"We found another man in the forest, Sergeant," said the newcomer, "but I'm afraid this one is way beyond your help."
"Do you know who he is?" asked Caffrey.
"Someone from the 24th Foot, though his jacket was turned inside out for some reason. He was dead when we found him."
Wolverton was on his feet. "Where is he?"
"Outside on the stretcher."
"Let me see."
The man's head withdrew and Wolverton limped quickly out of the tent. Caffrey followed him. Reaching for his crutch, McKillop hauled himself to his feet so that he could hobble after them. They stood in a circle around the forlorn figure on the stretcher outside. The rain was still falling but it could not wash away the dried blood on the face of Private Daniel Lukins. His bid for freedom had been summarily halted by three separate musket balls. One had pierced his skull, leaving a scarlet star on his forehead at the point of entry. A second had gone through his cheek and shattered the bone. Only the third one had met with some resistance.
Shaken by the violent death of his friend, Wolverton slipped a hand into the sodden jacket of the little man on the stretcher. When he took out the watch that Lukins had repeatedly stolen from him, he saw that a musket ball had shattered the glass and lodged in the works. The watch had stopped ticking.
"Well," he said, his voice hoarse with pity, "at least we know the exact time when he died."
Skill with a sword was an important part of an officer's training. The slash of a blade could kill a man instantly if the blow was powerful and well directed. It could even stop a horse. Jamie Skoyles had saved himself with his sword more times than he dared to count. With constant practice, he had learned to use its sharp edge to slice open an enemy and its fearful point to stab a man to death. When he did not kill, he had inflicted wounds that completely disabled an adversary. With a sword in his hand, he felt able to take on anyone.
Skoyles was far too strong, quick, and nimble for Lieutenant Charles Westbourne. When the rain eased off, the two of them found a quiet corner of the camp where they could fight a mock duel, but Westbourne spent the whole time on the defense. Sparks flew as their swords clashed and the noise drew a few curious spectators. They were not surprised to see how easily Skoyles confounded his less experienced opponent. After ten minutes, Westbourne was gasping for breath.
"Enough, enough!" he cried, backing away.
"Would you like to try your luck with a spontoon instead?"
"No, Captain. You'd only put me to shame again. Whatever weapon we choose, I'll end up as the loser."
"Not if I fight with a handicap," Skoyles volunteered, taking the sword in his left hand. "Come at me again, Lieutenant."
"But I'd have an unfair advantage."
"Would you?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Prove it."
Westbourne took his stance and the fight resumed. It was Skoyles who was on the defensive now, parrying every thrust from his opponent and using his feet cleverly to get out of difficulties. Having gained the upper hand at last, Westbourne grew bolder and tried to use some more enterprising strokes. Skoyles was equal to everything that the other man could offer, bringing the bout to an abrupt end with an unexpected thrust and a sudden flick of his wrist. Westbourne's sword spun out of his hand and landed on the grass. The spectators clapped.
"How on earth did you do that?" asked Westbourne balefully.
"With plenty of practice."
"But you'd never have the sword in your left hand in battle."
"Oh, yes, I would," said Skoyles. "It happened when we invaded from Canada last summer. A musket ball hit me in the right shoulder during a skirmish near Crown Point. I was unable to defend myself with the sword in that hand. If I'd not been able to use the left hand, I'd not be alive now." He saw Sergeant Caffrey approaching. "Tom will confirm it. He was there at the time. It was his probe that removed the musket ball."
"Yours was one of many I took out that day," said Caffrey, reaching the swordsmen. "Excuse me for disturbing you, gentlemen. I wonder if I might have a private word with you, Captain?"
"Of course."
Skoyles took him aside. Westbourne, meanwhile, reclaimed his sword from the ground and drifted away with the other officers, still dazed at the way he had been so easily disarmed. Skoyles saw the sadness in his friend's eyes.
"What's amiss, Tom?"
"Dan Lukins is dead. They brought him in on a stretcher."
"Shot as a deserter?"
