 Section number 14, Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 1. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Chris A. Roberson. Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 1 by Julian Hawthorne Editor. Section number 14, Adventure of the Black Fisherman by Washington Irving. Everybody knows Black Sam, the old Negro fisherman or, as he is commonly called, Mud Sam, who has fished about the sound for the last half century. It is now many years since Sam, who was then as active a young Negro as any in the province and worked on the farm of Kilian Suidam on Long Island. Having finished his day's work at an early hour was fishing one summer evening, just about the neighborhood of Hell Gate. He was in a light skiff and, being well acquainted with the currents and eddies, had shifted his station according to the shifting of the tide, from the hen and chickens to the hogsback, from the hogsback to the pot, from the pot to the frying pan. But in the eagerness of his sport, he did not see that the tide was rapidly ebbing until the roaring of the whirlpools and eddies warned him of his danger, and he had some difficulty in shooting his skiff from among the rocks and breakers and getting to the point of Blackwell's Island. Here he cast anchor for some time, waiting the turn of the tide to enable him to return homeward. As the night set in, it grew blustering and gusty. Dark clouds came bundling up in the west, and now and then a growl of thunder or a flash of lightning told that a summer storm was at hand. Sam pulled over, therefore, under the lee of Manhattan Island, and, coasting along, came to a snug nook just under a steep, beatling rock where he fastened his skiff to the root of a tree that shot up from a cleft and spread its broad branches like a canopy over the water. The gust came scouring along, the wind threw up the river and white surges, the rain rattled among the leaves, the thunder bellowed worse than that which is now bellowing. The lightning seemed to lick up the surges of the stream, but Sam, snugly sheltered under a rock and tree, lay crouching in his skiff, rocking upon the billows until he fell asleep. When he awoke, all was quiet. The gust had passed away, and only now and then a faint gleam of lightning in the east showed which way it had gone. The night was dark and moonless, and from the state of the tide Sam concluded it was near midnight. He was on the point of making loose his skiff to return homeward when he saw a light gleaming along the water from a distance which seemed rapidly approaching. As it drew near he perceived it came from a lantern in the bow of a boat gliding along under the shadow of the land. It pulled up in a small cove close to where he was. A man jumped on shore, and searching about with a lantern exclaimed, This is the place! Here's the iron ring! The boat was then made fast, and the man, returning on board, assisted his comrades in conveying something heavy on shore. As the light gleamed among them, Sam saw that they were five stout, desperate-looking fellows, in red woolen caps with a leader in a three-cornered hat, and that some of them were armed with dirks or long knives and pistols. They talked low to one another, and occasionally in some outlandish tongue which he could not understand. When landing they made their way among the bushes, taking turns to relieve each other and lugging their burden up the rocky bank. Sam's curiosity was now fully aroused, so, leaving his skiff, he clambered silently up a ridge that overlooked their path. They had stopped to rest a moment, and the leader was looking about the bushes with his lantern. Have you brought the spades? said one. They are here, replied another, who had them on his shoulder. We must dig deep where there will be no risk of discovery, said a third. The cold chill ran through Sam's veins. He fancied he saw before him a gang of murderers about to bury their victim. His knees smoked together. In his agitation he shook the branch of the tree which he was supporting himself, and he looked over the edge of the cliff. What's that? cried one of the gang. Someone stirs among the bushes! The lantern was held up in the direction of the noise. One of the red-capped cocked a pistol and pointed it to the very place where Sam was standing. He stood motionless, breathless, expecting the next moment to be his last. Fortunately, his dingy complexion was in his favor, and he made no glare among the leaves. "'Tis no one,' said the man with the lantern. "'What a plague! You would not fire off your pistol and alarm the country!' The pistol was uncocked, the burden was resumed, and the party slowly toiled along the bank. Sam watched them as they went, the light sending back fitful gleams through the dripping bushes, and it was not till they were fairly out of sight that he ventured to draw a breath freely. He now thought of getting back in his boat and making his escape out of the reach of such dangerous neighbors, but curiosity was all-powerful. He hesitated and lingered and listened. By and by he heard the strokes of spades. "'They're digging a grave,' he said to himself, and the cold sweat started upon his forehead. Every stroke of a spade as it sounded through the silent groves went to his heart. It was evident that there was as little noise made as possible. Everything had an air of terrible mystery and secrecy. Sam had a great relish for the horrible, a tale of murder was a treat for him, and he was a constant attendant at executions. He could not resist an impulse in spite of every danger to steal nearer to the scene of mystery and overlook the midnight fellows at their work. He crawled along cautiously, therefore inch by inch, stepping with the utmost care among the dry leaves lest their rustling should betray him. He came at length to where a steep rock intervened between him and the gang, for he saw the light of their lantern shining up against the branches of the trees on the side. Sam slowly and silently clambered up at the surface of the rock, and raising his head above its naked edge beheld the villains immediately below him and so near that though he dreaded discovery he dared not withdraw lest the least movement should be heard. In this way he remained, with his round black face peering above the edge of the rock, like the sun just emerging above the edge of the horizon, or the round cheeked moon on the dial of a clock. The redcaps had nearly finished their work. The grave was filled up, and they were carefully replacing the turf. Once done they scattered dry leaves over the place, and now, said the leader, I defy the devil himself to find it out. The murderers exclaimed Sam involuntarily. The whole gang started, and looking up beheld the round black head of Sam just above them. His white eyes strained half out of their orbits, his white teeth chattering, and his whole visage shining with cold perspiration. We're discovered, cried one. Down with him, cried another. Sam heard the cocking of a pistol, but did not pause for the report. He scrambled over the rock and stone through brush and briar, rolled down banks like a hedgehog, scrambled up others like a catamount. In every direction he heard someone or other of the gang hemming him in. At length he reached the rocky ridge along the river. One of the redcaps was hard behind him. A steep rock like a wall rose directly in his way. It seemed to cut off all retreat, when fortunately he aspired the strong cord-like branch of a grapevine reaching halfway down it. He sprang at it with the force of a desperate man, seized it with both hands, and, being young and agile, succeeded in swinging himself to the summit of the cliff. Here he stood in full relief against the sky when the redcap cocked his pistol and fired. The ball whistled by Sam's head. With the lucky thought of a man in an emergency he uttered a yell, fell to the ground, and detached at the same time a fragment of rock which tumbled with a loud splash into the river. "'I've done his business,' said the redcap, to one or two of his comrades as they arrived, panting. "'He'll tell no tales except to the fishes in the river.'" His pursuers now turned to meet their companions. Sam, silently sliding down the surface of the rock, let himself quietly into a skiff, cast loose the fastening, and abandoned himself to the rapid current which in that place runs like a mill stream, and soon swept him off from the neighborhood. Which was not, however, until he had drifted a great distance that he ventured to ply his oars, when he made his skiff dart like an arrow through the strait of Hell Gate, never heeding the danger of pot, frying pan, nor hogs back itself, nor did he feel himself thoroughly secure until safely nestled in bed in the cockloft of the ancient farmhouse of the soidams. Here the worthy peachy prow paused to take breath and to take a sip of the gossip-tanker that stood at his elbow. His auditors remained with open mouths and outstretched necks, gaping like a nest of swallows for an additional mouthful. "'And is that all?' exclaimed the half-pay officer. "'That's all that belongs to the story,' said peachy prow. "'And did Sam ever find out what was buried by the red caps?' said Wilfert eagerly, whose mind was haunted by nothing but ingots and doubloons. "'Not that I know of,' said peachy. He had no time to spare from his work, and to tell the truth, he did not like to run the risk of another race among the rocks. Besides, how should he recollect the spot where the grave had been digged? Everything would look so different by daylight, and then where was the use in looking for a dead body when there's no chance of hanging the murderers?' "'Aye, but are you sure it was a dead body?' they buried,' said Wilfert. "'To be sure,' cried peachy prow exultingly, does it not haunt him in the neighborhood to this very day?' "'Haunts!' exclaimed several of the party, opening their eyes still wider and edging their chairs still closer. "'Aye, haunts!' repeated peachy. "'Have none of you heard of Father Redcap, who haunts the old-burmed farmhouse in the woods on the border of the sound near Hellgate?' "'Oh, to be sure, I've heard tell of something of the kind, but then I took it for some old-wife's fable.' "'Old-wife's fable or not,' said peachy prow. "'That farmhouse stands by the very spot. It's been unoccupied time out of mind and stands in a lonely part of the coast. But those who fish in the neighborhood have often heard strange noises there, and lights have been seen about the wood at night, and an old fellow in a red cap has been seen at the windows more than once, which people take to be the ghost of the body buried there. Once upon a time three soldiers took shelter in the building for the night and rummaged it from top to bottom when they found old Father Redcap a stride of a cider-barrel in the cellar with a jug in one hand and a goblet in the other. He offered them a drink out of his goblet, but just as one of the soldiers was putting it to his mouth, whew, a flash of fire blazed through the cellar, blinding every mother's son of them for several minutes, and when they recovered their eyesight, jug, goblet, and Redcap had vanished, and nothing but the empty cider-barrel remained. Here the half-pay officer, who was growing very muzzy and sleepy, and nodding over his liquor, with half-extinguished eye, suddenly