Haarlem Heights, New York, September 16th, 1776
The faint glow over the eastern horizon meant they had less than an hour before dawn. Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Knowlton folded a crude map as he finished his final instructions to his officers.
He gazed evenly at them. “General Washington is in need of intelligence and by God he shall have it!”
“Hear hear! Hear, hear!” They replied in unison.
Knowlton further exhorted them. ”Gentlemen, stealth and speed are critical in this operation if we are to discern the whereabouts of Howe’s forces.”
“Why, they must be somewhere down there!” A pimple-faced lieutenant pointed south of the Heights of Haarlem.
Laughter erupted and Knowlton joined in. “Indeed, Lieutenant White. But we must be a bit more precise to satisfy His Excellency.”
More laughter erupted. A special order from the commander-in-chief had just assigned Creed, Beall and Parker to Knowlton’s handpicked force of just over a hundred men. The weary-looking Marylanders became, if only temporarily, members of Knowlton’s elite Connecticut battalion, known as the Rangers. They were the bravest, led by the bravest. Many of the officers and men questioned the need for these new additions–as did Knowlton himself. However, Creed professed knowledge of the area so Knowlton assigned them to the advance guard, twenty-five men under the command of Captain Bran Yardley. Yardley, a farmer from Cheshire, had distinguished himself the previous year during the siege of Boston.
Yardley spoke gruffly when Creed reported to him. “Our objective is the Bloemingdale Road. Since you claim to know it, lead the way, Mister Creed.”
Creed led Yardley’s men at quick pace in single file, the so-called “Indian file,” down the road toward the small draw called the Hollow Way. When they crossed the Hollow Way, Creed signaled that they were near the objective. Up ahead they saw a small wooden clapboard farmhouse with peeling gray paint and a black wood-shingled roof. Yardley halted the company and split them into two columns, one on each side of the house. Militia scouts had reported British patrols in the area late the day before. So they proceeded with caution, bending forward slightly with muskets at port arms. The woods were light but the ground rocky, forcing each group to remain in single file on either side of the road. The dawn sun broke through the leafy canopy and began to bathe the woods in a faint golden light.
Creed halted and whispered to Yardley. “Daylight will spoil our surprise. We must move quickly or lose our advantage. I can already make out silhouettes at almost a hundred yards.”
“I welcome any suggestions.” Yardley replied tersely.
Up ahead they could make out the outline of another house, this one made of stone. Creed remembered the stone house in Brooklyn, and immediately became suspicious. “British could be in that old house ahead. Let me take the left file and circle round it. I suggest you keep the other in the wood line till we clear the house.”
Yardley nodded and Creed moved out. After they cleared the woods along the left of the house, Creed pumped his fist to signal Parker and Beall forward to reconnoiter the building. He looked back and saw Yardley leading his file towards the house in a perfect skirmish line. Creed sent one of the Rangers, a short wiry man named Closs, to warn Yardley to stay in place, but he acted too late.
Musket fire erupted and Closs fell from a ragged volley that nearly tore his body in half. In moments the British skirmishers holding the line had Yardley and his men pinned down. As Creed suspected, the British were using the stone house as their forward observation point.
“Up lads, on me!” He yelled.
Creed had his men rushed left and then angled right around the house. He was in luck. The British were all in the house. They had posted no flank security. Now, focused on Yardley’s men, they did not see Parker smash the door open with his shoulder. Behind him rushed Creed, Beall and two of the rangers–deafening fire was the last thing the British heard. Creed and his men poured lead into them at point blank range. The three elite British light infantrymen throttled backwards as the lead balls ripped into flesh and bone, staining the walls and floor with their viscera.
However, the volley alerted the rest of the British battalion waiting patiently down the road.
Beall saw them first. “Lieutenant! Lobsters coming up the road toward the house! “
“How many, Elias?”
“Hundreds of them.”
Now the British drummers beat the attack, and six hundred feet pounded the dirt in an eerie dance that presaged death.
Yardley saw the column rapidly closing on the house and called out. “Mister Creed, rally your file and fall back!”
Parker muttered to a nearby ranger. “Best damn order we had today.”
British musket balls began to rattle the walls of the house like a malevolent hailstorm and a platoon of light infantry rushed the building. Creed’s file rushed back to the wood line just as the first British light infantry entered the stone house and began firing through the windows.
Crossing the open space between the house and tree line Creed tripped over a tree root and hit the rock-hard earth with a thud. He felt a twist and pain in his ankle as his foot came loose from the root. Winded, he reached for his rifle. His ankle throbbed but in the excitement he scarcely felt it. Three British musket balls whipped just over his head–so close that one creased his hat. Creed froze, and then rolled twice until he had his rifle firm in hand. With balls zinging just above him, he lay on his back and reloaded.
