Harriet T. Comstock

Author of "When the British Came," "Molly, the Drummer Boy," etc.

Illustrations by Anna S. Hicks

PHILADELPHIA

HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY

WHEN THE BRITISH CAME

Fifty cents each

Copyright, 1904, by Henry Altemus

CHAPTER I

ANDY McNEAL

It was in the time when the king's men had things pretty much their own way, and mystery and plot held full sway, that there lived, in a little house near McGown Pass on the upper end of Manhattan Island, a widow and her lame son. She was a tall, gaunt woman of Scotch ancestry, but loyal to the land that had given her a second home. She was not a woman of many opinions, but the few that she held were rigid, and not to be trifled with. With all her might she hated the king, and with equal intensity loved the cause of freedom. In the depths of her nature there was a great feeling of shame and disappointment that her only son was a hopeless cripple, and so could not be offered as a living sacrifice to the new cause.

Janie McNeal held it against the good God that she, His faithful servant, must be denied the glorious opportunity of giving her best and all, as other mothers were doing, that the land of the free might be wrested from cruel tyranny.

To be sure, Andy was but sixteen. That mattered little to Janie; young as he was, she could have held him in readiness, as did Hannah of old, until the time claimed him—but his lameness made it impossible. Among all the deeds of courage, he must stand forever apart!

Poor Janie could not conceive of a bravery beyond physical strength. In her disappointment she looked upon pale Andy, and she saw—she hated to acknowledge it—but she saw only cowardice written upon every line of the shrinking features! The patient blue eyes avoided her pitying glance. The sensitive mouth twitched as the boy listened to her oft-repeated laments. Janie had never seen those eyes grow steely and keen; she had never seen the lips draw into firm lines, or the slim form stiffen as the boy listened to the doings of the king's soldiers. When the neighbors came with thrilling tales of daring done by some loved one, Janie made some excuse for sending the boy upon an errand or to bed; the contrast was too bitter.

And Andy, sensitive and keen from suffering, saw through it all and shrank, not from fear or cowardice, but unselfish love, away from the stir and excitement and his mother's sigh of humiliation. He lived his life much alone; misunderstood, but silently brave. His chance would come. Andy never once doubted that, and the chance would find him ready.

And so he waited while the summer of 1776 waxed hotter and hotter, and the king's men, drunken with success after the battle of Long Island, pressed their advantage and impudence further, as they waited to see what the "old fox," meaning Washington, meant to do next. What his intentions were, no one, not even his own men, seemed to know; he kept them and himself well out of sight, and the anxious people watched and wondered and grew restless under the strain.

Now upon a certain July night Janie McNeal and Andy were sitting at their humble meal. The door of the cottage stood open, and the song of evening birds made tender the quiet scene. Suddenly hurried, yet stealthy, steps startled them. Was it friend or foe?

"'Tis from a secret path, mother," whispered Andy, catching his crutch. He knew the way the king's men came and went, and he knew the paths hidden to all but those who dwelt among them. His trained ear was never deceived.

"'Tis a neighbor," he murmured; "he comes down the stream bed."

Sure enough, a moment later Parson White's wife ran in. Her face was haggard, and her hands outstretched imploringly. With keen appreciation of what might be coming, Janie McNeal put her in a chair, and stood guard over her like a gaunt sentinel.

"To bed, Andy, child," she commanded; "'tis late and you are pale. To bed!"

Andy took the crutch, and, without a word, limped to the tiny room in the loft above. Boy-like, he was consumed with curiosity. He knew that the speakers, unless they whispered, could be overheard, so he lay down upon his hard bed and listened. And poor Margaret White did not whisper. Once alone with her friend, she poured out her agony and horror.

"My Sam," she moaned, "he is dead!"

Janie and the listener above started. For three years Sam White, the erring son of the good parson, had been a wanderer from his father's home. How, then, had he died, and where? The news was startling, indeed.

"Margaret, tell me all!" The firm voice calmed the grief-stricken mother.

"He was coming home to get our blessing. He heard his country's call, when his ears were deaf to all others, and it aroused his better nature. He would not join the ranks until he had our blessing and forgiveness. Poor lad! he was coming down the pass last night, not knowing that it was sentineled by the enemy. He did not answer to the command to halt, and they shot him! Shot him like a dog, giving him no time for explanation or prayer. Oh! my boy! my boy!"

