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  "I'll murder ye!" yelled Rennie. "I'll tear oot your black heart!"

  As he tried to grab the guard, however, the man stepped back and jabbed with his bayonet, piercing the Scotsman's thigh. Rennie let out a screech of pain and fell to the ground, clutching his wound. The sight only drove his friends to a higher pitch of fury.

  "They've killed Duncan!" someone cried. "No quarter!"

  Swearing volubly, they punched, kicked, bit, and grappled with the guards, forcing them back and ignoring any blows they took in return. After making futile attempts to enforce his authority, Tom Caffrey turned his attention to the injured Rennie. All around him, people were spilling or losing blood in an uncontrollable brawl. When a guard was beaten to the ground, he was mercilessly stamped on. When a Scotsman tried to relieve one of the Americans of his musket, he was hit in the face with the stock. Turmoil had come to Cambridge, Massachusetts.

  It did not last long. Another detachment of guards came running around the corner to see what was causing the uproar. The lieutenant in charge took one look at the melee, then barked an order. There was a harsh volley of musket fire. It passed harmlessly over the heads of the battling Scotsmen, but it was enough to stop them. Sobered instantly by the shots, and faced by the threat of a bayonet charge, they drew back at once and started to dust themselves off. They had made their point. There was no need to risk their lives.

  The newcomers marched toward them in a menacing line.

  "Who started all this?" the lieutenant demanded.

  "That man on the ground," said the guard who had stabbed Rennie. "He's the ringleader, sir."

  "Then he'll pay for it. So will the rest of these ruffians."

  "We were trying to enjoy St. Andrew's Day," McKillop explained.

  "Is this your idea of enjoyment?" said the lieutenant, gazing around at the bruised and blood-covered faces. "Round this scum up and get them back to the barracks!" he snapped. "They're going to suffer for this!"

  Important anniversaries such as the king and queen's official birthdays, the coronation and accession of George III, and the restoration of the monarchy, were marked with celebrations throughout the British army. Parades, twenty-one-gun salutes, formal dinners, and—for the queen's birthday—lavish balls were arranged. The patron saints merited less formality but no less commitment. Even though money was scarce and supplies of food limited, General Burgoyne had invited many of his officers to dine with him on St. Andrew's Day.

  Captain Jamie Skoyles was among them, and he found the occasion both gloomy and disturbing. There was a prevailing air of solemnity that made it impossible to relish the event, and he heard speculation about their future that was deeply troubling. It was three weeks since his failed attempt at escape and nothing had happened in the interim to reconcile him to the notion of staying in captivity with the Convention army. Still bent on flight, he was biding his time. Dinner was served in another of the town's many taverns. It was toward the end of the meal when the landlord gave him a scribbled note that had been sent to him. He recognized Tom Caffrey's handwriting at once. As soon as he read the note, he excused himself from the table and left.

  Alarmed by the news, Skoyles hurried back to the barracks. He arrived as his friend had just finished binding the wound in Duncan Rennie's thigh. Oblivious to it all, the bearded Scotsman lay fast asleep, snoring away as if he did not have a care in the world.

  "What happened, Tom?" asked Skoyles.

  "All hell broke loose."

  "We've had scuffles with the guards before."

  "Not like this, Jamie. Somebody could easily have been killed."

  "Who started it all?"

  "This madman," said Caffrey, looking down at his patient. "Rennie lost his temper and attacked one of the guards. When he was pricked in the thigh, everyone reacted as if Scotland had just been invaded."

  He went on to give as full and accurate an account of the riot as he could. Skoyles listened patiently so that he could pass on a verbal report to General Burgoyne. Since the Americans would use the incident to impose further restraints on them, it was vital that their commander spoke up for the British soldiers involved. Friction between prisoners and their guards had been there from the very start, but it had never reached this scale. There could be dire consequences.

  "I'm sorry to drag you away from the dinner table," said Caffrey.

