A MEMORABLE EVENT.
The morning of the sixth of October dawned. The heat of the weather
had increased and become wellnigh intolerable. At breakfast, Mr.
Dubois and Mr. Norton gave accounts of fires they had seen in various
parts of the country, some of them not far off, and owing to the
prevalence of the forest and the extreme dryness of the trees and
shrubs, expressed fears of great devastation.
They united in thinking it would be dangerous for the two gentlemen to
undertake their journey home, until a copious rain should have fallen.
During the forenoon, the crackling of the fires and the sound of
falling-trees in the distant forest could be distinctly heard,
announcing that the terrible element was at work.
Mr. Dubois, accompanied by Mr. Norton and John, ascended the most
prominent hills in the neighborhood to watch the direction in which
the clouds of smoke appeared. These observations only confirmed their
fears. They warned the people around of the danger, but these paid
little heed. In the afternoon, the missionary crossed, from the Dubois
house, on the northern side of the river, to the southern bank, and
explored the country to a considerable distance around.
In the evening, when the family met in the Madonna room, cheerfulness
had forsaken the party. The languor produced by the heat and the
heavily-laden atmosphere, solicitude felt for the dwellers in the
forest, through which the fire was now sweeping, a hoarse rumbling
noise like distant thunder, occasionally booming on their ears, and
gloomy forebodings of impending calamity, all weighed upon the
dispirited group.
Mr. Norton said it was his firm conviction that God was about to
display His power in a signal manner to this people in order to arouse
them to a sense of their guilt.
Before separating for the night, he requested permission to offer up a
prayer to heaven. The whole circle knelt, while he implored the Great
Ruler of all, to take them as a family under his protecting love,
whether life or death awaited them, and that He would, if consistent
with His great and wise plans, avert His wrath from the people.
The night was a dismal, and for the most of the family, a sleepless
one. The morning rose once more, but it brought no cheering sound of
blessed rain-drops. The air was still hot and stifling.
About noon, the missionary came in from a round of observation he had
been making, and urged Mr. Dubois to take his family immediately to
the south bank of the river. The fires were advancing towards them
from the north, and would inevitably be upon them soon. He had not
been able to discover any appearance of fire upon the southern side
of the river. It was true the approaching flames might be driven
across, but the stream being for some distance quite wide, this might
not take place. In any event, the southern side was the safest, at the
present moment. He had faith in the instinct of animals, and for
several hours past he had seen cattle and geese leaving their usual
places of resort and swimming to the opposite shore.
Mr. Dubois, also convinced that there was no other feasible method of
escape, hastened to make arrangements for immediate departure.
A mist, tinged with deep purple, now poured in from the wilderness and
overspread the horizon. A dark cloud wrapped the land in a dismal
gloom. The heat grew nearly insupportable. Rapid explosions, loud and
startling noises, filled the air, and the forest thrilled and shook
with the raging flames. Soon a fiery belt encircled them on the east,
north, and west, and advancing rapidly, threatened to cover the whole
area. The river was the only object which, by any possibility, could
stay its course.
Then followed a scene of wildest confusion. The people, aroused at
last to their danger, rushed terrified to the river, unmoored their
boats and fled across. Hosts of women, whose husbands were absent in
the forest, came with their children, imploring to be taken to the
other side. The remainder of the day was occupied in this work, and at
the close of it, most of those living in the Dubois settlement had
been safely landed on the southern shore; and there they stood huddled
together in horror-stricken groups, on the highest points they could
reach, watching the terrible, yet majestic scene.
Mr. Somers had been occupied in this way all the afternoon and was
greatly exhausted. As the darkness of night shut down upon the scene,
he landed a party of women and children, who rushed up, precipitately,
to join those who had crossed before. He had handed the last passenger
over the edge of the boat, when a sudden faintness, produced by the
excessive heat and fatigue, overpowered him. He tottered backward and
fell, striking his head violently upon some object in the bottom of
the boat. It was a deathblow.
There he lay, with face upturned towards the lurid glare that lit up
the darkness. The boat nestled about in the little cove, rocked upon
the waves, presenting the pale countenance, now half in shadow, now
wholly concealed by the overhanging shrubs, and now in full relief,
but always with a sweet, radiant, immovable calm upon the features, in
strange contrast to the elemental roar and tumult around him.
