Valley Forge (29 page)

"Pearsall Hughes would certainly do that."

"And who is he?"

"A bookseller. I've been to his shop a couple of times."

Orde's eyebrow lifted. "A farmer so interested in books?" he said. "Isn't that rather unusual, Mr. Allen?"

"Not at all, lieutenant. We are always trying to keep abreast of the latest farming methods. The first thing my father did when he took over a farm was to write to England for a copy of
Horse-Hoeing Husbandry
."

"What's that?"

"A book by Jethro Tull. It explains the advantages of sowing crops in lines. My father made us all read it from cover to cover, and it was not the only book in his little library."

Proudfoot listed several titles before Orde waved him into silence. There was another knock on the door. A soldier entered and spoke to the lieutenant in a corner of the room. The man had just returned from the King George Tavern and Proudfoot wished that he could catch what he was saying. When both of them stared at him with muted hostility, his stomach heaved. He felt certain that his engraving tools had been found. Hugh Orde dispatched the soldier, then came to confront Proudfoot.

"Well," he said with manifest disappointment, "it appears that you may, after all, be the person whom you claim to be, Mr. Allen. When my men searched your room at the tavern, they found nothing untoward."

"Does that mean I'm released, Lieutenant?"

"For the time being."

"Thank you, sir."

"Make sure that you stay in Philadelphia," Orde warned him. "We may well wish to talk to you again in due course."

"I'll be here until well into the New Year," said Proudfoot, already planning to leave that very day. "You know where you can find me."

As he set out on his return journey, Jamie Skoyles had plenty of time to reflect on his second visit to Valley Forge. There had been gains and losses. The real loss had been the severing of his direct link with George Washington, and he was dismayed that he would not even be allowed to go to the encampment again. His only contact with the Continental Army would be by means of coded letters. As a consequence, he would be providing information while getting none in return. Skoyles resolved that he would find another method of gathering intelligence about the enemy.

The gains were numerous. He now had a much clearer idea of the structure of the camp and its fortifications. But it was his conversation with some of the rank and file that had yielded the best results. After his display of marksmanship, they had been only too keen to talk to him. Skoyles learned that the choice of Valley Forge was essentially that of the commander in chief, and that his generals had strongly advocated other sites for the winter
cantonment. Many had favored Wilmington, while some had argued that a line between Lancaster and Reading would be the easiest to defend against a surprise attack.

Skoyles was intrigued to hear frank opinions about the various commanders. Major General Wayne, a wealthy Pennsylvania tanner, was respected, though it was felt by all that his nickname of Mad Anthony was well deserved. There was praise, too, for Major General Henry Knox, a bookseller from Maine, who had no knowledge of artillery when he was put in charge of it, but who had learned with surprising speed. And so it went on: Nathanael Greene, John Sullivan, Enoch Poor, Baron de Kalb, George Weeden, William Maxwell, Charles Scott, James Mitchell Varnum, and John Armstrong of the Pennsylvania Militia—all were discussed and compared. There were also some derogatory comments about Charles Lee, the man with whom Skoyles had been earlier incarcerated.

There was patent dissension among the generals, and that could only get worse as conditions at the encampment deteriorated. None of the rank and file wanted to spend winter at Valley Forge. They lacked real spirit. It was news that would bring immense pleasure to General Howe. The man about whom Skoyles would like to have heard more was the Marquis de Lafayette, an intrepid French adventurer, who had inherited a fortune, then spent some of it buying a ship so that he could sail to America and join what he saw as a fight for freedom. Still only twenty, and serving entirely at his own expense, the young officer had fought with distinction at Brandywine until he was shot in the leg.

All in all, Skoyles decided, the Continental Army was a demoralized collection of men with no shortage of courage or determination. But it was weakened by a Board of War that was unable to supply them adequate food and clothing, and had a commander in chief who was being hampered by quarrelsome colleagues and sniped at by ambitious rivals. It would be cheering news to take back to General Howe. On balance, Skoyles concluded, his visit had been a success. The gains outweighed the losses substantially.

