Revolt and execution: the little known Pompton Mutiny

We've shared many aspects about the many heroic, though lesser-known aspects of New Jersey's Revolutionary War history. We've visited places where patriotic militias turned back the British, and other sites where the locals put up a good fight but ended up losing their homes. And we've marveled at the tenacity of the men who endured the terrible winter of 1779-1780 in the rough log huts of the Jockey Hollow encampment, surviving despite minimal rations, ragged clothing and, in many cases, without even the most rudimentary of footwear.

More than two centuries later, it's easy to look upon the hardships and the outcome of the war, and assume that the men of Washington's army were some sort of saints who endured in the knowledge that they would emerge victorious. Grade school history books do nothing to tarnish that assumption, but we're talking about very human people put into an extraordinarily awful situation. The conditions were enough to try anyone's patience, and, in fact, some were stretched to their breaking points. Adding insult to injury, many hadn't been paid in quite some time, and newer recruits were getting more generous bounties than longstanding soldiers had gotten when they enlisted.

By January 1781, the troops of the Pennsylvania Line of the Continental Army had had enough. Believing their three-year hitch was up, they left their Jockey Hollow camp to air their grievances with the commonwealth's Supreme Executive Council (effectively the group acting as governor). Long story short, the two sides ultimately agreed that the longer-serving soldiers would be discharged and allowed to reenlist, thus receiving the more generous bounty. One might say they were rewarded for severe insubordination, not something that military leadership would generally want to encourage.

A few small markers at Jockey Hollow offer brief mentions of the Pennsylvania Line mutiny, but the New Jersey mutiny -- and there was one -- is a little harder to find.

The exact location is in question, but you can learn about it on Newark-Pompton Turnpike in Riverdale, from a marker across the road from the grade school. Ivan found it: a small sign about the size of a "no parking" warning, that's labeled "Pompton Mutiny."

Encamped near Federal Hill overlooking present day Passaic County, the soldiers of the New Jersey Line were just as destitute as their Pennsylvania brethren -- poorly clothed and malnourished. And like their cohorts, about 200 of the Jerseymen set off to air their grievances to the state government in Trenton. Hearing of the Pennsylvanians' success along the way, these new mutineers soon returned to Pompton, hoping for a similar outcome. Receiving none, they revolted again a few days later.

This mutiny would end much differently. Once he received word of the revolt from camp commander Colonel Israel Shreve, General George Washington took quick and decisive action. A wave of mutinies would destroy the Continental Army even as Congress was working to resolve longstanding pay issues. Maintaining order was essential to a strong military, and an early example had to be set. He sent General Robert Howe and 500 troops south from West Point to quell the disturbance, with no allowances for negotiation. To further emphasize the seriousness of his intent, Washington ordered, "If you succeed in compelling the revolted troops to a surrender you will instantly execute a few of the most active and most incendiary leaders."

That's exactly what happened on January 27, 1781. After surrounding the mutinous bunch and finding no further resistance, Howe selected about a dozen of the mutineers as a firing squad to execute their ringleaders, Sergeants David Gilmore and John Tuttle.

In a letter to New Jersey Governor William Livingston, Washington portrayed the executions as an inevitable step in quelling the revolt:  "The spirit of mutiny seems now to have completely subsided and to have given place to a genuine repentance. This was very far from being the case previous to this step, notwithstanding the apparent submission which the assurances of redress had produced; they still continued insolent and refractory and disobedient to the commands of their officers."

Where, exactly, all of this occurred, is up for conjecture, perhaps fueled by the fact that the area known as Pompton during the revolution has been divided into four separate towns in the years since. Besides the Riverdale sign that caught our attention, another marker on Union Avenue in Bloomingdale claims marks the spot of the execution of two of the mutineers. Some say that the graves of Gilmore and Tuttle are somewhere on Federal Hill, marked only by the piles of stones heaped upon their final resting places.

Hidden in plain sight: New Jersey's original State House

Its gilded dome shining on a bluff above the Delaware River, the New Jersey State House isn't exactly hidden, but if you were Governor Richard Howell, you might say otherwise. Serving from 1793-1801, New Jersey's third governor was accustomed to a much less ornate seat of government which, while not obvious to the casual observer, is actually still there, 220 years later.

Confused? We found out more on our visit to Trenton for the celebration of New Jersey's 350th birthday, when the State House hosted a viewing of the document that conveyed the then-colony to Sir George Carteret and John Berkeley, Lord of Stratton. Tours of the building's public areas are available six days a week, yours for the asking, and we asked.

New Jersey's original 1792 Statehouse.

The nation's second oldest state capitol building still in use, the building on West State Street looks nothing like what our earliest legislators saw when they convened in their new Trenton chambers in 1792. Constructed of stone by Philadelphia builder Jonathan Doan, the original modest cupola-topped building had just enough room for senate and assembly chambers plus a courtroom and office space for the governor. Chances are that today, we'd walk by a comparable building without giving a second thought of it having any great significance, but its size likely made it remarkable in the Central New Jersey of the late 18th century.

The look of a 'real' capitol building didn't come until 1844, with the adoption of New Jersey's second constitution. As the executive branch grew in importance and the court system evolved, both branches needed more space in which to conduct government work. Chosen to build onto the existing State House, Philadelphia architect John Notman brought grandeur to the capitol, designing an addition with a striking dome topping an ornate three-story rotunda. Standing closer to West State Street than the existing building, the new building's facade blocked the view of the original 1792 State House, starting its fade into obscurity. Further enlargements in 1871 dwarved the Doan structure, which was modified to relocate the governor's office into the former assembly chamber.

The gilded dome, from within the rotunda.
Pretty impressive.

Ironically, the Notman addition fronted the State House for an even shorter period of time than the original it dwarfed. Destroyed in an early morning fire in March 1885, it was soon replaced by an even more ornate version designed by Jersey City architect Louis Broome. Like the Notman version, Broome's design included columns but added an even more impressive dome.

Over the ensuing years, the growth of state government led to additional enlargements and modifications to the State House, and even a separate annex built in the 1920s. The whole shebang almost got torn down following the adoption of the 1947 constitution, which essentially made New Jersey's governor the most powerful chief executive in any of the states. Fortunately, plans for a more modern State House were shelved due to lack of funds, and our historic capitol building, original, additions and all, was saved from the wrecking ball.

Why would the government want to tear down such a historic structure? Our frequent reference, the WPA Guide to 1930s New Jersey, offers a hint of what might have been the prevailing attitude about the State House at the time: "The three-and-one-half story facade is in the French renaissance style, with a clumsy two-tier entrance porch supported on small scale polished granite columns. What remains of the original structure, built circa 1792, is now a part of the present building, although exactly what part is uncertain. Subsequent growth has been without regard to any foresighted plan [...] The ill-lighted main entrance corridor is hung with indistinguishable portraits of early Jersey statesmen and patriots; portraits of various Governors hang in the executive chambers." Look to the architecture of the Federal and state buildings of the day, and you'll find clean lines with little decoration, no fussiness and certainly no classical flourishes. The modern was in. Your grandfather's classicism was out.

Restoration in the late 80s and early 90s brought much of the shine and grandeur of the State House back, and it remains today. The rotunda provides an impressive entrance to our government's central building, and the legislative chambers convey the state's history along with a seriousness of purpose. Still, it's pretty much impossible to tell where the original State House begins and ends. Our guide pointed out an archway leading from the rotunda to the hallway between the governor's suite and that of some of his staff members, telling us that it was the site of the original entrance to the 1792 building. To our eyes, there was nothing distinct about the walls, floors or ceilings to indicate its post-colonial heritage; it all looked to be of the same vintage as every other part of the building we saw that day.

