Chapter XIII: Part 13

“Thunder and lightning!” exclaimed the merman, “don’t preach
about weather to a man that has cruised in whirlwinds and
tornadoes.”

The obsequious Peechy was again struck dumb. The voice from the
water was again heard in a tone of impatience; the bystanders
stared with redoubled awe at this man of storms, which seemed to
have come up out of the deep and to be called back to it again.
As, with the assistance of the negro, he slowly bore his
ponderous sea-chest towards the shore, they eyed it with a
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 lanthorn.

“Douse the light!” roared the hoarse voice from the water. “No
one wants light here!”

“Thunder and lightning!” exclaimed the veteran; “back to the
house with you!”

Wolfert and his companions shrunk back is dismay. Still their
curiosity would not allow them entirely to 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 heavy surges, and swashing the water at every
heave. It was with difficulty held to the rocks by a boat hook,
for the current rushed furiously round the point. The veteran
hoisted one end of the lumbering sea-chest on the gunwale of the
boat; he 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 gunwale, sunk into the waves, and pulled the veteran
headlong after it. A loud shriek was uttered by all on shore, and
a volley of execrations by those on board; but boat and man were
hurried away by the rushing swiftness of the tide. A pitchy
darkness succeeded; Wolfert 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 drear and 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, for they could not leave it
before the storm should subside. 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 burghers pondered on these things, they
felt a terrible conviction of the uncertainty of human existence,
and each felt as if the ground on which he stood was rendered
less stable by this 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 happy that the poor dear man had paid his reckoning
before he went.

“He came in a storm, and he went in a storm; he came in the
night, and he went in the night; he came nobody knows from
whence, and he has gone nobody knows where. For aught I know he
has gone to 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 the landlord, “if he has gone to Davy
Jones that he had not left his sea-chest behind him.”

“The sea-chest! St. Nicholas preserve us!” said Peechy Prauw.
“I’d not have had that sea-chest in the house for any money; I’ll
warrant he’d come racketing after it at nights, and making a
haunted house of the inn. And as to his going to sea on 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-skurry 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 breaking before him in
great sprays like fire, and there they kept scudding 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 wind, and he seemed to send 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 of Newfoundland, and supposed 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 in the hall struck midnight; every
one pressed to depart, for seldom was such a late hour trespassed
on by these quiet burghers. As they sallied forth they found the
heavens once more serene. The storm which had lately obscured
them had rolled aways and lay piled up in fleecy masses on the
horizon, lighted up by the bright crescent of the moon, which
looked like a 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
waters, 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 homewards; particularly when they passed a
lonely field where a man had been murdered; and he who had
farthest to go and had to complete his journey alone, though a
veteran sexton, and accustomed, one would think to ghosts and
goblins, yet went a long way round, rather than pass by his own
church-yard.

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. His only wish was to secure the old fisherman as a
pilot to the spot, and this was readily effected. The long time
that had intervened since his nocturnal adventure had effaced 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
Wolfert 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 a wood, which at that
time covered the greater part of the eastern side of the island.
It was just beyond the pleasant region of Bloomen-dael. Here they
struck into a long lane, straggling among trees and bushes, very
much overgrown with weeds and mullein 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 garter-snake glided across their path; the spotted toad
hopped and waddled before them, and the restless cat-bird mewed
at them from every thicket. Had Wolfert Webber been deeply read
in romantic legend he might have fancied himself entering upon
forbidden, enchanted ground; or that these were some of the
guardians set to keep a 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 amphitheatre, surrounded by
forest tree. The area had once been a grass-plot, but was now
shagged with briars and rank weeds. At one end, and just on the
river bank, was a ruined building, little better than a heap of
rubbish, with a stack of chimneys rising like a solitary tower
out of the centre. The current of the Sound rushed along just
below it, with wildly-grown trees drooping their branches into
its waves.

Wolfert had not a doubt that this was the haunted house of father
red-cap, and called to mind the story of Peechy Prauw. The
evening was approaching, and the light falling dubiously among
these places, gave a melancholy tone to the scene, well
calculated to foster any lurking feeling of awe or superstition.
The night-hawk, wheeling about in the highest regions of the air,
emitted his peevish, boding cry. The woodpecker gave a lonely tap
now and then on some hollow tree, and the firebird,[3] as he
streamed by them with his deep-red plumage, seemed like some
genius flitting about this region of mystery.

