Then Marched the Brave/Chapter VII

by Harriet Theresa Comstock

CHAPTER VII

ANDY HEARS A STRANGE TALE

Andy made but poor time to the minister's house. It was well on toward noon when the shouts of the children at play cheered his heart. He had been obliged to rest many times, and once he had fallen asleep and slept longer than he knew.

As he drew near the cottage he saw Ruth kneeling by Sam's grave. It was one of the girl's daily duties of love to bring fresh flowers and cover the mound with the bloom. Glad enough was Andy to see her alone, and in this quiet spot. He went more rapidly; the sight of Ruth gave him new strength. He had no intention of frightening her, he made no attempt to walk quietly, but indeed a look at his haggard face would have caused alarm in any case.

"Ruth!" The girl looked up, stared, but made no cry. She rubbed her eyes feebly as if awakening from sleep, then she grew deadly pale.

"Andy McNeal!" she whispered. "Whatever has happened?"

"I will tell you." He sank down wearily, and took the cap from his head.

"My heart has been filled with horror," Ruth went on, giving Andy time to catch his breath. "I dared not tell any one what really happened. They think you merely went as guide. I never expected to see you alive again. I am not sure that I do now!" She smiled pitifully, and came near Andy to chafe his cold hands.

"I'm alive," the boy faltered. "But, oh! Ruth, I have lived years." Then brokenly, and with aching heart, he told the story of the past hours. Ruth never took her eyes from his face, but her color came and went as she listened. The tale was ended at last, ended with all the tragic detail and the showing of the scraps of paper. Then Ruth stood up.

"Andy," she said, in her prompt fashion, "the house is empty. Mother has gone to your home, father will be away until to-morrow. The children are easily managed. Now I want you to go in the upper room after you have eaten. I want you to rest all day and then—then I have something to tell you and—there is more to do."

"Yes; these," sighed Andy, looking at the papers. "I should start at once with these."

"'Twould be folly. There are awful doings afoot, Andy McNeal. It is no time for a mid-day walk to Harlem Heights. You must do as I say. Come in now; you are starved and utterly spent."

Andy followed gladly. It was the course, the only course, of wisdom.

He ate ravenously, and drank a quart of rich milk. Ruth was busied in the room above, and when the meal was finished Andy joined her.

"Now," she smiled, "everything is ready." He found a pail of hot water, and some of the minister's clothing lay on a chair. "They'll have to do, Andy, until I can wash and dry yours," said Ruth.

"What matters?" answered Andy. "If I sleep I shall not mind the rest."

"I know. You must only obey now, Andy. Remember I love to do my share!" Tears stood in her brave eyes, and Andy understood.

Andy fell asleep almost at once. The hot bath took the pain from his sore body, the clean, worn linen was cool and soothing, and the droning of the bees in the near-by hives hushed sorrow and weariness into deep oblivion.

And while he dreamed of peaceful walks with the master under sunny skies, and smiled in the dreaming, Ruth had summoned Janie, and the mother sat waiting patiently the awakening. There was much to tell and more to do. But Andy dreamed on.

Four o'clock! The tall clock in the living-room spoke loudly. Andy stirred and muttered something, then slept again.

Five o'clock! The boy sat up on the narrow bed and stared into his mother's face.

Janie never flinched, though his pallor and the cut on his forehead made her heart ache.

"Mother, I must get to Washington at once. I—I have a message."

"Yes, son."

"I do not fear death. It comes but once!"

"Yes, Andy, lad. But I'm thinking you'll not be meeting death just now. It looks like you were singled out to live and act for all my old misgivings. God forgive me."

She bowed her head and it rested on Andy's shoulder. Stern Janie had never done such a thing before, and even at the moment Andy was touched and moved. He smoothed the hair away from the pale face, and gently, lovingly kissed his mother.

"There are strange happenings, Andy," she sighed.

"There are, indeed," he agreed.

"But things about which you know nothing, lad, and—and I must tell you before you go. Get up; dress, son. Ruth and I have made decent your own clothing. I can talk better while you move about. I cannot bear your eyes, my lad." Andy arose at once and began his dressing, keeping his face turned from his mother, but her own was rigidly set toward the window.

"Your father has come back, Andy!"

A strange pause, then:

"My father!" Andy had dropped into a chair. The sentence had deprived him of strength to stand. He knew his mother never wasted words, or made rash statements. His father had come back! And Andy did not know that his father was alive. In fact, knew nothing of him, and that struck him for the first time with stunning force. Janie's back was straight and firm.

