_The Gallant Career of Sir. Peter Warren_
"... Affection with truth must say
That, deservedly esteemed in private life,
And universally renowned for his public conduct,
The judicial and gallant Officer
Possessed all the amiable qualities of the
Friend, the Gentleman, and the Christian...."
--_From the epitaph written for Sir. Peter's tomb in
Westminster Abbey by Dr. Samuel Johnson._
The sea has always made a splendid romantic setting for a gallant
hero. Even one of moderate attainments and inconsiderable adventures
may loom to proportions that are quite picturesque when given a
background of tossing waves, "all sails set," and a few jolly tars to
sing and fight and heave the rope. And when you have a hero who needs
no augmenting of heroism, no spectacular embellishment as it
were,--what a gorgeous figure he becomes, to be sure!
Peter Warren, fighting Irish lad, venturesome sailor, sometime Admiral
and Member of Parliament, and at all times a merry and courageous
soldier of the high seas, falls heir to as pretty and stirring a
reputation as ever set a gilded aureole about the head of a man.
Though he was in the British navy and a staunch believer in "Imperial
England," he was so closely associated with New York for so many years
that no book about the city could be written without doing him some
measure of honour. No figure is so fit as Sir. Peter's to represent
those picturesque Colonial days when the "Sons of Liberty" had not
begun to assemble, and this New York of ours was well-nigh as English
as London town itself. So, resplendent in his gold-laced uniform and
the smartly imposing hat of his rank and office, let him enter and
make his bow,--Admiral Sir. Peter Warren, by your leave, Knight of the
Bath, Member of Parliament, destined to lie at last in the stately
gloom of the Abbey, with the rest of the illustrious English dead.
He came of a long line of Irishmen, and certainly did that fine
fighting race the utmost credit. From his boyhood he was always
hunting trouble; he dearly loved a fight, and gravitated into the
British navy as inevitably as a duck to water. He was scarcely more
than an urchin when he became a fighting sailor, and indeed one could
expect no less, for both his father and grandfather had been officers
in the service, and goodness knows how many lusty Warrens before them!
For our friend Peter was a Warren of Warrenstown, of the County Meath
just west of Dublin, and let me tell you that meant something!
The Warrens got their estates in the days of "Strongbow," and held
them through all the vicissitudes of olden Ireland. They were a house
called "English-Irish," and "inside the pale," which means that they
stood high in British favour, and contributed heroes to the army or
navy from each of their hardy generations. They had no title, but to
be The Warren of Warrenstown, Meath, was to be entitled to look down
with disdain upon upstart baronets and newly created peers. Sir.
Christopher Aylmer's daughter, Catherine, was honoured to marry
Captain Michael Warren, and her brother, Admiral Lord Aylmer, only too
glad to take charge of her boy Peter later on.
Peter was the youngest of a family, composed with one exception of
boys, and the most ambitious of the lot. When he was nine years old
(he was born in 1703, by the bye), his father, Captain Michael, died,
and three years later the oldest son, Oliver, decided to send Peter to
his uncle Lord Aylmer to be trained for the service. Is it far-fetched
to assume that Oliver found his small brother something of a handful?
If Peter was one-quarter as pugnacious and foolhardy at twelve as he
was at forty, there is small wonder that a young man burdened with the
cares of a large estate and an orphaned family would be not unwilling
to get rid of him,--or at least of the responsibility of him. Their
uncle, the Admiral, apparently liked his little Irish nephew, and
proceeded to train him for a naval career, with such vigourous success
that at fourteen our young hero volunteered for His Majesty's
service,--a thing, we may take it, which had been the high dream of
his boyish life.
And it was real service too. Boys turned into men very quickly in
those days. In Southern and African waters young Peter saw plenty of
action. He had such adventures as our modern boys sit up at night to
read of. For there were pirates to be encountered then,
flesh-and-blood pirates with black flags and the rest of it. And
deep-sea storms meant more in those days of sails and comparatively
light vessels than we can even imagine today. So swiftly did Peter
grow up under this stern yet thrilling education with the English
colours, that after four short years he was a lieutenant. And in
another six, at an age when most young men are barely standing on the
threshold of their life-work, he was posted a full captain and given
his first command!
