NEW BRUNSWICK.
One bright moonlight night in the early part of Summer, a heavy wagon,
drawn by two powerful horses, was bowling along one of the dreary level
roads of the province of New Brunswick. It was loaded down with trunks
on the rack, barrels under the seats, that were built on springs above
the sides for that purpose, and bundles and bags innumerable in the
bottom, and two long leathern cases that suggested salmon rods. It
carried three men; the driver, tall and spare, with a shrewd eye, and
long, curly, black hair, was turned half-way round in the seat, assuming
an attitude that combined comfort with facility of conversation. On the
back seat, a middle aged gentleman, whose hair and beard were silvered
o’er, but whose eye was bright as in his earliest youth, and a younger
man of stout build with brownish hair and beard. Their talk was of the
forest, and many thrilling tales of danger, or exciting ones of the
chase, were told; vivid descriptions of how the moose, the caribou, the
red deer, met his fate; stories of the tiger, the wild boar, the
rhinoceros and unwieldy elephant; or peaceful description of killing the
beautiful trout, the fierce, striped bass, or the voracious mascallonge.
The time wore pleasantly away as they passed along between the sombre
lines of spruce and hemlock and juniper, as they ran into the deep shade
or emerged into the open moonlight till they came in sight of the
Nashwaak, seaming the dark earth like a vein of silver, when a glorious
view presented itself to their attention. Far away as the eye could
reach, stretched the valley of Nashwaak, silent as the repose of death;
not a sound but the rattle of the wheels broke the still air, while the
moon bathed the rocks, the earth, the trees, with its uncertain light,
formed weird shapes out of the foliage, or cast strange shadows across
the road. Still on, however, scarcely pausing--as every true sportsman
must pause before the beauties of nature--the party were soon lost in
the shady descent that led toward the bank of the stream, whose course
they followed some miles, crossing it beyond, over a high, substantial
bridge. The road then branched off, traversing the unbroken wilderness,
where for miles not a habitation was visible, till midnight found them
amid a heavy shower at McCloud’s, the half-way house from Fredericton to
Boiestown.
The horses under the shed, a sound thumping on the door brought out the
host, who attended to the wants of man and beast, and sent them on their
way rejoicing, as soon as the storm had abated. There was little variety
in the scene; the road was mostly level and good, the forest was of the
same dull character, with many dead trunks towering up amid it; there
were few houses and no settlements, and the country was principally one
vast plain. As the morning light began to streak the east with grey,
they came in sight of the peaceful Miramichi, and turning off from the
main road across the Taxes River, followed the course of the larger
stream, till, nearly opposite a beautiful spring, where they had stopped
to water their horses, they turned into a barway, and in a moment more
reached Wilson’s, their prospective head-quarters.
Wilson’s habitation was a quaint-looking log house, perched on the edge
of a bank overhanging what is called the interval, or fruitful stretch
of level land lying between the river and the hills, and its evident
antiquity bore testimony that it had belonged to one of the earliest
settlers.
A well-stocked garden, an extensive barn, a large drove of sheep and
cows, suggested what an industrious and comely wife and daughter
confirmed, that Wilson’s was a well-to-do family.
As a general thing, the people of this region are of the most
short-sighted possible character; they live for the present, and an easy
way of making a dollar is irresistible, though it may entail the final
loss of ten. The country is slowly going back to a savage condition;
farmers, instead of attending to their farms, speculate in lumber,
because it enriches one man in fifty; mortgage their farms, which are
sold under foreclosures to strangers and allowed to grow up with weeds
and bushes. Tens of thousands of acres are in this condition, and are
being fast rendered irreclaimable. Instead of encouraging fishermen to
come and spend money among them, although they admit it is about the
only money they see, they annoy and overcharge at such a rate that they
have driven away all but a few from Fredericton. Instead of preserving
and increasing the fish, they obstruct the channel entirely with nets,
striving by one grand haul to destroy the supply forever. To this
general rule Wilson is the only exception, and may be relied on, not
only to do whatever in reason is required of him, but to do it at a
moderate price. His only extravagant charge is for driving to
Fredericton to meet his guests.
The guides were waiting for us, and after making the requisite
preparations and passing a comfortable night in the old log house, we
started next day on our journey toward the head-waters of the Miramichi.
