The Heart of Liberty

by Thomas Fleming

  That night Slocum sat in Liberty Tavern’s taproom, exhausted, cursing everyone and everything, including Washington. “Not a captain besides Fitzmorris. Not even my old company will turn out,” he told Jonathan Gifford. “Goddamn Washington. Why won’t he stand at Amboy? The men would fight with their farms at their backs. But you can’t expect a man to walk off his property, leave his wife and children and livestock behind him, and put himself under the command of some damn general who knows how to do nothing but retreat. We may find ourselves on the far side of the Delaware in a week.”

  Slocum poured a gill of stonewall down his throat. Barney refilled his mug. “I wish we had your son here, Gifford. They won’t turn out for Slocum. They want to be led by an aristocrat, goddamn them.”

  “I don’t think that has anything to do with it,” Jonathan Gifford said. “Maybe they’re just using their common sense.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean they see there’s no point to militiamen fighting regulars.”

  “That’s damn treason talk, Gifford,” Slocum shouted. “Is that what you’re telling people? No wonder I can’t turn out a man in this neighborhood.”

  “I’m not saying anything I haven’t said since this war started.”

  “You’ve changed the name of your tavern, Gifford, but you haven’t changed the color of your coat.”

  Jonathan Gifford decided to ignore the insult. Slocum was drunk. Barney McGovern disagreed with his forbearance. “Why don’t you throw the bugger out on his head, Captain, or let me?”

  “No. It’s better to let him talk.”

  The next morning, Slocum rode off to New Brunswick with fewer than fifty men. He was back the following day. “We weren’t in camp two hours when the British appeared on the heights of Brunswick across the Raritan. Washington handed us axes and told us to chop down the bridge. He gave us a single cannon to keep the whole damned British army at bay. We get back to camp and find the order to retreat has already been given. Not a man of us would go with them. Why the hell should we march our feet off in the wrong direction?”

  Never had Jonathan Gifford seen or heard a more discouraging example of the weakness of militia thinking - and America’s folly in depending on amateur soldiers like Slocum to win the war in 1776. Their viewpoint was hopelessly parochial. They simply did not understand the strategy Washington was evolving in the struggle for control of a continent. They could not think beyond their own little patch of America.

  “I saw Putnam and the young squire,” Slocum said. “He looked poorly, your boy. The old soldier’s in a gloom. He thinks all this retreating is the ruin of us. He sends you a message. Your boy’s been sick. He’s all right now. But the General fears the worst. If he sickens again, he will send for you. The army’s doctors are butchers. They kill ten times what they cure.”

  Jonathan Gifford nodded. The surge of emotion that struck him at the mention of Kemble helped him overcome his dislike of Slocum. He began trying to explain to the Colonel the strategic situation Washington was creating by his retreat across New Jersey. He was giving the British more and more American territory to fill up. But if that territory was pacified, if everyone cowered on their farms, the British would see no need to leave any troops behind them. This meant the full weight of the royal army would be thrown against Washington’s handful of regulars. In this new situation, it was vital for the militia to begin fighting a guerrilla war - partisan tactics, as they were called in 1776.

  Colonel Slocum was not interested. “It’s easy for you to talk, Gifford,” he said. “You have trimmed your sails right through the storm. No matter what happens, your flanks are safe. Squire Skinner and his son will protect you for your daughter’s sake on the one hand, and your son will speak for you on our side.”

  “Slocum,” said Jonathan Gifford, “I hope before long you will see that those words are as untrue as they are unfair.”

  “We will see, Gifford, we will see.”

  The next day, all of us had a chance to see. Clattering into the tavern yard from the Amboy road came forty British dragoons in red coats; huge cavalry sabers jutting from their saddles. In command was a young captain in his twenties. He introduced himself to Jonathan Gifford as Oliver De Lancey, Jr., of the 16th Regiment. Beside him was a far more ominous figure in a green coat - Anthony Skinner. As they dismounted in the tavern yard, Skinner pointed to the new sign. “You see what I mean,” he said, “Liberty Tavern? We ought to burn the damn place to the ground right now.”

