Clarke speak for himself. His words were spoken as he renewed his
acquaintance with the missioner two years later. The audience had
dispersed, and George and the speaker walked down the street of the
little fishing village. Bill Bird was the main subject of their
conversation. For a long time they stood in the darkness as George
narrated all that had transpired after the missioner's departure from
the Western town. When his story was ended, the missioner clasped his
hand and said, "God bless you, Clarke, for what you did in Bill's
behalf. If only we could multiply that kind of effort we could redeem
this dominion."
George clung to the extended hand as he said, "You are very good, sir,
to say that to me, but I tell you honestly, when I tried to do that
little bit for Bill Bird, I did a deal more for George Clarke. I have
had my ups and downs as you know. Since I've been in the East I've
done pretty well on the whole, but honestly, sir, the palmiest days
I've ever had, and the best returns my bank-book ever showed, are as
nothing in value compared to the satisfaction that came to me and my
wife when we saw Bill Bird solidly on his feet as a Christian man. If
you're going back by the Intercolonial, try to stop over at C----.
Bill would be mighty glad to see you, and you'll see what the Lord can
do with a man who has gone even as far as the "snake-room."
[Illustration:
1. Part of a Town Site after being swept by Bush Fires.
2. A Bush Fire getting under way.]
[Illustration:
1. Improvised Dwellings: cover districts into which
people have fled for safety.
2. The long line of Coke Ovens. (See page 183.)
3. The Fire rapidly approaching.]
THE BUSH FIRE.
"Bush fires are said to be raging throughout the vicinity of Lundville."
This bulletin was one of several occupying the boards in front of "The
Journal" building in Carlton Mines--a British Columbia mining town. As
Lundville was thirty miles south-west, no unusual anxiety was felt by
those who read the brief announcement about noon-tide on an August day.
The atmosphere had been heavy with smoke for the past forty-eight
hours; but that was not at all uncommon during that month.
By nightfall, however, the town was enveloped in a dense cloud of
smoke; and from the roofs of high buildings on the outskirts the
atmosphere seemed to be penetrated by the lurid glow of the raging
fires which now extended for several miles. Telephone communication
with Lundville had been impossible since noon, and from Burnt River,
only fifteen miles away, the last message received told of the whole
population being engaged in a desperate effort to effectively check the
fire which threatened to wipe out the village. From Burnt River to
Carlton Mines there were unbroken timber lands, a fact which caused
deep anxiety to many of the inhabitants of the mining town. Not a few
retired that night with forebodings that made anything but fitful and
troubled sleep impossible. Many were the fervent hopes that ere
morning the heavens might open and send forth an abundance of rain upon
the sapless woods and withered grasses. Nothing but a heavy downpour
of several hours' duration would penetrate the parched earth far enough
to quench the fire which was well into the root-filled soil.
Fire rangers, assisted by many citizens, including nearly a hundred
miners, spent the night in the woods at the edge of the town, cutting
down as much bush as was possible, and clearing it away from such
points as were considered dangerous connecting links with Carlton
Mines. By dawn it was felt that the night's hard toil and the
precautions taken had left the town fairly secure.
Shortly after daylight, however, the rough trail into Carlton Mines was
dotted for miles with settlers hurrying distractedly, they scarcely
knew where, before the cruel flames that had driven them from their
homes, and that had by this time destroyed those homes and many other
results of several years of hard labour.
All sorts of vehicles, from home-made toy wagons to dump-carts and
ranch-wagons were loaded with household effects, some of which had to
be left behind, when a few hours later, all that most people could hope
to save was life itself.
By six o'clock, fire, church, and school-bells clanged out their
general alarm, calling every available citizen to the fire-fighting,
that perchance united effort might save the town. Already huge sparks
were raining upon the south-west section, but fortunately in that
section the shacks and buildings were few and far between. Yet it was
soon apparent that the fire-fighters could not hold their position,
even there, but would have to take up a fresh stand nearer the town's
centre. Every household was on guard; tubs, barrels, pails, milkcans
and kitchen utensils were filled with water, and for a time the falling
sparks were quenched almost as quickly as they fell. Straddle-legged
on the ridge of the roofs in the fire zone, boys and men with dampened
clothes were kept busy extinguishing the sparks that would so easily
ignite shingles upon which no rain had fallen for five weeks.
