Valley Forge

by David Garland

  "Put him out of his misery!" a voice ordered.

  Two burly figures had come out of hiding to cover Skoyles with their muskets. The man who had shot the horse had slung one weapon over his shoulder so that he could train a second on their prisoner. He sounded angry.

  "Shoot him!" he demanded.

  Skoyles did as he was ordered, more out of pity for an animal that was clearly in great pain than because he was obeying a command. Aiming at the head, he put a bullet through the horse's brain at close quarters. After some more frantic convulsions, the animal finally lay still.

  "Good," said the man who has issued the order. "Now we know that your musket is not loaded. Throw it down, then see to Ira. Be careful with him. He's my brother."

  "Who are you?" Skoyles asked.

  "We'll ask the questions."

  The two men came slowly forward, keeping their weapons trained on Skoyles. The bigger of the two was clearly the leader, a tall, thickset man in his thirties with a rough beard, chewing tobacco as he spoke. His companion was much shorter but equally stocky, a swarthy individual in his forties with protruding brown eyes. Skoyles bent down to look at the fallen man, who was still unconscious. Blood had seeped from a wound on the side of his temple, but he was breathing normally.

  "How is he?" asked the leader.

  "He'll live," Skoyles replied.

  "In that case, so will you."

  He lashed out with his foot and knocked Skoyles on to his back, then he held the end of his musket inches away from his face. Skoyles looked up into a pair of green, unforgiving eyes. He then turned his head away as a stream of tobacco and phlegm was spat contemptuously at him. A second kick made him double up.

  "Search him, Aaron," said the leader.

  The swarthy man took Skoyles's knife and relieved him of the small amount of money he was carrying. The other man, meanwhile, was examining the injury to his brother, dabbing away at the blood with a handkerchief, before tying it around the head of the unconscious man to prevent any further bleeding. He shook his brother with tenderness.

  "Wake up, Ira," he said gently. "It's me, Jack. Wake up."

  Ira let out a low moan, and it was enough to convince his brother that he would soon recover. Crossing to the dead horse, he took the water canteen from the pommel and removed the stopper. When he poured the water over Ira's face, it produced a few drowsy curses.

  "He'll be fine," said Jack with a laugh. He stood over Skoyles. "Now we can see to you. What's your name?"

  "Dan Lukins," Skoyles replied.

  "Where are you from?"

  "Lancaster."

  "Where are you going?"

  "Philadelphia."

  "I think you're lying."

  "I'd never lie to someone holding a musket on me," said Skoyles.

  He had deliberately concealed his name, using instead that of a private who had once served in his regiment. Skoyles was not going to admit that he was a captain in the British army. If the men were members of a local militia, they might shoot him out of spite. They would not believe for one second that he had been to Valley Forge to receive his instructions about providing intelligence. Skoyles had wounded one of them. If provoked, the men would have no compunction about killing him.

  Rubbing his stomach where he had been kicked, he took stock of his captors. Ira was still badly dazed but the other two were vigilant. They glared at him as if he were an animal caught in a trap.

  "What do you want?" asked Skoyles. "I've nothing on me."

  "I heard you claim you was visiting friends," said Jack with a sneer. "What sort of a guest turns up on Christmas Day without any gifts? Would you do such a thing, Aaron?"

  "Not me, Jack," answered the other.

  "Nor me. Nor Ira, for that matter."

  "He's lying to us."

  "That leads me to one conclusion, Daniel Lukins. You didn't come from Lancaster at all, did you? I think you escaped from Valley Forge."

  "No," said Skoyles.

  "You're one more lousy deserter from the Continental Army."

  "I'm a hunter. I live in Lancaster."

  "Tell that to the firing squad when they shoot you."

  "Who are you?"

  "Me," returned the other. "I'm Jack Bedford. That's there's my brother, Ira. And this here," he went on, pointing to the swarthy man, "is our cousin, Aaron Pask. We catch deserters, you see. It's how we make a living. They fetch a good price."

