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Patroon Van Volkenberg
[Illustration:
“HE WHEELED ROUND IN
AMAZEMENT AND DROPPED
THE GIRL’S HAND.”—_p. 23_
]
Patroon Van
Volkenberg
A Tale _of_ Old Manhattan in the Year
Sixteen Hundred & Ninety-nine.
BY
HENRY THEW STEPHENSON
ILLUSTRATED BY
C. M. REYLEA
FIFTH EDITION
[Illustration]
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS :: NEW YORK
------------------------------------------------------------------------
COPYRIGHT, 1900
THE BOWEN-MERRILL COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
------------------------------------------------------------------------
In memory of my aunt, MARY T. W. CURWEN, whose
kindness and care for many years has been greater
than my utmost gratitude and affection can express
Contents
I
The Flight from Paris 1
II
The Maid at the Mariner’s Rest 13
III
The Royal Lion 26
IV
The Buccaneer’s Gift 41
V
The Jacobite Coffee-House 54
VI
An Interview with the Earl 69
VII
Pierre’s Secret 80
VIII
Lady Marmaduke 93
IX
The Red Band at Drill 102
X
My First Commission 111
XI
The Escape from the Rattle-Watch 126
XII
Van Volkenberg’s Window 135
XIII
Van Volkenberg in Disgrace 144
XIV
Plotting without the Earl 154
XV
The Silver Buttons 171
XVI
Fire and Sleete and Candle Light 181
XVII
The Events of Next Day 196
XVIII
Another Secret Burial 214
XIX
I Meet the Patroon Again 233
XX
The Skeleton in the Patroon’s Closet 251
XXI
Meg’s Pleading 265
XXII
A Fruitless Resolution 277
XXIII
Van Volkenberg and the Earl 291
XXIV
Captain William Kidd 305
XXV
The Effect of Kidd’s Visit 315
XXVI
The Great Secret 331
XXVII
The Last of the Patroon 340
XXVIII
Conclusion 357
PATROON VAN VOLKENBERG
CHAPTER I
THE FLIGHT FROM PARIS
The long-boat of Captain Tew had set me ashore on the southwest end of
Long Island in a cove near the village of Gravesoon, which is just
across the end of the island from New York. In those days the pirates
were in bad repute with the government and Captain Tew durst not land me
nearer the town for fear of the king’s officers; so I had to make the
rest of my way alone. I was not cast down, however, for I had always a
hopeful heart, and, in addition to this fact, I was sick and tired of
the bad-smelling ship and of its lawless crew of buccaneers. Yet I ought
not to cry out against their captain. He and I possessed a strong bond
of friendship. I had done him one good turn and he had done me another,
though, at that moment, neither of us foresaw what the latter would
amount to in the end.
I turned on my heel to look at the town in which I intended to lodge for
the night. It was now late and fully dark, and one or two dim lights
were all that I could see in Gravesoon by way of welcome. At that moment
a feeling of loneliness took such strong hold of me that I cast my eyes
once more upon the open sea for the meagre companionship of the pirate
crew that was gliding away into the dark. But the ship was already so
far from shore that the sounds that always accompany getting under way
could no longer reach me, though I strained hard to hear them. In ten
minutes even the vague outline of the vessel against the sky had
completely blended with the darkness. Then I realized for the first time
that I was all alone in a strange land. My only companions were the
heavy sorrow in my heart and a strong hope that this sorrow would soon
be turned to joy by virtue of the errand that was now bringing me to New
York.
I had nearly reached the middle time of life and knew by hard experience
that when the future looks the darkest one is most likely to be near the
light. This thought gave me fresh comfort and put new life into my step
as I set out briskly along the shore of the cove. The wind blew strong
in my face, and I had to bend over and lean upon it, as it were, to
prevent my slipping upon the rocks. Whatever a misstep might mean to me,
it would certainly bring misfortune, perhaps death, to one whom I loved
better than myself a hundred times. So I picked my way carefully over
the rough places, balancing myself upon the wind and setting my feet
firmly when I came to rocks that were wet and slippery. By dint of much
perseverance I made fair progress towards the lights of Gravesoon, for
all it was so dark upon the shore. As I drew near the town I spied more
lights, and at last I came to the lamp hanging over the doorway that
betokened a house of public entertainment. I opened the door of the
ordinary and went in. The room was quite deserted and I rapped twice
upon the table before the host appeared in answer to my summons.
He was a pleasant looking man of no particular appearance. He served me
quickly with something to eat and drink, and then sat down on the other
side of the table, rippling with questions. I am not given to talking
and never was; yet, because I saw here an opportunity to gain
information that I should not otherwise possess until I reached New
York, I did not turn away from my host’s cross-examination as my temper
at first prompted me to do.
He had seen the pirate ship in the offing that afternoon and would like
to know its name, guessing shrewdly how I had come ashore; but I put him
off with an indirect reply and he was fain to be content with my own
name, a poor substitute, though he made the most of it.
“Le Bourse,” he said thoughtfully. “That sounds like a French name. Are
you going to friends in Yorke?”
