THE COUNTRY TAVERN
The night drav’ on wi’ songs and clatter,
But aye the ale was growing better. —Burns.
We must now go back a few hours in our story, and introduce the reader
to a different scene and personages.
The southern half of New Jersey is almost a dead level, covered with
pine and oak forests, growing on a sandy soil. A slightly elevated
ridge, however, runs in a southwesterly direction between Delaware Bay
and the Atlantic, though much nearer the former than the latter, and
divides the waters that flow westward from those that run toward the
east.
One of the most considerable of the rivers, descending from this
water-shed toward the Atlantic, empties into a wide, deep bay, almost
shut in from the ocean by low beaches in its front. Notoriously the best
anchoring ground between Sandy Hook and Cape May, it is a place of
constant resort for coasters. At the time of which we write, it was, for
similar reasons, a rendezvous for American privateers; and, in fact,
their prizes usually discharged their cargoes on the neck of land where
the river first swelled into the bay. Others, ascending higher up the
stream, unloaded at the head of navigation, from which point the goods
were carried across the country to Philadelphia by teams, the blockade
of the Delaware, by the British fleet, preventing access often in a more
direct way. It was not uncommon to find a dozen or two armed vessels
lying in this river, waiting for a chance to sail.
Five and seventy years ago, when our story commences, this bay was even
more shut out from the Atlantic than it is at present; for while now
there is an inlet directly in its front, at that period the entrance was
further to the south. Where, at present, vessels of considerable draught
pass under full sail, was then a beach, elevated some distance above the
water.
On an arm of this bay, or to speak more accurately, on an inconsiderable
stream jutting into an arm of the bay, there stood, at the time of which
we write, a small settlement, which, though its first beginnings dated
back scarcely more than ten or fifteen years, already gave promise of
becoming a thriving place. In the rude tavern of this incipient village,
on the evening preceding the events detailed in the last chapter, quite
a number of persons were gathered.
Most of the company appeared to belong to the various privateers then
lying in the bay, and were merely boisterous tars; but there was one
individual, whose bearing, not less than his dress, bespoke him of a
higher rank. He was a man apparently about eight-and-twenty years of
age, handsome in person, and with a face which, though by no means
homely, was principally remarkable for the indications it gave of
frankness, decision, a good heart, and a superior intellect. It was
impossible, indeed, to look on that countenance, without feeling that,
while its possessor was born to rule in public affairs, his destiny was
to be equally fortunate in winning esteem and affection in private life.
He wore the buff and blue of the American army. Sitting in one corner,
where he was busily engaged in writing, he seemed to be entirely
unconscious of what was going on around him, except when he occasionally
intermitted the busy motion of his pen, and leaning his head on one
hand, gazed with an abstracted smile on the sports of the crowd.
For, night having closed in, and the seamen being ashore on leave till
morning, a black fiddler had been procured, and a dance begun. It is
true there were none of the fairer sex present to participate in the
amusement, but this, so far from checking the merriment, only gave it
more freedom and boisterousness. Several countrymen, from small farms in
the interior, who had come down with produce in the afternoon, and whom
the exhilarating sounds of the violin had tempted to linger behind, when
their sturdy dames were expecting them at home, joined heartily in the
fun. Utterly heedless of the black looks awaiting them, when, repentant
on the morrow, they should slink into the chimney corner, they laughed,
and joked, and danced, and drank whiskey with Jack Tar, as if there had
been, and never would be, a “gudewife” angry at neglect, and
“nursing her wrath to keep it warm.”
As the hours wore on, and the wind outside began to rise, the mirth
waxed louder and more contagious. Perhaps the landlord’s old whiskey
contributed its mite also; but be this as it may, long before midnight
the uproar was terrible. The floor shook under the feet of the
performers; the rafters of the ceiling trembled with the shouts and
laughter: and the shrill notes of the Cremona rose over all. The few
tallow candles, which, from tin sconces, threw at best but a faint
yellow radiance around, were almost obscured by the dust that rose from
the floor and the smoke that ascended from innumerable pipes. The
landlord, with a boy for an assistant, stood within the quadrant shaped
bar, that occupied one corner of the apartment, looking out, from
between the upright rails, with a well-pleased smile, for he knew that
the louder the merriment, the greater would be his profits. Indeed, he
had little leisure even to look, so frequent were the calls from his
thirsty customers.
