The Founding Father
In 1623, eager to escape religious persecution in England, Puritan Stephen Prescott, along with his wife and infant son, boarded a ship and sailed to the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Prescott soon discovered that life in the New World was not what he had hoped, however. Stephen, who had left the country of his birth seeking religious freedom, had no fondness for the strict, oppressive life of the Separatists who had settled in Plymouth. Consequently, in 1626 he and several other dissenters moved north and founded a fishing village on the coast, near a river with a small waterfall. They gave the settlement no name, but soon others began referring to the general geographic area as the Puritans' falls.
For nearly fifty years, Stephen Prescott lived in the small village with his wife and growing family. In the community he helped found, the people were tolerant of their neighbors' ways and lived in peace with the Native Americans. But not long after Prescott passed on, his beloved village began to change. When a new minister arrived from England and took charge of the flock in the Puritan Falls Meeting House, preaching a doctrine of sin and eternal damnation, ripples of discord spread through the congregation. Soon neighbor was against neighbor and suspicion, covetousness and hypocrisy ran rampant.
Then in 1692 when witch hysteria struck nearby Salem Village, Puritan Falls hovered on the brink of madness—and one day it toppled over.
* * *
Goodman Malachi Pynchon was a cantankerous old man, a belligerent soul who was forever taking his neighbors to court in one trifling lawsuit after another. When the afflicted girls in Salem cried out against several of their village's prominent citizens, someone in Puritan Falls got the idea to rid the town of Malachi. Although the name of the person who brought the charge against the old man was never recorded in the history books, more than likely it was one of his neighbors who had lost a sum of money or a parcel of property to the litigious curmudgeon.
"Malachi Pynchon," the grim, uncharitable magistrate announced with nary a hint of mercy when the old man was brought before him for questioning, "you have been charged with the crime of witchcraft. How do you plea?"
The accused, his eyes flashing with defiance, refused to speak.
"Did you not understand my question?" the magistrate asked.
Malachi stubbornly remained silent.
"What say you? Will you not answer the charge against you?"
The magistrate might just as well have been talking to his horse, for Malachi Pynchon continued his stone-faced silence.
Sheriff Millard Hemmings soon tired of Pynchon's obstinacy. Unless the old man entered a plea, he could not be tried; if he did not stand trial, he would not lose his property, and Sheriff Hemmings would not be able to confiscate it.
"There's talk of torture being used to secure confessions in Salem," the magistrate threatened.
"Torture is for women," the sheriff said with disgust. "Malachi Pynchon, though advanced in years, is tough and strong. He won't break under torture."
For weeks the old man languished in jail, steadfastly refusing to answer the charges against him. The sheriff and the magistrate were on the verge of releasing him when word reached them of the fate of Giles Corey from Salem. Corey, like Pynchon, had been charged with witchcraft and refused to answer the charges against him. Salem's sheriff had revived an old English custom known as "pressing" in an attempt to extract a plea. While Hemmings wouldn't normally resort to such drastic measures, he could not overlook Pynchon's substantial lands.
Doomed to suffer the same fate as Giles Corey, Malachi Pynchon was taken from the jail to an open field on Naumkeag Hill. There he was forced to lie on the ground, and a wooden board was placed on his supine body.
"Malachi Pynchon," the self-serving sheriff called out, "do you plead innocent or guilty to the charge of witchcraft?"
The old man finally broke his silence.
"Go to hell, Hemmings," he cried viciously.
"Lay on the stones," the sheriff instructed the two strong brutes he had hired for the occasion.
The men placed large rocks upon the board that covered Pynchon's body. As the weight increased, the old man's discomfort became evident.
"Spare yourself this agony and enter a plea," the sheriff demanded.
It was rumored throughout Massachusetts that in a similar situation, Giles Corey rebelliously responded to his tormenters with the request for more weight. Malachi Pynchon's retort was not made public, but it was common knowledge that even the hardened sheriff and his henchmen were shocked by the old man's choice of words.
