- Anthony
Jonathan Gifford could see a faint flush on Kate’s cheeks as she handed the letter to her father. “He is so desperate,” she said. “I don’t know what makes me sadder, the way he lives in the past or the way he tries to use me and love me at the same time.”
Despite her reaction, Jonathan Gifford still felt uneasy. He realized that he would feel that way until Anthony Skinner was dead or driven out of New Jersey. His personal concern redoubled the intensity with which he urged an expedition into the pine barrens to rout Skinner and his outlaw auxiliaries from their camps. But no one had the authority to call out the militia except General Slocum, and he was hardly inclined to take Jonathan Gifford’s advice. He spent most of his time in Little Egg Harbor, playing financial games with his privateers, and getting richer at it, we heard.
Another reason Slocum did nothing was his unpopularity. He could not turn out more than a hundred men to fight for him anywhere. But the General was not ready to let south Jersey go to Anthony Skinner by default. Slocum let the loyalists ravage us for a month and then announced his answer to them. It was not a march into the pine barrens to fight Skinner to a finish. It was a Slocum invention called the Association for Retaliation.
With a host of pseudo-legal whereases and wherefores supplied by Lemuel Peters, the Association’s charter declared it was “a fact notorious to everyone” that loyalists and neutralists were “accessory to the detestable practices” of Anthony Skinner and his fellow loyalists. The Association for Retaliation decreed that they would destroy the house and barn of a “disaffected” person every time the house or barn of a “good subject”, was destroyed. They would also rob from the disaffected any article of property, horse, pig, goat, sheep or cloak, silver spoon, or porcelain teacup on a one-for-one basis to match, anything stolen by the loyalists. These principles were to be enforced by a nine-man committee elected by the Associates, but actually hand-picked by Daniel Slocum. The General and his colleagues circulated this charter through south Jersey and told people to sign it. Those who refused would be considered among the disaffected, fair game for plunder.
It was nothing less than terror against terror. Anthony Skinner could not have invented a better way to destroy what was left of our revolutionary idealism. He undoubtedly applauded every word of the charter of the Association for Retaliation. It told him that each time he burned a house or barn, stole a horse or cow, he could be assured that another house or barn would be burned, a horse or cow seized from a neutral or a timid Whig or even a staunch Whig whose conscience would not let him join the Association for Retaliation. It was a formula that doubled the damage Skinner was doing and guaranteed perpetual civil war until New Jersey was a desert.
In two weeks Slocum had signed up four hundred and fifty-two members of the Association and was ready to invade Liberty Tavern to recruit still more. He sent dozens of his followers riding through the countryside to round up a large audience and treated them to a ranting roaring speech in favor of the Association. By bad luck, Skinner had raided a recalcitrant Whig farmer in Middletown the night before and ambushed some militiamen who had turned out to pursue him. People were in a mood to listen to Slocum’s diatribe. He pointed out that Skinner had not touched a Talbot farm or a Kemble farm. Of course not. Slocum swore he had proof that loyalists were smuggling Skinner food and ammunition for cash. How much longer were they going to let the Tories and the Quakers get rich on the Revolution while they starved? Slocum urged everyone in the room to come forward and sign the Association’s charter.
There was a stir of anticipation, a surge of restlessness, but no one moved. Jonathan Gifford realized that everyone was waiting for him. Without saying a word, he got up and walked out of the room.
“Let me warn you,” Slocum shouted after him, let me warn every one of you who thinks he can play a trimmer’s game. There are no neutrals for the Association. Those who are not with us are against us. Anyone who fails to sign is an enemy.”
No one followed Jonathan Gifford out the door. No one else had the courage to risk Daniel Slocum’s enmity. The mood of the room swayed between revulsion and revenge. There was scarcely a man present who had not lost something to the enemy during the war, a house, a barn, valuable animals, jewelry, silver. Revenge coupled with reimbursement was a tempting proposition.
“Well,” Slocum shouted, “are you men or mice? Tories or trimmers?”
