Cape May Diaries
39- Revolutionary ghosts?
One of the most sincere, yet angriest political advocates I know called me up the other day to talk about politics in Hudson County where I write a political column.
Amid all of the speculation over whom would become the next U.S. Senator now that Jon Corzine has been elected Governor of New Jersey, my outspoken source mentioned that he knew the owner of Congress Hall in Cape May – though he had never come to see it.
Congress Hall differs from many of the historic buildings that are typical of Cape May because it roots pre-dates the Victorian Era. For me, it reflects a purer time in history when America had aimed for high ideals and wandering through its halls during the few times I have visited it – last when another friend held his wedding reception there – I am surrounded by the ghosts of a past I most wish to have lived in.
Congress Hall has, however, seemed part of a Sophie’s Choice, where preservationists were forced to choose between saving one historic building at the expense of the other. Which historic place is worth saving, which is not?
And though I was deeply troubled by the loss of the Christian Admiral and the Sawyer House, the threat of losing Congress Hall moved me in a deeper way because for most of my life I had strolled in the footsteps of General Washington and General Lafayette, regretting the loss of The Passaic Hotel they frequented in Paterson during the revolution. No marker or historic document can even recall the precise location of the hotel; although both men’s names are carved in the stone wall of the Great Falls in Paterson said to have been near the foundations.
During our first trip to Cape May in 1990 and subsequent visits, we took great pleasure in knowing two of the main thoroughfares in Cape May had been named after my heroes, and frequently stopped off at those places that seemed on the verge of extinction.
Although I admired and still regret the loss of the Christian Admiral, coming back to Cape May in 1997 to find a vacant lot where it had stood, something deeper and more fundamentally American stirred inside me at the idea of losing Congress Hall as well.
We did not know at the time that the same family had owned both buildings and had let them decline – helping to destroy a remarkable piece of history.
During the early years, we paused to stare in wonder at the amazing columns that stood in their noble decay, testifying to a time when American’s most noble ideas were still fresh in people’s minds.
Although built 30 years after the start of the American Revolution as a mere boarding house, it suffered the mockery of some locals who believed it was too big. As with many of the original structures, “The Big House” as it was called was gutted by the great fire of 1878, then reconstructed in brick to become the symbol of Cape May, a place that became the summer home of several U.S. Presidents – though as it faded, it served numerous other lesser functions even at one point, a speakeasy and gambling hall and its lawn during World War II used for outdoor concerts.
Perhaps this connection and the fact that it was the last of a generation of giant hotels pressed people to come up with the $22 million to restore it.
As we strolled through its restored columns and remarkable rooms these days, I pretend that I can hear the voices of those original guests, wondering if any had served in the great wars with Britain that had kept us safe.
Although Cape May saw American troops stationed here at times, and its waterway served as a valuable resource, I could find but one account of violence here – yet it was a significant death.
According to history writer, Mark DiIonno, the first American death in New Jersey occurred on Cape May’s shore.
For those who do not know, New Jersey is drenched in Revolutionary blood.
They saw us a terrorists, when in truth, nearly all the protests prior to the beginning of the war were against property not people – a sharp difference between those who attacked the World Trade Center on 9/11.
The British came with vengeance in their hearts, and most of the blood was spilled on New Jersey shores – or in the prison ships in New York Harbor to which they sent patriots caught in New Jersey’s many skirmishes. British troops, in fact, carried the names of those who signed the Declaration of Independence, determined to kill or capture them as well. Sometimes they came close. One of the signers managed to escape out the back of a barn in Central New Jersey when the British troops barged in the front.
Once conflict started, Americans gave back as good as they got, revenging the death in Cape May and elsewhere with traps.
One road I still frequent in Morris County is called “Shades of Death Road” because Washington’s sharp shooters in the nearby hills used to pick off British soldiers as they traveled it. A creek near where I live in Meadowlands and which runs near Giants Stadium has the name of Berry – although few know why. Berry was an officer in Washington’s scattered army as it retreated into New Jersey from a disastrous loss in New York and Long Island. Pursued in the dead of winter, he ducked down into the creek where the British eventually lost him, although frost bite took several of his fingers and toes.
I don’t know why Congress Hall recalls these images with each visit. Maybe ghosts of heroes past still do wander that place, stirring up for the sensitive a historic time that even preservationists cannot restore.
I know that wandering there brings back some sense of hope that politics and contemporary values had eroded in me. I guess this is one of the reasons I keep coming back to Cape May.