by John Galt
Hartley and Dirk stared for a moment blankly each in the other’s face, but the next they were met by ——, asking them with a volley of fierce imprecations what they intended by waking up his household thus with a false alarm.
“False alarm!” answered Dirk; “why had you seen it, I guess you’d not ha’ thought it so false anyhow, why man, the whole air was alight with it.”
“Pshaw! you’re drunk both on you,” returned the other. “You’ve brought your gammon to the wrong place, my men. Don’t you see all’s dark and quiet here, as honest men’s homes ought to be. What are you arter I’d pleased be to know this time o’night!”
“That’s neither here nor there,” responded Dirk, “we saw a fire here-a-ways and we come neighbor-like to tell you on’t.”
“Well! where’s the fire now, I’d like to be showed, then I’ll think as how you meant honestly, and that’s more too I tell you than all would, leastwise all men as knowed you, Hartley.”
While these words had been passing, the party had been moving rapidly from the out-buildings, all walking fast under considerable excitement of their feelings toward the house, when suddenly Dirk turned about and instantly pointed toward the old homestead replied “There ’tis!”—and sure enough there the self-same appearances were visible! The red flame glaring out from every crack and cranny, the lurid flashes streaming high into the air above the roof tree—the incandescent globes sitting on either gable. “There ’tis!—what d’ye say now?”
“Pshaw! stuff,” replied the other, “is that all?” and entered the house instantly, slamming the door violently after him.
“Is that all?—then he’s used to it,” muttered the other—“come aways, Hartley, come aways now I tell ye!—Blood will out!—Blood will out, man, and here I’m on the track on’t now I tell you!”
Home they returned that night, and laid their plans in secret—the seventh day afterward—during the nights of all that seven, Hartley and Dirk watched undisturbed in the tavern, while the two Allens’ lay in wait around the murderer’s homestead, and every night beheld those wild and ominous flashes—the seventh day afterward a busy crowd were hard at work, masons and carpenters, about the ruined Hawknest. Hammers were clanging, saws were whistling and grating, and above all the merry hum of light, free-hearted labor rose on the morning air. On the tenth day the family returned to take possession, the old sign was hung out, the old bar was replenished with its accustomed bottles, and all things fell again into their ordinary course. Meanwhile night fell again into their ordinary course. Meanwhile night after night, the Allens’ and old Dirk hung round —— buildings, and still the hellish lights were seen glancing and flashing bright and clearly visible for many a mile around, and still no note was taken by —— or any of the household. The autumn passed away—winter came on cold, cheerless, and severe; and the old Hawknest tavern once again re-established with all its pristine comforts, travellers once more turned their steps along the wonted road; old friends too, as prosperity returned, returned with many a greeting—men wondered how they could have doubted or for a moment thought ill of kind, good neighbor Hartley. As these events took place, rumor, and public talk were busy with ——! With the descent of Hartley’s star, to borrow the Astronomer’s jargon, his had risen gloriously—now Hartley was again in the ascendant; and his correspondingly declined! No fear however—no dark anticipation appeared to cloud his days—his nights, despite those fearful sights, were seemingly all fearless. Still the spies lay around him, they listened at his fastened doors, they peeped in through his guarded casements, and ere long murmurs went through the mouths how —— and his wife strove fiercely, how no peace was in that household, how no prosperity had followed those ill-gotten gains.
One night old Dirk, with his two comrades, lay there as was their wont, marking their destined prey, that night more terribly than ever the furious flames arose, and sounds unheard before—the same wild yells and bursts of fiendish laughter which had driven Hartley from his Hawknest, rang round the gleaming buildings! That night more bitterly than ever rose from within the dwelling house the voices of contention and strife. The shrill notes of the terrified and angry wife, pealed piercingly into the ears, while the deep imprecations of the man, answered like muttering thunder. At length the door burst open—lantern in hand —— rushed forth. “By God,” he cried, “this night shall finish it, or finish me!” And it did both!
