Valley Forge (16 page)

"Drawing this was easy," he said. "Making a plate of it will be far more difficult. Everything will have to be the other way round."

"Leave the caption to me. I'll print it in large letters."

"It's a line from a song I overheard some redcoats singing."

"They'll think twice about singing it again when they see this. You have a quick brain, Mr. Allen. There's wit and savagery here."

"I've always been an admirer of William Hogarth."

"You are a worthy successor," said Quenby.

"I'm flattered that you think so."

"Like Hogarth, you use your talents to mock the follies and vices of the English. The
Patriot
is blessed in having you."

"When will the next issue be printed?"

"As soon as you have engraved the plate for me."

"How many copies will you produce?"

"Not nearly as many as I would like," Quenby admitted. "Paper is getting scarce, so we have to conserve it. But there'll be enough copies to reach all the people who need to see it."

"Mr. Hughes wants General Howe to be one of them."

"I'll deliver it to his headquarters in person."

"I'm told that his own soldiers sing bawdy songs about him and Mrs. Loring. He must be heartily tired of the ridicule by now."

"That cartoon is more than ridicule," said Quenby. "It's symbolic of all that's wrong with this city. The audacity of it! General Howe has the nerve to talk about freedom's scepter when the only reason he came to this country is to deprive us of our liberty."

"I tried to point out the cruel irony of that situation."

"You hit the mark, Mr. Allen."

"I'm glad that you think so."

"And you even managed to win over Pearsall Hughes at the first attempt. Nobody has ever done that before."

"Except, perhaps, Mrs. Hughes."

"Ah, yes. A divine creature and an editor in her own right."

"She was gracious enough to praise my work as well."

"Then you have conquered man and wife," said Quenby as he continued to set type. "There is only one more judge whose good opinion you must now seek—General Washington."

Wearing a cape over his uniform, George Washington set his hat on his head and stepped out of the house. Snow had stopped falling but it had already made its mark. The grass was covered in a carpet of thick white snow. Wherever he looked, there was a cold, unyielding, wintry scene. He felt a tremor of alarm as he thought of the additional problems that would be created for his men, most of whom were still living under canvas while they were building their log cabins.

He could hear them at work. Axes were already thudding into the trunks of trees. Saws were already cutting timber to size. But the bad weather would impede progress and make conditions very unpleasant. It would also increase the likelihood of desertions as soldiers shivered in their inadequate clothing. Washington was dismayed. When he looked up at the sky, there was no comfort to be found. Clouds hung low and full. There was more snow to come.

"Hell!" he cried in exasperation. "What else do we have to endure?"

Jamie Skoyles could not understand it. Though they traveled at a steady speed, they made up no ground at all on the others. Tom Caffrey and Polly Bragg had either ridden harder than they or turned off the main track at some point. After a while, Skoyles gave up all hope of catching them. Since the horse was carrying two riders, it was important to rest him at regular intervals. They had covered almost five miles when the animal was tugged to a halt for the first time. Skoyles dismounted, then helped Elizabeth Rainham to the ground. Tethering the horse to a bush, he walked to the edge of the precipice and gazed down. From their
high eminence, they had a perfect view of the majestic sweep of Buzzards Bay and its rugged coastline and countless inlets, coves, promontories, necks, and rocky outcrops. Small craft were mere specks on the sea.

"It's beautiful," said Elizabeth, coming to stand beside him.

"It would be if we had time to admire it."

"We can spare a few minutes at least."

"Of course," he said, putting an arm around her shoulders. "This is a view to take your breath away. Look at those boats down there. Going about their business as if a brutal war never existed."

"We know differently," she said. "When will it end, Jamie?"

"Oh, there's a lot more blood to be spilled yet."

"But we will triumph in the end, won't we?"

He was uncertain. "I think so."

"Harry told me that it was something he took for granted."

"That was before Saratoga," he reminded her. "Things can change, Elizabeth. General Burgoyne's invincible army was beaten hollow. Major Featherstone was unwise to be so overconfident. There was a time when he made the mistake of taking
you
for granted, and we know how foolhardy that was."

