Brooklyn, Long Island, September 15th, 1776
Cornelius Foch watched the British bombardment and invasion of Manhattan from the quarterdeck of the Red Hen. His puffed aggressively on his pipe, chewing on the stem as he seethed with anger. Why had the Americans not made the rendezvous? His assessment of English intentions was almost completely correct. His estimate of the location was precise, although the actual attack came later than he had anticipated.
Foch now considered his next step. Rumor was that Braaf had escaped from his cell and was on the run, possibly in New York or out on eastern Long Island. He thought it strange that Jan did not seek his help, unless he was trying to protect him from the English. Foch was surprised but relieved that Jan had kept his wits about him. To add to his worry, three of his men had suddenly absconded. Well, there would be deserters from both armies looking for work and available to recruit. The others had not been very dependable anyway, disappearing for hours at a time, often unexpectedly. Foch suspected that they were up to no good, but as they had stolen nothing from him he never pursued the matter.
Foch decided he would offer the Red Hen and his smaller craft to ferry goods across for the English. He could use the money and they paid in gold. Moreover, through that work he could perhaps determine their future moves. The next scheduled meeting was in a little more than a week, and if Mr. Smythe could attend this one, he might yet have some useful intelligence to provide him. Unlike so many now on Long Island, Cornelius Foch still thought that these English would yet manage to lose the war.
After observing the first British wave at Kips Bay chase the hapless rebels from the shoreline, Foch decided he had seen enough. He went into Brooklyn to visit Marta and Krista, in the hope they had heard something of Jan’s situation. Foch planned on spend spending more time with them. They would both need his comfort and support, especially Marta.
He arrived at the Braaf home at in the afternoon. Earlier in the day, the two women had learned of Jan’s escape. Since then, they had spent the long, lonely hours in worry over his fate, as well as their own. The head of their household was now a fugitive from British justice.
Foch wasted no time with greetings. “I am glad Jan escaped. Those English swine would have hung him for certain. Now at least he has a chance.”
Marta’s reply surprised Foch. “Ja, I agree. Our Jan is a soft and weak man, but he is also very smart and resourceful. He will hide until these English leave. We have relatives in the North Valley and the Hackensack Valley in New Jersey. Perhaps he will go there.”
Krista seemed calm and composed, considering all that had happened. “Yes, I think papa will meet up with Jan, or with Jonathan.”
“Jonathan?” Foch was confused.
“I meant–Private Beall.” She blushed. The thought of Jonathan almost brought a smile to her face.
Foch gave her a puzzled look but Marta smiled. Foch had no way of knowing that Krista had developed a fondness for the young soldier from Maryland.
“Well ladies, I shall come by every day that I can. If there is anything you need, please let me know. The Tories and their bullies trouble you...I want to know that as well. And, if you hear anything of Jan, I must know immediately. But be discreet, the English and the Tories will surely be watching you.”
Marta and Krista murmured their agreement.
Marta then said. “They already are. One of those English dragoons was here earlier to inform us of Jan’s escape. He gave me a note from Jan, written shortly before he eluded them.”
Foch cocked his head. “That is strange. He came here with a note?”
Marta replied. “Yes, here it is. Read it for yourself.”
Foch took the envelope from her hand and read it. “This says little, but it is indeed Jan’s handwriting. Why would they bring a letter from a condemned prisoner who has escaped their clutches?”
Marta placed her soft hand on his sinewy forearm. “I do not know, Cornelius.”
Foch placed his hand over hers. “I think I do. But for your sake I will not say. Be vigilant, Marta. They likely have people watching this house right now.”
Tears welled up in her eyes. “I cannot tell you how much we value your trust and support...and your friendship. Now, we have all missed our midday meal from all this worrying. Krista–go fetch something from the kitchen. We still have some smoked ham...”
When Krista left, Marta slumped into Foch’s arms and whispered. “I have lost my son and husband to this awful war, Cornelius. And almost my dear daughter. You take care yourself. I cannot lose you as well. I do need and appreciate your concern and support. It is such a comfort.”
He stroked her lustrous hair and replied, “Do not worry, dear Marta. I assure you that I will take care of this business...and of you.”
* * *
From a small promontory near Bushwick, Drummond also watched the British invasion with a rising sense of anger and frustration. He had hoped to lead his squadron to glory once it had landed in New York. Chasing those rebels all the way to Albany would have given him the greatest pleasure. Unfortunately, his knee had not improved enough and he could not ride hard for hours at a time.
General Clinton, who stood beside Drummond, put down his a spyglass. “I know you’d prefer to be there, Sandy, but your work is here for now.”
Drummond nodded. ”Indeed, I have just received word that a rebel spy was seen landing on the north coast of the island, and was suspected to be somewhere between there and Brooklyn.”
