. I have a son, sir, as you have heard, but, alas! not one who can be of service. He is a cripple. However, rest; you look sadly in need of it. I will hasten to a neighbor's a mile away, and seek the service you desire." "I regret to cause such trouble, but the need is urgent. I sympathize with you in your son's affliction. It must be a sore grief to the lad to sit apart these stirring times when young blood runs hot, and the country calls so loudly." Soon Janie was setting food before the stranger—good brown bread and creamy milk. Andy saw the look of suffering on her face as she bustled about, and he understood. He crept back to bed heavy-hearted. Ruth was wrong; there was nothing for him to do. The hot hours dragged on. Toward morning Andy grew restless, and quietly arose and dressed. The feeling of bravery awakened within him, and a dim thought grew and assumed shape in his brain. He could row strong and well. Few knew of his accomplishment, for his life was lonely and the exercise and practice had been one of his few diversions. He knew a secret path among the rocks, which led to the river, and at the end of the path was moored his tiny boat, the rough work of his patient hands. Only Ruth knew of his treasure; often he and she had glided away from the hamlet to think their thoughts, or dream their young dreams. Now, if he could arouse the stranger before his mother had summoned another to do the service, he might share the joy of helping, in a small way, the great cause. "The need is urgent," smiled the boy; "in that case a lame fellow might not be despised." He recalled the stranger's face, and his courage grew. "Chances are so few!" he muttered; "I must take this one." At the first rustling of the birds in the trees, Andy crept down-stairs. His mother's room and the guest-room both opened from the living-room, but Janie's door was closed, while the stranger's was ajar. Through it came the sound of low-spoken words. "Accept the thanks of thy servant for all bountiful mercies of the past. Guide his future steps. Bless our enemies, and make them just. Amen." The boy bowed his head, instinctively. Surely he had nothing to fear from such a man. He went nearer and tapped lightly on the door. Light as was the touch, the stranger started. "Come!" There was a welcome in the word. Andy stepped cautiously inside. "Good-morning, sir." "The same to you, my lad." The keen eyes softened as they fell upon the rude crutch. "How can I serve you!" "Sir, I have come to offer my services to you. I heard you tell my mother that you needed some one to row you across the river. I am a good rower." The man looked puzzled. "You are the widow's son? Is not the task too great?" "My lameness does not hinder much. I use the crutch mainly to hasten my steps; I can walk without it. I am very strong in other ways. I think I am just beginning to find out how strong I am, myself. None know the woods better than I. I can take you by a short cut to the river, and I have my own boat moored and ready. It will be a small matter to reach the opposite shore by sunrise if we start at once." Andy was panting with excitement. "Pray, sir, let me do this; there are so few chances for such as I." The listener smiled kindly. "You are just the guide I need," he said, and Andy knew there was no flattery in the words. "I must leave it for you to thank your good mother for her hospitality. I have been ready for an hour. Lead on, my boy!" Silently they stole from the house. The birds twittered as they passed, for the tall man touched the lower boughs and disturbed the nestlings. "Bend low," whispered Andy, "the way leads through small spaces." On they went, sometimes creeping under the hanging rocks, always clinging to the shelter of trees and bushes. They both knew the danger that might lie near in the form of a British sentinel. "The path seems untrodden by foot of man," murmured the stranger, pausing to draw in a long breath. "You are a wonderful guide." "I think no one else knows the way," Andy whispered, proudly; "an Indian showed it to me when I was a child. He was my good friend, he taught me also to row, and shoot with both arrow and gun. He said I should know Indian tricks because of my lameness. They might help where strength failed. He showed me how to creep noiselessly and find paths. I have trails all over the woods. There is one that leads right among the Britishers; and they never know. I do this for sport." The stranger looked sharply at the gliding form ahead. "Paths such as this all over the woods?" he repeated. "And have you kept this—this sport secret?" "That I have!" laughed Andy. "I tell you now because you are upon your country's service. I trust you, and I thought perhaps it might help sometime." The two moved forward for a moment in silence, then Andy laughed in a half-confused way. "A boy gets lonely at times," he