Folktale Friday: “The Legend Of Lake Hoccomocca” (Westborough Historical Society Third Grade Program)

Judge W. Trowbridge Forbes and his four children in a boat on Hoccomocco Pond, ca. 1890.

Lake Hoccomocco was one of the places used by early Native Americans for hunting, fishing, and making tools.  According to Indian legend, the Evil Spirit or Hobomoc, hides beneath the dark surface of Lake Hoccomocco.  The legend starts with the story of the beautiful maiden Iano.

Many young Indians wanted to marry the beautiful Iano. She chose the young chief, Sassacus.  One brave, Wequoash, was angry at not being chosen. He wanted to get revenge.  On the eve of the wedding, Wequoash went off into the woods to go hunting for a mountain lion.  He found a mountain lion and killed it. 

On his way back to the village, Wequoash saw Iano out in a canoe on the lake.  He swam underwater to her canoe. As she leaned over the side, he grabbed her hair and pulled her into the water. He used a rock to sink the canoe and Iano’s body to the bottom of the lake.

Sassacus and his men were searching for Iano by moonlight when the chief saw his bride and her canoe disappear mysteriously into the dark waters.  He was convinced that the Evil Spirit Hobomoc had killed her.

When Wequoash returned a few days later with the mountain lion, he was praised by Chief Sassacus for his bravery. That was not enough for the greedy Wequoash!  He wanted to be the chief. He secretly poisoned Sassacus and killed him.

On a night one year later Wequoash saw a blue flame in the middle of the lake. Then a mysterious canoe floated across the lake. Wequoash got into the canoe. The canoe took him to the flame that turned into Iano’s face!

Another year passed.  Wequoash again saw the blue flame. The mysterious canoe came towards him again.  He boarded the canoe and traveled to the spot of Iano’s murder.  This time the spirit whispered, “Only once more.”

Wequoash became sad during the next year. He gathered his tribe about him on the shores of the lake. He finally confessed to the murders of Iano and Sassacus.  When the ghostly canoe came this time, it took Wequoash to the middle of the lake again. Now he saw the face of Sassacus in the blue flame. Wequoash was frightened.  He wrapped his cloak about himself and disappeared forever.

From that time on, every time the Indians crossed Lake Hoccomocco, they dropped a rock at the spot Iano was drowned. They wanted to please the Evil Spirit.  A pile of rocks was built up in the middle of the lake.  Years later, fishermen would often run into it.  If you stand at the side of the lake, look very hard out into the middle.  See if you can make out a rock pile marking Iano’s resting place.

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Hoccomocco Pond on Otis Street, ca. 1970.

From “A Look at Westborough’s Historic Past,” The Community Advocate, June 27, 1997.

According to Jacqueline Tidman (former historical librarian):

It was said that this pond [Hoccomocco] was where a beautiful Indian maiden was drowned by a spurned lover, and her body and canoe were secreted in its depths. The man went on to poison her soon-to-be bridegroom, and assumed a position of leadership amongst their tribe.

On the anniversary of her death, the maiden’s spirit returned, beckoning the traitorous warrior back to the pond. On the second anniversary of her death, her spirit returned once again, drawing him to paddle out to the spot where he had drowned her.

On the third anniversary, he could contain his secret no longer, and confessed his crime. With the entire village watching, he paddled out to meet the maiden’s spirit. But, instead of the maiden, the spirit of his rival appeared, and amidst thunder and smoke the spirit and the murderer disappeared forever.

It is said that, even into the nineteenth century, people avoided the environs of the haunted pond—especially at night.

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Note that various versions of the same folk tale will be published so as to compare how each are told.

Folktale Friday: Tom Cook (Forbes)

From The Hundredth Town by Harriette Merrifield Forbes, 1889, pp. 137-146.

There were two persons supposed to be in league with the Evil One living here part of the time contemporaneously, whose names are very familiar to most of the older people now in town, — Tom Cook and Ruth Buck. The former was well known in all the towns of Massachusetts, and more or less throughout New England. He lived in the house afterwards occupied by Dr. Hawes [Ed. note: the former blue “plaster house” near the corner of Lyman and East Main Street, which was torn down and replaced with another blue house] . . .

Here, October 6, 1738, Tom Cook first opened his innocent baby eyes on the world, whose wrongs, in his own eccentric way, he was to endeavor to right. Here he lived, developing his own personality, and by his sweet baby prattle, every day forcing his way further into his mother’s heart. When about three years old, he was taken very ill. Mrs. Cook doubtless received the deacons and listened to their prayers over her sick darling, but it was whispered among the women at the next Sunday’s service that the little boy was getting better, in answer to his mother’s wicked prayer, “Only spare his life ; only spare his life, and I care not what he becomes!”

After reading the paper he was asked if he had anything to say upon it, and he told the church that “he doubted whether he was in a state of Grace at the time of his taking sd oath and was in doubt whether he ought to take it; but insisted that he was not guilty of taking it in the Manner the church had understood, it was in no Passion &c. but as well as he could in the fear of God, even act of worship; but as all his prayers, public attendance &c. were then profane, so was this also, and he could not judge it any otherwise, &c.” After some debate, the Church decided that this confession was unsatisfactory, and it was a year and a half before he succeeded in making one which was sufficient to restore him to fellowship.

When Tom was about fifteen, his brothers, Robert and Stephen, were imprisoned and tried for killing an Indian at Stockbridge.

The Cook family moved to Wrentham, and in 1770 Mrs. Cook was living in Douglass, but was still helped by the Westborough church.

That the Evil One sometimes appeared, was a common belief, and on the Brigham farm, on Brigham hill, Grafton, can still be seen what was once supposed to be the print of his foot in a rock behind the barn. Tradition does not say how, or where, or when, Tom entered into a compact with the devil; but in some way, possibly by his mother, at the time of his illness, he was pledged to serve that individual for a number of years, receiving abundant help in return.

The last year rolled away, and found Tom still clinging to this life, and unwilling to enter upon any other. The devil came for him one morning, when he was dressing for another active day, and his head was full of plans for work. Tom had learned by that time to live upon his wits.

“Wait, wait, wait, can’t you?” he said to his visitor, “until I get my galluses on.” And as soon as the latter had signified his willingness to wait, he threw the suspenders into the fire and never wore them again. He lived many years after this.

Mr. Parkman, forty-one years after he had baptized Eunice Cook’s new baby, in the old Wessonville church, still keeps an interest in him, and writes in his journal under date of August 27, 1779: “The notorious Thom. Cook came in (he says) on Purpose to see me. I gave him wt admon” Instruction and Caution I could — I beseech God to give it Force! He leaves me with fair Words — thankf. and Promising.”

So he parted from the old minister, leaving him to admonish, instruct, and caution, while he, in his own way, straightened out the injustices of the world.

Cook was called a very attractive man; “of medium size, remarkably agile and well formed, — his face and head betokened unusual intelligence. His eyes were his most striking feature,” described by one who had seen him as “of deep blue, the most piercing and, at the same time, the most kindly eyes that he ever saw.” Before his long life closed he bore the scars of many an encounter; on one hand, every finger had been broken, and if set at all, generally in a very un-scientific manner. In some way the various bones grew together, and Tom’s body at length resembled some knotted, gnarled old tree. With children he was a great favorite. His pockets were always filled with toys, which he had stolen for their amusement, and nothing pleased him more than to relate his adventures to their wondering ears.

Among the large class who did not believe in his league with the devil, there were many who admired his shrewdness and skill, and, in a certain sense, were his friends. He was called a thief; now he is usually spoken of as “the honest thief;” his own name for himself was “the leveller.” He spent most of his time wandering about the country, stealing in one place with such skill and boldness that he was rarely detected, and bestowing his booty in another with an equal delicacy and kindliness. He was familiar with the simple habits of the people, and knew at what hour it was best to slip into the well-to-do farmer’s kitchen, to quietly abstract the pudding from the ‘”boiled pot,” and, carrying it in its steaming bag to the next house, where the man was poorer and the family larger, to drop it noiselessly in their less highly favored kettle.

He did not always do his work in so unobtrusive a manner. Many of his acts were unpremeditated and done in full sight. One day he was walking along the country road, and saw some children crying because they were hungry. Just that moment there passed a man on his way home from the corn-mill, with a load of bags of grain. Tom took one from the back of the wagon, and quickening his pace, walked ahead of the man, and gave the grain to the children’s mother. The man saw him, but did not think of its being one of his meal-bags, until he reached home and took an account of stock.

Another time he went into a house, and upstairs. His object this time was to procure a feather-bed for some poor invalid whose slender purse forbade the purchase of such luxuries. He selected the best the house afforded, tied it closely in a sheet, took it downstairs, and knocked loudly at the front door.

“Can I leave this bundle here, till I call for it in a few days?” he asked, politely.

The woman recognized him, but not the bundle, and preferred to have him carry it elsewhere. So he took it up again with an easy conscience, and trudged on.

