CHAPTER V
A SUSPICION
September dragged wretchedly. There was no need of stealing among the bushes for news or amusement.
Indeed, Andy wisely concluded that to keep to the open, innocent ways would be the only possible thing that could help the absent master.
He missed the lessons and the exciting comradeship, too; the contrast was painful. Janie saw, but questioned not. It was all beyond her. Ruth was the only relief.
"Fear not, Andy," she would say. "You must bide your time, and wait patiently. 'Tis what Washington is doing. Copy your General in this, as well as other things. One may serve in that way as well as in others. You should hear the tales Hans Brickman tells of the doings in the patriot camp. He carries eggs and honey, you know.
"He says that Washington isn't just fighting or holding in check the king's men; but his own troops are acting shamefully—threatening to desert, and begging for money; complaining all day long. Oh! if I were a soldier I would show them!" The girl flung her strong young arms above her head, and brought down her clenched fists in a laughably vehement way.
"And there sits that great General, never flinching, but writing to Congress to pay the babies; and calming the tyrants with one breath, and shaming them into obedience with the next.
"Hans says he dashes at them sometimes with his sword, and slaps the raw recruits into shape, telling them that if they run when he orders them to advance, he'll shoot them himself. There's a man for you!"
"Indeed there is a man," nodded Andy, and his face grew brighter. "And I should cry shame to myself because I am so impatient of this lameness which holds me back."
"Holds you back! Andy McNeal, that is rank ingratitude. You've been up to some mighty doings, that I know, or you would not be hungering for more glory. Oh, I can see a bit ahead of my nose. Time was when you hung around, not knowing glory because it had not come your way. You've tasted it, Andy, and your thirst grows. I know a thing or two. You're getting strong, too, Andy; you're an inch taller than I. Father mentioned the fact this very morning. You're taking on airs, but remember, I knew you when you were less a man. Have a care; a woman has a tongue. I'll be calling you down if you carry things with too high a hand."
Andy laughed and stood straighter. Then, very quietly:
"Andy, what was the master's name?"
"Ruth, I do not know."
"Do not, or will not tell?"
"I do not know."
"Can you tell me why he stayed here?"
"I cannot tell you, Ruth. Why do you ask?" The girl paused and dropped her clear eyes.
"They do say, the whisper has reached my father, that he was a spy, and—and a dangerous one!"
"They lie!" said Andy, hotly; "he, a spy!" Then the boyish voice fell. The last, sad talk under the stars came clearly back, and in the shock of the memory the boy trembled.
Ruth watched him closely. "I'm not over-curious," she faltered, "but I fear for you. If he—if he were a spy you were seen with him far too often for your good. Father even feared for me."
"Ruth" (Andy's voice had a new tone), "I can believe no dishonor of the master, and I am proud that I walked with him and was his friend!"
"Aye" (Ruth looked doubtful), "but a spy is not a good thing, Andy, no matter what shape it takes."
Old, rigid training held them both, but Andy must defend his friend, though the honest soul of Ruth shone from her eyes, and challenged him.
"It is as a thing is used," he began, lamely, but seeing his way dimly.
"Father does not preach that," Ruth broke in.
"No; nor would I preach it," sighed Andy.
"But you would act it?" Ruth flashed.
"I do—not know. I cannot think the master was aught but honest. If he were—were—" Andy could not use the hard word—"if he were finding things out, you may be sure, Ruth, it was not for his own uplifting. If he gave what other men would call—would call their honor—it was because he held not even that from his country. I can—see—how—that could—be!"
Ruth raised her eyes. "Could you, Andy?" she said.
"Yes. I could give it as I could my life. I would take no recompense, I would just give, and do anything. Ruth, suppose you knew a truth about—about—well, about me; a truth that, if it were known, would be the death of me. Would you tell, or—or would you save me?"
It was a rigid moment for the stern little maid. Her eyes fell, then were raised again.
"I—do—not—know," she panted, "but a lie is a lie, and I should expect to be punished."
"So should I for any dishonorable thing," agreed Andy. "That is just it, but it would be my willingness to do it, and then to suffer, that makes the difference."
The two were standing near the end of the Pass at a small gate, and as Andy ceased speaking a sound smote their ears that turned them pale. It was the sound of many horsemen galloping wildly onward.
"The king's men landed at Kip's Bay this morning," gasped Andy, clutching the gate, "and they do say that Douglass's men are not strong enough to defend the point."
It was Putnam's five brigades; the boy and girl only knew they were patriot troops. They had been ordered by Washington to make for Manhattanville before retreat was cut off.
Young Aaron Burr was acting as guide. The master had once pointed him out to Andy, and the boy remembered the face well. Boldly and fearlessly he was riding, and Andy's voice broke into a cheer as he recognized the noble face. The leaders halted. There were several roads ahead; which was safest and quickest? Burr ventured a question.
"Which way leads most directly to Manhattanville?" he said.
"Keep close to the river, and make for Kingsbridge, Colonel," Andy answered. "That road is not so carefully watched; it is rougher but safer."
Burr gave him a smile, then galloped ahead. The last weary stragglers were barely out of sight, when again the sound of on-coming horsemen broke the stillness.
"These are king's men!" groaned Ruth, who had stood rigidly silent until now. "Ah! Andy, and the others so little in advance!"
Constantly blowing their bugles and shouting derisively after the fleeing patriots, my Lord Howe's men advanced.
"'Tis a rare fox-hunt!" laughed one.
"But the fox and his mates are out of sight, my lord," cried another.
"For the moment. The ways divide a few rods beyond. Did the rebels pass this way?" asked an officer noticing Andy and Ruth.
"Yes, sir!" answered Ruth, promptly, and for a moment Andy sickened at what he feared she was about to do. It was too late, though, for him to interfere.
"Which road did they take?"
