Transcriber’s Note:

There are several full page images, which have been moved slightly to the nearest paragraph break.

Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please see the transcriber’s [note] at the end of this text for details regarding the handling of any textual issues encountered during its preparation.

Any corrections are indicated using an underline highlight. Placing the cursor over the correction will produce the original text in a small popup.

Any corrections are indicated as hyperlinks, which will navigate the reader to the corresponding entry in the corrections table in the note at the end of the text.

Patroon Van Volkenberg

“HE WHEELED ROUND IN
AMAZEMENT AND DROPPED
THE GIRL’S HAND.”—p. 23

Patroon Van

Volkenberg

A Tale of Old Manhattan in the Year

Sixteen Hundred & Ninety-nine.

BY

HENRY THEW STEPHENSON

ILLUSTRATED BY

C. M. REYLEA

Fifth Edition

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS :: NEW YORK

Copyright, 1900

The Bowen-Merrill Company

All Rights Reserved

In memory of my aunt, Mary T. W. Curwen, whose kindness and care for many years has been greater than my utmost gratitude and affection can express

Contents

PATROON VAN VOLKENBERG

CHAPTER I
THE FLIGHT FROM PARIS

The long-boat of Captain Tew had set me ashore on the southwest end of Long Island in a cove near the village of Gravesoon, which is just across the end of the island from New York. In those days the pirates were in bad repute with the government and Captain Tew durst not land me nearer the town for fear of the king’s officers; so I had to make the rest of my way alone. I was not cast down, however, for I had always a hopeful heart, and, in addition to this fact, I was sick and tired of the bad-smelling ship and of its lawless crew of buccaneers. Yet I ought not to cry out against their captain. He and I possessed a strong bond of friendship. I had done him one good turn and he had done me another, though, at that moment, neither of us foresaw what the latter would amount to in the end.

I turned on my heel to look at the town in which I intended to lodge for the night. It was now late and fully dark, and one or two dim lights were all that I could see in Gravesoon by way of welcome. At that moment a feeling of loneliness took such strong hold of me that I cast my eyes once more upon the open sea for the meagre companionship of the pirate crew that was gliding away into the dark. But the ship was already so far from shore that the sounds that always accompany getting under way could no longer reach me, though I strained hard to hear them. In ten minutes even the vague outline of the vessel against the sky had completely blended with the darkness. Then I realized for the first time that I was all alone in a strange land. My only companions were the heavy sorrow in my heart and a strong hope that this sorrow would soon be turned to joy by virtue of the errand that was now bringing me to New York.

I had nearly reached the middle time of life and knew by hard experience that when the future looks the darkest one is most likely to be near the light. This thought gave me fresh comfort and put new life into my step as I set out briskly along the shore of the cove. The wind blew strong in my face, and I had to bend over and lean upon it, as it were, to prevent my slipping upon the rocks. Whatever a misstep might mean to me, it would certainly bring misfortune, perhaps death, to one whom I loved better than myself a hundred times. So I picked my way carefully over the rough places, balancing myself upon the wind and setting my feet firmly when I came to rocks that were wet and slippery. By dint of much perseverance I made fair progress towards the lights of Gravesoon, for all it was so dark upon the shore. As I drew near the town I spied more lights, and at last I came to the lamp hanging over the doorway that betokened a house of public entertainment. I opened the door of the ordinary and went in. The room was quite deserted and I rapped twice upon the table before the host appeared in answer to my summons.

He was a pleasant looking man of no particular appearance. He served me quickly with something to eat and drink, and then sat down on the other side of the table, rippling with questions. I am not given to talking and never was; yet, because I saw here an opportunity to gain information that I should not otherwise possess until I reached New York, I did not turn away from my host’s cross-examination as my temper at first prompted me to do.

He had seen the pirate ship in the offing that afternoon and would like to know its name, guessing shrewdly how I had come ashore; but I put him off with an indirect reply and he was fain to be content with my own name, a poor substitute, though he made the most of it.

“Le Bourse,” he said thoughtfully. “That sounds like a French name. Are you going to friends in Yorke?”

“I am a stranger there, but I am seeking a person who may help me to a sight of friends.”

“What is his name?”

“Van Volkenberg: one of the patroons I think.”

“Ah, yes, Patroon Kilian; the armed patroon is what the burghers call him. We know him well.”

“Is he in New York now?”

“Yes, indeed. He never leaves the island. Kilian Van Volkenberg is too great a man to let himself go far from port. His ships need his attention every day. Now, when I saw yon ship in the offing, I said to myself, ’Tis a ship of the patroon’s.’ But you seem to say not.”

I had said nothing of the kind; but I let the matter pass without correction, knowing that it was only another effort on his part to learn the mystery of my arrival.

“How can I get to New York from here?” I asked after a short pause.

“There is a good road direct, not more than eight or ten miles, with a ferry at the end of it. You will see a tree with a shell tied up to blow for the ferryman—he is likely to be on the Yorke side of the river. Can you blow a shell?”

I could not, never having seen this custom before, whereupon the obliging host bustled out to find one. He returned shortly with a huge sea shell in his hands, by means of which he instructed me in the manner of using it as a horn. The trick was not difficult to learn, not so hard by half as whistling with your fingers in your mouth, which feat I never did learn to do well. But after five minutes practice with the shell I could blow as mournful a tone as you ever heard on the moors of a spooky night.

My music lesson over, I went to my room. As soon as I was alone I took out the pocket Bible that had been the companion of all my wanderings. I opened it at the book of Ruth; this book was my favorite reading, for my sister’s name was Ruth. My separation from her long years before this, my great search and heavy disappointment had at last led me to this point in my wanderings. But there was still a strong hope in my heart; and hope will keep the pulse bounding even when the shadows are dark.

But before I continue my story, let me go back and relate the strange events which resulted in my being set on shore in the dead of night like a criminal, from one of the ships which was under the displeasure of his royal majesty the king.

When I was but a lad of three and twenty my parents both died and I was left the only protector of little Ruth, my sister, who was then a child, scarce fifteen years of age.[age.] She was a bright-faced, cheery sister, who did as much as a full-grown woman could have done to make our modest home in Paris comfortable and happy. I prized her more than life and would not let her go out of my sight. In this respect the more caution was needed because the long Huguenot peace was drawing to a close and people of our faith were subject to all manner of persecution.

Our heaviest troubles began, of course, in the year 1685, when King Louis revoked the Edict of Nantes; but for years before that the Huguenots were afflicted with innumerable unjust restrictions. There was one of the king’s decrees that caused more confusion than all the others put together. This was the law permitting children at the age of seven to renounce the faith in which they had been bred, and to enter the Roman church. Every kind of inducement was held out to persuade them to acknowledge belief in the Catholic religion. Once confessed, they were considered to be under the jurisdiction of the priesthood. When dolls, fairy stories, idle promises of childish pleasures, failed to make a mere infant nod to some statement mumbled by the priest—when all such ways of seducing little children failed, they were often shamelessly kidnapped and carried away to a convent by force. It was mainly against this latter danger that I had to protect Ruth, for she clung so tenaciously to me and to our Protestant faith that I had no fear of their cajoling her by any fair and open means.

One day Ruth and I were walking in the fields near the edge of Paris. We were on our way home about twilight, and Ruthie, as I called her then, danced ahead of me like a golden-haired butterfly. She always danced—bless her heart!—and carried sunlight wherever she went. Suddenly, while she was passing the dark gateway of a court-yard, a priest in a black mantle stepped out from the covered way and caught my sister by the arm.

“Come in here,” he cried insinuatingly, at the same time drawing her swiftly towards the doorway.

Ruth resisted, and then the priest clapped a big hand over her mouth so she could not scream.

Shame on him! And she a mere child! But he was reckoning without me when he made that false move. I was at her side even before he noticed me. He called for help and soon brought another priest to his assistance. Even so, it was only two to one, which was hardly fair considering my size and the fact that I had been bred to arms. It was a dreadful thing for me to do, but, in a trice, and without even stopping to draw my sword, I had stretched one of them unconscious upon the ground and sent the other crying for help, with his blood dripping all the way.

For the moment, the rashness of my deed quite overcame me. I had struck a priest. In those days the penalty for such an offence could be none other than death; and Ruth would be left alone to worse than death. She and I resolved to fly from the capital and to escape from the country altogether if we could. We packed what little of value we possessed, and in twenty minutes had left our lodgings behind us. It was our haste only—always excepting the grace of God—that saved us from immediate pursuit. Even so, it seems a miracle that we got out of the city and found ourselves safe upon the road to La Rochelle.

