THE CANOE MATCH.
It was a still September day,――an ideal day for the canoe match. The
sky had taken on that peculiar sapphire hue so common to the season.
Never had the limpid current of the Merrimack shone clearer along the
two-mile course where it moved with sluggish motion toward the Falls
of Namaske. If the day was ideal, so was this portion of the sparkling
stream an ideal track for the light barks of the rival canoeists.
At a point where a bend in the bank curved sharply toward the west,
cutting in twain the beach of white sand, a crowd of spectators had
gathered to witness the great event of the autumn. A dozen feet above
these twin knots of anxious watchers, standing on a wide, smooth
breadth of land,――a natural terrace,――were twice their numbers. Under
the giant pines, rearing their straight trunks from seventy-five to one
hundred feet into the air without a branch to mar their symmetry, and
tufted at the top with oval masses of foliage, the view was extended
and beautiful. A hundred yards to the rear the ground ascended
abruptly in a far-reaching hill, which was covered with a heavy growth
of trees.
Not satisfied with such advantages as the others had obtained to watch
the race, four adventurous boys had climbed into the topmost branches
of a pine growing on the river’s bank, and which some storm had so far
uprooted as to cause the forest monarch to lean far out over the water.
Foremost of this quartette was Lige Bitlock, for once obliged to leave
his dog in the background. From this position a good view of the river
was had for the entire distance of the course, so straight does the
stream flow at this portion of its journey.
It was now a quarter to two o’clock, and in fifteen minutes the race
was expected to start. Both parties of the rivals were already on the
ground, or rather water, the observed of all and the subjects of a
continual flow of running comments. All of the preliminary arrangements
had been made, excepting that most important one of selecting a judge.
That was the exact situation, though in the minds of all a unanimous
selection had been made by both sides. Woodranger was that choice. But
the forester for some reason had not appeared, and until he came and
accepted the trust, it could not be said a judge had been obtained. No
one knew where he was. Neither was it certain he would come at all. In
that dilemma Captain Goffe was expected to decide the match. It was
generally understood that he would not accept if the Woodranger came.
So you see that while the judge was really chosen, no one knew who he
would be.
In this anxious delay, though the time set had not fully arrived, the
onlookers, as they generally do, got impatient. The two committees were
besieged with questions.
It was to be a three-mile race, the canoeists going up-stream a mile,
and turning and going down-stream a mile below the starting-place.
This rather unusual way of conducting the match had been decided upon
from a wish to give the spectators the best possible opportunity to
witness the trial. Both teams were claimed to be in fine condition, and
certainly everything else was in their favour.
Naturally, none were more impatient for the match to open than
the contestants, who had paddled to positions nearly opposite the
spectators, and were discussing the prospect in whispers among
themselves.
“Do you think we shall win?” asked Billy Stark, who was a little
nervous over the trying situation.
“Let us think so until we are fairly beaten,” replied Norman. “Remember
very much depends on the last mile. Don’t get winded going up the
stream. If Johnny does get ahead of us, don’t let that fact discourage
you. It is the last part that counts.”
“And be careful how you drop your paddle,” said Robert Rogers, who
was not inclined to talk much on occasions like that. “You must not
get ahead of Mac and me. Remember, Billy, that we must move exactly
together.”
“Ay, you remember those were the last words of Woodranger,” said Norman.
“I wonder where the old fellow is,” commented Billy. “I believe I could
do better if he were here. I had rather he would be judge than Captain
Goffe. It doesn’t seem right to have Johnny’s father to decide a race
in which his own boy is captain.”
“That is why Captain Goffe does not like to accept. Captain Blanchard
was asked, but he said he couldn’t be here. What is that cheering for?”
Until then the crowds had been silent, but now a lusty cheer was given
by those on the terrace, though the spectators below them remained
quiet. The cause of the outburst was soon explained by the appearance
of Captain Blanchard, who had been seen by those from their elevated
position before their companions.
“I had rather he would be umpire than Goffe,” declared young Rogers.
Meanwhile a conversation of somewhat similar nature, though varied
to suit the desires of the rival crew, had been carried on. It is,
perhaps, needless to say that the Cohas boys were as confident of
winning the match as their opponents. The spectators seemed about
equally divided in their favours and hopes.
“I tell you what it is, Mac, I’ll wager my first fall pelt that the
Namaske boys are going to whip ’em others!” exclaimed a tall, bony
looker-on, whose appearance showed plainly his place of nativity.