gleamed up like an expiring light. "'That's all fudge,' he said, as Peachy finished his last story. "'Well, I don't vouch for the truth of it myself,' said Peachy-Prawl. "'Though all the world knows that there's something strange about that house and grounds, but as to the story of Mud Sam, I believe it just as well as if it had happened to myself.' The deep interest taken in this conversation by the company had made them unconscious of the uproar abroad among the elements, when suddenly they were electrified by a tremendous clap of thunder. A lumbering crash followed instantaneously shaking the building to its very foundation. All started from their seats, imagining the shock of an earthquake, or that old father Redcap was coming among them in all his terrors. They listened for a moment, but only heard the rain pelting against the windows and the wind howling among the trees. The explosion was soon explained by the apparition of an old Negro's bald head thrust in at the door, his white goggle eyes contrasting with his jetty pawl, which was wet with rain and shone like a bottle. In a jargon but half-intelligible he announced that the kitchen chimney had been struck with lightning. A sullen pause of the storm which now rose and sank in gusts produced a momentary stillness. In this interval the report of a musket was heard and a long shout almost like a yell resounded from the shores. Everyone crowded to the window, another musket shot was heard, and another long shout mingled wildly with the rising blast of wind. It seemed as if the cry came up from the bosom of the water, for though incessant flashes of lightning spread a light about the shore no one was to be seen. Suddenly the window of the room overhead was opened, and a loud halloo uttered by the mysterious stranger. Several hallings passed from one party to the other, but in a language which none of the company in the bar room could understand and presently they heard the window closed, and a great noise overhead as if all the furniture were pulled and hauled about the room. The negro servant was summoned and shortly afterward was seen assisting the veteran to lug the ponderous sea-chest downstairs. The landlord was in amazement. What? You are not going on the water in such a storm? Storm, said the other scornfully, do you call such a sputter of weather a storm? You'll get drenched to the skin, you'll catch your death, said peachy pra affectionately. Thunder and lightning exclaimed the veteran, don't preach about weather to a man that has cruised in whirlwinds and tornadoes. The obsequious peachy was again struck dumb. The voice from the water was heard once more in a tone of impatience. The bystanders shared with redoubled awe at this man of storms who seemed to have come up out of the deep and to be summoned back to it again. As, with the assistance of the negro, he slowly bore his ponderous sea-chest toward the shore, they eyed it with the superstitious feeling, half doubting whether he were not really about to embark upon it and launch forth upon the wild waves. They followed him at a distance with a lantern. How's the light, roared a hoarse voice from the water? No one wants light here. Thunder and lightning exclaimed the veteran, turning up short upon them. Back to the house with you! Wolfert and his companions shrank back in dismay. Still their curiosity would not allow them to entirely withdraw. A long sheet of lightning now flickered across the waves and discovered a boat filled with men just under a rocky point, rising and sinking with the heaving surges and swashing of the waters at every heave. It was with difficulty held to the rocks by a boat hook, for the current rushed furiously around the point. The veteran hoisted one end of the lumbering sea-chest onto the gunnel of the boat and seized the handle at the other end to lift it in when the motion propelled the boat from the shore. The chest slipped off from the gunnel and, sinking into the waves, pulled the veteran headlong after it. A loud shriek was uttered by all on the shore and a volley of execrations by those on board, but boat and man were hurried away by rushing swiftness of the tide. A pitchy darkness succeeded. Robert Webber, indeed, fancied that he distinguished a cry for help, and that he beheld the drowning man beckoning for assistance, but when the lightning again gleamed along the water all was void, neither man nor boat was to be seen. Nothing but the dashing and weltering of the waves as they hurried past. The company returned to the tavern to await the subsiding of the storm. They resumed their seats and gazed on each other with dismay. The whole transaction had not occupied five minutes and not a dozen words had been spoken. When they looked at the oaken chair they could scarcely realize the fact that the strange being who had so lately tenanted it, full of life and herculean vigor, should already be a corpse. There was the very glass he had just drunk from. There lay the ashes from the pipe which he had smoked, as it were, with his last breath. As the worthy burgers pondered on these things they felt a terrible conviction of uncertainty of existence, and each felt as if the ground on which he stood was rendered less stable by his awful example. As however, the most of the company were possessed of that valuable philosophy which enables a man to bear up with fortitude against the misfortunes of his neighbors, they soon managed to console themselves for the tragic end of the veteran. The landlord was particularly happy that the poor dear man had paid his reckoning before he went and he made a kind of farewell speech on the occasion. He came, said he, in a storm, and he went in a storm. He came in the night and he went in the night. He came nobody knows whence and he's gone nobody knows whence. For ought I know he's gone to the sea once more on his chest and may land to bother some people on the other side of the world, though it's a thousand pities, added he, if he's gone to Davy Jones' locker, that he had not left his own locker behind him. His locker! See, Nicholas preserve us, cried Peachy Prowl. I'd not have that sea-chest in the house for any money. I'll warrant he'd come racketing after it at night and making a haunted house of the inn, and as to his going to see in his chest, I recollect what happened to Skipper Onderdonk's ship on his voyage from Amsterdam. The boatswain died during a storm, so they wrapped him up in a sheet and put him in his own sea-chest and threw him overboard. But they neglected in their hurry scurry to say prayers over him, and the storm raged and roared louder than ever, and they saw the dead man seated in his chest with his shroud for a sail coming hard after the ship, and the sea beckoning before him in great sprays like fire, and there they kept scutting day after day and night after night expecting every moment to go to wreck, and every night they saw the dead boatswain in his sea-chest trying to get up with them, and they heard his whistle above the blasts of the wind, and he seemed to send the great seas mountain high after them that would have swamped the ship if they had not put up the dead lights, and so it went on till they lost sight of him in the fogs off Newfoundland, and suppose he had veered ship and stood for dead man's isle. So much for burying a man at sea without saying prayers over him! The thunder-gust which had hitherto detained the company was now at an end. The cuckoo-clock on the hall had told midnight, everyone pressed to depart, for seldom was such a late hour of the night trespassed on by these quiet burgers. As they sallied forth they found the heavens once more serene. The storm which had lately obscured them had rolled away, and lay plied up in fleecy masses on the horizon, lighted up by the bright crescent of the moon which looked like a little silver lamp hung up in a palace of clouds. The dismal occurrence of the night, and the dismal narrations they had made, had left a superstitious feeling in every mind. They cast a fearful glance at the spot where the buccaneer had disappeared, almost expecting to see him sailing on his chest in the cool moonshine. The trembling rays glittered along the water, but all was placid, and the current dimpled over the spot where he had gone down. The party huddled together in a little crowd as they repaired homeward, particularly when they passed a lonely field where a man had been murdered, and even the sexton, who had to complete his journey alone, though accustomed, what would think to ghosts and goblins went a long way around, rather than pass by his own churchyard. Wilfert Webert had now carried home a fresh stock of stories and notions to ruminate upon. These accounts of pots of money and Spanish treasures buried here and there and everywhere about the rocks and bays of these wild shores made him almost dizzy. Blessed St. Nicholas ejaculated, he half-allowed, is it not possible to come upon one of these golden hordes and to make one self-rich in a twinkling? How hard that I must go on delving and delving day in and day out merely to make a morsel of bread when one lucky stroke of a spade might enable me to ride in my carriage for the rest of my life! As he turned over in his thoughts all that had been told of the singular adventure of the negro fisherman, his imagination gave a totally different complexion to the tale. He saw in the gang of redcaps nothing but a crew of pirates burying their spoils, and his cupidity was once more awakened by the possibility of at length getting on the traces of some of this lurking wealth. Indeed his infected fancy tinged everything with gold. He felt like the greedy inhabitant of Baghdad when his eyes had been greased with the magic ointment of the dervish that gave him to see all the treasures of the earth. Caskets of buried jewels, chests of ingots, and barrels about landish coins seemed to court him from their concealment and supplicate him to relieve them from their untimely graves. On making private inquiries about the grounds said to be haunted by feather redcap, he was more and more confirmed in his surmise. He learned that the place had several times been visited by experienced money-diggers who had heard Black Sam's story, though none of them had met with success. On the contrary, they had always been dogged with ill luck of some kind or other in consequence, as Wolfert concluded, of not going to work at the proper time with the proper ceremonials. The last attempt had been made by Cobus Quackenbos, who dug for a whole night and met with incredible difficulty, for as fast as he threw one shovel full of earth out of the hole two were thrown in by invisible hands. He succeeded so far, however, as to uncover an iron chest, when there was a terrible roaring, ramping, and raging of uncouth figures about the hole, and at length a shower of blows dealt by invisible cudgels fairly belabored him off of the forbidden ground. This Cobus Quackenbos had declared on his deathbed so that there could not be any doubt of it. He was a man that had devoted many years of his life to money-digging, and it was thought would have ultimately succeeded had he not died recently of brain fever in the Almshouse. Wolfert Weber was now in a worry trepidation and impatience, fearful lest some rival adventurer should get a scent of the buried gold. He determined privately to