Ruth bore up very bravely in those hard times and never spoke a single word to reproach me for my hasty act. She sang pleasant songs to me on the way and would comfort me by saying that she was not tired, though I knew she must be weary enough to lie right down in the road and give up. On the third day after leaving Paris we fell in with a party of Protestants and continued our journey with them. We were thankful for their company at the time, but it would have been better had we not met them, for their flight was known to the authorities and was the ultimate cause of my separation from little Ruth.

These fugitives had already made arrangements with a ship owner at La Rochelle to transport them to England. We had at last come to a little stream almost within sight of the town and of safety when we were overtaken by four of the troopers of the Paris guard. A narrow way led down to the place where we should cross the stream. We thought that the advantageous position of this path would enable two of us to keep back all four of the guardsmen. We cast lots to see which of us should defend the others and one of the lots fell to me. Ruth was much grieved at heart when she knew that I must stay behind and risk capture while she and the others went forward; but she said bravely, “Do your duty, Vincie boy, and the Lord will take care of us.”

The guards fortunately had no guns and were armed only with short swords. We held them at bay for some time; then, making a charge together, they killed my companion and I was left alone to bar the path, with a deep wound in my shoulder which prevented my using my cloak as a guard. The rest of our party of fugitives escaped, but, on the arrival of some more soldiers, I was disarmed and taken to prison.

For some reason, I never discovered what, I did not suffer the penalty I expected. Instead of being led immediately to the scaffold, I was kept close in prison among others of my faith whose only crime was an attempt to avoid the oppressive hand with which the church of Rome strove to drain the lifeblood of the Protestants.

During the long months of my captivity, I pondered much upon little Ruth. Where had she gone? I thought that England was the destination of the party we had fallen in with. Sometimes I pictured my sister in America, alone in that far off land; but a little thought would convince me that she was not there. Ruth was a hopeful girl. She would never bring herself to think—unless she heard of my actual death—that I should not come to her eventually. In that case, where would I be so likely to look as in England? No, Ruth would not go to the colonies. As I thought about her whereabouts I became more and more sure, and at last I was certain, in my own mind at least, that she had taken refuge in England.

At the end of a year a happy accident opened the way to my escape. I shall never forget the burden that fell from my shoulders, the long breath of unutterable, thankful relief that I drew upon the day I crossed the French frontier into Holland. I left my native land with my mind firmly resolved upon two things: the first was to find Ruth; the second was to bring confusion to the church of Rome, the slayers of God’s people, the tormentors of me and mine. Wherever I should meet a Catholic,—sleeping or waking, in sickness or in health,—he was my enemy.

I made my way at once for England, where I inquired diligently for my sister in all the great cities. A year of this searching brought me no tidings and exhausted my slender means of support. Then I fell back upon military service for a livelihood. My great strength and my skill of fence soon found me employment. I could even choose my master in a way, and managed to take service with those who would lead me into distant parts. You may be sure that during all my foreign campaigns I never lost sight of the darling desire of my heart. But as time wore on and I did not find her, I became less and less positive that Ruth was still alive.

In the years that followed I walked in many strange cities; in all of them I searched the streets hungrily for Ruth. I glanced up into windows; I peered down into cellar ways; but I never saw a familiar face. Once I penetrated in disguise to La Rochelle itself. Even there I could hear nothing of Ruth or of the ship-master who had taken her to England. I began to doubt whether she had escaped at all. At such moments my fierce resentment against our oppressors grew bitter as gall. More than once in those stern, tumultuous times, I fought under the banners of the Protestant chiefs of Europe, and my blade was no sluggard.

At last a new fear began to haunt me day and night. What if I should meet Ruth and not recognize her! She was fifteen years old when I lost her. How a girl changes between fifteen and twenty! I must look now, not for the slim childish figure I remembered, but for the full roundness of a woman. How often I had—and as I grew older it occurred ever the more often—how often I had looked into faces that I felt sure I had seen somewhere before. Then, when it was too late to follow, I would be startled with the idea that perhaps the person I had just seen was Ruth. Such moments wrung my heart.

At last, after eight or nine years of fruitless hunting, I found myself again in England. I had long since abandoned all hope of finding Ruth. I became the trusted servant of an English lord. I was now three and thirty years of age, though people who judged from my appearance thought I was older. King William was on the throne and my master stood well in the sovereign’s graces. Everything, so far as worldly prospects went, gave promise of a happy life. Then of a sudden my master fell under the displeasure of the government. With the quickness of a summer storm, misfortune came upon him. Two months after the first thunder-clap he was a condemned prisoner in the Tower, and I once more masterless and adrift.

This calamity occurred in the year 1698, a twelvemonth before my arrival in New York. I had saved some money and, strange to say, there came to me suddenly and without reason a new conviction that I should yet find Ruth. But where? There was only one place in the world where she might be and in which I had not sought for her: America. My resolution was immediately taken to set out over sea and resume the hunt that I had latterly neglected. With this intent I journeyed to Bristol, where I intended to take ship at once.

CHAPTER II
THE MAID AT THE MARINER’S REST

Bristol was then the second seaport of the kingdom; only London surpassed it in the number of ships sailing from its docks and in the amount of hurly-burly, shuffling traffic in its streets. I arrived in the city near sundown of an evening. As soon as I had had a bite to eat I set out for the water front. The Mariner’s Rest was the principal tavern, and thither I went to begin my inquiry for a passage to New York.

A maid served behind the bar and soon brought me a mug of ale. I could not help but notice her frail figure and sorrowful eyes; she looked some two or three and twenty years of age, and had evidently seen much trouble in her short life. Her refined face was wonderfully out of keeping with her coarse surroundings. Sometimes, when she had been rudely spoken to by a tipsy sailor, she would retreat to the back of the room and rest her head in her hands as if from weariness. Though I pitied her in my heart, I soon fell to musing upon other things. My mind was always on the alert now about New York. I constantly pictured myself wandering along its streets, casting searching glances to this side and that, as I had so often wandered here in England when I still believed that Ruth was somewhere near at hand.

I was so wrapped up in my fancy-hope that I did not notice how the room was filling nor how the noise of mingled oaths and ribald laughter of the common herd had risen to a din. I did look up soon, however, in time to notice the entrance of a seaman whose appearance was exceedingly unlike the rest. He wore rich clothes, and a jeweled sword by his side; he was tall, kindly and benevolent looking. This man—I took him for a prosperous merchant who commanded his own ship—made his way laboriously through the crowd of tables, nodding now and then to someone he knew. When he reached the farther side of the room he sat down a few chairs away from me. There was a patronizing look of contempt on his face and he turned his back squarely upon the company. The girl, perhaps, had been the first to notice him, and her face brightened at his appearance.

“Will you take me?” she asked, eagerly, as if her life depended on the answer, as she set his glass before him.

“This is no life for the like of you to lead,” replied the seaman. “Yes, I’ll take you and I’ll do the best I can to find a home fit for you and your pretty face to live in.”

At that moment a cry of “Wench, wench, I want some rum,” took the girl back to her uncongenial task behind the bar. As soon as she was gone I moved my chair nearer to the new comer.

“Will you pardon me, sir?” I began. “I have arrived from the country only to-day and am a stranger here. Can you set me on the track of a ship for America?”

“That I can very quick. I am Captain James Donaldson of the Royal Lion. She sails for New York the day after to-morrow. I can let you have a first-rate cabin and good rations to boot if you don’t eat too much. You have no idea what a swift and steady craft she is.”

“Good,” I exclaimed joyfully. “You may count upon me as a passenger.”

“Tut, tut, you are as hasty as the girl there. You have not seen the cabin yet, nor do you know my price.”

“I dare say we can arrange that to our satisfaction.”

“One can never tell,” he said, with a shrug of his shoulders. “Folk are so particular in these days; but come to me in the morning and I will show you over. I know you will like her. I must be going now. I only stopped in to speak a word with yon lass. The pretty little wench is going with me on the voyage.”

He left the tavern immediately, and I remained for some time longer watching the girl come and go about the room with her easy grace and soft manner. Suddenly her attractive face filled me with a sort of half fear. A fortune teller had once foretold that I should meet my wife in some such place as this. What if this girl were—! Bah! I should not let such a thing as that get between me and my hunt for Ruth. You cannot appreciate the force with which this recollection took hold of me unless you remember the new conviction, a sort of presentiment that I should at last find Ruth. I always profess great disregard for superstition, but in my heart of hearts I am more or less affected by it. For this reason I got up hastily to go out, meaning to escape from the attractive presence of the pathetic looking maiden. As I stopped at the bar to settle my score I was again impressed by the fineness of the girl’s features and could not suppress my curiosity.

“Yours is a strange face to see here,” I said while she was counting out my change.

“No stranger than yours,” she answered. “You and Captain Donaldson are the only gentlemen who have been here to-night[to-night].” She heaved a sigh. “I wish they came oftener.”

