“Taxi! Taxi here! Anyone need ah Taxi?” the Canadian heard. And then there was more. “I can git’ju anywhere in Bangah. Any takers? No? How’s about the bordering towns then? Anyone travelin’ to Veazie or Orono, or Old Town? Then, how’s about Hampden or Hermon? I’ll even go as far as Levant, Glenburn, or Kenduskeag. Maybe even Winterport if the price is right.”
Murdock made his way to the cheerful, middle-aged taxi driver and said: “Excuse me, mistah, I’m new to this town. Could you help me with directions?”
“Well, if I can’t, then I don’t know who can,” the cabby wisecracked. “Where ya bound fer?”
“I’m looking for the nearest employment office,” Murdock answered. “I’ve heard tell there’s plenty of jobs to be had here in Bangor.”
“That there are, young fella, especially this time of year. The place you’re looking fer is on the east side of town. But it’s not far from here; less than ah mile I’d say. Give me ah chance to hitch my horse to this here rail and give her ah cool drink of water, then I’d be more than glad ta help ya out.”
“Where am I now?” the young Canadian asked.
“This here is Front Street, and the place ya wanna be is Exchange.”
“How might I get there?”
“Well, ya might get there by hoppin’ in my cozy little carriage, after slappin’ ah shiny-new Abe Lincoln in the palm of my hand, of course.”
“I’d sure like to, cabby, but I’m afraid I’m a mite short on cash right about now. I’ve barely got enough to maybe take a baker’s dozen rides with you, so I’ve gotta be frugal and hope to find a cheap place to stay ‘til I find a job, or I’ll be up the creek without a paddle.”
“Well, in that case, ya wanna take Front Street north—which is that direction—and follow the Penobscot. Just down the road ah piece—maybe 200 feet from here—Front will end and you’ll find yourself on Broad Street. Take Broad for, oh, I’d say about another 300 feet or so, ‘til ya come to Washington Street. Then turn right, and before ya know it you’ll be crossing ah narrow river that empties into the Penobscot on your right. Right after ya cross the river you’ll run smack into Exchange Street. Turn left onto Exchange and then go ah couple of blocks to the end, past Hancock and York. The place you’re looking fer is at the corner of State and Exchange. It’s on the right and it’s called the Exchange Building. Got it?”
“I think so, mistah. Much obliged.”
“No need for thanks, young fella. Tain’t nothin’. Good luck finding ah job.”
Murdock nodded and walked away.
—2—
The young Canadian followed Front and Broad Streets to Washington Street, and was even more amazed than before at the flurry of activity he saw. To him, it looked as if a hundred horse-drawn carriages and wagons were hurrying along the waterfront streets. There could have been more, or there could have been less, but regardless, they were all sending dust high into the air; and the wind was swirling something terrible, sometimes blowing it in his direction and sometimes not. He saw all kinds of buildings lining both Front and Broad Streets, more than he could count. There were small gift shops, a large grocery store, a livery stable, a blacksmiths shop, a gigantic grain store, a two-story hotel with balconies facing the river, a couple of saloons, and God only knows how many more stores there were that he couldn’t identify.
The Canadian thought for a moment that he was viewing a scene from right out of the Wild West, except none of the men wore guns on their hips, or wore leg chaps made of cowhide, or wore cowboy hats or boots; “that’s not true” he thought, some did, at least, some wore cowboy hats and boots. But there weren’t many dressed that way, and he suspected that those men were just trying to be noticed, undoubtedly thinking they looked manly. But truth be known: some did, some didn’t. Regardless, those were the only differences he saw that told him he was really well east of the Mississippi River.
What he really discovered was, in his mind, somewhat assuring: Most people here wore dress similar to that of his native Canada, and many of those wore work clothes. The most unusual of them being men who walked around wearing heavy woolen shirts that looked much like a red-and-black checkerboard that his parents gave to him one Christmas. Sometime later, Murdock would learn that the strange looking shirt was the dress of choice for Maine’s many hunters and rugged lumberjacks: ‘outdoorsmen’ they called themselves.
