1812

A TALE of
CAPE COD

By Michael Fitzgerald

YARMOUTHPORT, MASS.:
C. W. SWIFT, Publisher and Printer,
The “Register” Press,
1912.

Copyright, 1912, by
Charles W. Swift.

TO
THOMAS CHANDLER THACHER,
A LOYAL SON OF CAPE COD,
THIS VOLUME
IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED.

PREFACE.

In this story of Cape Cod during the War of 1812 the author has essayed to give an accurate picture of some of the trials which the harassed inhabitants endured under the guns of the British warships.

The plight of Eastham in those days was that of many other towns on the Cape. The seafaring population of the district was utterly at the mercy of the enemy and all trade was at a standstill in consequence of the embargo on commerce. Deserted by the National and State governments, the sturdy people bore their sufferings with heroic fortitude and stubbornly resisted the invasion of their shores, now meeting the arrogant foe in deadly combat and driving him to his boats, and again, successfully matching their wits against his might, capitulating only when further resistance appeared useless.

The author has had the advantage of many years’ residence in the district and the privilege and pleasure of close acquaintance with the descendants of some of the characters in this tale, and, as an interested student of local history and tradition, his researches have instilled him with intense admiration for the virile race that first settled on this historic ground and whose indomitable perseverance and success in the face of almost insuperable difficulties have won the applause of the world.

“Old times have changed, old manners gone,” but in the little towns of the Cape today the sons of this brave old stock preserve many of the salient characteristics of their sires and are not lacking in the spirit which made Cape Cod something more than a geographical expression in the annals of the Nation.

“Hoppy” Mayo, Peter Walker, Squire Harding Knowles and others mentioned in the story were sterling citizens of Eastham a century ago and they were typical of the men who lived in those days; men of keen intelligence and patriotism, graduates of the little red schoolhouses where they were taught to express their thoughts in the clear English which was the language of their Pilgrim ancestors.

In this little volume the author has followed closely the facts as recorded by such writers as the Rev. Enoch Pratt, the Hon. Charles F. Swift and others who have given attention to the story of Cape Cod. The main purpose of the book is to stimulate interest in the study of the chronicles and traditions of the Cape and the author hopes that his efforts in this direction will merit the approbation of the public.

East Brewster, Cape Cod.

CHAPTER I.
The Capture.

In the year 1814 Provincetown was the rendezvous of the British fleet which harassed the Massachusetts merchant marine and levied tribute on the towns of Cape Cod. The inhabitants of the Cape were practically defenceless against the enemy, and though the artillery of the period was of insignificant calibre as compared with the big guns of the present day, the British gunners were able to terrorize the scattered communities of the coast and it was a time of stress and trouble for the good people of Cape Cod.

Added to this, the war was unpopular in the district. The embargo proved disastrous to American shipping and particularly affected the seagoing population of the Cape. When we consider that Cape Cod was vitally interested in maritime pursuits we can understand how the deadlock in commerce was responsible for local discontent. The position of the inhabitants immediately under the fire of the warships was well-nigh intolerable, but their patriotism never wavered however much they disapproved of the war.

One summer day in this troublous year, a large whaleboat emerged from Boston harbor and bore away for Eastham, Cape Cod. The crew consisted of two men, Winslow L. Knowles and Matthew H. Mayo. They were both in the prime of life, typical Cape Codders, and had been masters of fine vessels before the war destroyed the trade. Their whaleboat was a tiny craft in comparison with the stately merchantmen in which they had sailed the seven seas, and the skippers keenly felt their fallen fortunes. They were now at the very nadir of the profession, forced to sneak from port to port in a vessel not much larger than one of the ships’ boats of their former commands.

But what was the use of complaining? That villainous British fleet with its barges and light cruisers was never far away. A round shot across their path might at any moment bring them to, and then the Eastham folks would have to go without the goodly supply of food and drink with which the boat was laden.

As they crept across the bay before a light wind the skippers exchanged reminiscences of their long voyages and found satisfaction in relating stirring episodes of their experiences. Meantime, a good lookout was kept for the enemy, but the coast seemed clear with the exception of a small schooner dead ahead. They took her to be a Duxbury fisherman.

“It seems to me, Win, that the ‘Spencer’ must be in Provincetown. There hasn’t been much for her to fuss about lately.”

Captain Mayo was somewhat older than his companion. He was generally known as “Hoppy” Mayo, the sobriquet being derived from his middle name “Hophney.”

“Yes, it looks that way, Hoppy; but you can never tell anything about that frigate. Old Raggett has got a fine ship and he likes to show her off. Shouldn’t be surprised to see her at any moment.”

“Raggett is a fair enough chap,” said Hoppy. “Of course, he has to obey orders, and he’s got to do the dirty work planned for him in London; but he’s not looking for trouble and if he doesn’t catch you in the act he lets a good many things pass.”

“Damn this war, anyhow,” said Captain Knowles bitterly.

“Yes, Win, damn the war if you like, but it had to come. Why, that last voyage Zeke Bangs made didn’t a British man-o’-war take four men out of his ship and he dare not kick! These Britishers think they own the world, land and water alike, and ’twas about time to let them know some other people had a few rights.”

“Yes, but we weren’t prepared for war,” retorted Captain Knowles.

“Seems to me we were just as much prepared as we were when the Revolution was started. Good Lord, man, how long do you think we should wait while this bully of the seas was driving us to desperation? Isn’t it bad enough to pay tribute to the Algerine pirates? Must we forever be treated as children? Does any sensible person think this American nation is going to remain in swaddling clothes until the crack o’ doom?”

The argument continued with unabated vigor until the whaleboat was nearly abreast of the schooner which had been forgotten in the heat of the discussion. Suddenly a round shot plunged into the water and both skippers jumped to their feet.

“What the devil is that for?” exclaimed Hoppy.

“Well, it means that we’re caught in a trap,” replied Captain Knowles.

And so it proved to be. The schooner which they had taken for an inoffensive fisherman was manned by British seamen from the “Spencer,” and was one of many captured craft which the enemy used for operations in the shallower waters of Cape Cod bay. A second shot brought the whaleboat to.

As the schooner approached, the Americans felt all the bitterness of defeat. In Boston they had been told that they stood a good chance of getting home safely. The frigate had not been seen in the bay during the previous week, and they had started with high hopes of a successful run. Now they were in the toils and Tom Crosby’s two hogsheads of good Jamaica rum would cheer the thirsty foe! Friends in Eastham would miss the comforting gill which in those days was deemed essential to the perfect enjoyment of life. Altogether it was a most humiliating situation. Here were two of the most successful runners in the business held up by a stratagem which they should have foreseen and which the veriest landlubber would have looked out for. What a subject for Peter Walker’s sarcastic rhymes! The British bullets and bayonets were harmless compared with the poisonous shafts of Peter’s poetic quiver; their misery could be quickly ended by the former, but Peter’s undying verse could be read by future generations and Hoppy Mayo and Win Knowles would be the laughing-stock of posterity!

“Boat ahoy!”

“Hullo!” answered Hoppy.

“Come aboard!” shouted the officer on the schooner’s deck. They were soon alongside. Lieutenant Fotheringay of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate “Spencer” greeted them:

“It is the fortune of war, sirs. You have escaped us many times, but the pitcher goes to the well once too often! Captain Knowles, you and your friend are well known to us. Captain Raggett’s orders to us were to get you at all hazards. I hope you will have no reason to complain of your treatment, at least until your case is finally disposed of by the commanding officer of this station.”

“We’re much obliged, I’m sure,” replied Hoppy with a touch of irony; “but what puzzles me is how you happened to get hold of our names?”

The officer smiled as he answered:

“Surely, Captain Mayo, you did not suppose we were ignorant of your existence? Captain Raggett has had intimate knowledge of your exploits for some time but you have eluded him until now. Further than this I cannot tell you at present, but I may tell you that the next time you go to Boston it will not be wise for you to trust every chance acquaintance you meet on the waterfront!”

The prisoners looked at each other significantly.

