 | CHAPTER I.
THE OLD DUTCH TAVERN. Haunted hearts |  |
1. CHAPTER I.
THE OLD DUTCH TAVERN.
Every circle has its centre. To describe a circle, one
must choose a given point, and radiate thence at equal
distances. The north-eastern corner of New Jersey is
that part of the earth's surface on which I propose to
describe a circle, and the centre of that circle is Stein's
Tavern.
Stein's Tavern, then, is my starting-point. But why be
in haste? The weather is cold, for it is winter; it is
nearly dark, for the days are at the shortest; to strike
out into the country, is to expose one's self to solitude
and poor cheer, for the neighborhood is thinly populated,
and not much given to hospitality.
The reverse of all this is the case at Stein's. It is
warm there, for great wood fires are blazing in all the
chimneys; it is light in spite of the gathering darkness
without, for the windows glow with the flame of an unusual
number of lamps and candles; there is a prospect
of good company, too, if one may judge from the echo
of voices in and about the house, the number of vehicles
country people, on foot, on horseback, or in carriages,
who are converging towards this convivial centre.
It is evidently no time to turn one's back on Stein's
Tavern. So we will linger a while at this place of entertainment,
at least until the party breaks up and the other
guests take leave.
Stein's Tavern is a heavy-browed Dutch building, standing
close upon the main road, which it fronts, and only
separated from another highway which cuts the former at
right angles by the tavern yard. The question might
here arise whether any thing can be termed a yard
which is merely a vast space, for the most part unsodded,
dusty, littered with chips, ox-yokes, cart-wheels,
every thing indeed which is useless and unsightly, and in
no way limited or enclosed, otherwise than by the roads
which constitute two of its boundaries, the long stretch
of building which flanks it on the inner side, and the
barns and other outbuildings which are huddled together
in its rear. But who has not seen just such yards?
The building itself is liberal in its dimensions, presenting
a vast deal of surface in proportion to the actual
accommodations it furnishes, is painted white in front
and red every where else, and boasts, like most New
Jersey houses, a very unnecessary number of doors and
windows. As there is an entrance at the side of the
house, opening upon the yard, and two of equal pretensions
facing the road, it would be difficult to decide
which constituted the main approach, or honorary
inscription over one of the front doorways, announcing
food and drink for man and beast. To this advertisement
of the character and purpose of the building is
subjoined the date, — A. D. 1710. As it is on the
evening of December twenty-third, 1812, that we have
alighted at this doorway, the two dates, taken in connection,
betray the building to be now more than a
hundred years old.
This old tavern has a history, and if memorable events
had left their mark on wood and plaster, its walls would
be written all over with meaning inscriptions. Its
oaken frame, hewn on the other side of the Atlantic, and
planted in its present position in early colonial days, has
outstood several generations, survived successive wars,
and, in some degree, shared the fortunes of the new republic.
New Jersey, protected by its remoteness from
the frontiers, had been spared the disasters and cruelties
that attended the French and Indian warfare, but her
soil had in later years been overrun by British and
Hessian soldiers, and the two consecutive campaigns,
which resulted so successfully for American arms, and
made this little State classic ground, had seen her settlers
pillaged, impoverished, and cruelly insulted by a lawless
soldiery. The principal public house of the district,
standing unprotected at the junction of two highways,
was at once a temptation and a mark. To-day, privileged
to furnish shelter and afford refreshment to the
untiring patriot, who, during a winter of hardship and
of a handful of sick and destitute men, the cross-road
inn found itself on the morrow exposed to the ravages
of foreign ruffians, who, successful in some neighboring
skirmish, or retreating after some disastrous engagement,
made the tavern the scene of their triumphant revels,
or barricaded it for their temporary defence — in either
case robbing its larder, destroying its furniture, browbeating
the landlord, driving away his cattle, and dispersing
his household.
Poor Hans Stein (for it was Stein's Tavern then)
would creep back after each such instance of robbery
and wrong, and finding the late danger past, collect his
fugitive family together, and endeavor to repair his
losses, stem the tide of poverty, and hope for better
days. Better days came at last — days of peace, law, and
prosperity; right triumphed over might, and the land
was free.
But repeated misfortunes had left Hans Stein old and
poor. True, the tavern still stood upright in its strength,
and the adjacent land, for a circuit of some acres, was
the property of Stein. But the house had been despoiled
of the few comforts and valuables which years of industry
had enabled Hans to accumulate, the crops had been
swept from his land, his barns and outbuildings had been
burned. During the severe winter of 1776-7, which he
and his family had passed in exile and wandering, his
thrifty dame had died of an illness induced by exposure
and aggravated by homesickness. When, in the chill
had been driven from the neighborhood, Stein ventured
back to his deserted premises, discouragement met him
at the very threshold. His doors were broken from
their hinges, his windows shattered, snow had swept
through the passages and accumulated in drifts in the
corners, and the wind, rushing down the wide chimney,
had brought with it a shower of soot, and darkened the
once clean and sanded kitchen floor. Even the old housedog,
who, true to his trust, had never deserted the homestead
on occasions of alarm, and who, after earlier and
briefer absences on the part of his master, had always
met him on his return with a proud look and a wag of
the tail, which seemed to indicate the valorous part he
had played in the preservation of the property, even poor
Donner had fallen a victim to his fidelity, and the body
of the loyal beast, ignominiously slain, and hanging stiff
and stark in the doorway, was the ghost of the past and
the omen of the future, which constituted Stein's welcome
home.
