University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
Big Abel and the Little Manhattan come to terms; and get a Night-View of
the City.

“Hillo!”

A voice again as at the City Hall porch: and this time a body.
It wasn't the Shot-Tower that spoke, as you might suppose; but
the figure that delved the ground rose up, slowly, bringing with
it out of the earth, some burthen or other in its hand (that was
clear); and leaning his spade against the Tower came forward,
now, getting towards the light, bearing by a ring an oblong iron
box.

“Hillo—I say!”

Lankey Fogle hadn't said a word as yet: and the other stepped
out into the moonlight. He was a goodly figure to look on:
a tall square person: a new hat—it shone like a cat's back in
the clear light—straight out at the rim: a new blue coat, brass-buttoned:
pantaloons of a drab tint: and in boots that as he
walked whispered in a pleasant creak of the shop they had
lately left: he stood, as I said, a goodly figure to look at, square
upon the ground; with the small oblong iron box in his hand.

Lankey Fogle paused in contemplation a second or so: and
then went forward and took this other by the hand.

“I'm glad you've come,” said the holder of the box. “I began
to have a doubt.”

Lankey Fogle looked up at the moon. There was something
that glistened, like dew, creeping down his cheek.

“It's hard,” said the other. “No doubt of that.” And he
wrung Lankey again by the hand. “But it's the best we can

do, I believe. The Island is clearly ours,” he went on to say.
“Yours or mine: from his snout at the Battery to where he
flanks off at Kingsbridge and Harlæm. One of us knows that:
whichever of the two it is: and if that Supreme Court of Judicature,
as they call it, had its due—it would sit in that nice
building over there, and never have leave to adjourn.”

Lankey's eyes glowed in the dark and looked toward the
Prison, off the shore: where it sate in the clear night, a great
square cold block, locking in, like a stone with a toad at its
heart, as it did, so many pale men and women, drearily.

“I've had enough of this,” pursued the other. “Loitering
about the courts: opening attorneys' doors, softly on their
hinges: and taking off my hat to the judges, going in and out.
Ten years is enough, I think; with getting called up (they had
you to-day) to testify to all the rumpuses about the door.”

It was enough. Lankey acknowledged that by being there.

“Isn't it wonderful, now, there never was a lawyer to be
found among all them hungry, starving, trotting, dancing fellows,
to take up our cases—cases involving the Property and Buildings
of all this City—there was a chance for 'em, I should say, to
make a figure in! Nobody for Plaintiff, in Fogle versus the
Corporation; or, as I thought it ought to run, Corporation at the
suit of Abel Henry Hudson. The Bar has been in fits ever
since our case was first opened in the offices. That's clear:
and they'll never wake up or come to, I'm afraid. We are to
make a verdict for ourselves. Is that it?”

Lankey Fogle took his hand again. That was it.

“We are friends?”

“I hope so,” Lankey made answer. “Big Abel—we are!”

This was Big Abel, then! as hearty a person as you'd see in
many a day: with his fair blue eyes and sturdy girth.

“And we'll do—as we talked of!” said Big Abel. “Little
Manhattan (as you think your title rightly runs)—are we
agreed?”

The Little Manhattan was silent at the question. So silent
that he seemed to be a part of Nature there: as one of the
dark, old, slumbering, silent trees: and not a man of speech.

Hard, hard it was to him to come to any terms by which
his Great Inheritance, as he in his poor visionary way accounted
it, should pass away; to part with any share the least or
greatest of all that wide domain the City held. It was the best
(Big Abel said): and so it was. The Bay rippled gently: as
in counsel to the act: softly the old oak trees whispered, far on
high, holding council thereabout themselves: and toward the
moon the old Tower held up its head, and white as she and fair
to look on, might have agreed with her that this of Big Abel
and Lankey was well done. Done it was: and, out at the
Mount Vernon gate again, they struck across the country.

There is a little hill there, and climbing that by winding paths,
through an orchard, they got upon the road. Beyond, descending
now, they come upon the sunken meadows, with little rills
running, creeping rather, here and there, and glittering in the
moon. About, a few late fellows, the frogs were piping, in a revel
of their own; and now and then, as Lankey and Big Abel glide
along, some little birds, troubled in their dreams, stirring in the
bushes. In the midst of all this stillness or calm motion of the
night, a figure passed them: in the very middle of the field: a
figure, singing.