“Ne’er fear o’ my taking ye up, Archie, though it do seem Goffe’s crew
air in deadly ’arnest,” replied a companion.
“An’ going to bite vict’ry right out o’ th’ Scotch boys’ teeth!”
exclaimed a third. “I’ll take yer bet, Archie, ef McPherson daresn’t!”
“Done!” was the quick rejoinder of the first speaker. “I’m sure o’
doubling my game.”
“Th’ Goffes were never beaten!” interjected another. “See whut a
breadth o’ chist Johnny has. Jis’ like his father. An’ sich forearms!
Then there’s Jimmy! Jimmy’s going to last till th’ last stroke. Ah,
Cap’n Goffe knowed who to pick. With him fer judge we’re sure.”
“Avaunt wi’ yer nonsense! Whut’s Johnny Goffe’s brawn compared to
young McNiel’s arm? Mac can take one in each hand an’ flip their heels
togither. Whut’s Johnny’s craft compared to Robby Rogers’s cunning?
Robby is Woodranger’s favourite and trained in his ways. Them two
air th’ boys fer me,――the boys who made th’ handsomest shots at th’
Pines. But whut air th’ committees doing now? Why be they buzzing Cap’n
Blanchard so?”
The committees, aided by Captain Goffe, were urging Captain Blanchard
to accept the position of judge of the race, when a louder cheering
than any before broke upon the scene, the wild cries prolonged into a
series of huzzas which rang far and wide up and down the river. Nor had
they far to look for the explanation, for a canoe, skimming the water
with bird-like swiftness, and holding the well-known figure of the
Woodranger, was to be seen near at hand.
The chairman of the committee at once beckoned to the forester, who
sped his light craft near to the anxious group.
“You’re the one we’ve been looking and waiting for, Woodranger. We want
you to act as judge of the match. You’re better versed in canoeing than
any of us, and you’re just the one to decide the race.”
To the surprise and disappointment of all, the forester shook his head.
“I durst not do it, man, I durst not do it. Varsed in the ways o’
dipping a paddle I may be, and though it be not proper for me to say
it, I may have picked up the knack o’ the red man’s cunning. But there
be personal p’ints in this matter, which would make it an indiscretion
for me to meddle. I might be accused, and mind you I say not without
reason, o’ partiality. Robby, you mus’ remember, is my pupil in the
great school o’ natur’. And the lad, McNiel,――but I need not detail
my mind. They’re six likely lads, and I love and respect them all. I
thought mebbe I’d sort o’ trail along behind, and if anything――mind
you, I say if anything unforeseen does happen,――not that I’m expecting
it,――I’ll be near to lend a helping hand. More’n that I durst not
undertake. I cannot dissemble; I’m neutral in this matter.”
Understanding that it would be useless to urge the Woodranger to do
what his judgment did not dictate, the committee then pressed Captain
Blanchard to accept the trust. The latter did not hesitate, after
finding that their first choice could not be pressed into service.
His acceptance was very agreeable to both sides, for though the
Proprietors’ clerk of Tyng Township at the time, he was known to be
always fair in his dealings with both factions.
No sooner was this decision reached than Chairman Hall jumped upon a
handy stump, and shouted so as to be heard by every one:
“Arrangements completed. ’Squire Blanchard will decide the race. Are
you in the canoes ready for the word?”
“Ready!” rang out the word in six voices, as if spoken by one, falling
clearly on the profound silence which had now bound the spectators.
“Ready it is, then. Time! One, two, three――go!”
So well had the starter timed himself that it was exactly two o’clock
by Captain Blanchard’s watch as the signal was given.
As one the six paddles dropped into the water, and side by side the
two canoes shot up the stream, while loud, prolonged cheers from the
spectators made the woods ring.
“It were a fair start and above discussion,” said the Woodranger to
himself, as he sent his light bark in the silvery track of the rival
canoes. “I’m afeerd Robby has set a stroke that’ll puzzle ’em to hold
to the eend. Three miles ain’t like spinning a few yards for fun. But,
Lordy’s me! how I do take on, and the race only begun.”
It was a beautiful sight to witness, to see the six paddles rise and
fall with such automatic precision that they seemed to be moved by
machinery, while the heads and bodies of the rowers rose and sank with
equal regularity. After the first outburst the crowds again became
silent, and, except the splash of a paddle now and then, as one of the
rowers failed to feather the edge as he wished, not a sound broke the
stillness of the autumn air.
