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.

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.”

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.

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.