For some pages, my grandfather's note-book is filled with memoranda
of singular casualties from the enemy's shot, wonderful escapes,
and hasty moments of quietude and attempted comfort snatched "even
in the cannon's mouth." The fire from the Spanish batteries shortly
reduced the town to ruins, and the gunboats at night precluded all
hope of peace and oblivion after the horrors of the day. Dreams, in
which these horrors were reproduced, were interrupted by still more
frightful nocturnal realities. One of the curious minor evils that
my grandfather notices, as resulting from an incessant cannonade,
to those not engaged in it actively enough to withdraw their
attention from the noise, is the extreme irritation produced by its
long continuance, amounting, in persons of nervous and excitable
temperament, to positive exasperation.
Some of the numerous incidents he chronicles are also recorded by
Drinkwater, especially that of a man who recovered after being
almost knocked to pieces by the bursting of a shell. "His head was
terribly fractured, his left arm broken in two places, one of his
legs shattered, the skin and muscles torn off his right hand, the
middle finger broken to pieces, and his whole body most severely
bruised and marked with gunpowder. He presented so horrid an object
to the surgeons, that they had not the smallest hopes of saving his
life, and were at a loss what part to attend to first. He was that
evening trepanned; a few days afterwards his leg was amputated,
and other wounds and fractures dressed. Being possessed of a most
excellent constitution, nature performed wonders in his favour,
and in eleven weeks the cure was completely effected. His name,"
continues Mr Drinkwater, with what might be deemed irony--if the
worthy historian ever indulged in that figure of rhetoric--"is
Donald Ross, and he" (_i. e._ the remaining fragment of the said
Donald Ross) "now enjoys his sovereign's bounty in a pension of
ninepence a-day for life." One might almost suppose that Mr Hume had
some hand in affixing the gratuity; but in those days there was a
king who knew not Joseph.
My grandfather appears to have had also an adventure of his own.
During a cessation of the cannonade, he was sitting one morning on
a fragment of rock, in the garden behind his quarters, reading his
favourite author. The firing suddenly recommenced, and a long-ranged
shell, striking the ground at some distance, rolled towards him.
He glanced half-absently at the hissing missile; and whether he
actually did not for a moment recollect its character, or whether,
as was often the case on such occasions, the imminence of the danger
paralysed him, he sat immovably watching it as it fizzed within a
couple of yards of him. Unquestionably in another three seconds
my grandfather's earthly tabernacle would have been resolved into
its original atoms, had not the intrepid Carlota (who was standing
near gathering flowers to stick in her hair) darted on him, and,
seizing him by the arm, dragged him behind a wall. They were scarce
under shelter when the shell exploded--the shock laying them both
prostrate, though unhurt but for a few bruises--while the stone
on which the Major had been sitting was shivered to atoms. To the
description of this incident in the Major's journal are appended a
pious reflection and a short thanksgiving, which, being entirely of
a personal nature, I omit.
The stores landed from the fleet were in a very precarious position.
Owing to the destruction of the buildings, there were no means of
placing them where they might be sheltered at once from the fire of
the enemy and from rain. Some were piled under sails spread out as
a sort of roof to protect them, and some, that were not likely to
sustain immediate injury from the damp air of such a depository,
were ordered to be conveyed to St Michael's Cave.
This cave is one of the most curious features of the Rock. Its
mouth--an inconsiderable opening in the slope of the mountain--is
situated many hundred feet above the sea. Within, it expands into a
spacious hall, the roof, invisible in the gloom, supported by thick
pillars formed by the petrified droppings of the rock. From this
principal cavern numerous smaller ones branch off, leading, by dark,
broken, and precipitous passages, to unknown depths. Along one of
these, according to tradition, Governor O'Hara advanced farther than
ever man had gone before, and left his sword in the inmost recess to
be recovered by the next explorer who should be equally adventurous.
But whether it is that the tradition is unfounded, or that the
weapon has been carried off by some gnome, or that the governor's
exploit is as yet unrivalled, the sword has never been brought to
light.
For the duty of placing the stores here, the name of Lieutenant
Owen appeared in the garrison orders. My grandfather having nothing
particular to do, and being anxious to escape as much as possible
for a short time from the din of the bombardment, offered to
accompany Frank in the execution of this duty.
The day was dark and gloomy, and the steep path slippery from rain,
so that the mules bearing the stores toiled with difficulty up the
ascent. At first, my grandfather and Owen indulged in cheerful
conversation; but shortness of breath soon reduced the Major to
monosyllables, and the latter part of the journey was accomplished
in silence. Frequently the Major paused and faced about, at once
to look at the prospect and to take breath. Far below, on his
right, was seen the southern end of the town, consisting partly
of a heap of ruins, with here and there a rafter sticking out of
the mass, partly of roofless walls, among which was occasionally
heard the crashing of shot; but the guns that discharged them, as
well as those that replied from the town, were invisible from
this point. Directly beneath him the ground afforded a curious
spectacle, being covered with tents, huts, and sheds, of all sorts
and sizes, where the outcast population of the ruined town obtained
a precarious and insufficient shelter. The only building visible
which still retained its former appearance was the convent--the
governor's residence--which was protected by bomb-proofs, and where
working-parties were constantly engaged in repairing the injuries.
The bay, once thickly wooded with masts and dotted with sails, was
now blank and cheerless; only the enemy's cruisers were visible,
lying under the opposite shore of Spain.
Owen and my grandfather arrived at the mouth of the cave somewhat in
advance of the convoy. To their surprise a smoke was issuing from
it; and, as they approached nearer, their nostrils were greeted by
an odour at once savoury and spicy. Going softly up they looked in.
Mr Bags and a couple of friends were seated round a fire, over which
was roasting a small pig, scientifically butchered and deprived of
his hair, and hung up by the heels. The fire, in the absence of
other fuel, (of which there was an extreme scarcity in Gibraltar,)
was supplied by bundles of cinnamon plundered from the store of some
grocer, and, as the flame waxed low, Mr Bags took a fresh bundle
from a heap of that fragrant spice by his side, and laid it on the
embers. Mrs Bags was occupied in basting the pig with lard, which
she administered from time to time with an iron ladle.
Presently Mr Bags tapped on the pig's back with his knife. It sent
forth a crisp crackling sound, that made my grandfather's mouth
water, and caused Mr Bags to become impatient.
"Polly," said he, "it's my opinion it's been done these three
minutes. I can't wait much longer."
And he cast a glance at the other two soldiers, (in whom, as well as
in Bags, Owen recognised men of his company who had been reported
absent for some days, and were supposed to have gone over to the
enemy,) to ascertain if their opinions tallied with his own on this
point.
"It can't be no better," said one, taking hold of the pig's neck
between his finger and thumb, which he afterwards applied to his
mouth.
"I can't abear my meat overdone," said the third. "What I say is,
let them that likes to wait, wait, and let them that wants to begin,
begin." So saying, he rose, and was about to attack the ribs of the
porker with his knife.
"Do stop a minute--that's a dear," said Mrs Bags; "another bundle of
cinnament will make it parfect. I'll give ye something to stay your
stomach;" and stepping to a nook in the wall of the cavern, where
stood a large barrel, she filled a pewter measure, and handed it to
the impatient advocate for underdone pork, who took a considerable
dram, and passed it to his companions.
"Cinnament's better with pork nor with most things," said Bags. "It
spoils goose, because it don't agree with the inions, and it makes
fowls wishy-washy; but it goes excellent with pig."
"What's left in the larder?" asked one of the party.
"There's a week's good eating yet," said Mrs Bags, "and we _might_
make it do ten days or a fortnight."
"Well!" said the other, "they may say what they like about sieges,
but this is the jolliest time ever _I_ had."
