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THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLACK
FISHERMAN.
________
Every body knows Black Sam, the old negro fisherman, or, as he is commonly called, Mud Sam, who has fished about the Sound for
the last half century. It is now many, many years since Sam, who was then as active a young negro as any in the province, and worked
on the farm of Killian Suydam, on Long Island, having finished his day's work at an early hour, was fishing, one still summer evening, just
about the neighbourhood of Hell-gate.
He was in a light skiff, and being well acquainted with the currents and eddies, he had shifted his station, according to the shifting of the
tide, from the Hen and Chickens to the
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Hog's Back, from the Hog's Back to the Pot, and from the Pot to the Frying-pan; but in the eagerness of his sport he did not see that the
tide was rapidly ebbing, until the roaring of the whirlpools and eddies 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 brindling 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 in the rock, 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
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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 it came from a lantern 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 lantern, 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
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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 o£ 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 a ridge that overlooked their path. They had stopped to
rest for a moment; and the leader was looking about among the bushes with his lantern. "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
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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 lantern was held up in the direction of the noise. One of the red-caps cocked a pistol, and pointed it towards the very place where
Sam was standing. He stood motionless -- breathless -- expecting the next moment to be his last. Fortunately, his dingy complexion
was in his favour, and made no glare among the leaves.
"'Tis no one," said the man with the lantern. "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 along 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
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back to his boat, and making his escape out of the reach of such dangerous neighbours; but curiosity was all powerful. He hesitated,
and lingered, and listened. By and by he heard the strokes of spades. "They are digging the grave!" said he to himself, and 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 terrible 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 resist an impulse, in spite of every
danger, to steal nearer to the scene of mystery, and overlook the midnight fellows 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; for he saw the light of their lantern shining up against the
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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 above 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.
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"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, fortunately, he espied the strong cord-like branch of a grapevine 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.
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"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 neighbourhood. 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 Prauw paused to take breath, and to take a sip of the gossip tankard that stood at his elbow. His auditors
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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 Red-caps?" said Wolfert, eagerly, whose mind was haunted by nothing but ingots
and doubloons.
"Not that I know of," said Peechy; "he had no tune 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 so different
by daylight. And then, where was the use of looking for a dead body, when there was no chance of hanging the murderers?"
"Ay, but are you sure it was a dead body they buried?" said Wolfert.
"To be sure," cried Peechy Prauw, exultingly.
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"Does it not haunt in the neighbourhood to this very day?"
"Haunts!" exclaimed several of the party, opening their eyes still wider, and edging their chairs still closer.
"Ay, haunts," repeated Peechy: "have 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 farm-house stands hard by the very spot. It's been unoccupied time out of mind, and
stands in a lonely part of the coast; but those who fish in the neighbourhood 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
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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 fudge!" 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 that
house and ground; but as to the story of Mud Sam, I believe it just as well as if it had happened to myself."
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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, shaking
the building to its very 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
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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?"
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"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 heard once more, in a tone of impatience. The bystanders
stared with redoubled awe at this man of storms, who seemed to have come up out of the deep, and to be summoned 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 lantern.
"Dowse the light!" roared the hoarse voice from the water -- "no one wants lights here!"
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"Thunder and lightning !" exclaimed the veteran, turning short upon them; "back to the house with you!"
Wolfert and his companions shrunk back in 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
heaving 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, and, sinking into
the waves, 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
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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 void; neither man nor boat were to be seen; nothing but the dashing and weltering
of the waves as they hurried past.
The company returned to the tavern to await the subsiding of the storm. 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 vigour, should already
be a corpse. There was the very glass he had just drank 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 existence, and each
felt as if the ground on which
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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 neighbours, they soon managed to console themselves for the tragic end of the veteran. The landlord was
particularly happy that the poor dear man had paid his reckoning before he went; and made a kind of farewell speech on the occasion.
"He came," said he, "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 he, "if he has gone to Davy Jones' locker, that he had
not left his own locker behind him."
"His locker! St. Nicholas preserve us!" cried Peechy Prauw -- "I'd not have had that sea-chest
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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 in 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 scurry, 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
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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 at an end. The cuckoo clock in the hall told midnight; every one pressed
to depart, for seldom was such a late hour of the night 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 away, and lay piled up in fleecy masses on the horizon,
lighted up by the bright crescent of the moon, which looked like a little 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
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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 even the sexton, who had to complete his journey alone, though accustomed,
one would think, to ghosts and goblins, yet went a long way round, rather than pass by his own churchyard.
