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  The sound of footsteps made Skoyles step into a doorway, and his hand went to his knife. Having gone to such trouble to set up the escape, he was not going to be caught now. As the footsteps got closer, he readied himself for attack. When the body was inches away from him, he reached out to pull it into the doorway. One hand was clapped over the newcomer's mouth, the other held a knife to the throat. Elizabeth's cry of fear was muffled. Overcome with relief, Skoyles released her and sheathed his weapon before enfolding her in his arms and hugging her reassuringly. Then he kissed her on her lips to seal their love. Holding her tight, he spoke in whispers.

  "Where have you been?"

  "I could not stay here," she told him. "The landlord began to pester me. When he tried to come into my room the third time, I went off and found another place to stay. I'm sorry if I kept you waiting, Jamie."

  "You're here now. That's the main thing. How do you feel?"

  "I'm shaking like a leaf."

  "You've come well wrapped up, I see."

  "And I've brought very little with me."

  "We must travel light."

  Elizabeth was wearing a dark cloak over her dress, and the hood was pulled up. As well as clothing and money, her leather satchel contained a few items of food that she had managed to save. Eager to accompany Skoyles, she had been sad to leave her maid behind.

  "Nan sends her regards," she said.

  "I offered to take her with us, Elizabeth."

  "She's terrified of horses and even more frightened of wild animals that we might meet on the way. I hope that you've got something other than that knife to keep them at bay."

  "Otis will see to that."

  "Otis?"

  "Otis Tapper," he explained. "The man from whom I bought the horses. For an additional sum, he agreed to provide me with a musket, a pistol, and ammunition for both." Arm around her shoulders, he eased her forward. "Let's go and find him."

  Keeping to the shadows, they headed toward the outskirts of the town, conscious that this was the first time in their lives that they had been truly alone. The only intimate moments they had shared before had been in the middle of an army encampment, and those had, of necessity, been rather snatched. Now they were together, unhampered by the presence of others or by the strict social rules they were obliged to follow. It gave them both a thrill of excitement, but Skoyles made sure that it did not affect his concentration. They had some way to go yet and needed to stay alert. At the slightest sound, they took instant cover. Only when they were sure that it was safe did they move on.

  "How did you find this Otis Tapper?" she asked.

  "I was given his name by one of the guards."

  Elizabeth was surprised. "A guard helped you to escape?"

  "No," he replied, "and he'd not have spoken to me if he'd known what was on my mind. I simply asked where I could buy extra food and blankets and a new pair of boots. He said that Otis Tapper could get me anything I wanted—at a price. I went to the tavern where he drinks and sounded him out. Tapper is no loyalist, but he was more than ready to defy his countrymen and give me what I wanted. Horses and guns."

  "Did you pay him?"

  "Only half of what we agreed. The other half comes on delivery."

  "Can you trust him, Jamie?"

  "I believe so."

  "Which way will we ride?"

  "Southwest."

  Most women would have blenched at the notion of a daring escape on horseback, but Elizabeth Rainham was not among them. An excellent rider, she had complete faith in Skoyles and was prepared to take any risk to be with him. He issued a warning.

  "There'll be problems," he told her, "and not only from packs of wolves. The countryside is crawling with militia. We'll have to dodge and weave all the way. And we must keep our wits about us, Elizabeth."

  "I'll not let you down."

  "I know. But we can't sleep rough in this weather."

  "We'll need a roof over our heads."

  He turned to her. "That means we may have to pose as man and wife," he said softly. "How would you feel about that?"

  Her blush went unseen. "Content."

  He squeezed her shoulder and they turned down a narrow street.

  Otis Tapper had agreed to meet them near a derelict house on the very edge of town. When they got within thirty yards of it, Skoyles halted and moved Elizabeth behind a tree that had shed all of its leaves and was left with a tangle of spectral branches.

  "Why have we stopped? she asked.

  "We have to wait for the signal."

  "What is it?"

  "Tapper will wave a lantern twice."

  "I hope I haven't delayed you."

  "Not at all," he said. "I allowed extra time in case we got held up along the way. We've a little while to wait before he shows up. Cold?" She nodded and he pulled her closer. "We have to escape now. If we held on until winter really sets in, we'd have no chance of getting away."