The instant's pause seemed an eternity to Andy. Then calmly and with clear, uplifted eyes:
"The main road, sir, it being the safer and shorter!" Andy felt a moment's dizziness. Then a rough voice startled him:
"I know that boy, my lord; he was the one in the secret passage, about which I told you. I shall not soon forget him."
"I thought you said your companion in the cave was dealt a stunning blow; surely this lad could have done no such thing," answered the Captain.
"I could swear to him, your lordship, though I saw him but for a moment as Martin went down, and the light went out. Hi! there, Martin, come here," he called. A man galloped up, a man with a dark bruise upon his forehead and eye.
"Martin, do you know that boy?" Martin looked, and in the clear light he saw and knew Andy at once; but something staggered him, and he stammered and shook.
"Did you strike this soldier?" asked the Captain impatiently of Andy.
"No, sir!" The words came sharply.
"You do not recognize him?" asked the officer of Martin.
"He—is—the—same!" Martin blurted. "We are losing time, my lord."
"There is no way to settle the thing here; we are losing time, and your story of that night in the cave is too important to overlook, Norton. If this is the boy we must deal with him later. The young scamp probably knows the roads well. Lead on, you rascal, but if you play any tricks and mislead us, my men shall pin you to a tree."
Ruth gave one despairing cry:
"He is lame," she panted. "For shame! How can he lead a mounted troop?"
"We'll go slowly. The game's nearly up, my girl," laughed Norton, "and a prick of the bayonet"—he suited the word with an action, and prodded Andy on the arm—"will hurry the lamest patriot. Lead on, cave-crawler!"
Andy gave one look at Ruth. A look of bravery, appreciation, and mute thanks for her part of the work.
"It's all right, Ruth," he called back. "Tell mother I'll lead them straight enough and be home in an hour. Good-by."
By a winding way leading from the main road they went; through Apthorpe's place they cantered at their ease, and so came to the highway a mile beyond.
"There may be a shorter cut, my lord," suggested Norton; then he paused. "Does your lordship observe there are no marks on the road that bespeak the recent passing of a regiment? This should mean the young rebel's death!"
"He's a spy in the old fox's hire!" shouted another.
"String him up, along with the schoolmaster down at the Beekman place to-morrow morning!" roared a third. All was wild commotion in a moment. But in that moment Andy took his chances and made for the thicket, and the hidden path over which he and Washington went that day that now seemed so long ago. A man leaned from a horse and tried to clutch him, lost his balance and tumbled to the ground. Confusion covered Andy's dash.
"He's gone!" yelled the man who had fallen.
"Which way?" shouted several in response.
Which way? Aye, that was the query. Which way!
Andy made for the dry bed of the stream. No rustling leaves must betray him. Not in flight was his safety now, but in silent hiding until darkness should come. Down into the muddy pool of the once rushing brook, rolled the boy. In the distance he heard:
"No trail here, my lord!" and he smiled grimly.
"Well, a lost lame rebel is of less account than the regiments ahead," shouted the Captain. "Bad luck to the young devil. Cut cross country and try the river road!"
"They have an hour to the good!" thought Andy, as he remembered the weary patriots and young Aaron Burr. Soon all was quiet, and with the palpitating silence a new thought grew in Andy's brain. "Better string him up to-morrow with the schoolmaster!" Whom did they mean!
"Schoolmaster! Spy!" The two words struck dully on the aching brain. Suppose! Andy sat up and gazed wildly into the dense underbrush. "Could it be?" But no; the idea was too horrible.
The long shadows began to creep among the rocks they loved so well. Still Andy sat staring into the awful possibility that the words conjured up.
"Schoolmaster! Spy!" He could stand it no longer. Cautiously he crept up the bank. Through all the excitement he had clung to his crutch. It must serve him well now. He set out determinedly toward the highway. Come what might, he must reach the Beekman place as soon as possible, and he hoped that the road was safe, owing to interest being centered elsewhere. In this hope he was right. Below and above him, excitement ran rife, but the highway seemed to belong to him alone.
CHAPTER VI
THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE
A terrible storm was coming up, after the sultry day. Andy's whole being centered upon the thought that he must reach the Beekman Place; and the coming storm might delay him. Only so far did it affect him. He felt no hunger; it troubled him a little that his mother and Ruth would worry about him, but nothing mattered so much as the solving of the doubt that was causing his heart and brain to throb.
Strangely enough, his lameness decreased as his excitement waxed greater, or it seemed to, and he considered it less. The birds stopped twittering their vesper songs, and huddled fearfully in their shelters. A peal of thunder was followed quickly by another. The rocks took up the echo and prolonged the sound. Between, the flashes of lightning, the darkness could almost be felt, so tangible and dense it seemed. Once Andy fell and struck his head. The blow made him giddy, but the rain dashing in his face steadied him, and he plodded on. Then a glare in the distance attracted him. It was in the direction toward which he was going.
"A fire!" he muttered. "All the more reason for hoping they will not notice me." The town might burn, what matter, if only the way were free to the Beekman place.
It was still dark when he reached his destination, worn and haggard. Over toward the greenhouse people were stirring about, and Andy rightly guessed that the prisoner, whoever he might be, was there. No luckier place could have been chosen, so far as Andy was concerned. It was surrounded by shrubbery through which he could creep right up to the building, providing, of course, that the sentinels did not see him. But the sentinels were relaxing their watch. The hours of the troublesome spy were nearly ended, and there could be little danger of any further trouble on his account.
Andy crept along, keeping to the bushes. The storm was nearly over, and no lightning could betray his motions now.
Once the glass house was reached, Andy looked eagerly in. There was a pile of rubbish in one corner, and a man was sitting upon a rude bench near it; between him and Andy, however, were two men with their backs to the boy, and they quite hid the face of the man upon the bench. The two were listening, and the third man was speaking. Andy was too far away to hear, but, gaining courage, he crept around to the other side of the house, and so came close to the group within. Something in the attitude of the man upon the bench had caused the boy's heart to leap madly, then almost stop. He raised his eyes slowly—one look was enough!
