Valley Forge

by David Garland

  "No, we thought to travel by sea, but we were blown off course and our boat was washed ashore near Barnstable. We decided to travel the rest of the way by land. There was only one horse for sale."

  Skoyles could see that the man was suspicious and wanted to give him no excuse to use his musket. He was not only outnumbered, his own weapon was ten yards away, resting against a tree. The other two men were more interested in Elizabeth, grinning at her inanely and blowing her kisses. Their spokesman, however, a hulking youth with a ragged beard, was appraising Skoyles with palpable mistrust.

  "You've the look of a soldier about you," he said.

  "I served my time in the 11th Massachusetts Regiment."

  "Who was in command?"

  "Colonel Turbott Francis."

  "He was killed at Hubbardton."

  "I was lucky to escape myself," said Skoyles. "Had we only fought the British, we'd have sent them running, but their hired killers from Germany came to their rescue. We had too few men to hold them all off."

  "Who else fought on our side?"

  There was a note of respect in the young man's voice now. He had heard a great deal about the heroic resistance given by his countrymen at Hubbardton, and wanted more detail. Skoyles supplied it willingly, and all three men listened intently. Elizabeth was forgotten. From the way he described the battle, there was no doubting that Skoyles had actually taken part in it. What he did not tell his rapt audience was that he had fought on the other side.

  "We're joining the militia," said the youngest of the men. "They say there won't be much fighting during the winter, but I'll find some redcoats to kill." He lifted his musket and fired into the air. "There goes one!"

  "Why did you do that, you idiot," the big man scolded.

  "I have to practice, Abner."

  "Wasting a shot like that is madness."

  "He's right," Skoyles agreed. "If you want to be a soldier, learn to keep your powder dry and bide your time. Every shot must count. Our army is desperately short of ammunition. Only fire when necessary."

  "Yes, sir," said the youngest man, penitently.

  "You're heading for Dartmouth, you say?"

  "We are," their spokesman replied. "Ethan, Jude, and me, we mean to enlist, and we were told to get ourselves to Dartmouth. We'll ride with you, if you like. You could tell us about other battles you've been in."

  "That would only bore my wife," said Skoyles, a protective arm around Elizabeth. "Besides, we'd hold you lads up. I can see you have red blood in your veins, and the militia needs people like you. Ride on and we'll get there at our own pace."

  "Are you sure, sir?"

  "Yes, we're in no hurry."

  "Then we'll leave you." He turned to the youngest man. "And don't you go loosing off another bullet, Ethan, or I'll wrap that damn musket around your stringy neck, so help me." He smiled apologetically at Elizabeth. "Excuse my bad language, ma'am, but my brother needs to be kept in line." He touched his hat. "We wish you both good day."

  After a flurry of farewells, the three men rode off. Relieved to see them go, Skoyles retrieved his musket and walked back to the horse. He looked after the departing farm boys.

  "That changes our plans a little," he commented.

  "Does it?"

  "Yes, Elizabeth. If Dartmouth is going to be crawling with militia, it might not be the safest place to go. It's a pity that Tom and Polly are not aware of that. They could be riding into trouble."

  "What about us, Jamie?" she asked.

  "We'll find another way."

  When the first copy of The Pennsylvania Patriot was peeled off the press, Adam Quenby folded it, then examined the four pages with meticulous care. Only when he was satisfied with his handiwork did he pass the newspaper over to Pearsall Hughes. The bookseller laid it down on the table so that he and Ezekiel Proudfoot could study it together by the light of the candle. The two men were looking at different things. Hughes was only interested in checking his elegant prose for printing errors while Proudfoot's gaze was fixed solely on the cartoon.

  Dominating the front page, and notwithstanding a few black smudges around its perimeter, it had remarkable clarity. The figures were almost lifelike. A cursory glance was enough to tell any reader of the Patriot that General William Howe, distinguished commander in chief of the British army in America, was being well and truly lampooned. Proudfoot wished that he could be there when the man himself first set eyes on the cartoon.

