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Voyages of the Passaic Falcon

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE…………….……..THE SETLERS……………………………1

CHAPTER TWO…………………..THE HIGHWAYMEN…………………..39

CHAPTER THREE………………..THE TAX COLLECTORS…………..…88

CHAPTER FOUR…………………THE MINERS…………………………..102

CHAPTER FIVE…………………..THE PARTNERS…….………………...119

CHAPTER SIX…………………….THE LOVERS…………………………..144

CHAPTER SEVEN.…………….…THE FUGATIVE….…………………….159

CHAPTER EIGHT………………..THE SMUGGLERS…………………….181

CHAPTER NINE………………….THE PATRIOTS………………………..203

CHAPTER TEN…………………...THE INDIANS…………………………..238

CHAPTER ELEVEN……………...THE SOLDIERS…………………….…..248

CHAPTER TWELVE……………..THE RAIDERS………………………….271

CHAPTER THIRTEEN…………..THE ARTILLERYMEN………………..295

CHAPTER FOURTEEN………….THE SURVIVORS………………………330

CHAPTER FIFTEEN……………..THE SLAVES……………………………381

CHAPTER SIXEEN……...….….…THE SPANISH…………………………..411

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN………...THE COUNTERFIETERS………………437

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN……….….THE ADMIRALS………………….……..465

CHAPTER NINETEEN………..…THE SPECULATORS……………………498

CHAPTER TWENTY…….……....THE POLITICIANS………………………534

CHAPTER ONE

THE SETTLERS

Edward Fields was born in Portsmouth, England, to parents whose only wealth was their children. The last of six siblings, his mother died shortly after his birth and he grew up rarely having enough to eat, in a cramped and filthy room on the second level of a company owned row of apartments. By the time Edward had attained his fifth birthday, two of his brothers had died of the fever and a sister had been killed while working in the cotton mill. It was then his turn to earn a wage and help support the family.

At five years of age, Edward had attained a physical stature and mental understanding that made him a commodity needed in the factories. His father took him to the textile mill where his brothers and sister toiled and turned him over to the superintendent to be put to work. There, with other children, he labored in an atmosphere of clattering machines clearing clumps of wool and cotton from the cogwheels before they jammed the machinery. Crawling through a labyrinth of mechanized loom parts and flapping drive belts where an adult couldn’t go, he deftly picked clumps of knotted fabric from the cogs and learned quickly that no extra compensation was paid for slow fingers that were crushed or torn off. Their father collected the meager wages Edward and his remaining brother and sister earned from the factory paymaster at week’s end and spent the greater part on gin and the lesser on food.

By his tenth birthday, Edward had seen the lives of the factory children he worked with reduced to charity as their limbs were clipped off, crushed or mangled beyond use. This and the drunken rages of his father drove him to run away from the mill and sell himself into indentured servitude at the factory of Josiah Hornblower, the Master Machine Maker.

His new tasks required long hours of running and fetching but in the shop, the factory and the forge, he found people who actually cared about his well being and encouraged him to study the machines being constructed. Over the following years his efforts and diligence were noted and on occasion, rewarded with a copper coin. The rewards encouraged him to redouble his efforts and as his knowledge and skill grew, the beacon of his freedom became clearer and closer.

-*-

In the early spring of 1745, just after his 18th birthday, Edward and several of his work mates were taken aside by the Josiah Hornblower, eldest son of the factory owner. In a room lit by a blazing fire and oil lamps hung from the roof supports, they sat at wooden benches and listened to their benefactor. Edward was frightened and thrilled as the younger Hornblower told the assembled workers, “Our Company has contracted to bring our steam engine to the Crown Colony of New Jersey. Once there,” he paused and surveyed the faces of the gathered workers, “the engine will be installed at a copper mine, owned by Arent Schuyler, in a wilderness town known as Barbadoes Neck.”

“Wilderness.” The term evoked images in Edward’s mind of a desert as described in the bible. Dry; desolate, devoid of life. But he had heard stories of great forests of uncut trees. Of wild Indians murdering whole settlements. He shuddered and brought his attention back to Master Hornblower. “ Our engine will serve a two-fold purpose. First, it will pump water out of the mines owned by Master Schuyler and second, it will power the bellows at his smelting forge. Your knowledge and experience are needed to bring our invention to that wilderness, install it and keep it running.” Edward looked up as Roberts, the Blacksmith’s Assistant, caught his breath and knew it was because the man longed to immigrate to the New World. The gathered workers listened intently as Master Hornblower extended to each an opportunity.

“Join my work gang, if you will, and voyage with me to the port of New York. From there we shall trek to the Royal Colony of East Jersey and locate a wilderness village known as “Schuyler.” There we shall install Master Schulyer’s pump, operate and maintain it.”

Heavy silence hung over the room. Josaih Hornblower lowered his voice to meet the tension and surveyed the men before continuing, “There is a price to pay for this opportunity.” He paused again. “Five years indentured service before freedom.”

The most senior and respected members of the work crews drew into a tight knot from which grew a growing volume of “Yea.” The circle broke and the Superintendent spoke for the group. “Sir, we are mostly family men. May we bring loved ones with us?” Master Hornblower raised his hands and waved them over the heads of the seated men as if he were blessing them and declared, “You may all bring your immediate families. Wives and children, only.”

Edward had planned to migrate to the New World when his term of service ended and was saving every farthing he could muster to purchase a passage. His goal was still years away but now Master Hornblower was offering not only passage but an education that would be of immense value. Edward quickly saw that at the end of his service, he could continue working on machines in the Royal Colony but as a free man! This was the answer to his prayers. His spirit of adventure flared, his taste for freedom beckoned and the possibility of growing rich in the New World drove him to volunteer.

Edward was one of three apprentices who accepted Josiah Hornblower’s contract for “Fabricators.” His job was to accompany the engine to New Jersey, learn its workings, repair and maintenance and eventually become a master craftsman. He and his companions would work along side the Ironsmiths in the forge casting the parts needed to replace those that broke quickly and repeatedly. Their job of supplying the repair gangs with the replacement parts required that they be artists as well as smiths.

For himself, the decision was easily made. But he had fallen in love with another servant in the Hornblower household, a young seamstress named Elizabeth. Before committing himself to the voyage he addressed the subject with her in the quiet of the Hornblower orchard where she swore her love and vowed to follow him wherever he went. The next step was to ask Master Hornblower that he be allowed to take Elizabeth to the New World, as his wife.

Edward wore his Sunday service suit to visit the factory office and sat bolt upright in a straight back wooden chair waiting the appointed time of his audience. Eventually, the door opened and he was summoned into the presence of the Hornblower family patriarch, Josiah Hornblower, Esquire. Over the years, Edward had heard his voice bellowing over the din of the forge, calling instructions, directions and admonitions to the superintendents and managers. But today, while discussing matters of the heart, his voice was soft. Edward quaked while speaking his piece and tried to ignore the thin line of perspiration trickling down his temple. Master Hornblower stroked his graying beard as Edward recounted the years of faithful service and how young Elizabeth had caught his eye. When he finished, Hornblower set the same price upon Elizabeth’s passage and dismissed him with a wave of his hand. Edward rose from the chair and extended his hand to the man who had salvaged his life and sealed the bargain for himself and his bride-to-be.

