MESHACK BROWNING:
THE CELEBRATED BEAR HUNTER OF THE ALLEGHANIES
IN 1781 was born in Frederick County, Maryland, a pioneer who was truly entitled to the name of “The Mighty Hunter.” The son of one of General Braddock’s soldiers, who had settled in this beautiful country, Meshack Browning lived his life in the wild fastnesses of the then uncleared mountains of the Blue Ridge, and, at the close of a long and eventful career as a huntsman and trapper, could say with pride that he had killed from eighteen hundred to two thousand deer; from three to four hundred beaver; about fifty panthers; and scores of wolves and wildcats. He was the hero of every man’s conversation in this mountain republic. All looked up to the hardy pioneer, and, after his long and eventful life was brought to a close, when well beyond eighty years of age, no one was more cordially missed than this sturdy old man of the mountains.
Young Meshack’s father died when he was an infant of but two weeks of age, leaving his mother desperately poor, with one daughter named Dorcas, and three sons. It was a hard struggle to bring them up, but by working in the garden, by raising plenty of vegetables, and by spinning, saving and knitting, the good lady managed to scrape along somehow or other. Little Meshack had to learn how to use the rifle at an early age, for by this means only was it possible to supply the larder with fresh meat. Wild turkeys were abundant; deer, wildcats, wolves and bear roamed all through the rugged hills round about their home. Thus he quickly became expert in the use of the flint-lock.
The hunting season usually began in October, and during this month the task was commenced of laying in the winter’s provisions. Some days little Meshack would go out with a kindly uncle who had joined the family and would hunt for deer. On other days he would chase after bees, and as he and his uncle were most successful in this kind of hunting, they would often spend more time in searching for honey than in seeking venison. It would not be long before the table would be well supplied with both deer steaks and honey. The high, fresh grass which surrounded the log cabin would cause their cows to give a quantity of milk, from which little Meshack’s aunt, who was an industrious woman, made plenty of butter; and frequently a fat turkey would be added to the store. Thus life was simple, easy, and healthful in the wild fastnesses of the Blue Ridge.
Things went on well enough until word came to the pioneers that General St. Clair’s army had been defeated and cut to pieces by the redskins under Little Turtle, which you no doubt remember. This was frightful news, and little Meshack’s mother was very much afraid.
“What if the Indians fall upon us here,” said she. “We could not protect ourselves against these terrible red men. Let us move further back into the country where there are more white people. We can thus combine for our own defense.”
Meshack’s uncle thought about the same way, so, packing up their few belongings, the little family hurried to a place called the “Blooming Rose,” where there were thirty or forty other families. This was in 1792—long, long ago, it seems—and yet I, myself, have known old fellows of these mountains who appeared to be well conversant with the terrible battles of St. Clair, “Mad Anthony” Wayne, and the redskins under Little Turtle. These many struggles had been often narrated to them by their parents; most of whom had taken part in those stirring events.