Coming Home
- June Murphy
- Nov 14
- 6 min read
After my husband and I moved to Sandwich in 2020 I found myself with time on my hands. It was the height of the pandemic and, like everyone else, we were in lockdown.
So I turned to one of my newer interests: genealogy. I decided to dig into my father’s side of the family. My dad grew up in the Newton area, the younger half-brother to three much older siblings. My impression is that school wasn’t exactly his thing (the story goes that he was invited to three different class reunions—what does that tell you?). But an opportunity came his way.
Around the time of World War II, he was hired and trained by MIT as a scientific glassblower. Later, he and two partners opened their own glassblowing shop in Cambridge. If you needed a test tube or beaker blown to a precise size, they were the ones to call. An unusual career, I think you’ll agree, but one that served him well.
I didn’t know my dad’s mother well—my paternal grandmother—so learning more about her side of the family seemed a good place for me to begin. It didn’t take long for Ancestry.com to work its magic.
The first big surprise was finding that her roots—my roots—were right here in Sandwich. Both of my great-grandparents were born and raised here. My great-grandmother, Jane “Jennie” Chase (1856-1909) was the daughter of Joshua and Clarissa (Hinckley) Chase. And what did Joshua do for a living? You guessed it—he was a glassblower.
Jennie married Edward F. Kinney Montague in 1874. The Montagues were Irish immigrants who settled in Sandwich in the 1830s. I have no doubt that the promise of steady work at the Boston and Sandwich Glass Factory drew them here, along with the comfort of a small but growing Irish community, many from in and around County Armagh. I’m guessing most knew each other back in the old country.
John and Sarah (Kenney) Montague, the heads of the family, married in Sandwich in 1835. They had seven children, six of whom survived to adulthood—one daughter, Catherine, died at just six months old and is buried near the pond in the Old Town Cemetery.
John bought and ran a boarding house on Factory Street in Jarvesville—still standing today—that was big enough to accomodate his own brood as well as seven boarders. The 1865 census made me smile: four of the Montague sons were working as glassmakers, but 56-year-old John, the patriarch, playfully listed his occupation as “gentleman.” An immigrant who raised a large family and managed to buy several properties along the way—I think he earned the title.
I was tickled to find a “Montague” family file in the Sandwich Town Archives, and even more delighted to come across a detailed and interesting obituary for the eldest Montague son, James, who died in 1903. James became an accomplished boat pilot and eventually settled in California. This passage, in particular, gives such a vivid description that I can’t help but wonder who knew him well enough to recall this story—
Captain Montague was born in Sandwich, August 24, 1836. His love of the sea came
to him, therefore, as a birthright, and when but a lad he braved the displeasure of his
parents and attempted to join a seagoing ship. Twice he was baffled by the pursuit of
his fond mother and returned home, but on the third occasion, after following him to
New York, she listened to the reasoning of the captain of the ship and allowed her boy
to sail, thinking that one trip would suffice. Not so, however. His love of the sea was but increased, and from that time he has been intimately connected with maritime matters.
When I picture housewife Sally Montague leaving five children behind to follow her first-born son to New York City in the mid-1800s, I can’t help but smile—and marvel. What a force she must have been.
When I hit a wall trying to uncover more about the Montagues’ Irish roots, I switched gears. I turned to my Chase great-grandparents, starting in Sandwich and following the thread as far back as I could.
That brought me my second big surprise.
It turns out my ancestral roots weren’t only in Sandwich—they reached all the way back to the Mayflower. From those early settlers, I’ve now found family connections spread far and wide across Cape Cod.
My tie to the Mayflower is through Stephen Hopkins and his children. Stephen, my ninth-great-grandfather (1581-1644), was not a Pilgrim per se, but one of those hired to assist them as he was the only one with prior experience in the New World. In 1609, he sailed aboard the Sea Venture, bound for Jamestown with supplies and the new governor, Sir Thomas Gates. But the vessel shipwrecked off Bermuda. While there, Hopkins was accused of mutiny after arguing that the passengers should govern themselves more democratically rather than submit to Gates’ rule. He was sentenced to death but ultimately spared, apparently after much pleading—both his own and by others.
The episode was documented by another passenger, whose account was later published in England. It’s believed that William Shakespeare drew inspiration from the shipwreck for The Tempest—and that the character of Stephano was based, at least in part, on Stephen Hopkins.
In any event, after ten months in Bermuda, the passengers finished building two small boats and eventually completed their journey to Jamestown. Hopkins returned to England in 1614, only to find that his first wife had died. When he traveled on the Mayflower, it was with his second wife and four children, one of whom—a boy named Oceanus—was born during the voyage.
I was surprised to find that two of Stephen’s children, Constance (Hopkins) Snow and Giles Hopkins, were both my great-grandparents—a fact that puzzled me at first. How could a brother and sister both be my grandparents? It turns out all it takes is a few generations and a handful of intermarriages. Even so, it feels a little freaky.
It didn’t take long for the descendants of Constance and Giles to spread across the Cape—from Eastham to Harwich, Dennis, Barnstable and, of course, Sandwich. Many of their descendants carried familiar Cape names, including Pope, Wing, Bangs, Nickerson, Merrick, and Baker, in addition to the Chase and Hinckley families mentioned earlier.
When I found the Phillip Hinckley house on Georges Rock Road—home to my third-great-grandfather—and saw the historic marker bearing his name, I felt an almost surreal sense of connection. At nineteen, Phillip set out from New Bedford on the whaling ship Baelina, sailing around Cape Horn to Hawaii on a three-year voyage (1818-1821). Later, he worked as a watchman at the Boston and Sandwich Glass Factory. He died in 1867 in a tragic accident at the Sandwich depot, struck by a train he hadn’t seen. Even reading about him from a distance of over 150 years, I sense a life that’s relatable—both courageous and ordinary—like most of us, perhaps.
Above left: The Phillip Hinckley House c. 1845, Georges Rock Road, Sandwich. SANDWICH TOWN ARCHIVES.
Above right: Phillip Hinckley “instantly killed,” from the Yarmouth Register, December 6, 1867.
One last mention: Thomas Hinckley (1618-1706), another of my ninth-great-grandfathers, arrived here as a teenager and became a well-known citizen of Barnstable. He served in King Phillips’ War and later became the governor of Plymouth Colony, holding the post for twelve years before the colony merged with Massachusetts Bay in 1692. A commemorative marker in his honor still stands along Route 6A in Barnstable Village.
I often wish I could talk to my father about all of this. He’s been gone for thirty years, but I wonder what he knew about his family. Did he have any idea his family hailed from Sandwich? That he’d followed in the glassblowing footsteps of grandfathers, uncles and cousins? That he had relatives on the Mayflower? I doubt it. He certainly never mentioned a word.
Learning all of this was completely unexpected. And knowing what I do now, I’ll never stop shaking my head at the fact that I somehow ended up moving to Sandwich. Serendipity, fate, coincidence—who knows?
What I do know is that my roots have become a quiet anchor in my life, a steady source of perspective. I appreciate what these people went through—the risks they took, the challenges they faced. They weren’t wealthy or celebrated, but they were strong and determined to make a better life. Understanding their struggles helps me put my own worries in context.
When I first attended a glassblowing demonstration at the Sandwich Glass Museum, I almost cried. These were my people. I had come home.
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June Anderson Murphy is a member of the Friends of the Sandwich Town Archives, a dedicated, all-volunteer, 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization committed to supporting and promoting the archives’ collections and the rich, diverse history of the Town of Sandwich. Learn more at fostasandwich.com.