"Step Back to the Past! Visit Historic Wyebridge! Authentic Colonial Village!"
The billboard beckoned to me from the side of the road. I teach American history at a local junior college, and I'd never heard of Wyebridge Village. In fact I wouldn't have heard of it even today if it hadn't been for this damned detour.
I was due in Boston by three o'clock this afternoon. And it would have been an easy trip, with plenty of time to spare. But today, part of I-95 was closed because of a multi-car accident, and now I was putzing along some secondary state highway to get around the delay. I'd still make Boston in good time, before the rush hour started. But it just seemed like the traffic on this little two-lane road was just crawling casually along.
As I passed this sign, I was a little intrigued. As I say, I'd never heard of this place before, and as an American history teacher, I probably should know about it. I had a little time to spare, so I did as the billboard said, and turned off into the driveway leading up to the gravel parking lot. The driveway entrance had two little painted statuettes of Colonial-ish looking men with tricorn hats, holding handbells. I drove in, and followed the driveway through a grove of trees, and came out into a gravel parking lot, with just a few cars parked in it. Good, I thought--it won't be crowded.
The outside looked about as I expected it to. A stockade, built of vertical logs driven into the ground, surrounded the village and led up to the gate, which, conveniently featured the admissions booth. I paid the admission price and stepped into what I had hoped was the past.
As I entered, the first thing that caught my attention was the village green. Buildings, including a church and a tavern surrounded it, as did several cabins. There was a town well in the center of the green, with several buckets lying next to it. There were three or four benches, made of split logs. There was a large platform, probably used for public gatherings. And there was a smaller platform on the side, with two posts and a couple of transverse boards, with holes in them. Probably a pillory, I thought, for public punishment.
As I looked around the village green, I heard a family coming in behind me. A father, a mother, and a little girl.
"See, Darcy?" The mother was saying. "This is just like the early Puritans lived."
I doubt it, I thought to myself. For one thing, the power lines leading to the individual buildings probably weren't there in the 1600s. And the buildings themselves looked a little too sturdy, more like the 1800s. The cabins looked more like the style of southern Appalachian cabins, Daniel Boone style. I also noticed several docents walking around the green, wearing brightly colored dresses and shirts--a little too colorful, I thought. The average New England Puritan would have had almost exclusively black or dark clothes.
A man dressed in a light brown coat and a tricorn strode up onto the platform and announced, "Here ye, here ye! Luncheon is now being served in the Wyebridge Tavern."
I hadan't had any breakfast, so I figured I may as well stay here for lunch. I headed over to the Tavern, as did several other guests. The Tavern was unmistakeable--it had a taller front to it, and a small hanging sign in the shape of a kettle, protruding next to the door. I smelled the aroma of food cooking coming from inside.
As I walked in, I was greeted with a floor sign--"Kindly Seat Thyself." I looked around and chose a small empty table near a window. I sat down, then looked around at the room. It was large, with no windows, but with electric wall sconces of black cast iron with globes containing electric light bulbs. The walls were decorated with paintings of American Indians and what I guess were Pilgrims--again, their dress was all wrong. The "pilgrims" were shown wearing brightly colored shirts, and the "Indians" had on elaborate costumes that no real Wampanoag or Pockanocket member would ever be caught dead in.
"What may I bring thee?"
A sweet low female voice was speaking to me. I turned around and saw a young lady smiling at me, leaning over the table to set a water glass in front of me. Her costume was, of course wrong--too colorful and too low-cut, showing an ample amount of cleavage. No Puritan would stand for that, I thought.
"Dost thou like what thou seest?"
Ooops! I suddenly realized I'd been staring at her cleavage. I stammered, "I sure do--I mean, uh, oh, sorry! Didn't mean to, ah,..."
She patted me on the shoulder. "Worry not, sir," she said, smiling at me. "I'll be serving thee today. My name is Rebecca." She indicated the menu on my table. "What is thy pleasure?"
