for,” he said as the Judge acknowledged the wisdom of his son’s tactics. With the rear of the house relatively secure, and the front door
closed but not barred, John sat with the other guests in the front sitting
room, listening to the harpsichord played by the Judge’s wife. They
sipped sherry and applauded her performance, all of them now in on
the plan, contrary to Chatsworth’s wishes. Damn him, John thought.
Now I am an obvious target in a room of fools, mostly wealthy
landowners and elderly acquaintances who have never seen military
service. He glanced nervously at the muskets hidden behind curtains,
chaise lounges and on the floor beneath the harpsichord, and fingered
the smooth handle of the pistol in his pocket. He could get off one shot
and then, retreat to the back of the room pretending to get a musket
and wait until, hopefully, the troopers attacked and cut the Rebels
down from behind.
Mrs. Thomas was playing softly when there was the sound of
running, followed by the splintering of wood as the front door was
slammed by the Rebels’ battering ram. At the same instant, several
burly men clambered through the window, armed with pistols, pikes
and swords, and shouting for all to surrender. John pulled his pistol
from his pocket and fired, bringing down the man closest to him.
Several other shots rang out but whether they were from the Rebels
or the Judge’s guests, he was not certain. Someone shouted to bar the
door. Too late for that, John thought, as he retreated behind the couch
and reached for a fowling piece. Praying it was properly loaded, he fired
at two of the Rebels whose backs were turned as they ran toward the
entrance hall to open the front door. The blast blew them forward onto
the floor as the buckshot tore into them. Three of the guests struggled
to close the heavy wooden interior shutters of the front sitting room.
One of them threw up his hands, his waistcoat rapidly soaking with
his own blood, and emitted an agonizing scream of pain as the Rebel
outside yanked the pike out of the man’s chest.
John searched frantically for another musket. The sounds of the
battering ram on the front door were echoed by the same sound on the less sturdy door to the kitchen in the rear. Unable to find another
musket, he desperately unsheathed his sword.
“I will go to the back,” the Judge’s son shouted. “You stay
here and defend the front door.” He rushed out of the sitting room,
followed by two or three others. John terrified, crouched in the room
adjacent to the front door which had already splintered. One more
charge with the battering ram and they would break through. The
ugly iron-encased snout of the ram brutally shattered what remained
of the door, ripping it off its hinges. In that instant, four men swarmed
through the opening. Their leader, sword in one hand and pistol in
the other, spotted John and aimed his pistol. John froze and uttered
a shriek of fear. There was a flash in the pan but it failed to ignite the
powder in the chamber. John bellowed, more from abject fear than
rage, and slashed at his would-be assailant, cutting him deeply on his
thigh. As the Rebel’s leg buckled, John stabbed him in the side and
scurried further down the hallway away from the demolished door and
three advancing raiders. One of them, half-turned behind him as the
savage strike of Chatsworth’s sword severed his arm at the shoulder. Troopers rushed in behind their Captain, ordering the Rebels to
surrender. Distracted by the appearance of Redcoats, the two Rebels
closest to John hesitated. John saw his chance and lunged forward,
piercing the chest of the nearest one, a large muscular brute of a sailor
wielding a long evil-looking pike. The remaining Rebel lowered his
arm, preparing to drop his sword. John struck down at the man’s neck.
There was a sharp metallic clang as Chatsworth intercepted the stroke
with his own saber.
“Now, now, John. Control your blood lust,” he said calmly. “We
must leave a few of them alive to question. That is your province, is it
not?” The Rebel fell to his knees, shaking with fear.
“Not so bold anymore,” John snorted derisively, pricking him
with the point of the blooded sword, none too gently on his exposed
neck. He felt the pounding in his temples as he willed himself to
calm down. He had survived and, better still, acquitted himself well
enough. He almost laughed aloud from relief. To mask his giddiness
he hurriedly went toward the sitting room, muttering to Chatsworth
that he must see to Mrs. Thomas.
The Judge was comforting his wife, who seemed to have borne
all the violence around her better than many of the guests. “You were
extremely brave my dear. You did your part by continuing to play until
these scoundrels invaded our home. Well done.”
“We must thank Lieutenant Stoner for risking his life by staying
here with us. Why, he shot one of the Rebels, that one lying there,”
she said, pointing at the lifeless body whose blood was staining the
patterned rug under the harpsichord. “I was certain he was intent on
attacking me where I sat.”
John thought the dead Rebel had been coming straight for him,
with his lethal looking pike, before he had fired his pistol. He merely
shrugged with what he hoped was a gesture of humility and effected a
slight bow to Mrs. Thomas.
“I am deeply in your debt, Lieutenant,” the Judge said. And I will
call that debt due someday, John thought.
Chatsworth came in just in time to hear the exchange and John
puffed up even more.
“How many did we capture?” John asked, in his mind reasonably
including himself as one of the dragoons.
“Fifteen. We killed nine outside and there are the four in here.”
Chatsworth watched as the Judge’s field slaves lifted the body of one
dead Rebel and carried him outside. “Unless your informant was
mistaken in the number, they may have left two men to guard their
whale boats.”
