"And now?"
"Things have altered. I simply can't feel the same about you any more. That may sound cruel, but you deserve honesty." She straightened her back. "You brought it on yourself, Harry."
He glared at her. "It's him, isn't it?" he decided. "That's what really came between us—Captain Skoyles. Until he came on the scene, you were only interested in me. Then you met him."
"It's not as straightforward as that."
"Oh, I think it is, Elizabeth. If I'd engaged two men to assault any other officer, you'd not have turned a hair. Because the intended victim was Skoyles, you had a fit of righteous indignation."
"It was a dishonorable thing to do, Harry, and, whoever the victim was, I'd have protested strongly."
"I doubt that," he said. "Skoyles has been a thorn in my side from the start. After Hubbardton, he even dared to invite you into his tent."
"Only because I asked to thank him on your behalf."
"I owe the fellow no gratitude!"
"Well, I do. He rescued us both at Bitter Creek."
"Does that mean you have to throw me aside for him?"
"No, Harry."
"He was the reason you visited the hospital yesterday, wasn't he?" he accused. "You didn't go to see the wounded men at all. You went there to meet Captain Skoyles. Admit it—admit it, Elizabeth!"
He reinforced his demand by shaking her so vigorously that she let out an involuntary cry of pain. Nan Wyatt came into the tent immediately and stared in disbelief at what she saw. Featherstone released his hold and mouthed an apology before going swiftly out of the tent. Nan rushed to put a consoling arm around Elizabeth, who tried to stem her tears.
"He knows," she whispered. "The major knows."
"Why didn't you betray me, Ezekiel?" he asked. "You know why I'm here."
"Yes," said Proudfoot, "but I had a debt to repay. Thanks to you, I'm not languishing in Fort Ticonderoga with the other prisoners."
"There's a big difference. In helping you, I didn't put myself in any danger. You, on the other hand, could be charged with harboring an enemy soldier."
"I'll take that chance."
"Thank you."
"Besides, there's another reason why I didn't give you away."
"Is there?"
"I was pleased to see you."
They were seated together on a grassy knoll near the edge of the camp. Skoyles had signed the relevant papers, been given a regiment, and was now a putative member of the Continental Army. Across his knees was the corporal's blue uniform that he had been issued. Proudfoot glanced at it.
"You've been demoted, Jamie," he mocked. "You should have held out for a captaincy—not that you'd have enjoyed it for long."
"I was happy to be back in the ranks for a while."
"We've good soldiers, the equal of anything you can muster. And our militias are full of brave fighting men."
"I know," said Skoyles, feeling the side that had been grazed by a bullet. "One of those men wounded me slightly at Bennington."
"You were there?"
"Until we were chased from the field."
"I watched the whole battle, Jamie."
"That luxury was not afforded to me."
Skoyles had been stunned when he first encountered Proudfoot at the camp, and he was mightily relieved that his true identity had not been revealed. There were plenty of trees from which the rebels could hang him. Proudfoot had kept him alive.
"I was glad that you escaped, Ezekiel," he confessed.
"Why?"
"Because I hated to see you under armed guard, especially as you are no soldier. It was almost as if I wanted you to go free."
"Who's showing friendship toward the enemy now?"
"I led the search party for you. When we found that the redcoat in the woods, I realized that you'd got safely away and I was content."
"Even though you knew that I'd use all my skills against you?"
"Even then."
"We are two of a kind, Jamie," Proudfoot commented. "I wore a red uniform to escape from your army and you're putting on a blue one in order to join mine. Both of us are turncoats."
"Only by compulsion."
"Unless you could be persuaded to stay with us."
"On a corporal's pay?" said Skoyles with a grin. "It's not exactly an irresistible temptation. I know there's a bounty of twenty dollars and the promise of land, but the land is only in the gift of Congress if you happen to win this war."
"I believe that we will. Bennington was a turning point."