His ship was H.M.S. _Grafton_, of seventy guns,--no small honour for
a boy of hardly twenty-four,--and it proved to be no empty honour
either. No sooner had he been posted captain than he was ordered into
action. At that time there were signal and violent differences of
opinion between England and other countries,--notably Spain and
France. Gibraltar was the subject of one of them, it may be recalled.
It was to Gibraltar that Captain Warren and his good ship _Grafton_
were ordered. And when Sir. Charles Wager seized that historic bone of
contention, Peter was with the fleet that did the seizing.
From that moment he was in the thick of trouble wherever it was to be
found, like the dear, daredevil young Irishman that he was! Just a
moment let us pause to try to visualise this youthful adventurer of
ours, with the courtly manners, the irrepressible boyish recklessness
and the big heart. Our only authentic descriptions of him are of a
Peter Warren many years older; our only even probable likenesses are
the same. But let us take these, and reckoning backward see what a man
of such characteristics must have been like in his early twenties.
A delightful old print ostensibly representing him at forty, shows him
to have been a round-faced, more or less portly gentleman, with a
full, pleasant mouth and very big and bright eyes. His wig is
meticulously curled and powdered, and he is, plainly, a very fine
figure of a man indeed. Roubilliac's bust of him in Westminster makes
him much better looking and not nearly, so stout. Thomas Janvier, who
has written delightfully about our captain, disturbs me by insisting
that he was a little man,--nay, his insult goes deeper: he says a
little, _fat_ man! I simply will not accept such a distressing theory!
Edward de Lancey, descended from the family of the girl Peter married,
describes him as being "... Of attractive manners, quick in perception
and action, but clear-headed and calm in judgment." And the historian
Parkman declares that at forty-two he had "the ardour of youth still
burning within him." Reverse the figures. What do you suppose that
ardour was like when he was not forty-two but twenty-four?
At the time of our hero's first command and first naval engagement on
his own ship, things were quite exciting for his King and country,
though we have most of us forgotten that such excitements ever
existed. England had a host of enemies, some of them of her own
household. It was even whispered that the American possessions were
not entirely and whole-heartedly loyal! This seemed incredible, to be
sure, but the men in high places kept an eye on them just the same.
Captain Warren's first official post was the station of New York, and
in 1728 he made his first appearance in this harbour.
He was then just twenty-five, and gloriously adventurous. One can
imagine with what a thrill he set sail for a new country, new friends,
new excitements! I wonder if he guessed that the lady of his heart
awaited him in that unknown land, as well as the dear home where, for
all his sea-roving taste, he was to return again and again through
twenty rich years? He was in command of the frigate _Solebay_ then,
and in the old papers we read many mentions of both ship and officer.
From almost the first Peter loved the Colonies and the Colonies loved
him. In between his cruises and battles he kept coming back like a
homing bird, and every time he came he seemed to have won a little
more glory with his various ships,--the sloop _Squirrel_, the frigate
_Launceston_, and the big ship _Superbe_ with sixty guns. It is said
that no man save only the Governor himself made so fine an appearance
as young Captain Warren, and fair ladies vied with each other for his
attentions! Nevertheless, his social successes at this time were
nothing to what was to come, when he had more money to spend!
Two years after his first introduction to New York, the Common Council
of the city voted to him "the freedom of the city," from which one
gathers some idea of his standing in public favour! And in another
year,--of course,--he got married, and to one of the prettiest girls
in the town, Susanna de Lancey!
Janvier says that the marriage did not take place until 1744, but
other authorities place it at thirteen years earlier. It is much more
probable that Peter got married at twenty-eight than at forty-one; I
scarcely think that he could have escaped so long!
