Valley Forge (12 page)

"Someone out hunting?" said Caffrey.

"Maybe, Tom. Then again, maybe not." Skoyles looked around. "Take cover while I go and see. Don't move from here."

"Would you like me to come with you?"

"No. Tether the horse and stay with the ladies. I'll not be long."

They were in a little clearing. The women dismounted and moved quickly to the shelter of a pine tree. Leading the horse, Caffrey followed them. Skoyles, meanwhile, checked that his musket was loaded, then went off at a steady lope. Sound was deceptive in woodland but he felt certain that the shot had been fired off to his right. When he left the track to go into the undergrowth, he kept low and moved more stealthily. His instincts had been sharpened by many scouting expeditions, and he sensed that somebody was nearby, somebody who now had plenty of time to reload his weapon. What he could not tell was whether the man was alone.

Time went slowly by. Ears pricked and eyes peeled, Skoyles crept deeper into the undergrowth. He was almost half a mile from his friends now and wondered if he should turn back. Then he heard the snap of a dry twig as someone trod on it. He ducked even lower. Inching forward, he kept his musket at the ready, his finger poised over the trigger. Something flashed across his path and startled him, but it was only a small animal of some sort. He waited several minutes before moving on again, choosing the trees with the largest girths as brief hiding places.

Eventually, he came to a clearing and paused, hardly daring to breathe. No hunter had fired the shot earlier. He was certain of that now. They were being stalked. Someone was deliberately leading him away from the others so that he was isolated. In spite of the cold, beads of sweat began to form on his brow. His lips went dry. Another twig snapped and it was much closer this time. It came from the other side of the clearing. Skoyles decided to draw the man's fire.

Stepping out in the open to offer a target, he suddenly dropped to the ground and lay flat on his stomach. The ruse worked. A musket was fired and the ball passed harmlessly over his head before embedding itself in a tree. The man had not only missed his target, he had given his position away. Skoyles
had seen the weapon poking out at him. His own shot was more deadly, hitting the invisible enemy and causing him to fall backward with a grunt. Skoyles got to his feet, but before he could move, he heard another sound.

Footsteps were running away through the undergrowth. Having killed or wounded one man, he was still not safe. There were two of them.

CHAPTER SIX

T
he first thing that Skoyles did was to take cover again and reload. As an officer, he was entitled to carry a sword and a pistol, but he had never lost his skill with a Brown Bess musket. Stolen from the guard he had killed in Cambridge, it had been among the arms surrendered by the British at Saratoga. Skoyles was grateful to have a familiar weapon in his hands again. Though twelve separate actions were involved, including tearing off the end of the paper cartridge with his teeth, he was able to reload the flintlock musket in less than twenty seconds. Longer-barreled, muzzle-loading American flintlocks often needed the best part of a minute. It gave the British infantryman a distinct advantage. When Skoyles had served in the ranks, his ability to reload quickly in the heat of battle had saved his life several times.

He was not in combat now. Skoyles was up against a single enemy, a local man, in all probability, who knew the woodland far better than he did. The fellow had fled from the scene, but he might still try to ambush Skoyles. Before he went after him, however, it was important for Skoyles to find out what had happened to the man who had fired at him. If he had only been wounded, he might still pose a danger. Instead of crossing open ground and offering himself as a target again, Skoyles picked his way carefully around the clearing until he came upon an inert body. The man lay on his back, his mouth wide open in disbelief. Pierced through the eye, he had died instantly as the bullet went into his brain and straight out through the back of his skull. The empty eye socket was dribbling with blood.

Skoyles looked down at him. He could not be sure, but he fancied that it was one of the people they had met in the village, a hefty man with a beard, who had been chopping firewood when they asked for directions. To get ahead of them, he and his companion must have ridden horses. That thought
spurred Skoyles on. If the second man were allowed to return to his mount, he could reach Tom Caffrey and the two women long before Skoyles could. He had to be caught quickly. Keeping low, Skoyles trotted after him, following a path that had been trampled by the other man. There were no more sounds of reckless flight. His quarry had gone to ground somewhere.