"No, Jamie," said Caffrey. "It looks as if he was brought down by enemy sharpshooters. It was a more honorable way to die, I suppose. Wolverton is inconsolable. He can only use one arm but he insisted on helping to bury Lukins. They'd known each other for years."
"Dan Lukins was a good soldier," Skoyles observed. "He might have had a wandering hand and a wicked tongue but he'd fight like a demon when he needed to. I'm sorry to hear that he's dead and even sorrier that he deserted."
"So am I. If hardened soldiers like Lukins are starting to walk out on us, we're in serious trouble."
"Where is he buried, Tom? I'd like to show my respects."
"Follow me."
"He did me a big favor," said Skoyles, falling in beside the sergeant as he moved away. "I'll never forget that. Lukins overheard the plot by Harry Featherstone to have me soundly beaten. If I hadn't been warned, those two Canadians might have done some real damage. Lukins saved my skin."
Caffrey licked his lips. "That's the other thing I need to mention to you, Jamie," he said, looking embarrassed. "It concerns that little brawl we had with those two men."
"What about it?"
"Well, I have a confession to make."
"Go on."
"I'm afraid that Polly spoke out of turn," said Caffrey. "She forgot my warning that nobody else was to hear a word of it. Polly was speaking to Miss Rainham's maid and it slipped out."
"Bugger it!" exclaimed Skoyles, coming to a halt. "I told you at the time that I didn't want a single person to know about it—not even Polly. The incident was over and done with, Tom. It was best forgotten."
"Polly promised to keep it a secret."
"Then why didn't she?"
"Heaven knows! She's so upset that she feels like biting her tongue out. She and Nan Wyatt were talking about Major Featherstone earlier today and—before Polly knew what she was saying—out it came."
"That's all we bloody well need!" Skoyles marched off again.
"Mind you," said Caffrey, catching up, "Polly tried to make amends for her mistake. When she realized what she'd said, she begged Nan not to say anything about it to Miss Rainham."
Skoyles was bitter. "What chance is there of that happening?" he asked. "The woman is bound to inform her mistress. In other words, the one person in the world I wanted to keep from hearing about that business is now aware of it. Elizabeth Rainham knows."
"What do you think she'll do, Jamie?"
"I'm not sure," Skoyles admitted, clenching his teeth, "but there'll be consequences. And they won't be very pleasant for any of us."
"At least, she'll see that bastard of a major for what he is."
"Think how much suffering that will bring her."
"She needs to be rescued from him, Jamie."
"This is not the way to do it. Harry Featherstone will go wild if she challenges him, and Miss Rainham will bear the brunt of it. She shouldn't have been told a thing."
"That was my fault," admitted Caffrey, "but I'm not entirely sorry. The fact is that he did pay two Canadians to beat you senseless, and he deserves to be exposed for it."
"He was, Tom. We left those two axmen in his tent."
"It needs to be made public so that he can be shamed."
"I disagree," said Skoyles. "These things happen in the army, as you well know. The best way to settle scores of this kind is in private. No good can be served by telling other people about them."
"What will happen now?"
"I have a nasty feeling that all hell will break loose."<
br />
"It may be that Nan won't tell her mistress about it."
"Yes," said Skoyles with heavy sarcasm, "and it may be that the rebels will surrender without a fight, hand over their arms, and turn into peaceable colonial citizens. Then we can all sail back to England as conquering heroes." He turned to his companion. "Of course, she'll tell her," he insisted. "What maid could keep a secret like that to herself? By now, Miss Rainham will know the ugly truth."
"That could work to your advantage, Jamie."
"How?"
"Be honest," said Caffrey, nudging him, "you want her, don't you?"
"That's immaterial."
"I don't think so. What better way to prize her apart from the major than by showing him in his true colors? You save his life at Hubbardton and how does he thank you—by hiring two men to kick seven barrels of shit out of you! That will get her sympathy."
"I don't need her sympathy."
"We both know what you need, Jamie, and this may be the way to get it. Miss Rainham will turn to you now. Grab her while you can."