Sorrow and ill-treatment had done their work, but the dear face was the same! Dauntless, undying courage shone upon the uplifted face.
It was the master! The errand, whatever it had been, was over. Success or failure? Andy could not tell from the calm features. Spy or hero! What mattered? There sat the beloved friend, deserted and forlorn—still unconquered though the fetters bound him close.
"I would send, if your kindness will permit, these letters. They will make lighter the sorrow of them I love."
Andy bowed his head and clutched at his throat to stifle the rising cry. A broken pane of glass near-by permitted him to hear clearly every word.
One man on guard had a low, brutal face, the other, Andy noticed, had a more humane look.
"Have you the letters written?" asked the coarse fellow.
"I have." The master drew them from his breast and handed them to the speaker.
"One is to Washington," laughed the man. "Gad, you must take us for raw recruits."
"I shall be beyond harming you soon. That letter refers to personal matters, I swear." There was superb dignity in the voice. "I would have his excellency know that I regret nothing. I would do all over again, did the need arise. Washington would see that my comrades understand that."
The man with the letters gave vent to a brutal oath. Then the quieter man spoke for the first.
"If we read the letters and find them harmless, I am for forwarding them. To whom are the others addressed?"
"One to my family, the other—to the woman I was to have married!" The master, for the first time, bowed his head, as if his burden were too heavy.
"I think we may carry out your request if the contents are what you imply."
"And make a hero of this spy!" snarled the rougher man. "Every word may have a double meaning, Colonel. We have the papers he so carefully hid, but these letters may contain the same information, slyly concealed." He tore the letters across twice, and flung the pieces on the floor. "Death and oblivion to all rebel spies!" he hissed.
The master never flinched, but his pale face grew paler. "Is there anything else we can do for you?" asked the milder voice, "something safer than forwarding letters?"
"I should like to have the right generally granted a dying man, of seeing a minister. One lives a few miles above here. I am sure he would come."
"And hear what you dare not write," sneered the torturer. "You are not the sort to need a death-bed scene; besides, there isn't going to be any death-bed. I dare say the parson would be glad enough to carry your so-called confession to Washington. Bah! you are crude in your last moments."
"Come," impatiently spoke the fellow's companion, "I have no stomach for your jests and brutality." Then, turning to the master, he said: "We will leave you for a few hours. It seems the only thing we can do for you. Try to rest."
Down the greenhouse the two went. The master was alone! He bowed his splendid head, and perhaps tasted, for the first time, the dregs of desolation.
Andy, lying low among the bushes, saw that the master's feet were bound. The sight wrung the boy's soul. Perhaps he had wildly hoped that escape were possible, but one glance showed him that the fetters were cruelly strong. What could he do? Near and far he heard the measured tread of sentinels at their posts. He wondered that he had ever gained his present position unnoticed. It was doubtful now that he could make his own escape, for a gray dawn was breaking in the east. But the thought of his own danger troubled the boy little. He was thinking of a peculiar whirring sound that he and the master had once practiced together. A sound like an insect. "'Twould be a good signal," the teacher had said. Would he remember it?
Andy pressed close to the broken glass, and chirruped distinctly. The master started and raised his eyes. Was he dreaming! Again Andy ventured. Then a smile flitted across the master's face.
"Andy!" he breathed.
"Here, close to you!"
Slowly, without a suspicious start, the man turned in the boy's direction; and the two brave comrades smiled at each other over the gulf of pain and grief.
"I will try to sleep!" This aloud, to regale the ear of any possible listener other than Andy. With difficulty the master stretched, as best he could, his fettered limbs upon the floor, taking heed to lie as close to Andy as possible.
Silence. Then the man tossed and talked aloud in troubled fashion.
Andy, meantime, with a daring that might risk all, put his hand in the broken pane and drew the bits of paper of the torn letters to him.
"Tell Washington," moaned the voice of the master in a half sleepy whisper, "I regret nothing. Am proud to die and to have given all."
"I have the letters!" breathed Andy. "If I live Washington shall have them and know all."
"Thank God!" came from the man upon the floor. "You are a true friend, Andy McNeal."
"Good-by," groaned Andy. "Some one is coming!" The cold perspiration covered the boy's body, for steps were drawing near.
"There could hardly be any one outside," said a loud, rough voice. "Still we must take no chances. The poor devil has reason to toss in his sleep and talk. I doubt if he were doing anything else."
The need was desperate. Andy crawled like a snake through the grasses. Escape seemed impossible. He passed the two searchers in the friendly gloom, and breathed freer. This was a lucky move, for the two men examined thoroughly the spot where Andy had been. They discovered the broken glass, and one remarked that the weeds had been crushed.
"Some animal has been prowling about, there are no footprints," said the other.
Andy's Indian training was serving him well. In a few minutes the two passed on. "We'll walk around the place. Daybreak is near. The dangerous spy's time is short."
Andy made the most of that time. Stealing cautiously in and out of the shrubbery, he worked his way out of sight of the greenhouse. The chill of the morning made him shiver. How many hours he had passed without food or drink he did not consider; but his heart seemed dead within him.
Painfully he came at last to the shelter of the woods. Then he sat down upon a fallen tree, clutching the scraps of paper against his throbbing breast. In imagination he seemed to see the master being led forth to die. See! the east was rosy. Now, even now, the brave soul was marching on undaunted and undismayed. Andy could see nothing in the brilliancy of that lovely morning light, but the uplifted face of the man he loved. A pride and joy came to the boy. That hero was his friend! The world might call him a spy—but he, Andy McNeal, knew that he had given all for the country's cause, and regretted nothing, even in the face of a dishonored death.
