Dismounting quickly, they led their horses off the track and into the cover of the trees. They did not have long to wait. A dozen riders soon appeared, dark phantoms that came out of the gloom for an instant only to be swallowed up by it again. It was an eerie sensation and it left them slightly jangled. Jamie Skoyles waited until the thunder of hooves began to die away.
"Militia," he decided.
"How can you tell?" asked Tom Caffrey.
"By the way they rode—one man in the front, the others in pairs."
"They could have been Continentals."
"I doubt it, Tom. The Northern Department prefers to keep its troops together in chosen locations. A dozen full-time soldiers would not be released to patrol this part of Massachusetts. My guess is that those men were part of a local militia."
"Were they after us, Jamie?" asked Elizabeth Rainham.
"I hope not."
"They would have come through that village where we stopped."
"That's true," said Skoyles, "and if they asked people whether they had seen anything suspicious, I'm sure that we'd have been mentioned. But they were definitely not searching for us because of what happened back in the woods. Those three dead bodies will not be discovered until morning at the earliest."
"So what do we do?" Polly Bragg wondered.
"We obviously can't go back," Skoyles replied, "and going forward will not be as easy as we thought. I've no wish to meet up with those riders in the next village."
"Where will we spend the night?"
"We'll find somewhere, Polly."
"I've been wondering if we should split up," said Caffrey.
Skoyles was taken aback. "Are you serious, Tom?"
"Two people attract less attention than four, and Polly and I would stand more chance of finding a room for the night on our own. So would you and Elizabeth."
"I take your point, Tom. But two people on one horse will always get us noticed, whether we travel in pairs or all together."
"We can explain that away."
"Can we?"
"Yes," said Caffrey airily. "We simply claim that we had a second horse, but that it had to be put down when it was injured in a fall."
"Both of us would not get away with the same excuse."
"That's why it might be better for us to travel separately."
"But Jamie has the only map of the area," said Polly.
"We'll get by. I've got a good sense of direction."
Polly nodded her assent. "What do you think, Elizabeth?"
"To be honest, I'm not sure," said the other woman.
"Four of us are bound to be noticed more easily."
"But it does feel safer if we travel together."
"I agree," said Skoyles. "Look at what happened earlier on. If we'd been coming along that track in pairs, those men could have picked us off at will. On the other hand," he went on, thinking it through, "if a posse is sent out after us tomorrow, they'll be looking for four people."
"That's why I believe we should split up," argued Caffrey. "I reckon we'd have a much better chance of dodging them."
"Possibly."
"We would, Jamie. And it would also ease my conscience."
"What do you mean?"
Caffrey hesitated and shot a glance at Polly before speaking. "Well, I do feel that we're imposing on you," he said.
"That's nonsense!" retorted Skoyles.
"No, it's not. All that you really wanted to do was to escape from Cambridge with Elizabeth. Then we barge in."
"We were delighted to have you with us, Tom."
"Yes," said Elizabeth with enthusiasm. "You were so helpful. We could never have managed without you in that fishing boat. You and Jamie rowed us through the storm."
"We're back on land now," Caffrey pointed out, "and the situation has changed. You got us this far, Jamie, and we're very grateful. But if we make our own way from now on, I'll feel less guilty."
"So will I," added Polly.
Skoyles gave a shrug. "Well, if that's the way you both feel."
"It is, Jamie. I agree with Tom."
"At least, sleep on the decision."
"If you wish."
"Yes," said Caffrey. "If we can find somewhere to lay our heads tonight, that is. Staying here is asking for trouble. There'll be wolves on the prowl before long."
"Then let's move on," resolved Skoyles, putting his foot in the stirrup. "Those men will be far ahead of us by now." He hauled himself into the saddle, then offered a hand to Elizabeth. "We'll stay together for the time being, then discuss this again in the morning."
