Lore - Legends 50: Settling Up

Episode Date: March 31, 2025

No community is a stranger to pain. To test this assertion, we’re heading into one of the far corners of America to see what sort of tragedy might be lurking in the record books. Narrated and produced by Aaron Mahnke, with writing by Alex Robinson and research by Jamie Vargas. ————————— Lore Resources:  Episode Music: lorepodcast.com/music  Episode Sources: lorepodcast.com/sources  All the shows from Grim & Mild: www.grimandmild.com ————————— Sponsors: Smalls: Smalls cat food is protein packed recipes made with preservative free ingredients you’d find in your fridge… and it’s delivered right to your door. For 50% off your first order, head to Smalls.com and use code LORE.  Quince: Premium European clothing and accessories for 50% to 80% less than similar brands, at Quince.com/LORE for free shipping on your order and 365-day returns. Tax Network USA: A free consultation with tax experts can help you avoid unnecessary penalties and gain peace of mind knowing you have professionals on your side. Call 1-800-958-1000 or visit TNUSA.com/lore. ————————— To report a concern regarding a radio-style, non-Aaron ad in this episode, reach out to [e-mail] with the name of the company or organization so we can look into it. ————————— To advertise on this podcast please email: [e-mail]. Or go to: https://advertising.libsyn.com/lore ©2025 Aaron Mahnke. All rights reserved.

We are fascinated by unusual deaths. Perhaps it stems from our fixation with our own mortality, or maybe we all just naturally have a morbid curiosity. Either way, we humans tend to focus on the weird, or in some some cases the weirdly tragic. Take for example our obsession with the deaths that arise from natural disasters. For as painful as they are to watch there are plenty of documentaries about tsunamis or volcanoes. The awe-inspiring power of the natural world juxtaposed against the fragility of human life. There's just something about it that makes your heart stop. I can't ever look away. And I don't think that I'm alone.

Archaeologists love digging into the sites of natural disasters because sometimes they create the perfect environment to preserve the raw humanity of everyone caught in their path. And that's one of the main reasons why teams are still excavating their way through Pompeii. And in fact, just a couple of months ago, archaeologists there made the most exciting discovery in years. They uncovered a private bathhouse, complete with preserved artwork, a plunge pool, and a few skeletons.

A middle-aged woman and a young man had locked themselves into a room to escape the reach of the volcano. The woman was curled onto a bed and clutching handfuls of coins and jewelry, an eternal testament to what mattered most to her in the end. Her bones were in good condition, while her companions were not, suggesting that unlike her, he was of lower status. By observing them as they were in the exact moment they died, we can paint an entire picture about who they may have been in life.

Death teaches us about humanity. And you don't have to live somewhere as exciting as Pompeii to see that. Dramatic deaths can happen anywhere. So to prove it, let's come back stateside and explore the history of an average American town. Today we're headed to Maine. I'm Aaron Manke and this is Lore Legends. They were in the middle of a war. What happened next really shouldn't have been so surprising, but somehow we humans always seem to forget just how terrible we can be to each other.

Arthur Bragdon was trekking through the mountains, setting traps so he could bring home dinner for his family. It was a standard chore for the man of the house to be doing in 1692. There were no food markets in the remote corner of the New World, and people relied on freshly caught game to survive. Arthur lived in the settlement of York, Maine. At this point, European settlers had been in York for nearly 80 years, but in all those decades, they hadn't made many friends.

In fact, conflict between the white colonists and the local Abenaki tribe had only gotten worse over the years. As York's population had expanded, so too had their desire for more land. Unfortunately, that land already belonged to the native people, and so began the power struggle that had exploded into an all-out war. Most of us have never heard of it, but the very first battle between the English, French, and Native Americans happened right there in Maine. It was called King William's War, and it was devastating.

But out in the cold mountain air, thoughts of the French or the Abenaki were far from Arthur's mind. He was thinking only of setting his trap so that he could get out of the frigid January weather and go home, but Arthur would never see home again. While hiking, he came across a line of Native American snowshoes leaning against a rock. He froze. The Abenaki were here. Before he could react, one of the tribe's dogs found him, alerting the men to his presence. In no time, Arthur was caught.

