Island of New York, September 9th, 1776
George Washington threw his quill down in frustration. He had just finished a short note to Nathaniel Greene. In the several war councils at his headquarters many heated discussions took place among his senior officers, and now many were siding with Greene. Washington himself was close to Greene and held him in high esteem, often using him as his sounding board for military strategy.
Yet Washington found himself beginning to agree with Greene, as his latest correspondence from the Continental Congress displayed a remarkable indecisiveness. Congress was nothing if not indecisive. Its recent guidance to Washington was vague and conflicting, advising him at various times to defend the city, abandon it, and nearly everything in between. Many believed that if New York were lost to the British, it would afford the British a strategic position that only superior naval forces could get back. They correctly realized that the infant American navy, nor any other navy in the world, had the power to wrest it back.
Now, a dispatch from Philadelphia provided Congress’ final guidance: Washington could defend or abandon New York at his discretion, but not torch it. The politics of a scorched earth strategy were fraught with consequences that Congress did not wish to address. This decision complicated things for Washington. He was sure the note to Greene would cause much consternation among his senior officers, but there was no turning back.
Washington turned to Scovel, hovering nearby. “Mister Scovel, please summon Colonel Fitzgerald, and then see that this letter gets to General Greene promptly.” Washington said, handing Scovel the note.
“Right away, Your Excellency.” Scovel saluted and departed.
Not long after, Fitzgerald arrived at Washington’s command post, recently moved to the new defenses along the Haarlem Heights, a hilly and wooded area at the northern end of the island dominating the approaches to the King’s Bridge and the upper North River. Washington had begun the process of strengthening the two forts on each side of the North River. Fort Washington, sitting along the western edge of Haarlem Heights, commanded the New York side. Directly across the river, Fort Lee, named after the army’s second most senior officer, Charles Lee, protected the New Jersey side from atop the high cliffs known as “the palisades.” Holding the two forts in tandem was critical if his army were to keep control the upper North River, maintain a foothold on New York Island and threaten the city should the British take it.
When Fitzgerald entered the room, Washington signaled for the rest of the staff to leave and pointed Fitzgerald to a straight back chair near his desk. “Is Mister Creed ready to depart on his mission? “
“Yes, tonight. He departs after dark and returns before dawn. His men and some volunteers from John Glover’s Gloucester Regiment have been training for the past few days and Creed deems them ready. If the weather cooperates, there should not be a problem.”
Washington folded his hands. “Let us hope it produces the desired result. So if you would, please review the plan with me.”
* * *
By seven that night, Creed, Beall, and Parker had finished wrapping and tightening their belting, weapons and equipment. Still without new hunting shirts, they wore standard blue Continental uniforms. Creed had the men blacken their belting and have their britches and stockings dyed a dove gray. Creed hoped darkening the white of the uniforms would make them less visible at night. They wore the standard-issue black tricorn hats but the only insignia was a green oak leaf pinned to the flap. In all, they looked better than most of the soldiers in the demoralized and poorly equipped rebel army.
Before they left, Creed made an excuse to speak with Emily, just in case they did not return. He reasoned that she would need guidance as to where to send their belongings. During the past few days spent in Dr. Stanley’s boarding house, Creed had deepened his now more than casual acquaintance with Emily, finding ways to be with her whenever he could justify it. The chemistry between them had grown. She was taken with Creed’s charm, exuberance and obvious intelligence; he infatuated by her diligence, beauty and natural grace.
When Creed entered the kitchen, he found Emily preparing the next morning’s activity with the servants. She was very organized and ran her father’s business quite efficiently during his absence. She planned meticulously, had a good head for numbers, and double-checked everything. She treated the servants with a politeness unusual in the mistress of a house. That perhaps impressed Creed more than anything did.
“Lieutenant Creed, this is unexpected. You are dressed...differently. Are you leaving?” There was obvious disappointment and concern on her face. She was alarmed. He was dressed for a field mission. He smiled to assuage her concern and then raised his eyes at the cook and wash girl. She politely asked the servants to go and they left the two alone.
He looked at her intensely, knowing he might never see her again and hoping to absorb her graceful features in his mind for eternity. “Leaving, no, I do not think so. We have duties to attend to this evening, that’s all. The lads and I should be back by morning. However, we are temporarily detached from our regiment. That could mean we’ll be posted somewhere else and not return for our belongings, few as they are. If we do not return I will find a way to contact you so that we can retrieve them.”
Their eyes locked on each other. He could not tell her of the grave danger their “duties” posed and that they might not return because they could be killed or captured.
Although distraught, she was composed enough to see through him. “Jeremiah Creed, there is more to this, I know...but I will not inquire further.”
He smiled again, and spoke reassuringly. “Seriously now, it is just night guard duty,” he said. “Now that the lads are rested and recovered, we must do our bit. You know–vigilance against the forces of the King.” His smile worked. She relaxed just enough and placed her soft hand on his hard wrist. Her gentle touch sent a feeling through him that he had not felt in a long time.
