"Most men of your age would be sitting at home by the fire."
"More fool they! I joined up to teach young whippersnappers like Novus here how to fight. Someone has to knock sense into their heads."
"Do you really want to spend a winter at Valley Forge?"
Elliott stood at attention. "I'll do whatever General Washington asks of me," he said loyally, "and so will every man jack of us here."
"That's not true, Jed," Kane asserted spiritedly. "A lot of us would rather give up and go home until spring."
"Fair-weather soldiers!"
"All that keeps me here is the fear of being shot for desertion."
"Ye'll not run away while I'm here, Novus," the other warned. "Or I'll come after ye and put a bullet in that yellow belly of yours."
Skoyles encouraged the argument between them, throwing in an occasional remark whenever it began to falter. In the process, he learned a great deal about the lot of the common soldier, and the steady decrease of numbers since they had arrived at Valley Forge. When they were on the verge of trading blows, Skoyles stepped in to calm them down.
"Go easy," he said, holding them apart. "You're comrades in arms, you fools. Save your strength for the enemy."
"He started it," Kane alleged, pointing at the old man.
"No, I didn't," cried Elliott. "It was ye, Novus Kane. I'm ashamed to sleep in the bunk below ye."
Kane grinned inanely. "You're only there because you didn't have the strength to climb to the top bunk—not without a ladder!"
Elliott reacted angrily to the gibe, but Skoyles pushed them apart.
"Let's have that lesson in shooting, shall we?" he said firmly. "Is your musket loaded, Novus?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then let me see you hit that post."
He pointed to a wooden post that marked the end of a row of cabins. It was less than thirty yards away, but, since it was no more than three inches wide, it was not an easy target. Kane was honest.
"I'm not sure that I can, sir."
"Then give me the musket," said Elliott, trying to take it from him. "I could hit that post with my eyes closed."
"In that case, you need no further instruction," said Skoyles, easing him away. "Leave it to Novus. He's the one I promised to teach." He patted Kane on the shoulder. "Go on—in your own time."
Kane shifted his feet uneasily. Knowing he was a poor marksman, he was made even more nervous by the fact that several other soldiers had drifted across to watch him. The last thing he wanted at that moment was an audience. If he missed, Elliott and the others would taunt him unmercifully. He felt sick. Even in the cold, the palms of his hands began to sweat.
"Ignore everyone else," Skoyles cautioned him. "Just shoot."
"Imagine it's a redcoat, Novus," Elliott called out.
Kane tried to block out the various gibes, comments, and pieces of advice that the other soldiers threw at him. He did not even hear the bets that were being laid on his chances of success. The firing of one shot had taken on the significance of an event. Getting down on one knee, he put the stock of the musket into his shoulder and took aim. His hands were now running with moisture and his eyesight was blurred. It took him a long time before he felt able to pull the trigger.
There was a flash, a popping sound, and the musket ball shot out and missed the target. Jedediah Elliott led the howls of derision. Skoyles raised a hand to stop the noise.
"This is how it should be done, Novus," he said.
After his meeting with Major Clark, his own musket had been returned to him, and Skoyles now lifted it into position and took aim. It was only a second before he fired, scoring a direct hit on the post and sending splinters of wood spinning in the air. The men broke into spontaneous applause.
"Load your musket, Novus," said Skoyles. "The way I showed you."
Kane did as he was told. Skoyles, meanwhile, loaded his own weapon with such speed and precision that the soldiers were struck dumb. It took Kane over three times as long to reload. Skoyles looked around the group and picked out the youngest of them. He beckoned him over with a crook of his finger.
"You look as if you can run, lad," he said, whisking off his own hat to hand to the boy. "Set it up on the post so that Novus has something bigger to aim at."
Taking the hat, the boy raced off and put it on top of the post before darting back to the others. When it was evident that Kane would fire again, more wagers were immediately offered.
"Do I have to, sir?" Kane protested.
"I hit the post," said Skoyles. "Show them that you can do it."
"But you have a better weapon."
"Then use it instead."
