The long-boat of Captain Tew had set me ashore on the southwest end of Long Island in a cove near the village of Gravesoon, which is just across the end of the island from New York. In those days the pirates were in bad repute with the government and Captain Tew durst not land me nearer the town for fear of the king’s officers; so I had to make the rest of my way alone. I was not cast down, however, for I had always a hopeful heart, and, in addition to this fact, I was sick and tired of the bad-smelling ship and of its lawless crew of buccaneers. Yet I ought not to cry out against their captain. He and I possessed a strong bond of friendship. I had done him one good turn and he had done me another, though, at that moment, neither of us foresaw what the latter would amount to in the end.
I turned on my heel to look at the town in which I intended to lodge for the night. It was now late and fully dark, and one or two dim lights were all that I could see in Gravesoon by way of welcome. At that moment a feeling of loneliness took such 2strong hold of me that I cast my eyes once more upon the open sea for the meagre companionship of the pirate crew that was gliding away into the dark. But the ship was already so far from shore that the sounds that always accompany getting under way could no longer reach me, though I strained hard to hear them. In ten minutes even the vague outline of the vessel against the sky had completely blended with the darkness. Then I realized for the first time that I was all alone in a strange land. My only companions were the heavy sorrow in my heart and a strong hope that this sorrow would soon be turned to joy by virtue of the errand that was now bringing me to New York.
I had nearly reached the middle time of life and knew by hard experience that when the future looks the darkest one is most likely to be near the light. This thought gave me fresh comfort and put new life into my step as I set out briskly along the shore of the cove. The wind blew strong in my face, and I had to bend over and lean upon it, as it were, to prevent my slipping upon the rocks. Whatever a misstep might mean to me, it would certainly bring misfortune, perhaps death, to one whom I loved better than myself a hundred times. So I picked my way carefully over the rough places, balancing myself upon the wind and setting my feet firmly when I came to rocks that were wet and slippery. By dint of much perseverance I made 3fair progress towards the lights of Gravesoon, for all it was so dark upon the shore. As I drew near the town I spied more lights, and at last I came to the lamp hanging over the doorway that betokened a house of public entertainment. I opened the door of the ordinary and went in. The room was quite deserted and I rapped twice upon the table before the host appeared in answer to my summons.
He was a pleasant looking man of no particular appearance. He served me quickly with something to eat and drink, and then sat down on the other side of the table, rippling with questions. I am not given to talking and never was; yet, because I saw here an opportunity to gain information that I should not otherwise possess until I reached New York, I did not turn away from my host’s cross-examination as my temper at first prompted me to do.
He had seen the pirate ship in the offing that afternoon and would like to know its name, guessing shrewdly how I had come ashore; but I put him off with an indirect reply and he was fain to be content with my own name, a poor substitute, though he made the most of it.
“Le Bourse,” he said thoughtfully. “That sounds like a French name. Are you going to friends in Yorke?”
“I am a stranger there, but I am seeking a person who may help me to a sight of friends.”
4“What is his name?”
“Van Volkenberg: one of the patroons I think.”
“Ah, yes, Patroon Kilian; the armed patroon is what the burghers call him. We know him well.”
“Is he in New York now?”
“Yes, indeed. He never leaves the island. Kilian Van Volkenberg is too great a man to let himself go far from port. His ships need his attention every day. Now, when I saw yon ship in the offing, I said to myself, ’Tis a ship of the patroon’s.’ But you seem to say not.”
I had said nothing of the kind; but I let the matter pass without correction, knowing that it was only another effort on his part to learn the mystery of my arrival.
“How can I get to New York from here?” I asked after a short pause.
“There is a good road direct, not more than eight or ten miles, with a ferry at the end of it. You will see a tree with a shell tied up to blow for the ferryman—he is likely to be on the Yorke side of the river. Can you blow a shell?”
I could not, never having seen this custom before, whereupon the obliging host bustled out to find one. He returned shortly with a huge sea shell in his hands, by means of which he instructed me in the manner of using it as a horn. The trick was not difficult to learn, not so hard by half as whistling with your fingers in your mouth, which feat I never did learn to do well. But after five minutes 5practice with the shell I could blow as mournful a tone as you ever heard on the moors of a spooky night.