  “I am sure the General will tend to such matters in his own good time, Skinner. We have orders to treat everyone as a loyal subject, unless he demonstrates otherwise by his actions,” Captain De Lancey said.

  “You don’t think that sign proves anything?” Skinner said.

  “I rather like it,” said De Lancey. “After all, I’m in favor of British liberty, aren’t you?”

  Jonathan Gifford pointedly ignored Anthony Skinner. He introduced himself to De Lancey and told the Captain how much he admired his father’s horses. The elder De Lancey’s steeds seldom failed to win most of the races run each year at Hempstead on Long Island. “I’ve made more than one pound betting on them.”

  De Lancey smiled politely and asked if he and his men could spend the night at the tavern. They were prepared to pay hard money for everything they and their horses consumed.

  “Of course you’re welcome. But I can’t guarantee the conduct of the neighborhood. There are a good many men around here who might be inclined to fight you.”

  “I understand that,” De Lancey said. “We’ll have sentries well posted.”

  “How is my old friend, Colonel Harcourt?”

  “Well, thank you,” said young De Lancey, obviously startled to discover Jonathan Gifford was on speaking terms with his regimental commander.

  “We served together under Wolfe at Quebec,” Jonathan Gifford said, casually adding that he had been a captain in the 4th Regiment. De Lancey’s politeness warmed to cordiality.

  Anthony Skinner’s glower deepened. “Where’s Kate?” he asked.

  “In her room.”

  “Is it true what I heard, she was given thirty lashes by your damned militia judges?”

  “She was.”

  “And you stood by without saying a word in her defense?”

  “You were the one person who might have helped her, Mr. Skinner,” said Jonathan Gifford.

  “You mean that ridiculous advice you sent me in your letter? No one would have believed me in the first place – ”

  Captain De Lancey was looking bewildered. There was no point in trying to explain the conversation to him. “I would be honored if you and your officers would join me for dinner, Captain,” Jonathan Gifford said to him, “but Mr. Skinner is not welcome in this tavern or in my house.”

  “Gifford, I will go where I please and do what I please or you will find yourself in irons in the deepest dungeon the provost marshal can find in New York. I’m the colonel of the King’s loyal militia in this county and I am here to take command.”

  “I call on Captain De Lancey to witness the threats you have made against me. I have the right to throw you or any other man off my property, if British law or British liberty means anything. This has nothing to do with rebellion, Captain De Lancey. Mr. Skinner has abused the affection and ruined the reputation of one of the finest girls in New Jersey. Now get out of here before I horsewhip you down the road like a common thief.”

  I was a witness to this blazing confrontation. I have never seen anything that equaled its intensity before or since. Jonathan Gifford’s large head and thick shoulders were impressive, but his brow scarcely reached Anthony Skinner’s shoulder. It was not physical force that demolished Skinner. It was moral intensity, the ferocity with which Captain Gifford spoke the truth.

  “Are you going to let him insult me this way?” Skinner asked Captain De Lancey.

  “I really don’t see what I can or should do about it, my dear fellow. As Mr
. Gifford says, he has every right to control his own property and the difference between you seems highly personal, to say the least.”

  “You’re only five miles from your own house, Skinner,” Jonathan Gifford said. “You’ll get a good dinner there.”

  “Would you like an escort?” Captain De Lancey asked.

  “I need no escort, Captain. There isn’t a skulking coward in this state who has the nerve to challenge me now,” Skinner said.