  "It was something of a relief, Tom."

  "Was the food that bad?"

  "I've tasted worse."

  "So why were you glad to leave?"

  "Because of the rumors," said Skoyles, pursing his lips.

  "Rumors?"

  "Yes, Tom. I'm telling you this in strictest confidence, mark you. We don't want it to reach the men—they have enough to worry about as it is." He took a deep breath. "General Burgoyne fears that we won't be released at all."

  "But it was in the terms of the convention."

  "So were many other things and they haven't been honored either. Gentleman Johnny is very annoyed. He wrote to General Gates about it. There's been no reply."

  "Why not?"

  Skoyles shrugged. "The feeling is that Gates has been overruled by General Washington and by Congress. They won't let us sail away from here because they fear that we'll divert the convoy to New York and join our army there. It's certainly what General Howe would want. My guess is that he's written to General Burgoyne to that effect."

  "Did Gentleman Johnny confirm that?"

  "He gave us a vague hint—nothing more. But it's obvious that General Howe needs reinforcements in New York now that he's moved the bulk of the army to Philadelphia."

  Caffrey was upset. "So there's no chance of us going home?"

  "Only a very slim one, Tom."

  "They can't keep us here forever."

  "No," said Skoyles. "Including those that live here, there's seven thousand of us in a town that can barely support a third of that number. I reckon that they'll move us out before long."

  "Where to?"

  "Another prison camp."

  "Is that what the other officers believe?"

  "They talked of nothing else over dinner."

  "I can see why you didn't enjoy your meal," said Caffrey.

  "It stuck in my throat."

  "So what are you going to do about it, Jamie?"

  "The only thing I can do—escape."

  "You tried that once before."

  "We'll be more careful this time, Tom."

  "We?"

  "Elizabeth is eager to come with me."

  "Is she still sharing a room with old Red Hazel's wife?"

  "Baroness von Riedesel has been very kind to her," said Skoyles, "but their hosts begrudge every morsel of food they give them. It's a daily ordeal. Elizabeth is dying to leave."

  "I daresay she wants to put distance between herself and Major Featherstone as well. Her betrothal to him turned sour."

  "That was his doing, Tom."

  "Serves him right for setting those two men on you."

  As his dislike of Skoyles had grown, Harry Featherstone had paid two Canadian axmen to assault the captain. Fortunately, Skoyles was forewarned and was therefore able—with the help of Tom Caffrey—to turn the tables on his attackers and give them a good hiding. The incident was one more reason why Skoyles was glad to take Elizabeth Rainham away from his superior officer.

  "Has he given you any more trouble?" asked Caffrey.

  "The major has had the sense to keep out of my way."

  "I don't blame him." He scratched his chin pensively. "This new plan of yours—Is there any hope that it could include me?"

  "You insisted on staying here, Tom."

  "That was before I realized what lying rogues these Yankees were. I want to sail home, not get marched off to some other camp. This war could go on for years, Jamie."

  "I think it will," Skoyles agreed. "And I also think that General Washington will do his best to keep us all out of it. That's why I've set my heart on escape. I'm going to join General Clint
on in New York."

  "Take me with you."

  "Are you sure that you want to come?"

  "Yes," said Caffrey firmly. "Especially after what I saw today. The men are red raw with anger. They're chafing at the bit. There'll be other riots just like the one at Morland's Tavern. I don't want to spend my time bandaging the casualties."

  "What about Polly?"

  "Where I go, Polly goes as well."

  "Then we'll be glad to have you along, Tom."

  They shook hands on it. Duncan Rennie opened an eye, groaned in pain, then went off into a deep sleep again. Caffrey was sorry for him.

  "There was no call to use a bayonet on him."

  "General Burgoyne will make that point very strongly."

  "The man responsible should face a court-martial."

  "He may well have to do that."

  "Then I'll be called as a witness."

  "I doubt it," said Skoyles. "You won't even be here."

