The New York and Albany Post Road Part 2

[Sidenote: _ARNOLD-ANDRe MEETING._]

As the road winds up and over the western slope of Hessian Hill, just north of Croton Landing, three panoramas follow each other in rapid succession, all strikingly beautiful. The first two are different views of Teller's or Croton Point, with Hook Mountain and the Palisades in the distance, that Teller's Point from whose banks Colonel Livingston bombarded the Vulture, thereby leading to the capture of Andre, by this one action saving, possibly, the collapse of the War for Independence. From a further spur of the same hill comes into view the broad expanse of Haverstraw Bay with its background of jagged hills known as Clove Mountain and High Tor, under whose shadow Arnold and Andre met. Elson's concise and graphic description of this event is worth quoting as it stands: "On a dark night in September, 1780, Benedict Arnold lay crouching beneath the trees on the bank of the Hudson a few miles below Stony Point, just outside the American lines. Presently the plash of oars from the dark, silent river broke the stillness, and a little boat bearing four men came to the sh.o.r.e.

Two were ignorant oarsmen, who knew not what they did, the third was the steersman, one Joshua Smith, who lived in the neighborhood, while the fourth was a young and handsome man who concealed beneath his great overcoat the brilliant uniform of a British officer. The young man, Major John Andre, adjutant-general of the British army, was put ash.o.r.e, and he and Arnold, who had long been secret correspondents, spent the night in the dense darkness beneath the trees. Here the plot to place West Point into British hands was consummated, and at the coming of dawn Andre did not return, as at first intended, to the English sloop of war, the Vulture, which was lying in the river waiting for him, but accompanied Arnold to the house of Smith, the steersman, a few miles away. Arnold returned to West Point, and Andre waited his opportunity to reach the Vulture; but sh.o.r.e batteries began firing on her, and Smith refused to venture out in his little boat."

[Sidenote: _VERPLANCK'S POINT._]

Beyond Hessian Hill the road keeps inland along the high ground that slopes down to Verplanck's Point, named after the son-in-law of Stepha.n.u.s Van Cortlandt, to whose wife this part of the estate fell.

It is worth while to walk out to the brow of the hill for the sake of the view and the historic memories it brings up. The "Kings Ferry" so often mentioned in the annals of the Revolution connected this with a sandy cove on the north sh.o.r.e of Stony Point opposite--Stony Point, "a lasting monument of the daring courage of Mad Anthony." The ferry made Verplanck's Point an important spot, and naturally it was fortified as well as was Stony Point. Here Colonel Livingston was in command in September, 1780, and it was he who, building better than he knew, hurried the small cannon down to Teller's Point which, at break of day, drove the Vulture down the river, the first link in the chain of events leading to the capture of Andre, for Smith, his guide, becoming frightened, refused to put the Englishman on board the waiting sloop of war, as agreed, and instead brought him across the King's Ferry to start him on his way to New York on foot.

On October 5, 1777, Sir Henry Clinton landed three thousand men on Verplanck's Point, apparently for the purpose of attacking Peekskill, but really with intent to deceive General Putnam, who was in command of the town, and for once this Connecticut Yankee was fooled into doing just what the enemy wished, for he drew his troops back to the hills and did not know until too late that the English forces, under cover of a friendly fog, had been ferried across to the west sh.o.r.e for the purpose of attacking Fort Montgomery. Clinton was on his way north with all the troops that could be spared to help Burgoyne, and Putnam, who had the general command of the Highlands, with only fifteen hundred men, could not hope to cope with the superior forces advancing from the south, so he retired along the Post Road through Cortlandtville to Continental Village, the main entrance by land to the Highlands, where the public stores and workshops were located, and from which he was compelled to again fall back as Sir Henry Clinton, having captured the river forts and burned Peekskill, advanced.

[Sidenote: _PEEKSKILL._]

Peekskill on the one side of the river and Dunderberg on the other guard the lower end of the Highlands. The town is named after the first settler, one Jan Peek, whose earliest mention in history is as the builder of an inn in New York City, on Broadway near Exchange Place, in sixteen hundred and something. It seems that Peek was something of an explorer and, when navigating these waters, he mistook the present Peekskill Creek for the pa.s.sage up the Hudson, entered the creek and promptly ran aground, and, being aground, concluded to stay.

John Paulding, one of the three who captured Andre, received for his distinguished services, as was meet, a fine farm situated in Peekskill that had been confiscated from its royalist owner; thus we see that virtue is rewarded, treason punished and the state plays the generous role without any expense to itself. Mr. Andrew Carnegie himself could not have managed the affair better.