"You vile, evil old goat," the sheriff replied to the old man's vulgar insults. "You must be in league with the devil, for no covenanted Christian would speak in such a manner."
"You hypocrite," Pynchon cried, wincing with pain. "You dare ally yourself with God? You are only interested in filling your pockets. Well, you'll not be getting your hands on my property."
"Answer the charges!" the sheriff thundered, enraged at his inability to break the old man's will.
"I curse you," Pynchon cried, as a thin trickle of blood oozed from his mouth. "I curse you and this whole godforsaken town!"
After uttering his malediction, the old man fell into a fit of coughing, spraying blood upon the sheriff. By the end of the day, the accused witch was dead. Since Malachi had never actually been tried for witchcraft, his family was allowed to bury him in hallowed ground, and much to Sheriff Hemmings' consternation, the dead man's property passed on to his heirs.
* * *
For more than half a century, Malachi Pynchon's descendants prospered. Their fine homes stood on what was once Pynchon's farm. Puritan Falls grew, and many men made great fortunes in the shipping trade, while others made their living from the sea as fishermen and sailors.
Talk of witchcraft and dying curses was in the past, but soon a new enemy threatened the peace and prosperity of the town. Fueled by men such as John and Samuel Adams, John Hancock and their fellow Sons of Liberty, rebellion spread through the colony of Massachusetts. In time, the insurgence led to war with England.
No one seemed to take notice of the unusually high number of casualties from Puritan Falls. Maybe the patriots felt the loss of so many men was a credit to their bravery or simply the price that had to be paid for freedom. Certainly, no one blamed the high death toll on old Malachi Pynchon's curse.
Eventually, the Revolutionary War came to an end. The people of Puritan Falls rejoiced that they were American citizens rather than British subjects, but their lives were much the same as they had been before the war. There were still ships to be built, crops to be planted and harvested and fish to be caught and sold.
The Pynchon family continued to thrive under the new democratic government. The land on which they lived, that property for which their ancestor had died under the weight of stones in order to preserve for his family, eventually became the most fashionable and affluent section of town.
From time to time, Puritan Falls, like many municipalities, large and small, suffered from natural tragedy: a hurricane, a drought or a contagious disease. During such troubled times, the citizens pulled together, as people often do when in dire circumstances. Neighbor helped neighbor, and hands opened in charity.
Although no one spoke openly of it, the people could not help wondering whether Malachi Pynchon's curse might be responsible for much of their misfortune, for on the eve of many of these tragedies at least one person whispered of seeing a ghostly image near the grave of the accused witch. In due time, however, these sightings of Pynchon's ghost became part of the folklore of the small Massachusetts village. By the middle of the 1800s, no one believed in ghosts, curses or witches anymore.
* * *
In 1861 the bloody war between North and South began. Throughout New England and the Mid-Atlantic States, many men answered Lincoln's call to arms. Those in Puritan Falls were no exception. By 1864, the third year of the war, the town was populated only by women, children and old men—all able-bodied males having gone off to fight the rebels.
As the war progressed, disturbing news came back to those left behind. Sons, fathers, husbands and brothers were being killed in places such as Fredericksburg, Manassas, Antietam and Gettysburg. Finally, Grant met with Lee at Appomattox Court House, and peace was restored. Exhausted and wounded Yankees began returning north, yet few men survived to go home to Puritan Falls. Due to the high number of casualties, the village's population had been cut by more than half, and with their men dead, many women packed up and left, too.
Some feared Puritan Falls would never recover from its devastating losses, but somehow it managed to survive. Slowly, new life was breathed into the town. In the latter decades of the nineteenth century, the population inched ever higher, eventually surpassing its pre-war figures.
