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VII THE TAPPAN SEA THE first portion of the name of
this stretch of the Hudson comes from a tribe of Indians that inhabited the
west shore, and it is a “Sea” because the river here is so extraordinarily
wide. It is ten miles long and has an average breadth of two and a half miles.
The water is brackish — a mingling of fresh water from the hills with salt
water from the ocean. The graceful and varied horizon line and the silvery haze
that commonly envelops the distance make its aspect very charming. At the
southern end the Palisades rise in majesty, and near the north end, on the
western side, are the superb cliffs of the promontory known as Point-no-Point,
or Hook Mountain. This little sea is a famous cruising
place for ghosts and goblins, and all the region is rich with legends. For
instance, there is the story of Rambout Van Dam, the unresting oarsman whom
some witchery compels to never-ending labor on the tides of this inland sea. He
was a roistering youth who counted neither distance nor exertion of any
consequence when a pleasure was in prospect. His home was at Spuyten Duyvil,
and yet when he heard there was to be a quilting frolic at Kakiat, a secluded
hamlet hidden among the hills near the north end of the Tappan Sea, he rowed
all that long way up the river to be present. Apparently he did not find this
pull very fatiguing after all, for at the merry-making he danced and drank with
a vigor that was not surpassed by any one else present. It was a Saturday night, and the
hour of twelve came before he had any thought that he had lingered so long.
Then he started for home. His companions warned him against the perils of
Sabbath-breaking which was considered a cardinal sin. But Rambout was confident
and reckless and disregarded every warning. He embarked in his boat swearing
that he would not land till he reached Spuyten Duyvil; and he has not arrived
there even yet. Because of his desecration of the Sabbath he is doomed to
journey on the broad river until the day of judgment. Often in the still
twilight of a summer evening, when the opposite hills throw their purple
shadows half across the river, a low sound is heard as of the steady, vigorous
pull of oars, though not a boat is to be descried. The rower is Rambout Van Dam
of graceless memory, but whether he is now a ghost, or is still flesh and
blood, none can say. Another apparition that frequents
these waters is the Storm-ship. Some people have doubted the existence of this
phantom craft and class it with fabulous monsters and mental hallucinations,
but these are not people who have navigated the waters of the Tappan Sea at
night. Irving tells its story substantially as follows: “In the golden age of the province
of the New Netherlands, when under the sway of Wouter Van Twiller, the people
of the Manhattoes were alarmed one sultry afternoon by a tremendous storm of
thunder and lightning. The rain fell in torrents. It seemed as if the thunder
rattled over the very roofs of the houses. The lightning was seen to play about
the church of St. Nicholas, and to strive three times in vain to strike its
weather-cock. Garret Van Horne’s new chimney was split almost from top to
bottom; and Doffue Middleberger was struck speechless from his bald-faced mare
as he was riding into town. “Great was the terror of the good
old women of the Manhattoes. They gathered their children together, and took
refuge in the cellars, after having hung a shoe on the iron point of every
bedpost, lest it should attract the lightning. At length the storm abated, the
thunder sank to a growl, the setting sun, breaking from under the fringed
borders of the clouds, made the broad bosom of the bay gleam like a sea of
molten gold. “Then word was given from the fort
that a ship was standing up the bay. It passed from mouth to mouth, and street
to street, and soon put the little capital in a bustle. The arrival of a ship
in those early times of the settlement, was an event of vast importance to the
inhabitants. It brought news from the land of their birth, from which they were
so completely severed. To the yearly ship, too, they looked for their supply of
luxuries, of comforts and almost of necessaries. The good vrouw could not have
her new cap or new gown until the arrival of the ship; the burgomaster waited
for his pipe; the schoolboy for his top and marbles; and the lordly landholder
for the bricks with which he was to build his new mansion. “The news from the fort therefore,
brought all the populace down to the Battery. It was not exactly the time when
the ship had been expected to arrive, and the circumstance was a matter of some
speculation. Here and there might be seen a burgomaster of slow and pompous
gravity, giving his opinion with great confidence to a crowd of old women and idle
boys. At another place was a knot of weather-beaten fellows who had been seamen
or fishermen, and were great authorities on such occasions. But the man most
looked up to, and followed and watched was Hans Van Pelt, an old Dutch
sea-captain retired from service, the nautical oracle of the place. He
reconnoitered the ship through an ancient telescope, hummed a tune, and said
nothing. A hum, however, from Hans Van Pelt had more weight with the public
than a speech from another man. “The ship was a stout, round vessel,
with high bow and poop. The evening sun gilded her bellying canvas, as she came
riding over the long billows. The sentinel who had given notice of her approach
declared that he first got sight of her when she was in the center of the bay;
and that she broke suddenly on his sight, just as if she had come out of the
bosom of the black thunder-cloud. The bystanders looked at Hans Van Pelt, to
see what he would say to this report. Hans Van Pelt screwed his mouth closer
together, and said nothing; on which some shook their heads, and others
shrugged their shoulders. “The ship was now repeatedly hailed,
but made no reply, and passing by the fort, stood on up the Hudson. Trade
regulations did not allow any vessel to go up the river without a permit, and a
gun was fired by Hans Van Pelt, the garrison not being expert in artillery. The
shot seemed absolutely to pass through the ship, and to skip along the water on
the other side, but no notice was taken of it! What was strange, she had all
her sails set, and sailed right against wind and tide, which were both down the
river. Hans Van Pelt, who was harbor-master, ordered his boat, and set off to
board her; but after rowing two or three hours he returned without success.
