CHAPTER XIV
Mary Broughton was where Dorothy suspected her to be; and standing well back among the deeper shadows, she had been straining her eyes to see all that took place on the rocky platform above the cave.
She marvelled greatly at the lengthy converse Dorothy seemed to be holding with the stranger, after Johnnie Strings disappeared over the side of the rocks in the direction of Riverhead Beach; and she had started out of the wood, half determined to go and meet the younger girl, when she saw her leaving the peak.
A prudent afterthought led her to draw back again when she saw the two forms swallowed up in the deeper darkness lying at the base of the rocks. Then, hearing steps coming toward her hiding-place, she was on the point of calling out, when Dorothy's words came to her ears, and she remained silent, but still wondering what scheme her friend was pursuing, and who was the stranger with whom she seemed to be upon such excellent terms.
Then came the impulse that she had better find her way to the Black Hole, and tell the waiting party of what had happened; and acting upon this, she set out at once.
She had not gone very far when there came to her the sound of tramping feet; and hastening to get out of the more open part of the wood, she drew aside amongst the denser growth.
She now heard a low-pitched voice singing a snatch of an old song, trolling it off in a rollicking fashion that bespoke the youth of the singer,—
"We hunters who follow the chase, the chase,
Ride ever with care a race, a race.
We care not, we reck not—"
Here the song was silenced by another voice which Mary recognized as that of Doak, an old fisherman, who growled: "Belay that 'ere pipin', Bait. Hev ye no sense, thet ye risk callin' down the reg'lars on us with such a roarin'?"
They were now quite near; and slipping out of the bushes, Mary called out, "Doak, is that you?"
"Who be it?" he demanded quickly, while all the other men came to a halt.
"It is I—Mary Broughton. Don't stop to question me, but listen to what I have to tell you."
She told them in the briefest possible way of what had happened. And in doing this, she deemed it wiser to tell them of Dorothy's disguise, being fearful of what might befall the girl should the men chance to meet her,—more especially as they would now be on the lookout for the stranger, who was doubtless an ill wisher to their scheme.
Doak chuckled mightily over it all, particularly at Mary's description of Dorothy kicking the lanterns off the rock; and several of the other men gave hoarse utterance to their admiration.
"Ev'ry natur' be fitted for its own app'inted work," remarked old Doak, dogmatically. "If Mistress Dorothy had not allers been darin', by the natur' o' things, she'd never a ketched holt o' the right rope so true an' quick as she hev this night,—God bless her!"
Here a younger voice broke in impatiently with, "But, Doak, we ought n't to stand here chatterin' like this."
"True, true, Tommy Harris," the old man replied good-naturedly. "But," turning to Mary, "what shall ye do, Mistress Mary? Hed n't ye best let one o' the boys tek ye to the house? Ye see we be goin' down to the shore to Master John an' the rest of 'em, as was 'greed we should as soon as we saw the 'Pearl' show her light."
Mary said she preferred to go with them. But the old man shook his head, and his companions began to move onward.
"D'ye think 'twould be wise, mistress?" he asked gravely. "Ye see we don't know jest what sort o' work we may find cut out for us,—'specially if the man ye saw throttlin' Johnnie Strings were a British spy, as belike he were, pretty sure." Then he added impatiently, "I wonder where in tarnation Johnnie hev gone to, thet he did n't cut back to tell us?"
"And I am wondering where Dorothy has gone," said Mary, with much anxiety.
"I rather guess ye need hev no fear for her, mistress," Doak made haste to reply. "She be wide awake, I'll bet my head, where'er she be."
"But it seems so strange a thing that she should go off in such fashion," Mary said, by no means satisfied with the old man's confident words.
"She went 'cause she wanted to go; an' she wanted to go 'cause she saw work cut out to do, I warrant ye," declared Doak, with whom the girl had always been a great favorite, since the days he used to take her and Mary Broughton on fishing excursions in his boat. "But as to ye, mistress—"
"It is this way, Doak," she said, interrupting him: "you see I cannot get into the house until I find Dorothy; for she has the key of the only door by which I could enter, except I disturbed every one."