  He strode to his horse, sprang into the saddle, and galloped away. Jonathan Gifford repeated his invitation to dinner and soon sat down with Captain De Lancey and two of his lieutenants in a private room. Without seeming to ask questions, be had no difficulty leading the young officers into a discussion of British plans to finish the war. They were confident that Washington’s army would collapse around January 1. The Americans had made the foolish mistake of enlisting their regulars for only a single year. When the regulars quit, General Howe would probably push on to Philadelphia, occupy the American capital, and arrest as many members of the Continental Congress as he could catch. For the time being, young De Lancey thought Washington could scrape together enough men to make a stand on the west bank of the Delaware. The army would occupy all of New Jersey and restore royal government. Lord Howe in his role as peace commissioner would issue a proclamation offering amnesty to everyone who swore obedience and loyalty to the King within the next sixty days. Each would receive a certificate of protection which would guarantee him against prosecution or retaliation.

  It was very shrewd. The Howes were using both the carrot and the stick to persuade the Americans to surrender. Young De Lancey, his tongue loosened by wine, told Captain Gifford about the arguments within the British high command. His father, as America’s most powerful loyalist, was heavily involved in them. The Howes had deliberately allowed Washington to extricate his army from Long Island and New York, to the vehement disappointment of the elder De Lancey and other loyalists. The Howes’ goal was not the annihilation of the Americans, but their eventual reconciliation. By persuading them to an early surrender, they hoped to win some sympathy for them in Parliament, and head off the confiscators and placemen who were eager to punish them in the same profitable style that they had developed practicing on the Scots and the Irish. As an American and a professional soldier, young De Lancey was thoroughly in favor of the Howes’ policy.

  He expected Captain Gifford to agree with him and was surprised when he said, “There is only one thing wrong with the picture you draw. The Howes are not politicians. They have very little influence in Parliament. What happens if the Americans surrender and the placemen decide to punish them anyway?”

  “That is a chance we must take,” De Lancey said with the nonchalance of a rich young man whose property would be safe in any event.

  “These loyalists like Skinner,” said one of the lieutenants. “They are our biggest problem at the moment. They don’t want peace. They want revenge.”

  “Them and the Germans,” said the other lieutenant

  “Oh yes, the Germans,” said De Lancey with a grim smile. “If any of them come through here, I urge you to hide everything that might conceivably be portable. They were told they could make their fortunes in America, and they seem determined to do it.”

  A few days later, De Lancey’s commander, Colonel William Harcourt, stopped at Liberty Tavern to shake his friend Gifford’s hand. He was a lean, handsome example of the British aristocracy at its best. His father was a member of the Opposition in Parliament, a frequent critic of the war. His son felt the same way. He was in America only because his regiment had been ordered to go, and as colonel, he felt he could not desert his men.

  Over a glass of port, he made no attempt to conceal his fears, not of defeat, but of victory. “I am afraid we are going to win, Gifford,” he said. “I am afraid of what it will do to England. There are men in Parliament who would like to make it impossible for anyone ever again to criticize the government. They could use the army and the spoils they’ll win over here to get laws passed, making opposition a crime.”

  They discussed the Howes’ carrot and stick plan to end the war. “If I was an American,” Harcourt said, “I wouldn’t trust anyone’s good intentions - and I’d trust even less a Parliament that unleashes German mercenaries on a free people.” He described in grisly detail the way the Germans had looted Long Island and Westchester County.

  Harcourt rode back to his regiment. There were even fewer soldiers with his opinion in the British army than there were politicians in Parliament. But it is good to remember that not all Englishmen wanted to conquer America.

  The next day Lord Howe issued his amnesty proclamation. It made even more doleful a letter Abel Aikin brought from Kemble - the last letter Abel delivered for some time. The American postal service in New Jersey had ceased to exist. The letter explained why. Washington’s army was too small to make a stand anywhere in the state. They were retreating to the west bank of the Delaware. “Where are the militia?” Kemble wrote bitterly. “If they turned out, we could hold the state against the entire British army. What has happened to all those fellows who cheered so madly for independence? I thought Americans were natural patriots. Now I begin to wonder if they are not natural cowards,”

  Jonathan Gifford shook his head wearily. Was it typical of Kemble - or typical of youth in general - to plunge from extreme to extreme, from blind optimism to blind despair? He sat down and wrote his son a letter.

