flowers—roses—hyacinths, and lilies clustering in immense beds, covered
the ground with one great gem’d and emerald carpet. The gorgeous tulip,
the amaranthus and moss rose vied with each other in fragrant rivalry,
and the modest little violet, claimed protection in the embraces of the
myrtle. Fountains poured mimic cataracts into their marble basins, or,
spouting from the mouths of sphinxes and lions, ascended in crystal
streams, irrigating with copious showers the party-coloured beds beneath.
The long vistas were shaded with the magnolia and flowering almond, while
snow-white statues watched the beautiful picture of happiness around.
Birds of variegated colour and splendid plumage were flying from tree to
tree, and it appeared as if in their sweet notes, and the fragrance of
the flowers, nature was offering up her incense to the Creator.
I was invigorated with new life—I ran from alley to alley—delicious
fruits tempted my taste—the perfumes of Arabia floated in the earthly
paradise,—music floated around,—trains of beautiful girls moved in
graceful ballets before me,—their slender forms were clad in snow-white
robes,—their girdles gemmed with diamonds—their alabaster necks twined
with wreaths of roses.—A joyous laugh burst from them, as they danced—now
in circles—now advancing—now retreating. The circle opened,—a veiled
figure was in the midst,—I approached—the fairies disappeared,—the veil
was slowly lifted,—one moment—my Cora!—we were alone,—we wandered from
bower to bower—her small white hand with electric touch, was within my
delighted grasp,—her golden ringlets mingled with my raven locks—her
dark eyes melted into mine. I fell upon my knee—a cold and grizzly
skeleton met my embrace—the groups of houris were changed into bands of
shrivelled hags;—in place of wreaths of roses, their shrivelled necks
were covered with the deadly nightshade and dark mandragora—forked adders
and serpents twined upon their long and bony arms,—I shuddered,—I was
chained in horror to the spot,—they seized me—they dragged me downward
to the dank and noisome vault.—’Twas light as day—but ’twas a strange
light—a greenish haze—sickly and poisonous as if the deadly miasma of the
fens had turned to flame. The dead men with burning lamps were sitting
on their coffins,—their chins resting upon their drawn up knees, and as
I passed along the extended rows, their eyes all turned and followed me,
as the eyes of portraits from the canvass. Ha! what cadaverous unearthly
stare met me at every turn;—I looked on all sides to avoid them, but
still, where’er I turned, the ghastly muffled faces with their blanched
lips, and deep sunken eyes livid in their sockets, surveyed me with
frightful interest,—and that fierce old hag—how she preceded me—step
by step—her finger pointing forward, while her Medusa head was turned
triumphantly over her shoulder, with its infernal leer upon my cowering
form.—Worlds would I have given to have been out from among the ghastly
crew—but a spell was on me—and I hurriedly made the circuit of the
vault, like a wild beast in his cage. But the old knight, sitting grim
and ghastly as if by constraint, in the lone corner, his long grizzly
beard flowing o’er his winding-sheet,—O! how his cold grey eye glanced
at his long two handed sword before him, as I passed, as if to clutch
it,—I plucked the old greybeard for very ire—ha! what a malignant and
discordant yell did then salute my horror-struck senses,—I gave one bound
of terror—and burst the prison door—and—and—
My noble white charger leaped clear of the earth, as he felt my
weight in the saddle,—I was at the head of an immense army—my bold
cuirassiers formed a moving mass of iron around me. The bugle sounded
the signal for engagement;—peal after peal of musketry flashed from
the dark masses,—the rattling reverberating roar rolled from right to
left,—the gaping throats of the cannon, announced in broad flashes,
the departure of their messengers upon the journey of death. On we
rushed—battalion on battalion,—we stormed the redoubt,—“Charge,” I
shouted,—“Charge the villains—men of the fifth legion—follow your
leader—hurrah—they bear back.”—I seized the standard from a fallen
soldier,—I planted it upon the blood-stained parapet—horrible
confusion!—the trenches were choked with dead—Hah! brave comrade
beware!—his bayonet is at thy shoulder—’tis buried in thy heart.—I will
revenge thee!—I dashed upon him,—we fought like tigers,—we rolled upon
the ground,—I seized my dagger—the bright steel glittered—thousands of
deep hoarse voices wildly roared—“The mine—the mine—beware—beware!”