In the mean time, the fires drew nearer and nearer the northern bank
of the river. A strong breeze sprang up and immense columns of smoke
mounted to the sky. Then came showers of ashes, cinders and burning
brands. At last, a tornado, terrible in fury, arose to mingle its
horrors with the fire. Thunderbolt on thunderbolt, crash on crash rent
the air. At intervals of momentary lull in the storm, the roar of the
flames was heard. Rapidly advancing, they shot fiery tongues into
every beast lair of the forest, into every serpent-haunted crevice of
the rock, sending forth their denizens bellowing and writhing with
anguish and death; onward still they rushed licking up with hissing
sound every rivulet and shallow pond, twisting and coiling round the
glorious pines, that had battled the winds and tempests hundreds of
years, but now to be snapped and demolished by this new enemy.
With breathless interest, the inhabitants of the settlement watched
the progress of the flames. The hamlet where they lived was situated
on a wide point of land, around which the Miramichi made an unusually
bold sweep. Micah's Grove partly skirted it on the north.
From the Grove to the river, the forest-trees had been cleared,
leaving the open space dotted with the houses of the settlers. The
fire pressed steadily on toward the Grove. The destruction of that
forest fane, consecrated so recently to the worship of God, and the
burning of their homes and earthly goods seemed inevitable. The
people, with pale, excited faces, awaited this heart-rending
spectacle.
Just at this moment, the tornado, coming from the North, with terrific
fury, drawing flames, trees, and every movable object in its wake,
whirling forward with gigantic power, suddenly turned in its path,
veered towards the east, swept past the Grove and past the settlement,
leaving them wholly untouched, and took its destructive course onward
to the ocean. The people were dumb with amazement. Ruin had seemed so
sure that they scarcely trusted the evidence of their senses.
They dared not even think they had been saved from so much misery. For
a time, not a word was uttered, not a muscle moved.
Mr. Mummychog was the first to-recover his voice.
"'Tis a maracle! and nuthin' else", he exclaimed, "and we've jest got
to thank Captin' Norton for it. He's been a prayin' ut we might be
past by, all 'long and 'tis likely the Lord has heerd him. 'Tain't on
eour own acceounts, my worthy feller-sinners, that we've been spared.
Mind ye remember _that_".
The people in their joy gathered around the missionary, and united
with Micah, in acknowledging their belief, that his prayers had
averted from them this great calamity. For a moment, their attention
was distracted from the still raging horrors of the scene by the sense
of relief from threatened danger.
It was during this brief lull of intense anxiety and expectation, that
our friends first became aware of the absence of Mr. Somers. They had
supposed, of course, that he was standing somewhere among the groups
of people, his attention riveted, like their own, upon the scene
before them. Adèle first woke to the consciousness that he was not
with them.
She turned her head and explored with earnest gaze the people around.
She could see distinctly by the intense red light, nearly every
countenance there, but did not recognize that of Mr. Somers. A painful
anxiety immediately seized her, which she strove in vain to conceal.
She approached near where Mr. Lansdowne stood, by the side of her
mother, gazing after the fire, placed her hand lightly on his arm, and
asked, "Can you tell me where Mr. Somers is to be found?"
"Mr. Somers! yes,--Ned. Where is he?" he exclaimed, turning, half
bewildered by her question, and looking in her face.
In an instant, the solicitude her features expressed, passed into his
own, the same sudden presentiment of evil possessed him.
Drawing Adèle's arm hurriedly into his, he said, "please go with me to
seek him".
Hastening along, they went from one to another, making inquiries. It
appeared that Mr. Somers had not been seen for several hours.
Immediately, the whole company took the alarm and the search for him
commenced.
John and Adèle, after fruitless efforts among the houses, at length
took their way to the river bank. As they were hastening forward, a
woman standing upon a rock overhanging the path they pursued, told
them that Mr. Somers brought herself and children over in the boat,
just at dark,--that she had not seen him since, and she remembered
now, that she did not see him come up from the river after he landed
them.
"Lead us to the spot where you left the boat", said Adèle. "Go on as
quickly as you can".
The woman descended from her perch upon the rock and plunged before
them into the path.
