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Crime and Scandal

Prince Mortimer, Out of the Shadows After a Century in Captivity

In 18th-century Middletown, Conn., a tall, dark-skinned man named Prince Mortimer walked the same path each day, trudging to his master’s ropeworks where he spun hemp into yarn.

For over a century, he clung to the hope of freedom—first during the Revolution, then upon his master’s death and finally when his jailers urged him to flee. Yet he died at 110, having spent all but his first six years in captivity.

Today, the route he once walked as an enslaved man bears little resemblance to the path from his enslaver’s mansion to the ropeworks. It evolved into Rapallo Avenue, paved, lined with parking lots, small apartment buidings, a pharmacy and an Italian restaurant. In 2025, Middletown renamed Rapallo Avenue as Prince Mortimer Avenue, ensuring that the man who once walked in servitude is now remembered along the very route he traveled.

Prince Mortimer

Slavers captured him around 1730 at the age of 6 years old near his home in Guinea, West Africa. They shipped him in shackles across the Atlantic Ocean. Prince described the vessel as a “filthy slave ship.”

Prince disappears into the shadows again for the next 15 years. The slave ship may have taken him to a deep-water port engaged in slaving—Newport or Bristol, R.I., or perhaps New London, Conn., or even New York City. Or the ship took him to the Caribbean. There, a smaller vessel that brought horses, lumber or farm produce from Middletown could have carried Prince for sale back in Connecticut.

In the slave trade, captured Africans were packed belowdecks in a transatlantic slave ship.

At 15, an Irish immigrant named Philip Mortimer bought Prince. Mortimer had married a well-to-do Connecticut woman in Boston, and in 1742 they moved to Middletown. Mortimer saw a business opportunity in the busy seaport: It had no ropeworks.

Ships then used tremendous amounts of rope, and Middletown had no ropeworks. So Philip Mortimer started one on the west bank of the Connecticut River.

Rope Spinner

Prince had grown quite tall and clever, and Mortimer had him trained to spin hemp into thousand-foot-long yarn.

Prince Mortimer on his way to the ropewalk

When the American Revolution broke out, Connecticut passed two laws that gave enslaved men hope for freedom. Under the first, men could avoid the draft by finding a substitute. Under the second, men could avoid conscription by freeing an enslaved person to serve in their place, which also released them from any future responsibility for that person’s welfare.

The colony didn’t guarantee freedom for enslaved soldiers, but many negotiated freedom as the price for their service. But some didn’t get such a promise, and others didn’t get it in writing.

Prince Mortimer may have negotiated for his freedom if he fought for freedom from Great Britain. He probably at least had hope of liberty.

Pvt. Mortimer was said to have been a servant to the Army’s top officers, carrying messages back and forth. He supposedly ran errands for George Washington. Mortimer himself said he “straddled many a cannon while fired by the Americans at the British troops.”

When the war ended, Prince Mortimer returned to servitude. If Philip Mortimer promised him freedom for serving, he was far from the only slave owner who broke that promise.

Another Shot at Freedom

Philip Mortimer did promise in his will to set him free upon his death. But when he died in 1794, his son-in-law, George Starr, successfully challenged the will. And so at the age of 70, Prince Mortimer found himself enslaved to Starr, a successful local merchant who had served as Connecticut’s quartermaster during the Revolution.

According to Middletown’s Christ Church records, Prince married a woman named Ann. They had three children, Samuel, Zilpah and John. Ann and the three children were baptized in 1803 at the church.

Prince Mortimer remained enslaved for 17 years. At 87, his usefulness to George Starr neared an end. And Starr had an old man on his hands who he had to feed, clothe and shelter.

So George Starr accused Prince Mortimer of trying to kill him by putting arsenic in his breakfast chocolate. He said he noticed particles in the drink, later identified as ratsbane or arsenic. A court found Prince Mortimer guilty and sent him to Newgate Prison — a place also known as hell.

Old Newgate Prison

It had started out as a colonial copper mine in Simsbury, Conn. (later East Granby). But it didn’t make the kind of money its owners dreamed of.

By 1773, Connecticut Colony decided to turn it into a prison. The colony’s officials thought that confining prisoners in a cold, dark, wet, filthy hole in the ground was less barbaric than the common punishments of branding, ear cropping and whipping.

A view of the guard-house and Simsbury-mines, now called Newgate (1781)

They named it “Newgate” after England’s notorious penitentiary.

Drains were closed, the main shaft, about 40 feet deep, was capped and a guardhouse was built over it. The mine had a second shaft, 80 feet deep, through which prisoners could escape if an accomplice threw them a long enough rope.

Prisoners had to climb down a ladder into the mine, a dark, cold cavern. Bugs and five inches of slippery filthy covered the floor. During the day, prisoners worked above ground, making barrels, plows, shoes or baskets.

Prince Mortimer, Inmate

To his captors, Prince appeared a harmless, clever old man, according to one historian.

Prison guards let Prince leave Newgate, perhaps because of his age and temperament, or perhaps they considered him a burden and wanted him to escape. Prisoners gave him money to go across the road to buy spirits at the nearby tavern.

Prince once did what the prison guards wanted and escaped. He traveled back to Middletown, 35 miles away, and rambled about, looking for someone he once knew. But he couldn’t find anyone, so he returned to the prison and begged the guards to take him back.

Old Newgate today. Run by the State of Connecticut as Old New-Gate Prison & Copper Mine Archaeological Preserve., it is o National Historic Landmark and open to visitors seasonally.

Connecticut closed Newgate in 1827 and moved the inmates, including 97-year-old Prince Mortimer, to the new prison in Wethersfield.

Prison records show that in 1831 Prince suffered from ailments of the bowels caused by the prison food. Admitted to the prison hospital, physicians prescribed better food.

On March 11, 1834, Prince Mortimer died. The prison physician wrote that he died of old age, “no bodily disease at the time of his death sufficient to produce such a result.”

Recognition

in February 2025, Middletown renamed Rapallo Avenue, the old path to the ropewalk, Prince Mortimer Avenue.

John Mills is a software engineer and historian who has dedicated himself to uncovering and preserving stories of enslaved people in Connecticut, including Prince Mortimer. Through the Alex Breanne Corporation, he has traced the roots of 50 families to date, sharing their histories to ensure that the past is not forgotten.

Most of the enslaved people in his family spent most of their lives enduring, Mills told WBUR in 2025. “But because they persisted, I exist. I see greatness in their endurance.”

***

Now available in paperback and as an ebook from the New England Historical Society! A collection of stories about the French people who came to America. Click here to order your copy today!

