Brooklyn, August 28th, 1776
George Washington dipped the nib of his pen into the ink well and hurriedly scrawled his signature across a series of orders. Colonel Fitzgerald’s intelligence report disturbed him and, based on that, he called a council of war to determine whether to stand and fight or retreat to New York. To hedge his bets, he had ordered that both military and civilian craft be ready should he decide to withdraw.
Washington wiped the excess ink from his long fingers, placed the stack of orders in a worn leather pouch, and handed it to an aide. “Ask the Quartermaster to ensure that each regiment distributes what food they have left and feed their men. There will be little opportunity to eat during the next two days.”
Washington then looked over to Fitzgerald. “Fortunate that they have not attacked us already. Howe’s caution is interesting, to say the least. He has inexplicably provided us time to take pause and prepare for the worst. Could this be a subterfuge?”
Fitzgerald was nibbling on an over-ripe peach. The sweet juice refreshed the palate but soon its sticky sweetness made the oppressive August heat seem even worse. He was a clumsy eater and, noticing that some of the pulp and juice had dribbled onto his tunic, he wiped his mouth with the edge of his sleeve.
“Based on what Creed learned from the prisoner, the British appear to be preparing for a major siege and then an assault on our works,” Fitzgerald replied. “Howe is cautious, but confident. He may even be wagering that we will bring more men here from New York, not to launch a surprise attack there so much as to capture more of us here. He sees us as trapped.... I am afraid he may well be right.”
Washington frowned. He was in fact very worried about the situation. He recognized that he had divided his army in the face of the enemy among and had done so twice. And he made other poor decisions that had caused their current dilemma. But he feigned a confidence that would serve him, regardless of the turn of events.
“Well, let us hope he proves overconfident and continues to give us time.”
“But time for what?” Fitzgerald asked. Both men shook their heads in consternation.
The duty sergeant had rolled up the white canvas flaps of the command post tent in the hope of a breeze providing some comfort, but the stagnant air enveloped everything. Off to the southwest they could hear the occasional pop of a musket firing. Fitzgerald could see men, carts, and carriages moving back and forth to the earthworks. Washington had insisted that they constantly improve the defenses. Soldiers not at their posts were turning spades and swinging picks to add thickness to the slopes of the entrenchments, which they reinforced with stone and wood, or deepened the trenches between the forts that made up the American lines.
Washington now had many decisions to make. He needed to appoint new commanders and reorganize some units, many now at a fraction of what they had mustered that morning. Washington knew well that by any reckoning his situation was grave. The British had his army in a trap and he needed to decide on a way out.
* * *
Jeremiah Creed woke early that morning from a fitful sleep with a nagging headache. Stress and fatigue wore on him, but he shrugged them off. The Light Company, all eight of them, were sleeping at the regiment’s encampment north of Fort Greene. Creed’s men were due to muster at five, have breakfast, and then receive their next assignment.
Creed nudged his noncommissioned officer. “Corporal Beall, at daylight you will need to awaken the men to eat and make ready.”
Beall sat up, and was alert and ready. “Yes sir.”
Creed said. “Looks like rain today so make sure they take whatever cover they have.”
“And where are you off to, Lieutenant?”
“To see Major Gist. Many from the regiment have straggled in over the lines. He is reorganizing the companies, filling some out and combining others. I hope to make sure we are not merged into a line unit.”
“Would they really do that?” Beall asked incredulously.
In the three months that he had served under Creed, he had become a believer in the light infantry and in what they could accomplish. Beall had assumed duties as Company Sergeant after Sergeant Hudson came down with fever during the march north from Maryland. Beall took to it naturally. He was a patriot volunteer, but he was beginning to enjoy the military life, especially the specialized work of the light infantry.
Creed stared at him with intensity. “When times are complicated, men often seek simple solutions. The simple disposition for the Light Company is to use its remaining soldiers as replacements for other weakened units. I will try to avoid that, and get us reinforced to at least a half strength company.”
Creed’s face showed he was not very confident of success.
Beall shook his head in disbelief. “That’s officer business. Gives me a headache, but good luck, sir.”
It was still dark, with a faint glimmer of light to the east. Creed figured he had an hour to sun up. At headquarters, he discovered Gist already up and drinking coffee. Gist offered him a cup. Creed preferred tea but gladly accepted the coffee and piece of Gist’s stale biscuit.
Creed took a bite of biscuit and grimaced at its rock-hard texture. “Sir, I am here to discuss the future of the Light Company.”
Gist took another swallow and nodded. “We are restructuring the remnants of the regiment, at least until replacements arrive...”
Creed interrupted, “I think it inadvisable to break up my command and...”
Gist cut him off. “What in Hades gave you the idea that we would do any such thing? You shall remain the Light Company, First Maryland Continental Line, but unfortunately at the strength you have.”
Creed fought to hide is delight. “That is certainly more acceptable than the alternative I had envisaged. Thank-you, sir.”
Gist looked at Creed ruefully. “I am giving you eight more privates from headquarters. They are inexperienced, but good, solid men. Only wish I could give you more.”
Creed felt great relief he felt that his command would stay intact. “These will do nicely, sir. I assume such men as these new men are handpicked? ”
Gist smiled wryly. “On the contrary. These men were selected at random to serve in the regimental headquarters. You must integrate them into your company as best you can. It is all I could do for you, Jeremiah. These are hard times for the regiment. Colonel Smallwood is distraught from missing our first battle. Now he hardly has a regiment left to command.”
