Saratoga (31 page)

"Now, my friend."

The speaker rose to his feet. "Then what are we waiting for?"

Every man there stood up. The preacher quickly gave them permission to leave, and they rushed out in answer to the call to arms. Sensing that he might witness some action again, Ezekiel Proudfoot was among them. If John Stark was in command, there was no danger of a fort—or anything else, for that matter—being surrendered. Stark would not give the enemy the time of day without a fight and a mouthful of abuse to accompany it. The volunteers streamed away excitedly from the church, turned, in the space of seconds, from devout worshippers into willing soldiers. Nobody moved with more alacrity than Ezekiel Proudfoot.

It was a scene more typical of an English village green than of an army camped beside the Hudson River. In the blazing sunshine of an August afternoon, an impromptu game of cricket was being played between two regiments. A pitch had been paced out, wickets set up, and two cricket bats hewn out of wood. Strips of leather had been twisted into a ball. Though it appeared to the watching Germans to be a strange, confusing, rather pointless game, it had both a grace and a sophisticated violence that recommended it to the Englishmen involved. Their commitment was unambiguous, their pleasure self-evident.

Part of the fielding side, Jamie Skoyles had distinguished himself as a bowler, securing four wickets with the speed and cunning of his underarm deliveries, then patrolling the outer edge of the field and taking three excellent catches. He was so absorbed in the game that he did not notice that Elizabeth Rainham was among the spectators, seated with Lady Harriet Acland and Friederika von Riedesel and using a parasol to ward off the sun. Impressed by Skoyles's performance, she had applauded him with a willingness that went beyond mere approval.

When the batting side had been dismissed, it was time for the 24th Foot to take their turn at the crease. As the self-appointed captain of the side, Major Harry Featherstone insisted on being one of the opening batsmen and chose Charles Westbourne as his partner. It was no casual decision. While the lieutenant was a competent player, he had nothing like Featherstone's power or range of strokes. The major would be able to outshine him with ease, determined, as he was, to show Elizabeth what a gifted player he was.

When the innings began, Skoyles watched from the margin of the field, noting how Featherstone made sure that he always faced the bowling by scoring in even numbers, then taking a single run at the end of each over. Westbourne had no chance at all to bat. Given his propensity to hit the ball a great distance, the major pushed the score along at a respectable speed. Skoyles admired his skills. Always ready to learn from a superior batsman, he took particular interest in his footwork and timing.

"I must congratulate you, Captain," said a voice beside him.

"Miss Rainham!" he said, turning in surprise to see her. "I had no idea that you were here."

"I've always liked watching cricket. You were on good form today."

"Thank you. I'd hate to let the regiment down."

"There's no fear of that."

She moved in slightly closer. Skoyles could see little of her face under the parasol, but her proximity nevertheless excited him. It was an unexpected treat for him to be alone with her in the middle of a large crowd, able to enjoy a private conversation in a very public place. After an exchange of pleasantries, Elizabeth turned to the subject that had brought her across to him.

"I need to ask you a question," she began, "and I hope for an honest reply."

"You'll get nothing less from me, Miss Rainham."

"I am sure." She needed a moment to compose herself. "Something came to my attention over a week ago and I refused to believe it at first. To be frank, I dismissed it as silly tittle-tattle. However, as time went by, I came to wonder whether there might not be a grain of truth in the accusation. Do you know what I'm talking about, Captain?"

"I think so."

"Then answer me this—and you'll know how embarrassing it is for me even to raise this topic: Did Major Featherstone employ two men to assault you at Skenesborough?"

It was a question that he had feared and one that he tried to obviate by ensuring that no mention of the incident ever leaked out. Now that it had, his instinct was to protect her from knowing the worst about the man to whom she was betrothed.

"I can't say, Miss Rainham," he replied evasively. "It's true that two men did try to attack me one night, but I had forewarning of it and was able to take countermeasures. What I could not tell you for certain is who set the two men on to me."

"Who gave you the warning?"

"Private Lukins."

"Is he the man who is supposed to have heard the plot being hatched?" Skoyles nodded. "I may need to speak to him."

