THE LOGGERS.
The sun rose clear, the next morning, and after an early and bountiful
breakfast, Mr. Davenport and Clinton bid good-bye to Uncle Tim and
his family, and resumed their journey. The country through which they
rode was much the same as that they had already passed over, with the
exception that it was if possible even more stern and wild, not a
single house or cultivated spot meeting their eyes during the whole
forenoon’s ride. After the first hour, Clinton was not quite as lively
as usual. In fact, he felt a trifle less cheerful than ordinary—he
could not tell whether it sprang from a touch of home-sickness, or
from a sense of lonesomeness. But his unpleasant feelings arose more
from the influence of the dreary winter scenery upon his mind, than
from either of these causes. His father, noticing this, chatted away
in a more lively strain than usual, and after awhile succeeded in
dispelling the tinge of gloom from his mind.
The road being travelled but very little, the sleighing was poor, and
there was no prospect of their reaching their destination before the
middle of the afternoon. Accordingly, about noon, they reined up, for
the purpose of resting the horse, and eating their dinner. Having given
Fanny a wisp of hay, to take up her mind, they collected together a
heap of dead wood, the remnants of fallen trees, etc., which they found
near the road, and set it on fire. It burned finely, and sent out a
cheerful warmth, in which they seated themselves, and partook with
a keen relish of the various good things which Clinton’s mother had
stowed away in the sleigh-box.
After halting about an hour at this place, they resumed their journey,
and a ride of about three hours brought them within hearing of the
loggers. The first indication they had that they were near the camp,
was the loud “Gee, haw-buck, whoa!” of a man who was driving oxen.
These sounds had a very enlivening effect upon Clinton, who could
scarcely refrain from jumping from his seat, and running ahead,
so impatient was he to see some signs of humanity in the dreary
wilderness. But in a few moments, they came in sight of the camp,
and soon they noticed two or three men, with long hair and immense
whiskers, approaching them from different directions. Mr. Davenport
recognized an old acquaintance in one of them, and received a most
hearty welcome from him.
“Mr. Jones,” said Mr. Davenport, “my boy has long wanted to see how
the loggers live; and as I had a little leisure and the weather and
sleighing were promising, I thought I would gratify his wishes.”
“I am right glad to see you, and him, too,” said Mr. Jones; and he
seized Clinton by the hand, and gave it a gripe and a shake which he
felt for ten minutes afterward;—“why, I haven’t laid eyes on a child
or a youngster, for four months, and it’s a real treat to see you, I
can tell you. I’ve got a boy of my own, at home, about your size, and
a fine little fellow he is, too. I’m afraid you’ll find rather poor
quarters here in the camp, but you are welcome to such accommodations
as we have, just so long as you’ll stay.”
The horse was taken from the sleigh and led to the cattle hut, and Mr.
Jones conducted Mr. Davenport and Clinton to one of the camps, where
he told them to make themselves at home. He offered them food, which
they declined until the usual supper-hour. He had many questions to ask
concerning what was going on in the world, from which the loggers are
almost shut out; and as he and Mr. Davenport were absorbed in their
conversation, Clinton slipped out to reconnoitre the premises.
The camp, he found, was situated in the midst of the woods; and not, as
he expected to find it, in a clearing. There was no scenery at all; the
tall trees shut out the prospect on every side, and the only opening
for the eye was towards the clear, blue heavens above. Only a few trees
had been cut down, to serve as material for the houses, or as fuel.
This spot was chosen for the sake of the shelter it afforded in severe
weather, and also, because there was an excellent spring of water
convenient to it.
Clinton now turned his attention to the camps. These were built of
logs, but in a style much inferior to Uncle Tim’s house, in the
clearing. As they are but temporary affairs, the loggers only aim at
making them habitable for one or two winters. There were three of
these buildings, one of which was used by the oxen. They were each
about twenty feet long by fifteen wide and were built of logs placed
one on the top of another, and the whole sides and roof covered with
bark. Each camp had one door, but no windows. A hole in the middle of
the roof, three or four feet square, served both for a chimney and a
window.
[Illustration: The loggers’ camp]
Clinton now returned to the camp, where his father and Mr. Jones
were sitting, and began to inspect the interior. He found there were
no partitions,—for the loggers have no occasion for more than one
room. The principal feature of the interior was the fire-place. This
was directly under the hole in the roof, and was about six feet in
diameter. The ground had been dug out nearly two feet deep, to make a
bed for the fire and ashes, and the space was surrounded by stones.
Benches, made of split logs, were arranged around the fire, which
served both as seats and tables. He noticed that the door had a wooden
latch, which was very ingeniously whittled to resemble an iron one.
The only other articles in the room were a pork barrel, water bucket,
basin, dipper, towel, a few cooking and eating utensils, and a dozen
greasy and well-worn books and newspapers. The floor was thickly strewn
with leaves of arbor vitæ, especially under the eaves, which came down
to within three feet of the ground. These formed the loggers’ beds.
