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
broad view 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 the present residence.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
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 about Ronkonkoma 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
the stock 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, and rode 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 kin _feel_ it.
Missus been kinde way off, thinkin' an' thinkin' to herself all long
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."
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
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 the inlet 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 the company 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-bent to 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 the kiln. 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' darn quick, 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.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
It was now dusk. The party slipped out from behind the shell-heap, and
the leader shouted, "Back water there an' stop, or I'll fire."
No reply was made, but he caught the words, "Pull, _pull_;" and the
quicker dip of the oars told that the rowers heeded.
"Another yard and I'll fire."
No word of reply--but, spoken loud and with vengeance, "Pull, damn you,
_pull_."
"Fire, Jim;" and the huge musket thundered out her volley.
A shriek from one poor devil, the noise of others falling over in the
boat, and the striking of oars followed. With oaths and confusion, the
outlaws turned their boat and pulled back.
Black Jim stood stiff in the tracks where he had fired, but the big
musket lay upon the ground--the recoil had broken his collar-bone.
In the morning the schooner was gone. Week after week went by, and the
scattered inhabitants continually expected some descent of the outlaws
to take vengeance for their repulse. Jim's collar-bone was well knit
together, and yet there had been no further molestation.
"I guess we fixed 'em. They don't seem to want to come anymore,"
remarked one of the party to a neighbor.
More than six weeks had passed since that one charge of buckshot
repulsed the outlaws, and June was half gone. The Bay's rest spell was
come--the time when, day after day, its surface is calm, and the air
above it quivers--the time when the Beach goes off to its farthest limit
and melts into islands with air inlets between them.
On one of those quiet, dreamy days in June, when all thought of alarm is
farthest from one, the identical long-boat which barely two months
before had turned back with its wounded, was crossing the Bay, and
making, too, directly for the landing by the lime-kiln and shell-heap.
The schooner this time lay outside the Beach, and the outlaws had made a
portage over with their long-boat. Again someone in that boat knew there
was a landing near the shell-heap.
They rowed up till the boat touched the sand, but before all landed, two
sailors jumped ashore and went around the shell-heap and into the kiln
to discover whether any body of men was lying in wait there. Upon their
return, the boat was secured, and the oars were put in position for
quick launching. Then, adjusting slashed black bands across their faces,
the outlaws took their way up across the lot, making straight for the
inn on the north side of the old country road. A dozen rods, perhaps,
from the shore, there sprang up what always springs up when any group of
sailors take to land--what in general may be called rough fooling. It
was started by Nate Crosby, the most irrepressible devil of the whole
crew, throwing his leg between those of the sailor who walked beside
him, and sending him sprawling to the ground, his face tearing into one
of the stunted cedars. As he rose, he plucked the cedar up, and began
lashing Nate about the neck and face, and not only did he deal blows at
Nate, but also upon those who laughed at the way Nate had thrown him.
Whereupon some five or six others uprooted cedars and fell to cracking
back, and then at each other.
"What in thunder are you thinking of, you devil's birds?" said the
leader, stepping back among them. "Quit this fooling. We're darn near in
sight of the inn, and instead of keeping your eyes skinned for just what
some of us got the last time we tried this thing, you've taken to
rollicking. Spread out, spread out; don't bunch up, if you've got any
wit whatever. Nate, cast away that cedar; cast it away, and come with me
to the head of the gang."
They reached the inn and filed into the front room. There was no one at
home but Widow Molly and Judy, and both were at work in the kitchen. The
noise and boisterous talk brought Widow Molly to the room in an instant,
and Judy, taking one peep, scrambled down cellar and hid herself in a
bin.
"Ah! Dame Molly," said the leader very affably, as she entered, "a
surprise to you! What of cheer can ye make us?"
"Mek it damn quick, too," broke in a rough voice.
"Hold your jaw, you ill-trained cur," spoke the leader, smiting the
upstart flat-handed on the mouth.
Such words, the black bands with fierce eyes looking through, the knives
and pistols thrust in their belts, told Widow Molly that the gang of
outlaws had landed and were in her house. The thought that she was alone
came swift, and she stood a moment stricken and dazed. But quite as
suddenly she regained her self-possession, stepped past them into an
adjoining room, reached a decanter and glasses, and setting these before
them, bade them drink their pleasure.
