Colonel Fitzgerald’s Quarters, New York, September 11th, 1776
As Creed talked, Fitzgerald paced up and down the room, dressed only in his night robe and slippers. He and Creed went through several mugs of tea and Fitzgerald was on his second pipe. By the time Creed finished his report and answered Fitzgerald’s many questions, the horizon was beginning to glow with a light coppery patina.
“Well, in the long run, a small naval victory against the Royal Marines is no consolation for the failure of the intelligence mission,” Fitzgerald said. “Moreover, if poor Braaf now dies on us, we will have certainly failed. Our next scheduled meeting with Mr. Jons is not for another fortnight. The British will surely come before then.”
Fitzgerald had taken to calling Cornelius Foch by his cover name, “Jons,” even in private. On an island full of Tories and crawling with informants, a slip of the tongue overheard by the wrong party could bring disaster.
Creed said. “Well, sir, then it is now up to the surgeon, is it not? A butcher with a knife is all that stands between light and darkness.”
Fitzgerald looked crossly at Creed, and then chuckled grimly at the thought.
“So it is, Lieutenant Creed,” he replied. “Perhaps fortune will shine on us, and on poor Braaf. So much of this affair is based on luck, both good and bad.”
Creed snapped. “As well as hard fighting by very brave men, some of whom died tonight. All because of this ‘failed’ intelligence mission of yours. God knows why they–or any of us–volunteered!”
Creed regretted his own impertinence as soon as the words were out. He realized he had crossed the line but the second mariner had bled to death during the trip back and he felt responsible.
Fitzgerald looked at Creed solemnly. “Of course my lad, you are correct. It seems intelligence work can be as dangerous as a pitched battle. Very well, I will report all of this to His Excellency. Now see to your men and Mister Braaf, and then get some sleep. Did you secure your horse and belongings?”
“Yes, sir. And thank-you for finding mounts for my men as well.”
“Well, they shall need them. Report back at two this afternoon; we shall dine together with His Excellency and discuss all this again.”
* * *
Creed returned to the Stanley house at sunrise. He found Elias Parker and Emily Stanley assisting the acting surgeon, a Doctor William Thompkins. Thompkins was a local physician, not a military surgeon. That meant he had rarely treated a serious bullet wound. His main experience with violent trauma injuries was the occasional knife wound although he had once treated a bullet wound caused by a jealous husband gut-shooting his wife’s lover.
“Lieutenant Creed, I have already heard so much about you from Miss Stanley. I am Doctor William Thompkins, a former colleague of her father.”
Creed made a motion as if to shake hands but dropped it on seeking the state of the doctor’s hands. “I am glad to hear that doctor. How bad is he?” Creed’s look drifted to Emily, who blushed at his obvious distraction. Creed had a difficult time taking his eyes off her.
Thompkins cleared his voice loudly, regaining Creed’s attention. “Difficult to say at this point, young man. I have done as much as I could, but could not remove the ball. It struck his hip and shattered itself as well as a few inches of bone. I fear a piece has deflected into his stomach and perhaps his loins. I stopped the external bleeding for now and I bandaged him with fresh linen but there has already been a great effusion of blood. We must keep him comfortable and as soon as he can take some liquid. Make sure he gets as much as he wants. Tea is good. Moreover, when the pain gets unbearable you can give him rum, as much as he can take. I shall be back tonight unless he turns worse. Call me in that event.”
Creed nodded in reply and Thompkins departed into the early morning light. Creed looked at Braaf, now semi-conscious and moaning softly. His eyes, partially opened, looked cat-like to Creed.
“Private Parker, you and Private Beall must go and get some sleep. I shall stay with Miss Stanley awhile longer. I must meet with Colonel Fitzgerald after noon. Oh yes, and my sincere thanks to both of you for a job well done.”
When Parker left, Creed took Emily’s hands in his. Her hair was tied up in the loose bun she had hurriedly tied when the soldiers came back to the house. Strands were in disarray, her nightdress was stained with blood and other fluids from Braaf. Still, to him, she looked more magnificent than the finest French noblewoman dressed for a grand ball at Versailles.
