Welcome to my website. This is the American Revolution they never taught you in school.
While the publisher holds the rights to the prequel, the remainder of the story is mine to share with everyone interested.
The easiest way to download it is to go to each page, select "Edit", then "select all" and right click "copy." You can then "paste" it to "Word" or any place you find suitable. The file is warrented virus free by the host: Godaddy.com.
Please remember that Parts One through Four are also copyrighted and protected by the intellectual property laws of the United States of America.
If you are an agent interested in representing this work, if you are a legitimate publisher interested in placing this story on the shelves of fine book sellers everywhere or if you are a producer interested in seeing an action story produced for the big screen, or the little one, please, drop me a line.
I would love to hear any feedback. You may write to me at:
passaicfalcon@optonline.net
Permit me to digress a bit. I also have another website that deals with dinosaurs. We present a show for all ages on Geology and Paleontology. Please take a second and follow this link over to it:
WWW.ProfessorOSaurus.com
And now, without further adue, I present with great pride...
Michael Fields:
Master of the Passaic Falcon
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Part 1
CHAPTER ONE…………………..THE HIGHWAYMEN
CHAPTER TWO……………...…..THE TAX COLLECTORS
Go to Chapter Two
CHAPTER THREE…………………THE MINERS
CHAPTER FOUR…………………..THE PARTNERS
CHAPTER FIVE…………….………THE LOVERS
CHAPTER SIX.………………….…THE FUGATIVE
CHAPTER SEVEN……………..…THE SMUGGLERS
Go to Chapter Seven
Part 2
CHAPTER EIGHT………….………THE PATRIOTS
CHAPTER NINE…………………...THE INDIANS
CHAPTER TEN…………….……...THE SOLDIERS
CHAPTER ELEVEN……………….THE RAIDERS
CHAPTER TWELVE………………THE ARTILLERYMEN
CHAPTER THIRTEEN…………..THE SURVIVORS
Go to Chapter Thirteen
Part 3
CHAPTER FOURTEEN………….THE SLAVES
CHAPTER FIFTEEN……...…..…THE SPANISH
CHAPTER SIXTEEN………….….THE COUNTERFIETERS
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN………..THE ADMIRALS
Part 4
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN………..…THE SPECULATORS
CHAPTER NINETEEN…….……..THE POLITICIANS
CHAPTER ONE
THE HIGHWAYMEN
Late summer, 1767
Michael Fields slammed the hoe into the ground and turned over the soil between the rows of corn, uprooting the weeds and working the dung into the dirt. He was working on the north acre of the family farm tending the crop one more time before the harvest. Sweat glistened on his brow as he paused to listen to the bell ringing in the distance. The peals were coming from the bell mounted outside the COPPER COCK tavern. He leaned his weight on the hoe and listened as the series of peals began again. He knew the message. It was the call for all able bodied men to assemble. Instinctively, he knew it was about the thieves that had been plaguing Barbadoes Neck.
Property belonging to the people of Barbadoes Neck started disappearing in the early spring. Since then, everyone in the area had reported items missing from their home. At first it was only small items, mostly bits of food like fruit and vegetables from the gardens or a loaf of bread from a windowsill, but as the summer bloomed the thefts escalated to livestock and personal property.
The plague hit the Fields home a week ago when a comb belonging to his mother, Elizabeth, disappeared. It was one of the few treasures she owned. Her husband, Edward, had painstakingly carved it from oak and overlaid the handle with a thin layer of silver he had pounded out from a coin. The theft hurt her deeply and Michael recalled hearing her cry in the night. It also left his sister, Anne, shaken to the point where she couldn’t sleep because she was afraid Highwaymen were sneaking into her bed. He left the tool at the side of the path leading to the house and set off at a trot toward the Green.
-*-
Edward and Robert Thompson heard the bell calling the men to assemble and banked the coals in the hearth before setting out for the green. As they were walking down the driveway, Arent Schuyler’s grandson came riding up the path to the forge. He was a young man, about a year or two younger than Edward’s son, Michael, and seemed dwarfed on the huge steed he was riding. Thompson met the horse and took hold of the bridal. “Young Master Schuyler, what brings you to the forge?” The boy paused to catch his breath; the ride had been a task for his inexperience and youth. He started, “Mr. Thompson.” and stopped to take another breath. “Mr. Fields.” He breathed deeply and continued. “My father asks that you assist Master Kingsland in any way you can.”
Edward stepped up to the horse and offered the boy a cup of water. “What has happened,” he asked?
“I don’t know, sir. But I think someone has been killed. I have to return now to my father. Good luck to you both.”
Edward and Thompson watched as the boy turned the horse and cantered back down the path toward the Schuyler Manor House. “Help in any way we can,” repeated Thompson. “That leaves a lot of latitude,” remarked Edward. “I’ll wager it’s about the thefts. What do you say we go down to the Green and find out what is happening?”
Although both are Freemen, having served their terms of service to Josiah Hornblower, they owe an allegiance to Arent Schuyler, their benefactor and employer. But they live and work closer to the Kingsland House than Schuyler and feel a loyalty there also. They were relieved to be asked by Schuyler to offer assistance to their neighbors and as they walked to the green they talked of danger at their door. The thefts had everyone on edge and now someone had been killed. Both men cared intensely for the safety of their home and family and knew that the only way to secure both was to join the war party being formed and attack the enemy that had killed one of their neighbors.
-*-
The Kingsland Green is dominated by the COPPER COCK Tavern and two ancient oak trees. A number of men were already gathered in front of the Tavern and were milling around in small groups expressing their wish that some news of the thieves who have been plaguing the area has been found. Their conversation stopped as Master Kingsland stepped out of the tavern and stood still, hands behind his back, counting the men who had responded and waiting for their attention. Of the one hundred and fifty families living nearby he gauged that more than half of the men had responded. They pressed around, knowing there was serious business afoot. Kingsland drew in a deep breath and began speaking. “A rider has come to us from Master Schuyler. There has been another robbery on the plank road, in the deepest part of the swamp and the darkest part of the forest.”
An audible growl rose from the gathered men. “The victims were guests on their way to my Manor. Master Schuyler’s Game Warden found the bodies of the driver and a male passenger in the carriage that had been partially sunken in the mud and hidden under branches and sea grass.” He paused and took a deep breath before continuing. “The coachman was our neighbor, Everet Van Graff.” A gasp and a groan rose and fell and a deadly silence came over the gathering. “He was found stuffed into the baggage compartment of the coach. He had been run through and hawked. The attempt to hide the carriage had been quick and dirty. If it had been Indians, we would not have discovered it till winter. We have work to do. We have to see that the murderers are brought to justice. Master Schuyler has offered his assistance in hunting down those who committed this crime.”
Thompson turned to Edward; his face was flushed with anger. “Everet Van Graff lives just down the west slope from me. He has a wife and three strapping youngsters. My God, man, why would any one want to kill him?” Edward shook his head numbly. “I have to do more than help,” said Thompson. “if they form a war party, I’m going with them.”
A voice called out from the crowd. “Call the British Army. It’s their job to do the soldiering. I’m a shop keeper.”
Kingsland responded in a strong voice, louder than the complainer. “I have petitioned the Governor but he is unable to spare more than a few recruits, nothing near what we need. We must tend to this matter ourselves.”
A rebellious shout rose and Kingsland spoke over it. “I’m forming a war party,” he said. “Any who will join, step inside and sign up.”
A farmer in the front rank stepped forward. “I’ll be with ye, Sir.”
Several more men stepped forward and Kingsland motioned them into the tavern. Edward and Thompson took their place in line and entered. Kingsland stood behind the service bar taking the names of those ready to go with him. When Edward’s turn came, he took off his hat before speaking. “Master Kingsland. My name is Edward Fields. My hotheaded friend, here is Brian Thompson. We work at the forge near the property line. Master Schuyler has directed that we do what we can to assist you.” Thompson nodded and added. “We knew Everet. He was a neighbor and we shared many meals and conversations. I want to help find the men who murdered him. What can I do to help?”
“Thank you, gentlemen. Do either of you own a musket?” Both shook their heads in the negative.
“No sir,” said Edward but we have both drilled with Master Schuyler’s Militia.”
“Very well, then. Go to my barn and see Mr. Allen. He will set you up.”
Edward, Thompson and a dozen other men walked to Kingsland’s barn and introduced themselves to the blacksmith. The burley man was bent intently over a table, framed in a beam of sunshine coming through a window high up in the loft. As the men approached he rose with a musket in his hands. Behind him a full stand of muskets stood in the sun beam. Thompson called to his friend. “Hello James. It is sad business we have here.”
“Aye, it is,” responded the blacksmith and told him to wait, “Master Kingsland will be along soon,” he said and returned to his work. A few minutes later a horse galloped up to the barn door and Kingsland entered. Mr. Allen reported to him, “Sir, I have checked eighteen of the twenty-four muskets in the stand. I’ll have the remainder done in two shakes. ”
Kingsland directed the men, “Gentlemen. Step forward.” Edward found himself first in line and Kingsland offered him his choice of the muskets. He took the weapon closest to him and felt its heft. “I’ll take this one,” he said.
“Edward, you are the worst shot I have ever seen. Take this shot bag and powder horn and go around back. I have some targets set up. One of the men there will work with you.”
The sounds of gun shots being discharged brought a small crowd to where the men were practicing. Among the spectators were Michael and his friends cheering and hooting as each man took his turn on the firing line and took a shot at the targets twenty-five feet away. When it was his father’s turn, Michael held his breath as the first shot missed but the next two tore chunks from the target. Edward nodded to his son and grinned. He felt he knew enough about the musket to be a danger to an adversary. “One shot,” he thought. “Then I turn it into a club.” He paused, “I should bring a knife and a hatchet too.”
When each man had fired a dozen shots, Kingsland called his volunteers together and counted them. “We are so few,” he said. “Speak to your neighbors. Call upon them to answer the call. Answer for the common cause. All our homes are threatened. All our families are threatened. Tell any who will answer, we assemble at dawn in the apple orchard at the edge of the swamp.” He gauged the crowd and wondered. “How many of them will come back? How many will be killed or injured? “Return to your homes,” he directed. “Pack possibles for a two day campaign and meet me at dawn.”
-*-
Elizabeth whirled to face her husband and clutched at her daughter, trying to hide behind her. “He is too young!” Her words were almost a panic.
“Mother.” Michael tried not to let his voice break. “Frederick’s father already has him gathering supplies for two. That means he is going. I want to go too.”
Elizabeth drew in her breath and Edward planted himself between his son and wife. He was afraid of the coming fight. He faced her and said, “They killed my friend and we need all the men we can get. We have to go after who ever did this and stop them. And our son is very good with his bow. He knows the forest and I have an idea he knows more about the swamp than he lets on.” He paused and reiterated, “We need all the men we can get.”
Elizabeth knew he was angry and his anger was just. This was no time to stand in his way. “We are short handed,” he said again. “Every man counts and I think he should come along.” His voice softened as he took Elizabeth’s shoulders. “He is my only son. I’ll take care of him.”
Elizabeth started to speak again but stopped herself, “Yes,” she whispered. “I know. He has to go.” Silently she turned away, relenting to her husband’s will and with a feeling of dire consequence she helped them pack for a trip into the swamp.
-*-
As the sun began its westward slope toward the west, Edmund Kingsland rode out of his Manor House gates followed by three riders at full gallop. They knew there was no traffic on the Indian Trail and put spur to horse, galloping all the way to the Schuyler Manor House.
Edmund arrived and paid his respects to Master Arent Schuyler. The old man directed him to where his son was, on the second floor. At the top of the staircase, a man stood before the door on the left and stiffened as Kingsland stepped onto the landing. He knocked on the door, poked his head inside and called. “Sir. It is Master Kingsland.” and stepped back leaving the door allow Kingsland to enter.
Schuyler stood at a table flanked by two frontiersmen and two representatives from the town. Before them, a bed sheet was spread over the table and covered with books and candlesticks set in strategic and readily recognizable locations. Edward approached and examined the map. A compass marking before him pointed out North. The plank road through the forest was marked with a dark straight line of charcoal running due east and west. Circles and swirls marked the banks of the cedar forest and wavy lines showed the extent of the tidal grass meadows and bulrush swamp.
Colonel Peter Schuyler, eldest son of Arent Schuyler and a veteran of the French and Indian War welcomed Kingsland with a warm handshake and asked how many men he could bring. Kingsland vouched for twenty. “Better than none,” Schuyler remarked and returned to the map before him. “Edmund, this is your Plantation. The book is your Manor House. Kingsland took a piece of charred wood from the cold fireplace and marked the sheet. “Colonel, this is the edge of my orchards and the beginning of the marshlands.” He scored the sheet again. “Three channels wander through the swamp and eventually empty into Berry Creek. I have a deer blind set up here,” he slashed at the sheet with the charred ember marking an outline at the edge of the cedar forest. “I propose to bring a force of men there and move south against the highwaymen.”
As he lay out his plan, a scout on horseback galloped up to the Manor House, dismounted in a rush and bound up the stairs to the second floor room to report to Colonel Schuyler. “Colonel,” He told him, “we found tracks on both sides of the road and estimate there were eight to ten highwaymen. We found sign they carried off two women.
-*-
Kingsland returned to his village and conferred with a group of citizens who were veterans of the French and Indian War. Their conference lasted till the first gray smudge of dawn lightened the eastern horizon.
-*-
Edward woke his son before the dawn and they set out together for the apple orchard. As they walked, Michael confessed to his father that he had poached small game in the cedar forest. “I know where there are deer tracks and rabbit snares,” he offered. Edward listened silently and then asked, “Is that where you got last nights dinner?”
“Yes sir,’ he responded. “I know its Master Schuyler’s game but there is so much of it and if I didn’t bring it home mother would have been forced to make up one of those winter turnip and beet dinners you love so much.”
Edward laughed at the sarcasm, then warned Michael, “Mind what you say, young man. If you give away anything, it will be held against you. Don’t speak to Master Kingsland unless he speaks to you. Don’t offer information, even if you know something. Let him ask. And most important, stay close to me.”
-*-
Kingsland gathered a brace of pistols, a musket, powder horn, thirty rounds of ammunition and a saber. Four buckskin clad veterans waiting on his porch rose as he came out of the house and followed as he set out down the hill. At the orchard, he found most of the residents had gathered. There were close to one hundred free families living on Barbadoes Neck and a few black slaves, who were, for all intents and purposes, also free. A handful of Indians from the nearby Aquacknunck tribe stood in a cluster under one of the oak trees. None of them carried a weapon. His mind began to calculate. “Average five to the family. That’s nearly five hundred people. One quarter, too young another too old. Leaving about two hundred fifty. Half of them are women, leaving one hundred twenty five able bodied men. Fifty-three have come forward. Almost half have answered the Call to Arms.” He called the gathering to order and spoke. “The victims were the Carlton family.” A hush fell over the gathered residents. The thought chilled Michael. His mother had been making dresses for the Carlton’s for as long as he could remember.
Frederick grit his teeth and tried his best to snarl. “Their daughter is only a few years older than us,” he said.
“I saw her at the Harvest Ball last year,” said Eric. “She’s beautiful.” Wilhelm agreed.
When Kingsland finished speaking the crowd began to cheer and Michael and his friends gravitated to where a half dozen men dressed in frontier buckskins and leather stockings were telling tales of how the Indians fight. One of the frontiersmen was displaying his expertise with a tomahawk, throwing it with deadly accuracy at a tree twenty paces away. Another frontiersman was passing around two small pots of war paint and the boys joined in and smeared red and black paint on their faces to look like Delaware raiders. The frontiersmen were veterans from the war with the French and Indians, since the day they had returned home, they had become leaders in the Kingsland community.
Kingsland approached the cluster of men flanked by two frontiersmen dressed in buckskin leather stockings and shirts. The man on Kingsland’s right was James and Eric’s father, Jake. The boys stood as their father approached. Michael noted the easy way he cradled the musket in the crook of his arm, the compact “possibles” kit around his neck and the powder horn, shot bag, water jug, and a blanket rolled across his body. Michael scrutinized the pile of supplies he had packed for his father and he and sorted through them a second time to eliminate what they could do without.
The veterans surrounding Kingsland were talking to him with animated gestures as they walked and it was obvious to see he was paying close attention to what they were saying. Each had served with Colonel Schuyler on the frontier of New York and were men who should be listened to when hunting in the forest for highwaymen.
Kingsland shouldered his way into the circle and signaled the frontiersmen. “It’s time. Let us begin this ugly business.” They got up and moved about the crowd gathering up the volunteers and herding them to the water. Kingsland turned his attention to James and Eric, then addressed their father. “Only the older one, Jake.” The disappointment on Eric’s face was devastating. He choked back a tear and held himself back from begging his father to take him. “I’ll take your oldest boy with me, he said. He will be my runner and I swear to you, I will care for him as if he were my own.”
James looked to His father, who nodded and said, “Do as he says, son.”
Kingsland addressed the boy, “Stay close to me and be quiet as a Delaware.”
Michael, Frederick and Wilhelm stood as tall as they could and puffed up their chests to make themselves look bigger. Kingsland looked them over and nodded to Michael and Frederick. They were going with the war party! He paused and looked Wilhelm over then spoke to his father. “He is too young, Henrick. He will have to stay behind.” The red haired boy visibly deflated and walked somberly away from the war party.
At the foot of the orchards and the beginning of wet ground, Kingsland called his militia together and addressed them. “We are going across the swamps by canoe to the north end of the cedar forest. Raiders will continue down Berry Creek to the Hackensack and push on to the edge of the forest, near Snake Hill. We will attack and force the highwaymen out of their lair toward Colonel Schuyler and his militia who are set up on the Plank Road. We will trap our quarry between us and kill them.” A murmur of approval came from the men as he stepped aside to allow Henrick to speak.
“Gentlemen, Colonel Rogers laid down the rules that must be followed if you are going to fight Indians in the forest. Fighting Highwaymen will require the same discipline.” He shouted so everyone could hear, “One,” and paused for a second before shouted, “Don’t forget nothing.” A few dispersed chuckles came from the crowd and but silenced quickly. The “Standing Orders of Rogers Rangers” was a tried and true creed that the frontiersmen lived by or died. Its significance for the coming fight was not lost on the militia and as they prepared their war party, they recited the Orders like a prayer.
“Two.” The frontiersmen chanted in unison. “Have your musket clean as a whistle, hatchet scoured, sixty rounds powder and ball, and be ready to march at a minutes warning.” They paused. “Three. When you’re on the march, act the way you would if you was sneaking up on a deer.” They paused then shouted, “See the enemy first.”
A thin line of cheers stopped when the veterans shouted, “Four. Tell the truth about what you see and what you do.”
Sergeant DeMarest stood alone and spoke solemnly. “Five. Don’t never take a chance you don’t have to.”
Michael Kestrel spoke. “Six. When we’re on the march we march single file, far enough apart so one shot can’t go through two men.”
Robert Davenport rose and addressed the gathered volunteers. “Seven. If we strike swamp, spread abreast.”
They all shouted, “Eight. We march till dark. “Nine. When we camp, half the party stays awake. Ten. Keep prisoners separated so they can’t cook up a story. Eleven. Don’t ever march home the way you came.”
The entire community was chanting and the mass recitation began to take on the tenor of a prayer as they spoke. “Twelve. Keep a scout 20 yards out in all directions. Thirteen.” A few scattered calls to dispel evil from the unlucky number prefaced the most serious advice. Kingsland spoke, “Every night you will be told where to meet if we get ambushed.”
The Frontiersmen shouted in unison. “Fourteen. When you eat.” Their tone was almost accusatory and the militia shouted back as one. “Post sentries.”
The veterans settled back and listened as the militia continued the mantra. Michael looked at his father and saw that he also knew the words. He spoke the words loud enough for his father to hear, “Fifteen. Rise before dawn.”
His father looked at him and shouted, “Sixteen. Don’t cross a river at a ford.
Seventeen. If someone is trailing you, make a circle, come back onto your own tracks and ambush the folks that aim to ambush you.”
The townspeople liked that one and an approving murmur rose at the prospect of a quick victory should they ever discover a force stalking them. They yelled out “Eighteen. Don’t stand up when the enemy’s coming. Nineteen. Let the enemy come till he’s almost close enough to touch. Then let him have it and jump out and finish him up with your hatchet.” The crowd cheered when they finished and started moving down the hill to the dock at the edge of the swamp.
-*-
James trailed behind Master Kingsland as he paused to greet two men carrying a canoe over their heads. They beached it at the foot of the dock where four more canoes were tied up at the dock alongside two flat bottom swamp boats. Michael and Frederick sat next to each other in the middle of the closer of the two boats, looking about excitedly. A pile of food and water sat in front of them alongside the ten muskets they had been assigned to guard. The boys settled down and waited while Master Kingsland made the final preparations before ordering the boats to cast off. Frederick drew back on his bow and it gave a reassuring groan as the oiled chestnut bent. Michael pulled back on his and the groan it elicited drew a knowing look from Master Kingsland. They had begun constructing their war bows when the Van Hull’s pig was taken about two weeks ago. Their final products were as good as any made by an Iroquois or Cherokee. Both carried a quiver of arrows that had been whittled and straightened till each was an old friend and imbued deeply with Lenapi magic. The arrows were placed into their quivers in an ascending order of value separating the ones that might be disposed of easily and which were to be used for a victory kill. As they waited, they compared the quality of their arrows. Michael was particularly proud of one and passed it over to Frederick for his inspection. He looked down its length. It was perfectly straight, the feathers were smooth and the arrowhead was a prize. Frederick could tell that Michael had spent a lot of time carefully honing a gray speckled piece of flint. It wasn’t the usual red stone from Barbadoes Neck. This piece had come from the Mountains above the Delaware Water Gap. He held the arrow up and ran his thumb across the sharp edge, testing the blade by listening to the sound it made as he stroked it. The barbs were smooth and blunt, he nodded his approval.
The dock extended a stone’s throw out into the bulrushes where it touched the channel of the small tributary that was just barely deep enough at high tide to float a flatboat. The tide was slowly slipping over from eventide, where it paused twice a day neither coming in nor going out. This rapid ebb and flow of the tide dominated and dictated navigation in the swamp. The flatboats were the largest craft that could navigate the trackless marsh and survive the raging tides that made passage a laborious task and an inpenetratable barrier to large scale commerce with the up river communities of Hackensack and Teaneck.
The boats pulled away from the dock and came into line in the narrow stream. Kingsland piloted his flat boat with delicate precision and carried on a brief conversation with the pilot of the leading flat boat. Michael recognized the pilot, it was old man Reichert, and kept his face blank, remembering his father’s warning. Last year he had surprised the old man poaching a rabbit in the cedar forest. Since then, they had become friends and Reichert had taught him how to set a snare and avoid the Game Warden. The old man called out, “Give them canoes plenty of leeway and watch for my signal to ship oars.”
Kingsland made a quick survey of his war party. Thirty men were following his lead. He was pleased with the response the town had made to his call. He searched his mind recalling the first order, “Don’t forget nothing,” and wondered what he had forgotten.
Two men on each side of the boat paddled gently. Kingsland stood at the tiller keeping his craft in the narrow channel, as the outgoing tide carried them silently and slowly down the creek to the towering savanna bulrushes. In front of them the sun crested over the English Neighborhood and bathed the valley in dull golden haze.
-*-
Eric and Wilhelm joined the twenty armed militiamen remaining behind in the village and helped set up their bivouac on the green. As the sun rose they joined the patrols along the edge of the swamp and on the Indian trail at the top of the cliffs. The old men, women and children remaining behind congregated at the green. They understood they were in danger of attack with their armed men folk away and as the day broke they set about securing the town. The old men and young boys built a defensible perimeter under the direction of the Tavern keeper. His plan was to establish the “COPPER COCK” as the rallying point for the town’s defense. By noon the workers had linked the Manor House walls to the tavern with a series of makeshift barriers so that it formed a fortification where a stand could be made against Indians or highwaymen. While the armed militia was on patrol, the women tended to food preparation, all the while hoping an attack on the town would not happen.
Elizabeth and Anne joined Mrs. Thompson and the other women from the outskirts of the town and left their homes to move in with friends who lived closer to the green The children were encouraged to go into the orchards, their mothers exhorted them, “Go out and play ‘scout’ and if you see anyone you don’t know, come back and tell me.” Their young eyes would keep a sharp watch and spread the alert if the killers should turn and attack them while the men were away.
-*-.
Three canoes led the way down the narrow stream. James’ father sat in the back of the second canoe, paddling while his partner kept sharp watch with a musket cradled in his arm and a pistol and a tomahawk ready for a fight.
Michael fidgeted in the small, crowded Flatboat. The water line was only a few inches under the gunnel and he skimmed his fingers across the surface as the boat slid through the rushes. James was at the back, at Master Kingsland’s foot as he held the tiller and guided the flatboat. A few yards behind, two more canoes glided silently.
-*-
Schuyler led his militia down onto the Plank Road and into the Cedar forest. At the scene of the crime, he set his scouts into the woods looking for the trail of the highwaymen. He divided his militia into two groups and set them to constructing barricades from which to fight and sent out patrols to probe into the forest along the four-mile length of the Plank road between his Manor House and Dowd’s Ferry on the Hackensack River. At the ferry, he posted a young man on horseback to ride and warn him if the highwaymen tried to escape across the salt grass plain or down the river.
-*-
Paddling deep and slow, the frontiersmen led the way quietly through reeds towering high over their heads. Their practiced eyes scanned the shores, looking for any sign of trouble. A deer bound out of a locust thicket and stopped dead at the edge of the stream to watch the boats slip by. One of the men cocked his musket and prepared to fire. Kingsland ordered him, “Hold, Mister Ballenger and sit down. We don’t want to give ourselves away.” Insects buzzed and swarmed around the boats stinging and biting the men and leaving red welts where they bit flesh.
The shallow tributary through the bulrushes and hummocks led east out onto the vast reed swamp and then south. By mid-morning, with the tide nearly out, the boats came to an open lake bordering on the north edge of the cedar forest. Kingsland examined the far shore through a small telescope, looking for signs of men. He saw none and signaled the first canoe to paddle fast to the far side. The frontiersmen in the canoe landed away from the dock and sprinted into the forest while the flatboats held their position at the mouth of the stream. Within a few minutes one of the men appeared on the dock and signaled “all clear” and the flat boats crossed.
They moored up to the dock that made it easy to get onto dry land. The stream running through the marsh was dropping as Michael and Frederick secured the moorings on the flatboats and she settled into the mud at the foot of the dock. Kingsland nodded his approval and stepped off the dock carrying a musket in his hand and another slung over his shoulder. Michael and Frederick finished tying the boats and followed the men to where Master Kingsland was addressing them. The militia was spread out in a wide circle around the landing, establishing a perimeter. James’ father directed the boys to settle down behind a thicket of wild berries, their bows at ready. Michael’s heart was beating hard. His breath came fast as he took cover on the crest of a lick of hard ground. He stopped and looked around taking in what was going on around him.
Two canoes had been pulled out from hiding places and a well-worn path leading off into the depth of the forest lay before them. Kingsland walked along the perimeter and dispatched two of his frontiersmen to scout the woods. As they vanished into the forest he called the war party together behind the crest of the rise overlooking the cove. Michael settled into the semicircle of men around Kingsland, his father sat down beside him and kept watch on the forest as the militia gathered to share the plan to attack the highwaymen.
The flatboats settled onto the steep slope of the bank and a man, finishing his final chores, slipped and fell overboard. He hit the mud with a slap that drew everyone’s attention. Not knowing what had happened, the men held their collective breath until they identified the source and saw one of their own, sunk up to his waist in the bottom muck, unhurt but embarrassed. The floor of the channel was like pudding and he rolled over spreading his weight out to halt himself from sinking deeper. He tried to swim across the surface of the muck and then to slither like a snake across it but succeeded only in sliding down the steep bank and into the slender rivulet of water. James giggled. Master Kingsland shot him a warning look and he stifled the laughter only to infect Frederick. Michael watched as his friend clamped his hands over his mouth to keep from laughing in Master Kingsland’s face. Kingsland started to address the youngster and halted as the foul stench of the upset muck rose up and assaulted their noses, wiping the laughter off everyone’s faces.
The man was knee deep and unable to extricate himself. He called out, “Throw me a rope. “I’m stuck.” Kingsland grabbed the man getting up to help and pushed him to the ground. He grabbed a second man and pushed him back toward the forest then a third and snarled, “Get down! This is not a happy hunting trip. We are going to war! You don’t know where your enemy is!” All eyes turned to Kingsland. “Don’t look at me! Your enemy could be in the thicket in front of us and closing in. Giving your position away is a good way to end this adventure in disaster. Young Fields.” Michael popped up and said, “Yes sir.” Throw that man a rope and tell him to keep quiet.”
