Chapter 3:

This Grand City

New Amsterdam was a grand city even then. As we sailed up the Hudson River heading
toward the wharves of the island called Manhattan, I was astonished at how big the place was.
The Captain told us that 7,000 citizens lived there! From the water, I certainly could believe it.
The island was filled with row upon row of houses, shops, commercial buildings, aven a few
farms on the farthest end People and horses seemed to fill every square foot of the muddy streets.
Every wharf bustled with activity.
We sailed past two enormous British warships anchored in the Roads off the Island and
dozens of tall-masted sailing ships of all sizes moored at the docks. I sat on the forecastle
entranced with the changing scene.
“Look sharp, there, lad.”
Startled, I looked up at my Father. He was watching me closely, grinning slightly. I was
day-dreaming again. “Yes, sir,” I replied, trying to remember what I was supposed to be doing
just then.
Oh, yes, I was supposed to be down below, packing my belongings and getting ready to
disembark. I dashed down the galleyway.
Quickly finishing that task, I returned topside once more. The mainsail and the jibs were
down; we were coming in with just the topsail up. The Captain had the helm and the crew
manned the lines as we angled in to an open wharf. All too soon, I thought, we were dockside.
On the Captain’s command, two sailors dropped the topsail and the other jumped to the pier with
the bow and stern lines and tied us off to cleats on the pier.
Our sea voyage was over. But what a voyage it had been!
Later, as we were taking our leave of the Captain, he leaned over to Father and said in a
very loud whisper that we could all plainly hear, “Well, mate, ah’m heartily glad to get those
young pirates off m’ship, before they steal all my diamonds and brooches and silver treasure I’ve
got stashed below.”
Then he roared with laughter, slapping his thigh with one hand while holding on to the
rigging with the other.
Father, who had not been part of the pirate conversation last night, looked befuddled.
Finally the able seamen had our luggage and boxes unloaded and stacked on the dock.
Father had already gone off to obtain a wagon and wagoneer to transport us to the tavern where
we were to spend the next several days.
Shortly we were in our new lodgings, the Province Arms on Broadway Street, Edward
Willet, proprietor. By then it was dinner time, and I for one was heartily hungry. Shipboard food
was plentiful, but it was not much to our liking. I think we ate it as much to please the Captain as
to please our stomachs, but our stomachs were none too pleased with the fare. At the Province
Arms it was altogether different. The richness of the food and the ales were a wonderful change
from the austerity of the ship.
After dinner, Father, Isaac and Jacob settled in with other patrons to smoke and gather the
latest news and gossip. Balthus and I, on the other hand, were free to roam the city, as long as we
returned by nightfall.
And roam we did, for four free days. I loved nothing more than to spend the day running
up and down the docks, watching sweating stevedores unloading supplies, red-coated British
soldiers marching in formation, or shopkeepers hawking their wares. New Amsterdam was an
exciting place for a youngster. In the morning we would explore the busy wharfs and bustling
shop districts, then take advantage of the warm afternoons to dive and swim in the backbay.
And everywhere we heard the talk of war. Just three months earlier, the French
surrendered the frontier lands west of the Appalachian Mountains to His Majesty King George of
England, ending The French and Indian War (or the Seven Years’ War as the French called it).
And now the Indians were raging against all Whites, trying to keep out the flood of settlers. But
we also heard talk of another war brewing, a war of words between some of the Colonialists and
Britain. Many in the colonies were unhappy to be subjects of the British king, arguing instead for
a break with the Crowne. They were clamoring for an independent country, where the colonies
would be called states.
At the end of our last day in New Amsterdam, Balthus and I returned to the Province
Arms fairly exhausted from our explorations. We discovered Father deep in conversation with a
gentleman not known to us.
“Eh, lads, come here,” father said when he espied us at the door to the pub. “I have a
grand gentleman for you to meet.”
We stepped over to where they were seated.
“Captain Peter Harris, may I present my son Benjamin and my brother-in-law’s son
Balthus,” Father said. We both doffed our hats, bowed to the gentlemen, and took a seat.
“Lads, Captain Harris was my commanding officer during my service with the Dutchess
County Volunteers, 2nd New York Regiment. And a fine officer he was, too, a great service to the
Crowne.”
Father had spent a year as a lieutenant in His Majesty’s Service, in the great battle to
defeat the French at Fort Ticonderoga in ‘59. Many an evening we children would pester him
until he would finally regale us with stories of his wartime exploits. I had heard then the name
Harris, but of course had not met the man until now.
