[Illustration: A vintage pen-and-ink drawing of a man in 17th-century

attire, wearing a tall hat and puffy breeches, aiming a long-barreled

musket or pistol.]

=Chapter VI.=

IN WHICH THE AUTHOR DISCOURSES VERY INGENUOUSLY OF HIMSELF—AFTER WHICH

IS TO BE FOUND MUCH INTERESTING HISTORY ABOUT PETER THE HEADSTRONG AND

HIS FOLLOWERS.

As my readers and myself are about entering on as many perils as ever a

confederacy of meddlesome knights-errant wilfully ran their heads into,

it is meet that, like those hardy adventurers, we should join hands,

bury all differences, and swear to stand by one another, in weal or woe,

to the end of the enterprise. My readers must doubtless perceive how

completely I have altered my tone and deportment since we first set out

together. I warrant they then thought me a crabbed, cynical, impertinent

little son of a Dutchman; for I scarcely gave them a civil word, nor so

much as touched my beaver, when I had occasion to address them. But as

we jogged along together on the high road of my history, I gradually

began to relax, to grow more courteous, and occasionally to enter into

familiar discourse, until at length I came to conceive a most social,

companionable kind of regard for them. This is just my way: I am always

a little cold and reserved at first, particularly to people whom I

neither know nor care for, and am only to be completely won by long

intimacy.

Besides, why should I have been sociable to the crowd of how-d’ye-do

acquaintances that flocked around me at my first appearance? Many were

merely attracted by a new face; and having stared me full in the

title-page, walked off without saying a word: while others lingered

yawningly through the preface, and, having gratified their short-lived

curiosity, soon dropped off one by one. But, more especially to try

their mettle, I had recourse to an expedient, similar to one which we

are told was used by that peerless flower of chivalry, King Arthur; who,

before he admitted any knight to his intimacy, first required that he

should show himself superior to danger or hardships, by encountering

unheard-of mishaps, slaying some dozen giants, vanquishing wicked

enchanters, not to say a word of dwarfs, hippogriffs, and fiery dragons.

On a similar principle did I cunningly lead my readers, at the first

sally, into two or three knotty chapters, where they were most wofully

belabored and buffeted by a host of pagan philosophers, and infidel

writers. Though naturally a very grave man, yet could I scarcely refrain

from smiling outright at seeing the utter confusion and dismay of my

valiant cavaliers. Some dropped down dead (asleep) on the field; others

threw down my book in the middle of the first chapter, took to their

heels, and never ceased scampering until they had fairly run it out of

sight: when they stopped to take breath, to tell their friends what

troubles they had undergone, and to warn all others from venturing on so

thankless an expedition. Every page thinned my ranks more and more; and

of the vast multitude that first set out, but a comparatively few made

shift to survive, in exceedingly battered condition, through the five

introductory chapters.

What, then! would you have had me take such sunshine, faint-hearted

recreants to my bosom at our first acquaintance? No, no; I reserved my

friendship for those who deserved it, for those who undauntedly bore me

company, in spite of difficulties, dangers, and fatigues. And now, as to

those who adhere to me at present, I take them affectionately by the

hand. Worthy and thrice-beloved readers! brave and well-tried comrades!

who have faithfully followed my footsteps through all my wanderings,—I

salute you from my heart,—I pledge myself to stand by you to the last,

and to conduct you (so Heaven speed this trusty weapon which I now hold

between my fingers) triumphantly to the end of this our stupendous

undertaking.

But, hark! while we are thus talking, the city of New Amsterdam is in a

bustle. The host of warriors encamped in the Bowling Green are striking

their tents; the brazen trumpet of Antony Van Corlear makes the welkin

to resound with portentous clangor; the drums beat; the standards of the

Manhattoes, of Hell-gate, and of Michael Paw, wave proudly in the air.

And now behold where the mariners are busily employed hoisting the sails

of yon topsail schooner, and those clump-built sloops, which are to waft

the army of the Nederlanders to gather immortal honors on the Delaware!

[Illustration:

“CRAMMED THE POCKETS OF HER HERO WITH GINGERBREAD AND DOUGHNUTS.”

]

The entire population of the city, man, woman, and child, turned out to

behold the chivalry of New Amsterdam, as it paraded the streets previous

to embarkation. Many a handkerchief was waved out of the windows; many a

fair nose was blown in melodious sorrow on the mournful occasion. The

grief of the fair dames and beauteous damsels of Granada could not have

been more vociferous on the banishment of the gallant tribe of

Abencerrages than was that of the kind-hearted fair ones of New

Amsterdam on the departure of their intrepid warriors. Every love-sick

maiden fondly crammed the pockets of her hero with gingerbread and

doughnuts; many a copper ring was exchanged, and crooked sixpence

broken, in pledge of eternal constancy; and there remain extant to this

day some love-verses written on that occasion, sufficiently crabbed and

incomprehensible to confound the whole universe.

But it was a moving sight to see the buxom lasses, how they hung about

the doughty Antony Van Corlear,—for he was a jolly, rosy-faced, lusty

bachelor, fond of his joke, and withal a desperate rogue among the

women. Fain would they have kept him to comfort them while the army was

away; for, besides what I have said of him, it is no more than justice

to add, that he was a kind-hearted soul, noted for his benevolent

attentions in comforting disconsolate wives during the absence of their

husbands; and this made him to be very much regarded by the honest

burghers of the city. But nothing could keep the valiant Antony from

following the heels of the old governor, whom he loved as he did his

very soul; so, embracing all the young vrouws, and giving every one of

them that had good teeth and rosy lips a dozen hearty smacks, he

departed, loaded with their kind wishes.

Nor was the departure of the gallant Peter among the least causes of

public distress. Though the old governor was by no means indulgent to

the follies and waywardness of his subjects, yet somehow or other he had

become strangely popular among the people. There is something so

captivating in personal bravery, that, with the common mass of mankind,

it takes the lead of most other merits. The simple folk of New Amsterdam

looked upon Peter Stuyvesant as a prodigy of valor. His wooden leg, that

trophy of his martial encounters, was regarded with reverence and

admiration. Every old burgher had a budget of miraculous stories to tell

about the exploits of Hardkoppig Piet, wherewith he regaled his children

of a long winter night, and on which he dwelt with as much delight and

exaggeration as do our honest country yeomen on the hardy adventures of

old General Putnam (or, as he is familiarly termed, _Old Put_) during

our glorious Revolution. Not an individual but verily believed the old

governor was a match for Beëlzebub himself; and there was even a story

told, with great mystery, and under the rose, of his having shot the

devil with a silver bullet one dark stormy night, as he was sailing in a

canoe through Hell-gate,—but this I do not record as being an absolute

fact. Perish the man who would let fall a drop to discolor the pure

stream of history!

[Illustration:

“HAVING SHOT THE DEVIL WITH A SILVER BULLET ONE DARK STORMY NIGHT.”

]

Certain it is, not an old woman in New Amsterdam but considered Peter

Stuyvesant as a tower of strength, and rested satisfied that the public

welfare was secure so long as he was in the city. It is not surprising,

then, that they looked upon his departure as a sore affliction. With

heavy hearts they dragged at the heels of his troop, as they marched

down to the riverside to embark. The governor, from the stern of his

schooner, gave a short but truly patriarchal address to his citizens,

wherein he recommended them to comport like loyal and peaceable

subjects,—to go to church regularly on Sundays, and to mind their

business all the week besides. That the women should be dutiful and

affectionate to their husbands,—looking after nobody’s concerns but

their own,—eschewing all gossipings and morning gaddings,—and carrying

short tongues and long petticoats. That the men should abstain from

intermeddling in public concerns, intrusting the cares of government to

the officers appointed to support them,—staying at home, like good

citizens, making money for themselves, and getting children for the

benefit of their country. That the burgomasters should look well to the

public interest,—not oppressing the poor nor indulging the rich,—not

tasking their ingenuity to devise new laws, but faithfully enforcing

those which were already made,—rather bending their attention to prevent

evil than to punish it; ever recollecting that civil magistrates should

consider themselves more as guardians of public morals than rat-catchers

employed to entrap public delinquents. Finally, he exhorted them, one

and all, high and low, rich and poor, to conduct themselves _as well as

they could_, assuring them that if they faithfully and conscientiously

complied with this golden rule, there was no danger but that they would

all conduct themselves well enough. This done, he gave them a paternal

benediction, the sturdy Antony sounded a most loving farewell with his

trumpet, the jolly crews put up a shout of triumph, and the invincible

armada swept off proudly down the bay.

The good people of New Amsterdam crowded down to the Battery,—that blest

resort, from whence so many a tender prayer has been wafted, so many a

fair hand waved, so many a tearful look been cast by love-sick damsel,

after the lessening bark, bearing her adventurous swain to distant

climes!—Here the populace watched with straining eyes the gallant

squadron, as it slowly floated down the bay, and when the intervening

land at the Narrows shut it from their sight, gradually dispersed with

silent tongues and downcast countenances.

A heavy gloom hung over the late bustling city: the honest burghers

smoked their pipes in profound thoughtfulness, casting many a wistful

look to the weather-cock on the church of St. Nicholas; and all the old

women, having no longer the presence of Peter Stuyvesant to hearten

them, gathered their children home, and barricaded the doors and windows

every evening at sundown.

In the meanwhile the armada of the sturdy Peter proceeded prosperously

on its voyage; and after encountering about as many storms, and

water-spouts, and whales, and other horrors and phenomena as generally

befall adventurous landsmen in perilous voyages of the kind, and after

undergoing a severe scouring from that deplorable and unpitied malady

called seasickness, the whole squadron arrived safely in the Delaware.

[Illustration:

“BARRICADED THE DOORS AND WINDOWS EVERY EVENING AT SUNDOWN.”

]

Without so much as dropping anchor and giving his wearied ships time to

breathe, after laboring so long on the ocean, the intrepid Peter pursued

his course up the Delaware, and made a sudden appearance before Fort

Casimir. Having summoned the astonished garrison by a terrific blast

from the trumpet of the long-winded Van Corlear, he demanded, in a tone

of thunder, an instant surrender of the fort. To this demand, Suen

Skytte, the wind-dried commandant, replied in a shrill, whiffling voice,

which, by reason of his extreme spareness, sounded like the wind

whistling through a broken bellows,—“That he had no very strong reason

for refusing, except that the demand was particularly disagreeable, as

he had been ordered to maintain his post to the last extremity.” He

requested time, therefore, to consult with Governor Risingh, and

proposed a truce for that purpose.

