CAPTAIN WILLIAM KIDD
Though we sat together for some time after that, little enough passed
between us. I had my own thoughts and so had the patroon. Whatever was
in his mind I could not tell, but I thought that it was Louis. For if
there was the least sound outside he would start up expectantly; and
when, as always happened, Louis did not appear, his face would grow
black, and the corners of his mouth would drop down, as they did in his
worst moments. I hardly wonder, considering what followed later, that he
was ill at ease. In all likelihood, he suspected the real cause of
Louis’s absence and knew much better than I did in what danger it would
involve himself.
However, the whole evening was not to be given up to hopeless grumbling
after the lost henchman. I had first come to New York in August, as you
will remember, and it was now late in November. The roads were still
hard, witness the sharp clattering ring of the horseman who had ridden
by shortly before on the frozen ground; but at any day now we might
expect the bad weather to set in and difficult roads to follow.
We had heard the horseman ride by about nine o’clock. For two hours the
patroon fussed and fumed and visited the clock in the hall so often that
it scarce seemed to leave time for him to do anything else. I wondered
why he should be so anxious about the clock, when he explained the
motive all of a sudden.
“Get on your cloak. It is time for us to go. This is the errand I spoke
to you about this morning.”
I asked no questions—no one ever did of the patroon, especially when he
was in a bad humor. No one ever dared to approach him on a forbidden
subject, and I knew enough to know my place if I knew nothing else. So I
wrapped myself up warm and the two of us set out on foot. We followed
the narrow path that led down to the river. It was steep walking part of
the way, but we managed to stumble to the end of it in safety. At the
landing we found the patroon’s barge waiting for us. Eight negro slaves
were at the oars and an overseer held the tiller.
“Have you seen the signal?” asked Van Volkenberg.
“Yes, about ten minutes ago for the first time, and twice since. He
seems to be in a hurry.”
“Very well. Let him know that we are coming. Get in, St. Vincent.”
As soon as we were seated, word was given to the slaves, and the barge
shot out into the current, turning southward towards the town.
“I do not like this disappearance of Louis,” said the patroon in a low
voice to me. “I have expected him to turn against me for a long time,
but I was hardly prepared for it just at this moment. If he comes back
he shall feel the lash on his bare back for the fright he has given me.”
“Poor Louis; I hope we shall not find him now.”
“No, this meeting is with someone else. You’ll know who shortly.”
Soon after this the slaves left off rowing and we drifted with the tide.
We had come to a place just opposite the fields north of the city wall.
“Show the light,” said the patroon.
A dark lantern held by the steersman was made to flash three times; it
was answered close at hand. Five minutes later a boat glided up out of
the darkness, from which a stranger stepped aboard us. Then we set out
for home.
The stranger, so far as I could see in the dim light, was a strong-built
man, not over large in stature. He wore a seaman’s great coat and
carried his cutlas in his hand. He swore fearfully in his speech and the
patroon was constantly warning him to lower his gruff voice.
“I tell you, William,” he said after their conversation had gone on for
some time, “it will never do. I have had a change of heart. It will
never do. I have surely suffered a change of heart.”
“Well,” returned the stranger with a large accompaniment of oaths, “if
that’s the fact, what’s the use o' lugging Willie Kidd all the way to
Hanging Rock?”
“Tut, tut, man, we shall have a glass of old Madeira and talk of bygone
days.”
“Ah,” muttered Kidd, smacking his lips in anticipation, “that is another
matter.”
So this was Captain William Kidd, merchant, of New York. This was the
man to whom had been entrusted the King’s ship that was to prey upon the
buccaneers and to put the booty into the pocket of the sovereign and his
co-adventurers. This was the man about whom the patroon had got himself
into disgrace with the governor’s council. I tried to make out the
expression on Van Volkenberg’s face, but the night was too dark for
that. I could only fancy how this appointment had been brought about.
Then I remembered the seaman we had met in the city the day before, and
the patroon’s parting injunction: “At midnight on the river.” He must
have been Captain Kidd—at least his name was William, for I had heard my
master call him so. They went on talking in low voices, although not so
low but that I could catch the drift of their talk.
I soon learned that the troops had been dispatched to Albany mainly upon
Kidd’s representation. He had urged Bellamont to protect the colony at
all hazards against an invasion from the north; and such was the faith
of Bellamont and Livingstone in the advice of the commander of the
Adventure that he tipped the scale of a hesitating executive, and the
troops were sent.
I also learned that, whereas Bellamont had taken the advice of Kidd,
Kidd had received his cue from Van Volkenberg. So it was the patroon
after all who had emptied the fort of its regular guard. But I had no
time then to think of what motive he had for doing so, for we were fast
nearing the landing at Hanging Rock. Several times during this
conversation Van Volkenberg had spoken again of his change of heart.
Often a low chuckle escaped him on the occasion of such a reference. His
spirits were evidently rising, and, for the present, all thoughts of
Louis and his absence must have been forgotten.
When we arrived at the manor-house, the patroon led his guest to the
door of the dining room.
“St. Vincent,” he said, “stand here on guard. No one is to come in or to
interrupt us in any way till we come out again.”
