Valley Forge (35 page)

Novus Kane scratched his head. "I don't know."

"Well, make up your mind, lad. I need my sleep."

"What have I said so far, Jed?"

"How cold the weather is," replied Elliott, reading by the light of the candle. "How poor the food, how hard the beds, how tired ye are, and how ye share this hut with the worst, smelliest, and most cowardly band of rascals in the Continental Army."

"I didn't tell you to write that," said Kane over the loud protests from the other men. "Did I mention how awful that beef soup was today?"

"Your parents don't want to hear about beef soup."

"What
do
they want to hear?"

"That their son is doing his duty—like me—without whining."

"You never
stop
whining, Jed," another man called out to a chorus of agreement. "First thing I hear when I wake up of a morning is that griping voice of yours. It's also the last thing I hear before I fall asleep."

"Be quiet, Euclid," retorted the old man, looking over the top of his spectacles. "I'm trying to write this blessed letter for Novus, and it needs all my attention."

It was late evening and most of the men had already retired to their bunks in the smoky interior of the cabin. A few flames still flickered in the little fire, but they gave off scant warmth. Everyone who was still up had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Novus Kane was not the only farm boy there. Four others had been recruited. Elliott was a carpenter, and there was also a stonemason, a rope maker, a baker, a brewer, and a leather worker. Euclid Rawson was a schoolmaster, but, unlike Elliott, he was not so willing to write letters for his comrades. Three of them played cards by the light of a guttering candle. Kane was the only correspondent there. Wanting to tell his parents good news, he could think of none.

"I know," he said, snapping his fingers. "Write about that foraging party we ambushed. Tell them that I knocked a redcoat from the saddle."

"That was my shot, not yours," Elliott asserted.

"It was
mine
, Jed."

"Ye couldn't hit a barn door from five yards."

"You couldn't even
see
one from that distance."

"There's nothing wrong with my eyes."

"Then why are you wearing spectacles?"

"I killed that rider and there's an end to it."

"No!" Kane yelled. The old man held up the piece of paper as if about to tear it apart. Kane gave in. "Say nothing about it," he conceded. "Maybe it
was
your bullet that hit him."

"Ye might tell your parents what a help I've been to you."

"For all I know, you've already put that in the letter. It's so maddening not being able to read or write." He turned to the card players. "Why don't you teach me, Euclid?"

"I'm a soldier now," said Rawson, "not a schoolmaster."

"Pretty soon, ye'll be neither," said Elliott, chewing on the stem of his pipe. "Ye'll be like the rest of us, Euclid—a block of ice."

"You think this is
cold?
"

"My pizzle is frozen solid."

"I was born and bred not twenty miles from here," said Rawson, "and, in these parts, we'd call this weather mild."

"Then I'd hate to see it when the temperature really falls."

"Finish my letter, Jed," Kane urged.

"I have finished. Sign it."

"I don't know how."

"Then make your mark," said Elliott. "Your parents will know that you're still alive then." He offered the pen to Kane who put a cross at the bottom of the paper. "At least, ye were when this was sent. By the time the letter reaches them, ye might have died of starvation."

"Or poisoning," said Kane sourly. "I'm not eating any of that beef soup again. It tasted like horse piss."

"How do you know?" asked Rawson.

Elliott cackled. "That's all they drink on the farm."

"No wonder Novus stinks of it."

"I don't stink of anything!" cried Kane.

"Horse piss and cow shit. I can smell you from here."

"Shut your mouth, Euclid!"

"They ought to make you sleep in a stable."

Kane had been sitting beside Elliott on the latter's bunk. When he tried to
get up in protest, he banged his head on the bunk above him and let out a yelp of pain. Everyone still awake laughed at him. Rubbing his head with both hands, Kane decided that he had had enough argument for one night. He took the letter from Elliott and thrust it into his pocket before clambering up to the top bunk. After shivering under his blanket for a long time, he finally drifted off to sleep—with Jamie Skoyles's musket still clasped to his chest.

