The Old Cape House

by Barbara Eppich Struna

  29

  November 5, 1715

  NORTH HARWICH – CAPE COD

  NO SOUND CAME FROM THE CHILD who lay between Maria's legs. It was covered with blood and thick body fluids that had protected the babe in the womb. When the afterbirth brought the last agonizing screams of pain and the birthing process was complete, the infant struggled to breathe as Maria slipped deeper into unconsciousness.

  The presence of someone alongside Maria would have seen the trauma of the child whose umbilical cord had wedged itself next to the head. As it had moved through the birth canal, precious air had been blocked from entering the small body.

  Eerie shadows flickered on the walls from the glow of the kitchen hearth. Maria lay unconscious in the dimly lit borning room. It was now mid morning and the storm continued to rage its fury outside. A clap of snow thunder awoke Maria from her stupor, but Minda’s potent herbs still lay deep inside her exhausted body.

  Her blurry eyes fell upon the newborn child. The bed-covers, crumpled under and around her, had absorbed most of the blood that was still dripping from her body. She pushed away the soiled sheets, lifted her legs over the child and rolled onto the floor. Struggling to stand, she pulled her shift through her legs and fastened it over the waistband of one of her skirts.

  Maria stared at the red stained bedding that surrounded the body of her son. She placed her hand on his small chest and felt no heartbeat. Dazed and grief-stricken, she blocked the reality of what lay before her and calmly went into the kitchen to get a cloth and a bowl of water.

  She cleaned her child with slow and gentle motions. A lullaby drifted from her lips as she swaddled her beautiful son in the bloodied blankets. Cradling the little body in her arms, she carried him to the kitchen and sat by the hearth to rock him in a slow, even rhythm.

  Time seemed to stop on this cold winter day for the young girl. Hours passed and by afternoon, Maria had not moved, nor had she let go of the dead child. She chanted her somber song, her face expressionless. Soon the hearth grew cold. She carried the infant back to the borning room and placed the lifeless body onto the soiled bed. She kissed him softly on his head and returned to the kitchen to tend the fire.

  Upstairs, Maria found the Doane’s family chest in the corner of her bedroom and ran her fingers over the carved ‘D’ on its top. Wind lashed at the windows as she looked inside the wooden box at a small white linen shift. She carried both down the steep stairs.

  Reverently placing the inscribed chest next to her child on the bed, she opened its lid and removed the shift. With loving hands, Maria pulled away the stained bedcovers, revealing the naked body of her newborn. Her fingers traced his perfect face. She whispered, “You’re so beautiful, my son.”

  After dressing him in the clean shift, she held him close to her face. She then placed the infant inside the chest, gathered a piece of the linen and covered his head in one last attempt to protect him.

  At the sideboard, she opened the decorated box that her dear friend Matthew had brought her from Eastham. She spread its contents out on the table before her. There were pieces of vellum that had been salvaged from her father’s tanning, a quill pen, a small piece of carbon stick and a jar of gum arabic. Using her knife, she scraped powder from the stick and funneled it into the empty ink well. She added water and a pinch of gum arabic to complete her ink.

  She dipped her pen into the black liquid and wrote:

  Here lies the son of Sam Bellamy, Devonshire, England

  And Maria Hallett, Eastham, Massachusetts

  May this sweet child sing with the angels of the Lord.

  Born & Died Nov 4, 1715

  Her crooked letters were primitive but legible. When the ink dried, Maria placed the vellum on top of the child’s body, marking him for eternity. She caressed the sides of the wooden box as if to leave her scent across them, then she slowly closed the lid. She was sure that if no one could find this precious gift then no harm would come to her or to Sam.

  Maria realized the storm had ceased its fury as light rain now fell around the house. He must be hidden, she thought.

  The setting sun reflected crimson in the sky, but the troubled girl paid no attention to its beauty as she ventured outside, staring at the earth before her feet. Opening the door to the barn, she reached for a shovel and returned to the house. No one must know, she repeated.