Kemble Stapleton stood up. “Gentlemen,” he began. “I am a young man. I cannot match General Slocum’s years of experience. But I have bled in this Revolution. My friends – ” His voice faltered on this word. “ - have bled and died. For that reason my opinion deserves a hearing, at least. Let me state it simply. There is only one word that describes General Slocum’s plan. Only one word equates retaliation against armed attack by soldiers of the enemy with burning the houses and robbing the possessions of defenseless civilians, driving men, women, and children into the winter cold: cowardice. I cannot believe a man in this district - a real man - will join him.”
Slocum was on his feet, roaring invectives. Kemble was a double agent. It was common knowledge that he had sold American secrets to a British whore. His father was on the British Secret Service payroll. Kemble Manor was a headquarters for a British espionage ring run by Caroline Skinner.
Kemble was wracked by a fit of coughing and called for water. In a way, the sound of that cough was the best possible answer to Slocum. It told all of us the price Kemble was paying for the Cause. But he had no intention of letting Slocum escape the lash of his reply.
He pointed out that this was no court of law and there was no need for him to answer these charges. Instead, he suggested they review the war record of General Slocum. With acid detail, Kemble recalled his visit to Slocum’s saltworks. He reminded the audience of Slocum’s fraudulent land sales, his lies about his military record. By the time Kemble finished, the General’s chances of adding to the Association for Retaliation’s membership from Liberty Tavern’s neighborhood had vanished.
The following day Caroline Skinner received a demand for tribute from her stepson. Several thousand pounds of oats and hay were to be delivered in installments over the coming weeks. The note was grimly impersonal, in the tone of a military order. Jonathan Gifford was far more disturbed by this note than he was by the insulting and highly personal letter he had received. He said that he would hire a dozen militiamen as guards and pay them hard money for their duty.
Caroline shook her head. “It isn’t necessary, Jonathan.”
“You mean you will give him what he asks? Then you will go down with him. I assure you that in six months he will be nothing more than an outlaw.”
“I did not say I intended to give him anything. If he comes here, I don’t think he will abuse me in any way. He may rob me - us - but he will not hurt me. Anthony is my son, Jonathan. If I met him on the road, he would call me Mother.”
Jonathan Gifford was staggered by this view of Anthony Skinner. He was discovering a mystery that his masculine mind simply could not comprehend. Women found it difficult to translate the passions of war and politics into personal hatred. Caroline was also speaking out of memories Jonathan Gifford could not share, memories of years when she had been half mother, half older sister to Anthony Skinner, memories of sailing days on Raritan Bay, of long rambling rides through the green countryside, of nights spent reading Gulliver’s Travels and Pilgrim’s Progress and Robinson Crusoe.
Jonathan Gifford tried - and failed - to understand what Caroline was feeling. He shook his head. “I an afraid I must dispute the idea of letting him rob you. Others may see it as collusion. The Association for Retaliation would love to find an excuse to strip this farm and burn this house over our heads.”
“I would rather take my chances with a mob than fight Anthony. The thought of killing him - ”
“Caroline,” Jonathan Gifford said testily, “isn’t Anthony the enemy of everything you believe, of this country’s future, of our freedo
m?”
“Yes. But - ”
“Then let me hire the guards. If anyone gets killed it will be on my conscience. A few more dead men won’t matter more or less.”
She heard the pain in his voice. “No. They will be on mine, too. I - I want them.”
Jonathan Gifford understood. By this time their love had become so interwoven in their lives words were no longer necessary to explain how much they wanted to share - and at times wanted to spare - each other’s feelings. That was why Jonathan Gifford rode home without telling Caroline that he expected Anthony Skinner to attack him, not her. At Liberty Tavern, Barney, Sam, and a half dozen of our local militia company paid by Jonathan Gifford stood guard constantly. As further insurance, he let it be known that be would pay fifty pounds hard money to anyone who warned him even an hour in advance of Skinner’s approach.
