It is now many years since Sam, who was then as
active a young negro as any in the province, and worked on the farm
of Killian Suydam on Long Island, having finished his day's work at
an early hour, was fishing, one still summer evening, just about
the neighborhood of Hell Gate.
He was in a light skiff, and being well acquainted with the
currents and eddies, had shifted his station, according to the
shifting of the tide, from the Hen and Chickens to the Hog's Back,
from the Hog's Back to the Pot, and from the Pot to the Frying Pan;
but in the eagerness of his sport he did not see that the tide was
rapidly ebbing, until the roaring of the whirlpools and eddies
warned him of his danger, and he had some difficulty in shooting
his skiff from among the rocks and breakers, and getting to the
point of Blackwell's Island.[1] Here he cast anchor for some time,
waiting the turn of the tide to enable him to return homeward. As
the night set in, it grew blustering and gusty. Dark clouds came
bundling up in the west, and now and then a growl of thunder or a
flash of lightning told that a summer storm was at hand.
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