Tallmadge was waiting for Creed when he returned to the lines. “What happened out there, Jeremiah? We heard the musket fire.”
“’Twas our fire you heard, Benjamin. I think we got couple of them.”
“Couple of what?” Tallmadge pressed. “Are the British so bold as to advance on our flank along the marsh?”
“No, at least not yet,” Creed replied. “There was a boat. I believe we interrupted some mischief. Whoever was on that boat was meeting British dragoons. Tis likely that whoever led the British around our unsecured pass at Jamaica had new information to pass on to the redcoats. I would wager those dragoons now know the army is returning to New York. The British might yet have time to overwhelm the remaining forces, including this fine Connecticut regiment of yours.”
Tallmadge grimaced. “It is your regiment now as well, Jeremiah, but your point is well taken. We must get word back to General Washington and inform Colonel Chester immediately. As the rear guard, we will surely take the brunt of a sudden British assault on the lines. My place is here, with the regiment. You must go back to the ferry landing at once and inform His Excellency.”
Creed nodded and turned to Beall. “Make sure the lads have dry powder and enough ball and flint. If my fears prove correct, we may yet face more action before we depart this island.”
* * *
Drummond pushed himself hard. When his small force reached Wilmet’s Farm, they eased their horses into a slow trot so to make the final leg south to British headquarters. Dawn would soon break and God only knew how far along the rebel retreat had already progressed. He reckoned that a swift movement by just a small British force might yet enable them to rout the rebels and capture their ringleader, Mister Washington. That might just end this independence madness. After half an hour’s ride, they passed through the pickets surrounding British headquarters.
Drummond went first to Cornwallis’ tent. He announced himself to an orderly who did not hide his displeasure at having to come out into the rain and awaken the general. After what seemed a long fifteen minutes, the orderly opened the canvas flap and led Drummond into the tent. Cornwallis was up and had another orderly helping him with his boots.
“So Sandy, what vital information do you bring us on this fine morning?” Cornwallis asked in a tone both cordial and sarcastic.
The orderly poured both officers a glass of claret. Drummond gladly took the glass of the dry red wine, a favorite among the British officers at all meals and all hours.
“Well sir, I met with our ‘friends.’ God knows finding them was difficult enough.”
“Did your friends have any information of interest?” Cornwallis asked.
Drummond nodded. “It seems...that Mister Washington started sending his troops back to New York last night. There are also rumors of reinforcements coming back over from New York. I say the rumors are a ruse to confuse spies–spies like our friends. They are evacuating under our noses using the darkness and weather as cover.”
Cornwallis cocked his head. “Yes. It makes sense. We thrashed them and now they have no stomach to stay and fight again. I must call a meeting with General Howe immediately. The trick will be to convince our most coy commander; ever the betrothed, never the bride.”
They both laughed. The comment was a direct reference to Howe’s caution, but also an indirect reference to his American mistress, Mrs. Elizabeth Loring, whose Loyalist husband Joshua traded her pliant body and her affections for a lucrative position as the head of the Commissariat for Prisons.
“How is that leg of yours?” Cornwallis suddenly realized that Drummond had a crutch and was showing some bit of discomfort.
“Tolerable sir, thank you. I am afraid that it will have to hurt for now and heal in good time. I cannot afford to go to surgery and then rest it for God knows how long.”
He grimaced, thinking that a surgeon would only render it worse and then he would be out of action for weeks, if not longer. None of that for Sandy Drummond, he thought. The war would end soon enough and he wanted his share of glory.
“Well Sandy, your dedication and service are commendable. I shall see that the appropriate people at Horse Guards know of it. Meanwhile, prepare your squadron. I’ll have six companies of grenadiers from Thorne and a battery section from Sam Cleveland to support your assault on these damned rebels–once our good commander gives the order.”
“Your trust in me is not misplaced sir.” Drummond saluted and with some bit of difficulty made his departure into the dwindling morning rain.
* * *
At dawn, Creed arrived at what remained of General Washington’s headquarters. The sun was straining to burn through the last of the clouds, as the previous day’s rain dwindled to a final cascade of misty droplets. Heavy fog now blanketed the entire area. It permeated everything, nature’s curtain call signaling a change in weather. Creed was soaked, caked in mud and in the throes of the familiar soldier’s battle with fatigue.
When he arrived at the old church, the American camp was gone. He followed a regiment of New York militia marching quietly, almost despondently, through the early morning fog toward the Brooklyn ferry. Creed guessed that Washington must have moved his camp there so he followed the column. He soon found General Washington astride his horse, watching the last few regiments work their way to the ferry landing. His entire staff, including Fitzgerald, had already crossed over to New York. Visibility was now less than ten yards in most places, so Creed was fortunate to find the commander-in-chief and his one remaining aide-de-camp, Alexander Scammel.
