Ghosts on the Coast of Maine (5 page)

Richardson was pleased to have avenged his townspeople for the plunderings they had suffered at British hands. By the war's end, Goose River residents had endured their crops being burned, their animals slaughtered, and their houses razed. That is why, when these people learned of the Treaty of Paris in 1783, they gathered for the biggest, wildest party ever thrown in the area. It was, of course, hosted by William Richardson.

It began with a burst of cannon shot booming its echo throughout the Penobscot mountains. Guns were fired and drums beat in order to call the neighboring citizens of Camden and Castine. Civilians, soldiers, and officers poured in from the garrisons of Penobscot Bay to celebrate the longawaited victory.

Pitchers of ale and canisters of tobacco adorned all the tables and sideboards of Bill's house. Not an inch of space was bare. A pig was killed for the feast, as well as a lamb and a steer. Fifers blew on their high-pitched instruments for a circle of dancing men wielding drink mugs, while others roared patriotic war songs. It was a wondrous evening of revelry that went far into the night.

At one point during the celebration, after several mugs of ale, Bill decided to go wandering about town with a pitcher full of brew, rousting out anyone who was missing the party. He went ambling down the road, singing and yelling, peering in any window with a light in it, and knocking on those with none. The road took him down the hill from his house and over to the bridge across the river. There he met three horsemen, to whom he jubilantly offered his pitcher of ale. Not realizing that they were Tories, who were suffering enough indignation on this eventful day, Bill never gave a thought to any malice. As he held out his pitcher, one of the men struck him in the head with the butt of his gun and rendered him unconscious. The three travelers sped off and left Bill to die, never knowing what hit him.

The bridge has since been replaced, and the town renamed Rockport, but it is still the haunt of William Richardson. Nineteen twenty is the earliest anyone can remember hearing about the Revolutionary War hero who stalks the bridge with a pitcher in his hand.

One night in the late summer of 1953, a young couple was approaching the bridge, when the girl grabbed onto her boyfriend in rigid fear. At the other end of the bridge was a man coming towards them, holding something out in front of him. He seemed purposeful. The boyfriend prepared to defend his female companion against the weird stranger, when suddenly the man disappeared. After they had calmed down, they realized that what they had seen was no ordinary personage.

The area around the bridge is significant also. It is a cozy glen, suitable for lovers. About ten years after the latter incident, two couples were parked in this quaint, wooded spot. They were too busy having fun to notice a man approaching from the rear. One of the guys rolled down a window to get some air and in so doing came face to face with a man holding a pitcher towards him. The guy quickly rolled up the window and told the driver to step on the gas.

Old-timers chuckle whenever they hear one of the Rockport lovers' lane stories. They know better than to go meandering around there after dark. They attend to the sign, “No trespassing between sunset and sunrise.”

N
obody would go up with me to Wreck Island, formerly False Franklin, four miles southwest of Friendship Harbor. ‘Course I'd just told ‘em that I'd read it was haunted (maybe that had something to do with it). On the other hand, any place with a name like that sounded dangerous for any craft, so I left our fifteenfoot Glassmaster at her mooring and gassed up the Buick for the trip.

It was a long one. Going up and down roller coaster hills on narrow two-lane roads with low visibility and lack of signs made a stomach-stressed journey. I was well rewarded, however, when I took a wrong turn and drove up the driveway of Eaton Stearns. OF Eaton came out (I'd never seen him before in my life) and said, “By Gawd, I hope you're looking for me.”

I hesitated, then laughed, “Well I don't rightly know. Can you tell me about Wreck Island?”

He said, “No, but I can take you there. Do you trust me?”

I said, “For the time bein'.”

Eaton and I went down the road some, till he stopped at a small beach on Martin's Point. “There she is,” he pointed out.

We got in a green punt that badly needed paint, and rowed out far enough for me to get a good look at the island. It was such a pretty sight with the sun beaming down on her beige rocks and the air so still around her. In clear daylight it was hard to imagine what devastation had been wreaked by this little spot of sunshine in the sea.

Stan Bushman, an old fisherman laid up with the gout, tells the story. December 4, 1768, was the date. The ship
Winnebec
, sailing from Boston, got caught in a storm and lost control around the ledges of False Franklin. The cold wind and driving snow was some fierce, and it blasted that boat against the rocks and stove her to pieces.

Early the next morning supposedly, some fishermen on their way out to sea found some boards on Cranberry Island, some debris on Harbor Island, and then the wreck on False Franklin. Eleven bodies of crew and passengers were sprawled out on the shore.

The men left their fishing and went ashore to see if anyone was alive. Seeing none, they loaded chests full of valuables, clothes, and provisions aboard their boats. It took them about seven trips to do this, and they weren't noticed by anyone till they were about done. When it was learned that the
Winnebec
had washed up on the island, several townspeople went out to investigate, and proceeded to notify the authorities.

Meanwhile, by the time of that seventh trip, a terrible squall had blown up, bringing with it violent torrents of ice and snow. The fishermen could not make it back to the mainland, so they had to stay on False Franklin overnight. What happened to them that night was something they never wished to experience again.

