Saratoga (15 page)

"But a gross distortion, Ezekiel."

"It was an artistic interpretation of the event."

"There was certainly more art than accuracy in it," said Skoyles with asperity. "I was in Boston at the time and spoke to some of the soldiers involved in the so-called massacre. Yes, and I talked to some of the civilian bystanders as well. None of them thought that Paul Reveres engraving was a truthful portrayal of what actually happened."

"Truth is not an absolute, Jamie."

"It is to me."

"I think that Paul Revere did the American people a great service."

"Only by telling them a lie."

"Shots were fired. Five people died. Those were the facts."

"No, Ezekiel," Skoyles returned. "One of those killed was a mulatto by the name of Crispus Attucks. What sympathy would the death of a black man arouse? Very little, I suspect. Paul Revere clearly thought the same because, in his print, he changed Crispus Attucks into a white American. What do you call that—artistic license?"

"An insignificant detail."

Skoyles let out a sigh. "You've changed, Ezekiel."

"We both have," said Proudfoot sadly. "We used to be so close."

"I hoped that we still were."

"Not as long as you wear a red coat."

Skoyles had been astonished and pleased to see Proudfoot again, albeit on the opposing side in a battle. Since the other man had been at Fort Ticonderoga for some while, Skoyles convinced Fraser that the prisoner would be able to give them valuable intelligence about the garrison there, and that he—as a former friend of Proudfoot's—would be the best person to extract such information from him. Accordingly, he was interrogating Proudfoot in the privacy of his tent with an armed guard outside to prevent any attempt by the prisoner at escape.

"Why did General St. Clair abandon the fort?" asked Skoyles.

"He was frightened away by the artillery on Mount Defiance."

"What was to stop the Continental Army having its own guns up there? We'd never have been able to sail down Lake Champlain with the threat of heavy artillery trained on us from the summit."

"The engineers thought that Mount Defiance was too steep."

"A fatal miscalculation—one of many."

"The British army has made its share of mistakes," said Proudfoot sharply.
"I daresay that it will make many more before we're done. Let's be frank, Jamie. If your reinforcements hadn't arrived when they did at Hubbardton, your commander's folly would have been exposed for what it was. He attacked the ridge with too small a force. You were saved by your hired killers from Germany."

"You have hired killers in your ranks as well, Ezekiel."

Proudfoot nodded slowly. "I agree," he said. "Unfortunately, it's the only way we could raise an army. It would be nice to think that everyone in the uniform of the Continentals was spurred on by patriotism, but that's simply not the case."

"I know."

"Many of them couldn't give a damn about England's persecution of us. Our infantry consists of murderers, robbers, wife-beaters, hunters, mountain men, Negro slaves who've run away from their masters, and European adventurers who can't resist a fight—especially when they get money for it." He studied Skoyles. "How much do you get paid, Jamie?"

"Why?"

"A captain in the Continental army earns forty dollars a month and can expect at least two hundred acres of land as a reward for his service."

Skoyles grinned. "Get thee behind me, Satan."

"Can't you be tempted?"

"Not by you, Ezekiel."

"Are you so dog loyal to that tyrant back in England?"

"No," Skoyles admitted. "It's not simply love of king and country that made me wear this red coat—though I'll defend to the death every inch of our empire. It was the lure of army life. It can be an ugly life at times—a brutal, heartless, painful kind of existence that makes you do things in which you can take no pride whatsoever. But," he added with a resigned shrug, "it's what I chose, and it's where I feel at home."

"Crawling over the dead and dying on a wooded hillside?"

"Battles are never pretty."

"How many years have you been a soldier now?"

"Over twenty," replied Skoyles. "I'm beyond redemption."

"No thought of marriage and settling down?"

"In the fullness of time."

"You may not have too much of it left, Jamie."

There was a note of sorrow in his voice that revealed a lingering affection for Skoyles. The physical changes in Ezekiel Proudfoot were obvious. He looked older, sparer, and more world-worn. He had retained his philosophical air and his delight in argument, but there was a harder edge to the man than Skoyles remembered. Proudfoot had been tempered by war into a flintiness that made him seem almost truculent.

