Skoyles grinned. "Get thee behind me, Satan."
"Can't you be tempted?"
"Not by you, Ezekiel."
"Are you so dog loyal to that tyrant back in England?"
"No," Skoyles admitted. "It's not simply love of king and country that made me wear this red coat—though I'll defend to the death every inch of our empire. It was the lure of army life. It can be an ugly life at times—a brutal, heartless, painful kind of existence that makes you do things in which you can take no pride whatsoever. But," he added with a resigned shrug, "it's what I chose, and it's where I feel at home."
"Crawling over the dead and dying on a wooded hillside?"
"Battles are never pretty."
"How many years have you been a soldier now?"
"Over twenty," replied Skoyles. "I'm beyond redemption."
"No thought of marriage and settling down?"
"In the fullness of time."
"You may not have too much of it left, Jamie."
There was a note of sorrow in his voice that revealed a lingering affection for Skoyles. The physical changes in Ezekiel Proudfoot were obvious. He looked older, sparer, and more world-worn. He had retained his philosophical air and his delight in argument, but there was a harder edge to the man than Skoyles remembered. Proudfoot had been tempered by war into a flintiness that made him seem almost truculent.
"What about you, Ezekiel?" asked Skoyles. "No wife and children?"
"Not any more."
"You lost them?"
"No, Jamie," said Proudfoot, recoiling from the stab of a memory. "They were taken from me by the army that you so blindly serve. If I told you how, I daresay that you'd accuse me of gross distortion, so I'll spare you the details."
"They were killed?"
"Massacred—along with everyone else in the village."
"And this was by British soldiers?"
"By Hessian mercenaries in your pay. That comes to the same thing. One day, I had a family; the next day, it was gone."
"I'm very sorry to hear that, Ezekiel. I really am."
"We commit atrocities just as bad," Proudfoot conceded. "What can you expect when you put weapons in the hands of violent men? But that's no consolation to me. Perhaps you'll understand now why I chose to put my humble talents at the disposal of your enemy."
"Most men in your position would have joined the Continentals."
"I fight more effectively with a pencil in my hand."
"What about your father? Is Mordecai still alive?"
"He died a year ago."
"And your brothers—Reuben and Silas?"
"Silas took over the farm. He's the eldest of us. He has a lovely wife and six fine children. Reuben was always the most hot-blooded member of the family," he said. "He joined one of the Massachusetts regiments, so you might meet up with him on a battlefield in due course. My brother is a true patriot, inspired by a vision of a free America. It gives him an excuse to kill British soldiers. Reuben enjoys that."
"It's a dangerous habit. We'll have to cure him of it."
"There'll be plenty more to take his place."
Personal tragedy had robbed Proudfoot of his gentle manner and his ready sense of humor. He was a driven man, willing to court jeopardy in order to do his work, determined to help the American cause with his skills as an artist and engraver. In the middle of a raging battle at Hubbardton, he had had no weapon with which to defend himself. Proudfoot had been there to observe, record, and disseminate. Only a mixture of obstinacy and foolhardiness had kept him on the battlefield. Even when he had a chance to flee, Proudfoot had stood his ground.
"Tell me what happened at Ticonderoga," Skoyles said.
"You already know that."
"I know only that the fort was evacuated. Who made the decision and who advised against it? How many men did St. Clair lead away from Mount Independence? What were his plans? Did he intend to join up with General Schuyler? I want information, Ezekiel."
"Look at my drawings," counseled the other. "That's where you'll find your information. During my stay, I must have drawn almost every man at the fort—the Negroes as well as the whites."
"I'm glad that you can tell the difference between the two."
"There is no difference, Jamie. They're all Americans."
"Slave owners would disagree."
"They'll learn," said Proudfoot. "They'll learn." He raised a hopeful eyebrow. "I suppose that it's no use asking for my satchel back?"
"None at all."
"I feel naked without pencil and paper."
"Then you'll have to get used to it," Skoyles warned. "General Burgoyne has been looking through the contents of your satchel with interest. He says that you have a rare talent. But neither he nor I will let you have your things back again. You'd only spend your time making notes of the strength and disposition of our army. We can't let that sort of intelligence fall into the wrong hands."
