Valley Forge (3 page)

Never one to miss the chance of a drink, Sergeant Tom Caffrey went with them. He sat at a crowded table beside a jocular private.

"You're no Scot," McKillop said to him.

"I am on November 30."

"What about St. David's Day?"

"Oh, I'm a leek-eating Welshmen then," replied Caffrey with a grin. "On St. Patrick's Day, of course, I'm as Irish as a sprig of shamrock, but on St. George's Day, I remember where I was really born."

"Only a true Scot can appreciate the importance of St. Andrew's Day," McKillop insisted, taking a sip of his whiskey. "It's something you feel in your bones—and it's a day when you wear a kilt with pride."

Like others in the tavern, McKillop had somehow contrived to get hold of a length of plaid to replace his breeches. It looked more like a woman's skirt than a kilt, but Caffrey did not mock his little companion. On his head, Private Andrew McKillop wore a crumpled bonnet with a piece of heather in it. He was a man of astonishing resilience. Injured in battle, he had lost a leg but
surrendered none of his cheery optimism. Though he was in constant pain, he never let it show and—when Caffrey was actually removing the limb—the Scotsman had been a model of bravery and resignation. Beneath the makeshift kilt was a wooden leg that McKillop now used to tap out the rhythm of the various Scots ballads that were being sung so lustily.

The place was full, the voices raucous, the mood convivial. Those who were not drunk soon would be. Those already inebriated were either aggressive or maudlin or had simply lapsed into a stupor. Loud arguments had already broken out. As McKillop raised his glass, he had to shout at the top of his voice in order to be heard.

"A health to General Burgoyne!"

"General Burgoyne!" chorused the others.

"A true gentleman and a wonderful soldier."

A great cheer went up, and Caffrey joined in willingly. In the light of their disastrous campaign, the sergeant had severe reservations about Burgoyne's tactical skills, but this was not the time to voice them. Their commander remained enduringly popular with the men, not least because he had contributed the enormous sum of £20,000 out of his own pocket to pay for the accommodations and provisioning of his army. Though their lot remained a sorry one, it was evident that General Burgoyne had done his best for them.

"When are we going home, Sergeant?" asked McKillop.

"I wish I knew," said Caffrey.

"I'd hoped we'd be on our way by now."

"So did I, Andy. We've been cooling our heels here for almost a month now. The weather's colder, the beds feel harder, and the food is worse than ever. On top of that," he went on, "the guards have got much nastier. They don't like being here any more than us."

"That's no reason to taunt us," McKillop complained. "A wee bit of respect is all we ask—that and a fleet of ships to take us away from this godforsaken place. Some of the lads are beginning to think that they'll
never
let us go home."

"Oh, I don't know about that," said Caffrey, hiding his own fears about their future. "I just wish that General Gates would remember the terms of the convention. When Gentleman Johnny proposed it, the rebels got four thousand prisoners without firing a single shot. It's high time they met their obligations."

"Yes—free whiskey for every Scotsman in the regiment."

Caffrey chuckled. "That's asking too much."

"Then it's just as well that St. Andrew is our patron saint."

"Why?"

"He was a martyr—just like us."

A big, heavy man in his thirties, with red hair and a thick beard, plopped himself down on the bench between them, forcing them apart. His eyes were rolling, his body swaying, his speech slurred. He peered uncertainly at the stripes on the arm of Caffrey's uniform.

"What are ye doing here, Sergeant?" he said belligerently.

"Talking to St. Andrew McKillop the Martyr."

"Ye don't belong here."

"Sergeant Caffrey saved my life," announced McKillop, "so he's here as my guest. Let's have no trouble from you, Duncan Rennie, or I'll do something with my wooden leg that will make your eyes water. If you want a fight, pick on someone else."

"I want to punch an Englishman."

"We're on the same side," Caffrey reminded him.

"Not on this day of the year," the other declared. "It brings back too many bad memories. The Rennies fought against their English tyrants for generations. My grandfather fell at Sheriffmuir in the first rebellion. My father was butchered, along with so many other gallant Scots, at Culloden." He spat expressively on the floor. "Ye want us to lay down our lives for ye in battle but ye'll no let us wear the kilt anymore. Even the Black Watch is forced to put on trews now."

