The Sweet Milk of Satan: A Cape Cod Witch Story

Tony and I were down in Truro on Cape Cod recently, and we found a gravestone I've wanted to see for a long time. It belongs to Sylvanus Rich, who was born in 1720 and died on July 3rd, 1755. There's an interesting legend about Rich and a local witch. It goes something like this. 

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Sylvanus Rich was a sea captain. Not much is known about him, but something strange happened to him once during a routine sea voyage carrying carrying corn from North Carolina to Boston. As his ship was sailing north along Truro's Atlantic coast he told his crew to drop anchor. He had seen a small hut nestled among the dunes.

"I want some fresh milk," Rich told his men. "I'm tired of brackish water and rum. I bet whoever lives there has a cow that that gives milk." The crew watched as he rowed himself to shore (alone) and made his way to the hut. When he rowed back to the ship he had a jug of milk with him. "I was right," he said. "The old woman there had some milk for me. But she was the ugliest hag I've ever seen!" Rich retired to his cabin with the creamy beverage, but as soon as he did a fierce gale arose that shredded the ship's sails. The crewmen pounded on his cabin door for guidance, but he did not emerge until the next morning.

Sylvanus Rich's grave in North Truro Cemetery

"What's that?" Sylvanus Rich said groggily to his crew. "The sails are shredded and we're drifting? That's not my concern... Last night the hideous hag came to my cabin. She threw a magic bridle over my head and rode me like a horse up and down the Cape until sunrise. See?" He lifted his shirt, and his crew gasped at the red marks on his torso. They looked like they were made by a woman's shoe. 

"She will come again tonight," Captain Rich said. "I must prepare for her." His crew wasn't sure if he grimaced or smiled as he returned to his cabin and locked the door. 

For several days the ship drifted aimlessly off the Truro coast. Each night the dune-dwelling old witch came and used the captain as her steed, riding him up and down the Cape. Sylvanus Rich was under her spell and helpless to resist her. He spent his days and nights locked in his cabin. 

The crew was feeling desperate (and thinking mutinous thoughts), when they saw another ship approaching from the distance. By a strange coincidence, it was captained by Sylvanus Rich's son. When the crew told him his father was bewitched, Sylvanus's son went down to his cabin. The crew could hear the two men talking inside but were unable to make out what was said. 

Finally, Sylvanus Rich emerged onto the deck. "What are you all looking at?" he said. "My son's ship has materials to repair our sails. Get to work! We need to bring this grain to Boston."

The sails were repaired, and the ship finally arrived in Boston. The merchant waiting for the shipment of corn asked why it was so late. Sylvanus Rich simply said, "Blame it on the sweet milk of Satan."

That's the end of the legend. His gravestone is in Old North Truro Cemetery, but I couldn't find much information about Sylvanus Rich's life. He was born in Eastham, Massachusetts in 1720, and had at least two children with his wife Mary. His son Isaiah was born in 1744, and would only have been 11 years old when Sylvanus died. It seems unlikely that Isaiah was captaining a ship at the age of eleven, so I'm not sure how much of this legend is based on fact. 

There are a lot of New England legends about witches using magic bridles to ride men like horses. There are at least two others from Cape Cod specifically about witches riding sailors! I guess it was an occupational hazard of the time, like scurvy or getting seasick. New England witch stories aren't usually erotic, but I think the sexual undertones in these witch bridle stories are pretty obvious. Milk, usually associated with motherhood and sustenance, has a more sinister and unwholesome role in this tale. 

We never learn what transpired in the witch's hut, or what Sylvanus's son says to him that finally breaks the spell. I like that mystery. I also like that the witch is not killed or harmed at the end of this story. Instead, she is free to seduce and torment more sailors with the SWEET MILK OF SATAN. 

I included this story in my new book, Witches and Warlocks of Massachusetts, which is available now for pre-ordering and will mail on September 1. You can purchase it all your favorite online book vendors. 