In a stroke of terrible luck, he wasn't the only English settler on the mountain that day. He was soon joined by two other men, who had also been captured while they were out chopping wood. The Abenaki had already been preparing to invade York that very morning, so they must have thought that these men were a scouting party sent to discover their plans, because they questioned them, and they questioned them violently. According to one contemporary French account of the incident, they smashed the heads of

two of them, and from a desire to get information, they bound the third one. Now, to be clear, this was Abenaki land. These men were trespassing. They had been caught in a place that they should not have been, this was Abenaki land. These men were trespassing. They had been caught in a place that they should not have been, and the Abenaki were defending their territory. Sadly, the third man had no information to give them, and so the Abenaki moved forward with their attack, leaving the bodies of Arthur Bragdon and his two companions behind. And then, 150 warriors attacked the settlement of York.

Now, York's civilians weren't prepared. The ensuing bloodbath became known as the Candlemiss Massacre. The numbers differ depending on which sources you look at, but modern historians estimate that almost 100 English colonists were killed. There were less than 500 people living in York at the time. The massacre wiped out nearly a fifth of the population. One reverend, recording a testimony of a child who escaped the slaughter, wrote, The pillars of smoke, the raging of the merciless flames, and the insultations of the heathen

enemy shooting, hacking, and dragging away others is most affecting the heart. Most affecting the hearts, indeed. But the Candlemas Massacre did not end King William's War. No, that would go on for years to come. Nor did it end the settlement of York. The remaining colonists persevered, and they pushed through. So much of America's early history is a vicious cycle of humans being terrible to one another. After all, our nation began in the most brutal way possible, with the white settlers

frequently killing, scamming, or abusing the indigenous population. And sometimes those native communities punched back in self-defense. And as the years passed, the atrocities never lessened. They simply transformed. And I suppose that York isn't special in that regard. It's simply one more settlement out of many, with a dark and tragic past. It isn't often that we get a murderer's own account of her sins, especially when that murder took place in the 18th century. But Patience Boston seemed to be an exception to every rule, and today we have her life story written in her very own words.

Patience was a member of the Nauset tribe. Born in 1711 on Monomoy Island off the coast of Cape Cod, she came into the world with both a mother and a father. But when she was just three, her mother died, and her father, who needed money or didn't want to be responsible for his child, sold Patience into indentured servanthood. Patience knew enslaver was a man named Paul Crowe.

She served his family, and if her own words are anything to go by, she developed a unique bond with them. And how could she not? They were, after all, the only family she'd ever known, even though she was their property and not their daughter. When she was 15 years old, the lady of the house, Mrs. Crow, passed away. Patience later said, I think I could not have mourned more if my own mother had died then. I am sure now,

since my eyes have been opened, I see that she was a mother to me, though I was a wicked mischievous and rebellious servant." And according to her own recollection, Patience truly was a wicked mischievous and rebellious teen. She would release the family's cattle just to watch others chase them down. She snuck out at night to, and I quote, keep bad company and to follow lewd practices. And when she was just 12 years old, she set the house on fire, not once, but three times. And to be fair, I think that any one of us would have revolted just as much as Patience had if we had been sold into servitude like her.

Her teenage rebellion is understandable, but in adulthood, her life took a darker turn and Patience fostered that rebellious spirit until it poisoned her heart. When she was 21, she was released from her indentured servitude. She was excited to live her own life and be free from her masters, but that's not quite how it all worked out. Almost as soon as she gained her freedom, Patience started stealing. During this new life of thievery, she met an enslaved man.

The two fell in love, and they married. But once she was legally bound to her husband, his enslaver claimed Patience as one of his own. It didn't matter that she had already earned her freedom. She was trapped again, with no legal pathway to cut herself loose. Patience, understandably, did not take this change well. She later reported, After this, I was drawn to the love of strong drink, and used to abuse my husband in words

and actions, being mad and furious in my drink, speaking dreadful words and wishing bad wishes to myself and others. Despite the abuse and the drinking, Patience got pregnant and gave birth twice. Tragically, neither baby survived. According to Patience, she killed them herself. The first baby died from a collection of injuries just a few weeks after being born. The second died in its sleep when it was only two months old. Patience actually went to local law enforcement and confessed to murdering her children, but