Michael ran to the flatboat and threw out a mooring line to haul the man in. The disturbed muck on the bottom let out a foul odor that wrinkled his nose as he dragged the man out. With mud clinging to him, he rolled in the pine needle covered ground till he was exhausted but nearly clean. Kingsland kept him to the rear of the column and told him, “There is a stream not far away where you can wash that muck off.” Then he returned to the serious business at hand and laid out the plan he had formulated with Colonel Schuyler to flush the highwaymen out and kill them.
The militia ate jerky and vegetables as they listened. A small barrel of water was passed around and each man turned it up over his head to drink. Michael, Frederick and James stopped eating as Kingsland turned his eyes on them and spoke. “I need volunteers to take a canoe on down stream to where Berry Creek meets the Hackensack and set the reeds on fire. Setting a fire is good work for young men.” Their fathers appeared behind Master Kingsland and they knew they were being tasked with a man’s job. “Young Fields, young Smyth. Your bows should do well to spread the fire we need to set.” Michael and Frederick looked to their fathers, who nodded approval.
“You two will travel with four canoes of frontiersmen downstream. Set your fire as the tide changes and ride the incoming tide back up to your home and join the militia there.” The boys exchanged a glance. Kingsland looked them both in the eye and continued. “No detours. You go straight back to Barbadoes Neck.” Both nodded and affirmed, “Yes sir.”
He motioned toward the frontiersmen, “These men will find the highwaymen’s landing on the Hackensack, pick up the trail and follow it back to their lair.” Jake nodded to Kingsland and spoke. “Our task will be to rescue the captives and create a diversion for your attack.” Silence hung over the men like a cold revelation. Every man knew the consequences of failure. Their own deaths were eminent; the death of their loved ones would follow. Their wives and children would be raped and murdered and the Aquacknunck, their neighbors and friends, would be blamed for what the highwaymen had done. Kingsland spoke in a slow measured meter the men knew well. “Colonel Schuyler is waiting with his militia along the Plank Road. Our job is to scare the rabbit and get him moving into the blind. It is my duty to lead you, my brave citizens, into the cedar forest.” Edward trembled. He couldn’t keep his belly from quivering. Next to him, Thompson’s wrist twitched. His mouth was dry. “Before nightfall, the fires these boys will set in the reeds will carry on the prevailing wind toward the forest. Old Mortimer up on Red Cliff tells me there will be a change in the weather. I’m not sure what that crazy old man means but I think there will be a cold wind from the north tonight.”
The men nodded knowingly. “When we spook them from the high ground, they may figure there are men waiting on the Plank Road and try to scatter and slip through our line. As we advance, move forward quickly but carefully. Go around. Go under. But do not go over obstacles in your path. Take cover and use it well. Stay under cover till the man at the head of your column is settled then the last man moves forward.” His voice fell to a whisper. “Carefully. Quietly. Like Iroquois.” Kingsland paused and surveyed his militia. “Gentlemen.” The word caught their attention. “Some of you have little or no experience with a musket. Some of you are hunters of great distinction. We must move forward swiftly but with great care. March in two columns, one on either side of the trail. Stay off the trail.” He pointed into the woods and every man’s eye followed his gesture. “We move south from here, along the spine of the highland.” Kingsland straightened himself and said, “If a deer comes across your sights, please restrain yourself and not poach Master Schuyler’s property.” The men laughed and Michael shot a knowing look to his father. “If your target is human,” he continued, “fire from cover. We will hear your shot and pull in toward you. Stay quiet till we come. Pick your targets. Retreat before them if you must. If you get separated, hide and let them flow over you, then join up with your compatriots and attack from their rear. The fire will have them distracted. It will make them careless and it will make it easier for us to take them from ambush.”
Michael looked around, the frontiersmen had their backs to Kingsland but he knew they were listening intently to every word he said. “Colonel Schuyler thinks there may be as many as twenty highwaymen but we will not fight them all at one time. We will keep the fire on our left and shift our force right toward our home. If they flee in that direction we will be waiting to meet out justice. The militia we left behind is watching the orchards. They will stay there till the fire passes on. Our women, children and old folk will watch over the cliffs. They will be able to hold off any attempt to scale the cliffs with rocks, bows and an armed militia to reinforce them.”
With the instructions complete, the five canoes pushed off the mud and into the slender ribbon of a stream, paddling across the still water away from the cove and toward Berry Creek. Michael and Frederick were in the last canoe following the Frontiersmen. James’ father was in the lead canoe. The paddling was easy work as they rode the running tributary through the golden maze of bulrushes.
-*-
Edward and Thompson walked carefully through the cedar forest till a voice from under a log directed them to move left along the bank of the creek in front of them and find cover. They picked an ambush spot and nestled in behind a dry cedar log. On their left, one of the frontiersmen moved out from under the cover of a thick rhododendron bush and waded into the narrow creek. He carried his musket, powder horn and shot bag over his head as he worked his way across the soft, muddy bottom to the opposite shore only six feet away. Silently he climbed up onto the far bank and slipped into the forest. A few minutes later, Thompson tapped Edward and pointed. The scout was standing on the far shore making hand signals. “He’s found a canoe,” said Thompson.
Edward recognized the sign and watched as one, then another waded quickly across the creek and moved into the underbrush to take up a position on the opposite side and set up a line to protect the main body of the force as they crossed. Thompson and Edward were the last to cross and as they settled in to cover, the frontiersman who had led the way came running out of the woods and slowed as he came upon them in their hiding place. A bird call caught his attention and he trotted toward the sound till he found Master Kingsland and sprinted to his side. “I found the highwaymen’s camp,” he reported. “I count eighteen in their party and,” he paused to catch his breath, “I heard a woman crying.”
The last part of his message brought a chill of cold anger to the men. Thompson looked to his friends with determination, “If I get close enough I will kill anyone who has hurt those women.”
Kingsland turned to James. “Captain Reichert. Take one of these canoes back to the Plantation. This young man will be your passenger. Son, when you dock, run as fast as you can and take word to Colonel Schuyler. Tell him we have found the highwaymen where we suspected, on the high ground on the north end of the forest. Tell him we have them blocked from the north and we will set fire to the meadowlands and flush them out. Tell him, also, that the women are alive but being mistreated.”
James repeated the details and left with the old man. As they disappeared into the forest, Kingsland turned back to his scout and said, “Show me.”
-*-
In the vast savanna of the tidal marshlands, there are small islands of dry land where a few sparse trees have taken root and dot the waving landscape. The channel of the river runs swift and deep cutting a sharp bank where the bulrushes can not grow. Michael and Frederick paddled deep and hard following the lead of the frontiersmen. Berry Creek was at even tide waiting patiently for the moon to drag it once more back up into the tidal estuary. As they paddled, they chatted quietly about the river they were riding. The level of the banks was above their heads and the plumes of the bulrushes rose even higher. They had seen the shining sliver of water running through the meadowlands but had never ventured out on to it and thus knew nothing of it or its ways. They followed the frontiersmen, trusting they had scanned the banks for any sign of where a canoe had landed and keeping alert for an ambush.
As Berry Creek widened and opened up to the Hackensack River, Michael could see Secaucus on the far side, where river pirates were known to live. “The highwaymen probably came from there,” he thought. Downstream, Snake Hill stood silhouetted against the sky, hiding the view of New York City. Michael knew the granite up thrust was an Indian holy place. He dug his paddle deep into the river turning the canoe and paddling back up stream. The canoes ahead were pulling over to the west bank where Berry Creek met the Hackensack. They slipped under the bulrushes towering so high that their weight bent them over to create a cave where they could hide. Speaking in whispers and keeping a sharp watch, Jake pulled his canoe to theirs and addressed them. At his direction, Michael took an arrow from his quiver and removed the arrowhead. Henrick showed him how to tie a wad of dry bulrush plume to the tip. Michael followed his example and showed it to Henrick. He examined the arrow and nodded his approval. Mr. Demarest, the frontiersman in the canoe next to Frederick, took a small bottle from his ‘possibles’ kit and gave it to him. “Boys,” he said. “Get up on the shore. Settle in for an hour till the tide is fully turned. When you get into the tide, put a few drops of oil on a torch and secure it to the gunnel and hang it over the side. Use it to light your arrow. The oil will burn bright and hot but don’t let it startle you. Keep calm, draw smoothly on your bow and let your first arrow fly toward that tree downstream.” The boys followed his gesture. “Keep steady. Don’t upset your canoe and fire toward the forest. Put your arrows where you see a tree. That’s where there is dry land but even if it hits mud, the oil will hold the flame and give you a good chance of starting a fire. As you return up stream, spread fire as you go, far and wide.”
With their instructions done, the frontiersmen made the best of the fading eventide, paddling hard downstream and quickly out of sight. Michael and Frederick climbed up onto the matted bulrush hummock forming the shore, and pulled their canoe up behind them into their campsite. They rolled over the bulrushes and flatted them out to create a hideaway with sloping walls that were comfortable to lay on. They settled into their circular campsite lying on their backs looking up at the sky and chewing on deer jerky. A peaceful quiet settled over the land and the late summer sun over head warmed them as they shared the last of the small jug of water. A falcon flew overhead, cried out and swept down on some unknowing prey. “A Passaic Falcon,” said Frederick. “They don’t usually fly over the Hackensack.” Michael pointed to the northwest sky. “Storm clouds,” he said and as the hour passed, he watched the black cloud grow.
They built a small fire to see how the bulrushes burned and had to tramp it out as the fire caught and grew too quick for their liking. They wrapped a dozen arrows with bulrush plumes as they had been shown and sat quietly contemplating the task of setting the weeds on fire. The still river began to flow upstream and Michael struck his flint to steel and showered sparks into a carefully constructed fireplace. He blew gently onto the embers till a small thread of smoke curled up followed by a cheery little blaze. Frederick lit his arrow on it and shot downstream. Carefully they lowered their canoe down the mud embankment to the water and gently slid into it. They paddled a stroke to bring them out to the channel before lighting the torch secured to the gunnel. The fire at the campsite seemed to die and Frederick lit another arrow and shot it as far out to the south as he could, toward the tree James’ father had pointed out and then settled down to let the tide take them back upstream.
Michael, at the back of the canoe, steered them smoothly into the current and rode it like a lazy gull. The fire on the torch burned hot and gave off a thin plume of smoke that seemed to sink rather than rise. Frederick nocked another arrow, touched it to the torch and launched it on a flat arch just above the furry tops of the bulrushes toward a scraggily elm tree struggling for life on the swamp. They drifted again waiting for a fire to erupt but nothing happened. Michael took his turn and aimed for the base of a tree he estimated to be at the maximum range of his bow and fired on a high arc. They paddled a few more strokes and glided with the tide as they readied another salvo to be launched toward the high ground, where an oak tree grew above the marsh. They shot together, then paddled on and turned, expecting to see a fire raging in the weeds but again, nothing seemed to be happening. They each lit another arrow and fired. “There should be smoke by this time,” moaned Michael.
“I only have two arrows left,” said Frederick holding up his quiver.
Michael replied, “This is my last. After that I have my three flint tips left.”
They were down to their last arrows and still there was no proof the weeds were on fire. Michael scanned the sky but because the dense and towering wall of bulrushes on each side of them, he could only see a slender strip of blue. He saw no evidence of a fire. Frederick shook his head disgustedly and launched another arrow and picked up his last. “If I don’t start a fire with this one, my father is going to kill me,” he said in desperation. “We gotta get this thing lit.” For a second he was afraid the oil would drip onto the birch bark canoe and set it ablaze but he held it out over the water and drew back as a flaming drop dripped into the river and a ripple of incoming tide shook the canoe. He drew back as far as he could. His arms bulged with the effort, the bow groaned as it reached its limit. He let the string go. The arrow flew high and long and arched into the reeds, short of a stand of maple. “Too far for my bow,” he said and let the canoe drift in a slow lazy circle till the grove came back into his view from the right.
They had no more arrows left and the job was not done. Disappointed, they began paddling slowly with the current. Feeling they had failed, Michael talked Frederick into stopping the canoe to cut down an armload of bulrushes. They doused them with oil and struck flint to steel till the dry plumes caught fire. As they drifted along with the tide they dragged the flaming bundle along the shore line behind them, setting the rushes on the bank afire. They turned a bend in the creek and pulled ahead of the brush fire. A wave of hot air washed over them. They turned together, expecting to see the brush on the bank burning but what they saw were huge red tongues of flame leaping high up into the air and clouds of boiling black smoke darkening the sky. “Yes,” they hissed in unison and dug their paddles deep in the water. A soft north wind fanned the fire and it grew large enough to leap across the small tidal tributaries that would normally have formed a natural barrier to a brush fire. The forward edge of the flame gathered in intensity and met the flames growing further downstream. Suddenly there was a burst of hot air and the fires they had set, doubled and redoubled till they were one huge flame large enough to carry across the hummocks, onto the islands and finally to the dry land where the cedar forest grew.
-*-
The frontiersmen paddled deep and hard to overcome the incoming tide and watched over their shoulders as the flames behind them grew higher. “The boys did well,” whispered one. Suddenly, two men in a canoe appeared out of the overhanging bulrushes. Out of nowhere, the canoe came at Henrick and he was face to face and in killing range of an enemy who was just as surprised to see him. He snapped his musket up to his shoulder and cocked it in one smooth motion. He drew a bead down the barrel aiming at the heart of the man in the back of the canoe and called for them to raise their hands and surrender. The man in the front of the canoe went to pick up his musket. The hiss of a tomahawk and the dull sound of a blunt object striking flesh cut the air, followed by his body tumbling gently out of the canoe and into the river. The upset balance threw the second man out as well and as he thrashed to the surface he scrambled back under the hummock. The canoes followed him into a small bay where a dozen canoes were beached. The frontiersmen beached their canoes and took up firing positions, but finding no defenders; they turned their attention to the man in the water and surrounded him. They backed him up against a rotted cedar stump threatening him with long knives and tomahawks, keeping him in the water while the frontiersmen secured the beach. His eyes were wild, like an animal, he lashed out, backed up against the steep bank and tried to scramble up and away. One of the frontiersmen smacked him in the knee with the flat of his tomahawk and he slid back into the water, whimpering, unable to scale the bank. He turned on his captors. Drool dribbled from his mouth as he snarled and drew a knife only to find himself facing a huge horse pistol, cocked and pointed at his eye.
-*-
Edward and Thompson settled themselves into an ambush position on the side of the trail. Their orders were to wait till they could see the whites of the highwaymen’s eye before firing. On the opposite side of the trail, a few feet off, two of their friends were set in a firing position that reinforced theirs.
A voice called from out of the forest, “We are coming in.”
“Come forward,” Edward called back and three men came running down the trail. “We are pulling west in front of the fire. Your boy set one hell of a fine blaze, Edward. We’ll have those highwaymen by dark.” Three more militia came running down the trail behind them and angled off into the forest following the first.
-*-
At the highwaymen’s campsite, the smell of smoke caused their leader to pause and set one of his men to find out what was burning. He pulled two of his men from their idle banterings and directed them to guard the trail leading to the hideout and walked toward the center of the camp, where their cooking fire burned, sniffing as he went. His heavy, knee high boots made no sound as he walked across the pine needle covered ground. He looked around and scanned the sky, but the branches of the ancient cedars spreading above him gave no view of the sky. He grumbled to himself and shook a couple more men awake to look to the booty and check the guns and canoes. A whiff of smoke came to him again and he mumbled as he looked around, “It’s about time to move.” He grinned, madness sparkling in his hooded eyes and he looked back over his shoulder to the women shackled in the animal pen. “Aye, I’ll hear you scream tonight,” he mumbled. He sniffed at the air again and shouted, “Damm. I smell fire!”
A panicked buck crashed out of the cedar thicket and bolted through the camp. He kicked at a man sleeping at his foot and screamed at him, “Chase that stag down and bring it back for our dinner.” A black snake slithered across the man’s hand as he rose groggily and startled him. He recoiled and caught his voice before crying out then cursed and threw a stone at the snake as it slipped into the brush and slid down the sandy embankment to the stream beyond. The leader cast a cruel look at the women and relished the look of fear on their faces. Their cloths were torn; their faces were dirty and streaked with the tracks of tears. Their eyes were wild with terror and as he approached they cringed back into the corner of the shelter. The younger of the two, a girl of only fourteen or fifteen years, huddled to her mother who was weeping uncontrollably.
A second man came around the corner of the shelter and met him face to face. “Carl, it’s time to kill them and be gone,” he said.
“Aye,” he growled in response. “But, I’ll do it in my own way and take my pleasure in doing it.”
“Your own time may be too long,” the second man hissed. “Be done quick. We should be on our way to Smuggler’s Wood.”
“Smugglen can wait,” he drooled. “We can be in Tuckerton or Chestnut Neck in a matter of days. Our time here is not yet done.”
“We should be moving on,” demanded the second man! A raccoon scurried through the campsite and ran past them headed to the stream on the west. The sky dulled and shadows grew deep in the forest.
-*-
The frontiersmen bound their prisoner with leather thongs to the base of a solid maple sapling. Henrick ordered one of his men to climb a nearby tree and report the progress of the fire and any motion in the grass ahead. From up in the boughs, the trail to the highwaymen’s hideout was easily visible and the observer reported that he could see a tent among the cedars on the knoll ahead. To the north, only a few hundred yards behind them, gray black smoke was rising from the wall of flames eating its way across the bulrushes fanned by a cool, gentle breeze from the north.
One of the frontiersmen drew his tomahawk and chopped holes in the bottom of the canoes they found hidden in the bulrushes. “There may be more than twenty highwaymen at the camp,” said Henrick and signaled his men to move forward directly up the path at a fast walk. The lead man held a musket, behind him walked the man skilled at throwing the tomahawk, ready to throw rather than have his friend fire and alert the highwaymen. Half way to the encampment, they left the path and stepped carefully through the dry, brittle bulrushes, paralleling the trail to the edge of the forest.
-*-
Kingsland’s scouts followed the trail up the shallow knoll and led the militia through a dense thicket of fallen, dry cedar branches. In the near distance, voices echoed and faded, beckoned them toward the highwaymen’s lair. Suddenly, an agitated man bounding down the trail with a burlap bag over his shoulder came around the sharp bend in the trail and found himself face to face with Kingsland. He stopped dead for a second. Kingsland pointed his sword at the man and told him, “Hold or I’ll run you through.” The man dropped his bag and turned to flee. Kingsland swung his blade in a short arc and the tip sliced across the back of his neck. The man stumbled before he took his second step and fell to the ground twitching for a moment before finally lying still. Edward moved forward on the signal from his team leader and as he crept forward he whispered to Thompson, “Kingsland got one of them.”
Two more men trotting down the trail tripped over snares and rose to find themselves looking into the barrels of a dozen muskets. Quickly, they were tied with leather thongs and strung up by their wrists till their feet were barely touching the ground. Kingsland threatened them with his saber and listened as they spoke, then ordered them to be gagged and left to wait as the militia moved forward. The sweet humid smell of the cedar forest was replaced with the bitter smell of a meadow fire. Kingsland looked up into the roof of the cedar forest and judged the position of the sun. It was on its way west. A thin, hardly visible mist of gray smoke trailed overhead and shaded the sun, dimming the level of light in the forest.
The militia faced a wall of broken branches. Their skeletal twigs were tightly interwoven in a jumble that threatened to poke out an eye out at the slightest attempt to pass through. Kingsland bent a twig till it snapped and listened as the ominous sound echoed through the silent forest. Every man prayed the highwaymen had not heard it. The wall of branches before them had been deliberately piled and formed the perimeter of the Highwaymen’s lair. The frontiersmen had been working patiently for more than an hour to burrow under the barrier and had found a path. The highwaymen had constructed the wall when they cleared their campsite by throwing debris out to form the perimeter. As more branches were piled on top of them, the impression of a barrier grew but in fact it was flawed. The frontiersmen had found that the large branches on bottom had created gaps, like tunnels for them to crawl through.
One by one, the militia wriggled under the tangle of branches dragging their equipment behind them, flat on their bellies in damp mossy ground till they emerged inside the highwaymen’s camp, wet but exhilarated. Kingsland deployed his men as they emerged from the tangle and placed them behind tents and trees facing into the encampment, waiting till all his men were in place before moving against the highwaymen. He carried his saber in one hand and a pistol in the other as he urged the men to move quickly as the sound of a woman’s voice pleading and begging carried to them.
-*-
The frontiersmen slipped inside the camp perimeter and hid inside a tent pitched only a few feet from the broken branch barrier. Inside, they found a man sleeping noisily. He was drunk. Henrick delicately pulled aside the flap of the tent and looked outside. A dozen feet away was a lean to where he could see the prisoners, shackled to a post by chains around their necks and two grimy men standing over them. Henrick motioned and one of the frontiersmen peered through, nodded knowingly, stepped back and drew his tomahawk. Henrick offered him a second tomahawk and paused till he was ready before gently pulling the flap aside. As the tent opened Henrick saw one man laughing as a second man slashed at the huddled women with a knife. His lunge cut across her body and a thin line of blood instantly filled the slashed dress. She held up her bloody hand and her daughter screamed and cried for mercy as the men laughed.
A dull thump caused them to stop their play. The man with the knife slowly lowered his weapon, sank to his knees and fell over on his face, a tomahawk protruding from the base of his skull. The second man lunged at the women, grabbed the younger one and pulled her in front of himself, holding her as a shield against whoever had killed his partner. He pointed his knife at the woman’s throat and started to call. He never saw the man in the tent till the tomahawk he threw was about to strike him in the forehead. The sleeping man roused and one of the frontiersmen hit him in the head with the butt of his musket and knocked him senseless.
Two of the frontiersmen slipped forward to comfort and quiet the women. They examined the slash on the older one, pronounced it superficial and wound a length of leather thong around her to bind it. Henrick knelt down next to them and told the women who they were and what they needed to do to escape. Two Frontiersmen with muskets at the ready stood guard while he and another went over the dead men till they found the key to the lock on the chains. In a second the women were free. “Follow me, ladies. We are going to freedom,” said one of the frontiersmen as he hustled them to the edge of the thicket and shepherded them back out the path they had cleared.
As they left, the seven remaining frontiersmen spread out and began moving across the camp. Henrick caught sight of Kingsland directing his men to take up positions inside the perimeter. Knowing they were ready to begin their assault, he signaled to his team and directed them to work their way through the camp and come up behind the highwaymen securing the gate. In seconds they silently hacked the sentries to death with tomahawks and cleared the way for the militia to move across the encampment in force.
-*-
Edward was panting heavily as he knelt behind the trunk of a stout cedar and checked the priming on his musket. His heart was pounding so hard he thought his head would burst. Sweat dribbled down his forehead from underneath his tricorn hat. He wiped his brow and looked over at Thompson. There was fear in his face. Edward surveyed the encampment in front of him. The first tent was only a few paces away. From the north, the smell of smoke swept low to the ground. The sun dimmed as the sky filled with a thin dark fog. He saw motion. Two men with muskets and wearing stained leather shirts came running across the top of the rise. He heard Kingsland call “Fire” and a ragged volley of musket fire cut them down. Two more men ran up to a pile of firewood, ducked down behind it and pointed their muskets toward the militia. “They have seen us,” Edward gasped and fired his musket forcing them to duck behind the safety of the pile. Thompson’s eyes were wild as he cocked his musket and poked it through the huckleberry bush growing at the base of the tree and made ready to exchange musket fire with them. But what he saw was a spray of blood as the men who were about to shoot at him were attacked from behind and slaughtered.
The frontiersmen waved Kingsland’s militia on and fired at the highwaymen as they tried to pull themselves together and return fire. Kingsland pointed with his saber and yelled, “Fire.” The volley cut two more of the highwaymen down and threw the remainder into retreat.
Edward reloaded carefully and prepared to fire into the scattering gang. He looked down the barrel of his musket, cocked the hammer and prepared to fire when a musket shot from his left blew his target's head to a fine mist. He turned his attention to a man reloading about thirty feet away. Thompson looked to where he was aiming and saw him also. Edward fired. The ball struck the tree in front of the highwayman and he instinctively ducked and looked around to where the shot had come from. He saw Edward behind the tree re-loading and raised his musket to fire just as Thompson pulled the trigger. The shot missed but caused the highwayman’s shot to go astray. Edward was reloading as fast as he could when the highwayman broke from his position and began to run only to stagger and fall off his feet and into a huckleberry bush as a volley of shots rang out.
The remaining Highwaymen disappeared into the forest, abandoning their camp and leaving their dead and wounded behind. Kingsland surveyed the campsite and rummaged through the booty he found stored in a sea chest matching the description of the one carried on the coach driven by Everet Van Graff. He snatched up a bit of cloth, a fork with his family coat of arms, a blanket with a mark he recognized as belonging to one of his residents. Everywhere he looked was property that had been reported stolen over the past months. Within a few minutes he had collected enough damming evidence to prove the highwaymen at this camp had committed the robberies and that they had murdered the travelers.
A frontiersman reported to Kingsland, “The women have been rescued. The highwaymen are fleeing south. We believe as few as six are left.” Kingsland evaluated the situation. “The fires are closing in. Gather your prisoners. Pull the men back to boats and let the flames do their work.”
-*-
Michael and Frederick drove their canoe up onto the marshy bank beside Kingsland’s dock and bound up to the hill toward the COPPER COCK Tavern. They stopped as a volley of musket fire crackled in the distant forest, exchanged a knowing look and dashed on to the top of the cliffs. Four militiamen were watching the fire roar through the grasslands toward the forest. Flames, taller than the cedar trees, licked into the sky making the image of Snake Hill shimmer. Eric and Wilhelm called out and joined them as they sprinted to the Indian Road, sharing a quiver of arrows with them as they ran. “James came through a while ago carrying a message to Master Schuyler.” Eric’s words trailed off as they came to the crest of the ridge and they saw the full panorama of the fire raging before them.
The flames had cut the Highwaymen’s escape to the east and north and were driving them like frightened cattle up against the cliffs. From atop the cliffs, men and women were firing shots at figures in the reeds below them. Highwaymen fleeing the forest jumped out of their canoes when they hit shallow water and dashed for cover under the trees and bushes. Where they waited, seeking a gap in the line of people on the top of the cliff.
The boys watched in awe as the flames licked the sky and ripped through the cedar forest, squeezing all life out of the swamp. Snakes curled up around the trees at the foot of the slopes. Skunks discharged their odor in fear. Raccoons, possums and huge water rats fled along with them trying to scramble up the cliffs, seeking refuge on the rubble of the red stone at the foot of Copper Ridge.
Michael pointed; two men beached a canoe on the rocky soil and were dashing toward the cliffs. A voice rang out from atop the cliff, “Halt where you are.” They didn’t answer and kept running, trying to find cover under the few trees and shrubs at the water line as a musket fired at them. The flames were pressing them against the cliffs and moving south. The old men and women moved along the top of the cliffs, pacing the fire as it devoured the forest, watching for highwaymen fleeing the inferno. The roar of the flames drowned out the sound of panicked farm livestock. A voice called out in front of them, “There they are” and musket fire rang out in a ragged string of shots.
-*-
Elizabeth looked over the cliff and saw a dark form in the shadow move from one stand of maple to another. She looked around. The sun was getting ready to set behind Copper Ridge. Already, shadows were deepening over the meadowlands. She called out for the militia but her voice was drowned out by the roaring fire. She took Anne by the shoulders and told her to run back toward the orchards and find the armed militia. “Tell them I saw one of the highwaymen coming toward me.” Anne shook her head in acknowledgement and ran off in a flurry of colonial skirts.
Musket shots came from the south followed by yells. Shrouded in smoke, like a ghost fleeing the fires of hell, the man moved again, edging closer to the base of the cliffs. Elizabeth waited for help and kept a watch on the figure slinking from shadow to shadow toward the base of the cliff. The fire illuminated him as he scrambled up the broken stone at the base of the cliff and began climbing from handhold to handhold up the ragged face of the cliff.
Shadows moved at the edge of the bulrushes and Elizabeth caught her breath. There were more men coming out of the swamp! She looked down at the man climbing up the cliff and counted the rocks she and Anne had piled and began searching around for larger stones. On the other side of the road, the Lenapi wall bordering her east acre was a ready source of stones. She crossed the road and pulled the largest rock she could carry from the wall and carried it back to the spot where the man was climbing up the cliff. She marked his progress and was about to go for another stone when she saw two men duck into the shadows at the foot of the cliff. They were easy to see, silhouetted against the dull gray weeds, following the trail their scout had marked. She ran to the other side of the road for another stone and called out, “Militia” but no one heard her.
She chose two stones and carried them back and checked on the progress of the climber. As she peeked over the edge, the climber looked up and saw her. She called down, “Stop where you are and do not move.”
He started to call out then checked himself and spoke in a gentle voice edged with anxiety. “I escaped from the pirates. Let me come up.”
Elizabeth hesitated: she didn’t know how many people the highwaymen had taken. She peered cautiously over the cliff. His face was down and she could only see his long hair knotted at the back of his head. He looked up again and reached up to another hand hold. All hesitation vanished and she dropped a rock over the edge. He ducked and called back up, “There’s no need for that my lady. I am a guest from the Manor House. Let me come up.”
