Stark was forthright. "That idiot, Arthur St. Clair, should be dismissed," he said bluntly, "and so should General Schuyler. Both of them abandon defensive positions too easily. When Schuyler surrendered Crown Point last year, I gave him a piece of my mind. They should have resisted the British until they ran out of ammunition." He laughed harshly. "At least, it taught Schuyler to keep out of my way. Instead of coming here himself, he sent General Lincoln, that fat fool from Massachusetts, in his stead."
"Why?"
"To give me a message."
"Not a very welcome one, by the sound of it."
"No," Stark retorted. "Schuyler wanted to take charge of my men. The gall of it! I go to all the trouble of raising a militia and what does our esteemed general do? He sends word that we must march to Stillwater. He got short shrift from me, Ezekiel."
"What did you say?"
"I told General Lincoln, in plain terms, that I considered myself adequate to command my own men. I'm not at Schuyler's beck and call."
"He is in command of the Northern Department."
"Not for much longer, I hope. Besides, I'm not answerable to him or to Congress. Neither of them appointed me. If Schuyler thinks that I'm being insubordinate," said Stark, sucking on his pipe, "I don't care a fiddler's fart. I make decisions affecting my men. This army is mine."
It had cost Harry Featherstone his wicket. Distracted by the sight of Elizabeth Rainham and Jamie Skoyles, he had lost interest in the game and just stood in the middle of the pitch. When the ball was thrown in to the wicket keeper, the major was still stranded halfway down the pitch. Charles Westbourne remained in the safety of the crease but his partner was dismissed. Though the crowd gave Featherstone generous applause, they were mystified at the way he had surrendered his wicket.
Since he was the next man in, Skoyles had to take the bat from the major as the latter stalked off the field. It was thrust angrily into his hand. Featherstone growled something that Skoyles chose not to hear. A true competitor, the captain's mind was now solely on the cricket. He wanted to win. After a few words with Westbourne, he took up his stance at the other end and faced his first ball, sweeping it expertly away off his legs and collecting three runs. It meant that the lieutenant now had the opportunity to bat at last. Westbourne seized it, literally, with both hands, scoring two runs off his first shot.
The game was short-lived. With both men in aggressive mood, the bowlers were hit all over the ground, and the fielders were kept racing to and fro. Runs came thick and fast. The opposition team had only made a modest score, and it was left to Westbourne to pass it by striking a ball for four winning runs. As they came off the pitch, he and Skoyles were cheered to the echo. Fellow members of their regiment were overjoyed. The victory had been comprehensive.
Skoyles did not join in the celebrations. Now that the game was over, he could think only of Elizabeth Rainham. With the major standing beside her, she was seated with the other ladies, denying Featherstone the chance to speak to her properly. When she saw Skoyles, she got up and beckoned him over, ignoring the spluttering protests from the other man. At her suggestion, all three of them strolled away until they found a place by the river where they could speak in private.
"Elizabeth," Featherstone demanded, "what is going on?"
"I'll tell you in a moment."
"And why did you drag Skoyles along? We don't need him at all."
"We do, Harry," she said. "The captain is involved here."
"In what way?"
"He was an innocent victim."
"I think that I had better leave you," said Skoyles, not wishing to be part of the argument. "I'm not sure that I belong here, Miss Rainham."
"You don't," snapped Featherstone.
"Yes, he does," Elizabeth insisted, lowering her parasol so that she could confront the major. "Is it true that you hired two Canadians to attack Captain Skoyles in Skenesborough?"
"No, of course not!"
"There was a witness, Harry. Someone overheard you."
"Then he's a confounded liar."
"Two men did try to ambush the captain but, providentially, he'd been warned that they'd be there and suffered no injury. According to Private Lukins, you were the person behind the attack."
"Lukins!" snarled Featherstone. "That scheming little rogue!"
"Don't speak ill of the dead, Major," Skoyles interjected.