"Campaigns are full of turning points. I've fought in too many to be worried by a single reverse. You've gallant soldiers, I'm sure, but have you the commanders who can bring out the best in them?"
"Only time will tell." Proudfoot studied him quizzically. "What do you see yourself as, Jamie—British or American?"
"British."
"Yet you've always nurtured the idea of buying land and settling down here. What would that make you?"
"A British colonist."
"Only if this corner of the colonial empire survives. Supposing—for the sake of argument—that we break away from King George. Does that mean you'll accept defeat and go back to England?"
"No, Ezekiel," said Skoyles. "I've lived on my dream far too long to abandon it now. Win or lose, I'll be staying here."
"Then you'll become one of us."
"No, I'm British through and through."
"You will," Proudfoot argued. "So stop shilly-shallying. These men you see around you will be your fellow countrymen—and so will I. Why not become one of us sooner rather than later?"
"Stop trying to corrupt me."
"I'm simply appealing to your common sense."
Skoyles laughed. "If I had any of that, Ezekiel," he said, "I'd never have joined the army in the first place. It was an act of sheer madness that, somehow, I've never quite managed to regret."
"But you regret things you'd done in the name of that army."
"Very much so."
"Have you ever looked at it from the opposite angle?"
"In what way?"
"Well," said Proudfoot, "imagine, just for a moment, that England has been invaded and conquered by France. Instead of being at the head of a mighty empire, the country would be nothing more than a French colony, subject to the laws, dictates, and whims of a foreign power. Can you envisage that, Jamie?"
"Quite easily."
"In those circumstances, what would someone like you do?"
"Resist the enemy in every possible way."
"Just like us! Welcome to America!"
"That's false logic," said Skoyles earnestly. "In the sense that you mean, America does not exist. It comprises thirteen fractious colonies that squabble with each other all the time. They have to be reminded who founded and who funded them. You're merely one part of the biggest empire in the world, and I'm proud that I can help to maintain it."
"I don't see you as King George's lackey somehow."
"I'm a true subject, Ezekiel."
"Subject to all the dictates of that grotesque tyrant?"
"Stop trying to win me over to your side."
"I think that the tide of events will do that."
"Have you never heard of loyalty?"
"Loyalties can change. Look at our generals—many of them learned their trade in the service of the British army."
"Including your own General Gates."
"He marches to a different drum now, one that beats out the pure, clear sound of American republicanism."
"It has a discordant note to my ear," said the other skeptically. "Our commanders are kindred spirits. They're both crafty politicians with an eye on self-advancement. General Burgoyne got where he is by talking down Sir Guy Carleton in London. In exactly the same way, General Gates gained his command by undermining his predecessor. That's not American republicanism, Ezekiel—it's naked ambition."
"Ambition is only a means to an end."
"Then it can be used to justify any atrocit
y."
"I dispute that. However," he went on, "I can see that this is not the ideal moment for a philosophical discussion, or even for a conversation between friends. It's time to choose sides. You know the one that I'm on." He offered his hand. "Goodbye, Jamie."
Skoyles shook his hand. "Where are you going?"
"To take a long, slow walk around the perimeter of the camp. That should give you plenty of time to decide what to do. When I've had my stroll, you see," he warned, "I'll feel obliged to report to General Gates that I've just seen a British spy in the camp." He hauled himself up. "I wish that we didn't have to part this way."
"Blame it on American republicanism."
"I'd rather blame in on your pigheadedness, Jamie."
Skoyles rose to his feet. "I always looked upon my pigheadedness as a shining virtue," he said with a smile. "Perhaps the only one I've got." He slapped the other man's arm. "Goodbye, Ezekiel—and thank you."
"You'll be back one day."
"Oh, I will. But I'll have the British army with me next time."
On September 13, 1777, led by Brigadier General Simon Fraser and his advance guard, the British troops set off with colors flapping in the wind and bands playing to cross the Hudson River. On the following day, the Germans followed them. There was no turning back now. With an army of little more than five thousand men, General Burgoyne moved slowly south until they reached the village of Saratoga, where he took over General Schuyler's sumptuous mansion as his headquarters. He ordered his men to reap the harvest in the fields that Schuyler's wife had found too wet to burn when she fled from the house. Then he made arrangements for dinner.