The choleric Peter, indignant at having his rightful fort so

treacherously taken from him, and thus pertinaciously withheld, refused

the proposed armistice, and swore by the pipe of St. Nicholas, which,

like the sacred fire, was never extinguished, that unless the fort were

surrendered in ten minutes, he would incontinently storm the works, make

all the garrison run the gauntlet, and split their scoundrel of a

commander like a pickled shad. To give this menace the greater effect,

he drew forth his trusty sword, and shook it at them with such a fierce

and vigorous motion, that doubtless, if it had not been exceedingly

rusty, it would have lightened terror into the eyes and hearts of the

enemy. He then ordered his men to bring a broadside to bear upon the

fort, consisting of two swivels, three muskets, a long duck

fowling-piece, and two brace of horse-pistols.

In the meantime the sturdy Van Corlear marshalled all the forces, and

commenced his warlike operations. Distending his cheeks like a very

Boreas, he kept up a most horrific twanging of his trumpet,—the lusty

choristers of Sing-Sing broke forth into a hideous song of battle,—the

warriors of Breuckelen and the Wallabout blew a potent and astonishing

blast on their conch shells,—altogether forming as outrageous a concerto

as though five thousand French fiddlers were displaying their skill in a

modern overture.

Whether the formidable front of war thus suddenly presented smote the

garrison with sore dismay,—or whether the concluding terms of the

summons, which mentioned that he should surrender “at discretion,” were

mistaken by Suen Skytte, who, though a Swede, was a very considerate,

easy-tempered man, as a compliment to his discretion, I will not take

upon me to say; certain it is he found it impossible to resist so

courteous a demand. Accordingly, in the very nick of time, just as the

cabin-boy had gone after a coal of fire to discharge the swivel, a

_chamade_ was beat on the rampart by the only drum in the garrison, to

the no small satisfaction of both parties, who, notwithstanding their

great stomach for fighting, had full as good an inclination to eat a

quiet dinner as to exchange black eyes and bloody noses.

[Illustration:

“MARCHED OUT WITH THE HONORS OF WAR.”

]

Thus did this impregnable fortress once more return to the domination of

their High Mightinesses. Skytte and his garrison of twenty men were

allowed to march out with the honors of war; and the victorious Peter,

who was as generous as brave, permitted them to keep possession of all

their arms and ammunition,—the same on inspection being found totally

unfit for service, having long rusted in the magazine of the fortress,

even before it was wrested by the Swedes from the windy Van Poffenburgh.

But I must not omit to mention that the governor was so well pleased

with the service of his faithful squire, Van Corlear, in the reduction

of this great fortress, that he made him on the spot lord of a goodly

domain in the vicinity of New Amsterdam,—which goes by the name of

Corlear’s Hook unto this very day.

The unexampled liberality of Peter Stuyvesant towards the Swedes,

occasioned great surprise in the city of New Amsterdam,—nay, certain

factious individuals, who had been enlightened by political meetings in

the days of William the Testy, but who had not dared to indulge their

meddlesome habits under the eye of their present ruler, now, emboldened

by his absence, gave vent to their censures in the street. Murmurs were

heard in the very council-chamber of New Amsterdam; and there is no

knowing whether they might not have broken out into downright speeches

and invectives, had not Peter Stuyvesant privately sent home his

walking-staff, to be laid as a mace on the table of the council-chamber,

in the midst of his counsellors; who, like wise men, took the hint, and

forever after held their peace.

[Illustration: "A]

jolly man in a nightcap or baker's hat, smiling while holding out a tray

of freshly baked rolls."

=Chapter VII.=

SHOWING THE GREAT ADVANTAGE THAT THE AUTHOR HAS OVER HIS READER IN TIME

OF BATTLE—TOGETHER WITH DIVERS PORTENTOUS MOVEMENTS; WHICH BETOKEN THAT

SOMETHING TERRIBLE IS ABOUT TO HAPPEN.

Like as a mighty alderman, when at a corporation feast the first

spoonful of turtle-soup salutes his palate, feels his appetite but

tenfold quickened, and redoubles his vigorous attacks upon the tureen,

while his projecting eyes roll greedily round, devouring everything at

table, so did the mettlesome Peter Stuyvesant feel that hunger for

martial glory, which raged within his bowels, inflamed by the capture of

Fort Casimir, and nothing could allay it but the conquest of all New

Sweden. No sooner, therefore, had he secured his conquest, than he

stumped resolutely on, flushed with success, to gather fresh laurels at

Fort Christina.[20]

This was the grand Swedish post, established on a small river (or, as it

is improperly termed, creek) of the same name; and here that crafty

governor Jan Risingh lay grimly drawn up, like a gray-bearded spider in

the citadel of his web.

But before we hurry into the direful scenes which must attend the

meeting of two such potent chieftains, it is advisable to pause for a

moment, and hold a kind of warlike council. Battles should not be rushed

into, precipitately by the historian and his readers, any more than by

the general and his soldiers. The great commanders of antiquity never

engaged the enemy without previously preparing the minds of their

followers by animating harangues, spiriting them up to heroic deeds,

assuring them of the protection of the gods, and inspiring them with a

confidence in the prowess of their leaders. So the historian should

awaken the attention and enlist the passions of his readers; and having

set them all on fire with the importance of his subject, he should put

himself at their head, flourish his pen, and lead them on to the

thickest of the fight.

[Illustration:

ANIMATING HARANGUES.

]

An illustrious example of this rule may be seen in that mirror of

historians, the immortal Thucydides. Having arrived at the breaking out

of the Peloponnesian war, one of his commentators observes that “he

sounds the charge in all the disposition and spirit of Homer. He

catalogues the allies on both sides. He awakens our expectations, and

fast engages our attention. All mankind are concerned in the important

point now going to be decided. Endeavors are made to disclose futurity.

Heaven itself is interested in the dispute. The earth totters, and

nature seems to labor with the great event. This is his solemn, sublime

manner of setting out. Thus he magnifies a war between two, as Rapin

styles them, petty states; and thus artfully he supports a little

subject by treating it in a great and noble method.”

In like manner, having conducted my readers into the very teeth of

peril,—having followed the adventurous Peter and his band into foreign

regions, surrounded by foes, and stunned by the horrid din of arms,—at

this important moment, while darkness and doubt hang o’er each coming

chapter, I hold it meet to harangue them, and prepare them for the

events that are to follow.

And here I would premise one great advantage which, as historian, I

possess over my reader; and this it is, that, though I cannot save the

life of my favorite hero, nor absolutely contradict the event of a

battle (both which liberties, though often taken by the French writers

of the present reign, I hold to be utterly unworthy of a scrupulous

historian), yet I can now and then make him bestow on his enemy a sturdy

back-stroke sufficient to fell a giant,—though, in honest truth, he may

never have done anything of the kind,—or I can drive his antagonist

clear round and round the field, as did Homer make that fine fellow

Hector scamper like a poltroon round the walls of Troy; for which, if

ever they have encountered one another in the Elysian fields, I’ll

warrant the prince of poets has had to make the most humble apology.

I am aware that many conscientious readers will be ready to cry out

“foul play!” whenever I render a little assistance to my hero, but I

consider it one of those privileges exercised by historians of all ages,

and one which has never been disputed. An historian is, in fact, as it

were, bound in honor to stand by his hero; the fame of the latter is

intrusted to his hands, and it is his duty to do the best by it he can.

Never was there a general, an admiral, or any other commander, who, in

giving account of any battle he had fought, did not sorely belabor the

enemy; and I have no doubt that, had my heroes written the history of

their own achievements, they would have dealt much harder blows than any

that I shall recount. Standing forth, therefore, as the guardian of

their fame, it behooves me to do them the same justice they would have

done themselves; and if I happen to be a little hard upon the Swedes, I

give free leave to any of their descendants, who may write a story of

the State of Delaware to take fair retaliation, and belabor Peter

Stuyvesant as hard as they please.

Therefore stand by for broken heads and bloody noses! My pen hath long

itched for a battle; siege after siege have I carried on without blows

or bloodshed; but now I have at length got a chance, and I vow to Heaven

and St. Nicholas, that, let the chronicles of the times say what they

please, neither Sallust, Livy, Tacitus, Polybius, nor any other

historian, did ever record a fiercer fight than that in which my valiant

chieftains are now about to engage.

And you, oh most excellent readers, whom, for your faithful adherence, I

could cherish in the warmest corner of my heart, be not uneasy,—trust

the fate of our favorite Stuyvesant with me, for by the rood, come what

may, I’ll stick by Hardkoppig Piet to the last. I’ll make him drive

about these losels vile, as did the renowned Launcelot of the Lake a

herd of recreant Cornish knights; and if he does fall, let me never draw

my pen to fight another battle in behalf of a brave man, if I don’t make

these lubberly Swedes pay for it.

No sooner had Peter Stuyvesant arrived at Fort Christina than he

proceeded without delay to intrench himself, and immediately on running

his first parallel, despatched Antony Van Corlear to summon the fortress

to surrender. Van Corlear was received with all due formality,

hoodwinked at the portal, and conducted through a pestiferous smell of

salt fish and onions to the citadel, a substantial hut built on pine

logs. His eyes were here uncovered, and he found himself in the august

presence of Governor Risingh. This chieftain, as I have before noted,

was a very giantly man, and was clad in a coarse blue coat, strapped

round the waist with a leathern belt, which caused the enormous skirts

and pockets to set off with a warlike sweep. His ponderous legs were

cased in a pair of foxy-colored jackboots, and he was straddling in the

attitude of the Colossus of Rhodes before a bit of broken looking-glass,

shaving himself with a villanously dull razor. This afflicting operation

caused him to make a series of horrible grimaces, which heightened

exceedingly the grisly terrors of his visage. On Antony Van Corlear’s

being announced, the grim commander paused for a moment in the midst of

one of his most hard-favored contortions, and after eying him askance

over the shoulder, with a kind of snarling grin on his countenance,

resumed his labors at the glass.

[Illustration:

“BEFORE A BIT OF BROKEN LOOKING-GLASS SHAVING HIMSELF.”

]

This iron harvest being reaped, he turned once more to the trumpeter,

and demanded the purport of his errand. Antony Van Corlear delivered in

a few words, being a kind of shorthand speaker, a long message from his

Excellency, recounting the whole history of the province, with a

recapitulation of grievances and enumeration of claims, and concluding

with a peremptory demand of instant surrender; which done, he turned

aside, took his nose between his thumb and fingers, and blew a

tremendous blast, not unlike the flourish of a trumpet of

defiance,—which it had doubtless learned from a long and intimate

neighborhood with that melodious instrument.

