Not having had much experience in the wilderness at this time, and never under such peculiar circumstances, I felt somewhat timid and apprehensive, as we were far from relief and the abodes of civilization, and in a region where bears, wolves, and a dangerous specimen of the feline species, known by woodsmen as the "Indian devil," had prowled from time immemorial. From the manner in which my exiled companions piled the brush on the fire, I suspected, also, that they had some confidence in its protective power. The night was cold, but by our exertions to keep up a brilliant fire, and copious draughts of black pepper tea, which we made in a little kettle, we kept quite comfortable. This process lasted until two o'clock in the morning, when the boat returned for us, having twice crossed the lake, in all twelve miles. We stepped on board, and at four o'clock her third trip across during the night was finished. One half mile from the shore, surrounded by an almost unbroken wilderness, stood a log cabin, tenanted by a man with his family, who had settled down for the purpose of clearing up a farm. At the time we landed the sky was overcast with dense clouds, and the darkness was so intense that I could not see an inch before my nose; I felt the force of that trite old proverb, "It's always darkest just before day." To the above-named cabin we were piloted through a dense forest, which was interlaced with a thick growth of underbrush. We made our way along as entirely unassisted by vision as though there were no such thing. By the aid of a constant hallooing, which was kept up at the log cabin, we made a direct course; and, after an untold number of stumbles over old wind-falls, and jibes from the limbs, knots, and protruding boughs of trees, we reached the object of our solicitude hungry and much fatigued. Here, however, the hospitable inmates had anticipated our wants; a good meal of bread, baked beans, and pork, with coffee, was in waiting; and after heartily participating of the same, we threw ourselves upon a coarse bed, and were soon lost in a profound and undisturbed sleep. When we awoke the shades of night had entirely disappeared, the sun shone beautifully, and our ears were saluted with the wild notes of a thousand feathered songsters, whose sweet warblings lent a peculiar enchantment to the woodland scenery which skirted the shores of the lake, so strikingly in contrast with our dismal introduction the night previous, that we almost fancied ourselves awaking up in some fairy land.
CHAPTER III.
Method of constructing Camp and Hovel.—Timber.—Covering.—Arrangement of Interior.—The Bed.—Deacon Seat.—Ingenious Method of making a Seat.—Cooking: superior Method of Baking.—The nightly Camp Fire.—Liabilities from taking Fire.—A Camp consumed.—Men burned to Death.—Enjoyment.—The new Camp: Dedication. —A Song.—A Story.—New Order in Architecture.—Ox Hovel.—Substitute for Lime.—The Devotedness of the Teamster.—Fat and lean Cattle.— Swamping Roads.—Clumps of Pine.—The points of Interest in a Logging Road.—The Teamster's Path.—Regret.—The peculiar Enjoyment of Men thus engaged.
The re-outfit alluded to in the preceding pages having arrived upon the territory previously explored, arrangements are at once made to locate and build our winter camps. To determine upon the best point is by no means an easy task, it being very difficult to fix upon the location in a strange and imperfectly-explored forest. Wood and water privileges are to be taken into the account; a central position in respect to the timber; the landing, the locating of the main roads, &c., are to be attended to. To combine all these qualities, where we can see only a few rods in advance on account of the trees and thickets, and our work must necessarily cover hundreds of acres of wild land, it must be confessed is no ordinary task. I have seldom taxed my judgment as severely on any subject as in judiciously locating a logging establishment.
These preliminaries being settled, we commence "right merrily" our camp. The top strata of leaves and turf are removed from the spot upon which the structure is to be erected; this is necessary, as we should otherwise be in great danger of fire from the dry turf. While this process is going forward, others are engaged in felling the trees on the spot, and cutting them the length determined upon for our edifice. The work commences by throwing the larger logs into a square, notching the ends together. Thus one tier after another is laid up until the walls attain the proper height, the smallest logs being used to finish out the upper tiers. In form they resemble a tin baker, rising some eight feet in front, while the roof pitches down within two or three feet of the ground in the rear. A double camp is constructed by putting two such squares face to face, with the fire in the middle. The Spruce-tree is generally selected for camp building, it being light, straight, and quite free from sap. The roof is covered with shingles from three to four feet in length. These are split from trees of straight and easy rift, such as the Pine, Spruce, and Cedar. The shingles are not nailed on, but secured in their place by laying a long heavy pole across each tier or course. The roof is finally covered with the boughs of the Fir, Spruce, and Hemlock, so that when the snow falls upon the whole, the warmth of the camp is preserved in the coldest weather. The crevices between the logs constituting the walls are tightly calked with moss gathered from surrounding trees.
A wooden house in a field of cleared trees
Winter-quarters of Lumbermen.
The interior arrangement is very simple. One section of the area of the camp is used for the dining-room, another for the sleeping apartment, and a third is appropriated to the kitchen. These apartments are not denoted by partitioned walls, but simply by small poles some six inches in diameter, laid upon the floor of the camp (which is the pure loam), running in various directions, and thus forming square areas of different dimensions, and appropriated as above suggested. The head-board to our bed consists of one or more logs, which form also the back wall of the camp. The foot-board is a small pole, some four or six feet from the fire. Our bedstead is mother earth, upon whose cool but maternal bosom we strew a thick coating of hemlock, cedar, and fir boughs. The width of this bed is determined by the number of occupants, varying from ten to twenty feet. Bed-clothes are suited to the width of the bed by sewing quilts and blankets together. The occupants, as a general thing, throw off their outer garments only when they "turn in" for the night. These hardy sons of the forest envy not those who roll on beds of down; their sleep is sound and invigorating; they need not court the gentle spell, turning from side to side, but, quietly submitting, sink into its profound depths.
