University of Virginia Library

CHRONICLE II.

The next period at which we find this venerable and eventful
pile rising into importance, was during the dark and troublous
time of the revolutionary war. It was the keep or stronghold of
Jacob Van Tassel, a valiant Dutchman of the old stock of Van
Tassels, who abound in Westchester County. The name, as
originally written, was Van Texel, being derived from the Texel
in Holland, which gave birth to that heroic line.

The Roost stood in the very heart of what at that time was
called the debatable ground, lying between the British and American
lines. The British held possession of the city and island of
New York; while the Americans drew up towards the Highlands,
holding their head-quarters at Peekskill. The intervening country
from Croton River to Spiting Devil Creek was the debatable
ground in question, liable to be harried by friend and foe, like
the Scottish borders of yore.

It is a rugged region; full of fastnesses. A line of rocky
hills extends through it like a backbone, sending out ribs on
either side; but these rude hills are for the most part richly
wooded, and inclose little fresh pastoral valleys watered by the
Neperan, the Pocantico,[3] and other beautiful streams, along which
the Indians built their wigwams in the olden time.

In the fastnesses of these hills, and along these valleys existed,
in the time of which I am treating, and indeed exist to the
present day, a race of hard-headed, hard-handed, stout-hearted yeomen,
descendants of the primitive Nederlanders. Men obstinately
attached to the soil, and neither to be fought nor bought out of

their paternal acres. Most of them were strong Whigs throughout
the war; some, however, were Tories, or adherents to the old
kingly rule; who considered the revolution a mere rebellion, soon
to be put down by his majesty's forces. A number of these took
refuge within the British lines, joined the military bands of refugees,
and became pioneers or leaders to foraging parties sent out
from New York to scour the country and sweep off supplies for
the British army.

In a little while the debatable ground became infested by
roving bands, claiming from either side, and all pretending to
redress wrongs and punish political offences; but all prone in the
exercise of their high functions, to sack hen-roosts, drive off cattle,
and lay farm-houses under contribution: such was the origin of
two great orders of border chivalry, the Skinners and the Cow
Boys, famous in revolutionary story; the former fought, or rather
marauded under the American, the latter under the British
banner. In the zeal of service, both were apt to make blunders,
and confound the property of friend and foe. Neither of them in
the heat and hurry of a foray had time to ascertain the politics
of a horse or cow, which they were driving off into captivity; nor,
when they wrung the neck of a rooster, did they trouble their
heads whether he crowed for Congress or King George.

To check these enormities, a confederacy was formed among
the yeomanry who had suffered from these maraudings. It was
composed for the most part of farmers' sons, bold, hard-riding
lads, well armed, and well mounted, and undertook to clear the
country round of Skinner and Cow Boy, and all other border vermin;
as the Holy Brotherhood in old times cleared Spain of the
banditti which infested her highways.

Wolfert's Roost was one of the rallying places of this confederacy,
and Jacob Van Tassel one of its members. He was eminently
fitted for the service: stout of frame, bold of heart, and like
his predecessor, the warrior sachem of yore, delighting in daring
enterprises. He had an Indian's sagacity in discovering when the
enemy was on the maraud, and in hearing the distant tramp of
cattle. It seemed as if he had a scout on every hill, and an ear
as quick as that of Fine Ear in the fairy tale.

The foraging parties of tories and refugees had now to be secret
and sudden in their forays into Westchester County; to make
a hasty maraud among the farms, sweep the cattle into a drove,
and hurry down to the lines along the river road, or the valley of
the Neperan. Before they were half way down, Jacob Van Tassel,
with the holy brotherhood of Tarrytown, Petticoat Lane, and
Sleepy Hollow, would be clattering at their heels. And now
there would be a general scamper for King's Bridge, the pass
over Spiting Devil Creek into the British lines. Sometimes the
moss-troopers would be overtaken, and eased of part of their
booty. Sometimes the whole cavalgada would urge its headlong
course across the bridge with thundering tramp and dusty whirlwind.
At such times their pursuers would rein up their steeds,
survey that perilous pass with wary eye and, wheeling about, indemnify
themselves by foraging the refugee region of Morrisania.