"If ye did thet, Mistress Mary, the father would find out all 'bout the prankin', eh?" And he chuckled knowingly.
"And so 't is best," she went on, paying no attention to him, "that I go along with you until we can see Master John; and he will know what to do."
"Very well, Mistress Mary," Doak said; "come 'long o' me, an' 't will go hard with any man as seeks to molest ye,—though, from what Johnnie Strings told me o' what ye did to the spyin' Britisher this mornin'—"
Here he stopped short, both in speech and walking,—for they had been hurrying to overtake the others, now well in advance—and slapping his thigh, exclaimed: "I hev it, I hev it! What a blind old fool I be, not to hev thought o' thet afore! 'T were sure to be the same devil, or some one he sent, thet ye saw fightin' with Johnnie Strings."
"Do you think so?" asked Mary, surprised that the thought had not occurred to her before. "Whatever should make him come back there at this hour of the night?"
"Spyin', mistress, spyin', as 't is the only business he an' his soldiers be sent down to do hereabouts. Who can say how many of 'em be lyin' 'round this minute, to jump on us?"
Mary glanced about apprehensively, and moved a little closer to the sturdy fisherman's side.
They were now out of the woods, and could discern vaguely in the open field before them the dark forms grouped near the shore, awaiting some signal or sign that might bespeak the expected boats.
Mary and Doak joined the others, and they all stood in silence, watching the black water, now streaked with a narrow bar of sullen red from the eastern sky, where, out of a wild-looking cloud-bank, the moon was just lifting a full, clear disk.
"Can ye see aught?" muttered one stalwart fellow to his nearest neighbor,—the two standing near Mary and old Doak.
"Not I," was the low reply. "Mayhap they won't come at all now, since seein' the lanterns go out."
"Whate'er be ye thinkin' on?" chimed in Doak. "Cap'n Brattle hev brought the stuff down, fast 'nough; an' he won't be for carryin' it over to Salem, under the Gov'nor's nose. 'T is to be brought here; an' here, an' nowhere else, hev they got to land it. They'll only be more on the lookout now—thet's all. They know us to be here, an' all they hev to do be to get to us. An' get to us they will, 'though the meadow be grass-grown with redcoats, an' the King hisself 'mongst 'em."
"D—n the King and all his redcoats!" came hoarsely from another man; and then the talk was stopped by a faint sound from the water.
Doak commanded the men to keep perfectly silent, for only the keenest alertness could catch what the wind now brought to them. It was the faintest imaginable noise of working oars; and it sent a shudder, like a great sigh, through the waiting group.
Mary Broughton felt her pulses thrill as the sound became more distinct; and she glanced nervously about, and back of her,—at the dark woods on the one hand, the frowning rock-piles on the other, and at the sweep of clear meadows in the rear.
"Draw aside, Mistress Mary, do ye now, please," Doak urged, laying his hand upon her arm. "Get over there close by the rocks. For if so be there comes any surprise from the Britishers, 'twill surely be from the back of us, here; an' in such case ye'll be safe an' clear from 'em, or from flyin' bullets, if ye get behind the rocks."
She felt the wisdom of this advice, and silently complied, while he went forward to the men, now drawn down close to the water's edge.
The next moment he sent a likely-to-be-understood signal out over the water. It was the curlew's cry, which he imitated perfectly; and while it rang out softly, it was clear and penetrating.
There was a second of silence, save for the wind, and the rippling of the waves upon the shingle; then came a like cry from out the darkness, and seeming nearer than had the sound of the oars.
"Now, then, lads, face 'bout, an' watch afore ye!" Doak commanded, his voice now strong with excitement; and pushing through them until he reached the very edge of the water, he sent back another call,—loud, clear, and fearless in its sound.
