East of the Merrimack

By Harold Warwick

The year is 1689, and John Gyles, a young eleven year old boy of an English family farm near Pemaquid Harbor in New England, is captured by Indians (North American aboriginals) and remains with them in captivity for the next five years. In this story we relive his experiences through those years within the background of the War of the Grand Alliance (1689 to 1697) between France and England, fought in Europe and in North America.
The author has gone to great lengths to ensure historical accuracy of his background. The source of the story is from John Gyles’ own words.
While weaving an exciting tale of hardship, danger, and enslavement, there is also tenderness, fairness and love. It is fascinating to understand how anyone could survive in the wilderness at the edge of our European/North American civilization as it interacts with the civilizations of the aboriginal first nations. The comparisons of lifestyle, communal behaviour including religions, and day to day life of these two major groups adds color to the story.
The author was a professor of medicine, born in the region of this story’s interest, and clearly, by his own words, identifies with the young John Gyles, giving this story an importance that persists to present day.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Henry
• Release date: Dec 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310015892

Harold Warwick

Harold Warwick was a Medical Oncologist at the London Regional Cancer Program, LHSC, London, Ontario, Canada, and was the first Medical Oncologist at the Princess Margaret Hospital in Toronto. He was the first joint Medical Director of the Canadian Cancer Society and the National Cancer Institute of Canada. Gold Medalist at McGill, Member of the Order of Canada, Harold was particular about everything, including his fiction. Harold lived to age 95, but passed away shortly before the era of eBooks, though he did self-publish several books in paperback. Harold's publisher, Brian Henry Dingle, is also an author and a Medical Oncologist

Book preview

EAST OF THE MERRIMACK

An historical novel about Acadia and New England three hundred years ago.

Based on John Gyles memoir of his captivity with the Maliseet Indians,

entitled,

Memoirs of Odd Adventures, Strange Deliverances etc. in the captivity of John Gyles.

by O. H. Warwick, 2004

Copyright 2015 Orlando Harold Warwick

Smashwords Edition

Published by Brian Henry Dingle

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. You may share the reading of this book by sharing the device upon which you have it downloaded, with close personal friends or family. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

FORMER EDITION

Paperback Edition, published by O. H. Warwick, 2004

ISBN 0-9735721-9-1

1. Gyles, John 1680 c. - 1755 - Captivity - Fiction

2. Indian captivities - Maine - Fiction

3. Malecite Indians - Fiction

4. United States - History - King William’s War 1689-1697 - Fiction

1. Title

PS8645.A78E27 2004 C813’.6

C2004 - 906078 – 3

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE: About My Family

CHAPTER TWO: Boston

CHAPTER THREE: Pemaquid

CHAPTER FOUR: The Long Voyage

CHAPTER FIVE: Medoctic

CHAPTER SIX: Father Simon

CHAPTER SEVEN: Winter

CHAPTER EIGHT: Spring and Summer

CHAPTER NINE: My Second Year

CHAPTER TEN: The New Governor Arrives

CHAPTER ELEVEN: The War Continues

CHAPTER TWELVE: 1693 Year of Joy and Dismay

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: The Waterfall

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: 1694 The Mortal Sickness

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Sold to the French

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Gemsec

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Pemaquid Besieged

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Nachoac Besieged

CHAPTER NINETEEN: Au Revoir

Epilogue

Glossary of Place Names

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The author is Professor Emeritus and former Dean of the Faculty of Medicine, The University of Western Ontario.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

(added posthumously to the eBook edition)

Orlando Harold Warwick was my father-in-law. He passed away in October, 2009. He was a wonderful man, but he was incredibly humble. With the permission of his daughter, I am adding to this section 'About The Author'. His contribution to this topic, demonstrated in the single sentence above, just does not do him justice.

A man of immense accomplishments had a Curriculum Vitae that spanned a single page. To him, being the first Medical Oncologist in Canada and the first Chief Physician at the world famous cancer center, the Princess Margaret Hospital, the first Joint Director of the Canadian Cancer Society and the National Cancer Institute of Canada, a Dean of Medicine at University of Western Ontario (now Western University) and subsequently its Vice-President of Health Services, seemed to be mere duties of this backwoods boy from New Brunswick. His Gold Medal in Medicine from McGill, his Member of the Order of Canada, all this took definite second place to his calling as a physician, an academician and a colleague.

