WHILE MOLLY WAITED, HE LISTENED.
Shirtliffe waited beside the road, until the pain in his hand turned him
sick, but Morley came not.
Then a strange fear crept into his numb heart. Suppose he should faint
and be found unconscious by either friend or foe! The thought made him
dizzy. He must hide. If he were conscious when Morley returned he could
come out to meet him, if not—well in that case he were better out of
sight. Painfully and slowly he clambered up the embankment and crouched
behind a rock hidden among underbrush.
Then he drew forth his hand to examine the wound. One look, and he lay
as dead to sight and hearing as the man by the roadside below.
The cutting winds of the March evening swept o’er him. Morley returned,
and not seeing his prisoner gave a sneering smile and hurried away.
Still, Robert lay among the bushes heeding not.
But at last he revived, and turned vaguely about, a voice from the road
fell on his ear. It was not Morley’s voice.
“The fellow’s dead, I tell you. Shot through the breast. It looks like
an American’s nasty trick. Morley was to watch this road to-day. I
wonder where he is?”
A second voice drawled out: “Morley’s too young to be given much rope,
he needs watching. As for those rebels, my Lord Howe is too lenient with
them. I’ll shoot everyone at sight from this day on. Are you rested
Dick, by Gad! we must hurry on with the news, and bad news it is.”
“I could go on,” replied the first speaker, “though every bone is
aching, but look at the horses.”
Shirtliffe peered over the ledge and saw a sorry pair of horses jaded
and panting and near Mason’s body stood the riders, travel stained and
weary. They were Britishers and had evidently ridden fast and far upon
important business.
“While we wait,” said the man called Dick, “let us carry this man behind
the bushes since we cannot bury him. I wonder if there is anything on
his body to identify him by. Here lend a hand Norton and search the old
fellow.”
Robert shuddered.
“There’ll be little time for burying,” said the man addressed, “when
Washington and his ten thousand men make for Dorchester Heights.
“Fourteen thousand,” broke in the first speaker, “yes: there’ll be hot
fighting. I wish every reb was as stiff as this one, and that we were
back in England. What was that?” The two men started nervously as a
stone rattled down the embankment. Robert, in his excitement at what he
had heard, had made a misstep and dislodged it.
The listeners could take no chances, however. “Speak or I’ll fire!”
called the older man whose name was Norton. Shirtliffe leaned over and
showed himself deeming it the safer action. The men saw him and in the
waning light took him, as Robert desperately hoped they might, for
Morley.
“Hello!” cried the man called Harding, “what are you doing there,
Morley, hurt? you’re as white as a sheet.”
The strange resemblance was to serve him well, now, if only the
Englishmen were not too intimate with the real man, and the darkness and
his keen talent for mimicry would help him out. He must chance it at any
rate; so slowly descending he made his way toward the men.
“By jove!” laughed Harding, “he’s in Continental dress, his officers say
he’s always up to some deviltry, what are you doing now, Morley?”
“On the King’s business!” answered the boy clinging to the shadow of the
hill.
“While you have been riding for days to find out Washington’s movements,
I’ve gleaned information nearer home.”
Norton looked searchingly at him. He had heard of the daredevil boy
Morley from others in camp, this was his first encounter. “You could
hardly get your news from yon dead Britisher,” he said, “perhaps you
will be kind enough to explain yourself and your new uniform.”
“Oh! the uniform is all right.” Robert gave a dry laugh, “it got me
inside the American lines, As for him”—the boy gave an agonized glance
at the dead man, “he is no Britisher. Look under his coat and see what
uniform he wears.”
They bent and turned back the long coat, and sure enough there was the
tattered Continental suit, which, during his time of backsliding, Mason
had had neither chance or inclination to change.
“Upon my soul!” cried Harding springing to his feet, “this looks like
mischief!”
“I was trying to capture him”—Shirtliffe’s thoughts had never been
clearer, and his words seem to flow unconsciously,—“when a cowardly
knave fired at me”—
“From ambush?” asked Norton keenly.
“How, else?” Shirtliffe replied, “but as I was saying, when the ball
went through my hand I saw my prisoner falling; I quite forgot my own
hurt until all was over, then I went up the bank to”—
“Here’s some water, Morley,” Harding interrupted, taking the thing for
granted, and producing his bottle, “you’d find little water up there,
everything’s frozen stiff. Let’s see your hand, boy. There is mischief
on foot, and we must hurry on.”
Shirtliffe, keeping his face turned as if wincing at the touch, gave the
wounded hand to the young officer.
Every moment was precious. The real Morley might return at any minute,
Robert did not know he had come and gone—and although he had promised to
wait until his return, under the circumstances he must try and get away,
and not be taken into the camp of the Britishers and presented to them
who knew the true Morley better, and to Morley himself. That would mean
sure death, and in Robert’s breast lay a secret which would give life
and hope to the suffering army of men in General Lee’s command.
“You shiver like a girl, Morley,” laughed Harding, as a nervous tremor
went over Shirtliffe’s body; “the men in your regiment have talked of
your nerve: it can not all have oozed out of this little hole. There,
I’ll wrap it in my handkerchief until you get to the surgeon. Better go
on slowly, we’ll overtake you. You look fit to faint.”
“Perhaps Morley better take one of our horses and ride on; he’s lighter
than you or me. My horse is about done for, and can go at a trot at the
best.” Norton looked sharply at the boy, “The sooner you get back to
your own officers, the better, lad, you’re too young to be trusted far;
you’ll get into mischief yet. Go as fast as you can, tell General Howe
that Washington is advancing with fourteen thousand men. His aim is at—”
“Yes, yes,” Robert broke in, for a rustling among the dead leaves, added
to the pain in his hand, made him quiver.
“I know, Dorchester Heights, you forget I have listened too! Which
horse! Quick! anything more?”
He sprang to the saddle, and the tired horse jumped as the weight
touched his sore flesh. It was none too soon. The rustling among the
leaves was no scurrying animal, as Shirtliffe, with bowed head dashed
on, Morley on his return beat, came up to the group:
“My God!” cried Norton and Harding gazing open mouthed at him.
“Who was that riding away so fast?” asked the new comer, a sickening
sensation creeping over him.
“It was—it was—great heavens! how do we know! We thought it was you,
Morley!” The boy ground his teeth: “It was an American,” he hissed.
“And by thunder!” roared Norton, “we’ve sent him into his own camp with
the news of Washington’s advance, on the only good horse among us!”
The situation was too much for the three men. In silence they gazed into
each other’s faces and grew sick with apprehension.