[3] Orchard Oreole.

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
rose-bush, or a peach or plum tree grown wild and ragged, and
covered with moss. At the lower 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. Wolfert
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. Wolfert drew back shuddering,
but was reassured on being informed by Sam that this was a family
vault belonging to one of the old Dutch families that owned this
estate; an assertion which was corroborated by the sight of
coffins of various sizes piled within. Sam 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 rocks, and having often to hold by shrubs and
grape-vines to avoid slipping into the deep and hurried stream.
At length they came to a small cove, or rather indent of the
shore. It was protected by steep rocks and overshadowed by a
thick copse of oaks and chestnuts, so as to be sheltered and
almost concealed. The beach sloped gradually within the cove, but
the current swept deep and black and rapid along its jutting
points. Sam paused; raised his remnant of a hat, and scratched
his grizzled poll for a moment, as he regarded this nook: then
suddenly clapping his hands, he stepped exultingly forward, and
pointing to a large iron ring, stapled firmly in the rock, just
where a broad shelve of stone furnished a commodious
landing-place. It was the very spot where the red-caps had
landed. Years had changed the more perishable features of the
scene; but rock and iron yield slowly to the influence of time.
On looking more narrowly, Wolfert 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
thunder-gust. 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 that eventful occasion by the persons of the drama,
as to pay but little attention to the scenes; and places looked
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 Sam thought might
be the very ridge from which he overlooked the diggers. Wolfert
examined it narrowly, and at length described three crosses
similar to those above the iron ring, cut deeply into the face of
the rock, but nearly obliterated by the moss that had grown on
them. His heart leaped with joy, for he doubted not but they were
the private marks of the buccaneers, to denote the places where
their treasure lay buried. All now that remained was to ascertain
the precise spot; for otherwise he might dig at random without
coming upon the spoil, and he has already had enough of such
profitless labor. Here, however, Sam 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 it was
just beside a great white stone; then it must have been under a
small green knoll, a short distance from the ledge of rock: until
at length Wolfert 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 farther at present; and,
indeed, Wolfert had come unprepared with implements to prosecute
his 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, resolved to
prosecute this golden enterprise without delay.

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 on
every tree, and he almost expected to see some Spanish Don, 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, the 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 burthen. 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 sepulchral vault. Just before entering he looked
around. What was the horror of Wolfert when he recognized the
grizzly 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
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 bush and
brake, horribly frightened at every bramble that tagged at their
skirts, nor did they pause to breathe, until they had blundered
their way through this perilous wood and had fairly reached the
high-road to the city.

Several days elapsed before Wolfert could summon courage enough
to prosecute the enterprise, so much had he been dismayed by the
apparition, whether living dead, of the grizzly 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; fancied himself
engaged in money digging; threw the bed-clothes right and left,
in the idea that he was shovelling among the dirt, groped under
the bed in quest of the treasure, and lugged forth, as he
supposed, an inestimable pot of gold.

Dame Webber 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 dominie and the doctor.
In the present instance they repaired to the doctor. There was at
that time a little, dark, mouldy man of medicine famous among the
old wives of the Manhattoes for his skill not only in the healing
art, but in all matters of strange and mysterious nature. His
name was Dr. Knipperhausen, but he was more commonly known by the
appellation of the High German doctor.[4] To him did the poor
women repair for counsel and assistance touching the mental
vagaries of Wolfert Webber.

[4] The same, no doubt, of whom mention is made in the history of Dolph Heyliger.

They found the doctor seated in his little study, clad in his
dark camblet robe of knowledge, with his black velvet cap, after
the manner of Boorhaave, Van Helmont, and other medical sages: a
pair of green spectacles set in black horn upon his clubbed nose,
and poring over a German folio that seemed to reflect back the
darkness of his physiognomy. The doctor listened to their
statement of the symptoms of Wolfert’s malady with profound
attention; but when they came to mention his raving about buried
money, the little man pricked up his ears. Alas, poor women! they
little knew the aid they had called in.