"What about you, Ezekiel?" asked Skoyles. "No wife and children?"

"Not any more."

"You lost them?"

"No, Jamie," said Proudfoot, recoiling from the stab of a memory. "They were taken from me by the army that you so blindly serve. If I told you how, I daresay that you'd accuse me of gross distortion, so I'll spare you the details."

"They were killed?"

"Massacred—along with everyone else in the village."

"And this was by British soldiers?"

"By Hessian mercenaries in your pay. That comes to the same thing. One day, I had a family; the next day, it was gone."

"I'm very sorry to hear that, Ezekiel. I really am."

"We commit atrocities just as bad," Proudfoot conceded. "What can you expect when you put weapons in the hands of violent men? But that's no consolation to me. Perhaps you'll understand now why I chose to put my humble talents at the disposal of your enemy."

"Most men in your position would have joined the Continentals."

"I fight more effectively with a pencil in my hand."

"What about your father? Is Mordecai still alive?"

"He died a year ago."

"And your brothers—Reuben and Silas?"

"Silas took over the farm. He's the eldest of us. He has a lovely wife and six fine children. Reuben was always the most hot-blooded member of the family," he said. "He joined one of the Massachusetts regiments, so you might meet up with him on a battlefield in due course. My brother is a true patriot, inspired by a vision of a free America. It gives him an excuse to kill British soldiers. Reuben enjoys that."

"It's a dangerous habit. We'll have to cure him of it."

"There'll be plenty more to take his place."

Personal tragedy had robbed Proudfoot of his gentle manner and his
ready sense of humor. He was a driven man, willing to court jeopardy in order to do his work, determined to help the American cause with his skills as an artist and engraver. In the middle of a raging battle at Hubbardton, he had had no weapon with which to defend himself. Proudfoot had been there to observe, record, and disseminate. Only a mixture of obstinacy and foolhardiness had kept him on the battlefield. Even when he had a chance to flee, Proudfoot had stood his ground.

"Tell me what happened at Ticonderoga," Skoyles said.

"You already know that."

"I know only that the fort was evacuated. Who made the decision and who advised against it? How many men did St. Clair lead away from Mount Independence? What were his plans? Did he intend to join up with General Schuyler? I want information, Ezekiel."

"Look at my drawings," counseled the other. "That's where you'll find your information. During my stay, I must have drawn almost every man at the fort—the Negroes as well as the whites."

"I'm glad that you can tell the difference between the two."

"There
is
no difference, Jamie. They're all Americans."

"Slave owners would disagree."

"They'll learn," said Proudfoot. "They'll learn." He raised a hopeful eyebrow. "I suppose that it's no use asking for my satchel back?"

"None at all."

"I feel naked without pencil and paper."

"Then you'll have to get used to it," Skoyles warned. "General Burgoyne has been looking through the contents of your satchel with interest. He says that you have a rare talent. But neither he nor I will let you have your things back again. You'd only spend your time making notes of the strength and disposition of our army. We can't let that sort of intelligence fall into the wrong hands."

"All that I wish to do is to make some sketches. What harm is there in that? Listen," said Proudfoot, touching his arm, "I'll strike a bargain with you. Give me my satchel and I'll tell you everything you want to hear. Is that fair?"

"Yes," answered Skoyles, "it's extremely fair. But fairness is not on offer here, I'm afraid. Your choice is a stark one. Tell me what I need to know or I'll have you sent back to Fort Ticonderoga to be put on short rations with the rest of the prisoners." His smile was cold. "Which is it going to be, Ezekiel?"

After all this time, Tom Caffrey had not become accustomed to the smell of death. It still offended his nostrils and haunted him for days afterward. While the rest of the British army had fought tooth and nail at Hubbardton, he came up behind them, making instant decisions about which of the injured would recover if given medical attention and which were beyond help. When the burial detail was later formed, he had recognized a number of corpses being lowered into graves as belonging to men who had begged for his attention while they lay in agony on the battlefield. Caffrey felt the usual pangs of guilt. With such limited resources, he had been compelled to ignore many more wounded soldiers than he was able to tend.

