Read Ebook: The New York and Albany Post Road From Kings Bridge to The Ferry at Crawlier over against Albany Being an Account of a Jaunt on Foot Made at Sundry Convenient Times between May and November Nineteen Hundred and Five by Hine C G Charles Gilbert

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How many times did the death knell of independence seem on the point of being tolled, and how many times did the god of chance throw his weight into the ascending scale of the Colonists. But for a lapse of memory, the attempt of the British in the Summer of 1777 to capture the Hudson Valley and separate New England from her sisters might have been as successful as it proved disastrous. Lord George Germain sent Burgoyne peremptory instructions to proceed down the Hudson, and the instructions to Howe to move north to meet him were equally peremptory, but the latter were pigeonholed and forgotten for several weeks, and when remembered it was too late. Washington had decoyed Howe to Pennsylvania, and Burgoyne, lacking the expected support from the south, was defeated by the farmers.

Pocantico, "a run between two hills," the Dutch called it Sleepy Haven Kill, hence Sleepy Hollow. "Far in the foldings of the hills winds this wizard stream," writes the grand sachem of all the wizards, who wove the romance of the headless horseman and the luckless schoolmaster so tightly about the spot that they are to-day part and parcel of it. The bridge over which the scared pedagogue scurried was some rods further up the stream than is the present crossing, for in those days the Post Road ran along the north side of the church, and the entrance was originally on that side of the building, while now it is on the western end which faces the present road.

The name Frederick Philipse was originally written Vreedryk, or Vrederyck, Felypsen, the former meaning "rich in peace," indicating, we presume, the difference between his peaceful occupation of breaking into the new wilderness and that of his ancestors in Bohemia who, being persecuted for their religious opinions, fled to Holland, from whence Frederick emigrated to New Amsterdam, some time before 1653, becoming a successful merchant, and later a patroon. Sen, meaning son in Dutch, Felypsen meant the son of Felyp, Frederick the son of Philip. On the west bank of the Pocantico Philipse built his first manorial residence, called Castle Philipse on account of its strength and armament, it not only being loopholed for musketry, as was common in those days, but was also defended by several small cannon. All these evidences of the strenuous days of old have been covered by unsightly clapboards, and the place as it stands now looks as though it might have seen better days, but gives no hint of its former important station. It is related that in 1756 a Virginia colonel named Washington called here to pay his respects to the beautiful Mary Philipse, but the lady saw nothing attractive in the tall, ungainly countryman. In 1784, when the state parcelled out the confiscated lands of Philipse, this part fell into the hands of Gerard C. Beekman, whose wife was Cornelia Van Cortlandt, a connection of the Philipse family. An interesting incident connects this place with the Andr? matter. Some time before his capture, John Webb, one of Washington's aides, left a valise containing a new uniform with Mrs. Beekman, asking that it be delivered only on a written order. Some two weeks later Joshua Het Smith, whose loyalty was at that time regarded doubtful, called and asked for Lieutenant Webb's valise. Mrs. Beekman disliked the man, and refused to deliver it without the order, which Smith could not produce, and he rode away much disappointed. Andr? was concealed in his house at this very time, and the uniform was wanted to help him through the American lines. Thus Mrs. Beekman forged the second link in the chain leading to the Andr? capture.

The little old Dutch church is believed to be the oldest church edifice now standing in the State. It was built in 1699 by Frederick Philipse. Irving says of it: "The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll surrounded by locust trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent whitewashed walls shine modestly forth like Christian purity beaming through the shades of retirement."

"To look upon its grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there, at least, the dead might rest in peace," and there Irving himself rests in peace with a plain white stone at his head which modestly tells that

WASHINGTON

SON OF WILLIAM AND SARAH S. IRVING

DIED

AGED 76 YEARS, 7 MO. AND 25 DAYS

North of the church and on both sides of the Post Road are the remains of the one-time Beekman forest, whose thickets once served the deer for a cover. So long ago as 1705 it was necessary to enact game laws for the protection of these animals, which were even then in a fair way to being exterminated.

The six miles to Ossining are largely made up of handsome estates lining both sides of the road. Here and there nature still litters the earth with weeds and bushes, or the farmer tends his crops, leaving a fringe of wild things to border his domains, but as a general thing such inelegancies are suppressed, and the roadside is ordered with the same precision as are the lands on the other side of the wall. Those pleasant little friendships with unkempt nature are not so frequent as we find them further on. However, while there is little "delight in disorder" there are many beautiful places belonging to those favored with an abundance of this world's goods. Such names as Gen. John C. Fremont, Anson G. Phelps, Gen. James Watson Webb, Aspinwall and others are or have been of this region. Some two miles before we come to the village of Ossining stands St. Mary's Church, erected in 1850. Surrounded by tall trees, the little edifice looks as though it might be some mysterious "church in the wood" of a medieval romance, and one almost expects to see a little bridal party dash up on horseback with no time to lose, in the belief that the grim old father is close on their heels. We naturally think of a church as a centre of population, but here is a quaint little building which the traveler comes on unexpectedly in a patch of woods by a rather lonely stretch of road. The temptation to turn aside and investigate is strong until, the wind rubbing one tree trunk against another, a long groan is heard that sends a cold shiver down the inquisitive's back and damps his ardor for discovery. After all it's best out in the bright open road where the birds sing and the sun dispels all thought of gloom.

