Enoch Crosby the Shoemaker Spy: An Historical Biography of a Truly Heroic American

By Paul E. Collins

It was the summer of 1776. In New York City George Washington’s army faced an overwhelming frontal attack by the British army and navy. Tories in the adjacent counties north of the city were forming companies to assist the British by attacking Washington’s rear guard and preventing the patriots’ escape. As Enoch Crosby traveled alone plying his trade, he fell in with a band of these Tories. Crosby might have spent his days as an itinerant shoemaker, but colonial America was spiraling into a maddening rebellion. The decision he made that night would change his life forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781662404085

Book preview

Chapter 1

New York City

Had the old man ever been to the metropolis before? Likely, but uncertain. However, in 1827, he had been summoned to appear as a witness before the US Supreme Court for the Southern District of New York at New York’s City Hall. The distance from his home, from his small rural farm, was a matter of sixty miles, give or take. The journey from Putnam County to New York City could be accomplished with relative ease. A horse-drawn coach, traveling about five miles per hour, could manage the trip in a single day. He knew that overland travel had greatly improved in recent decades. Nearly twenty years earlier, the farmer had been one of the organizers for the building of an east-west road that would meander diagonally from Danbury, Connecticut, enter Westchester County at Croton Falls, and snake its way through Somers, over the Pine’s Bridge and connect with the Albany Post Road at Ossining. The Croton Turnpike had become a tremendously successful toll road. ¹ Indeed, its revenue boosted the aging man’s circumstances.

His last will and testament trusted his youngest daughter, Hannah, to handle the financials. Hannah was charged to invest $2,000 on good landed security. Interest from the investments would support her sister, Sarah. If the older sister needed greater assistance, the will trusted Hannah to disburse part of the principal for that purpose. An additional $2,000 was bequeathed for Hannah to use as she saw fit. Properties were left to his two beloved sons. (See Appendix A: Last Will and Testament.)

The old man could well afford such generosity. An inventory of his financials shows that he had been generous to the community at large. About thirty Putnam families were in debt to him to the tune of approximately $10,000.² He had achieved that level of financial security because he had been wise and thrifty. The inventory shows no extravagance. The most expensive item of clothing was a coat (worth) $7.50. (See Appendix B: Inventory.)

The usual possessions belonging to a farmer were listed: plowshare, hogshead, beehives, pitchforks, etc. His reading material was limited, but focused. Three of the four books on his shelves were religious works: a Bible, a biblical concordance, and ecclesiastical history. Noticeable because of its absence from the list was his portrait. Certainly, a 33-inch-by-25.5-inch oil-on-wood painting could not be overlooked. (See Appendix C: The Portrait.) An inscription on the back of the work explains that Crosby had seen the painting and agreed that it was a true likeness of himself. However, the portrait was not commissioned by the sitter.³ The conclusion is clear. Although our man sought no public attention, others regarded him in high esteem.

Humility and enterprise were family traits. Although his son was not a passionate farmer, he had a good head for business. The young man had married Calista Bailey, the daughter of Hachaliah Bailey, the proprietor of the Elephant Hotel, which still stands beside the Croton Turnpike in Somers.

hotel.JPG

Hachaliah Bailey’s Elephant Hotel

Photo by the author

The hotel’s appellation was derived from Bailey’s purchase and employment of an elephant to work his farm. Curiosity captured local interest to such a degree that Bailey decided to put the animal on tour. Folks were willing to pay for a glimpse of the creature. Whether Bailey employed a Bethel, Connecticut boy, P. T. Barnum, as his ticket taker is uncertain. However, the Town of Somers History notes that Bailey had met a senior Mr. Barnum in that man’s store in Bethel, Connecticut.⁴ Thus, the American circus was born. Undoubtedly, the enterprising son-in-law managed the hotel in Hachaliah’s absence. The young man also managed the Union Hotel in Ossining, drove a coach on the Somers-Ossining toll road, and he owned an interest in the Red Bird Stage Line, which ran from Ossining to Albany.⁵

At Ossining, his father could transfer to another coach line headed down the Albany Post Road or choose to take a steamboat or a sloop and sail downriver to New York City. Besides, the old man was in relatively good health for a person in his late seventies. He had lived a hard life and a journey of this nature would be no great challenge.

