Coming Soon

In the days and weeks ahead, we will be taking a bit of a hiatus from our Last of the Forest Dwellers tales, and turning our attention to creating a new site.  The new site will offer an updated look and new content and information.  Rest assured, our Nubbins will be making a reappearance.  So stay tuned and thank you for reading!

Edward Howes, 1849

[Prior to and during the Civil War, the existence of an “underground railroad” and movement of black slaves from the south to safe houses on Cape Cod, and then onto fishing vessels headed to Canada, is well known; but actual documentation of this, an illegal activity at the time, is hard to find.  Most information comes by way of handed-down stories, family journals and letters.   

It is one of these journal stories that we share with you, for it also tells of a group of little men who helped one night when the movement of a black family was about to be found out…]

5, August, 1849

“We waited till dark, and then hurried the four out of the cellar and onto the hay wagon.  The invoice noted the hay to be delivered to a Provincetown ice house.  Our wagon was joined by two others and we made our way along King’s Highway, anxious about the bright moon.  Night deliveries like ours were not common, and since the uprising in Harwich the year before, there were those who were now much more incensed over the activity of moving slaves.  There was a common thread among these types and their thinking and that was to mind their own business and let the Southerner’s mind theirs as well.  They were not comfortable with the thought of interference and the consequences it might bring to the region."

  

"We made it past the three lights and were nearing Fresh Brook Village when a wagon, set in the brush just off the road beyond us, pulled its team right onto the highway, blocking our progress.  We pulled off to the side as six men came out of the thickets.  One approached my wagon.  I moved my rifle under the seat and out of view.  The man claimed to be a constable, checking on movement of goods to avoid taxing.  I showed him the invoice for the hay carried by our wagons."

"He looked at the document for several minutes, laughed and then said that hay was a great way to hide the wares of any store, and motioned for the others to come and search the wagons.  I was sure we were about to be discovered, when the horses suddenly became very agitated, including those of their wagon.  As I tried to steady my team, a sight hard to believe:  several very small men ran by us at great speed slapping the horses of these night highwaymen, causing them to bolt down the road.  The constable was suddenly no longer interested in our hay, and ran by us chasing the wagon, yelling back and forth to one another.  'Did you see them?! It’s them!  It’s them!  We should never posted guard here at night!'"

"The drivers of our other wagons never saw the little men; yet, since that night I have found that there are legends about such little people living in the towns of Eastham and Wellfleet.  I cannot prove this is the case.  I know only what I saw tonight."

Cyrus Cole (1883) continued...

[Cyrus Cole looked at me to see if he could detect my belief or what I was thinking.  He then continued his story of Mayo and the British ship, Spencer.  His nervousness perplexed me, the blockade being some sixty and more years hence.]

  

"I hear tell that after the crew went below, Mayo gathered up their weapons, went overboard, and walked the flats into town.  He informed the militia of the stranded boat and she was easily captured."

"The militia was comprised of local farmers and fishermen, so it took some time for them to gather after Mayo inform town fathers of the boat.  One young lad, Ebenezer Freeman (1), followed the armed men as they headed toward the beach.  Now according to his story, he watched from the bluff as the group surrounded the stricken vessel.  No shots were fired as none were needed.  Soon the militia had the captured crew marching back to shore.  

[Cyrus seemed to know great detail about the militia’s actions that day, leading me to believe that he may in fact be the youngster mentioned.  If so, he would have been just 8 years old at the time.]

"The tide was soon to come, but the youngster, wanting a better look at the now empty vessel like some of the other onlookers, headed out onto the flats.  He was about three hundred yards offshore, when he was surprised and shaken to the depths of his soul as six very small men ran past him at great speed.  They were onto the vessel in but a second, and then they were gone.

The boy ran back to the beach, hollering to a group of men who were also headed out for a better look. 

[Cyrus grew increasingly agitated at this point of his tale.  His voice cracked and his point of view suddenly shifted to the present tense as if we were on that very beach, the Spencer resting on the flats beyond.]

“Did you see them?!  Did you see them?!”   

“See what, boy?” one of the men asked.

“Those little men!  They ran like the wind!”

The men laughed.  “Boy we’ve been here just like you.  There were no little men.  You been at your old man’s rum?”

“No sir, I swear it.”

[Cyrus stopped his now theatrical narration.  He was shaking and sweat dripped from his brow.  He quickly looked out the window to avoid my stare.]

“Hard to believe isn’t it, Doc?  Well, that’s what the boy told me he saw.  That’s what he told me."

[I made another appointment for Cyrus for September 8th.]

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(1) We could find no record of such a boy.

Cyrus Cole (1883)

There are other pieces of evidence which we think provide believable documentation of encounters.  We offer this recorded session as told by a Cyrus Cole in 1883 to a Dr. Wyman Packard of Plymouth. Cole said he knew of the youngster mentioned in his story, and believed the lad.

