In about the central part of Sussex county, New Jersey, two miles south
of the village of Newton, the county seat, are two ponds or bodies of
water, which go by the name of the "Big" and "Little Muckshaw." The
lower, or Little Muckshaw, loses itself, at its western extremity, in a
marsh or swamp, which is almost impassable, except after a long drought.
This vicinity possesses some considerable interest, from having been the
haunt of one of those fiends in human shape, who preyed upon the
substance of the patriotic citizens of the neighborhood during that
gloomy period in our Revolutionary contest, when even the Father of his
country was wrapped in despondency at the prospect for the future.
Bonnel Moody was a ruffian of the deepest dye, and possessed of all
those qualities which constitute an accomplished freebooter and
highwayman. He was cunning as a fox; energetic and determined in the
pursuit of an object; void of all pity or remorse; avaricious as a
miser; and with a brute courage which made him formidable in combat, he
was a dangerous enemy in the midst of the inhabitants of Sussex county,
as they learned to their cost during the war. His place of retreat, or
rather, his lair—for it was more like the haunt of some wild beast than
the abode of human beings—was on the west side of the swamp above
mentioned, where nature seemed to have provided him with a retreat more
impregnable than art could have furnished him. A point of land projects
into the western side of the marsh, affording only a very narrow and
difficult foothold for one man to pass between its base and an inlet of
the pond which washes the foot of the rocks. The ledge then recedes in
the shape of a crescent, forming a little cove, with water in front and
rocks behind and above. About forty-five yards from this point is a huge
rock, screened by overhanging trees and shrubs, in which is a cavern,
where Moody and his gang of marauders found shelter when their deeds of
rapine and murder had roused the inhabitants of the vicinity to rid
themselves of the dangerous foe. This cavern is eighteen feet high in
front, gradually receding until it meets the foundation at a distance of
fifteen feet, and about fifty feet in length from north to south. Beyond
this cavern the ledge again approaches the marsh, into which it
projects, forming an elbow almost impossible to pass around, and on the
opposite side it again recedes, presenting a bold and rugged aspect,
heightened by the gloom of perpetual shade, numerous cavern-like
fissures, and masses of rock which have fallen, from time to time, from
the overhanging ledge. One of these is a large, flat slab, about ten
feet long, six high, and between three and four feet thick, which has
fallen in such a position as to leave a passage behind it of about a
yard in width. The rocks above project over this slab, so as to shield
it effectually from that quarter, and a half-dozen men might defend
themselves behind this natural buckler against the attack of an army.
Such was the haunt of Moody, and his congenial band of Tory cut-throats
and murderers; and from here, like a flock of ravenous wolves would they
issue, when opportunity offered, and lay waste and destroy all within
their reach until danger threatened, when they would retreat to this
natural fastness with their ill-gotten plunder, here to divide and
secrete it. From the brow of the ledge, which rises nearly a hundred
feet from the water, they had a fair view of every avenue to their
hiding-place, and no one ever approached it alive except Moody and his
associates, or perhaps some friend of theirs, with provision or
information. There were those so lost to principle as to furnish this
crew of land-pirates with the necessaries of life, and with accurate
intelligence of every movement, on the part of the Americans, which
occurred in the vicinity. Several attempts to capture the wretch were
frustrated by these loyal friends. At one time, when a party, having
tracked him for some distance, were about to spring upon him, he was
alarmed by a negro in time to make his escape; and on another occasion a
young woman mounted a horse and rode some twelve or fourteen miles, of a
dark night, to warn him of a projected attack by a party of Whigs, who
had determined to capture him at all hazards. One cold winter night he
broke into the house of a Mr. Ogden, and after robbing it of every thing
of any value, he took the old man out in the yard, and made him take an
oath not to make known his visit until a sufficient time had elapsed for
himself and his party to make their escape. Two or three men who were
working for Mr. Ogden, and who slept in a loft up stairs, not feeling
bound by the old man's oath, alarmed the neighborhood and commenced a
pursuit. Their track was easily followed in the snow, and in the morning
they came upon a camp where the marauders had slept over night, and
where their fires were still burning. The chase was kept up until they
reached Goshen, in the State of New York, where they recovered part of
the plunder, but the rascals escaped. These expeditions in pursuit of
the Tory wretch were called "Moody-hunting," and were followed up
frequently with great energy.
