WOLFERT WEBBER; OR, GOLDEN DREAMS

In the year of grace one thousand seven hundred and—blank—for I

do not remember the precise date; however, it was somewhere in

the early part of the last century, there lived in the ancient

city of the Manhattoes a worthy burgher, Wolfert Webber by name.

He was descended from old Cobus Webber of the Brille in Holland,

one of the original settlers, famous for introducing the

cultivation of cabbages, and who came over to the province during

the protectorship of Oloffe Van Kortlandt, otherwise called the

Dreamer. The field in which Cobus Webber first planted himself

and his cabbages had remained ever since in the family, who

continued in the same line of husbandry, with that praiseworthy

perseverance for which our Dutch burghers are noted. The whole

family genius, during several generations was devoted to the

study and development of this one noble vegetable; and to this

concentration of intellect may doubtless be ascribed the

prodigious size and renown to which the Webber cabbages attained.

The Webber dynasty continued in uninterrupted succession; and

never did a line give more unquestionable proofs of legitimacy.

The eldest son succeeded to the looks, as well as the territory

of his sire; and had the portraits of this line of tranquil

potentates been taken, they would have presented a row of heads

marvellously resembling in shape and magnitude the vegetables

over which they reigned.

The seat of government continued unchanged in the family

mansion:—a Dutch-built house, with a front, or rather gable-end

of yellow brick, tapering to a point, with the customary iron

weathercock at the top. Every thing about the building bore the

air of long-settled ease and security. Flights of martins peopled

the little coops nailed against the walls, and swallows built

their nests under the eaves; and every one knows that these

house-loving birds bring good luck to the dwelling where they

take up their abode. In a bright sunny morning in early summer,

it was delectable to hear their cheerful notes, as they sported

about in the pure, sweet air, chirping forth, as it were, the

greatness and prosperity of the Webbers.

Thus quietly and comfortably did this excellent family vegetate

under the shade of a mighty button-wood tree, which by little and

little grew so great as entirely to overshadow their palace. The

city gradually spread its suburbs round their domain. Houses

sprung up to interrupt their prospects. The rural lanes in the

vicinity began to grow into the bustle and populousness of

streets; in short, with all the habits of rustic life they began

to find themselves the inhabitants of a city.

Still, however, they maintained their hereditary character, and

Hereditary possessions, with all the tenacity of petty German

princes in the midst of the Empire. Wolfert was the last of the

line, and succeeded to the patriarchal bench at the door, under

the family tree, and swayed the sceptre of his fathers, a kind of

rural potentate in the midst of a metropolis.

To share the cares and sweets of sovereignty, he had taken unto

himself a help-mate, one of that excellent kind called stirring

women; that is to say, she was one of those notable little

housewives who are always busy when there is nothing to do. Her

activity however, took one particular direction; her whole life

seemed devoted to intense knitting; whether at home or abroad;

walking or sitting, her needles were continually in motion, and

it is even affirmed that by her unwearied industry she very

nearly supplied her household with stockings throughout the year.

This worthy couple were blessed with one daughter, who was

brought up with great tenderness and care; uncommon pains had

been taken with her education, so that she could stitch in every

variety of way; make all kinds of pickles and preserves, and mark

her own name on a sampler. The influence of her taste was seen

also in the family garden, where the ornamental began to mingle

with the useful; whole rows of fiery marigolds and splendid

hollyhocks bordered the cabbage-beds; and gigantic sunflowers

lolled their broad, jolly faces over the fences, seeming to ogle

most affectionately the passers-by.

Thus reigned and vegetated Wolfert Webber over his paternal

acres, peaceably and contentedly. Not but that, like all other

sovereigns, he had his occasional cares and vexations. The growth

of his native city sometimes caused him annoyance. His little

territory gradually became hemmed in by streets and houses, which

intercepted air and sunshine. He was now and then subject to the

irruptions of the border population, that infest the streets of a

metropolis, who would sometimes make midnight forays into his

dominions, and carry off captive whole platoons of his noblest

subjects. Vagrant swine would make a descent, too, now and then,

when the gate was left open, and lay all waste before them; and

mischievous urchins would often decapitate the illustrious

sunflowers, the glory of the garden, as they lolled their heads

so fondly over the walls. Still all these were petty grievances,

which might now and then ruffle the surface of his mind, as a

summer breeze will ruffle the surface of a mill-pond; but they

could not disturb the deep-seated quiet of his soul. He would

seize a trusty staff, that stood behind the door, issue suddenly

out, and anoint the back of the aggressor, whether pig or urchin,

and then return within doors, marvellously refreshed and

tranquillized.

The chief cause of anxiety to honest Wolfert, however, was the

growing prosperity of the city. The expenses of living doubled

and trebled; but he could not double and treble the magnitude of

his cabbages; and the number of competitors prevented the

increase of price; thus, therefore, while every one around him

grew richer, Wolfert grew poorer, and he could not, for the life

of him, perceive how the evil was to be remedied.

This growing care which increased from day to day, had its

gradual effect upon our worthy burgher; insomuch, that it at

length implanted two or three wrinkles on his brow; things

unknown before in the family of the Webbers; and it seemed to

pinch up the corners of his cocked hat into an expression of

anxiety, totally opposite to the tranquil, broad-brimmed,

low-crowned beavers of his illustrious progenitors.

Perhaps even this would not have materially disturbed the

serenity of his mind had he had only himself and his wife to care

for; but there was his daughter gradually growing to maturity;

and all the world knows when daughters begin to ripen no fruit or

flower requires so much looking after. I have no talent at

describing female charms, else fain would I depict the progress

of this little Dutch beauty. How her blue eyes grew deeper and

deeper, and her cherry lips redder and redder; and how she

ripened and ripened, and rounded and rounded in the opening

breath of sixteen summers, until, in her seventeenth spring, she

seemed ready to burst out of her bodice like a half-blown

rose-bud.

Ah, well-a-day! could I but show her as she was then, tricked out

on a Sunday morning in the hereditary finery of the old Dutch

clothes-press, of which her mother had confided to her the key.

The wedding dress of her grandmother, modernized for use, with

sundry ornaments, handed down as heirlooms in the family. Her

pale brown hair smoothed with buttermilk in flat waving lines on

each side of her fair forehead. The chain of yellow virgin gold,

that encircled her neck; the little cross, that just rested at

the entrance of a soft valley of happiness, as if it would

sanctify the place. The—but pooh!—it is not for an old man like

me to be prosing about female beauty: suffice it to say, Amy had

attained her seventeenth year. Long since had her sampler

exhibited hearts in couples desperately transfixed with arrows,

and true lovers’ knots worked in deep blue silk; and it was

evident she began to languish for some more interesting

occupation than the rearing of sunflowers or pickling of

cucumbers.

At this critical period of female existence, when the heart

within a damsel’s bosom, like its emblem, the miniature which

hangs without, is apt to be engrossed by a single image, a new

visitor began to make his appearance under the roof of Wolfert

Webber. This was Dirk Waldron, the only son of a poor widow, but

who could boast of more fathers than any lad in the province; for

his mother had had four husbands, and this only child, so that

though born in her last wedlock, he might fairly claim to be the

tardy fruit of a long course of cultivation. This son of four

fathers united the merits and the vigor of his sires. If he had

not a great family before him, he seemed likely to have a great

one after him; for you had only to look at the fresh gamesome

youth, to see that he was formed to be the founder of a mighty

race.

This youngster gradually became an intimate visitor of the

family. He talked little, but he sat long. He filled the father’s

pipe when it was empty, gathered up the mother’s knitting-needle,

or ball of worsted when it fell to the ground; stroked the sleek

coat of the tortoise-shell cat, and replenished the teapot for

the daughter from the bright copper kettle that sung before the

fire. All these quiet little offices may seem of trifling import,

but when true love is translated into Low Dutch, it is in this

way that it eloquently expresses itself. They were not lost upon

the Webber family. The winning youngster found marvellous favor

in the eyes of the mother; the tortoise-shell cat, albeit the

most staid and demure of her kind, gave indubitable signs of

approbation of his visits, the tea-kettle seemed to sing out a

cheering note of welcome at his approach, and if the sly glances

of the daughter might be rightly read, as she sat bridling and

dimpling, and sewing by her mother’s side, she was not a wit

behind Dame Webber, or grimalkin, or the tea-kettle in good-will.

Wolfert alone saw nothing of what was going on. Profoundly wrapt

up in meditation on the growth of the city and his cabbages, he

sat looking in the fire, and puffing his pipe in silence. One

night, however, as the gentle Amy, according to custom, lighted

her lover to the outer door, and he, according to custom, took

his parting salute, the smack resounded so vigorously through the

long, silent entry as to startle even the dull ear of Wolfert. He

was slowly roused to a new source of anxiety. It had never

entered into his head, that this mere child, who, as it seemed

but the other day, had been climbing about his knees, and playing

with dolls and baby-houses, could all at once be thinking of love

and matrimony. He rubbed his eyes, examined into the fact, and

really found that while he had been dreaming of other matters,

she had actually grown into a woman, and what was more, had

fallen in love. Here were new cares for poor Wolfert. He was a

kind father, but he was a prudent man. The young man was a very

stirring lad; but then he had neither money or land. Wolfert’s

ideas all ran in one channel, and he saw no alternative in case

of a marriage, but to portion off the young couple with a corner

of his cabbage garden, the whole of which was barely sufficient

for the support of his family.

Like a prudent father, therefore, he determined to nip this

passion in the bud, and forbade the youngster the house, though

sorely did it go against his fatherly heart, and many a silent

tear did it cause in the bright eye of his daughter. She showed

herself, however, a pattern of filial piety and obedience. She

never pouted and sulked; she never flew in the face of parental

authority; she never fell into a passion, or fell into hysterics,

as many romantic novel-read young ladies would do. Not she,

indeed! She was none such heroical rebellious trumpery, I warrant

ye. On the contrary, she acquiesced like an obedient daughter;

shut the street-door in her lover’s face, and if ever she did

grant him an interview, it was either out of the kitchen window,

or over the garden fence.

Wolfert was deeply cogitating these things in his mind, and his

brow wrinkled with unusual care, as he wended his way one

Saturday afternoon to a rural inn, about two miles from the city.

It was a favorite resort of the Dutch part of the community from

being always held by a Dutch line of landlords, and retaining an

air and relish of the good old times. It was a Dutch-built house,

that had probably been a country seat of some opulent burgher in

the early time of the settlement. It stood near a point of land,

called Corlears Hook, which stretches out into the Sound, and

against which the tide, at its flux and reflux, sets with

extraordinary rapidity. The venerable and somewhat crazy mansion

was distinguished from afar, by a grove of elms and sycamores

that seemed to wave a hospitable invitation, while a few weeping

willows with their dank, drooping foliage, resembling falling

waters, gave an idea of coolness, that rendered it an attractive

spot during the heats of summer.

Here, therefore, as I said, resorted many of the old inhabitants

of the Manhattoes, where, while some played at the shuffle-board

and quoits and ninepins, others smoked a deliberate pipe, and

talked over public affairs.

It was on a blustering autumnal afternoon that Wolfert made his

visit to the inn. The grove of elms and willows was stripped of

its leaves, which whirled in rustling eddies about the fields.

The ninepin alley was deserted, for the premature chilliness of

the day had driven the company within doors. As it was Saturday

afternoon, the habitual club was in session, composed principally

of regular Dutch burghers, though mingled occasionally with

persons of various, character and country, as is natural in a

place of such motley population.

Beside the fire-place, and in a huge leather-bottomed armchair,

sat the dictator of this little world, the venerable Rem, or, as

it was pronounced, Ramm Rapelye.

