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Title: The musket boys of old Boston
The first blow for liberty
Author: George A. Warren
Release date: June 10, 2025 [eBook #76265]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: The Goldsmith Publishing Company, 1909
Credits: Aaron Adrignola, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MUSKET BOYS OF OLD BOSTON ***
THE MUSKET BOYS OF OLD BOSTON
Or
The First Blow for Liberty
BY GEORGE A. WARREN
AUTHOR OF "THE MUSKET BOYS UNDER WASHINGTON," ETC.
_The_
GOLDSMITH
_Publishing Co._
NEW YORK, N.Y.
MADE IN USA
Copyright, 1909, by
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
CONTENTS
I. A PUFF OF POWDER
II. A FRUITLESS CHASE
III. "HURRAH FOR LIBERTY!"
IV. ON DUTY
V. A GREAT NAME
VI. DOWN THE RIVER
VII. OLD BERKS' NEWS
VIII. THE ROAD TO BOSTON
IX. IN THE ENEMY'S HANDS
X. LOST
XI. CLOSE QUARTERS
XII. A NEST OF TORIES
XIII. A SERIOUS DILEMMA
XIV. ON BOARD THE VIXEN
XV. A FRIEND IN NEED
XVI. A DASH FOR LIBERTY
XVII. A SAFE PORT
XVIII. TROUBLED TIMES
XIX. "SACHEM"
XX. PAUL REVERE'S RIDE
XXI. ALONG THE RIVER
XXII. "ON TO LEXINGTON"
XXIII. THE FIRST SKIRMISH
XXIV. BROUGHT TO BOOK
XXV. THE BATTLE OF CONCORD
XXVI. SPOILS OF WAR
XXVII. IN CAMP
XXVIII. BOSTON AT LAST
XXIX. THE OLD WAREHOUSE
XXX. BUNKER HILL
XXXI. A MESSAGE FROM CONCORD
XXXII. A NOTABLE EXPLOIT
XXXIII. CONCLUSION
THE MUSKET BOYS OF OLD BOSTON
CHAPTER I
A PUFF OF POWDER
"That's a queer proceeding, Phil."
"I should say so. Why, Andy, what is the fellow up to?"
"Let's watch and find out. Here, dodge down behind this bush out of
sight."
Puff!
"Gunpowder!" declared Phil Warrington in a thrilling whisper. "There,
the fellow has turned around. He is running away. I say, Andy, I know
him!"
"You know him, Phil?"
"Yes, he is the same boy I told you about this morning. See, there is
the long-tailed muskrat cap I described to you. See it is certainly
the mysterious boy who startled me so here in Concord, and who, I am
mightily certain, I met before that somewhere in Boston."
"After this boy of mystery, then!" cried Andy. "I am curious to know
the secret of all these peculiar proceedings."
The scene was wild and wintry, the time March, 1775, the place a
stretch of woods and fields just back of the famous old town of Concord.
The two boys were Phil Warrington and Andy Sabine. The former was on a
brief visit to his best friend and chum. Phil's father was a merchant
in Boston and Andy's father was a storekeeper in Concord, and the two
men were old-time friends. Andy had spent a month in Boston the year
previous, and Phil was now returning the visit. The latter had left his
home city at a time when loyalty and royalty were beginning a conflict
that had already set the country afire. Phil had brought to the excited
juveniles of the backwoods town not only the keen, snappy vigor of an
all-around intelligent lad nursed by the exhilarating, briny breezes of
the Bay, but the grim echo of the gunpowder days. Those were stirring
times, and everybody was on the tip-toe of expectation, waiting for
something to happen.
Phil belonged to a club called the Musket Boys of Boston. Its existence
dated back to the day after the famous "tea party," when some Boston
citizens, disguised as Indians, resisted the Stamp Act by throwing
a whole cargo of English tea into the waters of the Bay. Phil had
witnessed that stirring event personally, and that made him an object
of interest to every lively, patriotic lad in Concord.
Then, too, Phil was one of those boys who had formed themselves into a
committee to visit General Gage at the British headquarters in Boston,
to complain of his rude royalist soldiers. The soldiers had spoiled the
snow slides of the boys on Boston Commons out of malice, taunting them
with being "young rebels."
Whenever Phil related this incident, he stirred his manly young hearers
to deep indignation and patriotic fervor, and they voted him quite the
hero that he was.
This all led to stir up more deeply the latent spirit of resistance and
outbreak long smoldering in the bosoms of the ardent youths of Concord.
Their parents talked nothing but war, and were already organizing for
the conflict that seemed inevitable. The boys followed their example,
and many secret meetings of youthful warriors were held in Andy's barn.
They had even drilled like real full-grown soldiers. Phil was the
leader in these operations. In fact, he and Andy had just come from
target practice with the self-same muskets that they now dropped to
the ground as they arose to their feet simultaneously, after curiously
watching a boy about their own age who stood at a distance.
They had been following some rabbit tracks across the snow when Andy
Sabine uttered the remark which opens our story:
"That's a queer proceeding, Phil!"
It was decidedly an unusual spectacle that the two friends witnessed.
About a hundred yards distant the land ran up a small hill. It was
covered with light brush, except at the top, where there was a barren
space. Here, clearly outlined against the dull grey sky, stood a lad
wearing a muskrat skin cap, thinly clad and shivery-looking.
The stranger, as Phil and Andy saw, had some kind of a parcel done up
in paper. This he had rested on a solitary tree stump. Then with flint
and steel he ignited some tinder he had placed across the top of the
tree stump. As this ignited, he retreated to a little distance.
The tiny flames curled around the paper, and finally there was a giant
puff. The strange boy watched the ascending smoke for a minute or two
and then pursued his way, disappearing over the crest of the hill.
"You cut around that way," directed Andy, pointing, "and run across
to him. I'll head him off at the bottom of the hill if he tries to run
away from us."
The boys had disencumbered themselves of their muskets and game bags to
brace for a dash. Phil somewhat hesitated.
"I say, Andy," he observed, nodding towards a line of low rail fencing,
"won't we be trespassing?"
"Where? when?" demanded Andy, somewhat puzzled, staring askance at his
comrade.
"That's old Jasper Bram's property, isn't it," asked Phil.
"Yes, and this, too," replied Andy. "What of it? This is not like
Boston--no trespassing around these diggings. Free as the air, Phil,
full range when a fellow wants to make a short cut or chase a rabbit."
"I don't know about that in this especial case," said Phil to himself,
with a grimace. "Andy don't quite understand our pleasant family
relations with Jasper Bram. I met the old curmudgeon once since I came
to Concord, and I don't fancy a second encounter. Here goes, though, on
a venture!" and Phil promptly started in the direction indicated by his
chum.
Two things were uppermost in Phil Warrington's mind as he made for the
hilltop--Jasper Bram and the mysterious boy he was after, the latter
first of all, in a speculative, curious sort of way.
Two nights previous Andy and his friends had held a club meeting in the
roomy loft of Mr. Sabine's old barn. They had wound up with a kind of
banquet. Phil, starting with Andy to escort their guests home, suddenly
remembered that he had left his pocket knife on the rude deal boards
that had answered for the banqueting table.
"Go on, boys, I'll catch up with you in a minute or two," Phil had
remarked, running back to the barn, which he soon reached. He clambered
to the loft, and by aid of the bright moonlight, made his way to the
table, groped for his pocket knife, secured it, and was about to leave
the place when a sound at one end of the loft caused him to turn
quickly.
Some one had mounted the sloping roof of an adjoining shed and had
pulled open a narrow wooden window. This person was a boy. He was
reaching towards a barrel on which stood some of the remnants of the
recent feast.
"Hold on, there!" irresistibly called out Phil. Then, noticing more
closely the outline of the marauder, he added: "Don't run. Take what
you want--nothing to be scared at. I say, haven't I seen you before?"
In a flash Phil had been interrupted. The stranger, a boy about his own
age, at being so startlingly hailed, had dropped a handful of doughnuts
he had grabbed. He drew back and disappeared as if by magic. Phil ran
to the window in time to see the night marauder slide the slanting shed
roof, reach the ground and flit from view beyond some garden bushes.
Like a photograph, however, there had been imprinted on his mind the
thin, starved-looking face of the boy and the peculiar muskrat skin cap
with a long tail which he wore. The picture remained vivid for a long
time, the more so as Phil puzzled himself to make out where he had seen
the boy before. He concluded, that it must have been in Boston.
"The poor fellow must have been terribly hungry," Phil had decided.
"He looked like some refugee in trouble," and Phil later recited the
incident to Andy, and revived it just now as for the second time he had
happened across the strange lad in as strange a way as on the former
occasion.
This was the first thought Phil had in his mind as he ran rapidly on.
His second thought was of Jasper Bram.
Phil had heard that name many a time long before he came to Concord.
His father had frequently mentioned it in conversation with Phil and
Mrs. Warrington. From what he had heard, Phil came to understand that
his father regarded Jasper Bram of Concord as an enemy.
Since the trouble with the British troops in Boston had begun, Mr.
Warrington had met with severe business losses. He was a strong
loyalist, and had refused to side with the English troops in the matter
of supplies in which he dealt.
One night his warehouse was set on fire in a mysterious way, and was
burned to the ground. There was no doubt in the mind of the merchant
and his patriotic friends that the British soldiers had committed this
outrage.
A few days later Phil overheard his father remark to his mother that he
was pretty nearly ruined financially by this great loss. He said, too,
that he could not see his way very clear to continue business unless he
could get money or help somewhere.
Mr. Warrington, in discussing the situation, complained bitterly of a
great business wrong done him some years before by Jasper Bram. He
alluded to trickery, robbery, and stolen documents. He said that if he
could get what Bram legally owed him he could renew business.
Phil naturally thought of all this when he came to Concord. He made
some inquiries about Jasper Bram, to find that he and his loutish son,
Greg Bram, were very generally disliked. The more so was this true
because they were designated as "regular Tories."
The day preceding Phil was coming home from the river when he stepped
out of the road to let a sled pass him. Its driver had eyed him
sharply. Phil recognized him as the person whom Andy Sabine had pointed
out to him a few days previous as Jasper Bram.
The grizzled, mean-faced old man stared hard at Phil. He drew his team
to a sharp halt.
"Hey, you!" he hailed. "What's your name?"
"My name is Warrington," replied Phil.
"Thought so. Heard you were in town, saw you were a stranger. Now
look here, you young cub," and old Bram flourished his whip in a way
so menacing, and his crafty old eyes gleamed with such furious rage,
that Phil was positively electrified--"you come sneaking around again
trying to spy on me, and I'll fill you full of shot and salt and
pepper!"
Phil's eyes flashed. The insulting tone and manner aroused him
indignantly. Only the age of his challenger prevented the youth from
saying something desperate. He controlled himself, and remarked:
"Your place? Why I don't even know where it is."
"Bah! Think I can't figure out that your father sent you here for a
purpose? Think I can't guess you to be the boy that I saw peeking in a
window of my stone shed, if you don't wear a muskrat skin cap now, as
you did then? Just you keep away from me and mine, young Paul Pry, or
you'll get a dose that will lay you up for a while."
And then with a vicious snort, and shaking his fist venomously, old
Jasper Bram drove on with the sled.
"Well! well!" the stupefied Phil had commented, staring wonderingly
after the old man, "that's a fine reception for a fellow. My father is
right, and Jasper Bram has little use for our family. A muskrat skin
cap. I never owned one. That half-starved fellow who tried to get the
food at Andy's barn must have made old Bram a visit, too."
All these varied memories and reflections darted through Phil
Warrington's mind as he now made the ascent of the hill on the land of
the man he knew to be no friend. Soon he reached the summit.
In an instant his meditative mood took flight. Real action fixed his
attention. The minute Phil came into view of the summit of the hill a
loud call rang out:
"Stop him!"
CHAPTER II
A FRUITLESS CHASE
Phil Warrington looked over the landscape to trace the source of the
echoing shout that had reached his ears. It was getting late in the
afternoon, there was no sunlight, but the snow that showed here and
there in patches and drifts dazzled his eyes somewhat.
"That's Andy's voice," declared Phil. "Ah, I see him, and the
mysterious boy, too! He's coming this way! None too soon, and he surely
did not see me."
Phil had made out Andy at quite a distance. He was pursuing the boy
who wore the muskrat skin cap. As the young Bostonian had appeared
in sight, Andy had seen and instantly recognized Phil. Not so the
fugitive. His head had been turned to ascertain if he was gaining on
his pursuer. By the time he looked in front of him again, Phil had
jumped aside to shelter himself behind a tree stump.
There was only one clear course for the fugitive to take. This lay
across the crest of the hill right up to where Phil had secreted
himself. There a shallow ravine, all choked up with bushes, cut the
landscape. The fugitive might here run down the slant which Phil had
just ascended, or he might continue along the plateau, and, passing
near to the Bram farmhouse, come out on the regularly-used country road.
Phil posed so as to be ready for prompt and decisive action the instant
the fugitive neared him. The latter was a splendid runner, and he
easily outdistanced Andy. For all that, however, he did not let up on
his rapid rate of speed. He came on, panting heavily, and as he neared
the tree stump made a movement that showed to Phil that he was going
to cut to the left. As he did so, he cast a quick glance backwards
to ascertain the nearness of his pursuer. That was Phil's chance. He
arose erect as if on springs and with a swift glide ran right into the
path of the fugitive. The latter, turning his head forward again, did
not have time to dodge aside. He ran squarely into Phil's outstretched
arms, and the Boston boy grappled with him.
"Got you!" said Phil. "Look here--"
Thump!
The force of the collision sent both of the boys flat to the hard,
frozen ground. At first Phil was under. Then a brief roll direct to
the edge of the ravine brought him uppermost. He threw the arms of his
captive outspread, holding them firmly pinioned in that position, and
stared keenly into his face.
"Let me go," panted the fugitive. "You have no right--"
"Why," fairly shouted Phil. For the first time at Concord this close to
the mysterious youth, memory and recognition flashed vividly amongst
his varied thoughts. "I know you now. I remember you perfectly."
The boy under him uttered a desperate cry. He was like some hunted,
trapped animal.
"Let me loose," he cried, "let me loose, I say!"
"You're the fellow we snow-balled for carrying water into the British
camp," declared Phil, in an excited tone. "You're the Tory boy of
Boston Common!"
"Suppose I am?" fairly shouted the boy, quivering all over with
emotion. "You're not my master. Let me go--I'm no Tory. Let go, I
say! That other fellow is coming. I'm as good a patriot as you. It's
dangerous for me to be around here. I won't be held down this way!"
"No you don't!" said Phil, tightening his grip as his fugitive
writhed, uttering incoherent words and gasps.
"Yes I do!"
"Whew!" cried Phil "you've done it, I declare. The mischief!"
His captive had speedily turned the tables. Massing all his strength,
which Phil suddenly learned was of no mean quality, the fugitive had
wriggled hard, twisting his arm with a maneuver that made Phil's wrists
fairly crack. Then, slipping from under, as Phil from sheer pain
relaxed his grip, the boy gave him a push and sent him over the ravine
headlong.
Phil did not fall far, for the chasm was not deep. He rather slipped
over the tops of some snow-crested bushes, his head hit a strong
branch, which made him see stars for an instant, and then he came to a
halt, nestled in the centre of intermingled bushes and vines.
All sight of the upper world was now shut out, and the mysterious boy
was blotted from view. Phil tried to right himself instantly.
"Ouch!" he cried, as he seized a vine pendant from above. "Ouch! ouch!"
he repeated, as he rustled about. Then he raised his voice loudly:
"Andy! Andy! Help! Help!"
"Halloa!" came ringing back to him. "Halloa!" nearer the responsive
challenge echoed.
Phil was content to sit still and await the arrival of help. He was in
no pleasant position. The network of vines and bushes enclosing him
seemed set everywhere with spiky thorns, so that to try to pull himself
out of the pit would be to lacerate his hands and riddle his clothing.
Finally there was the sound of violent breathing, and Andy Sabine
leaned over the edge of the ravine and peered down.
"So there you are!" remarked Andy grimly.
"Yes, here I am," responded Phil, "and in no pleasant fix, I can tell
you. Say, Andy, what of the boy?"
"Oh, he's slipped us for good," announced Andy. "Last I saw of him he
was running like a whitehead. He's got beyond the grove and out of
sight, and shouldn't wonder if he was going yet. I thought I saw old
Jasper Bram running after him through a break in the trees, but maybe I
was mistaken. Anyhow, we won't catch him this time. Why don't you climb
out?"
Phil with a wry grimace explained why he did not climb out of the
ravine. Andy went hunting for a long tree branch, lowered it, and Phil
with a few scratches and rips in his clothing finally gained solid
ground again.
"Well, what are we going to do now?" he asked, with a sigh of relief.
"Go after our guns and get back home, I reckon," replied Andy.
Phil straightened out his disarranged clothing and picked some thorn
points from his wrists. Then they started away from the spot together.
"I say, Andy," observed Phil, after a thoughtful spell, "coming face to
face with that fellow we chased, I find I know him."
"Aha!" nodded Andy, looking curious, "is that so?"
"Yes, it's been bothering me ever since the night he appeared at your
barn. I got close to him just now."
"Should say you did," smiled Andy.
"And I recognized him all in a flash."
"Who is he anyway?"
"A Tory."
"Well! well! Sure of it?"
"I ought to be," asserted Phil, "no mistake about that breed of cats in
old Boston town. There's mighty few Tory boys in Boston, for even when
parents lean that way the young fellows side with us. So, when we found
a boy a turncoat to the colonies, we just marked him."
"As how, now?" inquired Andy.
"Well, if it was at school, we made life miserable for him. On the
streets it was generally a crowd fight, for the corners flocked
together and the best side won. This boy we just chased I remember
perfectly now. He used to carry drinking water around to the British
soldiers when they were fixing up their barracks."
"For pay, of course? Maybe he had to take the first job he could lay
his hands to, so he might keep flesh on his bones. He's starved-looking
enough," said Andy.
"A job from the Tories!" cried Phil with indignation. "Why, we'd tar
and feather one of our crowd if he so much as carried a message for
those impudent, roystering redcoats."
"Well don't get mad about it," said the easy-going Andy. "This boy was
one of the Tory crowd. Why isn't he with them now, I wonder?"
"That's it--that's just it," commented Phil excitedly. "What is he
doing here at Concord, and acting like some mysterious spy, too? I
suppose you'll admit that these are times when a good lot of trickery
is going on, as you well know, Andy Sabine. What's more, look at that
funny freak of his with the paper of gunpowder. Signals? Experiments?
Gunpowder!" pronounced Phil very seriously. "It's in the air everywhere
just now, and the word means mischief."
"What would the boy be spying on here?" inquired Andy.
"That's what we ought to try and find out," answered Phil forcibly.
"Here we find him, too, right on the land of old Jasper Bram, a Tory
himself. Oh, say, this all means something, you just bet, Andy Sabine."
"Hello!" was Andy's vociferous answer and interruption at that same
time, and he stood stock still, staring down at the ground.
They had reached the spot where they had hidden behind the bushes to
watch the boy that had sent aloft that puzzling puff of gunpowder
smoke. A disturbing discovery confronted them.
Here they had left their hunting traps, and now muskets and game-bags
had disappeared.
CHAPTER III
"HURRAH FOR LIBERTY!"
Phil and Andy were very much dismayed at the discovery of the
disappearance of their hunting traps. Every boy in Concord who owned a
gun was proud of the fact. Lately this sentiment had grown deeper than
usual, for the feeling of war in the air, the constant drilling of the
local militia, the target practice of the juvenile clubs, had brought
firearms to the front in a vivid way.
"Well, this is a nice fix, isn't it?" Andy was the first to remark.
"Some one has stolen our muskets, that is sure," said Phil.
"Perhaps some of our crowd are playing a trick on us."
"It doesn't look that way," replied Phil, who had glanced sharply in
every direction. "See here, Andy."
Phil pointed to a spot where the snow was much disturbed. Then he
started along a trail that showed red and plain on the snow-crusted
earth surface.
"Why!" exclaimed Andy. "It looks as if there had been a terrible
scrimmage right where we left the musket. And this--why, Phil, this is
blood!"
"Yes," nodded Phil, reflectively regarding the ground. "Some one has
been hurt or wounded, that is sure," and he started forward, guided
by occasional drops of blood in the snow. These soon ceased entirely.
The boys returned to the spot from which their hunting traps had
disappeared.
Phil took the situation seriously, trying to surmise what had occurred.
Andy was entirely nonplussed, but his comrade moved restlessly about,
studying the ground. Soon Phil made a new discovery.
"Some one with a cane or round-ended stick has been around here, Andy,"
he announced.
"What makes you think so, Phil?"
"See those round marks in the snow? Ah, they're a sure trail. They lead
that way. Come on, this is worth following up."
"Why, Phil," said Andy, his eyes suddenly brightening. "I guess who
made those marks. They're no tracks."
"What are they then?"
"Old Silas Berks' wooden leg. See, just a stride length apart, even and
regular. Yes, Silas has been here. What makes it sure, is that the
marks lead right over the hill in the direction of his house."
"Do you mean the queer old fellow who came up to the barn to see us
drill?" inquired Phil.
"Exactly, the old soldier who was in the French and Indian War. That's
where he lost his leg, you know."
"Why, he wouldn't be so unfriendly as to steal our guns."
"Certainly not, but I believe he knows all about their disappearance.
We'll go right to his cabin and inquire, anyway."
After crossing two rises in the landscape the boys came to the river,
and in sight of a hut near its banks. The rude log cabin was a novelty.
Cord wood piled quite high like a stockade surrounded the immediate
plot of ground upon which the structure stood. There was an open
space like a gateway, and the boys entered the little enclosure. Andy
hammered at the door of the cabin.
"Hurrah for liberty--zip! biff! boom!" shrieked a strident voice.
Phil was startled and astonished. Before he could question Andy,
however, a chorus of cackling, clucking, and an immense flutter as
of birds, mingled inside of the hut with the strange shout that had
greeted them at their arrival.
"Silas don't seem to be at home," decided Andy, as the door did not
open.
"Someone is in there," said Phil.
"No, that welcome was Silas' parrot. He is the greatest man you ever
met for having pets. He has some homing pigeons that are famous. Wonder
where he can be?"
"There's someone," said Phil, and just then a plodding but wiry figure
appeared through the gateway.
"Present arms!" cried old Silas Berks, giving a military salute to the
boys. "Glad to see you. Just been looking for you."
"I say, Mr. Berks," interrupted Andy eagerly, "have you seen anything
of our guns?"
"Certainly I have, lad," replied the veteran, with a pleased grin. "I
have them. That's why I was searching for you."
"How did you come to get them?"
"Shoulder arms!" explained Berks in triumphant tones. "That was Greg
Bram, the young villain. Aha, there he was as I came up, a musket and
a game bag on either arm. I'd seen you two in the distance, and knew
the trappings. 'Company halt,' says I, and young Bram snickers in my
face. 'Trespasser,' says he, 'it'll cost 'em something to redeem these
fixings.' 'Trespassers, nothing, you young thief, you've robbed my
traps and shot at my homing doves. You'll rob two honest lads, too,
will you?' I unstrapped my belt and larrupped him good and sound. He
got one wallop that bloodied his nose and went off snivelling as to
how he'd get even. Ready--fire!--Pop! If the young villain ever comes
nosing around here to make trouble, I'll turn old Tom loose on him, now
I will."
"Old Tom" was an old-fashioned cannon planted just outside of the door
of the cabin. There were other warlike tokens scattered about the one
living room of the hut. Phil noted these with interest. There were
several muskets, some swords, a couple of tomahawks and some smaller
weapons, mementoes of old Silas' warlike experience in the war with the
French and Indians.
"I brought your traps here," proceeded the veteran, "and went looking
for you, knowing you must be somewhere around. Thought I saw you in the
distance, over towards Bram's. I got to looking closer, though, and
the two I finally made out was old Bram and a boy. The old skeesicks
had the boy's arms strapped to his sides and was pulling him in the
direction of his house."
"Say," broke in Andy excitedly, "what kind of a boy was he?"
Silas described the lad the best he could from having seen him at a
distance.
Phil and Andy exchanged meaning glances. They took up their hunting
traps, and after thanking Silas for his trouble in their behalf started
from the hut.
"Seems to me I heard you come from Boston?" observed the old veteran to
Phil with an inquisitive look.
"That's right, Mr. Berks," answered Phil promptly.
"Going back soon?" pressed the old man, his bright restless eyes
sparkling with the interest and vim he put into everything he said or
did.
"I think in a day or two," said Phil.
"You're going back to lively times then, young man, lively times,"
repeated the old war veteran with a serious shake of the head. "Andy,
look here."
The old man made a whistling kind of noise with his lips, and from a
dove cote overheard some half a dozen pigeons came flocking down to
his feet. Berks reached into a grain measure standing on a bench and
scattered some feed to the friendly pigeons.
"Mates in Boston, Andy," said Silas, with a very solemn stare. "I'm an
old soldier, lads, and I can read the signs of the times. For instance,
I shouldn't wonder, no matter how soon one of those Boston carriers
came sailing down into the cote here. A dove with a message under its
wing, see? Keep on drilling your squad, Andy, lad, only when that
message comes--Attention, company! Sleep light, lad, and when a certain
thing happens, day or night, you'll know it by that old field piece of
mine."
Silas pointed to the rusty old cannon, and Andy looked startled and
impressed.
"As how, now, Mr. Berks?" he inquired in an eager tone.
"When old Tom barks," answered the veteran Indian fighter, "you may
know that something serious had broken loose in Boston."
"Yes, Mr. Berks, and then?" pressed Andy in an intense tone.
"Then," answered old Silas sententiously--"Shoulder arms!"
"Hurrah for liberty!" added the parrot, from inside the hut.
CHAPTER IV
ON DUTY
"Well!" ejaculated Andy Sabine, as soon as they were out of hearing of
the queer old man who had returned to them their stolen hunting traps.
Both Andy and Phil were considerably stirred up by the happenings
of the last few minutes. If old Berks had dealt in hints, they were
certainly strong ones. His forcible remarks had increased their
patriotic fervor, already at high heat with his young friends. Andy
acted as excitedly as if the first gun had been fired and he was
anxious to start right off to meet the enemy.
"Tell you what," say Phil thoughtfully, "that wise old veteran ought to
know what he is talking about, and probably could tell a good deal more
if he wanted to. Of course, everybody thinks as he does,--if there is
going to be any trouble, it will begin at Boston. I want to be there
when it comes, Andy, if it is only to be near the folks, and I believe
I will start away from Concord sooner than I had planned."
"I wish I was going with you, Phil," said Andy in a longing tone. "Your
Musket Boys will smell the first powder. My! it would be exciting to be
right in the midst of so much bustle, not knowing how soon a company of
militia might come dashing down the street sweeping everything before
them. Hold on, what are you heading that way for? Aren't we going home?"
Phil had led the course across the hills in the direction of the road
running by the farmhouse of Jasper Bram. This meant quite a wide
detour from the direct route homeward. But Phil had a purpose in the
digression.
"I was thinking of the mysterious boy," he explained to his comrade,
"and I don't feel like leaving all of our guessing and running go for
nothing. He may be going back to Boston some time. There he was a Tory.
Why mayn't he be acting for them here in some secret way? I'd like to
know. Mr. Berks said he saw him a prisoner of Jasper Bram."
"Don't that look queer? Both Tories? I should think they would be
friends, he and old Bram, both being of the same stripe," observed Andy.
"Yes, it looks puzzling, so I am going to try and fathom the mystery,"
replied Phil seriously. "There's the Bram farmhouse. We'll skirt it as
near as we dare and see what's going on."
"Something is going on right now!" declared Andy suddenly. "What's up I
wonder?"
At a break in the hills they came within a few hundred yards of the
house where Jasper Bram lived. In front of it was a horse, and into its
saddle a boy had just climbed.
"That is Greg Bram," said Andy, peering attentively.
"And that's his father," added Phil.
The old man was gesticulating as if he were very much excited. He
pointed to a stone shed back of the house and then in the direction of
the town, and finally struck the horse that Greg rode a vigorous slap
on the flank that sent the animal forward like an arrow.
All the time the boys had been approaching nearer to the house. Their
glance was now transferred to the stone shed behind the house, and
fixed there. It was a low, strong structure with a heavy wooden door,
and had windows crossed with iron bars. At one of these could be seen
the figure of some one within, beating at the bars with a thick club
and then trying to pry them apart.
"That's our friend with the muskrat skin cap," said Andy. "He is a
prisoner in there and is trying to break out. He can't make it. He has
given it up."
"No, he hasn't," corrected Phil, a minute later, while they kept
advancing closer and closer to the scene. "He is putting shavings,
splinters and kindling wood in the embrasure."
"Aha!" cried Andy--"He has set the place on fire! See there, Phil, he
is trying to make his way to liberty by burning out the wooden window
sash."
Old Jasper Bram had gone into the house and Phil and Andy had ventured
to cross his domain from the road. They were less than a hundred feet
from the farmhouse when Bram came out of it. The old man was making for
the stone shed and had quite reached it, when he started back with a
wild yell of the most positive excitement and alarm.
Turning, he started a wild run--not into the house, nor near it, but
squarely away from it--his face ashen and working with fear. His arms
were thrown upwards in a sort of a desperate terror and his breath came
in quick gasps. Thus, running, he nearly collided with Phil and Andy.
He did not seem to recognize them, but shouted out.
"Run--run for your lives! It's doom, it's
death--blown--to--a--thousand pieces!"
The boys just caught the echo of his disjointed sentences. Bram never
halted nor looked to see if they were following him. He acted like a
person bereft of his reason. Over a rise in the landscape he dashed and
disappeared.
"Well, this is sensational enough," exclaimed Andy. "Now, what does it
all mean?"
"It means one thing we must see to," declared Phil, hurrying towards
the stone shed. "That boy in there has started quite a blaze. He must
be about choked with the smoke. We must get him out of there."
"To bolt again--to leave us in a more puzzling fix than ever?" demanded
Andy. "No sir-ree! Let him out if you like, but not until I am right
behind you, ready to grab the slippery fellow before he plays us
another jumping-jack trick."
"Hey!" shouted Phil, halting in front of the burning window frame.
A human face wavered for a moment in the wreaths of smoke clouding the
aperture.
"Let me out!" shouted a voice in muffled tones. "Let me out, quick!"
Phil went around to the single door of the shed. It was stoutly secured
by a hasp and padlock. Phil picked up a big stone and smashed the
padlock. Then he pulled open the door.
"Come out, quick!" he cried.
Andy had placed his gun against an old box. With his arms outspread
he posed to seize the refugee when he should appear. There was no
necessity for haste or violence, however, for with the opening of
the door a great cloud of smoke floated out, enveloping a form which
struggled past it--the mysterious boy. He was staggering and gasping
and rubbing his smoke-blinded eyes.
"Thanks," he said, rather faintly. "I'll never try that again--thanks."
The speaker tottered against the outside wall of the shed for support
and leaned there weakly, getting back his breath and his wits. Then
suddenly he straightened up and peered towards the house and all around
it in a scared sort of way.
"I--I must get away from here, and--thanks," he spoke for the third
time in a strained and embarrassed tone of voice.
"Hold on," ordered Andy, firmly planting himself in front the refugee
and seizing his arm.
The lad shrank and turned a white pallor. Phil, studying him, saw
the old hunted, desperate expression he had noted on two previous
occasions come back into the wan, starved-looking face.
"What do you want of me?" the unknown lad asked of Andy.
"What do we want?" repeated Andy, purposely blustering. "That's a fine
question to ask after all the bother and mystery you've made for us. We
want to know a lot, and you've got to tell it."
"Easy, Andy, gently now," directed Phil. Then, turning kindly and
courteously to the refugee, he said:
"We first want to give you a good meal--you look as if you needed it."
The boy's face, for a moment lightened by Phil's gracious words, grew
sad again and he spoke with a dry, choking little laugh.
"I'm hungry enough," he said, but casting the old scared glance all
about him added hastily: "I can't stay around here! Not a moment--not a
single moment! Don't stop me."
"You can't go!" shouted Andy, catching and imprisoning both of the
boy's arms from behind, and thus struggling with him. "You're up to
something mysterious. These are times when every loyal Concord boy must
watch out for fellows like you--a Tory."
