Chapter VI: Shows How Ezra Adventured Toward the “indian’s Head”

As Ezra Prentiss and Ben Cooper dashed away from the “Plow and Harrow,” Jason Collyer and his comrades flung themselves with loud cries out of the door. A moment later these cries were redoubled.

“They’ve found their chargers without bridles,” said Ben. “And perhaps more than one of them has got a fall from a twisting saddle. I’m sorry for the landlord; but I’ll contrive to pay him later.”

They drew rein and sat their horses, looking back toward the inn. The stout landlord was plain in the doorway, and visibly much distressed; hostlers and others appeared with lights; riderless horses were prancing and snorting about with angry men pursuing them.

“How did you come to get out our own nags?” asked Ezra, who had recognized the familiar gait of his tall bay horse at once.

“When that fellow came to the window, I thought I’d not have the chance to do what you suggested,” answered Ben. “So I went to the barn, and by good luck found that our mounts had not been unsaddled. When I led them out, taking care to keep in the shadow, I noted the man gone from the window. So I out with my knife and cut the bridles of my friends, gave each girth a slash, and there they were, as neat as you please.”

“I think we’d better make the best of our way to Chelmsford,” suggested Ezra, after a time spent in watching the dim confusion before the inn. “And it would be better, also, that we keep our pistols ready to hand, for Master Jason Collyer seems a person of some parts.”

The road was good and within an hour they had reached Chelmsford, where they had the good fortune to fall in with others upon the same errand as themselves.

“That means,” said Ben, as they stretched themselves contentedly between the cool sheets at a cool, clean little inn, a short time after, “that this riding about is over and done. Our section has been covered with the circulars, and we can return to Cambridge.”

“And I’m glad of it,” yawned Ezra. “There promise to be certain matters of interest before Boston at no distant time, and I, for one, want to see the whole thing.”

Next morning Ezra gathered the riders of the Committee of Safety together, and, with their number added to by a half dozen young farmers, they made a descent upon the house of Abdallah.

But they were too late. The place was in ashes; not a sign or trace of any one was to be found.

“I suppose Jason Collyer lost no time in making his report after the affair at the ‘Plow and Harrow,’” said Ezra to Ben, after they had left the others and were making their steady way toward Bedford. “And now, I suppose, an alarm will be sent out, and this Mr. Pennington, whoever he may be, will take care not to present himself at the ‘Indian’s Head’ to receive messages of any sort.”

From Bedford they took the road to Lexington, and late in the afternoon entered the town of Cambridge. At once they sought out Dr. Warren, as the leading spirit of the Committee of Safety, and made him acquainted with all that had occurred.

The great patriot knit his brows.

“It has a bad look,” said he. “The fact that our strength is known and perhaps our every move, is not calculated to give us much satisfaction. But I will see Colonel Prescott in the matter, also Generals Ward and Putnam. And in the meantime,” placing a hand upon the boys’ shoulders, his kind, grave face alight, “let me tell you that you have both done well. If all who professed the cause did half so well, we would have very little to fear from any source.”

Upon the beginning of the enlistment, which commenced after the Lexington fight, both Ezra and Ben had promptly put their names to the roll of Prescott’s regiment, as did Ezra’s twin brother, George, and Ben’s stalwart, ready-handed cousin from the Wyoming wilderness, Nat Brewster. But they had all four been detailed upon special duty for the Committee of Safety, and so lodged at a house at no great distance from Dr. Warren’s.

The candles were lighted when Ben and Ezra reached their lodging. George and Nat sat at a table playing at draughts. Both leaped up at the sight of the newcomers.

“Something told us that you would get back this evening,” cried George, as they shook hands all around.

“And we asked Mrs. Parslow, as a special favor, to delay supper,” spoke Nat Brewster.

“That was thoughtful enough, eh, Ben?” laughed Ezra. “And to show how we appreciate it,” to Nat, “we’ll try to do it full justice.”