Clinton smiled. “You seem less than enthused. Lord Howe appointed you interim Chief Provost for the occupation of Long Island. Now you have a real spy to catch. Once you clean up the rebel pack here you may join the rest of the army to organize espionage and counterespionage activities against the rebels and their sympathizers in New York. Who knows, perhaps by then you will have heard from your Golden Apple.”
Drummond nodded. “Despite the Royal Marines’ failed efforts, Braaf somehow got onto a rebel boat and over to New York. I believe he will continue with the plan. “
Clinton raised the spyglass and scanned Kips Bay. “Are you so certain he did not expose the plot?”
Drummond shook his head. “The crafty Dutchman could talk his way through any interrogation, if he keeps his head and does not panic. Braaf would not do anything stupid and thereby jeopardize the safety of his wife and daughter. However, to make sure, I shall keep them under my special protection.”
Clinton watched his men charge from the beaches in pursuit of the few remaining defenders. “It might prove amusing sport for you as well. I have been told both mother and daughter are quite lovely, in the Dutch way, of course.”
“In the Dutch way...” Drummond replied.
Just over a mile away they saw more British warships bombard the shoreline, flushing packs of rebels into flight.
“We have them, by God Sandy, we have them!” Clinton exclaimed.
Drummond said. “By your leave, sir, I have important matters to attend. Not the glory of battle, unfortunately, but important all the same...I suppose.”
Clinton kept his eye on the spyglass. “By all means...my sloop is waiting. I should crossover now that the landing is cleared.”
Drummond retrieved a pen and paper from his saddlebag. Using a large boulder as a makeshift desk, he prepared a short note to General Howe. He requested another week or so to arrange things on Long Island, and then he would proceed to New York City to establish operations there. Unbeknownst to either Clinton or Cornwallis, Drummond was secretly in direct correspondence with the British commander-in-chief. One had to be clever to advance in this army. He smudged the ink on the paper but decided information trumped appearances, even for a general.
Brooklyn,
September 15th 1776
My Lord,
As you are well aware, I hope to return to command of the 17th as soon as my physical condition allows. Until then, I will work diligently to establish Espionage and Counterespionage activities in support of the Campaign. By now, our late Prisoner, “Golden Apple,” should be safely ensconced somewhere in the vicinity of the rebel Forces. I hope to have communication from him within the fortnight.
Meanwhile, I am establishing a small network of Agents here on Long Island to secure gains made by His Majesty’s Forces. “Golden Apple’s” two remaining Associates, code names “Pear” and “Plum,” have been paid a tidy sum to establish themselves further east on the Island to report on political Activities and warn us of any attempts by the Rebels to subvert the Populace. I shall also make use of the Brooklyn Home Guard whenever possible. They are our eyes and ears on the populace. For now, they will be of great assistance in helping to root out rebels and assist in the search for the suspected spy now loose on Long Island. I expect to make similar use of Loyalists once I move to New York.
In stark contrast to many of my Colleagues, I feel we must use our Loyal Americans to the full. Therein lies our best hope of crushing this Rebellion, and more importantly, maintaining His Majesty’s Peace.
My Lord, I know you have had Calumny and Insult thrown at you from various quarters because of the tempo of this Campaign. I for one now believe that only the measured use of our Forces, provided with excellent Intelligence, will bring the Rebels into submission and assure the Loyalty of the citizenry of these Colonies. The Populace must understand that the Crown is watching out for their Security by rooting out Subversives, Spies, and Traitors.
I Remain as Always,
Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant,
S. Drummond
Drummond sealed the letter in an envelope using a special wax, indicating it was top priority for Howe. He waived to his sergeant, who stood patiently holding Shoe. “Digby, please deliver this letter to General Howe. You must deliver it in person. Do you understand? ”
Digby saluted and took the envelope, and slipped it into his tunic. “That I do, sir. That I do.”
Digby mounted his horse and made his way down the trail to the Brooklyn ferry. Drummond rejoined Clinton and scanned the shoreline one last time.
Clinton smiled. “Our lads have driven them from every strand and are moving inland. Did you finish your business, Sandy? Hopefully nothing tedious.”
Drummond replied dully. “Tedious work is often critical to victory, sir.”
Drummond knew his directly communicating with Howe breached protocol but he wanted to ensure full recognition for his efforts. If his military career was going into eclipse, his intelligence career needed to shine. Drummond approached this shrewdly. He would not hide this correspondence from his superiors, but he would condition them to accept the necessity of reporting directly to the commander-in-chief. He would greatly miss leading troops in combat, but was now beginning to appreciate the importance of his new career in espionage.