Images: Drawing of Newgaate, A view of the guard-house and Simsbury-mines, now called Newgate – a prison for the confinement of loyalists in Connecticut. London: J. Bew, Pater-Noster-Row, Nov. 1st. Photograph. Retrieved from the Library of Congress, <www.loc.gov/item/2004671519/>. Picture of Newgate ruins, Highsmith, Carol M, photographer. Old New-Gate Prison in East Granby, Connecticut. October. Photograph. Retrieved from the Library of Congress, <www.loc.gov/item/2012630946/>. Illustration of Prince Mortimer by ChatGPT>

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The Unlikely Duo Behind Subway: A Physicist, a Teenager and a $1,000 Check

Peter Buck was a 35-year-old Yankee with a Ph.D. in physics. Fred Deluca was an Italian American teenager who grew up in a New York City housing project. They lived 40 miles apart. In 1965, they formed a business partnership that became Subway Restaurants.

The improbable pair started with a shop selling submarine sandwiches in Bridgeport, Conn., and ended up as billionaires. Subway became the world’s largest fast-food franchise. (Yes, Subway has more stores than McDonald’s.) From the outset, Fred DeLuca exhibited the traits that would define the company for decades: an unrelenting drive for growth and a fiercely insular, family-business style of management.

A Subway restaurant in Forestdale, Mass.

Subway’s Founders

Nothing in his background prepared Peter Buck for a fast-food partnership with a kid half his age, except for the fact that he grew vegetables and loved to eat Italian sandwiches from a Portland deli called Amato’s.

He was born in 1930 to Ervin and Lillian Draper Buck, who owned a large farm in South Portland, Maine. He and his brother David planted and harvested crops such as lettuce, squash, and celery. His mother later went to work as a journalist for the Portland Press Herald.

Peter studied economics and science at Bowdoin College and then went on to earn a doctorate in physics at Columbia University. He married Haydee Piñero, the daughter of the first native-born governor of Puerto Rico, and they had three children. In 1957, General Electric hired him to work on atomic power plants for the Navy in Schenectady, N.Y.

The Start of Subway

Fred’s father, Sal DeLuca, was a high school dropout, who worked as a plant foreman for Empire Devices. He and his wife, Carmela, lived in public housing in the Bronx with Fred and his sister, Suzanne. When Empire moved its manufacturing operations to Schenectady, the DeLuca family moved to an apartment in nearby Amsterdam.

It was there that Pete Buck befriended Sal DeLuca. Fred explained the two men enjoyed bow hunting together.

But Empire moved again, this time to Bridgeport, Conn., and the DeLucas followed. Then, within a year, Pete Buck moved 40 miles away to Armonk, N.Y., working for United Nuclear Corporation in White Plains. One day, he invited the DeLuca family to a barbecue at his home.

The Buck home was a far cry from the DeLucas’ small apartment in Bridgeport. As Sal DeLuca drove up the driveway, Fred noticed the large white house, the wide lawn and the two garages with cars in them.

Fred DeLuca

Fred was 17 and had just graduated from high school. He wanted to study medicine at the University of Bridgeport, but his family couldn’t afford tuition. Maybe, he thought, Pete would lend him the money.

Fred waited for his chance att he barbecue. Finally he approached Pete and asked him if he had any ideas for how he could get the money to pay for college. Pete, to his surprise, suggested he open a submarine sandwich shop. He then wrote Fred a check for $1,000.

A few days later, Buck drove DeLuca to Portland to taste an Italian sandwich from Amato’s to give him an idea of what he thought would sell. The pair then set a goal of opening 32 shops in 10 years.

Subway Struggles Early On

DeLuca found a vacant storefront at 3851 Main St. in Bridgeport. His mother helped him buy bread, paper goods, meat, vegetables and cheese. A friend helped with carpentry, and Buck donated his kitchen table. Pete’s Super Submarine Sandwiches opened two weeks after Buck wrote the $1,000 check. On the first day, they sold 312 foot-long submarine sandwiches. The most expensive sandwich cost 69 cents.

But DeLuca had chosen a poor location, and sales didn’t repeat their inaugural success. But within a year, Buck and DeLuca opened another shop in Fairfield anyway— “to give the illusion of success.” Both stores lost money, though they did pay for DeLuca’s college tuition.

DeLuca opened a third shop in Stratford – without telling Buck, he later wrote. That one made money.

But it would take more than 10 years to open 32 shops, and it would take 15 years before the company turned a profit.

A Name Change

They began to advertise on radio in the New York area, pitching “Pete’s Submarine Sandwiches” as a healthy alternative to burgers and fries. But “Pete’s Submarine” sounded like “Pizza Marine.” So, they changed the name, eventually dropping “Pete” and morphing into Subway.

DeLuca took more and more control of the company. Subway never went public and has always kept information close to the vest, so it’s hard to tell exactly what happened. .

In the beginning, Buck and DeLuca met weekly in Sal and Carmela’s apartment to talk business over Carmela’s spaghetti and meatballs. In the early 1970s, they had only 16 stores and realized they wouldn’t reach 32 by 1975. So the decision was made to franchise. When DeLuca opened a corporate headquarters in Milford, a Bridgeport suburb, Buck asked DeLuca where his office was. DeLuca told him he didn’t have one. Buck never did get an office.

A Family Affair

By then, DeLuca had graduated from the University of Bridgeport and married his college sweetheart, Elisabeth, a nurse. In 1973, a friend of theirs bought the first franchise in Wallingford, Conn. Elisabeth became a company officer, and so did Carmela DeLuca. Fred hired his Aunt Lucy DeLuca as secretary. His sister Suzanne ran research and operations.

Then they expanded outside of Connecticut when Deluca’s brother-in-law opened a Subway franchise in Springfield, Mass. His aunt and uncle, Tony and Louise Scotti, opened one on Staten Island.

Franchising paid off, putting them on the path to explosive growth. By 1981, Subway had 5,000 restaurants; by 1997, it added 10,000 more.

DeLuca was everywhere, a hands-on manager involved in all aspects of the business. He drove around the country in an old Lincoln inspecting stores.

One former employee told Business Insider that workers “were swimming in a fountain of Fred.”

“He was very smart and hardworking, but one of the problems was that he ran the franchise when we had 30,000 stores as if we had a hundred stores,” the employee said.

By then, Peter Buck seemed to have faded into the background. He shunned the media, drove an old car, and started a new family. Buck had a passion for conservation, and he quietly bought up huge tracts of timberland in his native Maine. He did eat Subway sandwiches five days a week. But for years, people asked Buck about Subway and he’d simply say, “Talk to Fred.”

The Secret to Success

A key reason for Subway’s extraordinary growth was that its franchises were easy to open. They cost a fraction of a McDonald’s franchise, though Subway franchisees had to turn over a higher percentage of revenue to corporate. Most franchisees were first-generation Americans, and 30 to 50 percent were immigrants. Many had poor English and math skills, which led to criticism that Subway took advantage of its franchisees.