-*-

On a brilliant June morning, with only hours to go before their ship set sail, Elizabeth and Edward were wed in the factory chapel. They raced to the harbor carrying their worldly possessions in a single canvas bag. On the dock, they joined their friends and were ushered aboard the ship. The quarters on board the MAID MARGARET were cramped and there was no privacy for the newly married couple. In the hold, the huge, shining piston, nearly fifty feet long and two feet in diameter, was shackled to the deck and surrounded by crates containing three spare parts for each moving part of the great engine. The gangs and their families quickly found perches and crevasses on top of and between the crates of parts and settled in for a voyage expected to last thirty days.

The MAID MARGARET was carrying more than Hornblower’s great engine to the New World. It carried the hopes and dreams of its human cargo. The men and women squeezing themselves into the hold with the engine were escaping the poverty, ignorance and sickness that had been their lot in life. To them, indentured servitude in the New World was a way to better themselves and insure blessings beyond measure on their children. Beyond the small amount of money they would earn, their real wage was the freedom to start a new life in America. Freedom, more than any other reason was the siren’s song luring these men and women with adventurous spirits and unfettered minds to the uncertainty and hardships of the new world.

On the main deck of the MAID MARGARET the pace of the crew’s activities accelerated. Excitement built in the passengers until the predicted hour when the tide turned and swept the unanchored ship from Portsmouth harbor on her first step of the voyage across the Atlantic Ocean. Edward and his bride stood together on the forward deck as the journey began, following the sun as it slipped toward the western horizon. Arm in arm they stood looking to the west, refusing to look back on the Old World, clinging to each other, facing their new lives in America with an undaunted faith that told them they would find the freedom they sought.

For the next five weeks the families of Hornblower’s company lived crowded into the hold with the machinery. The food they ate was as bad as they had ever eaten and seasickness made the first days thoroughly wretched. The smell of vomit and urine permeated the holds and turned the stomach of even the strongest sailor. The crossing, however, was as uneventful as could be expected and the trade winds carried them across the ocean with only one terrifying storm to insure their respect for the mighty Atlantic’s power and unforgiving nature.

-*-

The MAID MARGARET entered New York harbor and dropped anchor at dawn on a sweltering summer day. Edward was one of the first to come on deck and was greeted with a sight that staggered his imagination. Their ship was only one of hundreds, maybe thousands anchored in New York harbor. All around them small boats scurried about their business. Fishing boats lined the shallow coastal waters taking a harvest from the sea, while merchantmen loaded with the harvest of the land raised their sails and set off through the narrows back across the Atlantic to England. Wharves lined every mile of the New York City waterfront and every slip was busy receiving or loading cargo. Behind the docks, New York City bustled, protected by forts strategically placed at the foot of the city and on several islands in the bay and warships flying the British flag. The arrival of the MAID MARGARET had been expected for several days and as her entry was logged by the Harbormaster, a rider was dispatched to Barbadoes Neck to tell Arent Schuyler his cargo had arrived.

The following morning, as the sun rose out of the Atlantic, Master Schuyler ferried out to the MAID MARGARET. He was tall and square but leaned on a cane to ease some injury. Dressed in a simple white linen shirt with dark gray wool pants, he appeared to be a gentleman but one who was accustomed to hard work. His hair was tied at the back of his head and he wore a wide brimmed tri-corner hat. As he stepped on deck, the ship’s Captain and the assembled passengers were waiting. Edward and Elizabeth stood in the third rank of the passengers behind Josiah Hornblower. The Captain introduced Hornblower to Schuyler and words of greeting passed between them. When they finished a whispered conversation, Master Schuyler turned to the gathered passengers and addressed them.

“Ladies and Gentlemen. I am Arent Schuyler, the owner of the mine where the great pump you have brought with you will be installed. I bid you welcome to His Majesties colony of East Jersey. You will find that East Jersey is quite different than East Anglia. For instance, we have Indians here.” The passengers nervously laughed at his words and collectively caught their breath as an Indian came up over the side and stepped onto the deck. Naked except for a loincloth, Elizabeth turned her head as the Indian laughed out loud at the fear on the faces of the new arrivals. Master Schuyler continued as more men came up onto the deck, “When I have finished my inspection, we will begin moving the machine to the mine where it will be installed. Today’s labor will be trying and difficult but when it is complete, we shall rest. Till then, let my laborers do their work. When the barges arrive, take your belongings and transfer over. And stay out of the way!”

Josiah Hornblower escorted Master Schuyler down into the main hold. He understood that Schuyler had spent a vast amount of money to bring the pump and the men needed to tend it across the ocean. He knew the man was anxious and plagued by a thousand doubts, so he waited patiently as Schuyler worked his way through the manifest, checking and verifying the presence of each crate and worker. When they emerged from the hold, they were chatting merrily, Schuyler was nodding his approval and grinning widely as they advanced to the next hold.

Within an hour of sunrise, a fleet of flat bottom barges, under sail and oar, arrived from the west passage the crew called the Kill Van Kull, and surrounded the MAID MARGARET. Crews from the barges swarmed onto the decks and joined the Indian laborers as they transferred the engine and it’s spare parts to the barges for the journey to the Barbadoes Neck. Hornblower and Schuyler watched over every step of the process. At their direction, men pulled on the ropes, winches squealed and tackle strained under the weight as the shining piston was hauled out of the main hold, lowered over the side and secured onto a barge. With the last crate lashed to the decks, the human cargo was directed to find any perch on the barges they might and prepare for the next leg of their journey. Using poles and oars, the transport sailors moved the barges back into the narrow Kill, floated around Bergen Point and into the Newark Bay. The oarsmen unfurled their sails as brisk breeze picked up and the barges plowed smartly through the water. Edward and Elizabeth sat atop the highest crate, clutching their bag of possessions as salt spray dampened their clothing and a warm wind blew their hair in front of them. The placid dark waters of the Newark Bay rocked them gently as the barges skimmed past the forested shores of the inland sea.

Ships of every description cruised the trade route with them. The sailor trimming the single sail on the barge told them the ships were carrying goods between the settlements along the banks and from communities up stream of the two river mouths he could see in the distance. As the barge approached the shallow salt flats at the mouth of the two rivers, they tended toward the right hand river, which he heard the crew call the “Hackensack.” As they approached, the flotilla lowered their sails and the pilot in the lead barge guided them up the narrow channel of the nearly still river. Beyond the channel, the water was shallow enough for Edward to see bottom and he watched as schools of silvery fish flashed under the surface. On the banks, ducks, geese and sea birds of every description abounded in the reeds and green salt grass. Their numbers cast a cloud-like shadow as the flocks took before the approaching barges. On the right, the swamps gave away quickly to highlands. Elizabeth pointed out a church steeple at the knoll and in the distance, an endless train of horse drawn wagons, piled high with farm produce, winding their way slowly up the hill. The sound of iron horse shoes on the wood plank surface of the road echoed across the marsh like a drum roll or perhaps distant thunder.

