Long Island, August 27th, 1776
Mordecai Gist made a last inspection of the regiment, making sure that each company commander understood his orders and had his men prepared. Although well-drilled and motivated, none of them had seen action before. Without Runyon’s company the First Maryland’s actual strength was now significantly fewer than four hundred officers and men. The increasing musket and artillery fire coming from the direction of Bedford Pass did not bode well. Gist wondered if Runyon’s company was lost for good.
Gist inspected the Light Company last. He did not know much about Creed. A small landholder in western Maryland, somewhat new to America, that was about all he knew for sure. Irish he claimed, but his accent seemed different than most men he had encountered from the Emerald Isle. There were not many Irish in America, which was largely viewed as a place of Protestant refuge where all popery was held in contempt. Still, the Irish had begun to immigrate to America–mostly to Pennsylvania and Maryland. Gist supposed some came to Maryland because it was once a Catholic colony, founded by the Calverts. Gist never inquired as to Creed’s religious affiliation. Nevertheless, he seemed a decent and courageous young man. Gist felt fortunate to have him in the regiment.
“Mister Creed, is your company ready?” Gist asked.
Creed was loading his new Jaeger rifle, replying while he rammed the ball home wrapped in its oiled-cloth patch. “Indeed, sir. I had them fill water bottles, clean and load muskets. Tired as they are, they want to fight.”
“Well that is the important thing, isn’t it?” replied Gist, smiling for the first time that morning. “Holding the right of the line is crucial as the British may try to work around you and into the swamps to flank us. Stirling is determined that we stand and give them a fight. Frankly, I would have pulled back to our main lines. There are several thousand British just a few hundred yards from us. Most of Stirling’s militia units do not even have the bayonet. Without good breast works this could be some bad work we are facing. However, I am convinced the regiment will do its duty.”
Creed nodded as he checked his flint. “These are good men sir. Best men in the army. Sure I want to fight as much as the next man, but squandering troops like this...for nothing...borders on reckless.”
Gist gave him a knowing look and moved on to talk to some of the privates and corporals. After a few minutes of discussion, he returned to Creed. “Look for my signal. I will be between the two center companies. If we redeploy, your company will move first and anchor the next position. I do not know where or when that will be, mind you. That, unfortunately, Stirling will decide. He is a brave officer, but not very subtle or sophisticated in his line of thought, if you know what I mean.”
Gist smiled at his own wit, another of his rare smiles.
Creed smiled back. “Well, sir, he is a Lord.”
The drums began beating and the companies prepared for action, emerging from the thick woods and marching smartly to take battle positions along an open field of tall grass. They formed three deep, their blue coats and white leggings making a colorful contrast to the militia, who wore a motley combination of faded blue, brown, or red. The sun was approaching noon but it steamed rather than burned. Both sides would suffer much from the heat and humidity.
The British artillery picked up the tempo. Most of the heavy iron balls sailed over the Marylanders’ heads, usually bouncing harmlessly off rock and loamy soil, but occasionally crushing an arm or leg of some poor unsuspecting straggler in the rear. The men stood calmly behind some very quickly prepared abates, stacks of fresh cut pine strewn with jagged pieces facing the enemy. A cannon ball ploughed through the company on the left taking off the head of a young soldier and crushing the arm of another. The wounded man screamed in pain and horror as a mate helped him to the rear. That was the hidden danger, Creed thought. Under the stress of combat men sought all sorts of reasons to get out of harm’s way, and helping a wounded comrade offered the perfect convergence of service and preservation. However, it depleted the ranks as quickly as well placed musketry.
Creed stood in front of his company with his hat on as straight as if he were in a parade, ignoring the artillery fire.
Jonathan Beall turned to his cousin, who stood silently at the rear of the formation. “Simon, is it wise for the lieutenant to make such a target of himself?”
