Was his uneasiness, no, put the right name on it, his dread of this onrushing upheaval also in the dream? Did he see the revolution as an explosion of that primitive American wildness which he had sensed - and sometimes seen - so often in this new continent? Seen and experienced to the bone, the nerve, in his ten years of marriage to Sarah Kemble Stapleton. Not that the Irish - or the English, for that matter - were lacking in wildness. But in Europe it was never more than an outburst, stifled by the stem voice of the church or government. Here there seemed to be nothing to stop the wildness, once it was released, nothing to prevent it from annihilating the peace that he had hoped to find in this tranquil colony. of New Jersey, a peace blended of love and modest wealth and honest friends. Long before there was talk of revolution, he had lost the love and that betrayal had cost him more than a few friendships. So what did you have to fear from revolution, really, Captain Gifford?
Perhaps only the fear that this wildness would engulf the two people in this world whom he still loved - Kemble and Kate. But even without a revolution, he had no hope of taming their wildness. It seemed to spring from their American natures. Was it - he flinched from the thought for a moment but forced himself to face it as lie peeled away the last petal and looked at the clustered golden stamens of the Tudor rose - was the real fear the reawakening of his own wildness in an America at war?
“TREASON. That is what independency is. Treason. And it will end where all the traitors of this century have ended - on the gallows. Those are my principles, and I will state them plainly to any man - aye, to any committeeman - in this county or state.”
Charles Skinner enunciated each of these truculent sentences with a crash of his tankard. He was wearing a suit of green silk, with an embroidered blue waistcoat - everyday clothes to him, but he was an island of color among the rest of the drinkers, who wore brown or gray homespun. Neither his heavy hand nor his truculence seemed to impress his listeners. They seemed more interested in the reaction of the man opposite the Squire at the big round table, Daniel Slocum.
“I say you had best sing a different tune, Squire, or the people will teach it to you the hard way,” Slocum said.
“The people,” Charles Skinner roared. “Do you presume to speak for the people?”
“Not I, but the honorable Committee of Safety does. I have it on good account that they are unanimous for independence and so is the honorable Provincial Congress by a heavy majority.”
“Does that mean I should change my opinion because the people have elected a pack of fools to be their spokesmen?”
“Aye, aye,” said Dr. Davie, sitting down on Charles Skinner’s right. “I half agree with the Boston fellow who said he would rather have one tyrant three thousand miles away than three thousand tyrannical committeemen one mile away.”
“Well said, Davie, well said,” roared Charles Skinner.
Daniel Slocum looked at the four other men at the table, all middling farmers like himself. None of them had his appetite for arguing with Charles Skinner. But their very silence supported Slocum.
“If the honorable Committee and the honorable Congress be fools, does that mean the people who voted for them are fools also?”
“You may draw your own conclusions about that, if you have a head on your shoulders,” the Squire said.
Watching from behind the bar, Jonathan Gifford decided it was time to take his friend home. He heard and understood the rage and frustration in Charles Skinner’s voice. Once men like Daniel Slocum had looked to Charles Skinner for their political opinions. But now Daniel Slocum had a title that enabled him to meet the Squire as an equal. Last week, in a little revolution within the larger Revolution, he had been elected colonel of our local militia regiment. It was an ominous sign of what the men with the guns were thinking. They had dumped easygoing Sam Breese because he confessed to some doubts about the wisdom of a declaration of independence.
Jonathan Gifford strolled over to the table. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I think you are both getting a little warm. Why don’t we let the honorable congresses, Provincial and Continental, settle such mighty matters?”
“Damn you, Gifford,” snarled Slocum, who was well into a pint of stonewall, “don’t you sneer at Congress. No damned Englishman will sneer at Congress while I have breath.”
“I did not sneer at Congress, Colonel Slocum. Let me tell you something else. I do not let any man damn me in public - or private, for that matter.”
“I heard a sneer and I will damn you to your face unless you retract it.”
“I can’t retract what I didn’t say.”
