They had hardly looked when a terrific explosion came, casting a red glare all around, and seeming to shake the very bottom of the river. A shower of sparks and splinters fell, and huge waves rolled in all directions. For a second or two the shattered craft bobbed up and down, still blazing here and there. Then it lurched under and disappeared, and darkness and silence settled on the scene.
The situation of the little party was now disheartening. They were stranded on a rocky bar well out in the channel, dripping wet, and without means of safely getting away. They were almost defenseless in case of an attack, and to attempt to swim to shore would be a desperate and foolhardy proceeding under the circumstances.
But, in the stupor that followed the explosion, the first impression of the castaways—one and all—was a feeling of intense gratitude for the perils they had escaped, and, before they could realize how badly off they still were, a faint shout came floating over the water, and a dark form was seen struggling toward the rocks from a ledge higher up stream and nearer the bank. The swimmer made a gallant fight against the current, and when he finally gained the bar all were surprised and overjoyed to recognize Morgan Proud.
"Given me up, had you?" the plucky fellow exclaimed, as he clasped hands with his friends. "Well, I had a close call. That redskin stuck to me till we went over the falls. Then we parted company, and after I reached yonder rock I didn't spy him again. I was lying over there getting my breath back when the flat took fire and blew up."
"Did you see anything of Simon Glass?" inquired Barnabas.
"He shot by, swimming like a fish," declared Proud, "and I lost sight of him among the ledges and shoals below my rock. I daresay he got safe to shore."
"I'm sure he did," Barnabas muttered grimly. "So that ruffian is still alive, an' there's likely half a dozen more to keep him company. We're in a pretty tight place, comrades. We can't make the far shore without a boat, an' if we try to swim to yonder bank it means certain death. Glass an' what's left of his party are prowlin' about on watch now—you heard them fire twice as we were swimmin' away from the boat. An' the worst of it is that we're defenseless."
Immediate investigation proved the old woodman to be right. Nathan and McNicol alone had held on to their muskets when they plunged from the flat, and Mrs. Cutbush had her empty pistol. But all the weapons were wet and useless, and though several of the party had a supply of ball, the only powder that had survived the explosion was a small quantity in Proud's water-proof horn.
"It's aggravating to think how near we are to the forts and to Northumberland," said Nathan. "Glass will hardly dare to prowl about the neighborhood long."
"I'm sure he won't leave yet," muttered Godfrey; "that is, if he knows we are here."
"He does, lad," replied Barnabas. "The light of the burning flat showed us up plainly when we reached the rocks. The enemy will do one of two things. The first—which is to come down an' attack us in their canoe up yonder—I consider unlikely. The second is that they'll lie hid in the timber till morning, expectin' we'll believe they've gone then, an' we'll venture over to shore."
"Hurrah!" exclaimed Nathan, who had suddenly conceived a brilliant idea; "I know how to outwit them nicely, Barnabas, provided they don't try the first of those two plans."
"How, lad?"
"Why, the canoe, of course! I can get it by swimming over to the big island, running a quarter of a mile up the shore, and then swimming quietly down and over to the spot."
"But Glass or some of the Indians may be up there now," said McNicol.
"No," replied Nathan, "I'm sure they are all straight across here watching to get a shot. And they won't see me leave if I keep down in the water."
"The lad is right," declared Barnabas. "It's a good plan, but a mighty risky one, since we can't be certain of the whereabouts of the enemy. But I'll go myself."
"I only wish I could," muttered Godfrey, "but I'm a wretchedly poor swimmer."
"No, I'm going," insisted Nathan. "I am long-winded, and ever since I can remember I could swim like a fish."
"Don't risk your young life, my brave boy," pleaded Mrs. Cutbush. "Leave this to some of the older men."
But Nathan refused to yield, and since he was obviously the best fitted for carrying out the undertaking, and the canoe offered the only means of escape for the party from a most perilous situation, a reluctant consent was finally given.
"Take this to cut the canoe loose," said Barnabas, handing the lad a sharp knife. "You'll likely find it anchored by a rope."
Nathan stripped off all but his light trousers, put the hilt of the knife between his teeth, and swam quickly away from the outer edge of the rocks, followed by anxious eyes and heartfelt wishes for his safety.
Packer's Island extended some distance below the falls, as well as above, and the current drifted Nathan nearly to the lower point before he struck shallow water. He waded the remainder of the distance, and then ran briskly up the bushy and sandy shore. The night was dark, but he could dimly make out the jutting promontory when he came opposite it. He continued five hundred yards further toward the head of the island, and then softly entered the water for his diagonal swim of rather more than a quarter of a mile.
Only his head peeped over the surface and a slight ripple trailing behind him was all that marked the gentle strokes of his arms and legs. He was soon in mid-channel, from where he could darkly make out the canoe. He swam to a point ten feet above it, and dropped down with the stealth of a mink. As he drew nearer he saw that the craft lay bottom up, and was held by a tow rope running down into the water from the bow. A couple of half-submerged pine boughs still clung to it.
