Valley Forge Page 5

  Featherstone glowered at him, but Skoyles met his gaze without flinching. Officers who had once been friends were now implacable enemies. In every other matter, the major held the superior rank. When it came to Elizabeth Rainham, however, he had to take second place, and it made him fume.

  "General Burgoyne wants a meeting this afternoon," he snapped.

  "I'll be there."

  "Four o'clock. Make sure that you are punctual."

  "I always do, Major," said Skoyles.

  "And learn to exert proper discipline. We can't have another outburst like the one we had on St. Andrew's Day. You share the barracks with the men. Keep the riffraff in order."

  "Yes, sir."

  Their eyes locked again, but it was Featherstone who was finally compelled to look away. He tossed a wistful glance over his shoulder.

  "Don't bother Miss Rainham," he said. "She's weary."

  "Yes, I know that you have that effect on her."

  "Remember who you're talking to, man."

  "That's exactly what I am doing, Major."

  Featherstone bit back a reply. Seething with suppressed rage, he gave the captain a curt nod, then pushed past him. Skoyles watched him go before heading in the direction of the house, anxious to find out why the major had been there and eager to pass on to Elizabeth news of their approaching departure. In less than twenty-four hours, they could leave Harry Featherstone behind them. Escape could not come soon enough.

  The British attack was bold and well organized. Had it been launched on an unsuspecting foe, it would certainly have succeeded, but the American force still camped at Whitemarsh had been warned of the forthcoming action. Secure behind their fortifications, a mixed army of Continentals and militia held their line. After a concerted exchange of fire, the British were compelled to withdraw, having achieved none of their objectives. Ezekiel Proudfoot not only watched the skirmish, he was in position to make sketches of some of the action. When the smoke had cleared, and the enemy had limped back to Philadelphia, he showed his work to George Washington. The general was complimentary.

  "You have a rare talent, Ezekiel," he said.

  "Thank you."

  "It must be employed to advantage."

  "That won't happen if I spend the winter with you in Valley Forge. Prints of your men building huts will hardly bring in new recruits. People want to see evidence of military victories. Soldiers want to know that they are joining the side that will win."

  "We will win," Washington asserted. "Eventually."

  "Are you certain of that?"

  "Absolutely certain. The British have to fight on several fronts. That means their resources are stretched. Strike them at their weakest points—as happened at Saratoga—and we chase them from the field."

  "How long will it take, sir?"

  "Years—no question of that."

  "And what will my role be?"

  "I'm sending you to Philadelphia," Washington told him.

  "Philadelphia?" the other repeated, taken aback. "It's full of Tories. Not to mention ten thousand British soldiers."

  "We're not entirely without friends in the city. Our supporters were not all put to flight. How do you think we learned of that attack?"

  "I assumed that one of your spies raised the alarm. Thank heaven he did or they might have caught us unawares. The man deserves our thanks and congratulations."

  "It was not a man, Ezekiel."

  Proudfoot was amazed. "A female spy?"

  "An extremely good one. You may meet her."

  "Is that what I am to do, sir? Gather intelligence?"

  "That's only a small part of your work," said Washington seriously. "Your principal function is to help with the production of a newspaper. As you've proved in the past, a patriotic print by Ezekiel Proudfoot is worth a hundred articles in praise of our cause."

  "You flatter me."

  "Not at all. When the war started, we lifted the spirits of the men by reading out the words of Tom Paine. Now, I'd much rather show them the sketches you made at Saratoga. They prove what we can do."

  "Only by force of arms."

  "Art is a legitimate weapon of war. Dramatic pictures can have a powerful impact on the mind. We need more of them."

  "Then I'm your man."

  They were still at Whitemarsh, standing beside a brushwood hut so that it could shield them from the worst of a fierce wind. All around them camp was being struck. Flapping tents were being taken down. Weapons were being gathered. Powder kegs were being rolled into position. Drums and fifes were being packed away. Hatchets, kettles, canteens, axes, water buckets, forage cords, picket posts, picket ropes, wooden mallets, and all the other assorted items of camp life were being loaded into wagons, in readiness for the move to Valley Forge. Surveying the scene of activity, Ezekiel Proudfoot felt sorrowful.

