Parker’s leg muscles cramped as he tried to maintain his balance on the narrow board that served as a bench. He sat on the mid-starboard seat of the whaler. Fortunately, Parker was used to all sorts of boats and handled himself adroitly despite the discomfort. He relished the chance to get out onto the water once more. Behind him sat Beall, who had never been on a boat such as this and showed it. Until coming to New York, Beall had never been on open water and now fought nerves and a queasy stomach.
Beall whispered, “Elias, I do believe I will be sick.”
Parker replied with a mild jibe. “If you can stand the gore and offal you can surely stand the gentle rocking of a boat at sea.”
Beall replied, “Not the same. Ooh, my. “
“Just turn your head over the side when the time comes. Meanwhile, focus on the man before you and keep pulling. You’ll soon forget your landsmen’s belly.”
Creed spoke. “Enough chatter, lads. Concentrate on the oars as these men do.”
Four rough-looking mariners from Foch’s fleet completed the crew. They were experienced, hard-looking sailors who spoke little, were harsh in manner, and weathered in appearance. They pulled the long oars in unison; the creaking of the oarlocks and the quick dip of the oar paddles into the cold water were the only sounds. Fortunately, the waters were relatively calm and the tides and winds favored them, so they made good progress despite some slippage as their boat approached the barren island in the swirling waters.
After a while Jonathan whispered, “I am feeling better now. Thanks for the advice, Elias.”
Parker looked back and scowled. “Next time, you stomp on the offal. Now just keep on rowing.”
The red glow of dawn on the eastern horizon promised a pleasant day. Behind them, the village of Brooklyn was beginning to stir fitfully as it began its third day of British occupation. The taverns had closed after a busy night. In the various camps that now stretched from Gravesend to Bushwick, the British Army began its morning routine of stand-to, victuals, and the day’s orders.
In New York, Washington already had his troops up and digging the ubiquitous trenches and ramparts intended to stop the British. As he had explained to his officers, he had organized the Continental Army into three divisions: they were deployed to lower New York, the central part of the island, and covering Haarlem and the King’s Bridge. The latter’s mission was to guard against a thrust to the rear that would cut the army off from the mainland. The British had humbugged him once with a successful flanking thrust, made all the easier by his inattention to his exposed flank. Washington had determined that he would not make that mistake twice.
* * *
Beall asked. “Elias, how much longer will this take? My wrists are sore...and my posterior.”
Parker replied. “A mountain man like you should prove stronger...”
When Parker turned back to speak to Beall, his sharp eyes noticed the faint glow of a lantern a mile back and just north of where the Red Hen lay at anchor. It looked oddly familiar but he did not know why.
Creed’s voice turned his attention back to the west. “Ships...about four hundred yards to the front.”
They could see a line of sailing ships, mostly transports, moving up the river. The winds were causing them to tack very sharply east–heading their direction.
Creed called back to Coby at the stern. “Steer south by south west, Coby. We need to maintain enough distance from them to avoid their top watch. It is yet dark enough that they might miss us.”
The previous week’s storms, some of the worst in memory, had blown numerous trees into the waterways surrounding Manhattan. Normally a danger to small craft, in this situation they provided the little party’s potential salvation. Creed was hoping that in the early morning darkness, the British watchmen would not distinguish them from the floating debris.
The wind suddenly grew stronger and shifted direction, increasing the flotilla’s speed and angle of approach. Creed saw its vanguard, a schooner with a pair of small brigs: armed war ships each with a twelve-gun compliment. The center had six transports of various sizes while the rear comprised two small frigates, warships of twenty-four guns each. Creed was alarmed, but felt that if their boat kept its pace, they might just slip by the British undetected.
The crew rowed frantically, pushing the bow of the longboat through the numerous waves that pounded the bow when they entered the channel. Their progress slowed to a crawl, and the British flotilla drew closer, now less than 100 yards off their starboard bow. Soon they would be passing at point blank range, the Americans heading down river, the British up river.
Creed spoke in a low, but audible voice, “Lock oars lads. Sit low and keep quiet. Coby, stay down so but maintain our current heading if you can. We must appear as drift wood to them, or we will soon become drift wood indeed!”
