Saratoga (35 page)

"I heard tell that they had reinforcements coming down the Mohawk River," said Proudfoot. "Is that true, General?"

"Not any more," said Gates with a chuckle. "Nicholas Herkimer repulsed them at Oriskany and the siege of Fort Stanwix was lifted by Arnold."

Stark clapped his hands together and laughed. "By God, these are wonderful tidings! It means that the British army has been given a bloody nose three times in a row—Bennington, Oriskany, and Fort Stanwix. Wait a moment!" he said, scratching his head. "Wasn't it renamed Fort Schuyler last year?"

"Not by me."

Proudfoot grinned. "How did the general take the fact that he's been relieved of his command?"

"I don't know," said Gates with a shrug. "He's still sulking in his tent. Forget about Schuyler," he added. "He'll play no part in future deliberations. I want my best commanders around me—men like Daniel Morgan and John Stark. We need to raise more men and to train them properly for the battle ahead. If we do that," he concluded, "we'll be able to take all of the swagger out of Gentleman Johnny Burgoyne."

It was evening by the time Jamie Skoyles visited the medical tent and Tom Caffrey had to work by candlelight. During the battle at Bennington, Skoyles had picked up another lurid array of bruises on his body. His jacket had been pierced three times by musket balls, one of them grazing his side and leaving a long streak of dried blood as a memento. With his friend stripped to the waist, Caffrey cleaned up the wound before bandaging it.

"Why didn't you come to me sooner, Jamie?" he asked.

"I had to report to the general first, Tom. After that, I felt duty bound to speak to General Riedesel to explain what happened. My version of events differed somewhat from that of Colonel Breymann."

"Yes—yours is the honest one."

"The colonel was sent on a mission with insufficient intelligence. The blame for that must lie with General Burgoyne."

"Did you tell him that?"

"Not in so many words."

"I wish that someone would," said Caffrey. "The gossip is that we lost nine hundred men at Bennington and that the Indians have deserted. The further we go in this campaign, the fewer men we have. Doesn't that worry the general?"

"It doesn't seem to, Tom," said Skoyles, reaching for his shirt. "He dismissed the whole episode with a smile as little more than the loss of a foraging party. That wasn't how the rest of us saw it."

"What was Old Red Hazel's view?"

"General Riedesel was justifiably angry. He warned the general of the dangers along the road to Bennington and recommended a force of at least three thousand men. His advice was ignored."

"Yet again."

"Whereas Colonel Skene's—unfortunately—was not."

"I sometimes begin to wonder whose side that man is on."

"His own, Tom." Skoyles put on his shirt. "His decisions are always sponsored by self-interest, and that means to our disadvantage."

The tent flap opened and Polly Bragg put her head in.

"Excuse me, Captain," she said, "but there's someone to see you."

"Now? It's hardly convenient. Can't he wait?"

"It's Miss Rainham."

Skoyles was startled. "
Here
—on her own?"

"I can see that Polly and I are in the way," said Caffrey, winking at his friend and moving away. "My quarters are all yours."

He went swiftly out of the tent and left Skoyles wondering if he should do up his shirt or put on his coat over it. Before he could make up his mind, however, Elizabeth stepped into the tent. She saw the bandaging around his body.

"I heard that you were wounded," she said in consternation. "Is it serious, Captain Skoyles?"

"Not at all," he replied, turning his back on her to do up his shirt. "If you'll pardon me, I'll make myself more presentable."

"What happened? I'm told that you went to Bennington."

"I went and I was shot at. Luckily, I was only grazed."

"Thank goodness for that!"

"Tom Caffrey has looked after me. I feel like a new man." He tucked his shirt inside his breeches then turned to face her. "I must say that it's very kind of you to take such an interest in my health."

"I'm interested in everything about you, Captain," she said before she could stop the words coming out. She lowered her head demurely. "Nan Wyatt, my maid, was talking to Mrs. Bragg, who happened to mention that you'd been injured in battle. I just wished to reassure myself that the injuries were not bad."

