“Oh! if it had only been my drum! Oh! if I had only been in time!” A sob shook the eager voice, “but go on, go on, I am a fool to stop you.”
“About five in the morning the drum rang out, but only seventy men stood by Mason then. Up came Pitcairn with his fellows. ‘Ye villains!’ he shouted, ‘throw down your arms!’ He spoke to them as if they were dogs, but Mason and his band stood firm. Pitcairn then aimed his pistol and yelled ‘fire!’ Sixteen of Mason’s party dropped like one man.”
Shirtliffe staggered to his feet, “And afterward, when it was over, where was Mason?”
“Everyone thought him dead. He was seen falling, but he was not among the killed, nor among them who got away. A good many beside you, Molly, would like to know where the brave old fellow is to-day.”
Robert turned from the group, one thought filling his mind; he must find Mason; until he had done that nothing mattered.
The camp was in great excitement. Floating rumors came now and then to the effect that General Washington was on his way to rescue them, but nothing definite could be learned. Cold weather and lack of food had caused much suffering during the Winter, and all that kept the patriotic hope and life together was the possibility of the new General getting there in time to save them from the British, then holding Boston, should they descend upon them in their weakened state.
Robert, inured to cold and hunger, had borne up under the siege wonderfully, he was stronger than many, more able to undertake a difficult or dangerous task, he then, must exert himself to find the missing hero and bring him back to honor and reward!
Day after day the desire grew upon him, and he sought in various ways to elude those in command, and get out upon the roads leading to Boston and see if he could find any trace of his man. One day he succeeded in escaping the watchful eye of a sick and half-frozen sentry and gained a road upon which he had never been before. It was a bitter day in March, and to keep his blood in circulation, the boy stamped his feet and beat his hands noisily as he went along. Suddenly a voice checked him:
“What—you—doing, hic—give the countersign—hic—or I’ll shoot!” Robert’s heart stood still. A little beyond, by the roadside, leaning heavily against a tree for support, stood Mason, the hero patriot, the long lost man whom even General Lee wished to honor!
But a sad spectacle he was now. Half drunk, his old Continental uniform in rags under a long English great coat, and a British officer’s cap set sidewise on his matted hair.