“I hope so,” Jonathan Gifford said. “We’re going to need your help tomorrow. And yours, Kemble. When people find out he’s escaped, who are they going to suspect?”
“The Englishman, with all due respect, Captain,” said Barney with a wincing grin, “Squire Skinner’s best friend.”
“They may burn the tavern to the ground. When did Fleming say he’d arrive?”
“As early as possible.”
“Is he bringing men?”
“No more than an escort.”
“That may be enough. We’ll tell him the truth. There’s no other way he’ll trust us.”
The uproar began at breakfast. The soldiers spread the word among the guests that Anthony Skinner had vanished. Jonathan Gifford ignored the hard looks that flew in his direction. Captain Fleming arrived with a dozen men and was predictably thunderstruck to discover he no longer had a prisoner to escort. For the benefit of the audience in the taproom, Jonathan Gifford solemnly assured the Captain that he had no idea how Skinner had escaped. When the listeners went back to their morning coffee, Jonathan Gifford invited Captain Fleming to join him in the rose garden. They strolled past the dazzling array of red, white, pink, and magenta blossoms, the summer air thick with scent. Captain Fleming fingered the huge double yellow Persian rose which Jonathan Gifford, fifty years ahead of other horticulturists, had crossed with other roses to give it the strength to survive in our climate.
“How is Miss Kate?” Captain Fleming said.
Stonily, Jonathan Gifford told him what Kate had done. “If you want to place her under arrest - that must be your decision.” Captain Fleming nodded unhappily. They walked another hundred yards in silence to the bank of the brook. “She must love him very much.”
“Yes.”
“My father once told me never to condemn a person who acted from a wayward heart. I caught a hint that he had loved someone - perhaps did some extravagant thing, foolish thing – ”
“It happens,” Jonathan Gifford said.
“I regard what you told me as a confidence. A word of it shall never pass my lips, I guarantee you. But how will it affect you, sir? Are you in danger because of it?”
“Perhaps,” Jonathan Gifford said. He told him about the ugly scene with Daniel Slocum.
Captain Fleming nodded. “I will write a report to General Mercer and tell him I am staying the night here.”
Later that day, the County Committee of Safety issued a proclamation denouncing Anthony Skinner as a traitor to his country and offering a reward of a hundred dollars to the man who captured him. It was a futile gesture. The fugitive was long since on Staten Island, well protected by the British army. The Committee heard testimony from the sentry, from Barney McGovern, from Jonathan Gifford. They also wanted to question Kate but accepted without comment her stepfather’s excuse for her - she was “indisposed.” The Committee concluded that “a person or persons unknown” had helped Skinner escape. From the looks on the faces of many listeners, not a few thought that unknown person was Jonathan Gifford. But the Committee declined to condemn him without evidence.
Lemuel Peters and Daniel Slocum did not hesitate to voice their suspicions of “the Englishman,” however. This vindictive opinion circulated in mutters around the taproom, which was crowded with celebrating independence men. Though the atmosphere was ominous, the night passed without any serious incidents. The presence of Captain Fleming and his soldiers, carefully positioned around the taproom, their muskets stacked in handy corners, undoubtedly had something to do with this lull.
The next morning, July 6, Captain Fleming departed with his men. Jonathan Gifford invited him to breakfast at the family house. Fleming conducted himself like a diplomat, pretending to know nothing while Kate and Kemble exchanged acrid remarks. When the table was cleared, and Captain Gifford departed for an hour’s work in his rose garden, the young Virginian asked Kate to join him for a stroll beside the brook. There he told her that he knew what she had done - and was trying to understand it. He knew it meant there was no possibility of her looking on him with the slightest favor.
“I can only wonder, Miss Kate - I suppose ‘hope’ is a better word - whether your motive was as much sympathy for his plight as it was affection for his person and opinions. I cannot believe anyone with a name as distinguished as Stapleton would declare herself against her country - which is what Mr. Skinner has done.”
