by Bob Curran
Already in 1729, the year that the dispute broke out, change was underway in Gloucester. Up until then, the First Parish had served all of the Gloucester area, which was fine as long at the community remained small. From 1700 onward, however, the population of Cape Ann began to expand at an alarming rate—far too big for a single parish. From 1704 to 1755, the number of people grew from roughly 700 to 2,800. And this new population spread out through the Cape, increasing travel across difficult terrain to attend worship. At last, some congregation members in some of the outlying villages, tired of traveling, broke away, and formed parishes of their own. Even so, the numbers of people arriving in the Cape Ann settlements continued to grow, and as Gloucester developed as a port, many of these new “incomers” had a maritime background. The demographics of the community were beginning to subtly shift, as old families with a long-established pedigree in the area gave way to expanding newer ones with perhaps slightly more radical ideas.
The idea of a new Meeting House was first proposed in 1729 and was initially rejected without much discussion. Old families and venerable leaders saw little need for a new building in which some of the “incomers” might hold sway. Besides, there was a dangerous idea abroad: pews in the new establishment might actually be sold, allowing certain families to assume financial superiority over some of those who might be more established within the community. Thus, the notion of a new building was quickly shelved. Nevertheless, those favoring a new Meeting House were not so easily dismissed. In 1734, the First Parish members voted in favor of abandoning the old Meeting House by the Green and building a new one near the harbor, which was more than a mile away. And the proposal regarding the selling of seats was also put to vote and was only rejected on the slenderest of margins (by four votes). Of course, disputes wracked the community. The “incomers” vowed to push their idea concerning the sale of seats through by any means—wealth would be the sole determining factor in the community. The old families whose rank and status were determined by family lineage, spirituality, and service to their community suddenly found themselves increasingly marginalized. The issue was now being forced by wealthy merchants and leaders.
The old families, however, fought back, and as the new Meeting House rose beside the harbor, their opposition to it and all that it stood for centered round Nathaniel Coit. The idea of selling seats in the new House didn’t really bother Coit all that much—he was one of the settlement’s wealthier figures and could afford an expensive seat—but he had antagonized the harbor leaders by his stiff opposition to the building of the new Meeting House in the first place, and, when the building was finally constructed, an urging to people not to attend it. People heeded him, and for its first year the new House, twice the size of the old one, stood empty. The harbor leaders responded by bringing a suit against him; this meant that Coit would almost certainly be guaranteed one of the less favorable and less venerable seats in the new establishment.
Nathaniel Coit answered them by threatening to form a completely separate parish, one in which old values would be respected. However, in order to do this, he would have to petition the Massachusetts General Court and demonstrate that he had enough support to do so. This involved collecting a petition with sufficient signatures to make this major split possible. The harbor leaders wanted no split—such a rift might affect their power base in Gloucester and weaken their perceived political strength. They tried to stop him, but Coit went ahead with his petition. His own power base lay in the highlands in the Commons Settlement or Common Town. Here, the people were not all that financially well off by comparison to those who lived around the harbor area—their “wealth” lay in their good names, their established family traditions, and their work for the common good. They readily signed his petition because, under the new proposals, they could not afford to maintain their positions within the community and would almost certainly lose out to their wealthier neighbors. It also meant that the values of heredity, spirituality, and continuity would be maintained within the Gloucester settlement—something that had been long cherished among the colonists.
By November 1734, Nathaniel Coit had gathered more than 84 signatures for his petition. Many of those who had signed simply could not afford the new seats, and others were too old and infirm to make the journey down to the harbor. They were of a “different sort” to the wealthy inhabitants of the harbor area. In an attempt to block Coit’s petition, they filed their own complaint, drawing attention to the number of seamen now living in what they called “the Upper Towne,” who paid no taxes nor gave the ministers any support. They also tried to give the impression that the Commons Settlement was a den of vice and degeneracy. In their evidence to the General Court in reply to the petition, they openly said as much to the Court members.
