placed some way up the slope, and one a little space above the other. To
the lower stake they fastened Crewe. As the girl was being bound to the
other, her arms were freed for a moment that the savages might the more
readily remove her upper garments, and by a swift movement she loosened
her hair so that it fell about her to her knees,--the splendid Neville
hair, still famous in the Province. There was no bounty then on English
scalps, and the horror of the scalping knife was not threatened them.
When the savages had made their task complete, they laughed in their
victims' faces and retreated up the steep and over the grassy rim.
"Are they gone?" asked the girl.
"No, they are lying in wait to watch us," answered Crewe; and as he
ceased speaking a muffled sound was heard, and with a sudden hubbub that
filled the chasm with clamor, the first of the flood-tide came foaming
round the curve, and the descending current halted as if in fear of the
meeting. The next moment the bed of the stream was hidden by a boiling
reddish torrent, racing up the channel; and the tide was creeping by
inches toward the captives' feet. For an hour or more the bright gulf of
death was so loud with this turmoil and with the echoes from the red
walls of mud, and the yellow eddies of foam whirled and swept so dizzily
past their eyes, that the captives' senses were dulled in a measure, as
if by some crude anodyne or vast mesmeric influence. When, however, the
channel was about one-third full and the water now beginning to cover
Crewe's feet, the flood became more quiet and equable, spreading
smoothly over freer spaces. Presently there was a frightful silence,
intensified by the steady sunlight, and broken only by the stealthy,
soft rush and snake-like hiss of the tide. Then, as Margaret's brain
grew clear in the stillness, a low cry, which tortured Crewe's features,
forced itself from her lips. She realized for the first time why the
stake to which she was bound had been set higher than her lover's. She
would watch the cruel colored water creep over Crewe's mouth, then cover
his eyes, and hide at last the brave head she had longed to kiss, ere it
climbed to ease her own lips of life. She said: "Love, I will lay my
face down in the water as soon as it is near enough, and I shall _not_
be far behind you."
A wide-winged gray gull, following the tide up the channel, gave a
startled cry as he came upon the silent figures, and rose higher, with
sudden flapping, as he turned his flight away across the marshes.
* * * * *
In the Journal of the Sieur Carré, in Beauséjour, there is a second
entry under the date of September 20, 1749. It was added on a succeeding
day. Translated fully it runs thus:--
"In the afternoon took a guard and marched across the Tintamarre to see
what mischief the redskins had been at, having observed them to leave
two of their number in the channel, and to linger long on the brink, as
if watching something in the stream. It was within an hour of high tide
when we reached the spot, the savages disappearing on our approach. Saw
on the further shore a piteous sight, whereat our hearts burned to
follow the redskins and chastise their devilish malice. A woman was
bound to a stake, her face fallen forward in the water, and a wonderful
luxuriance of dark hair spread about her and floating on the current.
Swam across the river, with those of my men following who could, and,
plunging beneath the tide, cut her bonds. But found the life had fled,
at which we wondered; for had she held her head erect the water would
not yet have been within a little of her chin. But presently we found,
beneath the water, the body of a young man, bound likewise to a stake;
and it seemed to us we thereupon understood why the poor lady had been
in such haste to die. The lovers, for so we deemed them, were plainly
English, and we took them with us back to the Beauséjour, purposing to
give them Christian burial,--and more than ever cursing the hard
necessity which forces us to make alliance with the natives."
At the Rough-and-Tumble Landing.
The soft smell of thawing snow was in the air, proclaiming April to the
senses of the lumbermen as unmistakably as could any calendar.
The ice had gone out of the Big Aspohegan with a rush. There was an air
of expectation about the camp. Everything was ready for a start
down-stream. The hands who had all winter been chopping and hauling in
the deep woods were about to begin the more toilsome and perilous task
of "driving" the logs down the swollen river to the great booms and
unresting mills about its mouth. One thing only remained to be done ere
the drive could get under way. The huge "brow" of logs over-hanging the
stream had yet to be released. To whom would fall the task of
accomplishing its release, was a question still undecided.
The perils of "stream-driving" on a bad river have been dwelt upon, I
suppose, by every writer who has occupied his pen at all with the life
of the lumber-camps. But to the daring backwoodsman there seldom falls a
task more hazardous than that of cutting loose a brow of logs when the
logs have been piled in the form of what is called a "rough-and-tumble
landing." Such a landing is constructed by driving long timbers into the
mud at the water's edge, below a steep piece of bank. Along the inner
side of these are laid horizontally a certain number of logs, to form a
water front; and into the space behind are tumbled helter-skelter from
the tops of the bank the logs of the winter's chopping. It is a very
simple and expeditious way of storing the logs. But when the ice has run
out, and it is time to start the lumber down-stream, then comes trouble.
