Patrons were taken aback. Not because she was clumsy. Because they knew why she dropped the tray. Since it was first established as a barracks for George Washington's Troops, the Cranbury Crossing structure, a tall, expansive affair of white clapboard with barracks rooms on the second floor seemed to be "unsettling" to all who occupied it.
The restaurant owner, Max Diefer, often wondered if it was the rumors of the patriot ghost that brought customers in. His big concern was the safety of patrons and staff.
Already, one cook had a serious burn on his hand and had to be rushed to the hospital. When asked how it happened, he said it felt as if a strong hand had twisted his wrist and caused him to empty a steaming pot of water on his legs.
The wait staff fared no better than patrons. Winnie Lamont, a hostess, tripped as she was escorting a couple to their table and cut her lip badly enough to need stitches. She said she thought the couple accidentally bumped into her and caused the fall. The couple swore they didn't and in fact, they told Max they had the oddest feeling of something large between them and Winnie.
Corrado Alguerra, a waiter, opened a serving table to set a tray of food on. The serving table legs gave way and collapsed sending food everywhere. Corrado was so scared that he never returned. He also believed "someone" pushed the table to the floor.
But, it was Max Diefer, who had the worst possible evidence there was a ghostly haunting. He always arrived at the restaurant at 4 AM promptly every day, except for Mondays, when he closed the business to do his paperwork.
One foggy Monday morning in late September of 2005, he entered the building from the side office door. He felt the hair on his arms stand up. He turned the key in the lock and it wouldn't budge. When the key snapped off in the lock, he reached for the spare he kept in his brown leather attache. While opening the attache with the tiny key on his keyring, he thought he imagined the acrid odor of smoke,
Oh my God! There must be a fire inside! He thought.
He hurried around to the front door of the building and opened it with another key. As soon as he was inside, he realized the smoke detectors and sprinklers had not activated. He went from the large dining room to the kitchen to the catering room on the second floor. There was nothing. And, there was no odor of smoke.
He hurried to his office. He looked at the clock on the wall. It stopped. The hands read 10 AM. It was only 8 o'clock.
Max Diefer was not the man to be scared by much in his lifetime. He felt more annoyed than scared.
"Hey Ghost! I'm here. Come and get me, you chicken!" He yelled to the empty restaurant.
Just then, he heard something in the catering room upstairs fall with a loud thud. He ran up the stairs, tripping on the top landing and then made his way into the dining room area.
He glanced around once and then again. There was nothing out of place and no reason for the sound of something falling to the floor. He glanced over toward the service area. Nothing on the tables, glassware, dishes or pitchers were out of place. Now, he was angry.
"This is damn silly. There are no such things as ghosts," he told himself.
Max often soothed the fears of his staff and patrons by telling them for all of the money he spent on sealing up any tiny holes in the place and insulating it, it was an "old building" and stood on the windward side of Cranbury Crossing Road.
That worked until one of the patrons sitting near the historic brick fireplace table with three other patrons let out a blood curdling scream. The tablecloth somehow caught fire even though the table was more than ten feet from the fireplace and there was a protective firescreen in front of it.
"This is getting nuts. Do I have to call in a ghost hunter?" Max said, after offering free dinners to all of the patrons that night and having all of the tables near the fireplace moved to another side of the room.
Max told his wife, Irena about the incident.
"Honey, I know you are adamant there is no such thing as ghosts. I never told you this, but one morning when I dropped by the restaurant to see you about signing some papers for our life insurance policy, I saw that ghost," Irena said.
"That's ridiculous! You probably saw some vapors from fog. You know how the restaurant is. It lies at the bottom of the Forest Road hill and always seems misty," Max said.
"Max, it wasn't outside the restaurant. It was inside. That huge mural you have on the wall in the lobby? That's where I saw the ghost. There would be no reason for anything misty near that wall or the mural," Irena said.
"I still don't believe in ghosts. Dead is dead."
"I didn't like to tell you this. I did some history on the restaurant before we bought it. Aside from the fact that its history goes back to the Revolutionary War, there were strange incidents that happened here. When I say, "here," I mean on that property where the restaurant is located," Irena continued.