Never while he lived would Andy forget that tone of bitter agony.

"He's dead! My boy for whom I have watched and waited. Dead! ere he could offer his brave young life on his country's altar. Oh! woe is me, woe is me!"

For a moment there was silence, then Janie's voice rang out so that Andy could hear every word.

"As God hears me, Margaret, I would gladly give my ain useless lad, if by so doing, yours might be reclaimed from death. Your sorrow is one for which there is no comfort. To have a son to give; to have him snatched away before the country claimed him! Aye, woman, your load is, indeed, a heavy one. To think of Andy alive, and your strong man-child lying dead! The ways of God are beyond finding out. It grieves me sore, Margaret, that it does. It seems a useless sacrifice, God forgive me for saying it!"

The women were sobbing together. In the room above, Andy hid his head under the pillow to shut out the sound. Never, in all his lonely life, had he suffered so keenly. Love, pride, hope, went down before the hard words. In that time of great deeds, when the brave were marching on to victory or death, he, poor useless cripple, was a disgrace to the mother whom he loved.

Where could he turn for comfort? He limped to the window, to cool his fevered face. He leaned on the sill and looked up at the stars. They seemed unfriendly now, and yet he and they had kept many a vigil, and they had always seemed like comrades in the past. Poor Andy could not pray; he needed the touch of human sympathy.

All at once he started. There was one, just one who would understand. But how could he reach her? The women in the room below barred his exit that way. A heavy vine clambered over the house, and its sturdy branches swayed under Andy's window. No one would miss him, and to climb down the vine was an easy task even for a lame boy.

Cautiously he began the descent, and in a few minutes was on the ground. He had managed to carry his crutch under his arm, and now, panting, but triumphant, he went quickly on. A new courage was rising within him—a courage that often comes with despair and indifference to consequences. No matter what happened, he would seek his only friend.

He took to the stream bed. It was quite dry, and the bushes grew close. No prowling Britisher would be likely to challenge him there. Ah! if poor Sam White had been as wise. Andy's face grew paler as he remembered. For a half-mile he pattered on, then the moon, rising clear and silvery, showed a little house near by the stream bed and almost hidden by vines.

Everything about the house was dark and still. Andy paused and wondered if he had a right to disturb even his one true friend. Noiselessly, he drew near, and went around to the back of the house. Something startled him.

"Mother!" It was a young, sweet voice, and it came from the shadow of the little porch.

"'Tis I, Ruth!" faltered Andy.

"You, Andy! And why! Have you heard about our Sam!" The girl came out into the moonshine. She was tall and strong, and her face was very pretty.

"Yes; I've heard, Ruth;" then, coming close, Andy poured out his misery to the girl who had been his lifelong friend and comrade.

She listened silently, once raising her finger and pointing toward the house as if to warn him against arousing the others. When he had finished there was silence. It was not Ruth's way to plunge into reply.

"Come," she whispered presently, "I am going to tell the bees. Hans Brickman told me to-night that 'tis no fancy, but a true thing, that the bees will leave a hive if death come unless they are told by a member of the family. The bee-folk are overwise, I know, and I mean to take no chances of their leaving. With the British at hand, honey is not to be despised. Come."

Andy followed, wondering, but biding Ruth's time. She was a strange girl in all her ways.

Without speaking, the two went through the little garden and paused before the row of neat hives. Then Ruth bent before the first.

"Sam's dead!" she whispered, "but do not fear. We need you, so do not leave the hive." From hive to hive she went, quite seriously repeating the sentence in soft murmurings. Andy stood and looked, the moonlight showing him pale and intent. At last the deed was done, and Ruth came back to him and laid her firm, brown hand upon his shoulder. She was a trifle taller than he, so she bent to speak.

"Not even your mother knows you as I do, Andy," she said. "She thinks a lame leg can cripple a brave soul; but it cannot! Why, even being a girl could not keep me back if I saw my chance, and I tell you, Andy, your lameness may serve you well. I have been thinking of that. I do not believe God ever wastes anything. He can use lame boys and—even girls. Sam was not wasted. The call made him brave and good. He was coming home a new creature just because he had heard. When I saw him lying dead, shot by those lurking cowards, something grew in me here,"—she touched her breast. "I have not shed one tear, but I loved him as well as the others. Somehow I knew that since he had been called, it was because he had a work to do, and since he is gone I mean to be ready to do his work. Andy, I am as strong as a boy, but—" here her eyes sought his—"I am a girl for all that, but you and I together, Andy, can do Sam's work!" The young voice shook with excitement.