Directly over the foot-pole, running parallel with it, and in front of the fire, is the "deacon seat." I think it would puzzle the greatest lexicographer of the age to define the word, or give its etymology as applied to a seat, which indeed it is, and nothing more nor less than a seat; but, so far as I can discover from those most deeply learned in the antiquarianism of the logging swamp, it has nothing more to do with deacons, or deacons with it, than with the pope. The seat itself, though the name be involved in a mystery, is nothing less nor more than a plank hewn from the trunk of a Spruce-tree some four inches thick by twelve inches wide, the length generally corresponding with the width of the bed, raised some eighteen inches above the foot-pole, and made stationary. This seat constitutes our sofa or settee, to which we add a few stools, which make up the principal part of our camp furniture. Should any of my readers ever be situated beyond the reach of cabinet-makers, but in the vicinity of the forest, I may introduce them into the secret of chair-making without the necessity of any tools except an ax. Split the top part of the trunk of a Spruce or Fir-tree in halves, cut a stick of the right length upon which three or four stout limbs grow; trim off the limbs of a sufficient length to suit your fancy; smooth the piece of timber to which they adhere by hewing, and your seat is completed. I can assure the reader that the instances are rare in which it becomes necessary to send them to the cabinetmaker for repairs, especially to have the legs glued in.
The luxury of a temporary table is now pretty generally enjoyed, with plates, knives and forks, tin dippers for tea and coffee, and sometimes cups and saucers. Formerly the deacon seat was used instead of a table, and a large frying-pan served for a platter for the whole crew. Around this the men would gather, each putting in his bread or potatoe, and salt fish, to sop in the pork fat; and never did king or courtier enjoy the luxuries of a palace more exquisitely than do our loggers this homely fare. On the St. Croix River, lumbermen generally adhere, from choice, to the original custom of eating from the frying-pan. Bread and beans are baked in a large "Duch oven," which is placed in a hole dug in the earth by the side of the fire, and entirely covered with hot coals and embers. In this position it is allowed to remain until the contents are done, when the ashes and cover are removed. I need not presume to inform the skillful cook that this mode of baking is unequaled. Our camp-fire is made on the ground next to the front wall, which is sometimes protected by a tier of large stones, but in other instances we simply set up two short stakes, against which enormous back-logs rest. After supper, each night unfailingly a very large fire is built to sleep by. Some of the wood used is so large that it often burns twenty-four hours before being entirely consumed. The amount of fuel made use of in building one camp-fire would supply an ordinary fire a week.
It is not an unfrequent occurrence, of course, for camps to take fire in this exposed situation, but some one generally discovers it in season to extinguish it by the timely application of snow or water. Instances have occurred, however, in which crews have been consumed with the camp. I recollect an instance in which a camp, on one of the tributaries of the Penobscot, took fire during the night while the inmates were asleep, and three out of four men were burned to death. In view of this liability, the roof of our camps are not so strongly fastened down but that, in the event of a retreat being cut off from the door, the united efforts of the inmates can burst it up, and thus make their escape. These things, however serious in some instances, are but little thought of or cared for.
Around this good camp-fire,
"With mirth to lighten duty,"
gather the crew after the toils of the day, to enjoy, as best they may, our long winter evenings; and around no fireside where there are equal responsibilities, intelligence, and many more luxuries, can be found more real contentment, or a greater degree of enjoyment.
Here rises the voice of song upon the wings of the winter night storm as it rolls past with the sublimity of an Alpine tempest. Here, also, are rehearsals of wild adventure, listened to with all the interest which isolated circumstances usually lend even to little matters.
The first night we lodged in one of our newly-erected camps, its dedication was proposed. It was moved and carried by acclamation that Hobbs should sing us a song, and that "Nick" should give us one of his yarns.
Hobbs, who, by-the-way, was a short, thick-set little fellow, with a chubby red face, and, withal, rather musical in his turn, gave vent to the following beautiful song, dedicated to the "Lumbermen" by the poet Whittier.
"Comrades! round our woodland quartersSad-voiced autumn grieves;Thickly down these swelling watersFloat his fallen leaves.Through the tall and naked timber,Column-like and old,Gleam the sunsets of NovemberWith their skies of gold.O'er us, to the South-land heading,Screams the gray wild goose;On the night-frost sounds the treadingOf the stately moose.Fast the streams with ice are closing,Colder grows the sky,Soon, on lake and river frozen,Shall our log-piles lie.When, with sounds of smother'd thunder,On some night of rain,Lake and river break asunderWinter's weaken'd chain,Down the wild March-flood shall bear themTo the saw-mill's wheel,Or, where Steam, the slave, shall tear themWith his teeth of steel.Be it starlight, be it moonlightIn these vales below,When the earliest beams of sunlightStreaks the mountain's snow,Crisps the hoar-frost keen and earlyTo our hurrying feet,And the forest echoes clearlyAll our blows repeat.When the crystal AmbijejisStretches broad and clear,And Millnoket's pine-black ridgesHide the browsing deer;Where, through lakes and wide morasses,Or through rocky walls,Swift and strong Penobscot passes,White with foamy falls.Where, through clouds, are glimpses givenOf Katahdin's sides—Rock and forest piled to heaven,Torn and plowed by slides!Far below the Indian trappingIn the sunshine warm,Far above the snow-cloud wrappingHalf the peak in storm!Where are mossy carpets betterThan the Persian weaves,And, than Eastern perfumes, sweeterSeem the fading leaves;And a music wild and solemnFrom the Pine-tree's height,Rolls its vast and sea-like volumeOn the wind of night.Make we here our camp of winter,And through sleet and snowPitch knot and beechen splinterOn our hearth shall glow;Here, with mirth to lighten duty,We shall lack aloneWoman, with her smile of beauty,And her gentle tone.But her hearth is brighter burningFor our work to-day,And her welcome at returningShall our loss repay.Strike, then, comrades! Trade is waitingOn our rugged toil,Far ships waiting for the freightingOf our woodland spoil!Ships, whose traffic links these highlandsBleak and cold of oursWith the citron-planted islandsOf a clime of flowers;To our frosts the tribute bringingOf eternal heats.In our lap of winter flingingTropic fruits and sweets.Cheerly on the ax of laborLet the sunbeam dance,Better than the flash of saberOr the gleam of lance!Strike! With every blow is givenFreer sun and sky,And the long-hid earth to heavenLooks with wond'ring eye.Loud behind us grow the murmursOf the age to come—Clang of smiths, and tread of farmersBearing harvest home!Here her virgin lap with treasuresShall the green earth fill—Waving wheat and golden maize-earsCrown each beechen hill.Keep who will the city's alleys,Take the smooth-shorn plain,Give to us the cedarn valleys,Rocks and hills of Maine!In our North-land, wild and woody,Let us still have part—Rugged nurse and mother sturdy,Hold us to thy heart!Oh, our free hearts beat the warmerFor thy breath of snow,And our tread is all the firmerFor thy rocks below.Freedom, hand in hand with labor,Walketh strong and brave;On the forehead of his neighborNo man writeth Slave!Brother looks on equal brother,Manhood looks on men—Be thy future, oh our mother,As thy past hath been—Heavenward, like thy mountain-guardians,With their star-crowns deck'd,And thy watchword, like Katahdin'sCloud-swept pine, 'Erect!'"
