by Oliver North
Mr. O’Brien invited Capt. Febiger and me aboard, and I carried the two heavy saddlebags over my shoulders to the Captain’s cabin. In less than fifteen minutes, we were countering British concocted falsehoods about the Continental Army being unable to pay for transporting the expedition to Maine.
In short order, Mr. O’Brien summoned one of his mates to arrange stabling for the horses, billeting for the dragoons, and lodging at the Wolfe Tavern for Captain Febiger and me, saying, “It’s the best place in this port and we will put all this on Nathanael Tracy’s tab. He can afford it.”
As we prepared to depart, he said, “I told my first mate to procure a fresh mount for one of your dragoons to carry a message to Colonel Arnold so he will not be concerned about not having enough vessels.”
Capt. Febiger had me use the gold-nib pen to write in very fine print on the corner of a sheet of paper:
COL A. PROCEED AS PLANNED.
SHIPPING ARRIVING. NO BRITS.
FEBIGER & NEWMAN SEND
After blotting the note and waving it to dry, he used a pen-knife to trim all the margins off the note, rolled it tightly, reached into his pocket, pulled out a silver “courier ball,” unscrewed it, pressed the note inside and screwed the halves together. Mr. O’Brien watched all this and said, “Hope your messenger doesn’t have to eat that.”
“Come here to see me at eight in the morning and I will let you know how we’re going to get this to work. Now, let’s take care of your men.”
As we disembarked from Machias Liberty, Captain Febiger handed the little silver ball to Sgt. Cady, saying, “Send your best night rider who knows what to do with this, back to Colonel Arnold tonight.
“There is a waning three-quarter moon and a clear sky, so he should be able to make it to Colonel Arnold’s headquarters before dawn. But remind him of two important matters.
“First, the Advance Force is scheduled to depart Cambridge for here on Monday morning. Since Captain Daniel Morgan is leading it, it’s entirely possible they may be underway at one minute past midnight. Riding toward a contingent of 250 Riflemen in the middle of the night could be a life-threatening experience.
“Second, if your dragoon does encounter the Advance Force, be sure to have him inform their vanguard about the ford we used to cross that stream flowing into the Merrimac. It will save them some time.
“Captain O’Brien has made arrangements for those of us staying here. He will brief you. You and your four remaining men rest well. Ensign Newman and I will meet you here in the morning at 7:45.”
On Monday morning as we walked to the pier from Wolfe’s Tavern, toting our backpacks, rifles, and the saddlebags full of British and Spanish coins, the air was as cool and clear as we could wish. The harbor was pristine—and not a single British warship was in sight.
As we turned the corner toward Machias Liberty’s berth, we could see the five dragoons, standing beside their mounts and a crowd of a dozen or so sailors and dockworkers gathered around them, plying them with fresh baked biscuits, coffee, tea, and questions.
Sgt. Cady, seeing us approaching, detached himself from the crowd and said, “Gentlemen, Captain O’Brien suggests the first thing we should do this morning is reconnoiter where we’re going to bivouac the Expedition outside of town. He has arranged with Mr. Nathanael Tracy for us to be accompanied by his Sons of Liberty deputy. He will be here on horseback in a few minutes.
“Captain O’Brien has offered to safeguard the saddlebags and coins in his cabin aboard the sloop and have one of my men stand guard over it. The other four of us will accompany you.”
Thankfully, Capt. Febiger agreed, and I went aboard the vessel with one of the dragoons and deposited the saddlebags, with fresh wax seals over each pocket, in Capt. O’Brien’s cabin.
As I headed back on deck, Captains Febiger and O’Brien were coming up the gangway with a third gentleman who introduced himself as Anthony Davenport, Deputy Chairman of the secret Newburyport Sons of Liberty Committee.
We spent the next four hours riding around farmland outside the port, looking for a suitable bivouac site for a thousand or so soldiers. Several of those we saw had what we needed—level ground, sufficient space for tentage in a perimeter, good water, and room for sanitary facilities—but Mr. Davenport waved us off those properties because they are owned by Tory sympathizers.
