Jamie Skoyles had always believed that the only way to get a woman out of his mind was to take another woman into his bed. Accordingly, he invited Maria Quinn to join him that evening and share a bottle of wine that he had been keeping for just such an occasion. Maria was more than compliant. A vivacious young woman with red hair that hung in curls and a pretty face that was lit by a bewitching smile, she had joined the ranks of the camp followers in the hope that Skoyles would seek her out again. The night they had spent together after the ball in Montreal had been the culmination of a dalliance that had gone on for days. It had been such a riot of love and lust that it prompted Maria to abandon the safety of Canada for the uncertainties of an American campaign.
She was delighted that Skoyles had finally remembered her, and as they lay entwined in his tent, he wondered why he had not done so before. An hour of raw passion with Maria Quinn had obliterated all trace of Elizabeth Rainham from his mind. After caressing her naked back and buttocks, he ran an index finger down her nose and onto her lips. She gave the finger a playful bite.
"Are you happy?" he asked.
"Very happy," she purred. "I thought you'd forgotten me."
"After what happened in Montreal? Impossible, Maria."
"Good."
"It's just that I've been rather busy since."
"I can see that from the state of your face and these bruises all over your body." She nestled into his shoulder. "You've been in the wars, Jamie. It's just as well you've got me to kiss your wounds better."
"You do it so beautifully."
"Does that mean I'll be seeing you again soon?"
"I can't promise anything," said Skoyles, drawing slightly away. "I told you before, Maria, that a soldier's life is not his own. This is the first chance I've had since we left Canada to spend time with you."
"I'm a patient woman."
He laughed. "You were impatient enough earlier on."
"Didn't you like that, Jamie?"
"I loved it."
He kissed her full on the lips and she responded willingly. Skoyles was about to roll on top of her again when he heard a noise outside his tent. He held Maria away from him so that he could strain his ears. A second later, the voice of Polly Bragg called out to him.
"Captain Skoyles!" she said. "Are you awake in there?"
"Wait a moment!" he replied, anxious to conceal the presence of his visitor from her. He blew out the candle beside the bed. Snatching up his breeches, he clambered into them before crossing hurriedly to put his head outside the tent. "What is it, Polly?"
"I'm sorry to rouse you at this time of night," she said, holding her candle close to him, "but Tom sent me. There's bad news, I fear."
"Bad news?"
"You're to come at once."
"What sort of bad news?"
"It concerns Miss Rainham," she said anxiously.
"What's happened to her?"
"There's been an ambush."
"I'll come immediately."
Having no details to impart, Polly went off into the dark and left him to scramble into the rest of his clothing and pull on his boots. When he had lit the candle again, he turned to Maria with a gesture of apology.
"Do you want me to wait?" she asked hopefully.
"No, I may have to ride out of camp."
"You know where to find me, Jamie."
"Yes, I do."
"Then don't leave it too long next time."
After giving Maria a farewell kiss, Skoyles ran all the way to Tom Caffrey's tent. When he lifted the flap to burst in, he saw his friend dressing the wounds of a soldier who lay on the camp bed. Polly Bragg was helping him. By the light of the candles, Skoyles could see that Private Marcus Wolverton was in poor condition. His jacket had been removed so that a musket ball could be removed from his upper arm, there was heavy bandaging around his thigh, and his hands were covered with abrasions. Pain was chiseled deeply into his face. When he recognized the newcomer, Wolverton gave him a pale smile of deference and spoke with a voice slurred by fatigue.
"No, Captain," he said with a weak smile. "I haven't had a fight with Dan Lukins this time. It's more serious, sir."
"You were part of the escort to Bitter Creek," noted Skoyles, crouching down beside him.
"They took us by surprise."
"Was anyone killed?"
"Five dead, at least."
"What about Miss Rainham? Was she hurt?"
"I've no means of telling, sir. Major Featherstone told us to scatter, so that's what we did. Before I could fire a shot, I was hit in the arm. Another ball grazed my leg. I dropped my musket and limped away. Since I couldn't hold a weapon to fight," he went on, "I thought the best thing I could do was to come for help."
"Yes, yes, Wolverton. You did the right thing."
"He's exhausted, Jamie," said Caffrey. "I had to give him a tot of rum to get any sense out of him."
"I want to hear about Miss Rainham."
"There's nothing I can tell you, sir," said Wolverton. "I wish I could. They seemed to be all round us, hidden in the bushes. We didn't stay long enough to see how many of them there were."
"We?" repeated Skoyles.
"He came back with one of the Indians," Caffrey explained. "The other one was killed. They were lucky. Miss Rainham's horse threw her and bolted up the hill. They managed to catch the animal."
Skoyles was disturbed. "She was thrown from her horse?"
"Yes, Captain," Wolverton replied. "The last I saw of her, the lady was being helped toward cover by Major Featherstone."
"But she was still alive?"
