Valley Forge (27 page)

"But I was hoping to report directly to your commander," Skoyles confessed, dismayed at the news. "Some of the things I may discover will be for his ears alone."

"We will see. In the first instance," Clark went on, "everything will come through me. My task is to sift intelligence carefully so that General Washington is not burdened with contradictory information."

"How will I make contact?"

"I'll give you an address where you may leave correspondence."

"Am I to deal with anyone in particular?"

"Only me. Nobody else will read your reports."

"But you are stuck here in Valley Forge."

"Temporarily," said Clark. "I will soon be back in the city. In case I have any instructions for you, I'll need your address."

"I have a room at a house in Spruce Street. Number 10."

"I'll remember that."

"Will you put me in touch with your other agents?"

"No, Captain."

"Why not?"

"Because you are still on trial," warned the other. "Besides, most of the people I use are kept unaware of each other. If they are caught, no list of names can be beaten out of them."

"What of
The Pennsylvania Patriot?
" asked Skoyles.

"What of it?"

"The editor must live in the city; so must the printer."

"You'll not be allowed to meet either of them."

"But I may hear juicy gossip that they could use to effect in their newspaper. Is there no address where I can drop such information?"

"Send it to me and I will pass it on."

"It will be quicker if I deliver it in person to the editor."

"How do you know that you are not looking at him?" said Clark with a teasing smile. "Here," he continued, taking a sheet of paper from the table to give to Skoyles. "This is the only address you need, along with details of the code you must use. Commit both to memory, then destroy the paper. Whatever happens, it must not go astray."

"Of course not." Skoyles glanced at the address on the paper and raised his eyebrows. "A funeral parlor?"

"Run by a Quaker," explained Clark, "who allows us to pick up mail from there even though he has no idea what it might contain. He is not a patriot—indeed, he abhors the very notion of war—so he would never be suspected of helping us."

"I see. He is simply a friend."

"In both senses, Captain."

Major John Clark was much more relaxed with him now, and Skoyles was grateful. He felt that he had passed a first important test. Getting close to Washington again might take longer than he thought, but he would be patient. In a volatile situation, where betrayal was an everyday event, it was vital to build up trust slowly. If he could win over the man who was in charge of the espionage system of the Continental Army, then the name of Jamie Skoyles would be looked upon favorably by the commander in chief. That was the best way to proceed.

"I don't envy you this cabin, Major," said Skoyles, looking around.

"It is much more comfortable than some."

"How many do you have here?"

"Not nearly enough. Our men are building away like beavers."

"Yes, I saw them as I was brought here. But you already have a large number ready for use—a thousand at least, I'd say."

"We need twice that number, Captain."

"Then you will have to fell a small forest. Do you have the right equipment for such a task?"

"Unhappily, no," said Clark, chewing his lip. "Congress is dilatory. The Board of War refuses to give us all that we need."

"That may be so," said Skoyles, "but Congress is now in York, close enough for you to harry. When General Howe wants additional supplies or
reinforcements, he has to send a letter three thousand miles across an ocean. And even then he rarely gets what he wants."

"I can see why he tendered his resignation."

"He is anxious to get back home to his wife."

"His wife!" repeated Clark. "He behaves as if he doesn't have one."

"Only when he is a long way away from her, Major."

"Decent people are shocked at the way Howe carries on."

"Soldiers are soldiers," said Skoyles tolerantly. "I'm one myself, so I'll not criticize another for enjoying the favors of a woman. In any case, I don't believe that immorality is restricted solely to the British army."

"No, Captain."

"When I spent some time with General Lee in New York City, he made no bones about his fondness for the company of women even though he is, apparently, already married."

"Charles Lee wed the daughter of a Mohawk chief," said Clark levelly, "and he never considered it to be a real marriage. That's to say, it was not one that precluded a regular dalliance with other ladies."

"I formed the same impression, sir."

"Because he was so restless, and talked to himself, the Indians used to call him Boiling Water. It was very appropriate. I think that they had the true measure of the man."