While Mrs. Parslow, a good-humored, elderly woman, was bringing in the smoking dishes, the four lads related their experiences. George and Nat had ridden together upon the same mission as the other two, but had gone in the direction of Milton and Braintree.

“And the people listened to the Committee’s warnings with their hearts in their eyes,” said Nat Brewster. “Let there be only action, and General Ward will not want for men.”

“But Massachusetts cannot be expected to do it all,” said Ben. “The other colonies must bear their share of the burden.”

“They will, never fear,” said Ezra. “Only this afternoon I heard of a company of riflemen being recruited as far south as Virginia. Then there are the Connecticut men and those from New Hampshire. And don’t forget that these last bring leaders with them. The British themselves acknowledge the ability of Putnam, Stark and Greene.”

Ezra and George sat side by side and Mrs. Parslow looked bewilderedly at them.

“One of you likes griddle-cakes with honey,” she said, “but for the life of me I can’t tell which of you it is.”

“It’s George,” spoke Ben Cooper, with a grin.

“And which is George?” asked the good woman, looking from one to the other.

“Here he is,” responded George, reaching for the much-prized griddle-cakes. “I’ll never fail to acknowledge myself for these, Mrs. Parslow; and I’ve never seen any one that made them like you.”

Mrs. Parslow looked vastly gratified.

“I’m sure I’m glad to please you,” she said. “But how your mother ever told you two apart, I’ll never be able to say.”

The Prentiss brothers had been a puzzle and a delight to her ever since the four came to lodge with her. Nat Brewster, with his grave, competent ways and manly face of character, she had taken to at once; and the chubby face of Ben Cooper, his merry eye and ready laugh, had always pleased her. But the twins were a perpetual bewilderment and mystery to her, as indeed they might be to many with greater observation and sharper eyes than she.

After supper George and Ben got out the draughts, while Ezra and Nat drew their chairs together and discussed the features of the situation as each saw it.

“I heard a long talk between Dr. Warren and Colonel Prescott, only to-day,” said Nat. “I had come to make report of our work and the two were deeply engaged with each other. It would seem that each has a great respect for General Ward, but no large idea of his military ability.”

“It requires, I should say, a man of much power to grasp things and bring them into a state of order,” said Ezra. “The Congress at Philadelphia is, I believe, to name a commander-in-chief for the colonial army; and let us hope that their choice will be one that will bring the best results for the cause.”

“He will have no great soldier to fight in Gage,” spoke Nat, “if the opinions of the experienced Englishman, Charles Lee, and our own General Putnam, have any weight. I have heard it said that Lee has repeatedly declared that Gage is woefully incompetent; and that his every move has been a blunder since the first gun was fired.”

“At any rate,” said Ezra, “he has permitted General Ward to compass him about. He is as tightly boxed up as a tame badger.”

“If it were not that the sea is open to him, we’d starve him out in a very little while. However, King George will see to it that his servants do not go hungry.”

“But it will be salt beef and hardtack that will keep them from it. The colonial lines and earthworks so hedge them in that they’ll never get a scrap of fresh meat or measure of vegetables.”

“But what of our own people who are closed up in the town along with the enemy?” questioned Nat, gravely. “If the British are in want of palatable things, can we be sure that the townspeople have sufficient food of any sort?”

“You’re right,” said Ezra, thoughtfully. He leaned his head upon his hands and stared at the floor. Nat watched him for some time and then said:

“Your grandfather is not in Cambridge?”

“No,” replied Ezra, “in Boston.”

There was another pause; then Nat spoke:

“But, then, I don’t think you need trouble for him.” He placed a hand on Ezra’s shoulder. “Forgive me for saying it, but your grandfather will not be likely to come to harm.”

“Not from the British, no,” Ezra’s voice was bitter and low. “But from the patriot people of Boston, yes.” He paused a moment and looked into the frank, friendly face of the youth from Wyoming. “You understand how it is with me. And there are many like me. In the war that has just begun, there will be countless families divided like mine has been.”

