University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

Old Song.

“Of all seasons of the year, autumn is the most
voluptuous, and October the loveliest of months.
Then may a man sit at his door—in the sun if he
choose, for he will not find it too hot—or in the shade,
if it liketh him, for neither will he find this too cool,
and there hold converse with his own meditations: or
he may ride or walk, dance or sing, for in this October
time a man hath heart for any pastime, so rich
is the air, and such pleasant imaginations doth it engender.
And if he be poetical, therein will he be
greatly favoured; for surely never nature puts on
such gaudy attire, on earth or sky, as she wears in
our October. The morning haze, which the hoar-frost
flings up to meet the sun, hangs across the landscape
as if made on purpose to enchant the painter;

and the evening sunset lights up the heavens with a
glory that shall put that painter—even Claude or Salvator—to
shame at the inadequacy of his art. And
then the woods!—what pallet hath colours for the
forest? Of all the months of the year, commend me
to October!”

Some such rhapsody as this was running through
the thoughts, and breaking forth in slight mutterings
from the lips of the Captain of Musqueteers, on an
afternoon in this much lauded month of October, in
the year I have alluded to in a former chapter, as he
sate in front of his quarters in the fort. A small table
was displayed upon the pavement, supplied with a
flagon, pipes, and drinking cups. The Captain's solid
bulk was deposited in a broad arm-chair, close by the
table. His sword and cloak lay upon a bench at the
door, and a light breeze flickered amongst his short
and hoary locks, where they escaped from the cover
of a cloth bonnet which he had now substituted for his
beaver. A sentinel stood on post at the gate, towards
which the Captain, as he slowly quaffed a cup, ever
and anon turned an expectant eye. Once or twice
he rose from his seat and strode backward and forward
across the parade, then visited the rampart,
which afforded him a view of the road leading from
the town, and finally resumed his seat and renewed
his solitary and slow potation.

When the sun had sunk halfway down the flag-staff,
the Captain's wishes were crowned by the arrival
of a brace of visiters.

The first of these was Garret Weasel, the publican,

a thin, small man, in a suit of gray; of a timid carriage
and slender voice. He might have been observed
for a restless, undefinable eye which seemed
to possess the habitual circumspection of a tapster to
see the need of a customer; and this expression was
sustained by a rabbit-like celerity of motion which
raised the opinion of his timidity. There was an air
of assentation and reverence in his demeanour, which,
perhaps, grew out of the domestic discipline of his
spouse, a buxom dame with the heart of a lioness.
She had trained Master Garret to her hand, where he
might have worn out his days in implicit obedience,
had it not luckily fallen out for him, that Captain
Dauntrees had settled himself down in this corner of
the New World. The Captain being a regular trafficker
in the commodities of the Crow and Archer, and no
whit over-awed by the supremacy of mine hostess,
soon set himself about seducing her worse-half from
his allegiance, so far as was necessary, at least, to
satisfy his own cravings for company at the fort.
He therefore freely made himself the scapegoat
of Garret's delinquencies, confiding in the wheedling
power of his tongue, to pacify the dame. With
all the tapster's humility and meekness, he still followed
the Captain through his irregularities with the adhesiveness
and submission of a dog—carousing on
occasion like a man of stouter mould, and imitating
the reveller-tone of his companion with an ambitious
though not always successful zeal. He did not naturally
lack merriment; but it was not of the boisterous
stamp: there was, at his worst outbreak, a glimmering
of deference and respect, rising up to a rickety
laugh, and a song sometimes, yet without violent
clamour; and the salt tears were often wrung from
his eyes by the pent-up laughter which his vocation
and his subordinate temper had taught him it was
unseemly to discharge in a volley.

