American Defense Works, Long Island, August 27th, 1776
From a hill just behind the American lines, the American commander-in-chief, Lieutenant General George Washington, watched with awe and horror. He heard the yells of fighting men and the sound of cannon and musket. He saw the Maryland Line stand fast and hold off the British. Washington turned to one of his aides, Lieutenant Abner Scovel.
“That I would have the honor to lead such brave men,” Washington said. “It seems at least some of our men can stand and face the British. Would that we had more such men as these...more continentals...”
Scovel nodded. “Indeed sir. The Continental Line is the army’s backbone.”
Washington nodded. “Abner, I had excellent regiments from the Connecticut, Pennsylvania, and Massachusetts Line deployed from New York to reinforce this position. None fought with the near savage gallantry of those regiments from Maryland and Delaware. But even such gallantry may not suffice.”
“It provides an example for the rest of the army to follow, sir.” Scovel replied.
Washington slapped his riding crop against his boot. “Abner, in less than two hours of combat, we may have lost more than one thousand of our boys. And now just one final push by Howe could crush this army against the East River.”
Washington’s comments stunned Scovel. “Why, if that happens, sir, the war for our freedom and independence would end almost before it had begun.”
“Rid your mind of such talk.” Washington directed the comment at himself more than his aide.
“Find out the name of the daring officer who faced those dragoons and recovered the British prisoner,” Washington commanded. “And ask Colonel Fitzgerald to question the prisoner. I must know Howe’s intentions. Will he push on against now? Or is this all a ruse of some sort? The answer may well determine the course of this campaign...and perhaps the war.”
Scovel threw up a hasty salute and set off to find Fitzgerald, Washington’s intelligence advisor. Thus far, the general intentions of the British were easy enough to determine. They would use their command of the sea to maneuver forces along the Atlantic coast. Clearly, their major area of success would always come where there were adequate harbors and sea lanes. When they withdrew from Boston under rebel pressure, Washington wisely moved his base of operations to New York City in anticipation of the British moving there. Acquiring detailed tactical information was an altogether different matter. Colonel Robert Fitzgerald was an intellectual although not dynamic officer who accepted the position because most of his peers sought field command or the more prestigious posts in the army such as adjutant general, quartermaster and the like.
Fitzgerald sat near the Brooklyn landing and gazed at the map laid out on an empty salt pork barrel that served as a makeshift desk. The colonel seemed to be talking to himself. Scovel sometimes wondered if he were daft.
“His Excellency sends his regards, Colonel,” said Scovel, saluting perfunctorily. Scovel did not think very highly of staff work, especially intelligence work. He had long hoped to command Washington’s Guard but was stymied by politics.
Fitzgerald did not respond immediately, absorbed as he was with the map. He finally looked up, and peered over his spectacles. “A good intelligence officer needs two things to be successful, Scovel: knowledge of his enemy’s intentions and a good map. Of these, the latter is the more important as in things martial the earth often shapes our intentions. Unfortunately, I have neither. This old Dutch map is out of date and generally inaccurate.”
Scovel ignored the remark and went right to the point. “Sir, a detachment of the Maryland Continental Line brought us back an enemy officer. General Washington is most anxious as to the British intentions and requests you personally question the prisoner. ”
Fitzgerald smiled wryly, “Well, one could assume they intend to defeat our army and take New York as their base of operations. The real question is whether he plans to end us here on Long Island, or execute another maneuver by sea and strand us here while he takes New York from under us.”
“Indeed,” replied the aide, “The initiative seems to be his. He has surprised us and now our options are few. General Washington prefers to stand and fight right here on Long Island. But it is necessary to discern British intentions as others are already urging other courses of action.”
Fitzgerald eyed Scovel with the disdain a schoolmaster would have for a first year Latin student with plenty of energy and ambition but no inkling of the hard work ahead. Scovel was twenty-five, of average height and build, but had an understated energy that caused him to move about like a wolfhound.
