Down East Latch Strings/Chapter 11

by Ernest Ingersoll

Chapter XI.

The Valley of the Kennebec.

Come live with me and be my love,And we will all the pleasures prove,That valleys, groves, and hills and fields,Wood or steepy mountains yields.—Marlowe.

eaving Bangor on the morning-express westward bound, no stop is made until Waterville is reached, though "the woods are full" of small stations. About half way, for example, is Newport, whence a branch railway runs north, twenty miles, to Dexter, at the sources of the Kenduskeag, only a few miles by stage from Dover and Foxcroft, and in the midst of hill-farms and trout-brooks. A dozen miles farther we pass Burnham on the Sebasticook river, whence a branch railroad runs, (thirty-four miles) down through the agricultural towns on the old Waldo patent, (now Waldo county) to the historic seafaring town of Belfast, opposite Castine on Penobscot bay; it was at Belfast that Weymouth set up an Anglican cross in 1605, and wrote that he had discovered "the most beautiful, rich, large, secure, harboring river that the world affordeth."

Waterville is an important and attractive town, bearing the same relation to the upper Kennebec, as Bangor does to its river. Its station is almost within the elm-shaded grounds of Colby University, "which has had in its long history an importance within the Baptist denomination, and a place in the annals of the state, much beyond that indicated by the mere numbers of its students." The traveller sitting on the eastern side of the cars might think himself landed in some princely park, and conceives a most favorable idea of the town which, though a busy trade and manufacturing centre, is one of the most cultivated in Maine.

At Waterville, we had the choice of two routes to Portland. One goes straight down the river through Augusta, Hallowell, Gardiner and Brunswick; the other inland, traversing Oakland, Leeds and Lewiston.

The former is the "main line," by which the through trains between Boston and Bar Harbor or St. John go, and very well worth seeing it is. The train leaving the Union station in Portland skirts the shore of Casco bay, traversing the ancient villages Falmouth, Yarmouth (where the Grand Trunk Railway is crossed) and Freeport, before it reaches Brunswick.

Brunswick, on the site of the colony Pejepscot, founded in 1628 by Plymouth men, is now a lively manufacturing town at the falls of the Androscoggin, where the large river leaps in fine confusion down ledges of rocks, which have now been connected and evened-up by dams, but have lost little of their original picturesqueness. The principal article of manufacture is paper. Here is Bowdoin College, occupying a large and well-shaded campus in the centre of the town, and named in memory of one of its earliest benefactors, James Bowdoin, who was a son of the governor of Massachusetts during 1785-6, and belonged to a cultivated Huguenot family. To him the college owes among other gifts, the foundation of its famous picture gallery, which contains nearly 150 pictures, including two by Raphael and Rubens, many fine copies of the best Italian masters, excellent examples of the Flemish and Dutch schools (including portrait by Vandyke for which the college has refused $30,000), and several pictures by Hogarth, Copley and other well-known names,—thus New England profited by the edict of Nantes. Bowdoin was opened in 1802, and though its classes were never large they have included some distinguished names,—President Franklin Pierce, Nathaniel Hawthorne, the poet Longfellow, and others. It has built a notable museum of natural history, and is beginning in various ways a new era of prosperity.

From Brunswick, the Maine Central sends a branch eastward to ship-building Bath, at the mouth of the Kennebec, where "through" cars are ferried across to the Knox and Lincoln road, and sent on to Rockland (see page 46). It also owns a branch westward to Crowley's and Lewiston, continuing to all the western part of the state, as far as the Rangeley lakes.

The main line, which our "through" traveller ts to follow, strikes straight across from Brunswick to the valley of the Kennebec, which it skirts for nearly fifty miles. "We shall find the river," says a recent book of travels, "full of vessels of all sizes, bearing to every part of the world the solid chunks of comfort from the multitude of ice-houses on the river, in which were stored the past season, more than a million tons of ice. Many of these ice-houses may properly be called crystal palaces."

The stations Bowdoinham and Richmond are favorite summering places, and at the latter the Methodists hold annual camp-meetings.

