by Bill Russo
“To our delight as my siblings and I were secreted at the side of the roadway, old ‘Doc’ continued his conversation with Mehitable, confiding everything on his mind to the tolerant, faithful horse.”
“Mehitable bounced along the dusty trail that frosty afternoon and the buckboard jerked up and down in mirror-like fashion. Dr. Hersey swore between bounces, during jounces, and after pounces. Sweating despite the coolness of the autumn, he was sure that he was being gripped by the disease. He cursed the pox and he cursed Josiah Spant for getting it. Nobody feared or hated the pox more than Dr. Abner Hersey and nobody cured the pox better than Dr. Abner Hersey.”
“Though he sometimes carried a medical bag, as often as not, his instruments, powders, and potions would be snatched up from the many inside folds of his great coat,” confided Mr. Hyllier, as he gratefully accepted still another pint of ale. He continued…….
“Dr. Abner Hersey feared nothing - except the pox. As he prodded Mehitable towards our house, his fears grew and grew. By the time he arrived at our front porch, he was shaking like a leafy tree in a Northeaster.”
His body warmed by the free spirits and his tongue loosened by them, Seth Hyllier Jr. went on………..
“When at last he was at the front door of our farm, his mental ague was such that his shuddering hands could barely control Mehitable’s reins.
“Yet, as he alighted from the fully enclosed buggy, which was his own outlandish design, his whim and caprice darted to some barely inhabited corner of his mind and he attended to his business in an efficient and timely manner.”
“Move it Mehitable!” he commanded later, upon leaving the farm, with myself and my brothers and sisters still hiding and watching. “We’ve got to get home before the smallpox gets me.”
“And speaking of home,” Seth said loudly, “I must take my leave now. I’ll return soon and tell you more stories of our daffy ‘Doc’ Hersey.”
Hyllier left, but the assembled gentlemen continued to talk about the eccentric farmer/doctor.
“I remember what Dr. Thacher said about him,” commented the innkeeper. “The famous Dr. Thacher learned his medicine right here in Barnstable from our Doctor Hersey. And Thacher, a hero of the Revolutionary War, said that Hersey was the best. He claimed that he was so good because, though he was like an eccentric from a story by Edgar Allen Poe, it never interfered with his work. Thacher said of our Doctor……..
“He could read the character of a visitation with greater success than anyone at Cambridge (Harvard) Medical School.”
“Dr. Hersey’s reputation and his prosperous farmlands were the envy of all Cape Cod,” added a Mr. Bourne, who was a town official. “As a young boy, the Doctor’s education came solely at the handles of a plow, tilling the sandy fields of his father’s farm.”
“As good a medical man as he was, he was an even better farmer,” Bourne continued. “He had the magic green touch. Any field he purchased was bound to prosper. As time went on, he bought many. No matter who he hired to keep the land, he always supervised the feeding and weeding of the crops to ensure uniformly excellent yields.”
Part Four – The Sister in Law
You might expect that Dr. Hersey would have felt affection for, and been kind to, the widow of his brother James. It was from his late older brother that Abner received his only clinical training, and from whom he inherited the medical practice.
It seems as though the widow also expected that she would find some special kindness from the Doctor. The proof of how wrong she was, came when she wrote to her brother-in-law asking if she might come for a visit to see how he was faring with her husband’s practice.
Historians have preserved the terse, rude answer he posted back to her………………
“Madame, I cannot see you. I have neither hay, nor corn for your horses. I have no servants in my family and I would rather be chained to a galley oar than wait upon you myself.”
Undaunted, the brave woman came for the visit anyway and of that trip, here’s what she wrote to a friend…………..
“He’s as daft as the worst inmate at Bedlam. At the foot of his bed, he has twelve blankets rolled up high. In summer he uses two and as autumn approaches he rolls down one or two more every month until in January, as he puts it, “it’s eleven blankets cold!” Then in February, “It’s twelve blankets, all told.”
“He refuses to heat his house. He says that he has no need for heat because he has 12 blankets. When I asked him why he had no fire to cook his food, he replied that he does not cook food. He eats only raw fruit and vegetables. He takes no beer, rum or whiskey and drinks only milk and water.”
Whether, during her departure, the widow laid a curse on her brother-in-law, history does not tell us, but not long after she went back home, real trouble did befall the healer that many people called “The Angel of Cape Cod”.
Part Five - The Pox
Upon leaving Seth Hyllier’s farm in the Truro section of Eastham, Mehitable and her irascible companion clopped their way back towards Barnstable - which required hoofing along the King’s Highway through Orleans, Brewster, Dennis, and Yarmouth before finally getting home.
As was his custom, Doctor Hersey carried on a one-sided stentorian conversation with his best friend, the horse.
“I’m itching Mehitable. It’s getting worse. Damnation and Brimstone. It’s all the fault of that scobberlocher Spant. Oh for a cot in the wilderness. A cave in the mountain-side. A rest and respite. Just a half hour of peace.”
Sweating and itching in his outlandish sulky he promised himself to take to his bed for two weeks.
