Authors: David Garland
"Idleness is a vice that nobody could accuse you of, Captain. Some of the details of General Burgoyne's reports are coming back to me," Howe said with a smile. "You fought with distinction at Hubbardton, Bennington, and in both Saratoga battles."
"I was only one of many who did that, General."
"And the moment they imprison you at Cambridge, you not only escape. You somehow contrived to bring a young lady to safety as well."
"There were four of us involved in that escape," Skoyles said with sadness. "Two are still unaccounted for."
"The misfortune of war, Captain Skoyles." He came around the table to stand beside him. "Naturally, we will provide you with plenty of intelligence to feed to the enemy, accurate in some cases, deliberately misleading in others."
"I've done this kind of work before, General."
"Oh?"
"I posed as a new recruit in order to get inside the rebel camp at Bemis Heights. I was so helpful to them that I had the personal approval of General Gates."
"How did you get away afterward?"
"Very quickly, sir."
"I don't blame you," said Howe, chortling. "But we'll need you to stay in place for much longer this time. The rebels have their own spies in Philadelphia, and they are extremely competent. When we tried a surprise attack on Whitemarsh some weeks ago, Washington's men were waiting for us. And when I sent out a foraging expedition yesterday," he went on, grinding his teeth once more, "rebels ambushed one of our detachments and made off with all the animals our men had bought."
"Is that my main aim, sir—to discover who their spies are?"
"It's one of them."
"What are the others?"
"Get as close as possible to General Washington. Find out what his plans are. Search out his weaknesses."
"Yes, sir."
"In a month's time, Valley Forge will be a snowbound wilderness. I want to know how the rebels will survive. I want the numbers of those men fit for service and the details of any desertions. It will be pure hell up there in the dead of winter," said Howe, "and it will be difficult for Washington to maintain his control. His soldiers will complain. His officers will carp and bicker. Bring back any remarks you hear to the detriment of their commander. We may be able to use them."
"I will, sir, though I believe that he still has the full support of his army at this juncture."
"We must alter that situation," insisted Howe. "We must do all we can to blacken the name of George Washington. I made a start when we occupied New York. Do you know what I did?"
"No, sir."
"I commissioned a play in which he appeared. It was a satire called
The Battle of Brooklyn
, and the noble General Washington was shown as a dangerous fanatic, an inveterate whoremonger whose mistress charged him thirty dollars a night for her services."
"But, in truth, he's a man of high moral principle."
"That's an image we must seek to destroy." Howe's wrath stirred. "The rebels have no scruples about traducing
my
character," he said. "They publish
all kinds of lies about me in a disgraceful newspaper called
The Pennsylvania Patriot
. That's something else you need to establish."
"What is, General?"
"The name of the editor and the location of the printing press."
"Are they here in Philadelphia?"
"Most certainly. And so is that viper of a silversmith. He is the man I'm most anxious to track down. His name is Ezekiel Proudfoot."
"Proudfoot?" repeated Skoyles with a smile of recognition.
"You know the man?"
"Only by reputation."
"He drew the most offensive cartoon about me."
"He's a talented artist," said Skoyles, pleased to hear that he might meet Proudfoot again, but careful to hide the fact that they were friends. "I've seen a lot of his work."
"I've seen far too much of it," said Howe.
"And you think that he is in the city as well?"
"He must be, Captain Skoyles."
"How do you know?"
"Because I can
smell
the rogue."
"You want me to find out his whereabouts?"
"I want you to do far more than that."
"Oh?"
"I want you to discover where Ezekiel Proudfoot is hiding," said Howe vengefully, "then cut off both his hands."
When he finally got back to Valley Forge, looking tired and travel-stained, Major John Clark reported at once to his commander at headquarters. Washington could see the fatigue etched into his features.
"You push yourself too hard, Major," he said.
"Circumstance demands it."
"You go to and from Philadelphia far too often."
"My horse picked up a stone and went lame," Clark explained. "I had to walk most of the way. What's a mere twenty miles?"
