CHAPTER VI.

HOW MOLLY BORE THE NEWS.

With lowered head, and throbbing nerves, Shirtliffe dashed on in the direction of Boston, but as soon as safety permitted he turned the jaded animal, and breaking into a woodland road, retraced his steps, and with a sobbing appeal to the disappointed brute, struck out for the American camp.

“Good horse!” he pleaded, “get me there in time! only that and then we shall both rest!”

For one moment he thought of the quiet figure by the road which he was leaving forever, but he dared not give a second thought. Wrapped in the costume of two countries, poor Bill Mason might, or might not find a grave dug by stranger hands; be that as it might it was now the duty of Robert Shirtliffe to bear to the suffering, hopeless patriots the news for which they were yearning.

What were his hopes and sorrows now?

It was in his power to put strength in sick bodies and joy into hundreds of sad hearts!

On, on, plunged the great brown horse. Night fell, and the moon shone calmly down on the tired boy urging and coaxing the animal to its uttermost. The distance, by direct route, from where Robert had left the men, was probably not over seven or eight miles, but in the wood road, it was longer, and to the excited boy the miles seemed endless. Every noise made him chill and hot in turns. A feeling of weakness frightened him. He had fainted _once_ that day, God keep him from another attack! At last he reached the American lines, and a sentry stopped him. He gave the countersign and dragged on.

A strange dizziness came over him as he neared his destination. He had never known such exhaustion before. A laugh startled him, and he was even more startled to realize that it was his own laugh.

“This must be death,” he thought, remembering the death he had but lately seen. “I can not think clearly.” Then he knew that he could not wait to reach General Lee’s headquarters, and oh! he had wanted to so much! He must make the best of what time and strength he had left.

“He’s coming!” he shouted sitting upright in the saddle. “Washington and fourteen thousand men! We are saved, saved! saved!” Again the wild laugh, his laugh, made him shiver. The horse too, took fright and dashed ahead forgetting its weariness.

“He is nearing Dorchester Heights! Hear me! hear me! We are saved, we are saved! Ha! ha! ha!”

Hear him? Why the world had heard.

White, haggard faces clustered about him. Lean hands clutched at the bridle of the foam covered horse. Torches flashed from every quarter, and questions poured upon him. Only one answer he returned, “Washington is near. We are saved. I swear to God!” And every time he repeated the words they became more distracting until he laughed and sobbed them out again and again.

“See, he is falling! Some one catch Molly. God bless the boy!” The faces clustering around him faded into a quivering circle of white; the torches flickered and went out; an awful agony took possession of his last conscious thought,—he was dying among all those men!

* * * * *

“Just a drop more, lad, now put back your head.” Shirtliffe swallowed the burning drop, and felt it thrill through his cold, numb body. He was too weary to open his eyes or to care what became of him, but suddenly a voice from among the others first startled, then stilled his breath.

“He comes from our town. Let me take him—I tell you we—were—boys—together!” Robert opened his eyes. Near by stood a new volunteer, ragged, pinched and worn. They were constantly working their way into camp, but the sight of this one caused Shirtliffe both joy and despair.

He smiled feebly into the anxious face of the boy pleading to be allowed to care for him.

“Hello! Martin,” he whispered, “I’m all right. When did you get in?” The men standing around, seeing that the fainting spell was over, turned to join the excited groups and discuss Robert’s wonderful news. Sick men had become strong, weak hearts, brave, and over the entire camp a joyful atmosphere of expectant waiting pervaded everything.

Seeing themselves comparatively alone, Shirtliffe motioned the new volunteer nearer.

“I’m Robert Shirtliffe,” he whispered, “call me Bob, you can remember that?”

“Yes,” replied the boy, “and oh; but I am glad to see you Bob!”

“That’s right,” Shirtliffe gave a half laugh, “if you ever think you are going to forget, Jack Martin, run away or do something—you understand?”

“Ye—e—s Bob!”

“Did you have a bad time getting here?”

“Ye—es, Bob—I’ve been trying for months. Have you found _him_?” Jack bent closer. In the darkness he could not see Robert’s face, but he felt the boy grasp his hand, then a hot tear startled him.

