Sandy Drummond rode alongside the column inspecting his men. They sat their mounts impassively, each focusing on the battle so long anticipated. He checked flints, belting, queues, and the edges of their curved sabers. It was already past dawn but remarkably, the fog still covered the entire front, hiding the American positions behind a gray cloak and severely limiting visibility. Drummond wanted to attack in the fog. If it cleared before he could launch his assault the rebels would unhorse many of his fine cavalry before they could close with them.
There was yet no word from either Cornwallis or Howe. Even Colonel Thorne had grown frustrated and returned to headquarters in the hope of spurring a decision from Howe. Drummond halted at the head of the column, and gazed in the direction of the defenses. The fog was now lifting, if ever so slightly. He had little time to waste.
Drummond decided on a subterfuge to break the gridlock. He dismounted from his horse and, taking paper, pen, and ink from his saddlebag, scrawled a note to Cornwallis:
Augst, 30th, 1776
My Lord,
The rebel lines are strangely quiet and the fog appears to be shifting. The present lack of Visibility advantages us. Therefore I am going to lead a Reconnce in force with the Trps at hand. Should these actions precipitate an Engagemnt, I shall send word to you immediately. I will attempt to take their Works with a “coup de main.” That should be the signal for a general advance. These actions are taken to preclude a Rebel counteraction or withdrawal from the Island before we can dstroy them in detail.
Responsibility for this move is mine alone.
I remain as Ever,
Your most humble and obedient Servant,
J. Drummond
Major, 17th Light Dragoons
Drummond provided the note to a lieutenant from the lead grenadier company, not a mounted dragoon. It would be almost an hour walk back to the camp along the water logged and winding road. Such a trip would normally take less than fifteen minutes for a horseman. He chuckled at the ploy, and then grimaced at the risk. However, Sandy Drummond did not come to America to avoid risk.
“Colonel Thorne has not returned from his meeting with General Cornwallis. I shall not wait much longer for these gentlemen to make up their minds. Go to headquarters. Present this letter to Colonel Thorne. He will know what to do. If you cannot find the colonel, take it directly to Lord Cornwallis.”
The young officer frowned. He suspected what Drummond planned and did not want to miss the action while serving on this errand. However, he saluted and made off in a vain attempt at “at the double.” Drummond smiled as he watched the officer plodding through the ankle deep mud. He was confident that it would slow him down and buy them time, time for decisive action.
“Sergeant Digby, please ask Captain Cheatham to see me.”
A few minutes later Captain Robin Cheatham arrived at the head of the column. He was Drummond’s second in command of the dragoons, a good officer, and experienced. Cheatham was an older captain, in his late thirties. He was a little shorter than average; just about five foot four, and thin. He had a beak-like nose, and kept his thin strands of graying brown hair tied back in a loose queue, giving him the appearance of an impoverished country minister.
“Sir!” Cheatham presented himself formally and saluted, even though the two were on a fist name basis.
“Robbie, I need you to take six troopers forward to within spitting distance of the rebel lines. Try to ascertain their disposition. I have reason to believe that they have humbugged us, staged an evening departure back to New York. If that is so, we may yet be able to catch some of them in the act of fleeing. Try to ride along the front for a bit, and see what you can in this damned fog.”
Cheatham nervously rubbed his neck. “Could that be possible, Sandy? The weather and visibility last night were some of the worst we have had yet in this cursed place. Such a movement would be difficult enough even in good weather. Our rebel friends could not have possibly risked such a bold move...”
Drummond slapped his right fist into his left palm and his face turned red. “Good God, man, do I have vacillation above me and below me? This army came here to fight the rebels, not discuss them!”
Cheatham’s eyes widened at the outburst. Drummond was a friend and had no cause to snap at him like that.
“Should I engage if challenged?” Cheatham asked icily.
“Of course, but get word back to me right away and the whole column shall come to your relief. I am looking for some morning sport. Find it for me, Robbie!”
Unduly chastised, an annoyed Cheatham saluted and cantered off.