“Well, my dear Lieutenant Creed. You look like an Irish terrier that picked on a cranky badger.” Washington smiled; his tone was affectionate and his words meant as a compliment, not a rebuke.
Creed grinned. “Sir, it is very hard to do morning ablutions in all this fog. Feels like home, it does. However, I have you important news...a good probability exists that a spy in our midst transmitted your true intentions to the British.”
Washington glared. “What makes you think such a thing, Jeremiah?”
“I interrupted a secret rendezvous between British dragoons and some men off Wallabout Bay, but I am afraid that I was too late to thwart their perfidy. The dragoons rushed off, although we left at least one in the swamp with Maryland lead in him. Still, we must assume the British were alerted and will act with haste to exploit the news.”
Washington frowned and turned to Scammel. “Ride at once to General Mifflin and instruct him to accelerate movement of his division from the lines. This time we can afford no confusion here.”
Washington looked at Creed. “Earlier this morning, Mifflin precipitously moved some of his forces from the trenches, causing a potentially fatal gap in our lines. Fortunately, Scammel here corrected the situation and sent the men back to close the gap. “
Creed replied. “Our Irish luck holds then, sir.”
Washington smiled knowingly. “Jeremiah, tell Chester to maintain his position. He must hold until Mifflin’s men have boarded. We can only pray the fog hangs long enough to finish the night’s good work.”
Washington reached down from his horse and grabbed Creed’s hand, almost as if to draw strength from the younger man. “And Jeremiah, impart on him the urgency of the situation. His actions and yours are critical to the safety of the army. Godspeed to all of you.”
And a good night’s work it was. Thanks to the hard work of the troops, civilian volunteers, and contract teamsters, they had saved most of the artillery. These stalwart men dragged and manhandled heavy guns through mud and windswept rain. At the ferry, they carefully hoisted each piece onto the oddly-assorted craft for transport across the treacherous East River, which bubbled like a cauldron of boiling oil.
Creed passed through the village of Brooklyn on the way back, and he decided to stop by the Braaf house to thank them for their kindness and generosity their brief stay.
As Creed approached the house, he saw a light and shadows moving in the kitchen. Someone was already up. He rapped his knuckled softly on the shutters. They opened and Marta Braaf greeted him with a warm smile. He had not really noticed before how really beautiful she was. Perhaps the morning light and the heavy mists provided a romantic setting that had been missing before. Although ten years her junior he found her very attractive. Perhaps the tensions of three days’ combat had overcome him.
Marta Braaf spoke in her sultry voice. “What a welcome surprise to see you, Lieutenant Creed...and at this hour. We did not expect your return.”
Creed suddenly felt embarrassed–he had no idea why he stopped by this house in the midst of battle.
He forced a smile. “Just passing by, Mervrouw, when I realized I had not said a proper farewell, nor thanked you for your hospitality to the lads.”
Marta lowered her eyes. “It was my pleasure.... I mean our pleasure, to serve you. And it seems I must do so again. Please come in and rest a bit.”
“Rest would be a fine thing right now but I must be off to the lines.”
She smiled. “Then come have some coffee. It is fresh.”
The aroma hit him suddenly and he could not refuse. He was exhausted and wet and knew that some coffee would revive him. He entered the kitchen, trying unsuccessfully to prevent his boots from soiling the cleanly buffed wooden floor.
She moved about with swaying hips and spoke while she fixed his drink. “My husband has been out all night, on what business I can only imagine. I expected him home by now. So I thought I should have coffee and bread ready.”
Marta turned and smiled gently. She handed Creed a steaming mug and proceeded to slice freshly baked bread and some cheese.
“There are many locals helping the army this night, perhaps he is with them.” Creed explained. He felt uncomfortable discussing the army’s departure but surely, she knew there was activity all around. She sat next to him and slyly slid her chair against his.
“I think so.” She said. “Yet I worry so much. This war frightens me, especially with my son now a part of it. My husband is involved in Whig politics. If the British arrive I fear what will become of us. He is gone often and without notice, leaving us, leaving me alone.”
She lowered her head, then raised it and looked at him in a way he had not expected from her. Slowly, she slipped a small, plump hand over his wrist, softly stroking his black curly hairs.
Creed ignored it. “Do not worry. Your husband is a good man and a clever man. He will know what to do. As for the British, they will not stay here long.”
Marta said. “Can you stay...a little longer, Lieutenant Creed?”
He knew he had stayed too long already but he wanted to reassure her without hinting at something else. “No m’am, I must go. Orders require me at the front and I have tarried too long already.”
