University of Virginia Library

7. CHAP. VII.

“Now had the Dutchmen snatch'd a huge repast,”
and finding themselves wonderfully encouraged
and animated thereby, prepared to take the
field. Expectation, says a faithful matter of fact
dutch poet, whose works were unfortunately destroyed
in the conflagration of the Alexandrian
library—Expectation now stood on stilts. The
world forgot to turn round, or rather stood still, that
it might witness the affray; like a fat round bellied
alderman, watching the combat of two chivalric
flies upon his jerkin. The eyes of all mankind, as
usual in such cases, were turned upon Fort Christina.
The sun, like a little man in a crowd, at a
puppet shew, scampered about the heavens, popping
his head here and there, and endeavouring to get a
peep between the unmannerly clouds, that obtruded
themselves in his way. The historians filled their inkhorns—the
poets went without their dinners, either
that they might buy paper and goose-quills, or because
they could not get any thing to eat—antiquity
scowled sulkily out of its grave, to see itself outdone—while

even posterity stood mute, gazing in
gaping extacy of retrospection, on the eventful field!

The immortal deities, who whilome had seen
service at the “affair” of Troy—now mounted
their feather-bed clouds, and sailed over the plain,
or mingled among the combatants in different disguises,
all itching to have a finger in the pie. Jupiter
sent off his thunderbolt to a noted coppersmiths,
to have it furbished up for the direful
occasion. Venus, swore by her chastity she'd patronize
the Swedes, and in semblance of a blear
eyed trull, paraded the battlements of Fort Christina,
accompanied by Diana, as a serjeant's widow,
of cracked reputation—The noted bully Mars, stuck
two horse pistols into his belt, shouldered a rusty
firelock, and gallantly swaggered at their elbow, as
a drunken corporal—while Apollo trudged in their
rear, as a bandy-legged fifer, playing most villainously
out of tune.

On the other side, the ox-eyed Juno, who had
won a pair of black eyes over night, in one of her
curtain lectures with old Jupiter, displayed her
haughty beauties on a baggage waggon—Minerva,
as a brawny gin suttler, tucked up her skirts, brandished
her fists, and swore most heroically, in exceeding
bad dutch, (having but lately studied the
language) by way of keeping up the spirits of the
soldiers; while Vulcan halted as a club-footed blacksmith,
lately promoted to be a captain of militia.

All was silent horror, or bustling preparation; war
reared his horrid front, gnashed loud his iron fangs,
and shook his direful crest of bristling bayonets.

And now the mighty chieftans marshalled out
their hosts. Here stood stout Risingh, firm as a
thousand rocks—encrusted with stockades, and entrenched
to the chin in mud batteries—His artillery
consisting of two swivels and a carronade, loaded
to the muzzle, the touch holes primed, and a
whiskerd bombardier stationed at each, with lighted
match in hand, waiting the word. His valiant infantry,
that had never turned back upon an enemy
(having never seen any before)—lined the breast
work in grim array, each having his mustachios
fiercely greased, and his hair pomatomed back, and
queued so stiffly, that he grinned above the ramparts
like a grizly death's head.

There came on the intrepid Hard-koppig Piet,
—a second Bayard, without fear or reproach—his
brows knit, his teeth clenched, his breath held hard,
rushing on like ten thousand bellowing bulls of
Bashan. His faithful squire Van Corlear, trudging
valiantly at his heels, with his trumpet gorgeously
bedecked with red and yellow ribbands, the
remembrances of his fair mistresses at the Manhattoes.
Then came waddling on his sturdy comrades,
swarming like the myrmidons of Achilles.
There were the Van Wycks and the Van Dycks
and the Ten Eycks—the Van Nesses the Van

