The Ghosts of Cape Cod Page 4

  The Johnsons, were entertaining their winter friends, Mr. and Mrs. Frank Woodard of New York City and Fisher Island, Florida. The exclusive island near Miami is the richest Zip Code in all of the 48 states as well as the two new states – gold rich Alaska and sand rich Hawaii.

  The curtains of the expansive bay windows that traverse the full width of the living room, facing the ocean, had been drawn wide by Kennedy the butler, so that the two couples could watch the stormy drama endlessly unfolding in the choppy and agitated Vineyard Sound.

  From the rear courtyards of the graceful dwelling, it was less than two hundred paces to the sandy beach and the sea. A warm spell had helped to create a plethora of flowers in the old fishing dory, that Mr. Johnson’s gardeners had placed on the pillowy lawn. It was filled with rich earth that persuaded lush spring flowers to burst from the boat like corn popping from a skillet on a hot stove.

  When the Florida guests arrived in the early afternoon the storm was still at sea. Unaware that a monster of nature was speeding toward them, they relaxed on the patio under bright sun and chatted.

  “Forget about Amazon dot com Charlie!” advised Frank. “They are all done. Their time has passed. Facebook? Same thing! Our new app will have them in bankruptcy within three years time!”

  “I will tell you what to forget Frank,” Charlie countered. “Forget about business for a few days. This is Cape Cod and life is slow here. The Cape is for refreshing and renewing yourself. There will be plenty of time to talk commerce later. First I want you and Eileen to sample some food and beverages.”

  His wife Maria, a stunning blonde woman of sixty who looked twenty years younger chimed in……..

  “Frank. Eileen. Sit down and enjoy the afternoon sun while I have Kennedy bring you something really special. Our new chef from Italy is also a master mixologist who won the Bacardi Legacy Medal.”

  Kennedy emerged silently from the pantry with a tray of drinks. He set a clear glass filled to the brim with a snowy white liquid in front of each person.

  “Please mam,” Kennedy said to Eileen Woodard, “Have a Ghost Martini, made by master chef Gino Romano. And Mr. Woodard here is one for you.”

  Next, he served drinks to Mr. and Mrs. Johnson before exiting with a stately air as he walked back to the pantry.

  “About Kennedy, Isn’t he ……?”, whispered Mrs. Woodward to her host.

  “That’s him,” replied Charley Johnson, “but he’s just plain Kennedy now – our butler. Old money does not last forever. Things change. Even here on Cape Cod.”

  "Try your drink,” prompted Maria, “ It’s Chef Romano’s Ghost Martini. He made this treat especially for you because we are near the end of spring and sometimes ghostly things happen in May on old Cape Cod.”

  “This is the perfect little drink," added her husband Charlie, "Notice how everything in the martini glass is white. Chef uses whipped vodka, vanilla vodka, and white chocolate liqueur."

  "It's a little girlish, but it is cute,” Frank replied. “How did Chef make that ghost shape that's floating on the top?"

  "That's vanilla ice cream,” Charley said, “cut into a ghostly form and plopped into the ocean of chilled vodka. It's excellent. Try it."

  The conversation turned at various times to the upcoming Newport yachting season, the polo matches in Hamilton at Myopia Hunt Club and of course, the obligatory trip to Fenway Park where they would be seated within a hot dog toss of the billionaire Red Sox owner, John Henry.

  At length, Eileen Woodard whose garden on Fisher Island was valued in the high seven figures, took note of the ragged old fishing dory in the middle of the lawn, filled with the beautiful spring blossoms.

  “That’s The Joseph Boat,” Charley Johnson informed her.

  “Is Joseph your gardener?,” queried Mrs. Woodard.

  “No. Well, in a sense maybe he is - but he is not on my payroll,” Charlie answered. “It’s a long story and a fascinating one that my company is turning into a one hour prime time special on one of our television programs with supporting pieces in our print magazine, and of course, on line.”

  “Sounds interesting,” said Frank, “Tell us about it. You know Eileen and I love anything about gardening.”

