DR. WARREN TALKED IN THE SAME STRAIN
The bay was rubbed down, rested and fed; its rider stretched himself upon a bench with a biscuit and a slice of beef. The sky had a sort of a bronze hue and the stars burned dimly, like bright rivets set in a giant’s shield.
Ezra, when he had finished his supper, lay looking up at this and wondering at the vastness of it. The lights of camp-fires flared here and there; files of rough, un-uniformed soldiers passed and repassed; bursts of laughter and snatches of song came down from groups whose duty was done.
And across the river, under the same stars, lay the British army; it was perilously near, and it was powerful and deadly if properly guided.
Ezra sat up and looked toward the danger point. Boston was dark, save for a few winking fires; orders had been given long before for civilians to extinguish lights of all descriptions before a given hour. The side lights burned steadily upon the war-ships; occasionally a singsong cry came from their decks as the watches were changed or a seaman called the hour.
Somehow, it seemed to the boy that this was the sort of night that strange, wild things might well go forward. Odd enterprises might be tried and accomplished under that bronze sky and those dimly-burning stars. Strange people might well meet in all sorts of queer places and mysterious deeds might well happen.
In the midst of these reflections, Ezra came to his feet, a sudden resolve fixed in his mind. A little distance away a group of townspeople were gathered. He approached and said to one of them:
“Do you know of an inn anywhere about that is known as the ‘Indian’s Head’?”
The man stared a moment, then shook his head. But one of his companions spoke up.
“There is none in Charlestown; but outside,” and he pointed to the north, “there is a small tavern called by that name. It lies upon a road between Breed’s and Bunker’s Hills.”
“And which do you think would be the best way to reach it?” inquired Ezra.
“What, to-night?” the man glanced about among his companions. And all seemed to reflect his incredulity.
“And why not?”
“Haven’t you heard that the British talk of crossing and setting themselves up upon those two hills?”
“Yes, and of firing upon Charlestown?” put in another.
“They are only wild reports,” answered Ezra. “Such like get abroad in times like these, but there is no reliance to be placed in them.”
If the facts be told, he had heard the same things himself, and from persons of some consequence; but it would not do to encourage the thoughts of the already frightened townspeople in such channels.
“Well,” said the man who professed to know the inn’s location, “if you don’t mind making the venture to such a place, my lad, I’m sure I have nothing more to say.”
His feelings were ruffled at having his warnings made so light of; so without more ado he directed Ezra as to the way to go to reach the inn desired.
“I thank you,” said Ezra.
He went at once to the place where his horse was kept, saddled, bridled and mounted it.
“There may be some risk,” he told himself, as he rode out of the guarded town. “And perhaps I should have asked Ben or Nat or George to go with me. But there is no time for that, if I am to go to-night. And like as not it is a quiet country place, with never a spice of danger in it.”
The way took him along a narrow road bounded by stretches of grazing land. The sheen of the sky showed him the smooth swelling rise of two large hills ahead, the twinkling, far-off stars seemed peering down searching fearfully for dangers among the darkness.
The directions of the man at Charlestown had been unusually good, for after a deal of weaving in and out and the crossing of fields, the boy caught the twinkle of lights from a building ahead. As he came up he found a lantern swinging above the door; and mounted upon a post in the light of this he saw a rough painting of an Indian’s head, which seemed to serve as a sign.
“This is the place, sure enough,” he said.
He at once got down. He had probably not been heard to approach; no one came out to take his horse, so he tied it to a post near the door, slipped his long pistol into the breast of his coat, and coolly entered at the door.
The very first thing that met his eyes were two men seated upon a settle engaged in earnest talk; one had a large, plumed hat beside him on the floor; he wore long soft leather boots and a heavy sword.
“Gilbert Scarlett!” breathed Ezra.
Instantly his eyes went to the person who sat beside the adventurer. Something that Scarlett had said seemed to amuse the other, for just as Ezra turned his attention to him, he uttered a high-pitched, disagreeable laugh.
And then, to make identification doubly sure, the head turned slightly. And Ezra saw that the man’s forehead was very narrow and very high.
The two were so engrossed in their conversation that they paid not the slightest heed to the newcomer. The landlord, a thick-set, sodden-looking man with a churlish expression, however, came forward.
“Well, young gentleman?” he inquired, and he looked searchingly at Ezra out of his small eyes.
“I’d like my horse looked after,” said the lad. “And then I’d be thankful for a little something for myself, if it’s no great trouble.”
The man shook his head surlily.
“If you want your horse attended to, you’ll have to do it yourself,” spoke he. “I have no one here to do such work. Hostlers are afraid to stay.”
“Very well,” replied Ezra, as he seated himself. “I’ll look to him presently.”
He had selected a far corner where Scarlett, if he turned, could not readily make him out.
“Cooks are just as hard to keep,” stated the host grumblingly. “So if you expect much in the way of supper, you’ll be disappointed.”
“Whatever you have,” said Ezra, pleasantly. “A dish of cold meat, the end of a loaf and some mead, if I’m not asking too much.”
The man grunted.
“That’s a common failing hereabouts these times,” he said, preparing to go about his duties. “They all ask too much. Every one of them does.” Then with a sudden viciousness, “But they’d better stay away with their questions! I’ll not have them! Not a bit of it!”
With that he snorted his angry way into the kitchen, leaving his young guest with a quiet smile upon his face.
