ACTIVITY: Swimming
CASE: GSAF 1642.00.00
DATE: 1642
LOCATION: The incident took place at
Spuyten Duyvil, an inlet in the Hudson
River between Manhattan and The Bronx,
New York, USA.
NAME: Antony Van Corlear
DESCRIPTION: He was a trumpeter for
the garrison in New Amsterdam.
BACKGROUND
ENVIRONMENT: Upper Manhattan and
the Bronx were separated by only a
narrow tidal strait until the end of the 19th
century. This narrow, meandering, but
fast-flowing strait was the Spuyten Duyvil
Creek. In 1642, the usual way across the
creek during high tide was a ferry,
operated until 1673 by Johannes
Verveelen. During low tide it was often
possible for travelers to wade across the
creek, possibly the origin of the name
“Fordham” in the Bronx. New York's
waterfront sees about a five-foot variation
between low tide and high tide, and as
the tide came in and out there was often
a difference in water level between the
Hudson River and the East River, which
is affected by the slow and massive tidal
movements of Long Island Sound. This
differential created dangerous currents.
Spuyten Duyvil is now part of Riverdale,
in The Bronx.
TIME: Night
NARRATIVE: According to legend, in
1642 Peter Stuyvesant, Governor of New
Amsterdam, having learned of an English
expedition on its way to seize the colony,
ordered Van Corlear to rouse the villages
along the Hudson River with a trumpet
call to war. It was a stormy evening when
Van Corlear arrived at the upper end of
the island, and as no ferryman was
available Van Corlear vowed to swim
Antony Van Corlear
Spuyten Duyvil, from a 1776 map showing
the northern tip of Manhattan and Spuyten Duyvil.
© Global Shark Accident File, 2012 . All rights reserved. This report may not be abridged or
reproduced in any form without written permission of the Global Shark Accident File.
Note on border of this lithograph is 1860
across the river "in spite of the devil". He either drowned in the attempt or was killed by a
shark, possibly a bull shark.
In his book, McNamara’s Old Bronx, John McNamara also refers to this story.
“Popular legend has it that a messenger was dispatched from Fort Amsterdam to the Bronx mainland
for reinforcements, but high tides and treacherous current swept him away and he lost his life.
It was the Spite of the Devil that prevented the messenger from completing his mission."
© Global Shark Accident File, 2012 . All rights reserved. This report may not be abridged or
reproduced in any form without written permission of the Global Shark Accident File.
CHAPTER X.
Now did the high-minded Peter de Groodt shower down a pannier load of maledictions upon his
burgomaster for a set of self-willed, obstinate, factious varlets, who would neither be convinced
nor persuaded. Nor did he omit to bestow some left-handed compliments upon the sovereign
people, as a heard of poltroons, who had no relish for the glorious hardships and illustrious
misadventures of battle, but would rather stay at home, and eat and sleep in ignoble ease, than
fight in a ditch for immortality and a broken head.
Resolutely bent, however, upon defending his beloved city, in despite even of itself, he called unto
him his trusty Van Corlear, who was his right-hand man in all times of emergency. Him did he
adjure to take his war-denouncing trumpet, and mounting his horse, to beat up the country night
and day—sounding the alarm along the pastoral border of the Bronx — startling the wild solitudes
of Croton—arousing the rugged yeomanry of Weehawk and Hoboken — the mighty men of battle
of Tappan Bay—and the brave boys of Tarry-Town, Petticoat-Lane, and Sleepy-Hollow — charging
them one and all to sling their powder-horns, shoulder their fowling-pieces, and march merrily
down to the Manhattoes.
Now there was nothing in all the world, the divine sex excepted, that Antony Van Corlear loved
better than errands of this kind. So just stopping to take a lusty dinner, and bracing to his side his
junk bottle, well charged with heart-inspiring Hollands, he issued jollily from the city gate, which
looked out upon what is at present called Broadway; sounding a farewell strain, that rung in
sprightly echoes through the winding streets of New Amsterdam. Alas! never more were they to be
gladdened by the melody of their favorite trumpeter.