The barges docked at a landing where a flat boat was busy shuttling wagons from one bank of the river to the opposite. The newly arrived settlers stepped off their barges and onto the soil of East Jersey, their new home. Edward and the operating crew spent the remainder of the day working with the fire gang and the iron gang to move the piston from its barge and onto the largest wagons any of the new comers had ever seen for an overland journey. Transferring the load was hot, hard work but willing hands made the task go quickly. Within a few hours the pump had been loaded onto an immense cart harnessed to a team of twelve horses and was ready to begin the journey west over an immaculately tended road of wood planks.

As the men labored to load the equipment onto the wagons, the women and children, along with their baggage, were loaded onto huge wagons and sent ahead. As the wagons rumbled away from the dock, Elizabeth and the women chattered nervously. They comforted the young children and restrained the older ones as they rode toward a dense forest in the near distance.

The driver of Elizabeth’s wagon was a young boy of about fourteen years who called himself “Jimmy.” He happily answered questions from the women as they rode down the plank road through the salt meadow and cedar swamp following the road to the village of Schuyler. Jimmy sat high above the women holding the reins on a team of two horses and pointing to the clusters of homes built of logs and plaster that made up a village at the foot of the red cliffs. “Ladies,” he said, “you will lodge in Indian style long houses until your men folk can build cabins.”

At the top of the red cliffs, the wagon stopped in front of the Schuyler mansion, a sprawling three level house set just below the crest of the hill. The columned front façade looked east over the Hackensack River valley with glass windows and porches on all sides. Jimmy helped each of the women off the wagon and handed down their packages of possessions. The ladies of Schuyler surrounded the new comers and chattered over them with giddy talk, then directed them to where they could find food and their new lodgings. With a wave of his hand, a call of good luck to the women and a crack of the whip, Jimmy turned the team around and drove the wagon toward a large barn.

From the edge of the milling women and children, Elizabeth surveyed her new home. She walked a few steps along the wooden walkway. The Schuyler mansion dominated the vale below the hilltop and looked out over well-tended fields of vegetables sloping down to the marshes surrounding the mine entrance. There, piles of broken stone, earth, and debris from the mine formed an apron around its mouth. From her vantage, Elizabeth could see the train of wagons carrying the pump, the spare parts, her husband and the crews as they made their way along the plank road. The sound of the drivers calling to their teams and the crack of horsewhips drifted up the hill to her, carried on a breeze scented with cedar and salt.

“Mam Fields?” Elizabeth, turned and found a slender black woman, the first she had ever met, smiling at her. “Yes,” she responded, curiosity running through her mind.

“It be nice you here. Please. Come.” She gestured for Elizabeth to follow. “You be close the forge. Under sycamore.”

The woman picked up Elizabeth’s bag, containing all her worldly possessions and beaconed in a voice that sounded like far away places and strange adventures, “Come, please.”

The black woman called herself Virginia and as they walked along a narrow, shaded path through a forest of tall maple, oak and birch trees she hummed an exotic tune.

The underbrush in the forest had been cleared away, leaving only the tallest and strongest trees to create a cool green canopy overhead. Underfoot, the leaves had been trampled into a carpet that cushioned each step and absorbed any noise. The trees shivered in the warm, humid breeze but under the thick canopy the air was cool. Sunbeams cut through gaps in the leaves and dappled the forest floor with pools of warm light and Elizabeth thought of the cathedral she had once visited and whispered a prayer of thanks that their journey was over and they had arrived safely in America.

At the end of the path was a small cabin. Two windows, one on each side of the open door, were covered with greased paper. The thatch on the roof was sparse and old and some of it’s timbers were broken. A small porch of worn and frayed planks. Small gaps showed through the logs, in need of packing. But it’s setting, under a huge oak, was pleasant and in comparison to the ship and the city she had left behind, it was a mansion promising security and was to her a dream come true.

-*-

The driver mounted the wagon by climbing up the wheel and settled himself into a seat some ten feet off the ground. From his perch he looked down at Edward and said,

“We call this a Jersey Wagon, Sonny. It takes a real man to drive one.” Edward nodded in awed agreement and walked along side as the wagon rolled over the road of closely fitted wood planks. The immense wagon measured nearly 20 feet long and was drawn by a team of six sturdy horses. The sidewalls of the cargo bed were deeply carved with sheaves of wheat, cornucopia and symbols Edward had never seen before. The driver called down again. “Them’s injun signs, Sonny. They mean good luck and safe travel.”

The wagon Edward was escorting was piled high with crates containing the tools of his trade and tied securely with heavy, hemp rope. Master Hornblower had tasked him specifically to watch over these creates. He and the other Fabricators would need the tools they contained to effect repairs, fabricate replacement parts and make new tools to replace ones that broke. His mind whirled in wonder as the train of some thirty wagons rolled along to the call of the drivers and the crack of their whips. The term “wilderness” came again to his mind as the road passed through a dense stand of cedar trees growing out of dark still water. He mused on the cool gloom under the huge boughs and wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead. He trotted up to a foothold on the wagon and hoisted himself up onto the freight, just behind the driver, who nodded approvingly.

Biting insects rose from the marsh as they moved deeper into the cedar swamp. A dark cloud of the blood-sucking insects hovering over the train, Edward slapped his neck and arms as the plaguing bugs caused red, itching welts to rise where they bit him. The driver handed Edward two cut branches with thick fibrous ends and told him to light them on the lantern on the side of the wagon. He held the first one to the small flame till it caught and smoldered rather than burned. Sweet smelling smoke curled up and tickled his nose with a heavy scent of perfume that clung to his skin, permeated his sinuses and seemed to drive the insects away. He passed one to the driver who blew on it till the tip glowed red-hot. “Keep it burning, sonny. Wave it around. It will keep the mosquitoes away.”

The heat of the afternoon brought a sweat to the animals and workmen alike as the train began its way up the winding incline of Barbadoes Neck. Edward dismounted and walked along side the wagon as the team strained in their harness. The creaking of the leather and the motion of the wagon reminded him of the sounds the boards of the MAID MARGARET made as she rolled and pitched in the storm they had weathered on their crossing. He remembered how he held Elizabeth as she cried, terrified the ship would sink. The thought of her brought a thrill of passion that coursed through his blood. “Soon she will be in my arms again,” he thought. The horse teams pulled the wagons steadily up the gentle incline of the Plank Road to the Village of Schuyler. To his left and right the color of the cliff face was an impossibly deep reddish brown, capped with a forest of deep green and set off with a sky of crystal blue, laced with thin wisps of high, white clouds. He breathed a prayer of thanksgiving.

At the top of the hill, the lead wagon was met by a small knot of people waiting under the stand of chestnut trees at a fork in the road. They stepped out onto the Plank Road, craning their necks, straining to get a glimpse of the long awaited engine. They hailed the drivers, cheering their arrival and, waving to their friends and neighbors, called for them to join the parade.

“These are the families of the miners,” the driver called to Edward. “Your machine is going to make their work in the mines a good deal safer. By year’s end, I’ll wager, at least two of these families will owe a loved ones life or limbs to it.”

