Valley Forge (34 page)

"Well," said Lucy, feeling that their relationship had moved on to a new level, "now that I've shared my secret with you, I think that it's your turn, don't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I'm still waiting to hear why your betrothal came to an end."

"Oh, it's not a very interesting story," said Elizabeth uneasily.

"Everything about you is interesting. It took me all my time to find
one
man who proposed marriage to me—you've already found two."

"I'm not looking for a third, I assure you."

"Let's just talk about the first one, shall we?"

Elizabeth was reluctant. "If you wish."

"This is strictly between us. Nobody else will ever know." She sat forward on her chair. "Did you love him?"

"I thought so at the time, Lucy."

"And was he dashing?"

"Yes," said Elizabeth. "Harry was the epitome of a dashing soldier. When I first met him, I thought that he would make a perfect husband."

"Love at first sight, then."

"Far from it. That would have been quite unseemly. I was far too young even to think about such things. Major Featherstone was engaged to marry my sister, Cora, you see. He hardly noticed me. When he came to the house, he only had eyes for Cora. They seemed so
right
for each other. Wedding plans were quite advanced by the time she became sick."

"Oh dear! Don't tell me that your sister died."

"After a long, lingering illness," Elizabeth recalled sadly. "When she realized that she could never marry him, she wanted me to do so in her stead. 'Love him for me, Elizabeth,' she said. I found that very easy to do. Then, in time, when the shock of Cora's death began to wear off, Harry started to take an interest in me."

"Where did he propose?"

"On horseback."

"Horseback!" Lucy shrieked. "That's not very romantic."

"It felt like it at the time. We'd been out riding on Chartham Downs that afternoon. When we got back, he leaned over to take my hand and asked me to marry him."

"I made Roderick go down on one knee."

"Harry Featherstone was not that kind of man. Anyway," Elizabeth went on, eager to bring her tale to an end, "he sailed for America and I followed him in due course. It was only when I saw him here that I had an insight into his real character."

"Was he so beastly?"

"He did things that were quite unforgivable, Lucy."

"Such as?"

"For a start, he paid two men to assault Jamie."

"Why?"

"Harry had grown to hate him," said Elizabeth. "Luckily, Jamie was warned about the plan, and he was able to fight off his attackers. From that moment on, Harry was his implacable enemy. He did all he could to malign Jamie. During the battle at Bemis Heights, he even tried to . . ." Eyes filling with tears, she choked back the words. "What he did was nothing short of evil. And it did not end there, Lucy. After the battle, Harry got drunk and . . . tried to molest me."

Lucy was appalled. "I can see why you turned against him."

"It was a nightmare." She conjured up a brave smile. "So let's think about happier events, shall we? I can't tell you how pleased I am. But you must get
plenty of rest," she insisted, wagging a finger. "I'll take it upon myself to see that you don't overtax yourself."

"I'm not an invalid, Elizabeth. I'm with child, that's all."

"You can't take any chances."

"Stop sounding like the doctor."

"He knows best, Lucy."

"Who is carrying this baby—him or me?" She gave a brittle laugh. "It's the main reason we're not announcing anything at this stage. The moment we do that, everyone will urge me to take to my bed."

"I can't imagine you ever doing that. You're far too lively."

"I'm young and strong and at the right age for childbirth."

"Do you want a boy or a girl?"

"We'll love the child, whatever it is. Though, in his heart, I think that Roderick would like it to be a boy—someone to carry on the Tillman tradition. Roderick comes from a long line of soldiers."

"Jamie's father was a country doctor in Cumberland."

"Hardly a typical military background," Lucy opined. "By the way, where is he today? The gallant Captain Skoyles usually calls on you every afternoon."

"He's involved in a raid somewhere," said Elizabeth. "Jamie wouldn't tell me the details until afterward. I'll see him later on."

"Then you'll be able to hear about his latest triumph."

General Howe was irritated when he was called away from the supper table, and annoyed when he learned the reason. The report that Skoyles delivered to the commander in chief was not an inspiring one.

