Under the wintry sun Morley lay sleeping, and beside him sat Robert, lost in dazed thought. There were two messages now for Debby Mason, and there was a report to make to General Washington. He must be up and doing. But still he sat there with his eyes fastened on the young face smiling so placidly in its unbroken sleep.
CHAPTER IX.
THE LAST OF MOLLY.
Long did Shirtliffe sit beside Morley, repeating the messages over and again. No fear of forgetting them, he could remember naught else. As the day wore on he began to realize his condition and he knew if he ever expected to reach Washington’s army, he must move on. In the distance he heard heavy firing and the sound guided him. He felt sure that the Americans had met the reinforcements coming from Princeton and that a battle was in progress. The thought stirred his blood, and he struggled to his feet, gave a last glance at Morley and went on mumbling to himself, “Tell Debby Mason!” Weaker and weaker he grew and as his mind cleared, a sense of his danger absorbed him. Was this death? This strange, unusual weakness? At any moment he might fall and be unable to rise.
The firing was growing less, the battle perhaps was over, fleeing parties of either friend or foe might soon be passing.
Never had life seemed so precious, as now when it was going so fast. Dimly he recalled how he had saved one bullet for this hour, should he use it now? Oh! no. “Help! help!” he sobbed, falling on his knees, “help! help!” He had walked further than he had realized, and the men who in the morning had left the deserted camp without him, later in the day missed him, and were even now searching the woods in hope of tracing him. They heard his weak cry from afar, and, guided by the second call, reached his side a moment after he had fallen.
“It’s Molly!” said one of the two men who found him, “look at the blood!” cried the other, “the boy is terribly wounded.”
“This is an ugly wound,” said the first, noticing the dry blood, “here, take his feet, Hall, let’s get him to the surgeon’s. He stayed behind to beat the drum, didn’t he? Brave little chap, I suppose the devils found and shot him.”
Very slowly and tenderly the men bore their burden to the rough field hospital, and the surgeons in attendance, after a hasty examination, said quietly: “The boy is done for; make him comfortable over yonder, there is nothing else to do for him, poor fellow.” Their hands were too full to permit of them wasting time over uncertain cases.
So it was that Robert was laid upon a rough cot, covered with a coarse blanket and left to pass out of life as calmly as he might. One of the surgeons, however, did not forget him. He was a young man, full of ambition and was to return in a week to Philadelphia with a record of bravery and courage to cheer him during his furlough of rest. As he went about his duties, Shirtliffe’s white face haunted him, “There might be a chance for the boy,” he thought, “as soon as I can I will take a look at him again.”
The opportunity came late at night, and then as quickly as he could he sought the bed upon which Robert lay.