Colonel Slocum and Captain Gifford were about the same height. For a moment everyone in the taproom thought be was going to see a first-class brawl. Two years ago Jonathan Gifford had barred Slocum from the tavern for a month after a fistfight with a neighbor over a gambling debt.
“What do you think of the honorable congresses, Gifford?” Slocum asked.
“Just that. That they are honorable. There are honorable men on both sides of this quarrel, Colonel Slocum.”
“Some one of these days, Gifford, you may have to explain just how you find your Tory friends so honorable.”
Slocum strode over to the bar. The four other farmers at the Squire’s table followed him.
Jonathan Gifford looked up and saw Kemble standing in the doorway, somberly staring. A gust of irritation shook his nerves. Four uneasy months had passed since Colonel Samuel Breese had marched the militia into Perth Amboy and arrested our royal governor, William Franklin. Almost everything that had happened in these four months had made Kemble more and more hostile. The quarrel between the colonies and the mother country had worsened steadily. In February Parliament had passed a Prohibitory Act, forbidding all trade with Americans and giving British men-of-war the right to seize our ships on the high seas. According to another freshet of news from London, the King was hiring foreign troops - German mercenaries - to subdue us.
But New jersey remained in a state of semi-peace. When Governor William Franklin defied his captors and refused to sign a parole which would have permitted him to retire as a neutral to his farm in west Jersey, the Provincial Congress had backed down, leaving Franklin and his wife in possession of their mansion. The colony continued to pay the governor’s salary and address him as Your Excellency. It was typical of the way New Jerseyans felt about the Revolution. Most of us were still like Jonathan Gifford, filled with doubts and hesitations about its necessity.
Captain Gifford gave Kemble a long, steady look, then turned to Barney McGovern. “Let’s have drinks all around and a toast that every man can drink to.”
He sensed as he spoke that he was play-acting for the benefit of those disapproving young eyes in the doorway.
Barney strolled through the taproom, a jug of grog in his right hand and a jug of hard cider in his left hand, swiftly filling glasses.
“To the rights of America,” Jonathan Gifford said, raising his glass.
“I’ll drink to that,” roared Charles Skinner. “Aye, I’ll spill the last drop of my blood for ‘em.”
He emptied his tankard in one tremendous gulp. Jonathan Gifford winced at the sight. The Squire was drinking rumfustian. This drink has gone out of style in America. If it ever returns, farewell tranquility. It was made with a bottle of sherry, a quart of strong beer, half a pint of gin, the yolks Of twelve eggs, nutmeg, orange peels, sugar, and spices. If strangers asked why it was called rumfustian, they were told that rum was also an adjective meaning “strong,” and fustian of course ‘meant “high-swelling, inflated” - which was not a bad description of your head after a bout with this concoction.
Lately Charles Skinner had been acting as if he drank a gallon of rumfustian every day. Almost every visit he paid to Strangers’ Resort ended in a violent political or personal quarrel. The Revolution had demolished the deference Charles Skinner had been used to receiving when he took command of the big round table in the taproom’s bay window - the Squire’s tabl
e, it was called. Usually, other leaders of our little neighborhood society, lawyers like my father, substantial farmers like Richard Talbot, were there with him to support his opinions. Now they were staying home, wary of compromising themselves in the deepening political argument.
Charles Skinner shoved back his chair and tried to stand up. His first attempt was a failure. The second time be fell backward, missed the chair, and went crashing into the sawdust. There was a gasp, followed by a ripple of laughter around the taproom. At the bar, Daniel Slocum guffawed openly.
“Damn me if that isn’t where every Tory belongs - flat on his back in the dirt,” he said.
Jonathan Gifford helped Charles Skinner to his feet. “Sir,” roared Skinner, shaking a huge fist at Slocum, “if I meet you on my property I will horsewhip you until you beg for mercy.”
“We will meet on your property, Squire,” said Slocum. “But the begging words won’t be in my mouth.”
Skinner replied with a hail of curses. Jonathan Gifford managed to get him out of the tavern and calm him down in the cool afternoon air. “Old friend,” he said, “you’re too drunk to ride a horse. Let me take you home in the chaise.”
