Ghosts on the Coast of Maine by Carol Schulte Page B

now totally buried. The caretakers are constantly sweeping new sand out of the barn in hopes of keeping at least one relic uncovered. When asked what will be next, they shrug and say, “wherever the wind decides to blow.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY
MASSACRE POND
    I t is not surprising that a very disturbed ghost haunts Massacre Pond in Scarborough, formerly Black Point. Most of the west’ard (what Maine people call the coast from Kittery to about Portland) was at one time a veritable blood bath, the result of innumerable Indian/English battles. The account of one massacre pretty much sounds like that of another, except for the one in question that occurred on October 6, 1703. Massacre Pond is special because it was the culminating point in a series of tragic events that befell a certain man. This final incident in the life of Richard Stonewell gave the term “irony” new meaning.
    His suffering began at age twenty-two after he had built his first family home, a three-room bungalow on Black Point River. He happened to be away on business one afternoon when a group of Indians attacked the cottage. They scalped his wife, then held his infant son by the feet and beat his head against the living room timbers until he died.
    Stonewell never recovered from the shock. Not only were the deaths themselves devastating, but the manner in which they occurred was overwhelming. The Indians inhabiting the state of Maine (which was then part of Massachusetts) in 1667 had not yet reached their breaking point with the English settlers. Out-and-out war was not distinguishable until 1675. Besides, the French paid much higher bounties for women and children captives; adult male scalps were the grand prizes.
    The English were also in the scalp business, and they paid well too, but Dick Stonewell did not care about money when he abandoned farming and joined the military service. His heart was full of vengeance, and he vowed to kill every Indian he could get his hands on. One of his favorite means of attack was to crash Indian meetings with white settlers, peaceful or not. He’d burst through the door and shoot indiscriminately until he ran out of ammunition. The Indians came to know him as “Crazy Eye.”
    And many came to know him, Maine through Canada. Now that Dick did not have a family, he was free to travel, and he volunteered for commissions that took him far from Scarborough. In an expedition to St. John’s, his Indian fighting was described as “passionate.”
    The practice of taking chances when other men didn’t dare caused him injuries. From 1690 to 1696 Dick sustained several wounds in his right arm and one arrow through the thigh. By 1697 he was so disabled that he came back home and petitioned the General Court for monetary assistance. It was granted.
    Stonewell turned from an active combatant to one who tended the cows that belonged to the Black Point Garrison. He and nineteen other men were tending the cows out by the pond one October morning when, unbeknownst to them, a band of two hundred Abenakis from Canada were crouching in the bushes, lying in wait. They had come in the name of Christ, who, they had been told by the French, had been crucified by the English. They had also come in the name of the French, their neighbors and comrades in the fur trade. It seems that the French hunters and trappers had much more in common with the Indians than the English farmers and shipbuilders. Thus, they were able to infiltrate Indian tribes and establish themselves as brothers.
    The Abenakis had been waiting, still as the trees, since the night before, October 5. They had done without fire and elaborate meals and had crept so stealthily as to keep the dogs unaware of their presence. The Indians sprung from the brush in bands of three or four, and their tomahawks fatally cut the flesh of all the garrison men except one. Richard Stonewell, yellow-haired “Crazy Eye,” was among the dead.
    The tale