Still, though: it's there. Trust us.

One if by land... the Revolutionary Watchung Mountain signal beacons

No matter how much we think we know about New Jersey's role in the American Revolution, no matter how many relevant sites we've unearthed in our explorations, there always seems to be a new one around the corner.

Or, in this case, at the corner, as Ivan discovered on a ridge of the Watchung Mountains in Long Hill. Sitting rather innocuously near the intersection of Long Hill Road and Pleasant Plains Road was this plaque on a rock:

So, what's the story?

The Watchungs were strategically crucial during the Revolution, as General George Washington chose the protection of the triple-ridged mountain chain for part or all of four winters during the conflict. Whether he was encamped at Middlebrook in Somerset County or in Morristown, the altitude and safety of the mountains allowed him to keep an eye on the British troop movements across the eastern New Jersey lowlands while guarding the local area and protecting himself from potential kidnap raids.

Ivan points out the fine view of the first ridge
of the Watchungs, to the east of Long Hill.

Once the British were spotted, the news needed to be transmitted to the local militias and to the Continental troops camped in the area. The old Paul Revere* "The British are coming!" method wouldn't quite work with so much ground to cover, leading General William Alexander (Lord Stirling) to a better idea. Capitalizing on the Watchungs' roughly 400 foot altitude, he ordered 23 beacons to be erected at strategic points along the ridge during the spring of 1779. Each was to be constructed as a wooden pyramid with a 14 foot base, using Alexander's precise directions for height and type of logs used. Uniformity was key: if they were to be reliable signals, they had to burn equally as well and put out an adequate volume of smoke to be visible for long distances during the day.

The beacons were used several times to call out the militia to ward off the British, including the June 1780 battles of Connecticut Farms and Springfield. They served their purpose: while the Redcoats made several raids in the eastern lowlands, they were never able to reach the Watchungs or Washington.

After the war, the signals were mostly forgotten, only a few commemorated with markers, leaving us to wonder exactly where they were located. Papers belonging to Governor William Livingston identified the men responsible for lighting some of the Somerset County beacons, leading historians to wonder if those signals were located on or near those patriots' homes. If that theory holds true, the Long Hill beacon may have been the responsibility of Morris County Militia Colonel Cornelius Ludlow, who lived in the home just across Pleasant Plains Road from the marker Ivan found.

In any case, we've got a new quest on our hands: finding 22 New Jersey beacon sites. Have you seen them, and if so, where?



* Or, for true Revolutionary War trivia lovers, Sybil Ludington.

Sabotage on Sandy Hook: our oldest lighthouse's Redcoat past

Standing as it does within a decommissioned U.S. Army fort, it's difficult to imagine that the Sandy Hook Lighthouse was once the target of sabotage by loyal Americans.

How the heck did that happen? Did the government cover up some sort of invasion on the Jersey Shore? No, not quite. The pieces start to come together after you consider the history of Sandy Hook and the lighthouse itself, which celebrates its 250th birthday this year.

The oldest operating lighthouse in the United States, Old Sandy was originally conceived in the early 1760s by New York merchants weary of losing incoming cargo to shipwrecks. Approaching New York Harbor by ship can be a tricky prospect, even today, but it was downright hazardous back then. Importers lost about 20,000 pounds sterling in merchandise to the shoals in just a few years, leading them to petition the Colonial Assembly of New York for funds to construct a lighthouse on the hook. (Why didn't they appeal to the New Jersey Legislature? The borders had yet to be settled, so the jurisdiction for the Hook was up for conjecture, and the merchants no doubt went where they felt they'd have more influence.)

Drawing on a popular funding mechanism for the time, the legislature authorized two lotteries to raise the £3000 to pay for construction. Its ongoing maintenance and a salary for a resident keeper were funded through a tax on cargo entering through New York Harbor. The lantern on the 105 foot New York Lighthouse, as it was called then, was first lit on June 11, 1764. Combined with the efforts of the Sandy Hook Pilots organized 70 years earlier to help ships navigate the shifting sand bars on the approach to the harbor, the light proved to be an effective aid to navigation.

Sandy Hook Lighthouse, ca. 1937
(photo by Historic American Buildings Survey
photographer Nathaniel R. Ewan)

The tower operated peacefully for twelve years before it metaphorically landed in troubled waters. New Jerseyans and New Yorkers were starting to take sides: remain loyal to Great Britain, or advocate independence. By early 1776, rumors of a British military invasion of New York were beginning to take hold. The powerful British Navy would likely attempt to sail into New York Harbor, led by ship captains unfamiliar with the intricacies of the waters south and east of Staten Island. Destroying the light at Sandy Hook would deprive them of a vital navigational aid, leaving them prone to grounding and shipwreck.

Seizing this strategic opportunity, the independence-minded legislatures in Trenton and Albany sent troops to dismantle the New York Lighthouse lantern and remove the lamp oil, confiscating whatever they could take away. The troops, led by Monmouth County Militia Colonel George Taylor and New York Major William Malcolm, completed the task and departed the Hook, leaving the lighthouse unguarded.

In the weeks that followed, foraging parties of British sailors would periodically land on the Hook in search of fresh water, often being ambushed and captured by American troops. The British responded by capturing the lighthouse in April 1776, fortifying the grounds to repel additional attacks and ultimately repairing the light by June to welcome additional naval vessels to the bay. As further protection, the Redcoats stationed several additional ships in the waters surrounding the Hook, adding potent firepower to the defense.

Undeterred, the Americans continued their attempts to take out the lighthouse, with a half dozen or more attacks in 1776 and 1777. National Park Service historians will emphasize the sturdiness of the lighthouse's six-foot thick walls by highlighting the unsuccessful use of artillery trained on the tower, but one has to consider the relative size of the cannons to get a true sense of the threat. The patriots' six pound guns (known as such for the six pound cannon balls they fired) were small in comparison to other artillery available at the time, and likely not up for the challenge, though they did do some damage to the lighthouse's walls.

In any case, the patriots found themselves no match for British forces on the Hook, especially when the firepower of the surrounding warships was taken into account. The peninsula became a refuge for a motley assortment of New Jersey loyalists, thieves, smugglers and raiders until the end of the war. Patriot privateers would occasionally attempt foraging raids on the Hook but lacked the firepower to attempt any harassment beyond stealing British supplies.

You can get a taste of the lighthouse's revolutionary past during its birthday celebration on June 14, when Revolutionary War reenactors will be on hand with musket and cannon-firing demonstrations. Though it doesn't sound as if any NPS-sponsored smugglers and raiders will be on hand, the event looks to be a fun time for all.

Inclined to love the Morris Canal: technology and archaeology at the Jim and Mary Lee Museum

It's not often my mind gets blown on a Hidden New Jersey jaunt. We see a lot of wonderful things and meet many interesting people in our travels, but it's rare that a visit to one place gets me so excited that I don't know where to start the story. This is one of those instances.

It started a couple of weeks ago, when I traveled Route 57 through Warren County to find remnants of the old Morris Canal. Once-busy port towns revealed small pieces of their past, while a wrong turn outside of Montana brought me to a lonely stretch of the canal hidden in the woods of Scott's Mountain. As interesting as it all was, something was missing: the actual mechanical workings of the canal. Without that, you're just looking at a series of long ditches. Yeah, they're historical, but they show no indication of why the Morris Canal was such a big deal.

