He was on the point of
foreclosing a mortgage, by which he would complete the ruin of an
unlucky land speculator for whom he had professed the greatest
friendship. The poor land jobber begged him to grant a few months'
indulgence. Tom had grown testy and irritated and refused another day.
"My family will be ruined and brought upon the parish," said the land
jobber.
"Charity begins at home," replied Tom, "I must take care of myself in
these hard times."
"You have made so much money out of me," said the speculator.
Tom lost his patience and his piety - "The devil take me," said he, "if
I have made a farthing!"
Just then there were three loud knocks at the street door. He stepped
out to see who was there. A black man was holding a black horse which
neighed and stamped with impatience.
"Tom, you're come for!" said the black fellow, gruffly. Tom shrunk
back, but too late. He had left his little Bible at the bottom of his
coat pocket, and his big Bible on the desk buried under the mortgage he
was about to foreclose: never was sinner taken more unawares. The black
man whisked him like a child astride the horse and away he galloped in
the midst of a thunder-storm. The clerks stuck their pens behind their
ears and stared after him from the windows. Away went Tom Walker,
dashing down the street; his white cap bobbing up and down; his
morning-gown fluttering in the wind, and his steed striking fire out of
the pavement at every bound. When the clerks turned to look for the
black man he had disappeared.
Tom Walker never returned to foreclose the mortgage. A countryman who
lived on the borders of the swamp, reported that in the height of the
thunder-gust he had heard a great clattering of hoofs and a howling
along the road, and that when he ran to the window he just caught sight
of a figure, such as I have described, on a horse that galloped like
mad across the fields, over the hills and down into the black hemlock
swamp towards the old Indian fort; and that shortly after a
thunder-bolt fell in that direction which seemed to set the whole
forest in a blaze.
The good people of Boston shook their heads and shrugged their
shoulders, but had been so much accustomed to witches and goblins and
tricks of the devil in all kinds of shapes from the first settlement of
the colony, that they were not so much horror-struck as might have been
expected. Trustees were appointed to take charge of Tom's effects.
There was nothing, however, to administer upon. On searching his
coffers all his bonds and mortgages were found reduced to cinders. In
place of gold and silver, his iron chest was filled with chips and
shavings; two skeletons lay in his stable instead of his half-starved
horses, and the very next day his great house took fire and was burnt
to the ground.
Such was the end of Tom Walker and his ill-gotten wealth. Let all
griping money-brokers lay this story to heart. The truth of it is not
to be doubted. The very hole under the oak trees, from whence he dug
Kidd's money, is to be seen to this day; and the neighboring swamp and
old Indian fort is often haunted in stormy nights by a figure on
horseback, in a morning-gown and white cap, which is doubtless the
troubled spirit of the usurer. In fact, the story has resolved itself
into a proverb, and is the origin of that popular saying prevalent
throughout New-England, of "The Devil and Tom Walker."
Such, as nearly as I can recollect, was the tenor of the tale told by
the Cape Cod whaler. There were divers trivial particulars which I have
omitted, and which wiled away the morning very pleasantly, until the
time of tide favorable for fishing being passed, it was proposed that
we should go to land, and refresh ourselves under the trees, until the
noontide heat should have abated.
We accordingly landed on a delectable part of the island of Mannahatta,
in that shady and embowered tract formerly under dominion of the
ancient family of the Hardenbrooks. It was a spot well known to me in
the course of the aquatic expeditions of my boyhood. Not far from where
we landed, was an old Dutch family vault, in the side of a bank, which
had been an object of great awe and fable among my schoolboy
associates. There were several mouldering coffins within; but what gave
it a fearful interest with us, was its being connected in our minds
with the pirate wreck which lay among the rocks of Hell Gate. There
were also stories of smuggling connected with it, particularly during a
time that this retired spot was owned by a noted burgher called Ready
Money Prevost; a man of whom it was whispered that he had many and
mysterious dealings with parts beyond seas. All these things, however,
had been jumbled together in our minds in that vague way in which such
things are mingled up in the tales of boyhood.
While I was musing upon these matters my companions had spread a
repast, from the contents of our well-stored pannier, and we solaced
ourselves during the warm sunny hours of mid-day under the shade of a
broad chestnut, on the cool grassy carpet that swept down to the
water's edge. While lolling on the grass I summoned up the dusky
recollections of my boyhood respecting this place, and repeated them
like the imperfectly remembered traces of a dream, for the
entertainment of my companions.
