Valley Forge (25 page)

"Isn't it magnificent, Mr. Allen?" said Jenkinson.

"I've never seen anything like it, Lieutenant."

"I must have a copy of that prologue. It delights me so."

"The playwright has clearly got the measure of his audience," said Proudfoot grimly, looking around at the happy faces. "He obviously knows what is the order of the day."

His last remark went unheard beneath the thunderous applause for the parting of the curtains. The row of candles that acted as footlights illumined a backdrop on which a valley had been painted. Two British officers entered and discussed the forthcoming battle, taking the opportunity to vilify the rebel commander even more. But it was during the next scene that Proudfoot began to doubt his wisdom in agreeing to attend the play. To an explosion of abuse and catcalls, a bogus George Washington, in full uniform, came onstage with his mistress, a buxom wench who had a bewitching swing of her hips. Describing herself as the Whore of American Independence, she set off howls of delight.

When he tried to woo her, she reminded him that her favors were not given freely and they began to haggle over the price. What gave the scene additional sparkle for most of the audience was that they knew that the couple onstage were really man and wife. The British major in the luckless role of Washington was married to the lady who was now trying to charge an entrance fee to her boudoir. It provoked some ribald humor among the less sober members of the audience, all of which increased, in the eyes of Ezekiel Proudfoot, the derision heaped upon Washington. The scene soon descended into such lewd comedy that he could bear to watch it no longer.

The Battle of Brandywine
was well into its second act before he was compelled to open his eyes. The alternating cheers and mockery that had accompanied every scene suddenly changed to fear and perturbation. Proudfoot looked up and witnessed an extraordinary performance. Five small furry animals were darting about wildly onstage, creating havoc and forcing the actors, playing a detachment of brave redcoats, to drop their muskets and take to their heels in disarray. Proudfoot realized that someone had just introduced
five frantic squirrels into the action, producing a very different result to the Battle of Brandywine.

Utter pandemonium followed. One squirrel leapt into the orchestra, landing on a drum and ripping it open with its sharp claws. Another tried to climb up the leg of the Whore of American Independence, making her screech in panic and forcing the erstwhile General Washington to resume his duties as a husband and burrow beneath her dress. The three other animals sought to escape by jumping into the audience, causing men to roar with anger, women to faint, and those near the door to quit the scene with undignified haste. Five squirrels had completely rewritten the play. As they dived between legs, hopped onto chairs, and, in one case, even climbed nimbly up a curtain before urinating over the horrified wife of a colonel, they scattered the audience here, there, and everywhere, turning entertainment into sheer frenzy and ruining the evening beyond recall.

A broadside from forty cannons could not have cleared the theater so quickly. Spectators fought each other to reach the door first. Amid the shrieks, bellows, curses, and random collisions, Ezekiel Proudfoot was alone in being highly diverted by the spectacle.

"You are so right, Lieutenant," he said to a white-faced Jenkinson. "The play is hilarious. I've never enjoyed an evening so much before."

Miranda Hughes was reading a book by the light of a tallow candle when her husband returned. The broad smile on his face was confirmation that his jape had been successful.

"Well?" she asked. "What happened, Pearsall?"

"We emptied the place in under ten minutes," he replied, sweeping off his hat. "I did not see what happened inside, mark you—we'll have to wait for Reece Allen to report on that—but I watched them tearing out of the exit as if the hounds of hell were biting at their heels."

"And all because of five tiny animals."

"Five tiny, fearless, native-born, American squirrels. They scattered the British army and won the Battle of Brandywine for us."

"How did you get them into the theater?"

"The only way that I could, Miranda," he said. "I paid a lad to bring the animals out of hibernation for me, then I diverted the man at the door of
the theater so that my little accomplice could sneak in. All that he had to do was to open the sack behind the scenes and shake out the squirrels. They were not happy at being woken up."

"Did the boy get away safely?"

"Yes, he escaped in the confusion, and judging by the way that the audience poured out into the street, the confusion inside the building was akin to chaos."

