SHOWS HOW NAT BREWSTER AND THE PORCUPINE RODE THROUGH THE NIGHT
“This way,” cried the Porcupine, after a little. “Keep to the left;
there’s a gap in the fence at the far side of this field that will let
us out upon the main road.”
Nat followed the instructions of the dwarf, whose knowledge of the
ground about the Chew House seemed perfect and whose sight was
unusually keen in the dark. The break in the fence was located without
any great trouble, and a moment later found them with the hard public
road under them. Here Nat drew rein; turning his head he gazed back
toward the mansion.
“It appears that we have created some little stir,” remarked he to the
Porcupine, who had drawn up beside him. The dwarf uttered his peculiar,
squealing laugh.
“Look at the lights,” said he. “They pop up at window after window,
just like fireflies.”
There was also the dim hubbub of far-away voices; it was as though
excited men were calling loudly to each other, and that their
excitement grew greater with each passing moment.
“In a little while they may recover their senses sufficiently to take
horse in pursuit,” spoke Nat. “So I think we’d better make the best of
our time.”
“We’d better make it anyhow,” suggested the Porcupine. “We’ve a long
ride ahead of us and Master Royce’s party have had a good half hour’s
start.”
So together they gave their mounts the rein and went galloping down
the road. Steadily the pace was kept up until the horses began to
show signs of distress. Then they were allowed to walk until they
had recovered, when they were urged into a faster pace once more. It
was not a great while before they rode into a more thickly built up
section; people were now frequently met with carrying lanterns and
proceeding about their business.
“And here is the city itself,” at last cried the dwarf. “See the
lamps,” pointing to the scattering of oil lamps which, owing to the
efforts of Benjamin Franklin, had been lately placed in the streets.
“They say there is no town in all the colonies that has so many.”
The light thrown was dim and uncertain enough; but Nat Brewster was
struck with admiration and looked wonderingly down each street as they
passed. He had been in Philadelphia several times since his arrival,
but never before at night.
“Do you know the town very well?” he asked the dwarf, as they rode
along.
“I was born in it,” replied that personage, proudly. “And it is the
largest city in America. There are thirty thousand people living here,”
in a tone of almost incredulity, “and there is a fast coach that makes
the journey to New York in two days.”
They turned at a smart pace through some open ground into High Street,
then across a field and to the eastward of the State House whose tower
pointed darkly into the sky.
“Below here we shall soon come to Gray’s Road, which leads direct to
the ferry,” said the dwarf. They rode on in silence for some time after
this. But the Porcupine’s manner showed that he had something on his
mind; finally he twisted himself about in his saddle and asked:
“What’s your name?”
“Nat Brewster,” was the reply.
“Nat Brewster,” repeated the other, slowly, and with much the manner of
a person who is tasting something. “I kind of like the sound of that;
and,” suddenly, “I kind of like you. But tell me this, Nat Brewster,”
tapping the young mountaineer upon the elbow with one finger-tip; “when
you come up with Master Royce and his men, what do you intend to do?”
For a moment Nat was startled. He drew hard upon the rein and the big
gray came to a stand.
“You are right,” said he. “I’ve been in such haste that the thing
entirely escaped me.”
“You can’t fight ’em alone,” spoke the Porcupine wisely. “Of course,”
with a grin, “you won’t be exactly alone, but you might as well be. I’m
not much good in a fight. I’m not big enough.”
Nat silently sat upon his horse and pondered. Royce’s men were heavily
armed; he knew that, for he had caught the glimmer of steel in the
lights of Chew House. And that they were determined to carry out their
project in spite of all opposition, he felt sure.
“If I faced them,” the lad muttered, “they’d laugh at me and cut me
down.”
But he must have aid! He would turn about and ride to the City Tavern
where those members of Congress, who had already arrived, were staying.
The idea was seized upon eagerly; then almost immediately it was
discarded.
“It will take too much time,” thought the young mountaineer. “And,
another thing: Would they believe the story I’d have to tell?”
He was forced to admit that he did not think so. The thing was
improbable and would be difficult to credit; valuable time would be
consumed, and in the end he’d probably be forced to ride away as he
came, and proceed upon his mission alone.
“And with not so many chances of success,” said Nat. “For while I’d be
seeking to convince strangers that I was telling the truth, the Tories
would have more than likely accomplished what they set out to do.”
A watchman’s lantern sparkled ahead as the man raised it and tried to
make out the details of the two horsemen who stood so silently in the
middle of the street. A bell struck midnight in a solemn, sonorous sort
of way; the watchman lifted his voice and chanted:
“Twelve o’clock--a cloudy night--and all’s well!”
“The time’s drawing on,” remarked the dwarf. “Have you made up your
mind?”
For answer Nat shook the rein and the gray sprang forward; after a few
bounds the chestnut was alongside once more, and the dwarfs peculiar,
squealing laugh sounded in the silence.
“That’s what I thought you’d do,” declared he. “I can always tell what
people will do by their faces.”