The long years of war were soon forgotten as the United States government sought to achieve its Manifest Destiny, much to the dismay of the native tribes who were pushed aside (or in some cases annihilated) to make room for American expansion. A new century dawned, and the people of Puritan Falls experienced a swell of patriotism. They embraced the history of their country as well as that of their own village. Civic-minded organizations undertook many long-needed improvements. A preservation group was created to maintain the town's oldest buildings, and a historical society was formed to preserve its rich history.
During the second decade of the twentieth century, the town council voted to appropriate public funds to erect a statue on the common facing the intersection of Essex and Gloucester Streets. The council members, however, were divided on their selection of the person to be so honored. Several councilmen wanted the statue to depict a Civil War soldier; the others wanted a statue of a Colonial Era patriot. In a fine example of politesse, Mayor Thornton W. Bateman broke the deadlock by suggesting the statue be of Stephen Prescott, the man history credited with founding the town.
"It seems only fitting," the editor of The Puritan Falls Gazette wrote in an editorial on the subject, "to honor our Founding Father in such a way. Besides, there is no shortage of memorials to the fallen heroes of our nation's wars. Let us be unique in remembering a man of peace, one who fled the intolerance of his previous home and sought to build a town where all men could live in harmony."
Thus, on July 4, 1912, the statue of Stephen Prescott was unveiled on the town common. The mayor and council were delighted with the finished sculpture. The editor of the Gazette was also pleased as were the people of Puritan Falls. Apparently, the ghost of Malachi Pynchon was the only one who was unhappy.
On August 29 of that year, six weeks after the statue was unveiled and two hundred and twenty years to the day after the dying old man had uttered his curse, flames swept through the small Massachusetts town. The fire blazed for two days, destroying more than three hundred acres of homes and businesses. Miraculously, the fine old houses on the property that was once the Pynchon farm were untouched by the conflagration. An even greater miracle was that no lives were lost in the fire. It was as though a guardian angel had been watching over the town.
* * *
In the monumental task of rebuilding their community, the people of Puritan Falls were joined by volunteers from cities and towns extending from Boston to Ipswich. The state militia was called in to protect the peace, but these men spent most of their time aiding the volunteers with reconstruction. Soon, like the legendary Phoenix, Puritan Falls rose from the ashes. New buildings were constructed, and old ones, not razed by the flames, were repaired.
Once the town had sufficiently recovered, the local government resumed its multitude of duties. One of these was to see to the eviction of property owners who had not paid their taxes. Such was the case with Louella Mann. Despite the many notices sent to her by the tax collector, the old woman made no attempt to pay her delinquent taxes. Normally, public officials didn't like to put little old ladies out on the street, but in this case, they had no choice. Not only were the taxes on the property not paid, but the house itself was in such a state of disrepair that condemnation proceedings were imminent.
"If we put the woman out, where is she going to go?" the mayor asked. "She has no relatives or friends to take her in."
"That's her own fault," one of his councilmen replied. "If she wasn't such a bitter old harridan, maybe she'd have somewhere to go."
No one in Puritan Falls realized that in their efforts to evict one old woman from her dilapidated house, they would once again evoke the wrath of Malachi Pynchon.
* * *
The sheriff was tired. It had been a long, exhausting day. Soon he would go home, eat one of his wife's home-cooked meals and relax. But first, he had to deliver the foreclosure papers to Louella Mann. When he walked out of the jail toward his automobile, however, a wave of nausea overpowered him. Suddenly, his knees buckled beneath him, and he fell to the ground. Two off-duty policemen came to his aid. They helped him inside the jail and laid him down on a bunk in one of the vacant holding cells.
The sheriff's malady mystified the doctor. Although he had never seen the disease before in all his years of practicing medicine, he was to become quite familiar with the symptoms over the next few days. The sheriff, the two policemen and the doctor himself soon contracted the disease, as did everyone with whom these men came into contact. In less than a week, Puritan Falls was under siege by an epidemic. The same militia that had helped in the wake of the fire now stood post around the town preventing anyone from leaving or entering. So great was the fear of contagion, that the soldiers were given orders to shoot, if necessary.
