in old times, just after the territory of the new netherlands had been wrested from the hands of their high mightinesses, the lords states general of holland, by charles the second, and while it was as yet in an unquiet state, the province was a favorite resort of adventurers of all kinds, and particularly of buccaneers. these were piratical rovers of the deep, who made sad work in times of peace among the spanish settlements and spanish merchant ships. they took advantage of the easy access to the harbor of the manhattoes, and of the laxity of its scarcely-organized government, to make it a kind of rendezvous, where they might dispose of their ill-gotten spoils, and concert new depredations. crews of these desperadoes, the runagates of every country and clime, might be seen swaggering, in open day, about the streets of the little burgh; elbowing its quiet mynheers; trafficking away their rich outlandish plunder, at half price, to the wary merchant, and then squandering their gains in taverns; drinking, gambling, singing, swearing, shouting, and astounding the neighborhood with sudden brawl and ruffian revelry.
at length the indignation of government was aroused, and it was determined to ferret out this vermin brood from, the colonies. great consternation took place among the pirates on finding justice in pursuit of them, and their old haunts turned to places of peril. they secreted their money and jewels in lonely out-of-the-way places; buried them about the wild shores of the rivers and sea-coast, and dispersed themselves over the face of the country.
among the agents employed to hunt them by sea was the renowned captain kidd. he had long been a hardy adventurer, a kind of equivocal borderer, half trader, half smuggler, with a tolerable dash of the pickaroon. he had traded for some time among the pirates, lurking about the seas in a little rakish, musquito-built vessel, prying into all kinds of odd places, as busy as a mother carey’s chicken in a gale of wind.
this nondescript personage was pitched upon by government as the very man to command a vessel fitted out to cruise against the pirates, since he knew all their haunts and lurking-places: acting upon the shrewd old maxim of “setting a rogue to catch a rogue.” kidd accordingly sailed from new york in the adventure galley, gallantly armed and duly commissioned, and steered his course to the madeiras, to bonavista, to madagascar, and cruised at the entrance of the red sea. instead, however, of making war upon the pirates, he turned pirate himself: captured friend or foe; enriched himself with the spoils of a wealthy indiaman, manned by moors, though commanded by an englishman, and having disposed of his prize, had the hardihood to return to boston, laden with wealth, with a crew of his comrades at his heels.
his fame had preceded him. the alarm was given of the reappearance of this cut-purse of the ocean. measures were taken for his arrest; but he had time, it is said, to bury the greater part of his treasures. he even attempted to draw his sword and defend himself when arrested; but was secured and thrown into prison, with several of his followers. they were carried to england in a frigate, where they were tried, condemned, and hanged at execution dock. kidd died hard, for the rope with which he was first tied up broke with his weight, and he tumbled to the ground; he was tied up a second time, and effectually; from whence arose the story of his having been twice hanged.
such is the main outline of kidd’s history; but it has given birth to an innumerable progeny of traditions. the circumstance of his having buried great treasures of gold and jewels after returning from his cruising set the brains of all the good people along the coast in a ferment. there were rumors on rumors of great sums found here and there; sometimes in one part of the country, sometimes in another; of trees and rocks bearing mysterious marks; doubtless indicating the spots where treasure lay hidden; of coins found with moorish characters, the plunder of kidd’s eastern prize, but which the common people took for diabolical or magic inscriptions.
some reported the spoils to have been buried in solitary unsettled places about plymouth and cape cod; many other parts of the eastern coast, also, and various places in long island sound, have been gilded by these rumors, and have been ransacked by adventurous money-diggers.
in all the stories of these enterprises the devil played a conspicuous part. either he was conciliated by ceremonies and invocations, or some bargain or compact was made with him. still he was sure to play the money-diggers some slippery trick. some had succeeded so far as to touch the iron chest which contained the treasure, when some baffling circumstance was sure to take place. either the earth would fall in and fill up the pit or some direful noise or apparition would throw the party into a panic and frighten them from the place; and sometimes the devil himself would appear and bear off the prize from their very grasp; and if they visited the place on the next day, not a trace would be seen of their labors of the preceding night.
such were the vague rumors which for a long time tantalized without gratifying my curiosity on the interesting subject of these pirate traditions. there is nothing in this world so hard to get at as truth. i sought among my favorite sources of authentic information, the oldest inhabitants, and particularly the old dutch wives of the province; but though i flatter myself i am better versed than most men in the curious history of my native province, yet for a long time my inquiries were unattended with any substantial result.
at length it happened, one calm day in the latter part of summer, that i was relaxing myself from the toils of severe study by a day’s amusement in fishing in those waters which had been the favorite resort of my boyhood. i was in company with several worthy burghers of my native city. our sport was indifferent; the fish did not bite freely; and we had frequently changed our fishing ground without bettering our luck. we at length anchored close under a ledge of rocky coast, on the eastern side of the island of manhata. it was a still, warm day. the stream whirled and dimpled by us without a wave or even a ripple, and every thing was so calm and quiet that it was almost startling when the kingfisher would pitch himself from the branch of some dry tree, and after suspending himself for a moment in the air to take his aim, would souse into the smooth water after his prey. while we were lolling in our boat, half drowsy with the warm stillness of the day and the dullness of our sport, one of our party, a worthy alderman, was overtaken by a slumber, and, as he dozed, suffered the sinker of his drop-line to lie upon the bottom of the river. on waking, he found he had caught something of importance, from the weight; on drawing it to the surface, we were much surprised to find a long pistol of very curious and outlandish fashion, which, from its rusted condition, and its stock being worm-eaten and covered with barnacles, appeared to have been a long time under water. the unexpected appearance of this document of warfare occasioned much speculation among my pacific companions. one supposed it to have fallen there during the revolutionary war. another, from the peculiarity of its fashion, attributed it to the voyagers in the earliest days of the settlement; perchance to the renowned adrian block, who explored the sound and discovered block island, since so noted for its cheese. but a third, after regarding it for some time, pronounced it to be of veritable spanish workmanship.
“i’ll warrant,” said he, “if this pistol could talk it would tell strange stories of hard fights among the spanish dons. i’ve not a doubt but it’s a relique of the buccaneers of old times.”
“like enough,” said another of the party. “there was bradish the pirate, who at the time lord bellamont made such a stir after the buccaneers, buried money and jewels somewhere in these parts or on long-island; and then there was captain kidd—”
“ah, that kidd was a daring dog,” said an iron-faced cape cod whaler. “there’s a fine old song about him, all to the tune of:
‘my name is robert kidd,
as i sailed, as i sailed.’
and it tells how he gained the devil’s good graces by burying the bible:
‘i had the bible in my hand,
as i sailed, as i sailed,
and i buried it in the sand,
as i sailed.’
egad, if this pistol had belonged to him i should set some store by it out of sheer curiosity. ah, well, there’s an odd story i have heard about one tom walker, who, they say, dug up some of kidd’s buried money; and as the fish don’t seem to bite at present, i’ll tell it to you to pass away time.”