Jonathan Gifford also tried to persuade Kate and Kemble to abandon the residence and sleep in the tavern. Kate refused, insisting that this was carrying caution too far. “Anthony will never attack this house as long as I am in it,” she said.
This caused Thomas Rawdon to raise an eyebrow. But no one, especially Jonathan Gifford, had any desire to pursue the argument. He let the remark pass and Kate began discussing with Rawdon a trip she was planning to Shrewsbury. There was a midwife down there who had a devoted following among the women of the tow-n. She was an illiterate old crone who scoffed at Kate’s educational program.
“I’m going to conquer her with kindness,” Kate said. “I hear she likes brandy. Can you spare me a bottle, Father?”
“Of course.”
Early the next morning Kate rode toward Shrewsbury, the bottle in her saddlebag. Jonathan Gifford watched her go with some misgivings. He told himself he was only remembering another trip to Shrewsbury. This was not the same girl. Still, he wished Lieutenant Rawdon’s parole permitted him to travel that far.
It was Thursday, a market day, always a busy time in Liberty Tavern. Jonathan Gifford worked beside Barney until twilight wetting the palates of our farmers, collecting so much paper money that it overflowed the cash drawer into a bushel basket behind the bar. As darkness descended and the crowd dwindled, he left Barney on his own and trudged down to the residence. Instead of a well-lit house, filled with the smell of some favorite dish cooking in the kitchen, Kate sitting at the spinet playing one of the Scottish airs she loved, there was only darkness and silence.
Lieutenant Rawdon’s taut voice emerged from the shadows of the porch. “Is Kate at the tavern?”
“No”
“She must have had some trouble on the road. She expected to be back well before dark. Perhaps the old girl was delivering a baby and she stayed to help her.”
“Yes,” Jonathan Gifford said. “Or her horse might have thrown a shoe. I meant to tell Sam to take a look at him before she left this morning.”
Both men were lying and they both knew it. A few minutes later Kemble arrived and voiced a more realistic worry. “I wish you told me she was going. I would have sent Jemmy with her. The pine robbers held up a man on the Shrewsbury road last night. Shot him and stole his horse. There’s not a road south of here that’s really safe.”
But even Kemble was not voicing his worst suspicion. Perhaps because Jonathan Gifford was troubled by the same fear, he picked up the undercurrent of evasion in Kemble’s voice. The hours crept methodically toward midnight without a sign of Kate. Kemble and I were about to saddle horses and ride for Shrewsbury when Barney came to the door with a letter in his hand.
“A fellow handed this in the taproom door and legged it into the night before anyone could get a good look at him,” he said.
Jonathan Gifford recognized Anthony Skinner’s handwriting. He ripped open the envelope and read the letter aloud.
“Captain Gifford:
I am writing this at Kate’s request. Her natural tenderness of heart makes her anxious not to give you even a night’s concern about her whereabouts. She has joined me here in the pines, taken her rightful place beside me to let the people of New Jersey know that I have come to their rescue not as a bandit but as a man of peace, who seeks only to right wrongs and mend the broken hearts of our distracted country. She urges you and your friends to waste not a moment in joining the honest men who flock to us daily, in ever growing numbers.
Sincerely,
Anthony Skinner”
Jonathan Gifford saw angry dismay on Kemble’s face. On Thomas Rawdon’s he could read nothing but pain.
“He is a damn liar,” the Captain said. “He’s kidnapped her.” Kemble looked gloomy. “I want to believe that. But - ”
“I believe it,” Rawdon said.
“We will have to go into those pines after her. We will have to fight him,” Jonathan Gifford said.
WITH A GRIM anger that was more formidable than rage, Jonathan Gifford took charge of our little war within the big war. The problem was to find enough militiamen willing to risk a march into the pines to attack Skinner’s camp. He rode down to Colt’s Neck to ask General Slocum for permission to enlist fifty men and give them the training they needed to succeed. It meant crawling to a man he loathed, but Captain Gifford felt he had no choice. An ex-British officer could not start raising men without official permission. It would be too easy for a Slocum-appointed judge to call it treason.