“What’s—the—matter—Bob?”

“Bend down, Jack, let me cry just once. He’s dead, Jack, dead! He was shot by a Britisher who looks so like me, that I have got to find him. There isn’t anything left in all the world Jack, except for me to find the other boy!”

“Some one is coming! Here, Bob—laugh, swear,—do anything,—but cry.”

Robert sat up, and threw off the blanket which thoughtful hands had laid over him. The man approaching was an officer and had come to thank the boy who had ridden so nobly and so well to bear the welcome news; but ere he reached the crouching pair upon the ground a volley of distant firing rent the still air. Again, and again it came.

The men listened until the truth broke upon them. The rumor was indeed true, the siege was over, the new general had come in time to save them!

Shirtliffe never received the thanks of the approaching officer, the universal cry of “Washington” from those hundreds of weary, ill-fed men was return enough for all that he had dared and done.

No one thought much of him during the next few days. He recovered with the care of the new recruit, Jack Martin—as well as might be expected, and the excitement kept up his spirits.

The relieving army marching toward the Heights of Dorchester made themselves heard by their continuous firing. The sound put new life in the hearts of Lee’s men and the men shut up in Boston, but it made anxious the besieging Britishers. There was to be no skirmish this time. This meant battle, and a big one.

Lord Percy, after receiving the news which had been delayed by Shirtliffe bearing it to the enemy, set his men in order and proceeded to Castle Island. He intended opening battle upon the afternoon of his arrival, but a great storm came up. The wind blew and the rain fell and a thick fog covered all. My Lord Percy thought best to wait until the following day before beginning the attack. Washington, who ever made his successes out of other men’s failures, lost no time. He went among his men personally, exhorting them to avenge the Boston Massacre of a year before, and drawing a vivid picture of the waiting patriots now looking to them for aid. His words fell on eager and willing ears. All the day and night of the terrible storm they worked and planned; strengthening their fortifications and planting their guns in favorable positions.

When Lord Percy looked forth after the storm he beheld such an imposing defense that all thought of an assault was abandoned, and my Lord Howe was driven to the sad extremity of giving up Boston to the foe.

But Washington was noble in his bloodless victory, he permitted the British to leave the city without an attack, providing they did not burn the town.

To this they consented and on the 7th of March they sailed out of the harbor. On the 20th of March, Washington entered the city at the head of his army and was greeted, as perhaps no other general had ever been before, by the ragged loyal men who had suffered so bravely for the good cause.

It was at this point that a serious question arose between Robert Shirtliffe and Jack Martin.

Washington’s first step after entering Boston was to make stronger its defences, and among the men appointed to assist in the task, was the regiment in which both the boys served. Jack was well pleased at the idea of not being sent far from all that had meant home to him, but Robert had but one desire left—he must find Morley! Mason’s dying words rang in his ears day and night, and the strange resemblance meant a mystery he must fathom. After that?—well nothing mattered after that.

“But I say,” Jack pleaded, “after all I went through to find you, it’s a burning shame for you to go away.”

“If I live, Jack, I’ll soon be back. I’m sure to find Morley and then—there will be nothing left but for me to come back.”

“Suppose you should get hurt again? You need me.”

“I have thought of that,” Robert’s face grew serious, “I think of that all the time, old fellow, and there is only one way. If I am hurt a _little_, I can bear it—alone—if it means a big thing—I have this!” And Shirtliffe drew out a pistol he had recently gotten.

“You dare not!” cried Jack in startled tones, “if you talk like that I’ll—I’ll tell!”

“No you won’t, you’ll stand by me to the end, even if I am far away. I won’t do anything foolish, but I’m going to find that boy, I’ve got to, Jack. His life and mine is all confused, and I’m going to try and find out. It may help Debby Mason, you know. I’d rather like to help Debby;” a quick smile lit up the boy’s earnest face, “the folks in Plymouth town did not think much of Debby, but I’d like to save her from—Mrs. Lane, and give her one more chance. Shake hands, old friend, when I come back we’ll go and find Debby Mason together.”

Silently Jack gave his hand, and the two parted.