Then Marched the Brave/Chapter I

by Harriet Theresa Comstock

CHAPTER I

ANDY McNEAL

It was in the time when the king's men had things pretty much their own way, and mystery and plot held full sway, that there lived, in a little house near McGown Pass on the upper end of Manhattan Island, a widow and her lame son. She was a tall, gaunt woman of Scotch ancestry, but loyal to the land that had given her a second home. She was not a woman of many opinions, but the few that she held were rigid, and not to be trifled with. With all her might she hated the king, and with equal intensity loved the cause of freedom. In the depths of her nature there was a great feeling of shame and disappointment that her only son was a hopeless cripple, and so could not be offered as a living sacrifice to the new cause.

Janie McNeal held it against the good God that she, His faithful servant, must be denied the glorious opportunity of giving her best and all, as other mothers were doing, that the land of the free might be wrested from cruel tyranny.

To be sure, Andy was but sixteen. That mattered little to Janie; young as he was, she could have held him in readiness, as did Hannah of old, until the time claimed him—but his lameness made it impossible. Among all the deeds of courage, he must stand forever apart!

Poor Janie could not conceive of a bravery beyond physical strength. In her disappointment she looked upon pale Andy, and she saw—she hated to acknowledge it—but she saw only cowardice written upon every line of the shrinking features! The patient blue eyes avoided her pitying glance. The sensitive mouth twitched as the boy listened to her oft-repeated laments. Janie had never seen those eyes grow steely and keen; she had never seen the lips draw into firm lines, or the slim form stiffen as the boy listened to the doings of the king's soldiers. When the neighbors came with thrilling tales of daring done by some loved one, Janie made some excuse for sending the boy upon an errand or to bed; the contrast was too bitter.

And Andy, sensitive and keen from suffering, saw through it all and shrank, not from fear or cowardice, but unselfish love, away from the stir and excitement and his mother's sigh of humiliation. He lived his life much alone; misunderstood, but silently brave. His chance would come. Andy never once doubted that, and the chance would find him ready.

And so he waited while the summer of 1776 waxed hotter and hotter, and the king's men, drunken with success after the battle of Long Island, pressed their advantage and impudence further, as they waited to see what the "old fox," meaning Washington, meant to do next. What his intentions were, no one, not even his own men, seemed to know; he kept them and himself well out of sight, and the anxious people watched and wondered and grew restless under the strain.

Now upon a certain July night Janie McNeal and Andy were sitting at their humble meal. The door of the cottage stood open, and the song of evening birds made tender the quiet scene. Suddenly hurried, yet stealthy, steps startled them. Was it friend or foe?

"'Tis from a secret path, mother," whispered Andy, catching his crutch. He knew the way the king's men came and went, and he knew the paths hidden to all but those who dwelt among them. His trained ear was never deceived.

"'Tis a neighbor," he murmured; "he comes down the stream bed."

Sure enough, a moment later Parson White's wife ran in. Her face was haggard, and her hands outstretched imploringly. With keen appreciation of what might be coming, Janie McNeal put her in a chair, and stood guard over her like a gaunt sentinel.

"To bed, Andy, child," she commanded; "'tis late and you are pale. To bed!"

Andy took the crutch, and, without a word, limped to the tiny room in the loft above. Boy-like, he was consumed with curiosity. He knew that the speakers, unless they whispered, could be overheard, so he lay down upon his hard bed and listened. And poor Margaret White did not whisper. Once alone with her friend, she poured out her agony and horror.

"My Sam," she moaned, "he is dead!"

Janie and the listener above started. For three years Sam White, the erring son of the good parson, had been a wanderer from his father's home. How, then, had he died, and where? The news was startling, indeed.

"Margaret, tell me all!" The firm voice calmed the grief-stricken mother.

"He was coming home to get our blessing. He heard his country's call, when his ears were deaf to all others, and it aroused his better nature. He would not join the ranks until he had our blessing and forgiveness. Poor lad! he was coming down the pass last night, not knowing that it was sentineled by the enemy. He did not answer to the command to halt, and they shot him! Shot him like a dog, giving him no time for explanation or prayer. Oh! my boy! my boy!"

Never while he lived would Andy forget that tone of bitter agony.

"He's dead! My boy for whom I have watched and waited. Dead! ere he could offer his brave young life on his country's altar. Oh! woe is me, woe is me!"

For a moment there was silence, then Janie's voice rang out so that Andy could hear every word.

"As God hears me, Margaret, I would gladly give my ain useless lad, if by so doing, yours might be reclaimed from death. Your sorrow is one for which there is no comfort. To have a son to give; to have him snatched away before the country claimed him! Aye, woman, your load is, indeed, a heavy one. To think of Andy alive, and your strong man-child lying dead! The ways of God are beyond finding out. It grieves me sore, Margaret, that it does. It seems a useless sacrifice, God forgive me for saying it!"

The women were sobbing together. In the room above, Andy hid his head under the pillow to shut out the sound. Never, in all his lonely life, had he suffered so keenly. Love, pride, hope, went down before the hard words. In that time of great deeds, when the brave were marching on to victory or death, he, poor useless cripple, was a disgrace to the mother whom he loved.