Howe goggled. "You lost half your men?"

"Killed or wounded, sir."

"How many of them did you account for?"

"A rather smaller number," Skoyles admitted. "They had the whip hand over us, sir. We were lucky to get away with our second line almost intact. They'll not be so easily tricked from now on."

"Nor will I, Captain. My trust in you may have been misplaced."

"I did what any officer would have done in my place, sir. I cut my losses and withdrew. They harried us vigorously. With respect," said Skoyles, meeting his glare boldly, "I could not have foreseen the size of their response."

They were in Howe's office at headquarters. Hands behind his back, the general paced restlessly up and down, trying to absorb the bad tidings. The successful foraging expedition in the Brandywine Valley had been given an additional luster by the complete rout of the rebels. Some of the sheen had been taken off the event by the failure of Skoyles and his men. It did not help Howe's digestion.

"A setback like this will give them confidence," he said ruefully.

"It was only a very minor reverse, sir."

"They beat us, Captain. I take that very seriously."

"So do I," said Skoyles, "especially as my own life was at risk. I am sure that General Washington will be pleased to have got the better of us for once, but it will hardly prompt him to order a full attack. The time to do that would have been in December, when our forces were more scattered than they are now."

"That's true. He was a fool not to lead an assault on the city."

"It was concern for his men rather than folly, sir. His soldiers are, for the most part, young recruits with no real experience of warfare. They still bear the scars of the battles at Brandywine and Germantown. I think he was wise to avoid another major engagement."

"I'd question that wisdom," said Howe, adjusting his wig. "He's made so many mistakes, the wonder of it is that he's still in command."

"That's another problem that dogs him," Skoyles pointed out. "He's worshiped by his soldiers, yet sniped at by envious colleagues and their political allies. Major Clark told me all about the Conway Cabal. How can you command an army properly when so many people are waiting to stab you in the back?"

"Soldiering would be so much easier without politicians."

"They'd argue that politics would be so much easier if there were no soldiers telling them what to do."

Howe gave a hollow laugh. "Fair comment, Skoyles." He put a hand to his brow. "I'll be so glad to get away from all this. Some years ago, in a moment of honesty, I said that I'd never fight against Americans because I respected them too much. I meant it as well," he said. "But when the opportunity came, I was too much of a soldier to follow my inclinations. And I could not resist the lure of glory—not that there's been enough of that, alas."

"We'll be sorry to see you leave, General."

"I'll be here till the spring at least. Knowing the speed at which the colonial
secretary moves, I do not expect a successor to be appointed before April, if then. I do not envy him his task."

"The Continental Army will have had time to recover."

"Meanwhile, their much-vaunted commander will be laughing at us over today's little farce."

"That's a very unfair description, sir," Skoyles returned.

"Is it?"

"Our men fought bravely and I'd like you to understand that."

"I do, Captain Skoyles. But, as we both know, bravery is not always enough, is it? Ah, well," he said with a sigh, "we must let General Washington have his brief moment of triumph. There'll be precious few of those for him this winter."

Pearsall Hughes read the newspaper with his customary attention to detail, making sure that the printer had allowed no errors to creep into the bookseller's polished sentences. When he had studied all four pages of
The Pennsylvania Patriot
, he allowed himself to dwell on the cartoon that adorned the front page. He chortled with pleasure.

"This is magnificent," he said. "If only I'd been there!"

"What you see is what actually happened, Mr. Hughes."

"General Howe and his concubine on the hoof."

"You put the whole audience to flight," said Ezekiel Proudfoot.

They were in his room at Neale's Tavern in Germantown. Hughes had made the journey from Philadelphia to inspect the latest issue of the
Patriot
, and to take some copies back with him to the city. It was the first time they had met since Proudfoot's arrest on Christmas Day, and they were delighted to see each other again. The silversmith was interested to hear the latest news from Philadelphia.

"Did anyone ever make inquiries about me at the bookshop?"