Reluctantly, Coby did as Creed ordered. He did not like these strangers and was not happy that the boss had ordered him to make a journey that had so much risk and so little reward. Coby and the others had no political leanings, being cynical and worldly sailors caught in the crossfire of the rebellion. Their main interests were money, drink, and women, although not necessarily in that order. Coby intended to dump the Continentals on the New York shore and head straight back, avoiding both British and American scrutiny. Moreover, he had to bring back the map. Master Foch made that clear. Coby, as with the other mariners, feared Foch, the stern taskmaster. However, Foch paid well enough that few willingly left his employ. Besides, they knew that if they tried to leave there could be retribution, as they had all been party to numerous hanging offenses.
Creed kept his eye along the gunwale to ensure that the crew did not silhouette themselves. They drifted south with the current. The British ships continued their upstream course. The convoy took less than twenty minutes to pass them by but it seemed like twenty hours to Creed and the crew. When the convoy cleared, they were within fifty yards of the last ship, a small frigate with twenty-two guns.
Creed sensed the men’s impatience, “Keep quiet...just a wee bit longer, lads. Once we drift another fifty yards down river, you can row like we had the devil behind us.”
To their misfortune the sun suddenly rose above the horizon, bathing the entire river in a dim golden light.
Creed knew they had to act quickly. “Oars out, and pull hard lads. Maintain course, Coby.”
The men resumed their task with vigor and precision. Then shots were fired from the direction of the flotilla.
“Chase boat!” Cried Coby, his smuggler’s instincts now manifest.
There were two, actually. The British had indeed sighted the suspicious “flotsam” and launched a pair of longboats loaded with armed sailors and a few Royal Marines. They were 100 yards to the starboard rear and moving to close the gap. Needing no command from Creed, the men began to row desperately, their muscles pulling taught and burning with each stroke.
Coby decided to change their heading. He knew from years of experience on the river that their best chance to escape lay in a direct run to New York. Without saying a word to Creed, he pushed the tiller one quarter and the boat turned starboard heading west and directly for Manhattan. They crossed the bow of the British chase boats at 100 yards distance. They needed to make the half-mile run to New York and safety.
After the initial flurry of shots, the British had also put their men to work rowing, hoping to get within musket range or even seize the runaway boat. The next few minutes were crucial. The British had more men rowing; swifter craft, and strong, determined oarsmen. Before long, they closed the gap to fifty yards. The New York shoreline was a still more than a quarter mile distant. Creed and his men knew there was little chance of outrunning their pursuers.
Creed decided to change the odds by disrupting their pursuers’ tempo. “Try to hold her steady, lads. I’m going to stand...”
The crew thought he had gone mad, but Beall and Parker both smiled.
“He’s up to something, Jonathan,” Parker said under his breath.
Beall nodded, saying between grunting breaths, “Something that is...probably not good...for the British.”
Creed removed his Jaeger rifle from its oilcloth cover. He stood, balancing himself on the balls of his feet as the boat yawed and pitched with the waves and tide. He aimed his rifle at the helmsman in the closest longboat. His mark was a large man half-standing at his position, a reasonably good target. With both boats careening through the waves, it was an unsteady shot but the distance was now only forty yards. The crack of the rifle over their heads was music to the ears of Creed’s men. Clutching his shoulder, the helmsman fell back into the East River. The longboat slowed and began drifting to port. Creed immediately grabbed Beall’s rifle and aimed at the helmsman of the second longboat, which had now overtaken its partner. Seeing what happened to his counterpart in the first boat, the other helmsman crouched low to present a less inviting target.
“I see this will be more difficult.” Creed lowered the point of aim as far as he could down the center of the boat and squeezed off the shot. The ball caught one of the British sailors in the upper arm, bursting a massive, tattooed bicep and causing the man’s oar to drop. The shot tore through the sailor’s flesh, hitting the helmsman behind him just above the eye. He died instantly, sending the boat into a wild turn to the starboard and slowing it down. The Marines from both longboats stood and returned a desperate fire. By then, Creed was back at his position, rowing along with the others. They had a small window of opportunity to gain distance from their pursuers. The British musket balls scattered wildly around the boat but one caught Coby in the back of the neck, shattering vertebrae and severing his spinal cord. His lifeless body lurched forward onto Beall, dousing him with blood, membrane and fluids.
Parker looked at Beall and saw the young farmer’s disgust. “Gore and offal, hmm?”
Beall pushed Coby’s body over the side and then courageously took the tiller, keeping them on course. His bravery and instant action saved them.
The Americans increased their stroke, draining the last dregs of their strength and stamina. The fire from the pursuing craft lessened to an occasional shot, now more harassment than danger. The New York shoreline loomed closer, just over one hundred yards away. Still, the pursuit boats were back on course and again closing the gap. Creed suddenly realized that the British might follow them to the shore and beyond. If there were no American troops in the immediate vicinity of their landing, they might still be in danger! He looked up and scanned the shoreline for signs of American defenders. All he saw was some small docks along the water and a few scattered buildings. Everything else was brush and small trees.