George Washington had spent his first few days in a marquee, but he had now moved his headquarters to a little stone-built house, owned by Isaac Potts, situated near the junction of Valley Creek and the river. It was there that he was busy writing letters when Major Clark called on him that evening. The visitor was touched to see his commander working in such modest surroundings. Washington was a wealthy man who lived in a palatial house on his Virginia plantation, and who believed, in his own words, that farming was the most delectable of pursuits. Instead of being able to indulge his passion for hunting, shooting, and fishing, he was forced to share the deprivations of the Continental Army.
Clark stepped into the room and Washington looked up.
"News already, Major?"
"Yes, General."
"But we only spoke a couple of hours ago," said Washington.
"These tidings will not keep, especially as they come from someone whose name we mentioned earlier."
"The very same," confirmed Clark, taking some tiny pieces of paper from his pocket. "Her younger son brought these and handed them over to his brother. Lieutenant Darragh gave them straight to me."
"What do they portend?"
"Place them in the right order, sir, and you will see."
He laid the pieces of paper out on the table and Washington examined them by the light of the candle. Leaning over his shoulder, Clark translated the neat shorthand messages for him. Washington's interest was sparked off at once.
"So General Howe is to send out a foraging expedition, is he?"
"With almost half their total men," said Clark.
"If our estimates are correct, that would put the number of those in the party around five thousand—too many for us to do more than harass them. They hold the advantage, Major," he conceded. "Their men are healthy and well fed while ours are sick and hungry. I'm told that almost two thousand of our soldiers are unfit for duty. They are either ill, wounded, or lacking shoes in which to walk. We are fighting this war with scarecrows."
"Even scarecrows can give the foraging expedition a fright."
"And I'll make sure that they do so." He looked down at the pieces of paper. "How is Mrs. Darragh's intelligence always so accurate?"
"Her house in Second Street is virtually opposite General Howe's headquarters. Lydia Darragh sees all their comings and goings. But she also has British officers lodging in her house," said Clark. "That was how she overheard the plan to surprise us at Whitemarsh."
"Forewarned is forearmed."
"Indeed, sir."
"You say that her younger son brought this message?"
"Yes, General, and by an ingenious means. It's one that I would never have fathomed. The boy has mold buttons on his coat."
"Nothing unusual in that."
"There is in this instance," explained Clark. "The buttons are covered with cloth, and these pieces of paper are hidden beneath them. All that the lad has to do is to cut off the buttons and hand them over to his elder brother. If stopped, he runs no risk of discovery by the British."
"But he puts his mother to some trouble," observed Washington. "Every time she sends intelligence by that means, she has to sew on a fresh set of buttons."
"Mrs. Darragh is an accomplished seamstress by now."
"Then we could certainly use her services here, Major—and that of a hundred good ladies like her. There's enough sewing and darning to keep them all busy. Some of our men are dressed in rags."
"I know. It's a pitiful sight."
"We have eighteen brigades of infantry, a brigade of artillery, and a brigade of artificers. Not one of them has enough uniforms to wear," said Washington, "let alone enough arms and ammunition. When you look at the brigade of local militia and the three regiments of dragoons, then the situation is even worse. We've men with nothing but a blanket to wrap around them."
"And we know who's to blame for that," said Clark with vehemence. "The very people who should help us—Congress."
"They've neglected us badly."
"Shamefully, sir."
"However," the commander went on with a tired smile, "there is one thing from which I gain satisfaction."
"What's that, General?"
"Our army is drawn from eleven of the thirteen colonies. The only exceptions are South Carolina and Georgia, though we do have a few officers from both. In short," said Washington, "we are facing the British with a truly American army. I take pride in that."
"So do I, sir."
"As for this intelligence, thank you for bringing it so promptly."
"It's not the only news I have to deliver, alas."
"Oh?"
"It seems that Mother Nature is against us as well."
"Mother Nature?"
"I fear so," said Clark. "As I was walking toward the house, I am sure that I felt the first few flakes of snow."
The men spent the night in a barn, curled up on hay and trying to block out the lowing of the cows nearby and of the distant howling of wolves. Alerted by the approach of dawn, Jamie Skoyles was the first to wake up. He nudged his companion with an elbow. Tom Caffrey sat up at once, reaching out instinctively for the loaded musket that lay beside him.
