Saratoga (30 page)

"I don't need her sympathy."

"We both know what you need, Jamie, and this may be the way to get it. Miss Rainham will turn to you now. Grab her while you can."

"Not on these terms."

"Then you must be mad," said Caffrey in tones of disbelief. "Ever since you met the woman, you've been panting for her. In your position, I'd take her on any terms at all."

"It's not as simple as that, Tom."

"It always has been in the past. You want her like a house on fire and she's obviously sweet on you, especially after the way you rescued her at Bitter Creek. What's holding you back?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"This is not like the Jamie Skoyles I know," said Caffrey censoriously. "If it was any other woman, you'd have loved her and left her by now. And what better way to get your revenge on the major? Reach out and
take
her."

Skoyles felt uneasy. There was an uncomfortable truth in his friend's comments and it silenced him. He could not even explain to himself what made Elizabeth Rainham so different from all the other women, and why he deliberately pulled back from any real pursuit of her. With someone like Maria Quinn, it had all been so easy and natural. Once mutual affection had been established, they dispensed with any further social niceties and hopped into the nearest bed. It was a warm, pleasurable, satisfying relationship that involved no serious commitment on either side. They were playing by accepted rules. Neither he nor Maria had even bothered to look beyond the current campaign. Both were simply enjoying an intimacy while it lasted.

Elizabeth Rainham was, in many ways, even more desirable than Maria,
but she brought complications in her wake. Not only was she betrothed to someone who had emerged as a dangerous enemy of Skoyles, she was also a friend of General Burgoyne. Two men in senior positions stood between Elizabeth and Skoyles. Even that would not have deterred him if he felt that he could offer her something more than he was giving to Maria Quinn, but he was not sure that he could. Maria was a mature woman with an uncomplicated liking for carnal pleasure. Elizabeth Rainham was a virginal young lady who would need more than the prospect of illicit passion to lure her into bed.

They had been walking at a steady pace. Skoyles was too preoccupied to notice that they had now reached the edge of the camp where the dead had been buried. Caffrey had to poke him in the ribs to stop him. Skoyles blinked and looked at the uneven rows of graves, marked only by rough crosses fashioned out of thick twigs. Most of the soldiers there had perished from disease, but there were some who had died of wounds picked up in earlier skirmishes. Skoyles was dismayed to see how many deaths there had been.

It was not difficult to identify the grave of Daniel Lukins because someone was keeping vigil beside it. Having helped to bury him, Marcus Wolverton was standing over the last resting place of the Cockney and mouthing words that went unheard. Skoyles moved across to him.

"I'm sorry we've lost him," he said gently.

"He knew the risk he was running, sir. Desertion is a crime."

"The worst crime of all for a soldier. I'd have shot him myself if I'd seen him sneaking away from us. But that doesn't mean I can't mourn him," said Skoyles. "Lukins served under me for five years. You get to know a man pretty well in that time."

"That's what I thought," said Wolverton. "I'd have wagered anything that Dan would never run away from the British army—and yet he did. I still can't understand why."

"No hint of it beforehand?"

"Not really, Captain. When he got back from Bitter Creek, he was his old self. He was even boasting that he saved Major Featherstone's lady from being raped." Skoyles was jolted by the mention of Elizabeth. "Dan was the same lying little reprobate he'd always been. On the other hand, he was very worried that we're to get no help at all from General Howe—but, then, so are the rest of us."

"Lukins shouldn't have listened to rumors."

"That's what distresses me, sir," said Wolverton, unable to keep a sob out of his voice. "Because he was scared of what he overheard, he let me down badly. I take it personally, you see. Dan didn't just desert the army—he ran out on me."

"Your lips were moving when I came up," noted Skoyles. "What were you saying?"

"I was quoting the last speech from one of Shakespeare's plays. They were words spoken about Coriolanus to the effect that, although he'd done terrible things in his life, he still deserved a noble memory. I suppose that's what I feel about Dan Lukins."

"That he should have a noble memory?"

"A memory of some kind, anyway."

"Why did you choose that play?"

