Valley Forge

by David Garland

  Then he dropped to the ground.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Time passed in a confusing blur. Captain Jamie Skoyles came in and out of consciousness to hear voices, see faces, and feel hands touching him. There was such a stab of pain in his shoulder at one point that he felt the knife was being buried in it all over again, and he took refuge once more in oblivion. When he finally emerged from it, he looked up into the tearful eyes of Elizabeth Rainham. One hand resting firmly on his wounded shoulder, she was kneeling anxiously beside him. Skoyles made a supreme effort to stay awake, fighting hard when his eyelids began to flicker again. As he tried to reach up to Elizabeth, his right shoulder seemed to be on fire.

  "Lie still, Jamie," she advised softly.

  "Where am I?"

  "Don't move. I've sent for help."

  Skoyles moved his head slightly to look around. He realized that he was on his back with her cloak over him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see another body on the ground and his memory started to return. He had been confronting Jack and Ira Bedford when the younger brother had hurled a knife at him. There had been two witnesses. One of them, a black man in his thirties with a gash over one eye and a swollen lip, came into view behind Elizabeth.

  "Who are you?" Skoyles asked.

  "I'm Cicero, sir," replied the other, deferentially.

  "You're one of the deserters."

  "Yes, sir. You saved our lives."

  "By the time I got here," said Elizabeth, "they'd used a knife to cut themselves free, but neither of them tried to escape, even though there were horses here. They say that you were a hero."

  "I don't feel like a hero," admitted Skoyles.

  "We needed help, so I asked the other man to ride to that camp we passed on our way here. It can't be more than a mile away and they must have surgeons there. Meanwhile," she explained, applying a little more pressure to his shoulder, "I tore my petticoat so that I could use it to stem the bleeding. It's a deep wound."

  He forced a smile. "You don't need to tell me that."

  "How do you feel now, Jamie?"

  "Better," he said. "Much better."

  "Cicero told me what happened. You took on both of those men."

  "They were parasites."

  "When they caught Cicero and his friend, they tied them up and beat them. They were very brutal."

  "It's true, sir," said Cicero, edging forward. "Nathan and me, we'd been on the run from Valley Forge since dawn. When we got this far, we thought we were safe—then those men caught us."

  "Is that your friend's name?" said Skoyles. "Nathan?"

  "Nathan Petersfield, sir."

  "You're not wearing uniforms. What regiment were you in?"

  "The 10th Massachusetts."

  "You're a long way from home, Cicero."

  "I know that, sir," said the other. "If I'd been born this far south, I'd have been a slave. It's a different world here."

  "Why did you leave Valley Forge?"

  "Bad food. Terrible cold."

  Skoyles suspected that there were other reasons for his departure. A black soldier would not have been popular among regiments from Virginia or the Carolinas, colonies where slavery was common and where Negroes were treated as a lower order of creation. There could well have been taunts, sneers, and worse to face on a daily basis.

  "Is it true what they told us, sir?" asked Cicero, eyes bulging.

  "That depends on what it is," said Skoyles.

  "They told us that if we were captured by the British, we'd be sent to work on the sugar plantations in the West Indies. Is that what will happen to me?" said the other, shaking with fear.

  "No, Cicero. That won't happen."

  "You promise?"

  "I do."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "They were telling you lies."

  Skoyles heard the approach of distant hooves but he did not dare to sit up and look. It was Cicero who soon identified one of the riders.

  "It's Nathan," he said. "I knew he'd come back."

  "The two of you could easily have taken the horses and gone," said Skoyles. "Yet you stayed to help. I can't thank you enough. I'll make sure that goes into my report, Cicero."

  "Hold this, Jamie," said Elizabeth.

  She put his left hand on the sodden piece of material she had ripped from her petticoat. While he pressed it against the wound, she went off to welcome the newcomers. Skoyles heard the sound of two horses being reined to a halt, followed by an exclamation of surprise from Elizabeth. He had no idea why she had called out like that until a familiar figure bent over him.