Straight he rushed to the desolate building, entered it, and again after brief stay rushed forth as if beneath the goad of Orestes’ furies—dashed back into his own dwelling—and within ten minutes’ time, a volume of fierce real flame burst out of every crack and cranny—the shingled walls blazed out, the thatch flared torch-like heavenward—the rafters smouldered and cracked, and leaped out into living flame, and all glowed like a tenfold furnace, and rushed earthward and was dark. The Haunted Homestead was no more upon the earth!
With that night ceased all sights or sounds unearthly, but still suspicion ceased not. Ceased not—nay it waxed ten times wilder, more rife, more stirring than before! Men muttered secretly no longer, but spoke aloud their doubts—almost their certainty. Meantime winter wore onward—Christmas was passed, and February’s snows had covered the whole face of nature. It was a dark and starless night—the wonted party were assembled in the old bar room, when there arrived a stranger, a tall, dark, handsome, military-looking man, on whom scarce had Dirk’s eyes and Hartley’s fallen ere a quick meaning glance was interchanged between them. The likeness struck both on the instant, strange likeness to the murdered traveller.
With his accustomed depth of wild sagacity, the veteran hunter turned, without noticing apparently the stranger, on the occurrences which had so strangely agitated the inmates of that house and valley. Ere long the stranger’s face gave token of anxiety and wonder, and one word led to others, and questions answered brought but fresh questions, until it came out that the man before them had at a period corresponding to that of the commencement of our tale lost his only brother—one whose demeanor and appearance agreed in all particulars with the description given by the woodsmen of the unhappy traveller, who had fallen.
It was resolved on the next morning to probe the mystery to the utmost. An appointment was made instantly for an early hour on the following day, when the two Allens, Dirk, and Hartley, professed their readiness to guide their new friend to the scene of the murder. But as the woodsmen departed one or two noticed that the night had changed—that it was mild and soft, and the snow sloppy under foot, and all predicted confidently that the slight snow would be gone on the morrow.
And so in truth it was, morn came, and the whole earth was bare, and the soft western wind swept with a mild low sigh over the woody hills. Scarce had the morning dawned, ere they were on the ground—and lo! wonders of wonders—on one spot, exactly on the site of the burnt building a little space of snow lay still—there was none else for miles around—precisely in the form of a man’s body.
“He’s there,” cried Dirk exultingly, “he’s there!—when there’s a ground thaw the snow always lies over a buried log or any thing that checks the rising best—he’s there. Get axes, boys, and you’ll see as I tell’s true!”
Axes and crows were brought, the earth was upturned, and there! there! under the very spot whereon the murderers bed had stood the night before he slept so calmly—there lay a human skeleton—a few shreds of green cloth, bordered with narrow cords of gold, a pair of horseman’s pistols, rusted and green with mold. The stranger seized them. “Oh God!” he cried, “my brother’s—oh! my brother’s!”
The tale is told—for it boots not to dwell upon the murderer’s seizure—his agony—his confession and despair. Enough the Hawknest Tavern still invites the weary travellers to enter its portal—and Hartley’s name in this, third generation, is blazoned on the time-worn sign post, while near the Bridge of Blood a heap of shattered ruins are still pointed out, where stood the Haunted Homestead.
THE WITHERED M
AN, by William Leete Stone
(1834)
“It is impossible to sail while the wind tears at this rate—it’s a fearful night, sir,” said an elderly, weather-beaten man, addressing himself to one who appeared to be in the prime of life, and who by his impatience showed that he had been unaccustomed to having his wishes thwarted.
“Try it, Hazard,” he replied, casting an anxious look at the troubled sky, and pacing backward and forward on the beach, alternately gazing on the broad Hudson, tossed by the hurricane which now roared along its surface, and then on his faithful attendant, who by his looks evinced that he thought it a desperate undertaking. “Try it, man,” he repeated, “we may as well drown as—”
“Try a fool’s errand and be drowned for your pains,” exclaimed a rough voice, in a jeering tone, and at the same moment a man, evidently in a state of partial intoxication, emerged from the wood which stretches itself to the very brink of the river.