  “It’s more about ghosts than flowers Frank. I believe I will save the story for tonight. For now, we have the bounty of the sea to tackle. Kennedy is going to serve Chef Romano’s new creation, Rigatoni pasta stuffed with lobster. Now don’t say a thing until you have tried it. This is a culinary experience you will cherish for years.”

  The afternoon went by languidly and pleasantly as Cape Cod afternoons do, with good food and lively conversation.

  After a rest and some hot tub time in their respective suites, the friends gathered for a sumptuous deep fried dinner, layered with servings of cod, fries, onion rings, steamed quahogs, corn on the cob, zucchini, and local blue crab. For dessert, the party moved to the Great Room, which could have doubled as a ball room. They sat in ornate Morris chairs from the late 1890s. Each overstuffed recliner was worth in excess of $50,000.

  The music system had been programmed to play nothing but Morris Chair music. First up was Irving Berlin's "You'd be surprised".

  "At a party

  Or at a ball

  I've got to admit

  He's nothing at all

  But in a Morris chair

  You'd be surprised."

  Even the father of country music, Jimmy Rodgers, the singing brakeman, added a Morris Chair song:

  "A big Morris chair waits for me there

  In front of a bright log fire

  My babe at my knee and my wife sings with me

  While I strum on my old guitar

  In fact we're as happy, as happy can be."

  Forgotten was The Joseph Boat - The old fishing dory in the yard being used as a flower planter.

  One of the last Joseph Boats left on Cape Cod. It’s on the Northside of Dennis at Corporation Beach

  Photo: copyrighted by Bill Russo

  Then came the storm. It was just a typical Northeaster to the Johnsons who had summered on Cape for many years; but to the Woodards who were spending their first night at the edge of Vineyard Sound, it seemed like the worst hurricane in the history of the world.

  Winds of gale strength twisted the arms and trunks of the trees. White caps of up to ten feet raced to the shore where they swallowed the beach whole and tried to force their way over the rows of heavy sandbags that had been set against them by the gardeners.

  The very timbers of the great house groaned in pain at every salvo of the tempestuous wind.

  Charley Johnson who was always thrilled by the savage strength and beauty of a Northeaster, had his servants dim the lights, add more wood to the fire, and light clusters of candles.

  "Don't worry Frank. Or you either Eileen. We get these storms frequently. Just sit back and watch the battle of nature fought out in the skies and on the sea."

  An enormous streak of lightning flashed just a few yards off shore and cracked the black of night with dizzying brightness; momentarily illuminating the back yard as if it were midday.

  “Charlie, I saw someone in your yard just now! He was standing in your boat of flowers!” Frank said excitedly.

  As the thunder from the prior barrage shook the massive three story house to its foundation, a second array of lightning flashed : exposing again an eerie figure; now leaving the yard, a fistful of flowers clutched in his hand. Dressed in rags, with an ornate powdered wig atop his head, he glided swiftly toward the water, though his legs never moved. Like dissipating smoke from a doused campfire, the figure dissolved before their eyes.

  The visitors were aghast.

  Charlie said, “I see that man once every Spring. He comes to the dory to pick flowers. They actually are his flowers. He first planted them - or some like them - almost 300 years ago.”

  His wife Maria affirmed that she too had seen the spectral being once a year, every year since they put the flower boat in the ya
rd.

  Frank and Eileen Woodard had collapsed together into a Morris Chair. Gasping for breath, they held each-other tightly.

  "We could not have seen what we think we saw", Frank finally wheezed.

  "You did see it just as Maria and I have seen it these several years. At first we thought it was a neighbor stealing our blossoms. We had the servants set up cameras. Every night during the spring time we would have the recorders in place and running from dusk to dawn," Charlie said.

  "One stormy night toward the end of May three years ago," Maria picked up the tale, "We captured the whole thing on camera. The wigged man walked into the boat and examined every flower, before picking a bunch and then leaving. When we viewed the recording, it was blank.

  "Ghosts cannot be filmed," Charlie confirmed. "Every time we recorded the wigged man, we came up with nothing but a black screen."

