THE MESSENGER
FOR a moment Tom closed his eyes and waited for the words which he
expected and feared to hear. His body was trembling and all his strength
was required to prevent his teeth from chattering. If Benzeor should
enter the room Tom knew that at once his predicament would be
discovered, and in the present state of his foster father's feelings he
was aware that he could expect no mercy at his hands.
He heard no footstep, but he felt that the light of the candle was still
shining upon his face and knew that Benzeor had not departed. At last,
unable to bear the suspense longer, he opened his eyes, for he felt that
he must see what was going on in the room. There stood Benzeor in the
doorway holding the candle with one hand, and intently regarding the
apparently sleeping boy before him.
"I'll be down directly," said Tom drowsily, as if he were just awaking.
"I didn't know it was time to get up. I'll be with you in a minute."
"It isn't time to get up," replied Benzeor slowly. "I'm just going to
bed. I stopped to see if you were all right. Have you been asleep long?"
"I--I don't know. Is there anything wrong?" Tom still kept the
bedclothes drawn tightly about his face, and although he was feigning
that he had been sleeping, he was in a state of terror. If Benzeor
should approach the bed he well knew what would follow.
"No, there's nothing wrong," replied Benzeor. "I just wanted to see if
you were all right. It's been a hard trip, and there's much work to be
done to-morrow."
Tom closed his eyes and did not continue the conversation, hoping that
the man would feel satisfied and leave him to himself. Nor was he
disappointed, for Benzeor soon withdrew and closed the door behind him.
Tom could hear him as he stumbled about in the adjoining room, preparing
for bed. Frightened as the lad had been, he had not failed to notice the
expression upon Benzeor's face. It seemed to him that fear and
recklessness were combined there, and that in the recent decision which
the man had made, he had bidden farewell to everything good in his
nature.
Benzeor had not been without his good qualities. Even then, in spite of
his alarm, Tom recalled his rough kindnesses, and thought how much
better in many ways his foster father had treated him than had some of
the true fathers treated their own sons, for the times were rough and
the one thing which was demanded of all the growing boys was implicit
obedience to their elders. And this obedience had been ofttimes
compelled by no gentle means. The use of the strap upon boys who were as
large as their fathers was not unknown, and no one ever thought of
resenting the harsh treatment. But Benzeor had seldom struck him. Tom
almost wished that he had, for it would make the carrying out of the
project he had already formed much easier.
Then, too, all the kindness he had received at the hands of Benzeor's
wife and of the girls came back to him. It was true that this had been
largely of a negative character, but in times like these through which
the troubled lad was then passing, even that was not forgotten. He had
toiled early and late, and knew that he had given more than a full
equivalent for the scanty food and rough clothing he had received. But
after all, Benzeor's home had been all the home he had ever known, and
he was not unmindful of the benefits he had received.
His soul now, however, was in a state of turmoil. The words he had
overheard had proved conclusively that Benzeor was a changed man, and as
Tom thought of the project which Fenton had presented, and into which
his foster father had entered with apparent eagerness, his own
indignation increased. The long waiting was past now, and the time for
action, the time of which he had dreamed and thought so much of late,
had come at last.
He removed the bed-clothing and sat up on the side of the bed, listening
intently. Benzeor had ceased to move about in his room, and the sounds
which now came indicated clearly that he was asleep. Against the little
window the rain was still beating, and the darkness was so intense in
the room that Tom could not distinguish any object.
For several minutes he continued in his position, undecided whether he
had better make the attempt to depart from the house by the way of the
stairs, or through the window in his room. If he should select the
former, the stairs would be sure to creak under his feet; and then, too,
there would be the bars which must be drawn from the door. There were
too many possibilities of detection to make that method of departure the
desirable one.
If he should go through the window, all he would have to do would be to
drop upon the woodpile directly beneath,--a pile which Tom knew was
there, for he himself had drawn and cut the wood only a few days before
this time. He decided to use the window.
