A DASH FOR LIBERTY
Phil floated until he was sure that Andy had landed all right. Then
both struck out for the sailboat, dimly outlined in the night mists at
a short distance. They did not look back, but bent all their energies
towards reaching the sailboat. They clambered aboard of this, out of
breath, dripping, and chilled through. Their first glance was toward
the _Vixen_.
"Not seen so far," chattered Andy. "What next, Phil?"
"Cut the rope," ordered his comrade, passing to Andy the big-bladed
jackknife that had been of such service to him in their prison room.
"I'll see to the sail."
Phil knew all about a sailboat. He had never handled one so large as
the craft they now seemed to have in their control. He immediately,
however, saw that all he had to do was to raise the big sail and use
caution and judgment in its manipulation.
The craft gave a sudden jerk. It was caused by the taut cable parting
at the final strand into which Andy had cut. Almost simultaneously Andy
uttered a low, expressive cry.
"Phil," he gasped, "they're coming!"
"Who? I see. Get to the tiller, Andy, and simply obey orders."
Phil did not raise the sail. That near to the _Vixen_, its wide surface
outspread, would be a prominent object. To his entire satisfaction he
noticed that the sailboat was drifting away from the _Vixen_.
Glancing back at the war vessel, Phil discerned what had attracted
Andy's attention. Lights were being prepared near the forecastle, and
descending into the yawl at the side of the ship was a boy bearing a
lantern. A man followed him.
"Andy," said Phil, "Burt Noble and a sailor are starting out to place a
light on the boat here."
"And won't find us!" chuckled Andy.
"I hope they don't even see us. Two minutes more, and they won't be
able to do it. Clever Burt Noble!"
"Hello! what's happened?" exclaimed Andy, his glance riveted, as was
that of Phil, on the yawl at the side of the _Vixen_. "The light has
gone out."
"Yes," said Phil. "Burt has accidentally dropped it overboard. He must
know we have escaped, and is causing all the delay he can with the
yawl."
The sailboat drifted away so rapidly, that by the time a new light was
lowered into the yawl it was a mere speck in the distance.
"Phil, we've made it!" cried Andy in exultant tones.
"I fancy we have," acquiesced Phil complacently. "Now then, watch your
knitting, and heave yo! up goes the sail."
The comrades forgot chilliness and discomfort in a sharp, inspiring run
during the next half-hour. Phil handled the heavy sail superbly, and
Andy obeyed orders promptly. Each felt sure that the friendly darkness
protected them against the possibility of those on the _Vixen_ locating
them, for that night at least.
They ran down the coast line in a southerly direction, keeping about a
mile from shore and looking out for lights that might indicate another
craft afloat, but met with none of such. As they eased up a little,
Andy called once to his comrade.
"What's the programme, Phil?"
"To get this boat fast and sure where those Tories will never be able
to find it again--especially its load."
"Good! You won't land at Storm Cove, of course."
"Hardly, seeing we are running south away from it as fast as we can."
Andy laughed gleefully. The task they were engaged in just suited his
volatile spirits.
"Imagine what those _Vixen_ fellows will say when they find this boat
gone. Oh, this is a famous adventure, Phil!"
"We mustn't forget Burt Noble's share in it," observed Phil. "I hope we
meet him soon in Boston."
"Going to Boston, are we?" queried Andy.
"That's where we started for, isn't it?" said Phil, with a smile.
"Yes, but you don't suppose we can ever get into the Bay without being
challenged and stopped by the Britishers?"
"Oh, I'm not thinking of going to Boston by water route. You see, Andy,
we probably have a valuable cargo aboard, or rather I should say an
important cargo."
"Munitions of war and all that, eh, Phil?" appended Andy glibly.
"If I can get my bearings from having been up and down the coast here
more than once," pursued Phil, "I shall feel pretty good when we locate
Sandy Creek."
"What's Sandy Creek? Where is it?" asked Andy.
"It's the feeder from a sort of a swamp lake running into the ocean. At
the inland end of the lake is a little settlement called Bordenville.
I have a cousin living there named Ralph Post. He used to be a sailor,
but lives now with a Mr. Eaton, who is a staunch patriot, and who has
done lots of good for the cause. I know of no one who would know just
what to do about the sailboat and its load as well as Mr. Eaton. Then,
too, he keeps posted on everything that is going on, and he can tell us
just how things are in Boston."
"Capital!" cried Andy. Then there was a spell of silence, while Phil
kept as near to the shore as was wise, trying to catch sight of some
guiding landmark.
"I know where I am," he said at last. "That rocky point we just rounded
is about a mile north of the creek. Now then, not to miss it in the
dark."
It must have been nearly midnight when the sailboat stuck in a mass of
high reeds. Phil and Andy waded to the edge of a swampy reach they had
gained through some skilful handling of the craft into the creek and
across the lake Phil had described to his comrade.
"There, that's the best we can do for the present," declared Phil, as
they stood on solid ground. "It's not far to the settlement. Mr. Eaton
will take care of the boat as soon as we tell him our story."
They were tired and uncomfortable, but they plodded on cheerfully,
until they came in sight of some houses. All were dark and silent
except one, where a light was burning, and for which Phil was making.
"Is that where Mr. Eaton lives?" inquired Andy.
"Yes," replied Phil "and some one seems to be up, judging from the
lights."
A few minutes later Phil was lifting the heavy knocker of a door of the
house in question. A boy answered the summons, a bronzed pleasant-faced
youth, whom Andy had never seen, before, but at a glance he felt that
he should like him. The boy lifted the candle he bore high above his
head, and stared in wonder and then in perplexity at the two forlorn
wayfarers.
"Phil!" he shouted, the next moment, his face beaming with a glad,
welcoming smile. "Phil Warrington!"
"Yes," nodded Phil. "It's me--and this is my friend, Andy Sabine, from
Concord."
"Why--when--how--what are you boys doing in that trim, at this hour of
the night?"
"We have just escaped from the Tories, and are bound for Boston."
"Boston!" echoed Ralph Post, in a startling tone. "Why, Phil, don't you
know that the city is under martial law? The order has just gone out."
"Whose order?" demanded Andy.
"Gen. Gage's. No one can leave or enter Boston without a Tory passport."