THE BUCCANEER’S GIFT
We made a quick sail from Maryland to the neighborhood of New York and
drew near Long Island on a bright day in August. The stiff wind caught
up the jetting water from the prow of our ship and rained it down upon
the slant of the waves with a rattle like sand falling upon the deck. I
clung to the rail with both my hands and my heart rose higher with every
bound of the ship.
“You look merry to-day,” cried Captain Tew at my elbow. “I have good
news. The lookout on the mizzen top has sighted land.”
I stretched one hand towards the horizon as if I could reach Ruth. The
buccaneer seemed to understand my gesture for he continued:
“She’s been there a year, you say? That’s a long time to stay in Yorke.
I suppose she took service up the Hudson, perhaps even as far as Albany
on the great Van Rensselaer estate. Do you know any one in Yorke?”
“Not a soul,” I answered, the admission damping my spirits somewhat.
“But I shall hunt up the Huguenot pastor and inquire of him.”
“I mean no offense, Monsieur Le Bourse,” continued the pirate. “But if
you will take my advice you will go slow in your dealing with your
countrymen in Yorke. I hear they have been on the fence since the
Rebellion:—one year Leisler men; the next, Jacobites to a man. I don’t
know much of the new governor either, curse him, except that he keeps us
out of the port.”
He stopped talking and looked down absently at the buttons of his coat,
fondling them tenderly and turning them up one by one so that he could
look at the device engraved on them.
“Fine buttons, Monsieur, fine buttons. Did you ever stop to look at the
workmanship and the coat of arms on the back? It goes hard with me to
part with them, it does indeed.” Then he cried out more to himself than
to me, as if he had made up his mind to a difficult task: “You old
ungrateful dog! Off with the pair, I say, off on the instant!”
With that he drew his cutlass and slashed away clumsily at two of the
buttons which he presented to me, holding them out on the flat of his
hand.
“I’m an ungrateful dog to think twice about letting them go, but you
must know their value. They came to me from his Excellency, Colonel
Benjamin Fletcher. Ah, he was a merry soul. When he was governor of
Yorke we had no trouble to land, but the present earl sets close watch
upon the ports. You’ll find the city as full of brawls as tobacco is of
smoke. There are Jacobites and Earl’s men and the devil knows what
besides. You may be sure of one thing: whatever is at stake, Kilian Van
Volkenberg will be at logger-heads with the new earl. When you get
there, show these buttons to Kilian. He brought them to me from
Fletcher. I’ll stake my ship and cargo he’ll do all that the love of a
good fat bargain can make a Dutch merchant do.”
Soon after this conversation the buccaneer took me into his cabin where
he presented me with a purse of money, a pair of pistols, and a
handsomely mounted sword. All these articles put together, he assured
me, were not worth the eye-hole of one of the buttons. “For,” as he
said, “old Ben Fletcher was a merry dog and profitable to the jolly
sea-rovers.”
An hour later we sighted land from the deck. During the rest of the
afternoon our ship stood off and on, waiting for night. As soon as it
grew dark enough to conceal my landing, a long-boat was lowered and they
put me ashore at Gravesoon. As I went down the side of the ship, Captain
Tew bade me a last farewell. He thanked me again and again for the
warning I had given him, assuring me that I had saved him and his ship
and all his crew.
“Commend me to Kilian,” he said. “And to Ben Fletcher, and mind the
factions in the city—and—and—oh, yes, there’s Mistress Miriam, the
patroon’s daughter. Tell her that old Tommy Tew hasn’t forgotten her
pretty face, and he’ll bring her something from the east when he
returns. God speed!”
The long-boat shoved off and soon I was on land. I have already told how
I made my way to Gravesoon where the host of the ordinary was curious to
know the manner of my arrival, as well as anxious to teach me how to
blow a summons upon a conch.
I went to bed that night, as I have already stated, and rose early the
next morning to set out on foot. The distance to Breuckelen was about
ten miles across the end of the island. The day was bright and cheery,
and the road passed through a rich country of farms. This region
supplied most of the food for the city and was carefully tilled by the
various tenants of the island. On nearing the Sound the road, which was
a poor, rutty track at the best, dipped steeply from a crest and in a
hundred yards I was at the water’s edge. A small wooden platform floated
on the surface and near, tethered to a tree by a thong of buckskin, hung
the sea shell. I put it to my lips and, thanks to my practice of the
night before, I was able, after one or two unavailing attempts, to send
forth a dull wail that echoed over the water and back again half a dozen
times.
While I was waiting for the ferryman to come from the Yorke side of the
river, my eyes scanned the town impatiently. The city lay huddled on the
side of a hill covered with verdure. The tiers of flaming red-tiled
roofs extended nearly to the water’s edge where the white walls of the
lower houses made visible the cluster of masts swaying in the harbor.