Duncan Rennie had drunk too much whiskey to show deference to Caffrey's rank, or to his reputation as a man who could handle himself well in a brawl. All that the Scotsman could see through his bleary eyes was the sad history of his country. He wanted revenge for endless years of subjugation. At that moment, Tom Caffrey seemed to embody the cruel and oppressive English. Rennie wagged a finger at him.

"Get oot while ye can, ye lousy Sassenach!" he growled.

"Let me buy you another whiskey," said Caffrey.

"I'll no drink with the likes of ye!"

"We can raise a glass to good King George."

"Bugger the king!"

"I'll forget I heard that," said Caffrey tolerantly, "or I'd have to remind you that, from the moment you put on a red coat, your life became the property of His Majesty."

"Aye, show some loyalty, Duncan," McKillop advised.

"Keep out of this," Rennie warned. "I want to tell this English bastard why I hate his nation and want him to—"

"Save your breath to cool your porridge," said Caffrey, interrupting him. "And learn to hold your drink. We're both of us in the same boat, Rennie. We're British soldiers—we obey orders."

"And where did obeying orders get us?"

"Calm down, Duncan," said McKillop, a hand on his arm.

"Locked up in this shit hole!" roared his fellow Scot. "Now are ye going to get oot of here, Sergeant, or do I have to throw ye oot?"

Caffrey was unsure what to do. He was not afraid of Rennie and was confident of getting the better of him in a fight. But a tussle with one man could easily turn into a general free-for-all and that would serve nobody's purpose. For the sake of keeping the peace, Caffrey wondered if it might be better to finish his drink and slip quietly out of the tavern. In the event, the decision was taken for him. Armed guards burst in through the door to be met by a torrent of abuse from the revelers.

"Time's up!" bellowed one of the newcomers. "Out you go!"

Threats and curses came from every corner of the room. As prisoners of war, soldiers were only allowed out of their barracks between 8:00
A.M.
and 3:00
P.M.
Even on St. Andrew's Day, there were no concessions. Having their pleasure cut short enraged the Scotsmen beyond measure. The boisterous atmosphere inside Morland's Tavern suddenly turned mutinous. Duncan Rennie elected himself the leader.

"Away with ye!" he boomed, struggling to his feet. "And tek your ugly faces with ye! Nobody can tell us what to do upon St. Andy's Day!"

"You know the rules," said the guard sternly. "Get out."

Rennie folded his arms. "Supposing I don't?" he challenged.

"Supposing none of us do?" called another voice.

"Aye!" cried a dozen Scotsmen in unison.

"Now then," said Caffrey, standing up in an attempt to prevent any violence breaking out. "We don't want any trouble, do we? You've had your celebration. Sing your way back to the barracks."

"That's good advice," McKillop put in. "Let's go, lads."

"No," said Rennie stoutly. "I'll no' shift an inch from here." He looked around the room. "We stay put. Who's with me?" A general cry of consent went up. "There ye are, ye lily-livered Yankees. We'll not move from here even if that long streak of puke, George Washington, comes banging on the door."

"You'll move right now," said the guard, advancing on him, "or I'll shave your beard off with this bayonet."

Rennie was incensed. "Come closer and I'll kill you!"

He pushed two people off a bench and snatched it up to use as a weapon. Others urged him on and clustered around Rennie in support, waving their fists at the Americans in a show of resistance. Roused by the tumult, more guards came into the tavern, bayonets pointed at the howling Scots. Caffrey tried to plead for calm but his voice went unheard. Tension soared until it reached the point of release. Duncan Rennie hurled the bench, a guard was hit, and pandemonium broke out.

Anger and resentment that had built up during long weeks of imprisonment now found an outlet. Missiles of all kinds were thrown at the guards, then they were charged by a berserk mob. The noise was deafening. Outnumbered and fearing for their safety, the guards fell back quickly and the riot spilled out onto the street. Rennie was one of the first who stumbled after them, hungry for blood and heedless of personal danger. When additional guards came to the aid of their fellows, he was not deterred. He flung himself at the man who had first given them the order to quit the tavern.

"I'll murder ye!" yelled Rennie. "I'll tear oot your black heart!"

