THE BROKEN SWORD.
The sound wrought a transformation in Colden. His face lighted up with
malevolent joy.
"You love too late!" he cried, to Elizabeth. "My men are there! They
shall take him to New York a prisoner, at last!"
"But not delivered up by me, thank God!" replied Elizabeth, while
Peyton rose quickly from his chair, and Colden reeled like a drunken
man to the window.
She went behind Peyton, and, with the edge of the broken sword, hacked
rather than cut through one of the outer windings that bound his
wrists together, whereupon she speedily uncoiled the rope.
"You were my prisoner. I set you free!" she said, dropped the rope to
the floor, and handed him the broken sword.
He took the weapon in his right hand, and imprisoned Elizabeth with
his left arm.
"I'm more your prisoner now than ever!" he said. "You've cut these
bonds. Will you put others on me?"
"Sometime,--if we can save your life!" she answered.
Both turned their eyes towards Colden.
The Tory officer had drawn his sword, and was motioning, in great
excitement, to his soldiers outside.
"This way, men!" he shouted. "To the front door! Damn the louts! Can't
they understand?" He beat upon the window with his sword, knocking out
panes of glass. "Come through that door, I say! Quick, curse you,
there's a prisoner here, with a price for his taking! Ay, that's it!
Some one in the hall there, open the front door to my men!"
The sound now came of knocks bestowed on the outside door, and of
Sam's heavy tread on the hall floor.
"Williams! Sam!" shouted Elizabeth. "Don't let them in!"
The heavy tread was heard to stop short. The knocking on the outer
door was resumed.
"Let them in, I say," roared Colden, too proud to go himself to the
door. "I command it, in the name of the King!"
"Obey your mistress," cried Peyton, to those in the hall. "I command
it, in the name of Congress!"
Colden was silent for a moment, then suddenly threw open the window
and called out, "This way, men! Quick!"
And he drew pistol, and stood ready with steel and ball to guard the
window by which his men were to enter. A new, wild ferocity was on his
face, a new, nervous hardness in his body, as if the latent resolution
and strength which a prudent man keeps for a great contest, on which
his all may depend, were at last aroused. In such a mood, the man who,
governed by interest, may have seemed a coward all his life becomes
for the once supremely formidable. At last he thinks the stake worth
the play, at last the prize is worth the risk, and because it is so he
will play and risk to the end, hazarding all, not yielding while he
breathes. Having opened the theme which alone, of all themes, shall
transform his irresolution into action, he will, Hamlet like, "fight
upon this theme until" his "eyelids will no longer wag." So was Colden
aroused, transfigured, as he stood doubly armed by the window, waiting
for his men to clamber in.
"What shall we do, dear?" said Elizabeth.
"Fight!" replied Peyton, tightening at the same time his right palm
around his broken sword, and his left around the hand she had let him
take,--for she had moved from the embrace of his arm.
"Ay, there are only two of them," she said, as two burly forms
appeared in the open window, one behind the other.
"There will be three of us, you'll find!" cried Colden. "This time
I'll take a hand, if need be."
"You must not stay here," said Peyton to Elizabeth, quickly. "Things
will be flying loose in a moment!"
"I won't leave you!" said she.
"Go! I beg you, go!" he said, releasing her hand, and stepping back.
Meanwhile, Colden's men bounded in through the window. Rough, sturdy
fellows were they, who landed heavily on the parlor floor, and blinked
at the light, drawing the while the breeches of their short muskets
from beneath their coats. Their hats and shoulders were coated with
snow.
"Take that rebel alive, if you can!" ordered Colden. "He's meant to
hang! Stun him with your musket-butts!"
The men quickly reversed their weapons, and strode heavily towards
Harry. To their surprise, before they could bring down their muskets,
which required both hands of each to hold, Harry dashed forward
between them, thinking to cut down Colden with his broken sword,
possess himself of the latter's pistol, shoot one of the soldiers, and
meet the other on less unequal terms. He saw a possibility of his
leaping through the open window and fleeing on one of the soldiers'
horses, but the idea was accompanied by the thought that Elizabeth
might be made to suffer for his escape. Her safety now depended on his
getting the mastery over his three would-be captors. So, ere the two
astonished fellows could turn, Harry had leaped within sword's reach
of his doubly armed enemy.
But Colden was now as alert as rigid, and he opposed his officer's
sword against Peyton's broken cavalry blade, guarding himself with
unexpected swiftness, and giving back, for Harry's sweeping stroke, a
thrust which only the quickest and most dexterous movement turned
aside from entering the Virginian's lungs. As Harry stepped back for
an instant out of his adversary's reach, the Tory raised his pistol.
At the same moment the two soldiers, having turned about, rushed on
Peyton from behind. He heard them coming, and half turned to face
them. Their movement had for him one fortunate circumstance. It kept
Colden from shooting, for his bullet might have struck one of his own
men.
Now Elizabeth had not been idle. At the moment when Harry had stepped
back from her and bade her go, she had run to the door of the east
hall, and called Williams and Sam. While Peyton had been engaging
Colden near the window, the steward and the negro had entered the
parlor, and she had excitedly ordered them to Peyton's aid. Williams
still had the duck-gun, Sam the pistol. Thus it occurred that, as
Peyton half turned from Colden towards the two soldiers, these
last-named saw Williams and Sam rush in between them and their prey.
Before Williams could bring his duck-gun to bear, he was struck down
senseless by one of the musket blows first intended for Peyton.
Another blow, and from another musket, had been aimed at Sam's woolly
head, but the negro had put up his left hand and caught the descending
weapon, and at the same time had discharged his pistol at the weapon's
holder. But Williams, in falling, had knocked against the darky, and
so disturbed his aim, and the ball flew wide. The man who had brought
down Williams now struck Sam a terrible blow with the musket-club, on
the temple, and the negro dropped like a felled ox.
