Valley Forge (8 page)

"Because I have never seen you before in my life," said Hughes brusquely. "And since you make such preposterous assumptions about me, I hope never to set eyes on you again. Away with you."

"But I was told that you've heard of me."

"Indeed?"

"And that you would be glad of my assistance."

"My wife and I can run this place quite well on our own."

"I'm not talking about the bookshop," said the visitor. "I am Ezekiel Proudfoot. Does that name mean anything to you?"

"Should it?"

"I'm a silversmith and engraver."

The bookseller looked mystified. "Ezekiel Proudfoot?"

"Standing before you, Mr. Hughes."

"How do I know that?"

"Because I just told you. I am he."

"Any fool could walk in from the street and pretend that."

"I am Ezekiel Proudfoot," the other insisted, "and I can prove it." He undid the strap on the satchel that hung from his shoulder. "I have my engraving tools with me. You can examine them."

"There are lots of silversmiths in Philadelphia. Each one of them has a set of tools. I do not accept those as proof of identity."

"You must, Mr. Hughes."

"I sense that you may be an impostor."

"An impostor!" Proudfoot exclaimed with an edge of desperation in his voice. "Why should I try to deceive you? There must be some way that I can convince you who I am."

"There is, sir."

Hughes got to his feet again, crossed to the table, and opened a drawer in it. He took out a sheet of paper and handed it to Proudfoot.

"What's this for?" asked the other.

"Draw."

"Why?"

"Draw," Hughes ordered. "I know a little about this Ezekiel Proudfoot. I've seen his prints. He has a very distinctive style. Let me see if you can match his skills."

"What must I draw?"

"The first thing that comes into your mind."

Taking out a pencil, Proudfoot put his satchel on the floor, then bent over the table. His hand moved quickly and fluently over the paper. Pearsall Hughes, meanwhile, sauntered across to the door and locked it so that nobody else could disturb them. He waited until his visitor had finished, then took the drawing from him. The portrait of George Washington was remarkably lifelike. After one glance at it, the bookseller's manner changed completely.

He offered a flabby hand. "Welcome to my shop, sir."

"A moment ago, you were about to throw me out."

"That was before I realized who you really were, Mr. Proudfoot. This sketch of yours has persuaded me completely. Nobody else but you could have drawn it."

"Why were you so hostile to me?"

"I'm suspicious of anyone who walks in here and makes such a bold claim as
you did. The city is full of spies. You would not have been the first person who used the name of George Washington in the hope of tricking me into declaring my sympathies." He beamed at the other man and pumped his hand. "I am sorry that I was inhospitable."

Proudfoot relaxed. "I'm so grateful to learn the truth."

"Then learn something else. Be more discreet. Never use names, least of all that of our revered commander. It will give you away at once. When you are in Philadelphia, you are a Tory."

"I'll remember that."

"Befriend the British troops. It's the best way to gain intelligence."

"And the newspaper?"

"All in good time," whispered Hughes, a finger to his lips. "Let's get more closely acquainted before we touch on that. When did you last eat?"

"Yesterday."

"No breakfast?"

"Not so far."

"My wife will make you some food at once."

"I don't wish to put her to any trouble."

"Miranda will be more than happy to prepare you a meal." Hughes tugged at a bookcase and it swung forward on hinges to reveal a doorway. "Come and meet her, Ezekiel Proudfoot."

The farther they sailed down the Charles River, the more signs of life they saw. It was not just the appearance of other craft heading for the sea. There were gulls wheeling in the sky, ducks swimming in the shallows, and cows in the fields, waiting to be milked. As the fisherman had predicted, it was a clear day. He was still at the tiller, pulling on his pipe and steering his boat in midstream. Tom Caffrey sat with his arm around Polly Bragg, wondering how on earth she had managed to doze off while he was kept so wide-awake. He was more concerned about her safety than his own, and was having second thoughts about the wisdom of bringing her on what was bound to be a hazardous journey.

The other passengers were now in the stern of the boat. Elizabeth Rainham nestled against Jamie Skoyles, sad to have left so many good friends behind her but relieved that she was sailing away at last from Major Harry Featherstone.

