University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.

When I arrived at New-York, I hastened to the place
appointed to enquire for my uncle, which was the City
Hotel, and to my infinate joy, the first person I saw was
Sambo, “Ah old fellow, said I, how do you do, how is
your Master?” “Oh Massa,” said he, shaking my hand
and pulling off his hat, “how you do, how you do. Massa
in a chamber, he talk'bout you all a time, he be so
glad.”

“How long have you been here Sambo?” said I, as
he conducted me to his master.

“We jes here day fo yessaday, Massa he cus, he cus,
all de way, d—n de gup steam, de ba what ebe he call.
Massa been sick too.”

“My uncle sick, not now is he?” as we entered his
room.

The meeting was joyful enough on both sides. I enquired
whether he had been long or dangerously ill.

“Oh yes, I have been very sick child. I once thought
I should never see thee again.”

“Sambo get some refreshments.”

“I had telled Jinkins to write down what I wanted
thee to do, and all that, but thank God he has let me see
thee once more.”

“Where is Jinkins?” said I. “Don't know.”

Sambo answered, “he was gone to see Hunter.”

“Yes, O he'll soon be here, he never stays long from
me, but where be Hal?”

“He did not come sir, I left him to take care of my
sister and two otherladies, who had afforded her relief
when she was in distress,” and briefly related to him the
situation in which I found them.

“Then thee hast been to Boston.”

“No sir, they are in Philadelphia. When I arrived
in Tennessee, I found two letters from my sister, informing
me of her distress, and her departure from Boston,

and that they were now happily situated, and all
well when I left them, that Wilson and Mary promised
themselves the pleasure of seeing him return with me to
honour their nuptials.”

“Thee did right, child, but I must fix thy business
with Hunter, first thing—he tells me he's lost his pocket
book and some o' his little bits o' papers, and receipts,
and such things—I doubt his honesty my son, a sort a
quivecates a little.”

“I have his pocket book,” said I, telling my uncle
how I became possessed of it. “I have brought it with
me, but what is in it, I know no more than you do, for
I have been so hurried from place to place, that I have
never examined it; but it must be his, as his name is on
the outside.”

“Well, tell ye what thou do child, just write a little
line or two to Boston—will soon get an answer, and in
the meantime we'll see what he has here, and get thy
own out o' him, and we'll just tell him, d'ye see, to clear
himself to the farthest end o' the world.

“Aye, we'll not be hanging up a poor d—l that's
not worth the halter that's round his neck—'told Jinkins
and Sambo to not be talkin' about 'um at all—Oh,
they're as true as steel.”

I approved of this humane design of my uncle indeed,
though I had nearly fallen a sacrifice to the villainy of
this man, yet I felt not the least desire of revenge. I
then directed Sambo to furnish me with pen, ink, and
paper, and wrote to Mr. L— of Boston, who was the
person pointed out by Hunter to my uncle, as being
qualified to give correct information on the subject of his
property.

“His word will pass,” said my uncle, “as current as
gold—I been asking my old friend B— about um,
he was here to see me just a little afore you come—he
lives in Chatham-street.—Oh, yes, he says I can depend
—was just going to get him to write this very evening
if thee hadn't a come.”

I finished the letter and sent it by the landlord to the
post-office, and in a few minutes Jinkins made his appearance.

He was overjoyed to meet me, and saluted with much
cordiality.—He enquired very particularly after Wilson
and my sister. As I finished the answer to his questions
I thought of my promise to Martha, and begged
leave of the company to retire.

I flew to the post-office and addressed a second letter
to Mr. L— begging him to enquire of Mr. P— of
Boston, whether he had heard lately of Dupon, and
what had become of him.

Martha had found an opportunity during the last evening
I spent with her, to slip a memorandum into my
hand, informing whom and where to address my enquiries.