He synchronized the loading drill with his last prayers. “Hail Mary, full of grace...”
A stray round caught the tip of his shoe and tore a piece of leather. The rifle loaded, he took a deep breath and rolled under a bush and onto his belly. He cocked the rifle and waited for a British face to appear at the window.
Yardley saw Creed’s danger. “Keep firing, boys...provide them cover!”
The desperate Connecticut men fired each time a British head appeared at a window or door. Patches of gun smoke began to drift across the field and waft around the house. Others clouded the windows, obstructing the British marksmen’s view.
Parker and Beall made it to the wood line just as Creed tripped. They looked at each other then watched their lieutenant as he lay supine, methodically loading while British shots landed all around him.
“The Lieutenant is down! We must help him back!” Beall cried.
Parker nodded grimly. Even with the smoke, both knew the field was now a death trap. Without hesitating, they stepped out of the trees and fired back at the windows to draw British fire from Creed. The light infantry turned on them, but fire from Yardley’s file struck two more, sending the remainder ducking for cover. A British sergeant poked his head from the doorway and aimed his musket at Beall. Creed’s rifle drilled a hole between his eyes. The sergeant’s head flew back and smashed against the doorframe like a pumpkin.
However, the main British column had now reached the house and fanned out on either side to form an assault line. Soon, hundreds of musket balls tore through the air like a swarm of hornets. Beall and Parker helped Creed to his feet and arms locked at the elbows, they raced back staying under the lead that sprayed the trees and brush but otherwise missed their mark.
“Everyone fall back!” Yardley cried out.
Under heavy from the British main body, Knowlton’s advanced guard abandoned the woods before the stone house and rejoined the main body.
When Knowlton heard the firing to his front he positioned his men behind a stone wall near the Bloemingdale Road.
Yardley reported the British disposition to their front.
“Very well, Yardley,” Knowlton said. “Place your men on our left flank, at least thirty yards behind the wall. Cover our flank and prepare to reinforce us if necessary.”
Yardley’s men no sooner took up their position and regained their breath when the British light infantry came trotting up the road, followed by the grenadiers in a column six abreast that seemed almost quarter mile long to the rangers.
Knowlton and his men, however, stood their ground and a tremendous firefight ensued. They began by exchanging disciplined volleys, but soon the rough ground with its scattered trees and bushes had both sides resorting to individual fire. Musket balls tore apart tree limbs, eviscerated bushes and splattered into rocks and earth in a constant fire that made it hard to think. Waves of acrid dark gray smoke began to engulf the fifty yard no-man’s-land between the two sides, choking throats and stinging eyes. The constant crack of muskets and the buzz from hundreds of lead balls tearing through the air gripped the men on both sides with horror and fear. Each knew that the lead torrent could tear him to pieces at any moment. The battle challenged all their senses and each man, American or Briton, fought desperately to summon courage he never thought he possessed.
Knowlton ran from one end of his line to the other. “That’s it, boys! Aim low! The battle is soon ours!”
Several times the British took a bead on the crazed American officer but each time the shot was foiled by bush, rock or smoke. Several cursed the American and vowed to take him, come what may.
Washington heard the firing coming from the head of the Bloemingdale Road as he was forming up the main body of troops. He reached across his saddle and grasped the arm of his aide, Tench Tilghman. “Order Knowlton back to our lines before it is too late.”
Tilghman nodded and spurred up towards the action.
Minutes later, Knowlton’s men withdrew and he reported to Washington in a fury.
“Sir, we had their advanced guard stopped cold. Why call us back?” He asked incredulously.
Washington maintained a strange calm. “You have led them into a trap, Colonel Knowlton. Now, you have the honor of springing that very trap. Take your detachment plus three Connecticut companies into the woods on the left and envelop the British right as they advance on us. I hope to cut them off entirely. General Nixon will fix the front. Go quickly, sir. Your country’s fate is in the balance!”
Knowlton led a detachment of some two hundred men around the right flank of the British, who were now fixated on taking the Hollow Way. The 42d Regiment of Foot, the famous “Black Watch” led the British advance supported by the 33rd Regiment of Foot and the Hessian Regiment of von Donop. As they advanced, one of their officers had the buglers blow the fox chase to once more insult the Americans. One thousand plus of some of the finest infantry in the world descended on erstwhile farmers and shopkeepers who patiently stood their ground.
The toot–toot–toot echoed through the woods and across the Hollow Way. However, the “fox chase” incited a bloody outrage in the Americans defending the heights and stiffened their resolve.
Knowlton was first to anger. “I hear the fox chase called,” he cried. “Let us foxes take the hounds!”