The train followed the right hand fork into the village, where signs proclaiming, “Bakery,” “Dry Goods,” “Candles” and a dozen other wares hung in front of the neat shops arranged on both sides of the plank road. Side streets intersected the main road and Edward left the train to run a few yards down one of the side streets to admire the neat fences and white washed homes behind them. From porches and wood walkways people dressed in expensive lace and linen waved to the train and cheered their arrival. He made his way back to the wagon, dazed and smiling. He waved back to the crowd and called “Hello” and “Thank You” to persons whose eyes he caught. The wagon passed a tavern where a dozen men standing beside an upturned keg passed wooden tankards of ale up into the hands of the drivers and workers, while holding their own high over their heads saluting the pump as it passed. A heavy wood tankard overflowing with foam was pressed into his hands. He eyed the liquid and recalled his father’s drunken stupors and passed it up to the driver who accepted it and drank deeply. Another tankard was handed to him and he discarded the memory, refusing to let it interfere with his joy. He raised the cup above his head in salute and drank deeply. It was cool and delicious and the alcohol lightened his step. He drained the last drops from the tankard and suddenly wondered what to do with it. “Up here, Sonny,” called the driver. “Toss it to me. I’ll see it finds its way home.”

Edward stopped to wipe the sweat off his forehead and neck with his sleeve and surveyed the New World surrounding him. “This is no wilderness,” he said half to himself again and trotted to catch up with his wagon. It looked and felt more civilized than the city he had left behind.

Edward saw Elizabeth in the crowd and ran to her. Catching her hand, he pulled her into the road behind his wagon, saying, “Come on, walk with us. It’s a parade in our honor.” Hand in hand, they walked beside the wagon, dwarfed by its immense size, waving to the cheering crowd and reveling in the joy of their arrival. Carriages of every description were tethered behind the Schuyler Manor House and dozens of the most splendidly dressed Ladies and Gentlemen Edward and Elizabeth had ever seen stood on the second floor porches waving and cheering at the parade below them. In the middle of the arrayed gentry of East Jersey, Arent Schuyler sat on the main porch reviewing the incoming wagon train like a general inspecting his troops. Edward and Elizabeth whispered to each other, trying to compare the size and majesty of the building to the Hornblower home and agreed it was larger and grander than any of the homes they had seen in England.

The wagons passed through the village and into the forest beyond and began to circle about a forge set in a clearing in the woods. Elizabeth pointed out a run down cabin under the oaks that was to be theirs. Edward put his arm around her shoulders and whispered in her ear, “I love you.” The lead wagon made a complete circle around Schuyler’s Forge till it was following the last wagon in the train. The driver of the lead wagon stood and called out in a voice that boomed into the forest, “Wagons.” The drivers called back to him in unison, “Wagons.” The lead driver called out again, “Halt.” As one the circle of wagons came to a stop and the drivers let out a cheer.

A gang of workers waiting by the building began the business of unloading the wagons to the tune of a work song Edward had learned on board the MAID MARGARET. For the remainder of the day, Edward worked with the men unloading the crates directing the ones marked for the fabricators to be stacked under a lean-to on the north side of the clearing and then covered with canvas.

Wagon by wagon, piece by piece, the equipment and boxes containing the great engine were moved, under the watchful eye of Josiah Hornblower, into a building the size of a large barn and in the waning sunlight, the men broke into a cheer as the last crate was moved off the last wagon and stored for the night. The task of installing the machine at the nearby shaft hole would begin in the morning. But this evening a bonfire burned bright and meat was being roasted. Musicians played merry tunes and the mineworkers and their families, along with the community of Schuyler began dancing around the fire. In the Schuyler Manor, ladies and gentlemen in splendid gowns and suits, danced under the smiling visage of Arent Schuyler to the melodies of the latest Mozart minuets played by the musicians brought to the Manor from New York City.

-*-

The village of Schuyler sits on the East face of Copper Ridge, so called because of its color and the ore taken from it. Schuyler shares the crest of Copper Ridge with a sister village, the Kingsland Plantation. The twin villages sit astride a ridge between the narrow but deep Passaic River on the west and the tidal marshes of the Hackensack on the east. The ridge itself, runs in a generally north - south direction, with Kingsland lying to the north. Together, the two villages make up the bulk of New Barbadoes Neck. The Plank Road through the cedar swamp, over which the wagon train had passed, is one of the finest roads in the English Colonies. On this road, a traveler can make the trip from New York City, across the Hudson River to Pawles Hook on the New Jersey side and then some twelve miles up the Plank Road to the Schuyler and Kingsland Manors, in as little as three hours. In winter when the road is snow covered, a sleigh can make the trip even faster.

Barbadoes Neck has become the social center for the wealthy and elite of the thirteen British Colonies in America. Year round, visitors come to the Schuyler and Kingsland mansions to attend a never-ending string of social gatherings. Stories of the hospitality lavished on Manor House guests are notorious among the elite of New York, Newark, Elizabeth, Perth Amboy, Boston, Charleston and even farther afield. Tales of the fabulous balls and lavish dinners hosted at the Manor Houses and the hunting, fishing and scenic wonders of the area draws the most successful merchants, plantation owners, shippers and that uniquely American breed of individual, “Philosophers.” Benjamin Franklin, the foremost philosopher of the New World, was a frequent visitor to both Manor Houses and a participant, along with the rich and privileged, in parties rumored to last for weeks at a time. The Philadelphia tabloids reported extensively on the affairs and reported that Mr. Franklin had said, “The only thing more daring than the ladies of Barbadoes Neck are the ideas discussed there.”

The communities surrounding Barbadoes Neck are populated with families of various European origins. Dutch, French, English, Welch, Scots and German settlers live peacefully with each other and with several clans of native Lenapi Indian in the neighborhood. Although there are about 200 black slaves and white Redemptioners in the area, only a few live on Barbadoes Neck itself. Of these, the Redemptioners are given the hardest and most dangerous work in the mines and the fields since they are merely criminals sold into slavery to atone for their crimes. Their treatment stands in stark contrast to the treatment of black slaves who are personal property and therefore valuable and to be well cared for. Stories abound of both slaves and Redemptioners who served their Masters well and upon earning their freedom became useful and valued citizens.

The residents living closest to the Manor houses typically make the larger part of their living on the grounds of the mansions, where they are employed to tend to the guests, prepare meals and provide for the comforts that make life at Barbadoes Neck a delight. The bounty of the Kingsland Plantation provides the bulk of the fruits and vegetables served at both Manor Houses and local producers provide the delicacies for those acquainted with and accustomed to the best food and drink.

Almost every family on Barbadoes Neck that owns a piece of land grows garden vegetables. Because the soil is incredibly fertile, a small plot can supply a family’s needs and even produce a surplus to be sold at the local market. Small industries thrive in every household as family’s work together to pickle cabbage and cucumbers or press apples and grapes into cider and wine. Pears, peaches, cherries and watermelons are sold fresh in season to the Manor Houses with a generous portion being fermented to make brandies which are served with great pride to the continuous stream of guests. The liquors of Barbadoes Neck are known in both New York City and Philadelphia and command a good price when bartered for staple goods or luxuries in the market places as far away as Boston and Baltimore.