Flash—roar—bodies—earth—rocks—horses—tumbrils,—all descending, covered
me—and—and
I awoke—the fender and fire-irons upset with horrid din and clatter—the
table, its lights and tea-set hurled around—and myself with might and
main striving with mighty effort to get from beneath the prostrate wreck
which in my terror I had dragged above me.—Old Neptune, aghast, howling
in consternation, from the corner, while a group of fellow-boarders, half
dead with laughter and amazement, were staring through the open door in
wonder at such unusual uproar from the lodger in quiet “No. VI.”
LONG ISLAND SOUND.
But hark! Old Scipio is fast asleep and snoring like Falstaff behind
the arras. Now that old negro is as assuredly dreaming of witches, or
wrecks, or pirates, or ghosts, that have been seen flitting about the
burying-grounds and country church-yards at midnight, as he sits there.
He is somewhere between eighty and one hundred, he does not exactly know
which; but as your negro keeps no family record, it is safe to allow a
lee-way of some ten years in the calculation of his nativity. Of his
genealogy though, he is quite sure, for he proves beyond a doubt, that
he is the son of Job, who was the son of Pomp, who was the son of Caleb,
who was the son of Cæsar, who was the son of Cudjoe, who was caught in
Africa. His whole life has been passed in and about the shores of Long
Island Sound, and he is not only a veritable chronicle of the military
adventures that have been enacted upon its borders in the American wars,
but his head is a complete storehouse, stuffed to overflowing with all
sorts of legendary lore, of wrecks, of pirates, of murders and fights,
and deeds unholy—of massacres, bombardments and burnings, all jumbled
up in such inexplicable confusion, history and legend, truth and
fiction, that it is almost impossible to divide the one from the other.
Sometimes in the cold winter nights, when the storm is howling, as it
does now, I put him upon the track, and upon my word, the influence of
his gossip told in drowsy under tone is such, that I find it a matter of
serious question, whether the most monstrous things in the way of the
supernatural, are by any means matter of wonderment; and fully concede,
that men may have been seen walking about with their heads under their
arms, vanishing in smoke upon being addressed—that old fishermen have
sculled about the creeks and bays in their coffins, after they were dead
and buried—that gibbets are of necessity surrounded by ghosts, and that
prophecies and predictions, and witchcraft are, and must be true as holy
writ.
Indeed, with all the sad realities of life about me, I find it refreshing
to have my soul let loose occasionally, to wander forth, to frolic and
gambol, and stare, without any conventional rule, or let, or hindrance
to restrain it. In how many adventures has that good old negro, quietly
sleeping in the corner, been my guide and pilot. In our shooting, and
fishing and sailing excursions, the shores of the Sound became as
familiar to us as our own firesides, and the dark black rocks, with their
round and kelp covered sides as the faces of old friends and acquaintance.
At a little village upon its western borders I passed my school-boy
days, and there it was that the old negro, formerly a slave, but long
liberated and in part supported by my family, had his hut. There it was
that under his influence I thoroughly contracted the love of adventure
which, in the retrospect still throws a sort of world of my own around
me. All sport, whether in winter or summer, night or day, rain or shine,
was alike to me the same, and sooth to say, if sundry floorings, for
truant days had been administered to Old Scip instead of me, the scale
of justice had not unduly preponderated; for his boats, and rods, and
nets, to say nothing of his musket which had belonged to a Hessian, and
the long bell-mouthed French fusee were always sedulously and invitingly
placed at my control. The old negro was sure to meet me as I bounded
from the school-room with advice of how the tides would serve, and how
the game would lie, and his words winding up his information in a low
confidential under-tone still ring upon my ear, “P’rhaps young massa like
to go wid old nigger.”