Stepping slowly and carefully, he approached and quietly raised the
sash. As he looked out into the night, the farm buildings could be seen,
and yonder was the road he was to seek.
Hesitating no longer, the resolute boy crawled through the open window,
and then, clinging for a moment to the sash with his hands, dropped upon
the woodpile below. There was a noise as the wood rolled from under him,
but, quickly rising, he ran to the long lane which led out to the road,
and then stopped to learn whether his departure had been discovered or
not.
The silence was unbroken. The outlines of the rude little house stood
out in the darkness, the rain was falling steadily, and the heavy clouds
hung low over the earth. Not even the dog had been disturbed, and with a
lighter heart Tom turned and ran down the lane and was soon in the road.
The mud was now thick and heavy, and he found his progress difficult.
But as he had not far to go, he ran steadily on, and soon came within
sight of Little Peter's house. There was no light to be seen within it,
and he was not at all certain that his friend had returned.
He approached and stood beneath the window of the boy's room, which,
like his own, was over the kitchen. Then he gave the low whistle which
they both had used as a "call." At first there was no response, and when
he had given it two or three times he concluded that his friend had not
returned from his work as the lookout in the tree by the mouth of the
Navesink. Nothing then remained to be done but to rouse the family, for
Tom was determined, and was well aware that what he planned to do must
be done quickly.
Approaching the kitchen door he rapped loudly upon it. Twice had he
repeated the summons before a window was raised, and some one looking
out upon him called, "Who's there? Is that you, Peter?"
"No, it's not Peter. It's Tom Coward, and I want to get in. I've got
something to tell you."
"I'll be down in a moment," said Peter's mother, for Tom had recognized
the voice as her's.
Tom soon heard the heavy bars withdrawn, and in a brief time the door
was opened, and then closed and carefully barred behind him.
"What's wrong, Tom?" inquired the woman anxiously. "Has anything
happened to Peter?"
"I don't think so," replied Tom. "He was all right when I left him a few
hours ago down by the Hook. But what I want to know now is whether
you've had any word from his father?"
"Not a word, except that it's reported the army's on the march again.
Why do you ask?"
"I don't know that I ought to tell you," replied Tom hesitatingly, "but
the truth of the matter is that I happened to hear that he was coming
home."
"You've heard something more than that, Tom Coward," said the woman now
thoroughly alarmed. "I know you've heard more, or you wouldn't have come
over here at this time of night and in such a storm. What is it? What is
it?"
Tom perceived that he had gone too far to retreat now, and so he began
his story. He did not go into all the details, for as yet he did not
desire to implicate Benzeor, at least in the eyes of all his neighbors.
"The way of it is this," began Tom hesitatingly. "I happened to be
to-night where I overheard the talk between two men, and one of 'em was
Fenton, the pine robber."
Tom could perceive the expression of alarm which swept over the face of
the woman, who was still standing before him. Apparently ignoring it,
however, he went on. "It seems that both of the armies are on the march
across Jersey, and that Washington has halted over by Hopewell. Somehow,
Fenton had got word that your husband was coming home for a day, and
he's fixed up a plan to trap and take him."
"I haven't heard a word," said the woman slowly. "When was he coming?"
"To-morrow."
"And Fenton knows of it?"
"Yes. And he knows something more, too, or at least he pretends to. I
heard him say that you had some money hidden in an old sock, which you'd
stored away in the garret."
Tom saw the woman start at his words, and knew then that Fenton's
statement had been correct, although he could not conjecture how the
pine robber had received his information. Little Peter's mother was a
resolute woman, but even the stoutest heart might well be alarmed to
hear that Fenton was aware of such possessions.
"Have you any idea when Little Peter will come home?"
"No. It's too bad to keep him out in such a night. And we need him here
now."
"I'll wait till he comes," said Tom quietly. "There's no danger
to-night, but I want to see him, and I don't think you'll object to my
staying, will you?"