The families on Barbadoes Neck also tend small flocks of geese, ducks and chickens. A cow or two and a pair of pigs are not an unusual sight on a family plot. Like the fruits and vegetables, livestock bring extra cash into the village. The cheese and butter produced from the milk are of such superior quality and taste that the recipes are jealously guarded family secrets and in constant demand at the Manor Houses. Fresh beef and pork that is not sold to the Manor Houses is salted and sent to New York City for sale to the merchant vessels plying the coastal trade routes and even to some that sail around the world. The hides of the slaughtered animals are cured in a Tannery at the crest of Copper Ridge and sold to the local Cobblers to make shoes, boots, saddelry and a hundred other daily necessities of life in colonial America.

Both winter and summer wheat grow in abundance. These grains, along with corn and rye, are milled into flower and baked into breads that feed the families of the workers and cakes that dress the tables of the Manor Houses. Some of the grain is brewed into whiskey, beer and ale to be sold to the “COPPER COCK” tavern on the Kingsland Green and the “PICK AND SHOVEL “tavern in Schuyler. The remainder would be smuggled to New York and Philadelphia and bartered in exchange for manufactured goods imported from England.

From the Hackensack marshes, salt is harvested by evaporating the briny water in huge pans and collecting the residue. The salt is then pressed into blocks and sold to the Manor Houses, or used as currency for trade with the Lenapi Indians or to the Butchers who use it to cure meat. The bounty of the farmland and forest constitute a broad supply base for the Manor House kitchens and a strong commodity for barter or cash in the open market place. A seemingly limitless stream of farm produce flows down the Passaic River from Barbadoes Neck. Vegetables, pickled for long term storage, are sold at the markets in Newark and Elizabeth. From there, they will again be sold in New York City and eventually find their way to the markets of England and perhaps even continental Europe.

Ships arriving in New York harbor are loaded with machine parts, woven cloth and whiskey manufactured in England. These are items the residents of Barbadoes Neck cannot or do not produce and must purchase with the proceeds of their gardens. Iron goods and red cloth, in particular, are the favored trade items to be bartered with the nearby Lenapi Indians for furs and wampum.

Despite a ban on manufacturing in East Jersey, small local industries, producing illegal goods, have begun to spring up across the colony. Led by the example of Arent Schuyler and the construction of the forge at his mine, the colonists have taken it upon themselves to develop their industrial output. Over the years, the quality of the products manufactured on Barbadoes Neck has risen to a level rivaling the best European imports. This singular development is extremely distressing to the factory owners of Europe, who have, until now, enjoyed a lack of competition and the resulting profits their monopoly assured.

The miners working the copper vein in Schuyler’s mine have been extracting ore that has assayed occasionally assays as 80% pure. Since the pump began operation, their lives have improved greatly. Injuries and deaths due to shaft collapse and water have diminished while profits have increased. The ore they extract is carried by wagon to the forge, located near the pump, where it is smelted and cast into ingots. The larger part of the finished product is sold in the colonies and used by local smiths to be made into brass products. The remainder of the refined product is sent to England to cover tax payments and tribute to the sponsors and shareholders who financed the original settlement. Schuyler’s diplomatic exercise in obtaining the permissions needed to operate the forge was a major political victory not only for himself but for the citizens of Barbadoes Neck. Rumor and speculation hinted that his victory was attained only after the King’s ministers were liberally plied with bribes.

Schuyler’s forge is where Edward Fields works. His days are long and demanding but rewarding both spiritually and economically. From the workbench where he fabricates replacement parts, he watches as the number of shining copper bars cast every month has increased since his arrival. He has also notice that the portion of the ingots destined for England remains fairly steady and are stored in a locked room at the forge waiting patiently for the Jersey wagon that will take them to New York City for shipment back across the Atlantic. The remaining bars, the ones in the pile to be sold to the smiths of Barbadoes Neck and the surrounding community, hardly ever accumulate beyond a dozen due to an ever-increasing demand.

Most of the miners live scattered about the forest at the crest of Copper ridge on the south side of the plank road where the way forks north to the Manor Houses and west down a steep incline to the Passaic River. These families supplement their earnings at the mine with family gardens, hunting, fishing and home industry, like their neighbors on the Kingsland Plantation. Edward has come to know them all by name and counts them among the finest people he has ever met.

While the Manor houses are the undisputed economic center of Barbadoes Neck. The church is the spiritual and teaching center. Every Sunday, the church bell peals out, summoning the twin communities on Barbadoes Neck to join with their neighbors on the west bank of the Passaic, at the Presbyterian Church in Belleville, to celebrate their prosperity and health. From across Barbadoes Neck the residents respond to the call and ride the plank road west, down the slope to the Passaic River. The west incline is much steeper than the east face and in winter it is nearly impassable. At the foot of the hill, a wood bridge spans a narrow neck in the Passaic and delivers travelers to the old Presbyterian Church. Built in 1497, its 50-foot tall steeple blesses the traffic along the River, the crops in the fields, the animals and residents.

The ministers of the church have been charged by the parishioners not only with the spiritual education of their children but with their secular education. It is here that the children of Barbadoes Neck attend one of the first free schools in the New World and learn to read, write and calculate numbers.

-*-

December, 1755

The hearth fire in the forge was stoked up to a merry blaze and cast it’s flickering light over the nine men seated around the worktable. This night the work had been put aside and the Fabricators and Smiths faced each other over a table littered with the remnants of a hearty meal. Edward and three other men in the room are indentured servants. The rest are Freemen, who have completed their terms of service but have decided to stay on with Josiah Hornblower to oversee the maintenance and operation of the engine and forge. Hornblower rose from his bench at the head of the table, raised his mug of ale and toasted the gathered men. “Gentlemen, I drink to your health, to the birth of our Lord, Jesus, to good King George and to another year of record profits for Mister Schuyler’s mine.”

“Here, here!” The men respond in a rough chorus, as they raised their tankards in salute, toasted each other and drained their mugs. Hornblower poured another generous serving into his tankard and passed the pitcher off to Edward to be filled from the keg sitting at the far end of the forge, away from the fire.

“Gentlemen, ‘tis about time to depart. We all have families to go to and the Reverend McGlocklin won’t tolerate us being late for Christmas Morning services.” Grunts of acknowledgment passed around the table. With the dinner ended, the men pulled on their woolen coats and tricorn hats and by one’s and two’s began to depart. Edward and his friend Robert Thompson were about to leave, when Hornblower put his hand on Edward’s shoulder and bade him, “Wait, Edward. We need to speak.”

Edward nodded to Thompson and said, “I’ll only be a minute.”

“Take care of your business, Edward, I’ll walk slow. You can catch up with me at the overlook on the Indian Trail.”

Thompson departed, closing the door tightly behind him, leaving the two men to their private conversation. There is deep respect and admiration in Hornblowers’s voice.