“So it is, so it is,” replied Fitzgerald. “This had been a very difficult thing to do. I have made some contacts with various local Whig factions as you know, primarily in Brooklyn, and over near Bedford. But it is quite difficult to communicate with them discreetly and the information they provide is often nothing more than vague rumor and innuendo. Or worse sir, disinformation aimed at personal or political vendetta.”
The aide declined to proffer his own opinion of the value of local spies. Instead, Scovel fingered his saber tassel, openly bored with the conversation.
Fitzgerald continued. “However, one must play with the cards one is dealt. One local Whig leader has already contacted me. He provided us this map, sorry as it is, and has agreed to provide reports on things he feels might be of use. I have met him but have deliberately not asked his name, for the sake of security. There are British sympathizers about too. Many families remain divided in their loyalties, as are neighbors and friends. Then there are those undecided Americans. They just want to live their comfortable lives. They like the idea of freedom, liberty, and independence, but they also like the comfort and security the King provides them.”
Now it was Fitzgerald’s turn to evince boredom. He stood up abruptly and gathered the map from the make shift table. “Where can I find the prisoner?”
“The Maryland Line is reconstituting at Fort Greene. I suppose you shall find him there. Time is of the essence, sir.”
Fitzgerald nodded and mounted his horse, folding the map into a brown saddlebag. With elbows and knees moving clumsily, he cantered down the road toward the town of Brooklyn and Fort Greene. Having no permanent staff, Fitzgerald questioned most prisoners himself. He pieced other intelligence together from the snippets of information he gleaned from Washington’s staff and regimental commanders–when and if they bothered to report.
Fitzgerald’s attitude stemmed from frustrations over the lack of resources for his intelligence efforts and the perceived lack of appreciation of it by all but Washington. There were times he wished he were back in the schoolhouse teaching Latin and Theology. He did not miss his family much. His wife died years ago bearing a son who died at child birth. His daughter had married a minister back in 1775 and not contacted him since they left to establish his church out near the Ohio. Still, he was devoted to the cause and its commander in chief, and had become intrigued with the challenge of being intelligence advisor to a man of Washington’s character, prescience and nobility.
The Americans’ fortified line along the western rim of Long Island was weak. It stretched several miles, from Wallabout Bay in the northeast to Gowanus Bay to the southwest. Gowanus Bay narrowed into a channel surrounded by salt marshes on either side and was easily defended. To the northeast, Wallabout Bay emptied into salt marshes along the coast as well, thus keeping the American flanks relatively secure. A rudimentary line of entrenchments anchored by three modest redoubts defended the open and rolling farmland between. Redoubts were field fortifications constructed of earthen berms, normally configured in triangle shapes to allow enfilading fire on attacking troops. The berms were often reinforced with logs, and when possible, stone, brick or masonry. In this case, they were earthen, reinforced randomly with cut logs and loose stone found nearby.
The Maryland Continental Line had little time to regroup after escaping the British assault earlier that day. From an original strength of almost a thousand that left Maryland, the entire regiment now consisted of just over a hundred men. Of the detachment of two hundred and fifty Continentals who fought alongside Major Mordecai Gist, only Gist himself and Creed’s band of nine had escaped.
* * *
Creed received orders to report to General Israel Putnam, acting commander of the defenses, with his prisoner. Jonathan Beall served as escort.
Putnam’s command post was a small tent on the outskirts of Brooklyn. The older general smiled when Creed reported in. He had little to smile about that day, but word of Creed’s exploit had spread through the army.
Putnam grabbed Creed’s hand. “Damned glad you made it back Lieutenant Creed. That was some fine work you did–bringing your men back from certain death–and with a prisoner!”
Creed nodded but his face showed no joy. “Sir, most of my company is dead, dying or on their way to British prison ships. I do not consider that a good day’s work.”
Putnam nodded. “Nevertheless Creed, bringing anyone out alive against those odds is credible work. I now need you to see what you can learn from this prisoner, and quickly.”
Creed glanced over to where Jonathan Beall held the officer. They had tied the prisoner’s hands behind his back. He looked sullen and resigned.