"I remember now", she said with sudden compunctions, at her own
selfish indifference, "that the gentleman looked pale and seemed to be
dreadful tired like".
Neither John nor Adèle made reply, and the woman hurried on. In a few
minutes, a sudden turn in the path brought them to the little cove
where the boat still lay.
The woman first caught sight of the wan face in the bottom of the
boat, and uttered a scream of horror. The lips of the others were
frozen into silence by the dread spectacle.
Scarcely a moment seemed to have passed, before John rushed down into
the water, reached the boat, raised thence the lifeless form, bore it
to the shore and laid the dripping head into the arms of Adèle, who
seated herself on the grass to receive it.
"Go quickly", she said to the woman, "go for Dr. Wright. I saw him
only a moment ago. Find him and bring him here".
John threw himself upon his knees and began chafing Mr. Somers's
hands. "He is dead! he is dead!" he whispered, in a voice, hoarse and
unnatural with fear and anxiety.
"Let us hope not", said Adèle in a tone of tenderness. "Perhaps it is
only a swoon. We will convey him to some shelter and restore him". And
she wrung the rain from his curls of long brown hair.
John's finger was upon Mr. Somers's wrist. "It will break my mother's
heart", he said, in the same hoarse whisper. At that moment, Dr.
Wright's voice was heard. He placed himself, without a word, upon the
grass, looked at the pale face, unfastened the dripping garments,
thrust his hand in beneath them, and laid it upon the young man's
heart.
"He is dead!" said Dr. Wright. "Friends, get a bit of canvas and a
blanket and take him to some house, till day breaks".
John, stupefied with horror and grief, still knelt by Mr. Somers,
chafing his hands and wringing the water from his wet garments. At
length, Mr. Dubois gently roused him from his task, telling him they
would now remove their friend to a house, where he might be properly
cared for.
"Let me lift him", said Micah to the young man. But John shook his
head and stooping, raised Mr. Somers and laid him on the canvas as
gently as if he were a sleeping infant.
Mr. Dubois, the missionary, John, and Micah conveyed the precious
charge. The Doctor, with Mrs. Dubois and Adèle followed in melancholy
silence. The crowd came behind. The terrific events of the night had
made the people quiet, thoughtful, and sympathetic.
Once, after the prolonged, clinging gaze of each upon the face of the
sleeper, the eyes of the missionary and John met.
"My dear young man", said Mr. Norton, in a low, emphatic voice, "God
has taken him in mercy. The dear friend whom we loved, is himself
satisfied, I doubt not. May the Eternal Father grant us all at the end
of our course here a like blessed deliverance. Amen".
John looked in the good man's face, as if he but half understood his
words, and fixed his eyes again upon Mr. Somers.
At length, the party reached a house near the river bank, where they
deposited the dead.
Mrs. McNab, who had followed close on their footsteps, when they
reached the door, drew Adèle aside and said,
"Naw, Miss Ady, I want the preevaleege o' trying to resoositate that
puir gentelman. It wad be like rasin' the dead, but there'll be nae
harm in tryin', to be sure".
"He is dead. The doctor says so, Aunt Patty". And Adèle turned away
quickly.
But Mrs. McNab caught her shawl and held it.
"Naw, Miss Ady, dinna turn awa' fram a puir body, that was overtook
ance or twice with the whiskey, when a was tired and worrit for want
o' sleep. I wad nae ha' hurt a hair o' the gentelman's head. An' I wad
like the preevaleege o' wrappin' some blankets round him an' puttin'
some bottles o' hot water to his feet".
Adèle, who had listened more patiently than she was wont, now turned
and glancing at Aunt Patty, saw that she really looked humble and
wishful, and two great tears were in her eyes.
"Well, I will see", said she, struck with this new phase of Mrs.
McNab's countenance. She went into the apartment, where they had just
laid Mr. Somers upon a bed.
In a few minutes, she returned.
"The doctor says it will be of no use, Aunt Patty. But Mr. Lansdowne
would like to make an attempt to restore him. So come, mamma and I
will help you".
Notwithstanding Mrs. McNab's subdued state of mind and her genuine,
unselfish wish to do all in her power to bring consciousness to the
stricken form, she could not avoid, as she made one application after
another, making also a few indicative observations to Mrs. Dubois.