The corporal replied. “No, not wise, but necessary. You and I have seen action, but most of the other boys face their first fight. An officer, especially one like Lieutenant Creed, must provide an example to the men. That is why they have more privileges when we are not fighting.”
Jonathan quipped. “Like visiting the lovely lady’s house while we were at bivouac?”
Simon scowled. “Enough of that.”
Creed took this last chance to address his men as a group. “Lads, the recent act of Congress has us now fighting for a nation, not merely a political cause. The stakes are higher now than when we joined the regiment, but they are now higher for those people, as well.” He motioned toward the enemy lines.
“But the British are the paid mercenaries of an unjust king. You fight as free men and for the right to be citizens of a free nation. God has not given me the chance to fight for the land of my birth, but I am grateful to be able to fight for my adopted land and lead such fine men as you.”
Creed then raised his hat over his head and bellowed as if to drown out the sound of the artillery, “For liberty, for Maryland, and...for America!”
Simon Beall led the company in a chorus of huzzahs as Creed took his place in the formation. From across the large Dutch farm field advanced a line of red coats, drums beating and moving smartly–and in step. The Continentals rarely did that under parade conditions, and the militia, never. It impressed the Marylanders, whose constant drilling enabled them to marvel at such discipline in combat, even from an enemy.
Creed called out, “Fire at my command, aim low. After the third volley load your fourth ball with buckshot and fix bayonets. Since you are light infantrymen, the last shot is yours to take.”
“That’s right nice of him. Thank-you Lieutenant,” Jonathan Beall remarked aloud and the entire file broke into laughter.
“Enough of that, boys. We have serious work right now.” Simon Beall called from behind the ranks.
The British advanced two regiments abreast. Each numbered around 400 effectives in ten companies. The lines were two deep, covering the entire field in a sea of red from end to end with the sparkle of sunlight off bayonets and sabers adding to the impressiveness. Although the Marylanders could not see them, another two regiments formed up behind the first echelon. This was the spearhead of General James Grant’s column of 5,000 men. Grant was a cold professional who had served with Washington in 1758 at Fort Duquesne. He had little regard for colonial troops, like most of the British officers. He now outnumbered Stirling’s Brigade by more than four to one.
The British closed to just under 100 paces from the Americans and then halted to dress ranks. Many of the Americans took that as sign of contempt, not military necessity, and jeers and curses erupted along the lines.
“Damn you lobsters!”
“We came to fight men, not dance with a gang of strumpets!”
The enemy grew closer but the Americans stood silently now. After what seemed an eternity, Gist shouted the order they had waited patiently to hear, “Commence fire!”
Creed responded, “First rank, fire!”
They fired by rank, or line of men, although they formed three deep rather than two like the British whose extensive training and drill afforded them the advantage of forming two deep, thus covering more frontage with fewer men. Forming three ranks narrowed the frontage covered but provided more dense and concentrated fire, essential for effective volleys. The Marylanders fired in order, first rank stepping back, second stepping forward, and followed by the third. Each rank re-loaded as quickly as possible, normally a twenty-second drill.
The British advanced at a slow march, sixty steps per minute, moving to the rhythm of the drums. Clouds of smoke now hung across the front of the Americans but the British marched into it like a Sunday morning stroll. They covered the first eighty paces under a withering fire that despite the blinding smoke dropped almost two score men from the first echelon. At twenty paces out, they lowered their firelocks from shoulder arms to the ready–a wicked line of steel points now aimed at the bellies of the defenders. As one, they gave a shout of “Huzzah” and charged with bayonets at the ready.
They fully expected the Americans to break and run as they had in earlier engagements. Once they broke, it would be a simple affair to chase them down, bayoneting those who did not surrender. But the formation did not advance fast enough and the Americans fired individually as the British veterans attempted to close on them. The defenders shot down most of the British and bayoneted the few who got through. Now it was the British screaming for mercy as the Marylanders surrounded individual soldiers and took them down with a slice of cold steel or a crushing musket blow to the head.