At that the refugee ceased struggling. He allowed himself to remain
limply in Andy's grasp, but he fixed an earnest, pleading look on Phil.
"Do you believe that?" he inquired. "But of course you do, for you
called me a Tory yourself a little while ago."
"Don't I have reason to?" asked Phil bluntly. "I saw you in Boston
working for the British soldiers."
"Yes, you did," admitted the captive.
"Then, how can you explain?"
The boy cast his eyes down, but it was quite apparent, not in shame. He
seemed thinking. Then with an uneasy start he glanced all around the
place and acted as if he would run for it on the slightest provocation.
Thinking better of it, he faced Phil in a frank, manly fashion.
"See here," he said, "you are doing wrong in keeping me here--more
wrong than you dream of. You shouldn't make me tell you what you really
have no business to know, but, if you are true blue, and I know you
must be, I'll tell you something. Let go of my arms--I won't run. Now
then, if I prove to you that I am not a Tory, do I go free?"
"Yes," said Andy promptly, and Phil gave a nod of assent.
"All right," said the refugee, as Andy freed his arms. He groped
one hand inside of his jacket and beyond it. He drew out an oilskin
package, opened it, and took from it a folded sheet of paper.
"Read it," he said, almost solemnly, "and when you have read--forget."
Andy stared eagerly at the open sheet of paper displayed. Phil, more
puzzled and curious than ever, ran his eyes over the open page. It read:
Boston, March, 1775.
All loyal colonists will give this young man, my authorized
messenger, on duty, all the assistance possible.
"Great guns!" vociferated Andy, and Phil drew back, gazing at the
refugee now with a look of admiration and respect.
For the passport,--or whatever it might be called, but at all events
official and convincing,--bore a signature that was the watchword of
obedience and fidelity for every member of the Musket Boys of Old
Boston, wherever he might be.
The paper was signed:
"JOSEPH WARREN."
CHAPTER V
A GREAT NAME
"Joseph Warren!"
That was a great name in those days. It was no wonder that the sight of
it impressed Phil and Andy. With a sort of awe they read it, and their
interest in the homeless, hunted lad who showed it to them increased
greatly.
Phil Warrington knew Dr. Warren. With a thrilling kind of pride he
recalled an encouraging word from the popular patriot one day, when he
and his comrades were drilling on a vacant city lot in Boston. Phil
felt that he was getting quite an experience as a young revolutionary
patriot.
He recalled how Gen. Gage had listened patiently to the complaints of
the serious, manly little delegation--how he had said quite earnestly
to a brother officer at his side: "These sturdy young fellows show the
mettle of their rugged sires--if there is ever any serious trouble
these people mean to fight it out."
There were three names to conjure by in Boston and its neighborhood
in those stirring days,--Joseph Warren, Samuel Adams and John Hancock.
These men were the leaders in every patriotic move of the times. They
were the men who, because of their great influence and determination,
were approached with bribes, threats and persecutions by Tory
emissaries and enemies.
Especially was Dr. Warren the idol of the patriots. In all but official
title he was practically commander in chief of the sturdy New England
"Sons of Liberty," the patiently waiting "Minute Men"--all those
earnest, enthusiastic militia organizations whom the great genius of
Gen. George Washington was so soon and successfully to merge into the
Continental Army.
Little wonder was it that Andy Sabine felt as if he was getting to be
of some importance in his little world, and that Phil felt a decided
thrill of enthusiasm at being directly concerned in an affair in which
the notable patriot, Warren, was interested.
All this was leading Phil's mind into an ever-increasing vortex of
speculation and excitement. Every day and its every event of late
seemed links in a strong chain of circumstances, all bearing more or
less on the spirit of war that was in the very air.
"That's your letter, is it?" inquired Andy in his impetuous,
irrepressible way.
Before the refugee could answer something startled him. He glanced at
a fringe of timber beyond the house. There was some movement there.
Phil made out Jasper Bram's hired man hauling cord wood on a sledge.
The strange boy seemed aroused at the proximity of others. He dodged
quickly to the rear of the stone shed, out of range of the man and
horse in the distance. Then he beckoned to Phil. In a very flustered
voice he said:
"I can't stay here. I will get into trouble if I do, but I would like
to see you again."
"Then come along with us," directed Phil. "We'll cut out of range of
these diggings across to Andy Sabine's barn."
"Go to town--in daylight!" exclaimed the strange boy in dismay. "I
don't dare to. Is that man out of sight? Yes I must get away from here.
Good-bye, and thank you. Say," added the lad, dropping his voice as a
new thought came into his mind, "You know where the old cooper shop is?"
"Down the river, yes," nodded Phil.
"I'll be there until after dark to-night."
"I'll come and see you there before dark," said Phil.
The fugitive sped away at this. He cast many a furtive look about
him as he did so. Bram's hired man was now shut out from view by
intervening hills, but the runner never relaxed his speed and went over
a rise in the landscape like a fleet hare bounding for cover.
"H'm!" observed Andy, approaching his friend. "On the jump again, eh?
He's a lively one. What did you let him go for?"
"What right have we to stop him?" submitted Phil mildly--"Especially
after that document he showed us."
"That's so, but it's--it's worrying!" cried Andy in a desperate sort of
a way. "What was he saying to you, Phil?"
"Oh, he is to see us later," explained Phil.
"Good!" vociferated Andy eagerly--"when? where?"
"That's all arranged. That passport of his calls on all loyal patriots
to assist him when possible. So I think the first thing for us to do is
to get up a roaring good meal for him, and carry it to his hideout."
"Oh, he has a hideout, then, has he?" persisted the inquisitive Andy.
"Yes, and we are to meet him there about dusk."
Phil and Andy got some water from the well and put out the smoking
window frame in the shed, and reached home without any further
adventures. There was a good deal that was inexplicable in the
occurrences of the afternoon, but they trusted to later expected
developments to clear the situation. Andy had free range at home, and
within an hour the chums were on the march again. They carried with
them a basket well filled with eatables.
The old cooper shop was a landmark of Concord. It had once been a grist
mill, but now in moderate weather was used as a work shop by an old
villager, who made kegs, barrels and vats. It was a good hiding place
in winter, for it was not much in use except during the warm months of
the year.
The boys crossed the bridge over the river. That stream was open. Ponds
and ditches had frozen up, but the river showed clear water and a
steady current, with occasional floating cakes of ice.
It was getting on towards dusk when Phil and Andy reached the old mill.
It had windows supplied with wooden bars and a great high door. The
latter they found closed.
"Hello, inside there!" shouted Andy, knocking vigorously on the stout
planking. Phil whistled sharply once or twice. The door ran in a
groove. It was rolled open about a foot.
"It's us," announced Phil, as a cautious head protruded.
"Oh, all right," answered the strange boy. "Squeeze in quick. Look
around first though, will you? Weren't followed? Didn't see anybody
lurking about, did you?" he inquired quite anxiously.
"For a fact, we didn't think about it," replied Andy. "What are you
afraid of, neighbor, anyhow?"
"Seems, nothing--I am," replied the boy soberly enough. "Principally, I
am afraid of Jasper Bram."
"Knows you, does he?" interrogated Andy.
"Only too well--he and his brother, and that son of his, Greg. I've
kept out of his clutches so far. I wouldn't like to get into them now,
just as I am going away from here with my work done."
"What work?" projected Andy forcibly, his eager soul in his face, his
eyes sparkling with animation.
The strange boy gave him a keen and then a meditative glance. He
seemed studying seriously some difficult problem in his mind. Phil
saw that he was troubled. The Boston youth, who was a natural leader
of boys, understood that they were dealing with a lad in a strained
position, his nerves all on edge, filled with alarm, on the perpetual
jump and go, and might be scared off the track again by a suspicious
word or an impulse of timidity.
"See here!" cried Phil--heartily, swinging the basket in his hand,
"never mind Jasper Bram, just now. You take a good solid feed, and then
do your talking if you want to."
The face of the strange boy changed quickly. His hungry eyes darted at
the basket with avidity. He led the way into a small compartment where
there were working benches and boxes to sit on.
There was just enough of the sunset light left to allow the boys to see
one another. The strange lad acted embarrassed as Phil made a spread of
the wholesome, substantial food brought from the Sabine larder. Then as
his eyes ranged over the mince pie, cold pork and beans, half chicken,
and some nicely buttered brown bread, they filled with tears.
"Thanks," was all he could say in a choked, sobbing tone.
"That's four times you've said it," rallied Andy brusquely. "Once will
do. Nice fellow you are, hanging around half-famished, when the club
would have treated you like a prince after a sight of that passport of
yours."
"I can't show it to everybody, you know," murmured the boy.
"If you had shown it to us before you did, we would have made it easy
sledding for you here at Concord," declared Andy heartily. "Now you
have shown it to us, suppose you enlighten us as to a few points that
are burning me up with curiosity."
"Let a fellow eat, won't you, Andy?" admonished Phil, and he drew Andy
to one side under the pretence of showing him an old cooperage tool
lying on a bench, so as to afford the strange boy a chance to eat in
comfort.
"Say, he was hungry, wasn't he, now!" whispered Andy.
"He acts it, I should say," responded Phil, who tried to relieve
any embarrassment on the part of the boy by keeping up a casual
conversation with Andy. The strange lad made him feel sad and glad
both at the same time,--glad to see him enjoy his meal, sad to realize
from the way he partook of the same that the poor wayfarer must have
been half-starved to death.
"That was good, I tell you!" finally exclaimed the boy in a tone of
mingled contentment and gratitude.
"And, now what is the next best thing we can do for you?" inquired Andy
impetuously, hot on the trail of information.
"You can do something for me, for a fact," spoke the boy seriously, and
he looked out of the window across the dreary landscape and down at the
river in a doubtful way. "I don't want to risk staying here any longer
than I have to, so I won't take up much of your time. My name is Burt
Noble."
"Glad to know you," nodded Andy airily. "Wanted to know you before, but
you wouldn't come close enough to hand."
"I'll explain that," went on Burt Noble, still seriously, and taking no
notice of Andy's flippancy. "You can guess that I am no Tory from that
passport. Dr. Warren knows me and trusts me. It came right, and it was
right for me to find out what the Britishers were up to, and that was
why I seemed training with the Gage troops in Boston."
"We understand," nodded Phil encouragingly.
"Did you come down here to find out something for Dr. Warren, too?"
questioned Andy boldly.
"Why, yes, in a way," answered Burt with directness. "I had some
private business of my own to attend to, and it all seemed to fit in
together."
"Jasper Bram, your secrecy, that puff of powder!"--began Andy. "Oh, say
by the way--that puff of powder, what was the mystery of that maneuver?
And say too," added Andy with accumulating excitement, "that fire in
Bram's stone shed. Old Jasper ran from it yelling out something about
'being blown to a thousand pieces.' Why--say, why?"
"Because he thought there was danger of being blown to a thousand
pieces," replied Burt Noble, with a faintly humorous smile on his face.
"How was that, now?" persisted Andy.
"He believed that down in the cellar of the shed there was enough
gunpowder to blow the whole farm to atoms."
Andy looked "stumped," and Phil was interested and startled.
"Bram ought to know if it was so," murmured Andy.
"He thought he did," said Burt. "Yes, Jasper Bram had reason to believe
that there were four kegs of gunpowder under the stone shed."
"Four kegs of powder!" shouted Andy.
"Yes."
"What in the world was Jasper Bram doing with all that ammunition?"
cried Andy in sheer bewilderment.
Burt Noble did not reply for a moment or two. He looked anxious,
undecided and thoughtful. Phil read correctly from his intelligent,
expressive face that he was debating within himself how much he should
tell them. Finally Burt said:
"If I can't trust good fellows like you whom I know to be true-blue
fellows, whom can I trust? Here's the whole story in brief. As you
must guess, I have been trying to help Dr. Warren by keeping tab on
the doings and plans of the Britishers. I don't like the sound of the
word spy, but, if it fits me, all right, it's in a glorious cause,
isn't it? I don't know whether you know it or not, but Gen. Gage has
been getting ready for a long time to crush out liberty at one sudden,
powerful blow. They haven't been working in Boston only. They have had
emissaries out all through the colonies, in little towns, sending them
information and ready to act as soon as the word is given."
"How do you mean?" inquired the intensely interested Andy, his eyes as
big as saucers.
"Well, for one thing a lot of Tories have been buying up all the
ammunition they could find. I suppose you know what it would mean if
war began, with all our military stores seized or destroyed by the
Britishers."
"Whew!" whistled Andy in a long-continued series of trills. "I guess I
begin to understand! I heard my father talking something about that."
"I found out that Peter Bram, at Farmington, who is a brother of
Jasper Bram, was making a regular business of going around secretly
and forming little parties of Tories to help in the general scheme,"
proceeded Burt. "I left Boston to sort of look up Peter Bram on my own
account, too. He was away from town, so I came on here to Concord,
hoping to find what I wanted from Jasper Bram. Well, I discovered that
he had been driving around the country--or had sent that precious son
of his, Gregory, visiting stores and buying up powder and shot. That
sent me on the trail of doing some good work for my country. Jasper
Bram knows me, yes, indeed he does," continued Burt, with a serious
shake of the head. "He can hold me, too, if he catches me. He nearly
caught me snooping around his house. He did catch me, for a fact,
to-day, as you know."
"What has he got against you--what power has he over you?" inquired
Phil, somewhat puzzled.
"Why, he knows that I am a bound boy--a runaway apprentice from his
brother, Peter Bram."
"Oh, is that so?"
"And he sent Greg lickety-switch to town to get a constable to take me
in charge. That would mean going back into the old slave life with that
cruel brother of his."
"What about the powder, though--get to that!" urged the impatient Andy.
"Simply this," replied Burt quickly: "Jasper Bram gathered up four kegs
of it, and had it stored in the cellar of the stone shed--a ready-made
arsenal for the Britishers, if they ever got so far as Concord in their
raids. Even if they never used it at all, it was so much out of the way
of us 'rebels,' you see."
"I don't wonder he was scared into fits when you set fire to the shed,"
observed Phil, "but weren't you afraid, too, of being 'blown into a
thousand pieces?'"
"Not at all," replied Burt calmly. "Jasper Bram didn't know it, but
there wasn't an ounce of powder in that cellar."
"Eh, how was that?" inquired Andy, with a stare of perplexity.
"I had removed it."
"You--you!" stammered Andy.
"Had taken it away. It took me parts of three nights to do it, without
disturbing the Brams or leaving any trace of my secret midnight
operation. Yes, that gunpowder is all safe out of the clutches of
Jasper Bram, although he little dreams it. And I tested the powder,
too, as you saw on the hilltop."
"Good! hooray! say, Burt Noble, you're a hero!" shouted the vociferous
Andy, slapping the lad enthusiastically on the shoulder. "Phil, this is
action, real and brisk. My! I wish I could do a thing like that! Burt
Noble, you're smart--yes, you're just grand!"
"I hope it all comes out right," said Burt. "There's a lot to do yet. I
think I have told you all I ought to."
"But the powder?" asked Andy. "What became of that?"
For answer Burt Noble drew a sealed envelope from his pocket. It was
getting quite dusk. He went to the end of a bench, lit a candle, and
came back to the boys.
"My orders," he explained, "were to return to headquarters and report
any discovery of importance, where it was of local interest, though,
I was also to advise a leading patriot in the vicinity. Here is a
letter," and he handed the envelope to Andy.
"Why," exclaimed the latter, peering at the superscription by the aid
of the candle--"this is addressed to my father!"
"Yes," nodded Burt. "Be very careful of it. It tells where I have
hidden the powder--where it can be found by the people who need it
worst, when the first gun is fired."
"Hello!" shouted Andy sharply just then--"that sounds like it now!"
for of a sudden at the big front door of the old mill there rang out a
vivid, echoing--
_BANG!_
CHAPTER VI
DOWN THE RIVER
Burt Noble blew out the candle quickly, but not until Phil had noticed
a keen look of alarm in his eyes. Then Burt ran to a window looking
down from the front of the building, and Phil darted to the same
opening.
"What was that?--Who is it?" asked Andy sharply.
"It's the Brams, bag and baggage," replied Phil, staring down through
the gathering gloom.
"Yes, and, Adam Woods, an officer of the law, is with them."
"And two others!" added Burt Noble in a gasp. "Oh, I feared this! I
shouldn't have come back here. At least, I shouldn't have stayed."
Burt had run to one side window and then to another. Then he backed to
a bench and stood wavering undecidedly, and evidently frightened.
Phil had followed his movements quickly. He also glanced out of the two
side windows in turn just as Burt had done. On the ground at the south
side of the mill was Bram's hired man. He was armed with a musket, and
was looking up at the old building.
On the north side of the building, evidently keeping guard in that
direction, was a man whom Phil recognized as one of the town watchmen.
"They have got a big log in front there," said Burt. "There they go
again! They are trying to break down the front door. I guess they have
got me this time."
"Not yet," declared Andy with vim, his eyes snapping with excitement.
"Warrant, due process of law, and all that, eh? The old Tory
curmudgeon! trying to get you into his clutches and shut you up as
his slave, and shut you out from doing your duty by the country he
hates! That's his game, is it? Well, it won't work. We're just going to
circumvent them."
"I am afraid it is hopeless," said Burt. "Bram has a right to arrest me
as a runaway."
"Come here for a minute, Phil," came from Andy, paying no attention to
Burt's last words.
There came another tremendous bang at the door down stairs. Andy
whispered something rapidly to Phil.
"Come on, Burt Noble," said Phil. "Go ahead, Andy. Hold those fellows
in check as long as you can."
"You see they saw the light," observed Burt. "I feared being traced
here. After I left you this afternoon I noticed Jasper Bram's hired man
watching me from a clump of trees. Later he passed the old mill here.
He has told Bram and the officers."
"Never mind. They won't get you just yet," Phil promised confidently.
"Follow me quietly. You do your part, Andy."
"Rest assured I will!" announced Andy, descending the stairs.
As Phil and Burt passed him on their way to the rear of the place, Andy
stepped on a big bench and pulled open a little window about ten feet
from the ground.
"Hey you!" he hailed to Bram, his son Greg and the officers outside,
who poised a heavy tree log on their shoulders, ready to make a run for
the door.
"Come out of that!" shouted Jasper Bram, dropping his end of the
impromptu battering ram and waving his arms excitedly up at Andy.
"We've got you--oh, pshaw!"
Here he recognized Andy. His face fell, while that of Andy broke into a
tantalizing grin.
"What's all this rumpus about, anyhow?" demanded Andy.
"Don't let him fool you!" shouted Greg Bram to the officers. "It isn't
so cozy in that old barn of a place that Andy Sabine would shut himself
in. The other fellow is in there, too. Make him come out--make Andy
tell."
"See here, Andy Sabine," spoke up the town officer, trying to look and
act dignified and important, "I suppose you know that it's a pretty
serious offense obstructing the majesty of the law?"
"Why, I am obstructing nothing," declared Andy innocently.
"You be!" shouted old Bram. "You've shut us out. Come down and open
that door, or it will be the worse for you."
"I didn't lock the door. Huh! what have I got to do with your old
door!" exclaimed Andy, in right royal indignation.
"Well, the boy we're after did. You're harboring him. Do you know what
harboring a criminal means in the eyes of the law, young man?" demanded
the town officer.
"Bosh!" cried down Andy, "get in the best way you can. I'm not around
opening doors for people."
Andy shut the window with a slam, for he had parleyed with and delayed
the enemy to some purpose. Of this Andy was apprised by a low whistle
sounding from a distant part of the structure. It was an agreed signal
with Phil Warrington, and Andy now felt very independent and fearless.
Meantime Phil had led Burt Noble to a lower floor of the old mill, in
pursuance with a suggestion of the clever and quick-witted Andy. Phil
had been in the building several times since his arrival in Concord
during the desultory rambling excursions along the river, and what he
did not know about the place Andy had told him.
A section of the building reached out over the water. Its floor at
this place was covered with a movable wooden grating. There was still
light enough, as the boys reached this, for Phil and his companion to
discover outlines. Phil pulled the grating up and tilted it against the
side of the room.
"Now then, Burt Noble," he said briskly, "can you swim?"
Burt glanced down at the watery pit below, fed from the river, and at
the stream itself, chill and uninviting and carrying frequent ice-cakes
on its surface. He shivered, smiling, but quite anxiously.
"I can swim," he replied, "but I don't care about trying it in that
ice-water bath."
"You don't have to," said Phil. "I asked the question incidentally.
Only, if you should happen to duck down or get under, why, I'd feel
easier to know that you could reach shore."
"Duck down? get under?" repeated Burt in a puzzled way. "Why, how do
you mean?"
"You've got to get out of this, haven't you?" demanded Phil.
"I should say so."
"Well, this is the only route," proceeded Phil, pointing down into
the water runway. "Look down closer. See a big tub there, almost a
hogshead?"
"Yes, I see it!" answered Burt, staring dubiously.
"Well, we are going to barrel you up in it and send you adrift."
"Barrel me up?" repeated the astounded refugee.
"Just that, and trust to luck that the floating tub will not be noticed
by the man watching out at the south end of the mill."
The big tub below was an immense affair. It was partially filled with
ice which bore it down about half its depth. Its use at present had
been suggested to Andy through a memory of former swimming exploits in
this same vicinity. Phil slanted a board until it rested on the level
ice in the tub.
"Slide down," he directed. "Stoop, when you land. Then I'll lower one
of these round covers. It will be loose, and you will have plenty of
air. You can even look out. I will climb down the rafters, and with
that pole yonder help you out into the river. Stay aboard until you
pass the bend in the stream. Then land, and make for Andy's house. You
know where that is?"
"Oh, yes," responded Burt, "but I don't think I had better go there."
"What--not among friends? Why not?"
"Because the Brams will hunt me out. No," said Burt seriously, "I am
through with my work in Concord, and I had better get back to Boston."
"All right, you know best," said Phil, "only, move briskly, for those
men in front may break in at any moment. And here," continued Phil
drawing some silver from his pocket, "take that."
"Oh, see here--" remonstrated Burt.
"It will help out on your route home. If the trifle worries you--wish I
had more--call it a loan until you get on your feet."
"You're right good fellows, both of you!" said Burt, with enthusiasm
and emotion. "Wait," he added, as Phil touched his arm to urge him into
action, "I want to tell you something."
Burt drew from an inner pocket of his coat two narrow folded strips of
paper. He cast his eyes down to these as if to distinguish one from the
other. Then he selected one and handed it to Phil with the question:
"Let me ask you--is your father's name John Warrington?"
"That is right," nodded Phil, in some wonder.
"I was sure it was. Let me ask you again. Has he ever had anything
particular to do with Jasper Bram?"
"Too much, I fear, for his own good, in a business way," replied Phil
promptly.
"I don't know as this strip of paper I am giving you will be any good
to you," went on Burt, "but the singular way in which I got it made
me treasure it as maybe a--a what you might call it? yes, a clew to
something."
"But what is it, and where did you get it?" inquired Phil, made very
curious by his father's name coming up amid this strange and unusual
environment.
"It is simply a paper band marked in ink: John Warrington," explained
Burt. "I found it with a band like it marked with my own name. The
place I found it was in Jasper Bram's house."
Phil started, and all kinds of curious speculations ran rapidly through
his mind.
"At Jasper Bram's house?" he repeated. "When did you get into his
house?"
"Night before last, when they were all away to town," replied Burt.
"The truth is, I was hoping to find some papers that would tell me the
truth about the right of Peter Bram to hold me as an apprentice--hoping
to find out something about my father, who it seems disappeared when
I was a child. There is some mystery about that, about me, and the
Brams hold the key to it, I feel certain. Well," proceeded Burt, with a
sigh of disappointment, "I learned little that was of any use, through
my raid on the desk of Jasper Bram. There was a waste basket full
of old documents, torn to little bits. It looked as if old Bram had
been recently cleaning up his desk, destroying unimportant papers and
putting his affairs in order, maybe for a move, or because he knew we
were going to have a war."
"It looks that way. Go on," urged Phil eagerly.
"To me these two paper bands look as if they had held some papers that
concerned your father and myself."
"Why, it is a sure thing," declared Phil. "But if Bram has destroyed
them--"
"We don't know that. More like, if they have been of some value to him
all along, they are of value now. I think he has selected what he wants
to save, and has planted it somewhere for safety until he sees how the
trouble in the colony is going."
"This will be interesting to my father," murmured Phil, pocketing the
strip of paper. "About yourself--I shall start back for Boston in a day
or two. Be sure to come and see me."
"I surely shall," promised Burt. "Good-by, I hope these people outside
don't discover me."
At this Burt slid down the plank that Phil had lowered, and landed in
the tub. Phil tilted the board to a beam, and selected a big wooden
cover from the cooper's stock. Not much more conversation passed
between the boys. Phil had some difficulty in placing the cover on the
tub. It was not easy to hold on to the rafters, and, progressing foot
by foot, shove the tub with the pole in his hand towards the river end
of the water runway.
"Are you all right in there?" inquired Phil at last, as the tub began
to whirl.
"Right as a trivet," came the prompt reply in muffled tones.
"Good-by, then!"
"I'll see you in Boston--many thanks."
Phil gave the tub a final push, and it passed from his view, out into
the night and into the current of the fast-rolling stream.
It was then that Phil gave the signal whistle that told Andy Sabine
that the coast was clear. Phil hurried to the ground floor of the
mill and peered out of one of its south windows. He saw Jasper Bram's
hired man still on guard, with his musket, but now facing towards his
companions at the front of the structure. Phil quickly glanced towards
the river. The fast gathering darkness made him strain his gaze to make
anything out. The surface of the river was turbid and broken, and only
because he sought a definite object was he enabled to catch a fleeting
view of the floating tub that he had just sent adrift.
It moved along with ice-cakes, scarcely noticeable amid the gloom. Phil
watched it rock and drift with the current, and where the river curved
lost sight of it. Then Phil whistled again, and joined Andy near the
front door.
"Did you manage it?" inquired Andy eagerly.
"Yes. Burt is safe out of this place," reported Phil with satisfaction.
"It was a grand idea of yours, Andy. We have outwitted the enemy."
"Hear them grumble!" said Andy.
There was a great hubbub outside. Jasper Bram, his son, Greg, and the
officer were all talking together at once. Each was suggesting some
different plan to assail the stout barrier and force a way to the
interior of the old mill. Phil ended the commotion by abruptly removing
the bar to the big elm door, pushing it back, and stepping into the
midst of the attacking party, Andy promptly following him.
"Where's the other boy?" yelled Jasper Bram, with a ferocious look of
hatred at Phil.
"This is a pretty serious affair, obstructing the majesty of the law,"
began the officer, in his former poll-parrot fashion.
"Obstructing nothing!" interrupted Andy bluffly. "The door's open,
isn't it? If you're looking for any one, you had better be brisk and
find him."
"If we don't, we'll remember your share in this affair, young man!"
snarled old Bram venomously.
"You want to be quick about it, then," retorted Andy spicily. "If I
know anything about it, this town will be too hot to hold Tories of
your stripe before long. Come on, Phil, let them have their turn at the
fun, now."
The boys proceeded from the spot. As they crossed an old bridge, Phil,
who had kept a sharp lookout all along the river bank, pointed to a
place where some ice-cakes had massed in a sort of crevasse.
"There's the old cooper's tub, Andy," he remarked.
"Yes," nodded Andy complacently, peering, too. "The cover is off, so I
reckon our friend is safe and far on his way to Boston."
The chums found it pretty hard to dismiss the stirring events of that
eventful day from their minds. After supper they went out to the barn,
and held a mutual discussion over the situation. They decided to tell
everything to Mr. Sabine. Andy called his father out to the barn, and
they had an interested auditor in the "club room," in the hay loft.
Mr. Sabine rather curiously inspected, opened, and read the letter that
Burt Noble had given Andy. His eyes brightened. Then his face became
thoughtful, and he said:
"This is a big piece of work, lads. I would like to know that plucky
fellow who has put just the ammunition the cause needs into our hands.
I will have to report this to the citizens' committee at once."
Phil and Andy prepared to retire to rest at once, for they were tired
out. For a long time, however, they sat on the edge of the bed talking
about Burt Noble, the hidden gunpowder, and the events generally that
seemed to show that they were approaching the crisis of truly-spirited
times.
Phil's mind was as well taken up with the discovery of the paper band
taken from Jasper Bram's house and bearing the name of his father.
Somehow, this fitted to the remarks concerning "documents," which Mr.
Warrington had hinted Jasper Bram possessed, and which he had said
involved quite a sum of money.
"We'll have a great story to tell the club, eh, Phil?" remarked Andy.
"Of course, we can't tell about the gunpowder, but--"
"We'll be dreaming about gunpowder, if you don't turn in!" cried Phil.
"Tumble in, now!" and he threw a pillow at Andy. It struck his active
bed fellow and knocked him flat, but Andy suddenly sprang up.
"Hark!" he cried sharply, "what was that?"
Both listened intently, with the echoes of a dull but unusual
explosion in their ears. Andy ran to the window. Phil was equally
excited.
"A musket shot," he began.
"Musket shot, nothing!" retorted Andy, with great animation. "That
was a cannon, and nothing else. Why, I know!" and Andy jumped for his
clothes.
"Know what?" demanded Phil, scrambling likewise into his garments with
the activity of a wide-awake lad aroused by a fire alarm.
"Old Silas Berks, Phil! Don't you remember what he told us to-day? That
was his cannon we just heard. Can war have been declared--for that was
Old Tom barking!"
"Sure as you live!" shouted Phil in an extravagant state of excitement,
and both boys dashed downstairs and out of the house.
CHAPTER VII
OLD BERKS' NEWS
In the rash of the natural excitement of the moment, Phil Warrington
did not realize for some time that they were taking a good deal for
granted. Now, as they reached the street, he checked his speed and that
of his companion with the sharp ejaculation:
"Hold on, Andy--don't let us start out on a wild goose chase till we
know what we are about."
"What do you mean? Come ahead. You heard the old cannon, didn't you?
Well, then, fly!" cried the irrepressible Andy.
"But we are simply guessing at things, don't you see?" demurred
Phil. "Our heads are so full of old Berks and the rest of our day's
adventures, that we imagine--"
"Not a bit of it!" shouted Andy, on fire with enthusiasm. "Think
I don't know the sound of Old Tom? Didn't it come from the right
direction? Didn't he tell us--aha! what do you say now?" cried Andy
with a positive yell.
In those days Concord was a small, scattered village, nothing more.
Two minutes running had brought the boys to a sparsely tenanted patch
of ground, with the fields and woods just beyond it. Among the distant
timber was a brilliant glow. It flashed up, died down, and then flashed
up again.
Phil was impressed with the sight, for his quick eye discerned that the
strange glow was in the precise direction of the queer old stockade
inhabited by Silas Berks, in fact, the radiance seemed to indicate the
exact location of the home of the eccentric old Indian fighter.
No one else in the town seemed aroused as were the boys. They had a
lonely dash of it across the river, through a fringe of underbrush, up
a rise, and through the trees just beyond the Bram homestead where they
could see the flames through the forest.
"It's Berks' place, right enough!" declared Andy.
"And he has fired the cannon to call for help," suggested Phil.
In about five minutes the boys were descending the last hill their side
of the old hut. That structure, brightly illuminated, was now in full
view. The hut was not on fire at all, but just outside of the stockade
a big haystack was blazing up.
"No danger of the house," said Phil. "I wonder how it caught on fire?"
There was a light in the hut as they dashed up to it, and a great
uproar emanated from inside. The parrot was screaming and the doves and
chickens flitting about, and two watch dogs were filling the air with
manifold barkings. The sound of a cracked old bugle mingled with the
general uproar.
Andy gave the door a push. It was not locked it seemed on the inside,
and it flew open readily.
"It's us, Mr. Berks," cried Andy, staring at the object of his anxiety.
Silas Berks lay stretched out on a bed, his face red and perspiring. He
was blowing upon an old brass military bugle with all the power of his
lungs. He removed the mouthpiece from his lips as the boys made their
appearance.
"Good for you!" he piped. "Say, what's on fire outside?"
"A haystack," explained Andy. "It can't do any further damage, it's
burned out."
"Lighted wad from the cannon must have done that," said Silas. "Too
bad--but it's worth the money now you've come."
"We don't understand it all," said Andy, in a perplexed way. "What has
been happening around here? Was the barking of Old Tom an accident? Why
don't you get up?"
"Because I can't get up," replied Silas. "I've got a spell--a bad one.
