Valley Forge (7 page)

"Why?"

"Because the chances are that you'll never see him again."

Captain Jamie Skoyles got them to the quayside well ahead of time. The night was cold but dry, and a cloud of stars twinkled in the sky to give them a bit of light. The women wore cloaks with the hoods up. Both men had exchanged their uniforms for hunting shirts, breeches, and capes. Wide-brimmed hats covered their heads. Each person carried a small bundle of clothing and personal items. Sergeant Tom Caffrey, surgical kit safely aboard, bore a musket stolen from one of the guards. Inside his baggage, wrapped up in sealskin to protect it from the water, Skoyles had a pistol, powder, and ammunition. A charcoal portrait of Elizabeth Rainham, drawn at his request by his friend Ezekiel Proudfoot, was also in his bag. His knife was sheathed at his side.

They moved with caution and communicated with gestures. When they reached the quay, they hid behind an upturned boat careened for repair. Even at that hour, there were people about. Cabal Mears was not the only fisherman
about to sail down the Charles River. The quartet of fugitives lay low and waited for their signal. After what seemed like an age, Skoyles picked out the distinctive outline of Mears as he waddled past them toward his boat. He tapped each of his friends on the shoulder. Before they could set off, however, they heard footsteps behind them. When they swung round, they found themselves facing one of the guards from the barracks. Peering at them through the gloom, he covered them with his musket.

"What have we here, then?" he asked.

"Nothing, my friend," replied Skoyles, trying to sound at ease. "We promised to take the ladies out fishing with us today, that's all."

"No, you escaped from the barracks."

"We live in Cambridge. I own a cobbler's shop in George Street."

"All that you own is a lying tongue," said the man. "You're British soldiers. I can smell the pair of you from here. I thought I saw someone stealing away earlier on, and I was right." Caffrey took a step toward him. "Stand back or I'll shoot. And the sound will bring a dozen guards."

"Yes," Skoyles advised Caffrey, moving him back a pace. "Leave this to me. Our friend here is quick-witted, and he won't be fooled by anything we say. There's only one way to settle this."

"Back at the barracks," the guard declared.

"No. What does it matter to you if you have two fewer people to look after and feed every day? You caught us fair and square. That deserves a reward." Skoyles took out a handful of coins and let them jingle in his palm. "Here's a month's wages for you."

"Keep your money!"

"Even if I offer you six months' wages." The man's interest was now aroused. "That's the bargain, my friend. Let us vanish into the night and you go home with a full pocket. What do you say?"

The soldier pondered. "If the captain of the guard got to hear of this," he said at length, "he'd have me shot by a firing squad."

"There's no way that he'll ever learn the truth," said Skoyles. "Now help us. Let us go and you become a rich man." He jingled the coins again. "Would you like to count it out?"

The temptation was too great. After more consideration, the guard looked around to make sure that nobody was about and thrust out a hand. Skoyles offered him the money, then closed his fist as the man tried to grab the bribe.

"Wait," said Skoyles, clicking his tongue. "Do not be so hasty. Release the others first, and then you get your reward." There was a long pause. "Well, can they go?" The guard nodded. Skoyles turned to his companions. "I'll join you on the boat," he said. "He's just lit the lantern. Tell him I'll be there in a moment"

Elizabeth Rainham wanted to stay beside him, but Skoyles moved her firmly away. Only when she, Tom Caffrey, and Polly Bragg had been swallowed up in the darkness did Skoyles face the guard again.

"Thank you," he said, releasing the money into the other man's hand. "Now I'll keep my side of the bargain."

But the guard wanted more than his reward. He intended to have the money and capture the fugitives as well. Thrusting the coins into a pocket, he suddenly swung the butt of his musket in an attempt at clubbing his prisoner to the ground. Skoyles reacted with speed and anger. He ducked beneath the weapon and shot out a hand to grasp the man by the throat, squeezing so hard that all the latter could do was splutter in agony. With his other hand, Skoyles whipped out his knife and thrust it deep into the guard's heart. Seconds later, the man lay dying at his feet.

