Saratoga Page 8

  "I find the whole thing extraordinary."

  "That's because you don't understand army life."

  "Are you telling me that this is normal?"

  "Calm yourself," he soothed, seeing the anxiety in her eyes. "There's no need to be so narrow-minded about it. General Burgoyne no doubt sees it as one of the perquisites of his rank. It's a pleasant way of relieving the boredom of a campaign."

  Elizabeth was scandalized. "Do you mean that you condone it?"

  "Not exactly—but, then, I don't gainsay it either."

  "You think that the general is entitled to take a mistress?"

  "He's certainly not the first to do so, Elizabeth."

  "That doesn't make it right."

  "Moral standards are not the same in a situation like this."

  "Well, they should be," she insisted. "General Riedesel's wife feels that. I know that she disapproves as much as I do—and as much as I hoped you would."

  "It's not a question of approval or disapproval. It just happens."

  "And what about you, Harry?" she demanded, stopping to face him. "Will you see it as a privilege of rank when your earn promotion? Is that what I'm to expect as wife—a husband who intends to relieve the boredom of a campaign by betraying his marriage vows?"

  "General Burgoyne is a single man now. He has no wife to betray."

  "I'm talking about Harry Featherstone."

  "Then you can still your fears, Elizabeth," he said, conjuring up a persuasive smile. "I could never betray you, my darling. Were I to become lieutenant general in my own right, there's only one lady I'd wish to travel with me on a campaign—and that's you."

  Taking her by the shoulders, he tried to plant a kiss on her cheek, but she raised a hand to stop him. His answer had been far too glib to satisfy her, and she began to look at the man she was engaged to marry in a rather different light. Featherstone offered his arm again. There was a long pause before she took it. They walked on together.

  It was late evening when Skoyles finally returned to camp. Darkness was starting to fall and that made it even more difficult for Jamie to find his way back. When he reached the picket line, the man who stepped forward to challenge him was Private Roger Higgs, a tall, stringy individual with cadaverous features. Covering the rider with his musket, he demanded to know who he was. Skoyles dismounted and moved forward so that the sentry could see more clearly.

  "It's me, Private Higgs," he declared.

  "Captain Skoyles," said the other. "I never reckernized you, sir."

  "You did what you were supposed to do. Well done, Higgs."

  In the gloom, Higgs could not see the marks on his face. Skoyles had washed off most of the blood but he could do nothing about the livid bruises on his cheekbones and temple. The sentry shifted his feet.

  "Sergeant Caffrey says I got you to thank, sir. You tried to get my sentence reduced."

  "I tried," said Skoyles. "I did my best to talk him round, but Major Featherstone wouldn't budge."

  Higgs spat on the ground. "That's what I think of the major."

  "Let's have no disrespect, Private Higgs."

  "I 'ates the bastard, sir, and I'll not pretend I don't, not even for you. Sergeant Caffrey should've let me die. I'd no will to live, I can tell you that. What's there to live for when my wife and child are gone?"

  "I heard about your bereavement," said Skoyles with obvious sincerity. "I'm very sorry. You have my sympathy."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "It's all the more difficult to bear with you being so far away."

  Higgs was bitter. "Made no difference to Major Featherstone, did it? Get more sympathy out of a bleedin' cannonball."

  "Try to put it all behind you," Skoyles advised him gently. "I know that's hard but it's the only way. We've a battle to fight soon, and we'll need every man's mind to be directed solely at that. You're a soldier, Private Higgs. You know what's expected of you."

  "I'll kill the major," vowed Higgs in a low voice. "If I gets the chance—God 'elp me—I'll do for 'im. I swears it, Captain Skoyles."

  Skoyles grabbed him by the arm. "You'll do nothing of the kind, do you hear?" he said, sharply. "You'll behave as you've always managed to do in the past and be a credit to the army. This is not what your wife or child would have wanted of you, is it? They were proud of you and they had good cause. Yes, I know," he continued before Higgs could speak, "there's injustice here, there's pain and torment, there are grounds for rancor, but you have to bear it all like a man. Do you understand?" Higgs was shamefaced. "Do you understand?" repeated Skoyles, tightening his hold. Higgs nodded and Skoyles let go of him. "This conversation never took place."