"No," said the woman eagerly. "Oh, what times these are! My husband has
been in the army more than a year, and the end hasn't come yet. What
will become of us? What shall we do? Tom," she added suddenly, "what was
Fenton going to do with him if he caught him?"
"Take him and send him to New York. You know there's a reward for every
prisoner taken. But he hasn't got him yet."
"No, that's so; and what's more he won't either, if it can be prevented.
Have you told Benzeor about it? Hark! There's some one at the door now!"
The woman was not mistaken, for a low tapping on the kitchen door could
be distinctly heard. For a moment neither spoke, but they could not
conceal their fears from each other. Just then a stronger gust of wind
drove the rain with added force against the windows. The sound of the
storm seemed to increase the fear of those within the house. Perhaps
Fenton himself had even then come; or, as was more probable, Tom
thought, his own departure had been discovered, and Benzeor had come for
him. As between the two, Tom decidedly preferred to meet Fenton at that
time.
Again the low rapping was heard, and Tom knew that some response must be
made. "I'll open the door. Maybe it's Little Peter come back," he
whispered.
"No, it isn't Peter. He wouldn't come in that way."
"I'll find out who it is," replied Tom more resolutely, although his
heart was oppressed by a great fear. His hands were trembling, and he
almost expected that the moment he drew back the bars a rush against the
door would be made.
"You stand ready to push against the door," he said as he grasped the
bar. Slowly he drew it back, and standing away from the slight opening
called out, "Who's there?"
No reply was heard, and the wind which swept through the open space
quickly extinguished the candle, leaving them both in total darkness.
For a moment Tom thought they were being attacked, and he instantly
slammed the door back, and shot the bar into its place.
The rapping upon the door was quickly repeated, and the voice of some
one outside could be heard. "Don't light the candle again," whispered
Tom. "It'll let them see what's inside here. Who's out there?" he called
in louder tones. "Who's there? You'll have to tell who you are, or we
shan't let you in. Who is it?"
Another rap was the only reply, and Tom was almost decided not to heed
the summons longer, but to leave the callers, whoever they might be, out
there in the storm.
"I'll go upstairs and look out of the window," whispered Peter's mother;
and, creeping softly out of the room, she soon made her way up the
stairway to the room overhead from which she had replied to Tom's own
summons a few minutes before.
Tom waited and listened. The rapping was not repeated, and no sound
could be heard outside the door. What could it all mean? Had the
marauders gone around to some of the windows? These were barred by heavy
inside shutters, and no light could be seen to reveal the presence of
any one. The darkness in the room was intense, and Tom almost thought he
could feel it. He was breathing hard in his excitement, but he had not
left his position by the door.
Soon he heard the sound of the woman returning down the stairway. He
waited breathlessly, and she soon rejoined him.
"I can't see but one man," she whispered. "He's right there in front of
the door."
"Is it Benzeor?"
"I couldn't see. You'd better open the door and let him in. We can
handle one."
Tom did not feel so positive about that, but bidding her light the
candle, he again drew back the bar. "Come in! Come in! Quick!" he
called.
Some one pushed past him, and the door was instantly closed and barred
again.
The candle was not yet lighted, and in the darkness he felt as if some
one were about to grasp him. He could almost feel hands upon him now. He
stepped farther back from the door, and waited in breathless suspense
for the candle to be lighted.
After several attempts, the woman succeeded in igniting a splinter from
the embers in the ashes on the fireplace, and the beams of the lighted
candle quickly dispelled the darkness.
"It's Indian John!" said Tom with a great sigh of relief as he saw the
man before him.
The visitor was a strange appearing being, clad in the leggings and
moccasins of his race, while over his shoulders he wore a faded coat
which once had done duty for some Continental soldier. His dark eyes
burned as if they had caught a reflection from the sputtering candle,
but with a countenance unmoved he gazed quietly at his companions in the
room.
"Oh, John, what a fright you gave us!" said the woman at last. "What
brings you here on a night like this?"
The Indian made no reply, save to draw a letter from the pocket of the
dripping, faded coat, and quietly held it forth to the woman.