Solomon in a Rage.—Flight of Pat.—The Explorers penetrate the Forest.—The missing Companions.—New Fears and Anxieties.—A baffled Search.—Onward.—The Recesses of the Forest.—An open Space.—Halt!YAR, Hyar! you dar! Whar Mas’r Bart?” The cry at once arrested Pat. He stopped short, and turning round he found himself face to face with Solomon.
“Whar Mash Bart?” said Solomon again. He was excited and agitated, and looked all around, and peered into the forest ahead with most anxious curiosity.
“Bart?” said Pat, in a dejected tone; “sure an I don’t know.”
“Warn’t you follerin him?” cried Solomon, in an excited voice.
“Sure an I wor,” said Pat; “but I lost sight of him iver an iver so long ago. An wheriver he is now, it ud take more’n me to tell.”
At this Solomon made a gesture of despair, and looked wildly all around.
“Mas’r Bart lost! Mas’r Bart lost!” he murmured, clutching his wrinkled hands together.
“Och, you needn’t bother about him. Sure an he’s follerin the praste an the Frinchmin, an he’s all safe an right. The last time I see him he was close on the hails of the praste.”
Solomon did not seem to have heard him. His eyes rolled wildly. He looked all around eagerly, wistfully, with unspeakable anxiety in his face.
“Mas’r Bart lost! Mas’r Bart lost!” he murmured, still wringing his hands.
“But I till ye he ain’t lost,” cried Pat. “He’s wid the praste, so he is. Didn’t I see him?”
“Don’t see no use,” cried Solomon, angrily, “for de likes ob you to go foolin round dis yer way, leadin folks eberywhar, out ob de right track. I bound to foller Mas’r Bart, an heah you go a foolin an a gittin lost. What’s de sense ob dis yer proceedin? What do you mean, anyhow? Ef you tink I’m goin to stan any such tomfoolery, you precious mistaken. You better begin now and go ahead, and find out whar Mas’r Bart is.”
Solomon’s tone was full of a certain angry menace, which was so utterly unlike his usual manner that Pat stared at him in wonder.
“Ah, howl yer whist,” he exclaimed, at last; “sure I ain’t the only one that’s got lost in these wuds, so I ain’t. You can find him yerself bether’n me, so ye can, if ye want to. How can I find him! Sorra one of me knows the way anywheres out of this; and I’m fairly broken-hearted, so I am, and that’s all about it.”
And saying this, Pat flung himself down, and buried his face in his hands. He felt overwhelmed by his troubles. His fears of the leprosy were still strong within him, and in addition to this he felt a keen sense of self-reproach at his desertion of Bart. Had it not been for Solomon he might not have thought of this; but the sight of the old man’s anxiety about Bart brought before him in the plainest manner the fact that he had been disloyal to his friend, and had deserted him, in this hour of need.
As for Solomon, he took only one look at him, and then turned away. In his faithful heart there was only one feeling, one desire; and that was, to get back to Bart. He had no idea of the actual state of the case. He did not know what a circuit Pat had made, but merely supposed that they had got off the track that the others were following. With this idea in his mind, he proceeded to call after Bart, so as to open up a communication with him. This he strove to do by means of a series of the most unearthly yells, shrieks, and howls that ever echoed through the recesses of a harmless and unoffending forest. Yell followed yell; howl succeeded howl; and a long series of hoots, halloos, shrieks, whoops, and hullaballoos followed in swift succession. After each effort Solomon stood listening attentively, waiting for a response before beginning again. But his listening and his waiting were all unavailing, for no response came, and all his unearthly cries only echoed through the dim forest aisles, without bringing back any answer from the one whom they were intended to reach. And no wonder: for by this time Bart was very far indeed out of hearing.
At last Solomon gave up in utter discouragement. He stood for a time in deep dejection, and then turned towards Pat, who had all this time remained in the same attitude, sitting with his head buried in his hands.
“How long ago is it,” asked Solomon, “sence you lost sight ob Mash Bart?”
“O, iver so long,” said Pat; “more thin an hour, surely.”
“Why didn’t you call?”
“Sure an how did I know?” said Pat, evasively; “wasn’t I bothered out of my life, an fairly heart-broke? so I was. An sure an it’s been a bad time for us all intirely. Bad luck to the day whin we came out to this leper place,—an me goin a bathin in the leper wather, an aitin their leper dinners; the more fool I was for that same. Sure an the praste’s the desayver, so he is, for laydin a poor feller in this way.”