The army was unsettled. Many of the officers were aggrieved that their commander had not consulted them about the move from Fort Edward, and there was perturbation among the rank and file as well. News of St. Leger's defeat had reached everyone by now, and it caused general anxiety. They felt isolated. Elizabeth Rainham was more concerned about the absence of Jamie Skoyles. Since the only way that she could find out about him was to speak to Burgoyne, she accepted his invitation to dinner, even though she knew that Lucinda Mallard would be present.
There was another advantage to her appearance as one of the guests. Harry Featherstone would view it as a gesture of kindness to him, and he would be appeased. It might even still his suspicions about her. In order to learn the whereabouts of Skoyles, she was prepared to endure the major's company beside her, and the inevitable comments that would be made about their forthcoming marriage. Elizabeth arrived early at the house, hoping to catch the general on his own. Burgoyne was giving instructions to the musicians whom he wanted to play during the meal.
"Ah!" he said, breaking off when he saw Elizabeth. "Someone is hungry, I see."
"It's always a delight to come to your table, General."
"Then why have you spurned us so many times?"
"I've not been at my best recently," said Elizabeth, inventing an excuse. "I felt tired and slightly feverish."
"Oh dear! Nothing serious, I hope."
"No, General. It seems to have gone away now." Other guests could be heard arriving at the front door, so she blurted out her question. "I've not seen Captain Skoyles in camp for a day or two. Where is he?"
"I sent him on an assignment, Elizabeth."
"May I know what it is?"
"It's highly secret, I fear. I can't discuss it."
"How long do you expect him to be away?"
"I'm not sure," he confessed. "Why do you ask?"
"No reason. Idle curiosity, that's all."
"There's nothing idle about you, Elizabeth," he said shrewdly. "Curious, maybe—and an inquisitive nature is a good thing—but never idle. As for Skoyles, he's acting on my orders."
"Where?"
"That's privileged information," he said. Six other guests came into the room, Simon Fraser and William Phillips among them. The general beamed. "Well, now," he declared, "everyone is remarkably punctual today—except Major Featherstone, that is. Where have you hidden him, Elizabeth?"
"Harry will be here soon."
"Then why don't we all have a glass of punch while we await him?"
He signaled to the man beside the punch bowl, and the waiter began to fill the glasses and hand them to the guests. Elizabeth was the first to receive hers. When she saw Mrs. Mallard enter, she took a long sip of the liquid to brace herself against what lay ahead. Featherstone was the last to appear, and he had clearly been drinking beforehand. Though his gait was steady, his cheeks were reddened and his eyes faintly glassy. He went into an elaborate pantomime, kissing the hand of every woman there with excessive courtesy and making a flattering remark to each one. Featherstone even treated Lucinda Mallard as if she were the social equal of everyone else in the dining room. The last person he approached was Elizabeth, and he kissed each of her hands in turn.
General Burgoyne raised his glass of punch in a toast.
"To King and Country!" he declared.
Everyone took up the toast and sipped their drink.
"We move on to certain victory, ladies and gentlemen. I have followed my instincts and opted for boldness," he told them with a merry chuckle. "I have crossed the Rubicon."
"Hail, Caesar!" cried Featherstone, lifting his glass to Burgoyne.
"Hail, Caesar," echoed the others.
They took their seats at the table and the first course was served. Food was strictly rationed for the common soldiers, but Burgoyne saw no reason to stint himself or his guests. His cooks had prepared a delicious meal, and there was claret to accompany it. The quartet played music by Haydn. The atmosphere was relaxed. It was a most civilized way to pass the early afternoon.
