Saratoga (38 page)

General Burgoyne raised his glass of punch in a toast.

"To King and Country!" he declared.

Everyone took up the toast and sipped their drink.

"We move on to certain victory, ladies and gentlemen. I have followed my instincts and opted for boldness," he told them with a merry chuckle. "I have crossed the Rubicon."

"Hail, Caesar!" cried Featherstone, lifting his glass to Burgoyne.

"Hail, Caesar," echoed the others.

They took their seats at the table and the first course was served. Food was strictly rationed for the common soldiers, but Burgoyne saw no reason to stint himself or his guests. His cooks had prepared a delicious meal, and there was claret to accompany it. The quartet played music by Haydn. The atmosphere was relaxed. It was a most civilized way to pass the early afternoon.

Elizabeth joined in the general chatter as a way of escaping a more private
conversation with Featherstone beside her. His air of elation worried her, and it could not be put down solely to drink. She feared that he had misinterpreted her decision to be there as a sign that all was now well between them. It was not until the main course was served that she understood why he was in such a mood of celebration. Featherstone leaned across to her and whispered in her ear.

"Have you heard the rumor about your friend?" he taunted her.

"What friend?"

"Captain Skoyles."

"No, I haven't," she said, trying to keep the concern out of her voice. "Why—what's happened to him?"

"Nobody knows," he said with an obvious satisfaction. "He was sent on a mission by General Burgoyne with orders to return as soon as possible. He was expected back today, but we've seen neither hide nor hair of him. If he doesn't show up tomorrow, only one conclusion can be reached, Elizabeth."

"What's that?" she asked, cheeks burning.

"Skoyles must be presumed dead—and good riddance to him!"

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

J
amie Skoyles had been given a chance to escape from the rebel camp. The pull of an old friendship had saved him from immediate exposure as a spy, but Ezekiel Proudfoot could help him no further. It was only a matter of time before the alarm was raised and a search instituted. Skoyles knew that he must not get caught. Having deceived General Gates himself, he could expect no mercy. The rebel commander would take a particular relish in having him strung from a tree. Skoyles intended to disappoint him and put one of the sturdy oaks to better use.

When his presence in the camp was reported to Gates, it would be assumed that he had fled after being identified by Ezekiel Proudfoot. Patrols would be sent out to apprehend him. Skoyles reasoned that the safest place to be was where he already was. Stuffing his new uniform into the knapsack that had been provided for him, he had therefore sidled off toward a cluster of maples, oak, and white pine. The moment he was out of sight, he chose the largest of the trees and, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, shinnied up it as quickly as he could. He selected a bough near the top that was strong enough to bear his weight and completely sheltered by leaves. Skoyles settled down to wait in his temporary refuge.

Twenty minutes later, he heard the commotion. Orders were barked, patrols were formed, and horses cantered out of camp. The irate General Gates was taking no chances. In the unlikely event that the spy was still in the camp, he had ordered a systematic search. A detachment of men combed the whole area, starting at the frontal defenses and working their way slowly back in a long line. When they had reached the tree where Skoyles was hiding, he could hear them far below, discussing the gruesome punishments they would like to
inflict on a British spy. Skoyles was grateful that he had evaded them for the time being.

He made his move in the dead of night. Climbing down from the tree, he stretched his aching limbs, then stripped off his clothes and changed into the uniform that he had been given. The other garments were put into his knapsack. To the naked eye, he now looked like any other soldier in the Continental Army and felt confident enough to stroll among the tents without fear of being challenged. His nocturnal walk was more than exercise. Skoyles had been taking a closer look at the camp so that he could estimate its strength and later describe its layout and fortifications.

When he had committed all the details to memory, he made his way to the edge of the camp. Since the search for him would be concentrated to the north, to prevent him from rejoining his army, he had chosen to strike due south, in the direction of Albany. First, he had to get past the pickets. Skoyles fell back on the device he had used at Bitter Creek and created a diversion. Having borrowed a kettle from beside one of the campfires, he filled it with a handful of stones. When he crept up behind the pickets, he chose his moment, then flung it hard in the direction of some bushes. It rattled noisily on impact and drew three sentries out of position. By the time they discovered that they had been fooled, Skoyles was clear of the camp and running at full speed.

