When he set sail for America for the third time, Lieutenant General Sir John Burgoyne did so with mixed feelings. He was still grieving over the death of his wife, Charlotte, dogged by guilt and haunted by the fact that he was three thousand miles away when the tragedy occurred. The prospect of another voyage across the treacherous waters of the North Atlantic was not an enticing one and was bound to induce a certain amount of dread even in someone as supremely confident as Burgoyne. But his sadness and his apprehension were tempered by a quiet elation because he was returning to the colonies with an exciting new status. After some skillful lobbying in London, Burgoyne had gotten himself appointed to command the army that was to launch another invasion from Canada. It was the ideal cure for seasickness.
Burgoyne's ambition had been fulfilled. His plan of campaign had been approved, and he had been given command in place of his erstwhile superior, Sir Guy Carleton, governor of Canada. There remained the small problem of handing over the letter communicating the news to Carleton—a proud Irishman who would take it as an insult—but Burgoyne believed that he could soften the impact with some honey-tongued diplomacy. In doing so, he would take special care to conceal the fact that he had deliberately undermined Carleton's position during meetings with the secretary of state for the colonies. Burgoyne had no qualms about doing that. He was convinced that he was the better man for the job, and the more deserving of the glory that it would surely bring.
His ship was the Apollo, a square-rigged, three-masted frigate that traveled in convoy with various transports. Burgoyne's reinforcements consisted largely of hired soldiers from Germany. The holds of the vessels were packed with muskets, bayonets, ammunition, private tents, bell tents, drum cases, powder bags, hatchets, kettles, canteens, knapsacks, axes, forage ropes, picket ropes, blankets, water buckets, and all the other paraphernalia of military life. While Burgoyne ensured that the Apollo carried a substantial store of champagne, brandy, and claret, the Germans had less control over their baggage. Instead of the consignment of boots that had been ordered, they were sailing with a vast quantity of dancing pumps and ladies' slippers, clear evidence that the contractor was either monstrously inefficient or possessed of a wicked sense of humor.
A single day in oceanic waters could be a trial by ordeal. To spend, as they did, almost five weeks at sea was a test of nerve and endurance that many were destined to fail. Crammed together belowdecks, the men who were due to fight for paltry wages were fed on the meanest rations and subjected to the stink of vomit, the stench of unwashed bodies, and the most primitive sanitary arrangements. Water was green with algae, hardtack was alive with weevils, beef was like salted teak. Scurvy and other diseases soon began to claim some of the passengers.
But it was the sea itself that was the greatest danger. Whipped by the wind and rain, it frothed with fury and tossed the vessels, making it almost impossible for them to remain in convoy. On good days, there was the ceaseless swell and the stiff breeze; on bad ones, there was a violent tempest that turned the sea into colossal liquid mountains that threatened to drown every last one of them. Sudden waves could scour a deck and sweep even the most sure-footed sailors overboard. The noise was deafening, the discomfort extreme. As the convoy zigzagged its way across the Atlantic, the death toll slowly rose.
Burgoyne took advantage of periods of calmer weather to enjoy the voyage as best he could. He dined with the captain and with his officers, drank copious quantities of claret, played cards, and listened to a trio of musicians. Parading his men on deck, he tried to keep up their spirits with words of encouragement, telling them, with a confiding smile, that the horrors they were now suffering were worse than anything they would meet in the line of fire. Burgoyne could see the misery etched in their faces, and he knew that not all of them would survive to step ashore on Canadian soil.
It was not something that troubled him overmuch. Casualties were unavoidable. Burgoyne was about to write an important new chapter in his life, and he tried to direct all his attention to that end. Brooding on the fate of some of his fellow passengers would only hamper him. His prime objective was to wage a successful campaign against the American rebels. Having left England with some misgivings, he was certain that he would return as a national hero.
Everyone was heartened when land finally came into sight. There was even greater relief when the flotilla entered the huge St. Lawrence estuary. Winter had been relatively mild, and the ice had started to melt earlier than usual. As they sailed upriver, they had to contend with a continual uproar as the surging runoff buffeted the massive chunks of ice that came floating down from the Great Lakes. There were compensations. In place of the turbulent sea that stretched for miles in every direction, the passengers could now look out on spectacular panoramas.
