ED’S ADVENTURE ON LAKE CHETECK
“Listen, boys,” said Mr. Allen, one night in November, as he looked up
from a letter which a passing tote-teamster had left at the farm. “Here
is a letter from my old friend Taylor, out in Minnesota, and he wants
me to send him a ‘likely boy’ to work during the winter.”
Mr. Taylor was a miller whose old-fashioned grist mill, run by its
large waterwheel, situated where the Des Moines river flows out of Lake
Cheteck, its source, was flour-headquarters for the hardy pioneers of a
large section of that country.
Sturdy Ed begged so earnestly to be permitted to take the place with
their father’s old friend for the winter, that, after much hesitancy,
and no little planning, the consent of Mr. and Mrs. Allen was given.
It was a serious journey for a boy at that time. The country, just
emerging from the awful paralysis of the civil war, was but entering
upon that era of railroad building which was to cover the west with
a network of shining steel. As yet there were few railroads in that
state which in a short time was to take front rank in grain raising and
milling. Saint Paul was scarcely more than a big village, and the now
magnificent metropolis at the falls of St. Anthony had not yet emerged
from its swaddling clothes.
From the town of New Ulm Ed would have a long, cold ride by stage to
the little mill out at the edge of civilization.
The few years’ experience he had had on the new farm in Wisconsin, had
hardened his muscles, and, as he was not at all afraid of work, Ed soon
found and fitted into his place at the mill. It was a little lonesome
so far from home, and the work was somewhat monotonous, but the coming
of the farmers with their loads of grain to be made into or exchanged
for flour, gave opportunity for some sociability, and their stories of
the great Indian uprisings, known to history as the New Ulm Massacre,
were of thrilling interest.
As the winter came on it proved to be one of unusual severity, although
there was little snow. The canal, or “race” by which the water of the
lake was fed to the big millwheel, and from it to be tumbled foaming
into the river at the foot of the rapids, usually maintained an even
height, winter and summer, so, the supply of power being steady, it was
possible for the millers to make preparation late in the evening, and
leave the wheels to take care of the grist until early morning.
This winter, however, the ice in the river and race froze to the
depth of three feet, and the power of the old mill was diminished to
that extent. One night, not far from midnight, in the latter part of
January, Ed found himself suddenly awake, sitting up in bed. Something
had happened. What could be the matter? Oh, yes, he had been awakened
by silence--not a noise, but the stopping of the noise of the mill
had disturbed him. The hum of the burrs had ceased, the old wheel was
still--the mill had shut down. He groped about and got his clothes,
and hastened down-stairs into the wheel pit. Sure enough, there stood
the old wheel at rest, for perhaps the first time in many years. In
the runway there was a small stream of water falling, but nothing like
enough to turn the wheel with the machinery of the mill geared on.
Ed threw over the gear lever, and the released wheel slowly began to
revolve again. Then he went up-stairs where he found Mr. Taylor, who
had also been wakened as the accustomed hum of the stones ceased, and
had come over from the house to investigate the cause.
“There has been some stoppage at the intake,” said he. “Either the lake
has lowered, and the ice frozen nearly to the bottom of the channel at
the mouth of the race, or there has some trash floated in. When you
have had your breakfast, take an axe and the hook and go up and see
what the trouble is.”
As soon as daylight came Ed was ready for the trip. He buckled on a
pair of skates, as the ice was in prime condition, and taking the tools
across his shoulder, was soon skimming up the river.
As he came to the canal mouth, he struck with the axe upon the ice, and
it gave forth a hollow sound. Evidently the decrease in the flow was
not caused by the water freezing to the bottom. There must be some
obstruction at the intake.
It was no small work to cut through thirty-six inches of ice and locate
the exact spot of the obstruction, but before ten o’clock Ed had
discovered it. Some wood choppers, during the summer had been clearing
on an island half a mile out into the lake, and small branches thrown
into the water had, by the slow-moving current, been carried along
finally to the mouth of the canal. One branch lodging and freezing,
became the occasion for the stoppage of others, and then the mass had
swung around and across the mouth of the canal, almost cutting off its
supply.
