Valley Forge (24 page)

"Probably not."

"What else do I have to do to convince you?"

"A lot of things."

"Put me to the test, General."

"Oh, I shall."

"See what intelligence I can muster for you."

"I'm a trifle more concerned about the intelligence you can gather here," said Washington cautiously. "You can't have seen much of our defenses so far. I'll have you led back through the lines blindfold."

Skoyles extended a hand. "May I have my pistol back?"

"No, Captain."

"Why not?"

"Because I'd like to keep it as a memento of this illuminating little conversation that we've had. And if—so be it—you turn out to be nothing but a British spy," said Washington with a cold smile, "then I'll use this pistol to blow your brains out. You have my word on that."

CHAPTER TEN

E
zekiel Proudfoot had taken great pains with his appearance. He had washed his face, brushed his hair, trimmed his beard, and put on the one reasonably smart coat that he possessed. A minor transformation had taken place. He was about to leave his room at the King George Tavern when there was a respectful knock on the door. Proudfoot opened it to be greeted by the sight of his landlord. A perplexed Henry Gilby stared at his lodger.

"Is that you, Mr. Allen?"

"The very same. Come on in, Mr. Gilby."

"Thank you," said the landlord, stepping into the room. When the door was shut behind him, his manner became less formal. "It's good to have you back with us, sir."

"Thank you," said Proudfoot.

"You are going out, I see."

"One of my new acquaintances has invited me to a play."

"Oh, and who might that be?"

"Brevet Lieutenant Jenkinson. I've bought him so many drinks here that he sought to repay me by inviting me to the theater."

"And you accepted the invitation?"

"Naturally."

"What's the play called?"

"
The Battle of Brooklyn
."

"Indeed?" said Gilby disapprovingly, rubbing his hands together as if holding an unusually large bar of soap. "I wonder that you should think such an entertainment a fit spectacle."

"I'll not be there to see the play, Mr. Gilby."

"Then why are you going?"

"To watch the audience," replied Proudfoot. "And to pick up any scraps of information that I can. When people are enjoying themselves, as you well know, they tend to be less guarded."

"Yes, that's why I eavesdrop on any revelers here. But I came to deliver a message, Mr. Allen," he went on, thrusting a letter into Proudfoot's hand. "It's from our mutual friend."

"Thank you."

"When next you see him, pass on a nugget of information."

"I'll do so readily."

"My wife overheard it earlier when some officers had dinner at the tavern." He gave an ingratiating smile. "Damaris has keen ears. When she was serving the meal, she did not miss a syllable."

"And what did she learn?"

"There'll be another foraging expedition two days after Christmas."

"Do you know where it will be going?"

"The southern end of Brandywine Valley."

"I'll pass the intelligence on to our mutual friend," said Proudfoot, "and it will reach interested parties in no time. Please thank your wife."

"I will, sir."

"And congratulate her on her cooking."

"Damaris will be delighted to receive a compliment."

"I've not eaten so well since my own wife was alive." His face clouded. "That seems such an eternity ago now. How long has this war been going on, Mr. Gilby?"

"Too long, Mr. Allen."

"Far too long."

Proudfoot went off into a reverie, thinking of earlier and happier days when he was a married man with a young family. Established as a silversmith in Albany, he had been looking forward to a prosperous and contented life when hostilities broke out between the thirteen colonies and the mother country. Everything had changed for the worst.

"Aren't you going to read your message?" Gilby prompted.

"What?" asked the other, then he remembered that he was holding the missive. "Oh, yes, of course."

Turning away from the landlord, he opened the envelope, found an unsigned
note and read the single sentence written by the neat hand of Pearsall Hughes. He then put back his head to let out a peal of laughter.

"Good tidings?" said the landlord.

"I think so, Mr. Gilby," replied Proudfoot. "After reading this, I would not miss tonight's performance of the play for anything."

William Howe, commander in chief of the British army, was amazed.

"And you actually got to meet General Washington himself?"

"Face to face," replied Jamie Skoyles.

"How on earth did you contrive it?"

"By going directly to his headquarters."

"Were there no guards?"

"Dozens of them."

"How did you get past them?"

