Devils Dishful Pond Traditional Cache

At Devil's Dishfull Pond, there is public access and a small parking area on the Eastern Shore. Canoeing and rowing 
are allowed activities. Please do not feed any wildlife and pick up after yourself. The Pond covers 26 acres and is open to the public. Available at all times but features a stunning view on a clear sunny day.

Based on a local West Peabody legend 

Two miles or so from the meetinghouse of Salem Village there is a fresh water pond much plagued by beavers and their constructions with the curious name, Devil's Dishful Pond. It is a few hundred yards from Suntaug Lake, and at one time in the pre-history of New England, it was undoubtably part of that larger body. 

But in the 1712, only twenty years after the witchcraft hysteria that had swept Salem Village, it was part of a remote farming settlement, more than a mile from a main road leading to Salem town, and from the turnpike that led from Boston to Ipswich. This gave it something of a timeless backwardness. 

Even its connection to the farms of the southern portion of Salem Village was distant. The place had something of an evil reputation as a magic place for the Indians who had lived there before the great plague of smallpox that came with the English settlers wiped them out. 

Only one person lived on the shore of the pond, a freed black man named John. John lived within twenty yards of the placid shore in a tatterdemalion shack that looked as if it had survived the Flood, though John himself had only built it a few years before. Since gaining his freedom through the will of Goodman Pope thirty years before, John had gotten by through farming a small plot, the occasional duck or goose, and performing odd jobs for his distant neighbors, helping them to cart produce to Salem or Boston, or clear a field here, or get in their harvest there. 

John spent his nights with his Bible, his jug of hard cider, and a light made from rushes dipped in oil, if he could afford the oil. A life-long bachelor, he had managed to escape notice of the Afflicted s 20 years before by bothering nobody and keeping to himself during the winter, spring, and summer of the accusations. 

One November morning, grey, and windy, and damp as most November mornings are in New England, John started for Boston market to help his former master's now somewhat elderly younger brother Ebenezer Pope sell a cartload of milk and a half dozen sheep for butchering. He planned to stay the night in Boston, perhaps visiting a friendly tavern in the North End he knew whose landlady and maids-of-all-work were very accomodating in more ways than one. 

That afternoon, Hannah Oakes, whose farm was just off the road to Salem town and near the property that had belonged to the accused wizard who refused to enter a plea for the court and was pressed to on the high street of Salem town, Giles Corey, was making use of the most plentiful of crops by baking pumpkin pies. 

Now Hannah was a woman of about 35, whose husband Jonathan had carved out a farm of some 50 acres with apple and pear orchards and two walnut trees. Jonathan was also a cooper when he was not busy with the work of his farm. Hannah and Jonathan were newcomers to Salem Village, having arrived only twelve years before from Boston. 

Hannah and Jonathan had three children so far, two others having been stillborn. Two daughters, Prudence and Chastity Oakes, were everything little s of 9 and 7 should be, quiet, industrious, helpful, pious. But Jonathan Junior, their elder brother, had something of the imp in him, a liveliness that neither Jonathan Sr. with his belt, nor Mr. Partridge the schoolmaster with his birch rod could completely master. 

And to make matters worse, the thirteen year old Jonathan found a close ally and accomplice in Isaiah Walcott, aged fourteen, whose family lived on the farm road now known as Goodale Street that led to Wills' Hill, which is now called Middleton. 

Young runs high, even in a now-sleepy Puritan farming community. If a privy was overturned of a November 5th, or apples were missing from the trees of Sherriff Herrick's orchard, or the gate to a meadow was off its hinges and found a half-mile away, it was more than likely the work of young Oakes and young Walcott. 