Skoyles handed him the Brown Bess and took the other musket in exchange. He whispered something in Kane's ear. Heartened by the advice, Kane went through the same routine again, getting down on one knee and waiting until he had steadied himself. When he fired this time, he had more success, grazing the side of the post and earning some grudging cheers from the audience. After congratulating him, Skoyles took aim with the other weapon and fired, hitting the top of his hat and sending it flying through the air.
"You see?" said Skoyles over the sound of appreciative clapping. "It's not the musket, it's the man firing it that makes all the difference."
"I wish that I could do that, sir," said Kane, awestruck by the demonstration. "What am I doing wrong?"
"I'll show you, Novus."
"Thank you."
"First, tell me this. Which musket did you prefer?"
"This one," said Kane, patting the weapon that he held.
"Then it's yours to keep," said Skoyles with a smile. "As long as you promise not to fire it at me next time I approach the camp."
The interview was held in the parlor of the house where Lieutenant Hugh Orde was staying. Sitting at a table with pen and paper before him, he was flanked by two armed redcoats. Ezekiel Proudfoot stood in front of the table. To ensure that The Pennsylvania Patriot was never published again, Orde was more than happy to miss the Christmas festivities. He was questioning the men separately so that he could pounce on any discrepancies in their respective answers.
"I knew that I would catch you sooner or later," said Orde smugly.
"But I have nothing to do with the newspaper," Proudfoot insisted.
"I only have your word for that, Mr. Allen."
"Why should I lie to you?"
"Your uncle did. In fact, he told me nothing but lies. He kept denying that he knew anything about the newspaper even though we found those two plates in his possession, and a printing press that was set up for the next issue."
"Until today, I'd never heard of The Pennsylvania Patriot."
"Oh, I think you did. I fancy that you're one yourself."
"I come from Massachussetts, Lieutenant."
"Then what are you doing here?"
"I told you," said Proudfoot. "I'm looking for land to buy. When my father died, my elder brother, Silas, inherited the farm. I was left some money to start up on my own and I decided to look in this area."
"Why?"
"My wife was born in Reading, sir. She always hankered after coming back to Pennsylvania one day."
It was not true, but Proudfoot spoke with such apparent sincerity that it sounded as if it were. Blending fact and invention, he went on to talk about his life on the farm, giving details of crops he had grown, and animals he had reared, that could only come from someone with firsthand experience of both. He was pleased to hear the first sign of doubt in the voice of his interrogator.
"It seems that you really are a farmer, Mr. Allen," he conceded. "But the fact remains that you were caught with the printer responsible for the publication of a rebel newspaper."
"He's my uncle, Lieutenant."
"Then you must have been aware of his political sympathies."
"Of course," said Proudfoot, "but I certainly didn't share them."
"Did he talk about The Pennsylvania Patriot to you?"
"No, Lieutena
nt. We were too busy discussing family matters. He wanted to hear news of my mother and my two brothers."
"Why did you make a run for it when we arrived?"
"You scared the daylights out of me."
"If you were innocent of any crime, you could have stayed."
"Uncle Adam pushed me away," Proudfoot explained. "He said that you'd be after him, and that there was no need for me to be tarred with the same brush. He more or less threw me out of there."
Hugh Orde wrote something down on the paper in front of him. He looked up at the prisoner again, weighing him up and trying to decide if he was dissembling or telling the truth.
"You say that Lieutenant Jenkinson will vouch for you?"
"Yes," Proudfoot replied.
"How did you come to be acquainted with him?"
"We met at the tavern where I'm staying."
Orde glanced at his notes. "The King George?"
"That's it. He was kind enough to take me to the performance of a play the other evening—The Battle of Brandywine."
"Yes," said the other, grimacing slightly. "I was there myself."
"I'm sorry that it was cut short. I liked the play."
"So you enjoyed the fun that was poked at General Washington?"
"Very much."
"I see."
"It was a real treat for me," said Proudfoot. "The truth of it is that I'd never been to a theater before. When you work on a farm, you have no time to see plays—not that I saw all of this one, mind you."