"More, _more_," thundered one outlaw, hammering on the table with the
butt of his pistol.
She brought another decanter and glasses. The two decanters were
emptied, refilled, and emptied again before the outlaws gave heed to
anything else.
"And now, Dame Molly, thou hast well slaked our thirst, can'st thou not
bring something to stay our stomachs," said the leader.
"An' bring thy silver spoons, too," said another of the company, who,
turning towards her, chucked her under the chin.
Her eyes flashed with resentment at the indignity, and swiftly she
whirled a stinging slap in the intruder's face.
A roar of laughter filled the room, and derisively they cried, "Try it
ag'in, now, will ye? Try it ag'in."
Widow Molly's heart beat hard. Her breath was catchy, and with her
capacious lungs that was a new experience. A way of escape was her first
thought. Should she slip out of the kitchen door, run a mile to the
nearest neighbor, and give the alarm?
She found no chance to do it, for three of the outlaws followed her into
the pantry and then into the kitchen. Nothing was left but to put on the
bravest appearance, and she had already done that. Had they been
soldiers with muskets, their presence would not have affected her as it
did. She was used to muskets. But the dirks, sheath-knives, and
horse-pistols that filled their belts gave her a tremor.
Everything eatable the inn afforded she set before them, and although
there was considerable of it, it was not sufficient to fill them all.
During the whole while, Widow Molly waited on the ravenous crowd, and
when the eating came to an end, the leader said, "And now, Dame Molly,
produce thy purse and what of gold thou hast besides." She drew forth
her purse and emptied it upon the table. A sailor started towards the
table and made a grab, but he was caught by the leader, and shoved back
against the wall with a thud.
"Four pound ten," said the leader, counting it; "and that's all ye have
about, Dame Molly? Search the house from garret to cellar. Hold--two
stay in the room with our landlady."
Forth they burst into all parts of the house, striding up stairs,
kicking open doors instead of unlatching them. Clatter and din came from
every room. Beds were upturned, drawers ransacked and the contents
turned upon the floor, looked over, and then kicked into corners to make
room for other examinations. Closets were rummaged, feather-beds and
pillows thrown upon the floor, felt over carefully, and then as
carefully trodden over, to make sure nothing was concealed therein.
"Look for loose bricks in the fireplaces. See if the hearth-stones are
tight down," shouted the leader, from the head of the stairs.
And with these words, Widow Molly heard Judy's cries from the cellar
imploring mercy from the outlaw who was hustling her about and demanding
where the silver was.
"Oh, please, sah, lem me go. Don't. Oh! oh! don't."
"No, sah; no, sah; true es I lib, missus ain't got no silber."
"Oh, dear, hab marcy, please, sah; do hab marcy. Oh, _oh_!-- -- --you
break my poor ol' arm."
"Fall on yer knees. Stop your beggin' for mercy."
"Yes, sah; _yes, sah_. Hab a little marcy. Oh!-- -- --."
"Clasp yer hands above yer head. Keep 'em up there."
"Oh, sah, _oh_!-- -- --"
"Stop yer beggin'. Another whimper and I'll pull. Now, you tell quick,
where the silver is, or I'll blow your old black head into mince-meat."
Judy, shaking with fear, told him.
The outlaw came up out of the cellar, and rummaged where Judy had said.
Securing several small pieces of silverware, he came back into the front
room. Then for the first time he noticed the gun, with its bright
mountings, which stood in the corner, and walking towards it, he
remarked, "That gun's mine."
"No," replied Widow Molly, her affection rising as she thought of him to
whom the gun belonged. "You can have anything else. That's a friend's
gun."
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
He took it, and Widow Molly, who had already stepped across the room,
seized the gun, and with one strong, quick twist, wrested it from him.
Setting it back in the corner, she replied, "That you can't have as long
as I can defend it."
One of the outlaws who had been keeping her prisoner now tried the same
game. All the woman's soul again stirred within her. She wrested the gun
from him, but the struggle was hard and long.
"I tell you," she said, as she fell back with the gun in her
possession--"I tell you," she repeated between breaths, "that's a
friend's gun, and I'll defend it. You can't have it."
Then with the gun in her hand she walked directly across the room into
an adjoining one, and set the gun behind the door.
