There was worse to come. A cavalry regiment that had been lurking well behind the foraging party now spurred their horses forward. The thunder of hooves and the sight of raised swords in the distance induced further panic in the trees. Though their officers bellowed at them to hold their positions, several of the rebels lost their nerve and fled. Many who stayed were buffeted and trampled by the bolting herd. Those who dodged the animals found themselves facing a concerted volley from the redcoat infantry and the threat of a cavalry charge. The situation was hopeless. All control was lost. Abandoning any hope of success, they fired for a second time, then ran off in all directions.
Young and nimble, Novus Kane was able to climb the slope with relative ease. He soon became aware that Jedediah Elliott was not with him and he looked back to see the old man laboring up the incline. He ran downhill to offer him a helping hand, then he more or less dragged Elliott behind him. The higher they went, the thicker the trees became, giving them a degree of safety at last from the pursuing cavalry. Retreat was always a humiliation, but one element of it was particularly irksome this time. When they reached the top of the hill, the Americans had to run past the very animals they had come to catch. Lost and bewildered, cattle, sheep, and hogs were wandering aimlessly around, looking for something on which they could graze.
The rebels kept going for half a mile before they felt able to stop for a rest. All of them were panting for breath, but Elliott was wheezing noisily as he flung himself down on the grass. Putting his musket aside, Kane sat down beside him.
"What happened, Jed?" he asked.
The old man needed minutes before he was able to answer.
"They were expecting us," he gasped.
Coming to Philadelphia had given Elizabeth Rainham two wonderful sources of pleasure. She was reunited with Jamie Skoyles, and she had found, in Lucy Tillman, the sort of female friend she had lacked since she had left England. Married to Captain Tillman of the 17th Dragoons, Lucy was a charming young woman in her early twenties, bright, talkative, and eminently trustworthy. Elizabeth felt that she could confide in her and, by the same token, Lucy knew that she could entrust secrets to her new friend. Both women came from military families, grew up in cathedral towns—Elizabeth in Canterbury, Lucy in Winchester—and had a passion for riding. And they shared many other common interests.
Days after her arrival in the city, Elizabeth was being introduced to its array of shops by Lucy Tillman. They began with a milliner and went on from there. As they looked in the window of a dress shop, Lucy chose the moment to probe into her companion's private life.
"Captain Skoyles is such a daring man," she said with a smile of appreciation, "and you showed courage as well, Elizabeth. I don't know that I'd have been brave enough to escape the way you did."
"I had complete faith in Jamie."
"I have complete faith in Roderick, but I'd think twice if he told me that I had to sail along the Atlantic coast in a fishing boat. I can't swim."
"Neither can I," admitted Elizabeth.
"Then you're even braver than I thought. It must have been an amazing experience—frightening as well."
"It was, Lucy, but it brought us closer together."
"You make such a handsome couple."
"Thank you."
"Marrying a captain is something that I can recommend."
"It obviously suits you."
"It does, Elizabeth. I love army life. I was born to it." She gave Elizabeth a sly nudge. "Have you set the day yet?"
"No, Lucy. There's no chance of a wedding in the near future."
"Why not? There are plenty of churches here."
"That's not the problem."
"The army has dozens of chaplains to choose from. Look at me—I was married in Boston when it was still in British hands. I simply couldn't bear not to be Roderick's wife."
"Our opportunity will come in due course."
"Ah," said Lucy with a smile, "I understand. You want a wedding in Canterbury Cathedral with all the accoutrements. You and Captain Skoyles would rather wait until you can get back to England."
"Not at all," said Elizabeth. "When the war is over, we intend to stay here and buy land. It could be many years before I return to Kent again. Jamie and I will be married in America."
"Just like me and Roderick."
They went into the shop and inspected the various fabrics that were on display. It was something that Elizabeth had not been able to enjoy for over six months. After all the dangers she had come through, she found it strangely refreshing to do something as pleasant and ordinary as visiting a shop. Lucy waited until they came out into the street again before she picked up the conversation.
"Roderick thinks the war will be over by next spring," she said.
"I wish that I could be that sanguine," remarked Elizabeth.
"The rebels are on their knees. Roderick came back from a foraging expedition in the Brandywine Valley yesterday. According to him, when the rebels tried to ambush them, his dragoons responded so swiftly that they chased the enemy away. They ran like startled rabbits."
"But they always come back to fight again somehow, Lucy."
"A lot of them won't be doing that. Deserters are coming in all the time. The town jail is full of prisoners of war. General Washington is so short of food in Valley Forge that all he could afford to send to the prisoners here for Christmas was one cow and a supply of flour."
"Yes," said Elizabeth, "Jamie has been to Valley Forge."
Lucy was astonished. "How ever did he manage that?"
"He went on a special mission."
"You mean, he actually got inside the enemy camp?"
"Twice, Lucy. The first time, he even spoke to General Washington himself. It's quite primitive there, apparently. They've had to build a log town. Jamie says that living there will be an ordeal when winter really starts to bite."
"That will teach them to take up arms against us."
"I still don't believe that it will break their spirit."
