CHAPTER XVI.THE LOGGERS.
Thesun rose clear, the next morning, and after an early and bountiful breakfast, Mr. Davenport and Clinton bid good-bye to Uncle Tim and his family, and resumed their journey. The country through which they rode was much the same as that they had already passed over, with the exception that it was if possible even more stern and wild, not a single house or cultivated spot meeting their eyes during the whole forenoon’s ride. After the first hour, Clinton was not quite as lively as usual. In fact, he felt a trifle less cheerful than ordinary—he could not tell whether it sprang from a touch of home-sickness, or from a sense of lonesomeness. But his unpleasant feelings arose more from the influence of the dreary winter scenery upon his mind, than from either of these causes. His father, noticing this, chatted away in a more livelystrain than usual, and after awhile succeeded in dispelling the tinge of gloom from his mind.
The road being travelled but very little, the sleighing was poor, and there was no prospect of their reaching their destination before the middle of the afternoon. Accordingly, about noon, they reined up, for the purpose of resting the horse, and eating their dinner. Having given Fanny a wisp of hay, to take up her mind, they collected together a heap of dead wood, the remnants of fallen trees, etc., which they found near the road, and set it on fire. It burned finely, and sent out a cheerful warmth, in which they seated themselves, and partook with a keen relish of the various good things which Clinton’s mother had stowed away in the sleigh-box.
After halting about an hour at this place, they resumed their journey, and a ride of about three hours brought them within hearing of the loggers. The first indication they had that they were near the camp, was the loud “Gee, haw-buck, whoa!” of a man who was driving oxen. These sounds had a very enlivening effect upon Clinton, who could scarcely refrain from jumping from his seat, and running ahead, soimpatient was he to see some signs of humanity in the dreary wilderness. But in a few moments, they came in sight of the camp, and soon they noticed two or three men, with long hair and immense whiskers, approaching them from different directions. Mr. Davenport recognized an old acquaintance in one of them, and received a most hearty welcome from him.
“Mr. Jones,” said Mr. Davenport, “my boy has long wanted to see how the loggers live; and as I had a little leisure and the weather and sleighing were promising, I thought I would gratify his wishes.”
“I am right glad to see you, and him, too,” said Mr. Jones; and he seized Clinton by the hand, and gave it a gripe and a shake which he felt for ten minutes afterward;—“why, I haven’t laid eyes on a child or a youngster, for four months, and it’s a real treat to see you, I can tell you. I’ve got a boy of my own, at home, about your size, and a fine little fellow he is, too. I’m afraid you’ll find rather poor quarters here in the camp, but you are welcome to such accommodations as we have, just so long as you’ll stay.”
The horse was taken from the sleigh and led to the cattle hut, and Mr. Jones conducted Mr. Davenport andClinton to one of the camps, where he told them to make themselves at home. He offered them food, which they declined until the usual supper-hour. He had many questions to ask concerning what was going on in the world, from which the loggers are almost shut out; and as he and Mr. Davenport were absorbed in their conversation, Clinton slipped out to reconnoitre the premises.
The camp, he found, was situated in the midst of the woods; and not, as he expected to find it, in a clearing. There was no scenery at all; the tall trees shut out the prospect on every side, and the only opening for the eye was towards the clear, blue heavens above. Only a few trees had been cut down, to serve as material for the houses, or as fuel. This spot was chosen for the sake of the shelter it afforded in severe weather, and also, because there was an excellent spring of water convenient to it.
Clinton now turned his attention to the camps. These were built of logs, but in a style much inferior to Uncle Tim’s house, in the clearing. As they are but temporary affairs, the loggers only aim at making them habitable for one or two winters. There were threeof these buildings, one of which was used by the oxen. They were each about twenty feet long by fifteen wide and were built of logs placed one on the top of another, and the whole sides and roof covered with bark. Each camp had one door, but no windows. A hole in the middle of the roof, three or four feet square, served both for a chimney and a window.
The loggers’ camp
Clinton now returned to the camp, where his father and Mr. Jones were sitting, and began to inspect the interior. He found there were no partitions,—for theloggers have no occasion for more than one room. The principal feature of the interior was the fire-place. This was directly under the hole in the roof, and was about six feet in diameter. The ground had been dug out nearly two feet deep, to make a bed for the fire and ashes, and the space was surrounded by stones. Benches, made of split logs, were arranged around the fire, which served both as seats and tables. He noticed that the door had a wooden latch, which was very ingeniously whittled to resemble an iron one. The only other articles in the room were a pork barrel, water bucket, basin, dipper, towel, a few cooking and eating utensils, and a dozen greasy and well-worn books and newspapers. The floor was thickly strewn with leaves of arbor vitæ, especially under the eaves, which came down to within three feet of the ground. These formed the loggers’ beds.
