These frauds and swindles were common knowledge, mostly because so many Queens County residents suffered from them. The British imported a vast bureaucracy whose maw was nourished by the constant ingestion of backhanders and kickbacks. Thomas Jones spoke bitterly of the “barrack-masters, land commissaries, water commissaries, forage-masters, cattle commissaries, cattle feeders, hay collectors, hay inspectors, hay weighers, wood inspectors, timber commissaries, board inspectors, refugee examiners, refugee provision providers, and refugee ration deliverers, commissaries of American, of French, of Dutch, and of Spanish, prisoners, naval commissaries, and military commissaries,” and their “train of clerks [and] deputy clerks” alongside assorted “pensioners and placemen.”105 Spluttered Jones, “we had five Commissaries of Prisoners when one could have done all the business.”106
For Loyalists, who had long defended their idealized vision of the Mother Country against Whiggish charges of her sons’ corruption and hypocrisy, the experience of reality was an unpleasantly jarring one. For Patriots, though it provided cold comfort given their subordinate position, British rule bore out their worst fears and justified the Revolution. As the war progressed, once-steadfast Loyalists quietly switched sides, not out of some newfound ideological principle, but because they reasoned that no matter how oppressive and corrupt Patriot rule was, it couldn’t be any worse than what they were experiencing, and might even be a little less so.
No matter their politics, however, everyone in Queens County lived in a militarized zone where civil institutions had been suspended. New Yorkers were not unaware of the irony of their situation. Loyalists had sided with the British, who they believed were defending their rights as free Englishmen against the tyrannical American revolutionaries, yet in the very epicenter of Loyalism, such customary Englishman’s rights as trial by jury, privacy, sanctity of property, and elected representation did not exist.107 So, cheated they may have been, but there was no recourse to the courts.
Taught to believe in the effortless superiority of the British ruling class, Loyalists in New York and Long Island were shocked to discover how brittle these plaster saints actually were. Respect toward their masters plummeted. The British failure to defeat the rebels began to be ascribed not to Washington’s ability to keep his army together in the darkest of moments, but to the incompetence, greed, and stupidity of their own side’s commanders and civilian leaders.108
In Queens County, in particular, the disturbing number of thugs among the well-bred ranks of the officer corps did their bit to alienate the people. Few were punished for their transgressions. When Major Richard Stockton bought flour from one Paul Amberman, a miller, and was humbly asked for payment, Stockton inexplicably regarded it as a personal slight to his honor and allowed a junior officer to horsewhip Amberman. Stockton joined in with a sword and killed him. After Stockton was found guilty of murder at his court-martial, Clinton asked Amberman’s widow to forgive the officer so he could be pardoned. She refused, but Stockton was pardoned anyway.
Governor Tryon’s aide-de-camp, Colonel Archibald Hamilton, bordered on the insane. In 1779, he assaulted a prominent Tory judge “with all the fury of a mad man.” Pulled off the man before he could kill him, Hamilton “got down on one knee in the dung in the Cow Yard” and prayed. Then, again seized by the Furies, he horsewhipped another man, thwacked another thirty times with his sword, and punched a third. He was never punished, and in 1784 Tryon testified that Hamilton “had served with great credit and reputation during the war.”109
And lastly, Colonel Simcoe of the Queen’s Rangers was another one for wanton brutality. It was he who beat up Abraham Woodhull’s father. In 1778, Simcoe fell out with the Reverend Ebenezer Prime of Huntington when he commandeered his house. To teach the old man a lesson in humility, Simcoe allowed his men to break the furniture and burn the library. For good measure, they also ransacked the church. The minister never returned to his home and died soon after.