Governor Risingh heard him through, trumpet and all, but with infinite

impatience,—leaning at times, as was his usual custom, on the pommel of

his sword, and at times twirling a huge steel watch-chain, or snapping

his fingers. Van Corlear having finished, he bluntly replied, that Peter

Stuyvesant and his summons might go to the d——l, whither he hoped to

send him and his crew of ragamuffins before supper-time. Then

unsheathing his brass-hilted sword, and throwing away the

scabbard,—“’Fore gad,” quod he, “but I will not sheathe thee again until

I make a scabbard of the smoke-dried leathern hide of this runagate

Dutchman.” Then having flung a fierce defiance in the teeth of his

adversary by the lips of his messenger, the latter was reconducted to

the portal with all the ceremonious civility due to the trumpeter,

squire, and ambassador of so great a commander; and being again

unblinded, was courteously dismissed with a tweak of the nose, to assist

him in recollecting his message.

No sooner did the gallant Peter receive this insolent reply then he let

fly a tremendous volley of red-hot execrations, which would infallibly

have battered down the fortifications, and blown up the powder-magazine

about the ears of the fiery Swede, had not the ramparts been remarkably

strong, and the magazine bomb-proof. Perceiving that the works withstood

this terrific blast, and that it was utterly impossible (as it really

was in those unphilosophic days) to carry on a war with words, he

ordered his merry men to all prepare for an immediate assault. But here

a strange murmur broke out among his troops, beginning with the tribe of

the Van Bummels, those valiant trenchermen of the Bronx, and spreading

from man to man, accompanied with certain mutinous looks and

discontented murmurs. For once in his life, and only for once, did the

great Peter turn pale, for he verily thought his warriors were going to

falter in this hour of perilous trial, and thus to tarnish forever the

fame of the province of New Netherlands.

But soon did he discover, to his great joy, that in his suspicion he

deeply wronged his most undaunted army; for the cause of this agitation

and uneasiness simply was, that the hour of dinner was at hand, and it

would have almost broken the hearts of these regular Dutch warriors to

have broken in upon the invariable routine of their habits. Besides, it

was an established rule among our ancestors always to fight upon a full

stomach; and to this may be doubtless attributed the circumstance that

they came to be so renowned in arms.

And now are the hearty men of the Manhattoes, and their no less hearty

comrades, all lustily engaged under the trees, buffeting stoutly with

the contents of their wallets, and taking such affectionate embraces of

their canteens and pottles as though they verily believed they were to

be the last. And as I foresee we shall have hot work in a page or two, I

advise my readers to do the same, for which purpose I will bring this

chapter to a close,—giving them my word of honor, that no advantage

shall be taken of this armistice to surprise, or in any wise molest, the

honest Nederlanders while at their vigorous repast.

[Illustration: A vintage pen-and-ink drawing of a jolly, bald man

sitting in a chair with a large napkin tucked into his collar, holding a

spoon over a steaming bowl of soup.]

=Chapter VIII.=

CONTAINING THE MOST HORRIBLE BATTLE EVER RECORDED IN POETRY OR PROSE;

WITH THE ADMIRABLE EXPLOITS OF PETER THE HEADSTRONG.

Now had the Dutchmen snatched a huge repast, and finding themselves

wonderfully encouraged and animated thereby, prepared to take the field.

Expectation, says the writer of the Stuyvesant manuscript,—Expectation

now stood on stilts. The world forgot to turn round, or rather stood

still, that it might witness the affray,—like a round-bellied alderman,

watching the combat of two chivalrous flies upon his jerkin. The eyes of

all mankind, as usual in such cases, were turned upon Fort Christina.

The sun, like a little man in a crowd at a puppet-show, scampered about

the heavens, popping his head here and there, and endeavoring to get a

peep between the unmannerly clouds that obtruded themselves in his way.

The historians filled their ink-horns; the poets went without their

dinners, either that they might buy paper and goose-quills, or because

they could not get anything to eat. Antiquity scowled sulkily out of its

grave, to see itself outdone,—while even Posterity stood mute, gazing in

gaping ecstasy of retrospection on the eventful field.

The immortal deities, who whilom had seen service at the “affair” of

Troy, now mounted their feather-bed clouds, and sailed over the plain,

or mingled among the combatants in different disguises, all itching to

have a finger in the pie. Jupiter sent off his thunderbolt to a noted

coppersmith, to have it furbished up for the direful occasion. Venus

vowed by her chastity to patronize the Swedes, and in semblance of a

blear-eyed trull paraded the battlements of Fort Christina, accompanied

by Diana, as a sergeant’s widow, of cracked reputation. The noted bully,

Mars, stuck two horse-pistols into his belt, shouldered a rusty

firelock, and gallantly swaggered at their elbow, as a drunken

corporal,—while Apollo trudged in their rear, as a bandy-legged fifer,

playing most villanously out of tune.

[Illustration:

MARS AS A DRUNKEN COPORAL.

]

On the other side, the ox-eyed Juno, who had gained a pair of black eyes

overnight, in one of her curtain-lectures with old Jupiter, displayed

her haughty beauties on a baggage-wagon; Minerva, as a brawny

gin-sutler, tucked up her skirts, brandished her fists, and swore most

heroically, in exceeding bad Dutch (having but lately studied the

language), by way of keeping up the spirits of the soldiers; while

Vulcan halted as a club-footed blacksmith, lately promoted to be a

captain of militia. All was silent awe, or bustling preparation: war

reared his horrid front, gnashed loud his iron fangs, and shook his

direful crest of bristling bayonets.

And now the mighty chieftains marshalled out their hosts. Here stood

stout Risingh, firm as a thousand rocks,—incrusted with stockades, and

intrenched to the chin in mud batteries. His valiant soldiery lined the

breastwork in grim array, each having his mustachios fiercely greased,

and his hair pomatumed back, and queued so stiffly, that he grinned

above the ramparts like a grisly death’s-head.

There came on the intrepid Peter,—his brows knit, his teeth set, his

fists clenched, almost breathing forth volumes of smoke, so fierce was

the fire that raged within his bosom. His faithful squire Van Corlear

trudged valiantly at his heels, with his trumpet gorgeously bedecked

with red and yellow ribbons, the remembrances of his fair mistresses at

the Manhattoes. Then came waddling on the sturdy chivalry of the Hudson.

There were the Van Wycks, and the Van Dycks, and the Ten Eycks; the Van

Nesses, the Van Tassels, the Van Grolls; the Van Hœsens, the Van

Giesons, and the Van Blarcoms; the Van Warts, the Van Winkles, the Van

Dams; the Van Pelts, the Van Rippers, and the Van Brunts. There were the

Van Hornes, the Van Hooks, the Van Bunschotens; the Van Gelders, the Van

Arsdales, and the Van Bummels; the Vander Belts, the Vander Hoofs, the

Vander Voorts, the Vander Lyns, the Vander Pools, and the Vander

Spiegles;—then came the Hoffmans, the Hooghlands, the Hoppers, the

Cloppers, the Ryckmans, the Dyckmans, the Hogebooms, the Rosebooms, the

Oothouts, the Quackenbosses, the Roerbacks, the Garrebrantzes, the

Bensons, the Brouwers, the Waldrons, the Onderdonks, the Varra Vangers,

the Schermerhorns, the Stoutenburghs, the Brinkerhoffs, the Bontecous,

the Knickerbockers, the Hockstrassers, the Ten Breecheses and the Tough

Breecheses, with a host more of worthies, whose names are too crabbed to

be written, or if they could be written, it would be impossible for man

to utter,—all fortified with a mighty dinner, and, to use the words of a

great Dutch poet,

“Brimful of wrath and cabbage.”

For an instant the mighty Peter paused in the midst of his career, and

mounting on a stump, addressed his troops in eloquent Low Dutch,

exhorting them to fight like _duyvels_, and assuring them that if they

conquered, they should get plenty of booty,—if they fell, they should be

allowed the satisfaction, while dying, of reflecting that it was in the

service of their country, and after they were dead, of seeing their

names inscribed in the temple of renown, and handed down, in company

with all the other great men of the year, for the admiration of

posterity. Finally, he swore to them, on the word of a governor (and

they knew him too well to doubt it for a moment), that if he caught any

mother’s son of them looking pale, or playing craven, he would curry his

hide till he made him run out of it like a snake in spring-time. Then

lugging out his trusty sabre, he brandished it three times over his

head, ordered Van Corlear to sound a charge, and shouting the words “St.

Nicholas and the Manhattoes!” courageously dashed forwards. His warlike

followers, who had employed the interval in lighting their pipes,

instantly stuck them into their mouths, gave a furious puff, and charged

gallantly under cover of the smoke.

[Illustration:

THE CHARGE.

]

The Swedish garrison, ordered by the cunning Risingh not to fire until

they could distinguish the whites of their assailants’ eyes, stood in

horrid silence on the covertway, until the eager Dutchmen had ascended

the glacis. Then did they pour into them such a tremendous volley, that

the very hills quaked around, and were terrified even unto an

incontinence of water, insomuch that certain springs burst forth from

their sides, which continue to run until the present day. Not a Dutchman

but would have bitten the dust beneath that dreadful fire, had not the

protecting Minerva kindly taken care that the Swedes should, one and

all, observe their usual custom of shutting their eyes, and turning away

their heads at the moment of discharge.

The Swedes followed up their fire by leaping the counterscarp, and

falling tooth and nail upon the foe with furious outcries. And now might

be seen prodigies of valor, unmatched in history or song. Here was the

sturdy Stoffel Brinkerhoff brandishing his quarterstaff, like the giant

Blanderon his oak-tree (for he scorned to carry any other weapon), and

drumming a horrific tune upon the hard heads of the Swedish soldiery.

There were the Van Kortlandts, posted at a distance, like the Locrain

archers of yore, and plying it most potently with the long-bow, for

which they were so justly renowned. On a rising knoll were gathered the

valiant men of Sing-Sing, assisting marvellously in the fight, by

chanting the great song of St. Nicholas; but as to the Gardeniers of

Hudson, they were absent on a marauding party, laying waste the

neighboring watermelon patches.

In a different part of the field were the Van Grolls of Antony’s Nose,

struggling to get to the thickest of the fight, but horribly perplexed

in a defile between two hills, by reason of the length of their noses.

So also the Van Bunschotens of Nyack and Kakiat, so renowned for kicking

with the left foot, were brought to a stand for want of wind, in

consequence of the hearty dinner they had eaten, and would have been put

to utter rout but for the arrival of a gallant corps of voltigeurs,

composed of the Hoppers, who advanced nimbly to their assistance on one

foot. Nor must I omit to mention the valiant achievements of Antony Van

Corlear, who, for a good quarter of an hour, waged stubborn fight with a

little pursy Swedish drummer, whose hide he drummed most magnificently,

and whom he would infallibly have annihilated on the spot, but that he

had come into the battle with no other weapon but his trumpet.

