TELLS OF TWO PATRIOTS IN TRENTON
Nat was right. A half dozen clumsy-looking sleighs, drawn by farm
horses, came lumbering slowly along the road; in the light of the
lanthorns that swung upon the side of each, the two young men saw that
the vehicles were piled high with sacks of flour, barrels of salted
meat, bacon, hams, and slaughtered hogs and sheep.
The drivers clump-clumped along doggedly by the side of their horses;
at the front and rear of the train rode a party of horsemen.
“There is the opportunity you spoke of, just as though it had been
made to your order,” whispered George. “But how are we going to take
advantage of it?”
“Let us follow on behind. They may stop somewhere, and we can happen
along--two honest and rather thick-witted fellows that we are--and who
knows but that something might turn up.”
Allowing the sleighs and the horsemen to proceed a certain distance,
they fell in behind and trudged in their tracks. George’s mind was full
of what he had just heard; but try as he might, he could not reconcile
them with the facts as he knew them.
“One thing alone convicts him and shows me conclusively that his tale
was merely an invention,” reasoned the young New Englander. “And that
is the letter of the British governor Tryon to the Tory mayor of New
York. In that, Tryon recommended this very young man to the mayor as
one to be trusted--one who had served him before and would again. And
yet he has just told his uncle that he attributes the non-success of
his ‘plan’ to the fact that he could never gain Tryon’s confidence.”
Here he was aware that Nat had halted, and so drew up beside him.
“They have stopped,” said Brewster. “Now is our chance. Remember, now,
you are a thick-headed lout, willing to work and willing to take kicks
and cuffs for your pay.”
Adopting a gait in character, they shambled on and into the light of
the sleigh lanterns. The train had arrived before a roadside inn of a
low type. The drivers were struggling to draw their sleighs up to the
side of this, but the drifts were deep and the horses sullenly refused
to exert themselves.
The officer in command of the guard flew into a rage and brandishing
his riding whip, shouted:
“Pigs! Have you no brains! You must first a way make. Come, now! Shall
I stand for you here in the cold!”
The drivers, who were apparently farmers of consequence, impressed by
the Hessians, muttered among themselves rebelliously. And it was here
that the two rough figures came up from the rear, seized shovels from
the sleighs and fell to on the drifts.
“Ach! das is gut!” approved the German officer. “Here men are who can
work.”
In a very short time the sleighs were through the drifts, and the
soldiers were thronging the inn. In about an hour they were ready to
start once more upon the cold road to Trenton. But as they filed out
and mounted, the two supposed country bumpkins bent low over the blaze
upon the hearth and seemed content to remain where they were. The
leader of the Hessians espied them, however, and his heavy lash snapped
about their ears.
“Out with you,” he cried. “Shall we Hesse men into the cold go, and you
two pigs stay by the fire!”
“But,” protested Nat, in a dull sort of way, “we are going to stop here
for the night.”
“Donner und blitz!” exclaimed the officer, “shall I tell you again! Out
with you! And be quick! Such as you may needed be before we are far
gone on our journey.”
So out the two darted, dodging the lash, and took up places beside the
sleighs, still making a pretense of protesting; and then away they went
toward Trenton. The snow fell thickly and steadily; the road grew more
and more difficult; at length, at daybreak, they sighted the town; and
an hour later they were unloading the stores.
This once finished, the two young men had little difficulty in slipping
away; and then began their work of observing the enemy’s position,
numbers and general frame of mind. Some days passed--days of hardship
and hard usage. With their rough dress, their unkempt heads of hair and
grimy faces and hands, they were the butts of the brutal mercenaries
that filled the town. They were forced to do all sorts of menial and
laborious work; but as this permitted them to gain entrance at points
where information was to be had, they fell in with the demands of the
Hessians readily enough.
To the British and the Hessians, the American army was a dispirited
and broken crew of ragamuffins. They knew how to run and dodge, that
was all. At Trenton, all across the Jerseys and at New York, careless
confidence was supreme. Howe was quartered at Manhattan for the winter;
his troops were negligently stretched from Brunswick to the Delaware.
Three regiments of Hessians under Colonel Rahl occupied Trenton and the
towns near by; and the general conduct of these filled the two spies
with satisfaction.
That iron discipline that has ever marked the German army, and which
had been the particular characteristic of the Hessians since landing
in America, had now relaxed. They held Washington in contempt. When one
of the veteran officers suggested the erection of earthworks, Colonel
Rahl laughed uproariously.
“Earthworks for those rats across the river! Ach! you are joking!” was
what he said. “In a little time there will be ice where there now is
water; then we will cross over and at them with the bayonet.”
This attitude of their commander had been taken up by the men; they
gave little thought to the enemy; being comfortable and having more
than enough food was of vastly greater interest.
Cornwallis had secured leave and was at New York about to take ship for
England; Grant, who was in charge of the noble earl’s division, thought
almost as meanly of the colonists as did Rahl.
All these things became known to the two eager-eyed young men, and
more. They had been in the town perhaps a week, when one afternoon
Brewster said:
“There is nothing more of value to be learned. Suppose we try to get
across the river to-night.”
They stood at a point just above Trenton where they had the stream in
view, but were well out of sight of the guards.
“There are no boats to be had,” said young Prentiss.
“I tested the ice last night, almost opposite this point,” said Nat.
“It was strong enough to bear a man’s weight then; and it’s been
freezing hard ever since.”
“Perhaps it would not bear two even now,” suggested George.
“I had thought of that. We had better go one at a time. Then should an
accident happen to one, the other would still have a chance to get the
information to camp in safety.”
For a moment George was silent; then with a hand upon his friend’s
shoulder, he said:
“Do you mind venturing first? I have excellent reasons for asking this
of you.”
“As well first as last.”
“If you get across without harm, as I hope you will, I mean to remain
here for a little longer,” spoke George.
“Remain!” there was astonishment in the other’s voice. “But why? We
have learned all we can hope to learn.”
“The matter is a private one,” returned George. “Some time I will
explain all, but not now.”
Nat said no more. That night they again sought the same spot; the sky
was high and starry, but there was no moon; the river looked like a
great snow covered field of ice.
“Just light enough for me to see and not enough for them to see me,”
said Nat.
“I don’t think you are going to have much trouble in making the
passage,” said his friend. “The ice looks firm enough to support a
troop of dragoons.”
“Well, here’s for it; and I trust that you are right.” They clasped
hands tightly.
“Don’t forget the signal that’s to tell me that you are safely
across--a fire upon the hilltop just above there.”
“I’ll light it as soon as I arrive.”
“And I’ll watch here for it until midnight. If I don’t see it by that
time, I’ll be sure that something has happened to you and will make the
attempt myself.”
“Good-bye,” said Nat.
“Good-bye.”
A dark form flitted down to the river’s edge and stepped fearlessly
upon the ice; then it headed for the Pennsylvania shore and was soon
lost to view. The night was cold and still; George could hear the
crunching of his friend’s shoes in the frozen snow for some time after
he had lost sight of him. But after a little, even that ceased; he
heard a clock strike nine and then ten from a tower in the town; then
followed what seemed ages of waiting. The watcher trembled with the
cold; his feet were numbed; his hands were useless. Just as eleven
boomed out, mournfully and far off, there was a faint flare from a
knoll across the river; then it mounted to a ruddy blaze and George
gave a sigh of relief.
“He’s safe,” said he. “Safe! And now I can turn my hand to my own
work.”