Then Marched the Brave Part 9

Andy followed gladly. It was the course, the only course, of wisdom.

He ate ravenously, and drank a quart of rich milk. Ruth was busied in the room above, and when the meal was finished Andy joined her.

"Now," she smiled, "everything is ready." He found a pail of hot water, and some of the minister's clothing lay on a chair. "They'll have to do, Andy, until I can wash and dry yours," said Ruth.

"What matters?" answered Andy. "If I sleep I shall not mind the rest."

"I know. You must only obey now, Andy. Remember I love to do my share!"

Tears stood in her brave eyes, and Andy understood.

Andy fell asleep almost at once. The hot bath took the pain from his sore body, the clean, worn linen was cool and soothing, and the droning of the bees in the near-by hives hushed sorrow and weariness into deep oblivion.

And while he dreamed of peaceful walks with the master under sunny skies, and smiled in the dreaming, Ruth had summoned Janie, and the mother sat waiting patiently the awakening. There was much to tell and more to do. But Andy dreamed on.

Four o'clock! The tall clock in the living-room spoke loudly. Andy stirred and muttered something, then slept again.

Five o'clock! The boy sat up on the narrow bed and stared into his mother's face.

Janie never flinched, though his pallor and the cut on his forehead made her heart ache.

"Mother, I must get to Was.h.i.+ngton at once. I--I have a message."

"Yes, son."

"I do not fear death. It comes but once!"

"Yes, Andy, lad. But I'm thinking you'll not be meeting death just now.

It looks like you were singled out to live and act for all my old misgivings. G.o.d forgive me."

She bowed her head and it rested on Andy's shoulder. Stern Janie had never done such a thing before, and even at the moment Andy was touched and moved. He smoothed the hair away from the pale face, and gently, lovingly kissed his mother.

"There are strange happenings, Andy," she sighed.

"There are, indeed," he agreed.

"But things about which you know nothing, lad, and--and I must tell you before you go. Get up; dress, son. Ruth and I have made decent your own clothing. I can talk better while you move about. I cannot bear your eyes, my lad." Andy arose at once and began his dressing, keeping his face turned from his mother, but her own was rigidly set toward the window.

"Your father has come back, Andy!"

A strange pause, then:

"My father!" Andy had dropped into a chair. The sentence had deprived him of strength to stand. He knew his mother never wasted words, or made rash statements. His father had come back! And Andy did not know that his father was alive. In fact, knew nothing of him, and that struck him for the first time with stunning force. Janie's back was straight and firm.

"Yes, your father. I kept it all from you. I meant to tell you some day, Andy, but time pa.s.sed and you asked no questions, and I--I thought everything was past and gone forever. But he has come back."

"Where is he?" asked Andy.

"At home. He has been hurt, and is feverish and ill. He was doing sentinel duty for--for the British, and he received a terrible blow from some one in a cave. I cannot tell what is best to do, Andy, and I must look to you for help."

Somehow Andy had gotten to his feet, and staggered across the little room to his mother. Almost roughly he seized her hand, while the awful truth unfolded itself from the dense darkness of the past.

"Say that again!" he commanded. Janie looked at him in amazement.

"Say what!" she asked.

"That about the blow, and--and the cave!"

Janie repeated it, wondering why that detail should so interest Andy.

"You see," she continued, not heeding his horrified look, "I married your father when I was very young. I look older than I be, lad. He brought me nothing but trouble. He was above me in station. He belonged to his majesty's regiment stationed here, and when the regiment was recalled he went--back! Little he cared for the girl he left or the baby that bore his name! I managed, and neighbors helped me to forget, and--and I could not tell you Andy. I hoped I never would be obliged to."

"Go on!" Andy still held his mother's hand, but with infinite gentleness now. Tears stood in Janie's eyes, and the human need for sympathy met an answering thrill in the heart of the son.

"He--he saw you yesterday at the pa.s.s, Andy, when they made you guide them after the troops, and your face frightened him. He says you look so like his mother, that it is just terrible. She has recently died, and her memory and the thought that his son might be alive and here, gave him a bad turn. He asked your name, and as I kept my own name after he deserted me, he guessed the truth, and as soon as he could break away from the others he came to me--and--that is all, Andy. But what shall I do?"

Andy tried to think. Tried to bring events into orderly line and coherence, but the more he tried the more detached he felt, and as if the whole matter was one with which he had nothing to do.

"I was so young, Andy, lad, only seventeen!" When had Janie ever pleaded before?

"Yes," murmured Andy. "I am nearly seventeen now. Seventeen years are long--sometimes. But, of course, you were very young."

"And I had no one to guide me, Andy. I was alone. I have always been alone, and it has been hard." A sob rose to the trembling lips. Andy looked at his mother, and, oddly enough through all the bewilderment, thought that she had a beauty he had never noticed before.

"You were handsome, too," he whispered. Janie started.

"Yes," she replied. "I suppose I was, then. Your voice is like his. It always was, Andy. That was one reason that at times I could not bear it.

Oh, Andy! it is no easy matter to be a lonely woman!" The cry smote the listener, and his growing manhood reached out to her.

"Mother, you are not alone. You have me. I will come back to you, stand by you, and we will see what is best to do. I must go on my errand, and I think you ought to go to--to father!" The word nearly choked him.

"But suppose anything should happen to you?" Janie clung to the hand of this new, strange, but well-loved son, "whatever shall I do?

"I think I shall come back to you. I think I am needed, and it seems clear to me that I shall come back." Andy smiled into the troubled face, and tried to rouse himself into action.

"If you should fall into the hands of the British," whispered Janie, "tell them you are the son of Lieutenant Theodore Martin; it may help you, son."

"Your name is my name!" Andy proudly broke in. "I never shall seek favor through any other. If they take me, they take Andy McNeal, and if I come back I shall come bearing that name, until my mother bids me take another!"

Janie bowed her head. It had been her first, only weak att.i.tude toward her country.

"You are right," she quivered. "But I fear for you."

Presently his mother left him. He and she had work to do, and it must be done apart. A few minutes after she was gone, Ruth came up bearing a tray of food. She was limping painfully, and Andy, sitting by the window lost in thought, got to his feet in alarm. "You are hurt!" he cried. A smile spread over the girl's pale face.

"I'm a depraved sinner!" she said, setting the tray on a stand and dropping into a chair. "After the war is over I shall repent and take up G.o.dly ways. For the present I am a lost soul, and given over to Satan.

Andy, the lie I told yesterday about the river road was the beginning of my downfall. How easily we glide downhill."

"'Twas the only thing to do, Ruth," nodded Andy. "I think such a lie grows innocent from the start. It was the object, Ruth. What else could you have done? It puzzles me sore to try and explain. I just leave the lie to G.o.d. He will understand."