Valley Forge

by David Garland

  Pearsall Hughes read the newspaper with his customary attention to detail, making sure that the printer had allowed no errors to creep into the bookseller's polished sentences. When he had studied all four pages of The Pennsylvania Patriot, he allowed himself to dwell on the cartoon that adorned the front page. He chortled with pleasure.

  "This is magnificent," he said. "If only I'd been there!"

  "What you see is what actually happened, Mr. Hughes."

  "General Howe and his concubine on the hoof."

  "You put the whole audience to flight," said Ezekiel Proudfoot.

  They were in his room at Neale's Tavern in Germantown. Hughes had made the journey from Philadelphia to inspect the latest issue of the Patriot, and to take some copies back with him to the city. It was the first time they had met since Proudfoot's arrest on Christmas Day, and they were delighted to see each other again. The silversmith was interested to hear the latest news from Philadelphia.

  "Did anyone ever make inquiries about me at the bookshop?"

  "Yes," said Hughes. "A young lieutenant asked if I knew a Reece Allen, and I told him that you were a customer of mine. Since you had only been into the shop twice, I insisted, our acquaintance was, of necessity, only a fleeting one."

  "Did he accept that?"

  "I think so. I've not seen him since."

  Proudfoot bit his lip. "I still feel so guilty about Adam Quenby," he said, running a hand through his hair. "We were both caught in that cellar. Yet, while I was released, he was sent to the gallows."

  "Yes," said Hughes sorrowfully, "Adam was a great loss. He was a master of his trade, and nobody believed more passionately in freedom than he did. On the other hand," he continued pragmatically, "his death was not without its benefits. It brought us in someone to take over the printing from Adam."

  "Raphael Dyer."

  "He was apprenticed to Adam Quenby, and when he wanted to set up in business on his own, it was Adam who lent him the money to do so. Raphael feels indebted," Hughes went on. "When he heard what had happened to his old employer, he got in touch with me."

  "He doesn't have the same burning commitment."

  "No matter, as long as he's prepared to help us. Raphael Dyer has done what many of us have been compelled to do—pretend to be a Tory in order to stay in our homes. But he's no loyalist at heart."

  "Neither is his assistant," said Proudfoot. "I get on well with both of them. And the fact that they still carry on their normal business is to our advantage. It's a perfect disguise. All that Mr. Quenby did in that cellar was to print the Patriot."

  "That was the raison d'être of his press."

  "It's not the case with Raphael Dyer. In addition to our newspaper, he prints dozens of other things. Nobody is going to track him down by finding out which mill supplies his paper. We have that consolation. As for this place," added Proudfoot contentedly, "it's every bit as welcoming as the King George Tavern, though I must confess that I do miss the landlord."

  "Pontius Pilate sends his regards."

  Encrusted by a light fall of snow, Germantown was a remote country retreat, a place of clean, clear air that made it an ideal refuge for people from Philadelphia, whether fleeing from an outbreak of yellow fever or escaping from the city's oppressive summer heat. Houses tended to be large, and its population tended to be wealthy. It was a pretty town, in a delightful rural setting, with none of the bustle or cosmopolitan feel of Philadelphia. Although a large number of redcoats were stationed there, Proudfoot did not feel in any danger.

  "How is Mrs. Hughes?" he asked.

  "Miranda is well. You must come and see us some time."

  "When the weather improves."

  "That may not be for some time yet," said Hughes, glancing through the window as more snowflakes began to fall. "You may find yourself cut off for weeks out here."

  "As long as I'm able to work," said Proudfoot.

  "Nothing would stop you doing that. You and Adam Quenby were well matched—you both thrived on hard work."

  "His family must have been distraught when they heard what happened. He had a wife and children, didn't he?"

  "Yes, they left when the British army arrived on their doorstep. I wrote to his wife with the details, and I told her what a Trojan her husband had been in the fight for liberty." He exhaled through his teeth. "I expect no reply from her."

  "It's one of the most heartbreaking things about this war."

  "What is?"

  "Letters like that."