August 12^th 1883

Notes recorded 5:45 PM


Cyrus Cole – Age 77 – Liver ailments - Long time alcoholic - Severe short term memory problems.  

Cyrus told me this tale today.  My note taking was tested here, thus have recorded the details as best I could.  Historical content I believe, but will work to verify, though his other stories have proven to be correct in terms of past factual events.

"By 1814, blockade running on Cape Cod had become lucrative for some, and the western shore line with its vast flats from Eastham to Barnstable was ideal for skirting their watchful British navy.  Remember that Mayo and Hill of Eastham (1) [He seemed to believe I should know these two characters of the past.] were adventurous lads and the scheme to take a load of rye to Boston was risky at best, as the British ship Spencer patrolled the bay with the assistance of other smaller vessels.  To the surprise of those who heard later, the two made it safely to Boston in their outfitted whale boat.  But here their success may have gotten the better of their judgment.  They traded their vessel for a larger boat loaded with cargo and headed homeward, proud of their exploits thus far.  When they reached the waters off the Gurnet of Duxbury, a pinkie (2) approached them. Mayo thought the vessel to be a fisherman, but the two were unpleasantly surprised to find the boat to be a disguised British patrol."

"They were easily taken into custody.  I believe Hill was taken to Boston for ransom.  Mayo was given the choice to pilot the vessel and assist the crew while navigating the area.  The offer pleased Mayo.  He had them head south and soon they were just a couple of miles off Yarmouth."

[Cyrus shifted in his seat.  He seemed nervous.]

"A storm came up and a heavy westerly wind with growing seas battered the schooner.  Mayo, known to be quick thinking, told the others to take safe haven inside Billingsgate, and they made their way North.  It wasn’t long before Mayo’s decision, whether planned or not, had the vessel grounded off the flats west of his own town.  The crew was furious, but he assured them that on the next tide they would float free.  He suggested they go below in the meantime so the vessel would not cause suspicion."

"Of course, they didn't know Mayo from Adam, so one might wonder why they complied."

To be continued...


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(1) We could not find record of these men. The names may be fictitious to protect both the patient and the doctor who provided the records.
(2) A pinkie was a small schooner with the stern of the vessel painted pink.

Shipwrecks and Shrouds (1890) continued...

When I awoke, I was lying unclothed under a woolen-type blanket covered by dried salt hay, in what seemed to be a small barn with extremely low rafters. In fact, I could easily see that I was not going to be able to stand in the place. There was a distinct odor of herbs, and a slight haze of wood smoke hung near the ceiling.   My head felt like I had spent the prior day drinking rum at the local tavern. I tried moving, but a pain in my left arm froze me in place.

I looked over and saw that my arm was wrapped tightly in a muslin cloth and bound to a long plank, which was, in turn, attached to the floor.  I had an immediate vision of my ordeal in the surf, and the spar that had smashed my arm, breaking it in several places. I now remembered, too, the little people who had pulled me from the sea.  I knew this small building must be their home or barn, and that they had set my arm and had so attached the plank to ensure I could not move it out of place.  The room was lit by two odd looking glass lanterns, unlike any lantern I had seen before. Along the wall to my right were long lengths of line, carefully coiled, and piles of what looked to be dark gray blankets, folded very neatly.  Above the coiled line were various blocks, deadeyes, belaying pins, braces, and parrals. It was a fine collection of various ships' rigging.  Four large sea chests were along the other wall. A fire pit was in front of me and the back wall I could not see, as it was well back and very dark.

It wasn't long before I heard voices, though their talk I could barely understand.  Whether it was a very odd type of old English, or a blend of English and some other language, I was not certain. Three little men came into view, and since I did not see a door open, I had to believe they were in the back of that room right along. They were scarcely three feet tall, and each looked much like the other, although they could be set apart.  The one closest to me motioned to my arm, and the others came over and released the cloth from the plank.  The one spoke and to the best I recall said this: 

"Woken you'st be."  

He then gave me a drink, which tasted somewhat like old and bitter tea, and then went on. 

"The dram of brew she made hither does't now taketh the senses, ye shall see more clearly by the next moon rising."  

I remember little else.  My vision became very blurry and I slumped back into sleep. 

  

I have no idea how long I slept, but upon waking found myself now fully dressed in my own clothes and laying in a soft pile of feathers and hay.  My arm no longer hurt, nor was it wrapped. My ragged shirt had been repaired, and I was wearing an odd, but comfortable, sort of boots. The sun was shining through a small opening across from where I lay.  I felt somewhat drunk and had to focus my vision.  

