Jamie Cochran: The Indian Captive, A Poem by Robert Dinsmoor "The Rustic Bard"

This poem is published in honor of Bill West's Tenth Annual Genealogy Poetry Challenge:
https://westinnewengland.blogspot.com/2018/09/announcing-tenth-annual-great-genealogy.html

Although James Cochran is not my ancestor, this poem is important to me in many ways.  First of all, it honors a family story about one of Londonderry, New Hampshire's founding Scots Irish settlers.  It was also written by Robert Dinsmoor, another one of "Nutfield's" famous sons.  If you don't know about the poet Robert Dinsmoor "The Rustic Bard" please click here for more information.  He was a Scots Irish poet who wrote about life in Windham, New Hampshire, the Scots Irish families, love, and other themes with a distinctly Scots accent.  This story about Jamie Cochran was one I heard about while I was at the Scots Irish Genealogy conference at Bowdoin College this August, because it happened nearby in Brunswick, Maine.  As you know, if you are a regular follower of this blog, Nutfield is preparing to celebrate it's 300th anniversary of the settlement by Scots Irish pioneers.

Please see below the poem for more information on the history and genealogy of James Cochran.

Jamie Cochran: The Indian Captive

Give ear, my friends, and let me here relate

A tale which now appears of ancient date.

The hero of my tale is Indian Jamie,

His history I’ll give lest you should blame me.

In Ulster Province, Erin’s northern strand,

Five shiploads joined to leave that far off land.

They had their ministers to pray and preach,

These twenty families embarked in each.

Here I would note and have it understood,

Those emigrants were not Hibernian blood,

But sturdy Scotsmen true, whose fathers fled

From Argyleshire, where protestants had bled

In days of Stuart Charles and James second,

Where persecution was a virtue reckoned.

They found a shelter on the Irish shore

In Ulster, not a century before.

Four of those ships at Boston harbor landed;

The fifth, by chance, at Casco bay was stranded.

But there those stout old Scotsmen knelt and sang

Jehovah’s praise till sea and desert rang.

There they gave up, in one united prayer,

Themselves and children to th’ Almighty’s care.

In seventeen hundred eighteen, August fourth,

Our ancestors received their freedom’s birth.

Some came to Nutfield, since called Londonderry,

The other chose just where they were to tarry.

And one them was of the Cochran name,

Of so small note, who with those settlers came.

On the main land this father settled down,

This place is now called Brunswick of renown.

From Bowdoin college, a few rods is seen

The caved-n cellar where his house had been.

Where famed McKeen his pupils led,

And by his lore profound made science spread.

The Cochran’s eldest son was James,

But eight years old, which now our notice claim.

When Jamie’s blood had felt the heat

Of sixteen summers, high his pulses beat.

He then from bears could guard his father’s corn,

Armed with his gun, shot-bag, and powder horn.

The howling wolf that he was wont to hear

And catmount made music to his ear.

The sly marauding bear at dead of night

Came like a thief who likes to shun the light;

The thrifty hills he levelled with his paw,

Then stretching down, soon filled his hungry maw.

Jamie discerned the beast, as moping there,

He hobbled off to loiter in his den.

His proper course not far from Jamie led,

Whose gun was leveled at the felon’s head,

Then sprung the lock his father oft had fired;

The shot was fatal, and the thief expired.

As deeds of valor add to courage strength,

So this young hero proved it out at length.

Like that young Hebrew stripling, when he slew

A bear and lion – more courageous grew

And fearless, fought and killed Goliath too.

When stretched upon his bed of straw

He, in his dream, an awful vision saw;

A forest wild, extending far and wide,

Where beasts of all descriptions seek to hide;

And now and then upon his ear there fell

A shriek terrific and a hideous yell.

But all at once, to close the scene,

A fiend, like man of dark and ghastly mien,

Armed with a hatchet, and a knife and gun,

Ten more, armed like him, followed on the run.

Swiftly they sped their way, and passed him by,

But oh! Alas!  He heard an infant cry.