"A most unfortunate turn of events."
"People charged out like a herd of wild horses."
"You were obviously present at the performance, Mr. Allen," said Orde, "but I'd like to hear confirmation from Lieutenant Jenkinson that he actually took you. I've also sent a man to the King George Tavern to see if you really are lodging there."
Proudfoot was worried. He hoped that Jenkinson would speak up for him, and he knew that Henry Gilby would defend him to the hilt. What disturbed him was the thought that soldiers might search his room at the tavern and find his engraving tools. They were hardly the sort of items that a farmer would be carrying. If his true identity were revealed, Proudfoot had no doubt that he would be either hanged or shot. The same fate would surely befall Adam Quenby.
"Did your uncle, by any chance, mention a man named Ezekiel Proudfoot?" asked Orde.
"No, Lieutenant."
"Have you ever heard the name before?"
"Never. Who is he?"
"A silversmith who has lent his meager skills to the rebel cause. His cartoons appeared in that newspaper. They were very offensive."
"It pains me to hear that my uncle was involved in this business."
"He gave you no hint of it?"
"None at all, Lieutenant."
Orde scrutinized his face and did his best to read his mind. Proudfoot remained calm under his searching gaze. Before the questions could continue, there was a tap on the door and Brevet Lieutenant Matthew Jenkinson was shown into the room. After being introduced to Hugh Orde, the newcomer, clearly inebriated, turned to shake hands warmly with Proudfoot. He put a companionable arm around him.
"Mr. Allen is a splendid fellow, Lieutenant," he said. "He's a farmer, looking to buy land nearby. We've had some good times together."
"Really?" said Orde.
"Yes, I'm happy to speak up on his behalf."
"You've never had any cause to suspect him?"
"Of what?"
"Siding with the enemy."
"Good Lord, no! Reece Allen is a deep-dyed Tory."
"Are you certain of that?" Orde pressed.
"Bet a month's pay on it, old chap."
Jenkinson emitted his high-pitched laugh. Proudfoot could smell the alcohol on his breath, and he knew that the arm around his shoulder was not merely evidence of friendship. Jenkinson needed someone to help him stay on his feet. Orde opened the door and showed him out.
"There you are," said Proudfoot, gaining in confidence. "One of your own men is ready to speak up for me."
"A more sober testimony would have been preferable."
"It is Christmas Day, Lieutenant."
"Is there nobody else who could vouch for you?"
"Henry Gilby, the landlord at the King George Tavern."
"My men will talk to him," said Orde. "If you've been in the city for some time, you must have met other people who will remember you."
"Pearsall Hughes would certainly do that."
"And who is he?"
"A bookseller. I've been to his shop a couple of times."
Orde's eyebrow lifted. "A farmer so interested in books?" he said. "Isn't that rather unusual, Mr. Allen?"
"Not at all, lieutenant. We are always trying to keep abreast of the latest farming methods. The first thing my father did when he took over a farm was to write to England for a copy of Horse-Hoeing Husbandry."
"What's that?"
"A book by Jethro Tull. It explains the advantages of sowing crops in lines. My father made us all read it from cover to cover, and it was not the only book in his little library."
Proudfoot listed several titles before Orde waved him into silence. There was another knock on the door. A soldier entered and spoke to the lieutenant in a corner of the room. The man had just returned from the King George Tavern and Proudfoot wished that he could catch what he was saying. When both of them stared at him with muted hostility, his stomach heaved. He felt certain that his engraving tools had been found. Hugh Orde dispatched the soldier, then came to confront Proudfoot.
"Well," he said with manifest disappointment, "it appears that you may, after all, be the person whom you claim to be, Mr. Allen. When my men searched your room at the tavern, they found nothing untoward."
"Does that mean I'm released, Lieutenant?"
"For the time being."
"Thank you, sir."
"Make sure that you stay in Philadelphia," Orde warned him. "We may well wish to talk to you again in due course."
"I'll be here until well into the New Year," said Proudfoot, already planning to leave that very day. "You know where you can find me."
