Valley Forge (39 page)

Harry Featherstone licked his lips like a cat that has just stumbled upon a saucer of cream. He had been given a heaven-sent opportunity to discredit Skoyles in the eyes of their commander, and he seized it. He knew perfectly well that Skoyles had not been instrumental in the escape of his friend, but it was an occasion when facts could be bent to the captain's disadvantage. Skoyles had unwittingly brought it upon himself. By deceiving them about his friendship with Proudfoot, he had laid himself open to a charge of assisting the enemy. Featherstone was quick to build on that.

"You believe that Skoyles was party to the escape?" said Howe.

"Without a shred of doubt."

"What evidence do you have?"

"That of my own eyes," said Featherstone. "When Proudfoot was put into a tent, his hands were bound and he was unarmed. Somehow, he managed to get free, overpower the guard, steal his uniform, and slip through our lines in disguise. Now," he continued, "my theory is this. Skoyles must have slipped him a knife during the interrogation so that he could later cut through his bonds."

"Did nobody challenge him to that effect?"

"I tried to do so, sir, but I was overruled by General Burgoyne. He always had an unduly high regard for Captain Skoyles."

"Quite rightly so. From what I've heard of his military record, Skoyles is an exceptional soldier. Would you contradict that, Major?"

"No, sir. He's a very brave man. I always felt that he was out of his depth as an officer, mark you," he said with condescension, "but, then, he was hardly born to it. To continue my story—when I learned that the prisoner had escaped, I sent Skoyles after him with a posse of soldiers and Indian scouts. They returned without Proudfoot."

"What construction did you place on that, Major?"

"The obvious one, sir."

"Which is?"

"That Captain Skoyles allowed his friend to get away."

"Surely not."

"He seems to have done exactly the same thing here."

"Only if the man we had in custody really was Ezekiel Proudfoot."

"He was caught red-handed on Christmas Day with the printer of that rebel newspaper," Featherstone urged. "What more proof do you need? The coincidence is just too great."

"Lieutenant Orde considered Reece Allen to be very plausible."

"He was taken in, General."

"What swayed him was Skoyles's categorical denial that the man we were holding could be this infernal silversmith."

"In short, he aided Proudfoot's escape yet again."

"I reserve judgment on that, Major."

Rubbing his chin meditatively, Howe tried to piece together in his mind all that he knew about Skoyles from personal experience. It was largely, if not overwhelmingly, in his favor. He liked and respected Skoyles. Apart from leading the skirmishers in a failed raid, the captain had done nothing wrong and a great deal that deserved commendation. Or, at least, it had seemed so at the time. In the light of Featherstone's comments, Howe had to revalue his opinion of the man. If Skoyles had indeed beguiled them, a worrying conclusion offered itself.

"He may have been working against us all the time," said Howe.

"I don't follow, sir."

"That's because you don't know how much faith I've placed in Captain Skoyles. I appointed him as my special envoy at Valley Forge."

"He's been in contact with the enemy?" said Featherstone, aghast.

"At my behest," explained Howe, "he offered his services to the rebels as a spy. He even managed to speak to General Washington himself. My reasoning was that Skoyles would not only be able to glean intelligence from inside the enemy camp, he could also feed them information that would mislead them."

"Is that what happened, sir?"

"At first."

"And then?"

Howe told him about the skirmishers who had been put to flight by the enemy, and how the survivors had limped back to Philadelphia to lick their wounds. Featherstone pounced on the news.

"There you are, sir—the proof you require."

"All that I saw was a bungled operation."

"They were waiting for your men," said Featherstone. "Skoyles was supposed to tell them that only a small body of skirmishers would be deployed, so that any retaliation could be drawn toward the supporting line that was hidden behind them."

"That was the plan, Major. They obviously guessed what it was."

"There's a much simpler explanation than that."

"Really?"

"Skoyles warned them that they were being tricked."

"But he
led
the expedition," Howe argued. "Why put himself into such terrible danger as that? He could easily have been killed."

"Not if the rebels had express orders to spare him. Others were shot, but Skoyles was allowed to get away unscathed."

