“I couldn’t see any spirit, but of course that didn’t make any difference, as I knew the light would take me to the spot. I didn’t say a word, you may believe, but I looked at the light; and it hung there, looking at me. It didn’t move for a minute, and then it began dancing along— not dancing, but sort of waving, like—and moving away from me. I followed it over bushes and logs, and through water up to my knees, and sometimes nearly to my waist, and never once took my eyes off of it. I must have gone half a mile or more, when I stepped into a hole, and fell flat in the water, down among the brambles. The pain was so sharp that I said something, and when I got to my feet again, the light was gone. And that is how I got this cold.”
I tried to explain that the light which he saw was nothing supernatural, but he would not listen to my “boy foolishness,” as he called it; and after a slight attempt to enlighten him, I gave it up. He recovered from his cold, but kept his dream of fortune constantly in mind. I believe he tried again to follow the mysterious light, and with the same result as before. But his faith was not shaken, and to his dying day he believed he should yet find the buried wealth of Captain Kidd.
THE MYSTERIOUS CHEST.
According to my recollection, every story told by this man, or any of his associates and neighbors, about seeking for buried treasures, was full of supernatural occurrences; and the failure to obtain the hidden wealth was always attributed to a failure to maintain silence. In this instance my friend attributed the disappearance of the light to his exclamation when he fell; had he remained speechless, the light, in his opinion, would have led him to fortune. Repeatedly I was told of instances where the coveted chest had been reached, and only a few more blows were required to open it. The air was full of unearthly noises, and the diggers were tossed and struck by invisible hands; but they heeded them not, and worked their best. But a blow heavier than the rest, or a sight of the chest, caused an exclamation; when, instantly, the chest disappeared, and the hole which had been dug by human agency, was filled by a supernatural one.
Along the coast of New England, from the end of Long Island to Portsmouth and Portland, there are numerous traditions and other stories of Kidd’s treasures. There are those who believe that some of the pirate’s wealth is hidden near Lynn and Salem; others locate it near Newburyport; and others, again, near Hampton, Portsmouth, and Kittery. On three occasions I have made summer cruises near these places, and whenever I sought one of these traditions, I generally found it. Places have been shown me where credulous persons have dug for gold and silver enough to make them the envy of all their neighbors; and there is one spot, near Lynn, where a man expended thousands of dollars, trying to make an entrance into a cave, where, as the spirits told him, treasure of an enormous value was concealed. His money gave out before the treasure was reached; and if it was there then, it remains there now, ready for any one who has money and inclination to prosecute the search.
A party of us, one afternoon, while loitering around Newburyport, fell in with an ancient inhabitant who was a firm believer in the existence of the wealth of Captain Kidd. He knew a great deal more than he would tell—or, at any rate, intimated as much to us when we endeavored to sound him. I will call him Bill Sanborn, as a cover for his real name, which I do not feel at liberty to print. He was a genius in his way, and when we had filled him with rum, and warmed the stiffened muscles of his time-worn frame, he was as talkative as a magpie. He wandered from his subject continually, and it was utterly impossible to tie him down to the main topic of his discourse. He had a son or a grandson—I forget which—keeping a groggery in Boston. The old man had recently been on a visit to the modern Athens, and evidently picked up considerable of the slang of the family bar-room, where he passed his leisure hours. His abilities in the absorption line were extensive, and I hardly dare to say how much he drank, and we paid for, before he was in a proper condition to tell about Captain Kidd. Finally we had him properly wound up, and after singing a few verses of the ancient ballad, with a tremendous emphasis on “as I sailed,” he began.
BILL SANBORN’S STORY.
“I might tell you a good deal about hunting for money, but I won’t go and do it, because it might be doing injustice to some folks that ain’t dead yet; and I don’t believe in that, anyhow. There was Jim Follett and me. We struck a big thing once, and if Jim could have kept his hash-trap shut, we might have had money enough to buy all the rum in America, and keep drunk for ten thousand years. Jim is a good fellow, and likes to have a good time. He’d like to have it on his own money; but he don’t have none of his own, and so he has to get other people’s, which does just as well. Jim and me are pretty much alike, but I’m more like him than he is like me. Jim’s gone off to Labrador fishing now, or he would be here with us to-day, and if he’d been sucking away at that bottle, he would have been blind drunk by this time, and couldn’t move from his chair no more than if he was an anchor.
JIM FOLLETT’S DOG.