A fearsome gale swept over the Cape Cod Peninsula. It passed through Martha's Vineyard and chased away the fog that hung in the air like clumps of clotted cream. Pumpkins and squash rotted on the vine and the sumacs, dogwoods, tupelos and sugar maples were stripped of their scarlet foliage by late October. Farmers mourned the lack of Indian summer and hunkered down to harvest what was left of the potatoes, parsnips and rutabagas. From Falmouth to Wellfleet, villagers steeled themselves against the evil chill that sat in the heavens like a gluttonous guest who refused to leave the supper table. This was a most wicked autumn, commencing the premature winter, and bringing with it, the sweating sickness. Influenza, grippe or sweating sickness, as it was known in the Cape, was the parting gift from a whaling crew that transported it from Maine. It spread with lethal speed, sprinting from Mashpee to Yarmouth, resting momentarily in Rachel’s Pride. It lighted briefly in Wellfleet then raced towards Maidenhead where it nested, decimating the town with awe-inspiring velocity.

Before the sun abandoned the dawn, it painted the skies in a violet smoke, while a fierce sea wind blew across the bay, toward the cottages of Maidenhead. A beam flashed from Virgin’s Light, the beacon that sat her perch since 1690. There was a flash, another, then a furtive signaling in Morse code to the clipper ships that navigated the hostile waters of the peninsula.

The first mate of a brig fishing for cod in Chastity Cove looked out into the dark horizon then yelled to his crew. “Turn the ship around! The light says ‘Stay away, death is waiting’!”

Maidenhead was a less than oblique reference to a virgin’s most chaste secret. Uttering the village’s name brought smirks to the lips of the Harvard oarsmen who rowed past with their regattas each summer, but no one who lived in the town gave a tinker’s damn for what did a name matter? Maidenhead, blessed with fertile oyster beds and flourishing glass works prospered even as other hamlets spread across the lower Cape were sucked under in the death throes of the whaling industry. In these modern times gaslights supplanted whale oil as the illuminant of choice. Since there was no longer a need to plunder the seas for the great beasts, fishermen now trawled for the bounty of the bay; cod, lobsters, mussels and quahogs.

The village was called Massasoit in tribute to Wampanoag prince until the English settled there in 1660. Massasoit was christened Maidenhead because of Hagatha Welles, a lass of unblemished reputation leaped from a bluff rather than surrender her virtue to a lustful sailor. The lore around Hagatha’s tragedy continued to grow over the years and her final act was held up to generations of young women as a shining example of the highest moral rectitude. This dawn, however, a devilish cold enveloped Maidenhead in a frosty cloak and no virgins flitted about the village.

Pocassant Square was hushed, deserted by oystermen who bartered away the daily catch. The cacophony of fishwives and greengrocers hawking their wares was gone, replaced by silence. There was no laughter from lads running a paper chase, no tittering from the girls quilting in the rectory of First Congregational Church. No sea ditties spilled out onto the street from the Red Dog Tavern. The only music was the swish of the wind. Every shanty with a sloping saltbox roof was tightly shuttered against sweating sickness. Each door was affixed with a black funeral wreath, some with two or three.

A frigid gust propelled a crudely printed handbill through the Square. It caught on the naked branches of an oak and unfurled, revealing a garish engraving of a skeleton ominously waving a sickle. The printing read “Dr. Hawke’s Sovereign Cure for Grippe”; luckily for Dr. Hawke, there was no one around to dispute the validity of his claim.

The streets of Maidenhead remained hushed until a pair of booted feet walked past the shuttered Virgin Glass factory, the heels clicking across heavy puddle stones quarried from the Hagatha’s Leap. Lucy Hathorne, daughter of the late rector of First Congregational Church of Maidenhead, wrapped her mother’s woolen shawl around her shoulders and pushed forward through the frigid wind. Sweating sickness had stilled the tongues of the local gossipmongers so no one could remark on the disheveled state of this genteel daughter of Maidenhead. She moved as if in a trance, boots unbuttoned, dress unfastened and most shockingly, wore no corset. Her hair was unbraided, the dark curls coiling about her waist in a serpentine mass.

