Saratoga (29 page)

"Such promises are worthless."

"But they might bind the Ottawas to us."

"I wish that were true, Lieutenant," said Skoyles wearily, "but I fear that I have to stand by my prediction."

"What's that?"

"This whole tribe will desert us within a week."

"They've all gone?" said Marcus Wolverton in amazement. "The Ottawas have run out on us?"

"Every last one of them," Tom Caffrey told him. "And the worst of it is, they plundered our stores before they went."

"Thieving devils!"

"Good riddance, I say!" Andrew McKillop observed. "The longer we kept them, the worse it would have got. They kill anything that moves."

"I feel sorry for the people they meet on the way back home," said Caffrey with a sigh. "The Ottawas are so ruthless."

"That's why we employed them, isn't it?" noted Wolverton. "So that they could be ruthless to our enemies. They were hired to frighten."

"They just took their money and left."

On the very day after General Burgoyne's visit to their camp, the whole tribe had flitted away. The terms he had extracted from the Indians had no power to secure their loyalty. Reactions in the camp were mixed. Many thought that the army would be better off without the Indians, but even more were worried by the sudden depletion of their forces. As a fighting unit, they had been markedly weakened.

Tom Caffrey was making his rounds at the field hospital. A sudden downpour was keeping all his patients under cover. Wolverton and McKillop were sharing a tent with two other injured men.

"How does that feel now?" said Caffrey as he finished changing the dressing on the stump of McKillop's right leg. "Still painful?"

"I hardly notice it, Sergeant."

"At least, you survived. One of the farmers that the Ottawas killed nearby had the soles of his feet sliced off."

Wolverton shuddered. "Before or after he died?"

"Before," said Caffrey. "They like to watch a victim suffer. When they went, the Indians left a whole trail of heinous crimes behind them."

"We heard tell of a minister they cut down in his own church," said McKillop. "Then they raped his wife and daughter before hacking them to pieces. Have they no respect for human life at all?"

"None at all, Andy," said Wolverton.

"Civilians were not to be harmed. The general made that clear."

Caffrey pursed his lips. "Jane McCrea is the person I have most sympathy for," he said. "I hate to think what she had to endure before that savage put her out of her misery. We'll get the blame for it, mark my words. Every rebel newspaper in New England will print the story on its front pages—a lovely young woman was butchered by someone in the pay of the British army." He put the rest of the bandages away in his knapsack. "No word from Private Lukins, I take it?"

"None," said Wolverton sadly. "Dan has left us as well."

"Maybe he joined the Ottawas," McKillop suggested.

"No, Andy. Even Dan would never stoop that low."

"Is it true that he took your watch with him?" asked Caffrey.

"Yes, Sergeant. I'm not sure which hurts me most—losing Dan Lukins or losing that watch. It was the fourth time he stole it. Or, to be truthful," he said with a tired smile, "it was the fourth time that I
let
him steal it."

"Why did you do that?"

"It was a sort of game we played."

"He looked up to you, Wolvie," said McKillop, puffing on his pipe. "Yes, I know that you two were always at daggers drawn, but Dan really admired you for being so educated."

Wolverton grimaced. "What use is education to a private soldier?"

"A lot of use," Caffrey argued.

"It's a handicap, Sergeant, a real burden. It makes me stand out from the others and that gets me laughed at. Education was no help to me at Hubbardton," he said wryly. "When an enemy soldier is pointing a weapon at you, it's no good giving him a soliloquy out of
Hamlet
. All that he understands is a musket ball through the heart."

"I like to listen to you quoting Shakespeare," said McKillop with a grin. "You have the voice for it, doesn't he, Sergeant?"

"I agree," said Caffrey, trying to cheer the man up. "Perhaps you can go back to the stage one day, Wolverton. With luck, you might even get the chance of appearing in one of General Burgoyne's plays."

"That's exactly what I'm doing at the moment," said Wolverton bitterly. "I have a minor role in John Burgoyne's tragedy about the war against the American rebels. So do you, Andy," he told McKillop. "In the cast list, they have us down as Wounded Soldiers. We're not allowed any speeches, of course. Those are reserved for the officers. We just sit on the side of the stage and bleed convincingly."

"Stop it, Wolvie!" McKillop protested. "You give me the shivers."

