Then Marched the Brave/Chapter VI

CHAPTER VI

THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE

A terrible storm was coming up, after the sultry day. Andy's whole being centered upon the thought that he must reach the Beekman Place; and the coming storm might delay him. Only so far did it affect him. He felt no hunger; it troubled him a little that his mother and Ruth would worry about him, but nothing mattered so much as the solving of the doubt that was causing his heart and brain to throb.

Strangely enough, his lameness decreased as his excitement waxed greater, or it seemed to, and he considered it less. The birds stopped twittering their vesper songs, and huddled fearfully in their shelters. A peal of thunder was followed quickly by another. The rocks took up the echo and prolonged the sound. Between, the flashes of lightning, the darkness could almost be felt, so tangible and dense it seemed. Once Andy fell and struck his head. The blow made him giddy, but the rain dashing in his face steadied him, and he plodded on. Then a glare in the distance attracted him. It was in the direction toward which he was going.

"A fire!" he muttered. "All the more reason for hoping they will not notice me." The town might burn, what matter, if only the way were free to the Beekman place.

It was still dark when he reached his destination, worn and haggard. Over toward the greenhouse people were stirring about, and Andy rightly guessed that the prisoner, whoever he might be, was there. No luckier place could have been chosen, so far as Andy was concerned. It was surrounded by shrubbery through which he could creep right up to the building, providing, of course, that the sentinels did not see him. But the sentinels were relaxing their watch. The hours of the troublesome spy were nearly ended, and there could be little danger of any further trouble on his account.

Andy crept along, keeping to the bushes. The storm was nearly over, and no lightning could betray his motions now.

Once the glass house was reached, Andy looked eagerly in. There was a pile of rubbish in one corner, and a man was sitting upon a rude bench near it; between him and Andy, however, were two men with their backs to the boy, and they quite hid the face of the man upon the bench. The two were listening, and the third man was speaking. Andy was too far away to hear, but, gaining courage, he crept around to the other side of the house, and so came close to the group within. Something in the attitude of the man upon the bench had caused the boy's heart to leap madly, then almost stop. He raised his eyes slowly—one look was enough!

Sorrow and ill-treatment had done their work, but the dear face was the same! Dauntless, undying courage shone upon the uplifted face.

It was the master! The errand, whatever it had been, was over. Success or failure? Andy could not tell from the calm features. Spy or hero! What mattered? There sat the beloved friend, deserted and forlorn—still unconquered though the fetters bound him close.

"I would send, if your kindness will permit, these letters. They will make lighter the sorrow of them I love."

Andy bowed his head and clutched at his throat to stifle the rising cry. A broken pane of glass near-by permitted him to hear clearly every word.

One man on guard had a low, brutal face, the other, Andy noticed, had a more humane look.

"Have you the letters written?" asked the coarse fellow.

"I have." The master drew them from his breast and handed them to the speaker.

"One is to Washington," laughed the man. "Gad, you must take us for raw recruits."

"I shall be beyond harming you soon. That letter refers to personal matters, I swear." There was superb dignity in the voice. "I would have his excellency know that I regret nothing. I would do all over again, did the need arise. Washington would see that my comrades understand that."

The man with the letters gave vent to a brutal oath. Then the quieter man spoke for the first.

"If we read the letters and find them harmless, I am for forwarding them. To whom are the others addressed?"

"One to my family, the other—to the woman I was to have married!" The master, for the first time, bowed his head, as if his burden were too heavy.

"I think we may carry out your request if the contents are what you imply."

"And make a hero of this spy!" snarled the rougher man. "Every word may have a double meaning, Colonel. We have the papers he so carefully hid, but these letters may contain the same information, slyly concealed." He tore the letters across twice, and flung the pieces on the floor. "Death and oblivion to all rebel spies!" he hissed.

The master never flinched, but his pale face grew paler. "Is there anything else we can do for you?" asked the milder voice, "something safer than forwarding letters?"

"I should like to have the right generally granted a dying man, of seeing a minister. One lives a few miles above here. I am sure he would come."

