This Battle of Harlem Heights did not change the relative position of either army since no new ground was captured and held. Technically, though, it was an American victory. Various historians have reported different casualty figures, but all agree that American losses were far fewer than those of the British. Morally, too, it was a triumph for the Americans. They had proved that the British army was not invincible.
Four days later fire broke out in New York City. It started in a wooden tavern, called the Fighting Cocks, on a wharf near Whitehall Slip and was spread by a gale blowing from the south. The origin of the blaze remains a mystery, but the British and Tories called it a plot to destroy the city. Amid crackling flames and falling timbers, half-naked people staggered through the streets in terror. Ordinary people, aristocratic loyalists, and British soldiers and sailors tried in vain to fight the fire. Tories claimed that holes had been cut in fire buckets. People suspected of touching off the conflagration were spitted on bayonets, hanged, and even tossed alive into the flames. The city’s most prominent landmark, Trinity Church, crashed in ruins. One-fourth of the city was left a smoking blackened wasteland. Thousands of homeless people were reduced to beggary. All this was a major disaster to the British high command, which had chosen the city as its headquarters. Washington, who had considered and then rejected the idea of putting the city to the torch, commented, “Providence, or some good honest fellow, has done more for us than we were disposed to do for ourselves.”
The day after the fire a twenty-four-year-old American, with blue eyes, blond hair, and a fair complexion, was brought to General Howe’s headquarters at East Fifty-first Street and First Avenue. He was not an arsonist, but a self-confessed spy. His name was Nathan Hale. Disguised as a teacher, he had penetrated enemy lines in and around the city to sketch fortifications and jot down other pertinent military facts. After his capture in Brooklyn he admitted to being a captain in Washington’s army and a spy. Howe questioned the handsome youth and turned him over to the British provost marshal, and on September 22, 1776, Nathan Hale was hanged—probably at Forty-fifth Street and First Avenue.
For several weeks the British let Washington occupy Harlem Heights. Rather than risk a bloody frontal attack, Howe finally decided to use his warships to land part of his army behind the Americans. The foggy night of October 12 a British force was put ashore on Throgs Neck, a slim peninsula jutting out from the Bronx into the East River. Washington had anticipated this move. His Pennsylvania riflemen, crouched behind a woodpile, threw back the enemy in confusion. Howe then made a second landing, three miles north in Westchester County. This jeopardized Washington’s army, and he pulled back to White Plains, which was then isolated country. The Battle of White Plains, fought on October 28, resulted in the defeat of 1,400 Americans by 4,000 British.
Washington still had 2,500 men left to defend the last bit of Manhattan held by the Americans. This was Fort Washington, perched on a rocky cliff 230 feet above the Hudson, at what is now the eastern end of the George Washington Bridge. Fort Lee stood on the Jersey Palisades just across the river. In a direct line between the two forts the Americans had sunk ships and lowered chevaux-defrise—heavy timbers studded with iron spikes. Congress had asked Washington to bottle up the Hudson to prevent the British from breaking through to the north. However, the sunken barriers proved ineffectual; enemy ships sailed over them without damage.
Since Fort Washington’s main function had been to guard the eastern end of the water barrier, there was no point now in trying to defend it against Howe’s gathering might. Major General Nathanael Greene commanded the fort. Unwisely, he elected to make a stand. His troops were jammed within a space barely large enough for 1,000 men. And since the fort lacked a well, water had to be scooped up in buckets from the Hudson far below.
At the head of 5,000 soldiers, Washington retreated across the Hudson, into New Jersey, and down to Hackensack to set up camp. On November 16 he was back at Fort Lee. From a distance of less than one mile he looked through field glasses across the river and saw his brave men being stabbed to death by Hessian bayonets. Helpless and forlorn, Washington sobbed at the grisly sight.
The fall of Fort Washington was one of the greatest American disasters of the war. Greene lost a staggering amount of precious armament and equipment, and hundreds of prisoners were marched down the length of Manhattan and herded into makeshift prisons in churches, sugarhouses, and ships. What’s more, the overall battle for New York City, from Long Island to Fort Washington, cost the Americans hundreds of lives and more than 4,400 prisoners.