In May 1739, after numerous representations and reconsiderations, Coit’s petition was rejected, leading to various arguments all through the Cape. Parish meetings were disrupted, there was violence at some gatherings, and many of the meetings dragged on past candle-lighting time when the settlement’s curfew began. “Nightwalking” after dusk was considered evil and was considered a punishable crime; the fact that many meetings went on after that time shows the severity of the subject to the colonists.
Undeterred by his failure, Coit filed a second petition. Again, the harbor leaders were hauled before the General Court to answer it. They claimed that additional and less-expensive seating had been added in the new meeting house, and if the people in the Upper Towne had difficulty in traveling to the new Meeting House, then they should move nearer to the harbor. The harbor leaders were shrewd enough to realize that Gloucester’s future did not lie in the Upper Towne, the Green, or in the Common Settlement, but down on the shoreline where the town’s economy was located.
Replying to Coit’s second petition, the General Court called in a surveyor named Josiah Batchelder, who was sworn under oath, to calculate the distances between the Upper Towne and the Meeting House. Batchelder determined that it was a distance of 2 miles from the average Commons Settlement home to the Meeting House, and this extra mile constituted a legitimate complaint. This, of course, did not please the harbor leaders. They complained that those who had assisted Batchelder in carrying his surveyor’s measuring chain had all been Upper Towners and had not been subject to the oath he had taken. Moreover, several of them had been friends and relatives of Nathaniel Coit. Tempers flared with the harbor leaders accusing the Upper Towners of all sorts of scandalous and degenerate behavior. The lines between the two were already being drawn and perceptions were being fixed.
In an attempt to reach a compromise, the Court ruled that the Upper Towners could hold services in their old Meeting House during the winter. This, of course, did not please everybody—the harbor leaders complained that this was “giving in” to Coit’s intimidation, whereas some of the older people of the Commons Settlement complained that the old Hall was too cold and drafty during the winter months. Other compromises were offered, all were rejected. Frustrated beyond words, the court eventually granted Coit’s petition and the first parish was formally split with a new parish retaining the old Meeting House. The wake of the split was wracked with argument and ill-feeling. Nathaniel Coit may have won the battle, but he had lost the war and dug a deep division in the community about which he claimed to care so passionately. The status quo that he had sought to maintain was already slipping away.
He did not enjoy his hollow victory for long. In 1743, and at the age of 84, Nathaniel Coit died, leaving behind a legacy of distrust and hatred within his community. It was customary for Puritan parents to allow their children to look into the open grave of a venerable elder to see a great person laid to rest, and also to be aware of their own mortality. So deep were the divisions that only a handful of parents allowed their children to do so at Coit’s graveside. The gulf that was beginning to open up between the town and the Commons Settlement was extremely deep and bitter, and it would continue down the years.
In 1777, and with the American Revolution underway, one of Gloucester’s wealthiest merchants, David Pearce, began building and fitting a warship for the defense of the Massachusetts coast. Ever since the beginning of the War, Cape Ann had been a target of the British Navy, being so fully exposed to attack as it was. One morning in August 1775, the people along Gloucester’s harbor area were awakened to the sound of cannons blasting from the British warship—the Falcon—just off the Cape Ann promontory. Worse would have followed had not some of the Gloucester men managed to capture a British officer and several crewmen who were rowing ashore in the early morning to set fire to the town. Following the incident of the Falcon, protective earthen ramparts were raised and some of the town’s men were pressed into service as a defense militia. On November 1st, the Massachusetts Legislature formally sanctioned ships to serve as American privateers to plunder English merchantmen coming to and from the port of Boston and elsewhere. This was, in fact, a licensed form of piracy, as the spoils taken from the vessels were often split among the crew before the authorities could get their hands on them. With trade and supplies decreasing because of the War, many places such as Gloucester turned to such robbery as a means of self-preservation. It seemed ironic that the inhabitants of a port, which, 50 years earlier, lived in fear of piracy, now turned to piracy themselves. In fact, privateering along the Massachusetts coastline became such a lucrative business that, before the end of the War of Independence, 13 other colonies had adopted the practice with the blessing of the Continental Congress.
