The Young Continentals at Lexington

Nat gazed up in assumed astonishment at the two excited faces that bent over him. He knew that the dwarf was safely away, and all his native coolness returned to him.

“What now, my lad?” demanded one of the horsemen, a puffy faced captain of light infantry. “Where are you going?”

“I’m on my way home,” answered Nat, innocently enough.

“I think,” said the puffy faced captain, “you’d better delay that for awhile and come back to the barracks. A few words with you may do no harm.”

“Very well,” agreed Nat, promptly.

And with that he turned and started back over the road he’d just traveled. His willingness to do what was demanded of him seemed to take the two officers by surprise; the second of them, a lank youth with vacant eyes, drawled:

“Why, this fellow is too wooden-headed to be dangerous, captain. That lad must have been hoaxing us.”

“It’s not for us to judge of that,” replied the puffy faced man, who seemed a competent officer. “Major Pitcairn told us to bring him back, and that’s what we are going to do.”

“Oh, of course,” the lank youth hastened to say. “We’ll do that surely.”

So Nat was marched back within the British lines. Where but ten minutes before there had been laxity and careless superiority, all was now tense excitement and bustle. The group of officers were in the saddle; guards were being placed at many points where it had never been deemed worth while to have them before. Scowling looks met the boy as he trudged calmly along before the two riders.

At Gage’s headquarters they drew up; dismounting, the officer led Nat past the sentries into a long room where sat the governor, a stout, bluff Englishman in undress uniform.

“Is this the fellow, Pitcairn?” demanded Gage of an immaculately dressed officer across the table from him.

Major Pitcairn surveyed Nat carefully.

“I’ve seen him among the workmen for some months past,” said he. “But I’m not sure of anything else.”

“Ask Lieutenant Chesbrook to step in,” said General Gage to an orderly who stood at the door. “And tell him to bring his friend.”

In a moment the tall naval lieutenant stalked into the apartment, and following him was young Prentiss. Nat met the latter’s eye with a steady, accusing gaze. But the Boston boy did not flinch. He merely gazed back with inquiring interest, nodded and smiled genially.

“Yes,” replied the hawk-nosed lieutenant, glancing at Nat and replying to a question of Major Pitcairn’s. “That is the person.”

“You are quite sure, lieutenant, that he is in sympathy with the rebels?” asked Gage.

“I am positive,” answered Chesbrook.

“And you?” turning to the other.

“It is the same boy,” replied young Prentiss.

There was a moment’s silence, broken by the rattle of hoofs. At the sound, Gage glanced at Pitcairn and the major nodded.

“They are off,” said he, briefly.

“Tell Smith to get his men ready with all despatch,” commanded Gage.

Pitcairn arose and left the room; then the governor turned his bluff countenance upon Nat once more.

“So, young man, you’ve been spying upon us,” said he, sternly.

Nat saw that there was no use denying anything that was charged against him. The best way, so he concluded, was to put a bold face upon the matter, for it would be as likely to carry him through as anything else.

“Yes,” he answered, “and have also been doing some rather competent work as a carpenter. If one is to count against me, I trust you will not fail to credit me with the other.”

A smile stole over the British general’s face.

“You do not lack coolness,” said he. “But that alone will do little for you. You admit that you are a spy. Do you know the fate of such?”

This last was asked in a sharp, stern way. Instantly young Prentiss took a quick step forward as though to protest, but the hand of Chesbrook closed upon his arm and drew him back. A moment later the lad left the room. Nat looked steadily into the British general’s face, paying no attention to this by-play.

“You mean that spies are shot?”

“Or hanged,” added Gage, grimly.

“In time of war—yes,” said Nat. “But not at such a time as this. Another thing. I am not a spy in a strictly military sense. Such a person would be an enemy to the king—which I am not.”

“No?” and the governor looked at him with interest.

“I came here for the same reason that you did,” declared Nat, boldly. “And that is to prevent war.”