Over the years he has seen Edward work diligently to fabricate the parts needed to keep his pump running. He also likes Edward on a personal basis and pours another helping of ale into their tankards. “To your health, Edward.” The two raised their drinks and saluted each other. “And to you, sir,” responded Edward.

When they finished drinking Hornblower wiped his beard with the back of his sleeve and began talking again. “How is that daughter of yours?”

“She is just fine, sir. Three years old, strong and healthy.”

“Good, that’s very good, Edward. Now, what I really want to talk to you about is the term of your servitude. I know it comes to an end with the spring and you will be a Freeman. A Freeman with a valuable skill. Now hear me out. I saw you talking with that fellow Goodshire, and I know he is headed for Pennsylvania just as soon as he can. But I tell you now, Edward, Pennsylvania is no place for a man with your skills. You are a genius with the pump, you know it like you know your own child and you treat it like one. Edward, there are no pumps like this one in Pennsylvania and there won’t be for another ten years.” Edward smiled. The word “free” ringing in his ears. “I don’t want to loose you, Fields. The skills and knowledge you have accumulated are irreplaceable. Throughout the colonies there is no man who can do what you do to keep that engine working. I want you to stay with me. I want you to work with Thompson to make spare parts to keep the water out of the mine. And with that done, my young friend, our profits will continue to flow and your pockets will be lined with silver.”

The opportunity Edward had so often speculated upon had suddenly appeared in front of him. He sipped his ale and looked over the rim of the wood tankard at Hornblower. Slowly he lowered it and said, “I’ll stay. But I want to purchase the 10 acres next to my cottage and for that I’ll need ten pounds sterling.”

“Done,” exclaimed Hornblower! Relieved it would cost him no more, and raised his tankard one more time. “On the day of your freedom, I’ll place the money in your hand as a gift from my family to yours, with my compliments and best wishes. You have made the right decision, Edward, you shall grow old in freedom and wealth.”

Edward stepped out into the cold dry night air. The moon and stars above sparkled in the night sky and shed enough light on the thin covering of snow to clearly illuminate the trail along the edge of the cliff. As he walked and breathed the crisp night air, the hairs in his nose froze and thawed with each breath and the frigid air brought tears to his eyes. He pulled the wool coat tighter around his shoulders, pressed the tricorn hat firmly down onto his head and picked up his pace. By the time he caught up with Thompson, the ale had taken it’s full hold on both and they staggered and swayed together along the trail, laughing and bumping into each other and, singing snatches of risqué songs as they walked to their homes. On their right, the forest opened and the trail passed close to the edge of the cliff giving the travelers a view of the river and marshes below. Illuminated by the ghostly pale light of the full moon, Edward stepped to the precipice and contemplated the view for a few seconds then yelled out over the valley, “Freedom!” He spread his arms and raised his eyes to the clusters of stars above. The shape of the hunter with its brilliant red star looked back down at him. The icy blue of Sirius, rising over the eastern horizon greeted him as tears ran down his cheeks and once again he called out, “Freedom!”

-*-

Summer, 1756

When Minister McGlocklin finished his Sunday services he put aside his clerical robes and mingled with the people gathered on the village green. It was easy for him to see and hear the fear in the people he called his flock. Reports that were often unreliable and rife with rumor unsettled the people and fed the fear that had been building for some time now. Only last summer they had received news that the army, under the command of General Braddock and Colonel Washington of Virginia, had met a defeat in their efforts to halt the growth of the French settlements in the Ohio Valley. Now more bad news had arrived. Only a few days ago, word had reached Barbadoes Neck that Colonel Peter Schuyler, oldest son of Arent Schuyler, and half of his Jersey regiment had been captured by the French and their Indian allies at Oswego, in the wilds of New York, near the Canadian border.

Usually, the people come to the village green to drink draughts of ale with their friends and play ten pins. They talk of farming and mining and hunting and sailing. But today the talk is of politics and the news from the other twelve colonies. Today, the conversation centers on the defeat and capture of people they all knew and the horrors that would be inflicted upon them by the Indians. Inevitably, the talk turned to the possibility of an Indian attack on East New Jersey from the Delaware valley and what their defense against that attack would be. A few of the men expressed a fear of attack by the Aquacknunck tribe from a few miles upstream on the Passaic and west of Gothern and recommend a first strike against them. Edward was one of a group that did not agree with their plan. He and his friends considered the idea to be ill conceived and knew they would have to make their voices heard.

The sun shone warm on Edward’s face as he claimed his right to stand on the tree stump and raised his voice against the fear being spread by men calling for a raid against their Indian neighbors. “I believe there is very little to fear from the Aquacknuncks,” he said. “I’ve seen no interest in them of forming war parties and there has been no change in the mood of the village when I visited them last week to trade. The tribe is quiet. They continue to trade in good faith. They are farmers, like ourselves. To attack them would be an act of unprovoked murder that I, and others who agree with me, will neither condone nor support.” The crowd rustled nervously. A few more men drifted into the gathering carrying tankards of ale. “Harold,” he called out into the assembled crowd, “you had dealings with the Indians only a few days ago, what can you tell us?” Edward’s remarks had been well planned as had his calling upon the Hat Maker, who was ready to step up onto the stump as Edward stepped down. “I’ll tell you what experience I’ve had with the Aquacknuncks,” he began. The Hat maker put his hands behind his back and surveyed the gathered faces of his friends and neighbors. Savoring the moment, he paused till all eyes were upon him, then started slowly, drawing out the syllables.

“Well, their men show a distinct favor toward beaver high hats and I still haven’t been able to sell a single bonnet to one of their women!” The crowd burst into laughter. Harold Cushing was a man who liked to talk. His irreverence broke the tension in the assembly. The people liked his clever way with a phrase and the humorous way he saw life. The way he made people laugh made him an easy favorite among the ale and talk crowd at the COPPER COCK tavern. His audience knew his quick wit and they expected him to make them laugh. But behind the joviality, the residents of Barbadoes Neck recognized the reliable and levelheaded advice that made him a community leader.

Thompson took the stump next as the laughter died down to sober attention. “The Aquacknunck’s are more interested in getting their vegetables to market than starting a fight,” he said. His voice carried easily over the gathered men. “Their enemies are the same as ours; Drought. Fever. Crop failure. Iroquois. Two of their warriors are with Colonel Schuyler. If there is trouble to come, it won’t be from the “Nuncks.” It’ll be from the North.” The crowd murmured ascent “And the Iroquois and Onandaga will find that we can take care of ourselves!”

The crowd cheered and Edward and Elizabeth drifted away from them as another speaker took his turn on the stump and began talking about a naval attack on New York City by the French fleet. “Even that event,” the speaker appealed to the crowd, “would be easily handled by the harbor forts and the British Navy.” The buzz of the crowd diminished as they made their way across the green to the maple trees where their daughter, Anne, was playing.

Elizabeth slid her arm into Edward’s and squeezed herself to him. “I’m proud of you Edward, you spoke very well.” Her second child was due in the next few weeks and the fear of an Indian attack has darkened her thoughts since she first heard the women talking of the possibility. She knew instinctively that the efforts of her husband and his friends to calm the hysteria had been successful. “After all”, she told him, “Its too nice a day to worry about an Indian attack.

