The Noank's Log Part 5

There were other vessels preparing and some were already at sea. The year, therefore, promised to be a busy one for New London. So it did in a number of other American ports, and it behooved Great Britain to increase, if she could, the number and efficiency of her cruisers.

One continual black shadow rested over the port and town, and that was the great probability of a British attack, at no distant day.

"They've their hands pretty full, just now," people said. "The winter isn't their best time, either, but some day or other we shall see a fleet out yonder, and redcoats and Hessians and Tories boating ash.o.r.e."

It was an entirely reasonable prediction, but its fulfilment was to be almost unaccountably postponed. When its hour arrived, at last, nearly two years later, New London was in ashes and Fort Griswold was a slaughter-pen.

"Mother," said Guert, on his return to the house from one of his visits to the _Noank_. "I wish you could go with us to the West Indies, the Antilles. Think of it! Summer all the while!"

"But no oranges, or lemons, or pineapples just now," she said laughingly. "I mean to go, some day. Perhaps you will take me in your own ship."

"Any ship of mine will be your ship," he said. "I wish I had some money to leave with you, now. It's awful to think of your being poor."

"Our New York farm will be of no use to us," she said, "until the king's troops leave the island. I shall be very comfortable here, though, except that I shall all the while be waiting for you to come home again."

Very brave was she, under her somewhat difficult circ.u.mstances. All the New London people were kind, especially the Averys, but she expected to be poor in purse for some time to come. As to that, however, she had a surprise in store. That very evening, after dark, Up-na-tan lingered in the kitchen.

"Chief see ole woman," he said. "See n.o.body but Guert mother."

No sooner were they alone than he pulled from under his captured military cloak a small purse, and handed it to her.

"No Kidd money," he said. "Lobster money. Pay ole woman for King George take farm."

She hesitated a moment, and then she exclaimed:--

"G.o.d sent it, I do believe! I'll take it. You won't need it at sea."

"Up-na-tan no want money," he replied contemptuously. "Ole chief go fight. Come back. Go to ole woman house. Own house. Money belong to ole woman."

"Thank you!" she said.

"No," grumbled the Indian; "no thank at all. Up-na-tan good!"

So the conference ended, for he stalked out of the house, and she examined the purse.

"Nearly twenty pounds, of all sorts," she said. "Now I needn't borrow of Rachel for ever so long. I want to let Guert know. He will feel better."

The Indian had but obeyed the simple rules of his training. Any kind of game, however captured, was for the squaw of his wigwam to administer. Her business would be to provide for the hunter as best she could. In former days he had always been free of the Ten Eyck house and farm. It was his. The game he had recently taken was in the form of gold and silver, but there could be no question as to what he was bound to do with it.

Neither he or his Ashantee comrade were inclined to spend much time on sh.o.r.e. Hardly anything could induce them to come away from the keen pleasure they were having in the handling and stowage of much powder and shot. The varied weapons which they examined and put in order were as so many jewels, to be fondly admired and even patted.

If Mrs. Ten Eyck had anything else to depress her spirits she tried not to let Guert know it. All her table talk, when he was there, was br.i.m.m.i.n.g with warlike patriotism. Nevertheless, he was her only son and she was a widow. She could not but wish, at times, that he were a soldier instead of a sailor, to belong to the quiet garrison of Fort Griswold, for instance, and to come over to the Avery house now and then.

He was sent for, somewhat peremptorily, one day, not by her but by Rachel Tarns, and when he arrived she herself opened the door for him.

"I am glad thee came so early," she said to him. "I have somewhat to say to thee. Come in, hither."

Very dignified was she, at any time, and he was accustomed to obey her without asking needless questions. He followed her, therefore, as she led on into the parlor, opposite the dining room, the main thought in his mind being:--

"I wish she'd hurry up with it. I want to get back to the _Noank_, as soon as I've seen mother."

