New York State History

Pastor Kocherthal, Katsbaan, John Jacob Astor, Saugerties, Devil's Cave, Plattekill Creek.

Keeping south to Katsbaan we miss a visit to West Camp. There are a few old houses here, but none of historic interest, although the early history of the place itself is more than interesting, for this was the west camp of the Palatines who came over in 1710. The greater number settled on the east side of the river, but their good pastor, Kocherthal, made his headquarters here, and this seems to have been the more important station. The father of Dominie Schuneman was one of this band of immigrants. Two or three hundred years ago the patriarchal rulers of Europe paid great attention to the road by which their subjects should travel to Paradise, and when any group of those subjects started cross-lots on a route of their own the good father was apt to go after them with a sharp stick. Thus the inhabitants of the Palatinate of Germany suffered much inconvenience because of their unwillingness to be converted in an orthodox manner, and finding the stake an uncomfortable method of exit, large bodies of them left the country without waiting for government assistance. Many of these found their way to England, where their straightened circumstances attracted much sympathy. Queen Anne made arrangements to send numbers of them to this country, where they bound themselves to work a certain length of time in the making of naval stores to pay for their transportation and keep. Thus it happened that West Camp was established.

Here is the grave of Joshua Kocherthal. It was his vigorous pleading that had much to do in influencing Queen Anne and her councillors to help his poor flock to the shores of the Hudson, and it was his counsel and help that kept the little colony together and helped it over the rough places, of which there were many. He was a very Moses for this wilderness band.

The tablet over Kocherthal's grave in the vestibule of the West Camp church is in Dutch. The following quaint translation is taken from Mr. Brink's book:-

"Know, traveller, under this stone rests, beside his Sibylla Charlotte, a real traveller, of the High Dutch in North America, their Joshua and a pure Lutheran preacher of the same on the east and west side of the Hudson River. His first arrival was with Lord Lovelace in 1709, the first of January. His second with Colonel Hunter, in 1710, the fourteenth of June. The journey of his soul to heaven on St. John's Day, 1719, interrupted his return to England. Do you wish to know more? Seek in Melancthon's Fatherland who was Kocherthal, who Harschias, who Winchen-bach."

This region, between Catskill and Kingston, appears to have been a sort of neutral ground during the days when the Indian was causing anxiety. In fact the only battle hereabouts that there seems to be even legendary record of was an exclusive Indian affair which occurred shortly before Hudson ascended the river, almost three hundred years ago, when the Mohawks swooped down on the river Indians and, after driving them from their stockade at the fork of the Catskill and Kauterskill, finally caught them in a ravine near the present Smith's Landing and subdued them after the usual hearty Indian fashion.

While doing all this talking of Palatines and Indians we have been jogging along to Katsbaan, and having arrived there learn from Mr. Brink's History of Saugerties, in which town this village is located, that in the first entry made in the church records of Katsbaan by Dominie Mancius, a German, the name is spelled Kaatsbaan, which is the German word for a tennis court, and the lay of the land here might suggest such a name. Baan is Dutch for haunt, resort, course or range, and as the region was infested with wildcats the name may have come from Kats Baan, meaning the haunt of the wildcat.
The first church here was erected in 1732, but it has been so much and so thoroughly improved that there is little enough of the old building left; only a bit of the rear wall, in fact. In 1780 the church received as its second pastor the Rev. Lamburtus De Ronde of New York. The reverend gentleman had been so pronounced in his criticism of the British that they sent him up the river to be rid of him. Then there was Dominie Doll, another Revolutionary patriot, who sometimes supplied the pulpit, as did also the Rev. Johannes Schuneman. These were the days when the activity of Brant with his Tories and Indians along the Catskills kept the whole community excited. But the uncompromisingly patriotic stand of the Dutch dominies resulted in making this region one of the foremost in patriotism.

The Dutch dominie occupied a unique position in these rural parts. He not only ministered to the spiritual needs of the community, but was as well its lawgiver and law enforcer. There were few if any lawyers, judges or courthouses. It was no uncommon thing for the church to be turned into a temple of justice on week days with the dominie for judge and his deacons for jurors, and the sentences they passed were executed; for the convicted prisoners there were stocks and a whipping post in front of the church door. New England by no means had a monopoly of the Blue Laws, for in these western wilds no one could ride on Sunday but to church, except "It shall be lawful for the Post, or any other person in his Majesty's service; or to bring a Physitian or Mydwife". The penalty for Sabbath breaking was three hours in the stocks, unless one had money with which to pay a fine, but money was not very ready in those days.

