CHAPTER II.
RIVER-DRIVING.
Log-landing.—Laborious Exposure.—Damming Streams.—Exciting Scenes. —Log-riding.—Fun.—Breaking a Dry-landing.—A sudden Death.— Thrilling Scenes on the "Nesourdnehunk."—Lake-driving.—Steam Tow-boat.—Remarks on Lake Navigation.—Driving the main River.— Union of Crews.—Substantial Jokes.—Log Marks.—Dangers of River-driving.—Sad Feelings over the Grave of a River-driver.— Singular Substitute for a Coffin.—Burial of a River-driver.—A Log Jam.—Great Excitement.—A Boat swamped.—A Man drowned.— Narrow Escape.—Mode of Living on the River.—Wangun.—Antidote for Asthma.—The Wangun swamped.—An awful Struggle.—The miraculous Escape.—Driving among the Islands.—Amusing Exertions at identifying. —Consummation of Driving.—The Claims of lumbering Business for greater Prominence.—The Boom.
The business ofriver-drivingis not so agreeable as other departments of labor in the lumbering operations, though equally important, and also, in many respects, intensely interesting. The hands left at the camps at the time the team breaks up, to make the necessary instruments forriver-driving, are soon joined with the addition of such forces as are requisite for an expeditious drive. As in most labor performed there is a directing and responsible head, so is it in river-driving; here, too, we have our "boss."
As early as April, and sometimes the last of March, the high ascending sun begins to melt the snow on the south of mountain and hill sides, flowing intervales and lowlands, forming considerable rivers, where at other seasons of the year the insignificant little brook wound its stealthy course among the alders, hardly of a capacity to float the staff of a traveler; but, at the period referred to, by a little previous labor in cutting away the bushes and removing some of the stones in its channel, it is made capable of floating large logs, with the occasional assistance of a dam to flow shoal places.
In brook-driving it is necessary to begin early, in order to get the logs into the more ample current of the main river while the freshet is yet up. In some cases, therefore, as a necessary step, the ice in the channel of the brook is cut out, opening a passage of sufficient width to allow three or four logs to float side by side. In forming a landing on the margin of such streams, the trees and bushes are cut and cleared out of the way for several rods back, and a considerable distance up and down, according to the number of logs to be hauled into it. To facilitate the sawing of the logs into suitable lengths for driving, as well as more especially to form bed-pieces upon which to roll them into the brook in the spring, a great many skids are cut and laid parallel with each other, running at right angles to the margin of the stream. On these landings, in the spring, the water is from one to two feet deep, the cause of which is sometimes accounted for from the fact that in the autumn the water is quite low, and the ice, in forming, is attached to the grass and bushes, which prevent it from rising; the result is, that the whole is overflowed in the spring. Into the channel thus cut the logs are rolled, as fast as it can be cleared, by shoving those already in down stream, until the brook, for a mile or more, is filled with new and beautiful logs.
No part of the driving business is so trying to the constitution, perhaps, as clearing such a landing. It often occupies a week, during which all hands are in the water, in depth from the ankle to the hips, exerting themselves to the utmost, lifting with heavy pries, hand-spikes, and cant-dogs, to roll these massive sticks into the brook channel. The water at this season is extremely chilly, so much so that a few moments' exposure deprives the feet and legs of nearly all feeling, and the individual of power to move them, so that it often becomes necessary to assist each other to climb upon a log, where a process of thumping, rubbing, and stamping restores the circulation and natural power of motion. This effected, they jump in and at it again.
When the water is too shallow on any part of a stream to float the logs, dams are constructed to flow the water back, with gates which can be opened and shut at pleasure, and either through the apertures of the gates or sluice-ways made for the purpose, the logs are run. This dam answers the same purpose in raising the water to float the logs below as above, on the brook. Shutting the gates, a large pond of water is soon accumulated; then hoisting them, out leaps the hissing element, foaming and dashing onward like a tiger leaping upon his prey. Away the logs scamper, reminding one of a flock of frightened sheep fleeing before the wolf. Some logs are so cumbersome that they remain unmoved, even with this artificial accumulation of water. In such cases, embracing the moment when the water is at its highest pitch, in we leap, and, thrusting our hand-spikes beneath them, bow our shoulders to the instrument, often stooping so low as to kiss the curling ripples as they dance by. In this way, sometimes by a few inches at a time, and sometimes by the rod, we urge them over difficult places; while, in connection with the annoyance of very cold water, broken fragments of ice mingle in the melée, imposing sundry thumps and bruises upon the benumbed limbs of the enduring river-driver.
In some places, on low, swampy land, a body of water accumulates several rods wide, and from three to ten feet deep. Here the logs, as if to play "hide and seek," run in among the bushes, giving infinitely more trouble than amusement. Under such circumstances, it becomes necessary for the men to keep on the logs most of the time; and as logs roll very easily in the water, and are often extremely slippery, it requires the balancing skill of a wire-dancer to keep on them; and often some luckless wight, whether he will or no, plunges over head and ears into the flood as he is whirled from the back of some ticklish log; and, however unwelcome to himself, no sooner is his head above water than he hears the wild woods echo the jeering laugh of his more fortunate comrades.
In other places, where banks are too abrupt to allow the team to pass on to the river, the logs are unloaded and rolled down in one general mass; the first few fall upon the ice, others rolling against them; the main body fall back and accumulate in great numbers. To break or clear such a landing is often very dangerous. While at work prying on the foremost, large masses start suddenly, and often the only way of escape is to spring in advance of the rushing pile and plunge the river. "I saw one poor fellow," said a logger, "hurled into eternity very suddenly while at work on one of those jams. Co-operating with others in an attempt to roll a stick from the pile, the main lever gave way, and the stick slipped back. This person used a single hand-spike, holding up the upper end and sallying back. When the log rolled back it caused the hand-spike to spring forward, and, before he had time to relinquish his grasp, it flung him headlong forward, like an arrow from the hunter's bow, down the embankment into the water; when recovered, he was dead. It was supposed that some internal injury was inflicted by the sudden ejectment, which caused him to suffocate more readily in the water. Rarely could the man be found his equal in physical energy; but strength opposes no barrier to death."
