Valley Forge (45 page)

People had been coming into Philadelphia since dawn to visit the market. Redcoats checked each one of them before allowing them to proceed. But it was those wanting to leave the city who were questioned most closely. They had to show their passes and explain exactly where they were going. Though it was a slow and tedious process, Featherstone believed that it would prevent Skoyles from escaping in disguise. He encouraged his men to be direct and uncompromising.

It was the middle of the morning when the cortege appeared. Drawn by black horses, with their black plumes tossed by the wind, the funeral cart trundled into view with a small group of mourners walking behind it. Featherstone raised a hand to stop the procession.

"Where are you going?" he demanded.

"To the Church of St. Mary," replied the driver of the cart, a tall, cadaverous Quaker. "It's a mile out of the city."

"I thought that you worshipped in meetinghouses."

"This is not a Quaker funeral, sir. St. Mary's is a Protestant church. The deceased was brought up in the village nearby."

"Show me your pass," Featherstone ordered.

"Of course." The man handed it over. "The deceased is an old woman whose last wish was that she should be buried in the churchyard where her own parents lie." The major was taking a long time to study the pass he had been given. "Is everything in order, sir?"

"I hope so, for your sake."

"May we drive on?"

"Yes," said Featherstone. "We'll follow."

Something about the cortege had aroused his suspicion though he could not tell exactly what it was. Thrusting the pass back at the driver, he detached five men from the post. Featherstone rode at the rear of the procession and the redcoats marched behind him. The funeral cart rattled over the road, its iron-rimmed wheels leaving tracks in the light fall of snow. Heads down, lost in their collective grief, the mourners followed at the same unhurried pace.

When they finally reached the little church, Featherstone gave them time to unload the coffin and carry it into the building. He then placed his men in a circle around the churchyard, noting that a fresh grave had been dug. Tethering his horse, he went to the church itself and opened the door a few inches so that he could watch. The service was short but moving, and some of those present wept as they paid their last respects. Featherstone stood back so that the vicar could open the door wide and lead the way to the churchyard.

Clustered around the grave, the mourners listened in silence as the burial service came to its conclusion. The coffin was then lowered into the open grave with the help of ropes. Holding a handkerchief to his face, as if trying to stem tears, the first person to toss some earth onto the coffin was Pearsall Hughes.

Jamie Skoyles, meanwhile, was lying in the vestry in the coffin that had been brought out of the city in the funeral cart. He had no idea of time or place. All that he had been aware of was a bumpy journey to their destination. He had then been lifted and carried somewhere. Unbeknown to him, a second coffin was already waiting inside the church and it was that which had been duly
buried. There was a prolonged silence. It was very uncomfortable in the narrow confines of the rough wooden coffin, and he began to worry that they had forgotten he was there. Even though holes had been drilled so that he had enough air to breathe, he was finding it very oppressive.

He tried to divert himself by recalling the elements of his escape. It had only been possible because he had been allowed to write a letter in his own defense to General Howe. Having duly penned it, he also wrote two notes that he concealed inside his shirt before he surrendered the letter, and the writing materials, to the guard. The two messages had been slipped surreptitiously into Elizabeth's hand during her visit. She had duly delivered them and, without realizing it, had aided his escape. Thanks to her, Skoyles had spent the night at the Quaker funeral home where she had delivered the second letter.

It was difficult to hear much through the timber, but he felt every tremor as the coffin was suddenly moved from its hiding place in the vestry and brought into the nave of the church. Chisels began to work away at the coffin lid. A surge of relief washed through Skoyles. Ever since he had been hammered into the coffin, he had felt trapped and helpless. It had been a gruesome experience. Someone was at last coming to rescue him. It was like being pulled out of the grave itself.

The timber splintered and the nails groaned in protest as they were levered out. When one side of the coffin lid had been worked free, several hands took hold of it and pulled hard. It creaked open. Light spilled in for the first time, and Skoyles had to screw up his eyes until he got used to it. Able to see properly, the first person he recognized in the ring of faces peering down at him was Ezekiel Proudfoot.

