Saratoga (41 page)

"I know," he said with a sigh. "But, at least, they survived. In the week since the battle at Freeman's Farm, dozens of our casualties have died. They're soldiers who can never be replaced."

"Until the reinforcements arrive under General Clinton."

"It would be unwise to rely on them. The enemy will be aware of their movement up the Hudson Valley, and they'll not allow us to wait until help comes from New York. Instead of aiding us," he told her, "the news of Clinton's approach may provoke an attack from the rebels."

"More deaths, more wounds, more unspeakable horrors."

"The issue can only be settled on a battlefield, Elizabeth."

"Then give me your promise," she said, clutching his hand. "If and when you do take up arms again, promise me that we'll meet—however briefly—before you leave camp."

"I promise."

"Thank you, Jamie. I couldn't bear it if you went off to battle and got yourself—"

"Nobody is going to kill me, Elizabeth," he said, interrupting her. "I have too much to live for now."

"So do I," she said. A wounded man groaned in agony nearby. "I'll have to go now. Somebody needs me. Remember your promise."

Skoyles was unequivocal. "I shall."

While she went off to tend the wounded soldier, he picked his way in the opposite direction, stepping around dozens of bodies. Skoyles did not get very far. One of the other volunteer nurses was kneeling beside a man whose hand had been shot away. As Skoyles approached, Maria Quinn stood up to confront him. Her face was lined by fatigue and her apron stained with blood. There was a hurt look in her eyes. His guilt stirred at once. Skoyles had neglected her badly.

"I haven't seen you for over a week, Jamie," she complained.

"I know. I'm sorry about that, Maria."

"What happened?"

"I've been far too busy."

"Too busy to think of me?"

"Not at all," he said defensively, looking over his shoulder to make sure that Elizabeth was not watching them. "I thought about you a lot, but that's all I could do."

"Why?"

"We fought a hard battle, Maria—as you can see—and there'll be another one to fight very soon. I have to remain alert at all times."

"Is that what you told
her?
"

"Who?"

"The woman you were talking to a moment ago," she said, letting her jealousy show. "Did you tell her that you were on duty all the time?"

"I was simply asking after one of my men," he lied.

"That's not what it looked like to me."

"I just wanted to know how Lieutenant Westbourne was doing."

"Who is she, Jamie?"

"One of the nurses."

"I'm one of the nurses as well, but you didn't come looking for me, did you? What's going on, Captain Skoyles?" she demanded "Why haven't you been near me for a week? "

"I told you, Maria. I haven't had a free moment."

"You found a moment to talk to that woman."

"Forget her."

"Did those times we spent together mean
nothing?
"

"Of course," he said, trying to appease her. "They meant a lot."

"Then why have you been avoiding me?"

"I haven't."

"Let me come to you tonight," she whispered.

"No, that's not possible."

"But there may be another battle tomorrow. I must see you."

Skoyles was squirming with embarrassment, yet, at the same time, he could see what had attracted him to Maria Quinn. Hands on hips and flushed with anger, she was more appealing than ever. Skoyles was very tempted. Though he had just made an assignation with Elizabeth, he could not stop himself from giving another commitment.

"We'll meet again soon, Maria," he said.

"When?"

"In due course."

"
When?
" she repeated.

"Before the next battle."

"Do I have your word on that?" He hesitated. "Well, do I?"

"Yes."

Skoyles forced a smile, then walked quickly away, realizing that he had given the same promise to two women and knowing that he would have to hurt one of them very much. Maria Quinn had made great sacrifices in order to be with him on the campaign, and she deserved more than mere gratitude. The times they had spent together had been highly enjoyable. In seeing her before the battle, however, he would be betraying Elizabeth Rainham, and the very notion of that brought on an attack of prickly heat. Maria Quinn belonged in one part of his life and Elizabeth in another. Both wanted his attention, but it could not be shared. No compromise was possible.