But now the combat thickened. On came the mighty Jacobus Varra Vanger

and the fighting men of the Wallabout; after them thundered the Van

Pelts of Esopus, together with the Van Rippers and the Van Brunts,

bearing down all before them; then the Suy Dams, and the Van Dams,

pressing forward with many a blustering oath, at the head of the

warriors at Hell-gate, clad in their thunder-and-lightning gaberdines;

and lastly, the standard-bearers and body-guard of Peter Stuyvesant,

bearing the great beaver of the Manhattoes.

[Illustration:

THE DESPERATE STRUGGLE.

]

And now commenced the horrid din, the desperate struggle, the maddening

ferocity, the frantic desperation, the confusion and self-abandonment of

war. Dutchman and Swede commingled, tugged, panted, and blowed. The

heavens were darkened with a tempest of missives. Bang! went the guns;

whack! went the broad-swords; thump! went the cudgels; crash! went the

musket-stocks; blows, kicks, cuffs, scratches, black eyes and bloody

noses swelling the horrors of the scene! Thick thwack, cut and hack,

helter-skelter, higgledly-piggledly, hurly-burly, head-over-heels,

rough-and-tumble! Dunder and blixum! swore the Dutchmen; splitter and

splutter! cried the Swedes. Storm the works! shouted Hardkoppig Peter.

Fire the mine! roared stout Risingh. Tanta-rar-ra-ra! twanged the

trumpet of Antony Van Corlear;—until all voice and sound became

unintelligible,—grunts of pain, yells of fury, and shouts of triumph

mingling in one hideous clamor. The earth shook as if struck with a

paralytic stroke; trees shrunk aghast, and withered at the sight; rocks

burrowed in the ground like rabbits; and even Christina creek turned

from its course, and ran up a hill in breathless terror!

Long hung the contest doubtful; for though a heavy shower of rain, sent

by the “cloud-compelling Jove,” in some measure cooled their ardor, as

doth a bucket of water thrown on a group of fighting mastiffs, yet did

they but pause for a moment, to return with tenfold fury to the charge.

Just at this juncture a vast and dense column of smoke was seen slowly

rolling toward the scene of battle. The combatants paused for a moment,

gazing in mute astonishment, until the wind, dispelling the murky cloud,

revealed the flaunting banner of Michael Paw, the Patroon of Communipaw.

That valiant chieftain came fearlessly on at the head of a phalanx of

oysterfed Pavonians and a _corps de reserve_ of the Van Arsdales and Van

Bummels, who had remained behind to digest the enormous dinner they had

eaten. These now trudged manfully forward, smoking their pipes with

outrageous vigor, so as to raise the awful cloud that has been

mentioned, but marching exceedingly slow, being short of leg, and of

great rotundity in the belt.

And now the deities who watched over the fortunes of the Nederlanders

having unthinkingly left the field, and stepped into a neighboring

tavern to refresh themselves with a pot of beer, a direful catastrophe

had wellnigh ensued. Scarce had the myrmidons of Michael Paw attained

the front of battle, when the Swedes, instructed by the cunning Risingh,

levelled a shower of blows full at their tobacco-pipes. Astounded at

this assault, and dismayed at the havoc of their pipes, these ponderous

warriors gave way, and like a drove of frightened elephants broke

through the ranks of their own army. The little Hoppers were borne down

in the surge; the sacred banner emblazoned with the gigantic oyster of

Communipaw was trampled in the dirt; on blundered and thundered the

heavy-sterned fugitives, the Swedes pressing on their rear and applying

their feet _a parte poste_ of the Van Arsdales and the Van Bummels with

a vigor that prodigiously accelerated their movements; nor did the

renowned Michael Paw himself fail to receive divers grievous and

dishonorable visitations of shoe-leather.

[Illustration:

“ON BLUNDERED AND THUNDERED THE HEAVY-STERNED FUGITIVES.”

]

But what, oh Muse! was the rage of Peter Stuyvesant, when from afar he

saw his army giving way! In the transports of his wrath he sent forth a

roar, enough to shake the very hills. The men of the Manhattoes plucked

up new courage at the sound, or rather, they rallied at the voice of

their leader, of whom they stood more in awe than of all the Swedes in

Christendom. Without waiting for their aid, the daring Peter dashed,

sword in hand, into the thickest of the foe. Then might be seen

achievements worthy of the days of the giants. Wherever he went, the

enemy shrank before him; the Swedes fled to right and left, or were

driven, like dogs, into their own ditch; but as he pushed forward singly

with headlong courage, the foe closed behind and hung upon his rear. One

aimed a blow full at his heart; but the protecting power which watches

over the great and good turned aside the hostile blade and directed it

to a side-pocket, where reposed an enormous iron tobacco-box, endowed,

like the shield of Achilles, with supernatural powers, doubtless from

bearing the portrait of the blessed St. Nicholas. Peter Stuyvesant

turned like an angry bear upon the foe, and seizing him, as he fled, by

an immeasurable queue, “Ah, whoreson caterpillar,” roared he, “here’s

what shall make worms’ meat of thee!” So saying, he whirled his sword,

and dealt a blow that would have decapitated the varlet, but that the

pitying steel struck short and shaved the queue forever from his crown.

At this moment an arquebusier levelled his piece from a neighboring

mound, with deadly aim; but the watchful Minerva, who had just stopped

to tie up her garter, seeing the peril of her favorite hero; sent old

Boreas with his bellows, who, as the match descended to the pan, gave a

blast that blew the priming from the touch-hole.

Thus waged the fight, when the stout Risingh, surveying the field from

the top of a little ravelin, perceived his troops banged, beaten, and

kicked by the invincible Peter. Drawing his falchion and uttering a

thousand anathemas, he strode down to the scene of combat with such

thundering strides as Jupiter is said by Hesiod to have taken when he

strode down the spheres to hurl his thunderbolts at the Titans.

When the rival heroes came face to face, each made a prodigious start in

the style of a veteran stage-champion. Then did they regard each other

for a moment with the bitter aspect of two furious ram-cats on the point

of a clapper-clawing. Then did they throw themselves into one attitude,

then into another, striking their swords on the ground, first on the

right side, then on the left; at last at it they went, with incredible

ferocity. Words cannot tell the prodigies of strength and valor

displayed in this direful encounter,—an encounter compared to which the

far-famed battles of Ajax with Hector, of Æneas with Turnus, Orlando

with Rodomont, Guy of Warwick with Colbrand the Dane, or of that

renowned Welsh knight, Sir Owen of the Mountains, with the giant Guylon,

were all gentle sports and holiday recreations. At length the valiant

Peter, watching his opportunity, aimed a blow, enough to cleave his

adversary to the very chine; but Risingh, nimbly raising his sword,

warded it off so narrowly, that, glancing on one side, it shaved away a

huge canteen in which he carried his liquor,—thence pursuing its

trenchant course, it severed off a deep coat-pocket, stored with bread

and cheese,—which provant rolling among the armies, occasioned a fearful

scrambling between the Swedes and Dutchmen, and made the general battle

to wax more furious than ever.

Enraged to see his military stores laid waste, the stout Risingh,

collecting all his forces, aimed a mighty blow full at the hero’s crest.

In vain did his fierce little cocked hat oppose its course. The biting

steel clove through the stubborn ram beaver, and would have cracked the

crown of any one not endowed with supernatural hardness of head; but the

brittle weapon shivered in pieces on the skull of Hardkoppig Piet,

shedding a thousand sparks, like beams of glory, round his grisly

visage.

The good Peter reeled with the blow, and turning up his eyes beheld a

thousand suns, besides moons and stars, dancing about the firmament; at

length, missing his footing, by reason of his wooden leg, down he came

on his seat of honor with a crash which shook the surrounding hills, and

might have wrecked his frame, had he not been received into a cushion

softer than velvet, which Providence, or Minerva, or St. Nicholas, or

some cow, had benevolently prepared for his reception.

The furious Risingh, in spite of the maxim, cherished by all true

knights, that “fair play is a jewel,” hastened to take advantage of the

hero’s fall; but, as he stooped to give a fatal blow, Peter Stuyvesant

dealt him a thwack over the sconce with his wooden leg, which sent a

chime of bells ringing triple bob-majors in his cerebellum. The

bewildered Swede staggered with the blow, and the wary Peter seizing a

pocket-pistol, which lay hard by, discharged it full at the head of the

reeling Risingh. Let not my reader mistake; it was not a murderous

weapon loaded with powder and ball, but a little sturdy stone pottle

charged to the muzzle with a double dram of true Dutch courage, which

the knowing Antony Van Corlear carried about him by way of replenishing

his valor, and which had dropped from his wallet during his furious

encounter with the drummer. The hideous weapon sang through the air, and

true to its course as was the fragment of a rock discharged at Hector by

bully Ajax, encountered the head of the gigantic Swede with matchless

violence.

[Illustration:

“THIS HEAVEN-DIRECTED BLOW DECIDED THE BATTLE.”

]

This heaven-directed blow decided the battle. The ponderous pericranium

of General Jan Risingh sank upon his breast; his knees tottered under

him; a death-like torpor seized upon his frame, and he tumbled to the

earth with such violence, that old Pluto started with affright, lest he

should have broken through the roof of his infernal palace.

His fall was the signal of defeat and victory: the Swedes gave way, the

Dutch pressed forward; the former took to their heels, the latter hotly

pursued. Some entered with them, pell-mell, through the sally-port;

others stormed the bastion, and others scrambled over the curtain. Thus

in a little while the fortress of Fort Christina, which, like another

Troy, had stood a siege of full ten hours, was carried by assault,

without the loss of a single man on either side. Victory, in the

likeness of a gigantic ox-fly, sat perched upon the cocked hat of the

gallant Stuyvesant; and it was declared, by all the writers whom he

hired to write the history of his expedition, that on this memorable day

he gained a sufficient quantity of glory to immortalize a dozen of the

greatest heroes in Christendom!

=Chapter IX.=

IN WHICH THE AUTHOR AND THE READER, WHILE REPOSING AFTER THE BATTLE,

FALL INTO A VERY GRAVE DISCOURSE—AFTER WHICH IS RECORDED THE CONDUCT OF

PETER STUYVESANT AFTER HIS VICTORY.