"No need for alarm," said Skoyles, pushing the weapon aside. "I just wanted to be on the road as early as possible."
"So do I, Jamie."
"Did you get any sleep?"
"A little. I missed Polly too much to sleep for long."
"She and Elizabeth were far better off in the farmhouse. Since the farmer only had one room to offer, we had to make do with the barn."
"That proves my point."
"What does?"
"If there had been just the pair of you on the road, then you and Elizabeth would now be snuggling up together in bed. How does that sound?"
"Very enticing, Tom."
"That's why we must go our separate ways."
"You've not changed your mind, then?"
"No, Jamie. We'll get to Rhode Island on our own." He gave his friend a playful jab. "And I'll wager we'll be the first there."
"You're a bold man to make such a foolish claim."
"We'll see."
They had slept in their clothes and left the horses saddled so that they could make a quick departure. Rolling off his makeshift bed, Skoyles brushed the strands of hay from his clothing. His wounded arm was now bandaged. He had a first look at the day. It was cold but dry. There was only a faintest breath of wind. When he glanced across at the farmhouse, he saw that there was already a light in the window.
"It looks as if they were up before us, Tom," he said.
"And they'll be fresher, too, having slept in a proper bed."
"Let's join them for breakfast."
They went across to the little farmhouse and found that the front door had been unlocked for them. Everyone was in the kitchen with its warm fire crackling away, its flames reflected on the rough stone walls. The farmer was a sprightly old man with white hair and beard, pleased to have had two attractive women staying in his humble dwelling. His wife, a plain, shuffling, taciturn creature, looked less happy to have had visitors, but she prepared a frugal meal for them as they chatted. The farmer was inquisitive.
"Where are ye headed?" he asked.
"Dartmouth," replied Skoyles.
"Then all ye need to do is to stay on the same road."
"Is that the only way there?" said Caffrey.
"It's the best, my friend."
"But there is another route?"
"Aye."
"Could you show us where it is, please?" said Skoyles, taking the map from his pocket and laying it on the table. He pointed with a finger. "My guess is that we're around here somewhere."
"No," said the old man, exposing bare gums in a grin. "You've come farther than you think." His skeletal finger tapped the map, then moved as he spoke. "We are right here. Now, you can either follow the coastline around Buzzards Bay—like this, you see—or take another road that snakes off in that direction."
"How far is it to Dartmouth?"
"Not much above thirty miles."
"Is that all?" said Caffrey. "We can do that in a day."
"As long as ye don't waste any of it. This time of year, it gets dark a mite early." The farmer looked up as his wife began to put food on the table. "Thankee, Mother."
"Eat up, all," she grunted.
Sitting down at the bare wooden table, they ate their breakfast quickly and washed it down with some hard cider. All four of them thanked their hosts for their hospitality. Caffrey and Polly Bragg then went out to the barn, but Skoyles stayed behind to offer the farmer some money. The old man waved it away, insisting that it was his Christian duty to take strangers in from the cold and to look after them. He refused to charge them anything. His wife, however, had no inhibitions about taking the coins. Grabbing them from Skoyles, she thrust them into a pot on the shelf. There was a heated argument between the old couple, then the farmer eventually conceded defeat. He smiled fondly and patted his wife on the rump.
"Mother always knows best," he said.
Skoyles shook him by the hand. "You've earned it."
"Yes," said Elizabeth. "We were exhausted."
"Goodbye."
"Good luck go with ye!" said the old man.
Skoyles thanked him again and led Elizabeth Rainham outside. After several hours' sleep, she looked bright and refreshed. Given some vigorous brushing, her hair had recovered its beautiful sheen. Skoyles paused to have a quiet word alone with her.
"How did they treat you?" he said.
"Very well."
"The wife seemed very surly."
"She thought her husband was paying too much attention to us."
"Who can blame him?"
"Yes, it must get very lonely out here."
"We found a bed for you. That was the main thing."