“It is very evident,” mused Ezra, “that the spies of General Ward have been here before me.” His eyes went to Scarlett’s companion, and his thoughts continued. “That being the case, Master Pennington is a man of some courage to risk showing himself, I should think.”
The conversation between the two was really a monologue. Scarlett talked in a resonant voice, twirled his moustache and gestured elaborately. The other listened, shrugged at times, at others smiled, at others again uttered the high-pitched, disagreeable laugh. Ezra leaned back and clasped a knee with his hands and listened with interest.
“The man was an uncommon sort of man,” said Scarlett, “small, backward in his manner and very low spoken. When he offered me the work to do I felt sure that it was some plagued commercial matter that a man of my quality should have nothing to do with. But I needed money and he had it to pay. So I undertook to carry his papers without more ado.”
“And you found the matter of more interest than you’d have supposed?” questioned the other.
“Decidedly,” answered Scarlett. He pulled up his boot-top and stroked his chin. “First I lost my way; then I lost my horse. And afterward, as though these were not enough, I all but lost my life by means of a young blade pistoling me upon the road; him I sent on with the message. Afterward I met with some riders and a wagon heavily laden. Among the riders was the man Abdallah whom I had been sent to see. I knew him at once, for no other man in this region could have such an appearance.”
A look of interest came into the other’s face.
“And he directed you here?”
“He said that I might by chance come upon some further employment,” answered Scarlett, “if I frequented this place. He was not pleased with the way I had performed my first office; but, doubtless, he’s a person of some perception and knows a man of mettle when he sees one.”
“No doubt,” said Pennington, dryly.
He regarded the adventurer with attention and seemed endeavoring to properly weigh him. There was a bold, free air about Gilbert Scarlett that took the eye at once; but that he was wondrously boastful was evident, and boastful strangers are ever looked upon with distrust.
“A man,” declaimed Scarlett, twirling at his moustache, “cannot go through seven campaigns and not bear some stamp of his service. When I first offered my sword to the Elector of Hanover, he told me in his rough German way that I was but a boy. But later I proved to him that I could do the work of my elders, even then.”
“Abdallah said nothing specific, I suppose?” inquired Pennington.
“How specific?”
“He gave you no token to present to any one by name?”
“None.”
“And he did not say that he would employ you?”
“Not in so many words.”
Pennington shook his head.
“I do not know the man,” said he. “But from what you have told me, it would seem that he has been making game of you.”
The head of Scarlett went up, and his hand sought the heavy hilt of his sword.
“There have been one or two, at odd times, who have sought to do that,” spoke he, and there was a ring in his voice that boded no good to any such. “And I’ll warrant you that they never attempted it again.”
“Have you inquired of the landlord as to these persons whom you seek?” asked Pennington.
“I have,” with a shrug. “But he is a surly, short-spoken dog. I can get nothing out of him.”
“It pains me to be unable to give you any intelligence of them,” said Pennington. “But I am a stranger here myself.”
As he spoke these words he turned his head, perhaps to look for the landlord. His eyes fell upon Ezra seated there so coolly, and a look of astonishment came into his face. But instantly he showed what a cautious man he was by lifting his hand to hide his face; then he coughed affectedly.
Almost simultaneously with this gesture, Ezra noticed Scarlett make a sharp movement. It was as though the adventurer was also about to turn. But apparently he thought better of it, and remained with his back stoically presented.
“He saw the change in Pennington’s face,” was Ezra’s instant thought.
But what had caused this change the boy could not imagine.
“Perhaps,” he thought, “it was but the sudden discovery that there is a third person in the room—a person who might have overheard something to the disadvantage of Abdallah and his fellows.”
There was a marked pause; the backs of both men were turned to Ezra; to his searching gaze it was plain that they were casting about as to what they should do or say. It was Gilbert Scarlett who broke the silence.
“Of course,” said he, “a gentleman of my fortune—or lack of it—has no choice but to gain the wages that enable him to live. I somehow fancied the service of this Abdallah. Perhaps its strangeness appealed to me. But now that he has failed me, I can see nothing to do but to take service with the colonial army.”
“From your tone,” spoke Pennington, “I gather that you do not care to do this.” He laughed his disagreeable laugh and resumed, “They have the right upon their side, you must admit that. And then they are led by very virtuous statesmen.”
“They are right enough,” said Scarlett, with a shrug. “But is their treasury deep enough to pay a needy officer with reasonable regularity? I fancy not. As to their statesmen, I grant you their ability, knowing nothing of them good or bad; but it takes generals to win battles.”
As he spoke he threw one arm across the back of the settle, and in the most careless way in the world, turned his head. When he saw Ezra he first looked surprised, and then amused.
“What,” said he, jovially, “my young friend of the pistol! Well met!”
He arose. The spurs upon the heels of his boots clinked upon the tiled floor, his long sword trailed noisily at his side. Ezra, perfectly self-possessed, arose to greet him. Scarlett clasped his hand warmly.
“Chance,” declared the adventurer, “plays us many queer pranks as we journey through life.” He looked from Ezra to Pennington, a mocking smile upon his lips, then he continued: “For I suppose it was the very blindest chance that brought you here.”
Every inflection of the speaker’s voice and his whole attitude, however, indicated his complete disbelief in anything of the sort. It was plain to the boy that the soldier of fortune was convinced that he and Pennington were there by prearrangement. But Ezra did not speak; Pennington, his face a shade paler, sat watchfully observant.