Our canoes were made of the log of a tree, and familiarly called
dug-outs, and were admirably adapted to the purpose. Being extremely
long, sometimes thirty feet, and narrow, they offer every convenience
for poling, draw but little water, and are not injured by contact with a
rock, that would pierce the thin bark of the delicate birch canoe, and
will hold their way better against a strong rapid. They are made of the
trunk of some towering branchless pine-tree that the adventurous
woodsman has marked during the winter for his own, and which, after
being cut down, is transported to a convenient place, where it is hewn
into the shape of the outside of the boat. Augur holes are bored in the
bottom, and pegs, two inches long, are driven, to answer for guides as
to thickness. The inside is then roughly hewn away, till the pegs are
reached, when it is smoothed off, being left two inches thick at the
bottom, and a half inch at the gunwale. Slender knees are introduced at
proper distances to prevent its warping under the sun; a brace is
fastened across from gunwale to gunwale, near the stem and stern, and
the boat is complete. It is worth about twelve dollars, and having
neither braces nor thwarts, but an open space its entire length, is
convenient for holding a long rod, and being steadier under foot, offers
many advantages over the birch canoe. It is particularly excellent in
descending a shallow river, where occasional contact with rocks is
inevitable; but is too heavy to portage comfortably. For rapid travel,
either up or down stream, it is invaluable.
Our baggage was stowed, a comfortable seat made with the end of the tent
upon the bottom of the canoe, our rods were rigged out for an occasional
cast, and we commenced the ascent of the “Smiling Water.” There had been
heavy and continuous rains, and quite a freshet had now changed its
ordinary placid exterior into one of angry turbulence. The river poured
down fierce and wild, crested with foam and discolored with sand and
decayed matter. But we made swift progress; starting five miles above
Boiestown, we soon passed the last settlement, and entering among the
mountains, amid which flows the upper stream, trusted ourselves alone to
the dangers of the wilderness, to the mercy of the black-flies for our
comfort, and to our skill as sportsmen for our support.
Ten months of close confinement in the city, years amid the horrors of
civilization, had well prepared us to appreciate a return to man’s
natural state of savage life; long contact with vice and folly had made
us eager to taste once more of truth and purity, the communion with
nature uncorrupted and unsullied; to feel the air blow through the
waving trees instead of down narrow streets; to hear the water rippling
over its native bed, and not through Croton pipes; to see the sun shine
from out the blue sky, instead of being reflected amid murk and smoke
from heated bricks.
The spruce and fir-trees stretched in solid mass like a green wall on
either side; occasionally, a white pine loomed above them, or a birch,
with its satin bark, broke the dull hue; or where the landscape was more
open, the graceful elm or willow stood forth in solitary beauty; and the
juniper, with its endless names of hackmatac, tamarack, larch or
cypress, waved its weird arms aloft; or the light, quivering poplar,
with its never-resting leaves, cast an uncertain shade.
The weather had been changeable all day, occasionally bright and
pleasant, the next moment dark and lowering--now the sun shining bright
and warm over the hillsides, then the rain driving in spiteful showers
and veiling them in mist. The storm no sooner forced on our overcoats
than the sunshine persuaded them off. Toward night, when heavier and
blacker clouds obscured the sky, we determined to camp, and chose a
point opposite a little tributary rivulet called Sandy Brook.
That evening and the next day were passed completing our camp equipage
of tables, chairs, basins, and various little articles, and in waiting
for the river to fall. During this time one of those pleasant incidents
occurred that are intensely enjoyed in rough woodsman’s life; two
gentlemen who had been up the river and were returning, stopped and
dined with us. There was a grand discussion over flies, resulting in a
mutual exchange, and a general mourning over the condition of the water,
with, however, the encouragement that the freshet had destroyed the
nets and let the fish up to the higher grounds.
Next day we killed our first fish of the season. I had gone above the
island at the head of the pool opposite our camp, and was fishing slowly
down, taking occasionally a brook trout, when there came a heavier rise,
a louder plash, and a fierce run that made my reel discourse sweetly.
The fish had struck me in the broken water, and it was uncertain what he
was till suddenly he sprang twice his length out of water, showing the
silvery sides and gleaming scales of the lovely grilse; again and again
he sprang in air, making the water fly as he fell back, and doing his
best to break the line or shake out the hook. Bravely he fought, taking
advantage of the current to run out line, and rubbing against rocks to
cut it through. In vain, foiled at each attempt, his strength rapidly
diminishing, he was slowly brought nearer and nearer, till a dexterous
blow of the gaff finished the struggle.
Joyful at the good omen, we hastened to our camp, and were met by my
companion, Dalton, who proudly exhibited a similar trophy. There was a
grand supper that night, and strong hopes that the flood would abate,
hopes that were destined to a cruel disappointment when next day the
stream was found to be higher than ever, and heavy clouds portended a
second deluge.
Our next camp was at Still Water Brook, a name that the present
condition of that streamlet strongly belied. We did not, however, remain
long, our sport being confined to grilse, and not many of those, and
when an English officer, who had been fishing above, called to say he
had taken all the fish he wanted at a station further on, we broke up
camp at once, to the great disgust of our lazy cook, who thought he had
cut his “sprunghungle,” or stick that supports the kettle over the fire,
for the last time. We pushed on to Burnt Hill, a famous camping-ground
among all those that fish the Miramichi, and there, on the open point
near the rock at whose base is the deep pool where salmon lie when the
water is warm we established our sylvan home for the last time.
