Authors: David Garland
One of the things Jamie Skoyles liked about an army was the extraordinary variety of human beings it contained. Uniforms might achieve a common appearance and constant drilling might impose a rigid discipline, but a man's essential character was unchanged by it all. Sinners did not become saints when they took the King's shilling. Skoyles was reminded of that once more when, on his way to report to General Burgoyne, he encountered two men from his regiment in the middle of a heated argument.
Private Daniel Lukins and Private Marcus Wolverton could not have presented a sharper contrast. Lukins was a diminutive Cockney with a face like a squashed tomato and a voice like the croak of a frog. Convicted of forgery, Lukins had been released from prison to join an army that was in desperate need of recruits, whatever their criminal tendencies. Wolverton, on the other hand, was an educated man who had once had a promising career as an actor in front of him. Stage fright of such intensity had seized him one night during a performance at Drury Lane that it was impossible for him to continue in his role. After fleeing from the theater, he drank steadily for a whole week to calm his nerves, only to find—when he finally sobered up—that he had somehow volunteered to serve in the British army.
Tall, slim, and stately, the actor towered over the forger, but it was the latter who was clearly getting the better of the exchanges. When they saw Skoyles approaching, they stepped apart and gave him a salute.
"Why are you two always at each other's throats?" asked Skoyles.
"Us?" replied Lukins, an expression of complete innocence on his face. "Wolvie an' me is the best of friends. Ain't we, Wolvie?"
"No, Dan," the other said loftily. "I'd not dignify our relationship to that extent but I would accept that we are well acquainted."
Lukins laughed. "That's 'is way of sayin' 'e loves me, Captain."
"What was the dispute about this time?" said Skoyles.
"Old Red 'Azel."
"Dan is referring to General Riedesel," Wolverton explained with careful enunciation. "I happen to admire our German ally."
"Then buy the bugger a watch," Lukins suggested sourly, "so 'e can arrive at the battlefield on time. Red 'Azel left it until the very last moment at 'Ubbardton an', when 'e did come, 'e brings that bleedin' band with 'im, like they was goin' to a concert."
"We owe the Brunswickers a debt of gratitude," noted Skoyles.
"That's exactly what I told him, Captain," said Wolverton, "but all that Dan can do is to hurl abuse at them."
Lukins thrust out his chest aggressively. "Old Red 'Azel can't 'old a candle to Gen'lman Johnny."
"General Burgoyne," corrected Skoyles.
"I'd foller 'im through the gates of 'ell, so I would."
"I have the same respect for General Riedesel," said Wolverton.
"Did you 'ear that, sir?" demanded Lukins, red with indignation. "Wolvie thinks them turd-faced Germans is better than us redcoats. That's treason, that is, an' no mistake."
"Wolverton is entitled to express an opinion," said Skoyles.
"It deserves a floggin' at least."
"I've already had one from that vicious cat-o'-nine-tails you call a tongue," Wolverton told him, "but my view remains the same. General Riedesel is the equal of General Burgoyne. He has more experience, for a start. He always thinks deeply before he acts. General Riedesel takes his time."
"Yes—we found that out at 'Ubbardton, didn't we?" Lukins challenged
him. "While 'e was takin' 'is bleedin' time, we was all but blown to bits on that 'illside. That's what thinkin' deeply does for you."
"How would you know when you're incapable of such a thing?"
Lukins squared up to him. "You callin' me iggerant?"
"No," said Skoyles, grabbing both men by the scruff of their necks. "Now let's have an end to this nonsensical bickering. You're comrades in arms, not sworn enemies. Keep out of each other's way until you can behave in a civilized fashion—or I'll bang your silly heads together." He pushed them apart. "Understood?"
"Yes, Captain," said Wolverton apologetically.
"Lukins?"
"As long as Wolvie don't call me—"
"
Lukins!
" snapped Skoyles, cutting him off. "Did you hear me?"
"Yes, sir," Lukins said reluctantly.
"Then settle your differences before I do it for you."
