BREAKING GROUND ON ELM ISLAND.
Monday morning came, and in the little cove, abreast of Captain
Rhines’s door, lay moored a “gundelow,” containing some hay, an ox
cart, plough, scraper, pot and tea-kettle, and provisions, raw and
cooked. Just as the sun rose, Ben came down the hill with a yoke of
oxen, and an axe on his shoulder weighing fourteen pounds. Joe Griffin
made his appearance on foot, and Isaac Murch on horseback, with his
wife (who had come to take the beast back) riding behind him on a
pillion. It was a bright October morning; the fields were white with
frost, which was just beginning to melt as the sun rose.
“Halloa!” cried Joe, as he caught sight of Ben’s head over the rising
ground; “this is the weather for the woods; the frost puts the grit in.”
Hannah Murch, saying that she was going to see Sally Rhines, that is to
be, and would meet them at four o’clock Saturday afternoon, rode off.
They put up a boat’s sail in the forward part of the “gundelow,” and,
as the wind was fair, made good progress. Ben steered, while the others
stretched themselves at full length upon the hay.
Joe was half asleep, when he felt his leg grasped by Ben, who motioned
him to crawl to him as easily as possible.
“There’s a flock of coots to leeward; steer her right down on them, and
when they rise I’ll give it to them.”
He carefully lifted a board, under which lay a gun, with an old flint
lock, with a stocking leg over it to keep off the damp of the sea and
the mist of the morning. Ben crawled forward behind the hay, where he
lay with his finger on the trigger. The unsuspicious fowl kept diving
and chasing each other over the water: at length they seemed to take
alarm, and began to huddle together.
“They’re going to rise, Ben,” whispered Joe.
“Well, let them rise.”
Coots, when they are fat, cannot well rise from the water, except
against the wind. As they rose and flew towards the “gundelow,”
exposing their most vital parts to a shot, five fell dead, and four
wounded.
“There’s our supper to-night, at any rate,” said Ben; “and were we in
anything else than this scow, I’d have those wounded ones.”
They reached the island, and luffing round its eastern point, ran
the “gundelow” on the beach at the mouth of the cove. Joe, making
a leaping-pole of an oar, sprang ashore. “Throw us a rope, and you
go astern, and I’ll haul her in.” While Joe pulled on the rope, Ben
stepping overboard, put his little shoulders to the stern of the
“gundelow,” and shoved her so high up on the beach that Isaac Murch
stepped out without wetting his feet.
“I say, Ben,” exclaimed Joe, “suppose you take an ox under each arm,
and bring them out. I never was here before, but if this ain’t just
the handsomest place I ever set eyes on. Such a nice little harbor to
keep a craft; and a brook, and this little green spot in the lee of the
woods; then such a master growth of timber; there’s a pine that’ll run
seventy feet without a limb. I say it’s great, I do.”
Let us glance a moment at the character and capacities of these three
men, as they stand together on the beach of this little gem of the wild
Atlantic coast.
They represent the yeomanry of the nation. They are of the old stock;
not technically religious men, and yet no word of profanity, or
disrespect to religion, finds utterance or countenance from them. That
which, in their estimation, is of the greatest importance, is to have
something which they have earned with their own hands. Look at them,
as they stand there at the water’s edge, and know them. Physically
considered, they are noble specimens of manly vigor and power.
What would some of the effeminate dandies that throng our streets,
or the scions of nobility in the old world, be good for on that wild
sea-beach? But these men can live there, and cause others to live, and
turn the wilderness into a garden.
Isaac Murch is five feet eleven inches in height, fifty-three years of
age, without a gray hair on his head, of powerful, compact frame, with
a world of intelligence and kindness in his face, and something about
him that, without the least assumption, caused his neighbors to respect
his opinion, and look up to him as a leader. His early advantages for
learning were very slight; but since he has been in easy circumstances,
he has improved strong natural capacities by reading and observation.
Joe Griffin was twenty-two--a boy, as Isaac Murch called him; and
a great red-cheeked, corn-fed boy he was, too; six feet in his
stockings, and weighing a hundred and eighty pounds; loose-jointed,
big-boned, thin in the flanks, not long-legged, but getting his length
between his shoulders and his hips. He is of less capacity, and more
interested in physical matters. He can read and write, cipher as far as
the “rule of three,” and cast interest; but he has a knack of handling
tools that comes by nature. As the neighbors say, he has an eye,--that
is, he can judge of proportions, and, with his great clumsy fingers,
do anything with wood that he likes; but his great ambition is, to go
ahead and do the work. He’s smart, and knows it, and likes to have
other people know it. He don’t calculate to let anybody go ahead of
him with a scythe, or chop into the side of a tree, or put hay on to a
cart, quicker than himself. Indeed there were very few that could; for
he was not only strong, but tough, and possessed infinite tact, laying
out his strength to the best advantage.
