Saratoga Page 5

  "You could always ask for me to assist you," he said.

  "No, I couldn't."

  "Why not?"

  "Because it would be the other way round," Skoyles pointed out. "You'd be in command and I'd be at your elbow. If that's what the brigadier had wanted, he'd have said so."

  "Simon has too much on his plate at the moment."

  "Perhaps that's why he chose the wrong person."

  "That's the only excuse I can think of," said Featherstone with ill grace. "Next time, I'll expect him to turn to me."

  "I'm sure that he will, sir."

  There was a tension between the two men that had not been there before, and it puzzled Skoyles. In being preferred over the major, he had clearly ruffled his feathers. Featherstone was still obstructing his exit.

  "I'll have to be on my way," said Skoyles.

  "Of course. I'm sorry." Reverting to his normal bonhomie, Featherstone moved back so that the other man could leave. "Good luck, Jamie! I know that you won't let us down."

  Once outside the tent, Skoyles forgot all about his exchange with the major. The task ahead demanded all his concentration. Accompanied by three Indians, he was being sent on a scouting mission to find out the strength of the American forces that lay ahead and to determine the quality of their fortifications. It gave him an opportunity to make amends for the mishap that had occurred nearby the previous year.

  Progress had so far been uninterrupted. Under the leadership of Brigadier Simon Fraser, the advance corps had approached Crown Point. Bracing themselves for combat, they instead found the fort completely abandoned and decided to camp there until the main army could catch them up. Meanwhile, the scouting party was being sent on toward Fort Ticonderoga, a much more formidable bastion. Jamie Skoyles had learned his trade as a skirmisher, able to move fast, shoot straight, and survive in enemy territory. They were skills that would now be called into play. Watch boats had fled before them at every point in their journey down the lake. The rebels knew that they were coming.

  The Iroquois braves chosen to go with Skoyles were lithe, muscular young men who, apart from a breechcloth and a set of beads apiece, were virtually naked. They each carried a hunting knife and a tomahawk, a fearsome weapon that they could use as a club or throw with force and unfailing accuracy. Of the three Indians, only one understood English well. Unable to pronounce their names, Skoyles opted largely for sign language.

  He had grave reservations about the inclusion of four hundred Indians in the army. While they were fine scouts, they could be unreliable in combat, ever likely to act on impulse, scalp, mutilate, rape, or plunder with indiscriminate savagery. Their loyalty was also questionable. When the army had earlier assembled at Bouquet River, General Burgoyne had issued two proclamations. The first was addressed to American colonists, warning them that those who sided with the rebels would be severely punished and threatening that he would unleash his Indians against them. Since it was directed at a farming population—some of whom could not even read—its flowery language and grandiose claims were somewhat wasted.

  The second proclamation had been delivered to the Indians, and Skoyles could recall some of the exact words used by Burgoyne, "I positively forbid bloodshed when you are not opposed in arms. Aged men, women, children, and prisoners must be held sacred from the knife even in time of actual conflict."

  The Indians had cheered the general to the echo even though most of them did not realize what he was saying. Skoyles had fought with Indians beside him before, and he knew that it would take more than a humane and well-intended edict to prevent them from resorting to their traditional methods of warfare. After the proclamation, drink had unwisely been served to the Indians, and they performed an impromptu war dance, so wild and uninhibited that even some of the hardened soldiers were shocked.

  Suppressing his doubts about them, Skoyles set off with his three companions. As they passed through the picket line, he was interested to see that Roger Higgs, the private who had been flogged a fortnight earlier, was back on duty. Morose but watchful, Higgs gave him a nod, aware that Skoyles had at least tried to speak up for him. It was clear from the way he kept shifting position that the sentry was still in pain from his beating, but he was nevertheless doing his duty.

  When they plunged into the woods, Skoyles let one of the Indians take the lead. Clouds of blackflies rose up to envelop them, but the Indians seemed unaware of them. Carrying his musket in one hand, Skoyles used the other to swat the insects away, grateful for the wide-brimmed hat that gave him a measure of protection. He stayed close behind the leading man and marveled at the sureness with which he picked his way past swamps and through dense undergrowth.

