Chapter IX: New York and the "neutral Ground"

For more than a year following the battle of Monmouth, Sir
Henry Clinton remained cooped up in New York, while Washington,
established in camp at White Plains, kept a sharp eye upon him.
The thirty miles between their lines, embracing nearly all of
Westchester County, was known as the "Neutral Ground." New York
was naturally crowded with Royalist refugees, whom Clinton put
to work on the fortifications.

SIR HENRY CLINTON'S INVITATION TO THE REFUGEES

[1779]

Come, gentlemen Tories, firm, loyal, and true,
Here are axes and shovels, and something to do!
For the sake of our King,
Come labor and sing.
You left all you had for his honor and glory,
And he will remember the suffering Tory.
We have, it is true,
Some small work to do;
But here's for your pay, twelve coppers a day,
And never regard what the rebels may say,
But throw off your jerkins and labor away.

To raise up the rampart, and pile up the wall,
To pull down old houses and dig the canal,
To build and destroy,
Be this your employ,
In the daytime to work at our fortifications,
And steal in the night from the rebels your rations.
The King wants your aid,
Not empty parade;
Advance to your places, ye men of long faces,
Nor ponder too much on your former disgraces;
This year, I presume, will quite alter your cases.

Attend at the call of the fifer and drummer,
The French and the rebels are coming next summer,
And the forts we must build
Though the Tories are killed.
Take courage, my jockies, and work for your King,
For if you are taken, no doubt you will swing.
If York we can hold,
I'll have you enroll'd;
And after you're dead, your names shall be read,
As who for their monarch both labor'd and bled,
And ventur'd their necks for their beef and their bread.

'Tis an hour to serve the bravest of nations,
And be left to be hanged in their capitulations.
Then scour up your mortars,
And stand to your quarters,
'Tis nonsense for Tories in battle to run,
They never need fear sword, halberd, or gun;
Their hearts should not fail 'em,
No balls will assail 'em,
Forget your disgraces, and shorten your faces,
For 'tis true as the gospel, believe it or not,
Who are born to be hang'd, will never be shot.

PHILIP FRENEAU.

On the last day of May, Clinton had succeeded in capturing
the fortress at Stony Point, on the Hudson, had thrown a
garrison of six hundred men into it, and added two lines of
fortifications, rendering it almost impregnable. Washington,
nevertheless, determined to recapture it, and intrusted the
task to General Anthony Wayne, giving him twelve hundred men
for the purpose. At midnight of July 15, the Americans crossed
the swamp which divided the fort from the mainland, reached the
outworks before they were discovered, and carried the fort by
storm.

THE STORMING OF STONY POINT

[July 16, 1779]

Highlands of Hudson! ye saw them pass,
Night on the stars of their battle-flag,
Threading the maze of the dark morass
Under the frown of the Thunder Crag;

Flower and pride of the Light Armed Corps,
Trim in their trappings of buff and blue,
Silent, they skirted the rugged shore,
Grim in the promise of work to do.

"Cross ye the ford to the moated rock!
Let not a whisper your march betray!
Out with the flint from the musket lock!
Now! let the bayonet find the way!"

"Halt!" rang the sentinel's challenge clear.
Swift came the shot of the waking foe.
Bright flashed the axe of the Pioneer
Smashing the abatis, blow on blow.

Little they tarried for British might!
Lightly they recked of the Tory jeers!
Laughing, they swarmed to the craggy height,
Steel to the steel of the Grenadiers!

Storm King and Dunderberg! wake once more
Sentinel giants of Freedom's throne,
Massive and proud! to the Eastern shore
Bellow the watchword: "The fort's our own!"

Echo our cheers for the Men of old!
Shout for the Hero who led his band
Braving the death that his heart foretold
Over the parapet, "spear in hand!"

ARTHUR GUITERMAN.

