Valley Forge

by David Garland

  "That's not for me to say, sir."

  "And where are they all billeted?"

  "You'll have to ask them yourself, Mr. Allen," said the landlord tactfully. "My job is to serve anyone who comes in through the door and who can afford our tariff. Damaris and I make no distinctions."

  "Damaris?"

  "My wife, sir. I think you'll find her cooking to your taste."

  "I'm sure I shall."

  "We'll look after you while you're here." Gilby lifted an eyebrow. "Do you have any idea how long that may be?"

  "Not at this moment."

  "This room is at your disposal for as long as you need it."

  "I'm glad to hear it, Mr. Gilby. It's more than satisfactory."

  "Then I'll let you settle in, sir." About to leave, the landlord paused at the door. "Do you have business in the city, Mr. Allen?"

  "Yes," replied Proudfoot, careful not to disclose what that business might be. "But I also came to visit old friends nearby. In fact, it was they who suggested I might stay at the King George."

  "Then I owe them my thanks. May I know their name?"

  "Hughes—Mr. and Mrs. Hughes."

  "Would that, by any chance, be Pearsall Hughes, the bookseller?"

  "The very same."

  "Then you are doubly welcome," said Gilby, face lighting up at once. He pulled the door shut. "Mr. Hughes has been kind enough to point a few people in our direction and we have always found them most serious gentlemen."

  The phrase was carefully chosen. What the landlord meant was that the guests had all shared his belief in the cause of American independence, a view that he could never declare openly in a city overrun by British troops. The name of Pearsall Hughes had opened a door for Proudfoot. He was now trusted.

  "Will you be visiting the bookshop soon?" asked Gilby.

  "Very soon."

  "Then you might care to pass on an interesting piece of information to our mutual friend. Until now, it has only been a rumor but I'm given to understand that it's become an established fact."

  "And what is this established fact, Mr. Gilby?"

  "General Howe has resigned."

  Proudfoot was startled. "He intends to leave America altogether?"

  "Apparently," said the other. "I heard two officers discussing the subject earlier. General Howe feels the task of subduing the colonies is beyond him, and he's aware that he does not enjoy the wholehearted support of his political masters back in England. In other words," he pointed out, "he's grown tired of the whole campaign."

  "This is cheering news."

  "Of course, there are some who will say that it was Mrs. Loring who tired the general out—his mistress is much younger and far more robust than he."

  Proudfoot grinned. "I've heard the ribald stories about Mrs. Loring."

  "They are about to come to an end."

  "General Howe to go, eh?" said Proudfoot, savoring the intelligence. "That's tantamount to a confession of defeat. He knows that he will never bring us all to heel. When does he leave?"

  "He'll first sit out the winter here."

  "Ah. That news is not so welcome."

  "The Continental Army is unable to displace them as yet."

  "Yes, I know. Meanwhile, the city is occupied. Mr. Hughes tells me that the British soldiers are making the most of the situation. There are plays and dances, I hear."

  "Plays, dances, dinners, and celebrations of all kinds. They are living off the fat of the land here, Mr. Allen. A Quaker city?" He gave a hollow laugh. "There's not much plain dress and self-denial here anymore. Taverns do a brisk trade and, in my position, I can hardly condemn that. But the streets are full of brawling drunkards at night, and the brothels are busier than ever. There is also a gambling fever. We wallow in corruption, sir. The British have dragged us down to their own level."

  "For the time being."

  "Quite so, Mr. Allen," said the other, a knowing glint in his eye. "For the time being." He washed his hands with invisible soap. "Enjoy your stay at the King George, sir. I'll see that your horse is fed and watered."

  "Thank you, Mr. Gilby."

  "And I'll make sure that nobody bothers you up here."

  Proudfoot looked around once more. "Something tells me that I have chosen the right place," he said contentedly. "I think it will be ideal for my purposes."

  They had no idea where they were. Blown miles off course and battered unmercifully by the elements, the sloop sailed on into the unknown. Failing light combined with the driving rain to leave them, literally, in the dark. All that Cabal Mears could rely on was instinct. While the fisherman remained at the tiller, Jamie Skoyles and Tom Caffrey heaved on the oars in a vain effort to impose some control. Both were powerful men, honed in battle and used to physical challenges, but the effort of rowing the boat was slowly sapping their energy.

