The regiments received their final orders, the real orders, and prepared to move. These orders specified that each unit leave its large tents and other equipment to suggest that they were still in the entrenchments, but they would take all munitions and critical supplies down to the ferry. By midnight, more than a third of the regiments had departed their positions. As they did, the First Connecticut quietly expanded its front, moving always to the right, heading south from its position at the northernmost reaches near Wallabout Bay.
The first Continental regiment had departed the Brooklyn Ferry earlier that night. Rain and wind made the event even more hazardous than normal in the treacherous currents of the East River. In all, almost fifty patriotic Whigs risked everything that night in various support functions. Most served as stevedores, helping the quartermaster’s men pack and load heavy equipment. Foch was busy barking orders to his boat captains. His Red Hen stayed at dock but his six other craft joined the scores of others that had come over with Glover’s Gloucester Regiment, made up of seamen, whalers, fishermen, and the occasional privateer or smuggler. These hearty and determined men from Marble Head and other places along the Massachusetts coast worked feverishly at the oars and tillers moving men and cargo back to New York.
Braaf, reluctantly, was helping guide the regiments through Brooklyn and down to the ferry landing. It did not take him long to realize that this was, in fact, a withdrawal from Long Island. All the soldiers were coming back from the front and no one was going forward. He suddenly thought of his son Jan. Would he be leaving too?
He went to find Foch. “Cornelius, have any New York regiments moved through yet?”
Foch nodded, “I believe most have. Why?”
Braaf replied “Of course, I should have known Jan would depart with his regiment. This is most upsetting. I must...I must...go and compose myself, Cornelius.” He choked with emotion.
“Yes, go and compose yourself, Jan. We cannot have you blubbering while the men are working so hard. Come back when you feel well.”
Foch shrugged to himself. The fussy hen tired easily.
* * *
Not many miles east of Brooklyn, in the village of Bedford, Major Sandy Drummond sat on a rickety old cot in the leaky British hospital tent to which his men had taken him. The rain and wind were picking up. It seemed the whole world was water logged. Much like England, he mused. Drummond nursed a brandy in the desperate hope of reducing the pain in his knee, damaged but not destroyed by the lucky shot of some damned rebel. The round had pierced his riding boot at the knee but his breeches had a large black buckle attached to the boot on the inside. The round struck the buckle and the impact cracked bone and caused major contusions, but did not enter his flesh. Instead, it deflected and hit his horse’s flank, causing it to bolt, throwing Drummond unceremoniously onto the sodden mud of the Gowanus wetlands. The fall did more injury to the knee than the shot did. The surgeons told him that in a few days, he would be limping and in a few weeks, perhaps a month, he might be back to normal.
Drummond had no time to wait for nature’s course. A message from his Loyalist contact in Brooklyn indicated that he had important information, and that they needed to meet at the eastern most point of the swamp at Wallabout Bay at two hours past midnight. Drummond had the surgeons slit open the upper part of his high riding boot to reduce pressure on the swollen knee. A day of rest and food, plus the brandy, had done him the world of good. Now with a makeshift crutch he would force himself through the pain to hobble and ride. They had put down his horse after it came up lame in the fracas, but the replacement, a local gelding named “Shoe,” appeared to be a fine animal. His gear was mounted and his horse ready.
At the commencement of the British landing at Gravesend, Drummond, one of the first British officers ashore on Long Island, had found a volunteer informant from among the locals, a secret Loyalist. This informant provided him two men as guides along the back roads of Flatlands through the village of New Lots to Howard’s Tavern. Once there, the tavern keeper and his son were “persuaded” to guide them farther along the Rockaway Trail to the unguarded passes on the rebel flank.
Drummond was among a small circle of officers who believed that the key to crushing this rebellion lay in using the local Loyalists to advantage. In his mind they held the solution to the whole affair. Drummond thought the Loyalists were as British as anyone in the army, perhaps more so. They were solid men who built a “new” Britain here on the shores of a vast continent. Drummond scrupulously supported the need to suppress rebellion but held views sympathetic to the Whigs in Parliament. They favored accommodation with the colonies to end the crisis, not confrontation. So Drummond, while a most relentless foe of the rebels, was a most accommodating friend to the Loyalists.
