“I would that people did not make so much of so small a thing!”
“Nay, but it was no small deed,” insisted Stephen, “and the risk was really great, as we all know. There is no hope of success in your effort to make light of what you did, the grateful tongue of your Cousin Betsey drowns all you can say.”
“It is so,” answered the boy with a sigh. “Did you ever know a woman so feeble of body, yet so untiring of speech? I sometimes think it is small wonder that the British were so willing to let her pass.”
“For shame, Miles,” laughed Clotilde, coming at this moment round the corner of Stephen’s great chair. “You do a gallant deed and then seek to spoil it by such ungallant words.”
Miles’ face lighted happily as he rose to greet her, but dropped once more into gloom as he sat down again. For a few moments he remained silent, gazing into the fire, and then burst out into hurried and determined speech.
“You cannot know, Master Sheffield,” he said, “how terrible it is to be praised by all for a deed whose memory brings me only rage and shame. People call me brave when really I have done nothing save to prove that I am the greatest and most blundering fool in General Washington’s army. I came hither with the firm determination that you, at least, and Clotilde, should know the truth of this adventure, since to you alone I can speak freely. Ah, I could beat my head against the wall when I think of what a booby I have been.”
“Tell on, boy,” directed Stephen, smiling, “but allow us to reserve judgment until we know all.”
He leaned back in his chair, pulling at his long tobacco pipe while Clotilde bent forward in hers, with her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Miles drew a long sigh of relief, and began.
“My mother had spoken and written to me, more than once, of the plight of her cousins who were alone and helpless in Boston and in great distress. The British have been allowing the women and the non-combatants to go forth, but held back all the able-bodied men, so these two were free to go but, the mother being ill and the daughter timid, the task of passing the lines alone seemed more than they could undertake. The matter of coming to them looked hopeless for a time, but in the end was simple enough. Certain market gardeners, living on the outskirts of Boston but within the besieged circle, still sell their wares in the town, and most welcome they are. One of these gardeners is David Thurston’s brother, and, although the man himself is with our army, his wife is carrying on the business to keep herself and the children from starving. To this house, therefore, I stole in the night, was given the clothes of the gardener’s boy and, in broad daylight, drove into the town, mounted on a load of turnips and cabbages. Faith, soldiers and civilians alike were so glad to see aught that they could eat, that they had no eyes for the lad who brought it.”
“It was something of an undertaking,” commented Stephen. “You ran the risk of being arrested as a spy, which is no pleasant fate.”