By Walker Joyce
There are few places more important to America’s founding then the rolling hills of Morristown, especially the outskirt called Jockey Hollow. In what may be the most egregious example of New Jersey ignoring its history, the story of the Continental Army’s second encampment there has been eclipsed by the one at Valley Forge.
This is especially galling, because what the troops endured in our neck of the woods make that famous address seem like a church picnic.
As popular historian John T. Cunningham has argued, Jockey Hollow is where our fledgling nation survived—just barely. If it wasn’t for George Washington’s cunning leadership and the bravery of our troops there, the Revolution might have been lost.
The Winter of 1779-80 was not only the worst of the war, it was also the roughest of the century. Between November and the end of March, there were no fewer than 28 major storms, most bringing in feet of snow and fierce winds that would pile it in mammoth drifts. This made roads impassable and led to dire shortages of food and supplies. The worst one occurred over three days and nights during the first week of January, and when it was over four feet of new snow lay on the prior accumulation, rendered by seven December blizzards!
At first, the soldiers had to endure this weather in tents while they constructed a veritable city of log huts. Building the cabins went on amid these conditions, with shoeless men clearing hundreds of acres of forest, finding minimal relief from bonfires.
Beyond the brutal climate, the troops endured deprivations of everything, from decent clothing and blankets, to small pleasures like tobacco.
But worst of all was the emptiness of their bellies.
Rations were rarely sufficient, but in Jockey Hollow things reached famine level. Wagons couldn’t roll, live game was scarce, and local farms were loath to share their meager stores. Some soldiers actually ate their shoe leather, and more than one dog was butchered and boiled.
Meanwhile, their commander-in chief enjoyed relative comfort at the Ford Mansion a few miles away.
But what Washington may have gained in physical relief was surely countered by the constant stress of his commission. On top of his daily administrations and worrying about the ranks, he kept a wary eye on the bulk of the British army, hunkered down in cozy Manhattan quarters.
The enemy’s presence in New York was the main reason Morristown had been selected for the winter encampment. It was less than 30 miles from the redcoat stronghold, and with the Watchung Mountains in between, the rebel hamlet was almost impregnable. In fact, the only pass through the steep inclines that could accommodate a raid was the Hobart Gap, known today as Rt. 24 in Summit, just before reaching the Short Hills Mall.
Washington was his own spy master, and he made a project out of exaggerating the size and strength of his army. Somehow, the Brits never learned the extent of the Continentals’ troubles, and aside from some skirmishes in Springfield, repelled by the state militia, the Englishmen never tried to invade Morristown.
Which they could have done easily, once the Hudson River froze solid in that horrific winter.The ice was so thick, horses and cannons could have crossed and moved onto Morristown. This was Washington’s greatest fear, but due to dumb luck and his own subterfuge, the attack—which would have ended the war—never came.
And our soldiers, who nearly froze or starved to death, remained in Jockey Hollow until spring, when the weather and their general prospects greatly improved: as if all their sacrifices had earned a great reward, word reached Morristown in June that France would be joining the fray. It was delivered to the Ford mansion by the Marquis de Lafayette, as the hills and valleys bloomed again.
So this winter, preferably on a bitter cold day, why not visit the sites of this story, which have thankfully been preserved. They’ll never have the fame of the one in Pennsylvania, but to those who know and cherish our state’s role in the Revolution, they will always be sacred.