Burnt Hill is so named from having been burnt over, years ago, and is
still a mass of dead and blackened trunks, that tower in fantastic
shapes toward the sky. Next morning, having selected my choicest cariboo
fly, Abraham pushed the canoe across the boiling torrent, so that I
could fish near the rocky shore opposite. Having made several casts
toward the bank, he swung the canoe in, and, running its nose on a rock,
gave me a chance to fish the centre of the channel. I had hardly cast,
when from out the curling wave rushed a mighty monster, which gleamed a
moment in the sunshine and disappeared. I felt a heavy, dull strain on
my rod, the fish swam deep and seemed unconscious of what had happened.
Then, suddenly aroused to his danger, a magnificent salmon rushed
down-stream and vaulted high out of water. Abraham glanced at me; I
returned the look, but not one word was spoken. The fish returned to his
former station, as though disdaining a struggle with a fragile cord and
contemptible fly, and remained there some moments, heavily swimming
round and round. Suddenly he became alarmed, and away he went, thirty
yards at least, the line whistling through the rings and the reel
hissing with the speed. He made a splendid leap and paused.
I had just time to tell Abraham to swing his boat off the rock where she
was resting, when the fish started again. Down he darted; the rod bent,
the line flying through the water, and after him came the pursuers. He
hesitated an instant above the worst rapids, and then sped down them;
once in a while I could see him amid the foam and flying spray, as he
rolled himself half out of water over some heavy wave; but my attention
was occupied in keeping the line clear of rocks, and not exerting too
much strain upon it. Admirably did Abraham handle the canoe. He was
alone; the water seethed and boiled round us broken into a mass of
fierce waves, small cascades and gleaming foam. It poured with raging
current over high bowlders, and swept between narrow rocks. He stood
erect in the stem, his eye, taking the measure of every falls, the
strength of every eddy; he swung the canoe’s head first one way then
another, easing her down over the higher waves, that, curling against
the stream, broke over the bow in mimic showers, and pushing strongly
through the circling eddies. Not a rock did he touch, not a moment did
the boat escape from perfect command, and when we were launched upon the
quiet bosom of the deep pool at the foot of Burnt Hill Rapids, the fish
was on the line. We each drew a long breath and again exchanged glances.
It was a beautiful spot to kill a fish. The water, all white and raging
above, formed a broad eddy, that washed the base of the rock on which I
now stood. Although there was still a strong current in the centre, an
expanse of clear water spread out at our feet, into which, after each
rush, the fish could be easily led, and where his mad leaps were the
only risk. It was our first fish, and I exercised the utmost care; not
till he was almost dead did I force him to the surface, where Abraham,
with one blow of his gaff, brought our prize to land.
What a beauty she was! The small, delicate head pronounced her a female,
the destined parent of myriads cut off in her prime. The brilliancy of
her flashing scales gave token that not long since had she been roaming
free from danger along the shores of the seacoast, and her broad back
and deep chest announced her heavy weight. Glorious in her outward
appearance, our keen appetites pictured to our imaginations the rich red
flesh in layers, with flakes of pearly fat between, the delicate thin
sides of the stomach, the depth of solidity in her broad back. Our
thoughts dwelt for a moment on the fine juicy flavor her fifteen good
pounds would furnish for many a meal. But above all did we recollect
with pride how well both of us had done in killing the first salmon in
the Miramichi.
Mr. Dalton had been watching the contest from the bank opposite, and we
returned together to the camp, where libations were duly poured forth in
honor of our first capture, and preparations were made for a grand
entertainment.
That evening around the fire, after supper was finished, and the genial
pipe was soothing as well as invigorating our minds, and after several
personal adventures had been related, Duncan commenced the following
history of
THE GHOST OF DEADMAN’S LANDING.
“You saw that point of land we came by the other day, where I told you a
dead man was carried out from the woods? Well, I was there when he was
killed. We had been logging in the woods, and doing pretty well till we
tried to draw out an uncommon heavy stick of timber. Sam Masters was
with us--we used to call him Swearing Sam, from a bad habit he was given
to--and Sam had taken a great idea to have that stick of timber taken
out before night; but the horses were tired and it was late, and after
we had dragged it part of the way all but Sam proposed to leave it till
to-morrow. But Sam insisted that he was not going to give up, and when
we all agreed to quit, he got mad and swore he would have that timber
out alone if he had to go to hell for it, and work till the day of
judgment. We tried to persuade him off, but stay he would, and we left
him with the horses and returned to our camp, which we had made at the
landing. After supper was finished, and it began to be late, we became
anxious about Sam, and when he did not arrive, at near midnight, all
hands set out to look him up.
“We had not much trouble to find the horses; they felt cold and hungry,
and were neighing for their supper, but were surprised to see the log
rolled off the truck, and Sam gone. But the next thing we noticed was
Sam’s head just out from the edge of the log, that lay across his body.
