“While we steal away under cover of the darkness, others—perhaps fifty—must remain here to keep the fires burning and by beating the drum at intervals, deceive the enemy. At sun rise you may try to escape and join us. If you are taken it will probably mean death! Now who volunteers?” The rich voice fell with a sad cadence, and for an instant no one spoke. Then, “I! I! I!” forty or fifty men disentangled themselves from the mass and pressed nearer. And from these a slim boyish form stepped close to Washington. “Sir!” he said simply. “I have been a drummer since the war began, may I remain?” For a moment Washington eyed the boy. “I remember you,” he said, “you have served me before. You are young to attempt this service. There are enough without you.” “But sir, I can drum!” “So he can,” called out a man from the crowd, “no one can drum like Molly!” “And you wish to remain?” the general asked. “Yes, sir.” “Your name, my lad?” “Robert Shirtliffe.” “Age?” “Seventeen.” “Your home?” “I come from Plymouth, Massachusetts.” “Have you parents?” “I have no one sir.” “You are a brave lad, and worthy of your country. Report to me as soon as you can”—the clear eyes grew misty—“you and these other loyal fellows shall be rewarded according to the quality of your sacrifice.” They saluted gravely. Then the stealthy arrangements began. Silently through the night, the men marched away bearing the stores and ammunition. On their beats the British sentinels marched to and fro, feeling sure of the enemy. And during those long solemn hours a handful of men kept alive the fires in the deserted camp, and a weary, but unflinching boy, beat almost constantly upon his drum. His feet pained him piteously and his stiff fingers could barely grasp the sticks, but his heart was staunch and true. As the night wore away his exhausted brain grew unsteady. All memories came to haunt him, and fill the empty hours. He saw a still form beside a lonely road, he heard the last words of the dying man, “Go to Plymouth and find Debby Mason, tell her that her father died like a soldier!” He could never find Debby now, perhaps. Ere another day had passed he too might be lying dead. He might never find the boy for whom he had searched since he left New England, never know the story! Something like a sob mingled with the drum beats. March British sentinels at your posts! Behind those gleaming camp fires is a weak foe indeed. See the morn breaks, the handful of men, forgetting the boy, have already departed to rejoin their comrades, only the faithful drummer remains! Sleep well, oh! my Lord Cornwallis your last peaceful sleep for many a weary night. The old fox has caught even _you_ napping and is now well on the way to intercept the force which you are so confidently expecting. [Illustration: _Molly._ “For a moment Washington eyed the boy.”]