Together they strolled to the shade of the maples on the west side of the green, where Anne sat with two other children playing with their corncob dolls. The child looked up from her game at the sound of her father’s voice, rose to take his hand and was swept up into his arms and onto his shoulder. She giggled wildly as she handed off her doll to her mother’s hand and her father tipped her off his shoulder, into his waiting arms and then gently lowered her to the ground. Together, the family strolled, hand in hand, past the village shops and along the forest path leading back to their cottage.

“It sounds like everything will be well,” Elizabeth sighed as the baby moved inside her. “Yes,” she said, “this America we have come to will be a wonderful home for our children.”

The cottage they own is nestled to the north end of a clearing in the forest only a brief walk from the Kingsland Manor where Elizabeth works. It is placed in a stand of oak and maple that protect it from the cold, north winter wind. On the south side, the front door looks out over an acre cleared from the surrounding forest and marked by a meandering wall that was there as long as anyone could remember. At the perimeter, the still smoldering stumps of recently felled trees marked the newly claimed farmland. The land slopes gently to the east until it meets the Indian Trail running north and south along the edge of the steep face of Copper Ridge. Beyond the edge is a panorama of the salt marshes dressing the landscape at the foot of the cliffs like manicured lawns of waving shades of green and gold bulrushes and salt grass. On the east bank of the marsh, before the land rises again is the stark hulk of Snake Hill, an up thrust of granite that takes its name from the frightening number of poisonous snakes living there. Beyond it the east bank of the Hackensack rises quickly to the dense forest of Bergenwood and the farmlands of the English Neighborhood to the north. In the distance, on a clear day, the bell in the church tower at Bergen can be heard and the smoke rising from the tavern at Secaucus can be seen.

The acre that Edward cleared over the past year is planted with a crop of garden vegetables. Chickens peck at the rich undergrowth at the edge of the forest and a gaggle of geese honk in alarm and spread their mighty wings at the family as they approach their home. The cottage is a two room frame of cedar planks with a roof of thatched salt grass. Inside, a small fire continually burns in the stone fireplace and a simmering stew in an iron pot suspended over the fire fills the rooms with an inviting aroma. Four windows, two on the south side and one each on the east and west are filled with real glass panes and allow sunlight to fill the main room for the most part of the day, while keeping the mosquitoes out. The interior of the simple cottage has few decorations and little furniture. The table and chairs were hand made by Edward as were the wooden spoons and plates. The iron pot and the swinging arm from which it is suspended over the fire, were both cast by Edward at the forge, as was the single steel knife in the house that serves all the families cutting needs. In the south east corner of the cottage a shelf holds the few items of value the family owns, three books, one of them the family bible a gift from Master Kingsland.

As the sun set and their single day of rest came to an end, Edward and Elizabeth put Anne to bed and prepared for the coming day. Moonlight streamed through the window as Edward settled back onto the straw filled mattress and cherished the warmth of his wife as she cuddled close to him and whispered, “Good night.”

-*-

Elizabeth knew her time was near when the first contractions woke her from a sound sleep. By dawn, her labor had begun in earnest and after the third set of spasms, Edward left his wife in the care of their daughter and ran the mile and a half to the home of Mrs. Van Winkle, the midwife. Out of breath and panting heavily, he knocked on her door. Her husband answered and between ragged breaths Edward told him it was time for the baby.

The birth of a child is a village event. Women from across Barbadoes Neck gathered to assist while the men, in keeping with tradition, packed the expectant father off to the COPPER COCK tavern to ply him with ale and games. This is primarily to get him out of the way, occupy his mind and keep him from thinking of the dangers involved in the birth. Mrs. Van Winkle directed her assistants like a general directing troops, barking orders to fetch and fill and finally, “Get the blankets ready” as Elizabeth cried out in pain.

Edward spent the day at the COPPER COCK nervously toying with the ale Thompson kept urging him to drink. His eye kept wandering to the path leading to his home. The setting sun painted the western sky with deep red and pale shades of green as it dipped below the horizon. At the end of a hot and humid July afternoon, a cool darkness settled over Barbadoes Neck as, Elizabeth’s struggle ended with the delivery of her baby. Mrs. Van Winkle held the infant by its legs and gently smacked the child till he cried out with the wail of life. Around her, Elizabeth heard the cooing and approving sounds of her neighbors as her child was cleaned, wrapped and placed into her arms.

“A boy,” whispered Mrs. Van Winkle, “He’s beautiful.”

With the delivery completed, Mrs. Van Winkle rinsed her hands in warm water and dispatched one of the young girls to the COPPER COCK to fetch the father.

Edward sprinted through the woods leaving his neighbors far behind. None could keep up with him although they could hear him on the trail ahead of them whooping with joy. At the end of his dash through the darkening forest, Edward slowed and walked proudly through the gathered women and into his house. Lying on their bed, his exhausted wife seemed to be sleeping. Anne took her father’s hand and led him to the bed to show him the small bundle lying beside her mother. Gently he lifted the blanket to see his new son. Elizabeth’s eyes opened and she smiled, cuddling the wrapped infant. “Edward,” she said, “ meet Michael.”

-*-

Fall, 1766

Michael was eleven years old and nearly as tall as his father. Although his body still held the slender lines of youth, hard work and good food had defined the muscles of his arms and back and given him the look of a fine young man. His mind was as strong as his body because his parents had made sure he attended the free school. Under the tutelage of Minister McGlocklin, he had learned to read and write in classes held two times each week. At home, his parents reinforced the lessons by requiring him to read, despite his complaints, every night from the family bible, particularly during the planting and harvest seasons when classes were suspended. Michael’s reading skills and expressive voice were further developed as he read at the Sunday service at the Presbyterian Church under the watchful and knowing eye of the good Minister.

At home, Michael’s chores in the garden occupied most of his time but there were still many hours left for him and the other young boys of Barbadoes Neck to explore the forest and marshlands, to fish and swim in the river and play the games of youth. On a crisp, cool early autumn day, with the leaves on the trees beginning their change from green to yellow and red, Michael was tending his chores when his attention shifted to the sound of voices and running feet. Long before he saw his friends coming up the path, he recognized each voice and paused from the wood he was stacking to await their arrival. He knew there was excitement in the air. Everywhere he went and listened, the people were talking about the war being over and the veterans coming home.

Four boys, each about Michael’s age, came running across the yard, yelling for Michael to come with them. “Soldiers are coming! Soldiers are coming,” called Eric! Michael looked to his mother who was sitting on the porch, sewing the hem on a fine lace dress for one of the ladies staying at the Kingsland Manor. His eyes pleaded volumes but all he said was, “Mother, I can finish when I come back.” She stopped her work and looked up at the five boys. Frederick with his perennially dirty hands and face. Wilhelm, with a stock of brilliant red hair, just like his father, the Coopersmith. James and Eric, brothers separated by a full year yet looking like two peas in a pod and her son, the leader of this band of young Americans. The boys all wear their hair long, in the style of the frontiersmen, braided into a single tail at the back of their heads. Although shoes are necessary in the winter, it is not yet cold and they prefer to wear Indian style moccasins. Each is wearing buckskin britches called leather stockings, which they prefer to the European style of woolen pants. Their leather stockings are old and thin, castoffs passed down from older brothers, fathers and friends that have been tailored to their smaller sizes.

