Skoyles offered a hand to the major, who was still lying on the ground. It was spurned. Hauling himself to his feet, Featherstone could not even bring himself to offer a word of thanks to the man who had just saved his life. Instead, he pushed roughly past him. Enraged by the attack on him, he hurried up the slope until he came to the dead body of Private Roger Higgs, twisted into an unnatural shape on the grass. With cruel deliberation, Featherstone used the butt of his pistol to smash open the man's skull, hitting it time and again in his fury. Skoyles had to rush forward to grab him.
"He's dead, sir," he shouted. "Leave him be."
"He tried to kill me!" Featherstone howled, shaking himself free.
Skoyles pointed a finger. "The enemy is up there."
As if to confirm the fact, a volley came down from the ridge above and felled some more of the redcoats. One of them—hit simultaneously by several bullets—came tumbling helplessly down the slope to end up at Featherstone's feet. Setting his jaw, the major abandoned his assault on Higgs and went on up the slope. Jamie Skoyles was close behind him, sickened by the man's needless brutality and sending up a silent prayer for the soul of Private Roger Higgs. A hail of bullets made him flatten himself on the ground for an instant. Then he took cover behind a tree and returned fire. Victory no longer seemed so certain.
While the left flank of the British force was taking on the Massachusetts regiment with its seasoned riflemen, the right flank was trying to climb the precipitous Mount Zion. Slinging their muskets, they had to pick their way slowly upward, clinging to tree roots, balancing on outcrops of rock, and using any means at hand to stop themselves from falling off the sheer face. Major Acland did not shirk his task. Leading the way, he brought his grenadiers inch by laborious inch up the incline, taking risks, scornful of danger, determined to reach the summit. In doing so, he knew, they would be able to harass the enemy from the rear and relieve the embattled light infantry and 24th Foot.
When he and his men finally dragged themselves to the top of the mountain, Acland was able to get a clear view of the action on the left flank. Brigadier Fraser's brave advance up the wooded slope had been halted by enemy fire. The redcoats were gathering their strength for a second assault. Urgent help was needed. Drawing his men together, Acland set off across the summit, having achieved their first objective of barring the way to Castleton. They came out into open ground to be met by a welcome sight. Approaching them across the grass were some fifty or more American soldiers, members of the Continental Army in ragged blue uniforms, their heads bent forward in defeat.
Seeing that their arms were clubbed in a gesture of surrender, Acland assumed that he was about to take prisoners of war. He ordered his men to refrain from firing or from showing any hostility. It was an expensive mistake. When the Americans got within ten yards, they lifted their rifles and fired, sending dozens of British soldiers to the ground. Struck in the thigh by a musket ball, Acland was horrified at this flagrant breach of military rules. It was unimaginable that British soldiers would adopt such a shameful ruse. As the guileful rebels took to their heels, the major barked an order.
"After them!" he shouted. "And show them no quarter!"
Under a darkening sky, the fighting continued on the British left flank with increased ferocity. Two assaults had now failed. At the instigation of Brigadier Fraser, a third assault was launched, and the infantry pressed up the wooded slope once more. The resistance was even fiercer. As the red uniforms surged up the hill through the trees, they were highly visible. Crouched behind fallen logs and a stone fence on the crest of the ridge, the men of the 11th Massachusetts unleashed volley after volley. Another batch of infantrymen crashed to the ground.
From his high eminence on the ridge, Colonel Ebenezer Francis was able to watch how the battle was unfolding. When he saw a detachment of British troops trying to lap around his right flank, he gave the order for a sudden counterattack and threw his men down the slope. At point-blank range, the Americans were able to inflict great damage among an infantry that was bunched too closely together, and they drove them back for the third time. The British had to leave even more dead and wounded behind them as they recoiled from the unexpected assault.