The lad caught hold of the rope with one hand, and with the other he took the knife from between his teeth. He was about to slash when a husky screech made his blood run cold, and he looked up to see the painted face of an Indian glaring at him within ten inches.
The redskin had evidently been shot in the first volley from the flat, and had been clinging to the canoe ever since, too badly hurt to cry out or to swim to shore. But the sight of a hated foe revived his strength, and on the very second that he made his presence known he sprang at Nathan and clutched his throat.
Down went both, entangled with the rope, and tearing it loose from the anchorage in their struggles. The lad kept one hand free, and while he held his breath he stabbed repeatedly with the knife. After a few terrible seconds the grip on his neck relaxed, and he shot to the surface.
The Indian did not reappear, and Nathan lost no time in striking for the canoe. He swung it around by the dangling rope, and started to swim with it down-stream. Bang! went a musket from the promontory, and a bullet whistled overhead. A second shot followed after an interval of half a minute, but now lad and canoe were on the verge of the open passage through the falls. They went plunging down the slope of spray and waves, and three minutes later Nathan skillfully landed his prize on the outer side of the cluster of rocks.
Nathan's safe return was a joyful disappointment, for his friends had given him up when they heard the firing. In a few words the lad told the story of his adventurous swim, and some of the tributes to his bravery made him blush.
"Now let's be off while we've got the chance," cried Barnabas. "I judge, from the shootin', a part of the varmints are still lurkin' above the falls."
So the canoe was turned right-side up and the fugitives hurriedly embarked. They were a little crowded, but that discomfort they did not mind.
Either the enemy's weapons were empty, or else they could not see what was taking place for the darkness of the night. At all events, no shots were fired from the bank, and presently a swifter current took the canoe past the distant lights of Northumberland and out into the broad channel of the main river. The two muskets were reversed and used for paddles, and an hour before midnight the fort at Shamokin was safely reached.
Here the weary fugitives were warmly welcomed, and provided with supper and lodging. Barnabas extracted the packet of papers from his boot, and after drying them over a fire he restored them to their hiding-place. Much to Nathan's disappointment, no news had lately been received from the army; but the tidings of the Wyoming massacre had traveled quickly, and great alarm was felt lest the enemy should advance down the Susquehanna to raid the extensive military stores at Carlisle.
Cato was unfit for travel, and Proud and Cutbush, with the latter's family, decided to remain at Shamokin fort for a few days. McNicol also wished to stay, so that he might visit a married sister who lived at the settlement of Northumberland.
So, at dawn the next morning, Barnabas and the two lads said good-bye to their friends, and resumed their journey down the river in the canoe, satisfied that Simon Glass would give them no further trouble. Indeed, they were by no means sure that the ruffian had escaped drowning.
Below the point of junction of the two branches the current of the Susquehanna was very swift, and the little party traveled rapidly. They made brief stops at McKeesport and the Halifax fort, where they found the same ignorance prevailing concerning the seat of war. Just as the sun was setting they came in sight of Fort Hunter, which stood on a jutting bluff half a mile above the beautiful Kittochtinny Gap, where the river flings itself over a barrier of rocks as it leaves the mountains behind.
Barnabas hauled the canoe high and dry under the stockade, and led his companions up the bank and around to the gate. A sentry was on guard, and after a little questioning he passed the party through. As they went across the yard they observed a horse tied to a post; the animal was saddled and bridled, and showed traces of recent hard riding.
In the middle room of the block-house something of a stirring nature seemed to be taking place. The new arrivals heard voices raised in shrill and angry dispute, and as they entered they saw two soldiers roughly pushing a man toward a door at one side of the room.
The prisoner was strenuously resisting, and clamoring to be set free, and in his struggles he revealed his face to Nathan. With a thrill of excitement the lad recognized the last man he could have expected to find here.
"Unhand me, you ruffians!" cried the prisoner, as he continued to resist. "I protest against this brutal treatment. I protest against so unjust a sentence. I am not a spy. I am a non-combatant, and entitled to freedom. I was sent to this country on a legal and private matter by my employers, the firm of Sharswood & Feeman—"
Just then one of the soldiers, losing patience, struck the man a blow between the eyes that felled him to the floor. He was too stunned to make any further resistance or appeal, and his captors flung him into the room and slammed the door.
"Lad, that—that ain't the lawyer chap you spoke of?" inquired Barnabas, as he observed Nathan's agitation.
"The very same!" Nathan cried, excitedly "Noah Waxpenny, of London, who came to the Indian Queen that night!"
"The man who wanted information of your father and Major Langdon?" Godfrey asked, incredulously.
"Yes, that's the one," exclaimed Nathan. "I'm sure he can clear up the mystery. I must speak to him right away."
The lad was too excited to know what he was doing, and before his friends could check him he made a rush for the door of the inner room. But the officer in command of the fort—an ill-featured sergeant—gave him a push that sent him reeling back.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "And you?" he added, turning to Barnabas and Godfrey, and regarding them with angry suspicion.