During this brief passage, Peyton had returned to close quarters with
Colden. The latter, who had lowered his pistol when his men had last
approached Peyton, and who had resumed the contest of swords unequal
in size and kind, now raised the pistol a second time. But it was
caught by the hands of Elizabeth, who had run around to his left, and
who now, suddenly endowed with the strength of a tigress, wrenched it
from him as she had wrenched the broken sword earlier in the evening.
She tried to discharge the pistol at one of the two soldiers, as they,
relieved of the brief interposition of Williams and Sam, were again
taking position to bring down their muskets on Peyton's head while he
continued at sword-work with Colden. But the pistol snapped without
going off, whereupon Elizabeth hurled it in the face of the man at
whom she had aimed. The blow disconcerted him so that his musket fell
wide of Peyton, who at the same instant, having seen from the corner
of his eye how he was menaced, leaped backward from under the other
descending musket. Then, taking advantage of the moment when the
muskets were down, he ran to the music seat before the spinet, and
mounted upon it, thinking rightly that the infuriated major would
follow him, and that he might the better execute a certain manoeuvre
from the vantage of height. Colden indeed rushed after him, and thrust
at him, Peyton sweeping the thrusts aside with pendulum-like swings of
his own short weapon. His thought was to send the point that menaced
him so astray that he might leap forward and cleave his enemy with a
downward stroke before the Tory could recover his guard. But Colden
pressed him so speedily that he was at last fain to step up from the
music seat to the spinet, landing first on the keyboard, which sent
out a frightened discord as he alighted on it. Finding the keys an
uncertain footing, he took another step, and stood on the body of the
instrument, so that Colden would be at the disadvantage of thrusting
upwards. But Colden, seeming to tire a little after a few such
thrusts, called to his men:
"Shoot the dog in the legs!"
Both men aimed at once. Elizabeth screamed. Peyton leaped down from
his height to the little space behind the spinet projection, where he
had hidden a week before. Here he found himself well placed, for here
he could be approached on one side only,--unless his adversaries
should follow his example and come at him from the top of the spinet.
Colden attacked him with sword, at the open side, and shouted to his
men:
"One of you get on the spinet. The other crawl under. We have him
now."
Still guarding himself from his enemy's thrusts, Peyton heard one of
the men leap from the music seat to the spinet, and the other advance
creeping, doubtless with gun before him, under the instrument. Peyton
sank to his knees, placed his shoulder under the back edge of the
spinet's projection, and, warding off a downward movement of Colden's
sword, turned the instrument over on its side, checking the creeping
man under it, and throwing the other fellow to the floor some feet
away. As the spinet fell, one of its legs, rising swiftly into the
air, knocked Colden's blade upward, and the Tory leaped back lest
Peyton might avail himself of the opening. But the spinet-leg itself
hindered Peyton from doing so. Colden rushed forward again, thrusting
as he did so. Peyton leaped aside, made a swift half-turn, and landed
a stroke on Colden's sword-hand, making the Tory cry out and drop the
sword. Harry put his foot on it and cried:
"You're at my mercy! Beg quarter!"
But the man who had been thrown from the top of the spinet now
returned to the attack, coming around that end of the upset instrument
which was opposite the end where Colden had menaced Harry. Seeing this
new adversary, Harry retreated past Colden, in order to put himself in
position. The soldier hastened after him, with upraised musket. At
this moment, Peyton saw himself confronted by Elizabeth, who pulled
open the door of the south hall. He stopped short to avoid running
against her.
"Save yourself!" she cried, and pushed him through the open doorway,
flinging the door shut upon him, a movement which the pursuing
soldier, stayed for a moment by collision with Colden, was not in time
to prevent. Harry heard the key move in the lock, and knew that
Elizabeth had turned it, and that he was safe in the south hall, with
a minute of vantage which he might employ as he would.
Elizabeth withdrew the key from the locked door, just as the pursuing
soldier arrived at that door. The man, in his excitement, violently
tried to open the door. Colden, who was wrapping a handkerchief around
his wounded hand, shouted to the man:
"You fool, she has the key! Take it from her!"
"You shall kill me first!" she cried, and ran from the man towards the
open window, stepping over the prostrate bodies of Sam and Williams as
she went.
"After her! She'll throw it into the snow!" cried Colden.
This much Harry heard through the door, and heard also the heavy tread
of the soldier's feet in pursuit of the girl. His mind imaged forth a
momentary picture of the fellow's rough hands laid on the delicate
arms of Elizabeth, of her body clasped by the man in a struggle, her
white skin reddened by his grasp. The spectacle, imaginary and lasting
but an instant, maddened Peyton beyond endurance, made him a giant, a
Hercules. He threw himself against the door repeatedly, plied foot and
body in heavy blows. Meanwhile Elizabeth had reached the window, and
thrown the key far out on the snow-heaped lawn. She had no sooner done
so than the man laid his clutch on her arm.
"Fly, Peyton, for God's sake! For my sake!" she shouted.
"You shall pay for aiding the enemy, if he does!" cried Colden. "Don't
let her escape, Thompson!"
At that instant the locked door gave way, and in burst Harry, having
broken, to save Elizabeth from a rude contact, the barrier she had
closed to save his life. That life, which he had once saved by
callously assailing her heart, he now risked, that her body might not
suffer the touch of an ungentle hand. So swift and sudden was his
entrance, that he had crossed the room, and floored Elizabeth's
captor, with a deep gash down the side of the head, ere Colden made a
step towards him.
The man who had been under the fallen spinet had now extricated
himself, and regained his feet, and he and Colden rushed on Peyton at
once. Elated by having so speedily wrought Elizabeth's release, and
reduced the number of his able adversaries to two, Peyton bethought
himself of a new plan. He fled through the deep doorway to the east
hall, and took position on the staircase. He turned just in time to
parry Colden's sword, which the major had picked up and made shift to
hold in his wrapped-up, wounded hand. Harry saw that an opportune
stroke might send the sword from his enemy's numb and weakening grasp,
and his heart swelled with anticipated triumph, until he heard
Colden's hoarse cry:
"Shoot him, James, while I keep him occupied!"