“The day I get too drunk to ride a horse is the day I hope they bury me,” growled Skinner.
“You don’t object to a friend riding with you?”
“Of course not.”
Side by side they rode home together through the green, glowing countryside. In 1776 New Jersey was called the Garden Colony. It reminded visitors of the English Midlands. Everywhere hillsides fell away in great grassy cascades, blending with meadows that stretched to lines of waving trees. Behind these glistening streams meandered toward bay or sea or a primary river. The ebbing sunshine, flooding down wide streams of light, intensified every shade of color, from the lush green pastures filled with feeding cattle to those emblems of plenty, the huge red or green Dutch barns behind the farmhouses. Every farm had an orchard of three or four hundred trees. Beyond these, fields of wheat and barley swayed in the soft spring breeze.
My God, what a beautiful country they have here, Jonathan Gifford thought. Or should he say we have here? Sadly, he had to admit that they was more natural. After ten years, he was still an outsider.
Charles Skinner saw nothing of the beauties of New Jersey’s countryside. He was submerged in an alcoholic stupor. Three times he was saved from a head-first fall from his saddle by Jonathan Gifford’s muscular right arm. Only toward the end of the ride did he return to some semblance of consciousness.
“Why won’t they listen, Gifford?” he said as they entered the drive of Kemble Manor. “Haven’t they heard the news from Europe? They are mustering the greatest army and fleet ever sent across the Atlantic. ‘Tis fact, Gifford, fact from the mouth of Cortland Skinner himself. Tryon has it among his latest dispatches from Whitehall.”
William Tryon was the royal governor of New York. At that moment he was a refugee, living aboard H.M.S. Duchess of Gordon in New York Harbor. Cortland Skinner had been with him since his January flight. As far as Jonathan Gifford knew, the attorney general of New Jersey had not dared to return to his native state. How did Charles Skinner know what his cousin was talking about?
“Anthony is right, I fear he’s right,” said Skinner, talking more to himself now. “Nothing but bayonet and ball and a gallows at every crossroad will cure it. Hahr He glared at Jonathan Gifford, his heavy face flushed. “Wouldn’t you like to clap a noose around the neck of that vermin Slocum?”
“He’s not the sort of man I’d choose for a friend,” Jonathan
Gifford said, “but hanging him - he’s got children, for one thing.” “Let his brats learn their lesson now, instead of growing up to mock their betters,” growled Skinner.
They dismounted in front of the house and one of Skinner’s black stable hands led their horses away. “Friend Gifford,” said Skinner thickly, throwing his big arm around Jonathan Gifford’s shoulders, “we must talk. More seriously perhaps than we’ve talked since we prowled the woods round Ticonderoga.”
“About what?”
“Too drunk now. But when Anthony is here - “
The door opened and Caroline Skinner was framed in the white rectangle. She was wearing a blue silk gown with a red sash. Her lustrous black hair was draped in a casual chignon around her supple neck. On her face was a frown which was strikingly similar to the one Jonathan Gifford had seen on Kemble’s face a half hour ago.
“I have been sitting at the table, looking at a cold dinner for the last hour.”
“I want no dinner. I am - too tired,” Charles Skinner mumbled.
“Too drunk, you mean.”
“Yes - I suppose I do mean that. Too drunk.”
Skinner turned to Jonathan Gifford. “Remember what I said. Make no promises to any man - until you talk with me. Now, if you’ll excuse me - “
He lurched past his wife and stumbled up the stairs to his bedroom.
“Can I offer you anything, Captain Gifford? At least a cup of cold spring water?”
“Water would be most welcome.”
“I will walk you around to the well.”
Jonathan Gifford felt somewhat embarrassed, limping beside Caroline Skinner in his sweaty work clothes, his breeches and stockings covered with the dust of the road. Coolness flowed from this woman. He felt it as distance. He was sure that she had never forgiven him for her sister’s death.