Creed spoke. “Sir, neither Private Beall nor I have eaten since very early this morning. Could I trouble you to send us something, and I wager our prisoner has not eaten either. People talk more freely when their bellies are full, if you understand my line of thought, sir.”
Putnam nodded at Creed and smiled again. “True enough, young man. See to him and I shall see what I can find.”
Creed approached the British officer, who was sitting in the shade of a large maple tree guarded by a very weary looking Beall. He wore the blue tunic typical of an artillery officer. Creed soon learned that the officer, a Lieutenant James Simmons, was from Ireland and had served in the Royal Field Artillery for six years. When the food arrived, Creed went out of his way to offer Simmons a portion equal to his own. Boiled beans and bacon, cold, stale bread, and a pint of rum, it was a soldier’s feast. Creed poured a few fingers for Beall, who watched with interest as the two officers talked.
Creed assured Simmons he wanted no military “secrets” and talked about Ireland at first–both agreed that they sorely missed the emerald island. Simmons was from Dublin, of Anglo-Irish ancestry–Norman soldiers who arrived during the time of Henry II and Strong bow. He had studied mathematics for a year but grew bored and sought a commission. His mathematics studies made him a natural for either engineers or artillery. Wanting action, he chose the latter. Simmons was vehement in his antipathy toward this American rebellion, although he also understood; having made the long voyage over, that these colonies, so far from Britain, needed a measure of autonomy. Creed readily agreed and assured Simmons that was mostly what this fight was about, the recent declaration of independence being merely a tactic to pressure the King.
Although Simmons resisted direct questions, he did opine that the British planned to defeat the rebels on Long Island before they crossed over to New York. He assured Creed that with more than thirty thousand troops, including artillery, German mercenaries, Scots Highlanders, and some of Britain’s finest infantry regiments; smashing the rebellion was simply a matter of time. And he assured Creed that time was running out for the rebels since some of Britain’s finest generals: Howe, Cornwallis, and Clinton, were leading the effort to crush the rebellion.
In all, they had a very amicable conversation. As they finished the last two fingers of rum Creed commented, “I shall be sad to see such a fine officer as yourself spend the rest of the war a prisoner. Perhaps we can exchange you. We’ll likely send you to Boston and eventually you will stay in a prison, probably somewhere in northern Massachusetts...”
Simmons’ face reddened, “Why, that’s pure poppycock. Your rebellion will be crushed before I could arrive there. Within hours, General Howe will take these ridiculous works of yours, drive you all into the river, and seize New York without a fight. We have several batteries of field guns, cavalry enough and plenty of infantry: Highland infantry, Hessian mercenaries and many fine British regiments. We have ample supplies of food, powder, and shot. Moreover, we have a martial spirit that will crush your rebel notions of independence. Your colonies in rebellion will quickly sue for peace.”
Creed replied, “Or not...remember this, our own Ireland has never submitted to British rule, and it never will. Time is on the side of those who would be free. So let me recount. We now know the names of your senior leaders, and that they are predisposed to attack us here on these works before taking New York. You have provided the type and disposition of your forces, and your general scheme of maneuver. Now, is there anything you would rather not tell me?”
Creed smiled sarcastically and motioned to Beall. “Private Beall, please take our good Lieutenant Simmons back to the Brooklyn Ferry for a short voyage to New York. I must report on all this to...”
Simmons exploded in rage. “You think you have useful information? You have enough to know it is time to despair, run like the cowards you are or pray before meeting your maker!”
Shortly after Beall had led him off, Colonel Fitzgerald arrived, determined to put the upstart officer in his place. Dispensing with the amenities or even military courtesy, he stood over Creed with a boot placed on the log where Simmons was just sitting. “I understand that you are Lieutenant Creed and that you have a British prisoner ready for me to question.”
Creed stood up and saluted, then stood at ease. This stern and gawky looking old man reminded him of one of the monsignors he had known in Ireland. “Well, yes and no sir. I am your very Lieutenant Jeremiah Creed and I did have a prisoner here but he is being taken back to the ferry for disposition by...”
