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.

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]

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.