THE JACOBITE COFFEE-HOUSE
When I recognized the name on the front of Van Volkenberg’s warehouse I
dipped my hand into my pocket to make sure that the silver buttons
Captain Tew had given me were safe and ready to be produced by way of
introduction. I crossed the street and entered the open doorway. A
courteous young clerk who desired to be of service to me regretted that
his master was not on the premises.
“Patroon Van Volkenberg went out not long ago with Colonel Fletcher,” he
said. “You know that the town is in such excitement that the patroon,
who is the chief merchant of the city and also a member of the
governor’s council, has many cares upon him. But I am in his confidence
and should be glad—no, is it a personal matter? I am sorry that I cannot
attend to your business. I should advise you to return this afternoon if
you desire to see him in person. He will probably dine with Colonel
Fletcher or perhaps with the governor. You know that Patroon Van
Volkenberg is one of the most representative men of the city. I see you
are a stranger. Would you like to look at our cellars and see our ships?
There are none equal to them in the whole province.”
I thanked him for his kindness, but said that I wished to explore the
city and would wander about on the chance of seeing the patroon at
large. I passed out into the busy street and stood at the door of the
patroon’s warehouse for a moment in hesitation which way to turn. A
large sign which projected into the street not far away on my right
indicated the Leisler Tavern. I turned that way, intending to find a
suitable place to lodge until my plans became more settled. At the door,
however, I stopped. The room within was noisily full of people all of
whom wore white cockades and badges. These decorations represented the
Earl’s party and reminded me of the fact that the hangings on Van
Volkenberg’s house were blue. The Leisler Tavern was evidently not
frequented by the partisans of the patroon. I had better seek farther;
perhaps I should come upon an inn of another color.
I wandered along, keeping a sharp lookout on all sides. My attention was
much taken up with the quaint little houses and the curious sights of
this strange city. Before long, on returning from a near view of the
fort which I had already seen at a distance from my point of vantage on
Long Island, I ran suddenly upon the Jacobite Coffee-House. This
ordinary was draped in blue, and the empty neighborhood cast upon it the
melancholy atmosphere of defeat.
The large interior was portioned off upon three sides into stalls
containing tables like those I had seen in London. Most of the chairs at
these tables were occupied by persons drinking; but by far the greater
number of people present stood mug in hand in the open center of the
room. Upon my entrance there was a sudden lull in the conversation; then
they began to whisper among themselves and look at me. Every person in
the room was soon staring at me as if I were some public curiosity on
exhibition. There was a hostile expression in their eyes, too, that I
could not comprehend. I wondered whether, after all, this was really a
public ordinary. Had I made a mistake and blundered into some private
place of meeting? On one side of the tap-room in plain sight hung the
governor’s license to keep open house. No, I had not made a mistake.
What, then, was the meaning of this obvious turning of eyes in my
direction? How could I account for the hostile contempt they showed
towards me, an utter stranger?
I crossed the room to where I saw a vacant chair in one of the stalls.
At once two men who were also seated at the table I was moving towards,
arose, making a great parade of their efforts to get out of my way. The
laugh that followed this treatment vexed me much. I called out in an ill
temper to the host to fetch me some rum and not to keep strangers
waiting.
“Have you a room to let?” I inquired as he set my liquor down on the
table in front of me.
“No,” he replied curtly, turning on his heel, and showing me his back
across the room.
Shortly the attention fell off from me somewhat and the inmates began to
talk again. Kirstoffel, as they called the host, was a merry fellow. He
soon seemed to repent of the rude way in which he had answered my
question, for he saw when I took out my purse that I had plenty of ready
money. Taking advantage of a moment when attention was diverted to the
some disturbance in the street, he came across the room to me and made a
qualified apology.
“Gott, man,” he began. “Your demand was too sudden. I have got no rooms
here to let out. They were all thrown into one for that what-you-call-it
Jacobite Club to meet in. No, I have no rooms.”
As he seemed to be friendly, I asked him why my entrance had been the
cause of so much attention. He was about to answer when the people who
had been temporarily attracted to the door came pouring back. The
tapster laid his finger on his lips, shook his head at me in a warning
sort of way, and then stalked haughtily back to his place as if to
affect his customers with the largeness of his contempt for me.