"Then I hope you're wrong," said Lucy airily, "because I want to be there when you and Captain Skoyles get married. The sooner this war can be brought to an end, the sooner the pair of you can become husband and wife."
"I'm looking forward to that moment very much."
"How will your parents take the news?"
"I haven't told them yet," Elizabeth confessed. "All that they know is that I broke off my engagement to a major in the 24th Foot. Letters take such a long time to reach England. My parents will not even be aware that I escaped from the Convention army yet. It was in a letter I sent from New York City."
"That, at least, will bring them great cheer."
"It will, Lucy, though I gave them no details."
"No flight at dawn on a boat? No thrilling escape from that ambush? No hiding on a roof from men who were trying to kill you? Honestly," said Lucy with a giggle, "I'd have described every last second of it. My parents would have had a dozen pages to read."
"My situation is a little different."
They had been strolling along the street as they spoke, attracting many admiring glances from passing men. When they came to another shop, Lucy put out a hand to stop Elizabeth.
"Oh, we must go in here," she said. "It's my favorite bookshop. It's run by a dear man called Pearsall Hughes, and he knows exactly what to recommend for light reading. Come in and meet him, Elizabeth."
It was New Year's Eve before Jamie Skoyles made his first visit to the funeral parlor. General Howe had provided him with information to pass on, and he had transposed it into the code that he had learned. Skoyles set out on the frosty morning of Wednesday, December 31, 1777, to deliver his letter. The funeral parlor occupied a corner site. There were stables at the rear, and as Skoyles approached, he could hear the horses neighing and whinnying as they were being harnessed for another funeral. While the war had brought ruination for many businesses, undertakers were among those who had prospered most. The Quakers who ran the establishment migh
t espouse peace, but it did not prevent them from helping to bury the countless victims of war.
Skoyles had expected to slip the letter through the door. When he got there, however, it opened and a middle-aged woman in the distinctive attire of the Society of Friends gave him a quiet smile of welcome.
"Good morning, sir," she said.
"Good morning?"
"Can we help you?"
"I'd like to leave this, if I may," he said, offering the letter.
"Thank you," she said, taking it from him.
"Have you any idea when it might be collected?"
"No, sir. Will that be all?"
"Yes, thank you."
The woman closed the door gently in his face. He had written no name or address on the envelope, but was assured that it would nevertheless reach its destination. Skoyles had been wrong to ask for details of collection. Those who worked at the funeral parlor clearly exercised great tact. Turning on his heel, he walked away, knowing that he might be watched from inside the building. As soon as he turned a corner, however, he stopped and waited. If someone came to pick up his envelope in the next couple of hours, Skoyles was eager to know who it was.
Every so often, therefore, he would take up a position from which he could see the front and side entrances to the premises. When the funeral procession began, Skoyles stepped out of sight and waited until the cortege has passed on its way to the church. While he maintained a long, lonely, vigil in the cold, he had plenty to occupy his mind. The unheralded arrival of Elizabeth Rainham had delighted him at first, but two slight drawbacks had now appeared.
The first was that they had to live apart. For the sake of propriety, and in order to preserve Elizabeth's reputation, they had to remain in their separate lodgings. The days spent together during their escape had included nights in each other's arms, albeit in fraught circumstances. That intimacy was now denied them. In a city where General Howe openly flaunted his mistress, Skoyles and Elizabeth had to behave with more decorum. Private moments together were scarce. It was vexing.
The second drawback was one he had not foreseen. As long as Elizabeth had been in New York City, he had taken risks with his usual audacity. Now that she was in Philadelphia, awaiting his return every time he left, he felt a slight sense of restraint. Her presence reminded him to take more care. Fear of upsetting Elizabeth had also made him suppress certain facts about his adventures. Though he had told her about the two visits to Valley Forge, he did not divulge the information that he had almost been shot dead by pickets, and that he had been caught by bounty hunters who had mistaken him for a rebel deserter.
Instead of remaining in one place all the time, he strode up and down the street at intervals, making sure that there were no significant gaps of time in his surveillance. A few people did visit the funeral parlor, but they always seemed to be potential customers, in mourning for dead family members or friends. It occurred to him that one of the distressed people who entered and left the parlor could easily have collected his envelope, but he did not think so.
After almost two hours, Skoyles felt someone touch his arm. Then a small boy thrust a note into his hand before scurrying off down the street. Skoyles opened the slip of paper. The message was terse.
GO AWAY. WE WILL CONTACT YOU.
He had been seen.
Major General Marie Joseph Paul Yves Roche Gilbert de Notier, Marquis de Lafayette, was a slight young man, rather unimpressive in appearance, yet having the unmistakable air of a French aristocrat. As he entered the headquarters at Valley Forge on New Year's Day, his wounded leg was still heavily bound and he needed a walking stick. Ezekiel Proudfoot had met him before and been impressed by everything that he did. Like George Washington, the French adventurer insisted on undergoing the same suffering as his men. At the start of another year of possible conflict, Proudfoot had come to see if there were any tidings of a press that could print The Pennsylvania Patriot once again. He arrived on the heels of Lafayette, who was treated with an almost paternal affection by the commander in chief. The two guests occupied chairs around the fire in the office. Washington sat between them.
