Sound carried a long way through the forest, so he did not use his rifle in case the noise attracted attention. To get food, he resorted to a trick he had learned as a boy in Cumberland, sitting patiently beside a rabbit hole until—after an hour or so—a pair of ears emerged from it. They were instantly seized and the animal killed outright. When skinned and gutted, the rabbit was soon being roasted over a fire. While he waited for his meal, Skoyles was able to reflect on the meeting with Ezekiel Proudfoot, pleased that the bond between them had somehow been strengthened even though they were nominally in opposition. Their friendship, it seemed, went beyond narrow political allegiances.
Proudfoot had been right about one thing. Skoyles was fighting an enemy who would one day be his neighbor. Win or lose, when the war was over, he planned to buy land and remain in America. Would he prefer to do that as a member of a Republic of the United States or as a colonial whose fate was in the hands of a distant monarch? When he tried to answer the question, Skoyles found that his sympathies were divided. After twenty years in a red coat, he felt strangely comfortable in the uniform of the Continental Army.
Restored by the meal, he lingered close to the road in hopes of seeing a lone horseman whom he could waylay and deprive of his mount. To that end, he kept his blue uniform on as a convenient disguise. When horses had finally appeared that afternoon, however, they came in a sizable number and Skoyles had to hide in the trees as they trotted past. He could see at a glance that it was a rifle corps made up of wiry men in fringed hunting shirts and round hats. Skoyles counted upward of four hundred of them. What disturbed him was the sight of the tall, weather-beaten man who rode at their head. Though he had never seen him before, Skoyles knew that it could only be the legendary Daniel Morgan.
It was news that had to be conveyed urgently to General Burgoyne along with details of the enemy camp. By now, Skoyles realized, the British army must have crossed the Hudson to the western bank and pushed as far south as it dared without provoking a major engagement. To reach them, Skoyles elected to make a wide detour to the west. After changing back into his hunting shirt and breeches, he carried the uniform in his knapsack, traveling on foot after dark and hoping that his sense of direction would guide him. Skoyles was out of luck. Losing his way, he had stumbled on a rebel patrol and was pursued through the woods for most of the night. He had to climb another tree to escape.
Daylight taught him that he was only half a mile from the Hudson River and still south of the rebel camp. A more troubling discovery was that batches of militia seemed to be heading for the camp at regular intervals. Enemy numbers were growing. More to the point, scouting patrols were getting larger and more frequent. Skoyles had decided to take a more direct route back to his camp, even though it meant waiting for dark once more. He spent the intervening period searching for the means that would carry him past the pickets at Bemis Heights. A stone-filled kettle would not suffice a second time.
The log he chose was over five feet in length, stout enough to support him, yet light enough for him to drag to the river. He had fashioned a paddle out of a branch he had cut from a tree and shaped with his knife. As night started to wrap him in a blanket of darkness, he launched his craft with his rifle strapped to the log by a series of fronds. Skoyles sat astride it and paddled. The Hudson River was cold but strangely comforting. He felt safe.
That feeling disappeared when he got close to the camp. Eyes would be trained on the river and on the road. Skoyles tried to offset danger by keeping to the middle of the water and lying full length on the log. In the gloom, he merged with his crude boat and looked like another piece of driftwood in the river. Once clear of Bemis Heights, Skoyles sat up and brought the paddle back into action again. After a couple of miles, he steered himself across to the bank and disembarked. His legs were soaked and his arms aching, but he had escaped detection.
Reclaiming his rifle, he headed northward in the direction he believed would lead to the British camp. An hour later, he was picking his way through a wood when he sensed peril ahead. Before he could react to it, bodies suddenly emerged from the undergrowth and he was confronted by a group of armed men, who poked their bayonets threateningly at him.
"Drop that gun!" a voice demanded. "You're our prisoner now."
Skoyles laughed. "The devil I am, Private Wolverton!" he said as he recognized the actor's distinctive tones. "I'm a captain in your regiment so you can stop prodding me with that bayonet of yours, or I'll shove it so far up your backside that your eyes will pop out."
