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IV MANHATTAN THE river ends at the southern point
of Manhattan Island where it joins New York Bay. Its wide channel is here alive
with shipping. Now and then a great ocean steamer passes going to and from its
wharf, the broad, open-ended ferry boats ply back and forth, tugs are moving
noisely hither and thither usually pulling some vastly bigger vessel or a long
line of barges, and there are numerous other craft large and small. It must be
confessed that most of this shipping is prosaic, and not a little of it is
actually ugly. Even the great steamers that voyage to other continents consist
for the most part of tremendous black hulls that can lay small claim to beauty.
The comparatively rare sailing vessels with their tapering masts and white
canvas spread to the wind are almost the only ones that have any marked grace
and charm. Steam is the ruling force, and the sole aim seems to be utility, yet
the marvelous energy displayed and the vastness of the business that is going on
are strikingly impressive. Battery Park occupies the extreme
lower end of the island. It is an agreeable bit of greensward and trees, but a
good deal marred by a long loop of the elevated railroad, and you wonder that
it has not been overwhelmed long ago by the encroachment of the mammoth city
buildings which rise to giddy heights in the immediate background. The gray,
hazy mystery of the ocean envelops the view down the harbor, the waves swash
ceaselessly along the masonry sea-wall, there is a salty odor to the air, and
all in all it is a spot that entices to loitering and meditation. Bordering the water on the west side is a big
spreading building very like a shallow pot with a low, conical cover clapped on
top. This is Castle Garden, now an aquarium, but formerly used for festivals,
concerts and public meetings of various kinds. It was originally erected by the
government in 1807 for a fortification, but when finished its foundations
proved too weak to support the weight of the heavy ordinance, and its intended
use was abandoned. Castle Garden’s most notable claim to fame is the fact that
here in 1850 was given Jenny Lind’s first concert on American soil. A choice of
seats was disposed of at auction and the first place on opening night brought
two hundred and twenty-five dollars. There was an audience of five thousand
persons, and as the New York Herald announced the next day, “Never did a mortal
in this city, or perhaps any other receive such homage as the sovereign of song
received from the sovereign people.” Jenny Lind’s share of the proceeds from
the opening concert was about ten thousand dollars, all of which she bestowed
on various charitable and public institutions of the city. Nearly one-third of
it went in a lump to the three volunteer fire departments, probably at the
suggestion of the singer’s manager, P. T. Barnum, who keenly appreciated the
advertising value of such a gift. The huge buildings that extend from
the Battery northward every year become more numerous and the new structures
that are added have a tendency to rise higher and higher. Their towering masses
are almost frightful in the near view, and the crowded gloom of the canyon-like
streets between is depressing; but seen from the water, that lofty irregular
skyline is replete with grandeur, and the buildings themselves, softened and
massed in the haze, with here and there a plume of steam or smoke, or the gleam
of a gilded dome, make a delightful spectacle. What a dreamy wonderland! How
suggestive of the fabulous — as if it all might melt away! And what wealth and
power and aggressiveness these soaring heights of masonry represent!
Where is the spire of old Trinity at
the head of Wall Street? We used to think it was “in danger of tearing the
silver lining from the clouds with its heavenward-pointing tip.” But now it is
dwarfed to insignificance among its tall, worldly neighbors. In going up the river after leaving
the Battery, the city presents nothing especially salient for a long distance.