In September, 1777, the village was sacked and burned by the British and the neighboring country was pillaged. The chapel of St. Peter's was erected on the site of the military magazine destroyed at this time. The one historically interesting building that was left in the town, the old Birdsall residence, has gone the way of all flesh. It was Washington's headquarters whenever he was in this neighborhood, Lafayette dwelt under its roof, one of its parlors was used by the Rev. George Whitefield in which to hold services, but the building protruded into the street and the good people concluded that rather than walk around it any longer they would tramp over its grave.

[Sidenote: _CORTLANDTVILLE._]

In Cortlandtville is located the former residence of Gen. Pierre Van Cortlandt, erected in 1773. A tablet placed on the building says: "General George Washington with his aides slept in this house many nights while making Peekskill their headquarters in 1776, 1777 and 1778. It was the house of Pierre Van Cortlandt, member of Colonial a.s.sembly, member of the 2d, 3d and 4th Provincial Congress, President of the Committee of Public Safety, a framer of the State Const.i.tution, First Lieutenant-Governor of the State of New York, Colonel of manor of Cortlandt Regiment." The building is rather modern in appearance, suggesting comfort rather than strenuosity.

Here the Van Cortlandt family found a safe asylum when the manor house on the Croton was no longer tenable. In March, 1777, General McDougal posted his advance guard here when the British took possession of Peekskill. Eighty of his men, under Lieutenant-Colonel Willet, receiving permission to attack some two hundred of the British that had taken possession of a height a little south of Cortlandt's, did so with such success that the enemy retreated, and the entire command, some one thousand strong, becoming panic stricken, betook themselves to their shipping under cover of the night and sailed down stream.

A great oak which served the purpose of a military whipping post, still stands just east of the Van Cortlandt house.

The old parochial church of St. Peter's stands on the summit of a little hill near by, a simple frame building erected in 1766 by Beverly Robinson and others as the result of a visit of Mr. Dibble, of Stamford, Conn., in 1761. With him came St. George Talbot, who says: "The state of religion I truly found deplorable enough. They were as sheep without a shepherd, a prey to various sectaries, and enthusiastic lay teachers; there are many well wishers and professors of the church among them, who doth not hear the liturgy in several years." In the church yard stands the monument to John Paulding, one of the Andre captors, who was born in Peekskill.

Just east of the Van Cortlandt house the Post Road turns toward the north, where one of the old mile-stones marks "50 m. from N. York." In the angle stands one of the inns of stagecoach days which was standing as long ago as 1789, as in "A Survey of the Roads of the United States of America," published by Christopher Colles in that year, the inn is put down as Dusenbury's Tavern. The author of this old-time road book may have been something of a joker, or he may have had a small grudge against the Presbyterians, as among the symbols he used, the one indicating a church of that denomination is so noticeably like a windmill as to call forth a gentle smile. The inn is now the dwelling of Mr. Gardiner Hollman, himself a relic of earlier days, who carries his eighty years with an ease that bespeaks a life of steady habits.

He is quite ready to show the building to the curious and explain its interesting features. The front room on the right is said to have held the prisoner Andre for a short time when he was being taken from North Castle by way of Continental Village to the Beverly Robinson house, Arnold's former headquarters, and used as such by Washington after the traitor fled. Aside from one or two old pieces of furniture, and an open Franklin stove, the only interesting relic the room contains is a small work-box which was given by Theodosia Burr to her friend Mrs.

McDonald, of Alabama, who in turn gave it to a sister of the present owner.

[Sidenote: _GALLOWS HILL._]

From now on the Post Road is all that a country road should be. It plunges immediately into a thicket of tall weeds, Joe Pie and goldenrod mostly, which shoot up in many instances six feet above the ground. After crossing the creek the road begins the steep ascent of Gallows Hill, where Putnam hanged a British spy in spite of Sir Henry Clinton's attempts to prevent it. This summary action seems to have tempered the Red-coats' curiosity, as "Old Put" was not bothered afterward. One of a small bunch of chestnut trees west of the road where it tops the hill is pointed out as the gallows tree, although early accounts speak of a rough gallows having been erected. There is a story to the effect that one Hans Anderson, a farmer of the neighborhood, was the hangman, and that he was finally worried into his grave by the ghost of this same spy, who would not leave him in peace; but no mention is made of the tough old General having been so bothered.

[Sidenote: _CONTINENTAL VILLAGE._]

Continental Village lies at the northern foot of Gallows Hill. The British destroyed the stores the Americans were unable to take with them and burned the village, leaving, it is said, only one house standing, the property of a Tory. Whether this building is still standing is somewhat uncertain, though one is pointed out as such.