“You think it unsafe, then,” said the stranger, in a conciliatory tone.
“Think it unsafe!” retorted the man, with a sneer; “I guess I do. But if you have a fancy for a dip in the Hudson tonight, I’m not the man that’s going to say nay to it;” and bursting into a fit of obstreperous laughter, he reeled back to his companions, whose revelry was now heard by the visitants in the distance.
The gusts of wind became more and more frequent, sweeping up through the Horse Race, and howling over the mountains with indescribable fury, while the rain, which had been some time gathering in dark clouds overhead, poured down in torrents. “There is no remedy,” said the stranger to his companion, who waited with considerable anxiety for his orders. “It would be madness to attempt a departure. Pull up the boat into yonder cove, and fasten her where she will be sheltered from the storm, and let us see what kind of a reception we shall meet with from those fellows.” So saying, he turned towards the wood which covered a wild, rocky glen, and soon discovered by the light of a blazing fire the solitary cottage in which these revelers were carousing. As he approached, the din of human voices rung in his ear, until some kind of silence being obtained, one of the parties commenced a bacchanalian song. The location of the hut, and the appearance of the company within, had both a suspicious aspect. And as the stranger had approached unperceived, availing himself of the partial shelter from the tempest afforded by the rock which formed one side of the rural habitation, and against which rested the ends of the un-hewn timbers of which the front was constructed, he stood for a few moments to reconnoiter, and overheard the following song:
“I’ll sing you a song that you’ll wonder to hear,
Of a freebooter lucky and bold,
Of old Captain Kid—of the man without fear—
How himself to the devil he sold.
His ship was a trim one as ever did swim,
His comrades were hearty and brave—
Twelve pistols he carried, that freebooter grim,
And he fearlessly ploughed the wild wave.
He ploughed for rich harvests, for silver and gold,
He gathered them all in the deep;
And he hollowed his granaries far in the mould,
Where they lay for the devil to keep.
Yet never was rover more open of hand
To the woodsmen so merry and free;
For he scattered his coin ’mong the sons of the land,
Whene’er he returned from the sea.
Yet pay-day at last, though unwished and unbid,
Comes alike to the rude and the civil;
And bold Captain Kid, for the things that he did,
Was sent by Jack Ketch to the devil.”
“Avast there!” exclaimed an old weather-beaten man, with curled gray hair, and a thick beard which had not met a razor for weeks. “Robert Kidd was no more hanged than I was, but spun out his yarn, like a gentleman as he was, and died of old age and for want of breath, as an honest man should.”
“Nay, Wilfrid, blast my eyes if he wa’nt hanged at Execution Dock; for don’t the song say so, that the boys are singing, ‘When I sailed, when I sailed,’ and so on?”
“No, Rollin,” replied the other; “I tell you he was no more hanged than I am hanged, and what’s more, they dar’nt hang him, although parliament folks raised such a breeze about it, when old Bellmont nabbed Rann there away in Boston.”
“That’s a likely story, Wilfred,” exclaimed, with an oath, a dark, brawny-looking fellow, with bushy hair and black shaggy whiskers. “How do you know anything about it?”
“Know! Why I know all about it. Didn’t I live at Governor Fletcher’s, seeing as how I was born without any parents? And didn’t the governor ship me as a cabin boy for Kidd? And didn’t I sail from New York to the Bahamas with him, and from the Bahamas to Madacascar, and a place which I could never see, called El Dorado? And a fine time we’d had on’t for one cruise—though we took a fine haul of doubloons from the Dons for all that—if that New Englander, Phipps, with the Algier-Rose, armed, they said, by the Duke of Albemarle, hadn’t got the start of us, and fished up the old sows of silver from the Spanish wreck down by Hispaniola there. And didn’t I see the Captain at Wapping once, long after the land-pirates said he was hanged at Execution Dock?”
“And so he was hanged,” said another, “or I’ll make my supper of snakes and milk.”