“Liar,” she whispered to herself. “That’s my comb in your hair.”
She watched his progress and waited till he had worked his way onto an outcropping that gave her the target she wanted. She dropped a fist-sized stone, and then pushed the biggest stone she had hoarded over the edge. But this one, she placed slightly to the right.
The climber ducked the first stone and cursed under his breath. He saw her drop another stone over the edge and moved to his left again to dodge it. The rock bounced off the cliff face next to him. He grinned and looked up about to try and sooth her with fair words but before he could speak, a second stone, this one larger than his head, hit him square in the face. Elizabeth breathed relief as he fell backwards, head over heels, down to the jagged pile of rock at the foot of the cliff.
Wilhelm was the first to the precipice and skidded to a stop beside his friend’s mother. There was no need for words. The smile on her face told him everything was well. Michael, James, Eric, Anne and Frederick arrived a moment behind him and she hugged them all. Then held them at arms length and told them, “There are still two men out there. We have to stop them.”
The children spread out along the edge of the cliff looking in to the shadows as the cedar trees exploded in the forest beyond them. The sounds seized their attention and riveted their eyes on a scene they could not believe was happening! Flames reached up into the dimming evening sky, spreading an eerie glow over the land with dancing shadows that reminded Michael of an All Hallows Eve ball. Burning embers rose up to the sky riding the hot updraft and came back down in a rain of cinders that threatened to start fires in the fields and orchards at the top of the ridge. Wilhelm called, “There’s one,” and fired an arrow into the golden glow. Michael and Frederick pressed close to the edge, searching for the highwayman and began throwing stones at likely hiding places. Patiently, they worked systematically to eliminate one hiding place after another. Finally, a cry of pain and a mumbled curse came from a stand of Indian Ink plants, revealing the highwayman’s hiding spot. They threw more rocks into the stand till the man hiding there broke and ran. All five drew back on their bows and let their arrows fly in a volley, not where their enemy was but where they expected him to be. They didn’t wait to see what they hit and strung arrows to fire again.
-*-
Kingsland and his militia returned to the dock. A pair of wagons ordered by Captain Reichert was waiting to take them to Schuyler’s Manor House. They boarded quickly and were off at a gallop. With the sun dying in the west and the fire in the forest supplanting the night, the wagons rumbled past the boys. Edward called out loudly to his family. Elizabeth called his name back and stood watching as the wagon disappeared into the smoke.
When the wagons arrived at the Schuyler Manor House, Edward and Thompson were the first to get off and ran to take up a position in the orchard behind a pile of firewood halfway down the hill to the swamp. In front of them the fire was consuming the forest in a huge conflagration that hurt their eyes. They huddled behind the barrier and caught their breath as Militiamen tumbled off the wagons and ran to take up their own positions. They counted twenty men around them. So far, they had suffered no casualties and they thanked God for his mercy and preyed for strength and courage in the fight yet to come.
Colonel Schuyler came by with one of the frontiersmen and huddled down behind the wood with Edward and Thompson. “Gentlemen, it’s good to see you. Your mission with Master Kingsland has been a success. But we are not done yet. Stay undercover and don’t fire till you see the whites of their eyes.” Both men nodded and responded, “Yes, sir.” Before heading to the next position, he checked to see that their musket barrels were clear and their powder was properly primed. He saluted them and moved on to where Kingsland was deploying his militia.
The roar of the fire grew louder and waves of heat washed over them. Edward and Thompson agreed that Thompson would fire first, he was the better shot. Edward would hold his fire till Thompson reloaded, covering and only firing if they came under attack. “Cunning as a Huron,” he said. “Deadly as an Iroquois,” responded Thompson.
The fire was raging out of control and devouring the forest at a frightening rate as it charged toward them. Thompson compared it to the fire in his forge. “Feel the breeze from behind us. The fire is dragging in air to burn. It is a violence worthy of Mars,” he called to the sky and Edward looked at him with puzzlement on his face. “Mars,” he asked? “Not the red star. The war god of ancient Rome,” Thompson told him and added, “Edward, you have so much yet to read and learn.”
They hunched down behind the woodpile, two hundred yards from the edge of the swamp. The fire had completely engulfed the forest and was now ripping through the bulrushes. Hot cinders filled the air and smoke choked them. The woodpile they hid behind shaded them from the heat wave, allowing them to stay at their post though they sorely wanted to leave. Thompson raised his musket and rested it on the top of the wood as a figure ran up the hill toward them. He aimed and fired. A scream confirmed he had hit his target. He ducked back down and Edward brought his musket up and scanned the landscape. The heat wave dried his eyes and burnt his skin. “I don’t see any one else,” he called over the roar of the fire. “The man you shot is lying still.” Thompson finished reloading and rose again. Together they watched the fire as it started to devour the fruit trees at the foot of Copper Ridge. Musket shots rang out down the line. War cries ripped through the gathering dark and smoke and punctuated the unearthly red glow of the evening with musket shots and screams.
A figure crawled out of the bulrushes and ducked behind a tree. Thompson directed Edward’s attention to him. He was making for the stand of maples. Once there, he could slip over the ridge and down to the Aquacknunck River. They waited, muskets at the ready. The figure peeked around the tree and then bolted uphill. They were ready and fired as he came abreast of them. Edward’s shot took him in the leg and he stumbled to the ground. As he rose, Thompson fired and hit him in the hand. He dropped his weapon and began crawling like an insect and scampered under a fall of rhododendrons to hide. As they reloaded a frontiersman appeared at their side. They pointed out where the highwayman was hiding and covered him as he rushed into the bush and dragged the wounded man out by his hair, threatening him with a tomahawk.
-*-
As gunfire erupted along the road the armed town’s people on guard at the “COPPER COCK” hunkered down and kept a watch on the rear flank. A messenger came running to the defenders and told them the highwaymen were defeated and they should come to the cliff edge to reinforce the militia. Like a giant bonfire the flames called men to dance. The sound of their cheers echoed off Snake Hill and the English Neighborhood and a group of Lenapi began a song that repeated the cry. Along the cliff, the residents of Kingsland and Schuyler joined in the chant and shuffled their feet in a long chain of men, women and children. The Indians had drums and beat them hard and loud. Michael and his friends had drums also and ran for them to join into the victory dance. The thump of a dozen drums pounding in a single rhythm with more drummers joining in every hour sounded over the valley. The rhythm matched the beat of their hearts. Boom. Boom. Boom. And resounded up the valley to the highwaymen in Secaucus, telling them Barbadoes Neck is a neighborhood to avoid.
The victory dance went on for hours with the pounding drums telling their neighbors that they were victorious. Late in the night, the rain that had been threatening all day finally arrived. It came in a soaking deluge that only a few dancers and drummers and a squad of militia were awake to witness. Frigid gray sheets deluged the burning forest and an unearthly sound arose. The jagged remains of ancient trees smoldered and hissed as the rain boiled off the charcoaled boughs and branches. The citizens of Kingsland and Schuyler were awakened by the sound and called their neighbors to witness the wind carrying the hot, steamy breath of the forest over Barbadoes Neck to cleanse the air. The Lenapi, who were still camped on the ridge, renewed the beat their drums, offered kanicanick and whispered that it was Mother Earth thanking the “Yang Quis” for ridding her of a plague.
The following morning the sky hung low and smothered the Hackensack Valley with a fog mixed with smoke that made a dreadful smell and hung unmoving under a gray cover of motionless clouds. The mix irritated people’s eyes and throats and caused cattle to huddle together. With the rising sun, Edmund Kingsland assumed his duty as landlord and aggrieved party and presented the evidence he had collected at the highwaymen’s lair. The women who had been rescued came to give their testimony, supported by friends and relatives, who clustered about them, giving them comfort and protecting them from further assault. Their words brought tears and anger to the citizens as they testified that they had been repeatedly raped while they were held at the highwaymen’s camp. They identified each of the defendants as their assailants.
At the edge of Arent Schuyler’s orchards, with the burnt hulk of the forest still smoldering behind him, Kingsland listened as the frontiersmen told how they had apprehended each defendant and when all were finished, he turned to the accused and allowed each man explain himself. To a man they swore their innocence and tried to explain how they had been drawn into their predicament by means beyond their control. Patiently, he listened as the citizens screamed out at their lies but allowed each to speak fully before banging the handle of his pistol on a make shift table, ending their testimony.
Michael’s eyes narrowed as he watched the trial and at its completion, he felt a satisfaction when Master Kingsland passed judgment on the six surviving highwaymen. Despite their wails and oaths and protestations that they were innocent, Kingsland declared them “guilty” and sentencing each to be hung by the neck till dead. The verdict had a satisfying effect on Michael and his friends and the need for vengeance would be satisfied by their execution. Pastor McGlocklin followed behind the prisoners, as they were led away offering prayers and begging with them to repent and embrace God. None repented and people began throwing stones at them. Schuyler yelled loudly and called for them to cease throwing stones when one of the rocks hit the Reverend in the ankle. Although the stones stopped coming, the level of insults heightened.
The frontiersmen led the prisoners to a stand of trees with strong boughs high enough off the ground to hang them and the sentence was carried out immediately. Each man had his hands tied behind his back and was pulled up to the limb by a rope around his neck and left kicking. Later that day, after everyone had a chance to view the bodies, they were cut down and buried at the edge of the swamp, without markers or ceremony. With the fires largely extinguished and the ground cool enough to walk on with moccasins, the militia swept over the burnt hummocks and recovered a dozen scorched skeletons. These were unceremoniously carried out of the swamp and dumped them into another unmarked grave.
With the work done, Kingsland’s militia tallied its losses and counted one man dead and two wounded mortally and dying. Four had wounds they could brag about for the rest of their lives and a dozen more, including Edward and Thompson, had received minor burns as they stood their ground before the fire and cut the highwaymen down.
In the late afternoon Edward and his family joined the town’s people and escorted the body of Everet Van Graff and Mr. Carlton to their final resting place and offered prayers. Then, with the grieving done, they returned to Kingsland Green to celebrate. Kingsland had ordered a bull slaughtered and roasted over an open fire. The townspeople brought vegetables, cheese, fruit and bread and spread a feast out on tables set up under the great oaks surrounding the Green. The Tavern Keeper opened a keg of ale and offered the first toast to the courage of the militia and the deed they had accomplished. Edmund Kingsland sat at the head table, away from the hot afternoon sun, accepting the congratulations of the common folk and visiting aristocracy alike and marked the return of the muskets he had loaned to the townsmen. When it came Edward’s turn to return his musket, Kingsland took it and remarked, “Edward, You are a free man now. It is about time you bought one of your own.”
-*-
The flow of guests to the Manor Houses slowed while the plank road was repaired. The damage a brush fire did to the road was an annual event in the fall, but this year, the damage was more extensive than usual. The planks were burned completely away where the forest had been darkest, where the murders had occurred. The road now ran through a landscape of jagged burnt stumps that brought on a somber mood as travelers acknowledged the murders that had taken place and the vengeance that had been extracted. An Aquacknunck Shaman came and offered prayers for the forest. Kingsland and Schuyler both attended the drumming and acknowledged the loss.
Before returning to their chores, Michael and his friends met to explore the naked ground that had been exposed by the fire. There were pools of cedar sap, heavy in flammable tars, burning unquenchably. The broken and charred trunks of burnt trees stood naked without branches or ground shrubs. The gentle scent of the cedar was gone and replaced by the bitter smell of burnt wood. They found the knoll where the highwaymen had made their camp. It was the highest ground in the swamp and now bald and blackened. As they combed over the camp site they found small treasures such as nails, hinges and metal grommets that had not been destroyed by the fire. But their prize find was a skull with the steel head of a tomahawk still lodged in it. Michael and Frederick were especially humbled by the damage the fire had done, yet there was a pride in having assisted in destroying the highwaymen. Eric broke the somber mood by pointing out that the mosquitoes would not be so bad next year.
Back atop Copper Ridge, the forest that had dominated the view of the Hackensack River Valley was gone and the view from Michael’s front door had changed dramatically. Instead of a green wall of towering cedars, New York City with its great harbor was now visible. With the trees removed, the masts on ships at anchor could be seen with the naked eye, and at night, the lights from a thousand homes twinkled in the distance.
-*-
CHAPTER TWO
THE TAX COLLECTORS
The road to Schuyler’s mine, the Indian Trail, runs along the cliffs from the Kingsland Manor to the Plank Road. The Fields cottage is set in a clearing back from the road and up a narrow, winding path. Although the family garden extends to the edge of the road it is not easily noticed because of the narrow belt of forest screening it. As Michael works splitting firewood and tending the garden, he watches the wagons passing back and forth. In one direction, wagons filled with trade goods from the plantation are going to the markets in Newark and New York and in the opposite, carriages carrying guests to the Kingsland Manor for a day or week of entertainment. Michael knows the drivers by name and calls to them as they pass. For the most part, the Indian Trail is wide enough for two wagons to pass each other and is shaded by oak and maple trees lining its length. Along the road, there are several clearings on the edge of the red stone cliffs where the wagon drivers and their passengers often stop to enjoy the spectacular view of the salt marsh of the Hackensack River Valley and New York City in the distance.
Michael walks the road to the forge several times a week. Often, a passing driver will allow him to ride up on the driver’s seat of a Jersey Wagon as he makes his way to visit his father at the forge. There, he watches as Mr. Thompson, his father’s best friend and the Master Iron Smith, make everything from nails to iron pots. If he asked, Mr. Thompson would have gladly shown him how to work iron and his father would have been pleased to teach him about the operation of the pump. But Michael has no real interest in either trade. He is more interested in bartering and has found the exchange of goods for cash or other items his family needs to be both rewarding and satisfying. His life as a merchant began when the workers at the forge set him to fetching ale, meat and rum from the tavern. The copper coins and slivers of metal he earned for this service ignited an almost intuitive recognition of the value of his efforts. It wasn’t long afterward that he set his friends to catch carp in the Aquacknunck River and roasted the tasty fish over a slow fire at the entrance to Schuyler’s mine. As the fish slowly cooked, the rich smell of spice and fresh baked bread drifted through the mineshafts and drew the hungry workers out to their mid-day meal.
Life on Barbadoes Neck was happy and prosperous and over the years the Fields family homestead grew. With the aid of neighbors, an extension was added to the cottage giving Elizabeth and Edward a privacy that was unimagined in prior years. The bounty of their family garden plot was extraordinarily rich and produced more than the family needed. In response to this excess, Michael took on the task of family merchant and during the summer and autumn harvests, took the produce to market where he proved himself to be a shrewd trader. The cash he brought home was used by Edward to purchase metal goods at the forge. Then he and Michael took them up the Passaic River to the Aquacknunck village and traded for furs and wampum. The next leg of their trip took them downstream to the market in Newark where they bartered for books and specialty items desired by the guests at the Kingsland and Schuyler Manor houses. At each stop on their sojourns up and down the Acquackanonck River and across Barbadoes Neck, Michael and his father visited the local tradesmen and merchants to inspect their goods and inquire what they needed. Often, they carried messages from one merchant to another, such as an order for a cabinet or an iron pot or an offer to buy or sell garden produce, wines, brandy, leather or live stock. Michael’s visits to the forge soon became less as the son of Edward and more as a merchant, bringing orders from customers in need of iron ware.
Although Michael enjoyed watching his father and the other Fabricators as they worked to forge replacement parts for the arms and pipes of the great pump Master Schuyler had installed in his mine, he was more interested in the specialty items designed and produced by Mr. Thompson. The demand for door hinges, latches and grillwork was insatiable and before long Michael had established himself with Mr. Thompson and began carrying pieces of his ironware to the people along the length of Copper Ridge. His reputation soon became that of “the little man who will get you anything.”
As he grew in age and stature, Michael began to venture alone to the Newark market bringing back bolts of silks and lace with marvelous patters for his mother and sister to sew into the dresses and coats they made for the wealthy visitors at the Manor houses. Elizabeth and Anne had found their own market in the visitors who were willing and able to pay well for the dresses they made and repaired. Their clever use of fabric and pattern become hallmarks of the never ending balls held at the twin Manor houses and increasingly demanded by the ladies who danced there.
But the Fields family was by no means wealthy. Compared to the Kingsland and Schuyler families or the guests at the Manor houses they were merely workers, unknown faces that toiled ceaselessly for every copper coin that came to them. Hard work brought them their land holdings and with that in hand, they applied ingenuity to bring them comfort and with that came free time. Time that was spent talking to their neighbors, reading and, most importantly, questioning. Questioning the ideas they heard spilling from the Manor Houses. Ideas that had a disquieting nature about them.
-*-
Spring, 1768
The snow had been gone from the forest for nearly a month and the flowers had opened their petals, splashing yellows and blues among the new growth of the oak, pine, birch and maple. Michael, Wilhelm and James were at the edge of the cliff day dreaming when they heard the rhythmic tramping of boots on the plank road. They were the first to see the column of soldiers marching through the burnt out remnant of the cedar forest and up the winding road to the top of Copper Ridge. At first they were thrilled to see the British soldiers. The memory of fife and drums and fluttering flags stirred the boys with memories of the performance of a few summers ago.
Today, there were two officers and a skinny man on tired looking horses, leading a squad of 20 soldiers on foot, followed by four wagons with two drivers on each. As the column rumbled past, the boys fell in line behind and followed them to the Kingsland Green. Frederick and Eric were already there, anxiously searching for their friends. They were still out of breath from the run up the hill from the tallow vats where they had been working and had reserved the best spots on the green for themselves and their friends. The boys settled in together at the edge of the green to watch the performance. At the crisp order from the Sergeant, the troops halted in front of the tavern. Michael looked at his friends, their eyes were wide and giddy with anticipation. They waited for the drums to beat out a cadence and the soldiers to perform their drill. But this time it didn’t come.
The soldiers were different than they had been the day the heroes came home. This time their uniforms were dirty and sweaty. They smelled of weeks in the field without washing and had a mean, tough look about them. The officer in charge opened a scroll, a royal proclamation and, from his saddle, read to the gathering people. The boys couldn’t hear all the words but some floated over the crowd to them and a cold hand gripped Michael’s stomach as he heard; “Unpaid taxes”... “smuggling”... “treasonous books.” The words rang in his ears. Everyone bought untaxed goods! His thoughts wandered and then, as if he had been struck by Pastor McGlocklin for falling asleep at Sunday service, he remembered the books at home his father had warned were “treasonous.”
The formation broke on order and the troops began entering the homes and shops around the Green. Within minutes, property had been seized from almost every building. The shopkeepers cried out against the tax levies and fines they were ordered, at bayonet point, to pay. As each house was entered, the crowd on the Green grew more angry.
The officer in charge of the detachment addressed the people, shouting over the murmurs of the crowd, “These searches are being done to find smuggled furs and rum, untaxed lead, glass, paper and tea. We are here to collect the King’s taxes needed to protect you from the marauding savages of the nearby wilderness.” The grumbling grew louder and complaints against the searches were called out from the anonymity of the crowd.
“We can protect ourselves,” came a call.
“You’re just stealing our property,” came another. The word “looter” was chanted for several minutes while the mounted Officers road back and forth in front of the gathering crowd.
Michael separated himself from his friends and whispered, “I gotta go home.”
“Us too,” whispered James as his brother nodded in assent. Frederick and Wilhelm nodded their heads in unison and the five boys slipped into the cover of the maple grove. As soon as they were out of sight, they broke into a run and scattered toward their homes.
-*-
Edward turned from the glowing inferno of the forge where he and Thompson were working over a replacement cog wheel for the pump. He held up the new casting for inspection and Thompson grunted his satisfaction. Edward’s eyes refocused to the road leading to the forge where three armed soldiers were walking into the yard. Without a word, they began rooting through the Blacksmith’s shop, inspecting his raw materials, finished goods and supplies. Edward and Thompson grew concerned as the soldiers, with exclamations of disgust at finding nothing of value, turned their attention on the only two men in the shed. They advance slowly, cautiously, their muskets held across their bodies, bayonets shining in the sun. A tall skinny civilian, who had kept in the background as the soldiers routed through the shed, slid between them and advanced on Edward and the Blacksmith. He scribbled on a piece of paper and presented it to Thompson. “What in blue blazes is this,” he bellowed? He crumbled the paper in his hand and threw it into the fire. “It is a levy, a tax, on your supply of lead,” responded the skinny man, “and that,” he said gesturing to the charred note, “can earn you a year in jail.”
Edward watched the soldiers as they began moving to the left and right of the big man, readying their muskets. “You will pay the tax or be arrested,” said the civilian. Their expressions seemed to vary between boredom and expectancy. Or maybe it was a cold stare of lifelessness, like a fish brought on board dead. Or maybe they were just spoiling for a fight, something to divert their boring routine. Whatever it was, he didn’t like the look he saw on their faces. The soldier on the right caught his eye and held it! Edward braced himself, tried to look away but when his eye returned, the soldier was still waiting to catch his eye. He knew he was being measured, judged to see if he were the type to cause trouble. The soldier made a small noise with his lips and nodded his head slightly in Edward’s direction. The second soldier lowered his musket and pointed it at him and then swung it back over and leveled it on Thompson’s chest. The skinny civilian piped up in a whining and insinuating voice, “You will pay the levy or be arrested.”
Edward backed a step away from the soldiers, scanning the room for something to put in his hand. He saw an iron rod and estimated it weighed 15 kilos. It would be heavy but it could be used as a weapon. He took a step to the side, moving toward the rod and put his hand on the table where it lay. The sound of the soldiers’ musket being cocked focused Edwards attention on the muzzle of the weapon pointing at him from less than ten feet. In a voice barely above a whisper, the soldier said directly to him, “Stand as you are.” There was no movement in the shed. Edward’s chest labored for breath. Beads of sweat froze on his forehead and his stomach twisted into a knot. He spoke again in that same lifeless tone, “You don’t want to get hurt now do you?” The skinny man spoke again, “This can be easy or very distasteful.”
The Blacksmith looked around him and slowly moved to the place where his cash money was kept. In a loud voice and a gesture of compliance he said, “Now boys, no need to get excited here. I have enough cash on hand to pay the tax.” Keeping an eye on the soldiers, he carefully reached up to an overhead storage and brought down a small wooden box, opened it and removed the required amount from his till. He held the coins in his hand, his eyes daring the soldiers to take it. The skinny man stepped forward, snatched them away and scurried out of the shed. The soldiers, still holding their muskets at the ready, backed out of the forge and departed the blacksmith’s yard.
“We deserve more from the Crown than tax collectors,” grumbled Thompson. He spat into the fire and turned to Edward, “They’re headed for your house next, I’ll wager. I think you should get there first. Send your family back here, they won’t return to where they have already inspected. I’ll have my boy alert the families near the orchards.”
“Yes,” Edward nodded his head, his jaw tightened and a sharp line of muscle stretched down his neck. His response was taught and angry, “I’ll send Michael down to warn the river families.” He nodded to his friend and turned to the path through the forest leading to his house and set off at a quick trot. It would be easy to beat the soldiers there, remove his family’s treasures and hide the books he knew would cause him trouble if the King’s agents found them.
Edward approached his house and saw the distaff on the porch abandoned. His wife and daughter had been making a quilt for one the guests at the Kingsland Manor house and seeing the fabric lying unattended made his heart pump with fear. He called out, “Elizabeth! Anne! Michael!” Anne came out of the north yard driving several piglets into the woods. “Father,” she called, “Michael told us soldiers are stealing people’s property. They can’t take our things, can they?”
Just as he was about to answer, Michael came out of the house carrying a large, heavy looking box. He looked at his father, who knowing what was in it, nodded to him and entered the house calling again for his wife. Elizabeth met him inside with a grim look on her face and called encouragement to Anne who was driving half their chickens into the forest. Michael waited as his father hugged his mother and sister and sent them fleeing through the forest to the safety of the blacksmith’s home. He helped Michael carry the box containing most of the books that had been in the house to the edge of the forest path leading to the river.
“Michael,” he said. “I want you to run down to the river families and tell them what is going on here. Tell them soldiers are looting our homes!”
Michael stood still for a second, his heart pounding. He nodded, hefted the chest up on his shoulder and set out on the path leading west and down to the Aquacknunck River. Halfway down the hill, he stopped and pushed aside a mulberry bush concealing an opening in the hollow of a dead tree and pushed the box of contraband inside. Satisfied the soldiers would not find it, he continued on at a run to the collection of huts at the river’s edge.
Edward watched his son vanish into the forest and returned to the house. Above the fireplace, mounted on the wall, hung a nearly new, Pennsylvania Rifle, powder horn and shot bag. Edward took them down and carefully checked the load and primed the pan with fine gunpowder. He would not be caught again without a weapon! With only a brief thought of his wife and family, he strode out of the house and started toward the Kingsland Green where he knew the main body of soldiers would be.
The crowd milling around the COPPER COCK tavern had grown from a few angry citizens to nearly fifty. Every minute more men, armed with muskets and rifles were arriving. As the crowd grew, it became more brazen, directing taunts and catcalls at the soldiers. Sporadic chants erupted from the irate crowd. “A man’s home is his castle! A man’s home is his castle!” and then melted away as soldiers waded into the crowd trying to find the troublemakers.
Captain Dunstun didn’t like this duty. “This is not soldiering,” He muttered. His second in command didn’t comment. He liked these Americans. He had fought with them against the French and Indians and knew of their bravery and strength but he had his orders. Sweat trickled down his armpits as the crowd grew larger and more unruly. He whispered to his adjutant, “Do these people realize how close to violence they are coming?”
-*-
Michael arrived back at the Green trotting along behind a group of five armed men from the river community and met a scene that was hard to imagine. Farmers, fishermen, merchants and tradesmen from across Barbadoes Neck were formed into a line and sternly facing the soldiers. Most of the men were armed with the same long rifle his father owned but scattered among them were muskets, blunderbuss and even Indian bows. One of the river men put his hand on Michael’s chest, “Come no further, Michael, today may end in much sorrow.” He nodded his head in obedience and looked around the perimeter of the Green. Off to his left he saw James and Eric peeking out from behind a pile of firewood. He ran over and joined them.
From their vantage, the three boys could see Master Kingsland standing face to face with the officer in charge of the detachment. His face was red as he shouted, challenging the right of the soldiers to conduct searches, in a voice loud enough to be heard by the gathered crowd. Behind him, armed men were forming up into ranks, standing with their muskets at ready. To the left and right, armed men were spreading out, forming a semi-circle around the British soldiers. More men were entering the Green from every direction, pausing at the edge of the forest to load and prime their weapons before stepping into line.
Edmund Kingsland stood at the head of the crowd of citizens speaking directly to the Officer. He was furious, his face red with anger, his voice rising higher and higher until everyone in the square could hear his demand, “Produce a search warrant or be gone!”
An angry murmur rose from the armed men. Kingsland turned his head from left to right, directing the eyes of the British officer. “These people are determined, Captain. This theft of their property is a violation of their rights as British citizens. We will not allow those rights to be trampled by greedy tax collectors and blaggard mercenaries.”
Tense seconds passed and Michael searched the crowd looking for his father. He found him, standing in the first rank, directly behind Master Kingsland. He had never seen such a look of determined resolution on his father’s face. His heart swelled with pride and then froze with fear as he realized that if shooting started, his father would probably be one of the first to fall.
Captain Dunston felt another bead of sweat roll down his neck and into his collar. The first volley at this range would be devastating to both his detachment and to the village. Granted, his soldiers would cut this rag-tag militia to ribbons with their bayonets but the consequences of killing so many citizens would be atrocious. If he fought, his career in His Majesty’s Army would be finished and if he retreated, he would be court marshaled. His mind reeled, searching for a solution that would allow him to retain his authority without starting a war.
The tax collector cowered next to the drummers. Dunston cast him an evil look and walked over to where the frightened man stood. “This is your doing, tax collector. I warned you that your high handed ways would bring us trouble. Look around you! Can you see those men moving into ranks? Can you hear the sounds of muskets being cocked? Would you like to hear the cries of the wounded and dying next?” The little man shook his head.
“Sergeant,” he called in his command voice, “No man is to cock his weapon until ordered to do so.”
“Yes Sir,” the Sergeant responded in stiff military fashion and began moving among the soldiers, cajoling, ordering and threatening a flogging if the troops did not do as ordered.
“Master Kingsland,” the Captain blustered, “be warned, you face serious consequences for your actions.”
“And you also, Captain,” Kingsland shot back, “are to be warned that you have invaded the homes of English citizens without warrant and confiscated their personal property. The consequences of your actions are equally, if not more, serious.”
The two stared at each other without words for long minutes, the cool afternoon had become heated and both men felt sweat run off their brows. Abruptly, the young officer, in a voice that could be heard only by those close to him said, “Tax collector, I will not spill the blood of British citizens over your burden. If you want your tax money, collect it yourself, my men are soldiers, not tax collectors.”