I always get one when I have been over-excited, and I reckon I've had
enough to stir me up this night. You're grand, true boys, you two are.
Remember what I told you, when Old Tom barked, hey? Well, I made him
bark. It's cost me my haystack, but cheap at the price, yes, sir! cheap
at the price."
The old soldier's eyes snapped as he spoke at first, but the words
finally died down to a faint, droning sound. His eyes closed, and he
acted like a person who had sunk into a sudden stupor.
"Mr. Berks! Mr. Berks!" called Andy in some alarm, hurrying to the side
of the bed and seizing and shaking the arm of the old soldier. Berks
smiled stupidly and muttered some incoherent words, but he did not open
his eyes.
"What shall we do, Phil?" inquired Andy quite anxiously. "He certainly
is ill."
"But he does not seem to be suffering," said Phil. "You know he spoke
of a spell. Leave him alone for a few minutes and see if he doesn't get
better. I'll go and look after the burning haystack."
Phil found a heap of burning cinders. There was no danger of fire
spreading, and he returned to the cabin, to be greeted with the
animated remark of the parrot.
"Hurrah for liberty!"
That familiar cry aroused old Silas. He opened his eyes and smiled at
the parrot and the boys. Then he said.
"Andy, lad, go to the old cupboard yonder there, will you, and bring me
a bottle of medicine you'll find on the middle shelf."
Andy found that bottle, and Old Silas drank some of its contents. It
seemed to do him good. He managed to sit up in bed, but not without
considerable wincing, as if the operation caused him some pain, and he
did not attempt to get out of the bed.
"Don't look worried, lads," he said, in his usual cheery, piping tone.
"I'm simply laid up as a bad lumbago patient for a few hours. As I told
you, when I allow myself to get excited and move around too briskly, it
upsets me and seems to affect a wound I got in an Indian skirmish years
ago. It's a nerve weakness, I guess, and takes me in the limbs. I'll
be well again tomorrow. Front face, now! and Attention, company! I got
some news to-night."
"From Boston?" inquired Andy eagerly.
"That's right, lad, from headquarters,--from the seat of war. I've got
a very good friend busy in the cause there. He sent home one of my
pigeons to-night. It brought me a message."
"Oh, Mr. Berks! what was it?" inquired Andy.
"Something very important. I bustled around to get my old nag hitched
up to go to town to carry the news to your father or some other good
member of the committee, when I felt my spell coming on. I had just
strength enough to fire off Old Tom, trusting to chance that some one
would hear the report and come up here."
"Was it important news, Mr. Berks?" inquired Phil, thinking of his
native city and the folks at home.
"It is, lad," answered the old Indian fighter. "There's a big plot
afoot with the Britishers to squelch the patriots, and I've got wind of
the first section of it."
"Say, tell us about it," urged the impetuous Andy.
"Because I know you to be two good, loyal boys, and because you must be
the bearers of a very important message for the good of your country, I
will," said Silas. "You know that the provincial Congress met here at
Concord only a few days ago."
Both boys nodded. The Congress had been an important and decisive step
with the colonists. Many noted patriots had been present, and the event
had been of great interest to the Sabine family, for its head had been
one of the leaders in the convention.
"Very well," continued Silas, "the reports of defiance--the
determination of the convention--reached Gen. Gage in Boston. According
to my message from my friends there, the Britishers decided that the
iron was hot, and that now was the time to strike. Warren, Adams and
Hancock were the leading spirits at the Congress. Gen. Gage has decided
to arrest them the hour they set foot in Boston again, send them aboard
a British man-of-war, and ship them to England to be tried for treason.
They hope to crush out the spirit of the masses by taking away their
leaders and hanging them."
"But they can't do that!" cried Andy indignantly. "It's against the
law. It's piracy. It's--it's--"
"They mustn't be allowed to do it," interrupted Silas gravely. "You
boys must get back to town at once. Tell your father, Andy, what I've
told you. Warren, Adams and Hancock have left Concord, but I understand
they were going to make the journey to Boston by stages, taking time to
consult militia leaders at the various towns. Tell your father to send
a messenger at once after them, and warn them under no circumstances to
return to Boston, as a plot is on foot to arrest them."
"We'll do it, Mr. Berks,--we'll be off like a shot!" cried Andy.
"If we can do anything for you to make you more comfortable--" began
Phil.
"I'll be right as a trivet in the morning," declared the staunch old
soldier. "Just shut the door tight, and see that the haystack fire is
out, and don't lose any time with that message."
"My," exclaimed Andy, as he and Phil cleared the doorway on a bound,
"this is just like going off to the war!"
CHAPTER VIII
THE ROAD TO BOSTON
"Phil, it doesn't seem real!"
"It seems only too real to me, Andy."
"Well, then, I mean that it appears all like a dream."
"It's a dream we'll have to keep awake in, if things are as serious as
your father thinks," said Phil Warrington.
It was pitch dark, two o'clock in the morning, and the situation was
so strongly in contrast with the usual midnight hours spent in sound,
healthy sleep under a hospitable roof, that Andy Sabine might well
think it all had a decidedly dreamy and unreal aspect.
Four hours previous, Phil and Andy had rushed into the home of the
latter in Concord breathless, excited and full to the brim of the
mystery and importance of the message intrusted to them by the old
Indian lighter, Silas Berks.
They had to arouse Andy's father, for they found him in bed. When
Andy in a hushed, impressive voice recited the latest adventure of the
night, Mr. Sabine acted very much aroused and serious.
"This is a matter of grave import, boys," said the sterling patriot.
"I believe in Silas Berks. He is a true-souled man, and his message
fits in with information we had already received. We felt sure
that Gen. Gage and his minions were on the point of making some
demonstration--underhanded as usual--to break up the Sons of Liberty
and the Minute Men. Old Silas has given us a valuable hint. It is
important, indeed, that Dr. Warren and his friends should be warned of
their danger. Let me think for a moment."
Mr. Sabine paced the floor for some time, plunged in deep meditation.
He seemed to be turning the situation over in his mind thoroughly.
"I would go on this mission myself," he said at last, "only that I
have arranged to visit some towns north of here in the interests of
our Congress. It is late, yet not a minute should be lost. Dr. Warren
and his friends were to visit Manchester first, then Merrimack, and
then in turn the various towns on the old Boston stage line. I am sure,
according to their plans, they would not reach Boston for some days to
come, but might change their programme and run their head right into
the noose. They must be reached, but how?"
"I'll tell you, Mr. Sabine," spoke up Phil, promptly and respectfully.
"I am anxious to go on this mission and would have to leave Concord
in a day or two, anyhow. There is no stage coach until Thursday
for Boston. If I could arrange for a horse, I could start off
to-night,--this very hour,--after Dr. Warren. I could keep on until I
overtook the doctor, don't you see?"
"You're a plucky, loyal lad, Phil," said Mr. Sabine warmly, "only--"
"Father, let me go to, too!" broke in Andy eagerly, "let me go with
Phil. I've just been dying to really do something. Please let me go,
father!"
"Impossible," answered Mr. Sabine, and that seemed to end it. But
it did not, for a discussion of nearly an hour's duration followed.
At the end of it, the triumphant Andy was aglow with enthusiasm and
excitement. Reluctantly Mr. Sabine had agreed to send Phil on the
urgent midnight mission after Dr. Warren and his compatriots and Andy
was to accompany his chum.
Andy left a message of direction for his club mates, and arranged that
some one should see in the morning that Silas Berks was all right. It
was also decided how they should leave his father's two horses, that
they were to ride, to be sent back from whatever town they found Dr.
Warren at, and continue the journey to Boston on fresh-hired steeds, by
stage coach, or part of the way on foot, if they so desired.
An hour saw them mounted, and bidding Mr. Sabine a subdued good-by in
the stable yard, so they would not disturb the sleepers in the house.
In an hour they were some miles on their route. At two o'clock in the
morning they passed a settlement.
It was then, traversing a rutty, snow-crusted road, that Andy made the
remark about the unreality of the situation, and now Phil discussed its
merits and their plans freely.
"It's a nice state of things, when respectable citizens like Dr. Warren
have to hide for their lives and keep away from their friends," he
remarked indignantly.
"I should say so," replied Andy. "Oh, this thing is going to end in a
fight, and soon, too. Everybody is ready for it."
Daybreak brought them to a second little settlement, where they found a
farmer milking his cows. They arranged for breakfast here, and slept
two hours in a hay mow while the horses were fed and rested. They
resumed the journey, had another rest at Nashua, and here learned that
Dr. Warren and his friends had been there three days before and could
probably be found at Lowell.
It was dark the next afternoon when the tired-out horses and the
tired-out boy-messengers reached that town. Both Phil and Andy were
glad to stretch their limbs, and it gave them a feeling of comfort to
watch their wearied steeds enjoying their fodder, housed in comfortable
stalls in the stable of the town tavern.
A good meal for themselves was the next thing in order. After supper
Phil spoke to the landlord of the inn, first in a general way, and
then began questioning him as to the whereabouts of Dr. Warren and his
friends.
"Dr. Warren is in town," said the landlord. "He has been here two days.
Adams and Hancock were here too, but they left this morning. Dr. Warren
is staying with one of the selectmen, but he has been holding a secret
meeting with some of our townsmen down at the village hall. I think
you'll find him there."
"Where is the village hall?" inquired Andy, and the landlord directed
them.
The place was a rudely-built two-story structure. The boys halted in
front of it, to find it dark and locked up. They decided that the
meeting must have adjourned, and started out to locate Dr. Warren
elsewhere. Phil remarked, however:--
"Being a secret meeting, it may be held at the rear of the place. Wait
for a minute, Andy, and I will make a tour around the building."
Andy stayed in front of the structure, whistling to himself. He saw
Phil pass along the side of the hall. At the extreme end of the
building, Phil halted suddenly and started back. A man had appeared
from a sheltered doorway, as if he had been lurking there. He seemed
to question Phil. Andy saw his companion draw back. The man seized his
arm, and Phil was pulled violently around the corner of the building,
and entirely beyond the view of the startled Andy.
"Hello!" exclaimed Andy in mingled stupefaction and wonder. "Now what
is the meaning of that, I wonder?"
He ran along the side of the building. He fancied he heard a muffled
shout in Phil's voice, and ran still faster. Very near to the doorway
where the strange man had lurked, Andy halted with a shock.
"Hey, there!" challenged a sharp though cautious voice from overhead.
"There you are! Get away from here, quick!"
A vague pair of arms appeared at an open upper window. They dropped a
square package done up in paper. So suddenly did all this come upon the
wonder-stricken Andy, that, before he could catch the package or dodge
its descent, it struck him squarely on the head, and sent him flat.
CHAPTER IX
IN THE ENEMY'S HANDS
Something had happened to Phil Warrington as he reached the rear of the
town hall building--something unlooked for, sudden and alarming. His
trusty chum had seen only part of the mishap to Phil. The latter was
now struggling for release from the grasp of a brawny villain.
Just as Phil had passed the deep doorway at the rear of the building, a
man had stepped from its obscure shadows.
"Hello! who are you, and what do you want?" he demanded sharply.
Phil was rather startled by the unexpected appearance and keen manner
of the challenger. He was somewhat embarrassed, too. The first thought
suggested to his mind was that here he had obtruded on the sentinel
guarding a secret conclave within the structure.
"I was trying to find out if there was a meeting here," said Phil. "I
was looking for Dr. Warren."
"Eh? Warren? What for?" demanded the stranger.
"I have a message for him."
"You have?" cried the man eagerly. "Give it to me! I'll take it to him."
"No," said Phil, "I will deliver it to him myself."
At that Phil drew back--rather dodged back. The man had acted eager,
and even had reached out as if to seize Phil. Then, too, the boy
noticed his face more clearly. It was an evil face, and his suspicions
were aroused. He saw that, thrown momentarily off his guard, he had
imparted too much to a stranger, and he turned to retrace his steps
quickly to the street. Then the man reached out and seized his arm
firmly, and forcibly pulling Phil with him, jerked the lad around the
corner of the building, out of the sight of the street and of Andy.
"Hold on,--stop!" demanded Phil, trying to make a resolute stand.
"I'll take you to Dr. Warren," cried his rough captor quickly. "It's
only a few steps from here. He's waiting for you. Told me if any
messages came to take 'em, or bring 'em to him. I'm his body-guard, I
am. Hurry up, he'll be anxious to see you."
The glib, eager fellow had said too much, and Phil at once saw that he
was not telling the truth. Dimly as Phil viewed his face, there was
light enough to show it belonged to a person of unprepossessing, if not
absolutely suspicious, appearance.
"There is no need of quite crushing my arm, if you are a body-guard
of Dr. Warren," said Phil, trying to draw away from the clutch of the
fellow.
"No, you don't!" said the man, tightening his grasp. "You come right
along with me."
The fellow was powerfully built. He fairly dragged Phil over the
ground. He was making across a vacant space for a hollow in which stood
a dark rambling building, one-story high, and apparently untenanted.
Phil made a desperate struggle, and set up a shout. His captor placed
his free hand over the boy's lips to silence a further outcry.
"Ouch!" he ejaculated, as Phil sank his teeth deep across his fingers.
The man was viciously irritated. He dealt Phil a fearful blow across
the side of the head with his clenched knuckles. Phil swayed, and
partly lost consciousness. He believed that the man lifted him up
and carried him. At least, in a half-dazed state he felt that he was
helpless, and when he opened his eyes clearly he was lying on a heap
of straw in some kind of a cellar.
A lantern burned on a barrel. The man who had captured him was talking
to another man, roughly-dressed and fierce-looking. Phil listened.
"So, I brought him here," said the speaker. "He's got a message for
Warren. It may be important."
"I'll soon know," the other man. "Did you get the papers yet?"
"I was waiting for them when this fellow came along."
"Get right back and get those papers!" directed the other. "They are
what we came to Lowell for, and we mustn't miss them. I'll attend to
this fellow."
Phil sprang up the minute his original captor left the place. Inside
his hat was a letter to Dr. Warren from Mr. Sabine. He did not know its
contents, yet at all hazards, he was bound to protect its secrecy. He
seized a stool resting on the floor and held it in front of him as a
shield. Thus armed, he made a rush for the door.
The man laughed, and so nimbly interposed his bulky form that Phil
could not get past him. In fact, spreading out his arms, he began to
drive Phil back towards a corner of the cellar.
"Got you caged," he chuckled. "Come, young spitfire, it's no use. Give
up what you've got, or it'll be a double-broken head for you!"
Phil was in a desperate dilemma, and realized it. He suddenly lifted
the stool and flung it at the man. The latter dodged, evaded it, and
advanced for a final swoop on his victim.
Phil quickly drew out the sealed letter that Mr. Sabine had written
to Dr. Warren. He crumpled it up, planning to stuff it in his mouth
and reduce it to a pulp, if he choked for it. His assailant read his
purpose, and made a great lunge for him. Phil, about to put his project
in execution, suddenly uttered a little cry. Then, staring beyond his
advancing opponent, he raised the hand containing the crumpled letter
and gave it a fling clear over the head of the man, with the sharp
direction:
"Catch it, Andy, and--bolt!"
The man came flat up against the wall as Phil ducked, but, reaching out
a frantic arm, tried to seize his coat. Just then a blow from a stick
of wood knocked him to one side. Andy Sabine followed up the attack by
grabbing Phil's arm.
"Run!" he cried. "I've got the letter. Out of this, before the other
fellow comes back."
They could hear the baffled cries of the man back in the cellar as
they ran down a damp, dark passageway and up a pair of steps, and out
into the open air.
"This way," ordered Andy, guiding his friend down into the hollow,
out of it, and, after that, into the street beyond the scene of their
latest adventure. "We want to steer clear of the Town Hall. The other
fellow is back there."
"Why! how did you find me, Andy?" panted Phil.
"Saw you all the time, pretty nearly," declared Andy, "but it wasn't
the right thing to put in an appearance until the right minute. I
noticed that fellow grab you, and ran after you. Got knocked down by
this--"
"What is that, Andy?" inquired Phil, as Andy lifted his coat from the
belt sufficiently to show the edge of some kind of a long, flat package
stuffed in, next to his shirt.
"Never mind now--tell you soon," replied Andy. "I knew the package was
not intended for me, but I suspicioned something and stowed it away on
general principles. Then I followed you and the man to that cellar.
When he came out, I sneaked in."
"To some purpose, friend Andy," commented Phil warmly.
"And now then, to get to the selectman's house and see Dr. Warren."
A few brief inquiries directed the boys. They were soon knocking at the
door of the home of a Mr. Longworthy in their quest for Dr. Warren.
A sweet-faced girl attired in neat homespun welcomed them with a
pleasant smile, and making his mission known led them into the best
room of the house. A man sat at a table reading a book.
"That is Dr. Warren," whispered Phil to Andy, whose heart was beating
fast at the thought of meeting at last the great colonial leader whom
he worshipped as a hero.
"Two young gentlemen to see you, Dr. Warren," said the girl.
"Why, this is young Warrington," instantly spoke the well-known
patriot, as he arose and shook hands warmly with the Boston boy, whom
he remembered and whose father was a cherished personal friend.
"This is my chum, Andy Sabine, of Concord, Dr. Warren," introduced Phil.
"Another good colonial name," said their host, and shook hands also
with Andy, whose finger tips tingled with pride and pleasure. "It seems
to me that you both are pretty far from home."
"We came purposely to see you, Dr. Warren," said Andy. "Phil has a
letter from my father."
"I had better explain its crumpled condition," said Phil, after Dr.
Warren had broken the seal and perused the note.
"In a moment," said Dr. Warren, his face growing grave and perturbed as
he read the missive. "This must be acted on at once," he added, almost
to himself, arising and pacing the floor restlessly. "So they are going
to arrest us, are they? I am thankful for the warning, and Adams and
Hancock must know of this without delay. They have gone on to Brookton.
I can join them there day after tomorrow, but they may take a sudden
impulse to go to Boston. Yes, by all means, they must be speedily
notified."
"Dr. Warren, we can attend to that for you," spoke up Phil. "We could
leave here before daylight. We need only a little rest for the horses."
"You are brave, true lads," said Dr. Warren approvingly. "We will think
of this plan you suggest. And about the letter?"
"Tell him all about everything," urged Andy--"clear back to Burt Noble,
and all that," and then Phil began his graphic story.
Never was there a more interested listener, Andy thought. The
expressive face of Dr. Warren betrayed many sympathetic emotions as
the narrative continued. Surprise, interest, anxiety, satisfaction in
turn played over his noble features.
"One month more with such loyal lads as you are and Burt Noble to aid
us elders in our patriotic work," he said, with flashing eyes, "and
neither Gen. Gage nor his hireling navy will be on hand to conspire to
kidnap reputable citizens. You spoke of your friend here being struck
on the head, of the man who captured you. I cannot understand that part
of your story."
"I can," said Andy abruptly and with considerable excitement, he drew
from under his coat the package he had concealed there, and handed it
to their host.
Dr. Warren undid the paper covering. His face showed consternation as
he brought to light a blank book with many loose papers between its
leaves.
"Treachery!" he spoke, his tones rising to the deepest excitement. "I
must see Mr. Longworthy at once, and the others. Lads, remain here till
I return," and taking up his hat and placing the book under his arm he
hastened from the room.
He was gone nearly an hour. Meantime the selectman's pretty daughter
looked in to see if her guests were comfortable. This led to some
conversation and then an adjournment to the kitchen, and the boys
had just finished a feast on some prime hickory nuts and some rare,
rosy-cheeked apples, when Dr. Warren returned with the selectman and
several others.
These held a long conversation in the best room. It was an hour later
when Dr. Warren came out to the boys.
"You have done us a great service, lads," he said. "The book and papers
thrown from the upper story of the town hall comprise the secret
records of the Sons of Liberty, a dangerous document for us, in the
hands of the enemy. It seems that the man in charge of the hall is a
traitor, and had agreed for a bribe to give the record to emissaries of
the British, who have mysteriously disappeared. We don't know how to
thank you for all you have done for the cause. It seems hardly right to
ask you to hasten on your mission, to reach Mr. Adams and Mr. Hancock
and warn them of their intended arrest.
"We'll be only too glad, won't we Phil?" cried Andy.
Definite arrangements were made and detailed instructions given to the
boys. They were warned to look out for British spies.
At earliest daylight, Phil and Andy, mounted on their refreshed steeds
set off to continue their dangerous but necessary mission.
CHAPTER X
LOST
"Phil, I'm clear tuckered out."
"Don't say that, Andy."
"I do say it, and I mean it, too," declared Andy Sabine in a vehement
tone. "Whew! roar ye winds, and blow ye tempests, blow! I'm chock-full
of snow. Oh! it's great to be a hero on a smooth road in fine weather,
but this--. I wish I was back in Concord."
"Why not Boston? so brace up and get there!" cried Phil doughtily.
"Leave the reins alone, Andy, we've got to a pass where horse sense is
better than human sense. If old Dobbin's instinct can't direct us to a
harbor of safety and a haven of rest,--well, we've just got to stand
it, that's all."
It was three days after the boys had met Dr. Warren. Both mounted on
one horse slowly, tediously traversing a dreary solitude amid snow at
some places two feet deep, surrounded by black, tempestuous night,
Phil and Andy realized what it was to be lost in a gloomy New England
forest.
Everything "had gone just lovely!" Andy had declared only that morning
when they had left Brookton in gay, hopeful spirits. Without mar or
adventure they had executed their mission for Dr. Warren. They had
taken his message to Adams and Hancock, had been praised and rewarded
by those two sterling patriots, had sent the two horses belonging to
Mr. Sabine home and had started for Boston mounted on the only horse
they were able to hire.
They had taken turns ambling along on the slow-paced old nag. Then as
night came on and a blinding snow storm set in, they had gotten off the
road in some way, and now knew they were lost in a vast gloomy forest,
far from any human habitation.
The horse steaming, panting, and his head bent low, was plowing his way
forward. Phil called a halt. He got as much shelter as some fir trees
afforded, and spreading out a blanket placed nearly the last of their
oats before the tired animal. Then he and Andy divided some bread and
cheese they had bought in the last town visited.
Andy suggested that they try and make a lean-to, or some temporary
shelter for themselves and the horse, and wait until the storm abated,
but Phil demurred to this.
"We'd be snowed under and half-frozen to death," he remarked. "No,
Andy, we must keep on the move. Even old Dobbin, tired out as he is,
says that."
"How does he say it?" inquired Andy curiously.
"Watch him move about restlessly, and sniff and head south as if he
realized we mustn't stand still, and as if knew that some habitation or
town is ahead. I reckon we'll trust to horse sense, Andy, and see what
it brings us to."
After a spell the two youths got themselves in as comfortable a
position as was possible on the single saddle. Phil kept hold of the
reins, but he did not attempt to guide the horse. That intelligent
animal made slow but sure-footed progress. The snow was falling heavily
and swirling all about them. The boys spread the blanket over them. It
served as a tent shelter for themselves and as a partial covering for
the horse.
"That's a good deal warmer," said Andy. "I hope the old horse doesn't
give out. I never saw such a night, Phil!"
They conversed casually for some time. Then there was a lapse to
silence. Phil felt Andy lean up against him, breathing heavily.
"He's asleep, poor fellow," soliloquized Phil. "I'm drowsy myself. This
will be an experience to talk about, I'm thinking. This tent of ours is
getting a pretty heavy roof, it seems to me."
Phil shook the blanket and dislodged some of the snow that had gathered
there. Then he settled down to make the most of an unpleasant and
dubious situation. The blanket shut out the cold. The faithful horse
seemed to need no guidance, and Phil dozed away before he was aware of
it.
"Hello!" was his waking exclamation, how long afterwards he could not
estimate. "Why the horse has stopped, and--what's that?"
A dull crash greeted Phil's ears. Instantly he roused up, threw the
blanket off, and tried to make out where he was and what had happened.
"Why, it's a house," said Phil--"we are bolt up against it and the
horse has nosed in a window. Andy! Andy!" he shouted, shaking his
companion violently. "We've arrived--somewhere."
Andy was quickly aroused, and both boys were actively wide-awake in an
instant. They slipped from the horse, to land to the knees in snow.
The horse had poked his nose through the window he had broken and was
sniffing, as if inhaling warmth.
The house, which occupied a clearing, was built of logs and had a
shed behind it. Phil wandered around to the front of the place. He
knocked loudly at the door several times, then he shouted. There was no
response, and he lifted and rattled the latch. To his surprise the door
gave and opened inwards.
A pleasant breath of warm air was wafted across to Phil's face. It
gave him a sense of comfort to step out of the cold and storm. In an
old-fashioned fireplace there was a glow of half-burned out embers.
Phil peered around the room, which contained several rude articles of
furniture, but he could not detect the presence of any other human
being besides himself.
"Funny," mused the boy. "I've made noise enough to arouse a troop.
There doesn't appear to be anybody about the place. Andy! I say, Andy!"
he called out, through the open doorway. "Come in here for a minute,
will you?"
Andy entered, shaking the snow from his clothing, pleased and excited
at reaching a place of shelter, but fully as much surprised as Phil
at finding no one in the house. There was a candle on the table, and
Phil lit this. He pushed open a rear door, which led into the shed
extension he had noticed from the outside. The lower portion of the
house comprised only one room. There was a ladder running to a scuttle
in the ceiling. Phil took the candle and ascended this ladder.
"No one up here. Only a garret with a few old traps in it," he reported
to Andy, descending again. "Now, Andy, what do you think of all this?"
"I don't know what to think," said Andy. "There is a fire, the place
looks and feels as if it had a regular tenant, out of the way, desolate
locality as it is, but where is he?"
"Well, we'll wait his return," said Phil accommodatingly. "The most
cross-grained old hermit in the world wouldn't refuse shelter to man
or beast on such a wild night as this is. We must attend to the horse,
too. Faithful old fellow! he's done his duty well by us."
Phil went outside, to find that the horse had strolled around to the
shed. The intelligent animal had nosed open its door partly. Phil
pulled it clear back with some difficulty, for the snow was very deep.
Then he led the horse in. Andy had opened the door leading from the
house, illuminating the shed.
The place had a quantity of hay in it, and evidently had been used as
a stable on former occasions. It held also some split cord wood. Phil
blanketed the horse and carried an armful of the wood into the house,
replenishing the fire.
"This is comfort all around," he observed with satisfaction, as the
fire blazed up.
"Yes," asserted Andy, trying to fix the pane of glass that the horse
had broken, so the snow would not drift in. "Tell you one thing,
though," he added.
"What's that, Andy."
"This is a queer old place in the wilderness. There isn't the sign of
bed or food here, no cooking utensils, nothing but wood and hay. Isn't
it funny?"
"It is queer, Andy," answered Phil. "It looks as if this was a place
that people stayed in once in a while, but didn't exactly live here."
"Well!" cried Andy, as he happened to bump against the small table that
stood in the center of the room. Its cover rattled off onto the floor.
"Hello!" he added in surprise, as he went to pick up the loosened
cover, and observed its reverse side. "I say, Phil Warrington, here is
mystery on top of mystery!"
CHAPTER XI
CLOSE QUARTERS
"What now?" inquired Phil.
"Look for yourself," cried his companion. "House without an owner,
ready made fire to order, table with reversible top. What next, I
wonder! Why, just that--look."
Andy took up the board from the floor and placed it wrong side up on
the table frame. Then both boys stood staring down at it most curiously.
Tacked to the surface was a large sheet of paper. It seemed to be a
map. There was a coast line and various stars and dots which seemed to
indicate especial points, like cities or towns.
"Why," said Phil slowly, "this looks to me like a map of the state
north of Boston. Here's Boston, here's Lowell and Salem,--in fact all
the towns grouped around Boston to the north. Queer, isn't it, Andy?"
"I should say so. See, here's something more."
Andy with his finger nail poked out a small folded paper slip from
between tacks which held down the map. He opened this. It was in
pencil writing, and it read:
"Report from Storm Cove. Goods can be landed. Straight man will
answer signal from the ship."
"What does this mean, Phil?" inquired Andy, speculative and serious.
"It sounds like smuggling, but what the map and the letter are doing
in this out of the way place, bless me if I can understand!" and Andy
rubbed his head in perplexity.
Phil did not reply at once, for his eye, wandering reflectively, had
lit on some scraps of paper lying on the hearth, just disclosed as
his feet accidentally disturbed a piece of firewood. He stooped and
gathered up these fragments with the remark:
"Some one has been tearing up a letter. These pieces may tell us
something."
For fully half-an-hour Phil and Andy tried to piece the paper fragments
together, but this they found they could not accomplish, as a part of
the torn-up document had evidently been burned in the fire. Many times,
however, they deciphered the names of "Gen. Gage," "Boston," "rebels,"
"spies," and the like.
"There is one thing certain," declared Phil finally, "some one in the
interest of the British has been in this house. If I ventured a guess,
I would say that this is a sort of rendezvous for emissaries of the
British. They may make this lonely spot a place to meet and report,
exchange notes and receive instructions."
"If that's so," cried Andy excitedly, "at any moment a whole nest of
Tories may come pouncing down on us!"
"That's right, Andy," assented Phil. "Whether or not, though, we can't
go back out into the storm, and I doubt if anybody is anxious to tramp
through two feet of snow to this place. We had better try and get a
little sleep, hoping it will clear up in the morning."
"All right," acceded Andy willingly, with a tired yawn. "I declare, my
head aches with all these adventures and mysteries we are running into!"
They took off their coats and shoes and placed them near the fireplace
to dry. Then, each arranging a wooden pillow, they got as near as they
could within the circle of warmth, and soon dozed into comfort and rest.
The sun was shining through the south window of the house when Phil
awoke and stirred Andy. Phil went into the shed, gave the horse a few
oats he found at the bottom of their provender bag, and returned to the
room with a little package containing some bread and cheese.
"That's just an appetizer," observed Andy, smacking his lips over the
light lunch. "Let's get on our way, Phil. I've got to reach a breakfast
of some sort soon. We can't be very far from some traveled road. What
is it, Phil?" he inquired as his companion, at the window, peering out,
uttered a sharp ejaculation, and shook the sash to knock off some snow
on its outside so that he could look out more clearly.
"Andy," answered Phil quickly, "some one is coming!"
"Coming here?" exclaimed Andy, springing to the side of his comrade.
"Two men!"
"I know them both," cried Phil. "Andy, sure as you live, those are the
two men we had the trouble with near the town hall at Lowell."
"We're in for it," said Andy, dreadfully excited. "They have followed
us here."
"Scarcely," dissented the more level-headed Phil. "Their coming here is
of course an accident so far as we are concerned."
"I guess you're right," said Andy. "It shows one guess correct, though.
This is a rendezvous for the Britishers. Why wouldn't they come here?
Now what are we going to do?"
Phil could not readily reply. They stood watching the two men plowing
through the snow at some distance. There was no question with Phil but
that they were the same persons with whom he had experienced trouble at
Lowell.
"Get back from the window, Andy," directed the Boston boy. "They may
see us."
"Suppose they do? They are bound to, sooner or later, aren't they?"
demanded his chum.
"Well, we needn't invite our fate until it is closer upon us,"
philosophically observed Phil. "That's our chance," he continued. "Grab
up your coat and shoes and bolt with me, Andy."
Phil had run for the ladder leading to the attic. Andy followed him
quickly. Once in the low loft overhead, Phil replaced the ceiling
scuttle carefully. Andy crept away from it.
"I say," he observed, "go slow. The beams are about six feet apart. The
covering is only strips of tan bark, and they sag like slippery elm."
"Steady, Andy, get directly over a beam as near as you can."
"I'm fixed," reported Andy.
Phil posted himself several feet away from Andy, so that their weight
would not be bulked. He was a trifle uneasy. They knew nothing as
to the plans or dispositions of the men they had seen at Lowell and
now approaching the hut. It seemed impossible that they would not be
discovered if the new visitors remained any length of time.
The way the tan bark bent and rustled and sifted down into the room
below startled Phil. There were a dozen breaks in the flooring, and
Phil could easily keep the door in sight. Upon this he fixed his eyes,
expectantly and anxiously.
A moment or two later the door was pushed open. There was a prodigious
stamping of feet, and the sounds of heavy, tired breathing.
"Thunder!" exclaimed one voice--"that was a hard tramp."
"Yes," echoed the other. "If royal old King George don't pay us well
for this bit of work, we'll sell out to the enemy!"
