Simon’s screams brought up Natty Robbins and the women of the house. It was the women, more than the men, who finally succeeded in calming Simon down. This is the account he gave of what had happened after the four men had gone back to bed.
I was sound asleep. I didn’t hear any noise at all, but, before God, when I woke up quick, I felt something. I tried not to do it, but I couldn’t help pulling the sheet back and peeking out. There was nothing I could see, because the candles had been blown out, and there wasn’t a bit of light. But I knew there was danger.
Suddenly, I heard a steady thump, thump, thump on the stairs, as if someone was striking with a light hammer, and my eyes were riveted in that direction. It was the pitch black of night, but just as plain as if he had been made of moonlight, I saw a man slowly coming up the stairs. First appeared his head, then his body, and finally his whole figure. He held the end of a heavy rope in his two hands. At each step, he hit the step ahead of him with the rope. Although he wore heavy boots, there was never a sound from them, only the thump, thump, thump of the rope end and a bubbling sound in his throat, as if he were trying to say something and couldn’t.
After reaching the top of the stairs, he advanced straight toward the window by my bed. I thought that if I kept still and he didn’t see me, he’d go on past me and out the window, as he had done on the previous night. Then I’d be well shut of him. But just before he got to my bed, he commenced a violent grabbing and tugging at his throat with his two hands. All the time he was making the most horrible choking noises and twisting his body and striking out with his boots in a way that I thought would be the end of me.
Then, all of a sudden, he quieted. He threw out his arms and raised his head as if praying, all the while moving toward the window. I had sense enough to know that he would soon be gone, and I felt easier. But when he was right opposite me, I could see that there was a rope tied tight around his neck and hanging down behind. God, how I remember the sound of that trailing rope, for I had heard it before, not knowing what it was.
My trouble had only begun, for instead of going on past me, as I had prayed he would, he suddenly halted, dropped his arms, and stood looking down at me. I tried to call the boys but was too terrified to make a sound.
Kneeling down, the ghost threw back his head and thrust his neck, with the rope around it, close before my face. I couldn’t stir. He pointed to his throat, out of which were coming those ghastly gurgling noises, and he repeated those violent motions I had seen before. Now I saw that they were efforts to untie the rope. His face and neck were blue and swollen, and a bloody froth oozed from his lips.
He reached out and took my hands in his, raising them to his throat. I somehow found the strength to pull them back. He gently took them again, and something made me understand that he wanted me to loosen the knot. Somehow, I did it. I don’t know how. He leaped up, uttering the most devilish “Ha! Ha! Ha!” and disappeared through the window. And that is the last I remember until daybreak.
Simon, Jim, and Sam left the tavern the next day. John Klein worked a day or two longer, then he, too, left. Not that he was afraid of ghosts, he said, but because he couldn’t get Simon’s screams out of his ears. As he finished telling this story to his son, Klein shook his head and said, “What’s the use of working all day at a place where you can’t get any sleep at night?”
The Tory spy was never again seen at Seven Stars, and Klein swore that Simon’s cries had scared him off, but others believe that Simon laid the ghost to rest when he was brave enough to untie the knot and free him.
Said to be the best-preserved colonial tavern in the East, Seven Stars was built in 1762 by Peter and Elizabeth Lauterbach (later Louderback), whose descendants own the Louderback North American Van Lines. For more than a decade, the tavern was the home of Roy Plunkett, the inventor of Teflon. Though it is not open to the public, passersby may view it from the road at the intersection of Kings Highway and Woodstown–Auburn Road.
THE THING IN THE WELL
OLD FORT NIAGARA, YOUNGSTOWN, NEW YORK
One of the many legends that surround Old Fort Niagara is an old and grisly story about this building, the French Castle.
When the moon is full above the Castle on a summer night—that is when they say it happens. And for all we know, it may be happening tonight. Pray it won’t. Or pray, at least, that neither you nor I will be there to see it if it should.
But wait—in my horror, I am getting ahead of myself.