“Well, I’ll be darned!” exclaimed Knowles; “so it was that chap we met at Snow’s tavern! Might have known it, too; he was abusing Raggett a bit too much.”

The lieutenant invited them to the cabin and treated them handsomely. In a few hours they reached Provincetown and as night fell the schooner dropped anchor under the lee of the “Spencer.”

CHAPTER II.
At Crosby’s Tavern.

The tavern kept by Master Thomas Crosby at Eastham was thronged on the evening that Hoppy Mayo and his comrade, Win Knowles, were expected to arrive from Boston. Crosby’s cellar was nearly empty of the cheering liquor that helped the male inhabitants of the town to bear the hardships of the woeful condition to which they were reduced by the fortune of war, and the fresh consignment which was known to be on the way was eagerly awaited. It must not be inferred from this that the population was inclined to riotous living. On the contrary, the people were of an orderly and peace-loving, nature, but the advocates of total abstinence had not yet made much progress on Cape Cod, and in accordance with the custom of their fathers, the men of Eastham were not averse to taking a friendly gill in company with their neighbors who met for gossip and entertainment under Crosby’s hospitable rooftree.

Master Peter Walker, of whom it has been told by the historian that his wit was keen and his learning great, occupied his favorite seat by the huge chimney-place, which, however, was fireless at this season. Master Walker was a blacksmith by trade, and a poet by choice. Selectman Harding Knowles and his colleagues on the Board were there. Much attention was paid to the opinions of Squire Knowles who was a gentleman of great dignity and knowledge of affairs. “Uncle” Jabez Rich, retired schoolmaster, feeling somewhat the burden of his ninety years, sat opposite Master Walker. Uncle Jabez had a wonderful memory and was fond of telling of his stirring adventures during the old French wars. The rest of the company was made up of citizens engaged in various occupations; artisans, farmers, fishermen and shipmasters. The latter were chafing under the enforced idleness caused by the enemy’s blockade of the coast. Captain Jared Higgins was especially emphatic in condemning President Madison for challenging the might of England on the high seas when the United States had no navy capable of meeting the numerous squadrons of Britain. Captain Jared was a staunch supporter of Governor Caleb Strong of Massachusetts and voted for him on every occasion that the anti-war governor sought office. Partisan feeling ran high in those days and heated argument was not uncommon at Crosby’s. However, private opinions were forgotten when it came to presenting a solid front to the enemy.

The township of Eastham was part of the ancient territory of the Nauset Indians. It was settled in 1644 by Thomas Prence, later governor of Plymouth Colony, who, accompanied by the famous Deacon John Doane and a chosen party of colonists, purchased land from the Nausets and made their homes in the locality. These first settlers of Eastham were men of high character. The men who formed the gathering at Crosby’s tavern on the evening of which we write were mostly descended from the pioneers who faced the wilderness and the savage in search of freedom to worship God in their own way, and their descendants had inherited this love of liberty and sturdy spirit of independence. Men of pure English stock predominated, but on the features of a few could be traced the evidence of mixed descent. The dark-eyed maidens of the Nausets had not been found unwilling to share the white man’s lot, and though the red man had vanished from the district, a dash of his blood remained to tell of some forgotten romance in the olden days. Strong-bodied, self-reliant citizens were these people of Eastham. Their mode of speaking was clear and incisive, denoting a high degree of intelligence. Many of them had acquired in the great school of world-wide experience a polish of manner and a courtliness of bearing that became them well.

The well-worn arguments on the questions of the day were threshed out vigorously until the night was well advanced. Still no sign of the voyagers and a general feeling of uneasiness as to their fate became manifest.

“Something must have gone wrong with Win and Hoppy,” remarked Obed Sparrow. “They should have been here long ago.”

Peter Walker winked at Crosby. “Neighbor Sparrow is getting anxious about the stock in hand, Master Crosby,” insinuated Peter.

“Well, Master Walker,” replied mine host, “Obed has good reason to feel anxious about it, if that’s what’s in his mind. My last hogshead of Jamaica is running low.”

“Oh,” Peter put in slyly, “you may be doing Obed an injustice. Perhaps he’s thinking about the molasses. Mistress Sparrow is famed for her cookies, you know.”

Everybody laughed. “What was that rhyme of yours on the subject, Peter?” inquired Squire Knowles.

“If it wouldn’t hurt Obed’s feelings,” replied Master Walker, “I might give you a verse or two, if only to help pass the time.”

“Let’s have it, Master Walker!” cried several in chorus.

“Well, neighbors, it isn’t very good poetry, but it’s good rhyme and it’s a tribute to Mistress Sparrow’s accomplishments.”

Master Walker cleared his throat and began:

This good old town of Eastham boasts

Of gallant men and true,

Who never shirked their duty when

The call of country blew;

Who carried sail thro’ many a gale,

To meet upon the sea

The British foe, and strike a blow

For home and liberty!

And foremost in the battle’s van

Bold Obed leads his crew;

He’s always there his part to share

In deeds of derring-do!

And when he brings his prize to port

Thro’ storm and flying foam,

He’ll proudly tell he’d conquer hell

On the grub he gets at home!

Cheers and laughter greeted this sally and Master Walker was urged to continue. Obed was particularly clamorous for the rest of the verses. He loved to hear his good wife praised.

“Aye, it is just like your blood, Peter,” muttered Uncle Jabez. “I remember well when Jonas Walker kept the camp in goodhumor that time before Louisburg. We were in the Fourth company of Gorham’s Regiment, and Elisha Doane, our captain, used to say that Jonas Walker was the life and soul of the regiment. Colonel Shubael Gorham often had Jonas to amuse the officers when they supped in the Colonel’s tent.”

“Those were stirring times, Uncle Jabez,” said Squire Knowles.

“Aye, Squire; there were fine men in that regiment. I have seen Captain Joseph Thacher, of Yarmouth, go right through an embrasure into the Grand Battery while the bullets were thick as hail.”

“You must tell us the story some time, Uncle Jabez. Master Walker might get offended if we don’t listen to the rest of his poem.”

“It’s getting late, neighbors,” said Peter. “Some other time I’ll finish it.”

Harding Knowles and Peter Walker went home together.

“Peter,” said Harding, “if Hoppy and Win do not arrive during the night we must conclude something serious has happened. I sincerely trust they have not been captured.”

“I’m afraid that’s just what has happened, Harding,” replied Peter. “That runner from Provincetown told me last week that the British seemed to be up to something new. He said Raggett hadn’t been ashore for a week, and that seemed strange, as Raggett was fond of stretching his legs over the dunes.”

“I fear there is bad work ahead for us, Peter. Hoppy is hotheaded, you know, and he’ll be apt to give offence to those fellows at whose mercy we are. ’Tis said they are going to levy tribute on the Bay towns, and God only knows how we are to meet it. The Committee of Safety has been considering the matter. Some are for fighting it out; others consider that course unwise as we have no armed force to signify.”

“I plainly see we are in a bad fix, Harding, but we can only wait and hope for the best. Raggett’s been pretty good about it up to this and if he’s changed, it must be due to orders from London.”

“That’s so, Peter. The National government little realizes the hardship of our position, and even if it did, we have no naval force for the protection of the Cape. The scattered units of our navy are doing great work but the British are in overwhelming numbers. The loss of the Chesapeake last year was disheartening.”

“Well,” replied Peter, and there was fire in his eye, “you know, Harding, what Lawrence said on that occasion: ‘Don’t give up the ship!’ Keep that in mind, Harding, and we may yet bring the bully of the Bay to terms.”

“Let’s hope for the best, Peter. Good night.”

“Good night, Harding.”

CHAPTER III.
Prisoners of War.

After a night of fitful slumber, the captives were awakened early by Dunton, the master’s mate left in charge of the schooner when Lieutenant Fotheringay went aboard the frigate. Dunton was a surly fellow, over middle age, and heartily hating all Americans who, in his opinion, were an inferior breed of English inhabiting a semi-civilized land. To him they were “damned Yanks,” deserving of neither courtesy nor favor.

“Lively, you fellows; get ready to go aboard the frigate.”