One night, about twelve o'clock, he made his appearance at the bedside
of the jailer, and demanded the key of the jail. The poor frightened
official readily gave it up, although he had often declared that he
would not surrender it to him, and with it Moody opened the doors and
set all the prisoners free. Two of them were condemned to death; one,
who was condemned to die for robbery, being unacquainted with the
neighborhood, wandered about all night and next day in the woods, and
was discovered in a hollow tree the next evening by a party of
"coon-hunters," who brought him back; and he was hung in front of the
jail, protesting his innocence to the last. He was subsequently proved
to be guiltless of the crime for which he suffered; and the wretch who
actually committed the deed confessed on his death-bed that he it was
who did the act for which another had suffered. On this occasion, Moody
was more just than the law, and the prisoner's cause better than his
fortune.
[Illustration:
Moody, the Refugee.—_Page_ 32.
]
While the American army was encamped at Morristown, a man very shabbily
dressed, and mounted on a broken-down nag, all of whose "_points_" were
exhibited to the fullest extent, was seen one day to enter the camp, and
pass leisurely through it, scrutinizing every thing as he went; and
although he assumed a perfect nonchalance, and was to all appearance a
simple-hearted and rather soft-headed country farmer, yet there was
something in his manner which attracted the attention of an officer, who
was drilling a squad of recruits in the open air. One of these thought
there was something about the face which he recognized, and told his
officer so. One of the squad was mounted and ordered to bring him back.
Moody—for he it was who had thus boldly entered the American lines and
reconnoitered their ranks—shot him dead as he came up, and secreted the
body by the side of the road. Another being sent to assist the first,
Moody secreted himself in the woods and escaped. Having been driven from
his former haunts by the untiring activity of the Whigs, and being too
well known to venture much abroad, he determined to join the British
army in New York. While attempting to cross to the city with a companion
in an open boat, they were captured, brought back to Morristown, and
hung as traitors and spies. Moody was said to have come from Kingwood
township, Hunterton County, and was employed by the British to obtain
recruits in New Jersey among the Tory inhabitants, act as a spy upon the
Americans, and by his maraudings to keep the inhabitants so busy at home
as to prevent their joining or aiding the American army.
Another desperado of those days was Joseph, or "Joe Bettys," a
remarkable character, who figured in the border wars of the Revolution.
He was a renegade from the American army, and for a long while was the
scourge of the New York frontier. His deeds were marked by an equal
boldness and cruelty, that made him the terror of all who had the
misfortune to be ranked as his enemies. His principal employment was the
abduction of citizens to be conveyed into Canada, for each of whom he
received a bounty; and in his expeditions for this purpose, he was
always accompanied by small bodies of Indians. His hour for executing
his projects was at night, and it frequently happened that his conduct
was not confined to the securing of prisoners, but he often reveled in
the destruction of property and the infliction of cruelty, and his
victims were often tormented by every means his savage ingenuity could
devise. Cold-blooded murder, and reckless barbarities of every kind,
continually stained his soul. The section of country which suffered from
his marauding expeditions, to this day is rife with stories of his
daring and ferocity.
In the year 1776, he entered as Sergeant in the New York forces, in
which capacity he served his country faithfully, until, being
exasperated at the treatment which he received from one of his superior
officers, and retorting with threats and menaces, he was reduced to the
position of a common sentinel. This was more than he could bear, and he
would have deserted, had not Lieutenant Ball, who had before befriended
him, anticipating such a step, applied and procured for him appointment
as Sergeant on board one of the vessels on Lake Champlain, commanded by
Arnold, which he accepted. In an action that ensued, Bettys displayed a
wonderful daring and gallantry, which receiving no other notice than the
thanks of his General, he conceived himself slighted, and determined to
retaliate. In the spring of 1777, he deserted and went over to the
British forces, where he was soon elevated to the position of a spy, in
which character he carried on the depredations we have spoken of.