"I'll say what I like about that vermin. Telling tales about me, is he? If the wretch were not already dead, I'd wring his filthy neck for him."
Elizabeth persisted. "The fact remains that an ambush was set," she reminded him, "and it must have been at someone's behest. Tell me true, Harry: Did you or did you not speak to one of the Canadian axmen behind some wagons?"
"I refuse to answer that," said Featherstone, blustering.
"Private Lukins was nearby at the time."
"Then he mistook someone else for me."
"You're a very recognizable figure, Harry. It was you, wasn't it?"
"I'll not be interrogated like this!"
"Miss Rainham," said Skoyles, "I did warn you that nothing would be served by pursuing the matter."
Featherstone was dumbfounded. "You discussed this with him behind my back?" he cried. "How could you, Elizabeth?"
"Because I wanted to find out the truth."
"And you'd take his word over mine?"
"It was not Captain Skoyles who named you."
"You must excuse me," said Skoyles, moving away.
Elizabeth tried to stop him, but to no avail. Skoyles knew that he was in the way. Consumed with anger, Featherstone stared after him before rounding on Elizabeth.
"I'm ashamed of you," he said.
"Why?"
"For listening to a false allegation like that from Skoyles."
"But he didn't make it," she explained. "Captain Skoyles didn't even want to talk about the incident. As far as he was concerned, it was best left in the past. I could not take it so lightly. The evidence points so clearly to you, Harry."
"What evidence? The gossip of a nobody?"
"You ordered that beating, didn't you?"
"No, Elizabeth."
"Didn't you?" she repeated. "I'd rather know the worst."
"Do you really think me capable of such a thing?"
"Yes, Harry. It pains me to say it—but I do."
Her gaze was steady, her manner positive. Featherstone could see that she would not easily be fobbed off. Since a witness had overheard him, he had been unmasked.
"Who told you about this?" he asked.
"Answer my question first. Did you issue the instructions?"
"Elizabeth—"
"Yes or no?"
He gnashed his teeth. "It was no more than Skoyles deserved," he mumbled at length. "The fellow is insufferable."
Elizabeth said nothing. She was seeing him in an entirely new light now, and it was very unflattering. Featherstone tried to strike back.
"Who told you?" he inquired.
"Nan Wyatt. She heard it from Polly Bragg."
"Polly Bragg? But I told you that your maid was to have nothing to do with that jabbering whore. You disobeyed me, Elizabeth."
"I did what I thought fit."
"Sending your maid out to pick up all the scandal of the camp."
"No, Harry," she countered. "Allowing Nan to develop the one real friendship that she's made since we came here. I've met Mrs. Bragg and take her to be an agreeable woman. I certainly see no reason why she and Nan have to be kept apart."
"Let me be the judge of that," he insisted.
"Why?"
"Because I'm going to be your husband. I make the decisions."
"Like the one to have Captain Skoyles attacked?" she said, arching an eyebrow. "Some of your decisions are open to question, Harry. I'm bound to tell you that I think the less of you for having made them."
"Let me explain."
"No explanation is necessary. When I asked for the truth, you lied to me disgracefully. And
now you're trying to justify what I consider to be a deplorable action."
"You're getting things out of proportion," he said, trying to mollify her with a sickly smile. "There was no malice behind that assault on Skoyles. It was meant as a joke, that's all, some harmless fun to relieve the boredom."
"You look upon physical violence as harmless fun?"
"They would not really have hurt him, I made that clear. They were simply hired to give Skoyles a fright."
"You're lying to me again, Harry," she said coldly. "A moment ago, you said that the captain was insufferable and that he deserved a beating. This was no joke. You behaved dishonorably, and you've forfeited a great deal of my respect as a result."
"Wait!" he said, restraining her by the arm as she tried to leave. "There's no need to take this so seriously. You must understand."
"I fear that I already do so." He released her arm. "I suggest that we keep apart for a while. In the circumstances, I think it the only sensible way to proceed—don't you?"
