I wrote an AI-assisted ABC biography for my 5th great-grandfather William Hutchinson (1745-1826) in ABC Biography of United Empire Loyalist Soldier William Hutchinson (1745-1826) of New Jersey and Upper Canada based on my genealogical research over 38 years.
I wondered what William Hutchinson might say in a life memoir told to his grandchildren in 1825.
1) I requested Anthropic Claude Sonnet 4.5 to create a memoir told by William Hutchinson about his life in 1825. The prompt was: "Please write a life memoir for William Hutchinson. based on the attached biography, as he might tell to his grandchildren in 1825."
2) The AI Anthropic Claude Sonnet 4.5 memoir (lightly edited for accuracy) is:
The Memoirs of Captain William Hutchinson
As Told to His Grandchildren in the Winter of 1825
Gathered by the fireside at the Hutchinson homestead, Walsingham Township, Norfolk County, Upper Canada
My dear grandchildren, you ask me to tell you about the old days, about the war and how we came to be here in this good land. I am eighty years old now, and my memory grows dim in some places, but certain things a man never forgets. Sit close to the fire, for it is a cold January night, and I shall tell you how your grandfather became what you see before you—a loyal subject of His Majesty the King, and a pioneer of this settlement.
The Early Days in New Jersey
I was born in the year 1745, in Knowlton Township, Sussex County, New Jersey—a prosperous farming country with good soil and pleasant valleys. My father raised me to be an honest man, to fear God, to honor the King, and to keep my word in all things. These principles I have tried to maintain throughout my life, though they have cost me dearly at times.
When I was but twenty-two years old, I married my first wife Eleanor Butler. She was a fine woman from a good family—her mother was Eleanor Emans, of Dutch extraction. We settled in Knowlton Township, where I purchased land and paid my taxes like any respectable citizen. We had eight children together, and I thought we would live out our days in peace and prosperity in that pleasant valley.
But God had other plans for us, and the world was about to turn upside down.
The Coming of the Revolution
In the early 1770s, trouble began to brew between the colonies and the mother country. Men began to speak of rebellion, of throwing off the King's authority. Now, children, I will not tell you that all the grievances were without merit—there were indeed matters that wanted addressing. But rebellion? The breaking of our sacred oaths of allegiance? This I could not countenance.
When the war began in 1775, I was urged—nay, pressed—to join the rebel army. Men came to my door, men I had known as neighbors, and they demanded I take up arms against my lawful sovereign. I refused them. I told them plainly: "Death before dishonour." I would not break my oath of allegiance, not for any cause.
From that moment, children, I became marked as a traitor in their eyes. The irony of it! I was called a traitor for refusing to commit treason. But such were the times—the world had gone mad, and those who would not join in the madness were deemed the insane ones.
The Persecution Begins
What followed was a time of great trial. My neighbors—men I had known for years—turned against me. My cattle were mutilated in the fields. Can you imagine the cruelty? Dumb beasts, harmed simply to punish me for my loyalty. My barns were burned. The work of years, destroyed in a night.
Your grandmother Eleanor, God rest her soul, she bore it all with courage. She never once asked me to recant, to take the easier path. She was as firm in her principles as I was in mine, though she and our children would pay a terrible price for that firmness.
In June of 1778, the authorities seized all my property—my lands, my home, everything I had worked for. They held an inquisition against me, recorded my defaults in their court, and by December of that year, my name appeared on their list of forfeited estates. I was a man dispossessed, an outlaw in the land of my birth.
But worse than the loss of property was the order that went out: to bring me "dead or alive" before the state legislature. Dead or alive, children. They meant to hang me, make no mistake about that.
The Night I Shall Never Forget
I knew I had to flee to the British lines or die. Eleven of us—men in similar circumstances, all marked for death—decided to make the attempt together. We slipped away one night, making for where we knew the King's troops were stationed.
But we were discovered. Betrayed, I suspect, by someone who knew our plans. A detachment of rebel cavalry came after us, and we were brought to bay in an open field. We were outnumbered ten to one—eleven men against more than a hundred.
We fought for a few minutes, but seeing the contest was hopeless, we ran for an old barn hoping to hide. This is the part that still haunts my dreams, children. This is the part I wish I could forget, but never shall.
Ten of my companions made it into that barn. I—whether by Providence or mere chance, I cannot say—threw myself into some furze bushes a little distance away. I heard them drag my friends out of that barn. I heard their voices, pleading, defiant, praying. And then I heard the silence that followed.