"Oh? And just what kind of "strange incidents" might you have discovered?"
"For one thing, before white settlers came here, it was an Indian reservation. There used to be a large pond in the woods before the land was cleared," Irena said.
Cranbury Crossing was cross wind of two enormous open fields. When winds blew in winter, there wasn't enough wood to keep the place warm. It was as if the place was a wind tunnel.
It was originally built in 1670 by a farmer named Landsbury who had a wife and four sons who thought they could make a go of farming the land here. East Jersey in those days was a barren landscape where roads often turned to knee deep mud and weather could turn on a dime from one season to the next.
Winters meant trying to keep animals from freezing and humans from dying of one case of influenza after another. Still, James Todd Landsbury fought to keep his land. Even after, two of his sons died of influenza in the winter of 1692, Landsbury struggled onward, with the persistence of a soldier. He was distanced from the encroachment of Hessians and British who found travel to Cranbury Crossing a waste of time, money and energy.
Landsbury sons, Hezekiah and Malachy, had different, more aggressive ideas. Their interests in the war between the Brits and colonists further to the east of Cranbury Crossing annoyed their father and frightened their mother, Sarah Bradford Landsbury, a woman with a deep sense of religious values. She thought she'd taught her sons war was an abomination. In this, she was supported by her husband, although, James was not as deeply religious as his wife.
Hezikiah and Malachy thirsted for the military life. Unlike their father, property ownership was second to their ideas of fighting for freedom to own property. Off they went in search of a regiment. The local militia was all they found.
This was likely a good thing, though still worrisome to James and Sarah. They helped their father with the farm chores but attended meetings with men of like minds in the evenings.
James saw the handwriting on the wall.
"My sons are getting too deep in," James told Sarah.
"Mr. Landsbury, are they in danger?" she asked.
"If they are not now, they will be," James said.
The winter of 1699 was the most severe in more than a hundred years. Family by family, kinfolk were lost to sickness.
James watched as Sarah drew her last breath before he also succumbed a week later to a virulent form of influenza. They were laid to rest next to their two sons on the property James tended for most of his fifty years.
Their burial duties done, they saw an opportunity to offer the farmland to the local militia.
Cranbury Crossing, part of the East Jersey Colony in the late 1700s was little more than open land with a patchwork quilt of farms, replete with iconic large, red barns and a smattering of two story farm houses owned by settlers to the new world. To residents, it represented a kind of freedom to live, work and own property their British ancestors would never have dreamed possible. They built white clapboard churches with spires and bell towers that called residents to worship and give thanks for their new found freedoms.
Freedom was not yet set in stone. Still, people living here knew they would fight to their deaths, if need be, to keep the ideals of freedom. Colonials engaged in various forms of rebellion of British rule with the end result of a full out revolution.
One young man, Samuel Eckston, was ready to fight. He felt a passion for freedom most other twenty-one year old men had yet to experience. So, it was when General George Washington's troop marched across Cranbury Crossing, some were war torn and weary. Their uniforms, those who actually had them, were shabby and their shoe leather so thin, each step could mean a serious infection.
Their great coats were of heavy hand worsted wool created by their own women. This was their only protection from the cold in East Jersey Colony. In the dead of summer heat, though, they shed them rather than become a victim of heat prostration.
Samuel Eckston was from a family of Welshmen with strong minds and strong bodies. Samuel was six foot tall by the time he was fourteen years old. His shock of red hair was the joke of his fellow soldiers.
"Sam, with that bright red head of hair you've got, you're likely to be a signal to the Brits to shoot on sight," John Lamperson, a fellow soldier said.
Samuel's freckled face and pale skin were nearly as red as his hair.
"I am as red as those stripes yonder on our flag!" Samuel shot back.
Samuel understood Lamperson's sense of humor. He tried not to show his embarrassment. He wasn't offended. He was just a patriot to the depths of his soul.
Samuel Eckston's parents came to the new country in search of freedom. They instilled in their oldest son, Samuel, a deep sense of protecting their new found freedoms.
