Saratoga (36 page)

"Well done!" said Skoyles, arriving in time to hear a speech from
Macbeth
. "You've lost none of your talent, Wolverton."

"I was accustomed to larger audiences than a one-legged man, sir."

"Larger, maybe," said McKillop, "but not more attentive. I've just had a wee slice of Scottish history. Those words are music to my ear. I feel very privileged.
General Burgoyne has musicians to play to him every evening—I've got Wolvie."

Wolverton smiled wistfully. "Dan Lukins used to say that I quoted Shakespeare as if I had six large plums in my mouth."

"And a dozen up your arse," McKillop remembered.

"Exactly the kind of remark I'd expect from Lukins," said Skoyles with amusement. "For all that, he admired you, Wolverton."

"I know, sir," said the other, "but he had a strange way of showing it." He pulled a face. "That's the trouble with this army. As soon as you grow to like someone, they either desert or get killed. In Dan's case, he did both—the little fool!"

"You've other friends to take his place," McKillop put in, "and I'm not going to run away or get shot. You've got me for life, Wolvie."

"How long will that be?" Wolverton turned gloomily to Skoyles. "It's only a question of time before I'm in the firing line again, isn't it, sir?"

"We'll fight another battle sooner or later," Skoyles agreed.

"Where?"

"If only we knew. The enemy is waiting for us to cross the Hudson first. They won't let us get to Albany without a tussle."

"Do we know where they are now, Captain?" asked McKillop.

"A few miles from Stillwater, building up their defenses."

"When do we cross the river?"

"At the end of the week—with luck."

"That means we'll have been here almost a month."

"A month of waiting, watching, playing cards, and getting rained on every other day," said Wolverton. "Why ever did I join the army?"

"In the hope of meeting me," said McKillop, grinning at him.

"That makes it all worthwhile, Andy!"

"Ignore the sarcasm in his voice, McKillop," said Skoyles. "He really means it. You're what every actor craves—a captive audience."

He spent a few more minutes with them before taking his leave, waving to other patients he knew as he did so. Skoyles was close to Tom Caffrey's tent when Harry Featherstone came into view. The major bore down on him.

"Found you at last," he said. "The general wishes to see you."

"Yes, sir."

"
Now
," rasped Featherstone, sensing his hesitation.

"I just wanted a word with Sergeant Caffrey first."

"General Burgoyne is more important than an assistant surgeon."

"I appreciate that, Major. I'll go at once."

Before Skoyles could move, however, Caffrey came around the angle of the tent with Polly Bragg and Elizabeth Rainham. A rendezvous between Skoyles and Elizabeth had been arranged with their friends acting as a convenient cover. When she saw Skoyles waiting there, Elizabeth gave a radiant smile that congealed on her face as she caught sight of Featherstone. The major was surprised and hurt.

"Elizabeth!" he exclaimed.

At any other time, Skoyles would have considered it an honor to be singled out for the assignment. It appealed to his sense of daring and would enable him to render a great service to his army. What made him reluctant was his blossoming friendship with Elizabeth Rainham. To leave camp for any length of time meant separation from her, and that was a source of pain. However General Burgoyne's orders could not be disobeyed. Skoyles was told to penetrate the enemy camp, take full inventory of its defenses, then escape as soon as the opportunity arose.

Slipping out of camp at night, Skoyles intended to complete his work as swiftly as he could. He wore his hunting shirt, buckskin breeches, and round hat. With his hunting knife in its sheath, he also carried the Kentucky rifle and ammunition that he had taken from the militiaman who had shot one of the Indian scouts and died a grisly death as a result. The weapon was slow to load and lacked a bayonet, but it was more accurate than the Brown Bess muskets of the British army, and its longer range gave it more potency. Skoyles had practiced with it regularly until he was proficient with the rifle. In his pocket, once again, was Burgoyne's telescope.

Knowing that there would be enemy scouts in the vicinity, he moved warily. He used one of the bateaux to ferry himself and his horse to the western bank of the Hudson. His route took him slightly inland now as he followed the southerly course of the river. After ten miles, Skoyles was within reach of the rebel camp and could see their fires in the distance. Aware of the importance of conserving his energy, he dismounted, tethered his horse so that it could graze in a hollow, and snatched a few hours' sleep while he could.