CHAPTER XII
A NEST OF TORIES
"Hush!" whispered Phil warningly to Andy.
The latter was all a-quiver over the intense situation.
"Humph," muttered Andy. "I never could keep still and, balancing on
this sharp beam, I'm worse than ever. My, those are two tough-looking
fellows."
The men came stamping into the room, puffing and panting from their
exertion in the deep snow. They indulged in some casual conversation
about their journey and their satisfaction on reaching warmth and rest.
They kicked off their overboots and sat down near the fire.
Phil instantly recognized one of the men as the fellow who had held
him a prisoner near by the town hall in Lowell and the other as his
original captor. Listening to the talk he learned that the former was
named Peters, the latter Swithins.
Peters rested for a minute, then went over to the table to inspect the
map tacked to it. He took up and read the note which Phil and Andy had
already perused.
"Balfour has been here, Swithins," he reported. "He gives us a point to
report and act on at once."
"What's that, Peters?" inquired the other man.
"Storm Cove. It seems he has arranged, and the boat will be met on
signal by a true-blue. Some of the others have been here, too, it
seems, according to the dots and crosses on the map."
"Good thing," commended Swithins. "Our bad break at Lowell was pretty
discouraging. We can get square, though, by reaching the _Vixen_ and
rushing the landing through at Storm Cove."
"I'd like to get my hands on the fellow who knocked me down in the
cellar," growled Peters, gritting his teeth savagely. "Those papers
would have been a great haul. Besides, it's gotten the fellow in
trouble who sold us the documents. It was a bad mess."
"Yes, and we missed finding out the message that boy had for Dr.
Warren. It might have been something of vast importance to Gen. Gage,
for, while we think we are doing great things, planting our supplies
to make a vigorous raid through the colonies, trust me, those fellows,
Warren, Adams and Hancock, aren't letting the grass grow under their
feet."
"Oh, those two gritty boys were certainly spies, and no mistake,"
declared Peters.
"Well, what's the programme?"
"We'll rest a bit, put for the coast, hail the _Vixen_ and get aboard.
Then we will either go to Boston and report to headquarters, or, if so
ordered, stay on the warship and help land these goods at Storm Cove."
"S--st!" again warned Phil. Andy had rustled about. Phil could readily
guess the mental disquiet of his excitable friend. He surmised how
intensely Andy was realizing that they had happened upon "a nest of
Tories." Andy was naturally as brave as a lion, but he could not endure
suspense. Phil was a good deal worried, for every time Andy rustled
about particles of the tan bark dropped into the room below.
The Boston boy became very serious as he understood plainly that the
affairs in which they were now mixed up were of the gravest import.
The life of the colonies depended on knowing all that was possible
about the plans of the Tories. Should the so-called "rebel" leaders be
imprisoned, or the secrets of the Sons of Liberty and the Minute Men
become known to Gen. Gage, it would weaken the patriot cause very much.
"The Britishers have had their spies everywhere," reflected Phil. "They
have a regular organization of that class, and these men are at the
head of it. They intend to land something at Storm Cove. We shall have
a good deal to tell our friends when we reach Boston. Oh, the mischief!"
Peters and Swithins had settled themselves comfortably. The latter had
taken out a small blank book to consult, and Phil was looking for some
further secret developments when Peters jumped to his feet with a start.
"I say!" he cried, "what was that?"
"Whew!" uttered Andy recklessly.
"I guess we're in for it now," Phil told himself.
"Why, that was a horse's neigh," exclaimed Swithins, also arising to
his feet. "Whose horse? What is he doing here?"
His partner had pulled open the shed door. He looked sharply at hungry
old Dobbin, calling for oats. He retreated into the room, perplexed and
suspicious.
"Don't like the look of things," he observed. "What's that, another
horse up in the loft?" he cried suddenly.
"You've done it!" groaned Phil audibly.
"I reckon I have!" gasped Andy.
He had slipped off the beam, bending a piece of tan bark till it
cracked in two. A piece of it had fallen on the head of the staring
Peters. Now there was a gap in the ceiling.
"Some one up there," declared Swithins convincedly.
"Come down, you!" shouted Peters.
Phil and Andy did not respond.
"Come down, I say! You want this?"
Bang! Bang! Peters had pulled out his pistol, and two bullets, in quick
succession, scattered the tan bark.
CHAPTER XIII
A SERIOUS DILEMMA
"Hold on, I'm coming!" cried Andy quickly. He was, indeed, falling
clear off the beam. He started a descent, grabbed at a dangling strip
of tan bark, and dropped from its end dismayed and disordered looking.
Some loose bark, debris, shoes, a cap and his coat rained down after
him.
"Who are you, anyhow?" demanded Swithins, striking an attitude of
astonishment mingled with suspicion, and staring sharply at the lad.
"Who is he?" cried Peters, with a dark scowl. "Ask me. I know. He's the
boy who fetched me that blow back at the old cellar in Lowell."
"What!" shouted Swithins, fairly bristling with suspicion.
"Yes. I saw him as he ran. Where's the other? Where is he, I say?"
demanded the fellow, advancing menacingly upon Andy. "Who else is up in
that garret?"
"Don't you see I'm alone?" inquired Andy doughtily, standing his
ground and shielding his companion.
"Alone, eh?" sneered Peters, pointing to the mass of debris at Andy's
feet. "One boy don't wear three shoes, does he?"
Andy saw it was no use trying to shield his comrade, for his own shoes
and one belonging to Phil lay at his feet. The man Peters made a jump
for the ladder and ascended it rapidly. With his shoulder he thrust
open the scuttle, stuck in his pistol, and yelled:
"This way and out of there, or I'll put this Tory bullet in your rebel
hide!"
Phil crept over the beams and a minute later stood in the room below.
Peters eyed him with a wicked look as he reloaded his pistol. Swithins
thrust both of the boys into the corner near the chimney, and seating
himself viewed them with a threatening eye.
"Right you are, Peters," he remarked. "No accidental meeting that with
these fellows back at Lowell, message for Dr. Warren, planted here at
our rendezvous. Regular spies, take my word for it--regular spies. Now
then, what brought you to this place?"
"Just happened here," declared Andy airily.
"Tell that to the marines. Search them, Peters. Then we'll consider
this case a little closer."
Phil and Andy were forced to submit to the rough handling by Peters.
The man emptied their pockets, inspecting their miscellaneous
belongings critically.
"Humph!" he remarked, as he found Andy's full name scratched on the
German silver of his pocket knife.
"Aha!" he added, as he glanced at the inside cover of Phil's memorandum
book. "Swithins, this is a real catch. Now then, you two in turn answer
the questions of this here court martial, or it will be the worse for
you."
"What makes it a court martial, if I may ask?" demanded Andy coolly.
"Spying!" shouted Peters, with emphasis and a grewsome leer. "A spy is
a hanged man when he is caught."
"Sort of spies trying spies, eh?" laughed Andy irrepressibly. "Go
on--you're joking!"
"Your name is Sabine," said the man. "Swithins, this boy must be the
son of the rank agitator we've got on our Concord list."
"Right enough," responded Andy with pride, "if you mean the kind of
agitator who has over two hundred armed patriots at his call the minute
a redcoat sticks his nose out of Boston Town."
"Oh, you can't get me wrathy, with all your bold sauce, young
jackanapes," chuckled Peters. "You won't crow so loud, my young bantam,
when they come to wring your neck for this smart spy act of yours. It's
all right," he added to his companion. "T'other one is Warrington. He's
a son of that rich merchant in Boston who wouldn't sell our people
supplies. Why, this catch is almost as good as Warren himself. I think
Gage will know how to handle things with sons of two rebel leaders as
prisoners."
"Yes," observed Swithins, with a calculating expression in his eye,
"and I fancy those two old rebels would pay a fancy price to ransom
these boys. Come here, I've a private word for your ear."
The two men went to a remote corner of the room and indulged in a
serious, low-toned conversation. Phil caught an occasional word, such
as "rebels," "spies," "confess," "ransom," "the ship _Vixen_," and the
like. It was easy to surmise the plan of the two men. They intended to
make capital out of their capture in some way.
Peters finally approached the boys, his reloaded pistol in one hand,
while Swithins, as if by concerted arrangement, went out into the shed.
The former tried to impress and scare the boys by trying to appear
dangerous, but Phil and Andy only looked tranquilly interested.
"I pronounce you two, prisoners of his royal majesty, King George,"
observed Peters grandiloquently, and with a swagger.
"That sounds real big," observed Andy.
"We have decided to turn you over to the government, as you are spies,"
continued Peters, "and as such by the law of nations are placed in the
desperate cat--cata--"
"Catalogue," prompted Andy recklessly.
"Yes, catalogue. No, no," dissented the speaker with a
scowl--"gory,--category. We shall shoot at first attempt to escape."
"All right," piped Andy cheerily. "You are having all the fun just now,
but when the real trouble begins, somebody will be looking hard for us
and--you."
Phil had not spoken. He was more thoughtful than Andy. He did not for a
moment believe that they were in any serious danger. They might be kept
for a time in the hands of these men, but when they found there was
nothing of importance to be learned they would be set free.
For all this Phil very gravely realized that things were working along
the line of war, as Old Silas Berks had said. Every step in their
recent progress, Phil discerned, showed more and more clearly that a
crisis was near. It needed but a spark to set the whole country aflame.
They had helped in their humble way, he and Andy, to upset some of the
plans of the British. He hoped that their further possible usefulness
might be tested when the war broke out.
It was about an hour later when Peters and Swithins perfected their
plans as to their captives. They strapped Phil and Andy on to old
Dobbin. They left a letter under the map for some confederate who was
expected to arrive at the lonely hut later.
Then, Swithins leading the horse, Peters walking behind, a pistol
handle sticking out of either side of his belt, the party proceeded on
their journey through the snow drifts.
CHAPTER XIV
ON BOARD THE VIXEN
"Give it up, Phil. You couldn't make it in a hundred years."
"Never say die, Andy. I shall keep right on trying."
"Wasting time. We'll never get out of this hole except through the door
that let us in."
"Then it's the door I'll try next," declared Phil dauntlessly. "I've
managed to dig out all the lead that these window bars are sunk in.
Give me a two-foot bar of iron or a stout oak cudgel, and I'd open the
way to liberty in ten minutes."
"And what then, Phil? A drop into nobody knows how many fathoms of
water, a shot from the ship if we're seen, a two mile swim. No," and
Andy shook his head decidedly. "We're in a bad box, and we've got to
make the best of it."
While Phil Warrington talked, he was working with the blade of a big
jackknife at the wooden casing of a barred window at the rear of the
hold of the British man-o'-war, _Vixen_. Andy lay stretched on a
mattress on the floor, watching his companion.
It was over two weeks since the young captives had found themselves
afloat. It had taken old Dobbin and Peters and Swithins all of one day
to reach the coast. The two British spies had signaled a ship in the
distance. A yawl put ashore, the old horse was turned loose, and after
a brief row over the fast-darkening waters, Phil and Andy were hoisted
aboard the _Vixen_. They were immediately conveyed to their present
prison place and locked in.
The little strong room in the rear hold was an apartment having a heavy
door set in a strong partition and two barred windows about eight feet
above the water mark. Here the boys had remained close captives. An
old mattress comprised their bed. Twice a day a gruff old fellow in a
semi-naval uniform brought them their meals, which consisted of the
ordinary ship fare. The man never addressed them, and they asked him no
questions.
The lads had seen nothing of either Peters or Swithins until that
morning. The former had been let into the prison room by their jailer
and the door locked behind him. He looked surly and ill at ease, and
Phil decided that he acted like a man who had met with some hitch in
his plans.
"See here, Warrington," observed Peters, "I don't fancy you care about
taking a trip to England."
"I don't exactly ask to go," responded the Boston boy.
"It wouldn't be on request," growled Peters. "There will be a good many
traitors sent over the water before long."
"Why, what for?" queried Andy, with an innocent expression of face.
"King George will answer that when they come to trial," said Peters, in
a tone meant to be very impressive. "They're not likely to come back
again,--that is, if the supply of English gallows trees doesn't give
out. You can grin, you impudent young jackanapes," the man continued
to the undismayed Andy, "but you'll laugh the other side of your mouth
before this affair is done with, I can tell you. Once aboard the
traitor's ship, it means that you took a man's chances in acting the
spy on his majesty's loyal subjects, and you'll have to take a man's
punishment."
"Like a man, exactly," nodded Andy, quite buoyantly. "All right,
governor--bring along your traitor ship, we aren't afraid, only you've
got something else up your sleeve. You aren't the kind to come
consoling us or scaring us without a purpose."
"I'm not talking to you," snarled Peters wrathfully, turning his back
on the imperturbable Andy. "See here, Warrington, your folks are a good
deal worried over your absence."
"I'm sorry," said Phil, "but you don't seem disposed to mend the
situation."
"Yes, I am," declared Peters quite eagerly. "That's what I've come for."
"Yes, that's what he came for. I told you so," piped Andy airily. "Out
with it, governor."
"See here, you fellows are pretty young. I've got sons of my own, and
know how it is with boys. My evidence settles your case, so I've been
thinking."
"He's been thinking!" mimicked Andy. "A penny for your thoughts,
governor."
"You write a note to your father," plunged on Peters, more rapidly.
"I'll dictate it. You are to say about the awful fix you're in, and all
that. He's to pay a bill for your keep I shall present to him. Well,
say a hundred pounds. Then I'll see that you and your mate here get
home safe. Understand?"
"No, I don't understand," replied Phil simply. "In other words, you
want to exact a ransom from my father. He is in business trouble, he
has no money to waste on such a villainous proposition as you name. He
wouldn't treat with you on principle. I will write no letter to him nor
have anything to do with the affair, on such a basis."
"You won't, eh?" shouted Peters, fairly wild with chagrin and
disappointment. "Then I'll find a way to make you sweat for it--you see
if I don't!" And with that the Tory flounced out of the room.
"You see, we are not going to get out of this except by our own
exertions," said Phil, and forthwith set at work on the barred window.
The _Vixen_ lay at anchor most of the time. She was quite a distance
north of Boston, Phil calculated, and about two miles from the shore.
Twice she had run down the coast in the night and had sent the small
boats ashore, but on each occasion had returned to her present
anchorage.
Properly speaking, the _Vixen_ did not appear to be a regular war
vessel, but from what they had seen when first brought aboard of
the vessel, the captives decided that she was on armed duty of some
sort. There were several small cannon on the deck, and a drill was in
progress over their heads for an hour each morning.
Phil found the bars of the hold window sunk through a frame of oak and
imbedded in lead. He managed to dig out all of the lead that anchored
three of the steel bars. This loosened the bars, but he could not force
them out. It was towards late afternoon when he boasted to his less
industrious comrade of how easily they might escape, if they had some
instrument to bend the bars or force them out of place.
Both boys hurried each to one of the windows in their prison room, as
some unusual commotion on the deck was followed by shouts echoing from
a distance across the waters.
"Hello!" cried Andy, peering. "Some kind of a big sailboat is coming to
this vessel. There, she's veered out of range. Wonder what's up, Phil?"
The shouts grew nearer. The listening boys could trace the apparent
arrival at the side of the ship of the craft they had momentarily
viewed. There were turbulent greetings on the deck. A moment later the
same sailboat fell astern. It was paid out at the end of a rope about a
cable's length, so as to be free of collision with the ship, the rope
was secured somewhere on the deck, and the new arrival floated up and
down at anchorage.
It was a very large sailboat, and had good breadth of beam and a
sort of storage pit, which seemed to be heavily loaded, and which was
covered by a sheet of canvas battened down at the sides.
"Wonder what the craft is, anyhow," spoke Andy speculatively.
"Yes, and what is its load?" supplemented Phil. "I say, Andy, I have an
idea."
"Speak it out, Phil," directed Andy.
"You know those men, Peters and Swithins, talked a good deal about a
load they were to order delivered at Storm Cove."
"I remember," nodded Andy.
"This may be that load," suggested Phil. "Powder to blow up some town?
Arms for some of the traitorous mob in the settlements? Wish I had a
chance to investigate."
The mysterious craft gave the boys a scheme for speculation for a long
time. There was considerable uproar overhead. About an hour after the
sailboat had arrived, a small yawl put out from the side of the larger
craft, past the rear hold windows. It contained a man and a boy. The
latter was rowing. His back was to the two interested onlookers.
When they arrived at the sailboat, the boy held the yawl steady, while
his companion clambered aboard. He lifted the canvas, secured a small
keg, and placed it in the sailboat.
"Spirits, I'll bet," said Andy. "They'll have a high time on board
here, I suspect. Oh, my!"
Andy's whole body gave an excited jerk, his eyes bulged, and he pressed
his eager face close to the bars of the window.
"Look, Phil," he added, staring at the yawl, now coming back to the
_Vixen_. "Sure as you live, that boy is our old friend, Burt Noble!"
CHAPTER XV
A FRIEND IN NEED
Both Phil and Andy stood breathlessly regarding the lad who had been
the starting point in all their recent, varied adventures. Burt Noble
did not look their way. He appeared more comfortably fed than when they
had last seen him. He seemed at home with his companion. The latter was
of course a Britisher, but that did not disturb Phil or Andy.
"Back in his old line," observed Andy, as the yawl passed beyond their
range of vision. "Never dreams we're here, does he?"
"I don't know about that," responded Phil. "Burt is a smart boy. He
is in the confidence of the Tories. Why mayn't he have an inkling of
our dilemma? He may not know in exactly what part of the _Vixen_ we
are under lock and key. He may not even know as yet we are aboard at
all, but he'll find out, trust him for that. Andy, I feel someway that
somehow we are going to hear again from Burt Noble soon."
In the course of the next half-hour there seemed to be quite a
jollification on board of the ship. There was heavy trampling, as if
some persons were dancing, some singing, boisterous shouts, and these
continued less audibly to the boys as all hands apparently adjourned to
the cabin.
"It's easy to figure it out," said Andy. "That keg of spirits is the
centre of a general jollification. They're all having a gay time. What
a big chance to get away, if we were only through one of those barred
windows, Phil."
"Yes indeed, Andy. There is probably little discipline on deck just at
this present time."
About half an hour before dusk the man who brought them their meals was
heard by his captives approaching the door of their prison place. His
gait they could trace was somewhat stumbling. The eyes of the comrades
met, and expressed a mutual thought.
"Phil, I have half a mind to tackle him and make a rush for it,"
whispered Andy.
"Not this time, Andy, for some one is with him."
"Too bad--that's so."
They could hear their jailer speaking. The door was unlocked, the usual
supply of food and water passed in.
"There's the young rebels," spoke the man.
"They look pretty desperate, don't they?" said a voice that thrilled
the captives. "Must be sort of lonesome for them to look out of those
windows about dark and see nothing but sky and water."
"Burt Noble!" exclaimed Andy, as the door was closed and relocked.
"He's found us," added Phil quite excitedly. "It won't rest there."
"Say Phil, did you hear his funny remark about looking out of those
windows at dark?"
"I did."
"He meant something by that."
"We'll take it that way, at any rate," said Phil. "Burt is not the boy
to dream over a chance to help a friend. It won't do for him to forfeit
his position with these Tories for our sake, but, trust me, he will
manage to send some comfort or assistance before he leaves the _Vixen_."
Phil had great faith in the smartness and fidelity of their mutual
friend. Andy indulged in all kinds of imaginings as to what shape the
efforts of Burt Noble would take in their behalf. He posted himself at
one of the windows, and Phil did the same at the other.
It was dusk, and dreary waiting in the hold room. Outside, a cloudy
evening was fast setting in. The sounds of jollity from the cabin of
the _Vixen_ were in sharp contrast to the helpless condition of the two
boys and the cheerless prospect upon which they looked. It had been
warmer for a day or two, but night was setting in chill and murky.
"Something!" suddenly muttered Andy in a quick and excited gasp, and
Phil saw what it was that attracted his watchful, staring eyes and sent
both arms groping through the window aperture and beyond it.
From overhead some one--of course Burt Noble--had lowered a string. At
its end dangled a package done up in a towel or a piece of cloth of
some kind. In an instant Andy had seized the swaying parcel, broke it
from the string, and had the package inside the prison room. Quickly he
unrolled the cloth.
It contained a short iron thwart pin and a heavy blunt-edged chisel.
There was light enough to inspect these, and also to make out some
writing in heavy pencil lines on a rough piece of cardboard:
"No one on deck, yawl at the side," ran the hasty scrawl. "War will be
on inside of a week. Get to Boston, quick."
"Bravo!" exulted Andy, on fire with delight. "Burt is a smart boy and
a good friend. Phil, to work."
Without a word Phil seized the thwart pin. Something that would do
staunch prying duty he had wished for all along, and here it was ready
to his hand. He got a purchase on one bar and then another, already
loosened, and the powerful pressure twisted the lower ends out of their
sockets. Forcing the free ends to one side, the avenue to liberty was
open at last.
"It's a cold plunge," observed Andy, poking his head through the
window, with a mock shudder of discomfort. "I wonder which side the
yawl is on?"
"Never mind the yawl, Andy," said Phil.
"Oh,--why not?"
Phil's eyes were thoughtful as he pointed to the sailboat, a cable's
length in the offing.
"Andy," he said, "this is a desperate chance we are taking. We may as
well make it complete. Wait ten minutes--by that time it will be dark.
We will swim for the sailboat. We can reach it a good deal less certain
of discovery than if we go fooling around the side for that yawl."
"Whew!" whistled Andy. "Say, can we make it?"
"Make what?"
"Get that big craft afloat and manage it. Why, Phil, if we could--I
say, it must be loaded with important military stores. Oh, say! if we
could sneak them away, get them into loyal hands--what an exploit, what
a feather in our cap!"
"Andy," said Phil steadily, "we are going to try just that."
Ten minutes later Phil spoke a single expressive word:
"Now!"
And then, one after the other, the two dauntless lads dropped into the
water.
CHAPTER XVI
A DASH FOR LIBERTY
Phil floated until he was sure that Andy had landed all right. Then
both struck out for the sailboat, dimly outlined in the night mists at
a short distance. They did not look back, but bent all their energies
towards reaching the sailboat. They clambered aboard of this, out of
breath, dripping, and chilled through. Their first glance was toward
the _Vixen_.
"Not seen so far," chattered Andy. "What next, Phil?"
"Cut the rope," ordered his comrade, passing to Andy the big-bladed
jackknife that had been of such service to him in their prison room.
"I'll see to the sail."
Phil knew all about a sailboat. He had never handled one so large as
the craft they now seemed to have in their control. He immediately,
however, saw that all he had to do was to raise the big sail and use
caution and judgment in its manipulation.
The craft gave a sudden jerk. It was caused by the taut cable parting
at the final strand into which Andy had cut. Almost simultaneously Andy
uttered a low, expressive cry.
"Phil," he gasped, "they're coming!"
"Who? I see. Get to the tiller, Andy, and simply obey orders."
Phil did not raise the sail. That near to the _Vixen_, its wide surface
outspread, would be a prominent object. To his entire satisfaction he
noticed that the sailboat was drifting away from the _Vixen_.
Glancing back at the war vessel, Phil discerned what had attracted
Andy's attention. Lights were being prepared near the forecastle, and
descending into the yawl at the side of the ship was a boy bearing a
lantern. A man followed him.
"Andy," said Phil, "Burt Noble and a sailor are starting out to place a
light on the boat here."
"And won't find us!" chuckled Andy.
"I hope they don't even see us. Two minutes more, and they won't be
able to do it. Clever Burt Noble!"
"Hello! what's happened?" exclaimed Andy, his glance riveted, as was
that of Phil, on the yawl at the side of the _Vixen_. "The light has
gone out."
"Yes," said Phil. "Burt has accidentally dropped it overboard. He must
know we have escaped, and is causing all the delay he can with the
yawl."
The sailboat drifted away so rapidly, that by the time a new light was
lowered into the yawl it was a mere speck in the distance.
"Phil, we've made it!" cried Andy in exultant tones.
"I fancy we have," acquiesced Phil complacently. "Now then, watch your
knitting, and heave yo! up goes the sail."
The comrades forgot chilliness and discomfort in a sharp, inspiring run
during the next half-hour. Phil handled the heavy sail superbly, and
Andy obeyed orders promptly. Each felt sure that the friendly darkness
protected them against the possibility of those on the _Vixen_ locating
them, for that night at least.
They ran down the coast line in a southerly direction, keeping about a
mile from shore and looking out for lights that might indicate another
craft afloat, but met with none of such. As they eased up a little,
Andy called once to his comrade.
"What's the programme, Phil?"
"To get this boat fast and sure where those Tories will never be able
to find it again--especially its load."
"Good! You won't land at Storm Cove, of course."
"Hardly, seeing we are running south away from it as fast as we can."
Andy laughed gleefully. The task they were engaged in just suited his
volatile spirits.
"Imagine what those _Vixen_ fellows will say when they find this boat
gone. Oh, this is a famous adventure, Phil!"
"We mustn't forget Burt Noble's share in it," observed Phil. "I hope we
meet him soon in Boston."
"Going to Boston, are we?" queried Andy.
"That's where we started for, isn't it?" said Phil, with a smile.
"Yes, but you don't suppose we can ever get into the Bay without being
challenged and stopped by the Britishers?"
"Oh, I'm not thinking of going to Boston by water route. You see, Andy,
we probably have a valuable cargo aboard, or rather I should say an
important cargo."
"Munitions of war and all that, eh, Phil?" appended Andy glibly.
"If I can get my bearings from having been up and down the coast here
more than once," pursued Phil, "I shall feel pretty good when we locate
Sandy Creek."
"What's Sandy Creek? Where is it?" asked Andy.
"It's the feeder from a sort of a swamp lake running into the ocean. At
the inland end of the lake is a little settlement called Bordenville.
I have a cousin living there named Ralph Post. He used to be a sailor,
but lives now with a Mr. Eaton, who is a staunch patriot, and who has
done lots of good for the cause. I know of no one who would know just
what to do about the sailboat and its load as well as Mr. Eaton. Then,
too, he keeps posted on everything that is going on, and he can tell us
just how things are in Boston."
"Capital!" cried Andy. Then there was a spell of silence, while Phil
kept as near to the shore as was wise, trying to catch sight of some
guiding landmark.
"I know where I am," he said at last. "That rocky point we just rounded
is about a mile north of the creek. Now then, not to miss it in the
dark."
It must have been nearly midnight when the sailboat stuck in a mass of
high reeds. Phil and Andy waded to the edge of a swampy reach they had
gained through some skilful handling of the craft into the creek and
across the lake Phil had described to his comrade.
"There, that's the best we can do for the present," declared Phil, as
they stood on solid ground. "It's not far to the settlement. Mr. Eaton
will take care of the boat as soon as we tell him our story."
They were tired and uncomfortable, but they plodded on cheerfully,
until they came in sight of some houses. All were dark and silent
except one, where a light was burning, and for which Phil was making.
"Is that where Mr. Eaton lives?" inquired Andy.
"Yes," replied Phil "and some one seems to be up, judging from the
lights."
A few minutes later Phil was lifting the heavy knocker of a door of the
house in question. A boy answered the summons, a bronzed pleasant-faced
youth, whom Andy had never seen, before, but at a glance he felt that
he should like him. The boy lifted the candle he bore high above his
head, and stared in wonder and then in perplexity at the two forlorn
wayfarers.
"Phil!" he shouted, the next moment, his face beaming with a glad,
welcoming smile. "Phil Warrington!"
"Yes," nodded Phil. "It's me--and this is my friend, Andy Sabine, from
Concord."
"Why--when--how--what are you boys doing in that trim, at this hour of
the night?"
"We have just escaped from the Tories, and are bound for Boston."
"Boston!" echoed Ralph Post, in a startling tone. "Why, Phil, don't you
know that the city is under martial law? The order has just gone out."
"Whose order?" demanded Andy.
"Gen. Gage's. No one can leave or enter Boston without a Tory passport."
CHAPTER XVII
A SAFE PORT
At the announcement of Ralph Post, Andy Sabine almost uttered a yell.
His fists went up in the air clenched, and his eyes flashed.
"Nobody get into Boston? Nobody get out of Boston?" he cried. "Gen.
Gage's orders--the Britishers bossing the country! Why, we'll sweep
them off the face of the earth!"
Ralph Post smiled indulgently at Andy's ferocious patriotic outburst.
Phil placed a restraining hand on the shoulder of his excitable
comrade. The next instant of thought, however, made Phil take the
situation very seriously. A wave of anxiety crossed his face as he
thought of the folks at home. Then he eagerly turned to his cousin,
feeling that he had further revelations to make.
"Tell all about it," he said, but Ralph replied:
"You get to a fire, you two. Why you look half-perished. I fancy," he
added dryly to Andy, "you won't start to wipe out those Boston tyrants
until you've got dry clothes and a good meal."
"I'm fighting mad, all the same," muttered Andy, and then, a thought of
their last adventure crossing his mind, he added with an exultant grin:
"Those Tories will have one less boat to guard Boston, anyhow."
Phil thought he had never been so delightfully comfortable, as when a
few minutes later he and Andy occupied two old-fashioned armchairs in
front of a blazing kitchen fireplace big enough to hold a couple of
cords of wood. Meantime Ralph hustled about the room, pulling out a
table, diving into a pantry and placing on the hob a coffee pot.
"Don't seem to be a bit curious," said Andy, in an undertone to Phil.
"Oh, he is dying to know all about our story," answered Phil, "only
I guess a look at us tells him we have just gone through some tough
adventure, and he is thinking of our comfort first and foremost. You
see, Andy, Ralph is a fellow of experience. He was on a trading vessel
for two years. He's been twice to Europe and once clear to China. It
would make the hair rise on your head to hear of some of his thrilling
escapes. I reckon he's been so used to have sailors come into the
galley on board ship to eat and rest when working in some terrific
storm, that he can't break the habit of filling up a fellow and getting
him nice and cozy before he sits down to chat."
Soon, however, they were chatting like three magpies. Ralph was a
capital cook. In a jiffy he had a royal spread, consisting of a dishful
of boiled eggs, bread and butter and steaming coffee, before his
guests. He sat down then, looking them over with a curious glance, but
saying nothing until with a sigh of rare content Phil put down his
knife and fork, with the remark:
"That was simply fine."
"Best ever!" added Andy with enthusiasm.
"Things are bad," said Ralph bluntly, bolting into a subject he knew
naturally to be the one then uppermost in the minds of his young
friends. "It's war, boys, swift and sure. Everybody has waked up. Why,
for two nights we haven't even been in bed at this house. There are
friends coming from all directions, couriers arriving, messages sent
out. Mr. Eaton has made a kind of office of the best room here. Two
men from Lexington arrived just before you did. They are massing some
military stores there, and men, too, and Gen. Gage has to make just one
more move of tyranny to have the Colonial army march down on Boston
and drive him out of it."
"What has the general been doing?" inquired Andy.
"He had a plot to capture and hang all of the patriotic leaders.
Somehow, the plot failed."
Phil and Andy exchanged gratified glances. Each was filled with a
thrill of gladness as they were moved with the mutual idea that their
humble exertions had something to do with this favorable aspect of the
case.
"Gage has been planting spies and massing secret supplies all over the
colony," went on Ralph. "The main trouble in organizing our army has
been in getting arms and ammunition. Why, in some districts the British
agents have bought up all the loose powder in the country stores. Some
of it they hid, and a lot of it they burned up."
"The rascals!" flared up Andy.
"Three days ago," pursued Ralph, "we got word that Gage was ready
to make some big move. We couldn't find out his plans. Day before
yesterday the first part of his plan came down upon the colony like a
thunder clap. He put Boston in a state of blockade, martial law was
ordered. As I told you, no one could leave or come into Boston without
a Tory passport."
"Why was that, I wonder?" murmured Andy.
"Why, to prevent the outside colonists from getting word from the
city. Yesterday a courier reached Mr. Eaton, and then went on to warn
Lexington, Concord and the other principal towns. The redcoats are
drilling, massing and getting ready to leave Boston for a raid on
outside towns. We don't know exactly when they are going to strike, but
we shall know before they leave."
"How? Why?" spoke Andy in rapt interest.
"We have men inside the lines who are watching every move of the
British. The moment they make a definite start, a signal will be given
to our agents just outside of Boston. Then the arrangements are such
that the news will be spread to the outside towns like wildfire."