"It was Redsnake who caught the runaway horse," said Caffrey, who had prized some of the story out of the wounded man. "He's one of the Mohawks helping to guide them to Bitter Creek. I know that we've heard some bloodcurdling tales about the Indians but this man is a real hero. Instead of riding off himself, he helped Wolverton into the saddle."
"It's true," Wolverton agreed. "I'd never have found my way back here, especially in the dark. But Redsnake seemed to know exactly where to go. He was my savior. If he'd not bound my arm for me, I might have bled to death."
"Where is he now?" asked Skoyles.
"Back in the Indian camp," said Caffrey, "reporting to his chief."
"Was he injured?"
"Apparently not."
"Good," said Skoyles. "I'll need him to lead us back to Bitter Creek. And I'll give him thanks on your behalf, Wolverton."
"He deserves my apologies, Captain," said the other.
"Why?"
"Because the only way that I could stop myself from falling asleep was to quote from some of the plays I've acted in. Redsnake had hour after hour of William Shakespeare inflicted on him."
"I doubt if he understood a word of it."
"I'm not sure that I did, sir."
Skoyles stood up. "Who else knows about this?"
"You were the first person I sent for, Jamie," said Caffrey.
"Thanks, Tom. Brigadier Fraser needs to be told immediately so that a detachment can be formed. I'll make sure that I lead it."
"I'll ride with you. It sounds as if I'll be needed there."
"Take me as well, Captain," said Wolverton, trying to sit up.
"No," said Skoyles.
"You must, sir."
Polly Bragg eased him back down. "You're in no state to move," she said, solicitously. "Just try to rest."
"But I have to get back."
"Why?" asked Skoyles.
"Because I left poor Dan Lukins there," said Wolverton with evident affection, "and I feel guilty for having deserted him. I've simply got to find out what happened to him."
There were eight of them still alive. The other two in the group had died from their wounds in the night. Locked in a shed that had no window, the soldiers were bound hand and foot. Every so often, the guard who was posted outside the door opened it and shone a lantern in to make sure that they were still securely tied up. All of the prisoners had suffered cuts and bruises during the ambush. One of them had a musket ball embedded in his calf, another man had broken three fingers. The shed was dark, filthy, and uncomfortable, reeking with a compound of foul smells. Rats darted to and fro. All that the men could do was to lie there in a trough of self-pity.
Propped up against a wall, Harry Featherstone brooded on the calamitous turn of events. He was angry with himself for leading his men into an ambush and for being unable to fight his way out of it. He was also furious with his captors for incarcerating a man of his rank with common soldiers, forcing him to listen to their inane babble. It was a deliberate affront to his dignity. But his overriding concern was for Elizabeth Rainham, unhurt by her fall from the horse but now in the hands of a cruel and vindictive enemy. Featherstone chided himself for agreeing so readily to take her to Bitter Creek.
While the soldiers had been herded into the rat-infested shed, Elizabeth had been taken into the house to face unknown horrors. The major feared for her virtue. The American rebels who had captured them were part of the rear guard of the Continental Army that had been routed at Hubbardton. They had already killed David Lansdale and looted his house. It was unlikely that they would show any mercy to his niece. Patriots had little sympathy for anyone suspected of being a Tory. The lucky ones were only severely beaten. Hanging was a more likely fate, followed by the rape of their womenfolk and the destruction of their property. David Lansdale had been one more victim.
Featherstone was fuming with impotent rage. Elizabeth was in the house with a group of violent men and there was nothing that he could do about it. He took no consolation from the fact that he had heard no screams from her during the night.
Daniel Lukins had heard something else in the dark hours.
"I wonder what 'appened to Wolvie," he said sorrowfully. "I'd 'ate to think they left 'im out there with the others to feed them wolves. They never stopped 'owling, did they? Wolvie, eaten by wolves—it's not right."
"Be quiet, man," Featherstone ordered.
"But 'e was my friend, sir."
"Then mourn him in silence."
"What's goin' to 'appen to us, Major?" asked Lukins.
"I wish I knew."
"It's alright for you, sir. I mean, you're an officer. You're important. They'll exchange you for one of our prisoners." He peered at the others in the gloom. "What about the rest of us?"
"Yes," said another voice. "What about us, sir?"
"We'll just have to hope for the best," replied Featherstone.
"As long as it's not left to that sergeant with the scar across his face," said Lukins with a shiver. "An 'eartless devil, 'e was. I 'eard 'im say 'e'd like to put us in 'ere and set fire to the place. If I ever gets out alive," he vowed, "then that sergeant's goin' to 'ave a lot more scars across 'is ugly face—or Dan Lukins is a liar."
"Hold your tongue," Featherstone demanded. "It's bad enough to be locked up in here without having to listen to your stupid remarks."