His parents were horrified when the British yoke around colonists' necks began to force them to work harder to pay taxes and tithings to the British crown. It was then colonists felt their sinews stretched and their freedoms threatened most.
When it was announced that General George Washington was to lead the "Continental Army," Samuel Eckston drew from the deep well of his sense of duty to enlist and aid his country. He was part of the younger brigade of sons of the Colonists who took up arms and rallied as a unified force against the red coat Brits.
By the time General Washington marched his troops into Cranbury Crossing, Samuel was as exhausted as the rest of the men in his brigade. Still, there was fight in him, if needs must. Enough fight to cross into Monmouth with his fellow militias and take on the Brits there. Enough to go north to battle in Hunterdon.
Each night, the colonials swiftly and cautiously moved on into new battle grounds. When word came they were to bivouac at a large site in Cranbury Crossing, Samuel and the men were ready for some temporary rest.
Samuel was to take his turn to stand guard on night watch on that hot June evening in 1778. Though Samuel was deadly tired, he fought sleep with all his might. With Colonel Hamilton and General Lafayette overseeing the battle plans, Samuel and the men felt a tenuous sense of safety. Whispers that General Washington himself was to join the men spread like wildfire over the encampment.
General Washington was to join General Lafayette at the home of Dr. Hezekiah Stites while the rest of the men took what little rest they could on the Stites large acreage.
Samuel couldn't know that he was about to meet his fate on the evening. He prided himself on his keen hearing to detect any potential threat from the Brits reported to be headed for Monmouth.
He was joined in his watch by fellow militia man, Ian Macardell. The two men paced their watch until darkness set in.
"Eckston can do no harm should we set ourselves down for a few moments," Macardell said.
"If Colonel Hamilton catches us, it will not be at our ease," Samuel responded.
The two men heard a rustling sound. Macardell shrugged it off.
"Just our own men, Samuel. Not to worry. Can't be a Brit within a few miles of here," Macardell said.
"Ye know their strategy is to send a surveyor to determine our number and location," Samuel responded.
"Tis true that," Macardell said.
The two men heard the rustling sound again.
"Sounds from within the corn acre?" Samuel asked.
"Seems so."
"I will go on ahead. You remain behind. If I do not return, sound the alarm to the rest of the troops," Samuel said.
In the pit of his stomach, Macardell had the strangest feeling of foreboding, as if Eckston knew he wasn't going to return.
Tis just foolish soldier's premonition. Macardell dismissed this thought from his mind. War was no time to muse over such thoughts.
Macardell watched Samuel Eckston disappear into the darkness and thickness of the corn acreage. Its green hue and four foot high height barely visible. When he could no longer see Samuel's tri cornered hat or hear his footfall, Macardell worried.
Eckston should have returned by now. Macardell thought after nearly fifteen minutes passed. The two men were nearly at the end of their watch. Macardell saw their relief watchmen approaching.
"Where be Eckston?" Thomas Orince asked.
"Some minutes now he has been over into the corn acreage. We thought it best to check the rustling sound we both heard," Macardell said.
"He has not returned?" Charles Morton asked.
"Nay."
"How long has he been gone?" Orince asked.
"Since twilight turned to dark of night. Fifteen minutes," Macardell said.
As they spoke of Eckston, he stumbled out of the woods.
"Eckston! What happened to ye?" Macardell asked.
"British surveyor. He...he..." Samuel said, his breath shallow.
"Where is the Brit now?" Orince asked.
"Dead. When he saw me coming, he came forward with his knife, but I refused to draw down and plunged my bayonet into him" Samuel said.
"We must report this to General Lafayette and General Washington," Morton said.
"Orince, help me get Eckston to the camp surgeon," Macardell said.
Samuel Eckston lay on a makeshift cot in Stites large drawing room on the second floor. His wound was lethal. With primitive medical implements, he lived not more than three days before succumbing to his wound.
Epilogue
Samuel Eckston faced the British surveyor, Nigel Bronston, from twenty paces. When the Brit's knife entered Samuel's body and pierced his left lung, he felt as if the very breath he drew was gone, replaced by a feeling of terror. He wasn't ready to die. He wanted to see his parents one more time.