  Skoyles was disgusted. "You're bounty hunters!"

  "It's an honorable profession," said Bedford.

  "Only for cowards. Honorable men prefer to fight."

  "Then why are you running away from the army?"

  "I'm on furlough from the Pennsylvania Militia."

  "Think we haven't heard that excuse before?" asked Bedford with a cackle. "Only last week, we had two lads who tried to talk their way out of a noose with the same story. But we were not fooled. We took them back to Valley Forge and got our blood money. General Washington will always buy deserters off us. He can make an example of them."

  "So can General Howe," Pask added.

  "Yes, he pays even better. But redcoats are harder to find. Why should they desert when they're nice and snug in Philadelphia? No," Bedford went on, "Valley Forge is where our money will be made."

  Skoyles did not relish the idea of returning there, especially as he would have to walk the ten miles on foot. It would not help his standing with General Washington or Major Clark if three ruffians dragged him back to Valley Forge. Something else concerned him. When Ira Bedford became fully conscious again, he would have a blinding headache and a desire to avenge himself on the person who had given it to him. If they believed him to be a deserter, they would not worry about the condition in which they handed him over.

  His escape had to be made soon. Skoyles waited for his chance.

  "Come on," said Bedford. "Let's tie him up."

  "I'd rather string him up from a tree," said Pask.

  "So would I, Aaron, but we don't get paid for dead deserters. They want him alive." He kicked Skoyles once more. "Or half alive, anyway."

  "On your feet!" Pask snarled.

  Taking hold of Skoyles's collar, he showed his strength by hoisting him up from the ground. Retrieving his hat, Skoyles dusted it off and put it on his head. Bedford jabbed him with his musket and the three of them walked into the trees. They came to a clearing where the horses were tethered. Pask rested his musket against a trunk and took a coil of rope from his saddlebag. By way of a jest, he tossed one end up over a sturdy bough and pretended to make a noose. It was the moment that Skoyles had waited for, and he sprang into action immediately. With one man distracted, he leapt quickly on the other, seizing Bedford's loaded musket and wrestling for possession.

  Skoyles brought his knee up hard into the man's groin, causing him to release the weapon and yell with fury. Swinging the musket deftly, Skoyles caught him on the point of the chin and dropped him like a stone. The whole exercise had taken seconds. Caught by surprise, Pask tried to make amends by grabbing his own musket. Before he could aim it, however, it was knocked upward by Skoyles, and the bullet was discharged harmlessly into the air. Pask screeched with rage and pulled out his knife, lunging at Skoyles with a ferocity that would have cut his stomach to ribbons.

  Years of training with a musket and bayonet now came into play. Skoyles parried the thrust expertly, moved smartly to one side so that Pask was thrown off balance, then stuck out a leg to trip him. As soon as his adversary hit the ground, Skoyles struck the back of his head with the butt of the musket and sent him into oblivion. It was not a time to linger. Untying two of the horses, he slapped them on the rump to send them galloping off, then he collected his knife and his money from Pask. With the loaded musket still in his hand, he mounted the remaining horse.

  One hand to his aching head, Ira Bedford came swaying drunkenly through the trees. He looked down at the motionless bodies.

  "Have you killed them?" he cried in dismay.

 
"No," said Skoyles, "but the next time they cross my path, I will."

  And he rode off hell for leather toward Philadelphia.

  "When was this?" asked Pearsall Hughes, hoarse with anxiety.

  "A couple of hours ago," said Proudfoot.

  "And where is Adam now?"

  "Still in custody. I was lucky that they didn't keep me locked up as well. We were caught like fish in a net, Mr. Hughes," he went on. "There was no hope of escape. When they discovered those plates up the chimney, I knew we were done for."

  After his release, Ezekiel Proudfoot had hurried to the bookshop and interrupted a family gathering. Hughes and his wife took their visitor into the kitchen so that they could talk in private. Sounds of jollity came from the drawing room to provide an incongruous descant to the solemn discussion that was taking place.

  "How ever did they find the press?" asked Miranda Hughes.

