Fitzgerald was not a happy man. The loss of Creed and his men vexed him. Although he now had an espionage relationship with “Mister Jons,” he knew that biweekly communication in a fast-moving situation would not be enough to quench the commander-in-chief’s thirst for information. Washington wanted more intelligence and had summoned him and Scovel to discuss the matter. The single Continental standing guard presented arms as Fitzgerald and Scovel entered the building that served as Washington’s headquarters. Large but unpretentious, the house belonged to a prominent Tory who had left to seek refuge behind British lines. Made of white clapboard, it had a small center hall with two large parlors on the main floor and four bedrooms on the second. Washington occupied one room and his aides and staff officers occupied the others.
“His Excellency is most anxious to determine Howe’s next move,” Scovel warned him as they walked in together. Scovel had barely slept in the past three days and Fitzgerald could see the effect. The young officer looked haggard. The entire army suffered from the stress of recent events and lack of rest. Fitzgerald himself worked tirelessly but intelligently, ensuring that he slept at least four hours in a twenty-four hour period. Fatigue affected the brain even more insidiously than the body and as an intelligence officer, he relied more on the former.
As soon as they entered the room, Washington posed the question: “Colonel Fitzgerald–I need to know what the British are planning...when and where the British will attack.”
“Well, we know what, but knowing where and when is the challenge,” Fitzgerald replied. “To accomplish that, I need to expand our ability to gather information. I do have an agent on Long Island but our arrangement calls for infrequent meetings, not particularly helpful given our current circumstances. Creed was to have provided us a more responsive intelligence-gathering capability. However, as he is now missing on Long Island, we must find another such person. What does your Excellency say to young Benjamin Tallmadge?”
Washington grimaced and shook his head ever so slightly. “He has a good reputation, but his actions at the ferry proved a bit free-wheeling.”
Scovel spoke. “Yes sir, but he returned with at least one of Creed’s men and provided our last report on the British activities in Brooklyn. He has a fine mind, and is courageous–somewhat resourceful I would say.”
Fitzgerald agreed, “Yes, he and Creed are very similar types, types we shall need to use extensively if your Excellency is to have the information you need to defeat the British.”
Washington nodded. “I suspect you are both correct. We will not defeat the British through force of arms alone. This is not Europe, where all is decided on one grand battle, siege, or campaign. This is a clash of will more than a clash of arms. We need the political will to continue the Cause, and to suffer the adversity we will surely continue to face. I am afraid the past few days are a harbinger of things to come. To survive, we will need the backing of the people and the support of the Congress. Patience, and information, that is to say intelligence, will be the keys to frustrating the British and bringing them to terms.”
Fitzgerald said, “And some good Irish luck would not hurt things either.”
All three laughed, Washington for only the second time in several days. He found this need for “luck” humorous...so long as his luck held.
He quickly turned serious. “I do not want to risk the displeasure of Colonel Chester. He commands a fine regiment, and would not be sanguine about releasing his adjutant in the midst of hostilities. As much as we could make use of young Tallmadge, we cannot do so right now. However, I propose we expand our efforts by the use of suitable volunteers from Thomas Knowlton’s ranger battalion. See him as soon as possible, Fitzgerald. Perhaps he can identify, let us say, a few good men that we could detach for special activities. I must have more information on the British.”
Washington went on. “The situation is turning grave. Desertions drain the army by the hour. I have deployed our remaining forces in three divisions.” He pointed to the map. “One is in the city of New York. Another defends the midsection of the island and the third watches the north.”
Washington had all three divisions constantly building up the defenses. But the strenuous work had taken its toll on the soldiers’ strength and morale.
“I plan to meet the British with stiff resistance this time. We shall use the excellent north-south roads to rush reinforcements to execute a counter stroke wherever the British land.”
“The British have already begun harassing bombardments from the heights of Brooklyn and from ships traveling up and down the East and North rivers,” Fitzgerald replied, “but this does not necessarily provide any clue as to where they will attack.”
“What is the most likely enemy course of action?” Scovel asked.
“Most likely, they will simply strike the southern end of the city, right across from the heights. It is the shortest distance and they could then bombard our southern works from both shore and naval batteries.” Fitzgerald opined.
“Yes, I am sure you are correct,” interjected Washington. “If they strike too far north, we could move to directly to New Jersey.”
Fitzgerald nodded. “The tides work against a northern thrust. Kingsbridge is safe.”
Footsteps sounded on the floorboards outside the door and Charles Pickering burst into the room, breathing heavily and obviously excited.
“I have important news, sir!” He exclaimed.
Fitzgerald and Washington turned and faced him, Fitzgerald peering petulantly through his spectacles. He did not like interruptions when he had the ear and the attention of the commander-in-chief.
Washington remained calm and asked flippantly, “Have the British agreed to surrender?”