Lukins was cowed into silence and nobody else dared to speak. The tension in the shed was almost tangible. The soldiers remembered only too well what had happened to Private Roger Higgs, flogged on the orders of Major Featherstone. Even in captivity, they were afraid to disobey the officer. After another hour, however, the pangs of hunger were too much for the little Cockney to bear and he had to speak out.
"Aren't they goin' to feed us, Major?" he wailed. "I can stand anythin' but bein' starved to death—that'd be against every article of war. I'll write to that turd, George Washington, to complain, so I will."
His absurd boast provoked some half-hearted laughter, but Harry Featherstone did not join in. All that he could think about was the fate of Elizabeth Rainham.
Back at Skenesborough, swift action was taken. Brigadier Fraser not only agreed that Skoyles should lead a detachment to Bitter Creek, he insisted on getting General Burgoyne out of bed to hear details of what had happened. As a result, Skoyles was given the loan of his commander's telescope once again. The news that Elizabeth Rainham was caught in the ambush upset Burgoyne. As a friend of the family, he felt that he was—to some extent—in loco parentis. The thought that Elizabeth might be dead, badly wounded, or, at the very least, taken prisoner by the rebels made him curse his decision to allow her to travel to Bitter Creek.
Redsnake needed no persuasion to act as their scout. It emerged that the Indian who had been killed in the ambush was his brother, and he was eager to wreak revenge on his behalf. Four other Mohawks joined the detachment of fifty men, all of them mounted to ensure speed. As they left the camp, they were waved off by General Burgoyne himself, wishing them well and still praying for the safe return of Elizabeth Rainham. With the Indians leading the way on their ponies, the detachment followed a track that seemed to meander aimlessly through the forest. Jamie Skoyles rode beside Lieutenant Charles Westbourne.
"We were wrong to condemn all the Indians," said Skoyles. "Because of Redsnake's prompt action, one of our men was saved and the alarm was raised."
"I know, Captain," returned the other, watching the Indians ride bareback in front of him. "I just do wish they'd wear something more than a string of beads and a few feathers."
"This is no time for maiden modesty, Lieutenant."
"You'd think they'd want to protect their bodies."
"They prefer freedom of movement."
"So I see."
Sergeant Tom Caffrey brought his horse alongside them. Knowing that there would be wounded men when they reached their destination, he had his instruments and bandages in his knapsack.
"How long will it take us, Jamie?" he asked.
"Hours yet."
"Do you think that they'll still be at the farm?"
"There's only one way to find out, Tom," said Skoyles. "I can't believe they'd kill the entire detachment and move on. My guess is that they'll take prisoners and steal their guns and ammunition. The sight of captured redcoats is a powerful symbol for them."
Westbourne gulped. "I shudder to think what might befall her."
"Let's just hope that the lady is still alive," said Skoyles.
"And unmolested."
"What puzzles me," said Caffrey, "is how they walked into the ambush in the first place. They were experienced soldiers with two scouts to help them, yet they were taken completely by surprise."
"They simply weren't expecting rebels in that part of the country," Westbourne explained. "Colonel Skene assured them that they'd be safe."
"I think I've worked out what must have happened," Skoyles decided, turning it over in his mind. "From what Wolverton told us—and from what I could get out of Redsnake through an interpreter—there's a hill that overlooks the approach to Bitter Creek. The rebels must have had pickets up there. When they spotted Major Featherstone and his men coming, they had ample time to set up the ambush."
"What if the pickets are still there?" said Caffrey.
"Then they've chosen the wrong day to be on duty."
They pressed on hard, breaking into a canter whenever possible and only stopping to water the horses once during the journey. Urged on by Skoyles, they were soon back in the saddle, exposed to the beat of the hot sun that glinted off their bayonets and sent trickles of sweat down their faces. When they got their first distant glimpse of the hill near Bitter Creek, Skoyles called them to a halt and ordered them to conceal themselves among the trees. He and the Indians went forward on foot, remaining under cover all the way.
Half a mile from the hill, he used the telescope to scan the summit. As he had expected, two sentries had been posted there to keep the approach road under surveillance. Skoyles was gratified. It meant that the rebels had not yet left Bitter Creek. He gave the telescope to Redsnake and showed him how to use it. The Indian was amazed at what he thought were its magical powers. Fascinated by the instrument, each of the Mohawks had to take his turn with it, sharing their excitement as they did so. Skoyles reclaimed the telescope and sent them off. They knew what to do.
It was a long wait. At first, Skoyles thought that they might have lost their way or been caught in a trap somewhere. Though he scanned the undergrowth on the slope ahead, he could see absolutely no sight of the Indians. They had vanished as if they had never existed. He began to worry, fearing that, in his eagerness, Redsnake had given himself away, but the anxiety proved groundless. When he trained the telescope on the top of the hill yet again, he saw the pickets being felled by shattering blows from tomahawks. Two scalps were soon waved triumphantly in the air. It was the signal for Skoyles to run back to his men. They mounted up at once. Caffrey rode beside his friend.