Suddenly, a puff of smoke appeared along the shoreline, followed by the boom of cannon. As luck had it, a gun section of two six-pounders from Captain Alexander Hamilton’s New York battery was positioned in the tree line overlooking the shore. A cannon ball careened past Creed’s boat and plunged into the water twenty yards short of the British. A second round landed just starboard of the first pursuit boat. The British turned back rather than risk annihilation from the shore battery. It was a fight they knew they could not win.
“Huzzah for Maryland, huzzah for America!” cried Creed.
Beall and Parker echoed the cry, but Foch’s mariners kept silent and rowed for their lives. For them, this was just a job, one with great risk and no reward.
Creed waved his hat at the battery on shore, signaling that they were friendly. In a few minutes they were at the shoreline. Several New York militiamen rushed to the old wooden dock, and soon friendly hands began helping them back to shore and the army.
* * *
After Creed and his crew departed, Foch offered Jan Braaf a bunk on the Red Hen, convincing him that it would be best if he got some sleep and waited a few hours before traveling back to his house. Braaf was exhausted, so he promptly took him up on the offer. As soon as Braaf turned in, Foch left to conduct “business.” He returned just after ten that morning, to be met by a nervous crew.
“Mijnheer Foch, where have you been?” asked the senior mate on board.
Foch grew nervous, than angry. “You know better than to question my business. Why is the crew up so early?”
The mate replied contritely. “We heard firing across the river and saw the outline of a British flotilla.”
Foch exploded in rage. “Damn them all–Americans, English–what do I care now? My boat, my map, and Coby might be lost. Well then, better they all sink than get caught. Back to your stations–now!”
The men scrambled to their posts. Foch thought to himself that the English had overwhelming force now. It was important to proceed with caution and plan for any eventuality.
Foch stood on the fore deck squinting across the water in the hope of seeing some sign of his boat. A bleary-eyed Braaf joined him, appearing more tired than when he turned in. Sparing the morning pleasantries, Foch continued to look out across the river, “I am not so sure our friends made it over safely. My men saw English ships and heard firing from across the water.”
“Yes, it woke me, so I took a walk until my nerves calmed and then went back to sleep. I should go now, though, as Marta will be worried. I hope these damnable English leave soon. I cannot think of what happened, and worse, what might have happened to Krista. And next time could be Marta....”
“Ja, the English are Duyvels! Take care with them.” Foch continued to squint across the river without looking at his friend.
* * *
Braaf returned home at midday. The morning that he spent on the Red Hen was a fateful one at the Braaf house. At eight, a fist pounding on the front door awakened Marta. She tied her hair back and dressed hurriedly in a simple blue shift. She opened door to the longing stares of three British dragoons: Sergeant Digby and his two newly appointed companions.
His selection was curious, but it met his needs. One a frail, dark haired trooper named Peter Quaif, was resourceful but cagey. He was a sycophant who would serve the major and Digby loyally. Quaif would do whatever he was told, especially if there was extra income involved. He was amoral but if he was controlled that was a good thing. The other dragoon, Thomas Brent, was a strapping farm boy from Hampshire, loyal to the crown and the dragoons in that order. Brent was very religious but would do anything in the service of King and country. Although he obeyed orders without hesitation, Digby knew Brent could never intentionally commit an immoral act. However, Digby figured he could help Brent define the boundaries of morality to serve Major Drummond’s purposes.
Digby addressed her in a surprisingly courteous voice, “Missus, we have orders to search your house and premises, if you please.”
“Search our house, but why, sir?” Marta asked. She tried not to show her fear but she blushed deeply for a second, swallowed, and then regained her composure.
“Orders, ma’am, that is all I can say,” replied Digby.
The dragoons spent the better part of an hour going through the house. There was no small amount of ogling both Marta and Krista. Soldiers would not be denied their “harmless” pleasures, especially soldiers who were part of an army of occupation. They finished the house and then went over to the barn. They spent a good half an hour going from the loft to the open area below.