Thanks to St. Nicholas, we have safely finished this tremendous battle:

let us sit down, my worthy reader, and cool ourselves, for I am in a

prodigious sweat and agitation; truly, this fighting of battles is hot

work! and if your great commanders did but know what trouble they give

their historians, they would not have the conscience to achieve so many

horrible victories. But methinks I hear my reader complain, that

throughout this boasted battle there is not the least slaughter, not a

single individual maimed, if we except the unhappy Swede, who was shorn

of his queue by the trenchant blade of Peter Stuyvesant; all which, he

observes, is a great outrage on probability, and highly injurious to the

interest of the narration.

This is certainly an objection of no little moment, but it arises

entirely from the obscurity enveloping the remote periods of time about

which I have undertaken to write. Thus, though doubtless, from the

importance of the object and the prowess of the parties concerned, there

must have been terrible carnage, and prodigies of valor displayed before

the walls of Christina, yet, notwithstanding that I have consulted every

history, manuscript, and tradition, touching this memorable though

long-forgotten battle, I cannot find mention made of a single man killed

or wounded in the whole affair.

This is, without doubt, owing to the extreme modesty of our forefathers,

who, unlike their descendants, were never prone to vaunt of their

achievements; but it is a virtue which places their historian in a most

embarrassing predicament; for, having promised my readers a hideous and

unparalleled battle, and having worked them up into a warlike and

bloodthirsty state of mind, to put them off without any havoc and

slaughter would have been as bitter a disappointment as to summon a

multitude of good people to attend an execution, and then cruelly balk

them by a reprieve.

Had the fates only allowed me some half a score of dead men, I had been

content; for I would have made them such heroes as abounded in the olden

time, but whose race is now unfortunately extinct,—any one of whom, if

we may believe those authentic writers, the poets, could drive great

armies, like sheep, before him, and conquer and desolate whole cities by

his single arm.

But seeing that I had not a single life at my disposal, all that was

left me was to make the most I could of my battle, by means of kicks,

and cuffs, and bruises, and such like ignoble wounds. And here I cannot

but compare my dilemma, in some sort, to that of the divine Milton, who,

having arrayed with sublime preparation his immortal hosts against each

other, is sadly put to it how to manage them, and how he shall make the

end of his battle answer to the beginning, inasmuch as, being mere

spirits, he cannot deal a mortal blow, nor even give a flesh wound to

any of his combatants. For my part, the greatest difficulty I found was,

when I had once put my warriors in a passion, and let them loose into

the midst of the enemy, to keep them from doing mischief. Many a time

had I to restrain the sturdy Peter from cleaving a gigantic Swede to the

very waistband, or spitting half a dozen little fellows on his sword,

like so many sparrows. And when I had set some hundred of missives

flying in the air, I did not dare to suffer one of them to reach the

ground, lest it should have put an end to some unlucky Dutchman.

[Illustration:

“SPITTING HALF A DOZEN LITTLE FELLOWS ON HIS SWORD.”

]

The reader cannot conceive how mortifying it is to a writer thus in a

manner to have his hands tied, and how many tempting opportunities I had

to wink at, where I might have made as fine a death-blow as any recorded

in history or song.

From my own experience I begin to doubt most potently of the

authenticity of many of Homer’s stories. I verily believe, that, when he

had once launched one of his favorite heroes among a crowd of the enemy,

he cut down many an honest fellow, without any authority for so doing,

excepting that he presented a fair mark,—and that often a poor fellow

was sent to grim Pluto’s domains, merely because he had a name that

would give a sounding turn to a period. But I disclaim all such

unprincipled liberties; let me but have truth and the law on my side,

and no man would fight harder than myself; but since the various records

I consulted did not warrant it, I had too much conscience to kill a

single soldier. By St. Nicholas, but it would have been a pretty piece

of business! My enemies, the critics, who I foresee will be ready enough

to lay any crime they can discover at my door, might have charged me

with murder outright, and I should have esteemed myself lucky to escape

with no harsher verdict than manslaughter!

And now, gentle reader, that we are tranquilly sitting down here,

smoking our pipes, permit me to indulge in a melancholy reflection which

at this moment passes across my mind. How vain, how fleeting, how

uncertain are all those gaudy bubbles after which we are panting and

toiling in this world of fair delusions! The wealth which the miser has

amassed with so many weary days, so many sleepless nights, a spendthrift

here may squander away in joyless prodigality; the noblest monuments

which pride has ever reared to perpetuate a name, the hand of time will

shortly tumble into ruins; and even the brightest laurels, gained by

feats of arms, may wither, and be forever blighted by the chilling

neglect of mankind. “How many illustrious heroes,” said the good

Boëtius, “who were once the pride and glory of the age, hath the silence

of historians buried in eternal oblivion!” And this it was that induced

the Spartans, when they went to battle, solemnly to sacrifice to the

Muses, supplicating that their achievements might be worthily recorded.

Had not Homer tuned his lofty lyre, observes the elegant Cicero, the

valor of Achilles had remained unsung. And such, too, after all the

toils and perils he had braved, after all the gallant actions he had

achieved, such too had nearly been the fate of the chivalric Peter

Stuyvesant, but that I fortunately stepped in and engraved his name on

the indelible tablet of history, just as the caitiff Time was silently

brushing it away forever!

[Illustration:

“THE SHADES OF DEPARTED AND LONG-FORGOTTEN HEROES.”

]

The more I reflect, the more I am astonished at the important character

of the historian. He is the sovereign censor to decide upon the renown

or infamy of his fellow-men. He is the patron of kings and conquerors,

on whom it depends whether they shall live in after-ages, or be

forgotten as were their ancestors before them. The tyrant may oppress,

while the object of his tyranny exists; but the historian possesses

superior might, for his power extends even beyond the grave. The shades

of departed and long-forgotten heroes anxiously bend down from above,

while he writes, watching each movement of his pen, whether it shall

pass by their names with neglect, or inscribe them on the deathless

pages of renown. Even the drop of ink which hangs trembling on his pen,

which he may either dash upon the floor, or waste in idle

scrawlings—that very drop, which to him is not worth the twentieth part

of a farthing, may be of incalculable value to some departed worthy, may

elevate half a score, in one moment, to immortality, who would have

given worlds, had they possessed them, to insure the glorious meed.

Let not my readers imagine, however, that I am indulging in vainglorious

boastings, or am anxious to blazon forth the importance of my tribe. On

the contrary, I shrink when I reflect on the awful responsibility we

historians assume; I shudder to think what direful commotions and

calamities we occasion in the world; I swear to thee, honest reader, as

I am a man, I weep at the very idea! Why, let me ask, are so many

illustrious men daily tearing themselves away from the embraces of their

families, slighting the smiles of beauty, despising the allurements of

fortune, and exposing themselves to the miseries of war? Why are kings

desolating empires, and depopulating whole countries? In short, what

induces all great men of all ages and countries to commit so many

victories and misdeeds, and inflict so many miseries upon mankind and

upon themselves, but the mere hope that some historian will kindly take

them into notice, and admit them into a corner of his volume? For, in

short, the mighty object of all their toils, their hardships, and

privations, is nothing but _immortal fame_. And what is immortal

fame?—why, half a page of dirty paper! Alas! alas! how humiliating the

idea, that the renown of so great a man as Peter Stuyvesant should

depend upon the pen of so little a man as Diedrich Knickerbocker!

And now, having refreshed ourselves after the fatigues and perils of the

field, it behooves us to return once more to the scene of conflict, and

inquire what were the results of this renowned conquest. The fortress of

Christina being the fair metropolis, and in a manner the key to New

Sweden, its capture was speedily followed by the entire subjugation of

the province. This was not a little promoted by the gallant and

courteous deportment of the chivalric Peter. Though a man terrible in

battle, yet in the hour of victory was he endued with a spirit generous,

merciful, and humane. He vaunted not over his enemies, nor did he make

defeat more galling by unmanly insults; for like that mirror of knightly

virtue, the renowned Paladin Orlando, he was more anxious to do great

actions than to talk of them after they were done. He put no man to

death; ordered no houses to be burnt down; permitted no ravages to be

perpetrated on the property of the vanquished; and even gave one of his

bravest officers a severe admonishment with his walking-staff, for

having been detected in the act of sacking a hen-roost.

He moreover issued a proclamation, inviting the inhabitants to submit to

the authority of their High Mightinesses; but declaring, with unexampled

clemency, that whoever refused should be lodged at the public expense,

in a goodly castle provided for the purpose, and have an armed retinue

to wait on them in the bargain. In consequence of these beneficent

terms, about thirty Swedes stepped manfully forward and took the oath of

allegiance; in reward for which they were graciously permitted to remain

on the banks of the Delaware, where their descendants reside at this

very day. I am told, however, by divers observant travellers, that they

have never been able to get over the chapfallen looks of their

ancestors, but that they still do strangely transmit from father to son

manifest marks of the sound drubbing given them by the sturdy

Amsterdammers.

[Illustration:

“MYNHEER WILLIAM BEEKMAN.”

]

The whole country of New Sweden, having thus yielded to the arms of the

triumphant Peter, was reduced to a colony called South River, and placed

under the superintendence of a lieutenant-governor, subject to the

control of the supreme government of New Amsterdam. This great dignitary

was called Mynheer William Beekman, or rather _Beck_-man, who derived

his surname, as did Ovidious Naso of yore, from the lordly dimensions of

his nose, which projected from the centre of his countenance, like the

beak of a parrot. He was the great progenitor of the tribe of the

Beekmans, one of the most ancient and honorable families of the

province, the members of which do gratefully commemorate the origin of

their dignity,—not as your noble families in England would do, by having

a glowing proboscis emblazoned in their escutcheon, but by one and all

wearing a right goodly nose, stuck in the very middle of their faces.

Thus was this perilous enterprise gloriously terminated, with the loss

of only two men: Wolfert Van Horne, a tall spare man, who was knocked

overboard by the boom of a sloop in a flaw of wind; and fat Brom Van

Bummels, who was suddenly carried off by an indigestion; both, however,

were immortalized, as having bravely fallen in the service of their

country. True it is, Peter Stuyvesant had one of his limbs terribly

fractured in the act of storming the fortress; but as it was fortunately

his wooden leg, the wound was promptly and effectually healed.

And now nothing remains to this branch of my history but to mention that

this immaculate hero, and his victorious army, returned joyously to the

Manhattoes; where they made a solemn and triumphant entry, bearing with

them the conquered Risingh, and the remnant of his battered crew, who

had refused allegiance; for it appears that the gigantic Swede had only

fallen into a swoon, at the end of the battle, from which he was

speedily restored by a wholesome tweak of the nose.

[Illustration:

“THE OLD WOMEN FLOCKED AROUND ANTONY.”