"No, I can't accept that, Major. I've spoken to some of the men involved in that raid. They told me that Skoyles fought like a demon. If he was in league with the enemy, he would hardly attack them."

"That was only for show."

"Nobody cuts a man down with his sword simply for show."

"How was the intelligence communicated to the enemy?"

"Skoyles put it into code and passed on the letter."

"To whom?"

"He doesn't know," said Howe, "and he hasn't told me where he delivers his information. But they obviously received it because they had men ready to repulse the attack."

"Did you know what was in Skoyles's letter?"

"Of course. I drafted it for him."

"But you did not see the version that was sent?"

"What was the point? I could not decipher the code."

"Then you put yourself entirely into his hands," said Featherstone, "with fatal results. What I believe happened is this. The information that you gave to Skoyles was changed when he passed it on. He schooled them in what to do. Because they knew what to expect, the enemy took countermeasures."

"I just can't accept that Skoyles would do such a thing."

"He lied about his friendship with Ezekiel Proudfoot."

"So it appears."

"And he's in the ideal position to betray you."

"His orders are to confuse and misdirect the enemy."

"Has he supplied them with any more intelligence?"

"Naturally," said Howe. "A spy can only win the confidence of his masters if he keeps up a steady supply of information. I gave Skoyles false estimates of the number of soldiers in our various camps, making it clear that one of them was seriously under strength in the hope that it might lure the enemy out of Valley Forge. In fact," he went on, "I've sent heavy reinforcements from another camp, along with all its artillery. If the rebels attack, they'll be blown to pieces."

"Supposing that they were warned off by Captain Skoyles?"

Howe looked uncomfortable. "If that were the case," he admitted, "then the enemy would direct their efforts at the camp from which I've stripped two regiments and the whole of the artillery. I can't bear to think what would happen in that event. They'd be almost defenseless!"

Captain Jamie Skoyles was almost a mile away from the camp when the attack was launched. Instead of bringing Tom Caffrey into the city to change the dressing on his shoulder, he had chosen to ride out to see his friend in his camp, and to renew his acquaintance with Polly Bragg. As soon as he heard the resounding first volley, Skoyles realized that a sizable force was involved. Black smoke curled up into the sky as tents were set on fire, and the sound of frightened animals reached his ears. Though it caused a nagging pain in his shoulder, he kicked his horse into a gallop, desperately concerned for the safety of his friends. Realization hit him like a blow. Rather than attack the camp that Skoyles had recommended, Washington had sent his men against the one that had been severely weakened by the loss of men and artillery.

The pandemonium of battle filled the air. Volleys were fired in succession and cries of agony came from those who had been hit. Horses charged, swords flashed, orders were shouted. Above the sound of panic from inside the camp, came the drumming of hooves as its stock was rustled and driven away. Fire crackled merrily from a dozen burning tents. Enemy artillery sent more shot powering its way to disaster. Assaulted at the front, and on both flanks, those left in the camp were fighting for survival.

Skoyles arrived, brought his horse to a halt, and tethered it before running
toward one of the redoubts. Redcoats were stretched along its length, firing and reloading with the precision they had been taught, but conscious that they were outnumbered. Facing them were regiments that did not follow the accepted rules of engagement. Instead of standing in ranks to discharge volleys, they scattered, took cover, and fired from sheltered positions before running forward to get closer. Difficult targets themselves, they were able to pick off the stationary redcoats with their sharp shooting. Several British soldiers had already been killed or wounded behind the redoubt.

To his intense relief, Skoyles saw that Tom Caffrey had not been hurt. Farther along the line, he was attending to a victim whose hand had been shot away, working quickly under fire, and looking to see where he would next be needed. When the injured man was bandaged up, Polly Bragg was on hand to lead him to the hospital at the rear of the camp. Caffrey had already scuttled along to his next patient, a corporal who had taken a bullet in his chest and who was begging for mercy.