"Comrades! round our woodland quartersSad-voiced autumn grieves;Thickly down these swelling watersFloat his fallen leaves.Through the tall and naked timber,Column-like and old,Gleam the sunsets of NovemberWith their skies of gold.
"Comrades! round our woodland quarters
Sad-voiced autumn grieves;
Thickly down these swelling waters
Float his fallen leaves.
Through the tall and naked timber,
Column-like and old,
Gleam the sunsets of November
With their skies of gold.
O'er us, to the South-land heading,Screams the gray wild goose;On the night-frost sounds the treadingOf the stately moose.Fast the streams with ice are closing,Colder grows the sky,Soon, on lake and river frozen,Shall our log-piles lie.
O'er us, to the South-land heading,
Screams the gray wild goose;
On the night-frost sounds the treading
Of the stately moose.
Fast the streams with ice are closing,
Colder grows the sky,
Soon, on lake and river frozen,
Shall our log-piles lie.
When, with sounds of smother'd thunder,On some night of rain,Lake and river break asunderWinter's weaken'd chain,Down the wild March-flood shall bear themTo the saw-mill's wheel,Or, where Steam, the slave, shall tear themWith his teeth of steel.
When, with sounds of smother'd thunder,
On some night of rain,
Lake and river break asunder
Winter's weaken'd chain,
Down the wild March-flood shall bear them
To the saw-mill's wheel,
Or, where Steam, the slave, shall tear them
With his teeth of steel.
Be it starlight, be it moonlightIn these vales below,When the earliest beams of sunlightStreaks the mountain's snow,Crisps the hoar-frost keen and earlyTo our hurrying feet,And the forest echoes clearlyAll our blows repeat.
Be it starlight, be it moonlight
In these vales below,
When the earliest beams of sunlight
Streaks the mountain's snow,
Crisps the hoar-frost keen and early
To our hurrying feet,
And the forest echoes clearly
All our blows repeat.
When the crystal AmbijejisStretches broad and clear,And Millnoket's pine-black ridgesHide the browsing deer;Where, through lakes and wide morasses,Or through rocky walls,Swift and strong Penobscot passes,White with foamy falls.
When the crystal Ambijejis
Stretches broad and clear,
And Millnoket's pine-black ridges
Hide the browsing deer;
Where, through lakes and wide morasses,
Or through rocky walls,
Swift and strong Penobscot passes,
White with foamy falls.
Where, through clouds, are glimpses givenOf Katahdin's sides—Rock and forest piled to heaven,Torn and plowed by slides!Far below the Indian trappingIn the sunshine warm,Far above the snow-cloud wrappingHalf the peak in storm!
Where, through clouds, are glimpses given
Of Katahdin's sides—
Rock and forest piled to heaven,
Torn and plowed by slides!
Far below the Indian trapping
In the sunshine warm,
Far above the snow-cloud wrapping
Half the peak in storm!
Where are mossy carpets betterThan the Persian weaves,And, than Eastern perfumes, sweeterSeem the fading leaves;And a music wild and solemnFrom the Pine-tree's height,Rolls its vast and sea-like volumeOn the wind of night.
Where are mossy carpets better
Than the Persian weaves,
And, than Eastern perfumes, sweeter
Seem the fading leaves;
And a music wild and solemn
From the Pine-tree's height,
Rolls its vast and sea-like volume
On the wind of night.
Make we here our camp of winter,And through sleet and snowPitch knot and beechen splinterOn our hearth shall glow;Here, with mirth to lighten duty,We shall lack aloneWoman, with her smile of beauty,And her gentle tone.
Make we here our camp of winter,
And through sleet and snow
Pitch knot and beechen splinter
On our hearth shall glow;
Here, with mirth to lighten duty,
We shall lack alone
Woman, with her smile of beauty,
And her gentle tone.
But her hearth is brighter burningFor our work to-day,And her welcome at returningShall our loss repay.Strike, then, comrades! Trade is waitingOn our rugged toil,Far ships waiting for the freightingOf our woodland spoil!
But her hearth is brighter burning
For our work to-day,
And her welcome at returning
Shall our loss repay.
Strike, then, comrades! Trade is waiting
On our rugged toil,
Far ships waiting for the freighting
Of our woodland spoil!
Ships, whose traffic links these highlandsBleak and cold of oursWith the citron-planted islandsOf a clime of flowers;To our frosts the tribute bringingOf eternal heats.In our lap of winter flingingTropic fruits and sweets.
Ships, whose traffic links these highlands
Bleak and cold of ours
With the citron-planted islands
Of a clime of flowers;
To our frosts the tribute bringing
Of eternal heats.
In our lap of winter flinging
Tropic fruits and sweets.
Cheerly on the ax of laborLet the sunbeam dance,Better than the flash of saberOr the gleam of lance!Strike! With every blow is givenFreer sun and sky,And the long-hid earth to heavenLooks with wond'ring eye.
Cheerly on the ax of labor
Let the sunbeam dance,
Better than the flash of saber
Or the gleam of lance!
Strike! With every blow is given
Freer sun and sky,
And the long-hid earth to heaven
Looks with wond'ring eye.
Loud behind us grow the murmursOf the age to come—Clang of smiths, and tread of farmersBearing harvest home!Here her virgin lap with treasuresShall the green earth fill—Waving wheat and golden maize-earsCrown each beechen hill.