]

These captive heroes were lodged, according to the promise of the

governor, at the public expense, in a fair and spacious castle,—being

the prison of state, of which Stoffel Brinkerhoff, the immortal

conqueror of Oyster Bay, was appointed governor, and which has ever

since remained in the possession of his descendants.[21]

It was a pleasant and goodly sight to witness the joy of the people of

New Amsterdam, at beholding their warriors once more return from this

war in the wilderness. The old women thronged round Antony Van Corlear,

who gave the whole history of the campaign with matchless accuracy,

saving that he took the credit of fighting the whole battle himself, and

especially of vanquishing the stout Risingh,—which he considered himself

as clearly entitled to, seeing that it was effected by his own stone

pottle.

The schoolmasters throughout the town gave holiday to their little

urchins, who followed in droves after the drums, with paper caps on

their heads, and sticks in their breeches, thus taking the first lesson

in the art of war. As to the sturdy rabble, they thronged at the heels

of Peter Stuyvesant wherever he went, waving their greasy hats in the

air, and shouting “Hardkoppig Piet forever!”

It was indeed a day of roaring rout and jubilee. A huge dinner was

prepared at the Stadthouse in honor of the conquerors, where were

assembled in one glorious constellation the great and little luminaries

of New Amsterdam. There were the lordly Schout and his obsequious

deputy; the burgomasters with their officious schepens at their elbows;

the subaltern officers at the elbows of the schepens, and so on down to

the lowest hanger-on of police: every tag having his rag at his side, to

finish his pipe, drink off his heel-taps, and laugh at his flights of

immortal dulness. In short,—for a city feast is a city feast all the

world over, and has been a city feast ever since the creation,—the

dinner went off much the same as do our great corporation junketings and

Fourth-of-July banquets. Loads of fish, flesh, and fowl were devoured,

oceans of liquor drank, thousands of pipes smoked, and many a dull joke

honored with much obstreperous fat-sided laughter.

I must not omit to mention that to this far-famed victory, Peter

Stuyvesant was indebted for another of his many titles; for so hugely

delighted were the honest burghers with his achievements, that they

unanimously honored him with the name of _Pieter de Groodt_, that is to

say, Peter the Great, or, as it was translated into English by the

people of New Amsterdam, for the benefit of their New England visitors,

_Piet de pig_,—an appellation which he maintained even unto the day of

his death.

[Illustration: A vintage pen-and-ink drawing of a stern, portly man in

17th-century attire, wearing a tall hat, a fur-collared coat, and a

belted tunic.]

[Illustration: A vintage pen-and-ink drawing of a stout man with a large

belly, wearing a nightcap and holding a long pipe while looking over his

shoulder.]

=BOOK VII.=

CONTAINING THE THIRD PART OF THE REIGN OF PETER THE HEADSTRONG—HIS

TROUBLES WITH THE BRITISH NATION, AND THE DECLINE AND FALL OF THE DUTCH

DYNASTY.

[Illustration: A vintage pen-and-ink drawing of a man with a mustache

wearing a large, dark, wide-brimmed hat and smoking a long-stemmed

pipe.]

=Chapter I.=

HOW PETER STUYVESANT RELIEVED THE SOVEREIGN PEOPLE FROM THE BURDEN OF

TAKING CARE OF THE NATION; WITH SUNDRY PARTICULARS OF HIS CONDUCT IN

TIME OF PEACE, AND OF THE RISE OF A GREAT DUTCH ARISTOCRACY.

The history of the reign of Peter Stuyvesant furnishes an edifying

picture of the cares and vexations inseparable from sovereignty, and a

solemn warning to all who are ambitious of attaining the seat of honor.

Though returning in triumph and crowned with victory, his exultation was

checked on observing the abuses which had sprung up in New Amsterdam

during his short absence. His walking-staff, which he had sent home to

act as vice-gerent, had, it is true, kept his council-chamber in

order,—the counsellors eying it with awe, as it lay in grim repose upon

the table, and smoking their pipes in silence,—but its control extended

not out of doors.

The populace unfortunately had had too much their own way under the

slack though fitful reign of William the Testy; and though upon the

accession of Peter Stuyvesant they had felt, with the instinctive

perception which mobs as well as cattle possess, that the reins of

government had passed into stronger hands, yet could they not help

fretting and chafing and champing upon the bit, in restive silence.

Scarcely, therefore, had he departed on his expedition against the

Swedes, than the old factions of William Kieft’s reign had again thrust

their heads above water. Pot-house meetings were again held to “discuss

the state of the nation,” where cobblers, tinkers, and tailors, the

self-dubbed “friends of the people,” once more felt themselves inspired

with the gift of legislation, and undertook to lecture on every movement

of government.

Now, as Peter Stuyvesant had a singular inclination to govern the

province by his individual will, his first move, on his return, was to

put a stop to this gratuitous legislation. Accordingly, one evening,

when an inspired cobbler was holding forth to an assemblage of the kind,

the intrepid Peter suddenly made his appearance, with his ominous

walking-staff in his hand, and a countenance sufficient to petrify a

mill-stone. The whole meeting was thrown into confusion,—the orator

stood aghast, with open mouth and trembling knees, while “horror!

tyranny! liberty! rights! taxes! death! destruction!” and a host of

other patriotic phrases were bolted forth before he had time to close

his lips. Peter took no notice of the skulking throng, but strode up to

the brawling bully-ruffian, and pulling out a huge silver watch, which

might have served in times of yore as a town clock, and which is still

retained by his descendants as a family curiosity, requested the orator

to mend it, and set it going. The orator humbly confessed it was utterly

out of his power, as he was unacquainted with the nature of its

construction. “Nay, but,” said Peter, “try your ingenuity, man: you see

all the springs and wheels, and how easily the clumsiest hand may stop

it, and pull it to pieces; and why should it not be equally easy to

regulate as to stop it?” The orator declared that his trade was wholly

different,—that he was a poor cobbler, and had never meddled with a

watch in his life,—that there were men skilled in the art, whose

business it was to attend to those matters; but for his part, he should

only mar the workmanship and put the whole in confusion. “Why, harkee,

master of mine,” cried Peter,—turning suddenly upon him, with a

countenance that almost petrified the patcher of shoes into a perfect

lapstone,—“dost thou pretend to meddle with the movements of

government,—to regulate, and correct, and patch, and cobble a

complicated machine, the principles of which are above thy

comprehension, and its simplest operations too subtle for thy

understanding, when thou canst not correct a trifling error in a common

piece of mechanism, the whole mystery of which is open to thy

inspection?—Hence with thee to the leather and stone, which are emblems

of thy head; cobble thy shoes, and confine thyself to the vocation for

which Heaven has fitted thee. But,” elevating his voice until it made

the welkin ring, “if ever I catch thee, or any of thy tribe, meddling

again with the affairs of government, by St. Nicholas, but I’ll have

every mother’s bastard of ye flayed alive, and your hides stretched for

drumheads, that ye may thenceforth make a noise to some purpose!”

[Illustration:

“‘NAY, BUT,’ SAID PETER, ‘TRY YOUR INGENUITY, MAN.’”

]

This threat, and the tremendous voice in which it was uttered, caused

the whole multitude to quake with fear. The hair of the orator rose on

his head like his own swines’ bristles, and not a knight of the thimble

present but his heart died within him, and he felt as though he could

have verily escaped through the eye of a needle. The assembly dispersed

in silent consternation; the pseudo-statesmen, who had hitherto

undertaken to regulate public affairs, were now fain to stay at home,

hold their tongues, and take care of their families; and party feuds

died away to such a degree, that many thriving keepers of taverns and

dram-shops were utterly ruined for want of business. But though this

measure produced the desired effect in putting an extinguisher on the

new lights just brightening up, yet did it tend to injure the popularity

of the Great Peter with the thinking part of the community, that is to

say, that part which thinks for others instead of for themselves, or, in

other words, who attend to everybody’s business but their own. These

accused the old governor of being highly aristocratical; and in truth

there seems to have been some ground for such an accusation; for he

carried himself with a lofty, soldier-like air, and was somewhat

particular in dress, appearing, when not in uniform, in rich apparel of

the antique flaundrish cut, and was especially noted for having his

sound leg (which was a very comely one) always arrayed in a red stocking

and high-heeled shoe.

Justice he often dispensed in the primitive patriarchal way, seated on

the “stoep” before his door, under the shade of a great buttonwood tree;

but all visits of form and state were received with something of court

ceremony in the best parlor; where Antony the Trumpeter officiated as

high chamberlain. On public occasions he appeared with a great pomp of

equipage, and always rode to church in a yellow wagon with flaming red

wheels.

[Illustration:

“SEATED ON THE ‘STOEP’ BEFORE HIS DOOR.”

]

These symptoms of state and ceremony, as we have hinted, were much

cavilled at by the thinking (and talking) part of the community. They

had been accustomed to find easy access to their former governors, and

in particular had lived on terms of extreme intimacy with William the

Testy; and they accused Peter Stuyvesant of assuming too much dignity

and reserve, and of wrapping himself in mystery. Others, however, have

pretended to discover in all this a shrewd policy on the part of the old

governor. It is certainly of the first importance, say they, that a

country should be governed by wise men: but then it is almost equally

important that the people should think them wise; for this belief alone

can produce willing subordination. To keep up, however, this desirable

confidence, in rulers, the people should be allowed to see as little of

them as possible. It is the mystery which envelopes great men, that

gives them half their greatness. There is a kind of superstitious

reverence for office which leads us to exaggerate the merits of the

occupant, and to suppose that he must be wiser than common men. He,

however, who gains access to cabinets, soon finds out by what

foolishness the world is governed. He finds that there is quackery in

legislation as in everything else; that rulers have their whims and

errors as well as other men, are not so wonderfully superior as he had

imagined, since even he may occasionally confute them in argument. Thus

awe subsides into confidence, confidence inspires familiarity, and

familiarity produces contempt. Such was the case, say they, with William

the Testy. By making himself too easy of access, he enabled every

scrub-politician to measure wits with him, and to find out the true

dimensions not only of his person but of his mind: and thus it was that,

by being familiarly scanned, he was discovered to be a very little man.

Peter Stuyvesant on the contrary, say they, by conducting himself with

dignity and loftiness, was looked up to with great reverence. As he

never gave credit for very profound ones; every movement, however

intrinsically unimportant, was a matter of speculation; and his very red

stockings excited some respect, as being different from the stockings of

other men.

