nightly adventures. Up and down the beaches they rode, armed with large
lanterns which they placed at strategically dangerous points along the
shores. These decoy lanterns led ships astray on treacherous sandbars
and shoals. This completed, they plundered them of everything, leaving
the ships stripped and gutted.
A group of the mooncussers would divide, two of them tramping the
beach in one direction, two in the other, a shingle held up to protect
their eyes from the flying sand, and straining to pierce the darkness
for a light from a ship in distress or for a glimpse of a hull on the
bars off shore. Perhaps the first sign would be a spar flung up by the
wild surf, the tattered remnants of a sail, or the still and battered
form of a dead sailor. It is easy to see the origin of the word
“mooncusser,” for moonlight nights held no profit for these men, and
the beauty of moonlight on still ocean was cursed and not admired.
The nights of the mooncussers were the nights of howling winds,
thundering surf, and a wild and turbulent sea, for those were the
nights when the work of the mooncussers were the most profitable. It
was a wild setting for a wild play.
But the advent of the huge lighthouses, put up after much opposition,
especially from the men of Eastham, put an end to mooncussing, for the
great white eye of the light beacon could pierce the darkness of a
night even brighter than the hated full moon.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
... How the Fogs Came
to the Cape
For many, many moons, the great tribe of the Mattacheesits had lived in
peace in their lodges near the clear blue waters of Cummaquid. It was
a noble tribe, renowned for its beautiful young maidens, its fearless
braves, and especially for its Great War Sachem, the Giant Manshope.
But the heartbreaking mourning of the death dirge had many times wailed
through the camp, for the Mattacheesits had a foe far more terrible
than any fierce enemy tribe.
Twice each year since the beginning of Time--once in the Moon of
Bright Nights, and again in the Moon of Falling Leaves--the Great Devil
Bird from over the Southern Sea spread wide his smothering wings and
swept down on the tribe, capturing in his terrible talons the little
papooses, and even some of the youngest braves who had just learned
the art of the tomahawk. With a laughing shriek, he bore them away to
his secret lair in the Region of the South Wind, where no man had ever
ventured. They were never seen again.
On the eve of a triumphant victory over the Nausets, Great War Sachem
Manshope returned, leading his braves in the ritual chant-dance of
victory. But the battlecry was mingled with the wail of the death
dirge, floating up towards the braves from the camp, and echoing
sorrowfully through the stillness of the summer evening. The Giant
Manshope found his faithful squaw with face gashed and breast torn, the
ashes heaped on her head mingling with tears of anguish, for the Great
Devil Bird had carried away her first-born, a strong young brave of
just sixteen summers. The Devil Bird had carried him off to the Unknown
Place before the sun had dropped from the edge of the world.
A fierce cry, filled with all the venom and hate and sorrow of many
moons and many deaths, tore from the throat of Manshope. His people
trembled with fear and pride as they watched him stand there, his face
aglow with the call of battle, his eyes savage with hate and revenge,
for they knew that their great leader would leave for the Unknown
Place, stalking the Great Devil Bird.
His huge war tomahawk in his hand, Manshope strode away without a word
from the camp, the wails of the sorrowing squaws and the war shrieks
of the braves echoing in his ears. The war drums beat their relentless
rhythm of death for the Devil Bird. With giant strides that took him
across the breadth of the Cape, Manshope plunged thigh deep through the
deepest streams, pushed trees aside in forests he had no time to skirt,
and came at length to the low treacherous swamplands that lay at the
edge of the Southern Sea, the last barrier to the Unknown Place. In the
misty half-light, Manshope saw, far in the distance, the Great Devil
Bird, its human prey in its talons, winging its way swiftly towards its
lair.
Many wondered, but none knew what lay in the Unknown Place across the
Southern Sea, for no man had dared cross the churning waters to that
island lair of the Devil Bird. But the Sachem’s eyes saw the turbulent
waters not as danger, but as a bloody challenge. The Giant Manshope
called out to the Great Spirit to give him the strength and cunning to
follow the Devil Bird to its hiding place and slay him there. Then he
strode boldly forth into the deep, treacherous waters.
Guided only by the stars, he came at length to the strange and feared
Unknown Place, now Martha’s Vineyard. From the western end of the
island, he saw majestically sheer cliffs which rose straight from the
sea. At the narrowest end of the land, he saw something which made his
heart sink, and his blood run cold in his veins, for there was a giant
oak, its twisted exposed roots strewn with the white bleached bones of
Indian children captured by the Devil Bird for countless years.