Wolfert Webber had now carried home a fresh stock of stories and notions to ruminate upon. These accounts of pots of money and
Spanish treasures, buried here and there and every where about the rocks and bays of these wild shores, made him almost dizzy.
"Blessed St. Nicholas!" ejaculated he, half aloud, "is it not possible to come upon one of these golden hoards, and to make oneself 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 ray life!"
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As he turned over in his thoughts all that had been told of the singular adventure of the negro fisherman, his imagination gave a totally
different complexion to the tale. He saw in the gang of Red-caps 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, and barrels 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 Black Sam's story, though none
of them
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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 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 shovelfull 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, a
ramping and raging of uncouth figures about the hole, and at length a shower of blows dealt by invisible cudgels, that fairly belaboured
him off of 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 recently of a brain fever in the almshouse.
Wolfert Webber was now in a worry of trepidation
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and impatience, fearful lest some rival adventurer should get a scent of the buried gold. He determined privately to seek out the black
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 neighbourhood until they wear themselves a place in the public mind,
and become, in a manner, public characters. There was not an unlucky urchin about 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 had led an amphibious life, 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
Hellgate; 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
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like a shark about some wreck, where the fish are supposed to be most abundant. Sometimes seated on a rock, from hour to hour,
looking, in the 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 tha 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 was Mud Sam himself, indulging in the true negro
luxury of sleeping in the sunshine.
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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
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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 briers 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
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found themselves near the shore of the Sound, in a kind of amphitheatre surrounded by forest trees. The area had once been a grass-plot,
but was now shagged with briers 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 woody places, gave a melancholy tone to the scene, well calculated to
foster any lurking feeling of awe or superstition. The nighthawk, 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 fire-bird * streamed by them with his deep red
plumage. They now came to
__________
* Orchard oreole.
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WOLFERT WEBBER.
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 niatted 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 a bank, facing the water. It had the look of a roothouse. 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 scull rolled on the floor. Wolfert drew back shuddering, but was reassured,
on being informed by the negro 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
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edge, scrambling along ledges of rocks that overhung the waves, and obliged 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 shelved gradually
within the cove, but the current swept, deep and black and rapid along its jutting points.
The negro 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 pointed to a large iron ring, stapled firmly in the rock, just where a broad shelf 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 closely, Wolfert remarked three crosses
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cut in the rock just above the ring; which had no doubt some mysterious signification.
Old Sam now readily recognised 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 these places look so 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 he thought might be the very ridge from whence he had overlooked the
diggers. Wolfert examined it narrowly, and at length discovered 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 over them. His heart leaped with joy, for he doubted not they were the private
marks of the
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buccaneers. All now that remained was to ascertain the precise spot where the treasure lay buried, for otherwise he might dig at random
in the neighbourhood of the crosses, without coming upon the spoils, and he had already had enough of such profitless labour. Here,
however, the old negro 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 any thing farther at present; and indeed Wolfert had come unprovided with implements to prosecute his researches.
Satisfied, therefore, with having ascertained the place, he took note of all its landmarks, that he might
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recognise it again, and set out on his return homewards; 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
from 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 them. 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
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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 it, he looked around. What was the affright of Wolfert, when he recognised the grisly 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 any 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
tugged 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 or dead, of the grisly
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buccaneer. In the mean time 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 shoveling away 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
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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. * To him did the poor women repair for council and assistance touching
the mental vagaries of Wolfert Webber.
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 Boerhaave, 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 reflected 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.
__________
* The same, no doubt, of whom mention is made in the history of Dolph Heyliger.
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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 among 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
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, 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 the rumours of treasure being buried in various parts of the island, and had long been anxious to get in the
traces of it. No sooner were Wolfert's waking and sleeping vagaries confided to him, than he
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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 oppressed in mind by the golden secret, and as a family physician is a kind of father confessor, he was glad of an 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 neighbourhood 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 first 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
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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. *
__________
* The following note was found appended to this passage, in the hand-writing 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 to be readily discredited; but of its potency in discovering veins 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 saith the reverend father
Gaspard Sebett in his treatise on magic: "Propter haec et similia argumenta audacter ego promisero vim conversivam virgulae bifurcatae
nequaquam naturalem esse, sed vel casu vel fraude virgulam tractantis vel ope diaboli, &c." Georgius Agricola 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
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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 woman of the household lauded the comforting effect of his visits. In the
mean time, 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 the black fisherman was engaged to take him in his skiff to the scene of enterprise; to work with
spade and pickaxe in unearthing the treasure; and to freight
__________
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 ah infallible means of discovering the various places
on the island of the Manhattoes, where treasure hath been buried in the olden time. D. K.