I was all alert to discover the clew to this treatment. As each of
several new people entered I was pointed out amid whispering and shaking
of heads and threatening glances. One fellow, a sailorly looking man,
cried out an angry oath and took a step or two in my direction. A
comrade caught him by the arm and whispered something in his ear. At
that the fellow gave up his notion, whatever it was, and soon their
interest in me waned.
Everyone I had seen in the room so far wore somewhere on his coat or hat
a bit of the blue ribbon that stood for the Merchants’ party. It was not
long, however, before I noticed in one corner a slight, alert man who
looked as if he might be a native of my own country. Furthermore, so far
as I could see, he wore none of the blue ribbon. I changed my seat so as
to come near him. He was an affable sort of fellow and spoke to me at
once.
“You and I seem to be on the under side,” he began. “I wonder you don’t
wear white.”
I told him, as I had told the ferryman, that I was a stranger in the
city and that I had not yet learned the difference between the parties.
He at once began a long explanation, telling me all about the Earl of
Bellamont and the People’s party whose color was white, and of the
Merchants’ party, whose color was blue. Thus begun, I pressed the
conversation further to learn why I had been treated with so much
attention when I came into the coffee-house. He did not know. Had I worn
white or no color at all, as he did, they would have let me alone. There
must be something more than that. Did I not know? “How could I?” I said,
in answer to his question, for I had been in New York scarce above two
hours. All this mystery was very annoying to me, for every few moments I
was pointed out and showed off to some new comer like an animal in a
cage.
In the meantime my chance acquaintance, who informed me that his name
was Pierre, drank continually and was in the merrier mood therefor. “I
hate these Dutchmen,” he said, “with their dozen pairs of breeches like
barrels round their middles. And the women, ha! I’ve seen a very
bean-pole swell out below like a double jib.”
This reference to the Dutchmen reminded me of my desire to see the
patroon, and I asked Pierre if he knew Van Volkenberg.
“Know him? I’d know his bones in a button shop. You couldn’t polish the
crabbedness out of him. I could tell you where he is at this very moment
only—I declare, my head is getting fuddled. I must have a gill of rum to
settle this weak beer with.” In a moment he came back from the tap-rail,
empty-handed and shaking his head disconsolately. “He will not trust me,
not another stuyver. I’m plum fuddled. Where was I?”
I suggested Van Volkenberg, but he did not seem to know the name. I
handed him half a crown, but he would not take it.
“No, sir; I’m not a beggar,” he said with a little dignity. “That would
hurt me to the heart, and what would Annetje say?” Then he added
cunningly: “You are a man of influence. If you would speak to him and
ask him to extend my score on credit a little he would do it out of
respect to you.”
A moment later Pierre was sipping rum to his satisfaction and I was
secretly a shilling out to the landlord.
“Where was I?” continued Pierre, whose memory was improving now that I
had got him some liquor without offending his dignity with money. “Where
was I? Oh, yes, Van Volkenberg. He is in the room above this
one—president of the Jacobite Club. If you wait here you will see him.
They always come in for a sup all worn out and dry with thinking.”
Pierre soon fell asleep and I awaited the appearance of the patroon. In
a short space of time I was again quite out of the consideration of
every person in the room. They talked in low tones as people will who
have not the honorable sense of success to be noisy over. They no longer
paid any heed to me, not even when further additions were made to their
number.
I kept my ears open and I soon learned from the drift of conversation
what was the present state of politics in New York. The recently
defeated Merchants’ party had been in power for many years; in fact,
ever since the trial and execution of the leader, Jacob Leisler. This
party’s grip on affairs had, however, been steadily failing ever since
and it was quite loosened by the arrival of a new governor. This
governor was the Earl of Bellamont. Upon his arrival in New York he had
at once espoused the cause of the Popular party, as the adherents of
Leisler were called. He made it his especial duty to enforce the Acts of
Trade and to put down the illegal traffic with the buccaneers. This
unlawful trade was the chief bone of contention between the two parties.
To the Merchants’ party belonged all the great tradesmen of the city,
hardly one of whom had not in times past, or was not at that very moment
engaged in the profitable but unlawful exchange of smuggled goods. It
was to continue this trade in defiance of the law that they stood
together against the Earl. In the recent election they had been
overthrown by a large majority. Their defeat was due mainly to the
Frenchmen, which portion of the population of New York was then quite
under the control of Lady Marmaduke. She was the lady I had already seen
addressing the people from the step of her coach.