"All that I wish to do is to make some sketches. What harm is there in that? Listen," said Proudfoot, touching his arm, "I'll strike a bargain with you. Give me my satchel and I'll tell you everything you want to hear. Is that fair?"
"Yes," answered Skoyles, "it's extremely fair. But fairness is not on offer here, I'm afraid. Your choice is a stark one. Tell me what I need to know or I'll have you sent back to Fort Ticonderoga to be put on short rations with the rest of the prisoners." His smile was cold. "Which is it going to be, Ezekiel?"
After all this time, Tom Caffrey had not become accustomed to the smell of death. It still offended his nostrils and haunted him for days afterward. While the rest of the British army had fought tooth and nail at Hubbardton, he came up behind them, making instant decisions about which of the injured would recover if given medical attention and which were beyond help. When the burial detail was later formed, he had recognized a number of corpses being lowered into graves as belonging to men who had begged for his attention while they lay in agony on the battlefield. Caffrey felt the usual pangs of guilt. With such limited resources, he had been compelled to ignore many more wounded soldiers than he was able to tend.
Polly Bragg knew better than to pester him with questions after a battle. She let him brood in silence, waiting patiently until he was ready to confide in her. About one thing, however, Caffrey had been eager to talk on his return, and it came up again when Nan Wyatt walked past their tent. The two women immediately fell into animated conversation. Cleaning his instruments in a bucket of water, Caffrey only half-listened to their gossip.
"What did Miss Rainham have to say about it?" asked Polly.
"About what?" replied Nan.
"Major Featherstone, of course. His narrow escape."
"Escape?"
"Yes," said Polly. "Tom told me all about it. He was close enough to see the whole thing. The major is lucky to be alive, isn't he, Tom?"
"What's that?" asked Caffrey, looking up.
"We were just talking about the rescue at Hubbardton."
"It's the first I've heard of it," said Nan, anxious to know more. "Major Featherstone was rescued, you say? When? How?"
"Tom should be the person to tell you."
"What happened, Sergeant Caffrey?"
Caffrey began to dry his instruments with a piece of cloth. He had been introduced to Nan Wyatt while they were camped at Crown Point and found her pleasant company. For the sake of Jamie Skoyles, he had encouraged the friendship between Nan and Polly Bragg, and he now saw an opportunity to show Skoyles in a good light. Caffrey was not surprised to learn that no mention of the incident had been made to Elizabeth Rainham. Had he raised the topic, the major would have had to praise another officer, and he was unwilling to do that. Caffrey repaired the deficiency.
"One of his own men tried to kill Major Featherstone," he began.
Nan was shaken. "One of his own men?"
"Private Roger Higgs."
"He was that young soldier I told you about, Nan," said Polly, nudging her with her elbow. "You remember, the one who
was flogged on the major's orders."
"Higgs could never forgive him," Caffrey went on, rubbing the last speck of moisture from his saw. "He wanted revenge and bided his time."
His account was concise but lucid. Inured to the abominations of the battlefield, Polly Bragg had pressed for more detail, but Caffrey did not wish to upset Nan Wyatt with a full recital of the facts. He merely stressed how much Major Featherstone owed to the alertness of Jamie Skoyles. Nan was amazed that the major had not volunteered the information himself, and she could not wait to pass it on to her mistress.
"Thank you, Sergeant Caffrey," she said. "I'm very grateful."
"It's the major who should be showing a little gratitude."
"I can't believe that a British soldier tried to shoot him."
"He's by no means the only man to do that to an officer," said Caffrey. "During a battle, you've no idea where the danger comes from. In my time, I've extracted musket balls from the back of more than one unpopular officer."
"That's dreadful!"
"Passions run high in combat. Anything can happen."
After thanking him again, Nan Wyatt scuttled off to report to her mistress. Caffrey exchanged a glance with Polly Bragg.
"We both know why Major Featherstone held his tongue," he said harshly. "He's too proud to admit that someone saved his rotten carcass from a British musket ball."
"I thought he was Jamie's friend."