The council of war was held at midnight in the dining room of the house. Generals Burgoyne, Phillips, Fraser, and Riedesel stood around the table in the quivering light of a dozen candles and studied the sketch that Jamie Skoyles was drawing. He had given them a highly attenuated version of his stay in the rebel camp and said nothing at all about his encounter with Ezekiel Proudfoot. Skoyles regarded that as private information that would, in any event, only cloud the issue. What the commanders sought was knowledge of the camp and the likely deployment of its soldiers.
William Phillips took special note of all the fortifications.
"That confounded Pole is a brilliant engineer," he conceded. "Even with our heaviest cannon, it will be difficult to batter down some of those breastworks. They're positioned in the ideal places."
"We'll find a way to circumvent them," said Burgoyne, then he translated his comment into French for the benefit of Riedesel. "How many men do they have, Skoyles?"
"I can't give you an accurate figure, sir," replied Skoyles, "because reinforcements were coming in all the time. Among them was a rifle corps led by Daniel Morgan."
"Morgan!"
They were all startled by the news. Even Riedesel was acquainted with the reputation of Daniel Morgan and his riflemen, who, though listed as belonging to a Virginia regiment, were drawn from several states. From the expressions on their faces, Skoyles could see that the rebel army was suddenly treated with slightly more respect.
"They have a minimum of seven thousand men," he explained, "made up of Continentals and militia. Before we discount the latter as rank amateurs, I'd advise you to recall what happened at Bennington."
"Tell us about General Gates," Fraser suggested.
"He looked every inch a soldier, sir," said Skoyles, "and he's working hard to improve his army. The militia still lacks proper uniforms and equipment, and the Continentals are little better off. They have uniforms, but several have worn out their shoes by marching, and I saw a few with bare feet. Notwithstanding that, there was a sense of discipline about the Continental Army."
"Imposing discipline was the one thing that Horatio Gates could do," Burgoyne conceded. "But he's only been in charge for a few weeks, so he'll not have had time to lick his army into shape. That's in our favor."
"So is our superior artillery," Phillips remarked.
"And the fact that we are British." Burgoyne remembered that Riedesel was at his elbow. He forced a smile. "And German, of course."
"The days ahead are critical," said Fraser. "We have to keep our men under a tight rein, General."
"We will, have no worries on that score." He looked at Skoyles. "There was a most regrettable incident earlier today, Captain. The enemy has not exactly been strewing rose petals in our path. They prefer to destroy bridges ahead of us to cause further delay. A party of them got within a mile of us this morning."
"That wouldn't have happened when we had all the Indians with us," said Skoyles. "They frightened scouting parties away."
"I still view their disappearance as a boon. Anyway," Burgoyne continued, "some of our men so far forget their orders that they went ahead and foraged in a potato field. They were caught by the enemy."
"Instead of simply capturing them," said Fraser, taking up the story, "they shot or wounded nearly all of them. No quarter was given."
"Disgraceful!" Burgoyne exclaimed. "Fourteen men, whom we can ill afford to lose, were killed. And all because they disobeyed. Well, it won't o
ccur again," he resolved. "I've issued a general order to remind the rank and file that the life of a soldier is the property of the king. From now on, anyone caught advancing beyond our sentinels will be hanged. I'll not have scavengers in my army."
"If it were left to me," said Phillips, "I'd tie the buggers to the end of a cannon and fire the bloody thing myself! They deserve to have their balls cut off and strung out on a washing line."
It was Skoyles who translated for Riedesel this time, softening the artilleryman's outburst into polite German. Burgoyne unrolled a rough map of the area and marked their present position with a cross.
"We must move forward tomorrow," he announced. "Skoyles?"
"I think that we might camp near this spot, General," said the other, indicating a point on the map. "I noticed it when I made for the rebel camp. It's called Sword's Farm. We'd have the river at our back."