Fraser was quick to realize the intense danger of their situation, and he blamed himself for being overconfident. In sending the grenadiers off toward Zion Hill, he had weakened his line considerably, and enemy fire had taken an additional toll. Advantage had definitely swung to the Americans. They had not only shifted their defenses on the hill to nullify the flanking movement by the grenadiers, they had proved that frontal attack against the light infantry and the 24th Foot was highly effective. If they could collapse the damaged British line, they could sweep it from the field. It was the sort of victory that would give an immense fillip to the American cause.
Captain Jamie Skoyles caught a signal from the brigadier and dodged an enemy fusillade to scuttle across to him. Harry Featherstone soon joined them, his spotless uniform now sullied and torn, but his will to fight on as strong as ever.
"We can't hold them much longer," Fraser decided.
"We must, sir," said Featherstone, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Let me take another detachment to outflank them on their right."
"That would only weaken the line still more, Major. If they were to break through, we'd be done for." He turned to Skoyles. "Captain?"
"We may have bitten off more than we can chew," said Skoyles resignedly. "Perhaps we should spit some of it out."
Featherstone wrinkled his nose with distaste. "You're surely not suggesting that we retreat?" he said. "That would be unforgivable."
"My advice would be to dig in and maintain our position. Another attack would be far too costly. We've been repulsed three times now. Let the enemy come to us."
"I'd prefer to hit them from the rear with a flanking movement."
"No," said Fraser with authority, "it would only fail again. Captain Skoyles is right. We must form a solid defensive line and make sure that it's not breached at any point. It's our only hope."
Skoyles gave a weary smile. "That's not true, Brigadier."
"Isn't it?"
"Listen, sir."
"All I can hear is gunfire," Featherstone grumbled.
"Listen!" Skoyles urged them.
The other men pricked up their ears. Above the incessant noise of the guns and the groans of dying men, Skoyles had picked up another sound. From across the valley, carried on the light wind, came the distant clamor of hunting horns, the squeal of hautboy, the roll of drums, and the sound of voices raised in song. Misunderstanding what he heard, Harry Featherstone was worried for the first time.
"Jesus!" he cried. "There are more of the devils!"
"No, Major," said Skoyles. "What you hear is a battle hymn being sung by the Brunswickers. General Riedesel is coming at last."
"Thank heaven!" exclaimed Fraser with a gasp of relief.
"Not before time," Featherstone grunted.
"I knew that they wouldn't let us down."
"So did I, sir," said Skoyles, before flicking his eyes towards Featherstone. "What about you, Major?" he asked with light sarcasm. "Does it offend your English sensibilities, being rescued by lazy, putrid, pox-ridden Germans?"
The complexion of the battle changed dramatically. Ezekiel Proudfoot's hand paused over his latest sketch. The triumphant charge down the hill that he had begun to draw might not now take place. Once the Germans came into sight, marching to music and singing lustily, the spirit gradually began to drain out of the Continental Army. The prospect of victory slowly melted before their eyes. Heartened by the approach of their reinforcements, the British fought back with renewed vigor, and it was dead rebels who now rolled down the hillside.
Proudfoot saw it all. The German commander deployed his men with skill. Appraising the situation through a telescope, he sent a detachment of riflemen to support the British left flank while some eight hundred grenadiers were ordered to encircle the hill, gain the cres
t on the right of the American defenses, then turn southward to envelop them. The troops from Massachussetts fell back in disorder, and when he saw the British scrambling up the hill again, Proudfoot went with them. Clutching his satchel, he dived behind a log fence where Colonel Francis was trying to rally his men, ordering them to reload.
Having gained the crest of the hill at last, the British troops joined the Brunswick riflemen and dressed their ranks for a charge. With great bravery, Francis jumped over the breastwork and called upon his men for one more volley. But the words died in his throat. A German bullet pierced his heart and killed him outright. Ezekiel Proudfoot heard the collective sigh of despair from the men around him. Saddened by what had happened to their leader, fearing a bayonet charge from one side and a concentrated volley from the German grenadiers on the other side, they started to panic and dashed off into the woods.
