The boys were up early, overjoyed to see a brilliant, sunshiny day.
Mrs. Markham provided an ample luncheon, and with Verney and the
Colonel in front of the sleigh, and the twins and Tom well muffled up
on the back seat, the party sped away, the snow creaking under the
runners. The twins talked, laughed, and sang, while Tom sat still,
thinking.
They paused again and again in Germantown and beyond it to inspect
positions or to talk to officers. At Chestnut Hill they drove down the
westward slope and finally came upon the farther picket line below the
hill. Verney, an engineer officer, thought a field work was needed at
this point. Accordingly, the two officers got out, leaving their fur
overcoats in the sleigh, as the air was now warmer and they had to
tramp some distance through the heavy drifts of snow.
The Colonel put Montresor’s map in the pocket of his fur coat, which he
folded and laid in the sleigh. Verney also left the Count’s rich sable
at the feet of the twins.
“We shall be gone half an hour, boys,” said Verney. “Had we not better
call a corporal from the fire yonder to stand by the horses?”
“Lord, man,” said Grimstone, “they would stand till night. They are
dead tired. Won’t you want the map?”
“No,” said Verney; “I know it by heart.”
About a hundred yards distant was a great campfire and just ahead of
them an outlying picket of two soldiers, one on each side above the
road. Tom sat on the front seat, the reins in his hand. Of a sudden a
mad idea came into his mind.
The map was in the sleigh. The two officers were far away, tramping
through the drifts. Before him lay the lonely highway. He would take
the map to Washington. He forgot the peril of the mad venture now
tempting him, or gave it but a boy’s passing thought. His summers had
been spent at a farm near White Marsh. He knew the country well. The
temptation was too much for him.
A man would have realized the difficulties and the danger for the
smaller boys. He did not. A boy’s mind is more simple. The risks for
himself were merely additional temptations.
He stood up, the reins in his hand, and gazed anxiously after the
retreating forms of the two officers. Then he turned to his brothers.
“Get over in front, Bill; quick, and don’t make a noise.”
There was mischief in the air as Bill at once knew. He climbed over the
seat and waited.
“Hold fast, Harry,” said Tom. “These horses are going to run away.”
“Oh, let me out,” cried Harry.
“No, hold on, and keep quiet.”
“What fun!” cried Bill. “We are to have a ride all to ourselves.”
“Do you whack the horses, Bill. They’ll go. Wait a moment.” He gave one
last look around him and ahead.
Beyond the picket the road ran straight for a mile. He had his moment
of final hesitation, but it was soon over. No one was in sight near
by, and his eyes roamed over the trackless vacancy of snow-clad spaces
into which the highway disappeared.
“Are you ready, Bill?” he said, handing him the whip.
“All right,” said Bill, seeing desirable mischief ahead and enjoying
the prospect.
Harry was less eager, but, ashamed to confess his fears, said bravely,
“Well, Tom, hurry up.”
“Now,” said Tom, “do you, Bill, hit the horses with the whip, not too
hard. They’ll go.”
They did go, for Bill, enchanted, had to be stopped. In an instant they
were off and away at a mad gallop over a much-used road.
“By George!” roared the Colonel. “The horses have run away!”
The soldiers shouted, the picket ran down to the road, too late, and
furious at this unwonted treatment the horses ran. A mile or more went
by before the heavy snowdrifts of a less-used road lessened their
speed. On a hillcrest Tom stood up and looked back.
“Guess we are safe, boys,” he said. “It’s good there were no horses
about.”
As the sleigh moved more slowly at a trot, Bill said, “It was a
first-class runaway!” and Harry, reassured, asked if it wasn’t time for
lunch.
Tom said no, and kept his eye on the road, which by one o’clock became
hard for the horses, as the drifts were heavier.
At last he pulled up for luncheon and to rest the team. As the twins
were now pretty cold Tom got out the fur coats.
“There are only two,” said Harry.
“Oh, I’ll fix that,” said Tom. And this was his way: he threw the heavy
sable coat over the boys’ shoulders, and while Harry put his right hand
into the right sleeve Bill put his left hand into the left sleeve. When
Tom had them buttoned up, the two red faces being close together in the
middle, he called them a double-headed bear and roared with laughter as
he himself put on the Colonel’s coat.
“Won’t he say things!” said Bill, and they went on, but now only at a
walk. Harry did not like it, but, ashamed to confess his fears, kept
quiet.
They met no one. The distant farms were hidden by the snow-laden
forests. The drifts became heavier. Now they were off the road and now
on. There were no marks of recent travel. It was Christmas; the farmers
at home. Both the twins had become silent, Tom more and more anxious
as he missed his well-known landmarks. At last a dead tree on the road
let him know that he was about six miles from the Forge. The horses had
come quite nine miles or more through tiring drifts. Now and then their
feet balled and Tom had to get down and beat out the packed snow.
Finally the horses could do no more than walk. It was well on to four
o’clock, but at this he could only guess. He began to be troubled about
the twins and a little to regret having made his venture. If they came
to a stop with no house in sight, what could he do? To walk to the
camp would be even for him hard and for the twins impossible. Again
he stopped the horses for a rest, a formidable drift lying ahead and
filling the road.
By this time Bill had lost much of the joy of mischievous adventure.
He began to think it was time for them to return home, and Harry had
asked over and over how soon they would go back. Tom at length ceased
to answer him as it drew toward evening.
There was a new sharpness in the air, a warning to Tom of what night
would bring. He stood upon the seat and searched the white-clad land
for a house or the wood opening which might lead to one. He saw no sign
of habitation to which he could go in person for help. And how could he
leave his brothers? Even to turn homeward in the narrow road among the
drifts would have been, as he saw, quite out of the question. What else
was there but to go on?
Even at this worst minute of his daring adventure the boy could have
cried at the thought of failure. He felt the map and Verney’s sketch
under his waistcoat, thought of his father, a prisoner, and then
cheering up the twins, used the whip on the weary horses, who plunged
into the great mound of snow.
A trace snapped, the sleigh turned over on its side, the horses kicked,
broke loose, and fled away down the road and were soon lost to view.
Tom got on his feet and looked for the twins. For a moment they were
out of sight. Then the huge drift began to shake and their four legs
were seen kicking above the snow, whence Tom pulled out the two-headed
bear. Bill laughed. Tom did not. Harry looked his alarm.
All three working hard were able to right the sleigh after beating away
a part of the drift. After that they climbed in and ate what was left
of the food, but were not quite so merry as before, while Tom, made
savage by failure, would neither eat nor talk.
At last he stood up on the seat.
“Shut up, Gemini,” he said, “I hear something. Now,” he said, turning,
“mind you, if these I hear are British we were run away with. Hush!” He
heard in the sharp, frosty air the clink of sabres and soon the thud of
horses’ hoofs in the snow.