University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

The Doom of Devorgoil.

The shore of the Chesapeake between Cape St.
Michael—as the northern headland at the mouth of
Potomac was denominated by the early settlers—
and the Patuxent, is generally flat, and distinguished
by a clear pebbly beach or strand. The shore, comprising
about twenty miles, is intersected by a single
creek, that of St. Jerome, which enters the bay some
five or six miles north of the Potomac. The line of
beach, which I have referred to, is here and there
relieved by small elevations which in any other region
would scarce deserve the name, but which are
sufficiently prominent in this locality to attract remark.
From the general level of the country they
rise high enough to afford a clear prospect over the
wide waters, and no less to distinguish the landward

perspective to the mariner whose eye eagerly seeks
the varieties of landscape as he holds his course up
the bay. At a few points these small hills terminate
immediately upon the tide in the abrupt form of a
cliff, and, at others, take the shape of a knoll sinking
away by a rapid, but grass-covered, declivity to
the strand. This latter feature is observable in the
vicinity of St. Jerome's, where the slope falls somewhat
abruptly to the level of the tide, leaving something
above fifty paces in width of low ground between
its base and the ordinary water-mark. It was
upon this flat that, in ancient times, stood the dwelling
house of Paul Kelpy the fisherman—a long, low
building of deal boards, constructed somewhat in
the shape of a warehouse or magazine. Some quarter
of a mile along the beach, so sheltered under the
brow of the slope as scarcely to be seen amongst the
natural shrubbery that shaded it, stood a cottage or
hut of very humble pretensions. It was so low that
a man of ordinary height, while standing at the door,
might lay his hand upon the eaves of the roof, and
correspondent to its elevation, it was so scanty in
space as to afford but two apartments, of which the
largest was not above ten feet square. It was
strongly built of hewn logs, and the door, strengthened
by nails thickly studded over its surface, was
further fortified by a heavy padlock, which rendered
it sufficiently impregnable against a sharper assault
than might be counted on from such as ordinarily
should find motive to molest the proprietor of such a
dwelling.

A small enclosure surrounded the hut and furnished
ground for some common garden plants which
were not neglected in their culture. A few acres,
on the higher plain above the bank, exhibited signs
of husbandry; and the small nets and other fishing
tackle disposed about the curtilage, together with a
skiff drawn up on the sand, gave evidence of the
ostensible thrift by which the occupant of the hut
obtained a livelihood.

To this spot I propose to introduce my reader, the
day preceding that at which my story has been
opened. It was about an hour before sunset, and a
light drizzling rain, with a steady wind from the
north-east, infused a chilly gloom into the air, and
heightened the tone of solitude which prevailed over
the scene. A thin curl of smoke which rose from
the clumsy chimney of the hut gave a sign of habitation
to the premises, and this was further confirmed
by the presence of a large and cross-visaged mastiff-bitch,
whose heavy head might be discerned thrust
forth from beneath the sill of the gable,—a sullen
warder of this sullen place of strength. The waves,
now propelled upon a flood tide, rolled in upon the
shore, and broke almost at the door of the hut, with
a hoarse and harsh and ceaseless plash. Far out
over the bay, the white caps of the wind-driven
surge floated like changing snow drifts upon the
surface of the waters. The water fowl rose in
squadrons above this murky waste and struggled to
windward, in a flight so low as frequently to shield
them from the sight in the spray. An old bald eagle

perched on the loftiest branch of a lightning-riven
tree, immediately upon the bank above the hut, kept
anxious watch upon her nest which, built in the
highest fork, rocked to and fro in the breeze, whilst
her screams of warning to her young seemed to answer
to the din of the waters.

