The Continental Army Encampment, Haarlem Heights, New York, September 17th, 1776
With Creed gone to yet another errand at the headquarters, his men took the time to rest before the next call to action. Jonathan had just finished another letter home. Parker sat across the campfire resting his back on his horse’s saddle while watching his friend seal the coarse paper in the envelope. “How many of those have you written, Jonathan? Seems as if you always have a quill in hand–if you don’t have a rifle.”
Jonathan smiled. “Only three, thus far. And have I been able to post only one. I will mail this along with an old one I wrote just after Simon lost his arm. “
He paused a second as he thoughts turned to Simon. “I sure hope the letters reach Frederick before he does.”
Parker nodded. “Well, at least they sent him home. Might be worth my losing an arm...if it would get me home to my family.”
“You miss them, don’t you?” Asked Beall.
“Of course I do.” Parker replied tersely.
“I miss my parents and the rest of the family.” Beall opined.
“Not the same as missing a woman, if you love her.”
“I miss Krista fiercely...though I’ll likely never see her again.”
“The war won’t last forever, Jonathan. Least that’s what I keep telling myself.
It occurred to Jonathan that he had never seen Parker write home.
“Have you written them?”
“No, I have not.”
“Well, if you wrote them, your wife could write back. Not the same as being with them but a whole lot better than nothing.”
“Don’t think I will. Might make me more homesick, and besides, I have no writing materials.”
“Use mine then. I will even pay the postage.”
Parker lowered his head. “Truth is Jonathan...I cannot write. Oh, I can read some, and do numbers. Even manage a word or two–mostly regarding my fishing and all. You know...business. But write a sentence–I never learned.”
“Then let me help. You sit there and say what you want–I will write it and you can make your mark at the bottom.”
“Say, I am no ignoramus! I can sign my name at the end. Sort of.”
The both laughed.
* * *
The Stanley House, New York, September 26th, 1776
Emily winced as Nancy helped tighten her stays. Tall and slender, Emily had little need for stays but the fashion of the day required a tight fit below the bosom.
Emily said. “Is the carriage ready, Nancy? You know how papa complains when he is late. We must be at Lady Dunning’s by seven, sharp. The ball starts at eight, sharp.”
Nancy nodded. “Your daddy is getting the carriage himself. Would have been better if that nice young Thomas had stayed on as stable hand and driver. Where did you meet him, anyway?”
Emily startled at the question. She was getting jittery these days. “He was a friend of Jeremiah’s, uh...Lieutenant Creed’s. Helped us move that sick man out of harm’s way. Guess he was needed at home, wherever that is.”
Nancy stepped back and eyed her mistress approvingly. She wore a gown of deep burgundy trimmed in black lace. Her only jewelry consisted of simple pearl earrings and a tight pearl choker that embraced her slender neck. Her honey colored hair was piled high on her head.
“I say, Miss Em, you don’t need no powder or wig. Your hair is perfect just like it is now. “
Nancy was proud of her employer’s daughter and not just her looks. She thought Emily ran the boarding house better than her father, and since the occupation started had already attracted an exclusive coterie of eligible young officers, both British and Loyalist.
Emily tilted her head and looked approvingly into the mirror. “I believe you are right, Nancy. Let us hope Major Butler and his officers agree.”
Nancy smiled. “I am sure they will, Miss Em.”
Both women giggled but Emily’s display was purely pro forma. Her giggle stifled a choke that tore at her heart, for it belonged to a Yankee officer whom she would likely never again meet. Her efforts to impress the British officers at Lady Dunning’s were aimed at helping her father’s social and professional connections and to enable her to learn more about the expected long term occupation of the Island of New York.
Downstairs, the door to the parlor abruptly flew open and Doctor Stanley called up to his daughter. “Emily! Are you powdered and primped yet? It is past time we go.”
Emily took one last look in the mirror and nodded at Nancy. “Yes, papa, I shall be right down.”
* * *
The Morris Mansion, Haarlem Heights, New York, September 26th, 1776
The aftermath of the battle before Haarlem Heights proved vexing to Washington. Despite his evolving strategy of victory through survival, he had hoped for a version of Bunker Hill to prop up the morale of his army, the populace and most importantly, the Congress. Already both supporters and detractors in Congress bombarded him with letters. Some favored another attack; others that he defend in place, even if it meant the army’s destruction. Still others favored a retreat over the Kings Bridge into the Hudson Highlands. He tossed one such letter into the basket marked for burning. It urged negotiations once more. The name of the congressman was disturbing. Washington had thought him a good friend and a steadfast Patriot but such was the state of politics.
A knock on the door brought Washington from his thoughts. The heavy oak door opened slowly and Tench Tilghman peered into the room.
Tilghman announced. “Colonel Fitzgerald has just arrived, sir.”
Washington nodded. “Ask him to come see me.”
A few minutes later, Fitzgerald arrived with a sheepish grin on his face.
Washington pointed to a seat just across his desk. “I hope your exuberance is transferable, Colonel. I could use a shift in mood right now. Most of my correspondence has given me little cause to smile.”
Fitzgerald held a heavy envelope of light brown kidskin. He opened it and examined the contents under the commander in chief’s watchful eye. Fitzgerald’s face evinced nothing as he read.
Finally he looked up and smiled again. “Well Your Excellency, it seems our scheme is working. I dispatched Creed to one of Mister Jons’ appointed sites, from which he retrieved this packet. Our good Mister Smythe has delivered as promised. Mister Smythe dropped the packet at one of the appointed locations near the city. Mister Jons retrieved the packet and delivered it to a point north of here, where Creed fetched it.”