Now the entire city was held by the British, who continued to occupy it for the next 7 years. Only about 3,000 civilians were left when the king’s troops took over, most people having fled. Now British and German soldiers swarmed in, along with Tories from the countryside and other colonies. They soon boosted the population to 33,000. One loyalist wrote that New York was “a most dirty, desolate and wretched place.” It had been dug up by the Americans for defense, shelled by British warships, and charred by fire. Slowly the city became the capital of Tory America, as well as Britain’s greatest military base. Business boomed.
There was a great housing shortage. A cluster of shanties and tents, known as Canvas Town, arose amid the blackened ruins of the city. On the front doors of houses left standing after the fire, officials painted G. R., for George Rex, meaning that they were commandeered in the king’s name. The families of British and German servicemen poured into town. Added to these was the usual horde of prostitutes. An Englishman visiting St. Paul’s Chapel, which survived the fire, wrote: “This is a very neat church and some of the handsomest and best-dressed ladies I have ever seen in America. I believe most of them are whores.” A trader, named Jackson, contracted to supply 3,500 women to entertain His Majesty’s troops in America and brought to New York doxies from England, as well as Negroes from the West Indies.
Rentals rose. Prices soared 800 percent. Food and firewood became dear. Profiteering, black-marketeering, smuggling, and graft flourished. Everyone cheated everyone else. Some greedy men made quick fortunes. In fact, even Tories felt that the British might have won the war had it not been for the colossal graft of barracks masters, quartermasters, the commissary of artillery, the commissary of cattle, the commissary of forage, and the commissary of prisoners.
The countryside for a radius of thirty miles around the city became a no-man’s-land, wherein irregulars from both armies raided and plundered and burned and killed. Because the slaughter of cattle was a common goal, the British marauders were called Cowboys, and the American guerrillas were known as Skinners.
Life’s uncertainty bred a feverish gaiety. Manners and morals relaxed. British officers promenaded in glittering uniforms, drank heavily, fought duels, frequented taverns, celebrated the king’s birthday, and promoted cricket matches, horse races, bullbaiting, boxing matches, and golf games. They escorted young ladies to dances, balls, teas, receptions, and dinners. On December 7, 1767, David Douglass had opened the city’s first real playhouse, the John Street Theatre, halfway between Broadway and Nassau Street. During their occupation of New York the British took over the theater, founded the Garrison Dramatic Club, and presented amateur theatricals. The social whirl reached its peak with the visit of seventeen-year-old Prince William Henry, the third son of George III, who later became King William IV. In New York he was saved from drowning while ice skating and met twenty-three-year-old Post Captain Horatio Nelson, destined for immortality as the hero of Trafalgar.
But the plight of the common people worsened, especially after another fire had consumed 300 more houses. Rich Tories and British officers held charity drives to alleviate the suffering, but almost no one worried about American soldiers cooped up in prisons around town. Given wretched food or none at all, they were jammed elbow to elbow and received no medical care. The worst of the makeshift jails were the prison ships. About 11,000 Americans, or more than the total killed by British muskets throughout the entire w
ar, perished on these fetid vessels.
The Englishman in charge of the prisoners, Provost Marshal William Cunningham, was sadistic and greedy. As he lay dying in 1791, he confessed, “I shudder at the murders I have been accessory to, both with and without orders from the government, especially while in New York, during which time there were more than two thousand prisoners starved in the different churches, by stopping their rations, which I sold.”
New York was occupied longer and suffered more than any other great American city. Of the Revolution’s 308 battles and engagements, 92 took place in various parts of New York State, while 216 occurred in and around the other colonies. The war ended with the surrender of Lord Charles Cornwallis at Yorktown, Virginia, on October 19, 1781.
Victorious American troops did not reoccupy New York City until November 25, 1783. For decades afterward this was celebrated as Evacuation Day. During the preceding weeks nearly 15,000 frightened Tories shipped out of here, and into the vacuum rushed Americans eager to buy loyalist property at bargain prices.
