“What’re they doin’ now, John?” I asked; “kin you mek out?”
“Lowerin’ a yawl, it looks like to me,” he says.
An’ so they wuz. In a short time the yawl pushed out from the ship, an’ then I could see plain enough what it wuz, an’ that some on the ship’s crew wuz comin’ ashore in that ere yawl.
We hunted round fur a place to hide, ’cause we knowed they couldn’t be a-comin’ ashore fur water. There wuzn’t no water to be got. Behind us wuz a clump o’ cedars purty thick, so we run ’long a windin’holler, an’ crep’ up into that bunch o’ low cedars. When we looked out, the yawl wuz behind the hills; but purty soon it come into range near shore, an’ disappeared ag’in, fur the way on it wuz, thar wur a small gap ’tween the hills that give us this sight o’ the yawl. Arter the yawl got across that gap, we waited a long time—I tell you it wuz long—afore we see anythin’ more on ’em. We got scared a-waitin’; fur how could we tell but what they wuz mekin’ towards us? While I’d got sort o’ tired a-strainin’ an’ lookin’ here an’ thar, an’ fell to conject’rin’ what under the sun wuz goin’ to turn out on it all, John says all on a sudden, “Jess, look, thar’s one on ’em on yunder hill.”
I looked quick, and thar stood a sailor with a spy-glass searchin’ in ev’ry d’rection. We crouched flat, scratchin’ our hands an’ face in gittin’ under the branches near ground. We’d a been layin’ down all the time, but a spy-glass is purty fur-sighted, an’ we knowed it, so we crawledunder the branches to be all the more out o’ sight.
In jist about three minutes the sailor wuz gone. Then we hed another time o’ fearin’ what ’ud come next, but soon some men ’peared on the top o’ the hill. Thar wuz five on ’em. I breathed hard, an’ so did John, till we see they wurn’t comin’ towards us. They wuz carryin’ somethin’heavy, ez they’d stop, set it down, an’ take turns. An’ when they changed what they wuz carryin’, they changed shovels. They hed shovels with ’em, for these we could see plain enough.
These five men went onwards to a hill in the middle of the Beach—the highest hill within sev’ral miles—an’ stopped on the side o’ it toward the ocean. They stopped a long while an’ ’peared to be takin’ certain ranges. Fin’ly they begun to dig. Ev’ry single one o’ the five wur a-diggin’. The bank o’ course kep’ a growin’, and got so high, ur the hole got so deep, I dun know which, that we couldn’t see ’em any longera-diggin’. Nex’ they all come out, took what they hed fetched with ’em, and put it into the hole. Then thar wuz a long halt—all on ’em down in the hole. Not one on ’em wuz seen fur a long time. That time they wuz out o’ sight so long that John proposed to skulk to our boat.
But I says, “No, we wun’t run no risks.”
He wuz afeard, an’ so wuz I. We hadn’t even our old flint-locks with us. They would a’boostered up our courage consid’rable. I wuz right, though, ’bout stayin’ where we wuz. We shouldn’t a hed time to get halfway to our boat, ’fore they come up out o’ the hole, an’ begun to shovel the sand in agin. I couldn’t mek out but four shov’lin’, but I never thought much on it at fust. When the hole, though, got purty nigh full—you could sort o’ tell by the banks—I couldn’t then mek out but four men. I strained an’ looked till there wuz dark spots a-swimmin’ ’fore my eyes, and then I whispered to John—for we wuz to thewind’ard on the men—sayin’, “John, how many do you mek out a-shov’lin’?”
“Four,” says he, “only four, an’ I been countin’ ’em agin an’ agin.”
“That’s all I kin mek out uther. Didn’t five on ’em come ashore?”
“I know thar wuz five,” says John; “I see them five jist ez plain ez I see them ere four now. I counted five on ’em in two dif’runt places.”
The hole wuz filled, they spatted on the sand with their shovels—that ere made me all the time think o’ buryin’ somebody—an’ then them four sailors went back to the yawl.
John an’ me waited and watched another long, tejus time—I suppose they wuza-waitin fur the best chance to git their yawl through the surf. It’s easier to come on, you know, than it is to git back agin.
Through that ere gap ’tween the hills, though, we see the yawl ez they rowed off to the ship, and we breathed consid’rable easier. Anchor wuz huv up, the sails unclewed, an’ the ship tacked off to suth’ard.