  "Are you saying that we'll have left by then?"

  "I'm certain of it."

  "When do we go?"

  "Soon."

  George Washington read the letter with interest. As a rule, he was not given to smiling, but the edges of his mouth twitched perceptibly. Tall, thin, and muscular, the commander in chief of the Continental Army was a dignified man in a well-cut uniform. Though he was in his midforties, the cares of office and the vagaries of warfare had made him seem older. He and Ezekiel Proudfoot were at Whitemarsh, a mixed camp of tents and brushwood huts that had been hastily erected in the hills some thirteen miles north of Philadelphia. The army had a good defensive position, but there was little threat from the British soldiers who had occupied the rebel capital. Winter was at hand. It was a time to postpone hostilities until warmer weather.

  "Good news, General?" asked Proudfoot.

  "Very satisfying," replied the other. "You've brought us luck once again, Ezekiel. I haven't forgotten that our victories at Trenton and at Princeton were achieved when you were there."

  "I can't pretend that I was responsible for either. I was only there to record the event, not to take part in it."

  "Your presence always brings us good fortune."

  "I wish that were true."

  "It is true," said Washington half-seriously. "You were at Saratoga when we achieved that magnificent triumph over the British. And as soon as you come back to me," he went on, holding up the letter, "I receive a copy of this from Congress."

  "What is it, sir?"

  "A fatal mistake."

  "Is that to our advantage?"

  "Oh, I think so. Our hands are no longer tied."

  Proudfoot would like to have read the letter, but Washington stood up behind his desk and slipped the missive into his pocket. They were in the wooden hut that was being used as a temporary headquarters. While he was no soldier, Ezekiel Proudfoot was dedicated to the rebel cause and helped it in the way he knew best. A talented silversmith, he made engravings of any military advances against the British and found a ready market for his prints. Some appeared in newspapers and gave a much-needed boost to the morale of the Continental Army and the local militias. Washington was quick to recognize the importance of the work that Proudfoot was doing.

  "The drawings you made at Saratoga are excellent," he said.

  "I can't vouch for their accuracy, General. So much was happening on the battlefield at the same time that it was difficult to know what to record. Freeman's Farm was confusing enough," recalled Proudfoot, "but the action at Bemis Heights was even more bewildering. I watched it from the branches of a tree."

  "And you caught all the drama of the occasion."

  "I'm not sure how I did it. My hand was shaking."

  "Daniel Morgan was delighted with that sketch you made of him, and the sight of Benedict Arnold on his horse was inspiring. He's a real daredevil on the field of battle. What I didn't see," Washington went on with a hint of reproach, "was any drawing of General Gates."

  "He remained in his tent during the action."

  "So I understand."

  "He felt able to control affairs more easily from there."

  "The only way to control a battle is to be directly involved in it. However, his strategy clearly worked on the day and, for that, Horatio Gates deserves congratulation." His face clouded slightly. "I just wish that he'd had the grace to tell me about it."

  "Did he not write to you?" asked Proudfoot.

  "He sent word of his victory to Congress. They informed me."

  "But you are the commander in chief."

  "I'm glad that someone remembers that."

  Ezekiel Proudfoot was not entirely surprised by the news. He had got sufficiently close to Horatio Gates to learn something of his character and ambition. It was clear that the victor of Saratoga thought himself a better soldier than George Washington and believed that he should replace him in overall command of the Continental Army. In his opinion, Proudfoot had no doubt that Congress had chosen the right man. They might criticize his patience and restraint, but Washington could show lightning audacity in combat when required. Proudfoot had seen firsthand evidence of it in two battles and regarded his companion as superior in every way to Gates. Soldiers merely obeyed the latter. George Washington had earned their respect.