It may seem strange that the officer should select this apartment for
the purpose of writing, or that he could abstract himself sufficiently
to write at all in such a din. But, in truth, the inn afforded no place
whither he might retreat. In the primitive fashion of that age and
district, it had but one huge room, unless the loft overhead, where the
guests slept in rows, could be dignified by that name. It was a matter
of necessity for him, therefore, to turn this apartment, which
alternately served for ball-room, bar-room, dining-saloon and town-hall,
into a library. Fortunately, circumstances had early taught him that
valuable discipline of mind, which enables the possessor to concentrate
his thoughts on the subject before him, regardless of the confusion and
noise around.
Toward midnight rain began to fall. Occasionally, in pauses of the
merriment, the storm would be heard beating wildly against the window
panes, while now and then, when the door was temporarily opened, the
wind would dash the cold drops into the faces of those near the
entrance. The trees, which overshadowed the house, moaned in the gale.
Down the village street the tempest went howling wildly, till in the
distance it sank to a low wail. The water in the neighboring bay, driven
fiercely against the meadows, roared with an ever-increasing sound, as
if threatening to inundate the low tongue of land whereon the hamlet was
built.
But little cared the crowd of guests for the storm. A spirited contest
was going on between two dancers, who, after having often been engaged
in temporary trials of skill during the evening, had now apparently
entered on a decisive struggle. One was a short, square-built sailor, in
a pair of canvass trowsers thickly besprinkled with tar. He wore a
tarpaulin on his head, and sported, in the fashion of the day, an
immense queue behind, which, as he danced, worked up and down on his
back like an iron pump-handle. His antagonist was a tall, lank
countryman, with a body disproportionately small, legs that looked like
a pair of stilts, and arms that, swinging in tune to his double-shuffle,
resembled those of a windmill revolving without their sails. His yellow
hair hung down lank all around his face. He had thrown off his coat, and
now stood in his original shirtsleeves, with a deep waistcoat that
reached almost to his knees. A pair of pinch-beck seals, attached to an
enormous watch that was his especial pride, being almost the only one in
his neighborhood, bobbed heavily up and down against his baggy breeches;
while a few copper farthings jingled ostentatiously in his pockets, as
he went vigorously through the figures of that time-honored dance, which
is known to the initiated as a “Jersey Four.”
“Keep it up, Jack,” shouted the friends of the tar, and “Go it,
Lively!” answered the backers of the other party; while the spectators
laughed, clapped their hands, and kept time to the music; the fiddler
nodded his head in sympathy with the motion; and the two rivals did
their best to satisfy their patrons and win the laurels they coveted.
The sailor danced away as stoutly as if worked by machinery, his feet,
hands, limbs and portly paunch moving neither faster nor slower: it
seemed for a while, as if he could continue to dance in the same
impassive way forever, if necessary. The countryman, however, was less
phlegmatic. Occasionally, the vigor of his saltatory action would fall
perceptibly off, but becoming aware of this by some observation from the
crowd, or through his own consciousness, he would suddenly give himself
a jerk, as if his whole body had been moved, all at once, by pulling a
string; and then away he would go, in and out, around and back, dancing
to his partner as if life and death depended on his agility, his arms
swinging, his legs going, and the perspiration rolling from his face.
“Jack’s got enough; he’s giving out,” cried one of the landsmen,
triumphantly calling attention to the tar, after the countryman had,
with another jerk, started off apparently as fresh as ever. “He’s
blowing like a porpoise. Hoe it down right smart, Jim, and you have him.
Hurrah for _Jarsey_!”
It was plain that the pursy seaman was beginning to be exhausted at
last. He still danced away as imperturbably as ever; but there was a
perceptible anxiety in his countenance; and at last, after fresh
attempts, on the part of his comrades, to encourage him, had failed, he
gave in, completely exhausted.