It was a dark and stormy night when the good Antony arrived at the creek (sagely denominated
Haerlem river) which separates the island of Manna-hata from the mainland. The wind was high,
the elements were in an uproar, and no Charon could be found to ferry the adventurous sounder of
brass across the water. For a short time he vapored like an impatient ghost upon the brink, and
then, bethinking himself of the urgency of his errand, took a hearty embrace of his stone bottle,
swore most valorously that he would swim across in spite of the devil (spyt den duyvel), and
daringly plunged into the stream. Luckless Antony! scarce had he buffeted half-way over when he
was observed to struggle violently, as if battling with the spirit of the waters. Instinctively he put his
trumpet to his mouth, and giving a vehement blast sank for ever to the bottom.
The clangor of his trumpet, like that of the ivory horn of the renowned Paladin Orlando, when
expiring in the glorious field of Roncesvalles, rang far and wide through the country, alarming the
neighbors round, who hurried in amazement to the spot. Here an old Dutch burgher, famed for his
veracity, and who had been a witness of the fact, related to them the melancholy affair; with the
fearful addition (to which I am slow of giving belief) that he saw the duyvel, in the shape of a huge
mossbonker, seize the sturdy Antony by the leg and drag him beneath the waves. Certain it is, the
place, with the adjoining promontory, which projects into the Hudson, has been called Spyt den
Duyvel ever since; the ghost of the unfortunate Antony still haunts the surrounding solitudes, and
his trumpet has often been heard by the neighbors of a stormy night, mingling with the howling of
the blast.
Nobody ever attempts to swim across the creek after dark; on the contrary, a bridge has been built
to guard against such melancholy accidents in the future; and as to moss-bonkers, they are held in
such abhorrence that no true Dutchman will admit them to his table who loves good fish and hates
the devil.
Such was the end of Antony Van Corlear — a man deserving of a better fate. He lived roundly and
© Global Shark Accident File, 2012 . All rights reserved. This report may not be abridged or
reproduced in any form without written permission of the Global Shark Accident File.
soundly, like a true and jolly bachelor, until the day of his death; but though he was never married,
yet did he leave behind some two or three dozen children in different parts of the country — fine,
chubby, brawling, flatulent little urchins, from whom, if legends speak true (and they are not apt to
lie), did descend the innumerable race of editors who people and defend this country, and who are
bountifully paid by the people for keeping up a constant alarm and making them miserable. It is
hinted, too, that in his various expeditions into the east he did much towards promoting the
population of the country, in proof of which is adduced the notorious propensity of the people of
those parts to sound their own trumpet.
As some way-worn pilgrim, when the tempest whistles through his locks, and night is gathering
round, beholds his faithful dog, the companion and solace of his journeying, stretched lifeless at
his feet, so did the generous-hearted hero of the Manhattoes contemplate the untimely end of
Antony Van Corlear. He had been the faithful attendant of his footsteps; he had charmed him in
many a weary hour by his honest gayety and the martial melody of his trumpet, and had followed
him with unflinching loyalty and affection through many a scene of direful peril and mishap. He
was gone for ever! and that, too, at a moment when every mongrel cur was skulking from his side.
This, Peter Stuyvesant, was the moment to try thy fortitude; and this was the moment when thou
didst indeed shine forth—Peter the Headstrong!
The glare of day had long dispelled the horrors of the stormy night; still all was dull and gloomy.
The late jovial Apollo hid his face behind lugubrious clouds, peeping out now and then for an
instant, as if anxious, yet fearful, to see what was going on in his favorite city. This was the
eventful morning when the Great Peter was to give his reply to the summons of the invaders.
Already was he closeted with his privy council, sitting in grim state, brooding over the fate of his
favorite trumpeter, and anon boiling with indignation as the insolence of his recreant burgomasters
flashed upon his mind. While in this state of irritation, a courier arrived in all haste from Winthrop,
the subtle governor of Connecticut, counseling him, in the most affectionate and disinterested
manner, to surrender the province, and magnifying the dangers and calamities to which a refusal
would subject him. What a moment was this to intrude officious advice upon a man who never
took advice in his whole life! The fiery old governor strode up and down the chamber with a
vehemence that made the bosoms of his councillors to quake with awe; railing at his unlucky fate,
that thus made him the constant butt of factious subjects and jesuitical advisers.
SOURCE: Knickerbocker's History of New York by Washington Irving,
http://www.gutenberg.org/files/13042/13042-h/13042-h.htm
© Global Shark Accident File, 2012 . All rights reserved. This report may not be abridged or
reproduced in any form without written permission of the Global Shark Accident File.