IN WHICH EZRA LISTENS TO A DARING PLAN, AND HOW THREE SPIES LISTEN
TO IT LIKEWISE
From the time that Washington reached New York, his progress toward
Cambridge was a constant ovation. In all the towns he passed through he
was received by committees of citizens. Addresses of welcome and praise
were read to him, cannon were fired in his honor, and escorts met him
and saw him on his way.
While he was no doubt gratified by all these signs of favor and
indications of the people’s confidence, the general’s most earnest
desire was to reach his destination and assume the command entrusted to
him. At Springfield a committee of the Massachusetts Provincial Congress
met him; a cavalcade of mounted citizens and troops escorted him into
Cambridge on the second of July.
It was about two o’clock in the afternoon when the commander-in-chief
entered the town. The streets were thronged with people; cheers met him
upon every hand; people filled windows, sheds and roof tops to do him
honor. The various colonial flags fluttered wildly; guns roared and the
troops saluted their leader with critical satisfaction.
The next day General Washington assumed command of the army in due form.
He at once rode about its posts and carefully examined the position of
the enemy. Ezra, Nat and Gilbert Scarlett rode with the party that
accompanied him, he having selected the two former as his messengers and
the latter accompanying them because of his curiosity regarding the new
leader.
“He looks,” Scarlett told Ezra, “like a man of unmistakable parts.
Colonel Prescott, last night, was good enough to sketch his life and
military acts for me, and I was much struck. At Braddock’s defeat he
played the part, not only of a man, but of a most excellent officer.”
Slowly Washington reconnoitered the British lines. He found Howe
strongly entrenching on Bunker Hill, advanced about half a mile from the
late battle-field, with his sentries extending fully one hundred and
fifty yards upon the Cambridge side of the Neck. Three floating
batteries lay in the Mystic River, and a twenty-gun ship was at anchor
below the ferry. On Roxbury Neck they were also strongly fortified. The
bulk of the British army lay upon Bunker Hill; only a few light horse
were at this time left in Boston.
Not a point of all this seemed to escape the observing eye of the
Virginian; his comments and directions were listened to by Scarlett with
close attention and deepening appreciation.
The American position had grown stronger since the Bunker Hill fight.
Entrenchments had been thrown up on Prospect and Winter Hills. From
these the British camp was plainly in view at little more than a mile
away. There was a strong work at Sewall’s Farm, which, afterward,
Washington made stronger still. At Roxbury, General Thomas had thrown up
a powerful fortification. The New Hampshire troops and a regiment of
Rhode Island men held Winter Hill. General Putnam was in command at
Prospect Hill with the greater part of his Connecticut regiments. The
troops at Cambridge were all of Massachusetts Bay; and the bulk of
Greene’s Rhode Islanders held Sewall’s Farm. Two other regiments of
Putnam’s men and nine regiments of Massachusetts were stationed at
Roxbury. Then there were some seven hundred men scattered along the
coast to prevent descents of the enemy.
In spite of all that had been done by earnest and competent men, it was
scarcely an army which Washington took command of that July day. It was,
rather, a gathering of armed men, for there was not much organization.
“The men are rugged, faithful and brave,” said Ezra Prentiss to his
friends that night as they sat at an inn called “The Honest Farmer” on
the outskirts of Cambridge, toward Stark and Putnam’s entrenchments.
“But they are also independent and impatient of restraint.”
“They elect to follow their own officers and obey no others,” said Nat
Brewster. “And if they are not pleased with what is going forward, whole
regiments feel themselves perfectly at liberty to withdraw, wait until
their views are agreed to, or return to their homes.”
“General Washington will see to all that,” spoke Scarlett, with a nod of
the head. “I have been giving him some attention to-day and I have
perceived that he is not only a man who desires order, but one who has
the will to achieve his desires. From this day on things will go
differently; men will obey when an order is given them; if they do not,
they will find that an accounting is to be made, not to an officer who
is a friend and neighbor, but to one who has only the welfare of the
colonies at heart.”
Ben Cooper laughed.
“The new general has been approved by you, then?” said he.
Scarlett twisted the points of his moustache.
“I am like to serve him before very long,” returned he, soberly. “For,
under him, this promises to become a very pretty war, indeed.”