With that, his force, now reinforced by several companies, rushed around the British right flank to encircle and cut off the British column. Nixon pushed a small frontal force of over 150 men down into the Hollow Way just as the British column advanced. The foxhunt bugle call had also enraged Nixon’s men, who engaged the British head-on in a furious firefight. Muskets blazed up and down the line as men frantically reloaded then quickly stepped forward to take aim at their opponent.
Finally, Nixon pushed the reserve of his brigade into the shallow valley and the momentum of the extra troops, coupled with their growing fury, drove the British back. Nixon’s men pursued aggressively–too aggressively. The zeal of the Americans forced the British out of the trap before it could close on them. Washington’s plan to encircle the British failed.
But Knowlton’s force was still situated along the British flank. As they retreated, his men poured a withering fire into them.
Knowlton raced among his men. “Keep a steady fire, boys! Make them bleed.”
And bleed they did, as his men poured a disciplined fire into the fleeing enemy.
Creed’s file held the far left flank of Knowlton’s force. He used his Jaeger rifle to great effect, downing three British officers during an exchange lasting almost half an hour. Sensing the British were now in disarray, Knowlton signaled the advance. With that, his men moved forward with tomahawks, knives and a few fixed bayonets.
Knowlton was out in front with his adjutant. “Order incline left, we can still cut them off if we move quickly!”
The British responded with steady, accurate fire. Knowlton’s adjutant went down before he could pass on the order to incline. Frustration and bitter rage rose up in Knowlton, as he sensed victory slipping away.
He raised his sword high and hollered to his men. “If we cannot cut off the British, we can at least collapse their flank.”
A British musket ball struck him in the spine. His back arched, and the Knowlton collapsed, his once powerful body now blood soaked and broken.
Creed was on his way to inform Knowlton of a gap he had seen in the British formation. He watched Knowlton try to aid his fallen adjutant, and then draw his sword and turn to move the rangers forward. Knowlton suddenly dropped his sword and pitched forward, tumbling into the tall grass. Ignoring his throbbing ankle, Creed and ran straight to him. He was the first to arrive and knew immediately that the gallant ranger was not long for this world.
Creed hollered louder than he ever had. “Colonel Knowlton is down! Colonel Knowlton is down! “
Creed then spoke gently to Knowlton. “Tis serious sir. But I have seen a few survive such wounds. Your lads are on the way. I will see that your men come through victorious.”
Knowlton could not answer. Although Creed thought the gallant officer blinked a final affirmation, he would never be sure. Creed gave him some water from his flask, but Knowlton’s breathing grew shallow and his eyes began to glaze over as death encroached on the once vigorous man.
As an orderly and two sergeants carried their dying commander to the rear, Creed scanned the front and saw the red coat column retreating out of musket range. Already the narrow window in which they could have destroyed the British had closed. Disgusted, and distraught at the loss of Knowlton, he returned to his men.
“Lads, the gallant colonel is down but I aim to lead those who would follow straight at that gap and shear the column in half.”
Parker looked incredulous. “No, sir. Their musket balls swarm like bees. You would bring too many good men to their death.”
Creed looked along the line and could see Parker was right. “Very well, Elias. We will hold the line. Tis up to His Excellency to order the next move”
At length, Washington pushed more troops forward in hope of routing the British. But the British retreated in good order and found a safe position under the cover of the guns from their ships anchored on the North River. By three that afternoon, the battle was over. Washington had made his point. He had defied the British, but he would attempt no more that day. He had checked their advance, but this was no Breed’s Hill.
* * *
Creed arrived at army headquarters just before dusk. He was limping, tired and ragged, his uniform now torn and covered in dirt, dust and blood from a bitter day of battle. As he entered Fitzgerald’s office, he could scarcely contain his anger and despair over the day’s events. Fitzgerald, seeing the agitation in the young officer, quietly closed the door and pointed him to a seat at the small table that served as a desk.
“I know what you are thinking, Jeremiah. Another lost victory. And that may well be true, but even a small moral victory at this juncture serves His Excellency’s plans.”
Creed frowned, “And how can that be, sir? How many more of these senseless skirmishes must we fight? How many leaders like Sullivan, Stirling or Knowlton must we lose? How many good men like Corporal Beall or Private Jorns?”
Fitzgerald reached under his small cot and pulled out a bottle of whisky, nearly half empty, and poured each of them a tin cupful.
“Not the good Irish whisky you are familiar with, Jeremiah, but it has a good Yankee bite.”
Creed smiled at the comment, then frowned faintly.
