Our sport was indifferent; the fish did not bite freely;
and we had frequently changed our fishing ground without bettering our
luck. We at length anchored close under a ledge of rocky coast, on the
eastern side of the island of Manhata. It was a still, warm day. The
stream whirled and dimpled by us without a wave or even a ripple, and
every thing was so calm and quiet that it was almost startling when the
kingfisher would pitch himself from the branch of some dry tree, and
after suspending himself for a moment in the air to take his aim, would
souse into the smooth water after his prey. While we were lolling in
our boat, half drowsy with the warm stillness of the day and the
dullness of our sport, one of our party, a worthy alderman, was
overtaken by a slumber, and, as he dozed, suffered the sinker of his
drop-line to lie upon the bottom of the river. On waking, he found he
had caught something of importance, from the weight; on drawing it to
the surface, we were much surprised to find a long pistol of very
curious and outlandish fashion, which, from its rusted condition, and
its stock being worm-eaten and covered with barnacles, appeared to have
been a long time under water. The unexpected appearance of this
document of warfare occasioned much speculation among my pacific
companions. One supposed it to have fallen there during the
revolutionary war. Another, from the peculiarity of its fashion,
attributed it to the voyagers in the earliest days of the settlement;
perchance to the renowned Adrian Block, who explored the Sound and
discovered Block Island, since so noted for its cheese. But a third,
after regarding it for some time, pronounced it to be of veritable
Spanish workmanship.
"I'll warrant," said he, "if this pistol could talk it would tell
strange stories of hard fights among the Spanish Dons. I've not a doubt
but it's a relique of the buccaneers of old times."
"Like enough," said another of the party. "There was Bradish the
pirate, who at the time Lord Bellamont made such a stir after the
buccaneers, buried money and jewels somewhere in these parts or on
Long-Island; and then there was Captain Kidd - "
"Ah, that Kidd was a daring dog," said an iron-faced Cape Cod whaler.
"There's a fine old song about him, all to the tune of:
'My name is Robert Kidd,
As I sailed, as I sailed.'
And it tells how he gained the devil's good graces by burying the
Bible:
'I had the Bible in my hand,
As I sailed, as I sailed,
And I buried it in the sand,
As I sailed.'
Egad, if this pistol had belonged to him I should set some store by it
out of sheer curiosity.
