The Tory Widow (26 page)

David reread the lines he'd written, tapping the ink from his quill, wiping the tip with the hem of his shirt.

A severe flogging . . .
He winced at his choice of words. By all accounts the soldiers had at first fought bravely, protecting their positions against superior numbers and arms—but once the British flanking forces swept down on their rear, the Patriot army disintegrated in a scattered, disorderly retreat.

He watched from the works as Patriot soldiers ran for their lives pursued by merciless Hessian and Scots grenadiers who showed no quarter with bayonets fixed. In flight, hundreds crossing the plain were surrounded and trapped by mounted dragoons. David heard many were mired in the bogs, crossing the marshlands under a hail of fire, only to be drowned or captured.

As the vanquished soldiers tumbled behind the safety of the fortifications at Brooklyn, they braced to repulse a massive assault. But Howe did not press his advantage. To everyone's amazement, he pulled his troops back, and began a formal siege.

Lucky for us . . .
In total disarray, panic-stricken and outnumbered, David doubted they would have survived. Careful in tearing the page loose from the book, he waved the letter about to dry the ink, folded the sheet in thirds, sealed it shut with a paste wafer and addressed it:

Leaving his boots to dry, David ran barefoot to the boat landing, hoping it was not too late to get his letter aboard the last ferry to the city.

Not only was the ferryboat still at the dock, the harbor was oddly crowded with all manner of boats—flatboats, sloops, whale boats, pettiaugers, dories, sailboats—with General Washington himself surveying the assembled vessels astride his sorrel, Nelson.

David spotted Mr. Gourley, one of the regular boatmen, leaning against the pilings smoking a long stem pipe, and he greeted the man with a handshake.

“I'm happy to find you're still here . . .” he said, handing over the letter and a coin for the man's trouble. “If you could deliver this, I'd appreciate it.”

The ferryman slipped both letter and coin into the pocket of his oilcloth jacket. “We're waiting to evacuate the sick and wounded to the city.”

“That's an awful lot of boats . . .”

Gourley puffed and shrugged.

David pointed to men in tarred trousers, wrapping the iron oar-locks on every ship with rags and strips of old canvas. “Are they muffling the oars?”

“A-yup . . .” The ferryman squinted at the darkening sky and worried the graying stubble on his chin. “You know, this nor'easter's been keeping navy shipping from the river. There are warships anchored in the Narrows waiting for the wind to shift.” Gourley chewed on the stem of his pipe. “King's Army advancing on the front, King's Navy advancing on the rear. Think on it lad, if you were Washington, what would you do?”

Walking back to his tent, he pondered Gourley's question and the unusual activity at the landing. The vast collection of boats with muffled oars, coupled with the order to parade pointed to a design—to a plan—

A crazy notion, that—nighttime retreat over water—improbable as it seemed, the idea put some steam in his step, and he sprinted the rest of the way to the tent.

“We have new orders from General MacDougall.” Duncan MacBryde tossed their gear into a pile. “We're to strike the tent and report mounted at the ferry landing.”

At the landing, MacDougall set David, Duncan and six other officers to the task of assembling the sick and wounded, along with two militia regiments for evacuation to the city. There were to be no drum calls or shouting of any sort. Orders were passed from officer to officer, and whispered from man to man. Though the sky had darkened to a cloud-shrouded black, lights were not allowed. Each and every clandestine action further cemented the theory David shared in a whisper with Duncan: Washington meant to move the entire nine-thousand-man army over the mile of rapid-running East River separating Brooklyn and New York under cover of night.

As they rode alongside the militia regiments parading to the landing, Duncan pointed to an artilleryman who was rendering a cannon mired in the mud useless by driving a spike into the touch hole. “There does seem to be some skullduggery afoot. You might not be as daft as I first thought.”

“Skullduggery is paramount to the success of such a maneuver,” David said. “If the British discern a retreat, they'll spill over our works like a swarm of bees—a seventeen-inch steel stinger affixed to the barrels of every musket.”