His companion was a tall, sinewy, and grave person,
habited in the guise of a forester—a cap, namely,
of undressed deer skin, a buff jerkin, guarded by a
broad belt and buckle at the waist, and leggings of
brown leather. This was a Fleming, named Arnold
de la Grange, who belonged to the corps of wood
rangers in the service of the Lord Proprietary. He
had arrived in the province in the time of Lord Cecilius,
many years before, and had shared much of the
toil of the early settlement. His weather-beaten and
gaunt form, tawny cheek, and grizzled hair, bespoke
a man inured to the hard service of a frontier life,
whilst his erect port and firm step, evinced that natural
gracefulness which belongs to men trained to
the self-dependence necessary to breast the ever-surrounding
perils of such a service. He was a man
of few words, and these were delivered in a Low
Dutch accent, which his long intercourse with the
English had failed to correct. When his service on
his range was intermitted, Arnold found quarters
amongst the retainers of the Proprietary mansion,
and the Proprietary himself manifested towards the
forester that degree of trust, and even affection,
which resulted from a high sense of his fidelity and
conduct, and which gave him a position of more privilege

than was enjoyed by the other dependents of
the establishment. Being, at these intervals, an idler,
he was looked upon with favour by the Captain of the
fort, who was not slow to profit by the society of such
a veteran in the long watches of a dull afternoon.
By a customary consequence, Arnold was no less esteemed
by the publican.

A bluff greeting and short ceremony placed the
visiters at the table, and each, upon a mute signal
from the host, appropriated his cup and pipe.

“You are never a true man, Garret Weasel,” said
the Captain, “to dally so long behind your appointment;
and such an appointment, too! state matters
would be trifles to it. The round dozen which you
lost to me on Dame Dorothy's head gear—a blessing
on it!—you did yourself so order it, was to be broached
at three of the clock; and now, by my troth, it is
something past four. There is culpable laches in it.
Idleness is the canker of the spirit, but occupation is
the lard of the body, as I may affirm in my own person.
Mistress Dorothy, I suspect, has this tardy
coming to answer for. I doubt the brow of our
brave dame hath been cloudy this afternoon. How
is it, Arnold? bachelor, and Dutchman to boot, you
will speak without fear.”

“The woman,” replied Arnold, in a broken English
accent, which I do not attempt to convey in
syllables, “had her suspicions.”

“Hold ye, Captain Dauntrees,” eagerly interrupted
the innkeeper, drawing up his chair to the table—for
he had seated himself a full arms-length off, in awkward

deference to his host; “and hold ye, Master
Arnold! my wife rules not me, as some evil-minded
jesters report: no, in faith! We were much beset to
day. In sooth I could not come sooner. Customers,
you know, Captain, better than most men, customers
must be answered, and will be answered, when we
poor servants go athirst. We were thronged to-day;
was it not so, Arnold?”

“That is true,” replied the forester; “the wife had
her hands full as well as Garret himself. There were
traders in the port, to-day, from the Bay Shore and
the Isle of Kent, and some from the country back,
to hear whether the brigantine had arrived. They
had got some story that Cocklescraft should be here.”

“I see it,” said Dauntrees; “that fellow, Cocklescraft,
hath a trick of warning his friends. He never
comes into port but there be strange rumours of him
ahead; it seems to be told by the pricking of thumbs.
St. Mary's is not the first harbour where he drops his
anchor, nor Anthony Warden the first to docket his
cargo. You understand me.”

“You have a bold mind, Captain,” said the publican;
“you men of the wars speak your thoughts.”

“You are none the losers by Master Cocklescraft,”
interposed Arnold, drily.

“My wife pays honestly for the liquors,” said
Weasel, as his eye glanced timorously from one to
the other of his comrades; “I take no heed of the
accounts.”

“But the head gear, Garret,” rejoined Dauntrees,
laughing; “you pay for that, though the mercer saw

my coin for it. Twelve bottles of Canary were a
good return on that venture. The bauble sits lightly
on the head of the dame, and it is but fair that the
winnings should rise as lightly into ours. But for
Cocklescraft, we should lack these means to be merry.
The customs are at a discount on a dark night. Well,
be it so. What point of duty calls on us to baulk the
skipper in his trade? We are of the land, not of the
water; consumers, on the disbursing side of the account,
not of the gathering in. The revenue hath its
proper friends, and we should neither meddle nor
make. Worthy Garret Weasel has good report in
the province for the reasonableness of his wines—
and long may he deserve that commendation!”

