ANDY HEARS A STRANGE TALE
Andy made but poor time to the minister's house. It was well on toward
noon when the shouts of the children at play cheered his heart. He had
been obliged to rest many times, and once he had fallen asleep and slept
longer than he knew.
As he drew near the cottage he saw Ruth kneeling by Sam's grave. It was
one of the girl's daily duties of love to bring fresh flowers and cover
the mound with the bloom. Glad enough was Andy to see her alone, and in
this quiet spot. He went more rapidly; the sight of Ruth gave him new
strength. He had no intention of frightening her, he made no attempt to
walk quietly, but indeed a look at his haggard face would have caused
alarm in any case.
"Ruth!" The girl looked up, stared, but made no cry. She rubbed her
eyes feebly as if awakening from sleep, then she grew deadly pale.
"Andy McNeal!" she whispered. "Whatever has happened?"
"I will tell you." He sank down wearily, and took the cap from his head.
"My heart has been filled with horror," Ruth went on, giving Andy time
to catch his breath. "I dared not tell any one what really happened.
They think you merely went as guide. I never expected to see you alive
again. I am not sure that I do now!" She smiled pitifully, and came near
Andy to chafe his cold hands.
"I'm alive," the boy faltered. "But, oh! Ruth, I have lived years." Then
brokenly, and with aching heart, he told the story of the past hours.
Ruth never took her eyes from his face, but her color came and went as
she listened. The tale was ended at last, ended with all the tragic
detail and the showing of the scraps of paper. Then Ruth stood up.
"Andy," she said, in her prompt fashion, "the house is empty. Mother has
gone to your home, father will be away until to-morrow. The children
are easily managed. Now I want you to go in the upper room after you
have eaten. I want you to rest all day and then--then I have something
to tell you and--there is more to do."
"Yes; these," sighed Andy, looking at the papers. "I should start at
once with these."
"'Twould be folly. There are awful doings afoot, Andy McNeal. It is no
time for a mid-day walk to Harlem Heights. You must do as I say. Come in
now; you are starved and utterly spent."
Andy followed gladly. It was the course, the only course, of wisdom.
He ate ravenously, and drank a quart of rich milk. Ruth was busied in
the room above, and when the meal was finished Andy joined her.
"Now," she smiled, "everything is ready." He found a pail of hot water,
and some of the minister's clothing lay on a chair. "They'll have to do,
Andy, until I can wash and dry yours," said Ruth.
"What matters?" answered Andy. "If I sleep I shall not mind the rest."
"I know. You must only obey now, Andy. Remember I love to do my share!"
Tears stood in her brave eyes, and Andy understood.
Andy fell asleep almost at once. The hot bath took the pain from his
sore body, the clean, worn linen was cool and soothing, and the droning
of the bees in the near-by hives hushed sorrow and weariness into deep
oblivion.
And while he dreamed of peaceful walks with the master under sunny
skies, and smiled in the dreaming, Ruth had summoned Janie, and the
mother sat waiting patiently the awakening. There was much to tell and
more to do. But Andy dreamed on.
Four o'clock! The tall clock in the living-room spoke loudly. Andy
stirred and muttered something, then slept again.
Five o'clock! The boy sat up on the narrow bed and stared into his
mother's face.
Janie never flinched, though his pallor and the cut on his forehead made
her heart ache.
"Mother, I must get to Washington at once. I--I have a message."
"Yes, son."
"I do not fear death. It comes but once!"
"Yes, Andy, lad. But I'm thinking you'll not be meeting death just now.
It looks like you were singled out to live and act for all my old
misgivings. God forgive me."
She bowed her head and it rested on Andy's shoulder. Stern Janie had
never done such a thing before, and even at the moment Andy was touched
and moved. He smoothed the hair away from the pale face, and gently,
lovingly kissed his mother.
"There are strange happenings, Andy," she sighed.
"There are, indeed," he agreed.
"But things about which you know nothing, lad, and--and I must tell you
before you go. Get up; dress, son. Ruth and I have made decent your own
clothing. I can talk better while you move about. I cannot bear your
eyes, my lad." Andy arose at once and began his dressing, keeping his
face turned from his mother, but her own was rigidly set toward the
window.
"Your father has come back, Andy!"
A strange pause, then:
"My father!" Andy had dropped into a chair. The sentence had deprived
him of strength to stand. He knew his mother never wasted words, or made
rash statements. His father had come back! And Andy did not know that
his father was alive. In fact, knew nothing of him, and that struck him
for the first time with stunning force. Janie's back was straight and
firm.
"Yes, your father. I kept it all from you. I meant to tell you some day,
Andy, but time passed and you asked no questions, and I--I thought
everything was past and gone forever. But he has come back."