"Of a sort. They got on well enough at first. Jamie started to look at him differently after that flogging. The major enjoyed it so much. Then there was that scouting mission to Ticonderoga. It rankled with Major Featherstone. He never forgave Jamie for that. The major believed that he should have been sent instead. He couldn't accept that Jamie was chosen ahead of him on merit."
"Was that because Jamie is a better scout than him?"
"He's a better everything than Harry Featherstone. He's certainly a better card player," he added with a cackle. "Jamie has emptied the major's pockets time and again."
"But if someone saves your life, you'd become his friend."
"Not in this case, Polly."
"Why not?"
"Because a rift has opened up between the two of them. I suppose that the truth of it is that the major has never really looked on him as an equal. How could he? Jamie rose from the ranks," he explained, "where he rubbed shoulders with the likes of me."
"There's nothing wrong with that, Tom."
"There is to Major Featherstone. No matter what Jamie does, he'll never be fully acknowledged by some officers. The major just happens to be the worst of them. Jamie Skoyles will always be an outsider to him. Put it this way," he went on. "If Higgs had aimed his musket at Jamie's back, I'm not at all sure that Harry Featherstone would've lifted a finger to save him."
One of the things Jamie Skoyles liked about an army was the extraordinary variety of human beings it contained. Uniforms might achieve a common appearance and constant drilling might impose a rigid discipline, but a man's essential character was unchanged by it all. Sinners did not become saints when they took the King's shilling. Skoyles was reminded of that once more when, on his way to report to General Burgoyne, he encountered two men from his regiment in the middle of a heated argument.
Private Daniel Lukins and Private Marcus Wolverton could not have presented a sharper contrast. Lukins was a diminutive Cockney with a face like a squashed tomato and a voice like the croak of a frog. Convicted of forgery, Lukins had been released from prison to join an army that was in desperate need of recruits, whatever their criminal tendencies. Wolverton, on the other hand, was an educated man who had once had a promising career as an actor in front of him. Stage fright of such intensity had seized him one night during a performance at Drury Lane that it was impossible for him to continue in his role. After fleeing from the theater, he drank steadily for a whole week to calm his nerves, only to find—when he finally sobered up—that he had somehow volunteered to serve in the British army.
Tall, slim, and stately, the actor towered over the forger, but it was the latter who was clearly getting the better of the exchanges. When they saw Skoyles approaching, they stepped apart and gave him a salute.
"Why are you two always at each other's throats?" asked Skoyles.
"Us?" replied Lukins, an expression of complete innocence on his face. "Wolvie an' me is the best of friends. Ain't we, Wolvie?"
"No, Dan," the other said loftily. "I'd not dignify our relationship to that extent but I would accept that we are well acquainted."
Lukins laughed. "That's 'is way of sayin' 'e loves me, Captain."
"What was the dispute about this time?" said Skoyles.
"Old Red 'Azel."
"Dan is referring to General Riedesel," Wolverton explained with careful enunciation. "I happen to admire our German ally."
"Then buy the bugger a watch," Lukins suggested sourly, "so 'e can arrive at the battlefield on time. Red 'Azel left it until the very last moment at 'Ubbardton an', when 'e did come, 'e brings that bleedin' band with 'im, like they was goin' to a concert."
"We owe the Brunswickers a debt of gratitude," noted Skoyles.
"That's exactly what I told him, Captain," said Wolverton, "but all that Dan can do is to hurl abuse at them."
Lukins thrust out his chest aggressively. "Old Red 'Azel can't 'old a candle to Gen'lman Johnny."
"General Burgoyne," corrected Skoyles.
"I'd foller 'im through the gates of 'ell, so I would."
"I have the same respect for General Riedesel," said Wolverton.
"Did you 'ear that, sir?" demanded Lukins, red with indignation. "Wolvie thinks them turd-faced Germans is better than us redcoats. That's treason, that is, an' no mistake."
"Wolverton is entitled to express an opinion," said Skoyles.
"It deserves a floggin' at least."