Let us consider the type of labor presented to us. Here are three live
Yankees, in whom all the shrewd, inventive genius of the race has been
stimulated by necessity,--all of them, from early life, having been
flung upon their own resources.
They are helping one of their number to build a house for himself and
his young wife to live in. One of them has already passed through that
experience of life which their employer is about to enter. The other
expects to, for he also intends to be married, and have a home and
land of his own. They therefore go about their work with interest and
sympathy.
How different are these men from what is generally termed _help_! They
are hired, to be sure; but the sentiment which inspires their labor is
entirely different from that feeling of drudgery, under the influence
of which the tenantry of Europe, or even the Irish servants in this
country, perform their work.
Isaac Murch is an independent, wealthy farmer,--a mechanic by
nature,--who has acquired the property he holds with his own hands,
and would scorn to be a hired servant, like an Irish navvy; but for
_accommodation_, he will hire some one to get in his own harvest, and
in the cold, frosty nights, when he might be comfortable at home in the
blankets, he will go on to Elm Island, sweat and work, live rough, and
sleep on the ground, to build a house for his neighbor; for _neighbor_
meant something in those days.
As for Joe Griffin, he’s counting every dollar, and looking forward to
the day when he shall have a home of his own, and plough his own acres,
and is ambitious to earn his wages.
How superior are the results of such labor, to that of the man who
has no ambition of ever being anything more than a servant, and only
exercises his ingenuity in getting through the day, and shirking all
the work he can! They knew that Ben had nothing but his hands to
help himself with, and couldn’t afford to pay them for watching the
shadows; besides, they had a reputation to sustain, of which they
were sufficiently proud. They knew very well that everybody within a
circle of ten miles would know what they were about before night, and
what remarks would be made about them at the blacksmith’s shop, the
grist-mill, and around the firesides.
“Well, now, if there ain’t a team--Isaac Murch, Ben Rhines, and Joe
Griffin! Pine trees’ll have to take it now, if they’ve got Isaac Murch
to lay out the work, and Ben and Joe to back him up. Won’t they have a
good time, though, seeing which is the smartest?”
“Wal, sartainly,” exclaimed old Aunt Molly Bradish, “Joe Griffin has
met his match for once; he can’t do anything with Ben Rhines; he’d
pull up a pine tree by the roots, if he took a notion.”
“Joe can’t, of course, take hold of a log to lift with Ben, nor anybody
else in this world,” said Seth Warren; “but I’ll bet he’ll chop into
the side of a tree as quick; he strikes so true, he wouldn’t miss a
clip once in a fortnight. I saw him cut a pig of lead in two, down at
the mill; and though he struck ten times, he hit so true that you could
see but one mark of the axe.”
“Wal,” replied Aunt Molly, “there’s this to be said of Ben Rhines,
that is not to be said of everybody: I took him in my arms when he
was born, and have lived a near neighbor to him from that day to
this, and I never knew or heard of his using his strength to harm a
fellow-critter, except they desarved it most outrageously. I’ve seen
little snipper-snappers impose upon him, and all the same as spit in
his face, and he never let on that he heard them. Sally’s my own niece,
and I set my eyes by her; but I couldn’t wish her better luck than to
marry Ben. He’s helped everybody; I should think somebody might have
sprawl enough to get up a ‘bee’ and help him.”
They also knew that, when they went to meeting, Sunday, everybody
would want to know how much they’d done. Added to this was the pride
of emulation, which leads men of any pluck to exert themselves in the
presence of each other. This is a kind of labor that can exist nowhere
but in a free country, is the result of its institutions, from which
proceed the motives, and a thousand subtle influences which beget it.
The island well merited Joe’s encomium. On the eastern side, adjoining
the brook, was a large space, having a slight elevation, covered
with green grass, extending back to the middle ridge, which, at
its extremity, terminated in a perpendicular ledge, which, sloping
gradually on the eastern side, and disappearing, crossed the brook,
where it again came to the surface, forming a natural dam, about two
feet in height, with a little fissure in the middle, worn by the
passage of the water. Over this the stream fell with a pleasant murmur,
mingling very sweetly with the deeper tone of the breakers. On either
side of the brook were two enormous elm trees, united by a great root,
flat on the surface, which bridged the brook a very little above the
fall. Under this root, which was as large as a man’s body, the water
had a free passage, except in the spring and autumn, when the brook
was swollen by melting snows and rains. Then the old root was half
buried in water. The high tides came over this natural dam; and in the
brackish water were great quantities of smelts and frost fish; and eels
also ran up through the fissure in the ledge. The summit of the high
ledge was covered with white birches, the great forked roots, rough
and black with whorls and blisters, running along the very edge of the
rocks, while their limbs, stretching themselves towards the sun, fell
in great masses over its edge.