* * *
The sense of hearing sharpens in poor visibility, especially fog and mist. So it was with Creed’s men. They heard the sound of horses’ hooves clumping through the mud. They were very close, perhaps as close as fifteen yards from the American positions. Soon they could hear saddles creak and buckles and spurs jingle. In the fog-enshrouded stillness, it seemed like the clanging of church bells. Creed’s men stood frozen as the noises drifted across the Flatbush Road and then trailed off as the horsemen continued south.
The dragoons reached the vicinity of Creed’s southernmost pair, two Connecticut men. Suddenly the fog broke, raising visibility to more than one hundred yards.
The lead dragoon spoke. “There’s the lines, Corporal. Don’t look like much, does it?”
The scouting party turned and approached the seemingly deserted works almost to the trench line.
“Let me try a little reconnaissance by fire, eh?” said the corporal. “See if we can’t flush out the rebels.”
He un-slung his light musket, which was shorter in length and range than the infantry’s musket. He cocked back the hammer; and aimed at the top of the muddy earthen berms. The shot broke the silence with a sharp crack that reverberated across the field. The other dragoons watched curiously as the lead ball slammed harmlessly into the berm with a soft thud. It had, however, the desired effect.
In nervous reaction, one of the Connecticut men stood up over the berm and returned fire. At less than ten yards, the shot easily hit the lead dragoon, toppling his lifeless body from his horse into the mud. An alert trooper grabbed his horse’s reins before it could bolt, while the others returned fire with their short dragoon muskets, hitting one of the Connecticut men. He collapsed backwards clutching his head as blood streamed over his eyes, blinding him. His partner, hands shaking, returned fire on the dragoons. His shot went high.
The British began to reload from the saddle but before they could, another pair of Americans opened fire at them from the right. A second dragoon took a musket ball in the arm, shattering it so it hung limp. He screamed in pain, then cursed soundly and turned his mount about. Another dragoon’s horse collapsed from under him, sending the rider plunging into the soft wet earth.
Cheatham rode up waving his pistol. “Get that man on a horse and pull back! “
Two more shots zinged past Cheatham. The Americans had gotten a bead on him. Cheatham waved his pistol towards the direction of the column. “Pull back now. We cannot match them.”
The patrol rode back out of sight and range. Cursing, Cheatham yanked his horse about and cantered after his men. He’d had enough of Sandy’s Drummond’s madness.
At the sound of the first shot, Creed ran down the line to check on his men. He saw one of them face up in a mud puddle, face caked in blood. He was young, no more than seventeen, and on the stocky side. The dragoon’s shot had drilled him through the forehead.
Creed, seeing the man’s partner on the verge of collapse, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Your pal’s gone, but he did his duty. Now we must do ours–for his sake.”
Tears rolled from the young man’s eyes but he nodded. Creed went on. “Just remember the drill, and stay calm. Remember, the lobsters are nervous as we are.”
Creed moved up and down the skirmish line trying to bolster each pair of men.
One of the Connecticut men said, “The fog is lifting sir, shouldn’t we head back?”
“Soon lad, soon...we must hold on just a bit a little longer.” Creed replied.
Cheatham led the dragoons back to Drummond. They had a trooper killed and were minus one horse.
“What happened, Robbie?” asked Drummond.
“Sandy, the rebels seem to be holding those lines quite aggressively.” Cheatham replied.
“How many rebels did you count?” asked Drummond skeptically.
“Well actual men, I believe I saw a total of twenty,” Cheatham lied. He knew where this was leading. Drummond did not care what the actual number was. He has already made up his mind to attack.
“And you think a score of men along a front of at least one hundred yards is normal? How many were there north of the road? South of the road?”
“We found them only on the south end.” Cheatham answered. “I think we panicked one of them.”
“Panicked them? We shall soon find out. Move the squadron to the north of the road. I will send the grenadiers forward in column after a short battery fire. The two light infantry companies will hasten to the ferry landing. We may yet bag a straggler or two. The squadron will round up the retreating rebels. Just remember, we are not bloody Highlanders or Germans, I want no butchery here. Many of the locals are friendly to the crown and I want to keep it that way.”
