“I only hope I won’t run across Lon,” Hadley muttered, as Black Molly clattered along. “I don’t just see how I am to pole that heavy flatboat across the river alone, but I cannot call upon any of the Alwoods to help me. Ah! there’s Sam.”
Not that Hadley saw the individual of whom he spoke ahead of him. Indeed, he could not see a dozen feet before the mare’s nose. But there had flashed into his mind the remembrance of the black man, who was one of the few slaves in the neighborhood. Black Sam belonged to the Alwoods, and, although an old man, he was still vigorous. He lived alone in a little hut on the river bank, and it was near his cabin that the Alwood’s bateau was usually chained. The old slave was a favorite with all the boys, and Hadley Morris had reason to know that Sam was to be trusted.
When the young dispatch bearer reached the river bank and the black man’s hut, his mare was all of a lather and it was upwards of ten o’clock. The Alwood house was several rods away, and, as was the case with all the other farmhouses he had passed since crossing his uncle’s estate, was wrapped in darkness. Nobody would travel these Jersey roads by night, or remain up to such an hour, unless urgency commanded.
Hadley rolled off his mount and rapped smartly on the cabin door.
A long silence followed, then, to his joy, a voice from within called, “Who’s dar?”
“It’s me—Had Morris. I want you,” whispered the boy.
“Want me!” exclaimed the astonished Sam. “Is dat sho’ ’nough you, Moster Had? How come yo’ ’way down yere fr’m de T’ree Oaks? Whadjer want?”
“I’ve got to get across the river—quick, Sam! I haven’t a minute to lose.”
“Why don’ yo’ go up ter de ferry, Moster?” demanded the negro, still behind the closed door.
“I can’t go there. The Britishers are there—and they’re after me!”