“Your argument is ingenious enough,” said General Gage, “but it scarcely meets the facts solidly. However, I have no time now to examine you. I’ll have you put under a guard for a few days until I get some important matters off my mind.”

“If the taking of the colonial stores at Concord is one of them,” said Nat, coolly, “you may as well rid yourself of it now.”

General Gage’s face was naturally red, but at this it grew much more so.

“It seems to me,” remarked he, with a nod of the head, “that your time here has not been wasted.”

At this moment Major Pitcairn reëntered and the governor turned to him.

“Pitcairn, see to it that parties are set to guard all the roads. No one is to leave the city.”

“Have you learned anything?” asked the major, with a quick look at Nat.

“No. But our young rebel here has set me thinking that our plan may not be so secret as we think.”

Once more Pitcairn disappeared. As he did so, Lieutenant Chesbrook stepped forward and saluted.

“General,” said he, “if I may be permitted to do so, I’d like to offer a suggestion.”

Gage glanced at him inquiringly. There was something in the set of the thin lips and the expression in the cold, light-colored eyes that gave the impression that Chesbrook’s suggestion might have value.

“I shall be happy to listen to you,” answered the soldier readily.

Lieutenant Chesbrook bowed his thanks. With his finger-tips on the edge of the table he said:

“Some time ago I was detailed by the admiral for shore duty—of a certain kind.”

Gage nodded.

“Yes; the admiral spoke to me of it at the time. He said that you had peculiar persuasive powers,” with a laugh. “Indeed it was his opinion that no one could resist you if you chose to set yourself to convince him.”

“The admiral is most flattering,” spoke Lieutenant Chesbrook. “But then, I’ve given him proof upon more than one occasion, so he speaks from personal knowledge. But what I was about to say was this: I intend riding with Lieutenant-Colonel Smith’s column to-night; and I think if this boy,” indicating Nat, “were permitted to accompany me, he would be of considerable service.”

“In what way?”

“In several—but more especially in recognizing and pointing out persons whom it would be worth while taking into custody.”

Gage’s eyes snapped.

“Bravo!” exclaimed he. “That is a most excellent idea. It never occurred to me. Take him, by all means.”

“Thank you,” said Chesbrook, and his cold eyes had an odd expression as they measured Nat from head to foot.

But in reply to the look, Nat merely laughed.

“You surely do not think,” said he, “that I will recognize and point out people, as you put it, or, betray my friends, as I would put it, just at your request.”

“I don’t think when a little matter like this presents itself. I act, as you will learn at no distant time,” replied Chesbrook. “Recollect, my lad, I have no great love for you.”

“A small thing like a fall from a porch roof should not be permitted to sour your temper so,” said Nat, evenly. “I would have thought that Lieutenant Chesbrook of His Majesty’s navy was beyond that.”

But Chesbrook made no reply to this. The puffy faced captain called a file of men and the boy was seized.

“Be careful of him,” warned Major Pitcairn, who had reëntered in the meantime and to whom the arrangement had been explained. “Lock him up securely and keep a guard over him—a strong guard.”

The captain and his men saluted. The boy from Wyoming was placed in the midst of them and led away.

He was placed in a room in a small stone building not far from the barracks. This was generally used for refractory troopers and contained a chair, a table, and a heavy chain fastened to the wall, on the end of which was an iron band which was now locked about Nat’s waist.

Hour after hour went by; the footsteps of the double guard outside his prison door went steadily up and down; now and then as the men passed one another their voices were heard murmuring. Through a small window, barred and high up in the wall, Nat got a glimpse of the sky; it was black and a few pale stars burned against it waveringly.

The boy sat with his head drooped forward upon the heavy table and the thoughts that filled his mind were gloomy enough.

“Suppose,” reflected he, “my message did not reach Dr. Warren; suppose he does not send Mr. Revere to warn Mr. Hancock and Mr. Adams and rouse the minutemen in defence of Concord. If General Gage can deal them this blow, the cause of the colonies may be wrecked.”