“Take heart,” said Nat Brewster. “One can hardly expect an old man, and one born on British soil in the bargain, to be other than a friend to the King. There are some who have greater cause for regret than you. They say that the New Hampshire Colonel Stark’s very brother has gone over to the British.”

“It is not altogether my grandfather’s being an enemy to the colonies that troubles me,” said Ezra. “He is a very old man and can do no great harm. But he has made himself hated by the people. And if they are, by any chance, starving in Boston, there will one day come an outbreak; and it is not against the soldiery that vengeance will be directed. It will be against such bitter-spoken partisans as Seth Prentiss.”

Nat nodded.

“That is usually the way,” he said. “Such a thing is greatly to be feared; but in this case it will hardly go so far. I have heard that there is a plan afoot to permit those who so desire to leave Boston. If this is carried out, it will help matters wonderfully.”

But, though Ezra drew some small measure of hope from this suggestion, he was still vaguely troubled. Somehow, the thought of his grandfather kept recurring to him. He seemed filled with an indefinite fear concerning him; it was as though the future held something unpleasant in store. As this state of mind continued, he finally arose and bid his friends good-night with a feeling of great depression. He had entered his room and lighted a candle when he heard a low knock upon the door. Opening it he saw his brother.

George entered and closed the door behind him.

“I have been wanting to say something to you all evening,” said he, “but could not get the opportunity.”

He drummed with his fingers upon the back of a chair, and the other saw a troubled look in his eyes.

“What is it?” asked Ezra.

“It’s about this man Pennington,” replied George. “And also about the one you call Abdallah.”

Ezra regarded him steadily.

“What do you know of them?” he asked.

George, from the time of their father’s death, had made his home with their Tory grandfather. In a measure he had shared the old man’s views. But at the Lexington fight, all this changed, and now he was the stoutest patriot of them all. Ezra had scarcely seen his grandfather in years; for the boy’s open advocacy of the cause of liberty had deeply incensed the old man against him.

“I don’t know a great deal about them,” answered George. “I wish I did. It might save us something. Pennington is a King’s man, of course. He and grandfather have been intimate—I might say, very intimate. I noticed even long ago that they whispered a great deal in corners and held many consultations in the library with the doors carefully closed.”

Ezra pursed up his mouth and frowned.

“I see,” was all he said.

“Pennington came and went a great deal. Sometimes I would not see him for weeks. Then, again, he’d be at the house almost constantly. Now and then he’d bring a stranger. That is how I came to see Abdallah.”

“Ah.”

“They came late one night, in the midst of a storm. There was a great banging of doors and lifting of voices. I had gone to bed some time before; but the noise was so unusual that I got up again, dressed and came down. The library door stood open, and I saw grandfather, Mr. Pennington, Abdallah and General Gage.”

“Did you by any chance hear what was said?”

“Not much. But I learned that grandfather had been expecting Abdallah for months. The man had just arrived that night in a brig from San Domingo. I also drew from what I heard that grandfather desired him to perform some work of great value. But just what its nature was, I did not know until to-night.”

“So grandfather is intimately concerned in the affair,” said Ezra. “Do you know, somehow I felt that some such condition existed. Ben Cooper says he can often feel things coming; and in this case, at any rate, it’s been so with me.”

He paused a moment, then he resumed:

“Grandfather always hated spying and spies. And the fact that he has personally imported this man, shows how great is his hatred of the cause.”

“It has no end,” and George Prentiss shook his head.

“I can’t help the impression that he will come to danger through it all,” said Ezra. “It is a time when men do not stay their hands; and should he risk himself, his life will pay for it.”

Again George shook his head.

“And he is of the sort that risk themselves,” he said.

“But, tell me,” said Ezra. “What sort of a person is Pennington?”

“Not more than thirty-five; but he would strike you as being much older. He is about the average height; and his most noticeable characteristics are a very high and very narrow forehead, and a most disagreeable laugh.”

