Ghosts on the Coast of Maine (11 page)

And many came to know him, Maine through Canada. Now that Dick did not have a family, he was free to travel, and he volunteered for commissions that took him far from Scarborough. In an expedition to St. John's, his Indian fighting was described as “passionate.”

The practice of taking chances when other men didn't dare caused him injuries. From 1690 to 1696 Dick sustained several wounds in his right arm and one arrow through the thigh. By 1697 he was so disabled that he came back home and petitioned the General Court for monetary assistance. It was granted.

Stonewell turned from an active combatant to one who tended the cows that belonged to the Black Point Garrison. He and nineteen other men were tending the cows out by the pond one October morning when, unbeknownst to them, a band of two hundred Abenakis from Canada were crouching in the bushes, lying in wait. They had come in the name of Christ, who, they had been told by the French, had been crucified by the English. They had also come in the name of the French, their neighbors and comrades in the fur trade. It seems that the French hunters and trappers had much more in common with the Indians than the English farmers and shipbuilders. Thus, they were able to infiltrate Indian tribes and establish themselves as brothers.

The Abenakis had been waiting, still as the trees, since the night before, October 5. They had done without fire and elaborate meals and had crept so stealthily as to keep the dogs unaware of their presence. The Indians sprung from the brush in bands of three or four, and their tomahawks fatally cut the flesh of all the garrison men except one. Richard Stonewell, yellow-haired “Crazy Eye,” was among the dead.

The tale of Dick Stonewell has been kept alive through appearance of his spirit roaming the pond's edge. A description of one of these appearances came from an unexpected source, a Scarborough librarian. She was writing a newspaper article about Mr. Stonewell and in the process of digging up all sorts of information on him. The character's deeds were so colorful to her that she visited his burial place out of curiosity. This venture brought her straight to Massacre Pond, because the Black Point Garrison did not take the time to transport the massacre victims to their home burial plots. The threat of a repeated ambush was too great for that.

Lindsay, the librarian, did not get off work in time to visit the place during the day. It was way after supper when she went down to the parking lot where a footbridge spanned the pond and eventually led to the public beach. In the middle of her trek across the bridge, a swift movement caught her eye. It was just a play of shadows, she thought. It moved again, but this time she braved a little closer. She parted the tall cattails to see lying on the ground an old-fashioned knife-like weapon. It was surrounded by a five-foot circle of freshly cut reeds. Fearing some sort of strange person lurking about, she ran back to the car and drove off.

Dick Stonewell continued to fascinate her, however, and one week later Lindsay made the trip again, this time with a flashlight. She never did turn it on. There in the light of a full moon, on the edge of the pond, stood a figure with terrified, bulging eyes, bloody sockets where arms once were, and an arrow sticking through his thigh. It was the pierced thigh that gave him away. Lindsay had no doubt that she was witnessing what must have been the last pose of Richard Stonewell. The thigh with the arrow was probably just a symbol of recognition. Ghosts who want their identity known will do such things.

I asked about the weapon she had seen on her first visit, but she said “that was it” for her. She wasn't going to go traipsing around that area again, looking for anything. She told me to talk to Dave Simmons, a lifeguard at the beach.

Mr. Simmons was on duty at the time, and very slow to speak, but he admitted seeing something strange back by the pond. He wouldn't tell me any more. He didn't have to. I could see by the expression on his face that the spirit of Richard Stonewell had reached out to him.

I wondered if the lifeguard had understood the ghost's plea for help in comprehending the violence that had so plagued his earthly existence.

T
here is something about a 1760 sign moving in the breeze, a half-buried plow, and a horse's tethering ring embedded in moss-covered rock that strongly signals a ghostly presence. These things so drew my attention that I had to stop the car and have a look around. They were the tip of the iceberg. Down the lane that led past this rural setting lay a broad marsh of kelly green reeds at the base of a small white cemetery. The stones were leaning at difficult angles, probably out of proximity to such moist ground. Immediately magnetized, I plowed through some of the marsh before I realized that the cemetery was inaccessible. Now I had to find the meaning behind this mysterious attraction, and I knew that at least one of those stones held the key.

The house that went with the farm stood watch over the grounds that I had just explored, but it looked friendly. The woman inside, Barbara Pearson, recited the story that I was seeking.

Many years ago Ms. Pearson's ancestors prospered on the land that still supports the original house and barn built in 1760 by Thomas Jenkins. The Jenkins family fared well from the land that grew all their food, raised their sheep and cattle, and nourished their horses. They also made a substantial living from the sea that was barely visible at the end of the spacious property. Thomas Jenkins was the ablest and luckiest sea captain of Old Kennebunkport. He never lost a ship during his whole career. What he did lose was something more precious than a ship: his second youngest son.

Twelve-year-old Tim Jenkins had a quiet way of enjoying life. He'd find a walking stick and go exploring the woods behind his house, while his brothers wrestled in the dirt. He loved to collect things like rocks and some insects, although he never killed any toward that end. His biggest collection comprised items from foreign lands brought back from overseas by his father. Tim had an ivory-handled spoon from Africa, a delicately tooled leather pouch from Spain, and a wooden box valentine decorated entirely with tropical sea shells. (Barbara showed me the only remaining piece of that collection, the African spoon.)

