from In the East Riding of Yorkshire:
(Quasi-Auto-Biographical. Written for one’s children.)
by Jesse Halsey
There was
the remains of an old fort not far from our house and adjoining our farm. It
was near enough the little school house, where we went, that during recess all
the boys would run there to play war. On lucky days I commanded the attacking
party. That was the American army—the attacking one for the fort had been built
by the British when they occupied East Riding after the battle of Long Island.
The house
where the British General Sir Wm. Erskine dined still stands next door, but one,
to mine. It is a veritable museum of the accumulated colonial wealth of many
generations. Its present owner is one of my closest friends. Likewise our children,
as were our father and their fathers before them. This kind of consanguinity of
the spirit is thicker than blood and defies time.
Of an
evening neighbors would come in, Uncle Bill Fowler who had been to California
in ’49, had mortgaged his farm to go; came home penniless and had to go back to
his masons trade. His nephew John Fowler who mixed mortar for him lived on for
many years. He would come to help my father hoe corn. I would be given one
row between the two men, Father with two rows on one side and uncle John two
rows on the other. He was short and fat but could hoe his own roe as the saying
goes and help with mine. “Hi by golly” I can hear him now . . . then he’d start
off on some whaling yarn.
This was
always the theme of conversation and while the old men would sit spinning yarns
little Jess quiet for once, sat listening.
“The year
the ‘Old Sabina sailed,’ or the ‘Old Neptune,’ or the ‘Old—“ that careening
adjective prefixed all ships’ names. Ten miles away was the Harbor. The hurricane
of last month [ed note: Wednesday, September 21, 1938] toppled over the lovely towering
spire from the old church that the whale oiled money built a hundred years ago.
There for a century it has stood a beacon by night and spire by day. The little
village has now sunk to diminutive economic proportions. It cannot be rebuilt.
Ichabod—the glory hath departed.
But even in
my boyhood a vessel occasionally sailed for the whale fishery and across the
sound from New Bedford whalers put out until ten years ago. Every Long Island
boy with few exceptions went to sea, all through the years from the Revolution
till after the Civil War.
Two years,
three years, a hard life but they loved it. And the tales they could tell! I
have listened by the hour. Captain Austin Herrick wrecked on the coast of
Patagonia and working his way along the coast among the savages and coming home
long after he was given up for lost. Willie and Eddie Fowler never heard from,
and their mother, my great aunt, telling me in a moment of confidence one day
as I went through her yard on the way to school that though they had been gone
for fifty years that her gate
never clicked but that she went to the window or the door to look and see if
they might yet be coming home.
[Great] Aunt
Libbie [ed note: Elizabeth P Halsey Fowler 4 Jul 1815] —she gave me my first
bath and first spanking I imagine the spanking came first)—was the village
midwife and practical nurse, the adviser of its gentry and poor folk alike. Her
cookie jar (with raised doughnuts in the winter) was accessible to all the boys
of the North End. Her yard (next to the graveyard) was the short way to school.
In the Cemetery—and only there—was I allowed to stroll on Sunday. (I can take
you on the darkest night to any stone you name.) After the walk in the
cemetery, father and I would slip through the back gate to Aunt Libbie’s. He
was her favorite nephew. She nursed him when he was a baby, too. And I have one
little cloth shoe (beautifully made) that she fabricated for little Charles
Henry. In her old age she was still active. I can remember her helping my
mother in the care of a sick neighbor—or my mother helping her. They came to
our house one morning before daylight, went to the attic and got a pig’s
bladder that hung on the rafters. (It had been inflated at butchering time.)
This was before the day of rubber water bottles. The bladders of slaughtered
animals were always preserved. (Sometimes when the old crop was not exhausted,
we boys were allowed to have a new one for a football—not often, however.) My
brother was sent off into the night to get ice from the one ice house in the
community, over a mile away. Birth and death and all the occasions in between
Aunt Libby was always there and most welcome.
Back to my
whalers—and the fireside. Capt’n Guss (Halsey) would come and spend the day. He
and my Uncle Will (a real uncle—Father’s brother) were my favorites. (When I
was seven Uncle Will drowned before my eyes one day
when we were clamming—I was too young to understand what was happening but not
too little to help had I only known.)
Well, Cap’t Guss would come from Watermill two miles away, and once or
twice a year father would go and spend the day with Cap’t Guss (and take me
with him). Most Cap’ns’ who came would pat me on the head and straightway
forget (I caught on to what they were saying to themselves-“poor child, with no
mother”). But Captain Guss thought it worthwhile to talk to a boy. So did Uncle
Will who lived across the street. He and father had married sisters. I’d go
across the street after our early farm breakfast, in time for theirs. My aunt
would try to send me home, but I can hear Uncle Will now . . . “Feed him . . .
feed him.” Between Uncle Will and Aunt Libbie I was well supplied.
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