The farmers bore his oft-repeated thefts, with but few attempts to bring him to justice. Some of the more wealthy, who naturally would have been his chief victims, paid him annually a sum, which exempted them from his depredations, and probably nearly equaled in value what Tom would have expected in the practice of his profession to wrest from them.

He did not confine his depredations to houses, but patronized stores as well. One time, after he had broken into a shop in Woonsocket, and was travelling along the highway, he heard sleigh-bells behind him, which he rightfully guessed belonged to the officers sent in his pursuit. He jumped a wall, went to a haystack, and commenced pull-ing hay for the cattle. The officers drove up and stopped.

“Hullo,” they shouted; “seen a man running past here?”

“Just went by,” answered Tom; “you’ll overtake him in a minute.”

As soon as they were out of sight, he took off his shoes, and in true Indian fashion tied them on with the toes at the heels, and tramped over the snow to a neighboring swamp. The officers finally returned, and saw where the man had come from, but could not find where he had gone.

Another time he was less successful, and was captured by the officers, and mounted on the horse behind one of them, and carried along towards the jail. By using his hands skillfully he managed to tie the man, unknown to him, fast to his horse. He then complained that he was tired of the horse’s hard gait, and asked permission to get down and ride on the other. This was granted him, and once seated behind the second officer, he proceeded quietly to tie him to his horse. This accomplished, he jumped down and disappeared in the woods, probably leaving the officers in firm belief that their missing prisoner was in league with the Evil One, who had sent unseen hands to help his ally in distress.

In the course of his long life he was often arrested. At one time he selected a meeting-house in one of the towns in this vicinity for a place where he could retire after a successful raid, and, undisturbed, look over his booty, and develop his philanthropic plans. It was mistrusted that all was not right, and a watch was set. One night, Tom appeared through the window, seated himself in one of the capacious square pews, with his bag by his side, and commenced hauling out his plunder. Each article he laid aside, after deciding on whom it should be bestowed. Then came a bottle of cider, and he put it down with a smack of satisfaction, — “Ah, this is good for old Tom.” — “Yes,” cried the officer, springing from his place of concealment, “and this is good for old Tom.” And he arrested him, and carried him to the “goal.”

But a time came when more imminent danger threatened Tom, when he was actually brought into court, and heard the awful words of the judge: “And I therefore sentence you to be hanged by the neck until you are dead, dead, dead.”

But under these trying circumstances his courage did not fail.

“I shall not be there that day, day, day,” he answered.

And when the day for his execution came, he had managed in some way to break through bolt and bar, and the wondering authorities thought “best not to look him up.”

Tom never acquired wealth for himself, and, when a severe accident to his leg, together with advancing old age, took away his agility, his means of a livelihood were gone, and he settled down in Westborough. One of the last years of his life he spent on the farm of Mr. Levi Bowman, who boarded the town’s poor. His house was the last on the old Upton road, before reaching the poor-farm. Tom spent his winters contentedly under shelter, but in summer he wandered about, and finally, when nearly ninety years of age, he ran away from his home in the poor-house, and died near Boston. He was brought back here for burial, and at an expense of forty dollars was finally laid to rest.

He left no successor to go on with his cherished work. He had at one time, after the manner of the Jew Fagin, taken a young apprentice to teach him his trade. One evening he gave him a package of valuables to hide. The boy went away with them, and, soon returning, told Tom that he had put them under a certain large stone. When he fell asleep, Tom stole out and removed the goods. The next morning he sent the boy for them, who, coming back, sadly reported that they were gone.

‘”You must have been telling some one where you put them,” said Tom. But the apprentice honestly declared he had told no one.

“But you did,” said Tom; “you told me. That is no way to do business. Keep it to yourself.”

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Note: In 1984, Jacqueline Dembar Greene published The Leveller, a young adult novel about Tom Cook. The book is available at the Westborough Public Library in the Westborough Center for History and Culture.

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Folktale Friday: “The Witch of Westborough,” By Margaret Anderson

Many years ago in the village of Westborough there lived a woman named Ruth Buck. Ruth Buck was stout and always wore a plaid kerchief on her head. She wandered from house to house plying her trade as a seamstress. She had a very sharp tongue and the children were frightened at the sight of her.

Many farmers and their wives were very superstitious and looked on Ruth with suspicion. You see many in the town believed she was a witch. Whenever the cows did not give milk or the sheep got sick everyone would blame Ruth Buck.

One day a prosperous farmer named John Belknap was loading his wagon with eggs. He was going to travel up the turnpike to Boston and sell them at a handsome profit. John and his hired hand, Eli, loaded the wagon until it was completely full. They carefully placed a board across the back to make sure the eggs would not fall.

John and Eli were working so hard that they did not see Ruth Buck walking up the hill. Ruth called to them, “Good day, Squire Belknap, and where might you be going? Your wagon is loaded particularly full. Would you be so kind as to give me a few eggs, you have so many a few will hardly be missed.”

John Belknap was not glad to see Ruth. He was anxious to get started on his long journey and did not want to be bothered. “I have not time for you, Ruth,” he said. “I must get started for Boston if I am to arrive there by nightfall. I will not tive you any of my eggs. They are packed and ready to be sold.

Eli looked at his master with surprise. “Mr. Belknap, what are you doing? Don’t anger Ruth Buck for you know what they say about her, she is a witch,” he said. John Belknap knew what the townfolk said about Ruth, but he was a sober man who did not consider such things. “Eli, I do not believe in old farmer’s wives tales.”

Ruth grew angry. “I ask you again, Squire Belknap, will you give me some of those eggs?” “No, I must be going so be off with you,” replied John. Ruth looked at him with cold, beady eyes and said, “Squire Belknap, you will never get those eggs to market. I promise you that all the eggs will be broken before you reach Boston, and you will never receive a penny for them.” She walked off leaving an angry John and a scared Eli.

John and Eli clicked the reigns and the horses pulled the wagon through the village of Westborough. The sun was shining and the day was warm. They soon forgot about Ruth Buck. They traveled down the Boston Turnpike through Framingham, Natick, Wellesley, and Newton. The sun was beginning to set as they started to climb Chestnut Hill. Midway up the hill the horses stopped and nothing could persuade them to go further.

John Belknap grew impatient and handed the reigns to Eli. “I will pull them you hold tight,” he said. He grabbed the bridles and pulled the horses until they reluctantly moved forward. The horses stopped again and all of a sudden there was a crash. The board on the back of the wagon fell to the ground and all the eggs tumbled out. Eli and John ran to the back of the wagon and found ALL of the eggs were broken.

All they could do was look at each other and think of what Ruth Buck had said. She was right, none of the eggs had reached Boston. John Belknap had to turn his wagon around and go home. He made no handsome profit selling his eggs at the market that day.

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Note that various versions of the same folk tale will be published so as to compare how each are told.

Folktale Fridays: The Rice Boys (Forbes)

Rice Brothers Memorial, 1906 (near the current Westborough High School).

From The Hundredth Town by Harriette Merrifield Forbes, 1889, pp. 32-35.

One of the stories that the old people a hundred years ago told to their grandchildren was about Edmund Rice’s capture by Graylock, an old Indian living in the forests around Westborough, who occasionally made raids on the settlers. The women during the day were clustered together in the garrison-houses, while the men, with their guns near by, cleared their farms.

Edmund Rice was a young man, fitted by nature and circumstances to be a pioneer in a new country. He was bold and fearless, convinced that, whatever trouble might come upon others, he would live to make for himself a name in the annals of the new town. He would like to see the Indians attempt to capture him! Let Graylock come, — he might get the worst of it!

One morning Rice was swinging his scythe through the tall grass, with no suspicion of the dusky form creeping stealthily towards him.

With one quick, agile spring, Graylock was between him and his gun. He himself was armed, and all that Rice could do was to take in silence the trail pointed out to him, his captor following with levelled gun.

So they went for some distance, Rice, on the way, picking up a stout stick, upon which he leaned more heavily as they advanced on their journey.

There was but one chance of escape for him, and with his usual boldness and intrepidity he took it. Turning around quickly, when he saw that for a moment Graylock was looking in another direction, he felled him to the ground with his heavy stick. Leaving him dead, he ran back lightly over the fresh trail, and went on with his morning’s work.

This was probably before 1704, when the Indians revenged the death of Graylock by killing one of Mr. Rice’s sons and capturing two others. This massacre occurred near the garrison-house of his brother, Thomas Rice, which was situated on the Christopher Whitney estate, on Main street, then the “old Connecticut way.”

The account of this raid was written by Rev. Peter Whitney, the old Northborough minister and friend of Mr. Parkman. The latter doubtless heard the full particulars of the story from Timothy Rice, one of the boys. He writes: —  

“On August 8, 1704, as several persons were busy in spreading flax on a plain about eighty rods from the house of Mr. Thomas Rice (the first settler in Westborough, and several years representative of the town of Marlborough in the General Court), and a number of boys with them, seven, some say ten, Indians suddenly rushed down a wooded hill near by, and knocking the least of the boys on the head (Nahor, about five years old, son of Mr. Edmund Rice, and the first person ever buried in Westborough), they seized two, Asher and Adonijah, — sons of Mr. Thomas Rice, — the oldest about ten, and the other about eight years of age, and two others, Silas and Timothy, sons of Mr. Edmund Rice, above-named, of about nine and seven years of age, and carried them away to Canada.”