The other men, with faces turned inland, stood with listening ears and keen eyes, each gripping his gun, ready to repel the onslaught of any lurking enemy that might be awaiting a favorable moment to swoop down upon them.
Following close upon Doak's second call there came the unmistakable sound of rapidly working oars. Then a sizable lump of dark shadow showed, speeding toward the beach, and soon defining its shape into that of a large rowboat.
Crouched closely against the rocks, and listening with checked breathing, Mary Broughton almost cried aloud as a step startled her. Then looking intently at the form drawing near, she recognized it, and said quickly, with a deep sigh of relief, "Oh, Dorothy!"
"Yes, Mary—is that you?" The speaker came closer and asked eagerly, "Are those our own men down there on the shore, and was it the boat they were signalling with the curlew's cry?"
"Yes, and the boat is nigh in. But whatever have you been up to, Dot, and who was the man you went off with, and where is he now?"
To this fusillade of questions Dorothy only replied with a laugh. Then she asked in turn, "Where is Johnnie Strings?"
"No one knows," Mary answered. "'T is old Doak down there with the men." And she added with a little impatience, "But why don't you tell me, Dot—what has become of that man?"
Dorothy laughed once more. "I have been locking him away, out of mischief; and now he's as safe as if he had stopped where he belonged, instead of coming to prowl about here at this hour of the night. It was the Britisher, Mary,—the same one who gave us such a turn this morning. He mistook me for my own brother, and I improved the chance to lead him away by the nose."
"But how?" Mary asked in astonishment. "What do you mean by all this, and what have you done with him?"
"I made him think that I could show him somewhat of importance to his cause; and so I lured him up into father's new cattle-shed, in the ten-acre lot, and I bolted him in there safely enough, unless he should manage to break the bar that holds the door. I could not lock it, for Trent has the key; but I should think the bar was strong enough to hold the door—at least until the arms be safely landed and stowed away."
"Then he was all alone?" Mary inquired, still too full of anxiety to make any present comment upon Dot's exploit.
"Yes, all alone."
"What did he say to you?"
"Say!" Dorothy exclaimed with a little laugh. "Oh, he said a good many things. He spoke most glibly of Mistress Dorothy Devereux; and he told me that if I'd say my name was the same as hers, he'd go away, and not inspect more closely the goings on he had overseen, and which he admitted were not to his liking."
"Dot!" And Mary's tone was distinctly reproachful.
"Well," almost defiantly, "he did say all that, and more too."
"But," asked Mary, "did he not find you out—that you were a girl masquerading in boy's apparel?"
"Not he," with another laugh. "And I trust he never will, after the hoydenish manner of speech I thought it best to use in keeping up my character. He took me for a young brother of Mistress Dorothy Devereux, I tell you."
"Yes," Mary said musingly, as if to herself, "and I pray no harm may come of it."
"Harm!" Dorothy exclaimed, quick in her own justification. "What harm can come of it? I take it as a most lucky thing that I was able to get him out of the way. Had I not done so, then you might have had something to say about harm."
"He would have been taken prisoner by our men, had he stayed about here," Mary asserted confidently, "and would have been shot, had he made any disturbance. And that would have been just what he deserved." Her usually gentle voice sounded unnaturally hard.
"Oh, Mary," her friend cried, regardless of who might be within hearing, "how can you speak so harshly—and he such a handsome young gallant?"
"What is it to us, whether he be handsome or ill-favored?" was Mary's sharp retort. "What interest have you in him?"
"I should be sorry if he were hurt." And Dorothy's tone was almost tender by comparison with that of her companion.
"Shame on you, Dot!" Mary said in a low voice, but quite fiercely. "How can you talk so, and he a hateful Britisher?"
But before Dorothy could reply, the sound of a boat's keel grating on the sand turned their thoughts to different matters.
"They are in!" exclaimed Dot, exultantly. "And safe!"
"Aye—safe so far," Mary murmured. She was still uncomfortable, and suspicious of some danger lurking in the darkness about them.