Another charge against Peter Stuyvesant was that he had a great leaning

in favor of the patricians; and indeed in his time rose many of those

mighty Dutch families which have taken such vigorous root, and branched

out so luxuriantly in our State. Some, to be sure, were of earlier date,

such as the Van Kortlandts, the Van Zandts, the Ten Broecks, the Harden

Broeks, and others of Pavonian renown, who gloried in the title of

“Discoverers,” from having been engaged in the nautical expedition from

Communipaw, in which they so heroically braved the terrors of Hell-gate

and Buttermilk Channel, and discovered a site for New Amsterdam.

Others claimed to themselves the appellation of “Conquerors,” from their

gallant achievements in New Sweden and their victory over the Yankees at

Oyster Bay. Such was that list of warlike worthies heretofore

enumerated, beginning with the Van Wycks, the Van Dycks, and the Ten

Eycks, and extending to the Rutgers, the Bensons, the Brinkerhoffs, and

the Schermerhorns,—a roll equal to the Doomsday-Book of William the

Conqueror, and establishing the heroic origin of many an ancient

aristocratical Dutch family. These, after all, are the only legitimate

nobility and lords of the soil; these are the real “beavers of the

Manhattoes”; and much does it grieve me in modern days to see them

elbowed aside by foreign invaders, and more especially by those

ingenious people, “the Sons of the Pilgrims”; who out-bargain them in

the market, out-speculate them on the exchange, out-top them in fortune,

and run up mushroom palaces so high, that the tallest Dutch family

mansion has not wind enough left for its weather-cock.

In the proud days of Peter Stuyvesant, however, the good old Dutch

aristocracy loomed out in all its grandeur. The burly burgher, in

round-crowned flaundrish hat with brim of vast circumference, in portly

gabardine and bulbous multiplicity of breeches, sat on his “stoep,” and

smoked his pipe in lordly silence; nor did it ever enter his brain that

the active, restless Yankee, whom he saw through his half-shut eyes

worrying about in dog-day heat, ever intent on the main chance, was one

day to usurp control over these goodly Dutch domains. Already, however,

the races regarded each other with disparaging eyes. The Yankees

sneeringly spoke of the round-crowned burghers of the Manhattoes as the

“Copperheads,” while the latter, glorying in their own nether rotundity,

and observing the slack galligaskins of their rivals, flapping like an

empty sail against the mast, retorted upon them with the opprobrious

appellation of “Platter-breeches.”

[Illustration:

“PLATTER-BREECHES.”

]

=Chapter II.=

HOW PETER STUYVESANT LABORED TO CIVILIZE THE COMMUNITY—HOW HE WAS A

GREAT PROMOTER OF HOLIDAYS—HOW HE INSTITUTED KISSING ON NEW YEAR’S

DAY—HOW HE DISTRIBUTED FIDDLES THROUGHOUT THE NEW NETHERLANDS—HOW HE

VENTURED TO REFORM THE LADIES’ PETTICOATS, AND HOW HE CAUGHT A TARTAR.

From what I have recounted in the foregoing chapter, I would not have it

imagined that the great Peter was a tyrannical potentate, ruling with a

rod of iron. On the contrary, where the dignity of office permitted, he

abounded in generosity and condescension. If he refused the brawling

multitude the right of misrule, he at least endeavored to rule them in

righteousness. To spread abundance in the land, he obliged the bakers to

give thirteen loaves to the dozen, a golden rule which remains a

monument of his beneficence. So far from indulging in unreasonable

austerity, he delighted to see the poor and the laboring man rejoice;

and for this purpose he was a great promoter of holidays. Under his

reign there was a great cracking of eggs at Paas or Easter; Whitsuntide

or Pinxter also flourished in all its bloom; and never were stockings

better filled on the eve of the blessed St. Nicholas.

New Year’s day, however, was his favorite festival, and was ushered in

by the ringing of bells and firing of guns. On that genial day the

fountains of hospitality were broken up, and the whole community was

deluged with cherry-brandy, true Hollands, and mulled cider; every house

was a temple of the jolly god; and many a provident vagabond got drunk

out of pure economy—taking in liquor enough gratis to serve him half a

year afterwards.

The great assemblage, however, was at the governor’s house, whither

repaired all the burghers of New Amsterdam with their wives and

daughters, pranked out in their best attire. On this occasion the good

Peter was devoutly observant of the pious Dutch rite of kissing the

women-kind for a Happy New Year; and it is traditional that Antony the

Trumpeter, who acted as gentleman usher, took toll of all who were young

and handsome, as they passed through the antechamber. This venerable

custom, thus happily introduced, was followed with such zeal by high and

low, that on New Year’s day, during the reign of Peter Stuyvesant, New

Amsterdam was the most thoroughly be-kissed community in all

Christendom. Another great measure of Peter Stuyvesant for public

improvement was the distribution of fiddles throughout the land. These

were placed in the hands of veteran negroes, who were despatched as

missionaries to every part of the province. This measure, it is said,

was first suggested by Antony the Trumpeter; and the effect was

marvellous. Instead of those “indignation meetings” set on foot in the

time of William the Testy, where men met together to rail at public

abuses, groan over the evils of the times, and make each other

miserable, there were joyous gatherings of the two sexes to dance and

make merry. Now were instituted “quilting bees,” and “husking bees,” and

other rural assemblages, where, under the inspiring influence of the

fiddle, toil was enlivened by gayety and followed up by the dance.

“Raising-bees” also were frequent, where houses sprung up at the wagging

of the fiddle-sticks, as the walls of Thebes sprang up of yore to the

sound of the lyre of Amphion.

[Illustration:

NEW YEAR’S DAY AT THE GOVERNOR’S.

]

Jolly autumn, which pours its treasures over hill and dale, was in those

days a season for the lifting of the heel as well as the heart; labor

came dancing in the train of abundance, and frolic prevailed throughout

the land. Happy days! when the yeomanry of the Nieuw Nederlandts were

merry rather than wise; and when the notes of the fiddle, those

harbingers of good-humor and good-will, resounded at the close of the

day from every hamlet along the Hudson!

Nor was it in rural communities alone that Peter Stuyvesant introduced

his favorite engine of civilization. Under his rule the fiddle acquired

that potent sway in New Amsterdam which it has ever since retained.

Weekly assemblages were held, not in heated ballrooms at midnight hours,

but on Saturday afternoons, by the golden light of the sun, on the green

lawn of the Battery,—with Antony the Trumpeter for master of ceremonies.

Here would the good Peter take his seat under the spreading trees, among

the old burghers and their wives, and watch the mazes of the dance. Here

would he smoke his pipe, crack his joke, and forget the rugged toils of

war in the sweet oblivious festivities of peace, giving a nod of

approbation to those of the young men who shuffled and kicked most

vigorously,—and now and then a hearty smack, in all honesty of soul, to

the buxom lass who held out longest, and tired down every

competitor,—infallible proof of her being the best dancer.

[Illustration:

THE DANCE.

]

Once, it is true, the harmony of these meetings was in danger of

interruption. A young belle, just returned from a visit to Holland, who

of course led the fashions, made her appearance in not more than half a

dozen petticoats, and these of alarming shortness. A whisper and a

nutter ran though the assembly. The young men, of course, were lost in

admiration; but the old ladies were shocked in the extreme, especially

those who had marriageable daughters; the young ladies blushed and felt

excessively for the “poor thing,” and even the governor himself appeared

to be in some kind of perturbation.

To complete the confusion of the good folks, she undertook, in the

course of a jig, to describe some figures in algebra taught her by a

dancing-master at Rotterdam. Unfortunately, at the highest flourish of

her feet some vagabond zephyr obtruded his services, and a display of

the graces took place, at which all the ladies present were thrown into

great consternation; several grave country members were not a little

moved, and the good Peter Stuyvesant himself was grievously scandalized.

The shortness of the females’ dress, which had continued in fashion ever

since the days of William Kieft, had long offended his eye; and though

extremely averse to meddling with the petticoats of the ladies, yet he

immediately recommended that every one should be furnished with a

flounce to the bottom. He likewise ordered that the ladies, and indeed

the gentlemen, should use no other step in dancing than “shuffle and

turn,” and “double trouble”; and forbade, under pain of his high

displeasure, any young lady thenceforth to attempt what was termed

“exhibiting the graces.”

These were the only restrictions he ever imposed upon the sex; and these

were considered by them as tyrannical oppressions, and resisted with

that becoming spirit manifested by the gentle sex whenever their

privileges are invaded. In fact, Antony Van Corlear, who, as has been

shown, was a sagacious man, experienced in the ways of women, took a

private occasion to intimate to the governor that a conspiracy was

forming among the young vrouws of New Amsterdam; and that, if the matter

were pushed any further, there was danger of their leaving off

petticoats altogether; whereupon the good Peter shrugged his shoulders,

dropped the subject, and ever after suffered the women to wear their

petticoats and cut their capers as high as they pleased,—a privilege

which they have jealously maintained in the Manhattoes unto the present

day.

=Chapter III.=

HOW TROUBLES THICKENED ON THE PROVINCE—HOW IT IS THREATENED BY THE

HELDERBERGERS, THE MERRYLANDERS, AND THE GIANTS OF THE SUSQUEHANNA.

In the last two chapters I have regaled the reader with a delectable

picture of the good Peter and his metropolis during an interval of

peace. It was, however, but a bit of blue sky in a stormy day; the

clouds are again gathering up from all points of the compass, and, if I

am not mistaken in my forebodings, we shall have rattling weather in the

ensuing chapters.

It is with some communities as it is with certain meddlesome

individuals: they have a wonderful facility at getting into scrapes; and

I have always remarked that those are most prone to get in who have the

least talent at getting out again. This is doubtless owing to the

excessive valor of those states; for I have likewise noticed that this

rampant quality is always most frothy and fussy where most confined;

which accounts for its vaporing so amazingly in little states, little

men, and ugly little women more especially.

Such is the case with this little province of the Nieuw Nederlandts;

which, by its exceeding valor, has already drawn upon itself a host of

enemies; has had fighting enough to satisfy a province twice its size;

and is in a fair way of becoming an exceedingly forlorn, well-belabored,

and woe-begone little province. All which was providentially ordered to

give interest and sublimity to this pathetic history.

The first interruption to the halcyon quiet of Peter Stuyvesant was

caused by hostile intelligence from the old belligerent nest of

Rensellaerstein. Killian, the lordly patroon of Rensellaerwick, was

again in the field, at the head of his myrmidons of the Helderberg,

seeking to annex the whole of the Kaatskill mountains to his dominions.

The Indian tribes of these mountains had likewise taken up the hatchet

and menaced the venerable Dutch settlement of Esopus.