  The artist was not allowed to admire his work for long. Hughes turned over the page so that he could read his article about the various outrages committed by the occupying force in Philadelphia. By allowing himself a degree of exaggeration, the bookseller felt that he could more easily arouse the wrath of those members of the Continental Army whose families had either been forcibly evicted from the city, or were still living there in the long shadow of the British army. His aim, as an editor, was to make Americans proud enough of their country to want to fight hard to liberate it. He felt that the latest issue of the Patriot would achieve that objective.

  "It's fine, Adam," he said. "Print more copies."

  "Yes, Mr. Hughes."

  "And make sure they are distributed by the usual means."

  "I will, sir," said Quenby.

  He set about his task at once, ready to work all evening and well into the night. Hughes, meanwhile, turned back to the first page and chortled merrily as he looked down at the cartoon. After a few minutes, he swung round to face Proudfoot.

  "A thousand thanks, Mr. Allen," he said, shaking his hand in congratulation. "Admirable work. You've given the newspaper a completely new bite."

  "I hope that it will draw blood."

  "Most assuredly."

  "Then I've done what I came to do."

  "I'd suggest that you keep this first copy as a souvenir but that would only imperil you. There are too many prying eyes at the King George Tavern. The only man you can trust there is the landlord."

  "I've already found that out, Mr. Hughes."

  "In any case," the bookseller went on, "copies are like gold dust. We need every single one for our readers."

  "Each one will be seen by several people," said Quenby over his shoulder. "They pass the Patriot around so that it has a wider impact."

  "Except in the case of General Howe," said Proudfoot. "I venture to suggest that he'll not pass it around. As soon as he sees it, he'll most likely toss it in the fire."

  Quenby cackled. "He'll certainly not let Mrs. Loring look at it."

  "You can hardly blame him," said Hughes. "Mr. Allen will, without question, draw blood from the general. That's why we must steel ourselves against the consequences."

  "Consequences?" said Proudfoot.

  "General Howe will be deeply insulted. He'll demand revenge. Extra patrols will be sent out to search for the press. More to the point, Mr. Allen, the redcoats will come looking for you."

  "But the cartoon is unsigned."

  "You're too modest."

  "It has your signature all over it," Quenby confirmed.

  "And even Howe will be able to read it. He'll have seen examples of your art before. Your prints of our victories at Trenton and Princeton were sold everywhere. So were those you drew at Saratoga. In British eyes," he continued, "you are an enemy weapon. They take note of you."

  "I didn't realize that I had such notoriety," said Proudfoot.

  "It will increase tenfold when this cartoon is seen."

  "And General Howe will know that it's my work?"

  "The moment he sees it," Hughes warned. "He'll also know that you're somewhere in the city. That will infuriate him, and he'll act at once. Redcoats will come after you, my friend. British spies will join the chase. They'll hunt you day and night until they catch you. Beware!"

  Ezekiel Proudfoot's mouth went dry, and prickly heat disturbed him. For the first time since he had been in Philadelphia, he felt a distinct quiver of apprehension.

  "You've never done that before," said Elizabeth Rainham.


  "Done what?"

  "Called me your wife. When those three men stopped to speak to us on the road, you told them that talking about battles with them would only bore your wife."

  "Did you mind?" asked Skoyles.

  "Not at all. I loved it."

  "I had to use the same pretence to get a room here."

  She kissed him. "I enjoyed that, too."

  The village was a few miles north of Dartmouth, and they had taken an upstairs room for the night in its only tavern, a small, cramped, drafty establishment that smelled in equal proportions of drink, tobacco, and mold. They consoled themselves with the fact that, whatever its defects, they had somewhere to stay. Both of them were also quick to realize that they had never shared a bed before. The prospect excited them.

  "You were so convincing, Jamie," she recalled.

  "Was I?"

