A STRANGER IN THE NIGHT
That was to be a night of experiences--the beginning, the real beginning
of Andy's life; all the rest had been preparation. After reaching his
room, he flung himself wearily upon the bed. How long he slept he could
not know, but he was suddenly aroused by a sharp knock on the outer door
below stairs. He sat up and listened. All was still except the trickling
of a near-by waterfall, which had outlived the dry weather.
For a moment Andy thought the knock was but part of a troubled dream; he
waited a moment, then, to make sure, limped over to the stairway and
peered down into the room below. A candle stood on the pine table, and,
at a chair near-by, knelt Janie McNeal, bowed in prayer. She had heard
the knock, but not until the lonely prayer was finished would she rise.
That was Janie's way.
A second knock, louder than the first, sounded, and with it the woman's
solemn "Amen."
"Be not so hasty, stranger," she muttered, as she withdrew the bar;
"learn to wait for your betters."
The door swung back, and into the dim light of the bare room stepped a
tall man in Continental dress. His hat was in his hand, and he bowed
before Janie as if she were a queen. Andy drew back. No such stranger
had ever visited them before, and the boy gazed fascinated.
"Pardon me, my good woman," the rich voice said; "much as I dislike
disturbing you, I fear I must crave a few hours' rest and lodging, and
the service of one to row me across the river ere break of day. I have
been told that you have a son."
Andy quivered.
"A lodging, sir, is yours and welcome," Janie replied, motioning the
stranger toward a chair and closing the door after him. "I ever keep a
bed in readiness these troubled times. We are loyal to the cause, and I
would serve where I may. I have a son, sir, as you have heard, but,
alas! not one who can be of service. He is a cripple. However, rest; you
look sadly in need of it. I will hasten to a neighbor's a mile away, and
seek the service you desire."
"I regret to cause such trouble, but the need is urgent. I sympathize
with you in your son's affliction. It must be a sore grief to the lad to
sit apart these stirring times when young blood runs hot, and the
country calls so loudly."
Soon Janie was setting food before the stranger--good brown bread and
creamy milk. Andy saw the look of suffering on her face as she bustled
about, and he understood. He crept back to bed heavy-hearted. Ruth was
wrong; there was nothing for him to do.
The hot hours dragged on. Toward morning Andy grew restless, and quietly
arose and dressed. The feeling of bravery awakened within him, and a dim
thought grew and assumed shape in his brain. He could row strong and
well. Few knew of his accomplishment, for his life was lonely and the
exercise and practice had been one of his few diversions.
He knew a secret path among the rocks, which led to the river, and at
the end of the path was moored his tiny boat, the rough work of his
patient hands. Only Ruth knew of his treasure; often he and she had
glided away from the hamlet to think their thoughts, or dream their
young dreams.
Now, if he could arouse the stranger before his mother had summoned
another to do the service, he might share the joy of helping, in a small
way, the great cause.
"The need is urgent," smiled the boy; "in that case a lame fellow might
not be despised."
He recalled the stranger's face, and his courage grew.
"Chances are so few!" he muttered; "I must take this one."
At the first rustling of the birds in the trees, Andy crept down-stairs.
His mother's room and the guest-room both opened from the living-room,
but Janie's door was closed, while the stranger's was ajar. Through it
came the sound of low-spoken words.
"Accept the thanks of thy servant for all bountiful mercies of the past.
Guide his future steps. Bless our enemies, and make them just. Amen."
The boy bowed his head, instinctively. Surely he had nothing to fear
from such a man. He went nearer and tapped lightly on the door. Light as
was the touch, the stranger started.
"Come!" There was a welcome in the word. Andy stepped cautiously inside.
"Good-morning, sir."
"The same to you, my lad." The keen eyes softened as they fell upon the
rude crutch. "How can I serve you!"
"Sir, I have come to offer my services to you. I heard you tell my
mother that you needed some one to row you across the river. I am a good
rower."
The man looked puzzled. "You are the widow's son? Is not the task too
great?"