“Development agents,” usually franchisees, were responsible for opening new franchises and inspecting them regularly. That led to a potential conflict of interest—development agents could find fault with franchises they wanted to buy themselves.

Nevertheless, the number of Subway stores tripled from 1998 to 2011.

The company attributed half to a third of that growth to a wildly successful advertising campaign. It featured a college graduate from Indiana named Jared Fogle, who claimed to have lost a massive amount of weight by eating Subway sandwiches.

Jared Fogle

Fogle had ballooned to 425 pounds in college. Then he went on the Subway diet. Every day he ate one small turkey sub, one large veggie sub, baked potato chips and diet soda– a 1,000-calorie-a-day diet. Between 1998 and 1999, he lost 245 pounds. A dormmate wrote a story about him in the Indiana Daily Student, and Men’s Health magazine picked up the story, calling it “Stupid Diets … that Work.” Subway franchises in Chicago then approached the company’s advertising agency about Jared.

From there, Jared Fogle appeared in 300 Subway commercials. South Park devoted an entire episode to him. He appeared in an Adam Sandler film, started the Jared Foundation and donated his old 62-inch pants to a museum.

At the end of 2010, Subway became the largest fast food chain worldwide — with 33,749 restaurants, 1,012 more than McDonald’s.

Then in 2015, the FBI and Indiana State Police raided Fogle’s home and arrested him for child pornography and abuse. Subway that day announced it had suspended its relationship with Jared. Fogle went to federal prison, where as of 2025 he was serving out a 15-and-a-half-year sentence.

Two years earlier, Fred DeLuca announced he had leukemia. He named his sister Suzanne CEO in January 2015 before he died that September.

Subway began to close hundreds of restaurants. Then in 2019, a non-family member took charge for the first time when John Chidsey became CEO. Four years later, Subway announced that private equity firm Roark Capital bought the company for $9.6 billion.

Peter Buck devoted his later years to charity. He formed the Peter and Carmen Lucia Foundation with his second wife and contributed millions to expand Danbury Hospital. When his wife died, he donated a 23.1-carat ruby named after her to the gem collection at the Smithsonian Institution’s National Museum of Natural History. When he died in 2021, he was worth an estimated $1.7 billion. The seventh-largest landowner in the United States, he owned a total of 1.2 million acres of timberland in Maine.

Fred DeLuca started a charitable foundation during his lifetime as well. When he died, his obituary read that he was survived by his wife, Elisabeth; his son, Jonathan; his granddaughter, nieces and nephews; and “the thousands of team members that make up the Subway brand all over the world.”

***

Now available in paperback and as an ebook from the New England Historical Society! A collection of stories about the French people who came to America. Click here to order your copy today!

Images: Jared Fogle By IlliniGradResearch – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=7469795. Fred DeLuca By Subway – mynewsdesk, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=36859567

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William Hill Brown Wrote First American Novel, Which Launched Literary Mystery

William Hill Brown wrote the first American novel, anonymously, in 1789. The reissue of the novel in 1894 spurred a debate over his authorship that scholars have finally settled.

William Hill Brown

William Hill Brown (1765-1793) was born in November 1765 in Boston to Gawen Brown, a notable clockmaker, and his third wife, Elizabeth (Adams). From his school days he had an interest in reading. He enjoyed studying classical, English and American literary works, which influenced his writings of prose and poetry.

Japanned tall clock, dial inscribed ‘Brown Boston’, movement by Gawen Brown, at the Winterthur Museum

In 1789, while only 24 years of age, Brown anonymously wrote “The Power of Sympathy: Or, The Triumph of Nature. Founded in Truth,” considered to be the first American novel. Published by Isaiah Thomas and Company in Boston, the shocking novel appeared in two small volumes. Brown dedicated the novel to the “young ladies of United Columbia” (the United States) in an effort to “expose the fatal consequences of seduction.” As an “epistolary novel,” it contained letters written by the main characters that not only expressed their feelings, but helped advance the storyline.

Power of Sympathy

The plot was allegedly based on a Boston scandal involving Fanny Apthorp and Perez Morton. “The Power of Sympathy” focused on a man who falls in love with a woman against the wishes of his father. Sadly, the couple learns on the eve of their wedding day that they are half-brother and sister because of an illicit affair of his father. Forced to terminate the wedding, the resulting sorrow of the lovers ends with their deaths–hers from tuberculosis (consumption) and his from suicide.

Perez Morton

The sentimental novel–with its elements of tragedy, lust, seduction and incest–remained largely forgotten until 1894. Walter Littlefield, a journalist, then decided to publish the novel with Sarah Morton (wife of Perez Morton ) as the assumed author. Later that same year, Arthur W. Brayley printed installments of the novel in his Bostonian magazine, again with Morton as the author. However, Rebecca (Valentine) Thompson, a niece of Brown, soon convinced Brayley that Brown was the actual writer.

Sarah Apthorp Morton, by Gilbert Stuart

Mystery Solved

She argued that Brown was very familiar with the details of the Apthorp/Morton scandal. His writing style in other works was also similar to that in “The Power of Sympathy.” The credibility of Morton as the author was further undermined by inaccurate statements by her supporters. There was also a lack of any material written by her that would confirm her authorship. Thus, a consensus emerged among scholars by the end of the 19th century that Brown should be recognized as the first American novelist. Moreover, he had been in the U.S. and had remained there.

More from William Hill Brown

Brown also wrote other works of poetry and prose. He apparently began writing in 1787 with poems entitled “Shays to Shattuck” and “Yankee Song” (1788), both in the Massachusetts Centinel. He then turned to a short story in 1789 entitled “Harriot: Or the Domesticated Reconciliation.” It appeared in the first issue of Massachusetts Magazine, also founded by Isaiah Thomas.

Isaiah Thomas

Brown then wrote “The Better Sort: Or The Girl of Spirit, An Operatic, Comical Farce,” again printed by Thomas, in 1789. It contains 16 verses of text by Brown. Finally, in 1789 Brown also began writing serial essays entitled “The Reformer” in the Massachusetts Magazine. Other works, published posthumously, included “West Point Preserved or the Treason of [John] Andre: An Historical Tragedy in Five Acts (1797)” about the British Revolutionary War spy; “Ira and Isabella: or The Natural Children. Founded in Fiction,” his second novel (published in 1807); and “Selected Poems and Verse Fables 1784-1793” (published in 1982).

William Hill Brown died on Sept. 2, 1793, from a fever (possibly malaria), only 27 years old. He had been staying with his sister, Eliza Hinchborne, in Murfreesborough, N.C. There he had decided to study law instead of further pursuing a writing career.

Edward T. Howe, Ph.D., is Professor of Economics, Emeritus, at Siena College near Albany, N.Y.