The Giant Manshope crept noiselessly towards the death tree. Under the
enveloping shadows of its great branches he looked up, and saw the dim
silhouette of the Devil Bird sleeping in the uppermost branches. Its
head was beneath its wing, its beak dripped blood, and its belly was
distended with gluttonous human feasting.
Manshope glanced at the stone tomahawk in his hand, and saw it gleam
in the half-light. He fastened it to his belt, and then swung himself
soundlessly up through the branches towards the sleeping Devil Bird. At
last he reached his goal at the top of the Death Tree, so close to the
Bird that the night breeze ruffled its feathers across Manshope’s cheek.
There he paused, gazing down at the Bird, hate in his eyes, his heart
beating wildly with the excitement of near victory and revenge. He
raised his weapon high over his head and brought it down with a
crushing thud on the neck of the Devil Bird. The Great Evil One fell to
earth, never to rise again.
Panting with excitement and triumph, Manshope waited until he was sure
the Devil Bird was dead before he left the hated Death Tree and its
sorrowful remains. But his triumph had a bitter taste, and his heart
was heavy, for although he had vanquished the Great Evil One, his soul
cried out in anguish for his beloved son.
Lost in sorrowful meditation, Manshope rested for a while at the
northern end of the island before returning to his camp on the
mainland. He drew forth his pipe, but the tobacco was dampened by the
waters through which he had plunged, and would not burn, so he gathered
some poke weed, and, loading his pipe, sat quietly smoking. As he
smoked, the rings and swirls from his pipe billowed and rose through
the early morning air. It floated across the Southern Sea, over the
Cape moors and the lodges of the Indian camp, where his sorrowing squaw
awaited his return.
Great was the rejoicing in the Indian lodges when Manshope’s people saw
this smoke, for they knew that their Great Sachem would never linger to
smoke his pipe while an enemy he was stalking was still alive.
The Great Devil Bird no longer ravaged and killed, and the Indians
lived without fear once more. And when the sweet summer air drifted in
from the woods, the mist lay low on the swamplands, and the fog bank
from the sound curled in over the mainland just as the smoke from Giant
Manshope’s pipe did on that morning--Indian mothers drew their children
closer to the fire, and while the enveloping mists and fogs crept
slowly in, they told them the legend of the Great Devil Bird, saying,
“Here comes Old Manshope’s Smoke.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
... The Peddler’s Coffin
The winter nights are long on Cape Cod. When the lonely winds howled
’round the house, and the naked branches tap-tapped against the
windowpane, friends and neighbors gathered in the big, warm kitchen of
the old Nickerson farmhouse down Rock Harbor Road in Orleans for an
evening of story telling and popcorn or apple roasting.
Jonathan Snow, twelve years old, full of imagination and very
impressionable, loved these story evenings. Jonathan would curl up in
his favorite niche between the fireplace and the window, and there,
munching on apples, would listen pop-eyed to the spooky stories. Here
he was close enough to the bright, friendly fireplace to feel secure,
but also close enough to the dark eye of the window and the wild, windy
night to feel a delicious tingle of fear run up and down his spine.
One bleak and howling February night, when the stories had been
especially hair-raising, a lull in the conversation and a few yawns
proclaimed that it was time for all to depart for their respective
homes. Jonathan knew he should leave, but he felt chained to the
fireside. He couldn’t stay, was too proud to voice his fears, and yet
shuddered at the thought of leaving this warm kitchen for the dark
and lonely walk home. But boy’s pride won. Jonathan buttoned up his
greatcoat, pulled his wool cap down over his ears, and bidding the
Nickersons a brave but reluctant good night, set off for home.
It was not far from the Nickerson to the Snow home, but the night was
a wild one; a night of wind and floating mist, when familiar daylight
objects assumed fantastic shapes, and the road was filled with shadowy
forms. Jonathan held himself in admirable check for about 100 yards. He
strolled along whistling casually, but when he glanced back and could
see no more the winking lights of the Nickerson house, he was casual no
longer, and tore at breakneck speed down the road.
Rounding the turn that meant the halfway mark to home, in the place
where the road was flanked on one side by a high stone wall and on the
other by a creek which ran parallel to it, Jonathan stood stock still,
blood turning to slow ice in his veins. For there, not four yards
before him, gleaming in a flickering pool of moonlight that filtered
through the scudding clouds, was a coffin.