Scarlett continued to glance from one to the other of them with amused toleration. It was as though he had detected them in a sort of child’s play by which they had hoped to hoodwink him.
“Sit you down,” he finally invited Ezra. “But over here,” pushing out a chair, “where we can see you more readily.”
Ezra sat down, and Scarlett waved his hand toward Pennington, the smile still curling his moustache.
“I do not know either of your names,” he said, “but,” to Ezra, “here is a gentleman whom you are unacquainted with, of course,” and he burst into a laugh, “but whom I could have diverted vastly had I chosen to tell him of our little misadventure upon the road, two nights ago.”
Surprise and incredulity came into the face of Pennington; but he strove to hide his agitation from the watchful eyes of the adventurer.
“Is it possible,” he ejaculated, “that this is the lad with the pistol—he,” eagerly, “whom you sent on with the message?”
“None other,” said Scarlett, smiling, “and since you are unacquainted, I take pleasure in making you known to each other.”
One of Pennington’s hands passed over his face; it was trembling, and, like his countenance, was pale. He spoke hastily to Ezra, trying hard to keep the eagerness out of his voice.
“You must have had a most extraordinary experience,” remarked he. “And did you succeed in delivering this message at the house of this gentleman—ah,” as though trying to recall the name, then giving up the attempt, “the gentleman with the foreign name?”
“I did,” replied Ezra. “And I trust that Master Scarlett bears me no ill-will because of the manner in which I became his messenger.”
“Not the least in life,” said Scarlett. “It is a man’s right to defend himself against all comers on the road. But you conducted the mission with which I entrusted you oddly. You set these people, whoever they are, by the ears. From what I learned in a short talk with them, you deceived them in sundry ways; and it ended in their house being burned down and they,” with a laugh, “becoming wanderers upon the face of the earth.”
“I delivered the papers as I promised,” said Ezra. “I told the people at the house nothing, but they took much for granted. What resulted was much their own fault.”
Pennington had listened with interest.
“Were you by any chance entrusted with a message in reply to the one you carried?” he asked with eagerness.
“I was,” returned the boy frankly.
“And to whom were you to deliver it?” asked Scarlett. “And where?”
“To a Mr. Pennington,” replied Ezra, evenly. “And at this inn.”
“So!” Scarlett lay back in the settle, his arms folded upon his chest and his booted legs stretched out straight before him. “And how were you to know this gentleman?”
“I was to inquire of the landlord.”
Impulsively Scarlett rose up.
“I will save you the trouble,” said he. “The matter, in a measure, is my own,” apologetically to Ezra, “so I trust you will pardon me.” He lifted his voice and called: “Landlord!”
There came a grumbling, unintelligible answer from the kitchen; but the host did not present himself.
“I took him to be a surly, sour-mouthed villain from the first,” commented Scarlett. “And as he will not come to me, I will go to him. And I’ll warrant you he’ll tell what I want to know, or I’ll have him dance you a measure that he’ll not like.”
So with a hitch at his sword belt and a twirl at his moustache, the speaker clanked into the kitchen, from which his voice came a moment later with commanding insistence.
And no sooner had he vanished than Pennington bent eagerly toward Ezra.
“You know me, of course?” said he.
As Ezra did not reply, the man continued in a low, rapid tone:
“You saw me frequently at your grandfather’s house at Boston.”
A thrill ran through Ezra. He now understood that first surprised look. The man mistook him for his twin brother, George. But the boy shook his head as though in doubt.
“I have no recollection of you,” he answered.
The man regarded him searchingly.
“Your name is Prentiss?”
“It is.”
“You are the grandson of Seth Prentiss?”
“I am.”
The man evidenced his satisfaction.
“You are he whom I took you to be,” he said. He studied the lad carefully for a moment. “Upon second thought I do not wonder that you fail to recall me,” continued he. “If I remember rightly, I have always been somewhat given to hesitancy in my manner of showing myself.” Here he laughed his disagreeable laugh. “A man in my particular profession must not be too forward.”
“And what is your profession?” asked Ezra.
“I am the confidential agent of—of others,” replied the man. “In point of fact I am the very man you came here to see.”
“Not Mr. Pennington!”
“That is my name,” returned the man. “And now,” with a quick look toward the kitchen, where, judging by the sounds that came from it, a very stormy interview was taking place, “give me the message sent by Abdallah. I have been trying to get into communication with him, but could not do so. I had no notion of what had happened until I heard some fragments of the story from this loud-mouthed soldier.”
The landlord’s voice now came from the kitchen in loud denial.
“I tell you, sir, I know nothing of the gentleman you ask for.”
“And I tell you that you do. Don’t think to pull the wool over my eyes. Give me full information of this Master Pennington, or I’ll spit you on this skewer and toast you over your own fire.”
“I do not pretend to understand anything that has happened,” said Pennington to Ezra, swiftly and very low. “You’ll have your own good time to explain all that. But,” with a fearful glance at the kitchen door, “the matter of the dispatch which Abdallah gave you is perhaps urgent. And all the more so from being delayed.”
The uproar in the kitchen, if such a thing were possible, grew louder. But Ezra paid no heed to it.
“It is impossible for me to turn the paper over to you now,” he answered quietly.
The man stared at him.
