Saratoga

by David Garland

  "No, Tom. That would require a brand of honesty that he simply doesn't possess. When he's not hosting dinners or sharing a bed with Mrs. Mallard," said Skoyles, grimly, "he'll be rehearsing his excuses for losing a battle against an army of untrained amateurs."

  Over a week after the battle, General Gates finally received the document for which he had been waiting. It was delivered to the rebel commander by Colonel James Wilkinson, who had acted as his intermediary during the armistice that had been declared. Gates was thrilled. He showed the document to Ezekiel Proudfoot with glee.

  "We have him!" he said.

  "By the scruff of his well-bred neck."

  "Gentleman Johnny has signed at last."

  "Only because you gave him an ultimatum, General."

  "It was the one way to coerce him, Ezekiel. He's been wriggling for days, refusing one set of terms, criticizing another, and doing all he could to delay us. I put a gun to his head. My only concession was to call his submission a Convention."

  "You could have enforced complete surrender, sir," said Wilkinson, who was not entirely happy with the terms of the Convention that had brought hostilities to an end. "When someone is surrounded by an army four times the size of his own, he has no right to barter."

  "We have an agreement," said Gates, "and that's all that matters."

  "Congress may choose to think otherwise."

  "That's its prerogative, James."

  "No defeated army has ever been offered such advantageous terms," Wilkinson observed. "Instead of offering to surrender, General Burgoyne has only signed a Convention."

  "A surrender by another name," Proudfoot commented.

  "He'll not see it that way. Nor will Congress. Gentleman Johnny will boast that it's a concession he wrung from us—along with a number of others, I may say."

  "We are civilized men," Gates told him, sharply, "and we should behave with generosity. That's why I'm allowing the British army to march from their camp with full honors of war, and to ground their arms by the river."

  "I know, sir, but you're also granting them free passage to England, on condition that they do not serve in America again."

  "Exactly, James. It takes a sizable British force out of the war."

  "They'll soon be replaced," said Proudfoot. "Would it not be more sensible to keep them here as prisoners of war, useful hostages in case they are needed?"

  "That's my opinion as well," said Wilkinson.

  "You've read the Convention," said Gates. "I'll abide by it."

  "General Washington will complain."

  "Washington always complains, and I don't see it as my function in life to appease him by unnecessarily harsh treatment of an enemy that has agreed to lay down its arms." He waved the document in the air. "It's immaterial whether this is headed Convention or Articles of Surrender. Even our commander in chief should be able to weigh its significance."

  "Yes," said Proudfoot happily, "we beat the pants off the British."

  "We did more than that, Ezekiel. We forced a redcoat general to recognize us for what we are—not rebels or riffraff or seditious colonials. We've earned respect at last," Gates insisted. "We've finally gained our true identity. Gentleman Johnny has signed a document that calls us what we are—Americans."

  When Jamie Skoyles caught sight of him, he could not at first believe that it was his old friend. Ezekiel Proudfoot was strolling through the British camp as if searching for someone. Seeing Skoyles, he trotted across to him and shook him warmly by the hand.

  "What the devil are you doing here, Ezekiel?" asked Skoyles.

  "Trading on a friendship," said Proudfoot. "When I was staying at Fort Ticonderoga, I got to know Colonel Wilkinson very well. He had business with General Burgoyne today, so I prevailed upon him to bring me along in the hope that I might see you."

  "I couldn't be more pleased."

  "Unless the circumstances were reversed, of course."

  "That would be preferable," said Skoyles with a grin, "but, alas, we never stood a chance of winning that battle. The Americans are worthy victors. They beat us soundly."

  "I revel in that, Jamie, though my joy is tinged with sadness."

  "I can understand why. Your brother, Reuben, was killed."

  Proudfoot was surprised. "How do you know that?"

  "I was there at the time," said Skoyles. "We were trying to hold the Breymann redoubt from one of the Massachussets regiments that was being urged on by General Arnold."

  "So I believe."

  "When they stormed us, I saw your brother climbing over the fence. He was as close to me as you are, Ezekiel. In fact, for a moment, I thought that it was you."

  "And did Reuben recognize you?"

  "Yes," Skoyles replied, "he even said my name. Then he raised his rifle to kill me. I admired him for that. He didn't let friendship stand in the way of duty—but, then, neither could I. It was him or me, Ezekiel. Luckily, my sword was quicker than his trigger finger."

  "It was you, then?" said Proudfoot. "You killed my brother?"

  "I fear so."

  "Dear God! I'd hoped that it hadn't been a redcoat—least of all you, Jamie." Tears came as he grappled with the news. "What a cruel thing war can be! It set a brother I love against a friend I revere." He stared at Skoyles. "It pains me to say this, but you deserve the truth. If I'd been able to choose which of you should die, it would have been you, Jamie. My brother was fighting for a superior cause. I'd sooner have one less redcoat than lose a patriot like Reuben."