“Well,” replied Nat, good humoredly, “if you can see my face in this
light, I must say that Porcupines have remarkably sharp eyes.”
“I can’t see it now,” said the dwarf, composedly. “But I could the
other day when you were breaking the colt for Farmer Campbell in the
back lot. There’d been a dozen tried to ride that young beast before
you came to Germantown, and it threw them all. I heard tell that it
almost killed Peter Corbin.”
“It was somewhat self-willed,” said Nat, recalling the desperate battle
he’d had with the creature before it was subdued. “But you can expect
that of colts, as a rule.”
“Yes, but they’re not all as wicked as that one,” and the Porcupine’s
voice had a tone of great positiveness. “I’ve seen lots of them broken,
but that colt fought harder than all of them put together. But you
didn’t ask any one to help you when it threw itself down and tried to
roll on you, or when it tried to crush your leg against the fence. You
just stuck to it and won. I knowed then, by your face, that you’d do
it; and I know now, even when I can’t see it.”
“You have confidence, at any rate,” laughed Nat. “And so,” rather
grimly, “I’ll try and live up to your judgment of me.”
Some distance to the southwest they came to Gray’s Road, and dashed
along toward the river.
As it drew on past midnight, it grew darker, the sheen disappeared from
the sky, a fact which told them that the clouds were growing thicker
and that heavy rain might soon be expected. The Porcupine sniffed as
they sped along.
“I can smell it,” said he confidently. “It’s going to come from the
direction in which we are going.”
Just then Nat, whose eyes were fixed steadily ahead, uttered an
exclamation and pulled up shortly. The dwarf instantly did likewise.
Both horses were thrown back upon their haunches by the suddenness of
the stop and snorted with fright. Nat bent his head forward, staring
straight between the gray’s ears and called sharply:
“Who’s there?”
In the silence that followed, the gurgle of water lapping a bank was
plainly heard. Nat drew from the breast of his hunting-shirt the heavy
pistol which he had wrung from the master of Cliveden; its clumsy
mechanism clicked loudly as he drew back the hammer.
“Who’s there?” demanded he, sternly. “Answer, or I’ll fire.”
This time a low laugh followed the words.
“I suppose we’d better do as he asks,” spoke a voice. “He said that as
though he meant it.”
The Porcupine leaned his big head toward Nat.
“Master Dimisdale,” breathed he. “I’d know his voice among a thousand.”
“We are peaceable citizens, sir traveler,” said the voice. “And we
trust that we have not made ourselves offensive to you.”
Again came the low laugh; this time it was slightly mocking and Nat’s
anger began to rise.
“You will kindly stand out of the road,” said he, sharply. “I am not
here to hold conversation with you, whoever you are; my business is
more urgent.”
“And just what may your business be?” inquired a boyish voice, which
Nat at once recognized as belonging to the person who had laughed. “We
have some small interest in various matters to-night and who knows but
what yours might be one of them?”
“You can have no interest in me,” replied Nat, evenly. “You know
nothing of the business that I ride upon.”
“Let us debate the question,” replied the boyish voice. “Who knows but
what our knowledge is greater by far than you’d suppose. It is a fact,
and I’ll leave it to my friends here to substantiate me in the saying,
that we have considerable interest in those who use this road to-night.”
There was a chorus of laughter, low pitched and cautious, at this. The
shadowy persons, who were stretched across the way, seemed greatly
diverted. Then Dimisdale spoke once more.
“However,” said he, “we must remember that these gentlemen are riding
in the wrong direction for us.”
Again came the laughter; above the others, Nat could plainly hear that
of the boy. And somehow the sound greatly irritated him. As a rule,
Nat was not the lad for strangers to make game of, and least of all
was this the case now. The cool, masterful tones of the young stranger
ruffled his temper in a way that he could not have accounted for even
if he had tried. But when he spoke, no trace of his anger crept into
his voice; this was just as even as before.
“You are disposed to entertain yourselves at our expense, I see,” he
said. “And, candidly, I dislike it. So I ask you once more to kindly
stand aside that we may go on.”
“Go on!” came the boy’s voice. “Why man alive, you should be thankful,
indeed, that we are here to prevent you from going on. A dozen steps
more and you’d be swimming for your life in the Schuylkill.”
The sound of lapping water a few momenta before had given Nat a hint as
to this.
“It’s the ferry landing,” he told himself.
Almost at the same moment he heard the Porcupine whisper in his ear:
“They are waiting here for the gentlemen from Virginia to cross the
river.”
“Hush!” breathed Nat, fearing that the words would be overheard. Then
aloud he said, addressing the invisible people before him:
“I suppose you have taken up your present position through motives of
kindness entirely. The fear that some heedless wayfarer might ride
into the river has kept you all out of your beds, no doubt.”
Again came the laugh from the party blocking the road.
“Our traveler has wit!” mocked the unseen boy. “I’ll even venture that
he’s as clever a debater as either of the Adamses, or Patrick Henry
himself.” He paused a moment and then addressed Nat once more: “Perhaps
it’s your intention to cross the river?” said he.