Loud behind us grow the murmurs
Of the age to come—
Clang of smiths, and tread of farmers
Bearing harvest home!
Here her virgin lap with treasures
Shall the green earth fill—
Waving wheat and golden maize-ears
Crown each beechen hill.
Keep who will the city's alleys,Take the smooth-shorn plain,Give to us the cedarn valleys,Rocks and hills of Maine!In our North-land, wild and woody,Let us still have part—Rugged nurse and mother sturdy,Hold us to thy heart!
Keep who will the city's alleys,
Take the smooth-shorn plain,
Give to us the cedarn valleys,
Rocks and hills of Maine!
In our North-land, wild and woody,
Let us still have part—
Rugged nurse and mother sturdy,
Hold us to thy heart!
Oh, our free hearts beat the warmerFor thy breath of snow,And our tread is all the firmerFor thy rocks below.Freedom, hand in hand with labor,Walketh strong and brave;On the forehead of his neighborNo man writeth Slave!
Oh, our free hearts beat the warmer
For thy breath of snow,
And our tread is all the firmer
For thy rocks below.
Freedom, hand in hand with labor,
Walketh strong and brave;
On the forehead of his neighbor
No man writeth Slave!
Brother looks on equal brother,Manhood looks on men—Be thy future, oh our mother,As thy past hath been—Heavenward, like thy mountain-guardians,With their star-crowns deck'd,And thy watchword, like Katahdin'sCloud-swept pine, 'Erect!'"
Brother looks on equal brother,
Manhood looks on men—
Be thy future, oh our mother,
As thy past hath been—
Heavenward, like thy mountain-guardians,
With their star-crowns deck'd,
And thy watchword, like Katahdin's
Cloud-swept pine, 'Erect!'"
Then followed the "yarn." Now "Nick," as we familiarly called him, was a tall, sinewy man, the exact counterpart of Hobbs in physical proportions, full of fire, and fond of adventure. He had spent much of his life in the woods, and in different parts of the country, somewhat apt in his observations, and off-hand in his style of conversation.
Looking thoughtfully into the fire a moment, as if to call an item from his experience, he proceeded as follows:
"In the month of September, 18—, having business to transact with a man engaged in timber-making on Bartholomew's River, New Brunswick, I set out on horseback, late in the afternoon, for his encampment, distant some ten miles. Part of the distance I had to pass through a dense wilderness, where a path had been made by cutting away the underbrush and small trees; the rest of the journey could only be prosecuted by riding in the bed of the stream, which at the time was quite dry.
"In answer to the inquiries made at the tavern where I hired my horse, I was told that the camp was on the bank of the stream, and could be easily seen from the channel through which I was to pass. The sun was about one hour high when I entered the woods; but I had not proceeded half way through when the heavens suddenly became overcast, which admonished me that I was about to experience one of those terrible thunder-tempests which sometimes occur at the close of a sultry September day, and are remarkable for the copious torrents of rain which fall in the vicinity of lakes and rivers, surrounded by the wilderness. I felt some solicitude to reach the river before it became dark, but the roughness of the road prevented me from going faster than a walking pace, and, ere I had accomplished the journey through the forest, the rain poured down in torrents. The thunder of heaven's artillery was tremendous, and the shooting chains of fire hissed through the tops of the trees like darting fiery serpents, here and there spending their force upon the lofty spire of some gigantic Pine, splitting and shivering its trunk into thousands of pieces, and strewing them far away upon the ground. Night, hastened by the gathering tempest, wrapped the whole scene in profound darkness; thus, amid the deafening peals of thunder, the darting forks of lightning which shot around me in every direction, and torrents of rain, my horse groped his way silently along, bearing me upon his back. At length, through much danger, I reached the channel of the river, to encounter new dangers and difficulties.
"When I entered the channel, the rain had not materially affected the amount of water then flowing; but I had not proceeded far when the swollen and foaming current, which had accumulated from hill sides and numerous brooks, rushed by me, rendering riding imminently hazardous. To be prepared for the worst, I divested myself of my boots and the horse of his saddle. In vain did I strain my eyes to gain a glimpse of the camp each time the lightning dispelled the darkness, which gave me a momentary glimpse of all around. Concluding at length that I had gone too far down the river, I turned my horse and breasted the foaming current, resolving to renew my exertions in an up-river course. But the water by this time was so high, and the channel so treacherous, that I concluded to gain the shore of the stream, and make my way, if possible, along its banks, though densely studded with trees and bushes growing in the wildest confusion. Owing to the precipitousness of the banks, I was unable to gain my object, and was therefore compelled to remain in the stream. Again and again I essayed to escape to the shore, but from the same causes failed of its accomplishment. My situation was becoming more critical every moment. Sometimes my horse was making his way over large rocks; then, suddenly coming to deeper portions of the channel, would lose his footing entirely, and swim with me upon his back. All this time the darkness was intense, the tempest raged with unabated fury, while the already swollen current continued to increase. The solemnity of the midnight hour, rendered terrible by the tempest overhead and threatening waters beneath, filled my mind with painful apprehensions. The awful grandeur of God seemed to pass before me, proclaimed in the voice of his thunder. Death, the judgment, and my sins stood before me; and I felt constrained to implore His protecting mercy. At length the lightning revealed a camp just upon the bank. Here I was able to leave the channel of the river, whose banks had so long held me a prisoner.