Not one word of this did Solomon understand, nor did he try to understand it. He had other things to think about. His one idea was to find Bart once more. He did not think that he was far away, but believed that he had been going on in the same general direction, though he had swerved, to some extent, from the true course. So he now determined to go on, and hoped that he might find Bart before long.
“No use waitin in dis yer place, dis yer way,” said he. “I’m a goin to hunt up Mas’r Bart.”
And with these words he left Pat, and went onward into the woods, continuing the same course which Pat had been leading. As to asking Pat to go with him, the thought never entered his head,—partly on account of his deep disgust at Pat for losing sight, as he believed, of Bart, but principally from the fact that his mind was so filled with the desire of reaching Bart, that there was no place in it for any thought of any other person. And so the poor old fellow plunged into the woods, and took up a course which was about as far away from that in which Bart was going as it well could be.
At Solomon’s last words Pat raised his head and saw him go. He watched him till he was out of sight, with varied emotions. He supposed that Solomon was now on his way to Tracadie, while believing himself to be following after Bart into the depths of the woods. There seemed, therefore, no danger before him, and Pat had no fears for his safety. Had Solomon taken another direction, Pat would probably have told him all; but as it was, he saw no necessity for doing so. He would get back, he thought, in the course of time, to Tracadie, and on finding himself there, he would probably wait for Bart’s return, and all would be well.
He sat there motionless, until Solomon was out of sight, and then began to think of himself. One thing only was in his mind, and that was, the desire to fly, as soon as possible, far away from this abhorrent place, to some other place, where he might be safe, and where he could watch to see if the terrible disease had really taken hold of him or not. So with this purpose he arose, and after a look all around, he chose his course, and went on through the woods.
Meanwhile the others had been walking diligently onward; first the guides leading the way, next the priest, and then Bart. Not a word was spoken by any one of them; the guides were too intent upon maintaining a correct course; the priest was too much absorbed in watching the movements of the guides, and in observing the scenes through which he was passing; and Bart was too much occupied with conjectures about the probable course of Phil’s wanderings to think anything about the members of their own party. Bart had a perfect conviction that Pat and Solomon were behind him; so perfect, in fact, that it remained in his mind as a foundation underlying all his other thoughts; so perfect that those thoughts never reverted to those behind him, but turned only to that one who was at a distance—the object of their present search.
Deeper and deeper, and farther and farther, they advanced into the forest, encountering every variation of woodland scenery, and every alternation of forest travelling; sometimes finding it easy, again finding it difficult, yet at no time encountering any very serious obstacle. Their pace was somewhat rapid, for the guides led them on without much regard to the possible weakness or clumsiness of their followers; and judging them by themselves, they maintained a pace which soon began to tell very seriously upon Bart, and forced him to put forth his utmost strength and energy in order to keep the priest in sight.
At last, after a walk of several hours, the guides stopped, and offered to rest. They were coming, they said, upon a more difficult part of the forest, where greater exertion would be required, and it might be well to rest for a time. The priest approved of this, and mentioned it to Bart. He also approved of it most heartily, for he was almost exhausted, and then turned to mention it to Pat. To his surprise, however, Pat was not behind him, nor was there any sign of Solomon.
This discovery gave him a great shock, and the priest also was equally amazed; but both he and Bart supposed that they could not be far away, and so they looked back through the woods to gain sight of their advancing figures. Not perceiving any signs of them, they listened to find out if they were approaching. No sounds, however, arose of any kind; no crackle of dry twigs announced coming footsteps; and as they listened, there was nothing perceptible to their hearing save the intense and drear silence of a vast solitude.
At this Bart threw a look of anxious inquiry at the priest.
“They were following you?” said the priest, in an inquiring tone.
“Yes,” said Bart, doubtfully.
“Have you noticed that they fell back?”
“I didn’t notice them at all. I took it for granted all the time that they were behind me.”
“How long is it since you saw them last?”
“Well, really, I don’t believe I have looked behind me once since we started.”
“I hope they haven’t lost sight of us. I hope they haven’t lost their way,” said the priest.
The evident anxiety of his tone affected Bart very seriously. His own experience in the woods, as well as the loss of Phil, made him quite ready to believe the worst; and though it puzzled him greatly to conceive how Pat and Solomon could quietly lose them, and go off on a strange course, without a single word, at the same time he began to fear that such must have been the case.
“Well,” said the priest, “we may as well sit down and rest. There’s nothing else to be done. Perhaps they’ll be along presently. I’ll make the guides call for them. They can do it better than we can.”
He then spoke to the guides; and the latter, as soon as they understood the state of the case, began to call for their lost companions. They did this by setting up a series of cries so loud, so shrill, and so sharp, that Bart actually started. He had never in all his life heard such sounds. Pitched upon a high and very peculiar key, they seemed to have a far-penetrating power which would suffice to carry them for an incredible distance.