The first British echelon fell back fifty yards to recover and the second echelon regiments pushed through. This time, instead of closing, they halted sixty paces out and commenced a volley fire. For almost fifteen minutes the Marylanders, and the Delawares to their left, exchanged intense fire with the British. Lead balls seemed to fly every direction. On both sides, men keeled over screaming as bone and flesh rent apart from close-range fire. The gun smoke hung heavy and obstructed their line of sight so the fire became less effective with each volley. Creed’s company had lost six men in the short firefight and all along the American line the toll was beginning to show.
Gist turned to a sergeant standing just to his left rear. “Tell Mister Creed to move his company 250 yards north to the high ground and cover the regiment’s movement.”
The sergeant made his way through smoke and fire to find Creed’s position. Creed knew it was time, and gladly withdrew his two platoons one after the other, in alternate bounds, firing a volley each time to hold back the British. The broken ground and small stands of trees to their rear provided good cover and few men were hit.
Once on the high ground, he walked among the men, providing encouragement and instilling confidence.
“This is good ground, lads. From here we can provide cover for the rest of the regiment. Form ranks, two deep. Drink one half cup of your water, no more. Reload and prepare to receive infantry.”
It then occurred to him that he had not used his new toy–the German rifle. He scanned the smoky battlefield for a likely target. At almost 300 yards out, he spotted a juicy one: a British officer riding along the line as if on parade in Hyde Park. Stung by the stout American defense, the British had moved forward slowly to fill the gap where Creed’s men once stood. He had never fired one of these rifles before so he carefully aimed high and to the right to adjust for wind. The bullet went short by half the distance.
Creed looked over at Jonathan Beall, himself the owner of a rifle. “Private Beall, it seems the effective range this German firelock is double the musket–150 yards. Very well then, we will let them get closer.”
The Americans now began to fall back all along the front, some in orderly fashion by companies or platoons, but others with a haphazard desperation that belied the valor they so recently displayed. Several of Creed’s men began to waver, a few looking rearwards for a line of escape. One young man from Poolesville felt the crack of a ham-like fist across his ribs. He bent over double and the same fist grabbed his neck and stood him up.
Simon Beall stared him down. “Planning on a personal retreat, Jenkins?”
“Just seeing who was behind us was all.” The man looked down ashamedly.
Beall glared and bellowed for all to hear. “Nobody goes but where Lieutenant Creed orders! Now stand tall or I’ll ear box all of you!”
Lord Stirling rode along the line exhorting the troops. “Keep your formations, lads. We are going toe to toe with them and we are smashing them right well.”
He had just received word that Sullivan had been defeated at Flatbush and he had an unconfirmed report that Cornwallis had reached the Gowanus Road, a little more than a mile to his rear. The Maryland detachment he sent to aide Sullivan could have been better used right here. He faced a hopeless situation but Stirling determined to give as well as he got.
From the east came the curious mix of heavy fire, bagpipes, and drums. The Hessians and Scots from the Flatbush and Bedford passes were now engaging his left flank. With Grant pressing his front, even the bombastic Stirling had to admit the enemy had him in a tight vice that would soon crush them.
Stirling summoned the commanders of the Maryland and Delaware regiments. “Gentlemen, we are in a real kettle. Lobsters are now a mile to our rear on the Gowanus Road, at Cortelyou House. We cannot hold our front much longer. Sullivan and his brigade no longer exist. Now our left flank is threatened. We are on our own now. “
“Do you suggest surrender?” Gist asked.
“No. Your two regiments must hold a while longer while the remaining militia break up into detachments and try to get back to our lines. The Gowanus salt marsh will channel them toward the British. Some may be able to swim or find drift wood to cross. The rest will have to fight their way through the British. But Gist, a detachment of your men will remain with me.”
Gist stared with a bewilderment that soon turned to anger, then despair.