“Miss Emily, thank-you so much for helping with Mijnheer Braaf. His family took good care of us when we were in Brooklyn. He seemed such a mousy fellow though. Hard to believe he was spying on the British. It takes a cold, purposeful mind to spy effectively. I never saw that in him.”
“Jeremiah, war makes people act passionately and even heroically when they ordinarily would not fathom doing so.”
She blushed again after realizing her unintentional double-entendre. Creed smiled and kissed her hands softly. Their heads bumped gently and they both pulled back instinctively, then smiled.
Beall woke Creed shortly before noon. After a mug of hot coffee a bath was drawn for him and he was able to shave as well. His two men had already eaten and cleaned up; they did not favor baths as Creed did, preferring to wash with buckets of cold well water. After dressing, he checked in on Braaf. Emily was watching him. She was dressed in a light brown summer dress suitable for farm and garden work, but on her as attractive as a dress could be. Creed, always attracted to beautiful women, found his fascination with Miss Stanley uncanny. It was beyond any anything he had experienced.
He gently touched her elbow as he approached her and bowed slightly. “Good morning Miss Stanley. How is our patient doing?”
“Not well, I fear. He fell into a fitful sleep after you turned in and now burns with the fever.”
Creed grimaced at the thought. Even the slightest wound turned mortal once infection and mortification set in. This did not bode well.
“Also, I went through his things after you went to sleep. I found this small valise. I did not open it, in case it was something important.”
Creed smiled warmly. “Such a brilliant lass you are! Well, let us have a look at it.”
The key was missing, probably lost in the actions of the night. Creed carefully pried it open with a jackknife. His eyes widened when he saw the contents, but he said nothing.
Emily could see in his eyes that there was something unusual about the contents. “Is it important?”
“No, not really,” he lied.
The less she knew the better for her, he thought. She did not believe him, but said nothing. Creed closed the valise and took both of her hands in his. Their eyes met for a long moment and neither spoke. There was no need. Creed then released her hands, ever so slowly, picked up the valise and headed toward the door.
“I must depart for my appointment with the good colonel. We have much to discuss. As do you and I, when I return.” He bowed his head and left.
* * *
Creed arrived early for his appointment with Fitzgerald. They examined the contents of the valise, which contained what appeared to be instructions for meetings, plus what looked like a primitive code for use in some sort of secret correspondence. There were sketches with locations and times marked, mostly in lower Manhattan, the east coast of upper Manhattan, and a spot just north of New York in Westchester, called Frog’s Neck. Finally, there were two envelopes, each with a letter of introduction. Each letter introduced the bearer to one of two names: a Mister Neeley and a Mister Van Ness. Both letters were generic introductions that could have supported any legitimate business or social enterprise but to Fitzgerald they clearly indicated espionage activity. The Neeley letter stated that Neeley should provide the bearer support for his enterprise and accommodate him wherever possible using his connections and friends. The Van Ness letter asked him to introduce the bearer to a prominent banker, unnamed, who would provide funds agreed to in a previous correspondence.
After carefully examining the contents of the valise, Fitzgerald wiped his forehead with a kerchief, and then impatiently wrapped his knuckles on the table as he tried to sort things out.
“If I were to dispatch a spy on a mission these are the sort of tools I would provide him. This portends a sophisticated plan for espionage.”
“Is it possible the Whigs in Brooklyn have their own network established and he was trying to connect that with the Continental Army?” Creed asked.
“Not very likely since they could have, should have, brought it to my attention when he and Foch approached me at the Brooklyn ferry. If the British really sentenced Braaf to death and he escaped, how did he come by this? Moreover, these look too sophisticated for a political faction to be using. I suspect this is a British plot. Braaf and Foch may have been British agents. After all, their approach to me was rather sudden and, frankly, unaccountable. I should have suspected them from the beginning. ”
“Yet both men were of the greatest help to us in Brooklyn. It does not make sense, sir.”
“Makes perfect sense, my boy. When you involve yourself in these matters, true intentions are always opaque. The code of honor of a soldier plays no role when it comes to affairs such as this, Lieutenant Jeremiah Creed. That is something that you must learn soon enough.”