Washington grew uncomfortable. “Does Lieutenant Creed suspect anything?”
“No. As far as he is concerned, he serviced a delivery for me. It could be from anyone.”
“Anyone engaged in spying, you mean.” Washington corrected him.
Fitzgerald chuckled. “Well, yes, of course. However, I send him out every few days to check one or more locations stipulated on Mister Jons’ very excellent map. He likely thinks we have a trove of spies in British-occupied New York.”
Washington nodded. “When we have but one. And, this being the first communication from Mister Smythe, who can tell its value? Yet withal, it is a start.”
“We have Mister Jons’ on Long Island as well. The British quartermaster provided him with a lucrative contract to ship goods along the littoral. So long as we maintain a foothold along the Hudson Highlands or the Connecticut shores we should be able to maintain the link, if only sporadically.”
Washington nodded. “Now it is I who stand corrected, Robert. Mister Jons is just one key piece to this enterprise. Your Mister Smythe is the other. How did you link the two?”
“As you know, back in July, Mister Smythe volunteered to serve in the event the army left New York. A very perceptive bit of judgment, I might add.”
Washington frowned. “So little faith in your commander...”
Fitzgerald smiled wanly. “Merely planning for any eventuality, Your Excellency. Anyway, when the army returned from Brooklyn I had several meetings with Mister Smythe, the last one here in Haarlem, where we made our final arrangements with regard to communicating. I told Mister Smythe to refrain from taking...undue risks.”
“This entire enterprise involves great risk, to all involved.” Washington said. “To Mister Smythe, Mister Jons, to young Creed and his men...to the Cause.”
Fitzgerald replied. “Well, true enough. We too have assumed no small measure of risk in using both Mister Smythe and Mister Jons. Both are volunteers whose ultimately loyalty we cannot ascertain, but must nevertheless trust in. As for personal and physical risks–that is what we have engaged Creed for, and I do believe, despite his protests, he now thrives on them.”
Fitzgerald suddenly thought better of his levity. “Poor of me to mock Creed. He is a gallant lad and will prove to be our knight rampant, however...”
Washington eyed Fitzgerald. “However, what?”
Fitzgerald lowered his eyes. “He can never learn the true identity of Mister Smythe.”
Washington nodded and lowered his voice. “That decision is for the good of all. What good do you think he would be if he knew the truth? The only persons who know...who can ever know...the true identities of Mister Smythe or Mister Jons are in this room. This secret is one of the most important of our new nation. It must remain, how should we say, under our four eyes...”
* * *
The Stanley House, September 27th, 1776
The parlor clock struck two. The chimes could be heard up in Emily’s room. The party at Lady Dunning’s had been a success. A bevy of the more socially acceptable women in New York, of all ages, mingled with some of the finest officers on Lord Howe’s staff. The food was excellent, not that she ate much. However, she did dance with at least eight officers, half of whom pledged their undying affection for Americans...at least of the female sort. A few invited her for discreet walks in the garden but these she declined for now. Not good to appear too eager and easy to get. No, any would-be suitor must work his way into her good graces.
A knock on the door was followed by a whispering voice. “Miss Em, you still up? Your daddy’s been sleeping for over an hour. You need your rest too. Maybe I should bring some warm milk?”
“No need to worry over me, Nancy. Please go to bed yourself. I want to capture my innermost feelings for my journal before I retire. This proved a most romantic night and I wish to recount every moment.”
Nancy smiled knowingly. Her young mistress was becoming a real lady. “Alright then. Good night, Miss Em.”
After she heard Nancy’s footsteps descend the stairs, Emily removed a small valise from a crawl space in the floor under her commode. She had loosened the slats when she was a young girl to hide all sorts of contraband–candies and other sweets. Now it provided her a secret compartment for contraband of a very different sort.
Opening the valise, she removed several paper sheets, her quill and ink. For nearly two hours, she worked by the light of a solitary candle, carefully arranging her thoughts, her impressions of the British officers; the state of Howe’s army; civilian morale and the like. New to military talk, she had bombarded her suitors and the other guests with simplistic questions aimed at extracting detailed if bombastic answers. By the evening’s end, she had learned the approximate number of regiments on the Island of New York. She gleaned from the ruminations of several officers, the latest British plans to reverse their check at Haarlem.
An eager naval officer confided that the Royal Navy would play a role in the next phase of Howe’s campaign. Although she could not ascertain the specifics, she got a sense that several small landings were in the offing, more as a probe and test to pry the rebels from their defenses than as a serious offense. One officer even boasted of leading a “flying column” to sever the Kings Bridge connection and cut Washington off from Westchester.
Emily finished committing her recollections to paper. She was proud of her work, and how relatively easy it had been. She paused, thinking of Jeremiah Creed and the brave men who served with him. It gave her no small satisfaction that, in some way, she was helping them serve the cause they all held dearly. The act of committing this information to paper somehow, in her heart and mind, bound her to Creed as well as her new nation. For this, she was grateful–even joyful, and not the least bit apprehensive. For in the short time she knew Creed she had learned that care, caution and preparation would reduce the danger of discovery and provide the difference between success and failure.
The finished note was three solid pages long, even with her fine, neat print. Before she folded them, she made her special mark at the bottom and signed the correspondence to Colonel Robert Fitzgerald....
I remain as ever,
Your Loyal and True Patriot,
Mister Smythe
The End