“The Honest Farmer” was a large place once frequented by farmers driving
into Boston with their loads of produce. As it was cleanly kept, even in
these lax and unprofitable days, it had become a favorite place of
resort for young officers and citizens who liked to drop in and discuss
the progress of events with them.
Upon the evening in question there was quite a throng gathered in the
public room and the sound of voices filled it. Upon a bench opposite the
boys sat a portly old fellow with a full, red face and a downright
manner of speaking. A mild, thin-faced man sat beside him, and as they
talked the lads could not help but overhear.
“It is all very well for a parcel of men such as Adams and Hancock and
their agitating like, to sit safely away in Philadelphia, and send us a
stranger to take charge of us,” grumbled the portly man, in his
downright way.
“But, surely,” remonstrated the thin-faced man, “you would not call
General Washington a stranger.”
“He is a stranger to me, sir,” spoke the portly one, in an injured tone.
“And he is from the South. Why could we not have had one of our own
people? Answer me that!”
But the thin-faced man shook his head.
“Congress should know what it is about,” said he. “It must know that the
general is fitted for his work, or it would not have sent him.”
“What work?” blustered the portly man, and his voice was loud and
domineering. “What work, I ask you, sir?”
But the thin man again shook his head and looked blank.
“The work to be done is to drive the British out of Boston,” stated the
red-faced man with the portly figure. “To drive them out of Boston so
that we can go back and resume our trades and occupations. That’s what
he’s sent to do. But,” and he challenged the room with both voice and
eye, “how is he going to do it?”
“Faith,” laughed a gray-haired major, who stood near, “he has him
there.”
But the thin-faced man unexpectedly had an answer.
“He will attack them,” he declared valiantly. “He will attack them as
soon as possible.”
The portly man snorted his disgust.
“Attack them,” he repeated scornfully. “But plague on it, sir, what will
he attack them with? I am no military man, but I know that he can’t move
on them with his bare hands. To attack successfully,” and the stout palm
of the speaker struck the bench with a resounding whack, “he must have
artillery—heavy artillery.”
The thin-faced man had no reply to make to this. But the gray-haired
major spoke in his stead.
“You may be no military man, as you say, sir,” said he, “but you are
quite right, for all. To reach Gage in his den we must have guns that
will throw great weight a long distance.”
The portly man’s red face glistened with triumph.
“Sir,” said he cordially, “it is a great satisfaction to speak to a man
of understanding. You have the intelligence, apparently, to grasp a
situation. And I ask you, sir, as a man of intelligence,” impressively,
“where those guns are to come from?”
It was the gray-haired major who now shook his head.
“You have a faculty of asking difficult questions, I perceive, sir,”
laughed he. “And that is one which I must allow to pass me by.”
More and more triumphant grew the gentleman with the red face.
“We haven’t them,” he declared loudly. “We haven’t them. And, more than
that, we cannot get them.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” said a quiet voice from a bench in a
corner. “Don’t be too sure of that, Mr. Trivitt. There are guns a-plenty
to be had, if they will but be sought after.”
The portly Mr. Trivitt glanced toward the corner, and scorn filled his
red face.
“Huh!” he grunted. “Because you served in the militia, Harry Knox, and
because you went tearing about on horseback at the Bunker Hill fight,
don’t think that you can teach me understanding. I was a man before you
were born, and I have the sense to see what is open to my eyes.”
Harry Knox, as Mr. Trivitt called him, was a medium-sized young man,
well built and with a strong, intelligent face. He laughed at the
other’s words, and replied:
“But it is possible, Mr. Trivitt, that all things do not come beneath
your eyes.”
To one so self-important as the portly man this was little less than an
insult.
“It is a pity that you were forced by the war to give up the selling of
books,” said he to Knox. “I have heard, though I’ve never read a book in
my life, that you were clever in your trade. But in the trade of a
soldier you promise to be less excellent.” He arose to his feet with
great dignity. “However,” he continued, “I never discuss matters of
importance with youths. It is a waste of time and breath.”
And with that the indignant Mr. Trivitt stuck his three-cornered hat
upon his head and stumped out of “The Honest Farmer” much affronted.
Ezra caught the eye of Henry Knox and nodded to him. Young Prentiss had
inherited his father’s love of books, and had many times purchased
volumes from the youthful bookseller at his shop in Boston; indeed, in
the discussions that accompanied these transactions, quite an intimacy
had sprung up between them.
Knox arose and approached the boys cordially. He was but twenty-five
himself at this time, and had many boyish traits still.