“You are going across the water with him, I believe.”

“Did you hear?” she asked in a low, earnest tone. “Please do not speak of it aloud. My master would treat me ill if he knew I was going to leave him.”

“Never fear,” I said, turning to go. “God be with you.”

“Pardon me,” she said as if to call me back. And then, “Oh, pardon me again. I made a mistake.”

I left the tavern wondering what the last exclamation meant, for she had dropped her eyes when I turned round to look at her again, and her face assumed a look of disappointment. Yet I was glad to be free of the place, for I still feared that she might come between me and Ruth. For the moment I quite forgot that we should be together throughout the long voyage.

The next morning I left my lodgings early and threaded the badly paved streets that led to the harbor. The ships were headed close up against the shore and I walked beneath their high bows that projected over my head in a row like the half of an arched passage. Before long I came to the Royal Lion. Captain Donaldson was busy directing the movements of his crew, who were engaged with crows and ropes in stowing away the last portions of the ship’s cargo. When he saw me, he called to his mate to take his place, and kindly offered to explore the ship with me himself. It was a staunch brig, for the most part fitted out with new canvas and fresh rigging. What struck my soldier eye immediately, and what gave the Royal Lion its best claim as a safe conveyance for passengers, was its preparation for military[military] defense. A goodly number of large brass cannons were mounted upon the deck, and Captain Donaldson assured me that his magazine was well stocked with small arms and ammunition.

An ocean voyage at the end of the seventeenth century was a dangerous undertaking. The sea swarmed with pirates. Many a ship returned to port battered up with cannon shots and its decks reeky with blood stains. Other ships never came back at all, and it was as common to attribute their loss to the attacks of the buccaneers as to the furious tropic storms.

Captain Donaldson and I soon came to terms about my passage. As I left the ship in his company—for he would go part way along the dock to point out less favored ships and make comparisons to their disadvantage—as we walked along he told me what he knew of the lass at the Mariner’s Rest. She had come of better folk, he told me, and could no longer endure her present occupation. Her determination was to go to the colonies and take service in some respectable family till she could save enough to buy her a little home in one of the Huguenot settlements.

“But that is not what she will really do,” said the Captain. “She is too pretty a wench for that. Who knows but that you—tut, tut, man, you are not married, are you?”

He had recalled my fearfulness of the night before and there was particular force in its being put into words by a perfect stranger. He continued to chaff me about the girl till, when I left him, I half repented the bargain I had made to sail in his ship. Yet for all that, and in spite of myself, when night came I was sitting in the corner of the Mariner’s Rest. I fretted inwardly that I was there; but I persuaded myself that I had better get used to her face amid the distractions of other interests than to wait and make her acquaintance in the lonely isolation of the ship.

I found the inn, if possible, more noisy than on the night before. During the day two or three ships had come in from distant parts and many of their crews were carousing heavily after the long voyage. Some of the sailors had already drunk themselves into a stupor, but by far the greater number swore and shouted lustily in their cups. The cry of wench, wench, rose repeatedly, and at times the accompaniment of jocose obscenity was disgusting.

The maid shrank pitifully from contact with the rude atmosphere about her; yet there was a hopeful look in her bright, sparkling eyes. This expression I set down as due to the fact that to-morrow she would be free of all this and once more in the way of a decent life. There were plenty of respectable homes to be had in the colony of New York, and I had no doubt but that the good captain would look out for her to the best of his ability.

Two or three times during the evening the drinkers fell to brawling. Once at a game of cards a Portuguese sailor clapped his cutlass across a comrade’s head and threatened to lop off his pate if he said a word more. His opponent was a sniveling bit of a coward who whined at this threat, but swallowed it as best he could, which, however, he did with a bad grace, being neither a bully nor a thorough-going jelly fish of a coward.

I could hardly stand the vile smell of their tobacco, or the look of the sloppy pools upon the floor where they splattered the foam from their ale. I was minded once to quit the room altogether, and had even risen from my feet to go; but I noticed that the clatter of mugs and the din of voices and the stamping of feet was growing louder with every minute. The hopeful look had crowded out of the girl’s face, and at that moment the cry of wench was thundered out, together with an indecent oath that made me wince. She cast a scared glance of appeal in my direction. I sat down again, minded to wait and be on hand in case she should need my protection.

She approached timidly the table of the boor who had summoned her. She set down the contents of her tray and was about to retreat when he caught her roughly by the arm. He tried to pull her down upon his knee and made as if to kiss her. I was on my feet in an instant; but before I could stir a step the landlord had taken her part. He fetched the drunken sailor a blow in the face that stretched him on the ground with the blood dripping from his nose.

“I guess she’s my brat, not yours,” cried the landlord angrily. “Wench, get back to your place.”

The sailors are such clannish folk that I fully expected a desperate brawl to follow the landlord’s attack. There was some violent shuffling of feet in the corner, and one or two men started up and took a step or two in the direction of the affray, eager for a row. But before the mob’s anger could come to a focus, someone cried out in a mocking voice:

“Portuguese Tom’s got his lobster now.”

There must have been some local quip to this phrase that I did not understand, for it produced a storm of laughter, after which they fell to drinking again in the best of jovial good humor. Tom picked himself up, a little crestfallen; but even he joined in the laugh against him. As soon as the crisis was passed I turned my attention to the girl. She had not moved a step from where she stood with her hands clenched and her lips tightly pressed together. Her position and the expression of her face were both so full of fearless scorn that I could not repress an exclamation of delight.

“Bravo!” I cried.

She looked at me and relaxed into the sensitive woman instantly. “Sit down,” she said lightly, motioning me to resume my seat. “It is not often so bad as it is to-night; but it is over and well over, too. Thank you, sir; thank you.”

Though I had done nothing she had seen that I had been ready to come to her assistance. “I shall stay till the room is cleared,” I whispered as she passed me, and then sat down in my place again to watch.

I remained in the tavern for some time; in fact, till it wore on towards midnight. Then, a bell ringing in the town, the landlord rose and advised his guests to depart. A rule of the city closed all public houses at that hour. Slowly, by ones and twos, the riotous sailors took their leave, helping along those who were too drunk to walk alone. My seat was in the corner where a high buffet threw me into the shadow. For this reason probably the host overlooked me, and, for I remained till the last, he thought that the room was quite empty, though I still lingered in the shadow. He stepped to the door to usher out the last guest. On his return he faced the girl menacingly.

“What is this you told me to-day?” he demanded in a fierce tone.

“I am going to leave you, sir.”

“Ha, hussy, I don’t know about that. By whose authority are you going to leave?”

“By my own.” She did not quail at his brutal tone, but stood unflinching as she had stood before the brute of a sailor who had insulted her in the early evening. “There is nothing in my agreement to prevent my going when I like.”

“There is this in our agreement, wench,” he said, gripping her hand. “We are here alone, and I tell you plainly that you do not leave this house. You know what I can do when I am in earnest.”

“Let go my hand,” she answered. “You hurt me.”

Instead of releasing his grip he squeezed her wrist so hard that she cried out in pain.

“Yes, let go,” said I, stepping into view.

He wheeled round in amazement and dropped the girl’s hand.

“Who the devil are you?”

The excitement of the evening had told on the girl’s nerves. Her spirit was weakened as we stood in the deserted room that a moment before had been a very bedlam. “Oh, take me away,” she cried piteously. “He will beat me if you leave me here.”

The landlord caught up a chair and lifted it above his head.

“Get out of here,” he cried, coming toward me with a swing of the chair aloft.

“Too fast,” I replied, drawing my sword. “Too fast, my friend. Put down that chair.”

He obeyed with a vengeance and I sprang aside just in time to avoid the blow. The chair broke to pieces and then I had him at the mercy of my sword. He was a bully by nature and a coward at heart. He was soon whimpering in the corner and begging for grace. I directed the girl to go to her room and get ready to leave. The main part of her luggage was already aboard the brig and she had left but a few things to take with her. While she was doing as I bade her, I guarded the innkeeper and enjoyed the scared replies he made to my continual threats. We soon left him to shut up the shop alone and went out into the street.

“You can obtain respectable lodging for the night in the house next to where I am stopping,” I said. “Will you let me take you there?”

A chill breeze was blowing from the sea and as we walked along it cooled my heated temper. It must have had the same effect upon the girl, for her tight grip upon my arm gradually relaxed, and by the time we reached the second street she was walking with her usual alert step.

“Monsieur,” she said after a while, “from your accent you must be French.”

“Ah, yes, from Paris; but that was many years ago. There is the house I am taking you to.”

