A MESSENGER FROM CONCORD
The patriots had made no mistake in bulking their bravery to teach the
Tories a lesson at Bunker Hill. The effects of that event was felt
all through the country, not only by the British but by the American.
Bunker Hill had demonstrated a significant fact to the Tories. This
was the powers of endurance of the hardy colonists and their superior
marksmanship.
Outside of a few regular companies in Boston, the British troops were
men hastily recruited from the rural districts of England. These men
had received little or no training. For years they had lived under the
most rigorous game laws. The result was that some of them had never had
a gun in their hands. When they were given one to fight with, they did
not know how to use it.
The patriots, on the contrary, were natural marksmen. They had to hunt
for a great portion of their food, and had become very skilful in the
use of the musket. Most of them belonged to train-bands, and the local
militia were well-officered and under fairly efficient discipline.
It depressed the Tories after the battle of Bunker Hill to review
and analyze these potent facts. There could be no question that one
colonist was a match for two redcoats. Besides this, all over the
country the remarkable exploits of the New England army infused new
courage in the hearts of their brethren to the south. They had held
Boston as in a state of siege for many months, and there were rumors
that Gen. Gage was about to be recalled, and that possibly his troops
might be sent to Canada.
"If we can only hang out, we will certainly win the game," remarked
Phil to Andy and some others in the big tent of the Musket Boys, one
day.
"We've got to hold out," retorted Andy. "The only thing I worry about
is the fodder. I say, fellows, can't you pick out some rich and
fat Tory farmer we can make a raid on? Fried chicken, fresh eggs,
doughnuts, pies--anything to break in on the corn meal!"
All hands laughed merrily. They had become true Spartans in the matter
of appetite. Many a day, more than one of them had tightened his belt
a hole to keep down the cravings of hunger. The country about them
had been drawn on for food, until there was little left to gather up.
Supplies sent from the interior were slow in arriving. Recently, the
Tories had captured a wagon load of food sent from Concord. There were
a good many pale, thin, starved-looking volunteers about the camp, and
there were some desertions on this account.
Phil knew that the commanding officers were very anxious on this score.
One day, with some "picked men" he went out foraging. They captured a
pig, and managed to buy a keg of maple syrup, but this supply barely
went the rounds of the volunteers in the hospital.
One morning, Andy, in his tent, was aroused from a doze by the sounds
of the approaching voices of Phil and Ralph. They were conversing
animatedly with some one. As the latter was ushered into the tent, Andy
recognized him as Peleg Patterson, a Concord lad. He knew the boy well,
a good-natured, accommodating fellow, of weak intellect at times. Peleg
was a great admirer of old Silas Berks, and when he was not wandering
about the country, lived for weeks with the old Indian fighter. He had
a drum and was a fairly good drummer.
"Why, Peleg," said Andy, giving the poor fellow a hearty welcome.
"What brings you here? Thinking of joining the army?"
"You know better," said Peleg, with a grin. "I'm afraid to shoot. No,
sir--I just came to find you."
"What about?" demanded Andy curiously.
"Why--humph, I forgot. You know that's my weakness--always forgetting
things. Lemme see. Yes, I've got it. Your folks said--Your folks
said--I've forgotten it," concluded Peleg, hopelessly and helplessly.
"Did my folks send you?" pressed Andy.
"No, they didn't. Some one else sent me."
"Who was it, then?"
"I forget--no, I don't. Oh, yes--Silas Berks sent me. Why, of course, I
can't forget that," and Peleg looked almost triumphant.
"What did he send you for?" asked Andy.
"I'm stumped again," was the slow, confused reply. "I don't remember,"
and the speaker rubbed his head in a vacant, despairing way.
Andy tried in every way he could to arouse the latent memory of the
boy, but it was of no avail. Peleg could simply not remember. He made
all kinds of grimaces, he stared, he gulped, and finally he burst out
crying.
"I always was a stupid--not much good I am in the world."
"See here," said Andy, in a kindly tone, placing a friendly hand on
poor Peleg's arm, "you cheer up. You're a mighty good fellow, and
everybody knows it. We're glad to see you any time, no matter what you
forget. Come ahead, you shall have some breakfast with our mess, such
as it is, and we'll show you all the sights of the camp."
"Will you, now?" spoke Peleg, brightening up. "Maybe I'll remember it
all, if I give this poor head of mine a rest."
Andy and his friends certainly gave Peleg a happy hour. He was so
interested in the drill maneuvers, a sight of the big cannons, and the
buglers and the drummers, that, when something unexpected started his
thoughts in a new direction, he aroused like one from a dream, jumped
a foot in the air with a yell, and amazed Andy and his companions with
the words:
"I remember, now!"
"Do you?" spoke Andy, hopefully.
"Yes--look, see."
Peleg pointed animatedly to an orderly, carrying a sealed letter in his
hand from headquarters to some other part of the camp.
"Yes," proceeded Peleg excitedly, "old Silas sent a message--a letter."
"Where is it?" inquired Andy eagerly.
"It's--I've forgotten again."
Andy fairly groaned.
"No, I haven't!" shouted Peleg instantly. "Off with my coat!"
Andy helped him to remove the garment.
"Off with my shirt!"
The crowd was intensely interested, though laughing merrily.
"Off she comes!" reported Andy, helping.
"On my back."
"It looks like a porous plaster."
"'Tis."
"Hey?"
"In an oilskin--strip it off," exclaimed Peleg. "I ain't forgot, this
time. Remember perfectly. Silas said 'we'll hide it under the porous
plaster in an oilskin covering-message-letter.'"
"Bully for you," shouted Andy, fairly overcome, as he sure enough found
just what Peleg had described, and gave the erratic messenger a sharp,
friendly slap on his bare shoulder.
"Ouch!" roared Peleg. "Hooray, I mean! My memory is coming back."
"Good for you!" piped a mischievous member of Andy's company, repeating
Andy's slap.
"Who told you to hit me?" demanded Peleg. "Now, I'll just butt you for
taking that liberty."
Half in fun, half in earnest, Peleg made a bolt for the offender. He
turned the laugh quickly. Peleg was an expert at butting. The Musket
Boys held their sides laughing till the tears ran down their cheeks,
as Peleg butted the other this way, that way, head over heels into a
puddle, and bang! into a tent, carrying the canvas to the ground in a
wreck.
Good nature was soon restored all around, and the kind-hearted fellows,
even the one who had been butted so vigorously, made Peleg feel
comfortable and happy by showing him all kinds of attentions.
Meantime, Andy had opened and read the note which the porous plaster
had concealed. Phil, watching him, noticed Andy's face draw down sober
and serious. It increased in these expressions as Andy carefully read
again the little note.
He looked up thoughtfully. Then he beckoned to Phil and Ralph.
"Come to our tent," he said, in a very impressive tone. "I've something
great to tell you."