Frightening Times
Along the Susquehannah
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A period in the life of Hannah (Gore) Durkee, daughter of Judge
Obadiah Gore, as recounted by herself and written down from her lips by her daughter,
Amanda (Durkee) Allen
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[Hannah was a 2nd cousin of Winfield Dyer
Gallup]
"I was born in New London county, Connecticut, September 8, 1769. When I was eleven
months old my parents moved to Wilkes-Barre, on land granted by the King to the Connectcut
colonies. They settled on the east side of the Susquehannah river, near Jacob's Plains. We
were driven off in six weeks by the Pennamites. My father was taken prisoner, and while
crossing the river he said something displeasing to them, when one of them struck him with
his oar across the forehead, which marked him for life. How he got away I know not, but he
went with his family to New Jersey, where he lived about two years and then returned again
to Wilkes-Barre. Father built a saw-mill soon after his return, and while he was building
it my mother sent my brother, Avery, across the race to get some hewings to burn. When he
was out of her sight he coaxed me to go with him. We crossed close by the mill. While we
were crossing, he said, : 'Now, Hannah, hold on tight and don't fall into the water.' The
caution gave me such a fright that I immediately fell in, and he said I was sinking for
the third time when he caught me by the hair and raised me out of the water, and
fortunately laid my face down and wrung the water out of my clothes as well as he could,
and when my reason returned, for fear of censure, he cautioned me to keep still until they
were dry. We lived there about two years, in which time father built a large two-story
house, when we were again beset by the ravages of war. Here my mother gave birth to twin
daughters; one of them did not survive long and the other was very weakly and had to be
kept in a dark room. We learned the Pennamites had raised an army and were coming to
plunder everything from the settlers and burn their houses. Father was stoning a well he
had just dug. He got out, shouldered his gun, and every man that was able to bear arms
went to meet them. They lay in ambush two miles below Shawneytown, attacked them and
defeated them, and we were left undisturbed for awhile. The Pennamites at that time were
commanded by Colonel Plunket."
"Soon after father enlisted in the American army under a
commission. He came home sometimes for recruits and stayed two or three weeks at a time. I
saw him enlist a good may men. He was a lieutenant in the Connecticut line, and was absent
at the battle of Wyoming. Many of our neighbors were home on parole and were killed in the
battle. My father lived on the east side of the river, and my grandfather Gore on the west
side. My mother's parents lived with her at that time; their names were Avery. The day
after the battle, July 4, 1778, a party of Tories came to the opposite side of the river
and concealed, all but one, who called, 'Over, over.' Grandfather Avery, thinking him to
be a neighbor, went after him with a canoe, when they rushed into the canoe and compelled
him to row them over. They went into the house and told mother to carry out such things as
she wished to save, as they were going to burn it. She commenced to carry out the best of
the goods, and as fast as she carried them out they took them down to the river where the
rest of the party had arrived to carry off the plunder with the canoes. After collecting
such things as they wished to take away, they set fire to the house and left. Mother
brought water and extinguished the flames. Soon after another party came and fired it, and
told her if she put it out her life would be a forfeit. My parents saw it burn. They
started for New Jersey on foot, carying such things as they could provisions and clothing.
Mother had my youngest sister to carry in her arms; she was then three years old. They had
to pass through thirty miles of woods and encamped on the ground in the open air.
Grandfather and Grandmother Avery continued their journey through to Connecticut, with
several others, and performed the whole journey on foot and subsisted upon the charity of
the people. At this time I was living with Grandfather Gore, near Forty Fort, and went to
the post with them July 2. When the alarm came my Uncle Asa Gore's wife was in travail.
She gave birth to a son and then was carried immediately to the fort. The next day,
Friday, July 3, 1778, our men, under Colonel Zebulon Butler, paraded all who were able to
bear arms and marched out to meet the enemy. I had seven uncles in the battle, and out of
these five were killed and one wounded. Silas, Asa, and George Gore were killed, as were
Timothy Pierce and John Murphy, who married my uncles' sisters. Daniel Gore was wounded in
the left arm. In the evening as we sat outside of the fort, we heard the voice of a man
upon the opposite side of the river. They called to know who he was and he replied,
'Daniel Gore.' Grandmother said, 'Have I one son living!' with such expressive voice that
it still sounds in my ears. My head at this time was lying in her lap and we were all
absorbed in grief. They brought him over, dressed his wounds and he left again under cover
night, as did the rest who remained alive."