Horror now seized our youth, and in his dream

He surely thought he heard his mother scream.

Her bitter cries he could distinctly hear,

“My Jamie’s lost, my Jamie’s lost, I fear”

At this woke, for all did real seem,

And found the whole a fleeting dream.

Then to their labor all by order went,

But Jamie was on a special errand sent,

O’er hills and fens he ne’er had seen before,

With musket armed and ammunition store;

His mother placed a knapsack on his back,

With things convenient, not a cumbrous pack.

He through the marshes sought his destined creek

Of which he’d heard the Indian hunters speak.

At length he found the little rolling river,

Which, when he forded, scarcely mad him shiver,

And soon Magusit bay began to quiver.

A flock of ducks, through the thick air above,

With whistling wings, all lighted in a cove

Within a short distance, Jamie cocked his gun

And made towards his game upon the run.

His fire was true, and plainly he could tell

Some lay dead, and other wounded fell.

He left his musket on the shore,

His powder horn, shot-bag, and all his store;

With ducks and drakes his knapsack soon was filled,

No matter then , how many he had killed.

With success flushed he turned toward the shore

And lo!  He saw an armed Sagamore

Take up his gun, powder horn, and shot;

Ten Indian warriors stood there on the spot.

Our hero, now advancing near the shore,

Could recognize the ancient Sagamore,

The very phiz he’d often seen before

When hunger drove him to his father’s door.

James reverently approached him from the strand,

Bowed, called him father, offered him his hand,

And humbly as him to give back his gun.

He frowned; “Me no your father, you no be my son.”

In vain he plead, and urged his parent’s sorrow,

Said he’d go back, and come again tomorrow.

“No, me no trust you”, was the short reply,

“You no come back, you white men all will lie.

You shoot our bears, the Indians want their grease,

You shoot our ducks, and carry off our geese;

You kill our moose and deer, no heed our speeches,

Eat up the flesh and wear their skins for breeches;

You take our fish, and carry off our clams;

Indian no cross great water to catch your lambs;

You no be here again, you great pappoose,

To shoot our ducks and carry off our goose,

You be our captive now, yourself the cause,

Your life be forfeit, by our Indian laws;

We take you Canada, and there you sell,

But we no know, your scalp may do as well.”

Our hero, fixed as Indian captives are

Whom they take prisoners in a time of war,

Was placed between two warriors armed as guard,

Who both seemed proud that they his honor shared.

The old grey Sachem, tested with command,

Gave order, “March to Canada”, off hand,

But bade all “steer for the great waterfall,

For at the Wigwam there we all must call,

Who knows but there we’ll all have more English boys

To make us rich and to increase our joys.”

Now Jamie tried his masters to obey,

Nor made the least attempt to run away.

He seemed to place his life in their protection,

And by hypocrisy gained their affection.

As they grew intimate, he seemed contented;

They lived like brothers when they got acquainted.

But, faithful to their charge, kept him in sight,

And made him sleep between them every night.

Such confidence they in their prisoner put,

Hi access had to all within their hut;

To keep their guns and ammunition dry,

He careful was to set or lay them by.

And Jamie’s mind absorbed in deep reflection,

Besought his father’s God for his protection.

And then he thought on his prophetic dream,

Where, ominous, he heard his mother scream;

In desert wild, of all his friends forsaken,

He was the infant that was taken.

Like bees attracted to their wonted hive,

Straight as a line they to their hut arrive.

They gathered sticks and soon struck up a fire,

And fixed the wigwam as they did desire.

But Jamie’s mind on his escape was bent,

That to accomplish was his whole intent.

While here and there the busy Indians run,

They mind him not, till he secures each gun;

And while he did their other weapons hide

He placed a hatchet slyly by his side.

It was his part to give the fire fuel,

Nor did they think that Jamie’s heart was cruel.

What Sachem told him he remembered still,

“We take you Canada, and there you sell,

And we no know, your scalp may do as well.”

“My God,” said Jamie, “must this be my doom

Unless that I an awful act assume?

