‘As the night set in, came hail and snow,
And the air grew sharp and chill,
And the warning roar of a terrible blow
Was heard on the distant hill;
And the norther,—see, on the mountain peak,
In his breath, how the old trees writhe and shriek!
He shouts along o’er the plain, ho, ho!
He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow,
And growls with a savage will.’
C. G. EASTMAN.
We will now take the reader to the wild and secluded banks of Dead river, the great southwesterly tributary of the lordly Kennebec, the larger twin brother of the Androscoggin, both of which, after being born of the same parent range of mountains, and wandering off widely apart, at length find, at the end of their courses, like many a pair of long estranged brothers, their final rest in a common estuary at the seaboard. At a point on the banks of the tributary above named, where its long southward sweep brings it nearest, and within twenty miles of the Oquossak, and within a quarter of that distance from the terminating camps of the outward ranges of the hunters, two men in hunting-suits might have been seen, in the fore part of one of the last days of November, in the season of the eventful expedition we have been describing, intently engaged in inspecting some fragments of wrought wood, which, from the clue of some protruding piece, they had kicked up from the leaves and decayed brushwood that had nearly concealed them from view. One of these men was past the middle age, of a hardy but somewhat worn appearance. The other was in the prime of young manhood, of a finely-moulded form and an unusually prepossessing face and countenance. But we may as well let the dialogue that ensued between them disclose their identity; the matter that was now engaging their attention; and their reasons for thus appearing in this remote position.
“This piece,” said the elder, closely scanning the fragment he held in his hand, “is evidently oak, and looks mightily as if it was once the stave of an oak keg or half-barrel. Yes, and here is another that will settle the question,” he continued, pulling from its concealment a larger and sounder fragment. “There! can’t you trace the chine across the end of this?”
“Yes, quite distinctly, and I should not hesitate to pronounce all these fragments the remains of an oak barrel that had once been opened, or left here, if I could conceive how such a thing could come here, in the heart of this extensive wilderness. How do you solve the mystery, Mr. Phillips?”
“Well, Claud, I am as much at fault as you. Barrels don’t float up stream; and to suppose this came down stream, and still farther from any inhabitants, wouldn’t help on the explanation any more; while to suppose it was brought here by hunters through the woods, where they could have no use for it even if they could get it here, is scarcely more probable.”
“True; but can’t we get a clue from something else about the place? This open space, hereabouts, wears something of the aspect of a place from which the trees have been once cut away, or greatly thinned out, for some great encampment, for instance. Did you ever hear of any expedition of men through this region, in such numbers as would require the transportation of large quantities of provisions, drawn possibly by oxen, or more probably by men on light sledges?”
“Well, now, come to think of it, I have. And I guess you have blundered right smack on the truth, at the first go off; which is more than I can claim for myself, I admit. Yes, nearly fifty years ago, at the beginning of the old war, as you must have often read, an army did pass somewhere through the wilderness of Maine to Quebec. It was under the command of that fiery Satan, Benedict Arnold,—the only man in America, may be, who could have pushed an army, at that time of the year, some weeks later in the season than it is now, through a hundred and fifty miles’ reach of such woods as these are, between our last and the first Canadian settlement. My father was one of that army of bold and hardy men. They passed up the Kennebec some distance, and, then, according to his account, left it, and, with the view of getting over the Highlands on to the Great Megantic more easily, turned up a branch, which must have been this very stream. Yes, I see, now. You are right about the appearance of this spot. There was once a great encampment here, and doubtless that of Arnold’s army, staying over night, and breaking open a barrel of meat, conveyed here in some such way as you suggested.”
“It is an interesting discovery; for that was a remarkable expedition, and must have been one of great hardship and suffering.”
“Hardship and suffering! Why, they fell short of provisions long before they got out of the wilderness, and, besides the hardships of cold and fatigue, came near starving to death! I have heard my father tell how he was one of a party of thirteen, who, with other like squads, were permitted to scatter forward in search of some inhabitants, for food, lest they all perished together; how, after going two days without putting a morsel into their mouths, except their shoe-strings or the inner bark of trees, they at length were gladdened by the sight of an opening, with a log house, and a cow standing before the door; how, the instant their eyes fell on the cow, they ran like blood-hounds for the spot, seized an axe, brought the animal to the ground, ripped up the hide on one thigh, cut off slices of the quivering flesh, and, by the time the aroused family had got out into the yard, were munching and gobbling them down raw, with the desperate eagerness of ravenous beasts.”[4]
“Horrible! but they paid the poor people for their cow, I trust?”