seek out the black fisherman, and to get him to serve as a guide to the place where he had witnessed the mysterious scene of internment. Sam was easily found, for he was one of those old habitual beings that lived about the neighborhood until they wear themselves a place in the public mind, and become, in a matter, public characters. There was not an unlucky urchin about town that did not know Sam the fisherman, and think that he had a right to play his tricks upon the old negro. Sam had led an amphibious life for more than half a century about the shores of the bay and the fishing grounds of the sound. He passed the greater part of his time on and in the water, particularly about Hellgate, and might have been taken in bad weather for one of the hobgoblins that used to haunt that strait. There would he be seen, at all times and in all weathers, sometimes in his skiff anchored among the eddies, or prowling like a shark about some wreck where fish are supposed to be most abundant, sometimes seated on a rock from hour to hour looking in the mist and drizzle like a solitary heron watching for its prey. He was well acquainted with every hole and corner of the town, from the wall about to Hellgate and from Hellgate unto the devil's stepping stones, and it was even affirmed that he knew all the fish in the river by their Christian names. Wilford found him at his cabin, which was not much larger than a tolerable doghouse. It was rudely constructed of fragments of wrecks and driftwood. Built on the rocky shore at the foot of the old fort, just about what at present forms the point of the battery, a very ancient and fish-like smell pervaded the place, oars, paddles, and fishing rods were leaning against the wall of the fort, a net was spread on the sand to dry, a skiff was drawn up on the beach, and at the door of his cabin was Mud Sam himself, indulging in a true negro luxury of sleeping in the sunshine. Many years had passed away since the time of Sam's youthful adventure, and the snows of many a winter had grizzled the naughty wool upon his head. He perfectly recollected the circumstances, however, he had often been called upon to relate them, though in his version of the story he differed in many points from Peachy Prow, as is not infrequent the case with authentic historians. As to the subsequent researches of money-diggers, Sam knew nothing about them. They were matters quite out of his line. Neither did the cautious Wilford care to disturb his thoughts on that point. His only wish was to secure the old fisherman as a pilot to the spot, and this was readily affected. The long time that had intervened since his nocturnal adventure had he faced all Sam's awe of the place, and the promise of a trifling reward roused him at once from his sleep and his sunshine. The tide was adverse to making the expedition by water, and Wilford was too impatient to get to the land of promise to wait for its turning. They set off, therefore, by land. A walk of four or five miles brought them to the edge of the wood, which at that time covered the greater part of the eastern side of the island. It was just beyond the pleasant region of Blumendale. Here they struck into a long lane struggling among the trees and bushes, very much overgrown with weeds and mullion stalks, as if but seldom used, and so completely overshadowed as to enjoy but a kind of twilight. Wild vines entangled the trees and flaunted in their faces. Brambles and briars caught their clothes as they passed. The guttersnake glided across their path. The spotted toad hopped and waddled before them, and the restless catbird mewed at them from every thicket. Had Wilford Webber been deeply red in romantic legend, he might have fancied himself, entering upon forbidden, enchanted ground, or that these were some of the guardians set to keep watch upon buried treasure. As it was, the loneliness of the place and the wild stories connected with it had their effect upon his mind. On reaching the lower end of the lane they found themselves near the shore of the sound. In a kind of amphitheater surrounded by forest trees. The area had once been a grass plot, but was now shagged with briars and rankweeds. At one end, and just on the riverbank, was a ruined building, little better than a heap of rubbish, with a stack of chimneys rising like a solitary tower out of the center. The current of the sound rushed along just below it, and the wildly grown trees drooping their branches into its waves. Wilford had not a doubt that this was the haunted house of Father Redcap, and called to mind the story of Peachy Prow. The evening was approaching, and the light, falling dubiously among the woody places, gave a melancholy tone to the scene, well calculated to foster any lurking feeling of awe or superstition. The nighthawk, wheeling about in the highest regions of the air, emitted his peevish, boating cry. The woodpecker gave a lonely tap now and then on some hollow tree, and the firebirds streamed by them with his deep, red plumage. They now came to an enclosure that had once been a garden. It extended along the foot of a rocky ridge, but was little better than a wilderness of weeds, with here and there a matted rosebush or a peach or plum tree, grown wild and ragged and covered with moss. At the end of the garden they passed a kind of vault in the side of the bank facing the water. It had the look of a root-house. The door, though decayed, was still strong and appeared to have been recently patched up. Wilfort pushed it open. It gave a harsh grating upon its hinges, and striking against something like a box a rattling sound ensued and a skull rolled on the floor. Wilfort drew back shuddering, but was reassured on being informed by the negro that this was a family vault, belonging to one of the old Dutch families that owned this estate, an assertion corroborated by the site of coffins of various sizes piled within. They had been familiar with all these scenes when a boy and now knew that he could not be far from the place of which they were in quest. They now made their way to the water's edge, scrambling along ledges of rock that overhung the waves, and obliged often to hold by shrubs and grapevines to avoid slipping into the deep and hurried stream. At length they came to a small cove, a rather indent of the shore. It was protected by steep rocks and overshadowed by a thick cops of oaks and chestnuts, so as to be sheltered and almost concealed. The beach shelved gradually within the cove, but the current swept deep and black and rapid along its jutting points. The negro paused, raised his remnant of a hat, and scratched his grizzled pawl for a moment as he regarded this nook. Then suddenly clapping his hands he stepped exultingly forward and pointed to a large iron ring stapled firmly in the rock just where a broad shelf of stone furnished a commodious landing place. It was the very spot where the redcaps had landed. Years had changed the more perishable features of the scene, but rock and iron yielded slowly to the influence of time. On looking more closely, Wilfert remarked three crosses cut in the rock just above the ring, which had no doubt some mysterious signification. Old Sam now readily recognized the overhanging rock under which his skiff had been sheltered during the thundergust. To follow up the course which the midnight gang had taken, however, was a harder task. His mind had been so much taken up on the eventful occasion by the persons of the drama as to pay but little attention to the scenes, and these places looked so different by night and day. After wandering about for some time, however, they came to an opening among the trees which Sam thought resembled the place. There was a ledge of rock of moderate height, like a wall on one side, which he thought might be the very ridge once he had overlooked the diggers. Wilfert examined it narrowly, and at length discovered three crosses similar to those on the above ring cut deeply of the rock but nearly obliterated by moss that had grown over them. His heart leaped for joy, for he doubted not that they were the private marks of the buccaneers. All now that remained was to ascertain the precise spot where the treasure lay buried. For otherwise he might dig at random in the neighborhood of the crosses without coming upon the spoils, and he had already had enough of such profitless labor. Here, however, the old Negro was perfectly at a loss, and indeed perplexed him by a variety of opinions for his recollections were all confused. Sometimes he declared it must have been at the foot of a mulberry tree hard by. Then, beside a great white stone, then under a small green knoll, a short distance from the ledge of rocks until at length Wilfert became as bewildered as himself. The shadows of evening were now spreading themselves over the woods, and rock and tree began to mingle together. It was evidently too late to attempt anything further at present, and indeed Wilfert had come unprovided with the implements to prosecute their researches. Satisfied therefore with having ascertained the place, he took note of all its landmarks, that he might recognize it again, and set out on his return homeward, resolve to prosecute this golden enterprise without delay. Section 15 of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 1. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Chris A. Robertson. The Leading Anxiety, which had hitherto absorbed every feeling being now in some measure appeased, fancy began to wander and to conjure up a thousand shapes and chimeras as he returned through this haunted region. Pirates hanging in chains seemed to swing from every tree, and as he returned through this haunted region, he began to wander, and to conjure up a thousand shapes and chimeras as he returned through this haunted region. Pirates hanging in chains seemed to swing from every tree, and he almost expected to see some Spanish dawn with his throat cut from ear to ear, rising slowly out of the ground and shaking the ghost of a money bag. Their way back lay through the desolate garden, and Wolfert's nerves had arrived at so sensitive a state that the flitting of a bird and rustling of a leaf or the falling of a nut was enough to startle him. As they entered the confines of the garden, they caught sight of a figure at a distance advancing slowly up one of the walks and bending under the weight of a burden. They paused and regarded him attentively. He wore what appeared to be a woollen cap and still more alarming of a most sanguinary red. The figure moved slowly on, ascended the bank, and stopped at the very door of the sepulcher vault. Just before entering it he looked around. What was the affright of Wolfert when he recognized the grisly visage of the drowned buccaneer? He uttered an ejaculation of horror. The figure slowly raised his iron fist and shook it with a terrible menace. Wolfert did not pause to see any more, but hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him, nor was Sam slow in following at his heels, having all his ancient terrors revived. Away then did they scramble through the bush and break, horribly frightened at every bramble that tugged at their skirts, nor did they pause to breathe until they had blundered their way through this perilous wood and fairly reached the high road to the city. Several days elapsed before Wolfert could some