University of Virginia Library

8. CHAP. VIII.

Thanks to St. Nicholas! I have fairly got
through this tremendous battle: let us sit down,
my worthy reader, and cool ourselves, for truly I
am in a prodigious sweat and agitation—Body o'me,
but this fighting of battles is hot work! And if your
great commanders, did but know what trouble they
give their historians, they would not have the conscience
to atchieve so many horrible victories. I
already hear my reader complaining, that throughout
all this boasted battle, there is not the least
slaughter, nor a single individual maimed, if we
except the unhappy Swede, who was shorn of his
queue by the tranchant blade of Peter Stuyvesant—
all which is a manifest outrage on probability, and
highly injurious to the interest of the narrative.

For once I candidly confess my captious reader
has some grounds for his murmuring—But though
I could give a variety of substantial reasons for not
having deluded my whole page with blood, and
swelled the cadence of every sentence with dying
groans, yet I will content myself with barely mentioning

one; which if it be not sufficient to satisfy
every reasonable man on the face of the earth, I
will consent that my book shall be cast into the
flames—The simple truth then is this, that on consulting
every history, manuscript and tradition,
which relates to this memorable, though long forgotten
battle, I cannot find that a single man was killed,
or even wounded, throughout the whole affair!

My readers, if they have any bowels, must easily
feel the distressing situation in which I was placed.
I had already promised to furnish them with a
hideous and unparalleled battle—I had made incredible
preparations for the same—and had moreover
worked myself up into a most warlike and
blood-thirsty state of mind—my honour, as a historian,
and my feelings, as a man of spirit, were
both too deeply engaged in the business, to back
out. Beside, I had transported a great and powerful
force of warriors from the Nederlandts, at vast
trouble and expense, and I could not reconcile it to
my own conscience, or to that reverence which I
entertain for them, and their illustrious descendants,
to have suffered them to return home, like a renowned
British expedition—with a flea in their
ears.

How to extract myself from this dilemma was
truly perplexing. Had the inexorable fates only allowed
me half a dozen dead men, I should have
been contented, for I would have made them such

heroes as abounded in the olden time, but whose
race is now unfortunately extinct. Men, who, if
we may believe those authentic writers, the poets,
could drive great armies like sheep before them,
and conquer and desolate whole cities by their single
arm. I'd have given every mother's son of
them as many lives as a cat, and made them die
hard, I warrant you.

But seeing that I had not a single carcass at my
disposal, all that was left for me, was to make the
most I could of my battle, by means of kicks and
cuffs, and bruises—black eyes, and bloody noses,
and such like ignoble wounds. My greatest difficulty
however, was, when I had once put my warriors
in a passion, and let them loose into the midst
of the enemy; to keep them from doing mischief.
Many a time had I to restrain the sturdy Peter, from
cleaving a gigantic Swede, to the very waist-band,
or spitting half a dozen little fellows on his sword,
like so many sparrows—And when I had set some
hundreds of missives flying in the air, I did not
dare to suffer one of them to reach the ground, lest
it should have put an end to some unlucky Dutchman.

The reader cannot conceive how much I suffered
from thus in a manner having my hands tied,
and how many tempting opportunities I had to
wink at, where I might have made as fine a
death blow, as any recorded in history or song.

From my own experience, I begin to doubt
most potently of the authenticity of many of Dan
Homer's stories. I verily believe, that when he
had once launched one of his hearty blades among
a crowd of the enemy, he cut down many an honest
fellow, without any authority for so doing,
excepting that he presented a fair mark—and that
often a poor devil was sent to grim Pluto's domains,
merely because he had a name that would
give a sounding turn to a period. But I disclaim
all such unprincipled liberties—let me but have
truth and the law on my side, and no man would
fight harder than myself—but since the various records
I consulted did not warrant it, I had too
much conscience to kill a single soldier.—By St.
Nicholas, but it would have been a pretty piece of
business! My enemies the critics, who I foresee
will be ready enough to lay any crime they can
discover, at my door, might have charged me with
murder outright—and I should have esteemed myself
lucky to escape, with no harsher verdict than
manslaughter!