Kate was more shaken by this shrewd suggestion than she was willing to admit. She took refuge in her professed indifference to politics. “Even if I regretted Mr. Skinner’s politics - which I do not, because I avoid an opinion on such matters - I assure you, Captain Fleming, that there was also the strongest possible affection animating my heart.”
“I am sorry to hear that. I think you will genuinely regret his political opinions in the months ahead.”
With a deep Virginia bow, he withdrew.
That afternoon, a dispatch rider from the Continental Congress stopped at the tavern to change horses and refresh himself. He had a printed copy of the Declaration of Independence which he was carrying to General Washington. Kemble asked the man if he would wait long enough to let him copy it. The fellow was easily persuaded by the extra pint of rum that Jonathan Gifford poured into his tankard. When the dispatch rider departed, Kemble read the Declaration aloud in the assembly room.
The audience listened with great solemnity. Even the more violent independence men recognized that it was a serious document. As an appeal to the popular mind, Jonathan Gifford thought it was masterful. Those opening phrases - declaring every man had a right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness - were the work of a brilliant politician. But the rest of the document, especially the bill of indictment against the King, struck Captain Gifford as fanciful pleading.
The unknown author or authors rescued their argument with a stirring close: For the support of this Declaration with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor. But what mattered most to Jonathan Gifford was the pride, the fervor with which Kemble read the Declaration. His thin face was aglow with elation and in its reflection Jonathan Gifford glimpsed in a more direct way the truth he had urged on Charles Skinner. There was something good, yes, enormously good and vastly important in this idea of independence. It was time for Americans to shake off those feelings of inferiority, submission, subordination implicit in the very words “colonies” and “mother country.”
Perhaps in this new land for the first time men were discovering that they did not need to be children all their lives. They did not need a King, a father of the country, to keep them in proper order and obedience. Jonathan Gifford hoped it was true. But when he looked at the men crowding the assembly room, he had grave doubts. He saw greed, mediocrity, stupidity, violence on so many faces. To make this experiment work would require enormous effort, tremendous commitment on the part of gifted leaders. Above all, commitment from the people themselves. Somehow they would have to become the source of their own wisdom, find in themselves the balance and judgment they needed to live in peace and order. They would have to begin finding these difficult things while fighting a war.
Later in the day, the Committee of Safety met to issue summonses to the Tories on Anthony Skinner’s muster list. They were soon discomfited to discover that nine out of ten defied the summons servers, the Committee of Safety, and the Declaration of Independence. Lemuel Peters was also unhappy when he discovered that Kemble had already read the Declaration of Independence aloud. This was, Peters pouted, an extralegal act that should have been reserved for the officials of the new nation, not some mere boy, even if his name was Stapleton. Kemble curtly replied that most of his audience had gone home and there would be no difficulty recruiting another group of enthusiastic listeners.
“I think it should be done properly, to impress these damn Tories,” Peters said. “Let us turn out the regiment for a military exercise.”
; Kemble rode off to deliver the order to Colonel Slocum at Colt’s Neck. Worse judgment could not be displayed, Jonathan Gifford thought. The less seen of rabble rousers like Daniel Slocum at a time like this, the better.
Three hours later, two hundred militiamen, half the regiment, mustered in the tavern yard. Once more Jonathan Gifford silently lamented their poor equipment and lack of training. Most had no bayonets for their guns. Twenty or thirty had no guns at all. They carried spears and in some cases sticks. The only exercise they could perform with reasonable dexterity was the manual of arms. An attempt at some basic parade maneuvers was a fiasco. Colonel Slocum ordered a march by the right flank. There were collisions, curses, and hoots of laughter from the audience on the tavern porch. This only confirmed what Colonel Slocum already suspected – Strangers’ Resort was the local headquarters for Tories and trimmers. He excoriated everyone for laughing at men who were ready to die for their country.