Three thoughts scampered through the terrified Jonathan’s mind. He
could jump the stone wall, splash through the creek, or leap over
the coffin and make a dash for home and safety. And jump he did.
Now a twelve-year-old Cape Cod boy can jump like a grasshopper, but
Jonathan did not jump high enough. Just as he thought he had cleared
the coffin, and indeed, his feet were running before they touched the
ground, his ankle was clutched by a bony hand, and he was pulled right
into the terrible coffin!
Reflex action and young strength bounded together simultaneously. Using
all his energy, Jonathan pushed out with his hands and heels and leaped
from the coffin like fat from a hot skillet. Scared near out of his
wits, Jonathan broke an all-time speed record to home. There he babbled
out his story to puzzled parents, who, as hardy Cape Codders, scoffed
at the idea of a coffin, but decided to go and investigate anyway. So
Jonathan, armed with mother and father, returned to the fateful spot,
only to find that the “coffin” was a two-bushel market basket which had
rolled from a peddler’s cart, and which, in the dark night, Jonathan’s
aroused imagination had turned into an occupied coffin. The resident of
the coffin, which Jonathan believed had clutched his ankle, was only
the high basket handle which he did not clear in his leap for life.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
... The Whale that Went to
New York
It all started when a seventy-ton whale washed ashore at Wellfleet.
Now, seventy tons of whale is no easy thing to deal with, and the costs
of towing the whale back out to sea were more than the town fathers
felt the thin town treasury purse could afford. Many suggestions were
offered, but two enterprising old sea captains hit on a plan to raise
enough money for the project with perhaps money left over to add to the
town funds.
Why not charge admission to see the whale? This seemed like an
excellent scheme but the Board of Health had something to say about
having a dead whale on the docks that squelched the plan before it got
into motion. But the old seamen, undaunted, still thought it was a good
plan.
Yankee ingenuity reached an all-time high when the captains decided to
find out for themselves just how many people would pay fifty cents for
the dubious privilege of seeing a seventy-ton dead whale. They decided
to tow the monster to New York, paying all towing charges, which were
by no means slight, themselves. Their fellow townsmen scoffed at
the idea, but the two captains answered that the whole project would
undoubtedly reap a goodly financial harvest, and that the town could
whistle for a part of the expected profits. But, sad to relate, the
get-rich-quick scheme back-fired, for the two down-Capers found that
the New York Board of Health was no more eager to have a month’s
dead whale reposing in smelly grandeur on their docks than were the
Wellfleet officials. And so the two captains, poorer but wiser, and by
this time sick and tired of the whole business, dug deep into their
pockets once more and made suitable arrangements for the disposal of
the whale. When they returned home and were met with a cross-fire of
questions, they had not a thing to say.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
... The Snake Biting Indian
Tall, straight, and dark browed, Joseph Naughaught was a familiar
figure as he made his way throughout the Cape, Bible tucked under his
arm. Wherever his wandering feet brought him, he stopped to preach for
Christianity, for he was a converted Indian. Pious, rum-hating Joseph
was a self-made man both educationally and religiously, and was well
known as a religiously, and at times, fanatically, sincere man--so well
known for this, in fact, that he soon came to be called “The Deacon.”
When “The Deacon” was not evangelicaling, converting, or leading future
converts in prayer, he could be found, in all seasons, strolling
leisurely through the woods and along the beaches.
One bright Fall day, when the Deacon was walking through the Truro
Hills, he came to his favorite place of meditation, a rocky, cave-like
shelter which was close to the ocean bluffs. There he sat for some
time, quietly smoking and thinking, when his thoughts were arrested by
a strange and ominous hissing.
The Deacon was trapped, for there directly before the mouth of the
cave, was a huge circle of deadly black snakes. The Deacon was unarmed,
and the snakes he knew, would close in on him faster than light at his
slightest movement. He sat frozen with horror.
The minutes dragged by. The Deacon never took his eyes off the snakes,
and they in turn were like frozen black ribbons, heads slightly raised,
as they stared at him with eyes he could not see. The small gusts of
occasional sea breeze were cold against the Deacon’s skin, for he was
drenched with the sweat of fear.