Stirling looked at him and a sly grin crossed his mouth, “Glory! We will give the British a taste of their own medicine and use the bayonet. We shall drive straight north at the British blocking our way and fight through to General Washington, or die in the attempt. At the least, this will buy time for the rest to get back to our lines.”
Gist looked incredulous. “Sir, your proposal is a shade short of suicide. There must be several thousand British between us and General Washington.”
“And so there are,” answered Stirling smiling grimly, “and so there are. We move out immediately. Gist, form your detachment on me. Have them turn about and form in line of companies. Once we move out, Lieutenant Colonel Smith here will hold the line near the Red Lion Inn with his Delaware lads before pulling back.”
Smith nodded. “Would only that Colonel Haslet were here for this.”
Within minutes, drums were beating and orders shouted up and down the line. The Delawares and remaining militia engaged the British, now pressing from the south and east, just long enough for Stirling to move his unit north toward Cornwallis’ forces. The Maryland detachment, now little more than 250 effectives, deployed in echelon and with flags flying high and drums beating, moved north toward the Cortelyou junction. Once clear, the remaining forces broke up into small packs of soldiers and headed north and west toward the American lines in a frantic race for safety. This soon turned into a rout as over a thousand men left musket, kit and comrade to attend himself. Those wounded or simply not swift enough became easy pickings as the British and Hessians completed their days’ work with butchery as yet unknown in the war.
A column taking sick and wounded back to the American lines was stranded along Porte Road. The chief surgeon and a few aides walked among wounded and sick who had been thrown helter-skelter into carts and wagons for the hot and bumpy ride back. Moans of pain and thirst, cries for home, God, or mother drowned out sounds of war that grew increasingly closer. Most of the drivers had abandoned them when the British attacked. Now the surgeon had but a few volunteers from the ranks to assist. Private Jorns lay in one such cart fighting a fever. His leg had stopped bleeding but had grown swollen with pus and fluid that made the slightest movement painful.
Suddenly a group of three New York militiamen trotted up the road minus their weapons and hats. The surgeon called to them. “Hey there, boys–I need help moving these sick and wounded.”
A small, skinny man waved him off. “Forget them, sawbones. Run for your own life–the lobsters is right behind us!”
A pop, pop of musket fire erupted from the wood line and a platoon of twenty kilted Highlanders emerged. Roaring and howling like madmen, they charged towards the line of carts along the road.
The surgeon raised his hands in supplication as the line reached him. “Nothing but sick and wounded here, we are at your...”
A grinning sergeant swung a broad claymore down on the surgeon, slicing the surgeon’s head open like an apple. Before the body tumbled to the ground the sergeant and his men were among the wagons, bayoneting and stabbing the hapless invalids and ransacking the corpses for loot. Men yelled for mercy and a few tried to resist but most were resigned to their fate and meekly submitted to the slaughter.
Two Highlanders reached the cart where Jorns lay trussed-up against the corner holding his haversack flush against his side.
One barked at Jorns while eyeing his haversack. “Must have the King’s jewels in there, eh? Alright man, give it up and we’ll be quick about it.”
Jorns’ anger abated his fever just enough for him to smile back at his assailants. “Fine talk for someone wearing a dress now, ain’t it? Well, come take it and do your worst, you damned lobsters.”
The Highlander frowned. “Why, I’ll skewer you good, Jimmie rebel.”
He lifted his musket high over his head to drive its seventeen inch blade into Jorns. As he his arms came down, Jorns opened his sack and grabbed the pistol he had stolen from an officer back in New Jersey. Before the blade could strike, he pulled the trigger and the lead ball slammed into the Highlander’s chest, sending him tumbling backwards and dropping his musket onto Jorns’ lap. The pain caused by the impact on his infected leg nearly caused him to pass out but he gathered the weapon and fought off the angry slashes and stabs of the other Scotsman.
“Damn you, rebel!” He cried. “You have slashed me!” Blood oozed from a wicked bone cut to the soldier’s arm. Jorns pulled the trigger of the musket and the weapon discharged into the face of the Highlander.