"There's no call for you to be so cynical," said Caffrey. "Until your wounds heal up, you can enjoy a rest. Make the most of it, Wolverton."

"That's what
I'm
doing," said the Scotsman. "I love it."

"There you are—Private McKillop has the right attitude."

"Even if I don't have the right leg!"

Caffrey shared a laugh with him but Wolverton saw no cause for amusement. He reached for the battered copy of Shakespeare's sonnets that he always
kept with him and began to read them to himself, losing himself in the intricate verse of another age. They were soon interrupted. The flap of the tent was held back and a head popped in.

"We found another man in the forest, Sergeant," said the newcomer, "but I'm afraid this one is way beyond your help."

"Do you know who he is?" asked Caffrey.

"Someone from the 24th Foot, though his jacket was turned inside out for some reason. He was dead when we found him."

Wolverton was on his feet. "Where is he?"

"Outside on the stretcher."

"Let me see."

The man's head withdrew and Wolverton limped quickly out of the tent. Caffrey followed him. Reaching for his crutch, McKillop hauled himself to his feet so that he could hobble after them. They stood in a circle around the forlorn figure on the stretcher outside. The rain was still falling but it could not wash away the dried blood on the face of Private Daniel Lukins. His bid for freedom had been summarily halted by three separate musket balls. One had pierced his skull, leaving a scarlet star on his forehead at the point of entry. A second had gone through his cheek and shattered the bone. Only the third one had met with some resistance.

Shaken by the violent death of his friend, Wolverton slipped a hand into the sodden jacket of the little man on the stretcher. When he took out the watch that Lukins had repeatedly stolen from him, he saw that a musket ball had shattered the glass and lodged in the works. The watch had stopped ticking.

"Well," he said, his voice hoarse with pity, "at least we know the exact time when he died."

Skill with a sword was an important part of an officer's training. The slash of a blade could kill a man instantly if the blow was powerful and well directed. It could even stop a horse. Jamie Skoyles had saved himself with his sword more times than he dared to count. With constant practice, he had learned to use its sharp edge to slice open an enemy and its fearful point to stab a man to death. When he did not kill, he had inflicted wounds that completely disabled an adversary. With a sword in his hand, he felt able to take on anyone.

Skoyles was far too strong, quick, and nimble for Lieutenant Charles
Westbourne. When the rain eased off, the two of them found a quiet corner of the camp where they could fight a mock duel, but Westbourne spent the whole time on the defense. Sparks flew as their swords clashed and the noise drew a few curious spectators. They were not surprised to see how easily Skoyles confounded his less experienced opponent. After ten minutes, Westbourne was gasping for breath.

"Enough, enough!" he cried, backing away.

"Would you like to try your luck with a spontoon instead?"

"No, Captain. You'd only put me to shame again. Whatever weapon we choose, I'll end up as the loser."

"Not if I fight with a handicap," Skoyles volunteered, taking the sword in his left hand. "Come at me again, Lieutenant."

"But I'd have an unfair advantage."

"Would you?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Prove it."

Westbourne took his stance and the fight resumed. It was Skoyles who was on the defensive now, parrying every thrust from his opponent and using his feet cleverly to get out of difficulties. Having gained the upper hand at last, Westbourne grew bolder and tried to use some more enterprising strokes. Skoyles was equal to everything that the other man could offer, bringing the bout to an abrupt end with an unexpected thrust and a sudden flick of his wrist. Westbourne's sword spun out of his hand and landed on the grass. The spectators clapped.

"How on earth did you do that?" asked Westbourne balefully.

"With plenty of practice."

"But you'd never have the sword in your left hand in battle."

"Oh, yes, I would," said Skoyles. "It happened when we invaded from Canada last summer. A musket ball hit me in the right shoulder during a skirmish near Crown Point. I was unable to defend myself with the sword in that hand. If I'd not been able to use the left hand, I'd not be alive now." He saw Sergeant Caffrey approaching. "Tom will confirm it. He was there at the time. It was his probe that removed the musket ball."

"Yours was one of many I took out that day," said Caffrey, reaching the swordsmen. "Excuse me for disturbing you, gentlemen. I wonder if I might have a private word with you, Captain?"

"Of course."