The encounter with Maria had one salutary result. It forced him to examine his friendship with Elizabeth Rainham more carefully. Skoyles tried to be as objective as possible. Did he want her for herself, or was she simply a means to settle a score with Harry Featherstone? He would certainly take pleasure from enticing the major's lady away from him. That was undeniable. Featherstone was unworthy of her. He was a gambler, a heavy drinker, and an inveterate rake who had pursued other women while Elizabeth was still at home.

Yet those same charges could be leveled at Skoyles as well. Nobody relished a game of cards or a drinking bout as much as he did, and he had slept with Maria Quinn long after he first took an interest in Elizabeth. Skoyles was
no saint. He had as many faults as the next man. Like most soldiers, he took his pleasures where he found them and moved on without a backward glance. Maria Quinn was only one of many women he had encountered over the years. While they were together, he had cared for them, but he had always cast them aside in the end and done so without remorse.

Guilt was a new sensation for Skoyles, and he was finding it a very disturbing one. He felt guilty about his deliberate avoidance of Maria and about the fact that she could still arouse his lust. Could he really love Elizabeth Rainham while he had such strong feelings for another woman? And did Maria Quinn mean so little to him that he could discard her so easily? Skoyles was deeply confused about what he really wanted and from whom he wanted it. His mind was in turmoil. When he got back to his tent, he was still not sure which of the two women he would visit on the eve of the next battle.

General Horatio Gates had a streak of vanity in his nature. Conscious of the fact that Benedict Arnold had featured in some of the sketches made by Ezekiel Proudfoot, he wanted to make sure that he, too, might one day appear in an engraving. As a consequence, Proudfoot was invited to his commander's tent to add a portrait of him to his collection. Gray-haired, ruddy-cheeked, and with his glasses perched on the end of his nose, the general looked as if he deserved his nickname of Granny Gates.

Seated at a table with his paper in front of him, Proudfoot got to work. He had drawn the merest outline of his subject when they were interrupted. Benedict Arnold came, unannounced, into the tent.

"How much longer are we going to wait?" the newcomer demanded. "We have an army of eleven thousand men out there, General, while the British have less than half that number. Why the delay?"

"I'm waiting until the time is ripe," said Gates irritably.

"And when will that be, I pray—when Sir Henry Clinton has fought his way here? Do you
want
the enemy to have reinforcements?"

"Of course not."

"Then why dither?"

"I am not dithering, General Arnold."

"No," said the other, scornfully, "you're standing here so that you can
have your portrait drawn. That's hardly the way to prepare for a battle ahead—unless you think that an image of General Gates in his tent will frighten away the British army."

"Sarcasm does not become you, General."

"Inactivity does not become an army. They are keen to
fight
, man."

"And they will, in due course."

"When will that be?"

"When I decide."

"Make that decision
now
," Arnold urged. "We need a victory to restore confidence. General Howe defeated Washington at Brandywine over a fortnight ago, so the British have their tails up. Burgoyne will have heard that news by now and it will bolster him."

"We've had our successes as well—Bennington, for instance."

"Yes," retorted the other, "and what happened to those heroes from Stark's militia? They arrive here in camp, then, after a few days, they say that their term of service is up and ride out of here."

"I'd no power to keep them."

"You did, General. Had you attacked the enemy while we had Stark's men at our disposal, they would have helped us to send the British running for their lives."

"I was not ready to sanction an attack at that time."

"You are
never
ready, General. You dither like an old woman."

"I resent that remark."

"Strike while the iron is hot."

"The only thing that's hot at this moment is that mischievous tongue of yours. Curb it, sir."

"Because of your hesitation, we lost John Stark and his men."

"Only for a time," said Gates, enjoying the opportunity to surprise Arnold. "I received intelligence yesterday that Stark has captured Fort Edward and is on his way south with a thousand men."

"Were he to bring ten thousand, you'd still not lead them into battle."

Proudfoot was fascinated to see Benedict Arnold at close quarters. There was a suppressed power in his compact frame and a sparkle in his eye that set him apart from Gates. Arnold walked with a limp as a result of a wound he had received during the invasion of Canada. Proudfoot was in the presence of
an undoubted military hero, and he was mystified that Gates accorded the man such scant respect.