With that he opened the door and motioned Captain Kidd to enter. I could
only see a part of the room from where I stood. What mainly occupied the
vista disclosed by the open door was the great mahogany sideboard, which
stood against the wall at the farther end of the room. On the upper part
of it were plenty of glass vessels and blue china pieces from Delft and
heavy articles of silver plate; the lower part was a huge cupboard used
to store less showy articles of furniture. I used to wonder at the
bigness of this enclosure and thought what a place it would be to play
hide and seek in if there were only children about the house. Then the
door closed and I saw no more of the sideboard or of the visitor for a
while. But I heard a laugh; it was loud and uproarious, and I thought he
would never have done. But he subsided at last; then I could hear the
muffle of low voices, but never a word reached my ears that I could
understand.
I walked up and down the hall for a long time. The minutes merged into
an hour and then two hours. I grew tired with nothing to occupy my mind
but the continual mumble of low voices. I fell to wondering where Louis
was and what he was up to. More than once I had suspected the patroon’s
motive in garrisoning the fort with his own men. I was so sure that his
action was a mere trick, though I was taken in by it at the time, that I
intended to slip from my window that very night and go to the Earl with
a warning. Then it flashed upon me that perhaps Louis had already done
this. Could the horseman we had heard be a messenger to recall the
troops that had been dispatched to Albany? The idea seemed possible. The
more I thought of it the more certain I became. I can remember to this
day the thrill of satisfaction that I felt when I understood that the
patroon was within one of checkmating himself. My imagination ran riot
there in the silence before the door I was guarding. I began to fancy
that the patroon meant to get possession of the city. I had noticed that
day that his seven ships were so drawn up in the harbor as to command
the whole front of the city. But in spite of everything I was satisfied
with the situation. If the Earl had received warning, the patroon, after
all, might succeed only in trapping himself.
Then I felt a pang at heart—he was Miriam’s father. I could no longer
hide from myself the fact that I was in love with the patroon’s
daughter. From the moment when I first felt the charm of her
attractiveness, I had fought hard against it. She was a Catholic and,
worse than that, she was his daughter. But she had been good to Ruth. I
recalled how earnestly my sister had tried to break down my unreasoning
hatred of the Catholics. I thought, too, of Miriam’s kindness to old
Meg; and of her love and belief in her father; and of her simple purity
of faith. These were qualities I had not looked for in the Roman church.
Then came that sweet picture of her and Ruth kneeling side by side in
the little oratory, each praying in her own faith.
This very evening I had begged Miriam for a keepsake. She had been with
us during a part of the time when her father was so upset by Louis’s
absence. She had tried to coax him into a better humor, but he told her
sharply to leave the room and go to bed. I followed her into the hall
and when, a moment later, I picked up a handkerchief which she had
dropped on the floor, I begged her to let me keep it. It was a mere bit
of sentiment on my part, I confess, but it would have been a treasure to
me and I wanted it with all my heart.
But Miriam thought differently. She protested against the gift in such a
vigorous manner that I could think nothing less than that she would not
have me wear a favor of hers. This dashed my spirits and she saw
accordingly how seriously I took the matter.
“Pooh, you are foolish,” she cried, laughing. “This is why I won’t let
you have it.”
She shook out the handkerchief and thrust her finger through a tiny hole
in one corner. In vain I told her it was all the better for that. She
only brushed me lightly in the face with it and ran up stairs laughing.
All this and many other things were in my head as I walked back and
forth like a sentinel before the door of the dining room. Soon the sound
of other voices besides those of my master and Captain Kidd became
audible. They were above stairs and seemed to come from the upper
landing. One I recognized immediately as Annetje’s. The other person
could be none but her mistress; though I heard but little that she said,
who else would be with Annetje at this hour of the night?
There was a lamp burning in the hall whose light fell dimly upon the
foot of the stairs, but all above the fifth or sixth step was as dark as
the pit.
“Look on the bottom step, Monsieur St. Vincent,” I heard Annetje
whisper.
I glanced at the door of the dining room and then walked sideways
towards the stairs, so that I could keep my eyes cast backward and
attend to my duty at the same time. On the bottom step lay a patch of
white which I caught up eagerly, for it was the very handkerchief I
wanted, hole, wrinkles and all.
“It is for you,” said Annetje from the dark above. “She sends it with
her—”
A hand must have been clapped over her mouth, she stopped so suddenly. I
hardly dared to hope for that last word. No matter; I had the
handkerchief safe, at least. I called up my thanks, though I could not
see either of them and was soon back at my post.
When Van Volkenberg and Kidd came out, we retraced the journey of two
hours previous, dropping down river and transferring Kidd to his own
boat. And with this one appearance he vanishes from these pages.
During those two hours when they were closeted in the dining room, he
and the patroon hatched a plan which indirectly affected us mightily,
but whose ultimate success transpired too late to influence the fortunes
of the patroon.
As everyone knows, Captain Kidd sailed from New York an honorable
merchant and well trusted by the government. When he was next heard of
he was a jolly pirate on the high seas, flying the black flag. But he
was only an amateur buccaneer after all, and found pirating less to his
mind than he had hoped for. So he sat in his cabin till he had fashioned
a whole book full of lies to explain how he had been made the victim of
his crew and how he had meant to deal honestly with the King’s
commission. Thus armed he sailed boldly into Boston harbor, where he was
promptly arrested to answer for his crimes.
For a time it looked as if his treachery would stain the honor of his
patron. But at length Bellamont was cleared beyond a doubt of all
complicity, and Kidd was sentenced to hang by the neck till he was dead.
But all this happened afterwards and is beyond the limits of this story.
Kidd played a losing game, in which he staked his life and reputation.
What right have we to heap calumny upon his memory? Let him wend his own
wicked way alone, while we return to the fortunes of the Red Band.