CHAPTER XXVI
SPOILS OF WAR
Captain Andy Sabine's company consisted of over a dozen boys. All of them had muskets, and most of them knew how to use the firearms, for hunting was a great part of the life of the average Concord boy of those days.
All were eager for the fray, as the saying goes. They had already "smelt powder," and old Silas Berks, proud of the junior military coterie he had advised and once or twice drilled, "calculated" they could do the work in hand as efficiently as the regular adult volunteers who were off on more important duty.
"There's six men in charge of the cannon wagons and two carts," he told Andy and Phil, whom he had insisted should occupy a place of honor with him on the front seat of the vehicle. There had been over a dozen Britishers left in charge of the baggage, but most of them had gone away to find more and fresher horses to help get the gun carriages out of the ruts where they had almost broken down.
Andy and Phil knew the situation they were expected to confront very well from the garrulous old Indian fighter's report, and made their plans accordingly. As they drove past the home of Jasper Bram, Andy noticed that it was all dark and the shutters drawn, and commented on the fact.
"I reckon they've made themselves scarce until this scrimmage is over," said Silas. "It's as well, if they're wise. Take my word for it, if they have found out that the redcoats have been routed, they won't show their faces around here for some time to come. Now then, lads, we'll have to drop the wagon right here. There's only a footpath through the timber, and we want to be silent and cautious like. My, how this reminds me of the prime old Indian days! Many a lonely trail I've followed—"
"There's a light," said Andy suddenly, as they surmounted the crest of the hill.
"Yes," nodded old Silas, peering ahead, "they're your men. Same spot where I first saw them. Go slow now, Andy. Get your Musket Boys under orders, and make no mistake in dealing with those fellows."
Andy's volunteers grouped about him as he imparted his instructions in low tones. They could see at a miry stretch of the cross-country road a lot of wagons, some horses and two men with shovels digging around the wheels of the half-overturned gun carriage. A lighted lantern swung from a nearby branch.
About two hundred yards beyond them, where a brush-covered space ended at the edge of a forest, were four other men, a lantern carried by one of their number, while the others were selecting and sorting dead tree branches, as if gathering material to construct a temporary corduroy road.
"Phil, we'll divide evenly on the men," advised Andy in a truly military tone of voice. "I'll attend to the fellows in the road, you see to it that the other redcoats near the timber don't get away."
"We are to make them prisoners—if we can!" suggested Phil.
"I should say it," responded Andy, with the decision of a Napoleon. "Remember what we heard about Gen. Gage imprisoning some patriots in Boston. These six redcoats will count for six of our own people, don't you see?"
"Very well," nodded Phil. "Come on, fellows."
Half of the boys followed Andy's sub-commander with alacrity. Phil was a favorite, and the politic Andy had avoided creating any hard feeling by appointing a boy who did not really belong to Concord as his lieutenant.
Andy and his cohorts advanced cautiously in the direction of the stalled wagons. Some high bushes and the darkness of the night enabled them to come almost directly upon the British without discovery. Andy silently and effectively disposed his "men" in a semi-circle. Then, his sabre drawn, the naked blade glittering impressively in the lantern light, he stepped from behind a big bush with the single word:
"Surrender!"
"Hi—hello!" cried the Britisher digging under the front wheel of the gun carriage, and he stared askance at the sudden apparition.
"Why, you young jackanapes!" began the other man, dropping his shovel and staring also.
"Ready!" said Andy, as immovable as a statue.
The two men started back. From the bushes, focussing them as selected targets, the muzzles of numerous muskets told them that the situation was no joke.
"Stand out in the middle of the road there," ordered Andy.
"Bill, call the others!" hoarsely spoke one of the men.
"Raise your voice or make a move outside of what you are ordered, and we fire," said Andy, quietly but firmly.
The two men got into the middle of the road. Andy told off four of his company to get ropes from one of the baggage wagons and tie the hands of the captives behind them.
This had scarcely been accomplished when Phil and the others appeared upon the scene, driving at the muzzle's point the four men who had been working in the timber. The captives looked immensely sheepish, but they had no weapons, they were completely outnumbered, and Phil had acted all through in a way that convinced them that he and his assistants were in deadly earnest.
"I guess this is all there is of them," observed Ralph.
"It won't be soon," growled one of the captives. "There'll be a whole army following our men back here."
"I fancy you don't quite understand the situation," remarked Andy with a triumphant smile. "Your messengers will be lucky if they come up with the army, as you call it, this side of Boston."
"Yes, and then they'll have to run pretty fast!" chuckled old Silas. "I'd tie the other four there," he advised. "Bring 'em to the wagon and take them to the town jail. As to this wagon truck, et settery—spoils of war, my friends, spoils of war."
Andy had got a taste of war, and paraded the military feature to the full as the captured redcoats were marched to the wagon, conveyed and guarded by the nine members of the company. He put sentinels on duty, and with remainder of the company grouped about the baggage outfit, awaited the result of his report sent to Concord.
