In the year 1816, it passed into the hands of a Frenchman, and during
his day the villagers called the house The Watch Tower; for the
Frenchman was always on the high balcony, telescope in hand, gazing
seaward. No one knew his name. He dealt with the villagers through
his servant, who could speak English, himself professing that he could
not speak the language. He was a recluse, almost a hermit. At odd
times, a brig would be seen dropping anchor in the offing. She was
always from across the water, from the old country, as villagers to
this day insist upon calling Europe. The manor during these peaceful
invasions showed signs of life. Men from the brig went up to the big
white house, and remained there for a week or a month. And they were
lean men, battle-scarred and fierce of eye, some with armless sleeves,
some with stiff legs, some twisted with rheumatism. All spoke French,
and spat whenever they saw the perfidious flag of old England. This
was not marked against them as a demerit, for the War of 1812 was yet
smoking here and there along the Great Lakes. Suddenly, they would up
and away, and the manor would reassume its repellent aloofness. Each
time they returned their number was diminished. Old age had succeeded
war as a harvester. In 1822, the mysterious old recluse surrendered
the ghost. His heirs--ignored and hated by him for their affiliation
with the Bourbons--sold it to the father of the admiral.

The manor wasn't haunted. The hard-headed longshoremen and sailors who
lived at the foot of the hill were a practical people, to whom spirits
were something mostly and generally put up in bottles, and emptied on
sunless, blustery days. Still, they wouldn't have been human if they
had not done some romancing.

There were a dozen yarns, each at variance with the other. First, the
old "monseer" was a fugitive from France; everybody granted that.