* * *
Tallmadge’s boat hit the quay with a rough thump. He raced along the docks to make sure the companies arrived in good order. Then he glanced across the East River. He saw the fog beginning to lift and thought about Creed and his men. They were risking all for the cause and for the lives of their brothers in arms. He felt it unfair that these bravest of men had little hope of survival and escape. Suddenly a thought came to him.
Approaching Chester with a determined look he said, “Colonel, I am returning to Brooklyn.”
“What? Nonsense–what in blazes for, Benjamin?”
“I believe in my haste I left a copy of our regiment’s roster and other important papers. And my horse is there. I have time to retrieve them if I go right now.”
Chester eyed him. He knew what his Adjutant was thinking. Besides being a brilliant young man, Tallmadge had remarkable sense of honor and compassion.
Chester looked at the ground and then glanced across the water. The fog was clearing quickly now. “Very well Benjamin, retrieve your horse and the papers, but take a squad with you.”
Within minutes, Tallmadge had eight volunteers, all good Connecticut men from New Haven, skilled and experienced at rowing small craft around the coast of the Long Island Sound. They would row themselves to save space on the boat so he would have room for his horse, perhaps even Creed and his brave men. Half way across the river, they saw the fog start lifting quickly now, increasing visibility to slightly more than 100 yards. The passage seemed eerie as their boat moved in and out of the fading mist. Suddenly, they heard sporadic cannon fire to the west.
Tallmadge said. “The British are ranging our abandoned lines.”
As they drew closer to the heights of Brooklyn and the ferry, he could hear the faint pop of musket fire working its way back through the fog.
Tallmadge turned to a corporal pulling frantically at his oar. “The British assault is coming at last. The great charade is up.”
The corporal replied. “Then we should turn back, sir?”
Tallmadge stared at the bluffs just ahead. “No. Pull harder. We must try to help those brave men.”
* * *
They could but faintly make out the silhouettes of the advancing British.
Beall whispered to Parker. “Elias, in the fog, they look like an army of ghosts.”
Parker mumbled his reply. “Wish they were. Also wish this fog would make up its mind. Either hide us or give us a clear shot at them.”
Although lifting, the fog was still very much a factor, remaining concentrated in dense clouds along the creek and in the low farm fields. However, visibility was already 100 yards or more in many places.
Beall shivered. “The dragoons are moving to our flanks. Look Elias, infantry moving up!”
Parker replied. “Looks like a flock of bishops to me. Are they sending chaplains to pray for our surrender?”
Beall knew better. “Them’s grenadiers, Jonathan. Biggest and meanest of all the lobsters. They are serious, this time.”
Wearing their distinctive headgear, much like a smaller version of a bishop’s miter, the grenadiers deployed from the road and stood shoulder-to-shoulder in a long red line. As the morning sunlight began to break through the clouds, bayonets, sabers, and halberds glistened impressively before them.
The Americans watched the British formation with such intensity that they failed to notice the two small cannon being set up on a small hill less than 200 yards to their left front. Thick patches of fog still hung across their front and screened the British gun crews as they positioned and lay in their guns. Now, the fog thinned out, revealing the guns’ silhouettes to the defenders.
Beall pointed at them. “Looks like a pair of big mountain lions poised to strike us.”
Parker shook his head impatiently. “Let them roar, then. This waiting is tiresome.”
The first rounds that roared from the battery sailed wide and far over their heads.
They heard Creed’s voice call out, “Steady now, lads. Just trying to frighten us, is all.”
However, Creed knew the gunners would soon adjust fire and blast them from their positions.
The scarlet-coated grenadiers moved forward at a slow march; drummers beating the rhythm meant to keep the pace, inspire the men, and strike fear into the enemy. It was successful at all three. They marched in companies sixteen abreast and two ranks deep. With the light infantry on their left, and the dragoons on their right, this force comprised the elite of the world’s finest professional army coming right at them.
