Book: Then Marched the Brave
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Harriet T. Comstock >> Then Marched the Brave
[Illustration: _Frontispiece--"'I CAN SEE NO ONE BUT THE GENERAL,'
JANIE SAID."
_See page 133._]
Then Marched the Brave
By
Harriet T. Comstock
Author of "When the British Came," "Molly, the Drummer Boy," etc.
_Illustrations by Anna S. Hicks_
PHILADELPHIA
HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY
WHEN THE BRITISH CAME
Fifty cents each
Copyright, 1904, by Henry Altemus
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
ANDY McNEAL
CHAPTER II
A STRANGER IN THE NIGHT
CHAPTER III
THE CROWNING OF ANDY McNEAL
CHAPTER IV
THROUGH THE CAVE
CHAPTER V
A SUSPICION
CHAPTER VI
THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE
CHAPTER VII
ANDY HEARS A STRANGE TALK
CHAPTER VIII
AT HEADQUARTERS
CHAPTER IX
PEACE
ILLUSTRATIONS
"'I can see no one but the General,' Janie said"
"Andy was at the oars now"
"'Good day, my pretty lass!'"
"Burr ventured a question"
"It took all of Andy's courage to don the female attire"
THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE
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.
CHAPTER II
A STRANGER IN THE NIGHT
That was to be a night of experiences--the beginning, the real beginning
of Andy's life; all the rest had been preparation. After reaching his
room, he flung himself wearily upon the bed. How long he slept he could
not know, but he was suddenly aroused by a sharp knock on the outer door
below stairs. He sat up and listened. All was still except the trickling
of a near-by waterfall, which had outlived the dry weather.
For a moment Andy thought the knock was but part of a troubled dream; he
waited a moment, then, to make sure, limped over to the stairway and
peered down into the room below. A candle stood on the pine table, and,
at a chair near-by, knelt Janie McNeal, bowed in prayer. She had heard
the knock, but not until the lonely prayer was finished would she rise.
That was Janie's way.
A second knock, louder than the first, sounded, and with it the woman's
solemn "Amen."
"Be not so hasty, stranger," she muttered, as she withdrew the bar;
"learn to wait for your betters."
The door swung back, and into the dim light of the bare room stepped a
tall man in Continental dress. His hat was in his hand, and he bowed
before Janie as if she were a queen. Andy drew back. No such stranger
had ever visited them before, and the boy gazed fascinated.
"Pardon me, my good woman," the rich voice said; "much as I dislike
disturbing you, I fear I must crave a few hours' rest and lodging, and
the service of one to row me across the river ere break of day. I have
been told that you have a son."
Andy quivered.
"A lodging, sir, is yours and welcome," Janie replied, motioning the
stranger toward a chair and closing the door after him. "I ever keep a
bed in readiness these troubled times. We are loyal to the cause, and I
would serve where I may. I have a son, sir, as you have heard, but,
alas! not one who can be of service. He is a cripple. However, rest; you
look sadly in need of it. I will hasten to a neighbor's a mile away, and
seek the service you desire."
"I regret to cause such trouble, but the need is urgent. I sympathize
with you in your son's affliction. It must be a sore grief to the lad to
sit apart these stirring times when young blood runs hot, and the
country calls so loudly."
Soon Janie was setting food before the stranger--good brown bread and
creamy milk. Andy saw the look of suffering on her face as she bustled
about, and he understood. He crept back to bed heavy-hearted. Ruth was
wrong; there was nothing for him to do.
The hot hours dragged on. Toward morning Andy grew restless, and quietly
arose and dressed. The feeling of bravery awakened within him, and a dim
thought grew and assumed shape in his brain. He could row strong and
well. Few knew of his accomplishment, for his life was lonely and the
exercise and practice had been one of his few diversions.
He knew a secret path among the rocks, which led to the river, and at
the end of the path was moored his tiny boat, the rough work of his
patient hands. Only Ruth knew of his treasure; often he and she had
glided away from the hamlet to think their thoughts, or dream their
young dreams.