Throughout these long anxious hours, when men were toiling side by side
for the protection of their town and their homes, no man had acquitted
himself more worthily than the stalwart minister of St. Paul's Church.
Until that night no one knew how he could make the chips fly from the
tree trunk, and when the most needed work was the turning over of sods
to arrest the fire running through the dry grass, no hands were readier
than those of the Reverend Walter Nicholson, and when his palms began
to blister and to peel, no one knew of it except himself.
When, after the general alarm, reinforcements arrived, he felt he could
no longer leave his loved ones without some word of the probable and
immediate danger. Stopping at only one or two homes on the way, he
hastened to the manse. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Mrs.
Nicholson could not restrain her laughter, as her husband stood,
coatless and vestless, at the door of the dining-room. Pieces of
coarse string had been substituted for certain important buttons which
had been lost in his strenuous activity at the fire-fighting. The
all-night's toil in the dirt and the smoke, amidst falling ashes, had
transformed the immaculately clean husband into a dirt-begrimed
labourer.
"It looks as if the town was doomed, Jess," he commenced. "The
brewery's gone (though that's no particular loss), and a number of
shacks are already burnt down. I must get right back with the men, but
in the meantime you'd better get what you value most into a couple of
valises. You'll need a few extra clothes for the youngsters and
yourself. Put my marginal bible and my black suit in if you can. It's
of no use trying to take much, as we may have to foot it for quite a
distance. The 'Eastbound' hasn't come in yet, and it's hard to get any
information because the wires are down, but it looks as if some of the
bridges had been burned, so there isn't much hope of getting out by
rail. You can count on me being back in about half an hour."
Mrs. Nicholson, as a bride, had brought to her Western home the
handiwork of three busy years, and when the furnishing had been
completed and her "extras" tastefully arranged, the minister and his
young wife had looked with grateful pride upon the attractiveness of
the manse. During the ten subsequent years her enthusiasm in keeping
that home orderly, clean and cosy, had never failed. And now she had
less than half an hour in which to select what she most desired from
that home that had become endeared by ten years of effort to keep it,
as it had been kept, a radiant centre of helpfulness--and that
selection from their entire earthly possessions must fit the narrow
compass of two valises.
The reader who is able to imagine Mrs. Nicholson's feelings on that
memorable nineteenth day of August will readily believe that a few
minutes were lost in the feeling of helplessness as to what was best to
select. A glance through the window at the smoke-filled street, and
occasional sparks, put an end to her hesitancy. Whatever was to be
done must be done quickly. Her husband's request was first complied
with, then such clothing as she and the children might need was
included, and a small supply of food for immediate needs. Within a few
minutes she had gathered together the few articles of jewellery she
possessed, a package of business papers, a bit of silverware, one or
two photographs, and an "encyclopædic" scrapbook which contained, among
many other interesting items, several newspaper clippings of the work
and doings of the Rev. W. Nicholson. From her much-prized secretary, a
Christmas gift from the children in her Sunday School class, she took a
locket in which was a small curl of hair--her mother's hair.
In her hurried packing she had not forgotten that at least two things
must be included from her box of relics and sentimental treasures in
the attic. The first pair of baby shoes ever worn in the manse were
among Mrs. Nicholson's most valued reminders of the happy days spent in
caring for Baby Dorothy--now a bright girl of eight years. Whenever a
visit had been made to the box in the attic, the little shoes were
always taken out and looked upon with a loving smile.
There were many other articles of much greater value than what was Mrs.