encourage enough to prosecute the enterprise. So much had he been dismayed by the apparition, whether living or dead, of the grisly buccaneer. In the meantime what a conflict of mind did he suffer? He neglected all his concerns, was moody and restless all day, lost his appetite, wandered in his thoughts and words, and committed a thousand blunders. His rest was broken, and when he fell asleep the nightmare in shape of a huge money bag sat squatted upon his breast. He babbled about incalculable sums. Fancy'd himself engaged in money digging through the bed-clothes right and left in the idea that he was shoveling away the dirt, groped under the bed in quest of the treasure, and lugged forth as he supposed an inestimable pot of gold. Dame Weber and her daughter were in despair at what they conceived a returning touch of insanity. There are two family oracles, one or other of which Dutch housewives consult in all cases of great doubt and perplexity, the domini and the doctor. In the present instance they repaired to the doctor. There was at that time a little dark, moldy man of medicine, famous among the old wives of the Manhattanos for his skill, not only in the healing-art, but in all matters of strange and mysterious nature. His name was Dr. Nipperhausen, but he was more commonly known by the appellation of the High German Doctor. To him did the poor women repair for counsel and assistance, touching the mental vagaries of Wolfert Weber. They found the doctor seated in his little study, clad in his dark camelet robe of knowledge with his black velvet cap after the manner of Borhaver, van Helmut, and other medical sages, a pair of green spectacles set in black horn upon his clubbed nose and pouring over a German folio that reflected back the darkness of his physiognomy. The doctor listened to their statement of symptoms of Wolfert's malady with profound attention. But when he came to mention his raving about buried money the little man pricked up his ears. The poor women, they little knew the aid they had called in. Dr. Nipperhausen had been half of his life engaged in seeking the shortcuts to fortune, in quest of which so many a long lifetime has wasted. He had passed some years of his youth among the Harz Mountains of Germany and had derived much valuable instruction from the miners touching the mode of seeking treasure buried in the earth. He had prosecuted his studies also under a traveling sage who united the mysteries of medicine with magic and ledger domain. His mind, therefore, had become stored with all kinds of mystic lore. He had dabbled a little in astrology, alchemy, divination, knew how to detect stolen money, and to tell where springs of water lay hidden. In a word, by the dark nature of his knowledge he had acquired the name of the High German Doctor, which is pretty nearly equivalent to that of Necromancer. The Doctor had often heard rumors of treasure being buried in various parts of the island and had long been anxious to get on the traces of it. No sooner were Wolfert's waking and sleeping vagaries confided to him than he beheld in them the confirmed symptoms of a case of money-digging and lost no time in probing it to the bottom. Wolfert had long been sorely oppressed in mind by the Golden Secret, and as a family physician is a kind of father-confessor, he was glad of any opportunity of unburdening himself. So far from the curing the Doctor caught the malady from his patient. The circumstances unfolded to him awakened all his cupidity. He had not a doubt of money being buried somewhere in the neighborhood of the mysterious crosses and offered to join Wolfert in the search. He informed him that much secrecy and caution must be observed in enterprises of this kind, that money is only to be dug for at night, with certain forms and ceremonies and burning of drugs, the repeating of mystic words, and above all that the seekers must first be provided with the Divining Rod, which had the wonderful property of pointing to the very spot on the surface of the earth under which treasure lay hidden. As the Doctor had given much of his mind to these matters, he charged himself with all the necessary preparations and, as the quarter of the moon was propitious, he undertook to have the Divining Rod ready by a certain night. Wolfert's heart leaped with joy at having met so learned and able a co-agitor. Everything went on secretly, but swimmingly. The Doctor had many consultations with his patient, and the good women of the household lauded the comforting effect of his visits. In the meantime the wonderful Divining Rod, that great key to Nature's secrets was duly prepared. The Doctor had thumbed over all his books of knowledge for the occasion, and the Black Fisherman was engaged to take him in his skiff to the scene of enterprise, to work with a spade and pickaxe in unearthing the treasure, and to freight his bark with the weighty spoils they were certain of finding. At length the appointed night arrived for this perilous undertaking. Before Wolfert left his home he counseled his wife and daughter to go to bed and feel no alarm if he should not return during the night. Like reasonable women, on being told not to feel any alarm they fell immediately into a panic. They saw at once by his manner that something unusual was in agitation. All their fears about the unsettled state of his mind were revived with tenfold force. They hung about him, and treating him not to expose himself to the night air, but all in vain. When once Wolfert was mounted on his hobby it was no easy manner to get him out of the saddle. It was a clear starlit night when he issued out of the portal of the Weber Palace. He wore a large flat tat tied under the chin with a handkerchief of his daughters to secure him from the night's damp, while Dean Weber threw her long red cloak about his shoulders and fastened it around his neck. The doctor had been no less carefully armed and accounted by his housekeeper, the vigilant Frau Ilzee, and sallied forth in his camelate robe by way of surcoat his black velvet cap under his cocked hat, a thick clasped book under his arm, a basket of drugs and dried herbs in one hand, and in the other the miraculous rod of divination. The great church clock struck ten as Wolfert and the doctor passed by the churchyard, and the watchman bawled in hoarse voice, a long and doleful all's well. A deep sleep had already fallen upon this primitive little borough. Nothing disturbed this awful silence excepting now and then the bark of some profligate night-walking dog, or the serenade of some romantic cat. It is true, Wolfert fancied more than once, that he heard the sound of a stealthy footfall at the distance behind them, but it might have been merely the echo of their own footsteps along the quiet streets. He thought also at one time that he saw a tall figure skulking after them, stopping when they stopped, and moving on as they proceeded. But the dim and uncertain lamplight through such vague gleams and shadows, that this might all have been mere fancy. They found the old fisherman waiting for them, smoking his pipe in the stern of the skiff, which was moored just in front of his little cabin. A pickaxe and spade were lying in the bottom of the boat with a dark lantern, and a stone bottle of good Dutch courage, in which honest Sam no doubt put even more faith than Dr. Nipperhausen in his drugs. Thus then did these three-worthies embark upon their cockleshell of a skiff upon this nocturnal expedition with a wisdom and valor equaled only by the three wise men of Gotham, who had ventured to sea in a bowl. The tide was rising and running rapidly up the sound. The current bore them along almost without the aid of an oar. The profile of the town lay all in shadow. Here and there a light feebly glimmered from some sick chamber or from the cabin window of some vessel at anchor in the stream. Not a cloud obscured the deep starry firmament, the lights of which wavered on the surface of the Placid River, and a shooting meteor streaking its pale course in the very direction they were taking, was interpreted by the doctor into a most propitious omen. In a little while they glided upon the point of Corlear's hook, with the rural in which had been the scene of such night adventures. The family had retired to rest, and the house was dark and still. Wilfert felt a chill pass over him as they passed the point where the buccaneer had disappeared. He pointed it out to Dr. Nipperhausen. While regarding it, they thought they saw a boat actually lurking at the very place, but the shore cast such a shadow over the border of the water that they could discern nothing distinctly. They had not proceeded far when they heard the low sounds of distant oars as if cautiously pulled. Sam plied his oars with redoubled vigor, and knowing all the eddies and currents of the stream soon left their followers if such they were far astern. In a little while they stretched across Turtle Bay and Kipps Bay, then shrouded themselves in the deep shadow of the Manhattan shore and glided swiftly along secure from observation. At length the negro shot his skiff into a little cove, darkly embowered by trees, and made it fast to the well-known iron ring. They now landed, and lighting the lantern gathered their various implements and proceeded slowly through the bushes. Every sound startled them, even that of their own footsteps among the dry leaves, the hooting of a screech owl from the shattered chimney of the neighboring ruin made their blood run cold. In spite of all Wilfert's caution and taking note of the landmarks it was some time before they could find the open place among the trees where the treasure was supposed to be buried. At length they came to the ledge of rock, and on examining its surface by the aid of lantern Wilfert recognized the three mystic crosses. Their hearts beat quick for the momentous trail was at hand that was to determine their hopes. The lantern was now held by Wilfert Webber while the doctor produced the divining rod. It was a forked twig, one end of which was grasped firmly in each hand while the center forming the stem pointed perpendicularly upward. The doctor moved his wand about within a certain distance of the earth from place to place, but for some time without any effect while Wilfert kept the light of the lantern turned full upon it, and watched it with the most breathless interest. At length the rod began slowly to turn. The doctor grasped it with the greater earnestness. The doctor grasped it with greater earnestness, his hands trembling with the agitation of his mind. The wand continued to turn gradually until at length the stem had reversed its position and pointed perpendicularly downward and remained pointing to one spot as fixedly as the needle to its pole. This is the spot, said the doctor, in an almost inaudible tone. Wilfert's heart was in his throat. Shella dig, said the negro grasping the spade. Pats-dorsen, no! replied the little doctor hastily. He now ordered his companions to keep close by him and to maintain the most inflexible silence, that certain precautions must be taken and ceremonies used to prevent the evil spirits which kept about buried treasure from doing them any harm. He then drew a circle about the place enough to include the whole party. He next gathered dry twigs and leaves and made a fire upon which he threw certain