The days is long that time o’ year, an’ it wuz well onto sundown afore the ship got under way. When we see she wuz headin’ off, we made fur our skiff.
We gin up all idee o’ hossfootin’ that night. It wuz too bad to leave the Beach, but we hed no mind to stay thar. We wuz mighty afeard, you see, an’ thar’s no use o’ denyin’ it—the thoughts o’ what become o’ that fifth man wuz boogerish; so we put for hum.
It would ’a been one o’ the very best nights for hossfootin’. The tide wuz high, an’ the moon come up over the Beach big an’ full; but the Beach lay all dusky an’dark under the moon, an’ the night seemed owly. We laid our course straight across. It wurn’t pleasant sailin’, though, ez it hed been in the mornin’; fur the waves kep’ mekin’ moanin’ noises an’ guggling’s all ’round the boat. I wuz chilly, an’ my feelin’s crawled over me, and kep’ crawlin’ over me till we got to the landin’.
The folks wuz su’prised to see us. We got hum ’bout bed-time, an’ told at once what we’d seen; an’ instid o’ gittin’ off to bed ’arly, ez we al’ays did Sunday nights to git a good start Monday mornin’—instid o’ gittin’ off to bed, we all sot up an’ talked a long spell about it.
When I went to bed I couldn’t go to sleep, ’cause I kep’ thinkin’ over the hull matter. That day an’ that ere bright night hev al’ays seemed to me jist like two days into one. Thar wurn’t any daybreak, fur the moonlight wuz ez bright ez daylight, an’ you couldn’t tell when one went an’ another come. I s’pose though, arter all, that wuz a nat’rul thing in June, whenthe sun rises ’arliest in the year; but I never noticed it afore ur sence.
Two ur three days arterward, some o’ the neighbors stopped to the house in the edge o’the ev’nin’, an’ mongst other things that wuz talked over wuz that ere ship; fur, you see, she hed been noticed by all the people o’ that section the week afore, an’ now she wuz gone—nothin’ more’d been seen o’ her. I told what John an’ me hed seen, an’ so the story got afloat. All summer long, way into fall, neighbors an’ people livin’ quite a distance away would stop and ask me ’bout it—full a dozen men from the middle o’ the Islan’ stopped, fust an’ last, to ask me if it twan’t the same ship some o’ their mowers see, one foggy day six weeks later on, when they wuz on the Beach cuttin’ salt hay. Winter nights, we now an’ then would git to talkin’ it over ’round the fireplace. Well, time went on, an’ young people ez they growed up would ask me to tell it to them.
I’ve told it a good many times—a goodmany times. You see, it wur over fifty year ago sence it happened.
“Did anybody go to the spot an’ see what wuz buried thar?”
Some dare-devils from away West somewheres tried to dig thar. They took a clear night with only a little wind a-blowin’ an’ a few clouds afloat, but when they got fairly to work, it grew pitch dark, an’ foggy, ez quick ez a candle goes out. The air got so thick they couldn’t scarcely breathe, an’ then a skel’ton ghost with a dagger in its hand, that hed some kind o’ pale flame creepin’ an’ burnin’ on the blade, ’peared right above ’em. It stood a minute an’ shook the dagger, an’ then begun to move ’round ’em, comin’ nearer an’ nearer, till the men run headlong fur their boat, shakin’ cold, they wuz so scared.
I heerd one on ’em say, ten year arter, that that wuz the only time in all his life his hair ever stood on end.
But nobody round here never dug thar.They never even probed thar. They never tried the min’rul rod thar nuther, ez they did sometimes in other spots. Ev’rybody roun’ this ere part o’ the Islan’ knowed better. The treasure buried thar wuz enchanted treasure. Nobody meddles with enchanted treasure that knows what enchanted treasure is.
“What made it enchanted?”
That fifth man wuz a pris’ner they’d taken frum some ship they’d run down, robbed, an’ destroyed with the rest on the crew. They’d got ready to come ashore to bury treasure, an’ they ordered him to go long with ’em to help do it. He went, doin’ his part o’ the work jist ez ef he wur one o’ the gang.
They go ashore, mek up their minds ’bout the spot, take their ranges so they kin come back to the spot when they want to, an’ then begin to dig. When the hole is dug deep enough, they set the treasureinto the hole, an’ all stan’ in thar aroun’ it. The leader o’ the gang tells the pris’ner that he’s got to stay by that ere treasure an’ guard it, so nobody kin ever git it but them.