“You’re too much for me, shipmate,” he said, panting,
good-humoredly addressing the victor. “I’ve seen the day, though,”
he added, turning to the crowd, “when I could dance anybody down, but
Portsmouth Peggy. But this chap, I own up, is my match. Give us your
hand, my hearty, I bear no ill will.”
The countryman, on seeing his antagonist retire, had uttered a shrill
cry of exultation, and cut a pigeon-wing, which latter he had just
concluded, as the seaman tendered his hand. He clutched this between his
horny palms, returning the good-fellowship with hearty accord.
“Let’s liquor,” he said, magnanimously, throwing his arms around
his late adversary, and pulling him, nothing loath, towards the bar.
“It’s my treat. Bring up your shipmates. I’m as dry as if my mouth
was gunpowder. Hillo, Major,” he said, turning to the officer,
“won’t yon drink? You’d rather not! No offence, I hope; for I
meant none. Here’s to ‘Old Jarsey: small but spunky.’”
The toast was drank with all the honors, and then nothing would satisfy
the exhilarated victor, but that the fiddler should also partake of a
libation. Accordingly the sable performer was summoned to “stop that
infernal caterwauling,” as his tuning up was elegantly termed by the
speaker, and “walk up like a gentleman, to drink with the landlord and
him.”
For a moment, after these words were spoken, and while the negro was
grinning as the landlord handed out his glass, there was one of those
moments of temporary silence which will happen even at the noisiest
entertainments. Simultaneously there came a lull in the driving rain and
howling wind without.
Suddenly, in this unexpected hush, there was heard what seemed a gun
fired out at sea. The officer had just ceased writing, and was putting
away his implements, when his attention was attracted by the sound. Few,
if any others, heard it; and the merriment was beginning again, when he
raised his hand and cried, in an authoritative voice, “Hark!”
His gesture, tone, and look, silenced every voice immediately. On the
instant the sound was repeated. It was a low, sullen, stifled roar,
apparently miles away.
“It’s a ship in distress,” said one of the group, whose dress
bespoke him a waterman native to the region. “Hark: there it is
again!”
“You must be mistaken, Mullen,” interposed the landlord, who saw
that the words threw a damp over the company. “You couldn’t hear a
gun so far off.”
“What else can it be, I’d like to know?” answered the man who had
been called Mullen. “It’s a cannon, isn’t it, Major Gordon?”
“It’s a gun, certainly, and must be fired out at sea—a signal of
distress. Recollect, the wind is favorable for bringing the sound this
way. Listen, there it is again!”
There could be no mistaking it. As if to gratify the anxiety of the now
excited group, the tempest had lulled almost entirely for the time, and
the deep boom of a cannon, fired at intervals of about a minute, was
heard distinctly. A sudden solemnity fell upon the listeners. The
fiddler mechanically began replacing his instrument in its green bag;
the landlord looked ruefully towards his assistant, as much as to say
that he might close the bar, for there would be no more drinking that
night; while the sailors, and indeed most of the company, crowded to the
door, where they stood eagerly waiting for the reports, in spite of the
rain that dripped from the roof just overhead, or drove occasionally
into their faces when a gust of wind swept by.
“We must do something for them,” said Major Gordon, breaking the
silence.
“It’s impossible to do anything to-night,” answered Mullen. “But
I’ll go off with you at dawn, as far as the beach, anyhow. I’ve a
good boat, and we can easily get volunteers. You’ll go, Newell, and
you, Muncy,” he said, turning to various young men, all acquaintances,
whom he saw standing around, “and you, and you, and you.”
“We’ll follow the Major, and yon,” said the one he had called
Newell, “wherever you may lead.” “Thanks, my lads,” answered the
officer, “and now to rest, so that we may be all the fresher in the
morning, when God grant that we may not be too late.”
The suggestion was followed. In a few minutes, those who had been so
fortunate as to obtain beds, had retired to the loft above; while the
remainder stretched themselves indiscriminately on the floor, and were
soon buried in profound repose.
By this time the tempest had increased again, so that the signal guns
could not be distinguished. But Major Gordon, who had never heard
similar sounds before, was long haunted in his sleep by the report of
cannon booming solemnly across the night.