“To bed for a fortnight for me Mehitable – If I last that long, and if I do not, I swear that I will haunt Spant’s scabrous soul and prod every plague spot on his body with a quill until he writhes and screams in pain more than any other man in the history of Barnstable County. The nerve of that man. After I cure him of the plague, he gives the pox to me! It’s in my left leg. The itch. It’s under my collar. It’s everywhere. I can feel the spots bubbling up. Mehitable.”
Despite being over 50 years of age herself, old Mehitable whisked the beleaguered doctor home in record time. She was the first, and only horse to draw his wagon, and be his ‘sounding board’ for more than 40 years.
As for Doctor Hersey, he was 65 years old at this juncture, which doesn’t seem too old in this day and age where people in their 80s and 90s and even beyond are living productive lives; but to Abner, 65 was a very old age indeed.
His father, grandfather, and both of his brothers had died of ‘natural causes’ before their 44th Birthdays. He felt that it was his austere diet that kept him going for as long as he had.
Whether it was the pox, or Abner himself deciding it, he knew that he was going to die within his 14 day prediction.
Setting a table at his bedside, he added a sheaf of paper and an ink bottle and quill; with which to compose his will.
The reader might well wonder what kind of an estate a country doctor of the late 1700s who charged modest fees, could amass.
The answer is in two parts. Firstly, though his prices were reasonable, Doctor Hersey blanketed all 64 miles of the Kings Highway, which is to say all of Cape Cod from Provincetown to the little bogs and streams that would one day be widened into the Cape Cod canal.
Those streams, marshes, and rivers were what separated the peninsula from the Massachusetts Bay Colony (which also included Maine until it was spun off on its own in 1820).
Suffice it to say that he had a lot of patients and they did not mind paying for what everyone considered the finest medical treatment in the new nation.
Secondly, most of the fees he collected were plowed right back into investments. He bought land the way some farmers acquired livestock, in herds. He had been known to purchase four or five tracts in a single month. It didn’t matter if they were soggy or fallow, cleared or treed. Under Abner’s supervision, the land would be carefully fenced in and worked. Bountiful crops always fol
lowed.
Besides his medical and farm revenues, a third consideration was his economy – you could almost use the word parsimony, except that he never spared expense on Mehitable.
He made sure her barn was clean, spacious, and dry. He provided the best hay, grass, carrots, and oats. For treats, he gave her his own best apples.
His clothing, odd though it was, was not inexpensive.
Consider how much his great-coat must have cost. The outside was created by seven cow-skins stitched together. The lining was baize, a green woolen cloth. Coarse and thick, it has been used in clothing and more commonly on top of billiard tables, for hundreds of years.
An ancient English ditty recorded the date of the introduction of the fabric
“Hops, The Heresies, The Baize and Beer,
All Came to England - 1525 was the year.”
Aside from these things, plus what he needed to keep his fields in shape, and for medical supplies and instruments, Abner Hersey spent almost nothing.
He knew everyone and everyone who ever saw him could never forget him. Up until the fortnight he battled the pox, his rounds as ever, were all of Cape Cod. Seven thousand patients he had, spread out at the rate of about a hundred every mile for 64 miles over rough rutted roads.
Two days after his self-imposed banishment, the red spots began to appear. He had contracted hemorrhagic smallpox. It was the most extreme variant of one of the most extreme plagues known to civilization. It had recently wiped out half the population of Boston.
Death generally marched in 24 to 36 hours after the scouting of the victim by the first dots.
It was only by the massive strength of his internal will, that Abner was able to keep the flame of life alive long enough to complete his earthly will.
His first provisions, scratched by his trembling hands from his deathbed, were for his aged horse, Mehitable.
He left his house, twenty surrounding acres with outbuildings, and his horse to Josiah Spant. Spant was an admirer of the old bay mare and Dr. Hersey knew she’d be in good hands with him – especially since he had cured Spant of the pox and Josiah would probably live forever.
He left $500 to the medical school in Cambridge (now Harvard University) to support a Professor of Physic and Surgery.
All the rest of his estate, including buildings and farmlands in every town and village of Cape Cod; he gave to the thirteen Congregational Churches of Cape Cod.
The pox may have covered his face and choked his breathing, but ever the businessman, he measured out his fortune to the churches in direct proportion to the number of patients he had from each parish.
Quoting now, directly from the will……
“The Deacons of the churches will from time to time let out or rent such real estate for as much as it will fetch.”
The doctor advised them that frugality is always best, but at the same time the equipment must always be kept in top repair. He further instructed them on how to keep the earth as fertile as it was at the time of his death by refilling the land with manure.
He allotted many thousands of dollars for each church to set up a well stocked library with books of religion, farming, and of a family nature.
As the second week began heading towards the Sabbath and his time was growing short, the Doctor struggled to complete his document.
Perhaps his mind was going, when he was near death. Perhaps not. Either way, he made both a promise and a threat to the Deacons.
“I do not give you these lands, buildings, piles of gold and stacks of silver; but only give you the use of them. I shall return in 100 years time, 1887, to check up on you and ensure that all is well. If I see that my money is well managed I will go away again for another hundred years and return in 1987.”