The troopers stayed the night, liberally imbibing the Judge’s
sherry and port. The next morning, with the surviving rebels tightly
bound and seated none too comfortably in a wagon borrowed from
Judge Thomas, and driven by two of his slaves, they left in high spirits.
Before they reached the ferry at Brooklyn, John became drowsy from
the hot August sun and the effects of their drinking the night before.
To his chagrin, Chatsworth showed no ill effects and even chided John
to sit up straight in the saddle to promote respect from those they
passed on the road.
“We are dragoons,” he admonished. “Not scruffy, ill-trained
colonial cavalry.”
The bitter dry taste in John’s mouth came more from Chatsworth’s
condescending tone than the heat of the day.
Once on the ferry, John looked the prisoners over and marked
the man Chatsworth had saved from the stroke of his sword. They
would all go to the prison at the old Sugar House. And all would know
that, not being a uniformed militia, they would be treated as common
criminals - robbers and brigands - and would be lucky if they were not
hanged within a week. That will loosen their tongues, John thought. Two days later, rested and refreshed and enjoying tea in the sitting
room of his quarters, with his role in fighting the Rebel marauders
inflated in his own mind to heroic proportions, John Stoner took stock.
Major Pritchard had been very pleased with the outcome, taking credit
with his superiors for discovering the plot to kidnap Judge Thomas
but praising John for gathering the intelligence. He had engaged in
combat, risked his life, emerged with an enhanced reputation and a
powerful and influential man indebted to him.
And now there was more good news. Captain Montresor had
not been appointed General Clinton’s Chief Engineer and would be
returning to England. 8 John had always resented him, thinking he
was either a gullible fool for being taken in by Elisabeth, or turned
a blind eye to her machinations for the privilege of escorting her to
all those dinners, balls and plays. If only Montresor had been able
to entice Elisabeth to come to New York where, John fantasized, he
would entrap her, expose her as a Rebel spy and then, then what?
When he had grabbed her by her creamy white neck and felt her firm
young breast in his hand, he recognized the terror in her eyes. How he
had enjoyed that moment.
Before the raid, he deemed events conspiring against him. Now,
the wheel had turned and favored him. Once General Clinton defeated
the ragtag Rebel army spread thin on the other side of the Hudson,
they would reoccupy Philadelphia. Then, he would find Elisabeth van
Hooten, and this time, she would not elude him.
Chapter 16 - With the Black Brigade
The Black Brigade of more than thirty, all colored except for the two Indians, left the pine barrens hideout and moved to their main camp at Refugeetown on Sandy Hook. There they remained for the better part of three weeks. Adam was surprised at the snugness of their quarters, stout plank wooden cabins, with pine-shingled roofs, built on stone rubble foundations. It was on the bay side of the peninsula, approximately five hundred feet from the octagonal lighthouse that Adam estimated was at least one hundred feet high. Taller than the one that had stood on Little Brewster Island in the outer Boston Harbor, before the British Navy blew it up with a timed charge of gunpowder. The presence of the lighthouse, the salty taste of the early morning air and the sound of the sea gave Adam some comfort, although he chaffed at the Brigade’s inactivity.
Two companies of British Regulars were camped near the lighthouse within a compound formed by a series of redoubts, with four eighteen-pounders pointing seaward. A large barn-shaped structure housed their officers and the men were quartered in adjacent outbuildings. Other Redcoats manned a U- shaped stockade at the neck of the peninsula and guarded the holding pens for cattle, the makeshift shelters containing forage, and the storehouses of barrels of foodstuffs, blankets, linens and clothing, all plundered from Rebel farms and awaiting transport on vessels to Staten Island or New York City.
During those weeks, Adam had relieved his frustrations by taking to the sea in a dory, rowing until he felt the welcome ache in his shoulders, enjoying the feel of the swells and the satisfaction of catching rockfish and sea bass on a line. He thought of Sarah, trying to recall her face, seeing her seated in the stern as he dipped the oars deep into the waves. He talked to her about fishing, the sea and his plans to teach their children the skills he knew. But after the fishing was done, with the bow pointed toward the sandy shore, he became melancholy, despairing of ever seeing her again.
The fish were a welcome change to their diet of salted beef, potatoes, corn and squash, along with the occasional ducks the Indians, Cocquetak and Aquadonk, had ensnared in the marshes bordering the sandy beaches. Within the Brigade, the two Indians stayed apart, except for sharing the main daily meal. Adam did not know the names of all the men, and had to admit he had not become close to those of the band who had been with Colonel Tye at the DeGraw’s farm.
He avoided Nero who was as disagreeable as he was uncommunicative. Pompey, Samson and Blue Jacket were from Virginia. Tye had recruited them from Lord Dunmore’s Ethiopian Regiment. Of the three, Adam had taken a liking to Blue Jacket. Tye told him the slave had arrived wearing an expensive whelk blue frock coat that was too long in the sleeves and too wide in the rear. His master must have been a larger man. He had refused to give the British or later even Colonel Tye, his name, saying it had been a slave name and he no longer had any need for it now that he was free. His former master’s coat had since been replaced by a more serviceable hunting shirt that he wore under a faded red wool soldier’s uniform, but the name Blue Jacket had stuck. He had a ready grin, a broad nose and was dark as the night. According to Tye, Blue Jacket was quick as a cat with a pike.