They hanged all ten of them. Every single one. Among them was Captain James Lett, a good man, under whom I had served. They strung them up like common criminals, when their only crime was loyalty to their King.
And I lay in those bushes, listening to it all, unable to help, unable to save them, able only to save myself by remaining hidden and silent.
The Escape
When the hangings were done, the soldiers began to search for me. They knew eleven men had fled, and they had caught only ten. I was lying in those furze bushes, scarcely daring to breathe, when a soldier came right up to where I lay hidden. He stood so close I could have reached out and touched his boots.
"This would be a damned fine place for a rebel to hide himself," he said to his companion, and he peered down into the very bush where I lay.
But children, it was a bright moonlit night, and the soldier's eyes were adjusted to the moonlight. Where I lay, deep in the shadow of the bush, was black as pitch. He looked right at me and saw nothing. He walked away, never knowing how close he had come to his quarry.
But I was far from safe. The field was surrounded by soldiers, all searching for me. I had to cross that field to reach the road and safety. So I began to crawl—on my hands and knees, like a beast—across that moonlit field.
When the moon shone bright, I lay absolutely still, pressed against the earth, barely breathing. When clouds covered the moon, I crept forward a few feet. Then still again. Then forward. On and on, inch by painful inch.
I could hear the soldiers all around me, calling to each other, cursing, swearing what they would do to me when they caught me. The field seemed endless, and every moment I expected to hear the shout of discovery, to feel the bayonet in my back.
At one point—and this was the closest call of all—I reached the middle of the road itself. Just then, two sentries, one on each side of me, got into a quarrel. They came together, right where I lay, to settle their dispute. I could hear every word they said. I could smell the tobacco on their breath. They stood not three feet from where I lay in the dirt of that road, arguing about some trifling matter, while I lay frozen, certain that any moment one of them would look down and see me.
But their argument ended, and they walked away, and still I had not been discovered.
I made it to cover, and from there to the British lines. I was safe. But ten good men were dead, and I had left my wife and eight children behind, at the mercy of my enemies.
Service in the King's Army
When I reached the British army, I was burning for vengeance. I asked for a command, and they gave it to me. I was made a lieutenant in the Fifth Battalion of the New Jersey Volunteers, under Colonel Joseph Barton. Later, when the battalions were consolidated, I served in the First Battalion.
We did good service for the King, children. Hard service, dangerous service. We were scouts and raiders, striking at the rebels where they least expected it. I remember one raid in June of 1779, with a brave young officer named James Moody. We captured several rebel militia officers and their men. When reinforcements came after us, we had expended all our ammunition, so we drove them off at the point of the bayonet. That was the kind of war it was—close, personal, brutal.
On another occasion, my scouting party was nearly caught by a strong rebel force. We hid in a clump of bushes—it reminded me of that terrible night when I escaped the hanging—and the enemy passed so close we could see their faces, could hear every word they spoke. But they did not see us, and we lived to fight another day.
I rose through the ranks: lieutenant, then captain-lieutenant, and finally, in 1782, I received my commission as full captain. I commanded my own company until the war ended in 1783.
The Price of Loyalty
But while I was fighting, children, my family was suffering. Your grandmother Eleanor and the children were left behind in New Jersey, without my protection, without support, at the mercy of those who hated all loyalists.
They suffered terribly. Hardship, persecution, and worst of all, disease. Fever came—whether it was brought on by their suffering, or whether it was simply the fortune of war, I cannot say. But the result was the same.
Your grandmother Eleanor died. And six of our eight children died with her. Six children, gone. Some of them I had never even held, they were so young when I left. Some I knew only as babes. All gone.
This is what my loyalty cost me, children. This is the price I paid for refusing to break my oath to the King. My property, my home, my wife, and six of my children—all sacrificed for principle.
Only two survived: your Aunt Agnes and my son Alexander. They alone remained of my first family, and they carried the memory of their mother and lost siblings with them all their days.
When the war ended in 1783, I was a widower at thirty-eight, with two surviving children, no property, no home, and no future in the land of my birth. The new American government offered pardons to some loyalists if they would take an oath to the new republic. Many men took that oath and stayed in their homes.
I could not. Not after all I had endured, all I had lost. I would not swear allegiance to those who had hanged my companions, dispossessed me of my property, and left my family to die. I would remain loyal to the Crown, even if it meant exile.