"Supposing that I had found the object of my hazardous search, I dismounted, and, flinging the bridle from my horse's head, left him to shift for himself, and hastened to enter; but, to my amazement, it proved an old, deserted, and solitary camp. Here, however, I resolved to worry out the remainder of the night. The wind chopping round to the northwest, it ceased raining and grew very cold, so that before daylight the rain drops froze upon the bushes; and, beginning to be very chilly, I found that exercise was necessary to keep me warm. The darkness was yet so great that I could see nothing; and, for fear of thrusting my head against the roof, I threw myself down and crawled about on my hands and knees, until, wearied with my exertions, I felt the need of repose. I then dug a hole down in the old boughs, which had been used by the former occupants as a bed, crawled into it, and covered myself entirely under the rubbish, except my face. For a few moments I thought I should be able to sleep, but my hopes were speedily dissipated. I had not lain long before I was covered with myriads of fleas. Springing from my restless couch, I shook and brushed them from my clothes; and as all hopes of rest were dismissed, I continued to exercise myself as well as I could until the grizzly rays of early morning dispelled the darkness which had so long held me a prisoner. As soon as it became sufficiently light, I set out, in my stockings, in pursuit of the camp, which I had failed to find the night previous. Proceeding up river about two miles, I came at once upon the camp. It was Sabbath morning; the inmates were indulging themselves in a late nap, and, notwithstanding my urgent circumstances, I resolved to wait a little, and give them a gentle surprise. You may be assured that my wretched appearance fully qualified me for the occasion. My feet were still partially covered with the ragged remnants of my stockings; my clothes were considerably torn and thoroughly wet, and the shives of the old bough bed were sticking into them nearly as thickly as a fleece of porcupine quills; my hat, rendered soft by the thorough drenching it had received, settled down over my head and ears; the black dye from the hat had run down in little lines all over my face, leaving their dry channels distinctly defined; my long and tangled hair, together with my haggard, care-worn countenance, rendered me altogether an object which, under any circumstances, was calculated to inspire terror. Stepping up to the camp, I gave a sudden, loud rap, without any further demonstration, which awoke the crew. As they naturally supposed themselves far away from any human beings, a knock at their door thus early, and on a Sabbath morning, the more surprised them, and awakened their curiosity. 'Who or what the d—l can that be?' I overheard some one within say. Presently a man, who, by-the-way, knew me perfectly well, came to the door, and, with some caution, opened it. I met him with a fixed and vacant stare, without uttering a word. He returned my gaze with an expression of inquisitive astonishment.
"'You don't seem to know me,' I observed. The tones of myvoiceincreased his astonishment, for they seemed familiar, but the strangeness of myappearanceconfounded him, and I could not refrain from laughing outright. Finally, half suspecting whom Imightbe, he exclaimed, with much energy, 'Nick! in the name of G—d, is it you?' I soon satisfied them on this point, while I briefly related my night's adventure. Their astonishment was great at seeing me in such an extraordinary plight, but not greater than was my satisfaction to meet them and to obtain the succor which I needed. After breakfast, some of the men went in pursuit of my horse, saddle, and boots. The last two they found on a little island in the stream, where, for fear of losing them by the flood, I had lashed them to a stump the night before."
Having thus finished his story and replenished his pipe, the old man leaned back against the camp walls and enveloped himself in a cloud of smoke, while he listened, in turn, to the various incidents in the experience of others, of which his own had been suggestive.
Finally, after some little discussion as to the precise location which each should occupy on the new bed, all hands "turned in," to live over again the fortunes of the day in the fantastic dreams of night.
Having completed our own cabin, we proceed next to construct a hovel for the oxen, which are yet behind. In erecting this, the same order in architecture is observed as in that of the camp, the timber of which it is composed, however, being much larger than that with which our own habitation is constructed. With the trunks of trees the walls are carried up nearly equal in height, leaving one side, however, enough lower than the other to give a moderate pitch to the roof, which is covered with the same kind of material as that of the camp. In the camp for the workmen there is no floor but the earth; the ox hovel, however, has a flooring made of small poles laid closely together, and hewed down with some degree of smoothness with the adz, and in the final finish the crevices in the walls are plastered with clay or ox manure. A temporary shed is thrown up in front, which serves as a depôt for hay and provender.
No little pains are bestowed upon the conveniences designed for the team. With the exception of sporting horses, never have I witnessed more untiring devotion to any creature than is bestowed upon the ox when under the care of a good teamster. The last thing before "turning in," he lights his lantern and repairs to the ox hovel. In the morning, by the peep of day, and often before, his faithful visits are repeated to hay, and provender, and card, and yoke up. No man's berth is so hard, among all the hands, as the teamster's. Every shoe and nail, every hoof and claw, and neck, yokes, chains, and sled, claim constant attention. While the rest of the hands are sitting or lounging around the liberal fire, shifting for their comfort, after exposure to the winter frosts through the day, he must repeatedly go out to look after the comfort of the sturdy, faithful ox. And then, for an hour or two in the morning again, while all, save the cook, are closing up the sweet and unbroken slumbers of the night, so welcome and necessary to the laborer, he is out amid the early frost with, I had almost said, the care of a mother, to see if "old Turk" is not loose, whether "Bright" favors the near fore-foot (which felt a little hot the day before), as he stands upon the hard floor, and then to inspect "Swan's" provender-trough, to see if he has eaten his meal, for it was carefully noted that at the "watering-place" last night he drank but little; while at the further end of the "tie-up" he thinks he hears a little clattering noise, and presently "little Star" is having his shins gently rapped, as a token of his master's wish to raise his foot to see if some nail has not given way in the loosened shoe; and this not for once, but every day, with numberless other cares connected with his charge.
A competent hand in this profession generally calculates to do a good winter's hauling, and bring his team out in the spring in quite as good flesh as when they commenced in the early part of the season. But as in all other matters, so in this, there are exceptions to the general rule. Some teamsters spoil their cattle, and bring them out in the spring miserably poor, and nearly strained to death. Such a practice, however, can not be regarded as either merciful or economical. So far as true policy is concerned, it is much better to keep a team well. What may be gained by hard pushing during the former part of the season will be more than made up during the latter, when the teams are moderately urged and well kept, and then you have a good team still for future labor.
Having completed our winter residences, next in order comes the business of looking out and cutting the "main," and some of the principal "branch roads." These roads, like the veins in the human body, ramify the wilderness to all the principal "clumps" and "groves of pine" embraced in the permit.