Duncan leaned in his saddle, muttering. “Wise to keep the secret from our own lads as well. So miserably trounced, they are—they'd likely trample each other in gaining a seat aboard one of those boats if they knew a retreat was in order.”

The reprieve from wet weather was short-lived. The same north-east wind keeping the British ships from entering the river carried in another gusty rainstorm. Up on Black Bill, David stuffed his tricorn into his saddlebag so as not to sacrifice his hat to the bluster.

By nine o'clock the storm clouds blew over, but the fierce wind did not abate. The boatmen and General MacDougall deliberated. High winds combined with the ebb tide to make the river too rough to cross. Troops ready to embark were ordered to stand down and wait out the wind in silence.

Just when it seemed MacDougall would call a halt to the entire endeavor, Mother Nature took pity on their predicament. The wind died as rapidly as it had sprung up, and the churning river became as calm and smooth as satin.

The first detachments were loaded onto the boats, and mounted officers were dispatched to the lines to organize the next regiments for embarkation. Though no one made mention of the word retreat, there was a definite sense of the night's true purpose, and all worked in furious accord to see it carried through.

When a regiment was led from the lines to the ferry landing, the remaining troops extended to the left or right, filling the void, maintaining the illusion for any Redcoat who might be paying close attention. Artillery and wagons filled with baggage were pulled to the waterfront on well-greased wheels, and loaded onto flatboats. Horses and cattle were coaxed aboard. Barrels of the much-despised hard biscuit and salt pork were rolled onto sailboats to such a capacity the gunwales rode but three or four inches above the waterline. Nothing of value was being left behind for the enemy.

And so it proceeded through the night. For more than six hours, with as much order and organization as could be scrubbed up when working in the quiet dark, the boats were loaded, and the hardy mariners rowed with little pause, silently shuttling back and forth across the East River.

In the midst of such industry, David began the night's work happily thinking he would reach Sally before his letter did. But as the hours wore on, and the sky began to brighten on the eastern horizon, he gauged the number of soldiers yet waiting to withdraw. Trepidation began a slow creep up his backbone. “We're quick running out of nighttime . . .”

“Aye.” Duncan nodded. “Now that the wind's shifted, the English warships will fetch up into the river along with the daylight.”

As the sun inched above the horizon, the same realization dawned on every waiting soldier. Mass desperation welled up like a monstrous wave, washing over the troops assembled at the landing with a tidal force. Strict order dissolved into chaos, and the next empty boat to pull up to the dock was swamped in a mad rush of frantic men climbing over one another to gain passage.

All the officers on duty jumped in trying to staunch the riot with little effect. General Washington himself drove through the pandemonium, shouting,
“Put an end to this mayhem at once, or I will sink this boat to hell!”

The rioters calmed in the face of their Commander in Chief 's imposing presence. Washington's harsh invective served to quell the panic, and the officers were able to reorder the lines so the exodus to the city resumed a hectic but methodical pace.

David and Duncan rode out to the front line to fetch the last remaining regiments. “There're hundreds still on duty. We'll never be able to get them all across.”

“When day breaks in earnest, the Redcoats will see our line has more holes than a nunnery—they will not tarry in storming our works,” Duncan predicted, checking through the cartridge box belted at his waist. “I have four dry cartridges. How many have you?”

“Three, last I checked.”

In the time it took to ride from the landing to the front line, fortune smiled once again on the Patriot cause. A heavy fog came down over the island, clinging to the earth like tufts of sheep's wool to a briar—a fog so dense, David could not see his fellow officer riding a horse no more than five yards ahead.

The fog represented new hope for the soldiers who bore the burden of holding the front line through the long night. David held a true admiration for these brave men who stood their posts as regiment after regiment left the lines, and he was happy to whisper, “Bid a fond farewell to these trenches, Colonel; it's time to parade your men to the landing.”