“I thank heaven that I strive to merit the good
will of the freemen,” interrupted the innkeeper.

“And he is something given to brag of his wines.
Faith, and with reason! Spain and Portugal, the
Garonne and the Rhine, are his tributaries. Garret,
we know the meridian of your El Dorado.”

“Nay, nay, Master Captain—your worship is
merry; I beseech you—”

“Never mind your beseeching, my modest friend.
You scarce do yourself justice. You have his Lordship's
license paid for in good round ducatoons—and
that's the fee of a clear conscience. So let the trade
thrive! The exchequer is not a baby to be in swaddling
bands, unable to feed itself. No, it has the
eagle's claw, and wants no help from thee, thou forlorn
tapster! Make thine honest penny, Garret; all
thirsty fellows will stand by thee.”

“I would be thought orderly, Master Dauntrees.”

“Thou art so computed—to a fault. You would
have been so reckoned in Lord Cecil's time; and
matters are less straitened now-a-days. Lord Charles
gives more play to good living than his father allowed
of. You remember his Lordship's father set his
face against wines and strong waters.”

“He did, gentlemen,” said Weasel, squaring himself
in his seat with animation. “Heaven forbid I
should speak but as becomes me of the honourable
Lord Cecil's memory, or of his honourable son! but
to my cost, I know that his Lordship's father was no
friend to evil courses, or sottish behaviour, or drinking,
unless it was in moderation, mark you. But, with
humility, I protest the law is something hard on us
poor ordinary keepers: for you shall understand,
Arnold Grange, that at a sale by outcry, if there
should lack wherewithal to pay the debts of the
debtor, the publican and vintner are shut out, seeing
that the score for wines and strong waters is the last
to be paid.”

“And good law it is, let me tell you Garret Weasel!
Good and wholesome: wisely laid down by the burgesses,
and wisely maintained by his Lordship. You
rail without cause. Sober habits must be engendered:—your
health, comrades! Then it behooves you
publicans to be nice in your custom. We will none
of your lurdans that can not pay scot and lot—your
runagates that fall under the statute of outcry. Let
them drink of the clear brook! There is wisdom and
virtue in the law. Is it not so, Arnold?”

“It preaches well,” replied the forester, as he sent
forth a volume of smoke from his lips.

“Another flask, and we will drink to his Lordship,”
said Dauntrees, who now left the table and returned
with the fourth bottle. “Fill up, friends; the evening
wears apace. Here's to his Lordship, and his Lordship's
ancestors of ever noble and happy memory!”

As Dauntrees smacked his lip upon emptying his
cup, he flung himself back in his chair, and in a
thoughtful tone ejaculated: “the good Lord Charles
has had a heavy time of it since his return from
England; these church brawlers would lay gunpowder
under our hearth-stones. And then the death of
young Lord Cecil, whilst his father was abroad, too;
it was a heavy blow. My lady hath never held up
her head since.”

A pause succeeded to this grave reflection, during
which the trio smoked their pipes in silence, which
was at length broken by an attenuated sigh from the
publican, as he exclaimed, “Well-a-day! the great
have their troubles as well as the rest of us. It is my
opinion that Heaven will have its will, Captain; that's
my poor judgment.” And having thus disburdened
himself of this weighty sentiment—the weight of it
being increased, perhaps, by the pressure of his previous
potations—he drained the heel tap, which stood
in his glass, and half whispered, when he had done,
“That's as good a drop of Canary as ever grew
within the horizon of the Peak of Teneriffe.”

“Through the good will of friend Cocklescraft,”

interrupted Dauntrees, suddenly resuming his former
gaiety.

