At the banks of the river, Thorpe rapidly issued his directions. The
affair had been all prearranged. During the week previous he and his
foremen had reviewed the situation, examining the state of the ice, the
heads of water in the three dams. Immediately above the first rollways
was Dam Three with its two wide sluices through which a veritable flood
could be loosened at will; then four miles farther lay the rollways
of Sadler & Smith, the up-river firm; and above them tumbled over a
forty-five foot ledge the beautiful Siscoe Falls; these first rollways
of Thorpe's--spread in the broad marsh flat below the dam--contained
about eight millions; the rest of the season's cut was scattered for
thirty miles along the bed of the river.
Already the ice cementing the logs together had begun to weaken. The ice
had wrenched and tugged savagely at the locked timbers until they had,
with a mighty effort, snapped asunder the bonds of their hibernation.
Now a narrow lane of black rushing water pierced the rollways, to boil
and eddy in the consequent jam three miles below.
To the foremen Thorpe assigned their tasks, calling them to him one by
one, as a general calls his aids.
“Moloney,” said he to the big Irishman, “take your crew and break that
jam. Then scatter your men down to within a mile of the pond at Dam Two,
and see that the river runs clear. You can tent for a day or so at West
Bend or some other point about half way down; and after that you had
better camp at the dam. Just as soon as you get logs enough in the pond,
start to sluicing them through the dam. You won't need more than four
men there, if you keep a good head. You can keep your gates open five or
six hours. And Moloney.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you to be careful not to sluice too long. There is a bar just
below the dam, and if you try to sluice with the water too low, you'll
center and jam there, as sure as shooting.”
Bryan Moloney turned on his heel and began to pick his way down stream
over the solidly banked logs. Without waiting the command, a dozen
men followed him. The little group bobbed away irregularly into the
distance, springing lightly from one timber to the other, holding their
quaintly-fashioned peaveys in the manner of a rope dancer's balancing
pole. At the lowermost limit of the rollways, each man pried a log
into the water, and, standing gracefully erect on this unstable craft,
floated out down the current to the scene of his dangerous labor.
“Kerlie,” went on Thorpe, “your crew can break rollways with the rest
until we get the river fairly filled, and then you can move on down
stream as fast as you are needed. Scotty, you will have the rear. Tim
and I will boss the river.”
At once the signal was given to Ellis, the dam watcher. Ellis and his
assistants thereupon began to pry with long iron bars at the ratchets
of the heavy gates. The chore-boy bent attentively over the ratchet-pin,
lifting it delicately to permit another inch of raise, dropping it
accurately to enable the men at the bars to seize a fresh purchase. The
river's roar deepened. Through the wide sluice-ways a torrent foamed and
tumbled. Immediately it spread through the brush on either side to the
limits of the freshet banks, and then gathered for its leap against the
uneasy rollways. Along the edge of the dark channel the face of the logs
seemed to crumble away. Farther in towards the banks where the weight of
timber still outbalanced the weight of the flood, the tiers grumbled and
stirred, restless with the stream's calling. Far down the river, where
Bryan Moloney and his crew were picking at the jam, the water in eager
streamlets sought the interstices between the logs, gurgling excitedly
like a mountain brook.
The jam creaked and groaned in response to the pressure. From its face a
hundred jets of water spurted into the lower stream. Logs up-ended here
and there, rising from the bristling surface slowly, like so many arms
from lower depths. Above, the water eddied back foaming; logs shot down
from the rollways, paused at the slackwater, and finally hit with a
hollow and resounding BOOM! against the tail of the jam. A moment later
they too up-ended, so becoming an integral part of the “chevaux de
frise.”
The crew were working desperately. Down in the heap somewhere, two logs
were crossed in such a manner as to lock the whole. They sought those
logs.
Thirty feet above the bed of the river six men clamped their peaveys
into the soft pine; jerking, pulling, lifting, sliding the great logs
from their places. Thirty feet below, under the threatening face, six
other men coolly picked out and set adrift, one by one, the timbers
not inextricably imbedded. From time to time the mass creaked, settled,
perhaps even moved a foot or two; but always the practiced rivermen,
after a glance, bent more eagerly to their work.