“And why?” he asked.
“Because I no longer have it.”
“What!” Pennington sprang up, his high, narrow forehead flushing. “Then who has?”
“I think,” said the boy, “that it is in the hands of one who will make good use of it.”
Consternation was written deeply in the face of Master Pennington; he had raised a clenched hand, an exclamation trembled upon his lips when the landlord rushed into the room amid a great clatter of pans and kettles. He was pale of face and affrighted of manner; and close at his heels, with his drawn sword in his hand, strode the adventurer, Gilbert Scarlett.
The surly landlord of the “Indian’s Head” danced into the centre of his public room, the expression of fear expanding upon his face.
“Gentlemen,” he cried, appealing to Ezra and Pennington, “I demand your protection. I am beset by this man, who would kill me in my own house.”
“If you prefer to have it so,” spoke Scarlett with a swishing whir of his heavy blade, “I will dispatch you upon the lawn if you are possessed of one, or, in default of that, in the public road. I am of a liberal nature, and would as well please you as not in the place of your taking off.”
His agile point followed the churlish landlord in his caperings.
“Sir,” cried the man, addressing himself to Pennington, “I crave you to speak a word to this mad villain, who seems bound to spill my blood.”
Pennington arose and was about to remonstrate with the young soldier; but the latter stopped before he had well begun.
“Have the goodness to keep your place,” requested Scarlett, with a quick, fierce, unmistakable look. “There are some things, perhaps, that I can be crossed in,” here the look grew significant, “and made to appear cheap. But be assured, sir, that this is not one of them.”
At once Pennington sank back upon the settle and again the landlord resumed his capering before the swift-moving sword point.
“Now, rascal,” cried Scarlett, harshly, “will you do as I ask? Faith, I’m playing you easily enough; in Muscovy they’d have had your life for half this show of stubbornness.”
“I tell you I know no such gentleman,” cried the landlord. “How can I tell that which I know not?”
He whirled away before the brisk flash of the blade; and at the same time he continued, addressing Pennington, meaningly:
“I beg of you, sir, for the last time, to persuade this man to let be. I am but flesh and blood. I cannot withstand everything.”
Again Pennington seemed about to interfere; but once more the fierce glance of Scarlett awed him. Then the latter shortened his weapon and glowered at the innkeeper.
“And I call upon you for the last time to tell me who this man Pennington is!” he grated. “Quick now!”
The landlord’s eyes sought for a means of escape; but he was hard pressed to make use of any that presented themselves.
“I will tell,” he at length cried, desperately. “The man you want is there.”
His trembling finger indicated Pennington, who turned a shade paler, but sat composedly enough. Scarlett’s sword point fell; he turned upon Pennington and saluted him in a formal, military fashion, a satirical smile curling his moustache points upward.
“Sir,” said he, “I am most pleased. I will not say that I expected as much, but I can say that I am not at all surprised.”
Ezra watched the spy curiously. He saw him swallow once or twice in an effort to speak. But finally he managed to resume control of his tongue.
“You have found me out, then,” said he, and he smiled in a sickly fashion. “I was interested to see just how long it would take you.”
For all his speech faltered, his eyes were steady enough to threaten the innkeeper for betraying him. But the man returned the look defiantly.
“I’ll not be sworded to death, and you sitting by at your ease, never lifting a hand,” he declared sullenly.
Scarlett turned quickly upon the man.
“You have done your share to the furthering of the acquaintance of this gentleman and myself, and I am obliged to you. So now, back to your scullery and let us hear none of your protestations.”
The innkeeper went quickly enough; he had had a taste of the adventurer’s quality, and clearly desired no more of it. After he had vanished into his kitchen, Scarlett sheathed his blade, struck an attitude with his feet very wide apart and hooked his thumbs into his sword belt.
“So, so, good and excellent sirs,” said he with a lifting of his heavy brows. “It would seem that you have been making a laughing-stock of me.”
“Nothing was further from my intention,” Pennington hastened to say.
Disbelief was plain in Scarlett’s face; he turned to Ezra saying:
“And what answer has your intimate?”
“None, other than that I am not his intimate. To the best of my knowledge,” proceeded Ezra, “I have never met with this gentleman before to-night.”
Gilbert Scarlett shot him a mingled glance of astonishment and regret.
“I was mistaken in you, then,” spoke he. “I took you to be an upstanding youth of much character and straightforwardness.”
Ezra was about to speak in answer to this, but the young soldier waved his hand.
“Let me have no denials. I have eyes,” and he gestured angrily. “Also, I have perception, though you both seem to doubt it.”
“Sir,” spoke Pennington, in a soothing tone, “you much deceive yourself if you fancy that we have in any way sought to mislead you.”
He leaned forward upon the settle, his legs crossed and his hands upon his knees.
“Now,” he proceeded, “I leave it to you as a gentleman of wide experience and much service, to pass judgment upon what I am about to say.”
The adventurer unhooked his thumbs from his sword belt and twirled his moustache. He said nothing in reply; but there was a sardonic look in his face.
“I,” and Pennington tapped his chest, “am the person whom your young friend here,” with a nod toward Ezra, “was to inquire for. I acknowledge it.”
“It’s overlate for frankness,” said Gilbert Scarlett, grimly. “But, go on.”
