still stands just east of the Van Cortlandt house.
The old parochial church of St. Peter's stands on the summit of a
little hill near by, a simple frame building erected in 1766 by
Beverly Robinson and others as the result of a visit of Mr. Dibble, of
Stamford, Conn., in 1761. With him came St. George Talbot, who says:
"The state of religion I truly found deplorable enough. They were as
sheep without a shepherd, a prey to various sectaries, and
enthusiastic lay teachers; there are many well wishers and professors
of the church among them, who doth not hear the liturgy in several
years." In the church yard stands the monument to John Paulding, one
of the Andre captors, who was born in Peekskill.
Just east of the Van Cortlandt house the Post Road turns toward the
north, where one of the old mile-stones marks "50 m. from N. York." In
the angle stands one of the inns of stagecoach days which was standing
as long ago as 1789, as in "A Survey of the Roads of the United States
of America," published by Christopher Colles in that year, the inn is
put down as Dusenbury's Tavern. The author of this old-time road book
may have been something of a joker, or he may have had a small grudge
against the Presbyterians, as among the symbols he used, the one
indicating a church of that denomination is so noticeably like a
windmill as to call forth a gentle smile. The inn is now the dwelling
of Mr. Gardiner Hollman, himself a relic of earlier days, who carries
his eighty years with an ease that bespeaks a life of steady habits.
He is quite ready to show the building to the curious and explain its
interesting features. The front room on the right is said to have held
the prisoner Andre for a short time when he was being taken from North
Castle by way of Continental Village to the Beverly Robinson house,
Arnold's former headquarters, and used as such by Washington after the
traitor fled. Aside from one or two old pieces of furniture, and an
open Franklin stove, the only interesting relic the room contains is a
small work-box which was given by Theodosia Burr to her friend Mrs.
McDonald, of Alabama, who in turn gave it to a sister of the present
owner.
[Sidenote: _GALLOWS HILL._]
From now on the Post Road is all that a country road should be. It
plunges immediately into a thicket of tall weeds, Joe Pie and
goldenrod mostly, which shoot up in many instances six feet above the
ground. After crossing the creek the road begins the steep ascent of
Gallows Hill, where Putnam hanged a British spy in spite of Sir Henry
Clinton's attempts to prevent it. This summary action seems to have
tempered the Red-coats' curiosity, as "Old Put" was not bothered
afterward. One of a small bunch of chestnut trees west of the road
where it tops the hill is pointed out as the gallows tree, although
early accounts speak of a rough gallows having been erected. There is
a story to the effect that one Hans Anderson, a farmer of the
neighborhood, was the hangman, and that he was finally worried into
his grave by the ghost of this same spy, who would not leave him in
peace; but no mention is made of the tough old General having been so
bothered.
[Sidenote: _CONTINENTAL VILLAGE._]
Continental Village lies at the northern foot of Gallows Hill. The
British destroyed the stores the Americans were unable to take with
them and burned the village, leaving, it is said, only one house
standing, the property of a Tory. Whether this building is still
standing is somewhat uncertain, though one is pointed out as such.
General Sir William Howe, in his dispatches to Sir Henry Clinton,
dated at Fort Montgomery, October 9, 1777, says: "Major-Gen. Tryon,
who was detached this morning with Emmerick's chasseurs, fifty yagers
and royal fusiliers and regiment of Trumback, with a three-pounder,
to destroy the rebel settlement called the Continental village, has
just returned and reported to me, that he has burned the barrack for
fifteen hundred men, several store-houses and loaded wagons. I need
not point out to your excellency the consequence of destroying this
post, as it was the only establishment of the rebels on that part of
the Highlands, and the place from whence any body of troops drew their
supplies."
The place was soon reoccupied by the Americans as a point at which to
collect stores, and various military encampments were strung along
both sides of the road from here north.
[Sidenote: _POST ROAD._]
For the space of some two or three miles the road is a grass-grown
track through a rough country. As one proceeds he can appreciate the
difficulties that beset the retreating soldiers, laden with such
stores from the village as they could carry with them on the retreat.