  "Yes. Those three men were quite menacing at first, but you soon talked them around. I watched their faces. By the time you'd finished telling them about Hubbardton, they did more than admire you. It was a kind of hero worship."

  "Only because they thought I'd fought on the rebel side."

  "That was the amazing thing."

  "What was?"

  "You talked about the battle as if you'd really wanted the Americans to win. You were so convincing that you even had me fooled for a time. You were one of them."

  "I have great sympathy for the rebel cause."

  She was startled. "Even though you're in the British army?"

  "Yes, Elizabeth. These men want freedom enough to fight for it."

  "But they're in open revolt against the Crown."

  "The king and his government did provoke this quarrel."

  "They had every right to impose taxes on the colonies."

  "People who have to pay those taxes disagree," said Skoyles.

  Elizabeth was hurt. "You sound as if you're taking their part."

  "I'll bear arms against them whenever I have the chance, Elizabeth. But that doesn't mean I can't understand their point of view."

  "Harry always talked about them as if they were mere vermin."

  "That was another mistake of his," said Skoyles coldly. "If you do not respect an enemy, you underestimate them, and that can be costly. I suspect that even Major Featherstone will have revised his opinion of the rebels by now. He's a proud man. He'd never admit that we lost on the battlefield to an army of mere vermin."

  It was ironic. They had both yearned for a time when they were alone together without any impediments. All that they had enjoyed before were stolen moments of pleasure in an army encampment. Since their escape from Cambridge—until that day—they had always had company. Now they were together, able to express their feelings at last, and yet they were arguing about the basis of the war. A slight rift had opened up between them. Skoyles tried to close it by stretching out a contrite hand. She needed some time before she reached out to take it.

  "The war is outside," he whispered, "and we are in here together."

  "I know."

  "That's all that matters, isn't it?"

  "Yes, Jamie."

  He took her impulsively in his arms and kissed her. Elizabeth responded with equal passion, holding back nothing as she tried to banish the memory of all the setbacks they had so far encountered. Easing her toward the bed, Skoyles began to unhook her dress so that he could slip a hand inside it. His gentle caresses on her bare skin gave her such a thrill of delight that she pulled him down on the bed and started to help him off with his hunting shirt. Before he had even got it over his head, however, they were interrupted by noises from below.

  Horses approached at a gallop before being reined in. Someone dismounted and banged on the tavern door. Skoyles was worried. Letting go of Elizabeth, he crept to the window and looked down. Three mounted men waited below while a fourth hammered relentlessly on the door until the landlord eventually opened it, holding a lantern.

  "We're looking for four people," the man told him. "Two men and two women. Are they staying here?"

  "We've only two guests here tonight," said the landlord.

  "Who are they?"

  "A man and a woman."

  "Young or old?"

  "The wife is young, the husband a little older."

  "What are they riding?"

  "They share a horse between them."

  "Where is it?"

  "In the stables," said the landlord. "Why are you asking?"

  "Because murder's been committed and a horse has been stolen." The man turned to his companions. "I'll look in the stable. The rest of you can stay here. I think we may have found them."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jamie Skoyles had heard enough. Reacting with speed, he dragged the bed across to the door to act as a barricade, then he quickly pulled off the blankets.

  "What are you doing?" cried Elizabeth.

  "Get your things together. We must leave."

  "Now?"

  "There's not a moment to lose," he said, knotting the blankets together before tying one end to a low beam. "They've found those men we killed. We have to get out of here."

  Trembling with fear, Elizabeth did as she was told, gathering all her possessions into a bundle, then putting on her cloak and hat without even bothering to hook up the back of her dress. Skoyles, meanwhile, was piling every piece of furniture in the room onto the bed so that it would delay entry and gain them precious time. Four armed men were outside with vengeance on their mind. They would not bother with the refinement of a trial. Immediate flight was essential.

