DESCRIBES HOW GEORGE AND HIS FRIEND START UPON A DANGEROUS MISSION
The next two weeks were filled with memorable events; they saw the
execution of the daring young schoolmaster, Nathan Hale; they witnessed
the thronging of the British war-ships into the Hudson, and the landing
of Clinton’s heavy force on Manhattan Island at Kip’s Bay; and, also,
they saw the massing of Washington’s battered army upon Harlem Heights.
Then began a series of desperate ventures with fire ships, sallying
parties and raids in which the brutal Hessians had a chance to show
their quality; Fort Washington was taken by Howe; and then began the
terrible retreat across the Jerseys. Cornwallis, relentless as a
bloodhound, hung upon the trail of the American army. At Newark, his
advance guard entered the town as the American rear was leaving it; at
Trenton the British reached the banks of the Delaware only to see the
camp-fires of the patriots burning on the opposite side.
New Jersey now fell into a state of terror; the Hessians overran
everything. Following the example of their leaders, they plundered left
and right. None escaped them; Tories suffered as well as patriots;
houses “protected” by the sign manual of Cornwallis himself were
sacked; women and children were turned out into the winter cold with
scarce enough to cover them. In a spirit of retaliation, the American
troops on the west of the Delaware also entered into the game of
pillage; for miles and miles they looted the homes of all suspected
of being in sympathy with the British. This grew in extent until
Washington posted most severe penalties for all engaged in plunder.
The knowledge of what was going on in New Jersey excited the most
bitter hatred against the Hessians. But through it all, Washington, and
those nearest him, remained calm; they watched and waited, and all the
time they strove to get their forces into shape to strike a blow that
would be at once quick and deadly.
The deeds of the Hessians brought horror to all who heard of them,
but to none did the measure seem so full as to George Prentiss. When
some fresh enormity reached his ears, there always flashed upon him a
picture of a stately manor house in the possession of these lawless
ruffians; he saw, also, a white-faced girl and a helpless old man, and
none to lift a hand in their defense.
“Should you ever cross the Jerseys, lad,” old Camp had said, “don’t
fail to hunt us out. The Elms, we call the place, and it’s less than a
dozen miles out of the town of Trenton.”
A dozen miles! It must, then, be in the very heart of the section where
all was pillaging and burning and hanging.
George had kept his brother Ezra acquainted with all the happenings
that bore upon the Camps; and in many things Ezra had advised wisely.
But just now he was detailed upon service at Philadelphia under Putnam,
and his absence was badly felt.
Nat Brewster and Ben Cooper began to notice the eagerness with which
George sought news from across the river.
“It is something more than common,” said young Cooper. “Every chance he
gets, he’s riding along the shore; at night nothing seems so attractive
to him as the firelights on the Jersey side. He watches them by the
hour.”
“He says nothing, though,” replied Nat Brewster, “and I have the
impression that whatever it is that’s on his mind it’s something he
wants to keep to himself. So I’ve never asked him any questions.”
One afternoon, only a few days after the above words were spoken,
Brewster, grave-faced and quiet, opened the door of the hut which the
three had erected for shelter.
“There’s work to do,” he stated, as he sat down before the fire.
George, watching his friend’s face closely, saw that something
important was under way.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Volunteers are demanded to cross the river and learn the enemy’s
strength.”
“You are one,” and George sprang up, knocking over the stool upon
which he had been sitting and causing the crazy little hut to vibrate
with his eagerness.
Nat nodded. George dashed open the door and was away. The winter blast
swept in and the blaze roared up the rude chimney. Ben closed the door,
his lips puckered in a whistle.
“There, now,” said he. “What did I tell you? Something’s over there,”
and he jerked his head in the direction of the river, “that’s on his
mind. The only wonder to me is that he hasn’t crossed before now,
orders or no orders.”
In about half an hour George reappeared.
“I go with you,” he said, his eyes alight and with more spring in his
step than they had seen for some time. Their arms hung upon the wall,
and instantly he took down his pistol and began putting it in order.
“There is no need to hurry matters,” answered Nat, quietly. “Great
speed at a time like this is as like to bring disaster as anything
else. Take time; more than bustle will be required to land us within
the British lines--in safety.”
George had great respect for Brewster’s shrewdness and resourcefulness;
so holding his eagerness in check, he sat down and began recharging the
pistol.
“You’ve been thinking the matter over,” said he to Nat.
The latter nodded.
“We have no password,” said he slowly; “and even if we had I doubt if
it would be of much service with the Hessians. They seen to disregard
everything but their own desires. Like as not we’d each have a musket
ball or bayonet planted in our bodies if we encountered them in any
other way than one which pleased them.”
George looked up from the pistol.
“Do you know of anything that would be pleasant to them?”
“I think so,” said Nat. “You see, the countryside all about Trenton is
being drawn upon for provisions for the troops.”
A set look came into young Prentiss’ mouth; his eyes grew hard in the
firelight.
“Go on,” he said.
“If we can cross the river to-night and make our way some distance into
the interior, perhaps we can meet with the teams that bring in the
forage. Every American to be found is impressed to help in this work.
