USA > New Hampshire > Coos County > Incidents in White Mountain history, together with many interesting anecdotes illustrating life in the backwoods > Part 7
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On Cherry Mountain, he chased one into the tops of the thick trees, and, unwilling to lose it, climbed up, and for a long time continued the chase amid the branches; running round upon them almost as easily as the animal itself.
For hours he would amuse the traveller with his adven- tures in hunting, apparently as unconscious of anything re- markable as the boy who relates his exploits at a squirrel hunt. Wolves he dealt with as others do with a cat and kittens. Accidentally one day he came across a hollow log containing a nest full of young wolves. Two of them he carried home and domesticated, and in time so tamed them that they were delivered over to his little son to take care of them. He taught them all the tricks that boys teach dogs, even making them speak for their food before receiving it.
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But once only they offered violence, and that was occasioned by attempting to remove some bones which one of them had buried.
With all his skill and courage, they would sometimes, he was compelled to acknowledge, annoy him exceedingly. His sheep he even had to sell, to prevent their being all destroyed by them. One cold December night a whole pack came suddenly upon his fold. The frightened sheep took ref- uge under the shed, and hid themselves among his cattle and horses. Wolves seldom attack these, unless driven to great extremity by hunger, and did not meddle with them, but satisfied themselves by digging up the carcases of some bears, which had been buried behind the barn. Their repast finished, they sat down upon their haunches directly in front of the house, and, as if in defiance of the master, commenced a most dismal howling. The very mountains echoed with their "lonesome music." The dog was first let out, hoping · he might frighten them off; but the reception they gave him was soon manifest from his loud cries. They had nearly torn him in pieces when Mr. Crawford came to his rescue. Springing out of bed, he went out with nothing on but his night-dress. The cunning fellows, perceiving their advan- tage, dropped the dog, and sat "bolt upright" to receive him. He was fairly beaten ; nothing could move them. Talk as loud as he could, they would not stir. They waggishly wagged their heads as he threatened, until at length the chill night-wind compelled him to retreat, and leave them masters of the field.
His fund of "bear stories" was almost inexhaustible. Hardly a week had passed, since he had lived among the mountains, that he had not had an encounter with one. Young cubs he would capture and carry home as one would
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a young pig. Driving one as large as a good-sized dog into a tree one day, he persuaded a young man with him to climb the tree, and drive him out, while he stood below to keep the old bear off. The cub, to escape his pursuer, ran out from the tree into a smaller one close by, where Mr. Crawford was standing. Keeping the old bear off as best he might, he shook the tree so hard that down came the young bruin pounce upon him. He simply remarked that he took good hold of him, and, tying his handkerchief about his mouth, carried him home. Such hand-to-hand encounters he fre- quently had with them, never fearing to match his own unaided strength with theirs. A very amusing account of such an engagement we give in his own words :
" Once, going to a celebrated place for bears, I found a good-sized yearling bear caught in a steel trap by one of his fore-feet, and he appeared not to have been long there. He had fastened the grapple to a bunch of roots, and there was a chain between the grapple and the trap. Here he was sitting in an humble and ashamed-looking position. I looked him over, and at length concluded to contrive means to lead him home. I cut a round stick, ten feet in length, sufficiently large and stout to lead him with ; then, taking the throat-latch from the bridle, the stirrup-leather and the mail-straps from the saddle, I 'set the horse at liberty, and managed to get hold of the bear's hind feet ; these I straight- ened and tied to a tree. I then went up to his head and secured his mouth, but not so tight but what he could lap water. While thus engaged, in spite of all my care, he put out his fore-paw - the one that was at liberty - and placed it so hard against one of my legs, that I really think, had it not been for a good strong boot, he would have torn the skin ; but the boot prevented him from tearing my leg. He,
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however, took a piece of my pantaloons with him; still, I would not give up the idea of bringing him home alive. I then fastened a strap around him, before and behind, and the stick upon his neck, loosened his feet, and then began to try to lead him. Here we had a great struggle to see which was the stronger, and which should be master ; and he played his part so well I could do nothing with him. He would turn upon me and fight me all he possibly could. . I now thought I must kill him ; but as I had never been beaten by a wild animal, I was unwilling to give up now. He would come to a tree, and hold on, so that I found I could not lead him. I again contrived a way to confine him, but with more diffi- culty than before, as his feet were entirely free, and, being quick and active with them, I had hard work to get them again ; but, after a while, I made out to. I then tied his hind and fore feet together, in such a manner that he could not scratch me ; then placing him on my shoulder, with one hand hold of his ear, to keep his head from coming too near mine, in case he wished to make a little closer friendship, I trudged on ; but he was so heavy and ugly to manage, that it made me sweat ; and I was obliged to lay him down often and rest, and whenever I came to water, I would let him lap it. I made out to get two miles, he all the while growing worse and worse; at last he actually turned upon me, and entered into an engagement with me, by scratching and trying to bite, and, after tearing my vest, I concluded I would once more lay him down - and the way was not easy. Lifting him up as high as I could, I let him fall, and, the ground being hard, the breath left his body. Here I left him, and went home, and sent a man after him."