Thick forest adorned both banks, broken from time to time by a sudden clearing, a sparkling river, or a glistening lake and dominated by majestic mountain ranges that seemed to stretch to infinity. In the distance, a first waterfall was glimpsed, bursting over some rocks with foaming power before disappearing from sight among the pine and maple trees. Colors were dazzling in the bright sunlight. The enormous scale of it all was breathtaking.
Burgoyne was content. Thanks to the timely thaw, they would be arriving in Quebec a fortnight earlier than he had anticipated. It was a good omen. His ship finally sailed into the harbor on May 6, 1777, and he celebrated his arrival in characteristic fashion. Making light of the onerous voyage, he donned his dress uniform and took up his stance on the quarterdeck, adopting the military pose he had used when having his portrait painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds.
They were waiting for him. Regiments stationed in the city were lined up to greet him and to welcome the reinforcements he had brought from England. When the gangplank of the Apollo was eventually lowered, the first person to walk down it was the tall, handsome, debonair Lieutenant General John Burgoyne in his scarlet coat with gold piping and epaulets, white waistcoat and breeches, and gleaming black boots. Now in his midfifties, he was a warrior in his prime, looking less like a weary passenger than a triumphant leader about to claim a coveted prize. Showing the white lace at his cuffs, he waved a friendly greeting to the assembled ranks of redcoats. A resounding cheer went up from the soldiers at the quayside.
Gentleman Johnny was back.
"Is there nothing you could do?" asked Tom Caffrey with concern. "The punishment may kill him."
"I'll raise the matter with Major Featherstone."
"Go over his head."
"No, Tom," said Skoyles, "that's not the answer. The only way to do this is by persuasion. I'll talk to Harry Featherstone."
Caffrey was bitter. "Well, it's no use appealing to his finer feelings," he said, curling a lip, "because he doesn't have any. Major Featherstone is a cruel, bloodthirsty, black-hearted devil."
"I disagree. He's a good officer."
"Good at inflicting unnecessary pain on his men."
"Let me speak to him."
"Is there any point, Jamie?"
"I think so," said Skoyles.
They were in the island city of Montreal, a community whose population of some four thousand souls had been swelled by the British soldiers billeted there throughout the winter. Captain Jamie Skoyles and his regiment had joined the newly arrived General Burgoyne in the city. Though it could boast many appealing features, Montreal had neither the size nor situation of Quebec, and its architecture was less imposing. Beginning as a trading post, it still had vestiges of a frontier town about it. Indians, trappers, and voyageurs could be seen in its streets alongside the moneyed and sophisticated Canadians. Throughout the city, a quintessentially French air prevailed.
Like the rest of the soldiers, Skoyles was eager to leave Canada and cross the border into New York. After a long, enforced rest, he wanted to close with the enemy again, especially as his wounded shoulder had now healed. Meanwhile, however, he and Tom Caffrey were on the heights behind Faubourg des Recollets, where a grand review was to be staged for General Burgoyne. Troops, artillery pieces, and bands were already starting to move into position. As the two friends chatted, the very man they had been discussing was marching toward them in his dress uniform. Shooting him a look of disgust, Caffrey slipped quickly away.
Major Harry Featherstone was a striking figure, of medium height, well built, straight-backed, and so impeccably dressed that he made Skoyles feel shabby in his faded uniform with its fraying cuffs. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, Featherstone had high cheekbones and a neat black mustache. His face was arresting rather than handsome, finely chiseled, but too long and too tapered at the chin. Exuding a sense of importance, he moved with an arrogant strut. When he reached Skoyles, he clicked his tongue in disapproval.
"Fraternizing with the lower ranks again, Captain?" he said. "That's a bad habit for an officer."
"Sergeant Caffrey is a friend of mine."
