1812: A tale of Cape Cod

The news of the capture of the whaleboat and its occupants soon became known to the inhabitants of Eastham and the tidings were received with dismay. The loss of the boat and her cargo was bad enough, but the fact that two of the neighbors were prisoners and liable to be sent across the ocean to Dartmoor caused consternation in the town. Then, again, the incident clearly betokened a change of policy on the part of the British. It was evident that the blockade was to be enforced rigorously, and this meant a scarcity of those provisions which the people were accustomed to get from Boston. Rye was plentiful, but anything approaching luxury was out of the question under the circumstances. The Committee of Safety was hastily convened, but after a long discussion the meeting adjourned until some definite information regarding the enemy’s movements could be obtained. Messengers were sent to Provincetown with instructions to consult with the selectmen of that place and get their views.

The prevailing gloom was apparent at Crosby’s tavern. The gossips were gathered as usual, but there were no jokes going around; even Master Walker refrained from any of his customary sallies. Uncle Jabez Rich occupied his seat in the chimney corner, and as he philosophically smoked his pipe, he seemed to be the only person untroubled by the shadow of hard times.

“You don’t appear to be much worried about the future, Uncle Jabez?” Peter remarked.

“The future, Master Walker, has been before me for nearly ninety years but I have never overtaken it. The past is what an old man knows best. The present must be left to the young.”

“There have been many changes in Eastham since you were a boy, Uncle Jabez?”

“Aye, Master Walker, many changes, surely. In some ways the youngsters now know more than grown people in my youth, and in other ways our great scholars of today are far behind the men of learning who lived here in the old days.”

Peter Walker saw that Uncle Jabez was in a reminiscent mood. The occasion was ripe for stimulating the old man’s memory.

“I’ve heard my grandfather tell of those good times when Mr. Treat was minister. That was before your time, Uncle Jabez. Grandfather was only eighty when he died, but he hadn’t your memory.”

“No, Peter, few men have my memory, if I do say it myself. I was only a boy at the time, but I well remember the days when Mr. Samuel Osborn was minister. Ah, he was a rare man! It was not his piety that recommended him to his flock, though he was a good man, too. It was his way of doing good. He took hold of the things nearest to hand. Didn’t your grandfather ever mention how Mr. Osborn taught the people the value of peat for fuel when there was a scarcity of wood?”

“He used to say something of the sort, Uncle Jabez, but he got Mr. Osborn mixed with the other minister, Mr. Webb.”

“Aye, Mr. Webb was one of the best men that ever lived but he had no faculty for practical matters. He had the Middle Parish, and Mr. Osborn had the South Parish. They were always the best of friends, though their dispositions were very different. Didn’t you ever hear the story of how the ‘Whidah’ was lost and how one of the two survivors used to come to the Cape for years after in search of the pirate’s treasure?”

“We heard a little of the story, Uncle Jabez, but nobody seemed to know it in full.”

“I know it in full, Master Walker.”

As Uncle Jabez said this the hearers became more interested and drew nearer the chimney-place.

“Tell us about it, Uncle Jabez,” urged Obed Sparrow. “I have heard tell of that strange man who frequented the dunes of Wellfleet years ago. Nobody seems to know what was his end.”

Uncle Jabez was nothing loth to comply, and this is how his story ran.

In those old days, my masters, Eastham was a town of great importance in the colony. From the bounds of Chatham and Harwich on the west, it took in the rest of the Cape as far as Truro. It was the famous corn-raising district of the colony, Nauset being known to the first settlers as “the granary of the Cape.” It had many men engaged in the fisheries and some went long voyages to southern lands in search of the vintage of Santa Cruz and Jamaica, bartering the spoil of the ocean for the products of the tropics. The Indians of the Nauset tribe, original owners of the soil, were rapidly vanishing from the earth, though a remnant of the nation still remained. They were a kindly race and lived in peace with the white man. After King Philip’s War, the power of the Narragansetts and the Wampanoags was broken, but the colony was still subject to frequent alarms from the French and their Indian allies, who were active in other parts of the state.

Some ten years before I was born, the Rev. Samuel Treat died. He had served the people for forty-four years, and his funeral was the occasion of great grief to all. He was beloved by the Indians. Two years after this, the pirate ship “Whidah” was wrecked during a great storm. One hundred and two bodies were washed ashore and buried on the dunes. Only two of the crew survived, an Englishman and an Indian. They disappeared almost immediately after they were rescued and nobody knew where they went to. I have often heard my father describe that fearful night. The raging ocean burst through the Cape, opening a passage through which boats could pass. Daylight revealed a dreadful sight. The sands were strewn with the bodies of the dead pirates. An immense concourse gathered from all parts of the Cape to view the scene and, if possible, to have their share of the treasure which Sam Bellamy, the pirate captain, was supposed to have had on board.