CHAPTER VII.
THE CRAWFORD FAMILY.
MR. CRAWFORD'S EARLY DEATH. - A REMARKABLE MAN. - THE CRAWFORD FAMILY. - ABEL CRAWFORD. - MRS. CRAWFORD. - HER BRAVERY DURING TIIE NIGIIT OF THE SLIDES. - CRAWFORD HOUSE. - DEATH OF MR. STRICK- LAND ON THE MOUNTAINS. - DANGER OF ASCENDING MOUNTAINS WITHOUT GUIDE. - PARTY OF STUDENTS LOST ON MOUNTAINS. - NANCY'S BROOK. - STORY OF NANCY. - SUPERSTITIONS CONNECTED WITH THE SPOT WHERE SHE WAS FOUND. - OWL STORY. - BEAUTIFUL AURORAL DISPLAY AT THE NOTCH.
MR. CRAWFORD died young. The exposures and hardships of his early life had completely shattered his naturally strong constitution, and he broke down long ere he had reached the maturity of manhood. He suffered much in his last days through his bodily ailments and pecuniary embarrassments. The giant of nearly seven feet, whose feats of strength had been the wonder and astonishment for many miles around him, was at length compelled to yield to a foe that he could not withstand. His great strength was no aid to him in en- during the intense pain which he suffered, so acute at times, that he says, "I have put my hand to the top of my head, and felt the hair, to know if it did not stand straight on end, as I could feel it rise, and sometimes would think it would throw off my hat." Relieved, for brief periods, of this in- tense pain, he would forget all past suffering, and so great
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was his love for hunting and the mountains, that, gun in hand, he would totter after his game when scarcely able to stand. We always had a high estimate of Mr. Crawford, as one of nature's noblemen ; but never more so than since we com- menced to write the brief story of his adventurous life. Beneath his rough exterior lay concealed some of the noblest qualities in the human character. We cannot convey our idea of him more exactly than in the words of the poet :
" He was one Who would become a throne, or overthrow one. *
noble
In nature,
* gentle, yet wary ;
Yet for all this, so full of certain passions, That if once stirred or baffled, as he has been, * * * there is no fury In Grecian story like to that which wrings His vitals with her burning hands."
The whole Crawford family have been remarkable for their size and strength. Abel Crawford, the father, often styled the " patriarch of the mountains," at eighty was a stout, ath- letic man. A walk of five miles to his son Thomas J. Craw- ford, before breakfasting, at this advanced age, he performed with the greatest ease. At seventy-five he rode the first horse on to the top of Mount Washington that ever ascended. He represented, in the state legislature, the eight voters in his own location, and the few in Nash and Sawyer's Loca- tion and Carroll, with much ability, the five or six last years of his life. We can never forget his appearance not long before his death. So long had he been accustomed to trav- ellers during the summer months, that he felt he could not die without seeing them arrive once more. His venerable locks, as white as the drifted snow, falling to his very shoul-
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ders, his tall, massive form, as erect as in the prime of his manhood, he sat supported by his affectionate daughter, as eagerly waiting for the coming of his visitors, as the dying" sailor for the sight of his native shores. "Full of years," he died on their first arrival.