Tassels, the Van Grolls; the Van Hœsens, the
Van Giesons, and the Van Blarcoms—The Van
Warts, the Van Winkles, the Van Dams; the Van
Pelts, the Van Rippers, and the Van Brunts.—
There were the Van Horns, the Van Borsums,
the Van Bunschotens; the Van Gelders, the Van Arsdales,
and the Van Bummels—The Vander Belts,
the Vander Hoofs, the Vander Voorts, the Vander
Lyns, the Vander Pools and the Vander Spiegels.
—There came the Hoffmans, the Hooglands, the
Hoppers, the Cloppers, the Oothouts, the Quackenbosses,
the Roerbacks, the Garrebrantzs the Onderdonks
the Varra Vangers, the Schermerhorns,
the Brinkerhoffs, the Bontecous, the Knickerbockers,
the Hockstrassers, the Ten Breecheses and
the Tough Breecheses, with a host more of valiant
worthies, whose names are too crabbed to be written,
or if they could be written, it would be impossible
for man to utter—all fortified with a mighty
dinner, and to use the words of a great Dutch poet

For an instant the mighty Peter paused in the
midst of his career, and mounting on a rotten
stump addressed his troops in eloquent low dutch,
exhorting them to fight like duyvels, and assuring
them that if they conquered, they should get plenty
of booty—if they fell they should be allowed the

unparalleled satisfaction, while dying, of reflecting
that it was in the service of their country—and
after they were dead, of seeing their names inscribed
in the temple of renown and handed down, in
company with all the other great men of the year,
for the admiration of posterity.—Finally he swore
to them, on the word of a governor (and they
knew him too well to doubt it for a moment) that
if he caught any mother's son of them looking
pale, or playing craven, he'd curry his hide till he
made him run out of it like a snake in spring time.—
Then lugging out his direful snickersnee, he brandished
it three times over his head, ordered Van
Corlear to sound a tremendous charge, and shouting
the word “St. Nicholas and the Manhattoes!”
courageously dashed forwards. His warlike followers,
who had employed the interval in lighting
their pipes, instantly stuck them in their mouths,
gave a furious puff, and charged gallantly, under
cover of the smoke.

The Swedish garrison, ordered by the cunning
Risingh not to fire until they could distinguish the
whites of their assailants' eyes, stood in horrid
silence on the covert-way; until the eager dutchmen
had half ascended the glacis. Then did they
pour into them such a tremendous volley, that the
very hills quaked around, and were terrified even
unto an incontinence of water, insomuch that certain
springs burst forth from their sides, which

continue to run unto the present day. Not a
dutchman but would have bit the dust, beneath that
dreadful fire, had not the protecting Minerva kindly
taken care, that the Swedes should one and all,
observe their usual custom of shutting their eyes
and turning away their heads, at the moment of
discharge.

But were not the muskets levelled in vain, for
the balls, winged with unerring fate, went point
blank into a flock of wild geese, which, like geese
as they were, happened at that moment to be flying
past— and brought down seventy dozen of them—
which furnished a luxurious supper to the conquerors,
being well seasoned and stuffed with onions.

Neither was the volley useless to the musqueteers,
for the hostile wind, commissioned by the implacable
Juno, carried the smoke and dust full in
the faces of the dutchmen, and would inevitably
have blinded them, had their eyes been open. The
Swedes followed up their fire, by leaping the counterscarp,
and falling tooth and nail upon the foe,
with furious outcries. And now might be seen
prodigies of valour, of which neither history nor
song have ever recorded a parallel. Here was beheld
the sturdy Stoffel Brinkerhoff brandishing his
lusty quarter staff, like the terrible giant Blanderon
his oak tree (for he scorned to carry any other weapon,)
and drumming a horrific tune upon the heads of
whole squadrons of Swedes. There were the crafty

Van Courtlandts, posted at a distance, like the little
Locrian archers of yore, and plying it most potently
with the long bow, for which they were so
justly renowned. At another place were collected
on a rising knoll the valiant men of Sing-Sing, who
assisted marvellously in the fight, by chaunting forth
the great song of St. Nicholas. In a different part
of the field might be seen the Van Grolls of Anthony's
nose; but they were horribly perplexed in
a defile between two little hills, by reason of the
length of their noses. There were the Van Bunschotens
of Nyack and Kakiat, so renowned for kicking
with the left foot, but their skill availed them little
at present, being short of wind in consequence of
the hearty dinner they had eaten—and they would
irretrievably have been put to rout, had they not
been reinforced by a gallant corps of Voltigeurs composed
of the Hoppers, who advanced to their assistance
nimbly on one foot. At another place might
you see the Van Arsdales, and the Van Bummels,
who ever went together, gallantly pressing forward
to bombard the fortress—but as to the Gardeniers
of Hudson, they were absent from the battle, having
been sent on a marauding party, to lay waste
the neighbouring water-melon patches. Nor must
I omit to mention the incomparable atchievement
of Antony Van Corlear, who, for a good quarter of
an hour waged horrid fight with a little pursy
Swedish drummer, whose hide he drummed most
magnificently; and had he not come into the battle
with no other weapon but his trumpet, would infallibly
have put him to an untimely end.