All we need do is to show ourselves; and as the bringers of food, we’ll
pass muster.”
“That is a good plan enough,” said George. “I accept it as it stands.”
“You would accept any plan that promised to land you across the
Delaware,” was Ben Cooper’s thought as he listened and watched. “And
you’d not question any of them.”
And so it happened that as the early December evening fell, two loutish
looking fellows made their way toward the Delaware at a point some
distance beyond the American lines. The wind that swept up from the
deep dark river was icy and damp; for all their greatcoats and muffling
neckerchiefs they shivered and swung their arms for warmth.
Once upon the bank they paused. Frozen fast in a little runlet they
found an old ferry-boat that George had noticed before.
It required more than an hour’s hard work to free it from the ice; then
with the heavy sweep they smashed the formation that extended out from
the bank, and were afloat. The point was some miles above Trenton, and
the ice-floes were thick and running freely with the tide. For over an
hour they strained and tugged, and at length the heavy bow of the ferry
crushed through the thin ice on the Jersey side, and they scrambled
ashore.
The tide had carried them well down toward the Hessian outposts; and
turning their backs upon these they trudged their way along a snowy
road that ran northeast. As the night went on it grew colder and
colder; more snow began to fall; they could feel its wet softness upon
their faces.
Far off in the distance, a bell struck the hour mournfully.
“Midnight,” said Nat.
“And getting colder every moment,” answered George.
The white of the snow pressed in upon them from the further darkness,
and the way grew more and more difficult. Suddenly Brewster felt his
friend clutch his arm.
“Nat,” said George. “Look there.”
A faint point of light appeared off to the right.
“It’s moving,” spoke Nat.
“More than likely a lanthorn,” said young Prentiss.
They paused and watched the glimmer of light; little by little it drew
nearer. The bearer of the lanthorn apparently had great trouble in
making his way along, for his pace was very slow.
“He’s plowing through the drifts,” said George. “There must be open
fields in the direction from which he’s coming.”
But at last the stranger struck the road, and his pace increased; in a
very little time they could hear his feet crunching the snow, then they
caught the growling undertone of angry words.
“So there are two of them,” whispered Nat.
“No; he’s talking to himself.”
Nearer came the light bearer; and they could now distinguish what he
said.
“That I should live to see the day,” he mumbled. “That I should live to
see an English king send such a horde of rascally dogs down upon his
people. Dogs, did I say? They’d shame the name of dogs; a decent cur
would not own them.”
Grumbling and stamping in the snow he passed them unnoticed, a stout
figure in a heavy cloak and with a broad woolen scarf bound over his
hat, adown his ears and knotted under his chin. A little distance away
they saw the light halt, then came the rattling of a lock and chain and
the door of a low barn-like structure creaked open. The man set his
lamp down within, stamped the snow from his feet and then closed the
door. At once George began making his way toward the building; but Nat
took him by the arm.
“What are you going to do?”
“I want to make sure of something.”
Carefully they crept toward the building; but before they reached it
there came a low knocking.
“Who’s there?” came the voice of the man who had borne the lanthorn.
“Who comes knocking at this hour?”
“Open the door. It is I!”
At once the door reopened; a second and slighter form flitted in, and
again it closed.
“Stay here,” whispered George to his friend. “I shall be gone only a
short time. Keep a lookout.”
“Very well,” replied Brewster.
George stole away toward the building; it proved to be a log structure,
chinked with clay; its one window had been broken, apparently, for some
boards were roughly nailed across the opening, and the seams between
stuffed with rags. It required but a moment for him to work an opening
in one of the seams large enough to enable him to obtain a view of the
interior.
There was a low, rudely raftered ceiling through which protruded wisps
of rye straw; the room was filled with smoke; there was no chimney to
carry it off. The first thing that George heard was a prolonged fit of
coughing; he could dimly make out two forms through the blue haze, but
not enough to be sure. However, in a manner, his suspicions proved to
be correct.
“To think,” said the voice of the man with the lanthorn, “that I should
ever be brought to this. Strangled in a hovel not fit for beasts. But
I’ll be even with them, or my name is not Camp.”
“It was he, then,” breathed the watcher softly.
There came the flapping of a broad hat within and the smoke began to
thin.
“Is this the only building left on the place?” asked a second voice.
“The only one. Every other is burned to the ground.”
“The rascals!” said the second voice.
“Rascals! They are the most murderous villains unhanged! They stop
at nothing. I held the ‘protection’ of Lord Cornwallis before their
eyes--there was his signature and seal as plain as day--but I might as
well have shown it to a drove of mad bulls.”
“Is there no way of punishing them?”
“None. Their own commanders alone have authority over them; and they
are as bad as the rank and file.”
“It’s fortunate,” exclaimed Merchant Camp, amidst another fit of
coughing, “that you got your sister Peggy away, at least.”
“Herbert again!” breathed the one outside, for the first time realizing
to whom the second voice belonged.
“It wouldn’t have done to have left her hereabouts.”
“You placed her with the Hawksworths?”