Andy was so wrought up that he was pacing the floor restlessly while
Ralph was talking. Phil was thinking of his folks and his friends.
Phil knew more about Boston than Ralph or Andy. He realized more than
they did the seriousness of the high-handed outrage on the part of
the Tories in striving to subdue the valiant spirits of the patriots.
He knew that the effect of such action would be to deeply arouse the
Musket Boys of Boston to the fighting fever point.
"There will be bloodshed," he said with conviction, to himself. "If
the war never breaks out, this will lead to trouble for the redcoats."
Then Phil thought of something else, and arose to his feet with the
words: "Ralph, I have something important to tell Mr. Eaton."
"Hold on, though," was the response--"you've a story to tell first.
Where have you been? Your folks have been inquiring for you everywhere.
They have been worried to death about you."
Phil detailed the various experiences of his friend and himself since
they had left Concord. Ralph's face worked with interest as they told
of the adventure at the Lowell town hall. It was when they came to
their imprisonment on the _Vixen_ and their escape in the sailboat,
that he became so excited that he could scarcely sit still.
"Grand!" was his comment, when Phil told of the cutting of the cable.
"Superb!" he added, when they related how they had sailed the boat into
Sandy Creek. "Famous!" he fairly shouted, when Phil narrated the run
across the swamp lake.
"And there she stuck," concluded Andy, breaking in on the narrative.
"There she is now, and nobody knows how many kegs of powder and how
many muskets she has aboard."
"Boys," said Ralph starting for the front of the house in a state of
intense excitement, "You've done a big thing. Just one or two clever
tricks like this, and we'll be able to whip the Tories and the redcoats
with our hands behind our backs!"
CHAPTER XVIII
TROUBLED TIMES
It was a big thing that Phil Warrington and Andy Sabine had done in
capturing the consort of the _Vixen_, floating it to safe and secret
harborage, and delivering its valuable cargo over to trusted agents
of the continental army. The chums tried to appear simply glad and
modest, when Mr. Eaton, after a visit to the swamp, returned to them
filled with admiration for their act and the deepest satisfaction
over results. For all that, Phil thrilled with genuine pride over the
compliments of the sterling patriot, and Andy held his head an inch or
two higher.
The big sailboat was found to be loaded with military stores of which
the colonists were in sore need. There were in fact, sufficient arms
and ammunition to equip a whole military company and defend a town.
Mr. Eaton had taken Ralph with him to inspect the boat, he insisted
that his guests had seen enough hardship for one night at least. When
he returned, it was to send Ralph to rouse up some neighbors. Phil
and Andy, worn out with their arduous exertions, went to sleep on the
long settle in the kitchen. When they awoke, it was to find Mrs. Eaton
bustling about the room preparing breakfast.
She greeted Phil and his introduction of Andy with a welcoming smile,
and, putting on their dry coats and shoes, the boys went outside to
find Ralph at a grindstone in a shed sharpening an old hunting knife.
"Hello, fresh as larks, eh?" cried the energetic lad cheerily. "Lots of
work been done since you went to sleep."
"How's that?" questioned Andy.
"Well, if the Britishers should happen to trace that sailboat, they
will find her cargo gone. Left here on wagons for Lexington and Concord
over two hours ago. I tried to get Mr. Eaton to rig up the boat with
a couple of small cannons, furnish it with some muskets, and I'd go
pirating down the Bay. They laughed at me, so I've got to give up that
wild idea, as they call it, for the time being. Tell you a secret,
though," continued Ralph impressively: "if things get desperate I'll
come back here, get that boat afloat and do something for my country.
She's a trim craft, I tell you--too good to lie rotting in the swamp.
You may yet see her under sail with myself the bold privateer of
Boston bay."
Ralph was only half-fooling. His suggestion caught Andy immensely.
There was a call to breakfast, and then Ralph took his guests up to his
room in the attic. He showed them a bundle on the bed, beside which lay
the hunting knife and an old-fashioned pistol. Everything indicated
preparation for some emergency, and Phil regarded Ralph inquiringly.
"Looks as if you were getting ready to go to war," he observed.
"It's about that," responded Ralph in a spirited tone. "Anybody would
be blind not to see that cannons will soon be booming and the Tories
scampering back to England. I'm going to Boston. Why, I can't sleep
nights thinking of the turmoil and excitement there. I was born to be
in the center of a mix up, always. Yes, I'm going to Boston, and I'm
going to get into Boston, too."
"Of course we will go with you," said Phil. "I am anxious about the
folks. The Musket Boys will need me, too."
"Hope I'm not going to be left out of the procession," observed Andy.
"No, indeed," replied Ralph with unction, and so it was settled.
Ralph waited until Mr. Eaton returned from the settlement, and had
quite a lengthy conversation with them. The patriot shook hands all
around and Mrs. Eaton kissed the boys good-by in a motherly fashion,
and handed Ralph a home-made wicker basket.
"When the war is over, Mrs. Eaton," said Andy, "I'm coming back here to
eat some more of those splendid doughnuts of yours."
"You will find a supply in the basket there," replied Mrs. Eaton, with
an encouraging smile.
The morning had dawned bright and beautiful, and early spring was
beginning to touch the landscape here and there with green. There
was a pretty good road clear to Boston, and the wayfarers took their
time, planning that they would reach the city after dark, which would
certainly be the best time to make an attempt to evade the British
soldiers in an effort to reach the Warrington home.
They came across few people going towards the city. In one little
village they passed through, they found business practically suspended.
Nearly all of its residents were gathered on the village green
listening to the oration of a man, who was desperately in earnest in
warning them to prepare for war.
He aroused a vast patriotic spirit, and when he had concluded his
speech he sprang at once to the saddle of a mettled steed standing by
the horse block, and dashed down the road in the direction of the next
town, probably intent on warning all the colonists along the route.
At a second little settlement the boys were halted on the highway
and questioned by one of a party of men, all armed with muskets, and
seemingly guarding the road.
"Things are certainly humming," observed Ralph Post a little later, as,
passing a lonely farmhouse, they observed a stalwart woman and her two
sons burnishing up a sword and two muskets.
Dusk found them only a few miles from Boston. Phil, who knew the road,
told his companions that they could reach the city within an hour.
Ralph, it seemed, had been instructed to go to a certain place on the
river opposite the city, and there consult with some friends who would
advise them as to the safest way to get past the sentry lines of the
Tories.
"Perhaps we had better keep off the main road the rest of the way,"
suggested Phil. "Besides, I know a good short cut to Dockrell's Mill,
where Mr. Eaton said we would find his friends."
This was acceded to by the others, and Phil piloted the way along a
by-path and through some stunted timber. Then it was a hit and miss
progress for about a mile, and in the gathering dusk Phil would have
been confused only that they were guided by lights in houses in the
distance.
"I say, what was that?" exclaimed Andy suddenly, as they took a detour
to escape a reach of swampy ground.
"Sounded like a horse's neigh and a great floundering in among that
tangle of weeds yonder," said Phil, halting and gazing sharply in the
direction indicated.
"Mercy!" cried Andy with a decided shock.
They all stood stock-still. Abruptly upon the quiet evening air and
very near at hand, there rang out a fearful blood-curdling shriek.
CHAPTER XIX
"SACHEM"
Ralph drew out the pistol he carried with a quick movement of his hand.
Andy poised the heavy cudgel with which he had armed himself. Phil ran
forward a few feet to try and get within range of a bulky moving object
partially obscured by some high weeds.
That fearsome yell was not repeated, but its echoes still vibrated in
their ears. It had filled the near woods with alarm, and there was a
vast fluttering and flight of birds among the trees.
"It's a horse," said Phil, and he peered more closely. Then he ran in
among the rushes. "A horse," and, added Phil instantly: "Why, sure as I
live, a man, too!"
Phil disappeared partly from view. The curious and startled Andy and
Ralph could dimly make him out wading rapidly behind a screen of high
flags. Then there was a great floundering. The curtain of reeds parted.
There was Phil, struggling with a snorting horse. The animal was
plunging and slipping on a slimy foothold. Phil dragged at the bridle.
There was another piercing yell as the steed fell over sideways,
apparently submerging a rider. Then the horse righted itself, and
Phil, dodging its prancing hoofs, reached dry ground with the panting,
breathless appeal to his astonished comrades:
"Andy--Ralph--help me!"
It took the combined efforts of the three boys--and they were exerted
just in time--to pull the horse upright and onto solid ground. Once
there, the animal stood snorting in fear and exhaustion and quivering
all over like an aspen. Phil slipped his hand along the bridle
and patted the dripping neck of the overwrought steed gently and
soothingly. Then he and his comrades fixed their gaze on the burden
that the horse bore.
"Whew!" whistled Andy in the profoundest stupefaction.
"Why," cried Ralph, in surprise and consternation, "It's an Indian."
"Yes, but his plight!" said Phil, almost shocked beyond expression.
"Boys, this is horrible."
An Indian the helpless man tied securely flat the length of his body
along the horse's back, certainly was. He presented a strange and
pitiable sight. His attire was in tatters. One half of his head was
shaven clear and was daubed with white paint thickly. On the other
side among the matted hair was a great mass of red paint. His face was
bruised and slashed, and his hands were bleeding with many open cuts.
The helpless frenzy in the Indian's eyes was terrible. Their frightful
expression made Ralph shudder and caused Andy to shrink back. Phil
was simply full of sympathy. The man's breath showed that he had been
drinking deeply of the pestilent "fire water" of the white man.
"This is shameful," said Phil indignantly. "Some one has been guilty of
a mean, cowardly act."
"He looks dangerous," said Andy, but Phil without delay proceeded to
cut the straps and ropes that held the Indian helpless. The man was so
cramped that he almost fell to the ground, once freed. Phil supported
him, easing him to a fallen tree, where the Indian sat swaying for some
moments, his fiery eyes scanning his rescuers one after the other.
It was still light enough for them to make out that he had been badly
mistreated. The fellow gradually restored circulation to his cramped
limbs. Very suddenly he arose to his feet. He threw out his arms with
a wild, furious gesture in the direction of the city. A guttural
half-choked cry resembling that of some wounded, angry animal sounded
in his throat.
Phil went to the edge of the swamp, and wetting his handkerchief
in some surface water there returned to the side of the redman and
proceeded to wash the blood from his face. The man did not resent this.
His hard features softened somewhat. Then he braced upright, and a kind
of tragic, heroic pose was his as he folded his arms across his breast.
"Me Sachem," he said proudly, "King Philip Sachem."
"I say!" exclaimed Andy sharply to his comrades, "I know who he is."
"You know him?" repeated Phil vaguely.
"Yes, I've heard about him more than once. He's hung around lots of
villages for the last ten years. Pretends to be a great grandson, or
something of that kind, of King Philip, the great Rhode Island Sachem,
who was a noted warrior some two hundred years ago."
"I've read about King Philip in history," said Ralph.
"This man has been a worthless, idle fellow, who they said didn't
do much except steal and drink 'fire-water.' Since the trouble began
with the British, I've heard my father tell how he has been hired by
the redcoats to try and incite the stray tribes to make the colonists
trouble. He's a bad man, I fear, Phil, and I don't believe you can
trust him far."
The Indian either did not understand perfectly what Andy was saying, or
was engrossed in a wild crooning he indulged in. This was a sing-song
chant directed toward the city.
Having finished this, he began a wild war dance. The boys could not but
help watch his maneuvers with interest. Finally he came up to Phil and
looked him fixedly in the eye. He took one of Phil's hands and placed
it on his own head, humbling himself as if trying to convey to the
Boston boy that he was thankful and his slave.
Starting back, he began an extravagant and expressive pantomime. His
movements were intricate, and Phil had to do a great deal of guessing
to get their meaning. An occasional word in English, however, did a
good deal towards enlightening him.
When the Indian had finished his eccentric explanation, he made as
if to draw a hunting knife, and then his hands lifted innumerable
imaginary scalps. He uttered what might have been his tribal war
cry. He again placed Phil's hand on his head, humbled himself into a
squatting position, and finally came back to practical life by getting
the bridle and saddle of his horse in order.
"I've talked finger talk to the South Sea Islanders," observed Ralph,
"but this fellow is too rapid for me. What's he trying to tell, anyhow,
Phil?"
"Why, as near as I can make it out," said Phil, "he has been sort of
friendly with the Tories. They invited him to Boston. He seems to try
and tell that they got him to give all kinds of information about
various people in the settlements. They gave him plenty of fire-water.
Then they turned him loose. He got hanging around the camp, and stole
something. The soldiers pounded him, tied him to the horse and started
them away from the city. The horse must have swum the Charles River,
and had a wild dash of it into the timber and the swamp."
"He acts as if he has some pretty hard feeling against the Tories,"
said Andy.
"He has. Oh, he will have revenge! he says," explained Phil. "Poor
fellow--I feel sorry for him."
Phil handed the Indian some food from the basket, which the man
received gladly. He patted Phil's hand and looked him closely in the
eye. Then he reached into the breast of his hunting shirt and drew
out a buckskin bag. Searching in this, he brought out a piece of very
hard wood a few inches square. It was covered with paint--daubed
characters and pictures. He handed this to Phil. As he did so, he drew
an imaginary circle around Phil. He held up his hands to indicate
numbers--of men, Phil thought. Then the Indian made it plain that he
had given his rescuer a charm or amulet that would disperse all enemies.
"Good-by," said Phil, heartily shaking the hand of the Indian, and the
latter mounted his horse, made a threatening gesture towards Boston,
and rode away.
CHAPTER XX
PAUL REVERE'S RIDE
"Well!" remarked Andy, as the Indian was lost to view amid the mazes of
the forest. "There's plenty of variety on the road to Boston, it seems."
"Phil has made a good friend, at any rate," said Ralph. "Sort of
adopted you, Phil. Those savage fellows mean something when they take a
fancy to a fellow. I'll wager you hear from this man again. That funny
piece of wood he gave you was the most precious thing he possessed. I
know these savages. When I was in the South Sea Islands, a sailor saved
the life of a drowning native. The day we left, that grateful native
came down to the ship with over one hundred mates, beating tom-toms and
hauling aboard a whole wagon load of presents."
Andy listened to Ralph with a suspicious sidelong look. Ralph was
continually alluding to this and that remote spot on the globe where
he had been, and to Andy it was really remarkable the wide experience
of a person so young.
"This poor 'Sachem' hasn't many presents to give, I fancy," said Phil,
"but it's just as important to have his good will. The Indians could
annoy us a good deal, with the Tories behind them. I don't think this
man will ever train with them again though. There's the mill, Ralph,"
proceeded Phil. "Mr. Eaton has told you what to do, so we will follow
the leader until you find out how safe it is for us to try and get into
Boston."
"Mr. Eaton told me to see a man named Jewett," explained Ralph. "He
lives in the settlement here. I suppose the first move is to locate
him."
The boys got nearer to the river and followed its shore until they came
to a little cluster of houses. Ralph entered the yard of one of these,
went to the front door of the house and knocked. He soon came back to
Phil and Andy.
"The woman in that house has directed me to Jewett's place," said
Ralph. "It's farther down the river."
At Mr. Jewett's house Ralph remained inside for some time.
"Did you see your man?" inquired Andy, as Ralph returned to them.
"No, but I saw Mrs. Jewett. She asked me all kinds of questions, as if
to make sure that I really came from Mr. Eaton. Everybody here acts
with suspicion, and all on the tip-toe of excitement. The woman told me
to go to Dockrell's Mill. I reckon her husband is there. She thought it
over a good deal, and made me tell my story clear through before she
decided to send me to the mill though."
"We'll soon be in Boston, I hope," said Andy, as they moved forward
once more.
They finally made out the mill and some surrounding buildings in the
distance. The boys were chatting animatedly, when, passing some bushes,
all of a sudden a sharp, commanding voice spoke the word:
"Halt!"
All three stood stock-still, for from behind the bushes appeared a man,
leveling a musket. He had the bearing of a person who would fire at the
least provocation, as he craned his neck to make out the faces of the
party he challenged.
"Who are you?" he demanded, as Phil stepped forward.
"My name is Warrington," Phil explained, "I live in Boston, and am
trying to get there with my two friends here."
The sentry, for such he apparently was, laughed outright.
"You'll have a time of it," he said dryly. "Smarter fellows than you
have been trying to get out of Boston and into Boston all day long, and
have made a failure of it. You'll have to go back. We have something
to say on this side of the creek, and it's no thoroughfare for anybody
this route, for to-night, at least."
"We are especially sent to one certain person," said Phil, "and maybe
that will make a difference."
"Who is it?" inquired the sentinel.
"Mr. Jewett."
"Who sent you?"
Phil told as much in explanation as he thought necessary.
"You tell a pretty straight story," said the sentry. "If you're up to
any tricks, it won't pay you. Who's that with you, or a little behind
you, as you came up the path?"
"With us?" exclaimed Phil. "Why nobody."
"Yes, there was," declared the sentry. "Some one was dodging along
after you. I saw him plainly."
"I don't see him now," said Phil, peering sharply back the course they
had come, "and it seems impossible that any one would be following us."
"Well, he's disappeared now," said the sentry. "It may have been one of
our other sentinels. Go ahead. Keep right on this path till you reach
the mill. Don't leave it to do any prying."
"Why should we?" demanded Andy, who didn't like the preemptory ways of
their challenger.
"Well, just don't, that's all," continued the sentry. "You may get into
trouble if you do. The bushes have eyes and ears around here just now,
and we don't want any interfering. You had better get through with
Jewett soon as you can, and make your break for Boston lively, for, if
the signs don't fail, before another night there may be a heavy rain."
"Not with that wind," innocently declared Ralph, who from his sailor
experience prided himself on being an expert weather prophet.
"Ha! ha!" laughed the sentry. "Not the kind of rain you mean, my
lad--this will be a rain of leaden bullets."
The boys passed on. They did not even converse now for there was a sort
of gruesome spell over each. Their nerves were on a strain, for every
bush they passed might conceal a sentry. They passed a hut with no
lights or sign of life about it. Near to it and about one hundred feet
from the path was a barn.
"Some one is in there," said Andy. "I can see a light through the
chinks."
"Come on, Andy," directed Phil.
"Yes, better try, no snooking around," advised Ralph. "That sentry told
us to follow our noses, straight."
But Andy was persistent. He deviated from the regular path, and the
others, irresistibly influenced by his leadership and curiosity, kept
pace with him. They came up against the side of the barn, where a long
wide crack showed between two shrunken planks.
A lantern hanging from a hook in a rafter illuminated the interior
of an ordinary stable room. In the centre of the barn, saddled and
bridled, magnificently erect and graceful, was the most beautiful horse
Phil had ever seen. The steed stood like some statue of bronze, and the
whole picture somehow thrilled the onlookers in an impressive, heroic
way.
Seated upon the animal, straight, athletic, was a man as mute and
motionless as if he was planted there. He held the bridle reins loosely
in one hand, but he was posed as if awaiting some word of command upon
which he must act on the instant. His ear seemed bent towards the old
mill building not five hundred feet away.
"Why," began Andy in a tremor of excitement.
"S-sh! This way, boys," interrupted Phil, in a quick, cautious whisper.
"But I know," began Andy again, insistently.
What Andy knew or did not know was not disclosed at that moment. There
was again an interruption, and Phil was not responsible for it this
time.
"Look--say, look!" said Ralph.
Way across the broad Charles River on the Boston shore, from the high
window of the old North Church, there flashed out the bright light of
two big lanterns, the rays shot against some broad reflectors.
Thrice the lights rose and fell. Immediately from the upper story of
the old mill building, just beyond the spot where the boys stood, a
blue light flamed momentarily in response. Then darkness again and
silence, but the silence reigned for a moment only. There was a shout
inside the barn into which the boys had just peered, the sharp, quick
clatter of the hoofs of a horse on the hollow planking. The watcher
at the window had disappeared. Phil, Andy and Ralph, inexpressibly
excited, ran to the structure and again looked into its interior.
The man at the window had darted to the big door of the place. He
dashed it open, saying something in a rapid tone to the man on the
horse. Rider and animal were posed as if set on springs. One leap, and
they cleared the threshold.
The man at the door brought his broad hand down on the flank of the
speeding horse. His voice rose to an eager, exultant shout, urging
steed and rider out into the darkness with the rapidity of an arrow
shot from a bow. A thrill ran through every nerve of the overwrought
spectators, as he cried:
"Go, Paul Revere! The liberty of America depends upon your mission this
night!"
CHAPTER XXI
ALONG THE RIVER
"Paul Revere! I told you I knew him!" cried Andy. "Yes, sir, it's war.
I remember--my father--Concord--fast horse--warn the country."
In an incoherent way Andy made it known to his comrades that he had
seen Paul Revere at a meeting of the Sons of Liberty at his home at
Concord, and that his father had intimated that the intrepid horseman
was listed to act as a courier in the patriotic service.
"Hark!" ordered Phil sharply.
Horse and rider had vanished as if into a cloud. Then they had heard
the swift ringing hoofs on the road. These, too, had died away, but
now, echoing on the still air, came a prolonged, vibrating call.
"Hulloa--oa--oa!"
Indistinct words followed. Silence again, and then the call repeated.
Shouts of others besides the dauntless night riders echoed out.
Lights began to flash in the distance. More remote, a great bonfire,
a veritable beacon of liberty, blazed out suddenly. Some shots were
heard, and mingled with them was a wild alarm bell, summoning some
little settlement to arms.
"He has important news," said Andy. "Oh, you can wager he has. He is
to warn all the towns along the road. Ralph, let us get quickly to Mr.
Jewett. I'm dying to find out what is going to happen next."
"Hey, what are you doing here?" pronounced a gruff voice.
Andy was suddenly seized by the nape of the neck. He was pushed
forward, jerked back and whirled face to face with his challenger and
captor, the man whom they had noticed at the little window in the barn.
"Hold on, there," broke in Phil, stepping forward to rescue his chum
from rough treatment.
"What are you doing, sneaking around here?" demanded the man angrily.
"We are looking for Mr. Jewett," explained Ralph.
"Yes, and we know--let go--Paul Revere--let go, I say--and we're true
blue--"
"Know Jewett, do you?" said the man, somewhat skeptically. "Well, we'll
soon know about that, for here he comes."
All hands looked in the direction of the old mill. They saw a man
running rapidly towards them. But soon he halted, seemed peering in
among the bushes, and ran back a distance on his course. Then he came
forward again.
"Watch out close," he called to Andy's captor, as if intent on keeping
running. "Seems to me I noticed a skulker after me when I left the
mill. What of Revere?"
"Gone," reported the man.
"Good! The break has come. Before morning six hundred British troops
will be on the road to Lexington. Watch here a bit, then come to the
settlement. We must get ready to greet those redcoats with a warm
welcome."
The speaker started to hasten on his way, but Andy's captor halted him
with the words:
"Hold on, Jewett."
"Eh--why, who are these boys?" exclaimed Jewett, making out for the
first moment the companions of the man who had hailed him.
"They say they came to see you."
"I am from Mr. Eaton," explained Ralph. "This is Phil Warrington of
Boston, and my other friend is Andy Sabine of Concord."
"Yes, yes," nodded Jewett. "Good names, all. What can I do for you,
lads?"
"We want to get into Boston, where Phil's folks live," said Ralph.
"Boston!" repeated Mr. Jewett. "Why, lads, before morning, probably
within an hour, you will see that river out yonder covered with boat
loads of redcoats. The British are about to make a raid out into the
country, Lexington first, Concord next. Look out for yourselves, fight
if you can, but don't think of going to Boston. Roberts, take them up
to my house till I get our men in trim for the coming fight, and keep
a lookout for the man I thought I saw keeping track of me back yonder
near the old mill."
The man who had grasped Andy now released him. The boys did not pay
much further attention to him. Each of the trio felt that a critical
moment impended, and that the situation was serious. Phil looked up
and down the dark river, and then across at the city, where a good
many lights showed, and which he had no doubt, was now in a state of
considerable commotion.
"I'll go up to the house with you soon," said the man, turning to
attend to something in the barn.
"We called there on our way here, and know where it is," explained
Phil. "We hardly know what is best to do."
"As you like," said the man. "Only, you had better follow Jewett's
advice. We have been waiting for a week for what you saw happen a few
minutes since, and it means a good deal, all hands around, I can tell
you."
"What shall we do, boys?" inquired Phil anxiously of his companions, as
Andy's recent captor disappeared into the barn.
"Mr. Jewett said Lexington and Concord," observed Andy, in a reflective
tone. "I don't believe that the Tories will ever get that far out, but
I'd like to be in the thick of the excitement."
"Phil is pretty anxious about his folks," remarked Ralph. "We can't do
much this side of the river except hang around. We have no muskets. We
could learn a lot in Boston."
"Well, anyhow, we'll see how it looks along the river," said Phil, with
an irresolute sigh. "If we find a boat, I have a good mind to try and
get across the river, even if we came right back again."
"All right. Let's see what turns up," said Andy, and they started down
the stream and past the old mill. The revelations of the past hour
had stirred them up greatly. Andy talked of the boys training club at
Concord, Phil of the Musket Boys of Boston, Ralph wished the provincial
congress would establish a navy, and give him a chance to show what he
had learned as a sailor boy.
They proceeded along the river for over a mile before they made any
discovery affecting their plans. Andy had remembered what Mr. Jewett
had said about being followed by some one, and had strenuously asserted
that he had caught sight twice of a lurking figure in their rear since
passing the old mill. Now Ralph, who was a little ahead of Phil, halted.
"Fellows, the very thing," he cried. "Here's a yawl."
All hands came to the water's edge with alacrity. There lay a yawl, the
oars set. It was lapping the water unsecured, except for being grounded
at the stern, and it looked as though it had been recently used. For
all that, Andy leaped into the bow, and Ralph sat down in the center
seat and took up the oars.
"I will keep the lookout," said Phil. "I ought to know these waters
around here pretty well, and if we don't run across some craft of the
enemy before we get across, I am sure we can pick out a safe place to
land. There's a fog coming up from the bay. That will hide us some."
"Not yet, my young gallivanters!" suddenly spoke a gruff voice.
From behind a great log near the beach the speaker stepped into view.
Advancing slowly upon them, a musket extended, the young patriots saw a
redcoat soldier in full uniform.
CHAPTER XXII
"ON TO LEXINGTON!"
The British soldier walked straight up to the yawl, stepped into it,
and, his gun still extended, sat down in the stern of the boat. It was
all done so easily and naturally, that it fairly took away the breath
of the three astonished boys.
"Keep right on," said the soldier--"row away, there."
Andy for once was subdued. He did not doubt but that the redcoat meant
business, and that gun barrel looked ugly and threatening. Ralph
mechanically placed the oars in motion. Phil half-faced about wondering
what would come next.
It seemed to him that he had caught a vague glimpse of a scudding
figure shift through the fog and melt away at the water's edge, but he
attributed this to a shadow or fancy, his main interest centered on
the big, cruel-faced soldier, who now held himself and his companions
absolutely at his mercy.
"Row, I tell you," ordered the redcoat. "No fooling, no tricks, or I'll
sink you with lead. Trying to get into Boston, were you?" he chuckled.
"Well, I'll just help you, that's all."
"Yes, I guess we'll get to Boston," said Andy rather glumly, in a
half-undertone.
"Sort of dreaded the row across," continued the redcoat. "Then again,
judging from what I overheard you fellows say, I fancy you can tell
considerable to our captain. Blame me, if I've found out anything
except a heap of signaling. Say," he added to Phil, "what was all that
hubbub of shots and shouts and bells I heard down the river?"
"I wasn't down the river to find out, you see," responded Phil.
"Wasn't you, now?" said the soldier, in a sarcastic tone. "You're all
very innocent, aren't you? Row faster and steadier, there," he ordered
in a raised, angry tone, as Ralph lagged at the oars.
Andy had just whispered something behind Ralph. It was to the effect
that he believed boats from the other shore were crossing the river.
If this were true, Ralph foresaw that they would soon ride right in
amongst the enemy.
"Then we'll be gone for good," Andy declared in a hollow whisper.
"Let's fight for it--here and now."
"Did you hear me?" repeated the redcoat wrathfully. "Row faster."
"Not an inch," said Ralph, quietly but forcibly.
He dropped the oars as he spoke, and sitting erect folded his arms and
faced the soldier like a statue.
"Andy," he whispered sideways, "there's the old pistol in my belt
behind, get it. I'll make a spring." And Ralph moved slightly forward,
and managed to touch Phil with his foot as a hint that they were up to
something.
The redcoat uttered a wicked snarl. He raised his musket, and the boys
heard an ominous click.
"Dodge! duck!" shouted Andy excitedly. "The ruffian is going to
massacre us!"
Bang! Sure enough the gun went off, but up in the air. The astonished
boys saw the weapon fly up from the hands of the enraged soldier. It
came down in the middle of the boat, striking Ralph. What was more
wonderful, though, was that accompanying this maneuver. The redcoat
performed a series of gyrations that reminded Phil of a man who had
been kicked off a horse in a somersault circle.
The soldier shot clear back off the boat, arms and feet sawing the
air. He uttered a curdling yell, but its echoes gurgled down to a
gasp as he went under the surface of the water with the dexterity of
a practised acrobat. Next, there sprang over the stern a dripping but
agile figure.
"The Indian,--Old Sachem!" exclaimed Andy. "Don't!"--began Andy, in a
horrified tone.
There passed before the boys a rapid, tragic spectacle. They could
readily surmise what had transpired--the Indian had followed them from
the swamp. Whatever his motive to guard them, to try and do them a good
turn for their kindness to him or on the trail of his enemies, seeking
revenge, it was evidently Sachem, as he was generally nicknamed, who
had been lurking around the old mill and later upon the course they had
followed.
Sachem must have swum after the boat, and at the right moment had
pulled back the redcoat. Now, seating himself at the stern, he reached
back and grabbed out. His wiry fingers were clenched in the bushy
whiskers of the Tory. Sweeping his other hand towards them holding a
keen-bladed knife, he "scalped" the redcoat's luxurious whiskers.
With a laugh of derision he tossed the handful of hair into the face
of the yelling victim, gave him a hard slap on the face and then a push
that sent the redcoat swimming for shore, probably more scared that he
had ever been before in his life.
The whole incident had been so rapid, tragical and finally grotesque,
that Andy broke out into a great laugh. It was quickly subdued. Through
the gloom from some near boat came a startling challenge:
"Who is there?"
Instantly Ralph grabbed the oars. There was no doubt but that the
British were crossing over from Boston. The shore was near at hand.
All saw that they must promptly reach it or drive straight into a new
dilemma.
Ralph speedily turned the bow of the boat, and began making for shore.
They all kept silent, the Indian stationing himself at the stern, his
ear bent attentively, his eye trying to pierce the fog and darkness.
The redcoat he had doused and "scalped" had reached the shore. He was
now running away from his landing place, bellowing out directions to
the approaching boat loads of his fellows. This helped neither them nor
himself, for the gloom hung about like a pall.
The boys leaped from the boat as they reached the shore. The Indian
faced them with the most extravagant gestures. These plainly indicated
that they were foolhardy to attempt to get into Boston. He turned and
pointed in the direction of the old country road.
"Lexington," he said. "Boom--boom!"
Phil nodded actively to indicate to the redman that he understood him.
The latter looked pleased. He placed his finger tip to his lip to
enforce silence, beckoned his companions to follow him, and then stole
down the shore like a shadow.
It was just in time, for two minutes later the refugees comprehended
that the British were landing. The Indian proceeded at a brisk pace for
over a half a mile. Here there was a thicket, and he led the boys to it.
Soon, he said sententiously--"wait," and disappeared.
"Well, Sachem is proving a pretty good friend," observed Andy.
"I wonder what he is up to now?" spoke Ralph.
"He wants to act quick," said Phil. "The British are certainly landing
their troops this side of the river. We shall be surrounded by them if
we don't make ourselves scarce."
The boys could see lights here and there down the river shore. Once
there were some vague shouts, and the echo of a volley of musketry. Way
to the west a reddish glare betokened a house on fire, or some patriot
beacon.
"The air sort of bristles with action, hey, Phil?" remarked Andy. "I
wish my Concord crowd was here. We'd soon make up some plan to fight or
annoy these bold redcoats."
"Some one is coming!" said Ralph just then, and thereupon the Indian
stepped into view. To the amazement of the boys he led three horses.
These were army steeds fully accoutred, and at the saddle of each hung
a sabre and a short cavalry musket.
