“Would you ’blige me wif you name, suh?” The black boy was caution itself. George told him his name, and the solemn eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
“Das it, sho’ ’nuff,” he said. Then lower still, “I got a lil’ bit o’ writin’ fo’ yo’, suh.”
A strip of paper was slipped into the young man’s hand. It read:
“Crossing Christmas night. Fire on hill back of where I left. Put out at once—don’t cross. Allow to burn—all is well.”
A thrill ran through George’s body. At a glance its meaning was plain to him.
“The army crosses the river on Christmas night,” he thought. “I am to light a signal fire on the hill back of the spot where Nat left me last. If I put the blaze out at once it will mean that I find it dangerous for them to make the attempt. If I keep it burning, it will mean that the time is ripe for the blow to be struck—that the Hessians suspect nothing.”
For a moment he continued gazing at the paper, fascinated; then he turned to the messenger.
“Who gave you this?”
“Mistah Brewstah, suh.”
“Where is he?”