July 14, 1863 - Day 2 of the Civil War Draft Riots

This year marks the 150th anniversary of the Civil War Draft Riots -- still the deadliest civil disturbance in American history.

The riots lasted July 13 - 17; we'll be posting a summary of what happened each day, drawing from our own work and contemporary sources. (These are lightly edited versions of posts we wrote a few years ago.)

Jump to: July 13 | July 14 | July 15 | July 16-17

July 13, 1863--the first day of the Civil War Draft Riots--saw the attack on the draft office, the Colored Orphan Asylum, and houses of wealthy Republicans, including Mayor George Opdyke. (The attack on Opdyke's house didn't amount to much since it was one of the few places in the city protected by federal troops.)

But before we can get to the events of July 14, there was one final event on the first day of the riots that stretched through the evening into the second day: the attack on Horace Greeley's Tribune.

The Tribune was the most outspoken Republican paper in New York and Greeley--who would later go on to run for president in 1872--was one of the founding members of the party. (Indeed, it was Greeley who championed the name "Republican" in print for the new political faction.)

Throughout the day, Greeley and his managing editor, Sidney Gay, argued about whether or not to arm themselves. Greeley was adamantly opposed and when he was then urged to leave the Tribune's offices on Newspaper Row, he is said to have replied: "If I can't eat my dinner when I'm hungry, my life isn't worth anything to me."

Once Greeley had finally gone home for the day, Gay and other staffers began to arm the building. As journalist Joel Tyler Headley wrote in his 1873 survey Great Riots of New York, 1712-1873:

All day long a crowd had been gathering in the Park around the City Hall, growing more restless as night came on. The railroad-cars [ED: streetcars] passing it were searched, to see if any negroes were on board, while eyes glowered savagely on the Tribune building…. [T]he Park and Printing-house Square* were black with men, who, as the darkness increased, grew more restless; and "Down with it! burn it!" mingled with oaths and curses, were heard on every side.
At last came the crash of a window, as a stone went through it. Another and another followed, when suddenly a reinforcing crowd came rushing down Chatham Street*. This was the signal for a general assault, and, with shouts, the rabble poured into the lower part of the building, and began to destroy everything within reach. Captain Warlow, of the First Precinct, No. 29 Broad Street [joined forces with] Captain Thorne, of the City Hall [Precinct]….. Everything being ready, the order to "Charge" was given, and the entire force, perhaps a hundred and fifty strong, fell in one solid mass on the mob, knocking men over right and left, and laying heads open at every blow. The panic-stricken crowd fled up Chatham Street, across the Park, and down Spruce and Frankfort Streets, punished terribly at every step. The space around the building being cleared, a portion of the police rushed inside, where the work of destruction was going on. The sight of the blue-coats in their midst, with their uplifted clubs, took the rioters by surprise, and they rushed frantically for the doors and windows, and escaped the best way they could.

This ended the heavy fighting of the day, though minor disturbances occurred at various points during the evening. Negroes had been hunted down all day, as though they were so many wild beasts, and one, after dark, was caught, and after being severely beaten and hanged to a tree, left suspended there till [Police Commissioner] Acton sent a force to take the body down. Many had sought refuge in police-stations and elsewhere, and all were filled with terror.

* Printing-house Square (aka Chatham Street)

is today's Park Row, across from City Hall Park.

The second day of the riots, July 14, saw the intensification of attacks on black New Yorkers, and a number were lynched. As Barnet Schechter notes in The Devil's Own Work:

The pillaging of entire black neighborhoods that had begun the previous night continued on Tuesday. On Sullivan and Roosevelt Streets**, where blacks lived in great numbers, boardinghouses, a grocery, and a babershop burned down since they either were owned by blacks or catered to them. Some blacks were chased all the way to the rivers and off the ends of piers.

** Roosevelt Street ran where the Brooklyn Bridge now stands.

New York's governor, Horatio Seymour, arrived in the city that day and called for calm, but to little effect. Seymour, an anti-war Democrat, met with other high-ranking Democrats at the St. Nicholas Hotel on Broadway to determine the best course of action. What he did not do was to call on federal officials to declare martial law. While state militia troops were augmenting the police force, the federal army in New York was tasked solely with guarding military and federal installations, such as the custom house on Wall Street and Castle Clinton in Battery Park.