His familiarity with the nature of the court case compelled him to make the trip. As a landowner, he had both personal and public reasons to answer the summons. An unfavorable outcome could affect him as similar circumstances had destroyed his own father’s livelihood more than half a century earlier.

Also, he was a responsible member of his community. He felt an obligation to do what he could to protect his neighbors. For decades he had faithfully served his small rural community. He had been an elected justice of the peace, a supervisor for the town of Southeast, a trustee and deacon of the Presbyterian Church, and a deputy sheriff to the county. Nearly twenty years earlier, he had been one of a party of Putnam County residents who had petitioned the state legislature to address the land issue and avoid future problems. No action had been taken. Now, litigation had become the remedy. He was a respected man, and he was determined to carry out his civic duty.

The trial concerned John Jacob Astor’s attempt to collect rent from farmers on lands they had purchased from the New York Commission of Forfeiture. After the Revolutionary War, property once belonging to Loyalists was confiscated by the new government. The combined properties of the Morris, Robinson, and Philipse families, who had all remained loyal to the Crown, were taken. When hostilities were concluded, the post-revolutionary government of the State of New York allowed its citizens who had pledged allegiance to the United States, to purchase thousands of acres that had once constituted the Philipse Patent. Our witness and his brother had purchased nearly three hundred acres within the boundaries of the contested property. Most buyers were already living on and working the land. Mary Morris, née Philipse, died in 1825, and her ownership of the land in Putnam County was bought by John Jacob Astor for twenty thousand dollars. When the occupants of that land refused to pay rent to Astor, he sought legal recourse.⁶ Astor’s notoriety and fortune had drawn reporters from every newspaper in town. The defense had called numerous witnesses to testify regarding the rightful ownership of the properties involved. Among the witnesses appearing in court was Enoch Crosby.

Our traveler had taken rooms at Washington Hall, a hotel on Broadway at Chambers Street. The location was ideal. New York’s new City Hall was a few steps around the corner, park side. He entered the courtroom at the designated time. An old acquaintance immediately recognized him and took the liberty of introducing him to the court. It is uncertain who the old acquaintance was, but all eyes surely focused upon the tall, elderly, broad-shouldered gentleman in the dark frock coat. The introduction may have gone like this: "Here, gentlemen, is the living, breathing, Harvey Birch. Here is the prototype of Mr. James Fenimore Cooper’s fictional hero. Here is the Spy come to life. Mr. Henry Wallack may be playing the title role at our nearby Lafayette Theatre on Laurens Street⁷ (now West Broadway), but today in this courtroom, we are privileged to be in the company of the genuine Harvey Birch." A mixture of incredulity and awe swept throughout the room. Now, the press had another story to follow.

When word reached Mr. Charles Sandford, owner of the Lafayette, he quickly extended an invitation to the real spy to attend a performance of The Spy. The management would provide their guest with a preferential box seat.⁸ Newspapers were happy to publicize the upcoming performance, noting that the audience would be seated with the very incarnation of James Fenimore Cooper’s hero, Harvey Birch.

Cooper’s novel The Spy had been a great success. The work had catapulted the novelist into the limelight of American authors. Perhaps, modern readers are more familiar with Cooper’s collection of novels called The Leatherstocking Tales. Within the pages of those five books, Americans became familiar with Cooper’s character, Natty Bumppo, sometimes called the old trapper. His fictional companions, Chingachgook and Uncas, called him Hawkeye, long rifle, the deerslayer, and the pathfinder. American readers were fascinated by the frontiersman who traveled the woodlands, lakes, and streams, daring danger and doing right. However, Natty Bumppo’s trees and forests were being decimated by an advancing civilization. As Anglo economic and cultural codes became the rule, the ideals of the honest frontiersman and the noble savage faded from the American scene. In a similar fashion, Americans were captured by a similar romantic nostalgia as they witnessed Harvey Birch maneuver through the dark and dangerous complexities of the American rebellion. Within ten weeks of the novel’s release, Mr. Charles Powell Clinch had written and produced a stage adaptation. The event was a first for any American novelist. On March 1, 1822, The Spy was on the boards at the New Park Theatre in New York City.⁹

The play would enjoy an unprecedented five-year run. The Lafayette was not the only house in town interested in presenting The Spy. Robert Campbell Maywood would be playing Harvey Birch at the Park Theatre later that same November. Indeed, the play would remain popular well into the 1850s and it would be resurrected during the nation’s centennial season.¹⁰

