I was born in Hopewell, New Jersey, likely in the year 1711, though nobody wrote it down for sure. My father, Edward Hart, came to Hopewell around 1710 and helped shape the town, serving as a Justice of the Peace, a farmer, and a man trusted in the community. My family never had much formal education, and I wasn’t any different. I learned to read, write, and handle numbers well enough to manage land and public affairs, though my spelling could be rough. What I lacked in schoolbooks, I made up for in common sense, character, and grit.

I married Deborah Scudder in 1739 after courting her on long horseback rides from Hopewell to Scudder Falls. Together, we raised 13 children on our farm. Over time, I became the largest landowner in Hopewell, working over 600 acres with livestock, mills, and business ventures that kept our family afloat.

Starting in 1750, I was elected to the Board of Chosen Freeholders, then Justice of the Peace in 1755. From there, I served in the Colonial Assembly for a decade, then sat on the Court of Common Pleas, and by 1774 I was deep in the fight for liberty, helping appoint delegates to the First Continental Congress and protesting the Tea Act. When the revolution began, I was ready.

In June 1776, I rode to Philadelphia to take my seat in the Second Continental Congress. I was 65 years old but when they called for men to sign the Declaration of Independence, I didn’t hesitate. I was the 13th man to sign. I pledged my life, my fortune, and my sacred honor to the cause, even knowing what it might cost.

That cost came quickly. My wife, Deborah, died in October 1776 while I was away at Congress. Two months later, I was forced to flee my home as the British raided New Jersey. I spent weeks hiding in the woods and caves of the Sourlands, living like a fugitive in the land I’d helped to defend. When the tide turned after Trenton and Princeton, I came back home. I was reelected Speaker of the New Jersey Assembly and continued to serve until 1778. In June of that year, General Washington and the Continental Army camped on my land, twelve thousand men drinking from my spring and preparing for the Battle of Monmouth.

But I wouldn’t live to see America win her freedom. In 1779, I died at home of kidney stones after months of suffering. I was 66 years old. Today, my grave rests on land I once donated to the Baptists back in 1747. My name’s etched in stone, and a bronze plaque honors both me and Deborah.