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My main source for this story was Elizabeth Renard's book The Narrow Land (1934), and she got the story from Shebnah Rich's Truro, Cape Cod, or Landmarks and Seamarks (1884), with additional details from oral tradition.  

Taking a Trip Down Witchtrot Road

I've written before about the abundance of places in New England named after the Devil. There are quite a few named after witches as well, like Witchtrot Road in South Berwick, Maine.

A commenter asked me if I knew anything about Witchtrot Road, and I'm happy to say I do. The story behind the street's odd name begins with Reverend George Burroughs, the one-time pastor of Salem Village, Massachusetts.

Burroughs was born in England, raised in Roxbury, Massachusetts, and educated as a minister at Harvard. In 1670 he served as a pastor in Falmouth, Maine until the town was destroyed in an Indian attack. Representatives from Salem Village recruited him to be their minister in 1680 while he was sheltering as a refugee in Salisbury, Massachusetts. He accepted their offer and moved with his wife and three children to Salem Village.

Unfortunately the situation was not ideal. Burroughs was supposed to be provided with a salary, an allotment of firewood (a very valuable commodity at that time), and a house. Although the house was built for him, payment of his salary was delayed and when his wife died he had to borrow money from neighbor John Putnam to bury her. Burroughs was also asked to resolve long-standing disputes among various village residents.

Either the disputes were irresolvable or Burroughs (a short, muscular man with a bad temper) was just not the right person for the job. Instead of making things better he made things worse. In 1683 Burroughs left Salem and returned to the wild frontiers of Maine, preferring to take his chances with marauding Indians than minister to the fractious Salemites.

Nine years passed, and in 1692 the witch craze erupted in Salem. In their visions the afflicted girls saw that the witches were led by a man dressed like a minister. They soon identified him as George Burroughs. The ghost of his wife also appeared to the girls and accused Burroughs of murdering her and other victims as well. 

On May 2, 1692, Marshal Jonathan Partridge of New Hampshire was ordered to arrest Burroughs and transporting him to Salem for trial. At first Partridge and his men were hesitant. Burroughs was accused of being the most powerful witch in New England. No mere dabbler in the black arts, the afflicted girls had labeled him a "conjurer." Burroughs was also known to be unnaturally strong for someone his size. It was said he could lift a full barrel of cider with one hand and also fire a heavy musket singlehandedly. Could mere mortal constables arrest such a powerful minion of Satan?

Ultimately the constables conquered their fears and set off for Burroughs's  home in Wells. When they arrived the minister and his family were having dinner. Burroughs submitted to arrest without resisting, and the constables felt relieved as they manacled him. It was believed at the time that binding a witch prevented them from using their magical powers.

Burroughs suggested they take a shortcut he knew that would get them to Massachusetts more quickly. But as the group rode through the woods the constables began to feel concerned. Dark clouds were filling the sky and they could sense electricity in the air. A storm was coming - but who had sent it, God or his enemy? As the skies grew darker and the wind picked up the answer seemed obvious. It had been sent by Satan himself to prevent the constables from delivering Burroughs to the authorities. Rain poured from the sky, trees toppled onto the road, and lightning sizzled downwards. Filled with fear the constables rode onwards with their captive. The storm eventually passed and the constables sighed with relief. They had outlasted Satan's assault and could successfully bring Burroughs to Salem.

The road the constables traveled on is now called Witchtrot Road. Historian Marilynne K. Roach says there is no record of the constables' stormy journey in historic records, but the story does appear in Sarah Orne Jewett's The Old Town of Berwick (1894). Apparently the road's name and its story were an accepted part of local history well before Jewett was born in 1849. There's also a Witchtrot Road in Sanbornville, New Hampshire, which is right on the Maine border. Perhaps the two are connected?

As for George Burroughs, he was executed on August 19, 1692, another victim of the Salem witch hunts.