And it was a big deal, and still is now, 90 years after it went out of business. You see, to traverse its 102 mile run across north-central New Jersey, the Morris Canal had to surmount a total altitude change of 1674 feet (760 feet up from Phillipsburg to Lake Hopatcong, and then down 914 feet from the Lake to Jersey City). Canals generally use locks to float watercraft to a higher altitude or down to a lower one, as the Delaware and Raritan Canal did to overcome its 55 foot altitude change.

Having to manage a lot of height in a relatively short range, the engineers designing the Morris had to come up with something much different. Sure, they built locks to handle the smaller elevation rises, but the really pronounced peaks and valleys were addressed with a system of inclined planes that made the Morris a technological marvel for its time.

Plane 9W is just 4.5 miles from the canal's start in Phillipsburg.

The inclined plane is essentially a big ramp with machinery that pulls the canal boat up or down a ramp and deposits it back in the canal at the other end. To start, the boat would be floated onto a cradle car that acted as a little train, hauled on tracks by steel cable wound through a pulley system. The whole thing was powered by water shunted from the canal, through an elevated flume, into a powerhouse and down a 47-foot tall chute to a large turbine. Leaving by way of an underground tail race, the water would be returned to the canal, so nothing was lost.

Each inclined plane (and there were 23 of them over the route of the canal) did the work of the many locks that would be needed to make up for that degree of altitude change. The vast majority are gone now, some having been paved over as roads like Plane Street in Boonton.

Plane 9W's reaction-type or "Scotch" turbine was designated
a National Historic Mechanical Engineering Landmark in 1979.

The technology would have been left for history texts had it not been for a man named Jim Lee. Just after World War II, he bought the Stewartsville property on which plane 9W had stood, including the plane tender's house and remnants of the sleeper stones and cable which had been part of the site's apparatus. While the 100 foot tall incline was still there, the wooden flume and powerhouse had been demolished by the State, and much of the debris was tossed into the underground shafts, burying the turbine.

Jim, his family and friends set to work excavating the workings over the course of many years, clearing out the turbine chamber and finding scores of artifacts. In the process, Jim became the foremost expert on the Morris Canal, welcoming visitors to check out the old plane and turbine room. Though he died in 2007, his family continues to share the story on the property, which is now a Warren County park. They make special arrangements for school groups and the like, but it's open to the general public only seven times a year, on the second Sunday of the month, from April to October.

The 5.5 foot circumference tailrace took water from the turbine
back out to the canal at the lower end of the plane.

There's so much that makes the site cool that I barely know where to start. First off, it's absolutely mind blowing to consider the love and dedication behind Jim's work to unearth and share the story of Plane 9W and the Morris Canal. It's a huge testament to what a motivated history lover can do if he or she puts energy and persistence into gear. For someone to rescue a historic site on his own initiative, and then open it to others -- well, that takes a special person.

Next, there's the interpretation of the site. We were fortunate to get a tour from Jim's grandson, Jim Lee III, who's an industrial archaeologist when he's not educating people about the canal. First sharing the history and rationale for building the canal (a story for a future Hidden New Jersey entry), he led us through the technology behind the inclined plane in a way that revealed the ingenuity behind the designers' solution to a tough problem. Even if you're mechanically challenged, you'll come away with a clear understanding and a huge respect for the canal's builders.

A portion of the steel tow cable.

And finally, there's the ground you cover during the tour. Jim brought us through the stone-lined tailrace tunnel to see the turbine underground that powered the plane's tow rope, and then to the top of the plane to inspect the sleeper stones that once acted as a bed for the cradle car rails. Remnants of the steel tow cable snake through the grass, rusted but still looking very strong. At every stop along the way, Jim gave us insights about life on the canal and its impact on the communities it traveled through.

The last stop on the tour is the Jim and Mary Lee Museum, a room within the plane tender's house. While plenty of artifacts and photos are on display, I have to say my favorite was the conch that once belonged to Mary Lee's grandfather, who was one of her many relatives to work on the canal. Sea snail shells may seem out of place in western New Jersey, but they were a common sight along the Morris. Barge crew would sound the conch's trombone-like note to alert lock and plane tenders of their imminent arrival. As Jim demonstrated, they make quite a commanding sound when you blow into one end.

As an appreciator of all things innovative in New Jersey, I found it heartening to see how many people stopped by to visit Plane 9 and the museum during the hour or so that we were there. Such an important site, interpreted so well, deserves a large audience. If you'd like to visit or arrange a tour for a group, check out the Morris Canal website for more information.

Beauty after the encampment: Bernardsville's Cross estate

Morristown National Historical Park is deceptively large, holding surprises for those who go beyond the obvious to seek out the entirety of its acreage. Sure, you've got the Ford Mansion that was Washington's headquarters during the two winters the Continental forces were stationed in town, and property on a hill not far away held fortifications later known as Fort Nonsense. Farther outside town, Jockey Hollow dramatizes the legend of Tempe Wick and the tribulations faced by the Pennsylvania brigade during the harsh winter of 1779-1780.

To get a true sense of the enormity of the Morristown encampment, you need to do a bit of driving. The National Park Service makes no secret of the fact that over 10,000 soldiers were stationed there during the worst winter, but it's easy to overlook the fact that Jockey Hollow wasn't the only spot they took up. Troops were spread out for miles. Our own spiritual forebears, the New Jersey Brigade, endured the winter about two miles away from Jockey Hollow, on a steep plot of land in what's now Bernardsville. You might say that beggars couldn't be choosers when it came to a campsite: the 900 men were among the last to get to the encampment in 1779, arriving on December 17. Rapidly building shelter for the winter, they moved into their cabins on Christmas Day.

Even in the earliest days of spring, visitors can imagine the beauty
of Cross estate gardens 

When I went to check it out, I found another interesting, yet more recent treasure: the Cross estate gardens.

Bedminster is known as one of Somerset County's more affluent communities, and when you take Jockey Hollow Road to get to the encampment site, you get an eyeful of why. A series of large estates is nestled in what became known as the Mountain Colony of the town, a place where wealthy city dwellers could escape the stresses of urban life. (Check out this map for perspective on just how popular the area became around the turn of the 20th century.)

Land surrounding the New Jersey Brigade campsite was purchased in 1903 by civil engineer John Anderson Bensel and his wife. A graduate of Stevens Institute of Technology, Bensel held a series of jobs that had him working around water, including chief engineer for the New York City Dock Department. While building a 23-room stone mansion for himself and his wife, he applied his professional acumen to providing water for the property. The product, a five-story high stone water tower, remains as a landmark of sorts on the property, though it's no longer topped by the windmill or ringed by balconies Bensel designed.

Lighthouse in the hills?
No, a water tower.

Alterations on the structures came with the second owners, W. Redmond and Julia Appleton Newbold Cross, who purchased the property in 1929. For many years the president of the New York Horticultural Society, Mrs. Cross is credited with improving the gardens, in concert with regionally-known landscape architect Clarence Fowler.

Much of the estate was purchased by the Park Service in 1975 as a buffer to protect the New Jersey Brigade encampment from possible future development. However, the formal English-style gardens the Crosses had cherished continued to lay untended and overgrown, as the NPS had no resources to care for or cultivate them. Fortunately, local residents came together to rediscover the paths, walls and borders, trimming back the overgrowth and replacing what specimens had been lost. The gardens are now much as they were in the 30's and 40's.