But now the combat thickened—on came the
mighty Jacobus Varra Vanger and the fighting men
of the Wael Bogtig; after them thundered the Van
Pelts of Esopus, together with the Van Rippers and
the Van Brunts, bearing down all before them—
then the Suy Dams and the Van Dams, pressing
forward with many a blustering oath, at the head
of the warriors of Hell-gate, clad in their thunder
and lighting gaberdines; and lastly the standard
bearers and body guards of Peter Stuyvesant, bearing
the great beaver of the Manhattoes.

And now commenced the horrid din, the desperate
struggle, the maddening ferocity, the frantic desperation,
the confusion and self abandonment of war.
Dutchman and Swede commingled, tugged, panted
and blowed. The heavens were darkened with a tempest
of missives. Carcasses, fire balls, smoke balls,
stink balls and hand grenades, jostling each other,
in the air. Bang! went the guns—whack! struck
the broad swords—thump! went the cudgels—
crash! went the musket stocks—blows—kicks—
cuffs—scratches—black eyes and bloody noses swelling
the horrors of the scene! Thick-thwack, cut
and hack, helter-skelter, higgledy-piggledy, hurley-burley,
head over heels, klip-klap, slag op slag,
hob over bol, rough and tumble!—Dunder

and blixum! swore the dutchmen, splitter and splutter!
cried the Swedes—Storm the works! shouted
Hard-koppig Piet—fire the mine! roared stout
Risingh—Tantara-ra-ra! twang'd the trumpet of
Antony Van Corlear—until all voice and sound became
unintelligible—grunts of pain, yells of fury,
and shouts of triumph commingling in one hideous
clamour. The earth shook as if struck with a paralytic
stroke—The trees shrunk aghast, and wilted
at the sight—The rocks burrowed in the ground
like rabbits, and even Christina creek turned from its
course, and ran up a mountain in breathless terror!

Nothing, save the dullness of their weapons, the
damaged condition of their powder, and the singular
accident of one and all striking with the flat instead
of the edge of their swords, could have prevented
a most horrible carnage—As it was, the
sweat prodigiously streaming, ran in rivers on the
field, fortunately without drowning a soul, the
combatants being to a man, expert swimmers, and
furnished with cork jackets for the occasion—but
many a valiant head was broken, many a stubborn
rib belaboured, and many a broken winded hero
drew short breath that day!

Long hung the contest doubtful, for though a
heavy shower of rain, sent by the “cloud compelling
Jove,” in some measure cooled their ardour, as
doth a bucket of water thrown on a group of fighting
mastiffs, yet did they but pause for a moment,

to return with tenfold fury to the charge, belabouring
each other with black and bloody bruises. Just
at this juncture was seen a vast and dense column
of smoke, slowly rolling towards the scene of battle,
which for a while made even the furious combatants
to stay their arms in mute astonishment—but
the wind for a moment dispersing the murky cloud,
from the midst thereof emerged the flaunting banner
of the immortal Michael Paw. This noble
chieftain came fearlessly on, leading a solid phalanx
of oyster-fed Pavonians, who had remained
behind, partly as a corps de reserve, and partly to
digest the enormous dinner they had eaten. These
sturdy yeomen, nothing daunted, did trudge manfully
forward, smoaking their pipes with outrageous
vigour, so as to raise the awful cloud that has
been mentioned; but marching exceedingly slow,
being short of leg and of great rotundity in the
belt.