"What is it?" he began, after the door of the parlor closed behind them, but she cut him short.

"I will not quite tell thee," she said. "Some things thee does not need to know. Thy old friend, Maud Wolcott, will be here presently.

One cometh with her to whom I forbid thee to speak. After they arrive, thou art to do as I shall then direct thee."

"All right," said Guert. "I don't care who it is. I'll be glad to see Maud, though. She's about the best girl I know. Pretty, too."

Hardly were the words out of his mouth before there came a jingle of sleighbells in the road, and it ceased before the house.

"Remain thee here," said Rachel, as she arose and hurried out.

Guert obeyed, but he went to a window and he saw a trim-looking, two-seated sleigh. A man he did not know was. .h.i.tching the horse to the post near the gate. The sleigh had brought a full load of pa.s.sengers, all women.

"That's Maud Wolcott," exclaimed Guert. "The girl that's with her is taller than she is, and she's all m.u.f.fled up. I can't see her face.

How Maud did jump out o' that cutter! The two others are old women.

Rachel knows 'em."

The first girl out of the sleigh was in the house quickly. She came like a flash into the parlor and, as her hood flew back, a ma.s.s of brown curls went tumbling down over her shoulders.

"Guert!" she said, breathlessly. "I'm so glad you're here! We were told you were going."

"We're going!" said Guert. "We're bound for the West Indies. We've taken one British ship, already. I'm a privateer, Maud! Oh! but ain't I glad to see you again. It's like old times!"

"You're growing," she said. "I wish I could go to sea, or fight the British. We haven't any chance to talk, now."

He might be very glad, but, after all, he seemed a little afraid, and a kind of bashfulness grew upon him as he shook hands with her. She must have been a year younger than he was,--but then, she was so very pretty, and he was only a boy.

Half a dozen questions and answers went back and forth between them, as between old acquaintances, near neighbors. Then the parlor door opened to let in Rachel Tarns and the "all m.u.f.fled up" girl who had been in the sleigh with Maud. She did not speak to anybody, but went and sat down, silently, at the other window of the parlor.

"Guert," said Rachel, "sit thee down here, by me and Maud. Thee will talk only of what I bid thee, and thee will ask no foolish questions."

"All right," said Guert. "What is it you want me to say? Maud hasn't told me, yet, half o' what I want to know."

"If thee were older," she said, "thee would have more good sense. I have a reason that I will not tell thee. I wish thee to give me a full account of all thy dealings with that brave man, Nathan Hale. Thee saw him die, and there is no other that knoweth many things that are well known to thee."

"I hate to tell everything," he said.

"Thee must!" exclaimed Rachel. "Thee will not leave out a word that he spake or a deed that he did."

Something flashed brightly into the quick mind of Guert just then. He could not exactly shape it, but it came when he caught the sound of a low sob from under the veil of the girl at the other window. "I'll begin where I first saw him," he said.

He did not at all know after that how his boyish enthusiasm helped him to draw his word pictures of Captain Hale's daring scout work, of boat and land adventures by night and day, in company with him and Up-na-tan and Coco. He told it more rapidly and vividly as a kind of excitement spurred him. He did not know that beyond the half-open door of the next room his mother and several other persons were listening. Two of them had come in the cutter with Maud, and yet another sleigh had brought visitors to the Avery house. There were to be very loving and tenacious memories to treasure all that he was telling.

Guert came at last, sorrowfully, more slowly, to the tragic end of all in the old orchard near the East River. He told of the troops, and the crowd, and the tree, and he repeated the last words of the hero who perished there.

"That I can give but one life for Liberty!" he said, and there his own voice choked him, while a whisper from beyond the door said softly: "Glory! Glory! Glory!"

Throughout Guert's narrative, there had been something almost painful in the forward-leaning eagerness of the veiled girl at the window. She was standing now, and a sigh that was more a sob broke from her as she held out to him a hand with something that she was grasping tightly.