He was a man of Walloon race, and illustrious for the antiquity

of his line, his great grandmother having been the first white

child born in the province. But he was still more illustrious for

his wealth and dignity: he had long filled the noble office of

alderman, and was a man to whom the governor himself took off his

hat. He had maintained possession of the leathern-bottomed chair

from time immemorial; and had gradually waxed in bulk as he sat

in his seat of government, until in the course of years he filled

its whole magnitude. His word was decisive with his subjects; for

he was so rich a man, that he was never expected to support any

opinion by argument. The landlord waited on him with peculiar

officiousness; not that he paid better than his neighbors, but

then the coin of a rich man seems always to be so much more

acceptable. The landlord had always a pleasant word and a joke,

to insinuate in the ear of the august Ramm. It is true, Ramm

never laughed, and, indeed, maintained a mastiff-like gravity,

and even surliness of aspect, yet he now and then rewarded mine

host with a token of approbation; which, though nothing more nor

less than a kind of grunt, yet delighted the landlord more than a

broad laugh from a poorer man.

“This will be a rough night for the money-diggers,” said mine

host, as a gust of wind howled round the house, and rattled at

the windows.

“What, are they at their works again?” said an English half-pay

captain, with one eye, who was a frequent attendant at the inn.

“Aye, are they,” said the landlord, “and well may they be.

They’ve had luck of late. They say a great pot of money has been

dug up in the field, just behind Stuyvesant’s orchard. Folks

think it must have been buried there in old times by Peter

Stuyvesant, the Dutch Governor.”

“Fudge!” said the one-eyed man of war, as he added a small

portion of water to a bottom of brandy.

“Well, you may believe, or not, as you please,” said mine host,

somewhat nettled; “but every body knows that the old governor

buried a great deal of his money at the time of the Dutch

troubles, when the English red-coats seized on the province. They

say, too, the old gentleman walks; aye, and in the very Same

dress that he wears in the picture which hangs up in the family

house.”

“Fudge!” said the half-pay officer.

“Fudge, if you please!—But didn’t Corney Van Zandt see him at

midnight, stalking about in the meadow with his wooden leg, and a

drawn sword in his hand, that flashed like fire? And what can he

be walking for, but because people have been troubling the place

where he buried his money in old times?”

Here the landlord was interrupted by several guttural sounds from

Ramm Rapelye, betokening that he was laboring with the unusual

production of an idea. As he was too great a man to be slighted

by a prudent publican, mine host respectfully paused until he

should deliver himself. The corpulent frame of this mighty

burgher now gave all the symptoms of a volcanic mountain on the

point of an eruption. First, there was a certain heaving of the

abdomen, not unlike an earthquake; then was emitted a cloud of

tobacco smoke from that crater, his mouth; then there was a kind

of rattle in the throat, as if the idea were working its way up

through a region of phlegm; then there were several disjointed

members of a sentence thrown out, ending in a cough; at length

his voice forced its way in the slow, but absolute tone of a man

who feels the weight of his purse, if not of his ideas; every

portion of his speech being marked by a testy puff of tobacco

smoke.

“Who talks of old Peter Stuyvesant’s walking?—puff—Have people no

respect for persons?—puff—puff—Peter Stuyvesant knew better what

to do with his money than to bury it—puff—I know the Stuyvesant

family—puff—every one of them—puff—not a more respectable family

in the province—puff—old standers—puff—warm

householders—puff—none of your upstarts—puff—puff—puff.—Don’t

talk to me of Peter Stuyvesant’s walking—puff—puff—puff—puff.”

Here the redoubtable Ramm contracted his brow, clasped up his

mouth, till it wrinkled at each corner, and redoubled his smoking

with such vehemence, that the cloudly volumes soon wreathed round

his head, as the smoke envelopes the awful summit of Mount Etna.

A general silence followed the sudden rebuke of this very rich

man. The subject, however, was too interesting to be readily

abandoned. The conversation soon broke forth again from the lips

of Peechy Prauw Van Hook, the chronicler of the club, one of

those narrative old men who seem to grow incontinent of words, as

they grow old, until their talk flows from them almost

involuntarily.

Peechy, who could at any time tell as many stories in an evening

as his hearers could digest in a month, now resumed the

conversation, by affirming that, to his knowledge, money had at

different times been dug up in various parts of the island. The

lucky persons who had discovered them had always dreamt of them

three times beforehand, and what was worthy of remark, these

treasures had never been found but by some descendant of the good

old Dutch families, which clearly proved that they had been

buried by Dutchmen in the olden time.

“Fiddle-stick with your Dutchmen!” cried the half-pay officer.

“The Dutch had nothing to do with them. They were all buried by

Kidd, the pirate, and his crew.”

Here a key-note was touched that roused the whole company. The

name of Captain Kidd was like a talisman in those times, and was

associated with a thousand marvellous stories.

The half-pay officer was a man of great weight among the

peaceable members of the club, by reason of his military

character, and of the gunpowder scenes which, by his own account,

he had witnessed.

The golden stories of Kidd, however, were resolutely rivalled by

the tales of Peechy Prauw, who, rather than suffer his Dutch

progenitors to be eclipsed by a foreign freebooter, enriched

every spot in the neighborhood with the hidden wealth of Peter

Stuyvesant and his contemporaries.

Not a word of this conversation was lost upon Wolfert Webber. He

returned pensively home, full of magnificent ideas of buried

riches. The soil of his native island seemed to be turned into

gold-dust; and every field teemed with treasure. His head almost

reeled at the thought how often he must have heedlessly rambled

over places where countless sums lay, scarcely covered by the

turf beneath his feet. His mind was in a vertigo with this whirl

of new ideas. As he came in sight of the venerable mansion of his

forefathers, and the little realm where the Webbers had so long

and so contentedly flourished, his gorge rose at the narrowness

of his destiny.

“Unlucky Wolfert!” exclaimed he, “others can go to bed and dream

themselves into whole mines of wealth; they have but to seize a

spade in the morning, and turn up doubloons like potatoes; but

thou must dream of hardship, and rise to poverty—must dig thy

field from year’s end to year’s end, and—and yet raise nothing

but cabbages!”

Wolfert Webber went to bed with a heavy heart; and it was long

before the golden visions that disturbed his brain, permitted him

to sink into repose. The same visions, however, extended into his

sleeping thoughts, and assumed a more definite form. He dreamt

that he had discovered an immense treasure in the centre of his

garden. At every stroke of the spade he laid bare a golden ingot;

diamond crosses sparkled out of the dust; bags of money turned up

their bellies, corpulent with pieces of eight, or venerable

doubloons; and chests, wedged close with moidores, ducats, and

pistareens, yawned before his ravished eyes, and vomited forth

their glittering contents.

Wolfert awoke a poorer man than ever. He had no heart to go about

his daily concerns, which appeared so paltry and profitless; but

sat all day long in the chimney-corner, picturing to himself

ingots and heaps of gold in the fire. The next night his dream

was repeated. He was again in his garden, digging, and laying

open stores of hidden wealth. There was something very singular

in this repetition. He passed another day of reverie, and though

it was cleaning-day, and the house, as usual in Dutch households,

completely topsy-turvy, yet he sat unmoved amidst the general

uproar.

The third night he went to bed with a palpitating heart. He put

on his red nightcap, wrong side outwards for good luck. It was

deep midnight before his anxious mind could settle itself into

sleep. Again the golden dream was repeated, and again he saw his

garden teeming with ingots and money-bags.

Wolfert rose the next morning in complete bewilderment. A dream

three times repeated was never known to lie; and if so, his

fortune was made.

In his agitation he put on his waistcoat with the hind part

before, and this was a corroboration of good luck. He no longer

doubted that a huge store of money lay buried somewhere in his

cabbage-field, coyly waiting to be sought for, and he half

repined at having so long been scratching about the surface of

the soil, instead of digging to the centre.

He took his seat at the breakfast-table full of these

speculations; asked his daughter to put a lump of gold in to his

tea, and on handing his wife a plate of slap-jacks, begging her

to help herself to a doubloon.

His grand care now was how to secure this immense treasure

without it being known. Instead of working regularly in his

grounds in the day-time, he now stole from his bed at night, and

with spade and pickaxe, went to work to rip up and dig about his

paternal acres, from one end to the other. In a little time the

whole garden, which had presented such a goodly and regular

appearance, with its phalanx of cabbages, like a vegetable army

in battle array, was reduced to a scene of devastation, while the

relentless Wolfert, with nightcap on head, and lantern and spade

in hand, stalked through the slaughtered ranks, the destroying

angel of his own vegetable world.

Every morning bore testimony to the ravages of the preceding

night in cabbages of all ages and conditions, from the tender

sprout to the full-grown head, piteously rooted from their quiet

beds like worthless weeds, and left to wither in the sunshine. It

was in vain Wolfert’s wife remonstrated; it was in vain his

darling daughter wept over the destruction of some favorite

marygold. “Thou shalt have gold of another guess-sort,” he would

cry, chucking her under the chin; “thou shalt have a string of

crooked ducats for thy wedding-necklace, my child.” His family

began really to fear that the poor man’s wits were diseased. He

muttered in his sleep at night of mines of wealth, of pearls and

diamonds and bars of gold. In the day-time he was moody and

abstracted, and walked about as if in a trance. Dame Webber held

frequent councils with all the old women of the neighborhood, not

omitting the parish dominie; scarce an hour in the day but a knot

of them might be seen wagging their white caps together round her

door, while the poor woman made some piteous recital. The

daughter, too, was fain to seek for more frequent consolation

from the stolen interviews of her favored swain, Dirk Waldron.

The delectable little Dutch songs with which she used to dulcify

the house grew less and less frequent, and she would forget her

sewing and look wistfully in her father’s face as he sat

pondering by the fireside.

Wolfert caught her eye one day fixed on him thus anxiously, and

for a moment was roused from his golden reveries—“Cheer up, my

girl,” said he, exultingly, “why dost thou droop?—thou shalt hold

up thy head one day with the—and the Schenaerhorns, the Van

Hornes, and the Van Dams—the patroon himself shall be glad to get

thee for his son!”

Amy shook her head at this vain-glorious boast, and was more than

ever in doubt of the soundness of the good man’s intellect.

In the meantime Wolfert went on digging, but the field was

extensive, and as his dream had indicated no precise spot, he had

to dig at random. The winter set in before one-tenth of the scene

of promise had been explored. The ground became too frozen and

the nights too cold for the labors of the spade. No sooner,

however, did the returning warmth of spring loosen the soil, and

the small frogs begin to pipe in the meadows, but Wolfert resumed

his labors with renovated zeal. Still, however, the hours of

industry were reversed. Instead of working cheerily all day,

planting and setting out his vegetables, he remained thoughtfully

idle, until the shades of night summoned him to his secret

labors. In this way he continued to dig from night to night, and

week to week, and month to month, but not a stiver did he find.

On the contrary, the more he digged the poorer he grew. The rich

soil of his garden was digged away, and the sand and gravel from

beneath were thrown to the surface, until the whole field

presented an aspect of sandy barrenness.

In the meantime the seasons gradually rolled on. The little frogs

that had piped in the meadows in early spring, croaked as

bull-frogs in the brooks during the summer heats, and then sunk

into silence. The peach tree budded, blossomed, and bore its

fruit. The swallows and martins came, twittered about the roof,

built their nests, reared their young, held their congress along

the eaves, and then winged their flight in search of another

spring. The caterpillar spun its winding-sheet, dangled in it

from the great buttonwood tree that shaded the house, turned into

a moth, fluttered with the last sunshine of summer, and

disappeared; and finally the leaves of the buttonwood tree turned

yellow, then brown, then rustled one by one to the ground, and

whirling about in little eddies of wind and dust, whispered that

winter was at hand.

Wolfert gradually awoke from his dream of wealth as the year

declined. He had reared no crop to supply the wants of his

household during the sterility of winter. The season was long and

severe, and for the first time the family was really straightened

in its comforts. By degrees a revulsion of thought took place in

Wolfert’s mind, common to those whose golden dreams have been

disturbed by pinching realities. The idea gradually stole upon

him that he should come to want. He already considered himself

one of the most unfortunate men in the province, having lost such

an incalculable amount of undiscovered treasure, and now, when

thousands of pounds had eluded his search, to be perplexed for

shillings and pence was cruel in the extreme.

