The Old Cape House

by Barbara Eppich Struna

  Abigail looked to the two men. “Wait here.”

  With guarded movements, Abigail opened the door and saw Maria cowering in the corner near her bed. Quickly closing the door, she crouched next to the girl and began to persuade her to cooperate. “Maria, be strong. You knew this time would come. You must talk with them and do exactly as they say.”

  They stood up together. “Do you understand?”

  Maria nodded her head.

  Abigail clasped her hand and led the terrified girl into the kitchen to face the constables.

  Ezra needed to identify the suspect. “Maria Hallett?”

  Maria nodded again.

  “Constable Bayer and I, do hereby inform you that you are under arrest on suspicion of attempted murder and fornication. You will please come with us.”

  Abigail protested that Maria was not well enough to go anywhere but Ezra would not listen.

  He replied in sharp tones, “Enough time has passed for her to recover. This heinous matter must be concluded. We will wait for her to gather her things.”

  Desperate to see a way out of this, Maria looked to her friend.

  After several seconds of tense silence, Abigail guided her back to the borning room to collect the things that she might need. She gave the young girl directions. “Layer most of your clothes on your body in case you need them for warmth.”

  Maria numbly obeyed her friend.

  Abigail’s hands trembled as she helped her fasten multiple skirts around her waist. “If they take you to Constable Ezra’s house, there is a room off the kitchen which is used as a jail cell. There, your care will be adequate. If sent directly to Eastham, with Constable Bayer, your comfort will be less than minimal. The Eastham jail is cold, dirty and damp.”

  Abigail tried to keep her composure. She knew this day would come, but more time was needed with Maria; after all, the girl was only fifteen years old. Realizing there was nothing she could do or say to help, and against her better judgment, Abigail opened the borning room door.

  As the constable grabbed Maria’s elbow to escort her outside, she turned to Abigail in one last agonizing plea and cried out, “Abigail, don’t let them take me from you. Please!”

  Abigail watched Maria climb through the small door on the back of the wagon. Barely able to contain her emotions, she bowed her head and thought she might die as she leaned against the edge of the open front door. Abigail was angry, sad, shamed for not doing more, and felt utterly helpless. With a broken heart, she backed away and closed the door on the only safe home Maria ever had.

  ***

  Maria’s body shook in fear as the enclosed wagon swallowed her up into its darkness. Used for prisoners, the absence of windows gave her no clues as to where she was going. To keep herself from crying, she bit her lower lip and closed her eyes, trying to imagine Sam’s face, wishing that he would rip open the door to her prison and take her in his arms, where she could stay forever. But ten minutes into her journey Maria sensed her fate, and as the hour went by, it became apparent that she was going back to Eastham, to the place that she despised–the one place she had hoped never to return to. She rocked back and forth on the wooden floor as she prayed to her mother.

  34

  Present Day – July 16

  BREWSTER – CAPE COD

  THE SOUND OF EARL’S TRUCK WOKE ME around 8 am; I rolled over and hoped that today he would finally finish the chimney in the new kitchen. Paul was already brewing coffee. With a bit of guilty pleasure I recalled that the night before Paul had told me to sleep in, and that it was important, if I really was pregnant, to get a lot of rest. So I did. At 9 am, I appeared in the doorway of the kitchen to find Molly eating her breakfast.

  “I’m sorry I slept so late. Everything okay?” I took my seat across the table from her.

  “Just fine, Mommy.” Molly smiled with a mouthful of cereal and milk.

  Paul graciously poured me a cup of coffee. “Why don’t you take a drive down 6A, to Barnstable Records, and research the house’s history?”

  “Are you sure? There’s so much to do here at home.”

  “I’m fine. You should go. Besides, I’m really curious about who’s owned the house.”

  “Well, if you insist. I’ll drop Molly off at camp on my way.”

  He kissed my cheek. “Sounds like a plan. Maybe you could stop at the new gallery in Sandwich and deliver my painting?”

