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X THE HIGHLANDS FOR twenty miles, between Peekskill
and Cornwall, the Hudson plays hide and seek with the ancient rock-ribbed hills
and mountains. The river scenery here is at its finest and often attains to
real sublimity, especially if observed by moonlight or on mysterious days of
haze, or when a storm sweeps over the rugged heights. None of the mountains are
particularly lofty, for the highest is not much more than fifteen hundred feet,
but they lift so steeply and massively from the river borders that they are far
more imposing than many a mountain that soars to a much greater altitude in a
different situation. A railroad skirts the water’s edge on either side of the
stream, now and then darting through a tunnel or dodging behind a rocky wall,
but on the whole affording a delightful impression of the scenery. All the
large timber was long ago taken from the mountains, and the newer trees are cut
as soon as they become of useful size; but as no fires have swept through the woodland
for many years it appears from a distance like the original forest. Peekskill, at the southern gateway
to the Highlands, is a pretty town half hidden in a ravine, half scrambling up
the sides of steep green slopes where several brooks come down into a quiet
bay. There is an interesting story that the first settler of the town was a
Dutch navigator, Captain Jans Peek, who got stuck in the mud here, soon after
the voyage of Henry Hudson, and spent the remainder of his life in contentment
by the faithless stream which he had mistaken for the main river. The creek
came to be called Peek’s Kill in consequence. Troops were quartered in the town
from time to time during the Revolution, and at one period General Israel
Putnam was in command. Here he caught the spy, Palmer, and wrote that famous
note to a British officer, who interposed in the spy’s behalf: “Edmund Palmer, an officer in the
enemy’s service, was taken as a spy, lurking within our lines. He has been
tried as a spy, condemned as a spy, and shall be executed as a spy.” Two hours later he added to the
note, “P. S. He is hanged.” Less than three miles away are
Gallows Hill with its folk lore and Revolutionary legends, and the Wayside Inn,
where André tarried after his arrest. In the east room of the old hostelry are
yet shown the marks his military boots made as he restlessly paced up and down
its narrow limits. Among the famous men who have had summer homes at Peekskill
should be mentioned the great pulpit orator Henry Ward Beecher. Over on the west shore of the bay
rises the Dunderberg, or Thunder Mount, and less than three miles to the north
the river runs between two other wild, brushy heights — Bear Hill and Anthony’s
Nose. The next conspicuous mountain is Sugar Loaf; and beyond West Point is the
grandest group of all including Crow Nest and Storm King, Mount Taurus and
Breakneck. It used to be currently believed by
the settlers along the river that the Highlands were under the dominion of
supernatural and mischievous beings, who had taken some pique against the Dutch
colonists in the early time of the settlement. In consequence of this it was
their particular delight to vent their spleen, and indulge their humors on the
Dutch skippers; bothering them with flaws, head winds, counter currents, and
all kinds of impediments, insomuch that a Dutch navigator was always obliged to
be exceedingly wary and deliberate in his proceedings. The captains of the river craft were
especially fearful of a little goblin who haunted the neighborhood of the
Dunderberg, wearing trunk hose and a sugar-loaf hat, and carrying a speaking
trumpet in his hand. They declared that they had heard him in stormy weather,
in the midst of the turmoil, giving orders for the piping up of a fresh gust of
wind, or the rattling off of another thunder-clap; that sometimes he had been
seen surrounded by a crew of little imps in broad breeches and short doublets,
tumbling head over heels in the rack and mist, and playing a thousand gambols
in the air, or buzzing like a swarm of flies about Anthony’s Nose; and that at
such times, the hurry-scurry of the storm was always greatest. One time a
sloop, in passing by the Dunderberg, was overtaken by a thunder-gust that came
scouring round the mountain, and seemed to burst just over the vessel. Though
tight and well ballasted, she labored dreadfully and the water came over the
gunwale. All the crew were amazed when it was discovered that there was a
little white sugar-loaf hat on the masthead, known at once to be the hat of the
Heer of the Dunderberg. The sloop continued laboring and rocking, as if she
would have rolled her mast overboard, and seemed in continual danger either of
upsetting or of running on shore. In this way she drove quite through the
Highlands, until she had passed Pollopel’s Island, where, it is said, the
jurisdiction of the Dunderberg potentate ceases. No sooner had she passed this
bourn, than the little hat spun up into the air like a top, whirled all the
clouds into a vortex, and hurried them back to the summit of the Dunderberg,
while the sloop righted herself and sailed on as quietly as if in a mill pond.
