THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE
A terrible storm was coming up, after the sultry day. Andy's whole being
centered upon the thought that he must reach the Beekman Place; and the
coming storm might delay him. Only so far did it affect him. He felt no
hunger; it troubled him a little that his mother and Ruth would worry
about him, but nothing mattered so much as the solving of the doubt that
was causing his heart and brain to throb.
Strangely enough, his lameness decreased as his excitement waxed
greater, or it seemed to, and he considered it less. The birds stopped
twittering their vesper songs, and huddled fearfully in their shelters.
A peal of thunder was followed quickly by another. The rocks took up the
echo and prolonged the sound. Between, the flashes of lightning, the
darkness could almost be felt, so tangible and dense it seemed. Once
Andy fell and struck his head. The blow made him giddy, but the rain
dashing in his face steadied him, and he plodded on. Then a glare in the
distance attracted him. It was in the direction toward which he was
going.
"A fire!" he muttered. "All the more reason for hoping they will not
notice me." The town might burn, what matter, if only the way were free
to the Beekman place.
It was still dark when he reached his destination, worn and haggard.
Over toward the greenhouse people were stirring about, and Andy rightly
guessed that the prisoner, whoever he might be, was there. No luckier
place could have been chosen, so far as Andy was concerned. It was
surrounded by shrubbery through which he could creep right up to the
building, providing, of course, that the sentinels did not see him. But
the sentinels were relaxing their watch. The hours of the troublesome
spy were nearly ended, and there could be little danger of any further
trouble on his account.
Andy crept along, keeping to the bushes. The storm was nearly over, and
no lightning could betray his motions now.
Once the glass house was reached, Andy looked eagerly in. There was a
pile of rubbish in one corner, and a man was sitting upon a rude bench
near it; between him and Andy, however, were two men with their backs to
the boy, and they quite hid the face of the man upon the bench. The two
were listening, and the third man was speaking. Andy was too far away to
hear, but, gaining courage, he crept around to the other side of the
house, and so came close to the group within. Something in the attitude
of the man upon the bench had caused the boy's heart to leap madly, then
almost stop. He raised his eyes slowly--one look was enough!
Sorrow and ill-treatment had done their work, but the dear face was the
same! Dauntless, undying courage shone upon the uplifted face.
It was the master! The errand, whatever it had been, was over. Success
or failure? Andy could not tell from the calm features. Spy or hero!
What mattered? There sat the beloved friend, deserted and forlorn--still
unconquered though the fetters bound him close.
"I would send, if your kindness will permit, these letters. They will
make lighter the sorrow of them I love."
Andy bowed his head and clutched at his throat to stifle the rising cry.
A broken pane of glass near-by permitted him to hear clearly every word.
One man on guard had a low, brutal face, the other, Andy noticed, had a
more humane look.
"Have you the letters written?" asked the coarse fellow.
"I have." The master drew them from his breast and handed them to the
speaker.
"One is to Washington," laughed the man. "Gad, you must take us for raw
recruits."
"I shall be beyond harming you soon. That letter refers to personal
matters, I swear." There was superb dignity in the voice. "I would have
his excellency know that I regret nothing. I would do all over again,
did the need arise. Washington would see that my comrades understand
that."
The man with the letters gave vent to a brutal oath. Then the quieter
man spoke for the first.
"If we read the letters and find them harmless, I am for forwarding
them. To whom are the others addressed?"
"One to my family, the other--to the woman I was to have married!" The
master, for the first time, bowed his head, as if his burden were too
heavy.
"I think we may carry out your request if the contents are what you
imply."
"And make a hero of this spy!" snarled the rougher man. "Every word may
have a double meaning, Colonel. We have the papers he so carefully hid,
but these letters may contain the same information, slyly concealed." He
tore the letters across twice, and flung the pieces on the floor. "Death
and oblivion to all rebel spies!" he hissed.
The master never flinched, but his pale face grew paler. "Is there
anything else we can do for you?" asked the milder voice, "something
safer than forwarding letters?"
"I should like to have the right generally granted a dying man, of
seeing a minister. One lives a few miles above here. I am sure he would
come."