It was two hours later when old Silas returned. With him were some twenty men on horseback, provided with ropes and crowbars, as well as weapons. They proceeded to get the baggage train righted, fresh horses in the harness, and were soon able to start with their prizes for Concord.
From what they had told, Phil and Andy realized that there was no danger of another raid on the town in the near future. The British invaders were in swift retreat, with pursuers hot on their trail. All along their route they were being peppered constantly with shots from thickets and houses. Their loss had been heavy, their first effort to subdue the colonists had resulted in dire disaster.
The tired boys trailed homeward, feeling glad and proud of the share they had taken in the heroic episodes of the evening. As the crowd neared the stockade that surrounded the humble home of Silas, the old Indian fighter fell behind somewhat in company with Phil and Andy.
"I say," he observed to the latter, "I feel so good over to-night's work, it makes me lonely for company. There'll be no more fighting to-night. Tell your comrades to notify the folks that you are going to stay with me for a couple of hours, won't you?"
The boys were anxious to get back to town, for, more fighting or not, they knew that Concord would be in a vortex of excitement for many hours to come. There was lots to learn of the experience of others. However, both Phil and Andy appreciated the good service the old veteran had given, and they turned into the stockade, past "old Tom," after communicating their intention to their comrades.
"First and foremost," said Silas, when they had entered his cozy hut amid the noisy greetings of parrot, pigeons and other fowls and pet animals, "I'm going to refresh the inner man."
It was a prime meal that the famous old Indian fighter speedily had ready for them—bear steak, coffee, apple sauce and mince pie, home-made from his own skilled hands. Then Silas brought from the dove cote two of his favored carrier pigeons, and allowed them to walk about the table picking up crumbs, while he began writing on a sheet of paper a brief narrative of the recent battle.
"That will get to Boston long before the redcoat raiders," he observed, after finishing the screed, in composing which his guests helped him considerably.
"You are going to send that to Boston, Mr. Berks?" spoke Phil, a speculative look on his face.
"Yes, right away," nodded Silas.
"I don't suppose you could do me a service in the same line?" went on Phil.
"Why not? I guess what you're after. You would like to get word to your folks."
"Yes, sir," replied Phil hopefully.
"Easily done, lad. There's paper and pencil. Get your letter ready. I'll send it by the first mail to a friend in a certain house-top in Boston, who will see that it is delivered before sunrise."
"Oh, that is great!" commented Andy.
When Phil had written his letter, he gave it to Silas. The latter folded the sheet, wrote some directions on its back, enclosed it in a thin piece of oilskin, did the same with his own letter, and attached one under the wing of one of the doves, the other under the wing of its companion.
Then, the doves fluttering affectionately on his shoulder, he went to the window, opened it, spoke some pet words, and the trained doves took flight into the darkness on their route to Boston.
"I must thank you greatly for that service, Mr. Berks," said Phil. "It takes a great load off my mind to know that my folks will learn where I am, and my plans. I've sent a message to my company too."
"The Musket Boys of Boston?" spoke Andy.
"Yes, I've told them to expect me among them, and to be sure to keep up their drilling, for they soon will be needed."
"That's right," nodded old Silas sagely. "The ball has opened, and America will soon need the help of every loyal lad who can handle a musket."
The old man bustled around getting his pets comfortable. Andy suggested that it was about time for them to leave for home.
"Yes, we're due in town," observed Phil. "We'll go by Bram's house. I've a good deal of curiosity to know if they have left the place."
Phil recited in detail the conversation he had overheard between the Brams, father and son, about burying a dog.
"Why, that was queer," commented Andy. "There's something under that talk hard to understand, Phil. It looks as if Greg Bram was sort of hinting at some secret he knew about. And it certainly refers to your father and Burt Noble."
"What's that about Bram and the dog?" piped up old Silas curiously.
Phil repeated his story for the benefit of their inquisitive host.
"Buried a dog, did they?" said the old man, when Phil's narrative was concluded. "Why, they never owned a dog. Old Jasper is too stingy to feed one."
"That makes it more puzzling than ever," said Phil. "Why, Mr. Berks, what are you doing?"
The old man with quite a thoughtful air had taken up a piece of chalk from a shelf, and had written on the wall just under the shelf the words: "Bram buried dog."
"Oh, that's my memorandy book," chuckled Silas, his shrewd eyes twinkling busily. "I have lots of time on my hands. You're interested, and I'm keeping that memorandy as a reminder. Shouldn't wonder," and the veteran Indian fighter squinted enigmatically, "if I started out some day to find out where Bram buried that dog—that never existed, mind you—and why he did it. When I do, Warrington," and he placed his hand impressively on Phil's shoulder, "expect a message from me by my carrier pigeon route to Boston."
"Hurrah for liberty!" screamed the parrot.