It was no job for a weakling to cut and hook out those limbs and brush
from the icy water, but finally Ed had the satisfaction of seeing the
race fill again, and knowing that the old wheel would be at its work of
preparing the farmers’ grist once more.
Ed had never explored the little lake, and the stories the settlers
had told him of the Indian uprising had made him anxious to visit some
of the scenes of that tragedy so near by. From the intake, past the
island, he could see, jutting out into the lake, Massacre Point, where
was still standing the log house in which thirteen whites had met their
death at the hands of the savages. While it would mean the loss of his
dinner, the lad thought that as he was so near, he would skate over
to that point, which appeared to be not over a mile away, and take a
closer look at the tragic place.
As he was passing the island, there appeared at the edge of a clump of
low box-elders the largest dog he had ever seen. It was nearly white
and not only tall, but long in body, and gaunt. It started as if it
would come to the boy, and he whistled to it. However, as it sprang
upon the smooth ice, Ed saw it slip and slide, and then, as it regained
its footing, slowly make its way back to the island.
Little had been changed about the old log house since that fearful day
when the family, with the few neighbors who had gathered with them for
protection, had at last succumbed to the rifle and tomahawk of the red
foes. A rusty kettle was standing in the fireplace. Rude benches were
still around the table where the victims had eaten their last meal. In
one corner a cradle, hollowed out of a log, told of a baby’s share in
that day of horror.
As Ed turned away full of sad thoughts and questionings, he scarcely
noticed his approach to the island upon the return journey. As he
rounded the point of timber, there sprang upon the ice not only one
big white “dog,” but three, with lolling tongues, making straight for
him. Then he realized what these animals were; not dogs, but the big,
fierce, dreaded timber wolves. However, Ed was not much frightened. He
rather enjoyed the thought of a race with them. There seemed to be only
enough danger to add spice to the adventure. On his skates he could
outrun them, and he had smooth going all the way home.
But he had not reckoned upon the power of those long, lank bodies,
and muscular limbs, nor upon the hunger that drove them to attack
a human being in daylight. He had not reached the edge of the lake
before he heard teeth snap like the spring of a steel trap, and almost
involuntarily he sprang to one side while the wolves slid by upon
their haunches, endeavoring to stop. Then, with another dodge, as they
turned and again came at the lad on the ice, he passed them and gained
a considerable distance toward home. Twice he was able to escape them
through this maneuver before they reached the channel of the river.
Here came new tactics on the part of the wolves. Upon the ground
they could outrun the boy, and they sprang up the bank, speeding on
ahead, and as he came up all made a dash for him, full in the face. In
desperation Ed threw at them the heavy ice-hook, which they attempted
to dodge, but only two got away uninjured, while the third dragged
himself off with a broken leg. “Well, you brutes,” the boy shouted, “I
have but two of you to deal with now.”
His respite was not to be a long one, for as he entered a part of the
river where the banks widened out into a tiny but deep lakelet, they
sprang again from the shore in such a spurt of savage fury that in a
few moments Ed could hear the panting breath from those blood-flecked,
foamy mouths close upon his heels.
Ed whirled his sharp axe around as he sped forward, and with an almost
involuntary cry to God for help, brought it behind him in a mighty
swing. A dull thud, as it left his hand, told him that it had struck
home, and he knew that another one of the horrid pursuers would not
trouble him more. But even as the thought of rejoicing came, Ed felt
the steel-trap-like snap of the remaining wolf’s jaws close together
in one of his heavy boots--and in that same instant the ice gave away,
as the river seemed to rise up from beneath and overwhelm both boy and
beast.
