From Kingdom to Colony
hev to do be to get to us. An' get to us they will, 'though the meadow
be grass-grown with redcoats, an' the King hisself 'mongst 'em."
"D--n the King and all his redcoats!" came hoarsely from another man;
and then the talk was stopped by a faint sound from the water.
Doak commanded the men to keep perfectly silent, for only the keenest
alertness could catch what the wind now brought to them. It was the
faintest imaginable noise of working oars; and it sent a shudder, like
a great sigh, through the waiting group.
Mary Broughton felt her pulses thrill as the sound became more
distinct; and she glanced nervously about, and back of her,--at the
dark woods on the one hand, the frowning rock-piles on the other, and
at the sweep of clear meadows in the rear.
"Draw aside, Mistress Mary, do ye now, please," Doak urged, laying his
hand upon her arm. "Get over there close by the rocks. For if so be
there comes any surprise from the Britishers, 'twill surely be from the
back of us, here; an' in such case ye'll be safe an' clear from 'em, or
from flyin' bullets, if ye get behind the rocks."
She felt the wisdom of this advice, and silently complied, while he
went forward to the men, now drawn down close to the water's edge.
The next moment he sent a likely-to-be-understood signal out over the
water. It was the curlew's cry, which he imitated perfectly; and while
it rang out softly, it was clear and penetrating.
There was a second of silence, save for the wind, and the rippling of
the waves upon the shingle; then came a like cry from out the darkness,
and seeming nearer than had the sound of the oars.
"Now, then, lads, face 'bout, an' watch afore ye!" Doak commanded, his
voice now strong with excitement; and pushing through them until he
reached the very edge of the water, he sent back another call,--loud,
clear, and fearless in its sound.
The other men, with faces turned inland, stood with listening ears and
keen eyes, each gripping his gun, ready to repel the onslaught of any
lurking enemy that might be awaiting a favorable moment to swoop down
upon them.
Following close upon Doak's second call there came the unmistakable
sound of rapidly working oars. Then a sizable lump of dark shadow
showed, speeding toward the beach, and soon defining its shape into
that of a large rowboat.
Crouched closely against the rocks, and listening with checked
breathing, Mary Broughton almost cried aloud as a step startled her.
Then looking intently at the form drawing near, she recognized it, and
said quickly, with a deep sigh of relief, "Oh, Dorothy!"
"Yes, Mary--is that you?" The speaker came closer and asked eagerly,
"Are those our own men down there on the shore, and was it the boat
they were signalling with the curlew's cry?"
"Yes, and the boat is nigh in. But whatever have you been up to, Dot,
and who was the man you went off with, and where is he now?"
To this fusillade of questions Dorothy only replied with a laugh. Then
she asked in turn, "Where is Johnnie Strings?"
"No one knows," Mary answered. "'T is old Doak down there with the
men." And she added with a little impatience, "But why don't you tell
me, Dot--what has become of that man?"
Dorothy laughed once more. "I have been locking him away, out of
mischief; and now he's as safe as if he had stopped where he belonged,
instead of coming to prowl about here at this hour of the night. It
was the Britisher, Mary,--the same one who gave us such a turn this
morning. He mistook me for my own brother, and I improved the chance
to lead him away by the nose."
"But how?" Mary asked in astonishment. "What do you mean by all this,
and what have you done with him?"
"I made him think that I could show him somewhat of importance to his
cause; and so I lured him up into father's new cattle-shed, in the
ten-acre lot, and I bolted him in there safely enough, unless he should
manage to break the bar that holds the door. I could not lock it, for
Trent has the key; but I should think the bar was strong enough to hold
the door--at least until the arms be safely landed and stowed away."
"Then he was all alone?" Mary inquired, still too full of anxiety to
make any present comment upon Dot's exploit.
"Yes, all alone."
"What did he say to you?"
"Say!" Dorothy exclaimed with a little laugh. "Oh, he said a good many
things. He spoke most glibly of Mistress Dorothy Devereux; and he told
me that if I'd say my name was the same as hers, he'd go away, and not
inspect more closely the goings on he had overseen, and which he
admitted were not to his liking."
"Dot!" And Mary's tone was distinctly reproachful.
"Well," almost defiantly, "he did say all that, and more too."
"But," asked Mary, "did he not find you out--that you were a girl
masquerading in boy's apparel?"
"Not he," with another laugh. "And I trust he never will, after the
hoydenish manner of speech I thought it best to use in keeping up my
character. He took me for a young brother of Mistress Dorothy
Devereux, I tell you."
"Yes," Mary said musingly, as if to herself, "and I pray no harm may
come of it."
"Harm!" Dorothy exclaimed, quick in her own justification. "What harm
can come of it? I take it as a most lucky thing that I was able to get
him out of the way. Had I not done so, then you might have had
something to say about harm."
"He would have been taken prisoner by our men, had he stayed about
here," Mary asserted confidently, "and would have been shot, had he
made any disturbance. And that would have been just what he deserved."
Her usually gentle voice sounded unnaturally hard.
"Oh, Mary," her friend cried, regardless of who might be within
hearing, "how can you speak so harshly--and he such a handsome young
gallant?"