"Yes, your father. I kept it all from you. I meant to tell you some day, Andy, but time passed and you asked no questions, and I—I thought everything was past and gone forever. But he has come back."

"Where is he?" asked Andy.

"At home. He has been hurt, and is feverish and ill. He was doing sentinel duty for—for the British, and he received a terrible blow from some one in a cave. I cannot tell what is best to do, Andy, and I must look to you for help."

Somehow Andy had gotten to his feet, and staggered across the little room to his mother. Almost roughly he seized her hand, while the awful truth unfolded itself from the dense darkness of the past.

"Say that again!" he commanded. Janie looked at him in amazement.

"Say what!" she asked.

"That about the blow, and—and the cave!"

Janie repeated it, wondering why that detail should so interest Andy.

"You see," she continued, not heeding his horrified look, "I married your father when I was very young. I look older than I be, lad. He brought me nothing but trouble. He was above me in station. He belonged to his majesty's regiment stationed here, and when the regiment was recalled he went—back! Little he cared for the girl he left or the baby that bore his name! I managed, and neighbors helped me to forget, and—and I could not tell you Andy. I hoped I never would be obliged to."

"Go on!" Andy still held his mother's hand, but with infinite gentleness now. Tears stood in Janie's eyes, and the human need for sympathy met an answering thrill in the heart of the son.

"He—he saw you yesterday at the pass, Andy, when they made you guide them after the troops, and your face frightened him. He says you look so like his mother, that it is just terrible. She has recently died, and her memory and the thought that his son might be alive and here, gave him a bad turn. He asked your name, and as I kept my own name after he deserted me, he guessed the truth, and as soon as he could break away from the others he came to me—and—that is all, Andy. But what shall I do?"

Andy tried to think. Tried to bring events into orderly line and coherence, but the more he tried the more detached he felt, and as if the whole matter was one with which he had nothing to do.

"I was so young, Andy, lad, only seventeen!" When had Janie ever pleaded before?

"Yes," murmured Andy. "I am nearly seventeen now. Seventeen years are long—sometimes. But, of course, you were very young."

"And I had no one to guide me, Andy. I was alone. I have always been alone, and it has been hard." A sob rose to the trembling lips. Andy looked at his mother, and, oddly enough through all the bewilderment, thought that she had a beauty he had never noticed before.

"You were handsome, too," he whispered. Janie started.

"Yes," she replied. "I suppose I was, then. Your voice is like his. It always was, Andy. That was one reason that at times I could not bear it. Oh, Andy! it is no easy matter to be a lonely woman!" The cry smote the listener, and his growing manhood reached out to her.

"Mother, you are not alone. You have me. I will come back to you, stand by you, and we will see what is best to do. I must go on my errand, and I think you ought to go to—to father!" The word nearly choked him.

"But suppose anything should happen to you?" Janie clung to the hand of this new, strange, but well-loved son, "whatever shall I do?

"I think I shall come back to you. I think I am needed, and it seems clear to me that I shall come back." Andy smiled into the troubled face, and tried to rouse himself into action.

"If you should fall into the hands of the British," whispered Janie, "tell them you are the son of Lieutenant Theodore Martin; it may help you, son."

"Your name is my name!" Andy proudly broke in. "I never shall seek favor through any other. If they take me, they take Andy McNeal, and if I come back I shall come bearing that name, until my mother bids me take another!"

Janie bowed her head. It had been her first, only weak attitude toward her country.

"You are right," she quivered. "But I fear for you."

Presently his mother left him. He and she had work to do, and it must be done apart. A few minutes after she was gone, Ruth came up bearing a tray of food. She was limping painfully, and Andy, sitting by the window lost in thought, got to his feet in alarm. "You are hurt!" he cried. A smile spread over the girl's pale face.

"I'm a depraved sinner!" she said, setting the tray on a stand and dropping into a chair. "After the war is over I shall repent and take up godly ways. For the present I am a lost soul, and given over to Satan. Andy, the lie I told yesterday about the river road was the beginning of my downfall. How easily we glide downhill."

"'Twas the only thing to do, Ruth," nodded Andy. "I think such a lie grows innocent from the start. It was the object, Ruth. What else could you have done? It puzzles me sore to try and explain. I just leave the lie to God. He will understand."

"I have left it there, Andy, and from the joy and gladness I have felt, I believe there was nothing else to do. But this lameness, oh, Andy!"

"How did it happen?"

"Just as the lie did, Andy. This is a bodily lie."

"I do not understand, Ruth."

"Eat, and I will explain." Andy began mechanically. He must be ready for his task in any case. Food was the first step.