“I am glad to see you once more,” said he to Ezra, as they shook hands.
“I noticed you and your friends, here,” with a smile at the others, “as
Prescott fell back from the hill on the day of the fight; but of course
there was no time then for any exchanges, except with the enemy.”
The others were made known to him; he sat down with them and began to
talk over the coming of Washington and the things that were to be
expected of the new commander. At length, during a lull in the
conversation, Gilbert Scarlett said:
“You did but jest with your fat friend, Mr. Trivitt, I suppose, with
regard to the heavy guns.”
But young Knox shook his head.
“No,” said he, “I spoke seriously enough. If General Washington wants
heavier and more cannon than he already has, they are to be had for the
journeying after them.”
Seeing the look of interest upon the faces of his listeners, he
continued:
“It is a simple matter enough. We have all heard of the success of
Colonel Ethan Allan and young Arnold at Ticonderoga and Crown Point.
Both these strongholds have been captured from the British and both are
provided with heavy guns. A party, equipped with proper authority, could
bring these on to Cambridge with some little effort.”
“I am not acquainted with the country between here and the captured
strongholds,” said Gilbert Scarlett, delightedly, for the idea seemed to
appeal powerfully to his imagination, “but the project is one of
exceptional quality. I congratulate you, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Knox. “I am obliged to you. I have mentioned it to
others—General Ward, for example, and he fancied it impracticable.”
“I have all respect for General Ward,” answered Scarlett, “but you’ll
pardon me if I say that he’s too conservative. You’d gain a friend to
your plan at once if you spoke to General Putnam or Stark, or one of
their kind. A man must have a spice of daring to grasp opportunities.”
After that night the boys saw a great deal of Henry Knox. Indeed, also,
he gradually came to be a man of importance in the camp. For his
services at Bunker Hill he was made a colonel; and a practical,
enterprising officer he proved to be.
The days went on, and Washington labored with the force newly under his
command. Powder continued to be a scarce article in the camp. At no time
was there above nine rounds to a man, and with this slender supply, the
general had to maintain a constantly extending line of posts—posts
always exposed to the concentrated assaults of well-ordered veterans.
But he clung grimly to the task; little by little his ideas began to be
seen, order gradually arose out of confusion; his brigadiers grasped his
intentions readily, and so things began to shape themselves as he wanted
them.
More than twenty thousand able men were desired to carry out
Washington’s designs. There were only seventeen thousand enrolled; and
of these less than fifteen thousand were fit for service. Recruiting was
carried on throughout New England. Eloquent speakers harangued village
crowds, and their highly colored words drew the young men constantly to
the camp at Cambridge.
The environs of Boston at this time presented an animated sight.
Fortifications were everywhere; men labored for the cause of liberty
with mattock and spade; they drilled ceaselessly; whole towns, so it
seemed, were given up to the military; white tents were pitched in
orderly lines in the fields. Only a century before the two principal
passes into Boston—Charlestown Neck and Boston Neck—had been fortified
to save the town from the Indians and so preserve American civilization.
Now the hills that commanded these same passes were peopled with the
descendants of those who had formerly defended them and they were
arrayed in the pride of war; their hands were raised against the
oppressive government that should have fostered them, but which,
instead, sought to crush them out.
While Washington was bringing order to his army and strengthening his
position, he was also constantly seeking to confine the operations of
the enemy and cut off their supply of provisions. Attacks were carefully
guarded against; parties in whale boats were afloat each night to watch
the waters; the American pickets grew as keen as night-birds, so
accustomed were they to search the darkness.
Sudden assaults, made by parties on both sides, marked the summer, and
the fighting on the islands continued. British transports arrived from
time to time, filled with additional troops; now and then the King’s
batteries opened fire upon an American work which they fancied was being
pushed too far; on the sea, the Yankee privateers were increasing in
numbers and in power; scarcely a week passed that the city did not
receive news of some daring deed of theirs.
Then finally the long expected party of Southern riflemen arrived. These
had enlisted at the first echo of the war and they had marched from four
to seven hundred miles in their anxiety to face their country’s enemies.
They were bronzed, hardy looking men, dressed in hunting-shirts and
coonskin caps. They carried rifles, the length of which caused the boys
to open their eyes.
“They look like marksmen,” said Ezra Prentiss. “I have heard that the
backwoodsmen in their colony are very expert with the rifle.”