"Not if it meant your sleeping in the barn," said Elizabeth with concern. "It must have been very uncomfortable in there."
"I was fine once I got used to Tom's snoring," said Skoyles. "And it was a big improvement on spending a night in a fishing boat."
"Did you have an opportunity to talk to him about splitting up?"
"I thought we'd do that now, Elizabeth."
"Polly is still keen to strike off alone with Tom."
"I'm not altogether happy with that notion."
"Nor am I, Jamie."
"Apart from anything else, Tom is no horseman. Unlike us, he's never really learned to ride properly. I'd feel better if I was there to keep an eye on him."
"That's my view as well."
"Then let's get across there and talk them out of it. Come on!"
He took her by the hand and they walked around the corner of the farmhouse to the barn. When they went inside, however, they saw that it was too late to hold any kind of discussion with their friends. Tom Caffrey and Polly Bragg had made up their own minds.
They had already left.
They were everywhere. Ezekiel Proudfoot had never been in a city that was so fully occupied. Having eaten breakfast with the redcoats staying at the King George Tavern, he saw more of them as soon as he stepped into the street. Four privates were standing idly outside a house, taking part in a girning contest, twisting their faces into such distorted expressions of joy that Proudfoot thought they must be in extreme pain. At a corner, he met a patrol on the march. Farther along the street, some officers were tumbling out of a house with their arms around each other, still not fully sober after a night of heavy drinking. And so it went on. By the time he reached his place of work, Proudfoot had counted over seventy British soldiers. He told Adam Quenby about his mathematics.
"I've seen far more than that," grumbled the printer, indicating the window that was half below street level. "I've watched hundreds of pairs of army boots as they strut past. The British think they own the place."
"Might is right in their view."
"This city is ours."
"And will be so again, I'm sure."
"But what state will it be in? They've changed Philadelphia out of all recognition. From morn till night, it's filled with loud noise, and it's not safe for a decent woman to be abroad on her own."
"What about an indecent woman, Mr. Quenby?"
"There are far too many of those about," said the other darkly. "I sometimes think that whoring and gambling are the chief occupations of the British. Not that the German mercenaries are any better," he added with a sniff. "The Hessians run a gambling table where only high stakes are permitted. It's iniquitous, sir."
"I'm sure that Mr. Hughes has pointed that out in the Patriot."
"Regularly."
Proudfoot could not believe that the little man had spent the whole night in the dank cellar. Quenby seemed too spry and animated. He was already hard at work when the silversmith arrived, setting type with painstaking care. The printing press, as ever, was quite spotless. Opening his satchel, Proudfoot took out the sketch he had made the previous evening.
"I showed this to Mr. Hughes," he said, handing it to Quenby, "and he would like it to appear on the front page of the Patriot."
"Let me see."
"I hope that it won't cause offense."
"I very much hope that it will, Mr. Allen. Causing offense to the British is one of our ambitions." Holding the cartoon only six inches from his face, he studied it for a long time as if not able to believe what he was seeing. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed at length. "You've been very daring, I must say."
"Neither, Mr. Allen. It's excellent!"
"Thank you."
"It has a crude simplicity that will make anyone take notice. Just look at that ogre, General Howe!"
He threw back his head and burst into laughter, savoring the detail in the cartoon. Grateful for his approval, Proudfoot took it back from him and glanced at it again.
"Drawing this was easy," he said. "Making a plate of it will be far more difficult. Everything will have to be the other way round."
"Leave the caption to me. I'll print it in large letters."
"It's a line from a song I overheard some redcoats singing."
"They'll think twice about singing it again when they see this. You have a quick brain, Mr. Allen. There's wit and savagery here."
"I've always been an admirer of William Hogarth."
"You are a worthy successor," said Quenby.
"I'm flattered that you think so."
"Like Hogarth, you use your talents to mock the follies and vices of the English. The Patriot is blessed in having you."
"When will the next issue be printed?"
"As soon as you have engraved the plate for me."
"How many copies will you produce?"