"It's very well by day," said Bags, "but the nights is cold, and the
company of that ghost ain't agreeable--I seed it again last night."
"Ah!" said his friend, "what was it like, Tongs?"
"Something white," returned Bags in an awful whisper, "with a
ghost's eyes. You may allays know a ghost by the eyes. I was just
rising up, and thinking about getting a drink, for my coppers was
hot, when it comes gliding up from that end of the cave. I spoke to
you, and then I couldn't see it no more, because it was varnished."
"Ghosts always varnishes if you speak," said Mrs Bags. "But never
mind the spirit now--let's look after the flesh," added the lady,
who possessed a fund of native pleasantry: "the pig's done to a
turn."
At this interesting juncture, and just as they were about to fall
to, the footsteps of the approaching mules struck on their ears.
Owen went to meet the party, and hastily selecting six men from it,
advanced, and desired them to secure the astounded convivialists.
On recovering from their first astonishment, Bags begged Owen would
overlook the offence; they were only, he pleaded, having a little
spree--times had been hard lately. Mrs Bags, as usual, displayed
great eloquence, though not much to the purpose. She seemed to have
some idea that an enumeration of the gentlemen's families she had
lived in, and the high estimation in which she had been held in
all, would really tell powerfully in favour of the delinquents, and
persevered accordingly, till they were marched off in custody of the
escort, when she made a final appeal to my grandfather, as the last
gentleman whose family she had lived in--with what advantage to the
household the reader knows. The Major, who could not forgive the
roasting of his ham, called her, in reply, a "horrible woman," but,
at the same time, whispered to Owen that he hoped the fellows would
not be severely punished. "If we had caught them after dinner," said
he, "I shouldn't have pitied them so much."
"Never mind them," said Owen; "let us proceed to business. We must
select the driest spot we can find to put the stores in."
[Here, by way of taking leave of Mr Bags, I may remark, that he
narrowly escaped being hanged as a plunderer--failing which, he was
sentenced by a court-martial to receive a number of lashes, which I
refrain from specifying, because it would certainly make the hair of
a modern humanitarian turn white with horror.]
"Come along, Major," said Owen; "perhaps we may find more of these
scoundrels in the course of our researches."
The Major did not move; he was earnestly regarding the carcase of
the pig, that steamed hissing above the embers.
"Queer idea that of the cinnamon fire," said he. "I wonder how the
meat tastes."
Owen did not hear him, having walked forward.
"Have you got a knife about you, Frank?" said the Major. "Do you
know I have a curious desire to ascertain the flavour. It may be a
feature in cookery worth knowing."
Owen had not a knife, nor had any of the men, but one of them
suggested that the Major's sword would answer the purpose.
"To be sure," said the Major. "A good idea! I don't see why
swords shouldn't be turned into carving-knives as well as into
pruning-hooks." So saying, he drew it from the sheath, and,
straddling across the fire, detached a crisp brown mouthful from the
pig's ribs, and putting a little salt on it, he conveyed it to his
mouth.
"Excellent!" cried the Major. "I give you my word of honour, Owen,
'tis excellent! The cinnamon gives it a sort of a ----"
Here a second and larger mouthful interrupted the criticism.
"It must be very near lunch-time," said the Major, pausing, sword
in hand, when he had swallowed it; then, pretending to look at his
watch--"Bless me, it only wants half-an-hour of it. Do you think
this business will take you long, Owen?"
"About a couple of hours," said Owen.
"Ah, why, there you see," returned the Major, "we shan't get home
till long past lunch-time. I really don't see why we shouldn't take
a snack now. Nothing can be better than that pig. I only wish the
woman had dressed my dinner half as well. Corporal Hodson, would you
oblige me with a piece of that biscuit near you?" And, detaching a
large fragment of pork, he placed it on the biscuit, and sprinkling
it with pepper and salt, which condiments had not been forgotten in
the gastronomic arrangements of Mr Bags, he proceeded to follow Owen
into the interior of the cave, taking huge bites as he went.
The path slopes at first steeply downward from the mouth to the
interior of the cavern, where it becomes more level. Light being
admitted only at the entrance, the gloom of the interior is almost
impenetrable to the eye. The men had brought torches to assist them
in their work, and, a suitable spot having been selected, these were
stuck on different points and abutments of the rocky wall, when the
party proceeded to unload the mules at the entrance, conveying their
burdens into the cave.
In the midst of the bustle and noise attending the operation, the
little dog given by Esther to Carlota, which had that morning
followed the Major, to whom it had speedily attached itself, began
barking and howling dismally in a dark recess behind one of the
great natural pillars before spoken of. As the noise continued,
intermixed with piteous whinings, one of the men took a torch from
the wall, and stepped forward into the darkness, to see what ailed
the animal. Presently he cried out that "there was a man there."
My grandfather, who was next him, immediately followed, and five
paces brought him to the spot. The soldier who held the torch was
stooping, and holding it over a figure that lay on the ground on its
back. In the unshaven, blood-stained countenance, my grandfather, at
first, had some difficulty in recognising Lazaro the Jew. Some fiery
splashes of pitch from the torch dropping at the moment on his bare
throat, produced no movement, though, had he been living, they must
have scorched him to the quick.
On the body was nothing but the shirt he wore the night of his
flight from the hospital, but his legs were wrapt in a woman's
dress. Across his breast, on her face, lay Esther, in her white
under-garments--for the gown that wrapt the Jew's legs was hers. The
glare of the torch was bright and red on the two prostrate figures,
and on the staring appalled countenance of the man who held it--the
group forming a glowing spot in the vast, sombre, vaulted space,
where dim gleams of light were caught and repeated on projecting
masses of rock, more and more faintly, till all was bounded by
darkness.
Years afterwards my grandfather would sometimes complain of having
been revisited, in dreams of the night, by that ghastly piece of
Rembrandt painting.
The rest quickly flocked to the spot, and Esther was lifted and
found to breathe, though the Jew was stiff and cold. Some diluted
spirit, from the cellar of Bags, being poured down her throat she
revived a little, when my grandfather caused two of the men to bear
her carefully to his house; and the body of the Jew being wrapt in a
piece of canvass, was placed on a mule and conveyed to the hospital
for interment.
Medical aid restored Esther to consciousness, and she told how they
came to be found in the cave.
Her father, on leaving the hospital, had fled by chance, as she
thought, to this cave, for he did not reach it by the usual path,
but climbed, in his delirious fear, up the face of the rock, and she
had followed him as well as she could, keeping his white figure in
sight. They had both lain exhausted in the cave till morning, when,
finding that her father slept, she was on the point of leaving him
to seek assistance. But, unhappily, before she could quit the place,
Bags and his associates entered from their plundering expedition
into the town, and, frightened at their drunken language, and
recognising in Bags the man who had robbed her, she had crept back
to her concealment. The party of marauders never quitted the cavern
from the moment of establishing themselves in it. They spent the
day in eating, drinking, singing songs, and sometimes quarrelling.
Twice, at night, she ventured forth; but she always found one of
them asleep across the entrance, so that she could not pass without
waking him, and once one of them started up, and seemed about to
pursue her--doubtless Bags, on the occasion when he thought he saw
a ghost. Nevertheless, she had mustered courage twice to take some
fragments of food that were lying near the fire, leaving each time a
piece of money in payment; and she had also taken a lighted candle,
the better to ascertain her father's situation. He had never spoken
to her since the first night of their coming, and, during all those
dark and weary hours, (for they were three nights and two days in
the cavern,) she had remained by him listening to his incoherent
mutterings and moans. The candle had showed her that he had lost
much blood, from the wound in his forehead breaking out afresh, as
well as from the other received in the hospital, though the latter
was but a flesh wound. These she had bandaged with shreds of her
dress, and had tried to give him some of the nourishment she had
procured, but could force nothing on him except some water. Some
hours, however--how long she did not know, but it was during the
night--before Owen's party found her, the Jew had become sensible.