Where could he turn for comfort? He limped to the window, to cool his fevered face. He leaned on the sill and looked up at the stars. They seemed unfriendly now, and yet he and they had kept many a vigil, and they had always seemed like comrades in the past. Poor Andy could not pray; he needed the touch of human sympathy.

All at once he started. There was one, just one who would understand. But how could he reach her? The women in the room below barred his exit that way. A heavy vine clambered over the house, and its sturdy branches swayed under Andy's window. No one would miss him, and to climb down the vine was an easy task even for a lame boy.

Cautiously he began the descent, and in a few minutes was on the ground. He had managed to carry his crutch under his arm, and now, panting, but triumphant, he went quickly on. A new courage was rising within him—a courage that often comes with despair and indifference to consequences. No matter what happened, he would seek his only friend.

He took to the stream bed. It was quite dry, and the bushes grew close. No prowling Britisher would be likely to challenge him there. Ah! if poor Sam White had been as wise. Andy's face grew paler as he remembered. For a half-mile he pattered on, then the moon, rising clear and silvery, showed a little house near by the stream bed and almost hidden by vines.

Everything about the house was dark and still. Andy paused and wondered if he had a right to disturb even his one true friend. Noiselessly, he drew near, and went around to the back of the house. Something startled him.

"Mother!" It was a young, sweet voice, and it came from the shadow of the little porch.

"'Tis I, Ruth!" faltered Andy.

"You, Andy! And why! Have you heard about our Sam!" The girl came out into the moonshine. She was tall and strong, and her face was very pretty.

"Yes; I've heard, Ruth;" then, coming close, Andy poured out his misery to the girl who had been his lifelong friend and comrade.

She listened silently, once raising her finger and pointing toward the house as if to warn him against arousing the others. When he had finished there was silence. It was not Ruth's way to plunge into reply.

"Come," she whispered presently, "I am going to tell the bees. Hans Brickman told me to-night that 'tis no fancy, but a true thing, that the bees will leave a hive if death come unless they are told by a member of the family. The bee-folk are overwise, I know, and I mean to take no chances of their leaving. With the British at hand, honey is not to be despised. Come."

Andy followed, wondering, but biding Ruth's time. She was a strange girl in all her ways.

Without speaking, the two went through the little garden and paused before the row of neat hives. Then Ruth bent before the first.

"Sam's dead!" she whispered, "but do not fear. We need you, so do not leave the hive." From hive to hive she went, quite seriously repeating the sentence in soft murmurings. Andy stood and looked, the moonlight showing him pale and intent. At last the deed was done, and Ruth came back to him and laid her firm, brown hand upon his shoulder. She was a trifle taller than he, so she bent to speak.

"Not even your mother knows you as I do, Andy," she said. "She thinks a lame leg can cripple a brave soul; but it cannot! Why, even being a girl could not keep me back if I saw my chance, and I tell you, Andy, your lameness may serve you well. I have been thinking of that. I do not believe God ever wastes anything. He can use lame boys and—even girls. Sam was not wasted. The call made him brave and good. He was coming home a new creature just because he had heard. When I saw him lying dead, shot by those lurking cowards, something grew in me here,"—she touched her breast. "I have not shed one tear, but I loved him as well as the others. Somehow I knew that since he had been called, it was because he had a work to do, and since he is gone I mean to be ready to do his work. Andy, I am as strong as a boy, but—" here her eyes sought his—"I am a girl for all that, but you and I together, Andy, can do Sam's work!" The young voice shook with excitement.

"I, Ruth? Ah! do not shame me." Andy's eyes fell before the shining face.

"Shame you, Andy? I shame you—I who have loved you next best to Sam! Come. Father has gone to bed, there will be time before mother returns. I want you to see Sam."

With bated breath the two entered the living-room of the cottage. The place had been made sacred to the young hero who was so early called to his rest. Flowers everywhere, and among them Sam lay smiling placidly at his easily won laurels.

For the first time Andy gazed upon the face of death. The gentle dignity and peace of the once wild boy awed and thrilled the onlooker. He was dressed in his Continental uniform that was unsoiled by battle's breath, albeit, an ugly hole in the breast showed where the gallant blood had flowed forth.

"It's—it's wonderful!" gasped Andy.

"But we're not going to let him be wasted, are we Andy?" There was a cruel break in the girl's voice. "We'll do his work, won't we? We'll show the Britishers how we can repay, won't we, Andy?"

"Yes," breathed the boy, unable to turn his eyes from the noble, boyish face, that was lighted by the gleam of the one lamp; "we'll show them!"

"See, Andy" (Ruth had gone to a corner cup-board and brought forth a three-cornered cap), "this is Sam's; I found it in the bushes. Mother says I may have it." She placed it upon Andy's head. "It just fits!" she exclaimed. "If the time comes, Andy, you shall wear the cap. It will be proof that I trust you. You will help if you can, won't you? Promise" Andy."

"I promise, as God hears me, Ruth."

In the stillness the vow sounded awesome. The two clasped hands. All the sting was gone. A great resolve to be ready to dare and die made Andy strong and happy.

"Good-by, Ruth."

"Good-by, Andy, lad."

Out into the still night the boy passed. On the way back he saw Mrs. White, but he hid beneath a bush until she had gone by. He reached home, found the door barred, and so painfully reached his room by the aid of the friendly vine.