Haggard care gathered about his brow; he went about with a

money-seeking air, his eyes bent downwards into the dust, and

carrying his hands in his pockets, as men are apt to do when they

have nothing else to put into them. He could not even pass the

city almshouse without giving it a rueful glance, as if destined

to be his future abode.

The strangeness of his conduct and of his looks occasioned much

speculation and remark. For a long time he was suspected of being

crazy, and then every body pitied him; at length it began to be

suspected that he was poor, and then every body avoided him.

The rich old burghers of his acquaintance met him, outside of the

door when he called, entertained him hospitably on the threshold,

pressed him warmly by the hand on parting, shook their heads as

he walked away, with the kind-hearted expression of “poor

Wolfert,” and turned a corner nimbly, if by chance they saw him

approaching as they walked the streets. Even the barber and

cobbler of the neighborhood, and a tattered tailor in an alley

hard by, three of the poorest and merriest rogues in the world,

eyed him with that abundant sympathy which usually attends a lack

of means, and there is not a doubt but their pockets would have

been at his command, only that they happened to be empty.

Thus every body deserted the Webber mansion, as if poverty were

contagious, like the plague; every body but honest Dirk Waldron,

who still kept up his stolen visits to the daughter, and indeed

seemed to wax more affectionate as the fortunes of his mistress

were on the wane.

Many months had elapsed since Wolfert had frequented his old

resort, the rural inn. He was taking a long lonely walk one

Saturday afternoon, musing over his wants and disappointments,

when his feet took instinctively their wonted direction, and on

awaking out of a reverie, he found himself before the door of the

inn. For some moments he hesitated whether to enter, but his

heart yearned for companionship; and where can a ruined man find

better companionship than at a tavern, where there is neither

sober example nor sober advice to put him out of countenance?

Wolfert found several of the old frequenters of the tavern at

their usual posts, and seated in their usual places; but one was

missing, the great Ramm Rapelye, who for many years had filled

the chair of state. His place was supplied by a stranger, who

seemed, however, completely at home in the chair and the tavern.

He was rather under-size, but deep-chested, square, and muscular.

His broad shoulders, double joints, and bow-knees, gave tokens of

prodigious strength. His face was dark and weather-beaten; a deep

scar, as if from the slash of a cutlass, had almost divided his

nose, and made a gash in his upper lip, through which his teeth

shone like a bull-dog’s. A mass of iron gray hair gave a grizzly

finish to his hard-favored visage. His dress was of an amphibious

character. He wore an old hat edged with tarnished lace, and

cocked in martial style, on one side of his head; a rusty blue

military coat with brass buttons, and a wide pair of short

petticoat trousers, or rather breeches, for they were gathered up

at the knees. He ordered every body about him with an

authoritative air; talked in a brattling voice, that sounded like

the crackling of thorns under a pot; damned the landlord and

servants with perfect impunity, and was waited upon with greater

obsequiousness than had ever been shown to the mighty Ramm

himself.

Wolfert’s curiosity was awakened to know who and what was this

stranger who had thus usurped absolute sway in this ancient

domain. He could get nothing, however, but vague information.

Peechy Prauw took him aside, into a remote corner of the hall,

and there in an under-voice, and with great caution, imparted to

him all that he knew on the subject. The inn had been aroused

several months before, on a dark stormy night, by repeated long

shouts, that seemed like the howlings of a wolf. They came from

the water-side; and at length were distinguished to be hailing

the house in the seafaring manner. “House-a-hoy!” The landlord

turned out with his head-waiter, tapster, hostler, and errand

boy—that is to say with his old negro Cuff. On approaching the

place from whence the voice proceeded, they found this

amphibious-looking personage at the water’s edge, quite alone,

and seated on a great oaken sea-chest. How he came there, whether

he had been set on shore from some boat, or had floated to land

on his chest, nobody could tell, for he did not seem disposed to

answer questions, and there was something in his looks and

manners that put a stop to all questioning. Suffice it to say, he

took possession of a corner room of the inn, to which his chest

was removed with great difficulty. Here he had remained ever

since, keeping about the inn and its vicinity. Sometimes, it is

true, he disappeared for one, two, or three days at a time, going

and returning without giving any notice or account of his

movements. He always appeared to have plenty of money, though

often of very strange, outlandish coinage; and he regularly paid

his bill every evening before turning in.

He had fitted up his room to his own fancy, having slung a

hammock from the ceiling instead of a bed, and decorated the

walls with rusty pistols and cutlasses of foreign workmanship. A

great part of his time was passed in this room, seated by the

window, which commanded a wide view of the Sound, a short

old-fashioned pipe in his mouth, a glass of rum toddy at his

elbow, and a pocket telescope in his hand, with which he

reconnoitred every boat that moved upon the water. Large

square-rigged vessels seemed to excite but little attention; but

the moment he descried any thing with a shoulder-of-mutton sail,

or that a barge, or yawl, or jolly boat hove in sight, up went

the telescope, and he examined it with the most scrupulous

attention.

All this might have passed without much notice, for in those

times the province was so much the resort of adventurers of all

characters and climes that any oddity in dress or behavior

attracted but little attention. But in a little while this

strange sea monster, thus strangely cast up on dry land, began to

encroach upon the long-established customs and customers of the

place; to interfere in a dictatorial manner in the affairs of the

ninepin alley and the bar-room, until in the end he usurped an

absolute command over the little inn. It was in vain to attempt

to withstand his authority. He was not exactly quarrelsome, but

boisterous and peremptory, like one accustomed to tyrannize on a

quarter deck; and there was a dare-devil air about every thing he

said and did, that inspired a wariness in all bystanders. Even

the half-pay officer, so long the hero of the club, was soon

silenced by him; and the quiet burghers stared with wonder at

seeing their inflammable man of war so readily and quietly

extinguished.

And then the tales that he would tell were enough to make a

peaceable man’s hair stand on end. There was not a sea fight, or

marauding or free-booting adventure that had happened within the

last twenty years but he seemed perfectly versed in it. He

delighted to talk of the exploits of the buccaneers in the

West-Indies and on the Spanish Main. How his eyes would glisten

as he described the waylaying of treasure ships, the desperate

fights, yard arm and yard arm—broadside and broad side—the

boarding and capturing of large Spanish galleons! with what

chuckling relish would he describe the descent upon some rich

Spanish colony; the rifling of a church; the sacking of a

convent! You would have thought you heard some gormandizer

dilating upon the roasting a savory goose at Michaelmas as he

described the roasting of some Spanish Don to make him discover

his treasure—a detail given with a minuteness that made every

rich old burgher present turn uncomfortably in his chair. All

this would be told with infinite glee, as if he considered it an

excellent joke; and then he would give such a tyrannical leer in

the face of his next neighbor, that the poor man would be fain to

laugh out of sheer faint-heartedness. If any one, however,

pretended to contradict him in any of his stories he was on fire

in an instant. His very cocked hat assumed a momentary

fierceness, and seemed to resent the contradiction.—“How the

devil should you know as well as I! I tell you it was as I say!”

and he would at the same time let slip a broadside of thundering

oaths and tremendous sea phrases, such as had never been heard

before within those peaceful walls.

Indeed, the worthy burghers began to surmise that he knew more of

these stories than mere hearsay. Day after day their conjectures

concerning him grew more and more wild and fearful. The

strangeness of his manners, the mystery that surrounded him, all

made him something incomprehensible in their eyes. He was a kind

of monster of the deep to them—he was a merman—he was behemoth—he

was leviathan—in short, they knew not what he was.

The domineering spirit of this boisterous sea urchin at length

grew quite intolerable. He was no respecter of persons; he

contradicted the richest burghers without hesitation; he took

possession of the sacred elbow chair, which time out of mind had

been the seat of sovereignty of the illustrious Ramm Rapelye.

Nay, he even went so far in one of his rough jocular moods, as to

slap that mighty burgher on the back, drink his toddy and wink in

his face, a thing scarcely to be believed. From this time Ramm

Rapelye appeared no more at the inn; his example was followed by

several of the most eminent customers, who were too rich to

tolerate being bullied out of their opinions, or being obliged to

laugh at another man’s jokes. The landlord was almost in despair,

but he knew not how to get rid of this sea monster and his

sea-chest, which seemed to have grown like fixtures, or

excrescences on his establishment.

Such was the account whispered cautiously in Wolfert’s ear, by

the narrator, Peechy Prauw, as he held him by the button in a

corner of the hall, casting a wary glance now and then towards

the door of the bar-room, lest he should be overheard by the

terrible hero of his tale.

Wolfert took his seat in a remote part of the room in silence;

impressed with profound awe of this unknown, so versed in

freebooting history. It was to him a wonderful instance of the

revolutions of mighty empires, to find the venerable Ramm Rapelye

thus ousted from the throne; a rugged tarpaulin dictating from

his elbow chair, hectoring the patriarchs, and filling this

tranquil little realm with brawl and bravado.

The stranger was on this evening in a more than usually

communicative mood, and was narrating a number of astounding

stories of plunderings and burnings upon the high seas. He dwelt

upon them with peculiar relish, heightening the frightful

particulars in proportion to their effect on his peaceful

auditors. He gave a long swaggering detail of the capture of a

Spanish merchantman. She was laying becalmed during a long

summer’s day, just off from an island which was one of the

lurking places of the pirates. They had reconnoitred her with

their spy-glasses from the shore, and ascertained her character

and force. At night a picked crew of daring fellows set off for

her in a whale boat. They approached with muffled oars, as she

lay rocking idly with the undulations of the sea and her sails

flapping against the masts. They were close under her stern

before the guard on deck was aware of their approach. The alarm

was given; the pirates threw hand grenades on deck and sprang up

the main chains sword in hand.

The crew flew to arms, but in great confusion some were shot

down, others took refuge in the tops; others were driven

overboard and drowned, while others fought hand to hand from the

main deck to the quarter deck, disputing gallantly every inch of

ground. There were three Spanish gentlemen on board with their

ladies, who made the most desperate resistance; they defended the

companion-way, cut down several of their assailants, and fought

like very devils, for they were maddened by the shrieks of the

ladies from the cabin. One of the Dons was old and soon

despatched. The other two kept their ground vigorously, even

though the captain of the pirates was among their assailants.

Just then there was a shout of victory from the main deck. “The

ship is ours!” cried the pirates.

One of the Dons immediately dropped his sword and surrendered;

the other, who was a hot-headed youngster, and just married, gave

the captain a slash in the face that laid all open. The captain

just made out to articulate the words “no quarter.”

“And what did they do with their prisoners?” said Peechy Prauw,

eagerly.

“Threw them all overboard!” said the merman.

A dead pause followed this reply. Peechy Prauw shrunk quietly

back like a man who had unwarily stolen upon the lair of a

sleeping lion. The honest burghers cast fearful glances at the

deep scar slashed across the visage of the stranger, and moved

their chairs a little farther off. The seaman, however, smoked on

without moving a muscle, as though he either did not perceive or

did not regard the unfavorable effect he had produced upon his

hearers.

The half-pay officer was the first to break the silence; for he

was Continually tempted to make ineffectual head against this

tyrant of the seas, and to regain his lost consequence in the

eyes of his ancient companions. He now tried to match the

gunpowder tales of the stranger by others equally tremendous.

Kidd, as usual, was his hero, concerning whom he had picked up

many of the floating traditions of the province. The seaman had

always evinced a settled pique against the red-faced warrior. On

this occasion he listened with peculiar impatience. He sat with

one arm a-kimbo, the other elbow on a table, the hand holding on

to the small pipe he was pettishly puffing; his legs crossed,

drumming with one foot on the ground and casting every now and

then the side glance of a basilisk at the prosing captain. At

length the latter spoke of Kidd’s having ascended the Hudson with

some of his crew, to land his plunder in secrecy.