As he tried to grab the guard, however, the man stepped back and jabbed with his bayonet, piercing the Scotsman's thigh. Rennie let out a screech of pain and fell to the ground, clutching his wound. The sight only drove his friends to a higher pitch of fury.

"They've killed Duncan!" someone cried. "No quarter!"

Swearing volubly, they punched, kicked, bit, and grappled with the guards, forcing them back and ignoring any blows they took in return. After making futile attempts to enforce his authority, Tom Caffrey turned his attention to the injured Rennie. All around him, people were spilling or losing blood in an uncontrollable brawl. When a guard was beaten to the ground, he was mercilessly stamped on. When a Scotsman tried to relieve one of the
Americans of his musket, he was hit in the face with the stock. Turmoil had come to Cambridge, Massachusetts.

It did not last long. Another detachment of guards came running around the corner to see what was causing the uproar. The lieutenant in charge took one look at the melee, then barked an order. There was a harsh volley of musket fire. It passed harmlessly over the heads of the battling Scotsmen, but it was enough to stop them. Sobered instantly by the shots, and faced by the threat of a bayonet charge, they drew back at once and started to dust themselves off. They had made their point. There was no need to risk their lives.

The newcomers marched toward them in a menacing line.

"Who started all this?" the lieutenant demanded.

"That man on the ground," said the guard who had stabbed Rennie. "He's the ringleader, sir."

"Then he'll pay for it. So will the rest of these ruffians."

"We were trying to enjoy St. Andrew's Day," McKillop explained.

"Is this your idea of enjoyment?" said the lieutenant, gazing around at the bruised and blood-covered faces. "Round this scum up and get them back to the barracks!" he snapped. "They're going to suffer for this!"

Important anniversaries such as the king and queen's official birthdays, the coronation and accession of George III, and the restoration of the monarchy, were marked with celebrations throughout the British army. Parades, twenty-one-gun salutes, formal dinners, and—for the queen's birthday—lavish balls were arranged. The patron saints merited less formality but no less commitment. Even though money was scarce and supplies of food limited, General Burgoyne had invited many of his officers to dine with him on St. Andrew's Day.

Captain Jamie Skoyles was among them, and he found the occasion both gloomy and disturbing. There was a prevailing air of solemnity that made it impossible to relish the event, and he heard speculation about their future that was deeply troubling. It was three weeks since his failed attempt at escape and nothing had happened in the interim to reconcile him to the notion of staying in captivity with the Convention army. Still bent on flight, he was biding his time. Dinner was served in another of the town's many taverns. It was
toward the end of the meal when the landlord gave him a scribbled note that had been sent to him. He recognized Tom Caffrey's handwriting at once. As soon as he read the note, he excused himself from the table and left.

Alarmed by the news, Skoyles hurried back to the barracks. He arrived as his friend had just finished binding the wound in Duncan Rennie's thigh. Oblivious to it all, the bearded Scotsman lay fast asleep, snoring away as if he did not have a care in the world.

"What happened, Tom?" asked Skoyles.

"All hell broke loose."

"We've had scuffles with the guards before."

"Not like this, Jamie. Somebody could easily have been killed."

"Who started it all?"

"This madman," said Caffrey, looking down at his patient. "Rennie lost his temper and attacked one of the guards. When he was pricked in the thigh, everyone reacted as if Scotland had just been invaded."

He went on to give as full and accurate an account of the riot as he could. Skoyles listened patiently so that he could pass on a verbal report to General Burgoyne. Since the Americans would use the incident to impose further restraints on them, it was vital that their commander spoke up for the British soldiers involved. Friction between prisoners and their guards had been there from the very start, but it had never reached this scale. There could be dire consequences.

"I'm sorry to drag you away from the dinner table," said Caffrey.

"It was something of a relief, Tom."

"Was the food that bad?"

"I've tasted worse."

"So why were you glad to leave?"

"Because of the rumors," said Skoyles, pursing his lips.

"Rumors?"

"Yes, Tom. I'm telling you this in strictest confidence, mark you. We don't want it to reach the men—they have enough to worry about as it is." He took a deep breath. "General Burgoyne fears that we won't be released at all."