The Captain straightened his shoulder and turned to his Adjutant. “Lieutenant, order the recall.” The drummers beat out their message, sending a signal across the forested land to the soldiers collecting taxes. Within a short period, the foraging parties came walking up the road to the Green. Each group escorted by a score of armed men.
Master Kingsland and Captain Dunstun conferred quietly a few minutes longer arranging details so that the soldiers might depart Barbadoes Neck without further incident. The goods confiscated by the soldiers were taken off the wagons and left on the Green and persons arrested for resisting the searches were released into the custody of Master Kingsland. The cash collected was placed in his care to be divided and returned to those who had paid the levies.
The two men faced each other as the troop formed into columns and prepared to depart. Captain Dunstun mounted his horse and surveyed the armed citizens as the order to march was given and his troop began its way back down the Indian Trail. As the last soldier departed the green and the Captain was about to take his leave, Master Kingsland raised his hand in salute and called to him, “Good sir, I trust our next encounter will be more pleasant. You are welcome to the Manor House at any time, that is, however, without your tax collector.”
Michael, James and Eric came out from their hiding place and joined in the general catcalling and jeering. It seemed like great fun and they followed the column off the green until Michael felt a hand upon his shoulder. He turned and looked up into the face of his father. Beside him was Mr. Smyth herding James and Eric off toward their home. Michael hugged his father and Edward rubbed his son’s back and told him, “Come on son, let’s go home.”
As they walked back to the cottage, Michael’s mind swirled as he talked with his Father of the courage the people of Barbadoes Neck had shown. Last year they had killed the highwaymen and now they had stood up to the “lobster backs.” He bubbled with pride. His father seemed taller than he remembered and Michael’s heart swelled with a pride born in his father’s courage and strength. But Edward remained quiet as they walked back to their home, seeming to ignore Michael’s adulation. His thoughts were elsewhere. A shroud of cold fear covered him and smothered the words he knew must be said. A sense of dread had implanted itself deep into his spirit. He knew the soldiers would be back to extract their vengeance and the next time they would not be so easily turned away.
-*-
Winter 1768
Edward had tried for years to interest his son in the forge and the pump that had been his way of life. He yearned for the opportunity to teach his son the skills that had made him happy and prosperous but it seemed the only time Michael came to the Forge was when he had trading business to conduct. The time he spent sitting at his father’s workbench was more to idle away time while an order was filled, rather than to learn a trade. Edward understood his son was a natural merchant. From their first trip to Newark and the Aquacknunck village, he had seen his son’s natural talent and shied away from discouraging him. When Michael first began his solo travels across Barbadoes Neck, Edward had felt some trepidation. But as time passed and Michael’s success grew, he became more at ease as his son traveled the length and breadth of Barbadoes Neck carrying products and news to the far flung community, tying it together with his travels.
The mine was the only place on Copper Ridge where Michael felt ill at ease. His father had warned him on several occasions not to go into it and he had accepted the admonition easily. He had no reason to go into the caves. It wasn’t that he feared the mine, he had no business inside and after his first visit, he simply felt he would rather not enter. Michael knew all the miners and around the luncheon fires at the cave mouth, he had listened as they talked about the vein of copper they followed year after year, digging with pick and hammer, deeper and deeper inside the ridge, deep under the farms of Barbados Neck. He heard their stories, tales he preferred to think, of death deep in the mine. Tales of men crushed under tons of jagged rock, of ceilings that suddenly dropped down on a work party, killing everyone. Tales of survivors dying slowly, tapping on the rocks, signaling that they were still alive, only to be found smothered in foul air when the rescue party reached them.
Sometimes the miners lowered their voices and averted their eyes when they spoke of their friends who had been rescued from a cave in but were never the same again. In whispers that sent chills down Michael's spine, they swore their friends souls had been taken by the fairies living deep in mine. New tales were now circulating. Whispers reached his ear that the miners had found a fairy spot; A pocket of crystals. Treasure of the fairies! Marvels! Wondrous jewels that shone and glittered in the light of the miner's lamp.
As the Fields family ate their evening meal, Michael repeated the story a miner had told him earlier. “Every man has been promised a crystal to protect him from the fairies,” he whispered. Michael chuckled as Anne’s breath caught. Her father bent closer to her and whispered across the family dinner table. “The miners prize the crystals as talismans to ward off the fairies and protect them from cave-ins.” Michael continued, “The crystals are so valued that Mr. Schuyler, himself, visited the mine this afternoon and took several large gems for himself, then declared the rest of the lode to be his property, to be striped out and sold to a buyer from New York City.”
Michael’s eyes sparkled as he told his family that a friend had invited him to visit the spot before the miners finished stripping the crystals out of the pocket leaving it bare and forgotten. His father looked at him from across the table. “Son, I’ve thought you didn’t like going into the mine.” As he spoke, Michael drew a piece of yellow crystal, about the size of his small finger, out of his pocket and lay it on the table. For a second, Elizabeth, Anne and Edward froze in mid movement allowing its beauty to sink into their minds. Elizabeth reached out and delicately stroked its smooth surface, then picked it up. She held it to the light then passed the raw gem to her daughter. Edward spoke first. “How did you come by it?”
I traded a few yards of cloth with Mr. Olsen.”
Taking turns, each held it up to the light and looked past its angled surface and into its foggy heart. Later, Michael and Anne lay on the hearth peering through the stone and into the fire, marveling, watching the light dance and glow on it's unpolished, crystalline surfaces. In hushed voices they whispered of the strange and mysterious powers contained in the crystal and the wizards and demons willing to fight to control it's magical powers. The stone intrigued Michael and although his father told him it had little value as a gem, his merchant’s eye and heart knew instinctively that it had a trading value and that there must be other crystals in the cave of even greater value. That night, he lay on his mat before the open fire, gazing into the crystal, his mind churning, trying to think of a way he could get "Old Man Schuyler" to let him keep a piece of crystal. He thought of the Aquacknuncks, who would surely pay a high price for pieces of the “Tears of Mother Earth,” as he named the crystal. Fitfully, he drifted off to sleep, determined that he would go into the mine and get a piece of the treasure for himself.
-*-
Morning broke frigid. The north wind blew harsh and cold across Barbados Neck and the thin sunlight of the morning shed little warmth. At the cave mouth, Michael greeted a man coming out. “Good morning, Mr. Thompson. I brought hot tea and bread.”
“Very good. Are you ready to go down into the bowels of the earth?”
Michael nodded and was ushered inside and out of the wind. Underground, the temperature remained constant whether it was the depth of winter or a hot summer day. Within a few feet of the mine entrance, the temperature had risen to the point where Michael and Mr. Thompson could take off their heavy over coats and continue on, wearing only wool sweaters. The coats and cloaks belonging to the workers and slaves already in the mine, hung in a neat row, on wood pegs set into a plank that had been nailed to the beams supporting the rock ceiling above. They hung in mute testimony to the number of men within and who they were. Michael hung his coat on a vacant peg and looked back longingly to the glow of day light at the entrance and waited while Thompson took an oil lamp from the shelf above the pegs, lit it, handed it to him, then lit another for himself. Lanterns in hand, they walked together through the darkness, down a long sloping, twisting shaft, past arms of the mine that led off in odd directions, following a vein of eighty per cent pure copper.
As they approached the working end of the main shaft, the sound of voices grew from a murmur, till Michael could make out individual words. There were four men at the end of the tunnel working in the glow of lanterns. Only the legs of the fifth man could be seen. His upper body was inside the pocket, carefully cutting away pieces of the crystalline surface with a chisel and handing them out to his companions. Each piece of crystal was examined, measured, catalogued and wrapped in a cloth and carefully placed into a basket cushioned with straw.
Derek Olsen was the gang supervisor, Michael knew him. He had often run to the tavern to fetch him a bucket of ale and dried meat. "Olsen," whispered Thompson? The man turned and greeted him, then lowered his lantern to the level of Michael's face and reached out with his heavily callused hand and ran the stump of a finger along the thin line of sweat shining on Michael's forehead. He took Michael’s lantern and hung it on a peg, then whispered, "It takes a lot of courage for a man not born to mining to come down here. If you feel the fear coming over you, just call my name, 'Mister Olsen', and I'll get you out."
"Thank you," whispered Michael, the ragged edge of his breath betraying his closely controlled fear.
Every sound in the mine reflected back from the rocks and echoed down the tunnel. The sound of the hammer on an iron chisel rang like the lick of a lightening strike. The men spoke in hushed tones and sounded like a rush of wind through the winter trees. The sound of their labored breath, the smell of sweat and the smoke from the oil lamps surrounded him. No wind blew. The sun did not shine. It was cold.
"Thompson", came Olsen's whispered voice, "Come look, let me show you what we have found." From the basket, the big man picked up a piece of metal that shown as if it had been polished. "Copper ore, in it's crystalline form," he said. "It's beautiful, don't you think?"
Thompson nodded his head in the dim light and then asked, "May I take a turn inside?"
"Please, be my guest," came a voice from the pocket and the miner wriggled out of the crystal cavern. The blacksmith hefted one the hammers lying on the floor and took his place in the pocket, chipping away at the crystalline walls. The floor had already been stripped of its treasure and a straw mat had been placed inside for the worker to lay on. For several minutes, he stayed inside in silence, then the sound of his hammer driving a chisel into a crack was followed by a satisfied grunt. Slowly Thompson backed out of the pocket and held up another piece of the copper crystal, nearly the size of a man’s forearm, for Olsen's inspection.
"Well, Michael,” Olsen whispered, “you've come all this way. Are you ready to take a look at the fairies treasure?"
Michael nodded his head slowly. His mouth was dry and what little moisture there was, tasted like a ball of wool. In the light of the lanterns, he crawled inside the chamber. The sight that met his eyes took his breath away! Crystals of incredible hues of yellow and green reflected the light from his lantern and threw scattered rays around the small chamber. The pocket was nearly as deep as he was long and about half as wide and high. Michael placed the lantern on the floor, rolled over on his back and marveled at the cave ceiling set with diamonds, rubies and emeralds. If he wanted, he could kneel up nearly straight, before bumping his head on the knife like edge of a nearly perfect eight sided, purple crystal. Nearly half of the chamber walls had been cut away leaving a dull stone surface from where the gems had once clung. The remaining length of wall and ceiling was encrusted with giant jewels that sparkled and reflected the light from his lantern. He lowered his head and lay the lantern at the farthest end of the cavern where it played its light on his work. Bathed in a glow that glittered and danced off the crystals, reflecting and breaking up into rainbow colors, he reached out to touch the ceiling. It was cold and hard, the stone chilled his fingertips but the inner fire and radiance of the stones warmed his soul.
Outside the pocket, Thompson waited and smiled with satisfaction as they heard the grunting of a young boy swinging a twelve-pound hammer against a spike of the hardest iron made at the forge. When Michael came out of the pocket, he was sweating. Olsen took the piece of crystal Michael handed him. It was about the size of his foot and had six perfectly smooth sides that met at one end in the shape of a pyramid. The base end had broken neatly off the rock ceiling and still contained an inch of common stone. Its color was yellow with streaks of black running through it. "This one has a fairy in it," he said and began wrapping it, then paused to catalog the gem.
Two figures entered the lantern light. “Michael.” Edwards voice was calm yet firm. “I see you found a way to come down here.” Michael struggled to his feet. “Father, I…”
"Hush, came a voice in the dark."
A snap and a sharp crack caused each man to freeze in place. For seconds the men held their breath and then a second crack and the sound of splintering wood rang through the cavern and the tunnel roof fell in behind them about a dozen yards up the tunnel. A cloud of dust billowed into the chamber, Michael choked as it struck him and the room filled with a dry, stale smelling dust. The planking above their heads creaked and buckled. The ceiling pressed down but held. Michael's breath caught in his chest. They were trapped! He felt terror wash over him as he coughed and spit.
Two of the miners brought a huge plank to where a trickle of dust ran from the ceiling planks and wedged it up against the roof. The dry dust in his nostrils smelled like the earth under the Kingsland Manor house porch, where he and his friends sometimes played or waited for the children of guests they knew.
No one spoke. The sealed end of the tunnel was absolutely still. Quiet settled over Michael as he stood clutching the hammer looking at the blocked exit. He listened to the ragged breathing and gasps of the men choking on dust-laden air. "Taylor, keep your lamp lit. The rest of you put yours out."
It was Olsen's voice next to him, strong and confident. For some reason, the fear inside him receded a little, as his father touched his shoulder and whispered, "Take my hand and sit next to me." One by one the flames were blown out and the men clustered around the remaining lamp. There were few words to be said, so none were wasted. The workers were no strangers to the dangers of the mine and each knew what had to be done to survive. They all wore neckerchiefs, which they tied across their mouths and noses to help filter out the dust. Olsen tore pieces of his shirt into strips and gave them to Michael, Edward and Thompson to tie across their faces. The cloth made it a little easier to breathe and without further words, they settled down to wait for their rescue or their death.
Each man faced the unknown in his own way. Two of the men began humming hymns Michael knew from Sunday services at the church where Minister McGlocklin preached his message of eternal fire and retribution. Olsen and Taylor sat quietly, waiting, while a man who was the father of one of Michael’s friends, began striking his hammer against the stone wall in a regular pattern, striking eight times, pausing and striking eight times again. Then waiting for a response. Michael felt his father's arm and gripped it tightly, burying his eyes against his shoulder. Together, they sat, backs against the wall, listening to the tapping.
"What can we do?" Michael was surprised at the strength of his voice.
"Praying won't hurt," came the answer from the far side of the chamber.
Before long, the wall resounded with the ping of a heavy hammer blow from far away. Their message had been heard and was being answered! A series of taps echoed through the stone, letting the trapped miners know their friends were coming to help.
"Well, there, you see. A little prayer helps every time,” said Taylor, “Now, all we have to do is sit back and wait for help to arrive."
Michael was impressed by the man's calm words and understood his courage was based in an undying faith that his friends would do everything possible to save them. But Michael feared the tunnel had collapsed all the way back to the mouth. Terror built in him till a low moan of fear escaped his lips. From beyond the earth and rock blocking their exit, they could hear the sounds of digging. Michael breathed deeply, sucking unrewarding air into his lungs. It was becoming foul and harder to breathe. "Douse the candle," said Olsen.
The last light flicked out and they were in total darkness. Michael wrapped his arms around himself trying to stay calm. "Try to sleep," came a voice in the dark. For a second, he thought it was his Mother.
"I can't. I'm too frightened," whispered Michael.
"There! There! I see them! The fairies are here to take our souls!"
"Quiet you fool,” growled Olsen. “You have been in cave ins before, you know this one is not serious."
"But I see the lights! There's one! On the ceiling! Now on the floor!" They're here, I tell you they're here!"
"I see them too,” whined Michael, “I don't want them to take my soul."
"It's your eyes, playing tricks on you,” whispered Edward in a labored breath, “they want to see light, so they are making believe you can see."
"In a few minutes, we will be out and breathing clean air again,” gasped Olsen. “Hold on, we'll make it."
He was right. The rescue diggers broke through and dug out enough of the cave in so they could speak with the trapped men. Bottles of water and food were passed in and the lamps were re-lit. Words of congratulations and success passed among the miners as they began working furiously, digging their way out of their tomb.
As buckets of earth were taken away and the passage to the outside widened, Olsen pressed the piece of crystal Michael had cut back into his hand and whispered, "Take it, the fairies are not often this kind."
Michael tucked the crystal into his shirt and buried his panic next to it. Clean air was all he could think of as he scrambled out of the passageway just barely big enough for him.
-*-
Arent Schuyler stood on the crest of copper Ridge, overlooking the mine entrance. From his vantage, he had directed the rescue efforts throughout the day. Now, with the first of the trapped workers emerging to the arms of their waiting families, he could return to his own home. The day had ended well. There would be no funerals tomorrow.
-*-
Outside the mine, the sun was setting behind Copper Ridge and a new layer of frost was being laid down by the night freeze. Elizabeth and Anne and the families of the trapped miners were waiting for their men as they were led out. Elizabeth's tears stained Michael's face as she held her son. The warmth of his mother, the light of the day and the clean smell of her hair rushed over him. His sister, Anne, put her arms around him and whispered, "I missed you." Through eyes stinging with salty tears of his own, Michael filled his lungs with clean air and watched as his parents embraced and unspoken volumes passed between them.
-*-
Michael spent the next two days lying before the open fire in his home, looking deep into the heart of the crystal he had cut from inside the chamber. He lay there not saying a word, while Edward and Elizabeth watched, fearing the terrors he had faced might have overtaken his mind. Elizabeth knew the stories of the Fairies, she had heard them from the other women, and now they filled her with dread. Even though, she knew they were just stories, deep inside her, she feared an evil spirit might have taken her child's mind.
On the morning of the third day, Michael rose early and prepared a breakfast of corn bread cakes, strawberry preserves and tea for the family. As they ate, he told them that he wanted to go to the Newark market and have the crystal cut. "There's a bird inside,” he said. To set myself free of this fear, I have to set it free."
-*-
Spring, 1769
When the crocus pushed their way through the mat of fallen leaves and opened their delicate flowers, Edward borrowed a canoe and accompanied his son down the Passaic River to the market in Newark. There, they walked through the maze of merchants, asking the vendors and shop keepers where they might find a sculptor or a jeweler. Their search brought them to a Watchmaker, named Van Der Klef, who sat with Michael and examined the delicately tinted, yellow crystal. Together, they peered deep into it using a lens and marked the surface with a pen . Patiently, the Watchmaker asked Michael to show him the lines forming the wings and head of the bird. Together, they painstakingly traced the outline on the surface, laboring diligently to define the outline of the bird locked inside the crystal.
When they were finished, the Watchmaker sat back and nodded his head, "Yes, it is in there, all right. Just waiting to be freed! I'll cut the stone for you but my price will be five gold crowns. A handsome fee, I agree but I will balance it against the value of the waste you let me keep. As you can see, there will be several rather good sized pieces I can cut again."
Michael removed ten Spanish Dollars from his belt and placed them on the table beside the uncut crystal. "I have ten dollars now, when you are finished we can weigh out what I owe you. The balance I can pay in beaver pelts and wampum. The two large pieces should be worth about three Spanish Dollars each. Don't you agree?"
"A very respectable counter offer, young sir. Yes, I will be glad to take your pelts and wampum but for the leftover pieces, I can only offer two dollars each." Michael nodded, his eyes riveted on the piece of stone. "How long will it take to cut and finish?"
"I can have the stone cut in a fortnight. Polishing will take another week. You may come back any time after that."
"Very well,” Michael said, “I'll return at the next full moon."
As he turned to leave, Van Der Klef cleared his throat, "Young man! Before you go, do you want to leave me your name?"
"Michael,” he answered, “Michael Fields."
"Ah, yes, I see. Are you, by any chance, the young man who was trapped in Schuyler's mine last winter?
Michael cocked his head. "Yes. Why?"
"I thought so. I heard of the incident and the fairy treasure. Since it happened, crystals have been finding their way to my shop and with them I hear the story. The miners think these stones are enchanted, you know." He paused and searched Michael's face for some emotion but the boy still had the same sad face as when he had come in.
"In fact,” he continued, “I have been waiting for you to bring this stone to me."
Van Der Klef removed his spectacles, and looked into the boy’s eyes, they moved and stared back at him. "Ahh,” he
murmered, “maybe there is hope for you."
"I have been looking forward to working on it but I must give you a warning. Schuyler sent most of the crystals to Europe. The big ones that is. He allowed each of the workers one small piece. Some were little more than scraps and most found their way to me to be finished, engraved and strung. None have been as large as this. Now, listen sharp, young Michael T. Fields, if Master Schuyler hears of this stone, he will want his property back. You must keep its existence a secret."
-*-
Van Der Klef labored over the stone for three days planning the cuts he would make. The actual cutting of the stone along the natural faults took only seconds and exposed the rough outlines of a bird. Next, he used a circular grinding wheel, run by a foot treadle, to cut away smaller pieces and polish the birds’ wings, frozen in mid-stroke. Soaring? Swooping? The angle of the neck eluded him. There were so many crucial decisions to make now that the bird had exposed itself. Yes, the image inside was becoming clearer. It was no songbird; it was a hawk or an owl. Strong, silent. Van Der Klef touched the glistening stone to the edge of the spinning wheel, cutting the shapes of wind swept feathers into its breast. Then talons, folded back. Its eyes, pools of black, caused by some contaminant in the crystal, glistened and followed the observer. It's beak open, calling.
He mounted the crystal on a branch of polished driftwood; wings spread and angled majestically back, a hawk adrift on the warm air currents of a summer day. With two days remaining before Michael's appointed return, the jeweler selected the largest piece of stone salvage and cut it into four half inch thick wafers. He ground each to a smooth oval and etched the image of the bird on each surface.
-*-
Van Der Klef beamed with pride as he greeted Michael and his father and ushered them to the back room of his shop where the bird was displayed. Edward let out an audible gasp. A sun beam reflected off the polished wings, played inside the gem-like golden hawk and splashed a rainbow onto the wall. For the first time in months, Michael smiled as he sat down at the table and gazed at the delicate wings and talons. The ray of sunlight wove its way through the crystal and struck Edward in the eye. A tear formed as he watched the smile spread across his son’s face and rekindled the light in his eyes.
"There must be magic in that stone,” he thought, “it has given me back my son and now it shall make us rich!"
"I made these pendants from the stone I cut away, I think they make a good match. If you would like them, I can throw them into our deal for an additional Spanish Dollar each." Michael took them in his hand, examined them and agreed. He completed the bargain with four beaver pelts and wampum of small shells and beads. The Watchmaker set the crystal bird into a polished chestnut box Edward gave him, packed it securely with straw and placed the box into a plain burlap bag.
Before stepping out of the Watchmaker’s shop, Edward scanned the street searching for anything that might give away an ambush. Delicately, but with the appearance of nonchalance, Michael slung the bag over his shoulder and carried his treasure carefully through the streets of Newark. Every step of the way his father walked two paces behind him, vigilant least a thief rob them of the magic destined to raise his family’s social and economic standing.
At the river, the canoe waited as they had left it. Carefully, they slid the birch bark craft into the water and shoved off into the current. Smoothly, easily and without incident, they paddled up stream, riding the incoming tide back to Barbadoes Neck, where they delivered the box to their cottage.
Michael placed the bird on the mantle over the fire and named it "Passaic Falcon." Then, with chivalry that would have shamed the knights of old, he presented the matching pendants to his mother, father, and sister as tokens of his love.
"I'll be speaking to Misses Kingsland tomorrow,” said Elizabeth. “I'll tell her of the bird."
"Good, responded Michael, Kingsland will be able to help us sell it. I believe an auction will be just the thing to bring us the best price."
-*-
It was a day of intrigue and secret conspiracies for the visitors to the Kingsland Manor House. The day’s auction was to include several parcels of land, trading goods, farm produce, several black slaves and a few indentured servants. Attendance at the auction was by grace of an invitation directed to a very select clientele. Each invitee had received a personal note from Edmund Kingsland listing the parcels available and the terms of payment. But what was not on the bill was whispered about in rumors circulating the highest levels of New York City astristocracy. In the days leading up to the auction, coifed women and powdered men spoke in their salons of an enchanted gem, a bird freed from stone, that would be for sale.
Close friends and business associates of Edmund Kingsland occupied every room of the Manor House. A carnival atmosphere pervaded the guests as they ate, drank and danced away the night before the auction. But the tones turned hushed when the subject of a crystal falcon was brought up. They understood there was a question of ownership and thus the need to keep the sale secret.
The auction started slowly as the first parcels were sold for less than expected. The guests were holding back, waiting for the true item of interest to be brought out. As two black salves were auctioned off, Michael overheard guests discussing how much they were prepared to pay to own the "Passaic Falcon" and whispered to his sister, “They are talking of payment in gold coin!”
Finally, the bird was unveiled. A hush fell over the guests as Edmund Kingsland described the statue. Edward and Elizabeth sat at the back of the ball room, hand in hand, listening as one person after another bid increasingly astronomical amounts of money for the privilege of owning a piece of carved stone. Elizabeth felt light headed and leaned against Edward's shoulder as the bid rose ever higher. Anne and Michael could scarcely contain themselves as they listened as the offers turn to pure gold! None of the bidders were offering trading goods, they were all dealing in gold coin!
When the auction ended, the Fields family stayed behind to meet with Master Kingsland and his wife in the Manor House study. There, he and Edward toasted each other's health and a pouch, containing twenty gold sovereigns, was placed into Michael's hand. The fortune was more than enough to pay off the balance of Elizabeth's indenture and make her a free woman. There would also be more than enough left to repay the investment in Van Der Klef's skills. Enough cash to buy another piece of land, a dowry for Anne, books, clothing, no longer were these dreams. Now they were reality!
Edward sipped the wine and smiled at his family. He had arrived at the end of a long, hard path and now they could begin walking a new trail. From this day on, Edward knew is family would never be the same. They had dared to risk and had won.
Michael felt the weight of the gold coins in his hand and knew he wanted to go to the market again and walk among the farmers selling their crops, the tradesmen and their wares and the sailors with goods from around the world. The next day he met with Frederick's father and negotiated the purchase of a horse. Then off to the wheelwright, who could make a wagon large enough to haul a family's produce to market and strong enough to carry iron goods from the forge. With these new tools at his disposal, Michael began transporting goods the length and breadth of Barbados Neck.
-*-
THE PARTNERS
Spring, 1770
The streams melted early that year and what little snow remained in the forest was rapidly disappearing in the warm sun. Michael lay in a sunbeam enjoying its warmth on his skin. A twig snapped. Slowly and quietly, he rolled over and peered over the stump of the fallen tree. In front of him, not more than thirty feet away, a buck deer grazed on new buds. Quietly, Michael nocked an arrow onto the string and rose up to shoot.
As he concentrated on the kill, a flick of motion on the other side of the clearing caught his eye. Holding stock still, he focused on the movement. Someone else was stalking his deer. An Indian, with bow raised and ready, was pointing at the same target. The Indian was perfectly still and his eyes were on Michael. Words would have frightened the animal and although they both wanted the deer, both realized that half a kill was better than no kill. The young Indian nodded his head and Michael responded with a smooth motion of his own. The message was immediate and clear, "cooperate and share the deer."
As one they let their arrows fly. Both hit a vital point and the animal snapped up his head in search of danger. The ears flagged back and forth as both nocked a fresh arrow and prepared to fire again. The deer turned its head in Michael’s direction just as its front legs gave out. It staggered, tried to rise and then settled to the ground, never really knowing what had happened. The young Indian let loose a war cry and bounded to his feet to meet the young white man whooping the Iroquois victory cry. They reached the deer at the same time, and checked the kill. The young Indian whispered a prayer to Masingua, then rose to look at the Yang Quis. Michael recognized the Indian from the Aquacknunck village. He was about Michael’s age, slim and tightly muscled, his hair was shoulder length, silky black, straight and shinny. His eyes were charcoal black, yet stunningly clear. On his forearm was the mark of his clan.
"A well placed shot," the Indian said in the King’s English.
"And so is yours,” responded Michael in passable Lenapi. “We can share in the cleaning and the meat but you will have to wrestle me for the hide."
"Very well,” said the Indian in his own tongue, “but first, tell me, who I am taking this beautiful hide from?" Broad smiles creased both their faces.
"My name is Michael, I hunt in the area. My father makes the iron tools I trade with the Aquacknunck tribe.
"I know of you,” said the Indian. “I have seen you in our village. I am Calik of Beaver Clan, son of Thomas Red Shirt, who fought against the Mohawk with Colonel Schuyler." As they got down to the business of dressing the deer, their conversation continued, sometimes in English sometimes in Lenapi. They spoke to each other of their hunting skills and previous kills, their methods and habits, as hunters have done from the beginning of time and soon became comfortable with each other.
The two young men began their friendship by pitching a new hunting camp on a small creek and from there, they cooperated with each other and stalked a herd of ten deer, killing two over the next three days. During the day they cleaned and dressed their kills, feasted on tender cuts and told each other of their families. The hunt ended with each loading his prizes onto a frame that could be dragged back to their home. As they parted, they shook each others hand and promised to meet at the next full moon, at the same place for a new hunt.
Their second hunt proved to be as successful as the first and a true friendship was born. Beside their campfire, at the full of each successive moon, the two talked, as men, of their worlds and what they wished for their future. Michael increased the frequency of his visits to the Aquacknunck village as both a merchant, bringing iron goods from the Schuyler forge, and now as a friend of Calik. Calik made sure he was there as Michael bargained with the Aquacknuncks. He showed a keen interest and an immediate instinct in the bargaining for goods and profits.
On their first trip to the Newark market Calik showed that he was as comfortable in the market as he was in the forest. Both of them had been to the Newark market on numerous occasions. On their first venture together, they tried to outdo each other by displaying their knowledge of the market and introducing each other to their favorite vendors and buyers. It took only a few ventures to the market to convince both that they should continue their exploits and expand the selection and amount of items they carried.