Hoppy coolly looked him over. “I guess there ain’t much getting ready about it, my friend. You see, we kind o’ forgot to bring our Sunday clothes, not expecting this honor.”

“I don’t want any back talk from prisoners,” replied Dunton, sneeringly.

“Is that so?” asked Hoppy in an even voice, though inwardly he felt like kicking the officer. “Well, now, I should think you’d like a little chat, seeing you’re so friendly about it.”

“Nice pair of scarecrows you are to go aboard a king’s ship and meet a post-captain!”

This was intended to silence Hoppy. Hoppy flushed, and Captain Knowles, seeing trouble ahead, nudged his compatriot warningly but without effect.

“Don’t know as you’re any beauty yourself, Dunton, with all your finery in the way of brass buttons. Ignorant folks might take you to be the king of England himself, but I have met king’s officers before now and I know that a master’s mate of your stripe is no ornament to a ship’s company.”

Dunton was furious. “You’ll be sorry for those words yet, you damned Yankee smuggler!”

“Maybe so,” returned Hoppy. “I’m willing to take a chance, anyway.”

There was some time to wait for the small boat to return from the frigate, and from the deck of the schooner the prisoners had a fine view of the splendid harbor of Provincetown, capable of affording anchorage for a thousand sail, as was noted by Bradford when the Mayflower first made the port. Many times had the captives sailed on these waters and to them every depth and shallow was familiar. And yet, notwithstanding the glorious summer morning, there seemed to be the shadow of disaster over the scene. The town had suffered severely from the presence of the enemy’s ships. Commerce was completely at a standstill, for the great industry of the place, fishing, could not be carried on under the muzzles of the British guns, and the few vessels left in the port were rotting on the beach. The population was reduced to a state of dumb submission to the invaders and, with the exception of the British ships, the roadstead was a waste of waters.

About fifty yards from the schooner, the “Spencer” presented a sight to gladden a sailor’s eye. Her towering masts and trim rigging showed clearly against the sky. Her deck was a-swarm with busy men and her burnished brasswork shone in the sunlight.

“She certainly is a beauty, Hoppy,” remarked Captain Knowles admiringly.

“Yes, Win, she is surely that,” replied Hoppy. “No wonder Raggett is proud of her.”

“Well, he’s got about three hundred hands to keep busy and they have nothing else to do but keep her tidied up. If there was a little more fighting she mightn’t look so pretty. Still, I don’t think I should like this navy life, myself.”

“Same here, Win. These Britishers have always had a navy and got kind o’ used to the thing, but we have hardly started in. Maybe in a few more years we shall have something besides a few cruisers and privateers to meet them.”

Soon after this the boat arrived and the prisoners were transferred to the frigate.

Lieutenant Fotheringay, courteous as ever, met them at the gangway.

“Gentlemen, Captain Raggett desires your presence in his cabin.”

“Well, now,” said Hoppy smilingly, “I’ll be hanged if it’s not a pleasure to meet a gentleman once more, even if he’s an enemy!”

“Thank you, Captain Mayo.”

“That fellow Dunton might take a few lessons in manners from you, lieutenant. He wants ’em badly.”

Before they reached the cabin, Fotheringay stopped them, saying:

“So you have had trouble with Dunton? I expected it, and I am sorry that any unpleasantness should have arisen. However, it is not for me to say anything against a brother officer. Let it pass. I take this opportunity to tell you that Captain Raggett is in a very bad humor. He has had despatches from the Admiralty finding fault with him for not being more active in harassing the shore towns. There is trouble hatching for your people and it will not help matters if you cross him in any way. Captain Mayo, you will excuse me, but I think you are a little hotheaded. You had better let Captain Knowles do the talking.”

“Thank you kindly, Mr. Fotheringay,” said Hoppy heartily, “Win certainly is a smoother talker than I am; never much of what you call a diplomat, myself. But whatever happens, we want you to remember that we are grateful for your kindness, and if all Britishers were like you, there would be no trouble.”

“And I, Mr. Fotheringay,” said Win, “repeat what I said to Hoppy yesterday, ‘Damn this war!’ And now more than ever when it makes us the enemies of a man like you.”

“You are very good to say so,” replied the officer.

In response to a knock at the captain’s door, a gruff voice bade them enter. Captain Richard Raggett arose from his chair when Fotheringay saluted and introduced the unwilling guests. The captain’s keen eyes searched the faces of the prisoners as he motioned them to be seated.

Post-Captain Richard Raggett of the Royal Navy was a stout man of about sixty years of age. “Old Dick Raggett,” as he was familiarly known throughout the service, was an officer of the school that gave Britain such sailors as Rodney, Nelson, Collingwood, and others whose names are inseparably connected with the story of England’s glory on the high seas. He had fought under his country’s flag in every quarter of the globe and for nearly half a century he had served his king with devoted loyalty, always obeying orders no matter what those orders might be. In battle he was unrelenting, but he was never known to press unfairly a beaten foe. He had no liking for his present duty on the coast of Massachusetts. There was no glory in bullying defenceless villagers and he had not exerted himself overmuch in the operations against Cape Cod. But London had reminded him that there was a state of war between the United States and Great Britain and that the government expected some positive results from the blockade of the New England coast. Raggett was stung by the sarcasm of the reminder. He knew his enemies at headquarters were at work to discredit him and he was determined to outwit them at any hazard.

He was, then, in no amiable mood as he addressed the Cape men:

“So you have been running the blockade in a whaleboat? Pretty small business for shipmasters like you?”

“Shipmasters without a ship, Captain Raggett, and until captured engaged in bringing necessaries of life from Boston to our town,” replied Captain Knowles.

“By G——, sir!” cried Raggett with the suspicion of a smile, “your people have a pretty good idea of what are necessaries of life. I find that your cargo mostly consisted of good Jamaica rum.”

This rather upset Win, but Hoppy was equal to the occasion.

“It’s like this, Captain Raggett,” said he; “there’s been quite a lot of sickness in the place, and we old sailors know there’s nothing can break up a cold like the old-fashioned cure of rum and molasses.”

“Well, I’m afraid the invalids will have to suffer this trip.”

“Looks that way, Captain Raggett,” assented Hoppy dolefully.

“Now, my men,” said Raggett, “you know I have been very lenient about this business. It’s not the sort of warfare I’m used to. But it’s got to stop now. I’ve got myself into hot water with the authorities in London on account of my leniency and I don’t mind telling you that I don’t like being reprimanded by fellows who never went a mile to sea in the whole course of their clerkly lives. But that has nothing to do with the matter at present. Dick Raggett has got orders and, by George, he’s going to obey them! I have had scouts out for you for some time, and I’m going to hold you until ransomed.”

“Then that will be forever!” exclaimed Hoppy. “There’s no one to ransom us, Captain Raggett. Of course, you can confiscate our boat and cargo, and hold us prisoners, but if you fix the price too high for our means, then that fixes us so far as we are concerned.”

“I must make an example of your capture,” replied Raggett, “because you two are the most daring and successful of all the runners. But that doesn’t mean that my terms can’t be met. I confess I admire your pluck and resourcefulness.”

“Of course, Captain Raggett, we are entirely at your mercy,” said Captain Knowles, “but we have no reason to fear harsh treatment so long as we are in your hands. In the event of our not being able to meet your terms, we stand a chance of being transferred from your ship. Some Cape Cod men are just now in Dartmoor prison.”

“You will not be maltreated on the ‘Spencer,’ that I can promise. In the event of transference to another ship, you must take your chances with the rest.”

“If it would not be asking too much, Captain Raggett, we should like to know what your terms are?”

Raggett paused for some minutes before replying. His usual good temper was coming back. He saw that the men with whom he was dealing were above the ordinary standard of the seamen of the period, both in education and intelligence, and while he knew just what he wanted of them, he was unwilling to alienate their good opinion of him by any premature announcement of his plans.

“My friends,” said he, “I think we had better postpone the discussion of that point until this evening. You must have a look over my ship. I am sure she will please old skippers like you. Mr. Fotheringay, who has given me some knowledge of your standing in your community, will take you in charge. Meantime, permit me to offer you some of this special brand.”