When I visited, the grounds still held a few small mounds of persistent snow, and there was little evidence of an awakening garden. Even on that cloudy early spring day, though, I could see the garden has real potential. It's beautifully laid out with a view of the Watchungs, backed with a wide, vine-entangled pergola. Well-placed benches offer a pleasing spot to sit and take in the sights and smells of flowering plants. Walking between rows of shrubbery, I enjoyed the aroma of damp boxwood plants, always the hallmark (for me, at least), of a historic garden. It would be the perfect place for a genteel afternoon tea, or simply as a spot to rest and meditate after a long hike from Jockey Hollow.

We'll be sure to return when the greenery has returned.

A truly Revolutionary doctor: Warren County's Peggy Warne

World War II brought us Rosie the Riveter, the fictional female defense worker who represented hundreds of thousands of real women who took jobs in industry to replace men who were called to war. "Rosies" around the country not only relieved a critical labor shortage, they proved that women were capable of taking on what had been considered "men's" work.

While Rosie is a lasting icon of the mid 20th century, there's no similar character to represent the women who ably filled the labor gap during earlier conflicts. Sure, Mary Ludwig Hays became known as Molly Pitcher when she took up the cannon in place of her injured husband at the Battle of Monmouth, but what of the women who didn't serve in combat? For the most part, one has to dig into history books, study roadside markers or scour graveyards to find them.

Warren County's Peggy Warne is a classic example.

A member of one of New Jersey's oldest families, Margrietje Vliet was born sometime between 1746 and 1751 in Six Mile Run (now part of Franklin Township), Somerset County. The Vliet family had already been in the New World for nearly a century by then, having emigrated from Holland to Flatbush, Long Island when the territory was still in the hands of the Dutch.

In her mid twenties, Peggy married Joseph Warne, grandson of one of the original proprietors of East Jersey (for a quick primer on the proprietors, check out this story. Suffice to say, the Warnes had lived in New Jersey for quite some time.). Joseph's father George gave the young couple 130 acres of farmland in what was then Mansfield-Woodhouse, Sussex County, now Broadway, Warren County.

The Warnes had a total of nine children -- six daughters and three sons -- but Peggy still had time to serve as midwife for the community. At the time, helping mothers through childbirth was the exclusive domain of women; doctors didn't handle pregnancies or deliveries, and few physicians lived in the sparsely-populated area, anyway.

When colonists began rebelling against British rule, both the Vliet and Warne families took up the cause. Peggy's father served as a captain under General William "Scotch Willie" Maxwell during the Revolution, while five of her brothers served in various ranks of the New Jersey Militia. While it's not clear whether Joseph Warnes fought in the war, three of his brothers did, leaving little doubt that he supported the patriot cause one way or another.

Peggy couldn't take up arms with so many children at home, but she could do the next best thing. Expanding her existing medical practice, she assumed the role of country doctor, caring for neighbors with ailments well beyond her usual obstetrical duties. According to Hunterdon County historian James Snell, "she not only practiced in her own neighborhood, but kept a horse ready night and day and rode into the surrounding country, through Warren and Hunterdon Counties, undeterred by rain, hail or drifting snow." Some accounts even credit her with tending to soldiers injured in battle, perhaps after they'd returned home.

Whether she did or didn't handle combat wounds, Peggy Warne definitely was an able replacement for doctors who'd left their local practices to join the Continental Army or New Jersey Militia. She's credited as being the first physician at the community now known as Broadway, and she continued her obstetrical practice well into the 1800s. The Phillipsburg chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution is named in her honor.

I spy a patriot: the art and espionage of Patience Lovell Wright

Keep your eyes open in the remarkable colonial community of Bordentown, and you'll find the intersection of art and patriotism. Standing directly across the street from the home of composer, poet, satirist and statesman Francis Hopkinson is the former dwelling of America's first native-born sculptor, Patience Lovell Wright. Justifiably admired for her artwork, she's also rumored to have been a spy during the Revolutionary War.

Like Hopkinson, Wright wasn't born in New Jersey, but the then-colony was important to her formative years. A few years after her 1725 birth in Oyster Bay, Long Island, her family settled near the Delaware River in a community that would later be named Bordentown. Strict Quakers, her parents adhered to a rather hard-core lifestyle, demanding that Patience and her sister Rachel wear white in public and conform to a strict vegetarian diet. Nonetheless, the girls found an outlet for their creativity by molding forms from clay they made from flour and water.

Patience is said to have been a headstrong young woman, leaving her parents' home at the age of 16 to live in Philadelphia. Several years later, she married the much older Joseph Wright and returned to Bordentown. Though she later observed that her husband had "nothing but age and money to recommend himself," the couple had four children; a fifth was born not long after Joseph's death in 1769.

Left with the family house but no other allowances from Joseph's estate to support her children, Patience turned to the craft that brought her so much pleasure as a child: sculpting. The fashionable medium of the day was wax, and with the endorsement of her neighbor Hopkinson, she soon became well known for her extraordinarily accurate, life-sized renditions of human subjects.

She and Rachel opened waxworks in New York and Philadelphia, and Patience in particular drew attention for her particularly earthy work practices. One could say that she set the standard early for the quirkier American artists to come. Given the properties of wax, the medium had to be kept warm to be pliable, an especially important detail for Patience's lifelike renditions. She'd cradle the large blocks of wax under a cloth in her lap, engaging in frank conversation with her subjects as they sat for her. When she finished sculpting a bust, she'd unveil it dramatically, as if she were giving birth to it.

Following a fire at her New York studio, Wright left the colonies for London in 1771 at the recommendation of Benjamin Franklin's sister Jane Mecom. The Franklin connection was her entre to the upper classes of English society, who were fascinated by her talent and her plain-spoken, egalitarian ways, as much as they were taken by the flattery she lavished on them. It's said that King George III and his wife Charlotte even allowed her to address them by name rather than honorific. She knew how to work her audience.

All the while, revolutionary sentiment was growing in the colonies, and Wright was an ardent supporter, even going as far as reprimanding the king for refusing to granting independence. She quickly recognized that the warm relationships she'd cultivated with members of Parliament gave her access to information her fellow patriots would find useful. Using sculpted heads and busts as cover, she sent several messages to Franklin, detailing her conjecture on which influential British leaders might be persuaded to take up the patriot cause.

Wright's candor and relentlessness seem to have backfired on her after the events of Lexington and Concord in 1775. While her egalitarian manner of relating to her patrons might have been endearing to nobles and the king in the past, her strident refusal to stop talking about the Revolution made her persona non grata in society. Left without her pipeline of sources, she became less useful as a spy, even as she reportedly pleaded with Franklin to support a British rebellion against the crown.

It's not clear how she made a living during the first years of the Revolution, but a move to Paris in 1780 was largely unsuccessful. Returning to England two years later, she continued beseeching her former patrons in America for opportunities to sculpt the Founding Fathers. Some sources say that only George Washington responded favorably, but Wright died before they could arrange a sitting.

Interestingly, the only work of Patience Lovell Wright's that survives is of William Pitt, Earl of Chatham, a supporter of American independence. And despite her reported desire to be buried in her beloved United States, she rests somewhere in London. Rachel had pleaded with both Congress and her sister's former supporters in America for funding to bring her remains back; her requests went unanswered.