“I am able to say in perfect good faith,” went on Pennington, “that I had no expectation of seeing him. Neither had I any notion that he knew anything of the affairs of Abdallah. As for my failure to acknowledge a connection with the story which you told me a while ago, you surely can feel no resentment for that. When a man is engaged in”—he paused and shrugged his shoulders—“well, in work of a more or less secret character, it is not quite safe for him to speak freely with strangers.”
The adventurer unbent his brows and his face altered in expression.
“Now,” said he, “that is talk that holds much sense. It is clear to me that you could not do other than you did.”
Then he turned to Ezra once more.
“Chance and circumstance seem to have taken you for their very own,” said he.
“Some things have befallen me of late days that make your saying seem like the truth,” said Ezra. “But my experience must be but a trifle, as compared with what yours must have been, sir. I have no doubt but that chance has figured much in your life.”
“Why,” answered the adventurer, “now that you mention it, it is true enough. What great matter is it for a lad to chance along a lonely wagonway near to sundown, and meet with a horseman who has had an accident befall him? And that you should chance to have the pleasure of this gentleman’s acquaintance,” indicating Pennington, “is, upon second thought, not a matter to marvel at. Why, I recall, how, when I served the Turk at Cairo, I met with an adventure that must have seemed like a miracle of chance. Moslems are a strange people, but they grow stranger still in their dealings with a Christian; and when that Christian happens to be in command of a squadron of them——”
But he stopped upon the very verge of the adventure. Pulling up a chair, he seated himself in it and addressing Ezra, said:
“But let us come to this message which Abdallah gave you. As you came here seeking Master Pennington, which I have no doubt you did, I suppose you brought the writing with you.”
During all which followed Scarlett’s entrance with the innkeeper, Pennington’s sharp glance kept shifting itself to Ezra. Now he spoke, eagerly:
“In that you bring us to a matter of consequence, sir. During your absence, we held some converse upon this very matter. And our young friend informed me that the dispatch is no longer in his possession.”
Scarlett folded his arms across his chest in an easy sort of way, and replied, lightly:
“I have no real knowledge of this affair, one way or the other, sir. But from your manner, I take it that this circumstance is irritating.”
“It is more than that,” spoke Pennington. “It may be fatal. General Gage was expecting——”
But here he checked himself after the manner of a cautious man who has caught himself in the midst of a dangerous admission.
Ezra, however, smiled.
“It is somewhat late,” said he, “to try and conceal the dispatch’s ultimate destination. Major Buckstone saw to my enlightenment at the very start.”
Pennington’s hands clenched.
“You saw him then! The old idiot! He would discuss our plans with the colonial council of war itself.”
“I have not the good fortune of this gentleman’s acquaintance,” spoke Scarlett, “but I think I know the type. The bluff old officer—honest as the sun—who knows nothing but his routine and the well ordering of his command. But,” with a careless wave of the hand, “what matters it? We are all friends, are we not? We are all fairly well gifted with understanding. So a trifle of plain talk will do no harm.”
Pennington pondered and nodded reluctantly.
“In a way,” said he, “you are right.”
“A frank question or two, when needed, will have no bad result,” said the adventurer. “And I think if they were applied here and now, we’d come at something of profit, perhaps.”
Pennington’s face flushed.
“I am beholden to you, sir,” said he, a trifle bitterly. Then turning to Ezra he said: “Perhaps you will now tell us how you came to so part with the papers entrusted to you?”
“Is it any great wonder,” said Ezra, “that I did not safeguard a message given me by people who later sought my life?”
He was determined to be as evasive as possible. If he hoped to come to the true depth and breadth of this spy system, he knew that he must meet craft with craft.
Pennington made no reply to this, but continued to sit and watch. The situation must have puzzled him; clearly he did not understand it.
But Scarlett was ready enough.
“For my part, I blame you but little,” he said. “It was but a churlish way to treat a messenger.”
There was a short pause; then the spy spoke.
“Might I ask,” he inquired, “who this mysterious person is to whom you confided this paper?”
Ezra shook his head and remained silent.
“As a grandson of Seth Prentiss,” continued Pennington, “I am loth to believe you other than a friend to honesty and good government.”
“And in that,” returned the boy, “you would be right.”
Scarlett here leaned forward.
“And was the gentleman to whom you entrusted the paper,” asked he, “of a like inclination?”
“He was.”
“Why, in that case,” and the soldier of fortune laughed good-humoredly, “I don’t think it any great matter. Let us but get word to the gentleman and he’ll take it to Boston himself, perhaps.”
Pennington’s eyes searched Ezra’s face, and the boy replied:
“Perhaps so; I have heard him say that he meant to make his way into Boston before long.”
The hidden meaning of this must have left its trace in Ezra’s voice, for Pennington’s gaze, if it were possible, grew keener.
“That may, perhaps, serve,” said the man. Then he continued: “It so chances that I am left in a most peculiar position by your unexpected connection with this affair, Master Prentiss.” There was concern in his voice as he went on. “It will be difficult for me to explain it to those to whom I must make explanation. And it will be equally difficult for them to understand.”
A thrill ran through Ezra. As plainly as day he read the purpose of the man in his crafty eyes. And, so it flashed upon him, as that purpose would help him in his own, he at once fell in with it.
“If I could but make my own explanation,” he said, “it would greatly lighten your labor.”
The eyes of the spy snapped.
“To do that you must needs go into Boston,” he said. “Would you venture that?”