“Sergeant Digby, bring my horse, if you please.” shouted Drummond. Digby was an old dragoon trooper. In his mid-forties, with graying hair and more than a few missing teeth, he had served in the regiment for almost twenty-five years. Digby was loyal to his King, his regiment and his major, but nothing else. He rode well, handled pistol and saber well, and could see to the ordinary day-to-day things. He was not educated but had a devious, almost crafty sort of intelligence. Moreover, as with most of the professional soldiers of the 18th century, Digby had not a small avaricious streak.
“Aye, Major” replied Digby breathlessly, “I’ll have Shoe to you in a minute, I will.”
Digby had groomed and cleaned the new horse for the major. The horse was almost completely black, gray flecks on its muzzle and up and down its lower legs the only markings; it was not as tall as an Irish-bred horse but it seemed strong and agile. The previous owners provided the horse at quite a discount to the King. He chuckled when he thought about it. Digby thought it an ironic coincidence the former owners named the horse Shoe, given Drummond’s injury.
After Digby and two troopers helped Drummond mount Shoe, they proceeded to Wilmet’s farm about a mile north of Bedford. At the farm, they met two Loyalist guides whose task it was to take them to the rendezvous. Neither Loyalist revealed their names; it was better that way, Drummond thought. The same two men had guided him successfully around the American Army, so they had proven their reliability.
“Will this blasted weather ever change?” Drummond asked as they rode through the dark. He was just making small talk now. He already knew that they were not members of any of the numerous Tory factions on Long Island although they professed Loyalist sympathies. Perhaps it was better they were not Tories. This area did not lack for loyal subjects, Drummond thought, just good British organization and direction. Well, he might just be the one to provide it, if he could convince the colonels and generals of it. Shoe advanced slowly and carefully along the dark and muddy trail. So much the better, thought Drummond. His knee pained him enough. He could not imagine a trot or canter.
They arrived at the rendezvous a few minutes late. They saw no sign of anyone. “We were instructed to light a lantern if nobody was here yet,” said one of the guides.
“What treachery is this? Expose ourselves in this way?” asked Drummond.
“We are not fools, sir. We have done this before. I will cover the back of the lantern with our cloaks so that the light is visible only from the bay. That is how our associate will meet us.”
These Dutch colonial accents grated on Drummond who muttered half aloud, half to himself, “It is about time we met again...hopefully something important calls us here.”
They lit the lantern. It flickered in the wind and rain but maintained a weak light just visible enough from the open water. Suddenly another light flickered off the coast–a boat!
It was only a small rowboat, not much more than a dinghy. The boat maneuvered with great difficulty toward the coast, as the wind and the tide kept pushing it westwards. By time it had beached and the meeting finally took place, they had fallen an hour behind schedule.
* * *
Creed and his men had taken up positions at the northernmost redoubt of the American defenses, half way between Fort Putnam and the swamplands along the coast of the bay. They stood watch taking turns, two at a time. Word had come down that one of the regiments near Fort Putnam had spotted a possible line crosser. There was no way to patrol every inch of the American lines. Sentries frequently made mistakes in the darkness; the wind and rain made things even worse. The so-called line crosser could have been a deer, a civilian anxious to get back to his farm, or something nefarious.
Somehow, despite the confusion of the night, Tallmadge had obtained several spy glasses. He provided two to the Light Company. Creed had his men use them.
Just after two that morning, Parker scrambled down the creaking twelve-foot ladder tied to the parapet.
”Lieutenant, I see a lantern! “
Creed’s heart skipped beat, “A lantern? Where? ”
Parker replied, “Right off the coast, maybe 500 yards northwest of here, in the swamp.”
Creed rubbed his chin “Could it be a navigation signal for smugglers?”
“No. Smugglers don’t normally use lanterns. I believe it is a signal of some sort, sir.”
Parker’s sharp eyes, honed from years of standing watch on fishing craft in the Chesapeake, lent great credibility to his claim.