As though to prove this, a party of the Southerners passed in review
before the commanders shortly after they reached the camp. While
advancing quickly, and at a distance of two hundred and fifty yards,
they fired at a target seven inches in diameter. And each bullet found
the mark!
Washington at once ordered these riflemen stationed at the outposts.
Here they made themselves terrible to the British, and day by day this
terror increased. Whatever they fired at they hit; and soon the King’s
outposts dreaded to move except under cover. Rumors of the remarkable
shooting of these men reached even so far as England; and one of them,
who was made prisoner, was taken there. The newspapers described him
with great minuteness; and the British public swarmed to see him and the
motto “Liberty or Death” which he wore upon the breast of his
hunting-shirt in common with his fellows.
Several times Washington tried to force the hand of Gage, as in his
occupation of Ploughed Hill. But the British refused to accept the
challenge. They bombarded the position, to be sure, and kept it up for
the greater part of two weeks, but finally the firing ceased. During
this summer, also, the celebrated Liberty Tree in Boston was attacked by
the furious Tories and ruthlessly cut down.
October had arrived and the coming frost was felt in the night air. And
as the chill grew deeper, the public room of “The Honest Farmer” grew
more and more a place of resort for citizens and officers. One night the
four boys had gathered there in company with Gilbert Scarlett. They sat
before a slow fire of green wood, which served very well to take the
discomfort out of the air, and were talking together upon topics of the
time and listening to the sayings of those about them.
It seemed that “The Honest Farmer,” besides being a very pleasant inn,
was a great place for grumblers. And just now some citizens, gathered
about an oaken table, saw fit to criticize General Washington for what
they called his inaction.
“What can he mean?” demanded one. “If the British will not come out to
him, he should go in to them. This state of affairs, at the present
rate, will continue on forever.”
“He was sent here to drive them out. Let him show that he is competent
by at least attempting to do so,” grumbled another.
Thus they went on; each had his say in the matter and each said it
churlishly and discontentedly.
“To be a military commander,” spoke Gilbert Scarlett to the boys, his
booted legs stretched out to the fire, “is not to lie upon a bed of
roses. Here we have a party of gentlemen who will speak their minds upon
a subject upon which they have no information. They would have General
Washington charge upon a strong position without powder enough to wake
General Gage from his sleep. Apparently they possess rare enterprise,
but their discretion is small, indeed.”
While he spoke Colonel Knox entered the room; after greeting some
friends he made his way directly to where the boys were sitting. He was
dressed in the blue uniform faced with white which had grown so familiar
in those early days of the war; his face was bronzed through exposure to
the weather, and his eyes were bright and full of a newly kindled
eagerness.
He shook hands with the lads; that he was a colonel and they but
enlisted men made no difference in that democratic time. And after he
had greeted Scarlett, who made room for him at the fire, the young
colonel sat down.
“Have you noticed a tinge of frost in the air?” asked he, as he rubbed
his hands briskly. “It will be a hard, cold winter, I think, when it is
once upon us. It is always so when there is so early a beginning.”
“It was midsummer when we saw you here last,” said Ezra. “You remember
the night that you told us about the guns at Crown Point and
Ticonderoga.”
The boy’s words were followed by a curious interruption. A mug, partly
filled, shattered upon the brick paved floor near by; they turned
surprised and saw a man, apparently advanced in years, bent over a
table, his back turned to them. The hand that had held the mug hung at
his side, trembling as though with palsy; his whole attitude was as of
one stricken with some sudden shock.
Two others sat with the man; they wore the dress of seafarers, and while
one was of commanding proportions, the other was small. The heads of
both were bent toward the old man; and the boys could see little of them
except that they were dark and wore their sailcloth hats pulled low over
their foreheads.
After a glance the other lads gave their attention once more to Colonel
Knox. But Ezra continued to watch narrowly the actions of the three. As
the boys had come along in the dusk toward “The Honest Farmer” he had
noticed some figures that seemed to cling to their shadows. He had,
also, a dim sort of consciousness that these same figures had entered
the inn after them. And now something whispered to him that these were
the same—that the men had a purpose in being where they were—that their
selection of seats so near to his friends and himself was no accident.
“And,” he told himself in a puzzled sort of way, “they seem familiar. I
somehow feel that I have met with them before.”