Among the prisoners that he secretly seized and carried off in the early
part of his career, was Samuel Patchim, afterward a Captain in the army.
The account of his captivity and subsequent hardships, as here given, is
as it was related by himself:
"I was captured by Bettys, taken into Canada, and confined in Chamblee
prison, in irons. I was the only prisoner whom he had on this occasion
brought into Canada. There were six or seven more of my neighbors when
we started, to whom he gave the oath of allegiance and sent them back.
As for myself, he said I had served Congress long enough, and that I
should now serve the king. He wished me to enlist in his company, but
soon found that this was not agreeable to my feelings. He then swore,
that if I would not serve the king, I should remain in irons. I was
confined in Chamblee prison four months; then I was removed to Montreal,
and thence to an island, forty-five miles up the St. Lawrence, opposite
Cadalake Fort. There I remained about one year. There were five
prisoners in all, and we were guarded by sixty soldiers, seven sentinels
at night. They had left no boats on the island by which we might make
our escape, yet we all crawled out of the barracks at night, and went to
the river side; there we made a raft by means of two or three logs and
our suspenders, on which we sailed down the river five miles, when we
landed on the Canada shore. There we appropriated to our own use a boat
belonging to the British, and crossed over to the American shore. While
going down the rapids, we had lost our little stock of provisions, and
for eight days out of twelve which we spent in the woods, we had nothing
to eat save frogs and rattlesnakes, and not half enough of them. We were
chased eight days by the Indians, and slept every night on the boughs of
some hemlock trees. At length we arrived at Northwest Bay, on Lake
Champlain, when my companions, unable longer to travel, utterly gave
out. I then constructed a raft on which to cross the lake, and having
stripped my companions of their clothing, in order to make myself
comfortable, left them to die of hunger and fatigue, and committed
myself to the wintry waves. When in about the center of the lake, I was
taken by the crew of a British ship, and conveyed to St. John's, from
thence to Quebec, and finally to Boston, where I was exchanged and sent
home."
Bettys seemed to have a particular delight in taking prisoners among his
own townsmen, and especially those against whom he held any grudge. On
one occasion, having taken one whom he supposed to be the object he
sought, and his prisoner managing to escape, he deliberately shot him
dead, and then discovered that he had made a fatal mistake, and killed
one of his best friends.
But his bloody career was destined to find a retributive end. One day,
in the winter of 1781-2, a suspicious-looking person was seen to pass
over the farm of one John Fulmer, situated near Ballston Lake, in Albany
County. A son of the farmer, Jacob, immediately obtained the aid of
three of his neighbors, James and John Cory, and Francis Perkins, and
started in pursuit of the suspicious stranger. There was a light fall of
snow on the ground, by which means his course was easily tracked. But we
will give an account of the enterprise in the words of Jacob Fulmer, one
of the party:
"The morning had been foggy, and it appeared by the track that the man
had made a circuitous route, as if lost or bewildered. After making
several turns, we came at length in sight of a log house, where one
Hawkins, a noted Tory, lived, toward which it appeared he had laid a
regular line. We followed the track, and found that it went into the
house. We approached undiscovered, for the snow was soft, and our
footsteps were not heard. We went up to the door, and found it was
unfastened, but heard people talking within. John Cory, who was the
strongest of the party, now went forward, we following closely behind,
and burst open the door. The man who was the object of our suspicions
and search sat at the table eating his breakfast, with the muzzle of his
gun leaning upon his shoulder, and the breech upon the floor between his
knees. He grasped his musket, and presented it to fire at us, but was
hindered for a moment to remove the deer-skin covering from the lock,
and that moment lost his life. We seized him, took possession of his
gun, and also two pistols, which he had in his coat pockets, and a
common jack-knife. We then bound his arms behind him, with a pocket
handkerchief, and conveyed him to my father's house. As yet, we knew not
the name of our prisoner, but having asked him, he said: 'My name is
Smith.' My mother knew him, and said: 'It is Joe Bettys.' He hung his
head, and said: 'No, my name is Smith.' My sister Polly then came to the
door, and said: 'This is Joe Bettys, I know him well.' She had known him
before he went to Canada, as he had boarded at Lawrence Van Epps, in
Schenectady Patent, while she lived in the same house. We then conveyed
him to John Cory's house, about a quarter of a mile distant, where we
pinioned him more firmly. He sat down in a chair by the fire, and asked
permission to smoke, which was granted, and he then took out his tobacco
box, and seemed to be engaged in filling his pipe, but as he stooped
down, under pretence of lighting it, he threw something toward the fire
which bounded from the forestick and fell upon the hearth. He then
seized it, and threw it into the fire, before any one could prevent.