Dr. Knipperhausen had been half his life engaged in seeking the
short cuts to fortune, in quest of which so many a long lifetime
is wasted. He had passed some years of his youth in 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 travelling
sage who united all the mysteries of medicine with magic and
legerdemain. His mind, therefore, had become stored with all
kinds of mystic lore: he had dabbled a little in astrology,
alchemy, and 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
depressed in mind by the golden secret, and as a family physician
is a kind of father confessor, he was glad of the opportunity of
unburthening himself. So far from 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 the
kind; that money is only to be digged for at night; with certain
forms and ceremonies; the burning of drugs; the repeating of
mystic words, and above all, that the seekers must be provided
with a 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.[5]

[5] The following note was found appended to this paper in the handwriting of Mr. Knickerbocker. “There has been much written against the divining rod by those light minds who are ever ready to scoff at the mysteries of nature, but I fully join with Dr. Knipperhausen in giving it my faith. I shall not insist upon its efficacy in discovering the concealment of stolen goods, the boundary-stones of fields, the traces of robbers and murderers, or even the existence of subterraneous springs and streams of water; albeit, I think these properties not easily to be discredited; but of its potency in discovering vein of precious metal, and hidden sums of money and jewels, I have not the least doubt. Some said that the rod turned only in the hands of persons who had been born in particular months of the year; hence astrologers had recourse to planetary influence when they would procure a talisman. Others declared that the properties of the rod were either an effect of chance, or the fraud of the holder, or the work of the devil. Thus sayeth the reverend Father Gaspard Schott in his Treatise on Magic. ‘Propter haec et similia argumenta audacter ego pronuncio vim conversivam virgulae befurcatae nequaquam naturalem esse, sed vel casa vel fraude virgulam tractantis vel ope diaboli,’ etc. “Georgius Agricula also was of opinion that it was a mere delusion of the devil to inveigle the avaricious and unwary into his clutches, and in his treatise ‘de re Metallica,’ lays particular stress on the mysterious words pronounced by those persons who employed the divining rod during his time. But I make not a doubt that the divining rod is one of those secrets of natural magic, the mystery of which is to be explained by the sympathies existing between physical things operated upon by the planets, and rendered efficacious by the strong faith of the individual. Let the divining rod be properly gathered at the proper time of the moon, cut into the proper form, used with the necessary ceremonies, and with a perfect faith in its efficacy, and I can confidently recommend it to my fellow-citizens as an infallible means of discovering the various places on the island of the Manhattoes where treasure hath been buried in the olden time. D.K.”]

Wolfert’s heart leaped with joy at having met with so learned and
able a coadjutor. Every thing 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 Mud
Sam was engaged to take them in his skiff to the scene of
enterprise; to work with spade and pick-axe 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 counselled 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 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 roused
with tenfold force: they hung about him entreating him not to
expose himself to the night air, but all in vain. When Wolfert
was once mounted on his hobby, it was no easy matter to get him
out of the saddle. It was a clear starlight night, when he issued
out of the portal of the Webber palace. He wore a large napped
hat tied under the chin with a handkerchief of his daughter’s, to
secure him from the night damp, while Dame Webber threw her long
red cloak about his shoulders, and fastened it round his neck.

The doctor had been no less carefully armed and accoutred by his
housekeeper, the vigilant Frau Ilsy, and sallied forth in his
camblet robe by way of surtout; 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 church-yard, and the watchman bawled in hoarse
voice a long and doleful “All’s well!” A deep sleep had already
fallen upon this primitive little burgh; 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 a distance behind them; but it might have
been merely the echo of their own steps echoing 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 lamp light threw such
vague gleams and shadows, that this might all have been mere
fancy.

They found the negro fisherman waiting for them, smoking his pipe
in the stern of his skiff, which was moored just in front of his
little cabin. A pick-axe and spade were lying in the bottom of
the boat, with a dark lanthorn, and a stone jug of good Dutch
courage, in which honest Sam no doubt, put even more faith than
Dr. Knipperhausen in his drugs.

Thus then did these three worthies embark in their cockleshell of
a skiff upon this nocturnal expedition, with a wisdom and valor
equalled only by the three wise men of Gotham, who went 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 by the point of Corlears Hook with
the rural inn which had been the scene of such night adventures.
The family had retired to rest, and the house was dark and still.
Wolfert felt a chill pass over him as they passed the point where
the buccaneer had disappeared. He pointed it out to Dr.
Knipperhausen. 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 Kip’s bay, then shrouded themselves in the deep
shadows of the Manhattan shore, and glided swiftly along, secure
from observation. At length Sam 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 lanthorn,
gathered their various implements and proceeded slowly through
the bushes. Every sound startled them, even that of their
footsteps among the dry leaves; and the hooting of a screech owl,
from the shattered chimney of father red-cap’s ruin, made their
blood run cold.