she was a well-known alcoholic and the authorities did not trust that she was telling the truth. In the end, no one pressed charges, despite the fact that Patience claimed, I had murder in my heart towards my second as well as my first child. After the death of her children, Patience's life became filled with turmoil and change. She was sold from one enslaver to another at least three times over the following years, eventually becoming the property of Benjamin Skillens, far north in Falmouth, Maine, in 1734. Patience's assignment at the Skillens' house was to look after her enslaver's grandson,

an eight-year-old boy named Benjamin Trott. Patience took one look at little Benjamin and decided that she wanted to kill him. And so in her own words, having solemnly sworn that I would be the death of the child, I thought I was obliged to fulfill it. I took the opportunity of my master and mistress being from home and both his sons also abroad, that the child and I were left alone. I went to the well and threw the pole in, that I might have an excuse to draw the boy to the well, which having done, I asked his help to get up the pole, that I might push him in, which having done,

I took a longer pole and thrust him down under the water till he was drowned. When I saw he was dead, I lifted up my hands towards heaven, speaking after this manner, now I am guilty of murder indeed.'" Once Benjamin was dead, patients immediately walked to the nearest farmstead and confessed her crime. She was arrested and transferred to the old jail prison

in York while she waited her trial. During her imprisonment there, she was visited by the ministers Samuel and Joseph Moody, to whom she transcribed her life story, making a full confession of her crimes. Eventually, under their guidance, she repented and converted to Christianity. Whether that was the product of coercion on their part or willingness on hers is a mystery not answered by the historical record. Unfortunately for Patience, neither her conversion nor her

tragic life story would be enough to save her. On July 24th of 1735, it was reported, and I quote, Patience Boston, the Indian woman who was convicted of murder last month, was hung today on stage neck. She spoke very penitently and stepped off the cart without hesitation. Parson Moody and his son Joseph relate her remarkable conversion before execution, a sad affair. Even though it's been 290 years since Patience was executed at the Old Jail in York, it's said that her spirit still haunts the prison. A strange specter has been said to float around the jail. The shape is indistinct,

but most employees of the Old Jail believe it to be the ghost of Patience Boston, and she spooks them all so much that no one ever wants to be in the building alone with her, especially after dark. Depending on what you believe, Patience's soul might have been saved, but there are those who worry that she hasn't yet had her fill of killing. The new ship had a bright future ahead of it, so why were so many things going wrong? Built in York County's Kennebunk, Maine, the Isidore was officially launched on November 16th of 1842, with its maiden voyage slotted for two weeks later on November 30th. The brand new ship was scheduled to sail from Maine to Louisiana. It's a long trip to be sure, but for a brand new ship like the Isidore, it should have been child's play. But before it even set sail, there were

ominous signs that not everything would go to plan. For three nights straight, a dog howled outside of the second mate's home, leaving his family with such a sense of dread that his wife pleaded for him to not go on the voyage. And when the ship finally did set sail on the 16th, no one cheered like they normally did. It was as if an oddly somber mood had befallen the crew and the spectators on the dock, as if they were grieving. Now, it's hard to define a bad feeling.

So much of what we feel is instinctive, our bodies sensing minute warning signs and telling us that something is wrong, even if our eyes can't see the threat yet. Think of Han Solo and how often he said, I have a bad feeling about this. It would be an understatement to say that the crew of the Isidor had a bad feeling about the ship's first official voyage to New Orleans on the 30th, even though nothing had gone wrong when it first went to sea two weeks before. In fact,

many of them felt a sense of foreboding, saying that somehow they knew that they would never return home. It was even reported that one hardened, experienced sailor was reduced to weeping because he knew that he was going to die. A couple of the men had even been plagued with dreams before this inaugural voyage. One passenger named Paul Grant had a nightmare in which he saw a line of coffins, with his face shining out of one. And beginning the night of November 26, then continuing for three nights in a row, the ship's carpenter, Thomas King, dreamed that he saw seven coffins on a beach. When he asked who the coffins were for, the response was, for the crew of the Isidore. So yeah, not the strongest start for our intrepid sailors.

And one of them even let this shaky beginning discourage him from joining the rest of the journey. The carpenter Thomas King actually abandoned his post and hid in the woods on the morning of the 30th. The Isidore launched without him. But despite the bad omens, nobody else stayed behind. Each and every one of the men decided to push down their fears and sail to New Orleans. Maybe they all really needed the money.