Fitzgerald snapped. “On whose authority? I was directed by General Washington to personally question him.”
Creed, replied calmly, “Well sir, if you act quickly enough you still can. Or you may hear my report as I think I have most of the information you are seeking.”
“Go on,” said Fitzgerald brusquely.
Creed went on to relate all he had learned from his prisoner. Fitzgerald listened attentively, impressed by the speed with which Creed had interrogated the prisoner, and the quality of the information.
“How did you get him to talk so quickly?”
“Quite simple, sir. I had a meal with him and gleaned all through our conversation. His braggadocio was enough to provide what we wanted.”
“Well done,” said Fitzgerald tersely. “I must report all this to General Washington. I suggest you return to your command. Where can I find you if I have further questions?”
“My company was destroyed this morning while serving under Lord Stirling, who is by now either in the hands of the British or God. All that remains is a squad and Major Mordecai Gist.”
Fitzgerald hesitated a second. “I see, yes. A most unfortunate affair. Very well then. Report back to Major Gist, I am sure he can make good use of you in the coming hours.”
* * *
Washington’s dilemma grew with each hour as he pondered the situation with his aide, Lieutenant Scovel. Reports from the regiments flowed in sporadically at best. The British had moved into a cordon that paralleled his lines and the American defenses were nowhere near ready. Howe merely had to push a little at him to destroy his divided and outnumbered force. Perhaps this was still all a feint. Were the British aiming to take New York in a coup de main and cut him and half his army off on Long Island?
“Has Colonel Fitzgerald interrogated the British prisoner?” Washington asked. His voice was irritable and his mind drifted. He was tired, and knew a stack of tendentious correspondence from various congressmen awaited his attention as well. The politics of the war oppressed him more than the overwhelming resources of the enemy. Each congressman had an agenda, and so many important decisions such as resourcing; selection of officers and even strategy required their approval.
“He is doing so even as we speak,” Scovel answered.
Washington set out to walk among the wounded and disheveled men still working their way back into American lines. There were hundreds of them. Washington tried to say something to encourage morale although his presence was enough to bolster their spirits, at least temporarily. He knew what they needed was rest and food. And there was little enough of that to go around.
Appointed Commander-in-Chief by acclamation, George Washington was considered the one man who transcended the numerous factional grievances among the colonies, and so in some ways he represented all of their hopes. His dignified bearing and natural ease among men of all stripes provided the measured leadership the new army and new nation needed. By driving the British from Boston, and then beating them to New York, Washington demonstrated a martial prowess that his modest achievements during the French and Indian War did not portend. While the Continental Congress with all of its squabbles and machinations represented the best and worst in man’s instincts, Washington’s dignified character represented only the best.
Washington’s eyes welled up as he watched his beaten and downtrodden soldiers. “Have the chief surgeon attend the most seriously injured and evacuate them to New York. Those who can still fight must be given warm food and sent back to their units. We will need every man when General Howe comes at us, and that could be soon. I am going back to inspect the lines but I want to be told immediately if we learn anything from the prisoner.”
* * *
Creed’s men finished perhaps the most satisfying meal they had ever tasted: fresh sausage and eggs obtained by the brigade commissary, compliments of one of the many abandoned local farms in the area. Although there was a vocal Whig minority, most of western Long Island was generally Loyalist. The original Dutch inhabitants had grown prosperous under British rule.
The men were finishing a hard-earned second mug of hot coffee. Beall gulped down the last dregs of his mug and pondered the past few days’ events. He had learned much from his first taste of combat. Lieutenant Creed had taught them all well, he thought. The men performed with valor and efficiency against the best the enemy could field. He thought it sad that so few survived, but all had done their duty–especially poor Jorns. Beall found Creed a different kind of man than he was used to in western Maryland. Honest and trustworthy but with a more cavalier style, and flair for the right word but also for the right action. Despite the hardships ahead, Simon Beall now had confidence: in the cause; in the men; in his leader; and in himself.