Again and again the guides uttered these cries, and after each cry they listened; but though they listened long, there came not the slightest response. At length, at a suggestion from the priest, one of them went back along the track which they had traversed. He returned after about half an hour. He came back alone, and reported that he had seen no sign whatever of either of those who were lost.
The priest now looked worried and uneasy. He sat for some time in silence, thinking over this fresh difficulty.
“Well,” said he, at length, “they seem to have lost us—most mysteriously; and now the only question is, shall we go back to try to find them, or shall we go on? Which needs our help most, the one who has been lost for two or three days, or those who have just left us?”
“O, as to that,” said Bart, “they are both better able to take care of themselves than Phil is; and besides, they are nearer to the settlements, and they must know the way back, for the woods have not been very thick, and we have been going in a straight course, and so it seems to me that we had better go on and try to find poor Phil.”
“I think so too,” said the priest. “At any rate we shall rest for an hour yet, and perhaps before we start they will find us.”
They remained for an hour longer, but there was no sign of the lost ones. No sound of crackling twigs, no calls for help, awakened the deep silence that reigned in the surrounding forest.
At length they rose to resume their journey in accordance with Bart’s decision. This new calamity broke up that cheerfulness and hopefulness which he had been maintaining since the priest had spoken to him those encouraging words; and the thought of Pat and Solomon wandering about, without food and without guides through this trackless forest, gave him more than his former anxiety. It seemed a succession of misfortunes that was destined to end in some kind of a tragedy, and there arose within his mind the dark anticipation of some inevitable calamity as the natural termination of all these pieces of ill-fortune.
Struggling as well as he could with these gloomy forebodings, Bart once more set out after his guides on what he now began to think a hopeless errand. But now there came other things to distract his mind from the anxieties that were harassing it in the shape of the difficulties of the way. The guides were right in their warning about the toil and labor that now lay before them. There were dense underbrushes to penetrate—so dense and so close that every step was a struggle; there were streams to ford, in which they sank to the armpits; there were swamps to cross, where there was nothing but one long struggle from one extremity to the other; and added to this there were long pathways that led over fallen trees, and through tangled weeds, and tall ferns, which impeded the feet at every step, and necessitated the most painful and the most unremittent exertion. In his progress through the woods before, Bart had found nothing like this, except for very short periods of time, and he thought that if such a journey as this had been before him he could never have escaped.
Thus far the heat had been very great. There was no wind. The air was still and stagnant; and the effort of walking, even when the walk had been easy, as at first, had been somewhat exhaustive. But now the exertion required was far greater, and what was worse, the heat far more intense. There was a torrid heat in the atmosphere that exceeded anything which he had thus far experienced, and made all exertion doubly toilsome and exhaustive. Yet in spite of all this, his deep anxiety about Phil seemed to sustain him, and though he felt ready to drop, yet he managed to maintain his march, and follow on after his guides.
At length they emerged from a tangled thicket which had offered extraordinary obstacles to their progress. They came suddenly into a wide, open place, quite bare of trees, and overgrown with low brush and trailing evergreen vines. Here there burst upon them an extraordinary sight,—so extraordinary, indeed, that they all stopped with one common impulse, and gazed in silence upon the scene before them.
The wide open Space.—The terrific Scene.—Arrested and driven back.—New Purposes.—The Story of the Great Fire of Miramichi, and the Ruin wrought in one tremendous Night.THE wide open space upon which they had come extended for some miles away on the right and on the left. About a mile off on the other side arose the trees of the forest again. Above these the smoke was rolling in vast, dense, voluminous clouds, while underneath them shone the red glare of a mighty conflagration. It was in those very woods which rose before them. They could see and feel its terrible presence. They could see, behind the line of trees that stood nearest, the dash of the surging flames as they seized upon the dry foliage and resinous wood of the forest; and the angry glow of the red fire, as, following the advance of the flame, it grasped and held in its blighting, withering embrace all that it seized upon. At the breath of the flame the forest shrank away; at the touch of the fire it crumbled into dust.
The foremost line of trees stood there, black against the glow of the fire that raged behind, like the bars of some vast, immeasurable furnace. Beneath, behind those bars, gleamed the fire; overhead rose the smoke, spreading over the sky, and filling all the air with its hot and suffocating fumes.
The whole party stood there looking on in silence. The guides conversed with one another and with the priest in French, of which Bart understood nothing. By the expression of their faces, and by the shaking of their heads, however, he learned,—if indeed he did not know well enough already,—that any farther progress in that direction was impossible.