After George had left him, Ezra undressed and went to bed. But not to sleep! Before his mind came pictures of conspiracies in which his bitter old grandfather played a conspicuous part. In his unreasoning hatred of the colonies’ desire for liberty, the lad knew the old man would go to any length.

“He hasn’t spoken to, or looked at me for years,” thought Ezra. “But I’d have no harm befall him for all that.”

Even after he had gone to sleep the idea clung to him in his dreams. Men with wonderfully high and astonishingly narrow foreheads laughed at him in a disagreeable way; suave, dark-skinned persons in flowing robes sought for the destruction of the colonies in the musty rolls of ancient manuscript. And the dreams were also filled with formidable General Gages, who, sword in hand, urged the others to hasten their tasks.

Next morning Ezra was up before his friends and after breakfasting, mounted and rode away toward the lines.

There were not a great many people to be met with. The outbreak of war had caused great terror, and very many of the inhabitants had left Cambridge, fearful of what was to come. Property was for the most part left unprotected; and as there were many vagabonds hanging upon the skirts of the colonial army, there was more or less looting.

That a general panic did not seize upon the people was due to the great influence and untiring efforts of Dr. Warren. No public character of the time had impressed itself so upon the masses. Even the only partly disciplined troops felt the magnetism of the man, and many times, when they were on the verge of rising against their officers, had a word from him made them see the folly of such an action.

It was with the intention of advising with the doctor that Ezra made such an early start. But early as he was, the patriot had preceded him.

“The doctor has gone to Charlestown,” the serving maid replied to the boy’s inquiries. “Something was amiss there among the soldiers, and he was sent for.”

“I will follow him there,” said Ezra.

“Will nothing do them but that they must be forever disturbing him?” demanded the girl, in an aggrieved sort of way. “He cannot get a sound night’s rest for you all. First it’s one and then it’s the other who comes rushing for him. Are you all children, that you can do nothing for yourselves?”

Leaving the doctor’s door, Ezra mounted once more and rode toward Charlestown. Here, after much inquiry, he found the doctor advising with a company of riflemen of Colonel Prescott’s command.

There were some British gunboats and a heavily-armed transport anchored in the Charles River, and toward Boston several frowning frigates swung at their cables, black and ominous. Ezra spent some time in watching these, and the distant city where the army of Gage was quartered; and when Dr. Warren was disengaged, he at once approached him with the matter that was nearest his heart.

“I understand you perfectly,” said the patriot, after Ezra had related his story. “But I do not see any great occasion for alarm on your part. This spy system, which you so fortunately discovered, will not long survive the exposure. It is the nature of such things to die of too much light.”

He paused a moment and then said:

“As to your grandfather’s connection with it, now. It is not, in all probability, very great. He has proved himself useful in some way, perhaps, and they have made use of him. I know him fairly well. Seth Prentiss is too quick-tempered and far too outspoken a man to be knowingly selected as an important part in such a plot. And regarding any outbreak in Boston, you may put your mind at rest. Word has been sent to the townspeople to remain quiet, and they will obey.”

Dr. Warren talked in the same soothing strain for some time; he saw that the lad was vaguely troubled, and desired to reassure him.

While they were so engaged, Colonel Prescott rode up. His strikingly handsome person was set off by his neat uniform, and he sat his horse like an Arab.

“Ah, Prentiss,” cried he, after saluting the doctor cordially, “you are just the sort of lad I’ve had in mind. There’s a dispatch to be carried to Colonel Stark at Medford, and I can scarcely spare an officer.”

Ezra saluted promptly.

“Yes, colonel,” spoke he.

It took some time to get the dispatch in proper order; and when Ezra finally left Prescott’s quarters, it was high noon. After a sharp ride to Medford the papers were delivered to Colonel Stark. Then there was another wait while that fine warrior prepared his answer. Darkness had fallen when he arrived at Charlestown once more.