In the larger apartment of the hut a few fagots
blazed upon the hearth, supplying heat to a pot
that simmered above them, the care of which,
together with other culinary operations, engaged the
attention of a brown, haggard and weather-beaten
woman, who plied this household duty with a silent
and mechanical thrift. She was not the only tenant
of the dwelling. Remote from the hearth, and immediately
below a small window, sat, apparently
upon the floor, a figure eminently calculated to challenge
observation. His features were those of a
man of seventy, sharp, shrewd and imprinted with
a deep trace of care. His frame indicated the possession,
at an earlier period of his life, of the highest
degree of strength; it was broad in the shoulders,
ample in chest, and still muscular, although deprived
of its roundness by age. His dress, of coarse green
serge, made into a doublet with skirts that fell both
front and rear, secured by a leathern belt, was so
contrived as to conceal, in his present posture, his
lower extremities. A broad ruff received his locks
of iron gray, which fell over his back in crisp wiry
curls: a thick grizzly beard, of the same hue, gave
an elongation to his countenance which imparted to
the observer the unpleasant impression of a head

disproportionably large for the body, at least as seen
in its present aspect. His eyes dark and unusually
clear, were sunk deep in their sockets, whilst a
shaggy and matted brow, overhanging them like a
porch, gave sometimes an almost preternatural brilliancy
to their quick and changeful glances—like the
sparkling of water when agitated in a well. It was
observable from the dropping in of the upper jaw
that he had lost his teeth, and this perhaps had given
a tendency of the strong furrowed lines and seams,
with which his features were marked, to converge
towards the mouth.

His girdle sustained a long knife or dagger, which
apparently constituted a part of his daily equipment;
and the oblique flash of his eye, and tremulous motion
of his thin lip betrayed a temperament, from
which one might infer that this weapon of offence
was not worn merely as an ornament of the person.

The individual described in this summary was
familiar to report, throughout the province, as The
Cripple. His true name was supposed to be Robert
Swale,—but this was almost lost in the pervading popular
designation of Rob of the Bowl, or Trencher
Rob—an appellative which he had borne ever since
his arrival in the province, now some fifteen years
gone by. Of his history but little was known, and
that little was duly mystified, in the public repute,
by the common tendency in the vulgar mind to make
the most of any circumstance of suspicion. The
story went that he had been shipwrecked, on a winter
voyage, upon this coast, and, after suffering incredible

hardships, had saved his life only at the
expense of the loss of both legs by frost. In this
maimed condition he had reached the shore of the
province, and some time afterwards built the hut in
which he now dwelt, near the mouth of St. Jerome's.
Here he had passed many years, without attracting
other notice than such as the stinted charity of the
world affords, when it is exercised upon the fate or
fortunes of an obscure recluse. This observation
began to find a broader scope as soon as it became
obvious that the hermit was not altogether an object
of almsgiving; and the little world of this part of
the province discovering in process of time that he
was not absolutely penniless, were fain to take offence
at the mystery of his means of earning his
frugal subsistence. Before many years, some few
of the traders and country people round had found
out that Rob was occasionally possessed of good
merchantable commodities much in request by the
inhabitants of the port, and dark whispers were
sometimes circulated touching the manner in which
he came by them. These surmises were not made
topics of public discussion for two reasons;—first,
because it was not inconvenient or unprofitable to
the traders in the secret to deal with Rob;—and
secondly, Rob was not a man to allow this indulgence
of idle speculation; he was of an irascible
temper, free to strike when crossed, and, what was
still more to be feared, had friends who were not
unwilling to take up his quarrel. The loss of his
legs was supplied by a wooden bowl or trencher, of
an elliptical shape, to which his thighs were attached
by a strap, and this rude contrivance was swayed
forward, when the owner chose, by the aid of two
short crutches, which enabled him to lift himself
from the ground and assume a progressive motion.
It was to the exercise which this mode of locomotion
imposed upon his upper limbs, that the unusual
breadth and squareness of his figure about the shoulders,
as well as the visible manifestations of strength
of arm for which he was remarkable, were in part,
perhaps, to be attributed. Use had made him expert
in the management of his bowl, and he could keep
pace pretty fairly with an ordinary walker. The
Cripple was a man of unsocial habits and ascetic
life, although there were times in which his severe
temper relaxed into an approach to companionable
enjoyment, and then his intercourse with the few
who had access to him was marked by a sarcastic
humour and keen ridicule of human action which
showed some grudge against the world, and, at the
same time, denoted conversancy with mankind, and
by no means a deficiency of education. But, in
general, his vein was peevish, and apt to vent itself
in indiscriminate petulance or stern reproof.