After turning right onto Washington—from the looks of it, “a main street in Bangor,” he figured—it wasn’t long before Murdock was crossing the narrow river that the cabby referred to earlier. A small wooden sign told him that it was called the Kenduskeag Stream. Being curious, he stopped midway on the bridge, leaned on the rail to his right, and watched the tiny river empty into the much larger Penobscot, where fifty or so boats were amassed. Diagonally across the busy river he saw a dozen men or more working on a large ship that sat in dry-dock. From his distance he couldn’t tell if it was a new boat under construction, or if it was just being repaired.
—3—
After lingering there for a couple of minutes, a strong breeze nearly blew Murdock’s cap off, so he continued on across the small bridge and in less than a minute came to Exchange Street. On the right, sitting next to the Penobscot River, was a large building with the sign Bangor Freight Station above its front entrance. He had no idea that he would soon be working there. His only thoughts were of turning left onto Exchange Street as instructed by the cabby. But instead of turning left, Murdock Haley continued along Washington Street when he noticed a fast moving wagon overturn, about 200 feet up ahead. Wooden crates went flying everywhere on the dirt road, and he saw people scrambling out of the way. After the dust settled, one man was lying in the street and Murdock rushed to see if he could be of help. When he reached the man, people were already helping him off the ground. As the injured man limped toward the far sidewalk, Murdock yelled:
“Are you okay, mistah?”
“Yup, I reckon so. Just got my leg banged up a little, that’s all. Though, I came mighty close to … to buying the farm. Was gonna say biting the dust, but I guess I kinda did that, didn’t I?”
“What happened?” the amused Canadian asked.
“Some nitwit in a buggy cut that freight wagon off, and when the driver swerved, it tipped clean over. It was just my luck to be crossing the street right then. Luckily, being quite nimble and all, I was able to sidestep the wagon, but wasn’t near as lucky with the crates. Well, I’d love to chat some more, stranger, but I bes’ be getting this leg checked to make sure nawthin’s broke.”
“Right-oh. Need any help?” Murdock asked.
“Nope, I can manage okay. As I recall, the Doc’s office is no more than a block away. But thanks for the offer, friend.”
Murdock nodded at the man and turned to head back to Exchange Street, thinking: “I sure hope my day goes better than his.”
Chapter 3
The Old Indian
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 y
ear. 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 areas’ 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.
Chapter 4
The River and Paul Bunyan
Murdock and the old Indian made their way to the nearby riverbank and found a comfortable spot to sit while they continued their conversation.
“I could sit here all day just watching the river,” Murdock said.
“I’ve done that before, much to my wife’s chagrin,” the Indian joked. “Course I had a fishing pole in my hand at the time.”
Murdock laughed and said, “I hope to follow in your footsteps, plus take advantage of all that this river has to offer. Although, this spot is so peaceful I think I could sit here all day just doing nothing. There’s something about this river that is mesmerizing.”
“That there is,” the old man said. “In fact, I’ve felt that way about the Penobscot since I don’t know when.”
The meandering Penobscot, Maine’s largest and most famous waterway—known mostly for bountiful schools of spawning Atlantic Salmon; for large black bears and enormous moose that frequent its banks; and for graceful American Bald Eagles that soar high above it—begins its journey more than two-hundred mile
s north of Bangor, and then, only twenty miles south of that city, empties peacefully into the thirty-mile-long Penobscot Bay, a tiny portion of the vast Atlantic which sports some of the most inspiring coastal scenes in America, or, as Mainers like to think, in any other part of the world.
Along the way, the Penobscot passes quietly through many towns, large and small, before making its way to Bangor. In Bangor the peaceful Penobscot momentarily digresses from its mostly southward journey to flow southwest along the edge of the city, separating Murdock’s new hometown from Brewer: its twin city on the east. Beyond Bangor the river continues its journey southward to the Penobscot Bay, which in those days was well known for having numerous commercial shipping ports and as being the home of tiny coastal shipbuilding towns like Belfast and Searsport.
In the mid-1800s to early-1900s the Penobscot River was often filled with ships and barges of all sizes used to carry mainly wood or wood-related products to the aforementioned ports; to numerous other New England ports for eventual shipment to the rest of the continental United States; and, indeed, even to foreign ports throughout the rest of the industrialized world. As fate would have it, Murdock Haley was destined to be one of the many men who labored on the banks of the Penobscot, loading products onto those ships and barges, and onto the many freight trains and wagons that also visited the station where he would soon work.
Journey With the Comet Page 2
