The Old Cape House (17 page)

The kids busied themselves trying to find something to occupy their minds. The room began to get stuffy, and no one seemed to notice me turning paler by the minute. I thought I was going to lose my breakfast. As the winds blew at 75mph, with gusts to 120mph, I whispered to Paul, “I don’t feel well. I’ll be right back.” He looked at me, but I don’t think he really heard what I was saying.

I literally burst out the pocket door of the kitchen and ran into the downstairs bathroom. With a flashlight in one hand, I slammed the door behind me, just in time to throw up in the toilet. I prayed quietly, “Dear God, please don’t let this be the flu!”

When I returned to the kitchen I took my seat in the rocking chair that Brian had brought in from the living room.

“Everything all right?” Paul asked.

“Must be all the excitement,” I said with a half-hearted smile, trying to cover up how miserable I felt.

Everyone looked bored from being cooped up in the small room. I closed my eyes, inhaled deep breaths and tried to soothe my wretched body as the wind pounded against the house. I looked at Paul. He didn’t seem aware that I was still feeling sick. I couldn’t blame him; he was worried about the storm. I tried to gain a bit more sympathy from him. “I’ll be better; just let me relax a minute.”

He looked at me and smiled.

I felt a little selfish wanting more attention, but darn it, I really
felt sick! I could hear Molly giggling as she played Chutes and
Ladders with Casey. Jim fiddled with the radio, searching for music. Brian lay on the floor with his eyes closed. I was determined to feel better.

As the sounds and sights of the storm began to blur inside my conscious mind, I thought of my mom. How I wished I could call her
about the hurricane…and tell her that our family was safe. I
remembered the day of her funeral. At the viewing, one of my peculiar aunts had told my older sister, Barbara, that my moving away is what killed Mom because I was the baby of the family. The crazy lady’s stupid words had hurt when I heard them back then, and they still hurt today. After all, I was not an only child; I had five brothers and sisters. My moving away did not kill our mother. My eyes began to tear. I really missed her. I forced myself to think of other things: my wonderful family, the fact that everyone was healthy–that Paul is in love with me.

After only three hours the storm was over. The sky lightened, and the rain stopped. We ventured outside to see the devastation
surrounding the house. Leaves covered the ground, and branches
were sticking up and out of the strangest places. Trees lay across Route 6A
blocking access east and west. It was strange to walk down the
middle of the road and not meet a car. I warned the kids to get back indoors when I saw that power lines were strewn across the road. They were humming and sparking, sending little bursts of light into the rubble of tree limbs in all directions.

Over the next few days, trying to live without electricity became uppermost in our minds. Our interest in the cellar was pushed back behind the immediate care of the family. We never noticed that the
tarp had blown away from the cellar; revealing at its bottom the
shiny edge of a small gold coin now peeking through the dark, wet dirt.

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.

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.”