The Cape Codders raised their glasses. “Here’s to your good health, Captain Raggett,” said Hoppy. “Let’s hope that this war will soon be over and that our countries will never have another!”

“I heartily join you in that, my friends,” responded the British commander. “At the same time, I can imagine the horror of some gentlemen in London if they ever hear that ‘Old Dick Raggett’ was clinking glasses with two of the most venturesome blockade runners on the Massachusetts coast!”

With a laugh at the thought, he sent them on deck where Fotheringay took charge of them.

CHAPTER IV.
Uncle Jabez Spins a Yarn.

The news of the capture of the whaleboat and its occupants soon became known to the inhabitants of Eastham and the tidings were received with dismay. The loss of the boat and her cargo was bad enough, but the fact that two of the neighbors were prisoners and liable to be sent across the ocean to Dartmoor caused consternation in the town. Then, again, the incident clearly betokened a change of policy on the part of the British. It was evident that the blockade was to be enforced rigorously, and this meant a scarcity of those provisions which the people were accustomed to get from Boston. Rye was plentiful, but anything approaching luxury was out of the question under the circumstances. The Committee of Safety was hastily convened, but after a long discussion the meeting adjourned until some definite information regarding the enemy’s movements could be obtained. Messengers were sent to Provincetown with instructions to consult with the selectmen of that place and get their views.

The prevailing gloom was apparent at Crosby’s tavern. The gossips were gathered as usual, but there were no jokes going around; even Master Walker refrained from any of his customary sallies. Uncle Jabez Rich occupied his seat in the chimney corner, and as he philosophically smoked his pipe, he seemed to be the only person untroubled by the shadow of hard times.

“You don’t appear to be much worried about the future, Uncle Jabez?” Peter remarked.

“The future, Master Walker, has been before me for nearly ninety years but I have never overtaken it. The past is what an old man knows best. The present must be left to the young.”

“There have been many changes in Eastham since you were a boy, Uncle Jabez?”

“Aye, Master Walker, many changes, surely. In some ways the youngsters now know more than grown people in my youth, and in other ways our great scholars of today are far behind the men of learning who lived here in the old days.”

Peter Walker saw that Uncle Jabez was in a reminiscent mood. The occasion was ripe for stimulating the old man’s memory.

“I’ve heard my grandfather tell of those good times when Mr. Treat was minister. That was before your time, Uncle Jabez. Grandfather was only eighty when he died, but he hadn’t your memory.”

“No, Peter, few men have my memory, if I do say it myself. I was only a boy at the time, but I well remember the days when Mr. Samuel Osborn was minister. Ah, he was a rare man! It was not his piety that recommended him to his flock, though he was a good man, too. It was his way of doing good. He took hold of the things nearest to hand. Didn’t your grandfather ever mention how Mr. Osborn taught the people the value of peat for fuel when there was a scarcity of wood?”

“He used to say something of the sort, Uncle Jabez, but he got Mr. Osborn mixed with the other minister, Mr. Webb.”

“Aye, Mr. Webb was one of the best men that ever lived but he had no faculty for practical matters. He had the Middle Parish, and Mr. Osborn had the South Parish. They were always the best of friends, though their dispositions were very different. Didn’t you ever hear the story of how the ‘Whidah’ was lost and how one of the two survivors used to come to the Cape for years after in search of the pirate’s treasure?”

“We heard a little of the story, Uncle Jabez, but nobody seemed to know it in full.”

“I know it in full, Master Walker.”

As Uncle Jabez said this the hearers became more interested and drew nearer the chimney-place.

“Tell us about it, Uncle Jabez,” urged Obed Sparrow. “I have heard tell of that strange man who frequented the dunes of Wellfleet years ago. Nobody seems to know what was his end.”

Uncle Jabez was nothing loth to comply, and this is how his story ran.

In those old days, my masters, Eastham was a town of great importance in the colony. From the bounds of Chatham and Harwich on the west, it took in the rest of the Cape as far as Truro. It was the famous corn-raising district of the colony, Nauset being known to the first settlers as “the granary of the Cape.” It had many men engaged in the fisheries and some went long voyages to southern lands in search of the vintage of Santa Cruz and Jamaica, bartering the spoil of the ocean for the products of the tropics. The Indians of the Nauset tribe, original owners of the soil, were rapidly vanishing from the earth, though a remnant of the nation still remained. They were a kindly race and lived in peace with the white man. After King Philip’s War, the power of the Narragansetts and the Wampanoags was broken, but the colony was still subject to frequent alarms from the French and their Indian allies, who were active in other parts of the state.

Some ten years before I was born, the Rev. Samuel Treat died. He had served the people for forty-four years, and his funeral was the occasion of great grief to all. He was beloved by the Indians. Two years after this, the pirate ship “Whidah” was wrecked during a great storm. One hundred and two bodies were washed ashore and buried on the dunes. Only two of the crew survived, an Englishman and an Indian. They disappeared almost immediately after they were rescued and nobody knew where they went to. I have often heard my father describe that fearful night. The raging ocean burst through the Cape, opening a passage through which boats could pass. Daylight revealed a dreadful sight. The sands were strewn with the bodies of the dead pirates. An immense concourse gathered from all parts of the Cape to view the scene and, if possible, to have their share of the treasure which Sam Bellamy, the pirate captain, was supposed to have had on board.

Some of you, my masters, may know all of this; all of you may know some of it, but as my story has to deal with the “strange man” who frequented this district some years after the wreck of the pirate, I hope I have not trespassed on your patience by this allusion to the event which was responsible for the stranger’s appearance in our town.

Years passed by, and I was a stout lad of ten when I first heard of this man. He had been seen on the Wellfleet beach, apparently searching for something. The scene of his operations was just below the hut of Goody Hallett, on the line between Eastham and what is now Wellfleet. Goody Hallett lived alone. She was old and most people regarded her as a witch, but this was probably because she kept much to herself. She was expert at the spinning-wheel and ostensibly supported herself by this industry. She never asked charity, though people wondered how so old a woman could earn enough to keep her from want. She courted seclusion, and the situation of her small dwelling, far removed from the prying eyes of neighbors, favored this. A tall, thin woman, with dark features strongly telling of Indian blood, her appearance went far to confirm the idea that she rode the broomstick and could work charms. She was not a native of this place. It was said she belonged to a distant part of the Cape, beyond Yarmouth, and she arrived in Eastham soon after the wreck of the “Whidah.”

The stranger was described as a man of fierce aspect. His beard and mustachios were originally coal-black but time had whitened the pointed ends. His face was scarred in many places. Those who brought the news of his presence said that when he discovered that he was being watched his features were contorted with passion and his expression was that of the Evil One. Allowing for some exaggeration on the part of the frightened beholders, there could be no doubt but that this stranger of forbidding mien desired to avoid the observation of the inhabitants while he pursued his mysterious search of the sands.

One evening in the late Fall, when the first snowflakes began to whiten the ground, my father and I had made all snug for the night and were leaving the barn when we heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs approaching the house. Soon the wayfarer entered the yard and a cheerful voice greeted us.

“Give ye good e’en, Goodman Rich! Like a careful husbandman thou hast made thy beasts comfortable. Now, in the hospitality of thy heart, couldst thou find place below the salt for a weary guest at the bounteous feast which awaits thee? And how is my young friend Jabez?”

It was the Rev. Mr. Osborn. My father gave him hearty welcome, bade him dismount and enter. He stabled the horse while the minister was made welcome by my mother. Soon we were seated at table and Mr. Osborn continually praised the good things which my mother had set before us, a fact which pleased her greatly.

He was a man of genial temperament, free-spoken and always ready for his joke. Some of the stricter members of the South Parish church did not like his easy ways, but he had done much good among the people and, as yet, the mutterings of his enemies were scarcely heard. He had come from Ireland in the early years of the century and he had some of the faults as well as many of the virtues of his native land. His views on Christianity were broad; in fact, too broad for the elders of his church, as was afterward shown by his dismissal from the parish after trial by an ecclesiastical court. He had rejected the Calvinism in which his congregation had been reared. But he was a great man, and from him I learned many of the lessons which formed part of my equipment as schoolmaster in after years. He retained much of the old manner of speech which was then giving place to the modern form.

