CHAPTER IX.

THE LAST OF MOLLY.

Long did Shirtliffe sit beside Morley, repeating the messages over and again. No fear of forgetting them, he could remember naught else. As the day wore on he began to realize his condition and he knew if he ever expected to reach Washington’s army, he must move on. In the distance he heard heavy firing and the sound guided him. He felt sure that the Americans had met the reinforcements coming from Princeton and that a battle was in progress. The thought stirred his blood, and he struggled to his feet, gave a last glance at Morley and went on mumbling to himself, “Tell Debby Mason!” Weaker and weaker he grew and as his mind cleared, a sense of his danger absorbed him. Was this death? This strange, unusual weakness? At any moment he might fall and be unable to rise.

The firing was growing less, the battle perhaps was over, fleeing parties of either friend or foe might soon be passing.

Never had life seemed so precious, as now when it was going so fast. Dimly he recalled how he had saved one bullet for this hour, should he use it now? Oh! no. “Help! help!” he sobbed, falling on his knees, “help! help!” He had walked further than he had realized, and the men who in the morning had left the deserted camp without him, later in the day missed him, and were even now searching the woods in hope of tracing him. They heard his weak cry from afar, and, guided by the second call, reached his side a moment after he had fallen.

“It’s Molly!” said one of the two men who found him, “look at the blood!” cried the other, “the boy is terribly wounded.”

“This is an ugly wound,” said the first, noticing the dry blood, “here, take his feet, Hall, let’s get him to the surgeon’s. He stayed behind to beat the drum, didn’t he? Brave little chap, I suppose the devils found and shot him.”

Very slowly and tenderly the men bore their burden to the rough field hospital, and the surgeons in attendance, after a hasty examination, said quietly: “The boy is done for; make him comfortable over yonder, there is nothing else to do for him, poor fellow.” Their hands were too full to permit of them wasting time over uncertain cases.

So it was that Robert was laid upon a rough cot, covered with a coarse blanket and left to pass out of life as calmly as he might. One of the surgeons, however, did not forget him. He was a young man, full of ambition and was to return in a week to Philadelphia with a record of bravery and courage to cheer him during his furlough of rest. As he went about his duties, Shirtliffe’s white face haunted him, “There might be a chance for the boy,” he thought, “as soon as I can I will take a look at him again.”

The opportunity came late at night, and then as quickly as he could he sought the bed upon which Robert lay.

A nurse in passing saw him pause, and stopped to say, “Bob’s gone, Doctor Bell.”

The surgeon bent over the cot. A smoking lamp shed a yellow light over the fair face on the coarse pillow. Fair it was, but not with death’s pallor.

No breath seemed to come through the closed lips, however, and Doctor Bell put his hand over his heart.

Then with a start he drew back! The nurse had gone on, he was alone!

Again he bent close. A faint flutter stirred against his hand, and _under a bandage bound firmly around the body_!

Doctor Bell rose to his feet. “Nurse,” he said sharply, “help me bear this—boy—to my tent, I’m going to save—him!”

It was the hardest struggle the young surgeon ever had. He gave up the long looked for furlough, and beside his other duties cared for and watched the boy in whom he had grown so interested. No hand but his operated on the ghastly wound, or touched the suffering body afterward.

For two days Shirtliffe knew not what was passing around him, but on the third day at sunset he became conscious.

Doctor Bell was beside him, his finger upon the weak pulse.

As memory returned a puzzled, then a horrified expression grew upon Robert’s face.

His eyes fastened themselves upon the physician’s bowed head, and a tremor shook him like a chill.

“What will become of me?” he groaned.

“Nothing;” the calm voice filled the quiet place.

“Get well now, as soon as you can be moved I am going to take you to my mother!”

“But, but—”

“It is all right. Trust me.”

In a few days Shirtliffe’s splendid constitution regained its tone, and he began to improve rapidly. Then Doctor Bell further surprised those who had time to observe him by giving up his comparatively comfortable quarters to the lad he had saved from death. How Robert appreciated this considerate act, no one but himself could know. To meet the surgeon as seldom as he now did, was torture untold. He knew that he must speak, but day after day he put off the painful task. At the close of the second week, one day, Doctor Bell came in to make his accustomed call; he saw at a glance that Shirtliffe had reached the uttermost bound of endurance and with a courtesy for which his memory should be enshrined, he took the boy’s thin feverish fingers and said simply:

“Your bravery and courage must win the respect of all. You have served your country nobly. Why you entered the army under a false name, you best know, I respect your reasons and thank you for the service you have rendered.”

Robert bowed his head and wept over the friendly hand.

“And now,” the sympathetic voice sank lower, “what may I call you?”

“Just Debby Mason!” For a moment not a sound broke the silence but the sobs from the figure now kneeling at the feet of the doctor.

Then very calmly the man’s voice went on: “Debby Mason, Washington has sent for you to thank you for what you did at Trenton, He will probably promote you for bravery; of course, you cannot remain in the army, it now is left for you or me to explain why an honorable discharge should be given you. Which one of us shall do it?”

Poor Debby could face death, had done so many times; she could bear cold and suffering but the idea of facing her hero and _explain_ to him her awful deceit, was more than she could dare. But Debby was no coward even in this extremity,—availing herself of one of the privileges of her almost forgotten sex, she found a new way out:

“Write it for me,” she begged, half smiling through her tears, “write it all, then I will take it and bear my punishment like—a man!”

“And afterward?” Doctor Bell questioned, “have you a home? any where to go?”

“No.” The one word echoed through the early twilight like a moan.

“I had only one on earth to love—I followed him to the war—my father lies in an unknown grave near Boston—he died on my arm—but he never knew!”

Something blurred the surgeon’s eyes.

“And then,” in Debby’s low voice there was little left of Shirtliffe’s bravado, “there was one other, a young man in the British army—he looked so like me that my own father could not tell one from the other. That boy was looking for—Debby Mason—he died—by—my—bullet”—a dry sob choked the words—“but I have his mother’s address. I think—from bits of an old story—and from his strange likeness—that that mother will have something to tell—me. But”—and a shudder passed over Debby, “how can I break the news to her, that even in self defence—I took her boy’s life?”

The broken talk had interested Doctor Bell so much that now, when the tale was ended he drew a long sigh of relief. His thoughts were becoming burdensome. Strange relationships between British and American families were not as uncommon to his experience as to simple Debby’s. He saw in the girl before him a heroine of no every day romance, and he meant to see the end of it. She had become an object of absorbing concern to him during the last few weeks, and he did not intend to let her slip out of his life without an effort to restrain her.

“I will write a full explanation, Debby,” he said, “we can trust General Washington’s good heart. After you have seen him, come back to me. I am going to take you to my mother, she is expecting you; and then we will write to England.”