Elizabeth joined in the general chatter as a way of escaping a more private conversation with Featherstone beside her. His air of elation worried her, and it could not be put down solely to drink. She feared that he had misinterpreted her decision to be there as a sign that all was now well between them. It was not until the main course was served that she understood why he was in such a mood of celebration. Featherstone leaned across to her and whispered in her ear.
"Have you heard the rumor about your friend?" he taunted her.
"What friend?"
"Captain Skoyles."
"No, I haven't," she said, trying to keep the concern out of her voice. "Why—what's happened to him?"
"Nobody knows," he said with an obvious satisfaction. "He was sent on a mission by General Burgoyne with orders to return as soon as possible. He was expected back today, but we've seen neither hide nor hair of him. If he doesn't show up tomorrow, only one conclusion can be reached, Elizabeth."
"What's that?" she asked, cheeks burning.
"Skoyles must be presumed dead—and good riddance to him!"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jamie Skoyles had been given a chance to escape from the rebel camp. The pull of an old friendship had saved him from immediate exposure as a spy, but Ezekiel Proudfoot could help him no further. It was only a matter of time before the alarm was raised and a search instituted. Skoyles knew that he must not get caught. Having deceived General Gates himself, he could expect no mercy. The rebel commander would take a particular relish in having him strung from a tree. Skoyles intended to disappoint him and put one of the sturdy oaks to better use.
When his presence in the camp was reported to Gates, it would be assumed that he had fled after being identified by Ezekiel Proudfoot. Patrols would be sent out to apprehend him. Skoyles reasoned that the safest place to be was where he already was. Stuffing his new uniform into the knapsack that had been provided for him, he had therefore sidled off toward a cluster of maples, oak, and white pine. The moment he was out of sight, he chose the largest of the trees and, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, shinnied up it as quickly as he could. He selected a bough near the top that was strong enough to bear his weight and completely sheltered by leaves. Skoyles settled down to wait in his temporary refuge.
Twenty minutes later, he hea
rd the commotion. Orders were barked, patrols were formed, and horses cantered out of camp. The irate General Gates was taking no chances. In the unlikely event that the spy was still in the camp, he had ordered a systematic search. A detachment of men combed the whole area, starting at the frontal defenses and working their way slowly back in a long line. When they had reached the tree where Skoyles was hiding, he could hear them far below, discussing the gruesome punishments they would like to inflict on a British spy. Skoyles was grateful that he had evaded them for the time being.
He made his move in the dead of night. Climbing down from the tree, he stretched his aching limbs, then stripped off his clothes and changed into the uniform that he had been given. The other garments were put into his knapsack. To the naked eye, he now looked like any other soldier in the Continental Army and felt confident enough to stroll among the tents without fear of being challenged. His nocturnal walk was more than exercise. Skoyles had been taking a closer look at the camp so that he could estimate its strength and later describe its layout and fortifications.
When he had committed all the details to memory, he made his way to the edge of the camp. Since the search for him would be concentrated to the north, to prevent him from rejoining his army, he had chosen to strike due south, in the direction of Albany. First, he had to get past the pickets. Skoyles fell back on the device he had used at Bitter Creek and created a diversion. Having borrowed a kettle from beside one of the campfires, he filled it with a handful of stones. When he crept up behind the pickets, he chose his moment, then flung it hard in the direction of some bushes. It rattled noisily on impact and drew three sentries out of position. By the time they discovered that they had been fooled, Skoyles was clear of the camp and running at full speed.
When dawn came, he was once more up a tree, sleeping in a maple to avoid capture and to escape the attention of any hungry animals that sniffed their way through the virgin forest. There had been no pursuit. Skoyles decided that the pickets would report the incident during the night as a case of desertion, and that, unbeknown to them, had the ring of truth. Corporal Daniel Lukins had indeed deserted from the Continental Army. After drinking water from a creek, he washed himself, then explored the main road that led to Albany. Rain had softened the mud and the imprint of many horses could be seen. Heavy reinforcements had obviously gone to the camp from the rebel stronghold.
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