Jorns never saw the sergeant approach the cart. The claymore came down in a ferocious strike that sent Jorns’ head skipping along the dusty road. The rebel hospital had fallen to His Majesty’s forces.
* * *
Lord Stirling led Major Gist and the Marylanders north toward the Cortelyou House to strike Cornwallis’ troops. There would be no time for volley fire. Each man had one musket ball loaded and his bayonet fixed.
“Forward! And give them cold steel!” cried Stirling shrilly, his voice cracking not from fear but from thirst and excitement.
Gist signaled his men forward, up a narrow sunken lane lined with fruit trees. Simon Beall breathed deeply and caught the scent of apple buds just springing into bloom. For a fleeting second the scent flooded his mind with a thousand thoughts of home. The sounds from the hell waiting up ahead snapped him back to the grim world that currently held him.
Gist’s force moved up four companies strong and fanned out into line of battle. Jonathan Beall marveled at how this resembled a parade drill with lines of men and stirring music. Then the rolling British volleys drowned out the music except for the constant beat of the drums. Creed’s company now anchored the left of the Maryland line, which was two deep and over five score across.
They advanced at a brisk pace, the regimental flags now cased, but officers out front, non-commissioned officers to the rear. To Creed this fight seemed more like a battle on the plains of Europe than the typical skirmishes in thick woods and deep forests of America. The rolling farmland of western Long Island looked more like southern England or parts of France than most of the rugged new world.
They had less than a mile to cover to reach Cortelyou House. However, before they went half the distance a pair of cannon bombarded their flank while skirmishers opened fire across their front. Men began to drop, clutching frantically as British musket balls tore through their limbs and bodies but mostly heads. Few who fell would ever rise again. Still, the formation kept moving right into the jaws of the awesome fire.
Behind them they could hear Grant’s column overrunning the few Americans still holding the line. Creed began to think through the situation. They were a forlorn hope, but he determined that he would get his company through it somehow. His mind raced to come up with a solution and, as he scanned the field towards the northwest, he came on one.
Creed’s company was closest to the American lines–which lay to the north and west, just over Gowanus Creek. If they could manage to break through the British near Cortelyou House there was a chance they could fight their way back. However, two regiments of crack British infantry blocked their way, making his solution a risky one at best.
The musket fire grew more intense and the smoke mixed with the sticky air to choke each man and making eyes redden and tear. Controlled volleys had ended. Now both sides resorted to individual fire. Musket balls cracked and whizzed randomly across the front, tearing through branches, leaves and men.
To Simon Beall’s front, one of his best men turned to signal something. Beall saw the man’s eyes widen and a torrent of blood gushed from his breast. He twisted in a slow spiral that sprawled his lifeless form across a gray boulder. Beall’s stomach turned at the sight. He had been a close friend back home but in the shock of combat, he could not recall his name. When Beall passed him, he looked down into his friend’s once cheerful face now staring blankly into the blue sky.
“Jonas!” Beall exclaimed. He felt guilty that at the moment of his friend’s death, he had forgotten his name.
The British had deployed their forces to take advantage of the terrain along a slight rise with small trees and split rail fencing. Despite the growing cloud of gun smoke, their colorful red coats, white belting, glistening halberds, sabers, and bayonets made them stand out against the green and brown background of the hills. At eighty paces, more Marylanders began to drop from the British fire. Gist ordered the detachment to halt and return fire. To the surprise of the British defenders, they did so in a cool and professional manner, then, with fixed bayonets and against all odds, the men rushed forward. Direct fire at point blank range tore holes in their ranks but the mighty British infantry fell back 100 yards to regroup from the ferocity and determination of the Marylanders’ attack.
“Reload and dress ranks,” ordered Gist.