Here's to you, Dr. Robinson: finding the 17th century in Clark

One of the fascinating aspects of Northern New Jersey is how history is sometimes obscured within the community that's developed around it. You can walk or drive past a centuries-old building and not realize it, given how it's seemingly shoehorned between a gas station and a Dunkin Donuts. I'm struck by this every time I drive through an intersection where the Merchants and Drovers Tavern stands in Rahway. Several buildings nearby look distinctly Colonial and old enough to be authentic, but there's no signage to confirm it.

Not far from the Merchants and Drovers is a house that had already been standing a century when the tavern and those other structures were built. In fact, the house in question was built in the days of East and West Jersey, 85 years before the start of the American Revolution.

The Robinson House, 21st century...

Now that's OLD. It's so old that when it was built as a farmhouse for physician and surgeon William Robinson and his family, the surrounding land wasn't known as a farm but as a plantation. Today, it's still got a nice piece of land around it -- by Union County standards, at least -- but much of the plantation has been replaced by a much newer housing development. And for a period of time, it was seemingly just another house, maybe appearing not so remarkable in context with its neighbors.

Dr. Robinson came to East Jersey in June 1684, as part of a movement of Scots encouraged to settle in the English colonies of the New World. Finding the area suitable, he returned to Scotland to retrieve his family to settle here in 1686. He'd bought a parcel of land on the Rahway River and built the a house in 1690, eventually expanding his holdings to nearly 750 acres.

... and a century ago.

Viewing the house from the street, it's difficult to believe that people lived there until 1965, a feeling that's perpetuated when you go inside to discover a rustic interior with authentic wooden beams and floors. However, it changed with the times, and archival photos show the exterior with additional windows and a dormer on the roof, suggesting that the interior was likely remodeled extensively over the years.

After gaining possession of the house in 1973, the Township of Clark restored the building to its original rustic, New England style look, eliminating extra windows and other features that had been added since Dr. Robinson's day. It's been lauded by historians as a superior example of early American architecture, one of the few still existing in the country that incorporates aspects of medieval architecture.

Likewise, the Clark Historical Society has assembled a fun collection of artifacts from Dr. Robinson's era and beyond. Regular visitors to Colonial house museums will recognize some of the staples -- spinning wheel, candle molds, butter churn, bedwarmer -- but the Medicine Room is a special treat. Besides a representative sample of herbs used by physicians of Robinson's day, artifacts include a blood-letting knife that would have been used to draw the "bad blood" from an ailing patient.

When you visit, be sure to check out the cellar and the attic, too. Upstairs, the Historical Society maintains a wall-mounted, poster-sized scrap book that includes photos of the restoration process, along with maps, an inventory of Robinson's property at death, and documentation on the house's provenance. The cellar, once the probable shelter protecting livestock from bad weather and predators, now holds an assortment of items that range into the 20th century. Depending on your age, you might remember some of them from your grandparents' garage or basement, or possibly from the Smithsonian.

Step outside and you're back in the 21st century, wondering about the mysteries other houses might hold. Could there be a home in your own neighborhood, older than it appears to be?

From copper mine to steamboat, the New Jersey ventures of Nicholas Roosevelt

When inclement weather forces us Hidden New Jerseyans to curtail travel, we often turn to other means of exploration. The reference books and histories we've picked up over the years aren't quite those roadside markers we stop to check out on county roads, but they've got some unexpected gems, nonetheless.

One of my new favorites is the New Jersey Almanac Tercentenary Edition published by the Trenton Evening Times in 1964 to commemorate the state's 300th anniversary. Besides giving an illuminating look at life in the Garden State 50 years ago, it contains lists upon lists of interesting tidbits like two-sentence bios of notable New Jerseyans, brief descriptions of towns and cities, and a year-by-year guide to events of importance.

It's an entry in that last category that caught my eye during a recent snowstorm. The big event for the year 1794 is: "Nicholas Roosevelt made first steam engine ever built entirely in America at his shop "Soho" in Belleville."

Roosevelt? As in Teddy Roosevelt and FDR? The New York Roosevelts?

Absolutely. Nicholas Roosevelt was not only the cousin (several generations back) of both Presidents Roosevelt, you could say he was one of New Jersey's first industrialists.

Born in New York in 1767, Roosevelt's first foray into New Jersey was in the early 1790s, when he became linked to what, even then, was thought of as the old Schuyler Mine in North Arlington. Originating in 1719 when an enslaved worker on Arent Schuyler's farm found a copper nugget on the property, the mine closed in 1772 after a disastrous fire. Roosevelt and partners formed the New Jersey Copper Mine Association in 1793 to restart mining operations at the site, a venture that ultimately failed.

Though the mine was a disappointment, it was the stepping stone into New Jersey that led to Roosevelt's greater acclaim. Purchasing land in Second River (now Belleville), he built a foundry, smelter and machine shop to build steam engines. Dubbed Soho after a similar enterprise in Birmingham, England, the shop became known as one of the nation's top foundries, supplying engines for notable clients like the Philadelphia Waterworks. The business took a severe financial hit, however, when a government contract to supply rolled copper for warships was cancelled.

Among those taking note of the quality of Soho's engines was transportation engineer John Stevens. Already experimenting with steam-driven boats, he and his partner Robert Livingston commissioned Soho in 1797 to build an engine for the Polacca, a craft with a stern-mounted propeller. Roosevelt was already familiar with self-propelled boats, having experimented with spring-driven paddleboat technology as a youth. When the Polacca proved to be much slower than anticipated, Roosevelt advocated the use of a side-mounted wheel, but Livingston refused to consider the concept.

Roosevelt had, indeed, come up with a solution so workable that it was later adopted by Robert Fulton. You might recognize that name: he's the engineer who's usually linked most directly with the successful development of the steamboat. I've seen a few different accounts of how this came to be, but the most interesting one is that Livingston suggested the side-mounted wheel to Fulton without telling him where the idea had originated. And according to a website citing sources at the FDR Library and Museum, some Roosevelt family members continue to claim that Nicholas was the true inventor of the steamboat.

It's not clear exactly when Roosevelt left New Jersey for good, but by 1810 he'd entered into a partnership with Fulton and Livingston to run a steamboat down the Mississippi River. He died in Skaneateles, NY in 1854, his contributions to steam powered technology now largely forgotten while other inventors continue to enjoy acclaim.

I just wonder what other gems are hiding in the Tercentenary Almanac, just waiting to be unearthed.

Refining Gloucester's Revolutionary history: Paulsboro's Fort Billings

You wouldn't know it from its neighbors, but a small park tucked between two oil refineries on the banks of the Delaware River has a very distinct place in American history. Not only is it the site of a Revolutionary War fort, it was the very first land purchase made by the United States Government. Fittingly, I decided to visit on Veterans Day.

On first glance, Paulsboro wouldn't seem to be the place for an 18th century historic site. Downtown has seen better days, houses are tightly packed together and as you get closer to the riverfront, you're addressed by the sights and smells of the refineries that sit on the shoreline. I'd heard somewhere that years ago Standard Oil had placed a monument at the site of Fort Billings on or near its own property, so I was hoping that it was now a publicly-accessible site.

That it is, and well marked. Heading westward from downtown, I reached the end of North Delaware Street to find this sign at the entrance to a park.

In the distance, beyond a small playground and pavilion, I could see a flag flying in the breeze. Getting out of the car, I was immediately hit by refinery odors, but as I walked toward the flag, the smell dissipated in the breeze. Maybe it wouldn't be so hard to imagine the fort, after all.

