MEMOIRS OF
CLINTON E BRUSH, MD
     BY CLINTON E BRUSH
>>
BERT BRUSH wrote 92 manuscript pages on a manual typewriter at the age of 98, and this is their first public appearance. Check back in the coming weeks and months as we delve deeper into his life, in his own words.

editor AT wanderingarmy DOT com

Chapter I: Tiny Bitter Pills
<<

Chapter III: Water, In Ice, In Snow,
In The Parlor Owl, A Crystal Glass
<<

Chapter X: Temiscuata <<

Chapter XIX: The Baby Not
Yet Arrived
<<

Chapter XXII: How To Get Skint <<

Chapter XXVII: The Decisions
We Make
<<

Chapter XLIV: Little John <<

© 2008 Clinton E Brush
Chapter VII: Some 300 Years Later

In The Abridged Compendium of the First Families of America will be found the names of Thomas Brush III, Richard Brush and Robert Brush. The Brush name was hated by the British Army in and around Long Island for the many episodes of guerilla warfare in which we were involved.

In 1698 my great-great-great-grandfather, John Whitlock, purchased a large tract of land in Monmouth County, NJ, near Matawan. Whitlocks have lived there ever since.

When the Revolutionary War broke, the call to arms issued, my great-grandfather, John S. Whitlock, gathered his friends and enlisted as a Company. John was chosen Lieutenant, the Company assigned to the Regiment of Col. John Conover.

Col. Conover's Regiment got orders to prevent the landing of a British ship lying off the coast of The Highlands. Upon arrival, they found their enemy deeply entrenched. As was too often the case, a Tory neighbor of Lieut. Whitlock had heard of the plan and tattled. The British had a commanding position to block the Continental Troops, but Whitlock and his Company still advanced, and a few shots were exchanged. Col. Conover, seeing the great disadvantage of his men, ordered them to "Fall back!"

"Not till we give them one more round, Colonel!" Grandfather Whitlock aimed at a British soldier who was aiming right at him and both men fired simultaneously. Both men fell dead.

Shortly thereafter, the Tory neighbor came to Lieut. Whitlock's home with a doleful countenance, with feigned offers of assistance and a hypocritical profession of friendship. Grandmother Lydia grabbed her dead husband's musket and leveled it at the Tory.

"Leave at once. Don't come back." He left.

In later life, when over 80 years of age, Grandmother Lydia would mount her mule and, accompanied by her faithful slave Robin and armed with a pistol, ride through the wilds of New Jersey to Trenton twice each year to collect her pension. I cite these incidents to show the mettle of our early settlers.



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