Finally, about a mile west of the port, not far off the north-south post road, he took us to just what we needed and declared, “If this works for you, it will work for all. The owner is the widow of a Patriot killed during the fight for Breed’s Hill on June 17th. She and her three young children are now residing in town with her sister. If you can spare a few coins for the crop damage that will most certainly occur, I will ask her to let Colonel Arnold use the farmhouse as his temporary headquarters.”
Capt. Febiger agreed immediately.
We rode back into town and went immediately to Machias Liberty’s berth to find at least a half dozen more ocean-going transports in the harbor and several men sitting atop the Machias Liberty pilothouse talking with Captain O’Brien. He welcomed us aboard and introduced them to us as “Patriot merchant masters” and us to them as “Colonel Arnold’s Riflemen paymasters.” He then announced, “These seven Captains want to see the color of your money.”
I went below to the Captain’s cabin, brought the saddlebags on deck, checked to ensure the wax seals were intact and opened one of the flaps to show the coins within. Their eyes widened as Capt. Febiger said, “There are three more pockets with an equal amount in them just like what you see here. What we have brought is more than enough to compensate you for half the sum you each agreed to with Mr. Tracy. As all agreed, the balance will be paid when we arrive in Gardinerston. We need you to tell your fellow sea-farers, they must be here no later than sunset on Friday, September 15th.”
They all agreed to do so and departed.
When they were gone, Captain O’Brien and Mr. Davenport commended us for the way in which we handled the briefing and agreed to meet again in the morning. As Captain Febiger and I were shouldering our rifles, gear, and the saddlebags to head back to Wolfe’s Tavern, Mr. Davenport said, “There is something I should tell you. In 1762, my father, William Davenport, built the tavern where you are staying. During the last war—he served as a captain under General Wolfe in the campaign against the French. He was with Wolfe when the general was killed. The sign in front of the tavern is a poorly rendered image of the general my father revered. And we are now at war against descendants of General Wolfe.”
Capt. Febiger and I walked in silence back to Wolfe’s Tavern. As we stood in front, looking at the painted sign, he said, “All war is terrible but this one may be the strangest of all. It’s pitted old allies against one another, Tories against Patriots—even family members against each other. It is a most uncivil civil war.”
An hour later, shortly before sunset, Sgt. Cady arrived at Wolfe’s Tavern and summoned us back to duty. “Mr. Davenport asked me to inform you, one of his Sons of Liberty Trusted Couriers from Cambridge arrived a short while ago and advised that Captain Daniel Morgan’s Advance Force is crossing the ford on that stream flowing into the Merrimac. He wants to know if you want to greet him and lead them to the bivouac site we picked out.”
We both said together, “We will go.”
The Sergeant smiled and said, “I thought you would, so I brought your horses and my four men. May I suggest, we post one of my men in the room where the saddlebags are sequestered to guard the money and the rest of us will ride out to meet the Riflemen.”
As we grabbed our rifles, backpacks, and gear, Capt. Febiger said, “You are a wise man, Sergeant Cady.” As we proceeded out of port at a canter, I checked my pocket watch. It was precisely 7:00 p.m.
It took us just fifteen minutes before we sighted the van of the Advance Force column coming toward us. We were not surprised to see
Capt. Morgan striding out in front of the long column. He greeted us with a smile and said, “We have a few stragglers—but none from Frederick County.”
We led them the last mile or so to the bivouac site we selected. After testing the light breeze with an upraised wet finger, Capt. Morgan picked a place along the tree line close to the farmhouse for his headquarters and a perimeter for our Rifle Company. He then pointed out to 1st Lt. Humphrey where the others should ground their gear, set up tents, post night guards, and dig sanitary pits.
While all he directed was being done, we had a few minutes to talk. I asked, “What time did you leave Cambridge this morning, sir?”
“General Gates said we couldn’t depart until this morning so we marched out at 1:00 a.m.”
I did the math in my head. Eighteen hours to walk thirty-one or so miles. Nearly two miles per hour. He added, “It’s much easier than our hike from Virginia. Pretty flat, good road. The wagons had a tough time getting across that ford a few miles back but they will be here soon. What have you learned?”
