Valley Forge (38 page)

"Very much," she said. "And you?"

"Oh, yes."

"Even the vulgarity was made comical."

"That was mostly Lucy's doing." Hearing the comment, Lucy Tillman looked across at him. "I meant Lucy in the play," he explained. "I don't think you'd be capable of any of the tricks that she was involved with."

"My wife can be quite wicked at times," said Tillman fondly.

"Only when you deserve it," Lucy retorted. "I didn't recognize myself at all in the play."

"How could you?" said Elizabeth. "You are a real lady, Lucy, whereas your namesake was nothing but an artful servant."

The audience was beginning to disperse, but Skoyles deliberately hung back, not wishing to be jostled in the crowd. He chatted happily with his companions until most spectators seemed to have gone, then he turned round to look toward the exit. He saw someone and started. Wearing the uniform of a major, a man in his thirties was standing near the doorway in conversation with a young woman. It was a person whom Skoyles had hoped never to see again, and he stared at him in disbelief. Elizabeth also caught sight of the man.

"It's Harry Featherstone!" she cried in alarm.

Skoyles felt as if he had been punched on his wounded shoulder.

George Washington pored over the map and jabbed a decisive finger.

"There," he said. "We'll attack there."

"But it's one of their larger camps," Major Clark argued. "It will be well guarded. We'd be taking unnecessary risks."

"I disagree, Major. There are times when the best way to surprise an enemy is to do the opposite of what they expect. The obvious place for us to strike is at one of the smaller camps, farthest from the city. The British will not be prepared for a raid here." He used a pencil to put a cross on the map. "We need food badly. If they have as many men there as we think, there should be rich pickings. The quartermaster will keep the camp well supplied."

Drenched by a sudden downpour, Major Clark had returned to Valley Forge with all the intelligence that he had gathered in Philadelphia. When he reached headquarters, dripping wet, he discovered Washington talking in his office to the Marquis de Lafayette. They had given him a cordial welcome, and the Frenchman had talked to him while Washington was sifting through all the material that had been delivered. It was a letter from Jamie Skoyles that had made him unroll his map to study it. The other men stood at his shoulder.

"How accurate are these troop numbers?" asked Washington.

"They accord roughly with what we already know," said Clark.

"Captain Skoyles has no reason to mislead us."

"Then we must believe what he tells us."

"Have you been to this camp, Major?" said Lafayette, indicating the cross that had just been put on the map.

"No, Marquis. I've only seen it from a distance. Captain Skoyles has been inside it, however. He has a friend stationed there."

"How do you know?"

"I had them followed to the camp from the city."

"Is his arm still in a sling?" said Washington.

"No, sir," answered Clark. "He's able to ride a horse now, so I presume that he's recovered. I've still not been able to find out how he came by the injury."

"It hasn't stopped him writing this letter, obviously. Thank you for decoding it, Major. I think that we should act on his intelligence."

"But he recommends a raid on one of the outlying camps."

"I deploy my men—not Captain Skoyles."

"I have heard this name so much," said Lafayette with interest. "Who is this man and why do you rely on his word so much?"

"I think that I place rather more reliance on it than Major Clark," said Washington. "Captain Skoyles is a British officer who is close to General Howe. What he has been able to tell us is invaluable."

"Yet you do not trust him, Major."

"I do and I don't," said Clark wearily. "Since we began to use him, Skoyles has done nothing wrong, yet I still cannot bring myself to put my full trust in him. It's probably a fault in my nature, Marquis. I'm suspicious of everyone."

"Even me?"

"At first."

"
Mon dieu!
"

"Your behavior did strike me as eccentric when you got here."

"I want to fight for liberty. What is eccentric about that?"

"Coming back to the attack," said Washington, taking a last look at the map. "My mind is made up. We strike here. Skoyles reckons that the camp has a large field hospital, so many of the men there are unfit for duty." He rolled up the map. "I'll pass on the word. Apart from anything else, it will give the men something to do. Inaction is bad for them."

"I feel that," said Lafayette, touching his injured leg.