It was mostly a coincidence that Harold and I had such similar interests: both medical oncologists who have engaged in leadership, administration, and curiously, the writing of fiction. One could argue that the connection was his daughter, my wife, Vikki.

Physicians in general, and Medical Oncologists in particular, are different people from their usual surroundings, and so when they get together, the conversation can turn somewhat specialized. Harold and I could talk of many things, and did. We both loved music; indeed, Harold would wax poetic about how wonderful it was to go to the ballet, sit back, close one's eyes, and revel in the luxurious sounds. We are both amateur authors, though I doubt Harold would like my books as much as I like his. Historical fiction, with an incredible dedication to the accuracy of historical fact, as demonstrated in this book, was the closest Harold seemed to get to letting his imagination really run riot. My science fiction would probably distress him, though he would never say that.

We both loved medicine, and its scientific underpinnings. We both disdained outwardly the fuzzy subjective aspects of medical care, while in private I think it is fair to say we both care(d) deeply about our patients. We both loved the forests and the lakes and the wildlife, and living within the nature of this beautiful country; his cottage was a refuge to him, as it is to his daughter and me to this day.

But Harold and I could sit and discuss the politics of medicine, particularly cancer therapy and all its ramifications, that spanned the last seventy years in the province of Ontario.

Had the era of eBooks and self-publishing been within Harold's lifetime (it came just as Harold was slowing down), I believe Harold would have published a great deal more, and the world would have had an even wider choice of excellent fiction to pursue, as the reader of this book will no doubt appreciate.

I am sorry that Harold is not here to enjoy the broad publication of his book. I think the paperback copy that he was able to finance himself served his family and friends well, but the world deserves more than that, and it pleases me greatly that I can do this for him.

I think he would approve, though he would definitely want to cut out this Publisher's Note!

Brian Henry Dingle, December 2015

DEDICATION

To my wife, Barbara.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The author wishes to thank the following for their assistance in the preparation of this work. The Weldon Library, University of Western Ontario; Department of Geography, University of Western Ontario; Archives Canada, Ottawa; Archives Quebec; Massachusetts Archives; Archives Des Franciscains, Montreal; Connecticut Archives; New Brunswick Archives; New Brunswick Museum, Saint John, NB.; Centre d'Etudes Acadiennes, Universite de Moncton, Moncton, NB; Government of New Brunswick; Public Record Office, London, England. My thanks also to Sharon Mohr, helpful at all times in bringing this project to completion.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

In the words of the Puritan priest Cotton Mather, the last years of the seventeenth century were a decade of tears for New England settlers living north-east of Boston. Whole towns were laid in ashes, the townsfolk killed or taken captive and often subjected to barbarous atrocities. England and France were at war in Europe (The War of the Grand Alliance 1689-1697) and the struggle extended to America where both nations shamelessly roused the Indians to join a fight for control of lands which belonged to the Indians themselves.

One victim of this war was John Gyles, a boy captured by Indians in an attack on the settlement at Pemaquid Harbor and then carried into the wilderness of L'Acadie. Acadia, as it was known to the English, included the southern slope of the Gaspe Peninsula, Canada's future maritime provinces and that part of the present state of Maine east of the Penobscot River. To the west of Acadia were England's American colonies while to the north and west was Canada, the other colony of New France. After his captivity John wrote of his experiences, published in Boston in 1736 as Memoirs of Odd Adventures, Strange Deliverances etc. in the Captivity of John Gyles. (Printed and sold by S. Kneeland and T. Green, Queen St., Boston 1736. Printed for Wm. Dodge, Cincinnati, 1869.)