In the meantime the leader passed from room to room to see what
valuables had been found. The outlaws put into their pockets a few
nondescript articles that struck their fancy, but nothing of any great
value, and they had searched through everything. For some time there had
been cursing at their want of luck, but now that it had become
disappointment, their blasphemy was frightful. The whole gang came
tramping down the stairs, swearing and threatening in ugly mood, and
filed into the front room. Widow Molly, who stood at the farthest side,
grew deathly white.
They will now, thought she, resort to some desperate scheme. She took a
long, deep breath, and then caught it to stop the flutter of her bosom.
"And no one comes!" she almost said aloud in her emotion.
All through the time of their ransacking, she had felt that they would
be surprised in their robbery by a company of the townsmen, or that,
perchance, some body of horsemen would ride up. Now that hope was wholly
gone.
But shouts came from two outlaws in the garret who had been reaching
down behind the rafters.
"Gold--gold!" they shouted. "We've found it. We ain't _clean_ dished."
The outlaws in the front room surged into the hall, and yelled as the
finders came jumping down-stairs. The group at the foot of the stairs
stood back to give passage, and the finders rushed through into the
front room, followed eagerly by the crowd.
Nate Crosby threw upon the table a stout, heavily-filled stocking, drew
his sheath-knife, severed the stocking just below where it was tied, and
poured the contents out upon the table.
"Stand back," said the leader, "whilst I count and divide."
The group very willingly stood back, formed a circle about the table,
and grinned and chuckled as the coins were counted.
"One hundred and eighty pounds, all told."
The leader counted out a pile to each man, setting up the coins as he
did so. And when this was done, he handed each man his pile. "The other
booty," he said, "goes into the common lot."
"And now, my rovers," continued the leader, "no more marauding for this
day. Back to our boat, forthwith."
"Good-day, Dame Molly. Your hospitality has been right well enjoyed;"
and hurrying out of the house, the outlaws struck into a run for the
landing.
Widow Molly sank into a chair, and let her arms fall beside her in an
exhausted way. After a brief space she summoned energy sufficient to go
to the window and assure herself that they were not returning. She was
just in time to see them disappear below the curve of the cedar lot. One
outlaw at the rear, she noticed, carried a gun. She turned swiftly and
went into the adjoining room to see whether the gun had been taken from
behind the door. It was gone. Then Widow Molly buried her face in her
hands and cried bitterly.
"Devil Dan'l showed that gang the way, you may be sartin'. Who else 'ud
know the place and Widow Molly's name?" was the common remark from Swan
River to Penataquit.
The feeling against the outlaws was intense, and a company of men from
five leagues along the South Road was organized to be ready at courier's
summons.
For a few days the schooner's masts were seen outside the Beach,
coursing one day westward, and the next eastward--lingering for some
purpose off the coast.
Another descent was expected, and the inhabitants conjectured it would
be made during the night. Squads of five or six men patrolled their
neighborhoods, with horses ready to summon other squads in any
emergency.
On the fourth night, the scattered guard-groups noticed, early in the
evening, the low beat of the surf upon the Beach. In the course of the
night it grew stronger, and the pounding of each huge breaker could be
distinctly told.
In those days every man was a weather-prophet, and every man awake that
night said, "There's a big storm off at sea, and we'll likely get it
here."
The next day broke with a dull sky and a raw east wind that betokened
the coming of the storm. The wind rose as the day progressed, and
mid-afternoon a few drops of rain--the harbingers of the storm--showed
themselves upon the window-panes. At that very hour, the schooner,
low-reefed, was seen close in under the Beach, scudding westward. It was
evident to those who saw her that she was making for some near harbor.
The night came wild and wet. The wind blew great rushing sweeps from the
south-east, crowding the water up into the western part of the Bay,
forcing it up creeks and over meadows. Between midnight and morning, the
wind suddenly shifted into the west, like the banging of a door, and
blew with just as great fury. The whole black area of clouds and rain
bore back from the west. The gulls alone found life in it.
In three hours the wind wore itself out, but there followed a thick
morning, with the Bay and the sky all one wet blend of gray. At noon the
dampness lifted, and the Beach showed itself.
Keen eyes were not long in discerning, as they scanned it, two masts and
a hull, heeled over. The schooner was ashore--inside the Beach at the
Point of Woods.