"And Washington shall know!" breathed Andy. "As soon as I can reach headquarters, the General shall have these!" Fiercely he pressed the papers. Then he arose. He was stiff and deadly weary.
"I will go to Ruth!" he sighed. "I must have food and rest. I dare not go to mother. My plight is too sad. I will save her the sight." Bedraggled and blood-stained—for the fall of the night before had left its mark—Andy went on, looking, as indeed he was, a soldier of the cause.
CHAPTER VII
ANDY HEARS A STRANGE TALE
Andy made but poor time to the minister's house. It was well on toward noon when the shouts of the children at play cheered his heart. He had been obliged to rest many times, and once he had fallen asleep and slept longer than he knew.
As he drew near the cottage he saw Ruth kneeling by Sam's grave. It was one of the girl's daily duties of love to bring fresh flowers and cover the mound with the bloom. Glad enough was Andy to see her alone, and in this quiet spot. He went more rapidly; the sight of Ruth gave him new strength. He had no intention of frightening her, he made no attempt to walk quietly, but indeed a look at his haggard face would have caused alarm in any case.
"Ruth!" The girl looked up, stared, but made no cry. She rubbed her eyes feebly as if awakening from sleep, then she grew deadly pale.
"Andy McNeal!" she whispered. "Whatever has happened?"
"I will tell you." He sank down wearily, and took the cap from his head.
"My heart has been filled with horror," Ruth went on, giving Andy time to catch his breath. "I dared not tell any one what really happened. They think you merely went as guide. I never expected to see you alive again. I am not sure that I do now!" She smiled pitifully, and came near Andy to chafe his cold hands.
"I'm alive," the boy faltered. "But, oh! Ruth, I have lived years." Then brokenly, and with aching heart, he told the story of the past hours. Ruth never took her eyes from his face, but her color came and went as she listened. The tale was ended at last, ended with all the tragic detail and the showing of the scraps of paper. Then Ruth stood up.
"Andy," she said, in her prompt fashion, "the house is empty. Mother has gone to your home, father will be away until to-morrow. The children are easily managed. Now I want you to go in the upper room after you have eaten. I want you to rest all day and then—then I have something to tell you and—there is more to do."
"Yes; these," sighed Andy, looking at the papers. "I should start at once with these."
"'Twould be folly. There are awful doings afoot, Andy McNeal. It is no time for a mid-day walk to Harlem Heights. You must do as I say. Come in now; you are starved and utterly spent."
Andy followed gladly. It was the course, the only course, of wisdom.
He ate ravenously, and drank a quart of rich milk. Ruth was busied in the room above, and when the meal was finished Andy joined her.
"Now," she smiled, "everything is ready." He found a pail of hot water, and some of the minister's clothing lay on a chair. "They'll have to do, Andy, until I can wash and dry yours," said Ruth.
"What matters?" answered Andy. "If I sleep I shall not mind the rest."
"I know. You must only obey now, Andy. Remember I love to do my share!" Tears stood in her brave eyes, and Andy understood.
Andy fell asleep almost at once. The hot bath took the pain from his sore body, the clean, worn linen was cool and soothing, and the droning of the bees in the near-by hives hushed sorrow and weariness into deep oblivion.
And while he dreamed of peaceful walks with the master under sunny skies, and smiled in the dreaming, Ruth had summoned Janie, and the mother sat waiting patiently the awakening. There was much to tell and more to do. But Andy dreamed on.
Four o'clock! The tall clock in the living-room spoke loudly. Andy stirred and muttered something, then slept again.
Five o'clock! The boy sat up on the narrow bed and stared into his mother's face.
Janie never flinched, though his pallor and the cut on his forehead made her heart ache.
"Mother, I must get to Washington at once. I—I have a message."
"Yes, son."
"I do not fear death. It comes but once!"
"Yes, Andy, lad. But I'm thinking you'll not be meeting death just now. It looks like you were singled out to live and act for all my old misgivings. God forgive me."
She bowed her head and it rested on Andy's shoulder. Stern Janie had never done such a thing before, and even at the moment Andy was touched and moved. He smoothed the hair away from the pale face, and gently, lovingly kissed his mother.
"There are strange happenings, Andy," she sighed.
"There are, indeed," he agreed.
"But things about which you know nothing, lad, and—and I must tell you before you go. Get up; dress, son. Ruth and I have made decent your own clothing. I can talk better while you move about. I cannot bear your eyes, my lad." Andy arose at once and began his dressing, keeping his face turned from his mother, but her own was rigidly set toward the window.
"Your father has come back, Andy!"
A strange pause, then:
"My father!" Andy had dropped into a chair. The sentence had deprived him of strength to stand. He knew his mother never wasted words, or made rash statements. His father had come back! And Andy did not know that his father was alive. In fact, knew nothing of him, and that struck him for the first time with stunning force. Janie's back was straight and firm.
"Yes, your father. I kept it all from you. I meant to tell you some day, Andy, but time passed and you asked no questions, and I—I thought everything was past and gone forever. But he has come back."
"Where is he?" asked Andy.
"At home. He has been hurt, and is feverish and ill. He was doing sentinel duty for—for the British, and he received a terrible blow from some one in a cave. I cannot tell what is best to do, Andy, and I must look to you for help."
Somehow Andy had gotten to his feet, and staggered across the little room to his mother. Almost roughly he seized her hand, while the awful truth unfolded itself from the dense darkness of the past.
"Say that again!" he commanded. Janie looked at him in amazement.
"Say what!" she asked.
"That about the blow, and—and the cave!"
Janie repeated it, wondering why that detail should so interest Andy.
"You see," she continued, not heeding his horrified look, "I married your father when I was very young. I look older than I be, lad. He brought me nothing but trouble. He was above me in station. He belonged to his majesty's regiment stationed here, and when the regiment was recalled he went—back! Little he cared for the girl he left or the baby that bore his name! I managed, and neighbors helped me to forget, and—and I could not tell you Andy. I hoped I never would be obliged to."