“All right,” she said, “but be back before your father returns.” The five broke into a single cheer and ran off at full speed toward the clearing on the brow of the red cliffs where they could see the plank road as it wound it’s way up the face of Copper Ridge.

Eric saw them first, soldiers in bright red uniforms, led by two mounted officers. They were marching in perfect step to the sound of fife and drum, their footsteps tramping, in unison on the plank road, flags fluttering in the breeze. Eric counted them as they passed, four shoulder to shoulder, ten ranks long. Two officers on horse back, a standard barer, a Sergeant Major and two Corporals. The Sergeant called orders to the soldiers and the column turned smartly at the top of the ridge and began marching up the Indian Trail. As they passed through the village of Schuyler men and women ran to tell their neighbors; “the veterans are home!” As the troop marched past the Schuyler Manor, one of the mounted officers drew his saber and saluted Arent Schuyler and the crowd of cheering residents gathered on his porches. The Schuyler household and their guests poured out and on to the street following the crowd onto the trail marching behind the column. Word of their approach spread quickly and by the time the column of soldiers approached the Schuyler Green, the residents of Barbadoes Neck were lining the perimeter cheering, waving and calling the names of friends and relatives. The miners and farmers, some still carrying tools, marched with the landowners and servants following the column onto the green.

The five boys worked their way between the legs of the adults and squirmed their way to the front of the crowd as the flag of Great Britain held high between two battle flags passed. The banners snapped in the breeze as the Sergeant called out military orders that sounded like a strange language. Two drummers and a fife player beat out a military tattoo to the step of the soldiers marching back and forth across the green. Precisely, they took their great muskets, in unison, from one shoulder to the other. On orders called out by the Sergeant the troop divided itself into squads and then reformed into a single company and reversed direction. Marching to the left and then to the right and again forming into ranks four deep in front of the mounted officer, demonstrating their skill.

“Company, Halt.” The soldiers came to a stop with a single stamp of their feet.

“Left face.” As one, they stamped their feet again and turned to face the Sargent and the mounted officers.

“Ground arms!” Each soldier’s musket came to the ground with the muzzle pointed to the sky on his right side. The mounted officer, a Colonel, turned his horse and rode in front of the soldiers standing at rigid attention and then returned to face his waiting Lieutenant. With a flourish, he returned his saber to it’s scabbard and produced a scroll from inside his tunic. He saluted the Lieutenant and handed it to him. As the paper changed hands, the drummer beat a roll. When it ended, the Lieutenant began in a loud voice.

“Hear ye, hear ye. The following is a Royal Proclamation.”

The drummer played a roll that lasted another five heartbeats. When it ended, the officer read on in a voice loud and clear enough to be heard by all the gathered people.

“Be it known to all present. By the grace of God and King George the Third, Colonel Peter Schuyler and the following soldiers of His Majesties victorious Army of the Colonial Empire, Sargent Wilhelm DeMarest, Private Soldiers John Smith, Henrick Van Tiegel, Allen Cliff, John Brenner, Robert Davenport, Michael Kestrel and the Aquacknunck Indian known as Thomas Red Shirt, having completed their term of enlistment in the service of His Majesty are hereby discharged from service at the pleasure of the Colonial Governor with all the distinction and honor attributed to that service. By the grace of God, and by the hand of His Majesty, King George, the Third.”

The officer turned to the soldiers and upon the order of “Present Arms”, saluted them as a cheer went up from the crowd. Two women broke from the crowd screaming the names of their husbands. They crossed the green and threw themselves on their loved ones, holding them in tearful embraces. Arent Schuyler broke into tears of joy as his son dismounted and walked solemnly to his father and embraced him. The patriarch wept unashamed and through tears of joy said to the mounted officer, “Lieutenant, you and your men are welcome to join us in our rejoicing.” Tears ran freely down his cheeks as he turned, still embracing his son, and called to the tavern owner, “Innkeeper, open a barrel of your best ale.”

The Lieutenant dismounted and stood in front of Master Schuyler. “Sir, your generosity is most welcome and appreciated.” He saluted Colonel Schuyler, turned to his Sergeant and ordered him to dismiss the men. The soldiers stacked their muskets in teepee formations in front of the PICK AND SHOVEL Tavern and mingled with the crowd. The Innkeeper rolled out a Hogshead barrel of ale and tapped it to the cheers of the soldiers and citizens. Tankards were passed around and toast after toast was lifted till mid afternoon when the Lieutenant mounted his horse and ordered the drummer to beat out the “Recall.” Slowly the soldiers separated themselves from the crowd and were bullied into line by the Sargent. With a salute and a cheer from the gathered citizens, the soldiers formed into two ranks as the fife and drum began a marching tune. The column turned in unison and began it’s march back down the Indian Trail to the plank road that would take them to the Pawlus Hook Ferry and from there across the Hudson River to their Headquarters in New York City. Michael and his friends marched alongside the soldiers, imitating their strict cadence as they marched out of Schuyler village and along the crest of Copper Ridge. The boys stopped at the cliff where the road sloped down to the mines and then to the swamp beyond and waved till the last soldier disappeared under the branches of the giant cedar trees.

As they made their way back to the village, the boys darted in and out of the forest, leaping out at imagined legions of French soldiers and their Indian allies, annihilating them in a series of brilliantly conceived and executed ambushes. They returned to the village green, filled with victory and pride, and found the crowd had grown even larger than when they left and a festival atmosphere was on the village. Men, women and children stood around the door and every window of the tavern, peering inside, pressing in, afraid to miss a word of what was going on. Their young boy’s curiosity drew them and they worked their way through the crowd until, one by one, they found comfortable places. Michael found his parents sitting at a table just inside the door and shouldered his way in between his father and sister. His mother gave his hair a loving tousle and he settled in to listen.

The veterans were sitting atop the tables, their uniform coats undone and open. Each held a tankard of ale from which they drank deeply and often. One by one, they told their tale of the hardships they had endured and the battles they had fought. Each man’s story complimented the other’s and enthralled their families and relatives with tales of honor and gallantry and then horrified them with stories of the cruelty they endured at the hands of their Iroquois captors.

Night fell over the Schuyler village and the tales continued. Michael heard the men speak of vast lands of fertile valleys and trackless forests rich in game, until his head nodded down. Slowly the crowd began to thin and the Fields family took their leave. As they walked the edge of Copper Ridge, the sounds of merry making at the tavern faded into the distance and the forest sounds replaced the laughter and loud talk. Edward guided his family back to their cottage by the light of the moon, as Michael and Anne chattered wildly, their heads filled with the stories told by the veterans.

“Someday, I’m going to be a soldier,” said Michael. “I’ll fight the enemies of the King wherever they are.”

Edward chuckled, “Wait till you grow up, Michael. Soldiering isn’t all parades and honors.”

-*-

CHAPTER TWO

THE