“Yes, twice over, but that did not reconcile them to the loss of their only cow, where it was so difficult to get another. The children screamed, and even the man and his wife wrung their hands and cried as if their hearts would break.”
“That incident is to me a new feature among the horrors of war, which I probably should have never heard of but for coming here and making this curious discovery of one of the relics of that terrible and fruitless campaign of our Revolution. I am glad we concluded to come.”
“So am I; for that, and the other reason that I wanted to see the lay of the country, round this river, where, as it happened, I had never been. But my mind misgave me several times, on the way.”
“Why so, pray?”
“I can hardly tell, myself, but I began to kinder feel as if something wrong was going on somewhere, and that, though this place could not be more than five miles from our upper camp, where we stayed last night, we had yet better be making our way directly back to the lake. Besides that, I haven’t liked the symptoms of the weather, to-day.”
“I don’t know that I have noticed any thing peculiar in the weather, except a chilliness of the air that I have not felt before this season.”
“That’s the thing,” rejoined the hunter, glancing uneasily up through the treetops, to try to get a view of the sky. “But there are other indications I don’t fancy. There is a peculiar raw dampness in the air, and a sort of low, moaning sound heard once in a while murmuring along through the forest, such as I have often noticed before great storms, and sudden changes from fall to winter weather, this time of the year. And hush! hark!” he exclaimed, suddenly cutting short his remark, as the well-known, solemn, and quickly-repeated konk! konk! of wild geese, on their passage, greeted their ears.
They ran down to the water’s edge to get a view of the open sky, when, looking up, they saw a large flock of these winged, semi-annual voyagers of the air, coming in view over the forest, in their usual widespread, harrow-shaped battalions, and with seemingly hurried flight, pitching down from the British highlands toward the lower regions to the south. And that flock had scarcely receded beyond hearing, when another, and yet another, with the same uneasy cries and rapid flight, passed, in quick succession, over the open reach of sky above them.
“How far do you calculate the nearest shore of the Gulf of St. Lawrence is from here?” asked the hunter, musingly.
“O, not so very great a distance,—three hundred miles, perhaps,” replied Claud, looking inquiringly at the other.
“Well,” slowly responded the hunter, “those God-taught creatures know more about the coming changes of the weather than all the philosophers in the world. These are but the advanced detachments of armies yet behind them, already, doubtless, on their way from Labrador, and even more northern coasts beyond. In the unusual mild November we have had, they never received their warning till this morning. And these, being on the southern outposts of their summer quarters, the Gulf of St. Lawrence, started at daylight, I presume,—about four hours ago, just about the time I perceived a change in the atmosphere myself. This, at the rapid headway you perceive they are making, would give them time to get here by this hour of the day.”
“Then you take this as an indication of the approach of winter weather?”
“I do. And the evident hurriedness of their flight, and the sort of quickened, anxious tone of their cries, show that they, at least, think it is not far behind them. But let us put all the signs together. I must get to some place where I can see more of the sky. I noticed, as I was coming in sight of the river, a short way back in the woods, a high, sharp hill, with a bare, open top, rising from the river, about a hundred rods up along here to the left. What suppose we pack up, and go and ascend it? We can, there, besides getting the view we want of the lay of the country, see, probably, the horizon nearly all round. And, all this done, we will then hold a council of war, and decide on our next movement.”