November 1827 was a particularly harsh month. Early-in-the-month temperatures in Philadelphia had registered all-time lows. Pennsylvania Hospital had recorded several consecutive days when the temperatures lingered between fifteen and seventeen degrees below freezing. That same month gale-force winds devastated the shipping business in New York harbor. Although the weather was chilly and damp on the night of the performance, the house was standing room only. Before the play began, Mr. Sandford stood in front of the audience. He called for attention. He asked the gentleman in the box seat to please rise. The hall resounded with great applause and cheering as Mr. Sandford introduced the real Harvey Birch, Mr. Enoch Crosby.¹¹

Mr. Crosby humbly acknowledged his appreciation. He spoke briefly, touching on two points. First, he was never proud of spying. The spy’s mission was to ferret out the nation’s enemies, be they neighbors, friends, or family. Actually, he was rather ashamed of it.¹² Spying was an unenviable occupation, and spies were despised by most people. Second, he would not apologize for acting in that capacity. The nation’s liberty and the lives of those who fought for that liberty, far surpassed personal risk or public reputation. Enoch Crosby sat. The curtain rose. The play commenced. As the old soldier watched his story unfold before him, how many recollections, some satisfying, some terrifying, must have raced across his memory. In mid-December, Crosby penned a letter to New York’s newest paper, The Journal of Commerce. Once again, he acknowledged his appreciation for the warmth shown to him by the people of New York City, members of the press, and the managers of the Lafayette Theatre. Again, he focused on the glorious result that his efforts and the efforts of so many others had achieved by their actions in the War for Independence.¹³

Within a year, H. L. Barnum introduced himself to Enoch Crosby. Barnum proposed writing and publishing a book that would tell the story of the real spy, the actual counterintelligence agent, who had worked on the dark side of the American rebellion. He proposed to write a book called The Spy Unmasked, or Memoirs of Enoch Crosby. The book would be a true account of Crosby’s service during the War of Independence, and it would be told from Crosby’s own words.

As to the outcome of the court case, Astor won, but the State of New York appealed to the US Supreme Court, Justice John Marshall presiding. However, attorneys for the state anticipated an unfavorable resolution. Astor and the State of New York reached a compromise agreement whereby the government would pay Astor nearly half a million dollars to relinquish his claim.¹⁴ Citizens in Putnam County would not be displaced, nor would they owe rent to any landlord. The multimillionaire had turned a modest investment into a handsome financial boon. When Astor died in 1848, he was worth between twenty and thirty million dollars.

Chapter 2

On Parade

In France during the summer of 1830, the Bourbon king, Charles X, signed an ordinance to end freedom of the press. He also dissolved the elected Chamber of Deputies. The French citizenry was outraged. After a short rebellion, liberty had been restored. The American public had overcome similar tyrannical suppression, and they well remembered their own history, and they were still reeling in a nostalgic romance with the nation’s jubilee. New Yorkers overwhelmingly supported the people of France in their current stress. In New York City, the response was so enthusiastic that a grand public demonstration was planned. ¹

In autumn, about two hundred sixty of the most prominent citizens of the city were determined to host a grand celebration. Former New York City mayor Philip Hone headed a subcommittee of fifty individuals who were charged with making appropriate arrangements for the occasion. A feeble James Monroe, the fifth president of the young republic, chaired the meeting at which he spoke at great length about the merits of the French commander Lafayette.² During his presidency, Monroe had extended a personal invitation to the Frenchman to visit the United States. The marquis had accepted. During the fight for independence, Lafayette had helped our fledgling nation; now he, as one of the deputies so recently snubbed by the Bourbon king, needed our support. The committee chose November 25 as a most appropriate date for such a celebration. That date marked the anniversary of the 1783 evacuation of the British Army from Manhattan Island.

New York had been experiencing a mild Indian summer, but the weather had become exceptionally inclement. The committee decided to postpone the parade until the following morning. Although the storm had passed, the dawn of November 26, 1830, was bleak and chilly.³ Fort George (today’s Battery Park) had been chosen as the parade’s kickoff point. At that location in 1783, revolutionaries had struck the Union Jack from the flagstaff and raised the American colors.

