IN CLINTON'S TENTS.
"Give me liberty or give me death."
--PATRICK HENRY.
Hatless, furious, half-blind from dust and the trickling of the blood
from the wound in the head that had dazed and rendered him powerless
to escape back to his own ranks after meeting the enemy, Richard was
dragged along with the British until their position was regained, and
thence despatched to the rear, where the other prisoners were held under
guard. There he lay on the ground for an hour, listening and longing
feverishly for the sound of Washington's assaulting guns; but the
twilight deepened into starlit dusk, and no rescue came. Then finally he
knew by the preparations about him that no further attack was expected,
but that a retreat was intended. Clinton dared not await the return of
daylight and the fight it would bring; and so in the still hours of the
night, while the Continentals slept the sleep of utter exhaustion after
the marches and counter-marches and combats of that sultry day, he drew
his force away, leaving his dead unburied upon the field, and his sorely
wounded in the deserted camp. To the very last moment, Richard had
listened for an attack, hoping that Washington had waited to plan a
surprise; but over in the direction of the American camp all was silent.
During the last half of that awful night Richard marched with the squad
of prisoners along the road that led to the sea. The wound in his head,
although but slight, made him dizzy with its throbbing, and his heart
called out fiercely for freedom and Joscelyn. He had asked not to be put
into the wagon with the wounded, protesting he was more able to walk
than some others; but in reality he was meditating an escape, and knew
it would be more easily accomplished from the ranks than from a guarded
wagon. Eagerly he watched for a chance. The bonds that at first held the
prisoners together had been removed to expedite the retreat,--there was
no time that night to spare for any kind of lagging,--so that he was
free to go alone if the opportunity came. Always his gaze was ahead,
every shadow across the road held a possibility, every dark hollow was
entered with hope. But the guard, as though divining his intention,
closed in compactly at these points and made egress impossible; and so
he plodded on until, with the returning daylight, they found him reeling
like a drunken man with fatigue and loss of blood, and, putting him into
an ambulance, carried him on toward Sandy Hook. From utter weariness and
hopelessness he fell asleep in the jolting vehicle, and only waked at
the prod of a bayonet to find the sun well past the zenith.
"Get up with you and let somebody take your place while you foot it a
bit," a rough voice said; and Richard sprang from the vehicle and helped
little Billy Bryce, of his own town, into his place, exclaiming
vehemently against his own selfish slumbering.
"Nay, nay," said the lad, "I am not wounded, more's the shame to me for
being taken! Besides, I have had a long rest under the wagon here, for
we halted before noon. I begged the guard not to waken you, but I put
your rations aside. Here--you must be near to starvation."
Richard caught eagerly at the pork and ship biscuit which the lad held
out; it seemed ages since he had tasted food.
"And you'll be better with your head washed," the guard said, not
unkindly, pointing to a little stream that trickled by the roadside; and
Richard was quick to obey.
In a little while they were in motion again, this time more leisurely,
and once more thoughts of escape filled Richard with a restless energy.
The country was more broken here; to hide would be easier, and he waited
impatiently for the coming of the dark, determined at all hazards to
make the attempt--another sunset might put him behind prison bars. But
he was doomed to disappointment, for they were not to march all night,
but with the early stars pitched their tents upon a flat stretch of
country that opened to the east.
Worn out by the long marches and the cloying sand through which they had
toiled, the army soon slept profoundly. Tied together for greater
security, the prisoners lay like so many sardines in their tent, before
which trod a sentinel. At first there was much whispering among them as
to their probable fate, and not a few solemn farewells to home and dear
ones, with now and then a happy reminiscence such as often comes with
the acme of irony to doomed men. One recalled his courting days, another
the swimming pool under the willows; and yet another his baby's laugh.
And set lips relaxed into smiling until suddenly the memory stabbed with
a new pain.
"I shall never see my mother any more, for I know I shall die in that
dreadful prison; but you'll be good to me, won't you, Richard?" groaned
little Billy Bryce, who lay next to Richard with his right hand tied to
the latter's left.
And Richard comforted him as best he could, and by and by the lad slept
with the others.
