from the rearguard action his Regiment had fought in delaying the
enemy. He took comfort in the numbers and the numerous cannons
that were interspersed amongst the troops.
The Hessians, with additional reinforcements of their own,
formed up in the valley below and waited. The sun beat down on
Henry’s bare head. He had lost his tri-corn and wished he still had
his canteen. He reached into his cartridge box and fingered the blue
ribbon from Sally’s dress. Beat the enemy back here and then he could
go home to Providence.
The high-pitched sound of the hautboys wafted up from the
valley below, accompanied by the steady drum beat as the Hessians
began their assault. The three gun battery of six-pounders to Henry’s
right, which he judged by the lack of uniforms to be militia and not
a Continental Artillery Regiment, opened fire as the Hessians passed
through the cornfields below and reached the beginning of the slope.
The sun, now lower in the sky, must be in the Hessians’ eyes he thought,
feeling its warmth on the back of his neck. Still, on they came, their
ranks thinning from the cannon barrage, not yet within musket range. Out of the corner of his eye, Henry saw a militia officer step to
the side of his six-pounder to observe where his ball had landed. In
doing so, he moved in front of the muzzle of the adjacent cannon, set
too near to his own, just as that gun commander shouted “Give Fire!”
The ball went through his body and blew him to pieces. His frame
was held together only by the skin of his belly, with his right arm
totally severed from his torso. Blood spattered everywhere. Henry felt
his stomach contract, bent over and dry heaved. He had nothing to eat
since the prior night. 6
“By Company! Make Ready!” Henry knelt behind the low wall
made of stone and freshly dug earth. He heard the second rank behind
him shift one step to the side. “Take aim! Fire.” Almost three hundred
muskets fired simultaneously. Henry focused on loading, following
the routine that they had practiced on the parade ground of Valley
Forge for days at a time. Volley after concentrated volley of musket
balls hailed down on the advancing Hessians, devastating their ranks.
The massed disciplined firepower of the Americans was too much for
any body of troops to withstand. The Hessians retreated down the
slope and with the arrival of dusk, the battle was over.
Henry was one of a small party of men sent back down into the
valley to search for wounded. With no wheelbarrows available they used sections of canvas cut from tents and muskets for carrying poles to make stretchers. They looked only for blue clad wounded, not having enough men or stretchers to take care of the Hessians. Accompanied by the usual night noises of crickets and cicadas, they moved toward the sound of groans and cries of pain, stooping down to identify the soldiers on the ground, before rolling them as gently as they could on
to the canvas and carrying them back toward their lines. It was Oliver who stumbled across Fish. He lay there, his eyes
blinking as his head moved from side to side, his hands wet with his
own blood, clutching a wide gash below his ribs. Softly, he repeated
the word “no,” drawn out into a long moan as if he could not believe
he had been wounded. He cried out as they stumbled back up the hill
and loaded him on to a waiting wagon.
The remainder of the night was spent marching to Howland’s
Ferry and being rowed across the narrow strait to Tiverton. Once there,
they camped for a day and on the last day of August again marched
through the streets of Providence. 7
In early September, Henry reluctantly left Providence and with
the rest of his regiment marched to Bristol. He consoled himself
that now he was closer to Judith and Sally. On the first Sunday, the
Regimental Chaplain read a list of those who had died in the battle.
Private Abraham Fish’s name was among them, having succumbed to
his wound at the hospital in Providence. There were eighteen killed
from the 2nd Regiment. Eighteen families that would likely become
destitute, living off a reduced amount of worthless paper money,
Henry thought bitterly. His Judith and Sally were not much better
off. He did not hold much hope the French would return and drive
the British from Newport. No, he thought. We will have to help our
families ourselves and end the war on our own. In the meantime, he
would talk to Colonel Angell himself. Their Colonel was an influential
and respected member of the community. Perhaps he would be able
to persuade the good merchants of Providence to assist the soldiers’
families.
Captain Holmes and Privates Adam Cooper and Titus Fuller, after days of a bone-jarring wagon ride over ice-rutted roads, welcomed the chance to leave the horses and wagon with a patriot militia in New Brunswick. They enthusiastically took to the water in a small square-rigged trading sloop. The river boat men were wary of roving New Jersey Loyalist militias, rumored to be extremely active in the area, and welcomed the addition of three armed soldiers. They stood guard, scanning the shoreline as the crew vigorously manned the poles to move the vessel, laden with barrels of flour, butter and salted pork down the shoal-obstructed Raritan. In South Amboy, the former Marblehead Mariners found a tavern with a room for the night. The owner looked askance at Adam and Titus, even though they were in uniform.
“I suppose there is no harm, since ‘tis only the three of you sleeping in the same bed,” he scowled as he swept the coins Nat had laid on the counter into the pocket of his dirty leather apron.