John Cory then snatched it from the fire, with a handful of live coals.
It was not injured. It was a piece of lead about three inches long, and
one and a quarter inch wide, pressed together, and contained within it a
small piece of paper, on which were twenty-six figures, which none of
our company could understand. It also contained an order, drawn on the
Mayor of New York, for thirty pounds sterling, payable on the delivery
of the sheet-lead and paper inclosed. Bettys showed much uneasiness at
the loss of the lead, and offered one hundred guineas to allow him to
burn the paper. This we refused, for, though we did not understand the
figures, we well knew the character of Bettys, as I had heard that he
had killed two men at Shenesborough, near Whitehall, for fear of being
betrayed in regard to the burning and plundering of a house in
Chaughnawaga, and that he was generally known as a spy."
The narrative goes on to give the particulars of the journey to Albany,
and the precautions taken to convey their prisoner safely through a
district abounding with Tories, who were affected to Bettys, but no
rescue was attempted.
Much rejoicing was expressed at the capture of the notorious Bettys, and
when he was marched through Albany, the people gathered in masses to
look upon him. In a short time he was brought to trial, on the charge of
being a spy, found guilty, condemned, and accordingly executed in the
month of April, 1782.
Among other similar excursions, Bettys once made an audacious eruption
into the city of Albany, for the purpose of abducting General Schuyler,
for whom he would have received a most liberal reward from the
authorities in Canada, who so long and so vainly endeavored to get that
chivalric officer into their possession. He was unsuccessful.
The attempt, referred to above, of Joe Bettys, to assassinate or take
prisoner General Schuyler, was not singular in the history of that brave
and beloved officer. He seemed fated to be ever surrounded with perils,
in the seclusion of his home quite as much as on the field of battle.
His noble private character, his fortune, and his high, unequalled,
unresting patriotism, made him a shining mark for the malevolence of the
British and Tories. His beautiful mansion, on Fish Creek, with his mills
and property, to the amount of twenty thousand dollars, was wantonly
burned by order of Burgoyne; and his life was in constant jeopardy from
the hatred of his minions.
On one occasion a Tory, by the name of Wattenneyer, with a gang of
miscreants like himself, assaulted his house, burst in the doors, took
the guards—who were asleep in the basement—prisoners, and sought the
person of the General; but, by a well-managed ruse, he frightened them
into the belief that they were being surrounded, and they decamped,
taking with them a large amount of silver plate and other valuables. At
another period, an Indian had crept stealthily into the house, and
concealed himself behind the door, where he awaited an opportunity to
strike General Schuyler as he should pass to his chamber. A female
servant, coming in through the hall, seeing the gleam of a blade in the
dim light, which just enabled her to recognize the outline of a dusky
figure, with much presence of mind, appeared not to have made the
discovery, but passed into the room where the General sat, and, while
pretending to arrange some articles upon the mantel, in a low voice
informed him of her discovery at the same time adding, aloud:
"I will call the guard!"
This alarmed the secreted warrior, and, hearing the servant tread upon a
creaking board in another hall, and believing the household aroused, he
fled.