He found the General on the porch of his house. Slocum bad bought up several loyalist estates with his rigged sales and was working them with slave labor. But he had not moved onto any of them. Shrewd politics may have been part of the reason. He knew a display of wealth might cost him more of his already diminished following. But I think it was more attributable to his determination to preside at Kemble Manor. For Slocum the manor was a symbol of ultimate distinction. He never abandoned his passion for it or his hatred of Jonathan Gifford for depriving him of it.
In the privacy of his home, the General was not averse to displaying a little opulence. He met Jonathan Gifford wearing a green silk coat much embroidered with silver lace and a brocade waistcoat of puce, both sprinkled with painted buttons. On his head was a black felt tricorn trimmed in gold lace.
“Gifford,” he said with a sneer. “What brings you here?”
“Anthony Skinner. You may have heard that he has kidnapped my daughter.”
“I heard she went with him willingly.”
“I’m sure that is not true. But let’s not argue over it.”
Jonathan Gifford explained his plan and asked his permission to enlist fifty men. Slocum rejected the request with a nice mixture of insults and threats. “I would not let a trimmer like you recruit five of my men, Gifford. The next thing you know they would be fighting beside Skinner’s robbers. Try to enlist a man, and I will hang you for the traitor you are. twill take back Kemble Manor and string you up on the front lawn.”
Wildness, Jonathan Gifford thought, wildness and something else that went deeper than wildness. The spirit of evil was loose in this lovely garden of America. For an hour, riding home, he wondered if he was a fool, risking his reputation, his life, his property, to fight it. Wouldn’t it have been better to have retreated to England, to have bought one of those country estates where men cultivated their formal gardens and walled out the world? Corrupt as it was, there was at least order in the Old World, order for a price. Everything was for sale there, even the books from which a man could learn philosophy. Here he was contending with shadows, for love from a son who still seemed to loathe him, from a daughter who may have - in his gloom he added, probably had - succumbed to her dark impulse to self-destruction in the name of mindless desire. By the time he reached Liberty Tavern, Jonathan Gifford was the personification of melancholy.
In the tavern yard, Caroline Skinner was dismounting from her horse. She wore a green riding habit which remarkably suited her black hair and dark complexion. “I rode over,” she said, “hoping for some word - ”
The sight of her steadied Jonathan Gifford more than a brigade of Washington’s ar
my, even though he had no good news to tell her. The love he saw on her face restored his faith in the love he had given Kemble and Kate. He asked her to join Rawdon and Kemble for a council of war in his office.
He told them what Slocum had said. “We will have to spend money,” he said. “If we pay enough, I think we can keep it a secret. We will begin recruiting with the work force at Kemble Manor, We will train them there. Everyone else can say he is being hired to dredge a swamp or rebuild a barn, whatever seems most plausible.”
He took out a map and let us ponder for a moment the immense breadth of the pine barrens. There were hundreds of square miles of them. “There is no point in marching in there unless we know exactly where Skinner is. Otherwise, well wear the men down to nothing or walk into the worst ambush you have ever seen. Either way we will be finished.”
“How do we find him?” Rawdon asked.
“We must send someone into the pines who can join him.” He looked straight at Rawdon as he said this.
“Don’t they have a quaint habit of shooting people they dislike?” Rawdon asked.
“We must see to it that they like him.”
“How do we manage that?”
“That is up to Kemble, our director of espionage.”
“I’ll work up a disguise that will fool Kate herself,” Kemble said.
Jonathan Gifford shook his head. “I don’t think you can do it, Kemble, much as I admire your skill. You will be going among men who are on their guard. Some of them, especially Skinner, have known you for years.”
“I agree with Captain Gifford,” Rawdon said. “I am the only person who can do it with any safety.”
“What happens if you find out that Kate has - well, joined Skinner voluntarily?” Kemble asked.
The Heart of Liberty Page 49