Slowing to a walk, Skoyles picked a way through the trees. He was quietly confident, unafraid of someone who had fled in panic without even trying to avenge the death of his confederate. That argued youth or inexperience. It might even be that the second man was unarmed. Skoyles took no chances. If the man had simply lost his nerve, he would have had time to regain his composure now. Safe in a hiding place, all that he had to do was to wait until his target got close enough.

Skoyles knew that he was there somewhere, and he kept his musket at the ready, using its barrel to move bushes gently aside so that he could peer around them. The woodland was thinning out now and cover was not so easy to find. Skoyles had to hide behind one trunk before making a run for the next temporary refuge. He sensed that he was getting close, but he could still see no sign of the man. Nor could he spot any more telltale footprints in the snow. Skoyles soon realized why. As he darted on toward another tree, a shot rang out behind him and a musket ball grazed his arm. Though he felt no pain, he pitched forward onto the ground as if he had been badly wounded, and lay prostrate for a moment.

Skoyles heard a whoop of triumph, followed by the sound of running feet. He rolled over and sat up in time to see someone sprinting toward him with a musket in one hand and a knife in the other, clearly intent on finishing his victim off. Delay would have been fatal. Skoyles took immediate aim and fired, hitting him in the chest from a range of ten yards, making him drop the musket as he staggered forward. One hand clutching his wound, the attacker came on, barely able to stand, still brandishing the knife. Skoyles saw that he was a mere boy, no more than thirteen or fourteen years old. Blood was soaking through his coat and tears were streaming down his face.

"You killed my father!" he cried.

He made a desperate lunge with his knife, but Skoyles dived swiftly out of the way and the blade sank into the ground. On his feet in an instant, Skoyles turned him onto his back to see how bad the wound was. The boy's eyes were already glazing over. He was still trying to mouth obscenities at Skoyles as his
life ebbed away. Skoyles was sad to have been forced to kill someone so young, but he had been given no choice. Dragging the body to a hollow, he covered it with branches and dead leaves to give it a semblance of burial.

The musket ball had inflicted a small flesh wound on his arm, but the blood was hardly staining his coat. Skoyles decided that he would take the precaution of letting Tom Caffrey inspect it when he got back to the others. There was no point in traveling with a surgeon if he did not make use of him. Skoyles looked around to get his bearings. Something then dawned on him with the force of a blow.

He was completely lost.

The printing press was hidden away in the cellar of a house in Walnut Street, and Ezekiel Proudfoot wondered how they could have transported such a heavy piece of equipment there without being seen. Adam Quenby, the printer, treated his press as if it were a household pet that had to be cosseted, and he was forever cleaning it and making minor adjustments. Quenby was a short, skinny man in his early forties with a face like a diseased potato. Unprepossessing though his appearance was, the printer was a master at his trade and Proudfoot admired examples of his work. The copies of
The Pennsylvania Patriot
that the newcomer was shown were clear, legible, and well written.

"We need more illustrations," Quenby admitted.

"That's why I was sent here."

"Our troops must be rallied somehow."

"I have a few ideas of how we might do that," said Proudfoot.

"Be sure to discuss them with Mr. Hughes first," the other warned. "Nothing goes into the
Patriot
until the editor approves of it."

"He made certain I understood that."

"Not that I criticize him, mark you. He does a fine job. It's a privilege to work with such an educated man. But he can be sharp in his judgments," he explained. "More than one person has submitted ideas and had them thrown back in his face. Mr. Hughes does not suffer fools gladly—not that I regard you as a fool, of course," he added hastily.

"Thank you, Mr. Quenby."

"It's an honor to have Ezekiel Proudfoot here."

"Forget that name. He does not exist in Philadelphia. It's Reece Allen who will be helping to produce the
Patriot
."

"Of course, Mr. Allen." He glanced around disconsolately. "I just wish that we could offer you better conditions in which to work. The light is poor, the place is damp, and it can get infernally cold."

"I make no complaint," said Proudfoot. "This is a paradise to what our soldiers will endure at Valley Forge. According to Mr. Hughes, they will be exposed to the very worst of the winter."

