The Panorama of the Revolution
WHAT IF RIVERS COULD TALK? What if ancient creeks, crossed hundreds of years ago by tired feet, could bubble up in verse? What would make the skies speak again of battles that had happened as they watched, centuries ago? And do the hills around us remember all that they have seen? Whenever I ponder these questions, or questions like them, or whenever I just want to get out of my apartment for a while and poke around, I buy a ticket to the top of the Empire State Building — especially in the spring, when the city is just turning green. On a bright, clear day, when the sun shines on the still-green hills of Brooklyn, on the plains of Queens, and on the saltwater marshes of the Bronx and Staten Island and beyond, I ride to the top of the Empire State Building and, invariably, find myself looking out across the blaring, ship-dotted panorama that is New York Harbor to see the American Revolution.
I see it across wide rivers and small streams glistening in the warm-weather sun that shines on New York, New Jersey, and the coves of Long Island Sound that eventually become Connecticut. I see it beyond Dutch-named kills, and even past old paved-over creeks in the middle of Manhattan, vertiginously sited below me, though still in many ways a hill-carved island. I see it up toward the Bronx, in the gentle public housing-dotted hills, where both the British and the Americans would have waded across the creek called Mosholu, a word translated variously as "smooth stones or gravel" and "clear water" from the language of the Lenni-Lenape tribes native to the city. The Mosholu was known to troops on both sides of the eighteenth-century nation-establishing battle as Tibbetts Brook. Tibbetts Brook is still there today, less flowing than dumping into the Harlem River, and the stream that will not go away may spend a portion of its course from north to south inside a sewer built with a high-arched brick ceiling, an underground architectural feature that quietly quotes the classical world.
I have sometimes thought, in fact, that from the top of the Empire State Building the harbor is like the shield of Achilles, displaying the ocean-bound strait called the Narrows, off Staten Island, where, in 1776, the British sailed in with forty thousand troops, a forest of masts deckling the edge of Staten Island. Indeed, from the observation platform, the harbor is like a great poem or painting, extolling the East River, which Washington used to escape after being routed by the British out near the big old Brooklyn cemetery visible to the southeast. The harbor sings the story of the shore — near hills in the Bronx and Westchester, where, in subsequent clashes with the British, the Americans did not lose. The harbor sings, too, the story of the Hudson River near the George Washington Bridge, where the Americans did. For a few quarters, the coin-operated, high-powered binoculars sing the race of the newborn American army as it fled through New Jersey, across the marshes that today are demarked by an incinerator's towers, by power plants, by disused factories and big-box stores and the slow, sparkling pulse of the New Jersey Turnpike.
In this wide prospect, the vista is a great palimpsest of the Revolution, a painted-over canvas of ancient routes walked smooth or transformed into traffic-jammed highways, of colonial villages grown like weeds into great cities, such as Newark, Elizabeth, and New York. If I could zoom in on the backstreets of the old towns on the banks of the Passaic and Hackensack Rivers, I'd see the road markers, on utility poles and street signs, still demarking that 1776 escape: "The Retreat to Victory." And there is no need for a spyglass or zoom lens to see the New Jersey hills where the Continental troops held dances early one spring, and where, in 1777 and then again in 1779–1780, during the coldest winters known to New York and colonial Americans alike, men built huts and fires and waited out a deathly freeze. It was to these hills that these long-gone troops marched, starting from the Delaware River, which Washington had most famously crossed. As for the crossing itself, it happened at the outer edge of the circle one can see on a clear day from the Empire State Building, a day's march past a rise that I need binoculars to just make out from the observation deck.1 I know this hill from my own attempts to attack the Revolutionary landscape, as well as from ancient maps, where it is denoted as Remarkable Hill.
Because this is where it happened: the Revolutionary War, the newborn American military's struggle for independence, the nation's birth. Let Longfellow go on about Paul Revere's ride to Boston and thereabouts; let Emerson memorialize the shots that rang out at Lexington and Concord. It is within the view of the Empire State Building that the Revolutionary War was fought, and where the first president sat in a chair beneath a ceiling decorated with the moon and the stars and the sun.
Go ahead and take a look at a map of America. Find those first thirteen colonies, the original ones that declared their independence from the British crown on July 4, 1776, the colonies with names you memorized when you were a kid. Remember that Vermont was not yet a state, that Maine was still part of Massachusetts. Recall that there was a line down the left side of the about-to-be-a-nation that more or less followed the peaks of the Appalachian Mountains — an old mountain chain, incidentally, that once would have been among the tallest in long-ago geologic time, before being worn down by that winner of all wars: time. Certainly battles were fought in Canada; and we well know that the British finally surrendered on a peninsula of land in the area of Yorktown, Virginia, at the mouth of Chesapeake Bay.
But look closer to see where George Washington and his army spent their time, where exactly the majority of battles were lost and, less often, won. The action in the Revolution, it turns out, was centered in the area of Connecticut, New York, and Philadelphia, in a patch of territory that, as one contemporary historian has noted, takes about twenty minutes to fly over in a commercial jet — enough time for, say, pretzels and a Diet Coke. The resulting demarcation, if you draw it as a rectangle, blow it up, put it on TV, and stand a meteorologist before it, looks a lot like a local weather map, specifically those you see on news programs in and around New York. Indeed, if the landscape of the Revolution were a forecast, the weatherman would direct the viewer at home to the points of the compass and say: We've got the Hudson River valley dropping down from the north, and Connecticut and the Long Island Sound dipping in from the northeast, with a big blast of New Jersey, coming in like a storm from Chicago!