“Indeed,” she said musingly. “I am from Paris, too. Are we so near the place? I am almost afraid to go to a strange house alone.” We had stopped beneath one of the occasional lanterns that were hung out from houses to light the street. “May I know,” she continued, “who has helped me to-night?”

“My name is Le Bourse.”

“What! What did you say?”

“Michael Le Bourse. Is my name a strange one?”

“Strange?” She caught me by the shoulders and twisted me towards the light, looking eagerly in my face. “Was I right last night?” she continued, all of a tremble with excitement. “Is it—can it be?” Then she threw herself into my arms. “Don’t you know me, Vincie, don’t you know me?”

I held her from me in the light; then I knew. “Ruth,” I cried. I took her in my arms and covered her face with kisses. For a moment we had nothing to say to each other there in the still street under the solitary lantern. There seemed to be no world outside; only we two: I and Ruth, for whom I had sought so many years.

“Ruthie,” I kept whispering again and again. “I have found my little Ruth.”

CHAPTER III
THE ROYAL LION

How long we stood there in the joy of that moment I can never say. We were brought back to a sense of our surroundings by the jarring voice of someone speaking to us from the sidewalk.

“Ah ha! Bless my stars if it isn’t my two passengers all in one.”

It was Captain Donaldson who had spoken, and I was glad of a friend to turn to, for I was at my wits’ end to know what to do. Only a few words were necessary to acquaint him with our story. His genial eyes stood out in amazement as the tale of our long separation and accidental meeting unfolded itself to his willing sympathy.

“God-a-mercy me,” he cried, striking his chest. “It is hard to believe how the Lord does go about it to work His will. ’Twas only yesterday, Mistress Ruth, that I was charging him to fall in love with you, and now I suppose I shall lose both my passengers.”

He took on a thoughtful look at the idea of losing us. After a moment’s deliberation, however, he clapped his hands together.

“Well, that shall not prevent my sailing at the usual hour; no, not if I have to go empty-cabined inside and out.”

Ruth, who clung to my arm affectionately as if she feared to lose me again, assured the good captain that she saw no reason why we should not go on as we had planned. In fact, though we had not thought it all out, we saw our way clear to continue our journey to America. It was a long distance, to be sure, but we had overcome the greatest obstacle when we had first made up our minds to go; besides, both Ruth and I were full of anxious curiosity to see the new land where so many of our countrymen had found homes of comfort and prosperity. Suddenly the captain broke out anew with a surprised question:

“What are the two of you doing here locking arms at midnight?”

I told him our adventure and all about the brawl at the tavern, and where I intended to take Ruth to.

“It will never do,” he said. “It will never do to rouse decent folk up at this time o' night. Odds man, they’ve been in bed this three hours past, and it’s a warm welcome you’d get at one o’clock. No, no, it will never do. Come with me to the ship and I’ll make stowaways of ye both till morning.” The three of us set out together along the quiet[quiet] streets to the dock. Now that the distracting noise of traffic was all spent, I found the vague roof of ship fronts under which we picked our way silently far different from what it was by day. Every vessel creaked and groaned in a thousand joints; the air fairly reeked with the smell of tar and cordage; the heaving hulks and the tall figureheads looming upon the prows were ghostly in their slow rise and fall. I was glad to get away from the lonely neighborhood and reach the Royal Lion; Ruth no less so, for she was a timid child when the excitement of the moment was passed.

Captain Donaldson offered to provide for us, but we had so much to talk about that we were quite content to huddle upon the deck with a pair of shawls to shield us from the wind.

Ruth told me that she had escaped from La Rochelle in safety ten years before and had found a good home in England, where she had wearied through the years waiting for me. Her experience had not been wholly unlike my own. After many years her mistress had died and, about the same time that my good master was sent to the Tower, Ruth was cast upon her own resources. Before this event occurred, however, she had given up all hope of my coming. Upon her mistress’ death she made up her mind to go to one of the Huguenot settlements in America. With this intent she had set out for Bristol. Footpads and highwaymen on land were then as likely to be met with as buccaneers upon the sea. The van which brought her to Bristol was waylaid and Ruth, as well as the other passengers, robbed of all they had. She arrived in Bristol penniless and had to take what employment came to hand in order to earn a living. Thus it happened that she was compelled to such base labor at the Mariner’s Rest.

“Oh, Vincie,” she sobbed. “It was so hard.”

An angry tremble shook me as I thought of her harsh treatment; then I recalled the threat the landlord had made in my hearing.

“What did he mean when he said that you knew what he could do when he was in earnest?”

“Do not think of that,” she answered softly. She was always so forgiving. “It is all past now.”

“Tell me what he meant,” I continued fiercely. “Did he ever dare to—”

“Hush, Vincie,” she murmured, putting her fingers over my mouth; but I shook her hand down. “He—must I tell you?” she continued with hesitation, not wanting to anger me further. But I insisted that she should speak out. “Well, he beat me once,—but not hard. What are you going to do?”

I sprang to my feet and took two steps toward the gangway; then Ruth was at my elbow. She gripped me by the arm.

“What are you going to do?”

“Never mind what I am going to do. Let me go.”

“I shall not let you go,” tightening her grip. “Stop.”

I looked at her in amazement. I remembered her as a timid child when I used to think out and plan everything she did. But the case was different now. I had a notion to shake her off and was almost on the point of saying as I used to, “Hush, you are a mere child.” But there was a look in her eyes which told me plainly that childhood was past and that, between us two, I was no longer the master.

“Let me go, Ruth,” I said. But I spoke without spirit, and when I added “Please” she only shook her head and began to draw me back to where we had been sitting.

“I am ashamed of you,” she said, but very gently. “Do you no longer read your Bible, Vincie?”

“Aye,” I answered, jumping at the chance her reference gave me. “And it says that whoso sheddeth man’s blood by man shall his blood be shed.”

“But he did not shed my blood.”

“Give eye for eye, tooth for tooth,—blow for blow.”

“Ah, Vincie, you read only where you like; love thy neighbor as thyself. Have you forgot the parable of the cloak? You must love your enemies and pray for them who persecute you. Were we driven out of home for Jesus’ sake to deny all His teachings and forswear His word? No, no, brother, do not forget the woman taken in adultery, and how she was brought before the Christ? Where were her accusers then? Vincent, turn the word of God into your own wicked heart before you judge your neighbor. What shall I say at the great day if they say to me: ‘Your brother did this or that wrong act in your name?’ Answer me, Vincent, what shall I say then?”

I could make no answer. Her pure spirit overcame me. I could only ask her to forgive me. She bade me kneel down upon the deck just as we used to kneel when we were children. Ruth prayed that I might come into a better spirit. I was in much need of her gentleness, and with great diligence she set to work to curb my resentment against the Catholics, which ten long years of disappointment and continual warfare had tempered to the hardness of steel. Every morning upon the deck as we sped across the wide ocean she wrought against my contrary spirit till it was partly broken. My little Ruth, whom I had protected so zealously in her childhood, wound me around her finger and ruled me firmly, but with all the gentleness of love.

“For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you.” Her words and the promises she talked about in the good Book were like music, and I was beginning to be a better man. “Did we not prophesy in thy name, and by thy name cast out devils?” She showed me what all this meant, and that if I went on in the way I had begun I should some day be face to face with the great denial: “And then shall I profess unto them, I never knew you; depart from me, ye that work iniquity.”

Such was the burden of her teaching. She spoke much of the golden rule, and by that text she brought me to see how my fierce zeal against the Roman church was but persecution under cover of my own selfish faith as the Catholics persecuted under theirs. I remember one afternoon in particular when we were more than half way across the Atlantic. We were nestling in the bow of the ship beneath a flapping sail, and Ruth sat by my side, and teaching me, just as Jesus may have taught his disciples not to forget what He was telling them. The sun beat down warm and comfortable upon the deck. The merry surface of the water laughed in skipping sunlight. She had talked to me a long time that afternoon, and as she talked a great peace came upon me and little by little the remorse for my evil ways slipped away and vanished at her forgiving words.

Suddenly our attention was attracted by a commotion on the main deck where the cannons were. The sailors began to run this way and that in great confusion. Half a dozen of them started to drag the canvas covers off the guns and to get them ready for use. Others ran below to the magazine to bring up powder and small arms. I could not make out what all this rumpus was about till I glanced in the direction of the cannons’ aim and saw a large, square-rigged vessel about a mile away, bearing down upon us like a tower tilted against the sky. Surely all this preparation must be to repel an attack, and I guessed at once that the strange ship was a buccaneer. Our passengers were in a great scare when they found out the truth. A little baby whose mother lay sick in the cabin set up a wail of fright at the unusual sounds. No notice was taken of the child, however, till Ruth took it up in her arms and hushed it to sleep.