"That, alas, is true."

"There are bound to be many desertions."

"It will certainly test the army's loyalty—and that of Congress."

"You cannot doubt the commitment of Congress, surely?"

"No," replied Quenby, rubbing the press with an old rag. "They are as dedicated to the aim of independence as ever, but I would question their loyalty to General Washington."

"I'm afraid that you have good reason to do so."

"To retain such a large army at Valley Forge will be a difficult undertaking. Our commander needs to feed, clothe, house, and keep them warm. Let's hope that Congress votes him the necessary funds."

"Can we not speak up on his behalf in the
Patriot?
"

"Pearsall Hughes will be certain to do that."

A day spent with the printer had been instructive for Proudfoot. With meager resources, and in constant danger of arrest, Adam Quenby was determined to make his contribution to the rebel cause. His wife and family had fled the city, and his house had been taken over by British officers. All that he had left was his press and his professional pride, but they were enough to sustain him. His visitor rose to leave.

"I'll see you again tomorrow, Mr. Quenby."

"We'll be here," said the other, patting his beloved press.

Proudfoot was surprised. "You
sleep
down here?"

"Where else, Mr. Allen? I no longer have a house."

"Could you not stay with friends, or at a tavern like me?"

"And leave my press unguarded?" asked Quenby. "Never."

The notion of the little man protecting the press against a British patrol was ludicrous, but Proudfoot made no comment. He bade his new friend
farewell and let himself out into the fading light of late afternoon. When he returned to the King George Tavern, the first thing that greeted him was a song that grated on his ears, less for the raucous voices of the singers than for its boastful sentiments.

Britannia's good genius appear,
Appear from your green, briny bed.
In your hand freedom's scepter you bear,
And commerce encircles your head;
Your harbinger, terror, send out,
To your side conquest buckles his sword;
Hark the Fleet fills the air with a shout:
Ohio! Ohio's the word
.

Half a dozen young British officers were enjoying a drink and raising their voices in celebration. As they launched into the next verse, Proudfoot walked past them and went up the staircase to his room. He met a scowling Henry Gilby on the landing.

"Listen to them!" said the landlord. "Crowing like cockerels."

"It must be an old song if it talks about the Ohio Valley," noted Proudfoot. "That issue was resolved in the French and Indian War."

"They are still bragging about their victory, Mr. Allen."

"What has put that into their minds?"

"The play."

"Which play?"

"The one they performed last night," said Gilby. "I think it was called
The Kept Mistress
. This song is taken from the play because it obviously caught their imagination." He sucked in air through his teeth. "I'm sorry that you have to hear such hateful words."

"On the contrary, Mr. Gilby, I'm rather glad."

"Glad?"

"Yes," said Proudfoot thoughtfully. "It's caught my imagination as well. I'd be interested to see a copy of this song."

"Why?"

"The words may repay study."

"I fail to see how, Mr. Allen."

"The Kept Mistress
, you say? Perhaps it was dedicated to Mrs. Loring."

Gilby gave a mirthless laugh.

Jamie Skoyles was worried. He had not realized how far he had come from the track where he left Tom Caffrey and the two women. He had to find them soon. An overcast sky was starting to squeeze the last bit of light out of the day. He did not wish to be caught in the woodland in the dark. Once more, however, he took the precaution of loading his musket before moving. A dusting of snow covered the ground, and he was able to make out a trail of footprints at first, but they vanished when the trees thickened because the snow had been unable to penetrate the branches. Relying on guesswork, he broke into a run, weaving a way through the undergrowth with more hope than confidence. At one point, he had the distinct feeling that he was going in a wide circle.

When he reached a clearing, he thought that it looked familiar and charged across it, only to come upon the dead body of the first man he had shot. That meant he was going in the wrong direction. Turning around, he retraced his steps and tried to find the route that he had taken when he first left the main track. The darker it got, the more confusing everything seemed. He increased his speed, then tripped over some roots that had pushed up through the earth. Skoyles fell heavily and bruised himself on the hard ground. Hauling himself up, he moved on with more circumspection.