"I doubt if they'll try to stage that particular play again."

"With or without the squirrels."

"Such a droll idea of yours, Pearsall," she said fondly. "Who would suspect that an upright bookseller could be capable of such a thing?"

"The one place they will not search for the malefactor is here."

Miranda wanted more detail, and he sat beside her to describe at length the exodus from the theater. Nobody had stood on ceremony, he told her. General Howe had had to elbow a way out for himself and his greatly disheveled mistress. Hats had been discarded, wigs surrendered, shoes cast off, purses abandoned willy-nilly, clothes torn indiscriminately, and all decorum forgotten. The audience had been like a routed army, beating a hasty retreat.

"Those five animals were symbolic," he claimed.

"Of what?"

"A small American army up against a much larger British force."

"It will take more than squirrels to defeat the redcoats."

"I know that, Miranda, but we struck a blow at them tonight."

"A powerful one, by the sound of it," she said. "The last place they expected danger was in a theater. But if there was such a mad rush to get out of the building, people will have been hurt. I hope that Mr. Allen was not one of them."

"I warned him beforehand of the disruption."

"Did you mention the squirrels?"

"No," said Hughes. "I did not wish to give the game away. Besides, I was not entirely sure that we would be successful."

"But you were, Pearsall. You were triumphant."

"Yes, Miranda," he agreed with a chortle. "I think I can say, without undue modesty, that I was."

"As long as you were not seen and followed."

"There was no fear of that. I hid in a doorway throughout."

"And nobody saw you slipping away afterward?"

"Who would have noticed me in that crowd? If I'd yelled out, at the top of my voice, that I was responsible for the attack, my confession would have gone unheard. People were too busy running away at full pelt to bother about me."

"What about that lad you employed?"

"He was well paid to keep his mouth shut."

"Who was he?"

"Simon Chatfield's son," said Hughes. "He was glad to help. His father was killed by the redcoats at Harlem Heights."

"We can rely on his loyalty, then," said Miranda, reassured. "Well, it has been quite a day for us. We upset Mrs. Loring by sending her a print of that latest cartoon, and you stampeded General Howe and his officers out of a play. I think we can be well satisfied."

"Satisfied, but not complacent. There's still so much to do."

"I know, Pearsall. It's going to be a long, hard, bitter winter."

He chuckled. "We must see how we can help to enliven it."

Their laughter was short-lived. The doorbell rang to jolt them out of their merriment. They traded a worried glance. When the bell rang again with some insistence, Hughes took off his coat and put it away in a cupboard with his hat. Miranda did not need to be told what story to tell. If questioned, she would swear that he had been with her all evening.

As the bell rang for the third time, Hughes walked quickly toward the front door, wondering if he had, after all, been recognized outside the theater. Having lived in the city for many years, he was a well-known figure. It was not impossible that one of his Tory neighbors had attended the play that evening. His heart was pounding as he reached out for the door. He was being forcibly reminded of how perilous a game he played. No mercy would be shown to him if his guilt were proven.

Hughes unlocked the door with apprehension, ready to dispute that he had even ventured out that evening. His face was impassive but his mind was in turmoil. Had he been careless? Had someone spotted him as he sneaked away from the scene? Was it possible that the boy had been arrested and forced to surrender the name of Pearsall Hughes? Could his bold and unremitting campaign against British occupation be about to come to a premature end?

As the door swung open, he prepared himself for robust denial.

"Congratulations, Mr. Hughes!" said Ezekiel Proudfoot, shaking his hand warmly. "That was a brilliant device."

"Thank you."

"I just had to come and tell you."

"Then do so inside," suggested Hughes, glancing up and down the street to make sure that nobody was about. "Come in, Mr. Allen."

"Gladly," said Proudfoot, going into the house.

The bookseller was relieved. "You gave me such a fright."