Fitzgerald continued. “Now hear me out, young man. You joined this cause, as most did, expecting it would take only one or two battles for the redcoats to give up their empire. His Excellency is one of the few among our esteemed leaders who understand that it may take years to wear them down. He has a recipe for winning. There are two key ingredients to this recipe: first and foremost is the survival of the army. He will no longer risk all in one grand gambit. He will chip away at the British, hold what he can; give up what he must, and live to fight another day. If we survive over time, he hopes Congress can coax one of the European powers to side with us. Maintaining a viable Continental Army is vital to achieve that.”
Creed shook his head. “No sir. I always knew this war would be long in ending–if the Cause were to succeed.” Then he eyed Fitzgerald suspiciously. “The strategy makes sense, but what is the second ingredient?”
Fitzgerald looked him in the eye. “Why, the second ingredient is intelligence. As I told you earlier, you will have a role in that.”
“But I am no spy, nor am I a counter spy. I am a soldier. Yes, I can conduct a patrol or a raid but this other business–I want nothing of it!”
“Your actions belie your words Jeremiah. Recall the valise you purloined and its critical role in saving the army. And...you seem to pass yourself quite nicely as a redcoat–enough to gather more intelligence. And you did excellent work with Braaf–Golden Apple.”
“Yes, but that was pure luck and I...”
“Jeremiah, His Excellency needs your services. Full time, not just between battles. This army has few men like you who can do the painstaking and anonymous work of espionage and counterespionage. When the army withdraws from New York, His Excellency will still need information on activities in the city and its environs. New York is the key ingredient in the British strategy. We can find a score of good battlefield officers, but someone who can match the British at the game they have played so well for so many years is worth two score on the battlefield. His Excellency thinks you are just such a man, as do I.”
“So the future of our cause relies on my ability to slip into British occupied New York?”
“You will not work alone; your two fine men will support you. And I have two other agents recruited. One is in Brooklyn–our Mister Jons.”
“Much good he did us.” Creed replied.
Fitzgerald waved a finger. “You missed the meeting with him, not the other way around. Besides, his efforts are only beginning. Now, I have another agent...in New York. I call the second agent Mister Smythe. They report passively, that is, based on what they overhear, observe or read. His Excellency needs to communicate with them from time to time. We have...procedures in place that I will not trouble you with. However, you are to be His Excellency’s special arm. You will be used when we cannot wait for their routine reports–not that smuggling information through British lines is any way routine.”
Creed sipped at the whisky. He said nothing for a long time. He thought hard about Fitzgerald’s words. He reflected on the war and his role. He joined to fight, after all. Although since the battle in the passes on Long island he had done little fighting in massed formations, he realized now that he and his men had seen more action, and faced more British, than any other unit in the army. In seconds, the faces of friends and enemies fallen over the past few weeks flashed before him in a torrent of raw emotion. And he saw the logic of Fitzgerald’s argument. The army, and the commander-in-chief on whose shoulders the cause now depended needed intelligence, for they surely lacked everything else.
“I think...I believe...I see your point, sir. What do you call this stuff? It burns like gunpowder when it first hits the palate but then becomes disarmingly subtle.”
Fitzgerald smiled. “Rye whisky. The still pots across Pennsylvania are known for turning out some fine spirits. I am glad you like it.”
Fitzgerald stood, reached under his cot, and opened up a small wooden box. In it was a chess set, hand carved wooden pieces of very nice workmanship. He opened the small leather board and began placing the pieces on the board, very deliberately, as he continued speaking to Creed in a low voice.
“I find chess relaxing. It takes my mind off things. Do you play?”
Creed nodded numbly. The whisky was having some effect.
“This business of intelligence is very much like a chess match, Jeremiah. Even when you see the board, you do not know what your opponent is planning.”
Fitzpatrick, selecting white, began the match. Although it had been some years since he played, Creed was no novice, matching him at every gambit.
Fitzgerald hid his surprise, “Or if you do know what he is planning, you do not know why he is planning it. The real challenge, my boy, is to know what he will do before he does, to create situations that will reduce his options–and force his hand.”
Creed’s brow furrowed as Fitzgerald took one of his bishops. He was out of practice.
“Still, sure tis a great advantage to see the entire board, sir. Something lacking in our own ‘business,’ as you call it.” Creed said.
Fitzgerald smiled, “Precisely!”
He moved his knight, threatening Creed’s king, and declared, “Check.”
Creed answered hoarsely, “Not quite, sir.”
A surprised Fitzgerald watched as Creed’s own knight took his. Creed downed the last drop of the whisky in his mug. He then took Fitzgerald’s white knight from the board and placed defiantly in his pocket.
Fitzgerald’s response was anxious. “So, are you in the game, Jeremiah?”
“So I am, sir. I believe I have been for some time. I just would not admit it.”
“I am glad to hear it my boy! A canny chess player will do well at this game too.”
“Canny, sir? I should think not. ‘’Twas simple Irish luck!”