said; "he must do something to while away the—the years. I have practiced and made believe until I am a pretty good Indian. I make believe that I am guiding the great Washington. They do say he ever remembers a favor. I should love to serve him. Had I been like other boys—" the voice broke—"I would have been as near him as possible by this time!" The hand of the stranger was upon the youth's shoulder. Andy turned in alarm. "You have a secret which may save your country much!" breathed the deep voice; "guard it with your life. But if one comes from Washington seeking your aid, do whatever he asks, fearlessly." "How would I know such an one?" gasped Andy. "That will I tell you later." Again the forward tramp. "And you have passed, unnoticed, the British line! 'Tis a joke almost beyond belief!" chuckled the stranger. "I should like to see my Lord Howe's face were he to hear this." "Oh! be silent, sir!" cautioned the guide, "we come to an open space." Once again beneath the heavy boughs, the boy said: "I passed the line but yesterday. And I heard that which has troubled me, sorely, yet I could do nothing. But—" here Andy paused and turned sharply—"bend down. Should you know Washington were you to see him?" "Aye, lad." The two heads were pressed close. "Would you bear a message, and try to find him?" "Aye." "They are planning an attack. I could not hear when or where, for the men moved past. As they came back, and passed where I was hidden, I heard them say that they who are near Washington had best be on watch, poison in the food made no such noise as a gun—but it would serve!" "You heard that?" almost moaned the listener. "My God! could they plan such a cowardly thing?" "Aye, sir. I am thinking they can. I would warn the General if I could, but you may be luckier. The men said Lord Howe desired the death of every rebel." "May heaven forgive him!" The words fell sadly from the strong lips. "And now," again Andy took the lead, "do not speak as we pass here. It is the spot where they shot our pastor's boy, only two days ago. I fear the place. A few rods beyond, we will again strike the thicket, and be under cover until we reach the river." The solemn quiet that precedes a hot summer dawn surrounded the man and boy. The red band broadened in the east. The birds, fearing neither friend nor foe, began to challenge the stillness with their glad notes, and so guide and follower passed the gruesome place where young Sam White gave up his untried life a few short days ago. The thicket gained, the two paused for breath. "We must not talk in the boat, sir." They had reached the moored boat now. "Pray tell me how I am to know our General's messenger." "By this." The stranger detached a charm from a hidden chain and held it in his palm so that the clearer light fell upon it. "I command you to learn its peculiarities well. There must be no blunder." It was very quaint. Andy's keen eye took in every detail. "I shall know it," he sighed. And the stranger smiled and replaced it. "And you, sir?" he faltered, for the hour of parting came with a strange sadness; "may I not know your name? You have made me so proud and happy because you accepted my poor service." "George Washington, and your true friend, Andy McNeal! We are both serving the same great cause. God keep us both!" The General clasped the boy's trembling hand, and Andy looked through dim eyes into the face of his hero. The hero who for months past had been the imaginative comrade of lonely hours and dreamy play. "ANDY WAS AT THE OARS NOW." "We shall meet again—comrade!" Washington was smiling and the mist passed. "Never fear death, lad, if you are doing your duty; it comes but once. Row swiftly. Day is breaking. A messenger with a horse awaits me on the further shore. Head for Point of Cedars." "Good-by, sir; I shall never fear anything again—after this, I think. Good-by!" Andy was at the oars now. He handled them like the master that he was. The old Indian had taught well, and the apt pupil had been making ready against this day and chance. While Andy kept Point of Cedars in view, he saw, also, the noble figure in the stern. The keen eyes kept smiling in kindly fashion, while the firm lips kept their accustomed silence. To Andy, the future was as rosy as the dawn, and he wondered that he had ever been depressed and afraid. "Death comes but once!" kept ringing in his thoughts; "it shall find me doing my duty. God and Washington forever!" The song of the times had found a resting-place in Andy McNeal's heart at last. Point of Cedars was safely reached. The general stepped upon the pebbly beach. Almost at once, from among the bushes, appeared a young man in ragged Continental uniform, leading a large, white horse. Without a word Washington mounted, nodded his thanks to the messenger, and a final farewell to Andy, then he, followed by his newer guide, faded