Cole's Hill

The site where 52 of the 102 Pilgrims who arrived in 1620 were buried during the brutal first winter. A 1735 storm exposed human remains, washing them into the harbor. The remains were reinterred in a sarcophagus in the 1920s.

Cole's Hill rises above Plymouth Rock, a grassy bluff overlooking the harbor where the Mayflower anchored in December 1620. Today it serves as a peaceful park with monuments and scenic views. But beneath this tranquil surface lies the most tragic chapter of the Pilgrim story—and perhaps its most haunted ground.

During that first brutal winter of 1620-1621, death came for the colonists with merciless frequency. Of the 102 passengers who arrived on the Mayflower, roughly half would not survive to see spring. They died of scurvy, pneumonia, exposure, and starvation, their bodies weakened by months at sea and wholly unprepared for a New England winter. Cole's Hill became their burial ground—not by choice, but by grim necessity.

The Pilgrims buried their dead at night, in secret, carefully leveling the graves and planting crops over them. They feared that nearby Native American tribes, with whom relations remained uncertain, might discover how vulnerable the colony had become. If the true death toll were known, an attack might follow. So the dead were hidden, their resting places erased from view, their numbers concealed even from history.

Estimates suggest that 52 colonists were buried on Cole's Hill during that first winter alone. The graves were dug in haste, bodies placed in mass burials, earth pushed back over them before dawn. No headstones marked their resting places. No prayers were recorded. The living were too busy dying themselves to properly honor the dead.

For more than a century, Cole's Hill kept its secrets. Then, in 1735, a violent storm struck Plymouth, and the hillside began to erode. Rain washed away the topsoil, and suddenly the bones of the Pilgrims lay exposed—skulls and femurs and ribs emerging from the earth like accusations. The colonists' desperate deception had been undone by nature itself.

Today, a sarcophagus on Cole's Hill contains bones reinterred from those mass graves, the remains of Mayflower passengers whose individual identities are lost forever. But visitors to this site report experiences that suggest not all the dead rest peacefully within.

People have heard voices rising from the earth—whispers, moans, the sounds of suffering that seem to emanate from the ground itself. Some describe an overwhelming sense of grief and desperation when standing on the hill, emotions so intense they bring tears. Cold spots appear on warm summer days. Shadowy figures have been glimpsed near the sarcophagus at dusk.

Ghost tours through Plymouth make Cole's Hill a solemn stop, and guides speak of the hill's tragic history in hushed tones. This is hallowed ground, a place where America's founding mythology meets the brutal reality of colonial survival. The Pilgrims who died here endured unimaginable suffering, and their final indignity was an unmarked grave in frozen ground.

For those who visit Cole's Hill, especially at twilight, the experience transcends mere tourism. Standing above Plymouth Harbor, looking out at the water where the Mayflower once rode at anchor, visitors sometimes feel they are not alone—that the fifty-two who never saw spring are still here, still waiting, their voices carried on the wind from that terrible first winter nearly four centuries ago.