THE BREAKING OF THE JAM
It was late one moonlight night when Geoffrey Thurston sat inside his
double-skinned tent which was pitched above a river of British
Columbia. A few good furs checkered the spruce twigs which served as a
carpet, and the canvas dwelling was both commodious and comfortable. A
bright brass lamp hung from the ridge pole, a nickeled clock ticked
cheerily upon a hanging shelf behind the neat camp cot, while the rest
of the well-made furniture betokened a degree of prosperity. One of
Savine's junior assistants, sent up there in an emergency to replace an
older man, sat close by, and, because he dwelt in a bark shanty, envied
Thurston his tent.
Geoffrey was studying a bridge-work tracing that lay unrolled upon his
knees.
"I can only repeat what I said months ago. The wing slide of the log
pass is too short and the angle over sharp," he said, glancing at the
jam. "An extra big log will jam there some day and imperil the whole
bridge. Did you send a man down to keep watch to-night?"
"The slide is in accordance with the Roads and Trails specification,"
answered the young man, airily. "There was no reason why we should do
more work than they asked for. You're an uneasy man, Thurston, always
looking for trouble, and I've had enough of late over the rascally
hoboes who, when they feel inclined, condescend to work for me. Oh,
yes! I posted the lookout as soon as I heard Davies was running his
saw logs down."
Thurston hitched his chair forward and threw the door-flap back so that
he could look out into the night. The tent stood perched on the
hillside. Long ranks of climbing pines stretched upwards from it to
the scarped rocks which held up the snow-fields on the shoulders of the
mighty peaks above. Thin white mist and the roar of water rose up from
the shadowy gorge below, but in one place, where the rock walls which
hemmed it in sloped down, a gossamer-like structure spanned the chasm.
This was a wagon-road bridge Julius Savine, the contractor of large
interests and well-known name, was building for the Provincial
authorities, and on their surveyor's recommendation he had sub-let to
Thurston the construction of a pass through which saw-logs and
driftwood might slide without jamming between the piers. Savine, being
pressed for time, had brought in a motley collection of workmen, picked
up haphazard in the seaboard cities. After bargaining to work for
certain wages, these workmen had demanded twenty per cent. more.
Thurston, who had picked his own assistants carefully, among the sturdy
ranchers, and had aided Savine's representative in resisting this
demand, now surmised that the malcontents were meditating mischief.
There were some mighty mean rascals among them, his foreman said.
"You're looking worried again," observed his companion, presently, and
Thurston answered, "Perhaps I am. I wish Davies would run his logs
down by daylight, but presumably the stream is too fast for him when
the waters rise. It might give some of your friends yonder an
opportunity, Summers."
"You don't figure they're capable of wrecking the bridge?" replied
Summers, showing sudden uneasiness.
"One or two among them, including the man I had to thrash, are capable
of anything. Perhaps you had better hail your watchman," Thurston said.
Summers blew a whistle, and an answer came back faintly through the
fret of the river: "Plenty saw logs coming down. All of them handy
sizes and sliding safely through."
"That's good enough," declared Summers. "I'm not made of cast-iron,
and need a little sleep at times, so good-night to you!"
He departed with the cheerful confidence of the salaried man, and
Thurston, who fought for his own interests, flung himself down on his
trestle cot with all his clothes on. Neither the timber slide nor the
bridge was quite finished, but because rivers in that region shrink at
night when the frost checks the drainage from the feeding glaciers on
the peaks above, the saw-miller had insisted on driving down his logs
when there was less chance of their stranding on the shoals that
cumbered the high-water channel. Thurston lay awake for some time,
listening to the fret of the river, which vibrated far across the
silence of the hills, and to the occasional crash of a mighty log
smiting the slide. Hardly had his eyelids closed when he was aroused
by a sound of hurried footsteps approaching the tent. He stood wide
awake in the entrance before the newcomer reached it.
"There's a mighty big pine caught its butt on one slide and jammed its
thin end across the pier," said the man. "Logs piling up behind it
already!"