Wolverton turned to him. "Coriolanus was a deserter, sir."

CHAPTER TWELVE

H
e knew that it was a mistake. After another session at the card table with his senior officers, Jamie Skoyles had strolled back toward his tent in a strange mood. Though he had won a fair amount of money, it had given him no sense of satisfaction, even though much of it had come from the pocket of Harry Featherstone. Nor had Skoyles enjoyed the cut and thrust of military conversation. Instead of relaxing as usual into his privileged situation at the table, he had been heartily relieved when the last game had been played.

Wanting simply to get some much-needed sleep, he was puzzled to see a flicker of light through the canvas of his tent. Someone had lit a candle. Skoyles was extremely careful never to leave a naked flame unguarded, so he realized that he must have a visitor. When he put his head into the tent, he saw that Maria Quinn was waiting for him.

"I told you that I could be patient," she said with an inviting smile.

"How long have you been here?"

"Long enough."

"Did anyone see you come?" he said with slight alarm.

"No, no, Jamie," she replied, getting up to pull him into the tent. "I waited until it was dark, then slipped in like a thief in the night." She put her hands on his arm. "Don't I get a welcome?"

"Of course."

Skoyles kissed her on the lips and felt the familiar surge of desire. At the same time, he was telling himself that it would be a mistake to let her stay, to make love to her again, to allow her to come between him and his growing obsession with Elizabeth Rainham. He wanted to break away, to put her off her with plausible excuses, then escort her back to her own part of the camp. Yet,
once she was in his arms, he could not let Maria Quinn go. She was irresistible. Skoyles was slightly disturbed that she acted on her own initiative and came unbidden. It was a dangerous precedent, and he would insist that it never happened again. Meanwhile, he was going to take what was on offer and be grateful for it.

"Where've you been?" she asked, undoing the buttons on his coat.

"Playing cards."

Maria pouted. "You'd prefer to do that than be with me?"

"I had no choice," Skoyles explained. "General Burgoyne invited me and I couldn't possibly turn him down."

"What about me, Jamie? Can you turn me down?"

"Not tonight."

"Not any night, I hope," she said, removing his coat and laying it aside. "Were you surprised to see me?"

"I was, Maria."

"Surprised but pleased."

"Yes."

"Show me
how
pleased you are."

When she flung her arms around him, Skoyles shook off the nagging sense of guilt and responded with ardor. He knew that it was wrong, but he could not help himself. A romance with Elizabeth Rainham was only the vaguest possibility, whereas Maria Quinn was right there for him. No pursuit was involved. No courtship, no strategy, no waiting. She had come to him with an enchanting readiness. Pulling her to him, Skoyles began to unhook the back of her dress.

It was only in the morning that he realized how big a mistake it had been.

The journey from Fort Anne to Fort Edward had been slow, laborious, and depressing. Since the road turned away from Wood Creek, the British army could no longer use bateaux for carrying supplies and were forced to transfer them to the wagons. Hastily built and badly overloaded, the two-wheeled carts churned up the soft mud into a rutted morass that soiled the boots of the infantry, spattered their uniforms, and hampered their movement. When the dilapidated Fort Edward finally came into view, the spirits of the tired marchers lifted noticeably. Putting the despised wilderness behind them, they
emerged into the sunlight and camped on the east bank of the Hudson River. The army could at last enjoy some leisure while they waited for the heavy guns to arrive by water from Fort Ticonderoga.

Lieutenant Charles Westbourne shared the general optimism.

"I feel as if we've reached civilization again," he said. "We can see farmhouses, fields of grain, berries ripening on the bushes. It's a far cry from the exigencies of Skenesborough."

"A definite improvement," Skoyles agreed.

"More to the point, General Schuyler abandoned the fort because he knew that he couldn't hold it. The enemy is retreating before us."

"That's not entirely true, Lieutenant. The garrison from Fort Edward may have pulled back to Saratoga, but we still have enemy forces to the east. If they can work their way around to our rear, they could cut off our own means of withdrawal."

