There was Saratoga and Newport; and Long Branch laid claim to some distinction; even Cape May was not unknown to fame,—still the Jersey coast, with all its magnificent possibilities, really had not been discovered, and was rather contemptuously termed sand wastes. It was getting to be quite the thing to go off awhile in the summer. Some of the style had spent a "season" in London, and seen the young Queen and the Prince Consort and the royal children, and gone over to Paris to see "the nephew of his uncle," who was taking a hand in the new French Republic.
But plain people still visited their relatives a good deal. Ben had taken a holiday, and gone up to Tarrytown after Hanny; and they had made pilgrimages along to different cousins. They sat on the old porch at Fordham; but one of the cousins was married, and gone to her own home, taken the tall, bright-eyed young man who had been about so much the olden summer.
It was really a delightful walk over there. Ben was finding out odd places for Delia, who was now interested in some Revolutionary sketches. They had explored Kingsbridge; they had found Featherbed Lane; they learned the Harlem River once had borne the Indian name of Umscoota. Here, more than forty years before, Robert Macomb had built his dam, in defiance of certain national laws, as he wanted a volume of water for his mill.
Many and ineffectual were the efforts made to remove it by the surrounding property-owners who had large and beautiful estates. For no one dreamed then that the great city would sometime absorb everything, and that here was to stand a beautiful bridge, the pride of the city. But the old dam was one dark night assaulted by a "piratical craft," that demanded entrance, and, on being refused a right through the waterway, demolished the old affair; and the freed and happy river went on to the sea unvexed, and still kept Manhattan an island, to be bridged over as convenience required.
Down in one of the pretty valleys was the home of Cousin Jennie, that Hanny always connected with Mrs. Clemm and the poet. All about were green fields and orchards, hills and valleys. Between them and the Harlem lay a high wooded ridge from whose top you could see the Hudson, and the Harlem was like a cord winding in and out of green valleys. There was Fort George and Harlem plains; and Hanny recalled the two old Underhill ladies whose lives had reached back to Revolutionary times.
They rambled about the historic ground, peaceful enough then. There was the old Poole house, the De Voe house, and further up the Morris mansion. What names they recalled!—Washington, Rochambeau, the Hessian General Knyphausen.
And then Cousin Jennie's husband pointed out a place with a romantic story. When the Hessian Army had swept on in the steps of General Washington's retreating men, they had been encamped for some time, foraging about for food and demanding supplies of the farmers,—an ill-fed, and ill-clothed set of conscripts, without much enthusiasm, many of them torn from home and friends, neither knowing nor caring about the land where they had gone to fight, and perhaps lay their bones.
Among them a young fellow, Anthony Woolf by name, whose mother, in a district in distant Germany, had yielded to the blandishments of a second husband, thus rendering her son liable to conscription, as he was no longer her sole protector. Young Anthony knew his stepfather grudged him the broad acres of his patrimony, and guessed whose influence had sent the press-gang one night, and hurried him off, without even a good-bye to his mother, to the nearest seaport town, and there embarked him for a perilous ocean-journey, to fight against people struggling for their liberty.
He had fought, like many of the others, under a sort of rebellious protest. Several had deserted: some joining the American army from sympathy. But Anthony was sick of carnage and marching and semi-starvation. Winter was coming on. So, one night, he stole out unperceived, and hurried down to the river's edge. On the other side, at some distance, he could see a faint gleam of light between the leafless trees. He had watched it longingly. There were many kindly disposed people who gave shelter to deserters. He threw off his heavy coat, and his boots, with the soles worn through, and made a plunge. The water was cold, the way longer than it looked; but he buffeted across and crawled out in the autumn blast, dripping and shivering, and ran up to the kitchen steps, that looked more friendly than the great wide porch and stately doorway. The maids were frightened, and a man came, to whom he told his story in broken English, and was taken in, warmed and fed and clothed, and kept out of sight for several days.
In his gratitude and delight, he made himself useful. He had been accustomed to farming and herds and flocks. The old Morris estate was large; and when the British Army was safely out of the way, there was work in plenty; and a faithful hand Anthony Woolf proved.