Logs are now driven down streams whose navigation for such purposes was formerly regarded as impracticable—some from their diminutive size, and others from their wild, craggy channel. There is a stream of the latter description, called "Nesourdnehunk," which disembogues into the Penobscot on the southwest side of Mount Ktaadn, whose foaming waters leap from crag to crag, or roll in one plunging sheet down perpendicular ledges between two mountains. On one section of this stream, said to be about half a mile in length, there is a fall of three hundred feet. In some places it falls twenty-five feet perpendicularly. Down this wild pass logs are run, rolling, dashing, and plunging, end over end, making the astonished forest echo with their rebounding concussion.
It would be a match for "Dame Nature" to locate a handsome Pine-tree beyond the grasp of the logmen. Where the Eastern hunter pursues the mountain goat, the logger would pursue the stately Pine. We have seen them in the deep ravine, on the abrupt hill-top, and far up the rugged mountain side, or peering down from some lofty cliff upon the insignificant animal at its base who is contemplating its sacrifice; a few minutes, and the crash of its giddy plunge is heard, "and swells along the echoing crag," causing the earth to tremble under the stroke of its massive trunk; and if it does not break in pieces, as is sometimes the case, in falling, it will in time find its way to the slip of the saw-mill. The resolution, daring, skill, and physical force of the men engaged in this business can find no rival, to say the least, in any body or class of men whatever.
In many cases logs are hauled on to the ice of the lakes, streams, and rivers, instead of being left upon the banks or landing-places. When hauled on to the lakes, they are laid together as compactly as possible, and inclosed in a "boom," which is made by fastening the ends of the trunks of long trees, so as to prevent them from scattering over the lake on the breaking up of the ice. A strong bulk-head or raft is constructed of the logs, with a capstan or windlass for the purpose of warping the whole forward in a calm, or when the wind is ahead. In this operation, two or three men take an anchor into the boat, to which, of course, the warp is attached, when they row out to the extent of the rope, let go the anchor, and haul up by working the windlass. Sometimes a tempest breaks up the boom, and the logs are scattered, which gives much trouble, and not unfrequently causes a delay of one year before they reach the mills.
On Moose-head Lake, at the head of the Kennebeck, a steam tow-boat has recently been built, which has proved very serviceable to lumbermen in towing rafts to the outlet. Probably the time will come when the business of other large lakes in Maine will require the services of similar boats. Had the same degree of knowledge and interest existed twenty years ago in regard to the application of steam to the various purposes of life that is now manifested, the crystal waters of the beautiful Grand Lake, at the head of the St. Croix, would have been plowed by the prow of some little steamer long ago. But now one great leading motive for such an undertaking is irrecoverably past; the White Pines have been mowed by the woodmen's ax; they have disappeared forever, at least in any considerable quantity. Still, other interests may arise and create a demand sufficiently promising, in a remunerative point of view, to induce an individual, or joint investment, for the construction of such a boat as may be needed. The Grand Lake is some twenty-five miles in length from north to south, and from six to eight miles wide at its greatest breadth. An imaginary line, passing lengthwise, constitutes the boundary between Maine and New Brunswick, the eastern shore being within the limits of her majesty's dominions. Settlements to a large extent have already been made on the American side; and when, in the course of time, the other side shall spring into importance, some little commerce may be opened between the two ports, a custom-house be established, &c., so that the places here sketched may constitute a miniature likeness of the two countries, with the broad Atlantic between them. However, in reference to the realization of what is here said of steamboats and commerce, we will say with the Dutchman, when he spoke prospectively of other matters, "Vell, vell, ve shall see vat ve shall see!"
From lakes and tributary streams, the various parcels of logs cut and drove by different companies issue forth, and form one grand drive on the main river, where the separate crews unite, and make common cause in the driving operation. In other instances one drive may precede another, making the river for miles one general scene of logs and river-drivers. Sometimes the foremost logs of one drive, unobstructed, pass on and mingle with what is called the "tail end" of the preceding drive. Under such circumstances, if there be any grudge to gratify by the foremost crew, or a substantial joke to be put, such truant logs are run aground, into creeks, in meadow land, among the bushes, and on the shore. A crew of thirty or forty men will take a log belonging to another crew and run it up high and dry on to the land, stand it on end, prop it up, and leave it in that position. The rear crew, on coming up, stimulated by the prank, knock away the props, and throw it down; a score of pikes pierce its sides, when they shove it upon the run perhaps twenty rods to the river again, amid the most vociferous hurrahs and whooping, enough to give one quite an idea of the Indian war-whoop. Some, perhaps, who may trace these lines may be curious to know how the logs of one party can be distinguished from those of another. The answer is, precisely as one farmer distinguishes his sheep from those of his neighbor by the particular mark they bear, each differing in some particular from every other. A representation of these marks, which are cut in the side of the log, would remind one of the letters or characters of the Chinese.