“I have been to Truro to see my good friend Mr. Avery, goodman, and I dallied on my way home, so that is the reason of my forcing myself on your hospitality for the night.”

“You are heartily welcome, Mr. Osborn,” said my mother. “The guest-chamber is all prepared.”

“Aye, goodwife, I well knew I should not find thy hospitable mansion unprepared. My friend Mr. Avery is not in the best of health. In the course of his exacting ministerial duties he caught a chill, but it is not serious. One of the best and most Godly of men and a true father to his spiritual children.”

“He is no better than yourself, sir!” exclaimed my mother.

The minister smiled somewhat sadly. “I fear me much, goodwife, that I can never reach the higher altitudes of sanctity where these saintly men live. The even tenor of their ways is never troubled by the doubts which sometimes harass mine. Perchance it is because I have seen so much of the evil of intolerance in my own country that I am sick at heart to see it powerful in this great new land. I have offended the elders of the South Parish by mildly hinting that the good Lord might even look with favor on a Papist if the misguided brother was honest in his interpretation of the Master’s will.”

“But,” he continued, “let us not spoil this happy occasion by theological discussion. I had quite an adventure on my way to Truro last night. Strange things are happening in our midst, Goodman Rich. Dost wish to hear what befell me?”

“Aye, sir, and if you please,” answered my father. “But before you commence, the goodwife will mix you a brew from the last wreck.”

My mother was skilled in the art of concocting a life-giving draught based on the Jamaica which came ashore from the wreck of the brig “Mary,” and soon we were listening to the minister’s tale which I give in our own speech.

CHAPTER V.
Uncle Jabez Spins A Yarn. (continued)

You know where Goody Hallett lives, Goodman Rich? It is a lonely spot. After spending an hour last evening with your beloved pastor, Mr. Webb, I resumed my journey to Truro just as the shades of evening were gathering, expecting to reach Mr. Avery’s in time for his usually late supper. Before I had gone very far, my horse showed a slight lameness and I was, perforce, obliged to travel at a slow pace. Night comes on rapidly at this season and it was very dark when I reached the confines of Billingsgate. I had long since left the thickly populated district behind and I guided my horse carefully over the dunes as I was not sure of the way, not having been accustomed to traveling by night in that region of the Cape. An occasional star gleamed fitfully through the cloud rifts, but there was no other light to be seen on either hand. The booming of the ocean to my right told me that my direction was northerly and I felt sure I had not lost my way. Suddenly I heard voices and I stopped my horse. Peering through the inky darkness I discerned a faint glimmer about fifty yards from me, as I judged. I wondered what the light meant as I was certain the locality was uninhabited. Hitching my horse to a tree, I cautiously approached the light, the voices becoming more distinct as I advanced. Then I realized that I was in the vicinity of Goody Hallett’s hut, but as I knew she lived alone I was at a loss to account for the altercation which was in progress.

About ten yards from the hut I stopped and listened. Goody Hallett had a guest, and, judging by his expressions, one who was not of this neighborhood. I could now plainly hear all that was said and strange indeed was the impression conveyed to my mind by the fierce tones in which the man spoke to the old woman.

“It is no use trying to fool me longer, Mother Hallett. I have been to many ports since that dread night, but I mind me well where the booty was secreted. You say you found but little; that it must have been found by these swinish lubbers who dwell on this God-forsaken sandbank. They thought they buried me with the rest of the gallant rovers when the old ship went to pieces under us, but they little knew who was the fellow-survivor of your relative, Indian Tom! We disappeared, they said. Truly, Mother Hallett, we did disappear, but not on that morning, as they thought. Indian Tom knew how to hide and to provide food, so we stayed for days unknown to the wreckers who were unable to think of anything but Sam Bellamy’s gold! They didn’t find it, the swine! Indian Tom knew his orders better than that. Give me some more rum, old hag!”

Through the small window of the hut I saw the tall figure of Goody Hallett pass between me and the light. She soon returned, evidently with the liquor demanded by the man, as the clinking of glasses told me that he was helping himself to the generous fluid.

Then I heard Goody Hallett say in her shrill voice: “I tell you, pirate, that I found only a small part of the gold and silver in the place where Indian Tom told me he had hidden the treasure. He died the night after he came home to his people. I was the last person that saw him alive. In his last moments he confided the secret to me.”

“And you started post-haste to this place, I’ll be bound!” exclaimed the man fiercely. “Yes, old witch, I heard the story from the lips of your nephew when I sought traces of Indian Tom last month. It was also rumored that Tom died of poison!”

The old woman laughed mockingly. “The fools! Why should anybody poison poor Tom when we were all glad to see him home again after his years of voyaging with you?”

“Perhaps somebody had an interest in poisoning Tom? I should better know why if I knew whether he told you about the treasure before or after he fell sick?”

“Dog of a pirate! Dare you insinuate that I had aught to do with the death of my uncle’s son?” Her voice was almost a shriek as she flung this at him.

“Ho, softly, Mother Hallett, softly, I say!” The man was somewhat disconcerted by the old woman’s rage. “Come,” he continued, “let’s clink our glasses once again to pledge our friendship. We are the only ones who now can tell where the treasure was hidden and together we must find it. Let me sing you one of my old sea songs. Ah, that’s a better spirit, Mother Hallett! Now I’ll give you a stave.”

In a roaring tone he started to sing. It was a wild song of the rover’s life and the singer flung his whole soul into the performance. I can remember the first stanza, which he repeated several times as if it were a kind of refrain. This was how it went:

“Sing ho, my lads, for Bellamy bold,

For he is king of the main!

He’s filled the hold with yellow gold

From the galleons of Spain.

Then bear away by the light of the moon,

We carry a rover’s freight—

Sing ho, for the gleam of a yellow doubloon

And the chink of pieces of eight!

Sing ho, etc.”

There were several verses in the same spirit telling of fair-haired and blue-eyed maids in Bristol town awaiting the homecoming of the rover who, however, was well content to lavish his wealth on the darker-hued sirens whose flashing eyes welcomed him to the bowers of love in the sunny isles of the southern seas.

The effect of the song was to restore good feeling between the pair and the subsequent discussion was free from acrimony. They talked about the treasure. Goody Hallett insisted that the sea must have encroached on the spot where it was hidden, and scattered it. The shifting sands then covered it. She admitted having recovered some of it and expressed her willingness to share with her guest. On his part, he urged that now was the time to settle; he must be leaving immediately as his ship awaited him in Bostoin and he would be absent for a long time. Goody Hallett agreed to this. There was some little haggling over the division of the spoil, but the man appeared convinced that the old woman was telling the truth and accepted what she gave him. He promised to revisit the place at the end of the voyage and resume the search for the lost treasure. Then the light was put out and all was silence.

Filled with astonishment at this strange occurrence, I mounted my horse and continued my journey to Mr. Avery’s. ’Twas very late when I arrived but I found my friend sitting up. The saintly minister was much alarmed and astonished when I told him of my adventure. He had heard some talk about this strange man but put it down to idle gossip.

Together we rode to Goody Hallett’s hut next day, but there was no trace of the stranger, and the old woman vehemently denied that any such person had ever been there!

“Now, Goodman Rich, what do you think of it?” asked the minister when he had finished.

My father acknowledged that he had heard of the man’s presence in the neighborhood. He believed him to be the Englishman who was one of the survivors of the “Whidah” wreck; in fact, the minister’s story confirmed this. Perhaps he was Sam Bellamy himself? As to that, however, he was present at the burial of the drowned pirates and he remembered one corpse being identified as that of the pirate captain.

Next morning the minister went his way after profusely thanking my parents for their hospitality.