"You've been reborn, Jamie," said his friend, offering a hand to pull him upright. "You're one of us now,"

"Where am I?" asked Skoyles, sitting up.

"On your way to Valley Forge."

Major Harry Featherstone was too good a soldier to be easily fooled. Though everything about the funeral had appeared to be in order, he had a nagging feeling that something was amiss. For that reason, he only pretended to withdraw with his men, hiding, instead, in some bushes not far from the churchyard. It
was the coffin that had triggered his curiosity. He had been led to believe that an old lady had died, yet the coffin was so long and heavy that it had taken six men to carry it. When it later emerged from the church, it seemed to have shrunk in size. Only four bearers were now required.

A long vigil ensued. A portly man, who had been one of the mourners, then came out of the church and looked around to make sure that the soldiers had gone. He ambled around the perimeter of the churchyard. Satisfied that nobody else was about, he waved to the group of people who were hiding in the porch. They came out in a group. Two of them went back to the funeral cart but most went over to the fresh grave.

Featherstone's interest was in the tallest of the men. He wore nondescript clothing and a wide-brimmed hat but there was a familiarity in his gait that alerted the major. He peered through the bushes. The party stood quietly around the mound of earth. When the tall man took off his hat as a mark of respect, Featherstone felt a thrill of excitement.

"Skoyles!" he said.

Jamie Skoyles was deeply grateful to her. Buried beneath six feet of earth was Mary Anne Coveney, an old woman from Philadelphia, who had led a blameless life and whose body had been smuggled out of the city at night so that Skoyles could occupy the funeral cart in her stead. While her burial certificate had allowed him to reach St. Mary's, she had been waiting patiently in the vestry to be exchanged with his coffin. The least that Skoyles could do, he believed, was to offer up a prayer for the salvation of her soul. Within a matter of seconds, however, it was Skoyles's own salvation that was at issue.

"Stay where you are!" Harry Featherstone ordered.

Mounted on his horse, and with his sword in his hand, he came out of the bushes. The five soldiers formed a line behind him with their muskets trained on the group. Skoyles made an instant decision.

"Scatter and run!"

They obeyed at once. Having no weapon, Skoyles seized the spade that had been used to dig and fill the grave, then he, too, took to his heels. Shots rang out, but he knew that none of the soldiers had aimed at him. Featherstone would want to take him alive so that he could enjoy his humiliation at the court-martial and his death at the end of a rope. The fact and nature of
Skoyles's escape from the jail would be further damning evidence against him. Whatever happened, he could not allow himself to be taken. Most of the shots had gone astray, but one had grazed the forearm of Pearsall Hughes. As the bookseller staggered forward, Ezekiel Proudfoot helped him back inside the church and the door was locked behind them. Temporarily, at least, they were safe.

Skoyles was the main target. His recapture was paramount. Directing three of his men to round up the others, Featherstone sent the remaining two after Skoyles while he himself rode in a circle around the church to cut off any escape in that direction. The one thing in the fugitive's favor was that the two soldiers had not had time to reload. Their orders were to overhaul him. If he resisted, bayonets would be used to disable him. Skoyles was in a quandary. Determined to get away, he did not wish to kill a British soldier in order to do so. That made his predicament even worse.

Major John Clark had no scruples about killing redcoats. He used a pistol to shoot one of the pursuing soldiers dead, then reloaded his weapon behind the cover of a gravestone. Skoyles now had only one man at his heels. Stopping abruptly to face him, he used the spade to parry a bayonet thrust, then hit the man hard across the side of the head with the flat of the implement. The soldier went down in an undignified heap with blood streaming down his face. Seizing his musket, Skoyles also took his powder and ammunition. Before he could reload, however, he had another problem with which to contend.

Seeing what had happened to his two fellows, one of the other soldiers was so enraged that he turned his attention to Skoyles. He ran straight at him, musket fully extended, so that he could stab him with his bayonet. Skoyles was governed by instinct. During his years as a sergeant, he had conducted endless sessions of bayonet practice, and he did what he had always taught his soldiers to do. Deflecting the thrust with his own bayonet, he brought the butt of his musket sharply upward to hit the oncoming man on the chin. The moment he touched the ground, the soldier was expertly stabbed through the heart.

