Winter set in early and continued late; which in the end was a good
thing for the year's cut. The season was capricious, hanging for days
at a time at the brink of a thaw, only to stiffen again into severe
weather. This was trying on the nerves. For at each of these false
alarms the six camps fell into a feverish haste to get the job finished
before the break-up. It was really quite extraordinary how much was
accomplished under the nagging spur of weather conditions and the cruel
rowelling of Thorpe.
The latter had now no thought beyond his work, and that was the thought
of a madman. He had been stern and unyielding enough before, goodness
knows, but now he was terrible. His restless energy permeated every
molecule in the economic structure over which he presided, roused it
to intense vibration. Not for an instant was there a resting spell. The
veriest chore-boy talked, thought, dreamed of nothing but saw logs. Men
whispered vaguely of a record cut. Teamsters looked upon their success
or failure to keep near the top on the day's haul as a signal victory
or a disgraceful defeat. The difficulties of snow, accident, topography
which an ever-watchful nature threw down before the rolling car of this
industry, were swept aside like straws. Little time was wasted and no
opportunities. It did not matter how smoothly affairs happened to be
running for the moment, every advantage, even the smallest, was eagerly
seized to advance the work. A drop of five degrees during the frequent
warm spells brought out the sprinklers, even in dead of night; an
accident was white-hot in the forge almost before the crack of the
iron had ceased to echo. At night the men fell into their bunks like
sandbags, and their last conscious thought, if indeed they had any at
all, was of eagerness for the morrow in order that they might push the
grand total up another notch. It was madness; but it was the madness
these men loved.
For now to his old religion Thorpe had added a fanaticism, and over the
fanaticism was gradually creeping a film of doubt. To the conscientious
energy which a sense of duty supplied, was added the tremendous kinetic
force of a love turned into other channels. And in the wild nights while
the other men slept, Thorpe's half-crazed brain was revolving over and
over again the words of the sentence he had heard from Hilda's lips:
“There can be nothing better than love.”
His actions, his mind, his very soul vehemently denied the proposition.
He clung as ever to his high Puritanic idea of man's purpose. But down
deep in a very tiny, sacred corner of his heart a very small voice
sometimes made itself heard when other, more militant voices were still:
“It may be; it may be!”
The influence of this voice was practically nothing. It made itself
heard occasionally. Perhaps even, for the time being, its weight
counted on the other side of the scale; for Thorpe took pains to deny
it fiercely, both directly and indirectly by increased exertions. But
it persisted; and once in a moon or so, when the conditions were quite
favorable, it attained for an instant a shred of belief.
Probably never since the Puritan days of New England has a community
lived as sternly as did that winter of 1888 the six camps under Thorpe's
management. There was something a little inspiring about it. The men
fronted their daily work with the same grim-faced, clear-eyed steadiness
of veterans going into battle;--with the same confidence, the same sure
patience that disposes effectively of one thing before going on to
the next. There was little merely excitable bustle; there was no rest.
Nothing could stand against such a spirit. Nothing did. The skirmishers
which the wilderness threw out, were brushed away. Even the inevitable
delays seemed not so much stoppages as the instant's pause of a heavy
vehicle in a snow drift, succeeded by the momentary acceleration as the
plunge carried it through. In the main, and by large, the machine moved
steadily and inexorably.
And yet one possessed of the finer spiritual intuitions could not have
shaken off the belief in an impending struggle. The feel of it was in
the air. Nature's forces were too mighty to be so slightly overcome; the
splendid energy developed in these camps too vast to be wasted on facile
success. Over against each other were two great powers, alike in their
calm confidence, animated with the loftiest and most dignified spirit
of enmity. Slowly they were moving toward each other. The air was
surcharged with the electricity of their opposition. Just how the
struggle would begin was uncertain; but its inevitability was as assured
as its magnitude. Thorpe knew it, and shut his teeth, looking keenly
about him. The Fighting Forty knew it, and longed for the grapple to
come. The other camps knew it, and followed their leader with perfect
trust. The affair was an epitome of the historic combats begun with
David and Goliath. It was an affair of Titans. The little courageous men
watched their enemy with cat's eyes.
The last month of hauling was also one of snow. In this condition
were few severe storms, but each day a little fell. By and by the
accumulation amounted to much. In the woods where the wind could not
get at it, it lay deep and soft above the tops of bushes. The grouse
ate browse from the slender hardwood tips like a lot of goldfinches, or
precipitated themselves headlong down through five feet of snow to reach
the ground. Often Thorpe would come across the irregular holes of their
entrance. Then if he took the trouble to stamp about a little in the
vicinity with his snowshoes, the bird would spring unexpectedly from the
clear snow, scattering a cloud with its strong wings. The deer, herded
together, tramped “yards” where the feed was good. Between the yards ran
narrow trails. When the animals went from one yard to another in these
trails, their ears and antlers alone were visible. On either side of the
logging roads the snow piled so high as to form a kind of rampart. When
all this water in suspense should begin to flow, and to seek its level
in the water-courses of the district, the logs would have plenty to
float them, at least.
So late did the cold weather last that, even with the added plowing to
do, the six camps beat all records. On the banks at Camp One were nine
million feet; the totals of all five amounted to thirty-three million.
About ten million of this was on French Creek; the remainder on the main
banks of the Ossawinamakee. Besides this the firm up-river, Sadler &
Smith, had put up some twelve million more. The drive promised to be
quite an affair.
About the fifteenth of April attention became strained. Every day the
mounting sun made heavy attacks on the snow: every night the temperature
dropped below the freezing point. The river began to show more air
holes, occasional open places. About the center the ice looked worn and
soggy. Someone saw a flock of geese high in the air. Then came rain.
One morning early, Long Pine Jim came into the men's camp bearing a huge
chunk of tallow. This he held against the hot stove until its surface
had softened, when he began to swab liberal quantities of grease on his
spiked river shoes, which he fished out from under his bunk.
“She's comin', boys,” said he.
He donned a pair of woolen trousers that had been chopped off at the
knee, thick woolen stockings, and the river shoes. Then he tightened his
broad leather belt about his heavy shirt, cocked his little hat over his
ear, and walked over in the corner to select a peavey from the lot the
blacksmith had just put in shape. A peavey is like a cant-hook except
that it is pointed at the end. Thus it can be used either as a hook or
a pike. At the same moment Shearer, similarly attired and equipped,
appeared in the doorway. The opening of the portal admitted a roar of
sound. The river was rising.
“Come on, boys, she's on!” said he sharply.
Outside, the cook and cookee were stowing articles in the already loaded
wanigan. The scow contained tents, blankets, provisions, and a portable
stove. It followed the drive, and made a camp wherever expediency
demanded.
“Lively, boys, lively!” shouted Thorpe. “She'll be down on us before we
know it!”
Above the soft creaking of dead branches in the wind sounded a steady
roar, like the bellowing of a wild beast lashing itself to fury. The
freshet was abroad, forceful with the strength of a whole winter's
accumulated energy.
The men heard it and their eyes brightened with the lust of battle. They
cheered.