drugs and dried herbs which he had brought in his basket. A thick smoke rose, diffusing a potent odor savoring marvelously of brimstone and asafotida, which, however grateful it might be to the olfactory nerves of spirits, nearly strangled poor Wilfert and produced a fit of coughing and wheezing that made the whole grove resound. Dr. Nipperhausen then unclasped the volume which he had brought under his arm which was printed in red and black characters in German text. While Wilfert held the lantern, the doctor, by the aid of his spectacles read off several forms of conjuration in Latin and German. He then ordered Sam to seize the pickaxe and proceed to work. The close bound soil gave obstinate signs of not having been disturbed for many a year. After having picked his way through the surface, Sam came to a bed of sand and gravel which he threw briskly to right and left with the spade. Hark! said Wilfert, who fancied he heard a trampling among the dry leaves and a rustling through the bushes. Sam paused for a moment and they listened. No footstep was near. The bat flitted by them in silence. A bird roused from his roost by the light which glared up among the trees flew circling about the flame. In the profound stillness of the woodland they could distinguish the current rippling among the rocky shore and the distant murmuring and roaring of Hellgate. The negro continued his labours and had already digged a considerable hole. The doctor stood on the edge, reading formulae every now and then from his black letter volume or throwing more drugs and herbs upon the fire while Wilfert bent anxiously over the pit, watching every stroke of the spade. Anyone witnessing the scene, thus lighted up by fire, lantern and the reflection of Wilfert's red mantle, might have mistaken the little doctor for some foul magician busied in his incantations and the grizzled head negro for some swart goblin obedient to his command. At length the spade of the fisherman struck upon something that sounded hollow. The sound vibrated to Wilfert's heart. He struck his spade again. "'Tis a chest,' said Sam. "'Full of gold I'll warrant it,' cried Wilfert, clasping his hands with rapture. Scarcely had he uttered the words when a sound from above caught his ear. He cast his eyes up and low by the exfiring light of the fire he beheld just over the disc of the rock, what appeared to be the grim visage of the drowned buccaneer grinning hideously down upon him. Wilfert gave a loud cry and let the lantern fall. His panic communicated itself to his companions. The negro leaped out of the hole. The doctor dropped his book and basket and began to pray in German. All was horror and confusion. The fire was scattered about. The lantern extinguished. In their hurry scurry they ran against and confounded one another. The lanterns of the goblins let loose upon them, and that they saw by fitful gleams of the scattered emberds strange figures in red caps gibbering and ramping around them. The doctor ran one way, the negro another, and Wilfert made for the waterside. As he plunged struggling onward through the brush and break he heard the tread of someone in pursuit. He scrambled frantically forward. The footsteps gained upon him. He felt himself grasped by his cloak when suddenly his pursuer was attacked in turn. A fierce fight and struggle ensued, a pistol was discharged that lit up the rock and bush for a second and showed two figures grappling together. All was then darker than ever. The contest continued. The combatants clinched each other and panted and groaned and rolled among the rocks. There was a snarling and growling of a cur mingled with curses in which Wilfert fancied he could recognize the voice of the buccaneer. He would fain have fled, but he was on the brink of a precipice and could go no farther. Again the parties were on their feet. Again there was a tugging and struggling as if strength alone could decide the combat until one was precipitated from the brow of the cliff and sent headlong into the deep stream that whirled below. Wilfert heard the plunge and a kind of strangling, bubbling murmur, but the darkness of the night hid everything from him and the swiftness of the current swept everything instantly out of hearing. One of the combatants was disposed of, but whether friend or foe Wilfert could tell, nor whether they might not both be foes. He heard the survivor approach and his terror revived. He saw where the profile of the rocks rose against the horizon, a human form advancing. He could not be mistaken. It must be the buccaneer. Wither should he fly! A precipice was on one side, a murderer on the other, the enemy approached. He was close at hand. Wilfert attempted to let himself down the face of the cliff, his cloak caught on a hand that grew on the edge. He was jerked from off his feet and held dangling in the air, half choked by the string with which his careful wife had fastened the garment around his neck. Wilfert thought his last moment was arrived. Already he had committed his soul to St. Nicholas when the string broke and he tumbled down the banks, bumping from rock to rock and bush to bush and leaving the red cloak fluttering like a bloody banner in the air. It was a long while before Wilfert came to himself. He opened his eyes. The ruddy streaks of morning were already shooting up the sky. He found himself grievously battered and lying in the bottom of a boat. He attempted to sit up, but was too sore and stiff to move. A voice requested him in a friendly accents to lie still. He turned his eyes toward the speaker. It was Dirk Waldron. He had dogged the party at the earnest request of Dame Weber and her daughter who, with the laudable curiosity of their sex, had pried into the house of Wilfert and the doctor. Dirk had been completely distanced in following the light-skiff of the fisherman and had just come in time to rescue the poor money-digger from his pursuer. Thus ended this perilous enterprise. The doctor and Black Sam severely found their way back to the Manhattan's, each having some dreadful tale of peril to relate. As to poor Wilfert, instead of returning in triumph laden with bags of gold, he was born home later, followed by a rabble-route of curious urchins. His wife and daughter saw the dismal pageant from a distance and alarmed the neighborhood with their cries. They thought the poor man had suddenly settled the great debate of nature in one of his wayward moods. Finding him, however, still living, they had him speedily to bed at a jury of old matrons of the neighborhood assembled to determine how he should be doctored. The whole town was in a buzz with the old man, who had been prepared to the scene of the previous night's adventures, but though they found the very place of the digging they discovered nothing that compensated them for their trouble. Some say they found the fragments of an oaken chest and an iron-pot lid which savored strongly of hidden money and that in the old family vault there were traces of bales and boxes, but this is all very dubious. In fact, the secret of all this story has never to this day been whether any treasure were ever actually buried at that place, whether if so it were carried off at night by those who had buried it, or whether it still remains there under the guardianship of gnomes and spirits until it shall be properly sought for is all a matter of conjecture. For my part, I inclined to the latter opinion and make no doubt that great sums lie buried there, both there and at other parts of this island and its neighborhood, ever since the times of the buccaneers and the gnomes, and I would earnestly recommend the search after them to such of my fellow citizens as are not engaged in any other speculations. There were many conjectures formed also as to who and what the strange man of the seas who had domineered over the little fraternity at Corleir's Hook for a time disappeared so strangely and reappeared so fearfully. Some supposed him a smuggler stationed at that place to assist his comrades in landing their goods among the island. Others, that he was one of the ancient comrades of Kid or Bradish, returned to convey away treasures formally hidden in the vicinity. The only circumstance that throws anything like a vague light on this mysterious matter is a report which prevailed of a strange foreign-built shallop with much the look of a picaroon having been seen hovering about the sound for several days without landing or reporting herself, though boats were seen going to and from her at night seen standing out of the mouth of the harbor in the gray of the dawn after the catastrophe of the money-diggers. I must not omit to mention another report also which I confess is rather apocryphal of the buccaneer who was supposed to have been drowned being seen before daybreak with a lantern in his hand seated astride of his great sea-chest and sailing through Helgate which just then began to roar and bellow with redoubled fury. While all the gossip world was thus filled with a broken rumor poor Wolfert lay sick and sorrowfully in his bed bruised in body and sorely beaten down in mind. His wife and daughter did all they could to bind up his wounds both corporal and spiritual. The good old dame never stirred from his bedside where she sat knitting from morning till night while his daughter busied herself about him with the fondest care, nor did they lack assistance from abroad. Whatever may be said of a desertion of friends in distress they had no complaint of it. Not an old wife in the neighborhood but abandoned her work to crowd the mansion of Wolfert Webber to inquire after his health and the particulars of his story. Not one came, moreover, without her little pipkin of penny-royal, sage, balm, or other herb tea, delighted at an opportunity of signalizing her kindness and her doctorship. What drenchings did not the poor Wolfert undergo and all in vain? It was a moving sight to behold him day by day, growing thinner and thinner and gaslier and gaslier and staring with rueful visage from under an old patchwork counterpane upon the jury of matrons kindly assembled to sigh and groan and look unhappy around him. Dirk Waldron was the only being that seemed to shed a ray of sunshine into the house of mourning. He came in with cheery look and manly spirit and tried to reanimate the expiring heart of the poor money-digger but it was all in vain. Wolfert was completely done over. If anything was wanting to complete his despair, it was a notice served upon him in the midst of his distress that the corporation was about to run a new street through the very center of his cabbage garden. He now saw nothing before him but poverty and ruin, his last reliance, the garden of his forefathers was to be laid waste, and what then was to become of his poor wife and child, his eyes filled with tears while Amy out of the room one morning. Dirk Waldron was seated beside him. Wolfert grasped his hand, pointed after his daughter and for the first time since his illness broke the silence he had maintained. I am going, said he, shaking his head feebly, and when I am gone, my poor daughter. Leave her to me, father, said dirk manfully, I'll take care of her. Wolfert looked up in the face of the cheery, strapping youngster and saw there was none better able to take care of a woman. Enough, he said, she is yours, and now fetch me a lawyer, let