As the mail was still unclosed, I addressed another
letter to Mrs. Jones with my address. In this letter I
informed her that I was the brother of Mary Burlington,
that she was well and was shortly to be married, that
Mrs. Cary and Martha were well, and in affluence. In
the next place I begged to know when she had heard
from Dupon, or whether at all—and finally what had
become of the Simpsons—to write as quick as possible,
—that shortly I would leave New-York for Philadelphia.

Having finished my letters I returned to my uncle's
room. I observed to him, after supper we would look
over Hunter's papers and see what they were.

“Very well, thee and Jinkins can do that; but thee
didn't tell me when Mary was going to be married, hang
it;—it was a plaguey unlucky thing that I should have
been sick—it's wasted me mightily—I was nation fraid
that thee'd not get thine own out o' Hunter; but as to
that, I would a left thee and that there sly fellow that
lets on, he's so saintish, that's going to be married to
Mary, I'd a divided it all between thee and him Jinkins.
Faith, Jinkins wouldn't that I should a died to a had
the whole world—would'st?”

“I would not sir, for ten thousand such worlds,” replied
Jinkins.

“Believe what thee sayest? do think of it—hadn't a
been for him I should a slipped cable;—nation nigh as it
was.

“But—(getting up and stepping across the floor) begin
to feel pretty stout again. I must be at the wedding,
wouldn't miss it for a deal—Oh, if I don't plague that
Sly Boots.—Mary, most forget her, don't think she
could be born when I left Boston, couldn't a been more
than a babe.

“Thee I remember as well 'twas yesterday, used to
have fights and quarrels about riding in the shayze wi'
me.—Ah, many a time thee clinched thy teeth in me for
breaking up thy nut-cracking, when by chance I'd whip
up a handful and run away—Ah, well, who would ha'
thought o' thee?”

He called Sambo to light his pipe—I told him he had
learned to smoke since I saw him; I had never seen him
with a pipe before.

“Yes, I always smoked a little, but thee never noticed
it.”

In the course of half an hour, we were told supper
was ready, the good old man had ordered supper for us
three in a private room, that we might enjoy ourselves
without restraint.

When supper was over we returned to our chamber,
and Jinkins and I had smoked a segar, and my uncle his
pipe, I produced Hunter's pocket-book. Upon examining
his papers we found several bonds of considerable
amount, some valuable receipts, and a few old letters,
which I could not decipher, being written in secret characters,
and evidently appeared to have been a correspondence
between him and the pirates, the oldest date
was as early as 1795, the latest two years!—Shocking
to think how human nature is debased—what sort of a
soul can that man possess who can in cool blood, spill
that of a fellow man, and take all he has—and yet this
wretch, this Hunter, at the time he was aiding, abetting,
and no doubt perpetrating those crimes, crimes of the
blaskest die, was no doubt esteemed a respectable member
of society, caressed and admired; whilst such a
woman as Mrs. Cary was thrown an outcast from society.

Wretched infatuation! that wealth should be attended
with such accursed consequences; let those who possess

it fear, and tremble!—Whilst these reflections were
passing through my mind, some one knocked at the
door, which Sambo (who had taken a seat in the corner)
opened, and who should appear but Horton.

I could not like this fellow, although he had been the
means of saving of my life—his ill looks, his avowed
baseness, and his treachery to my father—I never could
view him without horror. I was sorry when I saw him
that I had not in the course of the evening's conversation
ascertained my uncle's pleasure respecting him; he
certainly ought to be acquitted, so far as he was concerned
with the pirates, as he had turned king's evidence,
but whether he ought in the case of his theft in stealing
the bonds out of my father's desk, admitted of some
question; besides, he had spent his whole life in the employment
of Hunter, and was now to be thrown on the
world without a penny; this would never do, he might
from necessity be tempted to resume his piratical practices—but
what was to be done, I left to time and my
uncle to decide.

“Well, Horton,” said I, “we have met once more—
how do you come on? what do you intend to do? as we
are all arranging our situations for life, and you have
acted a conspicuous part amongst us, I have some curiosity
to know what you intend to do with yourself.”

“Take a chair,” said my udcle to him, “and answer
my nevy, he knows more about them things than I do.”