"Sachem" conveyed to his friends that he had stolen them. He had
evidently located other horses, and according to his pantomime had set
them free.
"He has happened upon some redcoat detachment this side of the river,
waiting for orders to move," suggested Andy. "Say, fellows, here is a
layout that's famous, eh?"
"Sachem" pointed again solemnly, and Phil knew that he was indicating
Lexington, and advising them to proceed in that direction. He began
to thank the Indian, but the latter, with a grunt of satisfaction at
having been of service to his friends and at settling his score with
the redcoats, backed away and disappeared.
"Phil," cried Andy buoyantly, "this is unmistakable, I reckon!" and he
sprang into one of the saddles.
"I'm more at home on a deck than on a horse's back," remarked Ralph,
"but this strikes me as the proper thing."
"Yes," said Phil, "we will leave Boston till later. Just now the motto
must be: 'On to Lexington!'"
CHAPTER XXIII
THE FIRST SKIRMISH
"Andy! Andy!" screamed Ralph Post.
But Andy Sabine did not answer. Amid a scene of wild riot and
turbulence, wreathed with the actual smoke of battle, the centre of a
struggling, battling crowd of yeoman and militia, the Concord boy was
swept from view like one on the wings of a cyclone.
It was wonderful what a few hours time had wrought in the destinies
and environment of the three loyal chums, who had not reached the city
they had started out for, but instead had become involved in the first
sanguinary conflict of the War of the Revolution at its most active,
seething centre. Never could any one of them forget the escapades of
the past night. It was like some dream--the wild dash down the old
country road from the Charles river, inspirited by Phil Warrington's
final heroic decision: "On to Lexington!"
They made little progress that was not attended by stirring incidents.
There was not a village they passed that was not in a state of
barricade, preparation, or practically deserted. Bonfires were blazing,
men, women, even children were wide awake. Some particular building in
these little hamlets was usually the focus of local military fever.
Here were grouped men with every conceivable weapon from a blunderbuss
to a pitchfork, boys with hatchets, bows and arrows, even slingshots.
Wherever they owned a cannon, no matter how small, it was planted
conspicuously.
The lack of fear was remarkable. All acted as if an hour long
anticipated had arrived, and they were prepared for the conflict.
Attics and roofs were occupied by men with all their available firearms
by their side. The hedges and timber concealed any number of men on
the watch for the first token of the approach of the foe. On top of
many a hill a great brush fire was kept burning, furnishing a circle of
beacons as far as the eye could reach.
All this Phil, Andy and Ralph saw, and every advancing mile showed how
well Paul Revere and another messenger named William Dawes had sounded
their warnings to the ready colonists. It was only when they reached
Lexington, however, that the boys realized that the hurry and scurry
and unbottled enthusiasm all led to one central point where the first
stand of the patriots was to be made.
The little town was being patrolled by men having some semblance of
system and discipline. In fact, as the little group came cantering into
the town, they were greeted with suspicion, were boldly challenged, and
had to explain how they came to be riding horses with accoutrements
manifestly belonging to the enemy. There was a talk of "Headquarters,"
and, Phil in the lead, their horses hitched outside of the town hall
building, they were marshalled into the presence of a man upon whom
seemed to rest the leadership of the hundred or more men who were
scattered about the village, many of whom had come from neighboring
settlements to the defence of Lexington.
Phil told Captain Parker a good deal that was welcome and important.
The startling dash of Paul Revere had been only a warning. Here were
couriers direct from the midst of the British, already on the march
outside of Boston town. Their report was listened to with eagerness and
interest. Then their places were taken by new arrivals. A man would
come in with all the able-bodied male members of his family. A stray
little group of farmers next put in a plea for active service. No
one seemed disposed to shirk a duty--all was loyalty, enthusiasm and
courage.
"We're here," observed Phil, as he and his comrades stood outside once
more, "and I guess we are going to see the first battle of the war."
"See it?" echoed Andy vaingloriously. "Why, we're going to be a part of
it. I'm full of fight, myself," and he handled over the sabre attached
to the saddle of his horse, to which he had taken a great fancy.
Couriers had been sent back on the Boston road. These began to come in
as the hours wore on. The enemy was on the march ten miles, then eight
miles, and now only five miles away. In the meantime, the camp, as it
might be called, began to come into some shape and substance. Buildings
were transposed into forts, and the strongest detachment lurked about
the town hall and at the so-called arsenal of the village.
"You see, it's military stores the British are after on this raid,"
explained Phil. "They know that their capture or destruction will
cripple the cause, and here and at Concord are the biggest lot of these
stores outside of Boston."
"Why didn't they go quietly about it?" inquired Ralph.
"They expected to, but, as you have seen, our people were watching
their every move."
"I bet they will face a tremendous surprise," declared Andy. "Just see
how the people are aroused. There's a patriot in every hedge clear to
Charles river, and the Minute Men are bound to hinder the redcoats from
getting here."
Phil and his comrades were very proud to be sent on their horses to
carry important messages to outlying squads from Captain Parker and his
assistants. A good many boys of their own age were grouped on a slope
near the edge of the town. Phil and his friends decided to join them.
They picketed their horses at a short distance and shouldering the
muskets they had obtained mingled with the little squad.
The situation grew more tense as time passed on. The couriers came in
more numerously and swiftly, and in increased excitement. A belt of
timber shut out a sight of the road beyond Lexington, but finally there
rounded its final curve the advance guard of the enemy.
Phil never could realize how rapidly and sensationally, from the moment
he saw the first British soldier of the invaders, did things develop.
There was skirmishing from the instant they came in sight of the
town. Shots were exchanged with men from behind trees and hedges, in
stable lofts, half-concealed in haystacks. There must have been over
six hundred men in the British detachment, Phil calculated, under the
British officer Major Pitcairn. They were well-disciplined, for they
marched steadily forward, rarely breaking ranks, and seemed to have
some definite point in view.
It soon became apparent that the stout log house that comprised the
town arsenal, and which held military stores, was the place the
invaders intended to reach.
As Major Pitcairn came up close to the assembled colonists he suddenly
halted his force.
"Disperse, ye rebels, disperse!" he cried. "Lay down your arms, ere it
is too late!"
"Never!" cried several of the Minute Men.
"Disperse!" went on the British officer, and then, as the Americans did
not move, he fired his pistol. A moment later the British troops let
fly a volley of shots at the Americans.
"The battle is on!" yelled one patriot. "Give it to 'em, boys, give it
to 'em hot!" And he took aim with his musket and let drive, and all
those around him did likewise. In that first onslaught several were
killed on both sides and a good many were wounded.
Phil and those with him were forced to disperse. It was in the scurry
to new cover that Ralph made out Andy, who had become separated from
them, borne along with an onpressing crowd. Andy was hatless, and a
red-stained handkerchief bound his head. That he had been wounded there
was no doubt and Phil, made aware of Ralph's discovery, was truly
anxious for the welfare of his redoubtable chum.
"Halt--get ready!" roared a stentorian voice, and over the crest of
the hill dashed several leaders, directing little groups to action.
Phil, Ralph and several of their own age were stationed behind a marked
battery of bushes. The road space was cleared. Suddenly twenty men
swung around, and Phil saw what was brewing. They carried great round
logs.
"I'm in for that!" cried Phil, springing from cover, and Ralph joined
him.
Boom! A great log was dropped in its length and started on a roll down
hill. Boom! Boom! number two and number three followed. The advance
guard of the British, with dismayed yells, sprang aside or ran back.
The bottom of the road was piled up with the logs, presenting a
formidable barrier to the enemy.
"More logs, rocks,--anything!" was the next stentorian command. All
kinds of debris went scurrying down the hill. The redcoats retreated
down the road, but a special deploy was at work trying to move the
massed logs out of the way.
The word passed along the hill among the loyal contingent as to what
was planned. They had formed a stout barricade. If they could defend
this and divert the British troops from the road route, they might save
the town.
The redcoats however, despite missiles and bullets, kept at work trying
to clear the road. Material to continue the barricade was now lacking.
The proposed rush down the hill was deferred while two or three of the
patriot leaders counselled together.
"Phil, there's Andy again!" spoke up Ralph quickly.
Phil glanced in the direction indicated. Andy, impetuous, heroic Andy,
was the centre of a group of men and boys. They were rolling a keg,
Andy directing its progress. With a series of forceful yells, in which
Andy led, they halted at the crest of the hill.
Ready hands drew out the plug in the head of the cask, and a long fuse
was inserted and lighted. The British below saw what threatened, as
Andy balanced the keg so as to allow it to slide lengthwise down into
the barricade. Sharp orders rang out from the British ranks.
With sudden regularity and discipline the British regiment wheeled, not
daring to face the impending explosion. The keg of powder descended.
A giant puff shot upward, a great detonating report rang out. The
barricade was lifted and scattered about, all ablaze.
When the smoke cleared the boys knew that Lexington was saved. The
enemy had deployed, and were passing the town on a detour, but still
marching onward among the defenceless towns, carrying death and
destruction in their track.
Powder-grimed, a veritable wounded warrior, Andy Sabine ran up to Phil
and Ralph, his eyes aflame with the excitement and glamour of the
battle.
"Get the horses," he said quickly, "and get ahead of those redcoats.
This is just a skirmish. Concord is what they're after, strong, Captain
Parker says."
Ten minutes later the three chums were mounted on their horses, on
their way to the scene of the first real battle of the War of the
Revolution.
CHAPTER XXIV
BROUGHT TO BOOK
"Something wrong, Andy!" said Phil Warrington seriously.
"Hello, is that so? Glad to see you back with the company, Phil."
The two speakers stood in the lower part of the Sabine barn, dimly
outlined by a lantern hung from a beam. Overhead, active, rapid
footsteps crossed the floor. There was the sound of serious,
business-like voices, although they were juvenile in expression. It was
easy to surmise that the boys marching club was in session, or rather
at practice, for the orders spoken were quite martial and there was the
jingle and clank of firearms.
Andy had a patch of sticking plaster on one side of his head. Secretly
he was very proud of the grazed skin underneath, which a British bullet
at Lexington had furrowed. With his mates he was a grand hero, and many
a comrade envied him the honor of being the first boy wounded in the
Revolutionary War.
That had been a strenuous morning for Phil, Andy and Ralph. On their
horses that had safely rounded the British marchers, they had reached
Concord to find that town prepared to meet the enemy, but glad to
receive the latest intelligence of the movements of the British.
All the night every boy and man in Concord had been doing double duty.
Earthworks had been thrown up, some of their military stores conveyed
into hiding, various points selected where strong resistance to the
invading foe might prove effective, and now all that was to be done was
to wait for the climax of the impending conflict.
The Minute Men from Lincoln had come in and were soon followed by the
patriots from Acton. Then the British were seen advancing.
"They are too strong for us," said one of the old veterans of the
French and Indian Wars. "Better lay back until more men come in." And
this was done. Soon the Minute Men from Bedford, Westford, Carlisle,
and other points appeared, until, all told, the ready-to-fight
colonists numbered about four hundred and fifty. They massed themselves
on a hill on the opposite side of the Charles river, overlooking
Concord.
Andy's family and friends had given Phil and Ralph a royal welcome. Now
since dusk the club had been drilling in the barn loft. Phil and Ralph
had been gone about an hour, when the former returned to report.
"There may be no attack for some hours yet," he said to Andy. "The
Britishers are moving cautiously. What I have found out is that some
one here in the village is in league with them."
"And that some one?" asked Andy.
"Is old Jasper Bram. I have been watching his house. You know old Silas
Berks advised it. Mysterious persons have come and gone away in the
direction of the British troops. Bram is doing something to help them.
I am going straight back there on the watch as soon as I get a morsel
to eat. We may find out something important, see?"
"Yes, I see," said Andy, "only, don't you miss being here with the
company when the trouble begins."
"I shall not, Andy."
Phil went into the house. Andy stood alone in the barn, halting
reflectively. He had spoken of "the company," and he felt quite the
leader and captain. Andy had won a war record. His loyal fellows had
enthusiastically resolved to do and die under his direction, and Andy
intended to do his share when the actual fighting began.
"Hello, Andy," spoke an interrupting voice and Ralph Post entered the
barn. "S--st!" he added, raising his linger warningly to his lips.
"Talk low. No movement of the British as yet. That's the news your
father sends from headquarters. Say, Andy," continued Ralph in a low
whisper, "there's a spy outside."
"Eh? what? who?" demanded Andy, with a start.
"Don't know. He's on the plank running across the two rain casks--head
nearly on a level with the second story of the barn, and he tip-toes
when he wants to look in through the window of the loft."
"Come with me," cried Andy instantly. "A spy, eh? I can't imagine--aha!
I see."
Ralph it seemed had entered the barn without being seen by the spy in
question. Andy, quite as fortunate, now glanced around a corner of the
structure. At its other end he made out the lurking form Ralph had
described. Dodging back, he whispered hurriedly to his companion, and
Ralph ran around the barn. Andy himself waited a minute or two, edged
around the corner again, noticed the lurker on tip-toe, calculated his
chances, and with a sudden movement seized the end of the plank and
gave it a swift pull.
There was a dancing figure over the water cask for a second or two, a
wild clutching at space, and then, as Ralph came abruptly into view,
the lurker missed his hold and disappeared with a yell and a splash
into the cask, full to the brim.
"Duck him again," ordered Andy, rushing to the centre of attraction.
"Greg Bram! I thought so. Up there, hey? Company to the rescue!"
Once, twice, a dozen times the would-be spy went under the surface. The
crowd came downstairs and direct to the scene of commotion. It was only
when Greg Bram's plaintive bellowings became weak, showing that he was
nearly exhausted, that the boys let up on him. A dripping, dilapidated
specimen of humanity he staggered from the spot amid the jeers and
hootings of the patriotic boys.
Phil, after a hurried meal, coming out of the house, saw the end of the
episode. Greg became his guide, for it was to Jasper Bram's that Phil
was bound. The son amid his chagrin and misery made straight for the
parental roof.
Phil trailed Greg clear up to the door of his home, and then glided
around to the side of the building, posting himself just beyond an open
window looking into the room, up and down which old Bram was pacing,
some rare excitement and a look of satisfaction expressed on his
weazened, avaricious face. As Greg burst into the room, wild with rage
and uncomfortable to the last extreme, the old man stared at him in
amazement and then in wrath.
"Nice plight you're in!" he cried. "Now, what does this mean?"
"It means that I want to join the British army and sweep this old town
off the face of the earth!" snarled Greg venomously. "Oh, if I had the
burning of this burg! Oh, if I could massacre the whole crowd of them!"
"Did you learn anything about where they have moved the ammunition?"
demanded his father.
"No, I didn't," retorted Greg, "seeing that I didn't have the chance, I
was fool enough to try and find out what Andy Sabine and his crowd were
doing. They caught me. Dad, you show me how to get revenge, and you
needn't pay me a dollar for all those messages to the Britishers this
afternoon."
"Do you think any of the town people suspect what is really going on?"
were the next words that fell on the ears of the eagerly-listening
Phil, in Jasper Bram's rasping tone of voice.
"No, I don't think so," replied Greg,--"how could they?"
"You don't seem to know anything that's important," snarled old Bram.
"This is no time for thinking, or guessing. I'm in for a big reward if
my information to the British enables them to come into the town as
they wish, by the north road. You haven't helped much, Greg, and that's
a fact."
"Helped!" cried Greg. "I've done nothing but help. You're talking that
way so you won't have to give me anything for all my work. Who found
out all about the plans of the Sons of Liberty but me, and--aha! didn't
I help you bury our dog, yes, our poor old dog, ha! ha!"
There was a vicious twinkle in Greg's eye and a sneering expression
on his lips. It was evident that he had hit the old man hard at a
sensitive point. There was some deep undercurrent to the remark, for,
like a tiger aroused, old Jasper Bram, with clenched fists and flashing
eyes, sprang at his son as if he would strike him down where he stood.
"You'll bring that up, will you?" he shouted. "After all I've told you,
you'll threaten me, will you?"
"Well," retorted Greg, backing away, "I just wanted to show you that
I've helped you out whenever I could. Who else would do it--and keep
his mouth shut? That's the point--wouldn't blab. Why, if the father
of Phil Warrington, drat him! or that young Burt Noble, knew about
burying that dog--"
"Stop! Stop, I tell you!" roared the old man, "or I'll thrash the life
out of you. Even so much as hint at this thing again, and I'll turn you
out of house and home."
In his rage old Bram tore about the apartment in a frenzied manner. He
kicked over a chair, he slammed a door, he jammed down the window at
which Phil had been peering and listening. But Phil did not mind this.
He was ready to hasten back to Concord now, for he believed that he had
secured some information of the most vital importance to his patriotic
friends.
"I see their plan--that of the British," he murmured. "They intend to
enter Concord from the north, where they are not expected, where no
preparations have been made to repel them."
Phil started on a keen run in the direction of Concord. He was figuring
out how the enemy could make a detour and accomplish a good deal by
getting right upon the boundary of the town without being discovered.
"One good piece of information, that," he soliloquized. "And about
the dog they buried? What made old Bram so wrathy when his son, Greg,
alluded to that? He meant something, I feel sure. He meant something
of interest to my father and Burt Noble, I believe. That dog business
hides some mystery. I'll make a mental note of it, and I'll think it
over and act on it when we have given the British a double dose of what
we gave them at Lexington."
Phil halted. Way to the north he caught a sudden alarming sound. It was
vague, distant--the echo of a volley of musketry. His worst fears were
confirmed. The British soldiers had made the detour of the town. He
dashed on with renewed speed. Would he be too late to save Concord?
CHAPTER XXV
THE BATTLE OF CONCORD
Phil Warrington dashed into the barn belonging to Andy Sabine's father,
breathless. Andy and his company had just filed down the stairs from
the loft. Their leader ran up to the scurrying figure of the new
arrival with expectancy in his face.
"What is it, Phil?" he cried.
"The Brams have been giving information to the British, and the
redcoats have rounded the town. They are planning to attack us from the
north. I heard some firing in that direction."
"Out of this!" ordered the impulsive Andy quickly. "Scatter the news!
Tell everybody! I'll get to my father and the committee. Then all hands
meet at the square."
There was a tremendous bustle. Phil was borne along in the wake of the
dispersing company. He made sure first, though, to secure his musket.
As he ran down the street, in every direction he could hear the ringing
voices of his young friends, scattering far and wide the news he had
just brought into Concord.
He helped with voice and feet, too, as his share in the action of the
moment. When he reached the square Phil found it the center of a great
commotion. He espied Andy's father moving rapidly from group to group
of the volunteers, and managed to get to his side.
Phil hurriedly explained what he had heard Jasper Bram tell his son,
Greg, about the plans of the redcoats. He referred as well to the
firing he had heard north of the town. Mr. Sabine looked very much
interested, but was excited and worried.
"All our forces and points of advantage are bulked at this end of the
town," he said. "We never counted on the British coming from any other
direction. It will have to be a scattered fight. You lads keep out of
trouble. Do your duty, but don't take any reckless risks."
A short time later Andy and Phil, with the patriotic boys of Concord,
marched out of town and across the bridge to the hill occupied by the
Minute Men and the other patriots that were assembling. Everything was
in a state of excitement.
"Musket Boys to the front!" cried Andy, and soon he gathered many of
his friends about him. All had muskets, some new and some dating back
to the French and Indian Wars.
It was not long before smoke could be seen coming from several points
in Concord.
"Will the British try to burn the town?" was the question on every
tongue.
"Men, we must protect Concord!" cried Captain Barret, who was in
command. "We'll march down to the bridge."
In a few minutes the Minute Men, with many of the Musket Boys, reached
the vicinity of the North Bridge.
"See! see!" cried Phil. "The redcoats are wrecking the bridge!"
Phil's words proved true. The British soldiers were forcing up the
planking of the bridge.
"Stop! stop!" cried a number of the patriots. "Let that bridge alone!"
"Keep back!" was the order from the British commander, and then, as the
Minute Men and the Musket Boys drew closer, he gave the order to fire
on the patriots.
Bang! bang! bang! spoke up the firearms of the redcoats, and two of the
Minute Men fell.
"Give it to the redcoats!" was the yell, and then Minute Men and Musket
Boys returned the volley, and several on the Concord side of the
bridge went down, two to rise no more.
From that moment the fighting became general. The Musket Boys were
in the thick of the fray, and worked as hard as did the Minute Men.
Colonel Smith, the British commander, did all in his power to hold
the bridge, but, more Minute Men arriving, he saw that it would be
impossible to do so, so at last he gave the order to retreat.
In the meantime, there started up fighting at other points, and a
distant cannon boomed out, followed by the explosion of some gunpowder.
"Phil, this is war, actual war!" cried Andy.
"Yes," answered the Boston boy, "and the Musket Boys must do their
duty."
From the bridge, the redcoats were followed into Concord, and then
another skirmish took place. At last the British commenced to retreat
in earnest. Little did they dream of what that withdrawal was to cost
them!
In the midst of the excitement Phil and Andy saw a forlorn figure pass
the lines. Some shots followed him from the British groups, but he
dashed resolutely into the midst of Andy's contingent.
"Ralph--Ralph Post!" cried Andy excitedly. "What news?"
The sailor boy's face was streaked with powder smut, his hair and
eyebrows were singed, and his coat was burned at the edges. A truly
heroic figure, he waved his hand triumphantly.
"They're on the run!" he cried.
"What! we have beaten the British?" spoke Andy.
"Tooth and nail, horse and foot, van and rear, hurrah!" responded
Ralph, but his cheer, meant to be exultant, was decidedly faint, and he
had to lean against a post, pretty well exhausted.
"I tell you it has been hot work," continued Ralph, when he had
recovered his breath. "Those redcoats came down on us like an
avalanche. They were just a solid mass, sweeping away everything in
their path except the town hall. That turned them. They got such a
steady hail of bullets from the windows, from the roof and from behind
trees and fences, that they turned double quick. But they made for the
arsenal. Our men simply couldn't withstand such a force, for most of
the crowd on duty there earlier, had been sent north to fight. They're
getting in on us. Oh, dear!" sighed Ralph dolefully. "Those elegant
cannons!"
"What about the cannons?" inquired Andy impatiently.
"Spiked, smashed, two of them. The redcoats did it. And the powder--all
that precious powder!"
"And what about the powder?" demanded Andy.
"Some barrels emptied into the river. But we beat them--some. A smashed
keg they were rolling along with the other kegs near the river. One
of our men dared everything, ran to the spot, fired his gun among the
loose powder, and that ended it. Why, those redcoats and the Tories
with them ran like scared rats. Then our men put after them. They are
after them now. They have driven the redcoats down the road, just lined
with our skirmishers. It's pop! bang! all the time. A lot of our men
have cut across country to head them off, if they try to return that
way. The rest of our men are just driving the enemy back to Boston on
the double-quick. Oh, we've lost something, but it's a rout, and the
battle of Lexington is won!"
"Let's follow," cried Andy.
"Hold on, break ranks! Attention company! Halt!" rang out a cheery,
martial voice.
A clattering wagon had driven right into the midst of Andy and his
companions. It was recognized at once as the antiquated, familiar rig
of old Silas Berks.
"Whoa!" roared the veteran Indian fighter, getting to his feet and
waving his hand excitedly. "Fellow-citizens--no; I mean friends, boys,
pile aboard. There's a party of redcoats stuck in the road with four
field pieces just beyond my place. If you want to cover yourselves with
glory, all aboard! the more the better, and I'll show you a capture
worth your while."
"I heard something about some of the heavy baggage of the Britishers
unable to make the detour of the town, and ordered to get back to the
next village," said Ralph. "Our men have cut off any chance of the
others reaching and helping them."
"Company--march!" ordered Andy grandly.
The way the "company" obeyed was to pile into the wagon, those of them
who could. The others, eager and excited, strung along on a run behind
as the crazy old vehicle clattered back on its route among the hills
beyond Concord.
CHAPTER XXVI
SPOILS OF WAR
Captain Andy Sabine's company consisted of over a dozen boys. All of
them had muskets, and most of them knew how to use the firearms, for
hunting was a great part of the life of the average Concord boy of
those days.
All were eager for the fray, as the saying goes. They had already
"smelt powder," and old Silas Berks, proud of the junior military
coterie he had advised and once or twice drilled, "calculated"
they could do the work in hand as efficiently as the regular adult
volunteers who were off on more important duty.
"There's six men in charge of the cannon wagons and two carts," he told
Andy and Phil, whom he had insisted should occupy a place of honor
with him on the front seat of the vehicle. There had been over a dozen
Britishers left in charge of the baggage, but most of them had gone
away to find more and fresher horses to help get the gun carriages out
of the ruts where they had almost broken down.
Andy and Phil knew the situation they were expected to confront very
well from the garrulous old Indian fighter's report, and made their
plans accordingly. As they drove past the home of Jasper Bram, Andy
noticed that it was all dark and the shutters drawn, and commented on
the fact.
"I reckon they've made themselves scarce until this scrimmage is over,"
said Silas. "It's as well, if they're wise. Take my word for it, if
they have found out that the redcoats have been routed, they won't show
their faces around here for some time to come. Now then, lads, we'll
have to drop the wagon right here. There's only a footpath through
the timber, and we want to be silent and cautious like. My, how this
reminds me of the prime old Indian days! Many a lonely trail I've
followed--"
"There's a light," said Andy suddenly, as they surmounted the crest of
the hill.
"Yes," nodded old Silas, peering ahead, "they're your men. Same spot
where I first saw them. Go slow now, Andy. Get your Musket Boys under
orders, and make no mistake in dealing with those fellows."
Andy's volunteers grouped about him as he imparted his instructions in
low tones. They could see at a miry stretch of the cross-country road
a lot of wagons, some horses and two men with shovels digging around
the wheels of the half-overturned gun carriage. A lighted lantern swung
from a nearby branch.
About two hundred yards beyond them, where a brush-covered space ended
at the edge of a forest, were four other men, a lantern carried by one
of their number, while the others were selecting and sorting dead tree
branches, as if gathering material to construct a temporary corduroy
road.
"Phil, we'll divide evenly on the men," advised Andy in a truly
military tone of voice. "I'll attend to the fellows in the road, you
see to it that the other redcoats near the timber don't get away."
"We are to make them prisoners--if we can!" suggested Phil.
"I should say it," responded Andy, with the decision of a Napoleon.
"Remember what we heard about Gen. Gage imprisoning some patriots in
Boston. These six redcoats will count for six of our own people, don't
you see?"
"Very well," nodded Phil. "Come on, fellows."
Half of the boys followed Andy's sub-commander with alacrity. Phil
was a favorite, and the politic Andy had avoided creating any hard
feeling by appointing a boy who did not really belong to Concord as his
lieutenant.
Andy and his cohorts advanced cautiously in the direction of the
stalled wagons. Some high bushes and the darkness of the night enabled
them to come almost directly upon the British without discovery. Andy
silently and effectively disposed his "men" in a semi-circle. Then, his
sabre drawn, the naked blade glittering impressively in the lantern
light, he stepped from behind a big bush with the single word:
"Surrender!"
"Hi--hello!" cried the Britisher digging under the front wheel of the
gun carriage, and he stared askance at the sudden apparition.
"Why, you young jackanapes!" began the other man, dropping his shovel
and staring also.
"Ready!" said Andy, as immovable as a statue.
The two men started back. From the bushes, focussing them as selected
targets, the muzzles of numerous muskets told them that the situation
was no joke.
"Stand out in the middle of the road there," ordered Andy.
"Bill, call the others!" hoarsely spoke one of the men.
"Raise your voice or make a move outside of what you are ordered, and
we fire," said Andy, quietly but firmly.
The two men got into the middle of the road. Andy told off four of his
company to get ropes from one of the baggage wagons and tie the hands
of the captives behind them.
This had scarcely been accomplished when Phil and the others appeared
upon the scene, driving at the muzzle's point the four men who had been
working in the timber. The captives looked immensely sheepish, but they
had no weapons, they were completely outnumbered, and Phil had acted
all through in a way that convinced them that he and his assistants
were in deadly earnest.
"I guess this is all there is of them," observed Ralph.
"It won't be soon," growled one of the captives. "There'll be a whole
army following our men back here."
"I fancy you don't quite understand the situation," remarked Andy with
a triumphant smile. "Your messengers will be lucky if they come up with
the army, as you call it, this side of Boston."
"Yes, and then they'll have to run pretty fast!" chuckled old
Silas. "I'd tie the other four there," he advised. "Bring 'em to the
wagon and take them to the town jail. As to this wagon truck, _et
settery_--spoils of war, my friends, spoils of war."
Andy had got a taste of war, and paraded the military feature to the
full as the captured redcoats were marched to the wagon, conveyed and
guarded by the nine members of the company. He put sentinels on duty,
and with remainder of the company grouped about the baggage outfit,
awaited the result of his report sent to Concord.
It was two hours later when old Silas returned. With him were some
twenty men on horseback, provided with ropes and crowbars, as well as
weapons. They proceeded to get the baggage train righted, fresh horses
in the harness, and were soon able to start with their prizes for
Concord.
From what they had told, Phil and Andy realized that there was no
danger of another raid on the town in the near future. The British
invaders were in swift retreat, with pursuers hot on their trail. All
along their route they were being peppered constantly with shots from
thickets and houses. Their loss had been heavy, their first effort to
subdue the colonists had resulted in dire disaster.
The tired boys trailed homeward, feeling glad and proud of the share
they had taken in the heroic episodes of the evening. As the crowd
neared the stockade that surrounded the humble home of Silas, the old
Indian fighter fell behind somewhat in company with Phil and Andy.
"I say," he observed to the latter, "I feel so good over to-night's
work, it makes me lonely for company. There'll be no more fighting
to-night. Tell your comrades to notify the folks that you are going to
stay with me for a couple of hours, won't you?"
The boys were anxious to get back to town, for, more fighting or not,
they knew that Concord would be in a vortex of excitement for many
hours to come. There was lots to learn of the experience of others.
However, both Phil and Andy appreciated the good service the old
veteran had given, and they turned into the stockade, past "old Tom,"
after communicating their intention to their comrades.
"First and foremost," said Silas, when they had entered his cozy hut
amid the noisy greetings of parrot, pigeons and other fowls and pet
animals, "I'm going to refresh the inner man."
It was a prime meal that the famous old Indian fighter speedily had
ready for them--bear steak, coffee, apple sauce and mince pie,
home-made from his own skilled hands. Then Silas brought from the dove
cote two of his favored carrier pigeons, and allowed them to walk about
the table picking up crumbs, while he began writing on a sheet of paper
a brief narrative of the recent battle.
"That will get to Boston long before the redcoat raiders," he observed,
after finishing the screed, in composing which his guests helped him
considerably.
"You are going to send that to Boston, Mr. Berks?" spoke Phil, a
speculative look on his face.
"Yes, right away," nodded Silas.
"I don't suppose you could do me a service in the same line?" went on
Phil.
"Why not? I guess what you're after. You would like to get word to your
folks."
"Yes, sir," replied Phil hopefully.
"Easily done, lad. There's paper and pencil. Get your letter ready.
I'll send it by the first mail to a friend in a certain house-top in
Boston, who will see that it is delivered before sunrise."
"Oh, that is great!" commented Andy.
When Phil had written his letter, he gave it to Silas. The latter
folded the sheet, wrote some directions on its back, enclosed it in a
thin piece of oilskin, did the same with his own letter, and attached
one under the wing of one of the doves, the other under the wing of its
companion.
Then, the doves fluttering affectionately on his shoulder, he went to
the window, opened it, spoke some pet words, and the trained doves took
flight into the darkness on their route to Boston.
"I must thank you greatly for that service, Mr. Berks," said Phil. "It
takes a great load off my mind to know that my folks will learn where I
am, and my plans. I've sent a message to my company too."
"The Musket Boys of Boston?" spoke Andy.
"Yes, I've told them to expect me among them, and to be sure to keep up
their drilling, for they soon will be needed."
"That's right," nodded old Silas sagely. "The ball has opened, and
America will soon need the help of every loyal lad who can handle a
musket."
The old man bustled around getting his pets comfortable. Andy suggested
that it was about time for them to leave for home.
"Yes, we're due in town," observed Phil. "We'll go by Bram's house.
I've a good deal of curiosity to know if they have left the place."
Phil recited in detail the conversation he had overheard between the
Brams, father and son, about burying a dog.