from sight among the forest-trees. Standing bareheaded and alone upon the shore, Andy watched until the last sound of the hoof-beats died away, then, with a sigh of hope and memory mingled, he retraced his way. Janie McNeal greeted her son at the door-way. "Andy!" she cried, "our guest is gone!" She quite forgot that Andy, presumably, knew nothing of the guest. "He desired a lad to row him across the river. I was going to neighbor Jones's at early dawn to summon James. I should have gone last night, but I was sore tired. When I arose this morning, the stranger was gone. God forgive me! "The poor gentleman must have thought me a heedless body. I trust he will not think me in league with the Britishers; there is much of that sort of thing going on." Janie shook her head dolefully, not heeding Andy's smile. "How do we know," she went on, "but that the gentleman was on the great Washington's business? He was an overgrand body himself, and had excellent manners." "Mother!" the old hesitating tone crept back unconsciously into Andy's voice as he faced his mother; "mother, I rowed the stranger across the river, he is—safely landed. It—was—it—was—Washington himself!" "Andy!" Janie flung up her hands, and nearly fell from the step; "think, lad, of your words. You look and talk clean daft." "It—was—Washington!" The boy drew the words out with a delicious memory. "And—you—rowed—him—across! You—my—poor—lame lad! God have mercy upon me, and forgive me for my doubts!" "I can help a little, mother." Andy drew near the quivering figure. "I know, mother, and I do not wonder, but there is a place for every one in these days, and I'm going to be ready." Janie drew herself up, and put a trembling hand on the young shoulder. "Son!" she said, with a sudden but intense pride, "son, get ready, we go to Sam White's burying, you and I. God be praised! blind as I was, He has opened my eyes to see my son at last!" This was a great deal for Janie McNeal to say, but it did its work. CHAPTER III THE CROWNING OF ANDY McNEAL Sam White's burial was a very simple affair. In that time of need and anxiety men were off upon their country's business. Few could stay to mourn. The pastor himself read the simple service in a voice of pride, broken by a father's grief. He said that God would not let the sacrifice pass unheeded. Since Sam had heard the call, and then had been so suddenly taken away, another would be raised up to do his work; another who, through Sam, might be touched more than in any other way. Andy, standing in the little group about the open grave, at this raised his eyes, and he found Ruth's wide, tearless gaze fixed upon him. Andy smiled bravely back at her, for his heart was strong within him. After it was over and the few neighbors gone, Andy and Ruth remained to scatter flowers upon the young hero's bed, and cover up the bareness of the place. "Ruth," said Andy in a whisper, "I think my chance has come!" "Your chance, Andy?" "Aye. I have been thinking that Sam's being taken has aroused me, and given me courage, just as your father said, and —and last night the chance began!" Then he told her of much that had occurred. Ruth knelt among the flowers, her young face glowing. "Oh! I shall have some one to watch," she panted, "some one to help while he works. Oh! Andy, you do not know how I long to help, and be part of this great time. I go on long walks, and I hear and see so much. Down on the Bowery I heard a group say the other day that General Washington was going to burn the town and order the people to flee. One man said, did he order such a thing, he, for one, would go over to the British; and, Andy, there was a great shout from the other men! I felt my heart burn, for did our General order me to go, then would I go whither and where he ordered; nor would I question, so great is my trust in him. And did he burn all, even my home, yet would I gladly obey, for I would know he was doing wisely. So greatly do I honor him that I think, next to God, I trust our General!" The young face glowed and quivered, and Andy, with the spirit of hero-worship growing upon his recent experiences, panted in excitement as she spoke. "I, too, would follow, and never question," he said. "Never fear, Ruth; what the General expects of me, that will I do. Not even death do I fear—it comes but once!" The boyish voice rang clear. Suddenly, Ruth started toward the house. "Wait," she said, "I have something for you." She was back in a moment, bearing Sam's cap. "The time has come," she faltered, and there were tears in her eyes. "I—I want to crown you, Andy McNeal." She removed Andy's rough cap and replaced it with Sam's. "I'll keep the old one," she said, "and—and if you should fail to do bravely, you can have your own!" Then she dashed away the tears. "Forgive me, Andy McNeal!" she sobbed; "you will never fail. There is hero blood in your