"What will they do?" she asked.

"Who?"

"The people who discover that we've gone."

"Our disappearance will be duly reported," said Skoyles, "and our names added to the list of deserters. We're not the first to run away, by any means, and—when it becomes clear that our army will be kept here as prisoners of war in defiance of the agreed terms—there'll be a lot more people searching for a means to escape."

"Do you really think that we'll get to New York, Jamie?"

"We have to."

"It's such a long way."

"Would you rather stay in that crowded attic?"

"No!" she said with a shiver. "It was gruesome."

"There were no featherbeds in the barracks either."

"It was just as bad for the German troops on Winter Hill. According to Baroness von Riedesel, they were treated no better than animals."

"It can only get worse," said Skoyles. "Provisions are running low."

Elizabeth let out a squeal of surprise as a little water came over the gunwales and wet her feet. They had reached the mouth of the river now and had to contend with the rolling waves of the bay. The increased undulations brought Polly Bragg awake and made Elizabeth cling more tightly to Skoyles. The sun was lifting above the horizon and throwing dazzling patterns across the green sea.

As their gaze traveled over the wide expanse of Boston Harbor, they saw boats and ships of every kind and size. A harbor that had once been occupied by a menacing British navy was now filled with rebel craft. Frigates, schooners, sloops, brigantines, cutters, and galleys lay at anchor. Gondolas and pinnaces bobbed on the waves. The fleet was nowhere near as large or as imposing as its British counterpart, but it gave the rebel stronghold a feeling of reassurance.

The women were still trying to adjust to the unruly movements of the sloop, but Skoyles had noticed something. A line of vessels was blocking the entrance to Boston harbor.

"That explains it," he said.

"Explains what?" asked Caffrey.

"Why the transports failed to arrive from New York. Look at those frigates
guarding the harbor, Tom. They've been put there to turn away any British ships. The likelihood is that they've already done so."

"Then there's no hope of the army being allowed back home?"

"They can't sail without ships."

Caffrey was bitter. "I wonder if they ever intended to release us?"

"I'm sure that General Gates did when he drew up the terms of the convention. His superiors obviously thought he was too lenient. They won't let us off the hook so easily." Skoyles surveyed the panorama before them. "This is where it all began," he said.

"What?"

"The war."

"Well, I wish they hadn't brought us to fight in it."

"You're a soldier, Tom. You thrive on combat."

"Only when I happen to be on the winning side."

"That time will come again."

"If we ever get off this boat alive!"

Caffrey grabbed the gunwale to steady himself. Though the fisherman was doing his best to keep the boat on an even keel, it was starting to tilt and buck. The swell combined with a gusting wind to remind the passengers that their voyage would not be an easy one. Water splashed into the boat, spray moistened their faces, and the mast creaked more noisily then ever. As the sail was buffeted by a fresh gust, Caffrey had to shout in order to be heard.

"Is it always this bad?"

Mears cackled. "Do you call this bad?"

"That's what my stomach is telling me," Caffrey complained.

"This is like a duck pond."

"Then I'd hate to be a duck!"

"You'll get used to it, Tom," said Skoyles.

"Not me. I'm a landlubber."

"This is nothing. We're still in the harbor."

"Yes," said Mears cheerily "Wait until we're clear of the Charleston Peninsula and Boston Harbor. Then you'll really get to see what the Atlantic Ocean can do."

Caffrey shuddered. "I'm not sure that I want to," he said.

"I'll make a sailor of you, Sergeant."

"As long as you keep me out of the water."

"I've never lost a passenger yet," Mears told him, then his face split into a wicked grin. "Not unless it was deliberate."

Miranda Hughes was an unexpected partner for the rotund bookseller. She was short, delicate, and soft-spoken, a gracious, middle-aged lady who gave Ezekiel Proudfoot a much warmer welcome than he had first received from her husband. Wearing a pretty blue dress with a hoop skirt, she had the kind of slender waist that needed no corset. Though they had a maid who helped with the cooking, Miranda insisted on preparing some breakfast for their visitor. It was only when he was eating it that Proudfoot realized how hungry he had been. They were in a room at the rear of the shop that served both as dining room and as a storage place for books.