Skoyles took him aside. Westbourne, meanwhile, reclaimed his sword from the ground and drifted away with the other officers, still dazed at the way he had been so easily disarmed. Skoyles saw the sadness in his friend's eyes.

"What's amiss, Tom?"

"Dan Lukins is dead. They brought him in on a stretcher."

"Shot as a deserter?"

"No, Jamie," said Caffrey. "It looks as if he was brought down by enemy sharpshooters. It was a more honorable way to die, I suppose. Wolverton is inconsolable. He can only use one arm but he insisted on helping to bury Lukins. They'd known each other for years."

"Dan Lukins was a good soldier," Skoyles observed. "He might have had a wandering hand and a wicked tongue but he'd fight like a demon when he needed to. I'm sorry to hear that he's dead and even sorrier that he deserted."

"So am I. If hardened soldiers like Lukins are starting to walk out on us, we're in serious trouble."

"Where is he buried, Tom? I'd like to show my respects."

"Follow me."

"He did me a big favor," said Skoyles, falling in beside the sergeant as he moved away. "I'll never forget that. Lukins overheard the plot by Harry Featherstone to have me soundly beaten. If I hadn't been warned, those two Canadians might have done some real damage. Lukins saved my skin."

Caffrey licked his lips. "That's the other thing I need to mention to you, Jamie," he said, looking embarrassed. "It concerns that little brawl we had with those two men."

"What about it?"

"Well, I have a confession to make."

"Go on."

"I'm afraid that Polly spoke out of turn," said Caffrey. "She forgot my warning that nobody else was to hear a word of it. Polly was speaking to Miss Rainham's maid and it slipped out."

"Bugger it!" exclaimed Skoyles, coming to a halt. "I told you at the time that I didn't want a single person to know about it—not even Polly. The incident was over and done with, Tom. It was best forgotten."

"Polly promised to keep it a secret."

"Then why didn't she?"

"Heaven knows! She's so upset that she feels like biting her tongue out. She and Nan Wyatt were talking about Major Featherstone earlier today and—before Polly knew what she was saying—out it came."

"That's all we bloody well need!" Skoyles marched off again.

"Mind you," said Caffrey, catching up, "Polly tried to make amends for her mistake. When she realized what she'd said, she begged Nan not to say anything about it to Miss Rainham."

Skoyles was bitter. "What chance is there of that happening?" he asked. "The woman is bound to inform her mistress. In other words, the one person in the world I wanted to keep from hearing about that business is now aware of it. Elizabeth Rainham knows."

"What do you think she'll do, Jamie?"

"I'm not sure," Skoyles admitted, clenching his teeth, "but there'll be consequences. And they won't be very pleasant for any of us."

"At least, she'll see that bastard of a major for what he is."

"Think how much suffering that will bring her."

"She needs to be rescued from him, Jamie."

"This is not the way to do it. Harry Featherstone will go wild if she challenges him, and Miss Rainham will bear the brunt of it. She shouldn't have been told a thing."

"That was my fault," admitted Caffrey, "but I'm not entirely sorry. The fact is that he did pay two Canadians to beat you senseless, and he deserves to be exposed for it."

"He was, Tom. We left those two axmen in his tent."

"It needs to be made public so that he can be shamed."

"I disagree," said Skoyles. "These things happen in the army, as you well know. The best way to settle scores of this kind is in private. No good can be served by telling other people about them."

"What will happen now?"

"I have a nasty feeling that all hell will break loose."

"It may be that Nan
won't
tell her mistress about it."

"Yes," said Skoyles with heavy sarcasm, "and it may be that the rebels will surrender without a fight, hand over their arms, and turn into peaceable colonial citizens. Then we can all sail back to England as conquering heroes." He turned to his companion. "Of course, she'll tell her," he insisted. "What maid
could keep a secret like that to herself? By now, Miss Rainham will know the ugly truth."

"That could work to your advantage, Jamie."

"How?"

"Be honest," said Caffrey, nudging him, "you
want
her, don't you?"

"That's immaterial."

"I don't think so. What better way to prize her apart from the major than by showing him in his true colors? You save his life at Hubbardton and how does he thank you—by hiring two men to kick seven barrels of shit out of you! That will get her sympathy."