  "The weather was so beautiful when we set out from Canada."

  "Things have changed a lot since then, Elizabeth."

  "I know. So much loss, so much suffering."

  "It will be better when we get to New York. The British army holds sway there. You'll be given proper accommodations at last."

  "What about you?"

  "I'm a soldier. They'll find plenty of work for me."

  Before he could tell her about his ambitions, he heard the clack of hooves in the distance. Horses were approaching, and it was not long before their shapes were conjured out of the darkness. A lantern was waved twice in their direction.

  "Tapper is early," he said. "Come and meet him."

  Carrying their baggage, they trotted toward the derelict house and saw that two riders awaited them. Each had another horse on a lead rein. Skoyles and Elizabeth were pleased. Their hopes rose. When they reached the waiting men, however, Skoyles did not recognize either of them. It made him wary.

  "Where's Otis Tapper?" he asked.

  "Waiting for you," replied one of the men. "Follow us."

  Skoyles held his ground. "He promised to meet us here."

  "Well, he's not able to fulfil that promise right now."

  "Who are you?"

  "We're the people that own these horses."

  "Then hand them over."

  "There's no hurry. Come and see Otis first."

  The men wheeled their horses and trotted toward a copse nearby. Skoyles and Elizabeth had no option but to follow. They felt at a distinct disadvantage. Skoyles only had his knife, whereas both men were armed with muskets. When the four horses vanished into the trees, the fugitives went slowly after them. They met up again in a clearing. One of the men used his musket to point toward a hazy figure that seemed to be moving to and fro in the wind. It was only when Skoyles and Elizabeth got closer that they realized someone was dangling from the bough of a tree.

  "This is Otis Tapper," the man continued with a grim chuckle. "It's where he belongs. We always hang horse thieves."

  Elizabeth let out a cry of horror and turned away. Skoyles pulled her to him. There would be no escape that night. The man paid to assist their flight had been summarily killed. When the two riders leveled their muskets, it looked as if Skoyles and Elizabeth were fated to join Otis Tapper in the grave. The bigger of the two men cleared his throat and spat on the ground before speaking.

  "Stealing horses is a crime," he said, "and you were party to it. So let's start by having the rest of the money you were going to pay for our animals." His voice hardened. "Hand it over." Skoyles hesitated. "Do I have to shoot you to get what's owed to us?"

  "Give it to him," Elizabeth begged, clinging to Skoyles's arm.

  "I will," he said.

  Skoyles pretended to comply with the order. Stepping forward, he reached inside his bag as if about to extract money. Without warning, he then swung the bag hard to knock the bigger man's musket from his grasp, then he reached up to haul him from the saddle. The other man fired at Skoyles but the musket ball missed him. The sudden
noise made the three riderless horses bolt. Skoyles, meanwhile, grabbed the fallen weapon and used its butt to pound the man on the ground until he was senseless. Elizabeth could not bear to watch. Having disposed of one man, Skoyles turned to deal with the other and pointed his loaded weapon. It was enough to frighten him away. Pulling his mount in a half circle, the man used his heels to kick the horse into a canter. He was out of sight in seconds. Skoyles discarded the musket, picked up his bag, then glanced up sadly at the body of Otis Tapper, still swinging in the breeze. The captain had made a bargain with the wrong man.

  "Run!" he said, taking Elizabeth's arm. "Run!"

  CHAPTER TWO

  Though they spent St. Andrew's Day in captivity, the tattered remnants of the defeated British army were determined to celebrate the occasion. A quarter of the common soldiers who bore arms for King and Country in the American war hailed from Scotland, and while many served in such quintessentially Scottish regiments as the Black Watch or Fraser's Highlanders, several were scattered throughout other regiments. The 24th Foot had its fair share of them, and they desperately needed something to relieve the boredom and discomfort of their imprisonment. When they gathered in Morland's Tavern to toast their patron saint, therefore, they were in high spirits.

  Never one to miss the chance of a drink, Sergeant Tom Caffrey went with them. He sat at a crowded table beside a jocular private.