They mek him sw’ar with some kind o’ an oath that he will. Then they mek way with him, an’ put his body over the treasure.
That’s why we couldn’t mek out no more ’an four men goin’ back when five come ashore. Them four men murdered the fifth one, an’ in so doin’ enchanted the treasure.
It wuz sealed in human blood, an’ the devil himself wuz thar in full charge. An’ that’s why thunder an’ lightnin’ comes, an’ spectres is seen, an’ the treasure sinks lower an’ lower, an’ the hole caves, when people hev tried to dig up enchanted treasure. An’ that’s why, too, so little buried treasure hez ever been found, ’causepirates mos’ al’ays enchant it, an’ sometimes enchant it double. They murder their pris’ners, an’ bury ’em, knife in hand, settin’ on the treasure to guard it.
Seventy years ago two boys, one seven years old and the other twelve, made a trip with their father up the Great South Bay. They had been promised that when it became necessary to land and mend the nets, they might run across the Beach to the ocean.
So, one afternoon when the nets were spread, away the boys scampered, dragging their outstretched hands through the tall grass. But coming upon a damp spot of meadow when a third of the way over, they were obliged to turn their course. In doing so, they chanced to look behind them, and seeing how far they were from the boat and how small it appeared, they wereafraid, and had half a mind to turn back. But the younger lad caught sight of the large, leafy stalks of a great rose mallow, a few steps ahead, spreading the broad petals of its passionate flower out to the sun and the breeze.
“See them big flowers,” he said, to his brother.
Forgetting their fear, both ran to the spot, plucked a handful, and continued their way to the ocean.
“They ain’t got any smell,” said the older, “but they’re a pretty color.”
“Let’s get a lot when we come back, and take ’em home,” suggested the younger.
But the showy flowers, deprived of the abundant moisture which their roots continually send up, soon wilted and lost their fresh, tropical beauty. Surprised and disappointed at this, the lads threw them down and quickened their steps. So anxious were they to get across, that the Beach seemed much wider than they had ever imagined. At last they reached the ridgeof hills that lie on the inner side of the surf strand, shutting out all view of the ocean, and toiled to the top. The hills seemed very steep and high to them, for in all their lives they had never been away from the low and level south side of the Island.
Reaching the top, that far and mighty prospect of the great deep burst upon them. It was a sight they had expected to see, but a sight of whose accompanying grandeur they had not formed the least conception. They stood silent, each for the time unconscious of the other, while the feeling which comes in the presence of the sublime surged up within their minds.
Young hearts, though, do not give themselves up long to such emotions, and wear their freshness out with pondering, as older people do. With these boys, the spell was brief; but during it the great sea had breathed its infinite benediction upon them, arousing within them feelings unstirred before. The usual traits of boyhood, however,soon asserted themselves, and the boys ran down the slope and began to gather shells and skim them into the surf. They did not, though, whirl away every shell, but, now and then, thrust a pretty one into their pockets. And with the shells they often saved smooth white stones that had been bathed and polished by the sea.
Tiring of this play, they turned to making marks and figures, and writing their names in the wet sand. Then they threw themselves down and dug holes in the wet sand with “skimmauge” shells, and banked the sand up over their feet and hands.
“I wonder where that ship’s going and how far away she is?” said the younger lad.
“Oh, fifty miles—for you can’t see anything but her sails, and only a little of them,” answered the other.
Then the younger asked if that wasn’t the end of the world where the sky went down into the ocean. And watching thelow clouds that floated along the distant horizon, he fancied that they were going off to the end of the world.
“May be,” he spoke, “they’re going after rain—clouds have some place where they keep their rain. How slow they’re going! When they get the rain, they’ll hurry back. Why, then they almost fly. Ain’t you seen ’em fly on a stormy day when they’re low down, and you could almost see through ’em? I guess they hurry to scatter the rain over more ground.”
The elder brother paid no heed to these fancies, but began to roll his trousers upabove his knees as high as he could pull them. The younger quickly did the same, for there were no shoes and stockings to be removed, as bay-men’s boys, in those days, went barefooted in summer time.