"So be it," Burgoyne decided. "What better place to unsheathe the sword of justice than at Sword's Farm? Thank you, Captain. Your advice has been invaluable." He jabbed a finger at the map. "The decision is made—Sword's Farm it is."
Elizabeth Rainham was fretful. Unable to stay in her tent, she wandered restlessly among the camp followers early that morning with Nan Wyatt at her elbow. Elizabeth seemed impervious to the mist and deaf to the sounds of hectic activity from the main camp. The thought that Jamie Skoyles might have been killed had lit a fire of anxiety inside her head, and she could not douse the flames. What intensified her apprehension was the fact that she still had no idea where Skoyles had gone or what his orders had been. Adding to her pain was the memory of the look on Harry Featherstone's face when he told her that Skoyles must be presumed dead. The major had been almost triumphant. Any affection that Elizabeth still felt for him had been removed forever.
"Try to put it out of your mind, ma'am," Nan advised her softly.
"I wish that I could."
"Worrying about the captain will not bring him back. We should return to our tent. It sounds to me as if we'll soon be on the move."
"On the move?" Elizabeth was confused. "Where are we going?
"I daresay that we'll soon be told."
"Perhaps I should try to speak to General Burgoyne again."
"No, ma'am," said Nan. "If the troops are pushing forward, he'll be far too busy to speak to you."
"But I must know what happened to Captain Skoyles."
"It will become clear in time."
"You think he's dead, don't you?" said Elizabeth, rounding on her. "You agree with Major Featherstone. He won't be coming back."
"All I know is that Captain Skoyles is missing," the other said soothingly, taking her arm. "He's been into enemy territory on his own before now and he's always survived. Have more faith in him, ma'am. He'd hate you to suffer in this way on his behalf. Be hopeful."
"How, Nan? I've given up all hope."
"Well, I haven't—and I have enough for both of us."
"If I lose Captain Skoyles," Elizabeth murmured to herself as she confronted the prospect, "then I lose everything."
Confirmation soon reached them that the army was pulling out. There was a flurry of activity all around them and a heady buzz of speculation about where they were going. Drums could be heard beating in the main camp. Elizabeth agreed reluctantly to go back to her tent, resigned to the fact that some terrible fate had befallen Skoyles. At the very moment when they had been drawn closely together, he had been snatched away. She was so convinced he had been taken from her that she did not at first believe Polly Bragg when the woman came rushing up to them through the crowd.
"Captain Skoyles is back, ma'am," said Polly breathlessly.
"Back?" asked Elizabeth. "Are you sure?"
"Quite sure."
"Is he alive?"
"Very much alive, according to Tom."
"There!" said Nan. "I told you that he'd not let you down, ma'am."
"Captain Skoyles is here?" said Elizabeth, slowly taking it in.
"Yes, ma'am," said Polly. "He wanted you to know that he's safe."
"Thank you, Mrs. Bragg. That's wonderful news."
Elizabeth let out a cry of joy, then collapsed into Nan's arms.
It was a bad day for a battle. After camping near Sword's Farm, the British army awoke on Friday, September 19, to be greeted by cold, rain, and low-lying fog so dense that it made any kind of reconnaissance quite impossible. General Burgoyne had to wait for hours until the sun began to disperse the fog. He was then able to dispatch his forces. The order of march consisted of three divisions. Captain Jamie Skoyles was part of the elite right wing that set off under the command of Brigadier Fraser. General Riedesel led the left wing along the river road, accompanied by Major General Philips. Burgoyne remained with the column that moved forward in the center.
Most of the field in front of them was heavily wooded but, on the right, there was an open area around a clutch of cabins known as Freeman's Farm. This was the target for Fraser and the right wing, a force that comprised grenadier and light infantry battalions, and the 24th Foot, with two German regiments under Colonel Breymann in support. The remaining Indians, Canadians, and loyalists were in front or on the flanks. The mood was positive. In spite of all their setbacks, the troops were inspired by the leadership of Burgoyne, whose popularity was as high as ever. There was no fear of a repetition of Bennington. A famous British commander was now in charge.
