Dungeon Rock; or, the pirate's cave, at Lynn

AT LYNN.

BOSTON: C. M. A. TWITCHELL, Printer, 50 Bromfield St., Boston. 1885.

Copyright by MRS. S. P. AMES. 1885.

To Mrs. Hannah Lucinda Marble, widow of the late Excavator, and at the present time the person most interested in this romantic spot, I dedicate this book.

S. P. A.

HISTORY OF DUNGEON ROCK.

Dungeon Rock is as yet only half known. More than “two hundred years ago,” when first the foot of civilization pressed the unturned sod of New England’s rock-bound soil, a man, past the prime of life, having lost his place in England, determined on seeking a new name in a new country. Accordingly, he embarked with his only earthly treasures, his wife and the family coat of arms, and, after a dangerous voyage, reached Plymouth Rock, only to encounter more dangers. And there, in that lonely home, away from all that makes life desirable to childhood, did the little William first see the light of day, and began the battle of living without love. None but those who have experienced it can tell how deep and terrible is the sternness of a disappointed man.

Ben Wallace--for this was the adventurer’s name--had acquired a morbid hate for everything bright and beautiful, and lived, like most of New England’s early settlers, for the stern realities of life, expecting nothing but hardships, and therefore seeking nothing. No wonder, then, that the aristocratic blood of English ancestry, coursing through the child’s veins, rose against the injustice of being a dependent where he should have been a pride; and, even in his baby days, when the garden was his play-ground, the unrooted stumps his rocking-horses, and the strips of painted basket material, which he now and then received from the Indian children in the neighborhood, represented to his childish gaze the flags and banners of ancient heraldry, which his mother pointed out to him upon the coat of arms,--even then he defied his father’s commands, and turned from his stern reproofs to whisper the childish longings of his own heart to the birds and the dancing stream. “I hate it,” he said passionately, when he had arrived at the age of fourteen; “I hate the strong fence that keeps me from finding other people’s homes! I hate to be confined to work that I detest, just for the sake of getting food from day to day. I will not do it. The world shall know that William Wallace was not born for no purpose. I will help some one, if it is savages and wild beasts.”

Thus spoke the stripling in his lonely home. For six long years did he cherish that one bright thought. It was all the hope he had to stimulate him when labor was his only portion, and life was scarcely worth the danger of preserving it. At last he refused to bear it any longer, and, one pleasant night in early spring, he dressed himself as near like a native as he could, gathered his own clothes into as small a compass as possible, sprang lightly over the garden fence, and carefully threaded his way through the almost pathless wood to the nearest Indian camp. From there it was an easy task to go further, and he soon began his plans for himself. These were, to get as far from Plymouth as he dared, and still be somewhere in the region of civilization. It was before the foundery was started in Saugus, when only a few stalwart men were discussing the probability of extensive mines in that direction. But Wallace liked the sea-shore; so he built him a residence miles and miles away from any human habitation, determined to assist the first suffering creature that came within his reach. Custom soon came. Little clubs of men often repaired some worn-out canoe, left by the Indians upon the sand, and embarked in it upon the dashing billows to try their luck in procuring fish for food. Almost invariably there would some mishap befall them; and every night the bold young Wallace went to rest with a proud and happy smile curving his delicate lips, and a feeling of true unselfish generosity nestling in his heart. He was happy in his honest calling, and wished for no greater reward than what he received from the natives, and the rough but kind-hearted settlers.

For a short time he lived thus, and his whole soul was in his work. But a change came at last. One fearful stormy night, when the waves rolled far up on the dark sand, and the rain and the wind chanted their wild music, he heard a low moan, instantly followed by a loud cry of agony, and quick calls for help.

He was used to scenes of danger, and, merely supposing that another frail boat had consigned its precious charge to the watery god, and that more human beings were in need of help, he arose, unbarred the low door, and bade the strangers welcome.

Before they entered the house its inmates--consisting of a young Scotchman, his fair, pleasant-looking English wife, and their daughter, whose years had been spent in luxury until now that ten summers had passed above her head, her beauteous home had gone, and she too was destined to a life of labor--were all astir, and the warm fire lighted in the heavy grate.

A tall, well-formed man first entered the room, with a thick frock of shag enveloping his person, confined at the waist by a broad belt, into which was thrust an unsheathed dirk-knife, and a short sword hung suspended by his side. His hat was dripping with water, and his broad shoulders and powerfully-built frame made him look, in his unique costume, like a representation of Hercules; while his black hair and eyes and burlesque manner and motions, gave him the appearance of what he really was, a pirate and a plunderer.