During the three day summer equinox festival, Michael sat at the fire of Calik’s family. Under a sky splashed with the silvery sparks of the stars, Thomas Red Shirt told the story of his adventures when he had served as a scout with the colonial troops under Colonel Schuyler in the wilds of New York. He told how the Jersey Militia had been surrounded in the forest, cut off from their supplies and forced to surrender after a month of bloody skirmishes. As he lay on his mat beside the glowing embers of the fire, Michael recalled that an Indian had been one of the men honored the day the veterans returned. Thomas Red Shirt the English had called him. Here in the Aquacknunck village he was known by his clan name Tangami-Kan, "The Spear."
The Aquacknunck, Michael learned, were part of the Lenapi nation, cousins to the Delaware, Iroquois and Mohican. But the Lenapi were a peaceful people who preferred to till the soil rather than practice the art of the warrior. Their land was sectioned into plots that had been tended by the same families for centuries. But now, there were only a few hundred families left, living on the river that bore their name, near Gothern at the foot of the waterfalls. Most of the Aquacknuncks who had lived on Barbadoes Neck had sold their plots of land to the European colonists long ago and moved west to the great campsite they called Lenapihoking. The people of Barbadoes Neck considered the Aquacknunck to be good farmers and trustworthy neighbors. They worked their fields as the colonists did and reaped the bounty of the land they called Munsee. They hunted the forests, traded with the colonists, took meals with them, celebrated the changing seasons along side their brothers from across the ocean and brought their crops, furs and wampum to the market in Newark to barter for the same goods the colonists desired.
The two young men found they worked well together and their friendship, based upon mutual respect and profit grew. Their monthly hunting trips, from which they returned to their homes loaded with meat and hide, became the base on which they expanded their partnership to commercial ventures in the Newark market. There, they were even more successful and their reputation for honesty expanded to the merchants and shopkeepers.
-*-
On his travels, Michael learned of a worthy sloop for sale and went quickly to consult with Calik. Seated at a slowly burning fire, they discussed what they could do to obtain the boat. They both knew the craft. Her name was DOLORES and she could easily make the journey past the Hackensack rapids and the two day voyage to Elizabethtown or New York City. They might even venture to the Pirate's market in Secaucus. In the morning they began raising every wampum and pound they could by selling off their inventory at bargain prices, borrowing from friends, businesses associates and, of course, their families. Michael tapped the nest egg that had been provided by the sale of the PASSAIC FALCON and within two days they were able to present the owner with the purchase price and became the proud owners of a sloop with the capability of hauling a respectable cargo.
She was twenty feet long and nearly eight feet wide at the mid section with a draft shallow enough to navigate the swamps of the Hackensack. Because she was maneuverable by both paddle, like a canoe, and with sails, she would be able to take advantage of the tidal changes in both the Hackensack and Aquacknunck Rivers and yet be stable out on the Newark Bay.
On their maiden voyage, Michael and Calik guided their boat out of the slip at Dowd’s Ferry and onto the open waters of the Newark Bay. Their excitement bubbled over and they giggled like children. Calik, although new to the art of seamanship, was an anxious and apt student, who devoted himself to learning the ways of the sail and rudder. The sloop was an easy craft to handle and responded smoothly to the helm. Carrying a load of ballast, they tacked up wind then fell off and raced down the reach. Wind filled the mainsail and they threw out a Jib to capture a pocket of the wind that dragged them even faster across the Newark Bay. They yelled their best war whoops into the wind and threw back their heads in laughter and pride as she clipped through the water, seeming to fly past the slower barges and Periquinairs. Captains and crews Michael had worked with in the past waved and called their well wishes to them and marked the line of their craft.
Evening approached and the tide change carried them silently up the Aquacknunck. With barely an effort on their part, they slid past the Newark Market and the bridge leading up the west face of Copper Ridge to the Schuyler Manor house. They rode the incoming tide and a mild breeze to their own slip and docked under the branches of a stand of mighty willows. In the gathering gloom, they made their fire tall and danced around it, celebrating their good fortune and the beginning of their shipping business.
"No market is beyond us now," cried Calik!
"The master traders are coming,” yelled Michael, “look out, New York City!"
Back and forth they shouted their good fortune, hearts bursting with pride, their imaginations on fire. They planned the routes they could chart and the markets they could now visit, as the owners of a real ship.
Over roasted chicken and beer, they tossed names for their craft back and forth, discarding many, discussing others, till they settled on the PASSAIC FALCON. Solemnly, they conducted their naming and blessing ceremony. Both marked her name on the stern in large letters and Lenapi symbols, then whispered her spirit name to each other, never to be spoken again.
Michael and Calik’s families were both on hand to witness the departure for their first trading venture down stream. Their parents and friends made certain the PASSAIC FALCON was loaded to capacity with goods to be traded and sold at the Newark Market. In a day long exercise of trading skills they bartered and re-bartered goods and wares they knew their families and benefactors desired. They worked themselves into a frenzy of monetary gratification, employing every scheme and trick they knew to increase their margin. As their day ended, they slumped exhausted into benches at the COPPER COCK Tavern, knowing that the profits of this first voyage would go a long way to paying back all they had borrowed. The outlook of the profits they would make on future trips provided a satisfaction that eased of the weariness of their minds and muscles and despite their exhaustion, they eagerly planned the morrow's trip
At first, their new found wealth was strange and they spent it on trinkets and drink. But after being caught on the bay by a storm that ripped half their cargo from the hold and shredded their sailcloth, they realize their money had to work for them. The investment in repairs and new sails emptied their treasury and they returned to the business of business with a new understanding of their place in the grand scheme of the market. Their frivolity had been fun, but had no place in their new cooperative.
-*-
Michael and Calik were scouring the Newark market searching for bargains and oddities that would be saleable to either the residents of Barbadoes Neck or the Aquacknuncks when Calik stopped dead, staring at a wampum hanging in a stall. Michael followed his gaze. It was a beautifully woven piece, tall as a man and about twice as wide as a man’s hand. It was intricately woven with beads, shells and bone into an intricate pattern that told a story.
Calik whispered to Michael, “It is the great wampum of Chief Shennandoah. How could it be here in the market?”
Michael shuddered. He knew the wampum was more than a trade item. It held enormous religious value and would never have been sold by its true owner. It had to have been stolen. Calik shuffled his feet, nervous, angry and spoke, “I must return it to my people. Will you help me, Michael?”
“Of course,” he responded, instantly grasping the enormity of both the loss and the return to the rightful owner.
“Michael, if I try to buy it, the price will be raised or he may not sell it to me at all. You must purchase it for me. I pledge my share of our cargo to you if you will obtain it." Michael nodded his head knowing what his friend said was true.
The merchant was a burley man with the smell of whiskey on his breath and clothes that smelled as if they had never been washed. The stall was stocked with only a few items, most of which were Indian blankets. There were two feather head dresses, knife blades from the Barbadoes Neck forge mounted on handles of carved bone and the wampum Calik considered so important. Michael tried to smile as he looked over the inventory and almost gagged at the sight of six fresh scalps hanging next to the wampum. The man scratched his chin and addressed him. “Der ya see anythin’ ya like?” His voice was unpleasant and gravely from too much drink.
“I like that wampum,” he said.
“I’ll bet yer do,” the man growled, “but yer couldn’t afford it.”
Michael gathered his strength and looked at the man as a wave of his foul breath assaulted his nose. He opened his jacket and revealed an extraordinarily fine linen shirt. “This is a sample of my wares and there is more, including whiskey, if we can strike a bargain.”
The man stretched himself to his full height and stroked the wampum. “Aye, t’is fine work. But I don’t wear no fancy cloths. What else have you?”
Michael mentally reviewed the FALCON’s inventory. Meat and vegetables were worthless to this man. “Tomahawks, he said, beaver pelts and gold.”
The man’s eyes glazed over at the sound of the word. “How much gold?”
The bargaining had begun in earnest and Michael was in his element. He evaluated the weight of the man’s whiskey jug as he hefted it over his shoulder to drink and gauged it to be almost empty. “Let me give you a sample of my wares,” he said and left to get another jug.
After a few hours of conversation and regular drinks from the jug, Michael, who was feeling the effects of too many swaps himself, could see the man was groggy and ready to fall down. He took two gold doubloons from his pouch and let the trader’s eyes focus on them. Whiskey and greed were bringing the deal to a close. The trader leered at Michael with his slitted, barely open eyes.
“Ar, ya want it laddie?”
Michael caught a glint of the sun on the gold coin and flashed it into the man’s eyes. He breathed heavily and mumbled in a deep groan, “I’ve a condition.” Michael held his breath as he leaned towards him in a conspiratorial manner and spoke in a voice just slightly tinged with a slur.
“And what is that my friend.” The man’s voice lowered, emphasizing the intrigue, “Yer cin nerer let touch this wampum ta no stinken, filthy injin.” Michael choked down the urge to hit the man and in a voice that belied his disgust, he solemnly said, “I promise on my life that no thieving, murdering, low-life scum will ever touch this wampum again.” As drunk as he was, the trader’s eyes lit up. “Aye, yur a ga boy. Gimme da gold and take this stinken rag away.” He loosened his grip, snatched the gold from Michael’s hand and staggered off into the crowd. Michael reverently draped the great wampum over his shoulder, rejoined Calik and headed toward the river. Michael whispered to his friend. “I fear the owner was murdered,” he said grimly.
Calik nodded and touched the wampum. Michael took it from his shoulders and presented it to Calik who held it reverentially. “My people will pay you many times over for what you have done.” Michael nodded, his head was light with the whiskey he had drunk and just a little unsteady on his feet. When they got back to where the PASSAIC FALCON was moored Michael had to stop and vomit the contents of his stomach into the river. Calik waited patiently till the episode was over and offered Michael a flask of water. He washed his mouth out then splashed water on his face. Feeling better he said, “Calik, my friend, this most valued and revered treasure is my gift to the Aquacknunck.”
Calik’s breath stopped. “Returning it to us is a sign of true friendship. My family will sing your name forever. Michael straightened himself up and began laughing. “There is one thing you must do for me first.” Calik waited expectantly, “You must have a drink with me.” He reached into the hold, brought out a fresh jug of whiskey and passed it to Calik. His eyes a sparkled as he took the jug. “It is a great honor to drink with you and to your health,” he said and upended the jug.
They continued to pass the jug as they rode the tide up the Passaic to Calik’s village and presented the wampum to Tangami-Kan. A hush fell over the village as Calik retold the story. Men, women and children gathered to listen and touch the wampum. An old woman took Michael’s hand and led him to the circle at the middle of the village and there she bade him to sit and placed a blanket around his shoulders. The tribe elders came to him and brushed red paint on his face. In a fog of unreality, he was struck by the seriousness of what he had done. Tangami-Kan dressed as a chief, approached him from across the circle and presented him with a knife. He knew the blade had been cast at his father’s forge. The handle was carved from bone and engraved with the face of Masingua, the Father Spirit. Hunetka, the clan Shaman, presented him with a wampum belt with a sheath for the knife. A drum began a regular thumping and women rose to dance around the fire in a slow walking gate while Hunetka chanted. As people passed in front of him, they smiled, bowed their heads and mouthed words he could not hear. A pipe was passed around the circle and Michael partook of the solemn smoke, savoring the sweet taste of tobacco and spices, the Indians called Kanicanick. Many words were spoken which he could not understand but at the end of the ceremony he knew what had happened. He had been adopted by Beaver clan and had been given the clan name Sua Klanta, “The Honest One.”
-*-
It didn't happen over night, but slowly the nature of the Newark market changed. Every day, it seemed as though there were more soldiers on the streets. New sentry posts appeared at the bridges. More patrols of armed soldiers walked the piers and the markets and with the soldiers came the tax collectors. They were skinny, pinched face men who had to be ushered around by armed escorts, stopping at every shop and stall taking a percentage of every transaction.
Even though the stalls and wagons were brimming with goods to be bought or sold, the prices were so inflated by taxes that most became too expensive. Some items, mostly manufactured goods, books and, of course, whiskey, were taxed so heavily the profit margin was diminished to a point where there was doubt they could be resold.
"At these prices,” Michael remarked to Calik, “our customers will probably tell us they can do without." Calik nodded his head knowingly and replied “And we will have to do without our profits.”
Bargains were no where to be found but as they roamed the market place, they heard whispers, spoken by passing strangers, not to them but for them to hear. Boycott!!
At the entry to a fabric shop Michael favored, a pair of rough looking characters stepped up from the street and stood squarely in front of them.
"We're from the 'committee',” said the bigger man and motioned with his head to the shop door. “He's a Tory and if you want to do business with Tories, then you shan’t do business with patriots."
“I shall do business with whom I like, Tory or Patriot,” replied Michael, “being that I’m only interested in profit.”
The man from the “committee” leaned closer and leered in his face, “Then ya like paying for the King’s leisure, do ya? Or would ya like to make a real profit, one ya can’t make with a tax paying Tory?”
“I would like to make a profit,” responded Michael, cautiously.
“Good,” the boycotter said, looked around and whispered into Michael’s ear. "Well then, you should see the Inn Keeper on Dood Alley" and stepped directly into the shop door, blocking it. He smiled at Michael and said, "Tell him, Albert sent you."
As they walked away, Calik said, “We have nothing to lose. We will make no profit here today.” Through the narrow, twisting alleys they made their way, avoiding the tax collectors and their soldiers, until they came to the KEG AND COCK Tavern on Dood Alley. There, they introduced themselves to the Innkeeper, a man named Butler. Although they both recognized him and knew him to be a fair trader from their prior business dealings, they eyed him warily, unsure of his present disposition.
"Well, well,” said Butler, “what have we here?"
"I'm Michael Fields and this is Calik. We heard we could do some business here, from a man named Albert, who apparently doesn’t like Tories”
Butler ignored the comment, "We have met before, haven't we? Ah, yes, I recall. The young men from Barbadoes Neck." He smiled and with a shrug that seemed to indicate his approval and he extended his hand in welcome. "Your fame precedes your name. You purchased untaxed whiskey from my associate only last month. Very good. Now, what, to the business at hand. You have found the market strangled by His Majesty's tax collectors have you?"
"That we have," responded Michael.
"And what do you seek,” he asked?
"A fair price for fair goods," said Calik.
"Then you have come to the right place, me hearties! Now, listen careful and you will meet a man with fair prices and no taxes for the King."
Butler gave them a brass button and directed them to a brownstone house on Alyea Street. The house was one of a string of attached buildings built in the Dutch manner. They paused outside, looked up and down the street checking for soldiers, then entered. The room was small with two chairs against the wall and dimly lit by a single window. Michael gave the button to a man seated at a small table. He examined it and told them to take a seat and wait. Michael and Calik looked around nervously. Both carried a knife hidden under their shirts. The presence of a weapon seemed reassuring.
"What if they have pistols," whispered Calik.
"Throw your knife and run out the door. I'll be right behind you." It was the only thing he could think of to say. They glanced at each other and almost giggled, caught up in the intrigue and the moment.
The man returned and ushered them into the next room where he again asked them to be seated. This room was brilliantly lit by the sun streaming in through eight-foot tall glass windows. Seated at a green enameled table and surrounded by papers and the remnants of a meal was a man they recognized and had heard was a smuggler. He looked up from the ledger. His round face and rosy cheeks were set against a warm and disarming smile. His name was Wilbur Clinton.
The smuggler wasn't the black hearted villain who would cut their hearts out at a glance. Instead, Wilbur was a smiling chap with a good sense of humor, who quickly put them at ease. More importantly, he had an inventory of trade goods and specialty items and they quickly got to the serious business of bartering for those goods. Over a pint of strong ale, that left both Michael and Calik a little dizzy, they agreed on an exchange of their cargo for a new one. Most of what they wanted could be had through Mr. Clinton, the rest, they would find elsewhere. “Now, be warned my friends. Place your taxed goods on top of these and keep your receipts handy. Those bastard redcoats and their thieving counters watch everything and everybody.”
The young merchants returned to the street and reentered the Newark market tingling with excitement at the merchandise they had bargained for and the terms of the purchase they had negotiated. As they waited for their order to be filled, the two drifted through the market, avoiding the tax collectors and Tories, sampling the food and examining wares and cloths, buying what taxed goods they thought they could turn any kind of a profit on. Throughout the market, the rumor of rebellion percolated like a pot of coffee. On the lips of the people were the words of dissatisfaction with the rule of the King George. Soldiers, on every corner, glared at them malevolently but because they carried only taxed goods, they went unmolested.
On their walk back to the dock, they stopped to listen to a street corner orator speaking about events in other parts of the Colonies. While standing in the small crowd, a young boy pressed a pamphlet titled "The Rights of Englishmen" into his hand. Michael stuffed it into his bag to read on the trip back home.
At the wharf where the PASSAIC FALCON was moored, they loaded their taxed goods and cast off for the trip upstream. Calik said to Michael in Lenapi, “Do you know what we are getting into, Sua Klanta?”
Michael looked at Calik intently, “It is the tax that is dishonest. It is the tax that is destroying our communities.
“Yes,” he nodded grimly, “I realize what I am doing. And I realize there is danger. Do you fear this new course we have plotted?”
Calik looked across the river thoughtfully. His silence hung above the whisper of their boat cutting through the water. Finally, he said, “Yes, I understand what we are doing.” He extended his hand to Michael and they shook firmly. Calik, with a hint of mischief in his voice, added, “After all, it is not for the excitement but for the profits.”
After dark, they rode the incoming tide upstream and paddled the PASSAIC FALCON to a sandy beach where a young man on a jersey wagon waited. "I was sent by Wilbur,” he said. “Let's get your cargo loaded before you miss the tide."
Michael and Calik looked over their shoulders suspiciously and began unloading the wagon and storing their new cargo in the FALCON’s hold. When they finished, the wagon left and they waited silently in the riverside weeds for the moon to set. As the shadows deepened in the Passaic valley, they shoved off the beach, pulled into the current and rode the tide upstream. Invisibly, they slid under the two bridges at Newark, then around the bend past the ferry at the Presbyterian Church in Belleville and on to their homeport in Barbadoes Neck.
Thus Michael and Calik began a business relationship with the smugglers. Selling untaxed goods gave them a distinct advantage over their competitors and their voyages continued to bring them the profits they had planned. It also brought them a recognition in the circle of Patriot merchants. They no longer had to look for goods to haul, people came to them and this allowed them to pick and choose the merchandise they wished to carry. "Untaxed, if you happen to find any," was the order they most frequently took.
In the early days of his smuggling career, Michael purchased a telescope and made a point to find time on a clear night to peer at the moon, the planets and the far away stars. He and Calik built a stand and lashed the telescope tightly to it then spent hours peering through it, marveling at the rings of Saturn and marking the passage of three of the moons of Jupiter across its disk. They pondered the twinkling mysteries of the stars, the ragged mountains they could see on the moon and questioned the significance of their own lives.
Michael built a second stand on the overlook near his home and allowed interested people to look through his telescope at the masts of the ships moored in New York Harbor. And when the sun went down, he allowed the curious visitors from the Manor houses and the community to marvel at the wonders in the sky above them. Again, he posed his questions and listened to the comments of the Philosophers and Statesmen who propounded on the effect the stars have on the lives of men.
-*-
For the next months, Michael and Calik plied their trading route from Kingsland, to Schuyler, to Newark, to Secaucus and back again. The PASSAIC FALCON and it's young captains became well known on the Aquacknunck and Hackensack Rivers and the trade routes of the Newark Bay. She was quicker than a Revenue Cutter under full sail and what her crew didn't know about sailing, they made up for in daring. As the winter of 1770 set in, the captains of the PASSAIC FALCON were making three circuits a week, transporting goods from one settlement to another, plying their smuggler's route and watching their fortune grow.
-*-
In the fog of a cold and icy morning, they steadied the FALCON and shivered inside their buckskin jackets, while they waited at the mouth of the Hackensack River for the tide to turn. Small chunks of ice floated around them like ghostly fish and a thin mist crept out of the tall weeds and across the still surface of the water. Michael and Calik had agreed to take a large cargo of untaxed tea from Elizabethtown and deliver it to a smugger in Secaucus. Their usual plan was to pick up the merchandise just after dark and ride the incoming tide up stream to Secaucus. With a little luck, an off shore breeze would come up after they passed through the narrows at Dowd's Ferry and quicken the trip. Their journey was calculated to take advantage of the tides and phases of the moon to avoid the sentries guarding the ferries and bridges. Their favorite tactic was to lower their sail and drift quietly on the tide past the guard posts at the dark of the moon. Once past, they could again raise the sail and get under way. Every station they passed without being stopped was money in their pockets. But when fate or necessity forced the issue, they found a silver coin offered with a wink and a smile caused the soldiers to turn their backs and look the other way.
Michael watched Calik’s breath swirl in the still air and marked the swelling tidewaters. Together, they rowed the FALCON out into the channel, putting their backs to the oars, straining to gather speed. Just as the sentry station came into view, they shipped oars and let the current take them. In silence, their boat drifted past the guardhouse, where they could see a light from a candle through the window, but no guard. The current swept them up the middle of the channel, past the tax collectors and their soldiers and on to their destination without incident.
The Secaucus smugglers market was an open and brawling free for all market, unmolested by tax collectors. Here, they were paid handsome prices for the goods they brought, particularly when the goods were more dangerous. During the past few months they found that a load of tea was easy to smuggle but didn't pay well, while a load of whiskey is much more difficult to smuggle and brought a better price. But there was danger not only from the tax collectors, who would steal their profits and their freedom, but from the pirates, who would take their cargo and leave them dead in the swamps. Michael and Calik had already made several narrow escapes from the Hackensack River pirates and learned early to navigate the winding river arms snaking through the swamplands. Rather than confront the pirates, they evaded them, using the speed and maneuverability of the PASSAIC FALCON and the intricate mazes of the Hackensack River Meadows to leave the Pirates bewildered and wondering where they had disappeared.
In mid-spring, they met again with Wilbur Clinton and discussed carrying an extremely dangerous cargo, six crates of pistols. Clinton called them "Committee Pistols" and guaranteed they would be paid a profit equivalent to a months work. Michael and Calik spent two hours debating the merits and dangers of this particular cargo but in the end agreed to take it, but at the time of their own choosing.
Their choice was a rainy, moonless night with a tide that changed only a few hours before dawn. The delivery was made to a man in Secaucus, who called himself a "Patriot" and rather than accept a cash fee for their service, they bargained for four of the pistols in payment. The man resisted the deal for a while but when Michael threatened never again to carry another cargo to him, he relented and gave them the pistols, powder and kit to make bullets. Michael and Calik concluded the deal and retreated out to the swamp with their new acquisitions intent on learning how to load and fire the weapons. Michael poured a measure of powder into the upturned muzzle of the pistol, inserted a piece of wool wadding and dropped the ball in on top of it. He tramped the bullet into place with the ramrod and primed the pan with a measure of finely ground gunpowder. He held the pistol in his right hand, fully extended arm, pulled back the hammer with his thumb and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He squeezed it hard till his hand trembled and still nothing happened. Calik looked at him in puzzlement and cocked his own weapon, pointed it at a nearby tree and pulled the trigger. The hammer refused to fall. “What’s wrong,” he puzzled. Michael examined his pistol closely and felt the hammer click back into a second locking position. He held it out again, squeezed the trigger. This time the hammer fell smoothly, struck a spark to the powder and fired. The recoil from their first shots took them by surprise and went wild but after discharging a few more rounds, their confidence grew and their accuracy improved.
The “Committee Pistols” were a new idea. Based on the Pennsylvania rifles, they were smaller, lighter and easier to carry than a horse pistol and more accurate because the inside surface of the barrel was grooved to make the bullet spin. They also carried a devastating punch. The bullet weighed in at almost a full ounce of lead and used a charge of black powder nearly equal to that of a rifle.
Feeling a new confidence in their ability to protect their cargoes, Michael and Calik returned to the market looking for merchandise to carry on the return leg of their voyage. While stowing a small cargo of whiskey, the patriot they had brought the pistols to, appeared beside them. As if their meeting had been a coincidence, the man began a conversation that consisted of small talk and then moved into areas of more substance. “The ‘Committee’ is pleased with you boys and would like to know if you would be interested in making another delivery.” Michael and Calik paused their work and glanced at each other. Confident of their ability to protect a cargo, they asked the man to continue. “We need someone, hopefully you gentlemen, to deliver a cache of rifles to the militia in Gothern.” He paused, before continuing, “The stakes are high, given the importance of the cargo, but that only makes for a larger fee for your services.”
Michael had heard a patriot militia was drilling in the area south of Calik's village and took him aside to confer about the high risks involved. Again they debated the dangers and evaluated their own sailing skills. The cargo would be extremely dangerous and so they demanded twice their normal fee.
The delivery to Gothurn was made at night, again making the most of the tides and the phases of the moon to cover their movements. They stayed dangerously close to the shore as they rounded the tip of Barbadoes Neck, daring the rocks and mud to stop them. Silently, they glided past sentry posts manned by sleeping soldiers, holding their breath at the bark of a dog and crow of a rooster.
As the sun rose over the Copper Ridge, Michael waited on the beach while Calik stayed in the PASSAIC FALCON, anchored in the weeds on the opposite shore. The first person to come by was a farmer driving his cattle to their field. A few minutes later, two men in a wagon rumbled down the riverside path, greeted Michael, by name, and commented upon the coming dawn. Michael returned the recognition code and eased his grip on the pistol hidden under his coat.
"We're here to take delivery of your cargo," said one.
Michael called to Calik in Lenapi, telling him all was well and to bring the PASSAIC FALCON across. The drivers helped load the boxes of rifles onto the wagon then paid the fee to Michael, in silver. The taller of the two men identified himself as a leader of the local "Committee." His worn, rugged face stared at Michael intently before he asked him, “Do you know of Edmund Kingsland, Master of the Kingsland Manor House?” Michael told him he did. “Do you think you can deliver these papers to him? He considers them rather important.” Michael was stunned by the proposition. The thought of Master Kingsland being a patriot and involved with the type of people in front of him surprised him. But he quickly overcame the shock as he realized it was only natural for a man of his standing and disposition to be involved in guiding the fate of a new nation. He was even more surprised at how prevalent and well placed the Patriots were. He thought of his mother and how easy it would be for her to make the delivery and how easy the profit would be. The Committeeman gave Michael a small packet of letters with the warning, “Treat these like any illegal booty. You’ll be hung just as easily for this as you would for the rifles you just delivered.”
-*-
Mid-summer day, the longest day of the year, was a celebration of major importance to the Aquacknunck and Michael had been invited to spend the day with Calik, taking part in the games and feasting. Early in the morning, he sailed the PASSAIC FALCON to the sandy beach near the village. Several children were splashing in the water under the watchful eyes of two grandmotherly women. Michael secured his boat to a tree and greeted them. They returned his greeting and directed him to the field where the young men were playing lacrosse.
Michael followed the path beside the orchard and into a stand of ancient Maple trees spreading like a huge roof over a stone springhouse. Sitting outside the structure were a group of men smoking kanicanick and talking animatedly. He greeted them and stopped for a drink of the icy cold water bubbling up from the ground and running in a thin ribbon toward the main cluster of huts. In the distance he could hear the cries of the young men at their games. The breeze carried the smell of roasting meat and simmering soup.
A stone wall ran from the springhouse beside the path and linked with a large boulder painted with the red and black face of Masingua, the Father Spirit. Michael paused for a second, offered a silent prayer and admired the carvings in the stone. The shapes of birds and deer were etched deep into the rock and painted in brilliant colors. On the far side of the rock, the wall continued on its way through the grove and then wandered off, up a rise and beyond. Michael took the left fork in the path and exited the canopy of trees onto a grassy clearing from where the yells of the young men were coming. Calik called to him from the middle of the cluster. Michael shed his deerskin shirt, picked up a playing stick and ran in to join the game.
By Mid day the meat was perfectly roasted and the smell drew the clans together. The oldest Men and women took their portions first and sat on blankets spread with bowls of fruits and vegetables. Suddenly, shrieks and cries rose from the young girls and children as a stampede of young men ran through the middle of the celebration whooping and hollering. The old ones sniped at them for the disturbance they caused but smiled at each other knowingly with a secret delight in their eyes. Like a herd of deer the young men crashed into the cooling waters of the Passaic River and thrashed about rinsing and cooling their bodies. With the last of their competitive energies spent, they returned to the feast refreshed and ready to devour whatever the old one’s had left for them.
-*-
The profit in transporting guns was larger than Michael or Calik had found in any of their previous ventures and they addressed the added dangers appropriately. Being engaged in the business of transporting treasonous letters between groups engaged in rebellion against the Crown caused them to, once again, debate the wisdom of the course they had engaged upon. Once again, they agreed the profits were worth the risk.