The men jostled over dead and wounded comrades to tighten the lines. The snap and rattle of a hundred ramrods competed with screams and the boom of cannon fire. Stirling then gave the order to charge again and without a word the stalwart men from Maryland ran headlong at the British positions only to be forced back again by a fire even more intense. Wounded and dying were strewn across the field, many supine with arms stretched out as they begged for water or a bullet. Fortunately, for the Americans, pockets of smoke now obscured much of the ridgeline. This protected them from the specialty of British infantry–long-range volley fire.
Creed called out to his men. “Alright lads, reload–this time ball and buckshot. Drink your water now; share with your mates.”
Creed thought this would be the last drink for most of them, perhaps all of them. Many were in fact out of water already but refused to take from their comrades.
A third and then a fourth charge went the same as the first two, advance forward thirty yards, fire a ragged volley only to fall back under heavy British fire. Creed’s company was down to nineteen men. Simon Beall was still with him as was his cousin Jonathan and both seemed willing to continue. Creed marveled how they could fight through the heat and terror of all this after the early morning fight with the Hessians.
The noon-time temperature was at once searing, sticky, and stifling. The previous day’s thunderstorm had done nothing to break up the weather. Many of the men could barely breathe and white chalky sweat stains covered their blue tunics. They were low on water and ammunition.
Even Lord Stirling realized they could manage only one last charge. He strutted before them as they prepared for the final attack. “This time we shall break them, lads–do not load your muskets. Bayonets only. Let no man stop until he has stained his with British blood. Kill them where they stand or send them running back to the beaches!”
Creed knew the last charge would finish them.
While Stirling exhorted the men he quietly spoke to Simon Beall. “Tell the lads to prepare for a separate maneuver. We will move to the left to...distract fire from the main body.”
Beall looked at Creed. “Leave the regiment, sir?”
Creed stared at him. “Support it from a different position.”
Creed also felt pangs of guilt for leaving the main body at this critical juncture but he wanted an even playing field for his men from Frederick. He owed them a chance to survive and perhaps fight again rather than perish in another of Stirling’s frontal attacks. He scanned the ridge and saw that the British had reinforced the line by several hundred more and now numbered well over a thousand, plus several cannon.
Lord Stirling raised his saber and swung it in tight circles like a berserker from the dark ages of warfare. “Attack the lobster-backs! They are ours! Forward!”
“For Maryland!” cried Gist, now resigned to his fate.
“For Maryland!” answered the men. With loud “huzzahs” they charged forward as musket balls whined around them. Most had dropped their packs and many went hatless; the constant back and forth took a toll on their military appearance, but not their discipline or will. A cannon near a red brick farmhouse at the end of the ridge pounded them with iron balls that ricocheted through the ranks, crushing bone and tearing limbs. That was followed by devastating grape shot, which shotgun-like, tore the unit apart. The survivors, however, reached the British lines ready to avenge their fallen comrades. Screaming with bloodlust, each man fought with fanatic determination that few British expected from American soldiers. However, the attackers were too few to break the British line and the assault dried up like a powerful ocean wave hitting a broad expanse of beach.
While the Marylanders under Stirling launched assault after assault on the British, small groups from the other American formations desperately fought their way back to the lines. Many died trying to get to safety. Still, many made it back, although most were weaponless and all completely demoralized by the sheer terror of the British onslaught.
Near Cortelyou House, Creed was the first to reach the British lines. Three enemy soldiers rushed him but using the short German rifle with the sword-bayonet attached, Creed was able to stay under their musket thrusts and quickly dispatched all three. The longer blade and shorter radius of the weapon enabled him to strike, extract the blade, shift weight, and strike again before they could react. Creed tore open throat, belly, and breast in a whirl of precision cuts that surprised even him. He felt neither hate nor remorse. This was cold work.
To the right, Creed saw a short, stocky redcoat fire directly at Jonathan Beall. As luck had it, the musket misfired. Even a few rounds of firing could cause black powder weapons to foul and jam.