Fain would I entertain the reader with the triumphant campaign of Peter

Stuyvesant in the haunted regions of those mountains, but that I hold

all Indian conflicts to be mere barbaric brawls, unworthy of the pen

which has recorded the classic war of Fort Christina; and as to these

Helderberg commotions, they are among the flatulencies which from time

to time afflict the bowels of this ancient province, as with a

wind-colic, and which I deem it seemly and decent to pass over in

silence.

The next storm of troubles was from the south. Scarcely had the worthy

Mynheer Beekman got warm in the seat of authority on the South River,

than enemies began to spring up all around him. Hard by was a formidable

race of savages inhabiting the gentle region watered by the Susquehanna,

of whom the following mention is made by Master Hariot, in his excellent

history:

“The Susquesahanocks are a giantly people, strange in proportion,

behavior, and attire—their voice sounding from them as out of a cave.

Their tobacco-pipes were three quarters of a yard long; carved at the

great end with a bird, beare, or other device, sufficient to beat out

the brains of a horse. The calfe of one of their legges measured three

quarters of a yard about; the rest of the limbs proportionable.”[22]

[Illustration:

A SUSQUESAHANOCK.

]

These gigantic savages and smokers caused no little disquiet in the mind

of Mynheer Beekman, threatening to cause a famine of tobacco in the

land; but his most formidable enemy was the roaring, roistering English

colony of Maryland, or, as it was anciently written, Merryland,—so

called because the inhabitants, not having the fear of the Lord before

their eyes, were prone to make merry and get fuddled with mint-julep and

apple-toddy. They were, moreover, great horse-racers and cock-fighters,

mighty wrestlers and jumpers, and enormous consumers of hoe-cake and

bacon. They lay claim to be the first inventors of those recondite

beverages, cock-tail, stone-fence, and sherry-cobbler, and to have

discovered the gastronomical merits of terrapins, soft crabs, and

canvas-back ducks.

This rantipole colony, founded by Lord Baltimore, a British nobleman,

was managed by his agent, a swaggering Englishman, commonly called

Fendall, that is to say, “offend all,”—a name given him for his bullying

propensities. These were seen in a message to Mynheer Beekman,

threatening him, unless he immediately swore allegiance to Lord

Baltimore as the rightful lord of the soil, to come, at the head of the

roaring boys of Merryland and the giants of the Susquehanna, and sweep

him and his Nederlanders out of the country.

The trusty sword of Peter Stuyvesant almost leaped from its scabbard

when he received missives from Mynheer Beekman, informing him of the

swaggering menaces of the bully Fendall; and as to the giantly warriors

of the Susquehanna, nothing would have more delighted him than a bout,

hand to hand, with half a score of them, having never encountered a

giant in the whole course of his campaigns, unless we may consider the

stout Risingh as such—and he was but a little one.

Nothing prevented his marching instantly to the South River and enacting

scenes still more glorious than those of Fort Christina, but the

necessity of first putting a stop to the increasing aggressions and

inroads of the Yankees, so as not to leave an enemy in his rear; but he

wrote to Mynheer Beekman to keep up a bold front and stout heart,

promising, as soon as he had settled affairs in the east, that he would

hasten to the south with his burly warriors of the Hudson, to lower the

crests of the giants, and mar the merriment of the Merrylanders.

[Illustration: A vintage pen-and-ink drawing of a man in 17th-century

attire marching with a long musket over his shoulder and a confident

expression.]

=Chapter IV.=

HOW PETER STUYVESANT ADVENTURED INTO THE EAST COUNTRY, AND HOW HE FARED

THERE.

To explain the apparently sudden movement of Peter Stuyvesant against

the crafty men of the East Country, I would observe that, during his

campaigns on the South River, and in the enchanted regions of the

Catskill Mountains, the twelve tribes of the East had been more than

usually active in prosecuting their subtle scheme for the subjugation of

the Nieuw Nederlandts.

Independent of the incessant maraudings among hen-roosts and squattings

along the border, invading armies would penetrate, from time to time,

into the very heart of the country. As their prototypes of yore went

forth into the land of Canaan, with their wives and their children,

their men-servants and their maid-servants, their flocks and herds, to

settle themselves down in the land and possess it, so these chosen

people of modern days would progress through the country in patriarchal

style, conducting carts and wagons laden with household furniture, with

women and children piled on top, and pots and kettles dangling beneath.

At the tails of these vehicles would stalk a crew of long-limbed,

lank-sided varlets, with axes on their shoulders and packs on their

backs, resolutely bent upon “locating” themselves, as they termed it,

and improving the country. These were the most dangerous kind of

invaders. It is true they were guilty of no overt acts of hostility; but

it was notorious that, wherever they got a footing, the honest Dutchmen

gradually disappeared, retiring slowly, as do the Indians before the

white men, being in some way or other talked and chaffed, and bargained

and swapped, and, in plain English, elbowed out of all those rich

bottoms and fertile nooks in which our Dutch yeomanry are prone to

nestle themselves.

Peter Stuyvesant was at length roused to this kind of war in disguise,

by which the Yankees were craftily aiming to subjugate his dominions. He

was a man easily taken in, it is true, as all great-hearted men are apt

to be; but if he once found it out, his wrath was terrible. He now threw

diplomacy to the dogs—determined to appear no more by ambassadors, but

to repair in person to the great council of the Amphictyons, bearing the

sword in one hand and the olive-branch in the other, and giving them

their choice of sincere and honest peace, or open and iron war.

His privy councillors were astonished and dismayed when he announced his

determination. For once they ventured to remonstrate, setting forth the

rashness of venturing his sacred person in the midst of a strange and

barbarous people. They might as well have tried to turn a rusty

weather-cock with a broken-winded bellows. In the fiery heart of the

iron-headed Peter sat enthroned the five kinds of courage described by

Aristotle; and had the philosopher enumerated five hundred more, I

verily believe he would have possessed them all. As to that better part

of valor called discretion, it was too cold-blooded a virtue for his

tropical temperament.

Summoning, therefore, to his presence his trusty follower, Antony Van

Corlear, he commanded him to hold himself in readiness to accompany him

the following morning on this, his hazardous enterprise. Now Antony the

Trumpeter was by this time a little stricken in years, but by dint of

keeping up a good heart, and having never known care or sorrow (having

never been married), he was still a hearty, jocund, rubicund, gamesome

wag, and of great capacity in the doublet. This last was ascribed to his

living a jolly life on those domains at the Hook, which Peter Stuyvesant

had granted to him for his gallantry at Fort Casimir.

Be this as it may, there was nothing that more delighted Antony than

this command of the great Peter, for he could have followed the

stout-hearted old governor to the world’s end, with love and loyalty;

and he moreover still remembered the frolicking, and dancing, and

bundling, and other disports of the east country, and entertained dainty

recollections of numerous kind and buxom lasses, whom he longed

exceedingly again to encounter.

Thus then did the mirror of hardihood set forth, with no other attendant

but his trumpeter, upon one of the most perilous enterprises ever

recorded in the annals of knight-errantry. For a single warrior to

venture openly among a whole nation of foes,—but, above all, for a plain

downright Dutchman to think of negotiating with the whole council of New

England!—never was there known a more desperate undertaking!—Ever since

I have entered upon the chronicles of this peerless but hitherto

uncelebrated chieftain, has he kept me in a state of incessant action

and anxiety with the toils and dangers he is constantly encountering.

Oh! for a chapter of the tranquil reign of Wouter Van Twiller, that I

might repose on it as on a feather-bed!

Is it not enough, Peter Stuyvesant, that I have once already rescued

thee from the machinations of these terrible Amphictyons, by bringing

the powers of witchcraft to thine aid? Is it not enough, that I have

followed thee undaunted, like a guardian spirit, into the midst of the

horrid battle of Fort Christina?—that I have been put incessantly to my

trumps to keep thee safe and sound,—now warding off with my single pen

the shower of dastard blows that fell upon thy rear,—now narrowly

shielding thee from a deadly thrust, by a mere tobacco-box,—now casing

thy dauntless skull with adamant, when even thy stubborn ram-beaver

failed to resist the sword of the stout Risingh,—and now, not merely

bringing thee off alive, but triumphant, from the clutches of the

gigantic Swede, by the desperate means of a paltry stone pottle? Is not

all this enough, but must thou still be plunging into new difficulties,

and hazarding in headlong enterprises thyself, thy trumpeter, and thy

historian?

[Illustration:

A BUXOM LASS.

]

And now the ruddy-faced Aurora, like a buxom chambermaid, draws aside

the sable curtains of the night, and out bounces from his bed the jolly

red-haired Phœbus, startled at being caught so late in the embraces of

Dame Thetis. With many a stable-boy oath he harnesses his brazen-footed

steeds, and whips, and lashes, and splashes up the firmament, like a

loitering coachman, half an hour behind his time. And now behold that

imp of fame and prowess, the headstrong Peter, bestriding a raw-boned,

switch-tailed charger, gallantly arrayed in full regimentals, and

bracing on his thigh that trusty brass-hilted sword, which had wrought

such fearful deeds on the banks of the Delaware.

Behold hard after him his doughty trumpeter, Van Corlear, mounted on a

broken-winded, wall-eyed, calico mare, his stone pottle, which had laid

low the mighty Risingh, slung under his arm, and his trumpet displayed

vauntingly in his right hand, decorated with a gorgeous banner, on which

is emblazoned the great beaver of the Manhattoes. See him proudly

issuing out of the city-gate, like an iron-clad hero of yore, with his

faithful squire at his heels, the populace following with their eyes,

and shouting many a parting wish, and hearty cheering.—Farewell,

Hardkoppig Piet! Farewell, honest Antony!—Pleasant be your

wayfaring—prosperous your return! The stoutest hero that ever drew a

sword, and the worthiest trumpeter that ever trod shoe-leather.

[Illustration:

THE JOURNEY.

]

Legends are lamentably silent about the events that befell our

adventurers in this their adventurous travel, excepting the Stuyvesant

manuscript, which gives the substance of a pleasant little heroic poem,

written on the occasion by Dominie Ægidius Luyck,[23] who appears to

have been the poet-laureate of New Amsterdam. This inestimable

manuscript assures us, that it was a rare spectacle to behold the great

Peter and his loyal follower hailing the morning sun, and rejoicing in

the clear countenance of nature, as they pranced it through the pastoral

scenes of Bloemen Dael; which, in those days, was a sweet and rural

valley, beautified with many a bright wildflower, refreshed by many a

pure streamlet, and enlivened here and there by a delectable little

Dutch cottage, sheltered under some sloping hill, and almost buried in

embowering trees.

[Illustration:

“THEY BESTRODE THEIR CANES AND GALLOPED OFF IN HORRIBLE CONFUSION.”

]