"They're still there, then," he said. "That's good news, Jamie."
"We don't know what state they're in yet."
Caffrey tapped his knapsack. "I've come well prepared."
Skoyles thought of Elizabeth Rainham. Physical wounds might be dressed, broken bones could be mended. But there were wounds to the mind that would never heal, deep, agonizing, and ever open, vile memories that could stalk a woman for the rest of her life. Skoyles hoped that Elizabeth had been spared such permanent injuries.
Night had been a prolonged torment for her. Elizabeth Rainham had been locked in the main bedroom of the house, the place where her Uncle David and Aunt Edith had spent almost ten happy years until her aunt had died of pneumonia. Lansdale's death had been more violent. Because he and his sons had refused to join the militia and fight against the British army, David Lansdale was hanged in his barn with Elizabeth's three cousins dangling beside him. On hearing the news of their execution, Elizabeth realized how barbaric her captors could be and she feared for her own life. When that was spared, she thought that she was being kept alive for their sport.
Several of the men had come to ogle her, flushed with drink and roused by her beauty. Their language had disgusted her and the lechery in their eyes had been terrifying, but she had not as yet been mauled. On the orders of their leader—a young lieutenant with the faint hint of a gentleman about him—the rebel soldiers had stayed their hands with great reluctance. It was only a matter of time, Elizabeth felt, before one of them would disobey the command and she would be unable to defend herself. There was no chance of escape. A guard was stationed outside the door and another in the courtyard. Even if she could have climbed through the window and dropped to the ground, she would have been quickly apprehended.
In any case, she did not wish to provoke them. The lieutenant had been kind enough to tell her that Harry Featherstone was still alive and being held with the other men, but that was all she knew. Confined to the bedroom, Elizabeth could do nothing but reflect on the seriousness of her predicament. She spent most of the night on her feet, afraid to lie on the bed in case she fell asleep and made herself even more vulnerable. On one wall was a portrait of her Uncle David. On another, the lovely face and warm smile of her Aunt Edith had been caught perfectly by the artist. Anything of real value had been stolen, but the room was still filled with touching mementos of its former occupants. Every time Elizabeth looked at one of them, she felt a knife through her heart.
The sound of heavy footsteps on the landing outside alerted her. A key was turned in the lock and the door swung open. Elizabeth backed away immediately. The man who entered was tall, rangy, and hirsute and had a livid scar across his face, as if he had been sliced open by a sword. He wore the blue uniform of the Continental Army and a sergeant's sash.
He was carrying a cup of water and a hunk of bread. He held them out to her with a lascivious grin that made his scar even more repulsive. Elizabeth fought to maintain her composure.
"I brought food and drink for you, ma'am," he said, eyes roving her body. "Just so as you don't think that we got no manners. Here—come and take it from me."
"Just put them down, please," she said, primly.
"As you wish, ma'am." He set the cup and the bread down on the little table under the window then he leered at her. "Don't I get a kiss for attending to your needs?"
"No," she replied crisply.
"No? Now that's real unfriendly of you, ma'am. I heard tell you English folk was so obliging." He used a foot to kick the door shut. "All I'm asking for is one little kiss."
"Go away!"
"Begging your pardon but there's something you don't seem to have noticed. I'm the man in charge," he said, patting his chest, "and you're the prisoner. I reckon that gives me certain rights, don't it?"
"If you don't leave me alone, I'll report you to the lieutenant."
He cackled merrily. "You'll need a mighty loud voice to do that, ma'am, seeing as how Lieutenant Muncie has just ridden over to the village two miles away. I'm in control here now. I make the decisions and you're one of them."
As he took a step forward, she reached out to grab an empty water jug that stood on the dressing table beside her. Elizabeth brandished it the air. The man cackled again.
"Hey, you got some spirit in you, ma'am," he said approvingly. "I like that. I think I'll make it two kisses now—one for the bread and one for the water."
"I won't touch either."
"You must have something, ma'am."
"No, thank you."
"Please yourself."
He shrugged his shoulders and turned away. Elizabeth dared to relax. She even put the water jug back inside its china basin. He was on her at once, swinging round to grab her by both wrists then pinning her against a wall so that he could take a first guzzling kiss that muffled her cry of disgust. When she struggled to get free, he flung her on the bed and looked down at her with a wild grin. Before he could move, however, he heard the crackle of flames and the frantic neighing of horses.
Leaving her where she lay, he rushed to the window and looked out. The stables were on fire and horses could be heard kicking madly against their stalls. Men were running out of the house to investigate. The sergeant rushed to the door and flung it open.
"Don't you go away, ma'am," he warned. "I'll be back."
He went out quickly and the guard locked the door behind him. Elizabeth was trembling with fear. The man's intentions were brutally clear. As soon as the lieutenant had left the farm, she had lost what little protection she had. A water jug would not keep the sergeant at bay. He could take his pleasure at will. The taste of his lips had made her stomach heave. When she got up from the bed, she sipped water from the cup to rinse her mouth, then spat it into the basin.