Then they played along the strand, running down as the waves withdrew from the shore, and as one broke again, and reached up rapidly with its liquid hands, they would run from it. At length, a wave stretched its foamy arms farther up, and caught them ankle deep. The charm of playing with the watery being was broken, and now they waded down, standing knee-deep to feel themselves settle as the undertow scurried past them with its freight of sand. At last, a larger wave came unawares, and wet the elder brother’s trousers, changing quickly the current of his thoughts.
“Come,” said he, “father told us not to stay over here long. We must hurry right back.”
They ran westward to a low spot between the hills, and turned through thispass. As they were following the winding around the edge of a hill, suddenly the older brother grasped the younger’s arm, and stopped short before a spot where no grass grew—a slight hollow swept out by the winds.
“See them bones!” he exclaimed. “They’re men’s bones. There’s a hand—and over there’s a skull. See it rock! See it! I’m afraid. Let’s run.”
Away they ran in their fright, coming out of breath to their father, and telling him with much gasping what they had seen.
“Well,” he replied, “before we get underway for home this afternoon, I’ll go with you and see what it was. Let me think.This is near the Old House. It’s easy enough to account for the bones over there; but the skull’s rocking—I guess you imagined that.”
“No, sir, father, I saw it go just like this—first one side and then the other,” replied the elder son, as he suggested the rocking by the motion of his hands.
“The skull don’t rock now,” said the father, when they reached the spot in the afternoon. He picked up the skull, and looking in, saw that a meadow mouse had built its nest there.
“Yes, boys, I guess you were right. I’ve no doubt now it did rock.”
And looking again at the skull, he saw that there were double teeth all around on each jaw. A horror ran through him at the thought. He cast the skull away, and turned to leave the spot, taking his boys by the hand. Half-way to the boat he spoke, saying: “That was a pirate’s skull and them was pirates’ bones. I heard when wefirst moved up to this part of the Island something about pirates being buried over on the Beach. This must be the place. I never inquired into the partic’lars. I don’t like such things, and don’t want to know ’bout ’em. If you do, wait till you get older, and then inquire into it. It’s bad for you to know such things now.”
The incident of coming upon the moving skull made so profound an impression upon the elder lad that his curiosity got the better of him, and in less than two days after reaching home, he had found someone who knew about what actually had taken place where the scattered bones lay, and who, moreover, directed him for fuller information to old Captain Terry. It was several years, though, before the lad really set about further inquiry, there being circumstances which wrought seriously against it. In the first place, Captain Terry lived several miles distant, and had the lad walked up to see him, there was the possibility of his being away from home, or ifat home, too busy to answer the questions of an inquisitive boy. A walk of ten miles to Captain Terry’s and back would deter most boys of their curiosity. Then, too, the walk demanded no little courage of a boy who must go alone, or at best, with some companion of his own age; and should they be detained, causing a return after dark, there were to be passed one or two places along the road of such repute that a boy underwent an ordeal in his own mind in passing them, even in broad daylight.
Clam-Hollow, deep, damp, and dismal, the narrow, crooked road, wooded closely by tall and sombre pines, all interwoven with their thick underbrush, was the scene of many a marvelous happening, which neighborhood talk attributed to that locality; while Brewster’s brook, near which the slave murdered his oppressive master, exercised a still stronger influence of fear and horror over the mind of every boy who had ever been past it.
But when the youth had grown towards manhood, and had forgotten the foolish fears and apprehensions of boyhood, when he was doing what he could to make his way in life—sometimes a laborer on farms, sometimes a boatman on the Bay—he heard, at casual times and places, so many allusions and fragmentary accounts of the buccaneers whose bodies lay buried westward of the Old House, that he was led to make full inquiry, and to get at the truth as near as might be. Not only was old Captain Terry’s recital heard, but all information that threw any light upon the tragedy was gleaned and treasured, and when an old man he related the following:
Very early in the present century, a ship hove to off Montauk, and set ashore a man.
She had, doubtless, made her landfall near the Inlet, had skirted the coast eastward, attracting no attention whatever—unlike in this respect the ship that the two brothers who went on the Beach “horse-footing” that June Sunday saw anchorclose in, send her yawl ashore, and bury treasure, spilling human blood upon it in the act.
When the landing was made the ship stood out to sea and made long tacks off and on, gradually working westward along the coast.