"This is so kind of you, Mrs. Hughes," said Proudfoot.

"It's my pleasure," she replied. "It's such a treat for us to have the famous Ezekiel Proudfoot in our house."

"Famous or infamous?"

"A good question."

"Famous to all true Americans," said Hughes. "Infamous to the British army and the Tories. They would dearly love to catch you."

"Have my prints aroused so much enmity?" asked Proudfoot.

"Yes. That shows how effective they are."

"Good."

When Proudfoot had finished his meal, Miranda cleared the plate away, then returned almost immediately. She snapped her fingers.

"We must find a new name for you," she decided.

"Why?"

"Because your own could get you hanged."

"Am I really in such danger?" said Proudfoot.

"If your identity becomes known."

"Miranda is quite right," said Hughes peremptorily. "You must be baptized afresh, my friend. What shall we call you?"

"Choose a simple name. It's easier to remember."

"Then I have just the one," said Proudfoot. "I've a cousin in Boston named Reece, and another whose Christian name is Allen. Put the two of them together and we have Reece Allen."

"Reece Allen," she repeated. "Yes, I like that."

"From now on, that's what we shall call you," said Hughes.

"This is an extraordinary bookshop," remarked Proudfoot with amusement. "I come in hungry and walk out fed. I arrive with one name and leave with another. What other transformations will there be?"

"Only time will tell, Reece."

Proudfoot liked them. The more he heard about Pearsall and Miranda Hughes, the more unconventional they seemed as a couple. The wife was by no means confined to domestic duties. Miranda was an astute woman, who had once edited a newspaper in Baltimore and who now lent her journalistic talents to the cause of independence. It emerged that they had five children, a surprise to Proudfoot, who found it hard to imagine how two people of such dramatically contrasting sizes could produce any progeny between them. Miranda seemed too small and fragile to contemplate motherhood, and Hughes looked as if he would prefer to read a book in bed rather than sire a child.

They were enjoying a leisurely conversation when, without any warning, Hughes fired a direct question at their guest.

"What did you say your name was?" he demanded.

"Ezekiel Proudfoot." He bit his lip. "Oh, no," he said, annoyed that he had been caught out so easily. "It should be Reece Allen."

"Remember that."

"I will, Mr. Hughes."

"It could be the difference between life and death."

"Then I won't make that mistake again."

"Where will Reece stay?" asked Miranda.

"We'll find him somewhere, my dear. Meanwhile, I daresay that there are a few questions that he'd like to ask us. Is that not so, Reece?"

"It is," said Proudfoot. "I've been sent here to work on a newspaper, but I don't even know what it's called."

"
The Pennsylvania Patriot
."

"How often is it published?"

"Once a week at least."

"At least?"

"If events justify it, we sometimes produce a special issue."

"On what day of the week does it normally come out?"

"No specific day," Miranda explained. "We change the day of publication
regularly in order to confuse our enemies. If they knew that it was issued on the same day every week, they would be waiting to see how it was distributed."

"And how is that done?"

"We have a system."

"But there's no need for you to know what it is," said Hughes blandly. "The less you know about that side of it, the better. Secrecy is our watchword, Mr. Allen. Complete secrecy."

"I understand, Mr. Hughes."

"All that need concern you is the
Patriot
. It's the sole reason you're here. You supply the pictures, we write the words."

"While we're on that subject," said Proudfoot, "I have a few comments to pass on from General Washington."

"Comments?"

"Suggestions about what you might put in the newspaper."

"Keep them to yourself."

"Why?"

"Because
we
decide what goes into print, Mr. Allen."

"Naturally."

"An editor needs complete authority."

"General Washington is surely entitled to express a view."

"Of course," said Hughes, striking a combative pose, "but we are equally entitled to ignore it. Miranda and I would never dare to tell him how to fight a battle. By the same token, we do not feel that we need his advice—or anyone else's for that matter—on how to wage war in print."