Gardiner and Hallowell are thriving factory villages, and productive of fine light-colored granite, quarried from the neighboring hills. Next beyond is Augusta, the state capital, which stands at the head of sloop navigation, and was settled before King Philip's war, during which it was laid waste. In 1716 the returning settlers built a stone fort, but failed to defend it during the Indian uprisings of 1724. Thirty years later (1754) the stronghold Fort Western was built upon the eastern bank of the river, as one of a line of frontier fortifications; and it formed the rendezvous of Benedict Arnold's Quebec expedition of 1775. Under the protection of this fort a strong settlement was made, which continued to thrive after the gaining of our independence. Its central position caused the town to be chosen as the seat of state government; and in 1831, the capitol, a stately structure of white granite, crowning with its solid architecture a noble eminence, was completed. It may be seen from the car windows on the left. On the right, across the river, are the buildings of the hospital for the insane, occupying high ground; and the United States arsenal, filled with munitions of war, lower down. The grounds surrounding both these institutions are carefully ornamented.

The state-house will interest visitors not only by its fine architecture, portraits of men eminent in local history, and a large library, but by the collection of battle flags and relics of Maine troops in the late war. In 1861 this city became a rendezvous for the troops of the state, and many of its regiments saw severe service, but it is said that not a single flag was lost. Five miles southward, at the once popular resort of Togus Springs, is the Eastern Branch of the Soldiers' Home, which now contains about 1700 inmates, and is a charming place to visit. This is only one objective of many charming drives in the neighborhood.

At Augusta the railway crosses the Kennebec on an iron bridge, affording a splendid view up and down the cliff-walled stream, and then runs through the flourishing manufacturing villages Riverside, Vassalboro and Winslow, where it again crosses the Kennebec near its confluence with the Sebasticook.

"The ruins of Fort Halifax are seen on the bluff-point just south of the union of the rivers. This fort was one of a chain erected by Massachusetts to defend the Maine coast from French raids. It was built by Gov. Shirley in 1754, and garrisoned by 130 men, until its abandonment, after the Peace of Paris (1763). Large Indian settlements formerly occupied the intervales in this vicinity, and as early as 1676 envoys of Massachusetts came here to detach the tribe from the King Philip's Confederation,—an unsuccessful attempt."

The next station is Waterville—and so we are back again at our starting point. The main line of the Maine Central Railroad, just sketched, is that followed, as I lave already stated, by passengers to Bangor or beyond; and in summer, through cars are run on especially fast and conveniently timed trains, without change, between Boston and Mt. Desert Ferry, so that one can leave Boston in the evening and reach Bar Harbor in season for breakfast; or can go through by day, between breakfast and tea-time in Pullman luxury.

Waterville is the gateway to the upper Kennebec. A railway runs nineteen miles to Skowhegan, picturesquely situated at the falls of the Kennebec, which furnish the power that drives its many mills. This busy place used to be the starting-point of a regular route to Moosehead lake, but the sta@es ceased running as soon as the Piscataquis railroad was built. Daily stages and mails still go up the river, however, to The Forks (where Dead river comes in) and on to Canada by a route 156 miles in length.

From Skowhegan to The Forks is forty-six miles,—a day’s ride over a good road,—passing near several highly reputed fishing-waters, and exhibiting striking landscapes from the hilltops. Fifteen miles out the road returns to the river, and thenceforth keeps near its banks, which are often precipitous. At Bingham, half way, you penetrate a mountainous and mineral bearing district, full of game. On the opposite side of the river a level plateau is pointed out where Arnold's army encamped, before striking across to the Carrying Place ponds on its march to Dead river.

In Moscow, the next town ahead, lies the pond to which that "author and naturalist of pleasant fame"—John Burroughs—went camping, and procured the material for that little essay in Signs and Seasons which keeps for us the flavor of the woods so deliciously well. Burroughs also went to Moxie pond, which lies some five miles northeastward, and is much resorted to by sportsmen. Its outlet is Moxie stream which falls into the Kennebec over a cascade ninety-five feet in height, the beauty of which is much praised. This cascade is three miles from The Forks, and the pond four miles farther, past other minor cascades. Besides the unfailing fishing, deer and caribou haunt the locality.

"Moxie lake lies much lower than Pleasant pond, and its waters, compared with those of the latter are as copper compared with silver. It is very irregular in shape; now narrowing to the dimension of a slow-moving grassy creek, then expanding into a broad deep basin with rocky shores, commanding the noblest mountain scenery. It is rarely that the pond-lily and the speckled trout are found together,—the fish the soul of the purest spring water, the flower the transfigured spirit of the dark mud and slime of sluggish streams and ponds; yet in Moxie they were both found in perfection."