Such was the rude house in which Clinton was to spend two or three
nights. He afterwards found that it differed from the cattle hut
only in having a fire-place, and an outlet through the roof. But
that fire-place, with the “rousing fire” which it afforded at all
hours of the day and night, made the hovel comparatively cheerful
and comfortable. So far from feeling disappointed with his quarters,
Clinton longed for bed-time to come, that he might enjoy the new
sensation of sleeping in such a romantic place.
At sunset, the men began to return from their work. They all wore
coarse but warm and durable clothing, and one article seemed universal
among them, namely, red flannel shirts. Their beards and hair had not
been trimmed since they left home. As they arrived at their quarters,
they flocked around Mr. Davenport and Clinton, as if a strange face was
a very unusual sight among them, as, indeed, it was. When they had all
returned from their work, Clinton counted twenty men and six yoke of
oxen.
Having washed their faces and hands, the men now commenced preparations
for supper, in both camps. It was fast growing dark, but they had no
lamps, the blazing fire lighting up their houses very brilliantly.
Kettles of water were boiled, and tea was made. Presently, one of the
men began to poke round in the ashes and coals, and soon drew forth a
large baking-kettle, which had been buried there two hours before. On
taking off the cover, a huge loaf of bread presented itself, which
even an accomplished housewife might have been proud to own, so far
as appearance was concerned. This, with a few slices of boiled salt
pork, and tea sweetened with molasses and without milk, constituted
their supper. They had no butter, but spread molasses on their bread,
instead. Clinton ate heartily of the homely fare. The bread proved
quite as nice as it looked, and even the tea tasted pleasantly to him.
Mr. Davenport emptied what remained of the contents of the baskets
which his wife had stowed away in the sleigh-box, saying that he would
exchange his cakes and pies for a little of their bread, when he
started for home. He and Clinton had consumed but a small part of their
provisions, and this disposal of the surplus appeared to gratify the
loggers very much, as they had not tasted of any luxuries of this kind
for many a day.
After supper, the men gathered around the fire, on the benches, and
talked, and told stories, until nearly ten o’clock, when one after
another began to creep away to his bed of leaves, and stretch himself
out, with his feet towards the fire. Clinton and his father soon
followed their example, and extended themselves upon the soft leaves,
without removing their clothing. The novelty of their position, the
crackling and glare of the fire, and the breathing and snoring of a
dozen strong men, did not permit either of them to sleep much during
the first part of the night. Clinton lay for more than two hours,
at times watching the stars through the opening in the roof, and
then gazing steadfastly at the flickering fire and the curling smoke
spangled with sparks. But at last he fell asleep, though he awoke
again, several times, before morning. Occasionally, one of the men,
who happened to awake, would get up and put a fresh log upon the fire,
which is kept burning by night as well as by day.
By sunrise, the next morning, the men in both camps had despatched
their breakfasts, and turned out the oxen, and were ready to commence
the day’s work. Mr. Davenport and Clinton determined to accompany them
to the scene of their operations, which was a short distance from
the camp, and spread over a considerable extent of ground. The men
did not all work together, but after proceeding a little way, they
separated into three different gangs. The choppers, or those who cut
down the trees, formed one party, and proceeded by themselves to
their particular spot. Another gang were called swampers. It was their
business to clear roads from the felled trees to the landing place on
the banks of the river, where the logs remain until the breaking up of
the ice in the spring, when they are rolled into the water. The third
party were teamsters, whose business it was to haul the logs from the
forest to the stream. These last had the assistance of the oxen, which
were attached to little “bobsleds,” as they were called, upon which the
heavy end of the log was placed, while the other dragged upon the snow.
Clinton had abundant time to witness the operations of all these
gangs, during the day. He found there was not much of either novelty
or variety, in their labors, which in fact differed but little from
the routine of the wood-chopper, which he had often witnessed at home.
The sturdy strokes of the choppers, followed by the falling of the
noble tree,—the stripping of the prostrate trunk of its branches,—the
clearing of a passage way for the oxen through the small growth, and
the hauling of the log to the river’s bank, were by no means novel
sights to him. At the landing-place he found hundreds of logs piled
up, awaiting the opening of the river. Each log had a peculiar and
uniform mark cut in the sap-wood, by an axe, somewhat resembling a
crow’s foot, by which the owner would be enabled to know it when it
should reach the great boom far away down the river, and become mixed
up with thousands of other logs, belonging to many different persons.
Each owner has his own private mark or device, which is bored or cut
into all his logs, and thus he is always able to distinguish them from
those of other lumber-men.
Clinton kept with the loggers all day, witnessing their operations,
and asking questions about their business. Indeed, he did not dare to
go far from them, for fear of getting lost in the woods. At sunset,
he returned with them from their labors, and after the homely evening
meal, he sat and listened to the stories of the loggers, until
bed-time. These stories were mostly of encounters with bears and
wolves in the wilderness, of hunting excursions, and of adventures and
exploits in the logging-camp and upon the river. One of the oldest
and most intelligent of the men related the following adventure, in
answering some inquiries of Clinton concerning the manner of driving
logs to mill:—
“Six years ago,” said he, “I was logging upon the head waters of the
Penobscot. “We cut eight thousand logs; and about the last of April we
started them downstream. It took two or three days to roll them all in,
and by that time, some of those we started first were perhaps more than
fifty miles down stream, while others had lodged within a hundred rods
of us. So we divided into three gangs, one to descend by boats, and the
others by land each side of the stream. Each man was provided with a
pole, having a stout hook in the end, and with these we pushed off the
logs, where ever we found they had lodged on the banks or rocks. The
first few days, we made pretty good progress, having little to do but
to roll in the logs, and set them afloat merrily down the river.”
