"We'll settle for Barnstable," said Skoyles, "however it's spelled."
Mears took command. The sail was hoisted to catch what little wind there was, and the fisherman took the tiller. Skoyles and Caffrey reached for the oars. Inspired by the sight of land and pleased with the relative calmness of the sea, they rowed with enthusiasm toward the distant harbor.
"We did it, Jamie," said Caffrey, grinning. "We escaped."
"There's a long way to go yet, Tom."
"Yes, but nothing could be as bad as being caught in that storm."
"Don't tempt Providence," warned Skoyles.
"What do you mean?"
"There could be worse to come."
The Indian name for the little port had been Cummaquid, but the settlers thought Barnstable more appropriate. A few isolated cabins had been built at first, and it was not until 1639 that the plantation had grown to a size where it could be officially recognized as a town. Barnstable had been founded by the Reverend Joseph Hull, minister and dairy farmer, drawn to the area by its salthay pastures. Covered in snow, some of the original timber houses were still there alongside later buildings. The Congregational church occupied a prime position.
It was still early, but people were already at work. As the bedraggled newcomers walked up the main street, they collected a lot of curious stares. Led by Skoyles, they trooped into the first tavern they found and were delighted to see a roaring fire in the grate. When they stood around it, steam began to rise from their wet clothing. The owner came bustling in, a stout, rosy-cheeked widow in her forties, wearing a plain dress with a white pinafore over it. Seeing the disheveled state they were in, she was immediately sympathetic.
"Oh dear!" she clucked. "Where have you been to get like that?"
"We were caught in a storm out at sea," said Skoyles.
"Poor things!"
"We were sailing to Dartmouth to visit friends but we were blown off course. After spending the night on board, we were put ashore here."
"You're a long way from Dartmouth, sir," she told him.
"No matter. We feel safer reaching it by land."
Skoyles had concealed their true destination from her. They were, in fact, making for Newport, Rhode Island, occupied by the British the previous year because, unlike New York, its harbor would not freeze over in the depths of winter. It was thus a much-needed all-weather naval base. Once they reached British territory, they could disclose their true identity and proceed on to New York to make contact with General Clinton. Fortunately, the woman accepted Skoyles's explanation without question. Her concern was for the two ladies.
"Leave the gentlemen here," she suggested. "Come with me and I'll take you somewhere even warmer. You can clean up a little and change into some dry clothes. And while you're doing that," she went on with a broad smile, "I'll make some breakfast for all four of you."
"Wonderful!" said Caffrey. "Thank you kindly."
"You toast yourself in front of that fire, sir."
"I will."
"Follow me, ladies."
She escorted Elizabeth and Polly into the adjoining room as if she had just decided to adopt them. The cordial welcome did much to help the men forget the exigencies of the voyage on the fishing boat. All that worried them now was how to reach their destination. Tom Caffrey held both hands out to the fire.
"It's a pity that Cabal Mears couldn't take us all the way, Jamie."
"He only agreed to get us well clear of Boston," said Skoyles. "To be honest, I never thought we'd sail this far with him."
"Do we have to walk from now on?"
"Unless we can find some other means, Tom."
"Which route do we take?"
Skoyles patted his pocket. "I've a rough map of the area that we can look at when we've thawed out. Otherwise, we take advice as we go. There'll be other taverns along the way. We just have to hope that everyone we meet believes our story."
"And if they don't?"
"Then we may have to leave certain places very rapidly," said Skoyles, turning around so that his back could feel the heat of the fire. "If anyone realizes that we've escaped from the Convention army, there could be serious trouble. And there'll be other dangers to contend with as well, remember."
"Wolves, bears, Indian tribes?"
"Put it this way, Tom, I think we'll be grateful that we're both armed. Before we set out, we must make sure that our powder is dry. And if anything should happen to separate us," he stressed, "make your way to Newport. We'll meet up again there."
Caffrey was dismayed. "Nothing is going to part us, surely?"
"You never know."