A small painting of St. Romuald at his devotions,
by the hand of Salvator himself, hung over a dressing
table, in the back room of the hut in which the
bed of the Cripple was placed; and this exquisite
gem of art, which the possessor seemed duly to appreciate,
was surmounted by a crucifix, indicating
the religious faith in which he worshipped. This

might be gathered also from a curious, antique pix,
of heavy gilded metal, a ponderous missal with silver
clasps, a few old volumes of the lives of the saints,
and other furniture of the like nature, all of which
denoted that the ingredient of a religious devotee
formed an element in his singular compound of character.

The superiority of his mind and attainments over
those of the mass of the inhabitants of the province
had contributed to render the Cripple an object of
some interest as well as of distrust amongst them,
and this sentiment was heightened into one approaching
to vulgar awe, by the reputation of the person
who had always been somewhat in his confidence,
and now attended him as his servitress and only domestic.
This person was the ungainly and repulsive
beldam whom I have already noticed as ministering
in the household concerns of the hut. She was a
woman who had long maintained a most unenviable
fame as The Woman of Warrington, in the small
hamlet of that name on the Cliffs of Patuxent, from
whence she had been recently transplanted to perform
the domestic drudgery in which we have found
her. Her habitation was a rude hovel some few
hundred paces distant from the hut of the Cripple,
on the margin of St. Jerome's creek, and within
gunshot of the rear of the Black Chapel. To this
hovel, after her daily work was done, she retired to
pass the night, leaving her master or patron to that
solitude which he seemed to prefer to any society.
The surly mastiff-bitch, we have noticed, alternately

kept guard at the hut of the master and domestic,—
roving between the two in nightly patrol, with a
gruff and unsocial fidelity,—no unsuitable go-between
to so strange a pair. It will not be wondered at, that,
in a superstitious age, such an association as that of
the Cripple and the crone, in the vicinity of such a
spot, desecrated, as the Fisherman's lodge had been,
by the acting of a horrible tragedy, should excite,
far and wide amongst the people, a sentiment of
terror sufficiently potent to turn the steps of the
wayfarer, as the shades of evening fell around him,
aside from the path that led to St. Jerome's.

The Cripple, at the time when I have chosen to
present him to my reader, was seated, as I have said,
immediately beneath the window. A pair of spectacles
assisted his vision as he perused a pacquet of
papers, several of which lay scattered around him.
The dim light for a while perplexed his labour, and
he had directed the door to be thrown wide open
that he might take advantage of the last moment before
the approaching twilight should arrest his occupation.
Whilst thus employed, the deadened sound
of a shot boomed across the bay.

“Ha!” he exclaimed as he threw aside the paper
in his hand and directed his eyes towards the water;
“there is a signal—by my body, a signal gun!—an
ill bird is flying homeward. Did you not hear that
shot, woman?”

“I had my dream of the brigantine two nights
ago,” replied the servitress; “and of the greedy

kite that calls himself her master;—the shot must be
his.”

“Whose can it be else?” demanded the Cripple
sharply, as he swung himself forward to the door-sill
and shook his locks from his brow in the act of
straining his sight across the dim surface of the bay.
“Ay, ay; there it is. Hark—another shot!—that
is the true pass word between us:—Dickon, sure
enough!—The brigantine is in the offing. Cocklescraft
is coming in with the speed of a gull. He
comes full freighted—full freighted, as is his wont,
with the world's plunder. What dole hath he done
this flight?—what more wealthy knave than himself
hath he robbed? Mischief, mischief, mischief—good
store of it, I'll be sworn:—and a keener knave than
himself he hath not found in his wide venture. He
will be coming ashore to visit the Cripple, ha!—he
shall be welcome—as he ever hath been. We are
comrades,—we are cronies, and merry in our divisions—the
Skipper and the Cripple!—there is concord
in it—the Skipper and the Cripple—merry men
both!”