He downed the bread and cheese and took some extra food she handed him wrapped in blue and white linen cloth. He placed it in his jacket. She put her arms around him in a motherly way, kissed him on the cheek, and then held him in a warm embrace that was anything but motherly. Creed was stunned and did not know what to do. She smelled good and the embrace brought him feelings he had not felt in a long while...then he thought of Emily back in New York.
He stepped away politely. “You are too kind, m’am. Thank you...again...for everything.”
“Thank-you Lieutenant, for easing my loneliness, even for a brief moment. Please stay safe.”
He gently took her hand and softly kissed it, then left.
When Creed reached the end of the street, he heard the sound of footsteps from behind him. In the thick fog he could not see who it was. He gripped the hilt of his sword-bayonet and stepped behind a nearby maple tree. The footsteps trailed off, then suddenly someone was moving through the fog in front of him–Krista Braaf. She wore only her morning coat and slippers, and her golden hair was in tangles. Breathless, she nearly ran through Creed who had to grasp her shoulders to steady her.
“Oh, Lieutenant Creed, I am so glad I was able to catch you before you...”
Creed cut her off. “Miss, I must be going. I have urgent business to attend.”
“I know. Please do me the favor of delivering these letters. One is to Jonathan, I mean Private Beall. The other is to my brother, Jan.”
“Surely I have no way of knowing where he or his unit is.”
Krista threw herself into his arms and began to sob. “But you are my only hope. Neither may return to Brooklyn for months.”
Creed softened. “Very well, miss. I will take the letters. And I will see what I can do. But now, you must listen to me. Head right home and stay there. There might well be bad business this day. Keep your mother there too. You must promise.”
She looked at him with teary eyes. “Yes. I promise.”
Creed took her hands in his, and gently bowed his head in farewell. He then began to double time back toward the trenches. He had indeed tarried long enough. The fog might soon lift and the British begin their assault.
Creed found Chester and passed on Washington’s orders. The Connecticut men were anxious to leave. When Creed arrived at the redoubt and the remnant of his company, he provided his men the bread and cheese but he kept Krista’s letter from Jonathan Beall. Now was not the time to distract a young man’s mind when it needed to concentrate on the job at hand. For that reason, his mild infatuation with Marta Braaf and her affectionate ways were even more vexing. Creed had affairs of the heart in his past. He considered himself somewhat worldly about such things, but now his dedication was to a Cause and his heart belonged to a young woman who shared that dedication. Creed determined to focus on the mission, and to get his men safely back from the hell that was Long Island...and to see Emily once again.
“How goes it here?” Creed asked Beall.
“Tolerable, thus far, sir. Are we going to leave now?” Beall asked wistfully. He had mixed feelings about leaving Long Island and his voice showed it.
“I hope so. Keep two men on watch. I must see Mister Tallmadge.”
It was half eight now and the fog still lay thick across the entire western end of Long Island. The sun was trying to break through, but miraculously for the Americans, the gray pall continued. Creed met with Tallmadge who informed him that the Light Company would deploy to defend the Flatbush Road just north of Fort Greene and provide security for the regiment’s retreat. Tallmadge had attached a file of seven of his best men, making the Light Company, the last unit scheduled to leave Long Island, little more than a dozen strong.
* * *
The Stanley House, New York
Emily returned home at dawn. Nancy had spent most of the night worrying over her mistress’ whereabouts and met her at the back door with a suspicious stare.
“Where have you been, Miss Em? I have been worried no end. It is dangerous for a young woman out alone at night...or were you alone?”
Emily flushed beet red but ignored the implication of an assignation–a romantic tryst. “Nancy, you know me better than that. I do appreciate your concern, but I was totally safe. I had hundreds of our fine young soldiers to protect me.”
Nancy smiled knowingly. “Sorry Miss Em. You know how I am. And I know how soldiers are with beautiful young women.”
Emily blushed again. “Then you must know how I am with soldiers.... After dinner at Lady Dunning’s, I began to head home. However, word spread through the city that the army was returning from Long Island. I found a cooperative and patriotic merchant who opened his store. I purchased some food and other comfort items which I carried down to Murray’s Wharf. The wounded came across first, so of course I rendered what help I could.”
Nancy furrowed her brow. “So the doctor’s daughter plays doctor too? How bad was it?”
“Quite bad...no, Nancy, it was awful!” Emily put her face in her hands to hide the tears welling up.
She composed herself and continued. “Many of the young men were carried straight to the surgical hospital over near the North River; a long, bumpy ride for men whose limbs and bodies had been torn and pierced by metal objects. I mostly helped with compresses and tightening tourniquets. Carried pails of water. I think the worst of it was the cries of those facing the knife. And the aroma of putrefying flesh was overwhelming. It was horrible. But necessary...the poor young men...”
