Authors: David Garland
"Yes, General."
"When you take your men into battle, you must not be troubled by even a ghost of a doubt. Confidence inspires—doubt only weakens."
"I learned that in my first skirmish, sir," said Skoyles. "A hesitant officer is a liability. Conviction is everything."
"Quite. Fortune favors us. We will press on to a famous victory. If we can take Ticonderoga, nothing can stand in our way."
"Word of its capture must have reached Congress by now. How do you think they will react, sir?"
Burgoyne laughed. "They are probably still wetting their breeches."
"Who will be blamed for the retreat?"
"General Schuyler, of course."
"General St. Clair was the fort's commander."
"His superior will have to take responsibility," said Burgoyne, "and rightly so. Both men will be thoroughly vilified. Lieutenant Harman, the messenger you escorted into camp, heard the angry talk in the taverns of Albany. People there are saying that St. Clair and Schuyler must have accepted bribes from us to surrender Fort Ticonderoga without even firing a shot."
"That's not true at all."
"It has the
appearance
of truth, Captain, and that's what counts in the long run. It spreads dissension. Even as we speak, Congress is probably deciding whether or not to replace General Schuyler."
"Would that be to our advantage, sir?"
"I don't think that it matters either way. They have no commanders to match ours," said Burgoyne with measured contempt in his voice. "Let them send a wealthy Dutchman like Philip Schuyler, a mad American like Benedict Arnold, or a renegade Englishman like Horatio Gates against us—we'll still fight our way to Albany.
"Will we, General?"
"We simply have to, man."
"Why?"
"Because of the wedding to be held there," said the other jovially. "Harry
Featherstone wants to marry his beautiful bride and—as a close friend of the family—I intend to be in Albany to give her away."
Skoyles felt as if he had just been hit hard in the stomach.
"I fail to see what objection you can raise," he said peevishly. "Ten days ago, you thought it a wonderful idea."
"Circumstances have changed, Harry."
"No, they haven't. We still love each other, don't we?"
"That's not the point."
"It's the reason we decided to get married in the first place."
"I know," said Elizabeth, "and it's the reason I endured that ghastly voyage in order to be with you. Everything was going well until we made that ill-fated visit to Uncle David's farm."
He released a sigh. "I've told you how much I regret that."
"You were not to blame."
"I feel that I was," Featherstone confessed. "At a time when you most needed protection, I was unable to provide it."
They were in Elizabeth Rainham's tent. Major Featherstone had come to escort her to dinner with General Burgoyne. He took advantage of a private moment together to try to persuade her that they should hold their wedding in Albany. Elizabeth's reluctance was beginning to irritate him. His manner became more forceful.
"The service of holy matrimony enjoins you to love, honor, and obey your husband," he reminded her. "Don't you think a little obedience is in order here?"
"You're not my husband yet, Harry."
"But you've pledged yourself to me."
"Not in front of a priest and congregation."
"Why are you being so difficult?"
"I don't mean to be," said Elizabeth with an appeasing smile. "I simply don't wish to be rushed into anything."
"Who is rushing you? We've known each other for years."
"I agree—and, during all that time, you've never been out of my thoughts. But that doesn't mean we have to get married in America."
"Why not, Elizabeth? Everyone approves of the notion."
"Everyone?
" she said, bridling. "You've discussed this with other people? Harry, how could you?"
"I mentioned it to General Burgoyne, that's all."
"That's not all. If
he
knows, then Mrs. Mallard knows as well. And I daresay they've passed on the news to others. In all honesty," she said, her cheeks coloring with indignation, "this has upset me more than I can tell you. It was supposed to be our secret. Instead of that, it will be the talk of the camp."
"Elizabeth!"
"Who else did you confide in?"
"Nobody."
"Be honest with me, Harry," she pressed, "I can see in your face that you're not telling the truth. Who else knows about this?"
"One or two friends," he said with a dismissive gesture. "No more than that, I promise you." She turned away in disgust. "It was the natural thing to do, Elizabeth. I wanted to share my joy. You can hardly reproach me for that."
"No firm decision had been made."
"I thought that it had."
"Then you were too presumptuous," she said, swinging round to face him again. "All that I agreed to do was to think it over."
"You said, in so many words, that it was a tempting offer."