He examined the strangers narrowly; in a few moments the old man
recovered and seemed to be talking guardedly to his companions; and the
boy, more than once, caught a ferret-like look from the smaller of the
two seamen that impressed him queerly. More and more he felt that these
were persons whom he had known before.
But while he was watching the strangers, he was also listening to the
remarks of his friends as they spoke to Colonel Knox. Some little time
passed; then the colonel said, addressing them all:
“I came here to-night in the hope of seeing you. It just happens that
there is something toward that makes me require the help of a few young
spirits who will not hesitate at a little risk.”
“We feel flattered,” said Nat Brewster, with a smile, “that you should
think of us.”
Ben Cooper bent forward.
“It has something to do with the big guns at Ticonderoga,” said he.
Colonel Knox laughed.
“You are a clever guesser, Master Cooper,” said he.
“It was no guess,” replied Ben. “I’ve known all along that you’d not
give up that idea of yours. I knew that if you’d get permission, you’d
be off to the captured forts at once and try to carry it out.”
Ezra, watching the three strangers, fancied them rigid with attention,
but at the same time making a show of keeping up a conversation of their
own. Once he was about calling his friends’ attention to this, but the
fear that it might, after all, be but imagination upon his part,
deterred him.
“You are right,” said the young colonel. “The notion was a pet of mine
because I thought it practical and likely to succeed. But I’ve had great
difficulty in convincing others. When they thought of the vast
wilderness to be crossed, the lakes and streams, they scouted the plan.
It could not be done, they said; those great cannon could never be
dragged so tremendous a distance through such a country.
“But at length I got the ear of the commander-in-chief. I flattered
myself that he thought me no fool; for he has a way of looking at one
that tells its own story.
“‘Heavy ordnance is badly needed,’ he said, ‘and this would be welcome,
indeed, if we could but secure it!’ Then he fixed me with one of his
looks and asked: ‘How would you go about getting it here?’
“‘I would start in the early fall,’ I said. ‘On the way I would collect
sledges. By the time I reached Ticonderoga, transacted my business and
was ready to return, the lakes would be frozen over. I could load the
guns upon the sledges and so cross the ice. And so it will be through
the wilderness. Lack of roads will not affect me; the snow will be there
and the traveling will be as smooth as it can well be.’
“He seemed much struck with this idea and took it under consideration.
And now he has given his consent.”
“And you are going!” cried George Prentiss, eagerly.
“As soon as I can collect the small party that is to accompany me.”
“And that’s why you sought us out!” exclaimed Nat, his face glowing in
the firelight. “Good! Shall we go, lads?” turning to the others.
A chorus arose that caused the other frequenters of “The Honest Farmer”
to turn about in mild surprise.
“You could not have done us a greater kindness,” said Ezra Prentiss to
Colonel Knox. “The work of the camp is, of course, willingly undertaken
by us all; but this is the sort of service that we most like.”
“If you are pleased to go,” returned the young colonel, “why, for the
matter of that, I am equally pleased to have you. I have heard the
stories of your doings since this war began; and of the services you
rendered even before it started. They’ve long been abroad in the camp,
as have the words uttered in your praise by Colonel Prescott, Mr. Adams,
General Putnam and even Washington himself.”
As the lads chorused their low-voiced agreement to ride with Colonel
Knox upon this mission which promised so much, Gilbert Scarlett drew his
sword belt tighter and leaned forward toward that officer.
“Sir,” spoke he, “if you could contrive to make room for a volunteer in
your company, I should be most pleased to make this venture under your
leadership. It is true,” and he waved his hand in a gesture of
depreciation, “that I am not of this country and am rather a stranger to
you all. But,” here he reared his head proudly, “I have had some small
experience in onfalls, ambuscades, sieges and other forms of warfare, in
various parts of the world. So it is possible that I might be of service
to you.”
“Mr. Scarlett,” said Colonel Knox, promptly, “I have heard of you. I
accept your offer and am delighted to have you.”
They talked for some little time upon the matter; then the young colonel
arose.
“Just when I shall start,” said he, “is a matter of doubt; but it will
not be until I can be sure of the ice and snow, which will act such
important parts in my plan. However, when we do start,” and he said this
with quiet confidence, “we will make all speed and it will not be long
thereafter until the King’s guns will be turned upon his governor. And
then Boston shall be ours!”