"I have been reading the Bible to the children, Andy. They wanted the story of David. As I read it seemed as if you were like David. When he went to meet Goliath, how impossible his victory seemed, but the hand that swung the sling was strong enough to win the day. Andy," Ruth bent toward him, her face glowing, "you are strong enough to win against your Goliath!"

"Mine?"

"Yes; all the king's men! You will get to Washington before another day is passed. But—you must let me help you."

Andy set the cup of milk down and stared at the earnest face.

"I'm very dull," he said. "I only know that I must go. I do not see, now, that you can help."

"You must not think of going abroad as Andy McNeal," the girl explained. "They are watching for you. Janie says that more than one Britisher has been to her door."

"Do you know—" Andy began.

"Yes," nodded Ruth, "but he is well hidden. It is you they are after. Then, too, I know what the British expect to do. Hans Brickman found out and he is almost frightened to death with his secret. He thinks the British will see his secret written all over him, and he is afraid to go into camp—the patriot camp, you know. He has honey and butter to sell, and he sells to friend or foe. I've told him I will go with him to-night."

"What secret?" asked Andy, keen to the main point.

"The British war-ships are going up the river!" Ruth was whispering in Andy's ear, not daring to trust her voice even in the little room. "Father says the General does not expect this move, but they are getting ready down by the Battery. Father says the forts cannot stand a river attack."

"But Washington must know this. He never is taken off guard." Andy spoke proudly and with assurance.

"Well, any way," said Ruth, "he is preparing for a land attack. It is common talk."

"Just a blind!" Andy broke in. But his face was troubled. "However, I must get these papers to him, and if I can I will speak to him. It can do no harm."

"But you cannot go as you are, Andy."

"How then?"

"Why," Ruth went to the door and dragged in a bundle, "in these!" She held up one of her own dresses, a big sunbonnet, and a neat white apron.

"Ruth!" Andy flushed hotly.

"I have sprained my ankle," Ruth explained with an assumed whimper, "and poor Hans is about distracted. He is afraid to go peddling alone with his secret writ large in both Dutch and English on his foolish face. I have told him I will go lame or no lame. Fortunately he is hard of hearing and stupid as an owl in broad daylight. You might be less like me than you are, and Hans would not know. We have much to be thankful for, Andy."

"Ruth, I cannot!"

"Andy, you shall!" They looked into each other's eyes and then because they were young and brave, they smiled; smiled above the danger and heartache.

"IT TOOK ALL OF ANDY'S COURAGE TO DON THE FEMALE ATTIRE."

"What a girl you are!" laughed Andy.

"Yes, there are few like me," sighed the girl. "Born to trouble as the sparks fly upward."

"Born to deliver others from trouble, I verily believe," added Andy.

"Not a moment to spare!" commanded Ruth. "You have eaten a noble meal. I must go to my room to suffer now. When Hans bawls from the wagon, be ready, and remember the eggs are a shilling more to his majesty's men than to Washington's."

It took all Andy's courage to don the female attire. He had never done so hard a thing, yet he knew that Ruth was right. If he hoped to reach the patriot camp he must not attempt it as Andy McNeal. "Next best then," he thought, "is to go as Ruth White. God bless Ruth!"

"Hi!" rose shrilly on the soft evening air, "hi! we starts now!"

It was Hans bellowing from the wagon. Andy plunged into the bonnet, whose big, flapping frill almost hid his face. He took his crutch—its aid was not to be despised now—and hobbled down-stairs.

"Washington is in the Morris Mansion!" Ruth whispered as he passed her door.

Under his sunbonnet Andy turned scarlet, but he did not turn toward Ruth.

"There goes our Ruthie to sell eggs," called little Margaret White from over her bowl of milk in the kitchen. "Does your leg hurt awful, Ruthie?"

Mrs. White at the table did not turn, but she said:

"Take heed, Margaret, your milk is spilling. Ruth is all right." As in very truth she was.

"We be late, already," called Hans from his wagon. "Can you get up, miss?"

Andy mounted slowly, and crouched behind Hans among the baskets and pails. The Dutch boy had but recently come over from Long Island to live with the parson. After the battle of Long Island he had fled to what he thought were more peaceful pastures for employment; but he had his doubts. Dangers pursued Hans, and he was sore distressed. It was necessary for him to sell the products of the little farm, and, really, the danger of the parson's daughter going along to straighten matters out, was no great matter. Peddlers, unless suspected, were allowed to pass the lines, and their wares paid for with more or less honesty.