University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

After Paul's first burst of grief had in some
degree subsided, the neighbors held a conference
with him, in regard to the disposal of Fitful's body.
He determined to have it interred beneath the old
apple-tree, and to have a fence built about it for
protection, which was accordingly done; but in
removing the big stone, already mentioned, the
laborers were terrified at the appearance of a
skeleton! The circumstance was made known to
the young man, who, although somewhat astonished
at first, at last concluded that he could solve the
mystery, but without communicating any of his
surmises to those about him, ordered another coffin
to be made for the reception of the disinterred
bones. As he contemplated this circumstance, it
was evident to his mind, that the skeleton had
something to do with the mysteries explained in
the papers that Fitful had given him, and as he
remembered those dreadful disclosures, the injunctions
of his father, in regard to the letter which he
had written at the Half-way House, flashed upon

him. Therefore he immediately sent it off in time
for the mail. This being done, he sat down, and
as calmly as possible perused again more carefully
the papers that Fitful had given him. His late
grief had so overwhelmed him, that a new disclosure
scarcely produced any visible change in his feelings
or countenance. He found that he was heir to a
large estate, which Nathaniel Munson had managed
thus far to keep from him; the Quaker's power to
trample a family down into the very dust, was thus
accounted for. John Redding, otherwise called
Fiery Fitful, and Nathaniel Munson, had married
two sisters, the only children of a rich old farmer,
who had occupied the mansion on the banks of the
Brandywine, a place already described.

Munson, for some reason or other, had incurred
the dislike of his father-in-law, and finding him not
only likely to live to a good old age, if left to die a
natural death, but also likely to cut him off in his
will, therefore he formed a plot, which was matured
and executed in the following manner.
Having bribed the cut-throat fellow, that has already
been presented to the reader in the character of a
sea captain, his next plan was to get his brother-in-law
under the influence of brandy, (a thing in those
anti-temperance days not hard to accomplish,) and
then excite him to rage against the old man, and in
that state couple him with Fin, and send the drunken
man and the villain to accomplish the designs
of a base coward. Thus were his plans matured,

and thus were they accomplished! John Redding
was a murderer, and ever after that, not only was
he borne down by the weight on his conscience,
but was entangled in the web that that wily villain,
the Quaker, had thrown around him. He dared
not dispute whatever claims Munson was inclined
to present; thus all that had ever been his and his
family's, with the exception of the smallest possible
amount to subsist on, went into the coffers of the
miser. Paul read this part of the story calmly;
but with a deep determination that, not only Munson,
but Fin, his accomplice, should be brought to
answer for their share in the crime. Only once
did the mingled feelings of revenge, surprise, and
pleasure, gain any outward manifestations; it was
when he learnt that “poor Mary,” Munson's house-keeper,
was his own mother! and that little Edith
Munson, as he had been used to call her, was his
own sister! O, what a torrent of feelings had
torn his breast in the short space of three days!
In that time he had embarked, as he thought, for
Italy; had been saved, as Fitful said, literally from
the jaws of a shark; had walked many miles beneath
the silent stars; had saved his benefactor,
the landlord, from ruin; had no sooner found a
father than he lost him; had come into a large
fortune; and, what was best of all, had found a
mother and sister to enjoy it with him! As soon
as he saw his father interred with the proper ceremonies,
he hastened to the city to embrace those
nearest and dearest to him, and to carry out his
plans in regard to Munson and Fin. But when he
arrived in town, he found to his no little surprise,
that the Quaker, and the sea captain with his crew,
had already been seized, through the instrumentality
of the letter which his father had written. With
what feelings of grief and pleasure did he fly to the
arms of his mother and sister! Edith wept for
sorrow at the news of the death of her father, and
wept for joy, as she clasped the neck of her only
brother, and for the first time embraced “poor
Mary,” as her real mother! By degrees, and
under the kind attentions of Edith and Paul, Mary
recovered so far as to be a comfort to those about
her, and enjoy the caresses of her two children,
who were ever anxious to administer to her wants
and enjoyments.