“Ah, but think of the risk to you of having your fat throat slit in the middle of the night by this Continental, offended by your remarks,” Adam said, removing his short knife from its sheath and testing the blade with his thumb. The innkeeper stepped back from the table, rubbing the unshaven stubble on his neck, and looked quickly over his shoulder as if seeking reassurance someone was there to help him.
“Come along, Adam,” Holmes said calmly. “We have our room. No need to scare the man unnecessarily.”
“I trust you as an officer to keep them under control,” the owner
shouted after Nat, as the three of them went up the creaky stairs to
the loft. 8
The next morning, Nat prowled the wharves, the collar of his
short blue wool jacket turned up against the brisk October wind
blowing from the northeast. It would be colder in Salem this time
of year, he thought. In years past, he would be returning from the
fishing grounds by no later than the third week of the month ahead
of the oncoming northeasters. He prayed his wife Anna would keep
their second son warm. Benjamin Warren, born the week after
Independence Day, whom she described in her last letter to him as
having a ruddy complexion like his father, also had Nathaniel’s set of
lungs. Nat had been tempted to take leave and make the journey to
Massachusetts. The army was in place, watching the British in New York, waiting for any sally in force and harassing their foraging parties
up and down the Hudson. No action seemed imminent. Instead, Holmes had agreed when General Knox proposed to
utilize Nat’s knowledge of ships and cannons to make a reconnaissance
trip to assess the numerous harbors and anchorages being used by
American privateers. H
e was to recommend which ones should be
fortified against British raids from Staten Island and in what manner.
South Amboy harbor, like Hoboken, Paulus Hook and others he had
seen further north, lacked any defenses - no redoubts, emplacements,
batteries, and no militias based nearby. True, an alarm could be raised
and the militias called up, but by then it would be too late. The ships
and yards would all have been burned to the ground and the supplies
in the warehouses, including foodstuffs to supply the American army
this coming winter, would either have been destroyed or carried off by
the British raiding parties.
His professional eye took note of the number of quays and
the variety of ships tied up. There were flat-bottomed rafts, several
unarmed shallow-draft river sloops, and a larger deep water sloop with
a mounted three-pounder and two swivel guns. Obviously a privateer,
he thought, and responsible for the two captured merchantmen, riding
high in the water, their cargoes having already been unloaded. His
eyes were drawn to three whale boats, lashed together and tied to the
pier with stout ropes. They bobbed silently in the light waves without
a creak or groan from the planking. They were about thirty feet long,
one with a removable mast, stored with its sail below the gunwales,
and another with a swivel in the bow. The eight sets of oarlocks on
each were covered with leather, dark and stained from usage. There is
only one reason to cover oarlocks, Nat thought. For silence. That afternoon, when he met up with Adam and Titus, the wind
of the morning had brought a darkening sky and the promise of a cold
rainy night. Adam recounted their day spent around the shipyards
and warehouses, and in fish houses and taverns, listening and talking
to sailors, most of whom were part-time privateers and wharf rats,
spending their prize money on women and rum. The slave laborers
had stared at them in their uniforms, as if they were strange creatures
of another species. The white sailors, at first reticent, found common ground with them once the talk turned to sailing, treacherous weather,
shoals and privateering.
“There is talk of a Captain Gradon who is recruiting men for a
special raid. He intends to recapture a Rhode Islander brig, a privateer
captured by the British along with two sloops, the Islanders’ original
prizes, all of which lie at anchor at Sandy Hook.”
“When is this attack to take place?” Holmes asked. “That is the difficulty,” Adam replied. “This Captain Gradon is
short of men. They are brave enough for the privateering part, because
there is money in it. The task of capturing an armed brig, and two
sloops, all manned by British Navy prize crews, is not to their liking.” “If these ships were taken by the British, there must be American
prisoners still on board,” Nat reasoned. “Do we know how many
Americans the British might be holding?”
“The men we talked to could not tell a shoal of herring from a
school of cod,” Adam said contemptuously. “Some say a dozen, others
more than thirty. From our experience at privateering, I would say five
or six were on board for each sloop and maybe ten for the brig.” “That would be my estimate as well,” Nat replied. “Twenty to
twenty-two American sailors captured and destined for the prison
ships in New York harbor.” They had reached the end of the stone
breakwater and Nat turned back into the wind.
“It is our duty to rescue them,” he said. “Let us find this Captain
Gradon and offer our services.”
When they entered the Riversnake Tavern, the third one they
had searched, they discovered the Captain seated in a snug room off
of the boisterous main bar room. “Yankees from the sound of you,” he
said looking up at them from under his arched black eyebrows after
Nat, Adam and Titus had introduced themselves. If he were a ship,
Nat thought, he would be a frigate named the Resolute. He was of
a stout physique, with a thin line of a mouth, a firm, almost pointed
chin and locks of greying curled hair that tumbled down over his ears.