Now, if he could arouse the stranger before his mother had summoned
another to do the service, he might share the joy of helping, in a small
way, the great cause.
"The need is urgent," smiled the boy; "in that case a lame fellow might
not be despised."
He recalled the stranger's face, and his courage grew.
"Chances are so few!" he muttered; "I must take this one."
At the first rustling of the birds in the trees, Andy crept down-stairs.
His mother's room and the guest-room both opened from the living-room,
but Janie's door was closed, while the stranger's was ajar. Through it
came the sound of low-spoken words.
"Accept the thanks of thy servant for all bountiful mercies of the past.
Guide his future steps. Bless our enemies, and make them just. Amen."
The boy bowed his head, instinctively. Surely he had nothing to fear
from such a man. He went nearer and tapped lightly on the door. Light as
was the touch, the stranger started.
"Come!" There was a welcome in the word. Andy stepped cautiously inside.
"Good-morning, sir."
"The same to you, my lad." The keen eyes softened as they fell upon the
rude crutch. "How can I serve you!"
"Sir, I have come to offer my services to you. I heard you tell my
mother that you needed some one to row you across the river. I am a good
rower."
The man looked puzzled. "You are the widow's son? Is not the task too
great?"
"My lameness does not hinder much. I use the crutch mainly to hasten my
steps; I can walk without it. I am very strong in other ways. I think I
am just beginning to find out how strong I am, myself. None know the
woods better than I. I can take you by a short cut to the river, and I
have my own boat moored and ready. It will be a small matter to reach
the opposite shore by sunrise if we start at once." Andy was panting
with excitement. "Pray, sir, let me do this; there are so few chances
for such as I."
The listener smiled kindly.
"You are just the guide I need," he said, and Andy knew there was no
flattery in the words. "I must leave it for you to thank your good
mother for her hospitality. I have been ready for an hour. Lead on, my
boy!"
Silently they stole from the house. The birds twittered as they passed,
for the tall man touched the lower boughs and disturbed the nestlings.
"Bend low," whispered Andy, "the way leads through small spaces."
On they went, sometimes creeping under the hanging rocks, always
clinging to the shelter of trees and bushes. They both knew the danger
that might lie near in the form of a British sentinel.
"The path seems untrodden by foot of man," murmured the stranger,
pausing to draw in a long breath. "You are a wonderful guide."
"I think no one else knows the way," Andy whispered, proudly; "an Indian
showed it to me when I was a child. He was my good friend, he taught me
also to row, and shoot with both arrow and gun. He said I should know
Indian tricks because of my lameness. They might help where strength
failed. He showed me how to creep noiselessly and find paths. I have
trails all over the woods. There is one that leads right among the
Britishers; and they never know. I do this for sport."
The stranger looked sharply at the gliding form ahead.
"Paths such as this all over the woods?" he repeated. "And have you kept
this--this sport secret?"
"That I have!" laughed Andy. "I tell you now because you are upon your
country's service. I trust you, and I thought perhaps it might help
sometime." The two moved forward for a moment in silence, then Andy
laughed in a half-confused way.
"A boy gets lonely at times," he said; "he must do something to while
away the--the years. I have practiced and made believe until I am a
pretty good Indian. I make believe that I am guiding the great
Washington. They do say he ever remembers a favor. I should love to
serve him. Had I been like other boys--" the voice broke--"I would have
been as near him as possible by this time!"
The hand of the stranger was upon the youth's shoulder. Andy turned in
alarm.
"You have a secret which may save your country much!" breathed the deep
voice; "guard it with your life. But if one comes from Washington
seeking your aid, do whatever he asks, fearlessly."
"How would I know such an one?" gasped Andy.
"That will I tell you later." Again the forward tramp.
"And you have passed, unnoticed, the British line! 'Tis a joke almost
beyond belief!" chuckled the stranger. "I should like to see my Lord
Howe's face were he to hear this."
"Oh! be silent, sir!" cautioned the guide, "we come to an open space."
