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Page 2
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.
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