  "No, sir."

  "You know quite well what would happen to you if it had."

  "Yes, sir," muttered Higgs. "Thank you."

  Skoyles gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder and went past, leading his horse by the rein. He was soon swallowed up by the shadows.

  Lifting the cup, Sergeant Tom Caffrey took a first sip of his tea, gave a nod of approval then patted her affectionately on the rump.

  "Delicious!" he said, licking his lips. "Nobody makes tea like you, Polly. I knew that there was a reason why I wanted to bring you."

  Polly Bragg put her hands on her hips. "Is that all I'm fit for, Tom Caffrey?" she asked with mock scorn. "I'm your tea maker, am I? That's why you keep me on. Not because I take care of the laundry or make you bandages or nurse your patients or share a tent with you. It's simply because I keep you supplied with tea."

  "Of the best quality."

  "Everything I do is of the best quality."

  "I won't argue with that, Poll," he said, slipping an arm around her. "But for you, I'd have frozen to death in the Canadian winter. You're the best thing that's happened to me since I crossed the Atlantic."

  "As long as you remember that."

  "Will you ever give me the chance to forget?"

  "No, Tom."

  He kissed her on the lips and she responded. It was the end of the day and they were in his tent, having a last cup of tea by candlelight that threw flickering shapes on the canvas. Caffrey could not recall what life had been like before he met Polly Bragg. It was certainly less pleasurable. Since he had met her, she had settled in with him so well that she seemed always to have been there. Polly was the widow of a corporal in the British army who had been killed while repulsing the doomed American raid on Quebec. She was an attractive, shapely woman in her thirties with a healthy look of a countrywoman about her. Like Caffrey, she hailed from Devon.

  He was still embracing her warmly when the flap of the tent opened and Jamie Skoyles popped his head in. The newcomer withdrew immediately.

  "Pardon me," he called to them.

  "No need to be sorry," said Polly, opening the tent flap to pull him inside. "Come on in, Jamie." She saw his face in the candlelight. "Dear God!" she exclaimed. "What's happened to you?"

  "Let me take a look at you," said Caffrey, holding up one of the candles so that he could examine the facial wounds. "What've you been up to, Jamie? You look as if you've been trampled by a herd of buffalo."

  "That's what it felt like at the time," Skoyles admitted, "and they had very sharp hooves."

  While Skoyles told them how he had come by his injuries, Caffrey sat him on a stool and tended his wounds, cleaning away the remnants of dried blood before putting ointment on his lacerated face and hands. Polly was more disturbed by the sight of the bruises, but Skoyles assured her that they had been earned in a noble cause. His reconnaissance visit to Ticonderoga had been a success, adding vital new detail to what James McIntosh had been able to tell them. When he delivered his report to General Burgoyne and to General Phillips on his return to the camp, Skoyles had won both praise and gratitude.

  "You should've come to me first," Caffrey scolded, "so that I could make you look human before you spoke to them. What did they say when they saw the state you were in?"

  "General Burgoyne said that he'd seen me looking bett
er, Tom."

  "I've seen corpses looking better," said Polly, peering at his wounds. "I just hope that Miss Rainham doesn't catch sight of you in this condition, I really do."

  "You've spoken to her?" said Skoyles.

  "I've spoken to her maid, and that's almost as good. Nan Wyatt, that's her name. Motherly soul, she is. She's looked after Miss Rainham for years and won't have a word said against her."

  "She'll hear none from me, that's for sure."

  "According to Nan, her mistress has the sweetest disposition. She's talented, too. Elizabeth Rainham sings, she plays the harp, she does all kinds of interesting things—things that I never had the chance to do when I was her age."

  "Tell Jamie about Major Featherstone," Caffrey urged.

  "Oh, yes," she said. "Nan has her doubts about him."

  "What sort of doubts?" asked Skoyles.

  "Well, it turns out that he's a family friend. He knew her father very well. When he first came to the house, he used to pay his addresses to Cora Rainham, the elder sister. But she died tragically of the fever some years ago, so he slowly turned his attentions to Elizabeth."