“I appreciate the replacements, sir. I’ll do my utmost to make proper light infantry of them,” Creed replied.
* * *
Dawn broke with a bright red streak on the horizon. Then the sky slowly darkened and by mid-morning had become overcast, with a light breeze beginning to stir. Creed assembled the old and new members of his Light Company. As with so many armies, these new men had been randomly plucked from the fighting units to perform administrative functions such as clerks, orderlies, sentries, or couriers. But they were neither happy nor proud to have missed the big fight.
Creed spoke with confidence. “Major Gist has placed you under my command, so as far as I am concerned you are now members of the Light Company. Corporal Beall here is our acting Company Sergeant. Treat all his commands as if they were my own. I have asked Corporal Beall to walk you through some of the basics of light infantry tactics. You will not be experts, of course, but we hope you can adapt quickly as our survival, and yours, depends on it.”
Simon Beall stepped forward, “I will inspect all of you new boys at noon. I will also inspect the old members as well.”
He grinned at the men, who groaned at his words. “I want your leather brushed, muskets cleaned and oiled, bayonets sharpened, and water bottles filled. I will also inspect your flints, ball, and powder. Each man should have at least twenty rounds and dry powder. Finally, you will be clean-shaven and have your hair tied back in a tight queue, no powder. Any questions?”
No one spoke. Beall appeared formidable and competent. That put them at ease.
Beall nodded. “Very well then, you are dismissed.”
Creed himself went back to roll up his lined canvass mantle. It performed triple duty as overcoat, blanket and rain coat. With the weather changing he thought he might need it. He then washed, shaved and inspected his own kit. Creed was traveling light: his French-made pistols and sabers were with his horse back in New York. He cleaned the Jaeger rifle taken from the unfortunate Hessian and sharpened its sword-bayonet. He examined the sword carefully. The straight blade was more than double the length of the typical seventeen-inch musket bayonet and had the feel of a short saber in the hand, yet it extended the thrusting reach of the shorter hunting rifle to almost that of the typical musket with bayonet. The rifle had plenty of cloth patches but he was down to a handful of rounds. Fortunately, it had a bullet mold built into the stock so he was able to take some of his musket balls from his haversack, melt them down, and in half an hour he had recast thirty rounds. He hoped that he would need no more to get through the next few days. By the time he was done, a very light rain had begun to fall and the wind picked up a bit.
Major Gist appeared unexpectedly.
Creed stood up and saluted. “Sir, the new men are preparing their arms and equipment for an inspection at noon.”
Gist pursed his lips. “That is all very well, Jeremiah. However, I am here on a different matter. It seems that you have been summoned to a meeting with General Washington.”
Creed pointed a thumb at his own chest in surprise. “I, sir? Are you certain?”
Gist nodded. “Yes, a courier from headquarters just informed me. You must proceed immediately. I am to join you, it seems.”
* * *
Gist and Creed spoke little as they walked the mile back to Brooklyn and army headquarters. They observed the hubbub of frantic military activity all around them, each wondering why they had been summoned. Soon they could see the gabled Dutch houses in the town less than a mile off.
At length, Creed turned and asked Gist the question that gnawed at him. “Sir, do you suppose we are summoned to a court-martial?”
Gist looked astonished. “Court martial? For what? Fighting our way through the British army? I should think not.”
Creed cocked his head and pondered Gist’s reply. “Perhaps so, but we did leave Lord Stirling and the others at a critical time. If that is the case, I will take full responsibility. I all but forced you to come with us.”
The road into Brooklyn was narrow and already spongy with mud from the rain. Creed and Gist had to make their way through small groups of soldiers trudging along the road in both directions. Many heading back toward the ferry were wounded or sick. There seemed to be so many wounded.
The previous day’s combat was the most violent and bloody that the North American continent had ever seen. Despite the loss, it seemed as if the army had accepted hardship and setback, even defeat–as the price of freedom. Most of Creed’s company had disappeared in the maelstrom. He might never learn their fate. Moreover, Gist lost more than half the regiment in the space of a few hours, yet was walking with him to this war council almost as though it were a stroll in the park. What kind of people were these Americans, Creed asked himself?
A company of Pennsylvanians marched past them toward the front. They moved on stoically despite the previous day’s disaster. He wondered if he could measure up. He wanted to think he could. After all, was he not now one of them? The previous day’s slaughter changed everything for him. Before the fighting at the passes, Jeremiah Creed was an Irishman, living in America, but today he was an American who had left Ireland. He now knew the difference and the thought of it suddenly filled him with a sense of well being, and of responsibility. He was born and bred Irish, everyone is born and bred to something–but he had willed himself an American.
Brooklyn was really just a small farm village, painted in bright colors with neat shutters and a mix of thatched and wood-shingled roofs. General Washington’s command tent was in a small orchard near the Old Dutch Church. The church’s tall white steeple dominated the town with its simple cross sitting at the top. To Creed, it seemed nothing like the impressive churches and cathedrals he had seen in Europe. The French churches were especially different from these simple places of worship. Yet he found the simplicity of the American churches refreshing and in their own way, inspiring. A sense of power and awe suddenly overcame him. He realized now that he stood in the center of great events, both for his new country, and indeed the world. He said a silent prayer before the church and then followed Gist into the headquarters tent. Creed now knew that this summons was not about punishment, rather, something daunting and important was about to be thrust on him.