Valley Forge (30 page)

One hand to his aching head, Ira Bedford came swaying drunkenly through the trees. He looked down at the motionless bodies.

"Have you killed them?" he cried in dismay.

"No," said Skoyles, "but the next time they cross my path, I will."

And he rode off hell for leather toward Philadelphia.

"When was this?" asked Pearsall Hughes, hoarse with anxiety.

"A couple of hours ago," said Proudfoot.

"And where is Adam now?"

"Still in custody. I was lucky that they didn't keep me locked up as well. We were caught like fish in a net, Mr. Hughes," he went on. "There was no hope of escape. When they discovered those plates up the chimney, I knew we were done for."

After his release, Ezekiel Proudfoot had hurried to the bookshop and interrupted a family gathering. Hughes and his wife took their visitor into the kitchen so that they could talk in private. Sounds of jollity came from the drawing room to provide an incongruous descant to the solemn discussion that was taking place.

"How ever did they find the press?" asked Miranda Hughes.

"By accident," said her husband. "It was so well hidden."

"It was no accident," Proudfoot corrected him. "Lieutenant Orde boasted about it to me. When he couldn't locate the press with a series of random searches, he tried something else. He began to look for the source of our paper, and he eventually ran our supplier to earth."

"Linus Arrowsmith," said Miranda with sadness.

"Yes," Hughes added. "Linus is the one owner of a paper mill in Philadelphia who is not a Tory. Ironic, isn't it? This city is the center of the papermaking industry, yet nobody else would dream of providing us with paper on which to print the
Patriot
."

"Linus would never give us away, Pearsall."

"He's like Adam Quenby—he'd die sooner than betray us."

"It was one of the men who worked for Mr. Arrowsmith," Proudfoot explained. "He actually delivered the paper to us, so he knew the house where the press was kept. Lieutenant Orde bribed the fellow."

"Traitor!"

"What will happen to Linus?" wondered Miranda.

"I have no idea, Mrs. Hughes," said Proudfoot.

"If they know he was our supplier, he'll surely be arrested."

"That may well be the case. I just wanted to tell you what happened and warn you to be on guard."

"Why is that, Mr. Allen?" said Hughes.

"Because I had to use your name," replied Proudfoot, "and there's a possibility that someone may come here to ask questions about me. I told the lieutenant that you were one of the few people in the city whom I'd met, and that you would identify me as Reece Allen."

"Gladly. Did you tell them how we met?"

"I said that I came to the shop, looking for books about farming."

"Then that's the same tale
I'll
tell, if it comes to it."

"Thank you, Mr. Hughes."

"You be on your way, Mr. Allen," urged Miranda. "I think that you're very wise to get out of the city for a while."

"We'll be in touch," said Hughes. "Once we find another press, we'll start to print the
Patriot
once more."

Proudfoot waved a farewell. "Count on me for another lampoon."

"Thank you for the warning, Mr. Allen."

"Yes," said Miranda. "God bless you!"

It was only as he was taking his leave of them that Proudfoot realized how fond he was of the bookseller and his wife. In spite of their many eccentricities, they were a wholly admirable couple, brave, talented, and dedicated to the notion of a republic. As he strode briskly along the street, Proudfoot
hoped that it would not be too long before he was able to see them again. No such hopes could be entertained about Adam Quenby. Since he had played a crucial role in the publication of the newspaper, summary execution would soon follow. Deeply upset at the prospect, Proudfoot felt that the best way to serve the printer's memory was to ensure that
The Pennsylvania Patriot
was soon revived.

Acutely aware that he was still in danger himself, he hurried on. When he got back to the King George Tavern, he found the landlord waiting for him. Washing his hands more strenuously than ever, Henry Gilby followed him up the stairs and into his room. The first thing that Proudfoot did was to reach under the bed and take out the satchel that was concealed there. His engraving tools were untouched.

"They told me that you'd been arrested," said Gilby worriedly.

"Yes," replied Proudfoot. "Fortunately, they let me go. I've decided to leave the city while I still can."

"Very wise, Mr. Allen. What about our mutual friend?"

"I've spoken to him."