A cottage door opened and a young woman placed a package wrapped in a muslin sheet on the threshold. Lucy looked down at the precious bundle and knew from the size that it concealed the body of a child dead from influenza. Since the town carpenter had expired five days past, there were no more coffins in Maidenhead. The few courageous souls who remained untouched by the sickness would soon retrieve the tiny body. The babe would then sleep forever on Believer’s Hill with the generations who passed before her.

Lucy entered Brigham’s Dry Goods, a white washed brick building that sat between Dr. Goodenow’s Apothecary and Stowe’s Tonsorial Emporium, both now closed as tight as Dick’s hatband. She crossed over the doorstep and heard the clicking of a spanking new Morse telegraph register, Maidenhead’s point of contact with the rest of the world. The Morse “tapper”, Pyrtle Brigham, was hard at work, deciphering the “tap”, “tap”, “tap” of the machine.

At seventeen, Pyrtle exemplified all that was quintessentially Yankee: strength, righteousness, thrift and hard work. She spoke in the spare intonation of the Cape, was honest as the day was long and rightly feted as the fastest teletypewriter in all of Massachusetts. Her celebrity brought her a boon, for she had recently entered into a courtship with Mr. Braddock Goodbody, a young tapper who worked in Provincetown. Though they had yet to meet in the flesh, Mr. Goodbody had set his cap for her and daily declared his affections over the wire.

Pyrtle was re-reading Mr. Goodbody’s latest proclamation of devotion when she looked up and gasped at her friend’s bedraggled appearance. “Lucy Hathorne, you look a fright. You should be inside your house. It’s dreadful cold out and you’re not wearing your cloak. You’ll catch the sweating sickness for sure.”

Lucy pulled a missive from her pocket and handed it to Pyrtle with great solemnity. “I have a message that must be sent to my aunt, Mrs. Ziba Bram Hathorne who resides at 5 Browning Street, Jamaica Plain, Boston.”

“You better pray the tapper in Jamaica Plain hasn’t caught the grippe. Can’t reach a soul in Teaticket or Martha’s Vineyard.”

Pyrtle opened the note and began reading aloud. “Dearest Aunt Ziba, I trust both you and little Theodore are in good health and all the citizens of your village are prospering. A ship passed influenza to Maidenhead and the toll has been great. Lot's Wife and Pilgrim's Corner are now lost to us. It is with a heavy heart that I write these horrible words. Father died on Wednesday and now little Alfred and mother are sharing his heavenly abode. They are now sleeping in the arms of Our Lord, Jesus Christ. I know that you are still in mourning after the recent passing of Uncle Thatcher but I am alone in the world. Please help me. I have no one else to turn to. I will be your obedient servant. I need a home. Lucy.”

Pyrtle locked eyes with Lucy and for an instant the two girls were joined in an unspoken concord of loss. Then, in the wink of an eye, the bond broke and they turned away, models of New England stoicism. “Sorry. Didn’t know about your mother or the boy.”

Lucy placed a coin on the counter and moved toward the door. Pyrtle gently touched her shoulder and pushed the coin back in her hand. “Your money’s no good here. This telegram will reach Boston if I have to carry it there myself.”

Lucy gazed into Pyrtle’s face for a long moment then opened the door and walked out into the cold.

The First Congregational Church of Maidenhead was built from hand-hewn white oak and pitch pine in 1682. Ministered for two centuries under the watchful parsonage of the Hathorne family, the handsome edifice was the seat of faith for the Puritans of the village. When another branch of the Hathorne clan attempted to divorce themselves from the infamy of the witch trials of Salem and lesser-known purges of the Cape by adding a “w” to their surname, the Hathornes of Maidenhead doggedly kept the original spelling.

The stewardship of the Hathorne family transformed the First Congregational Church into the hub of the cultural life of the community. Transcendentalists, abolitionists and suffragists were welcomed with open arms. Still, one could trek into the woods that adjoined the village and find disciples who clung to the dictums of the past and cursed the Hathornes for abandoning the old faith.