"Do you have news for me, General?" asked Proudfoot.
"Indeed, I do," Washington replied. "You are to make your way to Germantown as soon as possible."
"Germantown? But it's crawling with redcoats."
"So was Philadelphia, but it took them a long time to find you."
Washington broke off to explain to Lafayette how the printing press had finally been located and put out of action. Proudfoot had escaped, but the printer had not been so fortunate. Unrepentant to the last, Adam Quenby had been hanged the day after Christmas.
"We must print the Patriot again," Washington went on, reaching for a drawing on his desk, "if only to gain a wider audience for Ezekiel's latest work." He handed it to Lafayette. "This is what happened at a play that was staged in Philadelphia."
"I call it 'Redcoats in Retreat,'" said Proudfoot.
Lafayette looked at the drawing and laughed. "I like it," he said, pointing to the central figure in the unceremonious exit from the theater. "This is General Howe, I think. Is very funny."
"The lady being pulled along behind him is Mrs. Loring, his mistress. They ran past me as if they were leaving a powder magazine that was about to explode. I didn't have to invent anything," Proudfoot went on with a grin. "That's exactly what happened."
"Then we must show it to the men."
"We will," said Washington, "now that we have another press. If the Patriot is printed in Germantown, I'm sure that Major Clark will find a way to smuggle copies into Philadelphia. He's a real magician."
"Major Clark is a fine man," said Lafayette. "He has many spies. We are lucky, I think. The British, they do not have a Major Clark."
"He's incomparable. My only concern is that he never knows when to stop. He has great energy but it has limits, and I'm afraid he may push himself beyond those limits."
"The same might equally be said of you, General," Proudfoot pointed out. "Nobody at Valley Forge works as hard as you."
"Is true," agreed Lafayette. "Even you must rest."
Washington shook his head. "When there is so much to do?" he said. "I have no time for leisure. Someone has to keep shouting at Congress or they will forget that we are here."
"The way we've been neglected is deplorable," said Proudfoot. "If it were not for the generosity of people like the marquis, who have paid out of their own pockets for food, clothing, and blankets for the men, our situation would be desperate."
"The Board of War, it has let us down," said Lafayette.
"Badly."
"Do they want us to lose?"
"I sometimes think so," said Proudfoot with passion. "If this war has taught me nothing else, it's taught me to despise politicians. They not only do all they can to hamper the army, they even have the gall to criticize its commander in chief." Fearing that he had spoken out of turn, he glanced at Lafayette. "Excuse me. I didn't mean that."
"No, no," insisted Washington. "Do go on, Ezekiel. I have no secrets from the marquis. It might interest you to know that he was approached by Thomas Conway as well."
Proudfoot was shocked. "Really?"
"I was one of many," said Lafayette.
"It's a proper cabal, then."
"That's what we call it, Ezekiel," said Washington resignedly. "The Conway Cabal. He denies it, of course, but General Conway is at the heart of it. He wants me replaced by General Gates, so he has been intriguing with certain members of Congress."
"He try to draw me into it," said Lafayette with a gesture of disgust. "He promise me that, if I speak up for General Gates, I will lead a division into Canada when the time comes. I tell them, already we have a commander, who is the best man."
"Thank you, Marquis."
"How can Congress appoint such a disloyal character as inspector general?" asked Proudfoot angrily. "He should be dismissed for daring to plot against his commander in chief."
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p; "It's one more cross to bear," said Washington, his jaw tightening, "and it's very tiresome. Unfortunately, General Gates is by no means the only man who would like to supplant me. There's even a candidate from Europe who wants to unseat George Washington."
"Oh—and who is that?"
"The Comte de Broglie. The marquis knows him well."
"He was my teacher," said Lafayette with obvious embarrassment. "Everything I learned about war came from him."
"He is a veteran soldier," Washington explained, "and a former head of the French secret service. Then Silas Deane, one of our envoys in Paris, started whispering in his ear, and told him that he could be the new commander in chief of the Continental Army."
Proudfoot was aghast. "A Frenchman in charge of the fate of the American colonies?" He raised an apologetic hand. "I'm sorry, Marquis. We are honored to have you with us, but I do not think our soldiers would fight for someone they have never heard of. The French are not even involved in this war."
"At the moment," said Lafayette. "That could change."
"Yes," Washington added. "Benjamin Franklin is in Paris at this moment, trying to get some kind of commitment from them."
"I pray that he does," said Proudfoot. "His hand must have been greatly strengthened by our victory at Saratoga."
"Unquestionably. Franklin will know how to exploit that to the full. He's a wily old character. If we could count on French allies, the progress of this war will change dramatically."
"We would win even sooner," said Lafayette, stabbing the floor with his walking stick. "My country will not let you down, General."
Washington was philosophical. "Let's take things one day at the time. Even if it comes," he said, "French assistance may be months away, and I have more immediate concerns. I have to feed, clothe, and train a whole army. And I have to prevent epidemics breaking out here."
"The weather, General, is another enemy. It will be a killer."
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