A break in the bad weather encouraged Ezekiel Proudfoot to come into Philadelphia again. Mindful of his earlier arrest, he took the precaution of shaving off his beard to change his appearance. When he stepped into the bookshop, Miranda Hughes did not at first recognize him.
"Is that really you, Mr. Allen?" she said.
"Yes, Mrs. Hughes."
"It's good to see you again."
"Your husband said that I should call in sometime."
"Well, you've come at the ideal moment."
"Have I?" said Proudfoot. "Why is that?"
"Because we have a visitor you know," she explained. "Go through and meet him. I have to look after the shop."
"We'll talk later."
Proudfoot pushed the hinged bookcase at the rear of the shop and, in response to an invitation from Pearsall Hughes, went through it into the parlor. Seated opposite the bookseller was Major John Clark. Both men got up to shake the newcomer's hand in turn.
"A timely arrival, Mr. Allen," said Clark.
"Your honor was but lately in our thoughts," added Hughes. "That's a quotation from Shakespeare, by the way. I was just telling the major what an impact your latest cartoon has made. Our supporters are still laughing, and General Howe is probably tearing his hair out."
"You sent him a copy of the Patriot?"
"Yes, with a separate one for Mrs. Loring. I thought that they both deserved a souvenir of a memorable evening."
Proudfoot was waved to a chair and the others resumed their seats. After an exchange of pleasantries, Clark told them about the hardship soldiers faced at Valley Forge and suggested to Proudfoot that he might reflect it in one of his cartoons.
"A group of our men," he explained, "knee deep in snow, yet nobly enduring the foul weather as they build their log cabin. They need something to hearten them, Mr. Allen."
"I understand, Major," said Proudfoot.
"Show them that they are not forgotten. Portray them as the heroes they are. We cannot simply laugh at the British all the time. Use your skills to inspire our men."
"I'll try."
"And so will I," decided Hughes, slapping his thigh. "I'll write an article about their dedication to duty that will invigorate everyone who reads it—or has it read to him. Mr. Allen is our master artist, but I'm a true magician with words."
"You've shown that many times," said Clark.
The major looked tired. There were dark patches beneath his eyes, and his face was drawn. Proudfoot was worried about the man's health. He knew that Clark was in constant movement between Valley Forge and Philadelphia, no matter how inclement the weather. Only a blizzard would stop him coming to the city to meet with his wide circle of agents. Aware of Proudfoot's shrewd gaze, Clark forced a smile.
"How are you enjoying life in Germantown?" he said.
"Not as much as my time with Pontius Pilate," replied Proudfoot. "The landlord at my tavern is a true loyalist. I dare not speak a word out of place for fear of offending him."
"At least, we have a printer for the newspaper again."
"Yes, Raphael Dyer is doing a fine job for us."
Hughes held up a finger. "When we needed a miracle," he said, "it came. Well, Mr. Allen, you're a prime example of that yourself. At a time when we required it most, you brought a new dimension to the Patriot."
"My humble talents are at your disposal."
"They are far from humble, sir."
"I agree," said Clark. "Pictures speak louder than words, and your cartoons—I mean no disrespect to you, Mr. Hughes—are more eloquent than any article."
"I endorse that sentiment wholeheartedly," said Hughes candidly. "Each of us contributes in his own way."
"Or her own way," added Clark. "Women must not be overlooked."
"No, they do splendid work—Miranda among them. The British may occupy our city, but they cannot douse the flame of liberty that burns inside so many of us."
"Without the help of civilians, we would be powerless."
"I heard about the way we routed those redcoat skirmishers," said Proudfoot. "That success was only made possible by you, Major. You obviously had good intelligence."
"That's what I always seek to provide," said Clark.
"General Washington told me that you have an impeccable source."
"He's certainly in the right place to assist us."
"Who is the man?"
"A British officer who shall remain nameless," said Clark. "Like you, he came to us at a critical moment. I expect to hear from him again very soon."