In about four years Asher was redeemed. Adonijah married and settled in Canada, while Silas and Timothy mixed with the Indians, had Indian wives and children, and lost all knowledge of the English language. Timothy became one of their chiefs. They called him Oughtsorongoughton. In September, 1 740, he returned to Westborough and made a short visit. Mr. Parkman writes: “They viewed the house where Mr. Rice dwelt, and the place from whence the children were captivated, of both which he retained a clear remembrance, as he did likewise of several elderly persons who were then living, though he had forgot our language.” They then visited Governor Belcher. Timothy, as chief of the Cagnawagas, was quite prominent in the history of the time, and influential in keeping the Indians from joining the English during the Revolution. The Cagnawagas were the principal tribe of the Canadian Six Nations. They “peremptorily refused” to join the king’s troops in Boston, saying, that if they are obliged to take up arms on either side, “that they shall take part on the side of their brethren, the English in New England.” Both brothers were living in 1790.

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Note: In 2016, Jillian Hensley published In This Strange Soil, a novel about the capture of the Rice brothers. The book is available at the Westborough Public Library both in the Local Author collection and in the Westborough Center for History and Culture.

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Note that various versions of the same folk tale will be published so as to compare how each are told.

Folktale Friday: “The Story of Hugh Henderson” by Glenn R. Parker

Introduction to Chauncy Village

When Chauncy Village was established as Westborough, the 100th town of Colonial Massachusetts, in 1717, there were fewer than 100 residents living in the area west of Marlborough, which included the north precinct (now Northborough). In 1720, the first meetinghouse was built on Powder Hill, and in 1724 Reverend Ebenezer Parkman became Westborough’s first ordained minister. But Reverend Parkman was more than the inspirational leader of the community. He also provided guidance and was the intellectual leader for the residents of the fledgling town.

Throughout his ministry, Reverend Parkman kept two diaries, a daily diary of family and town activities and a church diary. The daily diary became a significant work and a historical treasure that recorded the events of town matters, birth, deaths, baptisms, fires, barn raisings, and even the weather. Although there are months and years missing, the diary remains the foremost reference for historians and research into the life situations of Puritan Massachusetts.

By 1737, Westborough was experiencing a growing population, and a movement of the northern precinct to separate from the southern precinct was underway. The area was primarily wilderness, with farms and taverns offering food and lodging for travelers and serving as gathering places for residents. This historical nonfiction takes place at the Blue Anchor Tavern in 1737 and is about Hugh Henderson, the first person to be executed in Worcester County.

Revered Parkman’s diary entries were transcribed, researched, and clarified regarding the people, places, and events that he experienced during this time.  This extremely important work was accomplished by Harriet M. Forbes. Forbes was a historian, author, and a member of the Westborough Historical Society.

The following piece contains a number of direct quotes in italics, many of which are taken directly from Reverend Parkman’s Diary. The names of those mentioned and the locations are factual and accurate; however I have taken liberties with the remaining story line.

Glenn R. Parker

The Story of Hugh Henderson, alias John Hamilton

This is the unfortunate story of the untimely demise of one Hugh Henderson, alias John Hamilton, who was the first person to be hanged in Worcester County. He was born in Armagh, the ancient capitol of Ulster, Northern Ireland, in 1709, where he was baptized in the manner of the Presbyterian Church. As a teenager, Henderson was sent to live with his uncle when his parents died. Under the less than watchful eye of the uncle, Henderson became a petty thief, a night walker, and was generally uncontrollable. At age 20, he left his uncle’s home as an experienced thief.  

He came to America as a stowaway around 1729 during the great migration. Because his name was not on the ship’s manifest as a paid passenger, when he was discovered, he was flogged, and instead of being put ashore in Bermuda, he was kept on board and put to work as a ship’s hand doing the worst imaginable jobs as compensation for his passage.

Upon landing in Newport, RI, Henderson wasted no time in going ashore and continuing his criminal pursuit. As he wandered about the seaport town in search of a job, he was quickly discovered and immediately chased away when caught by a store owner with a loaf of stolen bread and some cheese from a barrel. He slowly began his vagabond’s trek north, then west following the King’s Highway into Sudbury, where he paused long enough to work for a few days as a farmhand and harvest firewood for the winter season at the Howe Tavern. Howe Tavern was a very busy inn located on the Post Road, the middle road leading west from Boston to Worcester.

Henderson had learned his trade well, never staying long enough to be detected or held to accountability, always staying one step ahead of the only means of communication of the day, the spoken word. Henderson wandered into Westborough in early September 1737, not knowing it would be the last town he would victimize. He first stopped at the Gale Tavern near the Southborough line for a few days where he found food and shelter in return for a day’s work harvesting firewood. The next day he was discovered sleeping in the big horse barn across the road from the Forbush Tavern and was chased off. He made his way up the hill, past the meetinghouse and parsonage of Reverend Parkman, before heading south to another populated area of town.

He made his way to a part of town where years prior there were a number of homes in the area built by the first settlers of Chauncy Village, one being the home and tavern of Abner Newton, formerly the Thomas Rice garrison. It later became known as the Blue Anchor Tavern.

The Abner Newton Tavern ~ Blue Anchor Tavern

By now, Henderson was running out of opportunities to find day work and keep his belly from grumbling from lack of sustenance. It was getting late in the year, the nights were getting cold, and he was becoming weary of his situation. So he again resorted to his old ways of taking that to which he was not entitled. The Newton Tavern, being easily accessible and appearing to be better off than most, seemed a likely target. Henderson watched the tavern from across the road, out of sight behind a large stone wall. When the time seemed right, after the residents and travelers had gone to bed, he forced the latch on the back door and entered the tavern. By the glow of the embers in the large fireplace that served to heat the room and cook the tavern meals, Henderson scrounged for food but took only enough to satisfy his immediate need and yet not enough to be noticed missing. He was a shrewd thief, only taking food so as not to be caught with personal property.

The following day, after the noon meal and when no one was about, he again entered the tavern and once again took only what he would immediately eat. But this time he never got across the road to his hideout. This time Newton caught him before he could consume the evidence. As he had done so many times before, Henderson pleaded for forgiveness and promised to work off the debt. But Newton was unwilling to barter with the crook. Henderson, still not admitting to the previous night’s theft, was brought back into the tavern. But this time, rather than agree to a severe lashing, a customary punishment dealt by the aggrieved victim, he thought to himself about the impending winter.

He would rather spend the winter months in goal rather than receive another flogging. The jailer would feed him and keep him warm for the winter months, and if he tried to escape, his sentence may be further extended into the early spring. This plan, he thought, would get him through the winter months ahead.

Newton then called for his neighbor Jonas Rice, the town constable, to take charge of the crook and bring him to justice. Rice then questioned the thief about his activities in Westborough and was given a full confession to the crimes at the tavern. Henderson then showed Rice the chicken carcasses from the night before. However, unbeknownst to Henderson, the General Court of Massachusetts in 1715 imposed the death penalty for burglary of a dwelling house at night.

Because the alleged housebreaker was considered a pauper and had no known address or means by which to support himself, he was unceremoniously detained by Constable Rice. As there was no lockup and the stocks built by Daniel Warren years before at the meetinghouse had fallen into disrepair from lack of use, the only alternative was to walk Henderson to the town pound, a stone enclosure 30-foot square and four-feet high with a wooden gate designed to keep stray cattle until the owner could claim such. The area had been donated by David Maynard, on land just south of the meetinghouse on Powder Hill.

Henderson languished here for days tethered hand and foot to a hitching post while under the watchful eyes of the town elders. But this time he did not have to work or steal his next meal. For the brief time of his incarceration, he was brought fine noontime meals better than he had ever had. Nor did he know these meals would be the finest of his remaining time of life.

Finally, an indictment for the crimes committed at the tavern was handed down from the September session of the Court being held at the new courthouse in Worcester. When Sheriff Daniel Gookin, the first Sheriff of Worcester County, got the orders to bring Henderson in to answer the indictment, he rode to Westborough to serve the process. Gookin met Constable Rice at the meetinghouse, and together they traveled the short distance to the pound to take Henderson into custody.

Henderson was then taken to the Worcester Goal some 10 miles west. Henderson ran alongside the lawmen, his hands bound to hinder a possible escape. They traveled the road toward the north precinct past the Broader and Cobb houses, crossed the Assabet River, then headed westerly along the lilac road to Shrewsbury while stopping briefly at the Pease Taver (later a scheduled stop for stagecoaches and the post riders from Boston to Hartford). Although Henderson began to complain about the pace, Constable Rice would not hear it. He was in no mood to give the house breaker rest. It was harvest time, and Rice was losing a full day in the field. Besides, Henderson had just spent the last several years making his way to Westborough in similar conditions. But Henderson would soon get his rest as the three approached the great pond and now had to wait for the ferry to take them across Quinsigamond before heading up Wigwam Hill on the other side.