The piles sustaining the whole vast weight of the brow have to be cut
away, and the problem that confronts the chopper is how to escape the
terrific rush of the falling logs.
Hughey McElvey, the boss of the Aspohegan camp, swinging an axe (rather
as a badge of office than because he thought he might want to chop
anything), sauntered down to the water's edge and took a final official
glance at the brow of logs. Its foundations had been laid while McElvey
was down with a touch of fever, and he was ill satisfied with them. For
perhaps the fiftieth time, he shook his head and grumbled, "It's goin'
to be a resky job gittin' them logs clear." Then he rejoined the little
cluster of men on top of the bank.
As he did so, a tall girl with splendid red hair came out of the camp
and stepped up to his side. This was Laurette, the boss's only daughter,
who had that morning driven over from the settlements in the back
country, to bring him some comforts of mended woollens and to bid "the
drive" God-speed. From McElvey the girl inherited her vivid hair and her
superb proportions; and from her mother, who had been one Laurette
Beaulieu, of Grande Anse, she got her mirthful black eyes and her
smooth, dusky complexion, which formed so striking a contrast to her
radiant tresses. A little conscious of all the eyes that centred upon
her with varying degrees of admiration, love, desire, or self-abasing
devotion, she felt the soft color deepen in her cheeks as she playfully
took possession of McElvey's axe.
"_You're_ not goin' to do it, father, I reckon!" she exclaimed.
"No, sis," answered the boss, smiling down at her, "leastways, not
unless the hands is all scared."
"Well, who _is_ goin' to?" she inquired, letting her glance sweep
rapidly over the stalwart forms that surrounded her. A shrewd observer
might have noted that her eyes shyly avoided one figure, that stood a
little apart from the rest,--the figure of a strongly-built man of
medium size, who looked small among his large-moulded fellows. As for
Jim Reddin, who was watching the girl's every movement, his heart
tightened with a bitter pang as her eyes thus seemed to pass him over.
Having, for all his forty years, a plentiful lack of knowledge of the
feminine heart and its methods, he imagined himself ignored. And yet had
he not Laurette's promise that none other than he should have the
privilege of driving her home to the settlements that afternoon?
"That's what we're just a-goin' to decide," said McElvey, in answer to
Laurette's question. "But first," he continued, with a sly chuckle,
"hadn't you better pick out the feller that's goin' to drive you home,
sis? We're goin' to be powerful well occupied, all hands, when we git a
start on them logs, I tell you!"
At this suggestion a huge young woodsman who was standing behind some of
the others, out of Laurette's range of vision, started eagerly forward.
Bill Goodine was acknowledged to be the best-looking man on the Big
Aspohegan,--an opinion in which he himself most heartily concurred. He
was also noted as a wrestler and fighter. He was an ardent admirer of
Laurette; but his passion had not taught him any humility, and he felt
confident that in order to gain the coveted honor of driving the girl
home he had nothing to do but apply for it. He felt that it would hardly
be the "square thing" to put Laurette to the embarrassment of inviting
him right there before all the hands. Before he could catch her eye,
however, Laurette had spoken what surely the devil of coquetry must have
whispered in her ear. Undoubtedly, she had promised Jim Reddin that he
should drive her home. But "let him show that he appreciates the favor,"
she thought to herself; and aloud, with a toss of her head, she
exclaimed, "I'll take the one that cuts out the logs,--if he wants to
come!"
The effect of this speech was instantaneous. Fully half the hands
stepped forward, exclaiming, "I'll do it!--I'll do it, boss!--I'm your
man, Mr. McElvey!" But Bill Goodine sprang to the front with a vigor
that brushed aside all in his path. Thrusting himself in front of the
laughing McElvey, he shouted, "I spoke first! I claim the job!" And,
snatching up an axe, he started down the bank.
"Hold on!" shouted McElvey; but Goodine paid no attention. "Come back, I
tell you!" roared the boss. "The job's yours, so hold on!" Upon this
Bill came swaggering back, and gazed about him triumphantly.