He was a good-humored man through all his life, and mingled as much of the playful with the sober as any you will ever see. After his days of toil in the field and on the mountain were over, and he was confined to his house through age, he spent much time in rehearsing amusing and interest- ing anecdotes to all who were disposed to listen to him, and from his visitors there were many such. Thus he greatly endeared himself to his guests, and through succeeding time not a few of them will rise up and say,
" I remember well a man, a white-haired man, Pithy of speech, and merry when he would, A genial optimist, who daily drew, From what he saw, his quaint moralities. Kindly he held communion, though so old, With me, a dreaming boy, and taught me much That books tell not, and I shall ne'er forget."
Mrs. Crawford was the fitting companion of so hardy a man. She was the mother of nine children, eight sons and one daughter. Erastus, the eldest son, was six feet and six inches in height, strong, and very compactly made. Ethan Allen, as we have before remarked, was near seven feet in height; and no son, we believe, was less than six feet tall.
During the night of the dreadful storm, when my brother's family was destroyed, Mrs. Crawford was alone with her smaller children, in their house. The water rose at a fear- ful rate, bearing along on its current sheep and cattle, and hay and grain which were stacked in the fields. Before she
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could get her children to the upper story of the house, the water was twenty-two inches deep on the lower floor, putting out her fire, and washing the ashes about the room. After securing her children, finding that the immense mass of stuff, brought down by the water, was collecting against the house, and thus endangering it, she took her clothes-pole, and, during the continuation of that violent tempest, stood and pushed away the logs and timbers as they came rushing against the dwelling.
For years the Crawfords were the only ones to entertain travellers to the mountains. The house at the head of the Notch, formerly known as the "Crawford House," was built by Ethan and his father, and was kept, for many years, by one of the sons. All the bridle-paths, on the western side of the mountains, were cut by them, and for many years they were the only guides who dared conduct visitors to the sum- mit. A melancholy incident is connected with the " Craw- ford House" bridle-paths, showing the folly of attempting to ascend those rugged and broken heights without a guide.
An Englishman, by the name of Frederick Strickland, came to the Crawford House, then kept by T. J. Crawford, Oct. 18th, 1840. The next day he left the house, in company with another Englishman and a guide, to ascend the moun- tains. When they reached Mount Pleasant, the guide and the other Englishman, on account of the cold, and snow on the mountain, proposed to return, and strongly advised Mr. Strickland to do the same. In defiance of all this, however, he persisted, and would go on. He delivered up his horse to the guide, and proceeded, on foot, toward the summit of Mount Washington, intending to come down Mr. Fabyan's bridle-path.
The guide and the other gentleman returned to Mr. Craw-
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ford's. In the mean time Mr. Crawford sent the baggage of Mr. Strickland to Mr. Fabyan's, with word that its owner might be expected to come down from the mountain and stay with him that night. But, as he did not come that night, Fabyan thought he had returned to Mr. Crawford's. The next morning, however, Mr. Crawford chancing to pass, inquired for him. This excited alarm, and they both started in pursuit of him. They found his track on the mountains, and followed that until night, making no discovery of anything but some of his clothes.
The next day they started, with others added, and found him dead. He had precipitated himself over some rough descent in his path, and lay at its base a lifeless corpse. He was the eldest son of Sir George Strickland, an eminent English baronet, recently member of Parliament for the county of York. He was about thirty-five years of age, and heir to large estates.
At the time of his death, he had been in this country but a few months. He was a graduate of Cambridge University, in England, and was a cultivated scholar.
The frightful condition of those lost on these mountains, during one of those sudden storms, which so frequently come upon them, cannot be better described than in the words of one who experienced all its horrors. A party of young men had rashly undertaken the ascent alone, quite early in the season. After wandering all day amid the precipices and defiles, night and a misty, foggy storm at last came on, com- pletely bewildering them.