“Kidd up the Hudson!” burst forth the seaman, with a tremendous

oath; “Kidd never was up the Hudson!”

“I tell you he was,” said the other. “Aye, and they say he buried

a quantity of treasure on the little flat that runs out into the

river, called the Devil’s Dans Kammer.”

“The Devil’s Dans Kammer in your teeth!” cried the seaman. “I

tell you Kidd never was up the Hudson—what the plague do you know

of Kidd and his haunts?”

“What do I know?” echoed the half-pay officer; “why, I was in

London at the time of his trial, aye, and I had the pleasure of

seeing him hanged at Execution Dock.”

“Then, sir, let me tell you that you saw as pretty a fellow

hanged as ever trod shoe leather. Aye!” putting his face nearer

to that of the officer, “and there was many a coward looked on,

that might much better have swung in his stead.”

The half-pay officer was silenced; but the indignation thus pent

up in his bosom glowed with intense vehemence in his single eye,

which kindled like a coal.

Peechy Prauw, who never could remain silent, now took up the

word, and in a pacifying tone observed that the gentleman

certainly was in the right. Kidd never did bury money up the

Hudson, nor indeed in any of those parts, though many affirm the

fact. It was Bradish and others of the buccaneers who had buried

money, some said in Turtle Bay, others on Long-Island, others in

the neighborhood of Hell Gate. Indeed, added he, I recollect an

adventure of Mud Sam, the negro fisherman, many years ago, which

some think had something to do with the buccaneers. As we are all

friends here, and as it will go no farther, I’ll tell it to you.

“Upon a dark night many years ago, as Sam was returning from

fishing in Hell Gate—”

Here the story was nipped in the bud by a sudden movement from

the unknown, who, laying his iron fist on the table, knuckles

downward, with a quiet force that indented the very boards, and

looking grimly over his shoulder, with the grin of an angry bear.

“Heark’ee, neighbor,” said he, with significant nodding of the

head, “you’d better let the buccaneers and their money

alone—they’re not for old men and old women to meddle with. They

fought hard for their money, they gave body and soul for it, and

wherever it lies buried, depend upon it he must have a tug with

the devil who gets it.”

This sudden explosion was succeeded by a blank silence throughout

the room. Peechy Prauw shrunk within himself, and even the

red-faced officer turned pale. Wolfert, who, from a dark corner

of the room, had listened with intense eagerness to all this talk

about buried treasure, looked with mingled awe and reverence on

this bold buccaneer, for such he really suspected him to be.

There was a chinking of gold and a sparkling of jewels in all his

stories about the Spanish Main that gave a value to every period,

and Wolfert would have given any thing for the rummaging of the

ponderous sea-chest, which his imagination crammed full of golden

chalices and crucifixes and jolly round bags of doubloons.

The dead stillness that had fallen upon the company was at length

interrupted by the stranger, who pulled out a prodigious watch of

curious and ancient workmanship, and which in Wolferts’ eyes had

a decidedly Spanish look. On touching a spring it struck ten

o’clock; upon which the sailor called for his reckoning, and

having paid it out of a handful of outlandish coin, he drank off

the remainder of his beverage, and without taking leave of any

one, rolled out of the room, muttering to himself as he stamped

up-stairs to his chamber.

It was some time before the company could recover from the

silence into which they had been thrown. The very footsteps of

the stranger, which were heard now and then as he traversed his

chamber, inspired awe.

Still the conversation in which they had been engaged was too

interesting not to be resumed. A heavy thunder-gust had gathered

up unnoticed while they were lost in talk, and the torrents of

rain that fell forbade all thoughts of setting off for home until

the storm should subside. They drew nearer together, therefore,

and entreated the worthy Peechy Prauw to continue the tale which

had been so discourteously interrupted. He readily complied,

whispering, however, in a tone scarcely above his breath, and

drowned occasionally by the rolling of the thunder, and he would

pause every now and then, and listen with evident awe, as he

heard the heavy footsteps of the stranger pacing overhead.

The following is the purport of his story.

THE ADVENTURE OF SAM, THE BLACK FISHERMAN

COMMONLY DENOMINATED MUD SAM

Every body knows Mud Sam, the old negro fisherman who has fished

about the Sound for the last twenty or thirty years. Well, it is

now many years since that Sam, who was then a young fellow, and

worked on the farm of Killian Suydam on Long Island, having

finished his work early, was fishing, one still summer evening,

just about the neighborhood of Hell Gate. He was in a light

skiff, and being well acquainted with the currents and eddies, he

had been able to shift his station with the shifting of the tide,

from the Hen and Chickens to the Hog’s back, and from the Hog’s

back to the Pot, and from the Pot to the Frying-pan; but in the

eagerness of his sport Sam did not see that the tide was rapidly

ebbing; until the roaring of the whirlpools and rapids warned him

of his danger, and he had some difficulty in shooting his skiff

from among the rocks and breakers, and getting to the point of

Blackwell’s Island. Here he cast anchor for some time, waiting

the turn of the tide to enable him to return homewards.

As the night set in it grew blustering and gusty. Dark clouds

came bundling up in the west; and now and then a growl of thunder

or a flash of lightning told that a summer storm was at hand. Sam

pulled over, therefore, under the lee of Manhattan Island, and

coasting along came to a snug nook, just under a steep beetling

rock, where he fastened his skiff to the root of a tree that shot

out from a cleft and spread its broad branches like a canopy over

the water. The gust came scouring along; the wind threw up the

river in white surges; the rain rattled among the leaves, the

thunder bellowed worse than that which is now bellowing, the

lightning seemed to lick up the surges of the stream; but Sam,

snugly sheltered under rock and tree, lay crouched in his skiff,

rocking upon the billows, until he fell asleep. When he awoke all

was quiet. The gust had passed away, and only now and then a

faint gleam of lightning in the east showed which way it had

gone. The night was dark and moonless; and from the state of the

tide Sam concluded it was near midnight. He was on the point of

making loose his skiff to return homewards, when he saw a light

gleaming along the water from a distance, which seemed rapidly

approaching. As it drew near he perceived that it came from a

lanthorn in the bow of a boat which was gliding along under

shadow of the land. It pulled up in a small cove, close to where

he was. A man jumped on shore, and searching about with the

lanthorn exclaimed, “This is the place—here’s the Iron ring.” The

boat was then made fast, and the man returning on board, assisted

his comrades in conveying something heavy on shore. As the light

gleamed among them, Sam saw that they were five stout,

desperate-looking fellows, in red woollen caps, with a leader in

a three-cornered hat, and that some of them were armed with

dirks, or long knives, and pistols. They talked low to one

another, and occasionally in some outlandish tongue which he

could not understand.

On landing they made their way among the bushes, taking turns to

relieve each other in lugging their burthen up the rocky bank.

Sam’s curiosity was now fully aroused, so leaving his skiff he

clambered silently up the ridge that overlooked their path. They

had stopped to rest for a moment, and the leader was looking

about among the bushes with his lanthorn. “Have you brought the

spades?” said one. “They are here,” replied another, who had them

on his shoulder. “We must dig deep, where there will be no risk

of discovery,” said a third.

A cold chill ran through Sam’s veins. He fancied he saw before

him a gang of murderers, about to bury their victim. His knees

smote together. In his agitation he shook the branch of a tree

with which he was supporting himself as he looked over the edge

of the cliff.

“What’s that?” cried one of the gang. “Some one stirs among the

bushes!”

The lanthorn was held up in the direction of the noise. One of

the red-caps cocked a pistol, and pointed it towards the very

lace where Sam was standing. He stood motionless—breathless;

expecting the next moment to be his last. Fortunately, his dingy

complexion was in his favor, and made no glare among the leaves.

“’Tis no one,” said the man with the lanthorn. “What a plague!

you would not fire off your pistol and alarm the country.”

The pistol was uncocked; the burthen was resumed, and the party

slowly toiled up the bank. Sam watched them as they went; the

light sending back fitful gleams through the dripping bushes, and

it was not till they were fairly out of sight that he ventured to

draw breath freely. He now thought of getting back to his boat,

and making his escape out of the reach of such dangerous

neighbors; but curiosity was all-powerful with poor Sam. He

hesitated and lingered and listened. By and bye he heard the

strokes of spades.

“They are digging the grave!” said he to himself; the cold sweat

started upon his forehead. Every stroke of a spade, as it sounded

through the silent groves, went to his heart; it was evident

there was as little noise made as possible; every thing had an

air of mystery and secrecy. Sam had a great relish for the

horrible—a tale of murder was a treat for him; and he was a

constant attendant at executions. He could not, therefore, resist

an impulse, in spite of every danger, to steal nearer, and

overlook the villains at their work. He crawled along cautiously,

therefore, inch by inch; stepping with the utmost care among the

dry leaves, lest their rustling should betray him. He came at

length to where a steep rock intervened between him and the gang;

he saw the light of their lanthorn shining up against the

branches of the trees on the other side. Sam slowly and silently

clambered up the surface of the rock, and raising his head above

its naked edge, beheld the villains immediately below him, and so

near that though he dreaded discovery, he dared not withdraw lest

the least movement should be heard. In this way he remained, with

his round black face peering over the edge of the rock, like the

sun just emerging above the edge of the horizon, or the

round-cheeked moon on the dial of a clock.

The red-caps had nearly finished their work; the grave was filled

up, and they were carefully replacing the turf. This done, they

scattered dry leaves over the place. “And now,” said the leader,

“I defy the devil himself to find it out.”

“The murderers!” exclaimed Sam involuntarily.

The whole gang started, and looking up, beheld the round black

head of Sam just above them. His white eyes strained half out of

their orbits; his white teeth chattering, and his whole visage

shining with cold perspiration.

“We’re discovered!” cried one.

“Down with him!” cried another.

Sam heard the cocking of a pistol, but did not pause for the

report. He scrambled over rock and stone, through bush and briar;

rolled down banks like a hedgehog; scrambled up others like a

catamount. In every direction he heard some one or other of the

gang hemming him in. At length he reached the rocky ridge along

the river; one of the red-caps was hard behind him. A steep rock

like a wall rose directly in his way; it seemed to cut off all

retreat, when he espied the strong cord-like branch of a

grape-vine reaching half way down it. He sprang at it with the

force of a desperate man, seized it with both hands, and being

young and agile, succeeded in swinging himself to the summit of

the cliff. Here he stood in full relief against the sky, when the

red-cap cocked his pistol and fired. The ball whistled by Sam’s

head. With the lucky thought of a man in an emergency, he uttered

a yell, fell to the ground, and detached at the same time a

fragment of the rock, which tumbled with a loud splash into the

river.

“I’ve done his business,” said the red-cap, to one or two of his

comrades as they arrived panting. “He’ll tell no tales, except to

the fishes in the river.”

His pursuers now turned off to meet their companions. Sam sliding

silently down the surface of the rock, let himself quietly into

his skiff, cast loose the fastening, and abandoned himself to the

rapid current, which in that place runs like a mill-stream, and

soon swept him off from the neighborhood. It was not, however,

until he had drifted a great distance that he ventured to ply his

oars; when he made his skiff dart like an arrow through the

strait of Hell Gate, never heeding the danger of Pot, Frying-pan,

or Hog’s-back itself; nor did he feel himself thoroughly secure

until safely nestled in bed in the cockloft of the ancient

farm-house of the Suydams.

Here the worthy Peechy paused to take breath and to take a sip of

the gossip tankard that stood at his elbow. His auditors remained

with open mouths and outstretched necks, gaping like a nest of

swallows for an additional mouthful.

“And is that all?” exclaimed the half-pay officer.

“That’s all that belongs to the story,” said Peechy Prauw.