While the debatable land was liable to be thus harried, the
great Tappan Sea, along which it extends, was likewise domineered
over by the foe. British ships of war were anchored here and
there in the wide expanses of the river, mere floating castles to
hold it in subjection. Stout galleys armed with eighteen pounders,
and navigated with sails and oars, cruised about like hawks;

while row-boats made descents upon the land, and foraged the
country along shore.

It was a sore grievance to the yeomanry along the Tappan Sea
to behold that little Mediterranean ploughed by hostile prows,
and the noble river of which they were so proud, reduced to a
state of thraldom. Councils of war were held by captains of
market-boats and other river craft, to devise ways and means of
dislodging the enemy. Here and there on a point of land extending
into the Tappan Sea, a mud work would be thrown up,
and an old field-piece mounted, with which a knot of rustic artillerymen
would fire away for a long summer's day at some frigate
dozing at anchor far out of reach; and reliques of such works
may still be seen overgrown with weeds and brambles, with peradventure
the half-buried fragment of a cannon which may have
burst.

Jacob Van Tassel was a prominent man in these belligerent
operations; but he was prone moroever, to carry on a petty warfare
of his own for his individual recreation and refreshment. On
a row of hooks above the fireplace of the Roost, reposed his great
piece of ordnance; a duck, or rather goose gun of unparalleled
longitude, with which it was said he could kill a wild goose half
way across the Tappan Sea. Indeed there are as many wonders
told of this renowned gun, as of the enchanted weapons of classic
story. When the belligerent feeling was strong upon Jacob,
he would take down his gun, sally forth alone, and prowl along
shore, dodging behind rocks and trees, watching for hours together
any ship or galley at anchor or becalmed; as a valorous mouser
will watch a rat hole. So sure as a boat approached the shore,
bang! went the great goose gun, sending on board a shower of

slugs and buck shot; and away scuttled Jacob Van Tassel through
some woody ravine. As the Roost stood in a lonely situation,
and might be attacked, he guarded against surprise by making
loop-holes in the stone walls, through which to fire upon an assailant.
His wife was stout-hearted as himself, and could load
as fast as he could fire, and his sister, Nochie Van Wurmer, a redoubtable
widow, was a match, as he said, for the stoutest man in
the country. Thus garrisoned, his little castle was fitted to stand
a siege, and Jacob was the man to defend it to the last charge of
powder.

In the process of time the Roost became one of the secret
stations, or lurking places, of the Water Guard. This was an
aquatic corps in the pay of government, organized to range the
waters of the Hudson, and keep watch upon the movements of the
enemy. It was composed of nautical men of the river and hardy
youngsters of the adjacent country, expert at pulling an oar or
handling a musket. They were provided with whale-boats, long
and sharp, shaped like canoes, and formed to lie lightly on the
water, and be rowed with great rapidity. In these they would
lurk out of sight by day, in nooks and bays, and behind points of
land; keeping a sharp look-out upon the British ships, and giving
intelligence to head quarters of any extraordinary movement. At
night they rowed about in pairs, pulling quietly along with muffled
oars, under shadow of the land, or gliding like spectres
about frigates and guard ships to cut off any boat that might be
sent to shore. In this way they were a source of constant uneasiness
and alarm to the enemy.

The Roost, as has been observed, was one of their lurking
places; having a cove in front where their whale-boats could be

drawn up out of sight, and Jacob Van Tassel being a vigilant ally
ready to take a part in any “scout or scrummage” by land or
water. At this little warrior nest the hard-riding lads from the
hills would hold consultations with the chivalry of the river, and
here were concerted divers of those daring enterprises which resounded
from Spiting Devil Creek even unto Anthony's Nose.
Here was concocted the midnight invasion of New York Island,
and the conflagration of Delancy's Tory mansion, which makes
such a blaze in revolutionary history. Nay more, if the traditions
of the Roost may be credited, here was meditated by Jacob
Van Tassel and his compeers, a nocturnal foray into New York itself,
to surprise and carry off the British commanders Howe and
Clinton, and put a triumphant close to the war.