"Go on!" Andy still held his mother's hand, but with infinite gentleness now. Tears stood in Janie's eyes, and the human need for sympathy met an answering thrill in the heart of the son.
"He—he saw you yesterday at the pass, Andy, when they made you guide them after the troops, and your face frightened him. He says you look so like his mother, that it is just terrible. She has recently died, and her memory and the thought that his son might be alive and here, gave him a bad turn. He asked your name, and as I kept my own name after he deserted me, he guessed the truth, and as soon as he could break away from the others he came to me—and—that is all, Andy. But what shall I do?"
Andy tried to think. Tried to bring events into orderly line and coherence, but the more he tried the more detached he felt, and as if the whole matter was one with which he had nothing to do.
"I was so young, Andy, lad, only seventeen!" When had Janie ever pleaded before?
"Yes," murmured Andy. "I am nearly seventeen now. Seventeen years are long—sometimes. But, of course, you were very young."
"And I had no one to guide me, Andy. I was alone. I have always been alone, and it has been hard." A sob rose to the trembling lips. Andy looked at his mother, and, oddly enough through all the bewilderment, thought that she had a beauty he had never noticed before.
"You were handsome, too," he whispered. Janie started.
"Yes," she replied. "I suppose I was, then. Your voice is like his. It always was, Andy. That was one reason that at times I could not bear it. Oh, Andy! it is no easy matter to be a lonely woman!" The cry smote the listener, and his growing manhood reached out to her.
"Mother, you are not alone. You have me. I will come back to you, stand by you, and we will see what is best to do. I must go on my errand, and I think you ought to go to—to father!" The word nearly choked him.
"But suppose anything should happen to you?" Janie clung to the hand of this new, strange, but well-loved son, "whatever shall I do?
"I think I shall come back to you. I think I am needed, and it seems clear to me that I shall come back." Andy smiled into the troubled face, and tried to rouse himself into action.
"If you should fall into the hands of the British," whispered Janie, "tell them you are the son of Lieutenant Theodore Martin; it may help you, son."
"Your name is my name!" Andy proudly broke in. "I never shall seek favor through any other. If they take me, they take Andy McNeal, and if I come back I shall come bearing that name, until my mother bids me take another!"
Janie bowed her head. It had been her first, only weak attitude toward her country.
"You are right," she quivered. "But I fear for you."
Presently his mother left him. He and she had work to do, and it must be done apart. A few minutes after she was gone, Ruth came up bearing a tray of food. She was limping painfully, and Andy, sitting by the window lost in thought, got to his feet in alarm. "You are hurt!" he cried. A smile spread over the girl's pale face.
"I'm a depraved sinner!" she said, setting the tray on a stand and dropping into a chair. "After the war is over I shall repent and take up godly ways. For the present I am a lost soul, and given over to Satan. Andy, the lie I told yesterday about the river road was the beginning of my downfall. How easily we glide downhill."
"'Twas the only thing to do, Ruth," nodded Andy. "I think such a lie grows innocent from the start. It was the object, Ruth. What else could you have done? It puzzles me sore to try and explain. I just leave the lie to God. He will understand."
"I have left it there, Andy, and from the joy and gladness I have felt, I believe there was nothing else to do. But this lameness, oh, Andy!"
"How did it happen?"
"Just as the lie did, Andy. This is a bodily lie."
"I do not understand, Ruth."
"Eat, and I will explain." Andy began mechanically. He must be ready for his task in any case. Food was the first step.
"I have been reading the Bible to the children, Andy. They wanted the story of David. As I read it seemed as if you were like David. When he went to meet Goliath, how impossible his victory seemed, but the hand that swung the sling was strong enough to win the day. Andy," Ruth bent toward him, her face glowing, "you are strong enough to win against your Goliath!"
"Mine?"
"Yes; all the king's men! You will get to Washington before another day is passed. But—you must let me help you."
Andy set the cup of milk down and stared at the earnest face.
"I'm very dull," he said. "I only know that I must go. I do not see, now, that you can help."
"You must not think of going abroad as Andy McNeal," the girl explained. "They are watching for you. Janie says that more than one Britisher has been to her door."
"Do you know—" Andy began.
"Yes," nodded Ruth, "but he is well hidden. It is you they are after. Then, too, I know what the British expect to do. Hans Brickman found out and he is almost frightened to death with his secret. He thinks the British will see his secret written all over him, and he is afraid to go into camp—the patriot camp, you know. He has honey and butter to sell, and he sells to friend or foe. I've told him I will go with him to-night."
"What secret?" asked Andy, keen to the main point.
"The British war-ships are going up the river!" Ruth was whispering in Andy's ear, not daring to trust her voice even in the little room. "Father says the General does not expect this move, but they are getting ready down by the Battery. Father says the forts cannot stand a river attack."
"But Washington must know this. He never is taken off guard." Andy spoke proudly and with assurance.
"Well, any way," said Ruth, "he is preparing for a land attack. It is common talk."
"Just a blind!" Andy broke in. But his face was troubled. "However, I must get these papers to him, and if I can I will speak to him. It can do no harm."
"But you cannot go as you are, Andy."
"How then?"
"Why," Ruth went to the door and dragged in a bundle, "in these!" She held up one of her own dresses, a big sunbonnet, and a neat white apron.
"Ruth!" Andy flushed hotly.
"I have sprained my ankle," Ruth explained with an assumed whimper, "and poor Hans is about distracted. He is afraid to go peddling alone with his secret writ large in both Dutch and English on his foolish face. I have told him I will go lame or no lame. Fortunately he is hard of hearing and stupid as an owl in broad daylight. You might be less like me than you are, and Hans would not know. We have much to be thankful for, Andy."
"Ruth, I cannot!"