Nicholson's final selection, but she could not leave "dear little
Hugh's favourite toy." How he had loved that little horse! Even after
the terrible accident that had left the "gee gee" noseless, nothing
could ever displace it in his affections. For at least a year it had
shared his bed without one night's exception, and though it was usually
taken from his arms after the little lad had fallen asleep, it was
always placed on the chair at the bed-side, so that on awakening he
might immediately find his valued wooden friend. And when, during his
long and fatal illness, he was unable to take an interest in any other
toys, the wasted hand would rest for hours across the back of the
broken toy-horse. And so the noseless little animal, with its stand
minus two wheels, found a place among the most valued things that were
chosen from the well-furnished manse when but a brief half-hour was
given in which to make a final choice.
The thirty minutes had not fully elapsed when Mr. Nicholson came
rushing in to say there was not a moment to lose. The wind by this
time had increased well-nigh to a hurricane, and no force of men could
have protected the buildings from the fiery embers that were being
hurled in large quantities in all directions.
Walter Nicholson went forth with the two valises strapped over his
shoulders, while on his left arm he carried his eighteen months old
baby boy. Close behind him came his wife with a few extra wraps thrown
over one arm, and her free hand clasping that of the trembling little
Dorothy. Thus the Nicholson family departed from the manse, that
twelve hours later was nothing but a heap of smouldering ashes.
The streets were filled with terror-stricken people laden with such of
their worldly possessions as their strength would allow. The fierce
wind hastened them on in their frenzied race for life. Shouts,
shrieks, agonized cries and prayers greeted the ears of the minister
and his wife as they joined the homeless throng on the streets of
Carlton Mines. "Every house in Freeman's Terrace is burning." "The
Methodist Church is ablaze." "The Opera House was on fire when we came
by." "Oh, my God! what'll we all do?" "There won't be a house left in
town." "God have mercy on us!" Such were the cries from scores of
voices in the terrified crowd.
Here and there aged and sick folk were being borne in the arms of loved
ones or neighbours, although each one rendering such willing service
knew that the delay involved was imperilling his own life. Perhaps the
saddest sight in the whole sad procession was that of a poor Italian
woman, whose little girl had died the previous morning. The father was
working in a construction gang several miles away, and the word of the
child's death had not yet reached him. When the fire had spread to the
humble dwelling, the distracted and sorrow-stricken mother could not
endure the thought of leaving her darling to the devouring flames.
Tenderly lifting the little one from the casket, she wrapped a shawl
around the lifeless form and struggled with her burden alongside of
some who knew not what she carried. Cries and prayers in her native
tongue were intermingled with her broken English.
Walter Nicholson had forgotten for the moment that the previous
afternoon he had heard of the poor woman's sorrow and had fully
intended to at least call and offer such sympathy and help as was
possible. But the call to the fire-fighting had caused everything else
to be put aside. When, however, he heard the pathetic wail, "Oh, ma
Annetta, ma leetle Annetta," and glanced at the strange-looking bundle
the Italian woman was carrying, he at once surmised the meaning of it
all.
Burdened and anxious though he was, he walked alongside of the lonely
mother that he might share her burden also. The sad-eyed woman looked
into his face, and in an appealing tone said, "Please not mak' her go
from me--ma dear leetle Annetta. Da father, he no come yet. Oh! he
must come first!" Walter Nicholson hurriedly readjusted his baggage
and then held his baby boy so as to leave his right arm free to give
the poor Italian woman such support as was possible. The assistance
given was only slight, but his sympathetic words and the touch of his
hand soothed a little the aching heart of one who felt that day the
loneliness of a bereaved stranger in a strange land.
Information was passed through the fleeing crowd that the work-train
was taking the people out of danger as rapidly as possible, and that
the best course to pursue was to make for the railway station. In any
case, the railway track eastward would be the safest highway down the
Pass, as the mountain stream two miles away might be reached on foot if
necessary. A place of at least temporary protection would be found
there.
Before the station-house was reached, another member was added to the
Nicholson party. A lad of not more than five years had either wandered
away from his home before his friends had felt the necessity to leave,
or had become separated from them on the way. At any rate, he was
doing his very best to make everybody acquainted with the fact that he
was lost. To attempt to locate his friends was out of the question.
Mrs. Nicholson bent over him for a moment, and her words and looks
produced a quieting effect on the little lad, who at once did as he was
bidden, and clung to one of the wraps on the arm of his newly-found
guardian.