In his anxiety to escape the wolves, Ed had not noticed the condition
of the ice they were approaching, nor the fact that from the chunks
of ice scattered about, some settlers had been to this place earlier
in the day for blocks to store away for summer use. The intense cold
had quickly skimmed over with thin ice the place from which the great
blocks had been taken, but not of strength sufficient to bear the heavy
weight of boy and wolf.
Ed had gone clear under--the water had closed over his head--but
fortunately, as they went down, the big brute had loosened his hold
upon the boy’s leg, and fortunately also, the ice, although not strong
enough for support, was thick enough to break the force of the speed
with which they were coming, and as he rose to the surface, Ed’s head
came up in the place from which the thick ice had been taken away.
The wolf was less fortunate, for the boy never saw it again. In his
kicking and struggling to come to the surface, he may have pushed it
down under the thick ice. However, I do not think he was sorry then--or
since, for that matter.
But, although the wolf was gone, the boy was by no means out of
danger. No one who has not been in a like predicament can realize
the difficulty of one who has broken through the ice, in getting out
without aid. In fact, there are very few cases on record where such
happy terminations have ensued. The numbing cold of the water, so
quickly paralyzing the vital forces; the weight of the heavy clothing
pulling down; the lack of any object by which one can pull himself upon
the ice, make the condition of one in such a plight most desperate.
Ed can not remember of being greatly frightened; certainly he did
not fall into a panic. If he had, he would have soon gone under. He
realized that he must keep cool--I mean in his thoughts; for he was
cool enough otherwise--and use every possible means to extricate
himself. He was facing downstream, and nearly at the side of the place
from which the thick ice had been cut, for the speed at which he had
been going had carried him some distance upon the thin ice. Ed knew
that if he reached the thick ice on the downstream side, the current
would draw his legs under the ice, and he could not hope to get out.
He must turn about and make his way up stream to that edge of the hole
his body had made as he had broken in. There Ed began with his fists
and elbows to break away the thin ice so that he could reach that which
was thick and firm. The current of the river and his heavy boots and
clothing seemed determined to drag him away and under. Again and again
he was forced to pause for breath. But the numbness was creeping over
the boy. He dared not stop in his efforts.
At last he reached the firm ice. Oh, for some one to reach a hand
now! but he was so far away he could hope for no help from the mill.
If the ice was only rough he might get some sort of hold upon it with
his bleeding fingers--but it was as smooth as polished glass, and the
water, that in his struggles was thrown upon the ice, made it that much
more impossible for him to grasp a hold.
Something had to be done, and that at once, or the lad’s body would
soon be slowly floating beneath the ice along with that of the
wolf--perhaps never to be found; at least not until the spring sun
should unlock the icy prison. What would Mr. Taylor think when he
should find the axe and the other wolf? What would be the feelings of
the folks in the far-away Wisconsin home?
But the lad would not give up; he must try again! He began to spring up
and down in the water, throwing himself forward each time he came up.
At last, by a supreme effort, he did not slip back into that yawning,
watery grave, but found himself balanced over upon the ice.
For some seconds Ed was too much exhausted to pull his legs entirely
out of the water, but lay gasping for breath; all in a tremble. He
could not rise to his feet, but knowing that even a short inaction now
would prove as fatal as if he were still in the water, he rolled over
and over, away from the hole, beating his arms upon his body, until
at length he was able to sit up, then to rise to his knees, and then
stagger to his feet.
Ed will never forget the rest of that trip home. He struck out to
skate, clumsily enough at first, and, as the blood began to course to
the extremities, it seemed as though a thousand red-hot needles were
piercing his flesh. The bitter cold soon caused his outer clothing
to encase him like a coat of mail, in which only the most strenuous
exertions kept enough pliability to allow him to move at all.
Ed did reach the mill, after a while, and, strange to say, suffered
very little ill effect from his adventure. His bruised hands healed
quickly, and frozen toes and ears were so usual in that winter climate,
as to not be mentioned among casualties.