He had traveled over ten miles before he encountered anyone else. Cresting a hill, he rode down the slope toward a stand of trees. A man was sitting idly on a fallen trunk, eating something. When he got closer, Skoyles saw that it was a hunk of bread. The man picked up a flagon that stood beside him and offered it to Skoyles.

"Will you share a drink with me, friend?" he asked.

"No, thanks," said Skoyles.

"Where are you heading?"

"Philadelphia."

"Do you live there?"

"No, I'm visiting friends for Christmas."

Skoyles kept one hand on his musket. The man was young, fresh-faced and affable, but there was something about him that alerted the British soldier. He wore a tattered cape over his hunting shirt and breeches, and his hat was set back on his head. Though he had a broad smile on his face, his eyes were cold and watchful. Skoyles was being sized up. The man got slowly to his feet.

"Have you time to stop and talk?" he inquired.

"No, I'd best be on my way."

"You can spare me five minutes."

"I've a long way to go," said Skoyles.

"That's for us to decide, my friend."

The man suddenly reached out, grabbing the reins with one hand and trying to snatch the musket with the other. Skoyles was too fast for him. Taking a foot from his stirrup, he kicked his attacker hard, then, as the man reeled away, he used the butt of his weapon to knock him senseless with a single blow. When he tried to ride off, however, a shot was fired from the trees, and his horse let out a loud neigh of agony before collapsing in a heap on the ground. Skoyles had to dismount rapidly before he was crushed under the heavy body. The animal was not dead. It was twitching frenziedly on the grass.

"Put him out of his misery!" a voice ordered.

Two burly figures had come out of hiding to cover Skoyles with their muskets. The man who had shot the horse had slung one weapon over his shoulder so that he could train a second on their prisoner. He sounded angry.

"Shoot him!" he demanded.

Skoyles did as he was ordered, more out of pity for an animal that was clearly in great pain than because he was obeying a command. Aiming at the head, he put a bullet through the horse's brain at close quarters. After some more frantic convulsions, the animal finally lay still.

"Good," said the man who has issued the order. "Now we know that your musket is not loaded. Throw it down, then see to Ira. Be careful with him. He's my brother."

"Who are you?" Skoyles asked.

"We'll ask the questions."

The two men came slowly forward, keeping their weapons trained on Skoyles. The bigger of the two was clearly the leader, a tall, thickset man in his thirties with a rough beard, chewing tobacco as he spoke. His companion was much shorter but equally stocky, a swarthy individual in his forties with protruding brown eyes. Skoyles bent down to look at the fallen man, who was still unconscious. Blood had seeped from a wound on the side of his temple, but he was breathing normally.

"How is he?" asked the leader.

"He'll live," Skoyles replied.

"In that case, so will you."

He lashed out with his foot and knocked Skoyles on to his back, then he held the end of his musket inches away from his face. Skoyles looked up into a pair of green, unforgiving eyes. He then turned his head away as a stream of tobacco and phlegm was spat contemptuously at him. A second kick made him double up.

"Search him, Aaron," said the leader.

The swarthy man took Skoyles's knife and relieved him of the small amount of money he was carrying. The other man, meanwhile, was examining the injury to his brother, dabbing away at the blood with a handkerchief, before tying it around the head of the unconscious man to prevent any further bleeding. He shook his brother with tenderness.

"Wake up, Ira," he said gently. "It's me, Jack. Wake up."

Ira let out a low moan, and it was enough to convince his brother that he would soon recover. Crossing to the dead horse, he took the water canteen from the pommel and removed the stopper. When he poured the water over Ira's face, it produced a few drowsy curses.

"He'll be fine," said Jack with a laugh. He stood over Skoyles. "Now we can see to you. What's your name?"

"Dan Lukins," Skoyles replied.

"Where are you from?"

"Lancaster."

"Where are you going?"

"Philadelphia."

"I think you're lying."

"I'd never lie to someone holding a musket on me," said Skoyles.

He had deliberately concealed his name, using instead that of a private who had once served in his regiment. Skoyles was not going to admit that he was a captain in the British army. If the men were members of a local militia, they might shoot him out of spite. They would not believe for one second that he had been to Valley Forge to receive his instructions about providing intelligence. Skoyles had wounded one of them. If provoked, the men would have no compunction about killing him.