While I was gathering the above information piecemeal from the subdued
conversation about me in the coffee-room, my acquaintance, Pierre, had
roused himself occasionally, swallowed another draught of rum, and then
relapsed into sleepy unconsciousness. The group in the room was
continually changing, but the people composing it had ceased to point me
out as an object of interest. Two or three men had latterly come in who
wore upon their arms a band of red cloth like what I had seen on the
sailors I had fought against in company with the sheriff’s men. But
these fellows took no notice of me, nor did I recognize them as
belonging to the band we had fought with.
Before long a sudden lull in the conversation greeted the appearance of
two men. Heretofore I had examined the face of every visitor as he came
in, wondering if he were Van Volkenberg. I now scanned these two with
like attention. The older looking of the two was a large man, powerful
but spare in build, with a sharp passionate eye. He returned cordially
the numerous greetings with which he was welcomed. Then, for everyone in
the room stood silent as if in expectation of a speech, he struck his
ebony cane with decision on the floor and began to speak.
“Friends, we have suffered a severe defeat and to-day the Assembly goes
into session that will unmake our laws. But the race is not to the swift
nor the battle to the strong. We are not yet dead. Power shall return to
us. Hush——” He raised his cane and made a motion to cut short a slight
attempt to cheer. “Our enemies have triumphed through the vote of the
Frenchmen. But you must not let this turn you against them. They are led
by the black Lady Marmaduke. We must bring them back to our support.
They are willing to come, but we must not drive them sharply. There is
one thing I have to tell you that will make you glad at heart. To-day I
have been at the governor’s council board. He is at heart our friend. To
be sure, he has restored the confiscated property to the family of the
traitor Leisler. That strikes home against us, but he could not help
himself. The attainder was removed in England and he was bound to carry
it out whether he liked to do so or not. This victory has been won in
his name, but it is not of his heart. Do not the two traitors still lie
at the foot of the gallows?”
A sullen murmur of dissatisfaction followed this appeal. “Ay, they have
lain there these eight years,” cried one. “May they rot in their graves
forever,” said another. For a moment the air was full of sharp, savage
curses directed against the memory of the two leaders of the people.
“And now,” continued the speaker, as Kirstoffel handed him a cup, “let
us drink to the health of our stout friend, Colonel Benjamin Fletcher.”
Fletcher! I remembered that name. He was the person who had sent to
Captain Tew the buttons that I now had in my pocket. The toast was drunk
enthusiastically. Then someone sprang upon a chair and began to beat
time; the company followed his example and soon they were all singing
this song which they accompanied boisterously with the jingle of mugs
and the clatter of feet:
“Hi! Ho! Kirstoffel’s brew,
Gi' good den to Kilian’s crew;
Klink the can,
Let every man
Drink to Van Volkenberg.”
At the last word the tall speaker bowed right and left, whereby I knew
he was the patroon.
I felt in my pocket for the silver buttons and, taking one of them in
the hollow of my hand with my fingers closed over so as to conceal it
till the proper moment, I rose to approach the patroon. This act drew
all eyes upon me. There was the same ominous silence as before,
accompanied now, however, with ten times the contempt and anger shown at
my first entrance. The ill feeling against me was so evident and, so far
as I knew, so without cause, that I was fairly nonplussed. No one spoke.
The only sounds were the ticking of the tall clock in the corner and a
few taps of Van Volkenberg’s cane upon the floor. He likewise seemed to
share the general resentment against me.
“Mynher,” said I, as yet holding the button in my hand. “I came to
ask——”
“Ask nothing of me, villain.”
“Ay, he is a villain,” chorused several voices.
“Mynher,” I began again, astonished at this reception from a perfect
stranger.
“Not a word, wretch, not a word to me. I have no dealings with
vagabonds, scum of the streets. If you have anything to say, go talk to
my dogs. Zounds! Away! Out of my sight!”
I was about to expostulate, having no idea whatever how to account for
this sudden burst of anger, but he raised his cane to strike me. Then I
noticed a narrow band of red cloth about his left arm just beyond the
elbow.