"I, Ruth? Ah! do not shame me." Andy's eyes fell before the shining face.

"Shame you, Andy? I shame you—I who have loved you next best to Sam! Come. Father has gone to bed, there will be time before mother returns. I want you to see Sam."

With bated breath the two entered the living-room of the cottage. The place had been made sacred to the young hero who was so early called to his rest. Flowers everywhere, and among them Sam lay smiling placidly at his easily won laurels.

For the first time Andy gazed upon the face of death. The gentle dignity and peace of the once wild boy awed and thrilled the onlooker. He was dressed in his Continental uniform that was unsoiled by battle's breath, albeit, an ugly hole in the breast showed where the gallant blood had flowed forth.

"It's—it's wonderful!" gasped Andy.

"But we're not going to let him be wasted, are we Andy?" There was a cruel break in the girl's voice. "We'll do his work, won't we? We'll show the Britishers how we can repay, won't we, Andy?"

"Yes," breathed the boy, unable to turn his eyes from the noble, boyish face, that was lighted by the gleam of the one lamp; "we'll show them!"

"See, Andy" (Ruth had gone to a corner cup-board and brought forth a three-cornered cap), "this is Sam's; I found it in the bushes. Mother says I may have it." She placed it upon Andy's head. "It just fits!" she exclaimed. "If the time comes, Andy, you shall wear the cap. It will be proof that I trust you. You will help if you can, won't you? Promise" Andy."

"I promise, as God hears me, Ruth."

In the stillness the vow sounded awesome. The two clasped hands. All the sting was gone. A great resolve to be ready to dare and die made Andy strong and happy.

"Good-by, Ruth."

"Good-by, Andy, lad."

Out into the still night the boy passed. On the way back he saw Mrs. White, but he hid beneath a bush until she had gone by. He reached home, found the door barred, and so painfully reached his room by the aid of the friendly vine.

CHAPTER II

A STRANGER IN THE NIGHT

That was to be a night of experiences—the beginning, the real beginning of Andy's life; all the rest had been preparation. After reaching his room, he flung himself wearily upon the bed. How long he slept he could not know, but he was suddenly aroused by a sharp knock on the outer door below stairs. He sat up and listened. All was still except the trickling of a near-by waterfall, which had outlived the dry weather.

For a moment Andy thought the knock was but part of a troubled dream; he waited a moment, then, to make sure, limped over to the stairway and peered down into the room below. A candle stood on the pine table, and, at a chair near-by, knelt Janie McNeal, bowed in prayer. She had heard the knock, but not until the lonely prayer was finished would she rise. That was Janie's way.

A second knock, louder than the first, sounded, and with it the woman's solemn "Amen."

"Be not so hasty, stranger," she muttered, as she withdrew the bar; "learn to wait for your betters."

The door swung back, and into the dim light of the bare room stepped a tall man in Continental dress. His hat was in his hand, and he bowed before Janie as if she were a queen. Andy drew back. No such stranger had ever visited them before, and the boy gazed fascinated.

"Pardon me, my good woman," the rich voice said; "much as I dislike disturbing you, I fear I must crave a few hours' rest and lodging, and the service of one to row me across the river ere break of day. I have been told that you have a son."

Andy quivered.

"A lodging, sir, is yours and welcome," Janie replied, motioning the stranger toward a chair and closing the door after him. "I ever keep a bed in readiness these troubled times. We are loyal to the cause, and I would serve where I may. I have a son, sir, as you have heard, but, alas! not one who can be of service. He is a cripple. However, rest; you look sadly in need of it. I will hasten to a neighbor's a mile away, and seek the service you desire."

"I regret to cause such trouble, but the need is urgent. I sympathize with you in your son's affliction. It must be a sore grief to the lad to sit apart these stirring times when young blood runs hot, and the country calls so loudly."

Soon Janie was setting food before the stranger—good brown bread and creamy milk. Andy saw the look of suffering on her face as she bustled about, and he understood. He crept back to bed heavy-hearted. Ruth was wrong; there was nothing for him to do.