Skoyles understood at once. Knowing that he would be in the medical tent for a while, Polly Bragg had alerted Nan Wyatt, who, in turn, had confided in her mistress. The meeting with Elizabeth had been engineered by his friends, and that made Skoyles self-conscious. He shifted his feet. It was ironic. A man who was completely at ease with someone like Maria Quinn felt curiously nervous in the presence of another woman.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Rainham," he said.

She looked up at him again. "Thank you."

"I'm sorry that I had to leave so suddenly after the cricket match, but I had a strong feeling that only two people were needed in that particular conversation."

"You were right, Captain."

"Far be it from me to come between man and wife," he went on, fishing for a response. He saw her wince. "I trust that any differences have been reconciled by now."

"I've not seen the major since that day," she admitted.

"Indeed?"

"His behavior toward you was unwarrantable."

"Major Featherstone is my superior. That's warrant enough for any behavior in the army. I make no complaint, Miss Rainham."

"But you should. Why are you being so noble?"

"I'm simply doing what I always do," he explained, "and that is to tolerate the antics of a superior officer. I've done it for many years now, so I'm well used to the process. That's the way the army works." He searched her eyes. "When do you expect to speak to the major?"

"I don't know."

"He must surely miss you."

"Perhaps."

"Any man would miss someone like you, Miss Rainham."

"Do
you
miss me?"

"It's not my place to say," he replied, biting back the words that he wanted to utter. "You're betrothed to someone else."

"And if I were not?"

"You must know how I feel about you."

"Yes," she said gently, "I do, and I thank you for your friendship and understanding. It's my own feelings that I'm more worried about."

"Your own?"

She gave a nod. "I fear that they may be improper."

"Nothing you do could be improper, Miss Rainham."

He could see her trembling as she fought against an upsurge of emotion. She seemed to be on the point of tears. Skoyles moved in close, wanting to offer his arms but somehow unable to do so. It was Elizabeth who acted on impulse. She hurled herself at him with the abandon she had shown at Bitter Creek, but this time she did not break away. The embrace went on for several minutes, his hands caressing her body, her head nestling into his shoulder, her tears of joy dampening his shirt. When she finally drew her head back, there was a mingled pleasure and apprehension in her eyes.

"I should not be here," she murmured.

Skoyles stroked her cheek. "Do you intend to leave?"

"Not yet."

And she accepted a first, lingering kiss on the lips.

"The nerve of it, Harry!" exclaimed Burgoyne. "The sheer audacity of it."

"What does General Gates's letter say?" asked Featherstone.

"It's not a letter, it's a string of insults. On my instructions, under a flag of truce, Doctor Wood carried my missive to Gates, protesting at the treatment of wounded prisoners at Bennington and complaining, in the strongest language, at the way that the loyalists were refused quarter in the battle when they offered to surrender."

"What was his reply?"

"Listen to it. Gates is indignant.

"
That the famous Lieutenant General Burgoyne, in whom the fine gentleman is united with the soldier and the scholar, should hire the savages of America
to scalp Europeans and the descendants of Europeans, nay, more that he should pay a price for every scalp so barbarously taken, is more than will be believed in England, until authenticated fact shall in every gazette convince mankind of the truth of this horrid tale
."

"Ha! So ends this sermon from the Reverend Horatio Gates!"

"No apology for the way his rabble behaved at Bennington?"

"Not a whisper."

"From what I hear, it is
they
who acted like savages."

"Gates will hear no condemnation of his militia," said Burgoyne, snatching up a sheet of paper from the table. "Not content with daring to criticize me, he had the impudence to send me this."

"What is it, General?"

"A piece of vile provocation."

He handed the paper over. They were in the room that Burgoyne had commandeered as his office. The table was littered with maps and papers. An empty glass stood beside a decanter of brandy.

"It's a sketch of Miss Jane McCrea," he said, "purporting to show what happened to her. Unless I'm mistaken, it's the work of an artist whom we took prisoner—one Ezekiel Proudfoot. When he was captured, I saw several of his sketches. I recognize his style."

"I remember the damn fellow well," said Featherstone, looking at the drawing. "He was a friend of Captain Skoyles and, by rights, he should have gone to Ticonderoga with the other prisoners. He escaped from Skenesborough."