  "I'm getting tired of patching you up, Jamie Skoyles," said the man, smiling mischievously. "What have you been up to this time?"

  It was Sergeant Tom Caffrey.

  The fight came out of nowhere. One of the men had been chopping timber for firewood, while the other was gathering up the logs and putting them in bundles. They were chatting amiably enough until the ax bit into the wood once more and sent a chip flying into the other man's face. Striking him just below the eye, it produced a cry of anguish.

  "What did you do that for?" he yelled.

  "It was an accident," said the other.

  "You could have blinded me."

  "Then you shouldn't have been standing so close."

  "Are you saying that it was my fault?"

  "Well, it certainly wasn't mine."

  The argument quickly intensified and tempers grew hotter. Words were soon replaced with blows. By the time George Washington came on the scene, the two men were trading punches as if they were mortal enemies. Their commander moved in swiftly, grabbing them by their collars and pulling them apart. He shook them hard.

  "What's the matter with you?" he demanded. "We have a British army threatening us and all you can do is to fight each other. What kind of an example is that to set?"

  The two men were shamefaced. One had blood trickling from his nose, the other had lost a couple of teeth in the brawl. To be reprimanded by a corporal would have been bad enough. To be caught fighting by Washington himself was humiliating. Still holding them tight, he towered over the pair, looking from one to the other with disgust.

  "Have you nothing better to do than quarrel?" he said.

  "Yes, sir," replied one of the men.

  "Then get on with it."

  "Yes, sir."

  "If I catch either of you fighting again," cautioned Washington, letting them go, "I'll have the pair of you flogged. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Then start to behave as comrades in arms. The day will come when you'll need to fight shoulder to shoulder against a real enemy. Save all your anger until then."

  Completely abashed, the soldiers returned to their work. After watching them for a few minutes, Washington walked back to the man who was accompanying him on his tour of the Valley Forge encampment. Major John Clark was not surprised at what they had seen.

  "The men are all on edge, General," he said. "Poor food, hard beds, and bitter weather have made them touchy. There'll be more brawls like this, I'm afraid."

  "Not if we stamp on them hard, Major."

  "You can't knock all their heads together."

  "Good discipline is the first requisite of any army."

  "But it needs strong officers to enforce it, sir, and we do not have a surplus of those. Some of our best men have resigned their commissions. As the weeks go by, more are likely to follow suit. When they are short of officers, the men become unruly."

  "We must take steps to ensure that that doesn't happen."

  "How?"

  "By spending much more time drilling them," said Washington. "By instilling some pride into these men. While we have this long break from any major engagement, we must try to turn them into real soldiers."

  "It will not be easy, sir. Some of our officers lack any experience of training men for battle. They are in need of instruction themselves."

  "Then they may well get it."

  "From wher
e?"

  "Europe. A certain Baron von Steuben is on his way here."

  Clark was astonished. "A German? They usually fight against us."

  "Not in this case," Washington told him. "The baron is a man of outstanding talents, it seems. He holds an important position at the court of the king of Prussia, and he comes to us with the highest recommendation."

  "From whom?"

  "Benjamin Franklin. According to him, we should make use of the baron's rare abilities. The fellow is an expert on military discipline."

  "Franklin's opinion must always be respected," said Clark, "but I'm not sure how well our men will respond to the notion of taking orders from a Prussian."

  "They took them happily enough from a Dutchman when Philip Schuyler was commander of the Northern Department, and nobody has refused to serve under the Marquis de Lafayette."

  "He's an exceptional soldier."

  "So is Baron von Steuben, if reports are to be believed. He has Silas Deane's approval as well."

  "That news is not so comforting."