me make my will and die. A lawyer was brought, a dapper bustling round-headed little man, Rohrbach, or Rolobach, as it was pronounced, by name. At the sight of him the women broke into loud lamentations for they looked upon the signing of a will as the signing of a death warrant. Wolfert made a feeble motion for them to be silent, for Amy buried her grief in their bed-curtain. Dame Weber resumed her knitting to hide her distress, which betrayed itself, however, in a pelucid tear, which trickled silently down and hung at the end of her peaked nose, while the cat, the only unconcerned member of the family, played with the good dame's ball of worsted as it rolled about the floor. Wolfert lay on his back, his night kept drawn over his forehead. His eyes closed, his whole visage the picture of death. He begged the lawyer to be brief, for he felt his end approaching, and that he had no time to lose. The lawyer nibbed his pen, spread out his paper, and prepared to write. I give and bequeath, said Wolfert faintly. My small farm. What? All? exclaimed the lawyer. Wolfert half-opened his eyes and looked upon the lawyer. Yes. All. He said. What? All that great patch of land with cabbages and sunflowers was going to run a main street through? The same. said Wolfert, with a heavy sigh, sinking back upon his pillow. I wish him joy that inherits it, said the little lawyer, chuckling and rubbing his hands involuntarily. What do you mean? said Wolfert, again opening his eyes. That he'll be one of the richest men in the place, cried little Rolobuck. The expiring Wolfert seemed to step back from the threshold of existence. His eyes again lighted up. Wolfert raised himself in his bed, shoved his red worsted nightcap and stared broadly at the lawyer. You don't say, exclaimed he. Faith but I do rejoin the other. Why, when that great field and that huge meadow came to be laid out in the streets and cut up into snug building-lots, why, whoever owns it need not pull off his hat to the patroon. Say you so, cried Wolfert, half-thrusting one leg out of bed, why, then I think I'll not make my will yet. To the surprise of everyone, the dying man actually recovered. The vital spark which had glimmered faintly in the socket received fresh fuel from the oil of gladness which the little lawyer poured into his soul. It was once more burned up into a flame. Give physics to the heart, ye who would revive the body of a spirit-broken man. In a few days Wolfert left his room. In a few days more his table was covered with deeds, plans of streets and building-lots. Colonel Rollabuck was constantly with him, his right-hand man and advisor, and instead of making his will assisted him in the more agreeable task of making his fortune. In fact, Wolfert Weber was one of those worthy Dutch burgers of the Manhattanos whose fortunes have been made in a manner in spite of themselves, who have tenaciously held on to their hereditary acres, raising turnips and cabbage about the skirts of the city hardly able to make both ends meet until the end of the year. In fact, Wolfert Weber's administration has cruelly driven streets through their abodes, and they have suddenly awakened out of their lethargy and, to the astonishment, found themselves rich men. Before many months had elapsed, a great bustling street passed through the very center of the Weber Garden, just where Wolfert had dreamed of finding a treasure. His golden dream was accomplished. He rented out to safe tenants. Instead of producing a paltry crop of cabbages, they returned him an abundant crop of rent in so much that on quarter day it was goodly sight to see his tenants knocking at the door from morning till night, each with a little round-bellied bag of money, a golden produce of the soil. The ancient mansion of his forefathers was still kept up, but instead of being a little yellow-fronted Dutch house in a garden, it now the grand home of the neighborhood, for Wolfert enlarged it with a wing on each side and a cupola or tea-room on top, where he might climb up and smoke his pipe in hot weather, and in the course of time the whole mansion was overrun by chubby-faced progeny of Amy Weber and Dirk Waldron. As Wolfert waxed old and rich and corpulent, he also set up a great gingerbread-colored carriage, drawn by a pair of black Flanders mares with tails that swept the ground, and to the origin of his greatness, he had for his crest a full-blown cabbage painted on the panels with the pithymoto ales-copf, that is to say, all-head, meaning thereby that he had risen by sheer head-work. To fill the measure of his greatness in the fullness of time the renowned Ram Rapalai slept with his fathers, and Wolfert Weber succeeded to the leather-bottomed armchair in the inn parlor at Corlears Hook, where he long reigned and respected in so much that he was never known to tell a story without its being believed, nor to utter a joke without its being laughed at. End of Section 15 Recording by Chris Robertson Kalamazoo, Michigan www.krave-llc.com Section 16 of Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 1 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Bill Cisna Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 1 by Julian Hawthorne Editor Section 16, Wheelan's Madness, Part 1 by Charles Brockton Brown Introduction to Wheelan's Madness from Wheelan or the Transformation From Virtue's Blissful Paths Away the Double Tongued are Sure to Stray Good is a forthright journey still and may see paths but lead to ill. Wheelan is the first American novel. It appeared in 1798. Its author was soon recognized as the earliest American novelist and he remained the greatest until Fenimore Cooper brought forth his Leatherstocking Tales a quarter of a century later. Although modern sophistication easily points out flaws in Charles Brockton Brown's story structure and reproves him for improbability, morbidness and a style often too elevated yet his work lives. His downright originality is worthy of Cooper himself in his weird imaginations and horribly sustained scenes of terror have been surpassed by few writers save Edgar Allan Poe. Charles Brockton Brown First Part One Wheelan's Madness As the story opens the narratress Clara Wheelan is entering upon the happy realization of her love for Henry Plyle closest friend of her brother Wheelan. Their Woodland home Mettengan on the banks of the then remote Skukul is the abode of music, letters and thorough culture. The peace of high thinking and simple outdoor life hovers over all. One sunny afternoon I was standing in the door of my house when I marked a person passing close to the edge of the bank that was in front. His pace was a careless and lingering one and had none of that gracefulness and ease which distinguish a person with certain advantages of education from a clown. His gait was rustic and awkward. His form was ungainly and disproportioned. Shoulders broad and square, breasts sunken, his head drooping his body of uniform breadth supported by long and length legs were the ingredients of his frame. His garb was not ill adapted to such a figure. A slouched hat tarnished by the weather a coat of thick gray cloth cut and wrought as it seemed by a country tailor blue worsted stockings and shoes fastened by thongs and deeply discolored by dust which brush had never disturbed constituted his dress. There was nothing remarkable in these appearances. They were frequently to be met with on the road and in the harvest field. I cannot tell why I gazed upon them on this occasion with more than ordinary attention. Unless it were such figures were seldom seen by me except on the road or field. This lawn was only traversed by men whose views were directed to the pleasures of the walk or the grandeur of the scenery. He passed slowly along frequently pausing as if to examine the prospect more deliberately but never turning his eye toward the house so as to allow me a view of his countenance. Presently he entered a cobs at a small distance and disappeared. I followed him while he remained in sight. If his image remained for any duration in my fancy after his departure it was because no other object occurred sufficient to expel it. I continued in the same spot for half an hour vaguely and by fits contemplating the image of this wanderer and drawing from outward appearances those inferences with respect to the intellectual history of this person which experience affords us. I reflected on the alliance which commonly subsists between ignorance and the practice of agriculture and indulged myself in airy speculations as to the influence of progressive knowledge in dissolving this alliance and embodying the dreams of the poets. I asked why the plough and the hoe might not become the trade of every human being and how this trade might be made conducive to or at least consistent with the acquisition of wisdom and eloquence. Weary with these reflections I returned to the kitchen to perform some household office. I had usually but one servant and she was a girl about my own age. I was busy near the chimney and she was employed near the door of the apartment when someone knocked. The door was opened by her and she was immediately addressed with pretty good girl canst thou supply a thirsty man with a glass of butter milk but there was none in the house. I but there is some in the dairy yonder thou knowest as well as I though Hermes never taught thee that though every dairy be a house every house is not a dairy. To this speech though she understood only a part of it she replied by repeating her assurances that she had none to give. Well then rejoined the stranger. For charity's sweet sake hand me forth a cup of cold water. The girl said she would go to the spring and fetch it. Nay give me the cup and suffer me to help myself. Neither manacled nor lame I should merit burial in the maw of carrion crows if I laid this task upon thee. She gave him the cup and he turned to go to the spring. I listened to this dialogue in silence. The words uttered by the person without affected me as somewhat singular but what easily rendered them remarkable was the tone that accompanied them. It was wholly new. My brother's voice and plials were musical and energetic. I had finally imagined that in this respect they were surpassed by none. Now my mistake was detected. I cannot pretend to communicate the impression that was made upon me by these accents or to depict the degree in which force and sweetness were blended in them. They were modulated with a distinctness that was unexampled in my experience. But this was not all. The voice was not only malifluent and clear but the emphasis was so just and the modulation so impassioned that it seemed as if a heart of stone could not fail of being moved by it. It imparted to me an emotion altogether involuntary and uncontrollable when he uttered the words for charity's sweet sake. I dropped the cloth that I held in my hand. My heart overflowed with sympathy in my eyes with unbidden tears. This description will appear to you trifling or incredible. The importance of these circumstances will be manifested in the sequel. The manner in which I was affected on this occasion was to my own apprehension a subject of astonishment. The tones were indeed such as I heard before, but that they should in an instant as it were dissolve me in tears will not easily be believed by others and can scarcely