The redcoat and a companion closed on Beall with their bayonets lowered, screaming “Rebels die!” Creed saw Beall meet the first man head-on, parry his blade, and thrust his sword-bayonet into the soldier’s chest. Beall then rammed his rifle butt into the chest of the second redcoat, cracking his breastbone and collapsing him backwards over a hedge. Sweat and tears poured down Beall’s face as he realized he and his cousin would die at this place. Around him, he heard curses and screams for quarter mixed with the sound of steel on steel. The British began to fall back as the desperate Marylanders pushed ever so slowly forward. Before long, the men began to waver from exhaustion as the British committed another two hundred men into the melee.
Now desperate, Gist ran along the line ordering each company commander to do “what he could” to get his men to safety. As Gist attended his unit Lord Stirling plunged into the noise and smoke of combat. Stirling wielded his saber like a pirate’s cutlass, cutting and slashing as redcoat after redcoat rushed him. With bloodlust up, his screams and curses rose above the din of the fight. Small groups of Americans attempted to rally around him but as they did, larger groups of British closed on them and, one by one, they went down. Finally, the red wave rolled over Stirling like an ocean of blood and Gist lost sight of him in the smoke and confusion.
Gist reached Creed last. “To continue on with this would border on arrogance. I instructed the other commanders to break free with what men they can. Stirling fought like a wolf. I saw him personally down five British soldiers with his sword, but now he is gone. I fear him dead or captured.”
Creed indeed saw the other companies breaking up into small groups. Most dropped back, but some tried to fight through the British lines, where most would perish.
His face showed composure. “Sir, stay with my company, we are going to make our way through to the west and safety. Corporal Beall, have the company move in double file, on me.”
Creed moved at a near run, bent over at the waist as British musket fire began to close in on them. Gist was right behind him, followed by Jonathan Beall and the remaining members of the light company. As corporal, Simon Beall covered the rear. He had no idea of the plan, but he began to have a strange sense of confidence in his officer. For the first time in a while, he thought they had a chance to live through the hell that had engulfed them the past few hours. They made their way by sticking close to the small stands of trees that dotted the rolling countryside, moving from copse to copse, and using the natural breaks and bends of the rolling terrain.
Cannon fired from a nearby farmhouse situated at the crest of the hill to their right front. The farmhouse, almost two hundred yards distant, was a brick, stone and timbered affair topped with a red roof. The owner, a Dutch farmer and his family, had abandoned the place early that morning at the first sight of British soldiers in the area. Now, a Royal Artillery gun crew fired on the small detachments of American troops to their front, causing confusion and occasionally killing a man or two.
Creed halted suddenly, and turned to Gist. “With your permission, sir, I think we have some unfinished business to attend here.”
Creed pointed toward the farm house just as the muzzle erupted in flame and smoke.
Gist, surprised at Creed’s initiative, assented, “It would seem so.”
Creed led his men toward the farmhouse at the double, a slow trot. The gun crew, attention fixed on the various groups of Americans fleeing the field, had neglected to post anyone to watch the back of the house. Creed’s men closed the distance and rushed the crew from the rear. The blue jacketed gunners had been up all day and night and had manhandled the gun for miles through woods and brush. They were exhausted, so when surprised from the rear they broke and ran, but not before three of their number went down to musket fire. Their officer stood to fight but he was quickly overwhelmed and Creed ordered him taken prisoner.
From the hill, Creed could now see down the valley and across the small creek that ran southward into the river inlet. Behind the creek were the American lines.
He addressed the men. “If we stay as far to the north as the British will allow us we may be able to negotiate the creek rather than swim the inlet. We will take this British officer with us as he might have useful information. Sir, if you and Corporal Beall lead the men and take the prisoner, I will serve as rear guard with Private Beall. We shall spike the gun as well.”
“Spike a gun?” Gist asked incredulously.
Artillery was a scarce military commodity in the Americas, so few of the militia or continentals would be skilled enough even to think of spiking a field piece, nonetheless to do it.
