Legends of Fire Island Beach and the South Side

by Edward R. Shaw

He tipped the jar aside to disturb the coins, observing as they slid over, other traces of the lint or cotton, which had evidently been used to pack the coins in layers, either as security to the jar, or to muffle any clink that would excite suspicion in removal. But his purpose in tipping the jar was not to witness the exhalation of the fluffy substance—he had another object in view. So, canting the jar first towards him and then from him to secure as varied a change of the contents as possible, he peered to the very bottom. Nothing there but gold, the yellowest of gold.

Reaching in with two fingers, he brought out a coin between them, and began to examine it. The date, 1783, was all that was familiar to him. Looking at the other side, he recognized the image of a crown, and under it, upon a shield, figures of lions, standing on their hind legs, with long tails curved like the letter S. Was it English money? The letters, HISPAN-ET-IND, around the edge, were unintelligible to him. He turned the coin back to the date side. Here was the profile of some rotund personage, and over his head, CAROLUS III. DEI-GRATIA. It was the third of some monarch, that was evident enough; but the DEI-GRATIA was just as puzzling as the letters on the other side. Reaching in for another coin, he read the date, 1799. Above was a slightly different profile, the same name, but after it was IIII. instead of III. He drew coin after coin from the jar until he had several in his hand. Except the dates they were in the main alike. He conjectured that they were doubloons—Spanish doubloons; and his conjecture was right. Satisfied with the examination he had made, he piled the doubloons in a column in one hand, and with the other, lifted the pile and let them drop, one by one, to hear the solid chink. This, however, did not reach up to the height of his feelings. So he spread out his coat, and made, with a few blows of his hand upon the yielding sand underneath, a concave surface. Then lifting the pot, he poured out the coins in a glittering stream. Their fall was musical, and when the last one fell, he scooped up double handfuls, held them high, and let the dazzling stream run again.

It was the first golden dream realized since the days when Captain Kidd was said to have buried his ill-gotten treasure in countless spots upon that Beach. How would that gold have dazzled the sight of all those argonauts who had made so many continuous but fruitless searches for the money reputed to be hid among those sand hills! What exultation would the sound of those falling yellow disks from the old mint of Mexico have wrought in those who had dredged persistently but in vain upon the bar where the long-boats of the Money-ship upset, or those who by moonlight and by starlight had walked to and fro over the hills, grasping the mineral rod, and digging where its delusive twitch indicated, until weary with toil and disappointment.

While the Captain’s whole attention was completely absorbed in this revel with his gold, a coasting vessel had been approaching. It is true that the schooner was a mile or perhaps farther from the shore, “but with their spy-glass,” thought the Captain, as he discovered the vessel, “those on board can plainly see just what I’ve got here.” Hurriedly dipping up handful after handful, he slid the coins carefully into the jar, and after the stopper was replaced, wrapped his coat about it, reached his gun, and disappeared over the hills.

When he came to his boat, he tied the coat securely about the jar with odd strands of rope, and placed the prize carefully under forward. When night fell, it was his intention to make towards home.

The south-west breeze had gathered with the day, and blew freshly even from the Beach shore. Out in the Bay, where it had wide, unhindered scope, it had added to itself, pushing the waves before it, and urging them with such impetuosity that their crests grew flurried and broke into white, foamy caps. Every leaf on the “South Shore” was astir, fluttering and tugging in the moist wind; and the trees bended and straightened to trim all their spread of canvas to the sweeps of the breeze.

“Ruther rougher than I care for tonight,” thought the Captain, “but the wind’ll fall after the sun sinks; I’ll give it time.”

The color had gone from the few strips of cloud that lay about the sundown spot, and the gray twilight arch stretched across the west, as the Captain cleared away for home. Along the eastern sky, well up, a glow of dull orange spread itself, and creeping up to the glow and gradually transmuting it, was a cold blue, the blue of advancing night—a color so rare that it is matched nowhere else than on polished steel when the blacksmith tempers it.

The Captain steered with a strong and steady hand, and watched his sail with a vigilant eye. But give heed as closely as he might to his craft, there played with his fancy the glowing rays of distant Fire Island Light. It had just been built. Again and again its gleams, falling on the dark side of some tumbling wave, caused the Captain to turn his head and look over his shoulder to the source whence they came. The light was, in truth, no guide to him on this night, but thoughts of the time when it would be, kept recurring. He called to mind going in and out of Fire Island Inlet years ago, before a light-house was ever proposed, and of how difficult a place the Inlet was to enter after nightfall. But now, no matter how thick the night, bring that light to bear north-east, and one was inside and out of harm’s way. What an advantage it was! He thought, too, of how he should see it far ahead, when making a run homeward from Coney Island; of the times he should have to lie anchored within the inlet waiting for fit weather to go out, and how companionable that light would be sending out its bright rays on wild, stormy nights.