The Heart of Liberty

by Thomas Fleming

  “The Committee is in the Crown Room, my lord,” Jonathan Gifford said, giving Alexander the title which everyone in New Jersey conceded him. He claimed the earldom of Stirling and had spent years in England arguing his case.

  Halfway down the hall, Alexander asked Gifford to send a bottle of claret up to the Crown Room. “My winter visitor is with me again,” he said, holding up his’ big hand. It was twisted into the shape of a claw. He had inherited a predisposition to rheumatism from his father and each winter the disease wracked him.

  “Immediately,” Jonathan Gifford said, studying Alexander for a moment. He was a committed man, a serious man, close to his own age. No young hothead. Alexander could have been sitting before the fire in his mansion at Basking Ridge, drinking better claret than he could buy here. His twisted hands must be throbbing with exquisite pain, after hours on the road in the cruel January cold.

  The three committeemen were deep into their bowl of bishop when Alexander strode into the room. They were not the most impressive men in New Jersey, Jonathan Gifford thought wryly, as he watched them toast Alexander and declare themselves ready to fight and die for liberty.

  Diminutive Lemuel Peters was so excitable, he always looked as though he were about to jump out of his skin. His pop eyes blinked, his button nose twitched constantly. But their activity was somnolent compared to his tongue. Massachusetts-born and Harvard-educated, he had come to New Jersey to tutor the children of several wealthy families. He set up a school and prospered. He closed it and bought a farm, which he proposed to work scientifically. But he spent most of the time riding around the countryside denouncing George III and his ministers while his wife and children did the sowing and plowing without benefit of him or science.

  Ambrose Cotter was a large, well-padded man with a mouth that had an odd downWard slant which seemed to drag his pendulous nose and languid eyes with it, making him the only human being I have seen who could literally be called two-faced. He was from New Haven, had done a turn as a merchant in New York, went broke, and retreated to New Jersey, where he defended a small farm against numerous lawsuits.

  The third committeeman was Jasper Clark, deacon of the local Presbyterian church, a plain, mild-mannered man whose chief distinction was fathering twelve children. He could barely sign his name, and he once admitted to Jonathan Gifford that he had learned this.much penmanship only a few years ago. He was a cousin of Abraham Clark, one of the state’s delegates to the Continental Congress. The deacon’s two oldest sons were in the regular or “Continental” army, serving with New Jersey regiments ordered north to support the American invasion of Canada.

  “I thought I should advise you gentlemen of a military order which we are about to execute in this district,” Alexander said. “Captain Gifford, you should know about it, too. It may need some explaining to the local folks. Tomorrow morning I expect to place Governor Franklin and Attorney General Skinner under arrest.”

  “Arrest - the governor?” Jasper Clark said. It was an idea which had obviously never occurred to him before.

  “He has proven himself what I long suspected him to be,” Alexander said, “an enemy to this country.”

  “I will second that motion,” said Lemuel Peters, downing half a glass of bishop.

  “But - what are the charges, my lord?” asked Clark. “I for one feel we must conduct ourselves in the most regular manner.”

  “Damn manners when the rights of our country are at stake,” bawled Peters. “Am I right, Mr. Cotter?”

  “Absolutely right,” said Cotter, helping himself to some more bishop.

  While Jonathan Gifford remained a silent spectator, Alexander told the Committee how one of his men had intercepted the governor’s mail. In a report to the Colonial Secretary, Franklin had hinted strongly that many Americans in. New jersey were guilty of treason. The rebels’ real goal was not a defense of their rights as Englishmen - it was independence. Another letter in the packet, from Attorney General Cortland Skinner, was even more damning, Alexander said, and recited what the attorney general himself had admitted earlier in the day - his call for a British fleet and army to suppress the rebellion.

  “Those are hanging words, yes, they are,” shouted Lemuel Peters. “The men of Old England cut off the head of Charles I for less than that.”

  “I would be satisfied for the present to put our noble governor in a quiet place, where he can do us real harm,” Alexander said.