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WHEN JUDGE CRATER WENT MISSING, ALL EYES TURNED TO MAINE

On the evening of Aug. 2, 1930, New York Judge Joseph Crater and his wife, Stella, and their niece drove from their cabin on Great Pond for a night on the town at Belgrade, Maine. Great Pond was one of the Belgrade Lakes, a chain of seven lakes in central Maine north of Augusta, where the Craters were long-time seasonal residents. That evening they went bowling and saw a film at the movie theater.

At one point, Crater excused himself to make a phone call, most likely from the public telephone in town. When he returned to his wife and niece, he said something had come up, requiring him to make a quick trip to New York City.

Stella was surprised to hear this because he had just returned from the city that very morning, and he had planned to spend the next three weeks in Maine.

The next day, Crater took the overnight train to New York from Belgrade Lakes station. He promised to return to Maine by the following week in time for Stella’s birthday.

Belgrade railroad station, circa 1940

Stella never saw him again.

His sudden disappearance dominated the news for weeks and became part of the national folklore. “To do a Crater,” was slang for disappearing.

The Mercurial Rise of Judge Crater

Joseph Crater was only 41 years old when he went missing, after a meteoric rise in New York politics. Early in his law career he cast his lot with Tammany Hall, the corrupt Democratic political machine that controlled politics and the courts in New York City. The Tammany machine provided lawyers like Crater with lucrative public offices and influential clients. He caught the attention of political leaders in New York, including Gov. Franklin Roosevelt, who nominated him to fill a vacant position on the New York Supreme Court in 1930. The New York State Senate unanimously agreed. [Note: the New York Supreme Court is not the state’s highest judicial body, it is actually a trial court].

New York County Courthouse

He and Stella met while he was still in law school at Columbia; they married in 1917. As her husband’s career blossomed, and his association with Tammany Hall deepened, the couple enjoyed the spoils of his success: a maid, a chauffeur, a Cadillac, an apartment on Fifth Avenue and the cottage in Maine.

Judge Crater’s Fifth Avenue apartment building

But there was something else. Crater was a notorious womanizer. He enjoyed the nightlife of Manhattan, often visiting nightclubs and speakeasys in the company of show girls and actresses. He was known around Broadway as “Good Time Joe.” And he also had a longtime mistress, Connie Marcus, to whom he sent support checks since 1924. In fact, he sent her a check from Belgrade Lakes on Aug. 2, 1930, the day before he left Maine to return to New York.

Return to New York

Once in New York, Crater seemed to carry on as usual. He told his maid that he wouldn’t need her services at the Fifth Avenue apartment until Thursday, August 7, the day after he planned to return to Maine. He went to work in his office on Monday, lunched near his office building, and visited his doctor. That evening he went to a play, followed by a night on the town at a club frequented by gangsters. He lunched with colleagues on Tuesday, and later that night he played poker at a friend’s house.

By Wednesday, the August 6, Judge Crater’s behavior changed. His law clerks described him as taciturn, unlike his gregarious self. He spent part of the morning riffling through papers in his office and removing two briefcases of documents, which he transported to his apartment. He also asked one of his law clerks to cash two personal checks for him for substantial amounts. Oddly, he told one clerk he was heading to Westchester to swim.

That night, he ate at one of his favorite restaurants, where friends later told police that he seemed “nervous,” “disturbed” and “depressed.”

Judge Crater Last Seen

Crater was last seen getting into a cab in Manhattan after eating dinner on the night of August 6, 1930. As the days went by with no word, Stella back in Maine grew increasingly worried about her husband. Her birthday came and went, but still no Joe.

Incredibly, for the next month, nobody reported Judge Crater missing! Stella called several of her husband’s associates, and although nobody had seen Crater since August 6, they all assured her everything was fine and Joe would eventually show up. Most likely, they were worried that reporting him missing might affect his election campaign for a full term on the New York Supreme Court coming up in November. That is, assuming he turned up alive.

Neither the police nor the public learned of Crater’s disappearance until September 3, when newspapers got wind of the story, a month after he left Maine to return to New York. That’s one month of the trail turning cold.

Newspaper from around the country followed the missing Judge Crater story

On September 6, Stella, still in Maine, filed a missing person’s report with the New York Police Department (NYPD), and was visited the following day by a detective from the NYPD for informal questioning. Stella during this time was distraught and bedridden.

Focus on Maine

By now, Crater’s disappearance became a national craze. Sightings of the judge were reported in upstate New York, Vermont, Quebec, Maine, California and Arizona. Many of these sightings were followed up by detectives from the NYPD, and all proved fruitless.

Maine, of course, was a logical search site, given Crater’s long-standing association with the state as a summer visitor. Also, several witnesses who interacted with Crater in New York City between August 4 and August 6 later testified that he told them he would return to Maine after his business in New York was complete. And there was his promise to Stella that he would return to Maine in time for her birthday on August 9.

The Portland Press-Herald reported on September 5 that Crater was suspected to be hiding at a cottage on Long Pond, one of the Belgrade Lakes chain, but that proved unfounded.

Later, reporters staked out the Craters’ cottage, based on a rumor that he would make an appearance there, but reported no sighting of the jurist.

The Kennebec County Attorney launched a grand jury investigation, and dispatched Capt. Joseph F. Young, Jr., the deputy chief of the Maine State Police, to Belgrade Lakes on September 19 to search phone records and to interview neighbors. When Young appeared at the Crater cottage, two NYPD detectives had already arrived, conducting an unannounced interview with Mrs. Crater. This rankled the Mainers, who apparently resented this intrusion on their turf.

Kennebec County, Maine. Great Pond is upper left.

The Judge Crater Case Closed

By September 23, the county attorney closed the case, as it pertained to Maine, pointedly telling the district attorney in New York that the still distraught Mrs. Crater was in no state for interviews. He also said the New York detectives sent earlier to interview Mrs. Crater should provide any information the New York DA might need.

Stella was clearly an uncooperative witness. Her refusal to appear before the New York grand jury so irritated the DA there that he accused her of impeding the investigation. But there was little he could do but complain.

An Enduring Mystery

Stella remained in Maine for the rest of the year, leaving the cottage in October for a hotel in Portland. The case and public attention now centered in New York.

By Jan. 9, 1931, a grand jury in New York issued a final inconclusive report about Crater’s disappearance and dismissed the jurors. Crater would never be found, his disappearance a forever mystery.

Three years later, newspapers were still covering the story.

Stella stayed at the cottage at Belgrade Lakes throughout the summer of 1931, and the following year got a job as a telephone operator. Strapped for cash, she was evicted from the Fifth Avenue apartment, but was able to hold on to the Maine cottage. She eventually remarried in 1938, a year before Judge Crater was officially declared dead. She and her new husband spent summers in Belgrade Lakes and winters in Waterville, before going their separate ways. Leaving Maine forever, Stella moved to Brooklyn in 1950, and died in upstate New York in 1969.