Now and then an unkept farmhouse appears, but there is little life; it
is possible to walk as far as Nelson's Mill, some eight miles, without
passing a team of any sort, and hardly any one on foot, but, like
Goldsmith's village street the wayside is
"With blossomed furze unprofitably gay."
Joe Pie weed, as heavy-headed as a sleepy child, alternating with the
straight stemmed goldenrod, while every wall is adorned with
snapdragon or Virginia creeper, the scarlet product of the deadly
nightshade, or the silvery remains of the clematis--this in August or
September. If one goes this way in the Spring there is the wild azalea
against the edge of the woods, and the woodland flowers come trooping
down even to the wheel tracks.
It is forty years since the telegraph abandoned this abandoned
highway, and the tramps left with the telegraph poles. One old
inhabitant says it used to take a considerable part of her time each
day to feed the gentry who applied, for she, being afraid of them,
never refused. To-day, over this part of the road, the tramp is as
scarce as the stage coach. To be sure the law may have something to do
with it, for any one who lodges information against a tramp gets $15,
and the gentleman of leisure presumably suffers accordingly, as the
farmer is not likely to assess himself merely for the pleasure of
housing lazy humanity.
Just beyond the fifty-fourth mile-stone stands one of the old inns
which is put down by Christopher Colles as Travers's Tavern. It still
offers shelter to him who will seek, as I discovered when caught by a
sudden shower.
From the last hilltop, before Nelson's Mill is reached, is a glorious
view of the "Golden Gate," the notch between Storm King and Breakneck,
through which the Hudson flows, and, in summer floods of gold from the
setting sun. On all sides are hills and valleys. It seems as though
the whole world is on edge.
Here stands sentinel a tall old mile-stone by the road side demanding
of every one that passes the countersign--Wonderful!
Down the steep hillside the road now lunges to Nelson's Mill or
Corner, once a relay station for the stage coach horses, and a mill
site for many generations, and now we are looking up at the mountains
instead of down on them. The road floats up and down the gentle swells
of the valley's floor, each bend bringing into line another view of
the Fishkill Mountain with a new foreground or a different framing of
leaves and branches, and each calling aloud to the camera which gorges
itself on trees and rocks and mountains.
[Sidenote: _CLOVE CREEK VALLEY._]
We are in the valley of the Clove Creek, under the shadow of the
Fishkill Mountain, in a hollow where the dusk of evening comes early,
and the gloom and solitude of the shortened day make one readily
understand why travelers of old halted at this north entrance to the
Highlands, rather than run the chance of being overtaken by the dark
in the depths of its loneliness. Cooper could hardly have hit on a
more fitting place for the adventures of the Spy than these woods and
mountains offered.
[Sidenote: _WICCOPEE PASS._]
About four miles south of Fishkill, in Wiccopee Pass, a bronze tablet
by the roadside announces that:--
ON THE HILLS BACK OF THIS STONE STOOD THREE
BATTERIES GUARDING THIS PASS, 1776-1783.
The hills referred to and others in the neighborhood are fifty to one
hundred feet high, and as smoothly rounded and regular as though
moulded in a large-sized tea cup and turned out in little groups,
making one wonder what sort of giant children could have been playing
here. Legend relates that long, long ago, even before the mighty
Manitou ruled, this region was peopled by a great race as tall as the
tall forest trees. They lived on roots and leaves and hunted the great
water rats that dwelt in houses built of mud and sticks in the lake
that filled all the country north of the Highlands. These animals were
fierce fighters, and dangerous even to their giant foes when the
latter were caught at a disadvantage in the water, whither the great
men repaired for frequent bathing.
