The inn was directly across the way from Rahl’s headquarters; from his windows the young New Englander could see the sentries pacing up and down; the half circle of cannon grinned grimly down each street that led thereto.
George had not been a guest at the inn more than a day or two when he noticed that the sound of music was almost constant at headquarters. The landlord, a Tory, made a wry face when George mentioned the matter.
“Rahl is a madman for melody,” said he. “No matter what else is toward, his concerts must not be interfered with; he’ll sit for hours before the fire, beating time with his fingers. The best fed men in his army are the musicians. As for me, I wish they’d choke themselves with their own bugles and fifes; one can’t get a wink of sleep at times for their blowing and braying.”
It wanted only a little time now until Christmas. This has always been a festival greatly in favor with the Germans. The plundered countryside suffered more than ever; the mercenaries made a clean sweep of what was left; nothing escaped them; sleigh train after sleigh train entered Trenton from all directions; herd after herd of sheep, swine and beef were driven over the snowy roads.
And the more deeply engaged the Hessians became in these preparations for the festival, the less attention they gave to duty. Neglect of even the simplest military precautions became common; one unacquainted with the real conditions would have said, upon observing their indifference, that there was not an enemy within five hundred miles.
“If it were not for the river,” said George to himself time and again, “Washington would need only make a swift dash and the town would be his.”
But that even the ice-choked river had no terrors for the American commander was soon made plain to the boy. He had just finished his noonday meal and arisen to his feet when he heard a guarded voice say in his ear:
“Guess you ain’t no friend to Mistah Brewstah?”
It was a black boy, woolly-headed and with solemn eyes.
“I am,” replied George, in the same low tone.