  “That’s a great idea; we can use the trip as a business expense.”

  I threw Molly a kiss. “Get your backpack ready when you’re finished eating. I’ll be dressed by then.” I grabbed my coffee and headed for the shower.

  In less than thirty minutes I was loading the painting into the car. “Hurry up Molly.

  We don’t want to be late.”

  I went over my agenda for the day: drop off Molly at day camp, visit the gallery and on the return trip stop by the county offices in Barnstable. True to my schedule, Molly was delivered and I headed west out of the camp’s parking lot.

  The drive down Route 6A from Brewster to Sandwich was beautiful. I sipped my coffee to the sounds of new age music, passing ancient trees, stately homes and rock walls that dotted the landscape along the old road. On my return home, I entered the historic town of Barnstable and parked in the courthouse complex.

  I quickly walked towards the inner courtyard of two large buildings. ‘Barnstable County Deeds and Probate’ was painted on glass windows and lettered on the brick façade of the building to my left. I felt a little intimidated by the nervous energy created by the police, lawyers, and maybe soon-to-be criminals. Thank goodness, I was only searching for old property records.

  After a short wait for the security check archway, the elderly guard finally waved me through with a smile. I passed more suited men, high-heeled ladies, and a few people who, like me, didn’t look like they knew what they were doing. A pleasant receptionist directed me across the hall and into the Copy Center room.

  Armed with our deed, I stood in front of a big sign that read ‘Information’. A petite female clerk behind the counter asked a few questions about my visit, so I politely answered that I was in search of the history of our house. Once she’d found our Brewster property on the computer, she explained that the certificate number on the deed would lead to the previous certificate number, which in turn would identify successive owners of the property. As the computer searched back into time, the name Doane began to appear around the late 1920s, then kept resurfacing all the way back to 1815, with only the first names changing on the deeds to the land.

  After a few minutes, the clerk leaned her pixie-like body around to my right and pointed to a room across the hall. She whispered to me, “You’ll have to search deeper into the records by yourself because a line is forming behind you.”

  It was already 12:30 pm, and I assumed that only a few more minutes were needed to finish my project; after all, I’d found records dating back to 1815. I carried my deed back across the hall to a large room filled with rows of tall filing cabinets. I went unnoticed by everyone sitting at tables and computers, probably searching for lost deeds or for clear titles to property for real estate attorneys. No one questioned my presence.

  The really old records were stored in blue, black, and white bound metal books. Lined up next to each other in rows, their numbered labels ran into the thousands–as high as Book #10543. I was looking for Book #143, page 387. I walked to the very back of the long room and spotted #143 stamped in white letters on a blue plastic binding in the last row by the windows. I opened it to page 387 to see the name Doane in beautiful Old English script.

  When I slid my finger to the bottom of the page, the year 1780 popped out at me. Intrigued, I kept searching and was directed to an even older book and page. Finally, the last entry I found was for a property in the name of Nathaniel Doane, posted in 1715. I was elated to discover it was the same year on the piece of parchment we’d found in the root cellar.

  As I drove home I mulled over th
e dates of the property. The house we bought was built in 1880, yet the deed to the land went back to the early 1700s. The property seemed to have a long history with the Doane family, so there could have been another house on it in 1715. I stopped at a red light. What happened to the first house? Where was it in relation to the current house? A horn beeped from behind me; the light had turned green. Pay attention I told myself, opening the window for fresh air. The root cellar must have belonged to another house on the property.

  When I got back to Brewster, I was eager to talk to Paul. I parked the car and ran into the gallery. “Hi, honey. Everything went fine at the Sandwich gallery, and I have something neat to tell you about our house.”

  Paul was at his drawing table. He kept painting.

  Plopping down into the big, overstuffed chair that faced him, I exploded with the news, “I went as far back as 1780, then searched in the older books to 1715! A family by the name of Doane owned the land all the way forward to 1927.”

  I turned away from Paul to the cellar. “There must have been two houses on this property.”

