Valley Forge (15 page)

"Then let's move on," resolved Skoyles, putting his foot in the stirrup. "Those men will be far ahead of us by now." He hauled himself into the saddle, then offered a hand to Elizabeth. "We'll stay together for the time being, then discuss this again in the morning."

George Washington had spent his first few days in a marquee, but he had now moved his headquarters to a little stone-built house, owned by Isaac Potts, situated near the junction of Valley Creek and the river. It was there that he was busy writing letters when Major Clark called on him that evening. The visitor was touched to see his commander working in such modest surroundings. Washington was a wealthy man who lived in a palatial house on his Virginia plantation, and who believed, in his own words, that farming was the most delectable of pursuits. Instead of being able to indulge his passion for hunting, shooting, and fishing, he was forced to share the deprivations of the Continental Army.

Clark stepped into the room and Washington looked up.

"News already, Major?"

"Yes, General."

"But we only spoke a couple of hours ago," said Washington.

"These tidings will not keep, especially as they come from someone whose name we mentioned earlier."

"Mrs. Darragh?"

"The very same," confirmed Clark, taking some tiny pieces of paper from his pocket. "Her younger son brought these and handed them over to his brother. Lieutenant Darragh gave them straight to me."

"What do they portend?"

"Place them in the right order, sir, and you will see."

He laid the pieces of paper out on the table and Washington examined them by the light of the candle. Leaning over his shoulder, Clark translated the neat shorthand messages for him. Washington's interest was sparked off at once.

"So General Howe is to send out a foraging expedition, is he?"

"With almost half their total men," said Clark.

"If our estimates are correct, that would put the number of those in the party around five thousand—too many for us to do more than harass them. They hold the advantage, Major," he conceded. "Their men are healthy and well fed while ours are sick and hungry. I'm told that almost two thousand of our soldiers are unfit for duty. They are either ill, wounded, or lacking shoes in which to walk. We are fighting this war with scarecrows."

"Even scarecrows can give the foraging expedition a fright."

"And I'll make sure that they do so." He looked down at the pieces of paper. "How is Mrs. Darragh's intelligence always so accurate?"

"Her house in Second Street is virtually opposite General Howe's headquarters. Lydia Darragh sees all their comings and goings. But she also has British officers lodging in her house," said Clark. "That was how she overheard the plan to surprise us at Whitemarsh."

"Forewarned is forearmed."

"Indeed, sir."

"You say that her younger son brought this message?"

"Yes, General, and by an ingenious means. It's one that I would never have fathomed. The boy has mold buttons on his coat."

"Nothing unusual in that."

"There is in this instance," explained Clark. "The buttons are covered with cloth, and these pieces of paper are hidden beneath them. All that the lad has to do is to cut off the buttons and hand them over to his elder brother. If stopped, he runs no risk of discovery by the British."

"But he puts his mother to some trouble," observed Washington. "Every
time she sends intelligence by that means, she has to sew on a fresh set of buttons."

"Mrs. Darragh is an accomplished seamstress by now."

"Then we could certainly use her services here, Major—and that of a hundred good ladies like her. There's enough sewing and darning to keep them all busy. Some of our men are dressed in rags."

"I know. It's a pitiful sight."

"We have eighteen brigades of infantry, a brigade of artillery, and a brigade of artificers. Not one of them has enough uniforms to wear," said Washington, "let alone enough arms and ammunition. When you look at the brigade of local militia and the three regiments of dragoons, then the situation is even worse. We've men with nothing but a blanket to wrap around them."

"And we know who's to blame for that," said Clark with vehemence. "The very people who should help us—Congress."

"They've neglected us badly."

"Shamefully, sir."

"However," the commander went on with a tired smile, "there is one thing from which I gain satisfaction."

"What's that, General?"

"Our army is drawn from eleven of the thirteen colonies. The only exceptions are South Carolina and Georgia, though we do have a few officers from both. In short," said Washington, "we are facing the British with a truly
American
army. I take pride in that."