According to the timetable agreed to by British and American forces, the king’s men were to quit the city beginning at noon, November 25. Most people awakened early that historic day and noted with delight that the weather broke clear, if cold. A Mrs. Day who ran a boardinghouse on Murray Street near the Hudson River flew an American flag over her place. When this was reported to Provost Marshal Cunningham, he sent word that she was to take it down. She refused. About 9 A.M., while Mrs. Day was sweeping in front of her door, Cunningham himself appeared in a scarlet coat and powdered wig. He commanded her to haul down the rebel flag. Again she refused. He seized the halyards to do the job himself; whereupon Mrs. Day took her broom and clobbered him until powder rose in a white mist from his wig and gore gushed from his nose. With his “front as red as his back,” Cunningham retreated. This was the last conflict of the war.
An hour earlier, at 8 A.M., American light infantry reached Mc-Gowan’s Pass in upper Central Park and closed in so near the British rear guard that officers on both sides could chat with one another. Then the British gave way, and the Americans followed as far as a barrier thrown across the Bowery, where they broke ranks and lounged about to wait. Shortly after the noon deadline the redcoats headed for the East River, stepped into rowboats, and were ferried out to the waiting British fleet. Now the Americans pushed all the way south and occupied the Battery fort.
Everybody was eager to see General George Washington, the man who had held the American army together by sheer willpower. He had been waiting in Harlem. Now, escorted by a body of Westchester Light Horse, he rode down to the Bull’s Head Tavern on the Bowery between Bayard and Pump (now Canal) streets. There he was greeted by a whooping crowd of townspeople, some on horseback, some afoot. When he tugged his horse’s reins to start the final leg of his triumphal entry, they trooped along behind him. The procession wound up at Cape’s Tavern at Broadway and Thames Street, where a reception was held for the commander in chief.
A young woman who witnessed Evacuation Day wrote:
The troops just leaving us were as if equipped for show, and with their scarlet uniforms and burnished arms, made a brilliant display. The troops that marched in, on the contrary, were ill-clad and weather-beaten, and made a forlorn appearance. But then they were our troops, and as I looked at them, and thought upon all they had done and suffered for us, my heart and my eyes were full, and I admired and gloried in them the more because they were weather-beaten and forlorn.
Now Washington was ready to say farewell to his officers before heading toward his Mount Vernon home. The chosen place was Fraunces Tavern at Pearl and Broad streets. The date was December 4, 1783, a lovely winter’s day. By noon the general’s officers packed the Long Room, named for the Indian term for a council lodge. A few minutes later Washington entered, looking tired. Everyone stood up to greet him. He acknowledged the tribute with a nod of his be-wigged head and moved over to a linen-draped table holding a buffet luncheon. Nobody ate much. The booted officers ached at the thought of parting with the man who not only had led them to victory but also had refused a crown. Swords clanking and spurs jangling, they drifted about aimlessly. Washington accepted a glass of wine; but his strong fingers shook, and his head hung low. The men filled their glasses and stared dully at the ruby-colored wine.
Finally, Washington began speaking: “With a heart full of love and gratitude I now take my leave of you. I most devoutly wish that your latter days may be as prosperous and happy as your former ones have been glorious and honorable.” Washington raised his glass to his lips and drank the wine. The officers emptied their glasses.
As Washington put down his drink, his eyes filled with tears, and his iron will almost broke. In a choking voice he said, “I cannot—” He stopped and gulped, and his face was ashen. “I cannot come to each of you, but I shall feel obliged if each of you will . . . will come and take me by the hand.”
There was a dead silence. All stood transfixed. Then a board creaked as 280-pound General Henry Knox, standing nearest Washington, swung his bulk toward his commander in chief. Knox’s eyes brimmed with tears. He grasped Washington’s hand. The two huge warriors stared deeply into each other’s eyes and then, engulfed by memories of their years together, hugged each other. Washington kissed Knox on the cheek. Both wept. Neither said a word. Later, when Washington stepped aboard a barge at the Whitehall Slip, his jaw muscles throbbed convulsively.