By the time the railway station was reached the fire had made such
headway that it would have been impossible to make a safe return as far
as the manse, which had been left less than fifteen minutes before.
The frame buildings of which most of the town was composed made the
onrush of the flames the more rapid.
The station platform was packed with an impatient crowd awaiting the
return of the work-train which had already made two trips as far as the
coke-ovens at Twyford. The line was single track, and the only
rolling-stock available consisted of an antiquated engine and two dingy
passenger cars with rough board seats lengthwise beneath the windows.
The morning of the fire there had been added to these cars a few open
coal trucks. The old engine could not make the grades with anything
but a light train, so that it was seen by many how improbable it was
that all those then waiting could find transportation before the
buildings around them would be licked up by the approaching fire.
Surrounding roofs had been saturated by the station fire-hose, but the
gauge-ball on the water-tank was rapidly lowering, and the engineer at
the pump-house had been compelled to leave his post half an hour
before, so that at best their protection by water was a matter of only
an hour or so.
Yet it needed no small amount of courage to isolate oneself from the
throng and to pass out of sight in that heavy cloud of smoke which
prevented one seeing more than a short distance ahead. The fire now
seemed to have gained headway in other directions, so that even if they
went forth they might soon find themselves in a position where advance
and retreat were alike impossible. Frequent explosions and loudly
crackling timbers added to the anxiety of those who awaited the return
of the work-train.
The Rev. Walter Nicholson was soon surrounded by a group of those
anxious to hear any suggestion he had to make. The Station Agent
assured him that even if the track remained clear, at least two
additional trips would need to be made before all on the platform could
be removed to a place of safety. "Then the wires are dead, Mr.
Nicholson, and we've no news of any other train being on the way, so
there isn't a minute to spare." He explained that the station-yard
might be a comparatively safe place for a while, yet, in view of the
extent of the fire, those remaining might find themselves hemmed in and
have difficulty in getting over the burned and burning earth for many
hours. Several buildings west of the station had already collapsed,
blocking certain portions of the road-bed.
A number decided to follow the minister's lead and start on the journey
along the eastward track. Mrs. Nicholson refused to remain for the
train, preferring to share the fortunes or misfortunes of her husband,
while the poor Italian woman, still clinging to her precious burden,
followed every move her sympathizer made. Would she not wait and try
to get on the train?
"Oh, no, please me walk wid you. I will be so strong!" Even the
little lad refused to be transferred to the care of others, and as none
were particularly anxious to add to their responsibilities, there was
nothing for it but to take him along. It was no easy task that the
Nicholsons had undertaken. The usual heat of mid-August was
intensified by many miles of burning bush, while the smoke added
greatly to the discomfort. Then the poorly ballasted track made
walking exceedingly tiresome. Yet no complaints were uttered: even the
children realized that every effort must be made to reach the stream
before the resistless enemy overtook them. Little more than half a
mile had been covered when the whistle and rumble of the work-train
announced that it was returning for its third load of passengers. A
glance at the cars as the train passed was sufficient to show that fire
had broken out further east, at some point between the pedestrians and
Twyford. The old paint was covered with blisters, and many of the
windows were badly cracked through intense heat. A few minutes later
the train returned with every foot of space occupied, even to the steps
of cars and engine. A number of passengers tried to let their slower
fellow-travellers know that the station-house was in flames, but the
noise from the train drowned most of their words.
The inhabitants of Carlton Mines who had not driven or walked out
earlier in the day or been conveyed on the railway were now hastening
to the limit of their powers in the direction of Twyford. Fortunately
for the almost exhausted pastor, the last half-mile of his journey was
made a trifle easier by the voluntary assistance of a rugged Galician
girl who had been well known at the manse. One small coarse bag
contained her few belongings, and accustomed as she had been to long
walks and heavy loads when she had lived on the Saskatchewan prairie,
the carrying of the baby boy would make small difference to her.
And so at last the mountain stream was reached, and after crossing the
bridge the wearied refugees laid down their burdens on the pebbly bed
at the water's edge. At that point the width of the open space between
the stream-divided bush was only about a hundred feet, so that in case
the fire continued its course the danger would still be very great.