In the five years following the departure of the stranger many things happened. Mr. Osborn had been dismissed from the South Parish and he left the district, never to return. Time will do justice to the memory of this gifted man whose broad views were so much misunderstood by his contemporaries. To me he had always shown marked favor, and I loved to hear him speak of the noted men of letters he had known in the Old World. He told me many anecdotes of Jonathan Swift, the famous Dean of St. Patrick’s, and he used to read for me passages from the works of that brilliant but erratic churchman. That Mr. Osborn had a liking for such literature was not the least of his offences in the eyes of the stern elders of his parish.

The incident of the strange man was almost forgotten, except by those who, like myself, had heard the minister’s story. My father and I often talked it over and the facts were indelibly fixed in my young mind. Goody Hallett was still alive, but she was now feeble and those who visited her hut with wool for the spinning reported that her mental faculties were getting weak; at least, so they inferred from her garrulity and the strange talk she indulged in.

I was now a lusty youth, of great assistance to my father in his labors and skilled in all the craftsmanship which the young men of the time were supposed to know. My mother was desirous that I should go to Harvard college, but we were not well off in the world’s goods and my father was beginning to feel the effects of his laborious life, so that project came to nothing. The most we could hope for from my attainments as a scholar was the position of teacher in the district school when I grew to man’s estate. Not until I was in my fortieth year was this ambition of my mother realized, and then the good woman had been long in her grave.

One evening in the early spring, a traveler called at our door and asked for refreshment. I was alone with my mother at the time and I took particular notice of the man as he partook of the food given him. His beard was grey and bushy, growing nearly to his eyes. I had never before seen a man wear a beard in such fashion. His nose was large and hooked and there was a fierce glitter in his eyes. However, he was very civil. He told us that he was bound for Truro where he had friends. In leaving, he raised his hat, and this movement revealed a broad scar across the upper part of his forehead. Seeing that I had observed the mark, the man hastily drew his hat over his eyes and departed.

Next day I set out for Goody Hallett’s with a bundle of wool which my mother wanted spun. I had not given much thought to the visit of the traveler to our house, but still, somehow, I couldn’t altogether dismiss it from my mind. The fierceness of his eyes and the broad scar on his forehead had stirred some memories of the minister’s tale, and as I brought my horse to a stop at Goody Hallett’s hut I had an indescribable feeling that I was to see this man again, and that I should find him to be the pirate.

There was no answer to my knock. This I thought strange as Goody Hallett was seldom known to leave her dwelling. It was the early afternoon and the day was fine, so, finding that my repeated knocking gained me no admittance I came to the conclusion that the old woman was not at home. I determined to await her return. I deposited my bundle of wool on the doorstep and tied my horse to a nearby tree; then I strolled over the dunes to the ocean side where I could view the passing ships. I took a seat on the edge of the cliff and leisurely surveyed the restless bosom of the Atlantic and listened to the thunder of the surf at my feet. At times I fancied I heard voices, but the booming of the combers was so loud that nothing else could be heard distinctly. All at once a piercing shriek rang out above all other sounds and I started to my feet. It came from directly below where I stood. Mightily afraid as I was, I could not resist the temptation of peering over the bank, and there I saw a sight, my masters, which froze the blood in my veins! Old Goody Hallett was lying on her back, her throat cut from ear to ear, and, standing over her, one foot on her chest, was our guest of the day before. He brandished a bloody knife in his right hand while his left hand was pointed in mockery at the prostrate body of his victim. Although almost paralyzed with horror, I watched him. He was evidently muttering curses on the dead woman but I could not catch his words. Then he drove the knife deep into her heart and left the weapon in the wound. Retreating a few paces from the body, he shook his fist at it, at the same time his terrible voice resounded above the roar of the breakers:

“Accursed hag! lie there for the birds to peck at! Sam Bellamy’s knife has stung better women than you and death at his hands is too noble an ending for your life of deceit. Sam Bellamy’s own time has come, but he will get release from his troubles beneath the waves which he has ruled and on the spot where his gallant shipmates met their fate! Fare ye well, old witch!”

With his fiendish laughter ringing in my ears I rushed from the place, mounted my horse and galloped furiously to the village with the dreadful tidings.

The alarm soon spread and the whole neighborhood was aroused. Armed men searched the country for the pirate, but without avail. A few days after the funeral of Goody Hallett, his body was cast up by the sea on the very sands where the corpses of his fellows were found.

The hut of the old spinner was ransacked for evidence to clear up the affair, but only a few paltry coins were found. There was absolutely nothing to explain the mystery. The place was then destroyed by fire, and for many years timid folks avoided the spot. It was surmised that the pirate suspected the woman of playing him false and that he forced her to accompany him to the place where the treasure was hidden by Indian Tom and himself. Finding no trace of it, he slaughtered his companion and then committed suicide by drowning. It is well known, however, that curious coins were sometimes picked up in the vicinity during the years following the tragedy, but the bulk of the treasure could not be traced.

And now, my masters, you have heard me tell of a matter which I seldom mention. If an old man’s tale has kept you too long from your firesides, I crave pardon.

CHAPTER VI.
The Committee of Safety.

The Committee of Safety was in session. This important body was composed of the Selectmen of Eastham. In cases of extreme emergency the town fathers were empowered to call the leading citizens into council, and on this occasion there was a full attendance of representative men ready to hear the report of the messengers who had been sent to Provincetown for tidings of the captives.

Chairman of Selectmen, Obed Knowles, presided, and with him on the bench were his colleagues, Samuel Freeman and Harding Knowles, Esquires. Captain Heman Smith, who represented the town in the General Court of the Commonwealth, was courteously given a seat with these notables, while the others had to be content with the “forms” on the floor of the town house.

The opening formalities having been gone through, the chairman called on the messengers to come forward and tell their story. Master Timothy Cole acted as spokesman for his companions.

“Mr. Chairman,” said he, “we have, indeed, bad news to tell. Hoppy and Win are prisoners, sure enough, and it is known that Captain Raggett is to hold them for a heavy ransom, failing which, they will be transferred to another ship and sent to England. This, we understand, means that they are destined for imprisonment in Dartmoor.”

“That certainly is bad news, Timothy,” said the chairman. “What is the opinion in Provincetown about the new policy of Captain Raggett?”

“Well, Mr. Chairman, they say he is in very bad humor. A sloop arrived from England about three weeks ago and it is thought she brought fresh instructions to Raggett. Before she came, the British sailors were frequently ashore and behaved very civilly, leaving quite a lot of money in the town in the way of trade with the people. The town is in a bad state and this trade was a great help. The people say they are in a worse condition than the other Bay towns, for the British ships cannot approach such places as Eastham, Brewster, or Orleans closely on account of the shallow waters and the sandbars, whereas, the harbor of Provincetown is always open water and a fine anchorage for all kinds of craft. From what we observed they are sorely pressed.”

“Is there no communication with the British allowed now, Timothy?”

“Very little, Mr. Chairman, but Master Jonathan Cook, of the Committee of Safety, told me what he had gathered about the capture of Win and Hoppy and how they were held for ransom.”

“Did Master Cook know anything about the terms of ransom?” inquired Squire Knowles.

“No, squire, he had heard no particulars. However, he told us that Win and Hoppy were being treated with great civility by Captain Raggett. They had been seen on deck in company with one of the officers and apparently on very friendly terms with him.”

“Very likely Captain Raggett appreciated highly that part of the whaleboat’s cargo which was consigned to Master Thomas Crosby.” This sally of Peter Walker caused even the town fathers to smile.

“Well, Master Walker,” said Timothy, “there is certainly a great scarcity of good refreshment in Provincetown. We treated Master Cook and his fellow-members of the committee to a little of what we had with us, and they told us that since the sailors had been deprived of shore leave there was nothing like it in the town.”

“Then the worthy citizens will be glad to see you again, Timothy,” replied Peter.