"Sergeant Caffrey is a sergeant and should be kept in his place. How can you expect the men to respect you if you sink to their level? Yes," he went on, raising a hand to stifle the protest on Skoyles's lips, "I know that you came from the ranks yourself, but you must shake off old allegiances. You simply must learn to distinguish between them and us, Jamie. We are, in every sense, a race apart."
"General Burgoyne might disagree with that," noted Skoyles. "I've heard him stress the need to treat soldiers as thinking beings. There are times, he believes, when officers may slacken the reins in order to talk to the men. When he formed his own regiment, the 16th Light Dragoons, he advocated as much in his code of instructions."
"Fear and discipline are the only things that keep an army in order. General Burgoyne understands that."
"There are shades of fear and degrees of discipline."
"Not in my opinion."
"Excessively harsh treatment only breeds hatred and resentment."
"Arrant nonsense!"
"I beg to differ, Major."
"Go easy on the men and they see it as a sign of weakness. You know that as well as anyone, Jamie." Featherstone slapped him amiably on the shoulder. "Severe punishment teaches them obedience."
"That depends on the circumstances," said Skoyles, trying to reason with him. "Look at the case of Private Higgs, for instance."
"Ah," said Featherstone, raising an eyebrow, "so that is what this is all about. You and Sergeant Caffrey are in conspiracy, are you?"
"Not at all, Major."
"The pair of you have the impudence to question my authority."
"We simply ask you to reconsider."
"There's nothing to reconsider," declared Featherstone with a peremptory snap of his fingers. "I found Higgs drunk on duty and he used foul language when I reprimanded him. I had no choice but to have the wretch flogged. What would you have done in my position—award him some kind of medal?"
"No, Major," said Skoyles, "I would have looked more closely into the case. Do you know why Private Higgs was in that state?"
"Too much rum on an empty stomach."
"But why did he take to drink in the first place? By the standards of the others, he's usually quite abstemious. Higgs also has an unblemished record as a soldier and how many can say that? So what made him act out of character?"
"Who cares?"
"I do, Major—and so does Sergeant Caffrey."
"Higgs must take his medicine."
"Some punishment is in order," Skoyles conceded. "We both accept that. But I feel that you should know that Higgs had some distressing news. Word came from England that his wife and child have died of smallpox. It was a crippling blow for the poor man. That was why he reached for the bottle."
"The punishment stands. Sixty lashes."
"Reduce the number and you still make your point."
"No," said the other with a hollow laugh. "If I were stupid enough to do that, I'd lose face entirely. Lessen the severity of the flogging? Absolute madness! The men would think that I'd gone as soft as you."
"I can be strict when strictness is called for, Major."
Though they were hardly natural allies, there was a comfortable friendship between the two of them, based on a mutual respect for each other's abilities. Harry Featherstone, a wealthy man in his thirties from an aristocratic family, had bought his commission in the way that most officers did. Skoyles, by contrast, the son of a country doctor in Cumberland, had worked his way up through the ranks and been promoted lieutenant as a result of conspicuous gallantry. From the start, he lacked the airs and graces of his fellow officers, and his rough North Country vowels made him stick out even more. The same age as the major, Skoyles was taller and more athletic, with rugged features and close-cropped fair hair.
Featherstone smiled at him "Do you know what your trouble is, Jamie?" he said, helpfully. "You're neither fish nor fowl. In trying to keep a foot in both camps, you're neither officer nor soldier. Your fellow officers distrust you because you're simply not one of us while the lower ranks despise you because you try to befriend them. You are in limbo."
"I care nothing for that. My concern is for Private Higgs."
"Sixty lashes. My only regret is that I can't administer them myself. I'd appreciate the exercise."
"Flaying a man until there's no skin left?" said Skoyles with distaste. "Is that what you call exercise?"
"Yes, Captain—and pleasant exercise at that. Man or woman, I'd lay it on hard and leave my signature across their backs so they'd never forget me." He gave a thin smile. "As it happens, I had a woman flogged once—a corporal's wife. The provost marshal gave her thirty lashes for stealing some potatoes. A shapely wench, she was, too. It was good to have an excuse to see her stripped to the waist. Mind you," he went on, smirking broadly, "I'd have preferred to see those lashes applied to her bare buttocks. Nothing quite as exciting as watching a naked woman squirming in pain, is there?"
