Creed and Beall turned west and cantered down the slope behind Washington’s staff. The British began to run after them, but were too winded continue beyond the crest. A few of them fired at the escaping riders but their shots barely reached the dust swirls thrown up by the horses pounding hooves. A short time later, Creed saw the commander-in-chief and his party turn down a trail to the west where another body of militiamen had formed up in a desperate attempt to slow the British. It was mid-morning and already the heat of the day began to oppress both pursued and pursuer.
Creed halted under the shade of a stand of maple trees that ran along a boulder-strewn creek. They dismounted to water the horses while they sipped at their water flasks and then refilled them.
“Let’s make our way over to the Post Road,” Creed said. “There will likely be crowds of troops moving north so we shall ride parallel. They cannot be too far ahead of us. We should soon overtake them.”
Beall wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. “The heat is awful sir. Do you think Miss Emily will be able to make it to this Haarlem place?”
Creed nodded. “Aye, she is a strong lass. I am sure she can outpace the British.”
They rode slowly, often dismounting their horses to lead them through ground that became increasingly wooded and hilly. The chaos of fleeing soldiers and civilians slowed their progress. They had to work their way through these mobs, from a few to several score or more, who jammed the road.
The army had lost much of its cohesion in its flight. Many of the men were barefoot and ill equipped. Some had discarded their muskets, favoring speed of travel over military necessity. The tramping of thousands of feet on the sun-dried dirt road stirred plumes of dust that lofted into the hot summer air. Creed and Beall had to mask themselves with handkerchiefs to breathe. They traveled past small farms and the occasional estate. To the south, they could hear the occasional musket and cannon fire.
Beall said. “Sounds like our men are making a stand, sir.”
Creed shook his head. “No Jonathan, once an army’s morale breaks, it no longer fights with purpose. You are hearing small packs of militia and continentals fighting off their British pursuers.”
After an hour they stopped at a post house situated just off the road in a small hamlet called Yorkville.
Creed motioned towards the building. “Let’s water the horses. See if we can find some grain for them as well. There will likely be little thought of transporting fodder up to Haarlem.”
The livery boy, a medium-build black youth of sixteen named Thomas, managed to scrounge some feed for the horses. He offered Creed and Beall some mush as well as fresh apples. Each gratefully took a cup of the milky concoction and two apples.
Creed handed Thomas a copper but he waved it off. “If I can’t join the army, least I can do to help fight them British.”
Creed replied. “A grand sentiment, but the nation requires commerce, even in war time. So take the coin, lad.”
Thomas nodded and tucked the copper in his pocket.
Creed asked. “Many of our troops come through here yet?”
Thomas replied with a grin. “Mister, you the only Yankees along the road to stop here. Rest of the soldiers just kept on goin’ north. Where they headin’ anyway? Better they kill them redcoats right here.”
Creed took an instant liking to Thomas. Being new to America, Creed had had little contact with its African populace, free or slave.
“Are you from New York, lad?”
“I was born in Maryland, Calvert County to be exact. But mommy and daddy moved north after their master, Mister Peter Jeffries, freed them. He was a very religious Catholic man, Mister Jeffries. A good man...why we took his name. Freed all his slaves and hired back those who wanted work. Most stayed, but mommy and daddy feared staying in the south. Thought the north offered better opportunities for makin’ money...and stayin’ free.”
Beall spoke. “Hard to believe anyone would leave Maryland. How did you arrive here?”
”Daddy was a stable hand on the Maryland plantation. He got work at this stable pretty easy. We serve the Post Road mail riders, coaches, and other travelers, mostly trade.”
Creed looked about. “And your parents...?”
“Both dead, mister. The smallpox hit a few years back. “
Creed and Beall both lowered their heads.
“I am sorry,” said Creed.
“That’s alright, mister.” Thomas handed them each a couple more apples.
“So, young fellow, did you see a cart with a pretty young woman and another soldier riding along? He would have a horse tethered to the back.” Creed asked as he carved a chunk of apple and bit into it.
“No sir,” answered Thomas. “I been out here all morning and seen nothing but rebel soldiers moving up the road.”
“They were ahead of us down by the Kips Bay,” Creed said, frowning. “We delayed to engage in a little sport with the British but surely we would have overtaken them by now, especially with all these men tramping up the road.”
“Lot of side roads mister, maybe they decided to detour. Many have...cannot take the dust, you know. Maybe they headed west. Say, is she your wife?”
Thomas grinned, a wide becoming grin. Even though he was just sixteen he was wise to the ways of the world, it occurred to him that the pair might be detouring for a more bawdy reason, and Creed was perhaps a jealous husband in pursuit.
“No. Just a fine lady. She was helping us with a very sick man. The other fellow is one of my soldiers.”
“Mister, I have been apprenticed as a post rider the past three years and ridden from the Bowery to Kingsbridge and even Westchester. And I know all the side roads, too. They could be anywhere by now.”
