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 anchor close 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, and that 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 villages the 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 and The 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—indications that 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 into these 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. No other 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. But treachery, 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, and conjectures 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 through the 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.