  "I've had to write quite a few," said Hughes. "Adam was only one of a number we've lost since the British took over the city. And, of course, it must be even worse for our commanders."

  "There's no doubting that," said Proudfoot. "General Washington told me how much he hated writing letters after a battle, informing people that their fathers, husbands, or sons had died. He could not bear to tell them the truth—that, in some cases, the dead bodies had had to be abandoned where they lay."

  "A letter signed by him might still be something to cherish."

  "My fear is that he'll be writing a large number of them this winter. Valley Forge is no place to be when the snow really falls. Some of those poor devils are going to freeze to death."

  The eleven soldiers who shared the log cabin with him looked upon Jedediah Elliott as a disagreeable grandfather. He was the oldest man in the ranks and easily the most ornery. Yet it was Elliott who had made sure that their dwelling was built faster than any other in the regiment, thus winning a monetary prize that was divided equally between them. Though they resented his unending complaints, and his constant boasts about his part in the French and Indian War, some of his companions turned to him with gratitude. They were illiterate.

  "What else do ye want to say?" asked Elliott.

  Novus Kane scratched his head. "I don't know."

  "Well, make up your mind, lad. I need my sleep."

  "What have I said so far, Jed?"

  "How cold the weather is," replied Elliott, reading by the light of the candle. "How poor the food, how hard the beds, how tired ye are, and how ye share this hut with the worst, smelliest, and most cowardly band of rascals in the Continental Army."

  "I didn't tell you to write that," said Kane over the loud protests from the other men. "Did I mention how awful that beef soup was today?"

  "Your parents don't want to hear about beef soup."

  "What do they want to hear?"

  "That their son is doing his duty—like me—without whining."

  "You never stop whining, Jed," another man called out to a chorus of agreement. "First thing I hear when I wake up of a morning is that griping voice of yours. It's also the last thing I hear before I fall asleep."

  "Be quiet, Euclid," retorted the old man, looking over the top of his spectacles. "I'm trying to write this blessed letter for Novus, and it needs all my attention."

  It was late evening and most of the men had already retired to their bunks in the smoky interior of the cabin. A few flames still flickered in the little fire, but they gave off scant warmth. Everyone who was still up had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Novus Kane was not the only farm boy there. Four others had been recruited. Elliott was a carpenter, and there was also a stonemason, a rope maker, a baker, a brewer, and a leather worker. Euclid Rawson was a schoolmaster, but, unlike Elliott, he was not so willing to write letters for his comrades. Three of them played cards by the light of a guttering candle. Kane was the only correspondent there. Wanting to tell his parents good news, he could think of none.

  "I know," he said, snapping his fingers. "Write about that foraging party we ambushed. Tell them that I knocked a redcoat from the saddle."

  "That was my shot, not yours," Elliott asserted.

  "It was mine, Jed."

  "Ye couldn't hit a barn door from five yards."

  "You couldn't even see one from that distance."

  "There's nothing wrong with my eyes."

  "Then why are you wearing spectacles?"
r />   "I killed that rider and there's an end to it."

  "No!" Kane yelled. The old man held up the piece of paper as if about to tear it apart. Kane gave in. "Say nothing about it," he conceded. "Maybe it was your bullet that hit him."

  "Ye might tell your parents what a help I've been to you."

  "For all I know, you've already put that in the letter. It's so maddening not being able to read or write." He turned to the card players. "Why don't you teach me, Euclid?"

  "I'm a soldier now," said Rawson, "not a schoolmaster."

  "Pretty soon, ye'll be neither," said Elliott, chewing on the stem of his pipe. "Ye'll be like the rest of us, Euclid—a block of ice."

  "You think this is cold?"

  "My pizzle is frozen solid."

  "I was born and bred not twenty miles from here," said Rawson, "and, in these parts, we'd call this weather mild."

  "Then I'd hate to see it when the temperature really falls."

  "Finish my letter, Jed," Kane urged.

  "I have finished. Sign it."

  "I don't know how."

  "Then make your mark," said Elliott. "Your parents will know that you're still alive then." He offered the pen to Kane who put a cross at the bottom of the paper. "At least, ye were when this was sent. By the time the letter reaches them, ye might have died of starvation."