He told her he was dying; and, unconscious of where he was, desired
her to fetch a light. This she had procured in the same way as
before, lighting the candle at the embers of the fire round which
Bags and his friends reposed. Then the Jew, who seemed to imagine
himself still in the hospital, bid her say whom, among those she
knew in Gibraltar, she would wish to have charge of her when he was
no more; and, on her mentioning Carlota, had desired her to take pen
and paper and write his will as he should dictate it. Pen she had
none, but she had a pencil and a scrap of paper in her pocket, and
with these she wrote, leaning over to catch the whispered syllables
that he with difficulty articulated.
From this paper it would appear that the Jew had some fatherly
feelings for Esther concealed beneath his harsh deportment towards
her. I can describe the will, for I have often seen it. It is
written on a piece of crumpled writing-paper, about the size of a
bank-note, very stained and dirty. It is written in Spanish; and
in it the Jew entreats "the Señora, the wife of Sr. Don Flinder,
English officer, to take charge of his orphan child, in requital
whereof he leaves her the half of whatsoever property he dies
possessed of, the other half to be disposed of for the benefit of
his daughter." Then follows a second paragraph, inserted at Esther's
own desire, to the effect that, should she not survive, the whole
was to be inherited by the aforesaid Señora. It is dated "Abril
1781," and signed in a faint, straggling hand, quite different from
the clear writing of the rest--"JOSÉ LAZARO."
Esther would now have gone, at all hazards, to obtain assistance,
but the Jew clutched her arm, and would not permit her to quit him.
He breathed his last shortly after, and Esther remembered nothing
more till she came to herself in the Major's house. The paper was
found in her bosom.
Some days after this event my grandfather went with Owen into the
town, during a temporary lull in the enemy's firing, to visit the
house of Lazaro, in order to ascertain whether anything valuable
was left that might be converted to Esther's benefit. They had
some difficulty in finding the exact locality, owing to the utter
destruction of all the landmarks. The place was a mass of ruins.
Some provisions and goods had been left by the plunderers, but so
mixed with rubbish, and overflowed with the contents of the casks
of liquor and molasses, as to be of no value even in these times of
dearth.
Owen, poking about among the wreck, observed an open space in the
middle of one of the shattered walls, as if something had been built
into it. With the assistance of my grandfather's cane, he succeeded
in dislodging the surrounding masonry, already loosened by shot, and
they discovered it to be a recess made in the thickness of the wall,
and closed by a small iron door. At the bottom was lying a small
box, also of iron, which they raised, not without difficulty, for
its weight was extraordinary in proportion to its dimensions. This
being conveyed to my grandfather's, and opened, was found to contain
more than six hundred doubloons, (a sum in value about two thousand
pounds,) and many bills of exchange and promissory notes, mostly
those of officers. The latest was that of Von Dessel. These the
Major, by Esther's desire, returned to the persons whose signatures
they bore.
Esther never completely recovered from the effects of her sojourn
in the cave, but remained always pale and of weak health. My
grandfather took good care of her inheritance for her, and on
leaving Gibraltar, at the conclusion of the siege, invested the
whole of it safely for her benefit, placing her, at the same time,
in the family of some respectable persons of her own religion. She
afterwards married a wealthy Hebrew; and, in whatever part of
the world the Major chanced to be serving, so long as she lived,
valuable presents would constantly arrive from Gibraltar--mantillas
and ornaments of jewellery for Carlota, and butts of delicious
sherry for my grandfather. These, however, ceased with her death,
about twenty years afterwards.
This is, I believe, the most connected and interesting episode to
be found in the Major's note-book; and it is, I think, the last
specimen I shall offer of these new "Tales of my Grandfather."
As a child I used to listen, with interest ever new, to the tale
of the young Jewess, which the narrator had often heard from the
lips of Carlota and her husband. St Michael's Cave took rank in my
mind with those other subterranean abodes where Cassim, the brother
of Ali Baba, who forgot the word "_Open Sesame_," was murdered by
the Forty Thieves; where Aladdin was shut by the magician in the
enchanted garden; and where Robinson Crusoe discovered the dying
he-goat. And when, at the conclusion of the tale, the scrap of
paper containing the Jew's will was produced from a certain desk,
and carefully unfolded, I seemed to be connected by some awful and
mysterious link with these departed actors in the scenes I had so
breathlessly listened to.
LIFE AMONGST THE LOGGERS.
_Forest Life and Forest Trees._ By JOHN S. SPRINGER. New York:
Harper. London: Sampson Low. 1851.
The northern and elder States of the great American Union have
ceased to be associated in our minds with those ideas of wild
and romantic adventure which are inseparably connected with some
of their younger brethren far west and south. There is nothing
suggestive of romance in such names as New York, Maine, and
Pennsylvania: cotton bales, keen traders and repudiated debts,
drab coats, wooden clocks, and counterfeit nutmegs, compose the
equivocal and unpoetical visions they conjure up to European
imaginations. But drop we our eyes down the map to lawless Arkansas,
feverish Louisiana, and debateable Texas, or westwards to the still
newer State of California, and a host of stirring and picturesque
associations throng upon our memory. Strange scenes and a motley
array pass before us. Bands of hunters and trappers, scarce more
civilised than the Indians with whom they war, or gentler than the
buffalo which yields them sport and food; predatory armies, for
Mexico bound, keen for spoil and regardless of right; caravans of
adventurous gold-seekers braving the perilous passage of the Rocky
Mountains; hardy squatters, axe in hand, hewing themselves a home
in the heart of the wilderness; innumerable traits of courage and
endurance--incredible sufferings and countless crimes--make up a
picture-gallery unrivalled of its kind. In those districts, not
a league of prairie, not a mountain or stream, not a _bayou_ or
_barranca_, but has derived recent and vivid interest from the
animated sketches of Sealsfield, Ruxton, Wise, and a host of other
graphic and vigorous delineators.
As if to vindicate the claims to interest of the northern American
provinces, a Down-easter, Springer by name, who hails from the State
of Maine, has exhibited, in a curious little volume, the adventurous
side of life in _his_ part of the Union. At a first glance, there
would appear to be few created things whose history was likely to be
less interesting than that of a Yankee pine-log. Get astride it with
Springer, and paddle up the Penobscot, clearing rapids and other
impediments as best you may on so unpromising a float--and, before
reaching the place where it grew, you shall marvel at the skill
and daring expended, and at the risks run to procure it. Springer,
who was reared amongst the pine forests, which his axe afterwards
helped to thin, is an enthusiastic woodsman, and feels "kinder
jealous" that whilst the habits and adventures of many classes of
his countrymen have occupied skilful writers and public attention,
no chronicler should have been found for the deeds and perils of
that numerous class to which he for some years belonged. To supply
this deficiency, he himself, although more used to handle axe than
goose-quill, has written a plain and unpretending account of scenes
and incidents which he shared in and witnessed. The freshness of
the subject, and the honest earnestness of the man, would atone for
clumsier treatment than it has met with at his hands.