Beside him, Caroline Skinner’s mind was a world away from such a dolorous topic. She struggled to find the courage to confide in this taciturn man beside her. She did not say a word while they rounded the corner of the house and reached the garden in the rear.
They walked across shaded grass toward the old stone well. “My husband is drunk every day, Captain Gifford,” she said. “Do you know why?”
Jonathan Gifford put his hand on the wooden well bucket and fingered its copper bands. “The times, I think. He doesn’t like them much.”
“Do you?”
Jonathan Gifford dropped the bucket into the well. The rope hissed through the iron ring on the white frame. A wet thump drifted up to them, a dull, dead sound.
“I’ve seen what a battlefield looks like, Mrs. Skinner.” “Then you think we should submit?”
Jonathan Gifford began hauling up the bucket. “That’s a very different question.”
“Which you no doubt think a woman should not ask.”
“I know better than to tell a Kemble what to think, Mrs. Skinner.”
“Captain Gifford. I feel I need - I must - confide in someone.”
Through the trees Jonathan Gifford could see the small graveyard with its cluster of white tombstones. The bucket appeared. He seized the tin dipper and offered Caroline Skinner a drink. Was she trying to involve him in her domestic unhappiness out of a spirit of revenge? Was Sarah’s spirit somehow pursuing him?
“I can’t imagine - what advice I could give you,” he said.
“There is a plan afoot to recruit a regiment loyal to the King. Anthony is trying to involve his father in it.”
This information was so totally different from what he had expected to hear, he could only shake his head in astonishment. “Are you sure?”
“No,” she said. “I am ordered out of the room whenever they talk about it. Anthony disappears for two or three days at a time. He comes back with marsh mud and weeds on his boots - and guineas in his pockets. One of them fell out and rolled under his bed.” She slipped her hand beneath her red sash and extracted a coin that gleamed dully in the mixture of shadow and sunlight. It was a guinea all right, newly minted, with George III’s visage in profile upon it.
“Their talk is mostly argument,” Caroline Skinner said. “I can tell that much from the sound of their voices. I think my husband dreads the thought of making war on his friends. But Anthony - Anthony relishes it.”
There was pain in her voice and on her face as she said this. It was not an easy judgment for her to make. He took a long swallow of t
he icy water and wished its coolness had some power to calm the emotions swarming inside him. Not that he showed them. Caroline Skinner still saw the same imperturbable, aloof man.
“I don’t know your opinion of our quarrel with England. But you’re Kate’s father, and for that reason alone I thought you should know about this - thing. No. That’s not entirely true. Dear as Kate is to me, my strongest feelings are the folly of it - and next the wickedness. I don’t know where you stand, Mr. Gifford, but I am for independence.”
As she said this she instinctively braced her shoulders, arched her back, and lifted her chin. Pride and passion infused her small figure and dark cameo face with an Amazonian élan. It struck Jonathan Gifford as both touchingly girlish and remarkably serious. Somehow he knew that he would never forget this moment in this quiet garden. He was seeing and hearing in splendid isolation, like the example of a species in a natural history collection, the voice, the image, of American pride. At the same time he felt with a deep-welling sadness his inability to share this pride. Never had he felt his status as an outsider, a stranger, more keenly. He took another long swallow of well water, now wishing it was a drug that would soothe his pain.
“Shall we walk into the park?” he said.
They opened the gate and entered the thirty wooded acres in which Charles Skinner kept a dozen deer. The trees were part of the original forest. Huge oaks threw their shade over slopes and glades unchanged since the Indians roamed them. At first the deer were only shapes in the mingled sunlight and shadow. Tame and greedy, several soon advanced on Caroline Skinner, hoping for sugar - or better, salt. Jonathan Gifford shooed them away with his wide-brimmed sun hat and they strolled through the trees to the edge of a sluggish brook.
“Let’s not talk about independence,” he said. “You don’t want to argue politics with me. Not that we’d necessarily argue on that point. I begin to think it’s the only alternative America now has - besides surrender. It’s my judgment of - what did you call it? - the folly of Anthony’s plan that you want.”
The Heart of Liberty Page 7