Maybe they convinced themselves that their fears were unfounded New Orleans. Maybe they all really needed the money. Maybe they convinced themselves that their fears were unfounded, or even silly. Or maybe, just maybe, we've all trained ourselves to ignore our instincts and push on, even when it could mean our doom. Of course, it's hard to listen to your instincts when they tell you to go against your boss's orders. The Isidor's captain, Leander Foss, wasn't about to let some silly superstitions get in the way of his paycheck. He made sure that the journey went ahead as scheduled, and even launched an unsuccessful search party for that deserter, Thomas King, in an attempt to make him rejoin the party.

Truth be told, it was a bit strange that Captain Foss was so determined to embark on this trip when so many of his crew felt so uneasy about it. You see, Captain Foss didn't exactly have a sparkling record. Four years before he had actually manned another ship that sank under his command, and he considered it to be his greatest embarrassment. He even went as far as to exclaim that if he ever lost another ship, and I quote, he hoped his head would be found under the mast. Knowing that, it might've been pride

that kept him from calling off the journey, or maybe he just really needed a win. For whatever reason, Captain Foss ignored all the bad omens and carried on with the plan. At 10 a.m. on the morning of November 30th, the crew left York County and sailed south for New Orleans. But unbeknownst to them, a massive winter storm was headed their way. It would later be known as the Great Storm of 1842.

But for the sailors of the Isidor, it was nothing more than a death warrant. The onset began on the afternoon of the 30th, and it continued into the next day. Saco, just north of York, got 18 inches of snow. The precipitation varied between snow and rain, but what was falling from the sky wasn't the biggest problem. It was the cold. Out at sea, the air was so freezing that the ship's ropes froze and the rudder swelled. The crew could hardly steer her through the crashing waves and the storm winds.

By midnight, the Isidor had only made it 10 miles south. It was there, off the coast of York, that the ship crashed into the rocks and sank. The Isidor wasn't discovered until the next morning. The local Coast Star newspaper reported that she was, and I quote, stove to splinters, her rigging twisted into balls and jammed between the rocks, her sails torn by the winds away from the reefs her men had made in their desperate attempts to save the vessel. Five days later another newspaper reported that all 15 men on board had perished in the sinking and only a day or two after that the poor souls who had been lost to the

sea started washing up on the shore. The first body found however was not complete. It was just a leg, the leg of Captain Foss. The rest of his body was never located. Perhaps his head was stuck back on the Isidore, somewhere under the mast. There is pain and tragedy everywhere. From natural disasters, human error, and the sort of pain we willingly inflict on each other, there doesn't seem to be a way to stop it. Life, to quote Wesley from The Princess Bride, is pain. Anyone who says differently is selling something. Even in the remote settlement of Maine, way up in the top right corner of what would one day become America, there was a steady supply of tragedy.

It's proof that we might run and try to escape it, but it's always right there behind us. Our very own shadow. It's the same pain that was felt by the people of Maine after the sinking of the Isidore. When news of the shipwreck reached Kennebunk, the community was devastated. 15 men had been on that ship, which meant that 15 families had lost a father or a son or a brother, and even more lost a mentor and a friend. And so the entire town mourned the sailors. A funeral was held at South Church for two of the sailors whose bodies actually washed

ashore intact, George Lewis and John Tendall. One person present estimated that there were over 1,200 people at the funeral, over 20% of the town's population. It seems that everyone lost someone. And so they came together to grieve. One of the many who joined in on that grief was Mrs. Thomas King, the wife of the ship's carpenter who had deserted the Isidore. Except no one knew that Thomas had deserted. They all thought that he had died in the wreck, along with everyone else. So when Thomas came

back to town a few days after the wreck, he assumed that he would be arrested for abandoning his post after accepting a month's wages for the job. But instead, he was hailed as a hero. The entire town was so overjoyed that he had returned alive that no one thought to blame him for deserting the Isidor. In fact, the ship's owners refused to accept when he attempted to return that pay that he had taken for the journey he was never on. Thomas was the only man to return alive.

