The Young Continentals at Trenton

For a moment, George Prentiss was so startled that he almost slipped his hold on the vine. But apparently Peggy took no notice, her interest in the two in the room below was so great; the dim rays of the candle were reflected in her eager eyes.

Though George, owing to his position, could not see the deserter and his companion, their voices were so pitched that he had no difficulty in hearing their conversation.

“The cause of the colonies attracted me,” he caught from young Camp. “It was the romance of it, no doubt; and partly it was the spirit of rebellion that every young man feels against the powers that be. But when my uncle made it so plain to me that it was against my interest to continue as a colonial officer, why, I did not hesitate an instant.”

A fist struck the cask head and the flickering candle leaped and almost went out.

“Now that is what I call reason, well spoken,” declared Hickey.

“Mr. Dana must have told you my opinions of these things,” said young Camp, “so there is no need of my repeating them. My object in coming here to-night was to offer my services in any way that you might be able to use me.”

“As to that,” replied the other, “I don’t know. There are others to be considered beside myself, you see. But,” here his voice fell into a much lower key and finally trailed off into a soft whispering which continued for some time. Then Herbert Camp was heard to say, emphatically:

“If you will do that it is all that I can ask in reason. Come,” and the pushing back of stools told that the two had risen, “let us go at once. I believe in making haste in things of this sort, for the opportunity does not always last.”

There was a low-voiced reply from the deserter; then the light went out and the dimly illumined square of the window vanished. Once more the neglected hinges creaked, then the door closed, and footsteps went stumbling away toward the tavern.

And now Peggy Camp began to descend the vine; in reaching out to take a fresh hold, she slipped and would probably have fallen had not a firm hand caught and held her. A frightened little cry came to her lips; but a voice, almost in her ear, said:

“Don’t be alarmed; I am a friend.”

But the words were unheeded; the terror of a presence so near to her and so unsuspected overcame all else; she swung herself down to the ground with the celerity of fear, and George, when he had also descended, found her gone. For a moment he stood trying to pierce the gloom in all directions; then a now familiar sound came to him—the rasping, complaining squeak of neglected hinges. A few steps brought him to the door through which he had first seen the candle-light; slipping within, he closed it behind him.

“Once more,” said he, calmly, “I ask you not to be alarmed. You have no occasion for it.” With the deftness that comes of experience he kindled a blaze; the candle end was still in its place upon the upturned cask, and lighting this, he looked about him.

Peggy stood a dozen feet away, her eyes fixed steadily upon him; the tilt of her chin and the proud pose of her young body told as plainly as words could have done that though she might be well-nigh sick with terror, still she would not show it. George regarded her for a moment or two in silence; then he said:

“I fancied that I would find you here.”

“And I,” flashed she, “was sure that you would be at no great distance.”

There was something in her manner and voice that affected him unpleasantly; he felt his face flush hotly.

“Oh, indeed!” was all that he could find to say in return. “And may I ask why?”

“Because,” said Peggy, coldly, “there are underhand things being planned.”

“It so happens, now and then,” said he at last, and rather lamely, “that one is forced to contend with such conditions.”

“Forced!” Her eyes flashed scornfully as she caught the word up. “It seems, sir, that you are a trifle disingenuous. Your choice is free in the matter, I should think.”

He snuffed the long wick of the candle with his fingers; in the heightened light he looked at her with attention. And as he looked, his wits slowly returned. He resented the scorn so plain in her dark eyes; his anger grew at the contempt written so straightforwardly in her face.

“Here I am,” was his thought, “and for no other purpose in the world but that she may be kept from danger; and she goes out of her way to treat me as though I were some scurvy rascal.”

Then, aloud, he said:

“That I chose to be abroad upon another night, as you will perhaps recall, served certain people well. Who knows but that another such occasion might now arise; for, unless I am mistaken, the conditions are much alike.”

He heard her breath intaken sharply at this; and when she answered, her voice shook a little.

“I don’t think I quite understand,” she said.

“Do you mean that you don’t understand what happened at that other time, or what may happen to-night?”