"The next day the fort surrendered, and the Indians began
plundering. They made the women give up their beads and other ornaments. My aunt, Sally
Gore, had a chest of clothing that was very nice, and she sat upon it. A young Indian told
her to get up. She said she would not. He went out and an older one came in with a
tomahawk and she resisted his command. The entreaties of her friends made her leave it to
their inspection. They distributed her clothing among the squaws, one putting her white
satin bonnet on hind side before and wearing it off. After securing such things as their
fancy led them to carry away, they began their work of destruction by cutting open beds
and strewing feathers and straw. They emptied meal, flour and all kinds of provisions, and
strewed them to the wind in a common mass. I was broken out with measles at the time and
they put me in a bed with my sick aunt to keep them from disturbing her. It had the
desired effect and few ventured into the room. One Indian came in with her husband's vest
on and wore it away, and by that she knew her husband was killed. She gave her son his
father's name, Asa Gore. I can never forget the heartrending sighs and sobs at the sound
of the guns that were completing the work of death. We remained there a few days until
aunt could be moved."
"Word came there was a nation of Indians coming that could
not speak a word of English and everyone would be killed who was found there. We then put
up such things as we could carry in packs and handerchiefs and started for New Jersey. We
travelled two days, passing a great many who had given out by the way, some sick, others
weary. We passed a great many infants who drew their first breath by the roadside, among
them two pairs of twins. Their mothers' beds were hemlock boughs and their covering was
poles and bushes with sometimes an article of clothing or blankets added. They remained in
this condition until our army was apprised of it and they sent pack-horses with provisions
to help them through the woods. They carried those unable to walk until they got to
inhabitants in the eastern part of Pennsylvania, where Grandfather Gore stopped. He got
the use of a small house of a man by the name of Stroud, (Stroudsburg), about fiftly miles
from Wyoming. The rest disbanded and went to different parts of the country, many going
through to Connecticut. We remained here a few days without knowing whether the rest of
our friends were living or not. One day grandmother called me in from play and I came
running in. My father sat there: we were neither of us able to speak for some time. Then
he took me on his lap and asked me if I wanted to see my mother. I told him yes. He said
she was at Mr. Bucoy's in New Jersey with the rest of the children. They were all alive,
but they supposed that all on the west side of the river were killed. Father got a passage
for Mrs. Satterlee, her four children and myself in a baggage wagon to go within a few
miles of where mother was. Mrs. Saterlee's husband was killed in the battle and she was
returning to her friends in Connecticut. Two of my aunts had gone there before. Mrs.
Saterlee begged food by the way. Sometimes we fared well, at other times we considered
ourselves among Tories. After we separated a kind man took me on a horse and carried me to
where mother was."
"After our people took possession of Wyoming again and
established guards there, father went with my uncle Asa's widow to Connecticut, where she
became an inmate of Deacon Avery's family with her son. She lived there about seven years
and then married a man by the name of Murphy. Mr. and Mrs. Avery had no children and they
adopted her son and made him heir to a handsome property. The old people lived and died
with him. Father returned, and after burying their dead they erected barracks and small
houses and many lived in or near the fort. The men tried to secure their crops. The
Indians were frequent visitors and often killed them while at work in the fields. Four men
and a boy crossed the river to work: the Indians crept under the brush that grew along the
fence until they got near them and then rushed out and killed and scalped the men and
stabbed the boy nine times and took off his scalp. The cannon was fired from the fort
which frightened them away, and as soon as was deemed prudent thry crossed with canoes amd
carried them over. The boy was alive and recovered; the men's faces were all cut in
gashes. Mr. Ganly and another man went out hunting, and were taken prisoners and carried
to Meshoppen. There they killed the Indians and returned. A party of Indians lay in ambush
several days watching for Captain Franklin, and not being able to get him they went to his
house, Sunday, April 7, 1782, took his wife and four children prisoners and carried them
to Meshoppen, that being their place of resort. Our men went in pursuit and found them.