End Notes

James F. Lee, the author of this story, is a freelance writer and blogger whose work has appeared in The Washington Post, Boston Globe, Philadelphia Inquirer, and AAA Tidewater Traveler Magazine. He can be reached at www.jamesflee.com.

Sources:

Finding Judge Crater, Stephen J. Riegel, Syracuse University Press, 2022, accessed via Hoopla, 2/18/2025; Vanishing Point: the Disappearance of Judge Crater and the New York He Left Behind, Richard J. Tofel, Ivan R. Dee Publishing, 1957, accessed via Internet Archive, 3/2/2025; Portland Press Herald, (Portland, Maine), Sept. 5, 20, 24, 1930, and Biddeford-Saco Journal, (Biddeford, Maine), Sept 11, 1930, accessed via Newspapers.com, Feb. 16, 2025.

Images:

Judge Joe Crater, half-length portrait, seated, facing front. , 1930. Photograph. https://www.loc.gov/item/2001695145/.

40 Fifth Ave., Crater’s home. New York Fifth Avenue, 1930. Photograph. https://www.loc.gov/item/2004670149/.

Crater photo, circa. 1925, Anonymous from https://news.lafayette.edu/2011/04/14/looking-back-new-novel-suggests-fate-of-judge-joe-crater-class-of-1910/ {{PD-US}}; “Mystery Still Veils,” Brownsville herald. [volume] (Brownsville, Tex.), 02 Nov. 1930. Chronicling America: Historic American Newspapers. Lib. of Congress. <https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn86063730/1930-11-02/ed-1/seq-12/>;

“Link Mystery,” Lewiston Evening Journal, Nov. 15, 1933, p.1. (Courtesy of Belgrade Historical Society, Belgrade, Maine); Belgrade Depot, (Courtesy of Belgrade Historical Society, Belgrade, Maine); Kennebec County map, (2025) Kennebec County Map, Maine – US County Maps.

New York County Courthouse By wallyg – Flickr.com, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1222205.

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The Story of Unfortunate Hannah Robinson

This story about Unfortunate Hannah Robinson is an excerpt from the New England Historical Society’s book, “Love Stories From History.”

In the years just before the American Revolution, Rowland Robinson could be seen galloping on his black stallion across his vast estate in Saunderstown, Rhode Island Colony. Tall, good-looking and an excellent horseman, Rowland often rode out to check on his property. He owned several flocks of sheep, dozens of Narragansett Pacers, grainfields, a herd of cattle, cheese houses, barns and slave quarters.

Detail from mural in Wakefield, R.I., “South County Life in the Days of the Narragansett Planters”

Rowland had a violent temper, an impulsive nature and some decided peculiarities. He liked to count his prized blanket cows, pure white from shoulder to hip. He wanted exactly one hundred of them in his herd, and he took pains to raise or buy exactly that number. Rowland always managed to keep ninety-nine. But once they reached a hundred, one would die or wander off, leaving him in constant pursuit of his hundredth cow.

One of the Eleven

He was a Narragansett planter, one of The Eleven. They were eleven wealthy families who owned vast Rhode Island slave plantations more like Virgina than New England. They were Updikes, Hazards, Babcocks, Gardiners. And they often married each other. Rowland himself had wed a Gardiner, Anistis.

He inherited the plantation from his father, William, the deputy governor of the colony. He had improved on it for his own children. Rowland wanted the best for them. They ate on silver porringers, sat on mahogany chairs and dressed in brocades and silks. He sent his daughters, Hannah and Mary, to Madame Osborne’s school in Newport. Madame Osborne would prepare them for balls and assemblies and, ultimately, a worthy husband.

Rowland’s oldest daughter, Hannah, was considered one of the great beauties of her age. Her loveliness was celebrated across the Atlantic and wherever New England ship captains sailed. She was tall and graceful, with a Grecian profile, a flawless complexion, hazel eyes and dark auburn hair that fell in luxurious ringlets. She could marry anyone—anyone Rowland wanted her. to marry.

Unfortunately, Hannah fell in love with a suitor Rowland hated. Her romance would drive a wedge between father and daughter and end in tragedy.

Wonderfully Beautiful Hannah Robinson

One day an old Quaker preacher saw Hannah and blurted out “Friend, thou art wonderfully beautiful.”

But Hannah wasn’t just beautiful; she was pleasant to people and kind to animals. A skilled horsewoman, she loved to ride her Narragansett Pacer. Sometimes she’d stop to sit on a rock overlooking the bay and watch the sails skimming along in the distance. She could see the forest of masts rising from Newport Harbor, the ships carrying her father’s cheeses to Boston and his horses and oats to the West Indies. Ships would arrive with molasses from the Sugar Islands and leave for Europe with good Rhode Island rum.

View of Newport Harbor, 1730. Courtesy Library of Congress

Sometimes Hannah was joined on the rock by a young man who taught dancing and French at Madame Osborne’s. His name was Peter Simons. Hannah had fallen deeply, madly in love with him. Sitting by the rock he would pick a little yellow wildflower called Everlasting Life. “They should call it Everlasting Love,” Peter said as he handed the flower to her.

His real name was Pierre Simonds. He came from an old Huguenot family that fled persecution in France. He had little money but exquisite manners, and he lived with his father in a house in Newport. Hannah knew her father would hate him. She feared Rowland’s rash temper, and she knew he never changed his mind once he made it up.

Crazy Harry Falls in Love

Rowland would have preferred as a son-in-law William Bowen, a young Providence doctor who had graduated from Yale. He was infatuated with Hannah. But when William asked Hannah to marry him, she let him down gently, confiding she was engaged to someone else.

Rowland once asked the military hero Colonel Harry Babcock to spend the night at his home. “So you want me to see Hannah, that I’ve heard so much of, do you?” replied Babcock. “Well, I will go, but don’t expect me to fall in love with her, as so many fools have done.”

The colonel was nicknamed Crazy Harry. As he and Rowland entered the sitting room, the colonel said loudly that he looked forward to seeing the prettiest woman in Rhode Island.

Hannah was in the room sewing. She stood to welcome her father and his guest. Her father introduced Babcock, and she extended her hand. He gently took it, gazed into her face and fell to his knee. Softly the colonel said, “Permit, dear madam, the lips that have kissed unrebuked those of the proudest queen of earth, to press, for a moment, the hand of an angel from heaven.”

Crazy Harry had no more luck with Hannah than William Bowen had.

Rowland began to grow suspicious. He didn’t understand why his daughter rejected so many suitors. Everyone else knew, but they wouldn’t tell him.

Courtship

In Newport, Hannah and Peter had many opportunities to spend time in each other’s company. But the time came for Hannah to leave Madame Osborne’s, return home and find a husband.