The second title of Mr Springer's book gives a clearer idea of
its contents than the primary one. The volume comprises, says the
title-page, "Winter camp-life, among the Loggers, and wild-wood
adventure, with descriptions of lumbering operations on the various
rivers of Maine and New Brunswick." It is divided into three parts;
the first and shortest being a dissertation on forest trees, with
particular reference to those of America; the second, entitled
"The Pine Tree, or Forest Life," giving an account of wood-cutting
operations; the third, "River Life," detailing the progress of
the timber from the forest to the "boom," or depôt. The chief
interest of the book begins with the second chapter of the second
part, wherein is described the commencement of the labours of a
gang of "loggers," or woodcutters. In the hunt after timber, as
after certain animals, the first thing to be done is to mark the
whereabout of your game preparatory to starting in its pursuit. On
the eve of the chase the keeper reconnoitres the retreat of the
wild-boar. Before a party of loggers proceed to establish a camp
and pass the winter woodcutting, they send out scouts to ascertain
where timber is plenty. Thirty years since, this was scarcely
necessary--the pine, that forest king of the northern States,
abounded on every side. Fifty years hence--so it is estimated by
those best qualified to judge--the vast pine forests, through which
the Penobscot flows, will be on the eve of extinction. Now is the
intermediate stage. A man cannot, as he formerly could, step from
his house to his day's work; but research and labour still command
a rich timber harvest. Exploring expeditions may be made at any
period of the year, but autumn is the favourite season. They consist
generally of only two or three men, accustomed to the business,
who, provided with the necessary provisions, with a coffee-pot and
a blanket, axe, rifle, and ammunition, embark on skiff or _bateau_,
and pole and paddle their way two hundred miles or more up the
Penobscot or the St Croix, and their numerous tributaries. On
reaching the district it is proposed to explore, the boat is hauled
ashore and turned bottom upwards, the load of stores is divided
amongst the party, and they strike into the forest, rousing, on
their passage, the stately moose, the timid deer, the roaming black
bear, and many an inferior denizen of the lonesome wilderness. They
now begin "prospecting." Often the thickness of the forest and the
uneven surface of the country prevent their obtaining a sufficiently
extensive view, and compel them to climb trees in order to look
around them.
"When an ascent is to be made, the spruce tree is generally
selected, principally for the superior facilities which its
numerous limbs afford the climber. To gain the first limbs of
this tree, which are from twenty to forty feet from the ground,
a smaller tree is undercut and lodged against it, clambering
up which the top of the spruce is reached. Sometimes, when a
very elevated position is desired, the spruce tree is lodged
against the trunk of some lofty pine, up which we ascend to
a height twice that of the surrounding forest. From such a
tree-top, like a mariner at the mast-head upon the look-out for
whales, (and indeed the pine is the whale of the forest,) large
'clumps' and 'veins' of pine are discovered, whose towering
tops may be seen for miles around. Such views fill the bosom of
timber-hunters with an _intense interest_. They are the object
of his search--his treasure, his Eldorado; and they are beheld
with peculiar and thrilling emotions. To detail the process more
minutely, we should observe, that the man in the tree-top points
out the direction in which the pines are seen; or, if hid from
the view of those below by the surrounding foliage, he breaks a
small limb, and throws it in the direction in which they appear,
whilst a man at the base marks the direction indicated by the
falling limb by means of a compass which he holds in his hand,
the compass being quite as necessary in the wilderness as on the
pathless ocean. In fair weather the sun serves as an important
guide; and in cloudy weather the close observation of an
experienced woodman will enable him to steer a tolerably correct
course by the moss which grows on the trunks of most hardwood
trees, the north sides of which are covered with a much larger
share than the other portions of the trunk. This Indian compass,
however, is not very convenient or safe, particularly in passing
through swampy lands, which are of frequent occurrence."
Two reflections are suggested by the paragraph we have just copied.
The substance of one of them is noted in the Preface. "This volume,"
says the modest and sensible Springer, "makes no pretensions to
literary merit; sooner would it claim kindred with the wild and
uncultivated scenes of which it is but a simple relation." The
second reflection is, that our wood-cutter is an enthusiast in
his craft; for wood-cutting in Maine _is_ a craft, and no common
log-chopping. To Springer, a towering grove of timber is as exciting
a sight as is to the hunter that of a herd of antlered deer or
shaggy buffalo. The pine especially is the object of his love and
admiration. He abounds in anecdotes and arguments to prove its
good qualities, and labours hard to establish its superiority to
the oak. Reared amongst the noble pines of Maine, he says, even as
a child, he could never hear, without feelings of jealousy, the
oak extolled as monarch of the forest. Admitting it to excel in
strength, he vaunts, upon the other hand, the superior grandeur and
girth of the pine, its value in building, the breadth of its planks,
their clearness, beauty, and freedom from knots, the numerous uses
to which it is applicable, its excellence as fuel, its perfect
adaptation to all the joiner's purposes. He extols in turn each of
its varieties; the red pine, remarkable for its tall trunk, which
sometimes rises eighty feet from the ground before putting out a
limb; the pitch pine, inferior in size, but preferable to any other
wood for generating steam in engines; the white pine, superior
to all in value and dimensions. He tells us of pines, of which
he has read or heard, of extraordinary grandeur and diameter: of
one, two hundred and sixty-four feet long; and of another which,
at three feet from the ground, was fifty-seven feet nine inches in
circumference. These extraordinary specimens were cut some years
ago. Trees of such dimensions are now rare.
"I have worked in the forests among this timber several years,"
says Springer, "have cut many hundreds of trees, and seen many
thousands, but I never found one larger than one I felled on a
little stream which empties into Jackson Lake, near the head of
Baskahegan stream, in eastern Maine. This was a pumpkin pine,
(a variety of the white pine.) Its trunk was as straight and
handsomely grown as a moulded candle, and measured six feet in
diameter four feet from the ground, without the aid of spur
roots. It was about nine rods in length, or one hundred and
forty-four feet, about sixty-five feet of which was free of
limbs, and retained its diameter remarkably well. I was employed
about one hour and a quarter in felling it. The afternoon was
beautiful; everything was calm, and to me the circumstances
were deeply interesting. After chopping an hour or so, the
mighty giant, the growth of centuries, which had withstood the
hurricane, and raised itself in peerless majesty above all
around, began to tremble under the strokes of a mere insect, as
I might appear in comparison with it. My heart palpitated as I
occasionally raised my eye to its pinnacle to catch the first
indications of its fall. It came down at length with a crash,
which seemed to shake a hundred acres, whilst the loud echo rang
through the forest, dying away amongst the distant hills. It had
a hollow in the butt about the size of a barrel, and the surface
of the stump was sufficiently spacious to allow a yoke of oxen
to stand upon it. It made five logs, and loaded a six-ox team
three times. The butt-log was so large, that the stream did not
float it in the spring; and when the drive was taken down, we
were obliged to leave it behind, much to our regret and loss. At
the boom, that log would have been worth fifty dollars."
The pine tracts ascertained, the quality of the trees examined,
the distance the timber will have to be hauled duly calculated,
and the ground inspected, through which logging roads must be
cut, the exploring party retrace their steps to the place where
they left their boat. Foot-sore with their forest roamings, they
gladly look forward to the quick, gliding passage down stream. A
grievous disappointment sometimes awaits them. In the fall of the
year, the black bear is seized with a violent longing for pitch and
resinous substances, and frequently strips fir trees of their bark
for the sake of the exudations. Occasionally he stumbles over a
timber-hunter's _bateau_, and tears it to pieces in the course of
the rough process he employs to extract the tar from its planks. If
it is injured beyond possibility of repair, the unlucky pioneers
have to perform their homeward journey on foot, unless indeed they
are so fortunate as to fall in with some Indian trapper, whose canoe
they can charter for a portion of the way. Once at home, the next
step is to obtain permits from the State or proprietors, securing,
at a stipulated price of so much per thousand feet, the exclusive
right to cut timber within certain bounds. Then comes haymaking--a
most important part of the loggers' duty; for on nothing does the
success of the wood-cutting campaign depend more than on the good
working condition of the sturdy teams of oxen which drag the logs
from the snow-covered forest to the river's brink. Hard by the
forest extensive strips of meadow-land are commonly found, covered
with a heavy growth of grass, and thither large bands of men repair
to make and stalk the hay for the ensuing winter's consumption. The
labour of haymaking in these upland meadows of Maine is rendered
intolerably painful by the assaults of flies and mosquitoes, and
especially by the insidious attacks of millions of midges, so small
as to be scarcely perceptible to the naked eye, and which get
between the clothes and the skin, causing a smarting and irritation
so great as to impede the progress of the work. The torment of
these insect attacks is hardly compensated by the pastimes and
adventures incidental to the occupation. Now and then a shot is to
be had at a stray deer; the streams swarm with beautiful trout and
pickerel; skirmishes with black bears are of frequent occurrence.