This order was now the more practicable from Harry's being on the
stairs, above Colden, a great part of his body exposed to an aim that
could not endanger his antagonist. Breathing heavily, his eyes afire
with hatred, Colden repeated his attacks, while Harry saw the other's
musket raised, the barrel looking him in the eyes. He leaped a step
higher, swung his broken sword against the pendent chandelier,
knocked the only burning candle from its socket, and threw the hall
into darkness. A moment later the gun went off, giving an instant's
red flame, a loud crack, and a smell of gunpowder smoke. Harry heard a
swift singing near his right ear, and knew that he was untouched.
Lest Colden's sword, thrust at random, might find him in the dark,
Harry instantly bestrode the stair-rail, and dropped, outside the
balustrade, to the floor of the hall. He grasped his half-sword in
both hands, so as to put his whole weight behind it, and made a lunge
in the direction of a muttered curse. The curse gave way to a roar of
pain and rage, and Colden's second follower dropped, spurting blood in
the darkness, his shoulder gashed horribly by the blunt end of
Peyton's imperfect weapon. Harry now ran back to the parlor, to deal
with Colden in the light, the latter's greater length of weapon giving
a greater searching-power in the darkness. In the parlor Elizabeth
stood waiting in suspense. Sam was sitting on the floor and staring
stupidly at Williams, who was now awake and rubbing his head, and the
Tory first fallen was still senseless. Harry had no sooner taken this
scene in at a glance, than Colden was upon him.
The major's eyes seemed to stand out like blazing carbuncles from the
face of some deity of rage.
"G--d d----n your soul!" he screamed, and thrust. The point went
straight, and Elizabeth, seeing it protrude through the back of
Harry's coat, near the left side of his body, uttered a low cry, and
sank half-fainting to her knees. Colden shouted with triumphant
laughter. "Die, you dog! And when you burn in hell, remember I sent
you there!"
But the evil joy suddenly faded out of Colden's face, for Harry
Peyton, smiling, took a forward step, grasped near the hilt the sword
that seemed to be sheathed in his own body, forced it from Colden's
hand, and then drew it slowly from its lodgment. No blood discolored
it, and none oozed from Harry's body.
The Virginian's quick movement to escape the thrust had left only a
part of his loose-fitting coat exposed, and Colden's sword had passed
through it, leaving him unhurt. Colden's momentary appearance of
victory had been the means of actual defeat.
The Tory major saw his cup of revenge dashed from his lips, saw
himself deprived of sword and sweetheart, neither chance left of
living nor motive left for life. His rage collapsed; his hate burst
like a bubble.
"Kill me," he said, quietly, to Peyton.
His look, innocent of any thought to draw compassion, quite disarmed
Harry, who stood for a moment with moistening eyes and a kind of
welling-up at the throat, then said, in a rather unsteady voice:
"No, sir! God knows I've taken enough from you," and he looked at
Elizabeth, who had risen and was standing near him. Softened by the
triumphant outcome for her love, she, too, was suddenly sensible of
the defeated man's unhappiness, and her eyes applauded and thanked
Harry.
"You've taken what I never had," said Colden, with a chastened kind of
bitterness, "yet without which the life you give me back is
worthless."
"Make it worth something with this," and Peyton held Colden's sword
out to him.
"What! You will trust me with it?" said Colden, amazed and incredulous,
taking the sword, but holding it limply.
"Certainly, sir!"
Colden was motionless a moment, then placed his arm high against the
doorway, and buried his face against his arm, to hide the outlet of
what various emotions were set loose by his enemy's display of pity
and trust.
Harry gently drew Elizabeth to him and kissed her. Yielding, she
placed her arms around his neck, and held him for a moment in an
embrace of her own offering. Then she withdrew from his clasp, and
when Colden again faced them she had resumed that invisible veil which
no man, not even the beloved, might pass through till she bade him.
"You will find me worthy of your trust, sir," said Colden, brokenly,
yet with a mixture of manly humility and honorable pride.[10]
"I am so sure of that," said Harry, "that I confide to your care for a
time what is dearest to me in the world. I ask you to accompany Miss
Philipse to her home in New York, when it may suit her convenience,
and to see that she suffer nothing for what has occurred here this
night."
"You are a generous enemy, sir," said Colden, his eyes moistening
again. "One man in ten thousand would have done me the honor, the
kindness, of that request!"
"Why," said Harry, taking his enemy's hand, as if in token of
farewell, "whatever be the ways of the knaves, respectable and
otherwise, who are so cautious against tricks like their own, thank
God it's not so rotten a world that a gentleman may not trust a
gentleman, when he is sure he has found one!"
Turning to Elizabeth, he said: "I beg you will leave this house at
dawn, if you can. Williams and Sam, there, will be little the worse
for their knocks, and can look after the fellows on the floor."
"And you," she replied, "must go at once. You must not further risk
your life by a moment's waiting. Cuff shall saddle Cato for you. I
sha'n't rest till I feel that you are far on your way."
He approached as if again to kiss her, but she held out her hand to
stay him. He took the hand, bent over it, pressed it to his lips.
"But,--" he said, in a tone as low as a whisper, "when--"
"When the war is over," she answered, softly, "let Cato bring you
back."
NOTES.
NOTE 1. (Page 41.)
"The old county historian." Rev. Robert Bolton, born 1814, died 1877.
His "History of the County of Westchester," especially the revised
edition published in 1881, is a rich mine of "material." Among other
works that have served the author of this narrative in a study of the
period and place are Allison's "History of Yonkers," Cole's "History
of Yonkers," Edsall's "History of Kingsbridge," Dawson's "Westchester
County during the Revolution," Jones's "New York during the
Revolution," Watson's "Annals of New York in the Olden Time," General
Heath's "Memoirs," Thatcher's "Memoirs," Simcoe's "Military Journal,"
Dunlap's "History of New York," and Mrs. Ellet's "Domestic History of
the Revolution." For an excellent description of the border warfare on
the "neutral ground," the reader should go to Irving's delightful
"Chronicle of Wolfert's Roost." Cooper's novel, "The Spy," deals
accurately with that subject, which is touched upon also in that good
old standby, Lossing's "Pictorial Field-book of the Revolution."