Old Fort Niagara at Youngstown, New York, is one of the northernmost historic sites in the United States. The impressive French Castle, as it is called, was erected in 1726. These fortifications, which guarded the vital water route to the West and were occupied at various times by French voyageurs, British grenadiers, and American soldiers, have been well preserved. Today the Castle is just as it stood before the Revolution, with its massive stone walls and bastions, blockhouses and stockade, moat and drawbridge. In the summer months the roar of muskets and roll of drums reverberate beside Lake Ontario as colorful pageantry celebrates the history of the old fortifications.
Most military forts have seen both good and evil days. Just as the body of a murdered man sometimes rises to the surface of the water to expose his murderer, dark deeds that once took place here persist among the legends surrounding Old Fort Niagara. One grisly event continues to be told. Our story begins in the days just before the Indian War, when two French soldiers, whom we shall call Henri Le Clerc and Jean-Claude de Rochefort, were stationed here. The fort in which they lived was a little city in itself, the largest place south of Montreal or west of Albany. Everything that the soldiers needed for daily life was here. They had a mess hall, barracks, bakery, blacksmith shop, and, for worship, a small chapel with a large, ancient dial over the door to mark the hourly course of the sun.
The well in the center of the Castle was there in the event the fort was ever surrounded and besieged. After the British captured and occupied it in 1759, they feared the French might have poisoned the water. So they filled the well with dirt and covered the top with large, flat stones that matched the rest of the floor. It was not until the 1920s that the well was restored.
In those early years a burial ground lay just outside the massive gates, and over its entrance was painted, in large characters, the word REST. Just how some of the poor wretches were sent to their “rest” in this barren field is open to speculation. Undoubtedly, there were those who came straight from the dungeon to the burial ground, for this fort also served as a harsh prison.
The dungeon, called the Black Hole, was a dark and dismal place. Over in one corner was a barbarous apparatus used for strangling those who offended the despotic rulers of a time when both justice and mercy were in short supply. On the dungeon’s walls, from top to bottom, prisoners had laboriously carved their names, a few pitiful words, or a family emblem.
Imagine the distress of one merchant at the fort who decided to hide some valuables in the dungeon when an attack was expected by superior British forces. He went there late one night and, on the wall, from among hundreds of French names, one leaped out at him. It was his own family name, d’Artagnan, carved in large letters.
Once, the bones of a woman were found when it became necessary to clear out an old mess-hall sink, confirming people’s suspicions that the fort was often the scene of foul murder. Thus, amid the natural beauty of the land and the lake, it is clear that the most atrocious crimes also took place in Old Fort Niagara. But let us return to our story.
During any occupation, there is a need for celebrations to break the monotony, and the French often held parties on the third floor of the Castle. It was the custom of the officers to invite a number of Indian girls from the nearby Seneca village. Among the Senecas, women had considerable power and were respected. They both nominated members of the tribal council and removed them if they misbehaved.
Henri Le Clerc, a young man of a good family from Bordeaux, France, had left early on the evening of t
he party with several fellow officers to escort the women to the Castle. Henri had personal reasons for going, as his heart had been captured by a lovely Indian girl named Onita. They had no sooner arrived at the Seneca village, however, than a cloudburst occurred, and no one wanted to leave until it was over. On the return to the Castle, the sky was clear and the night was beautiful, complete with an enormous full moon. Henri and Onita lingered a little behind the others, admiring the moon and happy in each other’s company. By the time the girls and their escorts reached the Castle, the wine was flowing freely, for Henri could hear loud talk and outbursts of laughter as they mounted the stairs to the third floor.
“The party is already quite noisy,” remarked Onita. Henri agreed. “If some of the men begin to get out of hand, I’ll take you back to the village early,” he said.