The sailor set ashore was a man of tall and powerful frame. He brought apparently nothing ashore with him, and no sooner had he gained the dry strand than he set out at a brisk pace, making his way westward over the narrow and rocky peninsula. When half the distance to Napeague Beach, he stopped near a large rock and made certain observations. This done, he signalled to the ship, and was answered by the clewing up of the foresail. Then he recommenced his walk towards the village of Amagansette. It was dusk when he reached that village, and his first move was to find where he could spend the night. His applications for lodgings were repeatedly refused by the inhabitants, andthat evening and for a week thereafter, the most prominent topic of village talk and conjecture was the stranger who had sought lodgings at so many doors.
Where he passed the night is not known. But the next day, at East Hampton and at South Hampton, the question was frequently asked, “Did you see the stranger that went through the village this morning?”
Perhaps no ordinary event in those days would have attracted more attention at these villages than the appearance and disappearance of an unknown man. Who he was, what his errand might be, where he came from, and whither he went, were matters of speculation for days; and in this instance there was an additional incentive to curiosity, for the stranger’s dress showed him to be a sailor, his manner was rough, his face was cruel in expression, and he held no further word of conversation than was barely necessary to supply his wants.
It is said that after leaving these villagesthe stranger was seen making observations on the coast somewhere below Ketchabonack. Of his journey westward, nothing more is known, until he was passing over that long, sandy, and solitary tract of road which lies between Forge River andThe Mills. Here he stopped, and made some inquiry of Mr. Payne, an old soldier of the Revolution.
When the stranger departed, the family at once asked, “Who was he?”
The reply made by old Mr. Payne was significant. “That I can’t tell; but one thing I can—whoever he is, he has been in human slaughter.”
At one of those villages where the Great South Bay broadens to a width of four or five miles, this man was set across to the Beach. To some of the residents thereabout he was known, and so, moreover, was the fact that, for a long period, he had been away from home—piloting, it was reported. His wife and also his daughter, a young woman of defiant mien, saucy speech,and, it is said, of unwholesome reputation, dwelt alone upon the Beach, at what from early colonial days had been called the Old House, but which, since the tragedy of that awful night, has more frequently borne the name of the iniquitous family.
For two days the ship had been sailing east and west, standing off and on shore, awaiting intelligence from him. He saw her the morning he landed on the Beach, but could not signal, as the man who set him across did not return at once. Then, too, after he had gone, two vessels loaded for New York passed within an hour and a half of each other, on their way to Fire Island. Late in the afternoon—the earliest moment he deemed safe—he signalled to the ship that he had reached the spot where all had agreed to land, that circumstances and surroundings were opportune for their purpose, and to hold in position as best possible till darkness settled.
All, however, was not favorable. There were indications of an approaching storm—indicationsthat portended its sudden approach. The swell on shore, too, was rising and rolling in with stronger volume. They were in a bad position, and well they knew it. There was not sea-room enough, with a south-easterly storm, in that angle of the coast. But what cared that reckless crew now about their ship, other than she must not go ashore within sight or reach of where they proposed to land.
Night came, and a fire flamed up on the shore, built low down near the tide mark, that the hills might hide all view of it from people upon the main-land. It was the signal when to leave ship and where to come ashore. According to the understanding on ship-board off Montauk, the fire was to be set three rods westward of the best spot of beach to land, within half a mile of the Old House.
There was hurry on ship-board. Time pressed, for the edges of the storm were upon them. Two of the ship’s yawls were lowered, made fast alongside, and intothese were passed canvas bags, containing coin and, it is supposed, other valuables. Each member of the crew had secured in some manner upon his person his own share of the results of their hazardous and wicked doings. When the yawls were ready, the crew made efforts to scuttle the ship, so that she might sink during the night. But, doubtless owing to the haste imposed by the coming storm, these efforts did not promise success; and fearing that the vessel, when abandoned, would be driven directly ashore, orders were given to take in part of the sail, leaving in trim just spread of canvas enough to keep the ship in the wind. Then, heading her seaward and lashing the helm to windward, the buccaneers embarked in the yawls and pulled towards shore—seventeen men in all, abandoning a life of robbery and murder, but bringing with them the booty such a life had secured.