“’Tis no such thing,” replied Wilfrid; “for though I was a boy then, I’ve got everything logged in my memory as though ’twas but yesterday. I overheard some of the secrets one day in Fletcher’s cellar, and if it hadn’t been for Kidd, I guess some folks would have had less manors up along the river there. I guess, too, he’d have made some of their dry bones rattle if he’d told half he knew about Fletcher, and Bellmont, and old Somers, and the Duke of Shrewsbury, and some other big wigs that I could mention. No, you have Jack Wilfred’s word for it, that the king himself would not have dared to hurt a hair of the bold rover’s head, without stopping his mouth first.”
“Well, whether he was twitched up by the neck or not,” croaked out another hoarse voice, “I think we’ve his match cruising about the coast now, in old Vandrick.”
“That I’ll swear you have,” replied Wilfred, “and you may throw in the devil to boot, for that matter. But—”
At this moment the conversation was arrested by the entrance of the stranger, who chose no longer to abide the pelting of the storm. In an instant all was hushed, and every eye fixed on him with that rude stare, with which vulgar people generally receive new faces. The stranger moved towards the fire without seeming disconcerted by his reception, and merely remarking that the night was very tempestuous, seated himself in a retired part of the room. One of the company, who seemed more inebriated than his companions, with a vacant grin between a smile and a laugh, staggered towards him with a cup of spirits, probably intending it as a mark of hospitality, and told him to drink. The offer was declined, upon which the fellow’s brow darkened and, raising his arm with an air of menace, he swore a deep oath that he should fill the cup instantly, or—
At this moment the drunkard was appealed to by several voices at once, on a subject which seemed to be exciting considerable contention among the party, and the intruder, left unmolested, was now enabled to survey the strange society into which he had been so unexpectedly and unwillingly thrown. The company consisted of about twenty men, mostly in the prime of life, inhabiting the Highlands, just above the confined channel now called the Horse Race, and in the neighborhood of what was afterwards the site of Fort Montgomery. Their professed occupation was that of woodsmen; but their most profitable employment was that of assisting in the secretion of goods and valuable property brought to this retired spot by freebooters, who levied contributions at sea under the black flag and pennant. The neighboring country was exactly suited to purposes of this kind, abounding in places of concealment, where many a deed of blood had been executed without fear of detection, and many a treasure secreted without danger of discovery.
I
t may seem strange that mingling with desperadoes of this kind, the inhabitants should not have participated more in that ferocity of disposition which distinguishes such wretches. But this was not the case. While they assisted the pirates, they feared and hated them; and while they concealed their atrocities, never partook in them. They were bound together only by the ties of interest. Each party had become necessary to the other. The pirates having once confided in them, felt the danger of seeming to distrust them; and the Highlanders, although frequently disgusted with their visitors, did not think it safe to betray them, because they knew that the law might reckon with them for offences long past, while they would be perpetually exposed to the piratical vengeance of any who should escape. Under these feelings they drowned disagreeable reflections in revelry, and, during the absence of the freebooters, squandered away the share of spoil they received as a recompense of their silence.
Such were the people among whom the stranger now found himself, and it may easily be supposed that his sensations were not of the most agreeable kind. But he wisely judged that his best way would be to affect unconcern; and throwing out his legs before the fire, and breathing hard, as if, overcome with fatigue, he had fallen asleep, he listened to the conversation which was carried on, in an undertone of voice, by two or three of the party, who, having drunk less freely than the others, had not yielded to the same soporific influences.
“I tell you, Tom, I heard it and saw it all,” said a young man, who seemed less schooled in debauchery than the rest, to an aged sailor who appeared to listen with surprise, and occasionally shuddered with horror; “I tell you, Tom, I saw it and heard it all; and since that moment it has never been out of my sight, night or day. And it’s only last night I went by that very spot, and heard a groan which I shall never forget.”
“Curse him,” replied the old man, “and cursed be the day I ever entered into his villainous secrets. So long as he chooses to hide his gold here, it’s not for me to ask anything about how he came by it. But murder in cold blood’s another thing, and Tom Cleveland’s not the man to help in such work.”
