Valley Forge (28 page)

"Ammunition is scarce," said Elliott. "We don't waste it."

Skoyles looked round the cabin. Apart from Kane and Elliott, ten other men were there, some playing cards, others snatching a few hours' sleep after sentry duty, and one of them cleaning his rifle. They looked cold, tired, and dejected. None of them had a full uniform on. Skoyles noticed that some had bare feet streaked with blood.

"Let's step outside," he suggested.

"Yes, sir," said Kane.

Collecting his musket, he followed Skoyles out through the door. Jedediah Elliott went after them, sucking hard on his pipe even though there was no tobacco in it. He and Kane represented two extremes of the Continental Army, the old and the young. One was a grizzled warrior who refused to use his advanced age as an excuse not to join the conflict, while the other was a bewildered farm boy, still wondering why he had been misguided enough to enlist in the first instance. They were not untypical soldiers. Skoyles saw an opportunity to garner intelligence from two people who could not possibly suspect his motives.

"How long have you been here?" he asked.

"A couple of weeks," said Kane.

"You did well to build your cabin so quickly and so solidly. A lot of them are nowhere near finished."

"We've Jed to thank for that."

"Yes," said the old man, removing his pipe to spit on the ground. "I'm a carpenter by trade. I know how to cut and work wood. Without me, these ignorant fools would still be sleeping under canvas."

"Where are you from, Jed?" said Skoyles.

"Charlottesville, Virginia."

"You're a fair distance from home."

"I wanted to be where the fighting was fiercest," boasted the other. "I served in the French and Indian War, and I wasn't going to be left out of this one."

"Most men of your age would be sitting at home by the fire."

"More fool they! I joined up to teach young whippersnappers like Novus here how to fight. Someone has to knock sense into their heads."

"Do you really want to spend a winter at Valley Forge?"

Elliott stood at attention. "I'll do whatever General Washington asks of me," he said loyally, "and so will every man jack of us here."

"That's not true, Jed," Kane asserted spiritedly. "A lot of us would rather give up and go home until spring."

"Fair-weather soldiers!"

"All that keeps me here is the fear of being shot for desertion."

"Ye'll not run away while I'm here, Novus," the other warned. "Or I'll come after ye and put a bullet in that yellow belly of yours."

Skoyles encouraged the argument between them, throwing in an occasional remark whenever it began to falter. In the process, he learned a great deal about the lot of the common soldier, and the steady decrease of numbers since they had arrived at Valley Forge. When they were on the verge of trading blows, Skoyles stepped in to calm them down.

"Go easy," he said, holding them apart. "You're comrades in arms, you fools. Save your strength for the enemy."

"He started it," Kane alleged, pointing at the old man.

"No, I didn't," cried Elliott. "It was ye, Novus Kane. I'm ashamed to sleep in the bunk below ye."

Kane grinned inanely. "You're only there because you didn't have the strength to climb to the top bunk—not without a ladder!"

Elliott reacted angrily to the gibe, but Skoyles pushed them apart.

"Let's have that lesson in shooting, shall we?" he said firmly. "Is your musket loaded, Novus?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then let me see you hit that post."

He pointed to a wooden post that marked the end of a row of cabins. It was less than thirty yards away, but, since it was no more than three inches wide, it was not an easy target. Kane was honest.

"I'm not sure that I can, sir."

"Then give me the musket," said Elliott, trying to take it from him. "I could hit that post with my eyes closed."

"In that case, you need no further instruction," said Skoyles, easing him away. "Leave it to Novus. He's the one I promised to teach." He patted Kane on the shoulder. "Go on—in your own time."

Kane shifted his feet uneasily. Knowing he was a poor marksman, he was
made even more nervous by the fact that several other soldiers had drifted across to watch him. The last thing he wanted at that moment was an audience. If he missed, Elliott and the others would taunt him unmercifully. He felt sick. Even in the cold, the palms of his hands began to sweat.

"Ignore everyone else," Skoyles cautioned him. "Just shoot."

"Imagine it's a redcoat, Novus," Elliott called out.