Voices were now raised in the courtyard, and she looked out to see frenzied horses being led out of the blazing stables. Smoke swirled everywhere. The sergeant stood in the middle of it all, waving his arms and barking orders. This was the man who would come to violate her, strong, uncompromising, and brutal. She could still smell the stink of his breath. Elizabeth could not believe her eyes when something hurtled through the air to strike the sergeant on the back of his skull and knock him to the ground, where he was trampled by a dozen flashing hooves. Other tomahawks seemed to come out of thin air to kill their targets. The next thing she heard was a series of gunshots from invisible men. The roar of the fire became deafening.
Elizabeth jumped back from the window, fearful that she might be hit by a stray musket ball and confused by the sheer pandemonium in the courtyard. If the stables were on fire, the inferno would eventually spread to the house and she would be burned alive. The thought sent another tremor through her. Dashing to the door, she tried to open it but it held fast. She began to scream for help. Footsteps thundered up the stairs and she heard the sound of a fierce struggle on the landing. Something then hit the floor outside with a resounding thud that made the boards shake under her feet.
The key was turned in the lock. Elizabeth backed away in panic, her head aching, her eyes misting over, her heart pounding like a drum. Outside the window, more gunfire was heard above the crackle of the fire. Horses were neighing, men were yelling. Elizabeth was certain that her own death was at hand. When the door opened, she put both hands to her face, afraid even to look. But the torture was at last over.
"Miss Rainham," said a familiar voice. "Are you hurt?"
Elizabeth lowered her hands, saw with amazement the figure of Captain Jamie Skoyles standing in the doorway, and, tears of relief streaming down her face, ran impulsively across the room to fling herself into his arms.
It took hours until the work was done. When the British prisoners were released, they saw the courtyard filled with dozens of redcoats, bringing pails of water from the river to put out the fire. Major Harry Featherstone immediately took command, but it was Jamie Skoyles who instructed the men in what they had to do, leaving his superior to comfort Elizabeth Rainham in the house and to issue a string of apologies for taking her to such a dangerous place. Of the rebel soldiers, only ten remained alive and they were put to work at once, digging graves for the men they had hanged in the barn, then burying the half-eaten remains of the British soldiers killed in the earlier ambush.
Two more redcoats were brought out of the shed where they had died overnight and given a decent burial. With muskets held on them, the rebels were forced to put heavy rocks on the graves so that the bodies could not be dug up again by ravenous wolves. Only when all the British casualties had been buried did Skoyles allow the American soldiers the chance to see to their own dead. It was a gesture that they had not extended to the enemy on the previous day.
Daniel Lukins was delighted to hear that his friend was still alive.
"We owe all this to Wolvie?" he said, smacking his hands together. "Whoever thought 'e'd turn out to be an 'ero—that long-legged fool who's always spoutin' poetry and suchlike at me? Good old Wolvie! I'm sorry that I stole 'is watch now."
"I'm not," said Skoyles. "If he hadn't fought with you, I'd never have known about a plot to assault me. Thank you, Lukins. Your warning was very timely."
"This makes us even, then, Captain."
"Even?"
"I saved you then and you saved me now."
Skoyles grinned. "I can't pretend that rescuing you was my main preoccupation when we set out from Skenesborough," he admitted, "but I'm pleased to see that you survived. Wolverton was worried that you might have been killed in the ambush."
"Not me, sir. I'm too small a target for the buggers."
"There may be something in that." He watched two men shoveling earth on to the last grave. "We're just about finished here now. I'd better go and call Major Featherstone."
"One moment, sir," said Lukins in a confidential whisper. "When they took the lady into the 'ouse, did they strip 'er naked and—"
"No," said Skoyles firmly. "Nothing untoward occurred, so I want no crude speculation among the men. I leave it to you to pass the word around. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Captain."
Skoyles walked back toward the house. His plan to create a diversion by setting fire to the stables had worked perfectly. The rescue had been a complete success, with minimal casualties on his side. No horses had been injured. They were rounded up to be taken back to camp. Tom Caffrey had been able to tend both the British wounded and those rebels injured in the attack. Sheer weight of numbers had made the outcome inevitable. Skoyles could take great satisfaction from it all, but the most memorable event for him was the embrace with Elizabeth Rainham. She had expressed more than simple gratitude for her rescue. During that fleeting moment in the bedroom, she had leapt over the boundaries of convention to reveal an affection that took them both unawares.
Sad to yield command to Major Featherstone, he was quick to see the advantage in doing so. It diverted Elizabeth Rainham. Featherstone had kept her in the house to hear what had happened to her and to give an account of his own imprisonment. Skoyles was glad that she had witnessed none of the gruesome events outside. Elizabeth had been spared the sight of the Indians taking their legitimate scalps, of her uncle and cousins being cut down from the rafters in the barn, and of the burial detail putting British dead beneath the ground.