When the ladies rejoined them, they had had time to dry off and brush their tousled hair. After the night on the boat, they still looked weary, but they were much happier now.
"We've been talking to Hattie," said Elizabeth, glancing over her shoulder. "That's her name—Hattie Crocker. She's been running this tavern since her husband died, it seems. Anyway, she told us that the quickest way to get to Dartmouth is to go southwest to Falmouth and sail across from there."
"Not more time afloat!" groaned Caffrey.
"No," said Skoyles. "We'll stay on dry land. We'll head northwest and work our way around Buzzards Bay."
"Buzzards Bay—I don't like the sound of that!"
"After that, we follow the coast south until we reach Dartmouth."
Caffrey sighed. "If only it was the real Dartmouth."
"Yes," agreed Polly, "I'd give anything to be back home in Devon."
"You'll get there one day," said Skoyles.
"What about you? Aren't you dying to get back to England?"
He glanced at Elizabeth. "We have other plans, Polly."
Before Skoyles could enlarge on what those plans were, the door opened and Hattie Crocker came in, bearing a large wooden tray. On it were four bowls of hot broth and some hunks of bread.
"I thought you deserved something warm inside you," she said brightly, putting the tray down on a table. "Eat as much as you wish. There's plenty more in the kitchen. Here it is. Sit yourselves down and enjoy your breakfast."
They needed no more invitation.
An hour later, refreshed and restored, Skoyles searched the town until he found the one horse that was for sale. It was a bay mare, past her best years, but well able to carry the two women and the luggage. Skoyles also bought a sack of fodder. When they left Barnstable, they followed the track that took them in the direction of Buzzards Bay, some thirty miles or so away. With both women mounted and the men striding out purposefully, they were able to make good progress. The journey was uneventful at first, but Skoyles and Caffrey nevertheless preferred to carry their muskets. They were still in enemy territory.
Shortly after noon, they stopped beside a stream to rest the horse and eat some of the food they had brought with them. Polly Bragg took the opportunity to slip behind some bushes to answer a call of nature. Tom Caffrey went off to give the horse some of the hay. For the first time since they had made their escape bid, Skoyles and Elizabeth were alone.
"Why did you want me to carry most of the money?" she asked.
"Because you'll look after it."
"You could do that equally well, Jamie."
"No," he said. "If we are captured, I'll be searched and the money taken. A woman is less likely to be searched as thoroughly. Nobody will know just how much you have hidden away beneath your skirt."
"And how much is it?"
"You'll have to ask Major Featherstone."
Elizabeth grimaced. "I'd never do that!"
"Most of it came from him."
"He can afford to lose it. Harry comes from a wealthy family."
"He never let me forget that, Elizabeth."
"It's strange," she observed. "When I sailed from England, I was so determined to travel with him during a campaign, yet I can't even bear to think about him now. Harry belongs to another existence altogether."
"Are you happy with your new life?"
"Very happy. What about
you?"
He kissed her. "There's no need to ask," he said. "Though I'll feel happier still when we get to Newport and see British uniforms again."
"How far will we go today?"
"As far as we can, Elizabeth."
The others rejoined them and they pressed on. Autumn had denuded some of the trees of their leaves and robbed the countryside of much of its color, but there was still a rustic beauty about the terrain. By midafternoon, they reached a village and bought fresh supplies. The others were content to linger, but Skoyles insisted that they move on. When they were well clear of the village, he explained why.
"I had a feeling that it was not safe to stay," he said.
"Why not?" asked Caffrey.
"Two women astride one horse, two men with muskets. We must present an odd sight, Tom. People were suspicious."
"They seemed friendly enough."
"They asked too many questions."
"At least, they told us where the next village is."
"Yes," said Skoyles, "but will we be allowed to reach it?"
At that moment, a shot rang out ahead of them. The horse shied and Skoyles had to grab the bridle. Elizabeth and Polly were almost thrown to the ground. Disturbed by the report, a flock of geese took to the air and flew past them.
"Someone out hunting?" said Caffrey.