"That's unthinkable, Captain. You heard the general's decree."

"Yes—we never retreat."

"There'd never be a reason even to consider it," said Westbourne breezily. "I have it on good authority that the general is so convinced that victory is within our grasp, he has written to Lord Germain for permission to return to England before winter."

"I sincerely hope that his confidence is justified."

"Do I hear a note of doubt in your voice?"

"You do," Skoyles admitted. "One of my main concerns is that we've stretched our supply line to the point where it will snap. Provisions are low and, before he abandoned the fort, General Schuyler turned much of the surrounding countryside into a desert. An army needs to eat, Lieutenant. Wholesome rations are vital."

"We simply forage farther afield."

"That course of action has already been forced upon us."

The two officers were talking outside Skoyles's tent. Their attention was diverted for a moment by the arrival of a handful of men from local farms, who walked into camp with a jaunty air. One of them carried a musket, another wore a rusty sword, a third had a sickle. Westbourne pointed them out to his companion.

"Even you must be heartened by the number of new recruits," he said.
"In the week or so that we've been here, almost four hundred loyalists have joined us."

"Unfortunately, less than half of them are armed, and those that are lack any training and discipline. As for the rest," Skoyles went on, critically, "they're not reliable. Few are here because of an overwhelming urge to serve King George. Some merely want to earn money, others to protect their district, and others again to work off some petty feelings of revenge against their enemies. They are forever wrangling about who is to be an officer or in what corps they would deign to serve. These are not
soldiers
, Lieutenant."

"They'll have their use."

"Only if they bring in cattle, clear roads, and guide troops on the march. Beyond that, they'll be a hindrance."

"At least, they'll not disgrace us like the Indians."

"That's true."

"What the Ottawas did to Miss McCrea was unforgivable."

"That particular outrage will return to haunt us," said Skoyles, "even though precise details of what happened are still unknown. It's already deprived us of David Jones, the loyalist officer betrothed to Jane McCrea. He and several friends went back to Canada in disgust."

"I think that even General Burgoyne is sick of the Indians now."

"He is, Lieutenant. At the card table last night, he said that their only preeminence consisted in their ferocity. I'm bound to agree."

"Reports of Jane McCrea's death have already appeared in some newspapers, it seems. How on earth can word travel so fast?"

"The enemy always has spies in our camp."

"We should root them out, Captain."

"That's easier said than done," Skoyles told him. "We just saw those raw recruits arriving in camp to swear their allegiance to the British cause. It may be that one of them is in the pay of the Continental Army. How are we to know? War has a nasty habit of blurring the line between friends and enemies. One can trust nobody."

"Like that friend of yours we captured at Hubbardton."

"True. Ezekiel Proudfoot is a case in point."

"What happened to him?"

Skoyles was reflective. "I don't know, Lieutenant," he said, "but I've a
feeling that Ezekiel will surface before too long. He wants desperately to be involved in this conflict somehow. I suspect that it's only a matter of time before our paths cross again."

Sunday found Ezekiel Proudfoot in the village church. When the order had been given to abandon Fort Edward, he had not fled south with General Schuyler but elected instead to go east so that he could visit friends who lived near Manchester. Proudfoot joined the family at prayer that morning, glad to be back among people he knew rather than in a crumbling fortress with its demoralized garrison. He had now been forced to leave three forts in a row and did not wish to repeat the experience. After so much time spent among dejected soldiers of the Continental Army, he had been refreshed by a week on a farm among old friends.

But even in a quiet little church, the war could still intrude. The preacher was barely halfway through his sermon when the door suddenly opened and an officer from the local militia marched down the aisle. Recognizing the man, the preacher broke off in midsentence.

"Are you the bearer of any news, Colonel?" he asked.

"Yes," replied the newcomer, turning to face the congregation and raising his voice. "General Burgoyne, with his army, is on the march to Albany. General Stark has offered to take command of the New Hampshire men." There was an immediate buzz of interest. "If we all turn out, we can cut off Burgoyne's march."

"When do you want us, Colonel?" asked a voice from the back.