Nobody laughed. Pickering’s face flushed. “No sir, Lieutenant Jeremiah Creed is alive! He arrived on the island not thirty minutes past and is even now on his way to headquarters!”
* * *
Braaf sat at the kitchen table trying to explain the impact of the British occupation with Marta. The increasingly discomfited world of the Braafs was completely shattered when Creed and Beall brought Krista into the house. They had no idea the men had hid in their barn. Marta fought the urge to cry but maintained her outward composure and took Krista straight to her bedroom. She then called for Jan to bring warm water and soap. His hands trembled and his mind raced as he waited for the water to heat. This was now serious business. Three dead soldiers on their property would most likely bring a death sentence to all of them. What should he do? He could turn the men in, but they had saved his daughter. Should they flee? Where could they go that the British might not some day be? Fleeing would be admitting to murder. Eventually someone would come looking for the men, so there was not much time.
A few minutes later, Creed reentered the room dressed in the uniform of one of the British soldiers. The uniform was a bit ill fitting and had some bloodstains but overall he had all the look of a member of the Royal Army. With a grim smile he proclaimed, “Corporal Creed, late of Light Company, First Maryland Continental Line, now Second Company, His Majesty’s 28th Regiment of Foot, at your service!”
A man who could find humor in the midst of so much horror amazed Braaf. “You have ice water in your blood,” Braaf muttered.
“I beg your pardon?” Creed asked.
“Mijn God! What madness is this now, Lieutenant Creed?” Braaf said.
“The lads are now dressing those beasts in our fine Continental uniforms, I am sad to say. However, it is our best solution. We will simply bury them in an orchard or field far enough away from here. No one will question the burial of three rebel casualties. From there, we shall disappear into the chaos of this occupation. You must wash away the blood in the barn, use lye, and then cover the area with straw and dung.”
Braaf shook his head ruefully, “You are mad! How will you cross the river?”
Creed was a little surprised by Braaf’s resistance. “Not mad, merely desperate. As for crossing; I shall resolve that when we reach the water.”
Creed helped Braaf carry the cauldron of warm water to Marta who, once recovered from the shock of seeing him in a red coat, thanked him with a hug that was at once warmly grateful and somehow sensual. He smelled the aroma of her clean soap and cooking spice and felt her breasts pushing against his side.
“I know this was not your fault, Lieutenant.” She whispered breathily. ”Thank-you for saving my Krista. Now, take care of yourself. “
She kissed him once on the cheek. Jan was seeing to Krista and paid no notice. Creed, although he liked her smell and touch, pushed back just a little. Without saying a word, he bowed, kissed her hand, and departed.
A half-hour later, they were in a farm field a quarter mile from the Braafs. With a score of homes and farms between them, nobody could connect the burial to the family, even if the British found the bodies later. They dug a shallow grave, three feet deep, and tossed the bodies in.
“I need one of you lads to jump down there and tamp them down tightly,” Creed said.
Beall and Parker looked at each other in disbelief.
Parker drawled, “Very well, I will do it. Jonathan seems ill at ease with gore and offal.”
Beall stiffened. “I have skinned many animals and wallowed in their gore and offal, as you say, but I will defer to you on this opportunity, Elias.”
Parker grunted and jumped in. They heard the cracking of lifeless bones and the indescribable sound of strange gasses exploding from the corpses’ innards. In a few jumps, he had pressed the lifeless forms deep into the muddy soil.
“Throw the canvas over them and cover up this small window to hell.” Creed said bitterly.
They tamped the soil and grasses back over the grave until barely noticeable. Then they returned the cart and tools to the Braaf barn, and drew their weapons out of hiding. Creed and Beall slung their Jaeger rifles and sword-bayonets over their shoulders like war trophies and held the British Brown Bess muskets at slope arms. Parker did the same with his Maryland issue musket.
“If anyone asks, the non- English weapons are trophies of war–the bounty of any honest British soldier,” Creed advised.
Before they departed the farmyard, Jan Braaf met them at the gateway. “Wait, gentlemen. You know that I am a senior member of the Whig faction here in Brooklyn. Our leader is my friend and colleague, Cornelius Foch. I should take you to him. He is a ferry operator and seaman and he owns several boats. When I explain what happened he will help you to cross the river.”
Creed was polite but to the point. “Sir, that is most kind of you but your place is here with Marta, that is, with Mevrouw Braaf, and Miss Krista. We cannot allow you to risk your family any longer for our sakes. And the fewer who learn of tonight’s events, the better.”
“Nevertheless, I insist. Krista is asleep in bed with Marta. We have several hours before dawn. If we are challenged you can say you caught me breaking the curfew imposed today. I shall return after dawn and, God willing, you will be gone by then.”