Standing on the parapet, Creed watched the attack unfold. He knew that it was now over for them there, but if he could lead his men back to the ferry before the British closed with them, he might still get them to New York. After all, he thought, he had just prayed for a miracle.
The grenadiers reached within eighty paces of the breastworks.
Creed called out to the men. “We shall fire as I have instructed: two volleys then fall back. Concentrate on their center. Aim waist high.”
The head of the British column reached to within sixty paces from the breastworks–killing range.
“...Present...Fire!” Creed yelled.
Eight grenadiers tumbled to the ground, their screams and plunging bodies slowing the pace just enough. The defenders frantically reloaded and fired their second volley into the head of the column. Five more grenadiers in the front ranks fell, their flailing bodies and muskets tripping the men behind and sending them tumbling in all directions. The column maintained a steady advance up the road toward the breastworks. Creed’s men had begun to move back as planned, flank pairs, then the center pairs. The center pairs took time to re-load and fire independently into the head of the column, downing a few more grenadiers and slowing it just enough. Finally, the last pair turned about and headed toward Brooklyn.
Creed remained at the parapet, the last American to defend the fortifications on Long Island. He raised his hunting rifle and sought a suitable target. The fading fog was drifting across the front of the advancing formations. The light infantry and grenadiers had almost reached the defense works. A few scrambled over trenches and under abatis. He swiveled his rifle at a large grenadier sergeant exhorting the men forward and twirling a halberd above his head with berserker-like fury. Creed’s shot drilled him in the head and sent his halberd spinning harmlessly into the wet grass.
Creed ran down the road toward Brooklyn, where he found two of his teams: Parker and Beall, as well as two other men from Frederick. Musket and cheers erupted as the British breached the defenses at last.
Creed spoke between breaths. “Some of the other lads...firing...at the British...on the run. Head back toward the village...find a suitable place to make another stand.”
Beall replied loading his musket as he spoke. “Sir, shouldn’t we go directly to the landing? The ferrymen will be waiting. Further delay now puts them at risk.”
“No. We must slow down the British one last time...then we shall make our way there...” Creed felt guilty, for he knew the next stand would be their last. The men all nodded. Their trust in Creed was unquestioning.
They moved at a slow trot toward Brooklyn until they came upon some barns and woodsheds at the outskirts of the village, where they stopped and took cover. Suddenly to their front, a company of British grenadiers charged up the road. Creed and his men fired with deliberate aim and three grenadiers fell, clutching themselves as they tumbled into the mud. Creed and his men ran off into the fog.
The cannon fire increased; the British had now brought up more guns and pounded the trench works north and south of Brooklyn, sending plumes of mud and bits of wood flying in every direction.
* * *
From his vantage point, Sandy Drummond sat astride Shoe as he watched his mighty phalanx plunge into the American defenses.
He waived his saber. “Grenadiers forward!”
Drummond knew whatever rebels remained had taken to their heels. They needed to move quickly if they hoped to bag any prisoners. He needed something to show for his transgression against Howe’s orders.
“Grenadiers, to the village!” he shouted, “Light infantry, to the ferry! “
He spurred Shoe along and watched his dragoons fan out in search of stragglers. The light infantry and moved south toward the ferry. Brooklyn was about to fall into British hands, joining the rest of Long Island in an occupation that would last almost seven years.
* * *
Tallmadge’s squad tied up the longboat just as the British overran the defense works. Thorne had moved up more artillery, and stray shot began to hit the road near the ferry. The rain had turned the ground soft and mushy and rounds sunk harmlessly into the mud.
“No sign of Mister Creed, sir.” Said one of the men.
Tallmadge nodded. ” Load muskets and take positions at the ferry. I must find my horse.”
The patient sorrel was right where he left it. She looked at him with a face that displayed a confidence in him that few people ever had. After some hesitation as to his next move, he mounted, and rode up over the bluffs into Brooklyn.
