Uncle Jabez Spins a Yarn.
The news of the capture of the whaleboat and its occupants soon became
known to the inhabitants of Eastham and the tidings were received
with dismay. The loss of the boat and her cargo was bad enough, but
the fact that two of the neighbors were prisoners and liable to be
sent across the ocean to Dartmoor caused consternation in the town.
Then, again, the incident clearly betokened a change of policy on
the part of the British. It was evident that the blockade was to be
enforced rigorously, and this meant a scarcity of those provisions
which the people were accustomed to get from Boston. Rye was plentiful,
but anything approaching luxury was out of the question under the
circumstances. The Committee of Safety was hastily convened, but after
a long discussion the meeting adjourned until some definite information
regarding the enemy’s movements could be obtained. Messengers were sent
to Provincetown with instructions to consult with the selectmen of that
place and get their views.
The prevailing gloom was apparent at Crosby’s tavern. The gossips were
gathered as usual, but there were no jokes going around; even Master
Walker refrained from any of his customary sallies. Uncle Jabez Rich
occupied his seat in the chimney corner, and as he philosophically
smoked his pipe, he seemed to be the only person untroubled by the
shadow of hard times.
“You don’t appear to be much worried about the future, Uncle Jabez?”
Peter remarked.
“The future, Master Walker, has been before me for nearly ninety years
but I have never overtaken it. The past is what an old man knows best.
The present must be left to the young.”
“There have been many changes in Eastham since you were a boy, Uncle
Jabez?”
“Aye, Master Walker, many changes, surely. In some ways the youngsters
now know more than grown people in my youth, and in other ways our
great scholars of today are far behind the men of learning who lived
here in the old days.”
Peter Walker saw that Uncle Jabez was in a reminiscent mood. The
occasion was ripe for stimulating the old man’s memory.
“I’ve heard my grandfather tell of those good times when Mr. Treat was
minister. That was before your time, Uncle Jabez. Grandfather was only
eighty when he died, but he hadn’t your memory.”
“No, Peter, few men have my memory, if I do say it myself. I was
only a boy at the time, but I well remember the days when Mr. Samuel
Osborn was minister. Ah, he was a rare man! It was not his piety that
recommended him to his flock, though he was a good man, too. It was his
way of doing good. He took hold of the things nearest to hand. Didn’t
your grandfather ever mention how Mr. Osborn taught the people the
value of peat for fuel when there was a scarcity of wood?”
“He used to say something of the sort, Uncle Jabez, but he got Mr.
Osborn mixed with the other minister, Mr. Webb.”
“Aye, Mr. Webb was one of the best men that ever lived but he had no
faculty for practical matters. He had the Middle Parish, and Mr. Osborn
had the South Parish. They were always the best of friends, though
their dispositions were very different. Didn’t you ever hear the story
of how the ‘Whidah’ was lost and how one of the two survivors used to
come to the Cape for years after in search of the pirate’s treasure?”
“We heard a little of the story, Uncle Jabez, but nobody seemed to know
it in full.”
“I know it in full, Master Walker.”
As Uncle Jabez said this the hearers became more interested and drew
nearer the chimney-place.
“Tell us about it, Uncle Jabez,” urged Obed Sparrow. “I have heard tell
of that strange man who frequented the dunes of Wellfleet years ago.
Nobody seems to know what was his end.”
Uncle Jabez was nothing loth to comply, and this is how his story ran.
* * * * *
In those old days, my masters, Eastham was a town of great importance
in the colony. From the bounds of Chatham and Harwich on the west,
it took in the rest of the Cape as far as Truro. It was the famous
corn-raising district of the colony, Nauset being known to the first
settlers as “the granary of the Cape.” It had many men engaged in the
fisheries and some went long voyages to southern lands in search of the
vintage of Santa Cruz and Jamaica, bartering the spoil of the ocean for
the products of the tropics. The Indians of the Nauset tribe, original
owners of the soil, were rapidly vanishing from the earth, though a
remnant of the nation still remained. They were a kindly race and lived
in peace with the white man. After King Philip’s War, the power of the
Narragansetts and the Wampanoags was broken, but the colony was still
subject to frequent alarms from the French and their Indian allies, who
were active in other parts of the state.
Some ten years before I was born, the Rev. Samuel Treat died. He
had served the people for forty-four years, and his funeral was the
occasion of great grief to all. He was beloved by the Indians. Two
years after this, the pirate ship “Whidah” was wrecked during a great
storm. One hundred and two bodies were washed ashore and buried on the
dunes. Only two of the crew survived, an Englishman and an Indian.
They disappeared almost immediately after they were rescued and nobody
knew where they went to. I have often heard my father describe that
fearful night. The raging ocean burst through the Cape, opening a
passage through which boats could pass. Daylight revealed a dreadful
sight. The sands were strewn with the bodies of the dead pirates. An
immense concourse gathered from all parts of the Cape to view the
scene and, if possible, to have their share of the treasure which Sam
Bellamy, the pirate captain, was supposed to have had on board.
Some of you, my masters, may know all of this; all of you may know
some of it, but as my story has to deal with the “strange man” who
frequented this district some years after the wreck of the pirate, I
hope I have not trespassed on your patience by this allusion to the
event which was responsible for the stranger’s appearance in our town.
Years passed by, and I was a stout lad of ten when I first heard of
this man. He had been seen on the Wellfleet beach, apparently searching
for something. The scene of his operations was just below the hut of
Goody Hallett, on the line between Eastham and what is now Wellfleet.
Goody Hallett lived alone. She was old and most people regarded her
as a witch, but this was probably because she kept much to herself.
She was expert at the spinning-wheel and ostensibly supported herself
by this industry. She never asked charity, though people wondered how
so old a woman could earn enough to keep her from want. She courted
seclusion, and the situation of her small dwelling, far removed from
the prying eyes of neighbors, favored this. A tall, thin woman, with
dark features strongly telling of Indian blood, her appearance went
far to confirm the idea that she rode the broomstick and could work
charms. She was not a native of this place. It was said she belonged to
a distant part of the Cape, beyond Yarmouth, and she arrived in Eastham
soon after the wreck of the “Whidah.”
The stranger was described as a man of fierce aspect. His beard and
mustachios were originally coal-black but time had whitened the pointed
ends. His face was scarred in many places. Those who brought the news
of his presence said that when he discovered that he was being watched
his features were contorted with passion and his expression was that
of the Evil One. Allowing for some exaggeration on the part of the
frightened beholders, there could be no doubt but that this stranger
of forbidding mien desired to avoid the observation of the inhabitants
while he pursued his mysterious search of the sands.
One evening in the late Fall, when the first snowflakes began to whiten
the ground, my father and I had made all snug for the night and were
leaving the barn when we heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs approaching
the house. Soon the wayfarer entered the yard and a cheerful voice
greeted us.
“Give ye good e’en, Goodman Rich! Like a careful husbandman thou hast
made thy beasts comfortable. Now, in the hospitality of thy heart,
couldst thou find place below the salt for a weary guest at the
bounteous feast which awaits thee? And how is my young friend Jabez?”
It was the Rev. Mr. Osborn. My father gave him hearty welcome, bade
him dismount and enter. He stabled the horse while the minister was
made welcome by my mother. Soon we were seated at table and Mr. Osborn
continually praised the good things which my mother had set before us,
a fact which pleased her greatly.
He was a man of genial temperament, free-spoken and always ready for
his joke. Some of the stricter members of the South Parish church did
not like his easy ways, but he had done much good among the people
and, as yet, the mutterings of his enemies were scarcely heard. He had
come from Ireland in the early years of the century and he had some
of the faults as well as many of the virtues of his native land. His
views on Christianity were broad; in fact, too broad for the elders of
his church, as was afterward shown by his dismissal from the parish
after trial by an ecclesiastical court. He had rejected the Calvinism
in which his congregation had been reared. But he was a great man,
and from him I learned many of the lessons which formed part of my
equipment as schoolmaster in after years. He retained much of the old
manner of speech which was then giving place to the modern form.
“I have been to Truro to see my good friend Mr. Avery, goodman, and I
dallied on my way home, so that is the reason of my forcing myself on
your hospitality for the night.”
“You are heartily welcome, Mr. Osborn,” said my mother. “The
guest-chamber is all prepared.”
“Aye, goodwife, I well knew I should not find thy hospitable mansion
unprepared. My friend Mr. Avery is not in the best of health. In the
course of his exacting ministerial duties he caught a chill, but it is
not serious. One of the best and most Godly of men and a true father to
his spiritual children.”
“He is no better than yourself, sir!” exclaimed my mother.
The minister smiled somewhat sadly. “I fear me much, goodwife, that I
can never reach the higher altitudes of sanctity where these saintly
men live. The even tenor of their ways is never troubled by the doubts
which sometimes harass mine. Perchance it is because I have seen so
much of the evil of intolerance in my own country that I am sick at
heart to see it powerful in this great new land. I have offended the
elders of the South Parish by mildly hinting that the good Lord might
even look with favor on a Papist if the misguided brother was honest in
his interpretation of the Master’s will.”
“But,” he continued, “let us not spoil this happy occasion by
theological discussion. I had quite an adventure on my way to Truro
last night. Strange things are happening in our midst, Goodman Rich.
Dost wish to hear what befell me?”
“Aye, sir, and if you please,” answered my father. “But before you
commence, the goodwife will mix you a brew from the last wreck.”
My mother was skilled in the art of concocting a life-giving draught
based on the Jamaica which came ashore from the wreck of the brig
“Mary,” and soon we were listening to the minister’s tale which I give
in our own speech.
* * * * *