When dawn came, he was once more up a tree, sleeping in a maple to avoid capture and to escape the attention of any hungry animals that sniffed their way through the virgin forest. There had been no pursuit. Skoyles decided that the pickets would report the incident during the night as a case of desertion, and that, unbeknown to them, had the ring of truth. Corporal Daniel Lukins had indeed deserted from the Continental Army. After drinking water from a creek, he washed himself, then explored the main road that led to Albany. Rain had softened the mud and the imprint of many horses could be seen. Heavy reinforcements had obviously gone to the camp from the rebel stronghold.

Sound carried a long way through the forest, so he did not use his rifle in case the noise attracted attention. To get food, he resorted to a trick he had learned as a boy in Cumberland, sitting patiently beside a rabbit hole until—after an hour or so—a pair of ears emerged from it. They were instantly seized and the animal killed outright. When skinned and gutted, the rabbit was soon
being roasted over a fire. While he waited for his meal, Skoyles was able to reflect on the meeting with Ezekiel Proudfoot, pleased that the bond between them had somehow been strengthened even though they were nominally in opposition. Their friendship, it seemed, went beyond narrow political allegiances.

Proudfoot had been right about one thing. Skoyles was fighting an enemy who would one day be his neighbor. Win or lose, when the war was over, he planned to buy land and remain in America. Would he prefer to do that as a member of a Republic of the United States or as a colonial whose fate was in the hands of a distant monarch? When he tried to answer the question, Skoyles found that his sympathies were divided. After twenty years in a red coat, he felt strangely comfortable in the uniform of the Continental Army.

Restored by the meal, he lingered close to the road in hopes of seeing a lone horseman whom he could waylay and deprive of his mount. To that end, he kept his blue uniform on as a convenient disguise. When horses had finally appeared that afternoon, however, they came in a sizable number and Skoyles had to hide in the trees as they trotted past. He could see at a glance that it was a rifle corps made up of wiry men in fringed hunting shirts and round hats. Skoyles counted upward of four hundred of them. What disturbed him was the sight of the tall, weather-beaten man who rode at their head. Though he had never seen him before, Skoyles knew that it could only be the legendary Daniel Morgan.

It was news that had to be conveyed urgently to General Burgoyne along with details of the enemy camp. By now, Skoyles realized, the British army must have crossed the Hudson to the western bank and pushed as far south as it dared without provoking a major engagement. To reach them, Skoyles elected to make a wide detour to the west. After changing back into his hunting shirt and breeches, he carried the uniform in his knapsack, traveling on foot after dark and hoping that his sense of direction would guide him. Skoyles was out of luck. Losing his way, he had stumbled on a rebel patrol and was pursued through the woods for most of the night. He had to climb another tree to escape.

Daylight taught him that he was only half a mile from the Hudson River and still south of the rebel camp. A more troubling discovery was that batches of militia seemed to be heading for the camp at regular intervals. Enemy numbers were growing. More to the point, scouting patrols were getting larger and more frequent. Skoyles had decided to take a more direct route
back to his camp, even though it meant waiting for dark once more. He spent the intervening period searching for the means that would carry him past the pickets at Bemis Heights. A stone-filled kettle would not suffice a second time.

The log he chose was over five feet in length, stout enough to support him, yet light enough for him to drag to the river. He had fashioned a paddle out of a branch he had cut from a tree and shaped with his knife. As night started to wrap him in a blanket of darkness, he launched his craft with his rifle strapped to the log by a series of fronds. Skoyles sat astride it and paddled. The Hudson River was cold but strangely comforting. He felt safe.

That feeling disappeared when he got close to the camp. Eyes would be trained on the river and on the road. Skoyles tried to offset danger by keeping to the middle of the water and lying full length on the log. In the gloom, he merged with his crude boat and looked like another piece of driftwood in the river. Once clear of Bemis Heights, Skoyles sat up and brought the paddle back into action again. After a couple of miles, he steered himself across to the bank and disembarked. His legs were soaked and his arms aching, but he had escaped detection.