When the girls entered the room, cheers rang out; for a time there was singing and dancing, and all went well. Unfortunately, an officer named Jean-Claude de Rochefort, whom Henri particularly despised, had pulled up a chair and seated himself on the other side of Onita. Jean-Claude was a former seaman, and if he had not once been a pirate, Henri was certain he was at least a scoundrel. Jean-Claude also fancied himself irresistible to the ladies. All efforts that Henri and Onita made at conversation were futile, for Jean-Claude constantly interrupted.
With more wine, his behavior worsened. Several times Onita shook de Rochefort’s hand from her arm, but he continued to become even bolder. “Mon petit chou, why do you resist me?” he said, placing his arm around her shoulders and attempting to pull her close.
“Because you are a pig!” the angry young woman shot back at him.
“Why, you little . . . ,” shouted Jean-Claude, seizing her roughly and thrusting his face close to hers.
Henri jumped from his chair and struck Jean-Claude’s face such a blow that he released the girl in surprise. There was the thud of fists striking flesh and bone. Jean-Claude was getting much the worst of it. He leaped behind a chair and, to the other officers’ surprise, drew his sword. Henri had to retreat enough to draw his own weapon.
Henri thrust repeatedly at his attacker, and the greater amount of wine that Jean-Claude had consumed was now giving Henri the advantage. The blade of Henri’s sword nicked de Rochefort’s arm, then his cheek. Other officers at first tried to stop them but then assumed that the duel would end when one or the other was wounded. Jean-Claude was always volatile, but tonight his temper, combined with alcohol and the insult to his pride, had sent him into a frenzy. Henri had the skill and ability to outlast his foe, however, and the other officers knew it. He withstood the mighty, slashing blows that deflected his skillful thrusts and avoided return lunges by stepping from one side to another to tire his enemy.
Henri moved to keep from backing into one of the Indian girls, and then he realized his danger: He was directly in front of the stairway. Seizing his advantage, Jean-Claude lunged forward with a quick thrust to the body, and involuntarily, Henri stepped back to the brink of the top stair. Now Henri’s peril was great, and Jean-Claude became even more reckless. He took a cut across the chin but charged forward with his body like a bull, as if to grab Henri about the waist and hurl him down the stairs. Jean-Claude was a brute of a man, and to avoid grappling with him, Henri moved backward down the stairs.
His only hope was to keep Jean-Claude at a safe distance with the rapier-sharp point of his sword and try for a mortal thrust to the fellow’s heart or abdomen. To this end, he slowly retreated down the stairs, waiting for the right moment to deliver the blow. As it seemed that the duel would be a long one, the other officers stayed on the third floor with the Indian girls. The duelists continued down the flight of steps until they were a short distance from the first floor. Henri then began to formulate a more charitable plan: Being the more agile man, when both reached the first floor he would whirl around, mount a few steps, and leap upon Jean-Claude, pinning him to the floor. If he could execute the move quickly enough, he was sure his opponent would admit defeat.
But as Henri’s foot reached the third step from the bottom, he tripped and lost his balance. His head struck the stone floor, and all went black. In a moment of insane anger, Jean-Claude raised his sword arm and ran the helpless man through.
A little sanity, or at least the need for self-preservation, then began to return to Jean-Claude de Rochefort. He had committed murder, a deed for which he could hang. Before his crime was discovered, he must somehow get rid of the body. Henri was by no means a small man and would be too heavy to carry. Besides, Jean-Claude had only a short time to dispose of the evidence. What was he to do? He decided to dismember the body and throw the pieces into Lake Ontario. If they were found later, everyone would think that a soldier had been the victim of hostile Indians.
He began his grisly work. Using his already bloodied sword, he first cut off the head and ran with it to the lake. Returning, he noticed the blood he had left on the floor and, finding some rags, mopped it up quickly. Ready to resume his horrible task, he heard the sound of voices from above and realized that the party was ending. The officers and girls would be coming down the stairs at any moment. There was only one thing to do. With all his strength, Jean-Claude carried the body to the well and threw it in. From the depths of the well came a distant splash, and it was done.