“Perhaps,” replied Nat.
“I’m very sorry, in that event,” returned the other in his cool,
exasperating way. “But the ferry has just this moment----”
He had gotten this far when there came a sudden movement; it was as
though a hand had been quickly clapped over his mouth. Then Dimisdale
was heard to say, quietly:
“A still tongue makes a wise head, Master Prentiss. It is not always
well to tell everything you know.”
But he might just as well have allowed him to continue, for even as
it was, Nat Brewster’s quick mind had grasped the situation. He had
wondered from the beginning why he had not heard the voice of Royce;
for that gentleman was scarcely one to be present and not be heard. But
the heedless words of the youthful Tory brought the truth to him in a
flash.
“Royce is not here,” reasoned Nat, to himself. “He has taken part of
the band and crossed the river on the ferry. They have made up their
minds that it is best to attack on the far side.”
The idea was startling; but he kept himself well in hand. Dimisdale had
begun to speak again, and he listened eagerly.
“In times like these,” said Dimisdale, “one should consider everything
one says. There is no telling what small matter inconsiderately dropped
might lead to some larger circumstance entirely unforeseen.”
“You talk like a sage, Master Dimisdale,” laughed the stranger youth,
lightly. “But there is a great deal of truth in what you say, and I’ll
try to be guided by it.”
While he was speaking, Nat bent toward the Porcupine.
“Is there a ford anywhere at hand?” he whispered.
“Some distance above,” answered the dwarf in the same low tone.
“Do you think you can find it?”
“I’m sure I can.”
“Then hold yourself ready to run for it.”
The young Tory had continued speaking; and now he lifted his voice for
Nat’s benefit, still, however, addressing Dimisdale:
“However, at the worst there is no great harm done. These two
gentlemen, whoever they are, are going to remain our guests for an hour
or two.”
“Don’t be quite so sure of that,” cried Nat, through his tight shut
teeth. Then with a quick word to the Porcupine they wheeled their nags
and went tearing up the road in the direction of the city. Behind them
came a confused hubbub; then the voice of Dimisdale rang out clearly:
“Halt!”
But they paid no attention; bending low in their saddles, they urged
the galloping horses to a greater speed. Then a pistol shot sounded,
followed by another and still another. The heavy bullets flew wide, and
Nat laughed as he heard them “zip-zipping” among the trees.
“It takes a sharp eye to sight a pistol in the darkness,” said he.
“And it’ll take just as sharp a one to find the road that’ll take us to
the ford,” declared the Porcupine, as he strained his eyes ahead. “But
I rather think I’m going to do it, for all.”
“Do your best,” said Nat. “A great deal depends upon the next half
hour--perhaps the very lives of Mr. Henry and his friends.”
In a little while the sounds in the rear died away. The Tories upon the
river bank had been dismounted; and apparently they did not think it
wise, in any event, to give chase.
A full hour was consumed in finding the ford in the dark, and crossing
the river; but upon the far side they picked up the ferry road once
more and turned south. Nat rode with his hand upon the butt of the
pistol; the Tories were somewhere ahead and almost any moment might
bring another surprise. Suddenly the Porcupine spoke.
“Why,” inquired he, “do this Mr. Henry and his friends travel at night?”
This very question had been intruding itself upon Nat in a hazy sort of
way for some time, but now he saw its point for the first time.
“Is there any good reason for their doing it?” persisted the dwarf.
“None that I know of,” replied Nat.
“Then I don’t believe they are doing it,” said the Porcupine,
positively. “I don’t know much about things, and the Tories at Master
Chew’s seemed to think they would cross the lower ferry to-night. But
if it were left for me to give an opinion, I’d say that they were
comfortably sleeping at Chester, if they are anywhere near the city at
all.”
Nat was silent. The suggestion opened up a new view of the night’s
latter developments, and he examined them carefully.
“You may be right,” he said at length. “Perhaps the Tories had some one
on the watch; and when they reached the river they may have been told
that there would be no crossing attempted until morning.”
“That’s it,” said the dwarf, shrewdly. “And then some of them went over
in the boat, while the others were left behind to make sure.”
“What purpose did they have in crossing?” asked Nat. A thought had
sprung, full armed, into his mind, and he breathlessly awaited the
Porcupine’s reply.
“They have found out where the gentlemen are to spend the night,” came
the dwarf’s answer. “And they are going there after them.”
For a moment Nat Brewster was too absorbed to speak. The Porcupine’s
reply agreed so exactly with his thought that the odd creature might
well have read his mind. At length, however, he asked:
“Is this the southern road?”
“Yes.”
“The one the travelers would be likely to take?”
“It is.”
Nat stared straight ahead into the darkness. A few heavy drops of rain
were falling and the wind had begun to blow in warm gusts.
“We’d better go as we are,” he said, after a pause. “And,” with a laugh
that was full of expectation, “I rather think that we’ll meet with some
further experiences on the road before we are an hour older.”