Winter was playing games with them. One day, it would send driving snow and biting cold; the next day, bright sunshine would set a thaw in motion, only for it to be countermanded a few days later. Sooner or later, the games would stop and the real winter would arrive. Meanwhile, Jamie Skoyles tried to take advantage of the milder spells. When the snow was melting away yet again, he and Elizabeth Rainham went riding out of the city. Anticipating no trouble, he nevertheless took his sword and a newly acquired pistol with him.

Elizabeth was an accomplished horsewoman and she was glad of the chance to go riding, even if the fields were still streaked with white, and the roads soggy. They had gone a few miles northwest of Philadelphia before they stopped in the shade of a tree. Skoyles leaned across to kiss her on the cheek.

"Alone at last," he said.

"We have so few opportunities. Lucy Tillman is a lovely woman, and I enjoy her company enormously, but she does hang on to me."

"That's understandable. She recognizes a true friend."

"And what do
you
recognize?" asked Elizabeth teasingly.

"Someone who's a lot more than that."

Skoyles reached out to squeeze her hand. She returned his smile, then looked at the tranquil scene ahead of them. Undulating fields stretched out toward an expanse of woodland. Through the low hills to the left, a stream was starting to flow again now that the ice had melted. In the sunshine, it was an appealing panorama.

"Is this the sort of place that you have in mind, Jamie?"

"For what?"

"Settling down."

"Something like this," he decided, surveying the scene, "though I can't say
that Pennsylvania was ever a possibility. If anywhere, I'm drawn to Massachusetts."

"But that's the heart of rebel resistance."

"At the moment, Elizabeth. I'm looking beyond the war."

"Do you think we'd be made welcome there?"

"Americans are very friendly if you don't try to push them around. In any case, I won't be wearing this uniform then. I'll be plain Jamie Skoyles, gentleman farmer."

"I'll believe it when I see it."

"What do you mean?"

"Fighting is in your blood," she said without any trace of criticism. "I have the feeling that you'll always be a soldier."

"Only until this war is over, Elizabeth."

He was about to explain why when his attention was caught by some figures in the middle distance. Two horsemen had come out of the woods to move slowly northwest, but it was not the riders that Skoyles had noticed. It was the two forlorn figures who were being hauled along by ropes behind them.

"Jack Bedford!" he exclaimed.

"Who?"

"Stay here, Elizabeth. I have a score to settle."

Kicking his horse into a canter, he headed for the quartet. With their human cargo in tow, the riders could hardly outrun him, and they had, in any case, no reason to flee from a single redcoat. If one of the horsemen was indeed Jack Bedford, then Skoyles expected him to brazen it out. The bounty hunter would have a plausible excuse why two men were being tugged along like stray animals.

Seeing him approach, the riders stopped and waited. One of them waved to the two captives, as if warning them to hold their peace. When he got closer, Skoyles saw that his guess had been correct. Jack and Ira Bedford were in business again. They had caught two rebel deserters and were taking them back to their death in Valley Forge. Skoyles brought his horse to a halt some ten yards from them.

"What can we do for you?" asked Bedford with a lazy smile.

"Tell me where you're going, for a start."

"That's
our
business," said Ira truculently.

"Don't be so unfriendly," his brother chided him. "The captain asked a question so he's entitled to an answer." He indicated the men, one of whom was black. "These were slaves on our plantation. They escaped three days ago, and we came after them."

Skoyles looked at the captives. "Is that true?

"Go on," said Bedford, watching them carefully. "Tell him. You worked for us, didn't you?" The men nodded. "There you are, Captain."

"Can we go now?" said Ira. "It's a long ride."

"Yes," said Skoyles pointedly. "All the way to Valley Forge."

"What are you talking about?"

"Jack and Ira Bedford, following the scent of blood money. The only people you ever chase are deserters from the Continental Army. These men were on the run from Valley Forge, and you're taking them back to sell their skins."

"Who the devil are you?" Ira demanded angrily.

"Take a closer look," his brother advised, recognizing Skoyles at last. "He's that man whose horse I shot, and who gave us so much trouble. He slipped through our fingers."

"Well, he won't do it again!"

He reached for his musket, but Skoyles already had his pistol trained on him. When Jack Bedford lifted his weapon, Skoyles turned the barrel of the pistol on him.

"Drop it!" he ordered.