The money he earned allowed Michael to buy, among other things, books and pamphlets that helped explain the events into which he had become embroiled. At home, Michael and his father eagerly read the material he bought and discussed the meaning of John Locke's books; "An Essay Concerning Human Understanding" and "Two Treatises on Government." Together, they sat for hours at a time reading and then discussing what they thought of the author’s words. Always, they returned to the touchstone argument that the world has an order. An undeniable order that was visible in their every day lives; the tides, the phases of the moon, the traits of animals in the forest, the storms, the seasons and even, most importantly, the predictable behavior of people. His father expounded endlessly on the value of reasoned thought and observation and the necessity of taking advantage of recurring events.
As summer gave way to autumn, Michael made it a habit to stop by the COPPER COCK Tavern to meet with the men for discussions and ale. Recently, a new guest to the Tavern was a young man about his age, named Alexander Hamilton. Frequently, Alex enjoyed engaging the gathered citizens in discussions that most often concluded that governments can only draw their power to rule from the governed. Michael enjoyed watching as Alex drew unsuspecting loyalists, usually guests at the Manor, to the conclusion that the people have the right to change the form of government, even by armed insurrection, if necessary, if that government no longer serves them. Deep into the evenings, Michael, Alex and a growing circle of intimate friends sat around the tavern tables, drinking ale and discussing the right of men to grow wealthy by industry, frugality and honesty. They expounded upon the duty one man owes to another and questioned the divine rights claimed by the monarchs of Europe. On one occasion, Alex, always the instigator, proposed that there were no permissible circumstances in which one man might own another and use him as he would an animal. The proposition caused Michael to catch his breath but as he looked around the table, he saw the argument had fallen on deaf ears, so he directed the debate back to the right of men to rebel against tyranny and oppression.
After finishing a third tankard of ale, Michael staggered toward the door and collided with Alex as he was also leaving. Together they stumbled out onto the Green and staggered around trying to gather their bearings. Michael wove his way toward Alex and asked in a thoroughly inebriated voice, “Why did you have to bring up a subject like that?”
“Like what? Rebelling against the king?
“No. About slaves.”
Alex puffed and half turned away then came back to face Michael. “Because it needed to be said,” he slurred. “I have seen the horrors visited upon slaves in the Caribbean. It’s just not right. And, good night to you Mister Fields,” he said as he almost tripped over himself and wandered off to the Manor House.
-*-
CHAPTER FIVE
THE LOVERS
As Michael matured into a young man, his trading expeditions took him further afield. The routes to the customers he visited soon became as familiar to him as the path leading to his own front door. As he traveled, he associated with the citizens of the towns, forests and rivers, learning their idiosyncrasies and lifestyles, stopping frequently along his way to deliver a note or exchange a greeting. At least once a week he took goods by wagon across Dowd's Ferry, the passage across the Hackensack River, and traveled through Bergentown and on to Pawles Hook on the Hudson River across from New York City. As a regular passenger on the ferry, he curried the favor Master Erich Dowd, a gruff Dutchman, who owned and operated it and especially his daughter, Faith.
The first time Michael saw her; she was at the tiller of the flat bottom ferry, guiding the barge into its slip. From his vantage on the shore, Michael watched her with interest. She seemed aloof, not taking an interest in the people on the ferry but friendly enough in her own way. She always smiled as she helped the farmers move recalcitrant turkeys and swine on and off the barge for the short trip across the narrow but rapid mouth of the Hackensack River. As her father drove the ox team on the west bank of the Hackensack and her brother, Lawrence, drove the east bank team, Faith stood guard over the tiller, insuring the reliability of the journey. Michael became intrigued with her presence. She was strong and sure, imperturbable and pretty, with long brown hair that sometimes blew in the wind, flying behind her or swirling around her face. Her expression had a confident look and her skin was fair and clear. When they first met, Faith studiously ignored Michael as he drove his cart of cloth and metal goods to Bergentown. But each time he came on the ferry, he greeted her, whether she let on that she noticed or not. He left her small presents, like a wild flower or a particularly nice piece of fruit and soon despite herself, she began looking forward to their meeting, trying to guess what he would leave her.
By the end of summer, she was looking forward to seeing Michael and watched the Plank Road for his, now familiar, cart. Michael found himself, on occasion going out of his way to take merchandise to Pawles Hook, just so he could cross Dowd's Ferry and talk to Faith. In the closing days of that summer, they began to look for places where they could find a brief refuge from people's eyes and talk quietly, their hands touching. Late one afternoon, Michael arrived at the landing from his expedition to Bergen fearing that the last ferry had left. But Faith was there, patiently awaiting him. “Thank you for waiting for me,” said an exasperated and out of breath Michael. “If I had to stay in Bergentown for the night I would have missed my delivery in the morning.” There were no other passengers and as the ferry made its way across the river, they stood close to each other and shared the tiller. Faith said, “It’s getting late, now you have to walk me home.”
“Oh. Punishment for being late,” returned Michael with a laugh?
“Punishment! Is that what you think? Next time I’ll leave you. You can swim or drown. I won’t care.”
“Oh, I see. Swim or drown! I knew you were made of tough river stuff, but my, what a way to be rid of me!”
“Certainly, I’d be rid of you. You, trading scoundrel. River Stuff, huh! I’ll throw you in the drink right now!”
“And I’d take you with me! And hold on tight all the way to the bottom!” She tried to hit him on the arm, but he caught her feeble slap and pulled her close. They came together for the first time and shared a kiss and as the sun began to set a small spark was lit and an ember began to glow.
-*-
Michael soon became a frequent and welcome visitor to the Dowd residence. Being generally outgoing, his relationships with Faith and the rest of the Dowd family soon became quite congenial.
-*-
The PASSAIC FALCON departed from Barbadoes Neck carrying a load of fresh and pickled vegetables, iron tools and sewn garments down the Passaic and across the wide bay to the market at Elizabethtown. From there, the young captains sailed east, through the Kill Van Kull and into New York Harbor. This first voyage out onto the Newark bay trade routes was an adventure of life changing proportions. The market on Barbadoes Neck was nearly insignificant when Michael compared it to the international market in New York City. What little hard money circulated in the market was a mixture of silver, copper and gold coins from the British, Spanish and French empires. Indian wampum and furs were considered standard mediums of trade and acceptable in almost all transactions. Other than those staples, bartering one good for another was an art rather than a science. Michael had a firm grasp on the concept of the relative values of trade goods, a concept that was often beyond the comprehension of the purchasing agents working for the British Navy. It was a trait he continually honed and developed.
On a sweltering late summer day, Michael strolled through the noisy Elizabethtown market with Calik, sampling foods from the vendor stalls and comparing them to what he had already seen and knew was available elsewhere. The selection of linens and silks, books, machine parts, a hundred different types of cloth and, of course, fruits and vegetables, both pickled and fresh was staggering. The goods he recommended were a sampling of the most exotic goods available from the marketplace and the staples of life on Barbadoes Neck: lace and colored cloth, whiskey, lamp oil and books. Calik found little to fault in his friend’s recommendations, agreed to his choices and arranged for their delivery to the pier. The volume of the cargo Michael had purchased filled less than half the hold but the value was high and on the voyage back to Barbadoes Neck, the Captains couldn’t help but smile to themselves as they thought about how they had out bargained the shrewdest merchants in the marker. Their cargo would be disposed of quickly and at a tidy profit.
Every time the PASSAIC FALCON passed near Dowd’s Ferry, Michael's heart raced as he thought of Faith. Today, his anxiety made his blood course even harder, he had something important to ask her. He saw her standing at the ferry, wearing a simple white linen dress with a blue ribbon tying her hair. In the warm afternoon sun she had rolled her sleeves up above her elbows. Her bodice was open at the neck revealing the shapely curve of her shoulder. She saw him standing at the rail preparing to dock and waved.
As Calik maneuvered the PASSAIC FALCON to the dock, Michael leapt from the sloop before it touched the pier, secured the forward spring line and ran, half dancing, to where she was helping a farmer secure his load of hay on the wagon. He came up behind her and put his hand on hers and helped pull the line tight. The normally confident Michael stammered out his greetings and some jumbled niceties. Faith laughed at his discomfort, “What is wrong with you?” She was not used to seeing him stumble on his own words. Finally, he was able to blurt out, “I must speak with you. I must ask you something.” He had planed it so well, rehearsed it a hundred times. He had to just dive in. “My sister Anne is getting married soon. And I’d like to know…” His face turned a deep red, “I mean, I’d like to see if you…” he was struggling, he tried to start anew. “You know we’ve never actually been out in public. Where people will see us together… But…I don’t see why we can’t?”
Faith started to giggle at his discomfort and then started laughing so hard that Michael had to stop. He didn’t know what to do, whether to stay and try to ask again or walk away. Finally she got herself under enough control to say, “And you want me to come with you, is that it. Why of course, I’d love to go. Why don’t you just come out and say it?”
He gave her an amused look, “Yes, that’s it.”
“Thank you,” she said, “it will be fun. But before I can agree, I need to speak with my father.
-*-
Anne was engaged to be married to Philip, the son of Joshua Kelterman, the Wheelwright who had made carts for both Edward and Michael and most every one else on Barbadoes neck. The event filled the Field's household with young women for the weeks before the event. Dresses had to be sewn, food prepared and finally, the bouquets assembled. Although Michael pretended not to be taken by the young women who flashed their eyes at him, he could hardly help noticing how pretty they were. Repeatedly, he had to turn down a young lady who slyly hinted that he escort her to the wedding. They could not have known that Michael had his own special lady in mind. Elizabeth, although caught up in the swirl of activity, noticed that her son was not responding to the somewhat brash and forward advances directed at him.
The wedding was held at the Fields’ home under the auspices of Reverend McGlocklin. Afterwards, a celebration was hosted and friends and neighbors who brought food and drink of every imaginable description to help celebrate the occasion. Musicians played fiddle, pipe and fife for the guests who danced in the warm afternoon sun. Michael stayed in the back of the celebration leaving his sister to be the center of attraction. But the time had come for Michael to introduce Faith to his parents. The young couple walked arm in arm to where Edward and Elizabeth were seated, beaming proudly at their daughter's happiness.
"Father. Mother,” Michael began, his eyes moved from his parents to Faith, “I would like you to meet Faith Dowd."
Elizabeth immediately made the connection and understood the reason why he had been so aloof during the past week. She looked Faith over closely and was both pleased and gratified by the charming young lady she saw. Edward rose to his feet and took Faith’s hand. “I am pleased to meet you Miss Dowd. It seems I should be paying more attention when my son speaks of a young lady.”
More friends and neighbors gathered around the parents, enlisting their attention, congratulating them and thanking them for their hospitality and to wish the newlyweds well. Michael and Faith backed away from his parents and slipped out onto the middle of the yard to dance with the other young people.
Elizabeth smiled as she watched her daughter and new husband dance. Edward pointed to Michael and his young lady and smiled to his wife, "She is a charming girl. Tomorrow will be soon enough to get to know this lovely young lady who is occupying Michael’s mind. But for now come and dance with me." Elizabeth smiled as she glided towards the dancers thoroughly pleased with the way her life was turning out.
-*-
Over the next weeks, it became obvious that Michael and Faith were in love. Whenever Michael's travels took him t Dowd's ferry, the two could be found holding each other's hand as the hour of departure approached. When the PASSAIC FALCON was expected, Faith was sure to be on the dock waiting to embrace him as soon as he stepped off his ship. Their public displays of affection raised little commotion in the usually conservative communities of Barbadoes Neck and Pastor McGlocklin was heard to say, "Don't tamper with what is meant to be."
-*-
The harvest festivals in the years of Michael's youth were blessed with a bounty that has since been rarely duplicated. Each town held its own celebration as the crops were reaped and the herds thinned for winter, the best going to market to be sold for the manufactured goods not readily available. As the harvest moon approached, Michael met with Mr. Dowd and asked if he might be allowed to take Faith to the Harvest festival in Newark. The old man's eyebrows went up. "You will be commin' home late?" His thick Dutch accent scowled at Michael.
"Yes sir, we will but I assure you that we will be in the company of others from Barbadoes Neck." Quickly he named a half dozen of his friends who would be taking young ladies with them for what was sure to be a wonderful night at the festival.
Faith's father was an old world Presbyterian. This new age and the freedoms the young people were taking flustered him and so he grumbled and objected, inventing reasons why Faith should not be allowed to go but in the end, and with the instance of his wife, he granted his permission.
-*-
Fall, 1772
Market Street was more crowded than Michael had ever seen it. There were merry makers everywhere. Musicians roamed the streets playing the latest tunes, which inevitably included "Yankee Doodle" and collected copper coins from their audiences. Jugglers and Jesters wove their way through the crowds, evoking laughter and "Ahhhh’s!" of wonder and approval. Storytellers enthralled small clutches of children and adults, entertaining them and collecting a few coins for an especially clever tale. Merchants hawked their wares of food, finery and manufactured goods. All the while the sweet wines and beers flowed as if there would be no tomorrow.
Seven couples from Barbadoes Neck sat at the wooden table in a friendly looking wine garden. Wilhelm’s fiery red hair counter pointed the flowing blond hair of his partner, Joanna. Frederick and Catherine Bell were chatting with Alex, listening to his stories of the Caribbean island of St. Croix, where he had been born. He was escorting a splendidly dressed young lady named Lisa. James and Eric brought the Newell sisters, Rose and Carol. For days now the brothers had been planning to propose marriage to them and Michael and Faith kept an eye on them watching for the moment of truth. The group chose this particular eating and drinking establishment mainly for it's overhanging grape vines, the rich aroma of the food and of course the music from the band. Waitresses flew around the tables, serving the guests large wooden mugs of sweet white wine, drawn from the large earthen urn, which was regularly refilled from a keg mounted next to the kitchen door.
Faith and Michael danced to the sound of fife and fiddle, spinning around the floor seeing no one but each other. Dancing like the lords and ladies they had seen at the Manor houses, they swirled to the sounds of the new music and bowed low to each other at the end of each Minuet.
Everywhere about them was the largess of the country they called their own and the harvest of their hard work. But under the surface of the revelry and celebration was a boiling cauldron of dissatisfaction. Revolution was in the air. Radical ideas once confined to the sitting parlors of Manor Houses had spilled over to the citizens, where the new ideas found soil as rich as the Jersey earth and took root. Debate was spreading rapidly among the young Americans and blossoming into flowers of never before heard ideas.
It was only a matter of time before the conversation at the table turned to politics. This year, the policies the King of England held toward his American subjects was a topic that rose often and easily started a heated debate. The revelers knew of Alex's strong feelings and tried to deflect his conversations before they turned to the subject of politics or independence. Yet, despite their best efforts, he inevitably drove the conversation till he became involved in a discussion with several young men sitting at the next table. The discussion started calmly, farming, sailing and then moved on to the more volatile subjects of politics, economics and, of course, the King.
While Michael and Faith swirled around the dance floor, the subject matter the table swung to the topic their friend Alex was more than ready to debate. The sore subject of taxes came up and as his companions expected, Alex protested loudly and angrily that the colonies had no representation in Parliament, despite all the taxes they paid. Frederick could be counted upon to follow Alex's lead with a call for liberty that was calculated to rankle their opponents. The Loyalist Tories at the adjacent table swore their fealty to the King and accused Alex and Frederick of treason. Accusations were flying wildly back and forth when Michael and Faith returned to the table. Seated next to each other, their arms entwined in the lovers toast, they studiously ignored the debate raging around them.
“Alex. You are a bone head.” The call from a well-dressed young man named Brandon was mocking and provocative. “Do we need another example of military ineptitude? The defeat of General Braddock in the Ohio wilderness proves the need for increased military presence.”
Alex rose to his feet and pointed to Brandon, “You have not learned a thing since grammar school. Your arguments are crooked and undone as your buttons and scarf.” A cackle of laughs rose from the table around Alex and jeers rose around Brandon.
Brandon responded with a smile, “My friend your flawed argument aggrieves me. Would you kindly not mix your metaphors and state your position bluntly. You have a grievance with the king. Is that not your position?”
“It is more than a grievance,” Alex responded. “It is a depravation of rights. Rights we possess, not only as human beings, but as citizens of the British Empire.”
“Rights are bestowed by the King, Alex. You know that.” Brandon’s voice was near cracking with hysteria. “Why do you question it?”
“Because I have the same rights as you,” claimed Alex, “I am no different than any Colonial.”
A chorus of displeasure rose around both tables and someone called for another liter of wine.
Slowly, the subject of the conversation raging around them dawned upon Michael and Faith as the volume of the combatant’s voices rose and Michael found himself drawn into the argument. With the temperature of the exchange rising beyond debate and on toward argument, Faith tried to pull Michael out of the circle but before she could pry him loose, a blow was struck and Alex staggered backward and landed on the cobblestone. James and Wilhelm lifted him to his feet. Alex collected himself quickly and assessed the damage to his nose and his pride, then waded back into the knot of arguing boys with a left fist to Brandon’s jaw that return the injury and restored his self-esteem. Suddenly, fists were flying and the blows escalated into a brawl as Frederick threw himself into the melee. Michael felt a glancing blow strike his head as the table overturned and disintegrated into a tumble of wrestling young men and screeching girls.
His first though was for Faith and as he rolled back from the punch he found her hand and pulled her toward the gate. There he called to a group of strapping young men, raising flagons of ale under the flag of England to come to the aid of their comrades in spirit but directed them against the Tories who had picked a fight with Alex. As eight more young men joined the fracas, Michael and Faith herded their friends away from the fisticuffs and out the gate, leaving the Loyalists to fight among themselves and their bill unpaid. At the corner, they encountered a squad of red-coated soldiers and summoned them to intervene in the riot at the wine garden, then slipped away into the night.
The revelers made their escape, hand in hand, laughing at the antics of the fighters. Stopping now and again, only to catch their breath and a quick sip from the bottle Alex had snatched on his way out of the garden. Over and over, they recounted how the royalists had fallen over each other and how they had directed the soldiers to break up the disturbance. “A disturbance caused by Colonials disloyal to the crown,” they shouted!
-*-
Faith's father was waiting for them when they returned to the Dowd home. He listened patiently as Faith bubbled over, relating the story with relish and beaming as she told how Michael had defended her honor and "thrashed them good."
Master Dowd turned on Michael. “Ya bring my daughter to a festival and allow it to turn into a common brawl. You have put her in danger. What have you to say of this shameless behavior?”
“Father!” Faith’s voice sounded shocked and dismayed. “He stood up for me. For my honor. For our honor.”
“Be quiet kinterchen. Dis is between Herr Fields und mier!” Faith knew he was angry when he slipped back into Dutch and stepped aside.
Michael took a deep breath. “It was unavoidable, sir.” He held Master Dowd’s eye, unflinching, his demeanor as serious as Mr. Dowd’s.” “I do not take my responsibilities lightly, but I must fight when I know that I am in the right.”
Master Dowd stared at him intently for several minutes, before scoffing and turning away. He walked to the fireplace and leaned against the massive oak mantelpiece. Picked up his clay pipe and lit it with a taper he touched to the fire. “Tell me how you beat those tory schwein hunds?”
Later that night, before Michael began his wagon ride home, he sat with Faith and they began to lay the plans for their marriage. A good life, full of promise, lay in front of them and their words of love reinforced their plans. Michael knew his profits would soon bring them property and a home of their own. A small cottage in the forest, just big enough for two, or three, snug and warm, their own haven. Their home, where they could share the love and pleasures of their bodies, their hearts and their futures.
-*-
Winter, 1771 - 1772
In his sixteenth year, Michael watched his father die of chills and fever. Inch by inch, he saw his father wither away until he was no more than a skeleton and a shadow of what he had been. Elizabeth tended him day and night through the depths of February but slowly the illness took over his body and on a freezing night, while Michael struggled to keep a fire going in the hearth, Edward coughed his death rattle and gave up the ghost.
Tears came easily to Michael as his friends and neighbors gathered. Calik stood close by him through the ordeal with Frederick, Wilhelm, James and Eric, ready to lend support, if needed. They stood close to steady him and his mother as Pastor McGlocklin spoke his final benediction and blessed Edward's body as it was lowered into a shallow grave. They helped him as he held his mother and sister, supporting them, nearly staggering under their weight, as tears flowed from their gathered hearts and they walked in the shivering cold back to their home. Their friends kept food on the table as Michael and his family worked to cope with their loss.
When the wind turned mild, Michael, his mother gathered themselves together and surveyed their lives. They reevaluated their situation and placed new order upon their priorities and when the spring arrived, although they felt emptiness, they were ready to carry on with the rest of their new lives.
-*-
The tall man walking up the path to the Fields home carried a sailor’s sea bag on his shoulder and whistled a mariner’s tune. Elizabeth came slowly to her feet and let the dress she was sewing slip to the ground. Hesitantly, she stepped to the rail, squinted into the sunlight and murmured, "Joshua?" "Joshua,” she said again, half to herself and then cried at the top of her lungs, "Joshua!" She ran the few steps to him and threw her arms around his neck, hugged him tightly and slipped into tears and sobs.
“I took too long to find you, Elizabeth. Now introduce me to that rascal you married."
Two days later, Michael returned from a voyage and entered the house to find his mother and a stranger preparing the evening meal. He paused at the door, unsure of how to react, but after his mother introduced her brother, he relaxed into easy conversation. Over the meal, Joshua told him that he had been at sea for the past years and finally stopped in one place long enough to look up his kin, only to find them in mourning.
Later that night, Elizabeth and Joshua sat by the fire, believing Michael to be asleep, they spoke plainly of the route Joshua had taken to his freedom. Michael lay on his mat, eyes closed, feigning sleep, while they told each other the story of their voyages. Joshua confided that this true avocation is smuggling. “Five years ago me mates and me were caught bringing a load of Spanish wine into England. We were sent to the Falmouth Prison for three years. My time there was a terror. They starved us as a matter of course. I had to fight for every morsel or starve. One time I had to kill a man to protect the scrap of food he wanted to take from me. We were beaten for the slightest infraction. Men were wrapped in anchor chain and allowed to smother. By the time we were released, half me mates were dead of disease, starvation, murder or suicide. I made my way to the waterfront and signed aboard a merchantman bound for the New World. When she docked in New York, I jumped ship and began looking for a vessel headed for the West Indies. On my voyages, I heard about this marvelous engine at a mine in East Jersey and I remembered that fellow you married worked on one, so, I set out to see if it was you. I'm only sorry, I am too late."
Elizabeth's eyes glistened with a tear, "Michael looks very much like his father. Having him around me is a great comfort."
“I don’t have to leave immediately,” he said, “I can stay as long as you need me here."
"Thank you, Joshua.” Elizabeth hesitated, weighing her duty to a brother and wondering how much his time in prison had affected him. “Having you here will help both of us."
As the days passed, Michael found his uncle to be an engaging rascal. He was a man of his word and with a sense of humor that could turn a cloudy day bright. But there was a dark side, attested by the scars on his wrists and back, which he took strained efforts to hide. Together, they undertook the farm chores, uncle and nephew working side by side, and made short work of the springtime planting. Then they turned their attention to a three-day deer hunt in the forest west of the Passaic. During this outing, while cooking their meal over an open fire, Michael invited Joshua to accompany him on one of his trading expeditions to Secaucus.
The smuggler’s market was no stranger to Joshua and he quickly recognized the genius in Michael’s dealings and the touch of larceny in his heart. Together, they made a deal for a cargo of untaxed whiskey, which they returned to Barbadoes Neck and sold, to the tavern keeper at the PICK AND SHOVEL in a moonlight transaction. Later that night, they sat together on the porch, under the stars and a crescent moon, talking. Joshua related a tale of his smuggling exploits and then of his own youth. “I remember when I was just about your age. I put to sea aboard a merchantman as a common seaman and then jumped ship in Philadelphia. The captain called the sheriff to bring me back and I led them on a merry chase across the Jerseys. I ended up in a place called Chestnut Neck in Smuggler's Woods. From there I shipped out to the Caribbean. But enough of that. I have some business n New York City. Can you take me there in your sloop?"
"Of Course. Calik and I have been planning a trip there for a while and it's high time we did."
Joshua sipped from the cup of wine in his hand and with a wink and a nod said, "It might be better if your friend didn’t come with us. The people I need to see don’t take well to Injins"
Michael nodded and agreed. “Very well, we sail with the tide."
The wind carried them quickly from the mouth of the Aquacknunck River across the Newark Bay to the Kill Van Kull and swiftly around the tip of Bergen Point. Before them, New York Harbor opened into a forest of masts on every imaginable type of ship. The tiny PASSAIC FALCON wove her way through the anchored vessels, past the harbor fortresses and up the East River. On the east bank of Manhattan Island they docked at Ten Eyke’s wharf.
This was not the market area Michael had expected. The buildings were low and dirty looking. Most were in poor repair. The streets were wide and a continual chaos of wagons going to and coming from the docks. Sailors from across the British Empire walked the streets in groups, most of them thoroughly drunk, raucously singing and falling down. Joshua asked directions to Montgomery Street and there found a seedy looking tavern called the MAST AND BASTARD.
"This is a real den of inequity and a home of thieves. You don't have to come in if you don't want," he said.
Michael looked around the street and decided it would be safer inside with his uncle than out on the street with ruffians and drunks. Inside, he found himself more insecure than he had ever felt before. In past occasions, he found he could look over the people in a particular scene and tell who was untrustworthy, who was sincere, who was insane. But here, all he saw was madness and anger in the eyes of men who were thoroughly unlikable. Gathered around tables, hunched over mugs of grog and ale, were the most unsavory collection of the meanest looking sailors Michael had ever seen. The knife he carried seemed little protection here and he wished he had brought his pistol. Joshua ordered two flagons of ale and motioned Michael to a table where they nursed their drinks and waited. Joshua's eyes searched through the crowd till he recognized a sailor and caught his eye. The man looked around before speaking with Joshua and then departed with a nod after a few brief words. The sailor returned in short order, leading two men to the table where Joshua and Michael sat. With a few words, it was easily ascertained they knew each other. But the greeting was not warm, it was like a meeting of co-conspirators. Few words passed between them, yet they arranged to meet again, in a fortnight, when a ship they knew of would be in port and looking for experienced hands.
As Joshua rose from the table to leave, he bumped into sailor who turned on him with a growl and swung his fist at his head. Joshua ducked the blow and the man drew a short knife from his belt. Michael froze with fear, the man was insane with liquor. Joshua looked around for a way out but the man was blocking the door. The man hissed, “Joshua Raven, time to pay for your sins.” Joshua drew his own knife and hunched down, The two circled each other. Joshua flicked his blade, feigning a thrust. The man flicked his knife at Joshua’s face then thrust at his midsection. Joshua caught his wrist and turned it with a quick twist and cut across the man’s body from shoulder to hip. He screamed as blood spurt onto the floor. His eyes were wide with anger but he was no match for Joshua so he dropped his knife, slumped back from him trying to hold the wound together, then turned and ran out the door. Joshua slipped his knife back into its scabbard and motioned to Michael, “Come on boy, let’s be gone.”
On the way back to Barbadoes Neck, Joshua confessed that the men he has sailed with and contacted today are often known as pirates. “My friends prey upon the rich bounty of the treasure fleets on the Spanish Main and the Caribbean Sea," he said and launched in tales of his exploits on ships flying the Jolly Roger and owing allegiance to no other flag. Michael sat back and listened raptly as he piloted his craft across the Newark Bay. Tales of pirates like Drake and Morgan had been told and retold across the Colonies. They had always thrilled him. "Pirates,” he thought. Rough and uncouth, sharing a comradeship based on danger and profit. Michael could relate to that.
-*-
Joshua departed as the weather turned hot. Michael and Calik took him back to New York on the PASSAIC FALCON with a load of copper bars from Schuyler's mine. They stopped only briefly at Ten Eyke's wharf and left Joshua standing on the dock, his hand raised in salute and farewell to his nephew, as the PASSAIC FALCON pulled away. Michael waved in return and watched as his uncle hefted his sea bag and turned toward the beginning of new journey, his last words running through his mind, "If you're ever in the market to become a pirate, Michael, come to the MAST AND BASTARD and ask for me. Someone will be there to steer you straight."
Michael and Calik continued on their mission and delivered their cargo and picked up a back-haul of cloth, machine parts and a small packet of documents for Master Kingsland.
-*-
Summer, 1772
Prime Minister Townsend repealed the taxes on most manufactured items that summer. Mainly because the cost of collecting the taxes outweighed the taxes collected. This removed a sore point of contention between the King and his subjects and threatened to ruin the smuggling business. Fortunately, tea was still highly taxed and there seemed to be an unending appetite for it at the Manor houses. There were also plenty of items that needed to be moved from the homes and farms of Barbadoes Neck to the markets in Newark and Elizabethtown and occasionally, the "Committee" had a parcel or two to be delivered. As the year wore on, Michael became more involved in the discussions taking place regularly in the taverns and market places. Increasingly, the subject of "The right of the King to impose rule" and the "Rights of the colonies” sparked fiery debate. Late into the nights, Michael found himself discussing the future of his country and then finally coming to the shocking conclusion that "The only thing the king does is make it harder for us to make a living. We can do without him very well, thank you."