It was an awful sight; the moon was shining bright on his face, that was
turned up toward the sky, but all swollen and discolored, with the eyes
wide open and starting out of their sockets, and his tongue sticking out
of his mouth, and the blood frozen round his nostrils and the corners of
his lips. He must have been dead for hours. We had a hard time to roll
the log off, and then he was mashed all out of shape, so we carried him
the best way we could to the shanty, and next day wrapped him in a
blanket and took him down the river. His wife was all struck of a heap
when she saw him, for Sam was a good husband; if he did swear more than
he ought, he never swore at her.”
“He would have been squelched sooner if he had,” put in Dalton, _sotta
voce_.
“We felt pretty bad,” continued Duncan; “but after a few days had to go
back and finish hauling the logs, for we had a lot cut. It was cold
weather, and the wind howled through the pines till sometimes, at night,
we almost thought we heard hallooing in the woods, but no one cared to
go out and see. About two weeks after our return, I happened to leave my
axe where I was chopping, and as snow had begun to fall pretty fast, and
it might be snowed over, I went back after it. I had forgotten precisely
where it was left, and lost a good deal of time looking about, all the
while the snow coming harder and harder, so that the track was soon
covered. That was not much matter, for I knew the country well; but it
was growing dark, and the snow blinded me, so that I could not see
plainly.
“You may believe I did not delay any; but after hurrying on as fast as
possible for an hour or two, thought things looked strange; the trees
grew thick and the ground rough and steep, and I could not tell where I
was. I searched about for some landmark, but it was almost dark, and
after trying in vain, and having a heavy overcoat with me, but no
matches, I was about to crawl under the roots of a dead tree and make
the best of it, when I heard somebody shouting in the distance.
“There is no mistake, but I was glad, and sung out back, and clambered
over the trees and stones toward the voice; but what was my surprise, on
approaching, to see our own team, and one of the boys driving. They had
no intention of hauling another log, and must have been foolish to think
of it in that snow; but, stranger than all, when I called, did not stop
or take any notice. To tell the truth, I began to feel mighty queer,
especially as the driver was shaped uncommon like Sam, and I suddenly
remembered that it was that night a month ago when he hauled his last
stick of timber. I followed slowly along and never said a word; the
driver, whoever he was, was riding on the log, and now and then his
voice shouted out what sounded in the storm mighty like a curse.
Suddenly the drag struck a stump, the horses made a spring, the log
started, the driver tried to jump, but slipped, and the log fell on him
with crushing force. There was an awful shriek in the next blast that
drove a shower of snow in my eyes, and when I looked again, horses, log
and man were gone. I knew well enough where I was then, and did not take
long to reach the camp, when the boys hardly knew me, I was so white and
dazed like.”
“Let us see,” said Abraham, holding his chin in a thoughtful way; “it
was after that you swore off liquor?”
“Yes,” said Robert. “The other boys hardly knew the liquor cask they had
left in the woods next day, if I have heard right.”
“You need not laugh, boys,” said Duncan, solemnly; “there is no fun in
seeing a ghost, and I had not taken more than a few drinks. Besides, you
know how, next year, when Jake, and Dick, and some others were in the
same camp, they heard Sam’s old chest, that we had left there, creak as
though some one had sat on it, and how the shanty door was taken off the
hinges and held upright in the middle of the floor. And the black dog
that left no track in the snow, but used to run along the ridge pole of
moonlight nights, when nobody was in the shanty; and, finally, how the
roof was all taken off when Tom’s party was there, and although it was
covered with snow, not a drop fell inside. No, no, spirits are no
laughing matters.”
“Especially prime spirits,” suggested the cook.
“Jamaica or Holland, but I never heard of New Brunswick spirits before,”
said Robert.
“Well, I can just tell you one thing,” said Duncan, aroused; “there is
not one of you dare sleep in that shanty alone. Come, I will pole any of
you down there to-morrow that would like to try. Who will go?”
A dead silence fell on the party, for, truth to tell, though bold enough
round the fire together, the dwellers on the Miramichi are a good deal
given to superstition, and not one of the party but some time or other
had fancied he heard Sam’s ghost shouting to his team of a stormy night
near the landing.
“Well,” said Abraham, slowly, “I never saw but one ghost. It was a
moonlight night, with a little snow on the ground, and I was alone,
crossing a cleared lot where the stumps stood pretty thick, when I
noticed, crouched down behind one of them, a figure of some sort that
looked like an old woman. It had no bonnet or hat, nothing but a cap on
its head; it wore a long, tattered dress, that blew about in the wind,
while I could just make out a pair of thin, white arms; but her face was
black as a coal. It is no use to say I was not scared, for I think I
was. There were some crazy people about at that time, who had escaped
from the madhouse; but I was pretty sure I could outrun any of them,
’specially a woman, and I knew it was no use running from ghosts, so I
concluded the best thing to do was to keep right along and pretend to
take no notice; but, do my best, I could not keep my eyes off the old
woman. I tried to whistle, but not a sound would come. I only blew a
little, and not very steady at that. I tried to sing, but the first note
I uttered made me jump ten feet; I thought it was somebody else’s voice,
as sure as fate. I had sidled off as far as I could on account of a
gully there was, and did not like to go down that for fear she should
think I was afraid. The distance between us was growing less and less,
and as I watched her sharper than ever, she appeared to make one or two
moves, and then stop; but all of a sudden, she jumped up, threw off her
clothes, and started after me. I uttered one yell, and turned; but, as
luck would have it, caught my foot in a root under the snow, and rolled
headlong down the steep side of the gully.
