Indeed, the desolate look of this forlorn hulk, and the
fearful place where it lay rotting, were sufficient to awaken strange
notions concerning it. A row of timber heads, blackened by time, peered
above the surface at high water; but at low tide a considerable part of
the hull was bare, and its great ribs or timbers, partly stripped of
their planks, looked like the skeleton of some sea monster. There was
also the stump of a mast, with a few ropes and blocks swinging about
and whistling in the wind, while the sea gull wheeled and screamed
around this melancholy carcass.
The stories connected with this wreck made it an object of great awe to
my boyish fancy; but in truth the whole neighborhood was full of fable
and romance for me, abounding with traditions about pirates,
hobgoblins, and buried money. As I grew to more mature years I made
many researches after the truth of these strange traditions; for I have
always been a curious investigator of the valuable, but obscure
branches of the history of my native province. I found infinite
difficulty, however, in arriving at any precise information. In seeking
to dig up one fact it is incredible the number of fables which I
unearthed; for the whole course of the Sound seemed in my younger days
to be like the straits of Pylorus of yore, the very region of fiction.
I will say nothing of the Devil's Stepping Stones, by which that arch
fiend made his retreat from Connecticut to Long Island, seeing that the
subject is likely to be learnedly treated by a worthy friend and
contemporary historian[2] whom I have furnished with particulars
thereof.
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