REAL ESTATE OF SKIN

    “Black powder burns and trauma left side of face. Deep pie shaped wound in top, front of skull, broken jaw and teeth missing. Brain: visible.” -Dr. Samuel S. Seward scrawled notes in a small journal, re: Richard Jennings autopsy

     

      There’s a million ways to approach family history (or deny it). The meticulously obsessive, indecipherable, hand drawn “tree,” provided by Osterhout kin Walter H. Thomas and transposed by Florence and Dorothy “the girls,” at the Ulster County Genealogical Society is one way. Doc. Seward’s notebook is another. Both look like what they are genealogical abstracts, going back generations, proof positive that the family infected Indian country, killed and were killed, all within our very small franchise. With the hundreds of names inked onto the tree it’s difficult to make head nor tail. It’s as valid as a mouth swab, I guess. I feel like applying blood splatters and a few powder burns just to keep it accurate. 

     Following the family (and those escaping around them) wherever they lead me, I’m relying upon an instinctive touch to get at this long chronology, but the truth is I get distracted. I  get trapped going down blind alleys and bottom out sailing up shallow feeder streams. Sometimes I’m ashamed at what I find or betrayed by kin like my uncle. Other times I’m pleasantly surprised by acts of valor or Jennings girls facing down constables at gun point. Always it’s interesting and I’m easily pulled from branch to branch. The search will lead me to ancient homesteads, overgrown battlegrounds, and Florida jail cells. I’m still not convinced the entire process hasn’t been a colossal waste of time. Another inherited trait that I’m very familiar with is putting a positive spin on failure.

   We (the family) were usually the hunters, but sometimes the prey. Multiple Osterhouts were attacked, scalped and killed by angry indigenous neighbors in NY in the 1770’s. After the War of 1812 things calmed down a bit. But not for everyone. The poor immigrant, Native American or African American were low hanging fruit. These branches, shaken by my rake, will reflect a different and unique perspective of generational prey well into the 19th century and beyond. I never know what or who I will find.

    Jack Hodges was never a slave, but he was the intended prey of a well oiled machine that kicked into gear once he fled. The man stealers, slave catchers, scalp hunters and constables were all close cousins to the quickly formed citizen posse. The hunt was on and the community rose to the occasion. Jack’s pursuers had been extremely lucky. They had left the small upstate village of Goshen, followed a cold trail across the North river, into the chaotic bustle of the largest city in North America, in search of one “negro fugitive.” By pure luck they located their quarry in days and with the help of the NYC constables at bridewell jail, arrested, ironed and shackled Hodges for the transport back to Goshen. 

   To everyone’s surprise, it didn’t take long for Jack to confess to the crime. The first thing Charlie Durland told his prisoner was that if he was guilty he had better come clean and confess, and oh by the way, Dunning had already spilled his guts and implicated him. Jack took the bait and started talking.   

    On the short crossing from Manhattan to Haverstraw Jack Hodges copped to everything, telling the men he shot Richard Jennings at the behest of two white men and a white woman, in concert with a third white man- David Dunning. He explained that he’d been lured with drink and sex by Mrs. Teed and money from Mr. Teed and Mr. Conklin. He said he had no choice. They had “over-persuaded” him, pinned him to the plate so to speak. So he shot Dick Jennings and Dunning bashed the old man’s brains in. When he realized it was only a matter of time before they found the body he sobered up and ran. Jack pleaded for the posse to take pity on him. He was just a drunk, “a desolate sailor,” a pawn in Mr. Conklin’s game. 

    Jack’s confession did not lack detail. Had not everyone in the posse been all too familiar with the actors involved in Jack’s murderous drama, they most likely would've tossed a rope over the yard-arm, and been done with it. But, to a man, they felt Jack Hodges was probably telling the truth. After all you couldn’t go anywhere in Goshen without hearing about the Jennings feud. Being neighbors, the men were curious just how the hell Jack Hodges would explain his way out of this one. No harm in waiting a little on that lynching. Now it was spectator sport. Nobody (except Jack) wanted to go back to work.