“I have been there before,” answered the boy. “And why not again? And I think this gentleman,” nodding smilingly at Scarlett, “would also make the venture if it could be accomplished.”
“As well as not,” said the soldier of fortune, carelessly. “One place is much like another to me.”
There was triumph in Pennington’s face as he arose.
“Excellent!” he cried. “Both of you shall cross the river to-night. I have the means at hand. And I will present you to those,” here the high-pitched, disagreeable laugh rang out, “who will be delighted to welcome you.”
It was very evident to Ezra Prentiss that the purpose of Pennington was to entrap him. Once safe in Boston, so the spy’s thoughts ran, he and his friends could put upon the boy whatever pressure it pleased them; there the latter would not be so indefinite in his statements as he was at the “Indian’s Head.”
“If you have a way of crossing, it must be a most secret one,” said Gilbert Scarlett, who, like the others, was preparing to depart. “Only this morning I made the rounds, or as much of them as I was permitted to make, and I found the shore very well guarded.”
“They make a great display of activity and alertness,” said Pennington, with disdain. “But the river is open for any one who cares to cross it.”
Here Pennington stepped into the kitchen and exchanged a few rapid words with the innkeeper. Scarlett pursed his lips and regarded Ezra with attention.
“It would seem to me that under proper conditions, he would prove a very thorough-going gentleman,” remarked he, with a nod toward the door.
“I have no doubt of it,” said the boy.
Scarlett continued to look at him; and there was speculation in his eyes. At length he spoke again.
“You baffle me sometimes. By your looks you should be a plain dealer, if one is to place an atom of trust in the reading of faces. And yet I find you writhing about like an eel upon a brick pavement.”
“What I have said,” returned Ezra, “is the truth.”
“Ay, what you have said!” The other laughed and slapped his chest. “It’s what you have not said that takes me by the horns. And,” with a jerk of the thumb over his shoulder, “our acquaintance there is bothered by it too.” The speaker studied Ezra for a moment. “Has it occurred to you that you may have fallen in with his desires very neatly in offering to cross the river?”
Ezra smiled and nodded. At this Gilbert Scarlett laughed and slapped him upon the back.
“I might have known it,” said he. “You are a deep one for a lad.”
“Only a few nights ago you had a rather poor opinion of my wit,” said Ezra.
“I remember the saying and I recall it,” spoke Scarlett. “I took you for a country lad, in sympathy with the colonists; and I thought it quite a jest to have you carry a message which I felt sure was calculated to help your countrymen but little. But,” with a gesture, “I have changed my mind with regard to you. I no longer know what to think. But this I do know,” with great candor, “I like you; and I’ll stand your friend, if you need a friend, at any place and at any time.”
Before the boy had an opportunity to express his thanks, Pennington emerged from the kitchen. Buttoning up his coat, he said:
“You’ll have to leave your horses in care of the landlord, gentlemen. The patrols and detachments that hold the roads would be sure to see us if we went mounted.”
Gilbert Scarlett did not like this.
“Without a horse,” declared he, “I am like a fish without water to swim in. But, if we must, we must, and that’s all there is to it.”
Without, it was dark and silent. The bronze sky of the early evening had given place to one entirely black. But the stars winked curiously down, and their rays relieved the darkness to a great extent.
“It will behoove us to mind our steps,” said Pennington, as they made their way along the road by which Ezra had approached the “Indian’s Head.” “Daylight shows many ditches and sunken fences in this hollow, and it would scarcely benefit our peace of mind or body to come upon one or the other.”
“’Twas a good thought to create the stars,” mused the soldier of fortune, aloud, after they had gone some distance. “They relieve the moon of duty when she is weary. If it were not for them and their twinkling, the night would be as black as my hat.”
“Queer things are done on dark nights,” said the spy, and he laughed in his disagreeable way.
Scarlett nudged Ezra in the darkness. Then he made reply:
“I can well believe that. And the saying brings to mind a little experience that I once had in Moscow while I served my short career with the Czar. My regiment had but returned from the frontier, after several onfalls at Tartar towns; and I and several of my comrades were drinking our glasses of tea in a booth. It was a very dark night and we talked over the times just passed, and were hoping good fortune for those to come, when there entered a ——”
A shrill whistle sounded and Scarlett’s anecdote was nipped suddenly.
“Be silent,” said Pennington in a whisper. He drew them to the side of the road, where all three halted and crouched, watchfully. The steady tramp of men was heard in the darkness; then some indistinct forms began to wave uncertainly on their vision; finally a voice was heard saying:
“No, I was not sure. But it sounded much like some one speaking.”
“It may have come from a great distance off. Sounds travel far at night, you know.”
“Yes; but this seemed fairly close. And it is hereabouts that we were warned that the British might venture seeking information, so we can’t be too careful.”
The tramp of the men continued along the road. At length they were swallowed up; and both their voices and footsteps died away.
“A patrol,” said Pennington. “And it’s the first time that I’ve seen one so far away from the shore. It seems that we must be extra careful to-night.”
They remained as they were for a time, then, under the guidance of the spy, they left the road, mounted a fence and entered the fields. From then on it was very rough traveling; but Pennington, who had most probably been over the ground often before, selected the least broken ways, in spite of the darkness. After what seemed a very long time indeed, they mounted to the top of Breed’s Hill; and off before them they now made out the lights of the British gun vessels swinging in the stream.