Already they had seen showers of sparks carried much farther than the
short distance that separated the banks between which they stood, and
there was every probability that the timber on each side of the stream
would be ablaze simultaneously.
But to continue their flight through the thick bush that lined both
sides of the track for miles might be to place themselves in a much
worse plight. Where they now stood was an abundance of water, and
fortunately it was shallow enough to make it safe for all to stand in
the centre when that time became necessary. It would then be a matter
of endurance against the stifling heat.
Within five minutes the number of those seeking refuge at the stream
side was considerably over a hundred. The Station Agent was the last
one to arrive, and reported that when the third train-load was leaving,
the railway yards and the station-house was seen to be on fire,
everyone had immediately set out on foot. He had kept in the rear to
be sure that no one was missing.
Except for an attempt on the part of some to safeguard certain
belongings by burying them in the gravel, there was nothing to do but
wait--and to many the moments seemed as hours. It was a race between
old Dave Minehan, the driver on the antiquated engine from the East,
and the devouring elements from the south-west. Which would reach them
first? A few men acted as sentinels, and paced the track to discover
the progress of the fire. The wind had dropped a little, but the
flames were still making rapid headway, and very soon no report was
needed from the outposts--the fire's own voice could be heard only too
plainly. The agent figured out that the work-train had been due over
ten minutes--something must have happened! Surely the train-crew
realized the need of the courageous ones who had voluntarily walked,
and of the others for whom no accommodation was possible.
Flames were now visible to all who were close to the bridge, and the
scorching heat, the stifling smoke, and the ash-laden wind combined to
make waiting almost unendurable. Brows of fainting ones were being
bathed in the merciful stream, and the strongest were becoming fearful.
"Thank God, she's coming!" The shout was from the throat of the
Station Agent who had been down the track listening for the return of
the work-train. The words had scarcely ended when the shrill whistle
from the little engine confirmed the statement.
When a few days later a number of men were discussing the disaster, one
of them spoke for each individual at the stream when he said, "Say! I
used to hate that blooming raspy whistle, but that day it was the
finest bit of music I ever heard."
Dave Minehan slowed up as he neared the bridge, and the Agent signalled
him to stop, and at once scrambled aboard to let him know that
everybody had reached the bridge and that there was no need to try to
go farther. Old Dave was trembling with excitement and irritation, but
just then he had no time to tell of the fretful delay over a hot box,
and all the trouble entailed in putting in a new "brass" at
Twyford--and neither then nor later did he tell of the terrible strain
that he had endured in taking his train through a piece of blazing bush
three miles down.
The eager, frightened people were rushing up the banks, but Dave kept
his train moving until it was about midway on the bridge. From the cab
he shouted to them to "keep off." The moment he brought his train to a
standstill he leaped from his engine and again thundered the same
prohibition. Sharply he yelled to the men to line up and form a
bucket-brigade. The fireman passed a dozen buckets from the tender,
and Dave, with harsh and hasty commands, got the men on their job. For
about five minutes, with a rapidity that would have done credit to a
trained brigade, the double line passed the buckets and old Dave dashed
the water over such portions of the cars as in his judgment needed the
protection. In the meantime he had ordered the rest of the men to soak
a few camp blankets that he had taken the precaution to bring along.
"There's one bad spot where you'll maybe need to cover yourselves a
bit: it'll be raining fire by when we get back--better give your coats
and hats a dip too, boys! Get a move on!"
It was no longer possible to remain on the bridge. The old engineer
shouted "All aboard," and hurried back to his engine. The women and
children were rushed into the passenger car. At one end stood the
Nicholsons, while in the corner the bereaved Italian mother sat with
her lifeless child. More than once had the minister felt that he must
insist on her leaving her burden behind, but each time that he glanced
at the sad face and saw the passionate pleading of her eyes, and
observed the tender clasp of the mother arms, his courage deserted him.
The last foot was scarcely off the ground when old Dave reversed the
lever and opened the throttle, and with a jerk the train started once
more.