Susanna's father was Monsieur Etienne de Lancey, a Huguenot refugee,
who had fled from Catholic France to the more liberal Colonies, and
settled here. He soon changed the Etienne to Stephen, married the
daughter of one of the old Dutch houses (Van Cortlandt) and went into
business. Just what his occupation was is not clear, but later he
acted as agent for Captain Warren in the disposal of his war prizes.
His sons, James and Oliver, were intimate friends of Peter's through
life, and, as will be seen, they worked together most zestfully when
in later years the captain's boundless energies took a turn at
politics.
So gallant Irish-English Peter and lovely French-Dutch Susanna were
married and, we believe, lived happily ever after. They lived in New
York town proper, but I conceive that, like other young lovers, they
made many a trip out into the country, and that it was their dream to
live there one day when they should be rich. Certain it is that as
soon as our hero did get a little money at last he could hardly wait
to buy the farm land far out of town on the river. But that time was
not yet.
Needless to say, Peter's married life, happy as it was, could not keep
him long on shore. We keep finding his name and the names of his ships
in the delicious old newspapers of his day: Captain Warren has just
arrived; Captain Warren's ship has "gone upon the careen" (i.e., is
being repaired); Captain Warren is sailing next week, and so on, and
so on. The New York _Gazette_ for May 31, 1736, states that: "On
Saturday last, Captain Warren in His Majesty's ship the Squirrel
arrived here in eight weeks from England." One perceives that this was
record time, and worth a journalistic paragraph!
Troubles becoming more rife with Spain in 1739, Peter begged for
active service and got it. This probably was the beginning of his
great prosperity, though his wealth did not become sensational until
nearly five years later. Fortunes were constantly being made in prize
ships in those days, and you may be sure that our enterprising
sea-fighter was not behind other men in this or in anything else
calling for initiative and daring! At all events the records seem to
show that he bought his lands in the Green Village,--Greenwich,--about
1740, when he was thirty-seven. Whether he built his house at that
early date is not clear, but he probably didn't have money enough yet,
for when he did build, it was on a magnificent scale. In 1744,
however, came his golden harvest time!
It was a little after midwinter of that year that Sir. Chaloner Ogle
made him commodore of a sixteen-ship squadron in the waters of the
Leeward Islands where there was decidedly good hunting in the way of
prize ships. Off Martinique were many French and Spanish boats simply
waiting, it would almost seem, to be eaten alive by the enemy's
cruisers; and Captain Peter who had the sound treasure-hunting
instinct of your born adventurer, proceeded to gobble them up! In the
four months that rolled jovially by between the middle of February and
the middle of June, the Captain captured twenty-four of these prizes,
one alone with a plate cargo valued at two hundred and fifty thousand
pounds! Ah, but those were the rare days for a stout-hearted seafaring
man, with a fleet of strong boats and an expensive taste!
Captain Warren brought his prizes to New York and handed them over to
his father-in-law's firm,--advertised in the old papers as "Messieurs
Stephen de Lancey and Company,"--who acted as his agents in
practically all of what Janvier disrespectfully styles "his French and
Spanish swag"! Governor Clinton had exempted prizes from duty, so it
was all clear profit. With the proceeds of the excellent deals which
De Lancey made for him, he then proceeded to cut the swathe for which
he was by temperament and attributes so well fitted.
There never was an Irishman yet, nor a sailor either, who could not
spend money in the grand manner. Our Captain was no exception, be
certain! He figures superbly in the social accounts of the day; it is
safe to assert that he set the pace after a fashion, and fair Mistress
Susanna was a real leader of real Colonial dames! He appears to have
been a genuinely and deservedly popular fellow, our Peter Warren,
throwing his prize money about with a handsome lavishness, and
upholding the honour of the British navy as gallantly in American
society as ever he had in hostile waters abroad.