As he was carried to the second floor for medical care, he was aware of the odor of smoke coming through the nearby open window. The world Samuel lived in swirled in a peculiar kind of fog he'd never seen before. Then, he fell into unconsciousness.
"The boy has but a few days left to live," the military physician said.
"Surely, there is something can be done," Macardell asked.
"If there was, I'd be doing it for certain. Has he any family? We should make sure they are notified of his "situation," the doctor said.
As life left Samuel's body, he was barely conscious of John Lamperson and Ian Macardell at his bedside. In and out of unconsciousness for several hours, Samuel reached for Lamperson's hand as if he wished to tell him something. When Samuel's hand fell away limply, the two fellow soldiers knew the end for Samuel had come.
"Samuel's suffering is over. He is the first patriot of the Battle of Cranbury Crossing," Lamperson said.
The General decided to leave no sign of a British surveyor near their encampment. His lifeless body was burned in his red uniform and his ashes carried on the wind over Stites' land.
"General, what shall we do with Samuel Eckston's body?" Ian Macardell asked.
"What we always do with heroes. We will create a monument to Samuel as he is most deserving. If not for his heroic act, all of us might now be dead," the General said.
When the Brits had been beaten back, the marble headstone over the grave of Samuel Eckston was dedicated soon after the Stites' property was sold to the colonial government. It was fitting that the site become an historic site, inasmuch as Stites' own sons were also killed in the Revolutionary War and brought to rest on the small patch of land Stites reserved for war dead.
The Stites' home had served its purpose and remained empty for nearly 100 years until it was determined that it cost the government too much to maintain. For a time, the large, oversized cobblestone home stood empty. The land around it remained unfarmed.
It wasn't until shortly after World War II that interest in Stite's property caught the eye of James Hillyard, himself the son of a farmer. James interest in the Stite's property was mainly its historic value.
He thought about turning the place into an historic museum. He found so many historic farm implements left behind in an old shed and also several revolutionary war relics on the second floor of the structure.
He was motivated to go upstairs when he thought he heard footsteps on the floor above his head. The upstairs was separated into two large rooms, one with a fireplace on the south wall facing the open field. He brought a flashlight with him since electricity had never been installed in the entire place.
First, he checked the windows to see if perhaps a draft was causing the sounds o footsteps. As James moved to the center window on the south wall, he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
"Who's there?" he called out.
As he looked toward the opening to the doorway, he was startled by the sight of "something" moving across the floor.
"Who are you?" James called.
The vaporous vision disappeared as James stepped through the door to the opposite room.
"I know I saw it!" James said into thin air.
He raced down the stairs and out the door. He felt foolish once in inside his car.
The following day, he decided he needed to know more about the property and home he purchased. Did the government know it was haunted? Not that James believed in hauntings.
He knew the basic history of the place. He'd read enough about it in his grade school history books. He was resolute in that he refused to believe there was a ghost.
James Hillyard saw in the old Stites' site great promise. Being a lover of golf, he often spent time out on the property "hitting balls" with his friends, Tom Berkman and Len Avalone. The two friends found the site to be ideal and suggested to James that he consider using the expanse of land for a golf course.
"Jim, think about it. If you opened the house as a museum and the land as a golf course, you'd attract twice the number of patrons," Tom Berkman said.
"I know I'd become a member of your golf course. I have a young nephew looking for part time work in summer who'd be great as a caddy for your guests," Len Avalone said.
"Whoa! You two are getting too far ahead of me," James said.
The two men shrugged; but, they knew they'd planted an idea in James' head.
"You two are talking as if this could be a professional golf course!"
"Well? Why not?" Tom said.
"If you invite golf pros to play here, imagine the publicity you'd get," Len said.
"But, there are no facilities in the house for guests. You think they'd want to use that old outhouse?" James asked.
"Well, you can't destroy the historic integrity of the house or you'll lose your status as a historic landmark. Why not just update the outhouse? It's large enough to serve as a modern bathroom. You could even add a shower," Tom said.