"That's impossible, I'm afraid. Dan Lukins was shot dead." He saw the parasol waver in her hand. "There's absolutely no suggestion of the major being implicated," he assured her. "Private Lukins was a deserter. He was killed by enemy sharpshooters."

"Why did he run away?"

"We'll never know."

"Do you believe that what he overheard was true?"

"Unhappily—yes."

"So it
was
the work of Major Featherstone?"

"I've no proof of that, Miss Rainham."

"
Somebody
was behind the plot."

"Undeniably."

"Then why are you so hesitant? I asked for an honest answer."

"Two men were hired by someone to ambush me," he told her, "and I'm forced to accept the possibility—the possibility only—that the man who engaged them was indeed Major Featherstone."

She was profoundly agitated. "Why did you not tell me?"

"I did not wish you to know."

"But you might have been seriously hurt."

"Even then I would not have confided in you."

"But this is important to me, Captain," she argued. "The major is engaged to marry me. If he is capable of such despicable behavior as this, I need to know about it. Why conceal it from me?"

"Because it's a matter between Major Featherstone and myself."

"That's not an adequate explanation," she said, looking up as a ripple of applause signaled another fine scoring shot from Featherstone. "You saved his life at Hubbardton—is
that
how the Major repaid you? I shall take this up with him immediately."

"I wouldn't advise that, Miss Rainham."

"Why not?"

"Because it will only bring you a lot of upset."

"That's irrelevant."

"I tried to spare you any pain by keeping the incident to myself."

"Well, I'm glad that I found out about it now. My maid picked it up from Mrs. Bragg and felt it her duty to pass the news on to me. It seemed too far-fetched to believe at first—so completely out of character—but now I can see that it's the truth."

"Forget it," he counseled.

"How can I?"

"Because it will only cause rancor between you and the major."

"That won't hold me back, I promise you. I'm shocked that he could even
consider doing such a thing. Brother officers should respect each other, not indulge in this kind of subterfuge." She looked up at him. "Did you not think of reporting the incident to General Burgoyne?"

"No," said Skoyles quickly, "and if you're unwise enough to do so, I'll deny that it ever took place. Disagreements between officers occur all the time. It's something that we have to take in our stride."

"Well, I'll not take it in
my
stride."

"You must."

"No, Captain. There are some things I could never overlook and this is one of them. I keep thinking of what might have happened if you had not been forewarned. You could have sustained serious injury."

"I didn't."

Her voice softened. "I
care
about you."

"And I care about
you
, Miss Rainham."

The edge of a cricket field was an odd place for such a declaration to be made by both of them, and it robbed them of any further words. They simply looked at each other and traded unspoken thoughts. They moved a step closer. When Skoyles remembered his night with Maria Quinn, he felt a stab of guilt and wished that her visit had never taken place, but he was not going to let recrimination rob him of a special moment. His arm rubbed against hers. His smile touched off her own. The silent conversation was cut short by a burst of applause, and Skoyles turned his head to see a ball hurtling toward them out of the air. Harry Featherstone had put all his strength into the shot, hitting the ball high into the sky before starting to run. Skoyles caught the ball as it was about to land on Elizabeth's parasol. He tossed it to one of the fielders chasing madly after it. In the middle of the pitch, one of the batsmen halted abruptly.

"Run!" yelled the spectators. "Run, Major, run!"

But he was deaf to their entreaties. Harry Featherstone had caught sight of Elizabeth and Jamie Skoyles. Stopping midway between the two wickets, he glared at them in disapproval, forgetting that he was playing cricket and throwing Westbourne into a state of confusion. The other batsman was about to be voluntarily run out. Even from that distance, Elizabeth could see the fury in the major's eyes.

"Excuse me, Captain," she said. "I'd better go."

Brigadier General John Stark was a spare, sinewy man in his late forties with piercing blue eyes and a large nose. Difficult, touchy, cantankerous, and fiercely independent, he was not inclined to suffer fools gladly, even if they were members of Congress. The roughness of his tongue was legendary. Renowned as an Indian fighter, he had also served with distinction both at Bunker Hill and at Trenton, believing, erroneously, that his gallantry would be rewarded by promotion. When it was denied him, he retired to his farm on the Merrimac River, deeply offended that junior officers had been promoted over his head by scheming politicians who had their own favorites.

