A patriot lad of old Boston

Don was wakened by the sound of firing. He sat up and rubbed his eyes; then, looking at the sun, he guessed that twelve o’clock had passed. He could see nothing of the Redcoats; nor could he see smoke anywhere inside the town. From the east came the sound of firing that had wakened him, and men with muskets were hurrying across fields in that direction. For a moment he thought of returning to his Cousin Deborah’s; then he decided to push for Boston as fast as he could.

Half running, half walking, he made his way in a southeasterly direction in order to avoid the main road. Once he wondered whether the Redcoat Harry Hawkins was with this expedition of British troops, but somehow the thought was painful, and he turned his mind to other things.

For some time he had been climbing a rocky hillside; now, on reaching the crest, he got his last glimpse of the skirmish. The British were in the road just outside of Lexington, and, far off as Don was, he could see plainly that they were having a hard time of it. He could see the flash of sabres as if the officers were urging their men to advance. One officer was prancing here and there on a spirited black horse, as if he had lost control of the animal. Then Don saw part of the King’s troops open fire and saw a dozen or more muskets flash in reply along an old stone wall on the opposite side of the road. Before he heard the reports of them he saw the black horse fall. Another glance and he saw a company of Minute-Men crossing a distant field at a rapid pace. The sight of a battle going on almost under his nose, the sound of guns, the smell of powder, all seemed to hold him spell-bound, and only the thought of his Aunt Martha alone in the little house in Pudding Lane caused him to turn and hurry on his way.

Soon he was out of hearing of the firing, but from time to time he saw detachments of Minute-Men and militia marching to the east. Once he stopped at a solitary farmhouse and asked for something to eat. A woman who was alone except for a little girl of nine or ten years gave him bread and cheese and then prepared a small bundle of the food for him to take along.

Don told her what he had seen at Concord and at Lexington, and her lips quivered; but she smiled at him. “Such a day!” she exclaimed. “My husband and my three brothers have gone. It seems that all the men from the village have gone. I have heard that the town of Dedham is almost empty; even the company of gray-haired old veterans of the French Wars has gone. Such a day! Be careful, my boy, and return to your aunt as soon as possible.”

Don thanked her for her kindness as he was leaving the house, and soon he was hurrying on his way toward Boston. From Glen Drake he had learned many of the secrets of woodcraft and had little trouble in making his way through the thickets in the vicinity of Fresh Pond. But mishaps will sometimes overtake the best of woodsmen. As Don was descending a slope on the western side of the pond he stepped on a loose stone, which turned under his weight and sent him crashing headlong to the bottom. He lay there with teeth set and both hands clenched; a sharp pain was throbbing and pounding in his right ankle. Little drops of perspiration stood out like beads on his forehead.

For several minutes he lay there; then as the pain decreased in violence he sat up. But later when he rose he found that he dared not put any weight at all on his right foot. Here was a predicament! There was not a house in sight; he was a long way from the nearest road; and night was coming on.

He tried to climb the slope down which he had slid, but the effort only sent sharp pains shooting up his leg. Even when he crawled for only a dozen yards or so on his hands and knees the pain would force him to stop; it seemed that he could not move without giving the ankle a painful wrench. Several times he shouted for help, but he had little hope that anybody would be in that vicinity to hear him. So at last he dragged himself to a little cove that was overgrown with birches and willows; there he loosened his shoe and rubbed his swollen ankle.

“Well,” he said to himself, “I’ve got to stay here all night, and I haven’t a thing except my knife and——” He interrupted himself with an exclamation; his knife was not in his pocket. Then he remembered that he had left it at his Cousin Deborah’s.

The missing knife made his situation even more desperate than he had supposed it was. With a knife he might have fashioned a bow such as he had once seen Glen Drake use for lighting a fire; as it was, he should have to keep warm as best he could.

The first thing he did was to choose a convenient hollow that was protected at the back by the hill and on the sides by birches and the willows. Then, breaking off a quantity of branches, he fashioned a rude but effective windbreak for the front. By the time he had finished doing that work it was twilight, and a cool wind was blowing across the pond.

Don opened the package of food that the good lady at the farmhouse had given him. There were bread and cheese and three small ginger cakes; and when he had eaten half the food and put the rest by till morning he felt a good deal better. Pulling his coat up round his neck, he snuggled down on the light branches with which he had carpeted the floor of his bower and prepared to wait for morning.