"Andy, you shall!" They looked into each other's eyes and then because they were young and brave, they smiled; smiled above the danger and heartache.
"What a girl you are!" laughed Andy.
"Yes, there are few like me," sighed the girl. "Born to trouble as the sparks fly upward."
"Born to deliver others from trouble, I verily believe," added Andy.
"Not a moment to spare!" commanded Ruth. "You have eaten a noble meal. I must go to my room to suffer now. When Hans bawls from the wagon, be ready, and remember the eggs are a shilling more to his majesty's men than to Washington's."
It took all Andy's courage to don the female attire. He had never done so hard a thing, yet he knew that Ruth was right. If he hoped to reach the patriot camp he must not attempt it as Andy McNeal. "Next best then," he thought, "is to go as Ruth White. God bless Ruth!"
"Hi!" rose shrilly on the soft evening air, "hi! we starts now!"
It was Hans bellowing from the wagon. Andy plunged into the bonnet, whose big, flapping frill almost hid his face. He took his crutch—its aid was not to be despised now—and hobbled down-stairs.
"Washington is in the Morris Mansion!" Ruth whispered as he passed her door.
Under his sunbonnet Andy turned scarlet, but he did not turn toward Ruth.
"There goes our Ruthie to sell eggs," called little Margaret White from over her bowl of milk in the kitchen. "Does your leg hurt awful, Ruthie?"
Mrs. White at the table did not turn, but she said:
"Take heed, Margaret, your milk is spilling. Ruth is all right." As in very truth she was.
"We be late, already," called Hans from his wagon. "Can you get up, miss?"
Andy mounted slowly, and crouched behind Hans among the baskets and pails. The Dutch boy had but recently come over from Long Island to live with the parson. After the battle of Long Island he had fled to what he thought were more peaceful pastures for employment; but he had his doubts. Dangers pursued Hans, and he was sore distressed. It was necessary for him to sell the products of the little farm, and, really, the danger of the parson's daughter going along to straighten matters out, was no great matter. Peddlers, unless suspected, were allowed to pass the lines, and their wares paid for with more or less honesty.
CHAPTER VIII
AT HEADQUARTERS
"Your excellency, dar am a lame girl, an a fool Dutchman outside. De girl done say, she's got to delibber de eggs to yourself, sah!"
"Eggs!" The tall, anxious man at the table turned sharply. He was writing to Congress, and the interruption annoyed him.
"Yas, sah." The colored man bowed humbly. "I'se been tellin' dem we has eggs nouf, but the Dutchman he deaf as a stun wall, an' de girl am dat sot, dat your own self couldn't be sotter, sah. She done say her folks 'prived demselfs of food an' drink, sah, to save dese eggs fur your excellency, an' she goes on tu say, sah, dat she done been habbin' de debbil's own time gettin' past de lines wid de eggs. She's been 'sulted by de British and odder hard things. She won't go, sah, till I done tell you all dis rubbish."
"Bring her in," quietly said the listener.
Washington never slighted the humble, and, besides, messages were sent in odd ways. It was always better to be willing to listen. The black man departed, muttering, and presently returned, showing the lame girl in with no very good grace.
"Dat am de General!" he explained, shutting the heavy door after the limping figure.
There was no need of explanation. The eyes under the drooping frill grew joyous at the sight of the honored face. The heart under the coarse cotton frock beat high with pride, and—yes, shame, for how was the boy to make himself known?
"Pray be seated," the deep voice was saying. "You are weary and you have taken chances of danger to reach me with your gift."
Andy sank into the nearest chair.
"I appreciate your devotion and unselfishness, but I would advise no future attempts to pass the British lines for such a thing."
"There were other reasons, sir," said Andy. Washington came nearer.
"I fancied so," he said, "and they are?"
Andy drew the basket of eggs to him, and unwrapped several, handing the papers to Washington. The General took them, crossed to the window, and for a few moments pieced the bits together carefully. Then he read. Andy watched him, remembering that other face in the greenhouse on the never-to-be-forgotten night.
"Where did you get these?" he said suddenly. Andy stood up leaning upon his crutch.
"A messenger, in time of danger, must come as he may, sir," he said, bravely. Then tearing off the bonnet he added:
"Andy McNeal, at your service, sir!" Washington's face never betrayed him, but a glad look came to the overweary eyes. He extended his hand, and grasped Andy's.
"I remember!" he said. "You have been true to your trust. And now for the story."
Sitting in the stately room of the mansion, opposite the great General, Andy McNeal told his story. Try as he might, his voice would break, but he thought no shame of his weakness, for the keen eyes looking into his own were often dim.
"I asked a great thing of Nathan Hale," said the General at last, "but he gave it willingly. Andy McNeal, you have been a faithful friend to as great a hero as the Revolution will ever know. Many offer their lives. He offered his honor. Willing was he to die, and to die dishonored by the many. Some day his country will understand."
"And, sir, do you know the British are bringing their ships up the river?"
Washington's eyes gleamed. "I have sent men to Frog's Point," he smiled. "They will meet a welcome when they land. Thank you. And now farewell. Take heed as you return. You are safer without a guard."
"Is there no work for me to do? Is there no place in the ranks for such as I?"
The tremendous question broke from Andy's lips. To go back into idleness was his one dread. He longed to follow; to be the humblest, but most patriotic, of the many. Washington understood.
"I must leave here directly," he answered. "Ere another week passes I shall be gone. Where future battles are to be fought, remains to be seen, but always, my first object is to guard the Hudson. I need faithful hearts here. I shall not forget you, Andy McNeal, nor your service. If I can use you, be ready. I shall know where to find you. You are sure to be more useful here than elsewhere. You know your woods as few others do, and I know I can depend upon your courage and faithfulness. Again farewell."
Andy arose, drew on the disguising headgear, not even thinking of it, so full was his heart, and so he departed to face whatever lay before.