Kane tried to block out the various gibes, comments, and pieces of advice that the other soldiers threw at him. He did not even hear the bets that were being laid on his chances of success. The firing of one shot had taken on the significance of an event. Getting down on one knee, he put the stock of the musket into his shoulder and took aim. His hands were now running with moisture and his eyesight was blurred. It took him a long time before he felt able to pull the trigger.

There was a flash, a popping sound, and the musket ball shot out and missed the target. Jedediah Elliott led the howls of derision. Skoyles raised a hand to stop the noise.

"This is how it should be done, Novus," he said.

After his meeting with Major Clark, his own musket had been returned to him, and Skoyles now lifted it into position and took aim. It was only a second before he fired, scoring a direct hit on the post and sending splinters of wood spinning in the air. The men broke into spontaneous applause.

"Load your musket, Novus," said Skoyles. "The way I showed you."

Kane did as he was told. Skoyles, meanwhile, loaded his own weapon with such speed and precision that the soldiers were struck dumb. It took Kane over three times as long to reload. Skoyles looked around the group and picked out the youngest of them. He beckoned him over with a crook of his finger.

"You look as if you can run, lad," he said, whisking off his own hat to hand to the boy. "Set it up on the post so that Novus has something bigger to aim at."

Taking the hat, the boy raced off and put it on top of the post before darting back to the others. When it was evident that Kane would fire again, more wagers were immediately offered.

"Do I
have
to, sir?" Kane protested.

"I hit the post," said Skoyles. "Show them that you can do it."

"But you have a better weapon."

"Then use it instead."

Skoyles handed him the Brown Bess and took the other musket in exchange.
He whispered something in Kane's ear. Heartened by the advice, Kane went through the same routine again, getting down on one knee and waiting until he had steadied himself. When he fired this time, he had more success, grazing the side of the post and earning some grudging cheers from the audience. After congratulating him, Skoyles took aim with the other weapon and fired, hitting the top of his hat and sending it flying through the air.

"You see?" said Skoyles over the sound of appreciative clapping. "It's not the musket, it's the man firing it that makes all the difference."

"I wish that I could do that, sir," said Kane, awestruck by the demonstration. "What am I doing wrong?"

"I'll show you, Novus."

"Thank you."

"First, tell me this. Which musket did you prefer?"

"This one," said Kane, patting the weapon that he held.

"Then it's yours to keep," said Skoyles with a smile. "As long as you promise not to fire it at me next time I approach the camp."

The interview was held in the parlor of the house where Lieutenant Hugh Orde was staying. Sitting at a table with pen and paper before him, he was flanked by two armed redcoats. Ezekiel Proudfoot stood in front of the table. To ensure that
The Pennsylvania Patriot
was never published again, Orde was more than happy to miss the Christmas festivities. He was questioning the men separately so that he could pounce on any discrepancies in their respective answers.

"I knew that I would catch you sooner or later," said Orde smugly.

"But I have nothing to do with the newspaper," Proudfoot insisted.

"I only have your word for that, Mr. Allen."

"Why should I lie to you?"

"Your uncle did. In fact, he told me nothing but lies. He kept denying that he knew anything about the newspaper even though we found those two plates in his possession, and a printing press that was set up for the next issue."

"Until today, I'd never heard of
The Pennsylvania Patriot
."

"Oh, I think you did. I fancy that you're one yourself."

"I come from Massachussetts, Lieutenant."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"I told you," said Proudfoot. "I'm looking for land to buy. When my father died, my elder brother, Silas, inherited the farm. I was left some money to start up on my own and I decided to look in this area."

"Why?"

"My wife was born in Reading, sir. She always hankered after coming back to Pennsylvania one day."

It was not true, but Proudfoot spoke with such apparent sincerity that it sounded as if it were. Blending fact and invention, he went on to talk about his life on the farm, giving details of crops he had grown, and animals he had reared, that could only come from someone with firsthand experience of both. He was pleased to hear the first sign of doubt in the voice of his interrogator.

"It seems that you really are a farmer, Mr. Allen," he conceded. "But the fact remains that you were caught with the printer responsible for the publication of a rebel newspaper."