"You can't shoot both of us."

"Then I'll start with you, Jack, before I slice your brother to pieces with my sword. Now, drop those muskets—both of you!"

The sharpness of his command gained him instant obedience. Both dropped their weapons. Still keeping them covered with a pistol, Skoyles made them dismount and walk several yards away from the muskets. He dismounted and drew his sword, using it to motion the two prisoners forward. They were miserable specimens, barefoot, clothed in rags, and bearing the clear signs of a recent beating.

"Are you deserters from Valley Forge?" asked Skoyles

"Yes, sir," gabbled one of them.

"Where were you going?"

"To Philadelphia, sir. We want to give ourselves up."

"Then at least you can ride there."

With two slashes of his sword, he cut the ropes that were tied to the pommels of the two saddles. Their hands were still bound, but they were no longer at the mercy of the bounty hunters. Skoyles ordered them to sit down while he dealt with the two brothers. Jack Bedford had never taken his eyes off him, biding his time until he could strike back. His brother was more impatient. Slipping a hand behind his back, he pulled a knife from its sheaf and held it in readiness.

"It's not these men who should be hanged," said Skoyles, looking from one to the other with utter contempt. "It's you two bloodsuckers, living off the proceeds of war. You're worse than vermin."

Ira Bedford had heard enough. Hand on the blade of his knife, he suddenly brought it from behind his back and hurled it at Skoyles. While it was still spinning through the air, Skoyles fired his pistol instinctively, and the bullet hit Ira between the eyes, sending him flat on his back. At the very same moment, the point of the knife burrowed into Skoyles's right shoulder with such force that he was knocked sideways, dropping the pistol from his grasp.

Jack Bedford came to life. Incensed at the death of his brother, and outraged that anyone should take his captives away from him, he charged at Skoyles with a bloodcurdling yell. There was a knife in his hand and he was going to plunge it deep into the heart of the wounded man. Skoyles heard him coming. Dizzy with pain, and feeling his energy ooze away, he summoned up the last of his strength and turned to face his attacker. As the enraged man lunged toward him, Skoyles went down on one knee and thrust out the sword with his left hand, so that the Bedford impaled himself on its point.

There was a howl of disbelief, followed by a stream of abuse that soon faded into a pathetic whimper. Eyes filled with hatred, Jack Bedford fell to the ground and lay motionless. Skoyles barely had enough energy to pull out his sword. His eyes were misting over, his legs were unsteady, and there was a searing pain in his right shoulder. Blood was already gushing out of the wound. Dropping his sword, he used his left hand to pull out the knife that was still embedded in his flesh. The blade felt red hot as it came out. Skoyles was weakening by the second. The last thing he remembered was the sight of two open-mouthed men from the Continental Army, watching him in sheer horror.

Then he dropped to the ground.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

T
ime passed in a confusing blur. Captain Jamie Skoyles came in and out of consciousness to hear voices, see faces, and feel hands touching him. There was such a stab of pain in his shoulder at one point that he felt the knife was being buried in it all over again, and he took refuge once more in oblivion. When he finally emerged from it, he looked up into the tearful eyes of Elizabeth Rainham. One hand resting firmly on his wounded shoulder, she was kneeling anxiously beside him. Skoyles made a supreme effort to stay awake, fighting hard when his eyelids began to flicker again. As he tried to reach up to Elizabeth, his right shoulder seemed to be on fire.

"Lie still, Jamie," she advised softly.

"Where am I?"

"Don't move. I've sent for help."

Skoyles moved his head slightly to look around. He realized that he was on his back with her cloak over him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see another body on the ground and his memory started to return. He had been confronting Jack and Ira Bedford when the younger brother had hurled a knife at him. There had been two witnesses. One of them, a black man in his thirties with a gash over one eye and a swollen lip, came into view behind Elizabeth.

"Who are you?" Skoyles asked.

"I'm Cicero, sir," replied the other, deferentially.

"You're one of the deserters."

"Yes, sir. You saved our lives."

"By the time I got here," said Elizabeth, "they'd used a knife to cut themselves free, but neither of them tried to escape, even though there were horses here. They say that you were a hero."