 | Sam Lawson's Oldtown fireside stories |  |
THE GHOST IN THE CAP'N BROWN
HOUSE.
HOW, Sam, tell us certain true, is there
any such things as ghosts?”
“Be there ghosts?” said Sam, immediately
translating into his vernacular
grammar: “wal, now, that are's jest
the question, ye see.”
“Well, grandma thinks there are, and
Aunt Lois thinks it's all nonsense. Why, Aunt Lois
don't even believe the stories in Cotton Mather's
`Magnalia.'”
“Wanter know?” said Sam, with a tone of slow,
languid meditation.
We were sitting on a bank of the Charles River,
fishing. The soft melancholy red of evening was
houses of Oldtown were beginning to loom through
the gloom, solemn and ghostly. There are times
and tones and moods of nature that make all the
vulgar, daily real seem shadowy, vague, and supernatural,
as if the outlines of this hard material present
were fading into the invisible and unknown. So
Oldtown, with its elm-trees, its great square white
houses, its meeting-house and tavern and blacksmith's
shop and mill, which at high noon seem as
real and as commonplace as possible, at this hour of
the evening were dreamy and solemn. They rose up
blurred, indistinct, dark; here and there winking
candles sent long lines of light through the shadows,
and little drops of unforeseen rain rippled the sheeny
darkness of the water.
“Wal, you see, boys, in them things it's jest as
well to mind your granny. There's a consid'able
sight o' gumption in grandmas. You look at the
folks that's allus tellin' you what they don't believe,
— they don't believe this, and they don't believe
that, — and what sort o' folks is they? Why, like
yer Aunt Lois, sort o' stringy and dry. There ain't
no 'sorption got out o' not believin' nothin'.
“Lord a massy! we don't know nothin' 'bout them
things. We hain't ben there, and can't say that
there ain't no ghosts and sich; can we, now?”
We agreed to that fact, and sat a little closer to
Sam in the gathering gloom.
“Tell us about the Cap'n Brown house, Sam.”
“Ye didn't never go over the Cap'n Brown
house?”
No, we had not that advantage.
“Wal, yer see, Cap'n Brown he made all his
money to sea, in furrin parts, and then come here to
Oldtown to settle down.
“Now, there ain't no knowin' 'bout these 'ere old
ship-masters, where they's ben, or what they's ben a
doin', or how they got their money. Ask me no
questions, and I'll tell ye no lies, is 'bout the best
philosophy for them. Wal, it didn't do no good to
ask Cap'n Brown questions too close, 'cause you
didn't git no satisfaction. Nobody rightly knew
'bout who his folks was, or where they come from;
and, ef a body asked him, he used to say that the
very fust he know'd 'bout himself he was a young
man walkin' the streets in London.
“But, yer see, boys, he hed money, and that is
about all folks wanter know when a man comes to
settle down. And he bought that 'are place, and
built that 'are house. He built it all sea-cap'n
fashion, so's to feel as much at home as he could.
The parlor was like a ship's cabin. The table and
chairs was fastened down to the floor, and the closets
was made with holes to set the casters and the
decanters and bottles in, jest's they be at sea;
and there was stanchions to hold on by; and they
say that blowy nights the cap'n used to fire up
pretty well with his grog, till he hed about all he
could carry, and then he'd set and hold on, and hear
the wind blow, and kind o' feel out to sea right
there to hum. There wasn't no Mis' Cap'n Brown,
and there didn't seem likely to be none. And
whether there ever hed been one, nobody know'd.
He hed an old black Guinea nigger-woman, named
Quassia, that did his work. She was shaped pretty
much like one o' these 'ere great crookneck-squashes.
She wa'n't no gret beauty, I can tell you; and she
used to wear a gret red turban and a yaller short
gown and red petticoat, and a gret string o' gold
her ears, made right in the middle o' Africa among
the heathen there. For all she was black, she
thought a heap o' herself, and was consid'able sort
o' predominative over the cap'n. Lordy massy!
boys, it's allus so. Get a man and a woman together,
— any sort o' woman you're a mind to, don't care
who 'tis, — and one way or another she gets the rule
over him, and he jest has to train to her fife. Some
does it one way, and some does it another; some does
it by jawin', and some does it by kissin', and some
does it by faculty and contrivance; but one way or
another they allers does it. Old Cap'n Brown was a
good stout, stocky kind o' John Bull sort o' fellow,
and a good judge o' sperits, and allers kep' the best
in them are cupboards o' his'n; but, fust and last,
things in his house went pretty much as old Quassia
said.