It was a give-and-take world in those days. The giants would square
accounts at the first opportunity by turning the next rat caught into
funeral baked meat in remembrance of the departed brother, and there
the matter, as well as the rat, ended. But there came a time when a
swarm of the rats surprised a group of bathers, and there were many
desolate firesides that night. Then a great council was called to
decide on a means of revenge, but as they could not swim and boats
were unknown, the concourse was like to break up with nothing
accomplished when a daughter of the tribe arose and suggested breaking
down the barrier which held back the water, thus putting the enemy on
dry land, where he would be helpless. The plan was approved, and soon
all were at work at the narrowest spot with trees torn from the hill
sides and such rough tools as they could command, and now a small
stream begins to work through which, washing out the earth and smaller
stones, becomes a flood thundering down the lower valley. In a few
days the region was drained and the enemy exterminated, but their
houses remain even unto the present time. The present Fishkill
Mountain was the "long house" of the watery tribe gradually solidified
through the ages into the hardest of hard trap rock, and the little
conical hills that we see in the Wiccopee Pass were the play houses of
the baby rats. But alas the giants, having no longer any place to
bathe, began to be troubled by a hardening of the skin and joints, and
their great bodies would at last fall to rise no more; but, as if in
very mockery, whenever a giant fell a spring of water would bubble
from the ground and a rivulet would soon be searching out a path for
itself among the rocks and woods.
The traveler knowing nothing of the legend might suppose that sometime
the waters swirled and eddied over this region, and that our
symmetrical little hills are deposits made at that time.
[Sidenote: _REVOLUTIONARY BURIAL GROUND._]
[Sidenote: _WHARTON HOUSE._]
The Post Road now passes through a fearsome piece of woods, coming out
into the open again where the mountain drops quickly to the plain, and
we are in the sunshine once more. Looking back at this time of day,
about 7 o'clock of an early June evening, one sees a curious effect of
sunlight and shadow, against the dark mountain background, the sun
outlines with vivid distinctness every tree and bush or stone wall or
weed with a silvery halo, and seems to intensify the fresh verdure
until all nature swims in green. Soon another of the old mile-stones
appears, as usual on the west side of the road, and opposite is a
small granite monument which commemorates the graveyard of the soldier
dead in the adjoining field, where there are probably more
revolutionary dead buried than in any other spot in the State. This
neighborhood was a headquarters for part of the army between 1776 and
1783. A step further on is the Wharton House, known to both history
and romance. The building was used as army headquarters during the
seven years that war raged up and down the Hudson Valley. The names of
both Washington and Lafayette are closely associated with its history,
and it is also the house referred to in Cooper's "Spy," from which
Harvey Birch helps Henry Wharton to escape. Here Enoch Crosby, the
real spy, was subjected to a mock trial by the Committee of Safety.
Crosby had given information of a band of Tories and allowed himself
to be captured with them, was tried with them and, in order to keep up
the deception and preserve his usefulness, was remanded to the
church-prison with the rest. The Wharton House was erected by the Van
Wyck family, and is still in its possession. In a wheat field across
the road lies the fallen stump of the "Whipping Post," a monument to
the methods of correction used in the Continental army. The next house
to the north is said to be constructed of timber taken from one of the
old barracks.
The road over which we have been traveling was once an Indian trail.
Shortly before the French and Indian wars Lord Louden passed through
this country, and in order to get his baggage train through, the trail
became a road under his direction.
[Sidenote: _FISHKILL._]
The Fishkill Creek, which scuttles across the level floor of the
valley just before one enters the village seems in too much of a hurry
to get away from its peaceful surroundings, which are attractive
enough to make mortals wish to linger, but which do not stay the
brawling stream. Both the mountains and the brook were the Indian
Matteawan, the "Council of Good Fur," but the Dutch christened it Vis
Kill or Fish Creek, and the more musical native name had to give way.
The first house on the right after crossing the stream is one of the
Colonial relics of the place, but the principal buildings of interest
are the Episcopal and Dutch churches. The first, being frame, was used
as a hospital during the Revolution. The Provincial Congress, when it
was compelled to leave White Plains, removed to Fishkill, and at first
attempted to use this church for its sessions, but the place had been
so befouled by flocks of pigeons that a move was made to the Dutch
Church. It was during this time that Washington crossed the Delaware,
and he sent to the Congress sitting here for reinforcements, but no
troops could be spared from the defense of this region. The church
bears a tablet which relates history, as follows:
"Trinity Church, organized in communion with the Church of England by
the Rev. Samuel Seabury, 1756. The first rector Rev. John Beardsley,
Oct. 26, 1766. Reincorporated Oct. 13, 1785, and Oct. 16, 1796. This
building was erected about 1760. Occupied by the New York Provincial
Convention, which removed from White Plains Sept. 3, 1776. Used for a
military hospital by the army of General Washington until disbanded
June 2, 1783."