"I guess _I'm_ your teamster, eh, Laurette?" he murmured. But, to his
astonishment, Laurette did not seem to hear him. She was casting quick
glances of anger and disappointment in the direction of Jim Reddin, who
leaned on a sled-stake and appeared to take no interest in the
proceedings. Goodine flushed with jealous wrath, and was about to fling
some gibe at Reddin, when McElvey remarked,--
"That's all very well, sis; and has kinder simplified matters a lot. But
I'm thinkin' you'd better have another one of the boys to fall back on.
This 'ere's an onusual ticklish job; and the feller as does it'll be
lucky if he comes off with a whole skin."
At these words so plain an expression of relief went over Laurette's
face that Bill Goodine could not contain himself.
"Jim Reddin _dasn't_ do it," he muttered to her, fiercely.
The girl drew herself up. "I never said he dast," she replied. "An'
what's Jim Reddin to me, I'd like to know?" And then, being furious at
Jim, at herself, and at Goodine, she was on the point of telling the
latter that _he_ shouldn't drive her home, anyway, when she reflected
that this would excite comment, and restrained herself. But Reddin, who
imagined that the whole thing was a scheme on Laurette's part for
getting out of her promise to him, and who felt, consequently, as if the
heavens were falling about his ears, had caught Goodine's mention of his
name. He stepped up and asked sharply, "What's that about Jim Reddin?"
Laurette was gazing at him in a way that pierced his jealous pain and
thrilled his heart strangely; and as he looked at her he began to forget
Bill Goodine altogether. But Goodine was not to be forgotten.
"I said," he cried, in a loud voice, "that you, Jim Reddin, jest
_dasn't_ cut out them logs. You think yourself some punkins, you do; but
ye're a coward!" And, swinging his great form round insolently, Goodine
picked up his axe and sauntered down the bank.
Now, Laurette, as well as most of the hands, looked to see this insult
promptly resented in the only way consistent with honor. Reddin, though
tender-hearted and slow to anger, was regarded as being, with the
possible exception of Goodine, the strongest man in that section of the
country. He had proved his daring by many a bold feat in the rapids and
the jams; and his prowess as a fighter had been displayed more than once
when a backwoods bully required a thrashing. But now he gave the
Aspohegan camp a genuine surprise. First, the blood left his face, his
eyes grew small and piercing, and his hands clenched spasmodically as he
took a couple of steps after Goodine's retreating figure. Then his face
flushed scarlet, and he turned to Laurette with a look of absolutely
piteous appeal.
"I _can't_ fight him," he tried to explain, huskily. "You don't
understand. I ain't _afeard_ of him, nor of any man. But I vowed to his
mother I'd be good to the lad, and--"
"Oh, I reckon I quite understand, Mr. Reddin," interrupted the girl, in
a hard, clear voice; and, seeing the furious scorn in her face, Reddin
silently turned away.
Laurette's scorn was sharpened by a sense of the bitterest
disappointment. She had allowed herself to give her heart to a coward,
whom she had fancied a hero. As she turned to her father, big tears
forced themselves into her eyes. But the episode had passed quickly; and
her distress was not observed, as all attention now turned to Goodine
and his perilous undertaking. Only McElvey, who had suspected the girl's
sentiments for some time, said in an undertone, "Jim Reddin ain't no
coward, and don't you forget it, sis. But it _is_ queer the way he'll
just take anything at all from Bill Goodine. It's somethin' we don't
none of us understand."
"I reckon he does well to be scared of him," said Laurette, with her
head very high in the air.
By this time Goodine had formed his plans, and had got to work. At first
he called in the assistance of two other axemen, to cut certain of the
piles which had no great strain upon them. This done, the assistants
returned to safe quarters; and then Bill warily reviewed the situation.
"He knows what he's about," murmured McElvey, with approbation, as Bill
attacked another pile, cut it two-thirds through, and left it so. Then
he severed completely a huge timber far on the left front of the
landing. There remained but two piles to withstand the main push of the
logs. One of these was in the centre, the other a little to the
right,--on which side the chopper had to make his escape when the logs
began to go. This latter pile Goodine now cut half-way through. Feeling
himself the hero of the hour, he handled his axe brilliantly, and soon
forgot his indignation against Laurette. At length he attacked the
centre pile, the key to the whole structure.
Everybody, at this point, held his breath. Loud sounded the measured
axe-strokes over the rush of the swollen river. No one moved but Reddin,
and no one but Laurette noticed his movement. His skilled eye had
detected a danger which none of the rest perceived. He drew close to the
brow, and moved a little way down the bank.
"What can he be up to?" wondered Laurette; and then she sniffed angrily
because she had thought about him at all.