Time alone with her in the house seemed to have a salutary effect on Harry Featherstone. When Skoyles went in to summon them, the major even stumbled through a subdued speech of thanks. But the gratitude shining in Elizabeth's eyes was the only reward that Skoyles wanted. A close friendship had been established.
"We're ready to leave now, Major," he said.
"What about this Lieutenant Muncie?" asked Featherstone. "According to Elizabeth, the fellow went off to the village earlier on."
"I sent a dozen men after him, sir, but he was no longer there. We must have frightened him off. He'll run back to the main army, wherever that may be."
"We'll find it," said Featherstone grimly. "Find it and destroy it."
"Yes, sir."
"You lead the way back to the camp, Skoyles."
"If you wish, sir."
"Miss Rainham and I will ride at the rear. I don't want her disturbed by the sight of those damned Mohawks flaunting their scalps."
"The Indians were crucial to the rescue plan, Major."
"I find that a matter of regret."
"Harry!" Elizabeth chided him. "They've earned our thanks."
"I'll make sure that I pass it on to them, Miss Rainham," said Skoyles. He lowered his voice. "The burial detail has finished its work now. Before we leave, I thought that you might care to pay your respects at the graves of your kinsfolk."
"Thank you, Captain." Tears threatened. "I'd like to do that."
"Take as much time as you wish, Miss Rainham."
"I will."
"I'll stay beside you," said Featherstone.
Skoyles gave each of them a nod, then left. Elizabeth bit her lip and tried not to cry, wondering if she could go through the ordeal of visiting the graves of her beloved relations. Later, there would be the additional trial of writing a letter to her parents, describing what had happened at Bitter Creek. War had taken on a frightening immediacy for her. Seeing her distress, Harry Featherstone reached out to enfold her gently in his arms. She was grateful for his support, but she took no real pleasure from the embrace. Over his shoulder, she was watching Jamie Skoyles walk away from the house.
Daniel Lukins was so pleased to be reunited with Marcus Wolverton again that he volunteered to cut the other man's hair without payment. Since he still retained something of the actor's vanity, Wolverton was ready to accept the offer. A man of unusual talents, the Cockney was a skilled barber who earned a regular income from his fellow soldiers. In view of the continual enmity between them, Wolverton had never let Lukins cut his hair before, and he had certainly never allowed the man near him with a razor, preferring instead to cultivate a mustache that he trimmed regularly. Since most soldiers were unshaven for days on end, the well-groomed Marcus Wolverton stood out from the common herd. In the past, Lukins had always mocked him for that.
With his customer perched on a stool outside their tent, the little barber snipped away with his scissors. He had a confession to make.
"Something strange 'appened back there in Bitter Creek," he said.
"Oh?"
"I missed you, Wolvie. I thought you was dead."
"I thought the same about you, Dan," the other revealed, "and it made me rather sad. I began to regret all the quarrels we'd had in the past. They seem so pointless now."
"They were," said the other. "Why did you start them?"
Wolverton stiffened. "You were the one who always did that!"
"Sit still or I'll cut your ear off by mistake."
"Then stop telling lies."
"Me? Tellin' lies? I'm the only truthful man in this 'ole regiment."
"That's the biggest lie of all, Dan Lukins." The barber laughed. "Now stop baiting me and get on with your job. I'm still waiting to hear what happened at Bitter Creek after I left."
"Then wait no more, Wolvie. I'll tell all."
Without any preamble, Lukins gave a long, colorful, rambling account of events at Bitter Creek, portraying himself as an unsung hero and insisting that it was he who had kept up the spirits of the prisoners when they were locked in the shed at the farm. So carried away did he become with his narrative that he even claimed to have assisted Jamie Skoyles in the rescue of Elizabeth Rainham.
"First time in my life I saved a woman's maiden'ead," he said with a snigger. "It was a peculiar feelin', Wolvie. In the past, I've always 'elped them to get rid of it. That lady owes me 'er thanks."
"You and Captain Skoyles."
"Well, yes, 'e did sort of assist me."
"He'd assist you with a boot up your backside if he heard you making ridiculous claims like that," said Wolverton. "I spoke to Sergeant Caffrey this morning. He told me that Miss Rainham was rescued from the house while you and the others were still bound hand and foot."
Lukins was indignant. "Who're you goin' to believe—'im or me?"
"You, Dan, of course," said the other, trying to mollify him, "as long as you have those scissors in your hand, anyway. The important thing is that you came back in one piece."
"I feels sorry for 'er. Miss Rain'am, that is."
"Why?"
"Marryin' someone like Major Featherstone. The man's a monster. Spent the night with 'im, I did. 'E treated us like dirt. I wouldn't want 'im as my 'usband, Wolvie, I know that. There!" he said, stepping back. "I've finished. Best 'aircut you ever 'ad. See for yourself."