"So do I, sir."

"As for this intelligence, thank you for bringing it so promptly."

"It's not the only news I have to deliver, alas."

"Oh?"

"It seems that Mother Nature is against us as well."

"Mother Nature?"

"I fear so," said Clark. "As I was walking toward the house, I am sure that I felt the first few flakes of snow."

The men spent the night in a barn, curled up on hay and trying to block out the lowing of the cows nearby and of the distant howling of wolves. Alerted by the approach of dawn, Jamie Skoyles was the first to wake up. He nudged
his companion with an elbow. Tom Caffrey sat up at once, reaching out instinctively for the loaded musket that lay beside him.

"No need for alarm," said Skoyles, pushing the weapon aside. "I just wanted to be on the road as early as possible."

"So do I, Jamie."

"Did you get any sleep?"

"A little. I missed Polly too much to sleep for long."

"She and Elizabeth were far better off in the farmhouse. Since the farmer only had one room to offer, we had to make do with the barn."

"That proves my point."

"What does?"

"If there had been just the pair of you on the road, then you and Elizabeth would now be snuggling up together in bed. How does that sound?"

"Very enticing, Tom."

"That's why we must go our separate ways."

"You've not changed your mind, then?"

"No, Jamie. We'll get to Rhode Island on our own." He gave his friend a playful jab. "And I'll wager we'll be the first there."

"You're a bold man to make such a foolish claim."

"We'll see."

They had slept in their clothes and left the horses saddled so that they could make a quick departure. Rolling off his makeshift bed, Skoyles brushed the strands of hay from his clothing. His wounded arm was now bandaged. He had a first look at the day. It was cold but dry. There was only a faintest breath of wind. When he glanced across at the farmhouse, he saw that there was already a light in the window.

"It looks as if they were up before us, Tom," he said.

"And they'll be fresher, too, having slept in a proper bed."

"Let's join them for breakfast."

They went across to the little farmhouse and found that the front door had been unlocked for them. Everyone was in the kitchen with its warm fire crackling away, its flames reflected on the rough stone walls. The farmer was a sprightly old man with white hair and beard, pleased to have had two attractive women staying in his humble dwelling. His wife, a plain, shuffling, taciturn creature, looked less happy to have had visitors, but she prepared a frugal meal for them as they chatted. The farmer was inquisitive.

"Where are ye headed?" he asked.

"Dartmouth," replied Skoyles.

"Then all ye need to do is to stay on the same road."

"Is that the only way there?" said Caffrey.

"It's the best, my friend."

"But there is another route?"

"Aye."

"Could you show us where it is, please?" said Skoyles, taking the map from his pocket and laying it on the table. He pointed with a finger. "My guess is that we're around here somewhere."

"No," said the old man, exposing bare gums in a grin. "You've come farther than you think." His skeletal finger tapped the map, then moved as he spoke. "We are right here. Now, you can either follow the coastline around Buzzards Bay—like this, you see—or take another road that snakes off in that direction."

"How far is it to Dartmouth?"

"Not much above thirty miles."

"Is that all?" said Caffrey. "We can do that in a day."

"As long as ye don't waste any of it. This time of year, it gets dark a mite early." The farmer looked up as his wife began to put food on the table. "Thankee, Mother."

"Eat up, all," she grunted.

Sitting down at the bare wooden table, they ate their breakfast quickly and washed it down with some hard cider. All four of them thanked their hosts for their hospitality. Caffrey and Polly Bragg then went out to the barn, but Skoyles stayed behind to offer the farmer some money. The old man waved it away, insisting that it was his Christian duty to take strangers in from the cold and to look after them. He refused to charge them anything. His wife, however, had no inhibitions about taking the coins. Grabbing them from Skoyles, she thrust them into a pot on the shelf. There was a heated argument between the old couple, then the farmer eventually conceded defeat. He smiled fondly and patted his wife on the rump.

"Mother always knows best," he said.

Skoyles shook him by the hand. "You've earned it."