This room was much smaller, and it was empty other than the pile of feathers and hay.  The ceiling was made of what looked to be cedar planks and here and there were spaces between the boards beneath which roots were clearly visible. I concluded then that I was in some type of underground pit. When I sat up, my head cleared the ceiling by but a few inches. What looked to be a small door was to my left, and I rolled over on my side to see if I could push it open. There was no resistance to my effort, and I was now looking out at a small clearing amongst very dense thickets. Several little men were using the gray blankets I saw earlier to cover the badly decomposed remains of two seamen. So bad were the remains that the bones of the hands had little flesh left upon them. One of the little men turned to me and said, "Woken you'st be....your sleep was for many days...see a dozen shrouds we hath used this season...the storms taketh many of your people...some not found but by us...we doth bury them near the bluff...the shrouds hide the bones, but will keep the spirit."   

The little man gestured for me to come out. I struggled through the small door and when I was finally able to stand it was immediately apparent I had not stood in a long while, as my knees almost gave out beneath me.  Two of the men steadied me, and all of them were now laughing.  The one, who seemed to be the older, then led me to a path and gave me a small pouch containing a dram of water and some type of herbed bread.  He then passed me a staff, and, pointing to the west, told me to follow the path to Kings Highway.  I was told not to share my story or their location.  He warned that no one would believe me; that they may even term me a mad man.  As he headed back toward the others, he turned and shouted, "Nor shall you remember a way back."  

Several months later, before I returned to Boston, I walked the highway trying to find that path, hopeful I might thank the little men.  I never found its location, despite my leaving a pile of stones at its opening that day.

Shipwrecks and Shrouds (1890)

Most Nubbin tales have been lost over the years, but there are a few remaining stories of encounters as recalled by seamen, settlers and Native Americans. The following is one the most detailed accounts ever found or recorded. It describes an encounter with a Nubbin group by the seaman and shipwreck survivor, Jonathan Atwood, who told this story in 1891.(1) Like many such encounters, this meeting began with the Nubbins coming to the aide of a human counterpart.

"This was not a good end to the year," I thought, as the ship was now driven onto the bars by giant waves and the Nor'east gale. By my last view of the three lights, I was sure we were near the town of Wellfleet, as I had made this trip on several occasions.  While the Smuggler was well built, she could not stand the pounding of the surf for much longer and all hands took to the rigging.  I was not listed as a passenger, nor was I part of the crew, for I had stowed away at the last minute.  Thus, given no one knew of my presence, I found myself truly at the point of "all hands to themselves".

Despite the roar of the surf, I could hear crew members screaming, while others were shouting back that men could be seen on the beach and would rescue them.  When the gale let up for just a moment, I could see the men ashore near the bottom of the bluff, and there was also a horse pulling a wagon.  They used a canon and shot a line to our vessel, which when secured they sent on a breeches buoy and began to rescue each of the crewmen one by one.  Though I knew I might end up in irons, I tried to cling to the foremast, shouting, waiting a turn for rescue. As the last crewman was pulled off, the ship began to break up just to the aft of the mast, and the breaking hull moved in pieces south along the shore.  

The crewman went into the water, but was finally pulled to safety.  The buoy line, however, was gone, and my chance of rescue was lost.  The rescuers never saw me, and to this day I'll never know if anyone on board heard my shouts that night.  Then another giant wave smashed against the section of hull and I fell into the raging and very cold water.  The strong current carried me quickly away from the ship, and I tried with all my will to stay afloat and worked to reach shore, which now seemed much closer.  I was then hit by a large section of a spar, and found my left arm dangling, and my head bloodied. My feet hit bottom, but the next wave carried me down shore. I could hardly move anymore when a third wave hit me and carried my almost frozen body onto the lower beach. I could only claw with my right hand and push with my feet to get myself out of the surf, which kept crashing around me, as if it wanted to take me back into the sea.  

It was then that three very little men, all with gray beards, ran to me and attached a line; and as I looked up the beach, other small men began to pull me. I was grasping the line with my right hand, and pushed with all my might to try and help them, but upon a word called out in unison by all of them, I was pulled out of the water, and to my disbelief was floating in the air for a brief moment and then was upon dry sand.  

I was now going in and out of consciousness, and the last thing I remember of that night is a very old little woman placing a compress on my head. She did not smile, but her stare made me feel at peace.

To be continued...

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(1) Although Atwood admitted he was a stow-away on this trip and could not be traced in any other records, the account is thought to be authentic by Nubbin believers and historians, as the schooner Smuggler described in the account did wreck off Wellfleet in a raging storm on December 31, 1890, about 2 miles south of the Cahoon Hollow Life Saving Station. The Station, then under the command of Captain Daniel Cole, recorded the sinking much the same as told by Atwood months later.

A Side Note

It is a reasonable question when asked:  

With the Cape so built up, why haven’t these little people been seen more often, if in fact, they are truly here?

We have no easy answer to this question, other than to say we know that our research shows that human encounters with the Nubbins are not well documented, likely because the people who see them do not believe what they saw was real or are afraid of ridicule.  However, over the next several weeks and months our blog, The Last of the Forest Dwellers, will share some of the research and stories about such encounters. 

Stay tuned!