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Story taken from a speech made at Old Folk’s Day in the year 1902
Joe English Hill stands out above all others in height and interest. It is noted widely and is a curiosity as a freak of nature, its southern side being some two or three hundred feet in height, and almost perpendicular. As you ride along the base and scan the upright mass of shelving rock, you unconsciously wonder what powerful upheaval of nature rent such quarries in the bowels of the earth, and threw them up into such a gigantic pile. The incident from which the hill took its name is in this wise.
In 1705 or 1706 there was an Indian living in these parts, noted for his friendship for the English settlers on the lower Merrimack. He was an accomplished warrior and hunter, but following the counsels of Passaconaway and Wonnalancet he continued steadfast in his partiality for the whites. From this fact the Indians gave him the name, significant of this trait, “Joe English.”
In the course of time the Indians, satisfied that Joe English gave information of their hostile designs toward the English, determined to kill him at the earliest opportunity. Accordingly one day, just at twilight, finding Joe upon one of the branches of the Piscataquog hunting, they commenced an attack upon him. He escaped from them, two or three in number, and made directly for this hill in the southeastern part of New Boston.
Quick as thought, Indian-like, he concluded that in a long race the chances were against him and he must use stratagem. Going up the hill he slackened his pace until his pursuers were almost upon him, that they might become more eager in the pursuit. When near the top, he started off with great rapidity, and the Indians after him, straining every nerve. As Joe came upon the brink of the precipice he leaped behind a jutting rock and awaited, breathlessly, the results. A moment passed and the hard breathing and light footsteps of his pursuers were heard, and in another moment, with screeches and yells, their dark forms were rolling down the steep rocks, to be food for the hungry wolves at the base.
Henceforth the hill was called Joe English, and well did his friendship deserve so enduring a monument.
Joe English was the grandson of the Sagamore of Agawam (now Ipswich), whose name was Wasconnomet. Later he came to his death in consequence of his fidelity to the whites.
He was acting as guide to Lieutenant Butterfield and party of three between Dunstable and Chelmsford, when they fell into an Indian ambuscade. Joe was their object of pursuit, and toward him they directed their energies. A hard race ensued, and he had nearly gained the thick woods when the Indians, despairing of taking him alive, fired upon and disabled him. They expressed their pleasure, saying, “Now Joe, we got you; you no tell English again we come.” “No,” retorted Joe. “Cap’n Butterfield tell that at Pawtucket.” “Ugh!” exclaimed the Indians, the thought just striking them that the soldiers would be upon them in a short time.
There was no time for delay, and a hatchet was buried in the head of the prostrate Indian. Thus died Joe English, the white man’s faithful friend. Later the legislature of Massachusetts made a grant to his wife and two children because, as the words of the grant have it, “He died in the service of his country.”
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