We have here no "turnpikes" nor rail-ways, but what is often more interesting. No pencilings can excel the graceful curves found in a main road as it winds along through the forest, uniform in width of track, hard-beaten and glassy in its surface, polished by the sled and logs which are so frequently drawn over it. Each fall of snow, when well trodden, not unlike repeated coats of paint on a rough surface, serves to cover up the unevenness of the bottom, which in time becomes very smooth and even. And besides, no street in all our cities is so beautifully studded with trees, whose spreading branches affectionately interlace, forming graceful archways above. Along this road side, on the way to the landing, runs a serpentine pathway for the "knight of the goad," whose deviations are marked now outside this tree, then behind that "windfall," now again intercepting the main road, skipping along like a dog at one's side. To pass along this road in mid-winter, one would hardly suspect the deformities which the dissolving snows reveal in the spring—the stumps and knolls, skids and roots, with a full share of mud-sloughs, impassable to all except man, or animals untrammeled with the harness.
In the process of making these roads, the first thing in order is to look out the best location for them. This is done by an experienced hand, who "spots" the trees where he wishes the road to be "swamped." We usually begin at the landing, and cut back toward the principal part of the timber to be hauled.
In constructing this road, first all the underbrush is cut and thrown on one side; all trees standing in its range are cut close to the ground, and the trunks of prostrated trees cut off and thrown out, leaving a space from ten to twelve feet wide. The tops of the highest knolls are scraped off, and small poles, called skids, are laid across the road in the hollows between. Where a brook or slough occurs, a pole-bridge is thrown across it.
These preparatory arrangements are entered upon and prosecuted with a degree of interest and pleasure by lumbermen scarcely credible to those unacquainted with such a mode of life and with such business. Though not altogether unacquainted with other occupations and other sources of enjoyment, still, to such scenes my thoughts run back for the happier portions of life and experience.
I have attended to various kinds of labor, but never have I entered upon any half so pleasing as that usually performed in the "logging swamp." Although greatly jeoparding my reputation for taste, I will utter it. Positively, it is delightful. I have since had some years' experience in one of the professions, in the enjoyment of some of the refinements of life, yet, if it could be done consistently, I would now with eagerness exchange my house for the logging camp, my books for the ax, and the city full for those wilderness solitudes whose delightful valleys and swelling ridges give me Nature uncontaminated—I had almost said, uncursed, fresh from the hand of the Creator. To write of those things makes the bustling city seem dull and irksome. Fain would I hie away once more to those pleasant pastime labors.
Happily, all tastes are not alike. Yet there are few who, on entering a beautiful native forest, would not experience delight; the varieties of trees set out by the hand of Nature, their graceful forms and spreading branches interlocked with neighborly affection and recognition; theharmonious confusionof undergrowth; the beautiful mosses, the ever-varying surface—old age, manhood and youth, childhood and infancy—massive trunks and little sprouts; the towering Pine and creeping Winter-green, intermingled by the artless genii of these wild retreats, all combined, serve to explain theattachmentof the Aborigines to their forest abodes, and give to savage life the power of enchantment.
CHAPTER IV.
Tokens of Winter.—The Anticipation.—Introduction of Team.— Difficulties attending it.—Uncomfortable Boating.—The Contrast.—Method of crossing Streams and Rivers.—The Docility of the Ox.—Facilities of Turnpikes.—Stopping-places.—Arrival. —An Adventure.—Ten Oxen in the Ice.—Method of taking them Out. —An uncomfortable Night.—The midnight Excursion.—Oxen running at large in the Wilderness.—Developments of Memory.—Logging.— Division of Labor.—How to manage in the absence of a Cook.— "Uncle Nat."—Anecdote.—Felling Pines.—Ingenuity of Choppers. —Preparatory Arrangements.—The Bob-sled.—Method of Operation described.—The Excitement.—Comparison.—Immediate Length of Pine-trees.—Conclusion.
By the time these arrangements are made, serious indications of winter appear in cold, freezing nights and light falls of snow. It is now about time to look for the arrival of the team and extra hands.
This event we anticipate with as much interest as voyagers are wont to feel when they meet upon the ocean after several months at sea. Letters and newspapers are expected, and, when received, perused with avidity. New acquaintances are to be made, new tools to be examined, and every thing foreign, however insignificant, is an object of interest.
The introduction of the team to winter quarters is always attended with more or less trouble: much less, however, of late than in former years. Then, all the chains and other implements connected with the business, together with provisions for the crew and provender for the oxen, enough to last until the swamps, rivers, and lakes were frozen, so as to allow teams to pass over them, were boated in the manner described in a former chapter, which required many trips, and were continued until a late period in the fall.
To the latest trips an additional and most uncomfortable inconvenience is added to the many hardships of boating provisions. This is when the ice makes on our poles while in the act of passing up over rapids. Often our hands become so cold and stiff as to render it very difficult to hold on to the icy instrument. The mariner may stop a moment, even in a gale, while at the yard-arm, to blow his freezing fingers; but not so with the lumberman with a loaded boat in a rapid current: every finger is needed every moment, as life and property would be endangered by paying even slight attention to cold fingers.
Where the nature of the route will allow it, and an early start is desired, our teams are attached to a long sled, lightly loaded, which is dragged over miry, rough roads. In crossing large streams, we unyoke the oxen and swim them over. If we have no boat, a raft is constructed, upon which our effects are transported, when we re-yoke and pursue our route as before. Our oxen are often very reluctant to enter the water while the anchor ice runs, and the cold has already begun to congeal its surface. But an ox hardly knows how to refuse compliance with his master's wishes, so submissive is he in his disposition.
Of late, since roads have been cut, and even "turnpikes" made a considerable portion of the distance up the main rivers, such as the "Calais and Houlton Road" on the St. Croix, and the "Military Road" on the Penobscot, which connect with other less perfect thoroughfares, and finally terminate in common swamp roads, our conveyances are much easier, and the business of taking the team on to the ground is, and may be safely, deferred until frosts and snows admit of a more agreeable mode of travel.
What is called a team is variously composed of from four to six, and even eight oxen. During the months of November and December, after the ground and swamps are frozen, and early snows fall, our team is attached to a "long sled," loaded with provisions, tools, &c., accompanied with a new recruit of hands. Leaving home and the scenes of civilization, slowly we move forward to join those who had preceded us to make preparations for our reception. After several days' journeyings, putting up at night at places erected and supplied for the convenience of such travelers, and at suitable distances on the route, we finally reach our new home. Our arrival is no less agreeable to ourselves than welcome to our comrades. But there are incidents scattered all the way along, and seldom do we perform such a journey without experiencing something worth relating.