After the surrender of Burgoyne, the Tories, smarting under the
disappointment of that event, and more deeply incensed than ever at
General Schuyler, in whom they recognized one of the active causes of
the British defeat, resolved upon his destruction. To attain this
object, they selected two individuals, an Indian and a white man. The
former had been in the habit of hunting and fishing on the General's
place, and knew every part of the grounds, with the places in which they
would be most likely to meet him, in his daily perambulations. He was a
powerfully-built and active fellow, a dangerous opponent under any
circumstances. The other was a weak-minded Irishman, who had received
many favors from the General, and was, even then, in his employ;
notwithstanding which, he could not resist the offered bribes, and
consented to imbue his hands in his benefactor's blood, for a price. On
the afternoon of a certain day, the two secreted themselves in a leafy
copse, near which the General must pass in his accustomed ride. It was
not long before they saw him approaching on horseback, and they proposed
to shoot him as he passed.
General Schuyler had been made fully aware, by the abduction of so many
of his friends and neighbors, who had been dragged from their homes and
carried off to Canada—there to be retained as prisoners until
exchanged—as well as by the many attempts to get possession of his own
person, that he was in constant danger of being seized; but he did _not_
imagine that his enemies would descend to the use of the assassin's
knife, and much less did he fear that such a blow would come from those
whom he had befriended—who had eaten of his bread and been nourished by
his bounty. His was one of these generous natures which, being devoid of
guilt, loved not to suspect others. But civil war destroys all ties,
severs all bonds, arouses man's most vindictive passions, arraying
friend against friend, sometimes brother against brother. Conscience
will, at times, assert herself, even under such influences. She reminded
the Indian—savage as he was, unlettered, untutored in the finer
feelings—of the many favors he had received at the hands of the man he
was about to destroy; even as his eye glanced along the barrel of the
rifle aimed at his benefactor, he repented his intention, and, with an
impulse which did credit to his heart, he struck up the weapon of his
companion, saying:
"I cannot kill him—I've eat his bread too often!"
The General rode by, unconscious that his life hung by the slender
thread of an Indian's conscience.
One of the saddest pages in the history of our struggle for Independence
is that which tells of hearths and homes desecrated, which should have
enjoyed immunity, even in times of warfare. Not only did the British
encourage the marauding of such desperadoes as Moody and Bettys, but
their more brutal Hessians seemed hired to wreak the horrors of war upon
the innocent dwellings of women and children.
The Rev. James Caldwell, pastor of the First Presbyterian Church in
Elizabethtown, New Jersey, acted as Chaplain of the American army while
in New Jersey, and, by his zealous patriotism, and patriotic appeals,
often contributed to arouse the spirits of the soldiers, and to inspire
them with a greater energy in the performance of their trying duties. He
was very popular in the community, and received the unlimited confidence
of Washington.
But his lofty patriotism, and unflinching zeal in the American cause,
made him hated by the enemy, who sought every means to get him into
their power, and a price was set upon his head. When preaching, he
frequently was compelled to lay his loaded pistols by his side in the
pulpit. At one time he resided in Springfield, but afterward removed to
"Connecticut Farms," about four miles from Elizabethtown. Here was
enacted the first part of the tragedy we are about to relate.
A company of British troops from New York, under command of the Hessian
General, Knyphausen, landed in Elizabethtown, in June of 1780, and,
marching directly into the interior, proceeded to wreak their cruelty
upon every living thing that fell in their way. Houses were fired,
cattle destroyed, helpless people murdered, or left without shelter,
clothing or food. Mr. Caldwell heard of their approach, and immediately
prepared to escape. He put his elder children in a wagon, and sent them
on to some of his friends for protection. He then desired his wife, with
the younger children, to take means of flight, but she announced her
determination of remaining, as none would have cause to offer injury to
her. Finding she would not yield to his persuasion, and believing it
impossible that their resentment could extend to an unprotected mother,
with her babe clasped to her heart, Mr. Caldwell resolved to leave them,
and seek his own safety alone. He was mounted, and receiving the last
assurance of her resolve to stay, when the gleam of arms announced the
approach of the enemy, and he rode rapidly off.