They had placed them under guard and commanded them to lay flat upon the ground to keep
them from being discovered. Mrs. Franklin raised her head to look about. An Indian told
her if she did it again he would kill her. This did not keep her quiet. She raised her
head a second time and he shot her. She died on the spot: (Mr. Miner says: 'In the midst
of the firing the two little girls and the boy sprang from their captors and found refuge
with their friends. Instantly the savages shot Mrs. Franklin and retreated: the chief
raised the babe on his shoulder and thus bearing her aloft, fled.'); then they took the
babes and dashed their brains out against a tree. Our men put them to flight, carried back
the children and left the dead, not thinking it prudent to remain and bury them. Then
afterwards went after them. Mrs. Franklin's clothes were on the ground as she lay in them:
her body was gone and never found. Her two oldest sons were prisoners at Niagara at the
time."
"The Indians came into the house of Mr. Lester, killed and
scalped him, and took his wife and four children prisoners. The two oldest were daughters.
The boys died. Mrs. Lester and daughters remained in captivity until the end of the war,
when Mrs. Lester and one of them were released. In a few months Mrs. Lester and Captain
Franklin were married and then went in pursuit of the other daughter. According to the
treaty, the prisoners were to be sent to Niagara. They went there. The girl had not been
sent in, and after much inquiry they learned she was on the Grand river in Michigan. An
Indian was sent to pilot Franklin to the tribe she was with. They found her and as soon as
they made their business known the squaws began making great lamentations, and she utterly
refused to leave the Indians. When they compelled her to come, the squaws tore her
clothing all off and left her naked. Franklin wrapped his horse blanket around her, and
then mounted his horse and an Indian handed her up to him and he carried her off by force.
They joined her mother at Niagara, then returned home. They stopped at father's for
dinner, and we tried every way we could to familiarize her with the ways of the white
people. She was then fourteen years old, and a squaw in every respect except color. She
talked with me afterward and said she was always mortified in company, and yet was unable
to overcome the Indian traits and carried them with her through life. She married Mr.
Cole, who was one of the first settlers of Scipio."
"July 4, 1778, the next day after the battle, when they came
into the fort, Queen Esther (a half breed squaw) said she 'was never so tired in her life
as she was yesterday killing so many darned Yankees.' She killed fourteen. One of my
uncles was one of the number. One man escaped to tell the fate of the others. After this
the Indians continued their depredations upon the inhabitants. Some days had elapsed since
any Indians had been seen about there, and Uncle Daniel Gore and Mr. Abbott went out to
look at their farms, a little more than a mile off. They were discovered by a party of
Indians that gave chase. Mr. Abbott being in the rear, was shot and the Indians stopped to
scalp him. This gave my uncle a chance to escape. A young man came to the fort famished,
weary, ragged and dirty. Said his name was Mayers and he was taken from near Sunbury. The
Indians had been so troublesome that a party had turned out to hunt them down. They found
no signs of them, and had sat down to eat their lunch and some of them had begun to play
cards. The Indians had come upon them unexpectedly and killed all but him and another one.
He was with the Indians two days, when he managed to get hold of one of their knives and
cut the cords he was bound with, and crept softly away until he was out of sight and
hearing. He had been gone sixteen days and lived on bark and roots. The life of the other
man he doubted not had paid the forfeit of his escape."
"Mother washed and mended his clothing and he started for
home."
"Before the battle we lived near Jonathan Slocum. They had a
daughter about my age: her name was Frances. We went to school together. Mr. Slocum, his
son William and Chester Kingsley went out some distance from the fort to grind some knives
(Mr. Miner's account differs somewhat 'On the 2d of November, 1778, while the two Kingsley
boys were engaged in grinding a knife, Nathan, aged fifteen, was shot and scalped by an
Indian. Frances Slocum, aged five, the younger Kingsley boy, and a black girl were seized
and carried away into captivity. On the 16th of December following, while Mr. Slocum, his
father- in-law, Isaac Tripp, and William Slocum were foddering cattle, they were fired
upon by a party of Indians. Mr. Slocum was shot dead, Mr. Tripp wounded and tomahawked,
but William escaped"): Frances was with them. The Indians killed Mr. Slocum, wounded
William and took Chester and Frances prisoners. Every means was taken to find them but to
no purpose. When Mrs. Slocum saw me it brought to mind her lost Frances, and many has been
the time I have witnessed her tears in speaking of Frances. After Frances became old she
was found among the Miamis in Indiana, surrounded by an Indian family of her own. Chester
was never heard from to my knowledge. Mr. Slocum's house was not destroyed and the family
remained there unmolested until our people took the fort."