No employment that I am aware of threatens the life and health more than river-driving. Many a poor fellow finds his last resting-place on the bank of some wild stream, in whose stifling depths his last struggle for life was spent; where the wild wood skirts its margin—where, too, the lonely owl hoots his midnight requiem. I have visited many spots that were, from facts called up by retrospection, lonely and painfully silent, but have never been so spell-bound, so extremely oppressed with a feeling of sadness, as while standing over the little mound which marked the resting-place of a river-driver on the banks of a lonely stream, far away from the hearth of his childhood and the permanent abodes of civilization. The silent ripple of the now quiet stream (for the spring floods were past), the sighing of the winds among the branches of trees which waved in silence over the unconscious sleeper, rendered the position too painful for one predisposed to melancholy. When in those wild regions we have the misfortune to lose one of our number, after the body is recovered, we place it in a coffin composed of two empty flour barrels. One is passed over the head and shoulders, the other receives the lower extremities, when the two are brought together and fastened, his grave-clothes generally being some of his common wearing apparel. Seldom, if ever, does the voice of prayer rise over their bier under these circumstances; in silence the corpse is committed to its rude burial, while now and then a half-suppressed sigh is heard, and the unbidden tears steal down the sunburned cheeks of his manly associates. Events of this kind generally come suddenly, though, when in dangerous circumstances, are often anticipated. After such an occurrence, an air of sobriety pervades the company; jokes are dispensed with, the voice of song is hushed, and for several days the deportment of the men is characterized with a degree of cautiousness unusual, except when reminded by some such impressive example of the frailty and uncertainty of human life. But with most the impression soon wears off, and their accustomed cheerfulness is regained; their exertions marked with the same daring as before the accident, or as though a life had never been lost in the business. Lower down the river, in the vicinity of new settlements, the usual ceremonies on funeral occasions are practiced when an itinerant clergyman chances to pass that way. The following notice of such an occurrence was cut from the Bangor Courier: "Passing into the town of Passadumkeag late one evening during the past summer, a crowd had gathered in the street. It proved to be the funeral of a river-driver. His body had been taken from the water and shrouded in the open air. Many of the sympathetic villagers were there; and a pious elder, who chanced that way, breathed a prayer over his remains before they were borne to their final place of rest."
BURIAL OF A RIVER-DRIVER."They drew him from his watery bed,And shrouded him with kindly care;At ev'n his humble bier was spread,And o'er it rose the voice of pray'r;His only pall night's sable damp,The stars of heav'n his funeral lamp.They bore away that youthful form,And laid it in the humid grave,That yestermorn with life was warm,And launch'd upon the dancing waveWith jocund voice, and hopes as brightAs stirr'd beneath that morning's light.His oar with nervous arm he plied,Nor shrank from dangers gath'ring fast,Struggling against that treacherous tide,His stout heart braves it to the last;Till, spent his strength, and dim his eye,His oar and skiff float idly by.Far distant lies the home he left,And side by side an aged pair,Unconscious of their hopes bereft,Breathe now his cherish'd name in pray'r;Their eyes with watchfulness grow dim:Oh! vainly will they wait for him!A fair young maid, with pensive face,Looks forth upon the silent night,Her heart sweet memories doth trace,Till future years glow in their light.Alas! for life's all changeful scene,How soon must perish that fond dreamFor him on whom her thoughts doth pore;His hopes and schemes of earth are o'er!"
BURIAL OF A RIVER-DRIVER.
BURIAL OF A RIVER-DRIVER.
"They drew him from his watery bed,And shrouded him with kindly care;At ev'n his humble bier was spread,And o'er it rose the voice of pray'r;His only pall night's sable damp,The stars of heav'n his funeral lamp.
"They drew him from his watery bed,
And shrouded him with kindly care;
At ev'n his humble bier was spread,
And o'er it rose the voice of pray'r;
His only pall night's sable damp,
The stars of heav'n his funeral lamp.
They bore away that youthful form,And laid it in the humid grave,That yestermorn with life was warm,And launch'd upon the dancing waveWith jocund voice, and hopes as brightAs stirr'd beneath that morning's light.
They bore away that youthful form,
And laid it in the humid grave,
That yestermorn with life was warm,
And launch'd upon the dancing wave
With jocund voice, and hopes as bright
As stirr'd beneath that morning's light.
His oar with nervous arm he plied,Nor shrank from dangers gath'ring fast,Struggling against that treacherous tide,His stout heart braves it to the last;Till, spent his strength, and dim his eye,His oar and skiff float idly by.
His oar with nervous arm he plied,
Nor shrank from dangers gath'ring fast,
Struggling against that treacherous tide,
His stout heart braves it to the last;
Till, spent his strength, and dim his eye,
His oar and skiff float idly by.
Far distant lies the home he left,And side by side an aged pair,Unconscious of their hopes bereft,Breathe now his cherish'd name in pray'r;Their eyes with watchfulness grow dim:Oh! vainly will they wait for him!
Far distant lies the home he left,
And side by side an aged pair,
Unconscious of their hopes bereft,
Breathe now his cherish'd name in pray'r;
Their eyes with watchfulness grow dim:
Oh! vainly will they wait for him!
A fair young maid, with pensive face,Looks forth upon the silent night,Her heart sweet memories doth trace,Till future years glow in their light.Alas! for life's all changeful scene,How soon must perish that fond dreamFor him on whom her thoughts doth pore;His hopes and schemes of earth are o'er!"
A fair young maid, with pensive face,
Looks forth upon the silent night,
Her heart sweet memories doth trace,
Till future years glow in their light.
Alas! for life's all changeful scene,
How soon must perish that fond dream
For him on whom her thoughts doth pore;
His hopes and schemes of earth are o'er!"
Brook-drives are, as has before been remarked, usually distinct parcels of logs belonging to an individual or company. These various parcels are often thrown together in one mass on the ample current of the main river, to the number of twelve or thirteen thousand pieces; in which case the different crews unite and make common cause. As the water rises suddenly, and falls as rapidly on the river, by which, in the first instance, many logs run upon intervale and meadow land, or upon high rocks and ledges, and, in the other case, from the rapid decline of water, there is necessarily much activity called for to clear such logs from the position in which they are placed, else they must be left behind, or require great physical exertion to disengage and bring them on with the rest. A steady current or pitch of water is preferable to one either rising or diminishing, as, when rising rapidly, the water at the middle of the river is considerably higher than at the shores—so much so as to be distinctly perceived by the eye of a spectator on the banks, presenting an appearance like a turnpike road. The lumber, therefore, is always sure to incline from the center of the channel toward either shore. On the falls, and the more difficult portions of the river, sometimes immense jams form. In the commencement, some unlucky log swings across the narrow chasm, striking some protruding portions of the ledge, and stops fast; others come on, and, meeting this obstruction, stick fast also, until thousands upon thousands form one dense breast-work, against and through which a boiling, leaping river rushes with terrible force. Who that is unaccustomed to such scenes, on viewing that pile of massive logs, now densely packed, cross-piled, and interwoven in every conceivable position in a deep chasm with overhanging cliffs, with a mighty column of rushing water, which, like the heavy pressure upon an arch, confines the whole more closely, would decide otherwise than that the mass must lay in its present position, either to decay or be moved by some extraordinary convulsion. Tens of thousands of dollars' worth lay in this wild and unpromising position. The property involved, together with the exploits of daring and feats of skill to be performed in breaking that "jam," invest the whole with a degree of interest not common to the ordinary pursuits of life, and but little realized by many who are even familiar with the termslumberandriver-driving. In some cases many obstructing logs are to be removed singly. Days and weeks sometimes are thus expended before the channel is cleared. In other cases a single point only is to be touched, and the whole jam is in motion. To hit upon the most vulnerable point is the first object; the best means of effecting it next claims attention; then the consummation brings into requisition all the physical force, activity, and courage of the men, more especially those engaged at the dangerous points.