The blocks of brick and stone repeat each other endlessly, and only now and
then an aspiring tower or skyscraper on this broader portion of the island
lifts itself conspicuously enough above its fellow buildings to be impressive. There are plenty of great ocean
steamers along the wharves, but they lie in narrow basins between the big,
barn-like warehouses on the piers, and you only get a glimpse of the tips of
masts and smokestacks, or, in passing on the water, obtain a hasty and
unsatisfactory view in sharp perspective of the entire vessels. At 72nd Street we come to Riverside
Park which extends along the bank of the stream to 130th Street. It is a most
attenuated strip, but the steep slope it occupies makes possible much variety
in its winding roads and paths and affords many delectable views of the great
river. Here are trees and shrubbery, and the birds flit and sing, and the
children tumble and play on the sunny declivities of greensward, or loiter in
the grateful shade if the day is warm. Here, too, the babies take their outings
in care of mothers or nurse girls, and all sorts of other people ramble, or
linger, or drive. On its most commanding height, at
the extreme north end, is the temple-like tomb of General Grant. This is built
of flawless white granite, and the cost was six hundred thousand dollars,
representing ninety thousand individual subscriptions. The tomb is a striking
landmark as seen from the river, but can hardly be called graceful. In form it
resembles what a child might attain by placing a round block on top of a
somewhat larger square one. Moreover it stands severely alone on a broad
terrace with no green boughs or creeping vines to soften its austerity. Farther back from the river on the
airy crest of the ridge is Columbia University. This is still in the making,
but has some noble buildings that will increase in charm with the mellowing of
the passing years and the accumulation of associations. Especially satisfying
is the library, one of the purest examples of classic Greek architecture in
this country. It is approached by a broad, paved esplanade and a wide flight of
steps, and its pillared front and great dome have a repose and simplicity that
are delightful. About twenty-five streets farther
north, occupying a lofty, flowing sweep of land, is the cemetery of Trinity
Church. It is closely surrounded by city blocks, but when you go inside, where
stand the ranks of tombs and monuments, you find abundant trees and shrubbery,
and eternal quiet reigns. On this spot the naturalist Audubon dwelt for many
years before it was taken for its present use, and here he is buried. Continuing along the ridge we
presently come to its loftiest height where it makes a slight cape-like
projection into the Hudson. At the time of the Revolution a strong earth‑work
was constructed here and named Fort Washington. Several other points in the
neighborhood were fortified, and though the works were all weak, the positions
they occupied made them formidable. For the defense of the city itself,
General Lee, early in 1776, hastily gathered levies of raw troops in
Connecticut. The merchants and other citizens of New York were fearful that the
presence of these troops would make the town a battleground and mean its total
destruction. So when Lee arrived on the same day that the British Squadron from
Boston reached the harbor the community was in a ferment of agitation. An
exodus of the more timid inhabitants began, and in the succeeding hours of
darkness there were “carts going and boats loading, and women and children
crying, and distressed voices heard in the roads.” However, the expected clash did not
occur, and the fleet soon sailed south. Its commander had apparently found the
place better prepared for resistance than he expected; and when he withdrew,
the Americans proceeded to fortify the Highlands, which was exactly what the
British had intended to do. In April General Israel Putnam assumed command in
the city and undertook to close the Hudson by erecting several batteries along
shore and placing obstructions in the channel opposite Fort Washington. Toward the end of June another
British fleet arrived bearing a considerable body of troops. In all there were
one hundred and thirty vessels, but at first their only land possession was
Staten Island. In spite of these menacing neighbors the Colonials in New York
greeted the news that the Declaration of Independence had been signed in
Philadelphia with ardent enthusiasm. They celebrated the event for several
days, and incidentally pulled down the leaden statue of George III which they
had set up on Bowling Green only a short time before. The statue was afterward
made into bullets to be used in the patriot cause. Putnam prepared fourteen fire-ships
which were to be sent among the enemy’s fleet, but the fleet took measures to
protect itself from such attacks, and the fire-ships were a failure. Likewise a
submarine engine which was hopefully constructed failed to explode at the time
and place planned, and merely blew up a vast column of water to the enemy’s
great astonishment, but doing no damage. The American force was decidedly
smaller than that of the British, and was largely made up of raw recruits. Many
of the yeomen hastily summoned from the farms were destitute of arms, lacking
which they were ordered to bring with them a shovel or pickaxe, or a scythe
straightened and fastened to a pole. As affairs grew more gloomy the militia
became intractable and impatient to leave. Deserters were the scandal of the
day, and two-thirds of the Connecticut troops were smitten with an attack of
homesickness that nothing but the sight of their own firesides could cure. The
restraint which was indispensable to the army’s effectiveness was too galling
to men accustomed to unbounded freedom, and the din of arms and their lack of military
skill made them, when opposed to the trained soldiers of the king, “ready to
fly from their own shadows,” as Washington said. Members of the militia could
only be obliged to serve three consecutive months beyond the boundaries of the
state in which they were enlisted. They were called out and disbanded as the
exigencies demanded, and were nearly as apt to leave a cannon in a ditch as a
plough in a furrow.