Violent clashes continued throughout the day, despite Seymour's efforts to send emissaries to calm the mob. As night fell, a group of rioters attacked Brooks Brothers, then located on Catharine Street on the Lower East Side. Not only was it a preferred clothier of the well-to-do, it also provided uniforms for the Union army. As Headley notes:

[S]oon from the crowd arose shouts, amid which were heard the shrill voices of women, crying, "Break open the store." This was full of choice goods, and contained clothing enough to keep the mob supplied for years. As the shouts increased, those behind began to push forward those in front, till the vast multitude swung heavily towards the three police officers. Seeing this movement, the latter advanced with their clubs to keep them back. At this, the shouts and yells redoubled, and the crowd rushed forward, crushing down the officers by mere weight. They fought gallantly for a few minutes; but, overborne by numbers, they soon became nearly helpless, and were terribly beaten and wounded, and with the utmost exertions were barely able to escape, and make their way back to the station. The mob now had it all its own way, and rushing against the doors, burst bolts and bars asunder, and streamed in. But it was dark as midnight inside, and they could not distinguish one thing from another; not even the passage-ways to the upper rooms of the building, which was five stories high. They therefore lighted the gas, and broke out the windows. In a few minutes the vast edifice was a blaze of light, looking more brilliant from the midnight blackness that surrounded it.

As the second day of the riots ended and the body count grew, the great unanswered question that hung in the air was: would tomorrow be better--or worse?

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Read more about the Civil War in

Inside the Apple: A Streetwise History of New York City.

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July 13, 1863 - Day 1 of the Civil War Draft Riots

This year marks the 150th anniversary of the Civil War Draft Riots -- still the deadliest civil disturbance in American history.

The riots lasted July 13 - 17; we'll be posting a summary of what happened each day, drawing from our own work and contemporary sources. (These are lightly edited versions of posts we wrote a few years ago.)

Jump to: July 13 | July 14 | July 15 | July 16-17

Today marks the anniversary of the beginning of the deadliest civil disturbance in American history: the Civil War Draft riots, which gripped the city from July 13 to 17, 1863.

We devote a chapter in Inside the Apple: A Streetwise History of New York City to summarizing the riots, but thought we'd post a small entry each of the next few days highlighting just how terrifying the riots were. The text we quote below is from Joel Tyler Headley's Great Riots of New York, 1712-1873, one of the first attempts by a historian to process and explain what had happened in the city during those few days. (The book is an excellent account of the riots, but is strongly biased toward the police--to whom it is dedicated--and against the "low" Irish, as Headley calls them.)

As the name implies, the riots broke out over the Union's decision to institute a draft. Desperate for both soldiers and money, the government decided on a two-pronged approach: those whose names were called could either choose to serve or they could get out of service by paying $300 for a substitute. Instantly people began to complain that the Civil War had turned into a "rich man's war and a poor man's fight," and as the July date of the draft approached, those New Yorkers who could little afford to pay $300--for some people that was a year's salary--talked about taking matters into their own hands.

The draft actually began on July 11, a Saturday, and proceeded calmly. As we write in Inside the Apple:

On Saturday, July 11, the first names were picked and a little more than half of New York’s 2,000-man quota was filled without incident. But over the weekend Peter Masterson, leader of Fire Engine Company 33, decided the best way to make sure his men didn’t get called was to burn down the draft office, thus destroying any record of who was in the draft census. Word spread throughout the city of a planned confrontation at the draft board’s offices at the Provost Marshall’s office on Third Avenue at 47th Street. (This location had originally been picked because it was on the fringes of the city and thus was supposed to attract less notice.)

J.T. Headley then picks up the story:

Early in the morning men began to assemble here in separate groups, as if in accordance with a previous arrangement, and at last moved quietly north along the various avenues. Women, also, like camp followers, took the same direction in crowds. They were thus divided into separate gangs…armed with sticks, and clubs, and every conceivable weapon they could lay hands on, they moved north towards some point which had evidently been selected as a place of rendezvous. This proved to be a vacant lot near Central Park, and soon the living streams began to flow into it, and a more wild, savage, and heterogeneous-looking mass could not be imagined. 

After a short consultation they again took up the line of march, and in two separate bodies, moved down Fifth and Sixth Avenues, until they reached Forty-sixth and Forty-seventh Streets, when they turned directly east. 