Lemuel Peters mounted a platform of boxes which he had ordered Jonathan Gifford to erect on the porch. He read the Declaration in his broad Yankee twang and Colonel Slocum ordered his men to salute it with a volley. A hundred and fifty guns went off with a mighty crash. As the smoke cleared, one militiaman was seen on the ground writhing in pain. His shoulder had been dislocated by the kick of his musket. Most of our farmers had little experience handling guns. Powder and ball were expensive and hunting with a weapon as inaccurate as a musket was an exercise in frustration. According to militia law, every man was supposed to own a gun. But in most cases the old pieces had hung unused above our fireplaces for decades.
The injured man was carried home by his friends and everyone adjourned to the tavern, where Peters suggested that Jonathan Gifford should serve drinks without charge to celebrate independence. He must have known this gesture had been made two nights ago. There was little doubt of some malice in Peters’ method. But Jonathan Gifford mildly agreed to the proposition and the tavern was soon deep in another night of heavy drinking, Independence in our part of New Jersey - and I suspect in most of America - was the occasion of some very bad heads for several mornings after the great news arrived.
In our case, another kind of excess soon combined with the liquor. Daniel Slocum stood in the doorway of the taproom, watching everyone drink, a contemptuous expression on his face. Jonathan Gifford offered him a tankard of stonewall. Slocum said he would be damned if he would take a drink from a Tory. He damned everyone in the taproom for being so gullible, such bad patriots, as to accept Jonathan Gifford’s largesse. Lemuel Peters, sensing a political rival, announced that while he did not share Slocum's opinion, he would stop drinking on the mere chance that it might be true. Slocum launched a political tirade against Peters. The countryside was aswarm with Tories. What had the Committee of Safety done about it? Sent respectful requests for them to appear before them. Requests which they had rejected with contempt. Had Peters or any of the people’s guardians discovered how Anthony Skinner had escaped? Had they troubled to search the most likely hiding place, his father’s manor house, or questioned the Squire, who was, in Slocum’s opinion, the real leader of the plot, a man who would cut his best friend’s throat if the price was right?
“If the honorable Committee were any sort of patriots,” Slocum roared, “they’d be leading a march on Kemble Manor this very moment. We ought to ransack it from top to bottom, and if we don’t find young Skinner, maybe we ought to tear the damn Tory palace to the ground like the patriots of Massachusetts did to the house of their archtraitor, Governor Hutchinson. It would tell every Tory in New Jersey what they can expect if they continue to defy the honorable Continental Congress.”
Lemuel Peters glanced nervously at Ambrose Cotter. They had resisted Slocum’s demagoguery once. But twice strained their integrity to the snapping point.
“I say Colonel Slocum is speaking sense, good downright American sense,” Cotter cried.
“Let’s take a vote,” Slocum shouted. “All those in favor of forming a committee of inspection answer aye.”
“AYE,” came a roar that shook the tavern walls. Slocum had a built-in majority. A good half the men in the room were members of his regiment.
“The people have spoken,” Lemuel Peters shrilled, and joined the stampede out the door. In a moment there were only about two dozen men left in the taproom. Among them was Nathaniel Fitzmorris. His late father had been a close friend of Charles Skinner. Another was young John Tharp, whose Quaker instincts naturally abhorred Slocum’s violence. Several other men were members of Captain Fitzmorris’ militia company.
Jonathan Gifford turned to Jasper Clark, who was clearly appalled by what he had just seen and heard.
“Mr. Clark,” he said, “do you have the power to keep the peace in this county?”
“Why, I don’t know,” said Clark. “I don’t believe that power was delegated to Committees of Safety. But the president of the Provincial Congress has issued a proclamation, calling on all the members of the old government to keep their offices until the elections in August. That means I’m still a justice of the peace. I can call out the militia in case of a riot. But how can I read the Riot Act, with all those references to the King’s power and authority?”
“Maybe you won’t have to read it. Everyone here is a member of the militia. Embody these men and give me command of them. I want to protect the life and property of an innocent man. Charles Skinner has had nothing to do with this business of raising a Tory regiment. His son played his own game - in spite of his father.”