This proposal meeting the ready approval of the young man, the two took their rifles, and proceeded to the foot of the eminence in question, which they found to be a steep, conical hill, rising abruptly three or four hundred feet above the general level of the surrounding forest, with a small, pointed apex, from which some tornado had hurled every standing tree except a tall, slender green pine, that shot up eighty or ninety feet, as straight as a flagstaff, from the centre. After a severe scramble up the steeps, in some places almost perpendicular, they at length reached the summit, and commenced leisurely walking round the verge, looking down on the variegated wilderness, which, with its thousand dotted hills and undulating ridges, lay stretched in cold solitude around them. With only a general glance, however, over the surrounding forests, the gaze of the hunter was anxiously lifted upwards, to study the omens of the heavens. The sun, by this time, was scarcely visible beneath the cold, lurid haze which had for some hours been gradually stealing over it; while around the horizon lay piled long, motionless banks of leaden clouds, thick and heavy enough evidently to be dark, but yet of that light, dead, glazed, uncertain hue, which the close observer may have often noted as the precursor of winter-storms. After a long and attentive survey of every visible part of the heavens, the hunter, with an ominous shake of the head, dropped his eyes to the ground, and said:
“I was right, but didn’t want to believe it when I got up this morning; and the wild geese are right. We are on the eve of winter, and our best hope is that it may come gently. But even that favor, I greatly fear, we shall not be permitted to realize.”
“Well, sir, with that view of the case, in which I am inclined to concur, what do you propose now?” asked Claud.
“Why, I propose, seeing we have all the fur pelts we took from the traps yesterday put up in packs, and have left nothing in our upper camp of any consequence,—I propose, that, instead of going back to our nearest marked line, as we talked of, we strike directly across the woods, by the nearest route, to our lake camp; or, if you are willing to put up with two or three miles additional travel, we will steer so as to take the upper camp of your father and Carvil in our way. We might find them there, perhaps.”
“Then let us steer for their camp; I can stand the jaunt. But can you determine the direction to be taken to strike it?”
“Nearly, I think. Their camp, you know, is on the neck or connecting piece of river, between two long ponds, lying about southwest of us. I rather expected to be able to get a glimpse of one of those ponds from the hilltop, but find I can’t. I presume I could, however, from the top of this pine tree.”
“Yes, but to climb it would be a long, and perhaps dangerous task, would it not?”
“No, neither. We woodsmen are often compelled to resort to such a course, to take our latitude and bearings. And, on the whole, I think in this case it might be the cheapest way. So I will up it, and you may be watching for wild geese, that are still, I perceive, every few minutes, somewhere in sight. Very likely some flock may soon come over us near enough for a shot.”
So saying, the resolute and active hunter, casting aside coat, cap, and boots, sprang up several feet on to the clasped trunk of the pine, over whose rough bark he now, by means of the vigorous clenches of his arms and legs, fast made his way upwards. It was a hard struggle for him, however, till he reached the lower limbs, some fifty feet from the ground, when, swinging himself up by a grappled limb, he quickly disappeared among the thick, mantling boughs, on his now doubly-rapid ascent; and, in a few minutes more, he was heard by his companion below, breaking off the obstructing tiptop branches, and, as he gazed abroad from his dizzy height, shouting out the discoveries which were the object of his bold attempt.
“Make ready there, below!” he startlingly exclaimed, all at once, after a long pause, in which he seemed to be silently noting the distant objects in the forest; “make ready there, below, for a famous large flock of wild geese, just heaving in sight over the hills, and coming directly to this spot.”
The next moment the expected flock, spread out in columns answering to the two sides of a triangle, each a quarter of a mile in extent, and the nearest nearly in a line with the summit where the young huntsman stood, with raised rifle, awaiting their approach, came in full view, making the forest resound with their multitudinous and mingling cries, and the loud beating of their long wings on the air, as they swept onward in their close proximity to the earth. Singling out the nearest goose of the nearest column, Claud quickly caught his aim, and fired; when the struck bird, with a convulsive start, suddenly clasped its wings, and, in its onward impulse, came down like lightning into the bushes, within five rods from its exulting captor.
“Done like a marksman,—plumped through and through under the wing. You are improving, young man,” exclaimed the hunter, who now, rapidly coming down, had reached the foot of the tree, as Claud came forward from the bushes, with his prize. “It is a fine fat one, ain’t it?” he continued, glancing at the heavy bird, as he was pulling on his boots. “We will take it along with us for our supper.”
“Yes, rather a lucky shot,” returned the other, self-complacently. “But what discoveries did you make up there, that will aid us in our course, Mr. Phillips?”