A man chopping down a tree
River Drivers Breaking a Jam
From the neighboring precipice, overhanging the scene of operation, a man is suspended by a rope round his body, and lowered near to the spot where a breach is to be made, which is always selected at the lower edge of the jam. The point may be treacherous, and yield to a feeble touch, or it may require much strength to move it. In the latter case, the operator fastens a long rope to a log, the end of which is taken down stream by a portion of the crew, who are to give a long pull and strong pull when all is ready. He then commences prying while they are pulling. If the jam starts, or any part of it, or if there be even an indication of its starting, he is drawn suddenly up by those stationed above; and, in their excitement and apprehensions for his safety, this is frequently done with such haste as to subject him to bruises and scratches upon the sharp-pointed ledges or bushes in the way. It may be thought best to cut off the key-log, or that which appears to be, the principal barrier. Accordingly, he is let down on to the jam, and as the place to be operated upon may in some cases be a little removed from the shore, he either walks to the place with the rope attached to his body, or, untying it, leaves it where he can readily grasp it in time to be drawn from his perilous position. Often, where the pressure is direct, a few blows only are given with the ax, when the log snaps in an instant with a loud report, followed suddenly by the violent motion of the "jam;" and, ere our bold river-driver is jerked half way to the top of the cliff, scores of logs, in wildest confusion, rush beneath his feet while he yet dangles in air, above the rushing, tumbling mass. If that rope, on which life and hope hang thus suspended, should part, worn by the sharp point of some jutting rock, death, certain and quick, would be inevitable.
The deafening noise when such a jam breaks, produced by the concussion of moving logs whirled about like mere straws, the crash and breaking of some of the largest, which part apparently as easily as a reed is severed, together with the roar of waters, may be heard for miles; and nothing can exceed the enthusiasm of the river-drivers on such occasions, jumping, hurraing, and yelling with joyous excitement.
Such places and scenes as are thus sketched may be found and witnessed on most rivers where lumber is driven. Referring to an item of experience on a drive down the Mattawamkeag, says a logger, "Our drive consisted of about thirteen thousand pieces, with a crew of thirty-two men, all vigorous and in the prime of life. Out of such a number, exposed as we were to the perils attendant upon the business, it was a question which we sometimes inwardly pondered, Who of our party may conclude the scenes of mortal life on this drive?
"We commenced about the 25th of March to drive, while snow, and ice, and cold weather were yet in the ascendant. The logs were cleared from the lake and stream of Baskahegan in fifty days, which brought us into the Mattawamkeag. Twelve miles down this river, below the junction of Baskahegan, we came to Slugundy Falls. There the water passes through a gorge about fifty feet wide, with a ledge on either side, making a tremendous plunge, and in immediate proximity a very large rock stands a little detached from its ledgy banks. There the whole body of our logs formed an immense jam, and such a mass of confusion as then presented itself beggars description. Logs of every size were interwoven and tangled together like heaps of straw in 'winnow,' while the water rushed through and over them with a power which seemed equal to the upturning of the very ledges which bound it. We paused to survey the work before us, calculating the chances of success, of life and death. We knew the dangers attending the operation; that life had on former occasions been sacrificed there, and that the graves of the brave men who had fallen were not far distant; and we remembered that we too might make with them our final resting-place. The work was, however, commenced; and after five days incessant application, mutually sharing the dangers incurred, we made a clean sweep of this immense jam without accident. A short distance below are Gordon Falls, at which place there is a contraction of the channel, with high ledges on either hand, a straight but rapid run, with a very rough bottom, at once difficult and dangerous to navigate or drive. Here logs to a greater or less extent always jam, the number varying according to the height of the freshet. This place we soon passed successfully. Logs, 'wangun' and all, were soon over, excepting one empty boat, which two brothers, our best men, in attempting to run, 'swamped' and capsized; in a moment they both mounted upon her bottom, and were swiftly passing along the dashing river, when the boat struck a hidden rock, and the foremost one plunged headlong into the boiling waves. Being an active man, and an expert swimmer, we expected to see him rise and struggle with the tide which bore them onward; but, to our amazement and sorrow, we saw no more of him until four days after, when his corpse was discovered some distance below the place of this sad accident. At the foot of the falls a small jam of logs made out into the channel; several of the men ran out upon this to rescue the other, who had also lost his footing on the boat. He passed close to the jam under water, when one of the crew suddenly thrust his arm down and seized him by the hair of his head, and drew him to land. On recovering from the shock which he had sustained in his perilous passage, and learning that his brother was drowned, he blamed the crew for not permitting him to share the same fate, and attempted to plunge again into the river, but was restrained by force till reason once more resumed her sway. The body of the other received the humble attentions usual upon such interments, as soon as a coffin could be procured. Not two hours previous to this accident, this individual, taking one of the crew with him, visited the grave of a fellow-laborer near by; left the spot, launched his frail boat, and lay down the next hour in a river-driver's grave."
Fourteen days from this time we drove our logs to the boom, having passed a distance of only one hundred and thirty miles in ninety days.
