Valley Forge

by David Garland

  "Aren't you going to read your message?" Gilby prompted.

  "What?" asked the other, then he remembered that he was holding the missive. "Oh, yes, of course."

  Turning away from the landlord, he opened the envelope, found an unsigned note and read the single sentence written by the neat hand of Pearsall Hughes. He then put back his head to let out a peal of laughter.

  "Good tidings?" said the landlord.

  "I think so, Mr. Gilby," replied Proudfoot. "After reading this, I would not miss tonight's performance of the play for anything."

  William Howe, commander in chief of the British army, was amazed.

  "And you actually got to meet General Washington himself?"

  "Face to face," replied Jamie Skoyles.

  "How on earth did you contrive it?"

  "By going directly to his headquarters."

  "Were there no guards?"

  "Dozens of them."

  "How did you get past them?"

  "That would take too long to explain, General," said Skoyles deferentially, "and I'd hate to hold you up when you have to get to the theater. Suffice it to say that I was able to offer my services to the enemy. Whether or not General Washington decides to accept that offer is, of course, still open to question. He's a perceptive man and not easily convinced."

  "What did he decide to do?"

  "Wait for me to prove myself."

  "We'll give you any help you require, Captain Skoyles."

  "Thank you, sir."

  They were in the house that was used as the headquarters of the British army, and General Howe was resplendent in his dress uniform. Now that his resignation had been accepted, it was only a question of serving out his time until spring, when he could return to England. Meanwhile, he intended to enjoy himself to the full with a heady round of plays, dances, concerts, and extended drinking bouts.

  "How did you find Valley Forge?" he said.

  "Very chilly, sir."

  "Winter will take all the fight out of the rebels."

  "I'd not bank on that, if I were you," Skoyles warned. "Their commander's spirit is indomitable and that's bound to inspire his men."

  "Were you able to see much of their camp?"

  "No, sir. It was barely dawn when I arrived, and I was blindfolded before I was led back through the lines."

  "So you have no idea of the size of their army?"

  "Not yet—but I know that they underestimate our numbers."

  "To what degree?"

  "Washington seems to think that we have no more than ten thousand men in the occupying force."

  "That's good to hear," said Howe, beaming. "It shows that their intelligence is not as good as I feared. In fact, we have around sixteen thousand soldiers, either in the city or in nearby encampments."

  "So I was told by General Clinton."

  "Keep them ignorant of our true size, Captain."

  "I intend to, sir."

  "It's a bad miscalculation and wholly to our advantage. If the rebels are foolhardy enough to offer us battle in the coming months, we can overwhelm them with superior numbers. Thank you," he went on, clapping Skoyles on the soldier. "I knew that I'd chosen the right man. Your visit to Valley Forge has already paid dividends."

  "It will take time for me to insinuate myself properly."

  "Move at your own pace, Captain. Move at your own pace."

  The door suddenly opened and Betsey Loring swept into the room with the confidence of someone who was in her own home. In a light blue dress that shimmered as she moved, she was more arresting than ever, but her comely features were disfigured by a frown. When she saw that they had a visitor, she conjured up a polite smile. After placing a solicitous kiss on her gloved hand, Howe introduced her to Skoyles.

  "I'm pleased to meet you, Captain Skoyles," she said.

  "The pleasure is all mine," he returned.

  "Are you joining us at the play this evening?"

  "I'm afraid not."

  "That's a pity. It's such a jolly little piece, and it pokes the most wondrous fun at George Washington. I saw it first in New York City and it made me laugh so. It was called The Battle of Brooklyn then."

  "General Howe has mentioned it to me."

  "It's been cleverly rewritten," explained Howe, "to reflect the latest developments in the conflict. The new title is The Battle of Brandywine."

  "Not a play that the rebels would care to see, then."

  "No, Captain. It mocks them from start to finish."

  "They deserve it," said Betsey, pouting, "for they are ready enough to laugh at us." She held up a piece of paper. "This was sent to me, and I found it in extremely bad taste."