  "Or poisoning," said Kane sourly. "I'm not eating any of that beef soup again. It tasted like horse piss."

  "How do you know?" asked Rawson.

  Elliott cackled. "That's all they drink on the farm."

  "No wonder Novus stinks of it."

  "I don't stink of anything!" cried Kane.

  "Horse piss and cow shit. I can smell you from here."

  "Shut your mouth, Euclid!"

  "They ought to make you sleep in a stable."

  Kane had been sitting beside Elliott on the latter's bunk. When he tried to get up in protest, he banged his head on the bunk above him and let out a yelp of pain. Everyone still awake laughed at him. Rubbing his head with both hands, Kane decided that he had had enough argument for one night. He took the letter from Elliott and thrust it into his pocket before clambering up to the top bunk. After shivering under his blanket for a long time, he finally drifted off to sleep—with Jamie Skoyles's musket still clasped to his chest.

  Winter was playing games with them. One day, it would send driving snow and biting cold; the next day, bright sunshine would set a thaw in motion, only for it to be countermanded a few days later. Sooner or later, the games would stop and the real winter would arrive. Meanwhile, Jamie Skoyles tried to take advantage of the milder spells. When the snow was melting away yet again, he and Elizabeth Rainham went riding out of the city. Anticipating no trouble, he nevertheless took his sword and a newly acquired pistol with him.

  Elizabeth was an accomplished horsewoman and she was glad of the chance to go riding, even if the fields were still streaked with white, and the roads soggy. They had gone a few miles northwest of Philadelphia before they stopped in the shade of a tree. Skoyles leaned across to kiss her on the cheek.

  "Alone at last," he said.

  "We have so few opportunities. Lucy Tillman is a lovely woman, and I enjoy her company enormously, but she does hang on to me."

  "That's understandable. She recognizes a true friend."

  "And what do you recognize?" asked Elizabeth teasingly.

  "Someone who's a lot more than that."

  Skoyles reached out to squeeze her hand. She returned his smile, then looked at the tranquil scene ahead of them. Undulating fields stretched out toward an expanse of woodland. Through the low hills to the left, a stream was starting to flow again now that the ice had melted. In the sunshine, it was an appealing panorama.

  "Is this the sort of place that you have in mind, Jamie?"

  "For what?"

  "Settling down."

  "Something like this," he decided, surveying the scene, "though I can't say that Pennsylvania was ever a possibility. If anywhere, I'm drawn to Massachusetts."

  "But that's the heart of rebel resistance."

  "At the moment, Elizabeth. I'm looking beyond the war."

  "Do you think we'd be made welcome there?"

  "Americans are very friendly if you don't try to push them around. In any case, I won't be wearing this uniform then. I'll be plain Jamie Skoyles, gentleman farmer."

  "I'll believe it when I see it."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Fighting is in your blood," she said without any trace of criticism. "I have the feeling that you'll always be a soldier."

  "Only until this war is over, Elizabeth."

  He was about to explain why when his attention was caught by some figures in the middle distance. Two horsemen had come out of the woods to move slowly northwest, but it was not the riders that Skoyles had noticed. It was the two forlorn figures who were being hauled along by ropes behind them.

  "Jack Bedford!" he exclaimed.

  "Who?"

  "Stay here, Elizabeth. I have a score to settle."

  Kicking his horse into a canter, he headed for the quartet. With their human cargo in tow, the riders could hardly outrun him, and they had, in any case, no reason to flee from a single redcoat. If one of the horsemen was indeed Jack Bedford, then Skoyles expected him to brazen it out. The bounty hunter would have a plausible excuse why two men were being tugged along like stray animals.

  Seeing him approach, the riders stopped and waited. One of them waved to the two captives, as if warning them to hold their peace. When he got closer, Skoyles saw that his guess had been correct. Jack and Ira Bedford were in business again. They had caught two rebel deserters and were taking them back to their death in Valley Forge. Skoyles brought his horse to a halt some ten yards from them.