"And hear what you dare not write," sneered the torturer. "You are not the sort to need a death-bed scene; besides, there isn't going to be any death-bed. I dare say the parson would be glad enough to carry your so-called confession to Washington. Bah! you are crude in your last moments."

"Come," impatiently spoke the fellow's companion, "I have no stomach for your jests and brutality." Then, turning to the master, he said: "We will leave you for a few hours. It seems the only thing we can do for you. Try to rest."

Down the greenhouse the two went. The master was alone! He bowed his splendid head, and perhaps tasted, for the first time, the dregs of desolation.

Andy, lying low among the bushes, saw that the master's feet were bound. The sight wrung the boy's soul. Perhaps he had wildly hoped that escape were possible, but one glance showed him that the fetters were cruelly strong. What could he do? Near and far he heard the measured tread of sentinels at their posts. He wondered that he had ever gained his present position unnoticed. It was doubtful now that he could make his own escape, for a gray dawn was breaking in the east. But the thought of his own danger troubled the boy little. He was thinking of a peculiar whirring sound that he and the master had once practiced together. A sound like an insect. "'Twould be a good signal," the teacher had said. Would he remember it?

Andy pressed close to the broken glass, and chirruped distinctly. The master started and raised his eyes. Was he dreaming! Again Andy ventured. Then a smile flitted across the master's face.

"Andy!" he breathed.

"Here, close to you!"

Slowly, without a suspicious start, the man turned in the boy's direction; and the two brave comrades smiled at each other over the gulf of pain and grief.

"I will try to sleep!" This aloud, to regale the ear of any possible listener other than Andy. With difficulty the master stretched, as best he could, his fettered limbs upon the floor, taking heed to lie as close to Andy as possible.

Silence. Then the man tossed and talked aloud in troubled fashion.

Andy, meantime, with a daring that might risk all, put his hand in the broken pane and drew the bits of paper of the torn letters to him.

"Tell Washington," moaned the voice of the master in a half sleepy whisper, "I regret nothing. Am proud to die and to have given all."

"I have the letters!" breathed Andy. "If I live Washington shall have them and know all."

"Thank God!" came from the man upon the floor. "You are a true friend, Andy McNeal."

"Good-by," groaned Andy. "Some one is coming!" The cold perspiration covered the boy's body, for steps were drawing near.

"There could hardly be any one outside," said a loud, rough voice. "Still we must take no chances. The poor devil has reason to toss in his sleep and talk. I doubt if he were doing anything else."

The need was desperate. Andy crawled like a snake through the grasses. Escape seemed impossible. He passed the two searchers in the friendly gloom, and breathed freer. This was a lucky move, for the two men examined thoroughly the spot where Andy had been. They discovered the broken glass, and one remarked that the weeds had been crushed.

"Some animal has been prowling about, there are no footprints," said the other.

Andy's Indian training was serving him well. In a few minutes the two passed on. "We'll walk around the place. Daybreak is near. The dangerous spy's time is short."

Andy made the most of that time. Stealing cautiously in and out of the shrubbery, he worked his way out of sight of the greenhouse. The chill of the morning made him shiver. How many hours he had passed without food or drink he did not consider; but his heart seemed dead within him.

Painfully he came at last to the shelter of the woods. Then he sat down upon a fallen tree, clutching the scraps of paper against his throbbing breast. In imagination he seemed to see the master being led forth to die. See! the east was rosy. Now, even now, the brave soul was marching on undaunted and undismayed. Andy could see nothing in the brilliancy of that lovely morning light, but the uplifted face of the man he loved. A pride and joy came to the boy. That hero was his friend! The world might call him a spy—but he, Andy McNeal, knew that he had given all for the country's cause, and regretted nothing, even in the face of a dishonored death.

"And Washington shall know!" breathed Andy. "As soon as I can reach headquarters, the General shall have these!" Fiercely he pressed the papers. Then he arose. He was stiff and deadly weary.

"I will go to Ruth!" he sighed. "I must have food and rest. I dare not go to mother. My plight is too sad. I will save her the sight." Bedraggled and blood-stained—for the fall of the night before had left its mark—Andy went on, looking, as indeed he was, a soldier of the cause.