Wolfert Webber Had Now Carried Home A Fresh Stock Of Stories And
Notions To Ruminate Upon.
His mind was all of a whirl with these
freebooting tales; and then these accounts of pots of money and Spanish
treasures, buried here and there and every where about the rocks and
bays of this wild shore, made him almost dizzy.
"Blessed St. Nicholas!" ejaculated he, half aloud, "is it not possible
to come upon one of these golden hoards, and so make one's 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 he had been told of the
singular adventure of the black 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 every thing with gold. He felt like the greedy inhabitant of
Bagdad, when his eye had been greased with the magic ointment of the
dervise, that gave him to see all the treasures of the earth. Caskets
of buried jewels, chests of ingots, bags of outlandish coins, seemed to
court him from their concealments, and supplicate him to relieve them
from their untimely graves.
On making private inquiries about the grounds said to be haunted by
father red-cap, 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 Mud 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
their not going to work at the proper time, and 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, and ramping, and raging
of uncouth figures about the hole, and at length a shower of blows,
dealt by invisible cudgels, that fairly belabored him off the forbidden
ground. This Cobus Quackenbos had declared on his death-bed, 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 suddenly of a brain fever in the
alms-house.
Wolfert Webber was now in a worry of trepidation and impatience;
fearful lest some rival adventurer should get a scent of the buried
gold. He determined privately to seek out the negro fisherman and get
him to serve as guide to the place where he had witnessed the
mysterious scene of interment. Sam was easily found; for he was one of
those old habitual beings that live about a neighborhood until they
wear themselves a place in the public mind, and become, in a manner,
public characters. There was not an unlucky urchin about the town that
did not know Mud Sam the fisherman, and think that he had a right to
play his tricks upon the old negro. Sam was an amphibious kind of
animal, something more of a fish than a man; he had led the life of an
otter 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 Hell Gate; 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 the fish are supposed to
be most abundant. Sometimes seated on a rock from hour to hour, looming
through mist and drizzle, like a solitary heron watching for its prey.
He was well acquainted with every hole and corner of the Sound; from
the Wallabout to Hell Gate, and from Hell Gate even unto the Devil's
Stepping Stones; and it was even affirmed that he knew all the fish in
the river by their Christian names.
Wolfert found him at his cabin, which was not much larger than a
tolerable dog-house. It was rudely constructed of fragments of wrecks
and drift-wood, and built on the rocky shore, at the foot of the old
fort, just about what at present forms the point of the Battery. A
"most 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 sands to dry; a skiff was drawn up on the beach, and at
the door of his cabin lay Mud Sam himself, indulging in a true negro's
luxury - 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 knotty wool upon his
head. He perfectly recollected the circumstances, however, for he had
often been called upon to relate them, though in his version of the
story he differed in many points from Peechy Prauw; as is not
unfrequently 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 Wolfert care to
disturb his thoughts on that point.
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