Skoyles accepted that his embassy on behalf of Private Higgs had failed. A hapless soldier, whose only crime had been to seek solace from his grief, would be flogged into insensibility on the orders of the major. Higgs was one Thomas Lobster who would live up to his nickname, for his back would be turned into a large, raw, lobster-red wound. What irked Skoyles most was the fact that Featherstone himself drank to excess on a regular basis and used the most obscene language when he was in his cups. Yet he was above reproach.
Featherstone emphasized the point. "You missed a splendid dinner yesterday," he announced, proudly. "Thirty of us in all. I'm told that we got through seventy-two bottles of claret, eighteen of Madeira, and twelve of port—that's not counting a little porter and punch, of course. It reminded me why I love the army so much."
"You love being able to inflict punishment on your men."
"That, too, can be very agreeable."
"Not to all of us, Major," said Skoyles.
Featherstone laughed. "I'll not let you put me out of countenance," he said, punching him playfully in the chest. "Not today of all days. Come, let's go and put on a show for Gentleman Johnny. He's deservedly in command now."
"We can at least agree on that."
"You'll notice the difference now that the general is back to set the tone. We'll be able to get down to some serious tippling again."
"Private Higgs might find that rather ironic," said Skoyles.
"Forget him," advised the other with a companionable chuckle. "You're one of us now, Jamie. Enjoy the privileges of officer life. Damn it all! Isn't that why you joined the army? It was certainly what tempted me into uniform—that, and the pleasure of reminding inferior nations why Britain is supreme on the field of battle."
The army was hamstrung by unnecessary delays. Even though he knew that an invasion would inevitably take place, Sir Guy Carleton had made little preparation for it. Burgoyne did not hurry him. After his arrival in Montreal, he waited two whole weeks before he wrote to Carleton about his transport requirements. There was no sense of urgency. A humane, experienced, conscientious soldier-politician, the governor was deeply wounded when he first learned that he had been superseded. Nevertheless, he behaved toward Burgoyne with perfect decorum, concealing his outrage and offering whatever assistance was needed, making it clear, however, that as long as the army was in Canada, he still outranked the General.
While the troops remained in Montreal, the governor held a ball in honor of the new commander, one last glittering social occasion before the important business of war was resumed. The venue was Chateau Ramezay, the magnificent residence built at the start of the century by former governor, Claude Ramezay, who wanted to be reminded of the castles of his native Normandy. It was a high stone structure with a series of dormers set into its copper roof. All of its rooms were exquisite and well proportioned with elaborate carved paneling by a French architect as the distinguishing feature of the Nantes Salon. Standing on the Rue Notre-Dame, the chateau had formal gardens to the side and to the rear.
Captain Jamie Skoyles was among the first to arrive. He knew the building well, having been part of the army that had expelled the rebels from the city in the previous spring. Punch was being served, but Skoyles took care not to have too much of it. He needed to keep his wits about him for the main business of the evening, which was to revel in female company. Skoyles had always had an eye for the ladies, and his elevation to officer rank had certainly aided his pursuit of pleasure. Canada had been an education for him. During a dalliance with some of its pretty demoiselles, he had greatly improved his command of French.
As the room slowly began to fill, the orchestra played a medley of English and French melodies. Skoyles watched from a quiet corner. A few of the officers were traveling with their wives, but it was members of the civil administration, and notably the Canadian families, who provided most of the feminine interest. Skoyles was soon reminded how large the average Canadian family could be. One middle-aged couple swept into the room with no fewer than five attractive young daughters in tow as well as four sons. Skoyles admired the French fashions of the Canadian women though he was less enamored of their powdered and ornamented coiffures. They looked too artificial to him.
He was still surveying the room when he heard a nervous voice.
"I find them so intimidating," Charles Westbourne confessed.
"Who?" asked Skoyles, turning to him.