Creed looked over to Beall. ”Report this to Mister Tallmadge. I will investigate myself. Parker, you and Private Gribble will come with me.”
Gribble, an accountant before joining the Maryland Continental Line, was not an original member of the Light Company but had adapted quickly to the unorthodox methods they employed.
Creed, Parker and Gribble made their way north. It took them almost twenty minutes to reach the marsh flats along the coast. From there they proceeded east along the edge of the marsh. They could move faster now, as the area was desolate and surprisingly flat and open.
They finally reached the place where the lantern had glimmered. They saw a group of men not more than thirty yards distant, conversing over a lantern partially shrouded by a raincoat. There appeared to be at least six, too many to attack directly. Creed decided to flush them out. In the confusion of the night they might have a chance to capture one.
“Are your flints dry?” he asked his two companions. They nodded grimly, as they were now both experienced at fighting in wet weather
“Load buck and ball. We will fire a volley at the gaggle of them. Aim for the lantern. Then reload quickly. We may not hit them but they will break and run. Once they scatter, we will try to hunt them down. I certainly would enjoy the company of a prisoner on the walk back.”
“Buck and ball might not leave us one worth taking, sir.” Parker said.
Buck and ball was a close-quarters load favored by the Americans. A large caliber musket ball augmented by three or four buckshot combined for a devastating effect.
He grinned at them mischievously. “Pray then that the good Lord spares us one.”
Parker was now used to his grim humor and chuckled softly.
“On my command now, just aim center of mass, let Lucifer do the rest. Steady...present...fire.” A rain-muffled volley flashed and popped. Curses and groans pierced the night as two men fell to the ground: one of the men from the beached boat and the other one of the guides. Horses began to whinny and snort in terror.
Creed was not amused to hear the horses. “Cavalry! This changes things a bit, lads. Head back, on me. Quickly now!” Creed felt he might have taken on more than prudence would normally allow. They began a slow run to evacuate their ambush site. After thirty yards of zigzag running, they turned into the marsh itself, where they stopped to reload.
“Buck and ball again, sir?” Parker asked.
“Yes, but quickly.”
Their chests heaved as each went through the motions of tearing cartridge, ramming ball and paper and priming flints. A wall of high cattail grass surrounded them. Like a grass fortress, it made them feel secure.
Creed’s volley had sprayed the conspirators huddling around the shrouded lantern. One of the guides was lifted from his feet by the impact of ball and shot and flung towards the water’s edge. Drummond hobbled to him but the unlucky soul lay staring up from the wet sand, his eyes already glazed in a death stare. Drummond cursed loudly and limped across the sand toward his horse. Digby held Shoe ready, and helped him mount. Drummond fumbled with the stirrup but finally got Shoe settled, and drawing his saber, set off with Digby and the other troopers to find their assailants.
The wounded boatman had a belly shot and was bent over in agony desperately trying to hold his entrails.
“I’m done for!” He moaned in pain. “Help me, please.”
”He’s right,” said the leader. “We can’t waste a moment on him. We must make way before they fire again.”
They pushed the boat out into the lapping waves, and began frantically rowing into the darkness and safety of the Sound. They left their erstwhile comrade to his fate, to bleed slowly to death in the salt marshes of Long Island.
“Don’t let those rebel ambushers get back alive!” Drummond yelled as they trotted towards the sound of the shots. In their haste to avenge the ambush, they rode right past the tall marsh grass where Creed and his two companions hid, reloading their firelocks.
The dragoons rode slowly along the treacherous ground, poking into the salt marsh reeds in search of their prey. Seeing nothing in the dark bushes, Drummond and his men turned back and formed a line. They proceed slowly with sabers drawn and pointed low to run through any bushwhacker in reach. The dragoons, who jabbed the bush with their sabers, just missed seeing Creed’s party as they emerged from the marsh. They were twenty yards away. Creed and his men lowered their weapons and aimed.
“Fire!” Creed ordered. The volley rang out over the marshes. A single round hit one of the dragoons, and his horse galloped off in fright. The other horses bolted too. Shoe had never experienced combat and it took Drummond, experienced horseman though he was, some time to regain control of his new mount. By the time he did, his men had scattered.