Mr Springer's volume abounds with stories of encounters with bears,
wolves, and "Indian devils"--a formidable species of catamount,
of which the Indians stand in particular dread. Although the bear
rarely shows himself pugnacious unless assailed, his meddlesome,
thievish propensities render him particularly obnoxious to the
hay-makers and wood-cutters; and when they meet him, they never can
abstain from the aggressive, however civilly Bruin may be disposed
to pass them by.
"On one occasion," says Mr Springer, "two men, crossing a small
lake in skiff, on their return from putting up hay, discovered
a bear swimming from a point of land for the opposite shore. As
usual in such cases, temptation silenced prudence--they changed
their course, and gave chase. The craft being light, they gained
fast upon the bear, who exerted himself to the utmost to gain
the shore; but, finding himself an unequal match in the race,
he turned upon his pursuers, and swam to meet them. One of the
men, a short, thick-set, dare-devil fellow, seized an axe, and,
the moment the bear came up, inflicted a blow upon his head. It
seemed to make but a slight impression, and before it could be
repeated the bear clambered into the boat. He instantly grappled
the man who struck him, firmly setting his teeth in his thigh;
then, settling back upon his haunches, he raised his victim in
the air, and shook him as a dog would a wood-chuck. The man at
the helm stood for a moment in amazement, without knowing how to
act, and fearing that the bear might spring overboard and drown
his companion; but, recollecting the effect of a blow upon the
end of a bear's snout, he struck him with a short setting-pole.
The bear dropped his victim into the bottom of the boat, sallied
and fell overboard, and swam again for the shore. The man bled
freely from the bite, and, as the wound proved too serious to
allow a renewal of the encounter, they made for the shore.
But one thing saved them from being upset: the water proved
sufficiently shoal to admit of the bear's getting bottom, from
which he sprang into the boat. Had the water been deep, the
consequences might have been more serious."
From its first to its last stage, the logger's occupation is one
of severe toil and frequent peril. When the pioneer's duty is
accomplished, and when the hay is made, there is still hard work to
be done before he can begin to level the forest giants. No kind of
labour, Mr Springer assures us, tests a man's physical abilities
and powers of endurance more than boating supplies up river. The
wood-cutters come to a fall, and have to land their implements and
provisions, and to carry them past it. Their boats, too, must be
carried, and that over rocks and fallen trees, through thickets and
pathless swamps. Then they come to rapids, up which they have to
pole their heavy-laden bateaux. For this work, prodigious skill,
nerve, and strength are requisite. Then come the long portages from
lake to lake, and the danger of being swamped, when traversing
these, by sudden gusts of wind lashing the lake, in a few minutes'
time, into foaming waves, in which the deeply-loaded boats could not
for a moment live.
"Our frail skiff was about eighteen feet long, and four feet
across the top of the gunwale amidships, tapering to a point at
either end, constructed of thin slips of pine boards, nailed
to some half-dozen pair of slender knees, about two inches in
diameter. On board were fifteen hundred pounds of provisions,
with seven men, which pressed her into the water nearly to the
gunwale; three inches from the position of a level, and she
would fill with water."
In such an overburthened cockle-shell as this did Mr Springer once
find himself in company with a drunken man, who was only withheld
from capsizing the boat by the threat of having his skull split
with a paddle; for an inordinate addiction to rum is the loggers'
chief vice, a vice palliated by the hardship and exposure they
endure. Drinking, however, is on the decline amongst them of late
years, since "it has been fully demonstrated that men can endure the
chilling hardships of river-driving quite as well, and indeed far
better, without the stimulus of ardent spirits, and perform more and
better-directed labour." Black pepper tea is drunk on cold nights
when camping in the open air, and is found a warming and comfortable
beverage. Both in drink and diet the loggers look more to strength
than to delicacy. Salt pork, ship bread, and molasses, compose the
staple of their consumption. The drippings from a slice of pork,
roasted before the fire, are allowed to fall on the bread, which is
then dignified by the name of buttered toast. Sometimes the salt
pork is eaten raw, dipped in molasses,--a mixture unequalled for
nastiness, we should imagine, excepting by that of oysters and brown
sugar. "The recital may cause," says honest Springer in his comical
English, "in delicate and pampered stomachs some qualms, yet we can
assure the uninitiated that, from these gross samples, the hungry
woodsman makes many a delicious meal." An assurance which gives us
a most exalted idea of the appetite and digestion of the loggers of
Maine.
Once in the forest with their stores, the woodmen carefully select
a suitable spot, clear the ground, build their "camp" and "hovel,"
and commence their winter's work. The "camp" and "hovel" are two
log-houses, the former being for the men, the latter for the oxen.
In some respects the beasts are better treated than their masters,
for their hovel is floored with small poles, a luxury unknown in
the camp, where the men sleep on branches strewn upon the bare
earth. "Having completed our winter residences, next in order comes
the business of looking out and cutting the 'main' and some of
the principal 'branch roads.' These roads, like the veins in the
human body, ramify the wilderness to all the principal 'clumps' and
'groves' of pine embraced in the permit." Mr Springer expatiates on
the graceful curves of the roads, whose inequalities soon become
filled with snow, and their surface hard-beaten and glassy, polished
by the sled and logs which are continually passing over it, whilst
overhead the trees interlace their spreading branches. "Along this
roadside, on the way to the landing, runs a serpentine path for the
'knight of the goad,' whose deviations are marked now outside this
tree, then behind that 'windfall,' now again intercepting the main
road, skipping along like a dog at one's side." The teamster, if
he does his duty, works harder than any man in camp. Under a good
teamster, the oxen receive care almost as tender as though they were
race-horses with thousands depending on their health and condition.
With proper attention and management, they should be in as good
flesh in the spring as when they began hauling early in winter.
"The last thing at night before 'turning in,' the teamster
lights his lantern and repairs to the ox-hovel. In the morning,
by peep of day, and often before, his visits are repeated, to
hay and provender, and card, and yoke up. While the rest of the
hands are sitting or lounging around the liberal fire, shifting
for their comfort, after exposure to the winter frosts through
the day, he must repeatedly go out to look after the comfort
of the sturdy, faithful ox. And then, for an hour or two in
the morning again, whilst all, save the cook, are closing up
the sweet and unbroken slumbers of the night, so welcome and
necessary to the labourer, he is out amid the early frost with,
I had almost said, the care of a mother, to see if 'old Turk' is
not loose, whether 'Bright' favours the near fore-foot, (which
felt a little hot the day before,) as he stands up on the hard
floor, and then to inspect 'Swan's' provender-trough, to see
if he has eaten his meal, for it was carefully noted that at
the 'watering-place' last night he drank but little; whilst at
the further end of the 'tie-up' he thinks he hears a little
clattering noise, and presently 'little Star' is having his
shins gently rapped, as a token of his master's wish to raise
his foot to see if some nail has not given way in the loosened
shoe; and this not for once, but every day, with numberless
other cares connected with his charge."