The bay was rubbed down, rested and fed; its rider stretched himself upon a bench with a biscuit and a slice of beef. The sky had a sort of a bronze hue and the stars burned dimly, like bright rivets set in a giant’s shield.

Ezra, when he had finished his supper, lay looking up at this and wondering at the vastness of it. The lights of camp-fires flared here and there; files of rough, un-uniformed soldiers passed and repassed; bursts of laughter and snatches of song came down from groups whose duty was done.

And across the river, under the same stars, lay the British army; it was perilously near, and it was powerful and deadly if properly guided.

Ezra sat up and looked toward the danger point. Boston was dark, save for a few winking fires; orders had been given long before for civilians to extinguish lights of all descriptions before a given hour. The side lights burned steadily upon the war-ships; occasionally a singsong cry came from their decks as the watches were changed or a seaman called the hour.

Somehow, it seemed to the boy that this was the sort of night that strange, wild things might well go forward. Odd enterprises might be tried and accomplished under that bronze sky and those dimly-burning stars. Strange people might well meet in all sorts of queer places and mysterious deeds might well happen.

In the midst of these reflections, Ezra came to his feet, a sudden resolve fixed in his mind. A little distance away a group of townspeople were gathered. He approached and said to one of them:

“Do you know of an inn anywhere about that is known as the ‘Indian’s Head’?”

The man stared a moment, then shook his head. But one of his companions spoke up.

“There is none in Charlestown; but outside,” and he pointed to the north, “there is a small tavern called by that name. It lies upon a road between Breed’s and Bunker’s Hills.”

“And which do you think would be the best way to reach it?” inquired Ezra.

“What, to-night?” the man glanced about among his companions. And all seemed to reflect his incredulity.

“And why not?”

“Haven’t you heard that the British talk of crossing and setting themselves up upon those two hills?”

“Yes, and of firing upon Charlestown?” put in another.

“They are only wild reports,” answered Ezra. “Such like get abroad in times like these, but there is no reliance to be placed in them.”

If the facts be told, he had heard the same things himself, and from persons of some consequence; but it would not do to encourage the thoughts of the already frightened townspeople in such channels.

“Well,” said the man who professed to know the inn’s location, “if you don’t mind making the venture to such a place, my lad, I’m sure I have nothing more to say.”

His feelings were ruffled at having his warnings made so light of; so without more ado he directed Ezra as to the way to go to reach the inn desired.

“I thank you,” said Ezra.

He went at once to the place where his horse was kept, saddled, bridled and mounted it.

“There may be some risk,” he told himself, as he rode out of the guarded town. “And perhaps I should have asked Ben or Nat or George to go with me. But there is no time for that, if I am to go to-night. And like as not it is a quiet country place, with never a spice of danger in it.”

The way took him along a narrow road bounded by stretches of grazing land. The sheen of the sky showed him the smooth swelling rise of two large hills ahead, the twinkling, far-off stars seemed peering down searching fearfully for dangers among the darkness.

The directions of the man at Charlestown had been unusually good, for after a deal of weaving in and out and the crossing of fields, the boy caught the twinkle of lights from a building ahead. As he came up he found a lantern swinging above the door; and mounted upon a post in the light of this he saw a rough painting of an Indian’s head, which seemed to serve as a sign.

“This is the place, sure enough,” he said.

He at once got down. He had probably not been heard to approach; no one came out to take his horse, so he tied it to a post near the door, slipped his long pistol into the breast of his coat, and coolly entered at the door.

The very first thing that met his eyes were two men seated upon a settle engaged in earnest talk; one had a large, plumed hat beside him on the floor; he wore long soft leather boots and a heavy sword.

“Gilbert Scarlett!” breathed Ezra.

Instantly his eyes went to the person who sat beside the adventurer. Something that Scarlett had said seemed to amuse the other, for just as Ezra turned his attention to him, he uttered a high-pitched, disagreeable laugh.

And then, to make identification doubly sure, the head turned slightly. And Ezra saw that the man’s forehead was very narrow and very high.