body, I know, and it may be that your lameness will aid you in accomplishing tasks that a lusty lad could never attempt." Andy raised his head proudly and the new crown set not badly on his boyish curls. "I must go," he breathed. "I will come every day unless—you know, Ruth?" The girl nodded, and so they parted silently, Ruth pressing the old hat to her aching heart, and taking up the woman's part in those troubling times; the part of the watching, waiting one. The days following became filled with one longing for Andy. The longing for Washington's messenger. Unless he came soon, the boy feared that he would be too late. During his own recent explorations beyond the lines, he heard much that warned him that the British were planning something of grave importance. Andy had told his mother and Ruth nothing of Washington's anticipated messenger. They knew merely that Andy had ferried the great General across the river—was that not enough? Had they known for what the boy was eagerly watching, they could not have done their own daily tasks. "He has an eager, watchful air," Janie confided to Ruth. "I am thinking the lad expects the General to pass this way again. Lightning and such happenings do not strike twice in the same spot." Ruth smiled gently. "I do not think Andy walks as lame as he did," she mused, watching the boy disappearing down a woody path. "He is always on the go," Janie broke in. "He practices walking without his crutch more than I think wise; but one can do little with men-folk!" Janie tossed her head proudly. Andy was a growing delight to her. "It may do him good," Ruth added; "he looks stronger and—and gladder." "He has gone beyond me," the mother sighed. "I—I begin to know, lass, the happy feeling a mother has when her heart aches with loneliness and—and pride! What ails you, lass?" For Ruth had started and given a short cry. "Why—why—" laughed the girl, "I am thinking my eyes are playing me false. I was watching Andy up the path, and I saw him as clear as I see you this minute—and then he was gone!" "Do not get flighty, Ruth." Janie came close, however, and peered up the path. "You and Andy will drive me daft. The path is a straight, clean one; had Andy been on it, he would still be in sight. I'm thinking he turned before he came to the brook bed. You did not notice, but your thoughts kept agoing on." "Perhaps," nodded Ruth, but Janie knew she was unconvinced. On her way home soon after, Ruth began to ponder. Once clear of Janie's observant eye, the girl turned back through the shrubbery, and ran to the spot where she had last seen Andy. All was as silent as a breathless summer day could make it. There was no side-path; no broken bushes. "He was here," breathed the girl, "and he disappeared like a flash!" Then she knelt down and tried to trace footprints in the mossy earth. "Ah!" she smiled, for there was a crushed space at the edge of a brambly cluster of bushes. She quietly drew aside the branches, and a look of wonder grew in the bright eyes. So cunningly concealed, that even her native-bred keenness might never have espied it, lay a path, and among the bushes, Andy's crutch! Should she follow? In the old days Ruth would not have paused. But these were not play-days; Andy might be upon grave business. Reverently she drew back, and replaced the disorder she had caused among the parted leaves. Suddenly a step startled her. She turned sharply. Up the path came a British soldier, whistling a gay tune and eyeing her boldly. More than once had Ruth encountered these most ungallant gentlemen, and she was alert at resenting any familiarity, but a fear grew in her heart now. Andy's path must not be discovered! She must do her part. "Good-day, my pretty lass!" The man halted. Under ordinary circumstances Ruth would have taken to her fleet feet at this, but Andy might return too soon, and emerge while yet the enemy could discover him. "Berrying?" grinned the fellow; "August is early for berries, is it not? The man was suspicious, perhaps, and Ruth was on guard. "For some kinds," she answered, lightly. "What kind are you hunting?" "One that you British do not know," she replied; "it's a kind that grows only in America and thrives upon freedom." The soldier leered unpleasantly. "Come, I will help you hunt," he cried; "if we find a berry I cannot name, you may ask what reward you choose, and if I succeed then will I take a kiss from your red lips, eh, my girl?" Ruth darted an angry look upward. If they hunted, the cane would be discovered, and yet if she refused—well, she must act quickly. "Is it a bargain?" "Yes;" the word came bravely from a trembling courage. "'GOOD DAY, MY PRETTY LASS.'" The two knelt and began the search. Ruth pressed the bushes so as to cover Andy's cane, but as her keen eyes fell upon the spot where it had been, to her surprise and joy, she saw that it was gone! A cry broke from her, for, as she realized that that danger was past, she saw, near at hand, a plant so rare even to her woodland eyes, that it was precious. Thanks to her learned father, she knew its name, and the spray of waxen berries was her salvation. "See!" she cried, "you have brought good luck. 