The Epic of New York City (29 page)

Now the entire city was held by the British, who continued to occupy it for the next 7 years. Only about 3,000 civilians were left when the king's troops took over, most people having fled. Now British and German soldiers swarmed in, along with Tories from the countryside and other colonies. They soon boosted the population to 33,000. One loyalist wrote that New York was “a most dirty, desolate and wretched place.” It had been dug up by the Americans for defense, shelled by British warships, and charred by fire. Slowly the city became the capital of Tory America, as well as Britain's greatest military base. Business boomed.

There was a great housing shortage. A cluster of shanties and tents, known as Canvas Town, arose amid the blackened ruins of the city. On the front doors of houses left standing after the fire, officials painted
G. R.
, for George Rex, meaning that they were commandeered in the king's name. The families of British and German servicemen poured into town. Added to these was the usual horde of prostitutes. An Englishman visiting St. Paul's Chapel, which survived the fire, wrote: “This is a very neat church and some of the handsomest and best-dressed ladies I have ever seen in America. I believe most of them are whores.” A trader, named Jackson, contracted to supply 3,500 women to entertain His Majesty's troops in America and brought to New York doxies from England, as well as Negroes from the West Indies.

Rentals rose. Prices soared 800 percent. Food and firewood became dear. Profiteering, black-marketeering, smuggling, and graft
flourished. Everyone cheated everyone else. Some greedy men made quick fortunes. In fact, even Tories felt that the British might have won the war had it not been for the colossal graft of barracks masters, quartermasters, the commissary of artillery, the commissary of cattle, the commissary of forage, and the commissary of prisoners.

The countryside for a radius of thirty miles around the city became a no-man's-land, wherein irregulars from both armies raided and plundered and burned and killed. Because the slaughter of cattle was a common goal, the British marauders were called Cowboys, and the American guerrillas were known as Skinners.

Life's uncertainty bred a feverish gaiety. Manners and morals relaxed. British officers promenaded in glittering uniforms, drank heavily, fought duels, frequented taverns, celebrated the king's birthday, and promoted cricket matches, horse races, bullbaiting, boxing matches, and golf games. They escorted young ladies to dances, balls, teas, receptions, and dinners. On December 7, 1767, David Douglass had opened the city's first real playhouse, the John Street Theatre, halfway between Broadway and Nassau Street. During their occupation of New York the British took over the theater, founded the Garrison Dramatic Club, and presented amateur theatricals. The social whirl reached its peak with the visit of seventeen-year-old Prince William Henry, the third son of George III, who later became King William IV. In New York he was saved from drowning while ice skating and met twenty-three-year-old Post Captain Horatio Nelson, destined for immortality as the hero of Trafalgar.

But the plight of the common people worsened, especially after another fire had consumed 300 more houses. Rich Tories and British officers held charity drives to alleviate the suffering, but almost no one worried about American soldiers cooped up in prisons around town. Given wretched food or none at all, they were jammed elbow to elbow and received no medical care. The worst of the makeshift jails were the prison ships. About 11,000 Americans, or more than the total killed by British muskets throughout the entire war, perished on these fetid vessels.

The Englishman in charge of the prisoners, Provost Marshal William Cunningham, was sadistic and greedy. As he lay dying in 1791, he confessed, “I shudder at the murders I have been accessory to, both with and without orders from the government, especially while in New York, during which time there were more than two
thousand prisoners starved in the different churches, by stopping their rations, which I sold.”

New York was occupied longer and suffered more than any other great American city. Of the Revolution's 308 battles and engagements, 92 took place in various parts of New York State, while 216 occurred in and around the other colonies. The war ended with the surrender of Lord Charles Cornwallis at Yorktown, Virginia, on October 19, 1781.

Victorious American troops did not reoccupy New York City until November 25, 1783. For decades afterward this was celebrated as Evacuation Day. During the preceding weeks nearly 15,000 frightened Tories shipped out of here, and into the vacuum rushed Americans eager to buy loyalist property at bargain prices.

According to the timetable agreed to by British and American forces, the king's men were to quit the city beginning at noon, November 25. Most people awakened early that historic day and noted with delight that the weather broke clear, if cold. A Mrs. Day who ran a boardinghouse on Murray Street near the Hudson River flew an American flag over her place. When this was reported to Provost Marshal Cunningham, he sent word that she was to take it down. She refused. About 9
A.M
., while Mrs. Day was sweeping in front of her door, Cunningham himself appeared in a scarlet coat and powdered wig. He commanded her to haul down the rebel flag. Again she refused. He seized the halyards to do the job himself; whereupon Mrs. Day took her broom and clobbered him until powder rose in a white mist from his wig and gore gushed from his nose. With his “front as red as his back,” Cunningham retreated. This was the last conflict of the war.