“Folks got to kind o' respectin' Quassia. She
come to meetin' Sunday regular, and sot all fixed up
in red and yaller and green, with glass beads and
what not, lookin' for all the world like one o' them
ugly Indian idols; but she was well-behaved as any
bread and biscuits couldn't be beat, and no couldn't
her pies, and there wa'n't no such pound-cake as she
made nowhere. Wal, this 'ere story I'm a goin' to
tell you was told me by Cinthy Pendleton. There
ain't a more respectable gal, old or young, than
Cinthy nowheres. She lives over to Sherburne now,
and I hear tell she's sot up a manty-makin' business;
but then she used to do tailorin' in Oldtown. She
was a member o' the church, and a good Christian as
ever was. Wal, ye see, Quassia she got Cinthy to
come up and spend a week to the Cap'n Brown
house, a doin' tailorin' and a fixin' over his close:
'twas along toward the fust o' March. Cinthy she
sot by the fire in the front parlor with her goose and
her press-board and her work: for there wa'n't no
company callin', and the snow was drifted four feet
deep right across the front door; so there wa'n't
much danger o' any body comin' in. And the cap'n
he was a perlite man to wimmen; and Cinthy she
liked it jest as well not to have company, 'cause the
cap'n he'd make himself entertainin' tellin' on her
sea-stories, and all about his adventures among the
sorts o' heathen people he'd been among.
“Wal, that 'are week there come on the master
snow-storm. Of all the snow-storms that hed ben,
that 'are was the beater; and I tell you the wind blew
as if 'twas the last chance it was ever goin' to hev.
Wal, it's kind o' scary like to be shet up in a lone
house with all natur' a kind o' breakin' out, and goin'
on so, and the snow a comin' down so thick ye can't
see 'cross the street, and the wind a pipin' and a
squeelin' and a rumblin' and a tumblin' fust down this
chimney and then down that. I tell you, it sort o'
sets a feller thinkin' o' the three great things, —
death, judgment, and etarnaty; and I don't care who
the folks is, now how good they be, there's times
when they must be feelin' putty consid'able solemn.
“Wal, Cinthy she said she kind o' felt so along,
and she hed a sort o' queer feelin' come over her as
if there was somebody or somethin' round the house
more'n appeared. She said she sort o' felt it in the
air; but it seemed to her silly, and she tried to get
over it. But two or three times, she said, when it
got to be dusk, she felt somebody go by her up the
and in the storm, come five o'clock, it was so
dark that all you could see was jest a gleam o' somethin',
and two or three times when she started to go
up stairs she see a soft white suthin' that seemed
goin' up before her, and she stopped with her heart a
beatin' like a trip-hammer, and she sort o' saw it go
up and along the entry to the cap'n's door, and then
it seemed to go right through, 'cause the door didn't
open.
“Wal, Cinthy says she to old Quassia, says she,
`Is there anybody lives in this house but us?'
“`Anybody lives here?' says Quassia: `what you
mean?' says she.
“Says Cinthy, `I thought somebody went past me
on the stairs last night and to-night.'
“Lordy massy! how old Quassia did screech and
laugh. `Good Lord!' says she, `how foolish white
folks is! Somebody went past you? Was't the
capt'in?'
“`No, it wa'n't the cap'n,' says she: `it was
somethin' soft and white, and moved very still; it
was like somethin' in the air,' says she.
Then Quassia she haw-hawed louder. Says she,
`It's hy-sterikes, Miss Cinthy; that's all it is.'
“Wal, Cinthy she was kind o' 'shamed, but for all
that she couldn't help herself. Sometimes evenin's
she'd be a settin' with the cap'n, and she'd think she'd
hear somebody a movin' in his room overhead; and
she knowed it wa'n't Quassia, 'cause Quassia was
ironin' in the kitchen. She took pains once or twice
to find out that 'are.
“Wal, ye see, the cap'n's room was the gret front
upper chamber over the parlor, and then right oppisite
to it was the gret spare chamber where Cinthy
slept. It was jest as grand as could be, with a gret
four-post mahogany bedstead and damask curtains
brought over from England; but it was cold enough
to freeze a white bear solid, — the way spare chambers
allers is. Then there was the entry between,
run straight through the house: one side was old
Quassia's room, and the other was a sort o' store-room,
where the old cap'n kep' all sorts o' traps.