“Well, lads, I be mighty pleased to meet you both,” Capt. Harris said. “Benjamin, your
father was a right fine officer to work with, always sharp, always on the lookout, always a man
to be counted on. It was no easy task, I’ll tell you, to march from here to Lake Oswego to Fort
Ticonderoga, throw out the French, and then get back here all in one piece. It took a great many
brave men like Lt. DeCorsa here to accomplish that mission.”
 “Aye, Captain, about 10,000 of us, as I recall,” Father interjected proudly. “The greatest
army every assembled on this continent.”
I looked over at Balthus and winked at him over our pints of ale and dinners of cold pork
pie. We settled in for a long evening of stories of derring-do and glorious exploits.
Capt. Harris was just warming up to his subject: “Let me tell you, lads, that ‘tho the fight
against the French was grueling, it was nothing compared to what we might have encountered
had our regiment been sent to Cuba, as the generals intended.”
Father jumped in. “Did you know, Captain, that’s why I received the commission of
lieutenant from the Governor? It was to entice me to join the Provincials against the Spanish in
Havana, but we ended up being sent to Montreal instead. And I’m plenty glad of that, I’ll say.”
“Yes,” Captain Harris agreed, “that was a good switch, considering how many of those
fine lads never made it back from Cuba. Even the Royal Highland Regiment was laid low by the
tropical sickness. They say more men lost their lives from malarial mosquitoes than from
Spanish lead shot.”
And on into the evening went the stories and remembrances, back and forth.
“Captain, do you remember Major Chestnor at the Battle of Ticonderoga?” Father asked
at one point. “He did a right fine job of leading his men, right into the water.” They both laughed
at the recollection. This was a story I had not heard before.
“True enough, DeCorsa,” Harris chuckled. “Lads, I’ll tell ye the story. Chestnor’s men
were loaded into twelve or fourteen bateux [flat-bottomed boats] and they came down the river
past sundown of the day we marched in. But it seems he did not know where to put ashore. They
passed our encampment in the dark, then saw us and tried to turn around, but the current had
them tight. Most of the boats pitched and yawed on the turn so bad they launched those men
right into the water. I tell you it was a soggy crew that finally dragged themselves up on the
beach that night. It gave us a good reason to pass around the rum, though, to warm them up and
ourselves, too, of course. As I recall we all got fairly warm and fairly tight.”
“Yes, and the next day Major Chestnor ordered those same men out to drag the boats
back, most of which had fetched up in the marsh nearby,” Father added. “Headaches they had a-
plenty, but they managed to save most of their munitions and supplies, I’ll warrant.”
“Of course,” Harris continued, “the Frenchies did us the favor of blowing up their fort
before we had the chance to do it for them. Just when we had our siege batteries set up to do the
job, they slipped out during the night and torched the place. Oh, what a sight that was,
remember? Night turned to day when the powder magazine blew sky-high, taking the whole
eastern wall of the fort with it. Whoa, what a blast!”
Father chimed in with “But it was a damnable shame they didn’t let their horses loose. A
terrible waste to turn 50 good steeds to smoke.”
“Aye, and we could have used those horses, no doubt,” Harris said, wagging his head.
“But it was a good thing the French knew they were outgunned, and saved us from having to
slaughter them all.”
About this time Isaac and Jacob returned to the Inn after an evening of carousing around
the town. The hour was late, Balthus and I were nodding off in our seats, so the four of us
younger ones retired to our room upstairs. We left the two veterans seated by the fire to
reminisce long into the night. Their good-natured laughter and friendly conversation escorted us
up the stairs.
For Father, it was to be a particularly short night, for very early the next morning we
embarked on another sloop for the one-day run up the Hudson River to Tarrytown, New York.
That’s where Father was born, and where we would stay with his relatives before heading by
horseback to the far Western end of the Colony.
I was not much looking forward to spending nearly two weeks with these relations. I had
met some of them before. They were quiet, serious, hard-working, church-going Old Dutch folk.
They spoke mostly Dutch, only grudgingly going to English when it was clear we could not
follow them. They were not much fun for this 10-year-old.
But I was decidedly looking forward to the trek into the heart of the wilderness frontier,
as soon as we left Tarrytown.
Little did I know just how exciting this trip would be.