Christmas Day was marked in Philadelphia with all kinds of celebrations, but Jamie Skoyles did not attend any of them. He was missing Elizabeth Rainham badly, and took the time to write another letter to her, assuring her of his love and hoping that they could be reunited soon. He then changed out of his uniform into the hunting apparel that he had worn so often when on scouting expeditions. Armed with a musket and a knife, he left the city and took the road northwest, using the appropriate password to get past the British pickets.

As he rode on in the direction of Valley Forge, he wondered what Elizabeth would be doing on Christmas morning, and he also spared a thought for the missing Tom Caffrey and Polly Bragg. On that day of all days, he hoped that they would be safe and well somewhere. Though light snow was falling, he made good time. Twenty miles passed without incident, but he remained alert. Soldiers rarely took a rest on Christmas Day. He had spent too many of them exchanging fire with an enemy. It had been on Christmas night the previous year that George Washington had crossed the Delaware River with his army and inflicted an important defeat on the British at Trenton.

Since it was broad daylight, there was no hope of surprising one of the sentries again and using him as a guide through the encampment. Skoyles therefore intended to ride on until he reached the enemy pickets, then offer himself as a new recruit to the rebel army. His plan did not, however, meet with approval. No sooner did he get within sight of the first picket squad than a shot was fired. It passed too close for comfort and made Skoyles leap from the saddle.

He raised his arms in a gesture of surrender but that only provoked a second man into firing. The musket ball kicked up the dust at Skoyles's feet and
he jumped. It was no time to present himself as a target for a third marksman. Pulling the reins, he took his horse off the road and quickly tethered it in the bushes. Then he ran hard to the right, keeping low and listening for the approach of any pickets. His musket was loaded, but he could hardly take on the seven men he had seen at the post. Shooting even one of them was a poor way to convince them that he had come to enlist in their army. Negotiation was his only hope.

Having worked his way round to the side of the squad, he stopped to peer through the trees. Only three pickets remained. Evidently, the others were searching for him. Hand to the side of his mouth, he called out as loud as he could.

"I come in peace!" he yelled.

"Show yourself!" demanded one of the sentries.

"I'm a new recruit. I want to join you."

"Throw down your weapon and come out where we can see you."

"First give me your word that nobody will shoot."

But no promise came and Skoyles heard rustling in the bushes to his left. Abandoning one hiding place, he went swiftly off in search of another. Entry into Valley Forge for the second time was clearly going to be a more hazardous business. Skoyles ran, stopped, listened for sounds of pursuit, then moved on again. Dressed like a hunter, he was now himself the quarry. One thing was certain. The men who were tracking him were not imbued with the Christmas spirit. They scented blood.

Reaching the cover of a large tree, he flattened his back against the trunk and paused for a respite. If the men were determined to shoot before he could even explain why he had come to Valley Forge, only two courses of action were left to him. He could either find another way to penetrate the defenses, or he could simply turn tail and head back to the city. The problem with the second option was that his horse had probably been discovered by now, so his return would have to be on foot. Even in relatively mild weather, that was not an appealing notion. As it was, neither possibility remained for long.

Skoyles heard footsteps approaching. Someone was trampling his way through the undergrowth nearby. Risking a peep around the tree, Skoyles caught a fleeting glimpse of a man in a shabby uniform, musket held in front of him and head twisting from side to side as he looked for his prey. He was so close that there was no chance of getting away easily. Skoyles therefore decided
to reason with him. Resting his Brown Bess musket against the tree, he edged his way slowly around the massive trunk. As the man moved past, Skoyles jumped out behind him and clapped one hand over his mouth, using the other to disarm him and drop his weapon to the ground. Though the picket struggled hard, he was held tight in an iron grip.

"I've come to join you, friend," said Skoyles earnestly. "Don't you understand? I want to fight the redcoats alongside you."

The man stopped struggling and Skoyles released him, turning him round so that they were face to face. The picket was surprisingly old, a wizened grandfather with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. He gazed at Skoyles with mingled suspicion and wonder.

"Who are ye?" he croaked.

"A recruit for the Continental Army."

"Where did ye come from?"