Skoyles waited until the men had gone off in opposite directions before he continued on his way. While he had great respect for Burgoyne, he was inclined to agree with Wolverton's estimate of Riedesel. Once the favorite staff officer of the duke of Brunswick, the German was a more versatile soldier than General John Burgoyne. He could be mocked for his emphasis on drilling his troops but he was not prone to some of the overhasty judgments that the British commander occasionally made. Skoyles was reassured by the presence of the German troops. Unlike the Indians, they could always be relied on in a battle.
As he strolled toward the house where Burgoyne had set up his headquarters, the first person whom he saw was the man who owned the place. Colonel Philip Skene, one of the loyalist commanders, was staring at a fresh grave that had been dug in his garden. He was a big, burly Scotsman in his early fifties with a wealth of military experience behind him, but he looked a sorry figure now. The sound of footsteps made him glance up and he contrived a weak smile.
"Captain Skoyles," he said. "Welcome to my home—what's left of it, that is. The rebels were untidy guests. They made rather a mess of the house." He gazed down at the grave. "And they even had the gall to move my dear wife from her last resting place."
"Your wife, Colonel?"
"She was buried in the cellar in a lead coffin. That was far too big a temptation
for soldiers who were short of ammunition, so they dug up my wife, brought her out here, and melted the lead down to make musket balls." He turned to Skoyles and grimaced. "I don't relish the idea of being shot by a piece of my wife's coffin."
"I can understand that, sir."
"Still," said Skene, brightening a little, "at least I can occupy my own home again. This is a wonderful spot, Captain—rich soil, an endless supply of good timber, and a lake nearby that's a busy highway for trade and travel. I spent years developing this site. I own well over fifty thousand acres and created my own community here."
"Largely made up from Scots, I'm told," Skoyles observed.
"We have the pioneer spirit."
"I know. My mother was Scots. I inherited that spirit from her."
"There was already a barracks and a blockhouse when I came here," said Skene with a proprietary wave of his arm. "I added a sawmill, an iron forge, a coal house, a stone barn and stables, and, of course," he went on, indicating the two-and-a half-story limestone building behind him, "my home, Skenesborough House."
"It's an impressive achievement, Colonel."
"I like this country. Wouldn't dream of living anywhere else."
"I've a feeling that I'll see out my days in America as well."
"Let's put these rebels in their place first, shall we?"
"Yes, Colonel."
Skoyles took his leave and went into the house. When he was admitted to General Burgoyne, he was amazed to find him in a room that had a wooden coffin on a table. Seated in a corner, Burgoyne beckoned the visitor across to him. He gestured toward the coffin.
"Allow me to introduce Mrs. Skene to you, Captain."
Skoyles was bewildered. "The colonel's wife?"
"The colonel's
mother
," said Burgoyne cheerfully. "It appears that, by the terms of a will, the old lady will continue to receive an annuity as long as she is above ground. Philip Skene is a true Scotsman. He'll not part with a single penny if he can find a way to hold on to it. So—there she lies—dead as a doornail but still able to earn her keep."
Skoyles was amused. "Colonel Skene is a strange man, sir."
"Strange but resourceful," said Burgoyne. "Who else would travel
through this wilderness, attended by black servants in splendid livery and powdered wigs? Eccentric he may be, but he's also invaluable to us. He knows the area like the back of his grasping hand. That's why I made him my political adviser."
"A wise choice, General."
"I think so. This house of his is certainly more comfortable than a tent or a cabin aboard ship—even if we do have to share it with the late Mrs. Skene." He chuckled quietly. "By the way, I hope that you'll join us for a game of cards this evening."
"Thank you, sir. I will."
"Excellent. You always provide a challenge." He glanced down at the sheaf of drawings in his hand. "Been taking another look at your friend's handiwork. Man has a sharp eye."
"Not much eludes Ezekiel Proudfoot," said Skoyles. "He did much more than draw some sketches at Ticonderoga. He took careful note of everything that went on at the fort."
"Was he willing to part with the information?"
"When he'd been sufficiently persuaded, sir."
"What have you learned?"
Taking a deep breath, Skoyles retailed the intelligence that he had gathered from Proudfoot, giving details of troop numbers, decisions made by General St. Clair, and the likely movement of the garrison now that it had been forced to make a detour around Skenesborough. Burgoyne was struck by his ability to remember so much without needing any notes. When Skoyles had finished, the general congratulated him.