As dusk settled over the encampment, Capt. Febiger and I filled him in on all we experienced and were told—particularly about the assurances we received about the shipping and the saddlebags full of British and Spanish coins. We then offered to return to town, gather our gear and the money, and return.
He thought about it for a moment, then said, “You two and the dragoons go back to the port. Tomorrow morning at 9:00, be here with two saddle horses for 1st Lt. Humphrey and me and we will ride into Newburyport, meet the gentlemen you have spoken of, and start planning to launch this expedition. I am increasingly concerned about how late it is in the season.”
By now, it was dark and the three-quarter moon was just rising over the harbor. We saluted, mounted our horses, and headed toward the port. As we rode, the offshore breeze picked up a bit. And for the first time in five months, I could feel just the slightest chill in the air.
Newburyport, Massachusetts
Tuesday, September 12th, 1775
At precisely 8:30 this morning, Capt. Febiger, Sgt. Cady, his detachment of dragoons, and I arrived at the Advance Force bivouac outside Newburyport with two extra steeds for Capt. Morgan and 1st Lt. Humphrey. We spent the balance of the day meeting aboard Machias Liberty with Captain O’Brien and a dozen merchant captains. We also ordered fresh beef, pork, fish, and vegetables from local merchants for delivery to our encampment on Wednesday to feed our Advance Force.
On the way back to the bivouac, Capt. Morgan met with Mr. Nathanael Tracy, now nearly recovered from being down with gout.
Mr. Tracy, thanks to being Chairman of the local Sons of Liberty Committee, was a font of information about the activities of Tory spies and the British fleet—still in Boston. He assured us he would know about a Royal Navy threat to our convoy at least twelve hours in advance.
“How?” asked Captain Morgan.
“Because, the British aren’t the only ones who know how to spy.”
Chapter Ten
1775: A SORTIE DELAYED
Newburyport, Massachusetts
Wednesday, September 13th, 1775
Captain Febiger and I have twice volunteered to vacate our comfortable lodging at Wolfe’s Tavern and move out to the Advance Force bivouac. Captain Morgan ordered us to remain where we are “because the money is safer there, being guarded by one of Sergeant Cady’s dragoons and I want someone I know and trust to be in town with their eyes and ears open.”
This morning our day began with a quick visit with Captain O’Brien aboard Machias Liberty. He reported there are now ten large sea-going transport vessels tied up or anchored in the harbor and there is still no sign of any nearby British warships.
We then visited with Mr. Tracy who informed us, “Not one British man-o’-war has departed Boston Harbor since the report of a very damaging hurricane that struck the North Carolina coast on Sunday, August 27th. According to my sources, the Admiralty in London has instructed Admiral Samuel Graves, commanding the Royal Navy squadron in Boston, not to risk one vessel at sea during hurricane season.”
At this, Capt. Febiger said, “Sir, I would like to have our commanders hear those reports directly from you. When you are feeling well enough, would you come out to our encampment and brief them?”
“Certainly. Let me know when Colonel Arnold and his commanders have arrived and I will gladly do so.”
By the time we arrived back at the bivouac, the 1st Infantry Battalion, commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Greene, was streaming into their portion of the bivouac area under the direction of 1st Lt. Humphrey. To me, some of the 300 Massachusetts men were looking pretty ragged.
Captain Febiger and I dismounted, wrapped the reins of our borrowed horses around the wheel of one of our Virginia Rifle wagons, and approached Capt. Morgan who was talking to Lieutenant Colonel Greene and his deputy, Major Bigelow. We could hear my commander say, “. . . The sooner we get underway, the better . . .” so we turned away to water our horses from a trough someone constructed for the draft horses.
When the two Militia officers departed to supervise their troops getting settled in, Captain Morgan motioned us over and we debriefed him on what we learned from Captain O’Brien and Mr. Tracy.
1st Lt. Humphrey joined us a few minutes later and advised, “Major Bigelow just told me ‘about’ fifty-seven Militiamen from their battalion were issued passes to visit with their families in this neighborhood. I asked if he had a roster of their names and he said he would ‘try’ to make one.”