Barnabas briefly explained, and the sergeant was somewhat mollified when he learned that the strangers were fugitives from Wyoming.
"It's all right," he grumbled, "but you had no call to interfere with my duty. Do you know that spy yonder?" The lad here spoke the name he gives himself—Noah Waxpenny.
"Spy?" exclaimed Barnabas.
"Yes, man; I said spy. I've just given him a trial, and to-morrow morning he hangs."
"What proof have you of his guilt?"
"Plenty," declared the sergeant. "Didn't he come riding by here a bit ago on his way up the river? And didn't we find a paper on him with the written name of Major Gerald Langdon, an officer in the British army? There were two other names, but the first one was enough. It's plain as daylight that the man was sent out to spy the frontier forts along here. I've found him guilty, and I'm going to hang him."
"You'll repent it, if you do," said Barnabas, quickly. "You'd better hold the man, an' report on his case. There ain't enough evidence to hang him, an' what's more, you haven't got the authority."
"Man, I have got the authority," thundered Sergeant Murdock, who was a hard-headed and obstinate Scotchman, very set in his ways, and with an exaggerated idea of his powers. "I'm in charge of this fort, and what I say is military law. The spy hangs at daybreak, and I'll report the case afterward—"
"Sir, you surely won't hang this prisoner?" interrupted Nathan. "He is not a spy, and I can prove it. Let me ask you one question. Was Richard Stanbury's name on that paper?"
"Yes," growled the sergeant, in a tone of sudden suspicion.
"Well, Captain Richard Stanbury is my father," said Nathan, "and he is an officer in Washington's army."
"Then you're the lad the spy was bound up the river to look for, according to the yarn he tells," exclaimed the sergeant. "There's something wrong here. I'm thinking I'll have to put you under arrest—aye, and your companions, too."
"Nonsense!" muttered Barnabas. "This foolery has gone far enough. Don't you know me any more, Murdock? Have you forgot Barnabas Otter, who was a private in your own company right here at Fort Hunter, after Braddock's defeat? Twenty years is a long time, but you ain't changed much—"
"Man, I'm glad to see you," cried the sergeant, his grizzled face breaking into a smile. "Aye, I recognize your features now. And can you vouch for this lad?"
"With my life," declared Barnabas. "An' what's more, I kin vouch that the man in there ain't a spy."
"You'll have to prove it to my satisfaction," said the sergeant, stiffly.
"I can't prove anything," replied Barnabas, "because it's a good bit of a mystery. But the plain facts of the matter, as far as we know, are these: That man in yonder, Noah Waxpenny, was sent over here from England on legal business—sent over to find Richard Stanbury an' also this Major Langdon. Whether there's any connection betwixt the two is not for me to say. But this much is certain; your prisoner ain't a spy. An' you admit yourself that the fellow was comin' up the river to search for Captain Stanbury's son here. He must have learned that the Captain was dead or a prisoner, an' that the lad had gone to Wyoming—"
"And he expected to meet me among the returning fugitives," interrupted Nathan. "I'm sure that's the way of it."
"What does he want with you?" demanded Sergeant Murdock.
"I can't tell you any more than Barnabas has told you," replied Nathan. "It's a legal and private matter—I am certain of that much. But if you will let me see Noah Waxpenny he may be able and willing to explain the mystery. Please let me speak to him at once, won't you, sir?"
"No, I won't," snapped the sergeant. "I don't want another rumpus around here. You haven't proved the man's innocence and the sentence of death still stands. And then there was a third name on that paper—"
"Let me see it, Murdock," interrupted Barnabas.
"I've no objection," replied the sergeant, after a brief hesitation. He and Barnabas withdrew privately to one corner of the room, and as the latter examined the paper that was put into his hands he started visibly and his eyes opened wide with astonishment. For some minutes he and the sergeant conversed earnestly in whispered tones, and then they came forward again.
"Lad," said Barnabas, "my old comrade has agreed to let us see the prisoner in the morning. We must have patience till then."
"Aye, you can see him in the morning," corroborated Sergeant Murdock, "but unless the interview clears up the mystery and proves the spy's innocence he hangs before breakfast. I'm a man of my word and you can count on what I say."
Darkness was now coming on rapidly, and while the sergeant went into an adjoining room to fetch a candle Nathan found an opportunity of drawing Barnabas aside.
"You saw the paper?" he whispered. "Did it contain any clue?"
"And whose was the third name?"
"I'll tell you again," Barnabas answered, evasively. "Have patience till morning, and I'm thinking all will turn out right. Meanwhile let the matter drop and don't speak. Hush! here comes Murdock back."
That was a long evening for Nathan. It taxed his patience sorely to think that he could not see the prisoner until morning—to know that the man locked up in the little guard-room could reveal, among other secrets, why Major Langdon had made such desperate efforts to get the papers that were buried under Captain Stanbury's cabin at Wyoming. Godfrey was almost equally curious, but Barnabas had forbidden both lads to allude to the matter openly, and the circumstances were such that private speech between the three was impossible.
