I was born into the Clarke family of Princeton, New Jersey, Quaker settlers whose roots in the area stretched back three generations. Our family farm sat along the edge of the Stony Brook, quiet and unassuming, until the morning of January 3, 1777, when the war for independence came crashing through our fields. That day, the Battle of Princeton unfolded right outside our door.

Our home, later known as the Thomas Clarke House, stood directly in the path of the fighting. As musket fire rang out and soldiers fell, our house was turned into a makeshift field hospital. Wounded men from both the American and British armies were carried through our doorway. We worked quickly, stripping beds for bandages, boiling water, and doing whatever we could to ease their pain. Among them was General Hugh Mercer, a commander in General Washington’s army, who had been bayoneted and left for dead. We helped care for him, though his wounds were too great. He held on for nine days in our home before he passed.

We were not soldiers, but we served. We gave what shelter we had, and offered care to those in need, no matter the uniform they wore. Our home survived the battle, and so did our story. Today, the Clarke House still stands in Princeton Battlefield State Park. It tells the story of that cold January morning, of the wounded who were carried inside, and of the family who tried to save them.