Such was the rude house in which Clinton was to spend two or three nights. He afterwards found that it differed from the cattle hut only in having a fire-place, and an outlet through the roof. But that fire-place, with the “rousing fire” which it afforded at all hours of the day and night, made the hovel comparativelycheerful and comfortable. So far from feeling disappointed with his quarters, Clinton longed for bed-time to come, that he might enjoy the new sensation of sleeping in such a romantic place.
At sunset, the men began to return from their work. They all wore coarse but warm and durable clothing, and one article seemed universal among them, namely, red flannel shirts. Their beards and hair had not been trimmed since they left home. As they arrived at their quarters, they flocked around Mr. Davenport and Clinton, as if a strange face was a very unusual sight among them, as, indeed, it was. When they had all returned from their work, Clinton counted twenty men and six yoke of oxen.
Having washed their faces and hands, the men now commenced preparations for supper, in both camps. It was fast growing dark, but they had no lamps, the blazing fire lighting up their houses very brilliantly. Kettles of water were boiled, and tea was made. Presently, one of the men began to poke round in the ashes and coals, and soon drew forth a large baking-kettle, which had been buried there two hours before. On taking off the cover, a huge loaf of bread presented itself,which even an accomplished housewife might have been proud to own, so far as appearance was concerned. This, with a few slices of boiled salt pork, and tea sweetened with molasses and without milk, constituted their supper. They had no butter, but spread molasses on their bread, instead. Clinton ate heartily of the homely fare. The bread proved quite as nice as it looked, and even the tea tasted pleasantly to him. Mr. Davenport emptied what remained of the contents of the baskets which his wife had stowed away in the sleigh-box, saying that he would exchange his cakes and pies for a little of their bread, when he started for home. He and Clinton had consumed but a small part of their provisions, and this disposal of the surplus appeared to gratify the loggers very much, as they had not tasted of any luxuries of this kind for many a day.
After supper, the men gathered around the fire, on the benches, and talked, and told stories, until nearly ten o’clock, when one after another began to creep away to his bed of leaves, and stretch himself out, with his feet towards the fire. Clinton and his father soon followed their example, and extended themselvesupon the soft leaves, without removing their clothing. The novelty of their position, the crackling and glare of the fire, and the breathing and snoring of a dozen strong men, did not permit either of them to sleep much during the first part of the night. Clinton lay for more than two hours, at times watching the stars through the opening in the roof, and then gazing steadfastly at the flickering fire and the curling smoke spangled with sparks. But at last he fell asleep, though he awoke again, several times, before morning. Occasionally, one of the men, who happened to awake, would get up and put a fresh log upon the fire, which is kept burning by night as well as by day.
By sunrise, the next morning, the men in both camps had despatched their breakfasts, and turned out the oxen, and were ready to commence the day’s work. Mr. Davenport and Clinton determined to accompany them to the scene of their operations, which was a short distance from the camp, and spread over a considerable extent of ground. The men did not all work together, but after proceeding a little way, they separated into three different gangs. The choppers, or those who cut down the trees, formed one party, andproceeded by themselves to their particular spot. Another gang were called swampers. It was their business to clear roads from the felled trees to the landing place on the banks of the river, where the logs remain until the breaking up of the ice in the spring, when they are rolled into the water. The third party were teamsters, whose business it was to haul the logs from the forest to the stream. These last had the assistance of the oxen, which were attached to little “bobsleds,” as they were called, upon which the heavy end of the log was placed, while the other dragged upon the snow.
Clinton had abundant time to witness the operations of all these gangs, during the day. He found there was not much of either novelty or variety, in their labors, which in fact differed but little from the routine of the wood-chopper, which he had often witnessed at home. The sturdy strokes of the choppers, followed by the falling of the noble tree,—the stripping of the prostrate trunk of its branches,—the clearing of a passage way for the oxen through the small growth, and the hauling of the log to the river’s bank, were by no means novel sights to him. At the landing-place hefound hundreds of logs piled up, awaiting the opening of the river. Each log had a peculiar and uniform mark cut in the sap-wood, by an axe, somewhat resembling a crow’s foot, by which the owner would be enabled to know it when it should reach the great boom far away down the river, and become mixed up with thousands of other logs, belonging to many different persons. Each owner has his own private mark or device, which is bored or cut into all his logs, and thus he is always able to distinguish them from those of other lumber-men.
Clinton kept with the loggers all day, witnessing their operations, and asking questions about their business. Indeed, he did not dare to go far from them, for fear of getting lost in the woods. At sunset, he returned with them from their labors, and after the homely evening meal, he sat and listened to the stories of the loggers, until bed-time. These stories were mostly of encounters with bears and wolves in the wilderness, of hunting excursions, and of adventures and exploits in the logging-camp and upon the river. One of the oldest and most intelligent of the men related the following adventure, in answering some inquiriesof Clinton concerning the manner of driving logs to mill:—
“Six years ago,” said he, “I was logging upon the head waters of the Penobscot. “We cut eight thousand logs; and about the last of April we started them downstream. It took two or three days to roll them all in, and by that time, some of those we started first were perhaps more than fifty miles down stream, while others had lodged within a hundred rods of us. So we divided into three gangs, one to descend by boats, and the others by land each side of the stream. Each man was provided with a pole, having a stout hook in the end, and with these we pushed off the logs, where ever we found they had lodged on the banks or rocks. The first few days, we made pretty good progress, having little to do but to roll in the logs, and set them afloat merrily down the river.”