be comprehended by myself. It will be readily supposed that I was somewhat inquisitive as to the person and demeanor of our visitant. After a moment's pause I stepped to the door and looked after him, judged my surprise when I beheld the self-same figure that had before upon the bank. My fancy head conjured up a very different image. A form and attitude and garb were instantly created worthy to a company such elocution, but this person was, in all visible respects, the reverse of this fandom. Strange as it may seem I could not speedily reconcile myself to this disappointment. Instead of returning to my employment I threw myself in a chair that was placed opposite the door and sunk into a fit of musing. My attention was in a few minutes recalled by the stranger who returned with the empty cup in his hand. I had not thought of the circumstance or should certainly have chosen a different seat. He no sooner showed himself than a confused sense of impropriety added to the suddenness of the interview for which not having foreseen it I had made no preparation threw me into a state of the most painful embarrassment. He brought with him a placid brow but no sooner had he cast his eyes upon me than his face was as glowingly suffused as my own. He placed the cup upon the bench, stammered out thanks and retired. It was some time before I could recover my wanted composure. I had snatched a view of the stranger's countenance. The impression that it made was vivid and indelible. His cheeks were pallid and lank, his eyes sunken, his forehead overshadowed by coarse straggling hairs, his teeth large and irregular though sound and brilliantly white and his chin discolored by a tether. His skin was of coarse grain and sallow hue. Every feature was wide of beauty and the outline of his face reminded you of an inverted cone. And yet his forehead so far as shaggy locks would allow it to disguise lustrously black and possessing, in the midst of haggardness a radiant, inexpressibly serene and potent, and something in the rest of his features which it would be in vain to describe but which served to be token a mind of the highest order were essential ingredients in the portrait. This, in the effects which immediately flowed from it I count among the most extraordinary incidents of my life. This face, seen for a moment, continued for hours to occupy my fancy to the exclusion of almost every other image. I had proposed to spend the evening with my brother but I could not resist the inclination of forming a sketch upon paper of this memorable visage. Whether my hand was aided by any peculiar inspiration or I was deceived by my own fond conceptions, this portrait though hastily executed appeared unexceptionable to my own taste. I placed it at all distances and in all lights. My eyes were riveted upon it. Half the night passed away in wakefulness and in contemplation of this picture. So flexible and yet so stubborn is the human mind. So obedient to impulses the most transient and brief and yet so unalterably observant of the direction which is given to it. How little did I then foresee the termination of that chain of which this may be regarded as the first link. Next day arose in darkness and storm. Torrents of rain fell during the whole day attended with incessant thunder which reverberated in stunning echoes from the opposite declivity. The inclemency of the air would not allow me to walk out. I had indeed no inclination to leave my apartment. I betook myself to the contemplation of this portrait whose attractions time had rather enhanced than diminished. I laid aside my usual occupations and seating myself at a window consumed the day and alternately looking out upon the storm and gazing at the picture which lay upon a table before me. You will perhaps deem this conduct somewhat singular and describe to it certain peculiarities of temper. I am not aware of any such peculiarities. I can account for my devotion to this image in my eyes, then by supposing that its properties were rare and prodigious. Perhaps you will suspect that such were the first inroads of a passion incident to every female heart in which frequently gains a footing by means even more slight and more improbable than these. I shall not controvert the reasonableness of the suspicion but leave you at liberty to draw from my narrative what conclusions you please. The air was once more clear and calm and bore an affecting contrast to that uproar of the elements by which it had been preceded. I spent the dark some hours as I spent the day, contemplative and seated at the window. Why was my mind absorbed in thoughts ominous and dreary? Why did my bosom heave with sighs and my eyes overflow with tears? Was the tempest that had just passed a signal of the ruin which impended over me? My soul fondly dwelled upon the images of my brother and his children, yet they only increased the mournfulness of my contemplations. The smiles of the charming babes were as bland as formerly. The same dignity sat on the brow of their father, and yet I thought of them with anguish. Something whispered that the happiness we at present enjoyed was set on mutable foundations. Death must happen to all whether our felicity was to be subverted by it tomorrow or whether it was ordained that we should lay down our heads full of years and of honor was a question that no human being could solve. At other times these items seldom intruded. I either forebored to reflect upon the destiny that is reserved for all men, or the reflection was mixed up with images that disrobed it of terror. But now, the uncertainty of life occurred to me without any of its usual and alleviating accompaniments. I said to myself, we must die. Sooner or later we must disappear forever from the face of the earth. Whatever be the lengths that hold us to life, they must be broken. This scene of existence is in all its parts calamitous. The greater number is oppressed with immediate evils and those the tide of whose fortunes is full, how small is their portion of enjoyment since they know that it will terminate. For some time I indulged myself without reluctance in these gloomy thoughts, but at length the dejection which they produced became insupportably painful. I endeavored to dissipate it with music. I had all my grandfather's melody as well as poetry by rote. I now lighted by chance on a ballad which commemorated the fate of a German cavalier who fell in the siege of Nice under Godfrey of Bouillon. My choice was unfortunate, for the scenes of violence and carnage which were here wildly but forcibly portrayed only suggested to my thoughts a new topic in the horrors of war. I sought refuge but ineffectually in sleep. My mind was thronged by vivid but confused images and no effort that I made was sufficient to drive them away. In this situation I heard a clock which hung in the room give the signal for twelve. It was the same instrument which formerly hung in my father's chamber and which on account of its being his workmanship was regarded by everyone of our family with veneration. It had fallen to me in the division of his property and was placed in this asylum. The sound awakened a series of reflections respecting his death. I was not allowed to pursue them for scarcely had the vibration ceased when my attention was attracted by a whisper which at first appeared to proceed from lips that were laid close to my ear. No wonder that a circumstance like this startled me. In the first impulse of my terror I uttered a slight scream and shrunk to the opposite side of the bed. In a moment however I recovered from my trepidation. I was habitually indifferent to all the causes of fear by which the majority are afflicted. I entertained no apprehension of either ghosts or robbers. Our security had never been molested by either and I made use of no means to prevent or counter work their machinations. My tranquility on this occasion was quickly retrieved. The whisper evidently proceeded from one who was posted at my bedside. The first idea that suggested itself was that it was uttered by the girl who lived with me as a servant. Perhaps I alarmed her or she was sick and had come to request my assistance. By whispering in my ear she intended to rouse without alarming me. Full of this persuasion I called, Judith, is it you? What do you want? Is there anything to matter with you? No answer was returned. I repeated my inquiry but equally in vain. Cloudy as was the atmosphere and curtained as my bed was nothing was visible. I withdrew the curtain and leaning my head on my elbow I listened with the deepest attention to catch some new sound. Meanwhile I ran over in my thoughts every circumstance that could assist my conjectures. My habitation was a wooden edifice consisting of two stories. In each story were two rooms separated by an entry or middle passage with which they communicated by opposite doors. The passage on the lower story had doors at the two ends and the staircase. Windows answered to the doors on the upper story. Annexed to this on the eastern side were wings divided in like manner into an upper and lower room. One of them comprised a kitchen and chamber above it for the servant and communicated on both stories with the parlor adjoining it below and the chamber adjoining it above. The opposite wing was of smaller dimensions, the rooms not being above eight feet square. The lower of these was used as a depository of household implements. The upper was a closet in which I deposited my books and papers. They had but one inlet which was from the room adjoining. There was no window in the lower one and in the upper a small aperture which communicated light and air but would scarcely admit the body. The door into this was close to my bed head and was always locked but when I myself was within. The avenues below were accustomed to be closed and bolted at nights. The maid was my only companion and she could not reach my chamber without previously passing through the opposite chamber and the middle passage of which however the doors were usually unfastened. If she had occasioned this noise she would have answered my repeated calls. No other conclusion therefore was left me but that I had mistaken the sounds and that my imagination had transformed some casual noise into the voice of a human creature. Satisfied with this solution I was preparing to relinquish my listening attitude when my ear was again saluted with a new and yet louder whispering. It appeared as before to issue from lips that touched my pillow. A second effort of attention however clearly showed me that the sounds issued from within the closet, the door of which was not more than eight inches from my pillow. This second interruption occasioned a shock less vehement than the former. I started but gave no audible token of alarm. I was so much mistress of my feelings as to continue listening to what should be said. The whisper was distinct, hoarse and uttered so as to show that the speaker was desirous of being heard by someone near but, at the same time, studious to avoid being overheard by any other. Stop! Stop! I say! Madman, as you are, there are better means than that. Curse upon your rashness. There is no need to shoot. Such were the words uttered in a tone of eagerness and anger within so small a distance of my pillow. What construction could I put upon them? My heart began to palpitate with dread