“What do they say?” asked he at length of the priest.
“Well, of course, you see yourself,” said the priest, “that it’s impossible to go any farther, and consequently we must give up the idea of reaching that part of the forest where your friend was lost.”
“What shall we do?” exclaimed Bart, in deep distress.
“Well, that is what we are thinking of now. It all depends upon whether your friend has come in this direction or not. Now, you came in this direction, and you must have been within a few miles of this place; but you reached Tracadie safely, and saw no fire.”
“No,” said Bart, “only smoke.”
“But you must have been near it, for you saw the flames last evening. They were concealed by the trees when you were in the woods. Besides, the fire has, no doubt, been spreading in this direction ever since. Now, as for your friend, if he came in this direction at all, he may have reached a place to the north of the fire, and I am of the opinion that we might go in that direction. We shall thus see something of the other parties that are searching the woods up there. In fact there is nothing else to be done. If we don’t find him farther to the north, then I shall take it for granted that he has wandered in another direction altogether, and perhaps may come out at the Bay de Chaleur.”
“You don’t think, then, that there is—reason for despair?”
“Despair? Certainly not. Why should there be?”
“O, I don’t know. I was afraid that this fire extended everywhere, like the great fire that once raged here.”
“The great fire? O, no. Such a thing as that can only take place once in centuries. That was the result of a combination of circumstances so extraordinary, that it is not likely that they will ever occur again. And just now, such a fire as that is a simple impossibility.”
“But this fire seems pretty bad,” said Bart, “and it’s certainly increasing.”
“This fire? O, this is nothing,” said the priest.
“In these woods, there is a fire somewhere every summer,—and it runs on till a rain shower comes. This is only a local affair, confined to this particular district. It may possibly extend for ten or twelve miles, and have a width of two or three miles. It is troublesome, and you perceive the heat in the air, and it sends out smoke for many miles; but there is nothing in it that is at all extraordinary. There is nothing in it that a man cannot escape from. It is not like the swift and hurricane speed of the great fire, that swept in one night through all this country, and made one vast waste of ashes and death before morning. O, no. As for your friend, he ought to be able to get along; and every brook that he comes to will give him fish to eat. It’s the greatest country for trout and salmon in the world. In fact, I don’t see the slightest cause for anxiety about him.”
These words gave Bart a relief that was inexpressible, and he was now freed from the terrible anxiety that had so long devoured him. The opinion of the priest was of great value, for he, no doubt, knew perfectly well just what danger there might be. His estimation of the fire afforded still greater relief. Bart had feared that it was some universal conflagration; but it now turned out to be a local affair, so commonplace that no one here regarded it.
“I think,” said the priest, “that we had better go back at once.”
“Go back?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“To Tracadie.”
“But I thought we were going to search farther for Phil—to the north.”
“So we are,” said the priest; “but we’ll have to go back. If we were to walk through the woods, we would only be losing time. Now, I propose to go back, and drive along the road to a place about fifteen miles away, where some men are already in the woods engaged in this search. We can either go there, or go farther on; in fact, it might be well to go as far as the Bay de Chaleur, and get people there to keep a lookout. But first, we must go back, and we can see what the prospects are.”
They now retraced their steps in accordance with what the priest had said. It was a deep disappointment to Bart to find himself returning again without having accomplished anything; and in addition to this, he was very greatly troubled by the disappearance of Pat and Solomon. By the time they reached Tracadie it was evening, and as nothing more could be done that night, Bart once more took up his quarters for the night with the priest.
While sitting together that evening, the conversation was very naturally drawn to the great fire, of which the priest had already spoken several times; and at Bart’s request he now gave a more particular account of it.
“It was in the year 1825,” said the priest. “The summer had been the hottest and the dryest ever known, not only in this province, but all over North America. There was no rain for months. The hay crop was a total failure everywhere, and the garden vegetables all wilted and withered. Corn, turnips, potatoes, almost everything failed. The roads were all covered with fine dust, the fields were all cracked, and the grass was as if it had been scorched. The woods were dried and parched in the same way, the sap seemed to dry up in the trees, and the leaves and branches were ready to flash into a blaze at the slightest approach of fire.
“Fires, indeed, were in the woods in different places from midsummer till autumn. These burned steadily, though without making any very great progress. There were fires in these woods, and up at the head of the bay, and near the Nashwaak. The most extensive was one near Fredericton. There were also fires in the woods of Maine. And in Canada some of them had reached very serious dimensions. As a general thing, none of our people thought anything of it. Fires are so common that they excite no attention, and so it was with us. It was so dry that there was every reason to expect them, and if they were even larger than usual, that was no more than might be expected under such unusual circumstances.
