“You had best go back, if so be you can,” Peter said in a sorrowful tone. “This island is no place for Whigs, though I’m not thinkin’ of runnin’ away ’cause I’m not of enough account to tempt an attack.” “But we have come to find some trace of Abel Grant, an’ don’t count on turnin’ tail till the work has been done,” I said stoutly, for I felt very brave just then. “Then there is nothin’ here to keep you, for it’s too late to help Abel,” the old man said mournfully, as he began using flint and steel in order to throw a spark on the tinder, that he might light the wick which floated in a gourd of oil. “Too late! Is he dead?” Sam cried sharply, and Peter, still striving to catch a spark, replied: “It’s worse than that, lad, as I look at it. I was within sight of Abel when Luther Stedman pointed him out to a squad of red-coats, an’ they made short work of it. Abel was talkin’ with that cousin of his who married the Tory Simson, never dreamin’ of danger any more than did I, when who should show up but Luther with a backin’ of Britishers.” “What did they do with him?” I asked breathlessly. “Marched the poor fellow off after shacklin’ his hands behind him, an’ if ever a man got a dressin’ down, it was Luther when Abel’s cousin broke loose on him for what he’d done.” “But that didn’t mend matters!” Abraham cried impatiently. “Tell us what became of Abel!” “He was marched off, as I’ve said, an’ this mornin’ his cousin told me that Luther was ’round braggin’ ’bout his havin’ been put aboard a ship that’s lyin’ in Gravesend bay. She ain’t what they call a vessel of war,” the old man continued as he succeeded in lighting the wick, thereby bringing to life a flame so feeble that it did little more than show how dark it was. “Some of the folks say she’s been moored there to serve as prison ship for the Whigs that were taken durin’ the battle, an’ I’ve heard there are crowds of our people held by the king’s troops.” Surely it seemed to me that we had risked our lives uselessly, for if Abel was really imprisoned on one of the British ships, the only hope of his release lay in General Washington’s being able to whip the enemy offhand, and that, from what I had seen in New York, could not be dreamed of even by the staunchest Whig that ever drew breath. “Where is Gravesend bay?” Seth Hartley asked after we four had stood staring at each other a full minute while old Pete set about building a fire as if to cook breakfast for us. But few words were needed to give the information desired, and then Sam said impatiently: “No good can come of our standin’ here idle. Shall we try to hunt out our friends on Wallabout?” “There’s little use of lookin’ there for Whigs, lad,” old Peter said sorrowfully. “I’m the only one left on the island, so far as I can make out; all save the Tories took to their heels when it was known that General Washington counted on beatin’ a retreat.” “Do you know where my people went?” I asked eagerly.