  "We can't do this for much longer," Caffrey shouted.

  "Keep at it," Skoyles urged.

  "Where are these islands we were told about?"

  "Cabal will get us there."

  "The water is up to my ankles."

  "It's the same for all of us, Tom."

  "If only this rain would ease off!"

  "Pull hard on the oar."

  "That's what I'm trying to do, Jamie."

  "It's bound to ease off in time. We have to be patient."

  Caffrey gritted his teeth and tugged on his oar. Hard though it was for him, he knew that the women would be suffering even more. He was consumed with guilt at having unwittingly put Polly Bragg's life in danger. He called out to her.

  "Forgive me, Polly," he said. "I should never have brought you. I didn't expect anything as terrible as this."

  "Forget about me, Tom," she said. "Just row us to safety."

  "I'm doing my best."

  She gave a shiver. "It's so cold now."

  "We'll freeze to death."

  "Don't even think that," she scolded, rubbing her arms to keep warm. "Have faith. We'll survive somehow."

  Polly Bragg was a strong-willed, resilient woman who never let circumstances beat her down. There had been many setbacks in her life, but she made light of them. Caffrey was chastened by her steadfastness. He resolved to stop moaning. Though his hands were blistered, and his arms and shoulders aching, he put additional effort into his rowing. Polly Bragg and Elizabeth Rainham had taken the fisherman's advice and tied themselves to the mast. It made them feel less likely to be tossed overboard but it did not still their fears. Like the others, they were completely sodden, their clothing so wet that it stuck to their bodies. Salt spray filled their mouths and left a sour taste.

  "How close are we to land?" Skoyles yelled.

  "Not too close, I hope," Mears replied.

  "Are there rocks?"

  "Rocks and sandbanks along part of the coast."

  "What about sharks?" said a worried Caffrey. "I think I'd prefer to drown than be eaten alive."

  "We'll pull through," Mears assured him. "The storm is passing."

  "It doesn't feel like it to me."

  "Bear with me, Sergeant. You'll see."

  The change was imperceptible at first but it was definitely there. The wind dropped a little and the rain turned to fine drizzle. The waves continued to pound them but there was no longer the same unrelenting swell. Twenty minutes later, Mears was confident that the squall had blown itself out. The boat had more stability and the tiller was easier to control. The worst was over.

  "Let her drift," Mears ordered.

  Caffrey was relieved. "We can stop rowing?"

  "Yes, Sergeant."

  "Thank heaven! Now I know why I never joined the navy."

  "You're a born sailor, Tom," Skoyles teased him, lifting his oar clear of the water. "I've never rowed with a better man." He brought the dripping oar back into the boat. "Where are we, Cabal?"

  "I can't tell you yet," Mears replied, "but the tide has turned. You can feel it. We'll be carried back toward the coast."

  "What will you do?"
r />   "Wait until we reach shallow water, then drop anchor."

  "Aren't you going to put us ashore?"

  "Not until I know it's safe, Captain. We've worked hard. We need a rest. We could also do with some food and drink to keep up our spirits."

  "We've brought some supplies," said Skoyles.

  "So have I, my friend. Food and rum."

  "Rum!" Caffrey echoed. "That word warms my heart."

  "I never sail without it," said Mears.

  The wind had dropped even more now, and the waves had lost their fury. Elizabeth Rainham felt able to untie herself from the mast.

  "Oh!" she cried, putting a hand to her face.

  "What's the matter?" said Skoyles.

  "I just felt something wet brush my cheek. There it is again."

  "I can feel it myself, Elizabeth."

  "Not more rain, I hope."

  "No," said Mears with a cackle. "That's not rain—too cold for that."

  "Then what is it?" she wondered.

  "Snow."