"My lameness does not hinder much. I use the crutch mainly to hasten my
steps; I can walk without it. I am very strong in other ways. I think I
am just beginning to find out how strong I am, myself. None know the
woods better than I. I can take you by a short cut to the river, and I
have my own boat moored and ready. It will be a small matter to reach
the opposite shore by sunrise if we start at once." Andy was panting
with excitement. "Pray, sir, let me do this; there are so few chances
for such as I."
The listener smiled kindly.
"You are just the guide I need," he said, and Andy knew there was no
flattery in the words. "I must leave it for you to thank your good
mother for her hospitality. I have been ready for an hour. Lead on, my
boy!"
Silently they stole from the house. The birds twittered as they passed,
for the tall man touched the lower boughs and disturbed the nestlings.
"Bend low," whispered Andy, "the way leads through small spaces."
On they went, sometimes creeping under the hanging rocks, always
clinging to the shelter of trees and bushes. They both knew the danger
that might lie near in the form of a British sentinel.
"The path seems untrodden by foot of man," murmured the stranger,
pausing to draw in a long breath. "You are a wonderful guide."
"I think no one else knows the way," Andy whispered, proudly; "an Indian
showed it to me when I was a child. He was my good friend, he taught me
also to row, and shoot with both arrow and gun. He said I should know
Indian tricks because of my lameness. They might help where strength
failed. He showed me how to creep noiselessly and find paths. I have
trails all over the woods. There is one that leads right among the
Britishers; and they never know. I do this for sport."
The stranger looked sharply at the gliding form ahead.
"Paths such as this all over the woods?" he repeated. "And have you kept
this--this sport secret?"
"That I have!" laughed Andy. "I tell you now because you are upon your
country's service. I trust you, and I thought perhaps it might help
sometime." The two moved forward for a moment in silence, then Andy
laughed in a half-confused way.
"A boy gets lonely at times," he said; "he must do something to while
away the--the years. I have practiced and made believe until I am a
pretty good Indian. I make believe that I am guiding the great
Washington. They do say he ever remembers a favor. I should love to
serve him. Had I been like other boys--" the voice broke--"I would have
been as near him as possible by this time!"
The hand of the stranger was upon the youth's shoulder. Andy turned in
alarm.
"You have a secret which may save your country much!" breathed the deep
voice; "guard it with your life. But if one comes from Washington
seeking your aid, do whatever he asks, fearlessly."
"How would I know such an one?" gasped Andy.
"That will I tell you later." Again the forward tramp.
"And you have passed, unnoticed, the British line! 'Tis a joke almost
beyond belief!" chuckled the stranger. "I should like to see my Lord
Howe's face were he to hear this."
"Oh! be silent, sir!" cautioned the guide, "we come to an open space."
Once again beneath the heavy boughs, the boy said:
"I passed the line but yesterday. And I heard that which has troubled
me, sorely, yet I could do nothing. But--" here Andy paused and turned
sharply--"bend down. Should you know Washington were you to see him?"
"Aye, lad." The two heads were pressed close.
"Would you bear a message, and try to find him?"
"Aye."
"They are planning an attack. I could not hear when or where, for the
men moved past. As they came back, and passed where I was hidden, I
heard them say that they who are near Washington had best be on watch,
poison in the food made no such noise as a gun--but it would serve!"
"You heard that?" almost moaned the listener. "My God! could they plan
such a cowardly thing?"
"Aye, sir. I am thinking they can. I would warn the General if I could,
but you may be luckier. The men said Lord Howe desired the death of
every rebel."
"May heaven forgive him!" The words fell sadly from the strong lips.
"And now," again Andy took the lead, "do not speak as we pass here. It
is the spot where they shot our pastor's boy, only two days ago. I fear
the place. A few rods beyond, we will again strike the thicket, and be
under cover until we reach the river."
The solemn quiet that precedes a hot summer dawn surrounded the man and
boy. The red band broadened in the east. The birds, fearing neither
friend nor foe, began to challenge the stillness with their glad notes,
and so guide and follower passed the gruesome place where young Sam
White gave up his untried life a few short days ago. The thicket gained,
the two paused for breath.
