🚧 Warning: Features barefoot hysteria, moss-born revenants, and floral offerings to things best left unnamed. May awaken ancestral memories or cause spontaneous interpretive dance.
A Shatagee Woods Yarn Retold by M. Vilecreek
(scribbled ’neath pines nosin’ like curious hounds)
Y’gotta picture it rightly now: a crinkly tintype from ’round the summer of ’15, showin’ upwards of twenty souls all gone wild-eyed and whoopin’, prancin’ barefoot on Oliver Young’s hotel lawn just down the way from Franklin Sargent’s fancy amphitheatre. Oh, Franklin, he’d cut that Greek marvel into the Merrill hillside some six seasons prior, hopin’ city money’d flow easy as Chazy Lake trout. But this hootenanny—this was somethin’ diff’rent altogether, somethin’ noisy and alive, and folks ain’t seen the likes of it ’fore nor since.
Behind ’em, Upper Chateaugay Lake lies flat as slate, but right here on Oliver’s grass, the troupe’s kickin’ like mad March hares. Steamboat men beatin’ wash-tub drums an’ blowin’ busted stovepipes, actresses from Franklin’s Academy floatin’ ’round in Greeky-lookin’ dresses, and them dancers—Isadora Duncan’s girls come up from the city—movin’ graceful-like, feet splashin’ dew every which way.
The fellers in stove-pipe hats an’ canvas britches? Them was ol’ Hiram Shuttrick’s ore-barge boys, lately restyled as the Chateaugay Lake Steamboat Pirate Syndicate after the ironworks shuttered in Bellmont, tossin’ good men outta work an’ sendin’ ’em lookin’ for trouble. Them flower-strewn lasses? Franklin’s best students, plus the modern dancer gals that Isadora brought north, her bein’ famous for her wild, barefoot dances an’ strong opinions that a mountain breeze or lake ripple made finer music than any city orchestra ever could.
How It Came About
It was mid-July, hotter’n blazes an’ buggy besides, when Franklin spread word ’round the lake by telegraph, invitin’ every fiddler, pirate, actress, an’ tramp poet to a newfangled performance art shindig—a so-called “Bog-Core Hootenanny.” This weren’t to be no regular stage play, mind; rather, an improvised Greek tragedy with a North Country twist, down on Oliver Young’s lawn ’stead of Franklin’s stone tiers, ’cause Franklin knew Oliver didn’t mind folks trompin’ the grass, s’long as they brought their own jug.
The story was about none other’n ol’ Mose Sangamaw, a Chazy Lake guide who met his sorry end some winters back, froze stiff out on the ice after an uncanny meetin’ with a Lenape father an’ his beautiful daughter.
Plot, short as tin:
Sangamaw—poor Mose—was promised endless pelts by the Lenape sachem, if’n he’d trade away the very spirit o’ Chazy Lake itself. He was tricked, bewitched, an’ left cursèd, froze solid out yonder, his ghost moanin’ low every January wind since.
Now them dancers was gonna play lake spirits, an’ them pirate musicians were cast to make racket for thunder and storm—but first Franklin had ’em march down from the amphitheatre, like some Greek victory parade. The dancers had wreaths an’ streamers of flowers, handin’ ’em out to pirates, who, bein’ courteous enough gents when gals was involved, pretended best they could that daisies an’ trilliums suited ’em fine.
Witness Testimony (take it or leave it)
- Orsamus “Ossie” Breen, ferryboat feller:
“Never seen pirates wear flowers afore—looked more uneasy’n fox pups in rain—but Lordy, when them gals commenced twirlin’, them boys perked right up an’ near danced themselves.”
- Miss Althea Crimmins, village schoolmarm (Brainardsville Methodist, high-strung):
“Scandalous is what it was! Pirates struttin’ like pagans, posies wiltin’ off their hats, bare legs flashin’ scandalously! Poor example fer impressionable children, ’specially that Sangamaw tale, full of foreign dev’lish cursin’ and heathen superstition.”
- “Dry-Dock” Bell, syndicate leader and former forgeman:
“Can’t rightly see no harm in a jig, flowers or not, Miss Crimmins. And sure enough, if them dancers warmed ol’ Mose Sangamaw’s icy ghost with their swayin’, ain’t that doin’ some good?”
The Night the Sky Joined In
Come performance evenin’, clouds hunkered low an’ mean, thunder thumpin’ like ore carts headin’ downhill. The dancers leapt an’ spun like spirits indeed, their gowns soaked an’ clingy in rain. Pirates banged on cookpots, blew mournful notes through busted horns an’ stovepipes cut to length.
When Franklin himself, wrapped solemn in a tattered shawl as the Lenape father, raised his cedar staff to curse Mose Sangamaw, a bolt o’ lightning split the night sky clean in half. Every soul froze, an’ waves on Chateaugay Lake rolled restless, as if answerin’ that ancient magic.
Young Mae Kirby, playin’ the Lenape daughter, raised her sweet voice then, soft as smoke. Frogs hushed, wind stilled, an’ every pirate an’ dancer alike stood there spellbound, wet hair plastered, eyes wide, wonderin’ where play ended an’ spirits began.
The Row That Followed & What Stuck
Half the village called it blasphemous, heathen rites fit to rouse Wendigos; other half claimed it just good honest fun an’ art besides. Franklin laughed, poured brandy round, promisin’ to keep up the hootenanny every July full moon till the lake dried up. Though Sargent himself lasted only a couple more summers ’fore sadness took ’im down Plattsburgh way, the Bog-Core shindig carried on stubborn-like, every year drawin’ lake-folk, college artists, bootleggers, an’ critics from as far as the city.
An’ as fer that flower business? Well, pirates still ain’t fond o’ blooms, but truth be told, they’ll wear ’em once a year anyhow, mostly fer the smilin’ dancers an’ the memory o’ that first mad, magical night.
A Coda
Nowadays, if ye hear young city folks chatterin’ ’bout “Bog-Core,” drinkin’ gin in Greenwich speakeasies, or see ’em barefoot whirlin’ to wash-tub basses in the Bowery, remember they didn’t hatch that madness down there. Nay, it sprang straight outta Oliver Young’s lawn, where ragtag pirates, artistic ladies, and thunder itself came together one wild evenin’, makin’ somethin’ strange an’ wondrous that Chateaugay Lake still whispers about whenever midnight mists creep ashore.
—As recalled from lakeside gossip, porch yarns, and honest exaggerations by yours truly, Mordecai Vilecreek
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?