Captain Jamie Skoyles had shed his sling in order to wear his dress uniform without any encumbrance. His shoulder still ached and smarted, but he was used to coping with pain. As he and Elizabeth Rainham went to the theater that evening, he made sure that she was on his left arm. They attended the play with Roderick and Lucy Tillman, of whom Elizabeth had become increasingly fond. Captain Tillman was tall and slender with a handsome face set off by a chevron of a mustache. Though they held the same rank, he was seven years younger than Skoyles. Alert, personable, and devoted to his wife, Tillman was pleasant company, and Skoyles got on well with him.
Arriving at the theater, they noticed the many guards on duty outside. General Howe was clearly ensuring that there would be no interruption to the performance this time. No profit was made from the staging of plays. The receipts were always donated to charity. On this occasion, those who would benefit were the widows, or common-law wives, of redcoats killed in recent engagements with the enemy. The British army did not forget its casualties.
The four of them had seats near the middle of the auditorium and, like everyone else, they stood up when General Howe entered with Betsey Loring. It was the first time that Elizabeth had seen the notorious mistress, and she was torn between curiosity and disapproval. Lucy watched the pair of them take their seats.
"I think it's indecent," she said. "General Howe is married."
"So is Mrs. Loring," Elizabeth reminded her.
"What sort of husband lets his wife sleep with another man?"
"An ambitious one," Skoyles replied. "Joshua Loring has become a rich man as a result of this arrangement."
"Roderick would never dream of doing such a thing."
"No, my love," he said, taking her hand.
"How can she bear to let the general near her. He's old."
"Old but still sprightly, if rumors are true."
"General Burgoyne had a mistress with him when we invaded from Canada," said Elizabeth, "but he didn't parade her in the same way. In that case, too, the woman had a husband."
"What happened to her marriage vows?" asked Lucy.
"They were conveniently forgotten."
Captain Tillman had taken the trouble to find out something about the play. It was a short farce called A Will and No Will. Written over thirty years earlier by the famous actor Charles Macklin, it was an adaptation of a French drama, and had the subtitle of A Bone for the Lawyers. In one respect, the performance would be unique.
"They've put back all the lines that were excised," said Tillman.
"What does that mean?" his wife asked.
"In England, the play was censored by the lord chamberlain. Certain passages were taken out because they were felt to be too salacious, or improper in some other way. You should enjoy it, Lucy."
"Why?"
"One of the characters bears your name."
Lucy giggled in anticipation. Skoyles liked her a great deal, and he was glad that Elizabeth had found such a good friend in Philadelphia. With her vivacity, Lucy Tillman was a positive tonic. The friendship had brought some stability into Elizabeth's life again and shown her that being married to a British officer had many advantages. Elizabeth was there to enjoy herself, and Skoyles wanted to share in her pleasure. It was a long time since he had seen a play of any kind, and he was in the mood for a lively and inconsequential romp. As someone sat next to him and nudged his right arm accidentally, he winced. The shoulder wound would not let him forget th
at it was there.
When the curtains opened and the play began, the hubbub in the audience was replaced by mild tumult on stage. The prologue to A Will and No Will was set in a pit, crowded with actors who whistled and banged their fists for the farce to start. Rattle and Smart got the first laugh within seconds.
RATTLE:Curse catch me, Dick, if that is not a fine woman in the upper box there, ha!
SMART:So she is, by all that's charming—but the poor creature's married: it's all over with her.
Since the lines were directed at Betsey Loring, they earned some knowing guffaws in the audience. Mrs. Loring was highly diverted, but General Howe merely scowled.
When the play commenced, it was Lucy Tillman's turn to feel self-conscious.
SHARK:Good morrow, Lucy.
LUCY:Good morrow, Shark.
SHARK:Give me a kiss, hussy. (He kisses her.)
LUCY:Psha—prithee don't tousle and mousle a body so, can't you salute without rumpling one's tucker and spoiling one's things? I hate to be tumbled.