The providential fog lingered, providing cover during the daylight hours of the retreat. As the last vessels were loaded, it became apparent they must leave a few good horses behind. David waited till the very last moment before taking his turn to board. With much regret, he stripped Bill of his saddle and hitched the stallion to the post in front of the ferry house. Right ahead of General Washington, David jumped onto the last boat to leave Long Island.

“I canna believe he did it—but do it he did!” Duncan nodded to General Washington at the prow. “Moved an entire army right out from under the nose of the British high command—with nary a shot being fired.”

“And we live to fight another day . . .” David heaved a sigh of relief, sharing his friend's admiration of Washington. Heavy in the water, the boat lurched across the river. Black Bill . . . the ferry landing . . . Long Island . . . all disappearing into thick mist.

The more David thought about it, the more he could not bear the idea of his stallion falling into enemy hands. When they pulled into the sunny ferry landing at the end of Maiden Lane, he rushed to find General MacDougall.

“General, sir,” he said, pointing to the opposite shore, shrouded in fog. “We've time for one last run. If I muster volunteers, might I have permission to go back and fetch my horse?”

MacDougall eyed the mouth of the river for enemy warships. “Aye—g'won, then—find your volunteers, but do so with speed, lad.”

Old Gourley was game, and Duncan was willing. By offering a hot breakfast courtesy of the Cup and Quill as an inducement, David was also able to coerce four of the Marblehead mariners to join in on the rescue mission.

Carrying a light load, and with strong muscles behind the oars, the flat-bottom scow cut across the water as if pushed along by a great invisible hand. The fog was beginning to lift, patches of mist swirling to open up in clear expanses. With no time to waste, David leapt from the boat as it bumped to the landing, and ran up to the ferry house where Black Bill waited just as he was left, hitched to the post with a short lead.

No sooner did David set foot on Long Island, did he want off again. After so much hubbub and confusion earlier, the ferry landing was now a forlorn place, made even more desolate in the eerie fog. An inexplicable dread congested in his chest, and he cursed his own stupidity, fumbling with the complicated knot he'd used to hitch his horse to the post. Impatient, Bill tossed his angry head, snorting and stamping his hooves in chastisement.

“Goddamn this knot . . .”

Tail swishing back and forth, Bill stiffened his neck, his ears pivoting back.

David heard it, too—the clank-clank of armed soldiers on the prowl. He looked down to the landing. Duncan, Gourley and the Marbleheaders, all standing in the scow—all waving their hands wildly. He turned to see a row of bright specters emerging from the swirling mist—red figures crisscrossed in white, moving with stealth toward the landing.

What a fine mark to shoot at . . .
he thought
. . . and my musket's on the boat.

The soldiers came into full view—grenadiers in furry, peaked hats. With a shout, they began running toward the landing. Gourley gave a shout, and the others scrambled to the oars. pushing away from the dock. The Redcoats broached a stand, flintlocks clacking back, and laid several rounds upon the scow as it disappeared into the fog.

“Shhhh . . . Billy . . . shhhh . . .”
David ducked down and slipped around, putting the skittish horse between himself and the soldiers. He unbuckled the stallion's halter, disengaging Bill from the post. Grabbing a fistful of mane, he pulled up onto Bill's bare back.

The movement caught an eye.

“Halt!”

Kicking and jabbing his heels, David yanked hard on handfuls of mane in a struggle to direct the bridleless stallion. A single shot sounded, and the ball whizzed past, plinking off the iron ring on the hitching post with a high-pitched ding.

Bill reared up. David squeezed tight to his mount, clinging to the mane, clenching his every muscle to stay astride. More shots flashed in the fog, sharp sulfur smoke mingling with the mist. Nostrils flaring, eyes gone wide and wild, Bill wheeled to the left, and then swerved to the right, going nowhere in a mad circle.

David was jerked one way and then the other, barely able to keep his seat, feeling as if he'd been slapped hard on the shoulder—then the leg—with a wet leather strop. Heart thumping in his brain, he hunched over his stallion's withers. On this signal Black Bill at last gave in to his instinct to flee. Taking off in full gallop, he raced inland.