Even some of the dead were never recovered. Of the fifteen men aboard the vessel, only seven bodies were ever found, and five of those seven had been torn to pieces by the time they washed ashore. Thomas King had deserted the Isidor because he had dreamed of seven coffins. And now those coffins were finally full. As painful as it was, I hope that today's trip through the loss and tragedy of the early settlers of Maine helped you appreciate your moments of peace. Story can often do that, disturbing the comfortable and comforting the disturbed. Truth be told, between murder and shipwrecks, there have been some interesting causes of

death in York. But if one story is proof, even some of the normal deaths had a weird and tragic ending. Stick around through this brief sponsor break to hear all about it. This episode of Laura was made possible by Smalls. There's a reason cat videos are so fun to watch online. They're adorable. Some of my favorite pet memories involve my beautiful black feline friend who saw me through over 12 years of adulthood.

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Mary Nason was a witch, although as far as we know, she never practiced witchcraft a day in her life. Based on the records we have, Mary lived an exceedingly normal life. She was born in York, Maine in 1745, and then 20 years later in 1765, she married Samuel Nason. The couple went on to have six children together. And then when Mary was only 29 years old, she died. No one knows the cause. All we know is that she passed less than a year after the birth of her youngest child. Mary was buried in York, the town where she had been born and raised

at the old burying grounds at the first parish congregational church. To honor her memory, her husband Samuel erected a marker over her resting place, engraved with this epitaph. Here rests quite free from life's distressing care, a loving wife, a tender parent dear. Cut down in midst of days as you may see, but stop my grief, I soon shall equal be. When death shall stop my breath and end my time, God grant my dust may mingle then with thine.

On top of this touching tribute, Mary's image was also carved onto the crown of the tombstone. It's been described as a woman with, and this is a quote, "...bugged eyes, a thin nose, a slightly upturned mouth, and humped hairdo that looks like two skeins of yarn." So yeah, not the most flattering rendering, I guess. But her face was not the most unique part of this grave. It was the wolfstone. They were always much more popular in Europe than America. A wolfstone's name gives away its function. They were flat stones put over the grave soil

to prevent wolves from digging up human remains. No one knows what inspired Samuel to include this particular feature on Mary's grave. Hers was one of only a few in the old burying ground that ever had one. Soon after Mary's passing, though, Samuel moved away from York. One can imagine that being in the town where he had married and lost his wife would just be too painful for him to bear. But Samuel was comforted that he had left a beautiful legacy behind for Mary, the best headstone that money could buy, immortalized with the face that he had loved so dearly.

Sadly, though, that is not how the community interpreted her grave. About a hundred years after her death, the people of York started whispering about Mary. It's speculated that these rumors began because of the Wolfstone, which by the 19th century was the only Wolfstone left in the cemetery. Others believe that it was because of her distinctive portrait, which left mourners disconcerted. Gradually, people started to speculate that the wolfstone had been placed over the grave to stop her from rising from the dead, which, of course, would only have been plausible if she had been a witch, according to the locals anyway. So people decided that Mary must have been a well-known herbalist back in the day, and

from there the stories only grew. Mary, they claimed, had been a white witch, she had exercised demons, and Mary had been unfairly executed for the crime of witchcraft. Visitors to the Old York Burying Ground started to say that crows were always congregating around her headstone. It was only a matter of time before the legend of her ghost came to be. To this day, York locals will say that Mary haunts the playground across the street from the cemetery where she was buried.

According to the stories, her ghost is friendly and it pushes children on the swings when they need an extra boost. This is all, of course, nonsense. And it pains me to say it. I love a good ghost story more than anyone, but historians say that there is no evidence whatsoever that Mary Nason was a witch. As far as anyone can tell, she led the most ordinary life possible. Samuel would likely be devastated if he knew that his beautiful tribute to his loving wife

had inspired rumors about her being a witch. It turns out that people can be cruel to others even after they've died and been buried. Mary has gone down in history not as a caring mother or a doting partner. She has been remembered only as a witch. And if her ghost really is pushing the playground swings, well, it's probably with her hands and not a broomstick. This episode of Lore Legends was produced by me, Aaron Manke, with writing by Alex Robinson and research by Jamie Vargas.

Just a quick note, while recording this episode about York, Maine, standing inside my recording booth in my office, I felt my entire house shake from a rare New England earthquake. I'm pretty sure the sounds did not come through on the recording, but there's one weird feature of this earthquake that I felt I needed to mention. Its epicenter was York, Maine. Don't like hearing the ads? I've got a solution for you. There is a paid version of lore on Apple podcasts and Patreon that is 100% ad free.

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