  "What can we do for you?" asked Bedford with a lazy smile.

  "Tell me where you're going, for a start."

  "That's our business," said Ira truculently.

  "Don't be so unfriendly," his brother chided him. "The captain asked a question so he's entitled to an answer." He indicated the men, one of whom was black. "These were slaves on our plantation. They escaped three days ago, and we came after them."

  Skoyles looked at the captives. "Is that true?

  "Go on," said Bedford, watching them carefully. "Tell him. You worked for us, didn't you?" The men nodded. "There you are, Captain."

  "Can we go now?" said Ira. "It's a long ride."

  "Yes," said Skoyles pointedly. "All the way to Valley Forge."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Jack and Ira Bedford, following the scent of blood money. The only people you ever chase are deserters from the Continental Army. These men were on the run from Valley Forge, and you're taking them back to sell their skins."

  "Who the devil are you?" Ira demanded angrily.

  "Take a closer look," his brother advised, recognizing Skoyles at last. "He's that man whose horse I shot, and who gave us so much trouble. He slipped through our fingers."

  "Well, he won't do it again!"

  He reached for his musket, but Skoyles already had his pistol trained on him. When Jack Bedford lifted his weapon, Skoyles turned the barrel of the pistol on him.

  "Drop it!" he ordered.

  "You can't shoot both of us."

  "Then I'll start with you, Jack, before I slice your brother to pieces with my sword. Now, drop those muskets—both of you!"

  The sharpness of his command gained him instant obedience. Both dropped their weapons. Still keeping them covered with a pistol, Skoyles made them dismount and walk several yards away from the muskets. He dismounted and drew his sword, using it to motion the two prisoners forward. They were miserable specimens, barefoot, clothed in rags, and bearing the clear signs of a recent beating.

  "Are you deserters from Valley Forge?" asked Skoyles

  "Yes, sir," gabbled one of them.

  "Where were you going?"

  "To Philadelphia, sir. We want to give ourselves u
p."

  "Then at least you can ride there."

  With two slashes of his sword, he cut the ropes that were tied to the pommels of the two saddles. Their hands were still bound, but they were no longer at the mercy of the bounty hunters. Skoyles ordered them to sit down while he dealt with the two brothers. Jack Bedford had never taken his eyes off him, biding his time until he could strike back. His brother was more impatient. Slipping a hand behind his back, he pulled a knife from its sheaf and held it in readiness.

  "It's not these men who should be hanged," said Skoyles, looking from one to the other with utter contempt. "It's you two bloodsuckers, living off the proceeds of war. You're worse than vermin."

  Ira Bedford had heard enough. Hand on the blade of his knife, he suddenly brought it from behind his back and hurled it at Skoyles. While it was still spinning through the air, Skoyles fired his pistol instinctively, and the bullet hit Ira between the eyes, sending him flat on his back. At the very same moment, the point of the knife burrowed into Skoyles's right shoulder with such force that he was knocked sideways, dropping the pistol from his grasp.

  Jack Bedford came to life. Incensed at the death of his brother, and outraged that anyone should take his captives away from him, he charged at Skoyles with a bloodcurdling yell. There was a knife in his hand and he was going to plunge it deep into the heart of the wounded man. Skoyles heard him coming. Dizzy with pain, and feeling his energy ooze away, he summoned up the last of his strength and turned to face his attacker. As the enraged man lunged toward him, Skoyles went down on one knee and thrust out the sword with his left hand, so that the Bedford impaled himself on its point.

  There was a howl of disbelief, followed by a stream of abuse that soon faded into a pathetic whimper. Eyes filled with hatred, Jack Bedford fell to the ground and lay motionless. Skoyles barely had enough energy to pull out his sword. His eyes were misting over, his legs were unsteady, and there was a searing pain in his right shoulder. Blood was already gushing out of the wound. Dropping his sword, he used his left hand to pull out the knife that was still embedded in his flesh. The blade felt red hot as it came out. Skoyles was weakening by the second. The last thing he remembered was the sight of two open-mouthed men from the Continental Army, watching him in sheer horror.