Nick White

As dawn’s first light edged over the horizon, Paugus, Chief of the Sokokis Tribe, sat still, a solitary figure etched against the pale morning glow. His breath, visible in the cool air, wrapped him in a ghostly shroud. This was his hour. It made sense to him—the world on the cusp of waking, a fleeting harmony before the day’s inevitable descent into disorder. In these quiet moments, he found peace in a time when men seemed intent on tearing the world apart.

Fog drifted in from the Saco River, cloaking the land in muted gray, blurring the line between the known and the unknown. With his eyes closed, Paugus found unexpected clarity in the dense mist. He had come from the north to the Pequawket village to rally Pequawket (Pigwacket) warriors for a raiding party against the English, defending his people and their land. For two long years, the English had cruelly confined him and his family in Dunstable and later in Boston. The mere recollection of his family and people’s suffering at the hands of the English stoked a fierce fury within him. However, the winds carried a whisper, hinting at an imminent moment of reckoning. It was rumored that a company of around forty English militiamen was steadily advancing towards the Pequawket village from the east. With their delusions of righteousness, these settlers saw themselves as conquerors of the untamed wilderness. But in reality, they were intruders on land that was not theirs to claim. Their arrogance, a bitter injustice to those who lived on and tended to the land for hundreds of generations could not go unchecked.

A loon’s haunting call broke the silence, tugging at Paugus’s awareness. His eyes flickered open, the fog-shrouded world sharpening into view, framed in shades of gray. As the call faded, Chief Paugus took a deep breath, steadying himself for the day ahead. Muscles taut and heart steady, he embraced the moment with the calm resolve of a warrior ready to meet his fate.

Paugus and his warriors shadowed the militia’s movements along the Saco River, blending seamlessly into the forest as they watched the intruders carve a clumsy path through the trees. The Pequawket knew this land intimately—every bend of the river, every whisper of the leaves. This was their home, and they would not yield it without a fight.
…

A loon momentarily disrupted Captain John Lovewell’s scattered thoughts, his rangers gathered for morning prayers led by Chaplain Frye. Lovewell’s mind was elsewhere, tangled in the complexities of his third campaign north of Lake Winnipesaukee. By May 1725, the conflict known as Drummer’s War was in its third brutal year, spiraling toward a bloody climax. Though his earlier missions had been successes, he was now deep in hostile territory, farther from Dunstable (now Nashua) than he had ever ventured.

The fog rolled in off the pond and wove its way through the trees. Lovewell scanned his men’s faces—worn, strained, etched with the fatigue of sleepless nights and constant vigilance. Just last night, they had been jolted awake by rustling in the woods, sounds that lingered just beyond their watchful eyes. Indians. Lovewell was certain. Yet, amidst the unease, there was a small comfort in the forest’s familiar sounds—the cooing of mourning doves, the scurrying of squirrels above, and the subtle rustle of unseen creatures in the underbrush. In a landscape always on the brink of violence, these natural rhythms provided a brief respite from the simmering tension.

A sudden crack of a gunshot shattered the calm, snapping Lovewell and his rangers into action. There was no time to think, only to react, and the soldiers’ instincts took over. Weapons were drawn as adrenaline surged through the men. Lovewell’s voice rose above the chaos, barking orders to bring his men under control. His eyes swept the undergrowth, searching frantically until they settled on the figure of a lone hunter, defiant and unflinching, half-obscured by the morning mist.

“Leave your packs!” Lovewell shouted, urgency sharpening his tone. Their numbers were their only advantage now; the supplies would only slow them down. His men obeyed without hesitation, casting off their gear as they surged forward, slipping into the dense brush with the fluidity of seasoned hunters. They moved as one, driven by the need to close the distance before their target vanished into the woods.

As Lovewell’s men closed in, they realized the native was an adolescent, not much more than a mere boy out hunting. Startled, the native dropped a pair of ducks and a musket from his left hand, smoothly swinging another to his shoulder and firing swiftly. Frye and another soldier shot back almost simultaneously, one bullet striking the native’s heart. The entire exchange lasted less than five seconds. As the black powder smoke cleared, three figures lay on the ground, one of whom was Lovewell, coughing and crumpled. Despite being shot in the midsection, the captain insisted he could manage as two rangers helped him to his feet. Lovewell glanced at the boy’s body, then spat in its direction. “Shove the savage into the water. We’ll get our packs, then move on.” He watched his men carry the Indian to the water’s edge. “We should reach the village by noon.” As the boy’s body floated away, Lovewell stood still, aware of the forest closing in. The rash decision to pursue a mere hunter had jeopardized them all.
…

Chief Paugus heard the distant volley of gunfire. A simple hunter’s shot had lured Lovewell’s men deeper into unfamiliar territory and away from their supplies. Foolish.
Paugus knew that Lovewell was cunning, a man who took calculated risks. However, the captain’s pride and bloodlust would be his own undoing. Paugus kicked at one of the abandoned packs, glanced back at the water, then retreated to the shadows and joined his men.
…

A thunderous war cry erupted as the militia entered the clearing, shaking the ground beneath them. Paugus’ warriors surged from the shadows, launching a fierce ambush. Air filled with lead and screams, the forest had become a battleground, echoing with sounds of horror. The world became a blur of motion. The clash of steel and the roar of gunfire overwhelmed Lovewell’s senses. How could I have been so blind?
…

Paugus moved like a shadow through the fray, his mind focused, his heart hardened. The loss of life pained him, but the time for diplomacy had passed. He dodged a rifle butt and drove his knife into a ranger’s gut. Through the smoke, he caught sight of Lovewell—the man who had brought so much death to the native people. If Lovewell fell, perhaps the tides of conflict would turn. Crouching behind a fallen tree. He brought his powder horn up to his mouth and pulled the stopper with his teeth. Paugus loaded his musket with the practiced ease of a seasoned warrior. He took aim at Lovewell’s heart, the flintlock snapping forward with lethal precision….