But it was soon evident that the boys of Cohas were gaining on the
others. At first the spectators were in some doubt of this, but it soon
became certain, even to the most skeptical. Renewed cheering was then
begun, though only the friends of the English boys now did the shouting.
“What’d I tell ye!” cried an overzealous admirer. “Johnny Goffe is sure
to come in ahead. Hurrah for the boys o’ Cohas!”
Others took up the cry, until it rang far and wide, encouraging the
three from the lower settlement to greater exertions. Woodranger,
hearing the cries and realising the situation, shook his head.
Straight as a bee-line did the canoes speed up the river toward the
buoy in the middle of the stream, around which they were expected to
pass and then return to the goal two miles down the watery course. The
boys of Cohas were showing themselves to be of true metal, as well they
might and should, for the work they were destined to perform in later
years. Every one of the three earned a name that for border sagacity
and intrepidity still lives in colonial history. Johnny Goffe, well
worthy of the name of his father, who trained John Stark in the manual
of arms and was General Sullivan’s master of tactics, sufficient honour
for one, to say nothing of his own proud career, had set the stroke for
his crew; and if it was begun at a tremendous pace, he showed no signs
of faltering, as slowly, inch by inch, yard by yard, they continued to
gain on their rivals. At the turning-point, as they swung silently and
swiftly around the buoy, the boys of Cohas were three canoe lengths in
the lead!
Some of the spectators had followed as near as they could in canoes,
while others had tried to keep the race in sight by running along the
bank. Foremost of all flew the Woodranger, casting furtive glances,
ever and anon, toward the rivals.
“The boys of Cohas have turned the buoy four rods ahead!” some one
shouted, and others catching up the cry, it rang from throat to throat,
until it was heard from start to finish.
“The boys of Cohas lead――the race is theirs! Hurrah for the Tyng boys!
Hurrah for Johnny Goffe!”
If the latter was getting the lion’s share of the praise, he was the
coolest of the trio.
“Well done, my hearties!” he cried, as they sent the canoe head down
the stream. “It will be easier now, and we ought to win!”
“We will!” exclaimed Jimmy Hazard, from between his clenched teeth.
But, while he would not own it to himself, he was sorely tried with the
long up-pull.
If the boys of Namaske felt any undue anxiety, they did not show it,
but continued to rush ahead with a stroke which their rivals did not
equal for precision and silence.
“They handle their paddles like Indians,” said the Woodranger to
himself, paying them the highest compliment he could. But shaking his
head, he resumed, “I have strange misgivings. I hope they have not
committed an indiscretion by letting the others get so far ahead of
them. No――no! it cannot be. Alack! how childish I am getting to be.”
Now that the canoes had turned the upper end of the course, there was
a scramble on the part of the spectators to get where they could best
witness the close struggle they believed must take place on the last
quarter. Captain Blanchard, in a canoe, had already stationed himself
where he could command a close view of the finish, the critical point
in the trial.
The boys of Cohas, confident of victory, and with the strength such
confidence gives, were still sending their canoe gliding over the water
at an amazing rate of speed, their friends now continually urging them
on with exultant cries.
Neither were the boys of Namaske idle. They realised that it would
not do for them to allow their rivals to gain another foot, and as
they swept around the buoy they quickened their movements, soon
lessening the distance between them and the others. So closely were the
spectators watching them, that even the fraction gained was noticed,
and the Scotch-Irish improved their opportunity to cheer. But their
cries were drowned by renewed yells from the others, who felt that the
honours belonged to them.
“Robby has a good arm for a lad o’ his age,” soliloquised the
Woodranger, as he witnessed the spurt of those whom it was plain he
favoured in spite of his wish to remain neutral; “but he’s too young to
hold out to the eend. I’m much afeerd――alack a man! why will I fill my
ol’ mind with sich foolishness. They are all likely lads, and the best
must win.”
As one better versed in canoeing, as well as in all phases of wildwood
life, Norman had gladly consented to allow Robby Rogers, though younger
than himself, to be the leader of their crew; but now he was beginning
to think the boy ranger was making a mistake in not giving their rivals
a closer pull at the outset. It was true he felt as fresh as at the
opening, but of what avail would be all of their reserved energy if
they delayed too long the effort to recover the distance they had
lost? Certainly it would soon be too late for them to hope to gain
the victory. Filled with these thoughts, he said, in a low tone, but
plainly heard by the others:
“Has not the time come for us, Rob?”
The reply came in a clear tone:
“Quicker――deeper, lads!”
