Valley Forge

by David Garland

  "But he puts his mother to some trouble," observed Washington. "Every time she sends intelligence by that means, she has to sew on a fresh set of buttons."

  "Mrs. Darragh is an accomplished seamstress by now."

  "Then we could certainly use her services here, Major—and that of a hundred good ladies like her. There's enough sewing and darning to keep them all busy. Some of our men are dressed in rags."

  "I know. It's a pitiful sight."

  "We have eighteen brigades of infantry, a brigade of artillery, and a brigade of artificers. Not one of them has enough uniforms to wear," said Washington, "let alone enough arms and ammunition. When you look at the brigade of local militia and the three regiments of dragoons, then the situation is even worse. We've men with nothing but a blanket to wrap around them."

  "And we know who's to blame for that," said Clark with vehemence. "The very people who should help us—Congress."

  "They've neglected us badly."

  "Shamefully, sir."

  "However," the commander went on with a tired smile, "there is one thing from which I gain satisfaction."

  "What's that, General?"

  "Our army is drawn from eleven of the thirteen colonies. The only exceptions are South Carolina and Georgia, though we do have a few officers from both. In short," said Washington, "we are facing the British with a truly American army. I take pride in that."

  "So do I, sir."

  "As for this intelligence, thank you for bringing it so promptly."

  "It's not the only news I have to deliver, alas."

  "Oh?"

  "It seems that Mother Nature is against us as well."

  "Mother Nature?"

  "I fear so," said Clark. "As I was walking toward the house, I am sure that I felt the first few flakes of snow."

  The men spent the night in a barn, curled up on hay and trying to block out the lowing of the cows nearby and of the distant howling of wolves. Alerted by the approach of dawn, Jamie Skoyles was the first to wake up. He nudged his companion with an elbow. Tom Caffrey sat up at once, reaching out instinctively for the loaded musket that lay beside him.

  "No need for alarm," said Skoyles, pushing the weapon aside. "I just wanted to be on the road as early as possible."

  "So do I, Jamie."

  "Did you get any sleep?"

  "A little. I missed Polly too much to sleep for long."

  "She and Elizabeth were far better off in the farmhouse. Since the farmer only had one room to offer, we had to make do with the barn."

  "That proves my point."

  "What does?"

  "If there had been just the pair of you on the road, then you and Elizabeth would now be snuggling up together in bed. How does that sound?"

  "Very enticing, Tom."

  "That's why we must go our separate ways."

  "You've not changed your mind, then?"

  "No, Jamie. We'll get to Rhode Island on our own." He gave his friend a playful jab. "And I'll wager we'll be the first there."

  "You're a bold man to make such a foolish claim."

  "We'll see."

  They had slept in their clothes and left the horses saddled so that they could make a quick departure. Rolling off his makeshift bed, Skoyles brushed the strands of hay from his clothing. His wounded arm was now bandaged. He had a first look at the day. It was cold but dry. There was only a faintest breath of wind. When he glanced across at the farmhouse, he saw that there was already a light in the window.

  "It looks as if they were up before us, Tom," he said.

  "And they'll be fresher, too, having slept in a proper bed."

  "Let's join them for breakfast."

  They went across to the little farmhouse and found that the front door had been unlocked for them. Everyone was in the kitchen with its warm fire crackling away, its flames reflected on the rough stone walls. The farmer was a sprightly old man with white hair and beard, pleased to have had two attractive women staying in his humble dwelling. His wife, a plain, shuffling, taciturn creature, looked less happy to have had visitors, but she prepared a frugal meal for them as they chatted. The farmer was inquisitive.

  "Where are ye headed?" he asked.

  "Dartmouth," replied Skoyles.

  "Then all ye need to do is to stay on the same road."

  "Is that the only way there?" said Caffrey.

  "It's the best, my friend."

  "But there is another route?"

  "Aye."