"I've already had one from that vicious cat-o'-nine-tails you call a tongue," Wolverton told him, "but my view remains the same. General Riedesel is the equal of General Burgoyne. He has more experience, for a start. He always thinks deeply before he acts. General Riedesel takes his time."
"Yes—we found that out at 'Ubbardton, didn't we?" Lukins challenged him. "While 'e was takin' 'is bleedin' time, we was all but blown to bits on that 'illside. That's what thinkin' deeply does for you."
"How would you know when you're incapable of such a thing?"
Lukins squared up to him. "You callin' me iggerant?"
"No," said Skoyles, grabbing both men by the scruff of their necks. "Now let's have an end to this nonsensical bickering. You're comrades in arms, not sworn enemies. Keep out of each other's way until you can behave in a civilized fashion—or I'll bang your silly heads together." He pushed them apart. "Understood?"
"Yes, Captain," said Wolverton apologetically.
"Lukins?"
"As long as Wolvie don't call me—"
"Lukins!" snapped Skoyles, cutting him off. "Did you hear me?"
"Yes, sir," Lukins said reluctantly.
"Then settle your differences before I do it for you."
Skoyles waited until the men had gone off in opposite directions before he continued on his way. While he had great respect for Burgoyne, he was inclined to agree with Wolverton's estimate of Riedesel. Once the favorite staff officer of the duke of Brunswick, the German was a more versatile soldier than General John Burgoyne. He could be mocked for his emphasis on drilling his troops but he was not prone to some of the overhasty judgments that the British commander occasionally made. Skoyles was reassured by the presence of the German troops. Unlike the Indians, they could always be relied on in a battle.
As he strolled toward the house where Burgoyne had set up his headquarters, the first person whom he saw was the man who owned the place. Colonel Philip Skene, one of the loyalist commanders, was staring at a fresh grave that had been dug in his garden. He was a big, burly Scotsman in his early fifties with a wealth of military experience behind him, but he looked a sorry figure now.
The sound of footsteps made him glance up and he contrived a weak smile.
"Captain Skoyles," he said. "Welcome to my home—what's left of it, that is. The rebels were untidy guests. They made rather a mess of the house." He gazed down at the grave. "And they even had the gall to move my dear wife from her last resting place."
"Your wife, Colonel?"
"She was buried in the cellar in a lead coffin. That was far too big a temptation for soldiers who were short of ammunition, so they dug up my wife, brought her out here, and melted the lead down to make musket balls." He turned to Skoyles and grimaced. "I don't relish the idea of being shot by a piece of my wife's coffin."
"I can understand that, sir."
"Still," said Skene, brightening a little, "at least I can occupy my own home again. This is a wonderful spot, Captain—rich soil, an endless supply of good timber, and a lake nearby that's a busy highway for trade and travel. I spent years developing this site. I own well over fifty thousand acres and created my own community here."
"Largely made up from Scots, I'm told," Skoyles observed.
"We have the pioneer spirit."
"I know. My mother was Scots. I inherited that spirit from her."
"There was already a barracks and a blockhouse when I came here," said Skene with a proprietary wave of his arm. "I added a sawmill, an iron forge, a coal house, a stone barn and stables, and, of course," he went on, indicating the two-and-a half-story limestone building behind him, "my home, Skenesborough House."
"It's an impressive achievement, Colonel."
"I like this country. Wouldn't dream of living anywhere else."
"I've a feeling that I'll see out my days in America as well."
"Let's put these rebels in their place first, shall we?"
"Yes, Colonel."
Skoyles took his leave and went into the house. When he was admitted to General Burgoyne, he was amazed to find him in a room that had a wooden coffin on a table. Seated in a corner, Burgoyne beckoned the visitor across to him. He gestured toward the coffin.
"Allow me to introduce Mrs. Skene to you, Captain."
Skoyles was bewildered. "The colonel's wife?"
"The colonel's mother," said Burgoyne cheerfully. "It appears that, by the terms of a will, the old lady will continue to receive an annuity as long as she is above ground. Philip Skene is a true Scotsman. He'll not part with a single penny if he can find a way to hold on to it. So—there she lies—dead as a doornail but still able to earn her keep."
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