Tallmadge rode into a town that seemed as empty as a New England graveyard. The flotsam and debris of the rebel army was now the only evidence of its once formidable presence. The few inhabitants who remained were behind battened shutters waiting for the inevitable arrival of the British. With vestiges of the morning mist and fog swirling in patches, Brooklyn seemed surreal, almost haunted. Word of the ravages suffered by the female population in Staten Island had reached Brooklyn. Yet Staten Island was Tory, what would become of the village that had housed the rebel army?
Tallmadge heard the sound of feet slopping through the mud. To his surprise, a pair of the Connecticut men he’d detailed to Creed emerged from the haze.
Tallmadge’s voice trembled. “Where is the rest of the detachment? Where is Mister Creed?”
A thin youth from Redding replied. “Last seen ‘em back on the parapet sir, busy shooting at the lobsters. Dragoons and infantry stormed the breastworks north and south and...”
Shots rang out. They looked up as a trio of grenadiers turned the corner of a building.
Tallmadge spoke. “Make your way back to the ferry. Some of the boys are waiting there with a boat. Tell them I shall be but fifteen minutes. If I do not return, they are to depart without me.”
They hesitated, not wanting to leave the officer or the others.
“Go now!” Tallmadge shouted.
They took off at a run, leaving Brooklyn to Tallmadge, Creed...and the British.
Tallmadge wanted to even the score with the British. The slaughter of so many of his compatriots, friends and relatives had gotten the better of him Moreover, he felt that he owed Creed a chance of surviving this hazardous mission. He spurred his horse straight into the band of grenadiers.
As he swept down on them, Tallmadge used the weight of his horse to bowl them over, cutting and stabbing wildly all the time. Not long ago he was a civilian, a man of letters, not of action.... Expertise with edged weapons was not something one learned at Yale. Still, he struck surely, and two grenadiers fell under his blade and a third was crushed under his horse’s hooves. Tallmadge felt a rush of doubt, fear, hate, and excitement all at once. He had killed his first men and although he had not enjoyed it–he experienced a sense of accomplishment that a classics teacher could never attain. He had done his duty, but still was not satisfied. He thirsted for more action and a chance to avenge his lost comrades.
Tallmadge spurred the sorrel up the Flatbush Road. Suddenly, he heard shots and shouts to his left. Turning, he saw two of the Marylanders go down under the blows and slashes of another group of grenadiers. Drawing his heavy pistol from the saddle holster, he charged once again. He closed on the group, now locked in fierce combat, shooting the first grenadier in his way. The ball pierced the man’s neck and sent him down choking on his own blood. Tallmadge smashed the skull of a second grenadier with the empty pistol and sliced off the arm of a third with his blade.
He wheeled his horse and charged the remaining grenadiers who broke and ran for the safety of a nearby building. The grenadiers began loading, intent on dispatching the mad rebel horseman. As they did, Tallmadge reached down, pulled the surviving Marylander up behind him, and spurred back down the road toward the ferry. The grenadiers fired, but their volley missed Tallmadge as he galloped out of range and out of sight.
“Where is Lieutenant Creed?” Tallmadge asked the wounded man as he helped him into the arms of his men waiting by the ferry.
“Not sure sir.” He gasped. He had three bayonet wounds oozing blood. None appeared fatal but the worst was yet to come if they could not get him to a doctor soon.
“Lieutenant Creed ordered us to fall back in pairs, once we discharged our volleys. If he did not make it back by now he likely is dead or captured.”
“How many British are there?” Tallmadge asked.
“I would reckon we were attacked by at least a thousand infantry, dragoons, and artillery. They are right behind us.”
Tallmadge reloaded his pistol while the men moved his horse and the wounded soldier onto the boat. By then the fog had cleared completely, much to Tallmadge’s dismay. His eyes scanned the field that sloped down from heights above the ferry. Rocks and shrubs lined the crest. A few large chestnut trees dotted the skyline as well. It occurred to him that he should have left a man to stand watch up there as they loaded the boat. Once the British had the heights they could fire at the boat and threaten their safe passage back across to New York. He dared not tarry in the hope of helping Creed or any of the brave men that stood the ramparts with him. Tallmadge thought to himself that, sadly, bravery was often ill rewarded.
