Murdock had taken no more than three steps in the direction of Exchange Street when he caught something out the corner of his eye. He turned toward the river and saw sheets of white paper being blown like tumbleweeds across the grass toward Washington Street. An older man with long white hair was chasing after them, so the Canadian ran onto the grass to help. Murdock managed to gather up two of the sheets, while the old man corralled the other three before they were blown onto the busy street, only to be trampled by the hooves of passing horses and then, to add insult to injury, run over by dirty wagon wheels. Before handing the papers to the elderly man, Murdock glanced at them and saw that they contained colorful paintings of a river; he assumed the Penobscot. That was affirmed when he noticed one of the paintings clearly showing three tall pine trees grouped side-by-side on the far bank of the river.
“Wind’s pretty strong today,” he said while handing the drawings to the slender old man.
“Sure is. It’s that time of year. Anyway, thanks much for the help.”
“Don’t mention it,” Murdock said.
“You’re not from this area, are you, mister?” the seemingly frail old man asked.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Yeah. Your accent tells me you’re from across the border—up north. Am I right?”
“Righter than rain,” Murdock replied.
“Thought so; we see hordes of Canadians every spring for the river drive. Been here long?”
“Just got here, not more than a half-hour ago.”
“Visiting?”
“No, I’ve come for work. Heard this is the place to be right now.”
“Yeah, you heard right. You’ll have no trouble finding work here; that’s for sure.”
“Is it always this hot?” Murdock asked.
“Nah. Just havin’ a little heat spell, that’s all. Should be back to normal tomorrow.”
“What’s normal?”
“The sixties this time of year. Seventies in the summer. Now and again we see the eighties, and sometimes even the nineties, but not often. Even saw a hundred once, but that’s real unusual for these parts. No, the seventies mostly in the summer.”
“What about the winter?” Murdock asked.
“You’ll see.”
“Well, gotta be better than where I’m from,” the Canadian replied.
Murdock studied the unique features of the slim man’s weathered face and could tell that he wasn’t of European ancestry. Although his white hair could be easily explained by the passage of time—except for its being the whitest white Murdock had ever seen—his other characteristics could not. He had a long thin nose and his voice had a distinctive dialect that the Canadian had never come across before, and that prompted his next question.
“Can I ask what nationality you are?”
“Don’t see why not, young fella. I’m native Indian; the Penobscot tribe of the Wabanaki confederation.”
“Oh, that explains it,” Murdock said. “By the way, I really like your paintings, especially this one with the eagle. Been doing it long?”
“Nearly all my life.”
“How long has that been? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Started when I was eight. And when another two full moons come this way, my old eyes will have seen seventy-eight summers.”
“That’s hard to believe after seeing you chase down those papers. I sure hope I’m as nimble as you when I reach my seventies.”
—1—
Right off the bat, the two men took a liking to each other and struck up a friendly conversation that would last over an hour. Murdock found that the old Indian was more than happy to tell him about Bangor and about the area’s glorious past, especially about the part his tribe played. The first thing Murdock learned was that the Penobscot was like so many rivers in Maine: named after native Indians of the Pine Tree State, or after words taken from their native language.
“See that river over there? The white men call it the Kenduskeag Stream,” the old Indian said. “Not long ago Bangor was called the Condeskeag Plantation. They took Condeskeag from my people’s word kadesquit. It means eel-weir place.”
“What’s a weir?” Murdock asked. “Seems like I heard my pa mention it before, but I never knew for sure what it was.”
“It’s nothing more than a small manmade dam made of netting that holds back fish, rather than water,” the old man responded. “My tribe uses them all the time to catch salmon and other fish. That’s the most common use for weirs.”
With very little coaxing from Murdock the old man eagerly reminisced for another fifteen minutes or so about his tribe, especially how they enjoyed living off the land. Murdock also learned from him that it was near this scenic location, at the then quiet junction of the Penobscot and the Kenduskeag, its much smaller and arguably most important tributary, where in 1769 a British squatter named Jacob Buswell built a log cabin to become Bangor’s first settler.
“Buswell was by far the whitest man my tribal ancestors had ever seen, or so the story goes,” the old Indian said. “Of course, after six generations of storytelling it’s hard to know if that’s the truth. Regardless, I suspect it took a while for them to trust him, and for him to trust them. I’m guessing that we learned English from him, and in turn that we taught him our tongue.”
“So Buswell was the first resident of Bangor, was he?” Murdock asked.
“Not exactly; the Plantation of Condeskeag maintained its identity until 1791 when it was incorporated and officially became known as Bangor. Oh, by the way, you know how Bangor got its name?” the old Indian asked Murdock, knowing full well the Canadian would have no idea.
“No,” Murdock answered. “How?”
“It’s a real interesting story,” The Indian said.
“I’m listening,” Murdock responded.
“Well, back then, Maine was actually part of Massachusetts; and legend has it that the city’s envoy—a Reverend Seth Noble—was singing the old English hymn Bangor when he misheard a Massachusetts Clerk of Courts, thinking he asked what he was singing, rather than what he really asked: ‘What do you want to name it, Reverend Noble?’ Instead of the intended name Sunbury, Noble answered ‘Bangor’; and it was recorded as the city’s official name.”
“Hmmm. That is interesting,” Murdock observed. “And kinda humorous.”
“So it is, young fella. Anyhow, if you take yourself a look around I’m sure you can see why Buswell and my ancestors were so fond of this area.”
“Without question,” the Canadian responded.
“My ancestors used this area as a camping ground,” the old Indian continued, “if not since our tribe first roamed the forests of Maine, at least, for as long as the elders can remember.”
Indeed, both Jacob Buswell and the Penobscot Indians recognized the scenic beauty and utility of the Penobscot River, and of the unspoiled area now known as Bangor, and they were not hesitant to say so; and although anyone in any land might claim that their particular region is Heaven on Earth, so to speak, evidence of the area’s splendor was independently affirmed by none other than early-American writer and preeminent naturalist Henry David Thoreau when he explored the north woods of Maine while visiting relatives during the mid-1800s.
After viewing the river and the town that it flowed past, Thoreau wrote admirably of both. He described the Penobscot as “an inclined mirror between two evergreen forests” and he said that Bangor appeared as “a star on the edge of the night.” And many other visitors during that time might also have been heard heaping similar praise on the city and on its beautiful, indeed, life-giving river. Surely, when Murdock Campbell Haley first laid eyes on it he had no doubt that he had made the right choice in immigrating to America.