They are very much mistaken who suppose that no one can appreciate
natural beauty, or hold communion with the beautiful forms of nature,
and grow by it, who has not graduated at a university and read Homer.
Joe Griffin appreciated the beauty of this spot, and felt it to his
heart’s core; and so did big Ben, though they could not express it in
artistic language.
Ben, in consultation with uncle Isaac, had determined to hew his logs
for their whole length only on two sides, which, as it was late in the
year, and they were pressed for time, would save much labor; but at
the ends, and where the doors and windows were to be, to hew them to a
“proud edge.” This would give good joints at the ends, and make the
house as tight as though it was all square timber.
“Where are you going to set your house?” inquired Uncle Isaac.
“Here,” said Ben, walking up to the slope above some elms that grew
close together, and sticking down a crowbar; “I want my house under the
lee of the woods and the hill, and my garden under that warm ledge.”
“How large will you have it on the ground?”
“Thirty-six by thirty-nine.”
“Jerusalem!” exclaimed Joe; “that’s a big house for two people, and a
little yellow dog with white on the end of his tail, to live in; hope
you won’t be crowded.”
“Log houses,” said Uncle Isaac, “last some time; perhaps he thinks
there’ll be more of them before it rots down.”
“At first,” said Ben, “and perhaps for some years, it’ll have to be
house, barn, corn-house, workshop, and everything.”
“You’ll have your cellar under half of it; how high will you have it?”
“I never have thought anything about that.”
“Well, I’d drop the beams down, and have it a story and a half; that
great chamber’ll be the best part of the house; ’twill make you a
splendid corn-house; that’s the way your grandfather’s was, and many a
bushel of corn I’ve shelled in it. If I’m boss, as you, Ben, are strong
enough to hold the scraper alone, you and Joe can take the plough, and
go to ploughing and scraping out the cellar, and I’ll go to the woods
and pick out and cut the trees.”
“The sun is getting low,” said Ben; “it is time we were making
calculations for sleeping to-night, whether in the ‘gundelow,’ with a
sail over us, or in a bush camp.”
“I go in for the bush camp,” said Uncle Isaac.
“And I’m the boy to build it,” said Joe; “takes me to do that.”
“Go ahead, Joe, and build it, and we’ll get the wood for the fire.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Joe went into the edge of a little
clump of bushes, and in a few minutes cut out a space about twelve
feet square, leaving an opening between two trees, where he went in,
of about three feet. As fast as he cut the trees, he thrust them back,
and jammed them in among the others, making a thick wall; he then wove
two or three small trees in on the side to keep them from falling
in. He then cut three or four small beech limbs, twisted them into
withes, bent down the tops of three or four trees on the sides, tied
them together with the withes, thus forming the roof; then getting the
boat’s sail, threw it over the top, and a little brush over that, to
break the force of the rain. He then strewed some hemlock brush on the
floor to sleep on.
“I’ll risk any rain-storm driving us out of that,” said Joe,
contemplating his edifice with great satisfaction.
“I must have a door,” said Joe, “or these plaguy oxen and sheep’ll be
in there when we ain’t, and bother us.”
You may think this a difficult matter, but Joe never wasted a thought
on’t. He took three spruce poles, as long as the height of the opening,
drove them into the ground, and wattled them with birch limbs; he then
fastened a pole across each end, and one in the middle, leaving the
middle one protruding about four inches on the right side; that was a
latch. He now took a little hemlock, peeled the bark off, and drove
it into the ground on the left side; this was the door-post. He made
hinges of withes, which slipped easily round the smooth pole. On the
right hand tree grew a limb, slanting upwards; this he cut off about
three inches from the tree; then lifting the door, he threw it into
the angle, and it was shut and latched.
He drove two crotch-poles into the ground, just before the door, and
put another across; he then cut a limb with a side branch growing out
of it, and hooked it over the pole; cut a deep notch in the lower end
of it, to receive the bail of the pot, and hung it on.
Uncle Isaac and Ben now came with a whole cart full of dry wood, which
they had picked up, and a fire was kindled. It was not long before the
flavor of the coot stew saluted their nostrils.
“O, that smells good,” said Joe; “I’m savage hungry.” Seizing his axe,
he cut some great chips out of the side of a tree, which he hollowed
out, and giving one to each, said, “There’s the plates; they don’t need
any washing; you can shie them into the fire when you’re done; there’s
enough more where they come from.”
The stew was now taken from the fire, and these hardy men, who had
shown so much capacity for labor during the day, manifested no less
for eating. When the solid contents of the stew had disappeared, Joe
exclaimed, “I think it’s too bad to lose all this good gravy in the
pot.” He went to the beach and got three clam-shells; these they stuck
in the end of split sticks, and soon despatched the contents of the pot.