'Tis a rare find. Now I pray you, sir, name the berry I hold in my hand." The man was searching the underbrush, and turned half angrily. "What have you?" he snarled. Ruth knew that Andy was near, but no breath was heard. "Name the berry, sir, or I claim my advantage!" Ruth stood upright with the spray in her hand. "Wintergreen," ventured the fellow, wildly. "Wrong!" sneered Ruth, "and there is no second trial." "How can you prove me wrong?" jeered the man, coming insolently close; "who is to decide?" "Your head officer, sir," flashed Ruth; "lead on, I will gladly leave it to him. After he has heard the tale from me—from me, mark—I will leave it to him. Perhaps there is one gentleman in the king's troops. Lead on! Why stand staring when your stake is so high!" A dignity and fearlessness came to the angry girl. "Do you lead, or shall I?" she asked. "I—I beg your pardon!" cringed the fellow, "I will abide by your decision." "Go, then!" cried Ruth, her temper breaking bounds, "and if you are a sample of my Lord Howe's men, I am thinking our General will have but a short tussle. Go!" The man retraced his steps, sulkily. He had been foraging on his own account, and had unearthed bigger game than he could manage. Ruth watched the man until he passed from sight. As she turned about she faced Andy sitting among the bushes. She jumped, then laughed nervously. "How did you get your cane?" she asked. "I was not six feet away." Andy's voice was strangely calm. "I hope you know, Ruth," he faltered, 'that had things turned out differently, I would have been with you. You know that?" "Yes, Andy." A flush came to the pale face. "I think I feared you would come more than anything else. But I do not trust that fellow. He will come back. I know he was suspicious. Choose another way—next time!" "Aye, and I'll stop up this trail. Good-by, Ruth. Hurry, I will wait until you are safe, and this passage made harmless." For a few days longer Andy remained near home, not caring to run the risk of seeking the longer path of which he knew, while the Britisher's suspicions might still be alert. Once or twice he had met the fellow on the public highway, and he feared to arouse any further cause for watchfulness. He had discovered, also, that the man had gone back to the spot where he had encountered Ruth, but Andy laughed, when he recalled how cunningly he had hidden the trail. But now the boy could wait no longer, he must try to get near the lines and listen. Taking the longer way, he left his crutch hidden inside a cave-like opening. He would never again trust the outside. Then in true Indian fashion he crept along through the rocky passage. He reached the other end and for an hour or more waited patiently, but only the passing of a lonely sentinel rewarded him, and he guessed that no news would come that way. He dared not emerge from his shelter, for the day was too bright and clear, the sentinel would surely spy him, and better no news than to give away the secret of the passage. Disappointedly he crept back, and at the other end put his hand cautiously forth to grasp his crutch. Then he became instantly aware that he was discovered, for his hand was grasped in a firm, unyielding clutch. Andy's heart stood still. He had no doubt but that Ruth's annoyer had dogged his steps and had captured him. But there was little of the coward about Andy; he would face the worst. He pushed through the tangle of leaves, trying to free his hand, but the clasp was like iron. The captor was not the Britisher, but a man of quite another sort. He was young, handsome, splendidly formed. As he lay at full length upon the moss Andy thought he had never seen so tall a man. He wore velvet knee-breeches, long blue coat, and a wide-brimmed hat, which shielded a pair of friendly, laughing eyes. One glance and Andy lost all fear. "Now that you have come from your hole, you young mole, good-morning to you, and where have you fared?" The voice was ringing and full of cheer. "Good-morning, sir," Andy made answer. "And where have you fared?" "That I cannot tell you, sir." "You cannot tell me!" the man sighed, impatiently. "Now, do you know, for a moment I fancied that you were just the lad who could guide me over your interesting island. What with all this excitement, a peaceful traveler has no show above-ground. I hoped you might lead me mole-fashion." "I will gladly show you through the pass, sir, as far as the gate a mile or so below." "As far as the gate! Always as far as something! I want to go beyond—'as far!' What care I for countersigns and passports. I