As he set out on his return journey, Jamie Skoyles had plenty of time to reflect on his second visit to Valley Forge. There had been gains and losses. The real loss had been the severing of his direct link with George Washington, and he was dismayed that he would not even be allowed to go to the encampment again. His only contact with the Continental Army would be by means of coded letters. As a consequence, he would be providing information while getting none in return. Skoyles resolved that he would find another method of gathering intelligence about the enemy.
The gains were numerous. He now had a much clearer idea of the structure of the camp and its fortifications. But it was his conversation with some of the rank and file that had yielded the best results. After his display of marksmanship, they had been only too keen to talk to him. Skoyles learned that the choice of Valley Forge was essentially that of the commander in chief, and that his generals had strongly advocated other sites for the winter cantonment. Many had favored Wilmington, while some had argued that a line between Lancaster and Reading would be the easiest to defend against a surprise attack.
Skoyles was intrigued to hear frank opinions about the various commanders. Major General Wayne, a wealthy Pennsylvania tanner, was respected, though it was felt by all that his nickname of Mad Anthony was well deserved. There was praise, too, for Major General Henry Knox, a bookseller from Maine, who had no knowledge of artillery when he was put in charge of it, but who had learned with surprising speed. And so it went on: Nathanael Greene, John Sullivan, Enoch Poor, Baron de Kalb, George Weeden, William Maxwell, Charles Scott, James Mitchell Varnum, and John Armstrong of the Pennsylvania Militia—all were discussed and compared. There were also some derogatory comments about Charles Lee, the man with whom Skoyles had been earlier incarcerated.
There was patent dissension among the generals, and that could only get worse as conditions at th
e encampment deteriorated. None of the rank and file wanted to spend winter at Valley Forge. They lacked real spirit. It was news that would bring immense pleasure to General Howe. The man about whom Skoyles would like to have heard more was the Marquis de Lafayette, an intrepid French adventurer, who had inherited a fortune, then spent some of it buying a ship so that he could sail to America and join what he saw as a fight for freedom. Still only twenty, and serving entirely at his own expense, the young officer had fought with distinction at Brandywine until he was shot in the leg.
All in all, Skoyles decided, the Continental Army was a demoralized collection of men with no shortage of courage or determination. But it was weakened by a Board of War that was unable to supply them adequate food and clothing, and had a commander in chief who was being hampered by quarrelsome colleagues and sniped at by ambitious rivals. It would be cheering news to take back to General Howe. On balance, Skoyles concluded, his visit had been a success. The gains outweighed the losses substantially.
He had traveled over ten miles before he encountered anyone else. Cresting a hill, he rode down the slope toward a stand of trees. A man was sitting idly on a fallen trunk, eating something. When he got closer, Skoyles saw that it was a hunk of bread. The man picked up a flagon that stood beside him and offered it to Skoyles.
"Will you share a drink with me, friend?" he asked.
"No, thanks," said Skoyles.
"Where are you heading?"
"Philadelphia."
"Do you live there?"
"No, I'm visiting friends for Christmas."
Skoyles kept one hand on his musket. The man was young, fresh-faced and affable, but there was something about him that alerted the British soldier. He wore a tattered cape over his hunting shirt and breeches, and his hat was set back on his head. Though he had a broad smile on his face, his eyes were cold and watchful. Skoyles was being sized up. The man got slowly to his feet.
"Have you time to stop and talk?" he inquired.
"No, I'd best be on my way."
"You can spare me five minutes."
"I've a long way to go," said Skoyles.
"That's for us to decide, my friend."
The man suddenly reached out, grabbing the reins with one hand and trying to snatch the musket with the other. Skoyles was too fast for him. Taking a foot from his stirrup, he kicked his attacker hard, then, as the man reeled away, he used the butt of his weapon to knock him senseless with a single blow. When he tried to ride off, however, a shot was fired from the trees, and his horse let out a loud neigh of agony before collapsing in a heap on the ground. Skoyles had to dismount rapidly before he was crushed under the heavy body. The animal was not dead. It was twitching frenziedly on the grass.
Valley Forge Page 22