Captain Donaldson was the coolest head among us. He spoke some hearty words to his crew and bade them get ready to fight. Some of them went forward to man the guns in the bow; others climbed into the rigging to shoot down upon the enemy’s deck when she came alongside; small arms were dealt out to the rest of us who stood waiting near the main hatch. By the time all our operations were complete the hostile ship was not more than a quarter of a mile away, and soon she spread the flag of the buccaneers.

“I knew it,” shouted our captain, and the crew responded with a rousing cheer. I could scarce understand the reason of their joy, but put it down to their love of a good fight, and the escape from the humiliation that would have followed all their hurry if the ship had turned out a peaceful trader. I think the shame of having made a mistake as to the character of the approaching vessel would have smote them harder than a battle. Before the ship had got near us, all the women were sent below as a matter of precaution. Very soon two long-boats, bristling with weapons, put off from the buccaneer.

The two boats tilted merrily along the waves till they were half way to our ship. By that time some men in the pirate’s rigging must have made out the strength of our defenses, for the long-boats were hastily summoned back and taken on board the ship again. The buccaneer now came on under full sail. As it drew near we could see a squad of men at each end with ropes and grappling irons ready to lash us fast the moment we touched.

Ten minutes later, after a harmless exchange of cannon shots, the two ships were lashed fast together and the pirates were popping over our side like frogs into a pond. Captain Donaldson had placed his men in two lines in such a position that the buccaneers had to jump aboard between them. The pirates set themselves back to back in the middle of the ship and fought both ways at once. Donaldson cut down the leader of the band opposed to us. At this his party lost heart and gave back a step or two upon their comrades. They were now so close together that one party of the pirates hampered the other. They fell into confusion, and in two minutes we were chasing them back into their own ship.

It is always easier to defend than to attack. The moment the situation was reversed and we stood upon the offensive, we found our difficulties grown tenfold. Captain Donaldson’s voice rang clear above the din, bidding his men to stand firm and capture the ship. Suddenly the clamor increased at a great rate, and I heard hasty orders given to retreat to the Royal Lion. There was scuffling on the deck, shouts, and orders given in quick succession; then one of the grappling chains broke with a noise like the report of a cannon. Just at that moment I was engaged in a close fight with one of the pirates and could not turn my head to see what was happening. So long as he kept his sword flashing before my eyes I had no desire to look otherwise than to my guard, and my pride would not let me run. But soon I had him, for all he was a good fighter, and, by the time he slumped backward with a groan, the ships had drifted apart, and there was fifty feet of clear water between me and my friends.

Captain Donaldson made every effort to put his ship alongside again; but the pirates had had enough of fight for that day and their ship was the faster sailer. My heart sank as I saw the gulf widening between us; nor could I catch a last glance of Ruth, who had gone below with the sleeping baby in her arms at the beginning of the engagement.

In this way our short-lived reunion came to an end. I watched the Royal Lion drop behind till, night coming on, I could no longer see her. Strange to say, my captors had nothing to say to me for a while, and left me quite alone as long as I wished to keep my eyes on the vessel that contained my sister. In fact the treatment I met with at the hands of the buccaneers was such as to belie much of what I had heard concerning their reprobate character. When I passed my word of honor, they allowed me the freedom of the deck and set no sort of watch upon me. Some of them who thought that I had showed bravery in the fight even pressed me to join their crew, offering me equal rights with the buccaneers who had ventured money in the ship. Though I would not hear to this, I won favor in other ways, particularly by casting their accounts and by writing fair in the logbook. I practiced a good hand for the latter business, which was eventually the means of saving my life. One day when I was engrossing the date in large round letters at the top of the page, the captain, who was looking over my shoulder, began to laugh. He would not tell me what amused him, though he imparted it to his companions. Each one as he heard it looked at me and clapped his hands for fun. It was not long, however, before I understood how they intended to make use of my scanty store of learning.

About a week later we sighted a point of land. Though we soon passed this cape, I knew by many signs that we were making for the coast. That afternoon the chief spoke to me in the cabin.

“Monsieur Le Bourse, you know very well that you are our prisoner, and we paid dear for you, too; that was a jolly brush we had with the Royal Lion. Once more, and this is the last time I’ll say so, you can have full freedom and a share in the prize money if you will sign our articles.”

“I shall not do it,” I replied haughtily. “Take your own way with me.”

At that he opened a locker, not at all offended by my manner, and drew out a suit of black clothes and a powdered wig which he told me to put on. This done he handed me a book and a silver-topped cane.

“Now walk,” he cried, “from here to the porthole and back again. There, there, you’ll do,” he went on, chuckling with delight. “Now, look you here, Monsieur Le Bourse, we are going to redeem you in the plantations for a schoolmaster, for they are sore in need of a little sense in Lord Baltimore’s colony. That’s where we shall set you. On my life, we’ll do it! And a brave dominie you’ll make in your black coat and wig.”

I did not resent this arbitrary disposition of my services. I had expected to walk the plank, and this was a great sight better than that. So I waited patiently for this new change in my fortunes. On the evening before we reached port I was seated in the bow of the ship alone. No one was near me, and soon the captain crept stealthily to my side.

“We’ll bind you out for five years of service,” he began. “Whoever takes you will pay us twenty pounds.” He tossed a purse into my lap. “There’s the money in good pieces of eight, Spanish gold. Never say Ned Teach of Bristol’s not a gentleman of honor.”

I pressed him to know the cause of so much generosity; and I learned that the man I had killed in the fray was a desperate mutineer who threatened to overthrow the captaincy of Teach.

“Now,” continued the buccaneer, “you’ve got some money, and if you don’t find a way to escape in less than six months you deserve to hang.”

The approach of some of the crew prevented any further talk between us. The next day we ran into port. I was duly bound out to service in the capacity of what is called a redemptioner. This kind of service, I was told, received its name from the fact that the redemptioner, or bond-servant, could buy back his freedom by paying a certain sum of money at any time after five years of service. It was into this kind of bond that Ruth had intended to enter before I found her in Bristol. As I had given her but little ready money, I feared that fate had again laid its harsh hand on Ruth and me alike.

The immediate effect upon me of my service, or imprisonment, for such it really was, was to undo what small tolerance towards the Roman church I had learned from Ruth. The buccaneers bound me out to a Catholic owner of plantations, and soon, upon an attempt to escape, he had me stripped and flogged at the public whipping post on a crowded market day. I was kept close after that and not allowed to stray from the spot of my labors.

For some time, in memory of Ruth, I struggled hard against a change of heart. But little by little my bitter hatred came back to me, and the mere shadow of a Catholic was something to be trampled under foot and spat upon. I resolved to make my escape, come what would, and to this end I was alert to every accident that could be turned to my advantage.

At that time the governments of Europe, and especially of England, were determined to put down the evil practices of the buccaneers. Orders were sent to all the American colonies to arrest the pirates wherever found. They were by this means driven from the larger ports and forced to frequent the smaller villages on the sea. Sometimes, nay, generally, their visits were connived at because of their liberal exchange in captured goods and of the cupidity of the merchants. It chanced, however, that an occasional honest magistrate made a rapid descent upon some unexpected place and captured a rover in an out of the way anchorage.

I had been in Maryland nearly a year when an event occurred that offered me a desperate chance of freedom. Captain Tew, a noted pirate, was discovered lying in a cove not far away. The planter to whom I was bound out, and who was also magistrate of the district, prepared to capture the buccaneer. By accident I learned his plans. They were so well laid that, if carried out in secrecy, they could not but be successful. I made up my mind to warn the pirate of his danger, to win thereby his gratitude, and purchase the means of flight. I succeeded in my venture by so narrow a margin that Captain Tew was quite aware that I had rendered him a great service. His gratitude knew no bounds. Though he had intended to sail farther to the south, he set his vessel northward again in order to land me near New York, where I hoped to find Ruth awaiting me. But before we reached our destination he did me the service I have already spoken of. Upon the gift he gave me the day before we reached Long Island turned an important part of my career in the province of New York.

CHAPTER IV
THE BUCCANEER’S GIFT

We made a quick sail from Maryland to the neighborhood of New York and drew near Long Island on a bright day in August. The stiff wind caught up the jetting water from the prow of our ship and rained it down upon the slant of the waves with a rattle like sand falling upon the deck. I clung to the rail with both my hands and my heart rose higher with every bound of the ship.

“You look merry to-day,” cried Captain Tew at my elbow. “I have good news. The lookout on the mizzen top has sighted land.”

I stretched one hand towards the horizon as if I could reach Ruth. The buccaneer seemed to understand my gesture for he continued:

“She’s been there a year, you say? That’s a long time to stay in Yorke. I suppose she took service up the Hudson, perhaps even as far as Albany on the great Van Rensselaer estate. Do you know any one in Yorke?”