On November 19, 1778, the Townsends experienced the delights of Simcoe at first hand. He had settled on Oyster Bay as the winter, maybe even permanent, quarters for his Rangers regiment. De Lancey’s brigade of Loyalists, as well as a force of Hessians, also arrived. Oyster Bay was expected to provide for their wants.110
Simcoe built a square wooden fortress on the town’s hill, siting artillery at each corner. Inside, like a bailey, a guardhouse stood, immune to musketfire. Surrounding Simcoe’s redoubt was a trench surmounted by a barricade of sharpened stakes pointing outward to fend off infantry attacks. For his purposes, Simcoe stripped Oyster Bay bare of wood. Boards from the town’s churches were pulled up and used for firewood, and Samuel Townsend’s prized orchard was cut down. To add insult to injury, Simcoe then billeted himself, his staff officers, and any friends of his who happened by at the finest house in Oyster Bay, Raynham Hall—the Townsend residence.
Simcoe made his presence felt. The Quaker meetinghouse on South Street was sacrilegiously converted into a commissary store and arsenal, with guards posted at the door. The navy began using Oyster Bay as a base for its enormous forage fleet (a gigantic haystack could be seen from Townsend’s north window). Residents were subjected to curfew, and night patrols saw to it they obeyed. John Weeks, for example, was tied to “a locust tree in front of Townsend’s” and whipped for defying one of these patrols. It is said he couldn’t understand “the language of the Hessian soldiers.”111
When Robert Townsend first visited his home—now an armed camp under total military control and crammed with drunken soldiers—after November 1778 (perhaps at Christmastime), his reaction can only be imagined. He was bound to have been at first horrified, then enraged, at seeing his father kowtowing to the likes of Simcoe and his sister subjected to the colonel’s amorous intentions (including an unspeakably mawkish love poem, apparently the first Valentine card ever sent in America). And that was before he heard the tales of woe from his childhood friends and family about the excesses committed by their new, unwelcome occupiers.
Simcoe exemplified the worst aspects of the British army, and the British army in Long Island represented everything the Patriots were struggling against. By 1783, even the most hardened Tories were repulsed by their “liberators.” When the British surrendered to Washington and evacuated New York, just one in twenty of the already heavily diminished Loyalist band of diehards left with them.112 An ashamed British officer recalled, “We planted an irrecoverable hatred wherever we went, which neither time nor measures will be able to eradicate.”113
As for Robert Townsend, when Abraham Woodhull approached him some six months (June 1779) after his visit, he eagerly volunteered to spy for Washington. At least now he could strike a strong, silent blow against the British. Many disparate elements combined in the making of Robert Townsend; the obscenities in Oyster Bay combusted them.
After his investiture into the Ring, Robert Townsend wasted no time. On June 29, 1779—just nine days after Woodhull informed Washington that he had “communicated [his] business to an intimate friend” in New York—Townsend sent his first dispatch. It was written in a stilted, stiff style, as if it were a letter compiled by an observant Tory telling a friend what had been happening in the weeks gone by. As it would be another month before Tallmadge’s Code Dictionary was sent, and because (as he later wrote) Townsend was “not at that time being sufficiently acquainted with the character of 30 [Jonas Hawkins, the messenger],” the new agent preserved his cover by making it as nonincriminating as possible in case the plaintext letter fell into the wrong hands.1 Hence, “We are much alarmed with the prospect of a Spanish war—Should that be the case, I fear poor old England will not be able to oppose the whole but will be obliged to sue for a peace.” Townsend’s missive did contain one useful warning: He’d heard from a Rhode Islander, who had briefly traveled with the troops in question, that two British divisions “are to make excursions into Connecticut … and very soon.”2 Washington soon had confirmation from General Horatio Gates that “a number of vessels
with troops had left Rhode Island and directed their course up the Sound.” A couple of days later, they were dropped off in New York.3 It was a strange maneuver. If Clinton wanted to harry Connecticut, as Townsend had said, why had he not landed the troops on the coast instead of taking them all the way to Manhattan?
Woodhull had been hearing rumors similar to those related by Townsend. On July 1, Woodhull accordingly warned Tallmadge that he “must keep a very good look out or your shores will be destroyed.”4 Uncharacteristically, Tallmadge paid no heed to it, but that was because the next day—as was previously described—his camp was raided by Colonel Banastre Tarleton, who stole one of Washington’s letters (as well as some money for Woodhull).