It was quite clear who this was; without a question. A
Poor Scholar—who had wandered out into the open country,
and the clear night, to coax away certain cares that pressed at
his heart: to think over a past full of gloom and sadness and
hard perplexities; and to call up as he wandered on a fair
shape whose shadowy hand he sought in vain, for it flew away
ever as he stretched his own toward it. Pale he was, indeed,
but with eyes lit as the night was with a more than common and
day-time lustre. His apparel—one could see—was plain and
darkened into a better black than belonged to it in broad day-light,

by the friendly night. And yet, poor and sad, and sorrowful
as he was, as you would suppose, he went on his way
singing a cheerful song; blessing everything about him,
whether it was the green earth his foot trod upon, or the air that
caught his fingers as he shook them in chorus to his singing, or
the blue, far-away sky he looked up to often as he walked.

“William—the Poor Scholar!” said Big Abel to the Little
Manhattan, as he crossed them. “He had a case in Court
once, I recollect. It was all about a book, and the judge said
it was a glorious thing to write a book; and that's all he got for
it!”

Lankey Fogle recollected tales of sages and medicine-men,
and prophets among the old tribe that once sate in the
Island; and he couldn't call to mind the case of one who
hadn't been well-fed, well-clothed, well-lodged; down to his old
age; and then laid in the earth with lamentation.

Well. They were on Murray's Hill now. The moon had
gone down, and where they stood they saw the city by his own
light, the winking of his own eyes, so to speak, and no other.
It was silent—so silent they might have heard him breathe in
his sleep almost. There were his stores, and his churches, and
his warehouses, and his forges, all asleep! All but his great
long Streets, and they were wide awake as they well could be,
on a short allowance of oil, chasing each other up and down,
crossing hither and thither and round about with long lines of
dozy lamps, plunging into the hollows, climbing the slopes and
far declivities, and blinking at each other to keep awake.
That was all they could make of it, Big Abel and Lankey;
till by and by there crept out of it, as out of a dark womb,
a coach followed closely by a hearse making speed toward the
country. And this passed away like a mist, bearing a body (a
murderer's self-smitten, no doubt, for such a one had been
lately taken from the prison) toward an old graveyard at
East Haddam, in Connecticut, with no other attendants save

the wild flying horses and their driver, and the two within, the
brother and the mistress of the suicide. Pry keenly as they
would into the wide domain they discerned that, and nothing
more. When by and by Lankey Fogle, listening, in the dead
stillness heard the beating of a doleful bell, and then what
seemed to his ear like the drumming of the partridge in the
woods, from down the city; a Phœnix rather; for presently
there sprung a mighty flame (how grimly Lankey Fogle
smiled at that!) which swallowed in an instant all the dusky
light: put out the lamps: and brought up swifter than in a
goblin dream the shining house-tops far away, and glittering
vanes, and yellow caps:—in which Lankey Fogle and Big Abel
stood out upon Murray's Hill, that you might have seen them
many a mile around. And then it fell: a great shouting that
kept it company falling with it: and all was dark again.
Big Abel and Lankey came down the hill, by the way of the
old road, and met going toward the city a countryman in a felt
hat, with a herd of cattle. Nothing passed, except that Big
Abel asked how many head he drove. Lankey Fogle spoke not
a word. He had another thought, moving among the great,
green trees, that huddle together and make a wood of themselves,
just there. They were aiming for the Reservoir: the
one off Bloomingdale: and crossing a few meadows: then a
road: then the rail-track that hurries forward here, with a
spring to clear the gloomy Tunnel, not more than three miles
away, they were under its very wall. It was Lankey that led
this time: and climbing the steps, Big Abel close after, they
came upon the wall. A goodly Mug, in truth, for the city to
drink from. But that wasn't it. A gloomy face, with all sorts
of strange, fantastic eyes, shining in it—everywhere. Nor
that. It was here, as Lankey made known to Big Abel, where
the old Manhattan in the Indian time stopped pursuing his
game: and well he might, for at that day 'twas all a wide, waste,
dreary flood beyond, so it is said. He claimed beyond this wall
no right—and made it over, to Big Abel, once and for ever. Inside
this line, he set his claim.

With their backs against the city—as they looked abroad toward
the unhoused country—a man in a woollen cap, and lame
withal, hobbled out of the little box at the middle of the wall,
and shouted after them—

“Ay—ay—there—what do you want?”

It was a gruff voice; and Big Abel and Lankey halted.

“What do you want, I say?”

Big Abel looked into the Reservoir, then down the wall, fifty
feet or so, and made answer—

“We're here to look after our property!”

The woollen cap went away with great speed, and closing
the door of the box, mounted a chair inside and looked through
a window over the door.

“Madmen no doubt, got away!” he said.

He watched till he was quite weary in the leg: and nothing
came of it: except that Lankey and Big Abel rambled the
wall:—then he unchaired himself and went to bed, making up
his mind as well as he could to have to drag the Reservoir in
the morning.