* * *
The Morris Mansion, Haarlem Heights, New York
Creed found Fitzgerald at the Morris mansion, General Washington’s new headquarters on the Haarlem Heights. The mansion was a large white Palladian styled two-story building that commanded a large and prosperous estate of more than 130 acres. Situated on a hilltop with views of Manhattan and Westchester, as well as parts of Long Island and New Jersey, it made an excellent location for a command post.
The parlor and dining rooms on the main floor now functioned as an operations center where staffs and aides de camp conferred, wrote exhaustive memos and letters, or awaited orders. Washington occupied the large bedroom on the second floor as his sleeping quarters and personal study. With the fluidity of action now facing the Continental Army, General Washington wanted his intelligence advisor nearby. Fitzgerald was surprised to learn his room would be on the second floor as well. Just across the hall from the commander-in-chief, its location enabled Fitzgerald to consult with the Washington and update him as needed.
The comfort and style in so many of the homes in America still amazed Creed. Before he came over from Europe, he had pictured a land of hovels, tents and cabins at the edge of a primeval forest. Instead, he found that most middle and upper class homes trumped their European counterparts in comfort, cleanliness, and spaciousness. The Morris Mansion offered just another example of how wrong Creed had been about the quality of life in the New World.
Fitzgerald waived Creed into the room and motioned him to close the door; security was often as simple and direct as that. “I do not have time for a full report, Jeremiah, so please provide me a brief summary of our prisoner’s situation.”
Creed stifled a laugh. “Why then sir, briefly stated, he is dead.”
Not amused at the glib reply, Fitzgerald cocked his head and bore into Creed with his stare. Creed smiled grimly. “Sorry, sir. But Mijnheer Braaf, our British spy, is dead.”
Creed went on to relay the events leading to Braaf’s burial in an unmarked grave. He mentioned the roles of Emily Stanley and Thomas, but omitted his role in saving the commander-in-chief from the British.
Fitzgerald removed his spectacles and began wiping them with a worn silk kerchief. “I am concerned that you would involve this Miss Stanley in our affairs, Mister Creed. The British will soon cut all communication with New York.”
Creed lowered his head. “She insisted on helping. She offered her wagon and horse. I could not refuse.”
Fitzgerald scowled, but slyly changed the subject. “Meanwhile, I have met with Smallwood. He has agreed that you and your men will be attached to the headquarters staff. Officially, we assigned you to the commander-in-chief’s personal escort, his Life Guards. Unofficially, you work for me. His Excellency has agreed to a more formal structure for gathering information, and for catching spies. This will be the beginning of that effort.”
Creed did not take this latest news well, “What about this 'Committee for Detecting and Defeating Conspiracies’? Why not employ them?”
“Never! They are a cabal of civilian amateurs who focus primarily on local political loyalty, searching primarily for Tories who support the British, and the like. Besides, the army needs a special unit reporting directly to the commander-in-chief. One capable of gathering information on the enemy that is both usable and reliable. I need good officers to lead it, officers of the finest intellect, determination, and loyalty.”
Fitzgerald placed his hand on Creed’s shoulder and looked him in the eye, “Officers such as you, Jeremiah. I will not name the others since their commanders have not yet agreed to their release. They serve as you do, under state commissions. In your case, Colonel Smallwood immediately understood the need. Thank God he is not as parochial as his peers. And His Excellency asked him personally.”
Creed stiffened just a bit, partly from disappointment at leaving the First Maryland, and partly pique at being a pawn. “So what are my orders?”
Fitzgerald pushed back his white forelock and placed his glasses back on his thin nose, “The British have all but cut the island in half and continue to reinforce their initial attack at Kips Bay. Fortunately, General Putnam successfully withdrew his division from the southern extreme of the island before they did so. His Excellency called a council of war, to be held tonight. Some want to turn Haarlem Heights into the next Breed’s Hill and avenge Brooklyn. I am not so sanguine. Now for the time being, you will to report to Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Knowlton.”
Creed pursed his lips. “Knowlton? The name sounds familiar...”
“A superb fellow. From Connecticut. Commands the Ranger Battalion. Some of our best fighters and scouts. Served with great distinction near Boston. His rangers will lead the attack against the British. Your experience could be of great use to him.”
Creed looked skeptical. “If you say so, Colonel. Now what about the contents of the valise, and our now late spy? Our plans to use him? I suppose they are now all passé?”
“We shall discuss these matters and others, in due course.”
Creed became suspicious, “Others?”
“Yes, your services will be required when Misters Smythe and Jons next communicate, and this time, let us pray it will be with a genuine purpose.”
Creed gasped, “A genuine purpose? I am confused sir. Did we not cross over to gain information on the British intentions, from your...Mister Jons? Was that not a...a...genuine purpose?”