“I do not know what I said, I think I prayed; but I made considerable
noise, anyway, and poked my head into a bush, and tried to burrow under
the snow. This lasted some time; but hearing nothing more, and not
finding myself killed, my courage returned; I took out my head, and
slowly crawled up the bank. Peering carefully over the edge, I saw a
stump where the old woman had been crouching, burnt at the top, with
some snow on it; there was a dead bush and roots at the bottom, while a
little further off lay a quantity of dead birch bark, waving about in
the wind. ‘Abe,’ said I to myself, ‘you have been an awful fool to take
a fired stump, a little snow, and some birch bark for a ghost. Never do
so again.’ And I never have, and have never been so scared from that day
to this.”
After a hearty laugh at Abraham’s fright, Robert was called upon, and
responded as follows:
“I cannot tell you a ghost story, but one of as scared a man as ever was
seen. It happened at this very place, too, when we were camped on this
spot, and was brought to my mind by what you were reading to-day of the
man hunting a grizzly bear, and leaving off because the track got too
fresh. Jim Baker was with us. He had lived most of his life in the
settlements, and had only just come among us, but could play the fiddle
and sing a song, and must have had a good ear for music, for among the
first things he did was to learn to call moose. He was uncommonly proud
of the performance, and though he had never seen a moose, promised to
keep the camp in meat. Well, he kept calling all the time, and sure
enough one day, while we were camped here, a bull answered.
“A good hunter might call till he was grey before he could bring a moose
in broad daylight right up to the camp; but it was a fool’s luck, and
sure enough we soon heard him rapping through the bushes, and then jump
into the brook and begin wading down. Jim had out the gun, and started
off to crawl along the edge in the bushes to meet him. We could see them
both; Jim crept along as fast as he could at first, and the bull came
faster yet down the stream without showing a sign of fear. Soon Jim
began to go slower, and finally stopped altogether, while the moose kept
right on toward him, till he was within fifty yards, when he paused and
took a general survey. Jim raised the gun, but when he did so the animal
seemed to have his curiosity aroused, and advanced several steps toward
Jim, who lowered his gun, and backed a few paces till the moose stopped
again. Jim again raised the gun, and again the moose advanced and Jim
retreated. This went on till the moose became satisfied, and with a
snort bounded into the bushes and was gone. When Jim came back we asked
him why he did not shoot, and he said we need not think he was afraid;
he intended to shoot, but did not know how the gun carried ball.”
The next day my friend killed his first salmon, and strange to say, thus
we continued to the end, each catching precisely the same number of
fish. The days were beautifully warm, and rather given to weeping, but
fresh and bracing; whereas the nights were deliciously cool, almost too
cold for Summer, and demanded plenty of warm blankets. Living in the
most primitive but comfortable style, feeding off a rough table, and
often cooking half the dinner ourselves, but with a glorious feeling of
entire independence, the heavens above, the earth beneath, and all
nature round us, we had a splendid time, and many fish came to our net.
Thus the pleasant days flew by; the sport ever honest, manly,
invigorating and exciting, varying in luck, at times abundant in its
yield, and then utterly unproductive--the uncertainty added zest; while
the evenings and hot middays were enlivened with the story, joke or
latest novel. Many an idle hour, when the sun shone too resplendent for
the hope of sport, did we while away, the men seated or stretched at
length in various picturesque attitudes, and one of us reading aloud.
But the time came when this was to end, and on the eleventh day the
edict was promulgated to break up camp and return.
The tent fell and was packed, the pots and pans were huddled together,
our camp stores stowed, and we reëmbarked for the descent of the river.
Keeping rods ready for an occasional cast, we swept along; the water was
high, our men were good boatmen, the canoes were strong, and we rushed
through the foaming torrent at a gallant rate.
At Rocky Bend my friend struck five fine grilse successively, and lost
all but one, much to his chagrin. He laid it to the size of his hooks,
alleging they were too large; but what genius will arise to explain how
it is that salmon break away without any severe strain on, or damage to,
the tackle. Is it a defect in the shape of the hook? If so, should it
bend to one side, or curve in or out at the point? Or is it in the force
of striking, or place where the hook holds? The matter is so complex,
that the most careful investigation has left me even without a theory.