The capture and examination of Mr. Noah Waxpenny had delayed supper, and after the meal was over Sergeant Murdock unbent and became quite friendly. He showed his guests around the interior of the fort, pointing out the strong features of the stockade, and exhibiting with pride the stores of lead and powder, casks of fresh and salt beef, and barrels of flour.
"I've got only a dozen men here," he said, "and that's as big a garrison as the fort has had for ten years past. But I'm expecting reinforcements up from Harris's Ferry any time now, and the settlers are threatening to come in on account of the rumor that Butler's force will be marching down the river from Wyoming."
The rest of the evening was spent on the grassy knoll at one side of the enclosure, where Nathan and Godfrey related their adventures at Wyoming to an interested audience, and Barnabas and the sergeant discussed old times between whiffs of their pipes. At intervals Noah Waxpenny could be heard groaning dismally, or tramping up and down the narrow limits of his cell.
At ten o'clock Sergeant Murdock went his round, posting one sentry inside the stockade gate and another at the rear of the fort, where a small window opened from the guard-room. A third was put on duty in the middle room of the block-house, with instructions to watch the prisoner's door.
From the left of this middle room opened the big room where the privates slept, and on the right were the guard-room and the officers' quarters. To the latter's apartment, which contained a number of straw pallets spread on the floor, the sergeant led his guests. "All fixed, are you?" he said. "Good night, then, comrades." He blew out the candle, turned over, and was soon snoring loudly.
A little later the slow and regular breathing of Godfrey and Barnabas told that they, too, were slumbering. Nathan envied them, for try as he would he could not induce the least symptom of drowsiness. For a long time he lay with wide-open eyes and active brain, thinking of the promised interview in the morning and listening to the occasional footsteps from the adjoining guard-room, where Noah Waxpenny seemed also to be possessed by the demon of wakefulness.
When the lad finally did fall asleep from sheer weariness his rest was disturbed by hideous dreams. From one of these he suddenly awoke, relieved to find himself safe in the fort instead of battling with blood-thirsty savages out on the river.
As he listened to the regular breathing of his companions he fancied he heard a low groan from outside, and almost immediately a rustling noise at the open door of the room fell on his ear. Closer and closer came the soft and stealthy sound, and the next instant, to the lad's unspeakable horror, the dark figure of a man kneeling on all fours rose at his very side, and a hand was passed gently over his body.
Nathan's heart almost stopped beating, but by a tremendous effort he choked back the cry that was on his lips. For, at that moment, his eyes being partially accustomed to the gloom, he saw that the man held a glittering knife between his teeth; and he realized that at the first shout for help the blade would be plunged into his breast.
He was terribly frightened, but by exerting all his will power he succeeded in doing what was best under the circumstances. He feigned sleep, and lay perfectly motionless. Not a muscle quivered, though cold sweat started on his face and hands. All he could think about was that glittering knife. It did not occur to him to wonder who the man was, or what he wanted.
The unknown intruder was deceived by the ruse. With both hands he lightly and deliberately pressed every part of the lad's clothing from his throat to his feet. Twice he went over him, and then a whispered curse testified to his disappointment at not finding what he wanted. Next, he took the knife from between his teeth with one hand, and as he lifted it high to strike, he turned a little toward a window in the side wall, dimly revealing a scarred and wrinkled face with but one eye.
Nathan uttered a shrill cry, and grabbed the descending wrist with both hands. A desperate jerk lifted him upright, and he heard the knife clatter to the floor. He held tight for a second or two, and then a blow on the face broke his grip and hurled him back.
He sprang quickly to his feet, crying out in chorus with his companions, who were now awake and stumbling blindly over the floor. He saw a dark figure, followed by another, rush into the yard. Then the men at the other end of the block-house woke up with noisy clamor, and amid all the din, a musket-shot rang loud and clear.
"What's wrong?" demanded Sergeant Murdock. "Speak, somebody!"
"Simon Glass was here," cried Nathan. "He tried to kill me. He just ran out! Don't let him get away!"
The name of the Tory ruffian was familiar to all, and the angry and excited men swarmed from both sides into the middle-room. A private appeared on the scene with a lighted lantern, and by the yellow glare the door of the guard-room was discovered to be wide open.
"The spy has escaped," roared the sergeant. "This is Glass's doing! I wish I'd hung the man last night!"
"Glass didn't come here for that," declared Barnabas. "Waxpenny must have opened the door an' run fur it when he heard the row in yonder; an' where's the sentry?"
Just then a clamor rose from several of the men who had hastened outside. Led by Sergeant Murdock, the rest of the party ran into the yard, and at one side of the door they found the prostrate body of the sentry who had been posted in the middle-room. The man was breathing faintly, and his swollen and purple face showed that he had been nearly strangled to death by a pair of muscular hands.