  They had gone over five miles when the incident occurred. It was Skoyles who first sensed danger. Hearing and seeing nothing, he nevertheless had a warning of peril. Tapping the man ahead of him to bring him to a halt, he waved to the two men behind him. They fanned out and crouched behind cover, listening intently. One of the Indians then decided that it was a false alarm and he stood up. It was a fatal error.

  Somewhere ahead of them, a weapon was fired and the ball hit the Indian in the eye before making an untidy exit through the rear of his skull. He collapsed in a heap, his feathers sodden with blood. Enraged by his death, the other Indians waited to see if there would be more firing. Instead, they heard the sound of hasty departure and set off quickly in pursuit. Skoyles went with them, hoping to catch the attacker before they did so that he could take the prisoner alive. The rifle shot had been deadly, but the weapon was slow to reload, so its owner had taken to his heels, hoping to outrun the pursuit.

  Skoyles was moving fast, but he soon lost sight of the Indians among the trees. All that he could do was to guess the direction in which they went and keep up a steady pace. He had covered some distance before he saw a flash of color ahead of him. Slowing to a trot, he went forward with more care, his musket at the ready. Skoyles had not been deceived. What he had glimpsed was the figure of a man, clad in a green jacket and breeches, loading something into the saddlebags of a horse. He appeared to be unarmed.

  It was only when Skoyles got near the clearing that he saw the rifle on the ground. Before the man could stoop to pick it up, Skoyles rushed forward and pointed his musket.

  "Leave it there," he ordered. "You are my prisoner."

  The man stared belligerently. "And who, in God's name, are you?"

  "Captain Skoyles of the 24th Foot. You shot one of my men."

  "I did nothing of the kind," said the other indignantly. "I've been out hunting, as you may see." He indicated the game protruding from his saddlebags and strung across the rump of his horse. "When was your man killed?"

  "Minutes ago."

  "I haven't fired my rifle today. I prefer to snare my quarry. It's more effective. Fire a shot and you frighten the animals away. If you don't believe me," he went on, "look at my rifle. It's still loaded."

  Skoyles knew that he was telling the truth. Apart from anything else, the man was not out of breath, whereas Skoyles was still panting from the chase. Motioning the man back with his musket, he checked the rifle and found it loaded. The man would never have had time to do that. He took a closer look at the prisoner, a thin, wiry man of middle years with wispy gray hair curling out from under his hat and a grizzled beard. He had spoken with a light Scots accent.

  "Who is your commanding officer, laddie?" asked the man.

  "Brigadier General Fraser."

  "Would that be Simon Fraser?"

  "The same."

  "Then you can stop pointing that musket at me," said the man with a hearty laugh. "I served under Brigadier Fraser when he was in command of the 78th Regiment of Foot. A gallant soldier, if ever there was one. Where is he? I'd like to meet him again."

  "I insist on it," said Skoyles without lowering his weapon. He retrieved the rifle from the ground. "You must come with me."

  "Willingly," agreed the other. "My name is James McIntosh, by the way. I live near Fort Tic
onderoga."

  "That remains to be seen."

  Skoyles was wary. He had met too many plausible American spies to take them at face value. If his prisoner really had served in the British army, that claim could soon be verified. He was about to question him in more detail when he heard loud whoops from the distance. The Indians had got their man.

  With prisoner and horse ahead of him, Skoyles set off toward the sounds of celebration, fearing what he might find. The Indians had seen their companion's head split open by an enemy rifle shot. No mercy would be shown. It was some minutes before Skoyles got there. When he eventually found the Indians, he saw that they had taken their revenge. Their victim had been beaten to a pulp with tomahawks before being scalped, stripped naked, and hanged by his feet from a tree. His genitals had been cut off and stuffed into his mouth. A swarm of insects buzzed greedily around the corpse.