"Not nearly as many as I would like," Quenby admitted. "Paper is getting scarce, so we have to conserve it. But there'll be enough copies to reach all the people who need to see it."
"Mr. Hughes wants General Howe to be one of them."
"I'll deliver it to his headquarters in person."
"I'm told that his own soldiers sing bawdy songs about him and Mrs. Loring. He must be heartily tired of the ridicule by now."
"That cartoon is more than ridicule," said Quenby. "It's symbolic of all that's wrong with this city. The audacity of it! General Howe has the nerve to talk about freedom's scepter when the only reason he came to this country is to deprive us of our liberty."
"I tried to point out the cruel irony of that situation."
"You hit the mark, Mr. Allen."
"And you even managed to win over Pearsall Hughes at the first attempt. Nobody has ever done that before."
"Except, perhaps, Mrs. Hughes."
"Ah, yes. A divine creature and an editor in her own right."
"She was gracious enough to praise my work as well."
"Then you have conquered man and wife," said Quenby as he continued to set type. "There is only one more judge whose good opinion you must now seek—General Washington."
Wearing a cape over his uniform, George Washington set his hat on his head and stepped out of the house. Snow had stopped falling but it had already made its mark. The grass was covered in a carpet of thick white snow. Wherever he looked, there was a cold, unyielding, wintry scene. He felt a tremor of alarm as he thought of the additional problems that would be created for his men, most of whom were still living under canvas while they were building their log cabins.
He could hear them at work. Axes were already thudding into the trunks of trees. Saws were already cutting timber to size. But the bad weather would impede progress and make conditions very unpleasant. It would also increase the likelihood of desertions as soldiers shivered in their inadequate clothing. Washington was dismayed. When he looked up at the sky, there was no comfort to be found. Clouds hung low and full. There was more snow to come.
"Hell!" he cried in exasperation. "What else do we have to endure?"
Jamie Skoyles could not understand it. Though they traveled at a steady speed, they made up no ground at all on the others. Tom Caffrey and Polly Bragg had either ridden harder than they or turned off the main track at some point. After a while, Skoyles gave up all hope of catching them. Since the horse was carrying two riders, it was important to rest him at regular intervals. They had covered almost five miles when the animal was tugged to a halt for the first time. Skoyles dismounted, then helped Elizabeth Rainham to the ground. Tethering the horse to a bush, he walked to the edge of the precipice and gazed down. From their high eminence, they had a perfect view of the majestic sweep of Buzzards Bay and its rugged coastline and countless inlets, coves, promontories, necks, and rocky outcrops. Small craft were mere specks on the sea.
"It's beautiful," said Elizabeth, coming to stand beside him.
"It would be if we had time to admire it."
"We can spare a few minutes at least."
"Of course," he said, putting an arm around her shoulders. "This is a view to take your breath away. Look at those boats down there. Going about their business as if a brutal war never existed."
"We know differently," she said. "When will it end, Jamie?"
"Oh, there's a lot more blood to be spilled yet."
"But we will triumph in the end, won't we?"
He was uncertain. "I think so."
"Harry told me that it was something he took for granted."
"That was before Saratoga," he reminded her. "Things can change, Elizabeth. General Burgoyne's invincible army was beaten hollow. Major Featherstone was unwise to be so overconfident. There was a time when he made the mistake of taking you for granted, and we know how foolhardy that was."
"Only because you rescued me from that silly dream." She became reflective. "Except that it did not seem so silly at the time. In fact, it was the only dream a young woman like me could have had. I grew up in a military family, remember. My father served with General Burgoyne in Portugal. I could think of no better life than marrying a British officer."
Skoyles grinned. "I hope that delusion still holds."
"You told me that you'll not be staying in the army."
"Not forever, anyway. I have my silly dreams as well, Elizabeth. As you know, I want to buy land here and settle down." He pulled her to him. "If I can find the right woman, that is."
She smiled up at him. "I've come this far."
"No regrets?"
"I had a few when we saw that horse thief swinging from a tree."