“Wal, Cinthy she kep' a hevin' things happen and
a seein' things, till she didn't railly know what was
in it. Once when she come into the parlor jest at
out o' the door that went towards the side
entry. She said it was so dusk, that all she could see
was jest this white figure, and it jest went out still as
a cat as she come in.
“Wal, Cinthy didn't like to speak to the cap'n
about it. She was a close woman, putty prudent,
Cinthy was.
“But one night, 'bout the middle o' the week, this
'ere thing kind o' come to a crisis.
“Cinthy said she'd ben up putty late a sewin' and
a finishin' off down in the parlor; and the cap'n he
sot up with her, and was consid'able cheerful and
entertainin', tellin' her all about things over in the
Bermudys, and off to Chiny and Japan, and round
the world ginerally. The storm that hed been a
blowin' all the week was about as furious as ever;
and the cap'n he stirred up a mess o' flip, and hed it
for her hot to go to bed on. He was a good-natured
critter, and allers had feelin's for lone women; and I
s'pose he knew 'twas sort o' desolate for Cinthy.
“Wal, takin' the flip so right the last thing afore
goin' to bed, she went right off to sleep as sound as
“She stood there, lookin' right at Cinthy.”—Page 149.
[Description: 703EAF. Illustration page. Image of a woman sitting up in bed. Another woman stands at the foot of the bed. The bed is surrounded by smoke, which is higher near the standing woman so that she appears to be rising out of it.]
when she said somethin' waked her broad awake in a
minute. Her eyes flew wide open like a spring, and
the storm hed gone down and the moon come out;
and there, standin' right in the moonlight by her bed,
was a woman jest as white as a sheet, with black hair
hangin' down to her waist, and the brightest, mourn
fullest black eyes you ever see. She stood there
lookin' right at Cinthy; and Cinthy thinks that was
what waked her up; 'cause, you know, ef anybody
stands and looks steady at folks asleep it's apt to
wake 'em.
“Any way, Cinthy said she felt jest as ef she was
turnin' to stone. She couldn't move nor speak.
She lay a minute, and then she shut her eyes, and
begun to say her prayers; and a minute after she
opened 'em, and it was gone.
“Cinthy was a sensible gal, and one that allers
hed her thoughts about her; and she jest got up and
put a shawl round her shoulders, and went first and
looked at the doors, and they was both on 'em locked
jest as she left 'em when she went to bed. Then
she looked under the bed and in the closet, and
felt her way, and there wa'n't nothin' there.
“Wal, next mornin' Cinthy got up and went
home, and she kep' it to herself a good while.
Finally, one day when she was workin' to our house
she told Hepsy about it, and Hepsy she told me.”
“Well, Sam,” we said, after a pause, in which we
heard only the rustle of leaves and the ticking of
branches against each other, “what do you suppose
it was?”
“Wal, there 'tis: you know jest as much about
it as I do. Hepsy told Cinthy it might 'a' ben a
dream; so it might, but Cinthy she was sure it
wa'n't a dream, 'cause she remembers plain hearin'
the old clock on the stairs strike four while she had
her eyes open lookin' at the woman; and then she
only shet 'em a minute, jest to say `Now I lay me,'
and opened 'em and she was gone.
“Wal, Cinthy told Hepsy, and Hepsy she kep' it
putty close. She didn't tell it to nobody except
Aunt Sally Dickerson and the Widder Bije Smith
and your Grandma Badger and the minister's wife;
and they every one o' 'em 'greed it ought to be kep'
somehow or other it seemed to 'a' got all over Oldtown.
I heard on 't to the store and up to the tavern;
and Jake Marshall he says to me one day,
`What's this 'ere about the cap'n's house?' And
the Widder Loker she says to me, `There's ben a
ghost seen in the cap'n's house;' and I heard on 't
clear over to Needham and Sherburne.
“Some o' the women they drew themselves up
putty stiff and proper. Your Aunt Lois was one on
'em.
“`Ghost,' says she; `don't tell me! Perhaps it
would be best ef 'twas a ghost,' says she. She
didn't think there ought to be no sich doin's in nobody's
house; and your grandma she shet her up,
and told her she didn't oughter talk so.”