The lovers then had a stroke of luck. Hannah’s uncle, William Gardiner, hired Peter to tutor his children. The Gardiner plantation adjoined the Robinson farm, and their manor houses stood just two miles from each other. Hannah began to find reasons to call on her cousins. Hannah’s uncle sympathized with his niece, and he didn’t tell Rowland about her visits. He even encouraged them.

Hannah’s mother, Anstis, noticed her daughter’s frequent visits to her brother’s house. She asked Hannah about them. Hannah admitted she was seeing Peter. Anstis didn’t approve, and she tried for months to discourage her daughter’s relationship with him. But she finally realized Hannah was as stubborn as Rowland, so she reluctantly consented to the match.

Peter began to visit Hannah secretly at the Robinsons’ imposing manor house. It measured more than a hundred feet from end to end, with a massive center chimney and a steep gambrel roof. The Robinsons entertained often, and the dining room could accommodate a crowd. Hannah’s large bedchamber was above the dining room. In the evenings she put a signal light in her window, and Peter hid in the lilac bushes below. The lovers would then talk to each other and exchange messages.

The stratagem worked so well that Peter dared to come into the house. Up the stairway he crept and into Hannah’s room. But every night, Rowland came to her bedchamber to bid her goodnight. When the lovers heard his tread in the hallway, Peter hid in a large cupboard built into the wall.

Wretched Dancing Master

One night, Rowland Robinson unexpectedly stepped out of the front door. He was surprised to see a white paper flutter from Hannah’s window down onto the lilacs. He went over to the bush and raised his blackthorn stick. Peter jumped out of the bushes and ran away in the night. But Rowland recognized the young music teacher who worked for his brother-in-law.

Rowland was livid. He stormed into his daughter’s room and upbraided her for throwing herself away on a wretched French dancing master. Couldn’t she see the scoundrel was a fortune-seeker who only wanted her money? he thundered. He railed and ranted at his daughter, but she didn’t say a word.

From then on Rowland kept Hannah under close surveillance. He never let her go anywhere alone. If she walked, she was watched. If she rode her horse, a servant accompanied her. And if she thought about calling on a neighbor, Rowland immediately grew suspicious and forbade her to go, or else he followed her and brought her home. One day she left to visit an aunt in New London. Rowland saw a vessel leaving Newport heading in that direction. He suspected the wretched French dancing master was aboard, intending to rendezvous with Hannah. He rushed off to New London himself, arriving only a few hours after Hannah did. Rowland then forced her to come home immediately.

Hannah’s family and neighbors couldn’t help but notice her misery. Sympathetic to her plight, they helped the lovers by carrying their letters to each other.

Soon after the incident with Rowland in the lilac bush, Peter left the Gardiners. He found a new position farther away in Narragansett. Sometimes months went by without the two lovers seeing each other. Hannah grew thin and her complexion lost its rosy tint.

Finally, Hannah concluded the only solution was to elope with Peter. She had a helpful new ally who could help her escape her father’s scrutiny: Her friend from Hartford, Miss Belden, had come to stay with the Gardiners. She and Hannah’s uncle agreed to help.

Hannah Robinson Elopes

The Narragansett planters entertained on a lavish scale, and it wasn’t unusual for them to send party invitations to Boston, Newport and Providence. One day, Hannah’s mother’s sister, Mrs. Lodowick Updike, invited the Robinsons to a ball at their home, known as Smith’s Castle. The Updikes were only one town away in North Kingstown, and they would have felt snubbed if no member of the Robinson family attended their ball.

Smith’s Castle

Reluctantly, Rowland agreed to let Hannah and her sister go, but under the watchful eye of his servant Prince. The sisters would ride horseback the eight miles to their aunt’s house and spend the night.

Miss Belden and Uncle William sent a message to Peter, and they laid plans for the elopement.

Anstis knew of the plan but did nothing to stop it. Hannah’s sister, Mary, was kept in the dark.

On the morning Hannah left, she bid goodbye to her cook and to her maid. She asked them to care for her little dog, Marcus, and her cat, Felis. Then she hugged her mother and said goodbye, sobbing. She knew she might never see her again.

Fortunately, Rowland had left the house an hour earlier, called away unexpectedly on business.

Mary, Hannah and Prince mounted their horses and headed toward North Kingstown. In a dense wood along the way, they met up with a closed carriage. Peter jumped out and helped Hannah into the carriage. Mary cried and begged her not to go. Prince pleaded with her, too, knowing how Rowland would punish him for letting Hannah escape.

Hannah asked Prince to take good care of her horse, and the carriage rumbled off to Providence.

Hannah Robinson in Newport

Peter had a sister who sent along some clothes for Hannah. They arrived in the city hours later and were married by an Episcopal minister visiting from London. Local ministers would not have risked Rowland’s wrath.

When Rowland learned of Hannah’s elopement, he was incandescent with rage. He was angry with Hannah, furious with Peter and seething toward their accomplices. He offered a large reward to anyone who told him who helped them elope. And he announced he would not give Hannah so much as a halfpenny.

The newlyweds moved in with Peter’s father in a fine old two-story house on Bridge Street in Newport. Hannah and Peter lived there for several months until Peter found a job in Providence. They then moved to a modest house in that city.

Father Knew Best

Unfortunately, Rowland Robinson was right about Peter Simons. He had just wanted Hannah for her money after all.

Once Rowland disinherited his daughter, Peter began to neglect her. He took up gambling, and he didn’t come home at night. Then he started to disappear for weeks.

Anstis sent Hannah’s brother, William, to Providence to check on her. William brought her clothes and her little dog, Marcus.

Heartbroken, neglected and poor, Hannah began to waste away. William told his mother about Hannah’s decline. One day he said Hannah was so sick she couldn’t leave her bed.

Anstis then persuaded Rowland to let her send Hannah’s maid to her. She also pleaded with him to relent and to go see his daughter. He refused. Anstis noticed, though, that he would come home and wander abstractedly through the house until he saw Felis, Hannah’s cat. He would sit quietly in the room with the creature. Once Anstis saw him holding Felis to his chest and sobbing.

Prince noticed Rowland visiting the stable more often than he used to. He always patted Hannah’s horse as he left.

An Unexpected Visitor

Finally, Rowland softened. He told Anstis if Hannah agreed to disclose the names of the people who helped her elope, she could come home. Informed of his offer, Hannah wrote him an affectionate letter but refused to reveal her conspirators.

Then one day Rowland jumped up from dinner and rode his horse thirty-five miles to Providence, stopping overnight at Lodowick Updike’s. He found Hannah’s little house and banged his cane against the door. Her maid answered.

Hannah was too sick to leave her bed, the maid said. Rowland told the maid to ask Hannah who had helped her elope. The maid returned with the message that Hannah wouldn’t tell. Rowland turned around and rode home.

