“Cut the traces,” directed General Greene, regretfully; “we must leave them, I suppose.”
While the traces were being cut another charge was made by the enemy’s horsemen. The rear-guard under Tom had crossed the ford, and met the charge with steady courage. The deadly rifles spoke with flaming tongues, and once more the dragoons fell back. This time, however, they had approached nearer, and as they were scattering to run Tom caught sight of a face which caused him to start with surprise and then clap spurs to Sultan in reckless pursuit.
It was Mark Harwood, in a British uniform, dismounted by the rifle fire and racing desperately to escape. But a dozen bounds of the big chestnut placed Tom alongside his enemy; with a drawn pistol held to his head Mark paused, his face deathly white.
“Mercy,” he gasped. “Tom, have mercy.”
“You are my prisoner,” said Tom, sternly.
“No, no,” cried Mark. “Morgan or Greene would hang me. Let me go. I’ll do whatever you say. I’ll tell you where your father is—I know you’ve been anxious about him.”
“Where is he?” Tom’s heart beat hard. Since the night of the battle in the bay he had heard nothing of his father and had spent many hours and days brooding upon his fate.
“Promise you’ll let me go free,” demanded the Tory, “and I’ll tell you.”
“I promise,” said Tom.
“He was taken on board the frigate Benbow, which sailed for New York some time ago.”