It was midsummer when the following exploit was achieved, and in the full light of the moon sailing through a cloudless sky:
Capt. Mariner had for a long time contemplated a raid upon Flatbush, the resort or headquarters of a number of violent Tories, particularly obnoxious to the American officers. Gen. Washington was particularly anxious to obtain possession of the person of Cols. Axtell and Mathews, who were both active and influential loyalists, partisans of the most pronounced stripe. By some means Mariner became acquainted with the wish of Washington, and, although no communication passed between the distinguished commander-in-chief and the humble seaman, the whaleboat leader resolved to reconnoitre the locality.
Disguised in the uniform of an independent loyalist rifle company, Mariner proceeded to the tavern of Dr. Van Buren, a resort for all the prominent surrounding gentry. Entering the tap-room, which was crowded, discussions relative to the war and prominent individuals were running high and waxing exceedingly hot, as well as decidedly personal, as the disguised seamen mixed with the company. With ready wit and sarcastic tongue, the “rifleman” joined in the argument, while a Maj. Sherbook, of the British army, berated Capt. Mariner as no better than a murderer, an outlaw, and a thief. Mariner’s eyes sparkled, his hands twitching nervously as he listened to the tirade of abuse poured forth in relation to himself.
“Confound this prowling, sneaking midnight vagabond, with his ragamuffin crew,” angrily continued the Major, as he snapped a speck of froth that had dropped from his tankard upon his laced and scarlet coat sleeve; “he has developed into an intolerable nuisance in these parts, and should be checked at once. I would thrash him and his followers, single handed, with my riding whip, if ever opportunity offered. But these water-rats come and go in such a cowardly fashion that soldiers can scarcely hope to more than catch a glimpse of their flaunting rags.”
“Don’t be too sure, my dear Major, in your estimate of the water-sneaks, as you are pleased to term them. You may have a nearer glimpse of their rags and steel also than you could wish, with an opportunity to make good your threat to chastise the leader and his crew, sooner than you now dream of,” and before the surprised assemblage had recovered from their consternation and the “influence,” he had disappeared through the doorway into the darkness of the night.
Repairing at once to New Brunswick, Mariner prepared his fast light-pulling whaleboat for the trip. The crew were summoned, armed to the teeth, and when all was in readiness the long, shapely boat glided swiftly and silently to New Utrecht, where the party formed in single file on the beach at Bath, a few minutes after ten o’clock at night. Two men were detailed to watch the boat, while the remainder of the party proceeded rapidly to Flatbush Church. In the shadows of overhanging trees the men were divided into four squads, the houses they were to attack pointed out to them, each party being provided with a battering ram capable of breaking in the heaviest door at a blow. Silently and steadily the parties proceeded to their several scenes of action, Mariner having reserved the residence of the British Major as his special mission.
The signal for united and concerted action was the ringing report of a pistol. The battering ram was then to be used, prisoners secured and conveyed to the whaleboat. The attack was simultaneous in various portions of the town. Mariner, sword in hand, searched in vain for the doughty Major, but finally, when he was discovered, the shadows of a large chimney had been used as a refuge from the dreaded onslaught of the whaleboatmen. He was allowed to make up a bundle of necessaries and hurried to the boat. The parties were there—having met with more or less success—but the principal game, the officials Washington so much desired to secure, were not among the number. Business had unexpectedly summoned them to New York the day before or their capture would have been effected. After the war Capt. Mariner resided many years at Harlem and on Ward’s Island. He was classed as a strange and eccentric man, full of wit and an inexhaustible fund of anecdotes, but was not especially popular among his associates and neighbors.
One of the favorite cruising haunts of Capt. Hyler was between Egg Harbor and Staten Island. He was a man of wonderful nerve, with great power of endurance, fertile in resources, and prompt to act in situations requiring instant action.
Mention has been made of the British fleet sent to patrol the waters of the sound. The corvette, mounting twenty guns, anchored one foggy evening almost abreast of Hyler’s headquarters, a short distance from Egg Harbor. The tap of the drum and words of command from the officer of the deck could be distinctly heard on shore. Incredible as it may appear, Capt. Hyler determined to attempt the capture of the formidable cruiser. He had ascertained that the vessel was short-handed, having dropped from her station above with the intention of making an early departure for Halifax. The available force of the intrepid whaleboat commander consisted of forty-six well-armed and resolute men, expert at the oar, trained to silence and dexterity, so as not to be heard at close quarters, even with three or four boats pulling in company. Well had they been named “marine devils” by their red-coated foes.
The whaleboat’s men were divided into two parties, Hyler taking one, his Lieutenant the other. Two swift boats were soon pulling up stream, with oars muffled, keeping well in the shadows of the rugged shore. The night was intensely dark, rendering so small an object as a boat close to the surface of the water impossible to be detected by the sharpest-eyed sentry and lookout. Once in the full influence of the tide, a grapnel was thrown overboard, to which was attached a long, stout line. All hands disappeared beneath the thwarts, and but two heads were visible, the leader in the stern sheets and the bow oarsman, who veered away the line. Like a shadow, the whaleboat in charge of the Lieutenant hovered alongside the corvette, while the officer, his head on a level with the muzzle of the guns, swung himself into the forechannels to reconnoitre. The anchor watch had gathered forward, the officer of the deck was leaning idly over the cabin companionway, intent upon what was passing below, while the marine in the after gangway nodded at his post. Dropping cautiously on deck the daring whaleboatman glanced hastily about him. A book covered with canvas, hanging from a nail beside a spy-glass in a rack over the steps leading to the officers’ quarters, caught his vigilant eye. Gliding swiftly aft he grasped the coveted prize, regaining his boat without being perceived. He had secured the signal-book of the Royal Navy.