“Not a soul,” I answered, the admission damping my spirits somewhat. “But I shall hunt up the Huguenot pastor and inquire of him.”

“I mean no offense, Monsieur Le Bourse,” continued the pirate. “But if you will take my advice you will go slow in your dealing with your countrymen in Yorke. I hear they have been on the fence since the Rebellion:—one year Leisler men; the next, Jacobites to a man. I don’t know much of the new governor either, curse him, except that he keeps us out of the port.”

He stopped talking and looked down absently at the buttons of his coat, fondling them tenderly and turning them up one by one so that he could look at the device engraved on them.

“Fine buttons, Monsieur, fine buttons. Did you ever stop to look at the workmanship and the coat of arms on the back? It goes hard with me to part with them, it does indeed.” Then he cried out more to himself than to me, as if he had made up his mind to a difficult task: “You old ungrateful dog! Off with the pair, I say, off on the instant!”

With that he drew his cutlass and slashed away clumsily at two of the buttons which he presented to me, holding them out on the flat of his hand.

“I’m an ungrateful dog to think twice about letting them go, but you must know their value. They came to me from his Excellency, Colonel Benjamin Fletcher. Ah, he was a merry soul. When he was governor of Yorke we had no trouble to land, but the present earl sets close watch upon the ports. You’ll find the city as full of brawls as tobacco is of smoke. There are Jacobites and Earl’s men and the devil knows what besides. You may be sure of one thing: whatever is at stake, Kilian Van Volkenberg will be at logger-heads with the new earl. When you get there, show these buttons to Kilian. He brought them to me from Fletcher. I’ll stake my ship and cargo he’ll do all that the love of a good fat bargain can make a Dutch merchant do.”

Soon after this conversation the buccaneer took me into his cabin where he presented me with a purse of money, a pair of pistols, and a handsomely mounted sword. All these articles put together, he assured me, were not worth the eye-hole of one of the buttons. “For,” as he said, “old Ben Fletcher was a merry dog and profitable to the jolly sea-rovers.”

An hour later we sighted land from the deck. During the rest of the afternoon our ship stood off and on, waiting for night. As soon as it grew dark enough to conceal my landing, a long-boat was lowered and they put me ashore at Gravesoon. As I went down the side of the ship, Captain Tew bade me a last farewell. He thanked me again and again for the warning I had given him, assuring me that I had saved him and his ship and all his crew.

“Commend me to Kilian,” he said. “And to Ben Fletcher, and mind the factions in the city—and—and—oh, yes, there’s Mistress Miriam, the patroon’s daughter. Tell her that old Tommy Tew hasn’t forgotten her pretty face, and he’ll bring her something from the east when he returns. God speed!”

The long-boat shoved off and soon I was on land. I have already told how I made my way to Gravesoon where the host of the ordinary was curious to know the manner of my arrival, as well as anxious to teach me how to blow a summons upon a conch.

I went to bed that night, as I have already stated, and rose early the next morning to set out on foot. The distance to Breuckelen was about ten miles across the end of the island. The day was bright and cheery, and the road passed through a rich country of farms. This region supplied most of the food for the city and was carefully tilled by the various tenants of the island. On nearing the Sound the road, which was a poor, rutty track at the best, dipped steeply from a crest and in a hundred yards I was at the water’s edge. A small wooden platform floated on the surface and near, tethered to a tree by a thong of buckskin, hung the sea shell. I put it to my lips and, thanks to my practice of the night before, I was able, after one or two unavailing attempts, to send forth a dull wail that echoed over the water and back again half a dozen times.

While I was waiting for the ferryman to come from the Yorke side of the river, my eyes scanned the town impatiently. The city lay huddled on the side of a hill covered with verdure. The tiers of flaming red-tiled roofs extended nearly to the water’s edge where the white walls of the lower houses made visible the cluster of masts swaying in the harbor. Two structures stood out in conspicuous prominence before the rest of the town. High on the right loomed the Stadt Huys, topped by a pointed belfry. To the left on a bold hump of rock squatted the low fort. There the eye lingered with most interest. The slender staff floated the flag of England. In one corner the double gable of the fort chapel peeped above the top of the bastions. What must have been the portholes were mere black blotches upon the gray face of the wall; and below, at the foot of a steep cliff, the climbing surf fretted the rocks with foam.

My eyes were not drawn from the pleasing scene for fully half an hour. By that time the boatman had crossed the river. On the way back both wind and tide were against us and the crossing took much longer. We passed beyond the greater part of the town, having it upon our left, and landed at a little half-moon battery which projected into the East River near what was called the Water Gate. This gate was the eastern entrance to the city through the Wall, a line of palisades backed by a ditch that extended quite across the city from the East River to the Hudson. It formed the northern boundary of New York, and thus it happened that I entered the city from the rear or landward side.

“There is the way to Van Volkenberg manor,” said the ferryman, advancing one arm like a guidepost and pointing along a road that vanished northward among the wooded hills. “But you’ll do no good to follow it now. The patroon will be in the city to-day. It is all furred up with excitement at the meeting of the new assembly. What are you, white or blue?”

I assured him that I was a stranger and that I belonged to neither party as yet; at this information he lost all interest in my affairs. Even from that distance I could hear the confused din of shouting crowds bowling along the streets in the lower part of the town. While I stood irresolute, trying to decide whether to go north towards the manor-house or south into town, I caught sight of a woman in the distance. I made off hastily in her direction with my mind constantly upon Ruth. I laughed to myself when, all out of breath, I caught up with the woman and found her a squalid wife with clumsy wooden shoes that clattered noisily over the stepping stones of the unpaved street.

In this pursuit I had followed the street next the Wall which was bordered on the left by the houses of the chimney sweeps. Now and then a besooted urchin would run out in front of me, point to his grimy rags and call out: “Hi, mynher! I’m an Earl’s man.” This would set him and half a dozen other sweeps to laughing. I did not understand the humor of the youngster’s joke till later when I found that white was the color of the Earl’s party. Then the thought of his little partisans dressed in their sooty rags would set me laughing with a will.

There was a smell of slops to the street next the Wall and nothing attractive about its appearance. I soon came to a turning and, as I glanced down an avenue curving broadly to the left, I stood still with wonder. As far as I could see the street was loosely filled with people. They were in constant motion; now opening into a gap, now closing into a compact mass from house to house; yet the crowd did not grow smaller nor did it move one way more than another.

Above their heads flags projected from every house-front. Many were white, a few were blue; the most distant were indistinguishable as to color, being mere silhouette patches against the sky. They made a pretty sight, fluttering together in the breeze as if the houses trembled with the same excitement that throbbed in the streets below. Bunches of white ribbons hung from the doorknobs and polished knockers. Festoons of the same color looped across the street. Just overhead, so near me that I had not noticed it at first, a large placard was suspended over the middle of the street. It bore in tall figures the inscription “19 to 5.” I accosted a bystander, or runner-by, for no one was still an instant, and asked the meaning of the numbers.

“Good lack! Are you a stranger? That is our majority. Ours!”

He twirled a bunch of white ribbons in my face by way of explanation and then made off towards the scene of a new excitement. I followed his direction and began to hear the cry “Marmaduke, Marmaduke,” which was swelling farther down the street. I followed the crowd which was all moving in one direction now, and elbowed my way along with the others. Men, women and children pressed eagerly forward in the direction of a low building with a peaked gable that stood on the corner of the next street. Soon I fell into a walk; and then we were so jammed together that I had to fight my way tooth and nail to gain a yard. I looked over the tops of people’s heads to where a coach drawn by six white horses had been brought to a stand. A lady had stepped half out of the vehicle and was about to address the people. She was a strong, dignified looking woman with angular features and flashing eyes. She lifted one hand and everyone became still.

“Men of New York,” she began in a rich melodious voice that won its way to my heart immediately, “on this day of victory and joy, it does my old heart good to see the people alive to their rights. When the liberty of the citizens is at stake, who is their friend?”

The crowd broke into a shout of “Marmaduke, Marmaduke.” A woman who stood next me in the street flourished a white flag and cried: “Three cheers for Lady Marmaduke, the friend of the people!” The lady who stood on the step of the coach caught the flag in her hands and motioned for silence.

“Yes, the Marmaduke is the friend of the people. But that is not what I meant. Our bulwark is the Earl. Stand by Earl Richard, friends. You are the strength of Yorke. He is your champion against the blue.” She waved above her head the flag she had taken from the woman and cried: “Three hearty cheers for the Earl of Bellamont!”

By the time the ringing response had died away and order was once more restored the whole attitude of Lady Marmaduke had changed. Tears stood in her eyes and her voice trembled with emotion.