Creed could not dissuade Braaf, whom he knew to normally be a cautious and prudent man. Creed allowed that Braaf was a Patriot and this was a war. He must take some risks. The British had already damaged his family.
“Ah, you must have some Irish in ye,” Creed replied with a wink. “Very well sir, show the way.”
Brooklyn appeared quiet when they departed, but up ahead the full strength of the British Army was evident. Tents of all kinds lined the road and filled fields and orchards. As the road closed in on the ferry, several taverns and boarding houses were still full of revelers, mostly officers and senior sergeants, and more than a few devious privates. There were the usual doxies plying their trade as well and some could be seen departing with customers of various ranks. As Creed and his men neared the heights, they saw a pair of sentries posted ahead. The British were already laying heavy guns to bombard New York and once again, engineers, gunners and a few unfortunate infantrymen were working as if it were mid-day.
They were about a half mile from Foch’s Red Hen, the small brig Foch lived on and used as his office and flag ship. A large coaching house, called “Gouden Adelaar,” dominated the cross roads just before the heights. Made of brick, stone, and timber, it was as large as many similar European establishments Creed had visited. Raucous noise and laughter came from within.
“We should avoid the roads and go north overland for say a half-mile or so,” Creed announced unexpectedly. “There will be few patrols or sentries there. Once beyond the British lines, we can turn west and make way toward the coast.”
“You know your way around our land, Lieutenant Creed?” Braaf commented rather than asked.
“Some. I have been through here before, during the movement from New York. I have had to develop a good eye for the land since I came to this country. There are so few roads and almost no maps.”
He smiled faintly. “Now, I propose that you three go on without me. I will meet you at the Red Hen, later.”
“Mijn Gott, you are not coming with us?” Braaf was aghast. Parker and Beall looked at each other knowingly. By now, they always expected the unexpected from their officer. They were actually proud of it.
“No, I shall meet you there just before dawn. That will give you time to convince your colleague to risk his life and property to help a couple of unfortunate rebels. We can leave with the morning wind and tide.”
“But...where are you going? What are you doing?” Braaf asked in a low voice. He grew suspicious. Would this man turn them all over to the English?
“Mijnheer, earlier I told you that there are some things people are better off not knowing. This is one such occasion.”
Creed handed his Jaeger rifle and bayonet to Beall, and strutted toward the entrance to the “Gouden Adelaar” with his Brown Bess slung over his shoulder. He jingled the good British coin he had taken from the dead soldiers, delighted to have a chance to spend some of it in the name of the new United States.
* * *
Braaf, Beall, and Parker made it to the Red Hen in under an hour. The night was dark, but calm. A forty foot long, two-masted brig sat gently on the water, a small watch lamp the only light. Braaf called out softly from the pier. Beall and Parker did not understand him as he spoke in the Dutch dialect peculiar to America. Kip, the watchman, recognized him and roused his master. Foch was quite surprised to see his friend at such an hour, during the British occupation and curfew, and with a pair of redcoats. His sleep-shrouded mind raced to assess what could be happening. Were the British here to arrest them as rebel spies? Anxiously, Foch bounded down the small wooden gangway to the pier.
Eying the two redcoats with suspicion, Foch addressed his friend in their Dutch dialect, “Jan, what is the meaning of this, what do these English want from us?”
“Do not be disturbed by the uniforms, Cornelius, these men are Continentals. Stranded in Brooklyn...during the British attack. We must help them to cross to New York. There is also one more coming later.”
“Jan, if I cross to New York without permission from the English I risk hanging. Surely you know that.”
Foch spoke with emphasis but dispassionately. In fact, he sailed many times without permission, and over his lifetime was guilty of a number of things that also put him at risk of hanging.
“Cornelius, we both know that you have risked more than this in the past! As Whigs we risked the wrath of the Tories. Perhaps it is time for us political Whigs to take action like Patriots!” Braaf spoke with emotion and passion that surprised even him. Only hours ago he had decided that his Whig leanings should be toned down to ride out the British occupation. He just desperately wanted these men gone and would say or do anything to make that happen.
Braaf’s tone surprised Foch as well. This was not the Jan Braaf he knew–the fussy old hen. Something had changed him, but Foch decided not to pursue the issue. It could wait until later.
Foch hesitated, and then switched back to English, “How soon will the third get here? It will be dawn in a few hours and I must get back by then or I risk the British cannons.”
“Within the hour. We should prepare the Red Hen now so we can be off as soon as he arrives.” Braaf was lying; he did not want to risk Foch losing heart.
Foch raised both hands in a gesture meant to wave off the idea. “I will not risk the Red Hen. They may take one of the smaller craft, less noticeable too. Let us have a brandy, and then you three will help Kip prepare the boat.”
In the meanwhile, Foch had other business to prepare.