Philipse Manor-house has been carefully written of by Judge Atkins in
a Yonkers newspaper, and less accurately by Mrs. Lamb in her "History
of New York City," and Marian Harland in "Some Colonial Homesteads and
Their Stories." Of general histories, Irving's "Life of Washington"
treats most fully of things around New York during the British
occupation, and these things are interestingly dealt with in local
histories, such as the "History of Queens County," Stiles's "History
of Brooklyn," Barber and Howe's "New Jersey Historical Collections,"
etc., as well as in such special works as Onderdonk's "Revolutionary
Incidents."
NOTE 2. (Page 47.)
Of Colonel Gist's escape, Bolton gives the following account: "The
house was occupied by the handsome and accomplished widow of the Rev.
Luke Babcock, and Miss Sarah Williams, a sister of Mrs. Frederick
Philipse. To the former lady Colonel Gist was devotedly attached;
consequently, when an opportunity afforded, he gladly moved his
command into that vicinity. On the night preceding the attack, he had
stationed his camp at the foot of Boar Hill, for the better purpose of
paying a special visit to this lady. It is said that whilst engaged in
urging his suit the enemy were quietly surrounding his quarters; he
had barely received his final dismissal from Mrs. Babcock when he was
startled by the firing of musketry.... It appears that all the roads
and bridges had been well guarded by the enemy, except the one now
called Warner's Bridge, and that Captain John Odell upon the first
alarm led off his troops through the woods on the west side of the Saw
Mill [River]. Here Colonel Gist joined them. In the meantime Mrs.
Babcock, having stationed herself in one of the dormer windows of the
parsonage, aided their escape whenever they appeared, by the waving of
a white handkerchief."
The British attack was under Lieutenant-Colonel Simcoe, whose journal
shows that his force so far outnumbered Gist's that the latter's only
sensible course was in flight. About the year 1840, trees cut down
near the site of Gist's camp were found to contain balls buried six
inches in the wood.
NOTE 3. (Page 76.)
The three generals arrived on the _Cerberus_, May 25th. All the
histories say that they arrived "with reinforcements." It is true,
troops were constantly arriving at Boston about that time, but none
came immediately with the three generals. The _Connecticut Gazette_
(published in New London) printed, early in June, this piece of news,
brought by a gentleman who had been in Boston, May 28th: "Generals
Burgoyne, Clinton, and Howe arrived at Boston last Friday in a
man-of-war. No troops came with them. They brought over 25 horses." It
is a wonder that Frothingham, in his admirably complete history of the
siege of Boston, missed even this little circumstance. Probably
everybody has read the incident thus related by Irving: "As the ships
entered the harbor and the rebel camp was pointed out, Burgoyne could
not restrain a burst of surprise and scorn. 'What!' cried he; 'ten
thousand peasants keep five thousand King's troops shut up! Well, let
us get in and we'll soon find elbow room!'" I don't think Irving
relates anywhere the sequel, which is that when, after his surrender,
Burgoyne marched with his conquered army into Cambridge, an old woman
shouted from a window to the crowd of spectators, "Give him elbow
room!" This story ought to be true, if it is not.
NOTE 4. (Page 89.)
It was in a letter under date of October 4, 1778, that Washington
wrote: "What officer can bear the weight of prices that every
necessary article is now got to? A rat in the shape of a horse is not
to be bought for less than L200; a saddle under thirty or forty."
NOTE 5. (Page 124.)
Captain Cunningham was the British provost marshal, as everybody
knows, whose name became a synonym for wanton cruelty in the treatment
of war prisoners. He had come to New York before the Revolution, and
had kept a riding school there. As soon as the war broke out he took
the royal side. It was he who had in charge the summary execution of
Nathan Hale. He would often amuse himself by striking his prisoners
with his keys and by kicking over the baskets of food or vessels of
soup brought for them by charitable women, who, he said, were the
worst rebels in New York. He died miserably in England after the war.
His career is briefly outlined in Sabine's "Loyalists." As to the
manner in which Peyton, if caught, would have died, it must be
remembered that in the American Revolution the rope served in many a
case which, occurring in Europe or in one of our later wars, would
have been disposed of with the bullet. Writing of General Charles Lee,
John Fiske says: "There is no doubt that Sir William Howe looked upon
him as a deserter, and was more than half inclined to hang him without
ceremony." Then, as now, a deserter in time of war was liable to death
if caught at any subsequent time, his case being worse than that of a
spy, who was liable to death only if caught before getting back to his
own lines. There was, by the way, much unceremonious hanging on the
"neutral ground." Not far from the Van Cortlandt mansion there still
stood, in Bolton's time, "a celebrated white oak, in the midst of a
pretty glade, called the Cowboy Oak," from the fact that many of the
Tory raiders had been suspended from its branches during the war of
Revolution.
NOTE 6. (Page 127.)
I am not sure whether the saying, "The corpse of an enemy smells
sweet," attributed to Charles IX. of France, in allusion to Coligny,
is historical or was the invention of a romancer. It occurs in Dumas's
"La Reine Margot."
NOTE 7. (Page 136.)
Mr. Valentine's unwillingness to lend aid was doubtless due to the
frequency of such incidents as one that had occurred to his neighbor,
Peter Post, in 1776. Post's estate occupied the site of the present
town of Hastings. He gave information to Colonel Sheldon regarding the
movements of some Hessians, and afterwards deceived the Hessians as to
the whereabouts of Sheldon's own cavalry. Thereby, Sheldon's troop was
enabled to surprise the Hessians, and defeat them in a short and
bloody conflict. The Hessians' comrades later caught Post, stripped
him, beat him to insensibility, and left him for dead. He recovered of
his injuries. His house, a small stone one, became a tavern after the
Revolution, and was a celebrated resort of cock-fighters and
hard-drinkers. Not far north of Hastings is Dobbs Ferry, which was
occupied by both armies alternately, during the Revolution. Further
north is Sunnyside, Irving's house, elaborated from the original
Wolfert's Roost, and beyond that are Tarrytown, where Andre was
stopped and taken in charge, and Sleepy Hollow. Enchanted ground, all
this, hallowed by history, legend, and romance.