On July 1st, 1777, Pearce’s ship, named the Gloucester, was ready to sail. Many of her 130-strong crew had come from the Commons Town, the others coming from the Harbor Area or from further into Cape Ann. The townspeople cheered her off as she moved along the shoreline and out into the open sea. She would return, it was promised, with enough food and rations to see the colony through the long, hard days of winter.
About a month after the Gloucester had departed, the people around Cape Ann were alarmed when a small fleet of British warships appeared out of a fog along the coastline. Although described as a mighty armada, it is unclear just how many vessels there were. They contented themselves with firing several cannons at the town before vanishing into the fog again and presumably sailing further up the Massachusetts coast. However, their very presence alarmed many of the Gloucester inhabitants who were convinced that this navy was still in the area and could still attack them. There was much speculation as to the motives and destination of this fleet. Little, however, was heard of the Gloucester.
About two weeks later, however, hopes were raised when John McKean, who had been the former Commons watchman and a member of the Gloucester’s crew, sailed into the harbor in command of a captured ship, The Two Friends, which carried a cargo of provisions—gum, balsam, licorice root, and a supply of badly needed salt. The ship had been captured by the Gloucester on the open ocean, east of New York. There was even greater rejoicing when another Commons man, Isaac Day, sailed the captured British cargo packet, The Spark, into Gloucester harbor, its hold laden with fish and even more salt. The vessel had been on its way to Newfoundland, but had been captured by the Gloucester off the Grand Banks and taken back to Cape Ann as a prize. On August 31st, Captain Fisk, commanding the American warship Massachusetts out of Boston, recorded that his vessel was the lead ship in a squadron of about four Massachusetts privateers making their way along the New England coast, one of which was the Gloucester. The ship seems to have swung north, raiding along the Newfoundland coast, but Fisk’s entry was the last record of it.
Back in Commons Town, women waited patiently for news of their husbands and sweethearts. Lookouts were dispatched to high vantage points to keep an eye for the approaching sail of the returning ship. There was nothing. Newspapers were scanned fervently. Insurance companies were legally obliged to announce names of captured prizes, together with the name of the capturing vessel. After The Two Friends and The Spark, there was no mention of the Gloucester. The vessel had vanished just as surely as if she’d never existed.
Strange stories began to circulate in the Gloucester community concerning the supposed loss of the vessel—many with supernatural overtones. In one, a ball of light (known as a corposant in seafaring circles) had traveled among the houses of Commons Town, visiting the doorways of each house from which a crew member had gone, lingering for a time there before passing on to the next house and eventually vanishing. In another tale, the faces of several of the crewmen had been seen in the waters of a local well. All of this seemed to suggest that the Gloucester had somehow perished somewhere at sea. However, the Commons women continued to hang on, hopeful that the vessel would one day make a return to port.
As the War of Independence dragged on, it began to take a toll on the Commons community. With their men gone on the ship, the women were finding life difficult. Americans were not the only ones who had turned to privateering. During the course of the War, other privateering vessels, backed by the British, attacked boats coming to and from the coastal ports, seizing their cargoes and taking their crews prisoner. Gloucester was particularly badly hit. Cargo was taken and boats sunk, their crews drowned. By 1779, the town had lost well over half its fleet, leaving about a sixth of its inhabitants dependent on charity of one sort or another. Disease and illnesses took away many others, especially from among the Commons people.