The oxen are taken out to the forest by the last detachment of
wood-cutters, when winter fairly sets in. This is the hardest trip
of any. Both man and beast experience much inconvenience from the
cold. Often, when driving a boat up rapids, ice forms upon the
poles in the men's hands, which are already so cold and stiff that
they can scarcely retain their grasp; yet an instant's cessation of
exertion would be fraught with imminent peril to life and goods.
The oxen, attached to long lightly-loaded sleds, are driven over
rough miry tracks. "In crossing large streams, we unyoke the oxen
and swim them over. If we have no boat, a raft is constructed, upon
which our effects are transported, when we reyoke and pursue our
route as before. Our cattle are often very reluctant to enter the
water whilst the anchor-ice runs, and the cold has already begun
to congeal its surface." Lakes are crossed upon the ice, which not
unfrequently breaks in. Mr Springer gives an account of a journey he
made, when this misfortune happened, and ten oxen at one time were
struggling in the chilling waters of Baskahegan Lake. They were all
got out, he tells us, although rescue under such circumstances would
appear almost hopeless.
"Standing upon the edge of the ice, a man was placed by the side
of each ox to keep his head out of the water. We unyoked one at
a time, and throwing a rope round the roots of his horns, the
warp was carried forward and attached to the little oxen, (a
pair that had not broken in,) whose services on this occasion
were very necessary. A strong man was placed on the ice at the
edge, so that, lifting the ox by his horns, he was able to
press the ice down and raise his shoulder up on the edge, when
the warp-oxen would pull them out. For half-an-hour we had a
lively time of it, and in an almost incredibly short time we had
them all safely out, and drove them back upon the point nearly
a mile. It was now very dark. We left our sleds in the water
with the hay, pulling out a few armsful, which we carried to
the shore to rub the oxen down with. Poor fellows! they seemed
nearly chilled to death, and shook as if they would fall to
pieces."
So great is the labour of taking oxen to the forest every
Fall--often to a distance of two hundred miles into the
interior--that the wood-cutters sometimes leave them, when they go
down stream in the spring to get their own living in the wilderness,
and hunt them up again in autumn. They thrive finely in the
interval, and get very wild and difficult to catch; but when at last
subjugated, they evidently recognise their masters, and are pleased
to see them. Occasionally they disappear in the course of the
summer, and are heard of no more; they are then supposed to have got
"mired or cast," or to have been devoured by wolves--or by bears,
which also are known to attack oxen.
"An individual who owned a very fine 'six-ox team' turned them
into the woods to brouse, in a new region of country. Late in
the evening, his attention was arrested by the bellowing of
one of them. It continued for an hour or two, then ceased
altogether. The night was very dark, and as the ox was supposed
to be more than a mile distant, it was thought not advisable
to venture in search of him until morning. As soon as daylight
appeared, the owner started, in company with another man, to
investigate the cause of the uproar. Passing on about a mile,
he found one of his best oxen prostrate, and, on examination,
there was found a hole eaten into the thickest part of his hind
quarter nearly as large as a hat; not less than six or eight
pounds of flesh were gone. He had bled profusely. The ground
was torn up for rods around where the encounter occurred; the
tracks indicated the assailant to be a very large bear, who had
probably worried the ox out, and then satiated his ravenous
appetite, feasting upon him while yet alive. A road was bushed
out to the spot where the poor creature lay, and he was got upon
a sled and hauled home by a yoke of his companions, where the
wound was dressed. It never, however, entirely healed, though
it was so far improved as to allow of its being fattened, after
which he was slaughtered for food."
In cold weather in those forests the bears and wolves are
exceedingly audacious. The latter have a curious habit of
accompanying the teams on their journeys between the forest and the
river to which they drag the logs. This has only occurred of late
years, and the manner in which they thus volunteer their services as
assistant drivers is exceedingly curious.
"Three teams," says Springer, "in the winter of 1844, all in
the same neighbourhood, were beset with these ravenous animals.
They were of unusually large size, manifesting a most singular
boldness, and even familiarity, without the usual appearance of
ferocity so characteristic of the animal. Sometimes one, and in
another instance three, in a most unwelcome manner, volunteered
their attendance, accompanying the teamster a long distance on
his way. They would even jump on the log and ride, and approach
very near the oxen. One of them actually jumped upon the sled,
and down between the bars, while the sled was in motion. Some of
the teamsters were much alarmed, keeping close to the oxen, and
driving on as fast as possible. Others, more courageous, would
run forward and strike at them with their goad-sticks; but the
wolves sprang out of the way in an instant. But, although they
seemed to act without a motive, there was something so cool and
impudent in their conduct that it was trying to the nerves--even
more so than an active encounter. For some time after this,
firearms were a constant part of the teamster's equipage."
The distant howling and screaming of the wolves, compared by an old
Yankee hunter to the screeching of forty pair of old cart-wheels,
is particularly ominous and disagreeable. Springer has collected a
number of curious anecdotes concerning them. One night a pack of the
prowling marauders were seen trailing down Mattawamkeag River on the
ice. The dwellers in a log-house hard by soaked some meat in poison
and threw it out. Next morning the meat was gone, and six wolves lay
dead, all within sight of each other. "Every one of them had dug a
hole down through the snow into the frozen earth, in which they had
thrust their noses, either for water to quench the burning thirst
produced by the poison, or to snuff some antidote to the fatal
drug. A bounty was obtained on each of ten dollars, besides their
hides, making a fair job of it, as well as ridding the neighbourhood
of an annoying enemy." Several of Mr Springer's logging and
lumbering friends have contributed to his book the results of their
experience, and narratives of their adventures, some of which he
gives in their own words. Amongst these is an ill-written, but yet a
very exciting, account of a wolf-chase, or we should perhaps rather
say a man-chase, the wolves in this instance being the pursuers,
and Springer's neighbour the pursued. The person in question was
passionately fond of skating, and one night he left a friend's
house to skate a short distance up the frozen Kennebeck, which
flowed before the door. It was a bright still evening; the new moon
silvered the frosty pines. After gliding a couple of miles up the
river, the skater turned off into a little tributary stream, over
which fir and hemlock twined their evergreen branches. The archway
beneath was dark, but he fearlessly entered it, unsuspicious of
peril, with a joyous laugh and hurra--an involuntary expression of
exhilaration, elicited by the bracing crispness of the atmosphere,
and glow of pleasant exercise. What followed is worth extracting.
"All of a sudden a sound arose, it seemed from the very ice
beneath my feet. It was loud and tremendous at first, until it
ended in one long yell. I was appalled. Never before had such
a noise met my ears. I thought it more than mortal--so fierce,
and amid such an unbroken solitude, that it seemed a fiend from
hell had blown a blast from an infernal trumpet. Presently I
heard the twigs on the shore snap as if from the tread of some
animal, and the blood rushed back to my forehead with a bound
that made my skin burn. My energies returned, and I looked
around me for some means of defence. The moon shone through the
opening by which I had entered the forest, and, considering this
the best means of escape, I darted towards it like an arrow.
It was hardly a hundred yards distant, and the swallow could
scarcely outstrip my desperate flight; yet as I turned my eyes
to the shore, I could see two dark objects dashing through the
underbrush at a pace nearly double mine. By their great speed,
and the short yells which they occasionally gave, I knew at once
that they were the much dreaded grey wolf."
Here Springer interposes a vignette of a wolf--a most formidable and
unwholesome-looking quadruped--grinning over the well-picked bone of
some unlucky victim. The logger's pages are enlivened by a number
of illustrations--woodcuts of course--rough enough in execution,
but giving an excellent notion of the scenery, animals, and logging
operations spoken of in the text. Grey wolves are of untameable
fierceness, great strength and speed, and pursue their prey to the
death with frightful tenacity, unwearyingly following the trail--
"With their long gallop, which can tire
The hounds' deep hate, the hunter's fire."
