Ghosts on the Coast of Maine (7 page)

Clark, being a man of the sea, was used to taking chances, but he was not used to sympathizing with royalty. During the American Revolution he had been a staunch patriot and a loud condemner of the British ruler's atrocities. One can imagine the shock when Mrs. Clark learned that her husband planned to rescue the French queen and give her refuge in his own home in Edgecomb. I'll bet she slammed a few pots and pans around the kitchen whenever she thought of the sentimental scheme. How would a lady used to fancy French cooking look upon fish chowder and johnnycakes? How would she feel at home in a plain two-story dwelling? How far would she look down her nose at a Maine sea captain's wife? Most of all, was it worth the terrible risk?

Mrs. Clark's concerns and all of Edgecomb's female society's preparations were for naught. Just as the captain's plan was living out its final stages, whereby the queen would go to the ship in disguise, violence broke out. Marie Antoinette was seized and beheaded on October 16.
Sarah
had to leave port immediately, with no time to unload her cargo of French treasures.

The captain stored them for a time in one room of his house, awaiting word from French authorities. When none came, he distributed them about the house, I suspect, in spite of his wife's protests. Then in a final tribute to the woman he loved in some way, he planted a trellis of roses facing the morning sun.

Herbie, the present gardener of the house, was the one so willing to relate information about the lovely roses and the story behind them. Most of the antiques have been sold or distributed as far as the Metropolitan Museum of Art, but evidence of his tale still remains. He first experienced it ten years ago, at one of the many auctions held at the home.

He had always heard stories of how Marie Antoinette was still looking for her lover, but he'd never seen anything. Then one hot and windless summer afternoon during that auction, on the side of the house where there was no activity, he was passing by the roses. He took great care of those roses. Anyway, he was walking by when he caught sight of a miniature whirlwind that traveled twice around the foot of the trellis and then went right up it. He never saw anything like it in his life.

Herbie said that Morris, the gardener before him, had told him a story about his sleeve being tugged while working on the roses. When Morris looked up to see no one, he dropped his tools and went for a long walk.

Morris said that the French queen never got to see those roses while she was alive, but she certainly seems to know that they're hers now.

I
n the prim and proper, neatly windowed town of Wiscasset lies a Georgian manor that seems to fit in with all the other 1850s vintage homes. The brick sidewalk by the old Congregational Church leads the way to a double-doored immensity that signals a definite “welcome” to the passersby. Candlelight softens the entrance to the house, and one step inside tells you that this is no ordinary place.

Alfred Hitchcock would have gone wild. Instead of the grand mirrors and Victorian chairs that usually adorn a hallway of this sort, stands a ceiling-high display of antique musical mechanisms. They range from three-inch music boxes to Aeolian pneumatic organs. The preponderant taste seems to be German, as seen in the tall glassed symphonium supported by sturdy carved legs, and the Black Forest creatures with real animal horns.

The pleasant but ethereal cacophony of several instruments playing at once shifts one's mind away from the everyday world and into another dimension. The key to this dimension strolls into the hallway and lifts his head in a manner that suggests heavy back pain. Thick eyebrows shade dark eyes that dispel seriousness more quickly than expected. He does not resemble anything that exemplifies Down East Yankee.

His name is Josef Schmidt, and he is the keeper of this musical fantasy land. Josef does not have to collect and maintain these precious items; he does it because he loves to. An outsider's eye, however, would detect that there is so much passion involved in the project, that the loving force has driven him to make the whole thing a necessity. His collection began in Washington, D.C., but the house there became too small. He expanded his musical storehouse to a Maine resort town and Dallas, Texas. Then he bought the house in Wiscasset, and now this building is not big enough to hold the ever-increasing displays.

The operation of the music boxes is easily understood, but that of the mechanical organs and pianolas raises questions. He explains that he does not “play” the instruments; he interprets the heart and soul of the music by means of the foot pedals. As the player Steinway is pumping out notes written by Mozart and recorded by a professional pianist, Schmidt controls the pace and temperament of the piece. Closing his eyes in complete concentration, he becomes the captain who steers the ship or the artist who frames the lovely painting. Sometimes, when no one is around, “someone else” plays the instruments, he says with a wink.

Dismissing the remark in good humor, all those following Schmidt around to different rooms continue up the flying staircase. A set of broad tuckered drapes decorates a gold-and-black bedroom. A candlelight chandelier with diamond drop pendants illuminates a somber black bed that looks more like a throne. The heavy night stands sustain golden bowls that once held washing water for their historic owner, the Archduke of Austria. After five motley peasant figures dance atop their music boxes, the group listens to a short concert on the bedroom pianola, composer unknown. Schmidt makes the music sing throughout the house. He delights in this piece even more than the Mozart.

Part of the group leaves him still playing while others peek into various rooms, curious about the ivory knobs, the three-foot brass cylinders and the carved cases of the automata. The shapes range from huge clocklike structures to three birds in a gilded cage, warbling a foreign anthem. One woman finds a small cubbyhole of a room.

