Valley Forge (6 page)

"It's gone well beyond that stage."

"My conduct was outrageous. You are right to be annoyed."

"Annoyed?" Elizabeth echoed the word with disgust.

"To put it no higher than that. I just wanted you to know that I've been brooding on it ever since and looking for a way to make amends. I know my faults, but I can overcome them. I can reform, Elizabeth."

"Then that's something in your favor at last."

"I can be the man again that you once fell in love with."

"Never. That's a delusion."

"I can," he said, spreading his arms. "I'm not the ogre you think. I can improve. I can mend my ways. I can swear to you that I will never again descend to such a swinish level."

"It's too late, Major—much too late."

"I refuse to accept that. For the sake of what we once meant to each other, you have to give me the chance."

"Chance?"

"However long it takes, I'll keep my promise."

She was puzzled. "What chance?"

"The chance to make you mine again."

Elizabeth could not believe what she as hearing. This was a man who had lied to her, bullied her, and, when rebuffed, offered her sexual violence. The very thought of allowing him close to her again made her cringe. Nothing that Harry Featherstone could do would ever gain him the right to woo her again. It was unimaginable. Unable to put any trust in words, she stood there and bristled in silence. Minutes passed.

He looked over his shoulder. "The rain has stopped," he said.

"Goodbye."

"You haven't given me your answer yet."

"You already know it."

"Elizabeth—"

"I never want to see you again," she said, cutting him short. "If you have any affection for me at all, then you'll see that the kindest thing you can do is to stay away from me. I want to
forget
what happened. Every time I see you, I'm reminded of it. Now go away—forever!"

He nodded soulfully. "It's no more than I deserve," he confessed. "I'll just have to convince you by other means. Yes, I did some disgraceful things, I own that, but my love for you never once faltered, Elizabeth."

"Go!" she implored, hands to her face. "I don't want you here."

"As you wish." He backed away. "I did not come to upset you."

"Well, that's exactly what you did."

"Then I'll tarry no longer. Goodbye, Elizabeth."

She turned away without bidding him farewell. Harry Featherstone hovered for a few seconds, teeth clenched and eyelids narrowed, then he swung on his heel and marched off. He had gone only a few hundred yards when he saw someone coming toward him. Featherstone's ire was rekindled. The man who was striding along so purposefully was Jamie Skoyles, the obstruction that blocked his way to Elizabeth's heart. When they got close, the major was ready for a confrontation.

"Where are you going?" he demanded.

"I might ask the same question, Major."

"Damn you, Skoyles! I'm not answerable to you."

"You are where Miss Rainham is concerned."

Featherstone glowered at him, but Skoyles met his gaze without flinching. Officers who had once been friends were now implacable enemies. In every other matter, the major held the superior rank. When it came to Elizabeth Rainham, however, he had to take second place, and it made him fume.

"General Burgoyne wants a meeting this afternoon," he snapped.

"I'll be there."

"Four o'clock. Make sure that you are punctual."

"I always do, Major," said Skoyles.

"And learn to exert proper discipline. We can't have another outburst like the one we had on St. Andrew's Day. You share the barracks with the men. Keep the riffraff in order."

"Yes, sir."

Their eyes locked again, but it was Featherstone who was finally compelled to look away. He tossed a wistful glance over his shoulder.

"Don't bother Miss Rainham," he said. "She's weary."

"Yes, I know that you have that effect on her."

"Remember who you're talking to, man."

"That's exactly what I am doing, Major."

Featherstone bit back a reply. Seething with suppressed rage, he gave the captain a curt nod, then pushed past him. Skoyles watched him go before heading in the direction of the house, anxious to find out why the major had been there and eager to pass on to Elizabeth news of their approaching departure. In less than twenty-four hours, they could leave Harry Featherstone behind them. Escape could not come soon enough.