An hour earlier, at 8
A.M
., American light infantry reached Mc-Gowan's Pass in upper Central Park and closed in so near the British rear guard that officers on both sides could chat with one another. Then the British gave way, and the Americans followed as far as a barrier thrown across the Bowery, where they broke ranks and lounged about to wait. Shortly after the noon deadline the redcoats headed for the East River, stepped into rowboats, and were ferried out to the waiting British fleet. Now the Americans pushed all the way south and occupied the Battery fort.

Everybody was eager to see General George Washington, the man who had held the American army together by sheer willpower. He
had been waiting in Harlem. Now, escorted by a body of Westchester Light Horse, he rode down to the Bull's Head Tavern on the Bowery between Bayard and Pump (now Canal) streets. There he was greeted by a whooping crowd of townspeople, some on horseback, some afoot. When he tugged his horse's reins to start the final leg of his triumphal entry, they trooped along behind him. The procession wound up at Cape's Tavern at Broadway and Thames Street, where a reception was held for the commander in chief.

A young woman who witnessed Evacuation Day wrote:

Now Washington was ready to say farewell to his officers before heading toward his Mount Vernon home. The chosen place was Fraunces Tavern at Pearl and Broad streets. The date was December 4, 1783, a lovely winter's day. By noon the general's officers packed the Long Room, named for the Indian term for a council lodge. A few minutes later Washington entered, looking tired. Everyone stood up to greet him. He acknowledged the tribute with a nod of his be-wigged head and moved over to a linen-draped table holding a buffet luncheon. Nobody ate much. The booted officers ached at the thought of parting with the man who not only had led them to victory but also had refused a crown. Swords clanking and spurs jangling, they drifted about aimlessly. Washington accepted a glass of wine; but his strong fingers shook, and his head hung low. The men filled their glasses and stared dully at the ruby-colored wine.

Finally, Washington began speaking: “With a heart full of love and gratitude I now take my leave of you. I most devoutly wish that your latter days may be as prosperous and happy as your former ones have been glorious and honorable.” Washington raised his glass to his lips and drank the wine. The officers emptied their glasses.

As Washington put down his drink, his eyes filled with tears, and his iron will almost broke. In a choking voice he said, “I cannot—” He stopped and gulped, and his face was ashen. “I cannot come to
each of you, but I shall feel obliged if each of you will . . . will come and take me by the hand.”

There was a dead silence. All stood transfixed. Then a board creaked as 280-pound General Henry Knox, standing nearest Washington, swung his bulk toward his commander in chief. Knox's eyes brimmed with tears. He grasped Washington's hand. The two huge warriors stared deeply into each other's eyes and then, engulfed by memories of their years together, hugged each other. Washington kissed Knox on the cheek. Both wept. Neither said a word. Later, when Washington stepped aboard a barge at the Whitehall Slip, his jaw muscles throbbed convulsively.

Chapter 13

A
N
EARTHQUAKE
rocked New York in November, 1783, and jarred a man off his chair in lower Manhattan. A few months later John Jacob Astor strode onto the scene. This yellow-haired butcher boy from Germany took up where nature left off, for he shook the city and nation in his own titanic way. He became the so-called landlord of New York, manipulated the city government for his own purposes, and wound up the richest man in America.

Handsome and square-jawed and a smooth talker despite his broken English, Astor was twenty-one when he landed in the city that spring of 1784. Born eight miles from Heidelberg in a sleepy place, called Walldorg, or Village in the Woods, he was the fifth
child of a German butcher. The family name was spelled variously as Ashdour, Aschtor, Ashdoor, and Ashdor. From his birthplace he emigrated to London to work for his brother George, who made musical instruments. He learned some English there, then continued to America with high hopes and seven flutes.

Another brother, named Heinrich, or Henry, already lived in New York. Henry had followed Hessian troops here to sell them provisions, and after the war ended, he changed from sutler to butcher. He was one of thousands of Germans who, genuinely liking the Americans they had been taught to hate, elected to remain in the New World after the Revolution. Henry wanted to hire his younger brother to stick pigs, but the lad had greater ambitions.

Jacob took a job as a helper to a German baker in Pearl Street, trotting up and down Broadway, sidestepping stray swine and balancing a tray of cakes on his hand. It was the fur trade, however, that really interested him. Soon Jacob went to work for a Quaker fur merchant, flogging moths out of stored pelts. Astor got in on the ground floor of a booming business, for the interruption of the fur trade during the war had boosted prices abroad. A beaverskin bought from an Indian in upper New York for $1 sold in London for $6.25.

The year of Astor's arrival this city became the state capital, the colony of New York having changed into the state of New York after a state constitution had been adopted in 1777. Except for five sessions, New York City served as the seat of state government until Albany became the capital in 1796. City affairs, formerly controlled by the British, now fell into the hands of the new state. George Clinton, New York's first American governor, appointed James Duane the city's first mayor after the Revolution. Duane was a rich man, whose house on Pine Street had been nearly destroyed during the British occupation. However, no damage was done to his country estate near the present Gramercy Park. The name of this park is said to be derived from Krom Moerasje, or Crooked Little Swamp, formed by Cedar Creek, which once flowed from Madison Square to the East River.