Kathleen Brunelle - Bellamys bride : the search for Maria Hallett of Cape Cod

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Published by The History Press
Charleston, SC 29403
www.historypress.net
Copyright 2010 by Kathleen Brunelle
All rights reserved

Cover image: The Girl I Left Behind Me (detail). Eastman Johnson. Smithsonian American Art Museum. Museum purchase made possible in part by Mrs. Alexander Hamilton Rice in memory of her husband and by Ralph Cross Johnson.

First published 2010
e-book edition 2011

ISBN 978.1.61423.122.6

Brunelle, Kathleen.
Bellamys bride : the search for Maria Hallett of Cape Cod / Kathleen Brunelle.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references.
print edition ISBN 978-1-59629-254-3
1. Hallett, Maria. 2. Bellamy, Samuel, 1689-1717. 3. Bellamy, Samuel, 1689-1717--Relations with women. 4. Young women--Massachusetts--Cape Cod--Biography. 5. Pirates--Massachusetts--Cape Cod--Biography. 6. Cape Cod (Mass.)--Biography. 7. Cape Cod (Mass.)--History--18th century. 8. Shipwrecks--Massachusetts--Cape Cod--History--18th century. 9. Hallett, Maria--Legends. 10. Bellamy, Samuel, 1689-1717--Legends. I. Title.
F72.C3B84 2010
974.49202092--dc22
[B]
2010019858
Notice: The information in this book is true and complete to the best of our knowledge. It is offered without guarantee on the part of the author or The History Press. The author and The History Press disclaim all liability in connection with the use of this book.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form whatsoever without prior written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

To my husband, Robert, my prince.
To my son, Baylen, my joy.

Contents

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the following people for their help in creating this book:

First of all, I would like to thank Barry Clifford for his unfailing belief in this marvelous old legend. I would also like to thank my commissioning editor, Jeffrey Saraceno, for his interest in this story and his guidance along the way; Paule Burkett, for first sharing Marias story with me; my husband, for his support and expertise; my son, for his patience and encouragement; Kenneth Kinkor of the Whydah Museum, for his guidance and for answering my many emails; Charles and Janet Munro, for allowing me to use the beautiful painting of Sam Bellamy and Maria Hallett; Alison DAmario, the director of education at the Salem Witch Museum, for her generous help; Marcella Curry at the Sturgis Library in Barnstable; Paul Cyr at the New Bedford Public Library Genealogy Room; the staff at the Barnstable County Probate Court; the staff at the Massachusetts Archives; Olivia Englehart, for her beautiful illustration of Maria; and all of my family and friends, for their support through this process. A special thanks to my brother, Robbie, for providing me with inspiration.

INTRODUCTION

The Search

I grew up on a narrow strip of sand known as Cape Cod. My childhood was filled with summer cottages, sea glass, swimming lessons and penny candy. Most days, I rode my red ten-speed bike to the village of Cataumet, where I shucked lobsters and clams for winter locals and summer tourists alike.

We lived in an old saltbox-style house one block away from the beach. Pirates by day, my sister, brother and I would search for buried treasure in the marsh behind our home, carving makeshift and secret paths out of tall reeds and cattails.

Our house held treasures, too, though of a different sort than the rubies and silver coins that we imagined lay buried in the swamp outside our back door. On rainy afternoons, my sister and I crawled carefully into the eaves on either side of my little brothers second-floor bedroom, while he sat on the floor outside and maneuvered his great yellow dump trucks to and fro.

We lowered our backs and slowly entered the crawl space, for the roof was slanted and low. I always went first and waved my right hand into the darkness until I felt the familiar grooves of the plastic pull cord at the entrance and yanked it. The exposed light bulb blinked and then burned steadily, while my sister and I began our explorations. A blockade of Christmas decorations and worn-out shoes was hastily placed in the opening. We made our way through golden garlands and pine cone trees, strands of glittering tinsel littering our hair. Once we pushed past the family storage and moved along the perimeter of the house, a time portal awaited, beyond which were dishes and dresses from the century before when the house was first built. And beyond the cobalt glasses and white cotton gowns was the best treasure of allbooks upon books, in random stacks of various colors and bindings.

With the entry light to the eaves a world away, the books appeared even older and more mysterious in the dimly lit reach of the crawl space. I felt the covers, rough and dimpled with age, and chose only one at a time. With the largest book in hand, I made my way carefully back through the eaves and into my room, where I hopped onto my bed with my newfound treasure.

The faded covers were laced with powdery dust so that when I opened each book, layers of the grayish soot sprinkled the air around me. The pages were yellowed, thick and full of stories from days long gone. Days of hurricanes that greedily wrenched our shore and swallowed our homes. Days of horrible parades and tearooms. Days of warships that littered our small harbor. These were books of gods and adventures and philosophy.

On those rainy afternoons, safe on the pink Holly Hobbie patchwork quilt my mother had sewn, I discovered my love for old stories. The children, ladies and soldiers about whom I read had once stepped where I stepped. They, too, loved and respected the beautiful seashore at the end of my street. They knew its steady roar and familiar cadence. And I realized that these people continued to exist as long as their stories survived. Some of the stories were obviously fictitious, and some I imagined were true, but most contained a little fancy and a little fact; I found those were the best stories of all.

My favorite tale, though, did not come from the dusty books in our eaves. Like any Cape Cod story worth its salt, it was passed on from generation to generation. One day, my mothers childhood friend, Paule, said that she had a tale for mea magical Cape legend of pirates and storms and lost love. As the rain pelted the window on a raw day in November, we sat by her kerosene stove. While we held deep brown ceramic mugs of steaming tea in our hands, she recounted the story of the dashing pirate, Sam Bellamy; his beautiful young love, Maria Hallett; and the fateful storm in April 1717 on the shores of present-day Wellfleet that separated them forever.

Wellfleet Dune View. Photo by the author.

Years passed, and the haunting story of the Whydah made the local and then national headlines when a fellow Cape Codder named Barry Clifford searched for and discovered the wreck of the great pirate ship. He, too, had heard the wondrous tale, from his uncle Bill, and he never forgot it, either. Instead, he sifted through old maps to pinpoint the resting place of the old pirate galley. Clifford found evidence of the

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