CHAPTER XX
PAUL REVERE'S RIDE
"Well!" remarked Andy, as the Indian was lost to view amid the mazes of the forest. "There's plenty of variety on the road to Boston, it seems."
"Phil has made a good friend, at any rate," said Ralph. "Sort of adopted you, Phil. Those savage fellows mean something when they take a fancy to a fellow. I'll wager you hear from this man again. That funny piece of wood he gave you was the most precious thing he possessed. I know these savages. When I was in the South Sea Islands, a sailor saved the life of a drowning native. The day we left, that grateful native came down to the ship with over one hundred mates, beating tom-toms and hauling aboard a whole wagon load of presents."
Andy listened to Ralph with a suspicious sidelong look. Ralph was continually alluding to this and that remote spot on the globe where he had been, and to Andy it was really remarkable the wide experience of a person so young.
"This poor 'Sachem' hasn't many presents to give, I fancy," said Phil, "but it's just as important to have his good will. The Indians could annoy us a good deal, with the Tories behind them. I don't think this man will ever train with them again though. There's the mill, Ralph," proceeded Phil. "Mr. Eaton has told you what to do, so we will follow the leader until you find out how safe it is for us to try and get into Boston."
"Mr. Eaton told me to see a man named Jewett," explained Ralph. "He lives in the settlement here. I suppose the first move is to locate him."
The boys got nearer to the river and followed its shore until they came to a little cluster of houses. Ralph entered the yard of one of these, went to the front door of the house and knocked. He soon came back to Phil and Andy.
"The woman in that house has directed me to Jewett's place," said Ralph. "It's farther down the river."
At Mr. Jewett's house Ralph remained inside for some time.
"Did you see your man?" inquired Andy, as Ralph returned to them.
"No, but I saw Mrs. Jewett. She asked me all kinds of questions, as if to make sure that I really came from Mr. Eaton. Everybody here acts with suspicion, and all on the tip-toe of excitement. The woman told me to go to Dockrell's Mill. I reckon her husband is there. She thought it over a good deal, and made me tell my story clear through before she decided to send me to the mill though."
"We'll soon be in Boston, I hope," said Andy, as they moved forward once more.
They finally made out the mill and some surrounding buildings in the distance. The boys were chatting animatedly, when, passing some bushes, all of a sudden a sharp, commanding voice spoke the word:
"Halt!"
All three stood stock-still, for from behind the bushes appeared a man, leveling a musket. He had the bearing of a person who would fire at the least provocation, as he craned his neck to make out the faces of the party he challenged.
"Who are you?" he demanded, as Phil stepped forward.
"My name is Warrington," Phil explained, "I live in Boston, and am trying to get there with my two friends here."
The sentry, for such he apparently was, laughed outright.
"You'll have a time of it," he said dryly. "Smarter fellows than you have been trying to get out of Boston and into Boston all day long, and have made a failure of it. You'll have to go back. We have something to say on this side of the creek, and it's no thoroughfare for anybody this route, for to-night, at least."
"We are especially sent to one certain person," said Phil, "and maybe that will make a difference."
"Who is it?" inquired the sentinel.
"Mr. Jewett."
"Who sent you?"
Phil told as much in explanation as he thought necessary.
"You tell a pretty straight story," said the sentry. "If you're up to any tricks, it won't pay you. Who's that with you, or a little behind you, as you came up the path?"
"With us?" exclaimed Phil. "Why nobody."
"Yes, there was," declared the sentry. "Some one was dodging along after you. I saw him plainly."
"I don't see him now," said Phil, peering sharply back the course they had come, "and it seems impossible that any one would be following us."
"Well, he's disappeared now," said the sentry. "It may have been one of our other sentinels. Go ahead. Keep right on this path till you reach the mill. Don't leave it to do any prying."
"Why should we?" demanded Andy, who didn't like the preemptory ways of their challenger.
"Well, just don't, that's all," continued the sentry. "You may get into trouble if you do. The bushes have eyes and ears around here just now, and we don't want any interfering. You had better get through with Jewett soon as you can, and make your break for Boston lively, for, if the signs don't fail, before another night there may be a heavy rain."
"Not with that wind," innocently declared Ralph, who from his sailor experience prided himself on being an expert weather prophet.
"Ha! ha!" laughed the sentry. "Not the kind of rain you mean, my lad—this will be a rain of leaden bullets."
The boys passed on. They did not even converse now for there was a sort of gruesome spell over each. Their nerves were on a strain, for every bush they passed might conceal a sentry. They passed a hut with no lights or sign of life about it. Near to it and about one hundred feet from the path was a barn.
"Some one is in there," said Andy. "I can see a light through the chinks."
"Come on, Andy," directed Phil.
"Yes, better try, no snooking around," advised Ralph. "That sentry told us to follow our noses, straight."
But Andy was persistent. He deviated from the regular path, and the others, irresistibly influenced by his leadership and curiosity, kept pace with him. They came up against the side of the barn, where a long wide crack showed between two shrunken planks.
A lantern hanging from a hook in a rafter illuminated the interior of an ordinary stable room. In the centre of the barn, saddled and bridled, magnificently erect and graceful, was the most beautiful horse Phil had ever seen. The steed stood like some statue of bronze, and the whole picture somehow thrilled the onlookers in an impressive, heroic way.
Seated upon the animal, straight, athletic, was a man as mute and motionless as if he was planted there. He held the bridle reins loosely in one hand, but he was posed as if awaiting some word of command upon which he must act on the instant. His ear seemed bent towards the old mill building not five hundred feet away.
"Why," began Andy in a tremor of excitement.
"S-sh! This way, boys," interrupted Phil, in a quick, cautious whisper.
"But I know," began Andy again, insistently.
What Andy knew or did not know was not disclosed at that moment. There was again an interruption, and Phil was not responsible for it this time.
"Look—say, look!" said Ralph.
Way across the broad Charles River on the Boston shore, from the high window of the old North Church, there flashed out the bright light of two big lanterns, the rays shot against some broad reflectors.
Thrice the lights rose and fell. Immediately from the upper story of the old mill building, just beyond the spot where the boys stood, a blue light flamed momentarily in response. Then darkness again and silence, but the silence reigned for a moment only. There was a shout inside the barn into which the boys had just peered, the sharp, quick clatter of the hoofs of a horse on the hollow planking. The watcher at the window had disappeared. Phil, Andy and Ralph, inexpressibly excited, ran to the structure and again looked into its interior.
The man at the window had darted to the big door of the place. He dashed it open, saying something in a rapid tone to the man on the horse. Rider and animal were posed as if set on springs. One leap, and they cleared the threshold.
The man at the door brought his broad hand down on the flank of the speeding horse. His voice rose to an eager, exultant shout, urging steed and rider out into the darkness with the rapidity of an arrow shot from a bow. A thrill ran through every nerve of the overwrought spectators, as he cried:
"Go, Paul Revere! The liberty of America depends upon your mission this night!"