United States -- History -- Revolution, 1775-1783 -- Fiction
The hours of that afternoon dragged themselves along with exasperating
slowness, as I listened for hoof-beats, imagining every sound the
approach of returning horsemen. With no longer any doubt of her
intention, my apprehension riveted itself on the possibility of the
British getting back before darkness gave opportunity for putting her
plans into execution. As to what they might be I cared nothing, being
ready to assume any risk which would lead to escape. The room I occupied
must have been upon the west side of the house, as the afternoon sun
streamed in through the bars, and stretched golden across the floor. I
could almost count the minutes as those shafts of light crept up the
wall, and then slowly faded. The silence all about was intense, even the
branches of the trees without having no movement. As the gray of twilight
approached, my ears, strained to the slightest sound, distinguished the
changing of sentinels. But I waited vainly for any visitor; darkness
closed me in, but no one came with food.
I pressed my face against the bars striving to look into the night, my
only reward the glimpse of a few distant stars. Suddenly, as I stood
there, voices sounded at a distance, the words indistinguishable, and
then footsteps crushed along the gravelled footpath, as though a number
of men were running toward the back of the house. They were below my
range of vision, but a moment later I heard the sounds of scattered
shots, and saw the sharp flash of firing. I was still clinging to the
bars, trying to determine what it all meant, when the door was opened.
The light of a lantern in his hand revealed a green and white uniform,
and the deeply seamed face of a man of fifty.
"Quick now, yer damned rebel," he said hoarsely. "Be up an' lam me one,
an' here's the rope."
"What!"
"Didn't yer hear? or wasn't yer told the game? Sufferin' Moses, it's got
to be played swift, or ye'll lie here an' rot. That's what that
bald-headed skate is out thar leadin' 'em off for. I'm ter come in wid
yer supper; ye slug me first sight, bind me up wid the rope, and skip.
'Tis a dirty job, but the friends of ye pay well for it, so come on now."
I comprehended the plan in a flash. She had discovered a sentry money
would buy; to lead the others away long enough to effect my escape, Peter
had taken to the woods with a gun. Whether he escaped or was captured,
the delay would be short. With the knowledge came action. I bore the
unresisting Ranger to the floor, hurling down the tray of food he bore in
a mass of broken crockery, and bound him hand and foot, leaving the
fellow lying across the open doorway. He was without arms, except his
heavy gun, which I left beside him. An instant I paused to ask a
question, holding aloft the lantern so as to see his face.
"Now man, speak quick; you were given some word for me? Some instructions
how I was to get away?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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