NOTE 8. (Page 179.)
The secret passage or passages of Philipse Manor-house have not been
neglected by writers of fiction, history, and magazine articles. The
passage does not now exist, but there are numerous traces of it. The
different writers do not agree in locating it. The author of an
interesting story for children, "A Loyal Little Maid," has it that the
passage was reached through an opening in the panelling of the
dining-room, this opening concealed by a tall clock. I think Marian
Harland says that a closet in one of the parlors or chambers connects
with the secret passage. Both these assumptions are wrong. Mr. R. P.
Getty has pointed out in the northwestern corner of the cellar what
seems to have once been the entrance to the passage. One authority
quotes a belief "that from the cellar there was a passage to a well
now covered by Woodworth Avenue," and that this was to afford access
to what may have been a storage vault. A man who was born in 1821 says
that, when a boy, he saw, near the house, a dry cistern, from the
bottom of which was an arched passage towards the Hudson, large enough
for a man six feet tall to pass through. Judge Atkins says that the
well was opposite the kitchen door, and had, at its western side,
about ten feet deep, a chamber in which butter was kept. One writer
locates an ice-house where Judge Atkins places this well, and says a
subterranean arched way led northward as far as the present Wells
Avenue. "The ice-house was formerly, it is said, a powder-magazine."
Many years ago, the coachman of Judge Woodworth used to say he had
"gone through an underground passage all the way from the manor-house
to the Hudson River." Judge Atkins has written interesting legends of
the manor-house, involving the secret passage and other features.
NOTE 9. (Page 259.)
"That lonely highway now called Broadway." A block of houses and
another street now lie between that highway and the east front of the
manor-house. The building is closely hemmed in by the sordid signs of
progress. Ugly houses, in crowded blocks, cover all the great
surrounding space that once was thick forest, fair orchards, gardens,
fields, and pastoral rivulet. The Neperan or Saw Mill River flows,
sluggish and scummy, under streets and houses. A visit to the
manor-house, now, would spoil rather than improve one's impression of
what the place looked like in the old days. Yet the house itself
remains well preserved, for which all honor to the town of Yonkers.
There is in our spacious America so much room for the present and the
future, that a little ought to be kept for the past. It is well to be
reminded, by a landmark here and there, of our brave youth as a
people. A posterity, sure to value these landmarks more than this
money-grabbing age does, will reproach us with the destruction we have
already wrought. Worse still than the crime of obliterating all
human-made relics of the past, is the vandalism of nature herself
where nature is exceptionally beautiful. To rob millions of
beauty-lovers, yet to live, of the Palisades of the Hudson, would
bring upon us the amazement and execration of future centuries. This
earth is an entailed estate, that each generation is in honor bound to
hand down, undefaced, undiminished, to its successor. In order that a
close-clutched wallet or two may wax a little fatter, shall we bring
upon ourselves a cry of shame that would ring with increasing
bitterness through the ages,--shall we invite the execration merited
by such greed as could so outrage our fair earth, such stolid apathy
as could stand by and see it done? Shall an alien or two, as hard of
soul as the stone in which he traffics, mar the Hudson that Washington
patrolled, rob countless eyes, yet unopened, of a joy; countless
minds, yet to waken, of an inspiration; countless hearts, yet to beat,
of a thrill of pride in the soil of their inheriting? Shall some
future reader wonder why Irving, deeming it "an invaluable advantage
to be born and brought up in the neighborhood of some grand and noble
object in nature," should have thanked God he was born on the banks of
the Hudson? I write this with the sound of the blowing up of Indian
Head still echoing in my ears, and knowing nothing done by Government
to protect the next fair Hudson headland from similar destruction.
NOTE 10. (Page 281.)
It is probable that Colden served with his brigade when it fought in
the South in the last part of the war. He was afterwards lost at sea,
leaving no heir. He was of a family prominent in New York affairs,
both before the Revolution and afterwards, and which was intermarried
with other New York families of equal prominence, as may be seen in
the "New York Genealogical and Biographical Record," the "New England
Genealogical and Historical Register," and similar publications. It is
probable that Sabine means this Colden when he mentions a Captain
Colden, of the First Battalion of New Jersey Volunteers. That he was a
major, however, is certain, from the official British Army lists
published in Hugh Gaines's "Universal Register" for the years of the
Revolution.
People curious about Harry Peyton's military record may consult
Saffel's "Lists of American Officers," Heitman's "Manual," and a large
work on "Virginia Genealogies," by H. E. Hayden, published at
Wilkes-barre. To the reader who demands a happy ending, it need be no
shock to learn that Peyton, having risen to the rank of major, was
killed at Charleston, S. C., May 12, 1780. For a love story, it is a
happy ending that occurs at the moment when the conquest and the
submission are mutual, complete, and demonstrated. A love to be
perfect, to have its sweetness unembittered, ought not to be subjected
to the wear and tear of prolonged fellowship. So subjected, it may
deepen and gain ultimate strength, but it will lose its intoxicating
novelty, and become associated with pain as well as with pleasure. We
may be sure that the love of Peyton and Elizabeth was to Harry a
sweetener of life on many a night encampment, many a hard ride, in the
campaign of 1779, and in the spring of 1780, and exalted him the
better to meet his death on that day when Charleston fell to the
British; and that to Elizabeth, while it receded into further memory,
it kept its full beauty during the half century she lived faithful to
it. Her sisters were married into the English nobility, gentry, and
military, but Elizabeth died in Bath, England, in March, 1828,
unmarried. Colonel Philipse had moved with his family to England when
the British quitted New York in 1783. Many other Tories did likewise.
Some went to England, but more to Canada, the greater part of which
was then a wilderness. Many of the Tory officers got commissions in
the English army.