"What is it to us, whether he be handsome or ill-favored?" was Mary's
sharp retort. "What interest have you in him?"
"I should be sorry if he were hurt." And Dorothy's tone was almost
tender by comparison with that of her companion.
"Shame on you, Dot!" Mary said in a low voice, but quite fiercely.
"How can you talk so, and he a hateful Britisher?"
But before Dorothy could reply, the sound of a boat's keel grating on
the sand turned their thoughts to different matters.
"They are in!" exclaimed Dot, exultantly. "And safe!"
"Aye--safe so far," Mary murmured. She was still uncomfortable, and
suspicious of some danger lurking in the darkness about them.
CHAPTER XV
The men were gathered around the boat, shutting it away from the two
girls; and the moon's light, now grown silvery, was touching the group
in a way to make all their movements visible.
"Mary," said Dorothy, "do you go to the beach and ask Jack to come here
to me. I must tell him somewhat; and then let us go to the house."
And Mary, nothing loath, complied at once.
A few of the men were rapidly removing the arms and powder, which were
well wrapped in oilskins; and two sailors from the "Pearl" were
waiting, ready to pull out again the instant the cargo was landed.
Another boat, similarly laden, was approaching the beach; and near it,
in a dory by himself, was the missing pedler.
Upon escaping from Southorn, he had betaken himself to the causeway,
dragged one of the Devereux dories across from Riverhead Beach to the
open sea on the other side, and then set out to find the incoming boats
and report the recent occurrence.
This he had done successfully; and John Devereux, now standing among
the men and conversing, with Doak, knew nearly all there was to be
told, while Hugh Knollys was coming in with the second boatload.
So intent was the young man upon what was going on about him that he
did not see Mary until she had spoken to him; but at sound of her low
voice he turned quickly and came toward her.
There was sufficient light for her to see the eager gladness in his
face as he stood before her, his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, and the
curling locks blowing riotously about his brows.
"Mary," was all he said; but his voice was filled with something she
had never heard there before.
"Dorothy wishes to speak with you at once," she replied, the faint
light giving her courage to keep her eyes upraised to his, for his
voice and manner made her heart tremulous.
He drew her hand within his arm, and as they turned away from the shore
his other hand stole up and clasped the small soft fingers that rested
so lightly upon his sleeve; and he felt them tremble as his own closed
more tightly about them.
"Mary," he said once more, and she lifted her face to meet the eyes she
felt were bent upon it.
His face was shadowed by his hat-brim; but she could feel his heart
beating against the arm he pressed closely to his side, and she could
hear how hard and fast he was breathing.
Making no answer, she only looked at him, until without a word he bent
his head and kissed her.
"Why, John!" and her voice was well-nigh choked by mingled
embarrassment and joy. "Dorothy will see you."
"Aye," he said stoutly; "and I hope she may, and all else in the world
see me doing a like thing many times."
They had now come to a halt, and he said impetuously: "I cannot wait
another minute, sweetheart, to tell you that I love you; only you
surely knew it long ago. But what I do not know, and must know at
once, is whether my love is returned."
Her only answer was, "Dorothy is near,--just behind these rocks; come
and speak to her first."
"Not one step will I go until you tell me what I ask," he declared
firmly. "I have spoken to your father; and I have his consent and
blessing, if you will listen to me. So," pleadingly, "tell me,
Mary--sweetheart; tell me, do you love me well enough to be my wife?"
A softly breathed "Yes" stole to his ears as Mary bent her head down on
his arm. But he raised the glowing face in his hands, and looked a
long moment at what he saw revealed by the faint light of the stars.
Then, with a fervent "Thank God!" he bent once more, and laid his lips
on hers; and without another word they passed quickly over the few
yards to the rock-pile, where a boyish figure stood whistling.
John Devereux started back and exclaimed, "Where is Dorothy? I thought
she was here."
"I _am_ here, Jack, awaiting your pleasure," a saucy voice replied; and
Mary felt her cheeks burn, for something in Dorothy's tone told her
that her own precious secret was known.
"Dorothy, what is the meaning of all this?" her brother asked, giving
her the full name, and trying to speak with severity. All that Johnnie
Strings had told him was of a boy tossing the lanterns over the rocks,
as indeed the pedler supposed to be the fact.
"See here, Jack," she said earnestly, "don't scold me now. You can do
it just as well to-morrow, and Mary and I wish to get to the house.
But before I go I must tell you there is a certain gentleman locked in
the new shed, in the ten-acre lot; and when the powder and arms are
safe, you had best get him out."
"Who put him there?" he asked in amazement.
"I did," was the answer.
"You, Dot--what for?"
"To keep him from finding out what you had rather he did not know.
Only you must promise not to let him be hurt, and that you will release
him as soon as you unfasten the door."
"Who is he--do you know?" And he did not speak so good-naturedly as
his sister would have liked.
"He is a redcoat,--one of the soldiers quartered over on the Neck,"
said Mary Broughton, now speaking for the first time. "He came upon
Dot and me at the Sachem's Cave this morning, and he has been prowling
about the place to-night. 'T was he who surprised Johnnie Strings, and
caused Dot to put out the signal-lights."
Mary spoke with animation, almost anger, for she felt a bit indignant