  "She's a lot younger than Featherstone."

  "She'd always admired him," said Polly with a worldly air. "Well—let's be honest—what woman wouldn't admire an officer like him? All that brass and scarlet is very fetching."

  Caffrey was indignant. "What about my sergeant's uniform?"

  "You look very smart in it, Tom, but it's not the same as being a major. I can see why Miss Rainham was dazzled. Nan reckons that, because the sister had died, it was almost as if her mistress felt obliged to marry Major Featherstone in her stead. Not that she doesn't love him," she added, quickly. "Nan went out of her way to tell me how much she dotes on him. But it's not as if Elizabeth Rainham was his first choice."

  Polly retailed all the other snippets of information she had gleaned from the maid, and Skoyles listened attentively. Every new detail about Elizabeth Rainham made her more appealing, but he accepted that she was hopelessly beyond his grasp. Betrothed to a fellow officer, she could never be more than an object of curiosity to him. In any case, Skoyles was not in search of any female companionship. Unknown to his two friends, he already had that within easy reach. The woman whom he had met in Montreal—Maria Quinn—was traveling with them and awaiting his call. He had no need of a prim young virgin from Canterbury.

  "Thank you, Polly," he said. "I'm deeply grateful."

  "So is Miss Rainham," she said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, Nan Wyatt was as nosy as me. She wanted to hear all the scandal, so I told her what I knew. Nan also asked about people whose names she's heard on Miss Rainham's list."

  "Such as?"

  "People she's met since she's been with us—General Phillips, Brigadier Fraser, and so on. But there was one person," said Polly with a giggle, "that she knew her mistress would really like to know about."

  "Oh? And who was that?"

  "Captain Jamie Skoyles."

  At the very start of hostilities, Major General Arthur St. Clair was given stark proof of the shortcomings of his defenses at Fort Ticonderoga. When a skirmish party of Indians and British light infantry approached the stronghold, St. Clair saw how exposed his men on Mount Hope were, and he ordered them to withdraw, protecting the movement with a sortie. Driven back by the Indians, he sustained only small losses, but, during the exchange of fire, one bold and inebriated Irishman crept up until he was a mere forty paces from the American lines. Hiding behind a tree stump, the man fired a shot and set off such a concerted volley from the rebels that the noise scattered the Indians.

  The Irishman was captured and imprisoned in the fort, but he was stubborn and insolent under questioning, refusing to tell them anything about the strength of the British army. St. Clair discussed the case with Ezekiel Proudfoot, and the other man had a suggestion.

  "He may not talk to us, sir," he said thoughtfully, "but I'll wager that he'll confide in Captain O'Driscoll."

  "Why on earth should the prisoner do that, Ezekiel?"

  "For two good reasons, sir. First, O'Driscoll is an Irishman, and you know what happens when two sons of Hibernia get together. Second, if we put our man in the same cell, we'll let him have a bottle of rum concealed about him."

  "I begin to follow you," said St. Clair, smiling. "We pretend that O'Driscoll is a damn Tory and lock him up. All he has to do is to play the part well enough to win the prisoner's confidence."

  "The bottle of rum will do that."

  The plan was put into effect immediately and soon bore fruit. The obstinate prisoner, a member of the 47th Light Infantry, was much more outgoing in the presence of a fellow Irishman and, warmed by a few long swigs of rum, gave him the name and number of every corps under Burgoyne's command. He was even able to list the guns available. When the information was passed on to St. Clair, it confirmed his worst fears. He adjourned to his office with Ezekiel Proudfoot and Colonel Wilkinson.

  "It's the strength of that artillery that troubles me," he confessed. "They have six-pounders, twelve-pounders, and twenty-four-pounders as well as howitzers and mortars. Worst of all, they have William Phillips in control of the weapons, a man who showed what he could do at the Battle of Minden. He's a genius."

  "Even a genius needs a target," said Wilkinson.

  "He has one right here."

  "Only if we stay, General."

  "You still want us to run away with our tails between our legs?"