"Not on these terms."
"Then you must be mad," said Caffrey in tones of disbelief. "Ever since you met the woman, you've been panting for her. In your position, I'd take her on any terms at all."
"It's not as simple as that, Tom."
"It always has been in the past. You want her like a house on fire and she's obviously sweet on you, especially after the way you rescued her at Bitter Creek. What's holding you back?"
"You wouldn't understand."
"This is not like the Jamie Skoyles I know," said Caffrey censoriously. "If it was any other woman, you'd have loved her and left her by now. And what better way to get your revenge on the major? Reach out and take her."
Skoyles felt uneasy. There was an uncomfortable truth in his friend's comments and it silenced him. He could not even explain to himself what made Elizabeth Rainham so different from all the other women, and why he deliberately pulled back from any real pursuit of her. With someone like Maria Quinn, it had all been so easy and natural. Once mutual affection had been established, they dispensed with any further social niceties and hopped into the nearest bed. It was a warm, pleasurable, satisfying relationship that involved no serious commitment on either side. They were playing by accepted rules. Neither he nor Maria had even bothered to look beyond the current campaign. Both were simply enjoying an intimacy while it lasted.
Elizabeth Rainham was, in many ways, even more desirable than Maria, but she brought complications in her wake. Not only was she betrothed to someone who had emerged as a dangerous enemy of Skoyles, she was also a friend of General Burgoyne. Two men in senior positions stood between Elizabeth and Skoyles. Even that would not have deterred him if he felt that he could offer her something more than he was giving to Maria Quinn, but he was not sure that he could. Maria was a mature woman with an uncomplicated liking for carnal pleasure. Elizabeth Rainham was a virginal young lady who would need more than the prospect of illicit passion to lure her into bed.
They had been walking at a steady pace. Skoyles was too preoccupied to notice that they had now reached the edge of the camp where the dead had been buried. Caffrey had to poke him in the ribs to stop him. Skoyles blinked and looked at the uneven rows of graves, marked only by rough crosses fashioned out of thick twigs. Most of the soldiers there had perished from disease, but there were some who had died of wounds picked up in earlier skirmishes. Skoyles was dismayed to see how many deaths there had been.
It was not difficult to identify the grave of Daniel Lukins because someone was keeping vigil beside it. Having helped to bury him, Marcus Wolverton was standing over the last resting place of the Cockney and mouthing words that went unheard. Skoyles moved across to him.
"I'm sorry we've lost him," he said gently.
"He knew the risk he was running, sir. Desertion is a crime."
"The worst crime of all for a soldier. I'd have shot him myself if I'd seen him sneaking away from us. But that doesn't mean I can't mourn him," said Skoyles. "Lukins served under me for five years. You get to know a man pretty well in that time."
"That's what I thought," said Wolverton. "I'd have wagered anything that Dan would never run away from the British army—and yet he did. I still can't understand why."
"No hint of it beforehand?"
"Not really, Captain. When he got back from Bitter Creek, he was his old self. He was even boasting that he saved Major Featherstone's lady from being raped." Skoyles was jolted by the mention of Elizabeth. "Dan was the same lying little reprobate he'd always been. On the other hand, he was very worried that we're to get no help at all from General Howe—but, then, so are the rest of us."
"Lukins shouldn't have listened to rumors."
"That's what distresses me, sir," said Wolverton, unable to keep a sob out of his voice. "Because he was scared of what he overheard, he let me down badly. I take it personally, you see. Dan didn't just desert the army—he ran out on me."
"Your lips were moving when I came up," noted Skoyles. "What were you saying?"
"I was quoting the last speech from one of Shakespeare's plays. They were words spoken about Coriolanus to the effect that, although he'd done terrible things in his life, he still deserved a noble memory. I suppose that's what I feel about Dan Lukins."
"That he should have a noble memory?"
"A memory of some kind, anyway."
"Why did you choose that play?"
Wolverton turned to him. "Coriolanus was a deserter, sir."