The mode of living on these driving excursions is altogether "itinerant," and really comfortless, for the most part. A temporary shelter where night overtakes them is a luxury not always enjoyed. Often nothing is above them but the forest's canopy, and beneath them the cold earth, it may be snow, with a slight bed of coarse boughs, over which a blanket is spread, and generally a large fire is kept burning through the night. Days and nights, without intermission, are often passed without a dry shred to the back. This is being "packed;" and, if not a "water cure," it is being water-soaked in earnest.
It would not be surprising if rheumatism were entailed upon the river-driver as a consequence of such exposure; yet I have known men to enjoy better health under these circumstances than under almost any other. As an instance, I have seen a man passing sleepless nights with asthma at home, now on the bed, then on the floor or reclining on a chair, struggling for a free respiration until his very eyes would start from their sockets. I have known such a man exchange his position for the exposures peculiar to log-driving, and never for once suffer from this distressing complaint during the whole campaign, but, on returning to the comforts of home, experience an immediate relapse.
From the foregoing account, which is really believed to come short of the reality, the reader will be enabled to form some estimate of the dangers, hardships, and deaths encountered by thousands in the lumbering operations—a business which is hardly supposed to possess any peculiarities of incident or adventure above the most common pursuits of life. How little are the generality of mankind disposed to consider as they should, that for much which contributes to their comfort and ease, many a hardship has been endured and multitudes of individuals have been sacrificed.
The camping utensils for river-driving, with provisions, are moved along day by day, according to the progress made by the drive, so that for the most part each night presents a new location, with the usual preparations. The boats appropriated for the removal of the whole company, apparatus, and provisions, when loaded, are called "wanguns," an Indian word signifying bait, and, when thus appropriated, means bait or provision boats.
Among the dangers to be incurred, where both life and property are hazarded, is that of "running the wangun"—a phrase perfectly understood on the river, but which the uninitiated will better understand when I say that it means the act of taking these loaded bateaux down river from station to station, particularly down quick water. This is a business generally committed to experienced watermen, especially when a dangerous place is to be passed, as to "swamp the wangun" is often attended with not only the loss of provisions and utensils, but also life. From this fact, the circumstance is always regarded with interest by all hands, who watch the navigators in their perilous passage with no ordinary or unnecessary solicitude.
On one occasion two active young men put off from the shore with the "wangun," to make the passage of some quick water just at the head of a fearful fall, where, as was customary, the whole party were to be carried by. In passing a rock, where the water formed a large whirlpool, the boat, on striking it, instantly capsized. One of the men, being an expert swimmer, told his comrade to take hold of the back of his vest, and he could swim with him to the shore; but the current carried them so swiftly toward the falls that it became necessary for the swimmer to disengage himself from his companion, who clung to him with a death-grasp. His efforts to effect a separation were unsuccessful, and every moment they were carried nearer to the fatal falls. Suddenly sinking in the water, the swimmer contrived to turn round and face his drowning friend. Drawing up his legs, and bracing his feet against his companion, he gave a sudden and powerful kick, which disengaged him. Then rising to the surface, after this most painful act, to which he was impelled from dire necessity, he struck for the shore, and barely reached it in time to save himself from the sad fate that awaited his unfortunate associate, who, poor fellow, still clinging with a death-grasp to the shred of garment which was rent from his companion in the struggle, was carried over the falls, and then, passing under a jam of logs, floated down the river several miles, where his body was found, and interred on the banks of the Penobscot.
I have often passed the spot where he sleeps. The green grass waves in silence over his grave, and now the plow of the husbandman turns the greensward at his side, where once the forest trees majestically waved over his rude bier.
The following instance of the remarkable escape of a river-driver was related by one who witnessed the affair. I think it happened on the Androscoggin. Among the crew there and then engaged was a young man who prided himself upon his fearlessness of danger; and, to maintain the character he thus arrogated to himself, would unnecessarily encounter perils which the prudent would shun. His frequent boastings rendered his society not a little unpleasant, at times, to the less pretending; and although this dislike was not so great as to lead them to rejoice in seeing him suffer, yet an event which might be likely to cool his courage would not have been unwelcome to the crew. On one occasion he ventured upon a jam of logs just above a rolling dam, over which the spring freshets poured one vast sheet of water, plunging several feet perpendicularly into a boiling cauldron. The jam started so suddenly that he was precipitated with the logs over this fearful place, where not only the fall and under-tow threatened instant death, but the peril was imminent of being crushed by the tumbling logs. No one really expected to see him come out alive, but, to our surprise, he came up like a porpoise, and swam for the shore; but the swift current swept him down, and carried him under a jam of logs which formed below the dam. From previous exertion and exhaustion, we thought this must finish the poor fellow, and we really began to forget his faults, and call to remembrance whatever of virtue he had manifested. Soon a dark object was seen to rise to the surface immediately below the jam. It was our hero, who, elevating his head and striking forward with his arms, swam with a buoyant stroke to a small island just below, where he landed in safety, having sustained no injury, and without having experienced any abatement of his former daring. Seemingly there was not one chance in a thousand for the life of a man making such a fearful voyage. This circumstance brings to mind a poetical sentiment I have somewhere read on the ways of Providence in the disposal of human life:
"An earthquake may be bid to spareThe man that's strangled by a hair."
"An earthquake may be bid to spareThe man that's strangled by a hair."
"An earthquake may be bid to spare
The man that's strangled by a hair."
Men often lose their lives where we have least reason to expect it, and are as often spared, perhaps, where we see no grounds of hope for them. Thus physicians may sometimes be censured as unskillful when they lose a patient, while in fact God has fixed the bounds of mortal life; or be praised for skill when their success is but apparent, while to the Creator's purposes alone are we to look and give credit for such deliverances.
River-drivers usually eat four times a day—at least this practice obtains on the Penobscot—viz.: at five and ten o'clock A.M., and at two and eight P.M. After the two o'clock meal, when the drive on the main river is under successful headway, the camp-ground is forsaken, the tent struck, and the wangun is run as far down river as it is thought the drive will reach by night, where arrangements are made, as usual, for the crew, by the cook and "cookee," as his assistant is called. It may happen that the drive does not progress according to the calculations of the cook, and a short row down river is necessary to reach the wangun.