  "I'd rather call it a tactical withdrawal."

  "It would be a cowardly retreat," said Proudfoot angrily. "Or, at least, that's how it would be seen. What will that do to our reputations?"

  "We have to take the long view, Ezekiel. If we make a swift and orderly withdrawal, we can at least preserve our men to fight another day. And not just our troops," said Wilkinson, looking at St. Clair. "Your eleven-year-old son is with us, sir. Is this the kind of military experience you want the boy to have? It would be terrifying for him."

  "Leave my son out of this."

  "Why put his life in danger? Keep him here and he'll suffer the same fate as the rest of us. He'll either be killed or taken prisoner."

  "I dispute that," said Proudfoot as he saw a shadow of doubt fall across St. Clair's face. "We may well hold out here. The French had a very small garrison when General Abercromby tried to take the fort, and they still scattered the British army. We'll do the same."

  "Supposing we fail?" asked Wilkinson.

  "Then we earn recognition for our courage."

  "There's nothing courageous in being overrun by superior forces," reasoned the other. "That's arrant folly. General Burgoyne has only to lay siege to Ticonderoga and we're at his mercy."

  "That's not true, Colonel. He'll suffer his share of casualties. My feeling is that he'll launch an assault as a matter of honor. When we withstand it, he'll simply march around us and continue south."

  "I'm inclined to agree," said St. Clair.

  "Why should he do that?" Wilkinson argued. "Gentleman Johnny has more men, more firepower, and every advantage. British and German soldiers have been honed to perfection. They're not a ragbag army like ours. And think of those Indians," he added, running a hand across his skull. "I don't know about you, General, but I'm very fond of my hair. I'd prefer it to stay attached to my head. I don't want my scalp dangling from an Indian's belt."

  "Indians are fair-weather warriors," said Proudfoot with contempt. "They only fight on if victory is in sight. Look at the way they vanished when that volley was fired earlier on. They ran away in complete panic."

  "What I remember was the way that our men fired willy-nilly before they'd been given the command," said Wilkinson. "They lost all discipline. That would be a catastrophe in a battle."

  "Their nerves need to be steadied, that's all."

  "And how do we do that, Ezekiel? When they see the size of the British army, they're going to be shaking in their boots—those lucky enough to have any b
oots, that is."

  St. Clair turned away, conscious of the immense problems that a defense of the fort would entail but reluctant to yield it to the enemy without offering stern resistance. Colonel Wilkinson was not the only senior officer who would advise an evacuation of the fort, but there would be others to whom such a course would be anathema. Their task was to halt the British advance in its tracks for as long as possible, not to assist it by deserting their posts. He reached his decision.

  "Ezekiel is right," he said. "We must stay."

  "That's suicide!" cried Wilkinson.

  "He's here to record our actions for posterity."

  "So?"

  "Whatever we do will one day appear in a popular print for all to see. Do you want to be portrayed as a brave officer, fighting for your cause to the last bullet? Or would you rather let Ezekiel show the world the coattails of your uniform as you run away in fear?"

  "That kind of print would inspire nobody," Proudfoot observed tartly. "Unless you think your backside is a good advertisement for our cause, Colonel."

  "I resent that comment," said Wilkinson hotly. "It's not fear that makes me want to leave—it's common sense. I have my faults, I concede that, but nobody has ever questioned my bravery."

  "Nor do I, James," St. Clair said, holding up a conciliatory hand. "You've shown your true colors often enough. I'm vain enough to believe that I've done the same. No coward would dare to take up arms against the British, as we've done. Ticonderoga is full of brave men."

  "Then save their lives by withdrawing them from the fort."

  "There'd be no hint of bravery in my sketches, if you do that," Proudfoot warned. "I'll draw what I see—an undignified retreat. Leaving the fort without even firing a token shot. I'd call it blatant cowardice."

  "I see it as a sensible tactic."

  "One that would delight Burgoyne."

  "General Washington has employed that strategy on a number of occasions. He'd rather quit the field than fight a pitched battle to the finish against a much bigger army. As a result," said Wilkinson, "he's reduced the number of losses in combat."