If the troops could have been depended on a battle
might have been risked in defense of the city, but as things were, no sooner
was an actual movement begun against the town than the troops withdrew in
haste. It was a sultry day in September, and they abandoned their tents,
blankets and heavy guns and retreated under a burning sun amid clouds of dust.
They were encumbered with women and children and all kinds of baggage. Many
were overcome by fatigue and thirst, and some perished by drinking cold water
too freely. The safe accomplishment of the perilous retreat was said to be due
to the fact that when the attacking force reached Murray Hill, then the country
residence of a patriot of that name, Mrs. Murray sent out a servant to invite
the British general to stop and take luncheon. A halt was ordered and the
officers were entertained for over two hours. But while they leisurely ate and
drank, and bantered their hostess, Putnam’s flying army had passed by within a
mile of them. The Americans assembled on the rocky
heights at the northern end of Manhattan Island. It was thought that the
obstructions in the river here with their accompanying batteries on each shore
would prevent any hostile ship from passing. But early on the morning of the
ninth of October, several of the British vessels got under way and came
standing up the river with an easy southern breeze. They broke through the
vaunted barriers as through a cobweb, and in spite of the constant fire of
seven batteries passed on without a pause. About a month later an attack was
made on Fort Washington garrisoned by three thousand men under the command of
Colonel Magaw. At nightfall the day before, Washington had arrived at Fort Lee
which crowned the palisades across the river. He entered a boat and had partly
crossed the river when he met Generals Greene and Putnam returning. They
assured him that the garrison was in admirable shape to make a strong defense,
and prevailed on him to go back to the Jersey shore with them. But he was
greatly excited, for he had urged that Manhattan was untenable and should be
entirely abandoned, and this was one of the few occasions when the “Father of
his Country” swore. The next day, about noon, sharp
volleys of musketry and a heavy cannonade thundering among the rocky hills
proclaimed that the action was begun. Assaults were made from four directions.
Washington was an anxious spectator of the battle from the opposite side of the
Hudson. Much of it was hidden from him by the intervening hills and forest; but
the roar of cannonry from the valley of the Harlem River, the incessant crack
of rifles, and the smoke rising above the tree-tops showed that a spirited
resistance was being made. The action of the defenders on the south lay open to
him and he was much encouraged by the gallant style in which they maintained
their position. But at last, overpowered by numbers, they retreated to the
fort, and as Washington beheld some of those in the rear overtaken by Hessians
and cut down and bayoneted, he was completely overcome and “wept with the
tenderness of a child.” The defenders of the outworks to the east and north
were likewise driven in, and presently Washington observed a flag enter the
fort which he surmised was a summons to surrender. He wrote a note to Magaw
telling him if he could hold out till evening, he would endeavor to bring off
the garrison in the night. Captain Gooch of Boston offered to be the bearer of
the note. He hastened down to the river, rowed across in a small boat,
clambered up the ridge to the fort and delivered the message. Then he came out,
ran down the steep, broken bill, dodging the enemy, some of whom struck at him
with their guns, while others attempted to thrust him with their bayonets, but
he escaped them all, got into his boat and returned to Fort Lee. Magaw was past help. The fort was so
crowded by the garrison and the troops from the outworks that movement was
difficult, and the enemy could at any moment pour in showers of shells that
would have made dreadful slaughter. Fort Washington was therefore surrendered.
This was one of the most crushing blows that befell the American cause during
the entire course of the war. A considerable proportion of the best troops in
the army was captured, besides an immense quantity of artillery and small arms,
and there was gloom and foreboding throughout the country. The site of the old fort has not yet
been entirely overflowed by the city. It is partially wooded, and here and
there amid the trees are glades of greensward, and openings that give pleasant
glimpses of the river far below and of the rugged bluffs of the opposite shore.