"What about that squall we were caught in?"
"I was far too scared to have any regrets then," she said. "I kept trying to fit my thoughts for death. At least, we'd have been together. What about you, Jamie? Do you have regrets?"
"Plenty of them."
"I regret that I trusted Otis Tapper. I regret that I've put you in jeopardy by bringing you with me. I regret that I'll have to go on fighting for a long time before we can be together. And I regret that—"
She put a hand to his lips to silence him. "That's enough for now. Let's enjoy this moment while we can."
"Of course."
Turning to face her, Skoyles pulled her close, but their moment together was brief. Over her shoulder, he could see three horsemen approaching, and he was forcibly reminded that they were still in a colony where rebel feeling was at its strongest. He and Elizabeth stood apart and waited for the riders to reach them. They were three in number, well-built farm boys, not yet in their twenties, sitting astride animals that looked as if they belonged between the shafts of a wagon. Each rider had an old musket.
When they came to a halt, Skoyles gave them a friendly wave.
"Good morning to you, lads," he called.
"And to you," replied the biggest of the three, eyeing them shrewdly. "Do you only have the one horse between you?"
"Yes, my friend."
"Where are you bound?"
"Dartmouth."
"Why, so are we," said another of the men, ogling Elizabeth. "If the lady would care to jump up behind me, I'll gladly take her there."
"We'll get there ourselves, have no fear."
"Where are you from?" the first man asked.
"Boston," said Skoyles.
"You've come all that way with one horse?"
"No, we thought to travel by sea, but we were blown off course and our boat was washed ashore near Barnstable. We decided to travel the rest of the way by land. There was only one horse for sale."
Skoyles could see that the man was suspicious and wanted to give him no excuse to use his musket. He was not only outnumbered, his own weapon was ten yards away, resting against a tree. The other two men were more interested in Elizabeth, grinning at her inanely and blowing her kisses. Their spokesman, however, a hulking youth with a ragged beard, was appraising Skoyles with palpable mistrust.
"You've the look of a soldier about you," he said.
"I served my time in the 11th Massachusetts Regiment."
"Who was in command?"
"Colonel Turbott Francis."
"He was killed at Hubbardton."
"I was lucky to escape myself," said Skoyles. "Had we only fought the British, we'd have sent them running, but their hired killers from Germany came to their rescue. We had too few men to hold them all off."
"Who else fought on our side?"
There was a note of respect in the young man's voice now. He had heard a great deal about the heroic resistance given by his countrymen at Hubbardton, and wanted more detail. Skoyles supplied it willingly, and all three men listened intently. Elizabeth was forgotten. From the way he described the battle, there was no doubting that Skoyles had actually taken part in it. What he did not tell his rapt audience was that he had fought on the other side.
"We're joining the militia," said the youngest of the men. "They say there won't be much fighting during the winter, but I'll find some redcoats to kill." He lifted his musket and fired into the air. "There goes one!"
"Why did you do that, you idiot," the big man scolded.
"I have to practice, Abner."
"Wasting a shot like that is madness."
"He's right," Skoyles agreed. "If you want to be a soldier, learn to keep your powder dry and bide your time. Every shot must count. Our army is desperately short of ammunition. Only fire when necessary."
"Yes, sir," said the youngest man, penitently.
"You're heading for Dartmouth, you say?"
"We are," their spokesman replied. "Ethan, Jude, and me, we mean to enlist, and we were told to get ourselves to Dartmouth. We'll ride with you, if you like. You could tell us about other battles you've been in."
"That would only bore my wife," said Skoyles, a protective arm around Elizabeth. "Besides, we'd hold you lads up. I can see you have red blood in your veins, and the militia needs people like you. Ride on and we'll get there at our own pace."
"Are you sure, sir?"
"Yes, we're in no hurry."
"Then we'll leave you." He turned to the youngest man. "And don't you go loosing off another bullet, Ethan, or I'll wrap that damn musket around your stringy neck, so help me." He smiled apologetically at Elizabeth. "Excuse my bad language, ma'am, but my brother needs to be kept in line." He touched his hat. "We wish you both good day."