WAYNE AT STONY POINT

[July 16, 1779]

'Twas the heart of the murky night, and the lowest ebb of the tide,
Silence lay on the land, and sleep on the waters wide,
Save for the sentry's tramp, or the note of a lone night bird,
Or the sough of the haunted pines as the south wind softly stirred.
Gloom above and around, and the brooding spirit of rest;
Only a single star over Dunderberg's lofty crest.

Through the drench of ooze and slime at the marge of the river fen
File upon file slips by. See! are they ghosts or men?
Fast do they forward press, on by a track unbarred;
Now is the causeway won, now have they throttled the guard;
Now have they parted line to storm with a rush on the height,
Some by a path to the left, some by a path to the right.

Hark,--the peal of a gun! and the drummer's rude alarms!
Ringing down from the height there soundeth the cry, _To arms!_
Thundering down from the height there cometh the cannon's blare;
Flash upon blinding flash lightens the livid air:
Look! do the stormers quail? Nay, for their feet are set
Now at the bastion's base, now on the parapet!

Urging the vanguard on prone doth the leader fall,
Smitten sudden and sore by a foeman's musket-ball;
Waver the charging lines; swiftly they spring to his side,--
Madcap Anthony Wayne, the patriot army's pride!
_Forward, my braves!_ he cries, and the heroes hearten again;
_Bear me into the fort, I'll die at the head of my men!_

Die!--did he die that night, felled in his lusty prime?
Answer many a field in the stormy aftertime!
Still did his prowess shine, still did his courage soar,
From the Hudson's rocky steep to the James's level shore;
But never on Fame's fair scroll did he blazon a deed more bright
Than his charge on Stony Point in the heart of the murky night.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

The raids over the "Neutral Ground" continued, and among the
boldest of the leaders on the American side was Colonel Aaron
Burr. But not all of his nights were occupied in warlike
expeditions. Fifteen miles away, across the Hudson, dwelt the
charming Widow Prevost, whom he afterwards married, and on at
least two occasions, Burr, with a boldness to touch the heart
of any woman, succeeded in getting across to spend a few hours
with her.

AARON BURR'S WOOING

From the commandant's quarters on Westchester height
The blue hills of Ramapo lie in full sight:
On their slope gleam the gables that shield his heart's queen,
But the redcoats are wary--the Hudson's between.
Through the camp runs a jest: "There's no moon--'twill be dark;
'Tis odds little Aaron will go on a spark!"
And the toast of the troopers is: "Pickets, lie low,
And good luck to the colonel and Widow Prevost!"

Eight miles to the river he gallops his steed,
Lays him bound in the barge, bids his escort make speed,
Loose their swords, sit athwart, through the fleet reach yon shore.
Not a word--not a plash of the thick-muffled oar!
Once across, once again in the seat and away--
Five leagues are soon over when love has the say;
And "Old Put" and his rider a bridle-path know
To the Hermitage manor of Madame Prevost.

Lightly done! but he halts in the grove's deepest glade,
Ties his horse to a birch, trims his cue, slings his blade,
Wipes the dust and the dew from his smooth, handsome face.
With the 'kerchief she broidered and bordered in lace;
Then slips through the box-rows and taps at the hall.
Sees the glint of a waxlight, a hand white and small,
And the door is unbarred by herself all aglow--
Half in smiles, half in tears--Theodosia Prevost.

Alack for the soldier that's buried and gone!
What's a volley above him, a wreath on his stone,
Compared with sweet life and a wife for one's view
Like this dame, ripe and warm in her India fichu?
She chides her bold lover, yet holds him more dear,
For the daring that brings him a night-rider here;
British gallants by day through her doors come and go,
But a Yankee's the winner of Theo. Prevost.

Where's the widow or maid with a mouth to be kist,
When Burr comes a-wooing, that long would resist?
Lights and wine on the beaufet, the shutters all fast,
And "Old Put" stamps in vain till an hour has flown past--
But an hour, for eight leagues must be covered ere day;
Laughs Aaron, "Let Washington frown as he may,
When he hears of me next, in a raid on the foe,
He'll forgive this night's tryst with the Widow Prevost!"