Proudfoot was unarmed and unwilling to risk flight when there were so many stray musket balls flying about. All that he could do was to stay behind the fence, curled up on the ground. There was no prospect of relief. Farther along the ridge, Colonel Seth Warner saw that they had lost and ordered his Vermonters to scatter at once and to meet him in Manchester. The rear guard had been put to flight, and over three dozen of its men had perished during the sharp encounter. In less than an hour, the battle of Hubbardton was over. It remained only for the British to see to the wounded, bury the dead, and round up any prisoners.
The first man to be taken was Ezekiel Proudfoot. When a redcoat peered over the fence, he saw a figure lying on the ground against the timber. He gave him a tentative prod with his bayonet and produced a yell of protest. Sitting up immediately, Proudfoot raised his hands in surrender.
"I'm not a soldier," he said. "As you see, I've no weapon."
"Who are you?" the infantryman demanded.
"My name is Ezekiel Proudfoot. I took no part in the battle."
"Nevertheless, you're a prisoner of war, Mr. Proudfoot." The man turned to call over his shoulder. "I've found another one, Captain."
Proudfoot stood up and saw the officer walking toward them. He stared intently at the bruised features of the newcomer.
"Jamie Skoyles!" he cried in surprise. "Is that you?"
Lieutenant General John Burgoyne preened in front of a mirror. He was in his cabin aboard the Royal George and had just received a verbal report from Brigadier Fraser of the events at Hubbardton.
"Excellent, excellent!" he said.
"It was a Pyrrhic victory, General."
"A victory is a victory."
"There were heavy casualties," said Fraser sadly. "We lost nearly fifty men—including Major Grant—and one hundred and forty-five were wounded."
"Yes, but you killed plenty of them, Simon. More to the point, you took over three hundred prisoners, a rebel colonel among them. They won't be able to fire in anger at a redcoat again." He swung round to face his guest. "By George!" he went on. "This is beyond all my expectations. In the space of a mere ten days, we've crossed the border, captured Ticonderoga, seized two hundred vessels, a hundred cannon, and a prodigious quantity of stores, powder, and shot. When the rebels had the gall to turn and fight, you gave them a good hiding."
"Only because of General Riedesel's timely arrival, sir."
"He shouldn't have lagged behind you in the first place." His face shone once more. "But I apportion no blame to anyone. It's an occasion for celebration. We've not only dealt the enemy a crushing blow, we are now, unbelievably, within seventy-five miles of our target—Albany."
"Have you received word of General Howe's movements?"
"Not yet."
"Will he have already dispatched an army up the Hudson?"
"Who knows? William Howe is not the most efficient of men."
Fraser was concerned. "But we will be joined by reinforcements from New York City?" he asked. "We can be certain of that?"
"Of course," Burgoyne replied airily. "It was all part of the plan that I explained to King George and to Lord Germain. They were made well aware of my requirements. When we reach Albany, we'll meet up with Howe's men and also with St. Leger. What tales we'll have to tell them!" He chuckled happily. "I mean to win that wager, Simon."
"Wager?"
"It's recorded in the betting book at Brooks's. Fifty guineas are at stake. I swore to Fox that I'd return victorious from America within a year. Ha!" he said, clenching his fist. "Within a year? At this rate, the job will be done in a couple of months."
"There's still some way to go yet, sir," Fraser cautioned him.
"But every step of it will be paved with success. I feel it in my bones, Simon." Burgoyne struck a pose. "I've written to the king to inform him of our success in taking Fort Ticonderoga. He'll understand the true significance of that. King George will also be able to read between the lines of my dispatch. Nothing can stop us now!"
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was days before Jamie Skoyles was able to have a proper conversation with his friend. Ezekiel Proudfoot was one of the many prisoners of war who were rounded up after the battle at Hubbardton, searched, deprived of any weapons or papers, and kept under armed guard. They and their captors spent a long, wet, sleepless, uncomfortable night on the ridge, uncertain whether the Continental Army would launch a nocturnal attack or had quit the field for good. In the event, St. Clair did not return with his main force. The only danger that the British and German soldiers faced was from fugitive sharpshooters, hiding in the woods.