"Every day this week, I've had to attend a court-martial for soldiers appearing on charges of attempted desertion, disobedience of orders, scandalous remarks, or conduct unbecoming a gentleman—a whole list of unnecessary offenses." Washington was bitter. "That's what happens when we simply sit here and wait."

"What is it you say about the devil?"

"He finds work for idle hands, Marquis."

"When will the raid take place, General?" said Clark.

"When the time is ripe."

"And the weather is kinder than today," said Lafayette.

"That goes without saying. Be sure to alert Ezekiel Proudfoot, Major," said Washington. "I have a feeling that he'd like to be present so that he can draw some sketches."

"The ones he did of Saratoga were superb."

"Compared to the battles there, this will be a mere skirmish. But it will be nice to have a record of it in the
Patriot
." Washington smiled as he put the map aside. "I'm sure that General Howe would enjoy seeing it."

Having basked in his triumph for weeks, Lieutenant Hugh Orde was now facing the full venom of his commander. It was a cruel change of fortune. Standing at attention in the office at British headquarters, he cringed inwardly as Howe delivered a blistering harangue. All that Orde could do was to keep apologizing, but that only enraged the general even more.

"I
know
that you're sorry, Lieutenant," he bellowed. "You've every reason to feel sorry for your lame-brained incompetence. But an apology will not atone for what you've done."

"I found the press and arrested the printer, sir," said Orde.

"What use is that when Ezekiel Proudfoot is still on the loose and able to hurl this piece of ordure at me?" He snatched up the copy of
The Pennsylvania Patriot
that lay on his desk. "Look at it!" he said, holding it the other man's nose. "I'm being pilloried yet again!"

"Nobody regrets that more than I, General."

"I tried to put that unfortunate business at the theater behind me, then this lampoon comes out to bring it all back to life again. I refuse to be laughed at, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir."

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"Find the printing press that they are using this time."

"No," said Howe, flinging the newspaper aside. "That's not the answer. Destroy one press and they use another. When you put that out of action, a third will spring up somewhere. But—and listen to this carefully, Lieutenant—if you catch Ezekiel Proudfoot for me, if you put salt on the tail of that damn Yankee silversmith, then we can stop these libelous cartoons for good. That's your assignment: find him!"

"But he's like a phantom, General."

"Spare me your excuses. They're as irritating as your apologies."

"We still have no clear idea of what Proudfoot looks like."

"Yes, we do," said Howe, striding to open the door. "Come in, Major Featherstone. Thank you for responding so promptly."

"My pleasure, sir."

Harry Featherstone came into the room and was introduced to Orde. Taking a seat behind his desk, Howe invited the others to sit down. As he explained
the situation to Featherstone in ponderous detail, he kept throwing in barbed criticism of the lieutenant. Hugh Orde writhed with embarrassment. It seemed an age since he had received unstinting praise from the same person in that very same room. His capture of Adam Quenby, it seemed, now counted for nothing.

When the general finally came to the end of his account, Harry Featherstone had his first question ready.

"You say that this other man—Reece Allen—was released?"

"Yes," said Howe. "Lieutenant Orde had no call to hold him."

"He was obviously what he claimed to be," Orde put in. "A farmer from Massachussetts, looking for land to buy."

"It's an odd time to search for a farm," said Featherstone.

"I put that point to him, Major."

"What was his answer?"

"That this was the only time of year when he could get away from his present farm without leaving them shorthanded. In spring, summer, and fall, he's working all day and every day."

"Could you describe him for me, Lieutenant?"

"Gladly, sir," said Orde. "He was a tall, lean, gangling man with a pockmarked face. Brown hair and beard."

"How old would he be?"

"Somewhere in his thirties."

"Did he stoop slightly?" asked Featherstone.

"He did, actually."

"And did it ever cross your mind that Reece Allen might really be someone else altogether—Ezekiel Proudfoot, for instance?"

"That was my original hope when I first arrested him."

"And mine," said Howe.

"But his story was sound, and we had a reliable witness who confirmed that it could not possibly have been Proudfoot."