And now gentle reader that we are tranquilly
sitting down here, smoking our pipes, permit me
to indulge in a melancholy reflection which at this
moment passes across my mind.—How vain, how
fleeting, how uncertain are all those gaudy bubbles
after which we are panting and toiling in this
world of fair delusions. The wealthy store which

the hoary miser has painfully amassed with so
many weary days, so many sleepless nights, a
spendthrift heir shall squander away in joyless
prodigality—The noblest monuments which pride
has ever reared to perpetuate a name, the hand of
time shall shortly tumble into promiscuous ruins—
and even the brightest laurels, gained by hardiest
feats of arms, may wither and be forever blighted
by the chilling neglect of mankind.—“How many
illustrious heroes,” says the good Boëtius, “who
were once the pride and glory of the age, hath the
silence of historians buried in eternal oblivion!”
And this it was, that made the Spartans when they
went to battle, solemnly to sacrifice to the muses,
supplicating that their atchievements should be
worthily recorded. Had not Homer tuned his
lofty lyre, observes the elegant Cicero, the valour
of Achilles had remained unsung.—And such too,
after all the toils and perils he had braved, after
all the gallant actions he had atchieved, such too
had nearly been the fate of the chivalric Peter Stuyvesant,
but that I fortunately stepped in and engraved
his name on the indelible tablet of history,
just as the caitiff Time was silently brushing it away
forever!

The more I reflect, the more am I astonished
to think, what important beings are we historians!
We are the sovereign censors who decide upon
the renown or infamy of our fellow mortals—We

are the public almoners of fame, dealing out her
favours according to our judgment or caprice—
we are the benefactors of kings—we are the guardians
of truth—we are the scourgers of guilt—we
are the instructors of the world—we are—in short,
what are we not!—And yet how often does the
lofty patrician or lordly Burgomaster stalk contemptuously
by the little, plodding, dusty historian
like myself, little thinking that this humble mortal
is the arbiter of his fate, on whom it shall depend
whether he shall live in future ages, or be forgotten
in the dirt, as were his ancestors before him. “Insult
not the dervise” said a wise caliph to his son,
“lest thou offend thine historian;” and many a
mighty man of the olden time, had he observed so
obvious a maxim, would have escaped divers cruel
wipes of the pen, which have been drawn across
his character.

But let not my readers think I am indulging in
vain glorious boasting, from the consciousness of
my own power and importance. On the contrary
I shudder to think what direful commotions, what
heart rending calamities we historians occasion in
the world—I swear to thee, honest reader, as I am
a man, I weep at the very idea!—Why, let me ask,
are so many illustrious men daily tearing themselves
away from the embraces of their distracted
families—slighting the smiles of beauty—despising
the allurements of fortune, and exposing themselves

to all the miseries of war?—Why are renowned
generals cutting the throats of thousands who never
injured them in their lives?—Why are kings desolating
empires and depopulating whole countries?
in short, what induces all great men, of all ages
and countries to commit so many horrible victories
and misdeeds, and inflict so many miseries upon
mankind and on themselves; but the mere hope
that we historians will kindly take them into notice,
and admit them into a corner of our volumes. So
that the mighty object of all their toils, their hardships
and privations is nothing but immortal fame—
and what is immortal fame?—why, half a page of
dirty paper!—alas! alas! how humiliating
the idea—that the renown of so great a man as
Peter Stuyvesant, should depend upon the pen of
so little a man, as Diedrich Knickerbocker!

And now, having refreshed ourselves after the
fatigues and perils of the field, it behoves us to
return once more to the scene of conflict, and inquire
what were the results of this renowned
conquest. The Fortress of Christina being the
fair metropolis and in a manner the Key to New
Sweden, its capture was speedily followed by the
entire subjugation of the province. This was not
a little promoted by the gallant and courteous deportment
of the chivalric Peter. Though a man
terrible in battle, yet in the hour of victory was he
endued with a spirit generous, merciful and humane—He

vaunted not over his enemies, nor did
he make defeat more galling by unmanly insults;
for like that mirror of Knightly virtue, the renowned
Paladin Orlando, he was more anxious to do
great actions, than to talk of them after they were
done. He put no man to death; ordered no houses
to be burnt down; permitted no ravages to be perpetrated
on the property of the vanquished, and
even gave one of his braves staff officers a severe
rib-roasting, who was detected in the act of sacking
a hen roost.

He moreover issued a proclamation inviting
the inhabitants to submit to the authority of their
high mightinesses; but declaring, with unexampled
clemency, that whoever refused, should be lodged
at the public expense, in a goodly castle provided
for the purpose, and have an armed retinue to wait
on them in the bargain. In consequence of these
beneficent terms, about thirty Swedes stepped manfully
forward and took the oath of allegiance; in
reward for which they were graciously permitted
to remain on the banks of the Delaware, where
their descendants reside at this very day. But I am
told by sundry observant travellers, that they have
never been able to get over the chap-fallen looks of
their ancestors, and do still unaccountably transmit
from father to son, manifest marks of the sound
drubbing given them by the sturdy Amsterdammers.