"Good."

"How many redcoats came here?"

"Three," said Gilby. "They demanded to search your room."

"Then why didn't they find my satchel?"

"I can't answer that, sir."

"They must have looked under the bed."

"They did. I was there when they conducted their search."

"Then how did they miss this?" said Proudfoot, tapping his satchel.

"Very easily."

"Were all three of them
blind?
"

"No, Mr. Allen," said the landlord. "They were simply misled."

"Misled?"

"Yes. When they burst into my tavern and ordered me to take them to the room occupied by Reece Allen, I showed them to the one that you had on your
first
visit here." He grinned happily. "It's further along the landing. I gave you a different room this time."

"Thank heaven you did, Mr. Gilby!"

"The gentleman staying in there at the moment is a merchant from
Brunswick, New Jersey. They found nothing in his belongings that made them suspicious."

Proudfoot shook his hand. "That was very clever of you."

"You learn a few tricks in my occupation, sir."

"I can't tell you how grateful I am, Mr. Gilby."

"Shall we see you back here some day?" said the landlord.

"Oh, yes," promised the other. "But not until you change the name of the tavern and burn that detestable signboard. King George will not rule over this city forever. You have my word on that."

By the time Jamie Skoyles got back to Philadelphia, it was early evening and darkness was falling. Tired and bruised after the day's escapades, he first rode to his lodging so that he could wash off the dust of travel and change into his uniform. The more he thought about the three men who had ambushed him, the angrier he got. Soldiers on both sides were risking their lives every day. Thousands had died, others had been hideously maimed. All that Jack Bedford and his confederates saw in the war was an opportunity for profit, rounding up those who felt compelled to desert and taking them back to certain and ignominious death. Skoyles had nothing but contempt for such ruthless parasites.

General Howe had insisted on hearing any new intelligence as soon as possible. Skoyles therefore went off to call on him, even though he expected that the commander would still be celebrating Christmas. He found Howe in his headquarters, sharing a drink with Hugh Orde and smiling with delight as if he had just won a major battle. Howe rushed across the room to greet the newcomer.

"Come in, Captain," he said cordially. "We've splendid tidings."

"Really, sir?"

"Lieutenant Orde will tell you his news. He's done it at last."

"Yes," said Orde, pleased at the opportunity to earn more praise. "I managed to track down the press on which that deplorable newspaper,
The Pennsylvania Patriot
, was printed. The odious publication is no more. The printer—one Adam Quenby—is locked up in chains."

"Well done, Lieutenant," said Skoyles.

"Thank you."

"How did you discover the location of the press?"

Orde went on to repeat what he had told General Howe, gaining a fresh batch of compliments from his happy commander. Skoyles was interested to hear that two people had been arrested in the cellar.

"Who was the second man?" he asked.

"Mr. Reece Allen," said the lieutenant.

"Was he the editor?"

"Alas, no. That villain is still on the loose."

"We'll soon catch him," Howe affirmed confidently.

"Mr. Allen is a farmer from Massachusetts," continued Orde. "He's the nephew of the printer. He's in the city because he wishes to buy land in the vicinity. His wife hails from Reading, it seems, and has always wanted to return to Pennsylvania." He hunched his soldiers. "It was a big disappointment, really."

"Why is that?" said Skoyles.

"Because I had the feeling that he might be Ezekiel Proudfoot."

"Oh?"

"What a stroke of good fortune that would have been!"

"Yes," said Howe. "I could have hanged him beside the printer and danced around the pair of them with glee. Proudfoot is the man I despise most. The insolent rogue had the gall to ridicule me, and nobody does that with impunity."

"I'll get him one day, General," said Orde.

Skoyles was curious. "What made you think that you'd already done so, Lieutenant? Was it because you found him in that cellar?"

"It was the fact that he tried to run away."

"Did he have an explanation for that?"

"Yes, Captain. He said that his uncle bundled him out of there because he knew that he was in trouble himself, and did not wish his nephew to be arrested as well, when he was in no way connected to the newspaper."

"Can you give me a description of Reece Allen?"

"Why do you ask that?" said Howe.