“Pray you, Captain Dauntrees,” said the publican,
with a hurried concern, “think what hurt thy jest
may bring upon me. Arnold knows not your merry
humour, and may believe, from your speech, that I
am not reputable.”

“Pish, man; bridle thy foolish tongue! Did I not
see the very cask on't at Trencher Rob's? Did I not
mark how your sallow cheek took on an ashen complexion,
when his Lordship's Secretary, a fortnight
since, suddenly showed himself amongst the cedars
upon the bank that overlooks your door, when your
ill luck would have you to be rolling the cask in
open day into thy cellar. The secretary was in a
bookish mood, and saw thee not—or, peradventure,
was kind, and would not heed.”

To this direct testimony, Weasel could only reply
by a faint-hearted and involuntary smile which surrendered
the point, and left him in a state of silly
confusion.

“Never droop in thy courage, worthy Weasel,”
exclaimed the Captain; “thou art as honest as thy
betters; and, to my mind, the wine hath a better
smack from its overland journey from St. Jerome's
when there was no sun to heat it.”

“The secretary,” said the innkeeper, anxious to
give the conversation another direction, “is a worshipful
youth, and a modest, and grows in favour with
the townspeople.”

“Ay, and is much beloved by his Lordship,”
added the Captain.

“And comes, I warrant me, of gentle kind, though
I have not heard aught of his country or friends.
Dorothy, my wife, says that the women almost swear
by him, for his quiet behaviour and pretty words—and
they have eyes, Captain Dauntrees, for excellence
which we have not.”

“There is a cloud upon his birth,” said Dauntrees,
“and a sorrowful tale touching his nurture. I had it
from Burton, the master of the ship who brought
him with my Lord to the province.”

“Indeed, Captain Dauntrees! you were ever quick
to pick up knowledge. You have a full ear and a
good memory.”

“Drink, drink, comrades!” said the Captain. “We
should not go dry because the secretary hath had mishaps.
If it please you, I will tell the story, though
I will not vouch for the truth of what I have only at
second hand.”

After the listeners had adjusted themselves in their
chairs, Dauntrees proceeded.

“There was, in Yorkshire, a Major William
Weatherby, who fought against the Parliament—I
did not know him, for I was but a stripling at the
time—who, when King Charles was beheaded, went
over and took service with the States General, and
at Arnheim married a lady of the name of Verheyden.
Getting tired of the wars, he came back to
England with his wife, where they lived together
five or six years without children. The story goes

that he was a man of fierce and crooked temper;
choleric, and unreasonable in his quarrel; and for
jealousy, no devil ever equalled him in that amiable
virtue. It was said, too, that his living was riotous
and unthrifty, which is, in part, the customary sin of
soldiership.—I am frank with you, masters.”

“You are a good judge, Captain; you have had
experience,” said the publican.

“There was a man of some mark in the country
where this Weatherby lived, a Sir George Alwin,
who, taking pity on the unhappy lady, did her sundry
acts of kindness—harmless acts, people say; such as
you or I, neighbours, would be moved to do for a distressed
female; but the lady was of rare beauty, and
the husband full of foul fancies.

“About this time, it was unlucky that nature
wrought a change, and the lady grew lusty for the
first time in six years marriage. To make the story
short, Weatherby was free with his dagger, and in
the street, at Doncaster, in the midst of a public show,
he stabbed Alwin to the heart.”

The wood ranger silently shook his head, and the
publican opened his watery eyes in astonishment.

“By the aid of a fleet horse and private enemies
of the murdered man, Weatherby escaped out of the
kingdom, and was never afterwards heard of.”

“And died like a dog, I s'pose,” said Arnold de la
Grange.

“Likely enough,” replied Dauntrees.