  "What is it, Betsey?" asked Howe.

  "A cartoon about you and your brother, the admiral."

  "Let me see it."

  "I did not find it the least bit amusing," she said, handing it over, "and I think that the man who drew this should be severely punished."

  "He will be," promised Howe, recoiling as he studied the print. "His name is already on the list of people we need to arrest immediately. Ezekiel Proudfoot is living on borrowed time."

  "Proudfoot?" Skoyles was interested. "May I see it, General?"

  "Yes, it shows a warped and macabre sense of humor."

  Skoyles took the proffered cartoon and saw the two brothers dancing their hornpipe on the deck of a ship. Proudfoot's technique was inimitable, and Skoyles felt a rush of pride at his friend's artistic skill. It was mixed with a feeling of profound sadness, a recognition that they were fighting on opposite sides. Though the two brothers in the cartoon were drawn with comic exaggeration, Skoyles was not in the least tempted to smile. He had too much sympathy for the message that Proudfoot was trying to send.

  "The man deserves to be hanged, drawn, and quartered," said Howe, peevishly. "Where did you get this piece of filth, Betsey?"

  "It was delivered to me not ten minutes ago," she answered.

  "Who sent it?"

  "I've no idea. One of your servants said that he found it by the door. My name was on it, but, for the life of me, I cannot see why."

  "No more can I."

  "What happens in the war is none of my doing."

  "No, Mrs. Loring," said Skoyles, giving the print back to Howe, "but it does concern your husband, so, indirectly, there is a link with you. As commissary of prisons, Mr. Loring has a responsibility for the way that rebel captives are fed and treated."

  "Joshua would never let men be abused like that."

  "Nevertheless, General Washington has protested strongly about the care of rebel prisoners of war."

  "My husband is a man of integrity."

  "I don't mean to suggest otherwise."

  "He's too kind and considerate to do such a thing."

  "And he's very efficient at his job," said Howe testily, not wishing to be reminded of a husband whose wife was his mistress. "This must not be allowed to go on," he continued, scrunching up the paper and hurling it into the fire. "Find him for me, Captain Skoyles."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I want this scheming devil caught now! Hunt down this scoundrel who goes by the name of Ezekiel Proudfoot."

  "Good evening, Mr. Allen," he said. "I'm so glad that you could join me."

  "I've been looking forward to it all day, Lieutenant."

  "Did you know that George Washington appears in the play?"

  "In person?" asked Proudfoot, jokingly.

  "That would be priceless fun, were it possible."

  Brevet Lieutenant Matthew Jenkinson had a high-pitched laugh. He was a tall, spare young man with a pair of bulging brown eyes set in an otherwise pleasant face, and a prominent Adam's apple. Long before the play started, he had been drinking. Like most of the men present at the theater, he was in uniform, and it made Proudfoot feel both underdressed and rather more obtrusive than he wished to be. In fact, he aroused very little curiosity. It was the legion of pretty young women who commanded the attention of the soldiers. As Jenkinson and Proudfoot
took their seats, nobody even bothered to look in their direction.

  "I thought it was called The Battle of Brooklyn," said Proudfoot.

  "So did I, Mr. Allen."

  "Is this a new play in its stead?"

  "It's the old one, newly fashioned," said Jenkinson. "But no less full of hilarity, I am sure. Ah, here's the general."

  There was a buzz of interest and a round of applause as General Howe sailed in with Betsey Loring to take up a place of honor. Everyone talked excitedly. The sense of expectation was tangible. When the little orchestra began to play, there was loud clapping for the musicians.

  "Where are the actors from?" asked Proudfoot.

  "Various regiments. As it happens, I was in a play myself once."

  "Really?"

  "Yes," said Jenkinson, Adam's apple bouncing up and down like a billiard ball as he spoke. "It was the first play we staged when we moved into Manhattan."

  "What was the title?"

  "The Life and Death of Tom Thumb the Great."