  "Could you show us where it is, please?" said Skoyles, taking the map from his pocket and laying it on the table. He pointed with a finger. "My guess is that we're around here somewhere."

  "No," said the old man, exposing bare gums in a grin. "You've come farther than you think." His skeletal finger tapped the map, then moved as he spoke. "We are right here. Now, you can either follow the coastline around Buzzards Bay—like this, you see—or take another road that snakes off in that direction."

  "How far is it to Dartmouth?"

  "Not much above thirty miles."

  "Is that all?" said Caffrey. "We can do that in a day."

  "As long as ye don't waste any of it. This time of year, it gets dark a mite early." The farmer looked up as his wife began to put food on the table. "Thankee, Mother."

  "Eat up, all," she grunted.

  Sitting down at the bare wooden table, they ate their breakfast quickly and washed it down with some hard cider. All four of them thanked their hosts for their hospitality. Caffrey and Polly Bragg then went out to the barn, but Skoyles stayed behind to offer the farmer some money. The old man waved it away, insisting that it was his Christian duty to take strangers in from the cold and to look after them. He refused to charge them anything. His wife, however, had no inhibitions about taking the coins. Grabbing them from Skoyles, she thrust them into a pot on the shelf. There was a heated argument between the old couple, then the farmer eventually conceded defeat. He smiled fondly and patted his wife on the rump.

  "Mother always knows best," he said.

  Skoyles shook him by the hand. "You've earned it."

  "Yes," said Elizabeth. "We were exhausted."

  "Goodbye."

  "Good luck go with ye!" said the old man.

  Skoyles thanked him again and led Elizabeth Rainham outside. After several hours' sleep, she looked bright and refreshed. Given some vigorous brushing, her hair had recovered its beautiful sheen. Skoyles paused to have a quiet word alone with her.

  "How did they treat you?" he said.

  "Very well."

  "The wife seemed very surly."

  "She thought her husband was paying too much attention to us."

  "Who can blame him?"

  "Yes, it must get very lonely out here."

  "We found a bed for you. That was the main thing."

  "Not if it meant your sleeping in the barn," said Elizabeth with concern. "It must have been very uncomfortable in there."

  "I was fine once I got used to Tom's snoring," said Skoyles. "And it was a big improvement on spending a night in a fishing boat."

  "Did you have an opportunity to talk to him about splitting up?"

  "I thought we'd do that now, Elizabeth."

  "Polly is still keen to strike off alone with Tom."

  "I'm not altogether happy with that notion."

  "Nor am I, Jamie."

  "Apart from anything else, Tom is no horseman. Unlike us, he's never really learned to ride properly. I'd feel better if I was there to keep an eye on him."

  "That's my view as well."

  "Then let's get across there and talk them out of it. Come on!"

  He took her by the hand and they walked around the corner of the farmhouse to the barn. When they went inside, however, they saw that it was too late to hold any kind of discussion with their friends. Tom Caffrey and Polly Bragg had made up their own minds.

  They had already left.

  They were everywhere. Ezekiel Proudfoot had never been in a city that was so fully occupied. Having eaten
breakfast with the redcoats staying at the King George Tavern, he saw more of them as soon as he stepped into the street. Four privates were standing idly outside a house, taking part in a girning contest, twisting their faces into such distorted expressions of joy that Proudfoot thought they must be in extreme pain. At a corner, he met a patrol on the march. Farther along the street, some officers were tumbling out of a house with their arms around each other, still not fully sober after a night of heavy drinking. And so it went on. By the time he reached his place of work, Proudfoot had counted over seventy British soldiers. He told Adam Quenby about his mathematics.

  "I've seen far more than that," grumbled the printer, indicating the window that was half below street level. "I've watched hundreds of pairs of army boots as they strut past. The British think they own the place."

  "Might is right in their view."

  "This city is ours."

  "And will be so again, I'm sure."

  "But what state will it be in? They've changed Philadelphia out of all recognition. From morn till night, it's filled with loud noise, and it's not safe for a decent woman to be abroad on her own."