“Well, umm, yes. However, when Mister Jons requested the meeting, I was unsure that his information would be specific enough to risk it.”
Creed’s brow furrowed in thought and bewilderment. “Then why were we sent? Why take the risk? Did you know that they were going to stage Braaf’s escape?”
“No, that was a surprise. But a most fortuitous one as it turns out. For that, I have you and your men to thank. No, we sent you and your men as a decoy for another mission. A mission ordered by His Excellency. I strongly advised against it, mind you. His Excellency’s personal involvement in these matters is both a boon and a curse.”
Creed stared blankly at Fitzgerald. “I do not understand...”
“You see, my boy, General Washington wanted another set of eyes on the British, another military man behind their lines to report back on them. When no one else would step forward, a young captain from Connecticut volunteered, one of Thomas Knowlton’s men–Nathan Hale. A very brave man, but an amateur, and there was not sufficient time to prepare him properly. Brave Hale departed several days ago. But since the British have landed here, his mission is somewhat pointless. One hopes he will make his way back to our lines soon.”
Creed could barely contain himself. He stomped out of the headquarters confused and angry. He and his men had been used in a ploy! By pure luck, the ploy resulted in Braaf’s interception and dying confession. Creed was tiring of it all–the secret missions; the half-truths; the deceptions. He toyed with resigning, or at least threatening to resign, if they did not send him back to the Line. However, he soon calmed down, realizing that George Washington, the commander-in chief and “essential man” of the cause, had depended on him and would do so again. His devotion to the commander in chief pulled harder at him than his dismay with the manipulation that came with the world of intelligence gathering.
Creed went to find his men. Their company provided him a semblance of a unit and was now the closest thing to a family that he had. He could relax in with them and forget his troubles for a while. They had set up a small tent in an orchard near the mansion and had scrounged a chicken and some vegetables, which were already boiling in a copper pot. The smell reminded him that he had not eaten in some time. Creed also inquired as to the whereabouts of their recent associates, although he was actually interested in finding Emily.
Beall answered with a frown. “Sir, we thought that you knew. She has returned to New York. Miss Stanley said that she needed to depart before the British army blocked all the roads and passes. Thomas agreed to assist her. He is a likely lad. His good Maryland roots, I suppose. Fear not sir, Miss Emily will arrive home safely with Thomas as her escort.”
Creed said nothing. He stared blankly in barely concealed disappointment. Of course, she needed to get home, he was just hoping for some time alone with her first. Maybe it was better this way. The campaign was shaping up to be gruesome and as dangerous for civilians as for the soldiers. As much as he longed to be with Emily, he longed for her safety even more.
Elias Parker guessed what was going through his lieutenant’s mind. In the midst of all the danger of the trip north, Miss Stanley had talked mostly about Creed. Both he and Beall saw the affection that had grown between the pair.
Parker cocked his head in a show of sympathy. “She said that she was sorry for the death of our wounded charge, Mijnheer Braaf. But she had urgent business to attend at home and was, after all, responsible for the care of her father’s home. And she gave me this note for you.”
Creed took the note, almost afraid to open it. “Well, thank you. I think I shall have a rest and read this. Well...call me when that chicken is cooked.”
Creed settled in under a cherry tree in the orchard. A small fife band assigned to the commander-in-chief’s escort was playing “Yankee Doodle,” that strangely uplifting song that had become the de facto anthem of the rebellion. The chicken and vegetables were cooking to the point now where a powerful and enticing aroma engulfed their little camp. The sounds and smells blended into the background as he read and re-read the letter. Before even reading it, he analyzed it: the neat flow of her handwriting, the precise arrangement of the words, and of course, and her thoughts.
Dear Jeremiah,
I hope that I may address you as such. I pray that Mister Parker and Mister Beall have informed you of my decision to depart and why.
I would have liked so much to spend some more time with you, Jeremiah. Certainly, there has not seemed enough time to say what I have to say. Under the circumstances this may be for the best, as what I have to say is perhaps best left unsaid. Therefore, I shall keep my deepest thoughts and feelings to myself and will hold them close to my bosom until Providence provides us time and place to reveal them.
I fear now that this war will be long and it will be some time before we speak again. Nevertheless, I know that we shall. I will think of you each day and pray for you. New York needs Patriots as well as Loyalists. I shall be discreet about my views, and deign to help the Cause whenever and wherever I can. Just how, I cannot say. Once more, only time and Providence will allow. Until such time, please do take care of yourself and your good...your gallant men.
God bless you–for everything you do for your adopted Country.
With the fondest Esteem and warmest Affection,
I remain, forever Yours,
Emily