"Oh, I don't know. That's quite an undertaking," James said, dubious of their plans.
"Look, this whole area hasn't changed since Washington's troops bunked here. What have you got to lose? Len and I would be glad to invest in your enterprise," Tom said.
Tom and Len didn't know why James was really reticent about creating Cranbury Cross Golf Club. He looked for another excuse out of their idea.
"If I start this as a golf club, members will expect a shop to buy supplies and after a round, they'll want something to eat and drink," James said.
"Well, you have that huge barn over there to use for a supply house. Why not turn the first floor of the house into a dining area in that large open room where the huge stone fireplace is located? That's such an attraction for diners, you know?" Len said.
"I know I shouldn't be even considering this; but, it is true that the large rear window on the first floor is in perfect alignment with the scenic open field. Of course now, I'd have to do something about removing the last remnants of the corn field as it once existed," James said.
Len and Tom glanced furtively at each other. They sensed James was not altogether against their ideas.
"James, we aren't men of great wealth. But, we know potential when we see it. What if the three of us form a partnership? Tom and I could help with some of the costs of renovations," Len said.
"Well, there is that...the cost to make the necessary renovations. Nothing too grand at first. We could maybe do it little by little," James replied.
The three men walked into the old Stites' house single file, reminiscent of Washington's troops who once entered by the same door.
"James, that wall over there. It needs something to remind everyone who enters about the Revolutionary War history of this place," Tom said.
"What would you suggest?" James asked.
"How about we get the town to commission their historical society to find us an appropriate wall mural?" Len asked.
"A wall mural?"
"Yes. You know. One that depicts Washington's troops fighting the Brits," Len said.
The three men were suddenly distracted from their conversation by the sound of footsteps on the second floor and the crash of an old stone pitcher near the fireplace hearth.
"What on earth was that?" Tom asked.
"This place is said to be haunted," James responded.
"Haunted? By what? or whom?"
"Not sure. But, if you stop by just after twilight, there is a peculiar odor of smoke outside and overhead there seem to be a light rustling like footsteps," James said.
"Good gracious! That might put patrons off for sure," Len said.
Several weeks after Len Avalone contacted the historical society of Cranbury Cross, James, Tom and Len were as pleased as punch that an appropriate mural had been found. It was quite old according to Mrs. Charles Ashford, historical society's museum curator and president.
As the three men stood near the great wall where the mural was to be hung, Mrs. Ashford provided a bit of historical background.
"This mural is perfect for that wall. We had to contact several New England museums to find it. It was done by Averell Corstan in 1777. It was to be a reminder of the threat of British occupation of the colonies and the men who fought for colonial freedom," Mrs. Ashford said.
"Mrs. Ashford, may I ask you a question?" Tom asked.
"Certainly."
"To your knowledge, was there any event out of the ordinary when Washington's troops were barracked here?" Tom continued.
"Oh my! I should say so! We have a memorial to Samuel Eckston, who is referred to as the Cranbury Cross Patriot," Mrs. Ashford said.
She saw that none of the three men knew who she was referring to.
"Samuel Eckston was a young lad in Washington's army. His parents were not pleased that he enlisted to serve at such a young age. Nevertheless, that is what he did.
As the story goes, Samuel and another fellow guardsman, Ian Macardell, were out on watch out there across the field. Samuel spotted a British surveyor. He knew he had to stop the Brit from returning to his camp with what he'd seen. Samuel approached the Brit but was wounded severely.
In the rush to give Samuel medical care, he was brought upstairs in Stites' house. But alas, he succumbed to his wounds. He was originally buried here on this property. But, the government wanted him to have a proper burial in our military cemetery. So his body was moved to Lancaster Road where other Revolutionary War dead are also buried. Not all buried there were killed in the Battle of Monmouth. Some were killed in the Battle of Trenton," Mrs. Ashford said.
"And the British surveyor?"
"He was cremated and his ashes strewn into the wind according to the historical records of the time," Mrs. Ashford said.
"Here on this property?"