The Worcester Court House, 1732

The goal where Hugh Henderson was confined stood on the west side of the new courthouse. It was a building forty one by eighteen feet. The prison part was eighteen square feet, made of white oak timber set with studs, four inches thick and five inches broad. The floor, roof, and ceiling were two-inch planks spiked together. A stone dungeon was underneath. The door was three planks of heavy oak bound together with iron braces, with a metal grate as a window and a wrought-iron latch lock.  The north end of the structure, finished as a dwelling, became the residence of the jailer (Luke Brown, History of Worcester).

Rev. Ebenezer Parkman’s Diary Entries

Reverend Parkman did not make any entries in his diary from April 2 to September 24 well after the actual event at Abner Newton’s Tavern. However, it is highly unlikely that Reverend Parkman did not know about the events that occurred at Newton’s Tavern, the arrest of Henderson, or the indictments that were handed down by the Court.

 Sept. 24, “Message from John Hamilton under condemnation for Burglary requesting that I would visit him.”

Sept. 26, “ I rode to Mr. Burr’s.  I hastened to the prisoner.” [Reverend Isacc Burr of Worcester]

 Oct. 12, “I went to Worcester to see Hugh Henderson, found him in much ye same distressed state yet I left him in, but I hope more knowing and acquainted with his condition and with his duty. Mr. Burr at ye Goal with me. I prayed with him a multitude attending. He earnestly desired me to see him again and wishes over and over yet I would preach to him.”

Oct.17, “Mr. Wheeler distressed in conscience for Hugh Henderson.” [Mr. Joseph Wheeler of the North Precinct]

Oct. 21, “I proceeded to Worcester and stopped at ye Goal at the grates to speak with  the Prisoner and to put him in mind of ye preparations needful for him to make in order to his keeping his Last Sabbath. I lodged at Mr. Burr’s.”

 Oct. 23, “Early in the morning began to write my address to the Prisoner. A.M. on Eccl. 11, 9, a crowded assembly, poor Hugh Henderson present. P.M. on Job 3, 36. A great congregation, it being in their apprehension the last Sabbath Sermon the poor Criminal is to hear. At evening called at Mr. Eaton’s and at the Sheriff’s, who went with me to the Prison. I interrogated the Prisoner what was the occasion of his coming to this country-whether he had discovered and acknowledged all that was fit and proper for him to reveal? Whether he had any confederates? A great number flocked in the Goal when at his request I prayed with him. I left him between 8 and 9.”

Oct 27, “The Governor has Reprieve Hugh Henderson for a month at the request of Mr. Burr and Mr. Prentice.”

Nov 21, “I rode up to Worcester to see Hugh Henderson again. Was sorry to hear he had tried to make his escape by filing the goal door. We talked more of other matters and kept longer off y main point of his case y heretofore. I’m more put to it to judge of his fame.”

 Nov 23, “I rode up to Worcester at the Request of the Criminal and others to Preach to him. There were so many at the Goal we were obliged to go to the Meeting House. He spoke of making a solemn vow warning taken from his mouth but chose to have it deferred to ye morning, but prayed that I would be early.”   

Nov 24, “I went to the Prisoner when I could, and Mr. Burr was with me to assist in penning down what ye prisoner had to deliver by way of a Confession and Warning and strict as I could be in inserting his own words as near as I could and when any others were used.”

The confession and dying warning of Hugh Henderson who was executed at Worcester in the county of Worcester. November 24, 1737. Signed by him in the presence of four of the ministers the morning of the day of his execution.  

“I, Hugh Henderson, otherwise through my wickedness called John Hamilton of about 28 or 29 years of age, was born in Armagh in the kingdom of Ireland, received baptism in the manner of the Presbyterians and was brought up by my uncle, who was obliged to give me suitable learning but did not: which neglect, together with my own neglect of God afterward of learning the word of God afterwards, was a great reason of my taking to such wicked courses as have brought me to my unhappy, untimely End.”

“I began with smaller sins, while I was young, with but stealing Pins, against which I received warnings oftentimes, but persisted in it, and was very disobedient, till I increased further in Sin.”

“Having given this Warning, I desire to commend myself to the Charity and Prayers of all Gods People for me, and that you would lift up your Hearts to God for me, for the Pardon of my Sins, an interest in Christ, and that I maybe Sanctified by the Sprit of God; But above all I Commend myself to the Infinite Mercy of God, in my Dear Redeemer, Begging and beseeching that through the merits of His Blood, I may this day be with him in Paradise.”  XX … Hugh Henderson, signed with his mark

Four indictments were found against Henderson, two for burglary and two for larceny, and he was tried, convicted, and sentenced to be hanged on one for burglary. The court was the Superior Court of Judicature sitting in Worcester in the September Session, with the following named Judges on the bench: Benjamin Lynde, Paul Dudley, Edmund Quincy, Jonathan Remington, and Richard Saltonstall.

Shortly after the final verdict was read, the word quickly went out far and wide to all of the impending execution. Men, women, and children were invited to witness the event. It would be the first execution witnessed by the citizens of Worcester County. The Reverend Parkman and a number of Westborough citizens had traveled to Worcester to witness the solemn event.

On November 24, the convicted housebreaker was prepared to meet his fate. But there was no special last meal or final statement presented. Henderson had already made his amends with Reverend Parkman in the days previous to the trial and his confession to his waywardness the night before. He had nothing more to say, but Reverend Parkman would spend several hours with the condemned felon in prayer and reflection.

“On the day of the Execution the Reverend Campbell of Oxford preached to the Prisoner and a great assembly, a very suitable sermon on I Peter 4-5. The prisoner was exceedingly moved and in such Anguish of soul that the expressions of in the face of the congregation, in crying and moans, in prayers and tears and passionate gesture there were even to disturbance.” –The N. E. Weekly Journal, Dec. 6, 1737

From behind the Goal a wagon appeared driven by a hooded man, with Henderson sitting on the end of the wagon, followed by Sheriff Gookin. The convicted felon was bareheaded with his hands tied in front so that all could see. The hangman was wearing a hood, and his face was blackened to hide his features from the large crowd that had gathered to witness the event. Because this was the first hanging to take place in Worcester County, a hastily built gallows was waiting the hangman’s noose.

The wagon was now brought into place beneath the gallows, and Henderson was brought to his feet and stood at the edge of the wagon. But the hangman, not having prior experience in the proper placement of the noose, only delayed the event and added suspense while merely prolonging the agony for Henderson.

“At the place of execution, after the Reverend Mr. Hall of Sutton had prayed, the prisoner with great earnestness desired all that were present to harken well to what was going to be read to them, and to mind to take the warning contained in it, after which he put up a most importunate and pathetical prayer himself which manifested more of knowledge of religion, sense of his own state and humble faith and hope in God, then anything that has been received from him before.”

As the Reverend Hall of Sutton finished the final prayer, the gathering bowed their heads in solemn respect. The time had finally arrived. The large gathering fell silent while small children fidgeted.

Now the noose was thrown over the head of the six-footer and laid on his broad shoulders. A burlap bag was then placed over his head to cover his face from the crowd. The time had finally arrived. The hangman slapped the horse so it would be startled forwards, but rather than the horse bolting quickly away, it only reared causing Henderson to fall off the end of the wagon, and instead of a quick snap of the neck ending his agony, he hung from the rope dangling, legs flailing, choking but certainly not dying as expected. At every gasp, crying out a profanity at the hangman then begging for forgiveness, the crowd was aghast.

The execution had not succeeded, so the wagon was retrieved and Henderson was again placed at the wagon’s edge. Now sobbing, Henderson stood bent over still gagging from the botched execution, his hands still tied. This time the hangman would not fail. Re-positioning the noose and resting the knot on Henderson’s left shoulder, he tightened the knot with sufficient slack in the rope. The horse was again given a good slap on the rear only to jerk backwards, with Henderson merely losing his balance. But after yet another slap, the horse jumped forward, pulling the wagon from under Henderson’s feet, and sending him in the opposite direction. This time, his neck broke with a sickening sound that was heard by the entire crowd. As the body flopped back and forth, his end came quickly. The crowd stood motionless. Some wept, some covered their children’s eyes, some cried out for mercy, while most just stood in awe at the sight. A lifetime of petty thievery and blasphemy had ended.

Not for some time after the body had ceased convulsing and the horrified onlookers had seen enough was the lifeless body taken down so as not to damage the rope for future use. The deceased was then laid out in the wagon. He was covered with a shroud and taken behind the goal until such time as a suitable grave could be dug in the street, a customary practice afforded to those who died from their own hand, convicted felons, slaves, or non-believers.