The partygoers stumbled back to their barracks in a much more drunken condition than the one in which they had arrived. If there were any who wondered about Henri and Jean-Claude, they probably thought both men had retired to their own quarters. Within the week some of the officers noticed the absence of Henri, and a search was organized, but it was fruitless. There were those, including Onita, who were convinced that Henri had been murdered by Jean-Claude, but they lacked the evidence with which to step forward and accuse him.
Onita was certain that Henri was dead, for she knew he would have come back to her if he had been alive. Several months passed, and she did not have the heart to go to any parties at the Castle. But one September night when there was to be a party, she decided to go, for the purpose of listening and learning whatever she could that might give some clue to Henri’s fate.
The girls and officers left the village together, and some were surprised to see Onita, for she had not been to the Castle since the duel. That night she made it a point to mingle with as many of the officers as possible but not to become deeply involved in conversation with any one of them. Her objective was to find someone who was a friend of Henri’s and who had been there the night he disappeared. The evening passed, but she was not successful. Finally, as she was preparing to leave with the other girls, a young man named Jacques came up and spoke to her admiringly.
“I know you. You were with Henri the night of the duel. I often admired you, but Henri was my dear friend, and I knew how much he cared about you. Your name was on his lips often.”
“Thank you. Perhaps I shall see you again here at the Castle.”
Jacques nodded, his face flushed with pleasure.
Two weeks later Jacques went to the Seneca village. It was on a night when the moon was huge and round with a cast to it, sometimes described as “blood on the moon.” However often we see it, there is always something ominous about a full moon that is red. Jacques and Onita sat talking with some of the other members of the tribe, and this time it was Onita who brought the subject around to Henri.
But Jacques stopped her. “Onita, it is not wise for us to say too much about it here. Let’s go to the Castle.”
The building was empty, for it was by now almost midnight, and the men were in the barracks. They sat down on the bottom step of the same stairs where the duel had occurred, and Jacques began to tell her how he had lingered after the others had left on the night of the duel.
“I don’t know what I expected. Perhaps that Henri would come back, but he did not. I sat right where we are now.”
“And what happened?”
“I thought I heard a noise coming from the well.”
“What did you do?”
“I ran. That’s what I did.”
Onita looked at him accusingly. “And later you began to think that Jean-Claude might have killed him and put his body in the well. Is that right?”
“Yes. I thought of that and also that he might not have been dead. Perhaps I could have saved his life.”
They both fell silent. It was almost midnight, time to take Onita back to the village, thought Jacques.
“Hush! Do you hear something?” Onita whispered.
“Yes. Like something scraping against stone?”
“Do you know where it is coming from?”
“My God! Do you mean the well?”
“Yes.”
The clock struck midnight.
And then, as the pair watched horror-stricken, the fingers of a blood-stained hand crept very slowly over the side of the well. A second hand scrabbled over the rim. Now the forearms of a man emerged, dressed in a soldier’s uniform. The arms appeared to pull mightily, and as they did, the shoulders and upper portion of a man’s body rose out of the well. Where the neck and head should have been, though, there was nothing at all, only a bloody stump.
Jacques and Onita fled, terrified. There was no doubt in their minds that Jean-Claude had murdered Henri and dropped his headless body into the well. Nor did Jacques keep what he had seen a secret. The well was explored, the body of the dead man was found, and Jean-Claude was hanged.
But those who have been there when the full moon is high over the Castle say that, exactly at midnight, the ghost of the headless Frenchman begins to claw its way slowly but surely out of the well. After resting from its efforts, the ghost of Henri Le Clerc rises, dripping, and moves slowly and awkwardly through the dark halls of the Castle in search of its long-lost head.
Old Fort Niagara is a State Historic Site opened by the Old Fort Niagara Association, Inc., in cooperation with the New York State Office of Parks, Recreation, and Historic Preservation. The address is Old Fort Niagara, Fort Niagara State Park, Youngstown, New York 14174; visit www.oldfortniagara.org/ or call (716) 745-7611 for more information. Tours and events are conducted throughout the year.
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