Some of you, my masters, may know all of this; all of you may know some of it, but as my story has to deal with the “strange man” who frequented this district some years after the wreck of the pirate, I hope I have not trespassed on your patience by this allusion to the event which was responsible for the stranger’s appearance in our town.

Years passed by, and I was a stout lad of ten when I first heard of this man. He had been seen on the Wellfleet beach, apparently searching for something. The scene of his operations was just below the hut of Goody Hallett, on the line between Eastham and what is now Wellfleet. Goody Hallett lived alone. She was old and most people regarded her as a witch, but this was probably because she kept much to herself. She was expert at the spinning-wheel and ostensibly supported herself by this industry. She never asked charity, though people wondered how so old a woman could earn enough to keep her from want. She courted seclusion, and the situation of her small dwelling, far removed from the prying eyes of neighbors, favored this. A tall, thin woman, with dark features strongly telling of Indian blood, her appearance went far to confirm the idea that she rode the broomstick and could work charms. She was not a native of this place. It was said she belonged to a distant part of the Cape, beyond Yarmouth, and she arrived in Eastham soon after the wreck of the “Whidah.”

The stranger was described as a man of fierce aspect. His beard and mustachios were originally coal-black but time had whitened the pointed ends. His face was scarred in many places. Those who brought the news of his presence said that when he discovered that he was being watched his features were contorted with passion and his expression was that of the Evil One. Allowing for some exaggeration on the part of the frightened beholders, there could be no doubt but that this stranger of forbidding mien desired to avoid the observation of the inhabitants while he pursued his mysterious search of the sands.

One evening in the late Fall, when the first snowflakes began to whiten the ground, my father and I had made all snug for the night and were leaving the barn when we heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs approaching the house. Soon the wayfarer entered the yard and a cheerful voice greeted us.

“Give ye good e’en, Goodman Rich! Like a careful husbandman thou hast made thy beasts comfortable. Now, in the hospitality of thy heart, couldst thou find place below the salt for a weary guest at the bounteous feast which awaits thee? And how is my young friend Jabez?”

It was the Rev. Mr. Osborn. My father gave him hearty welcome, bade him dismount and enter. He stabled the horse while the minister was made welcome by my mother. Soon we were seated at table and Mr. Osborn continually praised the good things which my mother had set before us, a fact which pleased her greatly.

He was a man of genial temperament, free-spoken and always ready for his joke. Some of the stricter members of the South Parish church did not like his easy ways, but he had done much good among the people and, as yet, the mutterings of his enemies were scarcely heard. He had come from Ireland in the early years of the century and he had some of the faults as well as many of the virtues of his native land. His views on Christianity were broad; in fact, too broad for the elders of his church, as was afterward shown by his dismissal from the parish after trial by an ecclesiastical court. He had rejected the Calvinism in which his congregation had been reared. But he was a great man, and from him I learned many of the lessons which formed part of my equipment as schoolmaster in after years. He retained much of the old manner of speech which was then giving place to the modern form.

“I have been to Truro to see my good friend Mr. Avery, goodman, and I dallied on my way home, so that is the reason of my forcing myself on your hospitality for the night.”

“You are heartily welcome, Mr. Osborn,” said my mother. “The guest-chamber is all prepared.”

“Aye, goodwife, I well knew I should not find thy hospitable mansion unprepared. My friend Mr. Avery is not in the best of health. In the course of his exacting ministerial duties he caught a chill, but it is not serious. One of the best and most Godly of men and a true father to his spiritual children.”

“He is no better than yourself, sir!” exclaimed my mother.

The minister smiled somewhat sadly. “I fear me much, goodwife, that I can never reach the higher altitudes of sanctity where these saintly men live. The even tenor of their ways is never troubled by the doubts which sometimes harass mine. Perchance it is because I have seen so much of the evil of intolerance in my own country that I am sick at heart to see it powerful in this great new land. I have offended the elders of the South Parish by mildly hinting that the good Lord might even look with favor on a Papist if the misguided brother was honest in his interpretation of the Master’s will.”

“But,” he continued, “let us not spoil this happy occasion by theological discussion. I had quite an adventure on my way to Truro last night. Strange things are happening in our midst, Goodman Rich. Dost wish to hear what befell me?”

“Aye, sir, and if you please,” answered my father. “But before you commence, the goodwife will mix you a brew from the last wreck.”

My mother was skilled in the art of concocting a life-giving draught based on the Jamaica which came ashore from the wreck of the brig “Mary,” and soon we were listening to the minister’s tale which I give in our own speech.