“O, that is all settled,” answered the latter, putting on his pack, and buttoning up, preparatory to an immediate start. “I caught glimpses of both the ponds, noted all the hilltops, ridges, and other noticeable landmarks, in the line between here and there, and can lead you as straight as a gun to the spot, for which we will now be off; and the sooner the better, as it is fast growing colder and colder, and the whole heavens are every moment growing more dark and dubious.”
They then, after making their way down the precipitous side of the hill to its western foot, struck off, under the lead of the hunter, in a line through the forest, preserving their points of compass, when none of their general landmarks were visible, by noting the peculiar weather-beaten appearance of the mosses on the north sides of the trees, and the usual inclination of the tips of the hemlocks from west to east. And for the next hour and a half, on, on they tramped, in Indian file, and almost unbroken silence, making headway with their long, loping steps, notwithstanding the obstructing fallen trees, brushwood, and constantly occurring inequalities of the ground, with a speed which none but practised woodsmen can attain in the forest, and which is scarcely equalled by the fastest foot-travellers on the smooth and beaten highways of the open country.
At length they were gratified by an indistinct sight of some body of water, gleaming dimly through the trees from some point in front; and the walk of a few hundred yards more brought them out, as it luckily happened, directly to the camp of which they were in search. It was, however, tenantless; their companions had already departed; but the bed of live coals in the usual place, from which the thin vapor was still perceptibly ascending, showed that they could not have left more than an hour before. In glancing into the deserted shanty, they descried a clean strip of white birch bark, lying conspicuously on the ground, a few feet within the entrance. On picking it up, they were soon enabled to read the following words, traced with the charred end of a twig:
“Thinking something unusual to be brewing overhead, we are off for the lake about 10 A.M.
CARVIL.”
“A very observing, considerate man, that Mr. Carvil,” said the hunter, still musingly keeping his eyes on the unique dispatch. “He is one of the few book-learned men I have ever known, who could apply science to the natural philosophy of the woods. I can see how justly he reasoned out this case: knowing that we had some thought of a jaunt to Dead river this trip, he judged we should notice the signs of the weather just as we did, and, as it seems, he did; and that, in consequence, when we got there, we should decide on the nearest route back, which would bring us so near their camp that we should be tempted to come to it; and so he left this notice for us that they thought it wisdom to depart.”
While the hunter was thus delivering himself, as he stood by the fire before the entrance, spreading out his hands over the coals, Claud went inside, and, returning with two fine, fresh trout, which the late occupants had, for some cause, left behind them, held them up to his musing companion, and exclaimed:
“Look here, Mr. Phillips,—see what they have left for us!”
“Good!” cried the hunter, rousing himself, “for, whether they left them by design or mistake, they come equally well in play at this time. You out with your knife and split them through the back, and I will prepare the coals. We will roast them for a lunch, which will refresh and strengthen us for the ten or twelve miles walk that is still to be accomplished, before reaching the lake.”
After dispatching the welcome meal, which in this primitive fashion they had prepared for themselves out of the material thus unexpectedly come to hand, and enjoying the half-hour’s rest consequent on the grateful occupation, they again swung on their packs, and, striking into one of the marked lines of their companions, set forth with fresh vigor on their journey. Their walk, however, was a long and dreary one. Contrary to what they had ever before experienced, in jaunts of this length through the woods, not a single hunting adventure occurred, to enliven the tedium of the way. For, although the heavens above were made vocal with the screams of wild geese, still pouring along in their hurried flight to the south, to escape the elemental foe behind, like the rapidly succeeding detachments of some retreating army, yet not a living creature, biped or quadruped, was anywhere to be heard or seen in the forest beneath. All seemed to have instinctively shrunk away and fled, as from the presence of some impending evil, to their dens and coverts, there to await, cowering and silent, the dreaded outbreak. Slowly, but steadily, the lurid storm-clouds were gathering in the heavens, bringing shade after shade over the darkening wilderness. Low, hollow murmurs in the troubled air were now heard, ominously stealing along the wooded hills; and now, in the sharp, momentary rattling of the seared beech-leaves, the whole forest seemed shivering in the dead chill that was settling over the earth. The cold, indeed, was now becoming so intense as to congeal and skim over all the pools and still eddies of the river, and make solid ice along the shores of the rapid currents of the stream; while even the ground was fast becoming so frozen as to clumper and sound beneath the hurrying tread of our anxious travellers. By three in the afternoon, it had become so dark that they could scarcely see the white blazings on the sides of the trees, by which they were guided in their course; and in less than another hour, they were stumbling along almost in utter darkness, uncertain of their way, and nearly despairing of reaching their destination that night. But, while they were on the point of giving up the attempt, the bright glare of an ascending blaze, shooting fiercely through the thickets before them, greeted their gladdened eyes, and put them on exertions that soon brought them rejoicing into the comfortable quarters of their almost equally gratified friends and comrades; where it was at once decided that, instead of proceeding to their own camp, to build a fire and lodge, they should turn in for the night.