Without reference to the woollen cap they got to the ground,
and made for a little public house they knew of in that suburb;
catching far-off glimpses down side-streets of the river, with a
watchman now and then; or what they supposed to be a watchman;
a something silent and monumental with a leathern top,
and lifeless stick hanging at the side. And, now they had a
view of the little public house they were glad, by his windows,
to see him yet awake. The city all about there looked so stark
and deep in slumber; the little public house the only sould astir
all round; and going in, Big Abel and Lankey found there
was work there, and plenty of it, without anything from them,
for about a table with a speckled, oil-cloth top, four boys were
hard at play with cards. One of these was a little fellow,

with a thin, pale face, and eyes so broad and dark and mournful,
they seemed always on the very edge of tears. With
cards, but in a game of their own devising, the process and
order of which (it was called Newspaper) seemed to be this:
That the two and fifty cards were inscribed each on its face
with the name of a city journal: Morning, Evening, Semi-Weekly,
Weekly: with an ironical reference, by the way, in
some cases, for these gentlemen have a turn for that: and distributed
to the four young gentlemen equally. Now, the forfeit
lay here, that at each round the holder accounted on the table
with a chalk, for the value, at news-boy rates, of the thirteen
journals in his hand, and the difference between the two lowest
was the penalty against the lowest, payable in meat and drink.

It so happened (as it came out in the course of time), that the
luck, shape the dealing as they would, fell against the little
pale-faced boy. The games to play, were three.

“Now for the Albany-brewed!” This was the cry at the
end of the first round, raised by a pock-pitted player, with a
frayed black neck-cloth raking the table as he bent over his
cards.

The Albany-brewed came in, in four glazed mugs.

Another game: the little, pale-faced boy fishing in his pocket
again, short of a penny to pay for the poached eggs.

“Broke!” said the pock-pitted player.

“He must go out!” said another over-grown fellow, who
was disposing of the eggs with his eyes as fast as he could.

“To be sure, he must!” returned the pock-pitted player:
and without further ado, they proceeded—this was strictly
according to the rule and usage of the game—to hustle him.
He resisted a little: not much. One of the players spoke for
him, but it was of no use; and when the scrambling was over on
the outside they came back presently, bringing with them a new
boy: re-opened the game: and on the third hand (going against
the new-comer, with a rush) they ordered oysters, and clearing

off the cards, set in for a regular time. Somebody was crying
at the door: but this was nothing: and, through oysters and
poached eggs, by comfortable stages they came upon the beer.
Three games more: all for beer this time: and if the house
had been a mile wide, and a couple or so high, it would have
been hardly big enough to hold them. Long ago, though, Big
Abel and Lankey Fogle had seen the way through their business;
for at the very coming into the little stall they had entered
upon it, by Big Abel's clapping his oblong box, with the ring
towards him, on the table, swinging up its lid, and saying,

“There's my proofs!” called for Lankey's.

All that Lankey Fogle did, was to call out to the landlord to
put more light on, which being done, he threw off his hat,
turned about and looked calmly on Big Abel. There was the
straight black hair, the swarthy skin, the slumberous and autumnal
eye. There was no mistaking these. The Little Manhattan,
beyond a doubt! And now Big Abel—where are you?
A little musty scrap, out of the box, another, and still another.
It seems so. In truth it does. Old Henry Hudson's lineal
heir: great-grandson, it would seem. Lankey Fogle (this was
a name he got from idle boys, and not by birth), great-grandson
to that fierce old chief, who swayed with iron, this Island once,
heading his red Manhattanese! Big Abel, great grandson to
the old navigator-trader, of brave English blood. By right of
Nature this city, built it who did, is the Little Manhattan's
clearly, all. Big Abel claims, as first discoverer (Lankey
Fogle glares on this); but, better still, purchase of some old
chief or other. He thinks it was the same chief that Lankey
claims from: but this he can't make out so well. The oblong
box is shut again: the city is between them, but whose, who
can tell? To-morrow they will set forth, dividing it for themselves:
each taking what he can, in fairness and good will.
For they are friends now. Perfect confidence: perfect confidence
between them. The long mistrust with which they have

lowered at each other through the courts is ended now; melted
into a fine, twilight mist; in which each seems magnified
and gentle to the other. To-bed, now, not as for many years,
but hopeful of their own. Yes—these, so far apart in many
things, so close together in their fortunes now—are whimsical
enough to make belief that the old merchant-navigator and the old
Indian chief are still abroad through all these streets, in spirit;
that, somehow or other, as the color of the soil shows itself in
the tree, they are still out of their very graves, holding to the
city as their own. Well! we shall see what came of it.