The number composing this first mob has been so differently estimated, that it would be impossible from reports merely, to approximate the truth. A pretty accurate idea, however, can be gained of its immense size, from a statement made by Mr. King, son of President King, of Columbia College. Struck by its magnitude, he had the curiosity to get some estimate of it by timing its progress, and he found that although it filled the broad street from curbstone to curbstone, and was moving rapidly, it took between twenty and twenty-five minutes for it to pass a single point. 

A ragged, coatless, heterogeneously weaponed army, it heaved tumultuously along toward Third Avenue. Tearing down the telegraph poles as it crossed the Harlem & New Haven Railroad track, it surged angrily up around the building where the drafting was going on. The small squad of police stationed there to repress disorder looked on bewildered, feeling they were powerless in the presence of such a host. Soon a stone went crashing through a window, which was the signal for a general assault on the doors. These giving way before the immense pressure, the foremost rushed in, followed by shouts and yells from those behind, and began to break up the furniture. The drafting officers, in an adjoining room, alarmed, fled precipitately through the rear of the building. The mob seized the wheel in which were the names, and what books, papers, and lists were left, and tore them up, and scattered them in every direction. A safe stood on one side, which was supposed to contain important papers, and on this they fell with clubs and stones, but in vain. Enraged at being thwarted, they set fire to the building, and hurried out of it. As the smoke began to ascend, the onlooking multitude without sent up a loud cheer. Though the upper part of the building was occupied by families, the rioters, thinking that the officers were concealed there, rained stones and brick-bats against the windows, sending terror into the hearts of the inmates. 

As the day progressed, the mob grew in size and factions fanned out across the city. In bloody conflicts with the police, numerous officers were wounded including Police Superintendent Kennedy who was beaten and left for dead. Another target was the homes of wealthy Republicans and a string of houses along Lexington Avenue were set on fire and looted.



But the worst action of the day came at the Colored Orphan Asylum on Fifth Avenue at 43rd Street. Headley writes:

[I]mpelled by a strange logic, [the rioters] sought to destroy the Colored Orphan Asylum…. There would have been no draft but for the war—there would have been no war but for slavery. But the slaves were black, ergo, all blacks are responsible for the war. This seemed to be the logic of the mob, and having reached the sage conclusion to which it conducted, they did not stop to consider how poor helpless orphans could be held responsible, but proceeded at once to wreak their vengeance on them. The building was four stories high, and besides the matrons and officers, contained over two hundred children, from mere infants up to twelve years of age. Around this building the rioters gathered with loud cries and oaths, sending terror into the hearts of the inmates. Superintendent William E. Davis hurriedly fastened the doors; but knowing they would furnish but a momentary resistance to the armed multitude, he, with others, collected hastily the terrified children, and carrying some in their arms, and leading others, hurried them in a confused crowd out at the rear of the building, just as the ruffians effected an entrance in front. Then the work of pillage commenced, and everything carried off that could be, even to the dresses and trinkets of the children, while heavy furniture was smashed and chopped up in the blind desire of destruction. Not satisfied with this, they piled the fragments in the different rooms, and set fire to them.

The orphanage was burned around 4:00 p.m., about the same time that another group decided to attack the home of Mayor Opdyke and as a third group began heading toward Newspaper Row (today's Park Row) to take out their vengeance on Republican newspapers like Horace Greeley's Tribune.

* * * *

Read more about the Civil War in

Inside the Apple: A Streetwise History of New York City.

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Shootout in Weehawken

On July 11, 1804, Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr were rowed across the Hudson River so that they could shoot at each other. This, in 1804, seemed like a fine way to settle one's differences.

In our new book, Footprints in New York: Tracing the Lives of Four Centuries of New Yorkers (Lyons Press), one chapter concerns the duel:

According to the Code Duello, gentlemen only needed to meet on the field of honor and delope, or discharge their weapons. They could shoot into the ground and the debt would be satisfied. 

Hamilton had resolved before the duel that he would not shoot Burr. In a letter discovered with his will after his death, Hamilton had written: “if our interview is conducted in the usual manner, and it pleases God to give me the opportunity, [I will] reserve and throw away my first fire, and I have thoughts even of reserving my second fire.” 