"The fairer sex."
"You'll soon learn to conquer that fear, Lieutenant."
"I doubt it."
"Women were put on this earth for our delight."
"Then why do they always unnerve me so?"
Lieutenant Charles Westbourne was a plump, fresh-faced young man in his twenties, relatively new to the regiment and still—an incongruity in a British army—obviously in possession of his virginity. There was no hope of his losing it at the ball. Skoyles could see the glass of punch trembling in his hand and the first beads of perspiration on his brow. Unlike some of his fellow officers, however, he did not mock Westbourne. He tried to protect him from the scorn of the others, and an unlikely friendship had grown up between them as a result.
"What are we supposed to do, Captain?"
"Dance with them, of course."
A note of panic sounded. "Dance? I don't know how!"
"What better time to learn?" observed Skoyles. "Make the most of it while you can. Before too long, we'll be dodging enemy fire."
"I think I'd prefer that to dancing with a woman."
"Coward!"
"They all look so unapproachable to me."
"An optical illusion."
"How does one get to meet them?"
Skoyles grinned. "Watch me," he said. "I'll show you."
Putting his glass on a table, he adjusted his uniform and pulled himself up to his full height before striding purposefully across the floor. General Burgoyne had just entered the room with a group that included a young lady who caught Skoyles's attention at once. Pale and slender, she had a radiance that set her immediately apart from all the other women. Her auburn hair was brushed up on her head into an oval shape with a series of curls trailing artfully down. She was wearing a beautiful blue silk dress with a hooped skirt and a wide décolletage, partially covered by a chiffon bow but still advertising the full breasts. Even at first glance, Skoyles noted a strange mixture of vulnerability and self-possession about her.
Seeing him approach, General Burgoyne gave him a warm smile.
"There you are, Skoyles," he said. "Have you heard the news?"
"What news, sir?"
"I thought I'd arrived in Canada with a secret plan of action, yet I find a paper circulating in Montreal that contains infernally accurate details of my strategy. How on earth could that happen?"
"There are spies everywhere, General."
"They'll hang from the tallest tree when I catch up with them!" He turned to his companions. "You all know Captain Skoyles, don't you?"
"Yes," said Brigadier General Simon Fraser. "One of my best men."
"Thank you, sir," said Skoyles.
Anxious to be introduced to the only woman in the group, Skoyles had first to exchange greetings with Simon Fraser, Major General William Phillips, the renowned artilleryman, Adjutant General Major Robert Kingston, Major John Dyke Acland, and Major Alexander Lindsay, the Earl of Balcarres. Including the general, there were three members of Parliament in the group. Clearly, the young lady moved in exalted company, all of them wearing powdered wigs and sporting their epaulets.
"Let me introduce our charming young guest," said Burgoyne, beaming at her. "Miss Elizabeth Rainham." She gave a polite smile. "Miss Rainham, this is Captain Skoyles of the 24th Foot."
"Delighted to make your acquaintance," said Skoyles, inclining his head in a token bow.
"Thank you, Captain," she said.
"Are you a resident of Montreal?"
"Oh, no. I only arrived in the city this morning."
"Why don't you find Miss Rainham a glass of punch, Skoyles?" suggested Burgoyne. "Then she can tell you what she's doing here—apart from lighting up the room with her beauty, that is."
She laughed softly. "You flatter me, General."
"A feat well beyond my competence."
"And mine," added Skoyles with an admiring smile.
"Be careful, Miss Rainham," Burgoyne warned her genially. "Whatever you do, don't let Skoyles lure you to the card table. I speak from bitter experience. He has the luck of the devil."
"I can vouch for that," said Balcarres. "I'm another of his victims."
"Is that true, Captain?" she asked.
"Not entirely." Skoyles intercepted a passing waiter to take two glasses of punch from his tray. He handed one to Elizabeth before raising the other in tribute to her. "Your good health, Miss Rainham!"
"Thank you."
Sipping their drinks, they moved aside from the others and took a moment to weigh each other up. She looked at Skoyles through large, intelligent, curious blue eyes.
