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 governor, and which has
ever since remained in the possession of his descendants.[56]
It was a pleasant and goodly sight to witness the
joy of the people of New Amsterdam at beholding their
warriors once more return 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 holiday
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
the art of war. 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,
“Hardkoppig Piet forever!”
It was indeed a day of roaring rout and jubilee.
A huge dinner was prepared at the stadthouse in honor
of the conquerors, where were assembled, in one glorious
constellation, the great and 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,
down to the lowest hanger-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
dulness. In short—for a city feast
is a city feast all over the world, and has been a
city feast ever since the creation—the dinner
went off much the same as do our great corporation
junketings and Fourth of July banquets. Loads
of fish, flesh, and fowl were devoured, oceans of
liquor drunk, thousands of pipes smoked, and many a
dull joke honored 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 achievements, that they unanimously
honored him with the name of Pieter de Groodt; that
is to say, Peter the Great; or, as it was translated
into English by the people of New Amsterdam, for the
benefit of their New England visitors, Piet de pig—an
appellation which he maintained even unto the day
of his death.
[56] This castle, though very much
altered, and modernized, is
still
in being and stands at the corner of Pearl Street,
facing
Coentie’s
Slip.
BOOK VII.