Two structures stood out in conspicuous prominence before the rest of
the town. High on the right loomed the Stadt Huys, topped by a pointed
belfry. To the left on a bold hump of rock squatted the low fort. There
the eye lingered with most interest. The slender staff floated the flag
of England. In one corner the double gable of the fort chapel peeped
above the top of the bastions. What must have been the portholes were
mere black blotches upon the gray face of the wall; and below, at the
foot of a steep cliff, the climbing surf fretted the rocks with foam.
My eyes were not drawn from the pleasing scene for fully half an hour.
By that time the boatman had crossed the river. On the way back both
wind and tide were against us and the crossing took much longer. We
passed beyond the greater part of the town, having it upon our left, and
landed at a little half-moon battery which projected into the East River
near what was called the Water Gate. This gate was the eastern entrance
to the city through the Wall, a line of palisades backed by a ditch that
extended quite across the city from the East River to the Hudson. It
formed the northern boundary of New York, and thus it happened that I
entered the city from the rear or landward side.
“There is the way to Van Volkenberg manor,” said the ferryman, advancing
one arm like a guidepost and pointing along a road that vanished
northward among the wooded hills. “But you’ll do no good to follow it
now. The patroon will be in the city to-day. It is all furred up with
excitement at the meeting of the new assembly. What are you, white or
blue?”
I assured him that I was a stranger and that I belonged to neither party
as yet; at this information he lost all interest in my affairs. Even
from that distance I could hear the confused din of shouting crowds
bowling along the streets in the lower part of the town. While I stood
irresolute, trying to decide whether to go north towards the manor-house
or south into town, I caught sight of a woman in the distance. I made
off hastily in her direction with my mind constantly upon Ruth. I
laughed to myself when, all out of breath, I caught up with the woman
and found her a squalid wife with clumsy wooden shoes that clattered
noisily over the stepping stones of the unpaved street.
In this pursuit I had followed the street next the Wall which was
bordered on the left by the houses of the chimney sweeps. Now and then a
besooted urchin would run out in front of me, point to his grimy rags
and call out: “Hi, mynher! I’m an Earl’s man.” This would set him and
half a dozen other sweeps to laughing. I did not understand the humor of
the youngster’s joke till later when I found that white was the color of
the Earl’s party. Then the thought of his little partisans dressed in
their sooty rags would set me laughing with a will.
There was a smell of slops to the street next the Wall and nothing
attractive about its appearance. I soon came to a turning and, as I
glanced down an avenue curving broadly to the left, I stood still with
wonder. As far as I could see the street was loosely filled with people.
They were in constant motion; now opening into a gap, now closing into a
compact mass from house to house; yet the crowd did not grow smaller nor
did it move one way more than another.
Above their heads flags projected from every house-front. Many were
white, a few were blue; the most distant were indistinguishable as to
color, being mere silhouette patches against the sky. They made a pretty
sight, fluttering together in the breeze as if the houses trembled with
the same excitement that throbbed in the streets below. Bunches of white
ribbons hung from the doorknobs and polished knockers. Festoons of the
same color looped across the street. Just overhead, so near me that I
had not noticed it at first, a large placard was suspended over the
middle of the street. It bore in tall figures the inscription “19 to 5.”
I accosted a bystander, or runner-by, for no one was still an instant,
and asked the meaning of the numbers.
“Good lack! Are you a stranger? That is our majority. Ours!”
He twirled a bunch of white ribbons in my face by way of explanation and
then made off towards the scene of a new excitement. I followed his
direction and began to hear the cry “Marmaduke, Marmaduke,” which was
swelling farther down the street. I followed the crowd which was all
moving in one direction now, and elbowed my way along with the others.
Men, women and children pressed eagerly forward in the direction of a
low building with a peaked gable that stood on the corner of the next
street. Soon I fell into a walk; and then we were so jammed together
that I had to fight my way tooth and nail to gain a yard. I looked over
the tops of people’s heads to where a coach drawn by six white horses
had been brought to a stand. A lady had stepped half out of the vehicle
and was about to address the people. She was a strong, dignified looking
woman with angular features and flashing eyes. She lifted one hand and
everyone became still.
“Men of New York,” she began in a rich melodious voice that won its way
to my heart immediately, “on this day of victory and joy, it does my old
heart good to see the people alive to their rights. When the liberty of
the citizens is at stake, who is their friend?”
The crowd broke into a shout of “Marmaduke, Marmaduke.” A woman who
stood next me in the street flourished a white flag and cried: “Three
cheers for Lady Marmaduke, the friend of the people!” The lady who stood
on the step of the coach caught the flag in her hands and motioned for
silence.
“Yes, the Marmaduke is the friend of the people. But that is not what I
meant. Our bulwark is the Earl. Stand by Earl Richard, friends. You are
the strength of Yorke. He is your champion against the blue.” She waved
above her head the flag she had taken from the woman and cried: “Three
hearty cheers for the Earl of Bellamont!”
By the time the ringing response had died away and order was once more
restored the whole attitude of Lady Marmaduke had changed. Tears stood
in her eyes and her voice trembled with emotion.