"Did ye hear what the preacher said to the young mon as we cam' alang?
He's a mighty quick way o' desmeesin a' bonnie creetur like this out
o' the warld and sayin' he's satisfied aboot it".
"That was not what the missionary said, Mrs. McNab", replied Mrs.
Dubois. "He said that Mr. Somers is happy now. He is in Paradise, and
we must not wish him back. He is satisfied to be with Jesus and the
angels and his own mother. That is what he meant. And does he not
_look_ satisfied? See his blissful countenance!"
Mrs. Dubois leaned over him a moment, and thinking of his sister, Mrs.
Lansdowne, parted his hair with her pale, slender fingers and
imprinted a kiss on his forehead.
All efforts to restore warmth, or life to that marble form were in
vain, and at length they covered his face gently, until the day-dawn.
John sat by the bedside, his head buried in his hands, until morning.
He thought over all his past companionship with this youthful Uncle
Ned, of his pleasantness, wit and fascination, of his generous spirit,
of his love for his mother and himself, and wondered at the awful
strangeness that had thus fallen, in a moment, between them. Then the
thought of his mother's bitter grief swept over him like a flood and
nearly unmanned him. Like the drowning man, his brain was stimulated
to an unwonted activity. He lived over again his whole life, in a few
minutes of time. This dread Power, who had never crossed his path
before, shocked him inexpressibly. Who of the young, unstricken by
sorrow, ever associates death with himself or with those he loves,
till the Arch Reaper comes some day and cuts down and garners his
precious treasure?
John had heard of death, but he had heard of it just as he had heard
of the poisonous Upas-tree, growing on some distant ocean island, or
of an evil star, under whose baleful influence he might never fall.
The young live as if this life were immortal. So much the more bitter
their experience, when they wake up from the delusion.
The others of the party were gathered in an adjoining room, gazing
silently at the scene without. It was fearful, yet sublime. The whole
northern side of the Miramichi river, for over one hundred miles, had
become involved in one mighty sheet of flame, which was sweeping on in
swift destruction to the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The river boiled with
the fierce heat and tossed its foaming waters, filled with its now
lifeless inhabitants, to the shore. The fire was fed by six thousand
square miles of primeval forest,--a dense growth of resinous
trees,--by houses and barns filled with crops, and by thriving towns
upon the river's bank.
Above all, the people could not put aside the horrible truth, that
hundreds of men, women, and children,--their friends and their
acquaintances,--were perishing by the all-consuming element. They
could not exclude from fancy, the agonized and dying shrieks of those
dear to them, and the demoniac light shone on countenances, expressing
emotions of pity, grief, horror, and despair.
While the missionary sat there waiting for the day, he recalled with
startling distinctness the wild dream he dreamed, on that first night
he spent at the Dubois House. Of course, his belief in foregleams of
future events was confirmed by the scenes transpiring around him.
Mrs. Dubois sat near him, her countenance expressing profound grief.
"The dear young man!" she said. "How sad and awful thus to die!"
"My dear madam", said Mr. Norton, "let us not mourn as those who have
no hope. Our beloved friend, brilliant and susceptible, aspiring and
tender, was illy fitted for the rude struggle of life. It is true he
might have fought his way through, girt with the armor of Christian
faith and prayer, as many others, like him, have done. But the fight
would have been a hard one. So he has been kindly taken home. Sad and
awful thus to die? Say rather, infinitely blest the God-protected
soul, thus snatched away from this terrific uproar of natural elements
into the sphere of majestic harmonies, of stupendous yet peaceful
powers".
At daybreak the little community took to their boats, crossed the
river and re-entered once more the dwellings they had but a few hours
before left, never expecting to return to them again. Some went home
and gathered their families in unbroken numbers around them. Others,
whose husbands and sons had been absent in the forest at the time of
the breaking out of the fire, over whose fate remained a terrible
uncertainty, gathered in silence around lonely hearths. The terrors of
the past night were, to such, supplemented by days and even weeks of
heartbreaking anxiety and suspense, closed at last by the knowledge of
certain bereavement.
All had been deeply impressed with the horror of the scene, and
sobered into thoughtfulness. A few felt truly grateful to the Most
High for their wonderful preservation.