“Give us the most comfortable place in the house,” he said, with a careless glance around. “If it had not been for this accursed storm, and the woman aboard, we should not have been obliged to come at all.” And he strode out again into the darkness, followed by Jamie Burns, the Scotch emigrant, who was resting there until he could find a home for himself.

“Alice,” said the mother, nervously, as she saw the child walk firmly to the open door, “do keep away all you can. If we are all to be murdered, we might as well be cautious about it, as to run into danger with our eyes wide open;” and, turning from the beating rain, she drew the rough oaken chair to the fire, and arranged a fleecy lamb’s-wool blanket, which she had brought from home, about its comfortable cushions.

They soon returned. Veale, the first comer, bore a slight girlish form in his arms, enveloped in satin and ermine; her fair pale face forming a strange contrast with the deep crimson hood which fell back from her high white brow, revealing the sunny-hued curls which hung over her rich dress.

There were four other men, in the same dress, and having the same general appearance as the first; and, from the noise outside, Wallace concluded there were several more to come.

The men took very little notice of each other, and the lady was beginning to revive under the kindly care of Mrs. Burns, when the voices again approached the door, and, after a short consultation there, three kept on across the beach, and another entered the house.

This last was called Harris, by the lady and the men within, who seemed to look up to him as their captain, or, rather, their leader. He appeared the youngest of them all; but there was a lofty look of daring in his dark hazel eyes, and an unfaltering determination in his small mouth, that seemed to quell each motion of familiarity. He looked kindly at the little group huddled around the fire, and gazing so suspiciously at his band of followers. He was rather tall, but very slightly formed, and his dark green frock and crimson sash set off his wild beauty to peculiar advantage.

“Is it far to where you are going, lady?” said Alice, timidly.

The pale face lighted up a moment with pleasure, and, as she turned toward the child, and laid her white dimpled hand on Alice’s brown hair, she looked quite like a living being. “I do not know, little one,” she answered; “I never was this way before. I wish I did know where we are,” she continued, sadly, with a wistful glance at the half-closed door.

“It is only a little way from here,” said Harris, soothingly; “see, the moon is coming out already, and we shall soon be on our way.” And taking a small compass from his pocket, he adjusted it in the window frame, as if to shape the course he should take when he left. “Go and unfasten the boat,” he said, peremptorily, to one of the men, “and bring up my mantle for your mistress. Quick, man,” he added, as the man hesitated; “are you afraid of the moonshine?” and, impatiently opening the rough door, he gazed upon the hurrying clouds and the straggling moonbeams, that half lighted the broken rocks near the dwelling.

The man returned from the water with a large, heavily-embroidered mantle, the deep gold-tipped fringe almost sweeping the floor as he threw it over his shoulders to see if it was uninjured. At last they left, just as the gray dawn was breaking. Veale, who seemed to be chief assistant, gave a signal, and the four men marched rapidly down to the water. Harris threw a purse of gold upon the table, and followed Veale, who bore the lady from the house wrapped in the rich mantle.

Wallace looked after them with a dubious, thoughtful look clouding his honest brow. It was long before he heard again from the mysterious visitors, but he kept a more vigilant watch for passing vessels, and answered more readily to unexpected calls than before.

At last they came again. It was night, as before; the pale full moon was shedding its pure radiance over the sleeping earth. He was not startled this time. He was alone in the house, and three heavy knocks were heard upon the outer door. They soon entered the house. Four strong, dark-looking men, bearing a huge box that seemed heavy with something more than its own weight, or the strong irons that bound it, and, as it reached the floor, a dull ring from the inside told a strange tale of darkness. But the men spoke not, except in monosyllables, and Wallace forebore to question them.

As soon as they had found a place for the box, they left, and, after being gone some time, returned with another, corresponding in size with the first, but apparently lighter and less firmly secured. As they placed it upon the floor the spring (for there were few locks in those days) flew open, revealing rich dark silks, with heavy gold lace trimmings, small wrought cases of ebony or ivory, and beautiful ornaments of all kinds. They appeared to be not in the least disconcerted, but closed the box again with a loud noise, just as Harris entered with a stranger clad in Spanish citizen’s dress. There was a striking contrast in their looks, as Harris raised the elegant bandit cap from his high, white brow, and passed his delicate fingers through the short, clustering curls, and the stranger flung his heavy slouched hat upon the floor beside him, and stroked his thick, black moustachios with his sun-browned hand.

“We must arrange this matter as quick as practicable,” said Harris, in an undertone, apparently continuing their former conversation. “If you have any papers of consequence, I shall expect you to give them up. You can take a small tract of land somewhere near here, or when we go back to the continent you can return; but you will be obliged to keep it constantly in your mind that dead men tell no tales, and living ones are not allowed to; do you understand?” and the youthful leader of that strong band looked fearlessly upon the dark face beside him.