Scudding west the afternoon before, and now ashore at the Point of Woods
and heeled over! What was the inference from the two things? Plainly to
every inhabitant, that the outlaws had run the schooner into Fire Island
for a harbor, and when the wind made that sudden shift, the vessel had
fouled anchor or parted chain and had gone ashore.
That afternoon there was brisk riding to summon the squads of men.
"Now's our chance, if ever. They'll hang on there till high tide 'bout
midnight, an' try to get 'er off. But they won't find as much water
piled up there agin at high tide as they went ashore in. An' to-morrow,
after workin' an' tuggin' half the night to no purpose, they'll conclude
to abandon her," were the rousing words of a man who gathered a small
squad at Islip within half an hour after the word of summons came.
By understanding, the place of rendezvous was the old tavern still
standing at Blue Point, where the road running south makes a sharp angle
and bends to the west.
Two squads came from the west--twelve men. They halted at Widow Molly's,
and rested a short time in that front room. They talked of the
ransacking and robbery of the house, and nothing else; boasted of the
vengeance they would take out of those "hell-birds;" drank two or three
times around, and then set out for Blue Point, assuring the hostess that
they would recover her gold.
Widow Molly made no reply to this, but to Captain Ben of the Penataquit
squad, with whom she walked to the door, she said quietly, "Bring back,
if nothing else, a gun with brass mountings, which they took the last
thing without my knowing it. It must be on board somewhere."
A squad came up from Patchogue, and when those from the west arrived at
the tavern, there were twenty-six men ready for the enterprise.
Three hours passed in discussing plans and selecting a leader. It could
not have been done in less time. Every man had _his_ ideas, and every
man had to be heard. And so the company gradually broke up into groups.
One knot of men stood outside the tavern door, a group of five or six
were out by the barn, a number walked towards the shore to see just the
position the schooner lay in, thinking that a sight of her from Blue
Point would suggest the best move to make. When those who walked towards
the shore came back, they suggested that all go into the tavern and
either all agree upon some plan or give the affair up and go home. In
all the discussion two or three self-contained men had kept quiet,
knowing evidently that there must be just so much futile talk, and that
when this had become tiresome, the company would adopt any good plan.
Among those who had said very little was Captain Ben of Penataquit. A
little vexed, he suddenly stepped into a chair and spoke: "This talk can
go on till Doomsday, but it won't accomplish anything. Now, I know,
there has been three or four plans stated; but I propose this as the
surest one, though it'll take longer an' be harder on us. After dark,
muffle our oars, an' row across the Bay to Long Cove. Land there, draw
our boats up an' cover 'em with sea-weed. At midnight start west along
the surf-shore, an' when we get opposite to where the schooner is
ashore, cross the Beach, an' surprise the crew at daybreak. That's the
main plan. All the rest'll have to be decided accordin' to what turns
up."
This plan met a hearty reception; and someone forthwith proposed that
Captain Ben be made leader, which was just as heartily agreed to.
It was four miles across to Long Cove, and nearly seven miles down the
Beach to where the schooner lay. They took with them such provisions as
could be secured, and as soon as twilight had wholly faded, pulled
across the Bay. It was past nine o'clock when they made the start, for
the days were then at their longest.
They struck the Beach a little east of Long Cove, but followed it up,
entered the Cove, and drew their boats up.
"We've got plenty o' time," said Captain Ben, "an' we'd better take a
bite o' what we've got afore we start. There's no knowin' when we'll get
the next chance."
Standing around the boats or sitting on the gunwales, the men ate and
drank and talked. Shortly after midnight they shouldered their arms,
crossed the Beach, and began the march westward along the surf shore.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]
The inner side of the Beach is covered with marshes and meadows,
indented most irregularly by the Bay. But along the ocean side there is
a smooth piece of strand, six or eight rods wide, and flanked all along
by steep sand-hills, which sometimes rise thirty feet high. Along this
piece of strand lay their line of march. It was hard travelling, for the
sand, unless wet, is not firm, but yields under the foot, and gives
forth at every step a creaking note, doubtless caused by the particles
of salt that are commingled with the sand. The sounds coming from so
many footsteps made one continuous creaking, very much like the sound of
a loaded wagon drawn over a snow-packed road.