With shouts of vengeance the crowd scattered in different directions, but a cry from Barnabas brought them together again at the partly-open gate of the stockade. Here lay the second sentry stone dead, with a long knife buried in his ribs.
"If Simon Glass don't die for this may I never shoulder a musket again!" roared the infuriated sergeant. "It was a sharp trick he played. He must have come here a bit ago, persuaded the sentry to admit him, and then stabbed the poor fellow to the heart. Next he enticed the other sentry to the yard, and settled him, too. And after the lad here discovered him in the room both he and the spy darted out the gate."
"But where's the third sentry?" cried Barnabas, "an' who fired that shot—Hark! some one's calling now!"
Indeed, the shouting had been going on at intervals since the first alarm, but owing to the noise and excitement the man had not been able to make himself heard. The sounds came from the rear of the block-house, and thither the whole party ran in haste, to find Private Mickley prancing up and down on one of the lookout platforms.
"Where've you been?" he yelled, hoarsely. "Why didn't you come sooner? I've been keeping watch on the ruffian, but now he's gone—escaped in that big canoe."
"Escaped!" cried Barnabas. "Why didn't you stop him?"
"Man, explain yourself," roared the sergeant. "Quick! find your tongue!"
"Ain't I telling you?" sputtered the angry soldier. "Give me a chance. When I heard the first yell I run round to the front just as a little man dashed out the door. He was making for the gate, but when he seen me he changed his mind and cut for the rear. I fired at him and missed, and just then out pops the spy. Before I could lift my empty gun he was past me and out the gate. So I let him go, and went for the other. I got round here in time to see him scramble over the stockade. I reckon he didn't know the drop that was below him, for when I looked over the platform he was lying stunned in the bushes down yonder. I kept watching him and singing out for help, and all at once up he gets, staggers like a drunken man to the canoe, and goes a-paddling down stream with all his might. I'm thinking his one leg was broke."
"How long ago was this," thundered the sergeant.
"Not two minutes, sir."
"Then he ain't far off," cried Barnabas. "Have you another boat handy?"
"There's a little canoe in the creek above the bluff, with two paddles in it," replied Sergeant Murdock.
That quickly Barnabas was off, calling to the lads to follow him. Nathan and Godfrey were at his heels as he scaled the stockade at the upper end and plunged down the sloping bank to the creek. They found the canoe at once and jumped in, and a moment later the light craft had swung from the creek's mouth to the river. The lads were paddling, and Barnabas crouched amidships just in front of them.
"Murdock, we're goin' to get the assassin," he shouted.
"Good luck to you!" the sergeant called back. "I wish I was as sure of overhauling the spy."
The canoe was quickly past the fort, gliding like a duck on the swift current, and now the other craft was dimly sighted about a hundred yards down stream.
"I knew he couldn't be far," muttered Barnabas. "Paddle hard, lads. He can't do much with that heavy boat. This is going to be the last of Simon Glass, or else the last of me."
"We have no weapons," exclaimed Nathan.
"Neither has he, lad, or he would a-fired at the sentry who tried to stop him."
"I hope he won't take the shore when he sees we're after him," said Godfrey.
"He's too badly hurt to do that," replied Barnabas. "No; we're goin' to get him. I feel it in my bones. He'll pay with his life for venturin' this far after them papers. When he lay in ambush that night he must have heard us speak of stopping at the forts, an' I reckon he tramped all this distance alone."
During part of the above conversation a bend of the river had concealed the fugitive from view, and now, as the pursuers swung around, the two canoes were seen to be less than forty yards apart. Glass was close to shore, struggling desperately to drive his heavy and unwieldy craft, while with scarcely any effort Nathan and Godfrey urged their lighter boat forward.
The distance rapidly decreased to twenty yards—fifteen—ten. Now the ruffian's scarred face could be seen by the moonlight that was breaking through the clouds, as he looked back at quick intervals. And shortly ahead of him was the line of noisy rapids, white with dashing foam and spray, black with outcropping bowlders and ledges.
"We'll hardly ketch him this side the falls," muttered Barnabas. "It ain't an easy passage. Watch sharp for the rocks, an' don't—"
Just then Simon Glass dropped his paddle and twisted himself around in the stern. "I won't be taken alive!" he yelled, "and I'll kill one of you first." With that he drew a big pistol, leveled it at Barnabas, and fired.
Just at this critical instant, when almost certain death threatened Barnabas, a fortunate thing happened. The bow of the Tory's canoe struck a half-submerged rock, and the sudden jar spoiled his aim, so that the bullet passed a foot above his intended victim.
In the twinkling of an eye the long craft swung around, lodged fore and aft across a narrow passage of the falls, and turned bottom up. Out went Glass, head-first into the foaming waves on the lower side.
There was no time for his pursuers to sheer off, and scarcely an instant later the second canoe crashed into the obstruction and swung broadside against it, though luckily without capsizing. But the shock pitched Barnabas out of the bow, and with a vain attempt to grab the canoe in front he glided off the slippery bottom, and was borne down the stretch of boiling rapids. The lads caught a brief glimpse of him as he bumped into Glass, who had lodged on a spur of rock twenty feet away. Then both were washed off by the furious current, locked together in a desperate struggle, and the gloom hid them from view.