“Did you camp at nights, as you do here?” inquired Clinton.
“Yes, we camped out, but we had nothing but little huts made of spruce
boughs, where we ate and slept;—as I was saying,—all went on pretty
easy at first, and some days we got over fifteen or twenty miles of
ground. But by-and-by we came to a jam. Do you know what a jam is?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, when the river gets choked up with logs which have met with
some obstruction, we call it a jam. Sometimes, a thousand logs will
accumulate in this way, forming a sort of dam across the river, and
interrupting the flow of the water. And, oftentimes, all this is
occasioned by a single log catching upon a projecting rock; and if that
single log could be started, the whole mass would go down stream with a
tremendous rush.”
“I should think that would be fine sport,” said Clinton.
“It’s all very fine to look at,” continued the logger; “but you
wouldn’t think there was much sport about it, if you had to go out upon
this immense raft, and loosen the logs, at the risk of being ground to
atoms by them when they start.”
“Are people ever killed in that way?” inquired Clinton.
“Not very often; for none but the most experienced drivers are allowed
to undertake such a delicate job; and they are always very cautious
how they proceed. But let me go on with my story: the jam I was telling
you about, happened to be in a rapid, rocky place, where the river
passed through a narrow gorge. On each side were steep cliffs, more
than sixty feet high, which almost hung over the water. The only way
to reach the jam was to descend by a rope from one of these cliffs.
This was so hazardous an undertaking, that we concluded to wait a
day or two, to see if the choked up mass wouldn’t clear itself, by
its own pressure, and thus save us all trouble and danger. But after
waiting nearly two days, there were no signs of the jam’s breaking.
We can generally tell when this is going to happen, by the swaying of
the logs; but the mass was as firm and compact as ever; and it was
evident that we must do something to start it. There was an old and
very expert driver in our gang, who offered to descend to the jam, and
see what could be done. So we rigged a sort of crane, and lowered him
down from the cliff by means of a rope fastened around his body, under
his arms. After he had looked around a little, he sung out to us that
he had discovered the cause of the trouble. A few strokes of the axe
in a certain place, he said, would start the jam; and he cautioned us
to pull him up, gently, as soon as he should cry, ‘Pull!’ and also to
be careful, and not jerk him against the precipice. He then began to
hew into the log which was the cause of the jam. After he had worked
a few minutes, the mass began to heave and sway, and he cried out,
‘Pull!’ As the spot where he had been chopping was near the centre of
the stream, he started instantly towards the cliff, so that his rope
should be perpendicular. But before he could put himself in the right
position for being drawn up, the huge mass of logs rose up in a body,
and then, with a crash, rolled away in every direction from under his
feet. The scene was awful. Some of the logs plunged headlong down the
rapids, with tremendous force; others leaped entirely out of the water,
turning complete somersets, end over end; others were hurled crosswise
upon each other, or dashed madly together by hundreds, or were twisted
and twirled about, in a most fearful manner. At the first movement of
the jam, our man was plunged into the water. For a moment, we were
horror-struck, but we pulled away at the rope, expecting to draw up
only a mangled and lifeless body. And we should have done so, had we
been half a second later; for we had just raised the man out of the
water, when a mass of seventy-foot logs swept by, directly under him,
with force enough to have broken every bone in his body, had he been
in their way. He suffered no harm but his ducking and fright. But I
don’t believe he will ever forget that day’s adventure. So, my boy, you
see it isn’t all sport, driving logs,—though some think this is the
pleasantest part of a logger’s life.”
“How do you stop the logs, when they have gone as far as you want them
to go?” inquired Clinton.
“They are stopped by great booms, built of logs, and bolted and chained
together very strong. These booms are rigged across the river, so that
the floating logs cannot pass them. The great boom at Old Town, near
Bangor, where our drive brought up, that year, had over a million of
logs in it, when we got down there, seven weeks after we started from
the forests. The logs lay upon one another about ten feet deep, and
extended back for miles. They belonged to hundreds of different men
and companies, but as each had its own mark, there was no difficulty
in sorting them out. The boom is opened at set times, to let out a
portion of the logs, and then the river below is all alive with men
and boys, in small boats, who grapple the logs as they float down, and
form them into rafts, or tow them to the various mills on the river.
Very few of the logs escape, unless too many are let out from the boom
at once, or the river is swollen by a freshet, in which case they
sometimes float off to sea and are lost. But all hands seem to be going
to bed, and I guess we had better follow their example.”
Upon this, the old logger stretched himself upon the bed of faded
leaves; and Clinton, who for some time had been his only listener, was
soon in the same position.