"Only because you rescued me from that silly dream." She became reflective. "Except that it did not seem so silly at the time. In fact, it was the only dream a young woman like me could have had. I grew up in a military family, remember. My father served with General Burgoyne in Portugal. I could think of no better life than marrying a British officer."

Skoyles grinned. "I hope that delusion still holds."

"You told me that you'll not be staying in the army."

"Not forever, anyway. I have my silly dreams as well, Elizabeth. As you know, I want to buy land here and settle down." He pulled her to him. "If I can find the right woman, that is."

She smiled up at him. "I've come this far."

"No regrets?"

"I had a few when we saw that horse thief swinging from a tree."

"What about that squall we were caught in?"

"I was far too scared to have any regrets then," she said. "I kept trying to fit my thoughts for death. At least, we'd have been together. What about you, Jamie? Do you have regrets?"

"Plenty of them."

"Really?"

"I regret that I trusted Otis Tapper. I regret that I've put you in jeopardy by bringing you with me. I regret that I'll have to go on fighting for a long time before we can be together. And I regret that—"

She put a hand to his lips to silence him. "That's enough for now. Let's enjoy this moment while we can."

"Of course."

Turning to face her, Skoyles pulled her close, but their moment together was brief. Over her shoulder, he could see three horsemen approaching, and he was forcibly reminded that they were still in a colony where rebel feeling was at its strongest. He and Elizabeth stood apart and waited for the riders to reach them. They were three in number, well-built farm boys, not yet in their twenties, sitting astride animals that looked as if they belonged between the shafts of a wagon. Each rider had an old musket.

When they came to a halt, Skoyles gave them a friendly wave.

"Good morning to you, lads," he called.

"And to you," replied the biggest of the three, eyeing them shrewdly. "Do you only have the one horse between you?"

"Yes, my friend."

"Where are you bound?"

"Dartmouth."

"Why, so are we," said another of the men, ogling Elizabeth. "If the lady would care to jump up behind me, I'll gladly take her there."

"We'll get there ourselves, have no fear."

"Where are you from?" the first man asked.

"Boston," said Skoyles.

"You've come all that way with one horse?"

"No, we thought to travel by sea, but we were blown off course and our boat was washed ashore near Barnstable. We decided to travel the rest of the way by land. There was only one horse for sale."

Skoyles could see that the man was suspicious and wanted to give him no excuse to use his musket. He was not only outnumbered, his own weapon was ten yards away, resting against a tree. The other two men were more interested in Elizabeth, grinning at her inanely and blowing her kisses. Their spokesman, however, a hulking youth with a ragged beard, was appraising Skoyles with palpable mistrust.

"You've the look of a soldier about you," he said.

"I served my time in the 11th Massachusetts Regiment."

"Who was in command?"

"Colonel Turbott Francis."

"He was killed at Hubbardton."

"I was lucky to escape myself," said Skoyles. "Had we only fought the British, we'd have sent them running, but their hired killers from Germany came to their rescue. We had too few men to hold them all off."

"Who else fought on our side?"

There was a note of respect in the young man's voice now. He had heard a great deal about the heroic resistance given by his countrymen at Hubbardton, and wanted more detail. Skoyles supplied it willingly, and all three men listened intently. Elizabeth was forgotten. From the way he described the battle, there was no doubting that Skoyles had actually taken part in it. What he did not tell his rapt audience was that he had fought on the other side.

"We're joining the militia," said the youngest of the men. "They say there won't be much fighting during the winter, but I'll find some redcoats to kill." He lifted his musket and fired into the air. "There goes one!"

"Why did you do that, you idiot," the big man scolded.

"I have to practice, Abner."

"Wasting a shot like that is madness."

"He's right," Skoyles agreed. "If you want to be a soldier, learn to keep your powder dry and bide your time. Every shot must count. Our army is desperately short of ammunition. Only fire when necessary."

"Yes, sir," said the youngest man, penitently.