  "By accident," said her husband. "It was so well hidden."

  "It was no accident," Proudfoot corrected him. "Lieutenant Orde boasted about it to me. When he couldn't locate the press with a series of random searches, he tried something else. He began to look for the source of our paper, and he eventually ran our supplier to earth."

  "Linus Arrowsmith," said Miranda with sadness.

  "Yes," Hughes added. "Linus is the one owner of a paper mill in Philadelphia who is not a Tory. Ironic, isn't it? This city is the center of the papermaking industry, yet nobody else would dream of providing us with paper on which to print the Patriot."

  "Linus would never give us away, Pearsall."

  "He's like Adam Quenby—he'd die sooner than betray us."

  "It was one of the men who worked for Mr. Arrowsmith," Proudfoot explained. "He actually delivered the paper to us, so he knew the house where the press was kept. Lieutenant Orde bribed the fellow."

  "Traitor!"

  "What will happen to Linus?" wondered Miranda.

  "I have no idea, Mrs. Hughes," said Proudfoot.

  "If they know he was our supplier, he'll surely be arrested."

  "That may well be the case. I just wanted to tell you what happened and warn you to be on guard."

  "Why is that, Mr. Allen?" said Hughes.

  "Because I had to use your name," replied Proudfoot, "and there's a possibility that someone may come here to ask questions about me. I told the lieutenant that you were one of the few people in the city whom I'd met, and that you would identify me as Reece Allen."

  "Gladly. Did you tell them how we met?"

  "I said that I came to the shop, looking for books about farming."

  "Then that's the same tale I'll tell, if it comes to it."

  "Thank you, Mr. Hughes."

  "You be on your way, Mr. Allen," urged Miranda. "I think that you're very wise to get out of the city for a while."

  "We'll be in touch," said Hughes. "Once we find another press, we'll start to print the Patriot once more."

  Proudfoot waved a farewell. "Count on me for another lampoon."

  "Thank you for the warning, Mr. Allen."

  "Yes," said Miranda. "God bless you!"

  It was only as he was taking his leave of them that Proudfoot realized how fond he was of the bookseller and his wife. In spite of their many eccentricities, they were a wholly admirable couple, brave, talented, and dedicated to the notion of a republic. As he strode briskly along the street, Proudfoot hoped that it would not be too long before he was able to see them again. No such hopes could be entertained about Adam Quenby. Since he had played a crucial role in the publication of the newspaper, summary execution would soon follow. Deeply upset at the prospect, Proudfoot felt that the best way to serve the printer's memory was to ensure that The Pennsylvania Patriot was soon revived.

  Acutely aware that he was still in danger himself, he hurried on. When he got back to the King George Tavern, he found the landlord waiting for him. Washing his hands more strenuously than ever, Henry Gilby followed him up the stairs and into his room. The first thing that Proudfoot did was to reach under the bed and take out the satchel that was concealed there. His engraving tools were untouched.

  "They told me that you'd been arrested," said Gilby worriedly.

  "Yes," replied Proudfoot. "Fortunately, they let me go. I've decided to leave the city while I still can."

  "Very wise, Mr. Allen. What about our mutual friend?"

  "I've spoken to him."

  "Good."

  "How many redcoats came here?"

  "Three," said Gilby. "They demanded to search your room."

  "Then why didn't they find my satchel?"

  "I can't answer that, sir."

  "They must have looked under the bed."

  "They did. I was there when they conducted their search."

  "Then how did they miss this?" said Proudfoot, tapping his satchel.

  "Very easily."

  "Were all three of them blind?"

  "No, Mr. Allen," said the landlord. "They were simply misled."

  "Misled?"

  "Yes. When they burst into my tavern and ordered me to take them to the room occupied by Reece Allen, I showed them to the one that you had on your first visit here." He grinned happily. "It's further along the landing. I gave you a different room this time."

  "Thank heaven you did, Mr. Gilby!"