"Enough to wear out any man. Tell me your news."
They were inside the room that the commander used as his office, and Clark was relieved to be sitting down at last. Having made contact with most of his agents in Philadelphia, he was able to pass on a lot of intelligence. Most of it depressed Washington—especially that fact that the British army was ever more comfortably ensconced in the city—but some of the tidings brought pleasure. The general laughed aloud when he heard how upset General Howe had been at the ambush of one of his foraging parties.
"How much did our men get exactly?" asked Clark.
"Plenty of hay, for a start. Our horses were in sore need of that."
"What else?"
"About forty animals and dozens of chickens."
"A tidy amount."
"Not when we have to feed nearly twelve thousand men," said Washington, shaking his head, "though that number is slowly decreasing."
"More desertions and soldiers on furlough?"
"Disease is turning out to be another worry, Major. When you pack so many men together, sickness spreads more easily. Typhoid, typhus, dysentery, and pneumonia can be killers if patients do not get good medical attention. We've had to transfer some of our worst cases to hospitals in places like Yellow Springs, Ephrata, and Bethlehem."
"What about smallpox, sir?"
"The situation is more encouraging there."
"How many men have been inoculated?"
"About a third of our army," Washington told him. "Many of them were skeptical about the whole notion, but one prick of a needle may save their lives. A smallpox epidemic in camp would be a catastrophe."
"We must keep our men fit enough to fight."
"I need to keep
you
healthy as well, Major. The man who controls our intelligence operation is far more important than a private soldier."
Clark smiled bravely. "I'll be fine when I've rested, sir."
"Have some of our meat while it's still available."
"Yes, please," said the other, licking his lips. "But you've not been sitting on your hands here, I see. In the short time I was away, you've established some more signal trees. I noticed them as I came toward the camp."
"Lookout posts are vital," Washington emphasized, "which is why those lines of chestnut trees are a boon to us. We cut out the tops and install a platform
instead. From a tree on the summit of Mount Joy, a lookout can see for miles and send a signal to the next post."
"It must be freezing up there in those trees—especially at night."
"The posts must be manned twenty-four hours a day."
"The men will be blocks of ice," said Clark, with compassion. "Sentry duty is likely to produce even more deserters in due course."
Washington was crisp. "They know the punishment. If enlisted soldiers try to leave Valley Forge, they'll be shot or hanged. And I'll not hold back from flogging any malingerers, either. We must exert control. But," he went on, adopting a more pleasant tone, "let's talk of other things. Did you see Ezekiel Proudfoot in Philadelphia?"
"No, sir."
"But I thought the two of you entered the city together."
"I traveled with a man named Reece Allen."
"My apologies," said Washington with a half smile. "I'd forgotten that our silversmith has been christened again. How is Mr. Allen?"
"To be frank," admitted Clark, "I'm rather worried about him."
"Worried?"
"The work he does for the newspaper is above reproach, and they are delighted to have him. Pearsall Hughes described him as a blessing from above, and there very few people who earn that kind of comment from our pugnacious bookseller."
"So why do you have qualms about Mr. Allen?"
"He has had no experience of this kind of work."
"Nobody had until the war broke out, Major."
"I agree," said Clark, "but some take to it more naturally than others. Reece Allen is a silversmith and not a trained spy. My fear is that he may sooner or later give himself away."
"Not if Pearsall Hughes keeps an eye on him."
"He's being protected by Pontius Pilate as well."
"Who?"
"The landlord of the King George Tavern, sir. That's his nickname."
"I hope that's all it is," said Washington. "We don't want any of our sympathizers to wash his hands of the whole business. And I do hope that your fears about Reece Allen are groundless. He's already fired one artistic broadside at General Howe and secured a direct hit."
"He was working on another when I left."
"Will this one feature the ever-compliant Mrs. Loring?"
"I think not."
"Then what's its subject?"
"Brotherhood, sir," replied Clark. "I think that he intends to aim a few barbs at Admiral Howe as well this time."
"Well done, Mr. Allen!" she said. "You excelled yourself."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes."
