In March 1899, a Maine woodsman named Daniel Morton set out after dinner with his axe newly sharpened and tucked beneath his arm. He had been home only long enough to put a keen edge on the blade before heading back to his work in the woods near East Bowdoinham.
The walk should have been ordinary. Morton was taking a familiar shortcut across ground made dangerous by a frozen crust hidden beneath a light fall of snow. Then, in one terrible instant, he slipped.
As he fell, his neck struck the sharpened axe blade, cutting a deep wound that left him gravely injured and bleeding heavily.
What followed was both horrifying and heartbreaking. Half-conscious and losing strength, Morton began crawling toward home on his hands and knees. For nearly an eighth of a mile, he dragged himself through the snow, leaving behind a trail marked with his own blood.
His wife, unaware of what had happened, was inside the house attending to her usual chores when she heard a noise near the shed. When she went to investigate, she found her husband lying in a pool of blood, barely alive. He had only enough strength left to tell her he had slipped and fallen on his axe.
Then his head fell back, and he was gone.
Bleeds to Death
RICHMOND, Maine. — Daniel Morton, formerly of this place, but who has been residing in East Bowdoinham, on the Albion Maxwell place, met his death in a most peculiar and horrible manner.
He had been at work chopping in the woods, and have come home to dinner and to sharpen his axe. The job completed, he tucked the keen bladed axe under his arm and started for his work.
Taking a short cut, he trudged cheerily along, whistling as he went, for Dan was always of a cheerful disposition, and doubtless thinking of how that razor edge would bring down the trees.
The walking was treacherous owing to the frozen crust, half concealed by the light snow, and on one place he slipped, falling to the surface, his neck striking on the blade of the axe.
Being a heavy man, he fell with great force and a terrible gash was cut in his neck.
Just how it happened or how long he laid there will never be known, but ti is known that half-unconscious as he was, suffering tortures, weak from the great loss of blood which poured out in torrents, he started to crawl home, fully an eighth of a mile, on his hands and knees.
The horror of that slow journey to him can never be told. Every inch of his path on the snow is marked by his life blood, and the trail shows that his progress was slow and labored.
His wife was at home attending to her household duties as usual. Hearing some unusual noise in the direction of the shed, Mrs. Morton went out to investigate and found her husband lying there in a pool of blood, almost at the point of death.
He had just strength enough left to gasp a few words saying that he slipped and fell on his axe, when his head fell back and he was dead. His wife gave the alarm but nothing of course could be done.
Undertaker Flagg of Richmond was called and prepared the remains for burial. No inquest was deemed necessary.
The gash in Morton’s neck was about 3 inches long and 2 inches deep, and it is a matter of wonder that he was able to reach home with such a terrible wound.
Morton was about 40 years of age and is survived by his wife.
Source: Daily Kennebec Journal. Augusta, Me. March 22, 1899.