Up at the crack of dawn, he rode forward half a mile until he came to a stand of trees. Skoyles climbed up the tallest of them and, with the aid of the telescope, took a long look at the encampment. General Gates and his army occupied a position on Bemis Heights, the plateau that rose above the river and commanded the route to Albany. Strong fortifications dominated road and river, turning both northward and westward to form three sides of a box. The camp was protected at the front by a ravine, and in front of that was closely wooded ground, intersected by tiny creeks and wagon tracks.

Skoyles had seen enough. It was time to join the rebel army.

"What's your name?" asked the sergeant.

"Daniel Lukins," lied Skoyles.

"Where are you from?"

"Hubbardton."

"Why do you want to join us?"

"To kill the British," said Skoyles, spitting on the ground. "I lost a brother and several friends in a skirmish against them near my home. Their Indians plundered our farm."

"It's taken you a long time to enlist."

"I had my brother's wife to comfort and a farm to rebuild, but I never forgot what they did to us at Hubbardton. When I was free to move again," said Skoyles, "I pretended to be a Tory and joined the British at Fort Edward. Take me to General Gates and I'll furnish him with good intelligence."

The man looked at him with suspicion. He was a sergeant in the Continental Army, a short, stubby individual in his forties with a tufted beard and deep-set eyes. Ready to welcome any new soldiers, he wanted first to make sure that they were genuine recruits.

"You know our terms of service, Daniel Lukins?" he said.

"Yes, Sergeant."

"This is the Continental Army. If you sign on, we own you for two years. We're not like the militia—you can't run off after two months."

"That suits me, sir," said Skoyles determinedly. "Just put me where I can stain those redcoats with blood."

The man appraised him. "You have the look of a soldier about you," he decided. "I think you've seen service before."

"I have. It was the British army that brought me to America, my brother and me together. We were mere lads when we marched with General Wolfe. We took to the country," Skoyles explained, "and stayed on after we left the army. I wanted to be a farmer—until what happened at Hubbardton."

"What rank did you reach?"

"Sergeant."

"Describe your uniform."

"My coat was lapelled to the waist with blue facing, our regimental color. The buttonholes of the coat were of white braid, those on the waistcoat were plain. Because I was a battalion sergeant, I had a halberd but no pouches."

"Sash?"

"Crimson worsted with a blue stripe. It was worn round the waist."

"I remember it well," said the other. "When I was in the British army, I served in the 16th Foot. Our facings were yellow." He offered his hand and Skoyles shook it. "You're welcome, Dan Lukins," he said, "if you're prepared to join us as a corporal. The pay is just over seven dollars a month."

"I didn't come here for the money, Sergeant. I've got fire in my belly. I'm here in order to fight."

"Then you will. Come and meet General Gates."

Skoyles followed him through the camp, relieved that his disguise had been convincing and his answers persuasive. He did not think that Daniel Lukins would mind his name being appropriated. Posthumously, the Cockney was doing the British army a favor. Skoyles missed nothing. As they walked between the rows of tents, he looked everywhere and made a mental note of what he saw. The rebel camp was larger than the one at Fort Edward and—although it was less organized—there was a prevailing mood of optimism.

When they reached the commander's tent, Skoyles was told to wait outside while the sergeant went on in. Horatio Gates was sufficiently interested in what he heard to come out into the daylight. He weighed the newcomer up before speaking.

"So you wish to be a corporal in the Continental army, do you?"

"I just want to fight against the British, General."

"Do you believe in the notion of an American republic?"

"I believe in anything that will drive those redcoats off our soil," said Skoyles. "King George has grown fat off us for too long."

"Sergeant Rymer tells me that you were recently at Fort Edward," said Gates, still uncertain about him. "What did you learn?"

"As much as I could, General."

"Tell me."

