ANOTHER MESSAGE FOR DEBBY.
He was alone! The others had departed. Washington had said that at break
of day they might rejoin the army. The sun was streaking the sky and a
chiller air stirred the bare trees.
Robert knew in what direction the army had gone, and, after eating the
dry rations left over from his evening meal he hung his drum around his
neck, and staggered away. His head ached dully and his body was stiff
and sore, but he must not be found in the deserted camp. That would
mean—certain death!
He laughed weakly,—certain death! if he could only be _sure_ of that he
would not fear so greatly, but suppose he was only wounded—and carried
away a prisoner? Ah! God! _that_ he could not stand! He pressed his hand
against the pistol in his pocket, it was safe,—and his gun? Yes, it was
loaded and in order. Sick and exhausted as he was he must make a break
for safety. See! the sun shone among the trees!
Was it too late? A new strength came to him with the horror of the
thought, and he bounded into the shadow and made for the direction the
army had taken. On, on he ran hearing as he went the movement and stir
of a distant body of men. It was the enemy awakening to the daily
duties, and the lines would soon be pushing forward. Robert’s brain
reeled, and in coming to a cross road he paused to consider his course.
There was a certain rock to guide him, but in his bewilderment and dazed
condition he could not find it, and so took the wrong road.
“Who goes there?” The voice drove the blood from Shirtliffe’s heart.
After all this time, there in the lonely Jersey woods, he was to meet
again the boy who had shot at him, and killed old Mason in New England.
“’Tis I,” he faltered, as the oncomer bore down upon him.
“You!” Morley dropped the gun he had leveled at the foe and gazed in
amazement at the face so wondrously like his own; “you! here! My God!
are you a ghost to haunt me so? What do you want?”
“I want to get back to my people.”
“Back to your people, you rebel fool!” Morley laughed the old scornful
laugh; “your people are behind you! You are running away from them my
brave lad. But it little matters, we have them tight and safe, come
along with me, your people will join you later!”
“If I go,” Robert’s voice rang clear, “you will have to carry me dead.
When we met before I was unarmed; like a coward you shot at me, and
killed an innocent man. I am prepared now, let us fight honestly.”
“Honestly?” Morley sneered, “much you know of honor. I trusted you once,
and a nice trick you played me. I trusted the old fellow I shot, I put
him on sentry duty, but he got drunk, the knave, while I turned my back.
A fine lot you are, confound you!”
“Again I ask you. Will you fight?” Shirtliffe straightened himself. Time
was passing. He would have given anything in his power to have solved
the mystery of the identity of the boy before him. But what had he to
give? His life. There was no time to ask or answer questions now. It was
his life or the young Englishman’s. He must protect himself and report
to Washington if it were possible. He was young, and with all the misery
life was sweet.
“Fight with you?” again the maddening laugh, “fight a traitor?
Surrender, or I promise you my aim will be truer this time.” Morley
raised his gun, but Robert was as quick, and the two weapons pointed at
the same instant.
A flash! a sharp report—and then, silence! When Shirtliffe came to
himself he was lying on his side across a fallen log. A dull pain
throbbed in his left shoulder. He put up his right hand and felt that
his coat was soaked with blood. The dampness and the pain made him
faint, and again he lost consciousness. After a moment, though, the
chill air revived him and he sat up. He would not touch the damp coat or
think any more than was possible, of the wound, and perhaps he might get
on to Washington. That was his first connected thought.
Then he remembered Morley. Where was he? Gone perhaps, thinking he had
at last killed his enemy.
Well, the enemy was not dead. There might be time for another meeting,
and an explanation. In the meantime he, the boy Washington had trusted,
must try to gain the American ranks and claim his reward! He arose,
swayed, but gradually grew less giddy.
He was young, and hope was stronger than his wound. Another effort; and
this time he stood upright.
How lonely it was! The bleak wind swept among the gaunt trees making
them moan and creak. If he should die there, who would ever bear the
word to General Washington that he had faithfully performed his duty?
No! he must live, and get away from that fearsome place, the stillness
was driving him mad!
“Help! for God’s sake help!” It was not the wind moaning. Shirtliffe
started. Again came the cry, “Help! help!”
Some one needed aid, he must find him and do what he could. Stumbling
forward he reached a clump of leafless bushes, and there, lying at full
length where he had crawled after he was wounded, lay Morley!
Forgetting all, but his pity for the dying boy, Robert knelt beside his
late foe.
He knew death when he saw it now, and in gentle patience he smoothed the
curly hair from the clammy brow and waited for the last words. There was
always something to be said.
“I thought you were dead that time!” Morley gasped the words, then gave
a groan.
“Can I trust you with a message?”
“Yes.”
“Well, since there is no one else I must, for I’m—done,—for!” Robert
shuddered.
“Write to Mrs. Deborah—Morley—Fountain Terrace—London—can you remember?”
“Yes; yes.”
“My mother! Tell—her—I—died—like—a—soldier,—like father!” Shirtliffe
shook his head to free his eyes of the blinding tears.
“Tell—her—” the voice was but a whisper now, “that I did not find—Debby
Mason, and if”—here the boy rallied and made a last effort, “if you ever
go near Plymouth, find a girl named Deborah—Mason and say that—by
going—or writing to my mother—all will—be forgiven. You hear me?”
“Yes I hear.” The tears could no longer be shaken away.
“Where are you?” the groping hands found and clung to Robert’s, and the
boyish mouth smiled as sweetly as if the dearest face on earth were
bending over him. “Good bye,” he whispered, “you won’t forget—anything?
and I can trust you?”
“You may indeed.” Shirtliffe bent and kissed the cold face as tenderly
as a woman might have done. Reverently he clasped the slim hands over
the still breast, and closed the lids upon the smiling eyes. In the
future he was to tell a heart-broken mother in England of how her boy
died, and he thanked God for that smile.
Under the wintry sun Morley lay sleeping, and beside him sat Robert,
lost in dazed thought. There were two messages now for Debby Mason, and
there was a report to make to General Washington. He must be up and
doing. But still he sat there with his eyes fastened on the young face
smiling so placidly in its unbroken sleep.