After some time passed in the animated and cheery interchange of inquiries and opinions, which usually succeeds on the meeting of anxiously-sought or expected friends, Claud and Phillips, having by this time warmed and measurably rested themselves, took hold with Carvil and Mark Elwood in dressing and cooking for supper and for breakfast the next morning, Claud’s goose, and a pair of fine ducks from a flock which the two latter had encountered just before reaching camp that afternoon; and, after completing this process with their good supply of game, and the more agreeable one of eating so much of it as served for a hearty supper, they drew up an extra quantity of fuel for the large fire which they felt it would be necessary to keep up through the night; and then, seating themselves in camp, went into an earnest consultation on the measures and movements next to be taken. When, in view of the lateness of the season, coupled as it was with the alarming portents of an immediate storm, which they had all noticed, it was unanimously determined that they should embark, early next morning, for head-quarters on the Maguntic, where Gaut Gurley, instead of preparing to come round again, as was now nearly his usual time to do, would, under the altered aspect of things, doubtless be awaiting them, and making arrangements for the return of all to the settlement. Then, building up a fire of solid logs, for long burning, the tired woodsmen drew up their bough-pillows towards the entrance of the camp, so as to bring their feet near the fire, closely wrapped their thick blankets around them, lay down, and were soon buried in sound slumber. And it was well for them that they were thus early taking their needed rest; for, soon after midnight, they were awakened by the lively undulations of the piercing cold air that was driving and whistling through the sides of their camp, and by the puffs of suffocating smoke that the eddying winds were ever and anon driving from their fire directly into their faces. One after another they rose, and ran out to see what had caused the, to them, sudden change that had occurred in the air since they went to sleep. And they were not long in ascertaining the truth. The expected storm had set in, with that low, deep commotion of the elements, and that slowly gathering impetus, which, as may often be noted at the commencement of great storms, was but the too certain prelude of its increase and duration. The fine snow was sifting down apace to the already whitened ground, and the rising wind, even in their mountain-hemmed nook, was whirling in fierce and fitful eddies about their camp, and shrilly piping among the strained branches of the vexed forest around; while its loud and awful roar, as it careered along the sides of the distant mountains, told with what strength and fury the storm was commencing over the country at large. In the situation in which the company now found themselves, neither sleep, comfort, nor quiet were to be expected for the remainder of the night. They therefore piled high the wood on their fire, and gathered round the hot blaze, to protect them from the cold, that had now not only grown more intense, but become doubly difficult to withstand, from the force with which it was brought by the driving blasts in contact with their shivering persons. And thus,—in alternately turning their backs and fronts to the fire, while standing in one place, and often shifting places from one side of the fire to the other; in now taking refuge within their camp when the constantly veering gusts bore the smoke and flame outward, and then fleeing out of it when the stifling column was driven inward; but finding no peace nor rest anywhere, among those shifts and commotions of the battling elements,—they wore away the long and comfortless hours of that dreary night, till the return of morning light, which, after many a vain prayer for its speedier appearance, at length gradually broke over the storm-invested wilderness.
As soon as it was light enough to see objects abroad, or see them as well as they can ever be discerned through the fast-falling snow of such a driving storm, Phillips and Carvil sallied out through the snow, already eight inches deep, and made their way down to the nearest shore of the lake, about a quarter of a mile distant, to ascertain the condition of the water before embarking upon it in their canoes, as they had designed to do immediately after breakfast. On reaching the shore, they found the narrow bay, before mentioned as forming the estuary of the two rivers on which they had been located, comparatively calm, though filled with congealing snow and floating ice from the rivers. But all beyond the line of the two points of land inclosing the bay was rolling and tumbling in wild commotion, madly lashing the rocky headlands with the foaming waters, and resounding abroad over the hills with the deep, hoarse roar of the tempest-beaten breakers of the ocean.