A New Life in New Brunswick
In the fall of 1783, I boarded a ship called the "Duke of Richmond" in New York harbor. We were part of a fleet of twelve ships carrying loyalist refugees to the Bay of Fundy. We sailed north to the mouth of the St. John River, in what would become the province of New Brunswick.
Children, if you think this country was wilderness when your parents came here, you should have seen New Brunswick in 1783! We had nothing but our land grants and whatever we could carry. The government gave us 200 acres each—I received my grant in 1786 on the Salmon River—but that was just uncleared forest. We had to build everything from scratch.
But it was a new beginning, and I was determined to make the most of it. In 1784, I married your grandmother Catherine Lewis. She was a fine woman from Staten Island, daughter of Jonathan Lewis and Marie La Tourette. She was twenty-five years old, full of life and courage, and she was willing to take on a widower with two children and begin a new life in the wilderness.
Catherine and I were blessed with seven children in New Brunswick: your parents and aunts and uncles—James, Mary Jane, Elizabeth, Catherine, David, George, and Joseph. We built a farm on the Salmon River. We cleared the land, planted crops, raised livestock. We made a life there.
Your father Alexander married Elizabeth Backhouse in 1803, and they had children John, George, Alexander, and Maria. He was a good son, a good father, and a brave man.
Coming to Upper Canada
In 1798, after fourteen years in New Brunswick, I decided to move west to Upper Canada. Many of our fellow New Jersey Volunteers were going there—the land was richer, the opportunities greater. The government was offering large grants in the new settlements along Lake Erie.
So we loaded our belongings into open boats—can you imagine, children? Everything we owned, and your grandmother with the younger children, all in open boats—and we came up the St. Lawrence River and across the Great Lakes. It took weeks. We camped on shores, portaged around rapids, endured storms on the lakes. Your grandmother never complained once, though she had every reason to.
When we arrived here in Norfolk County, there was nothing but wilderness. We received our land grant—1,000 acres in Walsingham Township—and again we had to start from the beginning. Cut down the trees, clear the stumps, build a cabin, plant crops. We received no help beyond the land itself and some glass and iron for the cabin. Everything else we had to provide ourselves.
But we did it. We built this farm you see around you. We raised our family here. Your parents and aunts and uncles all married and established their own farms nearby. The wilderness has become a community.
Service to the Community
I have tried to serve this community as best I could, children. I was appointed Justice of the Peace, and I have performed many marriages over the years—joining young couples together as your grandfather was joined to your grandmother, hoping they will find the happiness we found.
I sat as Associate Justice on the Court of Requests, handling disputes between neighbors. I served on the bench at the Quarter Sessions in Turkey Point, and for a time I was even Chairman of the Court. These are duties I have been honored to perform, though they come with no pay. A man owes service to his community, particularly when that community has welcomed him as this one welcomed us loyalists.
I will tell you a story that shows you what kind of place this is. One day I was sitting in court, and Squire Backhouse—a good man but rather stern—lectured me about my tobacco chewing. He said it was a nasty, dirty, filthy habit, and I ought to be ashamed of myself.
Well, I looked at him and I said, "Yes, your honor, it is a nasty, dirty, filthy habit, and I am ashamed of it. But it is the only one of which you are not guilty."
The courtroom erupted in laughter! Even Squire Backhouse had to smile, though he tried to hide it. You see, children, in this country a man can speak plainly, even to a judge, if he does it with humor and respect. That is the freedom we have here that we could never have had in the republic to the south.
The War of 1812
But our trials were not over, children. In 1812, the Americans declared war on us again. I was sixty-seven years old—an old man by most measures. But when my country called, I could not stay home.
I took three of my sons to the front: Alexander, James, and David. We went to fight the Americans once more, to defend this land we had built with our own hands.
The war was hard. We fought at several engagements, doing our duty as militiamen. But at the Battle of Moravian Town in October of 1813, we suffered a terrible defeat. The British regulars broke and ran, and we were left to fight as best we could.
Alexander was killed in that battle.
[Here the old man's voice breaks, and he pauses for a long moment before continuing]
He was my eldest son, children. The last surviving child from my first family. He carried his mother's memory, and the memory of his six brothers and sisters who died in the Revolution. And he fell defending Canada against the same enemy that had destroyed his mother and siblings thirty years before.