The boys and Scarlett accompanied him to the door and out into the
night. Here the colonel began saying something that seemed to interest
them; and all but Ezra walked along with him toward his quarters.
Ezra, as he gave a quick look over his shoulder in the doorway, saw the
three men at the inn table arise. He closed the door; and as his friends
walked slowly away with Colonel Knox, he stepped back into the shadow
and waited.
It was the smaller of the two sailor-like men who opened the door of
“The Honest Farmer.” His thin face went this way and that, apparently in
quest of those who had just left. As he caught the cautious questioning
way the man had of holding his head, Ezra gasped in astonishment.
“It’s Jason Collyer!” he muttered.
Collyer’s two friends appeared directly behind him. As he saw him in
motion, Ezra had no difficulty in recognizing the larger of these.
“It’s Abdallah,” he told himself. “There is no mistaking that measured
step.”
“They have gone in that direction,” said Collyer, pointing down the dark
street. “Shall we follow them?”
“There is no need,” spoke Abdallah, and his voice was as smooth as ever.
“We have learned all that they can tell.”
“It was luck that made you want to follow them here when you saw them on
the way,” said Collyer to the old man. “I confess, sir, I thought it but
a waste of time, myself.”
The door of “The Honest Farmer” was now closed; but from a window a
broad beam of light streamed out upon the stones. The men stood upon the
margin of this and could be plainly seen as they faced away from Ezra,
their eyes trying to follow Colonel Knox and the boys.
“Fortune,” said Abdallah, “is a queer thing. Sometimes it smiles upon
us; and at others, it frowns. And all for no reason that we can see.
Take that last night at my house for example. Everything had gone well,
when suddenly that boy”—and he pointed down the dark street, “rode up
and changed everything by his shrewdness.”
Here the old man gestured angrily and was about to speak. But Abdallah
stopped him.
“It is no time for faultfinding or resentment,” said he, gently. “Rather
it is one for self-congratulation. He beat us then, but we will beat him
now. When they ride to Ticonderoga for the guns, they will have their
labor for their pains. We,” and he laughed softly, “will have been there
ahead of them.”
“Don’t be so sure of that,” said Ezra Prentiss, quietly.
He took a step forward as he spoke. The men whirled about with
exclamations and stood staring at him as the light from the window fell
upon his face. At the same time a steady tramp of feet was heard; the
flash of lanthorns came up and down the street. Patrols of continentals
were coming from both directions.
“It is always best to make sure of what you say before you say it,”
resumed the boy. “When we reach Ticonderoga, the guns will still be
there; but you will be here, awaiting the judgment of a drumhead court,
as spies.”
A gasp of dismay went up from the ferret-like Collyer; but Abdallah held
up a hand for silence. He addressed Ezra.
“Spies?” said he, gently. “That would be a rough-hewn fate indeed. Think
what is meted out to such offenders.”
“It is death,” said Ezra, solemnly.
“And would you deliver us up to that?”
“It is not for me to pass judgment,” answered the lad. “I leave that for
my superiors.”
“But,” and there was a curious note in Abdallah’s voice that caught the
boy’s attention, “you shall decide, for all! And your decision will be
in our favor.”
“You shall see in a moment,” spoke Ezra Prentiss, gravely. “Here comes
the American patrol. What is to hinder my giving you up to them?”
“This,” said Abdallah.
As he spoke he thrust the old man, who bore him company, forward
suddenly. For the first time, Ezra saw this latter plainly.
“Grandfather,” he cried chokingly.
The old merchant lifted a hand as though about to denounce the lad; but
Abdallah drew him back with a fierce whispered word of warning.
“If we are spies,” then said Abdallah to Ezra, “so is your grandfather.
If you give us up to those men,” and his eyes went toward the patrols,
who were now abreast of them, “you must also give him up. And remember,”
all the gentleness out of his voice and manner, “to give him up means
death!”
He paused a moment and then said with a low laugh:
“Speak up; what shall it be? Shall we go or stay?”
And Ezra, his heart frozen with fear, stared first at the patrols and
then at his grandfather. Then both hands went up and he gestured them
stupidly away.
Instantly they turned and obeyed; within a moment the night had
swallowed them up; but still the boy stood there as one turned to stone.
“To save my grandfather’s life, I have made myself a traitor to the
cause,” he whispered to himself. “But I could not help it,” a sob
swelling in his throat, “I could not help it.”