  Jonathan Gifford did not know William Franklin well. He had shaken his hand once or twice when he stopped at the tavern en route to a meeting of the Assembly at Burlington. Tall and good-looking, he had a strange mixture of pomposity and familiarity in his nature. He would stand at the bar and drink with the local farmers - but he traveled in a cream-colored coach with the royal crest emblazoned in gold on the doors. He always wore expensive clothes - satins and silks in the latest London style. There was a saying that the governor carried a farm on his back - the price of his clothes would buy a good piece of land. But this caused him no trouble in a country where all the rich dressed lavishly and most men had enough money to satisfy their ordinary wants.

  The governor was popular - at least as popular as a man appointed by the King, with no need to stand the test of a vote, could be. He was also a shrewd and skillful politician. Only last month he had presided at a meeting of the legally elected Royal Assembly at Burlington, urged moderation, declared himself a friend of America’s rights, and denounced independence. He urged the Assembly to petition the King as the spokesmen of a separate colony, without consulting the Continental Congress. The Assembly had agreeably voted as the governor wished. A rush visit from three Continental Congressmen had persuaded them to change their minds and preserve America’s unity. Governor Franklin’s performance had obviously convinced the rebel leaders that he was too dangerous to tolerate any longer in his post.

  “Shall I go get that bottle of claret, your lordship?”

  “By all means, Captain Gifford,” said Alexander.

  Walking down the shadowed hall, Jonathan Gifford almost collided with Kemble. There was nothing unusual about his being there. He was the secretary of the Committee of Safety, and Jonathan Gifford thought at first he was going to share their dinner. But Kemble had other things on his mind.

  “I was listening at the door, Father. You didn’t say a word about Skinner. Are you going to help conceal that traitor?”

  “I made a promise - as a gentleman - “.

  “I did not hear you say a word. I didn’t say a word.”

  “As I understand it, we bound ourselves by our silence. If you intended to betray the man, you should have told him.”

  “What kind of nonsense is that, Father? We’re fighting a war.” “We are not fighting a war. Not here in New Jersey. The war is in Massachusetts. Let’s hope it stays there.”

  “I’m going to tell them where Skinner is hiding.”

  “No you’re not.”

  “Yes I am.”

  Jonathan Gifford seized his son by the shirt and slammed him against the wall. Kemble gasped with shock and pain. Like many military men, Captain Gifford concealed beneath his habitual cairn a tension that could explode into rage. He had spent much of his life struggling to tame this violence that seemed to live within him, like a surly animal. He struggled to control it now.

  “A man doesn’t betray his friends, Kemble. You grew up with Cortland Skinner’s sons - “

  He loosened his grip on Kemble’s shirt. His son retreated down the hall into the taproom, where the militiamen were thundering a Massachusetts liberty song.

  “Come swallow your bumpers, ye Tories, and roar

  That the sons of fair Freedom are hampered once more;

  But know that no cutthroats our spirits can tame,

  Nor a host of oppressors shall smother the flame.”

  Back in the Crown Room, Jonathan Gifford watched William Alexander, Lord Stirling, demolish the bottle of claret. “Ah,” he said, holding up the stiff
ened fingers of his left hand. “They’re coming alive. Yesterday, Gifford, I wasn’t able to sign an order.”

  “Would you like some supper, my lord? We can easily spread another place for you here. These gentlemen will be dining soon.”

  “No thank you. The Livingstons expect me for the night. I’m damned late already and I’d better push on.” He turned to the committeemen. “I’m glad to find you approve of my decision, gentlemen. I am convinced that if Governor Franklin remains at liberty another day, none of us are safe.”

  “Most assuredly, my lord,” said Lemuel Peters. “And that rascal Skinner, too.”

  “I would appreciate it if you passed a resolution tonight, affirming your support of this decision.”

  “Consider it passed, my lord,” said Peters.

  In all his years in Ireland and England, Jonathan Gifford had never heard anyone say “my lord” as deferentially as Peters. Escorting Alexander to the front door, Jonathan Gifford called for his horse. In a minute or two Black Sam led a sorrel stallion from the shadows.