No Tory family did more for the King's cause in America, lost more,
or got more in redress, than the De Lancey family, which had been
foremost in the administration of royal government in the province
of New York. It had great holdings of property in New York City,
elsewhere on the island of Manhattan, and in various parts of
Westchester County, notably in Westchester Township, where De
Lancey's mills and a fine country mansion were a famous landmark
"where gentle Bronx clear winding flows." The founder of the
American family was a French Huguenot of noble descent. The family was
represented in the British army and navy before the Revolution. One
member of it, a young officer in the navy, at the breaking out of
the war, resigned his commission rather than serve against the
Colonies, but most of the other De Lancey men were differently
minded. Oliver De Lancey, a member of the provincial council, was
made a brigadier-general in the royal service, and raised three
battalions of loyalists, known as "De Lancey's Battalions." Of
these battalions, the Tory historian, Judge Jones, says: "Two served
in Georgia and the Carolinas from the time the British army landed in
Georgia until the final evacuation of Charleston." One of these,
during this period, was commanded by Lieutenant-Colonel Stephen De
Lancey, the other by Colonel John Harris Cruger. The third battalion,
during the whole war, was employed solely in protecting the
wood-cutters upon Lloyd's Neck, Queens County, L. I. This General
De Lancey's son, Oliver De Lancey, Junior, was educated in Europe,
took service with the 17th Light Dragoons, was a captain when the
Revolution began, a major in 1778, a lieutenant-colonel in 1781,
and, on the death of Major Andre, adjutant-general of the British army
in America. Returning to England, he became deputy adjutant-general of
England; as a major-general, he was also colonel of the 17th Light
Dragoons; was subsequently barrack-master general of the British
Empire, lieutenant-general, and finally general. When he died he was
nearly at the head of the English army list. This branch of the
family became extinct when Sir William Heathcoate De Lancey, the
quartermaster-general of Wellington's army, was killed at Waterloo.
The James De Lancey who commanded the Westchester Light Horse was a
nephew of the senior General Oliver De Lancey, and a cousin of the
Major Colden of this narrative. His troop was not "a battalion in the
brigade of his uncle," Bolton's statement that it was so being
incorrect; its operations were limited to Westchester County. It
raided and fought for the King untiringly, until it was almost
entirely killed off, at the end of the war, by the persistent efforts
of our troops to extirpate it.
The members of this corps were called "Cowboys" because, in their duty
of procuring supplies for the British army, they made free with the
farmers' cattle. Like the other conspicuous Tories, this James De
Lancey was attainted by the new State Government, and his property was
confiscated. Local historians draw an effective picture of him
departing alone from his estate by the Bronx, turning for a last look,
from the back of his horse, at the fair mansion and broad lands that
were to be his no more, and riding away with a heavy heart. He went,
with many shipfuls of Tory emigrants, to Nova Scotia, and became a
member of the council of that colony. His uncle went to England and
died at his country house, Beverly, Yorkshire, in 1785. I allude to
the case of this family, because it was typical of that of a great
many families. The Tories of the American Revolution constitute a
subject that has yet to be made much of. They were the progenitors of
English-speaking Canada.
The act of attainder that deprived the De Lanceys of their estates,
deprived Colonel Philipse of his. It was passed by the New York
legislature, October 22, 1779. The persons declared guilty of
"adherence to the enemies of the State" were attainted, their estates
real and personal confiscated, and themselves proscribed, the second
section of the act declaring that "each and every one of them who
shall at any time hereafter be found in any part of this State, shall
be, and are hereby, adjudged and declared guilty of felony, and shall
suffer death as in cases of felony, without benefit of clergy." Acts
of similar import were passed in other States. Under this act,
Philipse Manor-house was forfeited to the State about a year after the
time of our narrative. The commissioners whose duty it was to dispose
of confiscated property sold the house and mills, in 1785, to
Cornelius P. Lowe. It underwent several transfers, but little change,
becoming at length the property of Lemuel Wells, who held it a long
time and, dying in 1842, left it to his nephew. The town of Yonkers
grew up around it, and on May 1, 1868, purchased it for municipal use.
The fewest possible alterations were made in it. These are mainly in
the north wing, the part added by the second lord of the manor in
1745. On the first floor, the partition between dining-room and
kitchen was removed, and the whole space made into a court-room. On
the second floor, the space formerly divided into five bedrooms was
transformed into a council-chamber, the garret floor overhead being
removed. The new city hall of Yonkers leaves the old manor-house less
necessary for public purposes. May the old parlors, where the besilked
and bepowdered gentry of the province used to dance the minuet before
the change of things, not be given over to baser uses than they have
already served.
Allusion has been made, in different chapters of this narrative, to
the Hessians who daily patrolled the roads in the vicinity of the
manor-house. This duty often fell to Pruschank's yagers, the troop to
which belonged Captain Rowe, whose love story is thus told by Bolton:
"Captain Rowe appears to have been in the habit of making a daily tour
from Kingsbridge, round by Miles Square. He was on his last tour of
military duty, having already resigned his commission for the purpose
of marrying the accomplished Elizabeth Fowler, of Harlem, when,
passing with a company of light dragoons, he was suddenly fired upon
by three Americans of the water guard of Captain Pray's company, who
had ambuscaded themselves in the cedars. The captain fell from his
horse, mortally wounded. The yagers instantly made prisoners of the
undisciplined water guards, and a messenger was immediately despatched
to Mrs. Babcock, then living below, in the parsonage, for a vehicle to
remove the wounded officer. The use of her gig and horse was soon
obtained, and a neighbor, Anthony Archer, pressed to drive. In this
they conveyed the dying man to Colonel Van Cortlandt's. They appear to
have taken the route of Tippett's Valley, as the party stopped at
Frederick Post's to obtain a drink of water. In the meantime an
express had been forwarded to Miss Fowler, his affianced bride, to
hasten without delay to the side of her dying lover. On her arrival,
accompanied by her mother, the expiring soldier had just strength
enough left to articulate a few words, when he sank exhausted with the
effort." The room in which he died is in the well-known mansion in Van
Cortlandt Park.