After this the discussion became general. It was felt that in the absence of definite information from the “Spencer” about Captain Raggett’s terms there was no use in formulating plans to aid the captives. A false move might have the effect of further complicating the situation. It was evident that no help could be obtained from the distressed people of Provincetown. That unfortunate town had been the greatest sufferer from the depredations of the British during the Revolutionary struggle, when the majority of the inhabitants, finding the conditions intolerable, fled from the place and sought refuge further inland. At the conclusion of hostilities they returned to their ruined homes and valiantly set to work to regain their former prosperity. In this they succeeded. The straggling town near the tip-end of the Cape was once more a hive of industry, notable for its hardy and venturesome seamen, when the proclamation of the embargo by President Jefferson again set back the hands of the clock. From that time until the peace of 1815, it was the old story of ruined trade and constant suffering, their very lives dependent on the caprice of the haughty foe whose splendidly equipped warships lay within a few hundred yards of the town, and whose guns were ever ready to reduce the settlement to ruins on the slightest pretext. Still, the people hated to leave and they bravely bore their misfortunes, hoping and praying for the day when the God of battles should once again decide the contest in favor of their beloved country.

All this was well known to the gathering in the town house. In the midst of their own troubles, the people of Eastham deeply sympathized with their less fortunate compatriots of Provincetown.

As the discussion continued, various schemes for getting into communication with the prisoners were proposed and rejected. Some were for boldly going to the “Spencer” and having the matter out with Raggett. The wiser heads opposed this. What was the use of running the risk of being added to the list of prisoners? There was nothing to prevent Raggett from holding the envoys and demanding ransom for their release.

“I think that’s a sensible view to take of it, Mr. Chairman,” said Peter Walker. “For my part, I’m very sure that Hoppy Mayo’s brain is hard at work trying to devise means to outwit the British. You surely don’t imagine that Hoppy’s nimble wit has failed him all of a sudden? Any man who succeeded in disposing of a spavined mare as a sound horse, and that to a minister of the Gospel, sleeps with one eye open when he’s in the hands of the enemy!”

The Rev. Philander Shaw, minister of the Congregational church, had, a few minutes previously, joined the meeting, and as he was the victim of Hoppy’s horse-trade, there was loud laughter at Peter’s remark. The genial minister joined in the merriment and when it subsided, remarked goodhumoredly:

“I’m afraid, Mr. Chairman, Master Walker thinks as little of my judgment of horseflesh as he does of my preaching.”

This was a gentle thrust at Peter’s irregular attendance at church. Indeed, it was general knowledge that Master Walker had written some verses sarcastically insinuating that the ministers of the period were in no way the equals of the great men whose cure of souls had been the glory of ancient Eastham.

There was renewed laughter, this time at the expense of the redoubtable Peter.

“Master Walker will have his joke, reverend sir,” said Squire Harding Knowles with mock severity, “but we sadly want someone to enliven us at present.”

“No offence, Squire Knowles,” replied the minister heartily; “no offence at all. With all his joking, it seems to me that Master Walker has given us a hint of great value in our present dilemma. Until we devise some means of communicating with our imprisoned neighbors, I think we may assume that they are not idle on their own behalf. Perhaps we had better wait yet awhile for tidings.”

“I agree with Mr. Shaw,” said Captain Heman Smith. “It seems natural to think that if Captain Raggett wants a ransom he must send word ashore to the prisoners’ friends.”

“Aye, that’s the logical way of looking at it,” assented the chairman. “They certainly cannot be ransomed with whatever property Captain Raggett has already taken from them. The whaleboat and cargo are in his possession, but it seems he does not consider them as other than the spoils of war. We should hear from him soon unless he intends to hold our neighbors for some other purpose.”

“His intention may be to add them to his own crew,” said Selectman Freeman. “This practice is common with the British when they capture an American vessel, and it goes hard with the American seaman who refuses to obey; I have heard of flogging and other cruel punishments being inflicted on such unfortunates.”

“Hoppy Mayo and Win Knowles will never turn traitors to their own flag,” asserted Peter Walker.

This was greeted with approval. That either of the prisoners should fight against his country, no matter what the penalty of refusal might be, was not to be thought of by any Eastham man.

“Don’t see what he wants them for, then,” cried Obed Sparrow. “He has idle men enough on his hands already. Why, there’s nothing for his crew to do now as there are no boats running since the whaleboat was taken.”

“Well, Neighbor Sparrow, that’s very true; but if Captain Raggett is holding our friends for any ulterior purpose, we should very much like to know what that purpose is. How we are going to find out is the puzzle.” As the chairman said this he looked around the hall as if seeking enlightenment.

But there was none forthcoming. Every avenue through which information could be obtained seemed closed, and the hopelessness of further effort was apparent to all. The discussion lagged and the people were on the point of dispersing when the strains of a fife were heard. The musician was still at a considerable distance from the town house, but Master Peter Walker had heard the tune before, so he said:

“That’s Phil the Fifer coming around again on his journey through the Cape. I wonder what trade the old man expects to pick up these hard times?”

Then a sudden idea seemed to possess Peter and, jumping to his feet, he startled the meeting by exclaiming:

“By the Lord! I have it. Why not send old Phil to Provincetown for information? He can get it if anyone can. He is a great favorite with the crews of the warships. They buy his small wares and dance to his music. He has often told me what free spenders they are when they have money. They think that he is not quite right in the head, but that’s where old Phil fools them! You all know, neighbors, that the old pedler is true as steel to the cause. What do you say to the proposition, Mr. Chairman?”

“Well, Peter,” answered the chairman, “the idea looks all right to me, but would Phil care about the risk now that the British are getting aggressive?”

“Phil will do it all right; I will be answerable for that,” returned Peter. “He stops at my house overnight whenever he comes to Eastham. I know the old man thoroughly and I have a great admiration for his geniality and honesty, so he is always welcome.”

“Of course, Peter,” suggested Squire Knowles, “it would never do to have his errand talked about outside this meeting; the rumor might reach the British.”

“I quite agree with your view, squire, and I am sure that if we keep the matter secret, Phil will come out of the venture safely. If you leave the affair in my hands for the present, I can talk to the old man privately tonight and tell him how we are situated?”

“We have the utmost confidence in your ability to deal with the problem, Master Walker, and I propose that you be empowered to act as a committee of one with a request that you report progress at the earliest possible moment.”

The Rev. Mr. Shaw was loudly applauded as he concluded this warm tribute to his critic’s diplomatic talent.

The minister’s motion was carried unanimously and the meeting adjourned.

CHAPTER VII.
Phil the Fifer.

The evening passed pleasantly at Master Peter Walker’s. Mistress Walker was glad to have the opportunity to get a fresh stock of needles and thread, and other little things which the pedler kept for sale. Phil was an old acquaintance. For many years he had been a welcome guest at the Walker homestead. In him Peter found a congenial spirit, and the neighbors were sure to come in to enjoy the old man’s droll stories and listen to the stirring music of his fife. Phil was always ready to do his best and his popularity was unbounded with the young folks who had no sympathy with the puritanical idea that dancing was the invention of Satan.

The general public knew very little of Phil’s history. Only to Peter Walker had he confided the fact that, when a mere youth, he had come to this country from Ireland. He had been a “bound-man” in Pennsylvania years before the Revolution, but when the Continental army took the field, Phil Murphy had joined the patriot ranks and served through the war with credit. Then he became a wanderer in search of adventure, and, as he told Peter: “Bedad, I found plinty of it!” About the beginning of the century, he came to Boston, his only possessions being his beloved fife and a cheerful mind. He was getting old and unfitted for hard work, so he took to the road as a pedler and eventually found his way to Cape Cod where his little wares were in demand and where he established a route.

The people liked his pleasant ways and he was always welcome to their firesides, having no permanent home of his own.

Small of stature, with bright blue eyes and a dulcet brogue, Phil the Fifer, as he was commonly called, was still an active man notwithstanding his seventy years.

Late that night, long after the family had retired, Phil and Peter were engaged in discussing the feasibility of the mission to the “Spencer.”

As Peter had surmised, Phil was more than anxious to be of assistance to his good friends. There might be some difficulty in getting an interview with the prisoners, but he felt sure there would be no objection to his visiting the warship.