A more dangerous foe a benighted traveller could hardly fall in with.
"The bushes that skirted the shore," continues the hunted of
wolves, "flew past with the velocity of light as I dashed on in
my flight. The outlet was nearly gained; one second more and I
should be comparatively safe; when my pursuers appeared on the
bank, directly above me, which rose to the height of some ten
feet. There was no time for thought; I bent my head, and dashed
wildly forward. The wolves sprang, but, miscalculating my speed,
sprang behind, whilst their intended prey glided out into the
river.
"Nature turned me towards home. The light flakes of snow spun
from the iron of my skates, and I was now some distance from my
pursuers, when their fierce howl told me that I was again the
fugitive. I did not look back; I did not feel sorry or glad;
one thought of home, of the bright faces awaiting my return,
of their tears if they should never see me again, and then
every energy of body and mind was exerted for my escape. I was
perfectly at home on the ice. Many were the days I spent on my
skates, never thinking that at one time they would be my only
means of safety. Every half minute an alternate yelp from my
pursuers made me but too certain they were close at my heels.
Nearer and nearer they came; I heard their feet pattering on
the ice nearer still, until I fancied I could hear their deep
breathing. Every nerve and muscle in my frame was stretched to
the utmost tension. The trees along the shore seemed to dance in
the uncertain light, and my brain turned with my own breathless
speed, when an involuntary motion turned me out of my course.
The wolves close behind, unable to stop and as unable to turn,
slipped, fell, still going on far ahead, their tongues lolling
out, their white tusks gleaming from their bloody mouths, their
dark shaggy breasts freckled with foam; and as they passed me
their eyes glared, and they howled with rage and fury. The
thought flashed on my mind that by this means I could avoid
them--viz., by turning aside whenever they came too near; for
they, by the formation of their feet, are unable to run on ice
except in a right line.
"I immediately acted on this plan. The wolves, having regained
their feet, sprang directly towards me. The race was renewed for
twenty yards up the stream; they were already close on my back,
when I glided round and dashed past them. A fierce howl greeted
my evolution, and the wolves slipped upon their haunches, and
sailed onward, presenting a perfect picture of helplessness
and baffled rage. Thus I gained nearly a hundred yards each
turning. This was repeated two or three times, every moment
the wolves getting more excited and baffled, until, coming
opposite the house, a couple of staghounds, aroused by the
noise, bayed furiously from their kennels. The wolves, taking
the hint, stopped in their mad career, and, after a moment's
consideration, turned and fled. I watched them till their dusky
forms disappeared over a neighbouring hill; then, taking off my
skates, I wended my way to the house."
From some unassigned reason, wolves have increased of late years in
the wild forests of north-eastern Maine. Up to 1840, Mr Springer,
who had been much in that district, logging in winter and clearing
land in summer, never saw one. Since then they have frequently been
seen in numerous parties, and of most formidable size. There would
not seem to be much to choose, as far as the pleasure of the thing
goes, between an encounter with one of these ravenous brutes and a
tussle with a catamount. Springer, however, who must be competent to
judge, considers the catamount the worse customer. He tells an ugly
story, which may serve as a pendant to that of the bear's breakfast
on live beef, of what happened to a logger named Smith, when on his
way to join a timbering party in the woods. He had nearly reached
camp, when he fell in with a catamount, or "Indian devil." Retreat
was impossible; for reflection there was no time: arms he had none.
Acting from impulse, he sprang up a small tree--perhaps as sensible
a thing as he could have done. He had scarcely ascended his length,
when the creature, fierce from hunger, made a bound and caught him
by the heel. Although badly bitten, Smith managed to get his foot
out of the shoe, in which the tiger-cat's teeth were firmly set, and
shoe and savage fell together to the ground. What then ensued is so
horrible and extraordinary that we should suspect our wood-cutting
friend of imaginative decoration, but for the assurance he gives us
in his preface, that "the incidents he has related are real, and
that in no case is the truth sacrificed to fancy or embellishment."
He shall finish his yarn himself.
"The moment he was disengaged, Smith sprang for a more secure
position, and the animal at the same time leaped to another
large tree, about ten feet distant, up which he ascended to
an elevation equal to that of his victim, from which he threw
himself upon him, firmly fixing his teeth in the calf of his
leg. Hanging suspended thus until the flesh, insufficient to
sustain the weight, gave way, he dropped again to the ground,
carrying a portion of flesh in his mouth. _Having greedily
devoured this morsel_, he bounded again up the opposite tree,
and from thence upon Smith, in this manner renewing his attacks,
and tearing away the flesh in mouthfuls from his legs. During
this agonising operation, Smith contrived to cut a limb from
the tree, to which he managed to bind his jack-knife, with
which he could now assail his enemy at every leap. He succeeded
thus in wounding him so badly that at length his attacks were
discontinued, and he disappeared in the dense forest."
Smith, who, as Springer coolly informs us, "had exerted his voice
to the utmost," whilst the catamount was devouring him in detail,
(we can perfectly imagine a man bellowing like twenty bulls under
such circumstances,) was found by his friends in a state of dreadful
exhaustion and suffering, and was carried to camp on a litter. He
ultimately recovered, but had sustained irreparable injuries. "Such
desperate encounters are of rare occurrence," Springer quietly adds.
We should think they were. Really these loggers are cool hands.
Encounters with black bears are much more common, we are informed.
These are strong fellows, clever at parrying blows, and at wrenching
the weapon from their assailant's hand--very tenacious of life,
and confirmed robbers. Springer and his comrades were once, whilst
ascending a river, followed by one of them for several days. He
was bent upon plunder, and one night he walked off with a bundle
containing clothing, boots, shaving implements, and other things,
for which it might be thought a bear could have little occasion.
He examined his prize in the neighbourhood of the camp, tore the
clothes to shreds, and chewed up the cow-hide boots and the handle
of a razor. From the roof of a log-house, which the woodmen erected
a few miles farther on, he carried off a ten-gallon keg of molasses,
set it on one end, knocked the head in or out, and was about to
enjoy the feast, when he was discovered, pursued, and at last
killed. At page 140 we find a capital account of a fight between a
family of bears (father, mother, and cubs) and two foresters; and
at page 100 the stirring-up of a bear's den is graphically described.
The pine tree is subject to disease of more than one kind, the most
frequent being a sort of cancer, known amongst lumber-men as "Conk"
or "Konkus," whose sole external manifestation is a small brown
spot, usually at several feet from the ground, and sometimes no
larger than a shilling. The trees thus afflicted are noway inferior
to the soundest in size and apparent beauty; but on cutting into
them the rot is at once evident, the wood being reddish in colour,
and of spungy texture. "Sometimes it shoots upwards, in imitation
of the streaming light of the aurora borealis; in others downwards,
and even both ways, preserving the same appearance." Unscrupulous
loggers cheat the unwary by driving a knot or piece of a limb of
the same tree into the plague-spot, and hewing it off smoothly, so
as to give it the appearance of a natural knot. A great many pines
are hollow at the base or butt, and these hollows are the favourite
winter-retreats of Bruin the bear.
"A few rods from the main logging road where I worked one
winter," said Mr Johnston, (a logger whom Springer more than
once quotes,) "there stood a very large pine tree. We had nearly
completed our winter's work, and it still stood unmolested,
because, from appearances, it was supposed to be worthless.
Whilst passing it one day, not quite satisfied with the decision
that had been made upon its quality, I resolved to satisfy my
own mind touching its value; so, wallowing to it through the
snow, which was nearly up to my middle, I struck it several
blows with the head of my axe, an experiment to test whether
a tree be hollow or not. When I desisted, my attention was
arrested by a slight scratching and whining. Suspecting the
cause, I thumped the tree again, listening more attentively, and
heard the same noise as before. It was a bear's den. Examining
the tree more closely, I discovered a small hole in the trunk,
near the roots, with a rim of ice on the edge of the orifice,
made by the freezing of the breath and vapour from the inmates."