The incident of the horse, related in an early chapter, has a likeness
to an adventure that befell one Thomas Leggett early in the
Revolutionary war. He lived with his father on a farm near Morrisania,
then in Westchester County, and was proud in the possession of a fine
young mare. A party of British refugees took this animal, with other
property. They had gone two miles with it, when, from behind a stone
wall which they were passing, two Continental soldiers rose and fired
at them. The man with the mare was shot dead. The animal immediately
turned round and ran home, followed by the owner, who had dogged her
captors at a distance in the hope of recovering her.
SELECTIONS FROM
L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY'S
LIST OF NEW FICTION.
An Enemy to the King.
From the Recently Discovered Memoirs of the Sieur de la Tournoire. By
ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS. Illustrated by H. De M. Young.
1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.25=
An historical romance of the sixteenth century, describing the
adventures of a young French nobleman at the Court of Henry IV., and
on the field with Henry of Navarre.
The Continental Dragoon.
A Romance of Philipse Manor House, in 1778. By ROBERT NEILSON
STEPHENS, author of "An Enemy to the King." Illustrated by H. C.
Edwards.
1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.50=
A stirring romance of the Revolution, the scene being laid in and
around the old Philipse Manor House, near Yonkers, which at the time
of the story was the central point of the so-called "neutral
territory" between the two armies.
Muriella; or, Le Selve.
By OUIDA. Illustrated by M. B. Prendergast.
1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.25=
This is the latest work from the pen of the brilliant author of "Under
Two Flags," "Moths," etc., etc. It is the story of the love and
sacrifice of a young peasant girl, told in the absorbing style
peculiar to the author.
The Road to Paris.
By ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS, author of "An Enemy to the King," "The
Continental Dragoon," etc. Illustrated by H. C. Edwards. (In press.)
1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.50=
An historical romance, being an account of the life of an American
gentleman adventurer of Jacobite ancestry, whose family early settled
in the colony of Pennsylvania. The scene shifts from the unsettled
forests of the then West to Philadelphia, New York, London, Paris,
and, in fact, wherever a love of adventure and a roving fancy can lead
a soldier of fortune. The story is written in Mr. Stephens's best
style, and is of absorbing interest.
Rose a Charlitte.
An Acadien Romance. By MARSHALL SAUNDERS, author of "Beautiful Joe,"
etc. Illustrated by H. De M. Young.
1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.50=
In this novel, the scene of which is laid principally in the land of
Evangeline, Marshall Saunders has made a departure from the style of
her earlier successes. The historical and descriptive setting of the
novel is accurate, the plot is well conceived and executed, the
characters are drawn with a firm and delightful touch, and the
fortunes of the heroine, Rose a Charlitte, a descendant of an old
Acadien family, will be followed with eagerness by the author's host
of admirers.
Bobbie McDuff.
By CLINTON ROSS, author of "The Scarlet Coat," "Zuleika," etc.
Illustrated by B. West Clinedinst.
1 vol., large 16mo, cloth =$1.00=
Clinton Ross is well known as one of the most promising of recent
American writers of fiction, and in the description of the adventures
of his latest hero, Bobbie McDuff, he has repeated his earlier
successes. Mr. Ross has made good use of the wealth of material at his
command. New York furnishes him the hero, sunny Italy a heroine, grim
Russia the villain of the story, while the requirements of the
exciting plot shift the scene from Paris to New York, and back again
to a remote, almost feudal villa on the southern coast of Italy.
In Kings' Houses.
A Romance of the Reign of Queen Anne. By JULIA C. R. DORR, author of
"A Cathedral Pilgrimage," etc. Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill.
1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.50=
Mrs. Dorr's poems and travel sketches have earned for her a distinct
place in American literature, and her romance, "In Kings' Houses," is
written with all the charm of her earlier works. The story deals
with one of the most romantic episodes in English history. Queen
Anne, the last of the reigning Stuarts, is described with a strong,
yet sympathetic touch, and the young Duke of Gloster, the "little
lady," and the hero of the tale, Robin Sandys, are delightful
characterizations.
Sons of Adversity.
A Romance of Queen Elizabeth's Time. By L. COPE CONFORD, author of
"Captain Jacobus," etc. Illustrated by J. W. Kennedy.
1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.25=
A tale of adventure on land and sea at the time when Protestant
England and Catholic Spain were struggling for naval supremacy.
Spanish conspiracies against the peace of good Queen Bess, a vivid
description of the raise of the Spanish siege of Leyden by the
combined Dutch and English forces, sea fights, the recovery of stolen
treasure, are all skilfully woven elements in a plot of unusual
strength.
The Count of Nideck.
From the French of Erckman-Chatrian, translated and adapted by RALPH
BROWNING FISKE. Illustrated by Victor A. Searles.
1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.25=
A romance of the Black Forest, woven around the mysterious legend of
the Wehr Wolf. The plot has to do with the later German feudal times,
is brisk in action, and moves spiritedly from start to finish. Mr.
Fiske deserves a great deal of credit for the excellence of his work.
No more interesting romance has appeared recently.
The Making of a Saint.
By W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM. Illustrated by Gilbert James.
1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.50=
"The Making of a Saint" is a romance of Mediaeval Italy, the scene
being laid in the 15th century. It relates the life of a young leader
of Free Companions who, at the close of one of the many petty Italian
wars, returns to his native city. There he becomes involved in its
politics, intrigues, and feuds, and finally joins an uprising of the
townspeople against their lord. None can resent the frankness and
apparent brutality of the scenes through which the hero and his
companions of both sexes are made to pass, and many will yield
ungrudging praise to the author's vital handling of the truth. In the
characters are mirrored the life of the Italy of their day. The book
will confirm Mr. Maugham's reputation as a strong and original
writer.
Omar the Tentmaker.
A Romance of Old Persia. By NATHAN HASKELL DOLE. Illustrated. (In
press.)