The British attack was bold and well organized. Had it been launched on an unsuspecting foe, it would certainly have succeeded, but the American force still camped at Whitemarsh had been warned of the forthcoming action. Secure behind their fortifications, a mixed army of Continentals and militia held their line. After a concerted exchange of fire, the British were compelled to withdraw, having achieved none of their objectives. Ezekiel Proudfoot not only
watched the skirmish, he was in position to make sketches of some of the action. When the smoke had cleared, and the enemy had limped back to Philadelphia, he showed his work to George Washington. The general was complimentary.

"You have a rare talent, Ezekiel," he said.

"Thank you."

"It must be employed to advantage."

"That won't happen if I spend the winter with you in Valley Forge. Prints of your men building huts will hardly bring in new recruits. People want to see evidence of military victories. Soldiers want to know that they are joining the side that will win."

"We
will
win," Washington asserted. "Eventually."

"Are you certain of that?"

"Absolutely certain. The British have to fight on several fronts. That means their resources are stretched. Strike them at their weakest points—as happened at Saratoga—and we chase them from the field."

"How long will it take, sir?"

"Years—no question of that."

"And what will my role be?"

"I'm sending you to Philadelphia," Washington told him.

"Philadelphia?" the other repeated, taken aback. "It's full of Tories. Not to mention ten thousand British soldiers."

"We're not entirely without friends in the city. Our supporters were not all put to flight. How do you think we learned of that attack?"

"I assumed that one of your spies raised the alarm. Thank heaven he did or they might have caught us unawares. The man deserves our thanks and congratulations."

"It was not a man, Ezekiel."

Proudfoot was amazed. "A
female
spy?"

"An extremely good one. You may meet her."

"Is that what I am to do, sir? Gather intelligence?"

"That's only a small part of your work," said Washington seriously. "Your principal function is to help with the production of a newspaper. As you've proved in the past, a patriotic print by Ezekiel Proudfoot is worth a hundred articles in praise of our cause."

"You flatter me."

"Not at all. When the war started, we lifted the spirits of the men by reading out the words of Tom Paine. Now, I'd much rather show them the sketches you made at Saratoga. They prove what we can do."

"Only by force of arms."

"Art is a legitimate weapon of war. Dramatic pictures can have a powerful impact on the mind. We need more of them."

"Then I'm your man."

They were still at Whitemarsh, standing beside a brushwood hut so that it could shield them from the worst of a fierce wind. All around them camp was being struck. Flapping tents were being taken down. Weapons were being gathered. Powder kegs were being rolled into position. Drums and fifes were being packed away. Hatchets, kettles, canteens, axes, water buckets, forage cords, picket posts, picket ropes, wooden mallets, and all the other assorted items of camp life were being loaded into wagons, in readiness for the move to Valley Forge. Surveying the scene of activity, Ezekiel Proudfoot felt sorrowful.

"I'll miss all this," he admitted.

"All what?"

"Being with an army on the march. I never thought I'd hear myself saying this, but I feel strangely at home with soldiers."

"Our problem is that many of these men are not real soldiers," said Washington, running an eye over his Continentals. "They've not been properly trained or equipped to take part in a war. The militias are even less like a credible fighting force. Some of them wear nothing but rags," he went on, indicating four soldiers, in threadbare tunics and bare feet, who were trying to maneuver a piece of heavy artillery into place. "Dear God! Are
these
the men with whom I am to save America?"

"The selfsame fellows won at Bennington, sir."

"True."

"And they trounced the great General Burgoyne at Saratoga," Proudfoot reminded him. "Sometimes passion counts for more than good tailoring. I'll miss them."

"You'll not be stuck in Philadelphia forever, Ezekiel. We shall expect you to visit us in Valley Forge from time to time, and bring all the latest news. We'll not be much over twenty miles away from you."

"There'll be British patrols on the road."

"They seem to have eased off," said Washington. "Going in and out of the city should present no problems. Where you may have trouble is in concealing the whereabouts of the press."

"Where is it located now, General?"

"I'm not certain. It had to be moved to safety only last week."

"Then how will I find it?"