“They were heading to a place called the Haarlem Heights. Is there a road that would be particularly favorable to that destination? Perhaps a local farmer advised them of a better route?”
“There is a narrow trail runs parallel to this road. ‘Bout a quarter mile west. It connects again at McGowan’s pass, a half mile north from here. Maybe they took that way to avoid the traffic and the dust. That is what I would do.”
A large formation, more disciplined than the others, was just marching up the road past the stable. It was a Massachusetts unit, Continentals, surprisingly disciplined, and singing as they marched. Creed recognized the song, “Free America.” Although a rebel song popular throughout the army, it was sung to the tune of “The British Grenadiers.”
“Then take us there, Thomas.” Creed said suddenly.
“What? I am no soldier, mister. I am no rebel. I am a stable boy, and a post rider, but that’s all.”
“Thomas, your ma and da were slaves once. We shall all be slaves if we do not defeat these British, so we must all be soldiers now. I appoint you an honorary Private in the Light Company, First Maryland Continental Line. Now get a horse and let us ride.”
Creed’s demeanor and sincerity struck a sympathetic chord with the young man. Without further word, Thomas ran to the wooden shack he called home, behind the stable, and gathered his few belongings. Some clothes, a blanket, and the family bible. Finally, he sat on the cot and donned his prize possession, a pair of black knee-length riding boots. He then put on a fine pair of silver-gilt spurs, once his father’s fondest possession, and brandished an eight-foot leather lash that also once belonged to his father. Thomas could wield it with an expertise few could match. His father told him post riding was a job good for a few years, but moving horses was a lifetime profession. To that end, he practiced with the lash almost every day. With his uncanny eye, he could remove the buttons off a man’s waistcoat before the man could close on him. In a few minutes, Thomas had saddled one of the horses in the stable. He figured the stable owner, a Tory, could do with one less horse.
* * *
An hour later they were on the trail and almost at McGowan’s pass. The trail was surprisingly empty; for some reason the Continental Army did not know of it. Although barely fit for a cart, it was wide enough for soldiers to march two abreast or horsemen in single file. There were fresh cart tracks on the path and bushes flattened along the shoulder.
Creed said. “Look there Jonathan, Miss Emily and Private Parker must have taken this route.”
Beall said. “How can you be so sure?”
“Truth be told, I am not. But we can only pray tis them. Let’s go up this trail, Thomas.”
Thomas nodded and nudged his horse into a fast walk, nearly a trot. Tree branches whipped their faces and the occasional heavy limb nearly unhorsed them. Creed feared Finn might break an ankle on the broken ground.
Thomas suddenly halted. Creed and Beall did likewise.
He pointed to the right, “Mister, those are cart tracks...whoever they are, they turned off right here.”
Sure enough, Creed saw the markings and the trampled grass and brush. But why would they do that? Then he saw why. There were other footprints on the ground, and more trampled grass as well.
“Lieutenant, I think I see something!” Beall exclaimed.
Beall dismounted and entered a thick patch of underbrush. “You had better see this, Lieutenant.”
Creed dismounted and was beside Beall in a few strides. It was Braaf. The erstwhile spy lay dead, his corpse already puffing from gases and his eyes covered with a swarm of flies. Creed’s stomach turned.
“Emily and Parker would not have dumped his corpse this way. Something must have happened to them. Check your weapons.”
Creed mounted Finn and they resumed the search. They turned down the trail, chasing the spoor through a lightly wooded field, mostly fruit trees and the occasional maple or chestnut. Creed thought he heard noise up ahead, noise that was not a part of nature, the tramping of feet and the sound of a cartwheel moving slowly but steadily through the underbrush. Then they heard curses and ribald laughter.
Creed raised his hand and they halted. He checked the primer on his rifle, as did Beall. Then he checked his two saddle pistols, those fine weapons that he had taken with him from his farmstead in Maryland. Finally, he drew his saber, preferring it to the sword-bayonet when it came to mounted combat. He called Thomas closer and handed him one of his pistols.
“Could be Cowboys...or even Skinners...either way this could mean business, lads.”
Over a dozen Cowboy bands ranged the roads looking for isolated American soldiers straggling to get north before the British forces cut the island in half. Worse than pirates, they were marauding killers who used the chaos of the rebellion for monetary gain and the pleasure of it. They always seemed to linger on the fringes of both armies, inflicting their depredations on the weak, always running from organized bodies of men. There were similar groups of Patriot marauders, known as Skinners. Cowboys and Skinners waged a parallel war with each other and against just about anyone they could rationalize as Whig or Tory, Patriot or Loyalist, as the case might be. This parallel war led to much savagery and retribution from both sides.
“Thomas, you stay close behind me,” Creed continued. “If one of them accosts you, ride up to your target, aim at its center, and squeeze the trigger. Then ride through your target in case you miss. Do you understand, Thomas?”
“Yes, sir. Shoot and ride. I can do that.”