Two miles farther north the island
ends at Spuyten Duyvil Creek which connects the Hudson with the Harlem. This
waterway has been deepened and widened to allow the passage of good-sized
boats, and the tides sweep through it with great vigor. The origin of its
curious name has been facetiously explained by Irving; and his story has some
real foundation in a fatal exhibition of foolhardiness on the part of a young
Dutchman in the early days of the colony. As Irving tells the tale “Anthony Van Corlear, the trumpeter
of Governor Stuyvesant, was sent post-haste, on the appearance of the ships of
the Duke of York in the harbor, to warn the farmers up the river, and summon
them to the defense of New Amsterdam. So just stopping to take a lusty dinner,
and bracing to his side his junk-bottle, well charged with heart-inspiring
Hollands, he issued from the city gate, sounding a farewell strain, that rung
in sprightly echoes through the winding streets of New Amsterdam. “It was a dark and stormy night when
Anthony arrived at the creek which separates the island from the mainland. The
wind was high, the elements in an uproar. For a short time he paused on the
brink; and then bethinking himself of the urgency of his errand, he took a
hearty embrace of his stone bottle, swore most valorously that he would swim
across in spite of the devil, and daringly plunged into the stream. Luckless
Anthony! Scarcely had he buffeted half-way over, when he was observed to
struggle violently, as if battling with the spirit of the waters. Instinctively
he put his trumpet to his mouth and giving a vehement blast, sank forever to
the bottom. The clangor of his trumpet rang far and wide through the country,
alarming the neighbors round, who hurried in amazement to the spot. Here an old
Dutch burgher, famed for his veracity, and who had been a witness of the fact,
related to them the melancholy affair, with the fearful addition that he saw
the devil, in the shape of a huge moss-bunker, seize the sturdy Anthony by the
leg, and drag him beneath the waves. Certain it is the place has been called
Spuyten Duyvil ever since.”
This little cross valley was originally thickly
inhabitated by Indians. One great attraction, no doubt, was the abundance of
fish, a recommendation that still holds good. Great hauls of shad are made at
the mouth of the creek, and many striped bass and other less aristocratic fish
reward the angler along its shores.
In my own rambling in the vicinity I
paused to chat with one of these anglers, an elderly man by whom I was
cordially welcomed. Cordiality is an attribute of all such haunters of the
waterside. Who ever knew a fisherman to be crusty and sour, selfish and
uncommunicative? He has leisure, and is sure to be something of a philosopher.
While he fishes he meditates and catches much more than gets on his hook, and I
think there must be some occult influence in his occupation that inclines him
to a friendly affability. My acquaintance did not have the most ideal
surroundings. Close behind him on the north shore were lines of railroad tracks
along which frequent trains thundered, but across the stream rose an abrupt
wooded hill that descended to the east into a little dale of farmland. He
smoked his pipe enjoying the serenity of the day and nature’s genial mood, yet
very intent on his fishing. Even while we visited he kept sharp watch of two
poles he had propped up at the water’s edge on a bush. “I came from Killarney penniless at
the age of eighteen,” said he, “and I’ve raised ten children right here in New
York. My wife and I are still hale and hearty, and the children are a credit to
us. Some of my daughters’ husbands are lawyers and some are real estate men.
They don’t want me to work any more. I used to have a butcher shop, but I’ve given it up. Yes, and now I play every day, but I get as tired as if I was working. At first, after I quit work I stayed at home, but that didn’t do. The table was always so handy I’d be tasting this and that, and drinking coffee, until I hadn’t any appetite. For a change I tried fishing, and now I’m at it nearly all the time. I spend about a dollar and a half a week for bait, and there isn’t a stream or fishing place for a long distance around New York that I don’t know. I caught a five-pound bass here last year; and I have a standing offer of ten dollars, and no questions asked, for one weighing twice that much. I give away quite some eels and Tomcods, and on the whole I’m pretty well suited. In fact, with plenty to eat, and drink, and a feather bed to sleep on, what more does a man want?” |
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