At twelve years of age, shortly after my father s death, I ran across these memoirs in our local public library and was greatly impressed, the more so because John was near my age when captured, had also lost his father and had been brought to my part of the world, the valley of the St. John River. It became one of my favorite stories but always left me with the feeling that he might have told us more. There is little about the war which caused his troubles, about activities on the river to which he was taken or about the well-known governor of Acadia who lived not far away. Because John had been brought up in a strict Protestant household I wondered how he got along with the Roman

Catholic missionary on the river but he tells us only that the priest was of the Order of St. Francis, a man of generous and humane disposition who reprehended the Indians for their barbarities to captives. And what happened, I also wondered, to the little Indian girl who early in John's captivity took him by the hand and led him away from torture? Strangely, he makes no further mention of that little girl.

As the years rolled by, American colonial history became one of my interests and I promised myself that in retirement I would write an historical novel based on John's memoirs. The story-line of his nine years of captivity would remain unchanged and the odd adventures and strange deliverances would all be included. But this time I would fill in the gaps. Bits about aboriginal culture not mentioned in his memoir would be added and John would tell us more about himself and the people he met along the way, about the little Indian girl who saved him from torture, the priest on the river, the governor of Acadia and members of the French family with whom he spent part of his captivity. There would also be more about the war he was forced to endure.

The novel, as here presented, is a broader view of John's captivity, a panorama of a distant decade encompassing a wide range of events that happened in Acadia and New England three hundred years ago. It was a time when Indian lives were being made easier by the white man s deceptive gifts of kettles, axes, knives and blankets. But along with these came the white man's brandy, guns, pestilence and wars, threatening the future of a people who for centuries had managed a fragile existence within a harsh environment.

The characterization of historical persons mentioned in the story is fictional and hopefully will be considered consistent with historical record.

CHAPTER 1

ABOUT MY FAMILY

The first eleven years of my life were no different than those of other
boys living on New England's easterly shores. But then the troubles began, the troubles I am about to relate, troubles which I so vividly
remember, the dreadful things that happened on the second day of
August in the year of our Lord 1689 together with the odd adventures
and strange deliverances which were to follow.

Despite tales of Indian warfare, my father was drawn to America by favorable reports about New England and first settled in the farming community of Merrymeeting Bay on the Kennebec River. Several years later he took the family to England on business related to the death of his parents. Following this short visit he returned to America intending to resume farming at his previous location. Upon arrival in Boston however, he learned that the Indians had renewed their hostilities and so chose to live on Long Island until conditions quieted down. Peace having been re-established he took our family to Merrymeeting Bay only to discover that the people of the region had moved away and that the old settlement itself had literally vanished. Father then chose to move our family further up the coast, beyond the Kennebec River to the region of Pemaquid Harbor, a place of new plantations and of good reputation for farming. There he bought new tracts and resumed his vocation.

Father and Mother loved looking at the sea and chose a desirable place to build a home near the entrance to the harbor and within a quarter mile of the fort. Stones gathered from the fields became its footings, and squared logs from the forests its beams. The stone fireplace and its chimney were built by the town mason. As covering for the frame, Father used clapboards of cedar prepared at the town mill but with his own hands made cedar splits for the high-pitched roof. From Boston came the small, hinged windows which swung open to the sea and when all was done he planted in front of our home a flower garden surrounded by a white-washed picket fence. He was proud of his new home and rightly so, for it soon became known by the townsfolk as Mr. Gyles’ place, the nice one on the way to the fort, with the white garden fence.

Father quickly became a man of respect in the community and was named chief justice. Though not a man of wealth, the income from his farm allowed us a favorable living. In the farming season most of his hours were spent working his tracts, harvesting hay and other crops. Often his office as justice took more time than he liked and as an educated and religious man he found it hard to discharge his duties in a place where disregard for the law was all too common.