A knoll in the Katsbaan churchyard is said to be the best spot in the neighborhood from which to secure a view of the mountains, but the weather man did me a very unfriendly turn
during these late October days, and I was compelled to take my mountains largely on faith.

During the Revolution this was a great trade centre, "the location of a widely known country store, so widely known, in fact, that Burgoyne had selected Katsbaan as the site of one of his three camps between Albany and Kingston", the others being Kack's Hackey (Coxsackie) and Katskill (Leeds), but, as we all know, Burgoyne's plans did not work out. This was the store of Cornelius Persen (torn down in 1900), who, when the British held New York, hauled his merchandise from Philadelphia by the inland route. Here patriotic meetings were held during the war, and here soldiers were recruited for Saratoga-soldiers that helped to disarrange the British designs on Katsbaan. In later days the great fur trader of the country, John Jacob Astor, had his headquarters in the old store, where the trappers and hunters of the Catskills could barter furs for articles of more immediate use to them. Astor had his store on Broadway, New York. It is said that, in order to save expense, he was in the habit of carrying his bundles of furs on his back between the dock and his store. As a result of his willingness to work and ability to see a little further into a millstone than most men, his descendants of to-day do not find it necessary to make pack mules of themselves.

Persen's house still stands, while just across the highway from it runs one of those interesting limestone ledges-this one some twelve to fifteen feet high, and here dwelt in Persen's day, under the shelving rock at the southern end, an Indian whose Dutch nickname meant Night John. The white man was of a kindly disposition and had on various occasions befriended his red brother, and when Brant raided the region in 1780 this friendly Indian showed appreciation by giving Per-sen such timely warning that he was not only able to escape, but also had time to save his goods. The crack in the rock which served this Indian as chimney still shows the effects of fire.

Katsbaan is sadly lacking in one important particular, for, so far as this traveller knows, there is not a single Washington tradition in connection with any building within its precincts. However, the omnipresent Aaron Burr was a frequent guest at the hotel of Johannes Myer, then a noted hostelry on the King's Road. No doubt others quite as well known stopped as often, but Burr was one of the genial sort that everyone remembered.

Late October days turn in early, as I was of a sudden reminded when trying to take a last picture in Katsbaan-this time it was the stone track for heavy teaming which crosses the King's Road on its way from Maiden to the west. The thick slabs of stone are sometimes rutted inches deep by the continual grinding of the wheels of commerce. The man who originated this good-roads movement deserves a monument. Much the same scheme was tried a few years ago on Warren Street, New York, where it starts up to Broadway, only here a broad iron way was laid for the wheels, the centre being left of Belgian blocks in which the horses could grip, but for some reason the plan did not work.

The two miles or so into Saugerties was accomplished in the gloaming. If the lover of comfort would really appreciate his hearthstone he should try trudging an unknown country road in the dark of a chill Autumn evening. The cheer of a bright, comfortable interior is then brought home with redoubled force as one catches an occasional glimpse of enticement before the curtain is drawn.

Even he who is not in all things too superstitious can hardly help peering curiously into the dark places as he pushes through the shades of night along a strange and quiet country road. I am not much given to seeing things at night, but between certain lines of reading indulged in while preparing for this trip and certain conversations held along the way that have drifted into the beliefs of a hundred years ago, and winding up with stories of ghostly doings that were current facts when the narrators were young, I must admit that my pulse was quickened once or twice at some strange rustle in the nearby bushes, but no truly adventure came my way.

The negro slaves of the forefathers were responsible for a large part of this feeling and superstition. They endowed each spooky spot with an apparition of its own, and these were enlarged on during the long Winter evenings around the fireside, where young and old were gathered, until the children grew up saturated with stories of hobgoblins and wood sprites, so that the very sighing of the wind in the trees would send a shudder over the bravest, should he be descending some deep file in the forest, while a stray moonbeam has sent many a lone rider galloping for the open.

However, with nothing to do but walk and look for ghosts two miles is not much to dwell upon, and it was not long before I raised the lights of Saugerties and was entering the portals of the Exchange Hotel, whose base-burner heated office is a thing to remember.

Saugerties: "Little-sawyer". Some time before 1663 a sawmill was built at the mouth of the Saw Kill, thus giving name to the creek, the village and the town. No one knows who he was or whence he came; he was known as the "old sawyer", and as such we will let him rest. In due time one Barent Burhaus was the miller. He died about 1740, leaving a son William, whose daughter married John Brink, Jr., and her son, Andrew Brink, was captain of Fulton's Clermont on hei first successful trip up the river in August, 1807.