“Well,” said Uncle Isaac, as they stretched themselves around the
blazing fire, “we’ve got on here, made a beginning, and got to
housekeeping; and that will do pretty well for one day. We couldn’t
expect to make much show to-day; but to-morrow we shall get to work
betimes, and bring more to pass.”
“I’m sorry I forgot to bring a drag,” said Ben; “we’ve nothing to haul
the rocks on.”
“That’s a thing we must have,” said Uncle Isaac; “I’ll make one right
off.”
“You can’t make it to-night,” said Ben.
“The dogs I can’t. Joe, cut that little red oak; you can do it in
three minutes. Make a blaze, Ben, to see to work by; then run to the
‘gundelow,’ and bring up that plank I saw there.”
By the time Ben returned with the plank the tree was down.
“Now, Joe,” said Uncle Isaac, “you can take one side of the tree, and I
will the other, and see if you can keep up with your grandfather. You,
Ben, may saw up that plank into pieces three feet long, and make some
wooden pins.”
By nine o’clock the drag was made.
“There,” said Uncle Isaac, “that hasn’t killed anybody; ’twould have
been an awful waste to have taken good daylight for that. I’m not sure
but ’twould have been a sin; and we’ve plenty of time left to sleep.”
Thursday was occupied in framing together the sills, and laying the
lower floor, in order that they might have it to stand on while rolling
up the logs. It was left rough, because Uncle Isaac said it would wear
smoother than if ’twas planed.
“I hope,” said Joe, “it won’t be like old Uncle Yelf’s floor. He had
a floor of hemlock boards, rough from the saw; they had a heap of
grandchildren, every one of them barefoot. Go in there when you would,
for a fortnight, there’d be old granny with her darning-needle, and
a great young one’s foot up in her lap, a-picking out the splinters,
while the young one, with both hands on the floor, was screaming bloody
murder. By the time she’d picked the splinters out of his feet, there’d
be as many more in his hands.”
Saturday forenoon was spent in hauling logs, and rolling them up on
skids, preparatory to hewing.
Just as they had finished dinner, Joe suddenly cried, “What’s that in
that bushy spruce on the edge of the bank?”
“I don’t see anything,” said Ben.
“Nor I, now; but I know there was something there, and I believe it’s
there now.”
“Perhaps it’s a coon,” said Uncle Isaac.
“A coon? How could a coon get on to this island?”
“How could he get here? How could the squirrels and woodchucks get
here? God Almighty put ’em here.”
Going to the tree, Joe peered a long time among the branches; at length
he exclaimed, “Here he is: get your gun, Ben!”
“I shot away the last powder I had to kindle fire this morning; but
we’ll stone him down.”
They pelted him with stones in vain, the thick limbs causing them all
to glance.
“Climb up and get him, Joe.”
“Climb up yourself, Ben; they say their bite’s rank ‘pizen.’”
“I’ll have that coon,” said Ben, “if it takes all day. Cut the tree
down, Joe.”
As it fell, the coon leaped from it; and though the stones fell thick
and fast around him, he ran up the bank and under the logs. Then began
a most exciting race, the men rolling the logs here and there, and
striking at him between them, till finally he broke cover, and ran for
the woods, with the whole scout at his heels. Ben overtook him just as
he was running up a tree, and, catching him by the tail, flung him over
his head: he landed on Joe’s back, who, having a mortal terror of the
bite of a coon, roared with agony; but the creature, too frightened to
bite, rolled off his back to the ground, and passing Uncle Isaac, who
was so full of tickle that he could not lift a finger to stop him, ran
under the timber again. As he was now too far gone to try another race
for the woods, he hid under a log, one end of which lay upon a block,
and the other on the ground.
Ben saw his eyes shine, and kicked the log off the block; as the coon
attempted to run out, it fell on his tail and held him fast. There he
sat, captive but undismayed, showing his white teeth, and frothing at
his mouth with pain and rage.
“How are you, coonie?” said Joe, taking off his hat and making a low
bow; “by the chances of war you are now our prisoner; we are cannibals,
of the cannibal tribe, and eat all our captives; you must die for the
good of the tribe;” and thus saying he knocked him on the head.
“I’ll get mother to bake him to-night,” said Ben; “come over to-morrow,
Joe, and help eat him.”
“Boys,” said Uncle Isaac, “don’t you think we look well skylarking at
this rate? and to-day is Saturday, too; now we must put in hard enough
to make up for it.”
They labored till dark, as if their lives depended on it.
“I thought you were going to leave off earlier Saturday night,” said
Hannah Murch, as she met them at the landing. “I’ve been waiting here
more’n two hours in the cold. I was afraid some accident had befallen
you.”
Ben held up the raccoon.
“I see how it is; you’ve been cooning, and had to work later to make it
up. Isaac, I do wish you would ever leave off being a boy.”
“Well, you’re the first woman I ever heard of that wanted her husband
to grow old.”