Cautiously they descended to the water’s edge. Here and there, some distance back, there was a watch-fire, about which were gathered a small group of hardy colonists; but Pennington had studied the situation well; for that point of the shore upon which they stood was apparently unguarded.
The spy waited in silence for a time; then he uttered a low, mournful cry like that of a night-bird haunting the water’s edge. There was a brief pause; then the sound was repeated from the river.
“It is a most excellent thing,” observed Pennington, “to have an aide who can be depended upon at all times.”
“That remark,” said Scarlett, “is almost exactly similar to one that I once heard from the old Elector of Hanover. He said——”
“Sh-h-h!” warned Pennington. “Not so loud.”
Scarlett at once ceased speaking. Again they stood in silence; then the faint dip of oars reached them. A little later a low voice asked inquiringly:
“For whom?”
“For King George,” replied Pennington promptly. Then the low-pitched voice resumed:
“Is that you, Mr. Pennington?”
“Yes, with some friends.”
The spy, followed by Scarlett and Ezra, climbed into the skiff; it was manned by four sailor-like men, who at once pushed off.
Not a word was spoken after they had once started; carefully the sweeps were dipped, slowly they were pulled; the skiff progressed steadily and with scarcely a ripple of the water.
Gradually the lights of a vessel grew nearer. There was a rattling and clinking of metal from her low-lying deck; then a hoarse voice, startlingly loud after all their caution, hailed them.
“Ahoy!” cried the voice. “Belay there, and give an account of yourself.”
“Is that the ‘Scorpion’?” asked Pennington.
“It is. For whom?”
“For King George.”
“Come alongside and let’s have a look at you.”
The skiff approached the gun vessel; as its bow scraped the side a man leaned over the rail with a ship’s lantern.
“Ay, ay,” he said in a tone of recognition. “So it’s you, once more, is it, Pennington?”
“Once more, Mr. Halsey,” returned the spy.
“Quite a boatload, I see,” and the man flashed his lantern aloft.
“Yes, some gentlemen who wish to enter the town.”
“It’s the only place for honest men,” grumbled the sailor. “But I must say there is a great shortage of fresh provision there. My men will all be down with the scurvy if they don’t get a change soon.”
The seaman was still speaking when the skiff pulled out of hearing. Three times they were halted before they reached a point on the Boston side just above Gree’s shipyard. A heavy battery was planted here that commanded Charlestown, and they were brought under this in charge of a yawl filled with men and in command of a young officer of marines, who showed dapper and spick and span under the lantern light.
When they were landed, a file of men took them in charge until Pennington, after some whispered conversation, was passed by the officer in charge.
“A right soldierly way of looking at the matter,” observed Scarlett, who had been keenly watching all that occurred.
“General Gage is a most excellent soldier,” spoke Pennington. “None of the rebel troops shall get in while he is in command, nor,” and there was a sneer in his tone, “none of his own troops shall get out.”
As they passed through Prince’s Street they heard the steady tramp of troops on their way to the southerly part of the city. When beyond the Mill Pond, a roar of hoofs met them as squadron after squadron of cavalry dashed by headed in the same direction. At Middle Street they encountered a battery of field-guns also hastening southward.
“Something is toward, to-night,” said Scarlett with great interest.
“It may be that they are on their way to the Neck,” was Ezra’s thought. And a shiver ran through him as he fancied the colonists not being ready to meet the attack.
When they passed the gardens they came to Sun Court; and as they paused before a stately mansion, Ezra said:
“But why here? Surely my grandfather has nothing to do with this business.”
Pennington laughed.
“Don’t be too sure of that. He is a man much desirous of the government’s advancement, and he does not hesitate to use whatever means he can to serve that purpose.”
The speaker ascended the steps and gave a sharp rat-tat-tat upon the heavy knocker; then he turned and looked down at the boy, who remained upon the brick walk.
“Another thing,” said he. “You will find him a man not easily satisfied.”
“I know that,” replied Ezra.
“Your explanation as to how you came to part with Abdallah’s dispatch will have to be very much more complete than the one you gave me,” said Pennington, rubbing his hands together in a satisfied way. “He will not tolerate evasion of any sort, especially in the presence of those whom he is entertaining to-night.”
“He has guests, then?” said the boy.
Before Pennington could reply, the door opened. A grave servant stepped aside in the brightly-lighted hallway, and they entered. And as the door closed behind them, from a room to the left of a hall came a great voice roaring:
“I tell you, General Gage, I did all that a soldier and a gentleman could well do. If the messenger proved a knave and a traitor, the blame is not to be laid at my door.”
Pennington’s hand fell lightly upon Ezra’s shoulder, and he said sneeringly in the boy’s ear:
“Here is good fortune. I knew of Gage, but I did not even dream of your acquaintance Major Buckstone being here.”
For a moment, after hearing the thunderous voice of Major Buckstone, Ezra Prentiss was startled. But an instant’s reflection showed him that the major’s presence could make no difference to him or his plans.
“He knows nothing of me that is not already known,” the lad told himself.
The grave-faced man servant who had admitted them now spoke, in a low-voiced aside, to Ezra.
“I am glad to see you back, sir. We’ve had all sorts of fears for you. The master thought you might have been killed, even.”
Ezra smiled.
“But you see that I am not,” said he, understanding at once that he was again mistaken for George.