Uncertain whether she should laugh or feel aggrieved, Lucy settled for a splutter of amusement. It was not long before she became reconciled to the fact that her namesake was a scheming maid, intent on being one of the beneficiaries of the will. The action bowled along at speed, keeping the spectators in an almost continual state of hilarity. What caught Skoyles's attention were three rhyming couplets that had, unbeknown to him, been struck out of the play by the lord chamberlain.
The statesmen's skill, like mine, is all deceit.
What's policy in him—in me's a cheat.
Titles and wealth reward his noble art,
Cudgels and bruises mine—sometimes a cart.
'Twas, is, and will be, to the end of time,
That poverty, not fraud, creates the crime.
There was a bald truthfulness to the lines that made them stand out for him. While the rest of the audience howled with delight at the rest of the play, Skoyles continued to think about the claim that had preceded the couplets.
SHARK:On my conscience, had I been bred in court, I believe I should have made as great a figure as ever Oliver Cromwell did.
The name of the Lord Protector was anathema to everyone else in the audience, but Skoyles fancied that it would not be unwelcome at Valley Forge. Oliver Cromwell had taken up arms against a king and, in time, replaced him as head of a commonwealth. Such ideals were not dissimilar to those that impelled the revolutionary forces. They, too, sought a republic. They, too, felt oppressed by a tyrannical monarch. Alone of the spectators, Jamie Skoyles had been given food for thought.
When the play was over, the actors received an ovation and took several curtain calls. It was an ideal entertainment for a cold evening in January, and everyone was in good spirits. Skoyles turned to Elizabeth.
"Did you enjoy it?" he asked.
"Very much," she said. "And you?"
"Oh, yes."
"Even the vulgarity was made comical."
"That was mostly Lucy's doing." Hearing the comment, Lucy Tillman looked across at him. "I meant Lucy in the play," he explained. "I don't think you'd be capable of any of the tricks that she was involved with."
"My wife can be quite wicked at times," said Tillman fondly.
"Only when you deserve it," Lucy retorted. "I didn't recognize myself at all in the play."
"How could you?" said Elizabeth. "You are a real lady, Lucy, whereas your namesake was nothing but an artful servant."
The audience was beginning to disperse, but Skoyles deliberately hung back, not wishing to be jostled in the crowd. He chatted happily with his companions until most spectators seemed to have gone, then he turned round to look toward the exit. He saw someone and started. Wearing the uniform of a major, a man in his thirties was standing near the doorway in conversation with a young woman. It was a person whom Skoyles had hoped never to see again, and he stared at him in disbelief. Elizabeth also caught sight of the man.
"It's Harry Featherstone!" she cried in alarm.
Skoyles felt as if he had been punched on his wounded shoulder.
George Washington pored over the map and jabbed a decisive finger.
"There," he said. "We'll attack there."
"But it's one of their larger camps," Major Clark argued. "It will be well guarded. We'd be taking unnecessary risks."
"I disagree, Major. There are times when the best way to surprise an enemy is to do the opposite of what they expect. The obvious place for us to strike is at one of the smaller camps, farthest from the city. The British will not be prepared for a raid here." He used a pencil to put a cross on the map. "We need food badly. If they have as many men there as we think, there should be rich pickings. The quartermaster will keep the camp well supplied."
Drenched by a sudden downpour, Major Clark had returned to Valley Forge with all the intelligence that he had gathered in Philadelphia. When he reached headquarters, dripping wet, he discovered Washington talking in his office to the Marquis de Lafayette. They had given him a cordial welcome, and the Frenchman had talked to him while Washington was sifting through all the material that had been delivered. It was a letter from Jamie Skoyles that had made him unroll his map to study it. The other men stood at his shoulder.
"How accurate are these troop numbers?" asked Washington.
"They accord roughly with what we already know," said Clark.
"Captain Skoyles has no reason to mislead us."
"Then we must believe what he tells us."
"Have you been to this camp, Major?" said Lafayette, indicating the cross that had just been put on the map.