His snug little hut down at the Creek side was covered and patched and
thatched with all the experiments of years to add to its warmth and
comfort. Its gables and chimney surmounted with little weather-cocks
and windmills spinning most furiously at every whiff of wind, its sides
covered with muskrat and loon skins nailed up to dry, and fishing rods
and spears of all sizes and dimensions piled against them, the ducks
and geese paddling about the threshold and his great fat hog grunting in
loving proximity to the door way, while its interior was garnished with
pots and kettles, and other culinary utensils; the trusty old musket
hanging on its hooks above the chimney place; the fish nets and bird
decoys lying in the corners, and the white-washed walls garnished and
covered with pictures, and coloured prints of the most negro taste indigo
and scarlet,—naval fights—men hanging on gibbets,—monstrous apparitions
which had been seen—lamentable ballads, and old Satan himself in
veritable semblance, tail, horns and claws, precisely as he had appeared
in the year Anno Domini, 1763; and under the little square mahogany
framed fly specked looking-glass, his Satanic Majesty again in full
scarlet uniform as British Colonel with a party of ladies and gentlemen
playing cards, his tail quietly curled around one of the legs of his arm
chair, and the horse hoof ill disguised by the great rose upon his shoe.
But Scip’ was safe against all such diabolic influence, for he had the
charmed horse shoe firmly nailed over the entrance of his door.
Oh! how often have I silently climbed out of my window and stealthily
crept down the ladder which passed it, long and long before the dawn,
with my fowling piece upon my shoulder, and by the fitful moonlight
wended, half scared, my way through the rustic roads and lanes, leaping
the fences, saturated to the middle with the night-dew from the long
wet grass, the stars twinkling in the heavens, as the wild scudding
clouds passed o’er them, and nothing to break the perfect stillness. How
often at such times have I stopped and stared at some suspicious object
looming up before me, till, mustering courage, I have cocked my piece and
advancing at a trail, discovered in the object of my terror, a dozing
horse, or patient ox, or cow quietly ruminating at the road side.
How often have I sprung suddenly aside, my hair standing on end, as a
stealthy fox or prowling dog rushed by me into the bushes, and felt
my blood tingle to my very fingers’ ends, as some bird of prey raised
himself with an uneasy scream and settled again upon the tree tops, as I
passed beneath. How I used to screw my courage up, as with long strides
and studiously averted eyes, I hurried past the dreaded grave yard; and
as I came upon the borders of the winding creek, and walked splashing
through its ponds and shallows, how would I crouch and scan through the
dim light to catch a glimpse of some stray flock of ducks or teal, that
might be feeding upon its sedges. How would I bend and stoop as I saw
them delightfully huddled in a cluster, till getting near I would find an
envious bend of long distance to be measured before I could get a shot.
How patiently would I creep along—and stop—and crouch—and stop, till
getting near, and nearer—a sudden slump into some unseen bog or ditch
would be followed by a quick “quack”—“quack”—and off they’d go—far out
of reach of shot or call. But all would be forgotten when I reached the
old Negro’s hut. There a hot corn cake and broiled fish or bird, was
always on the coals to stay my appetite—and then off we’d sally to the
Bar to lie in wait for the wild fowl as they came over it at day break.
The snipe in little clouds would start up with their sharp “pewhit”
before us, as we measured the broad hard flats left damp and smooth
by the receding tide; the Kildare with querulous cry would wing away
his flight, and the great gaunt cranes, looming, spectre-like, in the
moonlight, sluggishly stalking onwards, would clumsily lift their long
legs in silence as we advanced, and fan themselves a little farther from
our proximity.