" The slanting remains of sunlight faded into deep shadow. The light troops of a vast army of dense mists, sweeping low over our heads, came shutting off the last light, and, even as we looked in wonder, the wonder faded into fear as the
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massive body of the cloudy host charged upon us. It was a cold, thick fog - the coldest and solidest I ever felt ; appar- ently filled, indeed, with little particles of snow, which smote upon our summer clothing and chilled us through and through in an instant. Thicker and thicker it poured past, in interminable volumes, taking our remaining strength away with the warmth of our bodies, and our courage with our strength. We thought, in this perplexity, to follow the ridge on one of whose summits we were, downwards, and to grope our way out to the valley of the Saco, by following the fall of the ravines. We could not see twenty feet. The darkness, as the sun fell, momently increased. Our little local recol- lections having been frightened away by the mist, - thoroughly befogged in a double sense, - we had quite forgotten which way the ridge sloped downwards. Having followed it some distance in one direction, and coming to an ascent, we con- cluded we were going wrong, and went the other way. Un- dertaking, this time, to be persevering, we kept on until we got fairly away from the neighborhood of our resting-place, followed one or two cross ridges, which offered a fallacious pros- pect of leading us somewhither, and, just as night fell, were thoroughly lost ; colder, wearier, hungrier, and more scared than ever. We could not now see a step ; and, moreover, had been, for an hour, stumbling and even falling from the weak- ness of excessive fatigue. But we dared not sit or lie down, lest the numbing sleep of the frost-cloud should take our lives away on its white, cold wings. So we even betook ourselves to quadrupedal progression. We crawled cautiously along, lowering each hand and knee with a separate care, to avoid cuts and scratches, and feeling out forward into the gloom, which seemed to press close upon our eyelids, so dense and palpable was it. We spoke to each other continually, lest we
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should become separated. Over and over again I put forth my hand for the next step, and, upon quietly dropping it, found nothing under it. That was a sign that I was within six inches of some precipice. Then I called a halt, and cau- tiously advanced one foot over the brink. If I could reach a footing below, we crawled down ; if not, we coasted along the edge, or tried another course. Over how many hundred feet of sheer descent I may have hung by the slippery hold of one hand and one knee,-over what dark and empty depths, floored with edged and pitiless ledges, teeth of primeval stone, I put out helpless hand or foot into the ghostly gloom, -I know not, nor do I care to know; but the helplessness of the unseen gesture yet burdens my memory. It has often haunted my rest. For years, if any slight disorder superin- duced a dreaming condition, I was in dreams at intervals driven by cold mists or viewless winds through interminable chasms walking up to heaven, where I saw that seeking ges- ture repeated to infinity. Over every ledge would then be put forth a helpless hand, pointing to me, clutching at the thick mist, holding wide-spread fingers stretched stiffly out, sweeping slowly hither and thither, vibrating up and down in frantic indecision ; indicating dreadful variations upon the solitary theme of utter and desperate loss and helplessness.
" So we wandered, until it became evident, as, indeed, it would have been before, if we had reasoned deliberately, that we should shortly become absolutely unable even to crawl, and should then, of necessity, fall over a crag, or stiffen and die. We, therefore, felt about for a soft rock; and having found one which, if not actually soft, was, at least, rather smoother than most, and, moreover, a little sheltered from the wind-driven frost-fog, we slept and watched alternately, in miserable five or ten minute snatches, until some time in the
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latter part of the night, spending the time allotted to watch- ing in thrashing the arms about, kicking, stamping, and the other doleful manœuvres which are useful in fighting against severe cold and overpowering drowsiness. At last after an in- definite quantity - it might, so far as any perception of the passage of time was concerned, have been a week - of wretch- ed dozing and waking, the last detachment of the dreadful fog scudded over us. The moon and stars shone out, most glo- rious and welcome to behold. We drained the remainder of our brandy, summoned the remainder of our strength, and re- sumed our last plan of getting out of the mountains, by follow- ing the fall of the water-courses. We climbed, with many falls and much danger, all stiff and chilled as we were, hardly retain- ing any sensation beyond our elbows and knees, and articulating only with difficulty, down into a ravine, along whose lowest rift we stumbled, sometimes in shadow and sometimes in the uncertain gleam of the moonlight, but free, at least, from the deadly cold and impenetrable darkness of the frost-fog."
Nancy's Brook and Nancy's Bridge are so familiar to all who have ever visited the mountains, or know anything of their history, that we could not, if we would, omit the inci- dent which gave them this name.