"So do I. He was always bubbling. But, even omitting him, I daresay that you have your fair share of lechers and adulterers."

"We have no saints in the Continental Army."

"Then do not censure General Howe so readily. In one sense, his friendship with Mrs. Loring is a boon to you."

"A boon?"

"Yes. From what I can gather,
The Pennsylvania Patriot
is able to make much of it. I heard mention of a cartoon that pilloried the pair of them unmercifully. The general and his mistress were shown in bed to grotesque effect. Is it true?"

"Very true. The artist has a singular talent."

"I know, Major," said Skoyles coolly. "General Howe was so furious that he's given me a direct order—I am to kill the man."

Ezekiel Proudfoot had never had a Christmas quite like it. Born and brought up on a farm in Massachussetts, he was accustomed, as a boy, to spending the day with his parents and his brothers, eating dinner around the long table in the kitchen before returning to his chores outside. When he followed his instinct and became apprenticed to a silversmith, he fell in love with the man's daughter and eventually married her. From then on, a Christmas dinner was shared with Selina's family until Proudfoot's own children came along. His wife then took over the cooking and her parents became guests at the Proudfoot table. They had been very happy occasions.

Proudfoot was sharply reminded of past delights when he sat down to eat more humble fare with Adam Quenby. He had invited the printer to the King George Tavern, but Quenby had refused to go, vowing that he would never enter an establishment with a portrait of King George on its inn sign. Proudfoot had therefore joined him in the cellar, eating at a grubby little table and celebrating with a cheap wine. It was not the most enjoyable meal he had ever had, but he felt sorry for Quenby, who would otherwise have spent Christmas alone, too frightened to leave his beloved printing press in order to ride the thirty miles that separated him and from his wife and children.

"What will we have from you next, Mr. Allen?" asked Quenby.

"A cartoon about the play that was abandoned, I think."

"It must have been wonderful to be there."

"It was," said Proudfoot. "I'll savor it for the rest of my life."

"And did General Howe really scamper away in fear?"

"I hadn't realized that he could run so fast."

Quenby laughed. "I wish I'd been there to see it," he said. "It was one battle of Brandywine that ended in defeat for them. Pearsall Hughes is a genius to come up with such an idea."

"I trust that he will have several more of the same quality."

Proudfoot had his back to the window while the printer sat opposite him. They were still relishing the memory of the wrecked performance when Quenby suddenly froze in his seat. His eyes bulged, his mouth fell open, and every muscle tensed. Looking over Proudfoot's shoulder, he could see someone staring back at him through the window. Another face appeared there. The two British soldiers were on their hands and knees to peer into the cellar, but they soon got back to their feet. Quenby leapt up from the table.

"Get out, Mr. Allen!" he cried. "They've found us."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A
dam Quenby pushed him through the door, then slammed it behind him before shooting home the bolt. He scoured the room and removed the most glaring evidence that it was where
The Pennsylvania Patriot
was based, thrusting the two stray copies of the newspaper into the fire. When the blaze died down, the plates from which Proudfoot's cartoons had been printed were quickly hidden up the chimney. He heard soldiers coming down the stairs and banging on the door. Grabbing a piece of cloth, Quenby began to give his press a valedictory cleaning.

Ezekiel Proudfoot, meanwhile, had raced up the steps and, as redcoats were coming in through the front, he made for the back door of the house, letting himself out into a small garden. He did not get far. As he tried to open the gate to the street, he felt the point of a musket at the base of his spine. A rough hand then swung him round. Two soldiers stood over him with stern expressions on their faces.

"Search him," snapped one of them to his companion.

"I'm not armed," said Proudfoot.

"We're not looking for weapons."

Proudfoot was thoroughly searched, but nothing suspicious was found on him. He was pushed back into the house and down to the cellar, where three other soldiers had forced their way in. Hands on hips, Quenby was standing beside his printing press, like a father ready to shield a favorite child from attack. Lieutenant Hugh Orde, who was in charge of the raid, looked around the cellar with a mixture of interest and satisfaction. He clicked his fingers.