Creed gave him a puzzled look. What did he mean by that remark? Would this delay his return to the Maryland Continental Line even further? He joined this great American enterprise to defend the cause of liberty and freedom in open battle, not through a series of perfidious exploits. The discussion ended abruptly when Beall brought word that Braaf was awake but feverish and asking to talk to Creed or Fitzgerald. It seemed dinner with the commander-in-chief would have to wait.
“Private, please make straight away to the commander-in-chief’s residence and provide my apologies to His Excellency. Tell him Lieutenant Creed and I have important business to attend, with a friend of Mister Jons. He will understand.”
Beall gave a salute and made his way toward army headquarters.
* * *
Fitzgerald and Creed arrived at the Stanley boarding house to find Emily applying cold compresses to Braaf’s head and trying to get some liquid into him. Parker had gone to fetch Doctor Thompkins.
Emily looked at Fitzgerald with eyes opened wide, as if to question his presence. Fitzgerald avoided her glance, but quickly turned his attention to Braaf.
“Tis alright Emily, he is a friend. My good friend, Colonel Fitzgerald.”
She looked back at Creed and her eyes now filled with tears. “The fever is very bad and he slips in and out of delirium, but he is occasionally cogent. He asked for you, Lieutenant, which I thought normal, but when he asked for...for Colonel Fitzgerald...Private Beall thought that perhaps there was something significant that he wanted to say.”
“He might indeed,” said Fitzgerald crisply. “Now please allow us some time alone with him Miss...?”
“Stanley, Colonel, Emily Stanley,” she replied. “Do not worry; I do not share my father’s Tory leanings, I am just circumspect in who knows of my Whig sympathies.” She smiled and her graceful look charmed even Fitzgerald.
“I can attest to that sir.” Creed broke in, almost too eagerly, Fitzgerald noted.
“Thank you, Miss...Stanley.” Fitzgerald gave her a nod and watched her as she left the room.
Fitzgerald examined Braaf. His head was hot and moist with fever. A yellow and white mucous, pus, and coagulated blood stained the bandages. The smell was beginning to become noticeable, a pungent odor of rot.
“Well, infection must have set in earlier today. It has progressed quite a bit. I would say this doctor did him no favors either. Those bandages do not look right. But we should have known this would happen, a splintering musket ball usually leads to infection and eventual death, even when the original wound is not mortal.”
Braaf began to stir again. Creed applied a cold-water cloth to his head and face. After a few applications, Braaf opened his eyes. His breathing was shallow and he was deathly pale. He looked up and saw Creed and Fitzgerald sitting on a small bench that they had pulled up beside his bed.
“I shall not leave here alive...I am almost glad.”
“Do not speak that way, Mijnheer Braaf,” Creed answered. “We need you alive, as does your family. You should be able to leave this room in a few days time. Rest is all that you need.”
Though Creed was sympathetic sounding enough, his mention of the family served to remind Braaf even death would not end his troubles. Braaf was a family man at heart from everything Creed knew about him. Better to coax things from him gently.
Fitzgerald began the questioning, “I assume that you were coming over to provide information about the British?”
“Ja...yes...” Braaf wheezed as he stammered out the words.
“And is that why Mister Foch asked to meet before the next scheduled rendezvous?”
“Yes, Cornelius, uh, he and I, spies for Colonel Fitzgerald and...No.”
In his fevered state, Braaf did not recognize Fitzgerald. The voices swirled around him like faint echoes.
“We know that you were unjustly sentenced to death by the British. Do they really think you killed those soldiers? They must surely know that a man such as you could not and would not commit such a brutal act.”
“I did not, that is....”
Braaf grimaced for a few seconds and then opened his eyes. Creed decided to try to force his story from him, before he slipped into a coma, perhaps for good.
“Mijnheer Braaf, I fear your fever may worsen. We must know the truth. For the sake of Marta and Krista, we need to know why you were at our rendezvous with Mijnheer Foch. You have my word that if anything happens to you I will do all that I can to help them, even during British occupation. And your son, Jan...”
Braaf startled at his son’s name. Jan! In all of his machinations and rationalizations, his Jan’s fate posed his biggest dilemma. While Jan valiantly if foolishly went off to join the Patriot cause, he himself had betrayed that cause to the British. He betrayed the Whig faction, his friend Cornelius and his family. The latter brought him a tremendous rush of guilt and contrition, even in his fever-wracked condition. In the end, he did it all for money, and the hope of putting himself on the winning side of the foolish rebellion.