"Yes," said Elizabeth. "We were exhausted."

"Goodbye."

"Good luck go with ye!" said the old man.

Skoyles thanked him again and led Elizabeth Rainham outside. After several hours' sleep, she looked bright and refreshed. Given some vigorous brushing, her hair had recovered its beautiful sheen. Skoyles paused to have a quiet word alone with her.

"How did they treat you?" he said.

"Very well."

"The wife seemed very surly."

"She thought her husband was paying too much attention to us."

"Who can blame him?"

"Yes, it must get very lonely out here."

"We found a bed for you. That was the main thing."

"Not if it meant your sleeping in the barn," said Elizabeth with concern. "It must have been very uncomfortable in there."

"I was fine once I got used to Tom's snoring," said Skoyles. "And it was a big improvement on spending a night in a fishing boat."

"Did you have an opportunity to talk to him about splitting up?"

"I thought we'd do that now, Elizabeth."

"Polly is still keen to strike off alone with Tom."

"I'm not altogether happy with that notion."

"Nor am I, Jamie."

"Apart from anything else, Tom is no horseman. Unlike us, he's never really learned to ride properly. I'd feel better if I was there to keep an eye on him."

"That's my view as well."

"Then let's get across there and talk them out of it. Come on!"

He took her by the hand and they walked around the corner of the farmhouse to the barn. When they went inside, however, they saw that it was too late to hold any kind of discussion with their friends. Tom Caffrey and Polly Bragg had made up their own minds.

They had already left.

They were everywhere. Ezekiel Proudfoot had never been in a city that was so fully occupied. Having eaten breakfast with the redcoats staying at the King George Tavern, he saw more of them as soon as he stepped into the street. Four privates were standing idly outside a house, taking part in a girning contest,
twisting their faces into such distorted expressions of joy that Proudfoot thought they must be in extreme pain. At a corner, he met a patrol on the march. Farther along the street, some officers were tumbling out of a house with their arms around each other, still not fully sober after a night of heavy drinking. And so it went on. By the time he reached his place of work, Proudfoot had counted over seventy British soldiers. He told Adam Quenby about his mathematics.

"I've seen far more than that," grumbled the printer, indicating the window that was half below street level. "I've watched hundreds of pairs of army boots as they strut past. The British think they own the place."

"Might is right in their view."

"This city is
ours
."

"And will be so again, I'm sure."

"But what state will it be in? They've changed Philadelphia out of all recognition. From morn till night, it's filled with loud noise, and it's not safe for a decent woman to be abroad on her own."

"What about an indecent woman, Mr. Quenby?"

"There are far too many of those about," said the other darkly. "I sometimes think that whoring and gambling are the chief occupations of the British. Not that the German mercenaries are any better," he added with a sniff. "The Hessians run a gambling table where only high stakes are permitted. It's iniquitous, sir."

"I'm sure that Mr. Hughes has pointed that out in the
Patriot
."

"Regularly."

Proudfoot could not believe that the little man had spent the whole night in the dank cellar. Quenby seemed too spry and animated. He was already hard at work when the silversmith arrived, setting type with painstaking care. The printing press, as ever, was quite spotless. Opening his satchel, Proudfoot took out the sketch he had made the previous evening.

"I showed this to Mr. Hughes," he said, handing it to Quenby, "and he would like it to appear on the front page of the
Patriot
."

"Let me see."

"I hope that it won't cause offense."

"I very much hope that it will, Mr. Allen. Causing offense to the British is one of our ambitions." Holding the cartoon only six inches from his face, he studied it for a long time as if not able to believe what he was seeing. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed at length. "You've been very daring, I must say."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Neither, Mr. Allen. It's excellent!"

"Thank you."

"It has a crude simplicity that will make anyone take notice. Just look at that ogre, General Howe!"

He threw back his head and burst into laughter, savoring the detail in the cartoon. Grateful for his approval, Proudfoot took it back from him and glanced at it again.