“I have acted a very bad part, sir, indeed—I have
acted so that I have nothing for my labour.”

“This is what you ought to have expected; and you
may think yourself well situated, when compared to that
of your employer.”

“I do not murmur,” said he, “I throw myself on
your mercy, and that of your—no—nob—le—uncle,”
bursting into tears—“I deserve ten thousand deaths, I
plead guilty.”

Horton was really sincere in his repentance—he held
his head down, supported by both hands, and sobbed
like a child.

“Oh, thee needn't be making such lamentations, child,
no one is going to hurt thee—my nevy was just talking

his own way, d'ye see, he's no notion o' hurting on thee,
and if so be that thou'lt be an honest boy in time to
come,—here's old Tom, he never forsook a comrade,—
thee shall have sailors luck amongt us, so prithee don't
be making a bother—take some brandy and hush thy womanish
tears, and tell Charles there, about the papers—
Sambo bring us some wine,” said my uncle, striving to
hide the tear, that in spite of his efforts rolled down his
cheek.

Your heart is too tender (thought I) old man, for this
iron world, as I asked Horton to look at Hunter's papers,
and see what he could make of them.

“Let him take a glass of wine, and that will brighten
his ideas.”

After Horton had drank, and wiped his eyes, he lookover
the papers; but it was all Greek to him, he could
make nothing of them.

Some people will perhaps, suspect Horton's sincerity
on this occasion; but I did not. Indeed the astonishment
he evinced upon the discovery of the artifice practiced
upon him by Hunter, was sufficient evidence with
me, that this secret correspondence was the first intimation
he had had of Hunter's real character.—He had always
been led to think that he was the only and sole confident
of Hunter.—No wonder he was astonished at the
consummate duplicity exercised towards him by this
man!

It was evident that he (Horton,) was used as a tool,
and must inevitably have been sacrificed in the end, and
in all probability the time had arrived when he fortunately
made his escape—He had been the bearer of all
these letters written to the pirates, and yet was ignorant
of this secret precaution, with which they were written!

My uncle broke in upon us by telling Horton “that
the upshot of the business was, that they had been two
grand rogues together, only Hunter had most sense; and
tell'e what friend, it's bad on both sides and thee's gained
nothing but a bad name, see, so just quit it and betake
thyself to an honest way o' life, and if Hunter can't
give thee something to begin upon, we'll see to that, so
just go about thy business and come to-morrow.”

Horton burst into tears afresh!

“What ails him? maybe poor d—l has nothing to
buy him a supper, here take this,” said my uncle, (handing
him his purse) “and get thee gone;—'wants to talk
to my nevy.”

“Thank you sir,” said Horton, refusing the purse—
“I have enough for present demands, it's not on account
of my poverty that I am distressed; but I have murdered
my dear wife, I can hear of her nowhere, nor can I
find any one who can tell what has become of her—she
has certainly broke her heart, or perished for want, and
my poor little children—I—had three—and left her
pregnant with another.

“Oh, God—I shall forever be miserable if I cannot
find them—”

He gave way for some time to his feelings without uttering
a word.—At length he resumed—

“Your generosity, noble sir, and that of your generous
nephew, has quite unmanned me; and you are the
only persons to whom I have disclosed this circumstance.”

“Where didst leave her, and how long be it?” said my
uncle.

“Oh, sir, it is six years since I saw or heard from
her. I left her in this city—I was seduced from her
arms by a vile wretch, who haunted me night and day,
and finally eloped from me, after stealing my gold watch
and all my money.

“In short she stripped me of every thing, even to my
clothes.—My wife came to the lodgings I had hired for
this wretch, and implored me with tears not to forsake
her.

“But villain that I was, I heeded not her tears, I was
deaf to the voice of nature—I kicked her out of the house,
and have never seen her since —I left the city the next
day, taking the wretch with me—we sailed to Charleston,
where she left me without a cent.”

“Be composed,” said I: “Horton I will assist you in
searching for your wife and children.”

