CHAPTER XXIX
THE OLD WAREHOUSE
Phil Warrington went to bed that night with a good deal on his mind. There were many saddening changes that oppressed him. His father was a prisoner. Business and home had been affected by the cruel war. His own liberty was threatened should he be recognized by the Tories. Danger would attend every hour he spent in his native city.
For all that, it was sweet and rarely peaceful to be once again in the dear old room under the eaves, feeling that sense of safety and comfort that home only can bring. Both of the chums were tired out, and were soon fast asleep, without a break in a deep, refreshing slumber until quite late in the morning.
Mrs. Warrington had recognized the wisdom of her young guests remaining under cover as much as possible. The messages with which Phil had been intrusted by his Musket Boys comrades, she undertook to deliver in a way that should not disclose the messenger until he was safe and far again from the nest of the Tories. Phil and Andy were served breakfast in a windowless room off from the kitchen. Then Mrs. Warrington took them into a spare room and showed them a lot of old clothing lying on the floor.
War times had compelled the Warringtons to dispose of their servants. Some of these had left odds and ends of their belongings behind them. The young volunteers soon made a selection, and Phil was transformed into a common-looking stable boy, while Andy made up as a poorly-clad city lad who might be anything, from a cook's scullion to a grocer's apprentice.
"You see," observed the Concord boy, "hardly anybody knows me here, Phil, but everybody knows you. You might pass all right among a hundred people, and then run up against some one who would recognize you at once. If I were you, I'd bandage one side of my face, and keep that old hat slouched well down over my eyes, and get a sort of rambling crook into your walk."
It was about noon when the two boys bade Mrs. Warrington good-bye, leaving the house from the rear, and getting quickly into a less familiar quarter of the city. There were a great many loiterers about the streets, for the war had practically suspended business, and they passed without any extraordinary notice in the crowd.
"I suppose the first thing to do is to deliver that message for the general," suggested Andy.
"Yes, I want to get that off my hands," responded Phil. "I wonder who this Peter Dawson can be? That's the name on the letter. Here's the street. 'At the sign of the Pestle and Mortar' is the address. There's no shop going here now, though—moved out. It must be upstairs."
They were now in the meanest part of the city, which Phil told Andy in ordinary times was known as a sort of rendezvous for smugglers, fugitives from justice, and that class of social outcasts. They entered an open passageway at the side of the building and ascended a rickety pair of stairs. Phil knocked long and loudly at a door until some one inquired in the rasping voice of an asthmatic old woman:
"Who is that, now?"
"We are looking for Mr. Peter Dawson," said Phil.
"Who be you?"
"We're from the man who is waiting," answered Phil promptly, just as he had been instructed to say by the general.
"And you want to see the man who knows?" came the quick query. "I reckon you are all right."
"She has answered with the counter-challenge the general spoke of," said Phil to Andy, "so, I guess we're at the right place."
The door before them was unbarred, and a very old hobbling woman confronted the Musket Boys, let them into a poorly furnished room, relocked the door securely, and said:
"You wait just a bit."
She left the room for a minute or two, returned to them, and beckoned for them to follow her. At the end of a long dark passageway she stepped aside, pushed open a door, and Phil and Andy passed into a small apartment. It had but one entrance and exit—the door behind them,—but over at one side a small sashless slit appeared in the wall. Through this came a quick challenge:
"If you have anything to say, speak it out. If you have a message, hand it through here."
"Adams," said Phil, as he had been instructed.
"Washington," came the prompt response from behind the wall aperture, and Phil knew that everything was all right. "Why, say Phil—Phil Warrington!"
"Well!" ejaculated the petrified Andy. "You aren't known, or anything! And in that disguise, too!"
"I wonder"—began Phil, and then he knew who had spoken his name. There was a scramble from the slit in the wall, and a minute later a glad, familiar form bounded over the threshold of the same doorway at which the two chums had entered.
"Burt Noble!" cried Phil, and Andy returning the kindly outburst, they vied with one another to show how glad they were to see him.
"You did not expect to see me here, eh?" propounded Burt. "I didn't expect to have you come here, either. Well, we're satisfied, all hands around. Get through with business, and then I want to know everything you've done since we last met."
Burt Noble took the written message Phil had brought him, broke its seals, and his young face grew very grave and thoughtful as he perused its contents. He read it over again, tore it into tiny pieces, chewed these into a ball, and stamped the wet wad into an indistinguishable mass under his feet. Then he asked Phil.
"How long will you be in Boston?"
"Just long enough to get what answer you may have to send to that message," replied Phil, "and set my father at liberty."
A queer expression came over Burt Noble's face. He seemed on the point of making some extraordinary statement. He, however, employed great control over himself in asking quietly;
"Do you know where your father and his friends are imprisoned, Phil?"
"They tell me in the old brick jail that the Tories have used for headquarters."
"They were there until yesterday," said Burt. "Then they were removed. If you will mix in with the people on the streets to-day, you will find that the rumor is being generally spread by the redcoats that your father and his friends have been sent to England by order of the King."
"Oh my poor father—" began Phil sorrowfully.
"Hold on. Don't go mourning until I have time to tell you that it is all a Tory lie covered up by a Tory trick. They have removed the patriot prisoners, sure enough, but only to another part of the city. What their real plans are I do not know, except that they are going to send your father and his friends secretly to some other Tory nest, while the report of their being shipped to England is used as a whip to scare other patriots from leaving Boston and joining the continental army."
"Burt," cried Phil in good deal of agitation, "do you know where my father is now?"
"I do," nodded Burt.
"Is it possible to rescue him?"
"A good deal easier than from right under the noses of the Tories at headquarters. At just dark to-night meet me outside of Fanueil Hall. In the meantime go back home, and don't take any risks showing yourselves publicly. You can busy yourself sewing this packet of papers somewhere about your clothes, where it won't be found easily."