In respect of my father I give this further brief account. He was a tall, good looking man with tanned features, certainly no more than twelve stone in weight but of great strength coming from numberless days hewing the forest, otherwise clearing the land and toiling in the fields. At such times he dressed simply in a cotton shirt, woolen trousers and high boots all topped by a big straw hat which is how I remember him best but when performing his duties as justice, wearing his black, wide-brimmed conical hat, black coat and breeches along with white stockings and shiny buckled shoes he was to me a very different man. He was very religious and never did I know him, even when sorely provoked, to take the Lord's name in vain. Sunday was always a day of rest and from my earliest memory Father went to church without miss. So did the rest of us for he would have it no other way. His hobby was to read the Bible, much of which he knew by heart. So it was I too came to know the Great Book well. We had morning prayers, evening prayers, Sunday readings and more, and all of these I considered a privilege, not that I was an overly religious young man or indeed went out of my way to practice Christianity. Simply it was that I lived in a Christian home where Satan seldom came to tempt us.

I remember Mother as being short in stature with fine features and of ruddy complexion who always, both in summer and in winter, was dressed from head to foot in white. She was what I would call quietly religious, with beliefs running deeper than Father's but seldom expressed. She knew the Bible even better than he and also knew the history of the Church, often telling us about those great men Calvin and Luther. Though hesitant to say so, I am certain of one thing, that she hated the Pope as much as her Christian conscience would allow.

Of children there were six. Thomas was my senior by five years and James by two. Caroline followed me closely and next came Elizabeth. The youngest was Edward and though Mother never spoke of it, my belief is that two others died of the fever in infancy.

CHAPTER 2

BOSTON

My story begins in Boston as it was there, in the summer of 1689
that brother James and I first heard of the flare in Indian troubles.

Father, wishing us to see something of the great seaport, had entrusted
our care to Mr. Waldrop, a neighbor who had business in Boston and
regularly sailed his sloop to that place. So it was that James and I, in the
company of this friendly little man, sailed out from Pemaquid Harbor
one warm July morning and with the help of a favorable breeze started down the coast, never losing sight of land. Small chores assigned by
our captain, such as coiling rope and swabbing the decks, kept us fairly busy but much of our time was spent at leisure simply watching the
sea about us, throwing crusts of bread to the gulls hovering overhead
or watching the antics of our constant companions the porpoises, forever cavorting in the bow wave of our sloop.

On the second morning we dropped anchor in the cove west of Boston’s great wharves. Then by small boat we carried our things to shore and in company with Mr. Waldrop walked the short distance along cobbled streets to where we were to stay. Our host was Mr. Samuel Shrimpton, a well known man of business and friend of Mr. Waldrop, who offered kindly greetings upon our arrival and had a servant show us to our rooms. After lunch, James and I left our elders to their business and walked to the lower part of town to see the many ships and the men who sailed them.

The signs of commerce were all about. The wharves stood full with whaleboats, brigs and sloops while at anchor in the cove stood others waiting for their turn. Men in endless streams walked the ways, shoulders heavy with goods for our country or for storage in dark holds and a voyage across the seas. Sailors were putting their ships in order, working with ropes and scrubbing the decks. And there were men in charge of others, yelling to be heard above the noise. Some spoke in tongues we did not understand. Some laughed and some cursed. And mixed with it all were the smells of the sea, of cordage, tar and fish. As Father had wished, we were not only seeing but also hearing and smelling something of New England's great seaport. For us it was a new but tiring experience and after supper at Mr. Shrimpton’s place we wearily made our way to bed.

Wakened by the clatter of horses' hooves and the clank of iron wheels on the cobbles outside our window, James and I rose early, anxious to see more of Boston which according to Mr. Waldrop now held more than five thousand souls. First came a hearty breakfast in the great dining room where we were introduced to our gracious hostess Mrs. Shrimpton, a lady much older than Mother and dressed completely in white. Then came the morning prayers. Mr. Shrimpton, a stern but kindly man had a great long beard which hid most of his face. Already dressed for the day, he was wearing a white wig, matching neckpiece and a long black coat adorned with brightly cultured buttons. As he slowly kneeled by his chair to pray, cultured stockings and highly polished, square-toed buckled shoes came within view of our lowered eyes.

With head held low on chest our host began his prayers. We give thanks, O Lord for the rest of the past night and for the gift of a new day. Grant that we may pass its hours in thy service so that at eventide we may again give thanks unto thee.

Surprisingly, he then rose to his feet and with arms outstretched to heaven started on a different track. Forgive, 0 Lord, our sinner's awful deed and may his soul be accepted into heaven to rest there evermore.