He fixed his eyes on each of them and then on Nat. “What is a sailor
like you doing in the Continental Army as a Captain?” he asked. Nat explained the three of them were Marblehead Mariners
from General Glover’s Regiment and had enlisted to serve on General
Knox’s staff. “Artillery is artillery on land or sea,” he added. “’Tis harder to hit a target from a floating platform. Otherwise,
I take your point,” Gradon replied, biting the words off as if they hurt
his mouth to speak them.
Nat offered their services, mentioning the raid being planned on
Sandy Hook. “When do you propose to carry out this . . .” “Tonight.” Gradon said brusquely, then added by way of
explanation, “The weather may change tomorrow and our prey will
no longer need the shelter of Sandy Hook cove.” He looked them over,
noting the well-maintained muskets and Nat’s sheathed sword. “With
you three, we will be twenty-one in all, enough to man three whale
boats.” He challenged Nat with a harsh stare. “I am the Captain of
the flotilla and you will take orders from me. Is that understood?” Nat
nodded his agreement. “We meet at the shed next to the salt works at
eight o’clock.”
The rain had abated to a drizzle when the three whale boats left the
pier and rowed through the gentle surf into the pitch blackness of the
night. Nat stood in the stern with his hand on the tiller. Immediately
in front of him seated across from each other, Adam and Titus were the
lead pair of rowers, setting the rhythm for the five pairs of privateers
behind them. Gradon was in the lead whaleboat, with the mast up and
sail unfurled, towing the second whale boat with the swivel gun and
some shot and powder. The Captain had eight men with him, enough
to row silently after they dropped the sail, as they closed with the ships
sheltered in the cove. The plan was to approach from the Jersey side of
the sheltering arm of the Hook, coast silently down on the favorable
current, send one whale boat closer to scout and then attack quickly
and silently. The men were armed with cutlasses and pikes. Nat carried
his pistol in a leather pouch slung over his shoulder.
Holmes could barely discern the outline of the cove and Gradon’s
whaleboat ahead. The men in the second whaleboat had cast off and
were rowing silently into the cove. Nat’s boat bobbed quietly in the
water, keeping its distance from Gradon and waited for the scouting
boat to return. When it did, Gradon jumped lightly over the side,
huddled with the man he had placed in charge and had them row him
close to Nat’s boat.
“There are no lights on the brig,” Gradon said. “Of the other
two, one is a cutter, the other a sloop. There is one sailor on watch on
each. I will take the brig. You take the cutter closest to the brig, this
crew will take the sloop.” Having given those orders, he returned to his
whaleboat and clambered aboard. Nat saw the mast being lowered and
then with Gradon in the lead, the little convey silently gh
osted ahead
into the sheltering cove.
Nat whispered instructions to cease rowing. Only Adam and
Titus continued until the whaleboat glided alongside, edging toward
the cutter’s stern. It was definitely a cutter, its mast further aft and
longer than a sloop with more room for cargo in the holds below. He
wondered if all of the American prisoners were held on board. As they bumped gently along side, Nat raised his hand and three
sets of grappling hooks arched up and set into the wooden bulwarks
above. Quickly, the armed men swarmed up and onto the deck.
The one sentry on watch returning from the bow saw the shadows
flitting about the deck, shouted the alarm and was immediately cut
down by two sailors. The patter of feet on the deck aroused the crew
below. Light from lanterns filtered up from the hold. Nat stood at the
hatchway, pistol and cutlass in hand as the first of them attempted to
reach the deck.
“Try it and I will blow your head off.”
“Damn you if you do,” the officer shouted advancing up the
stairs, brandishing his sword.
Nat aimed his pistol at the man. It misfired. Quickly, he slashed
down with his cutlass and the man fell back spouting blood from the
gash in his neck. Behind him, a group of blue-coated men from the
prize crew massed in the corridor but the narrow stairway made it
difficult for more than one man at a time to mount an attack. Nat
sent Adam and two others to guard the entrance of the after cabin,
while Titus and others dragged the hatch cover into position. Titus
bent down to adjust the cover, unaware of a British sailor with a pistol
creeping up the ladder. He came at Titus from his right side, the one
where he wore a patch over his gouged-out eye. Nat shouted a warning
at the same time the sailor fired, the ball striking Titus in his head,
blowing him back onto the deck.
Adam, at the other end of the cutter, saw Titus fall. With an
angry scream, he charged down the steps leading to the after cabin,
pike in hand, followed by two other privateers.
Nat ordered two more to reinforce Adam, and then with the
remaining Americans pulled back the hatch cover and led them down
the stairwell. The British sailors were caught between a vengeful, beserk
Spies and Deserters Page 21