Even though the most onerous of the taxes had been removed, new burdens were levied upon the American Colonies to help pay for the King’s European war. These new burdens kept the talk of rebellion alive and fanned the fires of patriotism. Arrests without warrant were common place and while the prisoners were in the hands of soldiers, savage beatings, floggings and mutilations were frequently administered. Neighbors told of friends crippled by tortures inflicted upon them in an effort to extract the names of Patriot ringleaders. Few names were gleaned and the result was to drive the rebel leaders underground and stiffen their resolve. Then, In order to gather more information about the growing rebellion, the King ordered soldiers to be quartered in the private homes of his American subjects. The quartering was ordered ostensibly, to protect the Colonists but in reality it was to spy on them and root out the rebel leaders.
On a muggy August evening, Michael returned to Barbadoes Neck to find a detachment of British soldiers had set up bivouac on the Kingsland Green and troopers were quartered throughout the plantation. He looked into the tavern and seeing only soldiers inside, decided to forgo a pint and some conversation. Arriving at his mother’s home, he found two pair of muddy boots standing by the door next to two military packs. Freshly laundered uniforms were hung over the porch railing and inside, his mother was serving a meal to two soldiers seated at her table.
Anger boiled in his brain. He was outraged! What are soldiers doing in my home? In a blind rage he drew his pistols out of his sea bag, paused at the door to check the priming and then crashed into the house. He caught the soldiers off guard. Their mouths full of food, they stared back at him as he thrust the pistols into their faces and demanded, "What are you doing in my home?"
The stunned look on their faces betrayed fear. Both men trembled as he ordered them to stand and pushed them against the wall. Elizabeth stood by the fireplace, her hands to her mouth in shock. "Michael,” she whispered, “they have been quartered here by the King."
“Don’t move!" His voice quivered with anger as he demanded again. "What are you doing in my home?"
The soldiers trembled with fear, terrified that at any second the pistols might accidentally discharge. "We were ordered here by Captain Heathgrove" stated one, in a voice tinged with fear.
“It’s our orders, sir,” said the older man, “to live in colonial homes, the better to protect you from Indian attack. Haven’t you heard?"
"Indian attack? Are you mad? There is no danger form Indians here.” The soldier’s statement was a bold lie. There was something more. “What else were you told to do?"
"Only to watch, sir. There are smugglers active in this area and we are to report on any illegal activity we see."
The younger man piped in, “Please, sir. Be careful with that pistol.”
Michael ignored his plea. "Where is your commanding officer bivouacked," he demanded.
"The Captain is lodged at the tavern," answered the older man, fear still making his voice quake.
"Then that is where we go,” said Michael. “Keep your hands high over your heads and walk in the middle of the road. I will be behind you, even if you don't see me, I will be there, now move!"
Hardly looking back at his mother, Michael slung the muskets over his shoulder and marched the troopers at gunpoint out of the house and down the road to the tavern. The trio gathered a crowd of spectators as he marched the soldiers, barefoot and out of uniform, past the manor house and onto the Green. There, soldiers were roused from their tents and mustered, muskets in hand as he marched boldly into the tavern where the Commanding Officer was headquartered.
"Who is in command here," he demanded.
The tavern was unlike he had ever seen it. The tables were no longer set to maximize use of the room. The center of the floor was clear, the tables had been set end to end around the perimeter, in a semicircle open at the tavern door. A British officer rose from the head table. “The unmitigated gall of this colonial whelp.”
Armed soldiers entered behind Michael and blocked the door. He held his ground, his prisoners in front of him, his pistols pointing at their lower backs, threatening them, keeping the soldiers behind him at bay.
"These men were in my home,” he stated, “without invitation."
“It’s Fields," came a whisper from one of the Officers. A cold chill of fear went through him.
“I’m returning two of your lost sheep, Captain. They wandered into my home where their presence was neither wanted nor welcome. You will kindly quarter them elsewhere."
The line of soldiers behind him drew closer as he addressed the officer. Their muskets held at the ready were clubs that could pummel him into unconsciousness in an instant. His own weapons shrank to insignificance.
The Officer at the head of the table spoke, “Michael Fields, you will surrender your weapons and yourself, immediately." Michael cocked the pistol in his right hand then the one in his left. The sound of rifles being cocked around him sounded like a chorus of crickets. “Surrender? On what charge?"
In the dim light of the tavern fire a Sergeant stepped forward with his hand outstretched. Michael’s breathing was rapid and shallow. Sweat broke on his forehead and he wished he had not been so brazen. He pointed both pistols to the ceiling and lowered the hammers delicately, then turned them around and gave them to the man. The dim light of the tavern exploded in a shock of pain as a musket butt struck the back of his head and he slumped to the floor only to be struck again till he slipped into black unconsciousness.
Michael awoke in the corral at the rear of the tavern with five other men he knew. Two were smugglers, sure enough, but one was a crazy turpentiner and the other two were farmers who felt the same as he did about the King and his taxes. His head ached as he raised himself off the ground and leaned his back against the tavern wall. "So, they finally caught up to me," he thought and slipped into a troubled sleep.
Michael was awakened with a kick that left him gasping for breath and brought before the Officer who had demanded his surrender. The military magistrate acted as the prosecutor and accused him of attacking a soldier of His Majesty's Colonial Army, "an act tantamount to treason!"
Michael pled that he was defending his home from invaders. "I had no idea the soldiers had been quartered there by order of the King," he stated. But his words did not impress the Officer. “I have been away from Barbados Neck on business! I heard nothing of the decree quartering soldiers in peoples homes!"
The officer seemed bored and dismissed Michael’s explanation with a flick of his finger. “You threatened His Majesties soldiers. You threatened this court. The verdict is guilty. Take him away."
Suddenly, the door to the tavern slammed open and Master Kingsland barged in, "What in thundering hell is going on here?" His voice echoed through the building and out on to the Green. “Captain Heathgrove, what do you think you are doing? Yesterday you told me you needed quarters for your men before they began a campaign. Today, I find that campaign is being waged against the citizens of Barbados Neck. Explain yourself, sir. Just what are you doing?”
“Master Kingsland, there is no need for you to be here. This matter is well in hand. The man before you attacked two of his majesty foot soldiers with a pistol. This is a capital offense."
"Nonsense,” retorted Kingsland, “I've known this boy all his life! I refuse to believe it was an unprovoked attack. And what is this hearing in the middle of the night? Where is his defender? Explain yourself and your charge. We are English citizens, even here in East Jersey, and we are entitled to all the protections guaranteed Englishmen."
The officer leaned back in his chair portraying contempt for the interloper. "This matter does not involve you, good sir..."
Kingsland cut him off in mid sentence. “The hell it does not! Everything that happens on Barbados Neck is my concern, Captain.” The emphasis mocked the officer’s contempt. "I know these people. They are my wards. And you will conduct yourself in an appropriate manner, and in keeping with the Great Charter."
"This man is charged under military law with a crime against his Majesties troops and thus against His Majesty, himself," stated the officer.
Kingsland exploded, "The young man before you is not a soldier. He is not bound by your military law. If you wish to bring a charge against him, get a warrant! If not, set him free!"
Heathgrove stammered, then collected himself and said, "I am the law here, by order of his Majesty."
“The hell you are,” shouted Kingsland. “We are civilians and citizens of the Empire. You have no right to arrest or detain any citizen without warrant."
The power and point of Kingsland’s argument cowed the officers. The Officers whispered among themselves and cast furtive looks at him. Heathgrove squirmed in his chair. "I cannot allow criminals to roam free.” He glanced slyly at Kingsland, who was pacing impatiently before him. “Therefore, I shall assign them into your trust, until warrants can be brought."
The trap had been sprung. Kingsland felt its steel teeth closing around his neck. “It's me they are really after,” he thought. And then out loud, with all the courage he could summon he said, "I accept. Now disband this mockery of a court and return these people to their families."
-*-
Michael had been in the manor house study once before. Tonight, he stood before the man to whom he had brought messages from the "Committee.” "You know they are trying to get to me, don’t you," said Kingsland?
“Yes sir, but I give you my word, I will never betray you."
“You have never been in His Majesties prisons." It wasn’t a question but a statement. "They would break you, Michael. There is nothing you would not tell them. The only solution I can see is that you disappear. Flee. I can deal with the insulting Captain Heathgrove, even though the pistols will be hard evidence to deal with. It shows that you have been in contact with rebel influences. But I will be able to handle it. As for yourself, you are now a marked man. Your only chance is to run. Run or die."
Anne and her husband, Philip, were waiting on the Manor House porch and rose to their feet when Master Kingsland escorted Michael out and reiterated his warning, "Be on your guard, Michael, and may God be with you on your journey." Michael took his sister’s hand and then embraced her. "I have to leave,” he whispered, “I’ll stop home first and see Mother, then I must be on my way."
A tear rolled down her cheek as she kissed her brother goodbye. "God go with you, Michael."
The decision weighed heavily on his head as he mulled over the possibility that the incident might just be written off as an overzealous youth protecting his mother. The argument waned as he walked alone back to his home and finally concluded that Master Kingsland told the truth. They wanted more from him than just to imprison him. He would be tortured till he gave up the name of every Patriot he knew. He had to flee.
Amid tears, he told Elizabeth of his dilemma. “Mother, I feel as though I am running out on you. I should be here for you but now I cannot.” He began sorting through his possessions, picking out what to take with him, what must be left behind and what was to be given away. Elizabeth watched him pack his sea bag in the candlelight, her heart breaking as her son prepared to flee for his life. She understood and knew it was best for all involved. But still his flight tore at her.
"There is no need to worry about me, Michael, I have many friends here. Anne's family and the cabinetmaker, you know, Mr. Garth has expressed an interest in marriage, only the other day."
Michael stopped his packing and hugged his mother, "I wish I could be here to dance at your wedding, Mother, but fate has dealt me a hand I cannot play and so I must leave."
He ransacked his room packing only a small portion of the possessions he had accumulated, evaluating which were of real value and which had been foolish purchases. He took a book off its shelf and put it back, then took it out. It was too heavy and possession of even one would mark as a traitor. There was little he could take, so he carefully chose a few items of personal value. The cash he had accumulated amounted to a fair sum for a young man. He left most of the money with his mother, hoping it was enough to carry her through, and berated himself for not being able to do more. He packed the remainder in the leather money belt he wore under his shirt.
-*-
Time reduced the crackling fire in the tavern fireplace, to a pile of glowing embers that cast a red glow onto the hearth. Three officers, under the guidance of Captain Heathgrove, met in the depth of the night around a single candle and wrote their charges. Michael Fields was convicted in a secret quorum and a military warrant was issued for his arrest. The charge was treason!
-*-
With only a few hours till sunrise, Michael bid farewell to his brokenhearted mother and slipped out of the house and into the dense darkness of the forest, carrying little more than a few pieces of clothing in a bag over his shoulder. Carefully, he navigated by the light of the stars down the well-beaten path toward the Aquacknunck River. At the bottom, the land flattened out into a fertile flood plain and then dropped again to the river.
He crouched under the spreading arms of a rhododendron, listening to the night sounds and moved silently through a field of corn until he came to Frederick’s home. He knocked gently yet firmly, rousing the sleeping family and apologized for coming by at such a late hour. Quickly, he explained his predicament and asked Frederick to conclude his business arrangements and presented him with his most prized possession, his telescope. Then, when asked where he would go, he assured Frederick that he would move west and north, to the Pennsylvania colony and perhaps into Ohio or Canada. Departing into the night, he felt satisfied that he had left a sufficient false trail for anyone pursuing him to follow. He knew Frederick would not deliberately betray him, but his sister would tell her friends and before long, everyone on Barbadoes Neck would know he had gone west.
As he approached the mooring where the PASSAIC FALCON was kept, Michael paused and felt the fabric of the night. The animal sounds were undisturbed. He put his ear to the ground and listened for the sound of horses on the road. Satisfied there was no one waiting in ambush, he moved across the road and down to the bank. The river was at eventide, neither coming in nor going out. The surface was smooth and still. Silently, he dropped his bag of goods into the boat, pushed her off from the bank and began sculling upstream in the shadows of the overhanging willows. There, he waited for the tide to turn and the current of the Aquacknunck to begin flowing upstream. The FALCON glided along the water, close to the bank, hidden in shadow. Slowly, the speed of the current increased and he began moving quickly and quietly upstream. His head snapped around. His ears picked up the sound of horses! He pulled hard to get back under the branches of the willows. The horses approached at a gallop, then stopped at the water’s edge only a few yards from where he stood petrified, frozen to the tiller, quietly sculling the water. He bent over his paddle dragging it in the water just deep enough to guide the boat's momentum. The sound of two horses splashing in the river came to him and then the voice of a man complaining, "I don't see his boat here!"
“He may have left earlier and gone down stream," came the voice of a second man.
Michael’s heart pounded as he dug the oar into the water trying to put a few more feet between himself and the men. In all his journeys, the tax collectors had never been this close but tonight the sheriff's men were not looking for untaxed tea. They walked their horses along the shore. One rider was searching down stream, while the second moved upstream along the bank upstream, toward him.
Michael stopped sculling and allowed the current to carry the PASSAIC FALCON. The second rider urged his horse into the shadows, kicking up a froth of white on the black surface. In silence, Michael drifted deeper into the shadow of the willows. Sweat dribbled into his eyes, burning them. His heart pounded heavily in his chest. He held his breath lest his ragged breathing give him away
“It’s not here," called the rider, from only a few feet away.
Then from downstream, came the response of the second rider, "I don’t see it here either, he must have left already. Come on let’s get on our way, we may yet be able to catch him at the bridge."
The riders reined their horses around and splashed out of the river, across the flood plain and back onto the road. Michael listened as the sound of their voices and the beating of the horse’s hoofs drifted away into the distance. He wiped the sweat from his palms and dug the oar deep into the water. The overhanging shadows still covering his movement as the PASSAIC FALCON once again slid away from its pursuers.
The darkness along the bank was as thick as he had ever wanted. He tested the depth of the shadows by closing his eyes and judged that he saw almost no difference when he opened them. He guided the PASSAIC FALCON under the arms of the trees along the river bank and watching the dark contrast of their shadow against the brilliance of the reflected stars as he navigated up the silvery thread of the Aquacknunck River without running into the bank or being seen by the casual sailor or fisherman.
The first gray lines of morning softened the shadows, defined the edges of the trees and urged him to paddle harder till familiar landmarks told him that he was approaching the Aquacknunck village. At sunrise he arrived at the beach near the falls, where the brackish tidal water became fresh. At the cove, he found ten canoes lined up under the trees and beached the PASSAIC FALCON firmly. Knee deep in the river, he scooped up a handful of water to slack his thirst then washed the sweat off his face and neck.
Michael hailed several Aquacknunck men by name as he secured the bowline to a nearby tree. They recognized and welcomed him, saying that Calik was in the lodge of his father. They spoke for a few minutes of trade, then, Michael took his bag of possessions from the FALCON and started down the trail to his friend’s lodge.
Together, Michael and Calik sat cross-legged beside an open fire in the early morning mist and cooked freshly caught carp on a spit for their first meal. Michael related the events of the night that had altered his life and pondered his alternatives.
"Sua Klanta, you are welcome to stay at my lodge but I fear that this place cannot shelter you for long. For now you are safe and this is a good place to hide and plan your journey."
"Thank you, my friend," said Michael as he absently poked at the fire with a dead twig. "I have to make a decision today." He stared into the fire as the sun rose over the trees and warmed his back.
"Where to go," mused Calik. “It seems that this is the season for leaving. Many of the men speak with dissatisfaction of this place. They fear that events will soon occur that will end our way of life. They speak of a desire to follow the sun, beyond the lands of our cousins the Delaware, to a land where there are no Yang Quis. Michael, my friend, I feel this also."
As they day wore on, they spoke of the possibility of going to Lenapihoking and of the life of seamen on the ocean. That idea struck Michael and it grew in his mind until finally, as the sun reached its height and began its journey to the west, Michael and Calik made their decisions and began to plan for their parting.
“The life of a pirate for me," laughed Michael. “Calik, help me get to Dowd's Ferry, I have to say good bye to Faith. With our last journey complete, I’ll leave you with the PASSAIC FALCON and the memory of our friendship. Then I’ll walk to the New York Ferry at Pawles Hook."
Calik's head slowly nodded, "Yes, new lives for both of us. I shall take a woman and follow the sun with the others of my clan. Michael, my friend, let us celebrate before we depart."
The remainder of the day was spent eating, dancing, sleeping and telling tales of their adventures as smugglers and hunters to a group of men, women and children who gathered about them. Later, they cast the sorrow of their parting into the river and in an ancient Lenapi ceremony, drew back joy. When the sun made its way to the western horizon and set beyond the Orange Mountains, tree limbs were piled high on the fire, to shoot sparks into the sky, for the delight of the children and all who danced around it. In the flickering firelight, a young woman took the place beside Calik. Calik introduced her to Michael. Her name is Al'lanque, The Star. She is the one he has chosen, and this will be her place from now on. Slender and lovely, she sat quietly, next to her betrothed, watching the dancers, her eyes glowing in the firelight. The piece of copper crystal that had belonged to his father hung around Michael’s neck next to the one he had kept for himself. He removed it and gave it to her as a wedding gift.
The night flew by until the hour of their departure approached. While most of the community slept, Michael and Calik went down to the landing and waited by the water’s edge for the tide to turn. The stars above them were sharp points of light without the moon and the pictures in the sky clearly outlined animals and men. Every few minutes, one or the other tossed a twig into the water, watching and waiting for the fresh water to sweep down from the falls ready to carry them to the Newark bay. The river became still as a lake and then the twigs began to drift down stream, signaling the time to depart. Michael looked to Calik and said, "One more journey my friend and then our paths must part."
In the darkness, Michael and Calik set off on their final journey together, this time smuggling something more valuable than they had ever carried before; Michael's life. As smugglers they had made trips in the dark many times before and the darkened river had always been their friend. Tonight, they prayed it would be, again.
The strong current and the deep strokes of the young men carried the FALCON down stream until they reached the bridge at Newark. They held their breaths as they slid past and listened for the sound of the sentry's footfalls, their voices or their snoring. They heard nothing, the sentry was away from his post and the FALCON floated past the bridge and then past Browns Ferry without being challenged. The tide was at its full outward flow, as they glided past the quiet docks at the Newark Marketplace. Keeping low in the boat and without sail, Calik steered close to the bank opposite of the sentry post while Michael paddled deep, hard and silent.
A few hours before dawn they reached the sand bar at the confluence of the Hackensack and Aquacknunck rivers. There they beached the PASSAIC FALCON and slept on the sand while waiting for the tide to turn and take them up stream to Dowd's Ferry. As the sun rose they woke to find other fisherman and merchants in small boats also waiting for the early morning tide to take. A few larger vessels, with great clouds of sails, gathered the off shore breeze and successfully fought the tidal flow. But most congregated at the mouth of the Hackensack and Aquacknunck rivers and waited patiently for the tide to turn.
While they waited, Michael took the PASSAIC FALCON a few yards out into the Newark bay and began fishing while Calik tended to the business of starting a fire. By the time the fire was ready, Michael had caught two good size fish, which they put on spits and roasted to a golden brown. After the meal, they once again settled down in the soft white sand and dozed on and off for the few hours remaining. Finally, the tide turned and with a hail and a shout the sailors beached on the sand bar shoved off into the flow and began their journey up the Hackensack. It didn’t take long before they approached the landmarks near Dowd’s Ferry. They knew of a spot along the east bank where Michael could disembark and walk to the road to Bergen. They dropped the sail and rowed the FALCON into the weeds, just south of Dowd's Ferry and waited.
The first watcher was easy to pick out. He was a tax collector inspecting the carts and baggage of the travelers crossing the ferry on their way to market. Calik picked out the second one, a fat little man sitting under a tree conspicuously doing nothing and trying to look like he was waiting but when the ferry came, he didn't take it. He was a sheriff’s man, watching for smugglers, run away slaves and criminals, like Michael.
They ran the PASSAIC FALCON aground and Michael leaped out on to the bank. Shouldering his bag, he turned to his friend. They had said their good-byes the day before, so, with a quick gesture of good voyage, they parted company. With a hearty shove, Michael pushed the PASSAIC FALCON out of her hiding place and Calik set the sail and set off on the second leg of his journey before returning to his home. As the PASSAIC FALCON cleared the weeds and moved into the stream, Calik raised his hand in farewell and steered the FALCON back to the bay. In Newark he would spend the next day or two, roaming their favorite vendors and making it look like he was waiting to meet Michael, continuing the deception.
Michael waited on the riverbank till darkness to fell. Then, he worked his way to the ferry, hiding in the shadows until he got close enough to the dock to signal Faith’s father. The man heard Michael moving in the underbrush and called, "Whoever it is come out."
"Mr. Dowd, It's me, Michael.”
"Michael? Stay hidden,” he said. “Keep out of sight. There are sheriffs men here looking for you."
“Please, sir, tell Faith I'll be at our place on the river. She will know where I'll be."
The sun was setting beyond the horizon and the darkness was growing as Faith came to the clearing where Michael waited. They embraced. "Oh, Michael,” she whispered, “I heard you are wanted on charges of treason. What are you going to do?
“I have to run away,” he said.
“Where?” Her voice was edged with tears.
"To sea," he said.
Faith hugged him fiercely, afraid to look into his eyes, "I'll never see you again, will I."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact. She knew that unless he ran, Michael would be sent to prison or worse. They held each other in the night, whispering about their love and a world they would never know. As the moon rose, they returned to Faith’s house, keeping in the forest shadows, so no one could see them.
Inside, Faith's father was eating his evening meal and drinking ale. As the two stepped into the room, he looked up at Michael with loss and said, "Laddie, I thought ye were gonna be family. Now, it seems you'll be a runnin from the Crown rather than from Faith."
Michael's eyes fell to the floor. "I can't take Faith with me, sir. I don't even know where I'll be bound."
"Right, you are laddie,” he said sadly, “a life on the run is no life for a lady. Ya can spend the night here but in the morning ya must be on your way before the sheriffs return to their watching."
"Again, Mr. Dowd, I thank you for your kindness. I will be gone before the first morning ferry crosses."
They stayed up through the night, talking, crying, and drifting in and out of a troubled sleep until dawn broke. As the first grays of morning brightened the eastern sky, Michael and Faith embraced one last time and he took his bag of possessions and departed down the path leading from the Dowd house through the woods until it met the road to Bergen. As he came to the bend in the path that would take him out of sight, he turned. Faith was still standing in the road, watching him. He paused, waved once again and threw her one last kiss, turned and set his feet onto the wood planks of the Bergen road. He was too far away to see the tears in her eyes. The rays of the rising sun dappled the road with new shadows, he paused for a minute, bitterly regretting his lost love and then threw his bag over his shoulder and began the trip uphill to Bergen.
-*-
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE SMUGGLERS
The early morning was hot and moist but still cool. Michael set a quick pace; he knew that in a few hours the road would become unbearably choked with dust thrown up by the carts when they began traveling, so it is best to make good time in the cool of the day. Taking precautions to avoid other travelers, and possibly bounty hunters or sheriff’s men, he covered the distance up the hill to the Bergen Church in less than 30 minutes. As the steeple rose out of the trees in the distance, he became more cautious, slowing his pace, listening for horsemen. At the first house on the outskirts, he detoured through the farmland and around the town, returning to the road again on the far side of the village. He again picked up the pace, moving quickly through the wooded track that gently rose to a crest. From the top of the hill, on the east side of Bergen, the panorama of New York harbor stretched out in front of him. From his vantage point he could see the road, running straight as a rifle shot, down the hill to the ferry at Pawles Hook and beyond that, the forest of masts growing out of New York harbor.
The walk down hill was easier than going up and the smell of the ocean air and the ships at anchor beckoned to him, their call was palpable and exhilarating. As he approached the ferry, he could see the flatboat pulling out into the river, taking carts loaded with produce, livestock and people to the island of Manhattan. He arrived too late for the first ferry trip of the day and had to wait for the next crossing. Surrounding the ferry landing are numerous food vendors hawking everything from corn bread to corn whiskey. Michael casually walked among them, purchasing a small loaf of raisin bread and a tall, wooden mug of tea and settled to the ground in a shady spot against the tavern wall, near a window. The bread was still hot and he relished the sweet flavor complimented by the dry tang of the tea. To entertain himself while waiting for the next ferry, he listened to the conversation of the men inside the tavern, fortifying themselves for the journey across New York Harbor with a few quick drafts of rum.
The distance across the Hudson River at this point is little more than three miles and the trip takes less than an hour, depending on the winds and the tide. On the far bank, Michael could see the ferry preparing to dock and its sister setting sail from the New York side. As he finished his breakfast, another man joined the three at the table by the window under which he is sat. The new arrival began reading a list of names and descriptions of fugitives wanted for crimes against the crown. Michael realized he had been eves dropping on the sheriff's men! The thought sent a twist of cold fear through his belly. He held his breath as the men read a list of names and dripped his mug of tea when he heard his name. A new chill of fear and anger ran through him. Just as he feared, they were after him, watching for him. He listened as the man read a physical description of Michael and the warrant specifying his crime as treason with a bounty of 10 pounds for his capture. For the first time, the gravity of his situation crashed down on him, stunning him. They were hunting him like a rabid animal!
Silently, Michael slipped away from his resting spot and sought refuge among the wagons of hay and vegetables waiting for the second run of the day. "This one will be crowded with people and produce getting to market," he mused to himself, as the ferry approached the landing. His experience as a smuggler told him the four men in the tavern were the only sheriffs agents at the ferry and the description of him was so vague he should have very little to fear unless one of them knew him by sight. He looked to the ferry landing again. The soldiers working on the dock were there to control the crowds and collect taxes; there was little danger from them. They had no interest in capturing runaways and so he turned his attention back to the sheriff's men, the source of real danger.
The Captain of the ferry was a big Dutchman named Van Hartz. Mr. Dowd had given him his name. As he approached him to purchase a fare across, the big man showed an instant recognition of who he was, as if he had been expecting him. After exchanging pleasantries the ferryman whispered to Michael, “I know you, young man. Now, do not worry. Get on board and hide yourself in yonder hay wagon. Keep quiet and stay put until you are called by name to come out."
The ride across the Hudson River was hastened by a stiff wind blowing across the harbor and the voyage took a little less than the usual hour. Peeking out from under the hay, Michael could see a soldier riding on the ferry. His duty was to keep an eye on the people and inspect for contraband. Michael cringed as he approached his hiding place but did not disturb him.
When the ferry reached Manhattan, the cart debarked and was driven several blocks away from the slip. A strong voice called him to come out. Slowly, Michael peered out, then threw aside his blanket of hay and slid down to the cobblestone street. He thanked the driver and gave him a silver coin for his trouble, then hoisting his bag onto his shoulder, and set out toward the docks where great ships and small were moored.
Tied up to the wharves were fishing boats and merchantmen loaded with catch and cargo. The crews and dock workers were of every description of physical shape, tongue and shade of skin color. The market was bustling with activity; people bartering and haggling for this commodity or that, selling wares and repairing goods. The smell of cooking food drifted along with the stench of rotting vegetables and the crisp salt air tingled his nose. Michael had been to the New York on several occasions but this time he was alone and on the run. He felt the change in his life pressing on him as he made his way along the docks, admiring the ships and inquiring on occasion about signing on as a hand.
As he wandered the streets of New York, Michael saw British soldiers everywhere. He could feel the tension between them and the citizens, a boiling hatred just under the surface waiting to erupt into violence. Fearing he might be swept up into some random struggle and found out, he twice changed his course to avoid tax collectors and their soldiers engaged in open and loud arguments with shop keepers and merchants.
As darkness descended on the city, the lamplighters made their rounds, spreading small spots of light along the roads and avenues. Finally, he arrived at Montgomery Street and began his search for seafarers and smugglers who might know of his Uncle Joshua. At length, he arrived at the MAST AND BASTARD Tavern where he had gone with his uncle only a few months before. Carefully, he asked questions of the innkeeper and patrons, none of whom offered any help. Disappointed and tired, he rented a room at the inn and decided to make it his base from which to continue his search or until he found a good ship to sign aboard.
On the evening of the third day, Michael was returning to the MAST AND BASTARD in the growing darkness. As he approached the inn he felt an unexplainable unease about the man lurking by the alley and another two walking together behind him. As he came abreast of the man by the alley he said "Matie, have you got a copper for an old shipmate?" Before Michael could respond, hands from behind him pushed him into the alley and slammed him against the wall. He cushioned the impact with his left hand, instinctively his right went to his knife and he turned ready to lunge. The men hesitated for a second then all three attacked and overwhelmed him. The point of a knife was placed against his throat and a harsh voice, heavy with rum growled, "Be steady, Mate. Make no sound or I'll slit yer throat ear to ear.” Michael strained his arms against the humiliation of being roughly searched. His pockets were turned inside out. He tried to kick and the knife cut the side of his head. His shirt was ripped open from waist to neck.
“Ay look it here,” said one of the attackers.