He called in exasperation. “Digby! Sergeant Digby, form on me! Sergeant Digby!”
Drummond could hear the muffled cries of his troopers and the snorting of their horses off to the west. Drummond reached down to his damaged knee, which now throbbed painfully. He loosened the buckles and gently rubbed it. Then he pulled a small flask from his saddlebag and took a long swig. The brandy helped dull the pain, and it warmed him against the chill of the rain and wind.
A few minutes later Digby came up with the two troopers.
“Are you alright, sir? The lads and I and can hunt down these buggers.” Digby’s tone was almost patronizing.
Drummond masked his anger with bravado. “Never mind that, Sergeant. We must return to headquarters and report our interesting news to General Howe–work more important than filleting a couple of rebels.”
* * *
General Washington sat pensively on his horse watching as each unit embarked from the Brooklyn ferry. It was nearly daylight. Most of the regiments had already safely returned to New York. In all, his men had performed superbly under the most trying conditions. Morale was good, although nerves were on edge as each man realized that if the British discovered their precarious position it would bring disaster. When the weather cleared the British Navy would make its presence known, of that he was sure.
However, the evening was not without its challenges. Confusion in orders had caused an entire regiment to pull out of the line prematurely, leaving a dangerous gap and creating the potential for a panic, courting disaster and ruin. Washington himself had to intervene to get the regiment back in it rightful place and wait its turn to depart.
An hour before dawn, Fitzgerald was packing up his makeshift office, in preparation for his departure to Manhattan. He had sequestered himself in a small leather tent to take reports and develop a more comprehensive listing of what forces opposed them: his estimate had the British at more than twenty thousand, just two thirds of their actual number of thirty thousand.
Suddenly, he looked up from his figures and saw two men, locals, standing at the open tent flap.
“Colonel Fitzgerald?” asked the tall, portly man with the thinning light hair and lazy eyes.
“Do I know you?” Fitzgerald replied. The men looked familiar.
“Colonel, I am Jan Braaf and this is my colleague, Cornelius Foch. We are with the Brooklyn Whig faction. I must say that the army leaving puts all of us here at risk. Is there any hope for us that you will return?”
Realizing who they were, Fitzgerald laughed. “Of course there is, when Ireland is freed by England.”
Braaf retorted brusquely. “I see no humor in this, Colonel. My son joined a militia company that has now been assigned to one of the New York regiments. His mother is anxious as to how long he might be gone.”
Fitzgerald continued his sarcasm. “I suppose there are many such mothers as his. In any case it will be quite some time. Depends, you see, on the whereabouts of the British Navy, which as you know, is a bit larger than ours.”
He looked back toward the East River that was now crowded with numerous small craft going to and from New York, “Come to think of it, do we have a navy?”
Foch responded, “Well, Mijnheer, you have the use of my boats. And after you have departed, you may count on me to help the cause. I own the Red Hen and several smaller craft. You may later have the need to receive reports on forces and activities here on Long Island. My men and I know every harbor and cove from here north to New Rochelle, and east to Syosset.”
Fitzgerald’s eyes brightened. He thought he saw the dawn sun starting to rise to the east and lighten things. “Well that is an interesting idea, sir. How do you propose we arrange for this?”
Foch had been working on his plan for some time. He provided Fitzgerald a well-made and accurate map that showed several points along the New York, Westchester, Connecticut, and Long Island coastlines. Each was marked with a three or four digit number and a letter.
“I will have a boat at each location on the day of the month marked. We shall rendezvous then.”
“How do I know which day?” Fitzgerald knew, but asked anyway.
“The first two numbers show the month, the last two the day. So, ‘0101’ would be the first of January. The letter a means morning tide, b evening tide. A red flag hoisted means British or Loyalists nearby; cancel the meeting. A white flag means all clear.”
Foch had done his homework, but he had engaged in smuggling, as all successful merchants did, to make a profit. Secret rendezvous were routine for him.