"Barnabas will be drowned!" cried Nathan. "And we can't do anything to save him! We're stuck tight!"
"We've got to get loose!" exclaimed Godfrey, and with his paddle he struck the forward boat a terrific blow. To his delight it grated free at the stern end and whirled around, and that quickly the two canoes were bounding side by side amid the perilous falls, swinging this way and that, leaping high over crested waves, and rebounding from the cruel rap of hidden ledges.
Any attempt at steering was out of the question in so mad a current, but the lads hardly thought of the danger. Before they could realize it, their canoe had dashed safely down the roaring, raging slope, and was cleaving the choppy little waves that marked the even flow of the river beyond the rapids.
With anxious hearts, and with a fear that they dared not put into words, Nathan and Godfrey paddled swiftly along on the current, eagerly watching ahead and out toward mid-channel, and over to the near-by wooded shore. The moon was under clouds again, and the surface of the river was misty. Frequently they shouted the name of the missing man, but only the sullen voice of the rapids answered.
When they had gone nearly a mile, some lingering hope persuaded them to turn back. So they pushed up along the shore from eddy to eddy, scanning every patch of sand and gravel, every clump of bushes, and constantly calling Barnabas by name. Hope was utterly dead when they drew near the falls, and now Nathan grounded the canoe in a little cove. Tears were rolling down his cheeks, and he was not ashamed of them. "We've got to face the worst," he said, hoarsely. "Barnabas is drowned. He and Glass perished together."
"Yes, there's no doubt of it," assented Godfrey. "I'm awfully sorry for you."
"If we could only find the body," said Nathan.
"But we can't," Godfrey replied. "The water seems to be deep around here, and they both must have gone to the bottom. They may not come to the top for a day or two."
Nathan groaned. "This is terrible," he exclaimed. "I can hardly believe it. To think that Barnabas is dead—that we will never see him again! You don't know how brave and noble he was—"
"Yes, I learned that much during the last few days," interrupted Godfrey. "Believe me, Nathan, I am as sorry as you are. To know such a man as Barnabas Otter makes me feel sometimes that your cause will triumph."
Nathan silently clasped the other's hand and for some minutes the two lads sat without speaking, gazing over the misty waters and listening to the sad music of the falls. Then both heard a distant and muffled clatter of hoofs.
"Horsemen!" exclaimed Nathan, "and they are coming up the river road. I must see them."
"But there may be danger," remonstrated Godfrey.
"No, not in this neighborhood. It is too close to the fort and to Harris's Ferry. Come on, Godfrey!"
They sprang out of the canoe and clambered up the wooded bank, reaching the road just as two wagons came along, escorted by six mounted men. Nathan halted the party, and after briefly explaining that he and his companion were fugitives from Wyoming, he told what had happened that night at Fort Hunter. The victims of the tragedy were known by name to the men, and they expressed genuine sorrow for the death of Barnabas, as well as heartfelt relief at the termination of Simon Glass's infamous career.
"We're bound for Shamokin fort with supplies sent by the commissary-general of Pennsylvania," stated the leader of the party. "I suppose you lads will go along back with us to Hunter's? Just hop into the wagons yonder."
Before either could reply one of the men in the rear dismounted and came forward. With an exclamation of surprise he clapped Nathan on the shoulder.
"Corporal Dubbs!" cried the lad. "How did you get here?"
"Why, you know I was on the sick-list the morning the Wyoming troops left camp," the corporal explained, "and when I got a little better the general sent me to the Board of War with dispatches. Then I learned that my brother was lying up at McKee's fort with a bullet wound he got at Wyoming, and I'm on my way there now to see him."
"And was there any news of my father when you left camp?" Nathan asked impatiently.
"That's what I want to tell you," replied the corporal, drawing the lad aside. "Your father is lying at the house of a loyal farmer named Welfare. His place is near the head of the Shrewsbury River, and not far from Monmouth. Welfare himself brought word to the camp the day I left. He said the captain was badly hurt, and wouldn't be able to be moved for a month."
Nathan was speechless with joy for a moment. "Then my father is really alive?" he cried. "I was sure of it. And do you think he is still at the farmhouse?"
"I'm pretty certain he is," replied the corporal. "I don't know how he came there, or anything about his injuries, but you may count on it, he is in good hands."
"I'm going straight to him," declared Nathan. "I'll travel day and night."
Corporal Dubbs nodded approvingly. "That's the best thing you can do," he said. "The sight of you, lad, will be better than medicine for the captain. There's a stage from Harris's Ferry to Philadelphia in the morning. You can catch it if you hurry. Don't forget the place, and be sure you ask for Jonas Welfare. And be careful when you get in the neighborhood of the Shrewsbury, for the enemy are making raids over that way from New York."