“Yes, sir.” The man looked at him in a fidgety sort of way. He seemed to dread something. “The master, sir,” he recommenced, “is—is—you’ll pardon me, sir—in a bad temper to-night. Shall I announce you?”
But here Pennington intruded himself.
“If I may be so pushing,” said he to Ezra, “I will take that upon myself. There are some trifles that had perhaps better be gone over before he sees you.”
Ezra caught Scarlett’s warning look, but paid no attention. He knew full well that it was the spy’s intention to be forehanded with him; he realized that the man desired to place the case before the gathering in his grandfather’s house in as evil a light as possible.
But he was careless in the matter; he felt that it made no difference what Pennington said. He was in Boston; he was in a fair way, perhaps, of discovering much that would be of help to the cause of liberty. How he was to escape, finally, was a matter for the future. The present was to be spent in garnering facts; the future must take care of itself.
“Very well,” said Ezra, readily enough. “Do you speak to him and prepare him.”
Pennington followed the serving man up the wide hall; some hangings were drawn back and both disappeared.
“More and more strange do you grow to me,” said Scarlett, as he seated himself in a cushioned chair. “I thought you wise enough to know that a first voice in a cause is usually the winning one.”
“When one has little interest in a thing,” returned Ezra, “it matters little who wins. My purpose here is not to see who makes the best impression on my grandfather and his friends.”
Scarlett said nothing to this, but merely shook his head and began to look about him.
The hall was a lofty one with a polished floor and a broad balustraded staircase. Paintings hung upon the walls and rich Eastern hangings screened the doorways. There was a massiveness about everything that indicated opulence in the owner.
“Your grandfather,” said the soldier, “is evidently a person of some consequence.”
“He is engaged in the West Indian trade,” answered Ezra, “and is accounted a very rich man.”
“I see.” The soldier of fortune twisted one end of his moustache. “This war, however, will put a check to his money-making for a time, I think.”
“It has all but ruined the trade of them all. And I wonder how much,” speculated the boy, “that has to do with the British leaning of most of the merchants.”
“A great deal, you may depend,” chuckled Gilbert Scarlett. “Touch a trader’s purse and you touch him upon a most delicate part. Not,” hastily, “that I mean to cast any discredit upon your relative. I speak of merchants in the bulk.”
“It is not for me to defend my grandfather,” said Ezra with a smile, “even if you did select him from them all.” For there came a confused hubbub of voices, above which was one high, harsh and threatening. “As you shall see in a moment, he is in every way competent to take care of himself.”
Even as he spoke the hangings over the far doorway were flung aside and a tall, grim-faced old man, with thin white hair and of gaunt, powerful frame, stepped into the hall. With head erect and frowning brows he came down the hall; his eyes were hard with anger.
“So,” said he, and Scarlett at once learned that he was the owner of the harsh voice, “you have seen fit to show yourself at last, I see.”
Ezra bowed respectfully.
“As things are, sir,” said he, quietly, “it would have puzzled me to make my way into Boston any sooner.”
A burning hatred flashed in Seth Prentiss’ eyes. One hand gestured his fury, the other was pointed at his grandson.
“Are you mocking me?” he asked in a voice made low by the storm of feeling that seemed to possess him. “Are you deriding us all because we are pent up here, like rats, and never a blow struck by the King’s troops to set the matter right!”
“As you should know, sir,” said Ezra, in the same respectful tone, “I would not——”
But the stern old man silenced him with a gesture.
“I know nothing as to what you would or would not do,” he said. “You have always been half-hearted in the cause of King George. From the beginning I’ve noticed a bent in you toward those rascals over there,” and his furious arm-sweep took in the whole region from Dorchester to Charlestown. “You were always talking of what they had to bear with; seldom indeed have I heard you speak of what we suffered.”
“The patriots——” began Ezra once more, but again he was interrupted.
“Patriots! Fiddlesticks, sir! Rebels is the name for them! Rebels to a good King, and skulkers who destroy the prosperity of their countrymen. My ships rot in their docks; my trade is going from me bit by bit, after my years of struggle to build it up.”
“It is the fortune of war, sir,” said Gilbert Scarlett, soothingly.
“War!” The gray brows drew themselves lower and the grim old face turned upon the speaker. “Do you call this war? It is not! It is an infamy that will recoil upon them, sir!”
“Say what you please,” retorted the adventurer coolly, “war it is, and a very pretty one, indeed, all things considered. For mechanics and husbandmen, these rebels of yours set to it right cleverly.”
What the answer of Seth Prentiss would have been to this is not known. For another step sounded in the hall and a stout man in the uniform of a British general officer made his appearance. He had a round face and a bluff manner; his voice held the note of satire as he spoke.
“Hah!” said he, “and so we have here a student of warfare.” He swept Scarlett with a look. “And so you admire the works of the Americans?” he asked.
The young adventurer had arisen upon the appearance of Ezra’s grandfather; so he now struck his favorite attitude, his legs very far apart, his thumbs in his sword belt.
“In so far as they go,” replied he, “I have the honor to say, ‘Yes.’ Not that I consider their formations complete, mind you,” with an air of great assurance, “for I have seen much that could be corrected. But, when all is said and done, they have you fairly beleaguered; without reinforcements you cannot stir.”
As this very clearly stated the case, General Gage, for the officer was the British governor, looked at the speaker sharply.