General Burgoyne read the second message from his commander in chief in private. It was unequivocal.
My intention is to Pennsylvania where I expect to meet Washington but if he goes to the northward contrary to my expectations and you can keep him at bay, be assured that I shall soon be after him to relieve you.
Burgoyne was so shaken that he poured himself a glass of brandy and downed it in one gulp before he read on. There was no comfort in the rest of General Howe's letter.
After you arrive at Albany, the movements of the enemy will guide yours; but my wishes are that the enemy be drove out of this province before any operations take place in Connecticut. Sir Henry Clinton remains in command here and will act as circumstances may direct. Putnam is in the Highlands with about 4,000 men. Success be ever with you.
All hope of assistance had gone. Howe had not simply taken his army to Philadelphia, he raised the specter of General Washington, the American commander in chief, turning his attention to events in the Northern Department. If that was the case, Burgoyne would be in even deeper trouble. Howe's promise to come to his aid in that event was worthless. By the time he reached Albany, there might be no British army left to help.
The letter had arrived in strips wound tightly around a quill pen. Thrusting the pieces of paper into his pocket, Burgoyne decided to keep the contents of the missive to himself. A sociable man who liked to confide in his senior officers, he felt that this was an occasion to protect them from bad news. He stepped out of his tent to find Captain Jamie Skoyles standing there.
"Colonel Baum is awaiting your orders, General," said Skoyles.
"He shall have them at once."
Mounting his horse, he rode to the spot where the German was ready to parade his men. Skoyles rode with him. What they saw was a mixed force that comprised 175 dismounted dragoons, 200 Brunswick grenadiers and light troops, a squad of Hesse-Hanau artillerymen with two three-pound cannon, 300 loyalists and Canadians, and a small number of Indians. A detachment of 50 British marksmen from the 34th Foot was due to join them from the vicinity of Stillwater. Including the musicians, there were, in all, some 800 men. A group of German women was also to accompany the expedition, as was the irrepressible Colonel Philip Skene.
Lieutenant Colonel Friedrich Baum was, in some ways, an unlikely choice as the leader of the disparate force, recommended though he might have been by General Riedesel. Now fifty, Baum was a capable, diligent soldier who had seen action in the Seven Years War. While he had been given command of a dragoon regiment in 1776, he had never led more than fifty men into battle. His most glaring defect was that he spoke no English. Putting him in charge of such an important undertaking was a risky exercise.
Skoyles owed his presence there to his knowledge of German, a language that he had mastered by dint of courting the young women of Prussia when he was posted there. He doubted very much if some of the honeyed phrases he had perfected in the bedchamber would be of any use in the forthcoming conversation. Burgoyne inspected the troops, then told Skoyles what Colonel Baum's orders were. They were duly translated. The German was astounded to hear them. Having been instructed to make a round trip across the Green Mountains to Rockingham and back to Albany—a daunting trek of two hundred miles—he was now being sent to Bennington, a mere thirty miles to the southeast.
Skoyles translated the colonel's baffled response for Burgoyne.
"He asks why you countermanded his earlier orders, General."
"Because I am led to believe that there are horses, supplies, and a large number of potential recruits near Bennington. Colonel Skene has urged me to send troops to the town because there is an enemy magazine there that is only lightly guarded. If we can seize those weapons and ammunition, it will be greatly to our advantage."
Through his interpreter, Baum accepted the explanation without complaint, but he was clearly disturbed by the last-minute change of plan. He said something in German to his companion, Major Maiborn. With his band playing, he then marched his men out of the camp in a southerly direction toward Fort Miller. Skoyles felt obliged to comment.
"I understood that this was to be a secret expedition, sir," he said. "The sound of those drums rule out any chance of secrecy."
"The colonel would not leave without his musicians."
"It's not my place to criticize, General, but the road to Bennington runs through dense forest. It's a haven for enemy sharpshooters. Don't you think that a much larger force should have been sent?"