After a flurry of farewells, the three men rode off. Relieved to see them go, Skoyles retrieved his musket and walked back to the horse. He looked after the departing farm boys.
"That changes our plans a little," he commented.
"Does it?"
"Yes, Elizabeth. If Dartmouth is going to be crawling with militia, it might not be the safest place to go. It's a pity that Tom and Polly are not aware of that. They could be riding into trouble."
"What about us, Jamie?" she asked.
"We'll find another way."
When the first copy of The Pennsylvania Patriot was peeled off the press, Adam Quenby folded it, then examined the four pages with meticulous care. Only when he was satisfied with his handiwork did he pass the newspaper over to Pearsall Hughes. The bookseller laid it down on the table so that he and Ezekiel Proudfoot could study it together by the light of the candle. The two men were looking at different things. Hughes was only interested in checking his elegant prose for printing errors while Proudfoot's gaze was fixed solely on the cartoon.
Dominating the front page, and notwithstanding a few black smudges around its perimeter, it had remarkable clarity. The figures were almost lifelike. A cursory glance was enough to tell any reader of the Patriot that General William Howe, distinguished commander in chief of the British army in America, was being well and truly lampooned. Proudfoot wished that he could be there when the man himself first set eyes on the cartoon.
The artist was not allowed to admire his work for long. Hughes turned over the page so that he could read his article about the various outrages committed by the occupying force in Philadelphia. By allowing himself a degree of exaggeration, the bookseller felt that he could more easily arouse the wrath of those members of the Continental Army whose families had either been forcibly evicted from the city, or were still living there in the long shadow of the British army. His aim, as an editor, was to make Americans proud enough of their country to want to fight hard to liberate it. He felt that the latest issue of the Patriot would achieve that objective.
"It's fine, Adam," he said. "Print more copies."
"Yes, Mr. Hughes."
"And make sure they are distributed by the usual means."
"I will, sir," said Quenby.
He set about his task at once, ready to work all evening and well into the night. Hughes, meanwhile, turned back to the first page and chortled merrily as he looked down at the cartoon. After a few minutes, he swung round to face Proudfoot.
"A thousand thanks, Mr. Allen," he said, shaking his hand in congratulation. "Admirable work. You've given the newspaper a completely new bite."
"I hope that it will draw blood."
"Most assuredly."
"Then I've done what I came to do."
"I'd suggest that you keep this first copy as a souvenir but that would only imperil you. There are too many prying eyes at the King George Tavern. The only man you can trust there is the landlord."
"I've already found that out, Mr. Hughes."
"In any case," the bookseller went on, "copies are like gold dust. We need every single one for our readers."
"Each one will be seen by several people," said Quenby over his shoulder. "They pass the Patriot around so that it has a wider impact."
"Except in the case of General Howe," said Proudfoot. "I venture to suggest that he'll not pass it around. As soon as he sees it, he'll most likely toss it in the fire."
Quenby cackled. "He'll certainly not let Mrs. Loring look at it."
"You can hardly blame him," said Hughes. "Mr. Allen will, without question, draw blood from the general. That's why we must steel ourselves against the consequences."
"Consequences?" said Proudfoot.
"General Howe will be deeply insulted. He'll demand revenge. Extra patrols will be sent out to search for the press. More to the point, Mr. Allen, the redcoats will come looking for you."
"But the cartoon is unsigned."
"It has your signature all over it," Quenby confirmed.
"And even Howe will be able to read it. He'll have seen examples of your art before. Your prints of our victories at Trenton and Princeton were sold everywhere. So were those you drew at Saratoga. In British eyes," he continued, "you are an enemy weapon. They take note of you."
"I didn't realize that I had such notoriety," said Proudfoot.
"It will increase tenfold when this cartoon is seen."
"And General Howe will know that it's my work?"