Midday on May 19th, 1780, the sky suddenly darkened all along the Massachusetts coast. It continued to darken until it appeared as if it was midnight. Birds flew home to nest and flower petals closed. It was the famous Dark Day, and to the Puritan people, it was taken as a signal that the Great Day of Judgement could not be far away. Preachers spoke from their pulpits with a fiery missionary zeal, and congregations prayed earnestly for deliverance. For the people of Gloucester, it was an evil omen. Many thought it signaled the defeat of American forces, the collapse of their community, or that the War would continue without end. Even when the Dark Day passed, those doubts lingered, and they were, in part, well founded.
By October 1780, Cape Ann had been all but decimated, and its people reduced to beggary. The mysterious disappearance of the Gloucester had certainly contributed to the sense of foreboding and depression that hung over the place, but the unending and deeply rooted poverty that had been caused by the War was also a significant factor. The population of the Settlement was now living close to levels of utter destitution. It comprised a significant number of widows—out of around 3,000 souls, nearly 350 were widowed and dependant on at least some form of charity. This, of course, was true in many other New England settlements, but nearly all of them had the ability to bounce back.
The split that had been started by Nathaniel Coit back in the early 1700s was still there, and while harborside Gloucester slowly pulled itself together after the War, few deigned to help their struggling neighbors up in the highlands. Indeed, the land beyond the Alewife Brook was considered “suspicious territory” where witches would congregate. Gradually, the area deteriorated even further. Those who had money enough to leave did so. Others built houses down near the harbor, integrating into the developing Gloucester society. Some rented out their property, but failed to maintain it and allowed it to fall into neglect. Some had no other choice than to stay. The place began to acquire a rather sinister reputation, as more and more colorful characters moved in.
No one is exactly sure when the name “Dogtown” was first used in relation to the Commons Settlement, but it was probably used in a derogatory sense. Some have suggested that it originated from the numbers of feral canines who wandered around the area or from the fierce dogs that were kept by old widows for their own protection. Few of them had large numbers of canines within their precincts (although in a few instances some of them did). It might even have been that the name didn’t refer to a town at all, but to some location such as a hog-wallow or hitching-post along the road, or even a lonely drinking house out in the wilderness. In most cases, however, the name had
a seedy air to it, suggestive of run-down, low-life, working class, non-salubrious places. It might also refer to a location where unusual and seemingly disgusting practices might be carried out. For example, in California during the gold rush of the mid-19th century, the name was applied to a camp of Chinese miners who allegedly ate dogs as part of their diet. The name suggested both difference and derision and was almost, without doubt, an insult. Is it any wonder that the area attracted the rebellious, the eccentric, the insane, and the weird?
Some of those who lived in the declining settlement were the descendants of the old Commons people who had always lived there, several of whom could trace their ancestry back to the earliest foundations of the town in 1693. These were people like Joseph Stevens, who had once been a relatively prosperous farmer and who had even built a large yard with a high wall around his Commons home. He lived with his sister Molly on what became known as the Dogtown Road and they were considered a particularly unpleasant couple by their neighbors. Few took pity on him as his fortunes began to decline, and in the end, one of his descendants was forced to simply live in the cellar of what had once been the family home. A more popular person was James Whitham, a shepherd who owned some of his own sheep and also acted as a herder for Colonel William Pearce, who resided just beyond Dogtown and whose sizeable flock attracted British raiders during the War of 1812. It was against these interlopers that Whitham defended his master’s animals, earning high praise from the Colonel. However, the shepherd was almost drowned in Granny Day’s Bog, a notorious swamp, and had to be discharged from the Colonel’s service. There was also Captain Samuel Riggs, a descendant of Thomas Riggs, who had been one of the founding fathers of the Commons Settlement and had owned land as far away as Rockport. The Riggs house, situated on the very edge of Dogtown, was considered to be one of the oldest buildings in the area, if not in all of Cape Ann. Further along, a blacksmith named Joseph Allen had set up a smithy in 1674 where he raised 17 children. This was not the only large family whose descendants spread throughout the village. Another was Nathaniel Day, who raised at least 18 children, including three sets of twins, with his wife Mary Davis, and whose enormous family continued to form a part of the backbone of the later settlement.