There is no knowing whether this notable scheme might not have
been carried into effect, had not one of Jacob Van Tassel's egregious
exploits along shore with his goose-gun, with which he thought
himself a match for any thing, brought vengeance on his house.

It so happened, that in the course of one of his solitary prowls
he descried a British transport aground; the stern swung toward
shore within point-blank shot. The temptation was too great to
be resisted. Bang! went the great goose-gun, from the covert
of the trees, shivering the cabin windows and driving all hands
forward. Bang! bang! the shots were repeated. The reports
brought other of Jacob's fellow bush-fighters to the spot.
Before the transport could bring a gun to bear, or land a boat
to take revenge, she was soundly peppered, and the coast evacuated.

This was the last of Jacob's triumphs. He fared like some
heroic spider that has unwittingly ensnared a hornet to the utter

ruin of his web. It was not long after the above exploit that he
fell into the hands of the enemy in the course of one of his forays,
and was carried away prisoner to New York. The Roost itself,
as a pestilent rebel nest, was marked out for signal punishment.
The cock of the Roost being captive, there was none to garrison
it but his stout-hearted spouse, his redoubtable sister, Nochie
Van Wurmer, and Dinah, a strapping negro wench. An armed
vessel came to anchor in front; a boat full of men pulled to
shore. The garrison flew to arms; that is to say, to mops, broom-sticks,
shovels, tongs, and all kinds of domestic weapons; for unluckily,
the great piece of ordnance, the goose-gun, was absent
with its owner. Above all, a vigorous defence was made with
that most potent of female weapons, the tongue. Never did
invaded hen-roost make a more vociferous outcry. It was all
in vain. The house was sacked and plundered, fire was set to
each corner, and in a few moments its blaze shed a baleful light
far over the Tappan Sea. The invaders then pounced upon the
blooming Laney Van Tassel, the beauty of the Roost, and endeavored
to bear her off to the boat. But here was the real tug of
war. The mother, the aunt, and the strapping negro wench, all
flew to the rescue. The struggle continued down to the very
water's edge; when a voice from the armed vessel at anchor, ordered
the spoilers to desist; they relinquished their prize,
jumped into their boats, and pulled off, and the heroine of the
Roost escaped with a mere rumpling of the feathers.

As to the stout Jacob himself, he was detained a prisoner in
New York for the greater part of the war; in the mean time the
Roost remained a melancholy ruin, its stone walls and brick chimneys
alone standing, the resorts of bats and owls. Superstitious notions

prevailed about it. None of the country people would venture
alone at night down the rambling lane which led to it, overhung
with trees and crossed here and there by a wild wandering
brook. The story went that one of the victims of Jacob Van Tassel's
great goose-gun had been buried there in unconsecrated
ground.

Even the Tappan Sea in front was said to be haunted. Often
in the still twilight of a summer evening, when the Sea would be
as glass, and the opposite hills would throw their purple shadows
half across it, a low sound would be heard as of the steady vigorous
pull of oars, though not a boat was to be descried. Some
might have supposed that a boat was rowed along unseen under
the deep shadows of the opposite shores; but the ancient traditionists
of the neighborhood knew better. Some said it was one
of the whale-boats of the old water-guard, sunk by the British
ships during the war, but now permitted to haunt its old cruising
grounds; but the prevalent opinion connected it with the awful
fate of Rambout Van Dam of graceless memory. He was a roystering
Dutchman of Spiting Devil, who in times long past had
navigated his boat alone one Saturday the whole length of the
Tappan Sea, to attend a quilting frolic at Kakiat, on the western
shore. Here he had danced, and drunk, until midnight, when he
entered his boat to return home. He was warned that he was on
the verge of Sunday morning; but he pulled off nevertheless,
swearing he would not land until he reached Spiting Devil, if it
took him a month of Sundays. He was never seen afterwards;
but may be heard plying his oars, as above mentioned, being the
Flying Dutchman of the Tappan Sea, doomed to ply between Kakiat
and Spiting Devil until the day of judgment.