When he pulled out his bayonet, Skoyles was momentarily shocked. He had just thrust naked steel through a uniform that he had always revered. There was no turning back now. He had killed a British soldier. A pistol shot rang out, and he swung round to see another redcoat falling to the ground. Major Clark had claimed a second victim. The major had no time to reload.
The remaining soldier came running in his direction, determined to impale him on his bayonet. Clark turned and fled. Skoyles finished loading his musket. When he looked up, he saw that Clark had tripped and fallen to the ground. As the soldier bore down on his intended target, Skoyles took aim and fired, hitting the man in the middle of the back. The redcoat stiffened, stumbled forward, then lunged drunkenly with his weapon. Clark had the presence of mind to roll out of the way and the bayonet sank deep into the earth.

The casualties were not all on one side. Harry Featherstone had hacked one man to death with his sword and wounded another in the thigh. Seeing that he had been deprived of his men, he rode up to a woman who was cowering beneath a tree and pointed a pistol at her head She screamed in terror. Clark and Skoyles looked up.

"Throw down your weapons," Featherstone ordered, "or I blow out her brains." They hesitated. "Hurry up! Do as I say!"

"It's Miranda Hughes," said Clark.

"I won't ask again," Featherstone warned.

Skoyles felt desperately sorry for the woman. In trying to help him, she had put her own life in danger. There was one sure way to rescue her. Featherstone would not waste a shot on a woman if he thought that his quarry was escaping. Skoyles spun on his heel. Musket in hand, he sprinted across the churchyard and off into the bushes beyond, keeping low and zigzagging to make pursuit more difficult. Harry Featherstone was seething. Forgetting all about his hostage, he rode off in pursuit between the gravestones, fired with determination to capture or kill Skoyles.

Footprints in the snow guided him to the place where Skoyles had dived into the bushes. Beyond that point, Featherstone had to be more circumspect. There were no more footprints to follow and no sign of anyone running headlong through the undergrowth. Skoyles had gone to ground somewhere. He was armed and he was waiting. Featherstone was not deterred. He had all the advantages. In his hand was a loaded pistol, and from his position in the saddle, he could look over most of the bushes. He nudged his horse slowly forward with his knees.

"The game is up, Skoyles," he called. "Come on out."

Skoyles did not reply. That would only have given away his position. Kneeling behind a bush, he was reloading his musket with the speed and precision
he had built up over the years. Featherstone was a dangerous adversary. Skoyles could take no chances. Crouching low, he listened for the sound of the horse, pushing a way through the bushes. One shot was all that it would take, but that would be a merciful end for his hated enemy. Featherstone deserved a slower death. As he waited, a stream of painful memories flashed through Skoyles's mind. Major Harry Featherstone had once paid men to beat him up. During one of the battles at Saratoga, he had tried to kill Skoyles even though the latter had actually saved his life in an earlier encounter.

But it was Featherstone's treatment of Elizabeth that really ignited Skoyles. It was unforgivable. Spurned by her in Saratoga, the man who had once been engaged to her had tried to rape her with brutal force. Only the timely arrival of Skoyles had rescued her. Since he had met up with them again in Philadelphia, Featherstone had sought his revenge. He was instrumental in getting Skoyles arrested and, with Elizabeth at her most vulnerable, he had tried to lure her into bed. Skoyles's temples began to pulse with indignation. He was ready.

"Where are you?" demanded Featherstone, looking around in vain. "Damn you, man! Have the courage to show yourself."

Skoyles took him at his word. Leaping from his hiding pace only two yards ahead of him, he aimed the musket at the horse's head then deliberately fired above it. He achieved the desired result. The horse reared so high and so suddenly that Featherstone was thrown backward from the saddle. As he hit the ground, the pistol went off and the second shot caused the horse to bolt through the bushes. Slightly dazed by the fall, Featherstone took time to collect himself. Skoyles could easily have jumped forward and thrust his bayonet into the man, but he wanted the fight on more equal terms. He therefore waited until his enemy had got up, shaken himself, and drawn his sword. Featherstone showed no gratitude for the quarter he had been given.