  "What about an indecent woman, Mr. Quenby?"

  "There are far too many of those about," said the other darkly. "I sometimes think that whoring and gambling are the chief occupations of the British. Not that the German mercenaries are any better," he added with a sniff. "The Hessians run a gambling table where only high stakes are permitted. It's iniquitous, sir."

  "I'm sure that Mr. Hughes has pointed that out in the Patriot."

  "Regularly."

  Proudfoot could not believe that the little man had spent the whole night in the dank cellar. Quenby seemed too spry and animated. He was already hard at work when the silversmith arrived, setting type with painstaking care. The printing press, as ever, was quite spotless. Opening his satchel, Proudfoot took out the sketch he had made the previous evening.

  "I showed this to Mr. Hughes," he said, handing it to Quenby, "and he would like it to appear on the front page of the Patriot."

  "Let me see."

  "I hope that it won't cause offense."

  "I very much hope that it will, Mr. Allen. Causing offense to the British is one of our ambitions." Holding the cartoon only six inches from his face, he studied it for a long time as if not able to believe what he was seeing. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed at length. "You've been very daring, I must say."

  "Is that good or bad?"

  "Neither, Mr. Allen. It's excellent!"

  "Thank you."

  "It has a crude simplicity that will make anyone take notice. Just look at that ogre, General Howe!"

  He threw back his head and burst into laughter, savoring the detail in the cartoon. Grateful for his approval, Proudfoot took it back from him and glanced at it again.

  "Drawing this was easy," he said. "Making a plate of it will be far more difficult. Everything will have to be the other way round."

  "Leave the caption to me. I'll print it in large letters."

  "It's a line from a song I overheard some redcoats singing."

  "They'll think twice about singing it again when they see this. You have a quick brain, Mr. Allen. There's wit and savagery here."

  "I've always been an admirer of William Hogarth."

  "You are a worthy successor," said Quenby.

  "I'm flattered that you think so."

  "Like Hogarth, you use your talents to mock the follies and vices of the English. The Patriot is blessed in having you."

  "When will the next issue be printed?"

  "As soon as you have engraved the plate for me."

  "How many copies will you produce?"

  "Not nearly as many as I would like," Quenby admitted. "Paper is getting scarce, so we have to conserve it. But there'll be enough copies to reach all the people who need to see it."

  "Mr. Hughes wants General Howe to be one of them."

  "I'll deliver it to his headquarters in person."

  "I'm told that his own soldiers sing bawdy songs about him and Mrs. Loring. He must be heartily tired of the ridicule by now."

  "That cartoon is more than ridicule," said Quenby. "It's symbolic of all that's wrong with this city. The audacity of it! General Howe has the nerve to talk about freedom's scepter when the only reason he came to this country is to deprive us of our liberty."

  "I tried to point out the cruel irony of that situation."

  "You hit the mark, Mr. Allen."

  "I'm glad that you think so."

  "And you even managed to win over Pearsall Hughes at the first attempt. Nobody has ever done that before."

  "Except, perhaps, Mrs. Hughes."

  "Ah, yes. A divine creature and an editor in her own right."

  "She was gracious enough to praise my work as well."

  "Then you have conquered man and wife," said Quenby as he continued to set type. "There is only one more judge whose good opinion you must now seek—General Washington."

  Wearing a cape over his uniform, George Washington set his hat on his head and stepped out of the house. Snow had stopped falling but it had already made its mark. The grass was covered in a carpet of thick white snow. Wherever he looked, there was a cold, unyielding, wintry scene. He felt a tremor of alarm as he thought of the additional problems that would be created for his men, most of whom were still living under canvas while they were building their log cabins.

  He could hear them at work. Axes were already thudding into the trunks of trees. Saws were already cutting timber to size. But the bad weather would impede progress and make conditions very unpleasant. It would also increase the likelihood of desertions as soldiers shivered in their inadequate clothing. Washington was dismayed. When he looked up at the sky, there was no comfort to be found. Clouds hung low and full. There was more snow to come.