Fort Billings' memorial flagpole.

Fort Billings is essentially a small but integral part of the story of the little known Battle of Red Bank and, ultimately, the defense of Philadelphia during the Revolution. The site was originally purchased from the Paul family (of Paulsboro fame) by the Council of Safety of Philadelphia and billed to Congress on July 5, 1776. Less than a year later, Fort Billings (or Billingsport, depending on your source) was built under the guidance of General Thaddeus Kosciusko in his first engineering assignment from Congress. Located four miles south of Red Bank's Fort Mercer, it was one of three installations built to protect Philadelphia from a British naval invasion. Soldiers stationed at the fort submerged obstacles called chevaux de frise strategically in the river to damage the hulls of any enemy ships that might try to venture up the river. Billings also maintained a signal cannon as part of the American army's system to warn other forts of an approaching British attack.

Fort Billings' history was relatively brief but notable. Thinking twice about the substantial obstacles blocking their entry by water, British forces approached Philadelphia by land instead, eventually taking the city on September 26, 1777. They still had one major problem: as long as the Delaware was inaccessible, supplies couldn't reach the city. General William Howe, commanding the British forces, ordered the destruction of all American defenses along the river, and Billings was the first target.

Though New Jersey militia fought bravely, they were unable to stop the British approach on Billings a few days later. General George Washington ordered the evacuation of the fort, and on October 2, Continental Marine Lieutenants William Barney and Dennis Leary safely brought the 112-man garrison and its ammunition on board the Andrew Doria for transport across the river to Fort Mifflin.

To ensure that the British wouldn't be able to easily capitalize on the fort's strategic position, a small group stayed behind to render the cannons unusable and burn down the fort. Close to finishing their duties when the Redcoats arrived, the Americans exchanged gunfire with the enemy briefly before jumping into the last rowboat to make their way to safety.

There's not much at the site now to tell the full story or connect it with the better-curated Fort Mercer site in National Park. One memorial notes the presence of the fort, while another recognizes Leary and Barney for leading the evacuation of 112 men but says nothing of the impact in saved lives. A third plaque from the Copernicus Society notes Kosciusko's contributions as a military engineer. Though all evidence of the fort itself is gone, we can be happy the name and these few acknowledgements are on site to pique curiosity and interest among those who don't know the story.

History revised, Cornwallis redirected: Closter Landing and the times that try mens' souls

After a visit to the State Line Lookout hawkwatch in Palisades Interstate Park, we took an exploratory drive literally down the cliff to Alpine Landing. Once known as Closter Landing or Closter Dock, this sea-level portion of the park offers easy access to the Hudson River and once served as a terminal point for ferries traversing between New Jersey and New York. It also provides an interesting lesson in the ways history can become distorted or revised, based on faulty information or the passage of time.

Mistakes were made...

According to an old historic marker at the base of the Palisades, the British took advantage of this favorable landing spot on November 18, 1776, starting the chain of events which resulted in the evacuation of Fort Lee (the military installation, not the town) and Washington's retreat across New Jersey into Pennsylvania. You might recall that we covered this unhappy turn of events after our visit to New Bridge Landing last year. Once across the Hudson, the troops were said to have taken a stone paved road up the embankment, then turning south to reach Fort Lee. What's more, their commander, General Lord Cornwallis, is said to have appropriated a nearby house and tavern for his headquarters. Some even said that the tavern's owner, Rachel Kearney, served beverages to Cornwallis as he plotted his troops' next moves.

The house and the road are still there, but the story is off by a distance and a few days. As a much newer, adjacent waymarking sign states, the actual date was November 20, and scholarship now proves that Cornwallis' troops landed at a place known as Huyler's Landing about a mile to the south. The timing error, it seems, may have been due to some hasty record-keeping by a British officer. In any case, the nearby road was no doubt used by generations of travelers and locals who plied the river, but it most likely was not trod by invading Redcoats.

The Kearney House, awaiting post-Sandy restoration.

It's doubtful that the house's history includes a general's stay, and Mrs. Kearney wasn't born until 1780, four years after the British crossed the Hudson that November. She and her second husband, James Kearney, didn't move into the home until 1817. Still, historians have it on fairly reliable word that Rachel converted the family home to a tavern after James' death in 1831, eventually building an addition to accommodate more business and lodgers. It was a savvy move, as the site was landing point for many river travelers and even hosted a steam-powered oat and coffee mill starting in the 1860s. The tavern kept rivermen fed and in good spirits until it was purchased by the Palisades Interstate Park Commission in 1907 as part of a larger plan to preserve the Palisades and build a public recreation area.

Today, the Kearney house stands as a reminder of habitation and industry at Alpine Landing, though it currently wears the evidence of 21st century intervention. The small white wood and stone structure was inundated by floodwaters during Hurricane Sandy, and plywood covers the lower windows as well as a large hole in a lower wall. Restoration is underway, based on the meticulous documentation the Commission has done of the building over the past century. Fortunately, the park and volunteers anticipated the potential for flooding and moved many artifacts to the upper floors before the storm, though other pieces were later retrieved from various spots on the landing where the storm had deposited them.

First stop on the Cannon Ball run? Springfield!

An internet search of "Cannon Ball House" reveals a number of historic houses in America that had the misfortune of being hit by large-caliber ammunition, either during the Revolution or the Civil War. There's even a Cannonball Malt Shop in Gettysburg, a town that probably holds the U.S. record for number of structures marred by embedded ordnance. While the concept itself isn't all that rare, Union County is probably unique in New Jersey for having two such houses: the Osborne home in Scotch Plains, which was hit during the 1777 Battle of the Short Hills, and the Springfield Cannon Ball House, struck during the 1780 Battle of Springfield.

I’ve passed the Springfield house far too many times without ever stopping to visit. It’s only open for special occasions, so when I heard it was a participating site on Union County’s Four Centuries Weekend, I made it my first stop of the day.

The mustard-colored, Georgian style house was built sometime around 1760 on a plot of land that was substantially larger than the approximately suburban-tract-house sized lot it occupies now. Importantly, it was on the main road west from Elizabeth – the same track British troops took in their second attempt to capture Washington and his troops at Morristown. On June 23, 1780, those troops were met by an American militia as fierce as the one they’d faced two weeks earlier in Connecticut Farms, spurred on by a spirited Rev. James Caldwell. In addition to acting as the chaplain for the Third New Jersey Regiment, Caldwell was a fierce proponent of independence. When the troops began to run out of paper wadding for their muskets, he took Watts hymnals from the nearby Presbyterian church, shouting, “Give ‘em Watts, boys!”

Though outmatched and outnumbered, the Americans repulsed the combined British and Hessian troops, and the Battle of Springfield was the last major Revolutionary War battle fought on northern soil. The small village was decimated as the opposing forces burned down the church and all but four homes before they left. It’s theorized that the Cannon Ball House survived only because it was used as a hospital for injured soldiers.

The Springfield cannonball.

The house stayed in private hands for several years, likely no more distinctive than any of the other surviving colonial-era houses. Then, sometime in the 1920s, a previously unknown cannon ball fell out of the western wall, lending its name and provenance to the abode. Since no cannon presumably had been fired in town since 1780, the ball had to have gotten there during the battle, right? Local lore stated that it was of British origin, though common sense would suppose it came from an American cannon, given that the locals were protecting the town from westbound invaders.