It is three miles from this pond to that Bald mountain, which showed its friar-like head to us from the Piscataquis railway; and other high mountains are within climbing distance.

At The Forks is a settlement of farmers and a well-known hotel; "the centre," says Farrar, "of one of the greatest sporting regions of the state." Up the Kennebec it is fifteen miles to Indian pond, and ten from there to Moosehead lake.

From The Forks a stage runs daily to Parlin pond in the Moose river valley, along the "Canada road." Parlin pond has a commodious hotel and communicates by stream or road with Lone pond, Moose river and other streams. Boats and a livery stable arc available there, with various quite civilized means of recreation, besides the shooting and fishing which form the chief attractions.

The next stage station is Moose-river village, a considerable settlement; and the end of the route is reached, forty-five miles from The Forks, in Sandy Bay. From there a stage runs thrice a week to St. Joseph de Bauce, in the Chaudiere valley, Canada, from which it is only forty-five miles by rail to Quebec.

At Moose-river village a wide region northward is open to the hunter and explorer, and he can obtain guides and necessary supplies. It is only thirty-five miles down Moose river to Mt. Kineo,—an easy experience in canoeing.

Though the Dead River country is accessible from Skowhegan, by daily stage to North Anson, or by way of The Forks, where it empties into the Kennebec, yet the better way for the person entering from this side is to go to the terminus of the Somerset Railroad at North Anson for a point of departure.

This railroad branches off from the "upper"route” of the Maine Central at Oakland, a station six miles west of Waterville, rather strangely described in a recent book as "a growing village sitting gracefully on Cascade falls." Close by Oakland is the pretty lake Messalonskee, which discharges its overflow down a deep gorge in a series of really noteworthy cataracts, hemmed in by slate-crags and densely wooded slopes. At the outlet of the lake stand the large workshops of a tool-making concern. The Somerset Railroad crosses the Kennebec twice, and offers some very pretty scenery in the course of its twenty-five miles.

The midway station is Norridgewock (or Naurantsuack) which is only five miles by carriage road from Skowhegan, and is not only one of the loveliest, but one of the most memorable localities in the state.

That the Kennebec was among the first rivers discovered by white men, we have seen; and almost from the first the Indians had explained how it formed a highway to Canada. Down this avenue into heathendom came Roman missionaries of the Cross as early as 1629. The Capuchins had fixed stations on both the Penobscot and the Kennebec at, or soon following that date. In 1646 came the Jesuit father Gabriel Druillette to preach among the Abnakis, whose principal village was at this place. Under one priest or another this mission was intermittently sustained until 1695, when it became a fixture under the care of Sebastian Rale, a learned French Jesuit who had but lately come from labors among the Illinois Indians.

By the papist-burning, French-hating colonists of Massachusetts, this man, whose power began almost at once to be felt, was thought capable of all iniquity. Certainly he stirred up his Indians to resist English encroachment and seek redress for the real and fancied wrongs their nation had suffered at the hinds of the Plymouth traders and British voyagers. He held their allegiance to France, and united them with the powerful bands who had dug up the hatchet all along the coast; but there is every reason to believe that he did this out of a sense of justice, as he saw the facts, and for the glory of the church, and that to the Abnakis he was a kind friend and counsellor. His biography has been sketched by both the learned J. G. Shea, and the Rev. Wm. Ingraham Kip, in their histories of Catholic Missions in the United States; and a "life" of him by the Rev. Dr. Harris will be found in the Mass. Hist. collections, 2d ser. VIII., 250.

A generation had he lived among the Abnakis, and now the whole wilderness was again ablaze with savage warfare. The English knew that the French were secretly fomenting these murderous forays, and furnishing the savages with arms. They believed Pére Rale the agent, and sent an expedition in August of 1724 to attack his fortress, and so strike at the source of the evil. How well that plan succeeded, Whittier has told with nervous power in his startling ballad of Mogg Megone:—

Hark! what sudden sound is heard In the wooed and in the sky,Shriller than the scream of bird,— Than the trumpets clang more high!Every wolf-cave of the hills,— Forest-arch and mountain gorge, Rock and dell and river-verge,—With an answering echo thrills— ⟨Well⟩ does the Jesuit know that cry, Which summons the Norridgewock to die, And tells that the foe of his flock is nigh—He listens and hears the rangers come,With loud hurrah and jar of drum; And hurrying feet (for the chase is hot), And the short, sharp sound of the rifle-shot,And taunt and menace,—answered wellBy the Indians mocking cry and yell,— The bark of dogs,—the squaw's mad scream,— The dash of paddles along the stream,—The whistle of shot as it cuts the leavesOf the maples around the church's eaves,— And the gride of hatchets, fiercely thrown, On wigwam log, and tree and stone.