Chapter 13
THE DOCTORS’ RIOT
AN EARTHQUAKE rocked New York in November, 1783, and jarred a man off his chair in lower Manhattan. A few months later John Jacob Astor strode onto the scene. This yellow-haired butcher boy from Germany took up where nature left off, for he shook the city and nation in his own titanic way. He became the so-called landlord of New York, manipulated the city government for his own purposes, and wound up the richest man in America.
Handsome and square-jawed and a smooth talker despite his broken English, Astor was twenty-one when he landed in the city that spring of 1784. Born eight miles from Heidelberg in a sleepy place, called Walldorg, or Village in the Woods, he was the fifth child of a German butcher. The family name was spelled variously as Ashdour, Aschtor, Ashdoor, and Ashdor. From his birthplace he emigrated to London to work for his brother George, who made musical instruments. He learned some English there, then continued to America with high hopes and seven flutes.
Another brother, named Heinrich, or Henry, already lived in New York. Henry had followed Hessian troops here to sell them provisions, and after the war ended, he changed from sutler to butcher. He was one of thousands of Germans who, genuinely liking the Americans they had been taught to hate, elected to remain in the New World after the Revolution. Henry wanted to hire his younger brother to stick pigs, but the lad had greater ambitions.
Jacob took a job as a helper to a German baker in Pearl Street, trotting up and down Broadway, sidestepping stray swine and balancing a tray of cakes on his hand. It was the fur trade, however, that really interested him. Soon Jacob went to work for a Quaker fur merchant, flogging moths out of stored pelts. Astor got in on the ground floor of a booming business, for the interruption of the fur trade during the war had boosted prices abroad. A beaverskin bought from an Indian in upper New York for $1 sold in London for $6.25.
The year of Astor’s arrival this city became the state capital, the colony of New York having changed into the state of New York after a state constitution had been adopted in 1777. Except for five sessions, New York City served as the seat of state government until Albany became the capital in 1796. City affairs, formerly controlled by the British, now fell into the hands of the new state. George Clinton, New York’s first American governor, appointed James Duane the city’s first mayor after the Revolution. Duane was a rich man, whose house on Pine Street had been nearly destroyed during the British occupation. However, no damage was done to his country estate near the present Gramercy Park. The name of this park is said to be deriv
ed from Krom Moerasje, or Crooked Little Swamp, formed by Cedar Creek, which once flowed from Madison Square to the East River.
New York City also became the capital of the new nation when Congress convened here on January 11, 1785. For five years the city served as the seat of the federal government, such as it was. At first there was no constitution, there was no president, and Congress sat as a single chamber. The nation was like a crazy quilt of thirteen patches, each of these thirteen states loosely stitched together by the Articles of Confederation. Jealous of one another and behaving like arrogant little republics, the states tugged in different directions and frayed the slight threads holding them in one piece. Until the federal government was reorganized under the Constitution in 1789, Congress rarely was attended by twenty-five members, although it was entitled to ninety-one representatives.
For some time after the Revolution, blackened bricks and jack-strawed timbers bore witness to the two fires that had ravaged New York while the British held it. Shipping having been throttled, wharves sagged and rotted. Dogs and pigs picked their way through badly paved, poorly lighted streets and fought over garbage, just as the town’s 12,000 inhabitants quarreled among themselves. Lawsuits multiplied as people vied for property and trade. Vice flared in the tented area called Canvas Town. As many as 6 criminals were hanged at once from gallows inside a painted Chinese pagoda within City Hall Park.
However, the city’s magnificent harbor, its fine business reputation, and its cosmopolitan atmosphere attracted people from the northern part of the state, from New Jersey, from New England, and even from Ireland. Two hundred foreigners were naturalized in New York the first year after the war. The Friendly Sons of St. Patrick was organized by Irish Catholics—and Presbyterians. Unlike the British, eighteenth-century Americans accepted Catholics at face value.
The Epic of New York City Page 20
