Greenwich Folklore Has Deep Roots (1986)

by Jeffrey Bingham Mead
Greenwich Time, Greenwich, Connecticut
April 30, 1986


The folklore and legends of our historic New England harkens us to the days when the hardships of every day life were borne out by our persevering settlers. These humble folk who lived off the virgin landscape were hard-working, dedicated pioneers. The resolve, work ethic and faith in God spurred their efforts to shape new destinies in a New World.

In the days after Peter Minuet and his company of Dutchman bought the island of Manhattan from the local Indians there, another group of colonials trekked north along the shores of Long Island Sound and planted their roots here. The Dutch of the New Netherland colony traded extensively with Indians which consisted of bartering for furs. It is unfortunate to say that some of this trade involved rum.

Intoxicated tribesmen often were victims of unscrupulous traders who stole the furs or bargained unfavorable transactions with the Indians. It was not long before the Indian tribes realized that all was not fair at all. Tempers burned like an uncontrolled brush fires sweeping across a hot summer landscape. The sachems decided that the colonists had to go, had to be punished, no matter what the cost.

One of the legends we have been left with to remind us of the times is the story of Cornelius Labden and the famous rock in Old Greenwich named for him. Mr. Laddin, as he is now called, his wife and daughter of "16 summers" where amongst those who inhabited the early colony here in the 1640s. He was a thick set man, solid and muscular. The unrelenting summer sun had burned his face during those cloudless days he spent working his fields beyond the outskirts of the village nearby. Laddin, his wife and lovely daughter, who was blossoming into the threshold of young womanhood, worked diligently on their farm. They, like other settlers, were God-fearing people working God's earth in a new promised land.

One July day Laddin was working in his fields, occasionally slapping his cheeks and his brow against the menacing hum of mosquitoes, when the sweet aroma of the hayfield yielded to the stench of thick black smoke. The Indians, with screams of vengeance blazing, mercilessly attacked the settlement, burning its cabins and butchering those souls who dwelled in them. Sensing impending peril, Laddin ran back to his cabin to protect his loved ones. Taking is flintlock in hand, he prepared to resist the calamity of the massacre.

Several warriors approached the cabin, falling dead from the shots of Laddin's flintlock. As the braves fell one by one, others came until there were too many. Further enraged by Laddin's efforts to defend himself and his family, the Indians surrounded his cabin and began to burn it.

It was this tragic moment that almost all hope was lost. Laddin's beloved wife and daughter realized that the only chance for survival from the Indian wrath was in obtaining assistance to repel the mad redmen. They hoped that by some divine providence the Indians would spare the women. After a tearful farewell Laddin stormed out of the cabin to his mighty steed in the woods nearby.

As Laddin began to ride off he looked back to the scene at his cabin. To his horror and shock, Laddin saw the Indians in cold-blooded rage scalp is lovely wife and young daughter. A vail of darkness descended over him and a cold chill shot up his spine. He watched in silence has his loved ones lay dead on the ground next to the burning cabin. Dazed and grieving for his family and neighbors, Laddin saw the Indians began to pursue him and urged his horse on.

Hope and his willingness to live on evaporated from his tormented soul as he rode toward the rock now famous with his name. In sudden desperation he plunged over the cliff. As legend has it he cried to his pursuers, "Come on ye foul friends. I go to join your victims!" Death with gruesome, too cold to describe, but it was quick.

While the fable of Laddin's Rock is mere legend, the story of Laddin and his family is a rich reminder, albeit an unhappy one, of the harshness of those early days of our local history. 

A new menace threatens this place today. It is hoped that the blemish of development and the indifference of those who support such a tragedy defacement of the community will be overcome by those amongst those who seek to preserve its natural beauty, its historical legacy as part of the effort to preserve the town of Greenwich.

Jeffrey Bingham Mead, who lives in Greenwich, is a direct descendent of one of the founding families of the town. He is a freelance writer and a member of the Greenwich Historical Society.