“And did Sam never find out what was buried by the redcaps?” said

Wolfert, eagerly; whose mind was haunted by nothing but ingots

and doubloons.

“Not that I know of; he had no time to spare from his work; and

to tell the truth, he did not like to run the risk of another

race among the rocks. Besides, how should he recollect the spot

where the grave had been digged? every thing would look different

by daylight. And then, where was the use of looking for a dead

body, when there was no chance of hanging the murderers?”

“Aye, but are you sure it was a dead body they buried?” said

Wolfert.

“To be sure,” cried Peechy Prauw, exultingly. “Does it not haunt

in the neighborhood to this very day?”

“Haunts!” exclaimed several of the party, opening their eyes

still wider and edging their chairs still closer.

“Aye, haunts,” repeated Peechy; “has none of you heard of father

red-cap that haunts the old burnt farm-house in the woods, on the

border of the Sound, near Hell Gate?”

“Oh, to be sure, I’ve heard tell of something of the kind, but

then I took it for some old wives’ fable.”

“Old wives’ fable or not,” said Peechy Prauw, “that farmhouse

stands hard by the very spot. It’s been unoccupied time out of

mind, and stands in a wild, lonely part of the coast; but those

who fish in the neighborhood have often heard strange noises

there; and lights have been seen about the wood at night; and an

old fellow in a red cap has been seen at the windows more than

once, which people take to be the ghost of the body that was

buried there. Once upon a time three soldiers took shelter in the

building for the night, and rummaged it from top to bottom, when

they found old father red-cap astride of a cider-barrel in the

cellar, with a jug in one hand and a goblet in the other. He

offered them a drink out of his goblet, but just as one of the

soldiers was putting it to his mouth-Whew! a flash of fire blazed

through the cellar, blinded every mother’s son of them for

several minutes, and when they recovered their eye-sight, jug,

goblet, and red-cap had vanished, and nothing but the empty

cider-barrel remained.”

Here the half-pay officer, who was growing very muzzy and sleepy,

and nodding over his liquor, with half-extinguished eye, suddenly

gleamed up like an expiring rushlight.

“That’s all humbug!” said he, as Peechy finished his last story.

“Well, I don’t vouch for the truth of it myself,” said Peechy

Prauw, “though all the world knows that there’s something strange

about the house and grounds; but as to the story of Mud Sam, I

believe it just as well as if it had happened to myself.”

The deep interest taken in this conversation by the company, had

made them unconscious of the uproar that prevailed abroad, among

the elements, when suddenly they were all electrified by a

tremendous clap of thunder. A lumbering crash followed

instantaneously that made the building shake to its foundation.

All started from their seats, imagining it the shock of an

earthquake, or that old father red-cap was coming among them in

all his terrors. They listened for a moment, but only heard the

rain pelting against the windows, and the wind howling among the

trees. The explosion was soon explained by the apparition of an

old negro’s bald head thrust in at the door, his white goggle

eyes contrasting with his jetty poll, which was wet with rain and

shone like a bottle. In a jargon but half intelligible he

announced that the kitchen chimney had been struck with

lightning.

A sullen pause of the storm, which now rose and sunk in gusts,

produced a momentary stillness. In this interval the report of a

musket was heard, and a long shout, almost like a yell, resounded

from the shore. Every one crowded to the window; another musket

shot was heard, and another long shout, that mingled wildly with

a rising blast of wind. It seemed as if the cry came up from the

bosom of the waters; for though incessant flashes of lightning

spread a light about the shore, no one was to be seen.

Suddenly the window of the room overhead was opened, and a loud

halloo uttered by the mysterious stranger. Several hailings

passed from one party to the other, but in a language which none

of the company in the bar-room could understand; and presently

they heard the window closed, and a great noise overhead as if

all the furniture were pulled and hauled about the room. The

negro servant was summoned, and shortly after was seen assisting

the veteran to lug the ponderous sea-chest down stairs.

The landlord was in amazement. “What, you are not going on the

water in such a storm?”

“Storm!” said the other, scornfully, “do you call such a sputter

of weather a storm?”

“You’ll get drenched to the skin—You’ll catch your death!” said

Peechy Prauw, affectionately.

“Thunder and lightning!” exclaimed the merman, “don’t preach

about weather to a man that has cruised in whirlwinds and

tornadoes.”

The obsequious Peechy was again struck dumb. The voice from the

water was again heard in a tone of impatience; the bystanders

stared with redoubled awe at this man of storms, which seemed to

have come up out of the deep and to be called back to it again.

As, with the assistance of the negro, he slowly bore his

ponderous sea-chest towards the shore, they eyed it with a

superstitious feeling; half doubting whether he were not really

about to embark upon it, and launch forth upon the wild waves.

They followed him at a distance with a lanthorn.

“Douse the light!” roared the hoarse voice from the water. “No

one wants light here!”

“Thunder and lightning!” exclaimed the veteran; “back to the

house with you!”

Wolfert and his companions shrunk back is dismay. Still their

curiosity would not allow them entirely to withdraw. A long sheet

of lightning now flickered across the waves, and discovered a

boat, filled with men, just under a rocky point, rising and

sinking with the heavy surges, and swashing the water at every

heave. It was with difficulty held to the rocks by a boat hook,

for the current rushed furiously round the point. The veteran

hoisted one end of the lumbering sea-chest on the gunwale of the

boat; he seized the handle at the other end to lift it in, when

the motion propelled the boat from the shore; the chest slipped

off from the gunwale, sunk into the waves, and pulled the veteran

headlong after it. A loud shriek was uttered by all on shore, and

a volley of execrations by those on board; but boat and man were

hurried away by the rushing swiftness of the tide. A pitchy

darkness succeeded; Wolfert Webber indeed fancied that He

distinguished a cry for help, and that he beheld the drowning man

beckoning for assistance; but when the lightning again gleamed

along the water all was drear and void. Neither man nor boat was

to be seen; nothing but the dashing and weltering of the waves as

they hurried past.

The company returned to the tavern, for they could not leave it

before the storm should subside. They resumed their seats and

gazed on each other with dismay. The whole transaction had not

occupied five minutes and not a dozen words had been spoken. When

they looked at the oaken chair they could scarcely realize the

fact that the strange being who had so lately tenanted it, full

of life and Herculean vigor, should already be a corpse. There

was the very glass he had just drunk from; there lay the ashes

from the pipe which he had smoked as it were with his last

breath. As the worthy burghers pondered on these things, they

felt a terrible conviction of the uncertainty of human existence,

and each felt as if the ground on which he stood was rendered

less stable by this awful example.

As, however, the most of the company were possessed of that

valuable philosophy which enables a man to bear up with fortitude

against the misfortunes of his neighbors, they soon managed to

console themselves for the tragic end of the veteran. The

landlord was happy that the poor dear man had paid his reckoning

before he went.

“He came in a storm, and he went in a storm; he came in the

night, and he went in the night; he came nobody knows from

whence, and he has gone nobody knows where. For aught I know he

has gone to sea once more on his chest and may land to bother

some people on the other side of the world! Though it’s a

thousand pities,” added the landlord, “if he has gone to Davy

Jones that he had not left his sea-chest behind him.”

“The sea-chest! St. Nicholas preserve us!” said Peechy Prauw.

“I’d not have had that sea-chest in the house for any money; I’ll

warrant he’d come racketing after it at nights, and making a

haunted house of the inn. And as to his going to sea on his

chest, I recollect what happened to Skipper Onderdonk’s ship on

his voyage from Amsterdam.

“The boatswain died during a storm, so they wrapped him up in a

sheet, and put him in his own sea-chest, and threw him overboard;

but they neglected in their hurry-skurry to say prayers over

him—and the storm raged and roared louder than ever, and they saw

the dead man seated in his chest, with his shroud for a sail,

coming hard after the ship; and the sea breaking before him in

great sprays like fire, and there they kept scudding day after

day and night after night, expecting every moment to go to wreck;

and every night they saw the dead boatswain in his sea-chest

trying to get up with them, and they heard his whistle above the

blasts of wind, and he seemed to send great seas mountain high

after them, that would have swamped the ship if they had not put

up the dead lights. And so it went on till they lost sight of him

in the fogs of Newfoundland, and supposed he had veered ship and

stood for Dead Man’s Isle. So much for burying a man at sea

without saying prayers over him.”

The thunder-gust which had hitherto detained the company was now

at an end. The cuckoo clock in the hall struck midnight; every

one pressed to depart, for seldom was such a late hour trespassed

on by these quiet burghers. As they sallied forth they found the

heavens once more serene. The storm which had lately obscured

them had rolled aways and lay piled up in fleecy masses on the

horizon, lighted up by the bright crescent of the moon, which

looked like a silver lamp hung up in a palace of clouds.

The dismal occurrence of the night, and the dismal narrations

they had made, had left a superstitious feeling in every mind.

They cast a fearful glance at the spot where the buccaneer had

disappeared, almost expecting to see him sailing on his chest in

the cool moonshine. The trembling rays glittered along the

waters, but all was placid; and the current dimpled over the spot

where he had gone down. The party huddled together in a little

crowd as they repaired homewards; particularly when they passed a

lonely field where a man had been murdered; and he who had

farthest to go and had to complete his journey alone, though a

veteran sexton, and accustomed, one would think to ghosts and

goblins, yet went a long way round, rather than pass by his own

church-yard.

Wolfert Webber had now carried home a fresh stock of stories and

notions to ruminate upon. His mind was all of a whirl with these

freebooting tales; and then these accounts of pots of money and

Spanish treasures, buried here and there and every where about

the rocks and bays of this wild shore, made him almost dizzy.

“Blessed St. Nicholas!” ejaculated he, half aloud, “is it not

possible to come upon one of these golden hoards, and so make

one’s self rich in a twinkling. How hard that I must go on,

delving and delving, day in and day out, merely to make a morsel

of bread, when one lucky stroke of a spade might enable me to

ride in my carriage for the rest of my life!”

As he turned over in his thoughts all that he had been told of

the singular adventure of the black fisherman, his imagination

gave a totally different complexion to the tale. He saw in the

gang of redcaps nothing but a crew of pirates burying their

spoils, and his cupidity was once more awakened by the

possibility of at length getting on the traces of some of this

lurking wealth. Indeed, his infected fancy tinged every thing

with gold. He felt like the greedy inhabitant of Bagdad, when his

eye had been greased with the magic ointment of the dervise, that

gave him to see all the treasures of the earth. Caskets of buried

jewels, chests of ingots, bags of outlandish coins, seemed to

court him from their concealments, and supplicate him to relieve

them from their untimely graves.

On making private inquiries about the grounds said to be haunted

by father red-cap, he was more and more confirmed in his surmise.

He learned that the place had several times been visited by

experienced money-diggers, who had heard Mud Sam’s story, though

none of them had met with success. On the contrary, they had

always been dogged with ill luck of some kind or other, in

consequence, as Wolfert concluded, of their not going to work at

the proper time, and with the proper ceremonials. The last

attempt had been made by Cobus Quackenbos, who dug for a whole

night and met with incredible difficulty, for as fast as he threw

one shovel full of earth out of the hole, two were thrown in by

invisible hands. He succeeded so far, however, as to uncover an

iron chest, when there was a terrible roaring, and ramping, and

raging of uncouth figures about the hole, and at length a shower

of blows, dealt by invisible cudgels, that fairly belabored him

off the forbidden ground. This Cobus Quackenbos had declared on

his death-bed, so that there could not be any doubt of it. He was

a man that had devoted many years of his life to money-digging,

and it was thought would have ultimately succeeded, had he not

died suddenly of a brain fever in the alms-house.