"I hope they will always let me stay with you," had been his last sleepy
whisper. For among the bigger boys Richard had been his hero and
protector, and no service was ever too great for him to undertake for
his idol. And Richard had petted and yet imposed upon him in the way
peculiar to all boys of a larger growth, when a small one asks nothing
better than to obey. It was really to be with Richard as much as to
share in the war that he had stolen away from his mother and followed
the Hillsboro' men to the field.
At last the tent was quiet save for the deep breathing of the tired men,
but Richard could not close his eyes; he meant to get away. After the
watch was changed toward midnight was the time he had set as the most
favourable for his plan. All being then found secure, the new guard
would be over-sure--and he, like the rest, was worn out with the trials
of the past two days. Certainly that was the best time; a confident,
tired sentinel ought not to be hard to elude. And he lay still, softly
gnawing the rope that bound him to Billy. As he was at the end of the
line, his right arm was free, and so his fingers aided his teeth to pick
the threads apart. Thus an hour went by, and then the lad beside him
stirred.
"What are you doing, Richard?" he whispered; then added quickly, as his
arm felt the loosened cord: "Why, you have bitten the rope in two. You
are going to escape? Take me with you, in mercy's name, Richard; do not
leave me to die in the prison yonder! Richard, let me go, too."
"H--sh!" whispered Richard, sternly, for the boy's excitement was like
to arouse the whole body of prisoners, perchance even alarm the guard
outside. "Be still, Billy! I cannot take you--two could never pass the
guard. I am sorry; I--I--wish you had not waked."
But the lad, whose arm was now free because of the final severance of
the cord, caught his hand as with a drowning grip: "You must take
me--you must!"
"I cannot."
"Oh, I will not go on to rot in that vile prison; I am so young, and my
mother has nobody but me! Don't you know how I have always loved you,
Richard? You never asked me to do anything that I was not ready to try
it. I'd never leave you here if I were going to freedom--never!"
To take him lessened his chances more than half, and Heaven knew how
slender they were already; but the struggle in Richard's mind lasted
only a moment. Then he leaned over the boy's body and began carefully
and quietly to untie the cord that bound him to the next sleeper,
stopping now and then when the man made any movement. The lad, guessing
his consent by his action, spoke no word, but lifted his head and kissed
him on the cheek; and Richard felt the tears that coursed down the
smooth face.
"You confounded young idiot!" he whispered, but his voice was very
tender, and presently, when the knot was loosed, he drew the lad close
to him and told his plan.
"God grant we may both of us get safely away; but if only one of us
succeeds, and that should be I, then will I carry your love to your
mother."
"And if I escape, I shall do the like for you."
"Ay, laddie, and more; for you shall say to Joscelyn Cheshire that even
behind prison bars I am her lover; and if death comes, her face, or the
blessed memory of it, will outshine those of the angels of Paradise."
"You love her so, then?"
"As a man loves sunshine and warmth and beauty and life."
"And she loves you?"
"No, lad, she loves me not."
And the boy left the silence that followed unbroken, knowing the other
wished it so.
A while later they heard the call of the watch farther down the beat,
and presently the sound of steps outside and the welcome "All's well!"
of the relieved sentry. Turning upon their backs with the ravelled ends
of the cords hidden close between them, they seemed asleep like their
comrades when the watchman cast the light of his lantern through the
flapping canvas door.
"Too d--n tired to give any trouble," the out-going sentinel said as he
glanced along the line. "You will have an easy time to-night." Then he
went away, and the two watchers in the tent waited for what seemed an
eternity. Finally Richard lifted the edge of the tent and looked out.
The sentinel leaned against a small tree in front of the tent, his gun
held slack in his fingers. He was very tired, even to drowsiness.