  "I'll miss all this," he admitted.

  "All what?"

  "Being with an army on the march. I never thought I'd hear myself saying this, but I feel strangely at home with soldiers."

  "Our problem is that many of these men are not real soldiers," said Washington, running an eye over his Continentals. "They've not been properly trained or equipped to take part in a war. The militias are even less like a credible fighting force. Some of them wear nothing but rags," he went on, indicating four soldiers, in threadbare tunics and bare feet, who were trying to maneuver a piece of heavy artillery into place. "Dear God! Are these the men with whom I am to save America?"

  "The selfsame fellows won at Bennington, sir."

  "True."

  "And they trounced the great General Burgoyne at Saratoga," Proudfoot reminded him. "Sometimes passion counts for more than good tailoring. I'll miss them."

  "You'll not be stuck in Philadelphia forever, Ezekiel. We shall expect you to visit us in Valley Forge from time to time, and bring all the latest news. We'll not be much over twenty miles away from you."

  "There'll be British patrols on the road."

  "They seem to have eased off," said Washington. "Going in and out of the city should present no problems. Where you may have trouble is in concealing the whereabouts of the press."

  "Where is it located now, General?"

  "I'm not certain. It had to be moved to safety only last week."

  "Then how will I find it?"

  "You'll make contact with the editor, Pearsall Hughes. He's a good man. I'd trust him with my life." Washington handed him a letter. "All the details you need are in here. Commit them to memory, then destroy the paper. It must not fall into the wrong hands."

  "What manner of man is this Pearsall Hughes?"

  "His own."

  "You mean that he calls nobody his master?"

  "Wait until you meet him. You'll understand."

  "And what about you, General?" asked Proudfoot.

  "Oh, I'll be fully occupied at Valley Forge, trying to get the log cabins built before the snow comes. Harboring our resources and hoping to lick this motley crew into something resembling an army."

  "I'll make sure that you get a copy of our newspaper."

  Washington almost smiled. "I insist on seeing every issue."

  "Then you can use it to kindle a fire."

  "That's your task."

  "Is it?"

  "Yes," said Washington, looking him in the eye. "I'm counting on you to set hearts and minds ablaze with the newspaper. It has to be a clarion call for independence."

  "It will be, General."

  "Good. You'd best be on your way, Ezekiel."

  "One moment," said Proudfoot before Washington could move off. "I was wondering if you had any news of the Convention army?"

  "Why are you so obsessed with their fate?"

  "It's no more than casual interest."

  "Come, Ezekiel," said the other, "there's more to it than that. You've brought up the subject of the Convention army every time we've met. You care about them. What's your concern?"

  "I have a friend who is involved."

  "What sort of
friend?"

  "A close one, sir—a captain in the 24th Foot. He did me a big favor when I was captured at Hubbardton. I would just like to know what's going to happen to him."

  "The decision lies with Congress."

  "But your opinion will be taken into account, General."

  "If only it were!" said Washington with a sigh. "I sometimes think that Congress only appointed me in order to disagree with everything I do and say. However, as it happens, with respect to the Convention army, our viewpoints do actually coincide for once."

  "You want them to remain as prisoners of war."

  "Frankly—yes."

  "Even though that means rescinding some solemn promises?"

  "General Burgoyne was the first to do so."

  "I dispute that," said Proudfoot, reasonably. "Far be it from me to defend our enemy, but I've been thinking about that letter we discussed earlier. It's a commander's duty to speak up for his men, and that's all that General Burgoyne was doing when he wrote to General Gates."

  "He let his frustration get the better of him."

  "Possibly."

  "That's a bad mistake in a leader."

  "His letter contained a justified rebuke."

  "Nonsense!"

  "Undertakings were given at Saratoga," Proudfoot urged. "I was there at the time. I was a witness. All that I wish to suggest is that it reflects badly on the Continental Army if those undertakings are now cast rudely aside."