And now for that dream of a country home! Warren had lands on the
Mohawk River and elsewhere, but his heart had always yearned for the
tract of land in sylvan Greenwich. In that quiet little hamlet on the
green banks of the Hudson the birds sang and the leaves rustled, and
the blue water rested tired eyes. Peter at this time owned nearly
three hundred acres of ground there and now that he had money in
plenty, he lost no time in building a glorious dovecote for himself
and Mistress Susanna--a splendid house in full keeping with his usual
large way of doing things.
Stroll around the block that is squared by the present Charles, Perry,
Bleecker and Tenth streets some day, look at the brick and stone, the
shops and boarding-houses,--and try to dream yourself back into the
eighteenth century, when, in that very square of land, stood the
Captain's lovely country seat. In those days it was something
enormous, palatial, and indeed was always known as the Mansion or
Manse. This is, of course, the basis for the silly theory that
Greenwich got its name from the estate. Undoubtedly the Warren place
was the largest and most important one out there, and for a time to
"go out to visit at Greenwich," meant to go out to visit the Manse.
For years the Captain and the Captain's lady lived in this beautiful
and restful place with three little daughters to share their money,
their affections and their amiable lives. Thomas Janvier's description
of the house as he visualises it with his rich imagination is too
charming not to quote in part:
[Illustration: OLD ST. JOHN'S. "Still faces on Varick Street, sombre
and unaltered, a stately link between the present and the past."]
"The house stood about three hundred yards back from the
river, on ground which fell away in a gentle slope towards
the waterside. The main entrance was from the east; and at
the rear--on the level of the drawing-room and a dozen feet
or so above the sloping hillside--was a broad veranda
commanding the view westward to the Jersey Highlands and
southward down the bay to the Staten Island Hills." The
fanciful description goes on to picture Captain Warren
sitting on this veranda, "smoking a comforting pipe after his
mid-day dinner; and taking with it, perhaps, as seafaring
gentlemen very often did in those days, a glass or two of
substantial rum-and-water to keep everything below hatches
well stowed. With what approving eye must he have regarded
the trimly kept lawns and gardens below him; and with what
eyes of affection the _Launceston_, all a-taunto, lying out
in the stream!"
I have called the description of the house "fanciful," but it is
really not that, since the old house fell into Abraham Van Nest's
hands at a later date, and stood there for over a century, with the
poplars, for which it was famous, and the box hedges, in which Susanna
had taken such pride, growing more beautiful through the years. Not
until 1865 was the lovely place destroyed by the tidal wave of modern
building.
The Captain kept his town house as well,--the old Jay place, on the
lower end of Broadway, but it was at the Manse that he loved best to
stay, and the Manse which was and always remained his real and beloved
home. In 1744 his seaman's restlessness again won over his domestic
tranquillity and he was off once more in search of fresh adventures
and dangers. Says the _Weekly Post Boy_, of August 27th, in that year:
"His Majesty's ship _Launceston_, commanded by the brave
Commodore Warren (whose absence old Oceanus seems to
lament), being now sufficiently repaired, will sail in a few
days in order once more to pay some of His Majesty's enemies
a visit."
And it winds up with this burst:
_"The sails are spread; see the bold warrior comes
To chase the French and interloping Dons!"_
It was in the following year that he signally distinguished himself in
the historic Siege of Louisbourg, winning himself a promotion to the
rank of Rear Admiral of the Blue, and a knighthood as well! It may
seem a far cry from Greenwich, New York, to Louisbourg, but we cannot
pass over the incident without sparing it a little space. Let me beg
your patience,--quoting, in my own justification, no less a historian
than James Grant Wilson:
"This Commodore Warren was one of those indefatigable and
nervous spirits who did such wonders at Louisbourg, and it
is with particular pride that his achievement should be
remembered in a history of New-York, as he was the only
prominent New-Yorker that contributed to Massachusetts'
greatest Colonial achievement."
The capture of Louisbourg may be remembered by some history readers as
a part of that English-French quarrel of 1745, commonly known as "King
George's War," and also as the undertaking described by so many
contemporaries as "Shirley's Mad Scheme." The scheme _was_ rather mad;
hence its appeal to Peter Warren, who was exceedingly keen about it
from the beginning.
