Captain Tom appears to have been generous and kindly,—­like most persons of questionable and picturesque careers.  The Silversmith who left his entire belongings to the Captain in 1796 is but one of many who had reason to love him.  One historian declares that he settled down, after retiring from the sea, and “became a respectable merchant at 10 Hanover Street,” where he piled up more and more gold to leave his son Robert Richard.  But it is a matter of record that the address at which he died was 8 Whitehall.  On Friday, October 27, 1797, he set forth on his last cruise,—­after seventy-four adventurous years on earthly seas.

He died much respected,—­by no one more than his son, Robert Richard Randall, who had an immense admiration and reverence for his memory.  It was he who, in 1790, bought the Elliott estate from “Baron” Poelnitz, for the sum of five thousand pounds—­a handsome property of some twenty-four acres covering the space between Fourth and Fifth avenues, Waverly Place and approximately Ninth Street.  The Elliott house which has been described as being of “red brick with white” was clearly a rather pretentious affair, and stood, says Mrs. Lamb, so that Broadway when it was laid down “clipped the rear porch.”

It is a curious fact and worthy of note that the old, original house stood undamaged until 1828, and that, being sold at auction and removed at that date, its materials were used in a house which a few years ago was still in good condition.

Robert Richard Randall was also, like his father, known as “Captain,” though there is no record of his ever having gone to sea as a sailor.  Indeed he would scarcely have been made an “honourary” member of the Marine Society had he been a real shipmaster.  Courtesy titles were de rigueur in those days, when a man was popular, and he appears to have been thoroughly so.

When it came time for him, too, to die, he paid his father’s calling what tribute he could by the terms of his will.

His lawyer—­no less a person that Alexander Hamilton himself—­called to discuss the terms of this last document.  By the bye, Hamilton’s part in the affair is traditional and legendary rather than a matter of official record;—­certainly his name does not appear in connection with the will.  But Hamilton was the lawyer of Randall’s sister, and a close family friend, so the story may more easily be true than false.

This, then, is the way it goes:  Alexander Hamilton was summoned to make out the last will and testament, or at least, to advise concerning it.  Randall was already growing weak, but had a clear and determined notion of what he wanted to do with his money.  This was on June 1, 1801.  The dying man left a number of small bequests to friends, families and servants, before he came to the real business on his mind.  His bequests, besides money, included, “unto Betsey Hart, my housekeeper, my gold sleeve buttons,” and “unto Adam Shields, my faithful overseer, my gold watch,” and “unto Gawn Irwin, who now lives with me, my shoe-buckles and knee-buckles.”  Adam Shields married Betsey Hart.  They were both Scotch—­probably from whatever part of Scotland the Randalls hailed in the first place.