  "And what role did you take, lieutenant?"

  "That of Noodle, one of the courtiers. I made everyone laugh."

  "I'm sure you did," said Proudfoot with an irony that went unnoticed by his companion. "I'll wager that you were Noodle to the life."

  The music stopped and an actor stepped out onstage in the uniform of a British general. Doffing his hat to the audience, he earned a generous round of applause and several shouts of encouragement. There was also some concerted stamping of feet. Proudfoot was fascinated. Never having been to a play before, he was surprised at the amiable rowdiness among the spectators. As the good-natured tumult faded, the prologue began.

  Tonight, good friends, to satisfy your taste,

  We'll offer you a downright English feast,

  A tale of love and loss and loyalty,

  Of dedication to our royalty.

  While rebels shiver up in Valley Forge,

  Here sit we in the warm and gorge on George,

  That's George the King of Britain's empire great,

  Not George the Traitor, who has sealed his fate

  By standing up against a redcoat line

  And getting drunk on too much Brandywine!

  Hoots of joy greeted the first mention of the battle, and it was some time before the noise died down sufficiently for the actor to continue. More and more opprobrium was attached to the name of George Washington, and each time it was welcomed with cheers and gibes by the spectators. Proudfoot was squirming in his seat at the patent injustice and ridicule that was being meted out to a man he venerated. In the company of Matthew Jenkinson, however, he was forced to add his own small contribution to the waves of laughter. At the end of the prologue, there was a near ovation.

  "Isn't it magnificent, Mr. Allen?" said Jenkinson.

  "I've never seen anything like it, Lieutenant."

  "I must have a copy of that prologue. It delights me so."

  "The playwright has clearly got the measure of his audience," said Proudfoot grimly, looking around at the happy faces. "He obviously knows what is the order of the day."

  His last remark went unheard beneath the thunderous applause for the parting of the curtains. The row of candles that acted as footlights illumined a backdrop on which a valley had been painted. Two British officers entered and discussed the forthcoming battle, taking the opportunity to vilify the rebel commander even more. But it was during the next scene that Proudfoot began to doubt his wisdom in agreeing to attend the play. To an explosion of abuse and catcalls, a bogus George Washington, in full uniform, came onstage with his mistress, a buxom wench who had a bewitching swing of her hips. Describing herself as the Whore of American Independence, she set off howls of delight.

  When he tried to woo her, she reminded him that her favors were not given freely and they began to haggle over the price. What gave the scene additional sparkle for most of the audience was that they knew that the couple onstage were really man and wife. The British major in the luckless role of Washington was married to the lady who was now trying to charge an entrance fee to her boudoir. It provoked some ribald humor among the less sober members of the audience, all of which increased, in the eyes of Ezekiel Proudfoot, the derision heaped upon Washington. The scene soon descended into such lewd comedy that he could bear to watch it no longer.

  The Battle of Brandywine was well into its second act before he was compelled to open his eyes. The alternating cheers and mockery that had accompanied every scene suddenly changed to fear and perturbation. Proudfoot looked up and witnessed an extraordinary performance. Five small furry animals were darting about wildly onstage, creating havoc and forcing the actors, playing a detachment of brave redcoats, to drop their muskets and take to their heels in disarray. Proudfoot realized that someone had just introduced five frantic squirrels into the action, producing a very different result to the Battle of Brandywine.

  Utter pandemonium followed. One squirrel leapt into the orchestra, landing on a drum and ripping it open with its sharp claws. Another tried to climb up the leg of the Whore of American Independence, making her screech in panic and forcing the erstwhile General Washington to resume his duties as a husband and burrow beneath her dress. The three other animals sought to escape by jumping into the audience, causing men to roar with anger, women to faint, and those near the door to quit the scene with undignified haste. Five squirrels had completely rewritten the play. As they dived between legs, hopped onto chairs, and, in one case, even climbed nimbly up a curtain before urinating over the horrified wife of a colonel, they scattered the audience here, there, and everywhere, turning entertainment into sheer frenzy and ruining the evening beyond recall.