"Where is he?" asked Andy.
"At home. He has been hurt, and is feverish and ill. He was doing
sentinel duty for--for the British, and he received a terrible blow from
some one in a cave. I cannot tell what is best to do, Andy, and I must
look to you for help."
Somehow Andy had gotten to his feet, and staggered across the little
room to his mother. Almost roughly he seized her hand, while the awful
truth unfolded itself from the dense darkness of the past.
"Say that again!" he commanded. Janie looked at him in amazement.
"Say what!" she asked.
"That about the blow, and--and the cave!"
Janie repeated it, wondering why that detail should so interest Andy.
"You see," she continued, not heeding his horrified look, "I married
your father when I was very young. I look older than I be, lad. He
brought me nothing but trouble. He was above me in station. He belonged
to his majesty's regiment stationed here, and when the regiment was
recalled he went--back! Little he cared for the girl he left or the baby
that bore his name! I managed, and neighbors helped me to forget,
and--and I could not tell you Andy. I hoped I never would be obliged
to."
"Go on!" Andy still held his mother's hand, but with infinite gentleness
now. Tears stood in Janie's eyes, and the human need for sympathy met an
answering thrill in the heart of the son.
"He--he saw you yesterday at the pass, Andy, when they made you guide
them after the troops, and your face frightened him. He says you look so
like his mother, that it is just terrible. She has recently died, and
her memory and the thought that his son might be alive and here, gave
him a bad turn. He asked your name, and as I kept my own name after he
deserted me, he guessed the truth, and as soon as he could break away
from the others he came to me--and--that is all, Andy. But what shall I
do?"
Andy tried to think. Tried to bring events into orderly line and
coherence, but the more he tried the more detached he felt, and as if
the whole matter was one with which he had nothing to do.
"I was so young, Andy, lad, only seventeen!" When had Janie ever pleaded
before?
"Yes," murmured Andy. "I am nearly seventeen now. Seventeen years are
long--sometimes. But, of course, you were very young."
"And I had no one to guide me, Andy. I was alone. I have always been
alone, and it has been hard." A sob rose to the trembling lips. Andy
looked at his mother, and, oddly enough through all the bewilderment,
thought that she had a beauty he had never noticed before.
"You were handsome, too," he whispered. Janie started.
"Yes," she replied. "I suppose I was, then. Your voice is like his. It
always was, Andy. That was one reason that at times I could not bear it.
Oh, Andy! it is no easy matter to be a lonely woman!" The cry smote the
listener, and his growing manhood reached out to her.
"Mother, you are not alone. You have me. I will come back to you, stand
by you, and we will see what is best to do. I must go on my errand, and
I think you ought to go to--to father!" The word nearly choked him.
"But suppose anything should happen to you?" Janie clung to the hand of
this new, strange, but well-loved son, "whatever shall I do?
"I think I shall come back to you. I think I am needed, and it seems
clear to me that I shall come back." Andy smiled into the troubled
face, and tried to rouse himself into action.
"If you should fall into the hands of the British," whispered Janie,
"tell them you are the son of Lieutenant Theodore Martin; it may help
you, son."
"Your name is my name!" Andy proudly broke in. "I never shall seek favor
through any other. If they take me, they take Andy McNeal, and if I come
back I shall come bearing that name, until my mother bids me take
another!"
Janie bowed her head. It had been her first, only weak attitude toward
her country.
"You are right," she quivered. "But I fear for you."
Presently his mother left him. He and she had work to do, and it must be
done apart. A few minutes after she was gone, Ruth came up bearing a
tray of food. She was limping painfully, and Andy, sitting by the window
lost in thought, got to his feet in alarm. "You are hurt!" he cried. A
smile spread over the girl's pale face.
"I'm a depraved sinner!" she said, setting the tray on a stand and
dropping into a chair. "After the war is over I shall repent and take up
godly ways. For the present I am a lost soul, and given over to Satan.
Andy, the lie I told yesterday about the river road was the beginning of
my downfall. How easily we glide downhill."
"'Twas the only thing to do, Ruth," nodded Andy. "I think such a lie
grows innocent from the start. It was the object, Ruth. What else could
you have done? It puzzles me sore to try and explain. I just leave the
lie to God. He will understand."
"I have left it there, Andy, and from the joy and gladness I have felt,
I believe there was nothing else to do. But this lameness, oh, Andy!"
"How did it happen?"
"Just as the lie did, Andy. This is a bodily lie."
"I do not understand, Ruth."
"Eat, and I will explain." Andy began mechanically. He must be ready for
his task in any case. Food was the first step.