Between the mouth of the Piscataquis and Oldtown, a distance of twenty or twenty-five miles, are numerous beautiful islands, some of them large, and generally covered with a heavy growth of hard-wood, among which the Elm abounds. When the logs arrive at this point, many of the encampments are fixed upon these islands. As the sun sinks behind the western hills, the lengthened shadows of the beautiful island forests shoot across the mirrored river, casting a deep shade, which soon disappears amid the denser curtain of an advanced evening, with which they blend. The roar of rushing waters is over, and the current glides smoothly on. No sound is heard but the echo of the merry boatmen's laugh, and of voices here and there on the river, with now and then the shred of a song, and the creaking and plashing of oars. While thus passing down, as the boats turn a sudden bend in the river, a dozen lights gleam from the islands, throwing their lengthened scintillations over the water. Now the question goes round, "Which is our light?" "There's one on the east side!" "Yes, and there's another on Sugar Island!" "And there's one on Hemlock!" says a third. "Why the d—l hadn't they gone to Bangor, and done with it?" "Wangun No. 1, ahoy!" shouts the helmsman, a little exasperated with fatigue and hunger. Now, while all the rest of the cooks remain silent, No. 1 cook responds in turn. Another calls out the name of their particular log-mark: "Blaze Belt, ahoy!" "Where in thunder are you?" "Blaze Belt, this way, this way!" comes echoing from Hemlock Island, and away the Blaze Belt bateau rows with its merry-making crew. Thus each crew, in turn, is finally conducted to its respective camp-fire.
The prospect of a release from the arduous labors on the drive at this point of progress raises the thermometer of feeling, which imparts a right merry interest to every thing. Like sailors "homeward bound," after a three or nine months' cruise, and within one day's sail of port, relaxation and pastimes only are thought and talked of.
The mine of song and story is opened, and the rarest specimens of match songs and "stretched" stories are coined and made current by the members of the different crews. The "smartest team," "chopper," "barker," "the largest tree," "the biggest log," "the greatest day's work," bear or moose story, themeritsof crews, teamsters, "bosses," cooks, and swampers, falls and rapids, streams and rivers, all, all come up as themes of converse, song, and story. There is less hurrying in the morning now than in the former part of the driving; let the water rise or fall, it is all the same thing at this point, for the driver has reached the ample channel of the river, where neither falls or rapids occur. A day, and the work is consummated—'tis done! The crews are disbanded: they disperse, some to their homes and farms; some to idleness and recreation; some to hire in the mills to saw the logs thus run; others to take rafts of boards to the head of tide navigation, where hundreds of vessels are in waiting to distribute the precious results of the lumberman's toil to the thousand ports of the Atlantic and Pacific coasts, where the sound of saws, planes, and hammers of a million house-wrights, cabinet-makers, carpenters, coopers, and jobbers make the air vocal with the music of cheerful labor, giving bread to the millions, wealth to thousands, and comfort and convenience to all.
For this branch of human industry we set up a claim, in point ofrank, not yet awarded to it by the world. We claim for it greater prominence as a source of wealth—greater respect on the ground of the talent and skill concentrated by the prime operators—greater deference for it as a business—for the endurance, energy, and courage of the thousands of hardy freemen who engage in it, and greater interest from the amount of substantial romance and adventure in the "Life among the Loggers."
While it is the professed object of this volume faithfully to portray all the points alluded to, I am nevertheless impressed with the idea that no point which I have treated comes so far short of the reality as the attempt to picture the romance of the business.
The boom, which constitutes the general receptacle of all logs, is worthy a few lines of observation.
On the Penobscot it stretches up the side of the river in the vicinity of numerous islands, whose location is peculiarly favorable; the boom-sticks run from one island to another, and, where the distance is too great, a pier is sunk—a square frame of stout timber filled with stones. These piers sometimes span the whole river, united by the boom-sticks. This is true of the main boom on the St. Croix. On the Penobscot it stretches up the river about two miles; at the upper end there being a shear boom, which swings out to intercept and turn the logs floating down the river into its ample embrace.
The Boom Corporation, on the Penobscot, is regulated by legislative enactments, and all logs running into it, or within the limits of its charter, are subject to its laws and regulations. Its bounds embrace a section of the river six miles in length, and to the care of all logs coming within its limits the agent is obligated to give his attention, and the company responsible. It is the duty of the boom-master, with the men under him, to raft the logs of each individual in parcels by themselves previous to their delivery for the mills, guided in his selection by the particular marks cut on the logs, for which service and safe-keeping the owner or owners of the boom receive thirty-three cents per M. feet, board measure, which makes the property of the boom very valuable. In addition to this, every log found in the boom without a mark is a "prize log."
Among other duties devolving on the boom agent is to inspect, personally, every raft of logs, setting down the number and mark in a memorandum kept for the purpose. This course of management protects each log-owner's property from plunder, as, in case any and all persons were indiscriminately allowed to raft out logs, the temptation might prove too strong, in some cases, to regard with due honesty logs bearing marks of a different character. Besides these main booms, there are many lesser ones, up and down the river, subject to no special legislation or law except the will of the owner.
These observations relate chiefly to the Penobscot and St. Croix Rivers. Of the rules and regulations of similar corporations on other rivers I am uninformed, but it is to be presumed that they are much the same, in general.
CHAPTER III.
Observations on the St. Croix River.—Boundary Line.—Pine Timber. —Agriculture in the Interior.—Youthful Associations with Grand Lake.—Traditionary Name of Grand Lake.—Lake Che-pet-na-cook.— Rise of Eastern Branch St. Croix.—Lumbering Prospects.—Hemlock. —Reciprocal Relations of the Lumber Trade between Americans and Provincials.—The Machias Rivers.—Origin of Name.—Character of Soil.—Lumber Resources and Statistics.—West Machias.—Narraguagues River, curious Definition of.—Capacity of Stream.—Statistics.— Union River.—Observations on its Lumbering Interests.—Mills in Franklin.