"That would take too long to explain, General," said Skoyles deferentially, "and I'd hate to hold you up when you have to get to the theater. Suffice it to say that I was able to offer my services to the enemy. Whether or not General Washington decides to accept that offer is, of course, still open to question. He's a perceptive man and not easily convinced."

"What did he decide to do?"

"Wait for me to prove myself."

"We'll give you any help you require, Captain Skoyles."

"Thank you, sir."

They were in the house that was used as the headquarters of the British army, and General Howe was resplendent in his dress uniform. Now that his resignation had been accepted, it was only a question of serving out his time until spring, when he could return to England. Meanwhile, he intended to enjoy himself to the full with a heady round of plays, dances, concerts, and extended drinking bouts.

"How did you find Valley Forge?" he said.

"Very chilly, sir."

"Winter will take all the fight out of the rebels."

"I'd not bank on that, if I were you," Skoyles warned. "Their commander's spirit is indomitable and that's bound to inspire his men."

"Were you able to see much of their camp?"

"No, sir. It was barely dawn when I arrived, and I was blindfolded before I was led back through the lines."

"So you have no idea of the size of their army?"

"Not yet—but I know that they underestimate
our
numbers."

"To what degree?"

"Washington seems to think that we have no more than ten thousand men in the occupying force."

"That's good to hear," said Howe, beaming. "It shows that their intelligence is not as good as I feared. In fact, we have around sixteen thousand soldiers, either in the city or in nearby encampments."

"So I was told by General Clinton."

"Keep them ignorant of our true size, Captain."

"I intend to, sir."

"It's a bad miscalculation and wholly to our advantage. If the rebels are foolhardy enough to offer us battle in the coming months, we can overwhelm them with superior numbers. Thank you," he went on, clapping Skoyles on the soldier. "I knew that I'd chosen the right man. Your visit to Valley Forge has already paid dividends."

"It will take time for me to insinuate myself properly."

"Move at your own pace, Captain. Move at your own pace."

The door suddenly opened and Betsey Loring swept into the room with the confidence of someone who was in her own home. In a light blue dress that shimmered as she moved, she was more arresting than ever, but her comely features were disfigured by a frown. When she saw that they had a visitor, she conjured up a polite smile. After placing a solicitous kiss on her gloved hand, Howe introduced her to Skoyles.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Captain Skoyles," she said.

"The pleasure is all mine," he returned.

"Are you joining us at the play this evening?"

"I'm afraid not."

"That's a pity. It's such a jolly little piece, and it pokes the most wondrous fun at George Washington. I saw it first in New York City and it made me laugh so. It was called
The Battle of Brooklyn
then."

"General Howe has mentioned it to me."

"It's been cleverly rewritten," explained Howe, "to reflect the latest developments in the conflict. The new title is
The Battle of Brandywine
."

"Not a play that the rebels would care to see, then."

"No, Captain. It mocks them from start to finish."

"They deserve it," said Betsey, pouting, "for they are ready enough to laugh at us." She held up a piece of paper. "This was sent to me, and I found it in extremely bad taste."

"What is it, Betsey?" asked Howe.

"A cartoon about you and your brother, the admiral."

"Let me see it."

"I did not find it the least bit amusing," she said, handing it over, "and I think that the man who drew this should be severely punished."

"He will be," promised Howe, recoiling as he studied the print. "His name is already on the list of people we need to arrest immediately. Ezekiel Proudfoot is living on borrowed time."

"Proudfoot?" Skoyles was interested. "May I see it, General?"

"Yes, it shows a warped and macabre sense of humor."

Skoyles took the proffered cartoon and saw the two brothers dancing their hornpipe on the deck of a ship. Proudfoot's technique was inimitable, and Skoyles felt a rush of pride at his friend's artistic skill. It was mixed with a feeling of profound sadness, a recognition that they were fighting on opposite sides. Though the two brothers in the cartoon were drawn with comic exaggeration, Skoyles was not in the least tempted to smile. He had too much sympathy for the message that Proudfoot was trying to send.

"The man deserves to be hanged, drawn, and quartered," said Howe, peevishly. "Where did you get this piece of filth, Betsey?"