General Sir William Howe, in his dispatches to Sir Henry Clinton, dated at Fort Montgomery, October 9, 1777, says: "Major-Gen. Tryon, who was detached this morning with Emmerick's cha.s.seurs, fifty yagers and royal fusiliers and regiment of Trumback, with a three-pounder, to destroy the rebel settlement called the Continental village, has just returned and reported to me, that he has burned the barrack for fifteen hundred men, several store-houses and loaded wagons. I need not point out to your excellency the consequence of destroying this post, as it was the only establishment of the rebels on that part of the Highlands, and the place from whence any body of troops drew their supplies."

The place was soon reoccupied by the Americans as a point at which to collect stores, and various military encampments were strung along both sides of the road from here north.

[Sidenote: _POST ROAD._]

For the s.p.a.ce of some two or three miles the road is a gra.s.s-grown track through a rough country. As one proceeds he can appreciate the difficulties that beset the retreating soldiers, laden with such stores from the village as they could carry with them on the retreat.

Now and then an unkept farmhouse appears, but there is little life; it is possible to walk as far as Nelson's Mill, some eight miles, without pa.s.sing a team of any sort, and hardly any one on foot, but, like Goldsmith's village street the wayside is

"With blossomed furze unprofitably gay."

Joe Pie weed, as heavy-headed as a sleepy child, alternating with the straight stemmed goldenrod, while every wall is adorned with snapdragon or Virginia creeper, the scarlet product of the deadly nightshade, or the silvery remains of the clematis--this in August or September. If one goes this way in the Spring there is the wild azalea against the edge of the woods, and the woodland flowers come trooping down even to the wheel tracks.

It is forty years since the telegraph abandoned this abandoned highway, and the tramps left with the telegraph poles. One old inhabitant says it used to take a considerable part of her time each day to feed the gentry who applied, for she, being afraid of them, never refused. To-day, over this part of the road, the tramp is as scarce as the stage coach. To be sure the law may have something to do with it, for any one who lodges information against a tramp gets $15, and the gentleman of leisure presumably suffers accordingly, as the farmer is not likely to a.s.sess himself merely for the pleasure of housing lazy humanity.

Just beyond the fifty-fourth mile-stone stands one of the old inns which is put down by Christopher Colles as Travers's Tavern. It still offers shelter to him who will seek, as I discovered when caught by a sudden shower.

From the last hilltop, before Nelson's Mill is reached, is a glorious view of the "Golden Gate," the notch between Storm King and Breakneck, through which the Hudson flows, and, in summer floods of gold from the setting sun. On all sides are hills and valleys. It seems as though the whole world is on edge.

Here stands sentinel a tall old mile-stone by the road side demanding of every one that pa.s.ses the countersign--Wonderful!

Down the steep hillside the road now lunges to Nelson's Mill or Corner, once a relay station for the stage coach horses, and a mill site for many generations, and now we are looking up at the mountains instead of down on them. The road floats up and down the gentle swells of the valley's floor, each bend bringing into line another view of the Fishkill Mountain with a new foreground or a different framing of leaves and branches, and each calling aloud to the camera which gorges itself on trees and rocks and mountains.

[Sidenote: _CLOVE CREEK VALLEY._]

We are in the valley of the Clove Creek, under the shadow of the Fishkill Mountain, in a hollow where the dusk of evening comes early, and the gloom and solitude of the shortened day make one readily understand why travelers of old halted at this north entrance to the Highlands, rather than run the chance of being overtaken by the dark in the depths of its loneliness. Cooper could hardly have hit on a more fitting place for the adventures of the Spy than these woods and mountains offered.

[Sidenote: _WICCOPEE Pa.s.s._]

About four miles south of Fishkill, in Wiccopee Pa.s.s, a bronze tablet by the roadside announces that:--

ON THE HILLS BACK OF THIS STONE STOOD THREE BATTERIES GUARDING THIS Pa.s.s, 1776-1783.

The hills referred to and others in the neighborhood are fifty to one hundred feet high, and as smoothly rounded and regular as though moulded in a large-sized tea cup and turned out in little groups, making one wonder what sort of giant children could have been playing here. Legend relates that long, long ago, even before the mighty Manitou ruled, this region was peopled by a great race as tall as the tall forest trees. They lived on roots and leaves and hunted the great water rats that dwelt in houses built of mud and sticks in the lake that filled all the country north of the Highlands. These animals were fierce fighters, and dangerous even to their giant foes when the latter were caught at a disadvantage in the water, whither the great men repaired for frequent bathing.