  Kennedy quickly entered the salon from his perch in the pantry and served martinis all around. The Woodards bolted down their cocktails quickly and were just as rapidly served another.

  They gradually got their breath back and began questioning their host machine gun style, for answers.

  "I will tell you the story of this man and the flower boats, just as my research team has told it to me. The man that you saw, if he were still living, would be close to 340 years old. But since he died at the age of 42 and is a ghost, I guess what we saw is a man of 42 years, in his third century as a Cape Cod ghost.

  The name of the specter is Joseph Metcalfe, he was the second Minster of the Congregational Church of Falmouth from 1707 to 1723. Both the church and the Town of Falmouth kept good records so we were able to uncover a mountain of information about this case.

  Born in Dedham, Massachusetts in 1682, the young Metcalfe came from a proper family and was dedicated to theology at an early age. He graduated from Harvard College in Boston in 1703 and was considered by his classmates as a studious, thoughtful and serious young man.

  He showed little interest in sporting events, news events, the women of Boston and Cambridge, or politics. In short, it was universally accepted that he would make the perfect Puritan Minister.

  There were however, no ministerial positions available for the 21 year old graduate, so he took a teaching position for 12 pounds a year in a town called Rehoboth, near present day Rhode Island. He remained with his students for two years, until he was summoned to appear before the great and wondrous Reverend Michael Wigglesworth in the city of Malden, just outside of Boston.

  Wigglesworth was one of the most influential theologians in the new England. He wrote the runaway best seller, "The Day of Doom". For more than a hundred years this text was seated at the right hand of the bible and people could quote it as well as the Good Book itself.

  Old Wigglesworth was the stereotypical puritan. Virtually everything was a sin in his mind, and he felt that human beings were not even fit to worship God. Indeed he felt that he, himself was unworthy of being a minister. He professed to be deathly sick most of his life, yet lived long and was married several times; fathering a flock of offspring - all the while decrying nearly every aspect of life to be damnably sinful.

  How Metcalfe, who was to prove to be one of the most reasonable and thoughtful men in the new world, ever got along with Wigglesworth, it's hard to imagine. Wigglesworth was in semi retirement and he allowed young Reverend Metcalfe to take on a great percentage of his work. In return Wigglesworth gave the freshman minister lodging and some food, but no pay.

  Short but effective sermons were the hallmark of young Reverend Metcalfe and the people of Malden liked him, though their leaders voted against giving him a single shilling. We did uncover one report that says that the Town Council voted him a one-time payment of Three pounds and ten shillings.

  When the puritans of distant Falmouth got it in mind to get rid of their minister, Reverend Samuel Shiverick, because he was getting too old, Joseph made a few trial runs as Guest Minister and he scored well with the Town Fathers.

  Unlike today when there is much talk of separation of church and state, there was little of it in the colonies. The Town Council hired and fired the preachers and voted as well on the salary to be paid.

  The three Selectmen of Falmouth were considering offering Joseph a contract which would make him just the second minister to serve the faithful, since the formation of the church seven years prior - when it was split off from the Barnstable Congregational Church.

  They summoned the young bachelor to the Falmouth Meeting House on the Ides of August in 1707.

  The expansive one room structure had a massive oak table in the front of the hall, with 18 chairs around it. Twelve places were reserved for the three Selectmen and for various other town officials including the Constable. The six remaining chairs were for people who appeared before the council during business sessions or when the Selectmen were sitting in judgment of defendants.

  The rest of the building was given over to pews, purchased by members of the congregation. Each family had its own pew. The proximity of the bench seat to the officials' table, indicated the importance of the family, as well as the price of the pew.

  Reverend Metcalfe walked into the Meeting Room at the appointed time on the 15th day of August. As he entered the dimly lit hall, a hand almost as big as a dog clamped on to his shoulder and began ushering him forward. He nearly had to run to avoid being dragged.

  "Welcome to Falmouth Reverend Metcalfe," said a man seated at the head of the long table. He had a flowing white beard that appeared to be more than three feet long.