“Do you see and hear that?” exclaimed Phillips, pointing to the lake.
“Yes, yes; but what was that I just caught a glimpse of, out there in the offing, to the right?” hastily cried Carvil.
They both peered forward intently; and the next moment they saw a canoe, containing a single rower, low bending to his oar, shoot by the northern headland with the speed of an arrow, strike obliquely out of the white line of rolling waves into the bay, and make towards the point where they stood.
“Who can it be?” inquired Carvil, after watching a while in silence the slow approach of the obstructed canoe.
“In a minute more we shall see,” replied the hunter, bending forward to get a view of the man’s face, which, being seen the next moment, he added, with a shout: “Hallo, there, Codman, is that you? Why didn’t you crow, to let us know who was coming?”
“Crow?” exclaimed the trapper, driving through the ice to the shore; “did you ever hear a rooster crow in a time like this? There! I am safe, at last,” he added, leaping out upon the shore, and glancing back with a dubious shake of the head towards the scene from which he had thus escaped. “Yes, safe now, for all my fright; but I would not be out another hour on that terrible lake for all the beaver in the province of Maine! I started at daylight, got out a mile or two, tolerably, but after that, Heaven only knows how I rode on those wild waves without swamping! But no matter,—I am here.”
“But where is Tomah, the Indian?” asked the hunter.
“Tomah!” said Codman, in surprise. “Why, haven’t you seen him? He went off three days ago, saying he must return to the settlement, to be training his moose to the sledge, so as to start for Boston with him, the first snow. He said he should leave it with Gaut Gurley to see to his share of the furs. I supposed he would call at one of your camps. But come, move on. I suppose you have a fire at camp, and something to eat; I am frozen to death, and starved to death, besides being more than half-dead from the great scaring I’ve had; but that’s all over now, and I’m keen for breakfast. So troop along back to your camp, I say.”
To return to camp, take their cold and comfortless breakfast, and decide on the now hard alternatives of remaining where they were, to await the event of the storm, without provisions, and with their imperfect means of protection from the rigor of the elements, or of starting off through the cumbering snow beneath their feet, and the driving tempest above their heads, with the hope of reaching head-quarters by land, before another night should overtake them, was but the work of half an hour. To remain, with the foretaste of the past and the prospects of the future, was a thought so forbidding that none of them could for a moment entertain it; and to set out to travel by land, with such prospects, over the mountains, by the long, winding route on the eastern side of the lake,—which was the only one left to them, and which could not be less than fifteen miles in extent,—was a scarcely less forbidding alternative. But it must be adopted. So, gathering in their steel traps and iron utensils, they buried them all, except their lightest hatchet, under a log, that they should not be encumbered with more weight than was absolutely necessary; snugly packing up the few peltries they had taken since Gaut Gurley had been round and putting the scanty remains of their food into their pockets, for a lunch on the way, they set forth on their formidable undertaking.