Nothing saved her from utter wreck but the fortunate circumstance of having a
horseshoe nailed against the mast — a wise precaution against evil spirits,
since adopted by all the Dutch captains that navigate this haunted river. There is another story told of this
foul-weather urchin by Skipper Daniel Ouselsticker of Fishkill, who was never
known to tell a lie. He declared that in a severe squall he saw the Dunderberg
goblin seated astride of his bowsprit, riding the sloop ashore, full butt
against Anthony’s Nose, and that he was exorcised by Dominie Van Gieson, of
Esopus, who happened to be on board, and who sang the hymn of St. Nicholas;
whereupon the goblin threw himself up in the air like a ball, and went off in a
whirlwind. With him he carried the nightcap of the Dominie’s wife, which was
discovered the next Sunday morning hanging on the weathercock of Esopus church
steeple, at least forty miles off! Several events of this kind having taken
place, the regular skippers of the river, for a long time, did not venture to
pass the Dunderberg without lowering their peaks, out of homage to the Heer of
the Mountain; and it was observed that all such as paid this tribute of respect
were allowed to pass unmolested. Where the base of the Dunderberg
stretches out into the river is Kidd’s Point, so called because the renowned
pirate is said to have sailed up the river this far to secrete some of his
treasure. So the ground has been dug over and over in search of this mythical
wealth. A few years ago the captain of one
of the river craft anchored near the foot of the mountain, and when he was
ready to resume his course, he found that the anchor was caught in something
heavy. But by dint of great effort it was brought to the surface, and along
with it came a small cannon. One might naturally infer that this cannon had
belonged to some British war vessel; but instead it was gravely proclaimed to
be a relic of Captain Kidd. Then a speculator worked up enough enthusiastic
interest to collect twenty-two thousand dollars, for the purpose of securing
the vast riches that everyone knew must lie there on the river bottom where the
cannon had been found. Vague rumors were in circulation about a sunken ship,
the deck of which had been bored through with a long auger, and when the auger
was withdrawn it brought up pieces of silver in its thread. A coffer-dam was
built, and a powerful pump established over the supposed resting place of the
pirate ship and the work went merrily on until the funds ran low. Then faith
began to waver and the enterprise collapsed. Between the Dunderberg and Bear
Mount winds an ancient road, on which the British and the Continental soldiers
marched back and forth in the Revolutionary War. Reminiscent of that time, is
the village of Doodletown back in the hills. The place got its name in jocular
reference to the “Yankee Doodle boys,” as the patriot soldiers were sometimes
called.
Then, too, there is Bloody Pond, or
Highland Lake, on the shores of which tradition declares that several Hessians
were killed and their bodies thrown into its gloomy waters. Old residents of
the vicinity say that even now, on overcast and windy nights in midsummer,
ghostly apparitions in helmets and stout riding boots may be seen flitting
across the dark bosom of the pond, and that there floats to the frightened ear
the whispering of commands in a strange tongue and the faint rattle of sabres
and harness. Anthony’s Nose is a long ridge
sloping down to the river from the east, and pierced at the tip by a railway
tunnel. The explanation of its extraordinary name is that in colonial days a
vessel was one day passing up the river under the command of Captain Anthony
Hogan. As it approached this mountain the mate was impressed that the profile
of the mountain and the shape of the captain’s nose, which was notable for its
vigorous prominence, bore a rather striking resemblance to each other. As he
glanced back and forth comparing them the captain caught the drift of his
thoughts and said, “What! does that mountain look like my nose? Call it then,
if you please, Anthony’s Nose.” As we go on up the river we at
length come to the bold plateau of West Point, with its shaggy cliffs reaching
out into the stream, and overlooked from the rear by wooded heights. It was
Washington who first suggested this place as a desirable situation for a United
States Military Academy. The Academy may be said to have begun its existence in
1802; yet until 1811 it lived “at a poor dying rate” and in the latter year had
not a single cadet. But with the beginning of the second
war with England the legislators awoke to the necessity of making the
institution an effective aid in furnishing trained leaders for the future needs
of the army. Admirable work was done in the years that followed, and the
graduates at length tested the value of their instruction under the skies of
Mexico, where in two campaigns “we conquered a great country and won peace
without the loss of a single battle or skirmish.” The corps of cadets numbers between
three and four hundred. They room together in twos. The furniture of each
apartment is confined to the bare necessities, and each cadet is required to
make his own bed and keep his quarters tidy. He is aroused at six o’clock in
the morning by the drums. Twenty minutes later his room must be in order,
bedding folded and wash bowl inverted. Woe betide him if he is dilatory. A
superior visits him and reports his delinquency, or, as the lad would say,
“skins” him. Breakfast is eaten between half-past six and seven. From eight
o’clock until noon he is busy with recitations, class parades and other duties.
Then he has two hours for dinner and recreation. Academic work is over at four
o’clock, and the rest of the day is occupied by drills, amusements and dress
parade. Lights are extinguished in quarters at ten, and the cadet is supposed
to go to sleep. It is doubtful if he always does so.
Stories of stealthy midnight expeditions for the purpose of hazing some
unfortunate youngster, or to enjoy the mysterious edible mixed in a washbasin
and known as “cadet hash,” form a part of the traditions of the Point. But
these offenses against discipline are less frequent than formerly. A better
sentiment has grown up as to hazing, and even the wildest spirits thoroughly
appreciate their privileges and responsibilities. The restriction of the cadet
to “limits,” which by no means include the whole of the reservation, and his
total lack of money are powerful obstacles to forbidden pleasures. He is paid
forty-five dollars a month; but every penny of it is spent for him by the
quartermaster and commissary officers, and he is permitted to receive no cash
whatever from home or anywhere else. He does not even have pockets in his
trousers. The cadets all stand on their own merits, and parental position or
wealth count for nothing. As a matter of fact the fathers of the majority of
the cadets are wage-earners. There are nearly two hundred
buildings of all sorts. Some of the newer ones are strikingly big and
beautiful. Conspicuous on the north side of the plain, where there is a noble
view up the river, stands the tall graceful shaft of the Battle Monument, which
was erected in memory of the two thousand two hundred and thirty members of the
regular army who perished in the defense of the Union during the Civil War.