There was no graveside ceremony, no minister’s prayers, nor tearful goodbye. At dusk, the wagon carrying Henderson’s remains was brought from behind the goal to the hastily-dug grave site. Henderson’s body was then unceremoniously rolled into the open pit dug at the side of the road and quickly covered over. No stone adornment or remembrance of the remains would be found. The event was only memorialized in this broadside some days later.

Part of the Broadside of Hugh Henderson

“A Poem occasioned by the Untimely Death of Hugh Henderson alias John Hamilton who was hanged at Worcester for House Breaking, Nov. 24, 1737” reads:

“The scene we did but lately view ~ Too well evinces this is true ~ A man with healthful Vigour bless’d ~ The morn of life but hardly past ~ Compelled to leave the pleasing Light ~ And stretch away to endless Night ~ Because regardless of his Peace ~ He choose the flowery Path of Vice.” –The New England Weekly Journal, December 6, 1737.

The uncle also receives his desserts in the poem as follows:

“But when he met with no Restraint, and found his uncle was no Saint, in Vice’s pleasing Steps he ran.

“O Henderson! Unhappy Man! How did’st thou feel, When in Thy Ken, the best was Horror, like Despair, amazing doubt or anxious fear, what pangs, what extasys of smart convuls’d, thy poor, thy Bleeding Hear, When in that state, were bro’t to mind the unnumber’d crimes of life behind? He died the Death of the accused tree, that from the sting of death you might be free.” –Author Unknown

This ends the tragic story of Hugh Henderson and the notoriety that Westborough attained as being the first community to have the first person to be executed in Worcester County. The former tavern remains at 108 West Main St.

***

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Folktale Friday: The Legend of Hockomocko (Written for a high school play, ca. 1930)

The Fairbanks cows grazing nearby Hoccomocco Pond. ca. 1930.

Near the shore of Hockomocko,

Where the limpid, deep blue water

Shows no ripple on its surface,

Can be seen a pile of pebbles,

Worn and smoothed by many a winter.

Countless storms have moaned above them,

Since the red men mutely dropped them

One by one upon the bottom.

When the waters murmur softly

In the early evening shadows,

If you listen, you will gather

From the plaintive half-heard whispers,

Fragments of an old tradition,

Of a simple Indian legend.

Long ago by Hockomocko

In the wigwam of her father

Lived a maid, the fair Iano,

Loved by many a youthful warrior,

Loved by Sassacus, the chieftain,

Loved and hated by Wequoash.

For the maiden, heedless ever,

Favor showed to bold Wequoash,

Wore the wreath his hand had woven

And the furs his bow had captured,

Roused in him a mighty passion,

Left him lightly for another,

Sassacus, the young men’s idol,

Sassacus, the whole tribe’s hero.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Nearer crept the marriage evening,

Then the gay, the fair Iano,

Like the wild folks of the forest,

Fled from out the dusky wigwam,

Playing truant to her lover

To the shore of Hockomocko,

Laughing ran the fair Iano;

Searched for a moment in the bushes

For her light canoe of birch bark,

Pushed it gaily to the water,

Darted from the shore like lightning.

O’er the tranquil surface skimming,

Flew the boat and flew the maiden,

Towards that spot by Hockomocko

Where a willow, huge and aged.

Mantled by a drooping grapevine,

Formed an arbor cool and quiet,

Called by all “Iano’s bower.”

When the shore lay far behind her,

Lo! The harvest moon in glory

Rose above the dusky pine boughs,

Silver light upon her rested

As she glided o’er the water.

From the shore, the bold Wequoash,

Hastening homeward from his hunting,

Saw the light canoe of birch bark,

Watched it skimming o’er the surface,

Watched the moonlight on the paddle,

Listened to the stroked so even,

Spoke with vengeance in his bosom:

“‘Tis Iano, the false hearted.

She alone can dip her paddles

With the lightness of the sea-gull,

She alone can bend so lightly,

She alone would gleam so brightly,

In the silver of the moonbeam.”

Silently, he dropped his weapon,

Silently, his robe discarded,

Softly swam beneath the surface,

Till he neared the fair Iano,

As she paddled towards the willow.

Close above the gleaming water,

Of a swift pursuer fearful,

Bent Iano, listening breathless,

At her folly laughing softly,

Wondering if her friends had missed her,

Wondering how upon the morrow,

Sassacus, the brave would greet her.

Suddenly, the bold Wequoash,

Seized her gleaming tresses lightly,

Drew her down beneath the water,

Hushed her shrieks an quelled her struggles,

Then his hold upon her loosened

Till she sank like lead beneath him,

All her charms and sweetness vanished.

Months slipped by: the bold Wequoash,

Still unsatisfied in spirit,

Still with vengeance in his bosom,

Poisoned Sassacus, the chieftain,

Ruled the tribe himself with glory,

But the harvest moon returning,

Brought him memories of Iano,

He would leave his loyal warriors,

And upon the shore would wander,

Or would crouch upon a tree stump,

Pondering o’er his deeds of darkness,

Then a flame would rise before him

Streaming from the dark blue water,

Twice this happened; then a whisper –

“Once again, O bold Wequash.”

When the year once more had waned,

All his warriors came before him,

Summoned at their chieftain’s bidding,

Then he told the sad, dark story:

How that Sassacus, the mighty,

And the lovely maid, Iano,

Both had perished through his hatred.

Awed they sat and watched their chieftain,

While he paddled o’er the water

To the spot where fair Iano

On that dreadful night had vanished.

Straightway rose a form to greet him.

Sassacus, in robes of blackness,

Had returned to bid Wequoash

Leave the haunts of men behind him,

On the spirit road to wander.

Lightnings flashed and thunders pealed,

Darkness fell o’er all the water,

Hushed the hardy warriors waited

Till the fearful storm was over;

Then made promise that thereafter

When they passed the spot of terror,

Each a stone should drop in mourning,

Each should sigh for fair Iano,

Should lament for bold Wequoash

And for Sassacus, the mighty.

Thus we see by Hockomocko,

When the limpid, dark blue water

Shows no ripple on its surface,

Still the pile of shiny pebbles,

Worn and smoothed by many a winter,

Witness of the old tradition,

Of that simple Indian legend.

***

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Folktale Friday: Ruth Buck, the “Witch of Westborough” (Forbes and History)

Ruth Buck’s “Confession and Apology for Sin,” 1778.

From The Hundredth Town by Harriette Merrifield Forbes, 1889, pp. 146-153.

Of Ruth Buck’s ancestry we know nothing, nor was she associated with any particular locality. The Town Records mention her first in 1763, about seventy-one years before her death. In the warrant for the town-meeting, May 9, 1763, one article was, “To see what ye Town will do with respect to Ruth Buck, which ye Selectmen of this Town have sent to Southboro’, for ye Selectmen of Southboro’ refuse to take y’e sd Ruth Buck as their proper charge.” They “voted not to stand Toyal (trial) with Southboro’ with respect to Ruth Buck.” In October of the same year, Mr. Samuel Allen prayed “that ye Town would Relieve Him someway or other with respect to Ruth Buck and her child.” They afterwards appropriated money for her support, and so in the early days of her unfortunate motherhood she became a town charge.

What became of the little one whose babyhood was so overshadowed with trouble and want we do not know. The fact of his existence faded from the minds of most. In 1778 Ruth appeared before the church, confessed her sin, and was “admitted into full communion.” Of the next years of her life we know nothing; perhaps they were the best years, spent in the care of her boy.

Full communion with the church did not mean full social fellowship with the good people of the town. It is not long before we find her regarded with distrust, though still going from house to house, following her profession of tailoress, looked upon with fear by the little children, and by many of their elders as a social outcast and witch.

What she herself thought has come down to us in a very negative way. Old David Fay, a rough, eccentric man, called out to her one morning as she was passing his house: —

“Well, Ruth, they say you are a witch.”

“If I’m a witch,” she answered, as she trudged on, “you are the devil.”

She is remembered as a very stout woman, with large, strong features. Her temper was uncertain, and many a sharp retort came from her lips. It was a bad thing to arouse her opposition, and feel the sting of her venomous hate.

She always wore a cap or handkerchief on her head, sometimes of white material, more commonly of plaid. Below it was seen a bit of the lobe of each ear, with a little gold knob fastened into it. She was never seen without this covering, and it was said and believed that she had a very good reason for wearing it. One day she had asked a farmer to do some ploughing for her. His refusal displeased her, and she angrily said, “You will have trouble with your oxen to-day.” The farmer found she was right; the usually docile beasts refused to move. At last, feeling sure that they were bewitched, he resorted to the usual method of letting out the evil spirit, and cut off the tops of their ears. From that time dates Ruth’s wearing of the head covering, and it was generally understood that the few who, in some unguarded moment, had obtained a glimpse beneath it had seen that her ears were cropped.