"I have been reading the Bible to the children, Andy. They wanted the
story of David. As I read it seemed as if you were like David. When he
went to meet Goliath, how impossible his victory seemed, but the hand
that swung the sling was strong enough to win the day. Andy," Ruth bent
toward him, her face glowing, "you are strong enough to win against your
Goliath!"
"Mine?"
"Yes; all the king's men! You will get to Washington before another day
is passed. But--you must let me help you."
Andy set the cup of milk down and stared at the earnest face.
"I'm very dull," he said. "I only know that I must go. I do not see,
now, that you can help."
"You must not think of going abroad as Andy McNeal," the girl explained.
"They are watching for you. Janie says that more than one Britisher has
been to her door."
"Do you know--" Andy began.
"Yes," nodded Ruth, "but he is well hidden. It is you they are after.
Then, too, I know what the British expect to do. Hans Brickman found
out and he is almost frightened to death with his secret. He thinks the
British will see his secret written all over him, and he is afraid to go
into camp--the patriot camp, you know. He has honey and butter to sell,
and he sells to friend or foe. I've told him I will go with him
to-night."
"What secret?" asked Andy, keen to the main point.
"The British war-ships are going up the river!" Ruth was whispering in
Andy's ear, not daring to trust her voice even in the little room.
"Father says the General does not expect this move, but they are getting
ready down by the Battery. Father says the forts cannot stand a river
attack."
"But Washington _must_ know this. He never is taken off guard." Andy
spoke proudly and with assurance.
"Well, any way," said Ruth, "he is preparing for a land attack. It is
common talk."
"Just a blind!" Andy broke in. But his face was troubled. "However, I
must get these papers to him, and if I can I will speak to him. It can
do no harm."
"But you cannot go as you are, Andy."
"How then?"
"Why," Ruth went to the door and dragged in a bundle, "in these!" She
held up one of her own dresses, a big sunbonnet, and a neat white apron.
"Ruth!" Andy flushed hotly.
"I have sprained my ankle," Ruth explained with an assumed whimper, "and
poor Hans is about distracted. He is afraid to go peddling alone with
his secret writ large in both Dutch and English on his foolish face. I
have told him I will go lame or no lame. Fortunately he is hard of
hearing and stupid as an owl in broad daylight. You might be less like
me than you are, and Hans would not know. We have much to be thankful
for, Andy."
"Ruth, I cannot!"
"Andy, you shall!" They looked into each other's eyes and then because
they were young and brave, they smiled; smiled above the danger and
heartache.
[Illustration: "IT TOOK ALL OF ANDY'S COURAGE TO DON THE FEMALE
ATTIRE."]
"What a girl you are!" laughed Andy.
"Yes, there are few like me," sighed the girl. "Born to trouble as the
sparks fly upward."
"Born to deliver others from trouble, I verily believe," added Andy.
"Not a moment to spare!" commanded Ruth. "You have eaten a noble meal. I
must go to my room to suffer now. When Hans bawls from the wagon, be
ready, and remember the eggs are a shilling more to his majesty's men
than to Washington's."
It took all Andy's courage to don the female attire. He had never done
so hard a thing, yet he knew that Ruth was right. If he hoped to reach
the patriot camp he must not attempt it as Andy McNeal. "Next best
then," he thought, "is to go as Ruth White. God bless Ruth!"
"Hi!" rose shrilly on the soft evening air, "hi! we starts now!"
It was Hans bellowing from the wagon. Andy plunged into the bonnet,
whose big, flapping frill almost hid his face. He took his crutch--its
aid was not to be despised now--and hobbled down-stairs.
"Washington is in the Morris Mansion!" Ruth whispered as he passed her
door.
Under his sunbonnet Andy turned scarlet, but he did not turn toward
Ruth.
"There goes our Ruthie to sell eggs," called little Margaret White from
over her bowl of milk in the kitchen. "Does your leg hurt awful,
Ruthie?"
Mrs. White at the table did not turn, but she said:
"Take heed, Margaret, your milk is spilling. Ruth is all right." As in
very truth she was.
"We be late, already," called Hans from his wagon. "Can you get up,
miss?"
Andy mounted slowly, and crouched behind Hans among the baskets and
pails. The Dutch boy had but recently come over from Long Island to live
with the parson. After the battle of Long Island he had fled to what he
thought were more peaceful pastures for employment; but he had his
doubts. Dangers pursued Hans, and he was sore distressed. It was
necessary for him to sell the products of the little farm, and, really,
the danger of the parson's daughter going along to straighten matters
out, was no great matter. Peddlers, unless suspected, were allowed to
pass the lines, and their wares paid for with more or less honesty.