Patroon van Volkenberg

by Henry Thew Stephenson

This was a tall, pretentious building decked from top to bottom in blue hangings. Within the ample doorway I could see piles of boxes, casks, bales of cotton, and to the rear there were many clerks bending over huge account books, or skurrying about with pots of paint in their hands to mark the numerous parcels for shipment. What made this warehouse of more interest to me than all the others was its sign and the name of its owner. It read “KILIAN VAN VOLKENBERG—MERCHANT.”

CHAPTER V
THE JACOBITE COFFEE-HOUSE

When I recognized the name on the front of Van Volkenberg’s warehouse I dipped my hand into my pocket to make sure that the silver buttons Captain Tew had given me were safe and ready to be produced by way of introduction. I crossed the street and entered the open doorway. A courteous young clerk who desired to be of service to me regretted that his master was not on the premises.

“Patroon Van Volkenberg went out not long ago with Colonel Fletcher,” he said. “You know that the town is in such excitement that the patroon, who is the chief merchant of the city and also a member of the governor’s council, has many cares upon him. But I am in his confidence and should be glad—no, is it a personal matter? I am sorry that I cannot attend to your business. I should advise you to return this afternoon if you desire to see him in person. He will probably dine with Colonel Fletcher or perhaps with the governor. You know that Patroon Van Volkenberg is one of the most representative men of the city. I see you are a stranger. Would you like to look at our cellars and see our ships? There are none equal to them in the whole province.”

I thanked him for his kindness, but said that I wished to explore the city and would wander about on the chance of seeing the patroon at large. I passed out into the busy street and stood at the door of the patroon’s warehouse for a moment in hesitation which way to turn. A large sign which projected into the street not far away on my right indicated the Leisler Tavern. I turned that way, intending to find a suitable place to lodge until my plans became more settled. At the door, however, I stopped. The room within was noisily full of people all of whom wore white cockades and badges. These decorations represented the Earl’s party and reminded me of the fact that the hangings on Van Volkenberg’s house were blue. The Leisler Tavern was evidently not frequented by the partisans of the patroon. I had better seek farther; perhaps I should come upon an inn of another color.

I wandered along, keeping a sharp lookout on all sides. My attention was much taken up with the quaint little houses and the curious sights of this strange city. Before long, on returning from a near view of the fort which I had already seen at a distance from my point of vantage on Long Island, I ran suddenly upon the Jacobite Coffee-House. This ordinary was draped in blue, and the empty neighborhood cast upon it the melancholy atmosphere of defeat.

The large interior was portioned off upon three sides into stalls containing tables like those I had seen in London. Most of the chairs at these tables were occupied by persons drinking; but by far the greater number of people present stood mug in hand in the open center of the room. Upon my entrance there was a sudden lull in the conversation; then they began to whisper among themselves and look at me. Every person in the room was soon staring at me as if I were some public curiosity on exhibition. There was a hostile expression in their eyes, too, that I could not comprehend. I wondered whether, after all, this was really a public ordinary. Had I made a mistake and blundered into some private place of meeting? On one side of the tap-room in plain sight hung the governor’s license to keep open house. No, I had not made a mistake. What, then, was the meaning of this obvious turning of eyes in my direction? How could I account for the hostile contempt they showed towards me, an utter stranger?

I crossed the room to where I saw a vacant chair in one of the stalls. At once two men who were also seated at the table I was moving towards, arose, making a great parade of their efforts to get out of my way. The laugh that followed this treatment vexed me much. I called out in an ill temper to the host to fetch me some rum and not to keep strangers waiting.

“Have you a room to let?” I inquired as he set my liquor down on the table in front of me.

“No,” he replied curtly, turning on his heel, and showing me his back across the room.