He handed Wolverton a small mirror and the latter examined himself for some time, twisting his head to see it from all angles. Tom Caffrey strolled across to the two men.
"How's my patient this morning?" he asked.
"Wolvie's like a new man, sir," Lukins boasted.
"You've done an excellent job, Dan," said Wolverton, returning the mirror. "Are you sure that I can't pay you for the haircut?"
"I wouldn't take a penny from you."
Caffrey was impressed. "I'm glad to see that you two have settled your differences at last," he said. "It's one good thing to come out of that ambush."
"It is, Sergeant," said Wolverton. "I realized just how much I needed Dan—even if he does drive me to distraction sometimes."
"Me?" said Lukins, bending over him. "I'd never upset you, Wolvie. You're my best friend, I swears it. You keeps me sane in this mad'ouse they calls an army." He began to walk away. "Any time you wants a free 'aircut, you just give Dan Lukins a call."
"Take him up on the offer," Caffrey advised with a grin. "The only other free haircut you'd get here is from one of the Indians. How's that arm of yours today?"
"Still throbbing with pain, Sergeant."
"You were lucky that the musket ball didn't shatter a bone."
"I'm more relieved that Dan Lukins is still alive," said Wolverton. "More than half of us who went to Bitter Creek with the major were killed. Dan could so easily have been one of them. I felt such a thrill when I saw him again this morning, that I almost gave him this." He felt in his pocket for something then let out a cry of rage. "He's done it again!" he yelled. "The little devil has stolen my watch!"
Expelled from Skenesborough, the American rebels had been thorough. An army of axmen had worked tirelessly in the forest to make the overland route to Fort Edward completely impassable. Trees had been felled, branches arranged into forbidding lattice works, bridges destroyed, rocks used to block the tracks through the forest. The fort was only twenty-three miles away, but every foot of road would first have to be reclaimed. At one point, a two-mile causeway needed to be constructed across a swamp. British engineers and artificers labored in punitive conditions, supported by Canadian axmen. July rains pelted them and blazing sunshine toasted them. Fresh swarms of insects surged up out of the swamps to get into their noses, mouths, eyes, ears, and clothing. Those who toiled in the humid forest in their woolen uniforms were irresistible targets of blackflies, mosquitoes, deerflies, horseflies, gnats, ants, ticks, and chiggers. Snakes proved particularly unfriendly.
Within a matter of days, surgeons were treating soldiers who had succumbed to dysentery. The disease soon raged. Life in the camp was increasingly unpleasant. Suffocating heat was relieved only by violent storms. There was such a heavy fall of dew and mist each morning that it soaked the blankets on which the soldiers slept. Carving a way through the forest at the hottest time of year seemed to many to be an act of utter madness, a Herculean labor that would hold them up for weeks.
Yet the man who had set it in motion was bubbling with optimism. General Burgoyne gave every appearance of enjoying his enforced stay at Skenesborough. His accommodation was comfortable, his champagne and claret in good supply, and his mistress extremely compliant. Dining every day with his officers and gambling every night with the chosen few, he felt able to make the best of the situation. Summoned by the general one morning, Skoyles found him as cheerful as ever. They met in the room where the coffin of Colonel Skene's mother remained defiantly above ground.
"You were quite wrong to advocate Lake George," said Burgoyne.
"Was I, General?"
"I received a letter from General Phillips today. They're having an infernal time, trying to haul the gunboats, bateaux, and artillery over the portage from Ticonderoga. Soldiers and prisoners are working all hours."
"Our men fare no better in the forest," Skoyles argued. "If they go forward a mile a day, they feel it's an achievement. It's cost lives already, General, and not only because there are sharpshooters on the prowl. We had two more deaths from fever yesterday."
"Regrettable but unavoidable."
"Traveling by water would have been healthier."
"I'm a soldier, Captain, not a physician. My concern is to reach a destination of my choice at whatever cost. It's a poor commander who turns nursemaid to the lower ranks."
"Perhaps so," said Skoyles, "but we can ill afford to lose men."
Burgoyne nodded. "I agree with you there," he conceded. "We had to leave a garrison at Crown Point and another at Ticonderoga. When I wrote to Governor Carleton to send reinforcements, he replied that his orders did not give him the latitude to do so. Upon my conscience!" he exclaimed, stamping a foot. "Had he let us pursue the rebels last summer, we'd have wiped out this so-called revolution by now. At the very moment when we could have struck hard, we were ordered to abandon the campaign and return to Canada."
Skoyles said nothing. Fond as he was of Burgoyne, he was not blind to the general's love of political intrigue. Skoyles was convinced that Burgoyne had used the failure of the British invasion the previous year as a means of discrediting Sir Guy Carleton in London. It was the main reason why Gentleman Johnny had replaced his former commander. Skoyles found Burgoyne a more likable and approachable man but he felt that Carleton had been badly treated by politicians who viewed the situation from a distance that was bound to distort it. Military honor—Skoyles had long ago discovered—was a matter of perception rather than actuality.