“Talk how?” said I, interrupting Sam with wonder.
“What did Aunt Lois mean?”
“Why, you see,” said Sam mysteriously, “there
allers is folks in every town that's jest like the
Sadducees in old times: they won't believe in angel
nor sperit, no way you can fix it; and ef things is
seen and done in a house, why, they say, it's 'cause
or trick about it.
“So the story got round that there was a woman
kep' private in Cap'n Brown's house, and that he
brought her from furrin parts; and it growed and
growed, till there was all sorts o' ways o' tellin on 't.
“Some said they'd seen her a settin' at an open
winder. Some said that moonlight nights they'd
seen her a walkin' out in the back garden kind o' in
and out 'mong the bean-poles and squash-vines.
“You see, it come on spring and summer; and the
winders o' the Cap'n Brown house stood open, and
folks was all a watchin' on 'em day and night. Aunt
Sally Dickerson told the minister's wife that she'd
seen in plain daylight a woman a settin' at the
chamber winder atween four and five o'clock in the
mornin', — jist a settin' a lookin' out and a doin'
nothin', like anybody else. She was very white and
pale, and had black eyes.
“Some said that it was a nun the cap'n had
brought away from a Roman Catholic convent in
Spain, and some said he'd got her out o' the Inquisition.
“Aunt Sally said she thought the minister ought
to call and inquire why she didn't come to meetin',
and who she was, and all about her: 'cause, you see,
she said it might be all right enough ef folks only
know'd jest how things was; but ef they didn't,
why, folks will talk.”
“Well, did the minister do it?”
“What, Parson Lothrop? Wal, no, he didn't.
He made a call on the cap'n in a regular way, and
asked arter his health and all his family. But the
cap'n he seemed jest as jolly and chipper as a spring
robin, and he gin the minister some o' his old
Jamaiky; and the minister he come away and said
he didn't see nothin'; and no he didn't. Folks
never does see nothin' when they aint' lookin' where
'tis. Fact is, Parson Lothrop wa'n't fond o' interferin';
he was a master hand to slick things over.
Your grandma she used to mourn about it, 'cause
she said he never gin no p'int to the doctrines; but
'twas all of a piece, he kind o' took every thing the
smooth way.
“But your grandma she believed in the ghost,
and so did Lady Lothrop. I was up to her house
your wife told me a strange story about the Cap'n
Brown house.'
“`Yes, ma'am, she did,' says I.
“`Well, what do you think of it?' says she.
“`Wal, sometimes I think, and then agin I don't
know,' says I. `There's Cinthy she's a member o'
the church and a good pious gal,' says I.
“`Yes, Sam,' says Lady Lothrop, says she; `and
Sam,' says she, `it is jest like something that happened
once to my grandmother when she was livin'
in the old Province House in Bostin.' Says she,
`These 'ere things is the mysteries of Providence,
and it's jest as well not to have 'em too much talked
about.'
“`Jest so,' says I, — `jest so. That 'are's what
every woman I've talked with says; and I guess, fust
and last, I've talked with twenty, — good, safe
church-members, — and they's every one o' opinion
that this 'ere oughtn't to be talked about. Why,
over to the deakin's t'other night we went it all
over as much as two or three hours, and we concluded
that the best way was to keep quite still
and Sherburne. I've been all round a hushin'
this 'ere up, and I hain't found but a few people that
hedn't the particulars one way or another.' This 'ere
was what I says to Lady Lothrop. The fact was, I
never did see no report spread so, nor make sich sort
o' sarchin's o' heart, as this 'ere. It railly did beat
all; 'cause, ef 'twas a ghost, why there was the p'int
proved, ye see. Cinthy's a church-member, and she
see it, and got right up and sarched the room: but
then agin, ef 'twas a woman, why that 'are was kind
o' awful; it give cause, ye see, for thinkin' all sorts
o' things. There was Cap'n Brown, to be sure, he
wa'n't a church-member; but yet he was as honest
and regular a man as any goin', as fur as any on us
could see. To be sure, nobody know'd where he
come from, but that wa'n't no reason agin' him: this
'ere might a ben a crazy sister, or some poor critter
that he took out o' the best o' motives; and the
Scriptur' says, `Charity hopeth all things.' But
then, ye see, folks will talk, — that 'are's the pester
o' all these things, — and they did some on 'em
talk consid'able strong about the cap'n; but somehow
o' facin' on him down, and sayin' square out, `Cap'n
Brown, have you got a woman in your house, or
hain't you? or is it a ghost, or what is it?' Folks
somehow neverdoes come to that. Ye see, there was
the cap'n so respectable, a settin' up every Sunday
there in his pew, with his ruffles round his hands and
his red broadcloth cloak and his cocked hat. Why,
folks' hearts sort o' failed 'em when it come to sayin'
any thing right to him. They thought and kind o'
whispered round that the minister or the deakins
oughter do it: but Lordy massy! ministers, I s'pose,
has feelin's like the rest on us; they don't want to
eat all the hard cheeses that nobody else won't eat.