Wolfert Webber was now in a worry of trepidation and impatience;

fearful lest some rival adventurer should get a scent of the

buried gold. He determined privately to seek out the negro

fisherman and get him to serve as guide to the place where he had

witnessed the mysterious scene of interment. Sam was easily

found; for he was one of those old habitual beings that live

about a neighborhood until they wear themselves a place in the

public mind, and become, in a manner, public characters. There

was not an unlucky urchin about the town that did not know Mud

Sam the fisherman, and think that he had a right to play his

tricks upon the old negro. Sam was an amphibious kind of animal,

something more of a fish than a man; he had led the life of an

otter for more than half a century, about the shores of the bay,

and the fishing grounds of the Sound. He passed the greater part

of his time on and in the water, particularly about Hell Gate;

and might have been taken, in bad weather, for one of the

hobgoblins that used to haunt that strait. There would he be

seen, at all times, and in all weathers; sometimes in his skiff,

anchored among the eddies, or prowling, like a shark about some

wreck, where the fish are supposed to be most abundant. Sometimes

seated on a rock from hour to hour, looming through mist and

drizzle, like a solitary heron watching for its prey. He was well

acquainted with every hole and corner of the Sound; from the

Wallabout to Hell Gate, and from Hell Gate even unto the Devil’s

Stepping Stones; and it was even affirmed that he knew all the

fish in the river by their Christian names.

Wolfert found him at his cabin, which was not much larger than a

tolerable dog-house. It was rudely constructed of fragments of

wrecks and drift-wood, and built on the rocky shore, at the foot

of the old fort, just about what at present forms the point of

the Battery. A “most ancient and fish-like smell” pervaded the

place. Oars, paddles, and fishing-rods were leaning against the

wall of the fort; a net was spread on the sands to dry; a skiff

was drawn up on the beach, and at the door of his cabin lay Mud

Sam himself, indulging in a true negro’s luxury—sleeping in the

sunshine.

Many years had passed away since the time of Sam’s youthful

adventure, and the snows of many a winter had grizzled the knotty

wool upon his head. He perfectly recollected the circumstances,

however, for he had often been called upon to relate them, though

in his version of the story he differed in many points from

Peechy Prauw; as is not unfrequently the case with authentic

historians. As to the subsequent researches of money-diggers, Sam

knew nothing about them; they were matters quite out of his line;

neither did the cautious Wolfert care to disturb his thoughts on

that point. His only wish was to secure the old fisherman as a

pilot to the spot, and this was readily effected. The long time

that had intervened since his nocturnal adventure had effaced all

Sam’s awe of the place, and the promise of a trifling reward

roused him at once from his sleep and his sunshine.

The tide was adverse to making the expedition by water, and

Wolfert was too impatient to get to the land of promise, to wait

for its turning; they set off, therefore, by land. A walk of four

or five miles brought them to the edge of a wood, which at that

time covered the greater part of the eastern side of the island.

It was just beyond the pleasant region of Bloomen-dael. Here they

struck into a long lane, straggling among trees and bushes, very

much overgrown with weeds and mullein stalks as if but seldom

used, and so completely overshadowed as to enjoy but a kind of

twilight. Wild vines entangled the trees and flaunted in their

faces; brambles and briars caught their clothes as they passed;

the garter-snake glided across their path; the spotted toad

hopped and waddled before them, and the restless cat-bird mewed

at them from every thicket. Had Wolfert Webber been deeply read

in romantic legend he might have fancied himself entering upon

forbidden, enchanted ground; or that these were some of the

guardians set to keep a watch upon buried treasure. As it was,

the loneliness of the place, and the wild stories connected with

it, had their effect upon his mind.

On reaching the lower end of the lane they found themselves near

the shore of the Sound, in a kind of amphitheatre, surrounded by

forest tree. The area had once been a grass-plot, but was now

shagged with briars and rank weeds. At one end, and just on the

river bank, was a ruined building, little better than a heap of

rubbish, with a stack of chimneys rising like a solitary tower

out of the centre. The current of the Sound rushed along just

below it, with wildly-grown trees drooping their branches into

its waves.

Wolfert had not a doubt that this was the haunted house of father

red-cap, and called to mind the story of Peechy Prauw. The

evening was approaching, and the light falling dubiously among

these places, gave a melancholy tone to the scene, well

calculated to foster any lurking feeling of awe or superstition.

The night-hawk, wheeling about in the highest regions of the air,

emitted his peevish, boding cry. The woodpecker gave a lonely tap

now and then on some hollow tree, and the firebird,[3] as he

streamed by them with his deep-red plumage, seemed like some

genius flitting about this region of mystery.

[3] Orchard Oreole.

They now came to an enclosure that had once been a garden. It

extended along the foot of a rocky ridge, but was little better

than a wilderness of weeds, with here and there a matted

rose-bush, or a peach or plum tree grown wild and ragged, and

covered with moss. At the lower end of the garden they passed a

kind of vault in the side of the bank, facing the water. It had

the look of a root-house. The door, though decayed, was still

strong, and appeared to have been recently patched up. Wolfert

pushed it open. It gave a harsh grating upon its hinges, and

striking against something like a box, a rattling sound ensued,

and a skull rolled on the floor. Wolfert drew back shuddering,

but was reassured on being informed by Sam that this was a family

vault belonging to one of the old Dutch families that owned this

estate; an assertion which was corroborated by the sight of

coffins of various sizes piled within. Sam had been familiar with

all these scenes when a boy, and now knew that he could not be

far from the place of which they were in quest.

They now made their way to the water’s edge, scrambling along

ledges of rocks, and having often to hold by shrubs and

grape-vines to avoid slipping into the deep and hurried stream.

At length they came to a small cove, or rather indent of the

shore. It was protected by steep rocks and overshadowed by a

thick copse of oaks and chestnuts, so as to be sheltered and

almost concealed. The beach sloped gradually within the cove, but

the current swept deep and black and rapid along its jutting

points. Sam paused; raised his remnant of a hat, and scratched

his grizzled poll for a moment, as he regarded this nook: then

suddenly clapping his hands, he stepped exultingly forward, and

pointing to a large iron ring, stapled firmly in the rock, just

where a broad shelve of stone furnished a commodious

landing-place. It was the very spot where the red-caps had

landed. Years had changed the more perishable features of the

scene; but rock and iron yield slowly to the influence of time.

On looking more narrowly, Wolfert remarked three crosses cut in

the rock just above the ring, which had no doubt some mysterious

signification. Old Sam now readily recognized the overhanging

rock under which his skiff had been sheltered during the

thunder-gust. To follow up the course which the midnight gang had

taken, however, was a harder task. His mind had been so much

taken up on that eventful occasion by the persons of the drama,

as to pay but little attention to the scenes; and places looked

different by night and day. After wandering about for some time,

however, they came to an opening among the trees which Sam

thought resembled the place. There was a ledge of rock of

moderate height like a wall on one side, which Sam thought might

be the very ridge from which he overlooked the diggers. Wolfert

examined it narrowly, and at length described three crosses

similar to those above the iron ring, cut deeply into the face of

the rock, but nearly obliterated by the moss that had grown on

them. His heart leaped with joy, for he doubted not but they were

the private marks of the buccaneers, to denote the places where

their treasure lay buried. All now that remained was to ascertain

the precise spot; for otherwise he might dig at random without

coming upon the spoil, and he has already had enough of such

profitless labor. Here, however, Sam was perfectly at a loss,

and, indeed, perplexed him by a variety of opinions; for his

recollections were all confused. Sometimes he declared it must

have been at the foot of a mulberry tree hard by; then it was

just beside a great white stone; then it must have been under a

small green knoll, a short distance from the ledge of rock: until

at length Wolfert became as bewildered as himself.

The shadows of evening were now spreading themselves over the

woods, and rock and tree began to mingle together. It was

evidently too late to attempt anything farther at present; and,

indeed, Wolfert had come unprepared with implements to prosecute

his researches. Satisfied, therefore, with having ascertained the

place, he took note of all its landmarks, that he might recognize

it again, and set out on his return homeward, resolved to

prosecute this golden enterprise without delay.

The leading anxiety which had hitherto absorbed every feeling

being now in some measure appeased, fancy began to wander, and to

conjure up a thousand shapes and chimeras as he returned through

this haunted region. Pirates hanging in chains seemed to swing on

every tree, and he almost expected to see some Spanish Don, with

his throat cut from ear to ear, rising slowly out of the ground,

and shaking the ghost of a money-bag.

Their way back lay through the desolate garden, and Wolfert’s

nerves had arrived at so sensitive a state that the flitting of a

bird, the rustling of a leaf, or the falling of a nut was enough

to startle him. As they entered the confines of the garden, they

caught sight of a figure at a distance advancing slowly up one of

the walks and bending under the weight of a burthen. They paused

and regarded him attentively. He wore what appeared to be a

woollen cap, and still more alarming, of a most sanguinary red.

The figure moved slowly on, ascended the bank, and stopped at the

very door of the sepulchral vault. Just before entering he looked

around. What was the horror of Wolfert when he recognized the

grizzly visage of the drowned buccaneer. He uttered an

ejaculation of horror. The figure slowly raised his iron fist and

shook it with a terrible menace. Wolfert did not pause to see

more, but hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him, nor

was Sam slow in following at his heels, having all his ancient

terrors revived. Away, then, did they scramble, through bush and

brake, horribly frightened at every bramble that tagged at their

skirts, nor did they pause to breathe, until they had blundered

their way through this perilous wood and had fairly reached the

high-road to the city.

Several days elapsed before Wolfert could summon courage enough

to prosecute the enterprise, so much had he been dismayed by the

apparition, whether living dead, of the grizzly buccaneer. In the

meantime, what a conflict of mind did he suffer! He neglected all

his concerns, was moody and restless all day, lost his appetite;

wandered in his thoughts and words, and committed a thousand

blunders. His rest was broken; and when he fell asleep, the

nightmare, in shape of a huge money-bag, sat squatted upon his

breast. He babbled about incalculable sums; fancied himself

engaged in money digging; threw the bed-clothes right and left,

in the idea that he was shovelling among the dirt, groped under

the bed in quest of the treasure, and lugged forth, as he

supposed, an inestimable pot of gold.

Dame Webber and her daughter were in despair at what they

conceived a returning touch of insanity. There are two family

oracles, one or other of which Dutch housewives consult in all

cases of great doubt and perplexity: the dominie and the doctor.

In the present instance they repaired to the doctor. There was at

that time a little, dark, mouldy man of medicine famous among the

old wives of the Manhattoes for his skill not only in the healing

art, but in all matters of strange and mysterious nature. His

name was Dr. Knipperhausen, but he was more commonly known by the

appellation of the High German doctor.[4] To him did the poor

women repair for counsel and assistance touching the mental

vagaries of Wolfert Webber.

[4] The same, no doubt, of whom mention is made in the history of

Dolph Heyliger.

They found the doctor seated in his little study, clad in his

dark camblet robe of knowledge, with his black velvet cap, after

the manner of Boorhaave, Van Helmont, and other medical sages: a

pair of green spectacles set in black horn upon his clubbed nose,

and poring over a German folio that seemed to reflect back the

darkness of his physiognomy. The doctor listened to their

statement of the symptoms of Wolfert’s malady with profound

attention; but when they came to mention his raving about buried

money, the little man pricked up his ears. Alas, poor women! they

little knew the aid they had called in.