Skoyles divulged all the facts and figures that he had rehearsed with General Burgoyne before leaving the camp, speaking freely but making sure to give nothing of crucial importance away. Gates was impressed. The intelligence accorded with what enemy spies had already gleaned but it was more up-to-date.

"When does Gentleman Johnny expect to cross the river?"

"At the end of the week," said Skoyles, "when the bridge is ready."

"And the morale of his men?"

"Very low, General. They have not recovered from the reverse at Bennington. It preys on their mind."

"So it should."

"The army is also weakened by disease. Dysentery has been a scourge, and camp fever is rife."

As he had been instructed, Skoyles went on to paint a picture of a shattered army with despondent officers, trying to lull Gates into a fatal overconfidence. The general liked everything that he heard.

"Take him away, Sergeant Rymer," he said, finally. "We've a good man here. I wish that everyone who joined us had the same attitude." He regarded Skoyles. "Carry on, Corporal Lukins."

"Yes, General," said Skoyles.

"We'll put your intelligence to good use."

Gates went back into his tent and the sergeant led Skoyles away to go through the formalities of joining the Continental Army.

"You've sound fortifications," observed Skoyles, looking at the many earthworks and breastworks that had been constructed. "Who built all these, Sergeant?"

"If I could pronounce his name, I'd tell you. A Polish engineer, and a genius at his trade. He helped to design the Delaware forts protecting Philadelphia, and earned a commission as colonel. He's one of our best weapons, as you can see."

Skoyles knew that he was talking about Tadeusz Kosciuszko, a gifted man who had been drawn to the rebel cause by its republican ideals. During his
time in America, the Pole had acquired a reputation that made even General Phillips speak of him with envy. Skoyles could understand now why Bemis Heights was so well defended by the trunks of trees, logs, boulders, and rails. A barn had been turned into a makeshift fort, complete with a powerful battery. Other batteries guarded the extremities of the camp. Kosciuszko's fortifications bespoke a sense of impregnability.

Safe within his disguise, Skoyles also felt impregnable. He had even taken in the rebel commander. Having been at the camp for less than half an hour, he already had a good idea of its strengths and weaknesses. Skoyles was still congratulating himself on his success when he recognized the man walking toward them.

It was Ezekiel Proudfoot.

The frustration was overwhelming. Unable to stand it any longer, Harry Featherstone went to her tent and demanded some time alone with her. Elizabeth Rainham was cautious.

"I'd prefer it if Nan stayed," she said, "if you don't mind."

"I do mind. She's done enough damage already."

Nan was stung. "I beg your pardon, Major."

"Get out."

"That's for Miss Rainham to say, sir."

"Get out, woman!" Featherstone ordered.

Nan looked to her mistress who, after a pause, gave a nod. The maid went quickly out of the tent but remained within earshot. Elizabeth found the strength to face her visitor calmly.

"How long is this going to go on?" he asked her. "It's weeks since you've spoken to me properly. We're engaged to be married, Elizabeth, so I'll not be treated like a leper."

"I find the situation easier to bear when we're apart, Harry."

"And what about
me?
"

"You managed perfectly well without me last year," she pointed out. "Your letters were full of complaints about the weather, but you also talked of the many occasions when you wined, dined, and played cards."

"That's all that I
could
do," he said, omitting any mention of the fact that, in her absence, he had enjoyed other female company. "When you were far
away, I could cope; when you are right under my nose—and I'm forbidden to see you—then I'm in agony."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Then why continue like this? I'm heartily fed up with making excuses to General Burgoyne when you refuse his invitations to dinner, and I'm sick of lying to my fellow officers about you."

"Then tell them the truth: We have drifted apart."

"
You
may have done so, Elizabeth. I most certainly have not."

It was strange. As she looked at him now, she could see all the things about the major that had made her fall in love with him. Featherstone was an elegant man with the aristocratic air of a true officer. There was also something faintly unnerving about him, a quality that made her simultaneously frightened and reassured. It was that hint of danger in his character that had appealed to her most, yet it was now the thing that repelled her.

"You never told me what you were doing yesterday," he said.

"Yes, I did. I was visiting the hospital."