“At last the month of October came, and in the early part of that month various causes contributed to spread the fires. On the 6th it was noticed that they had increased very greatly, and their extent was now far beyond anything that had ever been known before. People wondered at this, but thought that before long it must come to an end. Rain must come and put a stop to it.
“On the following day, the 7th, it was far worse. All through the preceding night the fires had been extending everywhere, and when day came it had an appearance different from anything ever known before. The sky had a deep purple tint, and immense clouds of black smoke rolled over the whole heavens. There was not a breath of wind, but everything was sunk into a calm so deep and profound that it seemed like the death of Nature. The heat was suffocating, the air thick and stagnant, so that breathing was difficult. No one could put forth the slightest exertion. Everybody lay about in a state of utter lassitude and listlessness, or tried in vain to find some cool place where the heat might be less oppressive.
“The most wonderful thing was the effect of all this upon the lower animals. The birds had all fled. The cattle in the fields seemed bewildered and terrified. They collected in groups, lowing piteously, and looking wildly around, eating nothing, but standing as though paralyzed. The dogs moaned, and crouched, and wandered restlessly out of doors and back again. But what was yet more astonishing was the behavior of the wild animals. Wolves, and bears, and hares, and foxes came from the woods to the open places, overcome with terror, and seeking refuge among the domestic animals.
“In spite of all this the people did not show much excitement. In the more lonely places they may have been frightened, but in the settlements they seemed simply listless. No one anticipated the terror that was approaching, or had any idea of the doom impending over the whole country. Strangely enough, the instinct of the lower animals was truer than the reason of man. As the fire was not yet visible, the people in the settlements made no preparations against it, nor did they even think that preparations were necessary. They knew, of course, that the heat and the unusual appearances were produced by fires in some place, but where it was, or how near it might be, they did not think.
“Evening came on, and at about seven o’clock a brisk wind suddenly sprang up. The sun set, and the darkness was intense beyond all description. And in that darkness nothing whatever was visible; there was something terrible beyond words in such deep gloom; but the wind went on and increased to a wilder degree, until at last it blew with extraordinary violence. Now, through the darkness a terrible sight became visible. All over the west and towards the north-west there shone a red glow, which grew brighter and brighter, until at last the whole skies were lightened up with flaming fires. The wind increased, coming from the west, until at length it blew a perfect hurricane; fiercer, more furious, more terrible than any in the memory of the oldest inhabitants here. Driven on by this fierce tempest, the fires spread with inconceivable rapidity, and all the west became a sea of fire, and above the woods vast flames shot up, furiously, far into the sky. There was no darkness now. It was driven away, and light had come; but the light was worse than the darkness had been.
“The hurricane increased, and the fires drove onward before it, and the fierce flames towered far up into the sky. Then there came a low moan from afar, which increased, and strengthened, and deepened, until at last it grew to a loud, appalling roar—a roar like sustained thunder, which still grew louder, and deeper, and nearer, and more awful. In the midst of this came the sound of crackling, like musketry volleys, and loud, tremendous explosions, like the discharge of cannon. And all this increased every minute, the fires sweeping onward more terribly, the roar of its advance gathering in intensity and volume, until at last the vast sheets of flame seemed to rise almost to the zenith. Overhead all the black smoke was now reddened in the glow of the fire, and there passed away over the sky a fierce torrent, bearing with it innumerable sparks, and blazing twigs, and branches of trees, which had been torn from the forest by the fire, and were now hurled through the air by the hurricane.
“Now there arose the wildest panic. All had been so sudden that there had been no time for thought—but even if there had been time, no thought could have availed. There was only one common impulse in all living things, whether man or beast, and that was escape. One cry only arose—the cry, ‘To the river! To the river!’ In this direction every one hurried, a confused crowd,—men, women, children, horses, cows, and dogs,—some carrying the old or the sick, others assisting the weak; fathers carrying their children, mothers their infants. Each seized what was most precious, and fled. All the time there were wild outcries—some of fear, others of hope, others of command, others of despair from some who had been separated from relatives, and were trying to find them again. Then they all hurried to the river; and some stood plunged in the water, others sought boats, others rafts, others floated on logs, while others sought the opposite shore, from which, however, the fires that spread even there soon drove them.
“And now the whole country, in all directions, blazed. The whole forest was as dry as tinder, and everywhere the floating sparks would fall upon the trees, and there would kindle fresh flames, which would sweep away before the hurricane like those behind. It was this that made the conflagration so swift and so universal.
