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  "It's orders."

  "Then they're bloody stupid orders. Why, in the bowels of Christ, must we retreat when we're only fifteen miles from Fort Ticonderoga? Take that and we destroy their northern army."

  "Only after a long siege and that would take us into winter."

  "Not if we strike hard enough."

  "There are twelve thousand men in Ticonderoga, Jamie. They could hold out for months. By that time, we'll all have frozen to death."

  "There are reports of a large garrison," argued Skoyles. "But I don't believe a word of them. They're devised to frighten us off. And even if there were that number at the fort, what state would they be in?"

  "A better one than you at this moment."

  "No, Tom. They'll be like those three ragamuffins I killed this afternoon—human scarecrows without a decent uniform or a pair of good boots among them. They looked as if they hadn't eaten for a month." With an effort of will, Skoyles sat up, glad that his friend had finished his sutures. "For heaven's sake, we have them on the run. Doesn't our commander appreciate that?"

  "General Carleton is a cautious man."

  "This is not caution—it's fucking madness!"

  "Calm down, Jamie," said Caffrey.

  But Skoyles was seething. "We chase the rebels out of Canada," he said with passion. "We build a fleet so that we can pursue them down Lake Champlain. We demolish their makeshift navy, and when we reach Crown Point, we discover that they've burned the fort and taken to their heels." He pointed with his left hand. "You saw those corpses that we found littering the ground. They were riddled with smallpox. The garrison was so anxious to escape that they didn't even bother to bury their dead. The rebels are there for the taking, Tom. What else does General Carleton need?"

  "Warmer weather."

  "Strike now or we lose a golden opportunity."

  "I agree with you, Jamie," said the other, wiping the blood off his probe and needle before putting them away with his other instruments, "but, for some strange reason, I wasn't consulted on the matter."

  "General Burgoyne would have been consulted, and so would General Phillips. Neither of them would want to give up when victory was within our grasp."

  "They were overruled, Jamie. We head north tomorrow."

  Skoyles was rocked. "All of us?"

  "Every man jack."

  "We give Crown Point back to the rebels?"

  "So it seems."

  "Then why bother to take it from them in the first place?" Anger had dulled the pain in his shoulder and roused his spirit. "Whoever controls Crown Point has mastery of the lake. At the very least, we should leave a garrison here."

  "It would take too many men to rebuild the fort."

  "The rebels will rebuild it. As soon as we move out, they'll occupy it again and strengthen its defenses. Christ Almighty!" said Skoyles in exasperation. "We're supposed to be at war with the bastards. We should hold on to every inch of land that we take from them."

  "Not with the winter coming, Jamie. It can be very harsh." Caffrey stood up and gave a shrug. "General Carleton has made the decision. We pull out tomorrow and withdraw to St. John's."

  "Shit!" cried Skoyles.

  The word summed up his day perfectly.

  CHAPTER TWO

  When he set sail for America for the third time, Lieutenant General Sir John Burgoyne did so with mixed feelings. He was still grieving over the death of his wife, Charlotte, dogged by guilt and haunted by the fact that he was three thousand miles away when the tragedy occurred. The prospect of another voyage across the treacherous waters of the North Atlantic was not an enticing one and was bound to induce a certain amount of dread even in someone as supremely confident as Burgoyne. But his sadness and his apprehension were tempered by a quiet elation because he was returning to the colonies with an exciting new status. After some skillful lobbying in London, Burgoyne had gotten himself appointed to command the army that was to launch another invasion from Canada. It was the ideal cure for seasickness.

  Burgoyne's ambition had been fulfilled. His plan of campaign had been approved, and he had been given command in place of his erstwhile superior, Sir Guy Carleton, governor of Canada. There remained the small problem of handing over the letter communicating the news to Carleton—a proud Irishman who would take it as an insult—but Burgoyne believed that he could soften the impact with some honey-tongued diplomacy. In doing so, he would take special care to conceal the fact that he had deliberately undermined Carleton's position during meetings with the secretary of state for the colonies. Burgoyne had no qualms about doing that. He was convinced that he was the better man for the job, and the more deserving of the glory that it would surely bring.