  Skoyles felt sick.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Brigadier General Simon Fraser had spent most of his adult life as a soldier, and it had left its mark on him. He was only a youth when he was wounded in combat in the Low Countries. Then he had sailed to America to serve in the 78th Highlanders under Amherst and Wolfe. Service in Prussia had followed. Still short of fifty, the dashing Fraser had had an illustrious career in the British army and was known for his bravery, his tactical acumen, and his inspiring leadership. It had been his idea to select and train the elite corps of marksmen of which Jamie Skoyles was such a valued member.

  Arriving back at camp, Skoyles had gone to his commander's tent to hand over his prisoner and give his report. Fraser recognized the man at once and confirmed that it was James McIntosh, shaking his hand warmly. The two Scotsmen exchanged a few brief reminiscences before Skoyles gave his account of events. When he heard what had occurred on the scouting expedition, Fraser's handsome face darkened.

  "You've Captain Skoyles to thank for bringing some decency to bear on the situation," said McIntosh. "He insisted that the Indians cut the man down and bury him. They didn't like that idea at all."

  "I can imagine," said Fraser.

  "The pair of them ranted and raved, but Captain Skoyles wouldn't be moved. He stood over them until they'd dug a shallow grave and buried their victim. Only then did he let them see to their own man."

  "Well done, Jamie."

  "Thank you, sir," said Skoyles. "There were no papers on the man, but he wore the uniform of a local militia. I brought back his rifle and ammunition."

  Impressed with his handling of the situation, Fraser let him stay while he interrogated McIntosh. Skoyles was fascinated to listen to the interview, the sound of two Scots accents reminding him so closely of his mother's voice that fond memories were rekindled. Professing neutrality, McIntosh was nevertheless ready to help the British army all he could. Since he lived in the shadow of Fort Ticonderoga, the retired soldier was able to give them precise details of its outworks, its fortifications, its garrison, and the number of ships at its disposal.

  It took hours to hear all the information that poured out of the garrulous old Highlander but Fraser was tireless in his pursuit of the facts. Invited to ask questions on his own behalf, Skoyles looked deep into McIntosh's eyes as he spoke.

  "Somebody is lying," he said.

  "We'll it's not me, laddie," retorted McIntosh, bridling.

  "Two prisoners were captured yesterday. They told us that there were twelve thousand troops at Fort Ticonderoga, yet you claim there are only a third of that number."

  "There are, Captain Skoyles."

  "Who do we believe—you or them?"

  "Me, of course," urged McIntosh. "I've got no reason to mislead you. Those other men have. They gave you false estimates of the garrison to try to frighten you off. I'm telling the truth."

  "I know that you are," said Fraser supportively.

  "If we invest Ticonderoga," Skoyles resumed, "it could be a protracted siege. How long do you think their provisions will hold out?"

  McIntosh shrugged. "Six weeks. Two months at most, I'd say."

  "Could fresh supplies be brought up from Lake George?"

  "Not if you put your artillery in the right position," said McIntosh, scratching his beard. "You could isolate the fort completely. As I told you, it's understrength in every way. Last December, there were less than two thousand troops there, and many of them didn't even have shoes on their feet. I felt sorry for them. Winters are grim around here. Ticonderoga is especially bleak. The only reason they put Colonel Anthony Wayne in charge of the fort was that he was felt strong and fit enough to survive the climate." He gave a wry grin. "Do you know what Mad Anthony is supposed to have said when he was eventually replaced?"

  "What?"

  "That Ticonderoga was the last place on earth that God made, and that there were grounds for believing He finished it in the dark." He gave a harsh laugh. "The colonel could never get over the number of human skulls that were lying around. For want of any other vessel, some of his men drank out of them. Yes," he continued, "and they even used the bones of dead soldiers as tent pegs. It's like living in a graveyard."

  "It was always called the Gibraltar of the North," said Skoyles.

  "Well, it doesn't deserve that name now, Captain, From what I've seen, the fort is far from impregnable."

  Delighted with all that he had learned, Fraser was anxious to pass on the intelligence to Burgoyne as soon as the general arrived. He thanked McIntosh and asked him to remain in camp until the main army joined them. McIntosh was only too pleased to be among British soldiers again. Skoyles wanted a private conversation with the man. The two of them stepped outside the tent.

