CHAPTER VII.

A STRANGE CHRISTMAS.

Robert Shirtliffe sat beside a frozen stream binding a cloth around his frosted feet. The shoes were in tatters, and the bare flesh showed through the gaping rents in many places. His clothing, too, was worn and thin and but poorly protected him from the cutting blast. As he bent over his painful task, for one moment his strength faltered, and he almost wished that he had gone back to New England, with the other men whose term of enlistment had expired, and whose faint hearts had not been loyal enough to again pledge themselves for further service. The wish was but a fleeting one. Go back? What had he to go back for? All that he had in life to look forward to, lay near—if it existed at all. For during the time which lay between his leaving Boston and now as he sat beside the Delaware river in New Jersey, Shirtliffe had not seen, or heard of Morley. But even with the memory of disappointment and bitter suffering to keep him company on this Christmas eve, Robert was proud to think that he had been one of the three thousand men who had remained with their glorious leader. For never was general loved by his soldiers, more than was Washington. What they suffered, he shared. When their hearts grew faint, by his inspired courage he lifted them to new heights of loyalty and hope. Where danger threatened, there was he at the front. His massive form a target for every enemy’s bullet, and a mark of nobility for his followers. From afar Robert had seen and worshipped. In his young heart the love for this great man amounted to a positive passion. To serve him, though his services might never be known, was the daily wish of the poor New England boy. The wish was strong within his heart now and helped to keep back the stinging tears of agony which by near his tired eyes.

The men with whom he had been tramping in search of food, had gone on ahead, and Robert sat alone. Presently a step startled him, and he glanced up. Down the shadowy road, leading his weary horse, strode a tall figure with bowed head, and moving lips. The boy on the path sprang up, all pain and misery forgotten; he stood ready to salute, for well he knew that gallant form. Never before had he been so near. The moment was fraught with keenest joy. But the approaching man saw him not. He was praying. It was no new thing for Washington to plead for help from a mightier power, all his men knew, and honored him, for his childlike faith.

“Bless us with wisdom in our councils, success in battle, and let our victories be tempered with humanity. Endow, also, our enemies with enlightened minds, that they may be willing to restore liberty and peace. Grant the petition of thy servant for the sake of him thou hast called thy beloved Son; nevertheless, not my will, but thine be done. Amen.”

The splendid head was raised and in the gloaming the clear eyes rested upon the boy saluting by the road.

The great general paused: “Good evening lad,” he said, “’tis but a sad Christmas time for young boys like you.”

Robert tried to reply but his voice failed him.

“Were you wishing for home? You look ill and worn. I will send you back.”

“No, no, sir!” Shirtliffe found strength at last. “I was but binding up my feet, my shoes are not thick enough for these rough roads, but I am strong and loyal!”

Washington smiled, and then looked pityingly down upon the wrapped foot, the blood already was showing through the new bandages.

“Here, my son, take my handkerchief,” he murmured, “it will help until you can procure better, and take this coin; when it is possible, buy strong shoes.”

Robert accepted the gifts with flowing tears, and put them in his breast.

For a moment there was silence, then the deep voice added, “The Marblehead fishermen are down the river about five miles, could you reach them in an hour with a message?”

“Yes, sir,” Robert’s chance had come. He would deliver the message in an hour or die in the attempt.

“Well, simply tell them we are ready.”

Robert bowed, saluted, and then stifling a groan as he hurried away on his bleeding feet, he ran into the gathering twilight and was lost to sight.

In less than an hour he had reached his destination. The Marblehead men understood the message. They had done splendid service in the war before when bravery on the water was needed, they were ready now. They set to work to get every boat in their possession in readiness and all that night and the next day, soldiers on horse and foot advancing from every direction made for the river. The plan had been worked out in secrecy, and now upon this Christmas night the entire army enlarged by recent reinforcements was to be ferried over the icy Delaware in order to attack the British in Trenton on the morrow. It was a mighty and daring attempt, but not a patriot questioned the leader who had planned it. For ten hours the brave fishermen rowed to and fro in the darkness bearing their suffering loads. But,—even while many were frozen—and all endured untold agony from exposure and scanty covering, not a complaint was heard to pass the brave lips. The army was divided in three parts, but with joy Shirtliffe saw that he was in the command under Washington which was headed for a spot nine miles above Trenton, from which point they were to bear down upon the unsuspecting Britishers, then making merry over their Christmas cheer. Shivering and crouching in the stern of one of the boats, Robert thought of all the Christmas nights he could remember. There had been a few which had been bright and joyous—but this one so full of pain and loneliness, was the proudest one of his life.

The division under Washington reached the opposite shore with slight delay, the others were less fortunate, but by eight o’clock the next morning Washington’s command and one under Sullivan dashed down upon the astonished Britishers, who were just resting from their revels, and shook the town by their yells and shots.