Mrs. Caldwell, having concealed what things were of value, took her
infant in her arms, and retired to her chamber, the window of which
commanded the road. Here, with her three little ones around, she awaited
the approach of the enemy, feeling conscious that her unprotected state
would secure respect and safety. One little girl was standing by the
window, watching the approach of the troops, when one of the soldiers
left the road, and came to the window, which he had no sooner reached
than he placed the muzzle of his gun against it, and deliberately fired,
when Mrs. Caldwell fell suddenly back, and almost instantly expired.
Not content with depriving her of life, the inhuman monsters wreaked
their cruelty on her senseless body. Her clothes were nearly torn off,
and her body removed to the roadside, where it was subjected to every
indignity, while the torch was applied to the dwelling, and then the
work of destruction was done.
The effect of this terrible blow upon the husband can only be imagined.
He was, that morning, standing upon the heights of Springfield, and, by
the aid of a spy-glass, could see the smoke from the burning houses.
"Thank God," he exclaimed, "the fire is not in the direction of my
house."
He was too soon to learn the sad mistake.
The royalists attempted to throw off the responsibility of this act, by
asserting that Mrs. Caldwell was killed by a chance shot. But all the
evidence goes to show that it was deliberately planned, and that the
soldier by whose hand the bloody deed was committed, only acted in
accordance with his orders. The fact that her body was allowed to be so
rudely treated, while many of the officers felt their abhorrence for the
deed, proves that, although they felt respect for her remains, they knew
the will of their superiors, and therefore dared not show it.
The following anecdote, connected with this invasion, shows pretty
clearly who were the murderers of Mrs. Caldwell. The flames from the
burning dwelling could be seen from "Liberty Hall," the residence of
Governor Livingston, who was, at that time, absent from home. Parties of
soldiers were continually passing the house, but, for some reason, it
was spared. But about midnight a party of soldiers, partially
intoxicated, rushed into the house. The maid-servant—all the males in
the establishment having taken refuge in the woods, early in the day, to
avoid being made prisoners—fastened herself in the kitchen; and the
ladies—Mrs. Livingston and her daughters—crowded together like
frightened deer, locked themselves in another apartment. Their place of
retreat was soon discovered by the ruffians; and, afraid to exasperate
them by refusing to come out, one of Governor Livingston's daughter's
opened the door. A drunken soldier seized her by the arm; she grasped
the villain's collar, and, at the very moment, a flash of lightning
illuminated the hall, and, falling upon her white dress, he staggered
back, exclaiming, with an oath:
"It's Mrs. Caldwell, that we killed to-day."
One of the party was at length recognized, and, by his intervention, the
house was finally cleared of the assailants.[2]
Footnote 2:
Life of Livingston.
But the vengeance of Mr. Caldwell's enemies was not yet satiated; the
tragedy so far was incomplete. It was on the 24th of November, 1781,
that he himself fell beneath the ruthless murderer's hand, and the blow
this time came from a source where he thought himself secure. On the day
above mentioned, he went to Elizabethtown Point, for a Miss Murray, who
had come from New York, under a flag of truce. After conducting her to
his gig, he returned to the boat, to obtain a bundle which had been left
behind. As he came on shore, the American sentinel challenged him, and
demanded what "contraband goods" he had there. Mr. Caldwell stepped
forward to tender the bundle to the proper officer, not wishing to enter
into a dispute about it then, when the report of a musket was heard, and
he fell dead, pierced by two balls. He had been shot by a man named
Morgan, who had just been relieved from duty as a sentinel. He was
arrested, tried, condemned, and was executed. There can be no doubt but
that he was bribed to the deed by British gold, as there was no shadow
of a cause to suppose that enmity existed between Mr. Caldwell and him.
Viewed from any point, these two murders were among the most atrocious
acts perpetrated by the invaders of our country, and, in a history full
of atrocities, they will always rank as bloody, fiendish and
treacherous.