Ossining, "a stony place," was variously written Sin-sing, Sing Sing, Sin Sinck and Sink Sink. Spelling was an incident in those days, not an art. Here again we must fall back on Irving for our facts. He says: "A corruption of the old Indian name O-sin-sing. Some have rendered it O-sin-sing, or O-sing-song, in token of its being a great market town, where anything may be had for a mere song. Its present melodious alteration to Sing Sing is said to have been made in compliment to a Yankee singing master who taught the inhabitants the art of singing through the nose." The Indian village here bore the same name before the Dutch appropriated the country.

No very important events of Colonial or Revolutionary history are recorded in immediate connection with the town, though it is related that here is still preserved a small cannon known as "Old White," said to be the one which, at Teller's Point, compelled the British Vulture to slip her moorings and so leave Andr? in the lurch. At one time mining operations were conducted at this point, but they came to naught, and now the town is noted as a resort for guests of the state.

As we approach the Croton River the road takes a right-angled turn, down which a fingerboard points, indicating that Peekskill lies that way, but the old Post Road kept straight ahead, following the banks of the Croton until a favorable place for crossing occurred, when it took advantage of the opportunity and started back for the Hudson, in order to get around Hessian Hill. The marshy breadth of the Croton's mouth was probably too much for the bridge builders of early days. Along this road a short half mile is the one-time celebrated Black Horse Tavern. It was not only a house of refuge for travel-worn humanity, but was also a popular meeting place for the neighboring farmers, and a place of political gatherings.

We stick to the more modern road which crosses the Croton by means of two bridges landing one at the door yard of the old Van Cortlandt manor house. The view up the river from the bridge is a beautifully soft landscape. On the left stands the old "ferry house," so important a means of communication between the two sides of the stream that Washington, during the Revolution, stationed a guard here for its protection. The manor house, a modest two-story building, hidden in vines, built of the rough brown sandstone of the region, gives no indication of decrepit age. It so happened that just before my visit its stucco covering had been removed, disclosing to view the portholes for musketry intended to discourage the too enthusiastic approaches of its Indian neighbors. This stucco was spread over the building when the grandfather of the present generation of Van Cortlandts brought his bride home.

The father of the first "Lord of the Manor" was a landholder in the City of New Amsterdam, owning a tract along Broadway where now is Cortlandt St. The son was the first mayor of New York born in America; this was Stephanus Van Cortlandt. He advanced large sums of money to the government, and as compensation obtained, in 1697, a Royal charter for "Lordship and Manor of Cortlandt." The present building is thought to have been started by Gov. Thos. Dongan, about 1683, as a hunting lodge, an ideal situation on the bank of the Kitchawar, as the Croton River was then known, protected alike from the north and east winds.

Irving says of the family at the time of the Revolutionary War:--

"Two members of this old and honorable family were conspicuous patriots throughout the Revolution. Pierre Van Cortlandt, the father, at this time about fifty-six years of age, was a member of the first Provincial Congress, and President of the Committee of Public Safety. Governor Tryon had visited him in his old manor house at the mouth of the Croton, in 1774, and made him offers of royal favors, honors, grants of land, etc., if he would abandon the popular cause. His offers were nobly rejected. The Van Cortlandt family suffered in consequence, being at one time obliged to abandon their manorial residence; but the head remained true to the cause, and subsequently filled the office of Lieutenant-Governor with great dignity."

The history of the house records other interesting events besides those of war: From its high veranda the great Whitefield preached to crowds who were seated on benches on the lawn. The memory of this time has been kept green by a small brass plate, recording the fact, which is attached to a post of the veranda.

The whole air of the place is so homelike and comfortable that the traveler could easily pass it by never dreaming that the career of this vine-clad nest is one that many a more pretentious dwelling would be proud to own to.

The old Van Cortlandt family cemetery is situated on a hill west of the house and west of the road. Here lie the remains of that Mrs. Beekman whose distrust of Joshua Smith prevented him from securing a disguise for Andr?. Along the southern foot of this hill lies the Haunted Hollow.

For-years "the walking sachems of Teller's Point" held nightly councils here, the ghosts of departed Indians, whose last resting place on this Point was disturbed by the white man's plough and spade, but their clay has long since been burned into bricks and their shades have scattered in all directions; some of them no doubt looking down on us to-day from Manhattan's lofty skyscrapers.

An Indian castle or fort defended Teller's or Croton Point from up-river tribes, and it was here that old Chief Croton died while defending the firesides of his people, he being the last warrior to go down before the invaders. But though dead he yet walked, much to the inconvenience of belated travelers, more especially those who, having passed a friendly evening with hospitable neighbors, found it somewhat difficult to lay a straight course for home. However, nothing has been heard of his ghostship of late, and it may be that the materialistic spirit of the present age, which does not know a ghost when it sees one, has sent him off to some more happy haunting ground.

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 Andr?, 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 Andr? 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 shore. 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 Andr?, adjutant-general of the British army, was put ashore, 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 Andr? 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 Andr? waited his opportunity to reach the Vulture; but shore batteries began firing on her, and Smith refused to venture out in his little boat."

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 Stephanus 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 shore 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 Andr?, 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 shore 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.

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 passage up the Hudson, entered the creek and promptly ran aground, and, being aground, concluded to stay.

John Paulding, one of the three who captured Andr?, 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.

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 Assembly, member of the 2d, 3d and 4th Provincial Congress, President of the Committee of Public Safety, a framer of the State Constitution, 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 Andr? 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 Andr? 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.

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.

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 chasseurs, 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.

For the space of some two or three miles the road is a grass-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 passing 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 , and the gentleman of leisure presumably suffers accordingly, as the farmer is not likely to assess 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 passes 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.

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.

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

ON THE HILLS BACK OF THIS STONE STOOD THREE BATTERIES GUARDING THIS PASS, 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 Pass 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.

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