"Well done, Captain," he said. "You've discovered exactly what I'd expected and wanted to have confirmed. There is, however, one point that puzzles me."
"What's that, General?"
"According to this fellow, Ezekiel Proudfoot, we'd be deluding ourselves if we expected any loyalist support in the surrounding countryside. Colonel Skene is of the opposite opinion," said Burgoyne. "He's convinced that, once people know they have the protection of the British army, they'll flock to join us."
"Ezekiel poured scorn on that notion, General."
"Perhaps he was deliberately misleading us."
"I think not, sir."
"We need additional men. They must come from somewhere."
"The most we could expect to recruit is a mere handful."
"Then why does Skene argue to the contrary?"
"You'll have to take that up with the colonel."
"What's your feeling?"
"That it would be foolish to count on many coming forward, sir."
"Even though they can clearly see that we have the upper hand?" said Burgoyne. "In the past, I know, some Tories have been tarred and feathered. Others have been shot."
"Or hanged."
"While they fear such reprisals, as now, any loyalists will obviously keep their heads down. Released from that fear, they'll rush to throw in their lot with us."
"I hope that proves to be true, General."
"You sound unconvinced."
"In all honesty, I am, sir."
"Then let me put a question to you," said Burgoyne, sitting back. "Whose judgment do we trust? That of a man who's deliberately stirring up resistance against us with his artistic skills?" He dropped the sketches onto the chair beside him. "Or that of someone who joined the British army as a boy of eleven and served it loyally for three decades? Ezekiel Proudfoot or Philip Skene?" He nodded toward the coffin. "My vote goes to the man who has the wit to keep the body of his mother above ground in order to benefit from her annuity. Colonel Skene has a nose for business. Don't you agree?"
"Yes, General. But he has been away from the area for some time."
"Proudfoot or Skene? Who do you put your money on?"
Skoyles needed a few moments to consider his decision.
"Ezekiel Proudfoot," he said. "I think he's telling the truth."
Elizabeth Rainham was thrown into confusion. When she heard about the attempt made on Major Featherstone's life by one of his own men, she was deeply shocked. The thought that the man she was hoping to marry might have been shot in the back by a British soldier did not merely alarm her. It showed her that Harry Featherstone was not as universally respected as she
had assumed. Elizabeth was even more disturbed to learn that he had not even expressed his thanks to the person who saved his life. So ruffled was she by what she heard from Nan Wyatt that she went in search of Featherstone with the other woman trotting beside her.
Unable to find him in his tent, the two of them decided to look elsewhere for the major. It was then that they chanced upon Jamie Skoyles, returning from his meeting with General Burgoyne. Pleased to see her again, he gave an involuntary smile. Elizabeth was disturbed to see the bruising that still marked his face.
"Good day, Captain," she said.
"Miss Rainham."
"I wonder if I might speak with you for a moment?"
"Of course," he replied, mystified by her sudden interest in him. "Would you care to step into my tent? It will afford us a little privacy."
Elizabeth hesitated. "Very well," she decided after a pause. She followed him across to his tent. "You can stay outside, Nan."
"Yes, ma'am," said Nan dutifully.
Skoyles opened the flap and held it back so that she could step inside. When he joined her in the tent, he felt an immediate frisson. Alone with her for the first time, sharing a confined space, gave him a new awareness of her charms. Elizabeth displayed a blend of curiosity and embarrassment, looking around the tent with interest while knowing she should not really be there alone with him. She fell back on a stilted formality.
"Is it true that you were involved in an incident at Hubbardton?"
"A battle is rather more than an incident, Miss Rainham," he said.
"I was referring to Major Featherstone."
"Ah, I see."
"My understanding is that you saved his life."
"I prevented one of our men from killing a fellow officer, that's all."
"That is not all, Captain," she said, gazing intently at him. "You rescued Major Featherstone by your prompt action and you spared me the most unspeakable suffering. I'll never be able to thank you enough."
"Kind of you to say so, Miss Rainham."
"And I must also thank you on behalf of Major Featherstone," she resumed, hands twitching nervously by her sides. "I'm led to believe that he has been unduly remiss in that respect."