  "You're no Scot," McKillop said to him.

  "I am on November 30."

  "What about St. David's Day?"

  "Oh, I'm a leek-eating Welshmen then," replied Caffrey with a grin. "On St. Patrick's Day, of course, I'm as Irish as a sprig of shamrock, but on St. George's Day, I remember where I was really born."

  "Only a true Scot can appreciate the importance of St. Andrew's Day," McKillop insisted, taking a sip of his whiskey. "It's something you feel in your bones—and it's a day when you wear a kilt with pride."

  Like others in the tavern, McKillop had somehow contrived to get hold of a length of plaid to replace his breeches. It looked more like a woman's skirt than a kilt, but Caffrey did not mock his little companion. On his head, Private Andrew McKillop wore a crumpled bonnet with a piece of heather in it. He was a man of astonishing resilience. Injured in battle, he had lost a leg but surrendered none of his cheery optimism. Though he was in constant pain, he never let it show and—when Caffrey was actually removing the limb—the Scotsman had been a model of bravery and resignation. Beneath the makeshift kilt was a wooden leg that McKillop now used to tap out the rhythm of the various Scots ballads that were being sung so lustily.

  The place was full, the voices raucous, the mood convivial. Those who were not drunk soon would be. Those already inebriated were either aggressive or maudlin or had simply lapsed into a stupor. Loud arguments had already broken out. As McKillop raised his glass, he had to shout at the top of his voice in order to be heard.

  "A health to General Burgoyne!"

  "General Burgoyne!" chorused the others.

  "A true gentleman and a wonderful soldier."

  A great cheer went up, and Caffrey joined in willingly. In the light of their disastrous campaign, the sergeant had severe reservations about Burgoyne's tactical skills, but this was not the time to voice them. Their commander remained enduringly popular with the men, not least because he had contributed the enormous sum of £20,000 out of his own pocket to pay for the accommodations and provisioning of his army. Though their lot remained a sorry one, it was evident that General Burgoyne had done his best for them.

  "When are we going home, Sergeant?" asked McKillop.

  "I wish I knew," said Caffrey.

  "I'd hoped we'd be on our way by now."

  "So did I, Andy. We've been cooling our heels here for almost a month now. The weather's colder, the beds feel harder, and the food is worse than ever. On top of that," he went on, "the guards have got much nastier. They don't like being here any more than us."

  "That's no reason to taunt us," McKillop complained. "A wee bit of respect is all we ask—that and a fleet of ships to take us away from this godforsaken place. Some of the lads are beginning to think that they'll never let us go home."

  "Oh, I don't know about that," said Caffrey, hiding his own fears about their future. "I just wish that General Gates would remember the terms of the convention. When Gentleman Johnny proposed it, the rebels got four thousand prisoners without firing a single shot. It's high time they met their obligations."

  "Yes—free whiskey for every Scotsman in the regiment."

  Caffrey chuckled. "That's asking too much."

  "Then it's just as well that St. Andrew is our patron saint."

  "Why?"

  "He was a martyr—just like us."

  A big, heavy man in his thirties, with red hair and a thick beard, plopped himself down on the bench between them, forcing them apart. His eyes were rolling, his body swaying, his speech slurred. He peered uncertainly at the stripes on the arm of Caffrey's uniform.

  "What are ye doing here, Sergeant?" he said belligerently.

  "Talking to St. Andrew McKillop the Martyr."

  "Ye don't belong here."

  "Sergeant Caffrey saved my life," announced McKillop, "so he's here as my guest. Let's have no trouble from you, Duncan Rennie, or I'll do something with my wooden leg that will make your eyes water. If you want a fight, pick on someone else."

  "I want to punch an Englishman."

  "We're on the same side," Caffrey reminded him.

  "Not on this day of the year," the other declared. "It brings back too many bad memories. The Rennies fought against their English tyrants for generations. My grandfather fell at Sheriffmuir in the first rebellion. My father was butchered, along with so many other gallant Scots, at Culloden." He spat expressively on the floor. "Ye want us to lay down our lives for ye in battle but ye'll no let us wear the kilt anymore. Even the Black Watch is forced to put on trews now."