“Dear people, when it pleased God to take my husband, He took from you your staunchest friend. ‘Helen,’ he once said to me, 'if by chance you should be left alone, never forget the people.'” Then she grew brave again, and her deep voice rang clear and distinct. “I shall do all I can, but—remember—remember what I say: our bulwark is Earl Richard.”

She sprang back into the carriage. The driver struck out with his lash. For a moment the six white horses reared and plunged till the swaying crowd gave way in front. The huge vehicle lumbered forward over the uneven street, followed by the cheering of the people.

I turned into a deserted by-way, wondering who this woman was and hoping to make progress more quickly towards the lower part of the town. Even here I met with the same assertion of victory. Three little bare-legged urchins were belaboring a fourth who was scarce able to toddle. He stood on a doorstep warding off the blows of his assailants with a stick. The cause of their attack was the blue blouse he wore;—blue was the color of the defeated party.

“Hiky tiky, you Jacobite!” cried the three little soldiers of the Earl. “Come down and fight fair, you coward.”

I caught up the nearest of the three boys and spanked him well for a bully; upon which the other two fled precipitately into the midst of a duck pond where they stood knee deep in the slimy water and dared me to follow them at my peril.

“I’m as good an Earl’s man as them,” cried the defender of the doorstep. “But I’ll be a Jacobite now for spite. Don’t come near me, you rebel brats.”

He shouldered his stick like a musket and strutted ahead, offering to accompany me to the next corner if I was afraid.

I took the little fellow safely to his mother’s doorstep and then continued my way through King Street to the Slip, whence I could see the whole water front and the merchant ships lying at anchor. I had scarcely reached the battery by the Stadt Huys when a crowd of people came pell mell along the square. They were shouting and yelling at a score of persons who went before and were provided with brooms decked in the victorious white ribbons of the Earl’s party. They were sweeping the street industriously. As they drew near I saw that the ground in front of them was plentifully strewed with little blue marbles the size of birds’ eggs. The sweepers were thus in play cleansing the town of the blue taint of their enemies. They drew near the water, each vying with his neighbor to be the first to get the marbles in front of him into the bay. Ere long they were popping merrily upon the surface. At that moment a diversion occurred in the form of a charge by a company of marines from one of the merchant ships in the harbor. The marines came up the Slip on the run, and in two minutes a hot fight began.

The brooms were not bad weapons of defense. The cutlasses of the sailors got entangled in the brushy ends and sometimes the weapons of the sailors were jerked clean out of their hands. Now and then a stinging thrust in the face would set a man yelling with pain and anger. Meantime the bystanders amused themselves by egging on the combatants as if it were a cock fight.

This sort of thing could not last long. One by one the ends of the brooms were lopped off. The sweepers gave back and at last broke into flight just as the sheriff and a guard of six men came to their relief. Not at all daunted by the appearance of the officers of the law, the marines continued the attack, now gaining ground, now losing, but keeping to it with a will.

My blood was up. Swords ringing and mine in its sheath was a craven plight. I was for joining in but did not know which side to join. Suddenly the sheriff fell wounded and his men turned tail to run.

“Cowards,” I yelled, flourishing my sword, “follow me.”

They plucked up courage and did as I bade them. I led them aside some twenty yards to the mouth of a narrow lane where we were protected on the flanks by a fence on one side and a house on the other. Here the fray began again with redoubled spirit. I had time to notice that each of the sailors wore about his arm a band of red cloth that gave his dress somewhat the appearance of a uniform. Three of them soon lay on the ground by the mouth of the lane, and I doubt not that they were killed, for there seemed to be great enmity between the marines and the city officers. The sailors continued to fight like fiends, yelling and cursing between their blows like so many madmen. I have no doubt they were full of drink, for they did not fight well together but often turned on one another, or hampered themselves by crowding shoulder to shoulder too close to fight to good advantage. In twenty minutes we had reduced their number by half. The sobering effect of this lively scrimmage put a little reason into the heads of those who were still upon their legs. It was now their turn to run, which they did with a marvelous speed considering the fact that they were sailors.

The battle at an end, I wiped the blade of my sword and continued down the Slip, casting my eyes curiously upon the tradesmen’s signs. There were but a few names on the street, though a symbol of some sort stood over the entrance to each shop. At one place a pair of scissors indicated the dock barber and peruke maker. A red ball hung before a vender of cheese; and an empty cask before every third or fourth door showed where spirits was sold. I made my way past a long row of petty shops and small ordinaries till my eyes fell upon that for which I was looking.

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.

Shortly the attention fell off from me somewhat and the inmates began to talk again. Kirstoffel, as they called the host, was a merry fellow. He soon seemed to repent of the rude way in which he had answered my question, for he saw when I took out my purse that I had plenty of ready money. Taking advantage of a moment when attention was diverted to the some disturbance in the street, he came across the room to me and made a qualified apology.

“Gott, man,” he began. “Your demand was too sudden. I have got no rooms here to let out. They were all thrown into one for that what-you-call-it Jacobite Club to meet in. No, I have no rooms.”

As he seemed to be friendly, I asked him why my entrance had been the cause of so much attention. He was about to answer when the people who had been temporarily attracted to the door came pouring back. The tapster laid his finger on his lips, shook his head at me in a warning sort of way, and then stalked haughtily back to his place as if to affect his customers with the largeness of his contempt for me.

I was all alert to discover the clew to this treatment. As each of several new people entered I was pointed out amid whispering and shaking of heads and threatening glances. One fellow, a sailorly looking man, cried out an angry oath and took a step or two in my direction. A comrade caught him by the arm and whispered something in his ear. At that the fellow gave up his notion, whatever it was, and soon their interest in me waned.

Everyone I had seen in the room so far wore somewhere on his coat or hat a bit of the blue ribbon that stood for the Merchants’ party. It was not long, however, before I noticed in one corner a slight, alert man who looked as if he might be a native of my own country. Furthermore, so far as I could see, he wore none of the blue ribbon. I changed my seat so as to come near him. He was an affable sort of fellow and spoke to me at once.

“You and I seem to be on the under side,” he began. “I wonder you don’t wear white.”

I told him, as I had told the ferryman, that I was a stranger in the city and that I had not yet learned the difference between the parties. He at once began a long explanation, telling me all about the Earl of Bellamont and the People’s party whose color was white, and of the Merchants’ party, whose color was blue. Thus begun, I pressed the conversation further to learn why I had been treated with so much attention when I came into the coffee-house. He did not know. Had I worn white or no color at all, as he did, they would have let me alone. There must be something more than that. Did I not know? “How could I?” I said, in answer to his question, for I had been in New York scarce above two hours. All this mystery was very annoying to me, for every few moments I was pointed out and showed off to some new comer like an animal in a cage.

In the meantime my chance acquaintance, who informed me that his name was Pierre, drank continually and was in the merrier mood therefor. “I hate these Dutchmen,” he said, “with their dozen pairs of breeches like barrels round their middles. And the women, ha! I’ve seen a very bean-pole swell out below like a double jib.”

This reference to the Dutchmen reminded me of my desire to see the patroon, and I asked Pierre if he knew Van Volkenberg.

“Know him? I’d know his bones in a button shop. You couldn’t polish the crabbedness out of him. I could tell you where he is at this very moment only—I declare, my head is getting fuddled. I must have a gill of rum to settle this weak beer with.” In a moment he came back from the tap-rail, empty-handed and shaking his head disconsolately. “He will not trust me, not another stuyver. I’m plum fuddled. Where was I?”

I suggested Van Volkenberg, but he did not seem to know the name. I handed him half a crown, but he would not take it.

“No, sir; I’m not a beggar,” he said with a little dignity. “That would hurt me to the heart, and what would Annetje say?” Then he added cunningly: “You are a man of influence. If you would speak to him and ask him to extend my score on credit a little he would do it out of respect to you.”

A moment later Pierre was sipping rum to his satisfaction and I was secretly a shilling out to the landlord.

“Where was I?” continued Pierre, whose memory was improving now that I had got him some liquor without offending his dignity with money. “Where was I? Oh, yes, Van Volkenberg. He is in the room above this one—president of the Jacobite Club. If you wait here you will see him. They always come in for a sup all worn out and dry with thinking.”

Pierre soon fell asleep and I awaited the appearance of the patroon. In a short space of time I was again quite out of the consideration of every person in the room. They talked in low tones as people will who have not the honorable sense of success to be noisy over. They no longer paid any heed to me, not even when further additions were made to their number.