Skoyles joined in the fight. Taking his place at the defenses, he picked up a discarded musket, then relieved a dead soldier of his powder and ammunition. He was in time to shoot an adventurous rebel who had crept to within thirty yards of the redoubt. He reloaded, discharged another accurate shot, then made his way toward Caffrey. When another hail of bullets came flying over the redoubt, he flattened himself against the timber while he reloaded his musket. His third shot only wounded a man in the arm, but it took the rebel out of the fight, and he scampered away in pain. After reloading yet again, Skoyles kept low and hurried toward the friend.

Caffrey was binding a hideous wound in a man's cheek when Skoyles eventually reached him. The surgeon was taken aback.

"What are you doing here, Jamie?" he asked.

"I could never resist a fight."

"Well, we've got a big one on our hands here. Half of the camp marched out yesterday, so we're very exposed. The rebels—damn their eyes—seemed to know that."

"How many men have you lost?"

"Too many. One of the officers asked me if there was anyone I could drag out the hospital to hold a musket. That's how desperate we are." He shuddered as artillery boomed again and shot raked a line of tents. "They're cutting us to bits."

"Then I'll not waste time talking, Tom. I'm needed."

He went back to the redoubt and lined up his next target. Fighting was fierce, and the smoke of battle obscured much of what was going on. The one consolation was that it was a remarkably short engagement. The rebels had struck, caught the redcoats napping, and stolen the animals they had come for. In every way, it was a highly successful raid. The drums sounded a retreat and the attackers drew back at once. So much damage had been done to the camp, and there had been so many casualties, that nobody even considered pursuit. They were simply grateful that the enemy had called off their attack.

Skoyles brought down one more rebel, but the others were now out of range, so he put his borrowed musket aside. Firing stopped along the line, and the redcoats were able to take stock of their losses. They were left shocked by the unexpected and savage assault. Like the other surgeons, Tom Caffrey would be kept busy for hours, and Polly Bragg was one of the many nurses who was giving their assistance with tireless devotion. When the departed regiments came back to their camp, they would be horrified to see what had happened to it in their absence.

Unable to use a weapon, Skoyles took out a telescope and scanned the line of retreating rebels. It was a rapid withdrawal, and the artillery had already been dragged out of sight over a rise. The Continental Army had come for food rather than blood, but they had helped themselves to both while they were there. Skoyles climbed onto the barricade to get a better look, letting his telescope sweep slowly across the landscape. It was when he looked toward the eastern end that he saw something that arrested his gaze. A lone figure was sitting on a horse, holding something that he put into a satchel. Watching the engagement from a safe distance, he had taken no part in it. He had simply been there to record a minor victory.

Skoyles remembered a face at a tavern window in Germantown.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

E
zekiel Proudfoot rode back to Germantown at a canter, his excitement heightened by an awareness of his unique position in the drama. Having witnessed a small but meaningful victory over the redcoats, he would be able to record the event in a print that would put new heart into a dispirited Continental Army. It was a responsibility that he willingly embraced, and it gave him a sense of real significance. While he had enjoyed creating satirical cartoons for the
Patriot
, he now had a worthier subject for his talents—the celebration of a rebel victory, thrilling to watch and stimulating to recapture in an engraving.

When he reached Neale's Tavern, he stabled his horse and went straight up to his room. In the course of his return journey, he had already worked out in his mind the general shape that his print would take and the spirit that it would evoke. Sitting at his table, he set out the sketches he had made during the surprise attack on the British camp. Proudfoot was so keen to start that his hands were tingling. He took up a pencil and began.

Half an hour later, someone pounded on his door with a fist.

"Yes?" he asked, startled by the noise.

"I wish to speak to Reece Allen," said a man's voice.

Proudfoot recognized his caller at once. It was Jamie Skoyles. How he could possibly have been tracked to Germantown, the silversmith did not know, but the seriousness of his predicament was clear. The British army knew where he was. The only means of escape was through the window, but that would involve a long and perilous drop to the ground below, where armed redcoats might conceivably be waiting for Proudfoot. The pistol that he carried for protection while traveling would be little use against a bevy of
soldiers. Sweeping everything off the table, he thrust it into his satchel, then hid it hurriedly beneath the bed.