Having in the foregoing pages given brief sketches of some of the most interestingtreesknown to us, devoting considerable attention to the White Pine, and the life and adventures of lumbermen, the concluding pages of this book will consist of brief sketches of the rivers of Maine and New Brunswick, and such statistics as to the extent of the lumbering operations on each river as may interest the curious in such matters.
The Mschoodiac, more generally known as the St. Croix, constitutes the first link in the boundary between Maine and the province of New Brunswick.
The name by which this river is more generally known is St. Croix, which is probably of French origin. The original and Indian name is Mschoodiac. An intelligent Indian, belonging to the Penobscot tribe, to whom I am indebted for the signification of the original names which our rivers bear, informed me that the signification of Mschoodiac was, "Burned land river," "Open space," or "Wide prospect river," thus deriving its name from some peculiarity in the country along its borders.
Probably, at some period anterior to the white man's knowledge of our Western World, a section of forest adjacent to some part of the river was destroyed by fire, originating perhaps in the torch of some invading tribe as they laid waste the wigwams of their discomfited enemies, or from the embers of the little fire kindled by the hungry hunter to cook his hurried meal. In process of time, the principal part of a forest, withered and destroyed by such a devastating scourge, would fall to the ground, opening wide prospects where densely-compacted forest trees once completely circumscribed the view. But the river may have derived its name from a circumstance of still earlier date, viz., the existence of immense fields ofmeadowland, which abound more or less in the whole region lying about the St. Croix, often affording the voyager an unobstructed view for miles up and down the stream. In former years vast quantities of this wild grass were cut by lumbermen for the subsistence of oxen and horses during their winter operations.
The St. Croix has two branches, the east and west; the latter, at its source, is contiguous to the head waters of the Machias River in the west, while the former, being of more importance and greater magnitude, stretches far to the north to the lakes, whence is its source. Of these bodies of water mention may be made of Grand Lake in particular, which is about twenty-five miles long by eight wide at its greatest extent, romantically diversified in the northern part with beautiful islands, deep coves, and far-reaching points of land, covered with dense and rather undersized trees. The shores, east and west, are composed for the most part of immense granite rocks, rising very abruptly on the southwest to a considerable elevation, covered with a heavy growth of majestic Pine, Hemlock, and Spruce-trees.
Beautiful white sand beaches, which run outward with a very gradual descent for many rods into the lake, afford a most luxurious bathing-ground, where probably the young savages of former generations gamboled and indulged in aquatic sports.
Not many years since, an unbroken forest stretched abroad over a vast area of country, of which this lake formed a central point. The pervading silence, which rested like night over this vast wilderness, was only broken by the voice of the savage, and the discordant howlings of wild beasts. But within a few years the ax of the pioneer has leveled large tracts of forest, and thus opened the virgin soil to the sun's germinating rays, so that now may be seen skirting the shores of the lake, north and northwest, cultivated fields, relieving the solitude which once reigned there. The gray-haired red man of past generations knew this lake by the name Madongamook, which signified "Great grandsires," and owes its origin to the following circumstance: From time immemorial it is said that some of the aborigines made the immediate vicinity of this lake's outlet a permanent annual "setting-down place," or head-quarters. Here their ancestors gathered around the council-fire for uncounted generations. Hence this sheet of water was called Great-great-grandsire's Lake, of which Grand Lake is an abridgment.
The author entertains many pleasant reminiscences of former visits to this lake. To use the language of the red man, he has spent many pleasant "moons" on the shores of Madongamook, paddled with the Indian hunter in his tiny birch over its silver waters, chased wild game through its forest confines, and flung from its transparent depths the delicious trout. Indians affirm that there is in these waters a great fish, "all one big as canoe," a sort of fresh-water whale.
But it is time to proceed on our down-river trip. So, leaving the outlet of Grand Lake, and passing south about two miles across a "carrying-place," we strike the head of another lake, calledChe-pet-na-cook, into which the surplus waters of the former lake pass. The name by which this lake is designated is said to signifyhilly pondorlake. In form it is long and narrow, resembling a deep, massive river. That peculiarity from which its name is derived is strikingly prominent. A range of abrupt and elevated ridges rises suddenly from its western shore, covered with a close, heavy growth of trees, principally Spruce. One peak of the ridge rises several hundred feet from the surface of the lake, which is called "Spruce Mountain." After mid-day, a section of this mountain ridge, so dense and frowning as to resemble a thunder-cloud, casts a cavernous shade, like a misty pall, over the surface of its waters, which seem to lay with prostrate fear at its base, imparting an oppressive solemnity over the scenery.
At the foot of this lake, which is between twenty and thirty miles long, the east branch of the St. Croix takes its rise. From this point it passes through a rocky channel for the most part, occasionally flowing through a section of meadow or intervale land until it reaches Baring, a distance of some fifty miles, where for the first time it meets with a formidable barrier to its hitherto wild and unrestrained progress in the character of a "dam." Passing this through its various avenues, it flows on to Milltown, which occupies both sides of the river, and includes both the English and American villages. Between this place and the head of ship navigation, some two miles distant, the channel isdammedseveral times on a succession of falls, where are numerous saw-mills; and, finally, after having leaped a thousand rocky precipices above, and struggled through as many gates and sluice-ways below, it quietly flows on to the Passamaquoddy Bay, where its restless waters find repose in the bosom of the Atlantic Ocean.
In regard to the lumbering resources on this river, I believe it is generally admitted that the supply of Pine is comparatively small, the principal part having already been brought to market; and although the territory belonging to this river is large, still its resources are curtailed by the proximity of the head waters of the St. John, Penobscot, and Machias Rivers.