  "Your brother did say that he was sorry," Skoyles recalled, "but that didn't stop him from trying to put a musket ball between my eyes. I just wish that it hadn't been him, Ezekiel."

  "At least I know what happened now," said Proudfoot soulfully, "That helps. And if I'm honest, Reuben was not long for this life. As soon as they put a rifle in his hands and gave him a license to shoot at redcoats, it was only a matter of time before he died. He was always too impulsive."

  "So was Benedict Arnold."

  "He was impulsive but magnificent. I'll show you."

  Proudfoot opened the flap of the satchel that hung from his shoulder and took out a sheaf of drawings. He found a sketch of Arnold that he had drawn during the battle of Freeman's Farm. It showed the general in distinctive pose, riding in front of a brigade of rebels, sword held high and face suffused with passion. Skoyles was complimentary.

  "That's exactly how he looked at the redoubt as well."

  "He was carried from the field with a broken leg."

  "Yes," said Skoyles. "I shot his horse from under him. I could have aimed at General Arnold, but I had too much respect to kill him. I don't think he holds it against me."

  "And neither do I, Jamie. I don't blame you for Reuben's death or for General Arnold's injuries, though I regret both bitterly." Proudfoot put his sketches away again. "I've been given permission to be there when General Burgoyne goes through the formal surrender. General Gates wants a sketch of the ceremony that can be turned into an engraving."

  "It will be a historic moment."

  "I hope that I do it justice." His eyes filled with sadness. "Well, I suppose that I must accept we'll never see each other again, Jamie. You'll sail back to England with the others."

  "No," said Skoyles. "I'm staying in America. This is my home now."

  "But how can you stay?"

  "I'll find a way somehow. There are years of fighting ahead yet, and I don't want to miss out on them. I intend to be on the winning side next time—and that means killing some more American brothers of yours." He took his friend by the shoulders. "Can I ask you a favor, Ezekiel?"

  "Of course."

  "I'd like you to draw a portrait for me."

  Proudfoot grinned. "Captain Jamie Skoyles in dress uniform?"

  "Oh, no," said Skoyles with a fond smile. "I'm not that vain. What I want is a portrait of a very special lady."

  At ten o'clock on the morning of October 17, 1777, the British and German troops paraded. They marched out with
their drums beating and their colors held high, enjoying the full honors of war. Though they tried to beat the "Grenadiers' March," the drummers could put no enthusiasm into their work, and the tune sounded flat. When the defeated army passed the American ranks, there was no jeering, no laughter, and no derisive comments. The victorious rebels simply stood and watched. Farmboys as young as fourteen and old men in unsightly wigs stared at the redcoats and their allies in wonder. The one discordant note came when an American band struck up the music of "Yankee Doodle" in mockery, but it soon faded away. A dignified silence returned.

  The British soldiers led the way. They were followed by the Germans, many of whom had acquired pets they wished to keep—a bear, a deer, foxes, raccoons, rabbits. Human pets had also been added to the cavalcade in the course of its travels. Among the camp followers that straggled behind the soldiers were dozens of slatternly women who had been gathered up along the way to provide comfort and entertainment. In view of both armies, General Burgoyne drew his ivory-handled sword, bowed, and offered it to General Gates in a token of surrender. With equal courtesy, Gates bowed to the other man, then returned the sword. It was a gesture that brought tears to the eyes of Gentleman Johnny.

  Jamie Skoyles was part of the Convention Army that set off on a two-hundred-mile march that would take them over the Green Mountains and through the Connecticut Valley until they could strike off toward Cambridge, Massachussetts. Ahead of him, Skoyles could see Major Harry Featherstone, who had had the sense to keep well clear of him, and who still bore the facial wounds from their last encounter. Behind him, Skoyles left Elizabeth Rainham, who was to be escorted to Albany in due course with General Burgoyne and others. There was no danger that Skoyles would ever forget what Elizabeth looked like. In his pocket, drawn with admiration and skill by Ezekiel Proudfoot, was a vivid portrait of her.

  The road to Saratoga had been long, hard, and increasingly bitter. It had been a personal Damascus for Skoyles. Having set out from Canada as a British officer, he no longer felt as dedicated to his calling as he had been. It was not merely a case of disenchantment with General Burgoyne. It was the fact that Skoyles had been fighting against men whose ambitions he was coming to share. American rebels simply wanted to live in a free country where they could bring up their families in peace. They did not want to be ruled by a distant monarch who had never even set foot in the colonies. In Skoyles's opinion, their cause was just and, after the two battles at Saratoga, it had taken on a whole new resonance.

  As the prisoners of war marched away, autumn sunshine broke through the lingering mist, giving the trees a stark brilliance and turning the Hudson River into a fast-flowing mirror that threw up shimmering images. Birds were singing. It was going to be a pleasant day.

  Under his red coat, Captain Jamie Skoyles felt a persistent itch.