Barclugh had been landed, as agreed, by the crew of the Albatross at
the mouth of the Little Egg River, and had made his way to the hut of a
Swedish fisherman; not a soul had seen whence he came.
The fisherman’s hut was small, having been built out of the logs that
were found on the beach and which had drifted from some lumberman’s
raft of distant Maine or New Hampshire; yea, some claimed greater
distinction. An experienced eye could distinguish the mahogany log that
had floated from the West Indies with the Gulf Stream, and had been
blown on the Jersey sands by a nor’east or sou’east gale. These logs
were all smoothly hewn and chinked with a mortar made from the lime of
the oyster shell and the sands cast up by the waves.
The house sat on the shelving bank of the river, surrounded by ragged
nets, tar-smeared cauldrons, floats and spars. A rather young woman
stood in the doorway, while two children with bare feet played about
and a yellow dog barked vociferously at the stranger’s approach.
The children ran to the protection of their mother’s skirt when they
saw the man come near. Two calves stopped their pranks to gaze at the
new-comer. Loneliness stuck out from every corner of the habitation,
and stolid contentment was evident in every pore of the buxom young
Swedish mother.
Barclugh was at his wit’s ends when he strode up to the doorway, after
side-stepping a few times to escape the charges of the dog. The woman
stamped her foot and ordered the dog off, in a language foreign to
Barclugh’s comprehension.
Bowing in his most gracious manner and holding his hat in his one free
hand, Barclugh said graciously:
“Good morning, Madam. Is your husband at home?”
No answer, except a dubious shake of the head, accompanied by a most
pleasant smile. She walked into the one room of the house, and offered
Barclugh a chair when she had a good look at his crippled arm and
bandaged shoulder.
Everything about the fisherman’s home was plain, yet scrupulously
clean. The floor was glistening with the purest of sand. The large
fireplace took up nearly the whole end of the house. A kettle, a
skillet, and a three-legged, shallow pot sat on the hearth. A broad
table was on one side, which had been scoured with sand and soft soap
until the knots alone showed what character the wood once had.
Without any ceremony, the good wife began to prepare a meal. First she
put a pot on with fresh water, then went out to the river bank where
her husband kept lobsters and crabs in a small trap. By using a small
dipping-net, she brought out a large lobster and a half a dozen crabs.
These were hurried into the steaming kettle, and there sat Barclugh
watching his meal cook, while he became acquainted with the children by
making grimaces at them.
Barclugh ate his sea food, potatoes, and coarse bread with much relish.
He offered the good housewife a piece of silver, but she only shook her
head in the negative.
The day wore on and Barclugh sat on the river bank, watching the
children build houses in the sand, and the dog pant in the broiling
sun. He knew that the fisherman must come home, and then he would find
some one with whom he could converse. However, a foreign-tongued woman
and guileless children suited his purpose, for the less that he had to
talk the better for him.
The sun was setting over the broad expanse of sea-marsh, when a
well-rigged fishing sloop drew into the river’s mouth and landed at
the fisherman’s hut. Two gnarly Swedes and a lad jumped ashore. The
older one was the husband of the young woman, evidently, for she went
to the landing and in a few words explained to him the presence of the
stranger.
The Swede approached Barclugh, who noticed that the fisherman’s face
was much weather-beaten, his beard shaggy and unkempt.
“Meester, you have been shot?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Barclugh anxiously. “I am wounded and came
near being captured by those English ships of war. I want to go to
Philadelphia.”
“Vaal, I go to Pheeladelpheea with my feesh right avay. Eef you----”
“I’ll give you two guineas to take me there, and two guineas more to
keep silent, and let no one know where I came from,” nervously added
Barclugh.
“Aal right, I say nothing. I geeve you goot passage.”
Barclugh then handed him four guineas. The Swede smiled and went into
the house, where he gave the gold to his wife, and got his bag of clean
clothes.
There were no delays in the Swede’s movements. He jumped on board the
sloop with the other Swede and left the lad to stay with the family.
The sloop was well loaded amidships. An assorted cargo of crabs,
lobsters, bluefish, flounder, and mackerel were all packed in ice,
and covered over with moss. Hatches were fastened athwart-ship and
bulkheads protected the cuddy and the cockpit from the cargo of sea
food.
The cuddy was forward of the mast, and a square hatchway let the crew
below to the bunks, which were on each side of the keel between the
stem and the bulkhead.
The cockpit had seats all around it in the shape of a half-circle. A
barrel of fresh water rested on the keel under the seat next to the
after bulkhead; little drawers were arranged under the seats where
dishes and food were stored; a small charcoal stove was used to furnish
heat in cold weather and to cook the meals.
Barclugh was taken aboard and informed that he could bunk in the
cuddy until morning. Then the fishermen hoisted sail and cast off the
moorings. He gladly accepted the offer, for he had been well fed by the
Swede’s wife, and what he most needed was rest.
A long bag full of marsh grass was in the bunk to lie upon, and a
dunnage bag made his pillow. The cuddy was as neat and clean as one
could expect aboard a fisherman’s craft. When the water went swishing
by on the sloop’s planking, Barclugh fell into a sound sleep.
The two Swedes were brothers. One was married, and the other was his
partner in the fishing trade. The lad was a nephew that had come from
Sweden to live with his uncles. They plied their occupation between
Little Egg Harbor inlet and Philadelphia, and sold their catch to Sven
Svenson. In the summer season they took out enough ice each trip to
keep their fish until their return, and when Barclugh boarded their
sloop they were in a hurry to get to Philadelphia in the shortest time
possible.
The wind was light when the sun went down, but with the rising of the
moon the wind freshened and carried them down the coast at eight knots
an hour.
Nothing disturbed the serenity of the trip. When everything was sailing
smoothly, the older one crawled into the cuddy and occupied the bunk
opposite Barclugh. He slept soundly until after midnight, when he
relieved his brother and let him turn in.
At sunrise Barclugh arose and after freshening up with a good wash,
he looked around to see where they were. He saw the sloop heading
northwest, and a low-lying point of land astern.
“Where are we now?” he asked, as he took a good long breath of fresh
air.
“Wee aare finfe hoors sail fram Pheeladalpheea, Meester,” was the reply
of the Swede at the tiller.
The younger one was busy at the cooking of the morning meal. Barclugh
discouraged talk and the Swedes knew what they had been given the
guineas for.
The British spy took a seat forward and began to swell with exultation
when he pondered over his journey to New York, his interview with
General Clinton, and his participation in the capture of the Holker.
Now he was speeding to the conclusion of his journey,--the sloop
skimmed over the rolling waves of the Atlantic, as his enthusiasm grew
apace, and he thought of the subjugation of West Point by intrigue.
When the sloop reached the fishmonger’s landing in Philadelphia and
Barclugh stepped ashore, he walked unnoticed to his lodgings and
inwardly exclaimed:
“Victory! Victory!”