The Young Continentals at Trenton

The night was without moon or stars, but the low, coppery sky made things distinguishable, and the horse ridden by George Prentiss had no difficulty in maintaining a steady lope.

Once outside the city proper, the rider struck across the meadows, knowing that Bayard’s woods were no great distance from Washington’s headquarters. Entering a path that skirted the wood, he pushed along until he saw the glow of lights through a growth of heavy trees.

“That will be the tavern,” said George. “For none but a public house would have so many candles burning.”

Quietly he rode forward; suddenly his horse snorted and reared; only a good seat and a firm hand saved the young New Englander from a fall. His keen eyes, by this time well accustomed to the semi-darkness, saw a dark shadow flit across his path.

“Hello,” he called, and his right hand clutched the pistol butt, “take care, there.”

The unknown made no answer; and the rustling of the thick, spring growth showed that no pause was made. George held in his nervous horse, his eyes searching his surroundings as best they could. But the shadow had disappeared into the thicker ones beyond, and all was silence.

The lad did not waste any time in search, but speaking to his mount, headed toward the lights of the tavern. Upon the side by which he approached, the land lay low; then the path ascended a knoll, and upon the top of this was a building.

When he had gained the summit of the rise, George recognized that the building was a mill; its solid outline and broken wings showed it to be, perhaps, still another reminder of the Dutch who had held the land in years gone by.

Here the young New Englander dismounted and tied his horse.

He had taken to the path once more and had gone but half a dozen yards, when he suddenly came to a stand. Listening intently, he caught the scuff-scuff of advancing footsteps. Straining his eyes, he dimly made out two figures, arm in arm, and approaching with great caution.

Instinctively young Prentiss shrank back into the shadow of the mill wall; then he waited until the two came up. They were almost abreast of him when they paused.

“This is the place,” spoke one, in a voice strange to the listener. “We can talk inside here without danger of being observed or overheard. Many’s the time I’ve transacted risky business here.”

Once more they advanced, apparently directly toward the lurking figure against the wall; a hand was outstretched, so it seemed to George, to grasp him; but in reality it was to open a door close beside him. The rusty hinges creaked and complained querulously; then the two passed into the mill and the door closed after them.

George waited for a few moments, then he stole to the door. With his ear close against it, he detected the clink of a steel against flint, then through the long seams that now showed between the warped boards of the door he caught the gleam of the spark.

“They’ve lighted a candle,” he murmured to himself.

There was a window some dozen feet above the ground; and he was gazing up at it speculatively when he noticed the shoots of a sturdy vine playing back and forth in the square of light.

Carefully he took hold of this and began to draw himself upward; inch by inch he ascended until finally his head rose above the level of the window. Securing a good foot-hold in a tough fork of the stem, George settled himself to observe what was before him. The room was a fairly large one, having once upon a time been used for a storeroom by the miller for his grist. A candle end sputtered fitfully upon the head of an upturned cask; and beside it sat two figures engaged in earnest conversation.

Looking down at them as he was, George had no very plain view of their faces; but their words came distinctly enough to his ears.

“I wish,” spoke the voice which he had heard a few minutes before, “I had known of your willingness some time ago. You would have been very useful.”

“I may still be so,” replied the second person, and young Prentiss started and barely managed to choke back the exclamation that arose to his lips. The speaker was Herbert Camp!

“No,” said the first man. “Our plans are now complete. Nothing remains but to await the moment when the signal is given.”

“And when will that be?” inquired Camp.

“How am I to answer that?” said the other man. “I know very little of anything except the danger.”

“They don’t tell you the important things, then?”

“Only those that they must. There are men among them that are not half—no, not a tenth as much concerned as I am; and yet they have the details at their fingers’ ends.”

“It would seem to me that you are not well treated, Hickey,” said Herbert Camp.

In the uncertain candle-light George now recognized the uniform of Washington’s guard which the second man was wearing; he had seen the British deserter only a few times, but, now that he was called to mind, the watching youth had no doubt that this was he.

“Did you, or anybody else, ever hear of Tryon treating those that serve him decently?” demanded Hickey. “He’s one of the sort that squeeze you dry—and then drop you. But,” he went on, “when he’s made up his mind to drop me, my pockets will be well lined, for if he does not give me his confidence, he does give me his money.” Once more the deserter laughed.

What answer Herbert made, young Prentiss did not hear; but in a moment the other began speaking again.

“When old Dana recommended you to me, I naturally had my doubts. ‘Is he to be trusted?’ asks I. ‘As you’d trust yourself,’ says he. ‘Are you sure of that?’ says I. ‘As sure as I am of anything,’ says he. ‘It means sixty thousand pounds to him in ready money, real property and some of the finest ships that sail the sea. Oh, yes, you can trust him to any length; he’ll not miss a fortune like that,’ says he.”

“No more would any man,” answered Herbert Camp.

The remainder of the reply was lost to George; for at the moment Camp began speaking, a sound outside the mill came to the ears of the young New Englander. He drew his head down out of the lighted square of the window and listened. But nothing followed.

“It must have been the horse stamping,” was George’s thought, after a few moments. He was about to resume his former position when he caught the soft fall of feet almost directly below him; and while he crouched low, listening, he felt the vine shaking as though under an inquiring hand.

“Some one is coming up,” he breathed. And, sure enough, the stout vine shook and strained under an additional weight; slowly and with much more difficulty than he had had, George felt the unknown ascend. For a moment he fancied that he had been discovered and that the newcomer was swarming up the vine to seize upon him. His hand went to the pistol in the belt, and he awaited the first hostile word or touch to draw it for use.

The window was rather a large one, and the point that George had gained, through pure chance, was to the extreme left of it. And now it also chanced that the newcomer scaled to the right; in the darkness a head came even with the young man, and, indeed, passed him.

With his feet, knees and left hand holding to the thick stem of the vine, George hung, clutching the pistol butt and awaiting the moment to act. But, so it seemed, the stranger had more interest within the mill than without, for the head went cautiously above the window’s edge, the dim yellow rays fell upon the face, and with a sharp gasp, George recognized Peggy Camp!