Burt handed Phil a small square packet, heavily sealed.
"Phil," he said seriously, "those papers are very important. It has cost a lot of time and risk to get them. They mean success for the patriots, if their contents can be quickly acted on. Knowing this, I am sure you will guard them closely."
"With my life!" declared Phil fervently.
"To-night it will be every man for himself," continued Burt. "You will keep close to me whatever happens. The papers—your camp. That must be your only thought after we have made the attempt to rescue your father."
"Do you think we will succeed?" pressed Phil anxiously.
"Yes," was the simple answer.
With that Phil had to be satisfied. He and Andy proceeded directly homewards, after leaving the boy who seemed to be so strangely and importantly mixed up with the destinies of the American conflict. Phil told his mother of his meeting with Burt Noble, and Mrs. Warrington was in a flutter of mingled anxiety and hope. Phil and Andy amused themselves about the house, playing checkers and rather impatiently waiting for nightfall.
It was just after dark that the two young patriots stole by unfrequented streets out of the neighborhood of the Warrington home. As they came nearer to Fanueil Hall, they found the public thoroughfare pretty well crowded. They were watching a British company gaily bedecked march by, when Burt came between them.
"It's exactly the best time ever was for our enterprise," he said. "A regiment of regulars has arrived from London, and the redcoats are having a jubilee. There will be great carousals before morning, and spirits distributed pretty freely. Things will be free and easy for the soldiers, so I hope for the best."
The speaker led his companions from the spot and threaded several dark streets. He bade them wait for him finally outside of a little shop, in front of which hung an enormous wooden key. When he came out, a grey-haired old man carrying a bag, evidently containing some tools, was with him.
"All right, Mr. Bond," he said. "These are friends,—Phil Warrington and a chum."
"Friends, indeed," spoke the old man, "if he is the son of the man I'd like to serve. John Warrington provided me with the means of starting in business."
"You'll have a chance to-night to show him how well you have learned the trade," said Burt.
The speaker himself carried a large official envelope, but made no explanation concerning it for the time being. However, as he halted in the shadow of a large building, he said:
"I shall leave you here, Phil. I have a message to deliver for a British officer in this building. There are exactly four men guarding the stores and incidentally the prisoners here. They are two rooms away from them. Only the north half of the building they occupy. If you can manage to get into the untenanted half and reach the room next to that where the prisoners are kept, the rest will be easy. Trust me to keep the sentinels entertained while you are at work. I have gone into details about the situation with Mr. Bond here. Follow his lead, and do all you can to help him."
"Why," exclaimed Phil to Andy, as Burt moved away, "this is my father's old warehouse!"
"Yes," nodded the old locksmith quietly, "and as both of us know something of its interior, I fancy we will not have a very difficult task in reaching the prisoners."
The bells were tolling eight o'clock when the locksmith and Phil and Andy forced a door at the extreme south end of the building. They were ringing out nine o'clock when five silent figures emerged from that same rear grating through which Phil and Andy had fled from the dock Tories two nights previous. The old locksmith had departed by the public street route. The rescue had been successful.
Mr. Warrington grasped his son's arm affectionately, and took a great, deep breath of the balmy air as he reached the deserted wharf. Andy was busy explaining to his two recent fellow prisoners the details of the rescue.
Certainly Burt Noble had done his share in entertaining the guards. The rest was easy. The prisoners had been placed in a room sealed with thin boards. Their jailers had depended entirely upon their heavy manacles to keep their captives from escaping. Their prison room located, a hole had been sawed by the locksmith in the wooden side of the room. He had crept through, and released the manacles with his tools. They had reached the open air, and now it was only a question of getting across the river to the Continental camp.
"We must go cautiously down the wharf, and try and find a boat to take us over," said Phil.
But no boat showed until they reached a break in the fence, affording a lane leading down to the wharf. Some distance beyond lay a good-sized yawl, but further was a sort of a cabin boat that showed lights. The little party stood irresolute. They were undecided as to the best course to pursue. Phil was half-minded to go back into the city and find some good shelter for his father and the others, until they could arrange more safely for their transportation across the river.
Just then, however, a man turned down the lane, a British officer in full uniform. He was waving a naked sword and singing loudly. As he made out the refugees, he advanced straight upon them.
"Want the admiral—got any admiral round here?" he demanded in a stumbling voice. "Sent here from England—just arrived. Going to clean out these rebels, root and branch. Left grand reception to—to inspect harbor. Duty—am a slave to du-ty."
"Yes, sir," said Phil. "There is no admiral here, but—"
"Ha! there's a boat. Ha! my jolly men, get aboard. Insist on duty. Insist on making inspection at once."
Phil was delighted. He led the way to the yawl. He managed to guide the British officer to a seat in the bow, where he sat very pompous and self-important. Just as the rope was released, there was a shout from the cabin boat just beyond. Two men with muskets came running down the planking.
"Halt, there! who are you?" demanded a stentorian voice.
"Col. Flashleigh Buckingham, sir!" roared the military dignitary, his bright epaulettes and gaudy gold braid making their due impression on the sentinels. "Straight from King George, sir. Sent specially to sweep out the rebels, and going to do it. Row on, men."
The dazzled sentinels allowed the boat to pursue its course. The swaying victim of circumstances in the bow was comically dignified, as he imagined he was "inspecting" something, in the "line of duty." He slipped in his seat and his head fell upon his breast.
"Past the Rubicon," uttered Phil fervently, as they crossed the central current of the river.
"Yes, and what a prize prisoner!" chuckled Andy gleefully.
And the young volunteers knew, as they saw the distant lights of the camp of the Continental army at Cambridge, that they had done a big thing.