The land on this weather map is the very first Middle America. The Middle America we think of as middle today is not New York and not L.A. and sits at the center of the nation. Likewise, the Middle America that was middle in 1776 was not Williamsburg, Virginia, and not Boston, Massachusetts; it was a place in between. It was also middle in a number of other ways: a mix of cultural affiliations, of income levels, of jobs. There were speculators and fishermen in the cities, and farmers out in the New Jersey countryside, all fighting one another before the war with Britain even began — fighting with absentee landlords in England and Manhattan, fighting for rights having to do with religion and money. As opposed to New England, which was squeezed for arable land and in economic decline (farmers packing up, markets moving elsewhere); as opposed to Virginia, which was mostly in debt, the Middle Colonies were the land of economic opportunity — Pennsylvania was called "the best poor man's country in the world" — and the Middle Colonies' newly arrived immigrants crafted a definition of liberty that was characterized mostly by its expansiveness, by its disparate indefinability.
Boston has its Liberty Trail, and Virginia has Mount Vernon, where George Washington farmed and fished, ran a mill, and manufactured various kinds of alcohol. But the British were fought — and, to a large extent, avoided — in the Middle Colonies. Dozens of battles, all of them less well known than the Battle of Bunker Hill, took place in the area of New York; Connecticut and New Jersey were home to hundreds of skirmishes. And New York City itself was the place where Washington officially began the Revolution, as well as the place where it ended, on Evacuation Day, a day celebrated for a century and a half with parades and flags throughout New York City, though no longer. And then, when the war was over and a new government formed and a president inaugurated, that first president took up residence in a house on a plot of land that is today unmarked and frequented by skateboarders. If the Revolution itself were still being described on that local TV newscast, we'd have British troops coming in from Sandy Hook at the mouth of New York Harbor and moving up past Staten Island, with colonial regiments blowing down from New England, via the Hudson River valley and the Connecticut coast. For five years, we'd see the skirmishes between New Jersey loyalists and various New Jersey rebel militias, battles that, if they were denoted by a TV news icon, might be indicated by a persistent dark cloud.
And yet, this Revolutionary landscape is today not so much neglected as forgotten, or rushed by, its founding details mostly lost to constant inspection, trammeled by the machinations of business and real estate. Massachusetts lauds its Minutemen as patriots; in comparison, New Jersey and New York seem insecure, or less certain, despite some encouragement over the years. "I cannot but remember the place that New Jersey holds in our early history," Abraham Lincoln once said. He recalled being enthralled, as a child, by the story of the Revolution in New Jersey, which, by the time he reached adulthood, was a less-told tale. "In the early Revolutionary struggle, few of the States among the old Thirteen had more of the battle-fields of the country within their limits than old New-Jersey," Lincoln said.
If Washington is the Father of Our Country, in other words, then this is the country he was first father of — this is the country that he begat, the forgotten first land.
1. The term "Empire State" is sometimes attributed to George Washington. After the Revolution, and before he was elected president and sworn in on Wall Street, Washington wrote the following in a letter to New York City's Common Council, which had just sent him a ceremonial city key: "I pray that heaven may bestow its choicest blessings on your city — That the devastations of war in which you found it, may soon be without a trace. That a well regulated and beneficial Commerce may enrich your Citizens. — And that your state (at present the Seat of the Empire) may set such examples of wisdom and liberality, as shall have a tendency to strengthen and give permanency to the Union at home — and credit and respectability to it abroad." "Seat of the Empire" was a phrase in circulation at the time, heard in the debate in Europe over whether the seat would move from London to the now-independent colonies, with New York its about-to-be capital. It is also argued that New York's nickname arose in the time of canals, in the mid-1800s, when New York, owing to the Erie Canal, was promoted again as the seat of a westward-reaching, waterway-connected realm. But even canals lead back to Washington, who was a canal booster, before, during, and after his presidency. He saw the Potomac, manipulated with canals and connected to the Ohio River, as the key to unlocking the continent, as well as a key to increasing the value of his own western lands. "Hearing little else for two days from the persuasive tongue of the great man," a visitor to Mount Vernon wrote, "I confess[,] completely infected me with canal mania." (According to the Encyclopedia of New York City, George Washington was also the first person to use the epithet "New Yorker.") Al Smith was the former governor of New York who ran for president in 1928 and lost in a landslide to Herbert Hoover; as the first Catholic facing a Republican in the last minutes of pre-Great Depression prosperity, he was defeated, a reporter said, by the three Ps: Prohibition, prejudice, and prosperity. Smith became instead the first president of the Empire State Building, in 1934, and on taking the position he wrote to 1,257 principals of public and parochial schools. "Part of the geographical education of every child within 50 miles of New York [should be] at least one geography lesson from the top of the Empire State Building," he wrote. "Under the guidance of his instructor he will see States, Cities, Rivers, Islands and Mountains laid out in one grand map." The building's publicists added: "The city, in an instant, becomes an open book."
Excerpted from My American Revolution by Robert Sullivan, published in September, 2012 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Copyright 2012 by Robert Sullivan. All rights reserved.