On one occasion, late in the fall, we started for our winter quarters up river. We had traveled about one hundred miles, passing along up the military road, then south upon the Calais road to Baskahegan Lake, which we were to cross, our camps being on the opposite side. We reached the borders of the lake late in the afternoon. The ice was not so thickly frozen as was anticipated, so that the practicability of crossing seemed exceedingly problematical. Having been long on the way, we were anxious, if possible, to arrive in camp that night. The shores of the lake were so swampy that it was deemed impracticable to perform the route around it, and it was finally determined to make an effort to cross upon the ice. We had twelve oxen, which were disposed of in the following order: the lightest yoke of oxen was selected and driven in yoke before to test the strength of the ice, and, in case the loaded teams should break through, to be used to pull them out. These were our reserve. The next in the line of march was a pair of oxen attached to a sled, with hay, &c. Next in order was a four-ox team; these were also attached to a sled, loaded with hay and provisions; and, finally, to bring up the rear, still another four-ox team, with a loaded sled—all of which were strung out at suitable distances, to prevent too much weight coming upon any one point, thus rendering our passage more safe. The word was given, when we all moved forward, intending first to gain a point which ran out into the lake, covered with a thick small growth. The ice cracked and buckled beneath our feet at every step. Proceeding in this way, we gained the point in safety. It had by this time become late, and the last rays of the setting sun gilded the tops of the towering pines, which peered far up in the air above the surrounding forest.
The night was very cold, and the wind swept up the lake with a penetrating chill, which made us button up our garments closely to prevent its too ready access to our bodies. Having gained the point in safety, we were emboldened to set forward again upon the main body of the lake, which was yet to be crossed. Here the ice seemed less capable of sustaining our weight than in the cove, which, from its protected position, had probably congealed sooner than the main lake, which was more exposed to the action of winds.
Here the ice gave more alarming indications of its incapacity to hold us. We had not proceeded more than three fourths of a mile when the hindermost team broke through, sled and all, which was very naturally accounted for, as the teams which preceded cracked and weakened the ice. The alarm was given along the line, when the other teams stopped; and while we were preparing to extricate those already in, the next team of four oxen dropped in also; and finally they were all in at once, except the reserve pair. Had they kept in motion, probably the foremost teams might have escaped; but, upon stopping, the ice gradually settled, when in they went. There we were on that bleak spot, with the shades of night fast settling down upon us, and ten oxen struggling in the benumbing waters: business enough, thought we.
Standing upon the edge of the ice, a man was placed by the side of each ox to keep his head out of the water. We unyoked one at a time, and, throwing a rope round the roots of his horns, the warp was carried forward and attached to the little oxen, whose services on this occasion were very necessary. A strong man was placed on the ice at the edge, so that, lifting the ox by his horns, he was able to press the ice down and raise his shoulder up on the edge, when the warp-oxen would pull them out. For half an hour we had a lively time of it, and in an almost incredible short time we had them all safely out, and drove them back upon the point nearly a mile. It was now very dark. We left our sleds in the water with the hay, pulling out a few armsful, which we carried to the shore to rub the oxen down with. Poor fellows! they seemed nearly chilled to death, while they shook as if they would fall to pieces.
We built up a large fire, and, leaving the principal part of the crew behind to take care of the oxen, I, with several of the hands, started to find, if possible, the camps, where were waiting those who had been previously engaged in making arrangements for the winter. This was esteemed by some rather risky, as it was getting very dark, and we did not know exactly which way to shape our course. But the prospect seemed gloomy and uninviting to remain upon that bleak point all night, and, besides, we wished the assistance of the camp's crew in taking our teams over next day. Delay was not to be thought of. We therefore started. A squall of snow came up when we were midway across, which completely bewildered us, and we became divided in opinion as to the proper course to steer. Tenacious of my own views, I resolved to pursue the course which appeared to me right, when the others consented to follow. Finally, after several hours of hard travel, we gained the shore, not far from the road which led back to the camp, about half a mile distant in the woods. We were here, again, puzzled to know whether the camp lay at the right or left. Settling that matter by guess, as Yankees often do other things, we traveled along by the shore about one fourth of a mile, when, to our great relief, we came to the road, up which we passed, and reached the camp a little after midnight, hungry and fatigued. We found our comrades snugly quartered and soundly sleeping. Refreshing ourselves with hot tea, bread, and beef, we turned in and slept until daylight, when, after breakfast, all hands started to rejoin those left behind. We were with them in a few hours. Poor fellows! they had had a pretty uncomfortable season, not one moment's sleep during the night, and scantily provided with food, while the oxen fared harder still. We succeeded in getting out of the ice all but one load of hay, which we left behind. Not venturing to cross directly, we now followed round the lake, close in shore, and finally reached our winter quarters in safety, and without further accident.
The task of taking oxen on to the ground every fall is very considerable, especially when we go far into the interior, as we frequently do nearly two hundred miles. This labor and expense is sometimes obviated by leaving them in the spring to shift for themselves in the wilderness and on the meadows, where they remain until autumn, when they are hunted up. During their wilderness exile they thrive finely, and, when found, appear very wild; yet wondering, they seem to look at us as though they had some lingering recollection of having seen us before. It is often very difficult to catch and yoke them; but, with all their wildness, they evidently show signs of pleasure in the recognition. When turned out in this way, however, instances have occurred when they have never again been seen or heard from. In some cases they probably get mired or cast, and die; in others, they doubtless stray away, and fall a prey to bears and wolves. Bears as well as wolves have been known to attack oxen. An individual who owned a very fine "six-ox team" turned them into the woods to browse, in a new region of country. Late in the evening, his attention was arrested by the bellowing of one of them. It continued for an hour or two, then ceased altogether. The night was very dark, and, as the ox was supposed to be more than a mile distant, it was thought not advisable to venture in search of him until morning. As soon as daylight appeared, he started, in company with another man, to investigate the cause of the uproar. Passing on about a mile, he found one of his best oxen laying prostrate, and, on examination, there was found a hole eaten into the thickest part of his hind quarter nearly as large as a hat; not less than six or eight pounds of flesh were gone. He had bled profusely. The ground was torn up for rods around where the encounter occurred; the tracks indicated the assailant to be a very large bear, who had probably worried the ox out, and then satiated his ravenous appetite, feasting upon him while yet alive. A road was bushed out to the spot where the poor creature lay, and he was got upon a sled and hauled home by a yoke of his companions, where the wound was dressed. It never, however, entirely healed, though it was so far improved as to allow of his being fattened, after which he was slaughtered for food.