  “Have you heard from your old friend Rutherford?” Stirling asked as he mounted.

  Rutherford was an ex-major who had married Alexander’s sister, Katherine. Jonathan Gifford had bad dinner with him at his New York town house several times and they corresponded occasionally.

  “I had a letter from him about a month ago,” Jonathan Gifford said. “He plans to retreat to his west Jersey house and stay neutral.”

  “I feared as much,” said Stifling heavily. “My son-in-law Watt is playing the same game. It won’t work, Gifford. A man must choose one side or the other in this thing.”

  Jonathan Gifford nodded. “I am afraid you’re right.”

  Upstairs the Committee was settling down to dinner. They ate well, as usual. When they began meeting six months ago, Jonathan Gifford assumed that they would prefer modest fare. Kemble was fond of talking about restoring America’s Roman virtue and republican simplicity. But Captain Gifford discovered the Committee preferred to eat like Imperial Romans of the third century.

  At a signal from the Captain, Black Bertha, Sam’s big, lean wife, and plump Molly McGovern, Barney’s spouse, began carrying in dinner. First came oysters and clams and lobsters on beds of ice, then a tureen of clam broth and another of beef broth, then ham, two chickens, a brace of ducks, a side of roast beef, and some lamb pies. Around the fringes of this feast were four or five vegetables, with special emphasis on that favorite New Jersey dish, boiled potatoes. All of this was washed down with quantities of Madeira wine, which Peters and Cotter drank with lip-smacking abandon. Old Jasper Clark was true to the farmer’s favorite drink, cider. When the fish and meat were sufficiently ravaged, they were removed and a half-dozen dessert dishes were put down - a jelly full of sliced fruit, floating island, a custard, and a sillabub, a mixture of Madeira wine, sugar, and milk. These, too, were well sampled, and washed down with the last of the bishop. After coffee, fresh bottles of Madeira were brought out, and the gentlemen drank five or six toasts to “the rights of Americans,” “General Washington,” “the grand American army,” “the patriots of New jersey.”

  Jonathan Gifford could not help noticing that Kemble, the apostle of revolutionary simplicity, avoided these feasts. He saw in the Revolution only what he wanted to see. Kemble arrived as the last toast was being downed and the table cleared. He opened his minute book and placed a small leather-bound Bible on the table. Lemuel Peters produced a judge’s gavel from an inside pocket of his coat and became Mr. Chairman.

  The opening witness in the night’s first case was an Irish girl with a face pitted from smallpox. Her pursed mouth, by which she tried in vain to conceal her overlapping teeth, gave her a sullen look. She was a bond servant, indentured to the Talbots, one of the more prosperous farmers, of the county. Her name was Teresa O’Toole. She had written the Committee a badly spelled letter, claiming that she had heard her master and mistress praising George III and damning Congress. Her master, Richard Talbot, a husky, red-faced, fair-haired man, stood beside her, glaring as she repeated her story in a thick brogue.

  “What say you to this charge, Mr. Talbot?” asked Peters.

  “I say only this,” snapped Talbot. “The girl is a busybody, trying to lie her way out of the four years she has yet to serve on her bond. Not content with cheating me out of full half of the seventy pounds I paid for her, she hopes to avenge herself for numerous just punishments by painting me a traitor.”

  “Oh, see what he says, sirs,” wailed Teresa O’Toole. “He’s already vowed to lash me till I bleed for daring to betray him.”

  “Have you a witness to the words you say Mr. Talbot spoke?” Lemuel Peters asked.

  “I went and told their black man, Joshua, the moment I heard it. But now he swears he heard nothing. He fears the lash as much or more as I, your honors.”

  “Where is Mrs. Talbot?” asked Committeeman Cotter.

  “She is - indisposed. The shock of these proceedings has severely indisposed her.”

  “Sure and that’s a shocking lie, your honor,” said Teresa O’Toole. “I heard her say this morning that she had no mind to come before you. She called your honors a pack of bankrupt wretches, so she did.”

  “Is that true, Talbot?” Cotter growled.