As he spoke somebody beat upon a suspended iron sheet down in the
valley and drowsy voices rose up from among the clustered tents.
Summers went by shouting, "Get a move on, before we lose the bridge!"
Five minutes later Thurston, running across a bending plank, halted on
the rock which served as foundation for the main bridge pier. Beside
him Summers shouted confused orders to a group of struggling men. The
moonlight beat down mistily through the haze that rose from the river,
and Geoffrey could see the long wedge-headed timber framing that he had
built, beside the wing on the shore-side, so that any trunk floating
down would cannon off at an angle and shoot safely between the piers.
But one huge fir had proved too long for the pass, and when its butt
canted, the other end had driven athwart the point of the wedge, after
which, because the river was black with drifting logs, other heavy
trunks drove against it and jammed it fast. Panting men were hard at
work with levers and pike-poles striving to wrench the massive trunk
clear, and one lighted an air-blast flare, whose red glare flickered
athwart the strip of water foaming between the piers. It showed that
some of the logs forced up by the pressure were sliding out above the
others, while, amid a horrible grinding, some sank. One side of the
river was blocked by a mass of timber that was increasing every moment.
Thurston feared that the unfinished piers could not long withstand the
pressure, and he remembered that his own work would be paid for only on
completion. Nevertheless, he passed several minutes in a critical
survey, and then glanced towards certain groups of dark figures
watching for the approaching ruin.
"She'll go down inside an hour--that is certain, and Savine will lose
thousands of dollars," said Summers, whose eyes were wide with
apprehension. "I'm rattled completely. Can't you think of anything
that might be done?"
"Yes!" answered Thurston, coolly. "It is, however, almost too late
now. It could have been done readily, if the man who should have seen
to it had not turned traitor. Hello! Where's Mattawa Tom?"
A big sinewy ax-man from the forests of Northern Ontario sprang up
beside him, and Thurston said:
"I'm going to try to chop through the king log that's keying them.
It's rather more than you bargained for, but will you stand by me, Tom?"
"Looks mighty like suicide!" was the dry answer. "But if you're ready
to chance it, I'm coming right along."
The workmen had divided into two hostile camps, but there was a growl
of admiring wonder from friends and foes alike when two figures,
balancing bright axes, stood high up on the pier slides ready to leap
down upon the working logs. Then disjointed cries went up: "Too late!"
"You'll be smashed flatter than a flapjack when the jam breaks up!"
"Get hold of the fools, somebody!" "Take their axes away!"
"I'll brain the first man who touches mine," threatened Thurston,
turning savagely upon those who approached him with remonstrances, and
there was a simultaneous murmur from all the assembly when the two
adventurous men dropped upon the timber. The logs rolled, groaned, and
heaved beneath them and Thurston, trusting to the creeper spikes upon
his heels, sprang from one great tree trunk to another behind his
companion, who had a longer experience of the perilous work of
log-driving. Here a gap, filled with spouting foam, opened up before
him; there a trunk upon which he was about to step rolled over and
sank. But he worked his way forward towards the center of the fir
which keyed the growing mass. This log was many feet in girth.
Pressed down level with the water, it was already bending like a
slackly-strung bow.
The example proved inspiring. Thurston's assistants were sturdy,
fearless men, who often risked their lives in wresting a living from
the forest, so several among them prepared to follow. Two seamen
deserters sprang out from the ranks of the mutineers. One stalwart
forest rancher, however, tripped his comrade up, and sat upon his
prostrate form shouting, "You'll stop just where you are, you blame
idiot! You couldn't do nothing if you got there. Hardly room for them
two fellows already where they can get at the log!"
The remaining volunteers saw the force of this argument and when
somebody increased the blast of the lamp so that the roaring column of
flame leapt up higher, the men stood very still, staring at the two who
had now gained the center of the partly submerged log.
