Maybe this is a case of history repeating itself, but with a comic twist.
Sébastien Rale (or Rasle, Rasles) was a controversial French Jesuit who served as a missionary to the Norridgewock tribe of the Abenaki Indians in the late 17th and early 18th centuries in what is now Maine but was then a disputed borderland between New England and French Acadia. Historians tell us Rale had a knack for evading his English foes from New England, who feared and despised him. He did so over and over again, off and on, for almost two decades.
Rale seemed to be in hiding once again a few days ago, when my wife Liz and I tried to locate a hard-to-find monument dedicated to the elusive priest. This time, the search ended not in death, as it did for Rale in 1724, but with a surprising gift of squash that we received in an unexpected location.
Confused? All will become clear in a minute.
The brackets of Rale’s life tell us that he was born in Pontarlier, France, in 1657 and died in Norridgewock (aka Narantsouak) at what is now Old Point in Madison, Maine, in 1724. He is a prominent figure in Maine history, and in the annals of both New France and colonial New England.
To his French and Indian contemporaries, he was a selfless religious leader devoted to the spiritual well-being of his flock. He learned the Abenaki language and compiled an Abenaki-French dictionary, which survives to this day. To New Englanders, Rale was a partisan guerrilla who encouraged the Norridgewocks to fight the English. He may even have joined them in a devastating French and Indian raid on the English settlement at Wells, Maine, in 1703.
The English tried but failed to capture Rale in 1705. They tried again in 1722, and twice more in 1723. Each time, Rale eluded them. His luck did not run out until 1724, when soldiers from New England attacked Norridgewock, slaughtered dozens of Indians, forced many more to flee, and killed and scalped Rale.
Fast forward to Oct. 25, 2014. That’s when my wife Liz and I finally decided to visit a Madison monument that was dedicated to Rale in the 19th century, on the supposed site of his death. I have an indirect connection to Rale because the French officer who led that 1703 raid against Wells — Alexandre Leneuf de La Vallière — pops up in my family tree as a cousin, nine generations back.
We arrived in Madison quickly enough; it’s less than 50 miles from our home in Augusta. But Rale, who may well be the most famous historical figure with ties to the towns of Madison and Norridgewock, is almost as hard to pin down now as he was three centuries ago.
The town of Madison has an article about Rale’s monument on its web site, but it is not accompanied by a map, or directions. We found no signs in town pointing us to it. And when we stopped for directions at a business across the Kennebec River, the polite owner clearly had no idea who or what I was talking about.
He was kind enough to point us toward the police station in Madison (population 4,800 or so). I figured someone there was sure to know the way. But the cop shop was locked up tight when we got there. With unrelated stops to make in two nearby towns before we headed home, we were running out of time.
We finally stumbled upon a woman out for a walk who not only knew who Rale was but how to get to his monument as well. It’s tucked in the back of a cemetery, near the banks of the Kennebec. If she had not shared that key fact, we never would have found the tall, 181-year-old granite marker.
After we had photographed the monument, read the inscription and examined the setting, we headed back to our car, which we had left in the cemetery. A pickup truck was parked nearby with its tailgate down, and we exchanged greetings with a diminutive elderly woman who was standing next to it.
I figured the woman and her husband were visiting someone’s grave, and maybe they were. But that wasn’t the only thing on their minds. “Would you like some squash?” the woman asked, incongruously, only a few feet from grave markers. At first, I thought she and her husband were selling the stuff, but it turned out they were desperate to give it away. Liz accepted a large Blue Hubbard and a Buttercup. She politely refused to take more because we couldn’t possibly have used it all.
If nothing else, this tale shows the value of serendipity. We got lost just long enough to be in the right place at the right time to meet the helpful woman who gave us directions, as well as the very nice couple whose pickup was weighed down by a mountain of pesky produce. A bit earlier, or a bit later, and Rale might have eluded capture — this time, by a camera — yet again.
And then there’s this takeaway: No matter how much historical research you may do, I think I can safely say this is the only place where you’ll ever see Sébastien Rale and Blue Hubbard squash mentioned in the same sentence.