CHAPTER TWELVE
He knew that it was a mistake. After another session at the card table with his senior officers, Jamie Skoyles had strolled back toward his tent in a strange mood. Though he had won a fair amount of money, it had given him no sense of satisfaction, even though much of it had come from the pocket of Harry Featherstone. Nor had Skoyles enjoyed the cut and thrust of military conversation. Instead of relaxing as usual into his privileged situation at the table, he had been heartily relieved when the last game had been played.
Wanting simply to get some much-needed sleep, he was puzzled to see a flicker of light through the canvas of his tent. Someone had lit a candle. Skoyles was extremely careful never to leave a naked flame unguarded, so he realized that he must have a visitor. When he put his head into the tent, he saw that Maria Quinn was waiting for him.
"I told you that I could be patient," she said with an inviting smile.
"How long have you been here?"
"Long enough."
"Did anyone see you come?" he said with slight alarm.
"No, no, Jamie," she replied, getting up to pull him into the tent. "I waited until it was dark, then slipped in like a thief in the night." She put her hands on his arm. "Don't I get a welcome?"
"Of course."
Skoyles kissed her on the lips and felt the familiar surge of desire. At the same time, he was telling himself that it would be a mistake to let her stay, to make love to her again, to allow her to come between him and his growing obsession with Elizabeth Rainham. He wanted to break away, to put her off her with plausible excuses, then escort her back to her own part of the camp. Yet, once she was in his arms, he could not let Maria Quinn go. She was irresistible. Skoyles was slightly disturbed that she acted on her own initiative and came unbidden. It was a dangerous precedent, and he would insist that it never happened again. Meanwhile, he was going to take what was on offer and be grateful for it.
"Where've you been?" she asked, undoing the buttons on his coat.
"Playing cards."
Maria pouted. "You'd prefer to do that than be with me?"
"I had no choice," Skoyles explained. "General Burgoyne invited me and I couldn't possibly turn him down."
"What about me, Jamie? Can you turn me down?"
"Not tonight."
"Not any night, I hope," she said, removing his coat and laying it aside. "Were you surprised to see me?"
"I was, Maria."
"Surprised but pleased."
"Yes."
"Show me how pleased you are."
When she flung her arms around him, Skoyles shook off the nagging sense of guilt and responded with ardor. He knew that it was wrong, but he could not help himself. A romance with Elizabeth Rainham was only the vaguest possibility, whereas Maria Quinn was right there for him. No pursuit was involved. No courtship, no strategy, no waiting. She had come to him with an enchanting readiness. Pulling her to him, Skoyles began to unhook the back of her dress.
It was only in the morning that he realized how big a mistake it had been.
The journey from Fort Anne to Fort Edward had been slow, laborious, and depressing. Since the road turned away from Wood Creek, the British army could no longer use bateaux for carrying supplies and were forced to transfer them to the wagons. Hastily built and badly overloaded, the two-wheeled carts churned up the soft mud into a rutted morass that soiled the boots of the infantry, spattered their uniforms, and hampered their movement. When the dilapidated Fort Edward finally came into view, the spirits of the tired marchers lifted noticeably. Putting the despised wilderness behind them, they emerged into the sunlight and camped on the east bank of the Hudson River. The army could at last enjoy some leisure while they waited for the heavy guns to arrive by water from Fort Ticonderoga.
Lieutenant Charles Westbourne shared the general optimism.
"I feel as if we've reached civilization again," he said. "We can see farmhouses, fields of grain, berries ripening on the bushes. It's a far cry from the exigencies of Skenesborough."
"A definite improvement," Skoyles agreed.
"More to the point, General Schuyler abandoned the fort because he knew that he couldn't hold it. The enemy is retreating before us."
"That's not entirely true, Lieutenant. The garrison from Fort Edward may have pulled back to Saratoga, but we still have enemy forces to the east. If they can work their way around to our rear, they could cut off our own means of withdrawal."
"That's unthinkable, Captain. You heard the general's decree."
"Yes—we never retreat."
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