  Duncan Rennie had drunk too much whiskey to show deference to Caffrey's rank, or to his reputation as a man who could handle himself well in a brawl. All that the Scotsman could see through his bleary eyes was the sad history of his country. He wanted revenge for endless years of subjugation. At that moment, Tom Caffrey seemed to embody the cruel and oppressive English. Rennie wagged a finger at him.

  "Get oot while ye can, ye lousy Sassenach!" he growled.

  "Let me buy you another whiskey," said Caffrey.

  "I'll no drink with the likes of ye!"

  "We can raise a glass to good King George."

  "Bugger the king!"

  "I'll forget I heard that," said Caffrey tolerantly, "or I'd have to remind you that, from the moment you put on a red coat, your life became the property of His Majesty."

  "Aye, show some loyalty, Duncan," McKillop advised.

  "Keep out of this," Rennie warned. "I want to tell this English bastard why I hate his nation and want him to—"

  "Save your breath to cool your porridge," said Caffrey, interrupting him. "And learn to hold your drink. We're both of us in the same boat, Rennie. We're British soldiers—we obey orders."

  "And where did obeying orders get us?"

  "Calm down, Duncan," said McKillop, a hand on his arm.

  "Locked up in this shit hole!" roared his fellow Scot. "Now are ye going to get oot of here, Sergeant, or do I have to throw ye oot?"

  Caffrey was unsure what to do. He was not afraid of Rennie and was confident of getting the better of him in a fight. But a tussle with one man could easily turn into a general free-for-all and that would serve nobody's purpose. For the sake of keeping the peace, Caffrey wondered if it might be better to finish his drink and slip quietly out of the tavern. In the event, the decision was taken for him. Armed guards burst in through the door to be met by a torrent of abuse from the revelers.

  "Time's up!" bellowed one of the newcomers. "Out you go!"

  Threats and curses came from every corner of the room. As prisoners of war, soldiers were only allowed out of
their barracks between 8:00 A.M. and 3:00 P.M. Even on St. Andrew's Day, there were no concessions. Having their pleasure cut short enraged the Scotsmen beyond measure. The boisterous atmosphere inside Morland's Tavern suddenly turned mutinous. Duncan Rennie elected himself the leader.

  "Away with ye!" he boomed, struggling to his feet. "And tek your ugly faces with ye! Nobody can tell us what to do upon St. Andy's Day!"

  "You know the rules," said the guard sternly. "Get out."

  Rennie folded his arms. "Supposing I don't?" he challenged.

  "Supposing none of us do?" called another voice.

  "Aye!" cried a dozen Scotsmen in unison.

  "Now then," said Caffrey, standing up in an attempt to prevent any violence breaking out. "We don't want any trouble, do we? You've had your celebration. Sing your way back to the barracks."

  "That's good advice," McKillop put in. "Let's go, lads."

  "No," said Rennie stoutly. "I'll no' shift an inch from here." He looked around the room. "We stay put. Who's with me?" A general cry of consent went up. "There ye are, ye lily-livered Yankees. We'll not move from here even if that long streak of puke, George Washington, comes banging on the door."

  "You'll move right now," said the guard, advancing on him, "or I'll shave your beard off with this bayonet."

  Rennie was incensed. "Come closer and I'll kill you!"

  He pushed two people off a bench and snatched it up to use as a weapon. Others urged him on and clustered around Rennie in support, waving their fists at the Americans in a show of resistance. Roused by the tumult, more guards came into the tavern, bayonets pointed at the howling Scots. Caffrey tried to plead for calm but his voice went unheard. Tension soared until it reached the point of release. Duncan Rennie hurled the bench, a guard was hit, and pandemonium broke out.

  Anger and resentment that had built up during long weeks of imprisonment now found an outlet. Missiles of all kinds were thrown at the guards, then they were charged by a berserk mob. The noise was deafening. Outnumbered and fearing for their safety, the guards fell back quickly and the riot spilled out onto the street. Rennie was one of the first who stumbled after them, hungry for blood and heedless of personal danger. When additional guards came to the aid of their fellows, he was not deterred. He flung himself at the man who had first given them the order to quit the tavern.