Tallmadge was so worried that the safety of the Culper Ring had been compromised by the attack that he omitted to ask himself why Tarleton’s troopers were ranging so deeply into Connecticut in the first place. The reason would become clearer three days later, on July 5, when William Tryon, the royal governor of New York, swooped with 2,600 men—organized into two divisions—on New Haven, having departed New York on July 4 in the transports Woodhull had reported were being built months before. His assault was intended as a diversion to lure Washington out of his Hudson fastness toward the shore. Sir Henry Clinton, with the bulk of the army, would catch him in the open on the way back and finally bring the enemy to battle. Tarleton’s raiders were part of Clinton’s advance screen, and had taken the opportunity to try to capture Tallmadge.
The first of Tryon’s divisions (under General George Garth) quickly suppressed New Haven’s few defenders, seized the port, and burnt privateers and some storehouses. Tryon and his men had, in the meantime, taken East Haven. The next day, Garth and Tryon’s forces re-formed aboard the transports and sailed to Fairfield, which was almost immediately abandoned by the Americans after the British landed on July 8. Following the precepts of his theory of “desolation warfare” against civilian property and morale, Tryon unleashed his regulars on the town. They were permitted to loot anything they wanted and burn everything they didn’t. By the end of the day, 83 houses, 2 churches, 54 barns, 47 storehouses, 2 schoolhouses, the courthouse, and the town jail had been set aflame, and the soldiers returned to the ships dripping with booty. Tryon sailed to Huntington, Long Island, for a few days’ rest and recreation. On July 11, he again put to sea and stormed Norwalk, now at least held by several score of militiamen. They proved no match for the Royal Welch Fusiliers and the Guards light infantry, and Norwalk fell within the hour. The takings, yet again, were lavish. Some fifty thousand dollars’ worth of property belonging to rebel sympathizers was taken, most of the village was demolished, and almost every whaleboat, privateer, ammunition stockpile, and storehouse was burnt. After returning to Huntington for refitting for a raid the next day, Tryon was disgusted to find that Clinton had ordered a halt to the campaign.5
The Culper Ring had warned Washington of the operation in good time—indeed, four days before it actually happened—but the general received the crucial July 1 letter only in the late afternoon of Wednesday, July 7. Since dawn of the day before, he had been away from headquarters touring the American lines. Immediately after reading it, he sent an express to Governor Jonathan Trumbull to apprise him of the imminent attack.6 By the time Trumbull received it, however, Tryon had already landed, thus explaining why the militia in New Haven, Fairfield, and Norwalk were unprepared. Still, none of this could be blamed on Woodhull, Townsend, Roe, or Brewster: Their message had taken just five days to reach Washington’s headquarters from New York. And even then, it had been delayed by at least a day by Tarleton’s sweep.
Though Tryon’s raids inspired dread and significantly impoverished the inhabitants of the coastline, they were a failure, strategically speaking. They had been intended only as subsidiary to Clinton’s attempt to destroy the main body of the enemy, but that had come to nothing. Thanks to the Culper warnings over the previous months, Washington had long been aware that Clinton was up to something and hard-heartedly did not budge from his Hudson strongholds and what he called his “defensive plan” to focus on “one essential point”—despite desperate entreaties from Governor Jonathan Trumbull of Connecticut to send men and arms.7 (“I can do little more than lament the depredations of the enemy from a distance,” Washington replied.)8 He was right not to split his forces, already severely weakened by the recent expiration of service contracts and the dispatch of troops out west to fight the Indians.9
As Washington explained, retaining control of the Hudson “is of so great importance, and the enemy have such a facility, by the assistance of water transportation of moving from one place to another, that we dare not draw any considerable part of our force from this post.” It was “very probable in the present case, that one principal object of the operations on [the Connecticut] coast may be to draw us off from the River, to facilitate an attack upon it.”10 On Sunday, July 11—the day Tryon attacked Norwalk—Washington received word from his advance posts that Clinton had marched to Mamaroneck, north of New York, and he ordered General William Heath and two brigades to act as a screen and engage the enemy if necessary while he stayed at his headquarters in New Windsor and plotted a little surprise for Clinton.11
At the end of May, Clinton had enterprisingly seized the half-built fort at Stony Point on the west side of the Hudson. On the opposite bank was Verplanck’s Point, and between the two of them they not only provided a tight bottleneck on the Hudson but a key connection between Washington’s troops in New York and those in New England. Clinton had left seven hundred soldiers and several pieces of heavy artillery in the ramparted redoubt—nicknamed “Little Gibraltar” by its cocky garrison—which was situated on a 150-foot-high promontory surrounded by water on three sides while its fourth was marshland that flooded at high tide. By every rule in the military book, Stony Point was impregnable.