"I don't believe the cartoon should be confined to the
Patriot
. It should be printed on its own and put up all over Philadelphia."
"With a copy sent to Admiral Howe," Proudfoot suggested.
"Of course."
"See to it, Pearsall," she ordered.
Hughes was jocular. "Your word, Miranda, is my command."
"Mr. Allen will bear witness to that promise."
The three of them were having supper together in a room at the rear of the bookshop. Although no copy of
The Pennsylvania Patriot
was on the premises, Miranda Hughes had seen the latest issue when it first came off the press and she praised Ezekiel Proudfoot's cartoon time and again. Its caption was simple:
Brothers-in-Arms
. Distinguished by his admiral's hat, Richard Howe, the naval commander, was dancing a hornpipe on the deck of a frigate with his brother, General William Howe. Their arms were linked. In the hold below their feet, however, were dozens of rebel prisoners, fettered to iron rings and reduced to skeletons by starvation. In the background, sailors were callously tossing dead Continental soldiers overboard.
The message had an immediate impact. No magnanimity could be expected from the two brothers. Conquest, to them, meant utter subjection. While they did their dance of triumph on a British vessel, American soldiers died in agony beneath them. The success of the Howe brothers was thus built on the bones of prisoners of war. Throughout the thirteen colonies, thousands of families would never see their soldier sons, brothers, or fathers again. They would perish in captivity.
"My article on the state of the prisons will buttress the cartoon," said
Hughes through a mouthful of food. "General Washington has protested strongly, but nothing is done."
"It's heartbreaking," Proudfoot declared. "Congress should send money to alleviate their plight."
"They've done so, Mr. Allen, but it does not reach the prisoners. My guess is that it merely helps to line the pockets of the commissary of prisons—that odious creature, Joshua Loring. How could any man trade his wife for the chance to make money by such squalid means?"
"I trust that
you
would never do so, Pearsall," Miranda teased him.
"Why, has General Howe made advances to you, my dear?"
"Frequently."
"And did you encourage them?"
"Not unless he believes that being hit over the head with the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
can be construed as encouragement. Forgive me, Mr. Allen," she said, a hand on his arm. "I jest. Though we do possess the three-volume encyclopaedia, as it happens. The only set in America. It was published in Scotland a few years ago and is a mine of information."
"So is
The Pennsylvania Patriot
," Hughes noted.
"I could hardly hit General Howe over the head with that."
"Mr. Allen has done so—figuratively speaking."
"Twice in succession."
Proudfoot had never met a married couple like Pearsall and Miranda Hughes. They were stimulating company, bubbling with ideas and taking a delight in verbal fencing. It was a far cry from Proudfoot's own domestic life. His wife and children had been massacred by some of the Hessian soldiers hired by the British army. While she had been alive, however, Selina Proudfoot had been a quiet, conscientious, God-fearing woman whose reading was limited entirely to the Bible. She had not been as educated or outspoken as Miranda Hughes, but her husband had loved her dearly.
"Now, what news on the Rialto?" Hughes asked.
Proudfoot was baffled. "I beg your pardon?"
"My husband was quoting from Shakespeare," Miranda explained.
"
The Merchant of Venice
, in fact." said Hughes. "I wanted to know the tidings from the King George Tavern?"
"It continues to do good business," Proudfoot answered.
"What of Pontius?"
"Still sedulously washing his hands."
"Have you befriended any of the British officers?"
"Yes," said Proudfoot. "There's a lieutenant who can't hold his drink, so I make sure that I buy him plenty of it. When he's in his cups, he'll tell me anything. Most of his news is worthless, but he did mention something of interest about a play—not Shakespeare this time."
"Then who is the author?"
"One of the officers stationed in New York, apparently. It's a play that was staged there with much success."
"Does it have a title?"
"
The Battle of Brooklyn
."
"I can see why it appeals to the British," said Hughes sourly. "They seized Brooklyn Heights and Governors Island so that they were in position to invade Manhattan and capture New York City."