Across her throat she had a long purple mark, which she covered with a handkerchief crossed in front. There was a farmer living in Grafton whose sheep one day showed the familiar and unmistakable signs of being bewitched, not onlv by their erratic actions, but even more by the blindness which had suddenly come upon the whole flock. At last he resorted to the “sharp medicine” of the knife, cutting the throat of the worst one. He had no more trouble with them; but, until her death, Ruth was marked with a livid line just where the farmer’s knife had cut the bewitched sheep.

She seems to have oftener used her uncanny influence over inanimate things. One day she met Mr. Joseph Belknap, soon after he had started from his farm at Rocklawn, to “go below,” as was the phrase commonly used of a trip to Boston, with a large number of eggs for the market. She asked for some; but he refused to sell them, as his box was even, full, and closely packed. “Well, as you please,” she answered; “but you will never get those eggs safe to the market.”

In some unaccountable way, near the end of his long drive, the board in the back of his wagon came out, and the box of eggs slid to the ground. Every one was broken.

Another time, a farmer, against whom she had previously vowed vengeance, passed her as he was carrying a load of wood to the school-house, now known as No. 2, near the H. A. Gilmore farm. She told him he would never reach there safely with his load. She passed on, but the oxen refused to move; he took off part of the load, but, after a short distance, they stopped again. This was repeated, until, just before reaching his destination, he threw off the last stick, and the oxen, starting on a dead run, rushed by the school-house.

There were innumerable slight annoyances to which the good woman of the house was subjected, against whom Ruth Buck had a spite. When she lighted her candles, she found that all below the rim of the old-fashioned candlestick was gone; only the wick was left. These candlesticks were made with a long socket, which held more than half the candle; a small slide raised or lowered at will made it possible to burn them almost the entire length. She believed the witch had come in an invisible shape and eaten the candles.

Mrs. Samuel Grout was one of the ladies most annoyed by Ruth’s pranks: her bread wouldn’t rise; it refused to bake, no matter how hot the oven might be; the butter wouldn’t come, and many other things went wrong in her work. One day, after churning for a long time, she tried, on a large scale, the remedy mentioned by Whittier in his New England Legend, —

“The goodwife’s churn no more refuses

Its wonted culinary uses,

Until with heated needle burned,

The witch has to her place returned,” —

and dropped a hot brick into the offending cream. The butter soon came, but not long afterwards a neighbor ran in saying that Ruth Buck had been dreadfully burned.

Mrs. Grout, seeing Ruth soon after with her hand in a poultice, asked her what the matter was.

“You know what is the matter,” was her answer, “and you’ll find yourself well paid.”

The same day, one of. Mr. Grout’s cows was found with a broken leg, with no apparent reason for the accident.

This was not the only burn that Ruth received. One day Mrs. Beeman was very much troubled with the behavior of her spinning-wheel. It refused to turn, the thread broke, and the good-woman’s patience was well-nigh exhausted. She took an old horseshoe, heated it red-hot, and laid it on the wheel. Everything went smoothly after that, but Ruth bore the scar for many a day.

This woman, so the farmers’ wives thought, had the power of knowing when she was talked about, and hearing what was said. Perhaps the low tones thcy thought necessary to use when telling each other about the afflictions she had brought upon them, may account in part for the lasting impression of curiosity and awe which her character left on the little children of the day, now most of them past their eightieth year.

One day she was trudging up a long hill in Upton, when a girl named Lackey looked out from one of the windows of a house on top of the hill, and saw her coming. “Oh dear,” she said to her mother,” here comes Ruth Buck. I hope she isn’t coming to stay.”

Ruth came on, made a pleasant call, but refused all their invitations to lay aside her wraps. When she stepped over the threshold after bidding them good-by, her expression changed. Looking sharply at her late hostesses, she said: “Oh dear, here comes Ruth Buck. I hope she isn’t coming to stay. Won’t you take off your things? I don’t want you to stay.”

She went off repeating these words to herself.

The last years of her life she was obliged, to a great extent, to give up her wandering habits. After the manner of dealing with paupers in the early part of this century, she was knocked down at auction to the person offering to board her for the least sum, and so fell to the thrifty hospitality of John Fay, who lived about two miles from the station, on the North Grafton road.

She finally, in 1834, at the age of ninety-two, ended her days in the poor-house.

Since her day there has been no one in town invested with her peculiar gifts.

* * *

From More Old Houses in Westborough, Mass. and Their Occupants, Westborough Historical Society, 1908.

At this house [Morse Homestead] Ruth Buck came to make the boys’ clothes and Patty was so afraid to sleep alone that she willingly ran the risk of being bewitched by her bed fellow. But grandmother said though she watched closely, Ruth never removed her turban either night or day in her presence. Patty was dying of curiosity to see for herself whether Ruth’s ear-tips were gone, cut off, as tradition said, when she was a pig.

Written by Grace W. Bates, September 1908

* * *

References to Ruth Buck in Historical Records

Ruth Buck’s “Relation of Faith,” 1778. (Also see her “Confession and Apology for Sin” at the beginning of this blog post.)

Parkman’s Diary

1778 July 30 (Thursday).   Ruth Buck desires to be propounded in Order to her Humiliation and joining with the Church, is Examined.

1778 August 2 (Sunday).  Ruth Buck was propounded.

1778 August 3 (Monday).   Mrs. [Jemima Hardy?] was here with Objections against Ruth Buck.  I [advised?] Mrs. Hardy to go to her, and discourse with her.  [illegible] She said she had Seen and spoke with her.  [But to?] little [effect?].

1778 August 11 (Tuesday).  Capt. Morse here in Defence of Ruth Buck against Mrs. Hardy; and insists on her (the latter) being distracted.

1778 August 12 (Wednesday).  [I then went?], and Mr. Elijah Hardy with me, to Mr. Isaac Parker’s where dwells the widow Jemima Hardy, that I might direct her with respect to Ruth Buck.  But I found her much out of her Head, and incapable of any regular Conversation.  Dr. Stimson has been here, is soon going to settle at Great Barrington.

1778 August 15 (Saturday).  Miss Ruth Buck came with her Confession and Relation; and it proved a yet greater Interruption, as I was obliged to new methodize and wholly transcribe her writings for the public Reading of them.  But there is no material Objection against her.

1778 August 16 (Sunday).  At noon Miss Ruth Buck was here, and I read and She signed the Address she is about to make to the Church.

* * *

Blake’s Worcester County, Massachusetts, Warnings

 1763 May 10.  Buck, Ruth, from Southborough.  March 16, ’63.

***

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Folktale Friday: The Capture of the Rice Boys (Westborough Historical Society Third Grade Program)

Rice Brothers Memorial, 1906 (near the current Westborough High School).

You have probably driven by, walked by, or even stopped to read the plaque on the large stone near the Westborough High School. It marks the spot where one of the most famous stories in the town’s recorded history took place. In 1704, two sons and three nephews of Thomas Rice were captured by the Cagnawaga Indians from Canada. They were kidnapped and taken away from their families.  This event happened over 300 years ago. French settlers in Canada had encouraged Indians to raid the American colonies. Sickness had killed many boys in their tribes, so they needed more young men.

Thomas Rice had built a garrison (fort) house near a brook where Westborough High School is now. On a hot summer day, August 8, 1704, a group of men and boys were at work in the nearby field spreading flax.  The group included five Rice boys – Asher (10), Silas (9), Adonijah (8), Timothy (7), and Nahor (5). A wooded hill was near the field. Suddenly a party of eight or ten Indians rushed down from the hill and captured the five boys.

After a short distance, Nahor was killed because he was too young to survive the journey to Canada. The place where he was buried became Memorial Cemetery in the center of town. The other four boys were carried off into the woods. The rest of the farmers escaped in panic to the nearby home of Thomas Rice, father of the missing Asher and Adonijah.

What a sad day for these pioneers! They realized their boys had been kidnapped and taken north to Canada to be trained in the native culture. All rescue attempts failed until four years later when Asher was “redeemed” (the ransom paid) by his father. Asher was returned to his family. Later his father built him a home on South Street.  

Adonijah, Silas, and Timothy grew up with the Canawaga Indians near Montreal, Canada. Adonijah later married and settled near Montreal as a farmer. Asher lived until age 90 with his family in Westborough and Spencer. He never got over his fear of another attack. He stayed watchful and prepared himself for trouble.

Silas and Timothy stayed with the Canawagas and adopted their ways. Timothy was adopted by a chief and became a respected chief (or sachem) of the Iroquois nation himself. He helped to persuade his tribe not to take sides in the wars between the English and the French. He visited Westborough in 1740, but he could no longer speak English. He remembered his old home and some of the people he had known as a boy.

Perhaps the next time you read the plaque near the high school, you will be able to look out over the hill and picture that summer day – over 300 years ago – when the young Rice boys were ambushed and taken to Canada. How frightened they must have been! How strong they were to survive the experience and learn to live a different life. 

***

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Note that various versions of the same folk tale will be published so as to compare how each are told.