Then something of the reserved strength of the three was brought into
action. The paddles flashed forth a continual stream of sunlight, while
the silvery trail behind the flying canoe was unbroken for a long
distance. Their friends on the river bank, realising the change, gave
an encouraging cheer. This was drowned, however, by the shouts of the
Tyngs party, who seemed determined to do all the applauding.
Johnny Goffe caught something of the meaning of this new outburst on
the part of the Cohas party, and he endeavoured to arose his companions
to still more effective work. Then, for the first time, he learned that
his crew had begun to feel the effect of their overtasked strength. But
this did not disconcert him. With the advantage they had already won,
it was only necessary for them to hold their own now. He never doubted
their ability to do that.
It was a beautiful sight to see the rival canoes skimming the silvery
current like twin birds, the swift-moving paddles looking not unlike
the white wings of a pair of snowy swans. If the friends of the boys
of Namaske boasted that their champions had begun to gain on the Cohas
crew, the admirers of the latter claimed that it was not enough to
give them any alarm. The Woodranger, than whom no one had watched the
contest closer, or with nicer calculation, knew that half a canoe’s
length had been taken from the gap lying between the two crafts.
Two-thirds of the distance had now been made, and both crews were
apparently doing their best. Slowly but surely the boys of Namaske were
overhauling the others. As this became certain, all cheering ended, as
if the situation was now too momentous for any display of feeling, and
every one stood in silence, intently watching the race. With the skill
and rapidity which seemed to be a sort of second nature to him, the
Woodranger was keeping almost abreast of the rivals, when he thus was
the first to see the disaster which befel the rear crew.
Suddenly, as Billy Stark plied his paddle with increasing power, a
sharp crack, sounding like the report of a firearm, rang loud and
clear, and he reeled over as if shot, and fell in the bottom of the
canoe. Nearly every spectator thought he had been shot, and cries of
horror were heard in every direction.
But there had been no gunshot, no foul play, as far as any person was
concerned. Instead, an accident had occurred almost as disastrous,
as far as the match seemed concerned. His paddle had snapped asunder
under his great exertions, sending him upon his back at the feet of his
companions.
The frail bark careened, and as Norman and Rob realised the disaster
to their assistant, both felt that their hopes were lost. In the face
of such odds they could not hope to win.
“It’s no use,――our race is over!” gasped Rob. He had hardly given
utterance to the hopeless words, when a clarion voice rang over the
water, crying:
“_The brave never give up!_”
It was the Woodranger who uttered the stirring declaration, and the
words came like an inspiration to Norman McNiel, who quickly rallied,
saying to his companion:
“Don’t give up, Rob! We _must_ win!”
It was fortunate then they were comparatively as fresh as at the
outset. The exertions of the race so far had only served to temper the
vigour in their strong limbs. Rob Rogers instantly threw off his fears,
and, himself again, he handled his paddle as he had never done before.
Norman had already set the example, and as if the strength of two Billy
Starks had been imparted to their arms, they sent the canoe ahead like
an arrow sprung from a bow with giant power. Before the spectators had
recovered from their surprise enough to realise what had taken place,
the two boys had covered half of the distance between them and their
rivals.
It was true it was now two against three, but they seemed possessed of
the strength of four. The scene which followed held the onlookers dumb
with wonder. In his excitement Lige Bitlock climbed so far out on his
perch that the branch beneath him broke with a loud snap, sending him
headforemost into the water. But no one heeded his cries or appeals for
help, while he floundered in the river. Every eye and every thought was
concentrated on a more stirring sight.
Johnny Goffe heard and realised enough to know that something had
befallen his opponents, but he felt that it must have been to their
advantage, for he found that they were gaining on him faster than ever.
“They must not――they shall not beat us!” he cried. “On, Jimmy, Willy,
win or die!”
It was a stirring appeal, but Jimmy Hazard was too worn out to rally
successfully, while his companions lacked the iron will and reserved
strength of the sturdy limbs of Norman McNiel and Robert Rogers.
Swifter and swifter this couple sent their light craft onward toward
the goal, gaining on their rivals at every bite of the paddles. Nearer
and nearer they flew, foot by foot, yard by yard, until they were now
abreast!
But both were now down close to the finish line. The Tyngs spectators
still believed and hoped that their champions could hold their own for
the short distance left.
“Hold ’em a jiffy, Johnny!” yelled an excited onlooker. “Don’t let ’em
get ahead. Hurrah for the boys of Cohas!”
The other side was silent, breathless, during that brief interval of
fearful suspense.