You might visit the Cannon Ball House to check out the story, but you’ll find much more when you get there. The Springfield Historical Society maintains the property and a range of artifacts to tell the story of the town and notable residents. While I was there, they had an extensive Civil War exhibit featuring Captain Edward Wade, a Springfielder who fought at Antietam and died from wounds suffered in battle. Other exhibits told the story of two brothers who’d grown up in town, one who fought on the Union side and the other for the Confederate. They even had a remarkably well-preserved piece of hardtack.

As I mentioned, the Cannon Ball House is open only for occasional special events and by appointment. If you'd like to check it out, contact the Historical Society at 973-376-4784.

Robert Erskine, Ringwood and the West Point chain

We're rather accustomed to finding unusual things on our journeys, but I'm still tickled when a random discovery unexpectedly links up with something I'd seen long ago. Most recently, it wasn't just a link: it was a chain.

The roots of the story are in a trip I made awhile ago to Constitution Island in the Hudson River. While I was there, I learned that the American forces tried a number of approaches to prevent the British Navy from advancing on strategically-important rivers. For example, not far from Fort Mercer on the Delaware, they modified a French system called chevaux-de-frise. It was conceptually the same as those spikes used in toll lanes and parking garages to prevent drivers from backing up in key areas (you know… the ones that puncture your tires if you go in the wrong direction). American General Robert Erskine devised a nautical version that, once sunk across the river, would wreak havoc on the hulls of any ships that dared to cross.

While these spikes were used in the Hudson, the Americans added another blocking mechanism for good measure. Fearing that the British would attempt to sail upriver from their stronghold in Manhattan, they placed a massive chain across the river between West Point and Constitution Island. That portion of the river was already difficult to navigate by ship, and the theory was that slowing traffic even further would provide additional time for the Americans to fire on their opponents from the elevated West Point vantage. From 1778 to 1782, the chain was set out in the spring to block passage, and then removed in the fall to prevent damage from ice in the winter.

Ultimately, the British never tried to get past the chain, though Benedict Arnold reportedly had claimed it could be breached. Some of the massive links were saved, though others were melted down for salvage. I saw a bunch during my visit to Constitution Island, where the anchor point and a short length are preserved near the dock.

What does this have to do with New Jersey? Consider that Washington and his military leadership relied on the state’s significant iron mines and forges for weapons and ammunition, earning the state the sobriquet of Arsenal of the Revolution. The chain had to be made somewhere, and it only made sense that it came from here.

Thing is, while I was fairly certain of that, I wasn’t sure exactly where it was made or where it ended up. Someone had told Ivan that a length of the chain was being used as a decorative border in front of a building near the Wayne/Paterson border, but when we checked it out, I saw that the links were very different from those I'd seen near the Hudson.

A pre-hurricane visit to Ringwood Manor helped to solve the mystery. The Manor, of course, was home to General Erskine, Washington’s chief geographer and surveyor during the war, as well as the operator of the Long Pond Ironworks. His mansion is fronted by several impressive examples of American military history, including the cannon used on the main deck of the U.S.S. Constitution during the War of 1812, and a mortar used during the Civil War. They're both lined up against a massive 25-link length of chain and an anvil. No markers are there to explain the significance of the ironwork, and if you didn’t know better, you’d probably write off the chain as a coarse border or maybe a length that had once tethered an anchor to a ship. I immediately had my suspicions about its provenance, and a bit of research proved it out: it's part of the Hudson chain, come to rest where it was manufactured.

Thing is, when I looked into the history of the Hudson chain a little more deeply, it seems to have many fathers and many origins. Some will tell you that the entire chain was fabricated in New York State, while others will state that various lengths were made in different places and then assembled near West Point. I've also found a reputable source that asserts that the entire thing was made at Erskine's iron works.

What's the real story? I think you know where I stand on the issue, and I'm pretty confident I'm right. I'm not a metallurgist or an expert on 18th century ironworks, but to me, the Ringwood Manor chain looks a heck of a lot like the Constitution Island chain.

The Elizabethtown Presidential mansion: Boxwood Hall

One of the highlights of my Union County travels during this year's Four Centuries Weekend was a visit to the home of former United States President Elias Boudinot, in Elizabeth.

Yes, you read that right: New Jersey was actually home to a president other than Grover Cleveland, and like Cleveland's, his home is now a state historic site. The eight room, mid-18th century Boxwood Hall is now a shadow of what it was in Boudinot's time, when the mansion held 18 rooms and the surrounding property covered four city blocks.

Boxwood Hall (courtesy NJ Division of Parks and Forestry)

Before I get into the highlights of the house, let me clear up the presidential confusion. As you know, the 13 colonies declared independence from Great Britain in 1776, and the Constitution we're governed under was ratified in 1787. In between, the central government operated under the Articles of Confederation, by which power was concentrated in individual states, which were in a 'league of friendship' with one another. The president of Congress thus had largely ceremonial duties, and was elected by the legislature to preside over meetings and act as an impartial moderator over debates. Boudinot was the second man to hold the position, presiding between November 4, 1782 and November 2, 1783.

Boudinot's historical contributions far exceed his rather brief and somewhat nominal leadership of our country. A member of the New Jersey Provincial Congress in 1775, he served as an aide to New Jersey Militia commander and future Governor William Livingston. His presidential term was just part of his overall service in Congress, as he also served three terms in the House of Representatives between 1789 and 1805.

Just as I have on other visits to historic homes around the state, I ran into a few familiar names at Boxwood Hall. Our good friend Alexander Hamilton was a guest there while studying at Elizabethtown Academy, just before making a longer stay at William Livingston's Liberty Hall. (One might wonder why he moved, as Boxwood is much closer to the school. Maybe he was more taken by Livingston's daughters than by Boudinot's family?) Forming a close and lasting friendship with the young and ambitious student, Boudinot later supported Hamilton's proposed fiscal programs while in Congress.

George Washington also made a visit to Boxwood Hall, not during the Revolution, but just before his first inaugural. He'd taken about a week to travel from his Virginia home to New York, which was then the capital of the young country, and Elizabethtown was his final stop before reaching the city.

Upon becoming director of the U.S. Mint in 1795, Boudinot moved to Philadelphia and sold Boxwood Hall to Jonathan Dayton. A patriot in his own right, Dayton had been the youngest signer of the U.S. Constitution and Speaker of the House of Representatives. (As a side note, he was also friends with Aaron Burr and was indicted for treason in the ex-vice president's alleged attempted western land grab.)

Boxwood Hall may be more modest in size today than it was during Boudinot's day, but it's a true gem in a city that highlights aspects of its substantial Colonial heritage while hosting a diverse, multicultural population of immigrants and first generation Americans. Two young student volunteers told me the story of the house and its furnishings, and they were clearly excited to have notable history right in their own neighborhood. I couldn't help but share in their enthusiasm, and it reminded me why it's so important to preserve and maintain places like Boxwood Hall.

Francis Hopkinson: bringing wit to the Revolution

The dry history lessons of our school days often did a disservice to some really cool and interesting people. Without checking out the stories much further than we did in grade school, we often miss the true spirit of some dynamic, clever and even fun people who shaped the world we live in.

Hopkinson's Bordentown residence, where he
presumably wrote his satirical ditties.

Take, for example, Francis Hopkinson, signer of the Declaration of Independence and resident of Bordentown during the Revolution. As we found out during our August visit, he was a bit of a renaissance guy, having also designed the state seal while dabbling in science and the performing arts. He's acknowledged to be the composer of the earliest surviving secular song written in the United States, and he invented a floating lamp.