Sometimes he would get within one or two hundred yards of her, and then in a
twinkling, she would be half a mile off. Some said it was because his oarsmen,
who were rather pursy and short-winded, stopped every now and then to take
breath and spit on their hands; but this, it is probable, was a mere scandal.
He got near enough, however, to see the crew, who were all dressed in Dutch
style, the officers in doublets and high hats and feathers. Not a word was
spoken by anyone on board. They stood as motionless as so many statues, and the
ship seemed as if left to her own government. Thus she kept on, away up the
river, lessening and lessening in the evening sunshine, until she faded from
sight, like a little white cloud melting in the summer sky. “The appearance of this ship threw
the governor into one of the deepest doubts that ever beset him in the whole
course of his administration. Fears were entertained for the security of the
infant settlements on the river, lest this might be an enemy’s ship in
disguise. The governor sat in his chair of state, smoking his long pipe, and
listening to all that his counsellors had to say on a subject about which they
knew nothing. “Messengers were dispatched to
different places on the river; but they returned without any tidings — the ship
had made no port. Day after day, and week after week elapsed, but she never
returned down the Hudson. However, the captains of the sloops seldom arrived
without bringing some report of having seen the strange ship at different parts
of the river; sometimes near the Palisadoes, sometimes off Croton Point, and
sometimes in the Highlands. The crews of the sloops generally differed among
themselves in their accounts of these apparitions; but that may have arisen
from the uncertain situations in which they saw her. Sometimes it was by the
flashes of the thunder storm lighting up a pitchy night, and giving glimpses of
her careering across the Tappan Sea, or the wide waste of Haverstraw Bay. At
one moment she would appear close on them, as if likely to run them down, and
would throw them into great bustle and alarm; but the next flash would show her
far off, always sailing against the wind. Sometimes, in quiet moonlight nights,
she would be seen under some high bluff of the Highlands, all in deep shadow,
excepting her topsails glittering in the moonbeams. By the time the voyagers
reached the place, no ship was to be seen; and when they had passed on for some
distance, and looked back, behold! there she was again, with her topsails in
the moonlight! Her appearance was always just after, or just before, or just in
the midst of unruly weather; and she was known among the skippers and voyagers
of the Hudson by the name of ‘the storm-ship.’ “It would be endless to repeat the
conjectures and opinions uttered on the subject. Some quoted cases of ships
seen off the coast of New England, navigated by witches and goblins. Others
suggested that if it really was supernatural it might be Hendrick Hudson’s
vessel, the Half Moon. Indeed it had already been reported that he and his crew
haunted the Catskill Mountains, and it seemed very reasonable to suppose that
his ship might bear the shadowy crew to their periodical revels. “The storm-ship continued a matter
of popular belief and marvelous anecdote through the whole time of the Dutch
government. Since that time we have no authentic accounts of her; though it is
said she still haunts the Highlands, and cruises about Point-no-Point. People
who live along the river insist that they sometimes see her in summer
moonlight; and that in a deep still midnight they have heard the chant of her
crew; but sights and sounds are so deceptive along the mountainous shores, and
about the wide bays and long reaches of this great river that I have very
strong doubts on the subject.”