I am compelled the adage old to try,

‘To desperate cases, desperate means apply’

The hour is come, defenseless now they lie,

The blows I strike must kill them or I died.”

When rising up to give the fatal stroke,

By accident a small dry stick her broke.

And when it snapped, one of the Indians woke,

And asked him, what he wanted.  Jamie said,

“The fire wants fuel”; the stick he on it laid,

Then down he laid as if to rest the better,

The Indian thought that nothing was the matter,

And fell asleep more soundly than before,

And soon they both began to wheeze and snore.

Again he rose while they were sleeping sound,

And at one blow killed on upon the ground;

Then for the other drew a stroke far bolder,

But missed his head, and hit him on the shoulder.

The Indian then arising to his feet

In fearful rage did Jamie’s hatchet meet,

Which soon dispatched him, there he fell

Nor knew not then who hurt him nor could tell.

Our hero then soon left this dire abode

And frantic ran some mile, nor sought a road;

How far he’d gotten from the Indian hut,

He could not tell, as he was light of foot.

His mind, still frenzied, sometimes reasoned well;

He said “I die, sure as those Indians fell,

I cannot live, deprived of all subsistence,

What means have I to keep me in existence:

What have I gained, if I must die of hunger?

I must go back, I’ll think upon’t no longer.

There’s guns and hatchets, and some good provision

Placed in my knapsack, with some ammunition.”

Then back he went, as fast he could go,

And found some light, although the fire was low,

He roused it up. There the two Indians lay;

He scalped them both, and bore their spoil away.

A load for him packed up as Indians do,

And homeward then he did his course pursue.

But a small river running cross his way

Caused him to stop and make a short delay.

Then on the river’s brink he soon espied

A tall slim pine, to which he soon applied

The Indian’s hatchet to its body well,

Full soon the tree across the water fell.

With cautious hands and feet on it he crossed,

But there by chance an Indian gun he lost.

He marked the place it in the water fell,

Went back and got it, some the story tell.

But scarcely had he gotten safely o’er

He saw some Indians on the other shore.

The forest hid him from their savage sight,

And they despaired to catch him in the night.

Soon Jamie found the Androscoggin’s tide,

Which led him, safely as a faithful guide,

To George’s fort, near which his father dwelt,

And oh! What joy to see our hero felt.

But when he hailed it, this poor Scottish boy

Was taken up for an Indian false decoy.

In quest of food, he had no need to roam,

His pack supplied him to his father’s home,

Where his parents mourned as dead their favorite boy.

There they embraced him with ecstatic joy.

Gladly they saw the trophies he had won,

While he returned the knapsack and gun.

The Indian scalps proved Jamie’s victory grand,

As did Goliath’s head in David’s hand.

From Poems of Robert Dismoor “The Rustic Bard”, compiled by Leonard Allison Morrison, 1898, pages 43 – 52. 

James Cochran was born in Northern Ireland.  He is estimated have been between sixteen and eighteen years old when he was captured near Casco Bay, Maine.   He was known for the rest of his life as "Indian Jamie".  He eventually removed to New Hampshire where he lived first at Suncook with his father, and then married and lived in Londonderry.  He is buried at the Forest Hill Cemetery behind the First Parish Meetinghouse in East Derry, New Hampshire.

According to Robert Dinsmoor, there were five Cochran brothers who all had been at the siege of Londonderry in Northern Ireland.  They all came to New England.  Ninian Cochran and James Cochran came to Casco Bay together before coming to Londonderry, New Hampshire.  The other three brothers John, Nathaniel and William Cochran eventually came to New Hampshire, too.  Ninian Cochran was a surveyor, who was killed by being thrown from a horse in Suncook, New Hampshire.  Deacon John Cochran, father of "Indian Jamie" built the first saw and grist mill at Suncook.