  "Our hand was forced."

  "You chose to read the letter that way."

  "Burgoyne was saying, in effect, that the terms of the convention were meaningless. Congress proposes that we take him at his word."

  "That's grossly unfair."

  "I can see that you're not a politician, Ezekiel."

  "Neither are you, sir, yet you're at the mercy of their decisions."

  Washington inhaled deeply. "I can't deny that."

  "I'm an artist. I think in pictures. I care about how things look."

  "Go on."

  "If a solemn agreement is so blatantly disregarded—if an army is kept in captivity instead of being sent back to England—it will be seen as a dark stain on our reputation."

  "This is war, man. We have to seize every advantage."

  "But there are more honorable ways of doing it."

  "Are you doubting my honor?" Washington demanded with a flash of righteous indignation. "Do you dare to call that in question?"

  "Of course not, General," said Proudfoot, holding up both palms by way of appeasement. "I support whatever you decide without criticism. I merely point out what the perception will be—in this country as well as in England. We will be seen as having betrayed a sacred trust."

  "No, Ezekiel. We will be viewed as having taken a decisive step against an army that was sent here to destroy us. What would you have us do—let them sail back to King George so that he can replace them with a force of equal proportions?" He thrust out his jaw. "Congress will not permit that. I would not recommend it. Burgoyne's army will remain indefinitely as prisoners of war. That will rule out any possibility of their renouncing the convention and sailing to New York to reinforce the British army there." He shot Proudfoot a warning glance. "I suggest that you forget about this friend of yours in the 24th Foot."

  "Why?"

  "Because the chances are that you'll never see him again."

  Captain Jamie Skoyles got them to the quayside well ahead of time. The night was cold but dry, and a cloud of stars twinkled in the sky to give them a bit of light. The women wore cloaks with the hoods up. Both men had exchanged their uniforms for hunting shirts, breeches, and capes. Wide-brimmed hats covered their heads. Each person carried a small bundle of clothing and personal items. Sergeant Tom Caffrey, surgical kit safely aboard, bore a musket stolen from one of the guards. Inside his baggage, wrapped up in sealskin to protect it from the water, Skoyles had a pistol, powder, and ammunition. A charcoal portrait of Elizabeth Rainham, drawn at his request by his friend Ezekiel Proudfoot, was also in his bag. His knife was sheathed at his side.

  They moved with caution and communicated with gestures. When they reached the quay, they hid behind an upturned boat careened for repair. Even at that hour, there were people about. Cabal Mears was not the only fisherman about to sail down the Charles River. The quartet of fugitives lay low and waited for their signal. After what seemed like an age, Skoyles picked out the distinctive outline of Mears as he waddled past them toward his boat. He tapped each of his friends on the shoulder. Before they could set off, however, they heard footsteps behind them. When they swung round, they found themselves facing one of the guards from the barracks. Peering at them through the gloom, he covered them with his musket.

  "What have we here, then?" he asked.

  "Nothing, my friend," replied Skoyles, trying to sound at ease. "We promised to take the ladies out fishing with us today, that's all."

  "No, you escaped from the barracks."

  "We live in Cambridge. I own a cobbler's shop in George Street."

  "All that you own is a lying tongue," said the man. "You're British soldiers. I can smell the pair of you from here. I thought I saw someone stealing away earlier on, and I was right." Caffrey took a step toward him. "Stand back or I'll shoot. And the sound will bring a dozen guards."

  "Yes," Skoyles advised Caffrey, moving him back a pace. "Leave this to me. Our friend here is quick-witted, and he won't be fooled by anything we say. There's only one way to settle this."

  "Back at the barracks," the guard declared.

  "No. What does it matter to you if you have two fewer people to look after and feed every day? You caught us fair and square. That deserves a reward." Skoyles took out a handful of coins and let them jingle in his palm. "Here's a month's wages for you."

  "Keep your money!"

