Patroon van Volkenberg

by Henry Thew Stephenson

“Commend me to Kilian,” he said. “And to Ben Fletcher, and mind the factions in the city—and—and—oh, yes, there’s Mistress Miriam, the patroon’s daughter. Tell her that old Tommy Tew hasn’t forgotten her pretty face, and he’ll bring her something from the east when he returns. God speed!”

The long-boat shoved off and soon I was on land. I have already told how I made my way to Gravesoon where the host of the ordinary was curious to know the manner of my arrival, as well as anxious to teach me how to blow a summons upon a conch.

I went to bed that night, as I have already stated, and rose early the next morning to set out on foot. The distance to Breuckelen was about ten miles across the end of the island. The day was bright and cheery, and the road passed through a rich country of farms. This region supplied most of the food for the city and was carefully tilled by the various tenants of the island. On nearing the Sound the road, which was a poor, rutty track at the best, dipped steeply from a crest and in a hundred yards I was at the water’s edge. A small wooden platform floated on the surface and near, tethered to a tree by a thong of buckskin, hung the sea shell. I put it to my lips and, thanks to my practice of the night before, I was able, after one or two unavailing attempts, to send forth a dull wail that echoed over the water and back again half a dozen times.

While I was waiting for the ferryman to come from the Yorke side of the river, my eyes scanned the town impatiently. The city lay huddled on the side of a hill covered with verdure. The tiers of flaming red-tiled roofs extended nearly to the water’s edge where the white walls of the lower houses made visible the cluster of masts swaying in the harbor. Two structures stood out in conspicuous prominence before the rest of the town. High on the right loomed the Stadt Huys, topped by a pointed belfry. To the left on a bold hump of rock squatted the low fort. There the eye lingered with most interest. The slender staff floated the flag of England. In one corner the double gable of the fort chapel peeped above the top of the bastions. What must have been the portholes were mere black blotches upon the gray face of the wall; and below, at the foot of a steep cliff, the climbing surf fretted the rocks with foam.

My eyes were not drawn from the pleasing scene for fully half an hour. By that time the boatman had crossed the river. On the way back both wind and tide were against us and the crossing took much longer. We passed beyond the greater part of the town, having it upon our left, and landed at a little half-moon battery which projected into the East River near what was called the Water Gate. This gate was the eastern entrance to the city through the Wall, a line of palisades backed by a ditch that extended quite across the city from the East River to the Hudson. It formed the northern boundary of New York, and thus it happened that I entered the city from the rear or landward side.

“There is the way to Van Volkenberg manor,” said the ferryman, advancing one arm like a guidepost and pointing along a road that vanished northward among the wooded hills. “But you’ll do no good to follow it now. The patroon will be in the city to-day. It is all furred up with excitement at the meeting of the new assembly. What are you, white or blue?”

I assured him that I was a stranger and that I belonged to neither party as yet; at this information he lost all interest in my affairs. Even from that distance I could hear the confused din of shouting crowds bowling along the streets in the lower part of the town. While I stood irresolute, trying to decide whether to go north towards the manor-house or south into town, I caught sight of a woman in the distance. I made off hastily in her direction with my mind constantly upon Ruth. I laughed to myself when, all out of breath, I caught up with the woman and found her a squalid wife with clumsy wooden shoes that clattered noisily over the stepping stones of the unpaved street.

In this pursuit I had followed the street next the Wall which was bordered on the left by the houses of the chimney sweeps. Now and then a besooted urchin would run out in front of me, point to his grimy rags and call out: “Hi, mynher! I’m an Earl’s man.” This would set him and half a dozen other sweeps to laughing. I did not understand the humor of the youngster’s joke till later when I found that white was the color of the Earl’s party. Then the thought of his little partisans dressed in their sooty rags would set me laughing with a will.

There was a smell of slops to the street next the Wall and nothing attractive about its appearance. I soon came to a turning and, as I glanced down an avenue curving broadly to the left, I stood still with wonder. As far as I could see the street was loosely filled with people. They were in constant motion; now opening into a gap, now closing into a compact mass from house to house; yet the crowd did not grow smaller nor did it move one way more than another.

Above their heads flags projected from every house-front. Many were white, a few were blue; the most distant were indistinguishable as to color, being mere silhouette patches against the sky. They made a pretty sight, fluttering together in the breeze as if the houses trembled with the same excitement that throbbed in the streets below. Bunches of white ribbons hung from the doorknobs and polished knockers. Festoons of the same color looped across the street. Just overhead, so near me that I had not noticed it at first, a large placard was suspended over the middle of the street. It bore in tall figures the inscription “19 to 5.” I accosted a bystander, or runner-by, for no one was still an instant, and asked the meaning of the numbers.