“Yes. And she is perfectly safe there, for Hawksworth has some British
army friends quartered with them--a colonel and a lieutenant-general.”
“Good,” said Mr. Camp, as though greatly relieved. “She’s safe enough,
then.”
“It would have been best if you both had remained in New York.”
“I fancied that I left there to escape persecution,” said the old Tory,
bitterly. “But I must say that the rebels were as mild as children when
compared with these who should be my friends.”
“They tried to be just, at all events,” said Herbert Camp.
“Yes, yes, I see that now, though I didn’t then. But I see many things
now, as a matter of fact, that I didn’t see then. I once thought Mr.
Washington a great villain; but now I consider him a brave and honest
and able gentleman--one who has clung to his beliefs in the face of
defeat; and one who will continue to so cling until the last.”
“I have often heard you express admiration for tenacity of purpose and
for the man who had the courage of his convictions,” said Herbert. “And
yet you were willing enough to have me change my coat.”
“My boy,” and there was a curious little break in the old man’s voice,
“the day that you threw down the sword you had taken up for the
colonies was one of the bitterest in my life.”
There came an exclamation from Herbert; but he spoke no words.
“When I threatened to strike you from my will,” continued the old Tory,
“I did it through motives of pride. I wanted to show my friends how
strong the family character was; I desired to convince them as to its
ruggedness and firmness and truth. I said to you in the presence of
all: ‘Give up your principles or give up my money.’ I expected to see
you throw the insult back into my teeth--uncle and all as I was. But
you shamed me, you caused my pride to fall in ruins about me. You took
me at my word. You traded your honor for money.”
“Uncle!” George heard a scraping of feet which told him that Herbert
Camp had sprung up; and there was a ring in his voice that thrilled.
“Do you mean to say that you’d have been better pleased had I held to
the American cause?”
“I do. Strange as it may seem, I do say it. You would have shown that
you were honest and steadfast, even though I thought you wrong. As it
is----”
He did not complete the sentence and for a space nothing more was said.
Then Herbert spoke once more.
“Suppose,” said he, “suppose that I should tell you that I had not been
false to my principles?”
“Do you mean this?” And the old man’s voice rang sharply.
“I do.”
“So then,” and there was bitter anger in the tones, “you pretended. You
tried to humbug me. You were willing to stoop to a mean deception in
order that you might retain my good will?”
“Uncle!”
“That,” sternly, “is perhaps worse than the other thing of which I
thought you guilty. Out of your own mouth you have proved yourself a
designing----”
But here the young man stopped him.
“Wait,” said he; “uncle, wait! Before you say anything more, listen to
me for a moment. It is true that I have deceived you.”
“Hah!”
“But not for the mean reason that you suspect.”
“What other reason could you have?”
“Give me a moment and I will try to make all plain to you. It had come
to my ears that a plot was on foot--the same that eventually resulted
in the hanging of Hickey, one of General Washington’s guard. When you
made your proposal it instantly occurred to me that if I seemed to fall
in with your views, I might be able to learn what was going forward.”
“Ah!”
“A renegade, you know, is always the most eager to proceed against his
former friends; and I hoped that this fact would gain me credit among
my country’s foes. Believe me, uncle, it hurt me to deceive you. I
longed to tell you plainly that I was only acting a part. But I dared
not.
“And then, there was Peggy!” There was a moan in the young man’s voice;
and George Prentiss recalling his sullen face and heavy, brooding
brows, was surprised. “You know, uncle, what we always thought of each
other. You know that we were inseparable from childhood. And you also
know what an ardent friend to colonial liberty she is.”
Here George just smothered an astonished outcry. Peggy Camp a patriot!
A patriot! And he had thought her a Tory! Why, if that were the
case----!
But he had no time for thought. Herbert was still speaking, and he
could not lose a word.
“And when she heard of my supposed change of front, she did not say a
word, but the way she looked at me, I shall never forget. Contempt was
the weakest thing in it--scorn was there, and pity also. For a moment I
felt that I could not stand it. I felt that I must tell her the truth.
But I did not. An unguarded word from her to my enemies, a look, even,
might ruin my chances for success.”
“Success?” There was a note of interrogation in Merchant Camp’s voice.
“And were you successful?”
“No.” The regret in the young man’s voice was undoubted. “Misfortune
dogged me constantly. At first I was reported as a traitor to General
Putnam and was quietly arrested. But I convinced him of my innocence,
explained to him my plan and was liberated that I might carry it out.”
“And what was this plan?”
“It was to gain the good will of Governor Tryon in the first place; but
this I could never do--the way to him was blocked by the very persons
whom I suspected.”
“And who were they?”
At this moment George felt a hand laid upon his arm; he turned, the
heavy pistol leaping from his belt; but Nat Brewster’s voice whispered
in his ear:
“Some one’s coming this way.”
Cautiously they drew back from the hut; and when they had reached a
safe distance, they paused, knee-deep in the snow, and listened.
Whips were snapping, horses were floundering through the drifts, men’s
voices were crying out sharply.
“A provision train,” said Nat. “A provision train, bound for Trenton,
as sure as you live!”