“The morning at length came after that night of horror—the morning of the 8th of October; and never did human eye rest upon such a scene of desolation. The vast forests, the green meadows, the flourishing villages, the pleasant homes which a few hours before had formed one of the happiest countries in the world, was now one vast expanse of dust and ashes, out of which lowered the smouldering, blackened shafts of giant pine trees that had not been all consumed. The half-burned corpses of men, women, and children, cattle and wild beasts, strewed the forests, and in the dried-up beds of brooks and rivers lay the blackened bodies of burnt fishes. Six thousand square miles had been suddenly blasted by that unparalleled fire. And all this ruin had been wrought on that one night of horror.”
Such was the priest’s narrative of one of the most terrible fires on record—the great fire of Miramichi; a fire most remarkable for the astonishing rapidity of its course, and the thoroughness of its devastation. For, apart from other more immediate evils, it ruined the timber of all that country, turned fertile districts into barren wastes, and annihilated in one night all the resources of a great commerce.
To all this Bart listened with deep attention, and gained from it increased hope for Phil. For now he saw how different was this fire from the one of which he had been hearing, and how different the circumstances were. These woods were not dried like tinder, nor was it possible for a fire to spread so fast but that any living being could escape it. Besides, the woods were full of brooks and streams, and all these streams were full of fish; and Phil had his rod and lines, and was an expert fisherman. From all these thoughts he drew hope and confidence.
He was greatly puzzled, however, by the disappearance of Pat and Solomon. Their departure in the woods had greatly perplexed him, but he hoped that he would find them on his return to Tracadie. There were no signs of them. The night passed, but they did not make their appearance. Morning came, but brought them not.
He did not know what to think about it, and felt perplexed. Still he had no anxiety. Neither Pat nor Solomon was likely to come to any trouble in the woods, for they were perfectly well able to take care of themselves.
The party was now all broken up and scattered—Phil, Pat, Solomon, and Bart, all in different directions, and none of them knowing where the others were. But Bart’s mind was now intent upon finding Phil; and so, after a hurried breakfast, he got into the wagon with the priest, and they both drove off together.
Phil awakes.—A morning Bath and a morning Repast.—A pleasant Discovery.—Once more upon the Move.—The rough, impenetrable Woods.—The River.—A new Mode of Travel.—The friendly Log.—I’m afloat, I’m afloat.—Arrested.—The secret Place of Fire.ALL that night Phil slept most soundly in the little rocky chamber where he had made his bed; and early on the following morning he waked and crawled forth. It had been much cooler inside that little cavern than outside, and he was very much refreshed; but on emerging into the outer world, he was at once sensible that the heat of the atmosphere was most oppressive. The smoke, too, was thicker now than ever. Overhead it was darker, and descended nearer to the ground; while the smell of the air was more irritating to the throat and nostrils. Everything showed him, most plainly, either that the fires were increasing, or were steadily drawing nearer to where he was. In either case, the prospect was sufficiently unpleasant to make him look forward with uneasiness to his future; for as he could see nothing at any distance ahead, and as he was still in ignorance of the direction which he ought to take, he was quite incapable of forming any definite plan of escape, and could only adhere to his former plan of following the course of the river.
On finding out the heat of the atmosphere, his first impulse was to prepare himself for the toils of the day by a bath, which he proceeded at once to take. The water was still cool; and the rushing torrent, as it passed over his head and dashed against his limbs, gave him a delicious sense of enjoyment. Then followed his breakfast. The fish which he had saved for the night before were used for this purpose. He kindled a fire close by his rock, and cooked them upon the coals with his usual success. While eating his fish, he noticed at a little distance some shrubbery that seemed strangely familiar, and suggested the idea of a luxurious addition to his repast. He at once went towards them, and found that his surmise was correct. They were blackberry bushes, and were filled with berries, in such numbers that in a very short time he had picked as much as a quart. These he caught in some strips of bark folded so as to make a dish, and with this addition to his provisions he returned to his former station, and finished his breakfast with uncommon relish and enjoyment.
After finishing his repast he waited for some time, trying to think upon what might be his best course of action through the day. The more he tried, however, the more unable he found himself to devise anything better than that which he had been doing; and so at length, finding any further thought useless, he determined to set out on his daily tramp, leaving his course to be determined by the events of the day.