"You'll make contact with the editor, Pearsall Hughes. He's a good man. I'd trust him with my life." Washington handed him a letter. "All the details you need are in here. Commit them to memory, then destroy the paper. It must not fall into the wrong hands."

"What manner of man is this Pearsall Hughes?"

"His own."

"You mean that he calls nobody his master?"

"Wait until you meet him. You'll understand."

"And what about you, General?" asked Proudfoot.

"Oh, I'll be fully occupied at Valley Forge, trying to get the log cabins built before the snow comes. Harboring our resources and hoping to lick this motley crew into something resembling an army."

"I'll make sure that you get a copy of our newspaper."

Washington almost smiled. "I insist on seeing every issue."

"Then you can use it to kindle a fire."

"That's your task."

"Is it?"

"Yes," said Washington, looking him in the eye. "I'm counting on you to set hearts and minds ablaze with the newspaper. It has to be a clarion call for independence."

"It will be, General."

"Good. You'd best be on your way, Ezekiel."

"One moment," said Proudfoot before Washington could move off. "I was wondering if you had any news of the Convention army?"

"Why are you so obsessed with their fate?"

"It's no more than casual interest."

"Come, Ezekiel," said the other, "there's more to it than that. You've brought up the subject of the Convention army every time we've met. You care about them. What's your concern?"

"I have a friend who is involved."

"What sort of friend?"

"A close one, sir—a captain in the 24th Foot. He did me a big favor when I was captured at Hubbardton. I would just like to know what's going to happen to him."

"The decision lies with Congress."

"But your opinion will be taken into account, General."

"If only it were!" said Washington with a sigh. "I sometimes think that Congress only appointed me in order to disagree with everything I do and say. However, as it happens, with respect to the Convention army, our viewpoints do actually coincide for once."

"You want them to remain as prisoners of war."

"Frankly—yes."

"Even though that means rescinding some solemn promises?"

"General Burgoyne was the first to do so."

"I dispute that," said Proudfoot, reasonably. "Far be it from me to defend our enemy, but I've been thinking about that letter we discussed earlier. It's a commander's duty to speak up for his men, and that's all that General Burgoyne was doing when he wrote to General Gates."

"He let his frustration get the better of him."

"Possibly."

"That's a bad mistake in a leader."

"His letter contained a justified rebuke."

"Nonsense!"

"Undertakings were given at Saratoga," Proudfoot urged. "I was there at the time. I was a witness. All that I wish to suggest is that it reflects badly on the Continental Army if those undertakings are now cast rudely aside."

"Our hand was forced."

"You chose to read the letter that way."

"Burgoyne was saying, in effect, that the terms of the convention were meaningless. Congress proposes that we take him at his word."

"That's grossly unfair."

"I can see that you're not a politician, Ezekiel."

"Neither are you, sir, yet you're at the mercy of their decisions."

Washington inhaled deeply. "I can't deny that."

"I'm an artist. I think in pictures. I care about how things
look
."

"Go on."

"If a solemn agreement is so blatantly disregarded—if an army is kept in captivity instead of being sent back to England—it will be seen as a dark stain on our reputation."

"This is war, man. We have to seize every advantage."

"But there are more honorable ways of doing it."

"Are you doubting my honor?" Washington demanded with a flash of righteous indignation. "Do you dare to call that in question?"

"Of course not, General," said Proudfoot, holding up both palms by way of appeasement. "I support whatever you decide without criticism. I merely point out what the perception will be—in this country as well as in England. We will be seen as having betrayed a sacred trust."

"No, Ezekiel. We will be viewed as having taken a decisive step against an army that was sent here to destroy us. What would you have us do—let them sail back to King George so that he can replace them with a force of equal proportions?" He thrust out his jaw. "Congress will not permit that. I would not recommend it. Burgoyne's army will remain indefinitely as prisoners of war. That will rule out any possibility of their renouncing the convention and sailing to New York to reinforce the British army there." He shot Proudfoot a warning glance. "I suggest that you forget about this friend of yours in the 24th Foot."