The old mill at the mouth of the creek has long since gone, but a bit higher up, and close to the River Road, stands the Terwilliger mill, itself older than the Revolution. The mill-pond on the western side of the road is fringed with swamp willows and maples, and backed by a glorious view of the Catskills, while on the other hand is a deep little ravine that makes necessary but a short dam, and beyond this as picturesque an old grist mill as one could ask. The march of improvement has stopped at the iron bridge by which the highway spans the creek, for down here, perched on the rocks, and half hidden among the trees, is a picture-making epoch such as one seldom sees, a long wooden sluice, spurting little cataracts by the way, conducts the waters to an overshot wheel such as must have ground the corn of the first settlers, while down below, the waters dance for very joy.

There are several interesting old houses in Saugerties, but beyond a few dry details I have not been able to glean much. As we come down the road from the old mill we find at the corner of Main Street the Egbert Schoonmaker homestead, 1762 and 1780, still in the family. This is the man who built our picturesque old Terwilliger mill, an elder in the Dutch church to whose efforts were largely due the very life of the church here which, with no pastor to guide it, was plunged in an ecclesiastical struggle that all but ended in disaster.

Over on the brow of the river with a far-reaching view of water and distant shore, stands the Myndert Mynderse house, I743> which bears a tablet in its front indicating that it was erected by two brothers Mynderse, as there are four sets of initials for the men and their wives. A filled-in doorway tends to confirm the impression that it was originally a two-family house, as our modern real estate man would put it.

Down under the hill on the bank of the Esopus are the crumbling ruins of the Post home. It is believed that the original name of this family was Lazier, but certain of its members in by-gone times were post riders, and this is said to account for the present name.
The dwelling place of Saugerties's first medicine man, Dr. Christopher Kirsted, who came here in 1773, is still standing. He was the only physician the town knew for many years. The house stands well back from the main street, a monument to the good doctor's eye for proportion.

As an inducement to leave this pleasant village of Saugerties the map provides a road skirting the western bank of the Esopus, and suggesting pleasurable landscape for the delectation of the traveller. It seemed hardly more than a step from town to country, and if one refuses to take the chances which were so fatal to Lot's wife he can readily imagine himself in some vast wilderness, for, beyond a boat or bath house at the water's edge, not a house is in sight, and hardly a cultivated field. The creek is flanked on either hand by low hills, while the road creeps up and down the face of its steep western bank, finding lodgment among the trees or on such little ledges as hold forth a helping hand. All is woods and water, with the cawing of an occasional crow to intensify the quiet.

As time goes on our way descends to lower levels, leaves the creek to its encircling hills and becomes a mere cart track bordering somebody's pasture lot without even the formality of an intervening fence.

Soon a pass in the hill offers an opportunity to climb out of the valley of our placid Esopus, and now the traveller is offered a delightful view of the mountains. Then comes a wire fence stretched across the way to inconvenience the cattle. Just here, if one is in the mood for exploration, a short walk over the knoll toward the south will discover Roaring or Devil's Cave, whereby a certain small brook known as Muddah Kill tunnels the hill, and in times of high water goes roaring all the day long.

Our inconsequential road soon comes to the railroad track, and offers a second wire fence to be climbed, after which comes the farmyard, and then we are on the King's Highway once more. One attempting this path from the other way could easily miss it, as to all apparent intents and purposes it is a farm lane to the barnyard.

The broad table land upon which we are now standing affords some grand views of the Catskills, both the Mountain House and that known as the Kauterskill are in full view, but he whose face is set toward the south must turn his back on all this grandeur, and, unless he be a schoolteacher with eyes in the back of his head, content himself with the lesser hills, except as an occasional turn in the road gives an opportunity to Bellamyize a bit.

Soon comes the village of Mount Marion, which, safely passed, leads on to the Plattekill and its old covered bridge, and here we will digress a moment for the sake of the oldest inhabitant. The first authenticated record of a settler is that of Cornelius Lambertsen Brink, the great, great, great, greatgrandfather of the present generation of Brink, who in 1688 acquired land where the Plattekill joined the Esopus, and here he built his house which, unfortunately, has been altered out of countenance by its present iconoclastic owner. This Brink was one of those captured at Wiltwyck by the Indians in 1663, and held in captivity for some three months before being rescued.