Nearing the shore, they saw by the fire-light the form of their accomplice. Noother man was with him, and yet the forms of two other persons were seen in the circle of light which the fire radiated out into the dark. There was shouting to and fro of how to come on, and oaths and harsh accusations besides—why he had been so long, and why had he signalled them on when a storm was already in the rigging. The surf was threatening, but it was too late now to make any other decision. With strength of oar they held themselves in position, watching the right moment to take the best wave and ride in. But whether directions were misunderstood, or whether in the darkness there was miscalculation, the yawls swamped upon the bar, throwing the seventeen buccaneers into the rushing surf. It was a despairing, mad struggle for life, with piercing cries and blasphemy heard above the booming of the waves. Two buccaneers, Tom Knight and Jack Sloane, gained the shore. Others sank soon, while yet others, quite exhausted, might have been rescued. Buttreachery, calculating its chance, stepped in and did foul work. Then what horrible exertion went on all that night! What hot search was kept up for lifeless forms as the sea tossed them up! How, when discovered, were they pulled out of the edge of the surf, and clothing rifled! And then, to cover it all, their bodies were dragged to a hollow among the hills, and there buried. The storm set in before the night was half gone, and a wild day followed, keeping from the Beach any boatman that chance might have led that way.
Tom Knight and Jack Sloane, not a fortnight thereafter, made their appearance upon the main shore, and spent money freely. They came and went, again and again, always spending with the same lavish hand, throwing down, it is said, a Spanish dollar for the most trivial purchase, and invariably refusing any change.
Rumors that some horrid deed had been committed were soon in circulation, andconjectures of what had happened upon the Beach were many and various.
A town magistrate, hearing these, began an inquiry. He sent constables to the Beach with warrants to arrest the family and everyone else in the house. Only the mother and the daughter were found. These were brought to the main-land, and half a day was spent in examination; but the magistrate could find no positive evidence that warranted further action on his part.
On the day the mother and daughter were arrested, those three buccaneers—the pilot, Tom Knight, and Jack Sloane—watched from hiding-places apart in the hills, the coming and going of the constables. When all possibility of detection had passed, they returned to the Old House. Each sought out his treasure whence he had temporarily hid it, in the bushes or in the sand. After hot discussion, each packed his gold according to his own notion, and the three buccaneers struggled throughthe hills in separate directions to bury their treasure.
Tom Knight’s gold was found forty years after, just as he had sealed it up in the black pot which the Captain found, in that last fortunate patrol of the Beach; the gold of the other buccaneers lies somewhere among those sand-hills until this day.
Immediately after the arrest, Tom Knight and Jack Sloane left for other parts, and very shortly the family broke up its residence on the Beach and moved to the Western frontier, where, it is said, ill-fate and disaster followed them.
That portion of the Beach, however, attracted many thither. But little money was then in circulation. The government,it was well known, had coined money but a few years, while Spain was imagined to have stamped untold millions; and the hope of finding Spanish coin quickly sprang up in many a man’s mind. In consequence, bay-men often strolled along that part of the coast, though most of them took good heed not to be there after dark. Spanish dollars were frequently found—one person picking up first and last thirty-eight of these. Search was even made upon the bar where the yawls upset. But periods when the sea was smooth enough to work were rare, and what is more, the exact spot was unknown. Fragments of the canvas bags were found, and a few coins; but nothing commensurate to expectation and the time spent in search.
The ship remained off the coast, and as if guided by an insane pilot, alternately sailed and drifted, veering her course through every point of the compass from northeast to southeast, but working, singularly enough, all the time eastward.
Her strange behavior attracted one day the attention of a party of fishermen on the Beach opposite Smith’s Point. Some of them proposed most ardently that the surf-boat be launched and the ship boarded. But others of them were afraid, and stoutly opposed any such adventure. And so a prize of more value than the catch of many seasons passed them, because, let us say it plainly, superstition was stronger than reason.
Near South Hamptonthe Money Ship went ashore. There were neither papers nor cargo on board which would indicate where she came from. A sea-merchant thought some of the casks that were found in the hold had contained Italian silks. Seven Spanish doubloons were found on a locker in the cabin, and several cutlasses and pistols were scattered about. The whole vessel was searched, but nothing more could be found. Two of those men, though, who had aided in the search went on board at nightfall. Suddenly, while peering about, their light went out, and one man, frightened and deaf to persuasion, fled ashore. The other, undaunted, made anew his light and continued the search. While hunting about the cabin, he bethought to pry away a part of the ceiling. Upon doing so, he found a quantity of money concealed there, and as it dropped down from its place of lodgment,some of the coins rolled out of the cabin-window into the sea. This time it was anhonest man’s treasure, and he carried ashore that night many a hatful. Just how much was thus secured could never be learned. Some put the amount at two hundred dollars, others, and by far the greater number, thought it many times this sum. One thing is certain—there were marked changes noticeable in the circumstances of that family from that time, and the signs of prosperity were not only sudden but lasting.