  Washington smiled. "Have no fear, Major," he said. "I know that Deane would like to replace me as commander in chief, but even he would not choose a Prussian nobleman as my substitute. If, of course, that's what this fellow is. Franklin is the sort of character who would not hold back from inventing a title for someone if he thought it would make him more appealing to us. What he would not do is to embroider someone's military credentials. The baron could be just the person we need," he said hopefully. "I look forward to meeting him."

  "And when will that be, sir?"

  "Not until well into next month."

  They strolled on through the swirling wind and passed a group of men who were at last finishing the roof on their cabin. When they recognized General Washington, the soldiers immediately put more effort into their work and only eased off once he had gone. Their commander believed in maintaining a visible presence at the camp. As well as keeping in daily touch with his field officers, he knew the importance of being seen by the rank and file. Washington was keen to destroy the myth that he was aloof and lordly. After strolling on for a while, he and Major Clark paused to inspect the artillery that lay behind the inner defenses on the western side of Valley Forge.

  "General Knox has done a good job here," Clark observed.

  "He's grown into an excellent artillery commander. Not that he needs to do any more growing, of course," said Washington, referring to Knox's excessive weight, "but you take my point."

  "War brings out the best in some men."

  "Then you are certainly one of them, Major. Since you took charge of our intelligence gathering, there's been a revolution. You've not only increased the number of our spies, you've found agents ready to help us because they actually share our aims, and not because they expect payment."

  "There'll always be those we have to sweeten with a fee, sir."

  "I keep an account of everything we spend on our spies. Some of it, alas, is a waste of money. But, in the main, we get what we pay for." He walked on and Clark kept pace with him. "Some of the best information came to us free, courtesy of Captain Skoyles."

  "I agree."

  "Has he stilled all your doubts yet?"

  "Not entirely. I do wonder what his true motives are."

  "I think that he has genuine sympathy for our cause. That warning he gave us about the skirmish party was timely. It enabled us to get the upper hand for once. That was proof enough for me of his readiness to aid us," said Washington. "What British officer would deliberately send some of his fellows to certain death?"

  "I accept that point."

  "Then why don't you have more faith in Skoyles?"

  "I don't know," Clark confessed. "Perhaps I need even more proof."

  "I'm sure that you'll get it, Major."

  "Not for a while, sir."

  "Why not?"

  "Captain Skoyles has been wounded."

  "Badly?"

  "Enough to inconvenience him. When I saw him in Philadelphia yesterday, he had his arm in a sling."

  "Did you speak to him?" asked Washington.

  "No, General," Clark replied. "He did not even know that I was there. He was walking down the street with a pretty young woman. It was hardly the best moment for me to reveal who I was."

  "I'd be interested to know how he came by his injury."

  Clark nodded. "I'll find out for you, sir."

  When he saw the cartoon on the front page of the newspaper, Tom Caffrey put back his head to let out a long, lusty, full-throated laugh.

  "Where did you get this, Jamie?"

  "It was pushed under my door," said Skoyles.

  "Well, you can bank on one thing. It wasn't General Howe who put it there. If he sees this, he'll have a heart attack. Was there really such a scramble to get out of that theater?"

  "So I'm told, Tom."

  "This must be Mrs. Loring," said Caffrey, pointing at the buxom figure in the cartoon. "She won't forget that play in a long while. I wonder what she said to the general in bed afterward." He put the copy of The Pennsylvania Patriot on the table. "I know that I shouldn't enjoy a laugh at the expense of the British army, but this is so well drawn."

  "It's by Ezekiel Proudfoot."

  "That friend of yours?"

  "Yes, Tom," said Skoyles. "Until Christmas, this newspaper was printed right here under our noses. Ezekiel must have been in the city as well. Then the press was discovered and the printer was hanged."

  "What about Proudfoot?"

  "They're still looking for him."

  Skoyles did not tell him that he believed his friend had been released by mistake after he was arrested with the printer. Nor did he recall the instant in Germantown when he thought he saw Proudfoot's face at the window of a tavern. Caffrey and he were close, but there were some things that Skoyles would not confide to him. It troubled his conscience that he somehow felt a deeper loyalty to one of the enemy. The latest cartoon in the Patriot established one fact beyond question. Ezekiel Proudfoot was back.