"Why, that was queer," commented Andy. "There's something under that
talk hard to understand, Phil. It looks as if Greg Bram was sort of
hinting at some secret he knew about. And it certainly refers to your
father and Burt Noble."
"What's that about Bram and the dog?" piped up old Silas curiously.
Phil repeated his story for the benefit of their inquisitive host.
"Buried a dog, did they?" said the old man, when Phil's narrative was
concluded. "Why, they never owned a dog. Old Jasper is too stingy to
feed one."
"That makes it more puzzling than ever," said Phil. "Why, Mr. Berks,
what are you doing?"
The old man with quite a thoughtful air had taken up a piece of chalk
from a shelf, and had written on the wall just under the shelf the
words: "_Bram buried dog._"
"Oh, that's my memorandy book," chuckled Silas, his shrewd eyes
twinkling busily. "I have lots of time on my hands. You're interested,
and I'm keeping that memorandy as a reminder. Shouldn't wonder," and
the veteran Indian fighter squinted enigmatically, "if I started out
some day to find out where Bram buried that dog--that never existed,
mind you--and why he did it. When I do, Warrington," and he placed his
hand impressively on Phil's shoulder, "expect a message from me by my
carrier pigeon route to Boston."
"Hurrah for liberty!" screamed the parrot.
CHAPTER XXVII
IN CAMP
"Count noses, Andy, and be quick about it," said Phil hastily.
"My own squad are all here, Phil. Look to your own Musket Boys. If the
tally's right, we'd better take leg bail, for the mischief is done,
and--here come the Tories!"
It was a new scene, that occupied by Phil, Andy and others, the time
nightfall, the spot opposite Boston, near Cambridge.
Some twenty boys bubbling over with animation and excitement surrounded
Phil and Andy. Each ran his eye over the two groups of which the crowd
was composed.
"All here," sang out Phil. "Run for it fellows!"
Down the bank of the Charles river Phil and Andy started on a keen run,
their laughing, gossiping comrades following them. They left behind
them a large yawl and several men, rushing towards it. Out in the
stream there bobbed up some bulky bales and parcels, floating swiftly
with the current.
"Didn't even see us," said Andy triumphantly, slowing down his gait.
"Trick number two--inside of a week. Those fellows will think it wise
to leave a guard on their plunder, the next time."
"We don't want to try it too often," advised Phil. "They may set a trap
for us."
The occasion was a raid on the enemy at close quarters. Affairs had
changed for Phil and Andy and their friends during a month's rapid and
exciting flight. They were now real soldiers, for the continental army
was an actual fact, and they were members of it.
After the defeat at Concord, Gen. Gage's troops had ventured on no
more forays into the surrounding country. The raiders were taught a
lasting lesson, and had met with a terrible experience in their retreat
to Boston where every inch of the way was disputed. Utterly routed,
harassed at every town and hedgerow by patriot skirmishers, a forlorn,
defeated remnant of the original invading force, they had skulked back
into Boston, "very small potatoes," indeed!
They had shut the loyalists out of Boston. Now the loyalists retaliated
by shutting the redcoats and Tories into Boston. In fact, the city was
beleaguered. There were points open to the British for an occasional
brief foray into the country across the Charles river, but they did
not dare to go far, for the country, fully aroused by the Concord
incident, had sprung to arms instantly. The result was the formation
of the continental army all over the land, and the New England forces,
forming a well-disciplined camp at Cambridge, virtually held the Boston
redcoats passive.
Everybody in the colonies was enlisting. Andy had selected nearly a
dozen of the older boys of the Concord marching club, and had signed
the military roster.
The party, including himself, Phil and Ralph, had gone to Cambridge.
They were accepted as volunteers a day or two afterwards. Many members
of the Musket Boys of Boston managed to cross the river undiscovered in
the dark, and Phil found himself a juvenile leader with his dear old
chums under his official wing, ready to battle for him and the cause of
liberty.
They had managed to rig up a uniform that distinguished them from the
every-day home boy. They had tents of their own, were under the orders
of strict superiors, and did sentinel duty with their older comrades in
the service.
The boys fell into the new camp life as if they had been brought up
to it. They were useful in many ways to the general service. Phil had
not yet gone to Boston. It would have been a risky experiment, and,
besides, he felt that his duty lay with the army, and he put off the
visit from day to day. His folks had received the message sent by the
carrier pigeons, so they were assured of his safety, and his volunteer
chums had brought him messages from home when they came to join the
army.
One night Phil and Andy and their comrades came across a sailboat,
evidently belonging to some Tories who had stolen across the river
probably to exchange sentiments with emissaries from the interior. They
were warmly commended in camp when they reported this prize moored near
its river confines.
Now for the second time they had made a successful foray. They had
watched from ambush that afternoon a squad of redcoats cross the river
in the big yawl they had just despoiled. The men had left the boat
and had gone into the country to collect flour, horse feed and other
supplies, paying for them in some instances, and in others intimidating
the farmers into giving them the articles for nothing.
The boys kept on the watch until dark, and saw the raiders load up
the yawl with their plunder. Somewhere the Tories had got a supply of
"fire water." They one and all congregated in a little copse near by to
indulge in a free jollification before returning to camp. Phil and Andy
had directed a cautious visit to the boat. The Musket Boys had taken
prompt action. Every package aboard was dumped into the creek, and the
despoilers had fled in safety just as the Britishers detected the trick
that had been played upon them.
"Some one to see you, Warrington," said a sentinel, as the party of
young marauders passed into the camp.
"That so?" returned Phil. "Who was it? Is he here now?"
"Yes. About twenty new Boston recruits came in to-night. They've been
two days coming by the Breed's Hill route. Forty started, but got
blocked. This man is a neighbor of your family, and he had some message
for you, I believe."
"I hope there is no bad news," murmured Phil.
He hurried to the little group of tents where the Musket Boys were
encamped. There was one big tent where half-a-dozen of them bunked.
There was a light in this, and Phil heard conversation within, pulled
open the entrance flap, and noticed a man he knew seated among several
of the boys.
"How are you, Phil?" the newcomer said arising and greeting the boy
with a hearty handshake. "You see, we are all moving into your camp
gradually."
"I am glad to see you, Mr. Monroe," replied Phil. "How are the folks?"
"All well, Phil, only there has been a little trouble, and your mother
wanted me to see you. She sends her love, and has given me some money
to give you."
"And father--" began Phil.
"Well, Phil," said Mr. Monroe, "your father is paying the penalty
for being true to his country. You know he and Mr. Powell and Mr.
Clinton have been most active in encouraging recruits for the army and
smuggling them out of Boston. Gen. Gage got wrathy at their success. He
ordered their arrest three days ago, and they are now prisoners."
"The tyrants! the scoundrels!" flashed out Andy, who had accompanied
Phil and now overheard the conversation.
Phil was a little pale and worried.
"What will they do with my father and the others, Mr. Monroe?" he
questioned.
"I don't think they can do anything much," replied Mr. Monroe. "In the
first place, your father's loyal friends won't appear as witnesses. In
the next place, if the British proceed to any extreme measures, they
will raise a riot. It is only by constantly parading their militia and
firearms that they depress the loyal people of Boston. We are all very
sorry, for since it has been planned to have George Washington take
command of the army and introduce some organization and discipline,
they have been selecting good men as officers, and I believe it was the
intention of your father and his two fellow prisoners to join us in
coming over here to go into active service."
"That settles it. They shall come!" cried Andy Sabine, whipping out of
the tent, on fire with some new idea that had entered that active mind
of his.
Phil did not see his chum again that night. The Boston boy reflected
a good deal over the unfortunate situation of his father. He was
afraid that a charge of treason might be made against his parent by
the Tories. Mr. Warrington and his colleagues might be transported to
England, which in those days meant life imprisonment or death.
Phil saw his commanding officer early in the morning and had a talk
with him over the troubles of the imprisoned patriots. That official
intimated to him that if his father was a member of the continental
army in open conflict with the British, they could not make the charge
of treason, as they might on a subterfuge while he was a mere citizen
under direct British rule.
"If your father could escape and join the army before any definite
charges were made against him, he would be free from any of Gage's
kidnapping-hanging tactics," explained the officer.
"Then a way must be found to rescue my father and his friends,"
declared Phil.
He thought over the situation all that morning, and had a talk with
Ralph Post. Together they went to see the commanding general. Phil
asked for a week's leave of absence from duty, and he frankly told the
general that it was his plan to get into Boston in some way to rescue
his father and his friends and to get them safely out to Cambridge. The
general listened gravely to the project. Then he said:
"You are a brave young fellow, Warrington, and a loyal son. I wish we
could help you. You are welcome to the leave, and take as many of
your comrades as you need. We wished to get some important information
to friends in Boston, and if you decide to attempt to get through the
lines report to me and I will give you a letter. I hope you will be
able to deliver it at a certain address in the city."
"Thank you," said Phil, and retired to find Andy waiting for him
impatiently in the main tent of the Musket Boys.
"Andy, I'm going to Boston," announced the boy impulsively.
"Of course you are," nodded Andy, without betraying any surprise
whatever, "and I'm going with you. I've been thinking it over all night
long, and planning for it all morning."
"Oh, you have," murmured Phil.
"Think I'd leave you in the lurch? Think for a moment we're going to
leave your father in trouble? No, sir! Before midnight you and I will
be in Boston. I've arranged it all. I've got a scheme that will get us
across the Charles river as easy as rolling off a log."
CHAPTER XXVIII
BOSTON AT LAST
"Go slow, Phil."
"We couldn't go much slower if we tried."
"That's so," returned Andy Sabine. "I meant in the way of caution. Now
then, anchor your side of the old raft with your pole, and I'll do the
same on my side. We've arrived. What's the lookout?"
"Dismal enough," answered Phil, peering ahead in the semi-darkness of
twilight through a maze of reeds. "I see a big scow loaded with hay. I
hear voices, but they are at the other end of the old craft."
"That scow is our destination, Phil," said Andy smartly.
"Oh, is that so?"
"It is. The voices you hear are Johnny redcoats, and we are simply to
get to the scow unobserved, smuggle down serenely in the hay, and heave
yo! for Boston."
"Good," nodded Phil cheerily. "So far, very good. It's quite a little
stretch from here to the scow, though."
"About fifty feet," calculated Andy. "I think we can wade most of the
way. If we have to swim, a little ducking won't hurt us."
"All right, when you say the word. I'm ready," reported Phil.
"I say it right now," responded Andy. "Make straight for the center
stern. No noise, now--here we go."
Andy stepped over the edge of the rude log raft which they had been two
hours poling through the mazes of a swampy river stretch. Phil followed
him promptly. They found the water up to their knees, and, where the
weeds were sparse, up to their waists. At length they had covered all
of the odd fifty feet between the raft and the yawl except about five
yards of clear water space. Here they had to swim for it.
"Made it," breathed Andy softly, as, dripping but exultant, they both
clambered aboard the scow and snuggled in among the hay, burrowing into
it a few feet.
"I don't think anyone saw us," remarked Phil.
"Then we're safe for a free passage across the river," declared Andy.
The Concord boy had noticed the scow come across the river earlier
in the day. The pilot to which it was attached by a stout cable was a
large yawl, with three pairs of oars manned by stalwart redcoats. They
had come across the stream to gather forage for their horses, selecting
a spot where a coarse swamp hay grew thickly.
Andy had told Phil this back at the camp at Cambridge, and his comrade
had made his arrangements accordingly. His commanding officer had given
Phil a letter to deliver in Boston. Phil's Musket Boys chums had sent
a cheering word to their parents, and, assuming their old civilian
clothes, Phil and Andy had started out on the desperate enterprise of
trying to rescue Mr. Warrington and his fellow prisoners from the hands
of the British. Now they had made a favorable start in their project,
and it looked very much as if the hardest part of their task, crossing
the river to Boston, had been accomplished.
The boys lay snug and contented, conversing in whispers when there was
occasion for talk. After a while the scow began to move. They gazed
out from their screen of hay to watch the shore they had just left
fade from view. There was slow and hampered progress when they met the
strong central current of the broad Charles River. After that the scow
proceeded steadily on its course. As it turned now and then they could
make out the river docks and the lights of the city. Then the scow
sided up against a wharf bulkhead and became motionless.
"What now?" inquired Phil of his companion.
"We seem to have arrived for good. The boat has brought us over. How
are we going to leave it?"
"I'll reconnoitre a bit, I guess," answered Andy, and he began to
cautiously work his way beyond the hay into the open starlight. Then he
trod along the extreme edge of the well-loaded craft, and managed to
reach the side of its deck without accident.
Andy took a look down the wharf, and then bobbed back quickly. He
returned as fast as he could to Phil.
"The fellows in the pilot yawl have cut loose and are rowing up the
river," he informed his chum, "but a new crowd of men has just come
out from sheds in a big hay yard to unload. There may be twenty of
them--big roystering fellows. They've got pitchforks, and will start
right at work. Let's get out of this, Phil."
Andy at once led the way along his recent course, whispering his plan
to Phil to spring up on the wharf and make a run for it. A high fence
set back about four feet lined the wharf. It had no break for some
distance.
"Come on now--hold on!" said Andy, peering past the side of the scow.
"Thunder, Phil! smell that? see that?"
Smoke was what both boys instantly scented. A flare it was that dazzled
their eyes. Loud shouts greeted their startled hearing. Some careless
smoker among the unloading gang had set fire to the great load of hay.
"Jump!" said Phil quickly, giving Andy a push. "We can't be in a worse
fix," and both landed on the planking of the wharf. As they did so,
they fairly ran into two men retreating from the blaze. Both were armed
with pitchforks.
"Hello," yelled one of them. "Smugglers!"
"Run for it," directed Phil, and down the wharf both put at their best
pace. Andy turned his head to discover the two Tories in hot pursuit
of them, as well yelling loudly for their comrades to join in the
chase. Phil glanced ahead down the wharf, its location and outlines
becoming suddenly familiar to him. As they dodged around a curve in the
planking, Phil suddenly exclaimed!
"Andy, we're in a trap. If those fellows follow us, it's a sure capture
unless we swim for it."
The Concord boy saw at a glance what Phil meant. A hundred feet further
on the wharf ended, blocked squarely by the wall of a big brick
warehouse.
"Now I know where we are," panted Phil. "You see that building? It's
the old warehouse my father used to own before the Tories came and his
business got bad. One of the Musket Boys told me that the redcoats had
confiscated it to their own use for storage. Oh, Andy, I have an idea."
Whatever his idea, Phil did not pause to discuss it. He knew the old
warehouse like a book. Many a gay ramble he had enjoyed over it from
attic to cellar, and suddenly there had come to his mind a memory of
its outlets where he had escaped playmates in games of hide and seek.
Andy came to a sudden halt as Phil did--directly behind the warehouse
where a hinged wooden grating covered some wharf subway. Phil pulled at
this, and lifted it a few feet.
"Jump down," he ordered quickly. "Don't be afraid. I know what I am
about," and Andy leaped boldly, and Phil after him, letting down the
grating into place just in time.
They had landed on a hard clay surface. Holding their breath, they
heard their pursuers running down the wharf. They came to a halt,
blocked by the warehouse wall. Then the lurkers heard a man's voice
ejaculate:
"Those two fellows have mysteriously disappeared."
"They must have jumped into the river and swum for it, then," came
the response. "Come, they've slipped us, and we'd better get back to
helping the others shove that blazing hay into the river."
Phil expressed a sigh of relief and his comrade nudged him with a
chirping chuckle.
"What's next?" propounded Andy.
"We've got to get into the building," explained Phil, "and out upon the
street."
"Can we do it?"
"I think I know a way, provided things are not too much changed around
the old building since I was last here," said Phil. He groped about,
located a break in the foundation of the warehouse, and a minute later
he had hold of Andy's hand leading him in the darkness across a damp
cellar. The boy located a door at its front end and pushed it open.
They found themselves under some planking, crept along a few feet, and
crawled up a slant of earth leading to the street.
Phil poked his head out and announced that it was safe to emerge from
covert. They stood on a known street that was deserted, hurried to
the next corner, and, gaining confidence as they got among houses and
shops, felt that they were safe to go their way as unchallenged as the
regular residents of the city.
"Where first, Phil?" inquired Andy.
"Home!" answered Phil promptly, and the eager, heartfelt ring in his
voice made Andy think of Concord with a queer, longing thrill.
After that Phil said little or nothing. Andy was too absorbed in
watching what was going on about him to notice at once the silent mood
of his comrade, but finally he asked:
"What makes you so quiet, Phil?"
"The change," answered the Boston boy seriously. "It doesn't seem like
the old town at all. It is so quiet and dreary. In the old springtimes
like this the boys would be out playing Hunt the Grey or Pump Pump Peel
Away, and the shops would be bright and cheery. See those redcoats
parading everywhere, scaring women and children. There seems to be a
blight and gloom on everything."
"There's your house, Phil," said Andy recognizing the Warrington home
from his former visit to Boston.
"It doesn't look much like the bright, jolly old place, does it, now?"
asked Phil, rather mournfully. "Just to think of the changes of a
year--father out of business and a prisoner. Oh, it seems to me the
whole city is in mourning."
"It won't be long, though," declared Andy. "Gen. Washington says he has
come here to drive the redcoats out to sea, and we'll help him at it."
"The back way, Andy," said Phil, as they neared the house. "You know,
it mustn't get around that I am home. There may be some neighbors in
the house. It might reach the ears of the Tories, and they'd probably
make no bones of shutting up the son of a rebel."
"And a continental soldier in the bargain," added Andy. "That's so,
Phil. How will you keep from being recognized in the streets when you
go around in daylight, though!"
"We must make some change in our looks. Here we are."
Phil had gone around to the kitchen door. He peeped in at a side window
of the other part of the house. He saw some visitors in the sitting
room. He knocked lightly at the kitchen door. Then, with a quick
whisper to Andy, he pushed him forward. In a moment or two the kitchen
door was opened. Phil's mother confronted Andy in the dark.
"Who is it?" she asked gently.
"Close the door for a moment, Mrs. Warrington, please, and come
outside, will you? Don't be afraid--I'm Andy Sabine, from Concord."
"Why--" began Phil's mother in a fluttering whisper, but coming out
upon the steps.
"Nobody must know that we are here, so don't betray us," went on Andy.
"We? us?" repeated the gentle lady.
"Yes, Mrs. Warrington. Phil is with me."
Phil stepped into view,--to be wrapped in the arms of his mother.
"My boy! my boy!" sobbed Mrs. Warrington, overcome with emotion. "My
dear, loyal boy! The nation's boy, too, for we have heard of your
bravery. Come in, come in!"
"No, mother, not until you have got rid of your visitors. No one must
know that we are in Boston until we have had a chance to do what we
came for," said Phil earnestly, "and that is to rescue father and his
patriot friends from the British."
CHAPTER XXIX
THE OLD WAREHOUSE
Phil Warrington went to bed that night with a good deal on his mind.
There were many saddening changes that oppressed him. His father was a
prisoner. Business and home had been affected by the cruel war. His own
liberty was threatened should he be recognized by the Tories. Danger
would attend every hour he spent in his native city.
For all that, it was sweet and rarely peaceful to be once again in the
dear old room under the eaves, feeling that sense of safety and comfort
that home only can bring. Both of the chums were tired out, and were
soon fast asleep, without a break in a deep, refreshing slumber until
quite late in the morning.
Mrs. Warrington had recognized the wisdom of her young guests remaining
under cover as much as possible. The messages with which Phil had been
intrusted by his Musket Boys comrades, she undertook to deliver in a
way that should not disclose the messenger until he was safe and far
again from the nest of the Tories. Phil and Andy were served breakfast
in a windowless room off from the kitchen. Then Mrs. Warrington took
them into a spare room and showed them a lot of old clothing lying on
the floor.
War times had compelled the Warringtons to dispose of their servants.
Some of these had left odds and ends of their belongings behind them.
The young volunteers soon made a selection, and Phil was transformed
into a common-looking stable boy, while Andy made up as a poorly-clad
city lad who might be anything, from a cook's scullion to a grocer's
apprentice.
"You see," observed the Concord boy, "hardly anybody knows me here,
Phil, but everybody knows you. You might pass all right among a hundred
people, and then run up against some one who would recognize you at
once. If I were you, I'd bandage one side of my face, and keep that old
hat slouched well down over my eyes, and get a sort of rambling crook
into your walk."
It was about noon when the two boys bade Mrs. Warrington good-bye,
leaving the house from the rear, and getting quickly into a less
familiar quarter of the city. There were a great many loiterers about
the streets, for the war had practically suspended business, and they
passed without any extraordinary notice in the crowd.
"I suppose the first thing to do is to deliver that message for the
general," suggested Andy.
"Yes, I want to get that off my hands," responded Phil. "I wonder who
this Peter Dawson can be? That's the name on the letter. Here's the
street. 'At the sign of the Pestle and Mortar' is the address. There's
no shop going here now, though--moved out. It must be upstairs."
They were now in the meanest part of the city, which Phil told Andy
in ordinary times was known as a sort of rendezvous for smugglers,
fugitives from justice, and that class of social outcasts. They entered
an open passageway at the side of the building and ascended a rickety
pair of stairs. Phil knocked long and loudly at a door until some one
inquired in the rasping voice of an asthmatic old woman:
"Who is that, now?"
"We are looking for Mr. Peter Dawson," said Phil.
"Who be you?"
"We're from the man who is waiting," answered Phil promptly, just as he
had been instructed to say by the general.
"And you want to see the man who knows?" came the quick query. "I
reckon you are all right."
"She has answered with the counter-challenge the general spoke of,"
said Phil to Andy, "so, I guess we're at the right place."
The door before them was unbarred, and a very old hobbling woman
confronted the Musket Boys, let them into a poorly furnished room,
relocked the door securely, and said:
"You wait just a bit."
She left the room for a minute or two, returned to them, and beckoned
for them to follow her. At the end of a long dark passageway she
stepped aside, pushed open a door, and Phil and Andy passed into a
small apartment. It had but one entrance and exit--the door behind
them,--but over at one side a small sashless slit appeared in the wall.
Through this came a quick challenge:
"If you have anything to say, speak it out. If you have a message, hand
it through here."
"Adams," said Phil, as he had been instructed.
"Washington," came the prompt response from behind the wall aperture,
and Phil knew that everything was all right. "Why, say Phil--Phil
Warrington!"
"Well!" ejaculated the petrified Andy. "You aren't known, or anything!
And in that disguise, too!"
"I wonder"--began Phil, and then he knew who had spoken his name. There
was a scramble from the slit in the wall, and a minute later a glad,
familiar form bounded over the threshold of the same doorway at which
the two chums had entered.
"Burt Noble!" cried Phil, and Andy returning the kindly outburst, they
vied with one another to show how glad they were to see him.
"You did not expect to see me here, eh?" propounded Burt. "I didn't
expect to have you come here, either. Well, we're satisfied, all hands
around. Get through with business, and then I want to know everything
you've done since we last met."
Burt Noble took the written message Phil had brought him, broke its
seals, and his young face grew very grave and thoughtful as he perused
its contents. He read it over again, tore it into tiny pieces, chewed
these into a ball, and stamped the wet wad into an indistinguishable
mass under his feet. Then he asked Phil.
"How long will you be in Boston?"
"Just long enough to get what answer you may have to send to that
message," replied Phil, "and set my father at liberty."
A queer expression came over Burt Noble's face. He seemed on the point
of making some extraordinary statement. He, however, employed great
control over himself in asking quietly;
"Do you know where your father and his friends are imprisoned, Phil?"
"They tell me in the old brick jail that the Tories have used for
headquarters."
"They were there until yesterday," said Burt. "Then they were removed.
If you will mix in with the people on the streets to-day, you will find
that the rumor is being generally spread by the redcoats that your
father and his friends have been sent to England by order of the King."
"Oh my poor father--" began Phil sorrowfully.
"Hold on. Don't go mourning until I have time to tell you that it
is all a Tory lie covered up by a Tory trick. They have removed the
patriot prisoners, sure enough, but only to another part of the city.
What their real plans are I do not know, except that they are going
to send your father and his friends secretly to some other Tory nest,
while the report of their being shipped to England is used as a whip
to scare other patriots from leaving Boston and joining the continental
army."
"Burt," cried Phil in good deal of agitation, "do you know where my
father is now?"
"I do," nodded Burt.
"Is it possible to rescue him?"
"A good deal easier than from right under the noses of the Tories at
headquarters. At just dark to-night meet me outside of Fanueil Hall. In
the meantime go back home, and don't take any risks showing yourselves
publicly. You can busy yourself sewing this packet of papers somewhere
about your clothes, where it won't be found easily."
Burt handed Phil a small square packet, heavily sealed.
"Phil," he said seriously, "those papers are very important. It has
cost a lot of time and risk to get them. They mean success for the
patriots, if their contents can be quickly acted on. Knowing this, I am
sure you will guard them closely."
"With my life!" declared Phil fervently.
"To-night it will be every man for himself," continued Burt. "You will
keep close to me whatever happens. The papers--your camp. That must
be your only thought after we have made the attempt to rescue your
father."
"Do you think we will succeed?" pressed Phil anxiously.
"Yes," was the simple answer.
With that Phil had to be satisfied. He and Andy proceeded directly
homewards, after leaving the boy who seemed to be so strangely and
importantly mixed up with the destinies of the American conflict. Phil
told his mother of his meeting with Burt Noble, and Mrs. Warrington
was in a flutter of mingled anxiety and hope. Phil and Andy amused
themselves about the house, playing checkers and rather impatiently
waiting for nightfall.
It was just after dark that the two young patriots stole by
unfrequented streets out of the neighborhood of the Warrington home. As
they came nearer to Fanueil Hall, they found the public thoroughfare
pretty well crowded. They were watching a British company gaily
bedecked march by, when Burt came between them.
"It's exactly the best time ever was for our enterprise," he said. "A
regiment of regulars has arrived from London, and the redcoats are
having a jubilee. There will be great carousals before morning, and
spirits distributed pretty freely. Things will be free and easy for the
soldiers, so I hope for the best."
The speaker led his companions from the spot and threaded several dark
streets. He bade them wait for him finally outside of a little shop,
in front of which hung an enormous wooden key. When he came out, a
grey-haired old man carrying a bag, evidently containing some tools,
was with him.
"All right, Mr. Bond," he said. "These are friends,--Phil Warrington
and a chum."
"Friends, indeed," spoke the old man, "if he is the son of the man I'd
like to serve. John Warrington provided me with the means of starting
in business."
"You'll have a chance to-night to show him how well you have learned
the trade," said Burt.
The speaker himself carried a large official envelope, but made no
explanation concerning it for the time being. However, as he halted in
the shadow of a large building, he said:
"I shall leave you here, Phil. I have a message to deliver for a
British officer in this building. There are exactly four men guarding
the stores and incidentally the prisoners here. They are two rooms away
from them. Only the north half of the building they occupy. If you can
manage to get into the untenanted half and reach the room next to that
where the prisoners are kept, the rest will be easy. Trust me to keep
the sentinels entertained while you are at work. I have gone into
details about the situation with Mr. Bond here. Follow his lead, and do
all you can to help him."
"Why," exclaimed Phil to Andy, as Burt moved away, "this is my father's
old warehouse!"
"Yes," nodded the old locksmith quietly, "and as both of us know
something of its interior, I fancy we will not have a very difficult
task in reaching the prisoners."
The bells were tolling eight o'clock when the locksmith and Phil and
Andy forced a door at the extreme south end of the building. They were
ringing out nine o'clock when five silent figures emerged from that
same rear grating through which Phil and Andy had fled from the dock
Tories two nights previous. The old locksmith had departed by the
public street route. The rescue had been successful.
Mr. Warrington grasped his son's arm affectionately, and took a great,
deep breath of the balmy air as he reached the deserted wharf. Andy was
busy explaining to his two recent fellow prisoners the details of the
rescue.
Certainly Burt Noble had done his share in entertaining the guards.
The rest was easy. The prisoners had been placed in a room sealed
with thin boards. Their jailers had depended entirely upon their
heavy manacles to keep their captives from escaping. Their prison room
located, a hole had been sawed by the locksmith in the wooden side of
the room. He had crept through, and released the manacles with his
tools. They had reached the open air, and now it was only a question of
getting across the river to the Continental camp.
"We must go cautiously down the wharf, and try and find a boat to take
us over," said Phil.
But no boat showed until they reached a break in the fence, affording a
lane leading down to the wharf. Some distance beyond lay a good-sized
yawl, but further was a sort of a cabin boat that showed lights. The
little party stood irresolute. They were undecided as to the best
course to pursue. Phil was half-minded to go back into the city and
find some good shelter for his father and the others, until they could
arrange more safely for their transportation across the river.
Just then, however, a man turned down the lane, a British officer in
full uniform. He was waving a naked sword and singing loudly. As he
made out the refugees, he advanced straight upon them.
"Want the admiral--got any admiral round here?" he demanded in a
stumbling voice. "Sent here from England--just arrived. Going to clean
out these rebels, root and branch. Left grand reception to--to inspect
harbor. Duty--am a slave to du-ty."
"Yes, sir," said Phil. "There is no admiral here, but--"
"Ha! there's a boat. Ha! my jolly men, get aboard. Insist on duty.
Insist on making inspection at once."
Phil was delighted. He led the way to the yawl. He managed to guide the
British officer to a seat in the bow, where he sat very pompous and
self-important. Just as the rope was released, there was a shout from
the cabin boat just beyond. Two men with muskets came running down the
planking.
"Halt, there! who are you?" demanded a stentorian voice.
"Col. Flashleigh Buckingham, sir!" roared the military dignitary, his
bright epaulettes and gaudy gold braid making their due impression on
the sentinels. "Straight from King George, sir. Sent specially to sweep
out the rebels, and going to do it. Row on, men."
The dazzled sentinels allowed the boat to pursue its course. The
swaying victim of circumstances in the bow was comically dignified, as
he imagined he was "inspecting" something, in the "line of duty." He
slipped in his seat and his head fell upon his breast.
"Past the Rubicon," uttered Phil fervently, as they crossed the central
current of the river.
"Yes, and what a prize prisoner!" chuckled Andy gleefully.
And the young volunteers knew, as they saw the distant lights of the
camp of the Continental army at Cambridge, that they had done a big
thing.
CHAPTER XXX
BUNKER HILL
The proudest moment in the life of Phil Warrington had arrived. As for
Andy Sabine, as he described it later to his friends, he felt that he
could keep on fighting for his country till he was an old man under
the generous and appreciative commander who welcomed the two chums at
headquarters the morning after the rescue of the prisoners in the old
city warehouse.
They had been summoned to headquarters by the general who had given
Phil the message to deliver to Burt Noble, to be welcomed heartily by
that official, but as well to receive a greater honor. A fine-looking
gentleman, a visitor in the camp, sat at a little distance, but noting
the boys attentively while the general was speaking to them.
"I cannot find words to express my approbation of your prompt and
brave action, my loyal young friends," said the camp official to Phil
and Andy. "It was a right royal rescue, an important capture, and the
packet you brought from another splendid young man of the colonies
cause, has given us information so vital that it may lead us to change
the entire progress of the war. This gentleman has requested that I
afford him an opportunity to thank you in the name of the continental
army."
The grand-looking man who had sat silent until now, arose and extended
a hand to each of the boys in turn.
"Philip Warrington and Andrew Sabine," he said--"I shall not readily
forget those names. Young men, your country may well be proud of you."
And then he bowed them from the room with a friendly, fatherly smile
that thrilled each lad with delight, and Andy did not know whether
he was on his head or his feet as the orderly who accompanied them
whispered:
"That was Colonel William Prescott!"
How important the word was that Phil had brought from Boston, the camp
began to surmise as the day wore on. Phil later heard from Burt Noble's
own lips that the latter, as a hanger on of the British army, had
managed to gain access to a secret conclave of the Tory officers, and
had learned of an important military move they were about to make. He
had communicated this to the patriot general, intelligence that led
indirectly to that famous conflict of history--the Battle of Bunker
Hill.
Col. Flashleigh Buckingham of the British army, much to his disgust was
shut up in the camp prison. Mr. Warrington and his rescued friends were
at once given important military commands. For two days the camp was
under strict discipline. There was constant drilling, and finally the
word went the rounds that at dusk that evening a rapid and important
march of several miles was to be undertaken.