Interestingly, the plaque on his house also noted that he was a 'great satirist,' a designation you don't often see on historic markers. During the Revolutionary War, he wrote several poems to tweak the British, one of which memorializes an act of harassment on the Delaware River that started in Bordentown and ended in Philadelphia.

It all started on January 6, 1778, when a substantial number of ships in the British fleet were located in the Philadelphia harbor. Working at the behest of several patriots, a cooper in Bordentown constructed several kegs which were then loaded with gunpowder and outfitted with trigger mechanisms. These makeshift mines were then floated down the Delaware, intended to detonate and damage British ships which were assumed to be at anchor in the river.

The scheme didn't go quite as planned. Due to icy conditions in the river, the Redcoats had docked most of their ships at port, leaving little opportunity for the kegs to collide with them along the flow of the river. Only one of the incendiary devices exploded, killing four crew members who'd attempted to haul it up onto a British barge.

In response, British officers ordered their men on shore to fire at any mass floating in the river. Given that it was nighttime, soldiers couldn't differentiate between the kegs and other flotsam, leading them to fire wildly at ice floes and logs as much as the explosive barrels.

While the keg plot itself was a failure, Hopkinson saw the episode as opportunity to promote the hapless British response. When you need fodder for propaganda, nothing bolsters the spirits quite like your opponents' miscues. The Battle of the Kegs is a spirited ditty when sung to the tune of Yankee Doodle, though Hopkinson cheated on the meter a bit by including far too many "sirs." By tweaking the poor judgment of the British on that chilly evening, it demonstrated that the Americans weren't cowed by their opponents' military might.

Had Hopkinson been born 250 years later, he might have used his talents on Saturday Night Live. Instead, his poems and songs traveled by word of mouth, encouraging his fellow patriots to continue the fight and consider independence a wholly realistic possibility.

A cup of tea with Washington?

If you're of a certain age, you might recall that certain older houses had signs which declared that George Washington had slept in them. Travelers were led to believe that any given old cottage might have hosted the Father of Our Country during the Revolutionary War, and while many of the stories were apocryphal, others had their basis in fact.

One of those places was the Hermitage in Ho Ho Kus. A few months ago, we reported the home's notable place in American history as a momentary headquarters for General George Washington and as the site where future Vice President Aaron Burr and his first wife Theodosia Prevost were married. Those events took place relatively early in the home's history. For most of the structure's existence, it was owned by the Rosencrantz family, members of which lived there until 1970.

The Hermitage was originally a small part of a large holding of land, buildings and business concerns. Over the years, however, various family members divested mills and a great deal of acreage. By 1915, the last male Rosencrantz to live in the house had died, leaving behind his 62 year-old unmarried sister Bess and his 32 year-old daughter Mary Elizabeth. No provisions to pay for operation of the house had been made in his will, and the other men in the family urged the women to sell the property and move someplace more economical.

Bess and Mary Elizabeth, however, wouldn't consider leaving their historic home. Instead, they took a facet of what makes it remarkable and used it to their advantage. They opened the parlor of the Hermitage as a tea room in 1917, capitalizing on its place in history to attract business. While sipping on tea and enjoying sandwiches, patrons would be treated to Revolutionary-era stories that might or might not have been completely true. Did Continental soldiers or Hessians travel the property through hidden tunnels? Did Washington and his fellow Freemasons conduct secret ritual in one of the house's original rooms? The one thing we can be assured of is that visitors were well entertained.

Dey Mansion - Washington slept here, too

One of these days I'm going to put together a "Washington slept here" map of all of the locations where the General stayed in New Jersey during the Revolutionary War. Some say that he spent more time in the state than anywhere else during the fight for independence, and if our recent travels are any indication, that assertion is totally correct.

Dey Mansion in Wayne is a case in point. An impressive brick Georgian mansion with Dutch influences, the home was Washington's headquarters for much of the months of July, October and November 1780. To put that into context, the first stay was just a few weeks after the battles of Connecticut Farms and Springfield which, repelled the British from capturing the General at Morristown. The second stay was just after Major General Benedict Arnold and his accomplice Major John Andre were revealed to be traitors.

When we visited the Hermitage a few weeks ago, we learned that Theodosia Prevost offered her home as a battle headquarters in the hopes of currying favor with Continental military leaders. That led me to wonder how the Dey mansion came to host Washington. Was the family sympathetic to the cause, or did they have more pragmatic reasons for offering up their house?

Family background indicates the former. The Dey family had been in North America for well over a century before the Revolution. Dirck Janszen Siecken Dey came to New Amsterdam from the Netherlands around 1641 as part of the Dutch West Indies Company, and his descendants arrived in the Preakness Valley of New Jersey in the early 1700s. The mansion we see in Wayne was built sometime between 1745 and 1775, either by Theunis Dey or his father, who was named Dirck, like the original New World settler.

Theunis was a prominent citizen, acting as a freeholder in what was a much larger Bergen County, representing the county in the State Assembly, and serving as a trustee of the very young Queen's College (or as we know it now, Rutgers University). He was also a colonel in the Bergen County militia, and thus was in close contact with military leaders, including the Commander in Chief himself. Not far from the Passaic Falls, the mansion's location was deemed a suitable place for Washington to both set up headquarters and be sheltered from repeated British kidnap attempts.

Ivan and I visited the mansion on a hot, sunny day, and the docent warned us that the house was warm and stuffy, so we'd be skipping the third floor portion of the tour (they'll be adding climate control later this year during a major restoration effort). I rationalized that we'd get a sense of the conditions during Washington's stay, without the heavy uniforms, of course.

The mansion is laid out in classic Georgian fashion, with each floor boasting a generous center hall and two decent-sized rooms on each side. However, the Dutch influence is revealed in the placement of the stairs, which start at the back-end of the house and rise to the top of the next floor, all concealed from view. After Ivan noted that the stairs seemed especially sturdy and level, the docent explained that one of the Deys was an accomplished carpenter who'd made sure to use strong oak beams to support the floors.

Washington and his staff used two rooms on each floor, leaving Theunis Dey and likely more than a dozen family members to the remaining two. The center halls on both floors are wide enough to serve as rooms themselves, and likely were used as dining areas. Though bathing and toilet facilities were understandably not part of the layout, it's not hard to imagine a modern-day family living there comfortably.

While there are no artifacts used by Washington himself, the furniture, housewares and personal items reflect the items that were likely in the house during his stay. It's not hard to imagine various officers gathering in the downstairs sitting rooms, reading dispatches that had just been delivered by couriers at the side door of the house. Our docent noted that the General had written prodigiously during his stay, penning nearly 600 pages of correspondence and orders.

It's a bit more challenging to visualize how the Dey family managed with so many guests and so much activity going on around them. On one hand, it must have been exciting to host Washington and other luminaries like the Marquis de Lafayette and Alexander Hamilton. On the other hand, the presence of even the quietest of houseguests can grow tedious the longer they're around. Battle for independence or not, some folks wouldn't be very well suited to give up half their house to a bunch of relative strangers.

Regardless, our visit exposed us to another dimension of life in New Jersey during wartime and the various machinations Washington went through to avoid capture. It's really fascinating how the more I wander around the state, the more complex and interesting our role in the Revolution becomes.

One more non-historic note: admission to the Dey Mansion is a more than fair $1 per person. Yes, a Washington will get you in to see Washington's headquarters. It's a real bargain! Be sure to check it out before it closes for renovation in the fall.