These uprisings of the inner thoughts of the man
were uttered in various tones—one moment scarce
audible, the next with an emphatic enunciation, as if
addressed to his companion in the hut,—and sometimes
with the semblance of a laugh, or rather
chuckle, which was wormwood in its accent, and
brought the rheum from his eye down his cheek.
The beldam, accustomed to this habit of self-communion
in the Cripple, apparently heeded not these

mutterings, until he, at length, accosted her with a
command.—“Mistress Kate, double the contents of
your pot;—the skipper and some of his men will be
here presently, as keen and trenchant as their own
cutlasses. They will be hungry, woman,—as these
saltwater monsters always are for earthy provender.”

“Such sharp-set cattle should bring their provender
with them,” replied the domestic, as she went
about increasing her store of provision in compliance
with her master's directions.

“Or the good red gold, or the good red gold, old
jade!” interrupted the Cripple. “The skipper doth
not shrink in the girdle from the disease of a lean
purse, and is therefore worthy of our worshipful entertainment.
So goes the world, and we will be in
the fashion! Though the world's malisons drive him
hither as before a tempest, yet, comes he rich in its
gear; he shall have princely reception. I am king of
this castle, and ordain it. Is he taking in sail?—is he
seeking an anchorage? Ha, he understands his craft,
and will be with us anon,” he continued, as he marked
the movements of the approaching vessel.

There might be dimly seen, nearly abreast of St.
Jerome's, a close-reefed brig, holding her course before
a fair wind directly across the bay towards the
hut of the Cripple. She was, at intervals, lost to
view behind the thickening haze, and as often re-appeared
as she bent under the fresh north-east breeze
and bounded rapidly with the waves towards the lee
shore. It was after the hour of sunset when the

tenants of the hut were just able to discern, in the
murky gloom of the near nightfall, that she had lowered
sail and swung round with her head seaward, at
an anchorage some two miles out in the bay.

“Quick, Mistress Kate, and kindle some brushwood
on the shore,” said the master of the hut. “It
grows suddenly dark, and the boat's crew will need
a signal to steer by.”

The woman gathered a handful of fagots, and,
kindling them into a blaze, transferred them to the
beach in front of the hut, where, notwithstanding the
rain, they burned with a steady light. This illumination
had not subsided before the stroke of oars rose
above the din of the waves; and the boat with her
crew, sheeted with the broad glare of the signal-fire,
suddenly appeared mounted on the surf, surrounded
with foam and spray, and in the same instant was
heard grating on the gravel of the beach.

Cocklescraft, with two seamen, entered the hut.
The skipper was now in the prime of youthful manhood;
tall, active and strong, with the free step and
erect bearing that no less denoted the fearlessness of
his nature than pride in the consciousness of such a
quality. His face, tinged with a deep brown hue,
was not unhandsome, although an expression of sensuality,
to some extent, deprived it of its claim to be
admired. A brilliant eye suffered the same disparagement
by its over-ready defiance, which told of a
temper obtrusively prone to quarrel. The whole physiognomy
wanted gentleness, although a fine set of
teeth, a regular profile, and a complexion which, with

proper allowance for exposure to the weather, was
uncommonly good, would unquestionably have won
from the majority of observers the repute of a high
degree of masculine beauty.

A scarlet jacket fitted close across the breast, wide
breeches of ash-coloured stuff, hanging in the fashion
of a kirtle or kilt to the knees, tight grey hose, accurately
displaying the leg in all its fine proportions,
and light shoes, furnished a costume well adapted to
the lithe and sinewy figure of the wearer. A jet
black and glossy moustache, and tuft below the nether
lip, gave a martial aspect to his face, which had,
nevertheless, the smoothness of skin of a boy. He
wore in his embroidered belt, a pair of pistols richly
mounted with chased silver and costly jewels, and his
person was somewhat gorgeously and, in his present
occupation, inappropriately ornamented with gems
and chains of gold. His hair, in almost feminine
luxuriance, descended in ringlets upon his neck. A
large hat made of the palm leaf, broad enough to
shade his face and shoulders, but ill sorted with the
rest of his apparel, and was still less adapted to the
season and the latitude he was in, though it threw
into the general expression of his figure that trait of
the swaggering companion which was, in fact, somewhat
prominent in his character.