Dr. Knipperhausen had been half his life engaged in seeking the

short cuts to fortune, in quest of which so many a long lifetime

is wasted. He had passed some years of his youth in the Harz

mountains of Germany, and had derived much valuable instruction

from the miners, touching the mode of seeking treasure buried in

the earth. He had prosecuted his studies also under a travelling

sage who united all the mysteries of medicine with magic and

legerdemain. His mind, therefore, had become stored with all

kinds of mystic lore: he had dabbled a little in astrology,

alchemy, and divination; knew how to detect stolen money, and to

tell where springs of water lay hidden; in a word, by the dark

nature of his knowledge he had acquired the name of the High

German doctor, which is pretty nearly equivalent to that of

necromancer. The doctor had often heard rumors of treasure being

buried in various parts of the island, and’ had long been anxious

to get on the traces of it. No sooner were Wolfert’s waking and

sleeping vagaries confided to him, than he beheld in them the

confirmed symptoms of a case of money-digging, and lost no time

in probing it to the bottom. Wolfert had long been sorely

depressed in mind by the golden secret, and as a family physician

is a kind of father confessor, he was glad of the opportunity of

unburthening himself. So far from curing, the doctor caught the

malady from his patient. The circumstances unfolded to him

awakened all his cupidity; he had not a doubt of money being

buried somewhere in the neighborhood of the mysterious crosses,

and offered to join Wolfert in the search. He informed him that

much secrecy and caution must be observed in enterprises of the

kind; that money is only to be digged for at night; with certain

forms and ceremonies; the burning of drugs; the repeating of

mystic words, and above all, that the seekers must be provided

with a divining rod, which had the wonderful property of pointing

to the very spot on the surface of the earth under which treasure

lay hidden. As the doctor had given much of his mind to these

matters, he charged himself with all the necessary preparations,

and, as the quarter of the moon was propitious, he undertook to

have the divining rod ready by a certain night.[5]

[5] The following note was found appended to this paper in the

handwriting of Mr. Knickerbocker. “There has been much written against

the divining rod by those light minds who are ever ready to scoff at

the mysteries of nature, but I fully join with Dr. Knipperhausen in

giving it my faith. I shall not insist upon its efficacy in

discovering the concealment of stolen goods, the boundary-stones of

fields, the traces of robbers and murderers, or even the existence of

subterraneous springs and streams of water; albeit, I think these

properties not easily to be discredited; but of its potency in

discovering vein of precious metal, and hidden sums of money and

jewels, I have not the least doubt. Some said that the rod turned only

in the hands of persons who had been born in particular months of the

year; hence astrologers had recourse to planetary influence when they

would procure a talisman. Others declared that the properties of the

rod were either an effect of chance, or the fraud of the holder, or

the work of the devil. Thus sayeth the reverend Father Gaspard Schott

in his Treatise on Magic. ‘Propter haec et similia argumenta audacter

ego pronuncio vim conversivam virgulae befurcatae nequaquam naturalem

esse, sed vel casa vel fraude virgulam tractantis vel ope diaboli,’

etc.

“Georgius Agricula also was of opinion that it was a mere delusion

of the devil to inveigle the avaricious and unwary into his

clutches, and in his treatise ‘de re Metallica,’ lays particular

stress on the mysterious words pronounced by those persons who

employed the divining rod during his time. But I make not a doubt

that the divining rod is one of those secrets of natural magic, the

mystery of which is to be explained by the sympathies existing

between physical things operated upon by the planets, and rendered

efficacious by the strong faith of the individual. Let the divining

rod be properly gathered at the proper time of the moon, cut into

the proper form, used with the necessary ceremonies, and with a

perfect faith in its efficacy, and I can confidently recommend it

to my fellow-citizens as an infallible means of discovering the

various places on the island of the Manhattoes where treasure hath

been buried in the olden time. D.K.”]

Wolfert’s heart leaped with joy at having met with so learned and

able a coadjutor. Every thing went on secretly, but swimmingly.

The doctor had many consultations with his patient, and the good

women of the household lauded the comforting effect of his

visits. In the meantime, the wonderful divining rod, that great

key to nature’s secrets, was duly prepared. The doctor had

thumbed over all his books of knowledge for the occasion; and Mud

Sam was engaged to take them in his skiff to the scene of

enterprise; to work with spade and pick-axe in unearthing the

treasure; and to freight his bark with the weighty spoils they

were certain of finding.

At length the appointed night arrived for this perilous

undertaking. Before Wolfert left his home he counselled his wife

and daughter to go to bed, and feel no alarm if he should not

return during the night. Like reasonable women, on being told not

to feel alarm, they fell immediately into a panic. They saw at

once by his manner that something unusual was in agitation; all

their fears about the unsettled state of his mind were roused

with tenfold force: they hung about him entreating him not to

expose himself to the night air, but all in vain. When Wolfert

was once mounted on his hobby, it was no easy matter to get him

out of the saddle. It was a clear starlight night, when he issued

out of the portal of the Webber palace. He wore a large napped

hat tied under the chin with a handkerchief of his daughter’s, to

secure him from the night damp, while Dame Webber threw her long

red cloak about his shoulders, and fastened it round his neck.

The doctor had been no less carefully armed and accoutred by his

housekeeper, the vigilant Frau Ilsy, and sallied forth in his

camblet robe by way of surtout; his black velvet cap under his

cocked hat, a thick clasped book under his arm, a basket of drugs

and dried herbs in one hand, and in the other the miraculous rod

of divination.

The great church clock struck ten as Wolfert and the doctor

passed by the church-yard, and the watchman bawled in hoarse

voice a long and doleful “All’s well!” A deep sleep had already

fallen upon this primitive little burgh; nothing disturbed this

awful silence, excepting now and then the bark of some profligate

night-walking dog, or the serenade of some romantic cat. It is

true, Wolfert fancied more than once that he heard the sound of a

stealthy footfall at a distance behind them; but it might have

been merely the echo of their own steps echoing along the quiet

streets. He thought also at one time that he saw a tall figure

skulking after them—stopping when they stopped, and moving on as

they proceeded; but the dim and uncertain lamp light threw such

vague gleams and shadows, that this might all have been mere

fancy.

They found the negro fisherman waiting for them, smoking his pipe

in the stern of his skiff, which was moored just in front of his

little cabin. A pick-axe and spade were lying in the bottom of

the boat, with a dark lanthorn, and a stone jug of good Dutch

courage, in which honest Sam no doubt, put even more faith than

Dr. Knipperhausen in his drugs.

Thus then did these three worthies embark in their cockleshell of

a skiff upon this nocturnal expedition, with a wisdom and valor

equalled only by the three wise men of Gotham, who went to sea in

a bowl. The tide was rising and running rapidly up the Sound. The

current bore them along, almost without the aid of an oar. The

profile of the town lay all in shadow. Here and there a light

feebly glimmered from some sick chamber, or from the cabin window

of some vessel at anchor in the stream. Not a cloud obscured the

deep starry firmament, the lights of which wavered on the surface

of the placid river; and a shooting meteor, streaking its pale

course in the very direction they were taking, was interpreted by

the doctor into a most propitious omen.

In a little while they glided by the point of Corlears Hook with

the rural inn which had been the scene of such night adventures.

The family had retired to rest, and the house was dark and still.

Wolfert felt a chill pass over him as they passed the point where

the buccaneer had disappeared. He pointed it out to Dr.

Knipperhausen. While regarding it, they thought they saw a boat

actually lurking at the very place; but the shore cast such a

shadow over the border of the water that they could discern

nothing distinctly. They had not proceeded far when they heard

the low sounds of distant oars, as if cautiously pulled. Sam

plied his oars with redoubled vigor, and knowing all the eddies

and currents of the stream, soon left their followers, if such

they were, far astern. In a little while they stretched across

Turtle bay and Kip’s bay, then shrouded themselves in the deep

shadows of the Manhattan shore, and glided swiftly along, secure

from observation. At length Sam shot his skiff into a little

cove, darkly embowered by trees, and made it fast to the well

known iron ring. They now landed, and lighting the lanthorn,

gathered their various implements and proceeded slowly through

the bushes. Every sound startled them, even that of their

footsteps among the dry leaves; and the hooting of a screech owl,

from the shattered chimney of father red-cap’s ruin, made their

blood run cold.

In spite of all Wolfert’s caution in taking note of the

landmarks, it was some time before they could find the open place

among the trees, where the treasure was supposed to be buried. At

length they came to the ledge of rock; and on examining its

surface by the aid of the lanthorn, Wolfert recognized the three

mystic crosses. Their hearts beat quick, for the momentous trial

was at hand that was to determine their hopes.

The lanthorn was now held by Wolfert Webber, while the doctor

produced the divining rod. It was a forked twig, one end of which

was grasped firmly in each hand, while the centre, forming the

stem, pointed perpendicularly upwards. The doctor moved this wand

about, within a certain distance of the earth, from place to

place, but for some time without any effect, while Wolfert kept

the light of the lanthorn turned full upon it, and watched it

with the most breathless interest. At length the rod began slowly

to turn. The doctor grasped it with greater earnestness, his hand

trembling with the agitation of his mind. The wand continued

slowly to turn, until at length the stem had reversed its

position, and pointed perpendicularly downward; and remained

pointing to one spot as fixedly as the needle to the pole.

“This is the spot!” said the doctor in an almost inaudible tone.

Wolfert’s heart was in his throat.

“Shall I dig?” said Sam, grasping the spade.

“_Pots tousends_, no!” replied the little doctor, hastily. He now

ordered his companions to keep close by him and to maintain the

most inflexible silence. That certain precautions must be taken,

and ceremonies used to prevent the evil spirits which keep about

buried treasure from doing them any harm. The doctor then drew a

circle round the place, enough to include the whole party. He

next gathered dry twigs and leaves, and made a fire, upon which

he threw certain drugs and dried herbs which he had brought in

his basket. A thick smoke rose, diffusing a potent odor, savoring

marvellously of brimstone and assafoetida, which, however

grateful it might be to the olfactory nerves of spirits, nearly

strangled poor Wolfert, and produced a fit of coughing and

wheezing that made the whole grove resound. Doctor Knipperhausen

then unclasped the volume which he had brought under his arm,

which was printed in red and black characters in German text.

While Wolfert held the lanthorn, the doctor, by the aid of his

spectacles, read off several forms of conjuration in Latin and

German. He then ordered Sam to seize the pick-axe and proceed to

work. The close-bound soil gave obstinate signs of not having

been disturbed for many a year. After having picked his way

through the surface, Sam came to a bed of sand and gravel, which

he threw briskly to right and left with the spade.

“Hark!” said Wolfert, who fancied he heard a trampling among the

dry leaves, and a rustling through the bushes. Sam paused for a

moment, and they listened. No footstep was near. The bat flitted

about them in silence; a bird roused from its nest by the light

which glared up among the trees, flew circling about the flame.

In the profound stillness of the woodland they could distinguish

the current rippling along the rocky shore, and the distant

murmuring and roaring of Hell Gate.

Sam continued his labors, and had already digged a considerable

hole. The doctor stood on the edge, reading formulae every now

and then from the black letter volume, or throwing more drugs and

herbs upon the fire; while Wolfert bent anxiously over the pit,

watching every stroke of the spade. Any one witnessing the scene

thus strangely lighted up by fire, lanthorn, and the reflection

of Wolfert’s red mantle, might have mistaken the little doctor

for some foul magician, busied in his incantations, and the

grizzled-headed Sam as some swart goblin, obedient to his

commands.

At length the spade of the fisherman struck upon something that

sounded hollow. The sound vibrated to Wolfert’s heart. He struck

his spade again.

“’Tis a chest,” said Sam.

“Full of gold, I’ll warrant it!” cried Wolfert, clasping his

hands with rapture.

Scarcely had he uttered the words when a sound from overhead

caught his ear. He cast up his eyes, and lo! by the expiring

light of the fire he beheld, just over the disk of the rock, what

appeared to be the grim visage of the drowned buccaneer, grinning

hideously down upon him.

Wolfert gave a loud cry and let fall the lanthorn. His panic

communicated itself to his companions. The negro leaped out of

the hole, the doctor dropped his book and basket and began to

pray in German. All was horror and confusion. The fire was

scattered about, the lanthorn extinguished. In their hurry-skurry

they ran against and confounded one another. They fancied a

legion of hobgoblins let loose upon them, and that they saw by

the fitful gleams of the scattered embers, strange figures in red

caps gibbering and ramping around them. The doctor ran one way,

Mud Sam another, and Wolfert made for the water side. As he

plunged struggling onwards through bush and brake, he heard the

tread of some one in pursuit.