The snakes crawled slowly towards him, with one of the black lines a
little ahead of the others. When the reptiles reached his feet, they
stopped once more. He could hear their soft hissing, and feel the
weight of the lead snake across his foot. They moved again, like a
soft, clinging wave, slithering and undulating towards him. Sluggishly
and relentlessly they moved up his immobile form, until they had twined
their dank bodies all around him. They clung to him like tenacious
pieces of damp wool. The Deacon could see their wicked slit eyes,
bright and expressionless, but deadly; he could hear their hissing
breaths, and feel their hungry bodies in a horrid caress. Still he did
not move a hair, a muscle--he seemed not to breathe. The leader snake
was wound around his neck, and was looking, his head raised, right at
the Deacon, darting its flat head in and out at the Indian’s face.
On one of these thrusts, when the snake’s head came within an inch of
his mouth, the Deacon opened wide his great jaws, and at the moment
when the snake thrust its head inquiringly inside, the Deacon clamped
shut his huge teeth, and bit the snake’s head off. This so frightened
the rest of the snakes that they hurtled themselves from the Deacon’s
body and fled. Some of the black reptiles were stunned from their fall,
and the Deacon, master of the field, quickly killed them with a huge
stone. The dead snakes he skinned, and brought their dried hides home
as evidence of the terrible encounter.
[Illustration]
... Johnny Blunt’s Courtship
After the sleigh ride last winter and the slippery tricks served by
Patty Bean, nobody would suspect Johnny Blunt hankering after women
again in a hurry. To hear him rave and take on, and rail out against
the whole feminine gender, you would have taken it for granted that he
would never look at one again, to all eternity.
Johnny did take an oath and swore if he ever meddled, or had any
dealings with women again--in the sparking line, he meant--he might be
hung or choked. But swearing off women, and then going into a meeting
house chock full of gals, all shining and glistening in their Sunday
clothes and clean faces, is like swearing off liquor and going into a
grog shop--it’s all smoke.
Johnny held out pretty well for three whole Sundays but on the fourth
there were strong symptoms of a change. A chap looking very much like
Johnny, was seen on his way to the meeting house, with a new patent
hat on, his head hung by the ears upon a shirt-collar, his cravat had
a pudding in it, and branched out in front into a double-bow-knot. He
carried a straight back, and a stiff neck, as a man ought to when he
has his best clothes on, and every time he spit, he sprung his body
forward like a jack-in-the-box, in order to shoot clear of the ruffles.
Squire Jones’ pew was next but two to Johnny’s and when Johnny stood up
he naturally looked straight at Sally Jones.
Now Sally had a face not to be grinned at in a fog. She was easy to
look at and Johnny succumbed.
Squire Jones had got his evening fire on and set himself to read the
great Bible, when he heard a rap at his door.
“Walk in. Well John, howder do? Git out Pompey!”
“Pretty well, I thank you Squire; and how do you do?”
“Why, so as to be crawling. Ye ugly beast, will ye hold yer yop! Haul
up a chair and sit down, John.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Jones?”
“Oh, middlin’. How’s yer marm?”
“Don’t forget the mat there Mr. Blunt.”
This put Johnny in mind that he had been off soundings several times in
the long muddy lane, and that his boots were in a sweet pickle.
It was now old Captain Jones’ turn, the grandfather. Being roused from
a doze by the bustle and rattle, he opened both his eyes, at first with
wonder and astonishment. At last, he began to halloo so loud that you
could hear him a mile, for he took it for granted that everybody is
just as exactly deaf as he is.
“Who is it, I say? Who in the world is it?”
Mrs. Jones going close to his ear, screamed out, “It’s Johnny Blunt!”
“Ho, Johnny Blunt! I remember he was one summer at the siege of Boston.”
“No, no, father; bless your heart, that was his grandfather, that’s
been dead and gone this twenty years!”
“Ho! But where does he come from?”
“Daown taown.”
“Ho! And what does he foller for a livin’?”
And he did not stop asking questions after this sort, till all the
particulars of the Blunt family were published and proclaimed by Mrs.
Jones’ screech. Then he sunk back into his doze again.
The dog stretched himself before one andiron, the cat squat down before
the other. Silence came on by degrees, like a calm snowstorm, till
nothing was heard but a cricket under the hearth, keeping time with a
sappy yellow birch forestick. Sally sat up prim as if she were pinned
to the chairback, her hands crossed genteelly upon her lap, and her
eyes looking straight into the fire.
For Johnny’s part he sat looking very much like a fool. The more he
tried to say something, the more his tongue stuck fast. He put his
right leg over his left, and said “Hem!” Then he changed, and put the
left over the right. It was no use, the silence kept coming thicker and
thicker. Drops of sweat began to crawl all over him. He got his eye
upon his hat, hanging on a peg by the door, and then he eyed the door.