Some of my friends swear by one of the above plans, others by another; I
have tried them all, and still the fish escape as frequently as ever.
As we approached a well-remembered spot where I had taken a fine grilse
in ascending, Abraham slowly said:
“Take care as we come down to this pool, for I am like the man that once
shot a bear at a cleared spot just below, and whenever afterward he came
to the same place, he clambered on the highest stump, and looked around
to see whether there was not another bear. Wherever we took one fish, I
always expect to take another.”
I told him it was somewhat the same with me, but in that instance we
were doomed to disappointment--there was no second bear.
At Sandy Pond we made our camp for the night, as my friend had never
seen a fish killed with the spear, and, although admitting its
unsportsmanlike character, wished to experience how it was done.
When darkness had settled down, our men kindled a flaming fire of pine
knots, in an iron basket attached to a pole that projected from the bow
of the canoe, and seating my friend amidships between them, pushed off.
They pulled against the stream, the bright light bringing out the stones
at the bottom of the water in strong relief, exposing everything within
a radius of twenty feet. Behind it stood the spearsman, erect, his quick
eye glancing in every direction, the firelight falling upon his
reddened visage and illuminating his many graceful attitudes. With rapid
motion he swung the spear from side to side as any passing object
attracted his attention, ready for the death-dealing blow. With perfect
facility he kept command of the boat, shoving her bow from the rocks and
guiding it through the proper channel; occasionally the spear was sent
glancing through the water, and in a moment a grilse brought struggling
to the surface and thrown into the bottom of the canoe, where the fire
rays were reflected from his scales like the liquid gleam of the
diamond.
It was a picturesque sight, the waving flame, the active spearsman, the
graceful canoe, and the intense darkness around; but it was cruel and
barbarous, and my friend desisted before many fish had suffered.
Next day returned us safe and sound to Wilson’s hospitable log mansion,
where a hearty welcome awaited us. Our extra stores were divided among
the men, a farewell spoken, the team once more harnessed, and we set out
to join the stage at Boiestown for Chatham, on the road to the
Nipisiquit.
A strange place is Boiestown; built by an American named Boies, it is a
mere collection of unpainted shanty-like houses but with Yankee
shrewdness, located upon a fine stream of never-failing water, with
excellent mills and water power, it might have been a thriving place had
not Boies, its presiding spirit, met with reverses. The maelstrom of
lumber speculation had ingulfed him, and with him the prosperity of the
town. There was no native capable of filling his place, and the glory of
Boiestown had departed.
The stage was due at six o’clock, but at six o’clock it did not come,
nor at seven, eight, nine nor ten. We told Wilson to return for us in
the morning, and retired to rest in the nearest tavern, leaving word to
be called when it did come.
At midnight there was a pounding at the door announcing the arrival of
the conveyance that was to carry us and our baggage, two heavy trunks,
seventy miles. It was a light one horse-wagon. We went to bed again, and
next morning found the stage-driver still at Boiestown, having turned
out his horse to graze.
Wilson, however, soon arrived, and we started on that dreary road,
following the descent of the Miramichi to its mouth. There is one, and
but one, pretty view in the entire seventy miles, and that is as you
ascend the first mountain beyond Boiestown. Looking back, the peaceful
valley that we had just left, stretching away to our camping-ground, lay
basking in the sunlight. In the distance, scarcely visible among the
trees, were the few houses that compose Campbelltown; nearer was the
straggling village of Boiestown, and at our feet ran the placid river,
leaving broad intervals upon its banks, and meandering between smiling
islands. The hay was ripening in the meadow, the oats were still
luxuriant in their fresh green, the bushes lined the occasional fences
or marked out the narrow swamps, while here and there were dotted the
majestic white pine, the towering spruce, the noble elm or the graceful
willow, and a dead tree now and then stretched its ungainly limbs toward
the clouds.
Beyond, however, we fell into one dull, dreary routine; civilization was
behind us, the few farms once cultivated were falling back into their
savage state, the houses tumbling down, the barns in their last stages
of dilapidation, everywhere windows broken out, doors off their hinges,
huge cracks in roof or walls, told of general decay. The people had
fled, no one knew whither; and of the few that were left, the stupidity,
avarice and extortion were incredible. They impose upon and annoy
travellers and fishermen till they have almost driven them away. The
stages fail to run or to connect as they undertake to do. No one appears
to know their times of starting or arriving. Boats advertise to leave on
days when they never have left, to stop at places that are not laid down
on the map, but are colloquially applied to an entire district; and omit
places where they do stop. No man knows anything except his own
individual business, and but little of that. The inhabitants mainly draw
their support from the river, and yet are busy day and night endeavoring
to ruin it; the nets from opposite shores lap over one another or reach
from bank to bank, and are set week in and week out, while there is a
fish running; the smallest mesh is used, small enough to capture trout
or herring. The few fish that do reach the spawning beds are chased with
the merciless spear without cessation till long after they are worthless
as food. Yet the people think the river has improved because the laws
are partially enforced at its mouth. Netters complain of the spearers,
and the spearers of the netters, but neither do anything but harm. The
upper stream is alive with nets, although netting should be permitted
nowhere above tide water.