  Leaving his horse in the stable at the rear of the King George Tavern, he went on foot to the bookshop. There was not much to see in the evening shadows, but Ezekiel Proudfoot heard enough to give him some notion of what Philadelphia was like. Founded by the Plain People, the city was a haven of Quaker simplicity no more. Every tavern he passed was filled with blazing light and boisterous laughter. In every street, redcoats were abroad, exchanging loud banter or telling crude stories. When he passed a hall, Proudfoot caught the sound of lively music. Clearly, those inside were not quaking at the word of God. They were dancing a reel.

  The bookshop was closed when he got there, but one pull on the doorbell brought the maid. Proudfoot was invited in and joined Pearsall and Miranda Hughes in their parlor. The three of them were soon sharing a small bottle of wine together. The visitor passed on the tidings he had gleaned at the King George Tavern.

  "Excellent!" said Hughes, patting his knee. "We've put one British commander to flight and we'll do the same with his successor."

  "And who will that be?"

  "The obvious choice is General Clinton."

  "Yes," said Proudfoot. "I suppose that it is. After his defeat at Saratoga, the much-vaunted General Burgoyne has ruled himself out. That will really disappoint him. He nursed ambitions of becoming commander in chief."

  "How do you know that?" asked Miranda.

  "I was told it by an officer who sat at Gentleman Johnny's table."

  "A spy?"

  "A friend," said Proudfoot wistfully. "A captain in the 24th Foot. Destiny has put us on opposite sides in this war but it has not dimmed our respect for each other."

  "Pah!" Hughes exclaimed. "I could never bring myself to respect a British officer. They are here to enforce royal tyranny. How can you call such a man a friend?"

  "We've known each other for a long time, Mr. Hughes."

  "I've known colonial oppression for a long time, sir. That doesn't mean I have to like it. An enemy is an enemy."

  "And a friend is a friend," Proudfoot returned with emphasis. "Nothing can change that. Besides," he went on, "Jamie is foresighted. He knows that the war will end one day and he means to settle in America."

  Hughes snorted. "If he lives to do so."

  "That's rather harsh, Pearsall," said his wife.

  "It was meant to be."

  "There are good people on both sides in this war."

  "Not if they wear a red coat, Miranda."

  A bellicose note had come into Hughes's voice and his jowls were wobbling. Proudfoot elected to change the subject. He glanced in the direction of the bookshop.

  "Have you been busy today, Mr. Hughes?"

  "No more than usual."

  "What sort of books do people buy?"

  "I know what they ought to buy," said Hughes censoriously, "but my customers do not always take my advice. What I sell most are copies of Samuel Richardson's novels. Pamela is still very popular, and so is Clarissa. They pander to the wrong kind of taste."

  "Yet they are cleverly written," said his wife. "You must own that."

  "We have American authors who are equally clever, my dear, and who do not find it necessary to titillate their readers by dwelling on sexual improprieties. I am not puritanical," he said, addressing himself to Proudfoot, "but I do like to observe the laws of decency."

  Miranda was practical. "We can only sell the books people want."

  "It's our duty to foster their reading habits, my dear."

  "Unlike you, they can't all read Plato in the original Greek."

  "More's the pity, Miranda."

  "My husband is a classical scholar, Mr. Allen," she said. "Left to him, all our intelligence reports would be sent in coded Latin." She sipped her wine. "How do you find the King George?"

  "Well suited to me, Mrs. Hughes," answered Proudfoot, "though its name was puzzling at first. Why preserve the name of a hated monarch in the rebel capital? I put it to Mr. Gilby and he explained that, in fact, he changed the tavern to the Black Horse and had a new sign painted."

  "True," said Hughes. "Pontius is a shrewd businessman."

  "Who?"

  "Pontius. That's what we call him. Pontius Pilate."

  "Why?"

  "Haven't you noticed how he likes to wash his hands as he talks? He never stops. Pontius—Henry Gilby to you—is a pragmatist, so he kept the old signboard. When the British entered the city, down came the Black Horse and up went King George again."

  "It's a convenient disguise."

  "Mr. Gilby is one of us," said Miranda.

  "I gathered that."

  "By the way," Hughes snapped suddenly, "what's your name?"

  "Reece Allen," Proudfoot replied.

