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.”
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.