The two men arrived in Weehawken about half an hour apart. Burr and his party, including his second William P. Van Ness, got there first and began clearing the dueling grounds. Hamilton, Nathaniel Pendleton, and David Hosack, a physician, arrived around seven in the morning. By prearrangement, the seconds were to keep their backs turned away from Hamilton and Burr. Since dueling was illegal, this would give them the chance, if questioned, to say they hadn’t seen anything. 

Hamilton, as the challenged, had brought the pistols, and he was given the choice of his weapon. Hamilton took his time getting into position. He cleaned his glasses. He repeatedly tested his aim. Was this a show of nerves—or was he trying to provoke Burr? The pistols belonged to Hamilton’s brother-in-law, and he may have had the opportunity to practice with them. Did that give him an unfair advantage? Even if it did, it turned out not to matter. 

Hamilton fired first. His bullet flew above Burr’s head, lodging in a cedar tree. 

Then Burr fired. His aim was true, and his shot lodged in Hamilton’s spine, having first lacerated his liver. Doctor Hosack, waiting nearby, recalled later: "I found him half sitting on the ground, supported in the arms of Mr. Pendleton. His countenance of death I shall never forget. He had at that instant just strength to say, 'This is a mortal wound, doctor,' when he sunk away, and became to all appearance lifeless…."

Hamilton wasn’t dead—not yet. He was ferried across the river to the home of his friend William Bayard on Jane Street. Bayard was from one of the oldest and richest families in the city—he was the great-great-great nephew of Judith Bayard, wife of Peter Stuyvesant—and owned vast property in what is now Greenwich Village. Hamilton was carried to a second-floor bedroom where Dr. Hosack attended to him. A rider was dispatched to the Grange to fetch Eliza—but only to tell her that Hamilton was suffering from “spasms.” He had hidden the duel from her in advance, but he could hide it no longer.

If you want to know more about our new book's release, please sign up for our not-at-all-spam-like newsletter by sending "SUBSCRIBE" to info@insidetheapple.net. We'll be doing lectures, special walking tours, and more in the spring to celebrate.

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Read more about the American Revolution and Alexander Hamilton in

Footprints in New York: Tracing the Lives of Four Centuries of New Yorkers

If you haven't had a chance to pick up a copy of Footprints yet,
you can order it from your favorite online retailers (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, etc.) or
from independent bookstores across the country.

And, of course, Inside the Apple is available at fine bookstores everywhere.

ONE at Central Park

It may sound like a luxury apartment building, but "ONE at Central Park" is actually a pretty cool-sounding aerial dance project to be performed above Wollman Rink this October.

In the words of the project's website: "ONE at Central Park is a first time, one-hour experience of moving sculpture comprised of human bodies for mass public viewing. Conceived, created and choreographed by Aly Rose, it consists of over 100 performers dancing while suspended 150 feet in the air within 6 cantilever structures erected inside Wollman Rink."

You can watch a video of the concept at http://vimeo.com/61069166, and read more about it at www.oneatcentralpark.com.

Here's the catch -- they are trying to raise $100,000 on Kickstarter in the next five days and are still $14,000 short. We threw in a couple of bucks because we think it sounds like a fun idea. (We are in no way affiliated with the artists -- we just love dance, acrobatics, and Central Park.) You can reach the Kickstarter page at http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1426398907/one-at-central-park.

Greetings from Coney Island

This recent addition to the Inside the Apple archives is a wonderful look at Coney Island during its heyday. This postcard dates to 1906, the peak of the amusement park era. Just a decade earlier, most of the area was given over to restaurants, bath houses on the beach, and a few dance halls. There were a few rides--and the famous elephant, which burned down in 1896--but entertainment would not take over as Coney Island's main draw until the turn of the century.

By the time this postcard was issued, most of Coney Island was given over to amusement parks, including the famous Steeplechase Park, Dreamland, and Luna Park (which is pictured inside the "N" of "Island" in the image above).

More intriguing are the women who grace the letters of "Greetings." Who are they? Bathing beauties? Actually, they look more like chorus girls or Gibson Girls, the most famous of whom, Evelyn Nesbit, was in the headlines at the time because her husband, Harry Thaw, murdered Stanford White on June 25, 1906. We have a tendency to think of amusement parks today as being the domain of families and children, but in 1906, Coney Island was definitely an adult's paradise, as this postcard attests. (Even carousels, like the one today in Central Park, were geared to adult riders.)