Once again beneath the heavy boughs, the boy said:
"I passed the line but yesterday. And I heard that which has troubled
me, sorely, yet I could do nothing. But--" here Andy paused and turned
sharply--"bend down. Should you know Washington were you to see him?"
"Aye, lad." The two heads were pressed close.
"Would you bear a message, and try to find him?"
"Aye."
"They are planning an attack. I could not hear when or where, for the
men moved past. As they came back, and passed where I was hidden, I
heard them say that they who are near Washington had best be on watch,
poison in the food made no such noise as a gun--but it would serve!"
"You heard that?" almost moaned the listener. "My God! could they plan
such a cowardly thing?"
"Aye, sir. I am thinking they can. I would warn the General if I could,
but you may be luckier. The men said Lord Howe desired the death of
every rebel."
"May heaven forgive him!" The words fell sadly from the strong lips.
"And now," again Andy took the lead, "do not speak as we pass here. It
is the spot where they shot our pastor's boy, only two days ago. I fear
the place. A few rods beyond, we will again strike the thicket, and be
under cover until we reach the river."
The solemn quiet that precedes a hot summer dawn surrounded the man and
boy. The red band broadened in the east. The birds, fearing neither
friend nor foe, began to challenge the stillness with their glad notes,
and so guide and follower passed the gruesome place where young Sam
White gave up his untried life a few short days ago. The thicket gained,
the two paused for breath.
"We must not talk in the boat, sir." They had reached the moored boat
now. "Pray tell me how I am to know our General's messenger."
"By this." The stranger detached a charm from a hidden chain and held it
in his palm so that the clearer light fell upon it. "I command you to
learn its peculiarities well. There must be no blunder."
It was very quaint. Andy's keen eye took in every detail.
"I shall know it," he sighed. And the stranger smiled and replaced it.
"And you, sir?" he faltered, for the hour of parting came with a strange
sadness; "may I not know your name? You have made me so proud and happy
because you accepted my poor service."
"George Washington, and your true friend, Andy McNeal! We are both
serving the same great cause. God keep us both!"
The General clasped the boy's trembling hand, and Andy looked through
dim eyes into the face of his hero. The hero who for months past had
been the imaginative comrade of lonely hours and dreamy play.
[Illustration: "ANDY WAS AT THE OARS NOW."]
"We shall meet again--comrade!" Washington was smiling and the mist
passed. "Never fear death, lad, if you are doing your duty; it comes but
once. Row swiftly. Day is breaking. A messenger with a horse awaits me
on the further shore. Head for Point of Cedars."
"Good-by, sir; I shall never fear anything again--after this, I think.
Good-by!" Andy was at the oars now. He handled them like the master that
he was. The old Indian had taught well, and the apt pupil had been
making ready against this day and chance.
While Andy kept Point of Cedars in view, he saw, also, the noble figure
in the stern. The keen eyes kept smiling in kindly fashion, while the
firm lips kept their accustomed silence. To Andy, the future was as rosy
as the dawn, and he wondered that he had ever been depressed and afraid.
"Death comes but once!" kept ringing in his thoughts; "it shall find me
doing my duty. God and Washington forever!" The song of the times had
found a resting-place in Andy McNeal's heart at last.
Point of Cedars was safely reached. The general stepped upon the pebbly
beach. Almost at once, from among the bushes, appeared a young man in
ragged Continental uniform, leading a large, white horse.
Without a word Washington mounted, nodded his thanks to the messenger,
and a final farewell to Andy, then he, followed by his newer guide,
faded from sight among the forest-trees. Standing bareheaded and alone
upon the shore, Andy watched until the last sound of the hoof-beats died
away, then, with a sigh of hope and memory mingled, he retraced his way.
Janie McNeal greeted her son at the door-way. "Andy!" she cried, "our
guest is gone!" She quite forgot that Andy, presumably, knew nothing of
the guest. "He desired a lad to row him across the river. I was going to
neighbor Jones's at early dawn to summon James. I should have gone last
night, but I was sore tired. When I arose this morning, the stranger was
gone. God forgive me!