My music lesson over, I went to my room. As soon as I was alone I took out the pocket Bible that had been the companion of all my wanderings. I opened it at the book of Ruth; this book was my favorite reading, for my sister’s name was Ruth. My separation from her long years before this, my great search and heavy disappointment had at last led me to this point in my wanderings. But there was still a strong hope in my heart; and hope will keep the pulse bounding even when the shadows are dark.
But before I continue my story, let me go back and relate the strange events which resulted in my being set on shore in the dead of night like a criminal, from one of the ships which was under the displeasure of his royal majesty the king.
When I was but a lad of three and twenty my parents both died and I was left the only protector of little Ruth, my sister, who was then a child, scarce fifteen years of age. She was a bright-faced, cheery sister, who did as much as a full-grown woman could have done to make our modest home in Paris comfortable and happy. I prized her more than life and would not let her go out of my sight. In this respect the more caution was needed because the long Huguenot peace was 6drawing to a close and people of our faith were subject to all manner of persecution.
Our heaviest troubles began, of course, in the year 1685, when King Louis revoked the Edict of Nantes; but for years before that the Huguenots were afflicted with innumerable unjust restrictions. There was one of the king’s decrees that caused more confusion than all the others put together. This was the law permitting children at the age of seven to renounce the faith in which they had been bred, and to enter the Roman church. Every kind of inducement was held out to persuade them to acknowledge belief in the Catholic religion. Once confessed, they were considered to be under the jurisdiction of the priesthood. When dolls, fairy stories, idle promises of childish pleasures, failed to make a mere infant nod to some statement mumbled by the priest—when all such ways of seducing little children failed, they were often shamelessly kidnapped and carried away to a convent by force. It was mainly against this latter danger that I had to protect Ruth, for she clung so tenaciously to me and to our Protestant faith that I had no fear of their cajoling her by any fair and open means.
One day Ruth and I were walking in the fields near the edge of Paris. We were on our way home about twilight, and Ruthie, as I called her then, danced ahead of me like a golden-haired butterfly. She always danced—bless her heart!—and carried 7sunlight wherever she went. Suddenly, while she was passing the dark gateway of a court-yard, a priest in a black mantle stepped out from the covered way and caught my sister by the arm.
“Come in here,” he cried insinuatingly, at the same time drawing her swiftly towards the doorway.
Ruth resisted, and then the priest clapped a big hand over her mouth so she could not scream.
Shame on him! And she a mere child! But he was reckoning without me when he made that false move. I was at her side even before he noticed me. He called for help and soon brought another priest to his assistance. Even so, it was only two to one, which was hardly fair considering my size and the fact that I had been bred to arms. It was a dreadful thing for me to do, but, in a trice, and without even stopping to draw my sword, I had stretched one of them unconscious upon the ground and sent the other crying for help, with his blood dripping all the way.
For the moment, the rashness of my deed quite overcame me. I had struck a priest. In those days the penalty for such an offence could be none other than death; and Ruth would be left alone to worse than death. She and I resolved to fly from the capital and to escape from the country altogether if we could. We packed what little of value we possessed, and in twenty minutes had left our lodgings behind us. It was our haste only—always excepting 8the grace of God—that saved us from immediate pursuit. Even so, it seems a miracle that we got out of the city and found ourselves safe upon the road to La Rochelle.
Ruth bore up very bravely in those hard times and never spoke a single word to reproach me for my hasty act. She sang pleasant songs to me on the way and would comfort me by saying that she was not tired, though I knew she must be weary enough to lie right down in the road and give up. On the third day after leaving Paris we fell in with a party of Protestants and continued our journey with them. We were thankful for their company at the time, but it would have been better had we not met them, for their flight was known to the authorities and was the ultimate cause of my separation from little Ruth.
These fugitives had already made arrangements with a ship owner at La Rochelle to transport them to England. We had at last come to a little stream almost within sight of the town and of safety when we were overtaken by four of the troopers of the Paris guard. A narrow way led down to the place where we should cross the stream. We thought that the advantageous position of this path would enable two of us to keep back all four of the guardsmen. We cast lots to see which of us should defend the others and one of the lots fell to me. Ruth was much grieved at heart when she knew that I must stay behind and risk capture while she 9and the others went forward; but she said bravely, “Do your duty, Vincie boy, and the Lord will take care of us.”