"Yes," said Hughes. "A young lieutenant asked if I knew a Reece Allen, and I told him that you were a customer of mine. Since you had only been into the shop twice, I insisted, our acquaintance was, of necessity, only a fleeting one."

"Did he accept that?"

"I think so. I've not seen him since."

Proudfoot bit his lip. "I still feel so guilty about Adam Quenby," he said, running a hand through his hair. "We were both caught in that cellar. Yet, while I was released, he was sent to the gallows."

"Yes," said Hughes sorrowfully, "Adam was a great loss. He was a master of his trade, and nobody believed more passionately in freedom than he did. On the other hand," he continued pragmatically, "his death was not without its benefits. It brought us in someone to take over the printing from Adam."

"Raphael Dyer."

"He was apprenticed to Adam Quenby, and when he wanted to set up in business on his own, it was Adam who lent him the money to do so. Raphael feels indebted," Hughes went on. "When he heard what had happened to his old employer, he got in touch with me."

"He doesn't have the same burning commitment."

"No matter, as long as he's prepared to help us. Raphael Dyer has done what many of us have been compelled to do—pretend to be a Tory in order to stay in our homes. But he's no loyalist at heart."

"Neither is his assistant," said Proudfoot. "I get on well with both of them. And the fact that they still carry on their normal business is to our advantage. It's a perfect disguise. All that Mr. Quenby did in that cellar was to print the
Patriot
."

"That was the raison d'être of his press."

"It's not the case with Raphael Dyer. In addition to our newspaper, he prints dozens of other things. Nobody is going to track him down by finding out which mill supplies his paper. We have that consolation. As for this place," added Proudfoot contentedly, "it's every bit as welcoming as the King George Tavern, though I must confess that I do miss the landlord."

"Pontius Pilate sends his regards."

Encrusted by a light fall of snow, Germantown was a remote country retreat, a place of clean, clear air that made it an ideal refuge for people from Philadelphia, whether fleeing from an outbreak of yellow fever or escaping from the city's oppressive summer heat. Houses tended to be large, and its population tended to be wealthy. It was a pretty town, in a delightful rural setting, with none of the bustle or cosmopolitan feel of Philadelphia. Although a large number of redcoats were stationed there, Proudfoot did not feel in any danger.

"How is Mrs. Hughes?" he asked.

"Miranda is well. You must come and see us some time."

"When the weather improves."

"That may not be for some time yet," said Hughes, glancing through the window as more snowflakes began to fall. "You may find yourself cut off for weeks out here."

"As long as I'm able to work," said Proudfoot.

"Nothing would stop you doing that. You and Adam Quenby were well matched—you both thrived on hard work."

"His family must have been distraught when they heard what happened. He had a wife and children, didn't he?"

"Yes, they left when the British army arrived on their doorstep. I wrote to his wife with the details, and I told her what a Trojan her husband had been in the fight for liberty." He exhaled through his teeth. "I expect no reply from her."

"It's one of the most heartbreaking things about this war."

"What is?"

"Letters like that."

"I've had to write quite a few," said Hughes. "Adam was only one of a number we've lost since the British took over the city. And, of course, it must be even worse for our commanders."

"There's no doubting that," said Proudfoot. "General Washington told me how much he hated writing letters after a battle, informing people that their fathers, husbands, or sons had died. He could not bear to tell them the truth—that, in some cases, the dead bodies had had to be abandoned where they lay."

"A letter signed by him might still be something to cherish."

"My fear is that he'll be writing a large number of them this winter. Valley Forge is no place to be when the snow really falls. Some of those poor devils are going to freeze to death."

The eleven soldiers who shared the log cabin with him looked upon Jedediah Elliott as a disagreeable grandfather. He was the oldest man in the ranks and easily the most ornery. Yet it was Elliott who had made sure that their dwelling was built faster than any other in the regiment, thus winning a monetary prize that was divided equally between them. Though they resented his unending complaints, and his constant boasts about his part in the French
and Indian War, some of his companions turned to him with gratitude. They were illiterate.

"What else do ye want to say?" asked Elliott.