“As to that other night,” she said, “I was puzzled at first. But later, I came to understand. I saw that the matter had not gone far enough to serve your purpose, and you desired to learn more than you knew. Then,” and she flashed him a look of contempt, “they might seize upon my brother and welcome.”

He made no reply, though she paused for one. After a moment she proceeded, but in an altered tone.

“But you spoke of to-night. What did you mean?”

“I said that the conditions are not unlike. Your brother is here, in secret; and you have followed him—also in secret.”

“And the rest——?” eagerly.

He shrugged his shoulders, and his gigantic shadow mimicked him much as Hickey’s had done a little while before.

“As to that,” said he, “I would not venture to prophesy.”

“I do not require you to do that,” she said. “I merely ask you to tell what you know.” She came a step nearer to him and her head bent forward, as she continued: “That night at the ‘Wheat Sheaf’ a party of colonial soldiers showed themselves. Will it be the same to-night?”

He hesitated; like lightning she seized upon this as an answer.

“It will,” she cried. “You have seen to that. Such as you are always to be depended upon to arrange their traps cleverly.”

Her eyes now fairly burned with scorn; her gesture, as she shrank back from him, was one of repulsion. And it was this gesture that goaded him beyond endurance.

“I have laid no trap!” he answered; “and I have not been a party to the laying of one. I do not expect you to believe me, for I see that you have made up your mind to think the worst of me. But even if I were seeking to snare your brother, would I be anything like as false as he?” She seemed about to make answer, but he waved it back. “I, at least, would be working for truth and the cause I’d sworn to uphold, while he——”

Her laughter interrupted him. “You!” she cried. “You working for truth! You upholding a cause because you had sworn to do so!”

It was with great difficulty that he kept back the bitter words that came to his lips; but he felt that his resentment had already caused him to go too far. So he remained silent.

She stood looking at him as though expecting him to reply; but as he did not do so, she went on:

“Because you have overheard my brother just now, you think there is nothing to be said in his defense. But you are wrong. There is this. No matter what his words may have been,” and again she bent toward him, “he is as free of wrong as you are.”

George was about to make a reply, when suddenly there came a smothered crash of shots from some little distance away, mingled with excited shouts and cries of pain. Instantly he threw the door open, and as he ran out he was aware that Peggy had extinguished the candle. The tavern was a bedlam of sound; rapid shots were being exchanged within.

Through the open windows and doors of the building men were springing, followed by others who were grappling with them and bearing them to the ground. But one, an active and speedy runner, gained the outside without mishap and raced away from the inn, a half dozen pursuers at his heels. With a leap of the heart George knew him as Herbert Camp, and though he wanted to have nothing to do with his taking, duty was plain before him.

“He’s a self-confessed traitor,” muttered the youth, “and I am bound to bring him down if I can.”

With the tavern lights behind him, young Camp could be made out with more or less plainness; and he was headed directly toward the abandoned mill. As he drew near, George Prentiss gathered himself for an effort; the scattering slugs from the heavy pistols of those in pursuit sputtered and hummed about him, but he did not flinch. The fugitive had reached a point a dozen yards away when the young New Englander made his contemplated rush. However, he had not gone more than a few steps when he felt his foot grasped strongly; and down he went at full length upon the ground.

What followed was rather confused; a half dozen or more colonials ran by and over him. A few paused to drag him to his feet and disarm him. Then he heard Nat Brewster’s voice call out:

“He’s gone inside here; the door’s barred. Get something to force it.”

Lights sprang up and danced upon the stone walls of the mill; a heavy log thundered upon the door.

“It was she that tripped me,” thought George. “And she’s hurried her brother inside, thinking to escape notice. But they are trapped.”

The door fell in with a crash, and Nat leaped over the threshold.

“Empty!” he cried. “See, there is another door!”

Sure enough, there was—one that had escaped George’s notice, but which Peggy had evidently observed. And while they stood staring at it, the sudden rattle of hoofs told the patriots that their man had made good his escape.