The surf boomed and pounded, rushed and seethed and swirled, so that
thirty rods from the group the noise of their footsteps was swallowed
up. The men, though, heard the creaking continually, and it apparently
grew louder and more distinct. It seemed to them to be giving the alarm
of their coming to the whole Beach.
"I'm goin' to take to the wet sand," said a man in the middle of the
group. "I've had enough of this everlastin' creak, creak, creak."
The tide was half-way down, and as he struck for the wet sand, he was
followed by the rest of the company. They found the sand firmer, and the
walking easier. Now and then a wave would lap up and wet their feet.
They were used to wet feet, all of them; but creaking sand at every
footstep on a midnight march they could not endure.
When the first streaks of daylight showed themselves in the east,
Captain Ben put his followers in file close up under the surf hills. So
soon as daylight grew strong enough to define faintly the reaches of the
coast, he crept to the top of the row of hills, and reconnoitred the
Beach. He could just make out dimly, a mile westward, the masts and hull
of the stranded schooner. He backed down from the sand-hill and reported
what he had seen.
"About a mile to west'ard, an' nobody stirrin' as I can make out. See
that your guns are all well primed an' dry. Keep in close to the hills
till we get abreast the spot. And now, forward!"
There were two or three places in the hills in that mile, where the
ocean had broken through and poured its waters over low spots of beach
into the Bay. Cautiously the men skulked by these openings.
"I b'lieve in bein' wary," said a Blue Point bay-man. "There's no
calc'latin' what we may run upon any minute--mebbe the hull poss on 'em
in some o' these ere hill hollers."
The daylight was now fast flooding ocean and Beach and Bay. What they
were to do must be done quickly.
Captain Ben gathered his followers close in under the bank, while he
climbed to the top of the sand ridge and peered over. He saw distinctly
the masts of the schooner, but not the hull, as the second ridge of
hills cut off his view. He slipped back a few yards, and directed the
men to range themselves abreast and crawl over the hill into the next
valley or, rather, depression between the surf hills and the middle
beach range.
When all were over and down, he gave word to crawl on hands and knees up
the ridge before them, and to halt within twenty yards of the top, while
he again peered over.
The day was now fully open. The creeping line of men came towards the
top of the ridge, and Captain Ben waved his hand backwards for them to
stop. The line halted, and every man drew himself up on his knees to
watch the Captain.
He had crept not three lengths after waving his hand for the line to
halt, when, as suddenly and unexpectedly as if some dead sailor had
risen from his grave among those Beach hills, a man stepped over the
crest of the hill.
In an instant and with one impulse, the Captain, and those in the line
behind him, levelled their muskets at the outlaw.
He was startled, but his senses came quick as Captain Ben growled, "Not
a breath from you, you devil, or out goes your brains. Drop, an' crawl
to rear."
The outlaw dropped upon all fours and crawled to the rear, the men all
the while covering him with their muskets.
The moment he reached the line, he was seized by seven or eight strong
hands. Captain Ben was there as quick.
"Gag him.--Not a whimper from you, either!"
The outlaw yielded as he felt a bayonet prick his side and saw a musket
lifted above his head ready to stave his skull.
"Bind his hands behind him," continued the Captain. "Tie his feet--tie
his legs above his knees, and muffle him."
Then they tore the outlaw's hat into shreds, and with rough hands
stuffed these shreds into his mouth around the gag-stick.
Meanwhile, Captain Ben crept to the top of the hill and peered over. No
one else was stirring on board the schooner.
The outlaw that was now lying at the bottom of the hollow, bound so that
he could not move, gagged and so nearly choked that he could give no
alarm, was doubtless the last watch, who at daylight, seeing that all
was well, had taken it into his head to stroll over to the ocean side,
and see what was doing there.
"This devil out of the way and no one else stirring, there is every
chance of surprising the outlaws before they turn out," thought Captain
Ben.
He, therefore, ordered the men to creep over the hill and down the slope
as far as possible, separating all they could in doing so. Then, when he
rose, the rest were to follow his example, rush toward the schooner, and
board her if possible.
Over they crept and down through the grass, sticking the coarse
sedge-stumps into their hands and knees. The time that passed in getting
over to the ridge and down to the meadow seemed to them tenfold as long
as it really was. They watched the schooner constantly, yet no one was
seen stirring on board.