In 1864, young Reverend Bonar Hathorne, a cousin of the famed writer Nathaniel Hawthorne, returned from his studies in Italy and assumed the pastoral duties. He brought a comely wife, Magdalena, and infant daughter, Lucia, with him. They resided in the rectory that sat behind a vine-covered arbor at the rear of the churchyard, a whitewashed wooden cottage with a sloping gable roof. Four wooden steps led to a wooden piazza that was the portal into the rectory. This dawn, three funeral wreaths woven from tansy, amaranth, statice, and yarrow hung from the front door, flung open by the wind.

The entry led to a hallway where Reverend Hathorne’s best cape still hung from the cloak-rack. Turn right and one walked into a parlor that was illuminated by two burning candles. The walls were painted deep crimson, the wooden floor polished to a high sheen and the furnishings were of maple. A harp carved with rococo flourishes sat near the fireplace, the finishing touch that blended Yankee severity with European ostentation. All was tasteful and inviting except for a sickeningly sweet smell that hovered in the air. Lavender and evergreen mingled with incense and almost, but not completely, masked a much more disquieting scent.

A pine casket sat in the middle of the room housing the corpse of a dark haired woman dressed in a wine colored gown, her jaw tied shut with a mesh scarf. The body of a small boy who appeared to be no more than four years in age rested in her lifeless arms. The child was graced with a most angelic countenance, his tiny face ringed with ebon curls, his body clothed in suit of black velvet. The casket was lined with branches of freshly cut lavender and the burning candles were placed at its foot and head.

A narrow stairwell that had been purloined from an ancient whaler led to three sleeping chambers. All were deserted except for one.

Lucy lit a kerosene lamp revealing her sparsely appointed room - a narrow bed hewn out of pine, a small wardrobe and cupboard that housed her books, shells, scrimshaw and a fancy, bisque doll from Germany. The walls were hand stenciled in a red and gold fleur de lis pattern and a weathered nautical window salvaged from a beached schooner gave a clear view of the birch grove in the rear of the house. A carved ditty box accommodated her meager treasures; including her mother’s golden earrings and fine ivory comb as well as Reverend Hathorne’s pride and joy, a brass pocket compass from John Hicks of London that hung suspended from a silver watch fob.

Lucy fastened her dress, then sat on the bed and buttoned her boots. For a long moment she sat motionless, unable to move for the bitter realization she would march through life in solitary lockstep struck her anew. She began to weep, giant tears rolling down her cheeks until they dampened the bodice of her gown. She keened until no teardrops were left to cry then pulled a damp handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose. All was still and then, she heard it through the silence. It was as delicate as the beating of a wasp’s wing, a faint rasping, soft like the whispers of old women, almost imperceptible but it was there. At first, Lucy thought she had imagined it but no, there it was again, a quiet wheezing as if from a cat or a small animal, but there were no animals in the rectory. A badger had once found its way into the cottage but it was far too cold for one to visit this morning.

Lucy silently chided herself for she had forgotten to bring her lantern and there was no sunlight this dawn. She took tentative steps down the curved stairwell with its steep wooden steps. One step, two steps, three steps, four steps, five steps then a frozen blast suddenly caressed her face. She looked down the narrow passage and realized the front door was ajar as an icy zephyr swirled around the entryway. Six steps, seven steps, eight steps, nine steps, she was at the base of the stairs. Two steps and she arrived at the threshold and shut the door. It immediately opened again as if pushed by an unseen force. Using every fiber of strength she could muster, she pushed it shut and bolted it.

The rasping began anew followed by another sound, a faint “boom”, “boom”, “boom”, “boom” of a drum beating in the distance. The breathing continued for a second then subsided. All was silent again. Lucy turned back to the stairwell but stopped when the breathy sighs began anew. Someone or something was in the parlor. Her head pounded, she feared she might faint, but steeled herself from swooning as she shouted out into the darkness. “Please show yourself!”

No one answered her cry. All was hushed again. She did not turn back to the stairway but moved toward the dreaded room.

She reached the parlor door and the rasping began anew. A tentative step and she was at the entrance of the parlor. The wind had exorcized the stench of putrefaction but both candles were now extinguished. The chamber was pitch black. She twisted her hands and took a tentative step toward the threshold. “In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, please make yourself known!”

