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.