Reclaiming his rifle, he headed northward in the direction he believed would lead to the British camp. An hour later, he was picking his way through a wood when he sensed peril ahead. Before he could react to it, bodies suddenly emerged from the undergrowth and he was confronted by a group of armed men, who poked their bayonets threateningly at him.

"Drop that gun!" a voice demanded. "You're our prisoner now."

Skoyles laughed. "The devil I am, Private Wolverton!" he said as he recognized the actor's distinctive tones. "I'm a captain in your regiment so you can stop prodding me with that bayonet of yours, or I'll shove it so far up your backside that your eyes will pop out."

The council of war was held at midnight in the dining room of the house. Generals Burgoyne, Phillips, Fraser, and Riedesel stood around the table in the quivering light of a dozen candles and studied the sketch that Jamie Skoyles was drawing. He had given them a highly attenuated version of his stay in the rebel camp and said nothing at all about his encounter with Ezekiel Proudfoot. Skoyles regarded that as private information that would, in any
event, only cloud the issue. What the commanders sought was knowledge of the camp and the likely deployment of its soldiers.

William Phillips took special note of all the fortifications.

"That confounded Pole is a brilliant engineer," he conceded. "Even with our heaviest cannon, it will be difficult to batter down some of those breastworks. They're positioned in the ideal places."

"We'll find a way to circumvent them," said Burgoyne, then he translated his comment into French for the benefit of Riedesel. "How many men do they have, Skoyles?"

"I can't give you an accurate figure, sir," replied Skoyles, "because reinforcements were coming in all the time. Among them was a rifle corps led by Daniel Morgan."

"Morgan!"

They were all startled by the news. Even Riedesel was acquainted with the reputation of Daniel Morgan and his riflemen, who, though listed as belonging to a Virginia regiment, were drawn from several states. From the expressions on their faces, Skoyles could see that the rebel army was suddenly treated with slightly more respect.

"They have a minimum of seven thousand men," he explained, "made up of Continentals and militia. Before we discount the latter as rank amateurs, I'd advise you to recall what happened at Bennington."

"Tell us about General Gates," Fraser suggested.

"He looked every inch a soldier, sir," said Skoyles, "and he's working hard to improve his army. The militia still lacks proper uniforms and equipment, and the Continentals are little better off. They have uniforms, but several have worn out their shoes by marching, and I saw a few with bare feet. Notwithstanding that, there was a sense of discipline about the Continental Army."

"Imposing discipline was the one thing that Horatio Gates
could
do," Burgoyne conceded. "But he's only been in charge for a few weeks, so he'll not have had time to lick his army into shape. That's in our favor."

"So is our superior artillery," Phillips remarked.

"And the fact that we are
British
." Burgoyne remembered that Riedesel was at his elbow. He forced a smile. "And German, of course."

"The days ahead are critical," said Fraser. "We have to keep our men under a tight rein, General."

"We will, have no worries on that score." He looked at Skoyles. "There
was a most regrettable incident earlier today, Captain. The enemy has not exactly been strewing rose petals in our path. They prefer to destroy bridges ahead of us to cause further delay. A party of them got within a mile of us this morning."

"That wouldn't have happened when we had all the Indians with us," said Skoyles. "They frightened scouting parties away."

"I still view their disappearance as a boon. Anyway," Burgoyne continued, "some of our men so far forget their orders that they went ahead and foraged in a potato field. They were caught by the enemy."

"Instead of simply capturing them," said Fraser, taking up the story, "they shot or wounded nearly all of them. No quarter was given."

"Disgraceful!" Burgoyne exclaimed. "Fourteen men, whom we can ill afford to lose, were killed. And all because they disobeyed. Well, it won't occur again," he resolved. "I've issued a general order to remind the rank and file that the life of a soldier is the property of the king. From now on, anyone caught advancing beyond our sentinels will be hanged. I'll not have scavengers in my army."