One hour before dusk an orderly came to the quarters of the Musket
Boys. Phil, inside the tent, heard his name called, and went outside to
be greeted by a genuine surprise. Surrounded by a curious crowd, some
jeering, come curious, there stood Sachem, his old Indian friend.
There was a new dignity in the manner of the Indian, as Phil shook his
hand heartily. Sachem was stern and erect. He drew his blanket around
him proudly. With a very few pantomimic gestures, he made it clearly
known to Phil that he had spurned the deadly "fire water," and that he
wished to join the army. He posed like an athlete, to intimate that
he could run like the wind. He tallied off numerous fingers, to show
that he could influence a company of braves to join in the cause.
Then he drew out his scalping knife, and the crowd fell back as they
understood that the delight of his life would be to be let loose among
the British, to gather up the scalps of the enemies who had tortured
and humiliated him.
So persistent was Sachem in his resolve to fight the enemy, so
determined to do that fighting under the leadership of Phil, that the
latter was compelled to entertain the proposition in all earnestness.
He saw his commanding officer and explained the situation. The result
was, that when at dusk the army started on the move, Sachem was in
the ranks, insisting on carrying on his shoulder a load of baggage
representing the trappings of three or four of the volunteers.
"What is the general up to anyway?" inquired Ralph Post of Phil, as
they rested by the roadside after following the course of the river for
some miles.
"I can't tell you," answered Phil.
"You don't suppose they are thinking of closing in on Boston?"
"We would have to swim over, if we did," replied Phil, "for we haven't
a craft that could get away from the Tory harbor boats. It is some
strategic move."
"It's action, anyhow," observed Ralph lightly, "and that suits all
hands, judging from the enthusiasm."
Strict silence had been enjoined on the troops. It was about ten
o'clock in the evening when the army passed through the little town of
Charlestown. This was located on a narrow peninsula to the north of
Boston, but separated from it by rather less than half a mile of water.
Behind the town lay two small connected hills, which commanded a great
part both of the town and the harbor of Boston. Breed's Hill, which
was nearest to Boston, was about twenty-five feet, and Bunker Hill was
about one hundred and ten feet in height. The peninsula, which was
about a mile long, was connected with the mainland by a narrow causeway.
In the vicinity of Bunker Hill the army was brought to a halt. Col.
Prescott with some skilled engineers and two field guns silently moved
to Breed's Hill. The soldiers divested themselves of their trappings,
and, under direction, every man began to assist in throwing up a
formidable redoubt.
"It's no secret now, as to what the colonel is up to," said Phil to
Andy, as they met amid the busy scene. "It seems the British had
planned to get this hill. It would give a great point of advantage.
Well, my guess is that our friend Burt sent word of the Tory plans, and
we have simply forestalled them."
Tory Boston awoke on that memorable day in June to face a vast
surprise. The laggard redcoats, with wonder and chagrin confronted an
enemy solidly ensconced behind the fort on Breed's Hill. Before noon
several thousand British troops were on the march. Galled by the fire
of riflemen in Charlestown, they ruthlessly set the town ablaze and
came marching for Bunker Hill.
The word passed round that the continental army would make a stout
stand in the fort. This was the first tactical battle in which the
patriot militia had engaged for many months. Andy's contingent and
Phil's gallant Musket Boys were posted in set positions of difficulty
and danger, and were willing to do the full work of men.
General Howe was now in command of the combined British forces, and
about half-past two in the afternoon he gave the order to advance in
two divisions, one to storm the redoubt and the other a rail fence
which many continentals were using for shelter.
Israel Putnam, that brave fighter of old, was on hand, encouraging the
soldiers, and when he saw the redcoats advancing he said:
"Take your time, boys, don't hurry! Make every bullet tell. Wait till
you can see the whites of their eyes. Aim at their waistbands. Pick
off the handsome coats!"--meaning by the latter words, the officers.
And the gallant soldiers obeyed instructions, as the list of dead and
wounded afterwards testified.
Though the Musket Boys had been under fire before, this shock of real
battle was tremendous, and for one brief instant they thought to
retreat. But then each lad closed his teeth tightly, and fought to the
best of his ability. They saw men mowed down on all sides of them, but
continued to load and fire, and with good effect.
"That's the way!" shouted Colonel Prescott, dashing past. "Give it to
'em good and hot!"
"We will!" yelled Phil, and the others set up a wild cheer. Then the
smoke of battle hid the officer from view.
The first onslaught quickly drove back the British, but they recovered
and came on again, each in full marching equipment,--a mistake on this
warm day. Once more, and then again the muskets of the continentals
blazed forth, and rank after rank of redcoats went down, many to rise
no more.
"Hurrah! We're giving them all they want!" cried Ralph Post
enthusiastically.
The repulse at the redoubt was duplicated at the rail fence, and for
the moment General Howe was nonplussed. But then he reorganized his
shattered forces. Yet even this was of no avail--again the redcoats
went back, with many more left dead on the battlefield.
"This is battle," spoke Ralph Post to Phil, as the Musket Boys, glad
of a respite from the repulse of their determined enemy, rested on the
ground within the redoubt.
"They are more than two to one," replied Phil, "but if we can hold them
in check that same way once or twice more they will be beaten."
The next dash up the hill caused a scene amid which every soldier
engaged fairly lost his head. They were at such close quarters,
assailer and besieged, that the constant fusillade was deafening, the
very air seemed to breathe fire. The younger volunteers were thrilled
at many a brave act of heroism, and sickened and shuddered as they
viewed sudden and terrible death.
General Howe was now bewildered, for he had not dreamed of such a
determined resistance on the part of the colonists.
"If this battle is lost, America is lost," said one of his
under-officers. To this Howe did not reply, but bit his lip in deep
thought.
General Clinton had witnessed the repulses of the British from
Copp's Hill and now he thought it high time to go to General Howe's
assistance. He came over in a hurry, with such soldiers as he could
summon in haste.
"The rebels must be short of ammunition," said one officer. "They are
holding back their fire." And this was true.
The ammunition was indeed low, and the Musket Boys had less than three
rounds all around. More than this, the boys were dry, for none of them
had had a drop of water for hours, and the day was growing hotter and
hotter. In many spots the gun-wads had set fire to the dry grass.
"Here they come again!" was the cry, and once more the redcoats
advanced. The Americans blazed away until all their ammunition was
gone, then fought with swords, clubbed guns, bayonets, sticks, rocks,
and whatever came handy. It was the fiercest hand-to-hand conflict yet
held, and never had the Musket Boys fought more bravely. The din was
terrific, and the thick smoke rolled on all sides.
"Give it to them, boys! Don't surrender!" cried General Warren, and ran
from one of the trenches. A few minutes later a bullet struck him in
the head, killing him.
With their ammunition gone, the Americans could not hope to retain
their position and so began at last to retreat slowly. Putnam had gone
to the rear to secure additional men and now he took command, and
under him the continentals fell back to Prospect Hill. Some thought
the British would pursue them, but the redcoats had had enough of the
slaughter. Out of a force of three thousand they had lost more than
a third, including many officers! The American loss was not near so
large, but included many well-known patriots besides gallant Warren.
Hand to hand in conflict with the foe, Phil and Andy and their brave
young followers contested every foot of the way. Phil, in evading a
sabre stroke from a British officer, dodged, slipped, fell, and rolled
over and over down the hill towards the advancing group of redcoats. It
was like falling into the maw of a devouring monster. Phil's comrades
stood petrified with dread.
Then a lithe, nimble figure cut the air like a person diving into the
water or from a trapeze. It was Sachem. Just in time he seized the
prostrate Phil, flung him over his shoulder, and bore him harmlessly
amid a leaden hail of bullets into the midst of his comrades.
One final fusillade, a great huzza of confidence and defiance from the
patriot hosts, and Bunker Hill and its heroes had passed into history.
CHAPTER XXXI
A MESSENGER FROM CONCORD
The patriots had made no mistake in bulking their bravery to teach the
Tories a lesson at Bunker Hill. The effects of that event was felt
all through the country, not only by the British but by the American.
Bunker Hill had demonstrated a significant fact to the Tories. This
was the powers of endurance of the hardy colonists and their superior
marksmanship.
Outside of a few regular companies in Boston, the British troops were
men hastily recruited from the rural districts of England. These men
had received little or no training. For years they had lived under the
most rigorous game laws. The result was that some of them had never had
a gun in their hands. When they were given one to fight with, they did
not know how to use it.
The patriots, on the contrary, were natural marksmen. They had to hunt
for a great portion of their food, and had become very skilful in the
use of the musket. Most of them belonged to train-bands, and the local
militia were well-officered and under fairly efficient discipline.
It depressed the Tories after the battle of Bunker Hill to review
and analyze these potent facts. There could be no question that one
colonist was a match for two redcoats. Besides this, all over the
country the remarkable exploits of the New England army infused new
courage in the hearts of their brethren to the south. They had held
Boston as in a state of siege for many months, and there were rumors
that Gen. Gage was about to be recalled, and that possibly his troops
might be sent to Canada.
"If we can only hang out, we will certainly win the game," remarked
Phil to Andy and some others in the big tent of the Musket Boys, one
day.
"We've got to hold out," retorted Andy. "The only thing I worry about
is the fodder. I say, fellows, can't you pick out some rich and
fat Tory farmer we can make a raid on? Fried chicken, fresh eggs,
doughnuts, pies--anything to break in on the corn meal!"
All hands laughed merrily. They had become true Spartans in the matter
of appetite. Many a day, more than one of them had tightened his belt
a hole to keep down the cravings of hunger. The country about them
had been drawn on for food, until there was little left to gather up.
Supplies sent from the interior were slow in arriving. Recently, the
Tories had captured a wagon load of food sent from Concord. There were
a good many pale, thin, starved-looking volunteers about the camp, and
there were some desertions on this account.
Phil knew that the commanding officers were very anxious on this score.
One day, with some "picked men" he went out foraging. They captured a
pig, and managed to buy a keg of maple syrup, but this supply barely
went the rounds of the volunteers in the hospital.
One morning, Andy, in his tent, was aroused from a doze by the sounds
of the approaching voices of Phil and Ralph. They were conversing
animatedly with some one. As the latter was ushered into the tent, Andy
recognized him as Peleg Patterson, a Concord lad. He knew the boy well,
a good-natured, accommodating fellow, of weak intellect at times. Peleg
was a great admirer of old Silas Berks, and when he was not wandering
about the country, lived for weeks with the old Indian fighter. He had
a drum and was a fairly good drummer.
"Why, Peleg," said Andy, giving the poor fellow a hearty welcome.
"What brings you here? Thinking of joining the army?"
"You know better," said Peleg, with a grin. "I'm afraid to shoot. No,
sir--I just came to find you."
"What about?" demanded Andy curiously.
"Why--humph, I forgot. You know that's my weakness--always forgetting
things. Lemme see. Yes, I've got it. Your folks said--Your folks
said--I've forgotten it," concluded Peleg, hopelessly and helplessly.
"Did my folks send you?" pressed Andy.
"No, they didn't. Some one else sent me."
"Who was it, then?"
"I forget--no, I don't. Oh, yes--Silas Berks sent me. Why, of course, I
can't forget that," and Peleg looked almost triumphant.
"What did he send you for?" asked Andy.
"I'm stumped again," was the slow, confused reply. "I don't remember,"
and the speaker rubbed his head in a vacant, despairing way.
Andy tried in every way he could to arouse the latent memory of the
boy, but it was of no avail. Peleg could simply not remember. He made
all kinds of grimaces, he stared, he gulped, and finally he burst out
crying.
"I always was a stupid--not much good I am in the world."
"See here," said Andy, in a kindly tone, placing a friendly hand on
poor Peleg's arm, "you cheer up. You're a mighty good fellow, and
everybody knows it. We're glad to see you any time, no matter what you
forget. Come ahead, you shall have some breakfast with our mess, such
as it is, and we'll show you all the sights of the camp."
"Will you, now?" spoke Peleg, brightening up. "Maybe I'll remember it
all, if I give this poor head of mine a rest."
Andy and his friends certainly gave Peleg a happy hour. He was so
interested in the drill maneuvers, a sight of the big cannons, and the
buglers and the drummers, that, when something unexpected started his
thoughts in a new direction, he aroused like one from a dream, jumped
a foot in the air with a yell, and amazed Andy and his companions with
the words:
"I remember, now!"
"Do you?" spoke Andy, hopefully.
"Yes--look, see."
Peleg pointed animatedly to an orderly, carrying a sealed letter in his
hand from headquarters to some other part of the camp.
"Yes," proceeded Peleg excitedly, "old Silas sent a message--a letter."
"Where is it?" inquired Andy eagerly.
"It's--I've forgotten again."
Andy fairly groaned.
"No, I haven't!" shouted Peleg instantly. "Off with my coat!"
Andy helped him to remove the garment.
"Off with my shirt!"
The crowd was intensely interested, though laughing merrily.
"Off she comes!" reported Andy, helping.
"On my back."
"It looks like a porous plaster."
"'Tis."
"Hey?"
"In an oilskin--strip it off," exclaimed Peleg. "I ain't forgot, this
time. Remember perfectly. Silas said 'we'll hide it under the porous
plaster in an oilskin covering-message-letter.'"
"Bully for you," shouted Andy, fairly overcome, as he sure enough found
just what Peleg had described, and gave the erratic messenger a sharp,
friendly slap on his bare shoulder.
"Ouch!" roared Peleg. "Hooray, I mean! My memory is coming back."
"Good for you!" piped a mischievous member of Andy's company, repeating
Andy's slap.
"Who told you to hit me?" demanded Peleg. "Now, I'll just butt you for
taking that liberty."
Half in fun, half in earnest, Peleg made a bolt for the offender. He
turned the laugh quickly. Peleg was an expert at butting. The Musket
Boys held their sides laughing till the tears ran down their cheeks,
as Peleg butted the other this way, that way, head over heels into a
puddle, and bang! into a tent, carrying the canvas to the ground in a
wreck.
Good nature was soon restored all around, and the kind-hearted fellows,
even the one who had been butted so vigorously, made Peleg feel
comfortable and happy by showing him all kinds of attentions.
Meantime, Andy had opened and read the note which the porous plaster
had concealed. Phil, watching him, noticed Andy's face draw down sober
and serious. It increased in these expressions as Andy carefully read
again the little note.
He looked up thoughtfully. Then he beckoned to Phil and Ralph.
"Come to our tent," he said, in a very impressive tone. "I've something
great to tell you."
CHAPTER XXXII
A NOTABLE EXPLOIT
"What is it?" inquired Phil quite eagerly, the moment they entered the
tent of the Concord Company.
"A letter from Silas Berks."
"Yes, we know that, but what's it about?" urged Ralph.
"Fellows," replied Andy smartly, his face working with a good deal of
excitement, "we were talking about being hungry a little while ago.
What would you say, if I told you that I think we have a chance to make
the biggest kind of a haul of all kinds of food, and lots of it?"
"We'd say," cried Ralph enthusiastically, "show us the chance!"
"Good! Read that letter, both of you. Then Phil, as you know our
commanding general best, if you see anything in the proposition, go to
him and arrange for the raid."
In turn Phil and Ralph perused the crabbed missive that the old Indian
fighter had sent. It was a strange message. Briefly, it informed
Andy that the writer knew of the needs of the Continental army. From
a friend who had been burned out and robbed by the Tories, Silas had
learned that something strange was going on in the neighborhood of
Berkston.
His friend had told Silas a strange story. The British had raided the
territory, burning houses, stealing cattle, and driving the colonists
away. Somewhere near Berkston Hills, they had a kind of a rendezvous,
Silas said. Here by spells they came frequently to gather up and carry
to ships on the coast a vast amount of provisions obtained by bribed
agents in the interior districts.
Recently the Tories had hired a vagrant band of Indians to scour the
country, visiting the settlements, begging, stealing, breaking into
stores, houses and barns, and pilfering generally in both a small and a
large way. They had carried away the whole contents of farmers' smoke
houses, in some instances. At one isolated town the general store was
swept clean.
Old Silas stated that he was satisfied that these robbers massed all
their stealings at one central point, where the Tory agent bought the
goods for little or nothing, giving in exchange British gold and "fire
water." Their latest headquarters, from what his refugee friend told
him, he believed to be in the vicinity of Berkston Hills.
Phil and Andy did some thinking, planning and arranging with their
commanding officer. That afternoon they started Peleg home, made
happy with various trifling gifts, and sending a reply letter to Old
Silas, thanking him for his kindly interest in his boy friends and his
fidelity to the cause.
"Sachem would be the prime fellow to consult about this proposition,"
remarked Andy, as, accompanied by twenty of their "picked men," the two
young volunteer leaders left the camp.
"Sachem has won the confidence of the general by his continued sobriety
and usefulness," explained Phil, "and has been sent off on a mission
where fleet-footedness means something. I think he will be back by
nightfall, but this affair of ours is important, and can't wait."
There was a brisk march to Berkston. Only a few half-burned buildings
of the little town were visible. The place was lonely and deserted.
The hills lay to the east of the village, and the boys threaded many
a valley and ravine, searching for the place of the rendezvous of the
marauders.
Just toward the end of the afternoon, as they passed down a
rock-protected glade, Phil made out a human form. It appeared and then
disappeared where the valley turned.
"Did you see him?" inquired the Boston boy of Andy, who had been
keeping a close lookout by his side.
"I fancied that I saw something or somebody," responded Andy, "but it
was only a momentary flash. Human or animal, I couldn't make it out."
"It looked like an Indian to me," declared Phil. "I've got the spot
well in mind. We'll hurry on; leave the men in ambush, and you and I
will do a little investigating."
"All right," acceded Andy, and this was done. When they came to the
spot where Phil had seen the supposed Indian disappear, the company was
ordered to cover, while their leaders proceeded cautiously around the
turn in the valley.
"We've struck it," said Phil, after they had proceeded several yards.
"Yes," nodded Andy convincedly, "for here are a lot of well-trodden
paths, diverging over the hills both ways from this spot. See,
Phil--here's a regular route. Here they end."
"A cave," said Phil.
They had met many of these formations in traversing the valley. The
one that now showed its verdure-covered entrance plainly, seemed to
be of considerable magnitude. Phil and Andy entered the place, looking
curiously around them. There was an outer cave, and this narrowed so as
to be a kind of a doorway to a vast inner cavern. The roof of this had
some breaks, letting in the daylight, and, although the place was dim
and gloomy, the intruders could make out their surroundings.
"I say!" exclaimed Andy, in petrified wonder, staring about the queer
place. Phil was equally spellbound. The cave was simply a great
storehouse. Scattered about were heaps of plunder of every description.
Here was a heap of smoked bacon and ham, there were kegs and barrels,
probably containing molasses, sugar, cider and vinegar. There were
sacks of grain, flour and vegetables, sugar, salt, dried beans, peas
and fruits. Boxes of candles, clothing, bed linen, heaps of firearms
and garden tools--the mixed mass of booty resembled the despoilment of
half-a-dozen towns.
"Phil," exclaimed Andy breathlessly, "Old Silas was no dreamer. Oh,
what a find!"
Phil was surprised, in fact fairly agitated, as he realized what all
this plunder meant to the patient, ill-fed continental army. He could
not keep from trembling with anxiety. Here was the booty. How could
they get it to camp? It was extremely improbable that its owners would
leave it long, unguarded. At any moment their intrusion might be
discovered.
"I'll go for the company," said Andy excitedly. "We'll leave half of
them on guard here. The rest of us will carry off what we can to camp,
and the general will send a full company or two for the rest of the
plunder."
"We certainly must act quickly and decisively," rejoined Phil, and both
started for the exit from the cave.
"Ugh!"
"Wagh!"
Suddenly from behind a great heap of bags four Indians stepped directly
in their path. They leveled muskets and looked fierce and dangerous.
Just then from outside came the echoes of a series of frightful yells
mingled with the explosion of firearms.
Phil and Andy made a rush to rejoin their comrades outside, whom they
felt certain had been attacked. Seemingly all hands had fallen into a
trap, their recent progress having been closely watched by redskins in
ambush. The four Indians intercepted Phil and Andy. The youths were
seized, disarmed, and were dragged back into the inner cave, as their
volunteer friends were driven into the place by a party of Indians
nearly double their number. There was scuffling and struggles, some
shots were fired, some blows given, and, at the end of the general
mix-up, the young volunteers found themselves driven _en masse_ into
a corner of the cave. Their weapons were taken from them, and forty
or more Indians squatted on the stone floor about ten feet from them,
fully armed, and in instant readiness to resist and punish any attempt
at escape.
"Well, we're in a nice fix now, aren't we?" spoke Andy, in a disgusted
tone. "I wish we'd fought to the last second."
"No one had the chance--it was all so sudden," replied Phil. "It would
have been a massacre, if our fellows had attempted it."
Beyond the guards the four men who had prevented Phil and Andy from
leaving the cave stood together, evidently holding a council. There was
a noisy pow-wow in a tongue the boys could not understand.
The apparent leader of the redmen finally approached the Indian guards.
He spoke briefly and rapidly. He seemed to be putting some case before
them for them to vote upon. When he had concluded speaking, a great,
unanimous shout from the entire group appeared to affirm the decision
of the council.
"They've voted 'Aye' on whatever it is," said Andy. "Now he's coming to
tell us our fate, I'll wager."
The stalwart savage looked very stern and cruel as he approached Phil
and Andy, recognizing them as the leaders of the intruders. He spoke in
poor English, and his words were few. He gave them to understand that
he knew they were enemies--being colonists--also, that their friends
were the British. They had come to rob the native redskin, as their
forefathers had robbed them. If they were set free, they would bring a
revengeful horde on the trail. Ugh! wagh! they must die!
The speaker drew back, waved his hand and uttered a sharp, quick
command to the Indian guards. As if by magic the latter dropped their
firearms. Then each one of them drew a knife or a tomahawk from his
belt.
There was no mistaking their ferocity or their purpose. They were fully
intent on slaying the intruders. It seemed that the scene was to be a
repetition of cruel massacres to which these untutored savages had
been incited several times since the Revolutionary War had begun.
Phil never could analyze the promptness with which a sudden, wild
suggestion entered his mind. In a flash there occurred to him a vivid
thought. In a kind of erratic desperation his hand went to a breast
pocket. It was to draw forth the singularly engraved and painted token
that Sachem had given him, on that memorable day when he had rescued
that redman from the fugitive horse in the swamp.
With a vague cry to attract attention Phil raised this in plain view
of the Indian leader. The latter stared, glided forward, regarded
the token fixedly, and spoke sharply to the guards, who fell back
astonished.
"Whew!" ejaculated Andy. "That was a close shave. Phil, they must know
Sachem. It's mighty lucky you thought of it. They're pow-wowing over
it, see?"
The four principal Indians were discoursing animatedly. Evidently
Phil's possession of the token mystified and influenced them, and
checked their bloodthirsty instincts, at least temporarily. Finally the
head Indian came up to Phil. He asked some questions about the token,
which Phil truthfully answered. Then he asked about the whereabouts of
Sachem. He seemed troubled and irresolute. He told Phil that a friend,
an agent of the British, who had gone to see about a ship, would be
with them soon, and they would get his opinion about affairs.
At that moment a peculiar Indian call echoed from outside the cave. It
stirred the savages greatly, and some ran out. It was to return with
one of their own people, though he was not in Indian garb.
"Sachem!" cried Phil. "We are saved."
Sachem had returned to camp, and had set out on their trail at once. He
had arrived in the nick of time. He made a short speech to the savages.
He promised them money from the continental general.
Within an hour the young volunteers and the Indians, each bearing a
heavy load, were headed in the direction of the camp at Cambridge. The
influence of Sachem had won the day.
As soon as they arrived and Phil reported to the general, a company of
militia was dispatched to bring in the remainder of the plunder. The
camp rang with the exploit, and the army had a royal feast for many
days to come.
CHAPTER XXXIII
CONCLUSION
Into the continental camp a lone juvenile figure had come speeding down
the river bank on a mettled steed. It was Burt Noble. He had slipped
out of Boston at daybreak. Once across the river, he had made for a
friendly farmhouse. Now he rushed up to headquarters, flushed and
panting.
The young patriot spy was not five minutes in confidential consultation
with the commanding general. As he emerged from his presence it was to
break into a run, after asking some quick questions from a sentry. He
burst into the main tent of the Musket Boys, aglow with delight and
excitement.
"Well, if here isn't Burt Noble!" shouted Ralph.
"Great news, grand news!" cried Burt, making for Phil to shake his hand
boisterously. "I've left Boston just in time, they had got suspicious."
"You said 'great news'?" intimated the curious Ralph.
"Yes, it's no secret, or won't be, soon. Ah, it's out now! Hear that?"
Outside, from the direction of headquarters, there echoed a wild,
glorious babble of human shouts, a chorus of trumpets.
"What is it, Burt?" asked Phil.
"Boston. The British are evacuating the city!"
"Hurrah!"
Such a shout went up from the throats of the assembled Musket Boys,
that it seemed to fairly lift the cover of the tent. They broke loose
then like mad schoolboys on a frolic. They lifted Phil on their
shoulders, and carried him outside in triumph. They took up Burt next,
and, bearing him to the tent of Andy's company, filled the air with
their fervid exultation.
Like wildfire the news spread through the camp. Then courier after
courier began to arrive from Boston, for the British ships were sailing
out into the bay, and the long blockade was ended.
Phil looked back in vivid memory over the weary months of waiting and
watching since Bunker Hill. There had been skirmishes, noble acts
of heroism where the volunteers had stolen a march on the enemy and
had secured supplies for the suffering, ill-fed soldiers of General
Washington. Ralph had been one of the party who had sailed a schooner
down the coast clear to New Jersey, and had captured a rival vessel
loaded with powder.
Then Dorchester Heights, other battles further from Boston, and then
Howe had superseded Gage, and now--victory! triumph! The royal fleet
was sailing for Halifax, leaving the gallant patriots masters once more
of their dear home city.
It was not until the next morning that a portion of the army,
consisting principally of volunteers from the city, entered Boston.
Their reception was a glad one in public. At homes everywhere supreme
joy reigned over the return of a father or a brother.
At the Warrington home the hours became a continual round of happiness.
It seemed, indeed, like old times, to have the house free and open, and
filled with kindly, affectionate friends. That first night in Boston
neither Phil, Andy nor Ralph slept a wink. Neighborhood boys, too young
to volunteer, stuck to them tightly, begging for story after story of
their army experiences. The Musket Boys were the heroes of the whole
town.
Two evenings later affairs were on a somewhat more rational basis.
Phil and his friends and his family were seated in the big sitting
room of the house, listening to an officer who had come from the
camp to explain that within a few days the New England army would
be reorganized to join Washington near New York, when there came a
tremendous thump at the front door.
Phil went to open it. There stood a man with a covered box in his hand,
dancing from foot to foot in an excited, jubilant sort of way, as he
piped out as cheerily as ever:
"It's only me, old Silas Berks, and his parrot. Andy, hooroar!
Attention, company! this is the gladdest hour of my life."
In the effulgence of his happy feelings old Silas set the box on the
step. It tumbled over, its cover came open, and out flopped Polly,
bobbing and eyeing the audience with the ringing sentiment for the
occasion:
"Hurrah for liberty!"
It took some time for affairs to settle down to normal. Andy had many
a question to ask about the friends at home. Mr. Warrington gave the
old French and Indian fighter such a warm welcome, that he grinned and
bobbed around in the best rocker in the house, feeling, indeed, that he
was a guest of honor.
"And now then," observed old Silas finally, his snappy little eyes
blinking mysteriously, "what brought me to Boston? Can anyone answer
that? What brought me to Boston?"
"You tell it," directed Andy.
"The dog that old Jasper Bram and his precious son Greg didn't bury!"
cried the old man.
"What?" exclaimed Phil, arising to his feet in some excitement. "You
haven't found out--?"
"Didn't I tell you I would?"
"Yes, but--"
"And I did," pursued the veteran complacently. "I used to look every
day after you boys went away at that old chalk memorandy of mine under
the shelf. It made me think of you, and then I felt less lonesome. I
puzzled and puzzled, but nothing came of it. Old Jasper came back and
Greg joined the Tory army, and time wore on, and nothing came of the
memorandy until last week."
"And then, Silas?" urged the impatient Andy eagerly.
"Then one night there comes to my house Bram's old hired man. He had
dared to ask that vicious old Tory for his wages, and Jasper had given
him a drubbing and turned him out to starve. Well, I took him in. He
is an innocent, stupid sort of a fellow, and he felt great gratitude
towards me. One day I happened to look at that chalk memorandy, and it
comes to me to ask the man if Bram ever had a dog. He said 'No'. Then I
asked him if Bram had ever buried a dog."
"Go ahead," urged Andy, as the narrator paused to take breath.
"Well, that hired man looked at me queer, and just laughed."
"What about?" inquired Phil.
"He said it was funny, but about the time war broke out he one day met
old Bram and his son carrying a bag and a spade. He asked them where
they were going. Greg Bram told him to bury a dog, and chuckled as if
he had made a smart joke. Well, the hired man watched them, and saw
them bury the bag in a thicket. He thought no more of it until the
day he was discharged by Bram. The old man asked him to get a certain
spade. It was broken by accident, and that was what Bram abused him
for. Bram got another spade. The hired man watched him. He dug up the
bag, and buried it in a new spot. I asked the man where."
"Did he tell you?" inquired Andy in rapt tones.
"He did, and I dug up that bag day before yesterday. Then I came here."
"Why?" spoke Phil.
"Because in it I found nearly five thousand pounds in notes and gold.
Now, I'm not stealing anybody's money, but I brought that bag right
with me. It's outside on the steps now. I'm taking it to the owners."
"Who are the owners, Mr. Berks?" inquired Ralph Post.
"Mr. Warrington, for one. In the bag were papers, and contracts and
deeds. They show that Jasper Bram owes John Warrington over four
thousand pounds."
"Yes," said Phil's father, considerably moved, "that is true, but he
stole the proofs of it from me."
"Then there is a document there about one Burt Noble," continued the
old veteran. "It shows that his father left a thousand pounds with
Jasper Bram years ago, to provide for his son. The father, it seems,
got into some trouble that made him flee from New England. In the bag
are recent letters in which the father begs of Bram to send him some
word of his son. They have no date and no signature, but they seem to
come from Mr. Noble, who has joined the continental army somewhere
in the south, but does not come to New England on account of his old
troubles."
"Then my father is alive!" said Burt Noble, arising to his feet in
fervid emotion. "Oh, this is what my heart longed for! It shall be the
aim of my life to find him!"
"And we will help you, Burt," declared Phil, as he placed a brotherly
arm across the shoulder of the brave young spy who had been to him so
loyal a friend.
The bag was brought in and investigated. Its contents were found to be
just as old Silas had described.
"I shall keep this money and these papers," said Mr. Warrington. "I
shall go about it in a legal way to prove that this money belongs
rightfully to me, except the share that is the property of Burt Noble."
"Oh, how happy everything has turned out," said Mrs. Warrington,
earnestly.
"Yes," added Phil, "but it is only an encouragement to go right on in
the path we have chosen."
"Exactly," nodded Andy. "The war has only just commenced."
"And we are volunteers until the last redcoat is driven back to
England!" declared Phil. "The next move is to join the reorganized army
of Gen. Washington."
And how the lads did join the reorganized army, and went forth to
fight valiantly, will be told in another volume, to be entitled, "The
Musket Boys Under Washington; Or, The Tories of Old New York." In that
book we shall see some fierce fighting on Long Island, and learn the
particulars of how the boys came to the rescue of a girl who was in the
power of a miserly Tory who wanted to send her to England against her
will.
With the money that had been restored to him, Mr. Warrington went into
business once more, and, although the times were very unsettled, he did
very well.
"And what will you do?" asked Andy of Burt Noble, when the two met one
day.
"I am off for General Washington's headquarters," answered the young
spy. "I guess we'll meet again." And the boys did meet,--not once but
many times.
"I rather imagine we've seen some hot fighting, Andy," said Phil.
"You are right,--but the future may hold hotter fighting still."
"This war has but begun," came from Ralph. "King George won't give up
yet. We'll have to whip his redcoats many more times ere he will be
willing to admit our independence."
"Never mind--we'll do it!" cried Andy, with flashing eyes. "From now on
our watchword must be Liberty forever!"
And the other Musket Boys echoed the sentiment.
THE END
[Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation left as printed.]
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