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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 revived with tenfold force; they hung about him, entreating him not to expose himself to the night air, but all in
vain. When once Wolfert was 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 flapped 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 fed cloak about his shoulders, and fastened it
round his neck.
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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 surcoat; 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 churchyard, 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, nightwalking 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 lime, that he saw a tall figure sculking after
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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 old 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 lantern, and a stone bottle 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 valour equalled
only by the three wise men of Gotham, who adventured 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
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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 Corlear's 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 sound of distant oars, as if cautiously pulled. Sam plied his oars with redoubled vigour, and
knowing all
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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 the negro 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 lantern, gathered their various implements, and proceeded slowly through the bushes. Every sound
startled them, even that of their own footsteps among the dry leaves; and the hooting of a screech-owl from the shattered chimney of the
neighbouring 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
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lantern, Wolfert recognised the three mystic crosses. Their hearts beat quick, for the momentous trial was at hand that was to determine
their hopes.
The lantern 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 lantern
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 hands trembling with the agitation of his mind. The wand continued to turn gradually, 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.
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"This is the spot!" said the doctor, in an almost inaudible tone.
Wolfert's heart was in his throat.
"Shalll dig?" said the negro, grasping the spade.
"Potstansends, 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 kept about buried
treasure, from doing them any harm.
He 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 odour, savouring
marvellously of brimstone and asafoetida, 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. Dr. Knipperhausen
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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 lantern, 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 by them in silence; a bird, roused from its roost 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
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shore, and the distant murmuring and roaring of Hell-gate.
The negro continued his labours, and had already digged a considerable hole. The doctor stood on the edge, reading formulae, every
now and then, from his 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 lighted up by fire, lantern, and the reflection of Wolfert's red
mantle, might have mistaken the little doctor for some foul magician, busied in his incantations, and the grizzly-headed negro for some
swart goblin, obedient to his commands.
At length the spade of the old 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.
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Scarcely had he uttered the words, when a sound from above 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 lantern. 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
lantern extinguished. In their hurry-scurry, 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, the negro another, and Wolfert made for the waterside. As he plunged, struggling onwards through bush
and brake, he heard the tread of some one in pursuit.
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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 second, 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
recognise the voice of the buccaneer. He would fain have fled, but he was on the brink of a precipice, and could go no further. 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 him, and the
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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, or 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 choked by the string with which his
careful wife had fastened the garment round his neck. Wolfert thought his last moment was 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
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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 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 towards 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 Black Sam severally found their way back to the Manhattoes, each having some
dreadful tale of peril to relate. As to poor Wolfert,
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instead of returning in triumph, laden with bags of gold, he was borne home on a shutter, followed by a rabble rout of curious urchins.
His wife and daughter saw the dismal pageant from a distance, and alarmed the neighbourhood 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 speedily
to bed, and a jury of old matrons of the neighbourhood 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 them for their trouble. Some say they found
the fragments of an oaken chest, and an iron potlid, which savoured strongly of hidden money, and that in the old family vault there were
traces of bales 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
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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
neighbourhood 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 are many conjectures formed, also, as to who and what
was the strange man of the seas who had domineered over the little fraternity at Corlear's Hook for a time, disappeared so strangely, and
re-appeared 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 one of the ancient comrades,
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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 on this mysterious matter is a report which prevailed of a strange foreign-built shallop, with much 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 harbour, 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 day-break with a lantern 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
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talk and rumour, 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 bed-side, 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 desertion of friends in distress, they had no complaint of the kind to make not an old wife of the
neighbourhood 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
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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 re-animate 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 now 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
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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 poor daughter --"
"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.
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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 which 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 night-cap 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
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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 worsted red night-cap, 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 huge meadow, come to be laid out in streets, and cut up into
snug building lots -- why, whoever owns it need not pull off his hat to the patroon!"
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"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 every body, 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 righthand 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 many 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
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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 unlookedfor 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 knocking 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
OR GOLDEN DREAMS
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Dutch house in a garden, it now stood boldly in the midst of a street, the grand house of the neighbourhood, for Wolfert enlarged it with
a wing on each side, and a cupola or tearoom 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-coloured 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 his crest a full-blown cabbage
painted on the pannels, with the pithy motto alles kopf, that is to say, All Head, meaning thereby, that he had risen by their head-work.
To fill the measure of his greatness, in the fulness of time the renowned Ramm Rapelye slept with his fathers, and Wolfert Webber
succeeded to the leather-bottomed arm-chair, in
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the inn parlour at Corlear's Hook, where he long reigned, greatly honoured 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.
THE END.
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