"All that you know about is fighting," said Gates with disdain. "If you understood British politics a little more, you'd realize that our position may not be under threat at all."

"It will be if Sir Henry Clinton gets here."

"Clinton is in no hurry. He and Burgoyne are rivals. They've never been on friendly terms. Why should Clinton strain himself to help a man who has ambitions to succeed Howe as commander in chief?" He peered over his glasses. "Clinton wants that position for himself. He'll not be thwarted by Burgoyne."

"Then why is he coming up the Hudson Valley?"

"To make a gesture. Time is on our side, General."

"Not if we dawdle much longer," Arnold argued. "Do you wish to be squeezed between two British armies?"

"That will not happen, I assure you. Gentleman Johnny's army has been badly mauled, and I've sent out patrols every day to harass his pickets. Burgoyne is an inveterate gambler," he declared. "Despair may dictate that he risk all on one throw. He has far too much pride to retreat, and he can't afford to wait for Clinton. He will come to us."

"At a time of his choosing. Why let him take the initiative?"

"Because he'll play into our hands."

"One of the oldest rules of warfare is that attack is the best means of defense. We should follow that advice."

"No, General," said Gates, trying to impose his authority, "that would be rash in this instance. Besides, it's no concern of yours. You will take no part in any future battle."

"According to your reports," said Arnold bitterly, "I took no part in the engagement at Freeman's Farm. Congress will hear nothing of my feats that day. Benedict Arnold was invisible. It's only because of our artist here," he added, indicating Proudfoot, "that people will know the truth. I was
there
."

"You were, indeed, General," said Proudfoot.

"Your engravings are famed for their accuracy, Ezekiel, and I thank you for that. You are certainly drawing General Gates in his favored setting," he said with vehemence. "You will only ever catch me in the saddle, whereas he is always lurking behind the lines in his tent."

"Good day to you, sir!" Gates yelled.

But his visitor had already left in disgust. There was a long, embarrassed pause. Proudfoot did not know whether to leave or to continue with his drawing. Gates looked over at him.

"You say that you have a brother in the Continental Army?"

"Yes, sir. Reuben is with a Massachusetts regiment."

"Rank?"

"Sergeant."

"What's the feeling among his men?"

"They're getting impatient, General," said Proudfoot. "It's two weeks since the battle at Freeman's Farm, where they were kept in reserve. They lust for action. You've eager soldiers out there, sir."

"Too eager, in most cases."

"Yes, sir."

Gates turned away to ponder. Several minutes passed. He was so engrossed in thought that Proudfoot wondered whether the general had forgotten that he was there. At length, Gates resumed his earlier pose.

"Carry on," he said calmly. "I'm ready for you now. That pompous little fellow, Benedict Arnold, won't disturb us again."

The decision produced mixed reactions. When he first heard of it, Jamie Skoyles was in Brigadier Fraser's tent. The other man summoned to hear the news, in strictest confidence, was Major Harry Featherstone.

"We move out tomorrow," Fraser announced. "General Burgoyne will take fifteen hundred picked men and ten cannon to reconnoiter the enemy position. We've been chosen to accompany him."

"It's about time," asserted Featherstone.

"You approve of the plan?"

"Completely, sir."

"Jamie?"

"I have reservations, sir," Skoyles admitted. "What begins as a reconnaissance mission could very easily turn into a pitched battle, and we lack the numbers for that."

"It sounds to me as if you lack the spirit for it," said Featherstone.

"Not at all, sir. I'll obey my orders to the letter."

"So will I," said Fraser, "but I do so with misgivings. We're in no state for another major engagement. We lost too many men at Freeman's Farm, and desertions have mounted ever since."

"But we
won
that battle, sir," Featherstone reminded him.

"We gained more honor than victory, Harry."

"The rebels were driven from the field."

"They simply fell back to their fortifications to avoid unnecessary loss of life," said Skoyles. "Our men are jaded, Major. Autumn is here and they have nothing but summer clothing to keep out the nighttime chill. Rations have been cut to a third. This is hardly the way to prepare an army for battle."