TELLS HOW A FIRE WAS KINDLED ON A HILLSIDE
Upon all sides were lighted windows; and through each of them could be
seen groups of Hessians feasting or dancing; the sounds of singing and
laughter came from every quarter. Through the day, George Prentiss’
quick eye had noted the increasing lack of military deportment among
the mercenaries; and now that night had come, things had grown worse.
“The fire, when I light it, will be allowed to burn,” thought the
young fellow, grimly, as he pushed his way through the snow. “And when
Washington’s rifles are banging about their ears, perhaps they’ll
regret their feastings and frolickings.”
In a little while he was in the select quarter of the town. Here the
festival was being observed with less grotesquery; and every now and
then a sleigh flitted by, crowded with merrymakers on their way to
Colonel Rahl’s concert. At the door of the Hawksworth mansion stood
a number of gracefully modeled cutters, each with a spirited team and
a great number of jingling bells. Apparently quite a party were going
from here to the concert; they were trooping down the steps laughing
and chattering; several footmen held lanthorns aloft; the ice upon the
stone steps and pavement glittered like glass.
Suddenly there was an exclamation; a girl slipped and would have fallen
had not young Prentiss deftly caught her. She murmured a “Thank you,”
and looked into his face.
But, so filled was he with the importance of his errand, that he
had not even noted that the house was Hawksworth’s; so he failed to
recognize the face behind the heavy veil. All unknowing, he touched his
hat and hurried on. She recognized him, however, for the light from
a lanthorn had fallen directly upon his face; and she gasped to see
him here, of all places in the world. Her friends were laughing and
chattering still, and calling to each other from the different sleighs;
but she never heeded them. Standing at one side she gazed after the
dimming figure pushing its way so doggedly through the snow.
And as she stood there, she became aware of something else. There was
another figure--a burly, towering figure that possessed an atmosphere
at once cautious and threatening. The huge shoulders were bent, the
head was drawn down, the step was careful, the whole manner one of
secrecy and observation. That this person was following the boy seemed
beyond doubt; and the girl choked back a little cry as she realized it.
Apparently under the impression that the entire party was wrapped in
the robes and tucked away in the sleighs, the horses were given rein
and started away amid a great jingling of bells. But still Peggy Camp
paid no heed. For a moment she stood, her eyes following the burly,
secretive pursuer; then with sudden resolution she gathered her cloak
about her and stole away in the broad track which he left in the snow.
When George reached the point above the town where his friend had
crossed, he stopped for a moment and gazed out over the river. Not even
a twinkle of light could be seen from the Pennsylvania shore; the
snow was falling thickly; the bitter wind had broken the ice into huge
cakes, and these were grinding together ominously.
But his pause was only of a moment’s duration. Upon the hillock of
which Nat had spoken, a heap of brush, carefully covered from the
snow, was collected. George had taken this precaution the day before.
Shielding his operations with his hat, he struck a spark and fired the
brush; the flame began to lick at the dry twigs hungrily; the dark
red tongues leaped from point to point at the bottom of the heap. As
the wind struck it, the mounting fire bur-r-r-red complainingly; and
satisfied that it had safely caught, George stepped back. As he did so
he heard a step at his side; upon the point of whirling about he heard
a low voice say:
“Hah! You would, would you!”
Then came a tremendous blow upon the side of his head and he fell
stunned upon the hillside. The cold touch of the snow, however,
instantly revived him; with his muscles lax and powerless he lay there,
his eyes rolling about until they became fixed upon a form at the fire.
“A signal, eh?” The big man laughed, and the leaping flame lighted up
his face. And, as it did so, George, strangely enough, knew him. It was
the bully, Slade, whom he had seen at the “King’s Arms” on his first
day in New York. “A signal, was it, my hearty? Well, we’ll soon put an
end to that.”
With a massive walking stick, apparently the weapon with which he had
felled young Prentiss, he began scattering the brush.
Unsteadily, George got upon his feet; waveringly he advanced. For the
fire to be instantly quenched meant that the American army must not
venture across the river.
“How do I know but what this would bring the entire swarm of rebels
down upon us?” growled Slade. He lifted his cudgel for another blow at
the burning brush, when he felt himself shouldered aside; and when he
turned he found himself staring into a wide mouthed pistol.
“You will kindly not disturb this fire,” said the young New Englander.
“It cost me some little effort to build it, and I’d prefer having it
burn.”
Bristling and snarling more like a bad mannered mastiff than ever,
Slade regarded the young man.
“All such things as fire are forbidden on the river bank,” said he,
rather lamely.