Skoyles did not hesitate. After reclaiming his money, he took the musket, powder, and ammunition pouch from the guard. Then he dragged the corpse unceremoniously along the ground and hid it behind one of the boathouses. By the time he reached the others, they were all aboard. Cabal Mears was ready to cast off.

"What kept you?" asked the fisherman.

"Unfinished business."

"Did you buy him off, Jamie?" said Tom Caffrey.

"Yes," replied Skoyles. "He got what he deserved."

CHAPTER FOUR

T
he one thing they had not anticipated was the smell. Having braced themselves against the prospect of high winds and choppy water, they now found themselves holding their noses against the pervading stink of fish. Cabal Mears had been loading his catch into the sloop for over thirty years and its wood was impregnated with a compound of pungent odors. It took some time for the passengers to get used to it. When they had cast off, Jamie Skoyles and Tom Caffrey took an oar apiece to row the boat while Mears held the tiller. Huddled together near the prow of the vessel, Elizabeth Rainham and Polly Bragg peered into the semidarkness with trepidation.

The two women had met before because Polly had befriended Nan Wyatt during the long journey south from Canada. Attractive, shapely, and with a ruddy complexion, Polly spoke with the same soft Devonian burr as Caffrey. It was one of many things that had drawn them together. Though she had done menial jobs for the army, there was no suggestion that Polly would now replace Nan as Elizabeth's maid. Adversity made the women social equals, and they traveled as friends, knowing that they would have to support each other during the testing days ahead. It was one thing to escape from Cambridge. Reaching the safety of New York was another matter altogether.

When they had rowed their way to midstream, the sail was hoisted and the combination of current and a stiff breeze carried them along at a steady speed. Skoyles and Caffrey were soon able to ship their oars. Canvas flapped noisily. The mast creaked and strained. Foam-edged water was left in its wake as the sloop moved forward. They were on their way at last. Skoyles took the opportunity to have a private word with Cabal Mears.

"We had a spot of trouble at the quay," he explained.

"So I gather."

"One of the guards trailed us all the way from the barracks."

"Yes," said Mears. "You bribed him to keep his mouth shut."

"The bribe wasn't enough to satisfy him. I had to shut his mouth another way. I just thought I should warn you, Cabal. By the time you get back, the body will have been found. Questions will be asked."

"I'm used to talking my way out of an awkward situation."

"There's nothing to connect him with you."

"Then I've no worries," said Mears blithely. "One less rebel in the world is a cause for celebration. In your place, I'd have done the same."

"He left me no choice."

"Forget about it."

"I will." Skoyles looked around. "This is a big boat for one person."

"I manage."

"Have you always fished alone?"

"My son used to help me."

"What happened to him?"

"He died."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Cabal."

"I wish that I'd been," said Mears coolly, "but I shed no tears over him. Peter never really took to the sea. He wanted to fight. When the war broke out, he ran off to join one of the Massachussetts regiments."

"He was a
rebel?
"

"Yes. It broke my heart. Divided loyalties in one family are a terrible thing. I tried to hold him back but Peter wouldn't listen. We never saw him again. Our son was killed at Hubbardton."

"I was there myself," said Skoyles, remembering the carnage on the battlefield. "I took part in that engagement. Your son was one of many who did not survive."

"All they told us was that he'd fought gallantly under the command of Colonel Francis." Mears chewed on the stem of his pipe. "Peter was on the wrong side. I wish I could find it in me to mourn his death."

"War is cruel. It separates father from son, and brother from brother. It can also play havoc with friendships."

"You've no need to tell me that."

"I'm sure. You must have lost many friends."

"Dozens of them," said Mears sourly. "Cambridge used to be such a
happy town. We were a community. Then the trouble broke out and everything changed for the worst. People who had got along well with each other in the past suddenly fell out. They began denouncing their neighbors as loyalists. It was like a witch hunt."

"How did you come through it?"

"By keeping my opinions to myself."

"Your son must have known you were no rebel."

"He did, but he kept my secret. I owed him for that. Peter was ready to fight against everything I believe in, but he would not accuse his father of treachery. It's a terrible thing to say," he went on guiltily, "but there was a sense of relief when we heard that he'd been killed in action. More than that—God forgive me—I felt a peculiar satisfaction."