“Did you camp at nights, as you do here?” inquired Clinton.
“Yes, we camped out, but we had nothing but little huts made of spruce boughs, where we ate and slept;—as I was saying,—all went on pretty easy at first, and some days we got over fifteen or twenty miles ofground. But by-and-by we came to a jam. Do you know what a jam is?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, when the river gets choked up with logs which have met with some obstruction, we call it a jam. Sometimes, a thousand logs will accumulate in this way, forming a sort of dam across the river, and interrupting the flow of the water. And, oftentimes, all this is occasioned by a single log catching upon a projecting rock; and if that single log could be started, the whole mass would go down stream with a tremendous rush.”
“I should think that would be fine sport,” said Clinton.
“It’s all very fine to look at,” continued the logger; “but you wouldn’t think there was much sport about it, if you had to go out upon this immense raft, and loosen the logs, at the risk of being ground to atoms by them when they start.”
“Are people ever killed in that way?” inquired Clinton.
“Not very often; for none but the most experienced drivers are allowed to undertake such a delicate job;and they are always very cautious how they proceed. But let me go on with my story: the jam I was telling you about, happened to be in a rapid, rocky place, where the river passed through a narrow gorge. On each side were steep cliffs, more than sixty feet high, which almost hung over the water. The only way to reach the jam was to descend by a rope from one of these cliffs. This was so hazardous an undertaking, that we concluded to wait a day or two, to see if the choked up mass wouldn’t clear itself, by its own pressure, and thus save us all trouble and danger. But after waiting nearly two days, there were no signs of the jam’s breaking. We can generally tell when this is going to happen, by the swaying of the logs; but the mass was as firm and compact as ever; and it was evident that we must do something to start it. There was an old and very expert driver in our gang, who offered to descend to the jam, and see what could be done. So we rigged a sort of crane, and lowered him down from the cliff by means of a rope fastened around his body, under his arms. After he had looked around a little, he sung out to us that he had discovered the cause of the trouble. A few strokes of the axe ina certain place, he said, would start the jam; and he cautioned us to pull him up, gently, as soon as he should cry, ‘Pull!’ and also to be careful, and not jerk him against the precipice. He then began to hew into the log which was the cause of the jam. After he had worked a few minutes, the mass began to heave and sway, and he cried out, ‘Pull!’ As the spot where he had been chopping was near the centre of the stream, he started instantly towards the cliff, so that his rope should be perpendicular. But before he could put himself in the right position for being drawn up, the huge mass of logs rose up in a body, and then, with a crash, rolled away in every direction from under his feet. The scene was awful. Some of the logs plunged headlong down the rapids, with tremendous force; others leaped entirely out of the water, turning complete somersets, end over end; others were hurled crosswise upon each other, or dashed madly together by hundreds, or were twisted and twirled about, in a most fearful manner. At the first movement of the jam, our man was plunged into the water. For a moment, we were horror-struck, but we pulled away at the rope, expecting to draw up only a mangled and lifeless body.And we should have done so, had we been half a second later; for we had just raised the man out of the water, when a mass of seventy-foot logs swept by, directly under him, with force enough to have broken every bone in his body, had he been in their way. He suffered no harm but his ducking and fright. But I don’t believe he will ever forget that day’s adventure. So, my boy, you see it isn’t all sport, driving logs,—though some think this is the pleasantest part of a logger’s life.”
“How do you stop the logs, when they have gone as far as you want them to go?” inquired Clinton.
“They are stopped by great booms, built of logs, and bolted and chained together very strong. These booms are rigged across the river, so that the floating logs cannot pass them. The great boom at Old Town, near Bangor, where our drive brought up, that year, had over a million of logs in it, when we got down there, seven weeks after we started from the forests. The logs lay upon one another about ten feet deep, and extended back for miles. They belonged to hundreds of different men and companies, but as each had its own mark, there was no difficulty in sorting them out. Theboom is opened at set times, to let out a portion of the logs, and then the river below is all alive with men and boys, in small boats, who grapple the logs as they float down, and form them into rafts, or tow them to the various mills on the river. Very few of the logs escape, unless too many are let out from the boom at once, or the river is swollen by a freshet, in which case they sometimes float off to sea and are lost. But all hands seem to be going to bed, and I guess we had better follow their example.”
Upon this, the old logger stretched himself upon the bed of faded leaves; and Clinton, who for some time had been his only listener, was soon in the same position.