"He's my uncle, Lieutenant."

"Then you must have been aware of his political sympathies."

"Of course," said Proudfoot, "but I certainly didn't share them."

"Did he talk about
The Pennsylvania Patriot
to you?"

"No, Lieutenant. We were too busy discussing family matters. He wanted to hear news of my mother and my two brothers."

"Why did you make a run for it when we arrived?"

"You scared the daylights out of me."

"If you were innocent of any crime, you could have stayed."

"Uncle Adam pushed me away," Proudfoot explained. "He said that you'd be after him, and that there was no need for me to be tarred with the same brush. He more or less threw me out of there."

Hugh Orde wrote something down on the paper in front of him. He looked up at the prisoner again, weighing him up and trying to decide if he was dissembling or telling the truth.

"You say that Lieutenant Jenkinson will vouch for you?"

"Yes," Proudfoot replied.

"How did you come to be acquainted with him?"

"We met at the tavern where I'm staying."

Orde glanced at his notes. "The King George?"

"That's it. He was kind enough to take me to the performance of a play the other evening—
The Battle of Brandywine
."

"Yes," said the other, grimacing slightly. "I was there myself."

"I'm sorry that it was cut short. I liked the play."

"So you enjoyed the fun that was poked at General Washington?"

"Very much."

"I see."

"It was a real treat for me," said Proudfoot. "The truth of it is that I'd never been to a theater before. When you work on a farm, you have no time to see plays—not that I saw all of this one, mind you."

"A most unfortunate turn of events."

"People charged out like a herd of wild horses."

"You were obviously present at the performance, Mr. Allen," said Orde, "but I'd like to hear confirmation from Lieutenant Jenkinson that he actually took you. I've also sent a man to the King George Tavern to see if you really are lodging there."

Proudfoot was worried. He hoped that Jenkinson would speak up for him, and he knew that Henry Gilby would defend him to the hilt. What disturbed him was the thought that soldiers might search his room at the tavern and find his engraving tools. They were hardly the sort of items that a farmer would be carrying. If his true identity were revealed, Proudfoot had no doubt that he would be either hanged or shot. The same fate would surely befall Adam Quenby.

"Did your uncle, by any chance, mention a man named Ezekiel Proudfoot?" asked Orde.

"No, Lieutenant."

"Have you ever heard the name before?"

"Never. Who is he?"

"A silversmith who has lent his meager skills to the rebel cause. His cartoons appeared in that newspaper. They were very offensive."

"It pains me to hear that my uncle was involved in this business."

"He gave you no hint of it?"

"None at all, Lieutenant."

Orde scrutinized his face and did his best to read his mind. Proudfoot remained calm under his searching gaze. Before the questions could continue,
there was a tap on the door and Brevet Lieutenant Matthew Jenkinson was shown into the room. After being introduced to Hugh Orde, the newcomer, clearly inebriated, turned to shake hands warmly with Proudfoot. He put a companionable arm around him.

"Mr. Allen is a splendid fellow, Lieutenant," he said. "He's a farmer, looking to buy land nearby. We've had some good times together."

"Really?" said Orde.

"Yes, I'm happy to speak up on his behalf."

"You've never had any cause to suspect him?"

"Of what?"

"Siding with the enemy."

"Good Lord, no! Reece Allen is a deep-dyed Tory."

"Are you certain of that?" Orde pressed.

"Bet a month's pay on it, old chap."

Jenkinson emitted his high-pitched laugh. Proudfoot could smell the alcohol on his breath, and he knew that the arm around his shoulder was not merely evidence of friendship. Jenkinson needed someone to help him stay on his feet. Orde opened the door and showed him out.

"There you are," said Proudfoot, gaining in confidence. "One of your own men is ready to speak up for me."

"A more sober testimony would have been preferable."

"It is Christmas Day, Lieutenant."

"Is there nobody else who could vouch for you?"

"Henry Gilby, the landlord at the King George Tavern."

"My men will talk to him," said Orde. "If you've been in the city for some time, you must have met other people who will remember you."