Creed suppressed a smile. “‘I can do it. Private Beall will help. You and the others should head down toward the creek with our prisoner.”
The men departed, prodding their captive along as they went. Creed set to work with a hammer and one of the gun’s trail spikes, pounding at it until the spike had opened enough of a gap in the vent to prevent further use that day by the British. Jamming the fire vent would render the gun inoperable until it went back to a depot or armory and was re-tooled. It was a six-pound gun, relatively light and commonly used to support the infantry. Artillery poundage reflected the weight of the cannon ball: four and six-pound guns were for close support of infantry or cavalry. Nine-pound guns were the heavier field guns for artillery barrages in pitched battle. The larger eighteen and twenty-four-pound guns were used for sieges or coastal defense. The British used a mix of these weapons but only the smaller ones pushed forward with the initial column march by Clinton and Cornwallis.
When Creed finished, he and Beall began to work their way down the slope toward Gowanus Creek, which was between them and the safety of the American lines. Gist and the rest waited near a small stand of trees less than two hundred yards from the creek. Creed and Beall began to close the quarter mile distance to the men. Suddenly, a formation of twenty British light dragoons galloped down the hill from behind the brick house. Major Sandy Drummond led them, and they moved so quickly and were so fixed on getting to Gist and the detachment that they rushed past Creed and Beall.
“They want our prisoner back,” Creed said in a steady, calm voice.
Gist and the detachment were surprised but not caught off guard. They were able to fire a volley just before the dragoons closed on them. Four troopers went down, their horses galloping wildly off, one with its rider dragging along by a boot caught in the stirrup, his limp body jerking and bouncing along the soggy ground.
Cavalry’s success depends on infantry formations breaking when charged. Assuming that would be the outcome, the dragoons charged home. However, this was not a demoralized rabble but a small and determined group of warriors who held their ground and soon dragoon sabers were clashing against musket and bayonet. Gist suffered a minor shoulder wound from Drummond’s saber slash when he attempted to stop Drummond from seizing their prisoner. Three other Marylanders went down to saber thrusts but their bayonets impaled two more dragoons who also fell mortally wounded.
After slashing Gist, Drummond pulled the young British artillery officer across his saddle. His horse was a large hunter, a bay, with the strength and stamina to carry two men.
“On me,” called Drummond as he spurred his horse back toward the safety of the brick house. The dragoons rode right at Creed and Beall, who were now less than a hundred yards from the melee. To their fortune, the dragoons did not notice the two men crouching behind a tree stump. As they passed, Creed turned and pointed his Jaeger rifle at Drummond, now a good forty yards to his right. He aimed carefully but the jumper was moving quickly and weaving its way up the slope. He aimed for Drummond–taking care to avoid the artillery officer.
The round hit low, and stuck the side of Drummond’s knee and deflected into the horse’s flank. The spent round’s velocity, broken by the impact on leather, flesh and bone, did little more to the horse than sting and bruise its ribs. However, the jumper stopped dead and with a shrill whine, reared upwards in pain and fear. The sudden stop sent Drummond and the artillery officer tumbling to the swampy ground, knocking Drummond unconscious. Beall and Creed were on them and once again took the hapless artilleryman prisoner, leaving Drummond for dead. The wounded horse limped off in pain as the dragoons turned back to the aid of their commander.
“Leave ’em be,” yelled the dragoon sergeant, waving toward Creed and Beall. “Major Drummond needs our help.”
While the dragoons spurred to Drummond’s aid, Creed and Beall found the remnant of the detachment. They now numbered ten, including Gist. The Marylanders made their way to the creek, which was only twenty yards across and fordable. As they walked through the waist high water, a line of more than three hundred British infantry appeared on the ridge and fired an ineffective long-range volley at the Americans. Musket balls plunged into the muck along the near bank. A few went wild and careened into the water where they sunk. Safely across, some of the Marylanders jeered at the British, who stood in frustration as their quarry had gotten away.