With a wave of Creed’s saber, they were off. They saw the cart some twenty yards ahead, and as they closed, they saw their quarry, a dozen foot men–a Loyalist guerilla band.
“Cowboys!” cried Beall.
“Or Skinners!” replied Creed. “Make no distinction lads, as they have our cart and our friends.”
“For Maryland!” cried Creed as the three horsemen crashed into the rear of the Cowboys. He calmly lowered his left hand and discharged his pistol into the rear of the group. A Cowboy fell to the ground with a chestnut sized hole in his back. He ran another through with his saber; slicing the man’s shoulder clear through, leaving him staggering as blood spurted out.
A burly ruffian in a fur vest and brimmed hat shouted. “Rebels! But there’s only three of ‘em, boys. Let’s have some fun.”
Amid jeers and curses, two marauders assaulted him brandishing their muskets like clubs.
Creed smiled grimly and spurred Finn directly at them. They stepped aside to avoid the horse, but he decapitated one with a backhand slash, then wheeled Finn around and carved open the second man’s rib cage with a forehand thrust. Beall fired his rifle into one and then proceeded to smash at the three rowdies who surrounded him. Thomas took up the rear with a veteran’s skill, placed the pistol to the neck of one rowdy, and fired. The shot nearly severed the man’s head. His two mates tried to flee but Beall pursued them and cut them down with his sword-bayonet.
Then the fedora-wearing leader sprung from behind a stand of bushes and swung his musket butt at the back of Creed’s head. “Nobody stops the Kingsbridge Cowboys–nobody!”
He stepped forward, poised to render Creed a death blow, but the flash of leather cracked across his wrists, tearing right to the bone and spinning the Cowboy leader to the ground and under the crushing hooves of Thomas’ mount.
Thomas replied. “Ain’t nobody stopping Lieutenant Jeremiah Creed.”
Creed turned and smiled but had little time to banter. The last three Cowboys were attempting to drive off in the cart, one viciously lashing the Percheron to quicken its pace. Creed spurred his horse, caught the driver on side of his skull with a saber slash, and pulled him from the cart. His body landed with a crack of bone and a dull thud, and rolled into the bushes. Thomas overtook the Percheron and slowed him to a walk while Beall chased the remaining rowdies, who disappeared into the brush. The melee ended in a few minutes and the entire Cowboy band lay dead, dying or on the run.
Beall reloaded his rifle and checked each of the ruffians to make sure he could cause no further trouble. Thomas sat on a rock to catch his breath. He put his face in his trembling hands and sobbed softly. Despite the bravery he displayed, his first taste of combat had unnerved him.
Creed dismounted and quickly jumped onto the cart, still covered in blankets. He pulled the top covers off and found Emily and Parker gagged and bound. He cut their bonds and removed the rags from their mouths.
“Are you alright?” He asked the question of both but focused on Emily.
“We are, Mister Creed, but thank heavens you found us.” She replied, gasping for air.
“We also found our friend Braaf; he is dead. What happened?” Creed asked Parker who was rubbing his wrists to get the feeling back.
“Lieutenant, they saw no bounty in a wounded wretch so they dumped him a half mile back. His fever and delirium just worsened with the travel. They tossed him so hard I heard a crack and knew he could not survive the fall.”
Creed cradled Emily’s head in his left hand and put his canteen to her lips. “Here you go...drink slowly now...”
She sipped slowly at the water, stopping from time to time to purse her lips.
Parker took a large swig of water from Beall’s canteen. The heat and humidity were now almost unbearable. He smiled at Beall. “Thank you, farmer boy. You have paid back my seamanship lesson in full.”
Creed placed his canteen and only reluctantly let go of Emily. “Think they were after Mijnheer Braaf?
Parker shook his head. “No. They were looking for gold, money, and weapons. They took our purses, as well as my musket and bayonet. I hid my knife in my rolled cloak; they were so stupid they never searched there.”
“With scoundrels such as these that does not surprise me. We are ever advantaged by their ignorance and cowardice.” Creed answered as he rubbed Emily’s wrists. She kept a composed demeanor but he could tell that she was frightened and nearly in shock by her experience. He restrained the urge to say she had been warned, but that he cherished getting her back safe.
Beall noticed Thomas sobbing and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. Beall had questioned Creed’s wisdom in enlisting a young black man to the fight but realized his lieutenant’s judge of character had once more proved correct. A wave of shame went through Beall.
“It is alright, Thomas. We all cry the first time. Some of us inside, some outside. I reckon outside is better. They were bad men. You helped saved our friends. For that I shall be ever thankful.”
Thomas nodded, “I’m alright. I’ll go see to the horses now.”
They gathered their things and backtracked to Braaf; flies now swarmed across his body like a dark ocean of pestilence.
Creed had them cover their faces while they buried the erstwhile spy. He would lay forever in a shallow grave near a boulder by the trail. Without a pause for prayer or any other formality, Creed moved the party north and towards the Heights of Haarlem. The final evidence of Braaf’s demise was gone and they all were safe.