The Dutch Church was stone, and was soon used as a prison by the
Americans. Probably the most famous prisoner it contained was Enoch
Crosby, the spy, the hero of Cooper's novel, who escaped with the help
of the Committee of Safety, the only ones who knew his true character.
The second time he was captured the officer in charge being nettled at
his previous escape, had him guarded with extra care, but again the
Committee of Safety lent a helping hand and Crosby was free once more.
Fishkill, settled in 1683, is one of the old towns. It was the largest
town in the county during the Revolution, and in 1789 was one of the
seven postoffices in the state; but its glory has departed and it is
now a pleasant village living in its memories of the past. Here lived
and worked the blacksmith, J. Bailey, who forged General Washington's
sword. Joshua Het Smith was arrested here for his participation in the
Arnold treason plot. The Dutch Church was built about 1725, its roof
then sloping up from all four sides to a cupola, holding a bell. The
window lights were small, set in iron frame (a good prison), and the
upper story was pierced for muskets. This was all changed soon after
the Revolution, but the stout walls still remain.
[Sidenote: _WAPPINGER FALLS._]
Beyond Fishkill the Post Road traverses a high plateau whose fertile
soil is well cultivated, a country beautiful after its kind, but to
one fresh from the grandeur of the Highlands the stretch of six miles
to Wappinger Falls seems but a tame affair, with only one of the old
mile-stones left to tell the tale of long ago. This seemed to read "71
M. to N. York."
A country school was having recess as I went by, the master sitting in
the shade outside reading, while the boys were playing the national
game and the one little girl stood by admiring their prowess.
Wappinger Falls preserves the name of the Indian tribe that once held
sway over these uplands. The falls around which the village has grown
up are lined with factories and factory ruins, which latter lend an
added charm to the natural beauty of the scene, for even in a dry time
water enough tumbles down these rocks to make the place a delight. The
village contains an interesting relic of the past in the old homestead
of Peter Mesier, a New York merchant, who settled here about the close
of the Revolution.
Between here and Poughkeepsie the trolley plies. Its tracks run
through the grass by the roadside, the poles blend with the trees, and
this usually unsightly modern convenience hardly mars the beauty of
the landscape.
Not a mile-stone was to be seen on this piece of road, but down by the
river, at a corner of the Livingstone Mansion, evidently taken from
its original station on the old road nearby, and marked "80 M. from N.
York," reposes one of the lost guardians of the highway. The stones
appear to have all been set along the west side of the road, so that
they were compass on a cloudy day as well as distance markers, and a
man had but to know his right hand from his left to be sure of his
direction.
[Sidenote: _LIVINGSTONE HOUSE._]
The Livingstone house, built about 1714, stood on a point on the
river bank on what is now the southern edge of Poughkeepsie. Facing
the south it overlooks the river for miles, while in front was a
sheltered little harbor for river craft, but this has been filled in
by the manufacturing concern that now owns the property, and nothing
is as it was, except the house. During the Revolution the place was
the home of Henry Livingstone, whose well-known patriotism led the
British, when ascending the river in October, 1777, to bombard the
building, as they did so many others. One of its shingles, pierced by
a shot at that time, has been left in place as a reminder of the
incident. It also draws attention to the difference between the
hand-split shingles of those days and the machine-sawed ones of the
present.
[Sidenote: _POUGHKEEPSIE._]
Poughkeepsie is the Apo-keep-sinck of the Indians, the "pleasant and
safe harbor" where canoes were safe from wind and wave. The name is
said to be spelled some forty-two different ways in the old town
records. The "safe harbor" was made so by rocky bluffs projecting into
the river; that on the south being known to the Dutch as Call Rock,
though it did not sound like that in the vernacular. From this rock
old Baltus Van Kleeck and his neighbors were wont to hail passing
sloops for news or passage.