“Aye. That’s one fine looking belt. Give it here.” Their rough hands pulled at the carved
shell buckle till it opened and pulled the wampum belt off him.
“Jack, there’s another belt under his shirt. It’s a money belt.”
“Cut it off him.”
One of them squealed, “Silver.”
“Come on let’s shove off.”
But his money was not enough for the thieves and they began beating him, laughing at his pain, till he sank to the ground crying for mercy.
A voice from far away said, “Leave off him, man. There’s no reason to kill him. We have his poke.”
The hands holding his arms released him and he sank to the ground quivering. He pointed into a blurred haze and muttered, “My money. That’s my money.”
"Aye, he's had enough," said one, and delivered a kick to the dazed boy’s midsection, toppling him over, bleeding and muttering into a pool of filthy water.
Michael lay on the ground trying to gather himself together and get to his feet. The taste of blood in his mouth was salty, his head was spinning and his vision blurred. He slipped back to the ground groaning as another voice came to his ear. “Had a little too much to drink, sonny?”
He rolled over and the voice changed to sympathy. “Oh. Looks like you ran afoul of a hurricane. Come on; let me help you get cleaned up.”
Michael groaned with pain as he rose to his feet and leaned on his rescuer for support. Together they staggered slowly into the MAST AND BASTARD and sat down at a corner table. His condition didn’t turn any heads as he lowered himself into the chair at the back of the public room and began cleaning the blood from his face. A minute later his benefactor came back to the table with a glass of whiskey and a clean cloth and sat down. “Here,” he said. “Dab the cuts with the whiskey. It will clean them out and prevent infection.”
Michael nodded and hissed as the whiskey burned the open wounds. “Thank you for your kindness,” was all he could say.
“They took your poke, I suppose?”
Michael nodded.
“Be glad they didn’t take your life. It would be a sad day for your mother if we had to tell her you had your throat cut for a few guineas. Do you live near by?”
“No sir. I’m looking for a ship to sign on to.”
“Well, good luck,” he said and rose. “Here, take a dollar. When we meet again you can repay me.”
Michael took the coin, thanked the man and staggered up to his room to nurse his wounds and sleep.
The following morning he woke late. His body was sore from head to toe. His ribs ached and his face was swollen. He sighed as he looked at his reflection in the water basin and splashed water on his face. Gently he washed away the dried blood and examined the damage. His left eye was swollen shut, his lower lip was split and the gash on his scalp burned as he cleaned it. “I’m alone, broke and on the run,” he murmured. “God help me, I have to find a ship today.”
Slowly, painfully, he walked down the stairs and entered the public room. The landlord was waiting for him. “If ya not got the rent ya’ll have to be shoven off.” Michael scarcely heard him. On the other side of the room two men were leaning against the bar drinking rum and talking. One of them was wearing his belt and knife.
“Landlord, can I work in the kitchen in exchange for a bowl of soup and a slice of bread?”
The landlord grunted his approval and jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the kitchen. “Ya kin have yer vitals after ya finish splitten the pile of wood out back.”
Michael nodded in acceptance, slid through the door and turned to look back at the two men at the bar. Rage welled up inside him as the man rested his hand on the knife handle. He looked the kitchen over. A fat woman plucking a chicken asked in a gravely voice, “Wha chu wan , boy?”
“No problem, mamm. I’ll be done here in a minute,” he said and went out the back door to where the pile of wood waited. He picked up a short oak limb and practiced swinging it. The motion hurt his ribs and he dropped the club. He dislodged an ax from the chopping block and hefted it, paused for a moment and knocked the head off the handle. He held the hickory handle along his arm and tucked it up under his armpit. The end came just past his hand. He swung it and nodded with satisfaction at the sound it made as it cut through the air. His ribs ached but he was ready for a fight. He walked back into the kitchen. The woman looked up at him. “Ayy,” she started but the look on the young mans face told her not to interfere and she made no sound as he picked up her butcher knife and slipped it into his belt.
Gently he pushed the kitchen door open and looked into the public room. The two men were still at the bar with their backs to him. He stepped in, the ax handle next to his body hidden by his arm and walked up behind them.
“That’s my belt and I want it back,” he said.
“Shove off,” the man said and started to turn. Michael swung the ax handle down at the man’s knee. It hit with a dull thud and he screamed and crumbled to the floor. Michael brought the handle across his body and thrust it into the second man’s midsection. His breath went out of him with a whoosh and he collapsed onto the floor next to his partner. The landlord stepped back from the bar, fear on his face.
Michael put the end of the ax handle on the man’s throat and drew the butcher knife out. “Take off the belt,” he ordered. The second man was curled up in a ball gasping for breath, he was no threat but Michael hissed at him, “Lay still or I’ll cut your throat from ear to ear,” then turned his attention back to his target. He pressed down on the ax handle and the man gurgled out a cry of pain, “You broke my knee.”
“Get my belt off,” Michael ordered and looked around the room. No one was moving to help the two.
“Don’t kill me,” he whined as he fumbled with the buckle till if fell away.
“Now, my money.”
Both men dug into their pockets and came up with a handful of coins. Michael looked at them and growled, “Drop the money.” He pointed the tip of the butcher knife at the second man, “Help your friend up. Keep your hands empty. If you try anything, I’ll cut you deep and hard.”
The man got up, keeping his hands in front of him and assisted his partner to his feet. The man cried in pain as he tried to stand on the injured knee and quickly shifted his weight to his good leg. Michael stepped out of their way and watched solemnly as the two hobbled out of the tavern, then bent down to pick up his belt and the few coins they left behind.
A voice behind him caused him to turn. “Well sonny. You’re a man who takes care of his business.” Michael turned and grinned weakly, the speaker was the man who had helped him the night before. He placed the butcher knife and ax handle on the bar, strapped on his wampum belt and knife, sorted a Spanish dollar from the pile and handed it to his benefactor. “Thank you for your charity,” Michael said as he nursed his ribs.
The sailor took the coin and slipped it into his pocket, “It seems my faith was well placed, “he said. “If you’re still looking to ship out, I can put in a good word with the Captain of the QUICKENING BREEZE. My name is Stone. I’m Third Mate on her and we are seeking good hands.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll be along as soon as I collect my possessions.”
Michael walked with a slow gait to the waterfront and in spite of his injuries, made his way to Ten Eyck's wharf and found the QUICKENING BREEZE. From the dock he shouted his greeting to the First Mate and requested to sign on. The First Mate gazed down on him, disinterestedly and scornfully called, “Well, Matey, you looks as if you had a bit of a rough one.”
“Aye, Sir, I did, and it’s put me in a bad way. I need to sign on. Your Third Mate, Mr. Stone, said you were looking for good hands.”
“We are, but I’m not looking for trouble, and you look like you might have a bit of it following you. What’s your name, son?”
“Fields, sir. Michael Fields. The First mate looked at him intently, taking a real notice of him for the first time. “Fields, heh? Besides your obvious blemishes, you look sound enough. Do you have any experience?’
“I do, Sir. And I am. Sound and ready, I mean. Please Sir, I am in a bit of a spot. I had my own boat, but I had to get rid of it because of the damn British.”
The First mate paused, eyeing Michael up and down. At last he said, “Come aboard, Mate.”
“Thank you, Sir. Thank you.” Michael scrambled up the gangplank, his step a little lighter with a turn of good fortune.
Out of habit, he asked, “Sir. Have you heard or know of Joshua Raven?”
The First mate looked at him sharply, “Aye, son, I do.”
As Michael waited to hear more of this revelation, the First Mate turned away and disappeared into the deck house. With little trepidation, Michael reported to Third Mate Stone and signed onto the QUICKENING BREEZE at a novice’s wage.
-*-
The Periquinier is an extraordinarily seaworthy vessel. Measuring some 80 feet from bow to stern and 20 feet across her mid section, this flat-bottomed barge is an ocean going warehouse or livestock coral. The flat deck is walled in to form a pen to coral livestock or crated goods during open sea voyages. On the starboard side is a large outrigger keel which can be lowered to keep the ship steady even in the roughest sea. She is driven by a single lateen rigged sail, set on a forward mast. While in port, the mast can be lowered by a winch and its 30-foot length laid parallel to the ship's beam. Below decks, there is room for abundant crated cargo, stored with the ballast and ships stores. The entry to the hold is through a hatchway in the stern deckhouse, which also houses the crew's sleeping quarters and galley. The first leg of her ocean voyage is scheduled to take the QUICKENING BREEZE out of New York harbor and south along the Jersey coast to Philadelphia. The next leg of her voyage will be dictated by the cargo she takes on there.
Michael had never been on the ocean before and as the QUICKENING BREEZE rode the swift running waters of the Narrows out to the Atlantic Ocean, he felt the call of his own PASSAIC FALCON. He stood on the deck thrilled with the majesty of the ship’s movement as she cruised in a strong wind, keeping the Jersey coastline visible on the port side. For the first hours, Michael enjoyed the rocking and pitching of the ship but by evening, the novelty has worn off and he was thoroughly seasick. But the sickness passed and by the end of the voyage, Michael had demonstrated to the Captain his experience as a sailor and proven that he was a willing, dependable and strong hand. The voyage also stoked the fires of his love of sailing. On the inland Newark Bay, he had learned the basics of sailing aboard his PASSAIC FALCON. But the QUICKENING BREEZE is larger than his own ship and considerably more complicated, offering Michael a challenge to learn new skills and expand his knowledge.
Moving about the ship and keeping an especially keen eye on Captain Bates when he took out his navigation instruments, he learned everything the crewmen were willing to teach him. The second leg of their voyage returned them to New York Harbor. Without incident, they entered with the tide and tied up at Ten Eykes wharf. British troops were prowling about the docks in groups of three and four and Michael noticed a previously unseen nervousness in the Captain and crew that he credited to the natural animosity of the merchant for the tax collector.
That evening, while standing watch on the deck of the nearly abandoned QUICKENING BREEZE, Michael heard sailors, from a ship moored further up Ten Eyck wharf, cat call a squad of British soldiers and provoking them into a fight. But it is no street brawl that erupted. The soldiers charged the drunken sailors with bayonets fixed, stabbing the leader, clubbing some and arresting as many as they could catch. Michael watched the one sided battle in horror, paralyzed at the sight of blood spurting from a bayonet thrust into a man’s leg and his scream of pain.
He rang the ship’s bell and called to the deckhouse, "On deck! Alarm. On deck!" Second mate Diehm appeared at his elbow and wrapped his hand around the bell clapper, silencing it. “Make fast, laddie and be silent.”
Together they watched in silence as the wounded man and his mates were carried off in a wagon, some unconscious, some in chains and three armed guards were left behind, posted on the ships deck, with orders to arrest the ship’s Captain and revoke his exit papers. “Bastards,” whispered Diehm.
The following morning a new cargo of livestock and barrels of salted pork, sauerkraut and pickled vegetables were loaded aboard the QUICKENING BREEZE and she again departed New York harbor. Michael's morning detail began with swabbing the deck pen and dumping the animal dung over the side. Around him, the caged chickens, geese, ducks and rabbits raised a woeful and deafening cry. Tethered next to the caged animals were three of the largest swine Michael had ever seen and more than twenty piglets. As if this weren't enough for a man to clean up after, there were also fourteen head of fine Jersey cattle penned next to them.
Michael heaved a bucket of manure over the side and brought back a bucket of clear sea water to continue to rinse off the deck. As he stretched and worked a kink out of his back he looked to the Captain and called out. "Captain, sir, permission to speak?"
"Speak your piece, Fields. But make it quick, yonder swine just made more work for you."
"It's a mighty fine cargo we're carrying, sir, my question is, where to, Captain?"
"To New Bedford, seaman. There we will barter this cargo for various qualities and quantities of whale oil which we will carry on to Boston."
"Aye, Sir," he said and a grin spread across his face. "To Boston."
On a humid July morning, in the year 1772, the QUICKENING BREEZE entered Boston harbor and tied up to the merchants wharf. Along the docks, Michael watched as men gathered in tight knots. The waterfront boiled with angry sailors and merchants, speaking in harsh terms of the condition of their lives and businesses and of the British Army occupying their city.
From between two warehouses, a voice rang out over the waterfront, "Two years ago the lobster backs tried to enforce their edict to confiscate our muskets by killing five good men and true! This crime shall not be forgotten by the people of Boston until the very fires of Hades freeze over and every drop of their blood has been avenged. Men of spirit cannot be overcome by force of arms! They shall govern themselves or they shall die in the struggle. And I, gentlemen, am prepared to die rather than allow myself to be enslaved by a government that cares not for me and which...”
Michael turned back to his task with a wry smile on his face as the voice was drowned out in cheers of angry approval.
The cargo of whale oil was quickly sold and carted off the deck and Michael was granted a brief shore leave. He spent the larger part of it exploring the market place, pricing goods and sampling the new taste of lobster dipped in herb butter. Everywhere he wandered; there was talk of arrests without warrant, searches and confiscations, and trade restrictions that reinforced the East India Tea Company’s monopoly on the import of tea. The shootings two years ago, now known as the ‘Boston Massacre” still inflamed people and the pervasive presence of British soldiers aggravated the situation. As he walked through the marketplace, he stopped occasionally to listen to stories that were confused and often contradictory, but essentially, the same. On every street corner, orators resurrected the specter of the "Boston Massacre" and cried out for reprisal "against a King who wants his subjects disarmed and prostrate at his feet."
-*-
That night, Michael was ordered to the midnight watch but rather than being placed on deck, Captain Bates instructed him to stand in the shadows along the street leading to the wharf and signal a warning if any soldiers approached the ship. From his lookout post, Michael could hear the crew, working without lights, unloading a cargo. He had done this himself on many occasions and the idea of smuggling felt reassuring.
The street was quiet and the stillness of the night allowed him to creep close enough to make out the smuggled cargo the QUICKENING BREEZE had brought into the city of Boston. He strained his eyes in the dim light, squinting to focus on the cargo. The crew placed a crate on the ground, opened it and removed the contents for examination. It was a musket! He murmured to himself, "No wonder the crew was so nervous when they saw the soldiers on the dock this afternoon."
Hastily, the crewmen moved the boxes and kegs off the QUICKENING BREEZE and onto carts with muffled wheels. Silently, they moved off the dock and slipped away into the night. Within minutes of completing the unloading, another team of horses, pulling a Jersey Wagon piled high with crates, approached from the direction the first wagon had departed. The driver pulled the team to a halt and exchanged a few quiet words with the captain. Two of the deck hands came forward to examine the cargo to be taken on, by opening a crate and removing a sample of its contents. Leaflets! Several were passed to the Captain, who read them with some interest while the crew loaded the crates onto the QUICKENING BREEZE.
When the cargo was safely on board and the empty wagon dispatched, the Captain called Michael to return to the ship and work along side the other crewmen moving the cargo into a secret cache, under the forward hold. There, the crates were stored in an almost invisible compartment, disguised to look like stone ballast. This cleverly constructed smuggler’s keep, was obviously where the muskets and powder had been stored. A grin crossed Michael's lips as he thought of the hideaway he and Calik had labored to build into the PASSAIC FALCON and the cargoes they had moved undetected past His Majesty's inspectors and tax collectors. Although most of the crates fit into the hiding place, several had to remain in plain sight, piled amid ship. They are labeled "Sail cloth" and hanks of hemp rope were piled on top and around the contraband giving them some disguise but not nearly enough to deter a determined inspection.
The following morning, over a breakfast of eggs, tea and bread, Captain Bates jested Michael about his purported prowess as a buyer and invited him to the market place to select a cargo of hard goods, live stock and whiskey, for the return trip to Philadelphia. Anxious to prove that he is more valuable than a common seaman, Michael wove his way through the market, flitting from booth to booth, pricing one commodity after another until he returned to a selected few and began to bargain in earnest. As the deal drew to a close, Michael kept his eye on the Captain and before concluding, looked to him and received his nod of approval.
The tax that was levied upon his purchase shocked Michael! The power of his money was diminished by the taxes levied on his purchases. His anger came to a head at this vendor's warehouse, where the tax so altered the deal that Michael threatened to renege unless the seller dropped his price to offset the tax.
The makings of an argument boiled up with the whiskey merchant, who claimed the taxes were levied on him beforehand and he had already cut his profit margin to try to offset them. He decried the taxes levied by the crown but concluded threateningly, "You have made your deal! You shook my hand! I expect you to be good to your word and pay the agreed price!"
The Captain motioned Michael aside to discuss their alternatives and let the merchant's temper cool.
“I apologize, Captain,” said Michael, “I've made a bad deal by not taking the tax into consideration and I fear we are committed to this bargain."
The Captain put his hand on Michael's shoulder, "We'll talk about this and other things at a later date. Right now, we have a hold to fill and a tide to catch. Tell our loyalist friend here to have the whiskey delivered to the ship by mid-afternoon or the deal is off. And for you, young man, let this be a lesson on the King’s taxes."
"Yes, sir,” responded Michael, “I'll take care of it."
Captain Bates stepped forward and grudgingly agreed to the price demanded and grumbled darkly about taxes and those set to collect them.
-*-
The crewmen sang a seaman’s tune of distant ports and lost loves as they hoisted the kegs and crates onto the deck of the QUICKENING BREEZE. All the while, the watchful eyes of British soldiers inspected, probed and documented the cargo. During the loading, Michael observed the soldiers, pretending to inspect a load, helping themselves to samples of preserved fruit and fresh vegetables. He pointed this out to the first Mate, who told him, "It's of no consequence, lad, be about your business." But when a Sergeant took a piglet out of a basket and turned to walk away with it, Michael called out, "Thief!" and leapt over the side to the dock and confronted the man.
"That piglet you've got there is the property of the master of this ship,” he challenged, “and I demand you return it."
The Sergeant, a big man with a cold, hateful look in his eyes, turned a look of contempt on the boy. He cursed Michael in a harsh voice and continued on his way. The arrogance of the theft infuriated Michael but the strong hand of the first mate held him back from pursuing the Sergeant and starting an incident.
Back on deck, Crewman Van Arle, laughed at the boy, "Have you no sense, young fool! We've better things to do than fight with tax collectors and thieves. Come on, back to your duty, we have to get under way with the tide."
After having their departure papers approved by the local magistrate, the QUICKENING BREEZE set sail with the early evening tide. As she cleared the mouth of Boston harbor and set a course north around Cape Cod, Michael spied a ship on the horizon and called out, "Ship to the starboard beam."
The Captain nodded, "Aye. A cutter," he murmured.
Daylight dwindled and the Cutter, which paced them, circled and overtook them. A voice hailed from the cutter, "Heave to and prepare for boarding."
"She has ten guns, Captain, said First Mate Roberts, and she's fast, much faster than us."
"So I see," said the Captain, as he stared hard at the cutter crossing their bow at less than one hundred yards. He waved to her Captain, standing at the helm and gave the order to strike the sail.
Within minutes the cutter was along side and lines secured the craft to each other. Captain Bates stood at the gangway waiting to receive the boarding party.
“Well, Lieutenant McDougal, how nice to see you again."
"The pleasure is all mine," responded the British Officer as he leapt the few feet between the ships followed by two Royal Marines in battle dress, each carrying a musket with fixed bayonet.
"Fields,” called the Captain, “fetch a draught of rum for the Lieutenant and ale for His Majesty's Marines."
Michael called out a smart "Aye, Captain" and hastened to the galley where he poured the obligatory drinks, plus one for the captain, and came back on deck to offer them around.
When he returned, Captain Bates and Lt. McDougal were in jovial conversation. Michael approached and placed the draughts of rum on the wheelhouse beside the captain’s hand. Without a word the drinks were taken and the two officers toasted each other’s health and then resumed their conversation but in quieter tones. The two marines took the offered flagons of ale and drank deeply, as they pretended to inspect the live stock and vegetables on the deck.
It was almost invisible but Michael's practiced eye caught the glint of a gold coin passing from the Captain’s hand to the Lieutenant, who finished his drink and led the two marines below to inspect the hold. A few minutes later, they emerged, declared the cargo to be approved, bid the captain "Godspeed" and returned to the cutter.
Michael watched from the deck as the cutter disappeared into the distance and the QUICKENING BREEZE got under way again. He saw the Captain smiling and thought about the dozens of soldiers and revenue agents he had bribed as he and Calik plied their smuggling route up and down the Aquacknunck River. This was the same thing, only on a larger scale, with a larger profit and a more pronounced danger. Michael smiled to himself, the thought of this business tingled his belly.
Southward the QUICKENING BREEZE tacked, enjoying a favorable wind, keeping land just over the port horizon and a keen eye out for revenue cutters or pirates, who the crew called freebooters. The wind carried them smartly past New York City, around the Jersey Cape into the smooth bay fed by the Delaware River and up stream to the capitol city of the colonies, Philadelphia.
-*-
The street lamps cast a glow into the sky that dimmed the stars and guided them to their mooring south of the city. From the deck, Michael pondered the line of dark shadow the city etched against the stars and setting moon. As the midnight hour approached, he was once again told to take up a watch post on the street leading to the dock and to warn the Captain if anyone approached, especially soldiers. Again, he crept back to watch as the secret cargo was unloaded. But this time, the recipients of the contraband did not spirit it away. The crates were torn open on the wharf and the contents dispensed to eager hands. A small mob of men and boys carried bundles of leaflets into the midnight shadows and disappeared on missions of obvious importance. Within minutes, the cargo had been distributed and only the empty crates and a single man talking to the Captain remained.
At the close of their business, the Captain returned on deck and in a voice filled with pride in his accomplishments, invited the crew, including Michael, to a near by Public Ale House. "Gentlemen, let us toast our good fortune and receive our profits."
The GULL AND GOBLET tavern was well lit by a collection of ship's lanterns. In the stone fireplace, a merry blaze warmed the night chill out of the sailor’s bones. Tobacco smoke curled up from a dozen clay pipes, filling the air of the single room building with a sweet aroma and a thick fog. Flagons of ale were passed around to hearty toasts and after a second round, Michael felt dizzy and a little brave. "Captain, I drink to your health,” and proposed, “this has been a most prosperous voyage."
"Well, young Mr. Fields, responded the Captain with mock ceremony. “You have done well and earned the respect of the crew and myself. Your hard work and willingness to learn are most exemplary."
"Thank you, Captain, and may I take this opportunity to toast the crew of the QUICKENING BREEZE?"
Without waiting for permission, Michael raised the flagon over his head and called at the top of his lungs, "To the Captain and crew of the good ship QUICKENING BREEZE and then drank deeply. The crew and patrons rejoined with a hearty “Here, Here,” and laughed as Michael spilled ale around the corner of his mouth and down his shirt. Then he hunched over, head hung low and whispered in a conspiratorial tone to the Captain, congratulating him on the smooth passage of the gold coin to Lt. McDougal.
"I've no doubt our cargo was something that will tweak the nose of old King George," he whispered.
Captain Bates leaned back against the wall and took a deep drink of ale from his flagon and looked Michael in the eye for a long minute.
"You've a good eye, young Fields, but these matters are not lightly spoken of."
Suddenly the effect of the ale left Michael and he sat bolt upright. His next words were carefully chosen. "Captain, before coming to you, I had a ship of my own. She wasn't as grand as the QUICKENING BREEZE but she served me well and I profited. My partner and I carried cargoes to market for friends and neighbors. We also carried things the King does not want them to have. Sometimes, books and sometimes guns."
The Captain leaned forward and in a hushed voice whispered, "So I've been told. Let me assure you, Mr. Fields, you were not taken aboard the QUICKENING BREEZE lightly. These days, one never knows who may be a spy for the crown. But there are those in Patriot circles who spoke well of you and even felt you might be of more value to the cause than as the smuggler of a few documents and pistols."
Michael felt fear creep across his belly and his flagon sank lower and lower until he spilled ale on his trousers. "How do you know of me?” he asked.
"We have mutual friends, Mr. Fields,” responded the Captain, “and yes, you are correct, we are smugglers. And Patriots. And we are preparing for war. The leaflets we brought into Philadelphia today will be distributed throughout the city. The Crown will not be able to divide us and rule. Ships like mine are carrying the word of every atrocity the British commit to every city in the Colonies.
First Mate Roberts joined them and Captain Bates spent the next few minutes explaining to Michael how the organization circulating information throughout the city was just a small part of a larger system. A system designed by Benjamin Franklin to keep the Colonies informed of what was happening to their sisters. "They call themselves the Committees of Correspondence. We carry the news with us where ever we go!"
"Michael,” he challenged, “your life has been disrupted and destroyed by the Crown in an effort to enrich greedy owners and finance the King's European adventures. The King and his ministers have found it expedient to keep us ignorant of what is happening to our neighbors and have taken to silencing those who would talk of freedom by imprisonment, and occasionally, murder. In the name of your Uncle, Joshua, who has suffered dearly in His Majesty's prisons, I challenge you to join with us in our battle to overthrow the corrupt bureaucrats of the King and start a new form of government; one where individual effort and work are rewarded and not taxed away. I challenge you to dedicate your life to ending intolerable rule by despotic kings who have no feeling for their subject's except that they pay their taxes and serve in silence. If you refuse to be a slave to a king and are willing to fight for your freedom, then you are welcome to sail with us. But the price of your freedom and that of your country's independence will be high and it can only be paid in one coin. There is no substitute for that coin and no one can pay it for you. That coin is blood. If you feel the price is too high, then it is here, in the City of Brotherly Love that we must part company.”
Tears welled up in Michael's eyes as he thought of Faith, raising her hand in farewell as he began his flight. He remembered his friend Calik, with whom he had sailed the Newark Bay and of his friends on Barbados Neck. The memory of his mother, patiently preparing a meal for the British soldiers quartered in her home and of the warrant that sealed his doom. Men in the service of their King had destroyed his life to silence him and stop his petty smuggling. Then, they had decreed to obtain a death sentence, without trial, without defense, without warrant!
"Yes,” he whispered, “I'm ready to pay the price."
-*-
The following day, a new cargo was purchased and when stored aboard the QUICKENING BREEZE, she shoved off, riding the tide out of the Delaware River, leaving Philadelphia behind and embarking once again on the wild Atlantic. That night, the QUICKENING BREEZE rendezvoused with a French merchantman off the coast of the Jersey Cape and in the calm water of the bay, the Captain traded the load of foodstuffs for whiskey, paint, glass, tea and, of course, muskets, powder and shot. Then, heading north, they again traced the Jersey coast till they saw the signal fires at the mouth of the Great Bay and turned west into them. By the light of the full moon and with the help of the changing tide the QUICKENING BREEZE entered the mouth of the Mullica River and began moving upstream.
Born along by the inflowing tide, the QUICKENING BREEZE rounded hairpin turns. Men at the gunnels pushed off low hanging trees threatening to sweep the decks clear of crewmen and cargo alike. One bend after another they fought their way inland until around the third bend, the river widened into a small harbor and there, amid a mooring of a dozen smaller ships and three larger vessels, the Captain ordered the anchor set. The small boat was launched and two of the crewmen were sent ashore. Michael watched from the deck as they disappeared into the black forest of towering cedar trees.
He had just dozed off when the sound of an approaching crowd woke him. He rose and went to the rail, ready to sound an alarm. "Easy Lad,” said Stone, “That's our families."
Men, women and children appeared in long boats coming down the river and in horse drawn carts coming out of the forest. The number grew until there was more than 200 persons calling to crewmen by name, shouting and waving. Children called their fathers and women to their husbands in a scene that evoked the bitter pleasure of the memory of his return to Faith Dowd's arms after his voyages.
The cargo was quickly unloaded into the long boats, ferried to shore and stored in a warehouse set at the edge of the forest. As the crew prepared to go ashore, the First Mate called to Michael and assigned him to the deck watch. Feeling a little disappointed he would have to wait for shore leave in this strange land, he set himself to the chore of cleaning the decks.
A few hours later a young girl hailed him from the shore and paddled out to the QUICKENING BREEZE in the ship's short boat, which the Captain had left beached. She was a pretty young girl, almost as tall as he and slender with fiery red hair. She brought a message from the Captain for Michael inviting him to come to the RED WATER INN for a meal.
She introduced herself as Stella, and led him along a narrow path in the forest to a clearing where several log cabins surrounded a larger structure. “This is The RED WATER INN, "My father owns it,” she said, “and I work here."
When they entered, Michael found himself welcomed by Captain Bates, who congratulated him on his first voyage and welcomed him to their home and family. Hardy pats on the back and a round of cheers were dealt him as Stella presented a flagon of rich beer with a crown of white foam dripping over the side. To cheers and hails, Michael raised his cup and drank deeply, toasting Captain Bates, the QUICKENING BREEZE and the Patriots, once again.
As the noise and cheers died down, Michael was ushered to the table of the owner of the QUICKENING BREEZE and their leader. The crowd parted around the large wooden table and a bearded man rose and extended his hand, "Michael,” he said, “welcome to Chestnut Neck."
For seconds Michael stared, his mind flooded with emotions as he realized his search was over. He had found Joshua.
-*-