Polly Bragg knew better than to pester him with questions after a battle. She let him brood in silence, waiting patiently until he was ready to confide in her. About one thing, however, Caffrey had been eager to talk on his return, and it came up again when Nan Wyatt walked past their tent. The two women immediately fell into animated conversation. Cleaning his instruments in a bucket of water, Caffrey only half-listened to their gossip.

"What did Miss Rainham have to say about it?" asked Polly.

"About what?" replied Nan.

"Major Featherstone, of course. His narrow escape."

"Escape?"

"Yes," said Polly. "Tom told me all about it. He was close enough to see the whole thing. The major is lucky to be alive, isn't he, Tom?"

"What's that?" asked Caffrey, looking up.

"We were just talking about the rescue at Hubbardton."

"It's the first I've heard of it," said Nan, anxious to know more. "Major Featherstone was rescued, you say? When? How?"

"Tom should be the person to tell you."

"What happened, Sergeant Caffrey?"

Caffrey began to dry his instruments with a piece of cloth. He had been introduced to Nan Wyatt while they were camped at Crown Point and found her pleasant company. For the sake of Jamie Skoyles, he had encouraged the friendship between Nan and Polly Bragg, and he now saw an opportunity to show Skoyles in a good light. Caffrey was not surprised to learn that no mention of the incident had been made to Elizabeth Rainham. Had he raised the
topic, the major would have had to praise another officer, and he was unwilling to do that. Caffrey repaired the deficiency.

"One of his own men tried to kill Major Featherstone," he began.

Nan was shaken. "One of his own men?"

"Private Roger Higgs."

"He was that young soldier I told you about, Nan," said Polly, nudging her with her elbow. "You remember, the one who was flogged on the major's orders."

"Higgs could never forgive him," Caffrey went on, rubbing the last speck of moisture from his saw. "He wanted revenge and bided his time."

His account was concise but lucid. Inured to the abominations of the battlefield, Polly Bragg had pressed for more detail, but Caffrey did not wish to upset Nan Wyatt with a full recital of the facts. He merely stressed how much Major Featherstone owed to the alertness of Jamie Skoyles. Nan was amazed that the major had not volunteered the information himself, and she could not wait to pass it on to her mistress.

"Thank you, Sergeant Caffrey," she said. "I'm very grateful."

"It's the major who should be showing a little gratitude."

"I can't believe that a British soldier tried to shoot him."

"He's by no means the only man to do that to an officer," said Caffrey. "During a battle, you've no idea where the danger comes from. In my time, I've extracted musket balls from the back of more than one unpopular officer."

"That's dreadful!"

"Passions run high in combat. Anything can happen."

After thanking him again, Nan Wyatt scuttled off to report to her mistress. Caffrey exchanged a glance with Polly Bragg.

"We both know why Major Featherstone held his tongue," he said harshly. "He's too proud to admit that someone saved his rotten carcass from a British musket ball."

"I thought he was Jamie's friend."

"Of a sort. They got on well enough at first. Jamie started to look at him differently after that flogging. The major enjoyed it so much. Then there was that scouting mission to Ticonderoga. It rankled with Major Featherstone. He never forgave Jamie for that. The major believed that he should have been sent instead. He couldn't accept that Jamie was chosen ahead of him on merit."

"Was that because Jamie is a better scout than him?"

"He's a better
everything
than Harry Featherstone. He's certainly a better card player," he added with a cackle. "Jamie has emptied the major's pockets time and again."

"But if someone saves your life, you'd become his friend."

"Not in this case, Polly."

"Why not?"

"Because a rift has opened up between the two of them. I suppose that the truth of it is that the major has never really looked on him as an equal. How could he? Jamie rose from the ranks," he explained, "where he rubbed shoulders with the likes of me."

"There's nothing wrong with that, Tom."

"There is to Major Featherstone. No matter what Jamie does, he'll never be fully acknowledged by some officers. The major just happens to be the worst of them. Jamie Skoyles will always be an outsider to him. Put it this way," he went on. "If Higgs had aimed his musket at Jamie's back, I'm not at all sure that Harry Featherstone would've lifted a finger to save him."