The hot hours dragged on. Toward morning Andy grew restless, and quietly arose and dressed. The feeling of bravery awakened within him, and a dim thought grew and assumed shape in his brain. He could row strong and well. Few knew of his accomplishment, for his life was lonely and the exercise and practice had been one of his few diversions.

He knew a secret path among the rocks, which led to the river, and at the end of the path was moored his tiny boat, the rough work of his patient hands. Only Ruth knew of his treasure; often he and she had glided away from the hamlet to think their thoughts, or dream their young dreams.

Now, if he could arouse the stranger before his mother had summoned another to do the service, he might share the joy of helping, in a small way, the great cause.

"The need is urgent," smiled the boy; "in that case a lame fellow might not be despised."

He recalled the stranger's face, and his courage grew.

"Chances are so few!" he muttered; "I must take this one."

At the first rustling of the birds in the trees, Andy crept down-stairs. His mother's room and the guest-room both opened from the living-room, but Janie's door was closed, while the stranger's was ajar. Through it came the sound of low-spoken words.

"Accept the thanks of thy servant for all bountiful mercies of the past. Guide his future steps. Bless our enemies, and make them just. Amen."

The boy bowed his head, instinctively. Surely he had nothing to fear from such a man. He went nearer and tapped lightly on the door. Light as was the touch, the stranger started.

"Come!" There was a welcome in the word. Andy stepped cautiously inside.

"Good-morning, sir."

"The same to you, my lad." The keen eyes softened as they fell upon the rude crutch. "How can I serve you!"

"Sir, I have come to offer my services to you. I heard you tell my mother that you needed some one to row you across the river. I am a good rower."

The man looked puzzled. "You are the widow's son? Is not the task too great?"

"My lameness does not hinder much. I use the crutch mainly to hasten my steps; I can walk without it. I am very strong in other ways. I think I am just beginning to find out how strong I am, myself. None know the woods better than I. I can take you by a short cut to the river, and I have my own boat moored and ready. It will be a small matter to reach the opposite shore by sunrise if we start at once." Andy was panting with excitement. "Pray, sir, let me do this; there are so few chances for such as I."

The listener smiled kindly.

"You are just the guide I need," he said, and Andy knew there was no flattery in the words. "I must leave it for you to thank your good mother for her hospitality. I have been ready for an hour. Lead on, my boy!"

Silently they stole from the house. The birds twittered as they passed, for the tall man touched the lower boughs and disturbed the nestlings.

"Bend low," whispered Andy, "the way leads through small spaces."

On they went, sometimes creeping under the hanging rocks, always clinging to the shelter of trees and bushes. They both knew the danger that might lie near in the form of a British sentinel.

"The path seems untrodden by foot of man," murmured the stranger, pausing to draw in a long breath. "You are a wonderful guide."

"I think no one else knows the way," Andy whispered, proudly; "an Indian showed it to me when I was a child. He was my good friend, he taught me also to row, and shoot with both arrow and gun. He said I should know Indian tricks because of my lameness. They might help where strength failed. He showed me how to creep noiselessly and find paths. I have trails all over the woods. There is one that leads right among the Britishers; and they never know. I do this for sport."

The stranger looked sharply at the gliding form ahead.

"Paths such as this all over the woods?" he repeated. "And have you kept this—this sport secret?"

"That I have!" laughed Andy. "I tell you now because you are upon your country's service. I trust you, and I thought perhaps it might help sometime." The two moved forward for a moment in silence, then Andy laughed in a half-confused way.

"A boy gets lonely at times," he said; "he must do something to while away the—the years. I have practiced and made believe until I am a pretty good Indian. I make believe that I am guiding the great Washington. They do say he ever remembers a favor. I should love to serve him. Had I been like other boys—" the voice broke—"I would have been as near him as possible by this time!"

The hand of the stranger was upon the youth's shoulder. Andy turned in alarm.

"You have a secret which may save your country much!" breathed the deep voice; "guard it with your life. But if one comes from Washington seeking your aid, do whatever he asks, fearlessly."

"How would I know such an one?" gasped Andy.

"That will I tell you later." Again the forward tramp.

"And you have passed, unnoticed, the British line! 'Tis a joke almost beyond belief!" chuckled the stranger. "I should like to see my Lord Howe's face were he to hear this."

"Oh! be silent, sir!" cautioned the guide, "we come to an open space."

Once again beneath the heavy boughs, the boy said: