Uncle Jabez Spins A Yarn. (continued)
You know where Goody Hallett lives, Goodman Rich? It is a lonely spot.
After spending an hour last evening with your beloved pastor, Mr.
Webb, I resumed my journey to Truro just as the shades of evening were
gathering, expecting to reach Mr. Avery’s in time for his usually late
supper. Before I had gone very far, my horse showed a slight lameness
and I was, perforce, obliged to travel at a slow pace. Night comes on
rapidly at this season and it was very dark when I reached the confines
of Billingsgate. I had long since left the thickly populated district
behind and I guided my horse carefully over the dunes as I was not
sure of the way, not having been accustomed to traveling by night in
that region of the Cape. An occasional star gleamed fitfully through
the cloud rifts, but there was no other light to be seen on either
hand. The booming of the ocean to my right told me that my direction
was northerly and I felt sure I had not lost my way. Suddenly I heard
voices and I stopped my horse. Peering through the inky darkness I
discerned a faint glimmer about fifty yards from me, as I judged.
I wondered what the light meant as I was certain the locality was
uninhabited. Hitching my horse to a tree, I cautiously approached the
light, the voices becoming more distinct as I advanced. Then I realized
that I was in the vicinity of Goody Hallett’s hut, but as I knew she
lived alone I was at a loss to account for the altercation which was in
progress.
About ten yards from the hut I stopped and listened. Goody Hallett
had a guest, and, judging by his expressions, one who was not of this
neighborhood. I could now plainly hear all that was said and strange
indeed was the impression conveyed to my mind by the fierce tones in
which the man spoke to the old woman.
“It is no use trying to fool me longer, Mother Hallett. I have been to
many ports since that dread night, but I mind me well where the booty
was secreted. You say you found but little; that it must have been
found by these swinish lubbers who dwell on this God-forsaken sandbank.
They thought they buried me with the rest of the gallant rovers when
the old ship went to pieces under us, but they little knew who was the
fellow-survivor of your relative, Indian Tom! We disappeared, they
said. Truly, Mother Hallett, we did disappear, but not on that morning,
as they thought. Indian Tom knew how to hide and to provide food, so
we stayed for days unknown to the wreckers who were unable to think of
anything but Sam Bellamy’s gold! They didn’t find it, the swine! Indian
Tom knew his orders better than that. Give me some more rum, old hag!”
Through the small window of the hut I saw the tall figure of Goody
Hallett pass between me and the light. She soon returned, evidently
with the liquor demanded by the man, as the clinking of glasses told me
that he was helping himself to the generous fluid.
Then I heard Goody Hallett say in her shrill voice: “I tell you,
pirate, that I found only a small part of the gold and silver in the
place where Indian Tom told me he had hidden the treasure. He died the
night after he came home to his people. I was the last person that saw
him alive. In his last moments he confided the secret to me.”
“And you started post-haste to this place, I’ll be bound!” exclaimed
the man fiercely. “Yes, old witch, I heard the story from the lips of
your nephew when I sought traces of Indian Tom last month. It was also
rumored that Tom died of poison!”
The old woman laughed mockingly. “The fools! Why should anybody poison
poor Tom when we were all glad to see him home again after his years of
voyaging with you?”
“Perhaps somebody had an interest in poisoning Tom? I should better
know why if I knew whether he told you about the treasure before or
after he fell sick?”
“Dog of a pirate! Dare you insinuate that I had aught to do with the
death of my uncle’s son?” Her voice was almost a shriek as she flung
this at him.
“Ho, softly, Mother Hallett, softly, I say!” The man was somewhat
disconcerted by the old woman’s rage. “Come,” he continued, “let’s
clink our glasses once again to pledge our friendship. We are the only
ones who now can tell where the treasure was hidden and together we
must find it. Let me sing you one of my old sea songs. Ah, that’s a
better spirit, Mother Hallett! Now I’ll give you a stave.”
In a roaring tone he started to sing. It was a wild song of the rover’s
life and the singer flung his whole soul into the performance. I can
remember the first stanza, which he repeated several times as if it
were a kind of refrain. This was how it went:
“Sing ho, my lads, for Bellamy bold,
For he is king of the main!
He’s filled the hold with yellow gold
From the galleons of Spain.
Then bear away by the light of the moon,
We carry a rover’s freight--
Sing ho, for the gleam of a yellow doubloon
And the chink of pieces of eight!
Sing ho, etc.”
There were several verses in the same spirit telling of fair-haired and
blue-eyed maids in Bristol town awaiting the homecoming of the rover
who, however, was well content to lavish his wealth on the darker-hued
sirens whose flashing eyes welcomed him to the bowers of love in the
sunny isles of the southern seas.
The effect of the song was to restore good feeling between the pair
and the subsequent discussion was free from acrimony. They talked about
the treasure. Goody Hallett insisted that the sea must have encroached
on the spot where it was hidden, and scattered it. The shifting sands
then covered it. She admitted having recovered some of it and expressed
her willingness to share with her guest. On his part, he urged that
now was the time to settle; he must be leaving immediately as his
ship awaited him in Bostoin and he would be absent for a long time.
Goody Hallett agreed to this. There was some little haggling over the
division of the spoil, but the man appeared convinced that the old
woman was telling the truth and accepted what she gave him. He promised
to revisit the place at the end of the voyage and resume the search for
the lost treasure. Then the light was put out and all was silence.
Filled with astonishment at this strange occurrence, I mounted my horse
and continued my journey to Mr. Avery’s. ’Twas very late when I arrived
but I found my friend sitting up. The saintly minister was much alarmed
and astonished when I told him of my adventure. He had heard some talk
about this strange man but put it down to idle gossip.
Together we rode to Goody Hallett’s hut next day, but there was no
trace of the stranger, and the old woman vehemently denied that any
such person had ever been there!
* * * * *
“Now, Goodman Rich, what do you think of it?” asked the minister when
he had finished.
My father acknowledged that he had heard of the man’s presence in the
neighborhood. He believed him to be the Englishman who was one of
the survivors of the “Whidah” wreck; in fact, the minister’s story
confirmed this. Perhaps he was Sam Bellamy himself? As to that,
however, he was present at the burial of the drowned pirates and he
remembered one corpse being identified as that of the pirate captain.
Next morning the minister went his way after profusely thanking my
parents for their hospitality.
In the five years following the departure of the stranger many things
happened. Mr. Osborn had been dismissed from the South Parish and he
left the district, never to return. Time will do justice to the memory
of this gifted man whose broad views were so much misunderstood by his
contemporaries. To me he had always shown marked favor, and I loved
to hear him speak of the noted men of letters he had known in the Old
World. He told me many anecdotes of Jonathan Swift, the famous Dean of
St. Patrick’s, and he used to read for me passages from the works of
that brilliant but erratic churchman. That Mr. Osborn had a liking for
such literature was not the least of his offences in the eyes of the
stern elders of his parish.
The incident of the strange man was almost forgotten, except by those
who, like myself, had heard the minister’s story. My father and I often
talked it over and the facts were indelibly fixed in my young mind.
Goody Hallett was still alive, but she was now feeble and those who
visited her hut with wool for the spinning reported that her mental
faculties were getting weak; at least, so they inferred from her
garrulity and the strange talk she indulged in.
I was now a lusty youth, of great assistance to my father in his labors
and skilled in all the craftsmanship which the young men of the time
were supposed to know. My mother was desirous that I should go to
Harvard college, but we were not well off in the world’s goods and my
father was beginning to feel the effects of his laborious life, so that
project came to nothing. The most we could hope for from my attainments
as a scholar was the position of teacher in the district school when
I grew to man’s estate. Not until I was in my fortieth year was this
ambition of my mother realized, and then the good woman had been long
in her grave.
One evening in the early spring, a traveler called at our door and
asked for refreshment. I was alone with my mother at the time and I
took particular notice of the man as he partook of the food given him.
His beard was grey and bushy, growing nearly to his eyes. I had never
before seen a man wear a beard in such fashion. His nose was large and
hooked and there was a fierce glitter in his eyes. However, he was very
civil. He told us that he was bound for Truro where he had friends. In
leaving, he raised his hat, and this movement revealed a broad scar
across the upper part of his forehead. Seeing that I had observed the
mark, the man hastily drew his hat over his eyes and departed.
Next day I set out for Goody Hallett’s with a bundle of wool which
my mother wanted spun. I had not given much thought to the visit of
the traveler to our house, but still, somehow, I couldn’t altogether
dismiss it from my mind. The fierceness of his eyes and the broad scar
on his forehead had stirred some memories of the minister’s tale,
and as I brought my horse to a stop at Goody Hallett’s hut I had an
indescribable feeling that I was to see this man again, and that I
should find him to be the pirate.
There was no answer to my knock. This I thought strange as Goody
Hallett was seldom known to leave her dwelling. It was the early
afternoon and the day was fine, so, finding that my repeated knocking
gained me no admittance I came to the conclusion that the old woman
was not at home. I determined to await her return. I deposited my
bundle of wool on the doorstep and tied my horse to a nearby tree; then
I strolled over the dunes to the ocean side where I could view the
passing ships. I took a seat on the edge of the cliff and leisurely
surveyed the restless bosom of the Atlantic and listened to the thunder
of the surf at my feet. At times I fancied I heard voices, but the
booming of the combers was so loud that nothing else could be heard
distinctly. All at once a piercing shriek rang out above all other
sounds and I started to my feet. It came from directly below where I
stood. Mightily afraid as I was, I could not resist the temptation of
peering over the bank, and there I saw a sight, my masters, which froze
the blood in my veins! Old Goody Hallett was lying on her back, her
throat cut from ear to ear, and, standing over her, one foot on her
chest, was our guest of the day before. He brandished a bloody knife
in his right hand while his left hand was pointed in mockery at the
prostrate body of his victim. Although almost paralyzed with horror, I
watched him. He was evidently muttering curses on the dead woman but I
could not catch his words. Then he drove the knife deep into her heart
and left the weapon in the wound. Retreating a few paces from the body,
he shook his fist at it, at the same time his terrible voice resounded
above the roar of the breakers:
“Accursed hag! lie there for the birds to peck at! Sam Bellamy’s knife
has stung better women than you and death at his hands is too noble an
ending for your life of deceit. Sam Bellamy’s own time has come, but he
will get release from his troubles beneath the waves which he has ruled
and on the spot where his gallant shipmates met their fate! Fare ye
well, old witch!”
With his fiendish laughter ringing in my ears I rushed from the place,
mounted my horse and galloped furiously to the village with the
dreadful tidings.
The alarm soon spread and the whole neighborhood was aroused. Armed
men searched the country for the pirate, but without avail. A few days
after the funeral of Goody Hallett, his body was cast up by the sea on
the very sands where the corpses of his fellows were found.
The hut of the old spinner was ransacked for evidence to clear up the
affair, but only a few paltry coins were found. There was absolutely
nothing to explain the mystery. The place was then destroyed by fire,
and for many years timid folks avoided the spot. It was surmised that
the pirate suspected the woman of playing him false and that he forced
her to accompany him to the place where the treasure was hidden by
Indian Tom and himself. Finding no trace of it, he slaughtered his
companion and then committed suicide by drowning. It is well known,
however, that curious coins were sometimes picked up in the vicinity
during the years following the tragedy, but the bulk of the treasure
could not be traced.
And now, my masters, you have heard me tell of a matter which I
seldom mention. If an old man’s tale has kept you too long from your
firesides, I crave pardon.