The maddened Hessians sprang to line and tried to resist the oncoming foe. Wild excitement prevailed, and above the whizzing of shot rose the triumphant shouts of the ragged, half-frozen patriots. In the thickest of the fray rode always the mighty commander, his clear voice calmly calling out orders, and his steady hand pointing his sword. With eyes ever fixed on that brave form, Shirtliffe stumbled and struggled after, hoping that standing or falling, at the end he would not be far behind his hero. And another thought mingled with that,—he must keep _one_ bullet, in case he fell badly wounded,—he never forgot that.

The fight was fierce, but short; in an hour a thousand of the foe were begging for mercy; the others had fled toward Bordentown at the first alarm.

So Washington gathered his forces in Trenton and the British fell back to Princeton. Cornwallis then took command determining that the “old fox,” meaning Washington, should not find _him_ napping and get away, he, the great Cornwallis meant to put an end forever to the exploits of this daring rebel! And indeed it seemed likely that he might be successful for sickness and cold were enfeebling the patriot army day by day. Their splendid courage strengthened by their late victory bore them up during the after days of suffering, but Washington realized that he must act promptly and wisely if he wished to hold what he had so hardly won.

He could not recross the river. His proud spirit quailed at the thought of retreat, but to engage in another battle just then might mean ruin. In his extremity he called a council of war.

“Cornwallis is advancing,” he said calmly, “our skirmishing lines have but driven the British back this afternoon. At daybreak the attack will be renewed. There is but one thing for us to do.” The eager men listened breathlessly. The glaring red torch lights showed their faces pinched and wan. What was it Washington wanted them to do? Every man was ready to do it!

“We have but five thousand in camp,” the calm voice went on, “we must leave to-night, make a circuit to the east, pass the enemy’s flank, and make an attack upon the detachment in Princeton before Cornwallis can return to help them.”

A mighty cheer went up. Robert from his place wedged in among the excited patriots, glowed and thrilled as he heard the daring plan. This was a general worth following.

A man to be loved!

“But”—he was still speaking, though the shouts had drowned, for the moment, his voice, “there is one thing more to do, and for that I want volunteers.”

Robert’s heart almost choked him. Could there be any deed too great for him to undertake?

“While we steal away under cover of the darkness, others—perhaps fifty—must remain here to keep the fires burning and by beating the drum at intervals, deceive the enemy. At sun rise you may try to escape and join us. If you are taken it will probably mean death! Now who volunteers?”

The rich voice fell with a sad cadence, and for an instant no one spoke. Then, “I! I! I!” forty or fifty men disentangled themselves from the mass and pressed nearer. And from these a slim boyish form stepped close to Washington.

“Sir!” he said simply. “I have been a drummer since the war began, may I remain?”

For a moment Washington eyed the boy.

“I remember you,” he said, “you have served me before. You are young to attempt this service. There are enough without you.”

“But sir, I can drum!”

“So he can,” called out a man from the crowd, “no one can drum like Molly!”

“And you wish to remain?” the general asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Your name, my lad?”

“Robert Shirtliffe.”

“Age?”

“Seventeen.”

“Your home?”

“I come from Plymouth, Massachusetts.”

“Have you parents?”

“I have no one sir.”

“You are a brave lad, and worthy of your country. Report to me as soon as you can”—the clear eyes grew misty—“you and these other loyal fellows shall be rewarded according to the quality of your sacrifice.”

They saluted gravely. Then the stealthy arrangements began. Silently through the night, the men marched away bearing the stores and ammunition.

On their beats the British sentinels marched to and fro, feeling sure of the enemy.

And during those long solemn hours a handful of men kept alive the fires in the deserted camp, and a weary, but unflinching boy, beat almost constantly upon his drum. His feet pained him piteously and his stiff fingers could barely grasp the sticks, but his heart was staunch and true. As the night wore away his exhausted brain grew unsteady. All memories came to haunt him, and fill the empty hours.

He saw a still form beside a lonely road, he heard the last words of the dying man, “Go to Plymouth and find Debby Mason, tell her that her father died like a soldier!”

He could never find Debby now, perhaps. Ere another day had passed he too might be lying dead. He might never find the boy for whom he had searched since he left New England, never know the story!

Something like a sob mingled with the drum beats.

March British sentinels at your posts!

Behind those gleaming camp fires is a weak foe indeed. See the morn breaks, the handful of men, forgetting the boy, have already departed to rejoin their comrades, only the faithful drummer remains!

Sleep well, oh! my Lord Cornwallis your last peaceful sleep for many a weary night. The old fox has caught even _you_ napping and is now well on the way to intercept the force which you are so confidently expecting.

Beat the drum bravely, Molly my boy! See the sun is tinting the far east. Go with the others. Your task is done, and in the future loving hearts will arise to call you blessed for this night’s work!