And now the protecting deities of the army of
New Amsterdam, having unthinkingly left the field
and stept into a neighbouring tavern to refresh
themselves with a pot of beer, a direful catastrophe
had well nigh chanced to befall the Nederlanders.
Scarcely had the myrmidons of the puissant
Paw attained the front of battle, before the
Swedes, instructed by the cunning Risingh, levelled
a shower of blows, full at their tobacco pipes.
Astounded at this unexpected assault, and totally

discomfited at seeing their pipes broken by this
“d—d nonsense,” the valiant dutchmen fall in vast
confusion—already they begin to fly—like a frightened
drove of unwieldy Elephants they throw their
own army in an uproar—bearing down a whole
legion of little Hoppers—the sacred banner on
which is blazoned the gigantic oyster of Communipaw
is trampled in the dirt—The Swedes pluck
up new spirits and pressing on their rear, apply
their feet a parte poste with a vigour that prodigiously
accelerates their motions—nor doth the renowned
Paw himself, fail to receive divers grievous
and intolerable visitations of shoe leather!

But what, Oh muse! was the rage of the gallant
Peter, when from afar he saw his army yield?
With a voice of thunder did he roar after his
recreant warriors, putting up such a war whoop,
as did the stern Achilles, when the Trojan troops
were on the point of burning all his gunboats.
The dreadful shout rung in long echoes through
the woods—trees toppled at the noise; bears, wolves
and panthers jumped out of their skins, in pure
affright; several wild looking hills bounced clear
over the Delaware; and all the small beer in Fort
Christina, turned sour at the sound!

The men of the Manhattoes plucked up new
courage when they heard their leader—or rather
they dreaded his fierce displeasure, of which they
stood in more awe than of all the Swedes in Christendom—but

the daring Peter, not waiting for their
aid, plunged sword in hand, into the thickest of the
foe. Then did he display some such incredible
atchievements, as have never been known since
the miraculous days of the giants. Wherever he
went the enemy shrunk before him—with fierce
impetuosity he pushed forward, driving the Swedes,
like dogs, into their own ditch—but as he fearlessly
advanced, the foe, like rushing waves which close
upon the scudding bark, thronged in his rear, and
hung upon his flank with fearful peril. One desperate
Swede, who had a mighty heart, almost as
large as a pepper corn, drove his dastard sword
full at the hero's heart. But the protecting power
that watches over the safety of all great and good
men turned aside the hostile blade, and directed it
to a large side pocket, where reposed an enormous
Iron Tobacco Box, endowed like the shield of
Achilles with supernatural powers—no doubt in
consequence of its being piously decorated with a
portrait of the blessed St. Nicholas. Thus was
the dreadful blow repelled, but not without occasioning
to the great Peter a fearful loss of wind.

Like as a furious bear, when gored by worrying
curs, turns fiercely round, shews his dread teeth,
and springs upon the foe, so did our hero turn upon
the treacherous Swede. The miserable varlet
sought in flight, for safety—but the active Peter,
seizing him by an immeasurable queue, that dangled

from his head—“Ah Whoreson Caterpillar!”
roared he, “here is what shall make dog's meat of
thee!” So saying he whirled his trusty sword, and
made a blow, that would have decapitated him, had
he, like Briareus, half a hundred heads, but that the
pitying steel struck short and shaved the queue forever
from his crown. At this very moment a cunning
arquebusier, perched on the summit of a neighbouring
mound, levelled his deadly instrument, and
would have sent the gallant Stuyvesant, a wailing
ghost to haunt the Stygian shore—had not the
watchful Minerva, who had just stopped to tie up
her garter, saw the great peril of her favourite chief,
and dispatched old Boreas with his bellows; who
in the very nick of time, just as the direful match
descended to the pan, gave such a lucky blast, as
blew all the priming from the touch hole!

Thus waged the horrid fight—when the stout
Risingh, surveying the battle from the top of a little
ravelin, perceived his faithful troops, banged, beaten
and kicked by the invincible Peter. Language
cannot describe the choler with which he was seized
at the sight—he only stopped for a moment to
disburthen himself of five thousand anathemas;
and then drawing his immeasurable cheese toaster,
straddled down to the field of combat, with some
such thundering strides, as Jupiter is said by old
Hesiod to have taken, when he strode down the
spheres, to play off his sky rockets at the Titans.

