Harper's Round Table, January 14, 1896

Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers. All Rights Reserved.

It was a dark, murky night when George reached the headquarters at West Point. He had been delayed often in the journey, having been forced to hide in the woods to avoid meeting stragglers from the guerilla forces, and once he saw a man ride to the top of a hill behind him and shadow his eyes with his hat. His horse was almost worn out when he had reached the American outposts. Here, however, there was no detention. He had passports that would take him across the river, where the forces that were making feints of threatening the British defences above the city were stationed.
After leaving the protection of the American arms he was to proceed on foot and enter the British lines as best he could, and there demand to be brought before the officials to whom he had despatches.
It is a strange thing that even the strongest and frankest natures often have the gift of dissembling when confronted with danger or necessity. A half-dozen times as George had ridden through the woods he had thought of giving up the project. General Washington knew nothing of it, he felt sure, and Colonel Hewes was known more for his brilliancy and dash than for his caution. It seemed hardly possible that any scheme of such tremendous importance as the capture of the British General could be successful; the plotting could not go on under the very eyes of the English; they would surely suspect something, and he knew what the fate of a spy would be. He remembered the brave Nathan Hale, but was animated none the less by the memory of this hero's last words, and the sorrow that he had expressed at having but one life to give for his country. The question of right or wrong involved George did not weigh long in his mind, and, to tell the truth, the mystery of the adventure had strongly tempted him from the first.
No one would have recognized our young Lieutenant as he stepped from the boat into the glare of a lantern on the eastern shore of the Hudson—for he had been ferried across the river, the very night of his arrival at West Point. His brown hair was dyed black and straggled about his shoulders. Instead of his long blue coat, he wore a gray jacket and a short plum-colored waistcoat buttoned tightly to the throat; his legs were encased in heavy riding-breeches, and stiff leather gaiters came up to his knees. The big pouch in his pocket was filled with the precious English guineas, and sewed on the inside lining of his waistcoat were the despatches.