At this moment, the old Captain all at once sung out:
“Johnny Blunt!”
It sounded like a clap of thunder and Johnny started right up on end.
“Johnny Blunt, you’ll never handle sich a drumstick as your father did,
if you live to the age of Methuselah. He would toss up drumsticks, and
while it was wheelin’ in the air, turn twice around, and then ketch it
as it come down, without losin’ a stroke in the tune. What d’ye think
of that, ha? But scull your chair round close alongside er me, so you
can hear. Now what have you come arter?”
“I arter? Oh, jist takin’ a walk. Pleasant walkin’. I guess I mean,
jist to see how ye all do.”
“Ho, that’s another lie! You’ve come a courtin, Johnny Blunt, and
you’re a’ter our Sal. Say, now, do you want to marry, or only to court?”
This was a choker. Poor Sally made but one jump, and landed in the
middle of the kitchen; and then she skulked in the dark corner, till
the old man, after laughing himself breathless, was put to bed.
Then came apples and cider, and the ice being broke, plenty of chat
with Mammy Jones about the minister and the “sarmon.”
At last, Mrs. Jones lighted t’other candle, and after charging Sally to
look well to the fire, she led the way to bed, and the Squire gathered
up his shoes and stockings and followed.
Sally and Johnny were left sitting a good yard apart. For fear of
getting tongue-tied again, Johnny set right in with a steady stream of
talk. He told her all the particulars about the weather that was past,
and also made some pretty ’cute guesses at what it was like to be in
the future. Johnny gave a gentle hitch to his chair until finally he
planted himself fast by Sally’s side.
“I swow, Sally, you looked so plaguy handsome today, that I wanted to
eat you up!”
“Pshaw! Get along with you,” said she.
Johnny’s hand had crept along, somehow, upon its fingers, and began to
scrape acquaintance with hers. She sent it home with a desperate jerk.
Try it again--no better luck.
“Why, Miss Jones, you’re gettin’ upstroperlous; a little old maidish, I
guess.”
“Hands off is fair play, Mr. Blunt.”
Johnny finally managed not only to get hold of Sally’s hand but managed
to slip his arm around her waist. But not satisfied with this he began
to go poking out his lips for a kiss. But he rued it for Sally fetched
him a slap in the face, that made him see stars, and set his ears to
ringing like a brass kettle, for a quarter of an hour.
“Ah, Sally, give me a kiss, and ha’ done with it, now?”
“I won’t, so there, nor tech to--”
“I’ll take it whether or no.”
“Do it, if you dare!”
How a bus will crack of a still, frosty night! Mrs. Jones was about
halfway between asleep and awake.
“There goes my yeast bottle,” says she to herself, “Burst into twenty
hundred pieces; and my bread is all dough again.”
The upshot of the matter is that Johnny fell in love with Sally Jones,
head over ears. Every Sunday night, rain or shine, finds him rapping
at Squire Jones’ door; and twenty times has he been within a hair’s
breadth of popping the question. But now Johnny has made a final
resolve. If he lives till next Sunday night, and doesn’t get choked in
the trial, Sally Jones will hear thunder.
[Illustration]
... The Trusting Maiden
Margery Smith of Chathamport was thrilled and impressed when John
Atwood, a respected widower, asked her to be his second wife.
Nevertheless, being slightly younger than Widower Atwood, Margery
demurred for quite some time before consenting to be his wife. Before
she finally said yes, the widower carried on an extensive courtship
and it was said that his promise of building a new house for his bride
finally convinced her in his favour.
The trusting maiden waited until the knot had been tied before raising
the question of the promised new house, only to be met with John’s
reply of “Oh, that was jest courtin’ talk, Margy.” But although he
shattered love’s young dream in that respect, he did build a small
addition on to the old house. Margy spent the rest of her life in that
hot ell of a kitchen, and never became mistress of a new house.
[Illustration: “We were conscious only of hunger, heat and thirst.”]
... Shipwrecked
On yellowed, tissue-thin paper, bound in leather, and entitled simply
“Journal,” was found an entry which matches all the adventure stories
of shipwrecked men ever told. Its authenticity can only be judged by
the excerpt which follows:
Herein the reader, if there be any, will find the story of my most
harrowing experience at sea. It is only by the Grace of God Almighty
that I am alive this day to record it thus.