The immediate thing that faced Andy McNeal was the meeting with his own father. It took all the courage he possessed to do this, and yet he knew that he could not begin to live again until the new complications had been grappled with and readjusted.
After dark of the same day upon which Andy had seen Washington, he reached his mother's little house. Hans and he had had several encounters with the British, but a thickheaded, deaf Dutchman, and a young, frightened lame girl, with a hideous bonnet, served only for a moment's idle sport for the king's gallant men. And after annoying delays they were allowed to pass with a warning to come soon with more food, or their houses would be burned over their heads.
Andy paused outside the cottage. He heard his mother moving about, and the indistinct voice of a man from the guest-room beyond.
"The vine again!" thought Andy. But the ascent in the gown was difficult. "A maid's progress is bitter hard!" smiled he, and he thought tenderly of Ruth.
The little loft-room seemed oddly changed to Andy. He looked about. Everything was the same, and yet—
"It is that voice below-stairs," muttered he. "It alters everything." A feeling of hatred crept in Andy's heart against this man who had suddenly assumed so close a relationship to him.
"What will mother do?" he questioned as he changed his clothing, and put on the decent Sunday-suit that was hanging from the pegs. "What will she do?" And in his heart Andy knew what she would do, what, at least, she would want to do. He had seen it shining back of the trouble in her eyes when she first spoke to him. The want had brought the look of beauty with it, and had banished the marks of the lonely years.
"But a Britisher!" moaned the boy, smoothing his hair, "a Britisher for Janie and Andy McNeal! I might forgive him for all else—for mother's sake, but not that, not that!"
"Andy, lad, is it you?" Andy started. His mother was coming up the stairs!
"Yes, mother." She stood before him now. The coarse cotton gown that was familiar to Andy's boyhood was gone. A dull, bluish linen with white cuffs and collar had replaced it, and above the becoming dress shone the face of a new Janie.
A jealous pang struck Andy's heart, and he shivered in spite of himself.
"I thought I heard you, lad. You are safe?"
"Quite safe, mother."
"But sair tired?" she dropped into the Scotch unconsciously.
"Not overtired. I did my errand well."
"And now, Andy, what next?"
"Nothing. Since I cannot follow and fight, I must bide at home and wait. Does any one come here for help from the patriot army we must be ready, mother."
"Aye, surely, lad. You know where my heart lies!"
"But, mother, the—the person below. He is—a deserter if he is found here. What then? And surely not even he must keep us from doing our duty."
"Lad" (Janie came close), "I cannot hope to have you understand. When love comes your way, Andy, it will plead for me. All these years—I have been a starved and forsaken woman, and it has changed me. We all go astray, Andy, and—and your father. Oh! call him that, son, for my sake. Your father has dealt sorely with me and you, but he has come back. He was hunting us long before he found us. He wants to mend the past. Andy, as we hope for mercy from the good God, let us be merciful."
"But a Britisher, mother. An enemy to our cause. Oh, mother!"
"Andy, lad, come!" She put out her hand pleadingly, and Andy followed. There was a candle burning in the guest-room, and by its modest gleam sat the man who, when Andy had seen him last, was proclaiming his own son to be the rebel who had presumably struck one of the king's men in the cave. Very pale was the man now, and the bruise on the forehead shone plain even in the dim light. He looked up at Andy in a curious, interested way, and half extended his hand.
"You do not care to take the hand of a Britisher, I see." The white face relaxed in a faint smile. Andy went nearer.
"For my mother's sake I can take my—my father's hand, though it all seems mighty queer."
"I want you to know," said the man, "that I would not have told my head officer who you were that day, but I was so alarmed at the likeness you bore my mother that I was unaware of what I was doing. It was horrible to realize as I was beginning to do then, that I was probably speaking to my own—son."
"It was more horrible to think that my own father had been struck by a blow dealt in my defense. You must have thought that, too."
"No, I did not. Who struck that blow?"
"Nathan Hale."
The man started. "And he?"
"Died the death of a spy two days ago."
"Andy!" It was Janie who cried out. "Was our dear schoolmaster, Nathan Hale, the spy?"
"Nathan Hale, the patriot!" corrected Andy, and his eyes dimmed.
"Oh! how you have suffered, lad."
"Aye." Andy sank into a chair.
His father was looking at him keenly; and a growing expression of admiration was dawning in the searching eyes. Here was a son of whom he might yet be proud.
"Andy," he said, "I can imagine your feeling toward me. I do not say I do not deserve it. But your mother is willing to forgive the past, if you are willing to give me a trial." The thin lips twitched. Martin was a proud man, and his humble diet seemed never to be coming to an end. The hard young face opposite appeared more unrelenting than Janie's had seemed.
"What is best for mother is best for me," said Andy. "I am almost a man. When the war is over I shall try to do a man's part in the world. Each one of us has his life."
Martin again became serious. "I have money, Andy; I can help you, and give you a fair start."
"Your money will make mother's life easier. It has been a hard life."
"There, there, Andy, lad! Do not be bitter, son."
"Not bitter, mother. But I cannot forget. Not just at first."
"I can educate you, Andy," Martin added. "You might take that help from a stranger, and repay it later on."
A hungry look came into the boy's eyes. The teaching of the master had awakened an appetite that would not sleep. "I did without for many years," he replied. But Martin had seen the gleam, and was proud.
"In a day or so, Andy," he went on, "I must ask a favor of you. I want you to guide me to the patriot headquarters." The boy started. "I came half-heartedly to fight against the colonies. It is my desire to throw my lot in with theirs now. You may be able to do me a favor with your General. He will know you. If I come back you may be able to respect your father. If not—your mother has a good son, and Parson White will see that what belongs to you two will be yours."
"Father!" Andy arose, and this time stretched forth his hand gladly. "Father, I will try to be a good son to you, too!"