  "And where have you come from, Mr. Allen?"

  "Massachusetts."

  "Your business in this city?"

  "I'll looking to buy a small farm nearby. It will give me an excuse to travel in the area, you see," he told them. "I was reared on a farm. I know how to talk to countrymen."

  "You've invented your story—that's good."

  "When do I begin on the newspaper?"

  "Tomorrow," said Hughes. "I'll take you to the place where we moved the press. You'll be able to work there."

  "Do you have a copy of The Pennsylvania Patriot?"

  "Not on the premises. It would be too dangerous to keep one here. British patrols are inclined to search houses that arouse their suspicion. In case that should happen here, we have nothing that could be seen as evidence of our true convictions. Needless to say," he continued, "you'd not be advised to leave a copy in your room at the Black Horse."

  "The King George," Proudfoot corrected him.

  "I refuse to call it that, Mr. Allen. Among friends, anyway."

  An hour in conversation with his hosts passed very pleasantly, then it was time for Proudfoot to leave. He had a last question to raise.

  "How will you get copies of the Patriot to Valley Forge?"

  "We have our couriers," said Hughes.

  "General Washington wishes to see every issue."

  "Then he shall—and so will all his officers."

  "Only the officers?" said Proudfoot. "What about the men?"

  "Many of them are illiterate, Mr. Allen. That's why your work is so important. You can speak to them in pictures. As for the officers," he went on, "they can read the Patriot to their men. That way, it reaches a much wider audience."

  "I suppose it does."

  "A sobering thought, is it not?" said Hughes, looking over the top of his spectacles. "When we win this war, the credit will not just go to educated officers who marshal their men in battle. It should also go to legions of courageous farm boys, who serve in the ranks but who can neither read nor write."

  "They'll appreciate the prints of Ezekiel Proudfoot," said Miranda.

  The visitor smiled. "I think that you mean Reece Allen."

  They were in luck. None of them thought so when they were forced to spend the night on the fishing
boat, huddled up together under a tarpaulin in wet clothing. Even the rough barracks on Prospect Hill were preferable to sleeping under the stars. Cabal Mears had tried to take them ashore, but he was hampered by the darkness, and when the bottom of the boat was scraped by a submerged rock, he decided that it was safer to drop anchor and bide his time. Snow continued to fall, but the wind had died down, and a tot of rum all round helped to keep out the cold. When dawn lifted the veil on a new day, they saw that they enjoyed some good fortune. Covered in a mantle of crisp, white snow was a long curve of coastline. Cabal Mears recognized it at once.

  "Cape Cod Bay," said Mears. "This is what the Pilgrim Fathers first saw. We came further than I dared hope."

  "Thanks to you, Cabal," Skoyles noted.

  "You and the sergeant did your share of the work."

  "Every time I eat a fish," Caffrey promised, "I'll think of people like Cabal Mears. You certainly earn your living the hard way."

  "It's better than being shot at on a battlefield."

  "I disagree. You can dodge musket balls. There's no escape from a storm." He looked up. "At least, it's stopped snowing."

  "It's going to be a fine, dry day," said Mears, scanning the sky.

  "Then we won't waste a minute of it," Skoyles announced. "Put us ashore and I'll pay you for your troubles. I expected you to be back home in your own bed last night, Cabal."

  "So did my wife."

  "Will she fret?"

  "I doubt it," said the other easily. "We've been married a long time, so she's used to this kind of thing. Nancy knows that I'll get back to Cambridge sooner or later. Somehow, I always do."

  "Did you tell her that you'd have passengers aboard?"

  "No, Captain. Now, that would have worried her." He began to haul up the anchor. "You need to get ashore and find somewhere to dry off."

  "Where would you suggest?"

  "Barnstable."

  "That's too far away," Caffrey argued. "Barnstaple is in Devon."

  "I know, Tom," Polly added. "I was born there."

  "When the Pilgrim Fathers came here," said Mears, yanking the rope, "they brought English names with them. Barnstaple changed to Barnstable, but it was so called after the town you mention. You'll find Truro, Chatham, Yarmouth, Sandwich, Rochester, and others here."