Folktale Friday: Captain Kidd

Allen & Ginter (American, Richmond, Virginia) Captain Kidd, Burying Treasure, from the Pirates of the Spanish Main series (N19) for Allen & Ginter Cigarettes, ca. 1888 American, Commercial color lithograph; Sheet: 1 1/2 x 2 3/4 in. (3.8 x 7 cm) The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, The Jefferson R. Burdick Collection, Gift of Jefferson R. Burdick (Burdick 201, N19.9) http://www.metmuseum.org/Collections/search-the-collections/408721

* * *

From The Hundredth Town by Harriette Merrifield Forbes, 1889, pp. 12

Tradition affirms that Captain Kidd concealed a large portion of his ill-gotten booty somewhere along the inhospitable shores of the Hobomak, and so vigilantly has it been guarded by the infernal powers, that not a soul has caught a glimpse of it since. Not that no attempt has been made to recover it from such infamous stockholders, and give it a more honorable investment. Many a deep-sunk pit would you find along the desolate shores of the pond, dug, about the charmed hour of midnight, by two ignorant day-laborers, while a third stood guard, holding a drawn sword and gun charged with a silver bullet, and a fourth marched close to the limit of the magic circle, reading most reverently from a big family Bible which he carried perpendicularly before him; thus, by weapons carnal and weapons spiritual, bidding defiance to the Spirit of Darkness. But, with all their midnight financiering, the gold pieces were never observed to twinkle particularly bright through the interstices of their silk purses.

* * *

From “A Look at Westborough’s Historic Past,” The Community Advocate, June 27, 1997.

According to Jacqueline Tidman (former historical librarian): “another area – this one off Flanders Road – has been said to be where one of Kidd’s confederates, ‘Pirate Joe,’ buried some of his ill-gotten booty.”

***

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Note that various versions of the same folk tale will be published so as to compare how each are told.

“A Legend of Hobomak,” from The Hundredth Town by Harriette Merrifield Forbes, 1889, pp. 13-27.

Editor’s Note: This post begins a series on Westborough folktales.

Hoccomocco Pond, ca. 1930-1949.

[From p. 10: “The legend of this pond was written by Hon. Horace Maynard for the ‘Horae Collegianae,’ published by the undergraduates of Amherst, in 1838. He says it was told to him ‘by an old Indian, the last of his tribe.’ This was probably old Andrew Brown, of whom more hereafter. With some omissions, it is as follows: —”]

I.

“‘And this is my wedding-night,’ said the beautiful lano, as she stood contemplating her lithe and graceful form, mirrored in the glassy rivulet which forms the outlet of the Hobomak. Her beads and wampum were most daintily entwined about her neck and arms; her hair hung negligently on her shoulders, confined only by a fillet of wildflowers; a neatly wrought moccasin concealed a wanton little foot and ankle; and a mantle of bear-skin completed her attire. She was the belle of her tribe, and, like all belles, an incorrigible coquette. All the young warriors had in turn sued for her hand, and all had been rejected except the chief, Sassacus. He had remained a long time unsusceptible to her charms; or, if he had been moved, his emotions were kept locked up within his own breast. Even when he had inwardly re- solved to wed the proud and volatile creature, he refrained from communicating his sentiments, but adopted a course of policy which has succeeded in bringing many a flirt into the arms of her lover since those times. Somebody has said, — caustically enough, to be sure, — that if the suitor would cease to pursue his mistress, she would turn and give chase to him. Whether this be truth, or a mere epigram intended for effect, our regard for the sex will not allow us to decide; such, certainly, was the experience of Sassacus. He stood aloof from the fair one till she began to pine in secret for his love. Often would she watch him as he sat in council, or joined in the wild measures of the war-dance. She fed upon his looks till he became her soul’s ideal of beauty, — such steadfast limbs, such a massive chest, such a noble gait, such a lofty, commanding brow! All her arts of fascination had failed; and a sigh of mingled vexation and despair would escape from the very bottom of her heart, as she saw him from day to day sporting with the other and less beautiful maidens of the tribe.

“The keen-eyed chief let none of these things escape his notice; and when he had sufficiently humbled the proud spirit of the girl, he changed his demeanor. By a few trifling presents and an occasional flattering word he kindled a feeble spark of hope in the breast of the fair despondent, but, at the same time, without allowing her to presume on his affection. In this way he inveigled her completely into his power, and extorted a full confession of love, before he had given her the least proof of his ow^n attachment. He now began to play the lover in real earnest. Having stipulated with the parents of the maid for the price of her ransom, and all the other preliminaries being duly settled, he made preparation for the marriage festival. lano had reached the very pinnacle of happiness. Her step was the lightest among the maidens as they tripped it through the glades of the forest; her canoe danced gayest as they glided cheerily over the water. She longed for the hour when the priest should bind herself and her lover in the mystic girdle. And what betrothed damsel will not sympathize? Thus she stood by the brook meditating her approaching happiness, now readjusting her ornaments, and studying the effect; now patting the water with her tiny foot, and watching the ripples as they circled out of sight, till the sun had dropped behind the hills, and night had begun to fling her gray shadows over the earth. In the ecstasy of her joy her disposition for frolic returned. She had never ventured to play her pranks upon the stern Sassacus, but the temptation was too great to be resisted; she could not give up her maiden freedom without one more act of enjoyment. ‘The young men are assembling,’ she continued, soliloquizing; ‘I hear them laugh. I’ll give them the slip for one night.’

II.

“The wedding-party had indeed assembled. The warriors were there, each with all the scalps and wolf-locks he and his ancestors had ever taken from the foe or secured in the chase. These trophies marked their rank more truly than the purest heraldic emblazonry; and, reckoned by this rule, Sassacus was found abundantly deserving the post of chief. He was the bravest of his nation; no arrow was more certain in its flight, whether winged at man or beast; and no tomahawk cleft its victim with a more deadly aim than his. On this occasion he was decked with unusual splendor. The string of fish-bones — the insignia of royalty — depended from his neck ; a triangular breast-plate, wrought from the fangs of the catamount, adorned his front; shells of small turtles dangled from his ears ; a circlet, into which were fastened the tails of rattlesnakes, entwined his brow, making music as he walked ; a tuft of eagle feathers crowned his head; while over his left shoulder was carelessly thrown a robe of wolf-skins, fringed with human scalps, a few of which were still green from the head of the fallen Pequot. Thus arrayed, he took his seat at the sacred fire, and on either side of him his warriors, according to rank. The seat at his right hand was vacant.

“‘Where is Wequoash?’” inquired he, glancing his eye over the company. As no one could answer him, all remained silent. He then propounded the question to each one in turn, and, by way of reply, he got an abundance of conjecture and much information touching the precious whereabouts of the missing; but, as far as any valuable, or in the least available, intelligence was concerned, his inquiries ended just where they began. The person in question was the second in rank to Sassacus, and his rival in war. For a long time he had been the avowed, and, as he supposed, the accepted, lover of the fair lano. The wreath that decked her brow his hand had woven; the fur robes that covered her lovely form were the spoils of his bow. In secret, indeed, she had cherished his hopes, intending to accept him at last should she fail in attracting Sassacus, though in public she had always treated him with the same cold indifference which marked her conduct towards the rest of her admirers. Thus fed, his passion increased in strength and violence, till it was too late to check its growth or to transfer it to another object. . . . In his anguish he had vowed eternal hate, and now awaited with his native indifference a favorable opportunity to wreck his purposed vengeance. By rank he was expected to be present at the marriage and to assist at the customary sacrifices, and the ardor with which he had superintended the preparations made his absence appear strange and unaccountable.

III.

“On the north shore of the Hobomak is a plain stretching away to the distance of several miles, skirted on the western side by a high range of hills, whose declivities, lined as they are with jutting masses of rock and a few scattering old trees, are, even at this day, sufficiently solemn and gloomy.” The most prominent of this range is Boston hill, so called, because it was supposed to be as thickly populated with rattlesnakes as Boston with people. “Here and there yawns a cavern whose frightful depths few have courage or inclination to penetrate, so are left to be the abode of serpents and toads, and all such creatures as flee the face of man. Among these dismal haunts Wequoash, desirous to appear at the wedding signalized by some recent achievement, had been searching all day for the lurking-place of a panther which for a long time had infested the neighborhood. After an active and patient search, he found a crevice between two overhanging rocks that opened wider and deeper than the rest, and plunged into it without hesitation. On reaching the bottom he descried a narrow passage which branched off in a lateral direction under the base of the hill. Along this he crept upon his hands and knees for several hundred feet, till at length it terminated in a spacious cavern, the size of which, perfectly dark as it was, he found it difficult to determine. In this perplexity he gave a shrill cry, to try the effect of the reverberations. A low, faint echo died along the distant walls, followed by the hoarse growl of a wild beast. The experienced ear of the Indian instantly told him that he had hit upon the object of his search, and, directing a glance to another part of the vault, he discovered the eyes of the animal glaring like meteors in the midst of the surrounding darkness. . . .