Goodine dealt a few cautious strokes upon the central pile, paused a
moment or two to reconnoitre, and then renewed his attack. Reddin became
very fidgety. He watched the logs, and shouted earnestly,--
"Better come out o' that right now and finish on this 'ere nigh pile."
Goodine looked up, eyed first his adviser, then very narrowly the logs,
and answered, tersely, "Go to h--ll!"
"That's just like the both of 'em," muttered McElvey, as Goodine turned
and resumed his chopping.
At this moment there came a sullen, tearing sound; and the top of the
near pile, which had been half cut through, began to lean slowly,
slowly. A yell of desperate warning arose. Goodine dropped his axe,
turned like lightning, and made a tremendous leap for safety. He gained
the edge of the landing-front, slipped on an oozy stone, and fell back
with a cry of horror right beneath the toppling mass of logs.
As his cry re-echoed from every throat, Jim Reddin dropped beside him as
swiftly and almost miraculously as a sparrow-hawk flashes upon its prey.
With a terrific surge he swung Goodine backward and outward into the
raging current, but away from the face of the impending avalanche. Then,
as the logs all went with a gathering roar, he himself sprang outward in
a superb leap, splashed mightily into the stream, disappeared, and came
up some yards below. Side by side the two men struck out sturdily for
shore, and in a couple of minutes their comrades' eager hands were
dragging them up the bank.
"Didn't I _tell_ you Jim Reddin wasn't no coward?" said McElvey, with
glistening eyes, to Laurette; and Laurette, having no other way to
relieve her excitement and give vent to her revulsion of feelings, sat
down on a sled and cried most illogically.
As the two dripping men approached the camp, she looked up to see a
reconciliation. Presently Goodine emerged from a little knot of his
companions, approached Reddin, and held out his hand.
"I ask yer pardon," said he. "You're a man, an' no mistake. It is my
life I owe to you; an' I'm proud to owe it to sech as you!"
But Reddin took no notice of the outstretched hand. The direct and
primitive movements of the backwoodsman's mind may seem to the
sophisticated intelligence peculiar; but they are easy to comprehend.
Jim Reddin quite overlooked the opportunity now offered for a display of
exalted sentiment. In a harsh, deliberate voice he said,--
"An' now, Bill Goodine, you've got to stand up to me, an' we'll see
which is the better man, you or me. Ever sence you growed up to be a man
you've used me just as mean as you knowed how; an' now we'll fight it
out right here."
At this went up a chorus of disapproval: and Goodine said, "I'll be d--d
if I'm a-goin to strike the man what's jest saved my life!"
"You needn't let _that_ worry you, Bill," replied Reddin. "We're quits
there. I reckon you forget as how your mother, God bless her, saved my
life, some twenty year back, when you was jest a-toddlin'. An' I vowed
to her I'd be good to you the very best I knowed how. An' I've kep' my
vow. But now I reckon I'm quit of it; an' if you ain't a-goin' to give
me satisfaction now my hands is free, then you ain't no man at all, an'
I'll try an' find some way to _make_ you fight!"
"Jim's right!--You've got to fight, Bill!--That's fair!" and many more
exclamations of like character, showed the drift of popular sentiment so
plainly that Goodine exclaimed, "Well, if you sez so, it's got to be!
But I don't want to hurt you, Jim Reddin; an' lick you I kin, every day
in the week, an' you know it!"
"You're a liar!" remarked Jim Reddin, in a business-like voice, as the
hands formed a ring.
At this some of the hands laughed, and Goodine, glancing around, caught
the ghost of a smile on Laurette's face. This was all that was needed.
The blood boiled up to his temples, and with an oath under his breath he
sprang upon his adversary.
Smoothly and instantaneously as a shadow Reddin eluded the attack. And
now his face lost its set look of injury and assumed a smile of cheerful
interest. Bill Goodine, in spite of his huge bulk, had the elasticity
and dash of a panther; but his quickness was nothing to that of Reddin.
Once or twice the latter parried, with seeming ease, his most
destructive lunges, but more often he contented himself with moving
aside like a flash of light. Presently Goodine cried out,--
"Why don't yer _fight_, like a man, stidder skippin' out o' the road
like a flea?"
"'Cause I don't want to hurt you," laughed Reddin.
But that little boastful laugh delayed his movements, and Goodine was
upon him. Two or three terrible short-arm blows were exchanged, and then
the two men grappled.
"Let 'em be," ordered McElvey. "They'd better wrastle than fight."