"We must not talk in the boat, sir." They had reached the moored boat
now. "Pray tell me how I am to know our General's messenger."
"By this." The stranger detached a charm from a hidden chain and held it
in his palm so that the clearer light fell upon it. "I command you to
learn its peculiarities well. There must be no blunder."
It was very quaint. Andy's keen eye took in every detail.
"I shall know it," he sighed. And the stranger smiled and replaced it.
"And you, sir?" he faltered, for the hour of parting came with a strange
sadness; "may I not know your name? You have made me so proud and happy
because you accepted my poor service."
"George Washington, and your true friend, Andy McNeal! We are both
serving the same great cause. God keep us both!"
The General clasped the boy's trembling hand, and Andy looked through
dim eyes into the face of his hero. The hero who for months past had
been the imaginative comrade of lonely hours and dreamy play.
[Illustration: "ANDY WAS AT THE OARS NOW."]
"We shall meet again--comrade!" Washington was smiling and the mist
passed. "Never fear death, lad, if you are doing your duty; it comes but
once. Row swiftly. Day is breaking. A messenger with a horse awaits me
on the further shore. Head for Point of Cedars."
"Good-by, sir; I shall never fear anything again--after this, I think.
Good-by!" Andy was at the oars now. He handled them like the master that
he was. The old Indian had taught well, and the apt pupil had been
making ready against this day and chance.
While Andy kept Point of Cedars in view, he saw, also, the noble figure
in the stern. The keen eyes kept smiling in kindly fashion, while the
firm lips kept their accustomed silence. To Andy, the future was as rosy
as the dawn, and he wondered that he had ever been depressed and afraid.
"Death comes but once!" kept ringing in his thoughts; "it shall find me
doing my duty. God and Washington forever!" The song of the times had
found a resting-place in Andy McNeal's heart at last.
Point of Cedars was safely reached. The general stepped upon the pebbly
beach. Almost at once, from among the bushes, appeared a young man in
ragged Continental uniform, leading a large, white horse.
Without a word Washington mounted, nodded his thanks to the messenger,
and a final farewell to Andy, then he, followed by his newer guide,
faded from sight among the forest-trees. Standing bareheaded and alone
upon the shore, Andy watched until the last sound of the hoof-beats died
away, then, with a sigh of hope and memory mingled, he retraced his way.
Janie McNeal greeted her son at the door-way. "Andy!" she cried, "our
guest is gone!" She quite forgot that Andy, presumably, knew nothing of
the guest. "He desired a lad to row him across the river. I was going to
neighbor Jones's at early dawn to summon James. I should have gone last
night, but I was sore tired. When I arose this morning, the stranger was
gone. God forgive me!
"The poor gentleman must have thought me a heedless body. I trust he
will not think me in league with the Britishers; there is much of that
sort of thing going on." Janie shook her head dolefully, not heeding
Andy's smile.
"How do we know," she went on, "but that the gentleman was on the great
Washington's business? He was an overgrand body himself, and had
excellent manners."
"Mother!" the old hesitating tone crept back unconsciously into Andy's
voice as he faced his mother; "mother, I rowed the stranger across the
river, he is--safely landed. It--was--it--was--Washington himself!"
"Andy!" Janie flung up her hands, and nearly fell from the step; "think,
lad, of your words. You look and talk clean daft."
"It--was--Washington!" The boy drew the words out with a delicious
memory.
"And--you--rowed--him--across! You--my--poor--lame lad! God have mercy
upon me, and forgive me for my doubts!"
"I can help a little, mother." Andy drew near the quivering figure. "I
know, mother, and I do not wonder, but there is a place for every one
in these days, and I'm going to be ready."
Janie drew herself up, and put a trembling hand on the young shoulder.
"Son!" she said, with a sudden but intense pride, "son, get ready, we go
to Sam White's burying, you and I. God be praised! blind as I was, He
has opened my eyes to see my son at last!" This was a great deal for
Janie McNeal to say, but it did its work.