“Hush, Kilian,” said the companion who had entered with him. “Do not
anger yourself.”
“Pish! May I not strike a dog?”
“’Tis not for him but for yourself. Beware, Kilian.”
The patroon was visibly affected by this rejoinder and made an effort to
control himself.
“You say you don’t understand what I mean?” he continued in disdain, for
he had given me a chance to profess myself ignorant of offense. “Have
you not stood against my men? Have you not drawn your sword against the
Red Band? Bah, dog! You shall know what it is to kill the men of the Red
Band. You shall hang for this if there is a law left in the province.”
He had begun this speech with a measure of self-control. But as the
words followed one upon another, he spoke quicker and quicker, and with
more and more anger, till he had worked himself to such a height of
passion that his friend interfered a second time.
“Be careful, Kilian. These are grave times and we must be on our guard.
You know your failing. What if you should make some——” He spoke the rest
so low that I could not hear it. It had the effect, however, of calming
the patroon. “Hear the man,” continued his friend. “Hear what he has to
say.”
“Mynher Van Volkenberg,” I explained, “if the men I fought with on the
Slip this morning were your men, I can only say that we gave and took
fair blows. Half a score of men fighting two or three or four is what no
man of honor will stand by and see unstirred. I fought fair and I
confess no crime. I should do the same against the very troops of the
Earl.”
“Damn the Earl!” burst out the patroon.
He shook and trembled with rage. This time there was no holding him
back. He stormed up and down the room, cursing me, and the Earl, and
even his companion, for trying to quiet him. What had been the outcome
of our altercation but for an accident I do not know. Just at that
moment Pierre, who had been sleeping quietly on my rum all this while,
roused himself and stumbled to his feet. When I had first spoken to him
a short time before, he was merrily drunk; by now he had swallowed
himself into a royal state for quarreling.
“Hi, my duck!” he hiccoughed, as he lurched across the room. “At it
again, eh?”
The room was dumb at this sudden outbreak from an unexpected quarter.
Pierre drew upon him the attention of us all except the man who had
entered with the patroon. His eyes were fixed upon Van Volkenberg, his
hand was laid upon the patroon’s arm.
“Come with me, Kilian,” he said in a voice so low that few heard it.
“You are wrought up to-day. You cannot trust yourself. Come home with
me. Remember how much depends upon your coolness.”
“Old man,” Pierre cried as he tottered indirectly out of the corner
where he had been asleep. “You will set your dogs on me, will you?”
There was almost no sound from anyone. Only the slow tick of the clock
and the sand crunching beneath Pierre’s feet. Van Volkenberg trembled
with fury, but was unable to speak. His companion tried in vain to drag
him from the room. Pierre stopped two steps in front of them.
“Take that,” he cried savagely, emptying a glass of rum on the patroon’s
waistcoat. Then, waving his arms drunkenly, he began to sing:
“Klink the can,
Let every man—
Down with Van Volkenberg.”
In the uproar that followed I was aware of but two facts. The patroon
was dragged off by his companion through one door, and Pierre by the
crowd through another. In the midst of the pushing and shoving about the
street door someone plucked my elbow. It was Kirstoffel, the host, with
his finger to his lips.
“His offense is ducking,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder
towards Pierre. “But you. Gott, man! You’ve killed three of the
patroon’s best men. I would not be in your shoes for a month’s brew. You
will be up for——.” He pointed significantly, first at his neck and then
at a beam over head. “Take my advice. Seek you the French dominie. He
has got a great hold on Lady Marmaduke as well as the governor. But
don’t stand still on your legs or you will hang fast by your neck.”
The fact that I was in unusual danger on account of my part in the brawl
of the morning came home to me now for the first time. I resolved to
take Kirstoffel’s advice without delay, feeling keenly the danger of my
situation. I inquired where the house of the Huguenot pastor was and
then asked the name of the person who had been so eager to restrain the
patroon’s wrath.
“That? That was Colonel Fletcher, the governor of the province before
this one came to the fort.”
It was a strange coincidence that I should be thus thrown against the
only two men in New York from whom I had expected any help. All this
time I still held the silver button clasped in my hand. I put it back
into my pocket and set out along the street in search of the minister
who I hoped would be able to assist me out of my difficult situation.