  Dear Kemble,

  I don’t know where or when I will get a chance to send this to you. Perhaps I will keep it here until you return. I hate to see you lose hope and pride in your countrymen. Most of them are neither cowards nor heroes but simply human beings with normal amounts of courage and honesty. I have led men into battle, and seen them break and run, rallied those same men and seen them perform feats of amazing bravery in the space of an hour. Every man, even the bravest, is prey to panic. Only a rare man will fight if be thinks he has no chance of winning. This is what has struck New Jersey - panic - a general belief that the Cause is lost. Can you blame the poor militiaman if he thinks this way, when the Continentals - the men presumed to be the best soldiers America can muster - have been trounced again and again? If General Washington wins a battle or two, our people will change their minds and take heart. But for the time being, New Jersey is as good as lost.

  What Jonathan Gifford saw and heard in the next few days only underscored these words. The talk in Liberty Tavern was thick with defeatism and despair. Lord Howe’s offer was frequently discussed. But for the time being everyone seemed anxious to damn it as a British trick to seduce honest men. Leading the damners were our titans of the now defunct Committee of Safety, Lemuel Peters and Ambrose Cotter. Listening to them, Barney McGovern whispered behind his hand to Jonathan Gifford, “What’ll you bet me those two heroes will be among the first to throw in?”

  “If you find any takers,” Jonathan Gifford said, “let me know. I’ll cover all bets.”

  Early in the following week Anthony Skinner sent one of his family’s servants to Liberty Tavern with a note for Kate. She was still a semi-invalid. Her back was healing very slowly. Bertha, Black Sam’s wife, rubbed it every day with an ointment she had concocted from her herb garden. But she was dolefully certain that there would always be some scars there, and Dr. Davie confirmed this sad prediction. Kate accepted this fate with a stoicism that Jonathan Gifford found more troubling than a tantrum. She had begun to eat again, converse a little at dinner, but most of the time she was silent. She walked beside the brook and sat alone for hours staring at its frothy white water. Now she fingered her lover’s letter idly and set it aside. Not for a full day did she open it.

  She knew what it contained. Bertha had told her how Jonathan Gifford had ordered Anthony Skinner off the property. It was precisely the sort of challenge Anthony needed - perhaps wanted - to force him into a proposal.

  My dearest,

  Your father has forbidden
me to see you. He accuses me of being at fault in the beating given you by those rebel scum. As if he had nothing to do with it! He stood there, his hands in his pockets, and let you be scourged. My heart was torn to atoms when I heard the news that they had actually carried out the sentence. I could not believe they would ever be so low. I thought it was a ruse to tempt me to rescue you - which I had no hope of doing. The heroes I have the honor to lead are not much braver than their rebel brethren. I swear to God I’m glad I think of myself as more English than American, in spite of my father. If I was a full American I would be ashamed to show my face to a British soldier. The poltroonery of their conduct will make 1776 go down in English history as the year of the cowards.

  Now our time has come to rule these people, Kate, rule them with the rod they deserve. I want you by my side. The way my father drinks, he cannot live longer than another year or two. This means that he will die without issue and Kemble Manor will revert to my mother and you and Kemble as your mother’s heirs. Kemble will lose his share, and my mother may well lose hers if she acts any further on her rebel principles. I am sure a bribe or two to the right parties will make you and me the owners of the manor. Won’t that be a laugh on those hypocrites who tried to deprive me of my just inheritance? With Kemble Manor and the other confiscated lands - you may depend upon it, all the leading rebels will lose their lands no matter what they swear to Lord Howe’s silly proclamation - I will have more than enough income to dress you like the queen you are.

  In fact I am told the King intends to create an American peerage to equal the Irish one and guarantee a proper respect for class and rank henceforth. I can all but guarantee that you will be Lady Skinner before the decade is out.

  Say but the word, Kate, and I will come to get you with enough men to make your father quiver for his tavern and his neck. Let me make you my wife in name as you already are in fact.

  Forever yours,