“Dear people, when it pleased God to take my husband, He took from you
your staunchest friend. ‘Helen,’ he once said to me, 'if by chance you
should be left alone, never forget the people.'” Then she grew brave
again, and her deep voice rang clear and distinct. “I shall do all I
can, but—remember—remember what I say: our bulwark is Earl Richard.”
She sprang back into the carriage. The driver struck out with his lash.
For a moment the six white horses reared and plunged till the swaying
crowd gave way in front. The huge vehicle lumbered forward over the
uneven street, followed by the cheering of the people.
I turned into a deserted by-way, wondering who this woman was and hoping
to make progress more quickly towards the lower part of the town. Even
here I met with the same assertion of victory. Three little bare-legged
urchins were belaboring a fourth who was scarce able to toddle. He stood
on a doorstep warding off the blows of his assailants with a stick. The
cause of their attack was the blue blouse he wore;—blue was the color of
the defeated party.
“Hiky tiky, you Jacobite!” cried the three little soldiers of the Earl.
“Come down and fight fair, you coward.”
I caught up the nearest of the three boys and spanked him well for a
bully; upon which the other two fled precipitately into the midst of a
duck pond where they stood knee deep in the slimy water and dared me to
follow them at my peril.
“I’m as good an Earl’s man as them,” cried the defender of the doorstep.
“But I’ll be a Jacobite now for spite. Don’t come near me, you rebel
brats.”
He shouldered his stick like a musket and strutted ahead, offering to
accompany me to the next corner if I was afraid.
I took the little fellow safely to his mother’s doorstep and then
continued my way through King Street to the Slip, whence I could see the
whole water front and the merchant ships lying at anchor. I had scarcely
reached the battery by the Stadt Huys when a crowd of people came pell
mell along the square. They were shouting and yelling at a score of
persons who went before and were provided with brooms decked in the
victorious white ribbons of the Earl’s party. They were sweeping the
street industriously. As they drew near I saw that the ground in front
of them was plentifully strewed with little blue marbles the size of
birds’ eggs. The sweepers were thus in play cleansing the town of the
blue taint of their enemies. They drew near the water, each vying with
his neighbor to be the first to get the marbles in front of him into the
bay. Ere long they were popping merrily upon the surface. At that moment
a diversion occurred in the form of a charge by a company of marines
from one of the merchant ships in the harbor. The marines came up the
Slip on the run, and in two minutes a hot fight began.
The brooms were not bad weapons of defense. The cutlasses of the sailors
got entangled in the brushy ends and sometimes the weapons of the
sailors were jerked clean out of their hands. Now and then a stinging
thrust in the face would set a man yelling with pain and anger. Meantime
the bystanders amused themselves by egging on the combatants as if it
were a cock fight.
This sort of thing could not last long. One by one the ends of the
brooms were lopped off. The sweepers gave back and at last broke into
flight just as the sheriff and a guard of six men came to their relief.
Not at all daunted by the appearance of the officers of the law, the
marines continued the attack, now gaining ground, now losing, but
keeping to it with a will.
My blood was up. Swords ringing and mine in its sheath was a craven
plight. I was for joining in but did not know which side to join.
Suddenly the sheriff fell wounded and his men turned tail to run.
“Cowards,” I yelled, flourishing my sword, “follow me.”
They plucked up courage and did as I bade them. I led them aside some
twenty yards to the mouth of a narrow lane where we were protected on
the flanks by a fence on one side and a house on the other. Here the
fray began again with redoubled spirit. I had time to notice that each
of the sailors wore about his arm a band of red cloth that gave his
dress somewhat the appearance of a uniform. Three of them soon lay on
the ground by the mouth of the lane, and I doubt not that they were
killed, for there seemed to be great enmity between the marines and the
city officers. The sailors continued to fight like fiends, yelling and
cursing between their blows like so many madmen. I have no doubt they
were full of drink, for they did not fight well together but often
turned on one another, or hampered themselves by crowding shoulder to
shoulder too close to fight to good advantage. In twenty minutes we had
reduced their number by half. The sobering effect of this lively
scrimmage put a little reason into the heads of those who were still
upon their legs. It was now their turn to run, which they did with a
marvelous speed considering the fact that they were sailors.
The battle at an end, I wiped the blade of my sword and continued down
the Slip, casting my eyes curiously upon the tradesmen’s signs. There
were but a few names on the street, though a symbol of some sort stood
over the entrance to each shop. At one place a pair of scissors
indicated the dock barber and peruke maker. A red ball hung before a
vender of cheese; and an empty cask before every third or fourth door
showed where spirits was sold. I made my way past a long row of petty
shops and small ordinaries till my eyes fell upon that for which I was
looking.
This was a tall, pretentious building decked from top to bottom in blue
hangings. Within the ample doorway I could see piles of boxes, casks,
bales of cotton, and to the rear there were many clerks bending over
huge account books, or skurrying about with pots of paint in their hands
to mark the numerous parcels for shipment. What made this warehouse of
more interest to me than all the others was its sign and the name of its
owner. It read “KILIAN VAN VOLKENBERG—MERCHANT.”