New York State History

Falls House, Temple Hill, Vail's Gate, Knox Quarters, Moodna, Plum Point, Cornwall, Storm King.

If one shuts his eyes to the enticements to loiter, and blinders would be a most excellent part of the equipment for these parts if one must get somewhere, he will in due time come to Washington Square and the Falls house where, tradition says, General Armstrong wrote the Newburgh letters which gave Washington such opportunity to show how much of a man he really was. But the great interest of the place centers around its temporary occupancy by General-Governor Clinton. Clinton was in command at Fort Montgomery when he was elected to fill the highest office in the state. He posted up to Kingston to take the oath of office, and then back to the fort without delay.

When the fort fell he established his quarters in the Falls house and immediately began the task of collecting his scattered troops in the hope that he might reach Kingston ahead of the British and save the town, but in spite of his best efforts
he was a day late. Here occurred the trial and sentence of Daniel Taylor, spy, whom we have already hanged at Hurley. Away back in the days of the French and Indian wars the careless dress of the native troops led a certain English army surgeon to compose the song of Yankee Doodle in derision of the rough clothing of the militia, and as it was then so was it now. The Americans wore anything they could get, and captured British regimentals were donned when the blue and buff was not to be had. This was the undoing of Taylor, for seeing a company of men dressed in his native costume, and learning that they were commanded by Clinton (the English general of this name had just captured Fort Montgomery, and was in these parts), he calmly walked himself into trouble. His message was inclosed in a silver bullet, and when he discovered the mess he was in that bullet went down where the words come from, and even beyond. And here was where Doctor Higby came in and the bullet came out. Taylor was confined in a room on the ground floor in the north corner of the building; the staple driven into the doorway at that time for the purpose of securing the prisoner is still in place. In another room is a curious china closet, said to have been built by one of the soldiers, and painted red, white and blue. It is a curiosity in its way, evidently constructed by a man who was something of a cabinet maker and ingenious as well.

A half mile northwest at the first crossroads stands, on the southwest corner, a simple frame house that was assigned to LaFayette during his sojourn with the army here, but this bare fact is all I have concerning this bare house.

This last little excursion has taken us somewhat out of our course, and we must retrace our steps, past the Falls house to the point where the road for Vails Gate branches. This will cake us along the western slope of Temple Hill, past the old Samuel Brewster stone house, 1768, on the right, until we come opposite the monument which crowns the summit of the hill. Both on this slope and on that opposite, across the little valley of Silver Stream, the army lay encamped during the greater part of the years 1782-3, and in the woods across the brook are large heaps of stones which once formed the sides of the Winter huts which formed "the last cantonment of the American Army". According to a sketch made at the time by William Tarbell, private in the 7th Massachusetts Regiment, these huts were substantial creations, well adapted to withstand the blasts of a northern Winter, being built of stone up to the window sills, and of logs above. Old inhabitants still remember when these walls were waist high. They are mere heaps to-day, but the length of the ruins testify to the extent of the encampment; those on the eastern slope have disappeared entirely, but on the west the woods are full of them.

The monument which crowns the hilltop marks the site of the Temple. The Temple of Virtue it was to be called, but the orgies with which it was inaugurated made the descriptive part of the title so misleading that it was seldom or never used. The south front is adorned with a tablet which tells us that "On this ground was erected the 'Temple' or new public building, 1782-83. The Birthplace of the Republic". And on the west front we read "Omnia Reliquit Servare Republicam. On this site the Society of the Cincinnati was born May 10, 1783, at the last cantonment of the American Army; and it still lives to perpetuate the memories of the Revolution". Lossing describes the building from the lips of Major Burnet "as a structure of rough-hewn logs, oblong square in form, one story in height, a door in the middle, many windows and a broad roof". To quote again: "The spot is consecrated by one of the loftiest exhibitions of true patriotism with which our Revolutionary history abounds. There love of country, and devotion to exalted principles, achieved a wonderful triumph over the seductive power of self-love and individual interest, goaded into rebellion against higher motives by the lash of apparent injustice and personal suffering. It is, indeed, a hallowed spot; and if the old stone house at Newburgh is worthy of the fostering regard of the state because it was the headquarters of the beloved Washington, surely the site of the Temple, where he achieved his most glorious victory, deserves some monument to perpetuate the memory of its place and associations." This was written in 1851.