Since the island was uninhabited, the men sought out branches large enough to make a lean-to. Between the branches and the boards from the wreck, they devised a shelter with a floor and bedded down for the night. The snow had stopped, but it was bitter cold.

A few hours past them sleeping, a breeze found its way into the shelter and stirred Alan Page, one of the men. He woke up and started choking and gagging; he could not catch his breath. His partially frozen eyelids finally opened up to see a “man” with clothes drenched, leaning over him, clutching Alan's throat with his hands. Alan gasped, then no sound came from his throat. The sleeper next to him shook Page and brought him to, whereupon this second fisherman also felt a constriction around his throat. The whole camp was invaded by figures outlined in white light, intent on giving the men a taste of what it felt like to be strangled.

“Now my father,” Stanley said as he drew on his pipe, “always told me that he'd heard that them fishermen had murdered the people off of that ship. O' course, he'd fished those waters many times himself, and he claimed that one night he and Georgy Green started out toward Franklin. The moon was exceptionally bright, and they looked over to see some shapes roaming around in a cloud of light. They got no closer, but they'd never forget that sight.”

Stanley admitted that he's seen lights hovering over the island on occasion. A friend of his was passing by the island shortly after evening had set in, once, and saw what looked like the hull of a ship half buried in the sand. He'd never seen anything there before, so he went over to take a look. By the time he'd reached the spot, it was gone.

On my way back from Friendship, I was mulling over Wreck Island, and skepticism about the possibility of murder came to mind. Why would a group of fishermen, minding their own business, kill some poor shipwrecked people over some food and supplies? My thoughts continued.

The mishap occurred in the middle of a northern winter. Cold, snow, and ice make land transportation difficult, if not impossible, for an out-of-the-way place like a peninsular village. The roads (?) could easily get blocked with snow, so that neither man nor horse could pass. These ideas came to me as I maneuvered one of the difficult “s” curves peculiar to the Maine backwoods.

The weather would have rendered fishing vessels useless at least part of the season, while making sea transportation dangerous and oftentimes fatal. The year 1768 did not know lighthouses, channel markers or marine patrol of any kind. Great quantities of food and medicine would have been hard to come by. If an opportunity arose to gather goods like woolen blankets or dried meats, a man would think of his family first, and consequences last.

Besides, the unfortunate seagoers were probably half dead by the time they were discovered. Between fighting ocean waves, getting dashed on the rocks, and being exposed to low temperatures, they must have been spent. A strong twist of rope around the neck would have easily finished them. I'm not saying the “murders” should be condoned, but circumstances do make that version of the story more plausible. Murder would also have been motivation for the simulated strangulations.

T
raveling up Route One, one would come across a town nestled in the deep woods atop a hill going down to the ocean. It is a town of surprises, especially about evening. The trees that line the narrow roads of Northport are so thick that they form clusters of forest around the houses. Even going slowly in a car, one is startled by the appearance of these narrow, high-roofed dwellings that seem to pop out of nowhere.

Most of these houses belong to the eighteenth or nineteenth century, with little odd-shaped windows and peculiar wood carvings decorating the eaves. One of them is shared by three old women, whose portrait bears a marked resemblance to the females that spun the fates of mankind in Greek mythology. Nevertheless, they are all kind enough to share their knowledge about an event that occurred in their town the night of December 16, 1954.

It was a night full of Christmas cheer and eager anticipation at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Edward Cosgrove. This affluent couple had inherited the family real estate business, enabling them to indulge in all the luxuries of the day: two Cadillacs, a Rolls-Royce, a greenhouse of exotic plants, and a private golf course. These were the trimmings of a magnificent estate furnished with the finest quality furniture and items throughout.

The Cosgroves were even lucky enough to secure two intelligent and loving people to watch over their children and the house whenever they were gone. Mr. and Mrs. Walden adored the Cosgrove boys, aged five, seven, and nine, and treated them like grandchildren. They knew how to be strict, though, when necessary. The youngest one was forever leaving his toys about, setting up potential booby traps for unsuspecting passersby. Mrs. Walden patiently trained him to pick up after himself. It was Mrs. Walden who had told her employers of the creative playthings she had seen in a Boston store catalog.

That was why that night Mr. and Mrs. Cosgrove were on their way to Boston on a shopping spree for the children. They had softened the blow of their departure by choosing that day to decorate the whole mansion, inside and out. They had put up the tallest and fullest Christmas tree they could find. Colored lights illuminated trees, bushes, the outside of the house, and a special Santa Claus display on the roof.

The three little boys were not in a mood for early bedtime, so Mr. and Mrs. Walden read the boys' favorite stories until they nodded off to sleep. The substitute grandparents lifted the children out of their slumbering positions into their beds and retired themselves. That was the last peaceful moment in the lives of these five people.

An hour later found them choking and gasping for air, as they battled the smoke and flames of a fire that ripped through the large house and crumbled it to the ground. It left nothing but two chimneys, some badly warped household appliances, and a set of iron lawn chairs and table.