The comparative scarcity of Pine timber has induced the manufacture of a much larger proportion of Spruce than formerly; still it is presumed that the same amount of Pine lumber now annually cut may continue to be for years to come. Should Hemlock come into more general use, the resources of the lumbermen will be greatly augmented, as timber of this kind abounds on the St. Croix. And why may not this be the case? For many purposes Hemlock lumber is preferred to Pine. A gentleman in Bangor informed the writer that he had, from choice, made use of Hemlock boards for nice floors to a residence recently built for himself, esteeming it richer in color, less liable to indentation, and of greater durability. With the exception ofPine, the resources for lumber on this river are still very considerable, and must continue to be for many years, unless sweeping fires shall blacken and wither the beautiful forests which now adorn the interior. Vast tracts of timber land have already been destroyed by fire on the territory belonging to this river, as the blanched trunks of standing trees, and barren hill country surrounding Baileyville, Baring, Calais, and St. Stephen's, most painfully indicate, greatly marring the beautiful scenery which once adorned the valley through which the river flows.
Lumber manufactured on this river may be considered as both English and American products; still, by common concurrence, and not strictly in accordance with revenue regulations, it is shipped indiscriminately. The manufacture of the English side of the river is received on board American vessels and shipped to the States, and the lumber manufactured on the American side shipped on board English vessels and taken to the English markets duty free.
For the most part, the firms who conduct the lumbering business on the St. Croix are of great respectability; several of them are very wealthy.
The following table[12]of estimates has been gathered from the most reliable sources; and, although mathematical exactness is not pretended, still it is believed that the calculations here presented approach the truth sufficiently near to give the reader a very satisfactory view of theextentof the lumbering operations on the boundary river:
Leaving the St. Croix, and traveling westward about forty miles, we come to East Machias River, to the west of which, six miles distant, is another river called West Machias. The name Machias originated in some obstruction in the way of the Indian traveler, either in the river itself or upon its banks, whether natural or accidental I am not aware.
The eastern stream is about fifty miles long, including the small lake, which constitutes its chief source, and is navigable only about six miles for large vessels, at which point the village, bearing the same name as the river, is located, and also the mills. As the lake which feeds the river is fed principally by springs, it affords a good supply of water the year round. The land in the immediate vicinity of the stream is quite good for agricultural purposes; but, as we recede from the river, the soil appears poor, presenting a desolate and forbidding aspect. Once a flourishing forest covered it, but now blackened, decayed, and decaying trunks of trees, scorched by fire, some prostrate, others still standing, limbless, naked, and desolate, intermingle with a small, dwarfish, and sparse second growth, and mantel the sterile plain and rocky hill side. Indeed, this is but too true a portrait of immense tracts of land all along the coast of Maine, from the St. Croix to the Penobscot, and still further westward. It is wonderful that these desert regions, whose sterility scarcely gives existence to the wild grass and stinted shrubs which grow there, once supported a dense and majestic forest.
At East Machias village there are seventeen saws in operation, and eleven lath machines; the latter, for the most part, are situated in the base of the saw-mills, and manufacture laths from the slabs made in the mill. At this place the saws cut, on an average, about six hundred thousand feet, board measure, to a saw, one half of this lumber being sawed from Pine, and the other from Spruce logs. The same quality of lumber brings fifty cents more per thousand here than on the St. Croix. In answer to the question,Why is this so?the reply was, "We saw nearly all our lumber toorder, and of prescribed dimensions."
The resources for lumber are still quite abundant. The West Machias stream is about the same size as the East, both being quite small; it has more numerous water privileges, and is more liable to be affected by droughts. Here the lumbering operations are carried on more vigorously than on the other river, cutting some two hundred thousand more to a saw. The greatest distance that lumber has been cut from the village is about sixty miles. Opinions the most reliable encourage the belief of the existence of sufficient timber to meet the demands of this market for years to come. This stream is also navigable for vessels up to the mills, being carried at flood-tide quite near the mill slips, where they receive their cargoes. Both rivers empty into Machias Bay at points quite approximate, through which float the cargoes of industrial wealth to the broad Atlantic and to the various ports of destination.
Annexed is a table showing at a glance the state of the lumber trade per annum on each river:[13]
The next river worthy of note, for the lumber it produces, is the Narraguagues, whose waters disembogue into a small bay bearing the same name, thirty miles beyond the West Machias, its course being nearly parallel with the latter.
The true Indian orthography is said to be Na-la-gua-gwees, and signifies palate, stream, or river. To use the precise language of my Indian interpreter, opening his mouth wide and thrusting his finger down his throat, "It means all one, jes if I open my mouth and river run down my throat into mine belly." Whether there is any peculiarity about the river, or the form of the bay into which it falls, to originate such a name, I am unaware.
This stream, for water power, is about equal in its capacity to either of the Machias rivers. The mills are principally located at Cherryfield, where are fifteen saw and eight lath mills, three shingle and one clap-board machine. The saw-mills are said to produce about nine millions of long lumber per annum, worth eight dollars perM.on an average. The lath mills produce six million four hundred thousand pieces, worth one dollar perM.Nine hundred thousand shingles are annually turned out, at two dollars and fifty cents perM.The clap-board machine may be credited with one hundred thousand pieces during the sawing season; of their quality I am not informed. In general they range from fifteen to thirty dollars perM.
Computing the value of the foregoing products, we have presented the annual product:
Sixty teams are said to be employed on this river during the hauling season, and about three hundred men. The resources for lumber were reported by the most intelligent operators as equal to those of any lumber district in the state of equal size.
In the adjoining town of Franklin five saw-mills were reported, situated on small streams, doing a large business. These mills are said to manufacture about three million feet, worth eight dollars perM., giving twenty-four thousand dollars.
About half way between the Narraguagues and the Penobscot Rivers, and upon an almost exact parallel with the latter, runs Union River, which disembogues into an arm of Frenchman's Bay. On the banks of this river, near its mouth, stands the village of Ellsworth, which is decidedly one of the most beautiful places in Maine, and in the immediate vicinity of which the mills are principally located; in all, about twenty-five.
The annual amount of long lumber manufactured here is about sixteen million feet, worth some hundred and twelve thousand dollars; the aggregate amount of the various kinds of short lumber annually produced is worth some sixteen thousand dollars more.
From four to five hundred men, and about the same number of oxen and horses, are employed in the lumbering business. Logs are driven from two to forty miles. The territory through which this stream flows is well timbered, and affords an abundant supply of logs.