"Oh?" Featherstone sat up. "Who was this witness?"

"Someone from your own regiment, as it happens," said Howe. "Captain Jamie Skoyles of the 24th Foot."

"Yes, I knew that he was here. He was at the theater last night."

"You've spoken to him, then?"

"No, General. We tend to keep out of each other's way."

"Brother officers should not fall out."

"In this case, it was inevitable."

"Captain Skoyles told me that he'd seen Proudfoot once before," said Orde, "when you arrested him after the battle of Hubbardton. The captain only had a brief glimpse of the man but he was adamant that he did not fit the description I gave him of Reece Allen."

Feartherstone was astounded. "Is that what Skoyles told you?"

"Yes, Major."

"That he only met Proudfoot once before?

"That's right."

"And that all he got was a brief glimpse of the man?"

"You seem to find that testimony difficult to believe."

"General Howe," said Featherstone, turning to him, "I wonder if I might have a word in private?"

"But it was the lieutenant who interrogated Reece Allen."

"I beg leave to doubt that."

"It's a matter of record, sir," Orde protested.

"You questioned someone, that much is true. But I have a very strong feeling that the man was, in fact, Ezekiel Proudfoot."

"That's impossible, Major. Captain Skoyles vouched for it."

Featherstone spoke with disdain. "I, too, saw Proudfoot after the battle of Hubbardton," he said, "and, apart from the beard, he looked exactly like the man you described."

"How could he?"

"Are you certain of this?" said Howe.

"As certain as I am of anything," Featherstone affirmed. "That's why I prefer to talk to you alone, sir."

"Yes, yes, of course." He glared at Orde. "Lieutenant."

Orde jumped to his feet. "Excuse me, gentlemen," he said.

"Wait outside," Howe ordered, watching him cross to the door. "If I discover that you arrested the man we were after, only to turn him loose again, I'll want further words with you. Now get out."

Fearing retribution, Orde opened the door and made a hasty exit. Howe got up from his chair and came around his desk so that he could lean against the edge of it. His brow was furrowed.

"Well, Major?"

"Far be it from me to malign a fellow officer," said Featherstone suavely, "but I fear that you have been deliberately misled here. If Captain Skoyles claimed that he had only seen Proudfoot once in his life, he was lying outrageously."

"That's a very serious charge."

"But a well-deserved one."

"How do you know?"

"Because they are old friends."

"Friends?"

"Yes, General. When he first came to America with the army many years ago, Skoyles was billeted on the Proudfoot farm in Massachusetts. He and Ezekiel were only boys then. They became close friends."

"Skoyles said nothing of this to the lieutenant."

"It's easy to see why, sir."

"Only if your supposition is correct."

"Let me go back to the battle," said Featherstone. "When we captured Fort Ticonderoga, we chased the departing garrison all the way to Hubbardton. They turned and fought."

"Yes, yes. I read all this in General Burgoyne's dispatches."

"Some pertinent details were omitted from them. All the prisoners we captured at Hubbardton that day were sent back to Ticonderoga. There was, however, one exception."

"Ezekiel Proudfoot?"

"Precisely," said Featherstone. "At the instigation of Captain Skoyles, he returned with us to our new camp."

"On what grounds?"

"That he would be able to help us. Proudfoot had been close to General St. Clair at the fort, and knew all his plans, as well as details of the garrison. Given their friendship, Skoyles argued that he could get intelligence out of Proudfoot that might prove crucial. The two of them spent a long time alone together in Skoyles's tent."

"So much for only having a brief glimpse of the man!"

"Eventually, the prisoner was taken away under guard."

"Had he divulged anything of value?"

"Not really," said Featherstone. "The best evidence we had of the situation at Ticonderoga was in the form of his sketches. While he was there, Proudfoot did a series of drawings. He's an artist of some talent."

"Grotesquely misused talent," said Howe with distaste.

"We should have hanged him when we had the chance."

"I understand that the fellow escaped from you."

"That's how it appeared at first, General, but I have a theory."

"And what's that?"

"Jamie Skoyles helped him to get away."