  "The gentleman with the big hands and the big body," he continued, "is our Constable, Mr. Deliverance J. Makepeace. Thank you Del. You may release the Minister from your grip. He is not one of your convicts. You may leave now Del."

  Stroking the hoary beard that was longer than a horsetail, the man at the head of the table waited until the Constable had departed and then continued.

  "I am Elder John Robinson, Chairman of the Selectmen of the Town of Falmouth. I am also Master of the School, Keeper of the Records, Disburser of Town Monies, and Chief Judge of the Court. Seated at my right is Selectman John Davis and at my left, Selectman Moses Hatch. Selectman Davis will open the meeting."

  "Good day Reverend," Elder Davis said, taking a deep pull on a clay pipe nearly as long as his arm. Smoke wreathed his head as he continued, "We have found your work as Guest Preacher to be worthy of merit. So much so that we are prepared to offer you a contract, providing that you pass this little interview that we have in store. When I use the word 'store' it reminds me to tell you that although you will be in charge of the spiritual well being of the people, it is I that keeps their bodies healthy. In my dry goods store, I sell the finest clay pipes, like the one I am using. And of course, we expect you to recommend that all parishioners smoke a good clay pipe because as we all know, smoking is the highest thing a person can do for his health. The medicine in the smoke enters the body and eliminates grosse gasses and regulates the balance of the four humors - the blood, the phlegm, the choler, and the black bile. Do we agree on this?"

  "Of course we do Selectman Davis. Professor Lambick Penn of Harvard college lectured regularly on the health benefits of the pipe and tobacco. We were all expected to have a good set of clay pipes. Sadly mine broke on the way to this meeting."

  "Yes clay pipes break frequently and that is why I always have a large stock on hand. "Gentlemen," he said to his fellow officials, "I vote that we hire this fine young man to be our Minister. I like the way he talks. Reverend Metcalfe, I have a spare pipe in my vest that I am going to give to you. And I am even going to put it in the contract, if the others agree, that you get an allotment of 48 pipes per annum to be paid at the rate of four per month. What say you Selectman Hatch?"

  Mr. Hatch stood up. Though he was nearly as thin as the rein of a horse's bridle, the man was uncommonly tall. Reverend Metcalfe had to tip his chin up as high as it would go to be able to see the elder's face.''

  "Do
n't strain yourself looking up at me young man. Take a seat in my family's pew - in the very first row. That's fine. Now I will tell you about me. I am Town Administrator of Agriculture. I set the rules on farming, sheeping, cowing, chicken raising, and anything else to do with food or drink and the growing or making of it. I am also a farmer. Your eyes have told you I am probably the tallest man you have ever seen. I am at least two inches over six feet - a good head over everybody else in the colony. My body is like the Town of Falmouth - long. The town stretches in all directions for miles. You will note also that I am very lean and again I am like the Town. Our crops have not done well for years. So to pay you is going to be a strain for us. I will tell you that right now. What say you to that?"

  The Reverend Mr. Metcalfe stuck a finger under his wig by his left ear to stifle an itch while he thought of what he should say. At length he responded.

  "Selectman Hatch. You are the longest man I have ever seen and I swear that is true. That you and your crops are lean, I understand and can only point out that whomever you pick for a Minister - he will be of flesh and blood and as such, he needs food and shelter. But as for me, I always remember that the Lord said 'what gaineth a man? - if he hath a stomach full of food but a heart full of lust, greed, and longing for gold'. I did not become a spreader of the word of God to harvest money: to gather sheep for His fold, did I toil for my degree."

  Hatch swore that the Reverend's words were among the finest he had ever heard and he sided with Davis in voting to hire Mr. Metcalfe.

  "It falls to me then, to either assent or say nay to this well spoken gentleman," said Chairman Robinson, all the while stroking that unkempt horsetail beard like one might pat a fine retrieving dog. "Reverend Metcalfe, no man in this town wears a powdered wig as you do. Is not pride a sin?"

  "Indeed it is Selectman Robinson. But the wearing of the Peruke by judges, clergy, and various officials is standard practice. In the city, one would not dare be seen without one."