Page 20 - A Hero of Ticonderoga
P. 20

CHAPTER IV



                --THE NEW HAMPSHIRE GRANTS



               A year later, the dispute of the Governors of New York and New
               Hampshire, concerning the boundaries of the two provinces, was at its

               height, and the quarrel between claimants of grants of the same lands,
               under charters from both governors, became every day more violent. The

               disputed territory was that between the Connecticut River and Lake
               Champlain, and was for a long time known as the New Hampshire Grants.



               If a New York grantee found the claim which he had selected, or which had
               been allotted to him, occupied by a New Hampshire grantee, when the

                strength of his party was sufficient he would take forcible possession of the
               land, without regard to the improvements made upon it, and without
               making any compensation therefor. He was seldom left long in enjoyment

               of possession thus gained, for the friends of the New Hampshire grantee
               quickly rallied to his aid and summarily ousted the aggressor, who, if he

               proved too stubborn, was likely to be roughly handled, and have set upon
               his back the imprint of the beech seal, the name given to the blue-beech rod
               wherewith such offenders were chastised. The New Hampshire grantees

               were as unscrupulous in their ejectment of New York claimants who had
               first established themselves on the New Hampshire Grants. Surveyors,

               acting under the authority of New York, were especially obnoxious to
                settlers of the other party, and rough encounters of the opposing claimants
               were not infrequent. Seth Beeman and his neighbors had all taken up land

               under a New Hampshire charter, without a thought of its validity being
               questioned.



               One bright June morning, Nathan was watching the corn that, pushing its
               tender blades above the black mould in a corner of the clearing, offered

                sweet and tempting morsels to the thieving crows. It was a lazy,
                sleep-enticing occupation, when all the crows but one, who sat biding his

               opportunity on a dry tree top, had departed, cawing encouragement to one
               another, in quest of a less vigilantly guarded field. There was no further
               need for beating with his improvised drumsticks on the hollow topmost log
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