The logging crew were summoned, and came scampering down, eager
for the fun. The snow was kicked away from the root of the tree,
exposing the entrance to the den; and a small hole was cut in the
opposite side, through which the family of bears were literally
"stirred up with a long pole;" and when the great she-bear, annoyed
at this treatment, put her head out at the door, she was cut over
the pate with an axe.
"The cubs, four in number--a thing unusual by one-half--we took
alive, and carried to camp, kept them a while, and finally sold
them. They were quite small and harmless, of a most beautiful
lustrous black, and fat as porpoises. The old dam was uncommonly
large--we judged she might weigh about three hundred pounds. Her
hide, when stretched out and nailed on to the end of the camp,
appeared quite equal to a cow's hide in dimensions."
The attacks of wild animals are far from being the sole dangers
to which the wood-cutters of Maine are exposed in following their
toilsome occupation. Scarcely any phase of their adventurous
existence is exempt from risk. Bad wounds are sometimes accidentally
received from the axe whilst felling trees. To heal these, in the
absence of surgeons, the loggers are thrown upon their own very
insufficient resources. Life is also constantly endangered in
felling the pine, which comes plunging down, breaking, splitting,
and crushing all before it. The broken limbs which are torn from the
fallen tree, and the branches it wrenches from other trees,
"rendered brittle by the intense frosts, fly in every direction,
like the scattered fragments of an exploding ship. Often these
wrenched limbs are suspended directly over the place where our
work requires our presence, and on the slightest motion, or from
a sudden gust of wind, they slip down with the stealthiness
of a hawk and the velocity of an arrow. I recollect one in
particular, which was wrenched from a large pine I had just
felled. It lodged in the top of a towering birch, directly over
where it was necessary for me to stand whilst severing the
top from the trunk. Viewing its position with some anxiety,
I ventured to stand and work under it, forgetting my danger
in the excitement. Whilst thus engaged, the limb slipped from
its position, and, falling directly before me, end foremost,
penetrated the frozen earth. It was about four inches through,
and ten feet long. It just grazed my cap; a little variation,
and it would have dashed my head to pieces. Attracted on one
occasion, whilst swamping a road, by the appearance of a
large limb which stuck fast in the ground, curiosity induced
me to extricate it, for the purpose of seeing how far it had
penetrated. After considerable exertion, I succeeded in drawing
it out, when I was amazed _to find a thick cloth cap on the end
of it_. It had penetrated the earth to a considerable depth.
Subsequently I learned that _it_ [the cap, we presume, but
Springer makes sad work of his pronouns] belonged to a man who
was killed instantly by _its_ fall, [here our logging friend
must be supposed to refer to the timber,] striking him on the
head, and carrying his cap into the ground with it."
This is not impossible, although it does a little remind us of
certain adventures of the renowned Munchausen. And Springer is so
pleasant a fellow, that we shall not call his veracity in question,
or even tax him with that tinting of truth in which many of his
countrymen excel, but of which he only here and there lays himself
open to suspicion. He certainly does put our credulity a little
to the strain by an anecdote of a moose deer, which he gives,
however, between inverted commas, on the authority of a hunter who
occasionally passed the night at the logger's camp. The moose is the
largest species of deer found in the New-England forests, its size
varying from that of a large pony to that of a full-grown horse.
It has immense branching antlers, and, judging from its portrait,
which forms the frontispiece to _Forest Life_, we readily believe
Springer's assurance, that "the taking of moose is sometimes quite
hazardous." Quite astonishing, we are sure the reader will say, is
the following ride:--
"Once," hunter _loquitur_, "whilst out on a hunting excursion,
I was pursued by a bull-moose. He approached me with his
muscular neck curved, and head to the ground, in a manner not
dissimilar to the attitude assumed by horned cattle when about
to encounter each other. Just as he was about to make a pass
at me, I sprang suddenly between his wide-spreading antlers,
bestride his neck. Dexterously turning round, I seized him by
the horns, and, locking my feet together under his neck, I
clung to him like a sloth. With a mixture of rage and terror,
he dashed wildly about, endeavouring to dislodge me; but, as
my life depended upon maintaining my position, I clung to him
with a corresponding desperation. After making a few ineffectual
attempts to disengage me, he threw out his nose, and, laying his
antlers back upon his shoulders, _which formed a screen for my
defence_, he sprang forward into a furious run, still bearing
me upon his neck. Now penetrating dense thickets, then leaping
high 'windfalls,' (old fallen trees,) and struggling through
swamp-mires, he finally fell from exhaustion, after carrying
me about three miles. Improving the opportunity, I drew my
hunting-knife from its sheath, and instantly buried it in his
neck, cutting the jugular vein, which put a speedy termination
to the contest and the flight."
After which we presume that he spitted the moose on a pine tree,
roasted and ate it, and used its antlers for toothpicks. The
adventure is worthy of Mazeppa or the Wild Huntsman. By the antlers
_forming a screen for the rider's defence_, we are reminded of
that memorable morning in the life of the great German Baron, when
his horse, cut in two, just behind the saddle, by the fall of a
portcullis, was sewn together with laurel-twigs, which sprouted
up into a pleasant bower, beneath whose appropriate shade the
redoubtable warrior thenceforward rode to victory. An awful liar,
indeed, must have been the narrator of this "singular adventure,"
as Springer, who tells this story quite gravely, artlessly styles
it. Doubtless such yarns are acceptable enough by the camp-fire,
where the weary logger smokes the pipe of repose after a hard day's
work; and they are by no means out of place in the logger's book,
of which, however, they occupy but a small portion--by far the
greater number of its chapters being filled with solid and curious
information. The third and longest part, "River Life," upon which
we have not touched, is highly interesting, and gives thrilling
accounts of the dangers incurred during the progress down stream of
the various "parcels" of logs, which, each distinguished like cattle
by the owner's mark, soon mingle and form one grand "drive" on the
main river. "Driving" of this kind is a very hazardous occupation.
Sometimes the logs come to a "jam," get wedged together in a narrow
part of the river or amongst rocks, and, whilst the drivers work
with axe and lever to set the huge floating field of tree-trunks in
motion again, lives are frequently lost. This is easy to understand.
The removal of a single log, the keystone of the mass--nay, a
single blow of the axe--often suffices to liberate acres of timber
from their "dead lock," and set them furiously rushing down the
rapid current. Then does woe betide those who are caught in the
hurly-burly. Sometimes, the key-log being well ascertained, a man
is let down, like a samphire-gatherer, by a rope from an adjacent
cliff, on to the "jam." Then--
"As the place to be operated upon may in some cases be a little
removed from the shore, he either walks to it with the rope
attached to his body, or, untying the rope, leaves it where
he can readily grasp it in time to be drawn from his perilous
position. Often, where the pressure is direct, a few blows only
are given with the axe, when the log snaps in an instant with
a loud report, followed suddenly by the violent motion of the
'jam;' and, ere our bold river-driver is jerked half way to the
top of the cliff, scores of logs, in wildest confusion, rush
beneath his feet, whilst he yet dangles in the air above the
trembling mass. If that rope, on which life and hope hang thus
suspended, should part, worn by the sharp point of some jutting
rock, death, certain and quick, were inevitable."
The wood-cutter's occupation, which, to European imagination,
presents itself as peaceful, pastoral, and void of peril, assumes
a very different aspect when pursued in North American forests. If
any doubt this fact, let them study Springer, who will repay the
trouble, and of whose volume we have rather skimmed the surface than
meddled with the substance.
MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.
BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.