“How dost, friend Rob?” was his salutation in
crossing the threshold; “how dost, Rob o' the Bowl,
or Rob o' the Trencher?—bowl or trencher,—either
likes me; I am sworn friend to both,” he continued
as he stooped and took the Cripple's hand.

“Ay, thy conscience has never stayed thee,” was
the Cripple's reply, as he received the skipper's grasp,
“when thou wouldst put thy hand in another man's
bowl or trencher,—and especially, Dickon, if they
were made of gold. Thou hast an appetite for such
dishes. How now! where do you come from?”

“That shall be answered variously, friend of the
wooden platter. If you speak to me as Meinherr
Von Cogglescraft, I am from Antwerp, master of the
Olive Branch, with a comfortable cargo of Hollands,
and wines French and Rhenish, old greybeard,
and some solid articles of Dutch bulk. But if it be
to the Caballero Don Ricardo,—le beso las manos!
—I am from Tortuga and the Keys, Senor Capitan
del Escalfador (there is much virtue in a painted
cloth) with a choice assortment of knicknackeries,
which shall set every wench in the province agog. I
have rare velvets of Genoa, piled and cut in the
choicest fashions: I have grograms, and stuffs, and
sarsnets, with a whole inventory of woman trumpery
—the very pick of a Spanish bark, bound from Naples
to the islands, which was so foolish as to read my flag
by its seeming, and just to drop into the Chafing-Dish
when he thought he was getting a convoy to help him
out of the way of the too pressing and inquisitive
courtesies of certain lurking friends of our's in the
Keys. I have, besides, some trinkets, which are none
the worse for having been blessed by the church.
You shall have a choice, Rob, to deck out your
chamber with some saintly gems.”

“Ha! I guessed thy deviltry, Dickon,” said Rob,

with a laugh which, as always happened when much
moved, brought tears down his cheeks—“I guessed
it when I saw thee step across the door-sill with that
large and suspicious sombrero on thy head. It never
came from Holland—though you would fain persuade
the province folks that you trade no where else: it
is of the breed of the tropics, and smells of Hispaniola
and Santo Domingo.”

“It is a tell-tale,” replied Cocklescraft, “and should
have been thrown overboard before this. Old Kate
of Warrington, thy hand—and here is a hand for
thee! How does the world use thee? Fairly, I
hope, as you deserve? You shall have the sombrero,
Kate: you can truss it up into a new fashion for a
bonnet, and I have store of ribands to give thee to
set it off.”

“My share of this world's favour,” said the crone,
in acknowledgment of the skipper's bounty, “has
never been more than the cast-off bravery of such as
hold a high head over a wicked heart. I have ever
served at the mess of the devil's bantlings. But, as
the custom is, I must be civil and thankful for these
blessings; and so, Master Cocklescraft, I give you
thanks,” she added with a courtesy, as she placed
the hat upon her head and strutted fantastically in
the room, “for your dainty head-gear that you are
unwilling to wear, and durst not, master, before the
Port Wardens of St. Mary's.”

“How, Kate!” exclaimed the skipper, “you have
lost no whit of that railing tongue I left with you at
my last venture? I marvel that the devil hath not

shorn it, out of pure envy. But I know, Kate, you
can do justice to the good will of a friend, after all:
I would have thee to know that thou hast not been
unconsidered, good mother of a thousand devilkins:
I have brought thee stuff for a new gown, rich and
ladylike, Kate, and becoming thy grave and matronly
years, and sundry trickeries for it, by way of garniture;
and, reverend dam of night-monsters, I have
in store for thee some most choice distillations of the
West Indies, both plain and spiced. Thou dost not
spurn the strong waters, Kate of Warrington,—nor
the giver of them?”