Nancy said. “You best get some sleep, Miss Em. I’ll take care of breakfast for the guests and wake you at noon.”
Emily sighed, and then smiled. “You are such a dear, Nancy. Thank you. But wake me by eleven. I am afraid I will have much to do today.”
* * *
Lord Howe’s Headquarters, Bedford, Long Island, August 30th, 1776
“So, you see Milord, we must act immediately, otherwise the rebels will have humbugged us, by God!” Cornwallis slapped his right glove into his left palm for emphasis. Clinton, Howe, the Hessian Von Heister, and Grant all attended this dawn meeting as well.
Howe smiled patronizingly, “My dear fellow, we have these rebels where we want them because I have proceeded with deliberation, not haste. The people who provided you this information have their own interests. I am sure of that.”
Cornwallis replied. “Sandy Drummond assures me that his informant is loyal to the King and provided this information at the cost of at least two of his associates, not to mention one of our dragoons. Need I remind you that they led us to the pass that brought us before these lines so handily? An immediate and all-out attack is in order, I assure you we shall sweep what rebels remain into the sea. More importantly, we might yet bag Mister Washington and end this rebellion. Many, if not most of these Americans are loyal to the crown. A strong British presence is all that is needed to encourage them to come out openly.”
“On that we both agree, dear Cornwallis. This tragedy of a rebellion must not veer any more out of control than it already has. That is why we must proceed with patience and deliberation. A pell-mell attack could jeopardize everything. Even the smallest check of our forces could provide the rebels the aid and comfort they need to continue. Once this fog clears, I will make a determination as to our next course of action–either formal investment of their works or assault. We shall meet again at ten this morning.”
Cornwallis raised a hand in protest. “But by then it may be too late! I already have a flying column prepared to go in. This campaign, this war, could be over in hours.”
He was getting vexed. Not at Howe, whose position and caution he understood all too well, but at the others. None of them supported him vocally, even though they had each told him separately that they agreed with him and disdained Howe’s caution. Ironically, the politics of the British high command was one of Washington’s most important assets, and he was not even aware of it.
Drummond had assembled his entire squadron of dragoons. Just shy of a hundred men, they made a splendid and imposing sight in their red tunics and brass helmets. Their dragoon muskets loaded, sabers drawn as if on parade, they were formed in a column four abreast and almost twenty deep. This was the largest body of cavalry to deploy in North America. Behind them, in dense columns, were the grenadier companies and a short battery of two six-pound guns pulled by horses. Cornwallis had ordered them to be prepared to charge the rebel works on his command. They were to drive deep into the American lines and proceed up the Flatbush Road to the Brooklyn Heights. Their objective was the ferry and God willing, the American headquarters and commanding general, Mister Washington, along with it. Yet it was well past dawn and there was yet no word from their esteemed commander-in-chief.
“Blast this fog to hell!” muttered Drummond to Colonel Thorne. The dragoons and grenadiers, as well as the guns, were under the overall command of Thorne but Drummond would lead the charge. Colonel Roger Thorne was himself a bold and audacious officer, yet even he had to reel Drummond in at times. They had a mutual respect born of many years service together as well as personal ties. Thorne served as a young subaltern under Drummond’s father. He was at once Drummond’s mentor, and in a small way, rival for the affection of the men. Thorne’s command was a composite battalion of grenadiers of six companies from several regiments, a division of two light companies, Drummond’s squadron of the 17th Light Dragoons and a battery of four six-pound cannon. The British organized the infantry into divisions of two companies for tactical employment. Each division was under the provisional command of a major or senior captain.
“Patience Sandy, patience. Your time will come. Trust me.” Thorne was a bit patronizing in tone but in the heat of things Drummond hardly noticed. Like a hound anxious for the hunt, Thorne thought to himself. Dangerous at once to the quarry and the hunter, if not controlled.
Drummond exploded, “The time is now! I can sense that they are in disarray, if not in full retreat. It may be too late once the fog lifts.”
He did not tell Thorne of the meeting with his Loyalist contacts and their report of a possible withdrawal. He reserved that knowledge to himself, Lord Cornwallis and Howe.
“I shall not release you until we have such authority. You know that Lord Cornwallis is as eager as you or I to advance on these rebels, but General Howe is still in command. However, I am sure that the order will come soon enough.”
Normally, Drummond was extremely calm and judicious in his handling of such affairs, but his bloodlust was up. Whether it was to avenge his damaged leg or the loss of a good dragoon earlier in the morning, it was high time to finish the business.