"It was—when the subject was first broached. Then I began to realize the arguments against it. Think how hurt my parents would be that they were not consulted. Think how cheated all our friends and relations in England will be that they were not here for the occasion." She shook her head. "No, Harry. Getting married in Albany would be a lovely gesture to make, but it's quite impracticable."
"I dispute that."
"We're in the middle of a campaign."
"That's what gave me the idea," he explained, spreading his arms. "What better way to celebrate a famous victory than by getting married?"
"You're assuming that victory can be taken for granted."
"I'd bet my fortune on it!"
"The rebels won't give up without a fight."
"I hope they don't. We'll be ready for them with cold steel and red hot musket balls." The prospect excited him. "It will be my finest hour as a soldier, Elizabeth. We'll crush those dregs of humanity under our feet."
"Supposing you get injured?"
"When I know that you're waiting for me?"
"You can't control what happens in battle. Look at Hubbardton."
"That was a mere skirmish," he said scornfully, "and I was never in real danger from the enemy—only from that imbecile Higgs. I'm an officer. I know how to conduct myself in action. All I need to spur me on is the promise of marrying you afterward."
"When we get back to England," she said.
"The wait will be interminable. I love you, Elizabeth," he declared, taking her in his arms. "I want you
now
. When I look at the others who are traveling with their wives, I feel insanely jealous and disadvantaged. We're three thousand miles away from home—we
need
each other."
"That's why I came, Harry."
"Then take the final step and marry me in Albany."
"I'm sorry, but I just can't do that. It would be wrong."
"Nothing feels more right to me."
Elizabeth broke away from him. His ardor was deeply troubling to her. She was not merely opposed to the notion of a wedding on foreign soil, she was having doubts about her choice of Harry Featherstone as a husband. It was vexing. For the most part, Elizabeth had loved him from a distance while he was abroad with the army. Now that they were close, she was getting to know him better and discovering aspects of his character that she found distinctly unappealing.
Featherstone was hurt by her change of attitude. Accustomed to her submission, he was now meeting with rejection. It stung him into a confrontation.
"Something has happened, hasn't it?" he demanded.
"Yes, Harry—the events at Bitter Creek."
"There's something apart from that. I've noticed it particularly over the past week. You're pulling away from me. It's almost as if you've lost interest in Harry Featherstone."
"Don't be silly!"
"Why else are you refusing to marry me?"
"Because I'd prefer to wait until we return to Canterbury."
"No," he probed, "there's another reason. I can feel it. You've become withdrawn, even distracted at times. You give the impression that your mind is on something else." He seized her wrist. "Or on
someone
else."
"Let go of me, Harry."
"Am I right? Is that what lies behind all this?"
"You're hurting me," she cried.
"I want an answer, Elizabeth."
"Well, this is not the way to get one." She shook herself free and rubbed her wrist. "Is that how you intend to treat a wife?" she asked with controlled vehemence. "By using your strength to bully her?"
"I apologize," he said, seeing that he had gone too far. "I apologize unreservedly. I wouldn't harm you for the world, you must know that."
"Not anymore."
"Elizabeth!"
"Take me to dinner, Harry."
"We must settle this first."
"It has been settled. I refuse to discuss the matter any further."
"That's unfair. I have a right to put my side of the argument."
"You just did that," she said, still massaging her wrist. "Now, please take me to dinner before I lose my temper completely."
Captain Jamie Skoyles had been invited to his commander's table as well, but he visited the field hospital first to show a friendly interest in some of the patients. Knowing that Elizabeth Rainham would be present at dinner, he had taken pains with his appearance. He wore his dress uniform and had had his boots polished until they shone. Most of the facial wounds he had picked up at Fort Ticonderoga had healed. Skoyles was now a portrait of military elegance. Marcus Wolverton nodded in approval.
"I wore a uniform like that once, sir," he recalled, "when I played the part of a villainous Captain Downey."
"Did you?" said Skoyles. "Was that at Drury Lane?"
"No, sir—Foote's Theatre." He laughed and nudged Private Andrew McKillop, who sat beside him outside the tent. "Now, there's an odd coincidence, Andy. Have you ever heard tell of Mr. Samuel Foote?"