Louisbourg was a strong French fortress on Cape Breton Island,
commanding the gulf of the St. Lawrence. Its value as a military
stronghold was great, and besides it had long been a fine base for
privateers, and was a very present source of peril to the New England
fishermen off the Banks. As far back as 1741 Governor Clarke of New
York had urged the taking of this redoubtable French station, but it
fell to the masterful Shirley, Governor of Massachusetts, finally to
organise the expedition. He had Colonial militia to the tune of four
thousand men, and he had Colonial boats,--nearly a hundred of
them,--and he had the approval of the Crown (conveyed through the Duke
of Newcastle); but he wanted leaders. For his land force he chose
General Pepperrill, an eminently safe and sane type of soldier; for
the sea he, with a real brain throb, thought of Captain Peter Warren.
Francis Parkman says: "Warren, who had married an American woman and
who owned large tracts of land on the Mohawk, was known to be a warm
friend to the provinces." He was at Antigua when he received the
Governor's request that he take command of the "Mad Scheme." Needless
to say, the Captain was charmed with the idea, but he had no orders
from the King! He refused almost weeping, and for two days was plunged
in gloom. Imagine such a glorious chance for a fight going begging!
Then arrived a belated letter from Newcastle in England, telling him
to "concert measures with Shirley for the annoyance of the enemy."
Warren was so afraid that some future orders would be less vague, and
give him less freedom, that he set sail for Boston with a haste that
was feverish. He had with him three ships,--the _Mermaid_ and
_Launceston_ of forty guns each, and the _Superbe_ of sixty. But those
two wretched days of delay! He fell in with a schooner from which he
learned that Shirley's expedition had started without him!
I daresay, being a sailor and Irish, our Captain expressed himself
exhaustively just then; but he recovered speedily and told the
schooner to send him every British ship she met in her voyage; then he
changed his course and beat straight for Canseau, determined to be in
that expedition after all. He certainly was in it, and a brisk time he
had of it, too.
At Canseau they were all tied up three weeks, drilling and waiting for
the ice to break, but they were thankful to get there at all. The
storms were severe, as may be gathered by this account of their
efforts to get into Canseau, written by one of the men: "A very Fierce
Storm of Snow, som Rain and very Dangerous weather to be so nigh ye
Shore as we was; but we escaped the Rocks and that was all."
Pepperrill was thankful enough to see the Captain and his
squadron,--it was four ships now, as the schooner had picked up
another frigate for him,--but the two commanders were destined to rub
each other very much the wrong way before they were through.
Pepperrill was a man who took risks only very solemnly and with
deliberation, and who was blessed with endless patience. Warren took
risks with as much zest as he took rare food and rich wine, and in his
swift, full and exciting life there had never been place or time for
patience! When the siege actually commenced, the poor Captain nearly
went wild with the inaction. He wanted to attack, to move, to do
something. Pepperrill's calm judgment and slow tactics drove him
distracted, and they were forever at odds in spite of a secret respect
for each other. In speaking of the contrast between them, Parkman,
after describing Pepperrill's careful management of the military end,
says: "Warren was no less earnest than he for the success of the
enterprise.... But in habits and character the two men differed
widely. Warren was in the prime of life, and the ardour of youth still
burned within him. He was impatient at the slow movement of the
siege."
The Siege of Louisbourg started by Warren's and Pepperrill's demand
that the fortress surrender, and the historic answer of Duchambon,
the French commander, that they should have their answer from the
cannon's mouth. It is not my purpose to tell of it in detail, for it
lasted forty-seven days and strained the nerves of everyone to the
breaking point. But one or two things happened in the time which, to
my mind, make our Captain seem a very human person. There was, for
instance, his amazing kindness, as unfailing to his captives as to his
own men. When the great French man-of-war _Vigilant_ came to the aid
of the beleaguered fortress, Warren joyously captured the monster, in
full sight of Louisbourg and under the big guns there. It was this
incident, by the bye, for which he was knighted afterwards. The French
captain, Marquis de la Maisonfort, who was Warren's prisoner, wrote in
a letter to Duchambon: "The Captain and officers of this squadron
treat us, not as their prisoners, but as their good friends."