"Of that I am not certain. But I would say, it is most likely possible."
James and Len listened intently. They surmised why Tom was asking such specific questions. He was looking for a ghost to blame for the strange noises upstairs.
"Where did Samuel Eckston actually die?"
"Why upstairs, of course. The second floor was used mainly for sleeping quarters and for medical care," Mrs. Ashford said.
Several days later, two burly men arrived to hang the mural. It was hand painted with the colonials in blue great coats and Brits in their red coats. The Brits in the mural were poised to fire their arms, while the colonials appeared to be advancing forward.
The original colors of the mural faded somewhat but the blue, red, gold and white were still recognizable enough.
The three men watched as the mural was carefully hung.
At one point, one of the men, George Rampton, hanging the mural was stopped cold.
"Pete? Did you hear that? Footsteps overhead," George said.
"Can't be. There's no one else in the house but these three men," Pete answered.
"There isn't, is there?" George asked.
"No. Of course not. It's just the wind. In an old place like this drafts play havoc with the imagination," James said.
Len and Tom knew better. By now, they were certain there was a ghost.
When George heard the sounds again, he nearly dropped the hammer on Pete Warner's head and the mural began to slip.
Tom, Len and James all hurried over to steady the ladder George was standing on. George's hands were shaking so that Pete told him to secure the mural and climb down from the ladder.
"You may be sure I'll do that!" George said.
As Pete and George left the building, James, Len and Tom wondered how secure the mural was. It was irreplaceable by historical standards.
"Are you two men sure that mural will remain in place?"
"Do you want it secured to the wall with cement?" Pete asked.
"If that will guarantee it cannot slip from the wall, yes," James said.
George walked out to the van and returned with a small tub of cement. He began mixing it.
"Pete, here my hands are bad today. Would you cement the mural to the wall?"
The mural was nearly four feet wide and four feet high. It had to be removed in order to add the cement to the back area and also onto the wall. It weighed approximately 50 lbs. and was sculpted from solid sand stone.
Pete struggled to remove it. Then, he asked James for a second ladder so George could help him take the mural down from the wall.
While George held on tightly to the lowered end of the mural, Pete secured the upper portion until they could set the heavy thing on the flagstone surrounding the fireplace.
"Whew! That was like trying to remove the Mona Lisa," Pete said.
Pete measured the size of the mural and marked the wall where it had hung so he could apply the cement.
When the mural was replaced, Pete and George were in a hurry to get out of the place.
"Pete, I know I heard those sounds before. I'm not imagining it," George said as they exited the inn.
"There's been rumors the place is as haunted as the entire property. Who knows who else died up there in those rooms besides that young Colonial soldier, Eckston?" Pete said.
"According to what the people around here say, Eckston caught a British surveyor and killed him even as that Brit's knife entered the patriot's body," George said.
"Wasn't there also some tale of the original owner of the place having sons in the militia?" Pete asked.
"That's what the history of the place is claimed to be. The Landsburys had four sons. Two of them died during that influenza plague. So, this place has a lot of ghosts," George said.
"A patriot would not be the one to come back to haunt, would he?" Pete asked.
"Not likely. But, the ghost of the British surveyor might. Some believe he haunts the inn and the grounds for revenge on the Cranbury Cross Patriot," George said.
"I don't believe in ghosts, but those sounds you heard weren't from drafty windows," Pete said.
Pete was correct. Souls unrested are unable to find their way to eternal peace. They often wander in a netherworld dimension always searching for the missing part that would finalize their passing. Just as often, their worldly adversaries remain so after death. The forces of good and evil continue into eternity as Samuel Eckston discovered at the moment of death.
In death, the scattered ashes of the British surveyor may have been carried on the wind. In reality, his angry spirit wandered across the old Landsbury property and Cranbury Cross Inn. A redcoat's ardor and patriotism for his country notwithstanding, Nigel Bronston, sought in death the revenge he felt his due from Samuel Eckston. Perhaps, it is fitting that Samuel Eckston, recognized as a patriot for his heroism should continue to protect patrons and the owners as he once did his troops.
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