HOW MOLLY BORE THE NEWS.
With lowered head, and throbbing nerves, Shirtliffe dashed on in the
direction of Boston, but as soon as safety permitted he turned the jaded
animal, and breaking into a woodland road, retraced his steps, and with
a sobbing appeal to the disappointed brute, struck out for the American
camp.
“Good horse!” he pleaded, “get me there in time! only that and then we
shall both rest!”
For one moment he thought of the quiet figure by the road which he was
leaving forever, but he dared not give a second thought. Wrapped in the
costume of two countries, poor Bill Mason might, or might not find a
grave dug by stranger hands; be that as it might it was now the duty of
Robert Shirtliffe to bear to the suffering, hopeless patriots the news
for which they were yearning.
What were his hopes and sorrows now?
It was in his power to put strength in sick bodies and joy into hundreds
of sad hearts!
On, on, plunged the great brown horse. Night fell, and the moon shone
calmly down on the tired boy urging and coaxing the animal to its
uttermost. The distance, by direct route, from where Robert had left the
men, was probably not over seven or eight miles, but in the wood road,
it was longer, and to the excited boy the miles seemed endless. Every
noise made him chill and hot in turns. A feeling of weakness frightened
him. He had fainted _once_ that day, God keep him from another attack!
At last he reached the American lines, and a sentry stopped him. He gave
the countersign and dragged on.
A strange dizziness came over him as he neared his destination. He had
never known such exhaustion before. A laugh startled him, and he was
even more startled to realize that it was his own laugh.
“This must be death,” he thought, remembering the death he had but
lately seen. “I can not think clearly.” Then he knew that he could not
wait to reach General Lee’s headquarters, and oh! he had wanted to so
much! He must make the best of what time and strength he had left.
“He’s coming!” he shouted sitting upright in the saddle. “Washington and
fourteen thousand men! We are saved, saved! saved!” Again the wild
laugh, his laugh, made him shiver. The horse too, took fright and dashed
ahead forgetting its weariness.
“He is nearing Dorchester Heights! Hear me! hear me! We are saved, we
are saved! Ha! ha! ha!”
Hear him? Why the world had heard.
White, haggard faces clustered about him. Lean hands clutched at the
bridle of the foam covered horse. Torches flashed from every quarter,
and questions poured upon him. Only one answer he returned, “Washington
is near. We are saved. I swear to God!” And every time he repeated the
words they became more distracting until he laughed and sobbed them out
again and again.
“See, he is falling! Some one catch Molly. God bless the boy!” The faces
clustering around him faded into a quivering circle of white; the
torches flickered and went out; an awful agony took possession of his
last conscious thought,—he was dying among all those men!
[Illustration:
_Molly._
“He’s coming.... We are saved! Saved! Saved!”]
* * * * *
“Just a drop more, lad, now put back your head.” Shirtliffe swallowed
the burning drop, and felt it thrill through his cold, numb body. He was
too weary to open his eyes or to care what became of him, but suddenly a
voice from among the others first startled, then stilled his breath.
“He comes from our town. Let me take him—I tell you
we—were—boys—together!” Robert opened his eyes. Near by stood a new
volunteer, ragged, pinched and worn. They were constantly working their
way into camp, but the sight of this one caused Shirtliffe both joy and
despair.
He smiled feebly into the anxious face of the boy pleading to be allowed
to care for him.
“Hello! Martin,” he whispered, “I’m all right. When did you get in?” The
men standing around, seeing that the fainting spell was over, turned to
join the excited groups and discuss Robert’s wonderful news. Sick men
had become strong, weak hearts, brave, and over the entire camp a joyful
atmosphere of expectant waiting pervaded everything.
Seeing themselves comparatively alone, Shirtliffe motioned the new
volunteer nearer.
“I’m Robert Shirtliffe,” he whispered, “call me Bob, you can remember
that?”
“Yes,” replied the boy, “and oh; but I am glad to see you Bob!”
“That’s right,” Shirtliffe gave a half laugh, “if you ever think you are
going to forget, Jack Martin, run away or do something—you understand?”
“Ye—e—s Bob!”
“Did you have a bad time getting here?”
“Ye—es, Bob—I’ve been trying for months. Have you found _him_?” Jack
bent closer. In the darkness he could not see Robert’s face, but he felt
the boy grasp his hand, then a hot tear startled him.