  There was one saving grace. Because they occupied a room on the corner of the tavern, they had a window that looked out on the side of the building as well as one on the front. It was the side window that Skoyles now opened, peering out to make sure that nobody was below. When he saw that the coast was clear, he dropped one end of the knotted blankets through the window. He then grabbed his own belongings and reached for his musket.

  "How many of them are there, Jamie?" Elizabeth asked.

  "Too many."

  "Do we take the horse?"

  "There's no chance of that."

  "Then how can we possibly outrun them?"

  "Leave everything to me," he said, moving her toward the window. "We must hurry. They'll be here any moment."

  The man who had banged on the tavern door was impatient. When the landlord took him around to the stables at the rear of the premises, he did not wait for him to open the door. Snatching the lantern from him, he pushed him aside, then pulled back the bolt himself.

  "Hey!" the landlord protested.

  "Keep out of my way!"

  "This is my property, sir."

  "I must see those horses."

  Diving into the stables, he held the lantern up as he walked along the stalls. There were five horses in all, and they were disturbed by the sudden intrusion. They neighed in protest and shifted their feet in the straw. After checking each one, the visitor stopped at the last stall and spilled light onto the animal, running his hand along its flank as he did so. Having inspected the horse, he looked at the saddle that was resting over the side of the stall. It was all the proof that he required. He thrust the lantern back into the landlord's hand.

  "That's it," he declared. "It belonged to him."

  "Who?"

  "My brother."

  "But another gentleman brought it here," said the landlord.

  "He won't ride it again."

  "Do not be so hasty, sir."

  "Move over!"

  Shoving him aside once more, the man rushed out of the stables and round to the front of the tavern, yelling to his men to join him. They dismounted quickly and tethered their horses. When the landlord came waddling up to them, the four men stood around him in a circle. The one who had identified the horse jabbed him in the chest.

  "Which room are they in?" he demanded.

  "Not so fast, sir," said the landlord. "There may be some mistake."

  "That was my brother's ho
rse. It was stolen after he'd been stabbed to death. We found his body this morning. We want his killer."

  "It was dark in the stables. How can you certain about the horse?"

  "Take us to their room."

  "Stay calm," urged the landlord, not wishing his tavern to be invaded. "Why not let me ask the gentleman to come down and speak to you out here?"

  "No. We'll go to him."

  The barrel of a musket was pressed hard against the landlord's forehead, and his nerve failed. He indicated the front door of the tavern.

  "This way, if you please," he said.

  Still holding the lantern, he led them into the building and up the staircase, their feet resounding on the hard wood. They went along the landing until they came to the room at the end. The landlord tried to rap on the door with his knuckles but the men were in no mood to wait. One of them lifted the latch and pushed hard. He met resistance. When he kicked the door, it still refused to budge. He used the butt of his musket to hammer on the timber, then put his shoulder to it. The bed inside the room moved a few inches. A second, more concerted shoulder charge forced it back another foot and the door opened wide enough for them to burst through.

  The lantern was again ripped from the hands of its owner. It was lifted high so that it illumined the whole room. They saw the open window at once and ran to it. The knotted blankets were dangling down the side of the tavern and swaying in the breeze. They were incensed at having lost their prey.

  "They've gone!" one of them exclaimed.

  "They'll not get far on foot," said another, heading for the door. "Spread out and search for them. We'll soon catch the bastards and they'll wish they were never born."

  Elizabeth Rainham could hear the voices clearly and they struck terror into her heart. Skoyles wrapped a consoling arm around her. It was no use telling the men that he had not, in fact, stabbed anyone to death. He would be caught in possession of the dead man's horse, and that was fatal. Fleeing from the village on foot would have been suicidal. The four riders would have hunted down the fugitives within minutes. Skoyles had therefore chosen the one hiding place where they might be safe. Instead of running away from the tavern, he had clambered up on to the roof and hauled Elizabeth after him. Lying flat on the tiles near the ridge, they were completely invisible to anyone below.