“Jan...Marta...Krista...do not know, must never know!”
“Know what?” asked Creed, again wiping Braaf’s forehead with a wet cloth.
“I work for an English officer, a major called Drummond. I gave him information about the Jamaica pass...I sent him guides...men employed by Cornelius but who did certain things for me...”
Fitzgerald was stunned. He wanted to jump in with many questions but decided to let Creed continue to engage the man.
“Who is this Major Drummond? Did he send you here?”
“Dragoon officer...an English swine! A bad leg, shot near Brooklyn. Very dangerous man...forced me to continue to work for him. I only wanted my money and to be left alone. I informed him of the pass at Jamaica.... Undefended.... Sent him guides. But I did not want to be a spy...I am not a spy...why...I am a Whig. Ask Cornelius, he can vouch for me.”
Braaf spent the better part of the next half hour in a fitful fever, trying in his semi-delirium to explain how Drummond forced him into a staged “escape” so he could engage in espionage against the Americans. He fitfully explained how he rationalized a way to do both, and would have, until Creed unexpectedly arrived at his departure point. Braaf now felt ashamed, but also fearful for his family, which he had inadvertently made a pawn of both sides.
Fitzgerald now asked a question, “And what of your friend, Cornelius Foch?”
“Cut throat businessman...shrewd politician...smuggler.... But a good man...my friend...very loyal to...the American cause. I bribed his men. They did it for gold, but Cornelius does know.”
Fitzgerald put his face very close to Braaf’s and looked deeply into his eyes, “So, his offer to spy for me was not a British trick?”
“No...no...trick.”
Fitzgerald grasped Braaf’s shoulders, both to reassure him and to gauge his reaction, “Do the British know of our arrangement?”
“No...” He stopped and gasped, then coughed up blood. They feared he would die there and then. Creed propped his shoulders to help him breathe a little better.
“I did not tell Drummond...it was...my insurance.”
“So they, Marta and Krista, do not know about Foch? Mister Smythe and Mister Jons?”
“No.”
“And Jan? Is your son part of this?”
“No...God forgive...” was the last he said before slipping into a coma.
Fitzgerald had looked into Braaf’s eyes in search of signs of deception. Despite the pain and fever, Braaf seemed truthful. Facing death, he needed to clear his conscience and come to terms with his perfidy. Even in this new so-called age of reason, most men still feared God and his laws. Fitzgerald took Creed aside and talked to him in a hushed voice. “Normally, I would turn him over to the Committee for Detecting and Defeating Conspiracies, but he will not live much longer–a few hours, days at the most. However, there may well be a way we can exploit this turn of events if we can keep his demise from the British and the prying eyes of Loyalists. I want you or one of your men to stay by his side until he is gone. Make note of everything he says.”
“What is this Committee?” Creed asked.
“A new body established here in New York. John Jay is one of its organizers and leaders. They hope to identify spies and Tory sympathizers who are working against our cause in New York. As you know, there are very many Tory sympathizers in the city and its environs. But so far, all the committee has accomplished is the harassment of a handful of Tory sympathizers. They have also arrested a few low level spies, certainly no fish as big as your friend here–a paid British agent. Therefore, Mister Creed, you will have the honor of bringing him in. I shall report all of this to the commander-in-chief when I return to headquarters.”
Creed looked puzzled. “What should I do, sir?”
“Stay with Braaf. Dismiss the doctor from his services. The less he knows the better. The British may attack at any time and chaos will ensue here, I assure you. When that happens you must move Braaf, discreetly, out of harm’s way. I will send you word as to where to bring him–or his corpse. This man’s perfidy cost us Long Island and perhaps all of New York. We must now use him to achieve a more long term advantage.”
Creed replied. “To our advantage sir? How so?”
Fitzgerald spoke softly. “The discovery and identification of their spy must be kept from the British. The British spymaster, this Major Drummond, must be convinced that Braaf successfully arrived and is spying on us. Whether he lives or dies, at this point, is immaterial.”
This was a different kind of combat to Creed. It was not a battle, siege, or bloody skirmish, but an equal part of the war and the rebellion. He sickened a little at the thought of it.