The whole country of New Sweden, having thus
yielded to the arms of the triumphant Peter, was
reduced to a colony called South River, and placed
under the superintendance of a lieutenant governor;
subject to the controul of the supreme government
at New Amsterdam. This great dignitary, was
called Mynheer William Beekman, or rather Beck
man, who derived his surname, as did Ovidius Naso
of yore, from the lordly dimensions of his nose,
which projected from the centre of his countenance,
like the beak of a parrot. Indeed, it is furthermore
insinuated by various ancient records, that
this was not only the origin of his name, but likewise
the foundation of his fortune, for, as the city
was as yet unprovided with a clock, the public
made use of Mynheer Beckman's face, as a sun
dial. Thus did this romantic, and truly picturesque
feature, first thrust itself into public notice, dragging
its possessor along with it, who in his turn
dragged after him the whole Beckman family—
These, as the story further adds, were for a long
time among the most ancient and honourable
families of the province, and gratefully commemorated
the origin of their dignity, not as your noble
families in England would do, by having a glowing
proboscis emblazoned in their escutcheon, but by
one and all, wearing a right goodly nose, stuck in
the very middle of their faces.

Thus was this perilous enterprize gloriously

terminated, with the loss of only two men; Wolfert
Van Horne, a tall spare man, who was knocked
overboard by the boom of a sloop, in a flaw of
wind: and fat Brom Van Bummel, who was suddenly
carried off by a villainous indigestion; both,
however, were immortalized, as having bravely
fallen, in the service of their country. True it is,
Peter Stuyvesant had one of his limbs terribly
fractured, being shattered to pieces in the act of
storming the fortress; but as it was fortunately his
wooden leg, the wound was promptly and effectually
healed.

And now nothing remains to this branch of my
history, but to mention, that this immaculate hero,
and his victorious army, returned joyously to the
Manhattoes, marching under the shade of their
laurels, as did the followers of young Malcolm,
under the moving forest of Dunsinane. Thus did
they make a solemn and triumphant entry into
New Amsterdam, bearing with them the conquered
Risingh, and the remnant of his battered crew, who
had refused allegiance. For it appears that the
gigantic Swede, had only fallen into a swound, at
the end of the battle, from whence he was speedily
restored by a wholesome tweak of the nose.

These captive heroes were lodged, according to
the promise of the governor, at the public expense, in
a fair and spacious castle; being the prison of state,
of which Stoffel Brinkerhoff, the immortal conqueror

of Oyster Bay, was appointed Lord Lieutenant; and
which has ever since remained in the possession of
his descendants.[17]

It was a pleasant and goodly sight to witness
the joy of the people of New Amsterdam, at beholding
their warriors once more returned, from
this war in the wilderness. The old women thronged
round Antony Van Corlear, who gave the whole
history of the campaign with matchless accuracy;
saving that he took the credit of fighting the whole
battle himself, and especially of vanquishing the
stout Risingh, which he considered himself as
clearly entitled to, seeing that it was effected by
his own stone pottle. The schoolmasters throughout
the town gave holliday to their little urchins,
who followed in droves after the drums, with paper
caps on their heads and sticks in their breeches,
thus taking the first lesson in vagabondizing. As to
the sturdy rabble they thronged at the heels of
Peter Stuyvesant wherever he went, waving their
greasy hats in the air, and shouting “Hard-koppig
Piet forever!”

It was indeed a day of roaring rout and jubilee.
A huge dinner was prepared at the Stadt-house
in honour of the conquerors, where were assembled
in one glorious constellation, the great and the

little luminaries of New Amsterdam. There were
the lordly Schout and his obsequious deputy—the
Burgomasters with their officious Schepens at their
elbows—the subaltern officers at the elbows of the
Schepens, and so on to the lowest grade of illustrious
hangers-on of police; every Tag having his
Rag at his side, to finish his pipe, drink off his
heel-taps, and laugh at his flights of immortal dullness.
In short—for a city feast is a city feast all
the world over, and has been a city feast ever
since the creation—the dinner went off much the
same as do our great corporation junkettings and
fourth of July banquets. Loads of fish, flesh and
fowl were devoured, oceans of liquor drank, thousands
of pipes smoked, and many a dull joke honoured
with much obstreperous fat sided laughter.

I must not omit to mention that to this far-famed
victory Peter Stuyvesant was indebted for
another of his many titles—for so hugely delighted
were the honest burghers with his atchievements,
that they unanimously honoured him with the name
of Pieter de Groodt, that is to say Peter the Great,
or as it was translated by the people of New Amsterdam,
Piet de Pig—an appellation which he
maintained even unto the day of his death.