The Young Continentals at Trenton

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!”