“The poor lady was struck down with the horror
of the deed, and had nearly gone to her grave. But

Heaven was kind, and she survived it, and was relieved
of her burden in the birth of a son. For some
years afterwards, by the bounty of friends, but with
many a struggle—for her means were scanty—she
made shift to dwell in England. At last she returned
to Holland, where she found a resting place in her
native earth, having lived long enough to see her son,
a well grown lad, safely taken in charge by her brother,
a merchant of Antwerp. The parents were
both attached to our Church of Rome, and the son
was sent by his uncle to the Jesuit school of his own
city. Misfortune overtook the merchant, and he
died before the nephew had reached his fourteenth
year. But the good priests of Antwerp tended the
lad with the care of parents, and would have reared
him as a servant of the altar. When our Lord Baltimore
was in the Netherlands, three years ago, he
found Albert Verheyden, (the youth has ever borne
his mother's name,) in the Seminary. His Lordship
took a liking to him and brought him into his own
service. Master Albert was then but eighteen. There
is the whole story. It is as dry as a muscat raisin.
It sticks in the throat, masters,—so moisten, moisten!”

“It is a marvellous touching story,” said the innkeeper,
as he swallowed at a draught a full goblet.

“The hot hand and the cold steel,” said Arnold,
thoughtfully, “hold too much acquaintance in these
times. Master Albert is an honest youth, and a good
youth, and a brave follower too, of hawk or hound,
Captain Dauntrees.”

“Then there is good reason for a cup to the secretary,”

said the Captain, filling again. “The world
hath many arguments for a thirsty man. The blight
of the year fall upon this sadness! Let us change our
discourse—I would carouse a little, friends: It is
salutary to laugh. Thanks to my patron, I am a
bachelor! So drink, Master Arnold, mein sauff bruder,
as we used to say on the Rhine.”

“Ich trinck, euch zu,” was the reply of the forester,
as he answered the challenge with a sparkling eye,
and a face lit up with smiles; “a good lad, an excellent
lad, though he come of a hot-brained father!”

The wine began to show itself upon the revellers;
for by this time they had nearly got through half of
the complement of the wager. The effect of this potation
upon the Captain was to give him a more flushed
brow, and a moister eye, and to administer somewhat
to the volubility of his tongue. It had wrought
no further harm, for Dauntrees was bottle-proof.
Upon the forester it was equally harmless, rather
enhancing than dissipating his saturnine steadfastness
of demeanour. He was, perchance, somewhat more
precise and thoughtful. Garret Weasel, of the three,
was the only weak vessel. With every cup of the
last half hour he grew more supple.

“Ads heartlikens!” he exclaimed, “but this wine
doth tingle, Captain Dauntrees. Here is a fig for my
wife Dorothy! Come and go as you list—none of
your fetch and carry! that's what the world is coming
to, amongst us married cattle!”

“Thou art a valorous tapster,” said the Captain.

“I am the man to stand by his friend, Captain

mine; and I am thy friend, Captain—Papist or Roman
though they call thee!”

“A man for need, Garret!” said Dauntrees, patting
him on the head; “a dozen flasks or so, when a friend
wants them, come without the asking.”

“And I pay my wagers, I warrant, Captain, like a
true comrade.”

“Like a prince, Garret, who does not stop to count
the score, but makes sure of the total by throwing in
a handful over.”

“I am no puritan, Master Dauntrees, I tell thee.”

“Thou hast the port of a cavalier, good Weasel.
Thou wouldst have done deadly havoc amongst
the round-heads, if they but took thee in the fact
of discharging a wager. Thou wert scarce in
debt, after this fashion, at Worcester, my valiant
drawer. Thy evil destiny kept thee empty on that
day.”

“Ha, ha, ha! a shrewd memory for a stale jest,
Captain Dauntrees. The world is slanderous, though
I care little for it. You said you would be merry;
shall we not have a song? Come, troll us a catch,
Captain.”

“I am of thy humour, old madcap; I'll wag it with
thee bravely,” replied Dauntrees, as he struck up a
brisk drinking-bout glee of that day, in which he was
followed by the treble voice of the publican, who at
the same time rose from his seat and accompanied
the music with some unsteady gyrations in the manner
of a dance upon the gravel.