“Wequoash quickly saw that he was discovered. He could perceive the gleaming eyes gradually making towards him, till, crouching within a few feet, the animal appeared on the point of making the fatal spring. It was a moment requiring all the nerve for which he was distinguished even among his own stout-hearted race. He had left his bow behind him, not supposing that he should require its service in the bosom of the hills; and his tomahawk, hanging at his side, was his only weapon of attack or defence. To move from his position, in a place with which he was wholly unacquainted, would be attended with great hazard, and to retreat through the narrow aperture by which he had entered would expose him to the attack of his foe at still greater disadvantage. Amidst these perplexities the cool-headed Indian formed his plan of action as deliberately as if the merest trifle had been staked upon the issue. Seizing his hatchet from his belt, he hulled it with an instinctive aim, and bounded from the floor of the cave. In his descent he fell prostrate upon the body of the beast. The deadly missile had cleft his skull, and, by vaulting from his position, the hunter avoided the fatal spring which the creature sometimes makes upon its enemies, in the agonies of death. With much effort he drew his booty to the mouth of the cavern, and, throwing it over his shoulder, commenced his return, night having long since fallen.

IV.

“The volatile lano could not resist the temptation to play the truant to her betrothed, and to disappoint, for one night at least, the assembled youth of the tribe. At the farther extremity of the Hobomak was a huge old willow, mantled by an enormous wild grape-vine whose branches depended so as to form a beautiful natural arbor. Thither she was fond of retiring with one or two of her companions, and they, in honor of her, had named it lano’s bower. In this charmed retreat she determined to pass the night, even at the risk of forever alienating her lover. So, unmooring her canoe, she stepped into the toppling thing, and darted from the shore. Away, away it flew dancing over the water, so light as scarcely to leave a ripple on the tranquil surface. Before she had reached the middle, the harvest-moon arose and threw its full-orbed light directly upon her. Hearing the sound of a light, stealthy footstep, and fearing that she should be discovered, she turned her canoe towards the nearest shore, and took refuge under the shadows of the overhanging trees.

“Wequoash was hastening homeward with his game, anxious lest he should be too late to participate in the cheer of the festival ; for it ill assorted with his ideas of manliness, as well as with his dark system of policy, to appear wanting in merriment and good-nature on an occasion so joyous to his rival and so humiliating to himself. As he neared the shore of the pond he descried a canoe skimming gracefully over the water, the moonbeams glancing from the paddle as it rose in light and even strokes, which the rower would now and then suspend, and look cautiously about her as if suspecting danger.

“‘It is the canoe of the False-hearted,’ said he to himself; ‘no other of our girls can dip her oars so lightly.’ She was alone, and he could wish for no more favorable opportunity to accomplish the pent-up purpose of his breast. The demon of vengeance had seized fast hold upon him, and every other consideration was forgotten. Seeing her approach the shore, he cast off his hunting-dress, dropped into the water a little before the bark, and swam softly beneath the surface till he was within a few feet of it. Just then the vigilant fugitive let fall her paddle, and applied her ear close to the water that she might detect more readily the footsteps of her pursuers, little dreaming that so deadly a foe lurked at the very bow of her skiff. To seize her by her floating tresses and drag her down required but little effort. A thrilling shriek of agony, a few frantic struggles, and all was over. She sunk like lead when released from the powerful grasp of the warrior. The canoe he dragged to a little distance, threw into it a large stone, which secured it firmly at the bottom, thus obliterating every trace of his victim. He regained the shore, resumed his dress, bore away his game to a place of concealment, and, plunging into the forest, quickly was out of sight.

V.

            .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .

“The maidens who had been appointed to escort the bride into the presence of her lord sent one of their number with a message that lano had disappeared a little before sunset, and could nowhere be found. A suspicion flashed across every mind that her disappearance was some way connected with the absence of Wequoash. All knew the strength of his former attachment and suspected the depth of his disappointment, and they were well assured that his haughty and irascible spirit would never brook an injury. Seizing their hatchets and bows, Sassacus and his young men sprang off into the woods to discover, if possible, the delinquent bride. Long and diligent was their search; every glade and dell was explored, but all to no purpose. Her canoe was gone, and no traces of it or of her could be found. Silent and dejected, they returned to the scene of their festivity; all but Sassacus. He came not. For hours they awaited him, indulging a feeble hope that he had been more successful; but even this, faint as it was, was dashed by the approach of the chief, wearing a look of despair. He had seen his bride unmoor her skiff, and, guessing her intention, had run along the shore, keeping parallel with the course, intending to surprise the fair fugitive by seizing her in his arms just as she should spring to the land. She had eluded his sight by rowing under the cover of the woods on the opposite shore, and he began to fear she had given him the slip, after all his vigilance, when a narrow opening in the trees let in the moonbeams upon her, enough to project the out- line of her form. All at once he saw her drop her oar, bend her ear to the water in the act of listening, then sink heavily beneath the wave. He remembered the heartless sacrifice, and his native superstition overcame him. His bride had perished by the unseen power of the Evil Spirit.

            .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .           .

“After two days had elapsed, Wequoash had appeared in the village bearing the body of the panther. He was received by the aged and the children, the women and the warriors, with yells of delight; for his burden explained the cause of his absence, and, as usually happens when men find they have been indulging in groundless suspicions, their regard for him rose to a higher pitch than before. On learning the miserable fate of lano, he was smitten with deep apparent grief; he smote his breast, and uttered the most frantic exclamations, like one distracted. Recovering at length, he applied himself with unwearied assiduity to console the unhappy Sassacus, and by degrees the chief became more and more cheerful, till he appeared to have quite forgotten his sorrow. His gladness was but temporary, for heaviness and depression of spirits again stole over him, which terminated soon after with his life. Wequoash had now obtained complete revenge; his rival and his false-hearted mistress were both sleeping in the arms of death, and no one suspected his agency in destroying them. He assumed the command of the tribe, and having mourned a decent interval over the dead body of his predecessor, he sought to obliterate his memory from the minds of the people by leading them out to battle against the brave Narragansetts. Since, among savages, personal prowess is the only basis of distinction, his bravery and address in war soon rendered him a universal favorite.

VI.

‘”The thirteenth moon had just begun to wane when Wequoash, returning one evening from a hunting expedition, seated himself upon a fallen tree near the shore of the Hobomak, and not far from the spot where, the year before, he had taken such vengeance upon the solitary maiden. . . . As he sat thus in troubled contemplation, a flame appeared streaming from the water just over the place where the bones of the maiden slept, and casting upon everything around a blue mephitic light, of all, the most fearful. Presently a canoe arose, and floated straight towards him, as if animated by an invisible agency. Urged by an irresistible influence, he entered it, and was wafted directly to the strange illumination, which gradually resolved into a form like the form of the murdered lano, only the expression was more sad and pensive. The spirit gazed intently upon him for a long time, unable as he was to resist the fascination; then, uttering a piercing shriek, melted away from his sight. He fell in a state of insensibility; on recovering, he found himself lying by the fallen tree, suffering from extreme exhaustion, and with much difficulty crept home before morning.

“Another revolution of the seasons brought another similar night. The lightnings gleamed vividly in the far-off horizon; the fireflies flitted over the morass; stillness reigned; the blue flame arose; the skiff came to the shore; the chieftain was again impelled to embark; the sorrowful form of the dead again appeared before him, and, exclaiming ‘Only once more,’ again vanished into the abyss of waters.

“Deep melancholy now pervaded the mind of Wequoash. For days he would roam the forest without food, and shunning the faces of his fellow-men. . . . In this manner the year wore away, and the fatal night returned. This time he assembled the tribe by the shore, and, in a long and pathetic harangue, disclosed to them how that it was by his hand the canoe of lano had sunk; how that he had poisoned the sorrowing Sassacus under the pretence of administering exhilarating draughts. He then recounted his interviews with the unavenged spirit of the injured girl, and darkly alluded to the fate that there awaited him. Petrified with fear, they saw him enter the approaching canoe, and move passively to the mysterious flame. A form arose, but it was not the form of lano. Her gentle spirit could not come for vengeance. It was the form of Sassacus, dark, terrific, confounding. ‘This is my hour,’ it said. Wequoash drew his robe closer about him, and folded his arms in token of resignation. A black cloud hovered over him; a vivid flash, a stunning thunder-peal, a few big rain-drops, — all was over; thick darkness succeeded; the chieftain was seen no more.

“The season was afterwards celebrated by the tribe for many generations, and a song was composed, which the maidens sung at their marriage festivals, — a mournful thing, descriptive of the character and fortunes of the rival chiefs and the too-much-loved lano. Whenever they crossed the Hobomak, they each carried a stone and sunk it at the fatal spot, till at length the pile rose above the water. It has since fallen away by the action of the waves, but even now it may be seen when the surface is perfectly tranquil. A mysterious dread still attaches to it, and if the fisherman chance to strike it with his oar, he hurries away as from a place to be avoided.”

***

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