"Maybe, Tom. Then again, maybe not." Skoyles looked around. "Take cover while I go and see. Don't move from here."
"Would you like me to come with you?"
"No. Tether the horse and stay with the ladies. I'll not be long."
They were in a little clearing. The women dismounted and moved quickly to the shelter of a pine tree. Leading the horse, Caffrey followed them. Skoyles, meanwhile, checked that his musket was loaded, then went off at a steady lope. Sound was deceptive in woodland but he felt certain that the shot had been fired off to his right. When he left the track to go into the undergrowth, he kept low and moved more stealthily. His instincts had been sharpened by many scouting expeditions, and he sensed that somebody was nearby, somebody who now had plenty of time to reload his weapon. What he could not tell was whether the man was alone.
Time went slowly by. Ears pricked and eyes peeled, Skoyles crept deeper into the undergrowth. He was almost half a mile from his friends now and wondered if he should turn back. Then he heard the snap of a dry twig as someone trod on it. He ducked even lower. Inching forward, he kept his musket at the ready, his finger poised over the trigger. Something flashed across his path and startled him, but it was only a small animal of some sort. He waited several minutes before moving on again, choosing the trees with the largest girths as brief hiding places.
Eventually, he came to a clearing and paused, hardly daring to breathe. No hunter had fired the shot earlier. He was certain of that now. They were being stalked. Someone was deliberately leading him away from the others so that he was isolated. In spite of the cold, beads of sweat began to form on his brow. His lips went dry. Another twig snapped and it was much closer this time. It came from the other side of the clearing. Skoyles decided to draw the man's fire.
Stepping out in the open to offer a target, he suddenly dropped to the ground and lay flat on his stomach. The ruse worked. A musket was fired and the ball passed harmlessly over his head before embedding itself in a tree. The man had not only missed his target, he had given his position away. Skoyles had seen the weapon poking out at him. His own shot was more deadly, hitting the invisible enemy and causing him to fall backward with a grunt. Skoyles got to his feet, but before he could move, he heard another sound.
Footsteps were running away through the undergrowth. Having killed or wounded one man, he was still not safe. There were two of them.
CHAPTER SIX
The first thing that Skoyles did was to take cover again and reload. As an officer, he was entitled to carry a sword and a pistol, but he had never lost his skill with a Brown Bess musket. Stolen from the guard he had killed in Cambridge, it had been among the arms surrendered by the British at Saratoga. Skoyles was grateful to have a familiar weapon in his hands again. Though twelve separate actions were involved, including tearing off the end of the paper cartridge with his teeth, he was able to reload the flintlock musket in less than twenty seconds. Longer-barreled, muzzle-loading American flintlocks often needed the best part of a minute. It gave the British infantryman a distinct advantage. When Skoyles had served in the ranks, his ability to reload quickly in the heat of battle had saved his life several times.
He was not in combat now. Skoyles was up against a single enemy, a local man, in all probability, who knew the woodland far better than he did. The fellow had fled from the scene, but he might still try to ambush Skoyles. Before he went after him, however, it was important for Skoyles to find out what had happened to the man who had fired at him. If he had only been wounded, he might still pose a danger. Instead of crossing open ground and offering himself as a target again, Skoyles picked his way carefully around the clearing until he came upon an inert body. The man lay on his back, his mouth wide open in disbelief. Pierced through the eye, he had died instantly as the bullet went into his brain and straight out through the back of his skull. The empty eye socket was dribbling with blood.
Skoyles looked down at him. He could not be sure, but he fancied that it was one of the people they had met in the village, a hefty man with a beard, who had been chopping firewood when they asked for directions. To get ahead of them, he and his companion must have ridden horses. That thought spurred Skoyles on. If the second man were allowed to return to his mount, he could reach Tom Caffrey and the two women long before Skoyles could. He had to be caught quickly. Keeping low, Skoyles trotted after him, following a path that had been trampled by the other man. There were no more sounds of reckless flight. His quarry had gone to ground somewhere.