In spite of all Wolfert’s caution in 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 the lanthorn, Wolfert recognized the three
mystic crosses. Their hearts beat quick, for the momentous trial
was at hand that was to determine their hopes.

The lanthorn was now held by Wolfert 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 centre, forming the
stem, pointed perpendicularly upwards. The doctor moved this wand
about, within a certain distance of the earth, from place to
place, but for some time without any effect, while Wolfert kept
the light of the lanthorn 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 greater earnestness, his hand
trembling with the agitation of his mind. The wand continued
slowly to turn, 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 the pole.

“This is the spot!” said the doctor in an almost inaudible tone.

Wolfert’s heart was in his throat.

“Shall I dig?” said Sam, grasping the spade.

“_Pots tousends_, 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 keep about
buried treasure from doing them any harm. The doctor then drew a
circle round 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
marvellously of brimstone and assafoetida, which, however
grateful it might be to the olfactory nerves of spirits, nearly
strangled poor Wolfert, and produced a fit of coughing and
wheezing that made the whole grove resound. Doctor Knipperhausen
then unclasped the volume which he had brought under his arm,
which was printed in red and black characters in German text.
While Wolfert held the lanthorn, 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 pick-axe 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 Wolfert, 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
about them in silence; a bird roused from its nest 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 along the rocky shore, and the distant
murmuring and roaring of Hell Gate.

Sam continued his labors, and had already digged a considerable
hole. The doctor stood on the edge, reading formulae every now
and then from the black letter volume, or throwing more drugs and
herbs upon the fire; while Wolfert bent anxiously over the pit,
watching every stroke of the spade. Any one witnessing the scene
thus strangely lighted up by fire, lanthorn, and the reflection
of Wolfert’s red mantle, might have mistaken the little doctor
for some foul magician, busied in his incantations, and the
grizzled-headed Sam as some swart goblin, obedient to his
commands.

At length the spade of the fisherman struck upon something that
sounded hollow. The sound vibrated to Wolfert’s heart. He struck
his spade again.

“’Tis a chest,” said Sam.

“Full of gold, I’ll warrant it!” cried Wolfert, clasping his
hands with rapture.

Scarcely had he uttered the words when a sound from overhead
caught his ear. He cast up his eyes, and lo! by the expiring
light of the fire he beheld, just over the disk of the rock, what
appeared to be the grim visage of the drowned buccaneer, grinning
hideously down upon him.

Wolfert gave a loud cry and let fall the lanthorn. 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 lanthorn extinguished. In their hurry-skurry
they ran against and confounded one another. They fancied a
legion of hobgoblins let loose upon them, and that they saw by
the fitful gleams of the scattered embers, strange figures in red
caps gibbering and ramping around them. The doctor ran one way,
Mud Sam another, and Wolfert made for the water side. As he
plunged struggling onwards through bush and brake, he heard the
tread of some one 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 rock and bush for a period, and showed
two figures grappling together—all was then darker than ever. The
contest continued—the combatants clenched each other, and panted
and groaned, and rolled among the rocks. There was snarling and
growling as of a cur, mingled with curses in which Wolfert
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. Wolfert heard
the plunge, and a kind of strangling bubbling murmur, but the
darkness of the night hid every thing from view, and the
swiftness of the current swept every thing instantly out of
hearing. One of the combatants was disposed of, but whether
friend or foe Wolfert could not 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. Whither should he fly! a precipice was on
one side; a murderer on the other. The enemy approached: he was
close at hand. Wolfert attempted to let himself down the face of
the cliff. His cloak caught in a thorn that grew on the edge. He
was jerked from off his feet and held dangling in the air, half
choaked by the string with which his careful wife had fastened
the garment round his neck. Wolfert thought his last moment had
arrived; already had he committed his soul to St. Nicholas, when
the string broke and he tumbled down the bank, 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 Wolfert came to himself. When he
opened his eyes the ruddy streaks of the morning were already
shooting up the sky. He found himself lying in the bottom of a
boat, grievously battered. He attempted to sit up but was too
sore and stiff to move. A voice requested him in 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
Webber and her daughter, who, with the laudable curiosity of
their sex, had pried into the secret consultations of Wolfert 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 Mud Sam
severally found their way back to the Manhattoes, each having
some dreadful tale of peril to relate. As to poor Wolfert,
instead of returning in triumph, laden with bags of gold, he was
borne home on a shutter, 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 debt of
nature in one of his wayward moods. Finding him, however, still
living, they had him conveyed speedily to bed, and 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 story of the
money-diggers. Many repaired to the scene of the previous night’s
adventures: but though they found the very place of the digging,
they discovered nothing that compensated 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 holes and boxes, but this is
all very dubious.