On the following day, the troops were marched to Skenesborough while the wounded of both sides were evacuated with the prisoners to Ticonderoga, where a small British garrison had been left. It was only by the direct intercession of Jamie Skoyles that Proudfoot was not sent back to the fort with the others. The engraver was curious as to why he had been singled out.
"How did you persuade them to let me come with you, Jamie?"
"It was not easy," said Skoyles.
"I can imagine."
"Major Featherstone was adamant that you should stay with the others. When I argued that you bore no arms and took no direct part in the fighting, he pointed out that one of your prints could do just as much damage to the British army as a hail of grapeshot."
"I'm vain enough to believe that that's true," said Proudfoot with a half smile. "A print can be a powerful weapon. You only have to look at the famous engraving of the Boston Massacre. That was so effective."
"But a gross distortion, Ezekiel."
"It was an artistic interpretation of the event."
"There was certainly more art than accuracy in it," said Skoyles with asperity. "I was in Boston at the time and spoke to some of the soldiers involved in the so-called massacre. Yes, and I talked to some of the civilian bystanders as well. None of them thought that Paul Reveres engraving was a truthful portrayal of what actually happened."
"Truth is not an absolute, Jamie."
"It is to me."
"I think that Paul Revere did the American people a great service."
"Only by telling them a lie."
"Shots were fired. Five people died. Those were the facts."
"No, Ezekiel," Skoyles returned. "One of those killed was a mulatto by the name of Crispus Attucks. What sympathy would the death of a black man arouse? Very little, I suspect. Paul Revere clearly thought the same because, in his print, he changed Crispus Attucks into a white American. What do you call that—artistic license?"
"An insignificant detail."
Skoyles let out a sigh. "You've changed, Ezekiel."
"We both have," said Proudfoot sadly. "We used to be so close."
"I hoped that we still were."
"Not as long as you wear a red coat."
Skoyles had been astonished and pleased to see Proudfoot again, albeit on the opposing side in a battle. Since the other man had been at Fort Ticonderoga for some while, Skoyles convinced Fraser that the prisoner would be able to give them valuable intelligence about the garrison there, and that he—as a for
mer friend of Proudfoot's—would be the best person to extract such information from him. Accordingly, he was interrogating Proudfoot in the privacy of his tent with an armed guard outside to prevent any attempt by the prisoner at escape.
"Why did General St. Clair abandon the fort?" asked Skoyles.
"He was frightened away by the artillery on Mount Defiance."
"What was to stop the Continental Army having its own guns up there? We'd never have been able to sail down Lake Champlain with the threat of heavy artillery trained on us from the summit."
"The engineers thought that Mount Defiance was too steep."
"A fatal miscalculation—one of many."
"The British army has made its share of mistakes," said Proudfoot sharply. "I daresay that it will make many more before we're done. Let's be frank, Jamie. If your reinforcements hadn't arrived when they did at Hubbardton, your commander's folly would have been exposed for what it was. He attacked the ridge with too small a force. You were saved by your hired killers from Germany."
"You have hired killers in your ranks as well, Ezekiel."
Proudfoot nodded slowly. "I agree," he said. "Unfortunately, it's the only way we could raise an army. It would be nice to think that everyone in the uniform of the Continentals was spurred on by patriotism, but that's simply not the case."
"I know."
"Many of them couldn't give a damn about England's persecution of us. Our infantry consists of murderers, robbers, wife-beaters, hunters, mountain men, Negro slaves who've run away from their masters, and European adventurers who can't resist a fight—especially when they get money for it." He studied Skoyles. "How much do you get paid, Jamie?"
"Why?"
"A captain in the Continental army earns forty dollars a month and can expect at least two hundred acres of land as a reward for his service."
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