“I am a stranger there, but I am seeking a person who may help me to a
sight of friends.”
“What is his name?”
“Van Volkenberg: one of the patroons I think.”
“Ah, yes, Patroon Kilian; the armed patroon is what the burghers call
him. We know him well.”
“Is he in New York now?”
“Yes, indeed. He never leaves the island. Kilian Van Volkenberg is too
great a man to let himself go far from port. His ships need his
attention every day. Now, when I saw yon ship in the offing, I said to
myself, ’Tis a ship of the patroon’s.’ But you seem to say not.”
I had said nothing of the kind; but I let the matter pass without
correction, knowing that it was only another effort on his part to learn
the mystery of my arrival.
“How can I get to New York from here?” I asked after a short pause.
“There is a good road direct, not more than eight or ten miles, with a
ferry at the end of it. You will see a tree with a shell tied up to blow
for the ferryman—he is likely to be on the Yorke side of the river. Can
you blow a shell?”
I could not, never having seen this custom before, whereupon the
obliging host bustled out to find one. He returned shortly with a huge
sea shell in his hands, by means of which he instructed me in the manner
of using it as a horn. The trick was not difficult to learn, not so hard
by half as whistling with your fingers in your mouth, which feat I never
did learn to do well. But after five minutes practice with the shell I
could blow as mournful a tone as you ever heard on the moors of a spooky
night.
My music lesson over, I went to my room. As soon as I was alone I took
out the pocket Bible that had been the companion of all my wanderings. I
opened it at the book of Ruth; this book was my favorite reading, for my
sister’s name was Ruth. My separation from her long years before this,
my great search and heavy disappointment had at last led me to this
point in my wanderings. But there was still a strong hope in my heart;
and hope will keep the pulse bounding even when the shadows are dark.
But before I continue my story, let me go back and relate the strange
events which resulted in my being set on shore in the dead of night like
a criminal, from one of the ships which was under the displeasure of his
royal majesty the king.
When I was but a lad of three and twenty my parents both died and I was
left the only protector of little Ruth, my sister, who was then a child,
scarce fifteen years of age. She was a bright-faced, cheery sister, who
did as much as a full-grown woman could have done to make our modest
home in Paris comfortable and happy. I prized her more than life and
would not let her go out of my sight. In this respect the more caution
was needed because the long Huguenot peace was drawing to a close and
people of our faith were subject to all manner of persecution.
Our heaviest troubles began, of course, in the year 1685, when King
Louis revoked the Edict of Nantes; but for years before that the
Huguenots were afflicted with innumerable unjust restrictions. There was
one of the king’s decrees that caused more confusion than all the others
put together. This was the law permitting children at the age of seven
to renounce the faith in which they had been bred, and to enter the
Roman church. Every kind of inducement was held out to persuade them to
acknowledge belief in the Catholic religion. Once confessed, they were
considered to be under the jurisdiction of the priesthood. When dolls,
fairy stories, idle promises of childish pleasures, failed to make a
mere infant nod to some statement mumbled by the priest—when all such
ways of seducing little children failed, they were often shamelessly
kidnapped and carried away to a convent by force. It was mainly against
this latter danger that I had to protect Ruth, for she clung so
tenaciously to me and to our Protestant faith that I had no fear of
their cajoling her by any fair and open means.
One day Ruth and I were walking in the fields near the edge of Paris. We
were on our way home about twilight, and Ruthie, as I called her then,
danced ahead of me like a golden-haired butterfly. She always
danced—bless her heart!—and carried sunlight wherever she went.
Suddenly, while she was passing the dark gateway of a court-yard, a
priest in a black mantle stepped out from the covered way and caught my
sister by the arm.
“Come in here,” he cried insinuatingly, at the same time drawing her
swiftly towards the doorway.
Ruth resisted, and then the priest clapped a big hand over her mouth so
she could not scream.
Shame on him! And she a mere child! But he was reckoning without me when
he made that false move. I was at her side even before he noticed me. He
called for help and soon brought another priest to his assistance. Even
so, it was only two to one, which was hardly fair considering my size
and the fact that I had been bred to arms. It was a dreadful thing for
me to do, but, in a trice, and without even stopping to draw my sword, I
had stretched one of them unconscious upon the ground and sent the other
crying for help, with his blood dripping all the way.
For the moment, the rashness of my deed quite overcame me. I had struck
a priest. In those days the penalty for such an offence could be none
other than death; and Ruth would be left alone to worse than death. She
and I resolved to fly from the capital and to escape from the country
altogether if we could. We packed what little of value we possessed, and
in twenty minutes had left our lodgings behind us. It was our haste
only—always excepting the grace of God—that saved us from immediate
pursuit. Even so, it seems a miracle that we got out of the city and
found ourselves safe upon the road to La Rochelle.
Ruth bore up very bravely in those hard times and never spoke a single
word to reproach me for my hasty act. She sang pleasant songs to me on
the way and would comfort me by saying that she was not tired, though I
knew she must be weary enough to lie right down in the road and give up.