"Not me, Wolvie," replied the Scotsman. "Who was he?"
"An actor and a playwright," said Skoyles.
"Quite right, Captain," Wolverton agreed. "His comedies were so rich and biting that we called him the English Aristophanes. The reason I mention him, Andy, is that he lost a leg—just like you."
"Poor man!" said McKillop.
"In his case, it was a little more embarrassing."
"What do you mean, Wolvie?"
"Well, you lost your limb in action," said Wolverton, "and there's honor in that. Mr. Foote lost his during some horseplay involving a duke. Just think of it—a Foote being deprived of its leg. Because of his name, he had to endure so much mockery. The Lord moves in mysterious ways and some of them are downright blooming cruel."
"What happened to the fellow?" said Skoyles.
"By way of compensation, he received the patent for a theater and built it in the Haymarket. Do you see the coincidence, Andy? He was a man after your own heart. Losing a leg didn't quell his spirit."
"It restored mine," boasted McKillop.
"Good for you!" Skoyles complimented him. "I wish that all of our wounded men had the same vigor. And you won't be the only soldier with a wooden leg, McKillop. We had a quartermaster in my last regiment who was fitted with a leg that he'd carved into the shape of woman."
"What name did she answer to, sir?"
"Christabel,"
The men appreciated his visit. Skoyles had a sincere interest in them and was not simply there to win a specious popularity. Unlike many officers, Skoyles was totally at ease with the rank and file, understanding their needs and knowing their tribulations at first hand. Wounded men often felt forgotten and resentful. Skoyles made sure that those in his regiment did not suffer from neglect. He looked at the one-legged Scotsman.
"What made you join the army, McKillop?" he said.
"Nairn Blaine, sir."
"Who?"
"He owned the Running Stag," the other explained, "a tavern in my village. I was always getting into fights there and causing damage to his property. Mr. Blaine gave me a choice. I could either join the army and fight for my country—or he'd have me locked up."
"We've good reason to be thankful to this Mr. Blaine then. You've been a credit to us. By the way," said Skoyles, looking round. "Where's Private Lukins today? As a rule, he's never far away from you, Wolverton. What's happened to him?"
"He's deserted, sir," said Wolverton.
"Are you serious?"
"Dan Lukins has certainly
talked
about it. He's lost his nerve. Ever since we heard that there's no army joining us from New York, he's been very jumpy. Dan thinks we'll be hopelessly outnumbered."
"That's not the case at all," said Skoyles.
"No," McKillop added. "Besides, one of us is worth ten of them."
"The rumor gave Dan a real fright," said Wolverton. "I don't believe he's run away, but I fancy that he's gone to ground somewhere."
Skoyles was puzzled. "How did Lukins get wind of the rumor?"
"He overheard Lieutenant Westbourne talking about it."
"The blazes, he did! That means he'll probably have passed the news on to anyone prepared to listen."
"Dan Lukins will have told half the army by now."
"Idiot!"
"Is it true, sir?" asked McKillop. "Have
you
heard the rumor?"
"Yes," replied Skoyles tactfully. "I brought the messenger from General Howe into camp. At this point in time, the situation in New York is unclear. We must remain optimistic. What we don't need, however, is someone like Private Lukins, running around in a panic and spreading unnecessary fear among the other men." He took a deep breath. "I'll make sure that he understands that."
Daniel Lukins bided his time. With his knapsack packed and his redcoat turned inside out so that it would be less conspicuous, he hid in the trees until the pickets were relieved by their replacements. The soldiers began to chat with each other. While they were distracted, Lukins made his move, coming out of cover and scuttling through the undergrowth. The little deserter soon vanished into the forest. One more name could be crossed off the roll.
The food was exceptional, the wine plentiful, and the atmosphere wholly agreeable, yet Elizabeth Rainham did not enjoy dinner at the house that afternoon. It was not only the presence of Lucinda Mallard that disconcerted her, nor even the way that the other guests seemed to accept her. What really irked
her was that she was identified solely as Major Featherstone's future wife and treated accordingly. Though she had coveted the position in the past, she now found it annoyingly restrictive. Elizabeth's unease was compounded by the fact that Featherstone, seated opposite her, was still seething after their earlier quarrel and drinking heavily to subdue his pulsing anger.