As Tallmadge feared, a band of British dragoons suddenly appeared on the heights. They dismounted and began skirmish fire at the Connecticut men. The first few rounds fired high over their heads and scattered widely. If they could just shove off, they would be out of range in minutes. The tide was coming in, however; the journey back would be much more difficult.
Tallmadge regretted leaving Creed to his fate. He scanned the ferry and the heights for one last sign of Creed’s band. A shot pinged off the bow of the boat, and the ricochet nearly hit him.
Tallmadge gave the final command. “Shove off, Mister Farley: have the men pull hard! We must get out of range...
The wounded Marylander stammered. “I’m glad to be leaving Long Island, sir, but not Mister Creed.”
Tallmadge nodded grimly. He took hold of his horse’s bridle, steadying her with his familiar voice. The boat rocked and began to move sluggishly across the river.
A company of British Light Infantry swarmed now the docks. Musket fire erupted from the dockside but the rounds fell short. Tallmadge could not resist the urge to remove his hat and wave it at the frustrated British on shore. Somehow, he took solace in their frustration. Although his friend’s fate seemed grim, the Continental Army had escaped destruction and, after all, he had retrieved his horse.
* * *
As Creed, Beall and Parker ran through the Brooklyn streets, just enough mist remained to mask them from their pursuers. They moved past tightly-shuttered houses set in neat rows, each on its half-acre plot. Flowers bloomed in gardens and from the gaily-painted boxes hanging from windows and porches. Inside, the frightened burghers huddled for solace against the sounds of soldiers running, shouting, and shooting in hot pursuit of Creed and his men. Suddenly, Creed heard the dull plopping of hooves as they pounded along the rain-soaked ground.
Creed and his men jumped a picket fence and hid behind a well in the front garden of a slate gray house. They hunched down, with bayonets at ready, keeping a low silhouette as the dragoons passed by. The horsemen, hell bent to make it to the ferry landing, paid scarce attention to their flanks. Creed and his men once more moved from house to house until they passed the Old Dutch Church. They saw a company of grenadiers running up the road. Now the village came alive with musket shots and anxious shouts and curses. Creed knew they had run out of time. Brooklyn was awash in redcoats.
“I do not know about you lads, but I could use some rest.” Creed said in a very earnest tone. They looked at him in disbelief. Then, he grinned, “Follow me.”
Creed made his way up the street until he came to the Braaf home at the edge of the town. With an ease that hid his fatigue, he jumped over the locked gate and headed to the barn. The barn had no stalls. They saw two small brown cows tied in the corner, and a few stacks of hay piled in the middle. The loft was accessible by a tall wooden ladder. Creed scrambled up, with his men close behind. They threw themselves prone onto the loft floor, exhausted.
Creed talked in a hushed tone, “Check your flints, quietly load, and remove your bayonets. If they storm up here, the blades will be handier unencumbered by five feet of musket.”
Parker grunted between deep breaths. “Greater danger...is if they try to burn us out. Rather be shot...”
Beall gasped, “Shot...more likely we’ll be hanged. Isn’t that right, sir? The British hang men found behind their lines.”
Creed gazed out at the street through a gap in the planks. “Only if you are in civilian attire...or in a British uniform. ’Twould be better if we are not discovered at all.”
“Sir, what is the plan for escape?” Parker asked. “We are surrounded by red coats and their numbers will only increase.”
Creed replied. “Tis likely the numbers will increase, but that might be to our advantage. The longer we remain here undiscovered, the likelier they are to think we are dead or gone. Patience is our best weapon.
Parker’s eyes narrowed and he chuckled sarcastically. “Patience? Our survival depends on patience, sir?
Creed grinned. “Yes, patience...and luck too. Prayer might help as well. While we wait, I myself will pray. Do you lads pray? If you don’t, now would be a good time to learn.”
They stared at him but did not reply.
“Very well then...we shall rely on luck.”
“Now, I will stand first watch,” Creed said, motioning to the corner of the loft, “In three hours, one of you will relieve me. Get some rest while we wait this out. God knows we shall need it.”