Fitzgerald’s eyes narrowed as he took the measure of this obvious opportunist, making such a bold and risky proposal right here in the middle of a thousand fighting men during a most dangerous military operation.
”How can I trust you...be sure that you will not turn to the British first chance?”
“By relying on your instincts Colonel. In the end, there is no other measure of trust.”
Fitzgerald eyed him closely. He looked like a pirate, certainly a smuggler; the perfect type to enlist in such an enterprise.
“Very well sir, but we shall need some way to verify each other’s people. Face to face, that is. I suggest something simple: my agent will say ‘Did you once sail on the Eagle?’ Yours will reply, ‘No, I sailed on the Talon’.” Naval terminology seemed appropriate to Fitzgerald under the circumstances.
Foch recognized the irony and grinned, “Very well Colonel. I will not disappoint you. I saw the bravery of your men these past few days. I have concluded that to defeat the British we will need more such brave men. We need daring and cunning men, both in uniform and out.”
“So true, Mr. Foch. Now tell me, what is your real motivation? I can tell from your accent that you were not born in the colonies. Why volunteer to take this risk? It goes beyond patriotism to spy. Is it gold you are seeking? The Congress has authorized no monies for such activity, so anything we pay comes from His Excellency’s own funds. And I can assure you, sir, those are not robust.”
“I have my reasons, Colonel. I support the Cause, which is one reason why I came to America. I also have a score to settle with these English. Moreover, there may be a time that I will need some special, ah...‘concessions.’”
“Concessions, is it? Revenge, is it? The ‘Cause’, is it? Ah, I can see that you are a complex man Mijnheer Foch. By the way, we should not use names or titles in any correspondence. For surety’s sake, anyone corresponding for me will be called ‘Mister Smythe’ and you or anyone representing you will be ‘Mister Jons’. Do you understand?”
Foch responded solemnly, “Perfectly...Mister Smythe...your agent? Mister Jons...mine? However in such things I represent myself. Safer that way. Don’t you think?”“
Fitzgerald nodded with intensity. “All the better. Therefore, is it agreed–you work for me and for our Cause?”
Foch looked down, then into Fitzgerald’s eyes. “Why, yes...that is why I am here...the Cause...I agree.”
Fitzgerald wrinkled his brow and pushed his glasses to the bridge of his nose, “If the army is driven from New York, a certain agent of mine, a Mister Smythe will need your services to send me information from the enemy’s bosom, so to speak. This will be dangerous business. Do you understand...‘Mister Jons’?”
Foch frowned, then grinned, nodding ever so slightly, “Perfectly...‘Mr. Smythe’.”
Taking his measure of the man, Fitzgerald twisted his head at an angle, “Now, I bid you good day and good luck. We both still have much work to accomplish.”
Foch turned and walked off with Braaf on his heels.
Braaf was completely stunned by the turn of events. What madness was this? He just witnessed the formation of a conspiracy between the defeated rebel forces and his friend, a conspiracy against the British who would likely soon occupy Brooklyn. Political support for the American cause, as a Whig, was one thing. But conspiring to spy on the King’s forces was quite another.
“Cornelius, what possible reason could you have for such a rash offer?” Jan Braaf finally managed to stammer out.
“I meant what I told him, Jan. I was not born here but I am a true Patriot. If the British come and stay, the war will no longer be one merely one of muskets and bayonets, but of brains and stealth. That is my forte, and it is yours too. I shall need your help.”
Braaf stomped his foot like a petulant child, “I cannot! I will not be involved...”
Foch turned suddenly and grasped his friend’s massive shoulder. “You are already involved! I need the support of a man like you for this to work. Political action alone is not enough. If the English come, and most importantly stay, our Tory friends and other Loyalists will force us to go underground.”
Braaf did not answer. He knew that at least for now had no choice but to support his friend and colleague. He paused a second... “Very well Cornelius. But we must keep my family out of this at all costs.”
“Of course we will.” Foch replied softly, almost to himself. Then his thoughts turned to Marta. He wondered how she ever could have married such a fussy old hen. He thought, perhaps he would name a future ship after him, The Old Hen, to match the Red Hen. He laughed to himself.