  Paul put his paintbrush down and looked up. “What did you say?”

  “I said I think there was another house here besides ours, before 1880, and it probably was owned by a Doane.”

  ***

  That evening, I found some quiet time and secluded myself by the computer in the spare bedroom. Paul joined me and lay across the twin bed. Leaning on his side, he gently touched the pieces of vellum. “Now I understand the letter ‘D’ on the chest that we found; it probably stood for the Doane family. But I’m not so sure about the other letters.”

  Curious, I typed ‘Maria Hallett’ into the computer. “Remember what the Hallett guy said? He thought the letters stood for Maria Hallett and Sam Bellamy.” Clicking to the next page on the computer screen I said, “I think he’s right.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Not very much, maybe two pages about her. They all say that she was the lover of the pirate Sam Bellamy, and she was also called ‘The Witch of Billingsgate’.”

  “Is Billingsgate the island off Wellfleet that disappeared?”

  “Yes. Here’s another name for her, ‘Maria Goody Hallett’.” I selected the next page on the screen. “Apparently, Goody was a name given to women of the day–like Goody Thatch or Goody Jones.”

  Paul sat up and added, “Sallinger referred to her as Goody Hallett.”

  “Yes, he did, although she still seems to be more of a myth than Sam. There’s a lot of proof that HE lived and that he was indeed a pirate, but there’s not much about her.”

  I kept my eyes on the screen. “I wonder how this whole thing is connected to the Doane house? And what about the baby’s skull? Whose baby was it?”

  Paul moved toward the doorway.

  I clicked on the last entries of the page and read out loud, “According to Maria’s legend, she was pregnant with Sam’s baby, but it died in childbirth. Evidently Bellamy was on the high seas and never knew she was pregnant.”

  Paul added, “That might explain whose baby it was and why all the secrecy.”

  “Yeah, when you think of it, she would have been considered an unwed mother and somewhat of a whore. In colonial days they were pretty strict with that kind of thing.”

  I looked at Paul. “If the letters on the vellum have any connection to all of this, I bet she must have known someone in the Doane house, or maybe she worked for them?”

  Always attentive to my every word, tonight I sensed Paul was tired. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him slowly back out of the room. “Why don’t you go to bed?” I told him. “I’m not tired, and I’m really interested in all of this.” I mumbled to myself, “…and what about the three gold coins?”

  “Good night, honey,” Paul said.

  I kept my eyes on the glowing monitor. “I’ll be in soon.”

  His head reappeared in the doorway. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, the doctor’s office called to confirm your appointment for tomorrow at 2 pm.”

  I stopped typing and went from being excited to feeling queasy. “Oh yeah, I forgot.” I shut down the computer, turned the light off and imagined myself pregnant again. I caught up with Paul as he was locking the side door off the laundry room. “Paul, I need a hug.”

  He wrapped his arms around me and rocked me back and forth. “We’ll be okay. I’ll always be here for you.”

  I looked up into his eyes. “Whatever we find out tomorrow, I know we’ll be fine, as long as we're together.’”

  He walked me into the bedroom with his arm around my shoulders. As I began to turn the covers down on my side of the bed, I said, “I’m so happy to be living in the twenty first century with a husband that really cares for me and not 300 years ago. It was awful difficult back then for women.”

  Paul flipped his blankets to the foot of the bed on his side. “Don’t worry. I’ll never leave you. I love you.”

  35

  Late July – Present Day

  MY APPOINTMENT CAME TOO SOON. It’s not that I was afraid to find out if I was pregnant; I was just worried. So many things could go wrong. I was early for my doctor’s appointment in Hyannis so I stayed on the slower, scenic Old Route 6A, instead of turning onto the Mid-Cape Highway, or what the locals call ‘suicide alley’. The single lane of the winding bucolic roadway relaxed me, as usual. I began to rationalize that my body was healthy, my weight was good, and I had no major medical problems.