"You're heading for Dartmouth, you say?"

"We are," their spokesman replied. "Ethan, Jude, and me, we mean to enlist, and we were told to get ourselves to Dartmouth. We'll ride with you, if you like. You could tell us about other battles you've been in."

"That would only bore my wife," said Skoyles, a protective arm around Elizabeth. "Besides, we'd hold you lads up. I can see you have red blood in your veins, and the militia needs people like you. Ride on and we'll get there at our own pace."

"Are you sure, sir?"

"Yes, we're in no hurry."

"Then we'll leave you." He turned to the youngest man. "And don't you
go loosing off another bullet, Ethan, or I'll wrap that damn musket around your stringy neck, so help me." He smiled apologetically at Elizabeth. "Excuse my bad language, ma'am, but my brother needs to be kept in line." He touched his hat. "We wish you both good day."

After a flurry of farewells, the three men rode off. Relieved to see them go, Skoyles retrieved his musket and walked back to the horse. He looked after the departing farm boys.

"That changes our plans a little," he commented.

"Does it?"

"Yes, Elizabeth. If Dartmouth is going to be crawling with militia, it might not be the safest place to go. It's a pity that Tom and Polly are not aware of that. They could be riding into trouble."

"What about us, Jamie?" she asked.

"We'll find another way."

When the first copy of
The Pennsylvania Patriot
was peeled off the press, Adam Quenby folded it, then examined the four pages with meticulous care. Only when he was satisfied with his handiwork did he pass the newspaper over to Pearsall Hughes. The bookseller laid it down on the table so that he and Ezekiel Proudfoot could study it together by the light of the candle. The two men were looking at different things. Hughes was only interested in checking his elegant prose for printing errors while Proudfoot's gaze was fixed solely on the cartoon.

Dominating the front page, and notwithstanding a few black smudges around its perimeter, it had remarkable clarity. The figures were almost lifelike. A cursory glance was enough to tell any reader of the
Patriot
that General William Howe, distinguished commander in chief of the British army in America, was being well and truly lampooned. Proudfoot wished that he could be there when the man himself first set eyes on the cartoon.

The artist was not allowed to admire his work for long. Hughes turned over the page so that he could read his article about the various outrages committed by the occupying force in Philadelphia. By allowing himself a degree of exaggeration, the bookseller felt that he could more easily arouse the wrath of those members of the Continental Army whose families had either been forcibly evicted from the city, or were still living there in the long shadow of
the British army. His aim, as an editor, was to make Americans proud enough of their country to want to fight hard to liberate it. He felt that the latest issue of the
Patriot
would achieve that objective.

"It's fine, Adam," he said. "Print more copies."

"Yes, Mr. Hughes."

"And make sure they are distributed by the usual means."

"I will, sir," said Quenby.

He set about his task at once, ready to work all evening and well into the night. Hughes, meanwhile, turned back to the first page and chortled merrily as he looked down at the cartoon. After a few minutes, he swung round to face Proudfoot.

"A thousand thanks, Mr. Allen," he said, shaking his hand in congratulation. "Admirable work. You've given the newspaper a completely new bite."

"I hope that it will draw blood."

"Most assuredly."

"Then I've done what I came to do."

"I'd suggest that you keep this first copy as a souvenir but that would only imperil you. There are too many prying eyes at the King George Tavern. The only man you can trust there is the landlord."

"I've already found that out, Mr. Hughes."

"In any case," the bookseller went on, "copies are like gold dust. We need every single one for our readers."

"Each one will be seen by several people," said Quenby over his shoulder. "They pass the
Patriot
around so that it has a wider impact."

"Except in the case of General Howe," said Proudfoot. "I venture to suggest that he'll not pass it around. As soon as he sees it, he'll most likely toss it in the fire."

Quenby cackled. "He'll certainly not let Mrs. Loring look at it."

"You can hardly blame him," said Hughes. "Mr. Allen will, without question, draw blood from the general. That's why we must steel ourselves against the consequences."