“This is a make-peace fashion of thine,” said the
beldam, relaxing into a smile. “You thought not of
the woman of Warrington—no, not so much as a
dog's dream of her—until it chanced to come into
your head that the foolish crone had a will which it
might not be for your good to set against you. I
knew your incoming, Richard Cocklescraft, before it
was thought of in the province; and I know when
your outgoing will be. You come with a surly sky
and a gay brow;—you shall trip it hence with a
bright heaven above you, and deftly, boy—but with
a heavy heart and a new crime upon thy soul.”

“Peace, woman! I will hear none of thy croakings—it
is an old trick of thine; the device is too
stale,” said Cocklescraft, half playfully and half vexed.
“You are no conjuror, Kate, as you would make the
world believe by these owl-hootings: if you had but
a needle's-eyeful of the true witch in you, you would
have foretold what bounty my luck has brought you.

—Rob, we have packages to land to-night. Is the
Chapel ready for our service?”

“How should it be other than ready? Doth not
the devil keep his quarters there?” said Rob with a
low-toned chuckle that shook his figure for some moments,
and almost closed his eyes; “hath he not his
court in the Chapel? Go ask the whole country side:
they will swear to it on their bible oaths. Sundries have
seen the hoofs and horns, and heard the howlings,—
ay, and smelt the brimstone—ha, ha, ha! They'll
swear to it. Is the Chapel ready, in sooth! It is a
precious Chapel! Paul Kelpy, thou wert an honest
cut-throat, to bedevil so good a house: we turn it to
account—ha, ha! It needs but to take the key,
Dickon. I warrant you ne'er a man in the province,
burgher or planter, gentle or simple, ventures near
enough to molest you.”

“The surf runs high,” said Cocklescraft, “and may
give us trouble in the landing to-night; and as daylight
must not find me in this latitude, I shall put
what I may ashore before the dawn, and then take a
flight to the opposite side of the bay. To-morrow
night I shall finish my work; and you shall soon
after hear, at St. Mary's, that the good and peaceful
brigantine, the Olive Branch, has arrived from Holland.
Meantime, I will leave you a half dozen men
to garrison the Chapel, Rob.”

“It is so well garrisoned with my merry goblins
already,” said Rob, “that it requires but a light
watch. The fires alone would frighten his Lordship's
whole array of rangers. That was a pretty device

of mine, Dickon—blue, green, and red—excellent
devil-fires all! Then I have masks—faith, most special
masks! the very noses of them would frighten
the short-winded train-bands of the Port into catalepsy.
And the Chapel had an ill name when the
fisherman shed blood on the floor: but since we
blackened it, Richard—oh, that was a subtle thought!
—it is past all power of exorcism: there is an ague
in the very name of the Black Chapel.” And here
the Cripple gave way to a burst of laughter, which
had been struggling for vent during all this reference
to the arts by which he had contrived to maintain the
popular dread of the fisherman's lodge.

Whilst this conference was held, the crone had
prepared their evening meal, which being now ready,
Rob was lifted upon a low platform that brought him
to the proper level with the table, where he was able
to help himself. Cocklescraft partook with him, and
might almost have envied the keen gust and ravenous
appetite with which his host despatched the coarse
but savoury fare of the board—for the Cripple's
power of stomach seemed to be no whit impaired by
age. He continued to talk, during his meal, in the
same strain which we have described, now indulging
a peevish self-communion, now bursting forth with
some sarcastic objurgation of the world, and again
breaking a jest with his visiter.

When the seamen, under the ministration of the
aged domestic, had got their supper, Cocklescraft
took his departure.

All night long lights were gleaming in the Chapel;

the rain continued in a steady misty drizzle,
and not a star was seen to tempt a wanderer abroad.
The morning, which broke upon an atmosphere
purged of its vapours, showed no trace of the brig
in the vicinity of St. Jerome's. Far down the bay,
hugging the eastern shore, might have been discerned
what a practised mariner would affirm to be a
sail; but whether ship or brig—whether outward or
homeward bound, might not be told without the aid
of a glass.