Near by is Trophy Point crowded with cannon and mortars captured in Mexico and
some guns taken from the British in the Revolution. Under the crest of the hill
here is a modern battery with its guns pointing up the river. But I will not
attempt to list further West Point’s many features and attractions.
The rocky character of the Point did
not in the early days invite settlers and it was only frequented by the hunter
and the wood-cutter. During the war for independence, Constitution Island, to
the northeast, was fortified and an enormous chain, each link weighing over one
hundred pounds, was stretched across the river. The Point itself also had its
defences, and a redoubt of logs, stones and earth was started on the most commanding
eminence to the west of the plateau. When Sir Henry Clinton came up the river
to cooperate with Burgoyne the defences were very imperfect, and he captured
them with little trouble. After Burgoyne was worsted Sir Henry withdrew down
the river, and the Americans resumed work on the fortifications. Arnold’s
treachery threatened to undo all their labor, but his plans came to grief, and
West Point was never in serious danger afterward. Constitution Island is a mass of
rocks inclosing considerable arable land, and only separated from the eastern
shore of the river by low meadows and marshes. For many years it was the home
of Miss Susan Warner who wrote “The Wide, Wide World” published in 1849. The
story was long and slow, according to the critics, but the public bought it
with avidity nevertheless, and no book of that period, except “Uncle Tom’s
Cabin,” exceeded it in popularity. Other novels by the same author followed.
Her sister Anna likewise won favor as a writer, and the two combined in the
production of “The Hills of the Shatemuc,” the final word of the title being
one of the Indian names for the Hudson. Looking northward from the island
the great rounded crags of Crow Nest and Storm King are seen overshadowing the
river. The name of the former indicates the prevalence of crows on that
eminence, just as Eagle Valley between the two mountains signifies that the
vicinity is a noted breeding place of eagles — birds once very abundant along
the Hudson, and still often seen. The river front of Crow Nest is called
“Kidd’s Plug Cliff” on the supposition that a mass of projecting rock on the
face of the precipice forms a plug to an orifice where the pirate hid a store
of gold. Storm King, the monarch of the Highland mountains
and guardian of the northern gateway, was originally called “The Klinkenberg”,
which means “Echo Mount;” and later it became known as “Butter Hill” from a
fancied resemblance of its dome-like form to a pat of butter. N. P. Willis, who
lived in the vicinity, and whom some of his neighbors used to speak of
unappreciatively as “the dude poet of the Hudson,” succeeded in bestowing the
title of “Storm King” on it, as a term befitting its dignity, and expressive of
the fact that it is an unfailing weather gauge to all the country north of it.
The rough headland opposite, whose
precipices are too steep to support much vegetation, is Breakneck Mountain, and
close at hand to the south of Breakneck is Mount Taurus. There is a story that
a wild bull once terrorized the country back of the latter height, until at
last a strong party undertook to hunt down and kill the creature. He fled
before his pursuers to the top of the next mountain where his impetuous flight
carried him over the verge of the crags. Down he crashed onto the rocks below,
and there he was found with a broken neck. Well out in the stream opposite the
place where this tragedy occurred is Pollopel’s Island. The old skippers when
they came to this island on their way down the river are said to have had a
habit of christening new hands by sousing them into the current. The ceremony
gratified the navigators’ love for horse play, and at the same time was
supposed to make the victim immune from the goblins that were well known to
haunt the numerous wild mountains that were to be encountered in the next few
miles. With the help of Pollopel’s Island,
this northern gateway of the Highlands was obstructed in 1779 by a line of
strong iron-pointed pikes, each about thirty feet in length, secured at the
bottom in cribs filled with stone, and slanted so that their points were just
at the surface of the water. The British sailors, however, under the guidance
of a deserter, found little difficulty in taking their ships past this
obstruction after the Highland forts had been captured. Later the cribs were
gradually destroyed by ice, or removed. A romantic story which brings the
island into the scene of its action is the following: Many years ago a fair
maid of the neighborhood was beloved by a farmer’s lad. At the same time her
attractions won the heart of a young minister, and one winter evening the
preacher took her for a sleighride. They were driving on the river near
Pollopel’s Island, when the ice broke and they were plunged into the cold
water. But the farmer’s lad happened to be
not far away and he came in all haste and rescued them. The lady at once
embraced her rustic lover with a warmth that was unmistakable. It was clear to
the minister that this affection made his own suit hopeless, and he promptly
renounced his love, and there in the moonlight united the fair lass and the
farmer’s lad in marriage. |
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