“If the lands and money are not doing well, I will return for the final time in 2037. If things are not well with my property at that time, 250 years from now, I will take back everything. Every brick, every stick, all the gold, all the stock in fold, every farm I will harm, and each house I will bouse.”
So ended the will, the threat, the promise, and the life of Abner Hersey, aged 65, physician to all of Cape Cod.
Part Six – The Sturgis Tavern of 1786 & today
It was decided that three deacons from each parish, 39 in all, would oversee the bequests. They agreed to gather for a meeting each year at the Lydia Sturgis Tavern on the Old Kings Highway in Barnstable.
The tavern was built in 1754 and came to Lydia when her father died around 1780. Under her careful hand the business prospered for generations.
The building still stands today, in the 2000s. The current owners offer it as a vacation rental. You can share the accommodations with spirits – of a bottled, or perhaps even a spectral nature.
The tavern was started by Lydia’s father, Cornelius Crocker and was an historic meeting place for the Whigs, who favored separation from England. Many important conferences were held in the two and a half story building on the south side of what is now called “Main Street”.
President John Adams of Quincy, Massachusetts would later state the American Revolution was born in the Barnstable Tavern in 1761 when a speech by James Otis resulted in many Cape Codders changing their stance from (Tory) loyalty to the Crown, to Whig (Revolutionists).
So it was, in this historic hall, that still stands proudly in the 2000s, that the 39 Deacons gathered more than 200 years ago to talk about ways to spend the windfall from Abner Hersey.
The Lydia Sturgis Tavern as it sits today on the Old King’s Highway in Barnstable as a vacation rental. It’s now called the Crocker Tavern. Lydia (Crocker) Sturgis inherited the business from her father and ran it for many years. When she died, the Crocker side of the family operated the business and the building is known today as the “Crocker Tavern”.
Their horses in stables behind the famous tavern, the 39 Deacons seated themselves in 1787 for their first meeting. It was to last three days and much would be decided about how to maintain the lands and keep the revenue streaming in from them. This gathering came to be known as the “Assembly of Saints”.
“Drinks first, then dinner,” shouted John from Brewster,“ to a chorus of cheers.
“Then on to Hagar’s bedroom,” added Martin from Falmouth who was seconded by a Mr. Glass from Sandwich and thirded by Marcus from Provincetown.
Lydia Sturgis was the young, vivacious widow of Captain Samuel Sturgis, lost at sea a decade before. She ran a boisterous establishment replete with soft custards, hard liquor, solid meals, and an area called “Hagar’s Bedroom”. It was located in one of the side rooms on the first floor, off the main hall.
We don’t know exactly what went on in that space besides gambling and the smoking of pipes, but we can be certain that some of the Deacons were involved in things that would shock and anger the 13 Ministers of the 13 parishes.
As you have guessed, little business other than simian, was conducted on that first meeting of the 39 Deacons. Thousands of dollars were spent from Abner’s fortune for food, drink, care for the horses, accommodations and other miscellaneous expenses.
The 39 Deacons resolved that the 1788 meeting would be more productive. This lofty ideal lasted for approximately three drinks after the start of the second annual meeting and was tabled until the next year.
During the 1789 meeting one wag stood up and said that they should be discussing business, since the fields were not doing well. He pointed out that Dr. Hersey’s land had been well cleared, highly cultivated, and bursting with the finest crops.
“But now, after just three years, with your greedy ways of cropping without manure – of not refilling the land as directed by Dr. Hersey, the fields are going arid and producing only a tenth of what they did three short summers ago. Pity the forests! You laid them bare. You left nothing standing and now the wood market is glutted. The prices have fallen and when they go back up there will be no wood to sell. Gentlemen, I swear…..”
The man was cut short by half a dozen loav
es of bread splatting on his head along with some carrots, and a few sweet potatoes, which were thrown by a score of the assembled ‘angels’.
To make it worse for the poor fellow, he was dragged outside, thrown in a horse trough, and told not to come back inside.
Seven years later a crossroads was encountered and the fate of Doctor Hersey’s fortune was forever sealed.
At the end of a decade of annual meetings, the income from the denuded forests and the neglected and abandoned acres had been severely diminished, and the over-padded expense accounts of the 39 Deacons had been bloated, until the two sums were equal.
As wasteful and unconcerned as those ‘angels’ were, it still took them 29 years to spend every single penny of the Doctor’s money.
Almost three decades of three day annual vacations in the Sturgis Tavern had finally resulted in the demise of the golden goose.
Lydia Sturgis was a fairly young woman at the time of the first meeting. Approaching old age, she was still running her tavern in 1816 when the Deacons held their last meeting.
They stayed sober long enough to agree to sell off all of the remaining assets. There was however, little to be gained from selling naked forests that had been axed until dead; or farmland that looked like burned bread.
The bit of money that was gained from the sale, was gone as quickly as a whiskey and a pint of ale.
To be fair, it is said that the church in Falmouth did save enough of its money to build a library there.
If you are ever walking down Main Street in Barnstable on a cool moonlit evening near the church and the tavern, and you hear the clatter of hooves on tarmac and a voice saying….