"And hear what you dare not write," sneered the torturer. "You are not
the sort to need a death-bed scene; besides, there isn't going to be any
death-bed. I dare say the parson would be glad enough to carry your
so-called confession to Washington. Bah! you are crude in your last
moments."
"Come," impatiently spoke the fellow's companion, "I have no stomach for
your jests and brutality." Then, turning to the master, he said: "We
will leave you for a few hours. It seems the only thing we can do for
you. Try to rest."
Down the greenhouse the two went. The master was alone! He bowed his
splendid head, and perhaps tasted, for the first time, the dregs of
desolation.
Andy, lying low among the bushes, saw that the master's feet were
bound. The sight wrung the boy's soul. Perhaps he had wildly hoped that
escape were possible, but one glance showed him that the fetters were
cruelly strong. What could he do? Near and far he heard the measured
tread of sentinels at their posts. He wondered that he had ever gained
his present position unnoticed. It was doubtful now that he could make
his own escape, for a gray dawn was breaking in the east. But the
thought of his own danger troubled the boy little. He was thinking of a
peculiar whirring sound that he and the master had once practiced
together. A sound like an insect. "'Twould be a good signal," the
teacher had said. Would he remember it?
Andy pressed close to the broken glass, and chirruped distinctly. The
master started and raised his eyes. Was he dreaming! Again Andy
ventured. Then a smile flitted across the master's face.
"Andy!" he breathed.
"Here, close to you!"
Slowly, without a suspicious start, the man turned in the boy's
direction; and the two brave comrades smiled at each other over the gulf
of pain and grief.
"I will try to sleep!" This aloud, to regale the ear of any possible
listener other than Andy. With difficulty the master stretched, as best
he could, his fettered limbs upon the floor, taking heed to lie as close
to Andy as possible.
Silence. Then the man tossed and talked aloud in troubled fashion.
Andy, meantime, with a daring that might risk all, put his hand in the
broken pane and drew the bits of paper of the torn letters to him.
"Tell Washington," moaned the voice of the master in a half sleepy
whisper, "I regret nothing. Am proud to die and to have given _all_."
"I have the letters!" breathed Andy. "If I live Washington shall have
them and know all."
"Thank God!" came from the man upon the floor. "You are a true friend,
Andy McNeal."
"Good-by," groaned Andy. "Some one is coming!" The cold perspiration
covered the boy's body, for steps were drawing near.
"There could hardly be any one outside," said a loud, rough voice.
"Still we must take no chances. The poor devil has reason to toss in his
sleep and talk. I doubt if he were doing anything else."
The need was desperate. Andy crawled like a snake through the grasses.
Escape seemed impossible. He passed the two searchers in the friendly
gloom, and breathed freer. This was a lucky move, for the two men
examined thoroughly the spot where Andy had been. They discovered the
broken glass, and one remarked that the weeds had been crushed.
"Some animal has been prowling about, there are no footprints," said the
other.
Andy's Indian training was serving him well. In a few minutes the two
passed on. "We'll walk around the place. Daybreak is near. The dangerous
spy's time is short."
Andy made the most of that time. Stealing cautiously in and out of the
shrubbery, he worked his way out of sight of the greenhouse. The chill
of the morning made him shiver. How many hours he had passed without
food or drink he did not consider; but his heart seemed dead within
him.
Painfully he came at last to the shelter of the woods. Then he sat down
upon a fallen tree, clutching the scraps of paper against his throbbing
breast. In imagination he seemed to see the master being led forth to
die. See! the east was rosy. Now, even now, the brave soul was marching
on undaunted and undismayed. Andy could see nothing in the brilliancy of
that lovely morning light, but the uplifted face of the man he loved. A
pride and joy came to the boy. That hero was his friend! The world might
call him a spy--but he, Andy McNeal, knew that he had given all for the
country's cause, and regretted nothing, even in the face of a dishonored
death.
"And Washington shall know!" breathed Andy. "As soon as I can reach
headquarters, the General shall have these!" Fiercely he pressed the
papers. Then he arose. He was stiff and deadly weary.
"I will go to Ruth!" he sighed. "I must have food and rest. I dare not
go to mother. My plight is too sad. I will save her the sight."
Bedraggled and blood-stained--for the fall of the night before had left
its mark--Andy went on, looking, as indeed he was, a soldier of the
cause.