Several days later he mounted his horse and rode to Providence. Again he knocked on the door, again he demanded to know who had helped Hannah elope. Again Hannah refused to tell.

At home, Anstis took ill. Rowland was distraught. He rode again to Providence and rapped his cane on the door. When the maid answered it, he asked, “How’s Hannah?” Informed of her condition, he turned around and rode home.

His visits continued for several weeks. Then Miss Belden and William Gardiner learned about Rowland’s demands and Hannah’s condition. Miss Belden wrote to Hannah and begged her to reveal her name. William Gardiner rode to Providence to visit Hannah, and he said he would tell her father of his role in her elopement.

Free To Tell the Story

Released from her vow of secrecy, Hannah wrote to her father, offering to tell him the whole story. As soon as he got her letter, Rowland left for Providence.

When Hannah’s maid admitted Rowland to the house, he rushed to Hannah’s bedside. Shocked by her wasted appearance, he broke down in sobs. He knelt by her bed, held her hand and wept until he could regain his composure. Then Rowland rose, reached into his pocket and gave Hannah’s maid several gold coins. He told her to buy whatever Hannah needed, whatever would make her comfortable, and to prepare her for her journey home. Rowland never even asked who had helped her elope.

Rowland rode home and immediately arranged for Hannah’s rescue. The roads were rough, too rough to carry her in a carriage. Rowland had a litter at the manor, though, which wealthy people used to transport the sick. When he arrived home, he told his head farmer to select his four strongest servants. They were to take the litter on board his fastest sloop and to go to Providence as quickly as possible, by sail or by oar.

Tired and dirty, Rowland mounted a fresh horse the next morning. He took Prince with him and a horse for Hannah’s maid. Then they rode back to his daughter’s house in Providence to bring her home for the last time.

Hannah Robinson Goes Home

The sloop arrived at the wharf. Rowland and the servants spent the night in a tavern. The next morning, they went to Hannah’s house. They gently placed Hannah in the litter with her little dog at her feet. Then they began the long walk home. At nightfall they rested at Lodowick Updike’s house.

The Roger Mowry Tavern in P rovidence

The next day the sun rose on a perfect Indian summer morning. The entourage resumed its journey, eventually reaching the wooded spot where Hannah had abandoned Mary and Prince for Peter. Hannah began to cry.

On they plodded. When they reached the rock where Hannah used to sit and watch the bay, she asked them to stop. She sat and watched the ocean as she had as a girl. She spotted a yellow wildflower—Everlasting Life—and asked her maid to pick a sprig and pin it to her dress.

The view of Narragansett Bay today

The sun was setting, and they could hear in the distance cows lowing, an ax chopping wood and fishermen singing a roundelay. They were a mile from home, and Rowland told Hannah they should resume their journey or else the evening air would do her harm. But Hannah insisted on staying until the evening gun from Fort George boomed.

The party reached the Robinson manor house by moonlight. Hannah held a sad reunion with her sick mother. Rowland carried her to her bedchamber, where her family and servants surrounded her. A high fever and delirium set in, and they heard the cry of the whippoorwill, a sign of death. Hannah called to her mother, “Do you hear the death angel mother? He is out in the lilac.”

Unfortunate Hannah Robinson died the next morning, October 30, 1773.

Alone in His Grandeur

Peter Simons came once to the Robinson estate to pay his respects. In honor of his daughter’s wishes, Rowland treated him cordially. Simons then left for Europe and never returned to America.

Anstis Robinson died a month after her oldest daughter passed away. Mary died four years later. William got married and died at age forty-six. Rowland outlived them all, dying at the age of eighty-seven.

A woman who knew him well wrote in her diary, “Rowland Robinson was thus left alone in his grandeur, a man of violent passions, which was characteristic of the Robinsons, but of a noble, benevolent nature.”

In 1938, the Civilian Conservation Corps built a new watch tower at the site where Hannah Robinson watched Narragansett Bay. The rock and the tower, called the Hannah Robinson Tower, are now owned by Preserve Rhode Island and managed by the Rhode Island Department of Environmental Management.

Hannah Robinson Tower

The Robinson manor still stands, though part of it has been torn down. The Lodowick Updike house also stands, known popularly as Smith’s Castle.

The tale of Unfortunate Hannah Robinson was one of the great scandals of colonial New England.

* * *

The story of Unfortunate Hannah Robinson is one of 15 in the New England Historical Society’s story collection, “Love Stories from History.” Click here to order your copy today.

Images: Hannah Robinson Tower By Raime – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=7604720. Smith’s Castle By Mlanni98 – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=77139260.

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Cries in the Night: A Vicious Assault in the Narbonne House, One of Salem’s Oldest

Shortly after midnight on a cold December in 1903, James G. Ryan, walking on Essex Street in Salem, heard screams from a woman obviously in great distress. “Help! Help! Will someone come and help me!?” They came from 71 Essex St., where elderly Mary Narbonne lived by herself in an ancient house crammed with valuable antiques.

Ryan rushed through the open front door and dashed up the stairs. What he saw horrified him: 79-year-old Mary Narbonne in a state of hysteria, bleeding profusely from her mouth and nose.

The Victim, Mary Narbonne

Mary Narbonne was a well-known figure in Salem, a descendant of several of Salem’s oldest families. She lived at 71 Essex St. all her life with her widowed mother, Sarah, a seamstress, who passed away in 1890 at age 95. Sarah was something of a celebrity in Salem. Her birthday was noted every year in newspapers around New England. Mother and daughter lived in the house for well over 100 years.

Sarah Narbonne sitting in her front room

Mary suffered from rheumatism and hearing loss but remained active in the Second Church (Unitarian) on Salem Common (where the Witch Museum is today) as a member of the women’s alliance. She was widely respected in Salem for the care she gave to her mother when just the two of them lived in the house. She and her mother both loved gardening.

Mary Narbonne

Since her mother’s death, Mary lived alone. She was acutely aware of the dangers of living alone and took care to bolt and chain her doors at night. She kept her front door chained even during the day.

The Cent Shop

While her mother was alive, mother and daughter ran a cent shop in the house, where they sold buttons, pins and ribbons. The Dutch door to the shop is still there on the side of the house facing Essex Street. But the house was as famous for its contents as much as for its elderly owners. Visitors might knock on the door just to see the artifacts that included 150- year-old solid mahogany chairs with leather seats, a hand-painted pearlware tea set, a family Bible printed in 1679, and silver spoons dating from 1725.

Dutch door of the Cent Shop at the Narbonne House

The constant visitors annoyed Mary, especially if they offered to buy artifacts.

“This place is my home and was that of my people for generations; everything in it is dear to me…” she told The Boston Weekly Globe in 1890.