Brent decided to go through the heap of straw and dung so fastidiously avoided by his Sergeant and his Quaif. Using a nearby pitchfork, he plunged the prongs into the straw and carefully turned it. He was about to stop, realizing that the effort was futile. He knew why they were searching there. Three British soldiers were missing. Some had reported hearing talk of visiting a “sweet young lass” seen earlier that day. A canvass of the town soon revealed that three the British soldiers were last sighted near the Braaf home and that the Braaf had an attractive daughter “of age.” The idea that soldiers of the King would seek the favors of an honorable young woman disgusted Brent. He saw Krista when they had searched her room. She seemed sweet and innocent, but nervous as a young lamb. Now he knew why.
“Sergeant Digby, I believe I found something!” Brent’s voice quivered as if he had discovered lost treasure. What he had found instead was more modest but of more immediate interest, a button. It was a brass button, from a military uniform embossed with the ubiquitous “GR” and a number “28.”
“Ah, I think you have done it, me boyo!” Exclaimed Digby as he waved the button in his hand.
“This button was from one of them. We have proof that they were here.”
“So does that mean we must arrest them, take them in?” Brent was distraught at the idea.
“Not yet, me boyo, not yet. We must report all this to the good major. He will know what to do. Not a word of this to any one until we report to him. However, we must wait until the Marster of the house returns. A chat with him might help shed some more light on all this.”
They settled in until near midday when Jan Braaf returned. As Braaf entered the house, Marta rushed to him before any of the soldiers could get a word in. She spoke softly using their Dutch dialect. “Jan, these gentlemen have been searching the house all morning. They want to talk to you now. I overheard them...they have found a button. A British soldier’s button...in our barn.”
Despite the danger they faced, Marta was surprisingly composed. She spoke slowly and deliberately, emphasizing the words button and barn. Her eyes were wide open and her pert lips pursed tight. Braaf eyed the three dragoons nervously. Surely, he thought, they could not know what happened here.
“What exactly is the nature of your business, Mijnheer?” asked Braaf as he eyed Digby, instinctively disliking him.
“Begging your pardon sir, but we was ordered to search the house on the grounds that three of His Majesty’s finest were seen coming here to visit your daughter. He eyed Krista’s breasts lustfully, and then quickly averted his eyes.
“I do not like what you insinuate, Sergeant!” The normally phlegmatic Braaf suddenly felt rage surge through him like never before.
“I beg your pardon sir, and I certainly mean no disrespect at all, at all. It is just...that rumor in the camp named her, your Miss Krista that is, as the object of a nocturnal visit. That is all. So naturally, we came here to find out where they went. Now, were they here, sir?”
Digby eyed Braaf to gauge his reaction. However, Braaf showed no emotion. He decided to play into the story. Pure denial now would do them no good.
“Ja, they were here, but they left. I knew what they wanted and I threatened them.”
“Threatened them, sir? How could the likes of you threaten three of His Majesty’s soldiers?”
“I told them that one of two things would happen if they did not leave. I would report them to their commander who I am sure would have them face a court martial and possibly hang or...”
“Or what, sir?”
“Well, you see, as I am connected with the Whig faction here...”
Digby completed the sentence. “Meaning...they would not necessarily escape this island alive!”
Braaf regretted his indiscretion. He may have signed his death warrant and put his family at even more risk.
“You see sir, you communicated a threat to His Majesty’s soldiers in the performance of their duties...begging your pardon sir but that is a grave offense.”
“If their ‘duties’ include assaulting the virtue of a young maiden then so be it, Sergeant. I did what I had to do in defense of my daughter.”
Digby knew that he did not have the complete truth from Braaf. The button they found indicated that a struggle occurred here. Nevertheless, he knew this middle-aged burgher could not have killed three strong infantrymen, even if they were drunk, which they most likely were. Digby tried to think things through. Had they deserted? Not likely, but not out of the question.
“Very well sir, but I must report all of this. We may return with more questions.”
“As you see fit,” answered Braaf, relieved they were going but sure that they would return.
* * *
Digby reported his findings to Drummond, who was not amused. “The message you retrieved for me this morning was from Golden Apple. It indicated that three men in British uniforms were making their way to New York in a longboat. Do you realize what this could mean?”
Digby’s eyes widened, “My God sir, they are deserters after all.”
“Perhaps, but I am not so sure. Perhaps the men were spies all along. Could there be more of them? Or, were these rebel soldiers, or even rebel spies, who made off in British uniform? Perhaps they accosted the girl. And if this is the case then where, pray tell, are His Majesty’s missing soldiers?”
“I think I have a headache, sir.” Digby was confused now. He realized he had a lot to learn in this business.
“Here, I will give you a note. Ride up to Utrecht and talk to the commander of these men. Get accurate descriptions of them. Then we will talk with our Dutch family again.”