"Thank God!" sobbed Janie, kneeling by the chair, and drawing Andy within the circle of her new hopes.
The old clock ticked and ticked contentedly. The hissing of the kettle on the fire recalled Janie to her happy tasks, and Martin and his son wondered what the future would bring.
CHAPTER IX
PEACE
"Only the cane now, Andy. The days of crutches are over!"
"Yes, Ruth, the country, the dear free country and I can nearly go alone now." Andy stood up proudly and beamed upon the pretty girl standing by his mother.
"I declare!" he laughed, "you look but little older than Ruth, mother!"
"Box his ears well, lass," said Janie, mightily pleased. "He struts, does Andy, and you and I must take him down."
"Come," Andy broke in, "we must start now. Wrap up well, girls," he laughed again, "'tis bitter cold, and the way is long."
"No cold can reach me!" cried Janie, pulling her hood well over her happy face. "Warm hearts make glowing bodies. To think, lad, he will be with us to-night!"
The door of the little house was drawn to and locked. All within was beautiful and ready for the patriot who that night would return full of honors for the part he had played during the last two years.
"Yes. He will be with us, mother," echoed Andy. He looked at Ruth. He had learned to understand his mother now, and Ruth had shown him the way.
"It was no light matter," said the girl, keeping step with Andy over the crisp snow, "for you—your father to be a patriot. He was not only a patriot but a deserter from the king's army. In every battle he had to face that."
"Yes," broke in Janie, "and when he went with Wayne to storm Stony Point, he was nearly captured, as you will remember. And the British yelled at him, 'Don't shoot that deserter, lead's too good for him. We'll try an Indian trick on him!'"
Andy's face grew grave. "He's a brave man," he whispered, and drew Janie's arm within his own. And so the little party came to Fraunce's Tavern, and bided near the room in which Washington and his officers were dining before the General departed for Annapolis, where he was to lay down his commission, for the war was over, and peace had come to the young country.
"Andy," said Janie, closing the door of the small room which had been reserved for them, "'twas great luck that my host's wife and I are friends. Think of us having this to ourselves, and the great General right in the next room. Ruth, lass, there is a communicating door, as true as I live! Andy, draw away the sofa."
"Mother, you would not be an eavesdropper?"
"God forbid! Ruthie, is there a keyhole?"
"No keyhole, but a good generous crack in the panel! Hurry, Andy, with the sofa, the thing weighs a ton. Push!"
"Ruth! We cannot spy upon the General." Andy tried to look severe.
"I can!" laughed the girl, mounting the sofa, and applying her eye to the crack. "I'm afraid the Revolution has demoralized me, but I must see the thing through. Andy, they look—they look magnificent!" Ruth was quivering on her perch. Janie flung prudence and dignity to the winds, and climbed to Ruth's side, and, being taller, gained a portion of the crack above the girl's head.
"I can see no one but the General!" she said. "The crack is over-narrow for such doings!"
"There is no one but Washington!" breathed Andy, and he lifted his head proudly.
"Yes, there are others," whispered Ruth, misunderstanding, "and if you run your eye up and down the crack quickly, you can catch a sight of them. The crack is wider in some parts."
"Heaven save us, lass!" (Ruth's head had come in violent contact with Janie's chin). "You have loosened my teeth!"
"They are going to drink a toast!" said Ruth, not heeding the accident, but thrilling with excitement. "Andy, 'tis no wrong we are doing. The General's voice can be heard distinctly, and I vow there are a dozen heads at every window opening on the porch. The crack is fine down here. I can see everything!"
Andy stood still.
"He is raising his glass!" said Ruth near the floor.
"With my heart full of love and gratitude I now take leave of you all. Most devoutly wishing that your latter days may be as prosperous and happy as your former ones have been glorious and honorable."
"His eyes are full of tears!" almost sobbed Ruth, and the eyes of them in the little room were dim. Glasses clinked together, then the full voice went on:
"I cannot come to each one of you and take my leave, but I shall be obliged if you will come and take my hand." They needed no second bidding those comrades, tried and true. One by one, feeling no shame in their manly show of sorrow, they grasped their General's faithful hand and parted from him with bowed heads.
"They are going out!" panted Janie. "Now, Andy, for the hall. We must meet him at the door."
As he came from the banquet room, Washington and his officers met the three. He knew Andy at a glance, and then recognized Janie. He took them by the hand, and bowed in courtly fashion.
"Patriots all!" he smiled. "You well deserve your hard-earned peace."
They joined the throngs which followed Washington to the river. They stood upon the Battery until the barge which bore the gallant figure away faded from sight. So lost were they in admiration that for a moment none of them noticed a tall figure approaching dressed in Continental uniform. Then Janie saw him. Her face flushed like a girl's.
"Andy!" she whispered, pulling her son's sleeve, "see, here is your—"
"Father!" greeted Andy, and stretched out a welcoming hand.
Back to the lonely pass the four went, Janie and Martin on ahead.
"And now," questioned Ruth in a soft whisper, "what comes next, Andy?"
"I am to study. Ah! Ruth, how I shall study! I mean to learn all that I can and carry the best to them who call me."
"You really mean to be a minister?"
"That I do, God willing!" answered Andy, reverently.
"'Tis a hard life, Andy."
"For that I love it."
"Have you thought where you would like to go?"
"Just where the most urgent call comes. Ruth, the life is hard—"
"I know the life, Andy, and love it!"
"Could you—could you, Ruth?"
"Keep on living it? Yes, dear. Who so well fitted as I?"
They paused on the snowy path, and looked into each other's brave eyes.
"I wonder if any life is really hard, dear Ruth, where—"
"Love lifts the burden? I think not, Andy. Love bears the weight. We take the glory. It is a wonderful thing."
The red glow of the winter sunset seemed to warm the snow-covered earth, and in the still beauty the two followed Janie and Martin.