In a brilliant commando strike, just before midnight on July 15, General “Mad Anthony” Wayne led two columns of light infantry (forbidden to load their muskets for fear of an accidental discharge) almost silently up to the very walls of the fortress. They were to rely on their bayonets at close quarters, itself a risky endeavor owing to the fearsome British reputation for fighting steel-on-steel. In twenty minutes, Stony Point had fallen and Wayne had, for the loss of 15 men and 83 wounded, taken 553 rather surprised prisoners and killed more than 60 of their comrades. Clinton was livid at the loss. It had been at Tryon’s urging that he had denuded Stony Point of troops in order to provide the governor with enough men to launch his raids. To make matters worse, Tryon’s wanton marauding was causing a great deal of trouble with everyone apart from the most hard-line Loyalists. The destruction of Fairfield’s churches had particularly aggravated the public, as had the punishment of innocent civilians. Clinton had directed Tryon to harass the coast—though, in his typically ambiguous style, when Tryon requested the authority to raze the towns, Clinton did not specifically forbid burning, but just said that he detested that “sort of war”—and now Clinton felt compelled to demand why Tryon had disobeyed his orders. Tryon, not previously a vicious brute and once known as a humane man, had become a hostage of his own, tragic conviction that the rebels’ insolence would be tamed by terrifying them. In his apologia for the Connecticut barbarities, Tryon said that no harm had been done by “irritat[ing] a few in rebellion if a general terror and despondency can be awakened among a people already divided … and impressible.” Clinton never again entrusted Tryon with a major military command.12
Despite their dark warnings, Woodhull’s letters of that July otherwise waxed avuncular, and he seemed newly buoyant, perhaps because now he wasn’t exclusively relied upon to gather intelligence. Discussing “Mr. Saml. Culper Junr.,” Woodhull pointed out that “he hath wrote in the style of Loyalty, I think through fear like me at first unaccustomed to the business,” but, he assured Tallmadge, “the longer one continues in the business if unsuspected of more real service can he be.” To that end, Woodhull promised
to “repeat again to him those instructions that I have received from time to time from you and use my utmost endeavour to acquaint him with the steps I used to take … that a person unaccustomed [to the business] would not readily conceive of.”13
Woodhull’s word was his bond. Soon after, he visited “Mr. Culper, Junr. and repeated again all my instructions ever received from you. I have kept no secret from him.” Townsend was, Woodhull reported, “determined to pursue every step that he may judge for advantage and is determined [to] disengage himself from every other business which at present affords him a handsome living.” He would, of course, be “frugal of all moneys he may receive, and hath undertaken [spying] solely for to be some advantage to our distressed country.”14
The “determined” Townsend rapidly proved his usefulness, alerting his masters that “Christoper Duychenik, sailmaker at 10 [New York], formerly chairman of the Committee of Mechanics, is amongst you and is positively an agent for David Mathews, mayor of 10, under the direction of Tryon.” Warned Woodhull, “Be very cautious how you handle [this information] for if it should get to the above mentioned persons ears C. Jr. tells me they would immediately suspect him.”15 Indeed, Townsend was adamant that “the particulars [about Duychenik] must be kept a profound secret, as few persons but myself know them, and it is known that I do.”16 This was high-grade intelligence: Townsend was either associating with senior administrators, who had told him about Duychenik, a Loyalist double, or knew people who did.
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