Lucy looked into the void and heard nothing. The rasping had ended and she wondered if it were indeed an illusion caused by her grief. Then the distant drumbeat grew louder, matching the rapid tattoo of her heart. One more step and she was in the parlor. She looked into the void and saw no one. Except for the far away pounding, the stillness was palpable. She counted to ten and turned to leave, giving a prayer of thanks to the Creator for the silence. At that moment, the rasping began anew, louder than ever!

She swiveled around and realized, to her horror that the sound emanated from the coffin. She tried to flee but was rooted in place as if her boots had been affixed to the floor. She took one more step and faced the pine box. The Lord would wish her to be brave. Another step forward and she heard a gurgle, two steps, an audible sigh, three steps and she was at the foot of the coffin.

She looked down into the box. The ancient midwife, Goody Ferris, had prepared the bodies for burial the previous morning. Magdalena lay silent, her face pale and waxen, a mesh scarf tied around her chin, shutting her lips for eternity, her eyes glued shut. Goody had not thought to do the same to Alfred. His eyes had begun to open and the rosebud mouth emitted a gurgling sound as if he was breathing. Lucy screamed then backed away from the breathing corpse.

Suddenly, the front portal opened again as if pounded by a squall. Lucy flew out the door, running towards the church then stopped in her tracks. The Maidenhead funeral cortège greeted her.

A small boy with eyes as pale as cataracts walked in front of a large farm wagon. Instead of carrying cords of wood, it was loaded with caskets and bodies bundled in shrouds of linen, muslin and the discarded sails from old fishing vessels. The wagon had been transformed into a funeral hearse.

The child was dressed in black from toe to head and wore a silk top hat festooned with an elaborate cockade, a black rosette affixed to ribbon of purple grosgrain. He pounded a mummer’s drum as if to warn the living that the dead were present. The minister from Pilgrims’ Lair, dressed in a threadbare frock coat, marched with old Goody who was gowned in her finest mourning costume. A weathered black bonnet graced her white head. The trio walked in front of the four great dray horses that transported the gruesome cargo. The driver was a woman with flame-colored hair and skin as white as chalk. She wore black bombazine and a plain bonnet. Her nose and mouth were covered with a large kerchief, a barrier against the stench that wafted through the air. Six muscular gravediggers walked behind the wagon in step, all carrying shovels across their shoulders.

Lucy flew at them, joyful tears running down her face, “He’s alive! My Alfred is alive!”

Goody Ferris looked at her for a moment, unable to comprehend her words. “Lucy girl, I put Alfred in your mother’s dead arms myself. The child is dead.”

The young girl laughed into the wind. “No! No, no, you are wrong, Goody, you are wrong! He is breathing, he is breathing! Come with me and you will see!”

Lucy ran back into the rectory. Goody and the minister exchanged a grave look before they crossed the threshold. “I fear that grief has made the poor child mad.”

They followed her into the parlor. Goody walked over to the coffin, looked down at Alfred’s tiny body then jumped back, her ancient eyes wide with wonder. “Almighty God in heaven! She is not mad! The child lives!”

The minister scrutinized the corpse. “I have seen this before. The lad dead! It is the wind making mischief inside his lungs.” He bent over the coffin, shut the child’s eyes then closed the tiny lips. The rasping stopped.

Lucy screamed in agony, kneeled down on the floor and began to rock back and forth. “Poor Alfred, my poor little Alfred.”

The white haired woman turned to the minister. "May Jesus bless you for coming all the way from Pilgrims’ Lair, sir."

He looked at the old one, a sober expression on his pale continence. “It was the least I could do with your own pastor dead and buried. The Lord saw fit to spare my wife and son. In truth, my own family could be resting inside that casket." He looked back at Lucy who was shaking uncontrollably. “May God have pity on the poor girl as she walks alone in this vale of tears.”

Goody stared down at the coffin. Magdalena and Alfred lay together in death, placid expressions gracing their faces. “Look at them, laid out in lavender. Such sweet smiles as they slumber through eternity.”

The minister sniffed as he then his kerchief to his nose.

“They are not smiling ma’am. It is time to get them into the ground.”