The militia was outnumbered and surrounded, falling one by one. A musket ball to Lovewell’s abdomen slowly ended his role in this brutal conflict. The remaining militiamen retreated to a rocky outcropping, fighting with the desperation of men facing certain death. Blood and smoke mingled in the air; the stench of battle was inescapable. Bodies littered the ground, braves and militiamen alike united in death.

Paugus surveyed the scene, his warriors exhausted but unyielding. With indiscriminate, dogged determination, he had led charge after charge of the Pigwacket assault, fueled by the memories of colonist mistreatment. His men now had the upper hand, but their energy was draining. Paugus ordered a temporary retreat to the woods, and prayed to the Great Creator, Kchi Niwaskwa, for renewed strength. Within hours, the Pequawket had seized nearly the entire sandbar.

As the sun waned, Chief Paugus engaged in a duel with John Chamberlain, a man he had known during peacetime. Chamberlain, from behind a large rock, and Paugus, shielded by a pine trunk, exchanged shots. After a few rounds of fire, the two men stood and raised the barrels of their guns. Each soldier was prepared to die for their people. Both muskets misfired simultaneously, the flint sparking but the powder failing to ignite. The crossfire ceased as both sides watched the bizarre scene play out. Honor-bound, they agreed to clean their guns at the water’s edge together. Paugus finished first, cursed his enemy, and raised his gun—only to be shot dead when Chamberlain’s weapon prematurely fired during the reloading procedure.
…

By midnight, disheartened by the loss of their leader, the Pigwackets retreated, leaving the fallen militiamen untouched—a gesture of respect for their fierce resistance. The silence that followed the retreat was sudden and deafening, soon replaced by a chorus of crickets and frogs. The rangers watched as Paugus’ men collected their dead by moonlight, then slipped back into the woods.

Weeks later, upon receiving word of the battle and heavy losses sustained, Colonel Tyng of Dunstable led a party to bury the dead at Lovewell’s Pond. They found twelve bodies, the sand beneath still stained with blood. Tyng and his men buried their fallen comrades, carving names into the surrounding trees, which were littered with musket balls lodged in the trunks. Nearby, they came across three burial mounds in a clearing. Colonel Tyng approached the middle, most prominent mound. Stooping down, he uncovered the solid and stoic features of Chief Paugus. Once filled with the unyielding spirit of a leader who had fought to his last breath, the warrior’s eyes were lifeless, staring into the darkness.
…

Drummer’s War dragged on for another thirteen months, with the Battle of Pequawket spurring initial peace talks. Chief Paugus’ legacy endured beyond the battlefield. A prominent leader within the Abenaki Confederation, he became a symbol of resistance, his name synonymous with the struggle of Native American peoples during a time of upheaval in New England. Paugus Bay, a twelve-hundred-acre part of Lake Winnipesaukee, remains a lasting tribute to the warrior-chief, honoring the Abenaki’s deep connection to the land and the lengths they went to defend their way of life.

Many roads and highways in New Hampshire are named after native peoples, landmarks, and places. One example is Tsienneto Road, which runs just under 4 miles between Routes 28 (Bypass 28) and 102 in Derry, NH. In the Abenaki language, “Tsienneto” is often interpreted as “cold water” or “cold water fishing place.” The Abenaki frequently named locations based on natural features, especially those related to water, which was central to their way of life. Rivers, lakes, and other water sources were vital for fishing, transportation, and spiritual practices.

At the northeastern end of Tsienneto Road lies Beaver Lake, a scenic spot with historical significance for the Indigenous tribes that lived in the area. The lake, one of the first of its size in the area to freeze over, is a favored destination for ice fishing enthusiasts. The name “Tsienneto” has intriguing etymological roots, with local lore adding whimsical interpretations. One such tale suggests the name might reference a playful or imaginative aspect of the landscape. Here is one:

In March 1697, a Native American raid on Haverhill, Massachusetts, led to the capture of Hannah Duston, her neighbor Mary Neff, and several others. They were forced to march north toward Canada. During their journey, they camped along the shores of Beaver Lake. Local

folklore claims that it was where Hannah was visited by Tsienneto, a benevolent fairy queen known as Neto. Neto appeared under the cover of darkness, promising to help the captives. The next morning, the natives continued their march northwards. When they stopped on an island in the Merrimack River near Concord, New Hampshire—now known as Duston Island—Neto’s influence allegedly caused the natives to fall into a deep, enchanted sleep. Seizing the opportunity, Duston wriggled free from her bindings. She, Neff, and a young man named Samuel Leonardson armed themselves with their captors’ weapons. Moving swiftly and silently, they killed and scalped ten of the sleeping natives, including six children. Guided by the unseen hand of Neto, Duston, Neff, and Leonardson fled in a canoe, navigating the dangerous Merrimack River southward. Improbably, the trio made it past the river’s rapids and rocky banks, not to mention Manchester’s Amoskeag Falls, just south of their supposed starting point.

Nevertheless, the rest of the story can be confirmed by actual historical accounts. Duston, Mary, and Sam made it back to Haverhill, where Hannah presented the scalps to the General Assembly and received a reward of 50 pounds. It’s said that Neto guided Hannah, Neff, and Samuel back to Haverhill, turning a tale of brutal survival into a legend touched by the kindness of a fairy queen.