Now Hanah Oakes was a fine cook, her pumpkin pie was baked in the shell of the gourd. The Oakes' hens produced fine tasty eggs, which formed the basis of the pumpkin custard, along with milk fresh from their cows, and wonderfully rare cinnamon, ginger, cloves, and nutmeg brought to Salem town from the East Indies via England, as well as maple sugar from the upland pasture maples of the Oakes own smaller holdings. Hannah had carefully selected her pumpkins, not too round, and likely to have very tasty flesh. She had scooped out that meat, discarded the strings, set the seeds aside to fry and salt later, and had diced the meat and boiled it, and then mashed it and combined it with the eggs, milk, maple sugar, and spices, and then baked the shells in her brick oven in the great hearth of their home. 

She had baked a half dozen of these pies, as she was expecting her sister, her husband and their 4 children to join them for Thanksgiving in two days. 

Her pies were set on two window sills on the north side of the house to cool and keep the two days. From there the aroma drifted across the farmyard to the smokehouse where Jonathan Junior and Isaiah Walcott were experimenting with Jonathan Senior's pipe and tobacco. 
"Mmmmmmm. Mother's pumpkin pie." 

"Let's see if we can get some." 

"We daren't ask, with the smell of tobacco all over us." 

Silence for a few moments. 

"She always bakes more than we need for dinner." 

The notion took root, as the tantalizing smell worked on bellies fed with too much cornmeal and too few sweetmeats. 

It took only twenty minutes for the idea to progress from wish to plan to accomplished misdemeanor. 

Now the boys back behind the smokehouse, each with a pie, needed a safe place to enjoy their ill-gotten gain. The smokehouse did not provide enough cover. Darkness would soon fall, and Oakes Senior would be coming back from wood cutting. 

Isaiah: "I know old John left for Boston this morning and shan't be back until tomorrow. We can eat there." 

Across the orchard and the meadow they went, each carrying a pie, being careful not to trip over the roots of neighbor Goodman Billing's pear trees in the fast-gathering dusk of a November evening. Old John's shack promised to be the perfect place to enjoy their feast. 

What the two young helions did not realize was that when Old John and Ebenezer Pope had been only three miles down the road to Boston, they ran into Squire Porter on the way back from same. 

"Taking milk into Boston, are ye Goodman?" 

"Why bless your honour, I am." 

"You'll find the market for it but poorly there. Folk from Cambridge and Concord and Braintree have been bringing it in by the wagonload this fortnight. You'll not fetch tuppence a gallon for it in Boston." 

"Good Squire, your news is but melancholy. What am I to do?" 

"Well, Ebenezer, there is Marblehead town. I've heard that milk is fetching nearly sixpence a gallon there now because of the coming holiday and most folk taking their milk to Boston. And as for yon lambs, I think merchant Hooper is still looking for cargo for the Lucy coasting for Halifax, and provisions of all kinds are wanted there by the army. If you are not needing immediate cash money, Mister Hooper might agree to consign them as a venture to Captain Turner and probably turn ye a better profit than selling them in Marblehead will bring." 

"Thankee kindly, Squire. We were well met and as always ye are a source of good advice. Solomon himself ain't in it with ye. Thankee." 

So Goodman Pope and old John detoured from their route, taking instead the road that runs to Marblehead through Lynn. 

In Marblehead, they found a good market for Pope's milk, and were indeed able to load the sheep aboard the Lucy as a venture (which turned out to be quite profitable). Pope brought home nearly 3 Pounds in cash money from the milk alone. The Lucy sailed on the evening flood tide with a fresh wind for Halifax. Pope and John had their business done before dinner time, and found themselves at noon in a familiar tavern in Marblehead, the Oliver Cromwell, where they dined on ham and corn bread and beans and hard cider. 

Old John was able to for an hour with a comely and biddable serving wench upstairs before heading home alone, his pocket full of tuppence pieces for his services, and a jug of Mr. Hooper's just-brewed ale under his arm (a sweetner for the success of the venture and in celebration of the completion of the Lucy's cargo). 

Old John of course took the short route home via Salem town. And of course he stopped and invested tuppence in a mug of cider there, to set him up for the rest of the trip. In fact, though he was in no hurry, he was just a mile from his shack, passing old Proctor's Tavern, at the crossroads of the turnpike and the Salem town road as young Oakes and young Walcott were making off with Goodwife Oakes' pies. 