"The general did not mention your Christian name," she noted.
"It's Jamie."
"Short for James?"
"No, Miss Rainham," he explained. "Jamie, as in Jamie. My mother was Scots. I was named after her grandfather."
"Yet you don't have a Scots accent."
"My father was English. I was born and brought up in Cumberland." He took another sip of punch. "But you sound more like a southerner to me. Surrey, perhaps? Sussex?"
"Kent, actually. We have a home near Canterbury."
"What brought you to this part of the world?"
"A ship," she said, grimacing. "A small and extremely smelly frigate. I can't say that I took any pleasure from the voyage, Captain. It was a nightmare. But," she went on, bravely, "that's all behind me. I can start to enjoy myself now."
"Enjoy yourself?"
"I'll be traveling with the army."
Skoyles was taken aback. "I can't guarantee much enjoyment for you in that, Miss Rainham. It promises to be a testing campaign."
"Not according to General Burgoyne," she said brightly. "He's a family friend of ours and he assures me that there'll be no real danger. Why should there be?" she asked, hunching her shoulders. "He'll be leading an army of professional soldiers against a disorganized rabble of amateurs. There can only be one result."
"I hope that you're right," said Skoyles, worried by her optimism, "but it would be foolish to underestimate our enemy. When we fought against them last year at Valcour Island, they gave a good account of themselves. We lost several men."
"I'm not frightened by the sight of blood, Captain Skoyles."
"Just as well. You'll see lots of it."
"Are you trying to scare me off?"
"Not at all," he said. "It's just that I don't think that life in the shadow of Canterbury cathedral will have prepared you for the ugliness of what might lie ahead."
"I'm treating it all as an adventure."
"Adventures can have unseen hazards."
"That's what makes it all so thrilling."
"There's nothing thrilling in the sight of dead bodies," he said. "Or in seeing your men sustain horrific injuries. This is not a cricket match on the village green, Miss Rainham."
"Please!" she said, her cheeks coloring slightly. "Stop treating me like a child. It may interest you to know that my father fought alongside General Burgoyne in Portugal. I also have a brother in the Horse Guards. So you see, I do have some insight into army life."
He was blunt. "I doubt that."
"Why do you take such pleasure in vexing me?"
"I don't, Miss Rainham. I just feel that you should be warned."
Skoyles was torn between desire and anxiety. If she accompanied the army on its journey south, he might have the chance to improve his acquaintance with her. Nothing would please him more. On the other hand, he knew that she would be come face to face with the more hideous aspects of warfare and he wanted to save her from that. There was another consideration. Skoyles had experienced the climate in the Hudson Valley at that time of the year. He would hate to see that delicate complexion of hers ruined by the hot sun.
Elizabeth was brusque. "Unlike you, I have total confidence in General Burgoyne."
"We all do, Miss Rainham."
"No, Captain," she said, crisply. "I sense a flicker of doubt. You are not as certain of victory as you should be. Fortunately, that's not an attitude shared by my future husband."
Skoyles was checked. "You're betrothed?"
"What else would bring me all this way in the such discomfort? It was not to have my upbringing derided by you, I can assure you. Only the compulsion to be with my beloved could have got me to Canada. In fact, I reached Montreal somewhat earlier than expected so I'll be able to surprise him." She looked around. "I can't wait to see his face when he realizes that I'm already here."
"What regiment does he serve in?"
"Your own—the 24th Foot."
"Then I must know him," he said.
"I'm sure that you do, Captain."
"May I ask his name?"
"Of course. It's—" She broke off abruptly as a newcomer sauntered into the room. "There he is!" she said, joyously.
Picking her way through the crowd, Elizabeth Rainham went off to greet her betrothed and to receive a kiss on both gloved hands. Skoyles was filled with a sudden envy. During their brief conversation, Elizabeth has aroused more than his interest. Skoyles had felt the first stirrings of lust, only to discover that she was hopelessly beyond his reach. The man she had sailed an enormous distance to be with was none other than Major Harry Featherstone.
"Lucky bastard!" said Skoyles.