of some unknown danger. Presently another voice, but equally near me was heard whispering an answer. Why not? I will draw a trigger in this business, but perdition be my lot if I do more. To this the first voice returned in a tone which rage had heightened in a small degree above a whispered, Coward! Stand aside and see me do it. I will grasp her throat. I will do her business in an instant. She shall not have time so much as to groan. What wonder that I was petrified by sounds so dreadful! Murderers lurked in my closet. They were planning the means of my destruction. One resolved to shoot, and the other menaced suffocation. Their means being chosen they would forthwith break the door. Flight instantly suggested itself as most eligible in circumstances so perilous. I deliberated not a moment, but fear adding wings to my speed. I leaped out of bed and scantily robed as I was, rushed out of the chamber, downstairs and into the open air. I can hardly recollect the process of turning keys and withdrawing bolts. My terrors urged me forward with almost a mechanical impulse. I stopped not till I reached my brother's door. I had not gained the threshold when, exhausted by the violence of my actions and by my speed, I sunk down in a fit. How long I remained in this situation I know not. When I recovered I found myself stretched on a bed surrounded by my sister and her female servants. I was astonished at the scene before me, but gradually recovered the recollection of what had happened. I answered their importunate inquiries as well as I was able. My brother and Plyle, whom the storm of the preceding day was against to detain here, informing themselves of every particular, proceeded with lights and weapons to my deserted habitation. They entered my chamber and my closet, and found everything in its proper place and customary order. The door of the closet was locked and appeared not to have been opened in my absence. They went to Judah's apartment. They found her asleep and in safety. Plyle's caution induced their alarming the girl, and finding her wholly ignorant of what had passed, they directed her to return to her chamber. They then fastened the doors and returned. My friends were disposed to regard this transaction as a dream. That persons should actually be emured in this closet to which, in the circumstances of the time, access from without or within was apparently impossible, they could not seriously believe. That any human beings had intended murder, unless it were to cover a scheme of pillage, was incredible, but that no such design had been formed was evident from the security in which the furniture of the house and the closet remained. I revolved every incident and expression that had occurred. My senses assured me of the truth of them, and yet their abruptness and improbability made me, in my turn, somewhat incredulous. The adventure had made a deep impression on my fancy, and it was not till after a week's abode at my brothers, that I resolved to resume the possession of my own dwelling. There was another circumstance that enhanced the mysteriousness of this event. After my recovery, it was obvious to inquire by what means the attention of the family had been drawn to my situation. I had fallen before I had reached the threshold or was able to give any signal. My brother related that, while this was transacting in my chamber, he himself was awake, in consequence of some slight indisposition, and lay, according to his custom, musing on some favorite topic. Suddenly the silence, which was remarkably profound, was broken by a voice of the most piercing shrillness that seemed to be uttered by one in the hall below his chamber. Awake! Arise! it exclaimed, hasten to suck or one that is dying at your door. This summons was effectual. There was no one in the house who was not roused by it. Plial was the first to obey and my brother overtook him before he reached the hall. What was the general astonishment when your friend was discovered, stretched upon the grass before the door, pale, ghastly and with every mark of death. But how was I to regard this midnight conversation? Horse and man-like voices conferring on the means of death so near my bed and at such an hour. How had my ancient security vanished? That dwelling which had hitherto been an inviolate asylum was now beset with danger to my life. That solitude formerly so dear to me could no longer be endured. Plial, who had consented to reside with us during the months of spring, lodged in the vacant chamber in order to quiet my alarms. He treated my fears with ridicule, and in a short time very slight traces of them remained. But, as it was wholly indifferent to him whether his nights were passed at my house or at my brother's, this arrangement gave general satisfaction. Two. I will enumerate the various inquiries and conjectures which these incidents occasion. After all our efforts, we came no nearer to dispelling the mist in which they were involved and time, instead of facilitating a solution, only accumulated our doubts. In the midst of thoughts excited by these events, I was not unmindful of my interview with the stranger. I related the particulars and showed the portrait to my friends. Plial recollected to have met with a figure resembling my description in the city, but neither his face or garb made the same impression upon him that it made upon me. It was a hint to rally me upon my prepossessions and to amuse us with a thousand ludicrous anecdotes which he had collected in his travels. He made no scruple to charge me with being in love, and threatened to inform the swain when he met him of his good fortune. Plial's temper made him susceptible of no durable impressions. His conversation was occasionally visited by gleams of his ancient vivacity, but though his impetuosity was sometimes inconvenient, there was nothing to dread from his malice. I had no fear that my character or dignity would suffer in his hands, and was not heartily displeased when he declared his intention of profiting by his first meeting with the stranger to introduce him to our acquaintance. Some weeks after this I had spent a toil some day and, as the sun declined, found myself disposed to seek relief in a walk. The riverbank is at this part of it, and for some considerable space upward, so rugged and steep as not to be easily descended. In a recess of this declivity, near the southern verge of my little domain, was placed a slight building with seats and lattices. From a crevice of the rock to which this edifice was attached, there burst forth a stream of the purest water, which, leaping from ledge to ledge for the space of sixty feet, produced a freshness in the air and a murmur, the most delicious and soothing imaginable. These added to the odors of the cedars which embowered it, and of the honeysuckle which clustered among the lattices, rendered this my favorite retreat in summer. On this occasion I repaired either. My spirits drooped through the fatigue of long attention, and I threw myself upon a bench in a state both mentally and personally of the utmost supineness. The lulling sounds of the waterfall, the fragrance and the dusk, combined to be calm my spirits, and in a short time to sink me into sleep. Either the uneasiness of my posture or some slight indisposition molested my repose with terms of no cheerful hue. After various incoherences had taken their turn to occupy my fancy, I had length imagined myself walking in the evening twilight to my brother's habitation. A pit, me thought, had been dug in the path I had taken of which I was not aware. As I carelessly pursued my walk, I thought I saw my brother standing at some distance before me, beckoning and calling me to make haste. He stood on the opposite edge of the gulf. I mended my pace, and one step more would have plunged me into this abyss. Had not someone from behind caught suddenly my arm and exclaimed in a voice of eagerness and terror, hold, hold! The sound broke my sleep, and I found myself at the next moment standing on my feet and surrounded by the deepest darkness. Images so terrific and forcible disabled me for a time from distinguishing between sleep and wakefulness, and withheld from me the knowledge of my actual condition. My first panic was succeeded by the perturbations of surprise to find myself alone in the open air and immersed in so deep a gloom. I slowly recollected the incidents of the afternoon and how I came hither. I could not estimate the time, but saw the propriety of returning with speed to the house. These were still too confused and the darkness too intense to allow me immediately to find my way up the steep. I sat down, therefore, to recover myself and to reflect upon my situation. This was no sooner done than a low voice was heard from behind the lattice on the side where I sat. Between the rock and the lattice was a chasm not wide enough to admit a human body, yet in this chasm he that spoke stationed. Attend, attend, but be not terrified. I started and exclaimed, Good heavens, what is that? Who are you? A friend, one come not to injure you, but to save you. Fear nothing. This voice was immediately recognized to be the same with one of those which I had heard in the closet. It was the voice of him who had proposed to shoot and to strangle his victim. My terror made me at once mute and motionless. He continued, I leagued to murder you. I repent. Mark my bidding and be safe. Avoid this spot. The snares of death encompass it. Elsewhere danger will be distant, but this spot shun it as you value your life. Mark me further. Profit by this warning, divulge it not. If a syllable of what has passed escaped you, your doom is sealed. Remember your father and be faithful. Here the accent ceased and left me overwhelmed with dismay. I was fraught with the persuasion that during every moment I remained here my life was endangered, but I could not take a step without hazard of falling to the bottom of the precipice. My path leading to the summit was short, but rugged and intricate. Even starlight was excluded by the umbrage and not the faintest gleam was afforded to guide my steps. What should I do to depart or remain was equally and eminently perilous. In this state of uncertainty I perceived a ray flit across the gloom and disappear. Another succeeded, and remained for a passing moment. It glittered on the shrubs that were scattered at the entrance and gleam continued to succeed gleam for a few seconds till they finally gave place to unintermitted darkness. The first visitings of this light called upon a train of horrors in my mind. Destruction impended over this spot. The voice which I had lately heard had warned me to retire and had menaced me with the fate of my father if I refused. I was desirous, but unable to obey. These gleams were such as preluted the stroke by which he fell. The hour perhaps was the same. I shuddered as if I had be held suspended over me the exterminating sword. Presently a new and stronger elimination burst through the lattice on the right hand and a voice from the edge of the precipice above called out my name. It was plile. Joyfully did I recognize his accents, but such was the tumult of my thoughts that I had not power to answer him till he had frequently repeated his summons. I hurried at length from the fatal spot and, directed by the lantern which he bore, ascended the hill. .com