"Because I once caught a glimpse of Ezekiel Proudfoot," said Skoyles, careful once again not to reveal that he and Proudfoot were old friends. "He
was captured at the battle of Hubbardton, and we held him prisoner for a short while until he escaped."

"Reece Allen did not look like a silversmith," admitted Orde. "He was a tall, rangy, round-shouldered man with a pockmarked face."

"Age?"

"In his thirties."

"What color hair?"

"Brown."

It sounded remarkably like a description of Ezekiel Proudfoot, but Skoyles did not say so. He needed more detail to be certain.

"You say that he was a farmer, Lieutenant?"

"Yes," answered Orde. "He grew up on a farm in Massachussetts—no question about that. He told me how they grew crops and raised cattle. When his father died, his elder brother inherited the farm. Allen was left some money, and he was going to use that to buy his own land and start up in Pennsylvania."

"Did he happen to mention his brother's name?" said Skoyles.

"He did, Captain. I think it was Silas."

"Are you sure about that?"

Orde thought it over. "Yes," he said, "I'm certain of it."

Skoyles was convinced. Having heard the name, he knew that Reece Allen was indeed Ezekiel Proudfoot. Of the three brothers, Silas was the eldest and the one in line to take over the farm. Skoyles had met the whole family when he had been billeted with them, as an untried young soldier, during the French and Indian War. Ezekiel had been his best friend. Reuben, the youngest of the brothers, had fought for the rebels in a Massachusetts regiment and died at the battle of Bemis Heights. It still troubled Skoyles greatly that he had been the one who killed him. As a result, his involvement with the Proudfoot family had taken on a new resonance.

"Well, Captain?" prompted Howe. "Does it sound like the man?"

"No, sir," said Skoyles.

"Then what did Proudfoot look like?"

"As I said, I only had a brief look at him. All I can remember is that he was of middle height with thick, black hair and a beard."

"Reece Allen had a beard," said Orde. "A brown one."

"Then he is who he says he is."

"A pity."

"Hardly," observed Howe tartly. "You wouldn't want to be told that the man you released earlier today is actually the one we'd most like to capture. That would be unforgivable, Lieutenant."

"Quite, sir," Orde agreed.

"I'm pleased to hear that it never happened."

Skoyles kept silent and wrestled with competing emotions. He was glad that the printing press had been found, and that the newspaper would not be able to direct any more attacks at the British army. At the same time, however, he was relieved that Ezekiel Proudfoot had not been identified. The thought that his friend came so close to being hanged was so disturbing to Skoyles that he had deliberately given a false description of the man. If the silversmith were ever caught again, and stripped of his alias, Skoyles could be called to account for lying to his fellow officers. Yet he did not feel in any way penitent. He wondered why.

"Right," said Howe, clapping his hands. "Lieutenant Orde has brought me some heartening news today. I look to you to do the same, Captain Skoyles. I assume that's why you're here."

"It is, General. I've not long returned from Valley Forge."

Orde was astounded. "You went there on Christmas Day?"

"Yes, Lieutenant, though I was not exactly made welcome."

Skoyles gave them a straightforward recital of the facts, adding no embellishments and saying nothing about his proficiency with the Brown Bess musket. What the general wanted to hear was detail about the encampment and the state of readiness of the Continental Army. For that reason, Skoyles did not touch on his encounter with Jack Bedford and the others. They were scavengers in a war-torn country, and Skoyles had met many like them over the years.

"Thank you, Captain," said Howe when he had heard the report. "I'm sorry that you will henceforth be kept away from Valley Forge, but I'm sure that you will find a way to return there eventually."

"Oh, I will, sir," said Skoyles. "It's simply a question of earning the right to do so in the eyes of the enemy."

"Meanwhile, you need to supply intelligence to them."

"Details that their other spies could not possibly get."

"That will be no problem. Call on me again tomorrow."

"Morning or afternoon, sir?"

"Oh, afternoon," said Howe with a chuckle. "We'll be drinking well into the night. I daresay that you'll be doing the same." He reached for a piece of paper on his desk. "Have you met Captain Tillman yet?"

"No, General."