"It was delivered to me not ten minutes ago," she answered.

"Who sent it?"

"I've no idea. One of your servants said that he found it by the door. My name was on it, but, for the life of me, I cannot see why."

"No more can I."

"What happens in the war is none of my doing."

"No, Mrs. Loring," said Skoyles, giving the print back to Howe, "but it does concern your husband, so, indirectly, there is a link with you. As commissary of prisons, Mr. Loring has a responsibility for the way that rebel captives are fed and treated."

"Joshua would never let men be abused like that."

"Nevertheless, General Washington has protested strongly about the care of rebel prisoners of war."

"My husband is a man of integrity."

"I don't mean to suggest otherwise."

"He's too kind and considerate to do such a thing."

"And he's very efficient at his job," said Howe testily, not wishing to be reminded of a husband whose wife was his mistress. "This must not be allowed to go on," he continued, scrunching up the paper and hurling it into the fire. "Find him for me, Captain Skoyles."

"Yes, sir."

"I want this scheming devil caught
now!
Hunt down this scoundrel who goes by the name of Ezekiel Proudfoot."

"Good evening, Mr. Allen," he said. "I'm so glad that you could join me."

"I've been looking forward to it all day, Lieutenant."

"Did you know that George Washington appears in the play?"

"In person?" asked Proudfoot, jokingly.

"That would be priceless fun, were it possible."

Brevet Lieutenant Matthew Jenkinson had a high-pitched laugh. He was a tall, spare young man with a pair of bulging brown eyes set in an otherwise pleasant face, and a prominent Adam's apple. Long before the play started, he had been drinking. Like most of the men present at the theater, he was in uniform, and it made Proudfoot feel both underdressed and rather more obtrusive than he wished to be. In fact, he aroused very little curiosity. It was the legion of pretty young women who commanded the attention of the soldiers. As Jenkinson and Proudfoot took their seats, nobody even bothered to look in their direction.

"I thought it was called
The Battle of Brooklyn
," said Proudfoot.

"So did I, Mr. Allen."

"Is this a new play in its stead?"

"It's the old one, newly fashioned," said Jenkinson. "But no less full of hilarity, I am sure. Ah, here's the general."

There was a buzz of interest and a round of applause as General Howe sailed in with Betsey Loring to take up a place of honor. Everyone talked excitedly.
The sense of expectation was tangible. When the little orchestra began to play, there was loud clapping for the musicians.

"Where are the actors from?" asked Proudfoot.

"Various regiments. As it happens, I was in a play myself once."

"Really?"

"Yes," said Jenkinson, Adam's apple bouncing up and down like a billiard ball as he spoke. "It was the first play we staged when we moved into Manhattan."

"What was the title?"

"
The Life and Death of Tom Thumb the Great
."

"And what role did you take, lieutenant?"

"That of Noodle, one of the courtiers. I made everyone laugh."

"I'm sure you did," said Proudfoot with an irony that went unnoticed by his companion. "I'll wager that you were Noodle to the life."

The music stopped and an actor stepped out onstage in the uniform of a British general. Doffing his hat to the audience, he earned a generous round of applause and several shouts of encouragement. There was also some concerted stamping of feet. Proudfoot was fascinated. Never having been to a play before, he was surprised at the amiable rowdiness among the spectators. As the good-natured tumult faded, the prologue began.

Tonight, good friends, to satisfy your taste,
We'll offer you a downright English feast,
A tale of love and loss and loyalty,
Of dedication to our royalty.
While rebels shiver up in Valley Forge,
Here sit we in the warm and gorge on George,
That's George the King of Britain's empire great,
Not George the Traitor, who has sealed his fate
By standing up against a redcoat line
And getting drunk on too much Brandywine!

Hoots of joy greeted the first mention of the battle, and it was some time before the noise died down sufficiently for the actor to continue. More and more opprobrium was attached to the name of George Washington, and each time it was welcomed with cheers and gibes by the spectators. Proudfoot was
squirming in his seat at the patent injustice and ridicule that was being meted out to a man he venerated. In the company of Matthew Jenkinson, however, he was forced to add his own small contribution to the waves of laughter. At the end of the prologue, there was a near ovation.