Whence came the Money-Ship? There was not even a name or commission to give any clew. Could she have been an English merchantman, which had chanced to be in the West Indies during the insurrection in Hayti, and on board of which some of the French inhabitants of the island had sought refuge, bringing with them their wealth,—that when at sea, mutiny had arisen, the officers and passengershad been made way with, and their wealth appropriated by the sailors?
Was she a Spanish pirate from the Gulf, with half her crew English sailors?
Or was she a galleon sailing from the Spanish main to old Spain?
It has always remained a mystery.
“WESTWARD OF GREEN’S BROOK”
“WESTWARD OF GREEN’S BROOK”
Westward of Greene’s brook on the road to Oakdale there stands a substantial country residence. You will recognize it in driving by, for just south, across the road is a lot with small spindle cedars growing all irregular, everywhere in fact, some perhaps the height of a man’s waist, but the most not higher than his knee.
“Poor land,” you will say. Well, I believe it is. Else why are those little wizened cedars there? They have grown there who knows how long? They never get bigger, and have each the appearance, when you come close, of being a hundred years old. But the lot with them on, bends its mile of curve gradually down to the Great South Bay, and leaves you a broadview of that body of water, very blue and very beautiful at times.
A century and nine years ago, there stood across the road opposite this lot a small inn. At what time it was demolished, I could never learn; but I have no doubt some of its wrecked timbers are doing upright duty to this very day, in bracing the partitions of thepresent residence.
Sometimes the New York stage stopped at this inn, but its usual halting-place was a few miles to the west at Champlin’s. Whenever it did stop, the passengers had good cheer, for the little inn was kept by Widow Molly—a woman of sunny face and hopeful disposition.Her eyes were large, and, you would say, a little too deeply placed; but their look was honest and as unsuspecting as the stars. She had broad hips of which she was a trifle proud, a round arm and a very pretty hand, a deep chest, arching high, and her weight must have been not more than a pound or two either side of one hundred and sixty.
There was no end of trooping in those days, and many a company of horsemen stopped at Widow Molly’s. Her slave, Ebo, would give the best care to the horses, while she entertained their riders. And if the troopers had time and it came to a game of seven-up, she could play as strong a hand as any one of them. The hours on such halts went too fast, and often afterwards there was hard riding to regain time lost lingering. But of all the riders who dismounted at her door, there was one who came alone and went alone, and whose visits were beginning to hint of regularity. He came from the section aboutRonkonkoma Pond, seven miles, perhaps, to the northward. Whoever knew him, knew him as the young squire. Seven-and-thirty years old, prosperous, of sound judgment, he well deserved the note the office gave him.
In the spring that came a century and nine years ago, the young squire, who had always a passion for cracking away at stray ducks that settled in the Pond, resolved to go gunning to the “South Side.” And many a morning or afternoon he lay behind the cedars that grew along the shore of the Great South Bay, and tolled in ducks, by flapping over his head a piece of bright red flannel tied to his ramrod. On these gunning expeditions he always stopped at the inn, and finally, instead of carrying his firelock home, he left it in the keeping of Widow Molly. The hostess stood the gun in the corner of the front room.
Whenever the young squire came, he found the brass upon it bright and thestock and barrel rubbed off with a mite of oil. Widow Molly did this with her own hands, and never made mention of it. But one day, when he took his gun to start for the shore, he gave one deep look into her eyes and kissed her as he passed out of the doorway. She watched him go across the lot till the curve put him out of sight, and then turning, closed the door. It was well that during the rest of that day no one halted at the inn desiring refreshment, for the genial hostess would have seemed to such, preoccupied. From the moment she turned from that wrapt watching in the doorway, she wandered off with the feelings of her heart whither neither guest nor friend could follow and intrude.
That afternoon, when the day’s gunning was over, the squire was met by a neighbor and summoned home to write the will of a dying man. He had not time so much as to enter the house, but gave his gun and four brace of ducks to Ebo, androde rapidly home with the neighbor who had come for him.
After tea, when Judy was washing the dishes, Widow Molly came into the kitchen with the gun, laid it down upon the table, and began cleaning it. This time she even drew the ramrod, wound a rag around it, and wiped out the barrel. When she had put it in perfect order, she carried it into the front room and stood it in its usual corner.