Slowing to a walk, Skoyles picked a way through the trees. He was quietly confident, unafraid of someone who had fled in panic without even trying to avenge the death of his confederate. That argued youth or inexperience. It might even be that the second man was unarmed. Skoyles took no chances. If the man had simply lost his nerve, he would have had time to regain his composure now. Safe in a hiding place, all that he had to do was to wait until his target got close enough.
Skoyles knew that he was there somewhere, and he kept his musket at the ready, using its barrel to move bushes gently aside so that he could peer around them. The woodland was thinning out now and cover was not so easy to find. Skoyles had to hide behind one trunk before making a run for the next temporary refuge. He sensed that he was getting close, but he could still see no sign of the man. Nor could he spot any more telltale footprints in the snow. Skoyles soon realized why. As he darted on toward another tree, a shot rang out behind him and a musket ball grazed his arm. Though he felt no pain, he pitched forward onto the ground as if he had been badly wounded, and lay prostrate for a moment.
Skoyles heard a whoop of triumph, followed by the sound of running feet. He rolled over and sat up in time to see someone sprinting toward him with a musket in one hand and a knife in the other, clearly intent on finishing his victim off. Delay would have been fatal. Skoyles took immediate aim and fired, hitting him in the chest from a range of ten yards, making him drop the musket as he staggered forward. One hand clutching his wound, the attacker came on, barely able to stand, still brandishing the knife. Skoyles saw that he was a mere boy, no more than thirteen or fourteen years old. Blood was soaking through his coat and tears were streaming down his face.
"You killed my father!" he cried.
He made a desperate lunge with his knife, but Skoyles dived swiftly out of the way and the blade sank into the ground. On his feet in an instant, Skoyles turned him onto his back to see how bad the wound was. The boy's eyes were already glazing over. He was still trying to mouth obscenities at Skoyles as his life ebbed away. Skoyles was sad to have been forced to kill someone so young, but he had been given no choice. Dragging the body to a hollow, he
covered it with branches and dead leaves to give it a semblance of burial.
The musket ball had inflicted a small flesh wound on his arm, but the blood was hardly staining his coat. Skoyles decided that he would take the precaution of letting Tom Caffrey inspect it when he got back to the others. There was no point in traveling with a surgeon if he did not make use of him. Skoyles looked around to get his bearings. Something then dawned on him with the force of a blow.
He was completely lost.
The printing press was hidden away in the cellar of a house in Walnut Street, and Ezekiel Proudfoot wondered how they could have transported such a heavy piece of equipment there without being seen. Adam Quenby, the printer, treated his press as if it were a household pet that had to be cosseted, and he was forever cleaning it and making minor adjustments. Quenby was a short, skinny man in his early forties with a face like a diseased potato. Unprepossessing though his appearance was, the printer was a master at his trade and Proudfoot admired examples of his work. The copies of The Pennsylvania Patriot that the newcomer was shown were clear, legible, and well written.
"We need more illustrations," Quenby admitted.
"That's why I was sent here."
"Our troops must be rallied somehow."
"I have a few ideas of how we might do that," said Proudfoot.
"Be sure to discuss them with Mr. Hughes first," the other warned. "Nothing goes into the Patriot until the editor approves of it."
"He made certain I understood that."
"Not that I criticize him, mark you. He does a fine job. It's a privilege to work with such an educated man. But he can be sharp in his judgments," he explained. "More than one person has submitted ideas and had them thrown back in his face. Mr. Hughes does not suffer fools gladly—not that I regard you as a fool, of course," he added hastily.
"Thank you, Mr. Quenby."
"It's an honor to have Ezekiel Proudfoot here."
"Forget that name. He does not exist in Philadelphia. It's Reece Allen who will be helping to produce the Patriot."
"Of course, Mr. Allen." He glanced around disconsolately. "I just wish that we could offer you better conditions in which to work. The light is poor, the place is damp, and it can get infernally cold."
Valley Forge Page 9