  His ship was the Apollo, a square-rigged, three-masted frigate that traveled in convoy with various transports. Burgoyne's reinforcements consisted largely of hired soldiers from Germany. The holds of the vessels were packed with muskets, bayonets, ammunition, private tents, bell tents, drum cases, powder bags, hatchets, kettles, canteens, knapsacks, axes, forage ropes, picket ropes, blankets, water buckets, and all the other paraphernalia of military life. While Burgoyne ensured that the Apollo carried a substantial store of champagne, brandy, and claret, the Germans had less control over their baggage. Instead of the consignment of boots that had been ordered, they were sailing with a vast quantity of dancing pumps and ladies' slippers, clear evidence that the contractor was either monstrously inefficient or possessed of a wicked sense of humor.

  A single day in oceanic waters could be a trial by ordeal. To spend, as they did, almost five weeks at sea was a test of nerve and endurance that many were destined to fail. Crammed together belowdecks, the men who were due to fight for paltry wages were fed on the meanest rations and subjected to the stink of vomit, the stench of unwashed bodies, and the most primitive sanitary arrangements. Water was green with algae, hardtack was alive with weevils, beef was like salted teak. Scurvy and other diseases soon began to claim some of the passengers.

  But it was the sea itself that was the greatest danger. Whipped by the wind and rain, it frothed with fury and tossed the vessels, making it almost impossible for them to remain in convoy. On good days, there was the ceaseless swell and the stiff breeze; on bad ones, there was a violent tempest that turned the sea into colossal liquid mountains that threatened to drown every last one of them. Sudden waves could scour a deck and sweep even the most sure-footed sailors overboard. The noise was deafening, the discomfort extreme. As the convoy zigzagged its way across the Atlantic, the death toll slowly rose.

  Burgoyne took advantage of periods of calmer weather to enjoy the voyage as best he could. He dined with the captain and with his officers, drank copious quantities of claret, played cards, and listened to a trio of musicians. Parading his men on deck, he tried to keep up their spirits with words of encouragement, telling them, with a confiding smile, that the horrors they were now suffering were worse than anything they would meet in the line of fire. Burgoyne could see the misery etched in their faces, and he knew that not all of them would survive to step ashore on Canadian soil.

  It was not something that troubled him overmuch. Casualties were unavoidable. Burgoyne was about to write an important new chapter in his life, and he tried to direct all his attention to that end. Brooding on the fate of some of his fellow passengers would only hamper him. His prime objective was to wage a successful campaign against the American rebels. Having left England with some misgivings, he was certain that he would return as a national hero.

  Everyone was heartened when land finally came into sight. There was even greater relief when the flotilla entered the huge St. Lawrence estuary. Winter had been relatively mild, and the ice had started to melt earlier than usual. As they sailed upriver, they had to contend with a continual uproar as the surging runoff buffeted the massive chunks of ice that came floating down from the Great Lakes. There were compensations. In place of the turbulent sea that stretched for miles in every direction, the passengers could now look out on
spectacular panoramas.

  Thick forest adorned both banks, broken from time to time by a sudden clearing, a sparkling river, or a glistening lake and dominated by majestic mountain ranges that seemed to stretch to infinity. In the distance, a first waterfall was glimpsed, bursting over some rocks with foaming power before disappearing from sight among the pine and maple trees. Colors were dazzling in the bright sunlight. The enormous scale of it all was breathtaking.

  Burgoyne was content. Thanks to the timely thaw, they would be arriving in Quebec a fortnight earlier than he had anticipated. It was a good omen. His ship finally sailed into the harbor on May 6, 1777, and he celebrated his arrival in characteristic fashion. Making light of the onerous voyage, he donned his dress uniform and took up his stance on the quarterdeck, adopting the military pose he had used when having his portrait painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds.