Outlined against the sky, big Bryan Moloney stood directing the work. He
had gone at the job on the bias of indirection, picking out a passage at
either side that the center might the more easily “pull.” He knew by
the tenseness of the log he stood on that, behind the jam, power had
gathered sufficient to push the whole tangle down-stream. Now he was
offering it the chance.
Suddenly the six men below the jam scattered. Four of them, holding
their peaveys across their bodies, jumped lightly from one floating log
to another in the zigzag to shore. When they stepped on a small log they
re-leaped immediately, leaving a swirl of foam where the little timber
had sunk under them; when they encountered one larger, they hesitated
for a barely perceptible instant. Thus their progression was of
fascinating and graceful irregularity. The other two ran the length of
their footing, and, overleaping an open of water, landed heavily and
firmly on the very ends of two small floating logs. In this manner the
force of the jump rushed the little timbers end-on through the water.
The two men, maintaining marvellously their balance, were thus ferried
to within leaping distance of the other shore.
In the meantime a barely perceptible motion was communicating itself
from one particle to another through the center of the jam. A cool and
observant spectator might have imagined that the broad timber carpet was
changing a little its pattern, just as the earth near the windows of
an arrested railroad train seems for a moment to retrogress. The crew
redoubled its exertions, clamping its peaveys here and there, apparently
at random, but in reality with the most definite of purposes. A sharp
crack exploded immediately underneath. There could no longer exist any
doubt as to the motion, although it was as yet sluggish, glacial. Then
in silence a log shifted--in silence and slowly--but with irresistible
force. Jimmy Powers quietly stepped over it, just as it menaced his
leg. Other logs in all directions up-ended. The jam crew were forced
continually to alter their positions, riding the changing timbers
bent-kneed, as a circus rider treads his four galloping horses.
Then all at once down by the face something crashed. The entire stream
became alive. It hissed and roared, it shrieked, groaned and grumbled.
At first slowly, then more rapidly, the very forefront of the center
melted inward and forward and downward until it caught the fierce rush
of the freshet and shot out from under the jam. Far up-stream, bristling
and formidable, the tons of logs, grinding savagely together, swept
forward.
The six men and Bryan Moloney--who, it will be remembered, were on
top--worked until the last moment. When the logs began to cave under
them so rapidly that even the expert rivermen found difficulty in
“staying on top,” the foreman set the example of hunting safety.
“She 'pulls,' boys,” he yelled.
Then in a manner wonderful to behold, through the smother of foam and
spray, through the crash and yell of timbers protesting the flood's
hurrying, through the leap of destruction, the drivers zigzagged calmly
and surely to the shore.
All but Jimmy Powers. He poised tense and eager on the crumbling face
of the jam. Almost immediately he saw what he wanted, and without pause
sprang boldly and confidently ten feet straight downward, to alight with
accuracy on a single log floating free in the current. And then in the
very glory and chaos of the jam itself he was swept down-stream.
After a moment the constant acceleration in speed checked, then
commenced perceptibly to slacken. At once the rest of the crew began
to ride down-stream. Each struck the caulks of his river boots strongly
into a log, and on such unstable vehicles floated miles with the
current. From time to time, as Bryan Moloney indicated, one of them went
ashore. There, usually at a bend of the stream where the likelihood of
jamming was great, they took their stands. When necessary, they ran
out over the face of the river to separate a congestion likely to cause
trouble. The rest of the time they smoked their pipes.
At noon they ate from little canvas bags which had been filled that
morning by the cookee. At sunset they rode other logs down the river
to where their camp had been made for them. There they ate hugely,
hung their ice-wet garments over a tall framework constructed around a
monster fire, and turned in on hemlock branches.
All night long the logs slipped down the moonlit current, silently,
swiftly, yet without haste. The porcupines invaded the sleeping camp.
From the whole length of the river rang the hollow BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, of
timbers striking one against the other.
The drive was on.