Sébastien Rale (or Rasle, Rasles) was a controversial French Jesuit who served as a missionary to the Norridgewock tribe of the Abenaki Indians in the late 17th and early 18th centuries in what is now Maine but was then a disputed borderland between New England and French Acadia. Historians tell us Rale had a knack for evading his English foes from New England, who feared and despised him. He did so over and over again, off and on, for almost two decades.
Rale seemed to be in hiding once again a few days ago, when my wife Liz and I tried to locate a hard-to-find monument dedicated to the elusive priest. This time, the search ended not in death, as it did for Rale in 1724, but with a surprising gift of squash that we received in an unexpected location.
Confused? All will become clear in a minute.
The brackets of Rale’s life tell us that he was born in Pontarlier, France, in 1657 and died in Norridgewock (aka Narantsouak) at what is now Old Point in Madison, Maine, in 1724. He is a prominent figure in Maine history, and in the annals of both New France and colonial New England.
To his French and Indian contemporaries, he was a selfless religious leader devoted to the spiritual well-being of his flock. He learned the Abenaki language and compiled an Abenaki-French dictionary, which survives to this day. To New Englanders, Rale was a partisan guerrilla who encouraged the Norridgewocks to fight the English. He may even have joined them in a devastating French and Indian raid on the English settlement at Wells, Maine, in 1703.
The English tried but failed to capture Rale in 1705. They tried again in 1722, and twice more in 1723. Each time, Rale eluded them. His luck did not run out until 1724, when soldiers from New England attacked Norridgewock, slaughtered dozens of Indians, forced many more to flee, and killed and scalped Rale.
Fast forward to Oct. 25, 2014. That’s when my wife Liz and I finally decided to visit a Madison monument that was dedicated to Rale in the 19th century, on the supposed site of his death. I have an indirect connection to Rale because the French officer who led that 1703 raid against Wells — Alexandre Leneuf de La Vallière — pops up in my family tree as a cousin, nine generations back.
We arrived in Madison quickly enough; it’s less than 50 miles from our home in Augusta. But Rale, who may well be the most famous historical figure with ties to the towns of Madison and Norridgewock, is almost as hard to pin down now as he was three centuries ago.
The town of Madison has an article about Rale’s monument on its web site, but it is not accompanied by a map, or directions. We found no signs in town pointing us to it. And when we stopped for directions at a business across the Kennebec River, the polite owner clearly had no idea who or what I was talking about.
He was kind enough to point us toward the police station in Madison (population 4,800 or so). I figured someone there was sure to know the way. But the cop shop was locked up tight when we got there. With unrelated stops to make in two nearby towns before we headed home, we were running out of time.
We finally stumbled upon a woman out for a walk who not only knew who Rale was but how to get to his monument as well. It’s tucked in the back of a cemetery, near the banks of the Kennebec. If she had not shared that key fact, we never would have found the tall, 181-year-old granite marker.
After we had photographed the monument, read the inscription and examined the setting, we headed back to our car, which we had left in the cemetery. A pickup truck was parked nearby with its tailgate down, and we exchanged greetings with a diminutive elderly woman who was standing next to it.
I figured the woman and her husband were visiting someone’s grave, and maybe they were. But that wasn’t the only thing on their minds. “Would you like some squash?” the woman asked, incongruously, only a few feet from grave markers. At first, I thought she and her husband were selling the stuff, but it turned out they were desperate to give it away. Liz accepted a large Blue Hubbard and a Buttercup. She politely refused to take more because we couldn’t possibly have used it all.
If nothing else, this tale shows the value of serendipity. We got lost just long enough to be in the right place at the right time to meet the helpful woman who gave us directions, as well as the very nice couple whose pickup was weighed down by a mountain of pesky produce. A bit earlier, or a bit later, and Rale might have eluded capture — this time, by a camera — yet again.
And then there’s this takeaway: No matter how much historical research you may do, I think I can safely say this is the only place where you’ll ever see Sébastien Rale and Blue Hubbard squash mentioned in the same sentence.
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| 19th century lithograph depicting the death of Father Sébastien Rale |
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