  Maria noticed drips of her own blood were trailing her. She pushed another old cloth between her legs and secured it into her soiled shift. Lifting the rug that revealed the root cellar door, she carried the shovel down the steep stairs. The child would be safe down here.

  A basket of apples lay near the corner of the darkened room. Maria moved it aside and began to dig with purpose. Impatient to complete her task she scratched at the black dirt with her fingers. No one would call her fornicator! More blood dripped onto the dirt floor but went unnoticed as she pressed forward. When the hole was finally dug deep and wide enough, Maria buried the wooden chest that held her son.

  30

  November 6, 1715

  NORTH HARWICH – CAPE COD

  AS HESTOR ROSE FROM HER BED, a deep dread hovered over her. Leaning toward her husband, she shouted into his ear, “It’s too cold to do anything today.” Then she poked him, so he, too, would share in her misery of getting out of bed.

  He growled, “Go away and leave me alone, old woman.”

  “I shall be off to check on that girl, Maria Hallett, at Miss Abigail’s,” she snarled, “but I ain’t staying too long. The girl spooks me.” She turned once more towards the lump in her bed. “I’ll return shortly. Tend to yourself.”

  He pulled the covers over his head.

  At that, Hestor donned her heavy cape to empty the necessary in the woods. Upon her return, she readied herself to leave for the Doane’s, grabbing several beef strips to eat on her way. She slammed the door behind her.

  The grumpy housemaid nibbled on the greasy meat as she walked, all the while, mumbling to herself, “Such a terrible day to be outside!” She looked around to see the previous night’s storm had knocked down several fences, scattered tools and uprooted the cover from their well. As she came closer to Abigail Doane’s house, the absence of smoke from the chimney only added to her misery. She grumbled, “Oh, if I didn’t have enough work to do already, now I’ve got to find kinder for their fire.” She wiped her mouth with an angry swipe of her hand.

  Hestor opened the door of the Doane house without a greeting, eager to give an earful to Maria for sleeping late and not tending to the fire, but she never crossed its entrance. The smell of bodily fluids tainted the air. She spotted blood dotted across the kitchen floorboards and immediately stepped backwards. She whispered the young girl’s name, “Maria?”

  The hearth was dark, and a shovel leaned against the stones with fresh dirt on its blade. Hestor cautiously walked over to the center stairway and saw more drips of blood. She called up the stairs, “Maria?”

  Hestor’s superstitions began to fuel her fears. There was an empty bottle on the sideboard. As she lifted it to her nose, the distinct odor of opium made her wince. Then she glanced over to the borning room; creeping closer, she peered in.

  Hestor’s wide eyes circled the small room. She could see blood randomly staining the floor and walls. Terror took control of her and as she leaned against the doorframe to steady herself, the glass container slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor. As it rolled towards the corner, the bottle’s repetitive rumble led Hestor’s eyes across the wooden boards to the pile of blood soaked bedcovers and the apparent lifeless body of Maria. She leaned in closer and could see the girl’s pale left arm dangling over the side of the bed; her delicate fingertips touching the thick blood-streaked mass of afterbirth congealing on the floor.

  Hestor whispered a silent prayer. Her white skin turned ashen gray, and her body quivered with fear. She covered her mouth and turned away from the horrifying sight.

  As her curiosity peaked, she looked one more time
and then shouted, “Satan is here!” Her words rose to a mind-piercing screech as she ran out the door and down the path towards Constable Ezra’s house. “Be gone from me Evil One. Be gone!” she repeated, stopping only once to hold onto a tree to vomit.

  ***

  Ezra Smalley enjoyed the respect he received from the North Harwich community after he’d accepted the appointment to be their constable. He was their guardian of peace. Among his many duties were collecting taxes, and checking each house to confirm they had enough buckets for water in case of fire. One specific chore he complained about was arresting those who were found loitering outside during the Sabbath meeting. Since he was not akin to religious doings, this was distasteful to him.

