HISTORY: Old Tower and the Christmas storm

A lye stone that sits in front of the Trailside Museum. A bottomless barrel of potash sat on a layer of straw on the stone within the circle and water was poured over the potash leaching out potash lye used in soapmaking. CONTRIBUTED PHOTO

By MAUREEN KOEHL

This is the story of one of South Salem’s most revered enslaved people, Old Tower, and one of the worst storms the East Coast has ever known, the Great Christmas Storm of 1811. The names and events in this story are real; the story is a fictionalized account of Old Tower’s last days. Old Tower was the property of Squire James Brown until he was granted his freedom upon his master’s death. The snowstorm with its hurricane winds was one of the most severe ever to hit the Northeast. The temperature fell from well above freezing on Dec. 23 to below zero by Dec. 24. Farmers were taken completely by surprise as were boat owners and sea captains along the entire East Coast.

Old Tower and his wife had toiled for many years for Squire Brown whose large holdings stretched from The Ridgefield Road to land in the Cross Pond [Lake Kitchawan] area. The property included a swamp from which potash, a necessary ingredient in soapmaking, was harvested. Old Tower traveled to local farms making soap.

The Christmas Storm of 1811 came up suddenly on a mild Dec. 23. Blizzard conditions lasted for 24 hours and the strong winds drove 50 to 60 vessels onto the Long Island and Connecticut shores causing considerable loss of life. Entire crews were lost with bodies covered with an inch of ice, according to Long Island history books. Those are the characters; here’s the story of Old Tower.

The death of Old Tower

There was a dampness in the air. Maybe that was why Old Tower had been feeling poorly lately. His bones just hadn’t been feeling rightly these last few days and hitching the team and getting up on his wagon to set about making his rounds for village folks was a downright chore. 

He lived alone. His wife died 10 years ago … Cato and Dyar and Lucas were buried just over yonder near the rock uprising not far from his cabin on The Ridgefield Road. He was the only one left now. Old Tower was left to carry on telling the tales of the old days and the way life used to be here in this quiet farm community so far from his original home. How old was he? No one really knew, least of all Old Tower himself. He was just old, that’s all. No one kept slave records. Rumblings in his stomach, pains in his head and chills in his bones or not, the old man had promises to keep so he set off down the rutted hill toward the South Salem Flats. 

By midday, the sky had indeed darkened and there was a strong wind blowing the branches of the chestnut trees silhouetted against the roiling sky. Dust and dry leaves scuttled across the roadway and the clothes that had been hung out to dry in the mild weather stiffened and crackled in the breeze. The air was ominously silent. The birds had stopped their twittering and crows no longer called out warnings.

But Old Tower was not himself. As he drove toward home, snow started to fall and the temperature had dropped from a mild 55 degrees to 20 degrees. The wind had strengthened making the drive a fierce one in blowing, stinging snow. Old Tower knew he was ill; he hoped he had the strength to stoke the fire in the cabin fireplace and bring in another armload of logs before the storm made traveling outside impossible. The wind was worsening as he struggled to put the horse into his stall and make his way into the cabin. In the course of an hour, the snow’s depth had reached six inches.

The old man stumbled into his cabin, lit the lantern and watched the wavering shadows dart across the room. He threw the remaining dry logs onto the fire and lay down on his cot close to the flickering flames wrapped tightly in the old quilt his wife made so many years ago. The logs would have to wait. He hadn’t the strength to battle the wind and the snow and the bitter cold just now. He fell into a fitful sleep, his dreams punctuated with the voices of his wife and those of his long-dead friends. 

“Come, Tower, it’s time,” the voices seemed to be saying. “You’ve lived a long life; you’ve seen good times and bad; your earthly work is done; we’re waiting for you. Come.” 

By the time the storm ended on Christmas morning, there were 15 inches of snow and the temperature had fallen below zero in South Salem. On many farms, whole flocks of chickens and sheep had frozen to death with the suddenness of the fierce storm. Hundreds of boats moored along the Long Island coastline had been destroyed and high tides had caused extensive damage from the Carolinas to Boston. The storm became known in the weather annals as The Great Christmas Storm of 1811.

Neighbors found Old Tower frozen to death in his cabin when the storm abated. He never had found the strength to struggle outside for another armload of firewood. His soul had followed the voices he had heard so clearly in his sleep. Old Tower must have died a peaceful death. We know that because no one has ever seen his ghost walking the roads of the village he knew and loved.

Footnote: Aaron Keeler, farmer, silversmith, undertaker and coffin maker died exactly one week later, on Dec. 31, 1811, at the age of 51. Aaron Keeler had made Old Tower’s coffin. It was the last one he made. Both men probably died of the Great Winter Fever that claimed more than 29 local lives that winter of 1811 and 1812.

Maureen Koehl is the Lewisboro town historian.