She steps into it gingerly as the floorboards creak underneath her feet. The place is fascinating because there is something about it unlike the other rooms. It feels private; it definitely “belongs” to someone. She walks over to the twin music boxes that serve as platforms for two German beer drinkers but chooses not to turn the keys. An inlaid bookcase is more interesting, with its dusty old books and little brown globe. She was perusing the weatherworn map of Europe on the wall when a rustling noise to the left caught her attention. The books on the shelf were falling on each other, one by one to the right, as though someone were riffling through the stacks. One of the books sort of flew out and dashed itself at her feet, making her sneeze with the dust. In that moment the music box keys turned in their sockets and the mechanisms started playing their different tunes.

The woman, too shocked to scream, made a low, frightened sound and quickly backed out the door. Upon shutting it, she realized that she had not observed the white sign that read No Public Admittance. In order to keep from being scolded, she did not relate this incident to the owner, but she started telling it to the rest of her party, as she ushered them out the main door. The music eerily continued through the closed door of the little room.

Right after she left, the owner stopped playing the pianola and came downstairs to check on the room in question. “Just as I thought,” he said. “Someone's been in here, because I left this door open. Was it you?” He looked at the person nearest the door. By this time a small crowd had gathered. The accused answered negatively, but she told him what had happened to the woman who had just left. Josef nodded knowingly, and as he opened the door to pick up the book, a cold draft escaped, rippling through the onlookers.

“This is my grandfather's room,” he lectured. “I've been keeping it for him. As a matter of fact, I've been keeping this whole collection for him.” He gestured abstractly.

Hans Reutenberg, it turned out, was a musician and composer in the late nineteenth century. Music was his whole life. His son carried on family tradition by becoming a music box restorer. Handel, Bach, and Beethoven discs were his favorite. In 1957 Reutenberg's grandson, Josef, after moving to America, cultivated an emotional link with the grandfather, and started collecting mechanisms on which Hans's music could be played. It was a Reutenberg composition that had been tinkling its way through the house at Josef's hands, from the Austrian bedroom—another German gift of probably the greatest spiritual enhancement of all, music.

S
o many ghosts were people with strong personalities and a great deal of energy. This energy breaks through the material world, even from the non-material plane of existence, even after many “years” of being on this plane. I say “years” because it is my opinion that “time” in this sphere is a totally different concept, most likely not the linear version that we Westerners are accustomed to.

These high-powered people made big impressions on their communities and on the communities to come. In the town of Bath, shipbuilding capital of the world, it would be difficult to encounter an outstanding person not connected with this industry. It would be like trying to find an Iowan not attached in some way to agriculture.

Even now, although the aromas of molasses, tar, resin, and pine are not intermingled with the basic smell of the sea, Bath products are among the best boats in the country. In place of the schooners and barks so handsomely docked in the past stand sleek gray destroyers, laden with the sophisticated radar necessary for present-day navigation in the Persian Gulf, for example. Many of the men working on these ships are descendants of those who built the first Bath vessels. They claim that the spirit of their forebears permeates the waterfront.

The best place to encounter this sort of thing, they say, is the Bath Maritime Museum, a preservation of the original buildings of the great shipyards. The men are busy with their work, but they take time to joke about the ghost stories that have been circulating for years.

Not one to be daunted by friendly ridicule, I traveled with my family over to the museum to see what I could find. The boat nearest the Caulking Shed was the one we picked to explore. The
Sherman Zwicker
was a small schooner constructed on the principles of nineteenth-century shipbuilding. Below deck every space was well-utilized, and it seemed cramped and dark—a great place for a ghost hideout. My husband made the remark that it would make you think twice about going to sea. I reminded him that this boat was quite a bit smaller than the original schooners, and besides, people back then were of a smaller stature. There are pictures on the walls of old houses that show plenty of space below deck: a niche for a berth, a partition containing a six- or seven-foot harmonium and another space for a private water closet. Of course, that would have been the captain's quarters.

We visited the Mold Loft, the Mill and Joiner Shop where there was part of an old shipwreck, the building for small craft which included a dugout canoe, and the Apprentice Shop where new boats are in the making. Most of the buildings were dark and creepy, but there was no sign of a ghost.

The city heat and humidity began to wear on our nerves, and we were on our way out when I said, “Wait a minute, let me check out this building.” It was the Paint and Treenail (pronounced trunnel) Shop. The kids tagged along after me while my husband waited outside.

Nobody else was in the place. It seemed darker and older than the other buildings. Three antiquated engines stood inside the door, then a pulley display, and a large wooden style operated by manpower, used for hauling or rigging. In the corner was a display of shipyard store items, and to the side, a ten-foot wharf scale.

The kids were in front of me and the scale behind. The solemnity of the place was broken by a large squeak and the sound of metal. We all turned toward the scale. Whereas before it had been a foot off the ground, it was now resting on the ground. Suddenly it popped up again.