George laughed. “They will have to do something more than forbid, to
make me put this one out,” he said.
“I was right, then,” said Slade. “It’s a signal!”
“It is your privilege to guess. And it is also mine to refuse an
answer,” smiled the young man.
Though he kept the pistol upon Slade, George noticed that the fire was
waning. He began kicking the brush together that it might burn better;
particles of snow flew among the light flames and hissed and sputtered.
“How much of the conversation did you overhear at the inn about an hour
ago?” asked Slade.
“All of it.”
“That’s what I thought.” The small eyes snapped viciously beneath the
heavy brows. “Then you know that you’ve never deceived us. We knew that
you were playing fast and loose from the first.”
“Your messenger from Boston was suspected of being a traitor, was he?”
“Suspected?” Slade laughed at this.
“What was his name?” asked George, quietly.
Slade hesitated; then a curious look came into his face.
“We never heard,” said he finally.
It was George who laughed this time.
“Mr. Dana is a curious old fellow,” said he. “I wonder if he always
jumps so at conclusions.”
“Do you mean to say----” Slade stopped.
“That I am not the messenger? Exactly. Your man must have missed the
‘Nancy Breen.’ I bore dispatches, but they were to General Putnam.”
Slade eyed him narrowly.
“That,” said he, “will astonish Major Hyde.”
“No more than my learning that that same gentleman is a British spy
astonished me,” replied George.
The fire was not burning as he desired it. Smiling quietly at the
amazed look of Slade, George incautiously lowered the pistol and
proceeded to arrange the dryest of the brush. This lapse was like to
have been his last act on earth, for Slade bounded upon him like a wild
beast. The pistol was knocked from his grasp, and he was crushed to
the ground under the man’s bulk. But the few minutes that had passed
since the first blow had seen the youth’s strength come back in a great
degree. He twisted about, grappled with Slade, and they went writhing
and rolling about in the snow.
The Tory had little idea of the work in which he was now engaged; with
his tremendous power he should have beaten his lighter opponent into
submission in short order. But, save in clumsy wrestling, he did not
know how to use his strength. George, on the other hand, never missed a
point; he clutched the other by the neck-cloth and twisted it until he
had him gasping; and now and then, when he had a chance, he let go with
one hand and dashed it into the contorted face.
With the blood streaming from mouth and nose, Slade continued the
struggle; slowly the boy was strangling him; the breath labored in his
huge chest; in the mounting firelight his small eyes seemed ready to
start from his head.
During the entire fight, George’s great dread was that the fire
might die out through want of attention. He did not fear Slade, or
the outcome of the struggle; but that the waiting Americans upon the
west bank might misread his signal gave him much anxiety. Even in the
midst of the battling, he managed to keep his attention on the fire.
Instead of dying out it grew stronger and stronger; indeed, it roared
and sparkled bravely in the wind; its light made the hillside as plain
as day. Amazed at this, George finally managed to twist about so in
Slade’s clutch that he got a good view of the fire. Still more amazed
was he to see a slight form hovering beside it and heaping brush upon
it with a generous hand. And as he looked, a clear voice said:
“Never mind this; it is my work. Take care of that man, and leave the
fire to me.”
With a sort of fierce joy in his heart, George proceeded to do as he
was bidden. But Slade had heard the voice and now saw what was going
forward. The fear of what might be the outcome of the beacon light
caused him to lose his head. With a wild jerk he freed himself from
the young man and leaped to his feet. As he rushed toward the blaze,
George was after him like a cat, snatching his heavy pistol from the
snow as he went. Slade’s arms were outstretched to seize the girl when
the steel barrel fell upon his head; and like an ox he went down in his
tracks.
“Now,” spoke the young man quietly, as he looked at Peggy Camp, “if
you’ll be so good as to go on as you were, I’ll see to trussing this
fellow up.”
Without a word the girl fed the brush to the hungry flames; with the
man’s own belt and his woolen neckerchief, George pinioned his arms and
legs.
“He’s very awkward to handle,” said the youth when this was
accomplished, “and it’s just as well to have him safe.” Then he
turned and helped her with a tangled mass of brush which she found it
difficult to move. “How did you happen here?” he asked.
“I saw you coming this way,” she answered simply. “And I saw him,” with
a nod toward Slade, “following you. He looked as if he meant harm, so
I followed him.”
“You did!” He gazed at her steadily.
“You have served me more than once,” she said. “And then, you are my
cousin.”
George started with surprise.
“You know that!”