In fact, the secret of all this story has never to this day been
discovered: whether any treasure was ever actually buried at that
place, whether, if so, it was 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 matter of conjecture. For my part I incline to
the latter opinion; and make no doubt that great sums lie buried,
both there and in many other parts of this island and its
neighborhood, ever since the times of the buccaneers and the
Dutch colonists; 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 was
the strange man of the seas who had domineered over the little
fraternity at Corlears 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 rocky coves of the island. Others that he was a
buccaneer; one of the ancient comrades either of Kidd or Bradish,
returned to convey away treasures formerly hidden in the
vicinity. The only circumstance that throws any thing like a
vague light over this mysterious matter is a report that
prevailed of a strange foreign-built shallop, with the look of a
piccaroon, 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: and that she was 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 lanthorn in his
hand, seated astride his great sea-chest and sailing through Hell
Gate, which just then began to roar and bellow with redoubled
fury.

While all the gossip world was thus filled with talk and rumor,
poor Wolfert lay sick and sorrowful 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 the desertions of
friends in distress, they had no complaint of the kind to make.
Not an old wife of the neighborhood but abandoned her work to
crowd to the mansion of Wolfert Webber, inquire after his health
and the particulars of his story. Not one came, moreover, without
her little pipkin of pennyroyal, 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 wasting away day
by day; growing thinner and thinner and ghastlier and ghastlier,
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 this 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 any thing was wanting to complete his
despair, it was a notice served upon him in the midst of his
distress, that the corporation were about to run a new street
through the very centre of his cabbage garden. He 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 as they followed the dutiful 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 poordaughter—”

“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,” said he, “she is yours!—and now fetch me a lawyer—let
me make my will and die.”

The lawyer was brought—a dapper, bustling, round-headed little
man, Roorback (or Rollebuck, 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. Poor Amy buried her face and her grief in the
bed-curtain. Dame Webber resumed her knitting to hide her
distress, which betrayed itself, however, in a pellucid tear,
that 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 nightcap 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” said he.

“What! all that great patch of land with cabbages and sunflowers,
which the corporation is just going to run a main street
through?”

“The same,” said Wolfert, with a heavy sigh and 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
Rollebuck.

The expiring Wolfert seemed to step back from the threshold of
existence: his eyes again lighted up; he raised himself in his
bed, shoved back his red worsted nightcap, and stared broadly at
the lawyer.

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed he.

“Faith, but I do!” rejoined the other. “Why, when that great
field and that piece of meadow come to be laid out in streets,
and cut up into snug building lots—why, whoever owns them 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 everybody 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 once more burnt up into a flame.

Give physic 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. Little Rollebuck was constantly with him, his
right-hand man and adviser, and instead of making his will,
assisted in the more agreeable task of making his fortune. In
fact, Wolfert Webber was one of those worthy Dutch burghers of
the Manhattoes whose fortunes have been made, in a manner, in
spite of themselves; who have tenaciously held on to their
hereditary acres, raising turnips and cabbages about the skirts
of the city, hardly able to make both ends meet, until the
corporation has cruelly driven streets through their abodes, and
they have suddenly awakened out of a lethargy, and, to their
astonishment, found themselves rich men.

Before many months had elapsed a great bustling street passed
through the very centre of the Webber garden, just where Wolfert
had dreamed of finding a treasure. His golden dream was
accomplished; he did indeed find an unlooked-for source of
wealth; for, when his paternal lands were distributed into
building lots, and rented out to safe tenants, instead of
producing a paltry crop of cabbages, they returned him an
abundant crop of rents; insomuch that on quarter day, it was a
goodly sight to see his tenants rapping at his door, from morning
to night, each with a little round-bellied bag of money, the
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 stood boldly in the midst of a street, the grand house 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 the chubby-faced progeny of Amy
Webber and Dirk Waldron.