He pictured to himself the dark, midnight roads; the armed British troopers that guarded them. All along the route to Lexington, so ran his vision, the houses of the colonists were without lights; the inmates were wrapped in slumber. He imagined the party of officers riding far ahead with ready swords and pistols; then came the column of troops, solid, compact, dark, winding slowly along the highway like a huge serpent. And nowhere was there any one to oppose their progress; nowhere was there a voice raised to warn the sleeping ones of the danger that was approaching, slowly, deliberately, like Fate.

It was Nat’s helpless situation, chained, locked in a strong room, guarded by watchful soldiers, that so tinged his thoughts. The truth was that matters were not nearly so hopeless as he pictured them.

The Porcupine, breathless, pale of face, had reached Dr. Warren’s door. Scarcely could he reach the knocker, even by standing upon his toes; but when he did reach it, its “rat-tat-tat” awoke the echoes in Hanover Street. It was the doctor himself, anxious, expectant, who came to the door and received the queer message. As he read it his mouth tightened.

“And where is Nat?” inquired he.

“I think they’ve got him,” said the Porcupine. “They were after him when he passed me this and told me to run.”

Warren said nothing to this. Bidding the dwarf sit down, he scratched off a note and sealed it.

“You’ll take my horse and ride to North Square,” he said quietly. “Mr. Revere will still be at home,” with a glance at the clock. “You’ll give him this note. Don’t fail. A great deal depends upon it.”

In an incredibly short time the dwarf pulled up at Revere’s house, and walking in presented the note, which that gentleman immediately read. It was past dark by this time and some candles burned in the room. Revere twisted the note into a spill, touched it to a flame and watched it turn black and crumble away on the floor.

“I’ll go with you at once,” he said quietly.

So he pulled on his heavy boots, buttoned his surtout, took up his three-cornered hat and started back to Hanover Street with the dwarf. Once there, Warren received them with great eagerness.

“I have just sent off William Dawes by the long way ’round the neck,” said he.

“It would be as well,” spoke Revere, after some discussion, “for me to make a personal examination of things and be sure that the expedition is really about to start.”

This was agreed to, and off the engraver started, the dwarf still with him and riding Warren’s horse. They had reached the Common when they noted considerable movement; rows of boats were drawn up at the water’s edge at the bottom of the Common, each bearing a light in its bow. Approaching these were a body of troops armed and equipped as for a march.

“That means two flashes of the lantern in the North Tower,” said Paul Revere, with a suppressed laugh. Then as though a thought had just come to him, he added, in a changed tone, “But suppose by some accident they do not see the signal?”

The idea apparently troubled him; for a moment he stood still; then he turned suddenly to the Porcupine.

“You know the sexton of North Church, do you not?”

“Yes,” came the reply.

“Ride there at once,” directed Revere, with the manner of one who has made up his mind, “ask him to give you the lantern which he has ready, and do you give the signal.”

Without a word the Porcupine turned the horse and galloped off over the soft sod toward the north. Revere hastened toward the river; at the end of a deserted wharf he uttered a whistle and two men came forward from some unseen hiding-place. Without any explanation being necessary, they drew a dory from behind some piles; all three got into it and pulled sturdily across the river.

Upon the farther side they found Colonel Conant and a group of others upon the bank, and the militia officer greeted Revere hurriedly.

“We just now received the signal,” said he, “and had secured a horse from Deacon Larkin upon which to send a courier with the news.”

“I’ll go myself,” said Revere, promptly, and he vaulted into the saddle of a strong looking horse which a lad was holding by the bridle. “Tell the deacon that I’ll ride his beast as carefully as I can, but not to expect too much, for speed is the thing that will count to-night.”

And then, with a wave of the hand, along the midnight road, bearing the alarm that was to awake the whole world to liberty, sped Paul Revere.