"I take no satisfaction in another man's death," said Skoyles, "even if he is an enemy. When I first came to America with the army as a mere lad, I was billeted on a farm and became close friends with one of the sons there. We kept in touch for years. I always knew that our paths would cross again somehow."

"And did they?"

"Yes, Cabal. Oddly enough, it was at Hubbardton."

"Was your friend in the rebel army as well?"

"Not as a soldier, but he was dedicated to their cause. When I met him again and saw that he was uninjured, I was glad. I wanted him to live even though I knew that he'd use his talents against us."

"His talents?"

"He was trained as a silversmith."

"Just like Paul Revere," said the fisherman with a sneer.

"Two of a kind," Skoyles continued. "Like him, Ezekiel produced prints that were aimed at stirring the emotions, and acting as recruiting officers for the patriots. We met again at Saratoga but he was on the winning side that time. Somehow," he added, "we remained friends, even though I killed his brother in battle at Bemis Heights."

Mears was astonished. "You killed his brother?"

"It was in self-defense."

"Yet this man still looks upon you as a friend?"

"I think so."

"Then he's a strange fellow indeed. What's his name?"

"Proudfoot," said Skoyles. "Ezekiel Proudfoot."

The bookshop was halfway down a lane off Front Street, close to a busy thoroughfare yet somehow quiet and secluded. Ezekiel Proudfoot soon found it. He had had little difficulty getting into the city. All that he had to do was to join the long column of people and wagons that streamed into Philadelphia at dawn for the market, and he slipped past the patrols unnoticed. He rode down Front Street, located the lane he was after, and saw the name of Pearsall Hughes swinging on the board outside the bookshop. It was early, but the shop was already open.

Proudfoot tethered his horse and went into the building. He found himself in a long, low, narrow room whose walls were covered with bookshelves. A table stood in the middle of the room with a display of new books to catch the eye. There was a faint musty smell to the place. The proprietor was seated in a chair beside a window at the far end of the room, reading a large leather-bound volume. Nobody else was in the shop. Proudfoot walked toward him.

"Mr. Hughes?" he asked.

"That is so," replied the man, looking at the visitor over the top of his spectacles. "How may I help you, sir?"

"General Washington sent me."

Hughes blinked. "That's a bizarre thing to say."

"He warned you of my arrival, surely?"

"No, sir."

"But he must have."

"I've no idea what you are talking about."

"He told me to contact you here."

"I doubt that very much," said Hughes, snapping his book shut. "I have no truck with the rebel commander, and would never make him, or any of his misguided supporters, welcome in my shop."

Proudfoot was baffled. "You are Mr. Pearsall Hughes, are you not?"

"That much I freely admit."

"Then you are the editor of a newspaper."

"I'm nothing of the kind," returned Hughes, hauling himself to his feet. "I'm a respectable bookseller, the best—though I say so myself—in the whole city. I'll thank you to make no more absurd allegations about me, sir. Newspaper!"
he went on with utter distaste. "I inhabit the literary world. I would never demean myself by sinking to mere journalism."

Proudfoot was bewildered. The shop was at the address he had been given, and it was clearly owned by the man whose name he had been told. Why was he being given such a frosty reception? He looked at Pearsall Hughes more carefully. There was much to occupy his vision. The bookseller was a man of middle height but outsize proportions, fat to the point of obesity and with heavy jowls that shook as he spoke. His face was red, his nose even redder, and his wig too small for the bulbous head. Snuff had spilled down the lapel of his coat. Well into his fifties, Hughes exuded an air of erudition mixed with truculence.

"Well, sir?" he demanded. "Do you intend to buy a book?"

"No, Mr. Hughes."

"Then I'd be obliged if you quit my premises."

"But I came to see you."

"And I have been duly seen." He lowered himself into his chair and opened the book again. "Excuse me while I return to Plato."

"Something is amiss here," said Proudfoot, running a hand across his chin. "There can surely be only one bookseller in Philadelphia with your name and address."

"And with my reputation, sir. Beyond compare."

"Then why do you refuse to acknowledge me?"