THE FOREST FIRE
Those who were boys and girls in the Middle West in the year 1871,
will have a vivid remembrance of the great comet that moved across the
northern sky during the month of August. It was so large and brilliant,
that before the sun had been altogether hidden in the west, the fiery
orb of this celestial stranger could be seen glowing and as night came
on the long tail would appear spreading out in a fan of light half way
across the heavens. Mr. Allen was an educated man, whose favorite study
in his school days had been astronomy, and although he had instructed
his young sons as to the facts concerning comets, their relation to
other heavenly bodies and to the earth, the rumor which had found its
way into this Wisconsin wilderness home, that the world was to be
destroyed by the “fervent heat” of this flaming visitor, had its effect
upon the boys.
To the natural fear of the marvelous and unusual in the sky, was added
the alarming conditions of a severe drouth, all over the county.
Dauphin had told the boys how a burning wad from his gun had set fire
to the dry peat in a marsh to the west, and the “ground” had been
burning there in great holes for more than a week. Before the close
of July the river had ceased to run, and water was only to be found
in the deep holes of its bed. The sky was brassy-looking in the day,
and at night the moon had the appearance of blood. Then came weeks
when a thick haze hung over all the land, and the sickly, yellow-hued
sun could be looked upon with naked eyes. It seemed as if all nature
was disturbed, frightened, and awaiting some impending calamity. The
wild creatures of the forest, birds and animals, became strangely
numerous. Deer were seen about the water holes in the day time, and
seemed scarcely frightened when approached. Grey, black, and big, red
fox-squirrels swarmed in the trees and on the fences. The little patch
of sod corn the boys had planted on the “new breaking” that spring was
harvested in the milk by the southward-moving emigrants of the forest.
A timber scout stopped over night at the hospitable home of Mr.
Thompson and told how the little, lumber-manufacturing town of
Peshtigo, up in the big woods northwest, had been wiped out by fire,
scores of the inhabitants perishing before they could reach the river,
so sudden was the coming of the storm of flame over the forest. Many
others had been suffocated with smoke or overcome by the fierce heat
and drowned even after they had reached the water. “The big woods from
Lake Superior to Green Bay are burning,” said the traveler.
But what caused the more anxiety to the Allens was the rumor he had
heard at Pete-en-well Ferry that Chicago had been destroyed by fire,
and nearly all the people burned.
The closing up of a matter of his former business had called Mr. Allen
to that city some two weeks previous, and as it was past the time set
for his return, the rumor brought by the timberman filled the family
with alarm. Letters were rare with dwellers in that forest wilderness,
but occasional trips were made to Dexter Crossing, where “tote” teams
passing to the camps along the rivers of the far north would leave mail
forwarded on to these settlers by the postmasters at the towns below.
Rob being the elder of the boys, proposed to make the trip at once to
Dexter Crossing in the chance of a letter having been sent there to
them by their father. There was, of course, danger that the great fire
of the northeast might sweep down upon them any day, and as Dexter was
well within the big woods the fate of one caught out there could be
fearfully imagined. But the anxiety of the family as to the safety of
Mr. Allen outweighed their caution, and Mrs. Allen gave her consent for
Rob to make the trip.
The lad reached the settlement at Dexter Crossing safely, and to his
joy found there a letter from his father. A great fire had indeed swept
over the very heart of Chicago, destroying almost the entire business
portion, and hundreds of lives had been lost. Fortunately Mr. Allen had
been in a district not reached by the flames, and while he had been
delayed by the catastrophe, would be able to reach home the following
week.
Impatient to be back at home with the good news, Rob resolved to start
upon the return trip that night, walking ten miles or so, then resting
until daybreak. Thoroughly wearied with his long tramp, he slept
soundly when he finally lay down upon his bed of pine “needles.” When
he awoke it was with a start and sense of discomfort. His watch said it
was morning, past six o’clock, although it was still dark. The air was
close and heavy and carried a pungent odor that made breathing somewhat
difficult. Rob sprang to his feet, and munching his bread and bacon as
he went, resumed his journey. Before he had traveled an hour, the tops
of the tall pines had begun to moan in a rising wind, and a cloud of
smoke was settling down like a pall from the sky. With a clutch of fear
at his heart, Rob realized the meaning--the forest fire had reached
that section; his hope of safety lay in reaching the more open country
about his home before the storm of fire should be upon him.
Breaking into a “long run,” an exercise which the boys had practiced
until they were able to keep up the gait for two or three miles, Rob
began the race. The smoke grew more dense; tears ran down the boy’s
face from smarting eyes. Choking for air, he bound his handkerchief
about his mouth and nose, and ran on. Again and again he would stumble
and fall over tree-roots rising in the way. Finally he noticed that
close to the ground there was a current of cool, pure air, and so,
lying flat on his face, he would fill his lungs, then rise and dash
forward as far as he could, and fall to the earth to breathe again.
While he lay gasping for breath after a long run, there came to his
ears the sound as of a waterfall in the distance. The volume of sound
increased until it became a roar, and all at once the pall of darkness
broke out into a glare of blinding flame--the tempest of fire was upon
him. The very air seemed to be on fire. A great pine would start into
a blaze, and an ascending current of air snatching a limb or a burning
bunch of cones would hurl it on into the top of another tree an hundred
feet away. The first rush was quickly over. The resinous foliage of the
green trees was soon licked up by the flames, but the awful destruction
would continue for days.
The bed of dry “needles,” fallen leaves of the yearly shedding of
the pines, made excellent kindling to light the great trunks of the
forest giants, which, catching, would burn until consumed, or until
extinguished by a heavy rain. Fortunately the latter usually occurred.
Whether or not it be founded in fact, there is a saying widely accepted
that every large battle and great fire is followed by a hard rainstorm.
Thus it is that the greatest damage in forest fires is to the young
timber, the small trees growing close together being left bare and
dead, if not consumed at once. Among the big trees there is little
underbrush, and while the foliage and small limbs are destroyed, and
great holes sometimes burned in the trunks near the ground, the trees
recover, and put forth their green again the following spring.
All sense seemed to leave Rob except the one to keep going. No longer
could he stand to run more than a few feet in the fierce heat. His hair
was singed; the thick soles of his boots were cracked and shriveled
up from stepping upon embers and burning limbs. His woolen jacket and
trousers were a protection to his body, but when a dead tree, all
ablaze, fell with a crash just in front of him, he felt that he could
go no further. Almost without volition he crawled off to one side--and
for a time lost consciousness. Soon he came to himself and realized
that his blistered face and hands were deliciously cool, and that he
was breathing easily. He had fortunately crawled into a little “swale,”
one of the small, moss-covered depressions that mark the edge of the
big forest, as it opens out into the small timber and marshes of the
ancient lake. The little basin, filled with moss, was like a great
sponge from which not all the moisture had been wrung by the fierce
heat of the summer, and it meant life to Rob as he buried his face in
it.
Danger to the lad from falling trees and flying firebrands was not
over, but he was not far from the open prairie, now a blackened waste,
and with heart anxious for the loved ones at home, he pushed on.
The fire had, after all, not been connected with the great fire of
the northeast, but was local in extent, covering some ten miles from
north to south, and perhaps fifteen from its eastern starting point,
to where it was stopped by the deep marshes on the west. The humble
home on the Necedah river was unharmed, and great was the rejoicing
that night as Rob returned alive, with the letter, although it was
many weeks before the lad fully recovered from the experiences of that
fearful trip through the burning forest.