  On this November morning, he sat in the privy with a small lamp for light, going over a notice from Barnstable County concerning whom he should be watchful for in his district. Cold air drifted up the deep hole under his bare bottom. It did not bother him; his routine of regularity pleased him no matter what the weather was around him. He could hear someone yelling his name in the distance. Ezra grumbled to himself. “Gall darn it, now who could that be?”

  His arthritic fingers fumbled to button up his breeches. “If it isn’t one thing or another…it better be important…interrupting my morning habit!”

  The noise came closer to his ears. ”Ezra!!!! Constable Ezra!!!” The excited voice called again, clearer this time.

  Stepping into the chilly air, he heard, “Ezra, come quick!”

  He entered his house from the rear, stuffing the official papers from his superiors into his side pocket.

  Hestor, finding an inner strength after heaving by the tree, ran up the path toward Ezra’s main door, desperate to report the terrible scene she had discovered. Her fist beat against the wooden entrance. “There’s trouble at Abigail Doane’s house.”

  Ezra muttered as he hurried through the kitchen, “Yes, Yes, I’m coming.”

  As he opened the door, Hestor stood before him, the handkerchief around her neck stained with drips of vomit. Her face and body were wet with sweat.

  “Ezra! You must go to Abigail Doane’s house.” She sat down on a chair just inside the door. Gasping for air, she finally spoke, “I warned everyone…about that girl…living with Abigail.” She hissed, “She’s …evil!”

  Ezra did not like this woman in his house. She had a reputation for a loose tongue, and today she emanated a dreadful stench. Irritated but calm, the constable said, “Now, my good woman, please control yourself. Would you not be more comfortable outside on the bench?”

  Ignoring his question, Hestor continued, “I think the girl is dead and her newborn is missing.” She shook her head back and forth in disbelief. “There is so much blood. I fear the worst has happened. I fear that wickedness is upon this village.”

  “Madam, you must leave and go home. I will investigate this so-called evil and will not have need of your service.” He took hold of her large upper arm and led her to the door. Ushering her out, he added, “I will inform you later of what I discover.”

  Hestor turned to face Ezra. “Well, if you ask me....”

  “No one is asking you anything, woman. I will see for myself what has happened,” and with those words he closed the door behind her.

  The simple housemaid, growling under her breath, straightened her corset and smoothed her skirts. Mumbling with indignation, she stepped away from the constable’s house, eager to find the ear of someone else.

  31

  Present Day – July 12

  CAPE COD

  LOUIS SALINGER HAD BEEN AT HIS OFFICE in Boston for most of the week and missed the hurricane on the Cape. His mailbox contained the results of various tests he’d ordered on the fragments that were found in the Caldwell’s backyard. He ripped open the envelope and impatiently unfolded the official document. It read that the bone fragment was indeed part of a human skull, most likely an infant, and along with the two vellum pieces, it dated back to the 1700s. A smile broadened across his face as he returned to his desk to call an old friend.

  ***

  Neil Hallett, according to those who knew him, had every right to his quirkiness. After all, he was connected by a thin stretch of the imagination to a famous local legend about a woman named Maria Hallett. He was known around town for his continuous bragging that he was related to the ‘Witch of Billingsgate’. His house was a small Cape on Goody Hallett Drive, in Eastham, and across the front of his garage was a quarter board that read, Whydah. He spent hours hovering over his computer, searching eBay for anything about her legend.

  He was placing his final bid in an online auction, with only sixty seconds left to post his price, when the call from Salinger interrupted him. The phone rang four times before he finally picked it up. He answered with a quick, “Hello? Oh, hey, Salinger, what can I do for you?” He frowned as someone else placed a higher bid and his time ran out. Rubbing his baldhead in frustration, he leaned back into his swivel chair. “Who found what? Where?” he grumbled into the receiver.

  Turning away from the computer screen, he gazed out the window behind his desk. “You don’t say! Why yes, I’d be very interested in taking a look at them.” He spun back to his desk and wrote down the Caldwells’ address.

  ***

  On the third day after the storm, our power returned. The sun shone bright against a deep blue sky. I had just finished raking the last of the shredded leaves and branches from the backyard when I heard Brian call out, “Mom, Mr. Salinger is on the phone.”