James and I turned to look at one another in wonderment. Whose soul was about to depart? But Mr. Shrimpton abruptly dropped the matter, again kneeled by his chair and began quoting at length from Scripture. Finally, it came to an end. Lord look down in mercy on us all, on each and every one. To which in unison we said Amen and stood to live another day.

Later, in the hallway, James approached Mr. Waldrop. Might I ask of whom Mr. Shrimpton speaks? The one about to die.

Mr. Waldrop, a man of few words, shrugged his shoulders while replying. A condemned man about to be put to death at the hanging tree on the Common.

But for what reason? James insisted.

Mr. Waldrop smiled. The old story, my lads. While drunk and in a rage he murdered a man whose death was then laid to his charge. A most unlikely candidate for heaven, from what our host tells me but certainly not without the benefit of clergy. Mr. Increase Mather, the great divine, has in Church already prayed for the condemned man and at the hanging place this morning the young Mr. Cotton Mather will also care for the man’s soul.

I shuddered. That any man should be put to death seemed wrong to me but Mother had always said that by Scripture this was the just lot of any murderer.

You might go along, continued Mr. Waldrop, not to see the hanging, because it won't be pleasant, but just to hear Mr. Mather’s sermon. You may not hear the like again.

Mother spoke often of the young Mr. Mather in glowing terms and here was my chance to see and hear the great man. James too was for going and soon we were on our way, leaving good time to examine the many things which might catch our fancy. Leaving Mr. Shrimpton's house we walked slowly up the main street and into the hustle and bustle of the Towne House Square. A host of people were milling about. There were horses and wagons with noisy drivers and there were oxen pulling loads of lumber up the slight incline. What I remember best was the Towne House itself, built on stilts with stairs running into the underside of the building and with two great towering chimneys at the ends.

On the cobbles close by the Towne House sat a poor man in the stocks with ankles and wrists securely held, and next to him was an unhappy companion pilloried at the neck and wrists. James and I of course knew nothing of their crimes. What amazed us was that the man pilloried, bent at the neck as he was, could still keep his large hat on his head. And while we stood there gaping and wondering, a miserable fellow stepped from the crowd, began railing at the prisoners and kicking the feet of the one in the stocks whereupon a soldier with metal helmet, long spear and broad belt around his middle moved quickly in and made the lout move on.

From the Towne Flouse you go up Cornhill to School Street, Mr. Waldrop had told us, and there you'll come to a fine chapel, newly finished. So we found it to be. From here to the Common was but a short run and run we did because now a crowd was gathering, headed toward the hanging place and moving at a rapid pace, faster than James and I could walk. Soon we came to where the sermon and the hanging would take place. James, two years older and taller than I, climbed on the rail of a cedar fence where it passed a large tree and held out his hand to pull me up. Though not so close to Mr. Mather's platform as were the hundreds milling out in front, I was now higher than the rest and sure to see the great man and hear what he had to say. Mother would be pleased.

Behind us, on the muddy path to the place, things came to stir with a growing murmur from the crowd. James and I, with arms around our tree, turned to see a sad sight. Drawn by a wretched horse came a shabby, two-wheeled cart carrying what surely was a coffin. Walking behind the cart with Mr. Mather at his side came the condemned man, unshaven, in unkempt clothes and with head held low. Murderer though he was, I felt for the poor man knowing that death would soon be upon him and that Mr. Mather's wrestling for his soul would probably be in vain.

What contrast between the two. Mr. Mather was clean shaven and immaculate in dress. With head held high and with fine, white wig lying easily across the shoulders of his long black frock he was just as Mother had described and I thanked God quietly for his presence in this motley crowd. The clamor and excitement seemed not to trouble him.

As the horse and cart came to a halt, the clamor quickly stilled as Mr. Mather left the condemned man and mounted the few steps of the rough stage built for the event. Moving to the rail in front he grasped it in both hands, leaned toward the crowd and hesitated. Then, with vantage of the dreadful silence he started in full voice.

"This assembly will know that