It was a give-and-take world in those days. The giants would square accounts at the first opportunity by turning the next rat caught into funeral baked meat in remembrance of the departed brother, and there the matter, as well as the rat, ended. But there came a time when a swarm of the rats surprised a group of bathers, and there were many desolate firesides that night. Then a great council was called to decide on a means of revenge, but as they could not swim and boats were unknown, the concourse was like to break up with nothing accomplished when a daughter of the tribe arose and suggested breaking down the barrier which held back the water, thus putting the enemy on dry land, where he would be helpless. The plan was approved, and soon all were at work at the narrowest spot with trees torn from the hill sides and such rough tools as they could command, and now a small stream begins to work through which, washing out the earth and smaller stones, becomes a flood thundering down the lower valley. In a few days the region was drained and the enemy exterminated, but their houses remain even unto the present time. The present Fishkill Mountain was the "long house" of the watery tribe gradually solidified through the ages into the hardest of hard trap rock, and the little conical hills that we see in the Wiccopee Pa.s.s were the play houses of the baby rats. But alas the giants, having no longer any place to bathe, began to be troubled by a hardening of the skin and joints, and their great bodies would at last fall to rise no more; but, as if in very mockery, whenever a giant fell a spring of water would bubble from the ground and a rivulet would soon be searching out a path for itself among the rocks and woods.

The traveler knowing nothing of the legend might suppose that sometime the waters swirled and eddied over this region, and that our symmetrical little hills are deposits made at that time.

[Sidenote: _REVOLUTIONARY BURIAL GROUND._]

[Sidenote: _WHARTON HOUSE._]

The Post Road now pa.s.ses through a fearsome piece of woods, coming out into the open again where the mountain drops quickly to the plain, and we are in the sunshine once more. Looking back at this time of day, about 7 o'clock of an early June evening, one sees a curious effect of sunlight and shadow, against the dark mountain background, the sun outlines with vivid distinctness every tree and bush or stone wall or weed with a silvery halo, and seems to intensify the fresh verdure until all nature swims in green. Soon another of the old mile-stones appears, as usual on the west side of the road, and opposite is a small granite monument which commemorates the graveyard of the soldier dead in the adjoining field, where there are probably more revolutionary dead buried than in any other spot in the State. This neighborhood was a headquarters for part of the army between 1776 and 1783. A step further on is the Wharton House, known to both history and romance. The building was used as army headquarters during the seven years that war raged up and down the Hudson Valley. The names of both Washington and Lafayette are closely a.s.sociated with its history, and it is also the house referred to in Cooper's "Spy," from which Harvey Birch helps Henry Wharton to escape. Here Enoch Crosby, the real spy, was subjected to a mock trial by the Committee of Safety.

Crosby had given information of a band of Tories and allowed himself to be captured with them, was tried with them and, in order to keep up the deception and preserve his usefulness, was remanded to the church-prison with the rest. The Wharton House was erected by the Van Wyck family, and is still in its possession. In a wheat field across the road lies the fallen stump of the "Whipping Post," a monument to the methods of correction used in the Continental army. The next house to the north is said to be constructed of timber taken from one of the old barracks.

The road over which we have been traveling was once an Indian trail.

Shortly before the French and Indian wars Lord Louden pa.s.sed through this country, and in order to get his baggage train through, the trail became a road under his direction.

[Sidenote: _FISHKILL._]

The Fishkill Creek, which scuttles across the level floor of the valley just before one enters the village seems in too much of a hurry to get away from its peaceful surroundings, which are attractive enough to make mortals wish to linger, but which do not stay the brawling stream. Both the mountains and the brook were the Indian Matteawan, the "Council of Good Fur," but the Dutch christened it Vis Kill or Fish Creek, and the more musical native name had to give way.

The first house on the right after crossing the stream is one of the Colonial relics of the place, but the princ.i.p.al buildings of interest are the Episcopal and Dutch churches. The first, being frame, was used as a hospital during the Revolution. The Provincial Congress, when it was compelled to leave White Plains, removed to Fishkill, and at first attempted to use this church for its sessions, but the place had been so befouled by flocks of pigeons that a move was made to the Dutch Church. It was during this time that Washington crossed the Delaware, and he sent to the Congress sitting here for reinforcements, but no troops could be spared from the defense of this region. The church bears a tablet which relates history, as follows:

"Trinity Church, organized in communion with the Church of England by the Rev. Samuel Seabury, 1756. The first rector Rev. John Beardsley, Oct. 26, 1766. Reincorporated Oct. 13, 1785, and Oct. 16, 1796. This building was erected about 1760. Occupied by the New York Provincial Convention, which removed from White Plains Sept. 3, 1776. Used for a military hospital by the army of General Washington until disbanded June 2, 1783."