The only crops of the region are potatoes, oats and hay; for nine
months there is rigorous winter, and for three months cold weather. The
great productions are black flies, midgets and mosquitoes. The Lord help
such a people, for the people will never help themselves. Let my
blessing remain with the land; I shall never return for it.
The river itself is not only lovely to contemplate but would afford to
reasonable beings abundant support. In May and June the Gaspereau or
alewives, a species of herring, _Alosa Tyrannus_, make their appearance
in myriads, and ascend to the lakes to spawn; in June and July the
beautiful sea trout appear in shoals and urge their course to the
head-waters and the cool brooks; in July and August come the splendid
salmon, struggling against every impediment that the wit of man, or want
of wit, can place in their way, to perpetuate their species for that
foolish man’s support, and build their nests in the broad sandy pools.
The lively, energetic grilse come last, fighting vigorously to reach
their sylvan homes. Not one of all these races is taken fairly or
properly, nor when his destruction will do most good and the least harm.
Having dined at Decantelon’s, we reached Lynch’s by dark, where we
supped and passed the night, and next day, after breakfasting at
Magee’s, arrived at Newcastle by nine in the morning. Seeing a boy, my
friend inquired:
“Boy, when does the stage leave that runs to Newcastle?”
“A’most any time; one has gone, but there will be another going in an
hour or two.”
“Where does it start from? We must inquire for ourselves, I see.”
“Oh, anywhere round the streets; up one street and down another.”
“Now that cannot be,” continued my friend sternly; “it must start from
some place, and we do not wish to miss it.”
“Well, it will be along; it goes all around.”
“It has to cross that ferry, I believe,” said my friend, almost
savagely.
“Yes,” said the boy.
“We will wait there where it cannot miss us.”
“Why, there it comes now; don’t you see it on the other side of the
river?”
Sure enough, there it was; and from that moment it never escaped our
eye. There was a post-office near by.
“Postmaster,” said my friend, “as you must know, on account of your
official position, will you tell me when the Princess Royal leaves
Chatham for Shediac.”
“Oh, yes; every Monday and Friday. It is advertised in the paper.”
“Now there is some satisfaction about this,” and out came his note-book.
“Every Monday and Friday--ah, yes, the paper says---- Why, the paper
says Monday and Thursday!”
“Impossible! So it does; why she never sails on Thursdays. There must be
some mistake.”
“Somewhere no doubt,” said my friend, despondingly, returning the
note-book; nor was he much relieved by being afterwards informed by the
stage-driver that she sailed neither Thursday nor Friday, but only
Monday.
At Chatham, Mrs. Bowser received us hospitably and noisily, and there we
met some good sportsmen and fine fellows. The sportsmen are the salt of
New Brunswick earth; they have not a trait in common with the other
inhabitants, but are jovial, friendly and open-hearted. One cannot know
too many nor see too much of them. We owed them many thoughtful
attentions, which we will repay to them or others of the race of
fishermen, passing on the obligation.
Forty-five more miles of weary road, crossing in its course the
Tabasintac, that splendid trout stream, and we reached Bathurst, where
we found the guides awaiting us at the Wellington House, having received
our telegram, and next day we began “life in the woods” once more.
Our camp was pitched at the Round Rocks, the lowest fishing station on
the Nipisiquit, whither we drove with our luggage in a wagon, and met
the canoes. Our rods were hastily put together, and in Rock Pool, at the
second cast, I took a fine grilse. Others followed, and next day came
the salmon. Splendid fellows just from the sea, their scales resplendent
with the reflected light of their ocean homes; solid, strong and brave,
leaping again and again, madly disdaining restraint, and fighting
fiercely till the last. The water was strong; in some places the rapids
were impassable. Sad to tell, the fish knew it, and alas, too often
darted down them, whisking their tails in joy at their recovered
freedom. Our sport was magnificent.
After fishing the Round Rocks and the Bush Falls, we ascended the river
to the Pabineau Falls, where we paused only to exchange friendly
greetings with two fellow fishermen, and continuing through the dark,
silent waters of the Bittabock, dined at the Middle Landing, where the
stream pours seething in its narrow channel between high rocky banks,
and where it is said to be six fathoms deep. We passed another angler at
the Chain of Rocks, and reached the Grand Falls and pitched our tent on
its precipitous shores by sundown.