He scrambled frantically forward. The footsteps gained upon him.

He felt himself grasped by his cloak, when suddenly his pursuer

was attacked in turn: a fierce fight and struggle ensued—a pistol

was discharged that lit up rock and bush for a period, and showed

two figures grappling together—all was then darker than ever. The

contest continued—the combatants clenched each other, and panted

and groaned, and rolled among the rocks. There was snarling and

growling as of a cur, mingled with curses in which Wolfert

fancied he could recognize the voice of the buccaneer. He would

fain have fled, but he was on the brink of a precipice and could

go no farther.

Again the parties were on their feet; again there was a tugging

and struggling, as if strength alone could decide the combat,

until one was precipitated from the brow of the cliff and sent

headlong into the deep stream that whirled below. Wolfert heard

the plunge, and a kind of strangling bubbling murmur, but the

darkness of the night hid every thing from view, and the

swiftness of the current swept every thing instantly out of

hearing. One of the combatants was disposed of, but whether

friend or foe Wolfert could not tell, nor whether they might not

both be foes. He heard the survivor approach and his terror

revived. He saw, where the profile of the rocks rose against the

horizon, a human form advancing. He could not be mistaken: it

must be the buccaneer. Whither should he fly! a precipice was on

one side; a murderer on the other. The enemy approached: he was

close at hand. Wolfert attempted to let himself down the face of

the cliff. His cloak caught in a thorn that grew on the edge. He

was jerked from off his feet and held dangling in the air, half

choaked by the string with which his careful wife had fastened

the garment round his neck. Wolfert thought his last moment had

arrived; already had he committed his soul to St. Nicholas, when

the string broke and he tumbled down the bank, bumping from rock

to rock and bush to bush, and leaving the red cloak fluttering

like a bloody banner in the air.

It was a long while before Wolfert came to himself. When he

opened his eyes the ruddy streaks of the morning were already

shooting up the sky. He found himself lying in the bottom of a

boat, grievously battered. He attempted to sit up but was too

sore and stiff to move. A voice requested him in friendly accents

to lie still. He turned his eyes toward the speaker: it was Dirk

Waldron. He had dogged the party, at the earnest request of Dame

Webber and her daughter, who, with the laudable curiosity of

their sex, had pried into the secret consultations of Wolfert and

the doctor. Dirk had been completely distanced in following the

light skiff of the fisherman, and had just come in time to rescue

the poor money-digger from his pursuer.

Thus ended this perilous enterprise. The doctor and Mud Sam

severally found their way back to the Manhattoes, each having

some dreadful tale of peril to relate. As to poor Wolfert,

instead of returning in triumph, laden with bags of gold, he was

borne home on a shutter, followed by a rabble route of curious

urchins. His wife and daughter saw the dismal pageant from a

distance, and alarmed the neighborhood with their cries: they

thought the poor man had suddenly settled the great debt of

nature in one of his wayward moods. Finding him, however, still

living, they had him conveyed speedily to bed, and a jury of old

matrons of the neighborhood assembled to determine how he should

be doctored. The whole town was in a buzz with the story of the

money-diggers. Many repaired to the scene of the previous night’s

adventures: but though they found the very place of the digging,

they discovered nothing that compensated for their trouble. Some

say they found the fragments of an oaken chest and an iron pot

lid, which savored strongly of hidden money; and that in the old

family vault there were traces of holes and boxes, but this is

all very dubious.

In fact, the secret of all this story has never to this day been

discovered: whether any treasure was ever actually buried at that

place, whether, if so, it was carried off at night by those who

had buried it; or whether it still remains there under the

guardianship of gnomes and spirits until it shall be properly

sought for, is all matter of conjecture. For my part I incline to

the latter opinion; and make no doubt that great sums lie buried,

both there and in many other parts of this island and its

neighborhood, ever since the times of the buccaneers and the

Dutch colonists; and I would earnestly recommend the search after

them to such of my fellow citizens as are not engaged in any

other speculations.

There were many conjectures formed, also, as to who and what was

the strange man of the seas who had domineered over the little

fraternity at Corlears Hook for a time; disappeared so strangely,

and reappeared so fearfully. Some supposed him a smuggler

stationed at that place to assist his comrades in landing their

goods among the rocky coves of the island. Others that he was a

buccaneer; one of the ancient comrades either of Kidd or Bradish,

returned to convey away treasures formerly hidden in the

vicinity. The only circumstance that throws any thing like a

vague light over this mysterious matter is a report that

prevailed of a strange foreign-built shallop, with the look of a

piccaroon, having been seen hovering about the Sound for several

days without landing or reporting herself, though boats were seen

going to and from her at night: and that she was seen standing

out of the mouth of the harbor, in the gray of the dawn after the

catastrophe of the money-diggers.

I must not omit to mention another report, also, which I confess

is rather apocryphal, of the buccaneer, who was supposed to have

been drowned, being seen before daybreak, with a lanthorn in his

hand, seated astride his great sea-chest and sailing through Hell

Gate, which just then began to roar and bellow with redoubled

fury.

While all the gossip world was thus filled with talk and rumor,

poor Wolfert lay sick and sorrowful in his bed, bruised in body

and sorely beaten down in mind. His wife and daughter did all

they could to bind up his wounds both corporal and spiritual. The

good old dame never stirred from his bedside, where she sat

knitting from morning till night; while his daughter busied

herself about him with the fondest care. Nor did they lack

assistance from abroad. Whatever may be said of the desertions of

friends in distress, they had no complaint of the kind to make.

Not an old wife of the neighborhood but abandoned her work to

crowd to the mansion of Wolfert Webber, inquire after his health

and the particulars of his story. Not one came, moreover, without

her little pipkin of pennyroyal, sage, balm, or other herb-tea,

delighted at an opportunity of signalizing her kindness and her

doctorship. What drenchings did not the poor Wolfert undergo, and

all in vain. It was a moving sight to behold him wasting away day

by day; growing thinner and thinner and ghastlier and ghastlier,

and staring with rueful visage from under an old patchwork

counterpane upon the jury of matrons kindly assembled to sigh and

groan and look unhappy around him.

Dirk Waldron was the only being that seemed to shed a ray of

sunshine into this house of mourning. He came in with cheery look

and manly spirit, and tried to reanimate the expiring heart of

the poor money-digger, but it was all in vain. Wolfert was

completely done over. If any thing was wanting to complete his

despair, it was a notice served upon him in the midst of his

distress, that the corporation were about to run a new street

through the very centre of his cabbage garden. He saw nothing

before him but poverty and ruin; his last reliance, the garden of

his forefathers, was to be laid waste, and what then was to

become of his poor wife and child?

His eyes filled with tears as they followed the dutiful Amy out

of the room one morning. Dirk Waldron was seated beside him;

Wolfert grasped his hand, pointed after his daughter, and for the

first time since his illness broke the silence he had maintained.

“I am going!” said he, shaking his head feebly, “and when I am

gone—my poordaughter—”

“Leave her to me, father!” said Dirk, manfully—“I’ll take care of

her!”

Wolfert looked up in the face of the cheery, strapping youngster,

and saw there was none better able to take care of a woman.

“Enough,” said he, “she is yours!—and now fetch me a lawyer—let

me make my will and die.”

The lawyer was brought—a dapper, bustling, round-headed little

man, Roorback (or Rollebuck, as it was pronounced) by name. At

the sight of him the women broke into loud lamentations, for they

looked upon the signing of a will as the signing of a

death-warrant. Wolfert made a feeble motion for them to be

silent. Poor Amy buried her face and her grief in the

bed-curtain. Dame Webber resumed her knitting to hide her

distress, which betrayed itself, however, in a pellucid tear,

that trickled silently down and hung at the end of her peaked

nose; while the cat, the only unconcerned member of the family,

played with the good dame’s ball of worsted, as it rolled about

the floor.

Wolfert lay on his back, his nightcap drawn over his forehead;

his eyes closed; his whole visage the picture of death. He begged

the lawyer to be brief, for he felt his end approaching, and that

he had no time to lose. The lawyer nibbed his pen, spread out his

paper, and prepared to write.

“I give and bequeath,” said Wolfert, faintly, “my small farm—”

“What—all!” exclaimed the lawyer.

Wolfert half opened his eyes and looked upon the lawyer.

“Yes—all” said he.

“What! all that great patch of land with cabbages and sunflowers,

which the corporation is just going to run a main street

through?”

“The same,” said Wolfert, with a heavy sigh and sinking back upon

his pillow.

“I wish him joy that inherits it!” said the little lawyer,

chuckling and rubbing his hands involuntarily.

“What do you mean?” said Wolfert, again opening his eyes.

“That he’ll be one of the richest men in the place!” cried little

Rollebuck.

The expiring Wolfert seemed to step back from the threshold of

existence: his eyes again lighted up; he raised himself in his

bed, shoved back his red worsted nightcap, and stared broadly at

the lawyer.

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed he.

“Faith, but I do!” rejoined the other. “Why, when that great

field and that piece of meadow come to be laid out in streets,

and cut up into snug building lots—why, whoever owns them need

not pull off his hat to the patroon!”

“Say you so?” cried Wolfert, half thrusting one leg out of bed,

“why, then I think I’ll not make my will yet!”

To the surprise of everybody the dying man actually recovered.

The vital spark which had glimmered faintly in the socket,

received fresh fuel from the oil of gladness, which the little

lawyer poured into his soul. It once more burnt up into a flame.

Give physic to the heart, ye who would revive the body of a

spirit-broken man! In a few days Wolfert left his room; in a few

days more his table was covered with deeds, plans of streets and

building lots. Little Rollebuck was constantly with him, his

right-hand man and adviser, and instead of making his will,

assisted in the more agreeable task of making his fortune. In

fact, Wolfert Webber was one of those worthy Dutch burghers of

the Manhattoes whose fortunes have been made, in a manner, in

spite of themselves; who have tenaciously held on to their

hereditary acres, raising turnips and cabbages about the skirts

of the city, hardly able to make both ends meet, until the

corporation has cruelly driven streets through their abodes, and

they have suddenly awakened out of a lethargy, and, to their

astonishment, found themselves rich men.

Before many months had elapsed a great bustling street passed

through the very centre of the Webber garden, just where Wolfert

had dreamed of finding a treasure. His golden dream was

accomplished; he did indeed find an unlooked-for source of

wealth; for, when his paternal lands were distributed into

building lots, and rented out to safe tenants, instead of

producing a paltry crop of cabbages, they returned him an

abundant crop of rents; insomuch that on quarter day, it was a

goodly sight to see his tenants rapping at his door, from morning

to night, each with a little round-bellied bag of money, the

golden produce of the soil.

The ancient mansion of his forefathers was still kept up, but

instead of being a little yellow-fronted Dutch house in a garden,

it now stood boldly in the midst of a street, the grand house of

the neighborhood; for Wolfert enlarged it with a wing on each

side, and a cupola or tea room on top, where he might climb up

and smoke his pipe in hot weather; and in the course of time the

whole mansion was overrun by the chubby-faced progeny of Amy

Webber and Dirk Waldron.

As Wolfert waxed old and rich and corpulent, he also set up a

great gingerbread-colored carriage drawn by a pair of black

Flanders mares with tails that swept the ground; and to

commemorate the origin of his greatness he had for a crest a

fullblown cabbage painted on the pannels, with the pithy motto

_Alles Kopf_ that is to say, ALL HEAD; meaning thereby that he

had risen by sheer head-work.

To fill the measure of his greatness, in the fullness of time the

renowned Ramm Rapelye slept with his fathers, and Wolfert Webber

succeeded to the leathern-bottomed arm-chair in the inn parlor at

Corlears Hook; where he long reigned greatly honored and

respected, insomuch that he was never known to tell a story

without its being believed, nor to utter a joke without its being

laughed at.