No sooner did these two rival heroes come face
to face, than they each made a prodigious start of
fifty feet, (flemish measure) such as is made by
your most experienced stage champions. Then
did they regard each other for a moment, with
bitter aspect, like two furious ram cats, on the very
point of a clapper clawing. Then did they throw
themselves in one attitude, then in another, striking
their swords on the ground, first on the right side,
then on the left, at last at it they went, like five
hundred houses on fire! Words cannot tell the
prodigies of strength and valour, displayed in this
direful encounter—an encounter, compared to
which the far famed battles of Ajax with Hector,
of Eneas with Turnus, Orlando with Rodomont,
Guy of Warwick with Colbrand the Dane, or of
that renowned Welsh Knight Sir Owen of the
mountains with the giant Guylon, were all gentle
sports and holliday recreations. At length the
valiant Peter watching his opportunity, aimed a
fearful blow with the full intention of cleaving his
adversary to the very chine; but Risingh nimbly
raising his sword, warded it off so narrowly, that
glancing on one side, it shaved away a huge canteen
full of fourth proof brandy, that he always carried
swung on one side; thence pursuing its tranchant
course, it severed off a deep coat pocket, stored
with bread and cheese—all which dainties rolling
among the armies, occasioned a fearful scrambling
between the Swedes and Dutchmen, and made the

general battle to wax ten times more furious than
ever.

Enraged to see his military stores thus woefully
laid waste, the stout Risingh collecting all his forces,
aimed a mighty blow, full at the hero's crest. In
vain did his fierce little cocked hat oppose its course;
the biting steel clove through the stubborn ram
beaver, and would infallibly have cracked his gallant
crown, but that the scull was of such adamantine
hardness that the brittle weapon shivered into five
and twenty pieces, shedding a thousand sparks,
like beams of glory, round his grizly visage.

Stunned with the blow the valiant Peter reeled,
turned up his eyes and beheld fifty thousand suns,
besides moons and stars, dancing Scotch reels about
the firmament—at length, missing his footing, by
reason of his wooden leg, down he came, on his
seat of honour, with a crash that shook the surrounding
hills, and would infallibly have wracked
his anatomical system, had he not been received
into a cushion softer than velvet, which providence,
or Minerva, or St. Nicholas, or some kindly cow,
had benevolently prepared for his reception.

The furious Risingh, in despight of that noble
maxim, cherished by all true knights, that “fair
play is a jewel,” hastened to take advantage of the
hero's fall; but just as he was stooping to give the
fatal blow, the ever vigilant Peter bestowed him a
sturdy thwack over the sconce, with his wooden leg,

that set some dozen chimes of bells ringing triple
bob-majors in his cerebellum. The bewildered
Swede staggered with the blow, and in the mean
time the wary Peter, espying a pocket pistol lying
hard by (which had dropped from the wallet of his
faithful squire and trumpeter Van Corlear during
his furious encounter with the drummer) discharged
it full at the head of the reeling Risingh—Let not
my reader mistake—it was not a murderous weapon
loaded with powder and ball, but a little sturdy
stone pottle, charged to the muzzle with a double
dram of true dutch courage, which the knowing Van
Corlear always carried about him by way of replenishing
his valour. The hideous missive sung through
the air, and true to its course, as was the mighty
fragment of a rock, discharged at Hector by bully
Ajax, encountered the huge head of the gigantic
Swede with matchless violence.

This heaven directed blow decided the eventful
battle. The ponderous pericranium of general Jan
Risingh sunk upon his breast; his knees tottered
under under him; a deathlike torpor seized upon
his Titan frame, and he tumbled to the earth with
such tremendous violence, that old Pluto started
with affright, lest he should have broken through
the roof of his infernal palace.

His fall, like that of Goliah, was the signal for
defeat and victory—The Swedes gave way—the
Dutch pressed forward; the former took to their

heels, the latter hotly pursued—Some entered with
them, pell mell, through the sally port—others
stormed the bastion, and others scrambled over the
curtain. Thus in a little while the impregnable
fortress of Fort Christina, which like another Troy
had stood a siege of full ten hours, was finally carried
by assault, without the loss of a single man on
either side. Victory in the likeness of a gigantic
ox fly, sat perched upon the little cocked hat of the
gallant Stuyvesant, and it was universally declared,
by all the writers, whom he hired to write the history
of his expedition, that on this memorable day
he gained a sufficient quantity of glory to immortalize
a dozen of the greatest heroes in Christendom!