Wild indeed is the scenery at the Grand Falls, the highest point the
salmon reach. The falling water, in long ages, has worn away a channel
between high bluffs, and now, in ordinary seasons, pours through a
narrow gorge that once could be leaped across, but which has been
blasted to admit the passage of timber. The sheet of water falls in a
mass of foam some forty feet, the spray rising in volumes, and producing
in the summer’s sun a beautiful mist rainbow. The granite rocks have
been worn in deep holes by revolving bowlders, and in winter the whole
chasm, filled with ice and water, must be grand and impressive in
extreme.
There is a smaller, second fall, which the salmon occasionally try to
leap; but they spawn in the pebbly beds below, the whole course of the
stream, especially at the basin a short distance from the falls.
The principal natural fly of the Nipisiquit is about three-quarters of
an inch long, has a yellow body and orange tip, two short whisks and two
long, yellow antennæ, six thick yellow legs, a large, black head, a
thick yellow body with nine rings, and four reticulated, dull yellowish,
transparent wings. They are not very abundant, but there are many small
nocturnal flies, that will be drawn together with a light in swarms.
It is extremely interesting to stand on the rocks overhanging the river
and watch the salmon, their every motion distinctly visible, and their
numbers readily counted. When one is casting the fly, his companion can
see the fish move to take it, and call out when to strike. Salmon seem
to rise very slowly and deliberately and can be observed of a bright day
together in crowds, holding their own against the current with a
scarcely perceptible effort. Not one in a hundred will notice the fly;
ordinarily nothing but the fins are in motion, but occasionally an
individual will give a flirt and turn up his side, which flashes like
silver through the water.
We fished the Camp, the Falls, the Rock and Cooper’s Pools with great
success; the fish were numerous, fine conditioned, large and strong. We
had many a fierce contest; often was our line run out for seventy yards;
the fish made splendid leaps and vigorous rushes, but we lost very few,
as there was but one bad place. That was below the Falls Pool, where a
stake had caught in the middle of the current; I found its locality by
losing a fine grilse and a casting line.
The days wore on most pleasantly; salmon occupied all our thoughts. The
first thing in the morning we looked for salmon, then we fished for
salmon, then we breakfasted on salmon, and then again fished for them;
then made flies to catch them, next dined on them, again fished for
them, and then supped off them, and lastly dreamed of them. But the
happiest and longest of summer days must end; our time came to return,
and the camp was struck.
The river is quite evenly divided between the various stopping-places,
and it is almost exactly three miles between each. There are six good
fishing places: the Grand Falls, Middle Landing, Bittabock, Pabineau
Falls, Round Rocks and Rough Waters.
We stopped at our original camp, the Round Rocks and there we struck our
last fish. My friend hooked in the middle of the current a noble
specimen, that gave such splendid play that I laid down my rod to
witness the contest. The bright sides of the fish, as he leaped again
and again out of water, proved that he was fresh run and strong, an
impression his fierce rushes confirmed. He was played with great care
and delicacy; but alas! suddenly darted across the current, took a turn
around a rock, and returning passed round another. All hope was given
up, but when the canoe was skillfully pushed across after him, he was
found to be still on and the line uninjured by the smooth rocks. My
friend, greatly rejoiced, had another severe contest, and foiled two
determined efforts at escape down an impassable rapid, and when
compelled to follow him through some very rough water, did it in a
masterly style, standing erect in the canoe, which was ably handled by
the two Chamberlains, and guiding the fish through the safest channel.
Nearly an hour had been expended, and the fish, almost exhausted, made
one last effort to reach the next rapid, and being prevented, came
alongside, feebly turning over and over. My friend unfortunately had put
on a double leader and could not reel up short, so the salmon lay deep
under water, dimly seen, when John attempted to gaff him. At that
instant the fish turned, the gaff slipped, he made a rush into the
current, and one cry from my friend, “There, he’s off,” told the tale.
The line sprung up into the air, we looked at one another in silence;
the occasion was too sad for words. My friend sat down upon the rocks in
despair; I felt for, but had no power to console him. At last, slowly
and sadly, he broke the mournful silence: “Let us go home,” he said; and
we went.
Good bye, lovely Nipisiquit, stream of the beautiful pools, the
fisherman’s elysium; farewell to thy merry, noisy current, thy long
quiet stretches, thy high bluffs, thy wooded and thy rocky shores. Long
may thy music lull the innocent angler into day dreams of happiness.
Long may thy deep holes afford secure havens of safety for the salmon,
where they can bid defiance to the rapacious net and murderous spear.
Long may thy romantic scenery charm the eye and gladden the heart of the
artist and welcome the angler to a happy sylvan home. And often may I
visit thee, beautiful Nipisiquit!
So much attention has been paid during the last few years to the
increase and protection of salmon in Canada and New Brunswick, that the
Nipisiquit, which was once one of the best rivers, has fallen into a
second rank; not that it has deteriorated, but because others have
improved. Privileges are allowed to single rods at so much a day for the
fishing, which is generally hired by the firm I have mentioned in
Bathurst, but before going, the sportsman had better communicate with
the Department at Ottawa, as leases are continually being changed.