His course was at first precisely like what it had been on the previous day. Dark pine trees arose all about him, standing at intervals sufficiently wide to allow of easy progress, their innumerable shafts rising on every side as far as the eye could reach. The shadow of the forest beneath caught a peculiar leaden tinge from the smoke that now surrounded everything, and in some places was so dark that it seemed as though the fire might be smouldering there. There was no underbrush of any consequence, so that Phil could go on whatever course he pleased; and as the ground was firm and hard, his progress was made without undue effort. Thus he was able to keep the river in sight, and follow its course for a long distance.
As he went on the brook grew gradually larger, and at length ran into a stream very much larger than itself, large enough, in fact, to deserve the name of river. This Phil saw with delight; for he saw in this the hope of encountering the haunts of men. As he looked down the course of this river, which here afforded a much wider opening in the forest than he had yet seen, he was struck by the density of the smoke clouds, and the peculiar character of the atmosphere. The sight inspired him with far stronger fears than any which he had hitherto known. Thus far he had considered the fire as arising from some one spot, and had thought of being able to evade it, even if he should reach the place where it might be burning; but now he began to feel as though the fires were all around him, rolling forward from every side towards him, and sending an advance march of smoke to bewilder him and lead him astray. This thought gave him a momentary pang, and a transitory feeling of despair crossed his mind. But this weakness was only short-lived. It soon passed, and his buoyancy of soul and sanguine temperament reasserted themselves.
At length, as he went along by the river side, he noticed, to his deep regret, that the pine woods ended, and were succeeded by a forest like that which he had traversed on the first day of his wandering. What was worse, it could not be avoided. He could not walk along the river bank, for it was lined with trees and shrubbery. He could not walk in its bed, for it was too deep. There was therefore nothing left to do but to make his way through the woods the best way that he could.
On entering these woods, the change was unpleasant in the extreme. It was necessary for him to keep near the river, and in order to do this he had to encounter without shrinking all the obstacles that lay in his way. He did not dare now to attempt to go round any of them, or to make short cuts, for he was afraid that if he got out of sight of the water once, he would never be able to find it again; and, therefore, at all hazards, and at every cost, he determined to keep it within sight.
These new efforts soon exhausted him, and he was forced to sit down and try to recover himself. As he sat there gasping, there seemed to be a more intense warmth in the air, a dry, torrid heat, a suffocating closeness, which was, far worse than it had been yet. He felt that under these circumstances his progress would be small indeed. He had only one thought now, and that was, to recover from his heat and exhaustion; and to do this he knew of only one thing, which was—a plunge in the water.
Tearing off his clothes now, he flung himself in the water, and felt once more its reviving influence. At this moment a new idea occurred to him, which filled him again with hope. It was, that he should remain in the river, and go on as he was, carrying his clothes with him. At this rate his progress would be far more rapid than it had just been; and he would be far less liable to feel fatigue. Acting upon this suggestion, he rolled his clothes up into as small a bundle as possible, but kept his boots on his feet, so as to walk without difficulty over the sharp sticks or stones that he might encounter; and now, slinging his bundle behind his back, he went on, walking near one of the banks, in water that was about up to his waist. His progress was certainly not very fast; but the plan was highly satisfactory, since he no longer suffered so much from that intense exhaustion to which he had been subject while forcing his way through the tangled brushwood. But at length he found himself assailed by myriads of mosquitos, and this infliction became so intolerable that he had to go into the deeper water of the mid-channel. Here, however, his progress was slow, and carrying his bundle was a great trouble.
Suddenly he saw a log lying near the shore, entangled among the brushwood. It was of cedar, and looked as though it had been cut for a telegraph pole. This at once offered him an easy and agreeable mode of progress, which was in every possible way superior to anything that he had yet tried. Walking towards it, he drew it out, and then placing it before him he bound his bundle upon it. He now pushed it in front of him, down the stream, and clinging to it, he struck out after it, sometimes swimming, sometimes walking. So buoyant was the log that it easily sustained his weight; and the complete success of this contrivance made Phil determine to make the rest of his journey in this way. So he once more stopped, and taking off his boots, bound them upon the log also. He was now divested of all his clothing, keeping on only his hat, which was useful both against the heat and the flies; and thus prepared, he once more pushed his log before him, and seeking the centre of the stream, began to move slowly down. The water here was now over his head; and the current was running at the rate of about three miles an hour. A very slight effort on his part served to increase his motion to a rate which was faster than any which he had been able to make yet; and he found himself going onward in a way in which he was able at once to secure both speed and coolness.
The musquitos were troublesome from time to time, but not continuously; and these he was able to evade by plunging his head under, hat and all, after which plunge the drip of the water from his hat about his head seemed both to cool him and to repel his assailants.