While no one had actually died of the sickness, it was only a matter of time—days perhaps—before the disease claimed its first casualties. Those stricken with the mysterious ailment, which amounted to nearly the entire population of the town, were slowly wasting away. The sheriff and those who were among the first to succumb were little more than skin and bones. Only a handful of people were still symptom-free. One was Mayor Bateman, who had taken refuge in his home, refusing to come out and denying everyone admittance.
Only one man, a stranger to Puritan Falls, managed to find a way past the locked door.
"Mayor Bateman," the visitor called as he shook the sleeping man awake.
Fear shone in the mayor's eyes.
"Who are you? How did you get in here?"
"That's not important. I came here to help the people of Puritan Falls survive this dreadful disease."
"Are you a doctor, sir?" the mayor asked hopefully.
"No. What ails this town is beyond medical knowledge. This disease is yet another manifestation of the curse placed on Puritan Falls more than two hundred years ago."
The mayor's face flushed. Had the dreadful epidemic caused the stranger to lose his mind, or had he always been a lunatic?
"I know you don't believe in the curse," the stranger warned, "but you have to do as I say, or in another week there will be no one left alive."
"What are you, a religious man who will lift the curse by prayer or some arcane ceremony?"
"I cannot lift the curse myself. If it were in my power to do so, I would have done it long ago. No, the curse must be lifted by one of Malachi Pynchon's bloodline."
"You're out of luck then," the mayor explained. "The Pynchons are gone. Fenton Pynchon was the last of the line, and he's been in his grave these past twenty years."
"While no one has carried on the Pynchon name, there is still a descendant of old Malachi in this town, one whose great-grandmother was a Pynchon before her marriage."
Hope grew in the mayor's heart once again.
"Who is it?"
"Louella Mann, the woman you want to put out of her home, to remove from the land that once belonged to old Malachi."
"Are you sure of this?" the mayor asked.
"I am. If you want to save the lives of your townspeople, you must appeal to Louella to intercede with her ancestor. He must make peace with the town and lift the curse."
The mayor looked with trepidation at his locked door.
"You mean I have to go out there?"
"Yes."
"No! I'll catch the disease and die. You go talk to her."
"I don't have the legal authority to bargain with her. Besides, how long do you think you can stay alive here? Eventually, you'll run out of food and water."
The mayor saw the logic in the stranger's argument. Although he still had doubts about the existence of a curse, he agreed to go to Louella Mann and ask for her help. He was a desperate captain at the helm of a sinking ship. He was willing to try anything to keep from foundering.
Louella Mann proved to be as ornery and short-tempered as her ancestor had been.
"Even if I believed in this ridiculous curse—which I don't—why would I want to help you?" she asked after the mayor had explained his errand and requested her assistance.
"Thousands of people are ill and on the verge of dying. You might be able to help them."
"I don't give a damn about those people or you, for that matter. You wanted to kick me out of my house and put me out on the street without a penny to my name. Now you want my help. Well, I ask you, what's in it for me?"
The mayor, embarrassed and uncomfortable speaking of curses and vengeful spirits, felt more at ease when faced with having to bargain with a greedy, self-serving human.
"I'm sure we can negotiate an equitable deal," he suggested.
"I'm listening."
"The council and I will allow you to keep your home."
The old woman cackled like a witch.
"You'll have to do better than that, Mayor. I've only got to wait a short time, and I can have any house I choose—including yours—for the owners will all be dead."
"What do you want then?" Bateman asked, not intending to waste valuable time with offers and counteroffers.
"I want my house repaired, and I don't want to pay taxes for as long as I live."
"Agreed."
"Not so fast. I also want a monthly stipend to pay my living expenses."
"Yes, yes. Anything. Only do as we ask."
"All right. Let's go to the old burial grounds, and I'll see if I can have a word with my ancestor."