The old Dutchman was no longer capable of resisting
memory or defying fate. He slunk down at his cheerless
hearthstone, closed his lips upon a smouldering pipe,
uttered no complaints, but became thenceforward a prey
to infirmity and helplessness.
That which was despair to Hans, however, was opportunity
to his son Diedrich. Hans had a generous soul,
and prosperity was its element; Diedrich's was a narrow
nature, that could endure straits. Hans was jovial, and
fogs suited his humor. Hans was soft-hearted, and so
had been crushed by misfortune; Diedrich was hard, and
difficulties sharpened him.
Father and son had never coöperated either as farmers
or publicans. So the latter had looked on sullenly,
biding his time, — and his time had come. The
old man sat now in the chimney corner; there was no
other son to rival Diedrich; Margaret, the faithful
daughter and the useful drudge, was indispensable in
the household, but Diedrich was farmer, landlord, master.
He throve. A few weeks saw the house in tolerable
repair. In as many months a temporary barn had
been built, preparations for tilling the land had commenced
on a small scale, and the bar-room was opened
to customers. In process of time, outbuildings reared
themselves of more pretension than Hans had ever
dreamed of in his best days, a new wing was added to
the house, and Stein's Tavern became a place of reputation
and resort, well-known for a distance of thirty miles
around, and familiarly spoken of in the city of New
York itself.
The notoriety of this country inn was due to two
causes. First, to the natural advantages of its locality.
Secondly, to the sagacious and time-serving landlord,
who knew how to make the most of them. Neither of
these elements of success was obvious to the superficial
observer. The tavern, it is true, had been judiciously
placed at the junction of two roads, each connecting
neighboring farmers. It thus served as a half-way house,
a stopping-place, and a rendezvous for the people of the
district. But this, after all, was a small source of profit,
and except the occasional custom thus afforded, the house
seemed remote from all chance of public favor and
patronage.
The nearest village was four miles distant, and was
approached by the cross-road, which, in this direction,
was a well-graded highway, and easy of travel, but
which, as it stretched back into the country, presented a
continuous ascent, and led finally across a wild and lonely
elevation, known as the Mountain, being the only high
and mountainous land in the vicinity; a stray bit of some
Alleghany ridge, already memorable as having often
furnished a natural observatory to General Washington
during his winter campaign in New Jersey, notorious in
later years as the scene of an event which I am about to
relate in these pages.
Though this cross-road was a thoroughfare much frequented
by farmers from the interior of the district, the
fact that it did not furnish a connecting link with the
city of New York, rendered it of second-rate importance
compared with the main-road, which communicated directly
with the great metropolis. This main-road may
be described in one word — such was its monotony.
For two miles, in the direction leading to the city, it
stretched away at a dead level, unvaried by a single
hillock, and with only here and there a farm-house or
opposite direction, the road was a counterpart to this —
broad, straight, and so evenly graded that a foot passenger,
at its further extremity, was on a direct line of
vision with the idler who watched his approach from the
tavern door.
Small prospect of diversion this place afforded to the
tavern idler, one would think, and seldom would his
watch be rewarded by any variation in the dull uniformity
of the landscape! Not so. And why? Because
Stein's Tavern, lonely, bleak, and bare, was the
centre of the finest race-course in the whole country
round.
Fame has its beginnings, and Stein's Plains had once
boasted only a local reputation. Jolly old Hans would
laugh until his sides shook to see Jock the pedler and
Schell the market gardener invariably whip up as they
left his door, and emulously make for the city at a
plunging canter, this being the only pace, out of a walk,
of which either of their poor beasts was capable.
The genial-tempered landlord would encourage the
farmers' sons to test the mettle of their half-broken colts
on his racing-ground; with his head cocked on one side
and an occasional whiff at his pipe, he would measure the
speed of the animals, pronounce upon their points, clap the
owner of the best horse on the shoulder, and invite all the
young men to take a drink. Thriftless Hans little anticipated
a time when the lines would be marked out and
the race-course measured; when the city gentry would
would be filled by a score of more accomplished judges;
when high-bred horses would await the signal, and his
son Diedrich hold the stakes. Simple Hans might even
have doubted whether all this would benefit society, or
help to build up his own fortunes; but far-seeing Diedrich
had no such scruples. He knew, and acted on
the knowledge, how to make other men's pleasures,
follies, and sins all tend to the lining of his own pocket.
Sly himself, he contrived to win confidence. Selfish, he
nevertheless achieved a sort of popularity; suspected by
individuals, his character stood well with the public.
How he contrived to cater to all men's tastes, and
receive their patronage in return, and what had proved
the result of a proprietorship, now of some thirty years
standing, we shall best learn by mingling freely with the
crowd assembled in and around the cross-road inn on the
evening of the above-mentioned December twenty-third.
| CHAPTER I.
THE OLD DUTCH TAVERN. Haunted hearts | |