  They were waiting for him. Regiments stationed in the city were lined up to greet him and to welcome the reinforcements he had brought from England. When the gangplank of the Apollo was eventually lowered, the first person to walk down it was the tall, handsome, debonair Lieutenant General John Burgoyne in his scarlet coat with gold piping and epaulets, white waistcoat and breeches, and gleaming black boots. Now in his midfifties, he was a warrior in his prime, looking less like a weary passenger than a triumphant leader about to claim a coveted prize. Showing the white lace at his cuffs, he waved a friendly greeting to the assembled ranks of redcoats. A resounding cheer went up from the soldiers at the quayside.

  Gentleman Johnny was back.

  "Is there nothing you could do?" asked Tom Caffrey with concern. "The punishment may kill him."

  "I'll raise the matter with Major Featherstone."

  "Go over his head."

  "No, Tom," said Skoyles, "that's not the answer. The only way to do this is by persuasion. I'll talk to Harry Featherstone."

  Caffrey was bitter. "Well, it's no use appealing to his finer feelings," he said, curling a lip, "because he doesn't have any. Major Featherstone is a cruel, bloodthirsty, black-hearted devil."

  "I disagree. He's a good officer."

  "Good at inflicting unnecessary pain on his men."

  "Let me speak to him."

  "Is there any point, Jamie?"

  "I think so," said Skoyles.

  They were in the island city of Montreal, a community whose population of some four thousand souls had been swelled by the British soldiers billeted there throughout the winter. Captain Jamie Skoyles and his regiment had joined the newly arrived General Burgoyne in the city. Though it could boast many appealing features, Montreal had neither the size nor situation of Quebec, and its architecture was less imposing. Beginning as a trading post, it still had vestiges of a frontier town about it. Indians, trappers, and voyageurs could be seen in its streets alongside the moneyed and sophisticated Canadians. Throughout the city, a quintessentially French air prevailed.

  Like the rest of the soldiers, Skoyles was eager to leave Canada and cross the border into New York. After a long, enforced rest, he wanted to close with the enemy again, especially as his wounded shoulder had now healed. Meanwhile, however, he and Tom Caffrey were on the heights behind Faubourg des Recollets, where a grand review was to be staged for General Burgoyne. Troops, artillery pieces, and bands were already starting to move into position. As the two friends chatted, the very man they had been discussing was marching toward them in his dress uniform. Shooting him a look of disgust, Caffrey slipped quickly away.

  Major Harry Featherstone was a striking figure, of medium height, well built, straight-backed, and so impeccably dressed that he made Skoyles feel shabby in his faded uniform with its fraying cuffs. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, Featherstone had high cheekbones and a neat black mustache. His face was arresting rather than handsome, finely chiseled, but too long and too tapered at the chin. Exuding a sense of importance, he moved with an arrogant strut. When he reached Skoyles, he clicked his tongue in disapproval.

  "Fraternizing with the lower ranks again, Captain?" he said. "That's a bad habit for an officer."

  "Sergeant Caffrey is a friend of mine."

  "Sergeant Caffrey is a sergeant and should be kept in his place. How can you expect the men to respect you if you sink to their level? Yes," he went on, raising a hand to stifle the protest on Skoyles's lips, "I know that you came from the ranks yourself, but you must shake off old allegiances. You simply must learn to distinguish between them and us, Jamie. We are, in every sense, a race apart."

  "General Burgoyne might disagree with that," noted Skoyles. "I've heard him stress the need to treat soldiers as thinking beings. There are times, he believes, when officers may slacken the reins in order to talk to the men. When he formed his own regiment, the 16th Light Dragoons, he advocated as much in his code of instructions."

  "Fear and discipline are the only things that keep an army in order. General Burgoyne understands that."

  "There are shades of fear and degrees of discipline."

  "Not in my opinion."

  "Excessively harsh treatment only breeds hatred and resentment."

  "Arrant nonsense!"

  "I beg to differ, Major."

  "Go easy on the men and they see it as a sign of weakness. You know that as well as anyone, Jamie." Featherstone slapped him amiably on the shoulder. "Severe punishment teaches them obedience."

  "That depends on the circumstances," said Skoyles, trying to reason with him. "Look at the case of Private Higgs, for instance."