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

In June, 1780, Clinton made a desperate attempt to capture the
American stores at Morristown, N. J. At dawn of the 23d, he
advanced in great force upon Springfield, where General Greene
was stationed. Overwhelming numbers compelled the Americans
to fall back to a strong position, which the enemy dared
not attack, and after setting fire to the village, Clinton
retreated toward Elizabethtown.

THE MODERN JONAS

[June 23, 1780]

You know there goes a tale,
How Jonas went on board a whale,
Once, for a frolic;
And how the whale
Set sail
And got the cholic;
And, after a great splutter,
Spew'd him up upon the coast,
Just like woodcock on a toast,
With trail and butter.

There also goes a joke,
How Clinton went on board the Duke
Count Rochambeau to fight;
As he didn't fail
To set sail
The first fair gale,
For once we thought him right;
But, after a great clutter,
He turn'd back along the coast,
And left the French to make their boast,
And Englishmen to mutter.

Just so, not long before,
Old Knyp,
And old Clip
Went to the Jersey shore,
The rebel rogues to beat;
But, at Yankee farms,
They took alarms,
At little harms,
And quickly did retreat.

Then after two days' wonder,
March'd boldly up to Springfield town,
And swore they'd knock the rebels down.
But as their foes
Gave them some blows,
They, like the wind,
Soon changed their mind.
And, in a crack,
Returned back,
From not one third their number.

On June 6, while on their way to Springfield, the British
passed through a village called Connecticut Farms. They set
it on fire, destroying almost every house, and one of them
shot and killed the wife of Rev. James Caldwell, as she was
kneeling at prayer in her bedroom. Her husband took the revenge
described in Mr. Harte's poem.

CALDWELL OF SPRINGFIELD

[June 23, 1780]

Here's the spot. Look around you. Above on the height
Lay the Hessians encamped. By that church on the right
Stood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here ran a wall,--
You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball.
Nothing more. Grasses spring, waters run, flowers blow,
Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.

Nothing more, did I say? Stay one moment; you've heard
Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the Word
Down at Springfield? What, No? Come--that's bad; why he had
All the Jerseys aflame. And they gave him the name
Of the "rebel high-priest." He stuck in their gorge,
For he loved the Lord God,--and he hated King George!

He had cause, you might say! When the Hessians that day
Marched up with Knyphausen they stopped on their way
At the "Farms," where his wife, with a child in her arms,
Sat alone in the house. How it happened none knew
But God--and that one of the hireling crew
Who fired the shot! Enough!--there she lay,
And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away!

Did he preach--did he pray? Think of him as you stand
By the old church to-day;--think of him and his band
Of militant ploughboys! See the smoke and the heat
Of that reckless advance,--of that straggling retreat!
Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your view,--
And what could you, what should you, what would you do?

Why, just what he did! They were left in the lurch
For the want of more wadding. He ran to the church,
Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out in the road
With his arms full of hymn-books and threw down his load
At their feet! Then above all the shouting and shots,
Rang his voice,--"Put Watts into 'em,--Boys, give 'em Watts!"

And they did. That is all. Grasses spring, flowers blow
Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.
You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball,--
But not always a hero like this,--and that's all.

BRET HARTE.

Among the posts occupied by the British on the Hudson was a
blockhouse just above Bergen Neck. Pastured on the neck was
a large number of cattle and horses, and on July 21, 1780,
General Wayne was sent, with some Pennsylvania and Maryland
troops, to storm this blockhouse and drive the stock within the
American lines. The attack on the blockhouse was repulsed by
the British, the Americans losing heavily. It was this affair
which was celebrated by Major John André in the verses called
"The Cow-Chace."

THE COW-CHACE

[July 21, 1780]