  It’s about time, I thought, dropping the rake. I casually glanced down into the cellar as I walked past it. That’s when I saw it–the top half of a shiny small disk. I stopped and stared. It beckoned me to pick it up. Impulsively I climbed in to retrieve it.

  “Mom! Telephone!” Brian yelled again.

  I clutched the circular object in my hand. “I’ll be right there.” Climbing up the stone steps of the cellar, I couldn’t take my eyes off what looked like a gold coin. As I hurried into the house I wiped it clean on my shirt and thought about what I’d tell Salinger, or if I should even tell him about the coin. I slipped the disc into my jeans pocket as I answered the phone.

  “Mr. Salinger, nice to finally hear from you. What did you find out?” I fiddled with the coin in my pocket. The information coming through the other end of the phone was good news. “I see. Yes, you can come by tomorrow. We’ll be home. See you then. Goodbye.”

  As soon as I hung up the phone, I raced to look for Paul. I found him at his drawing table. “Hey, what’s up?” he asked.

  “That was Salinger on the phone, he said he’s coming over tomorrow.” I plopped down into the lounge chair by the glass doors. “He said the skull and vellum were definitely from the 1700s.” I glanced over to the dirt surrounding the cellar and then held the coin up for Paul to see. “Look what I found.”

  “Where did you find that?” He walked over to me, took the gold coin and gave a little whistle. “This looks real.”

  “It sure does. I was just walking past the hole, and it shouted at me to come and get it.” I touched his arm. “I know we weren’t supposed to disturb anything, but I couldn’t help myself. Do you think we should tell anyone? What if there’s more down there?”

  Paul examined the coin. “I wonder what the laws are about found treasure. Do we get to keep it?” He went over to his drawing board to look at the coin under a brighter light.

  ***

  By 9:00 am the next morning, Neil Hallett and Louis Salinger were drinking coffee over the tailgate of Sallinger’s truck in the back parking lot of the local donut shop. Other commercial vans and trucks were parked alongside them. Hallett was looking at the two pieces of vellum inside the plastic baggy.

  “What do you make of the letters?” Salinger asked.

  “Well, I’m kind of partial to the Hallett/Bellamy story, and these letters could definitely fit their names. I just don’t understand why they were found in Brewster, and not around Eastham or Wellfleet
, where Maria was supposed to have lived.” Neil shook his head. “Did they find anything else besides this and the skull?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  Hallett sipped his black coffee. “There’s never been any physical proof that there even was a Maria Hallett, just speculation and stories that were passed down from generation to generation. But I know she was real. My grandfather told me about her when I was a kid.” He stood taller and looked Salinger right in the eye. “I know her story is true, and I’ve got the name to prove it.”

  “I’ve only heard about it in the Cape Cod Gazette,” Salinger picked up the baggy, and added, “…and that pirate museum in Provincetown. So what did your grandfather tell you?”

  Hallett grabbed the vellum. “He said Bellamy was coming home to Maria the night of a terrible nor’easter. His ship wrecked near Marconi Beach, and everyone died, except for a dozen survivors. Two pirates were found innocent, but the rest were hanged in Boston.” Hallett leaned against the tailgate of his truck. “All the old salts of Cape Cod say Sam Bellamy was never found.”

  He handed the vellum back to Sallinger. “The rest of the legend is about Maria. She was distraught when Bellamy failed to return to her, as he’d promised he would. When her baby died, she felt abandoned and then cursed all sailors who sailed by the Cape Cod coast.”

  “Nothing like a woman scorned,” Salinger muttered.

  Hallett twisted his mustache. “I want to believe those letters could stand for Maria Hallett and Sam Bellamy, but I just don’t know for sure. The location isn’t right.”

  ***

  Meanwhile, two cars down from Sallinger’s truck, a bespectacled young man was sitting in his car with the windows open. He stopped eating his powdered donut when he overheard the conversation about the Hallett legend. Brushing the white powder from his dark shirt, he got out of his car and casually walked over to the two men.