Arriving, we would lay ourselves down, and on the stones await the
breaking of the dawn, when the wild-fowl feeding within the bay arise
and fly to the south-ward over it. Dark objects, one after another,
would glide by us, and in silence take their places along the bar, bent
on the same sport that we were awaiting, and nothing would break the
stillness save the gentle wash and ripple of the waves upon the sands,
or the uneasy and discordant cry of the oldwives, feeding on the long
sedge within the wide-extended bay. The stars would ere long begin to
fade, the east grow grey, then streaked with light, and every sportsman’s
piece be cocked with eager expectation. A flash—a puff of smoke at the
extreme end, showed that a flock had risen, and simultaneously birds
would be seen tumbling headlong. As the astonished flock glanced along
the bar—flash—flash—puff—bang, would meet them, their numbers thinning
at each discharge, till passing along the whole line of sportsmen,
they would be almost annihilated; or wildly dashing through some wider
interval in the chain of gunners, they would cross the bar and escape
in safety. Then as the light increased followed the excitement; the
birds getting up in dense flocks, all bent in one direction, a complete
feu-de-joie saluted them—flash—flash—flash—the reports creeping slowly
after, the wild-fowl tumbling headlong, some into the water, and some
upon the sportsmen; while here a gunner, dropping his piece, might be
seen rushing in up to his neck recklessly after his victim, and there
some staunch dog’s nose just above the surface, unweariedly pursuing the
wing-broken sufferer, which still fluttered forward at his near approach.
Ah, ha! that—that was sport. Hundreds of wild-fowl, from the little
graceful teal to the great fishy loon and red-head brant, were the fruits
of the morning’s adventure. And what a contrast the sparkling eyes and
glowing faces of the elated sportsmen to the city’s pale and care-worn
countenances. They were a true democracy, white man, and black, and
half-breed, the squire and the ploughman, all met in like equality.
Among the sportsmen on the bar at the season that I have just described,
there was always found a tall, gaunt, and extremely taciturn old Indian,
who passed among the people by the name of “Pequot.” His hut was about a
mile beyond Scipio’s, on the same creek, and like him, he obtained his
support mainly by the fruits of his hunting and fishing. Now and then, in
the harvest, or when the game was scarce, he would assist the farmers in
their lighter work, receiving, with neither thanks nor stipulation, such
recompense as they saw fit to make; and sometimes, in the cold depths
of winter, he would appear, and silently sitting at their firesides,
receive, as a sort of right, his trencher at their tables. He was so kind
in his assistance, and so inoffensive to all around him, that he was
always sure of welcome. But there was a marked feature in his character,
and one most unusual to the Indian’s nature, which was his dislike,
almost to loathing, of ardent spirits. He was a great deal at Scipio’s
hut, and I was strongly struck (boy as I was) with the harmony which
subsisted between two characters so apparently dissimilar—the sullen,
almost haughty Indian, and the light-hearted, laughter-loving negro; but
there was a sort of common sympathy—of oppression, I suppose—between
them, for they always assisted one another; and sometimes I have known
them gone for days together in their fishing expeditions on the Sound.
All the information that Scipio could give me about him, was that he had
been the same ever since he had known him, that he was supposed to have
come in from some of the Western tribes, and that from his haunting a
great deal about a neighbouring swamp, where the gallant tribe of Pequots
had, long years before, been massacred by fire and sword, the people
had given him the name of Pequot. Whatever he was, he was a noble old
Indian; the poetry of the character was left, while contact with the
whites, and the kind teachings of the Moravians had hewn away the sterner
features of the savage. I remember that I used to look at him, with all a
boy’s enthusiasm, admiring him with a mingled sense of sympathy and awe.
Even old Scip showed him habitual deference, for there was a melancholy
dignity about him; and his words, short and sententious, were delivered
with scrupulous exactness. I recollect once being completely taken aback
by the display of a sudden burst of feeling, which completely let me into
his ideal claims and imaginary pretensions.
There was a good-natured old Indian, by the name of Pamanack, belonging
to one of the tribes which still clung to Long Island, in the vicinity of
Montaukett, who occasionally made his appearance off old Scip’s hut, in
the Sound, in his periogue, accompanied by some half dozen long-legged,
straight-haired, copper-coloured youths, his descendants. They every now
and then came cruising along the various fishing-grounds, and always,
when in the vicinity of Scip, the old Indian would pay him a visit,
and receive a return for the hospitality paid to the black man, when,
in his similar excursions, he got as far eastward as Montaukett. On the
particular occasion to which I have alluded, old Pamanack had drank more
than was good for him, when the Pequot presented himself silently at the
door of Scipio’s hut, and leaning upon his long ducking-gun, looked in
upon the group. After a few words of recognition passed between them,
Pamanack held out his black bottle, and invited the visiter to drink.