"No, Marquis. I've only seen it from a distance. Captain Skoyles has been inside it, however. He has a friend stationed there."
"How do you know?"
"I had them followed to the camp from the city."
"Is his arm still in a sling?" said Washington.
"No, sir," answered Clark. "He's able to ride a horse now, so I presume that he's recovered. I've still not been able to find out how he came by the injury."
"It hasn't stopped him writing this letter, obviously. Thank you for decoding it, Major. I think that we should act on his intelligence."
"But he recommends a raid on one of the outlying camps."
"I deploy my men—not Captain Skoyles."
"I have heard this name so much," said Lafayette with interest. "Who is this man and why do you rely on his word so much?"
"I think that I place rather more reliance on it than Major Clark," said Washington. "Captain Skoyles is a British officer who is close to General Howe. What he has been able to tell us is invaluable."
"Yet you do not trust him, Major."
"I do and I don't," said Clark wearily. "Since we began to use him, Skoyles has done nothing wrong, yet I still cannot bring myself to put my full trust in him. It's probably a fault in my nature, Marquis. I'm suspicious of everyone."
"Even me?"
"At first."
"Mon dieu!"
"Your behavior did strike me as eccentric when you got here."
"I want to fight for liberty. What is eccentric about that?"
"Coming back to the attack," said Washington, taking a last look at the map. "My mind is made up. We strike here. Skoyles reckons that the camp has a large field hospital, so many of the men there are unfit for duty." He rolled up the map. "I'll pass on the word. Apart from anything else, it will give the men something to do. Inaction is bad for them."
"I feel that," said Lafayette, touching his injured leg.
"Every day this week, I've had to attend a court-martial for soldiers appearing on charges of attempted desertion, disobedience of orders, scandalous remarks, or conduct unbecoming a gentleman—a whole list of unnecessary offenses." Washington was bitter. "That's what happens when we simply sit here and wait."
"What is it you say about the devil?"
"He finds work for idle hands, Marquis."
"When will the raid take place, General?" said Clark.
"When the time is ripe."
"And the weather is kinder than today," said Lafayette.
"That goes without saying. Be sure to alert Ezekiel Proudfoot, Major," said Washington. "I have a feeling that he'd like to be present so that he can draw some sketches."
"The ones he did of Saratoga were superb."
"Compared to the battles there, this will be a mere skirmish. But it will be nice to have a record of it in the Patriot." Washington smiled as he put the map aside. "I'm sure that General Howe would enjoy seeing it."
Having basked in his triumph for weeks, Lieutenant Hugh Orde was now facing the full venom of his commander. It was a cruel change of fortune. Standing at attention in the office at British headquarters, he cringed inwardly as Howe delivered a blistering harangue. All that Orde could do was to keep apologizing, but that only enraged the general even more.
"I know that you're sorry, Lieutenant," he bellowed. "You've every reason to feel sorry for your lame-brained incompetence. But an apology will not atone for what you've done."
"I found the press and arrested the printer, sir," said Orde.
"What use is that when Ezekiel Proudfoot is still on the loose and able to hurl this piece of ordure at me?" He snatched up the copy of The Pennsylvania Patriot that lay on his desk. "Look at it!" he said, holding it the other man's nose. "I'm being pilloried yet again!"
"Nobody regrets that more than I, General."
"I tried to put that unfortunate business at the theater behind me, then this lampoon comes out to bring it all back to life again. I refuse to be laughed at, Lieutenant."
"Yes, sir."
"So what are you going to do about it?"
"Find the printing press that they are using this time."
"No," said Howe, flinging the newspaper aside. "That's not the answer. Destroy one press and they use another. When you put that out of action, a third will spring up somewhere. But—and listen to this carefully, Lieutenant—if you catch Ezekiel Proudfoot for me, if you put salt on the tail of that damn Yankee silversmith, then we can stop these libelous cartoons for good. That's your assignment: find him!"
"But he's like a phantom, General."
"Spare me your excuses. They're as irritating as your apologies."
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