Saratoga (3 page)

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.