Captain Febiger rolled his eyes and said, “That could be a problem. Did he tell them when to be back here?”
“Yes, sir. He told them to be back before we departed.”
Barely covering his frustration, Capt. Morgan said, “Let’s go into town and order some more fresh food. Lieutenant Colonel Greene just informed me Colonel Arnold wants us to purchase enough fresh meat, fish, and vegetables—and eggs—to feed the entire Expeditionary Force on Friday afternoon, September 15th. Let’s go see Mr. Tracy. Hopefully he knows enough Patriot farmers around here who can feed more than a thousand soldiers.”
“Did Colonel Arnold tell Lieutenant Colonel Greene how we are to pay for this?” asked Capt. Febiger.
“Same question I asked,” replied Captain Morgan. “The answer was ‘no.’”
By the end of the day, we had commitments from about a dozen farmers to feed about half our troops. And every farmer had the same question.
What was worse, the fresh food we ordered yesterday for the Advance Force was being prepared as this conversation ensued. Everyone in the encampment downwind of us had to be salivating at the scent. Captain Morgan ordered the cooks to feed the privates first, then the corporals, sergeants, and the dragoons. The officers were ordered to eat last.
Our little group billeted in town arrived back at Wolfe’s Tavern at 9:00 p.m.—just as the moon rose over the harbor. It was a bit smaller than the night before—and the air was slightly cooler.
Newburyport, Massachusetts
Thursday, September 14th, 1775
I arrived at our encampment at 7:30 a.m. with two dragoons and an extra horse. As I dismounted, Captain Morgan said, “You are early this morning, Ensign Newman. Does that feather bed you are sleeping in have lumps in the mattress? Is it keeping you awake?”
1st Lt. Humphrey was already chuckling but I wasn’t sure the Captain was joking.
“No, sir. Captain Febiger sent me out here to inform you he, Sergeant Cady, Mr. Nathanael Tracy, and several members of his Sons of Liberty Committee are presently out asking every Patriot family in this region to donate whatever they can to feed the whole Expedition tomorrow afternoon. They sent me here to see if you want to accompany them.”
Captain Morgan turned to 1st Lt. Humphrey and said, “Major Meigs and our 2nd Infantry Battalion should be here with the artillery detachment today—probably earli
er than the 1st Battalion arrived yesterday. His Vermont and Connecticut boys seem to be in better shape. I’ll be back this afternoon.”
It took us a half hour to link up with the Febiger-Tracy-Cady party and there began a great experience in American generosity. By the time we stopped at the third little farm, I was captivated.
So too was Captain Morgan. The people we were talking to aren’t wealthy—they’re yeoman farmers. There are no large plantations like we have in Virginia. There are no slaves or paid helpers working the land, tending gardens, planting and harvesting crops, repairing barns, feeding livestock. Families—mothers and fathers and their children—were doing all the hard work.
Most, if not all, were known by Mr. Tracy or Sgt. Cady—who it turned out—is a hero of the fight at Lexington in April and Breed’s Hill in June. We didn’t hear that from him. We heard it from many of those who volunteered to help us with food for our troops.
Though nearly everyone who offered, asked for nothing in return, Captain Morgan began telling him or her, “If you can be at our encampment by 2:00 p.m. tomorrow afternoon, my brave Riflemen will demonstrate how accurately they can shoot. Tell your neighbors. It’s quite a show.”
When I asked the Captain about the “shooting show,” he reminded me of the commitment Colonel Arnold made to Major Meigs about allowing everyone to test-fire the new ammunition we were issued before leaving Cambridge.
By the time the sun was setting, over 100 families promised to be at the encampment tomorrow with something fresh and good to eat. And nearly everyone said as we departed, “God bless you.”
When we arrived back at the perimeter, it was dusk. Major Meigs’s 2nd Battalion and Capt. Jones’s Artillery detachment were already in their bivouac.
By the time Capt. Febiger and I arrived at Wolfe’s Tavern with our dragoons, it was completely dark because the sky was overcast. I ran in, relieved the dragoon guarding the saddlebags, checked the wax seals, and went back out to thank Sgt. Cady.