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Fearfully over the Jesuit's face,Of a thousand thoughts trace after trace,Like swift cloud-shadows, each other chase. One instant his fingers grasp his knife, Far a last vain struggle for cherished life,—The next he hurls the blade away,And kneels at his altar’s foot to pray.

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Through the chapel's narrow doors, And through each window in the walls,Round the priest and warrior pours The dearly shower of English balls. Low on his cross the Jesuit falls; While at his side the Norridgewock, With failing breath essays to mockAnd menace yet the hated foe,—Shakes his scalp-trophies to and fro Exultingly before their eyes,—Till, cleft and torn by shot and blow, Defiant still he dies.

To this long-suffering soldier of the cross, who has been almost apotheosized by his brother Romans, a monument has now been erected on the battle-field where the eastern Indians lost their sway forever; and as the traveller's eye falls upon it from the passing train, he must be a thoughtless man indeed whose imagination is not stirred at the recollections it summons.

North Anson is another door to the fishing and hunting regions of the Maine woods, and particularly to the Dead River district. Dead river (which takes its name from the comparatively still water of its upper part), is the principal drain of a large area between the Androscoggin waters on the south and the St. John's tributaries northward; and it constitutes the most important affluent of the Kennebec below Moosehead lake. It is itself formed by the convergence at the base of Mt. Bigelow of two branches, the northern of which rises in the mountains on the Canadian boundary close to Lake Megantic. From this lake a stream flows into the Chaudiere river, which empties into the St. Lawrence near Quebec; and these two streams early became one of the canoeing routes of trappers, missionaries, and war-parties between Canada and the New England coast, though now they are abandoned almost, wholly to the pleasure-traveller. This, indeed, was the route of Benedict Arnold's heroic but disastrous expedition to Quebec, in the cold autumn of 1775, when he attempted to lead 1,000 men in batteaux from Ft. Western, on the Kennebec, to Quebec; and did succeed in taking most of them down the Canadian rivers, until "the little army of gaunt and raged heroes arose like an apparition from the southern wilderness under the walls of Quebec."

There are now several small hotels, farms and camping-places upon the lower Dead river, or ponds near it. These are reached by stages from North Anson, and invite the camper with no small urgency. He can travel still farther up the river and deeper into the woods, by a stage which goes from North New Portland to Kingfield, and there connects with other stages, or he can paddle up as far as he pleases. But this upper river and its ponds, which form the best part of the district, for the sportsmen, are far better reached by the railroad to Kingfield, via Farmington, of which I shall presently speak.

The ponds alluded to are "too numerous to mention," but may all be found described, together with their approaches, in the excellent Guide to the Dead River Region, written and published by A. W. Robinson, which embraces a map. The principal ones are Tim and the Seven ponds, reached by roads from Eustis. Both of these centres have clearings and cabins upon their shores, where board is furnished by Mr. Kennedy Smith, of Smith's farm, (Franklin county, Me.), who is the traveller's good genius in that region. Guides and boats are available; dozens of minor lakes and connecting streams can be fished and shot upon; ascent of the great unknown Snow mountain is possible; or the boundary hills may be crossed and the canoe launched in Canadian waters. Finally several trails lead over into the Rangeley lakes.

When our fickle minded companion had ascertained these facts, he came to me with the map of Maine in his hand, and called my attention to a place he had marked over on the West branch of the Penobscot, where he proposed next year to build a camp for a fortnight's stay in the woods.

"Now," says he, turning to the westward, "I’m thinking I won't go away over there, but will strike in here on Dead river. You seem to be quite as much in the wild woods, and yet you're not so far away from mail and telegraph; it doesn't take so much time and expense to get there. Yes, sir, I'll build my camp somewhere there by Bigelow; and then from there I'll go to that interesting old St. Andrews for a week, and home by steamer to Portland."

Will he, I wonder?