An Indian legend associated with the little cove here has the same
comfortable and satisfying outcome as the old-fashioned romance, when
it was not so necessary to be realistic as in the present day. A war
party of the Delawares, after a successful raid on their neighbors,
the Pequods, reached this spot on the return journey, laden with
spoils and captives, among the latter a young chief who, after the
manner of most Indian tribes, was offered the choice of joining the
tribe of his foes or suffering death by torture. Being a Pequod
Patrick Henry he chose the latter, and preparations were made for his
demise, when a beautiful maiden interfered. She was also a captive
from the same tribe, and much in love with her doomed tribesman.
During the delay thus caused the party was unexpectedly attacked by a
band of Hurons, and the maiden fell prize to the latter. The chief
escaped, and disguising himself as a wizard, visited the Huron camp
where, strange to say, the maiden promptly fell ill upon the arrival
of the strange medicine man, who was employed to effect a cure. They
fled under cover of the dark, appropriating a handy canoe for the
purpose, and the Hurons followed in the next boat, but the Pequod,
landing his beloved at the mouth of the Minnakee Creek, turned on his
pursuers and, like the true hero of legend, drove them off single
handed. The lovers returned home, married, and lived happily ever
after.
Poughkeepsie, on account of its central position, was early chosen as
the county seat, and became the scene of many stirring incidents
during the stirring times of '76. But few mementoes of those days are
left, however. The Van Kleeck house, at one time a tavern, used by the
Dutchess County Committee as a meeting place in 1774 to elect
delegates to the first Continental Congress, has disappeared. The
Legislature in its migrations around the state met here in January,
1778, at the call of Governor Clinton. Clinton himself, during this
time, occupied the Clear Everett House, which is still standing on
Main Street, and is open to the public as a museum.
The great struggle which was to decide whether New York should join
the newly formed National Government was fought out in Poughkeepsie.
On June 17, 1788, the Convention of the People of the State met to
deliberate on the new Constitution. Alexander Hamilton, John Jay and
Chancellor Livingston, a magnificent trio of pleaders, were the
principal speakers in favor of the Union, while Governor George
Clinton and others, whose names are not familiar except to students of
history, headed the opposition. New York separated New England from
the South, and was necessary to the Union, but there was a powerful
party headed by Governor Clinton which opposed the plan. The Governor,
in fact, had the majority with him, and when Hamilton and the others
carried the convention by only one vote, it was a greater victory than
the narrow margin would indicate. Poughkeepsie was a "safe harbor" in
which to build ships, and it was here, in 1775-6, that the frigates
Congress and Montgomery of the Continental navy were built under the
supervision of Captains Lawrence and Tudor.
[Sidenote: _HYDE PARK._]
Leaving Poughkeepsie the intervening six miles to Hyde Park are so
park-like that the place seems to come naturally by its name. The road
is of the best, the bordering fields are under a high state of
cultivation, interspersed with groves of beautiful trees, through
whose aisles are to be seen occasional glimpses of the Hudson and, on
a clear day, the distant Catskills that, like low-lying clouds, top
the nearer hills of the middle distance. The place is named for Edward
Hyde, Lord Cornbury, Governor of the Province at the beginning of the
Eighteenth Century. Jacobus Stoutenburg, the first settler, built a
stone house which still stands on the east side of the road in the
southern edge of the village. It has the reputation of having been a
Washington headquarters, and is a fine example of a Colonial farm
house. Only once during the Revolution was there anything approaching
a battle in Dutchess County, and that occurred here during Vaughan's
raid up the river, when he burned the landing and a shop or two. He
was opposed by a small body of Americans whom he bombarded from the
river with no serious results.
James K. Paulding, author, and Morgan Lewis, Revolutionary general and
chief justice of the state, once lived in Hyde Park, as did Dr. Samuel
Bard, Washington's physician, whose dwelling is placed in Christopher
Colles's road book, previously mentioned, as situated on the east side
of the Post Road, between the eighty-eighth and eighty-ninth
mile-stones.
The next ten miles to Rhinebeck through Staatsburg covers a
picturesque country, sometimes too rough for much cultivation, but all
the more attractive to the eye on that very account.
[Sidenote: _STAATSBURG._]