Warren went wild with rage when he heard of the horrors that had
befallen an English scouting party which had fallen into the hands of
a band of Indians and Frenchmen, and hideously tortured. He wrote
stern protests to Duchambon, and it was at this time that he urged
Pepperrill most earnestly to attack. But the more phlegmatic officer
could not see it in that way. Warren then argued with increasing heat
that by this time the French reinforcements must be near, and could
easily steal up under cover of the fog which was thick there every
night. When Pepperrill still objected he lost his temper entirely, and
said and wrote a number of peppery things. "I am sorry," he said,
"that no one plan, though approved by all my captains, has been so
fortunate as to meet your approbation or have any weight with you!"
Pepperrill explained imperturbably that Warren was trying to take too
much authority upon himself. Captain Peter sent him a furious note: "I
am sorry to find a kind of jealousy which I thought you would never
conceive of me. And give me leave to tell you I don't want at this
time to acquire reputation, as I flatter myself mine has been pretty
well established long before!"
And then, as full of temper as a hot-headed schoolboy, he brought out
a letter from Governor Shirley expressing regret that Captain Warren
could not take command of the whole affair,--"which I doubt not would
be a most happy event for His Majesty's service."
Even this could not shake the General's superhuman calm. He was
indeed so quiet about it, and so uniformly polite, that his fiery
associate was simply obliged to cool off. He was of too genuinely fine
fibre to bear a grudge or to make a hard situation harder, and he
consented to compromise, saying truly that at such times it was
"necessary not to Stickle at Trifles!"
At last the time came for action, and on the seventeenth of June they
took Louisbourg, in a most brilliant and stirring manner, and Warren
was so wild with delight that he could not contain himself. He
scribbled a note to Pepperrill which sounds like the note of a
rattle-pated college lad instead of a distinguished naval commander:
"We will soon keep a good house together, and give the Ladys of
Louisbourg a gallant Ball."
He probably gave that ball, too, though there doesn't seem to be any
record of it. He certainly had a beautiful time going about making
speeches to the troops, amid much cheering; and dispensing casks of
rum in which to drink his health and King George's! He was made the
English Governor of the fortress temporarily, and when the news of
their capture reached England both commanders were knighted and Peter
Warren was made Rear Admiral of the Blue.
And in the height of the excitement a ship arrived at Louisbourg one
fine day bearing Susanna herself, who had come in person to see that
the hero of the day was really safe and sound!
A letter written from Louisbourg on September 25th, and published in
the _Weekly Post Boy_, gives this account:
"... The King has made the General a baronet of Great
Britain; and 'tis said Mr. Warren will be one also, who is
recommended by the Lords Justices to the King of Governor of
this Place, and is made Rear Admiral of the Blue: He hoisted
his Flag yesterday Afternoon on the Superbe, when he was
saluted by the Ships in the Harbour, and the Grand Battery."
Soon after,--if we may trust James Grant Wilson's history,--he did
indeed receive the Order of the Bath, and so henceforward we must give
him his title,--Admiral Sir. Peter Warren, no less! After he came home
from Louisbourg, the city of New York was so well pleased with him
that the council voted him some extra land,--which he really did not
need in the least, having plenty already.