Rubbing his stomach where he had been kicked, he took stock of his captors. Ira was still badly dazed but the other two were vigilant. They glared at him as if he were an animal caught in a trap.

"What do you want?" asked Skoyles. "I've nothing on me."

"I heard you claim you was visiting friends," said Jack with a sneer. "What sort of a guest turns up on Christmas Day without any gifts? Would you do such a thing, Aaron?"

"Not me, Jack," answered the other.

"Nor me. Nor Ira, for that matter."

"He's lying to us."

"That leads me to one conclusion, Daniel Lukins. You didn't come from Lancaster at all, did you? I think you escaped from Valley Forge."

"No," said Skoyles.

"You're one more lousy deserter from the Continental Army."

"I'm a hunter. I live in Lancaster."

"Tell that to the firing squad when they shoot you."

"Who
are
you?"

"Me," returned the other. "I'm Jack Bedford. That's there's my brother, Ira. And this here," he went on, pointing to the swarthy man, "is our cousin, Aaron Pask. We catch deserters, you see. It's how we make a living. They fetch a good price."

Skoyles was disgusted. "You're bounty hunters!"

"It's an honorable profession," said Bedford.

"Only for cowards. Honorable men prefer to fight."

"Then why are you running away from the army?"

"I'm on furlough from the Pennsylvania Militia."

"Think we haven't heard that excuse before?" asked Bedford with a
cackle. "Only last week, we had two lads who tried to talk their way out of a noose with the same story. But we were not fooled. We took them back to Valley Forge and got our blood money. General Washington will always buy deserters off us. He can make an example of them."

"So can General Howe," Pask added.

"Yes, he pays even better. But redcoats are harder to find. Why should they desert when they're nice and snug in Philadelphia? No," Bedford went on, "Valley Forge is where our money will be made."

Skoyles did not relish the idea of returning there, especially as he would have to walk the ten miles on foot. It would not help his standing with General Washington or Major Clark if three ruffians dragged him back to Valley Forge. Something else concerned him. When Ira Bedford became fully conscious again, he would have a blinding headache and a desire to avenge himself on the person who had given it to him. If they believed him to be a deserter, they would not worry about the condition in which they handed him over.

His escape had to be made soon. Skoyles waited for his chance.

"Come on," said Bedford. "Let's tie him up."

"I'd rather string him up from a tree," said Pask.

"So would I, Aaron, but we don't get paid for dead deserters. They want him alive." He kicked Skoyles once more. "Or half alive, anyway."

"On your feet!" Pask snarled.

Taking hold of Skoyles's collar, he showed his strength by hoisting him up from the ground. Retrieving his hat, Skoyles dusted it off and put it on his head. Bedford jabbed him with his musket and the three of them walked into the trees. They came to a clearing where the horses were tethered. Pask rested his musket against a trunk and took a coil of rope from his saddlebag. By way of a jest, he tossed one end up over a sturdy bough and pretended to make a noose. It was the moment that Skoyles had waited for, and he sprang into action immediately. With one man distracted, he leapt quickly on the other, seizing Bedford's loaded musket and wrestling for possession.

Skoyles brought his knee up hard into the man's groin, causing him to release the weapon and yell with fury. Swinging the musket deftly, Skoyles caught him on the point of the chin and dropped him like a stone. The whole exercise had taken seconds. Caught by surprise, Pask tried to make amends by grabbing his own musket. Before he could aim it, however, it was knocked
upward by Skoyles, and the bullet was discharged harmlessly into the air. Pask screeched with rage and pulled out his knife, lunging at Skoyles with a ferocity that would have cut his stomach to ribbons.

Years of training with a musket and bayonet now came into play. Skoyles parried the thrust expertly, moved smartly to one side so that Pask was thrown off balance, then stuck out a leg to trip him. As soon as his adversary hit the ground, Skoyles struck the back of his head with the butt of the musket and sent him into oblivion. It was not a time to linger. Untying two of the horses, he slapped them on the rump to send them galloping off, then he collected his knife and his money from Pask. With the loaded musket still in his hand, he mounted the remaining horse.