"See what you can find," he ordered.

While two of the soldiers began a rigorous search, the others stood guard over the captives so that Orde could question them. He began with the printer.

"What's your name?" he demanded.

"Adam Quenby," replied the other staunchly, "and this is my workplace. I'm a printer, pursuing a legitimate trade. You have no right to barge in here like this."

"Why didn't you open the door when we knocked on it?"

"I didn't hear you."

"Half of Philadelphia would have heard us," said Orde flatly. His eyes swiveled to Proudfoot. "Who are you?"

"Reece Allen," said Proudfoot.

"And why were you here?"

"He's my nephew," said Quenby.

"Let him answer for himself."

"Uncle Adam is right," said Proudfoot, taking his cue from the printer. "I knew that he was spending Christmas Day on his own, so I agreed to have dinner with him." He indicated the table. "That's all that's left of it or you'd have been welcome to join us."

Orde looked at the mattress. "You
live
down here, Mr. Quenby?"

"Yes," said the printer. "Times are hard."

"Perhaps you're not very good at your trade."

Quenby's chest inflated. "I'm the best in the city, sir."

"Then why do you have such mean premises?" asked Orde. "Could it be that you are printing something in secret—a newspaper, perhaps?"

"Do you
see
any newspapers?"

"No, but I think I've caught the men who produce one."

"I'm no printer," said Proudfoot, displaying the roughened palms of someone who grew up on a farm. "Look at these hands. They've seen hard work. I'm a farmer and I'm looking to buy land in Pennsylvania. That's what brought me to the city in the first place. I took the chance of seeing Uncle Adam while I was here."

"Then why did you run away as soon as you saw us?"

"I was frightened, Lieutenant."

"I'm sure," said Orde smoothly, "and I'll wager that you had good reason to be frightened. It's the same reason why your uncle—if that's what he really is—refused to open the door to us."

Quenby stepped forward. "We've nothing to hide."

"Is it a crime to have dinner on Christmas day?" said Proudfoot.

"That depends, Mr. Allen," said Orde.

"On what?"

"What you happened to be celebrating."

"I've found something, sir," said one of the soldiers. He kicked out some of the logs in the fireplace so that he could reach up the chimney without getting burned. "Yes, here it is!"

He brought out the soot-covered plates from which Proudfoot's two cartoons had been printed. Hugh Orde took them from him and cleaned them off so that he could see them properly. He barked a command.

"Take these men away," he ordered.

A smile of triumph spread across his face. The lieutenant had not only redeemed himself. He was certain that he had just found the ideal Christmas gift for General Howe.

Captain Jamie Skoyles missed nothing. As he walked through the camp at Valley Forge, he took note of its layout, its defenses, and the disposition of its soldiers. During his lengthy conversation with Major Clark he had managed to remove most of the reservations that the man had about him. He had also demonstrated his quick brain by memorizing the code that he had been given and writing some notes for the major there and then to prove that he had mastered it. Since he was highly unlikely to forget the name of a Quaker funeral parlor, the sheet of information that he had been given could be torn to shreds on the spot.

Before he left, Skoyles sought out Private Novus Kane, the young soldier who had saved his life earlier on. Now off duty, Kane was lying on his bunk in the cabin that he had helped to build. He was on the point of dozing off when Jedediah Elliott, the old man who had been part of the same picket squad, stood on tiptoe to prod him with the stem of his pipe.

"Wake up, Novus!" he said.

"Not another inspection, is it?" groaned Kane.

"Ye got company, lad."

"What?"

"Down ye get."

Elliott reached up to pull him by a trailing arm, and Kane almost fell off the top bunk of the three. When he had finished complaining to the old man, he saw Skoyles standing in the doorway.

"I came to thank you," said Skoyles, offering his hand.

"It's me should thank you," returned the other, accepting the handshake willingly. "You taught me how to load my musket."

"If you've time, I'll show you how to fire it."