On the main road of Vails Gate, just east of the railroad crossing is the old Edmonston house, 1727, variously known as the Hospital and as St. Glair's headquarters. The old army map shows the hospital in an entirely different location, but Mr. Ruttenber states that this was a tavern and headquarters for the medical staff, and that probably accounts for its local appellation to-day. It seems that there is no evidence that St. Clair ever stopped in this vicinity, and just how the building came to be christened with his name is not explained. Eagers says that William Edmonston occupied the house during the Revolution, and that while, at the request of Washington, he was guiding the army to the camp ground under Temple Hill the soldiers dug up his potatoes and shot his fat hogs, and that his house was used for the storage of hospital supplies. The statement is made that it was in this building that General Washington was first introduced to the Marquis de LaFayette.

Vails Gate was formerly known as Tookers Gate for the same reason; tollgate kept by Tooker, then Vail.

And now we come to the most interesting house between Newburgh and West Point, which, thanks be, has fallen into good, appreciative hands: The John Ellison house, Knox headquarters. The building stands south of, and with its back to, the present road, but this is accounted for by the early maps which show it on the north side of the highway, where its hospitable front door could readily be reached by the traveller. Thomas Ellison was the first of the name in the New Windsor neighborhood. An article in the Magazine of American History states that he built both this and the house on the river bank at New Windsor, known as the Washington headquarters, where a council of war was held June 12, 1781, during the last days of the general's occupancy of the house.

It is thought probable that what looks like a frame addition to the house was the original building, as a fireback therein bears date 1735, while the stone part of the house is dated 1752. Ellison's bedroom was in the left end of this frame, and under the floor of this room is situated his vault, where were kept his money and valuable papers.

During the Knox occupancy a grand ball was given to the officers of the army; General Washington led the dance. Some of the small window panes were decorated with the names of certain of the belles of the ball by those young officers possessing diamond rings. Whether it was a case of sentiment or a desire to show that their jewelry was true blue, they neglected to state, and this most important matter will probably always remain a mystery. These precious squares of glass are said to have been removed by the last Ellison who inhabited the house, taken from the only place where they mean anything.

The garret stairs are as original as was the first steamboat; they make stairs practical where ordinarily only a ladder could be used It is hinted that there are secret hiding places about the building, not all of which have been discovered. There is enough material in the chimney which furnishes fireplaces for the various rooms to build a moderate-sized house; it is full of cupboards, both great and small, and the walk around its circumference on the cellar floor is something of a journey.

Now if we take the road on the right it will be but a brief space before the Moodna is crossed. There was a time when this was Murderers' Creek, but in the course of time N. P. Willis came this way and in the vastness of his wisdom saw fit to change the name which meant something to one which meant nothing, and unfortunately the change stuck. Who reads N. P. Willis these days, anyway?

What Mr. Ruttenber calls a piece of harmless fiction is the story attached to the Samuel Brewster frame house at Moodna, on the west side of the road and just south of the creek. The story is to the effect that the "Holland Loan" was stored in a vault here under guard, being used to pay off the soldiers. About January, 1782, the States of Holland loaned five millions of guilders to France on behalf of the United States, the stock being subscribed in one day by the thrifty Dutchmen, and it is claimed that this sum, in specie, after having been brought from the other side, was transported under guard across the country to New Windsor. Mr. Ruttenber thinks this improbable, but he has a half recollection of having read somewhere that $250,000 was sent over from Boston to the paymaster here. In those days the usual route of travel was across the Hudson from Fishkill to New Windsor, "and it seems probable that it was taken to the Brewster House, as he was the sturdy Chairman of the Committee of Safety of New Windsor". Mr. Ruttenber further says that he does not know how or when the tradition started and only one of the several local histories refers to it. There was such a loan, and there was a vault in the Brewster house, and on these two legs the story stands. This house, built by Samuel Brewster in 1755, is sometimes called LaFayette's headquarters, though for what reason I have failed to discover. The Brewsters came from Long Island, and Samuel, who is spoken of as a college graduate, erected a rude forge just below the above house. By the time of the Revolution it had become a large forge, for those days, with a water-wheel and triphammer. This site is now marked by a boulder bearing a tablet which calls attention to the fact that the forge was used in the construction of the great chain, built to prevent the passage of hostile ships up the river.

At the first opportunity I crossed back to the north side of Moodna Creek for a visit to Plum Point, on whose shores Captain Machin's Battery was intrenched for the purpose of protecting the line of obstructions which had been stretched from Polopel (Potladle) Island to the point. The earthworks are in a good state of preservation to-day, though overgrown with tall trees.

Plum Point, known to the Dutch as Couwanham's Hill, is the site of the first white man's cabin between New York and Albany. Patrick MacGregorie, a former companion in arms of Governor Dongan, was, shortly after he came to this country, invited by the latter to settle in New York, and accordingly selected this site. The newcomer served in the wars against French and Indians, and died, leaving, as he supposed, his widow comfortably fixed. But another arose who knew not the MacGregorie, and all the lands on which he had settled and so carefully cultivated were patented to Capt. John Evans, and the widow was compelled to sell out at a ruinous price, at least so she and her friends claimed.