What's most fascinating to us, however, are the three figures inside the "G" of "Greetings": Theodore Roosevelt, George Washington, and Abraham Lincoln. Was this to show that a trip to Coney Island--with its daring rides and scantily clad women--was still a morally upstanding place? Remember, T.R. was the sitting president at the time. It would be like going to Vegas today and having Barack Obama's face in the corner of your postcard of the Strip.

You can see a great map of Coney Island in 1906 at http://www.westland.net/coneyisland/mapsdocs/coneymap06.htm. Click on any red dot on the map and it will bring up a vintage postcard or other image from the era.

You can also read our earlier history of the postcard, and see a guidebook to saving money at Coney Island from the Brooklyn Historical Society here.

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182 more stories about New York can be found in

Inside the Apple: A Streetwise History of New York City.

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The Execution of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg

Sixty years ago today, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg were executed as Soviet spies.

Ethel was born on the Lower East Side in 1915, and Julius three years later in what was then Jewish East Harlem. Both attended Seward Park High School--which still stands at the corner of Essex and Grand streets--but there's no evidence they knew each other there.

Julius and Ethel married in 1939, the same year Julius received a degree in electrical engineering from City College. The next year,  he got a job with the Army Signal Corps. In 1942, he was recruited as a Soviet spy.

Though many people protested Julius and Ethel's innocence at the time, it now seems clear that Julius was at least passing some secrets to the Soviet Union. Whether or not those secrets led to the USSR's accelerated development of atomic technology is a matter of much debate. One of their co-conspirators, Morton Sobell, claimed that the information Julius was passing to the Soviets was "junk," and that while Ethel knew what her husband was doing, she was not a spy herself.

The Rosenbergs were executed just before sundown on June 19, 1953. The execution had originally been scheduled for eleven o'clock but in a last-ditch attempt for a stay, their attorney argued that this would violate the Jewish Sabbath. Instead of waiting, the federal government simply moved the execution earlier in the day.

Manna-Hata

If you are a history-minded New Yorker, there's a good chance you'll enjoy Barry Rowell's new site-specific play "Manna-Hata," which takes place across the abandoned third and fourth floors of the Farley post office on Eighth Avenue.

Only one hundred audience members are allowed at a performance, and the group is split into four sections, each with its own guide, including such diverse historical personages as Walt Whitman and Shirley Chisholm. The guides lead the audience through the post office and through time, from the Lenape creation story to the rebuilding of the World Trade Center--sort of a theatrical "Inside the Apple."

We had a good time, but some caveats:

1. The show is advertised at three hours, but ends up being more like 3 hours and 15 minutes. You're on your feet almost all of that time.

2. The old post office is not exactly conducive to perfect acoustics. Some people reported having trouble hearing, other thought it was way too loud.

3. The first act is stronger than the second act, and the drama begins to lag in the 1950s.

4. Except for one scene, all audience members see the exact same thing, so it doesn't really matter which character is your guide.

Tickets and more information at:

http://www.peculiarworks.org/index.php/works/current-show

The play is sold out for tomorrow, but that's okay because it means you can come see the play and our Q&A after "The Henrietta" at the Metropolitan Playhouse (http://blog.insidetheapple.net/2013/06/reminder-henrietta-this-sunday-at-3pm.html)

Charles Lindbergh's Ticker Tape Parade

On June 13, 1927, New York honored aviator Charles Lindbergh with a tremendous ticker tape parade on Lower Broadway.

As we've written in an earlier post, the Orteig Prize was sponsored by hotelier Raymond Orteig who owned the Lafayette and Brevoort Hotels in Manhattan. Orteig, hoping to boost Franco-American relations, first offered the prize to complete a transatlantic flight in 1919. When no one had made an attempt in five years, Orteig extended the competition and by 1926 it had begun drawing serious competitors. However, the hazards of aviation meant that by the time Lindbergh began his historic flight, six of his fellow competitors had died.

Lindbergh's flight in the Spirit of St. Louis began on May 20 at 7:52 a.m. with his ground crew pushing the heavy plane down the muddy runway. The plane carried 450 gallons of fuel but Lindbergh had removed as much as possible from the plane, including his sextant--meaning that Lindbergh would have to fly by the stars (if they were visible) or dead reckoning. Lindbergh dodged bad weather across the Atlantic (sometimes flying as low as twelve feet above the waves) and reached Le Bourget at 10:22 p.m. on May 21st where he was mobbed by a crowd of eager well-wishers.