"And is free to use his talents against us." The general took the sketch back. "This is not what happened at all. When David Jones reclaimed the lady's hair from that Ottawa Indian, there was no blood or skin on it. Jane McCrea hadn't been scalped at all. It may well be that Wyandot Panther was telling the truth. She was shot by rebel soldiers here at Fort Edward, not slaughtered and raped by an Indian."

"Tell that to General Gates, sir."

"He'd pay no heed," said Burgoyne, holding up the sketch. "
This
is the version he wants to promote. We're at the mercy of artistic falsehood here, Harry. If something like this reaches a wider audience in the form of prints, it will do us a lot of harm."

Featherstone was bitter. "And all because Skoyles insisted on bringing his
friend to Skenesborough," he said. "If Proudfoot had gone to Ticonderoga, he'd still be there—out of harm's way."

"They say the pen is mightier than the sword. I have a horrible presentiment that the engraving may turn out to be mightier than both, especially when it's been produced by someone like Ezekiel Proudfoot."

"I blame Skoyles."

"He was not responsible for the man's escape."

"I begin to wonder."

"Take care, Harry," Burgoyne warned. "That's a serious accusation to make against another officer. I'd absolve Skoyles of any complicity. He's shown his mettle time and again during this campaign, both as a scout and as a soldier. You should know that—he saved your life."

"Yes, sir," said Featherstone, trying to suppress his open hostility toward Skoyles, "but that was in the past. We must look to the future."

"Naturally."

"The auguries are not good, General."

"On the contrary," Burgoyne retorted, "they are excellent. Our army has rested, we've been joined by another group of Mohawks, and we still have loyalists coming in from time to time."

"Granted, sir. But against that you must set the substantial losses we suffered at Bennington, the fact that other Indian tribes deserted us, and—this latest blow—the retreat of Brigadier St. Leger and his men."

"That was a reversal, I admit, but I allowed for it in my contingency plan. We still have an army capable of beating anything that Gates and his preposterous soldiers can throw against us." He adopted a pose. "I'm a gambling man, Harry, as you know. When we cross the Hudson River, I'll be taking the biggest gamble of my life. But I feel in my bones that it's the right thing to do."

"So do I, sir," said Featherstone, emboldened by his commander's overweening confidence. "If we can force the devils to fight a pitched battle on our terms, we are bound to win."

"Think what that will do for us when we get back to England."

"We'll be feted as heroes for the rest of our lives."

"I look for an earldom out of this."

"You deserve a dukedom, General."

"Thank you."

"Your judgment at every turn has been exemplary," the other flattered him. "The plan you conceived for the invasion of America was a brilliant piece of strategy."

"Our journey to Albany will be celebrated for two things. We will finally bring these skulking revolutionaries to book. That's one thing."

"And the other?"

"You shouldn't need to ask me that, Harry," Burgoyne teased, reaching for the brandy decanter. "Albany will always have a place in your heart. It's where you and the divine Elizabeth will be married."

"Yes," said the major uncertainly.

"Well, try to look a little more pleased about it, man."

Featherstone could not quite manufacture a smile.

Jamie Skoyles and Elizabeth Rainham met whenever they could. In such a large camp, with so many pairs of eyes on them, it was very difficult for them to achieve any privacy, and most of their encounters were, of necessity, in public. Nan Wyatt was a ready accomplice, able to voice her disapproval of Major Harry Featherstone at last without incurring her mistress's anger. The maid's presence as a chaperone made apparently accidental meetings possible. At times, Skoyles would simply be talking to Tom Caffrey when—by prior arrangement—Elizabeth walked past with Nan and exchanged a few casual words with him. It was a contact of sorts.

The call of duty limited Skoyles's freedom. When he was not leading a scouting expedition, he was helping to supervise the construction of the bridge of rafts across the Hudson River. Until that was completed, the army was forced to cool its heels at Fort Edward. No matter how busy he was, Skoyles always found a moment for an occasional visit to the field hospital to check on his men. After weeks of convalescence, Private Marcus Wolverton was fit for duty. Skoyles found him with Private Andrew McKillop, sitting outside a tent and regaling his friend with some passages from Shakespeare's plays.