  My lightened mood was obliterated when a car accelerated on my left. The passenger’s rearview mirror came so close that I could have touched it. Within seconds its rear bumper cut me off as the driver illegally passed me. My purse flew to the floor as I swerved to the right and slammed on the brakes. The car zoomed ahead of me and out of sight.

  “Oh my God!” I screamed. My hands stuck to the steering wheel like glue. I wanted to get off the road. A glance in my rear-view mirror revealed no one else was behind me, so I pulled into the first driveway to my right.

  When my car finally stopped on the gravel, I was still trembling. I shouted in the direction of the car, “What a jerk!” Then in a whisper, “Take a deep breath.”

  I leaned over to pick up the contents of my purse that had spilled all over the floor of the car. A brochure from the Provincetown Whydah Museum caught my eye. On the front were images of the pirate ship Whydah and the infamous Black Sam Bellamy along with his lover, young Maria Hallett. It seemed odd to be thinking about them after such a close call with my own death but I couldn’t stop myself. I knew they lived with danger every day, but me…in modern day…on Cape Cod? Unthinkable, and yet, I had almost been killed.

  I pulled myself together, backed out of the driveway and continued onto the doctor’s. My mind shifted back to Maria Hallett. It must have been terrible for that young girl to be alone and pregnant. Poor Maria. How frightening it must have been for her. Sam Bellamy was thousands of miles away on the Whydah and it would have taken months for him to sail home to her. What she must have suffered all by herself. The 1700s were harsh times.

  I closed the windows halfway and found an oldies’ but goodies’ station on the radio. I wished Paul had come with me but reminded myself the gallery needed to be open. Besides, Molly had to be picked up early from camp. I know Paul loves me. He’s always there for me, just not today.

  ***

  Dr. Thornton, the gynecologist, was new in town, as I was. His office was shared with another surgeon and was plain but comfortable. I noticed two pregnant women in the waiting room with me. I felt self-conscious of my age. Of course, I was hardly showing, unlike the young woman across from me reading the National Enquirer wearing stretch pants that barely covered her protruding stomach. No one could tell if I was pregnant…yet.

  I skimmed through a parent magazine and checked out the other girl; she had red streaks in her short-cropped hair. I was the only one with gray hair. But I liked my hair. It was soft, almost pure white, and it looked good on me. The nurse interrupted my
pep talk and called me into a back room. After some chitchat and the dreaded weigh-in, the doctor examined me and performed the usual tests. He told me it would be a short wait for the results.

  Back in the waiting room I couldn’t stop thinking about the bad things that might happen if I was pregnant. My face flushed with a rush of anxiety. Would our medical insurance transfer from one state to another in time for the birth? Did the old coverage stop on a certain date? If there were a gap in the coverage how would we pay for the baby?

  A voice called from behind me, “Nancy Caldwell?”

  “Yes, here I am.”

  “The doctor will see you now.”

  I gathered my things and followed the nurse to Dr. Thornton’s office. As I walked, I couldn’t dismiss the threat of something going wrong with the baby who might be growing inside of me.

  ***

  The doctor sat behind a large oak desk that contained a telephone, nameplate and a glass paperweight. They were the only items on the glass top besides a manila folder that I assumed contained my personal medical files. With a sweep of his hand, he invited me, “Please sit down. Mrs. Caldwell, your results are in. Congratulations! You’re going to have a baby.”

  My heart stopped this time, not with fear of dying in a car accident, but with excitement. I quickly forgot all about the horrible thoughts from before. I started to tear up. My motherly instincts took control over my emotions as I thought…a baby…a beautiful baby.

  “It looks like you’re almost five weeks along,” Dr. Thornton said and waited for my response.

  Energized I asked, “Can you give me a minute? I want to call my husband.”

  “Of course,” the doctor said and left the room.

  “Paul?”

  “Yes?” he said quietly.

  “You’re going to be a Daddy again.” I smiled into the phone.

  “Whew! Okay, now don’t worry, honey. We’ll figure everything out. Hurry up home so I can hold you and give you a big kiss. And Nancy?”