On the third day after leaving Paris we fell in with a party of
Protestants and continued our journey with them. We were thankful for
their company at the time, but it would have been better had we not met
them, for their flight was known to the authorities and was the ultimate
cause of my separation from little Ruth.
These fugitives had already made arrangements with a ship owner at La
Rochelle to transport them to England. We had at last come to a little
stream almost within sight of the town and of safety when we were
overtaken by four of the troopers of the Paris guard. A narrow way led
down to the place where we should cross the stream. We thought that the
advantageous position of this path would enable two of us to keep back
all four of the guardsmen. We cast lots to see which of us should defend
the others and one of the lots fell to me. Ruth was much grieved at
heart when she knew that I must stay behind and risk capture while she
and the others went forward; but she said bravely, “Do your duty, Vincie
boy, and the Lord will take care of us.”
The guards fortunately had no guns and were armed only with short
swords. We held them at bay for some time; then, making a charge
together, they killed my companion and I was left alone to bar the path,
with a deep wound in my shoulder which prevented my using my cloak as a
guard. The rest of our party of fugitives escaped, but, on the arrival
of some more soldiers, I was disarmed and taken to prison.
For some reason, I never discovered what, I did not suffer the penalty I
expected. Instead of being led immediately to the scaffold, I was kept
close in prison among others of my faith whose only crime was an attempt
to avoid the oppressive hand with which the church of Rome strove to
drain the lifeblood of the Protestants.
During the long months of my captivity, I pondered much upon little
Ruth. Where had she gone? I thought that England was the destination of
the party we had fallen in with. Sometimes I pictured my sister in
America, alone in that far off land; but a little thought would convince
me that she was not there. Ruth was a hopeful girl. She would never
bring herself to think—unless she heard of my actual death—that I should
not come to her eventually. In that case, where would I be so likely to
look as in England? No, Ruth would not go to the colonies. As I thought
about her whereabouts I became more and more sure, and at last I was
certain, in my own mind at least, that she had taken refuge in England.
At the end of a year a happy accident opened the way to my escape. I
shall never forget the burden that fell from my shoulders, the long
breath of unutterable, thankful relief that I drew upon the day I
crossed the French frontier into Holland. I left my native land with my
mind firmly resolved upon two things: the first was to find Ruth; the
second was to bring confusion to the church of Rome, the slayers of
God’s people, the tormentors of me and mine. Wherever I should meet a
Catholic,—sleeping or waking, in sickness or in health,—he was my enemy.
I made my way at once for England, where I inquired diligently for my
sister in all the great cities. A year of this searching brought me no
tidings and exhausted my slender means of support. Then I fell back upon
military service for a livelihood. My great strength and my skill of
fence soon found me employment. I could even choose my master in a way,
and managed to take service with those who would lead me into distant
parts. You may be sure that during all my foreign campaigns I never lost
sight of the darling desire of my heart. But as time wore on and I did
not find her, I became less and less positive that Ruth was still alive.
In the years that followed I walked in many strange cities; in all of
them I searched the streets hungrily for Ruth. I glanced up into
windows; I peered down into cellar ways; but I never saw a familiar
face. Once I penetrated in disguise to La Rochelle itself. Even there I
could hear nothing of Ruth or of the ship-master who had taken her to
England. I began to doubt whether she had escaped at all. At such
moments my fierce resentment against our oppressors grew bitter as gall.
More than once in those stern, tumultuous times, I fought under the
banners of the Protestant chiefs of Europe, and my blade was no
sluggard.
At last a new fear began to haunt me day and night. What if I should
meet Ruth and not recognize her! She was fifteen years old when I lost
her. How a girl changes between fifteen and twenty! I must look now, not
for the slim childish figure I remembered, but for the full roundness of
a woman. How often I had—and as I grew older it occurred ever the more
often—how often I had looked into faces that I felt sure I had seen
somewhere before. Then, when it was too late to follow, I would be
startled with the idea that perhaps the person I had just seen was Ruth.
Such moments wrung my heart.
At last, after eight or nine years of fruitless hunting, I found myself
again in England. I had long since abandoned all hope of finding Ruth. I
became the trusted servant of an English lord. I was now three and
thirty years of age, though people who judged from my appearance thought
I was older. King William was on the throne and my master stood well in
the sovereign’s graces. Everything, so far as worldly prospects went,
gave promise of a happy life. Then of a sudden my master fell under the
displeasure of the government. With the quickness of a summer storm,
misfortune came upon him. Two months after the first thunder-clap he was
a condemned prisoner in the Tower, and I once more masterless and
adrift.
This calamity occurred in the year 1698, a twelvemonth before my arrival
in New York. I had saved some money and, strange to say, there came to
me suddenly and without reason a new conviction that I should yet find
Ruth. But where? There was only one place in the world where she might
be and in which I had not sought for her: America. My resolution was
immediately taken to set out over sea and resume the hunt that I had
latterly neglected. With this intent I journeyed to Bristol, where I
intended to take ship at once.