  "Thank you for what you said about me in there," said Skoyles.

  "It was the truth, Captain. If you hadn't stopped those savages when you did, they'd have carved up that man's body for sport. You forced them to behave in a more civilized way."

  "We couldn't leave that man just hanging there."

  "They would have," said McIntosh.

  "Be that as it may. What I really wanted to ask you about was a friend of mine. If you've lived in the area so long," said Skoyles, "you might just have come across him."

  "I might. Who is he?"

  "Ezekiel Proudfoot."

  "Proudfoot . . . Proudfoot," McIntosh repeated, thinking hard. "Now why does that name mean something to me?"

  "His father is Mordecai Proudfoot," Skoyles explained. "He owns several hundreds of acres on the eastern bank of Lake George. I was billeted at the house with other troops many years ago. I was only fourteen at the time, around the same age as Ezekiel. That's why we became such good friends. We've tried to keep in touch ever since."

  "So this Ezekiel Proudfoot works on the family farm?"

  "No, that's what made him so unusual. Ezekiel was the youngest of three brothers. The other two were happy to become farmers but Ezekiel had other leanings. He defied his father's wishes."

  "What did he do?"

  "He got himself apprenticed to a silversmith in Albany."

  "That's how I've heard the name," McIntosh declared, slapping his thigh. "Of course. Ezekiel Proudfoot is an engraver."

  "Yes," said Skoyles, "he turned out to have a real talent for it. I've seen some of his work. But I lost track of him a couple of years ago and wondered if he's still in Albany."

  "I doubt it, Captain."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Your friend is a true patriot," said McIntosh. "He makes and sells prints that celebrate the American cause. It seems that Ezekiel Proudfoot has a knack of being in the right place when action breaks out. He was at Trenton and at Princeton last winter, and his prints of both American victories were on sale within three weeks. They were very popular. I saw mention of them in the newspapers."

  "He's obviously making a name for himself," said Skoyles.

  "So are you, from what I can gather."

  "Me?"

  "I could see the trust that Brigadier Fraser places in you. He wouldn't do that unless he had a high opinion
of you." He sucked his teeth and shook his head sadly. "Great pity, really."

  "What is?"

  "This clash of loyalties, tearing the colonies apart."

  "I agree. It's tragic."

  "People who once wore British uniforms now try to shoot holes in them. Old comrades are intent on killing each other. Take your own case, for instance," said McIntosh. "You and this fellow Proudfoot have obviously been friends for years, then this happens."

  "Yes," said Skoyles reflectively, "we've probably only met a dozen times or so, yet we feel very close to each other. Or, at least, we did," he added with a frown. "You're right, Mr. McIntosh. War ruins everything. Ezekiel and I are now on opposite sides."

  Fort Ticonderoga was a forbidding sight, enclosed by the old French lines and heavily guarded by fortifications on top of the lofty Mount Independence to the east and, a mile to the west, by those on the summit of Mount Hope. Ticonderoga, "the place where the lake shuts itself off," was an ideal location for a bastion that could command the narrows, a mere quarter of a mile wide. By way of protection, a log-and-chain boom was stretched across Lake Champlain. A floating bridge gave easy access between the fort and the earthworks and batteries on the eastern bank.

  Major General Arthur St. Clair, a well-featured, upright man of forty with chestnut hair, had taken over the stronghold from Colonel Wayne and, with the help of his engineers, done his best to reinforce it. Glaring weaknesses remained. The fort had been built by the French to repel a British advance from the south. If an attack were launched from Canada, Ticonderoga was facing the wrong way. St. Clair had a more worrying problem. To defend the fort properly, he needed twelve thousand men, and his garrison fell woefully short of that number. With limited supplies and low morale among the soldiers, he was far from sanguine.

  "Congress gave me false hope," he grumbled, pacing up and down his office. "When I was in Philadelphia, they swore to me that the British would sail from Canada to New York by sea. Yet here they are—only fifteen miles away at Crown Point."