  They were in Skoyles's lodging, a large, low-ceilinged room with a distinct odor of damp. He was propped up on the bed with his right arm in a sling. Tom Caffrey was standing near the window. Rain was pelting on the glass as if trying to force a way in. Caffrey remembered the main purpose of his visit to the city.

  "How does your shoulder feel now, Jamie?"

  "Still very tender."

  "That knife must have been thrown hard. If it had hit a bone, it would have shattered it. You have a charmed life. Once again, you were very lucky."

  "I was lucky that you were only a mile away. Why didn't you tell me that you'd come to join us in Philadelphia?"

  "Because I had no idea that you were here."

  "We thought we'd seen the last of you in Massachusetts."

  "You won't get rid of us as easily as that."

  "What made you decide to take the long route to New York City?"

  "Common sense, Jamie. That little voyage from Cambridge nearly put the finish on us. There was no way that Polly and I would trust our lives to the sea again. That's why we looped around and came down the Hudson Valley instead. It took much longer," said Caffrey, "but we felt it was safer as well. When we finally got to New York City, and when they realized that I was a surgeon, they sent me on here to look after some of the wounded from the battles in the autumn."

  "I was delighted to see you again, Tom, I know that."

  "I should think you were," said Caffrey. "By the time I got there, you'd lost a lot of blood. What happened to those two deserters?"

  "After what they did, they'll be treated leniently. Both men bore witness to what happened with those loathsome bounty hunters."

  "You had to kill them in self-defense."

  "The world is well rid of them, Tom. Cicero and his friend were also able to confirm how bad conditions really are in Valley Forge. I know that you're under canvas in that camp," he went on, "but you're in a much more sheltered position. Valley Forge is ex
posed to the elements."

  "Then why did Washington choose it?"

  "It's hard to attack, and he had to keep his army together somewhere. If he'd dispersed them for the winter, he'd never have got some of them back."

  "As it is, a lot of his men are deserting like those two you came across." Caffrey's eye fell on a book that lay on the bed beside Skoyles. "What's that, Jamie?"

  "A novel I bought yesterday."

  "What! Did you defy my orders and go out?"

  "I wanted some fresh air."

  "You need a complete rest," Caffrey insisted. "That wound will take time to heal. Don't put any pressure on it."

  "It was only a short walk," said Skoyles. "Elizabeth wanted me to see this bookshop she's discovered. Since she knew that I'd have to put my feet up for a while, she thought I might like something to read."

  "What did you choose?"

  "The bookseller chose it for me, Tom."

  "Let me see," said Caffrey, picking it up to open it. "The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling. Henry Fielding—I've never heard of him."

  "Then you must talk to Pearsall Hughes."

  "Who?"

  "The bookseller. He seemed to know everything that Henry Fielding had ever written. He thought I'd find it very diverting," said Skoyles, "but he did warn me that it was not suitable for ladies."

  "What did Elizabeth think of that?"

  "She didn't hear him. Elizabeth was too busy talking to his wife. Mrs. Hughes knows a lot about books as well." Skoyles sighed. "I can't say that I'm a reading man myself, but I'll need something to keep me occupied."

  "Not suitable for ladies, eh? That sounds promising." He put the book aside. "Now let me get on with what I came here to do and change that dressing of yours."

  "How long will I have to wear this sling?"

  "Until I tell you to stop."

  "Is there any chance I can take it off by Saturday?"

  "Why do you ask that?"

  "Elizabeth and I are going to watch a play," said Skoyles, "and I'd feel rather conspicuous like this. What do you say, Tom?"

  Caffrey grinned. "All right," he agreed. "Go without it."

  "Thank you."

  "But if there's another mad dash out of the theater, put it back on again. I don't want my lovely sutures to be ripped out."