1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.50=
Mr. Dole's study of Persian literature and history admirably equips
him to enter into the life and spirit of the time of the romance, and
the hosts of admirers of the inimitable quatrains of Omar Khayyam,
made famous by Fitzgerald, will be deeply interested in a tale based
on authentic facts in the career of the famous Persian poet. The three
chief characters are Omar Khayyam, Nizam-ul-Mulk, the generous and
high-minded Vizier of the Tartar Sultan Malik Shah of Mero, and Hassan
ibu Sabbah, the ambitious and revengeful founder of the sect of the
Assassins. The scene is laid partly at Naishapur, in the Province of
Khorasan, which about the period of the First Crusade was at its acme
of civilization and refinement, and partly in the mountain fortress of
Alamut, south of the Caspian Sea, where the Ismailians under Hassan
established themselves towards the close of the 11th century. Human
nature is always the same, and the passions of love and ambition, of
religion and fanaticism, of friendship and jealousy, are admirably
contrasted in the fortunes of these three able and remarkable
characters as well as in those of the minor personages of the story.
Captain Fracasse.
A new translation from the French of Gotier. Illustrated by Victor A.
Searles.
1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.25=
This famous romance has been out of print for some time, and a new
translation is sure to appeal to its many admirers, who have never yet
had any edition worthy of the story.
The Rejuvenation of Miss Semaphore.
A farcical novel. By HAL GODFREY. Illustrated by Etheldred B. Barry.
(In press.)
1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.25=
A fanciful, laughable tale of two maiden sisters of uncertain age who
are induced, by their natural longing for a return to youth and its
blessings, to pay a large sum for a mystical water which possesses the
value of setting backwards the hands of time. No more delightfully
fresh and original book has appeared since "Vice Versa" charmed an
amused world. It is well written, drawn to the life, and full of the
most enjoyable humor.
Midst the Wild Carpathians.
By MAURUS JOKAI, author of "Black Diamonds," "The Lion of Janina,"
etc. Authorized translation by R. Nisbet Bain. Illustrated. (In
press.)
1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.25=
A thrilling, historical, Hungarian novel, in which the extraordinary
dramatic and descriptive powers of the great Magyar writer have full
play. As a picture of feudal life in Hungary it has never been
surpassed for fidelity and vividness. The translation is exceedingly
well done.
The Golden Dog.
A Romance of Quebec. By WILLIAM KIRBY. New authorized edition.
Illustrated by J. W. Kennedy.
1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.25=
A powerful romance of love, intrigue, and adventure in the time of
Louis XV. and Mme. de Pompadour, when the French colonies were making
their great struggle to retain for an ungrateful court the fairest
jewels in the colonial diadem of France.
Bijli the Dancer.
By JAMES BLYTHE PATTON. Illustrated by Horace Van Rinth. (In press.)
1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.50=
A novel of Modern India. The fortunes of the heroine, an Indian Naucht
girl, are told with a vigor, pathos, and a wealth of poetic sympathy
that makes the book admirable from first to last.
"To Arms!"
Being Some Passages from the Early Life of Allan Oliphant, Chirurgeon,
Written by Himself, and now Set Forth for the First Time. By ANDREW
BALFOUR. Illustrated. (In press.)
1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.50=
A romance dealing with an interesting phase of Scottish and English
history, the Jacobite Insurrection of 1715, which will appeal strongly
to the great number of admirers of historical fiction. The story is
splendidly told, the magic circle which the author draws about the
reader compelling a complete forgetfulness of prosaic nineteenth
century life.
Mere Folly.
A novel. By MARIA LOUISE POOLE, author of "In a Dike Shanty," etc.
Illustrated. (In press.)
1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.25=
An extremely well-written story of modern life. The interest centres
in the development of the character of the heroine, a New England
girl, whose high-strung temperament is in constant revolt against the
confining limitations of nineteenth century surroundings. The reader's
interest is held to the end, and the book will take high rank among
American psychological novels.
A Hypocritical Romance and other stories.
By CAROLINE TICKNOR. Illustrated by J. W. Kennedy.
1 vol., large 16mo, cloth =$1.00=
Miss Ticknor, well known as one of the most promising of the younger
school of American writers, has never done better work than in the
majority of these clever stories, written in a delightful comedy
vein.
Cross Trails.
By VICTOR WAITE. Illustrated. (In press.)
1 vol., library 12mo, cloth =$1.50=
A Spanish-American novel of unusual interest, a brilliant, dashing,
and stirring story, teeming with humanity and life. Mr. Waite is to be
congratulated upon the strength with which he has drawn his
characters.
A Mad Madonna and other stories.
By L. CLARKSON WHITELOCK, with eight half-tone illustrations.
1 vol., large 16mo, cloth =$1.00=
A half dozen remarkable psychological stories, delicate in color and
conception. Each of the six has a touch of the supernatural, a quick
suggestion, a vivid intensity, and a dreamy realism that is matchless
in its forceful execution.
On the Point.
A Summer Idyl. By NATHAN HASKELL DOLE, author of "Not Angels Quite,"
with dainty half-tone illustrations as chapter headings.
1 vol., large 16mo, cloth =$1.00=
A bright and clever story of a summer on the coast of Maine, fresh,
breezy, and readable from the first to the last page. The narrative
describes the summer outing of a Mr. Merrithew and his family. The
characters are all honest, pleasant people, whom we are glad to know.
We part from them with the same regret with which we leave a congenial
party of friends.
Cavalleria Rusticana; or, Under the Shadow of Etna.
Translated from the Italian of Giovanni Verga, by NATHAN HASKELL DOLE.
Illustrated by Etheldred B. Barry.
1 vol., 16mo, cloth =$0.50=
Giovanni Verga stands at present as unquestionably the most prominent
of the Italian novelists. His supremacy in the domain of the short
story and in the wider range of the romance is recognized both at home
and abroad. The present volume contains a selection from the most
dramatic and characteristic of his Sicilian tales. Verga is himself a
native of Sicily, and his knowledge of that wonderful country, with
its poetic and yet superstitious peasantry, is absolute. Such pathos,
humor, variety, and dramatic quality are rarely met in a single
volume.