It requires considerable practice to acquire full mastery of the
long-hafted ax, but Thurston, who was stout of arm and keen of eye, had
managed to earn his bread with it one winter in an Ontario logging
camp. When he swung aloft the heavy wedge of steel, it reflected the
blast lamp's radiance, making red flashes as it circled round his head.
It came down hissing close past his knee. Mattawa Tom's blade crossed
it when it rose, and the first white chip leapt up. More chips
followed in quick succession until they whirled in one continuous
shower, and the razor-edged steel losing definite form became a
confused circling brightness, in the center of which two supple figures
swayed and heaved. The red light smiting the faces of the two showed
great drops of sweat, the swell of toil-hardened muscles on the corded
arms, and the rise of each straining chest. There was not a clash nor
a falter, but, flash after flash, the blades came down chunking into
the ever-widening notch. Summers had seen sword play in Montreal
armories, and had heard the ax clang often on the side of Western firs,
but--for Thurston was fighting to stave off ruin--this grim struggle in
the face of a desperate risk surpassed any remembered exhibition of
fencers' skill with the steel. The trunk was bending visibly beneath
the hewers, the river frothed more at their feet, and the giant logs
were rolling, creeping, shocking close behind, ready to plunge forward
when the partly severed trunk should yield.
Thurston felt as if his lungs were bursting, his heart throbbed
painfully, and something drummed deafeningly inside his head. His
vision grew hazy, and he could scarcely see the widening gap in the
rough bark into which the trenchant steel cut. It was evident that the
steadily increasing jam would rub the bridge piers out of existence
long before any two men could hew half way through the great trunk,
but, fortunately, the log was now bending like a fully-drawn bow, and
the pressure would burst it asunder when a little more of its
circumference had been chopped into. So, choking and blinded with
perspiration, Geoffrey smote on mechanically, until the man from
Mattawa said, "She's about busted."
Just then there was a clamor from the watchers on the piers. Men
shouted, "Come back." "Whole jam's starting!" "King log's yielding
now!" "Jump for your lives before the wreckage breaks away with you!"
Mattawa Tom leapt shorewards from moving log to log, but for a few
moments Thurston, who scarcely noticed his absence, chopped on alone.
Filled with the lust of conflict, he remembered only that it was
necessary to make sure of victory before he relaxed an effort. Thrice
more in succession he whirled the heavy ax above his head, while, with
a sharp snapping of fibers, the fir trunk yielded beneath his feet.
Flinging his ax into the river he stood erect, breathless, a moment too
late. The logs behind the one which perilously supported him were
creeping forward ready for the mad rush that must follow a few seconds
later.
There remained now but one poor chance of escape and he seized it
instinctively. Springing along the sinking trunk, he threw himself
clear of it into the river, while running men jostled each other as
they surged toward the side of the timber when he sank. A wet head
broke the surface, a swinging left hand followed it. The swimmer
clutched the edge of a loosely-fitted beam, and held it until strong
hands reached down to him. Some gripped his wet fingers, some the back
of his coat, one even clutched his hair. There was a heave, then a
scramble, and, amid hoarse cheers, the rescued man fell over backwards
among his rescuers.
Thurston, who stood up dripping, said, somewhat shakily: "Ah, you were
only just in time! I'm vastly grateful to you all."
The last words were lost in a deafening crash as the jam broke up, and
the giant logs drove through the opening, thrashing the river into
foam. The tree-trunks ground against one another, or smote the slide
casing with a thunderous shock; but the stone-backed timber stood the
strain, and when the clamor of the passage of the logs ceased, a heavy
stillness brooded over the camp as the river grew empty again.
Thurston sought out the man from Mattawa. Laying a wet hand upon his
shoulder he said: "Thank you, Tom. I won't forget the assistance you
rendered me."
"That's all right," answered the brawny ax-man, awkwardly. "I get my
wages safe and regular, and I've tackled as tough a contract for a
worse master before."