I kept my ears open and I soon learned from the drift of conversation what was the present state of politics in New York. The recently defeated Merchants’ party had been in power for many years; in fact, ever since the trial and execution of the leader, Jacob Leisler. This party’s grip on affairs had, however, been steadily failing ever since and it was quite loosened by the arrival of a new governor. This governor was the Earl of Bellamont. Upon his arrival in New York he had at once espoused the cause of the Popular party, as the adherents of Leisler were called. He made it his especial duty to enforce the Acts of Trade and to put down the illegal traffic with the buccaneers. This unlawful trade was the chief bone of contention between the two parties. To the Merchants’ party belonged all the great tradesmen of the city, hardly one of whom had not in times past, or was not at that very moment engaged in the profitable but unlawful exchange of smuggled goods. It was to continue this trade in defiance of the law that they stood together against the Earl. In the recent election they had been overthrown by a large majority. Their defeat was due mainly to the Frenchmen, which portion of the population of New York was then quite under the control of Lady Marmaduke. She was the lady I had already seen addressing the people from the step of her coach.

While I was gathering the above information piecemeal from the subdued conversation about me in the coffee-room, my acquaintance, Pierre, had roused himself occasionally, swallowed another draught of rum, and then relapsed into sleepy unconsciousness. The group in the room was continually changing, but the people composing it had ceased to point me out as an object of interest. Two or three men had latterly come in who wore upon their arms a band of red cloth like what I had seen on the sailors I had fought against in company with the sheriff’s men. But these fellows took no notice of me, nor did I recognize them as belonging to the band we had fought with.

Before long a sudden lull in the conversation greeted the appearance of two men. Heretofore I had examined the face of every visitor as he came in, wondering if he were Van Volkenberg. I now scanned these two with like attention. The older looking of the two was a large man, powerful but spare in build, with a sharp passionate eye. He returned cordially the numerous greetings with which he was welcomed. Then, for everyone in the room stood silent as if in expectation of a speech, he struck his ebony cane with decision on the floor and began to speak.

“Friends, we have suffered a severe defeat and to-day the Assembly goes into session that will unmake our laws. But the race is not to the swift nor the battle to the strong. We are not yet dead. Power shall return to us. Hush——” He raised his cane and made a motion to cut short a slight attempt to cheer. “Our enemies have triumphed through the vote of the Frenchmen. But you must not let this turn you against them. They are led by the black Lady Marmaduke. We must bring them back to our support. They are willing to come, but we must not drive them sharply. There is one thing I have to tell you that will make you glad at heart. To-day I have been at the governor’s council board. He is at heart our friend. To be sure, he has restored the confiscated property to the family of the traitor Leisler. That strikes home against us, but he could not help himself. The attainder was removed in England and he was bound to carry it out whether he liked to do so or not. This victory has been won in his name, but it is not of his heart. Do not the two traitors still lie at the foot of the gallows?”

A sullen murmur of dissatisfaction followed this appeal. “Ay, they have lain there these eight years,” cried one. “May they rot in their graves forever,” said another. For a moment the air was full of sharp, savage curses directed against the memory of the two leaders of the people.

“And now,” continued the speaker, as Kirstoffel handed him a cup, “let us drink to the health of our stout friend, Colonel Benjamin Fletcher.”

Fletcher! I remembered that name. He was the person who had sent to Captain Tew the buttons that I now had in my pocket. The toast was drunk enthusiastically. Then someone sprang upon a chair and began to beat time; the company followed his example and soon they were all singing this song which they accompanied boisterously with the jingle of mugs and the clatter of feet:

“Hi! Ho! Kirstoffel’s brew,

Gi' good den to Kilian’s crew;

Klink the can,

Let every man

Drink to Van Volkenberg.”

At the last word the tall speaker bowed right and left, whereby I knew he was the patroon.

I felt in my pocket for the silver buttons and, taking one of them in the hollow of my hand with my fingers closed over so as to conceal it till the proper moment, I rose to approach the patroon. This act drew all eyes upon me. There was the same ominous silence as before, accompanied now, however, with ten times the contempt and anger shown at my first entrance. The ill feeling against me was so evident and, so far as I knew, so without cause, that I was fairly nonplussed. No one spoke. The only sounds were the ticking of the tall clock in the corner and a few taps of Van Volkenberg’s cane upon the floor. He likewise seemed to share the general resentment against me.

“Mynher,” said I, as yet holding the button in my hand. “I came to ask——”

“Ask nothing of me, villain.”

“Ay, he is a villain,” chorused several voices.

“Mynher,” I began again, astonished at this reception from a perfect stranger.

“Not a word, wretch, not a word to me. I have no dealings with vagabonds, scum of the streets. If you have anything to say, go talk to my dogs. Zounds! Away! Out of my sight!”

I was about to expostulate, having no idea whatever how to account for this sudden burst of anger, but he raised his cane to strike me. Then I noticed a narrow band of red cloth about his left arm just beyond the elbow.

“Hush, Kilian,” said the companion who had entered with him. “Do not anger yourself.”

“Pish! May I not strike a dog?”

“’Tis not for him but for yourself. Beware, Kilian.”

The patroon was visibly affected by this rejoinder and made an effort to control himself.

“You say you don’t understand what I mean?” he continued in disdain, for he had given me a chance to profess myself ignorant of offense. “Have you not stood against my men? Have you not drawn your sword against the Red Band? Bah, dog! You shall know what it is to kill the men of the Red Band. You shall hang for this if there is a law left in the province.”

He had begun this speech with a measure of self-control. But as the words followed one upon another, he spoke quicker and quicker, and with more and more anger, till he had worked himself to such a height of passion that his friend interfered a second time.

“Be careful, Kilian. These are grave times and we must be on our guard. You know your failing. What if you should make some——” He spoke the rest so low that I could not hear it. It had the effect, however, of calming the patroon. “Hear the man,” continued his friend. “Hear what he has to say.”

“Mynher Van Volkenberg,” I explained, “if the men I fought with on the Slip this morning were your men, I can only say that we gave and took fair blows. Half a score of men fighting two or three or four is what no man of honor will stand by and see unstirred. I fought fair and I confess no crime. I should do the same against the very troops of the Earl.”

“Damn the Earl!” burst out the patroon.

He shook and trembled with rage. This time there was no holding him back. He stormed up and down the room, cursing me, and the Earl, and even his companion, for trying to quiet him. What had been the outcome of our altercation but for an accident I do not know. Just at that moment Pierre, who had been sleeping quietly on my rum all this while, roused himself and stumbled to his feet. When I had first spoken to him a short time before, he was merrily drunk; by now he had swallowed himself into a royal state for quarreling.

“Hi, my duck!” he hiccoughed, as he lurched across the room. “At it again, eh?”

The room was dumb at this sudden outbreak from an unexpected quarter. Pierre drew upon him the attention of us all except the man who had entered with the patroon. His eyes were fixed upon Van Volkenberg, his hand was laid upon the patroon’s arm.

“Come with me, Kilian,” he said in a voice so low that few heard it. “You are wrought up to-day. You cannot trust yourself. Come home with me. Remember how much depends upon your coolness.”

“Old man,” Pierre cried as he tottered indirectly out of the corner where he had been asleep. “You will set your dogs on me, will you?”

There was almost no sound from anyone. Only the slow tick of the clock and the sand crunching beneath Pierre’s feet. Van Volkenberg trembled with fury, but was unable to speak. His companion tried in vain to drag him from the room. Pierre stopped two steps in front of them.

“Take that,” he cried savagely, emptying a glass of rum on the patroon’s waistcoat. Then, waving his arms drunkenly, he began to sing:

“Klink the can,

Let every man—

Down with Van Volkenberg.”

In the uproar that followed I was aware of but two facts. The patroon was dragged off by his companion through one door, and Pierre by the crowd through another. In the midst of the pushing and shoving about the street door someone plucked my elbow. It was Kirstoffel, the host, with his finger to his lips.

“His offense is ducking,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder towards Pierre. “But you. Gott, man! You’ve killed three of the patroon’s best men. I would not be in your shoes for a month’s brew. You will be up for——.” He pointed significantly, first at his neck and then at a beam over head. “Take my advice. Seek you the French dominie. He has got a great hold on Lady Marmaduke as well as the governor. But don’t stand still on your legs or you will hang fast by your neck.”

The fact that I was in unusual danger on account of my part in the brawl of the morning came home to me now for the first time. I resolved to take Kirstoffel’s advice without delay, feeling keenly the danger of my situation. I inquired where the house of the Huguenot pastor was and then asked the name of the person who had been so eager to restrain the patroon’s wrath.

“That? That was Colonel Fletcher, the governor of the province before this one came to the fort.”

It was a strange coincidence that I should be thus thrown against the only two men in New York from whom I had expected any help. All this time I still held the silver button clasped in my hand. I put it back into my pocket and set out along the street in search of the minister who I hoped would be able to assist me out of my difficult situation.

CHAPTER VI
AN INTERVIEW WITH THE EARL