Jasper Clark thought this over, pulling hard on the lobe of his left ear. He sighed. “The Squire has loaned me money and ground my wheat on credit more than one year when times were bard. He carried my wife to that New York doctor in his carriage in ‘68, when she was sick half that winter with the pleurisy. Give me a musket, and I will go with you and do what I can. I hope every man in this room will follow us.”
“You have me and my friends,” said Fitzmorris. He stood up. Six of his men rose with him.
“I’ll come,” said John Tharp, his Quaker conscience speaking.
Kemble struggled for a moment -with his own conscience. Anthony Skinner’s numerous insults still rankled. “I’ll come,” he finally said.
“I will come, too,” said Dr. Davie. “I have drunk at the Squire’s table too often to let him be insulted by the likes of Slocum.”
Jonathan Gifford turned to Barney McGovern. There was no need to argue with him. “Give them muskets and ammunition,” he said, nodding toward the volunteers. “Sam, you and I will start saddling horses.”
In five minutes they were on the road, riding two men to a horse. They galloped down the opposite side of Kemble Manor, which was shaped like a huge blunted triangle, and cut across an internal road through the fields and pastures to the back of the manor house. By now it was almost dark. There was no sign of Slocum and his mob. They were still a good mile down the road.
Jonathan Gifford posted his men in two ranks, six to a row, and told them to load their guns. “I don’t think it will come to shooting,” he said, “but if it does your lives will depend on following my orders. Fire only on command. The first rank will fire and fall back twenty paces and reload. Then the second rank will fire and fall back to the house. The first rank will give them one more volley and follow them.”
The door opened and a woman’s voice called anxiously, “What is it, Captain Gifford, what’s happening?”
A manservant carrying an oil lamp appeared beside Caroline Skinner. She was wearing a blue silk dinner dress. Jonathan Gifford limped to the door and told her what was coming. “Is Mr. Skinner – ”
“Drunk? Yes. But not too drunk to hear news like this.”
Charles Skinner was in the same massive Jacobean chair in the library. He was wearing his usual elaborate at-home clothes, a purple skullcap lined with red silk, a red silk dressing gown. The decanter of brandy on the round table beside him was almost empty. Jonathan Gifford's news brought him to his feet ro
aring curses upon poltroons and knaves. He lunged around the room like a man in a fiery furnace.
“Mrs. Skinner, get me my pistols.”
“I will not. You are too drunk. I’m afraid you’ll shoot me - or yourself.”
“Too drunk. Sh’ right. Too drunk. Will you stand with me, Gifford?”
“I’ve brought twelve men with me. They’re out there on the drive. Your visitors have at least a hundred. Not good odds, old friend.”
“We stood - half the Indians - Canada - with - handful.”
“We’re not fighting in a forest. There’s no place to hide. I’m afraid there is only one way to save your house and your life.”
“What?” said Skinner, collapsing into the Jacobean chair again.
“Take to your bed. That is where you belong anyway, if I may be honest with you.”
Charles Skinner shook his big head drunkenly. “Crazy, Gifford, crazy. Throw myself - on mercy - those bastards. Crazy.”
“No it isn’t. Take to your bed and say nothing, except a groan or two. Those men outside - I wouldn’t guarantee one of them - except my son and Black Sam and Barney - when it comes to defending you. But they’ll defend a sick man and a helpless woman.”
“I hate that,” Caroline Skinner said. “I would almost rather take a gun and stand beside my husband.”
“We may have to do a great many things we hate before this is over.”
“What if they force their way into the house, Captain Gifford?”
“You will meet them politely in the hall. Explain your husband is too sick to be interviewed. Let them search the house. They won’t touch so much as a teacup - if you keep your head.”
Caroline Skinner turned to her husband. “He’s right, Charles.”
A distant sound penetrated the room. Jonathan Gifford limped to the window and thrust aside the damask curtains. Down on the road the head of Slocum’s mob was visible. Some of them were carrying torches. They were roaring out the refrain of our favorite patriot song.
The Heart of Liberty Page 14