Pequot drew himself up to his extreme height, and for a moment there was
a mingled expression of loathing, abhorrence, and ferocity, flashing
from his countenance that showed that his whole Indian’s nature was
in a blaze; but it was only momentary, for in another, the expression
vanished from his countenance, the habitual melancholy resumed its place
upon his features, and the words fell slowly, almost musically, from his
lips:—“The fire water—the fire water—ay, the same—the Indian and his
deadly enemy.” Then looking steadily at Pamanack, as he held the bottle
still towards him:—“Pequot will not drink. Why should Pamanack swallow
the white man’s poison, and with his own hands dig his grave?
“Pamanack is not alone! His squaw watches at the door of his wigwam,
as she looks out upon the long waves of the ocean tumbling in upon the
shores of Montaukett. His young men gather about him and catch the
tautug from its huge beetling rocks, and tread out the quahog from
its muddy bed. His old men still linger on the sandy beach, and their
scalp-locks float wildly in the fresh sea-breeze. Pamanack has yet a
home:—but Pequot—he is the last of his race. He stands on the high hills
of Tashaway, and he sees no smoke but that from the wigwams of the Long
Knives. He moves in silence along the plains of Pequonnuck,—but the
fences of the pale faces obstruct his progress. His canoe dances at the
side of the dripping rocks,—but the cheating white men paddle up to his
side. His feet sink in the ploughed field,—but it is not the corn of the
red man. His squaw has rolled her last log, and lies cold in her blanket.
His young men,—the fire water and fire dust have consumed them. Pequot
looks around for his people—where are they? The black snake and muskrat
shoot through the water as his moccasin treads the swamp, where their
bones lie, deep covered from the hate of their enemies. Pequot is the
last of his race! Pamanack is good, but the heart of Pequot is heavy.
He cannot drink the fire water, for his young men have sunk from its
deadly poison, as the mist-wreath in the midday sun. The good Moravians
have told him that it is bad—and Pequot will drink no more—for his race
is nearly run. Pequot will sit on the high rocks of Sasco, and his robe
shall fall from his shoulders as his broad chest waits the death-arrow
of the Great Spirit. There will he sit and smoke in silence as he looks
down upon the deserted hunting-grounds of his fathers. Pequot’s heart is
heavy,—Pequot will not drink.” As he finished the last words, he abruptly
turned, and was soon far distant on the sands, moving towards the high
hill of which he had spoken. The Great Spirit was kind to him, for a few
years after he was found stark and stiff, frozen to death on the very
rocks to which he had alluded. As for old Pamanack, he did not appear to
hold the fire water in such utter abhorrence; for, taking a long swig at
the bottle, his eye following the retiring form of the Pequot, he slowly
muttered, “Nigger drink—white man drink—why no Indian drink too?”
But the Sound! the Sound! Oh! how many delightful reminiscences does the
name bring to my recollection. The Sound! with its white sand banks,
and its wooded shores—its far broad bosom, covered with fleets of sails
scudding along in the swift breeze in the open day, and its dark waves
rolling and sweeping in whole streams of phosphorescent fire from their
plunging bows as they dash through it in the darkness of midnight.
The Sound! redolent with military story. The Sound! overflowing with
supernatural legend and antiquated history. Oh! reader, if you had been
cruising along its shores from infancy, as I have, if you had grown up
among its legends, and luxuriated in its wild associations,—if you had
spent whole days on its broad sand beaches, watching the gulls as they
sailed above you, or the snipe as they ran along on the smooth hard
flats,—if you had lain on the white frozen snows on its shore in the
still nights of mid-winter, your gun by your side, gazing till your soul
was lost in the blue spangled vault, as it hung in serene and tranquil
grandeur above you, your mind, in unconscious adoration, breathing whole
volumes of gratitude and admiration to the great God that gave you
faculties to enjoy its sublimity; and in the stillness, unbroken save by
the cry of the loon as he raised himself from the smooth water, seen in
every sail moving in silence between you and the horizon the “Phantom
Ship,” or some daring bucaneer, and in every distant splash heard a deed
of darkness and mystery, then could you enter into my feelings.