"I'll remember," assented Nathan. "I must go now. We have a canoe below, and I mean to catch that stage. Will you tell Sergeant Murdock at Fort Hunter that Barnabas is dead and ask him to find the body and—and—bury it—"
The lad's voice broke, and for a moment he could not speak.
"In Barnabas's left boot," he added, "is a packet of papers that he was taking care of for me. They belong to my father. Will you ask the sergeant to keep them until they are sent for?"
Corporal Dubbs readily promised, and with a hearty clasp of the lad's hand he mounted and rode after the now moving wagon-train.
Nathan and Godfrey hurried back to the canoe and were soon paddling swiftly down the river. The roar of the falls faded behind them, and when a curve hid the fatal spot from view, Nathan turned with tear-dimmed eyes for a last look.
"You forgot about Noah Waxpenny," said Godfrey, when the lads had paddled some distance in silence.
"So I did!" exclaimed Nathan. "I hope Sergeant Murdock won't catch him, and if he does I don't believe he will dare to hang him. As for that mystery—why, I'll get my father to explain it."
"Then you are going straight to see him?"
"Straight," declared Nathan. "You heard what Corporal Dubbs told me. I'm going to travel as fast as I can. And what will you do, Godfrey, I don't want to part—"
"Nor do I," Godfrey said hastily. "At least not yet. If I thought I could safely accompany you—"
"You can," interrupted Nathan. "I'm sure of that. And I want my father to meet you."
Godfrey smiled sadly. "I'll go with you," he replied, "and then I'll watch for a chance to take boat from the Shrewsbury to New York. I intend to report to Major Langdon, come what may."
"I suppose that's the best thing you can do," assented Nathan, "but I was hoping you might have changed your mind about—"
A look on Godfrey's face made him stop thus abruptly, and for half an hour nothing was said. Then the day began to dawn, and about the time it was fully light the stockade and houses of Harris's Ferry hove in sight around a bend of the river.
Harris's Ferry—now the populous capital city of Harrisburg—was, in 1778, a small and unimportant place. John Harris, an old Indian trader and the founder of the town, lived here. Some years before, he had made the acquaintance of Captain Stanbury, when the latter stopped at the ferry on a trip from Philadelphia to Wyoming. Nathan was aware of this fact, and resolved to make use of it at such a time of need. So, after the lads had landed and given their canoe in charge of an old boatman, they climbed the river bank and presented themselves at the door of John Harris's big stone mansion.
The old trader was at breakfast, early as was the hour, and he gave his visitors a cordial greeting even before he had heard their story. Nathan's explanation gained much sympathy and a ready promise of assistance. There was little time to spare, but the lads tarried long enough to eat a hearty meal. That finished, the trader took them to the bank of the river directly opposite his house, and pointed out the mulberry-tree to which he had been tied by hostile Indians some years before, and where he would have been burnt to death had not aid arrived in the nick of time.
Then, in haste to the Three Stars Tavern on Front Street, where the Philadelphia coach, with three elderly passengers inside, was about ready to start. John Harris paid the fares, and after shaking hands with the lads and bidding them come to see him again, they mounted to the outside seat beside the driver. A couple of minutes later the blasts of the coaching-horn rang through the little settlement, and the long ride had begun.
Nothing worthy of special mention took place during the journey. Passengers got on and off, stoppages were made for fresh horses and meals, and the nights were spent at wayside towns. The lads' incidental expenses were paid by the driver, in accordance with secret instructions given him by the kind-hearted trader.
Lancaster was reached on the evening of the first day, and here the night was spent. The two following days were rainy, and the muddy condition of the roads made traveling slow. The lads remained outside, sheltered by a sail-cloth hood that was stretched over the top of the seat. Under other circumstances they must have enjoyed the journey, but the shadow of the terrible events they had so lately passed through was still upon them. They could not forget the horrors of Wyoming, the vexatious escape of Noah Waxpenny, and the tragic death of Barnabas Otter and the Tory ruffian. Nor was the future free from worry. Nathan felt a burning impatience to reach the Shrewsbury, and he could not rid himself of the fear that he would find his father either dead or gone. Godfrey, on the other hand, was concerned not a little for his own safety. In spite of the assurances of his companion, he believed himself to be in danger. And there was some ground for this fear. The lad, though not a spy, was still a British officer and loyal at heart to the cause of the enemy. And he was on his way to Philadelphia, where there was a strong likelihood of his being recognized as one of that hostile army which had occupied the city during the previous winter.
Nathan tried to inspire his friend with confidence, and partly succeeded. Neither cared to be questioned concerning their past adventures and their future plans, so they held aloof at all times from their fellow-passengers. The driver was a garrulous fellow, but fortunately with an inclination to do all the talking himself. This just suited the lads, and from morning till night they listened with feigned interest to his accounts of coaching experiences and his remarks on passing scenery.