  "Even if I offer you six months' wages." The man's interest was now aroused. "That's the bargain, my friend. Let us vanish into the night and you go home with a full pocket. What do you say?"

  The soldier pondered. "If the captain of the guard got to hear of this," he said at length, "he'd have me shot by a firing squad."

  "There's no way that he'll ever learn the truth," said Skoyles. "Now help us. Let us go and you become a rich man." He jingled the coins again. "Would you like to count it out?"

  The temptation was too great. After more consideration, the guard looked around to make sure that nobody was about and thrust out a hand. Skoyles offered him the money, then closed his fist as the man tried to grab the bribe.

  "Wait," said Skoyles, clicking his tongue. "Do not be so hasty. Release the others first, and then you get your reward." There was a long pause. "Well, can they go?" The guard nodded. Skoyles turned to his companions. "I'll join you on the boat," he said. "He's just lit the lantern. Tell him I'll be there in a moment"

  Elizabeth Rainham wanted to stay beside him, but Skoyles moved her firmly away. Only when she, Tom Caffrey, and Polly Bragg had been swallowed up in the darkness did Skoyles face the guard again.

  "Thank you," he said, releasing the money into the other man's hand. "Now I'll keep my side of the bargain."

  But the guard wanted more than his reward. He intended to have the money and capture the fugitives as well. Thrusting the coins into a pocket, he suddenly swung the butt of his musket in an attempt at clubbing his prisoner to the ground. Skoyles reacted with speed and anger. He ducked beneath the weapon and shot out a hand to grasp the man by the throat, squeezing so hard that all the latter could do was splutter in agony. With his other hand, Skoyles whipped out his knife and thrust it deep into the guard's heart. Seconds later, the man lay dying at his feet.

  Skoyles did not hesitate. After reclaiming his money, he took the musket, powder, and ammunition pouch from the guard. Then he dragged the corpse unceremoniously along the ground and hid it behind one of the boathouses. By the time he reached the others, they were all aboard. Cabal Mears was ready to cast off.

  "What kept you?" asked the fisherma
n.

  "Unfinished business."

  "Did you buy him off, Jamie?" said Tom Caffrey.

  "Yes," replied Skoyles. "He got what he deserved."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The one thing they had not anticipated was the smell. Having braced themselves against the prospect of high winds and choppy water, they now found themselves holding their noses against the pervading stink of fish. Cabal Mears had been loading his catch into the sloop for over thirty years and its wood was impregnated with a compound of pungent odors. It took some time for the passengers to get used to it. When they had cast off, Jamie Skoyles and Tom Caffrey took an oar apiece to row the boat while Mears held the tiller. Huddled together near the prow of the vessel, Elizabeth Rainham and Polly Bragg peered into the semidarkness with trepidation.

  The two women had met before because Polly had befriended Nan Wyatt during the long journey south from Canada. Attractive, shapely, and with a ruddy complexion, Polly spoke with the same soft Devonian burr as Caffrey. It was one of many things that had drawn them together. Though she had done menial jobs for the army, there was no suggestion that Polly would now replace Nan as Elizabeth's maid. Adversity made the women social equals, and they traveled as friends, knowing that they would have to support each other during the testing days ahead. It was one thing to escape from Cambridge. Reaching the safety of New York was another matter altogether.

  When they had rowed their way to midstream, the sail was hoisted and the combination of current and a stiff breeze carried them along at a steady speed. Skoyles and Caffrey were soon able to ship their oars. Canvas flapped noisily. The mast creaked and strained. Foam-edged water was left in its wake as the sloop moved forward. They were on their way at last. Skoyles took the opportunity to have a private word with Cabal Mears.

  "We had a spot of trouble at the quay," he explained.

  "So I gather."

  "One of the guards trailed us all the way from the barracks."

  "Yes," said Mears. "You bribed him to keep his mouth shut."

  "The bribe wasn't enough to satisfy him. I had to shut his mouth another way. I just thought I should warn you, Cabal. By the time you get back, the body will have been found. Questions will be asked."