It was dark when Oakes and Walcott reached the shack. Given old John's penury, there was nothing in the way of candles, and at the moment he had nothing in the way of rush lights, either. 

So it was dark, and due to old John's lack of a woman, messy inside. John slept on a pile of blankets in a corner on the dirt floor, an old discarded straw mat as a mattress. He had constructed a fireplace, of a sorts, but did no cooking. The three chickens and one pig he owned shared the interior with him in the colder weather. It was not exactly the sort of place discriminating 18th century dinners might chose for a repast, but it suited the two rascals well enough, except that it was dark, and that there were no forks, as old John ate food cold and with his fingers. At least they had their ha'penny knives, and could wash away the incriminating pumpkin residue with water from the well. 

The two had stumbled in the dark over each of the chickens, and the lean pig, and over John's bedding, but found a spot where they could settle down without sitting on livestock or droppings (they hoped for the latter, but could not verify that) and began to enjoy their ill-gotten gains. 

Normally, you could hear old John coming a mile away, as he was in the habit of singing Psalms at the top of his voice when he was out after dark. But the cider and an occasional pull from the jug of ale, just to lighten the load, you understand, had made him thoughtful and silent tonight. He was calculating how much he could expect, given the market prices he had just seen in both Salem and Marblehead, from selling his pig. Not being adept at the higher mathematics, this occupied his mind a fair part of the way from old Proctor's Tavern to his shack. And he was also mulling over the cost of mating him with Goodman Pope's sow, and the possibility of going into pigging on a grander scale. 

Old John was thoughful indeed, but he was aware, as he neared his shack, that all was not right. The hens were raising an infernal sqauwking, and the pig was grunting as if deeply offended. Coming closer, he could hear voices inside. 

As he listened, he was certain that he knew the voices, Isaiah Walcott, and Jonathan Oakes, Junior. Sure he knew them well enough. And he instantly wondered what mischief they might be about. 

Then, to John's nostrils wafted aroma of still-warm pumpkin pie, redolent of rich spices he had only had a few times before. 

So those two were either eating, or about to eat pumpkin pie. And if they were doing it in John's humble abode on a coolish November night when he was supposed to be away, it could not rightfully be theirs. 

A simple plan formed in his mind, and he executed it quickly, after working hard for a minute or two to suppress a chuckle. 

Using the deepest voice he was capable of, and that was rather a deep register indeed, he bellowed, "Who darest eat stolen pumpkin pie without offering it first to the Lord of Darkness?" 

The very marrow in the boys' bones froze at that unexpected and inhuman voice and what it said. 

"How darest Jonathan Oakes and Isaiah Walcott eat pumpkin pie in this place sacred to me? Stand and I will take you into hellfire for this affront!" 

Well, being told to stand fast so that the devil can give you a guided tour of Hell is good enough reason to take off like a jack rabbit, and that is exactly what Oakes and Walcott did, stumbling over bedding, pig, and chickens on the way out of course. 

If there was ever a speed record for traversing the orchards and meadows between the pond and the Oakes farm, it was broken that night. Once their pulse rates and breathing returned to normal, they began to suspect that they might have been practiced upon. But it was too late now to do anything about it. It was time for supper. 

Old John smiled with satisfaction. Once his eyes adjusted to the familiar dark, he found the pies abandoned and largely uneaten. Needless to say, he helped himself, and washed it down with merchant Hooper's ale. Old John lit his small fire to warm his bones against the November chill, and settled himself down to a most satisfied sleep. The next morning, the fire having gone out hours before, he was up early to help Goodman Billings with his pruning. 

Also next morning, just slightly after John left, Isaiah and Jonathan, having recovered their wits, decided to examine Old John's shack in the light of day. What they found were the two empty pie shells, but no sign of old John, or that he had been there. The place looked just the same as when they left it. 

"Well Isaiah, the devil of the pond truly had his dishful last night." 

The name has stuck now for almost three hundred years.