On the evening of the fourth day after leaving Harris's Ferry, just as dusk was falling, the coach rumbled down to Middle Ferry on the Schuylkill, and the passage across in a big flat-boat was quickly made. Then followed a short ride through the fields and woods in the cool of the evening, and a spirited dash down Chestnut Street, where the good citizens of the town were smoking and gossiping at their front-door steps. Taranta, taranta, tara! sounded the horn as the lumbering stage turned into Fifth Street at the corner of the State-House, and a minute later the panting steeds drew up at their destination—Homly's Inn at Fifth and Walnut Streets. The painted face of Benjamin Franklin beamed a welcome from the creaking signboard that swung under a lighted lantern, and there was further encouragement to the thirsty and hungry travelers in the following printed couplet:
"Come view your patriot father! and your friend,
And toast to freedom, and to slavery's end!"
Nathan and Godfrey climbed down from the high seat, and stood looking about them. Of the half-dozen passengers in the stage some had already entered the inn, and others had trudged away in the shadows of the night.
"The dear old town again!" said Nathan; and a tear glistened in his eye. "It seems too good to be true!"
"I know how you feel," replied Godfrey, "and I'm sorry I can't feel that way myself. But all I'm thinking about is getting away from a place where recognition will mean danger."
"And I'm in as big a hurry to leave as you are," said Nathan. "There are miles and miles between me and that farm-house on the Shrewsbury where my father is lying wounded—perhaps dead."
"Not that," Godfrey answered quickly. "You will find him getting well—I'm sure of it. And where are we going first? Not to the inn, I hope—"
"No," interrupted Nathan, "I'm too anxious to see Cornelius De Vries. We'll go straight there, and get supper and a night's rest, and then we'll arrange about the rest of the journey."
"Lads, there's good cheer to be had inside," called the driver, as he started to lead the horses to the stable-yard. "Homly's the man to give you a meal and a bed."
"Thank you, but we have friends here," Nathan replied.
"All right! Good-bye, and good luck to you!"
"Good-bye!" the lads answered; and then they started briskly up Fifth Street. They reached Chestnut Street, where there were plenty of lights and people, and crossed to the opposite side. On the corner Nathan halted and turned around.
"There's no danger," he said, noticing his companion's uneasiness. "We'll go on in half a minute—I want to take a look at the State-House. There's a light in the big hall, and up yonder hangs the dear old bell—the bell that rang out liberty for us two years ago."
"For you, not for me," Godfrey gently reminded.
"Oh! I forgot!" Nathan exclaimed contritely. "Forgive me, old fellow. I should have known better than to stop you here—we'll go on now."
But it was too late. During that brief interval of delay, unobserved by the lads, a ragged and sinister-looking man of middle age had been staring keenly at Godfrey, whose features were partly exposed to the glimmer of a street lamp. Now he came quickly to the spot, barring the way up Fifth Street for the lads.
"It's you, is it?" he said insolently, with a leer of malice at Godfrey. "I thought I weren't mistaken. And what are you doing in Philadelphia, my fine British officer? Did you just wake up and find the red-coats gone? Or did you come over from New York to look about a little—"
"You are mistaken, my good fellow," interrupted Godfrey, his face turning slightly pale.
"Get out of the way," Nathan added angrily. "Don't stop us here—"
"I'm not mistaken," the man asserted loudly; "not a bit of it. I know who I'm talking to—your name's Spencer, and you were here with the British last winter. Don't be in a hurry to get away, you and your friend."
"Who is he—do you know him?" Nathan asked in an undertone.
"I do now," Godfrey whispered. "His name is Burd, and he kept a store up near the barracks. I had him arrested by the guard for threatening Major Langdon. He's going to give us trouble, Nathan. Look, the people are beginning to notice us—"
"Whispering treason, that's what you are," exclaimed the ruffian. "No such doings, my fine fellows. It's lucky I saw you—"
"We must get away at once," muttered Nathan. "What a fool I was to stop you here! Now will you get out of the way?" he added to the man. "You're making a mistake that will cost you dear—I am a son of Captain Stanbury of the American army, and a soldier myself—"
"A likely story!" sneered the ruffian; and that quickly, as the lads started to move, he threw himself upon Godfrey and bore him hard back against the corner of the house. "A spy! a spy!" he yelled at the top of his voice.
Nathan lost his temper completely, and like a flash he fetched the man a stunning blow in the face that made him release Godfrey. A second blow sent him staggering to the edge of the sidewalk, where he set up a prodigious shouting for help.
Clamor and confusion followed, and escape for the lads was out of the question. As they stood side by side against the wall they were quickly hemmed in by an excited mob, and so deafening was the noise that they could not make themselves heard. Men came running from every direction—citizens, store-keepers, tavern loungers, lads eager for a fight, and a few crippled and bandaged soldiers.
"Spies! spies!" they howled. "Kill them! hang them!"
Nathan, feeling himself to blame for the trouble, stepped a little in front of Godfrey. He had a pistol in his pocket, and this he pulled out with a flourish, though he hoped to avoid the necessity of using it.