All light had faded from the sky, and the wind was rising steadily. Loose twigs all round him tapped incessantly against one another in tune with the wind. Don shivered and forgot the dull pain in his ankle.

Out in the pond and down close to the shore on both sides of the cove he could hear strange little splashes, and in the thickets behind him a pair of owls were calling every now and then. If it had not been for thoughts of Aunt Martha, Don might really have enjoyed his experience. He did not doubt that he should be able to walk in the morning, and he rather liked being out alone as Glen Drake had been many, many times.

Once he dozed off and awoke some time later, feeling cold and hungry. The twigs were tapping all about him; somewhere far to the south a hound was baying mournfully; and in front of him the moon had covered the pond with a silvery sheen.

Again Don dozed off, and then awoke with a violent start. Somebody—or something—was moving about in the underbrush on the slope above him. Then a stone rattled down and bounded into the water. Startled at the loud splash it made, Don gave an involuntary exclamation. An instant later he heard someone call his name.

“O Don!” the call was repeated.

Don sat up. “Who is it?” he shouted in reply.

“Yer safe and sound? Praise be for that!”

“Glen!” cried Don, pulling himself upward.

In a moment the old trapper was at the foot of the slope, and Don was explaining the accident that had befallen him.

“Well, yer a plucky lad,” said Glen. “I tracked ye all the way from Concord, and when I found you was headin’ fer Fresh Pond I began to have my fears. Here, now, let me take ye on my back, and we’ll talk as we go along.”

Don was a sturdy boy and unusually solid for his age, but Glen Drake lifted him to his back as if he had been no more than a child; Don could feel the muscles in the old trapper’s shoulders play up and down as Glen climbed the slope easily and walked quite as well as if it had been daylight.

“What happened to the Redcoats, Glen?” asked Don.

“They got licked,” Glen replied promptly. “They ran most all the way from Lexin’ton, and some of ’em fell and lay still with their tongues a-hanging out; they were that tired. They lost a lot of men, Don, and serves ’em right. Our boys kept a-coming from all directions—and most of ’em know how to shoot too! I tell you, if a second force of the King’s men hadn’t come out, not one of the Redcoats that tried to burn Concord would have got back alive. Now they’re sewed up tight in Boston; we’ve got an army watchin’ the town, and it’s growing every minute.”

“How’s Aunt Martha, and how am I ever going to get back to her?”

“Your Aunt Martha is all right—at least, she was the last I saw her. As to how you’re a-goin’ to get back, I can’t say for certain. But I’ll get you back somehow; you trust me for that.”

“Where’s Uncle David?”

“He’s at Cambridge with the army. I’m sort of with the army myself, though I don’t guess I’ll ever do much drillin’.” Glen Drake chuckled. “Morning’s a-coming, Don; morning’s a-coming, and we’re at war!”

Don thought of his Aunt Martha, alone in Pudding Lane.

All the while Glen had been tramping with long strides in the direction of the main part of Cambridge. Only once did he pause, and then it was to fill his pipe. At last he turned into a lane at the right of the road and approached a small house that overlooked the river. By that time dawn was well on the way.

Don observed two or three soldiers at the side of the house; they were cooking bacon over a small fire. “Hi, there!” shouted one. “I see you found your boy.”

“Yes, I found him,” replied Glen. “Where’s Dave Hollis?”

“He hasn’t come in yet.”

Glen carried Don into the house, spoke a few words to a woman who was preparing the morning meal and then, at her bidding, climbed the stairs.

By the time the rays of the sun were slanting down on the river Don was asleep deep within the feathery softness of a huge four-posted bed. The woman down-stairs had given him a delicious breakfast, and after he had eaten it the old trapper had rubbed his injured ankle with some potent, vile-smelling ointment that he said would cure anything from rheumatism to nose-bleed.

Near the middle of the afternoon Don awoke and a little to his astonishment saw his Uncle David sitting beside Glen at one side of the bed. “Uncle Dave!” he cried.

In a moment David Hollis had clasped his nephew’s hands in his own. “You’ve had a hard time, Donald, my boy,” he said. “How do you feel?”

“All right, except for my ankle; I gave it a bad twist when I fell.”

“Yes; Glen has told me. I hope you’ll be able to walk soon.” David Hollis looked at his nephew anxiously.

“In two or three days maybe,” said the trapper.

Don groaned. “Not until then?” he asked. “Meanwhile Aunt Martha is all alone.”