Couwanham's Hill is now in the clutches of a brick concern, and will soon be a hole in the ground.

Along about now the sun dropped behind the hills, and I hied me to the protecting arms of Mrs. Carroll, who keeps the nearest approach to a hotel that Cornwall affords. The sunset clouds would have made a gorgeous yellow jacket for a Chinese Mandarin, but there was no Chinaman at hand and no practical use to put it to, so it stayed but a little while. The yellow reflections and black tree silhouettes in the still waters of the creek by the roadside were wonderful to behold.

Cornwall and its immediate vicinity has been the haunt of literary folk ever since N. P. Willis discovered the Hudson. At the edge of the Highlands its beauty and inspiration are enough to make a poet of a butcher boy. Canterbury is the older part of the village, though the maps usually ignore the name. About the only house that lays claim to the dignity of age is the Ring homestead, better known as the Sands place, because for some years David Sands, an early Friends' preacher, lived and preached in the house. During the Revolution it was occupied as a store, and at times served the purpose of a guard house. At the time of my visit the man who could have told all about it was not at home, but the woman who lives in the west end of the building informed me that the room she now uses as a kitchen was at one time occupied by Washington. For other information than this I was forced to be content with such scraps as the local histories afford, and little enough it is, for generally the place is dismissed with the vague statement that many historic memories cling about it. Possibly the literary lights prefer it so, as each can then clothe it with his own imagination. The house stands at the parting of the ways, for the Landing and for Newburgh, sharing the honors of the situation with the Soldiers' Monument which finds lodgment here.

The way south lies along a pleasant little stream which the maps neglect to name, but which should be the Stour, as Canterbury adorns its banks. The morning light glistening on its waters, the glimpses of homes through the trees and the Fall smell of burning leaves which perfumed the crispness, made very pleasant first impressions-so much so that the camera felt called on to make permanent a bit or two of these pleasing sensations. I find that the camera feels much as I do about all this sort of thing, though it sometimes has a dreary way of showing it later on.

By little and little the road mounts the foothills (we are to cross Storm King this morning) until finally it starts skyward in good earnest, and what glorious views to the north and west are framed in every opening through the foliage, woodland and hill, and the winding river. The road bends in toward the bowels of the earth to encompass a gully, and in doing so runs on a most unexpected bit of civilization. But soon we are out again, clinging to the face of the mountain with all the world at our feet; one glance of the eye covers the valley from which it has taken an hour or more to climb. We can see the little dots that people live in down in Canterbury and Orrs Mills, and even to the misty ranges of old Shawangunk beyond. With the sun squarely on the innumerable twigs of the leafless trees which mass the foreground it seemed as though the morning mist was still lying on the mountain side, through which the brown heads of the oaks and the dark green of the spruces pushed much as do the tophamper of the fishing boats through the low fog on the Banks.

As I stood came up from below the distant splash of falling water, or was it the wind in the trees? Whatever it was, the song was part of the picture. It is a place to stand and dream with half-closed eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the cool of the Autumn wind which is gently rustling the clinging oak leaves. A masterpiece that probably never looks twice alike, so many are the changes possible to the hand of the Master Artist.

Soon we are travelling along the side of Hurricane Hollow, whose suggestive name needs no explanatory legend, and right across the way from a little trifling mountain reservoir, if full of water (mudhole otherwise) is the Continental Spring, whose famed waters gave life to the soldier boys in their long and wearying marches over these mountain roads.

Now there is a steady jog of a mile or more over the divide, when, on a sudden, the valley of the Hudson and the southland bursts on the view. In the foreground is West Point, spread out like a map, and beyond, Constitution Island. The road soon loses itself again in the hills and the woods, seesawing back and forth down the steep descent, where the short cuts for the man on foot give him an advantage over even the space-consuming automobile.

When came a dainty little waterfall and i o'clock I thought of lunch, and dropping pack and camera soon found a place to nestle in leaves and sunshine. Overhead the wind stirred, now and then sifting down a leaf or two whose work was finished. The place was made for a noon siesta. A few ferns untouched by the frost livened the brown carpet of the woods, while the yellow straggles of the hazel blossoms turned the sun to substantial gold. Sandwiches and apples blend well with such a scene.

Down where a guide board in the middle of the road gives one the choice of Cornwall, West Point, Highland Falls or Central Valley, I turned to the left as one who seeks the seat of war learning should, and soon came upon my little brook again, whose tinkle had enlivened the nooning. Here it tumbles down a series of slender cascades into a reservoir, ending its beautiful life in doing good.