  "Ah," said Featherstone, raising an eyebrow, "so that is what this is all about. You and Sergeant Caffrey are in conspiracy, are you?"

  "Not at all, Major."

  "The pair of you have the impudence to question my authority."

  "We simply ask you to reconsider."

  "There's nothing to reconsider," declared Featherstone with a peremptory snap of his fingers. "I found Higgs drunk on duty and he used foul language when I reprimanded him. I had no choice but to have the wretch flogged. What would you have done in my position—award him some kind of medal?"

  "No, Major," said Skoyles, "I would have looked more closely into the case. Do you know why Private Higgs was in that state?"

  "Too much rum on an empty stomach."

  "But why did he take to drink in the first place? By the standards of the others, he's usually quite abstemious. Higgs also has an unblemished record as a soldier and how many can say that? So what made him act out of character?"

  "Who cares?"

  "I do, Major—and so does Sergeant Caffrey."

  "Higgs must take his medicine."

  "Some punishment is in order," Skoyles conceded. "We both accept that. But I feel that you should know that Higgs had some distressing news. Word came from England that his wife and child have died of smallpox. It was a crippling blow for the poor man. That was why he reached for the bottle."

  "The punishment stands. Sixty lashes."

  "Reduce the number and you still make your point."

  "No," said the other with a hollow laugh. "If I were stupid enough to do that, I'd lose face entirely. Lessen the severity of the flogging? Absolute madness! The men would think that I'd gone as soft as you."

  "I can be strict when strictness is called for, Major."

  Though they were hardly natural allies, there was a comfortable friendship between the two of them, based on a mutual respect for each other's abilities. Harry Featherstone, a wealthy man in his thirties from an aristocratic family, had bought his commission in the way that most officers did. Skoyles, by contrast, the son of a country doctor in Cumberland, had worked his way up through the ranks and been promoted lieutenant as a result of conspicuous gallantry. From the start, he lacked the airs and graces of his fellow officers, and his rough North Country vowels made him stick out even more. The same age as the major, Skoyles was taller and more athletic, with rugged features and close-cropped fair hair.

  Featherstone smiled at him "Do you know what your trouble is, Jamie?" he said
, helpfully. "You're neither fish nor fowl. In trying to keep a foot in both camps, you're neither officer nor soldier. Your fellow officers distrust you because you're simply not one of us while the lower ranks despise you because you try to befriend them. You are in limbo."

  "I care nothing for that. My concern is for Private Higgs."

  "Sixty lashes. My only regret is that I can't administer them myself. I'd appreciate the exercise."

  "Flaying a man until there's no skin left?" said Skoyles with distaste. "Is that what you call exercise?"

  "Yes, Captain—and pleasant exercise at that. Man or woman, I'd lay it on hard and leave my signature across their backs so they'd never forget me." He gave a thin smile. "As it happens, I had a woman flogged once—a corporal's wife. The provost marshal gave her thirty lashes for stealing some potatoes. A shapely wench, she was, too. It was good to have an excuse to see her stripped to the waist. Mind you," he went on, smirking broadly, "I'd have preferred to see those lashes applied to her bare buttocks. Nothing quite as exciting as watching a naked woman squirming in pain, is there?"

  Skoyles accepted that his embassy on behalf of Private Higgs had failed. A hapless soldier, whose only crime had been to seek solace from his grief, would be flogged into insensibility on the orders of the major. Higgs was one Thomas Lobster who would live up to his nickname, for his back would be turned into a large, raw, lobster-red wound. What irked Skoyles most was the fact that Featherstone himself drank to excess on a regular basis and used the most obscene language when he was in his cups. Yet he was above reproach.

  Featherstone emphasized the point. "You missed a splendid dinner yesterday," he announced, proudly. "Thirty of us in all. I'm told that we got through seventy-two bottles of claret, eighteen of Madeira, and twelve of port—that's not counting a little porter and punch, of course. It reminded me why I love the army so much."

  "You love being able to inflict punishment on your men."

  "That, too, can be very agreeable."