I glanced at the menu. The selections were entirely out of historical context. I laughed inwardly--Wyebridge must have been the first tavern in Colonial New England to have a panini press, I chuckled to myself. Out loud, I ordered. "I'll have the roasted beef sandwich special, please. With iced tea."
She scribbled down my order on her pad. I continued, "And I apologize for staring at you like I did at first. You see, I'm an American History professor, and I was intrigued with your costume. It, ah, looks very good on you."
She smiled her pleasant smile at me. "Why, much thanks for the compliment, good Sir," she said. Then she lowered her head a bit. "I must be careful, for I am betrothed. To Edward, the blacksmith."
I nodded. "Well, my congratulations to you and Edward," I acknowledged.
Lunch was actually pretty good--probably better than I would have gotten in the 1600s. I enjoyed my meal, then got up to leave, after paying with a 21st century credit card, and leaving Rebecca a nice tip.
I wandered out the door, and looked at my watch, realizing that I'd stayed longer than I'd intended. So I began to head back to my car.
Suddenly, I felt a man's hand grab my right arm.
"Thou must come with me, sir."
It was the village bellringer. The same man who had made the lunchtime announcement.
"What's wrong?" I challenged him.
"The Judge will inform you, sir."
Well, I wasn't running late, so I decided to play along with their little colonial charade. I allowed him to escort me into one of the cottages. Inside there was some wooden furniture. At one end of the room was a wooden desk, where there sat a large burly man in a white wig and a black robe. I thought, this guy must be the judge.
"Good afternoon, your Honor. What brings me here this afternoon?"
The Judge looked down at a sheet of paper on his desk, then up at me. "Thou art Thomas Davison?"
"Yes, sir."
"Thou hast been accused of indecent behavior toward one Rebecca Brighton. How pleadest thou?"
Oh, I thought. That must be Rebecca my waitress. "Not guilty, Your Honor."
The Judge studied the paper some more. "The charges here state that thou didist peer down into Miss Brighton's bodice, endeavoring to glimpse her breasts. The charge further states that thou didst compliment Miss Brighton upon the prettiness of her breasts, though she told thee that she was betrothed to another. Is this not true?"
"No, your Honor, not exactly. You see, I teach American History, and I know something about colonial costume. I was intrigued with her dress..."
"Aha!" The Judge's eyebrows went up. "Then thou actually did ogle Miss Brighton indecently?"
"Well, not like that. Your Honor, you make it sound so creepy..."
"I have heard enough." The Judge stood up and looked at the other man, then back at me. "Thomas Davison," he pronounced, "by my authority as the Judge of Wyebridge, I find you guilty of lewd behaviour, and sentence you to spend the rest of the day in the pillory."
This has got to be a joke, I thought. Just part of their play-acting. Okay, I'll play along, as long as I can.
The other man escorted me out the door. Just then, a third man arrived, dressed in a sombre blue jacket and tricorn hat. The two of them took my arms and led me away from the Judge's house, and over to the village square, and onto the small platform with the pillory. I noticed that the top beam of the pillory was removed, opening the two armholes and the neckhole. From the platform, I could see several tourists looking up at me with vague interest.
"We must remove your shirt, sir," the man in blue said.
"Really? Why?"
"The Judge's orders, sir." Holding my arm with one hand, he reached over and unbuttoned my shirt with his other hand. He and the man in the light brown jacket pulled my shirt off, leaving me bare-chested. Then they guided me to a spot behind the pillory.
"In you go, sir," the tan-jacket man said.
His hand pressed down on the back of my neck, pushing it into the center hole. Then, with his other hand, he and the blue-coated man pushed my hands into the arm-holes. Before I knew it, the top beam was lowered, closing the holes. I heard a metallic "click" and saw padlocks being attached to the holes on each side, so I couldn't push the top beam back up.
And there I was. In the pillory. Several tourists were walking by. One of the ladies pointed to me and said something to her husband. They both laughed and walked on. A schoolboy, with his parents, pointed a camera at me and took a picture. I must have been a sight--hands and neck locked in the pillory, on public display. I felt embarrassed. Then I felt something hard circling my right ankle, and heard the clank of chains.