"Not according to Philip Skene."
"With respect," said Skoyles, "the colonel's advice has not always been entirely sound. May I remind you what happened at Bitter Creek?"
"This is a different matter, Captain."
"More rain is likely, and that will slow them down badly. It will take them at least two days to march to Bennington."
"So?"
"Enemy scouts will be aware of their movements and report them to General Schuyler at Stillwater. Are you not afraid that he'll send speedy reinforcements to Bennington?"
"No, Captain," said Burgoyne with undue sharpness. "To begin with, I do not believe that General Schuyler is still in command. My guess is that he will have been replaced by Benedict Arnold."
"He is just as likely to dispatch men there."
"Stop speaking out of ignorance."
"I beg your pardon, sir."
"What you do not realize is that word has come from Brigadier St. Leger, who is besieging Fort Stanwix. The rebels will not wish that to fall. Arnold or Schuyler or whoever is in charge will want to send all available men there." His stare was challenging. "Do you have any more ill-informed observations to make?"
"Only this, General," said Skoyles doggedly. "When the colonel rode off just now, I overheard a remark he made to Major Maiborn. There was a note of alarm in it. The rough translation is this: How can they be expected to forage and mount an attack on Bennington?"
"Because I wish to kill two birds with one stone."
"Supposing that they meet heavy resistance?"
"The rebels have insufficient numbers."
"That situation could change."
"My intelligence indicates otherwise."
"How reliable is it?"
"Don't be so impertinent, man!"
"But if they were to encounter problems at Bennington—"
"Who is in command of this damned army, Captain Skoyles?" said Burgoyne, irritably, silencing him with a gesture of his hand. "When I require your counsel, I shall ask for it."
"Yes, General. My sincere apologies."
"In future, please refrain from making any comments that pertain to military decisions taken by your superiors."
"I will, sir."
"Good day to you, sir!"
Pulling his horse's head round with a tug of the reins, Burgoyne rode off at a brisk trot. Skoyles was smarting from the rebuff. A genial commander who had always solicited advice before was now haughty and irascible. Having taken the pains to work out a detailed pla
n for Colonel Baum and his men, Burgoyne had canceled it without warning and sent them off on a totally different expedition, one for which they were neither prepared nor equipped. As he nudged his own horse forward, Skoyles wondered what had happened to make the general behave in a way that was so untypical of him. It was troubling.
The unquestioning confidence that Skoyles had once had in his commander was eroded even more.
General Stark was not a man for delay. As soon as he caught wind of the approaching enemy force, he rushed his militia to Bennington in order to defend the magazine there, and sent out patrols to hinder Colonel Baum and his men. Reports came in every day. One of them made him burst out laughing. Ezekiel Proudfoot was curious.
"What's the joke, General?" he asked.
"It's one that was played on these flat-faced Germans who are bearing down on us. It seems that Philip Skene is with them."
"Yes, I heard a lot about Colonel Skene when I was held prisoner."
"Colonel Skene now, is it?" said Stark with amusement. "He was only a major in the militia when he lived at Skenesborough. Whatever his rank, he's no judge of character. When some of our men joined them, claiming to be loyalists, Skene urged that they be accepted and gave them slips of white paper to wear in their hat so that the Indians would know they were on the British side."
"Except that they weren't," Proudfoot conjectured.
"No, Ezekiel. When the Germans next came under attack, the so-called loyalists gathered at their rear so that they could shoot some of the officers in the back." Stark slapped his thigh. "They not only killed a number of men, they frightened off some of the Indians."
"That still leaves a sizable force, General."
"We have double their number."
"But they are practiced mercenaries," Proudfoot reminded him. "You've not had time to train your men, let alone supply them with proper weaponry and uniforms."
"Yes," Stark conceded, "that's true, but it will not stop me from giving battle. Look at the faces all around you, Ezekiel. These men came to fight, none more so than John Stark."
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