want the freedom of the island, and a chance to study its rocks and flowers and very interesting weeds. Boys often know paths unknown to any one else—except Indians!" "But I am a lame boy much dependent upon a crutch." "You can dispense with it at times," laughed the stranger. "For a good two hours you did without it to-day. It and I have been keeping company. I followed you at a distance, thinking easily to overtake you, when piff! you were gone, and I and the crutch—for you see I searched the hole—were alone!" For some moments Andy's hand had been free, and now as he looked at the speaker he saw that he was holding in his open palm the charm which last he had beheld that glorious morning by the riverside. With a glad cry he sprang up. "I am Andy McNeal!" he said, and he doffed Sam's hat, which was his only martial possession. "And I—am the schoolmaster!" The two clasped hands. That was the beginning. Through the following days the master abode in Janie's house. The good woman asked no questions. Her curiosity burned and burned, but wisdom held it in check. Enough that Andy was the companion of this mighty person. Enough that her humble roof sheltered him, and her able hands served him faithfully. It was wonderful, and—enough. Ruth, too, throbbed with excitement, but went her ways calmly as if it were a common enough thing for a splendid schoolmaster to suddenly undertake Andy's neglected education, and pay for his lodging and board by instructing the hostess's son. This was what was going on. Book in hand the two walked abroad quite openly. Sometimes it would be rocks or flowers they were bent upon understanding, at other times the intricacies of the English language were the paths they followed. Occasionally Ruth would be asked to join in the walks and talks, but oftener they were alone. There were real lessons. Andy pondered upon them deeply, and his hungry mind fed upon the feast. Of course, so fine a master walking abroad with the lame boy, aroused the notice of the sentinels, but to their questions he answered so glibly, that there remained nothing to do but ask more. The game became tiresome. The tutor and his pupil kept within bounds, so there was no excuse for interference. But one day, quite lost in abstraction, the two passed beyond the gate at the end of the pass, and strolled down the road patroled by the British. Suddenly a loud "Halt!" made Andy jump. A look of surprise passed over the master's face as a bayonet was thrust in front of him. The soldier was the one who had accosted Ruth; Andy knew him at once. "Dear me! dear me!" cried the master, querulously, "after seeing us pass to and fro so often, one would not think it necessary to resort to such rudeness. Pray, good fellow, is not this his Majesty's highway, and free to all?" "No," grumbled the sentinel, lowering his weapon; "what's your business?" "Schoolmaster." "I do not mean that. I see you prodding around rocks and weeds with your noses in books, but I want to know what you mean on this road?" "I desire to take a walk on it. I have no weapon, I am a peaceful person. May I pass?" "You better turn back. This road is sentineled all the way to camp. You're too simple to go alone. You are an American?" "Certainly. Born and bred in the colonies." "A rebel?" "Sir!" "A rebel, I say?" "I am loyal to the heart's core!" the master replied. "Come, Andy, the way back is doubtless more pleasant for peaceful folk than the way before. Conjugate to live, Andy." Once beyond sight and hearing of the foe, the master bared his head. "Loyal we are, and we know to whom! But how long it takes to disarm their doubts!" CHAPTER IV THROUGH THE CAVE That same night, as Andy lay sleeping, a strange sound startled him. In an instant he was out of bed, and limping toward the window. Again came the plaintive sound. It was some one mimicking a night-owl, and doing it very badly, as the boy's true ear detected at once. Andy replied, in a much better imitation; then, from out the shrubbery beneath the window, the master stepped forth in the moonlight. He beckoned to the boy, and then moved back into the shadow of the trees. Always, with Andy, there was the struggle between the quick, alert mind and will, and the weaker body. However, with trembling fingers, he dressed as rapidly as possible, gladly remembering that he could reach the ground by the vine, thus saving time, and making sure that his mother would not be disturbed. In a few moments he was ready. He dropped his crutch cautiously from the window, and began to descend himself. The man among the shadows did not move, though his expectant eyes were on the watch. Andy, keeping well in the shelter of the shade, reached his friend. "That fellow we met to-day was prowling about the house an hour ago," whispered the master; "he looked boldly into my window. I was awake and saw his features distinctly, though