"I have some more work for you and my telescope," said Burgoyne.
"What are my orders, sir?"
"To make your way to Fort Anne, take note of its defenses, then move on to take a closer look at Fort Edward. If my reports are correct, General Schuyler is still there."
"Why do you need to send me?" Skoyles asked. "We already have scouting parties moving south."
"Yes," said Burgoyne, frowning. "Indians who wantonly disobey my instructions. They'd sooner loot a farm or take scalps from harmless civilians than gather intelligence. They're beginning to be more trouble than they're worth."
"I couldn't speak more highly of the men at Bitter Creek, sir."
"They seem to have been the exception to the rule. You did well there, Captain. And I've not forgotten the vital information you gave us about Mount Defiance. That's why I've selected you for this task."
"Do I travel alone?"
"That's up to you."
"If he's available, I'd like to take Redsnake. I trust him."
"Make what arrangements you will. Of course," he went on with a sly grin, "it does mean that we'll miss the pleasure of your company at the card table for a while but that might enable someone else to win."
"Much as I love cards," said Skoyles, "I prefer action in the field."
"Spoken like a true soldier!"
"When do I leave?"
"As soon as I can find my telescope," said Burgoyne. "Try to bring it back without any dents in it this time."
He searched among the piles of papers on the table until the instrument came to light. Burgoyne took a handkerchief from his sleeve to polish it slightly before he handed it over.
"Thank you, sir," said Skoyles. A thought nudged him. "Might I ask if there's any word of Miss Rainham? I've not seen her since we returned from Bitter Creek a few days ago. How is she, General?"
"Damnably grateful to you, Captain."
"The lady went through a terrible ordeal."
"That can be laid partly at my door," Burgoyne confessed. "I shouldn't have encouraged her to visit her uncle like that. Colonel Skene led me to believe that there was no risk involved. It seems that things have changed for the worse since he was last living in this area."
"You've spoken to Miss Rainham?"
"Yes, yes. She and Major Featherstone dined with me yesterday. Brave young lady. Held up well. You'd never have guessed that she'd endured such suffering. Not surprising to me, of course," he said. "Good breeding. Elizabeth is the daughter of Richard Rainham—an exemplary soldier. Resilience is a family trait."
Skoyles fished gently for information. "There's a rumor that we might have a wedding when we reach Albany," he said, artlessly. "Is that true, General?"
"You'll have to ask Harry Featherstone about that. It's his idea, and who can blame him? His bride-to-be has come all this way to be with him, and he's unable to do more than escort her to dinner. Harry's always been a red-blooded fellow," said Burgoyne, admiringly. "Understandable that he'd like to spend the night with his wife."
"But we're still in the middle of a campaign."
"By the time we reach Albany, it should effectively be over."
"Only if Brigadier St. Leger meets us there."
"Oh, I've no worries on that score," said the other blithely. "Barry St. Leger will do exactly what's expected of him. When he's reduced the forts in his path, he'll sail on down the Hudson River to join us at Albany with the forces we expect from New York City."
"Has General Howe dispatched an army yet, sir?"
"Probably."
"Have you had no confirmation of the fact?"
"I expect it every day, Captain. As you know, letters have difficulty getting through enemy territory. That's why more than one messenger is sent. General Howe will not let us down, I assure you," said Burgoyne with confidence. "Word will reach us at any moment."
The messenger had reached Albany before he was stopped by a patrol from the Continental Army. He tried to bluff his way past them in vain. The lieutenant in charge of the patrol ordered the man to dismount so that he could be searched. Fearing that he would be caught with vital intelligence on him, the messenger slipped something into his mouth. The lieutenant's suspicions were aroused. From the saddlebag of his horse, he took out a bottle that he kept for such occasions.
"Hold him tight and give him some of this," he said. "We'll get the truth out of one end of him or another."
Grabbed by two men, the prisoner was forced to drink the strong emetic. It soon had an effect. He began to retch violently and spewed the contents of his stomach on the ground. The men released him to search the vomit but the messenger moved quicker than they did. Retrieving the object that he had swallowed earlier, he popped it back in his mouth and tried to make a run for it. He was caught immediately.
"Give him a larger dose this time," the lieutenant ordered.
The man struggled hard and three soldiers had to hold him on the ground while a fourth poured the liquid down his throat. It was not long before the prisoner went into convulsions. He puked uncontrollably. The lieutenant seized the tiny silver bullet that had been regurgitated. When he had cleaned it off, he realized that it was hollow. Inside it, he found a piece of paper that contained the most startling news.
"General Howe is sailing to Philadelphia!" he announced. "He's not bringing his army to Albany, after all. Burgoyne is on his own."
They hanged the messenger by way of celebration.