  "Hell!" he cried in exasperation. "What else do we have to endure?"

  Jamie Skoyles could not understand it. Though they traveled at a steady speed, they made up no ground at all on the others. Tom Caffrey and Polly Bragg had either ridden harder than they or turned off the main track at some point. After a while, Skoyles gave up all hope of catching them. Since the horse was carrying two riders, it was important to rest him at regular intervals. They had covered almost five miles when the animal was tugged to a halt for the first time. Skoyles dismounted, then helped Elizabeth Rainham to the ground. Tethering the horse to a bush, he walked to the edge of the precipice and gazed down. From their high eminence, they had a perfect view of the majestic sweep of Buzzards Bay and its rugged coastline and countless inlets, coves, promontories, necks, and rocky outcrops. Small craft were mere specks on the sea.

  "It's beautiful," said Elizabeth, coming to stand beside him.

  "It would be if we had time to admire it."

  "We can spare a few minutes at least."

  "Of course," he said, putting an arm around her shoulders. "This is a view to take your breath away. Look at those boats down there. Going about their business as if a brutal war never existed."

  "We know differently," she said. "When will it end, Jamie?"

  "Oh, there's a lot more blood to be spilled yet."

  "But we will triumph in the end, won't we?"

  He was uncertain. "I think so."

  "Harry told me that it was something he took for granted."

  "That was before Saratoga," he reminded her. "Things can change, Elizabeth. General Burgoyne's invincible army was beaten hollow. Major Featherstone was unwise to be so overconfident. There was a time when he made the mistake of taking you for granted, and we know how foolhardy that was."

  "Only because you rescued me from that silly dream." She became reflective. "Except that it did not seem so silly at the time. In fact, it was the only dream a young woman like me could have had. I grew up in a military family, remember. My father served with General Burgoyne in Portugal. I could think of no better life than marrying a British officer."

  Skoyles grinned. "I hope that delusion
still holds."

  "You told me that you'll not be staying in the army."

  "Not forever, anyway. I have my silly dreams as well, Elizabeth. As you know, I want to buy land here and settle down." He pulled her to him. "If I can find the right woman, that is."

  She smiled up at him. "I've come this far."

  "No regrets?"

  "I had a few when we saw that horse thief swinging from a tree."

  "What about that squall we were caught in?"

  "I was far too scared to have any regrets then," she said. "I kept trying to fit my thoughts for death. At least, we'd have been together. What about you, Jamie? Do you have regrets?"

  "Plenty of them."

  "Really?"

  "I regret that I trusted Otis Tapper. I regret that I've put you in jeopardy by bringing you with me. I regret that I'll have to go on fighting for a long time before we can be together. And I regret that—"

  She put a hand to his lips to silence him. "That's enough for now. Let's enjoy this moment while we can."

  "Of course."

  Turning to face her, Skoyles pulled her close, but their moment together was brief. Over her shoulder, he could see three horsemen approaching, and he was forcibly reminded that they were still in a colony where rebel feeling was at its strongest. He and Elizabeth stood apart and waited for the riders to reach them. They were three in number, well-built farm boys, not yet in their twenties, sitting astride animals that looked as if they belonged between the shafts of a wagon. Each rider had an old musket.

  When they came to a halt, Skoyles gave them a friendly wave.

  "Good morning to you, lads," he called.

  "And to you," replied the biggest of the three, eyeing them shrewdly. "Do you only have the one horse between you?"

  "Yes, my friend."

  "Where are you bound?"

  "Dartmouth."

  "Why, so are we," said another of the men, ogling Elizabeth. "If the lady would care to jump up behind me, I'll gladly take her there."

  "We'll get there ourselves, have no fear."

  "Where are you from?" the first man asked.

  "Boston," said Skoyles.

  "You've come all that way with one horse?"