The terrain slowed them down and soon split up the columns in a way that made communication between them well nigh impossible. First to reach the Great Ravine, the right wing was forced to travel farther west to find a place where it could cross the stream. Skoyles estimated that they were now almost two miles from the center column. They followed a circuitous route along high ground so that they could cover the march of the main army, and drive in any enemy troops they encountered.
In a battle that began almost by accident, it was the main army that met the first resistance. Unknown to them, Daniel Morgan's riflemen had taken up their positions behind a rail fence, in a log cabin, and behind trees or high in their branches. When the skirmish line appeared, the backcountry marksmen fired with such devastating effect that the redcoats fell in droves. Roused by this initial success, Morgan's men pursued the fleeing soldiers hard without realizing that they were actually heading toward the main British force. When they came under concerted attack themselves, the riflemen scattered at once. Fearing that his beloved corps would be destroyed, Daniel Morgan ordered them to withdraw to the woods by using his high-pitched turkey call.
Burgoyne, meanwhile, moved his men on to Freeman's Farm, and battle really commenced. Fresh American units came up in support of the riflemen, pinning the British down. The contrast between the two armies was stark. While the redcoats stayed in traditional shoulder to shoulder formation and fired ear-splitting volleys time and again, the rebels preferred to fight from cover, retreating when charged, then pushing forward once again when they regained the initiative. Burgoyne was outraged that they aimed specifically at his officers, sending man after man with braid epaulets crashing to the ground. To a commander who had been reared on European rules of engagement, it was an abomination.
Burgoyne himself was everywhere, scorning danger as he rode up and down the lines of his infantry to exhort his men to greater efforts. Wherever the fighting was fiercest, he charged off to rally his troops, brandishing his sword. His voice was lost in the cacophony of musket fire, cannon fire, and the agonized cries of dying men. Wounded horses added to the uproar and confusion, threshing about on the ground or staggering a few paces before collapsing once again. So furious and unrelenting was the battle that it was difficult to determine with whom the advantage lay. Freeman's Farm was a scene of utter chaos.
General Gates took no direct part in it all, preferring to direct operations from his tent at Bemis Heights and keep the bulk of his men in reserve behind the fortifications. It was General Benedict Arnold who led the army on the battlefield and who acted as their ta
lisman. Now in his midthirties, Arnold was a dark-haired, dark-skinned man of medium height with a restless energy and an iron determination. He looked upon Horatio Gates as an untried commander, a military theorist who had never smelled gunpowder before, and whose decisions were therefore questionable. When Gates heard of the enemy's approach, and refused to sanction an attack, it was Arnold who dispatched Daniel Morgan and his rifle corps with Brigadier Enoch Poor's men in support.
Ezekiel Proudfoot went with them, carrying his satchel but having no weapon apart from a walking stick he had cut himself. When the fighting started, he broke away from the rebel soldiers to climb a tree that would give him at least a partial view of the engagement. As at the battle of Bennington, so much was happening simultaneously that he did not know where to look or what to sketch first. The first soldier who was portrayed on his paper, however, was Benedict Arnold, leading his men from the front and showing a fearlessness that verged on lunacy. A veteran of many battles, Arnold was as ubiquitous as Burgoyne, spurring his horse to places where the battle was at its most ferocious and using his sword to slash at any of the enemy within reach.
Thousands of men were embroiled in a death grapple across a wide panorama. From high in the tree, Proudfoot could only pick out a very few individuals, but he was bound to wonder whether Jamie Skoyles was somewhere near Freeman's Farm. He was certain that his friend had escaped the rebel camp and had no feelings of guilt about helping him. Now, however, they were on opposite sides again. Proudfoot hoped that, when he came to sketch the carnage in the aftermath of battle, he would not find Skoyles among the countless dead who would litter the field. A cannon boomed in the distance, and the whole tree shook violently as it was hit. Proudfoot clung on tight. He was not going to be robbed of his privileged view of history.
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