The guards fortunately had no guns and were armed only with short swords. We held them at bay for some time; then, making a charge together, they killed my companion and I was left alone to bar the path, with a deep wound in my shoulder which prevented my using my cloak as a guard. The rest of our party of fugitives escaped, but, on the arrival of some more soldiers, I was disarmed and taken to prison.
For some reason, I never discovered what, I did not suffer the penalty I expected. Instead of being led immediately to the scaffold, I was kept close in prison among others of my faith whose only crime was an attempt to avoid the oppressive hand with which the church of Rome strove to drain the lifeblood of the Protestants.
During the long months of my captivity, I pondered much upon little Ruth. Where had she gone? I thought that England was the destination of the party we had fallen in with. Sometimes I pictured my sister in America, alone in that far off land; but a little thought would convince me that she was not there. Ruth was a hopeful girl. She would never bring herself to think—unless she heard of my actual death—that I should not come to her eventually. In that case, where would I be so likely to look as in England? No, Ruth would not go to 10the colonies. As I thought about her whereabouts I became more and more sure, and at last I was certain, in my own mind at least, that she had taken refuge in England.
At the end of a year a happy accident opened the way to my escape. I shall never forget the burden that fell from my shoulders, the long breath of unutterable, thankful relief that I drew upon the day I crossed the French frontier into Holland. I left my native land with my mind firmly resolved upon two things: the first was to find Ruth; the second was to bring confusion to the church of Rome, the slayers of God’s people, the tormentors of me and mine. Wherever I should meet a Catholic,—sleeping or waking, in sickness or in health,—he was my enemy.
I made my way at once for England, where I inquired diligently for my sister in all the great cities. A year of this searching brought me no tidings and exhausted my slender means of support. Then I fell back upon military service for a livelihood. My great strength and my skill of fence soon found me employment. I could even choose my master in a way, and managed to take service with those who would lead me into distant parts. You may be sure that during all my foreign campaigns I never lost sight of the darling desire of my heart. But as time wore on and I did not find her, I became less and less positive that Ruth was still alive.
11In the years that followed I walked in many strange cities; in all of them I searched the streets hungrily for Ruth. I glanced up into windows; I peered down into cellar ways; but I never saw a familiar face. Once I penetrated in disguise to La Rochelle itself. Even there I could hear nothing of Ruth or of the ship-master who had taken her to England. I began to doubt whether she had escaped at all. At such moments my fierce resentment against our oppressors grew bitter as gall. More than once in those stern, tumultuous times, I fought under the banners of the Protestant chiefs of Europe, and my blade was no sluggard.
At last a new fear began to haunt me day and night. What if I should meet Ruth and not recognize her! She was fifteen years old when I lost her. How a girl changes between fifteen and twenty! I must look now, not for the slim childish figure I remembered, but for the full roundness of a woman. How often I had—and as I grew older it occurred ever the more often—how often I had looked into faces that I felt sure I had seen somewhere before. Then, when it was too late to follow, I would be startled with the idea that perhaps the person I had just seen was Ruth. Such moments wrung my heart.
At last, after eight or nine years of fruitless hunting, I found myself again in England. I had long since abandoned all hope of finding Ruth. I became the trusted servant of an English lord. I 12was now three and thirty years of age, though people who judged from my appearance thought I was older. King William was on the throne and my master stood well in the sovereign’s graces. Everything, so far as worldly prospects went, gave promise of a happy life. Then of a sudden my master fell under the displeasure of the government. With the quickness of a summer storm, misfortune came upon him. Two months after the first thunder-clap he was a condemned prisoner in the Tower, and I once more masterless and adrift.
This calamity occurred in the year 1698, a twelvemonth before my arrival in New York. I had saved some money and, strange to say, there came to me suddenly and without reason a new conviction that I should yet find Ruth. But where? There was only one place in the world where she might be and in which I had not sought for her: America. My resolution was immediately taken to set out over sea and resume the hunt that I had latterly neglected. With this intent I journeyed to Bristol, where I intended to take ship at once.