Whilst Dauntrees and his gossips were thus occupied
in their carouse, they were interrupted by the
unexpected arrival of two well known persons, who
had approached by the path of the postern gate.

The elder of the two was a youth just on the verge
of manhood. His person was slender, well proportioned,
and rather over the common height. His
face, distinguished by a decided outline of beauty,
wore a thoughtful expression, which was scarcely
overcome by the flash of a black and brilliant eye.
A complexion pale and even feminine, betokened studious
habits. His dress, remarkable for its neatness,
denoted a becoming pride of appearance in the
wearer. It told of the Low Countries. A well-fitted
doublet and hose, of a grave colour, were partially
concealed by a short camlet cloak of Vandyke
brown. A black cap and feather, a profusion of
dark hair hanging in curls towards the shoulders,
and a falling band or collar of lace, left it unquestionable
that the individual I have sketched was of
gentle nurture, and associated with persons of rank.
This was further manifested in the gay and somewhat
gaudy apparel of his companion,—a lad of
fourteen, who walked beside him in the profusely
decorated costume of a young noble of that ambitious
era, when the thoughtless and merry monarch
of England, instead of giving himself to the cares of

government, was busy to invent extravagancies of
dress. The lad was handsome, though his features
wore the impress of feeble health. He now bore in
his hand a bow and sheaf of arrows.

The visiters had taken our revellers at unawares,
and had advanced within a few feet before they were
observed. The back of the publican was turned to
them, and he was now in mid career of his dance,
throwing up his elbows, tossing his head, and treading
daintily upon the earth, as he sang the burden,

“You give care a holiday, Captain Dauntrees,”
said the elder youth, with a slightly perceptible foreign
accent.

Dauntrees started abruptly from his seat, at this
accost, smiled with a reddened brow, and made a
low obeisance. The cessation of the song left Garret
Weasel what a mariner would term “high and dry,”
for like a bark floated upon a beach and suddenly
bereft of its element, he remained fixed in the attitude
at which the music deserted him,—one foot
raised, an arm extended, and his face turned inquiringly
over his shoulder. His amazement upon discovering
the cause of this interruption, brought about a
sudden and ludicrous affectation of sobriety; in an
instant his port was changed into one of deference,
although somewhat awkwardly overcharged
with what was intended to represent gravity and
decorum.

Arnold de la Grange rose from his chair and
stood erect, firm and silent.

“Hail, Master Albert Verheyden, and Master Benedict
Leonard: God save you both!” said Dauntrees.

“I say amen to that, and God save his lordship,
besides!” ejaculated the publican with a drunken
formality of utterance.

“I would not disturb your merriment, friends,”
said the secretary, “but his lordship bade me summon
Captain Dauntrees to the hall. You, Arnold de
la Grange, will be pleased to accompany the Captain.”

Arnold bowed his head, and the visiters retired by
the great gate of the fort. In a moment young Benedict
Leonard came running back, and addressed the
forester—

“Master Arnold, I would have a new bow-string
—this is worn; and my bird-bolts want feathering:
shall I leave them with you, good Arnold?” And
without waiting an answer, he thrust the bow and
arrows into the smiling wood-ranger's hand, and
bounded away again through the gate.

Dauntrees flung his sword-belt across his shoulder,
put on his cloak, delayed a moment to secure the
remaining flasks of wine, and then beckoned to the
ranger to follow him.

“Stop,” cried Weasel, with an officious zeal to
make himself useful; “your belt is awry: it is not
comely to be seen by his lordship in this slovenly
array.”

The belt was set right, and the two directed
their steps towards the postern, and thence to the
mansion. The publican tarried only until his companions
were out of sight, when, curious to know the
object of the errand, and careful to avoid the appearance
of intrusion, he followed upon the same path, at
a respectful distance,—stepping wisely, as a drunken
man is wont, and full of the opinion that his sobriety
was above all suspicion.