“Oh, sir, she cannot be alive; she would break her
heart—but if I could know—if I could find my children—”

“Well, man, thee needn't be making such a fuss; thee
is not the only one that's lost a wife and children.”

Horton now took leave, without speaking a word.

“Poor soul!” said my uncle, “he suffers for his bad
doings.”

I was afraid my uncle would relapse into one of his
melancholy fits, and endeavoured to divert him from it by
jocosely telling Jinkins “that I had a sweet-heart for him
in Philadelphia.”

“That is good news,” said he, “we'll have a double
wedding, then, for I know nothing about the forms of
courtship—she will therefore have to take me at a word,
or not at all.”

“That's cleverly said,” replied the old man, “and if
I don't give thee a wedding that'll be talked on for twenty
years to come— I wonder if thee hasn't got one for
thyself?”

“No sir, but I have one for you.”

“Better, still.”

“There is a beautiful widow there, about ten years
younger than you are, that I think it will be difficult to
resist, at least I found it so with myself, although I
spent but one day in her company.”

“Sambo,” said he, (wishing as I thought to avoid
the subject) “pray thee go to that old hulk of a landlord,
and tell him to send us an oyster or two, and a bit
of good old Cheshire cheese, thea suppers o' fresh meats
and stuffs—sets too fresh on my stomach, and the boys
will take a bit too, them cursed broths and things, that
they fed me upon when I was sick, be never going to put
strength in tome, and wish, d'ye hear, Sam tell 'um come
along and give us a song—a's jolly old soul.

“But, as was saying, 'wants to be stout against the
wedding—'me if I don't foot it away with the best of um
—I'll dance the first reel with the widow,” stepping
exultingly through the chamber.

“Oh, yes,” said Jinkins “you'll play the old game,
as you did once before. I suppose you'll be for hoisting
more sail—more sail—all said, quick—and I had like to
have fallen overboard in my haste to execute your orders.”

He burst into laughter at this premonition of Jinkins.

“Ah, thee art a sly dog, nobody minds thee; now if
thee mind him he'll tell thee a thousand fibs—and 'tells
um wi' such a face too, that nation a bit but it seems to
be the truth.

“As to the Algerin', who the d—l do'st think, would
stand to wi' them, when we had neither men nor metal
that would ha' shivered a sail—he'll never be done with
that.”

“Brag's a good dog,” said Jinkins, “I would'nt be
at all surprised to find you shut up in a closet, on the
night of the wedding, instead of dancing the first reel,
with the widow.”

The old gentleman made no reply to this, except by a
loud laugh. Sambo entered, followed by the landlord,
whose physiognomy bespoke just such a companion as
suited my uncle's disposition and temper.

“Well my old comrade just tell thee what it is, (lay
them things on the table Sambo—let the boys take a bit
when 'likes) tell'ee what friend, thee must give us a
song—'told my nevy that thee could sing an excellent
song.”

I was tired enough to go to bed, but found it indispensable
to humour my uncle—and here we have heavo, and
old lang syne again—nor had he forgot that I could
sing John Anderson my joe.

The landlord was very lively and facetious—told us a
number of humourous anecdotes, and Jinkins shone
forth in his real character, displaying a fund of wit and
pleasantry.

I had almost overlooked this talent in him, on our first
acquaintance, being but little in his company, and my
mind far from being at ease, though I saw that my uncle
reposed the utmost confidence in him—but I now discovered
that he was the life and soul of his existence.—
The good old man, all affection as he is, must necessarily
fix on something; Jinkins was therefore well calculated
to arrest it, and thrice worthy of the choice.

We sat up till dawn—taking out my watch, I mildly
observed to my uncle, “that he ought to retire, he would
retard his perfect recovery by keeping late hours.”

The landlord took the hint, and very politely took
leave, saying he had business. After he left us we had
no difficulty in persuading my uncle to retire to rest—I
slept with him, Jinkins and Sambo reposing on pallets,
in the same chamber.