There was no chance for further speech. Davies, who owned the saw-mill
lower down stream, reined in a lathered horse, close by. "Where have
all my logs gone to?" he asked. "My foreman roused me to say only a
few dozen had brought up in the boom, and as the boys were running them
down by scores I figured they'd piled up against your bridge. I don't
see any special chaos about here, though you look as if you had been in
swimming; but what in the name of thunder have you done with the logs?"
"They're on their way down river," Thurston replied, dryly. "We had
some trouble with them which necessitated my taking a bath. But see
here, what made you turn a two-hundred-foot red fir loose among them?"
"I didn't," answered Davies, with a puzzled air. "The boys saw every
log into standard lengths. We have no use for a two-hundred-footer and
couldn't get her into the mill. Are you sure it wasn't a wind-blown
log?"
"I saw the butt had been freshly cross-cut," declared Thurston with an
ominous glitter in his eyes. "I understand you are pretty slack just
now. As a favor, would you hire your chopping gang to me for a few
days? I'll tell you why I want them later."
"I'll decide in a few minutes," he added, when Davies had told him what
the cost would be. Turning towards Summers he said: "There may be
several more big red firs growing handy beside the river, and I mean to
prevent any more accidents of this kind in future. If your employer
will not reimburse me, I will bear the cost myself. I would sooner
spend my last dollar than allow any of these loafers to coerce me."
The workmen stood still, all of them curious, and a few uneasy.
Raising one hand to demand attention, Thurston said: "A red fir was
felled by two or three among you to-day, and launched down stream after
darkness fell. I want the men who did it to step forward and explain
their reasons to me."
"You're a mighty bold man," remarked Summers--who knew that, although
few were actually dangerous, the malcontents outnumbered Thurston's
loyal assistants.
Among the listeners nobody moved, but there was a murmuring, and all
eyes were fixed upon the speaker, who, either by design or accident,
leaned upon the haft of a big ax.
"I hardly expected an answer," he went on. "Accordingly, I'll proceed
to name the men who I believe must know about this contemptible action,
and notify them that they will be paid off to-morrow."
A tumult of mingled wrath and applause started when Thurston coolly
called aloud a dozen names. One voice broke through the others: "We're
working for Julius Savine, an' don't count a bad two-bits on you," it
declared defiantly. "We'll all fling our tools into the river before
we let one of them fellows go."
"In that case the value of the tools will be deducted from the wages
due you," Thurston announced calmly. "After this notice, Julius
Savine's representative won't pay any of the men I mention, whether
they work or not; and nobody, who does not earn it, will get a single
meal out of the cook shanty. I'll give you until to-morrow to make up
your minds concerning what you will do." Aside to Davies he said:
"I'll take your lumber gang in any case. Go back and send them in as
soon as you can."
The assembly broke up in a divided state of mind. Although it was very
late, little groups lingered outside the tents, and at intervals angry
voices were heard. Summers set out for the railroad to communicate by
telegraph with his employer, and Thurston retired to his tent, where he
went peacefully to sleep. Awakening later than usual, he listened with
apparent unconcern to Mattawa Tom, who aroused him, with the warning:
"It's time you were out. Them fellows are coming along for their
money. The boys called up a big roll, as soon as the lumber gang
marched in, and, though there was considerable wild talking, the
sensible ones allowed it was no more use kicking."
"That's all right," averred Thurston, who paid the departing
malcontents and was glad to get rid of them, knowing that the
lumbermen, who were mostly poor settlers, had small sympathy with the
mutineers and that he would have at least a balance of power. He set
the men to work immediately lengthening the wing of the log slide and
the wedge guards of the piers. He himself toiled as hard as any two
among them, and, to the astonishment of all, completed the big task
before the week was past.
"I hardly like to say what it has cost me, but no log of any length
could jam itself in the new pass," he said to Summers.
"You're an enterprising man," was the answer. "Savine is a bit of a
rustler, too, and you'll have a chance of explaining things to him
to-morrow. I have had word from him that he's coming through."