  "The gentleman staying in there at the moment is a merchant from Brunswick, New Jersey. They found nothing in his belongings that made them suspicious."

  Proudfoot shook his hand. "That was very clever of you."

  "You learn a few tricks in my occupation, sir."

  "I can't tell you how grateful I am, Mr. Gilby."

  "Shall we see you back here some day?" said the landlord.

  "Oh, yes," promised the other. "But not until you change the name of the tavern and burn that detestable signboard. King George will not rule over this city forever. You have my word on that."

  By the time Jamie Skoyles got back to Philadelphia, it was early evening and darkness was falling. Tired and bruised after the day's escapades, he first rode to his lodging so that he could wash off the dust of travel and change into his uniform. The more he thought about the three men who had ambushed him, the angrier he got. Soldiers on both sides were risking their lives every day. Thousands had died, others had been hideously maimed. All that Jack Bedford and his confederates saw in the war was an opportunity for profit, rounding up those who felt compelled to desert and taking them back to certain and ignominious death. Skoyles had nothing but contempt for such ruthless parasites.

  General Howe had insisted on hearing any new intelligence as soon as possible. Skoyles therefore went off to call on him, even though he expected that the commander would still be celebrating Christmas. He found Howe in his headquarters, sharing a drink with Hugh Orde and smiling with delight as if he had just won a major battle. Howe rushed across the room to greet the newcomer.

  "Come in, Captain," he said cordially. "We've splendid tidings."

  "Really, sir?"

  "Lieutenant Orde will tell you his news. He's done it at last."

  "Yes," said Orde, pleased at the opportunity to earn more praise. "I managed to track down the press on which that deplorable newspaper, The Pennsylvania Patriot, was printed. The odious publication is no more. The printer—one Adam Quenby—is locked up in chains."

  "Well done, Lieutenant," said Skoyles.

  "Thank you."

  "How did you discover the location of the press?"

  Orde went on to repeat what he had told General Howe, gaining a fresh batch of compliments from his happy commander. Skoyles was interested to hear that two people had been arrested in the cellar.

  "Who was the second man?" he asked.

  "Mr. Reece Allen," said the lieutenant.

  "Was he the editor?"

  "Alas, no. That villain is still on the loose."

  "We'll soon catch him," Howe affirmed confidently.

  "Mr. Allen is a farmer from Massachusetts," continued Orde. "He's the nep
hew of the printer. He's in the city because he wishes to buy land in the vicinity. His wife hails from Reading, it seems, and has always wanted to return to Pennsylvania." He hunched his soldiers. "It was a big disappointment, really."

  "Why is that?" said Skoyles.

  "Because I had the feeling that he might be Ezekiel Proudfoot."

  "Oh?"

  "What a stroke of good fortune that would have been!"

  "Yes," said Howe. "I could have hanged him beside the printer and danced around the pair of them with glee. Proudfoot is the man I despise most. The insolent rogue had the gall to ridicule me, and nobody does that with impunity."

  "I'll get him one day, General," said Orde.

  Skoyles was curious. "What made you think that you'd already done so, Lieutenant? Was it because you found him in that cellar?"

  "It was the fact that he tried to run away."

  "Did he have an explanation for that?"

  "Yes, Captain. He said that his uncle bundled him out of there because he knew that he was in trouble himself, and did not wish his nephew to be arrested as well, when he was in no way connected to the newspaper."

  "Can you give me a description of Reece Allen?"

  "Why do you ask that?" said Howe.

  "Because I once caught a glimpse of Ezekiel Proudfoot," said Skoyles, careful once again not to reveal that he and Proudfoot were old friends. "He was captured at the battle of Hubbardton, and we held him prisoner for a short while until he escaped."

  "Reece Allen did not look like a silversmith," admitted Orde. "He was a tall, rangy, round-shouldered man with a pockmarked face."

  "Age?"

  "In his thirties."

  "What color hair?"

  "Brown."

  It sounded remarkably like a description of Ezekiel Proudfoot, but Skoyles did not say so. He needed more detail to be certain.