"Now," Richard whispered, and crawled stealthily from under the rear of
the tent, followed by Billy. Keeping in the shadow of the tents, they
moved on hands and knees across the ground toward a clump of bushes that
promised a hiding-place for reconnoitring. Only twenty yards the stretch
was, but to those two crawling figures it seemed a mile. Every weed that
swayed against its fellow had in it the sound of a rushing wind, and
every twig that broke under hands or knees seemed like the crack of a
rifle. To their overwrought senses each breath the other drew was as the
sough of a tempest, and they scarcely understood how the sentry could
not hear. So slowly they had to move that it took fully twenty minutes
to cover those few yards. Then, while Billy lay still in the shadow,
Richard raised himself stealthily and looked about. They could have
happened upon no worse place for their attempt. It was near the end of a
short beat up and down which two sentinels trod, passing each other near
this end, so that only a few moments intervened when one or the other
did not command the whole beat with his eye and gun. Behind and on
either side stretched the tents of the sleeping army, set thick with
picket posts and guards. On the other side of the narrow road was a rock
large enough to conceal a man, and beyond this was a field of high
grass, to gain which meant freedom. Not a detail of the starlit scene
escaped Richard. To go backward or to the right or left was to fall into
repeated dangers; this was the way since they were here. If only the
sentries passed each other in the middle of the beat, that there might
be more time when this crossing in front of them would be a little
longer unguarded!
He stood irresolute, trying to think accurately; but a noise behind left
him no time for further hesitation. Something was amiss yonder in the
rear,--perhaps their flight had been discovered. Billy, too, had heard,
and rising, stood close behind; softly he put out his hand and drew the
lad before him. One agile spring across the road, a moment's hiding in
the shadow of the rock yonder, then the tall grass and liberty; but
between the passing of the sentinels was time for only one man to cross
to safety--only one man could hide yonder behind that rock! The little
lad saw it, and his lips twitched.
"Good-by," he whispered, trying to move back.
But Richard held him fast. In his hands was not the semblance of a
tremor, but his face was ashen even in the dim light.
"Remember Joscelyn," he breathed, rather than spoke; then, as the guard
passed, he gave the lad a push. "Go."
With a stealthy, gliding step Billy was across the road and behind the
rock as Richard dropped to the ground and the guard turned round.
Evidently the man's trained ear had detected some sound, for he paused
and brought his gun to his shoulder. Richard's eyes were on the rock
over the road; if Billy moved now, they were both lost; but all was
still, and the guard once more took up his march. When he was gone a few
paces Richard saw a dark object crawl from the shadow of the rock, and a
moment later the tall grass shook as if a gentle zephyr had smitten it
in just one favoured spot; then all was silent and moveless save the
crickets and the night birds flapping past in the gloom.
Billy had left the way clear, and when the next sentinel should be at
the right place Richard meant to follow, and so he drew a deep breath
and waited. But fortune was against him, for before the man was quite
opposite to him another guard came out into the road from the camp
behind and accosted him. As they approached, Richard heard in part what
they said:--
"--couriers just arrived--enemy moving on the Brunswick road, supposed
intention to out-flank us. All outside pickets are being doubled to
prevent desertion, and I am sent to mount guard here at the end of your
beat. Two Hessians were caught in the act of deserting just now."
"I heard some kind of commotion."
"Yes; 'twill go pretty hard with them to-morrow. When we first took them
we thought they were a couple of those prisoners who were trying to
escape, and the air fairly smelt of the brimstone we were ready to give
them. The light came just in time to save them. Those Hessians are a
d--d set of hirelings."
He stooped to adjust his shoe-latchet, and when the regular guard passed
on to the end of his beat Richard dropped down quickly, but with an
inward groan, for with that man stationed there at the end of the track
escape was impossible. There had been but one chance, just one, and he
had given that away. He would not regret it, but--he should never see
Joscelyn again. It was all he could do to keep back the fierce cry that
gathered in his throat. For a long time he crouched there, hoping in the
face of despair; but the dawn was coming--if he was found thus, his
punishment would be made the greater. There was no use in courting
torture. And so, when a passing cloud obscured the stars, he crawled
back across the clearing, and crept at last under the edge of the tent.
"Here, Peter," he whispered in the ear of the next man, "Billy has
escaped. I failed; but 'tis no use to tempt the devil to double my
stripes. Wake up and tie this cord about my left arm that it may seem as
if he gnawed it himself until it was loose."
And in the morning the guard found him asleep with a bit of ravelled
rope about his arm. Search and inquiry failed to reveal anything of
Billy's escape or his whereabouts, and the incident, so far as the
prisoners were concerned, ended in the volley of oaths and threats
delivered to them second-hand by the guards from the officer of the
day. They were not pleasant words to hear; but Richard only drew a deep
breath, for he had feared Billy would linger waiting for him and so be
taken.