When at last off the slope of the hill and down upon the level meadow,
the Captain rose to his feet, and, crouching very low, ran toward the
vessel. The others quickly followed his example, all keeping the
sharpest eye on the schooner, and ready to fall flat upon the meadow at
the least sign of anyone coming on deck.
They were within ten rods of the schooner, when an outlaw, half dressed,
stepped out of the cabin gangway. He had just stepped out of his berth,
and sailor-like, had come on deck the first thing to look at the
weather.
The instant his head popped above the cabin entrance, every man upon the
meadow fell flat and watched him.
It was an exciting moment. Though they were lying as close to the ground
as possible, there was no rank growth of new grass to conceal them, and
had the outlaw cast his eyes upon the meadow where they lay, he would
surely have detected their presence.
But although a man is out of his berth, his senses are not at their
brightest. He must yawn a little, and stretch himself and clear his
throat. All this the outlaw did his face turned from the Beach and
looking out over the Bay.
Captain Ben, seeing this, rose stealthily, and with one vigorous sweep
of his arm, signalled the men to rush toward the schooner. There was not
a second lost in obeying. The splash of a dozen men in the water, who
made for the schooner's bow in order to board her forward, attracted
suddenly the outlaw's attention, and whirling around, he took in at a
glance the whole surprise.
The schooner was harder aground aft, and lay obliquely, with her stern
almost touching the meadow bank. To this point Captain Ben and the
others of his company ran, and drew their guns on the outlaw.
"Surrender or I'll pull," shouted Captain Ben.
"Five minutes to consider," asked the outlaw, who afterwards proved to
be the leader of the gang.
"Not a second," replied the Captain. "Speak the word, or you're a dead
man."
The men who plunged for the bow of the schooner had now gained the deck,
and were rushing for the outlaw, while those on shore kept their guns
levelled on him. Two of the stoutest men seized and pinioned him with
the main sheet.
The outlaws below, aroused by the noise, rushed up the cabin gangway
just as they had sprung from their berths, bareheaded, barefooted, with
breeches and shirt on, but suspenders flapping.
When they sprang from their berths, they caught up whatever weapons came
first to hand--pistols, dirks, sheath-knives. In their excitement two
attempted to come through the gangway at the same time, and one of
Captain Ben's men, seeing his advantage, instantly clubbed his musket
and struck. The blow hurled both the outlaws back upon those rushing up
behind, and thus cleared for a second the gangway stairs. Down rushed
the man with a bayonet on his gun, followed by others. A pistol-bullet
gouged a piece out of his left arm, but he kept his man at bay. By this
time all the rest of the townsmen were on board, and crowded, as many as
possible, into the cabin. The fight grew fierce. The cabin became filled
with smoke from the shots fired. But there was no chance to reload, and
the butt of the musket was used with horrible execution. Blood flowed
and bones were broken. The struggle, however, lasted but ten minutes. In
that short time most of the outlaws lay stunned upon the cabin floor;
the others had been pressed into berths and corners, and pinioned. And
so soon as those upon the floor showed any signs of reviving, they were
bound strongly. A few irons were found on board, and these were used as
far as they would go. The outlaws were put under guard, and given over
to some colonial officials, but into just what custody is not now known.
The schooner was searched from stem to stern that very morning, and
booty of some value secured. Not a pound, though, of Widow Molly's gold
was brought to light. In the cabin, however, in a conspicuous place,
hung the gun with brass mountings.
And that night the part of the company that went westward stopped at
Widow Molly's, and Captain Ben handed her the gun. The men lingered an
hour in the front room, and drank the hostess' health again and again.
When they had gone and the house had become quiet, Widow Molly took her
candle and the gun and went into the kitchen. She cleaned and polished
it, working till her candle was low in the stick. Sometimes a tear fell,
but they were the tears that overflow from a bounding heart.
A few evenings after, the young squire came. They sat and talked into
the quiet stretches of the evening. Then Widow Molly brought him the
gun. As he took it he kissed her, but not one time only as at first. And
when the squire carried the gun home, she who had guarded it to her
utmost went with it, but no longer Widow Molly.
[Illustration: (uncaptioned)]