James Cochran was the son of Deacon John Cochran and Lillie Kilgore.  He was born about 1713 in Northern Ireland, died 17 February 1795 in Londonderry, New Hampshire.  Jamie married about 1738 in Londonderry to Janet Burns, the daughter of Thomas Burns and Margaret Leslie.  She was born Northern Ireland and died 6 April 1760 in Londonderry, New Hampshire.  They had five children born in Londonderry:

1.       Lt. Joseph Cochran born 17 August 1739 m. Margaret Murray

2.       William Cochran born 28 December 1740 m. Betsy Gile

3.       John Cofran born 28 February 1743 m. Joanna Eliza Gilman

4.       Major James Cochran born 28 February 1743, m. Mary Ann McDaniel

5.       Mary Cochran born 22 January 1745

From The History of Brunswick, Topsham and Harpswell, Maine, by George Augustus Wheeler, 1878, on page 56:

“On “April 13^th of that year [1725] two Indians captured a man belonging to the garrison at Maquoit, named James Cochran, about eighteen years of age.  He was on the marshes in pursuit of fowl when he was surprised by the two Indians.  He was pinioned, taken to the carrying place, put in a canoe, and carried up to the Ten-Mile Falls.  There the Indians made their arrangements for the night. A fire was made and supper prepared.  Cochran expected all this time that he would be killed when the savages met some of their companions, and determined, in consequence, to make his escape, if possible.  The second night his bonds were removed, and he was placed between the two Indians to sleep.  Each of the savages slept with his hatchet under his head and his gun by his side.  Cochran feigned sleep, while in reality he watched every movement.  As soon as he found his captors asleep he rose up.  This movement awakened one of them, who seeing their prisoner apparently suffering from cold and endeavoring to warm himself, went to sleep again.  When all was again quiet, Cochran took the hatchet from under the head of the one who had waked, and killed him instantly.  He killed the other as he was getting up.  He then scalped them both, took their guns and hatchets, and went down to the river in great haste, fearing lest he should meet their companions.  In fording a river on the way, he lost a gun and one of the scalps.  When he arrived opposite the fort, he shouted, and a boat was sent across for him.  He narrated his adventure to Captain Gyles, and some men were sent up the river, who found the bodies of the death Indians, and also their canoe, which they brought back.  He was both rewarded for his bravery, and promoted in his rank.”

Also see The Indian Wars of New England, Volume 3, by Herbert Milton Sylvester, 1910, on pages 252 -254:

“Pending these efforts to procure a cessation of the ravages of the Indians, they had begun their work of killing and burning upon opportunity.  It was on April 13, 1725, that a soldier by the name of Cockram was captured by two Indians in the neighborhood of Maquoit Bay, which Sullivan locates some twenty miles north of Cape Elizabeth.  Cockram was only eighteen.  They started off on the march, the first day making a journey of some thirty miles into the wilderness.  They bound Cockram the first night, and, building their fire, lay down to sleep.  The next morning they were again on the march, and when it came night they left him unbound.  They built their fire, and finally lay down to sleep, with Cockram between them.  When they were in deep slumber he managed to get his hand on one of their tomahawks, and, with a cool deliberation, killed his captors.  Stripping them of their scalps, he took their guns and ammunition and made his way to the garrison – bringing, however, but one scalp and one gun, having lost a gun a scalp as he was fording one of the many streams in that part of the country.

                He told his story to Captain Gyles; and so anxious was the garrison to verify it that a party were sent back over the trail with him, and they came upon the two Indians he had killed.  So creditable was the performance that the young man was given an advanced post at the garrison; but whether he received the Provincial bonus for the two scalps is not recorded.”

Click here to see a blog post about James Cochran's tombstone in Derry, New Hampshire:
https://nutfieldgenealogy.blogspot.com/2018/11/tombstone-tuesday-james-cochran-poetic.html

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Heather Wilkinson Rojo, "Jamie Cochran: The Indian Captive, A Poem by Robert Dinsmoor "The Rustic Bard", Nutfield Genealogy, posted October 26, 2018, ( https://nutfieldgenealogy.blogspot.com/2018/10/jamie-cochran-indian-captive-poem-by.html: accessed [access date]).