After a few days' respite, and as soon as a sufficient quantity of snow has fallen, we commence hauling the logs. As there are several departments of labor, each man is assigned to some one of them. In most cases, indeed, every hand is hired with the distinct understanding that he is to perform a particular part of the labor, and the wages differ accordingly, being regulated, also, by the ability with which they can severally fill those stations.
First, then, comes the "boss," or the principal in charge. Then the choppers, meaning those who select, fell, and cut the logs, one of whom is master chopper. Next the swampers, who cut and clear the roads through the forest to the fallen trees, one of whom is master swamper. Then comes the barker and loader, the man who hews off the bark from that part of the log which is to drag on the snow, and assists the teamster in loading. Then we have the captain of the göad, or teamster, whom we have already alluded to; and finally the cook, whose duty is too generally known to require any particular description. Every crew is not supplied with the last important character; this deficiency, I believe, is much more common on the St. Croix than on the Penobscot, where the mode of camp life and fare is much better attended to. When we have no person specially set apart to this work, the crew generally take turns, to do which there is an obligation imposed by usage and common consent on some rivers, and each man, therefore, must comply, or furnish a substitute by employing some one to act for him. In those instances where no cook is provided, we take turns, a week at a time, or each man consents to perform some particular duty in cookery; for instance, one makes all the bread, another the tea and coffee, and so on through the routine of camp domesticism. A slight degree of rebellion sometimes manifests itself touching this business, especially before matters receive their regular winter mold. One refuses to cook, another says he "was hired to do something else," while another says, "I'm d—d if I cook any how." I recollect a pleasant occurrence of this kind, at least one rendered so by the clever management of an old man connected with the crew. They had returned to camp from the labors of the day, the fire was nearly out, and nothing prepared for supper. Alike fatigued and hungry, each refused, in turn, to discharge the duties of cook, and the gloomy prospect presented itself of a supperless night. "Uncle Nat," as we familiarly called him, was a "jolly old soul," the very personification of good nature, corpulency, and quietude, possessing, withal, a good share of ingenious wit; and, from his corpulency and asthmatical tendencies, reminding one of a small locomotive by the puffing and blowing consequent on physical exertion. Now how to settle this matter, and have even any number of volunteer cooks, at once occurred to "Uncle Nat." "Dear me" (his favorite expression), "what a time about cooking. Why, it is the easiest thing in nature to get supper. Now, boys, if you will all wait upon me, I'll be cook." "Agreed! agreed!" was the ready response on all hands. This matter being settled, "Uncle Nat" very deliberately deposited himself on the "deacon seat," and commenced drilling the volunteer assistants. "Now, Richard, get a little wood and kindle up the fire." "Isaac, step down to the brook and fetch a pail of water;" "and you, Mac, while the fire is getting under way, wash a few potatoes, and get them ready to put on when the pot boils." "Now, Jake, cut a few slices of pork," continued our chief cook, with much sang froid, "and put it over the fire to fry." "But you were to get supper, Uncle Nat." "Yes, I was to get supper, but you were to wait upon me," says he, casting a significant glance toward Tom, at the same time ordering him to make the dishes ready. Remonstrance was vain: they had agreed to wait upon him, if he would be cook. Every thing was arranged, supper ready, and there still sat the old gentleman—hadn't stirred an inch. "Dear me" (deep breathing), "dear me," said Uncle Nat, "I have got supper, and 'twas one of the easiest things in the world." The "boys" are caught—it was a "good 'un;" and to the enjoyment of a relishable supper was added a hearty laugh. Uncle Nat's proposition passed into a by-word, and all, ever after, were ready to do any thing, provided they could be "waited upon."
In the process of taking logs to the landing from the swamp, the first thing in order is to select the tree. The direction in which it is judged likely to fall is determined by circumstances. First, the inclination of the tree as it stands; and, second, the direction and power of the wind. Sometimes this matter may be governed, where the tree stands very erect, by under-cutting one side more than the other; to which an expedient is added, when necessary, by falling one tree against another. Choppers can, if skillful, lay a tree, in falling, with sufficient accuracy to hit and drive a stake into the ground. When, however, a tree stands upon an abrupt hill-side, we are apt to get deceived. It is thrilling business to bring those giant Pines down. The ground trembles under the stroke, while the reverberating echo of its fall, as it rings through mountains and valleys, may, on a still morning, be heard six or eight miles. Before felling the Pine, small trees are cut for bed-pieces, the Pine-tree falling across them transversely, to prevent it from becoming too deeply imbedded in the snow. This also facilitates the barking and loading operation. The proper place being selected, the trunk of the tree is cut off while the "swampers" have been directing their road to the spot. The "barkers"—like whalemen leaping upon the back of their prize with their cutting spades—are at once at work with their axes, hewing the bark from that portion of the log which is to be drawn along on the snow, while the other end is to rest upon the sled. The "teams" next approach the scene of action, drawing after them a short sled, called a "bob-sled;" probably so named from the bobbing motion it has while drawn over the rough ground. It would be an insult to every New Englander's intelligence to attempt a description of this sled; I therefore pass it, remarking, by-the-way, that, considering the service for which it is designed, it is made very strong, as it is required to sustain one end, or more than half the weight of the largest trees upon a single bar: in some cases several tuns burden rest upon a single point. While this bar alone sustains one half the entire log, it is also the only part of the sled to which the heavy trunks of those massive trees are bound; it therefore draws as well as sustains the load, challenging the powers of six and even eight of the stoutest oxen.