“Law,” said Judy to Ebo, as they sat in the kitchen by the scant light of one tallow dip, “what am got into missus? Di’ jou see how she clean dat ere gun so’ ticlar to-night? She am done it sivral time afore, but nebber so drefful ’ticlar ez to-night. An’ the squar am no stop to-night! Wha’ for he din’t stay to tea an’ spen’ ebnin’ wi’ missus? Missus am dispinted; drefful so.
“We’se goin’ to lose Missus, dat am sure, cause I’se kinfeelit. Missus been kinde way off, thinkin’ an’ thinkin’ to herself alllong back. Yes, we’se goin’ to lose Missus, an’ whar’s poor ol’ Judy goin’ in dese ere war times?—Ebo, you fas’ asleep dar? Git off to yer own quarters.”
In that spring, a century and nine years ago, a schooner, manned by outlaws principally from the Connecticut shore, but some, be it said, from the south side of the Island, made her appearance in the Bay. She would come in Fire Island Inlet,course eastward up the Bay, robbing every vessel within reach; and in the spirit of pure devilment, the crew would destroy or cut adrift every boat they robbed, set their owners ashore on the Beach at whatever point most convenient, and then slip out of theinlet near the Manor of St. George, and be gone.
One or two visits of this sort put bay-men upon their guard, and when the stranger hove in sight, it was crack on all sail, and make for shallow water or disappear up some creek or river.
Finding their opportunities of robbing upon the Bay at an end, the outlaws determined to take to land. The scattered residents, expecting it would come to this, had organized a sort of company who should be ready at the briefest notice to repel any such attempts.
Again the schooner appeared in the Bay, sailed eastward, and anchored off the mouth of Great River. The news of her approach spread rapidly, and a part of thecompany quickly gathered and took a concealed place behind a bunch of cedars on the shore to watch any movements that might be made from the schooner. After sunset they saw a boat lowered and manned.
At the foot of the lot on which the cedars now grow there was a landing-place. The men on shore saw the yawl push out from the schooner and head towards the landing.
They watched ten minutes, and the yawl did not change its course.
“Some man in that yawl knows well enough where this landing-place is, an’ they’re coming to it, you can bet your last guinea,” remarked Jim Avery. “My advice is to git away from here quick, an’ take to the lime-kiln.”
“Wait a few minutes first, to make sure they’re comin’,” suggested someone.
They watched five minutes longer, and then, keeping a thick bunch of cedars directly in range of the boat, they ran half-bentto the lime-kiln and shell-heap at the landing, and there concealing themselves, set one of their number to watch the movements of the boat.
In the lime-kiln they began to discuss a plan of action.
“Load the big musket with buckshot and give that to ’em first, if they undertake to land,” was the first proposition.
“Put in a rippin’ good charge. Four fingers of powder, and ram it hard—”added Jim Avery.
The steel ramrod sent out its cling as the wad was pounded down.
“Oh, the devil! Put in more buckshot than that if you want ’em to know we mean it. There!” continued Jim, as he clapped his hand over the bore and let a handful of buckshot guzzle down upon the first charge, “that’ll plug ’em.”
After the big gun was loaded the men began to load their own guns, their excitement increasing and the discussion growing loud enough to be heard outside thekiln. At length, the natural leader of the party checked it, and fixed a plan of action.
“The thing to do,” he said, “is this: hail ’em when they get near the shore, an’ if they don’t hold up, rip into ’em a volley from the big gun, an’ hold our other firelocks in resarve.”
But a question at once arose who should fire the big musket. It required a stout man to hold the huge firearm out, and the smallest man of the group, in the haste of gathering, had caught it up in a neighbor’s house.
“I swar I won’t fire it with such a load as that in,” he said; “and I can’t fire it anyway without a rest.”
“You take her, then,” said the leader to one who stood beside him.
“Not a bit of it. I ain’t agoin’ to fire nobody else’s gun but my own.”
“They’re not more’n three gun-shots off,” spoke the sentinel, husking the tones of his voice; “settle upon suthin’ darnquick, ur we’ll hev a han’-to-han’ fight here on the shore.”
“You’re the boy, Jim; you fire it,” said the leader, clapping a negro who stood near him, on the shoulder.
Jim took the gun.