Anyhow, there wasn't nothin' said direct to the
cap'n; and jest for want o' that all the folks in Oldtown
kep' a bilin' and a bilin' like a kettle o' soap,
till it seemed all the time as if they'd bile over.
“Some o' the wimmen tried to get somethin' out
o' Quassy. Lordy massy! you might as well 'a' tried
to get it out an old tom-turkey, that'll strut and
gobble and quitter, and drag his wings on the ground,
and fly at you, but won't say nothin'. Quassy she
that they was a makin' fools o' themselves, and that
the cap'n's matters wa'n't none o' their bisness;
and that was true enough. As to goin' into Quassia's
room, or into any o' the store-rooms or closets
she kep' the keys of, you might as well hev gone
into a lion's den. She kep' all her places locked up
tight; and there was no gettin' at nothin' in the
Cap'n Brown house, else I believe some o' the wimmen
would 'a' sent a sarch-warrant.”
“Well,” said I, “what came of it? Didn't anybody
ever find out?”
“Wal,” said Sam, “it come to an end sort o', and
didn't come to an end. It was jest this 'ere way.
You see, along in October, jest in the cider-makin'
time, Abel Flint he was took down with dysentery
and died. You 'member the Flint house: it stood
on a little rise o' ground jest lookin' over towards
the Brown house. Wal, there was Aunt Sally
Dickerson and the Widder Bije Smith, they set up
with the corpse. He was laid out in the back chamber,
you see, over the milk-room and kitchen; but
there was cold victuals and sich in the front chamber,
told me that between three and four o'clock she
heard wheels a rumblin', and she went to the winder,
and it was clear starlight; and she see a coach come
up to the Cap'n Brown house; and she see the cap'n
come out bringin' a woman all wrapped in a cloak,
and old Quassy came arter with her arms full o' bundles;
and he put her into the kerridge, and shet her in,
and it driv off; and she see old Quassy stand lookin'
over the fence arter it. She tried to wake up the
widder, but 'twas towards mornin', and the widder
allers was a hard sleeper; so there wa'n't no witness
but her.”
“Well, then, it wasn't a ghost,” said I, “after all,
and it was a woman.”
“Wal, there 'tis, you see. Folks don't know that
'are yit, 'cause there it's jest as broad as 'tis long.
Now, look at it. There's Cinthy, she's a good, pious
gal: she locks her chamber-doors, both on 'em, and
goes to bed, and wakes up in the night, and there's a
woman there. She jest shets her eyes, and the woman's
gone. She gits up and looks, and both doors is
locked jest as she left 'em. That 'ere woman wa'n't
blood as we knows on; but then they say Cinthy
might hev dreamed it!
“Wal, now, look at it t'other way. There's Aunt
Sally Dickerson; she's a good woman and a church-member:
wal, she sees a woman in a cloak with all
her bundles brought out o' Cap'n Brown's house, and
put into a kerridge, and driv off, atween three and
four o'clock in the mornin'. Wal, that 'ere shows
there must 'a' ben a real live woman kep' there privately,
and so what Cinthy saw wasn't a ghost.
“Wal, now, Cinthy says Aunt Sally might 'a'
dreamed it, — that she got her head so full o' stories
about the Cap'n Brown house, and watched it till she
got asleep, and hed this 'ere dream; and, as there
didn't nobody else see it, it might 'a' ben, you know.
Aunt Sally's clear she didn't dream, and then agin
Cinthy's clear she didn't dream; but which on 'em
was awake, or which on 'em was asleep, is what ain't
settled in Oldtown yet.”
| Sam Lawson's Oldtown fireside stories | |