* * *
The old woman knelt beside the grave of Malachi Pynchon, her infamous forebear. Nearly deaf from old age, Louella spoke in a loud voice that carried for more than half a block.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do or say," she shouted, doubtful the dead man's spirit could hear her. "I never even knew I was related to you, but I suppose, despite the centuries that separate us, we're alike, you and I. I don't care much for this sanctimonious, Bible-thumping pack of hypocrites either. God knows I've no use for them, but holding a grudge for two hundred years! Isn't that a bit much? The people who accused and tortured you are long since dead and in their graves. I ask you, how many more people have to pay for your damned pigheadedness?"
Mayor Bateman winced. The old woman's sharp tongue was not likely to put an end to the curse if it ever existed.
He turned toward the stranger and asked, "Did you really believe this old harridan would be able to help us? I don't know who you are, but you're mad if you think this will do those dying people any good."
"Look," the stranger commanded, nodding his head toward the graveyard.
From their vantage point across the street from the old burial ground, Mayor Bateman and the stranger could see a pale blue mist rise from the hallowed ground of Malachi Pynchon's grave. Before their fascinated eyes, the mist coalesced, and the semi-opaque image of a man in Puritan garb materialized. The specter angrily confronted the old woman, and a bitter argument ensued. In the end, Louella Mann with her scathing tongue succeeded in browbeating her dead ancestor.
* * *
The next morning those who had been stricken with the disease took a turn for the better. People recovered quickly, and there were no new cases reported. The epidemic ended as quickly as it had begun.
Life soon returned to normal. One of the mayor's first acts after the council reconvened was to proclaim that a memorial plaque to Malachi Pynchon be placed outside the courthouse. The monument was to serve as a public apology to the dead man and his descendants as well as an official exoneration of the charges that had been brought against him more than two centuries earlier. The mayor also kept his word to Louella. Her house was repaired, her property was declared tax-exempt and a generous monthly income was paid to her for the remainder of her life.
As for the stranger who played such a significant role in delivering the town from Malachi Pynchon's curse, he was never seen again. Few people even knew of his existence. Neither Mayor Bateman nor Louella Mann ever spoke of the events of that fateful encounter. It was a secret they kept to themselves, a night they both preferred not to remember.
The mayor, however, was soon to receive a startling reminder of his meeting with the stranger. On the Fourth of July, Puritan Falls, like most towns and cities across America, held an annual Independence Day parade. Behind the proud members of the Puritan Falls fire and police departments, the Daughters of the American Revolution, veterans of the Civil War and several marching bands, Mayor Bateman rode in his flower-and-ribbon-bedecked car. The parade route, which began on Atlantic Avenue, terminated on Essex Street near the statue of founder Stephen Prescott.
When his car came to a stop, the mayor got out and placed a wreath at the base of the monument. While one of the marching bands played "The Star-Spangled Banner," the assembled citizens of Puritan Falls proudly saluted the American flag. Then the mayor, his hand still at his eyebrow, looked up at the face of the statue. He recognized the eyes, the nose and the mouth. They were the features of the stranger who had helped save the town during the epidemic. The face was that of Stephen Prescott, the founding father and the guardian angel of Puritan Falls.
After recovering from the shock of having met a man who had been dead for nearly three hundred years, Mayor Bateman headed toward the pavilion set up in the center of the Common, where the air was ripe with the scent of picnic foods and the sounds of music and celebration. He had neither the time nor the inclination to dwell on his encounter with the supernatural. Like so many people in Puritan Falls over the years and in the future, the mayor came to the conclusion that some things were best forgotten.
The image in the upper left corner is of the statue of (founder) Roger Conant in Salem, Massachusetts. The image below is from "Black Cat
Tours Salem" by Wendy Snow-Lang.
This story is based on events in the history of Salem, Massachusetts, including the curse of Giles Corey and the fire that swept through Salem in 1914.
Roger Conant's statue stands guard over the city of Salem. My cat likes to think he's lending Roger a hand!