When he saw most had finished eating, he spoke. “Listen up, boys. We’ve been through a lot in two days. More action ahead, too. The lobsters won’t wait long to attack and they have the men and the cannons to smash us. But we’ll give a good accounting and kill as many of them as we can. There are many grieving families in Maryland who need revenge–and we are the boys to get it for them. We’ve seen a lot since leaving Frederick. I just...hope...enough of the company makes it back so it can rejoin the regiment. With Lieutenant Creed in command.”
They murmured their assent. Most of the men from the Light Company, Maryland Continental Line were from the area around Frederick, Maryland. Lying at the foot of the Catoctin Mountain range, Frederick was a small but growing farming town in Maryland’s central panhandle. An area of small yeoman farms rather than large plantations; it was the part of Maryland that prized freedom, not chattel slavery. Moreover, it was the gateway to the western frontier. Trappers, tradesmen, and shopkeepers settled there, building the beginning of the new nation’s east–west commerce. The region’s settlers hailed from Scotland, England, Ireland, and Germany but also included some French who had come down from Canada to trade in fur pelts, and a smattering of Flemish and Dutch.
It was frontier America at its best. The people reveled in their freedom and independence. They were self reliant and self-sufficient. Most of the able-bodied men, and many women, could hunt and fish. They were adept at the musket and tomahawk. Even the town people hunted and trapped on a regular basis. The state had recruited the line companies from the plantation and maritime areas around Baltimore and Annapolis, but the Light Company of Maryland’s First Continental Line Regiment came from the frontier.
The Bealls were a long established clan in Maryland. The cousins were second-generation settlers in the Catoctin region. Both had fathers and uncles who had fought there when the Indians from Ohio, Upper New York, and Canada launched their depredations during the French War some twenty years previously.
Simon Beall was an accomplished blacksmith. Aged twenty-six, he was skilled at his craft and wise beyond his years. He was literate both in the Bible and in many of the political tracts that circulated in the area. He worked his father’s blacksmith shop and for all intents ran it. He had a good head for business, too. He engaged with the post dispatch serving the area and contracted for the Beall blacksmiths to service the wagons and horses that carried the post trade from Frederick to Baltimore and Annapolis. It brought in a steady flow of money, ensuring the business would prosper. Simon had joined the Continental Line out of pure patriotism. He understood, from his reading of numerous pamphlets by Thomas Paine and others, that it was the right of the Americans to be free from royal interference. Subservience to a king was nothing more than a form of slavery. Americans, and all men, had the inherent right to freedom and self-determination. He thought through this each day as he sweated and toiled in hammering out metal products over a hot fire.
Jonathan Beall, twenty–two, worked as a laborer on his family’s farm. The second of two boys, he knew that he would never own the farm but he enjoyed the work and was good at it. He joined the Continental Line to serve his country, but also to make his break from working a farm that ultimately would belong to his older brother, Nathaniel. He hoped to save enough of his soldier’s wages to purchase his own piece of land farther west where it was cheaper and easier to come by.
Both Beall cousins stood just about five foot eight inches, but had broad shoulders, thick trunks, and muscular forearms that evinced the hard physical labor of their lives. They were also both very skilled woodsmen, spending their free time traveling the western Alleghany Mountains in search of game or pelts as the season allowed. Now they were making their mark as soldiers and patriots, giving up a very comfortable life and a promising future in defense of such intangibles as “liberty” and the “rights of man.”
Throughout the colonies, most areas were divided over what course they should take in dealing with the king. Frederick was no exception, the majority of the Bealls’ family and friends going for liberty and independence from the crown. The men who volunteered to serve the cause had little idea that they would be thrust so soon into the center of the action. Moreover, they certainly had no idea that it would be so brutal, so frightening, or so uncomfortable. The boys from Maryland thought they joined an essentially local rebellion while in fact they had volunteered themselves into what was the beginning of a global conflict that would change the world forever.