Near the southern end of the Tappan
Sea, just back of the west shore hills, is historic old Tappan where André was
hung. As a rule American feeling toward that ill-fated youth has always been
kindly and sympathetic, but when Cyrus W. Field erected a monument at Tappan a
few decades ago to commemorate André’s association with the town in those
eventful days of the Revolution some rampant patriot with more zeal than sense
promptly applied an explosive and destroyed it. Across the river is Dobbs Ferry. Its
name dates back to the time when Jeremiah Dobbs, one of the first settlers in
the region, had a shanty on Willow Point and eked out his modest living by
carrying chance travellers across the river in his dugout. The modern
inhabitants of the place are reputed to be burdened with a keen regret that
this ancient ferryman did not have a different name to bestow on the town that
has grown up there, and they have even made a number of efforts to get the
legislature to authorize the use of a more euphonious cognomen. At the various
public meetings held to agitate the question several substitutes have been
suggested. For instance, it was urged that the town should take the name of one
of the three captors of Major André — say Paulding or Van Wart. As to Van Wart,
somebody proposed that they drop the Van and call the place “Wart on the
Hudson.” The agitation thus far has failed of success, and Dobbs Ferry is still
on the map. Near the north end of the Tappan Sea
is another town that has been much disturbed over its name. Here, by the shore,
is the famous Sing Sing State Prison, and behind it on the hills is a village,
also called Sing Sing until recently. Naturally the prison name does not arouse
in the minds of the general public associations that are especially agreeable.
Everyone knows of the prison, comparatively few have ever heard of the village;
and a dweller in the latter could scarcely avow to a stranger that Sing Sing
was his home without an explanation. The place itself was never a penal colony
as outsiders have been prone to imagine. It has grown to be a populous and
attractive suburb of New York, and from its slopes commands a very beautiful
view of the river. The prison continues to be Sing Sing, this odd designation
being a corruption of a Mohican word, Ossining, which is descriptive of the
rocky nature of the site; but the town has adopted the original form of the
name. Sing Sing prison was founded in 1826 when a state official brought one
hundred convicts to the place and set them at work to wall themselves in. They
were three years in completing the main building. Nearly two thousand persons
now find in this great prison the quiet which complete seclusion from society
affords. Ossining’s northern boundary is the
Croton River, chiefly important as the sole source of the water supply of New
York City for more than a generation. The river is a mild, vernal stream
emptying into a bay of the same name. Not far back is the reservoir from which
the “old” aqueduct carries the water to the city. This aqueduct was finished in
1842. It is of brick and is placed on or near the surface, occasionally
tunnelling under high ground and again spanning some ravine on arches. In the
course of time it proved inadequate and a second aqueduct was completed in
1890. This is of brick also, but is laid in an almost straight line from Croton
Lake to the Harlem through the solid rock at an average depth below the surface
of five hundred feet. As many as ten thousand men were employed on it at times,
and the cost was twenty-five million dollars. Nothing to equal it in magnitude
of engineering had then been accomplished in any other part of the world. Above the bay which receives the
Croton is the old manor-house of the Van Cortlandts, which is not only
interesting on account of its age and historic associations, but because it is
haunted by two ghosts. One of them wanders through the ancient rooms with a
sound of rustling silks, and the other treads heavily along the halls and up
the stairways. The site of the manor-house was once
occupied by an Indian fort in which Chief Croton, the sachem who ruled in the
immediate neighborhood, made his last stand against a foray of his fierce
enemies from the north. He fought with desperate valor amid a shower of arrows,
and half-hidden by the smoke and flames of his burning palisades. One by one
his companions fell, till he stood alone and wounded. Then, as his foes rushed
forward, he fell headlong in the blazing fire. He died, yet it is said that in
great crises he has again and again appeared urging men to courageous deeds.
Across the river from Sing Sing is Point-no-Point,
which, as its name indicates, is the bluntest sort of a promontory. Back of it,
a mile or more from the river, is Rockland Lake, a large sheet of water whence
comes a considerable portion of the ice used in New York City. The ice is
conveyed from the lake to the river by a cable railway, and continues its
journey in huge barges. At Rockland Lake the ice business of the metropolis is
said to have originated. The delivery of the first shipments that reached New
York was made in springless, one-horse carts, and the entire capital invested
in the business was at the start only two thousand dollars. |
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