"The moment he sees it," Hughes warned. "He'll also know that you're somewhere in the city. That will infuriate him, and he'll act at once. Redcoats will come after you, my friend. British spies will join the chase. They'll hunt you day and night until they catch you. Beware!"
Ezekiel Proudfoot's mouth went dry, and prickly heat disturbed him. For the first time since he had been in Philadelphia, he felt a distinct quiver of apprehension.
"You've never done that before," said Elizabeth Rainham.
"Done what?"
"Called me your wife. When those three men stopped to speak to us on the road, you told them that talking about battles with them would only bore your wife."
"Did you mind?" asked Skoyles.
"Not at all. I loved it."
"I had to use the same pretence to get a room here."
She kissed him. "I enjoyed that, too."
The village was a few miles north of Dartmouth, and they had taken an upstairs room for the night in its only tavern, a small, cramped, drafty establishment that smelled in equal proportions of drink, tobacco, and mold. They consoled themselves with the fact that, whatever its defects, they had somewhere to stay. Both of them were also quick to realize that they had never shared a bed before. The prospect excited them.
"You were so convincing, Jamie," she recalled.
"Was I?"
"Yes. Those three men were quite menacing at first, but you soon talked them around. I watched their faces. By the time you'd finished telling them about Hubbardton, they did more than admire you. It was a kind of hero worship."
"Only because they thought I'd fought on the rebel side."
"That was the amazing thing."
"What was?"
"You talked about the battle as if you'd really wanted the Americans to win. You were so convincing that you even had me fooled for a time. You were one of them."
"I have great sympathy for the rebel cause."
She was startled. "Even though you're in the British army?"
"Yes, Elizabeth. These men want freedom enough to fight for it."
"But they're in open revolt against the Crown."
"The king and his government did provoke this quarrel."
"They had every right to impose taxes on the colonies."
"People who have to pay those taxes disagree," said Skoyles.
Elizabeth was hurt. "You sound as if you're taking their part."
"I'll bear arms against them whenever I have the chance, Elizabeth. But that doesn't mean I can't understand their point of view."
"Harry always talked about them as if they were mere vermin."
"That was another mistake of his," said Skoyles coldly. "If you do not respect an enemy, you underestimate them, and that can be costly. I suspect that even Major Featherstone will have revised his opinion of the rebels by now. He's a proud man. He'd never admit that we lost on the battlefield to an army of mere vermin."
It was ironic. They had both yearned for a time when they were alone together without any impediments. All that they had enjoyed before were stolen moments of pleasure in an army encampment. Since their escape from Cambridge—until that day—they had always had company. Now they were together, able to express their feelings at last, and yet they were arguing about the basis of the war. A slight rift had opened up between them. Skoyles tried to close it by stretching out a contrite hand. She needed some time before she reached out to take it.
"The war is outside," he whispered, "and we are in here together."
"I know."
"That's all that matters, isn't it?"
He took her impulsively in his arms and kissed her. Elizabeth responded with equal passion, holding back nothing as she tried to banish the memory of all the setbacks they had so far encountered. Easing her toward the bed, Skoyles began to unhook her dress so that he could slip a hand inside it. His gentle caresses on her bare skin gave her such a thrill of delight that she pulled him down on the bed and started to help him off with his hunting shirt. Before he had even got it over his head, however, they were interrupted by noises from below.
Horses approached at a gallop before being reined in. Someone dismounted and banged on the tavern door. Skoyles was worried. Letting go of Elizabeth, he crept to the window and looked down. Three mounted men waited below while a fourth hammered relentlessly on the door until the landlord eventually opened it, holding a lantern.
"We're looking for four people," the man told him. "Two men and two women. Are they staying here?"
"We've only two guests here tonight," said the landlord.
"Who are they?"
"A man and a woman."
"Young or old?"
"The wife is young, the husband a little older."
"What are they riding?"
"They share a horse between them."
"Where is it?"
"In the stables," said the landlord. "Why are you asking?"
"Because murder's been committed and a horse has been stolen." The man turned to his companions. "I'll look in the stable. The rest of you can stay here. I think we may have found them."