At least one more exploit was to be added to the wreath of Peter
Warren's brave enterprises in behalf of his King and country. In 1747
the French again became troublesome. A fleet of French men-of-war
under one La Jonquiere, an able commander, was ordered to go and
retake Louisbourg,--that, at least, among other things. Sir. Peter
went to join the English commander, Anson, off Cape Finisterre,--(the
"End of the Earth") and acquitted himself there so gallantly and
effectively that again his country rang with praise of him,--his
country which then lay on two sides of the sea. America's pride in him
is shown by some of the comments in the New York press, after he had
so brilliantly helped in the capture of La Jonquiere's ships. Here is,
for instance, one letter from an eyewitness which was printed in the
New York _Gazette_, August 31, 1747:
"I have the Honour to send you some Particulars concerning
the late Engagement on 3rd Instant off Cape Finisterre;
which, tho' in the greatest degree conducive to the Success
of that glorious Day, yet have not been once mentioned in
the publick Papers.... You may be surpriz'd, Sir, when I
assert, that out of the formidable English Squadron, but
seven Ships were engag'd properly speaking. Concerning the
Gallantry of three of them, which were the Headmost Ships,
you have already had publick accounts; and my intention by
this, is to warm your hearts with an Account of the
Behaviour of two others, the Devonshire, Admiral Warren's
Ship, and the Bristol, commanded by Capt. Montague."
The letter goes on to describe the battle minutely, telling how Warren
came boldly up to the French Commodore's ship, and attacked her,
"--And, having receiv'd her fire, as terrible a one as ever I saw, ran
up within Pistol-shot and then returned it, and continued a brisk fire
till the enemy struck." Then, he continues, Warren "made up to the
Invincible" and attacked her, later seconded by Montague. Anson, the
commanding Admiral, he adds rather drily, was at least a mile astern.
In the same edition of the paper which prints this letter, we find a
little side light on the way in which Lady Warren spent her days when
her magnificent husband was away at the wars. Between an advertisement
of "Window Crown-Glass just over from England," and "A Likely Strong
Negro Wench, fit for either Town or Country Business, to be sold," we
find a crisp little paragraph:
"All Persons that have any Demands on the Honourable Sir.
Peter Warren, are desired to carry their accounts to his
Lady, to be adjusted, and receive Payment."
Sir. Peter was, as we have seen, not a person who could sit still and
peacefully do nothing. Inactivity was always a horror to him; even
his domestic happiness and his wholesome joy in his wife and daughters
could not entirely fill his life when he was not at sea. His first
naive and childish pleasure in his immense fortune was an old story,
and the King couldn't provide a battle for him every moment. The real
events of his life were war cruises, but in between he began to take a
hand in the politics of New York. He was high in favour with the
English Throne--with some reason, we must admit--and he didn't mind
stating the fact with the candour and doubtless the pride of a child
of nature, as well as--who knows?--a touch of arrogance, as became a
man of the world, and an English one to boot!
His brother-in-law, James de Lancey, was Chief Justice, and at sword's
point with Clinton, the Governor of New York. De Lancey boasted
politely but openly that he and Sir. Peter had twice as much influence
in England as had Clinton, which was probably quite true. Clinton was
desperately afraid of them both. Just when Clinton felt he was making
a little headway Warren was called to London to enter Parliament as
the member for Westminster. This gave him more prestige than ever, and
the Governor moved heaven and earth to discredit him in the eyes of
the Lords of Trade in London. But just then heaven and earth were
personified by the British Crown and Court, and they turned deaf ears
to Clinton and listened kindly to the naval hero who had made himself
so prime a favourite. Clinton firmly expected and fervently feared
that Warren's influence would mean his eventful overthrow and not
until our hero's death did he ever draw a breath that was free from
dread.
After the Revolution some of the De Lanceys lost their lands because
of their loyalty to the Crown, but in Sir. Peter's time the sun shone
for those who stood by the King.
But the day came speedily when Sir. Peter sailed away to return no
more, and I am sure every tree in Greenwich and every cobblestone in
New York mourned him!
It was in 1747 that our hero was summoned to London, to enter
Parliament and from that time on was a bright particular star in
English society. Known as "the richest man in England," he was a truly
magnificent figure in a magnificent day. Lady Warren, who was still a
beauty and a wit, was a great favourite at Court, and writers of the
day declared her to be the cleverest woman in all England. Think of
what golden fortunes fell to the three Warren girls, who were now of
marriageable age!