"The Indians had been so troublesome that it was thought it
best to send the army to destroy their crops and habitations. They went to Tioga Point and
then to Catharinetown, and down the west side of Seneca lake to Geneva, cutting their road
as they went. They camped with the main army at Tioga, then sent out parties to destroy
their crops and wigwams. When the crops were near enough to Genessee river they were
thrown in, and at other times burned. The Indian families had all left and kept before the
army. Their warriors were on the lurk to kill our men when they could. By one of their
parties Boyd was tortured because he would not tell them the situation of our army. He
made signs of being a Free Mason. The chief, understanding him, gave orders not to kill
hiom, but to provide for him, as he was going away to be gone some days. After the chief
had gone they questioned Boyd again. He would tell them nothing. The Indians took out one
end of his intestines and fastened it to a tree, and drove him around it until they were
all wound on the tree. They scalped and left him. He was found next day. John Spalding
assisted in carrying him into camp. After surveying the country around Genessee, Moscow
and Allon's Hill, they returned to Seneca lake and divided: some going between the lakes,
others went around the outlet of the Cayuga to the east side. There they found a large
hewed log house, called a castle, built for a place of worship. It had a large brass lock
on the door. Father took it off, carried it home, put it on his own door and it still
remains there. They burned the castle. I think it stood near where Savonia now stands. The
two armies met at Ithaca again. They cut down a large orchard near Geneva. At Chemung
river they had a warm skirmish with the Indians. They were in a gulf between the hills.
When the inhabitants were returning to Wyoming after the massacre, the smallpox broke out
in th army."
"Grandfather and grandmother returned two weeks before we
did and moved into the house father had built, and while father was after us grandfather
and grandmother were both taken very sick. When we got into the neighborhood we were
halted, vaccinated and staid there some days. Grandfather wished to see us very much: we
were not permitted to go there until he died, when mother and I were permitted to look
through the window and view the cold remains of one who had been very dear to me. I felt
his loss very much. Grandmother recovered. The house was cleaned and we moved there.
Father had hired a woman to pick p feathers from the corners of the fences and other
lodging places. She had enough for two beds, and we made ticks from old tent cloth. We
lived there on small means, witnessing scenes of cruelty every few days. A man and a boy
were boiling sap in their cabin. The Indians tomahawked and poured boiling sap down the
man's throat, scalped him and took the boy prisoner. Men crossed over Kingston flats to
work. The Indians secreted among the bushes and killed a number of our men and they killed
an Indian noted for his bravery. He was called Anthony Turkey. The rest disappeared. Our
men brought over their dead and also Anthony Turkey, laid him on the green before the fort
and all went to view him The next day they fitted up an old canoe and placed him in a
sitting position, fastened a rooster between his legs with a peck of corn before him,
wrote a pass and fastened it to his hand, stating where he had started from and shoved him
in the current of the river. Shortly the Indians came near the fort in the night and said,
'They have killed Anthony Turkey,' (his name was Anthony Kneebuckle) and they defied those
in the garrison to come out and kill them, thinking they would get them out that way. We
were often alarmed in the night and ran to the fort. Much of the time we slept with our
clothes on. A party went out to see what they could discover, and they found a mulatto
with a very nice spyglass. They could not get him to speak a word. They marshalled him,
sentenced him to have his fingers pinched with bullet moulders and put to torture in other
ways, yet could not get a word from him. They sent him to headquarters as a spy, and as
father was officer of the day he gave the spyglass to him."
"Forty Fort is on the west side of the river (Susquehannah)
opposite Kingston flats. It was called Forty Fort, because forty men were there from
Connecticut to help build it. I think grandfather was one of the forty men. There were
three or four springs coming out of the bank directly in front of the fort, and there the
river is so wide that small arms on the opposite side can do no damage. The guard house
was a small distance from it, and a part of the time was occupied for a school-room. One
day we heard the report of a gun directly in front of the door and windows soon after
school had opened in the afternoon, and a scene of confusion instantly commenced. Teachers
and scholars sprang for the door and windows, getting out as best they could, and ran for
the fort. Soon after we learned an Indian had been concealed in the bushes watching the
movements at the fort, and that there were 100 more further back. They expected to come at
night and take the fort by suprise. The Indian said he could have hit a number of us with
his gun while we were at play at noon. Our seats ran from the door directly back and were
filled with scholars. He pointed to see how many he could hit with one shot, and in
putting his gun down he accidently hit it against a bush and it went off, and put all on
their guard. They left for that time. When General Sullivan was marching his army into
Wilkes-Barre to drive back the Indians, father watched until he saw them come over the
mountain, then he called us all to him and let us look through the spyglass to see them,
and told us that we might go to bed and sleep that night. Our joy was beyond description.