For a second or two, nay, for perhaps a whole minute, it looked to the
spectators as if Reddin must be crushed helpless in Bill's tremendous
embrace. Then it began to dawn on them that Reddin had captured the more
deadly hold. Then the dim rumors of Reddin's marvellous strength began
to gather credence, as it was seen how his grip seemed to dominate that
of his great opponent.
For several minutes the straining antagonists swayed about the ring.
Then suddenly Reddin straightened himself, and Bill's hold slipped for
an instant. Before he could recover it Reddin had stooped, secured a
lower grip, and in a moment hurled his adversary clear over his
shoulder. A roar of applause went up from the spectators; and Goodine,
after trying to rise, lay still and groaned, "I'm licked, Jim. I've had
enough."
The boss soon pronounced that Bill's shoulder was dislocated, and that
he'd have to go back to the settlements to be doctored. This being the
case, Laurette said to him benevolently, after her horse was harnessed
to the pung, "I'm sorry I can't ask you to drive me home, though you
_did_ cut out the logs, Bill. But I reckon it'll be the next best thing
fur you if _I_ drive _you_ home. An' Jim Reddin'll come along, maybe, to
kind of look after the both of us."
To which proposition poor Bill grinned a rather ghastly assent.
An Experience of Jabez Batterpole.
One February afternoon a tremendous snow-storm was raging about the camp
on the Upper Keswick. The air was so thick with driving flakes that one
could scarcely see five feet ahead of him. It fell dark in the woods by
the middle of the afternoon, and the chopping and the hauling came to an
end. Lamps were soon lighted in camp, and the lumbermen, in their
steaming homespuns, gathered about the roaring stove to sing, smoke,
swap yarns and munch gingerbread. The wind screamed round the gables of
the camp, rattled at the door and windows, and roared among the
tree-tops like the breaking of great waves on an angry coast. From the
stables close by came ever and anon the neighing of a nervous horse.
Andy Mitchell had been detailing with tireless minuteness the virtues of
his magnificent team of stallions, Tom and Jerry, and had described (as
was his wont on all possible occasions) the manner in which they had
once saved his life when he was attacked by a tremendous Indian Devil.
This Indian Devil (as the Northern Panther is called in Canada) had been
literally pounded to pieces under the hoofs of the angry stallions. As
Mitchell concluded, there came a voice from the other side of the stove,
and a tall Woodstocker spoke up. This was a chopper very popular in the
camp, and known by the name of Jabe. His real name, seldom used except
on Sundays, was Jabez Ephraim Batterpole.
"_I'll_ tell yez a leetle yarn, boys," said Jabe, "about a chap ez
warn't _eg_zackly an Injun Devil, but he was half Injun, an' I'm
a-thinkin t' other half must 'a' been a devil. I run agin him las' June,
three year gone, an' he come blame near a-doin' fur me. I haint sot
eyes on him sence, fur which the same I ain't a-goin' to complain.
"I'd been up to the Falls, an' was a-takin' a raft down the river fur
Gibson. Sandy Beale was along o' me, an' I dunno ez ever I enjoyed
raftin' more 'n on the first o' thet trip. Doubtless yez all knows what
purty raftin' it is in them parts. By gum, it kinder makes a chap lick
his lips when he rickolecks it, a-slidin' along there in the sun, not
too hot an' not too cold, a-smokin' very comfortable, with one's back
braced agin a saft spruce log, an' smellin' the leetle catspaws what
comes blowin' off the shores jest ez sweet an' saft ez a gal's currls
a-brushin' of a feller's face."
"_What_ gal's currls be you referrin' to Jabe?" interrupted Andy
Mitchell.
"Suthin' finer 'n horse-hair, anyways!" was the prompt retort; and a
laugh went round the camp at Andy's expense. Then Batterpole
continued:--
"When we come to Hardscrabble it was sundown, so we tied up the raft an'
teetered up the hill to Old Man Peters's fur the night. Yez all knows
Old Man Peters's gal Nellie, ez there ain't no tidier an honester slip
on the hull river. Nellie was purty glad to see Sandy an' me, ef I does
say it that shouldn't; an' she chinned with us so ez she didn't hev no
time to talk to some other chaps ez was puttin' up there that night. An'
this, ez I mighty soon ketched onter, didn't seem nohow to suit one of
the fellers. He was a likely-lookin' chap enough, but very
dark-complected an' sallow-like, with a bad eye, showin' a lot o' the
white. An eye like that's a bad thing in a horse, an' I reckon 't ain't
a heap better in a man.