He now floated along, and was thus borne onward by the river, with many a turn and winding, amidst the forest. On either side arose the trees,—dark, solemn, and silent, for not a sound of any kind could be heard. The birds which usually made the forest vocal with their melody had fled to other places. In that torrid and smoky atmosphere there was no place for these children of song. Phil, as he floated in the cool current of the river, felt himself withdrawn completely from the heat and the smoke; but as he looked up he saw enough to make him feel grateful that he was where he was—that he had found a stream deep enough to sustain him in its waters, and swift enough to carry him onward without any severe exertion on his part. The smoke lowered darkly and menacingly overhead, and before him, where the river ran, it seemed accumulated in gloomier and denser masses. The air seemed even hotter, and as he at times plunged his head under the waters, he rejoiced to think that he had so near him such a perpetual remedy for heat and exhaustion.
He had now been in the stream for some hours, when at length he noticed a rising ground before him. It was a hill of no very great height, rounded and covered with trees; but behind this there seemed to be an agitation among the smoke clouds, as though there was concealed there the unseen cause of all these stifling vapors that filled the skies. This place Phil began to watch with deep interest and curiosity. He did not feel fear, for in his present position he did not anticipate any danger; but he expected that at this place he would reach what might be the climax of his adventures. The only real fear that he had was, not from fire, but from the water itself. He was apprehensive that he might come to a cataract, or to rapids. This danger certainly did not seem very imminent, or very probable, for the country was generally of too level a character to allow of waterfalls; but Phil thought of this as his only possible danger, and was consequently always on the lookout. Now, therefore, as he saw this accumulation of clouds, and the agitation that prevailed there, he did not perceive anything that could immediately affect him, and so he felt no terror.
The river had a winding course; and though it drew nearer and nearer to this hill, yet it approached it slowly, and by gradual advances. At length, on taking a turn round one of its bends, Phil could see that the hill was on the left bank, and that he would soon reach it, and pass round it in the next turn of the stream. Full of curiosity, he now drifted along, and waited for the next prospect that would be opened up behind the hill.
Nearer and nearer Phil approached, and stronger and stronger did his excited curiosity grow. The smoke, as he drew closer, was more distinctly revealed, rising into the skies in dark, rolling masses, as though sent up by some mighty power beneath. Nearer and nearer he came, and at length became aware of short, dull flashes of light, which, brightening for a moment, were soon obscured. It did not surprise him, for this was in some degree what he was expecting. Where there is smoke there must be fire; and if now the flames flashed forth, it merely proved that he was at last drawing near to that fire whose signs had filled the air for many days. And what should he see? What was it that could produce this veil of smoke that obscured the universal sky? Could it be near the haunts of men, and was it merely the commonplace process of clearing land? No; he felt that it could not be anything so ordinary as this. The signs which he had seen and felt for days arose from something more than the clearing of fields for cultivation. It was rather the march of a mighty conflagration through the forest, which devoured all things in its path, swept away the verdant trees, blackened and devastated the rich forest foliage, and sent afar in all directions the breath of its devastating mouth.
With these thoughts Phil drifted on, awaiting the disclosure of the great fire, and at length reached the hill. Past this he was slowly borne by the current which encircled it, and then, completing the circuit, swept onward upon its course.
Here, as Phil floated looking forward, the whole scene burst at once upon his sight. No obstacle any longer rose between him and the fire; he saw it in its reality—living and breathing before his eyes.
The river went on for about a half mile, and then took another turn. Half way between this hill and the next bend rose the flames of a vast conflagration, devouring the forest far and wide, extending on both sides of the river to the right and to the left. From Phil’s position he could not command any extensive view on either side, and, indeed, the smoke would have prevented that had he even been more elevated; but the scene before him was enough to convince him of the magnitude of the fire. Immediately in front, beginning from that point, lying midway between him and the next bend, the fires began, and extended till the river turned again upon its next circuit. On both sides of the stream the fires blazed up, and continued far away, reddening in the glow of a mighty conflagration. In the midst of this arose innumerable trees, standing up, black, blighted, and withered in the red fire; while over them the smoke leaped and rolled as it bounded upward. Nearer, the fires were brighter, for here they were incessantly advancing to attack new trees: and the flames could be seen darting, like lightning, upward from twig to twig, and from bough to bough, until tree after tree was enveloped in the raging fire. These were the cause of those flashes which he had noticed further up the stream, and indicated the advance of the fire in this direction. The foreground was thus most brilliant, most active, and most thrilling; but the background, with its innumerable array of blackened trunks rising from the midst of that dull, angry fire glow, and surrounded by the dark smoke clouds, formed a scene that was yet more terrible.