They made our old friend Peter Admiral of the Red Squadron as well as
an M.P., and Lady Warren so splendidly brought out her daughters that
Charlotte married Willoughby, Earl of Abingdon, and Ann wed Charles
Fitzroy, Baron Southampton. The youngest girl, Susanna, chose a
colonel named Skinner,--and New York, still affectionately inclined
toward the Admiral's daughters, named streets after the husbands of
all three! Our present Christopher Street used to be Skinner Road;
Fitzroy Road ran northward, near our Eighth Avenue from Fourteenth
Street far uptown; Abingdon Road, which was known colloquially and
prettily as "Love Lane," was far, far out in the country until much
later, somewhere near Twenty-first Street. Abingdon Square alone
preserves one of the old family names, and in Abingdon Square I am
certain some of those dear ghosts come to walk.
And still I find that I have not told the half of Sir. Peter's story! I
have not told of his adventures in the Mohawk country, where he
travelled from sheer love of adventure and danger in the first place,
and afterward established a fine settlement and plantation; of his
placing there his sister's young son, William Johnson, later to be a
great authority on matters pertaining to the Indians, and how he sent
him out vast consignments of "rum and axes," to open negotiations
with the Mohawks; how in his letter to his nephew he sounded a note of
true Irish blarney, in cautioning him not to find fault with the
horses supplied by a certain man, "since he is a relation of my
wife's!" I have not told of his narrow escape from the Indians on one
dramatic occasion; nor of his trip to the West Indies as an envoy of
peace; nor of his services in Barbadoes which caused the people
thereof to present him with a gorgeous silver monteith, or punch-bowl;
nor of the mighty dinner party he gave at which the Rev. Mr. Moody
said the historic grace: "Good Lord, we have so much to be thankful
for that time would be infinitely too short to do it in. We must,
therefore, leave it for eternity. Amen." I have said nothing of Sir.
Peter's attack of small-pox, which left his good-looking face badly
marked, if we can believe the likeness modelled by Roubilliac;
nor--but it would take volumes to tell the full and eventful story of
this brave and gallant-hearted man, who died when he was only
forty-eight, in the year 1752. It seems incredible that so much could
have been crowded into so short a life. In death he was honoured quite
as he deserved, for his tomb in the Abbey is a gorgeous and impressive
one, and such men as the great French sculptor, and Dr. Johnson
himself, had a hand in making it memorable in proportion to his
greatness.
In looking over our hero's career we are struck by the absence of
shadows. One would say that so unrelieved a record of success, of
honour, glory, love and wealth, so much pure sunshine, so complete a
lack of all trouble or defeat, must make a picture flat and
characterless, insipid in its light, bright colours, insignificant in
its deeper values. But it is not so. Peter Warren, the spoiled child
of fortune, was something more than a child of fortune, since he won
his good things of life always at the risk of that life which he
enriched; and surely, no obstinately fortuitous twist of circumstances
could ever really spoil him.
His honestly heroic qualities are his passport. He cannot seem smug,
nor colourless, nor over-prosperous: he is too vivid and too vigorous.
His childish vanity is nobly discounted by his childlike simplicity in
facing big issues. The blue and gold which he wore so magnificently
can never to us be the mere trappings of rank: they carry on them the
shadows of battle smoke, and the rust of enviable wounds. Let us take
his memory then gladly, and with true homage, rejoicing that its
record of happiness appears as stainless as its history of honour, and
well satisfied to find one picture in which something of the sunshine
of high gallantry seems caught, and for all time.
Dr. Johnson wrote thirty lines of eulogy of him, with the nicety and
distinction of phrase which one would expect. Perhaps the simple
ending of it is most impressive of all; so let us make it our own for
the occasion:
_"... But the ALMIGHTY,
Whom alone he feared, and whose gracious protection
He had often experienced,
Was pleased to remove him from a place of Honour,
To an eternity of happiness,
On the 29th day of July, 1752,
In the 49th year of his age."_