“It’s just like this, Masther Walker: the boys aboard the ship think old Phil is a kind of an omadhaun, as we call a simpleton in the old counthry. Captain Raggett has a fine crew of dacint min, an’ many the shillin’ they threw at the old pedler for his little goods. The officers is all gintiemin, an’ there’s only wan man aboard who behaves like an upstart of a fellow. He’s a master’s mate called Dunton. He thried some of his nasty ways on me, but I kep’ my timper, thank God!”

“Perhaps he may interfere with you again, Phil?”

“Well, Masther Walker, if he does it won’t upset me. You see, if I am to get this job done for you, it won’t do for me to lose my timper whatever cause I get, will it?”

“No, Phil, it won’t. I know we can trust you, old friend, and I am proud that I told the meeting so. Not that any person doubted you, but you know these are troubled times, Phil, and the enemy is upon us; so most of us don’t know which way to turn for help.”

“I know that well, sir, an’ it would ill become me to refuse to do a small favor for the frinds who have always been good to old Phil, even if my heart an’ soul wasn’t with the cause.”

“You are well acquainted in Provincetown?”

“Oh, fairly well, Masther Walker. Old Phil knows almost everybody on the Cape. There isn’t much money in Provincetown these times, but the good housekeepers have always a few pence for the needles an’ thread. I’ll borry a skiff from me frind John Whorf. He is fine man.”

“Yes, Phil; Master Whorf is one of the Committee of Safety there. Remember me to him; he called at my shop about a month ago. He was on his way to Yarmouth and his horse wanted shoes. He told me all about the desperate state of affairs in his town.”

“There’s one thing I should like to mintion, Masther Walker. The min of Raggett’s ship are the very divils to dhrink when they can get the stuff. Now that their shore lave has been stopped for some time past, they will have a ragin’ thirst an’ nothing to satisfy it. An’, by the same token, they won’t be in any good sperrits to talk much about their doin’s. You know there’s nothing to loosen a man’s tongue like a dhrop o’ the crather!”

“It makes a fool of the best of us, Phil. However, I see what you mean and I agree with you that a little lubricant is essential. There isn’t very much of anything in the town at present but Uriah Nickerson has a demijohn laid by for cases of sickness and I can get a quart to help you out.”

Phil smiled. “A quart isn’t much among three hundred min, Masther Walker, but it will do first rate. There’s one chap aboard that’s a great frind o’ mine. He’s the boatswain an’ he loves his gill, an’ whin he’s taken a dhrop or two he’s extra frindly. He’s sure to know what’s up an’ I’ll thry him with a taste o’ Uriah’s medicine.”

“All right, Phil, I’ll have it for you in the morning. By the way, I’ll send the horse with you as far as Truro. It will be safer for you to walk after you get there.”

“That’s so, Masther Walker. ’Tis like puttin’ a beggar on horseback to see old Phil the Fifer ridin’. I’m used to walkin’ in my business an’ the journey won’t bother me.”

“We should like to hear from you as soon as possible, Phil.”

“Thin I should start airly. I could stable the horse at Truro, an’ as I expect to be aboard the frigate tomorrow evenin’, I may be here the same night, or, at any rate, airly the next mornin’.”

“That will be quick work, Phil, considering the difficulty of your task and your age?”

“Surely I’m not as young an’ active as I ought be, Masther Walker, but this is work that must be done at once an’ whin it’s over, you’ll admit that old Phil is no snail whin his frinds want him to hurry.”

Peter impulsively put out his hand and grasped that of the old man.

“By the Lord!” he exclaimed, “I wish there were more hearts of gold like yours, Phil the Fifer! I have often wondered how a man of your intelligence could be content with the humble occupation of a pedler. You must have come of good stock, Phil?”

“No betther in the old County Kerry, Masther Walker, even if I do say it meself, that shouldn’t. But that’s not here or there now. Old Phil has made his bed an’ he must lie on it; but there was a time whin there wasn’t a smarter gorsoon in the Pinnsylvany Rifles than Phil Murphy! That winter at Valley Forge thried the best of us, but nobody could say that Phil was a grumbler.”

“I’m sure of that, old friend.”

“I’m thinkin’, Masther Walker, that if I see aither of our frinds on the frigate, it won’t do for me to show the British that I know thim.”

“Why, Phil, they will be sure to speak to you if they get a chance?”

“I know that, but I must thry an’ let the inimy believe that I never saw Captain Knowles or Captain Mayo before. ’Twill be hard for me to do so, especially if the captains get ahead of any signal I may make to thim, but I may be able to manage it.”

“That’s so. Hoppy is nimble-witted and it won’t take much to make him understand your object in avoiding them. Use your own judgment, Phil.”

The arrangements for the journey to Provincetown having been perfected, conversation turned to the topics of the day. It was a period in which newspapers were scarce and few of them reached the remote villages of Cape Cod. News of the outside world was brought by traders and travelers who had occasion to visit Boston, and they sometimes thoughtfully purchased a copy of the Boston “Centinel” for their friends at home. This paper was eagerly read and passed from family to family, but, of course, the details of public events on the Cape were meagre, and many important happenings were never chronicled in the press. Men like Phil the Fifer, whose business took them into every household in the district, knew everything that was going on and they were always willing to spread the news wherever they went.

Phil told his host many interesting stories of the march of events in the upper Cape towns. The attacks of the British warships on Falmouth were described and the narrator was loud in his praises of the gallantry displayed by the defenders under the command of Captain Weston Jenkins of the local militia. With martial ardor, the old man told the tale of how the commander of the British brig “Nimrod” demanded the surrender of the pieces of artillery which annoyed his vessel, and how Captain Jenkins tauntingly replied: “Come and get them!” How the sick and non-combatants were removed to places of safety when the bombardment commenced, while the militia from the neighboring towns rushed to reinforce the resolute patriots of Falmouth. Then he told of the conditions at Hyannis, Yarmouth and other places and kept Master Peter Walker awake until after midnight.

We leave old Phil on his way to Provincetown while we return to our friends on the “Spencer.”

CHAPTER VIII.
Raggett’s Terms.

Under the guidance of Lieutenant Fotheringay the prisoners were taken through the frigate. They expressed their admiration in unstinted language. Fotheringay told them that Raggett was a strict disciplinarian who insisted that his crew should always be in first-class condition for work. He was unforgiving when any of his men wilfully neglected duty; but when work was over and playtime arrived, he never interfered with the manner in which the seamen enjoyed themselves. He had closed his eyes to their frolics in Provincetown, where they sometimes made merry with great vigor, and now that shore leave was suspended he demanded implicit obedience to his order requiring special permission from himself for any of his crew to visit the town.

To the prisoners all this emphasized the change of front on the British side. Raggett evidently meant what he said when he told them he was going to obey orders. Already the “Nymph” and the “Bulwark”, of the squadron blockading Cape Cod bay, were watching the coast between Barnstable and Boston. The “Spencer” with her tenders would have charge of the towns on the lower Cape, Dennis, Brewster, Orleans, Eastham, Wellfleet, Truro and Provincetown. So much they gathered from the lieutenant’s conversation, but beyond this they got no inkling of the enemy’s plans.

A summons from the captain brought them once more into the presence of that doughty warrior. His manner to his captives was very agreeable, indeed, one might say cordial. He told them many anecdotes of the great Nelson, whom he spoke of with enthusiasm. He gave a sailor’s description of the battle of Trafalgar where the admiral died a hero’s death, and he held the close attention of his hearers as he pictured the maneuvers of the opposing fleets on that memorable day.

Though much interested in the captain’s yarns, Hoppy and Win could not help feeling anxious about his delay in broaching the subject of their ransom, but, of course, they could not very well hurry him to the point. They had an idea that Raggett was purposely avoiding the issue, and they knew they could best serve their own cause by patiently waiting until he thought the time was ripe for a declaration of his views on the matter.

At length that time arrived. Captain Raggett produced a chart of Cape Cod bay and laid it on the table.

“Now, men,” he said, “I daresay you want to learn my terms? You will know very soon and I have great hopes that we can come to an agreement. In my opinion, you will get out of your predicament without much trouble, but that will depend altogether on yourselves. However, before we discuss the question of ransom I should like to ask you a few questions about this chart. You may answer or not, just as you please.”