“Have you parents?”
“I have no one sir.”
“You are a brave lad, and worthy of your country. Report to me as soon as you can”—the clear eyes grew misty—“you and these other loyal fellows shall be rewarded according to the quality of your sacrifice.”
They saluted gravely. Then the stealthy arrangements began. Silently through the night, the men marched away bearing the stores and ammunition.
On their beats the British sentinels marched to and fro, feeling sure of the enemy.
And during those long solemn hours a handful of men kept alive the fires in the deserted camp, and a weary, but unflinching boy, beat almost constantly upon his drum. His feet pained him piteously and his stiff fingers could barely grasp the sticks, but his heart was staunch and true. As the night wore away his exhausted brain grew unsteady. All memories came to haunt him, and fill the empty hours.
He saw a still form beside a lonely road, he heard the last words of the dying man, “Go to Plymouth and find Debby Mason, tell her that her father died like a soldier!”
He could never find Debby now, perhaps. Ere another day had passed he too might be lying dead. He might never find the boy for whom he had searched since he left New England, never know the story!
Something like a sob mingled with the drum beats.
March British sentinels at your posts!