Ms. Pearson's facts were so detailed because of two diaries, one left by the boy, the other by his mother. Tim's brown-inked words were at times illegible, but the handwriting showed strong sensitivity. A great deal of this sensitivity seemed to be directed toward a girl his age, Rebecca Easton.

Ms. Pearson continued: Rebecca was the daughter of the man who lived next door to Jenkins. She was a pretty little thing who had exactly the same interests as Timothy. Growing up in a family full of brothers had made her somewhat of a tomboy, and she readily made friends with Tim. The only strange aspect of their friendship was that their families were not speaking to one another. A short while after Tom Jenkins had settled here, Mr. Easton had come along and laid claim to some land that supposedly belonged to Jenkins. It was the beginning of a feud that would not die, despite a much later intermarriage between the families.

Tim and Rebecca, therefore, had to have a secret friendship. Their favorite meeting spot was the big rock next to the stone wall that separated the families' properties. Tim would tie up his horse at the rock and wait for Becky to cross over the wall, onto the Jenkins side. There the two friends could sit unnoticed for quite a long time, or at least until the horse got antsy. They couldn't wait to tell each other the latest gripe of their respective households, and then laugh about how silly the whole thing was.

One day as Tim was plowing the small field down towards the water, he heard Becky's call, somewhat similar to a crow's. That was their signal for meeting. It must have seemed urgent to Tim, because he left the plow right where it was. Instead of crossing the wall at the usual place, the Eastons' sheep pasture, he started wading through the marsh, which of course was unbound. The marsh unexpectedly got too deep for him, and not knowing how to swim, he drowned.

His was the first marker to be erected on the Jenkins' cemeterial plot. The family was beside itself. In order to preserve Tim's memory even further, they left his plow stuck in the ground exactly as he left it, where it remains today.

So does Tim's spirit. More than once, Barbara's son Evan, who helps take care of the property, has felt the young ghost about. Once when Evan was pitching hay in the barn, the sun got so warm that he shifted his position about fifteen feet. There he continued his work until he got thirsty enough to put down the pitchfork and go outside to get a drink. Within a minute's time he returned but found the pitchfork standing upright, directly in the sunlight.

Another time Evan had finished grooming one of the horses and went down to the west end of the barn to tend to the second horse. He heard nothing out of the ordinary, and certainly no disturbance from the first horse. When he looked over, however, he found the first horse all bridled and ready to ride bareback—just the sort of thing a young boy would do.

In the many years they've lived on the place, Barbara has witnessed one odd thing. She has seen the tethering ring in the big rock flop back and forth all by itself. The oddest thing, though, was the time … Barbara asked Evan to tell the story.

Evan poured himself a strong one and seemed hesitant to talk. Maybe he thought that I wouldn't believe him. I tried my best to convince him that anything was possible as far as I was concerned, and finally he spoke.

The afternoon was in its last moments one June day, when Evan was mowing the small field down towards the water. He came upon Tim's plow and stood staring at it a few moments as he was sometimes wont to do. All of a sudden before his very eyes the plow began to shake, then shook some more until it reached a violent peak. Evan left the mower and ran up to the house. By the time he and his mother returned to the spot, it had started to rain in great pelting drops, like huge tears. It rained for two days like that. Nobody has seen anything like it before or since—except for the day of Tim Jenkins' funeral.

A
t my sister's soiree last year, a pleasant woman with an infectious laugh sat down to tell me my fortune. Let me rephrase that. Samantha came over to me and sat down; we shared the same sense of humor, and before I knew it, she was fondling my wedding ring. It was a busman's holiday for her, because her livelihood was being a psychic. The diamond told her several things: 1)1 would take on a large project similar to a teaching experience, that would bring me fame; 2) I should get a crystal; 3) I should go to some place in Maine (she couldn't pronounce the name). I told her the name that had popped into my mind, “Ogunquit.” My voice was questioning, because I had never been to Ogunquit, and the place held no significance for me. “Ogunquit, yes, that's it,” she replied, and she got up to leave. That was fun, I thought, gee fame and fortune, but it was just a party game and nothing more.

Samantha's words meant nothing until this summer when I started writing this book. Number one, I had begun a big project and whether or not it would be a teaching experience remained to be seen. It had certainly taught me a few things. Number two, I'd been nosing around for a crystal that might help heal my back. Number three, the choice of ghostly locations was up to me, and Ogunquit sounded like a good one.

My mother accompanied me to the west'ard, and we settled in at our night's lodging, an 1814 guesthouse. I knew that before we left the next day something would come up, but I didn't know how or where. It would happen in the house, that was for sure. The low-timbered ceilings and nineteenth-century artifacts exuded that feeling. Our hostess, without saying a word, felt the same thing.

Mom and I went downtown to dinner, which took much more time than expected because of the summer crowds on the roads and in the restaurant. When I asked the parking valet where to buy a crystal, he suggested I talk to Susie, the bar waitress. Susie directed us to a tiny shop down the road, but she cautioned me not to buy just any old crystal. “Make sure it's one that you're attracted to.”