“I have known it all along--from the first, almost. And that is why I
have been so--so----”
She hesitated, and he added a word.
“Contemptuous,” he said.
“I felt sure that you knew who Herbert was,” she said, very low, “and
that you should be the one to hunt him down seemed unnatural.”
He did not reply; and side by side they stood by the fire watching it
curl and roar in the wind. Then she said: “A few moments ago I heard
you say that Major Hyde was a British spy. Was that true?”
“It was. I had it from his own lips this very night.” Again he looked
at her in the same steady way; then he added: “Some curious things have
happened and some equally curious misunderstandings have sprung up
since that morning on the wharf near the ‘Brigantine.’”
“I have begun to fear so,” she said.
“Even at the first,” he said, “I could have explained some of them. But
you would not allow me. Now, however, I can explain all.”
“I ask your pardon for anything which I have done or said amiss.” She
spoke gently. “If you are ready to tell me these things, I am more than
ready to listen.”
And so there, on the bleak hillside, with the snow falling and the
bitter wind shrieking about them, he began his tale. Dana’s mistake;
his own selection by Putnam to trace out the conspirators; Hyde’s plot
to have his life because he thought him a false agent to the Tory
cause. And here the girl interrupted him for the first time.
“That, then, is what Major Hyde meant when he spoke one night with
Captain Henderson at my uncle’s house in Crown Street. He was plotting
your destruction. He said you were as false to them. I thought he spoke
as an American officer. That is why I warned you against coming into
the city upon the night that you rescued my brother and myself at the
‘Wheat Sheaf.’ I felt sure that you had betrayed the American cause.”
Then George proceeded with his narrative. He told how he had given up
the mission because of his relationship to them, and how he had plainly
told General Putnam why. Then he watched the joy in her face as he
related what he had heard Herbert tell his uncle.
“Then my brother is not a renegade!” she cried, with shining eyes.
“It would seem not,” replied George. “And it would seem that General
Putnam was in touch with all the facts and all his movements.”
After this they spoke of the eventful night at Corbie’s tavern. The
girl listened, and when he had finished, he saw doubt once more in her
eyes.
“As you suspect,” she said, “I knew my brother intended going there
that night, as I did on the night at the ‘Wheat Sheaf.’ And I followed
to do what I could to save him from danger. But if he was innocent,”
and her eyes fixed themselves gravely upon George, “why did he see fit
to hide afterward?”
“In the light of what I now know,” answered George, “it is clear
enough. He feared that he had been recognized and would be arrested.
In that event it would be necessary to call upon General Putnam; of
course, he would then be released; but at the same time, this release
might cause a suspicion of the real state of affairs to get abroad, and
so ruin his chances to eventually worm himself into the secrets of the
enemy.”
He then recounted how he had been met and been invited by her uncle to
their New York home; he was about to tell his conversation with Major
Hyde and the dragoon when she interrupted him.
“I heard it all,” she said. “By accident I was seated at the window
behind the curtain; and that conversation convinced me more and more
that you were what I had come to think you--a person in the pay of
both sides--one willing to betray either, according to which way your
interest pointed.” Her hand touched his arm lightly, imploringly.
“Forgive me,” she said.
After this came the story of the tapestried chamber from his point of
view; then he told what Hyde had said about it. She hung her head.
[Illustration: “_IT’S THE ARMY OF WASHINGTON_”]
“I could not see you harmed, no matter what you had done,” she said,
simply. “In spite of all that I then believed against you, I could not
forget who you were and that you had behaved bravely more than once in
my behalf.”
And so they talked and talked and the time sped by. For more than an
hour the brush fire crackled on the hillside; and then, when no more
fuel was to be had, it was permitted to die away. But still the youth
and the girl waited, their garments wrapped about them snugly, for the
wind grew more bitter with each passing moment. Then from across the
ice-choked river long lines of light began to dimly flicker.
“It’s the army of Washington,” said George, and there was exultation in
his voice. “They are about to embark.”
“Then that,” said Peggy Camp, awed, “is really the answer to the
signal.”
“It is,” answered he. “And in a few hours, there will, perhaps, be a
new master in the town of Trenton.”
And so they stole away through the darkness and snow toward the town.
And when they had disappeared, the burly figure on the ground began to
writhe and tug at the bonds that held him. After a long struggle, the
neck-cloth began to stretch and slip; a half minute later it had fallen
from his arms. Then the belt was off and Slade got painfully upon his
feet.
“So we are to have a crossing of the river and a surprise, are we?”
said he, as he hobbled toward the town. “Well, we shall see about that,
my lad.”