Fearing the imminent approach of the British army, the General Court of New Hampshire swiftly voted to make John Stark a brigadier general. He accepted the belated honor. Taking over the independent command, he achieved startling results. In less than a week, twenty-five separate companies had signed up to follow him. The New Hampshire Militia soon had fifteen hundred men at its disposal, responding to the enormous popularity of Stark himself and to the threat of General Burgoyne to the west. In the entire state, more than one in every ten males had offered to bear arms.

Ezekiel Proudfoot volunteered to fight in his individual way.

"It's good," said Stark, poring over the sketch. "You're a fine artist, Ezekiel. This picture of yours really comes alive.''

"It's meant as a warning to others," Proudfoot explained. "Jane McCrea was one of their own, engaged to a loyalist officer. If
she
could be treated in that barbaric way, what hope would our womenfolk have?"

"Indians are a danger to us all. That's why I killed so many of the pesky varmints when I marched with Rogers's Rangers in the French and Indian war. They'll cut a man's eyeballs out just for the fun of it, and God help any woman who falls into their murderous hands." He gave the sketch to Proudfoot. "This drawing of yours makes that crystal clear."

"The man responsible was an Ottawa. They've since deserted."

"It makes no difference, Ezekiel. Other tribes still travel with the British. Each is as bad as the other—Indians are Indians."

"That was my feeling."

"Until I was appointed," said Stark, pausing to light his clay pipe, "all that
stood between New Hampshire and Burgoyne was Seth Warner and the remnants of the battle at Hubbardton—about one hundred fifty men." He puffed hard until the tobacco was alight. "That was a sad day for us."

"I know, sir—I was there."

"Ebenezer Francis was one of our best commanders."

"He was brave to the last."

"It takes more than bravery to win against the British."

They were in a camp that had been set up in Vermont to the southeast of Fort Edward. Having raised his army, Stark had to equip it, and he set about locating weapons, ammunition, bullet molds, cannon, tents, camp kettles, wagons, ropes, and all the other necessities of warfare. Uniforms were a luxury that could not be afforded. Rum had been high on his list of priorities.

"I had to tell that to the Committee of Safety," he said. "No army can survive for long without a supply of rum. They seem to think that patriotism is a strong enough drink." He chewed on the stem of his pipe. "Politicians! They know nothing at all about fighting."

Proudfoot had been given a cordial welcome by John Stark. Though the grizzled soldier knew of the engraver only by reputation, he appreciated the value of an artist who could record deeds of American valor. Stark intended, with his men, to provide some stirring military action that Proudfoot could commemorate in a print.

"How did they treat you as a prisoner, Ezekiel?" he asked.

"Very well, sir, but, then, I had special privileges."

"Privileges?"

"I knew one of their officers," said Ezekiel. "Captain Jamie Skoyles, a decent man and a good soldier to boot. We were close friends at one time—in one sense, we always will be. It was he who spoke up for me and arranged to have me taken to Skenesborough instead of being sent off with all the other prisoners."

"What did you learn at the camp?"

"That they were still cock-a-hoop at the capture of Ticonderoga."

"We should have properly garrisoned it," Stark protested. "We've known since the start of the year that the British would invade from Canada as soon as milder weather set in. Schuyler should have tightened its defenses when he had the chance."

"There was a chronic shortage of men and supplies at the fort. General St.
Clair felt that he could not hold out—especially when the British got cannon on the summit of Mount Defiance. To my eternal disgust, we fled."

Stark was forthright. "That idiot, Arthur St. Clair, should be dismissed," he said bluntly, "and so should General Schuyler. Both of them abandon defensive positions too easily. When Schuyler surrendered Crown Point last year, I gave him a piece of my mind. They should have resisted the British until they ran out of ammunition." He laughed harshly. "At least, it taught Schuyler to keep out of my way. Instead of coming here himself, he sent General Lincoln, that fat fool from Massachusetts, in his stead."