The guest list was extensive. Members of the Society of the Cincinnati, a hereditary society of the officers of the American Revolution, were included. The commandant, officers, and cadets from the Military Academy at West Point, the president, faculty and students from Columbia University, numerous businessmen, politicians, and veterans of the War of 1812 and the War for Independence were among the invitees. Even New York City’s department of sanitation, the cartmen,⁴ was included. Fittingly, John Van Arsdale, who had taken down the British ensign, and Arthur Glenn, who had hoisted the new colors back in 1783 were invited to participate. The attendees wore ribbons of red, white, and blue. Horse-mounted French nationals rode as an escort beside the grand marshal’s carriage. They were draped in bleu, blanc, et rouge. Reports indicate that groups marching at the end of the parade hadn’t begun to move when the forward guard had already arrived at the parade grounds.⁵

The parade grounds at Washington Square had a storied history. Located in then uptown Greenwich Village, the green had been utilized from the 1790s as a potter’s field for the burial of indigent persons. When yellow fever struck in the early nineteenth century, more respectable denizens of the city joined the less fortunate. This location provided a way to remove infection from lower Manhattan. Perhaps, as many as twenty thousand bodies rest beneath the greenery of Washington Square Park. In 1825, the city had expanded the area and designated the location as a military training ground. Within five short years, this uptown neighborhood began to host a more gentrified population. Greek revival homes were built on properties adjacent to the parkland.⁶ Therefore, by 1830 Washington Square Park had become the ideal terminus of a unique Franco-American celebration. When the line of march finally assembled at Washington Square, the singing of the American national anthem was closely followed by La Marseillaise.⁷

When President Monroe’s barouche arrived at the parade grounds, the elderly statesman was assisted from the carriage. Although Monroe, age seventy-two, was not the eldest of his carriage companions, his health was the weakest. A chair was brought to the platform for him, and from that chair, Monroe addressed the crowd. He would die within the year.

Three other gentlemen descended from the carriage. The first was Albert Gallatin, former secretary of the Treasury under Presidents Jefferson and Madison, US ambassador to France under Monroe, and ambassador to Great Britain under John Quincy Adams. In retirement, Gallatin turned his energies toward the cofounding of New York University, acting president of National Bank’s New York City branch, and founding of the American Ethnological Society. He had long been a proponent of an extensive, national commercial transportation system.

Mayor Philip Hone certainly appreciated Gallatin’s forward-thinking about building canals up and down the east coast. Mayor Hone was himself a chief investor in and the first president of the Delaware and Hudson Canal. That 108-mile system of locks provided a waterway to bring coal from Honesdale, Pennsylvania, to its eastern terminus, Kingston, New York. From Kingston, barges brought the anthracite down the Hudson River to New York City. Gallatin’s acceptance of Philip Hone’s invitation seems a foregone conclusion.

Next, seventy-six-year-old David Williams exited the coach. During the Revolutionary War, Williams had been part of the trio of rebels who had captured Major John André, adjutant general of the British Army. André was wearing civilian clothes when he was taken prisoner, and the papers that were discovered on his person revealed that he was a spy, delivering plans to the British high command. Had those documents reached British headquarters, the fall of American-held West Point would have been imminent. André’s capture revealed the duplicitous and treasonous character of one of America’s best generals, Benedict Arnold. Williams’s two companions at the time of André’s apprehension were Isaac Van Wart and John Paulding. These men were already deceased at the time of the New York City parade. However, one person connected to the trio may have been influential in arranging David Williams’s invitation. Philip Hone was no longer the mayor of New York City. Walter Browne held that distinction in 1830. Nevertheless, Hone’s mayoralty had been sandwiched between two terms served by William Paulding, Jr. Paulding was a cousin of the famed revolutionary militiaman, John Paulding.

The fourth and eldest gentleman in the carriage was eighty-year-old Enoch Crosby. Crosby was, by this time, a celebrated character whose service during the American Revolution had turned him into a bigger-than-life legend. Hone had seen Crosby in Albany the previous year. Enoch’s sister, Phoebe, had married Wheaton Robinson, and they were living in Stephentown, New York, a short distance from Albany. That chance encounter may have reminded Hone that the old veteran had been the toast of the town. Crosby’s name had been added to the guest list.⁸

As he stepped from the open carriage, his mind flashed back to the day he and his wife, Sarah, had followed a simple open wagon to the top of Seminary Hill. He remembered the difficulty the bearers faced as they lifted Betsy’s casket and carried it up the