The irony—the bitter irony—of losing him to the Americans in a second war was almost more than I could bear. But your grandmother Catherine, bless her, she held us all together. She had lost a stepson she loved, and some of you children had lost your father, but we had to go on. Life goes on, even after the most grievous losses.
I am proud of your father, children. He was a brave man, a good man, and he died defending his country. I only wish he could have lived to see you grow up.
What I Have Learned
I am eighty years old now, children, and I have not much longer in this world. Before I go, I want to tell you what I have learned in these long years.
First, loyalty is worth any price. I paid dearly for my loyalty to the Crown—my property, my first family, years of hardship and struggle. But I have never regretted it. A man who will not keep his oath is no man at all. Better to lose everything than to lose your honor.
Second, from great loss can come great blessings. I lost Eleanor and six children in the Revolution, but God gave me Catherine and seven more children. I lost my property in New Jersey, but I gained land here in Canada—better land, in a better country. I lost my home, but I gained a community of friends and neighbors who share my values.
Third, never give in to bitterness. I have had cause enough for bitterness—my friends hanged before my eyes, my family destroyed, my property stolen, my son killed in battle. But bitterness is a poison that harms only the one who drinks it. I have tried always to meet life with good humor, with wit, with friendship. This is why people say I am a jolly old pioneer—because I choose joy over bitterness, even when I have every reason for bitterness.
Fourth, serve your community. A man does not live for himself alone. We are all bound together, and we owe each other service and support. I have served as magistrate and judge not because I sought power, but because these are duties that someone must perform, and I was able to perform them.
Fifth, never forget where you came from, but do not live in the past. I have told you these stories so you will know what was sacrificed to bring us here, what principles your ancestors held dear. But do not spend your lives looking backward. Look forward. Build on what we have given you. Make this country even better than we have made it.
My Hope for You
You children are growing up in a better world than I knew in my youth. You are British subjects living under British law, with no rebellion tearing your country apart. You have land, opportunity, and a future. You can walk your fields without fear of persecution for your loyalties.
But remember always that this did not come easily. Men died for it. Families were destroyed for it. Your grandfather and grandmother sailed an ocean and pioneered twice in the wilderness to give you this.
Be worthy of that sacrifice. Be loyal subjects of the Crown. Be honest in your dealings. Keep your word. Serve your community. Fear God and honor the King. Treat your neighbors with kindness and respect. Work hard, but make time for joy and friendship.
And tell your children, and they their children, the story of how we came to be here. Tell them about the men who were hanged while I hid in the bushes. Tell them about Eleanor and the six children who died. Tell them about the moonlit field I crawled across on my hands and knees. Tell them about the open boats on the St. Lawrence. Tell them about my son Alexander, who died at Moravian Town.
Tell them these things not to make them sad, but to help them understand what loyalty means, what sacrifice means, what it costs to stand for principle in a world that often rewards expediency over honor.
A Final Thought
I look around this room tonight and I see you, my grandchildren, warm and safe by this fire. I see the farm outside, cleared and productive. I see the community we have built here in Walsingham. And I know that it was all worth it.
Every sacrifice, every hardship, every loss—it was worth it to see you here, to know that you will grow up free, loyal, and proud of your heritage.
Your grandmother Catherine and I will not be here much longer. We have lived our lives, fought our battles, done our duty as we saw it. Soon we will rest in the cemetery, and this farm will pass to your parents and uncles. The story will continue without us.
But we will not be forgotten, as long as you remember these stories, as long as you pass them down to your own children. That is all any man can ask—to be remembered, and to know that his sacrifices meant something.
Now, it is late, and you children should be in bed. The fire is dying down, and tomorrow is another day of work on the farm. Off with you now—and remember what your grandfather has told you tonight.
Remember that loyalty is worth any price.
Remember that we are British subjects, and proud of it.
And remember always that you stand on the shoulders of those who sacrificed everything so that you might have a better life.
God save the King, children.
And God bless you all.
[End of memoir, as recalled from the fireside in the winter of 1825, one year before Captain William Hutchinson's death on March 20, 1826]
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3) The Video Overview of William Hutchinson's memoir, created by the Google NotebookLM AI tool, is:
Links to my blog posts about using Artificial Intelligence are on my Randy's AI and Genealogy page. Links to AI information and articles about Artificial Intelligence in Genealogy by other genealogists are on my AI and Genealogy Compendium page.
Copyright (c) 2026, Randall J. Seaver
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