The stream itself is about half a mile below the Mt. Crawford House, and comes rushing down from unknown heights in the dark forest above. " And any one, who has the least capa- bility of appreciating scenes of wildness and desolation, will be amply repaid for following, for a mile, the course of the stream, among the crags, as it comes leaping in indescribable clearness and beauty down the mountain. During the lapse of ages, this stream has cut a channel, in some places thirty feet deep, through the rock, and rushes, foaming on its way, with perpendicular walls on each side. The rocks around
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are worn into most grotesque forms, and the eye is never weary in gazing upon the cascades and deep transparent basins. In one of its wildest portions the stream is spanned by a rustic structure called Nancy's Bridge."
Nancy was a servant-girl in the family of Col. Whipple, of whom we have before spoken in our account of Jefferson. A man, also in the employ of the colonel, had won the heart of the poor girl, and between them there was an engagement of marriage.
It was the intention of the two, or at least of Nancy, and she supposed of the man from what he had promised her, to accompany Col. Whipple on his usual fall visit to Portsmouth, and there be married. But a few days previous to the time she supposed they were to start, she gave her money, which the colonel had paid her for her services, to her lover for safe- keeping until their arrival at Portsmouth, and had gone to Lancaster, a distance of nine miles, to make some purchases necessary for the journey.
While she was away at Lancaster, suspecting no evil, the colonel and her lover set out upon their journey. Whether Col. Whipple was aware of her intention of accompanying him we cannot say. If he was not, no blame, of course, can be attached to him, but, if he was, he was equally guilty with his treacherous companion. But leaving the guilt, it is im- possible to describe the grief and disappointment of the poor girl when she learned their departure without her. She had not left Lancaster when it was made known to her, but she determined at once to follow them. She immediately left Lancaster for Jefferson. At Jefferson the men in Col. Whip- ple's family endeavored to dissuade her from so perilous an undertaking, urging the many difficulties she would have to encounter, and that the colonel had been gone since early in
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the morning; but nothing could detain her. She tied up a small bundle of clothing, and set out, already wet and fatigued by her long walk from Lancaster. The snow was deep, no path but spotted trees, and night had already set in, when she again started. Since sunset, the snow had commenced falling, and a bitter north-west wind drove it in blinding masses against the almost frozen wanderer. Her object was to reach the Notch, a distance of thirty miles, where Col. Whipple had a camp, and would undoubtedly stop the night. Could she reach there before they had started in the morning her object would be accomplished. This hope buoying her up, she travelled on through the live-long night, and arrived at the camp not long after the colonel and his man had left, for the fire they had kindled had not yet gone out.
Completely exhausted and worn out, as she must have been, by fatigue and hunger, not having eaten anything since she left Jefferson, she still determined to persevere and overtake them if possible. Accordingly, after warming herself, she again set out. But it was too much ; her already overtaxed strength gave out but a short distance after she had left the camp. In crossing the little stream, since called Nancy's brook, her clothes had become wet, and near the top of the opposite bank, she sat down at the foot of an aged tree to rest. Here she was found, not many hours after, her head resting upon her staff, frozen to death.
" Cold 's the snow at my head, And cold 's the snow at my feet ; And the finger of death 's at my eyes, Closing them to sleep.
Let none tell my father, Or my mother so dear ; I'll meet them both in heaven, At the spring-time of the year."
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When Nancy left Col. Whipple's, in Jefferson, the men who had tried to dissuade her from starting, thinking she would . not go far in so blustering a night, but would soon return, did not think of following her. As the evening wore away, and she did not return, they grew anxious lest she should perish in the snow, and set out in pursuit of her. After expecting, during the whole night, their next step would bring them upon her, they at last reached the camp, where the fire she had just left was yet burning. Resting here but a few moments, they hurried on, and found her just across the brook as we have described.
The treacherous lover survived her not long, but died in a few years, a raging maniac, in a mad-house. A writer of fiction has made the moans and wailings of the poor lover to be heard even now at times around the death-place of the deceived Nancy. In the still night the mountains surround- ing echo the bitter lamentations. A most amusing anecdote may illustrate all the noises of this description usually heard around the Notch. The above writer may have passed through a similar scene, and if so, he may readily be pardoned for his ghostly proclivities.
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