He removed the oak sprig from his hat and presented it like a knight gallant to a lady of the court. “Please hold this for me. I had no time to pick a rose.”
Emily blushed. “I will treasure this more than any gem I own.” She lifted her head and lightly touched his cheek. He took hold of her hand, pressed it for a moment over his heart, and then returned it to her, as gently as if it held a fresh egg. “Please stay safe, Jeremiah,” she whispered. “Please stay safe.”
He said nothing, afraid that if he said anything he would say too much, not of his mission, but of his feelings. Instead, he bowed his head and departed into the warm night air.
* * *
Sergeant Ezekial Hazard just finished his last check of the nearly thirty-foot long whaling boat. The crew had greased and wrapped the oarlocks to muffle the sound of the oars. They had also removed the boat’s small lateen sail and mast. There would likely be no time or room to tack on the dark river now likely crawling with British ships, smugglers and other rascals working the waters between New York and Long Island.
Creed and Hazard had checked the map and reckoned they could be at the landing point within less than an hour. The Gloucester men would pull the oars, while Hazard operated the tiller. Creed’s men would stand watch. Elias Parker with his experienced eyes would be positioned at the bow, Beall mid-ship and Creed with Hazard. They carried nothing but their personal weapons, although the boat had a small one-pound swivel cannon forward of the mast. Hazard loaded it with grape shot and covered it with a fitted canvas tarp. The Gloucester men also had their short muskets and cutlasses, also wrapped in oilskins to keep them dry during the trip. If all went well they would not need to unwrap them. These experienced mariners ordinarily wore flat caps with a pancake rim, short dark blue wool coats, and traditional sailor’s breeches. For this mission, they had exchanged their caps for black head kerchiefs. Security trumped tradition for Creed’s small command.
“We are ready to depart when you give the order, Mister Creed.” Hazard saluted as Creed approached in the dark, followed by Beall and Parker.
“Aye, aye, Captain!” Creed grinned and returned the salute in a mock sailor’s voice. Over the past couple of days, they had worked closely on the plan and Creed had enjoyed working with Hazard and his men. Hazard was indeed a ship’s officer in his real life, First Mate on a small whaler based out of Boston. Now he was a “soldier-sailor” in the Gloucester Regiment and captain of this small whaling boat that had been refitted to perform military missions in support of the Continental Army. Creed enjoyed calling him “Captain” and to his delight, it both flattered and annoyed the Sergeant.
Then Creed said dryly, “We can depart now. I’d like to arrive early and have a look around–to eliminate unpleasant surprises.”
Hazard nodded and placed his men at their positions, six stalwart New Englanders on each side with the bold Marylanders spread from fore to aft in the middle. As the boat slipped out into the river, Creed looked out for signs of British ships.
During their final planning session for the mission, Creed and Fitzgerald had discussed the possibility of a British a trap or some sort of deception. Perhaps the British had co-opted Foch, a.k.a. Mr. Jons? He might have bargained to save his life in exchange for a luring the Americans back to face interrogation and death. And they could not rule out the distinct possibility that Foch was in the pay of the British all along.
But they had no time to assess the situation. Washington was desperate for more information. In any event, it was now too late for them to turn back. Creed and his men would have to take the risk. They all agreed that it was the right thing to do.
When they were all seated Creed could see from Beall’s face that he wanted to ask something.
Creed whispered, “Is there something bothering you, Private Beall?”
Beall shrugged. “Just thinking of Simon–he should be here with us.”
Creed nodded. “Aye. He would be an asset, even with one arm. They’ll likely send him home though. If he survives the journey, he’ll likely recover and perhaps someday join us again.”
Beall changed the subject. “Do you think we will get back to the village by any chance?”
Creed startled. “What? Brooklyn? Thinking of young Krista, are you?”
In the darkness, Creed could not see him blush. “Yes sir. Until Simon got hurt, she was all I have thought of...except staying alive.”
Creed thought of Emily and replied. “Keep those thoughts in your heart–but your comrades and your mission in your head. The rest will work itself out. If the Lord wills it.”
Creed knew there was no chance of a meeting in Brooklyn but said no more. He now had his own affair of the heart to wrestle with; that was distraction enough.
They were midway across the river. The air had the strong salt smell of the sea, even this far up the river. The East River was really a tributary of the North River, as was the Haarlem River. The two waters intersected further north near the Hell Gate, the entrance to Long Island Sound. Creed could make out the shorelines of both New York and Long Island. The buildings in New York presented a spectacle of lamp-light along the southeastern tip of the island, then stretched north one half mile until it tapered off to the occasional glimmer from farms north of the city. Over on Long Island, the heights of Brooklyn to their front-starboard presented a more subtle display–occasional patches of light from buildings along the waterfront and the occasional house along the bluffs. The night air was surprisingly still. No sailing ships could move under those conditions but there was the chance they might encounter the odd whaler or longboat. Whether a Tory or a British patrol, pirate or smuggler–any or all could jeopardize the mission.