There was a roar of general laughter, at the end of which Arrison said, “why didn’t you tell him, that when he met the devil, he might cry to Old Nick to stand and deliver.”
“Be Jabers,” cried another, whose brogue betrayed his birth-place, “you’d have seen the rare sport, if you’d been with me, and some other of the boys, when we picked Major Dennis’ feathers for him, down here jist, by Manasquan river. The Major wasn’t at home, the more’s the pity, for we’d have strung him up in no time, and done the job nately too; but the old woman was, and though one cried out to let the rebel go, the rest of us determined that she should hang, bad cess to her. And we took her own dirty old bed cord, and tied her up by the neck to a cedar; och! you should have seen dancing there, as merry as at a fair!”
“But I’ve heard she got off after all,” interposed the lieutenant. “You were so busy filling your pockets you forgot her; the rope slipped, and she made off to the swamp with only a fright.”
“It’s the true word you say,” answered the narrator, not a whit abashed. “But now we’ll have the fun of hanging her agin, which couldn’t have been if she hadn’t got off.”
Another burst of laughter followed this. Then one of the company said,
“What’s become of Jack Stetson? as jolly a blade as ever lived. I thought, captain, I’d meet him here, sure. He went over to Maurice river with you, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” answered Arrison, “but he was in that affair with Riggins. If I’d been there it would have ended differently.”
“With Riggins? I haven’t heard of it.”
“Why, Jack and a lot of others, without my knowledge, made up their minds to attack a shallop belonging to a whig named Riggins. Now I’d have let Riggins alone, if he had let’ me alone in turn, for he’s as big as an ox and as strong. But Jack thought he’d frighten the whigs by making a bold dash, so he attempts to board the shallop, as she was going down the river. Gad! though all of Riggins’ men jumped overboard, or skulked into the cabin, except one man, the old pine-knot stood to it; fired twice, and then clubbing his gun, knocked our lads in the head as fast as they attempted to board. He settled poor Jack with one blow. They say too that he thinks more of having smashed his gun than of cracking so many skulls. Some of these days I’d like to draw a sight on him.”
“Well, if Jack is gone,” was the answer, “and here’s to him, I’m glad to say that Parson Caldwell, the canting scoundrel, went to the devil before him.” And he proceeded, amid shouts of approving laughter, to recapitulate a tragedy, with which the whole country was ringing, of which the Rev. James Caldwell, one of the best patriots, purest clergymen, and most upright men of his day, was the victim.