Sam the Traitor had gotten his name from his New Jersey master who had screamed it at his house servant as Sam showed Tye’s raiders where the family’s gold coins, silver and jewelry were buried in the vegetable garden behind their house. Tye informed Sam’s master his slave had done him a favor and saved him from Nero carving him up until he revealed the hiding place. As Tye’s men carried the valuables away, bundled up in the mistress’s best bed linen, Sam confronted his master and spat in his face. He then rode off on one of his former master’s horses. The Brigade used him as a spy for he was an observant and intelligent fellow. Dressed for the role, he would enter a town, driving a wagon as if on an errand for his master or mistress, purchase a few goods, and once back, report to the Colonel directly.
Returning from half a day of fishing in the early afternoon, with the skies rapidly becoming an angry grey, Adam carried the bushel of fish up to their encampment and, using a flat plank, began to gut and clean them. Blue Jacket joined him and silently worked alongside until the task was done. Inside, at the makeshift table, the men were seated on rough-hewn benches, Colonel Tye in his chair at the end closest to the fireplace, dividing up the roasted potatoes and ears of corn and cold meat. He supervised the distribution of the cider, limiting each man to one mug. Adam showed Blue Jacket how to lean the green wood skewers against the iron spit and make certain the skin crisped but did not burn on the outside while the white flesh was cooked and juicy underneath. He squatted in front of the fire and turned the skewers every few minutes, barely feeling the heat from the red hot coals on his tough callused hands.
“Hey, Fisherman,” Tye called. “Are they ready yet?” Adam motioned for Blue Jacket to pull several skewers from the fire and distribute them around the table.
“What say you now? They must be done. We are all hungry for your fresh catch.” Adam thought the Colonel may have drunk more than he allowed the others. His face was flushed and he seemed edgy.
Adam and Blue Jacket walked around the table. Adam left it to Blue Jacket to serve Tye, and sat himself down at the far end opposite the Colonel.
“Fisherman. Come sit by me. I want a word with you.”
Adam deliberately finished munching the hot fish off the skewer, wiped his hands on his trousers and stood up.
“Colonel Tye,” he said calmly, and the quietness of his tone brought silence around the table. “Are you a man of your word,” he paused letting the question hang in the smoky, close room, “or are you one who dishonors himself by breaking promises accepted in good faith by others?”
Tye rose from his end of the table and glared at Adam as several of the men pushed back, ready to clear a path between the two of them at a moment’s notice.
“Are you challengin’ me?” he said, reaching in his sleeve. Adam knew the long narrow-bladed knife rested in a sheath sown inside. He waited, calming himself.
“I remind you before these men that when I joined your
band as a free man, you promised to call me by my name and agreed you had no right to bestow upon me one of your choosing. I am Sergeant Adam Cooper of the Black Brigade. You went back on your word and have called me Fisherman, twice tonight and once before. I let the first time pass but no longer.” Adam saw Blue Jacket nodding in agreement. “If that is your intent, I resign from the Brigade and will take my leave.” He did not move, his palms on the table, ready to vault to one side if Tye hurled his knife. Adam hoped he would be fast enough.
Tye threw back his head and laughed. Several of the men nervously snickered with him. “By God, Adam. You are a bold one.” He waved his arm toward the entire group. “Mark what dignity a free man has. We liberate the slaves of Monmouth County to provide them an opportunity for such dignity.”
He motioned to Samson and Pompey to roll the cider barrel forward. “Another ration for everyone. Now, Adam,” he waved him forward. “Come sit by me.”
Adam strode, as resolutely as he could, controlling the shaking in his knees, to the other end of the table. The noise rose in the room as the men resumed their talk, further lubricated by the additional mug of cider. He thought Tye was capable of sticking the knife in his ribs, catching him unawares, but he had to chance it.
“I should’ve known a man who bellowed for Gen’rl Washington to free his domestics and then deserted, would dare me when I called him Fisherman.” He put his arm around Adam’s shoulder. “Wait until winter. I have plans in my mind that will please you. In the meantime, we will seek revenge against the Rebel slaveholders of Monmouth County for what their Retaliators have done to loyal citizens.” 1 Adam smiled in agreement. He did not know whether Tye had been testing him to see if he could make Adam more compliant or whether it had been done out of pure malice. Either way, Adam thought, he had won Tye’s respect and that of some of the men as well.
In the final week of October, with the weather turning starkly colder, as the mallards, pintails, coots and wild geese formed up in the grey skies, Tye dispatched a third of his men, Sam included, off the Hook. Adam and the others followed a few days later. Tye said nothing about their plans and Adam knew enough not to ask. They did not have enough horses for all the men and Adam, who still disliked riding, was satisfied mounted double, although he would have preferred not to be paired with Nero.
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