But let us look back a little; let us see how the
fiend and originator of the sorrow which we have
had occasion to witness, tottered to his fall. Munson
no sooner learned that the authorities had seized
Fin and his crew, than he suddenly disappeared
from the eyes of all. No one guessed of his whereabouts.
But we will penetrate his retreat. High up
in that dark, little room, where, but a few nights
since, we saw him closeted with his accomplice,
Fin, had he slunk unseen away, like the hunted
fox. Crouched up on the old iron-bound chest, he
sat with his feet under him, his elbows on his knees,
and his face resting in his skinny hands. Now

swaying back and forth, as if to lull his growing
fears to rest; now starting convulsively, and glaring
wildly at the door, whenever a sound met his ear;
and again uttering the most fearful curses, he
would clutch his fingers madly together, until the
long sharp nails penetrated his own shrivelled
cheeks. Thus with his brain burning, his eyes dry
and hot, his mouth parched, did he sit crouched upon
that old chest from morning until night. But, O,
the night! The black night, that brought with it
all the terrors of imagination, together with the
fears of dreadful realities! O night! what a
scourge hast thou for the evil conscience! Daylight,
with her living, searching, acting officers of
justice, hath not the thousandth part of the horrors
of thy dark silence! Munson dared not crawl
forth from his retreat; he saw in imagination myrmidons
of the iron-handed law, waiting at every
turn and corner. The darkness came, and the
Quaker dared not look into it, he shut his eyes and
covered them with his hands. But closed eyelids
and hands were not enough; his fears saw through
all these; and he beheld the white ghost of his
father-in-law peering into his face. Again he saw
a figure swinging from a gallows, whirling and
swaying listlessly in the winds; cold lips whispered
in his ear, “Behold thyself!” And the Quaker,
bursting with terror, sprung forward, with his face
downwards, on to the floor. The night passed
away; and the morning found the officers searching
the dwelling of Nathaniel Munson. Passing from
room to room as they ascended the stairs, they
were at last brought to the place of the Quaker's
concealment. Once, twice, and thrice did they
knock, but no answer came, and they burst the
door. The old man, trembling, pale and haggard,
sat in the middle of the floor, and gazed wildly at
the men as they entered. They approached him;
he gasped and gasped, as if for breath to scream,
but could not; then, being too exhausted to rise,
with his hands and feet, he crawled backwards into
the farthest and darkest corner of the room, his
whole frame shivering as with the ague, his fallen
underjaw quivering, his thin hair strewed wildly
about his face, and his red eyes starting from their
sockets! Such was the wreck of humanity which
on that day was incarcerated within cold stone
walls and iron gratings. Such was Nathaniel
Munson, the Quaker!

Fin and his crew had been seized as pirates, and
Munson as one who was concerned in getting the
spoils of the traffic without dipping his own hands
in blood; but believing that he was to be tried both
for the murder of his father-in-law, and as a speculator
in piracies, and hearing that his own son had
turned state's evidence, he resolved to anticipate
the law, and was found, one morning, suspended to
the grating of his cell by his neck handkerchief; he
was dead. Fin was executed on Bush hill, and the
most of his crew were sent to the State prison,

many of them for life; where, in the course of time,
Captain Cutlass, the warlike gentleman, also was
lodged for safe keeping, notwithstanding he protested
that his preference was in favor of the king's
service. Mr. Ichabod Inkleton, in the course of a
few years, died with a severe fit of the “delirium
tremens,” which served as a timely warning to his
friend, Mr. Christopher Scrapp, who, we believe, is
to this day engaged in the innocent amusement of
drawing what he fondly considers very severe
satires on the “opposite party.” The Hon. Timothy
Littleworth, a very pussy old man, still persists
in the belief that he resembles Napoleon, and
when he has been engaged in a warfare with his
bigger half, and gets the worst of the bargain, and
is banished from the house, as is always sure to be
the case, he finds a sufficient revenge in calling his
wife “the Duke of Wellington,” and himself
Bonaparte, the great, but unfortunate emperor.

And now that we have gathered together the
loose threads of our story, in the poetic language
of Sands, we exclaim,