On June 11, Lindbergh was presented with the Distinguished Flying Cross (the first ever); on June 13, New York honored him with the parade and a key to the city; on June 16, Orville Wright presented the aviator with the Orteig Prize at the Brevoort Hotel.

Above, the newsreel cameras captured Lindbergh's flight and the hero's welcome upon his return. The ticker tape parade starts at about the three-minute mark.

(And speaking of ticker tape -- if you're in the financial services industry and want to impress your colleagues, you can connect your computer into a perfect replica of a universal stock ticker. And it will only set you back $29,995. Then you'll have ticker tape for the next parade!)

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Read more about ticker tape parades in

Inside the Apple: A Streetwise History of New York City.

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Reminder: "The Henrietta" this Sunday at 3pm

On Sunday, June 16, at 3:00pm, we will be returning to our favorite historically minded theater, the Metropolitan Playhouse, as special guests at a talkback following the matinee of Bronson Howard’s comedy The Henrietta.

If you’re not familiar with the Metropolitan, the theater is dedicated to reviving plays from the American canon, many of which have needlessly fallen by the wayside. The Henrietta is no exception--written and first performed in 1887, the play was a smash, running on Broadway for years. The comedy centers on an old Knickerbocker family, the Van Alstynes. Old Nick, the patriarch, is a king of Wall Street, and is about to speculate the family fortune on a secret investment called “The Henrietta.” Meanwhile, daughter Mary has brought home a beau who wants to blow all his money on a horse, also named Henrietta. Son Bertie is caught by his beloved with a portrait in his room...of a dancer named Henrietta. (You can see where this is going.)

After the matinee performance on Sunday, June 16, we’ll be taking questions from the audience about the city as depicted in Howard’s play, as well as leading theater-goers on a “virtual” walk through 1887 New York. Among other things that happened that year: Nellie Bly went undercover in a madhouse, renowned minister Henry Ward Beecher died, and the Eldridge Street Synagogue opened on the Lower East Side.

You can read more about the play at http://www.metropolitanplayhouse.org/essayhenrietta.

Tickets can be purchased online at http://www.metropolitanplayhouse.org/tickets.

We hope to see you there! The theater is located at 220 East 4th Street (between Avenues A and B); for directions visit http://metropolitanplayhouse.org/location.

Don't Give Up the Ship!

Today, June 4, is the two-hundredth anniversary of the death of James "Don't Give Up the Ship!" Lawrence, the commander of the USS Chesapeake in the War of 1812. Even if you've never heard of Lawrence, his dying command has filtered down to us as a great American saying. Lawrence is prominently buried at Trinity Church, Wall Street, near the southern entrance to the churchyard.

Lawrence, born in New Jersey, joined the fledgling United States Navy in 1798, just in time for our two-year, undeclared war with France. He rose through the ranks quickly and in 1810 was put in command of the USS Hornet. When war broke out with Great Britain in 1812, the Hornet was used as blockade runner and helped squelch British privateering. In 1813, Lawrence was given command of the Chesapeake; on June 1, they left Boston and immediately ran afoul of a British blockade and the HMS Shannon. This was no surprise--the Shannon's captain, Philip Bowes Vere Broke, had personally challenged Lawrence to a fight.

The Chesapeake was quickly overwhelmed; in the first fifteen minutes of fighting over 200 people were killed, and Lawrence lay fatally wounded. He ordered his men fight until the ship sank. "Don't give up the ship!" he exhorted. The wounded Chesapeake was no match for the British, however, and the Americans were soon captured and taken to Nova Scotia, where Lawrence died of his wounds three days later as his captured vessel was being towed to Halifax.

After Commander Oliver Perry heard of his friend Lawrence's bravery, he had a battle ensign sewn with the words "Don't Give Up the Ship" emblazoned across it. Perry flew the flag during the Battle of Lake Erie, a major American victory. Perry's ensign now hangs at the Naval Academy Museum.

Lawrence was buried in Halifax, then transferred to Massachusetts, and ultimately sent to Trinity. Lawrence's original marble grave marker now resides in the collection of the New-York Historical Society; the current, monumental grave marker, was erected after the Civil War.

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Read more about New York's role in the War of 1812 in

Inside the Apple: A Streetwise History of New York City.

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