  Beside the elegant commander in chief, Ezekiel Proudfoot looked decidedly unkempt. He was a lean, lanky, bearded man in his thirties with a pockmarked face and long, straggly brown hair. Years of working as a silversmith had rounded his shoulders and given him a tendency to squint. Washington had received only a written report of the victory at Saratoga. Proudfoot's sketches had enabled him to understand more fully what had actually happened.

  "Earlier on," said Proudfoot, "you mentioned a fatal mistake. May I know who made it?"

  "General Burgoyne."

  "Then it's not the only one."

  "Quite so, Ezekiel. Errors on the battlefield cost the lives of his soldiers. This mistake may deprive the survivors of their liberty."

  "I thought that they were being sent back to England."

  "General Gates should never have made such a promise."

  "Nevertheless, it's enshrined in the terms of the convention."

  "They should have been articles of surrender," said Washington. "When a beaten army is surrounded by a force almost four times its size, it is no time to be generous. It is certainly not the moment to make the kinds of concessions that General Gates felt obliged to give."

  "He showed magnanimity in victory," said Proudfoot.

  "Be that as it may, Congress was very unhappy with the terms that were offered to the British. Thanks to this letter," he went on, patting his pocket, "we may not have to abide by them."

  "Why not?"

  "General Burgoyne has been too intemperate. Before he put pen to paper, he should have chosen his words with more care."

  "Oh?"

  "The letter was addressed to General Gates, who dispatched it to Congress. They, in turn, sent me this copy, and they place the same construction upon it as I do."

  "In what way?"

  "Imprisonment clearly irks General Burgoyne. He became so exasperated that he accused General Gates of failing to abide by the terms of the convention. That being the case—and here I quote his exact words—'the public faith is broke.' Do you see what that means?" asked Washington, eyes glinting beneath his prominent brows. "In five words, he has repudiated the document."

  "He does not intend to fulfil his commitments?"

  "Apparently not, Ezekiel."

  "But he is famed for being a man of honor."

  "And rightly so. I have the greatest admiration for him. But he is now trying to threaten us. Read between the lines of his letter and you can see his purpose. He will use our alleged failure to comply with the terms agreed in order to rejoin the conflict. In short," said Washington, "when the transports arrive, he will order the convoy to take his army back to General Clinton in New York. We could never permit that."

  "How can
you avoid it?" said Proudfoot.

  "By keeping the redcoats in captivity."

  "In Cambridge?"

  "We'll move them south in due course."

  "So the convention will be torn to pieces?"

  "General Burgoyne started the process," Washington argued. "As part of the agreement, all cartridge boxes were to be handed over by the British, but several went mysteriously missing. There's also the question of regimental colors. Instead of being surrendered, they've been held back somehow."

  "Smuggled away, most probably."

  "General Gates should have insisted on taking them."

  "How will he feel if the terms that he drew up are revoked?"

  "That's neither here nor there, Ezekiel."

  "Oh, I fancy that he'll have a strong opinion on the matter."

  "General Gates will do as Congress dictates," said Washington with a dismissive flick of his hand. "The point is that we now have grounds to act entirely as we wish. Since Burgoyne has no faith in the treaty, then we need have none. A fatal mistake on the part of the British."

  "A very costly one, too," Proudfoot noted. "An army of over four thousand professional soldiers are now prisoners of war. They'll hate that. As soon as they realize the hopelessness of their position, there'll be lots of desertions."

  "There will also be men who will come over to us. They will readily trade life in a prison camp for a chance to fight in the Continental Army. I am so glad that Burgoyne sent his letter—we are its beneficiaries."

  "So it would seem, General."

  "Heartening news before we go into winter quarters."

  "No more campaigns this year?"

  "Nothing beyond a few odd skirmishes."

  Proudfoot gave a wry smile. "Then I'll have to go into hibernation," he said. "My skills have no employment."

  "That's not true at all," said Washington earnestly. "We'll find work for you, Ezekiel, have no fear. Once we have settled into our new home, I will have an important assignment for you."

  "Our new home? I thought we would stay here at Whitemarsh."