These scenes finally closed and we were settled quite securly, when on March 24, 1784, we
were visited by an ice flood in the night which did great damage. We were awakened by one
of our neighbors after the water had surrounded our house. We all got away and went to
high land, where we were joined by many others. They built a large fire in the fields and
we remained there until daylight, when they discovered a family by the name of Pierce in a
black walnut tree which stood in front of their door. Mr. Pierce had drawn his canoe up
near his house and lashed it to a tree to feed his cattle in: he awoke in the night and
found his bed in the water. They went into the chamber and knocked a hole through the roof
and sat on the peak of the house. A son four years old was left in the house until near
day, when a cake of ice came against the house and knocked the chimney down. He called
out, 'What is that?' They asked to khow where he was, and he said 'Here on a board.' They
drew him up with the rest of the family, and finally they succeeded in getting in their
canoe, and from there to the tree where they remained until near noon before they could be
got off."
"The settlement was mostly overflowed and nearly all the
cattle, sheep and hogs were drowned or carried away in the night. In the morning we saw a
hencoop floating down with a rooster on the top crowing. Such a flood had not been known
before, and I have not heard of any since that compared with it. Father and others went
about ten miles to a place that had been vacated in the time of war and cut grass to
winter the cattle. My brother Avery and another man went there to take care of the stock.
They carried their provisions, built a cabin and cooked for themselves. The winter was
very severe, the snow very deep, so there was no passage to and fro until the middle of
March, when three men fixed snow shovels and went to see what had been their fate. They
found them well and remained a few days. After they had eaten what provisions they had
carried with them they killed a heifer and lived on beef. Then they took the fences from
the stacks, and all started for home and reached there a few days before the flood. By
this means our cattle were saved, but the hogs were drowned. The darkness of the night was
doubtless a great saving of human life: as the people could see nothing all escaped as
fast as they could to high ground. Only one man was drowned near here. Mr. Asa Jackson and
Uncle Daniel Gore were together. Uncle Daniel got into his skiff and rode safely across
the flats. The other man got on his horse and rode part way, when a block of ice came
against him and both he and his horse were drowned. As soon as the water had settled we
returned to our houe. My brother was the first to enter. He stepped upon a loose board and
went under water into the cellar. A chest we had our best clothes in had a pound of
copperas in also, and everything was nicely colored and all things about the house
compared with that."
"All went to work again to prepare for another year's crops,
when on May 1 we received orders from the Pennamites to leave the place. They had a treaty
with the Indians, and had hired them to come and plunder and drive off the settlers. Many
of the settlers not wishing to engage in any more warfare, prepared to move, some going to
Connecticut, others went up the river about thirty miles to a place called Bowman's Creek.
We started the 18th for that place. The first day we went ten miles. There were sixty or
seventy in the company, and each one that was able carried a pack or bundle. The heavy
articles were carried in canoes. At night they would unload and camp until daylight. The
second morning we saw a boat returning, and mother got a passage for my youngest sister,
Sally, in a canoe, and left Anna and myself to make our way the best we could with the
others. We kept in their company until we came to Uncle Daniel Gore's on Bowman's flats.
We had driven down some stakes and peeled bark, and wove in and made a small room. Mother
returned in a few days. At that time father was at the assembly in New Jersey and did not
return until June. After making their families as comfortable as they could, the men went
back to defend their rights. They had a battle and a number were killed on both sides.
They proposed coming together the next day. All laid down arms, and as soon as the
attention of our men was drawn towards the speaker their commander gave 'Order Arms' and
they secured the guns of our men and took most of them prisoners. My brother was one of
them, and was kept in jail until there was a settlement with the colonies. Colonel Swift
tried to fire the fort in their possession one dark night. He was discovered and was
wounded by a shot from the fort. His men carried him away and concealed him until he could
be carred farther. They brought him to our house, where he remained three weeks. He left
as soon as he was able, for the enemy were on the lookout for him. He started in the
morning for Owego. That night there came a company and surrounded our house; two or three
came in so still that none awoke until they lit a candle, when the light awoke father.