The Narbonne House

Built in 1672, the Narbonne House is one of the oldest houses in Salem and in the country. Mary Narbonne’s family had inhabited the house since 1780, passing ownership down through four generations. The original house features a steeply pitched roof and is of simple design, with a large room on the main floor and a room above that. The original chimney and cellar are intact. Long 19-pane windows adorn the second floor and 15-pane windows, nine on the lower sash, six on the upper, are found on the first floor. A lean-to along the east side of the house was added later and is still clearly visible from Essex Street accentuating the pitch of the roof. A gambrel-roof addition at the back of the house was added about 1725.

Front of the Narbonne House on Essex Street

Mary Narbonne’s bedroom was on the second floor of the addition.

The house stands in stark contrast to the grand mansions of Salem merchants. In the years since it was built, the house has been inhabited by butchers, weavers, mariners, tanners, traders and seamstresses, in a congested neighborhood of narrow streets and tiny lots near the Salem waterfront.

Because of the narrowness of the Narbonne lot, the side of the house faces Essex Street, and the front door faces westward opening onto a small yard.

The Crime

On that December night, the assailant broke in through a door at the back of Mary Narbonne’s house. He removed the putty from an adjacent windowpane, slid the glass out, reached in and unbolted the lock. Once inside, he made his way upstairs to her room at the back of the house, bypassing the many heirlooms and antiques along the way. Mary was quite hard of hearing, but a flash of light from his lamp awoke her and she saw a man at the foot of her bed.

In one of the greatest understatements ever recorded, she asked the intruder, “What is wanted?” At least this is how The Boston Globe reported it.

If he responded, she couldn’t hear it.

He grabbed at her shoulders, and she screamed. Desperate to muffle her cries, he clamped his hand over her mouth, and she bit down hard on his fingers, possibly drawing blood.

Enraged, the assailant punched her repeatedly in the face, leaving her bloodied and dazed. He then ran downstairs and out the front door.

Help Arrives

Bleeding heavily, she dragged herself to her bedroom window and called for help to no avail. She then made her way to a window closer to the Essex Street side of the house, alerting Ryan. Blood stained the windowsill where she leaned out.

Soon police arrived, followed by Dr. C. A. Ahearne, who lived nearby. City Police Marshall Jesse Field, overseeing the crime scene, stayed with her until morning.

Mary’s injuries were not life threatening in themselves but, given her age and the absolute shock of the attack, Dr. Ahearne feared for her life.

It was widely believed that Mary Narbonne kept large amounts of money in the house. That could have been the aim of the intruder. Police suspected that the man must have been familiar with the layout.

Escape

Despite the hour, Essex Street was far from asleep. A streetcar from the Boston & Northern Street Railway Company passed the Narbonne House just after midnight, making its final run for the night A streetlight illuminated the northern side of the house.

Mr. Ryan, mentioned earlier, was walking east from his home at the corner of Essex and Turner Streets, returning to his job as night custodian at the police station. He had come home for his midnight “lunch.” At the same time, three men on Essex Street approached the Narbonne house from the other direction. They, too, heard the screams and came running.

These men and Ryan arrived at 71 Essex St. at the same time, yet none saw a man exiting the house. When the assailant fled through Mary Narbonne’s front door, leaving it open, which way did he go?

Map of the neighbornood in 1911

At that time, a large tenement house and several smaller homes stood behind the Narbonne house where the Salem Maritime National Historic Site is today. Police questioned the residents there, identified as “Polanders” in the Salem Evening News, an intimation of the growing presence of Polish immigrants in the neighborhood. Residents said they heard the screams but saw nothing.

It is unlikely the assailant went that way.

Most likely he hopped the fence separating Mary’s yard from her neighbor’s house to the west, ran through his back yard, and then escaped onto Orange Street.

Police searched for a suspect with a badly bitten hand, but the intruder was never found.

The Narbonne House Today

Mary Narbonne recovered from her injuries. Her only concession to the attack was that she refused to live in her house alone. She died 15 months later on March 21, 1905. Her funeral was held at the Second Church (Unitarian).

The Second Church (Unitarian). Mary Narbonne’s funeral was held here.

The house and belongings were passed on to her nephew Gardner Narbonne of Los Angeles, where he had many of the household items shipped. Narbonne rented the house to his cousin Frank Hale, eventually conveying the title to him. Later, Hale then conveyed it to his daughter. The National Park Service acquired the house in 1964.

Interior of the Narbonne House today. The glass case exhibits artifacts found in the back yard.

Today, the house is part of the Salem Maritime National Historic Site and serves as a laboratory for studying colonial architecture and archaeology. It is open to the public only occasionally. Archaeological digs in the back yard have uncovered a treasure trove of artifacts, some dating from the 17^th century. They include ceramics, redware, glassware and animal bones. Straight pins, nails and thimbles have been recovered from inside the house, perhaps remnants from the cent shop.

About the Author

Images

Narbonne House, Wilfred A. French, photographer, ca. 1885-1895, Historic American Building Survey (HABS), Library of Congress (LoC), Prints and Photographs Division (P&P Div.), HABS MASS, 5-SAL, 51–15. Dutch door, Wilfred A. French, photographer, HABS, LoC, P&P Div., HABS MASS, 5-SAL, 51–16. Map, Atlas of the City of Salem, Massachusetts, Walker Lithograph and Publishing Company, Digitized in Atlascope, Leventhal Map and Education Center at Boston Public Library, accessed 26 October 2024 via https://atlascope.org. Sarah Narbonne, Photographer unknown, HABS, LoC, P&P Div., HABS MASS, 5-SAL, 51–22. Newspaper, The Boston Globe, 14 Dec 1903, p. 3, accessed from Newspapers.com, 27 Oct 2024. Narbonne House rear (south), National Park Service, nps.gov Collection, {{PD-US}}; Narbonne interior, National Park Service, nps.gov Collection, {{PD-US}}. Second (East) Church, ca. 1910, Detroit Publishing Company Collection, P&P Div., LoC, www.loc.gov/pictures/item/2016811063.

Sources

“The Narbonne House,” Pickled Fish and Salted Provisions, Vol. II, No. 10, October 2000, Salem Maritime National Historic Site, National Park Service.

“Fought Brute Off With Her Teeth,” The Boston Globe, 14 Dec 1903, p. 3.

“Brutal Assault. Miss Mary Narbonne Beaten in Bed by a Cruel Thug,” The Salem Evening News, 14 Dec 1903. p. 1, retrieved by Reference Department, Salem Public Library, 23 Oct 2024.

“Miss Narbonne Dead, Aged 81,” The Salem Evening News, 22 March 1905, p. 8, retrieved by Reference Department, Salem Public Library, 25 Oct 2024.

“Old Homes and Families, Salem Houses that Recall Great Names,” The Boston Weekly Globe, 23 Sug 1890, p. 8, accessed from newspapers.com 14 Oct 2024.

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