  A broadside from forty cannons could not have cleared the theater so quickly. Spectators fought each other to reach the door first. Amid the shrieks, bellows, curses, and random collisions, Ezekiel Proudfoot was alone in being highly diverted by the spectacle.

  "You are so right, Lieutenant," he said to a white-faced Jenkinson. "The play is hilarious. I've never enjoyed an evening so much before."

  Miranda Hughes was reading a book by the light of a tallow candle when her husband returned. The broad smile on his face was confirmation that his jape had been successful.

  "Well?" she asked. "What happened, Pearsall?"

  "We emptied the place in under ten minutes," he replied, sweeping off his hat. "I did not see what happened inside, mark you—we'll have to wait for Reece Allen to report on that—but I watched them tearing out of the exit as if the hounds of hell were biting at their heels."

  "And all because of five tiny animals."

  "Five tiny, fearless, native-born, American squirrels. They scattered the British army and won the Battle of Brandywine for us."

  "How did you get them into the theater?"

  "The only way that I could, Miranda," he said. "I paid a lad to bring the animals out of hibernation for me, then I diverted the man at the door of the theater so that my little accomplice could sneak in. All that he had to do was to open the sack behind the scenes and shake out the squirrels. They were not happy at being woken up."

  "Did the boy get away safely?"

  "Yes, he escaped in the confusion, and judging by the way that the audience poured out into the street, the confusion inside the building was akin to chaos."

  "I doubt if they'll try to stage that particular play again."

  "With or without the squirrels."

  "Such a droll idea of yours, Pearsall," she said fondly. "Who would suspect that an upright bookseller could be capable of such a thing?"

  "The one place they will not search for the malefactor is here."

  Miranda wanted more detail, and he sat beside her to describe at length the exodus from the theater. Nobody had stood on ceremony, he told her. General Howe had had to elbow a way out for himself and his greatly disheveled mistress. Hats had been discarded, wigs surrendered, shoes cast off, purses abandoned willy-nilly, clothes torn indiscriminately, and all decorum
forgotten. The audience had been like a routed army, beating a hasty retreat.

  "Those five animals were symbolic," he claimed.

  "Of what?"

  "A small American army up against a much larger British force."

  "It will take more than squirrels to defeat the redcoats."

  "I know that, Miranda, but we struck a blow at them tonight."

  "A powerful one, by the sound of it," she said. "The last place they expected danger was in a theater. But if there was such a mad rush to get out of the building, people will have been hurt. I hope that Mr. Allen was not one of them."

  "I warned him beforehand of the disruption."

  "Did you mention the squirrels?"

  "No," said Hughes. "I did not wish to give the game away. Besides, I was not entirely sure that we would be successful."

  "But you were, Pearsall. You were triumphant."

  "Yes, Miranda," he agreed with a chortle. "I think I can say, without undue modesty, that I was."

  "As long as you were not seen and followed."

  "There was no fear of that. I hid in a doorway throughout."

  "And nobody saw you slipping away afterward?"

  "Who would have noticed me in that crowd? If I'd yelled out, at the top of my voice, that I was responsible for the attack, my confession would have gone unheard. People were too busy running away at full pelt to bother about me."

  "What about that lad you employed?"

  "He was well paid to keep his mouth shut."

  "Who was he?"

  "Simon Chatfield's son," said Hughes. "He was glad to help. His father was killed by the redcoats at Harlem Heights."

  "We can rely on his loyalty, then," said Miranda, reassured. "Well, it has been quite a day for us. We upset Mrs. Loring by sending her a print of that latest cartoon, and you stampeded General Howe and his officers out of a play. I think we can be well satisfied."

  "Satisfied, but not complacent. There's still so much to do."

  "I know, Pearsall. It's going to be a long, hard, bitter winter."

  He chuckled. "We must see how we can help to enliven it."