“Yes, and she needs you, Donald.” David Hollis was plainly worried. “The worst of it is,” he continued, “that the King’s soldiers have fortified the Neck and are mighty watchful. There’s no way of getting in or out.”

“You’re wrong there,” said Glen. “The back harbor’s dry at low water, you know.”

David Hollis looked doubtful. “It’d be too great a risk to try and cross that way,” he said. “If anything should happen, I’d never forgive myself.”

“Now, listen here,” said Glen; “I promised the boy I’d get him back, and, by thunder, I’m a man of my word. A dark night, a little fog, and nothing’s easier.”

Don’s uncle said nothing for several minutes. At last he grasped the old trapper’s hand. “Glen,” he said, “I’ve never yet known you to fail in an undertaking. May you succeed in this. I see no other way.”

The next day was Friday, and thanks to the trapper’s ointment Don was able to walk a very little. In the evening his uncle came to talk with him again. “I probably shan’t see you again for some time,” he said. “My company is leaving Cambridge. When you see your Aunt Martha I want you to say this to her: tell her first of all that I’m safe and well and that she needn’t worry. Second, tell her that at the first opportunity I want her to leave the town; it’s the height of folly to remain. And, Donald”—David Hollis spoke in a low voice,—“tell her I love her. And now, my boy, good-bye, and God bless you!”

That was the last that Don saw of his uncle for many, many weeks. The next day he and the trapper went for a short walk among the narrow, twisting streets of the town. Soldiers were quartered in many of the houses, and people were talking of others that were soon to arrive. One man remarked that as a result of the British attack on Concord and Lexington an army of twenty thousand Provincials had arisen almost overnight. There was much brave talk of attacking the King’s troops in Boston and of driving them headlong into the sea.

By Tuesday, Don’s ankle was strong again, but he had to walk with great care. Then early one foggy morning Glen Drake announced that the time had come to cross the flats.

The two had a hot supper together down in the kitchen, and an hour or so later they started toward the river.

Glen led the way and in spite of the heavy fog and the darkness stepped boldly yet as silently as a cat. They had gone beyond the last fringe of dwelling houses when the trapper put the end of a buckskin thong into Don’s hand. “Keep tight hold,” he whispered, “and don’t talk.”

Don thought he had never seen a blacker night—blackness and fog overhead, blackness and fog all round them, with here and there a dim yellow light. Several times, at the sound of footsteps, Glen paused to let a Provincial sentry pass unseen ahead of them. Once they turned sharply to the left and walked for almost half an hour over uneven grassy land. Then they turned to the right, and soon Don felt his feet sink into cool mud. Glen put his mouth close to the boy’s ear and whispered, “How’s the ankle?”

“All right, Glen,” Don replied softly.

They pressed forward slowly. Sometimes reeds and cattails swept against their hands; sometimes they seemed to be walking on firm sand. The fog, cold and oppressive, was blowing in from the east and seemed to deaden all sounds, even the quash, quash of their feet. Don’s fingers were like ice as he clung to the thong. He had no idea in what direction he was going, but he had confidence in his sturdy guide. Then a bell tolled somewhere ahead, and a few minutes later he heard a horse neigh loudly.

A quarter of an hour passed, then half an hour. Finally they were among more cattails. Glen led the way cautiously among them and at last climbed a gentle slope. They had reached the Boston side.

They were making their way upward, when a stick cracked close at hand, and a sharp voice rang out: “Halt! Who’s there?”

Don felt Glen’s arm go around his shoulders, and in a twinkling the two were flat on their faces.

“Who’s there?” came the voice of the sentry again.

Don felt his heart pounding at his ribs and the trapper’s great arm pressing downward on him like a heavy weight. He heard the sentry advance and knew that Glen had reached into his belt for something.

Crunch, crunch sounded the footsteps, each louder than the last one. Glen had drawn back his arm and was gathering himself for a spring, when the footsteps ceased. A moment later the two heard them begin again, but now they were growing fainter and fainter.

Glen got softly to his feet and pulled Don upward. Together they hurried forward and did not stop till they reached a clump of trees by the side of what appeared to be a path.

“Do you know where you are?” whispered Glen.

“No,” replied Don.

“Well, this is Cambridge Street. You’ll have to follow it alone. Go carefully, and if you meet anyone—well, don’t let ’em see you; that’ll be best. And now, good-bye, Don. Take good care of your Aunt Martha.”

They shook hands in the darkness, and a moment later Don was alone.