“What’s—the—matter—Bob?”
“Bend down, Jack, let me cry just once. He’s dead, Jack, dead! He was
shot by a Britisher who looks so like me, that I have got to find him.
There isn’t anything left in all the world Jack, except for me to find
the other boy!”
“Some one is coming! Here, Bob—laugh, swear,—do anything,—but cry.”
Robert sat up, and threw off the blanket which thoughtful hands had laid
over him. The man approaching was an officer and had come to thank the
boy who had ridden so nobly and so well to bear the welcome news; but
ere he reached the crouching pair upon the ground a volley of distant
firing rent the still air. Again, and again it came.
The men listened until the truth broke upon them. The rumor was indeed
true, the siege was over, the new general had come in time to save them!
Shirtliffe never received the thanks of the approaching officer, the
universal cry of “Washington” from those hundreds of weary, ill-fed men
was return enough for all that he had dared and done.
No one thought much of him during the next few days. He recovered with
the care of the new recruit, Jack Martin—as well as might be expected,
and the excitement kept up his spirits.
The relieving army marching toward the Heights of Dorchester made
themselves heard by their continuous firing. The sound put new life in
the hearts of Lee’s men and the men shut up in Boston, but it made
anxious the besieging Britishers. There was to be no skirmish this time.
This meant battle, and a big one.
Lord Percy, after receiving the news which had been delayed by
Shirtliffe bearing it to the enemy, set his men in order and proceeded
to Castle Island. He intended opening battle upon the afternoon of his
arrival, but a great storm came up. The wind blew and the rain fell and
a thick fog covered all. My Lord Percy thought best to wait until the
following day before beginning the attack. Washington, who ever made his
successes out of other men’s failures, lost no time. He went among his
men personally, exhorting them to avenge the Boston Massacre of a year
before, and drawing a vivid picture of the waiting patriots now looking
to them for aid. His words fell on eager and willing ears. All the day
and night of the terrible storm they worked and planned; strengthening
their fortifications and planting their guns in favorable positions.
When Lord Percy looked forth after the storm he beheld such an imposing
defense that all thought of an assault was abandoned, and my Lord Howe
was driven to the sad extremity of giving up Boston to the foe.
But Washington was noble in his bloodless victory, he permitted the
British to leave the city without an attack, providing they did not burn
the town.
To this they consented and on the 7th of March they sailed out of the
harbor. On the 20th of March, Washington entered the city at the head of
his army and was greeted, as perhaps no other general had ever been
before, by the ragged loyal men who had suffered so bravely for the good
cause.
It was at this point that a serious question arose between Robert
Shirtliffe and Jack Martin.
Washington’s first step after entering Boston was to make stronger its
defences, and among the men appointed to assist in the task, was the
regiment in which both the boys served. Jack was well pleased at the
idea of not being sent far from all that had meant home to him, but
Robert had but one desire left—he must find Morley! Mason’s dying words
rang in his ears day and night, and the strange resemblance meant a
mystery he must fathom. After that?—well nothing mattered after that.
“But I say,” Jack pleaded, “after all I went through to find you, it’s a
burning shame for you to go away.”
“If I live, Jack, I’ll soon be back. I’m sure to find Morley and
then—there will be nothing left but for me to come back.”
“Suppose you should get hurt again? You need me.”
“I have thought of that,” Robert’s face grew serious, “I think of that
all the time, old fellow, and there is only one way. If I am hurt a
_little_, I can bear it—alone—if it means a big thing—I have this!” And
Shirtliffe drew out a pistol he had recently gotten.
“You dare not!” cried Jack in startled tones, “if you talk like that
I’ll—I’ll tell!”
“No you won’t, you’ll stand by me to the end, even if I am far away. I
won’t do anything foolish, but I’m going to find that boy, I’ve got to,
Jack. His life and mine is all confused, and I’m going to try and find
out. It may help Debby Mason, you know. I’d rather like to help Debby;”
a quick smile lit up the boy’s earnest face, “the folks in Plymouth town
did not think much of Debby, but I’d like to save her from—Mrs. Lane,
and give her one more chance. Shake hands, old friend, when I come back
we’ll go and find Debby Mason together.”
Silently Jack gave his hand, and the two parted.