I fancy he thought me unconscious. I saw him leave by the stream path. He thinks me safe for to-night, but they are suspicious, those Britishers, and you and I must get through the passage to their lines to-night. I believe something is afoot, and they do not wish to run any chances. Lead on, Andy McNeal; before break of day I must know all, all that is possible, and be away." "Follow!" said Andy, trembling with excitement, but losing no time. Down upon hands and knees they went, and no creatures of the wood and night could have been more silent. "All's well!" came from a far-off sentry; and the man and boy breathed quicker. A moment of rest at the opening of the cave-like path where Andy and the master had first met, then into the narrow gloom toward the danger line. "The way is narrow," whispered Andy, "but it leads out just behind the British tents." "Ah! for Vulcan's hammer!" laughed the master softly; "I'd hew me a broader path, Andy. The width of me suffers sorely for the cause." Andy smiled in the darkness. The mirth in the master's voice gave courage. "It is broader further on," encouraged the guide. "God be praised for that!" groaned the man as he came in contact again with the rocks. The crutch had been left at the entrance, well hidden. Hands and knees were all that were needed on that journey. Once a slimy creature crawled across the master's hand, and he uttered an exclamation. "Don't do that again!" breathed Andy, in alarm. The minutes seemed endless, and the progress very slow. The darkness was so intense that it was something of a shock to the master when he suddenly became aware that he could see the outline of his guide's body. There was a small opening ahead, and a gleam of moonlight shot in! Neither spoke. If the British sentry was beyond there was every need of stillness now. "I hear steps!" said Andy in a breath; "listen!" The duller ear of the master heard no sound for a moment, then slowly and alarmingly near, he did catch the sound of the measured tread of a soldier, and, from the opposite direction evidently, a second man. Near the opening the two met. "Fine night, Martin; everything quiet?" "Quiet? Lord, yes! If something does not happen soon, I swear I'll cut and run. It wouldn't take a great deal to make me quit. The pluck of the rebels rather tickles me. I've half a mind to toss my luck among them, and stand or fall with the colonies." "Better change your mind," laughed the other; "something's going to happen and that pretty quick." "Is that hearsay, Norton, or authentic? I've just come into camp. I've been having a picnic over on Long Island—raiding farms and doing a lot of dirty work that sickens me. Clean fighting is what I set out to do, and gad! this kind of thing turns a fellow's stomach. We've been fed on the talk that these rebels are cowards. Cowards, bah! And as for that big, silent general of theirs, he—he rather appeals to me!" "Don't be white-livered, Martin!" sneered Norton. "You may get some cold steel from your own countrymen for uttering such sentiments. My information is all right, it comes from his lordship himself. Washington is too dangerous to leave longer alone; should he find out—what was that?" The master, less a child of the woods than Andy, in his excitement had tried to creep closer, and the quick ear of the sentinel had noticed the sound. "It is this accursed spot again!" muttered Norton; "twice lately I could have sworn I heard breathing among the bushes. I've beaten every inch of ground, and not a living creature have I found. I'm not squirmish, and a rebel now and then don't count, but—well, you know I brought that parson's cub down a bit further back. Lord! how the fellow strutted, and when I called to him he started like a stuck pig. I cannot forget the look on his face as—as I fired. "I'm agreeing with you, Martin, clean fighting or nothing. I'm not up to this slaughtering of infants myself. I half expect to see that baby playing in the moonlight every time a leaf rustles at night." The man laughed uneasily. "Once I fancied I saw a face—a pale boy-face—shining in the bushes. Lord, it gave me a turn!" "Could there be a secret passage?" asked Martin in a low voice. "A fellow named Godkin told me an hour ago that he had his eye on a lame chap and a gawk of a schoolmaster who were always skulking around close to the ground. He says the boy lives hereabouts and knows the woods like a snake." "No fool rebel could keep such a secret from me. Godkin likes to talk and swagger. He feels his oats. Come, just to pass the time, let's beat the bushes." "Back out!" breathed Andy. There was no time to be lost. But the backward movement was most painfully slow. The men tramping in the bushes, feeling the thing but child-play, laughed and talked loudly. "How many men has the old fox!" asked Martin, giving a cut to the bushes with his gun....