"Stop! For pity's sake," cried the Doctor. "Don't fire!"
There was a rush and they were surrounded. Phil was seized roughly by
two soldiers, while two more dragged the Doctor to his knees.
"I've got a monster, sergeant," cried one of the men. "Hold still, you
wriggling little worm."
"Let me go," cried Phil, angrily.
"Now then, who are you?" cried a harsh voice out of the darkness.
"Spies from the French camp, sergeant; that's certain," said another
voice.
"Silence in the ranks!" roared the sergeant. "Now then, sir, what are
you?"
"Travellers going south to escape from the war," said the Doctor,
huskily.
"Won't do," said the sergeant. "Bad attempt at English. Why, you were
speaking in French just now."
"Yes; I am a French teacher--the tutor to my little pupil here, the son
of an English officer."
"Bah!" cried the sergeant. "What a lame tale. You talked French or
some other lingo, and I heard the boy say `Oui!'"
"Yes, sir; we talk in French sometimes so that the boy may learn."
"Oh, indeed! Well, you're prisoners now, and he shall be taught to
speak English. Bring them along."
"Pardon, sir. You belong to the English force?"
"I rather think we do, mounseer. Search them, my lads. No, wait till
we get them to headquarters. What papers have you?"
"Papers, sir?"
"Yes, despatches. Letters."
"Only my pocket-book," said the Doctor.
"Got it, sergeant," said one of the men.
"Nothing else?"
"No, sergeant; not that I can find."
"Perhaps they're hidden upon the boy. Like enough."
Phil soon found that it was vain to resist, and he had to suffer being
roughly searched.
"Eh? What's that?" said the sergeant.
"Says he wants to be taken to his father."
"Yes, I want to go to my father, to tell him Dr Martin has been taken
prisoner by English soldiers."
"Then you can't go," growled the sergeant. "Here, who is your father,
young shaver?"
"Captain Carleton, of the 200th Regiment, sir," said Phil, stoutly.
"The 200th Regiment, eh? I don't know any Captain Carleton. But bring
them along."
The prisoners were marched off at once through the darkness towards
where the fires were burning brightly, and after being challenged again
and again, the sergeant led them to the front of a tent, out of which a
couple of officers, evidently high in command, came quickly, and were
about to hurry away, but stopped for a few moments to listen to the
sergeant's report.
"You are sure they have no despatch upon them?"
"Certain, sir. They have been searched twice."
"Let them be detained," said the officer, sharply.
The sergeant marched them off to a large tent, and into this the two
prisoners were ushered, to find themselves in company with some half a
dozen French soldiers, one of whom lay wounded and in pain upon a truss
of straw at the side, the dim light from a lanthorn swinging from the
tent pole striking strangely upon the man's pallid face.
"There you are," said the sergeant, cheerfully, "and I just give you
both warning; there are about a dozen men on duty about this tent with
orders to shoot down anyone who tries to escape. Eh, what say?"
"We shall not try to escape; sir," said the Doctor, quietly; "but that
boy--he has been tramping about for hours without food, and is nearly
starved."
"Eh? Poor little chap! Hungry?"
"Yes, sir, dreadfully, and so is Dr Martin."
"Well, we English don't starve our prisoners, even if they are French.
Wait a bit and I'll see what I can do," said the sergeant, with gruff
good nature, and he went off, leaving the other prisoners to stare
gloomily at the new-comers for a few minutes and then turn their backs
to begin talking together, while the Doctor pressed close to his charge
and tried to cheer him up.
"It will all come right," he whispered. "We shall soon be able to send
a message to the Captain, and he will have us sent safely away. Are you
very hungry now, Phil?"
"Dreadfully," was the reply. "Do you think the sergeant will be very
long?"
"Oh no! He seemed too friendly."
But the sergeant seemed to Phil as if he had forgotten all about the
prisoners, for the time glided slowly on, while weariness began to
deaden poor Phil's hunger pains, and he grew drowsy, nodding off twice,
but starting up again when the French prisoners spoke more loudly or a
sharp challenge was heard outside.
But the sergeant was a man of his word, and just as Phil was dozing off
again, and the lanthorn seemed to be dying out, he suddenly entered the
tent with a loaf under his arm and a piece of cold boiled bacon and a
knife.
"There you are," he said, gruffly, "and a nice job I've had to get it.
Eat away, youngster, and thank your stars you haven't swallowed musket
balls for sugar-plums as you came here. You ought to be ashamed of
yourself, old man," he continued, turning to the Doctor, "for bringing a
boy like that amongst all this gunpowder, treason and plot. No, no; I
don't want to hear you talk. Eat your supper. I've something else to
do."
Dr Martin sighed as the sergeant swung out of the tent.
"Wait till father comes," said Phil, "and I'll tell him all that the
sergeant said. I suppose he can't help being so stupid as to think we
are spies and wanted to come here."