They asked for Swift. Father told them he left here in the morning, and he thought him out
of their reach for that time. They searched until they were satisfied, then lay down upon
our floor (which was composed of solid earth) until morning. Our house was in part, the
one I spoke of, my uncle's building of stakes and barks. After father returned he added
another room of bushes and there we lived until November. Then father and mother went down
the river to get the rest of their goods, and left my three sisters and myself alone. The
second day we saw a boat coming up the river: we heard their voices, we watched it and it
did not pass, nor could we see anyone. Being accustomed to the fear of men, we put out the
light, covered the fire and sat out doors most of the night. We were not disturbed and we
learned afterwards that they had been stealing plums, as there was a large plum orchard
near."
"In November, father, with two other families, moved about
forty miles up the river. The season had been very dry and warm amd the river low. Our
goods were carried in canoes with hands to row them. The rest travelled on foot along the
bank of the river. The boats often got stuck, and we had ropes fastened to them to pull
them along. All took hold to help, and some of them were in the water most of the time
while assisting in towing the boats. My uncle had the fever and ague and every other day
he rode on horseback. His fits came on in the afternoon, and Wealthy and myself took turns
going ahead to wait on him while his fits were on. We would go as far as we thought the
company would go that day, then make what preparations we could for their coming. One
night the boats did not come. The boys got there with the cows. I carried a drinking cup
and we all had our supper and breakfast from the cup. I had the saddle for a pillow and
the boys found their beds as best they could. The rest of the company came up about ten
o'clock. They had had more than usual trouble with the boats. After taking a rest we all
moved on."
"We settled near the mouth of the Chemung river, on Queen
Esther's flats: remained there one year, then moved ten miles down the river upon the
opposite side in the town of Sheshequin. There my parents spent the remainder of their
days, and there Grandmother died in 1801, aged 83 years.
"At the age of 19, October 19, 1788, I was married to Elisha
Durkee and moved to Scipio, Cayuga county, New York, in company with William Patrick and
family. One company had gone before us. They followed the old Sullivan road to the head of
Seneca lake. There they fixed up some boats left by the army and went down the lake, and
from Seneca river up the outlet of Cayuga lake. Our boat was leaky and we had to unload
and caulk it often and dry our clothes. We had but little, and it took but little time to
unload. We would go ashore and camp at night. When we arrived at our destined place, Mr.
Durkee drove down two stakes in front of a large log, put up some poles, covered the top
with bark and set up branches at the end. There we spent the summer of 1789. In the fall
we built a log house on the east shore of Cayuga lake, about half way between Aurora and
where Savannah now stands. All the boards used were split and hewed."
"In December I gave birth to a daughter (Betsey Durkee
Sweetland). She was the first white child born in the town of Scipio. We lived there two
years, during which time it had become settled all along the shore for miles. Captain
Franklin, who married Mrs. Lester, moved here and settled on a farm where Aurora now
stands, with money to pay for it when it came for sale: but not being able to see his
neighbors starve around him, he had lent his money to buy provisions with, so he could not
pay for the whole. He agreed with a man to deed the whole and lease him half. The man had
a friend who was willing to join him in robbing Franklin of it all. That was too much for
him [Franklin]; he became deranged and shot himself. It was a heavy blow to the whole
settlement, for he had been a father to all."
"We lived on the Indian reserve and got title of them in
1791. Governor Clinton sent orders to drive off the inhabitants and burn their buildings
and fences, and we were again compelled to be homeless. Our house was burned as well as
those of all others. I had two children at that time. I remained there and cooked by the
fire of our house one week, then started on horseback with my children for Sheshequin. Mr.
Durkee built a rail pen, chinked it with buckwheat straw, and remained there throughout
the winter to care for his cattle. In the spring he moved to the old Watkins farm at
Scipioville and lived there one year. Then he bought a farm of 200 acres at Gilberry Tracy
at $1.25 an acre, one mile west and one mile south of what is called Scipio Center."
"Elisha Durkee's mother's maiden name was Molly Benjamin. Her
father was sent to England as a representative of the Connecticut colonies, was taken sick
and died there. His grandmother's maiden name was Molton. She was a Scotch woman and noted
doctress."
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Extracted from the genealogical website of
Larry Chesebro' and his wife, Nancy (Cagle) Chesebro'. They cite the following source for
their information on Hannah (Gore) Durkee: "Genealogy of the Descendants of William
Chesebrough" by Anna Chesebrough Wildey; Press of T. A. Wright - New York 1903 |