  “So help me, it isn’t. The girl is a most fanciful liar.”

  “Do yon solemnly swear that you support the American Cause?”

  “I do. I do most wholeheartedly,” Talbot said.

  “Wait in the hall,” Lemuel Peters said.

  The committeemen conferred. Jasper Clark declared himself certain of Richard Talbot’s loyalty. He was an old friend. Ambrose Cotter was inclined to believe the. Irish girl. So was Lemuel Peters, who found Talbot’s behavior “suspicious.” But the girl’s testimony, without witnesses, was equally suspect. Jasper Clark, who had two bondmen working on his farm, pointed out that it would be a poor example to encourage servants to testify against their masters in such arbitrary fashion.

  Jonathan Gifford stood by the door, acting as a sergeant at arms. These hearings against disaffected persons, as they were called, were new. Until a month ago, the County Committees had busied themselves with restructuring the Militia and making sure that no one was importing forbidden British goods. Only recently had it become dangerous to criticize the American side of the quarrel with England.

  To Jonathan Gifford it was dismaying to see the way the Committees were abrogating that traditional English right - freedom of speech. He was convinced that they were making secret enemies of men like Richard Talbot by forcing him to lie under oath. Jonathan Gifford had no doubt that Talbot was lying. He knew the man well. He had been a major in the old royal militia and had spent more than one night playing cards with him and Charles Skinner here in the tavern. He knew his opinions were not much different from Skinner’s - or from Governor William Franklin’s, for that matter.

  What was the point in humiliating a man like Richard Talbot? No point at all, unless the goal of the patriots or Congress men, as they Variously called themselves, was a real revolution, a complete overturn of all government and the creation of an independent state. Richard Talbot had not precisely lied, he had equivocated. Like Charles Skinner, he was a supporter of the rights of America. He did not believe that Parliament had any right to tax Americans, but he also did not believe that the quarrel over this issue was worth a revolution. And he loathed the kind of people who seemed to be in control of this revolution, the Lemuel Peterses, Ambrose Cotters, and Samuel Breeses.

  The next two men were accused of casting aspersions on the County Committee. Both had made the statements in the taproom of Strangers’ Resort. They were accused by men who had been seated at the same table, pretending to be their friends. Perhaps they were friends, perhaps the patriotism of the accusers was sincere, Jonathan Gifford cautioned himself. But he doubted it. There was too much opportunity for the vicious side of human nature, for meanness, pettiness, jealousy to operate in this
system of accusation and intimidation. One man humbly confessed his guilt and begged the Committee’s pardon. He was let go with a warning. The second man, a lanky old widower named Clement Billington, admitted everything. He was known locally as “the Miser” because he loaned money at fierce rates of interest and was riot at all hesitant about suing to collect.

  “Your honors may put me on the rack, you may do with me what you would, but I will testify with my last breath that you have sitting on your honorable Committee a pettifogging welsher who owes me, including interest, forty-eight pounds, ten shillings, twopence British currency. His name is Ambrose Cotter.”

  “You insult one member of this Committee, you insult them all, sir,” Lemuel Peters warned.

  “If that is your rule, gentlemen, then I most respectfully insult you all,” declared Billington.

  “Are you a supporter of your country’s rights?” demanded Peters with a judicial frown.

  “Most certainly. And I am also a supporter of Great Britain’s rights. A large part of our current troubles has, in my opinion, been caused by men who owe vast sums to other Americans or to British merchants and would welcome a revolution to extricate themselves. Mr. Cotter here is a case in point on an infinitesimal scale.”

  “You impugn my honor once more, sir, and you may have to answer for it at the wrong end of a pistol,” Cotter said.

  “I decline the challenge. I doubt your carcass would be worth the sum owed,” Billington said.

  Red blotches of rage were spreading over Cotter’s cheeks. He denounced Billington as a liar and a traitor and swore that he had given him power of attorney to collect notes due to him from ex-business associates in New York. Billington insisted it would have taken half his debt in sheriff’s fees to collect them. It was a favorite Cotter maneuver, signing over bad debts to cover worse ones.