Led on and guided by the calm and resolute hunter,—who at different times had been over the whole way, and in whose skill and discretion, as a woodsman, for conducting them by the nearest and easiest route, they all had undoubting confidence,—they vigorously made their way onwards through the accumulating snows and natural obstructions of the forest; now threading the thickets of the valleys; now skirting the sides of the hills; now crossing deep ravines; and now climbing high mountains in their toilsome march. And, though the storm seemed to rage more and more fiercely with the advancing hours of the day,—whirling clouds of blinding snow in their faces, hurling the decayed limbs and trunks of the older tenants of the wood to the earth around them, in the fury of its blasts, and rattling and creaking through the colliding branches of the writhing green trees, as it swept over the wilderness,—yet, for all these difficulties of the way and commotions of the elements, they faltered not, but continued to move forward in stern and moody silence, hour after hour, in the footsteps of their indomitable leader, until they reached the extreme eastern point of the lake, where their destination required them to turn round it, in a sharp angle to the west. Here, at the suggestion of their leader, who made the encouraging announcement that the worst half of their journey was accomplished, they made a halt, under the lee of a sheltering mountain, for rest and refreshment. And, sitting down on a fallen tree, from whose barkless trunk they brushed off the snow, they took out and commenced chewing their stale and frozen bread, with a few small pieces of duck-meat, remaining from their breakfast, and comprising the last of their provisions. The animal heat, produced by their great and continued exertions in travelling, had thus far prevented them from suffering much from the cold, or perceiving its actual intensity. But they had been at rest scarcely long enough to finish their meagre repast, when they were driven from their seats by the chill of the invading element, and were eagerly demanding, as a lesser annoyance, again to be led forward on their journey. The snow by this time had accumulated to the depth of a foot and a half, and still came swiftly sifting down aslant to the earth, without the least sign of abatement; while the wind, which was before a gale, had now risen to a hurricane, causing the smitten earth to tremble and shake under the force of the terrible blasts that went shrieking and howling through the bowed, bending, and twisting forests, where
“The sturdiest birch its strength was feeling,
And pine trees dark and tall
To and fro were madly reeling,
Or dashing headlong in their fall.”
But, still undismayed by these manifestations of elemental power around them, or the prospects before them, all terrific and disheartening as they were, and nerved by the consciousness that their only chance of escape from a fearful death depended on their exertions, the bold and hardy woodsmen again started out into the trackless waste, and labored desperately onward, mile after mile, through the impeding snow; sometimes taken to the armpits in its gathering drifts, and sometimes thrown at full length beneath its submerging depths by stepping into some hole or chasm it had concealed from their sight. And thus resolutely did they beat and buffet their rough way through the perplexed and roaring wilderness, and thus stoutly did they bear up against the constantly thickening dangers that environed them during the last part of that dreadful day. But, as night drew on, their strength and spirits began to flag and give way. The cold was increasing in intensity. The tempest howled louder than ever over their heads, and the snow had become so deep and drifted that furlongs became as miles in their progress. And yet, as they supposed, they were miles from their destination. At length, one after another, they faltered and stopped. The strong men quailed at the fate which seemed staring them in the face, and they were on the point of giving up in despair. But hark! that cheery shout which rises above the roaring of the wind, from their more hardy and hopeful leader, who, while all others stopped, had pushed on some thirty rods in advance. It comes again!
“Courage, men! We have struck the river, at whose mouth stands our camp, now not half a mile distant.”
Aroused by the glad tidings, that sent a thrill of joy through their sinking hearts, they sprang forward, with the revivified energies which new and suddenly-lighted hope will sometimes so strangely impart, and were soon by the side of the exulting hunter; when together they rushed and floundered along down the banks of the stream towards the place, in joyful excitement at the thought that their troubles were now so nearly over, and with visions of the comfortable quarters, warm fires, and smoking suppers, which they confidently expected were awaiting them at camp, brightly dancing before them. Joy and hope lent wings to their speed; and, in a short time, they could discern the open place and the well-remembered outlines of the locality where the camp was situated. But no bright light greeted their expectant eyes. They were now at the spot, but, to their utter consternation, no camp was to be seen! Could they be mistaken in the place? No; there was the open path leading to the structure; there rose the steep side of the hill; and there, at the foot of it, stood the perpendicular rock against which it was erected! What could it mean? After standing a moment in mute amazement, peering inquiringly at each other, in the fading twilight, they started forward for the rock, and, in so doing, came upon the two front posts, still standing up some feet out of the snow. They were black and charred! The sad truth then flashed over their minds. Their camp had been burnt to the ground, and with it; also, probably, their rich collection of furs,—nearly the whole fruit of all the toils and fatigues of their expedition! O death, death! what shall save the poor trappers, now?
“Great God! I have had a presentiment of this,” exclaimed Phillips, the first to find utterance, in a voice trembling with unwonted emotion.
“How could it have happened?” and “Where is Gaut Gurley?” simultaneously burst from the lips of the others.
“Well may you ask those questions, and well couple them together, I fancy,” responded the hunter, with bitter significance. “But away with all speculations about that, now. We have something that more nearly concerns us to attend to, in this strait, than forming conjectures about the loss of our property: our lives are at stake! If you will mind me, however, you may all yet be saved.”
“Direct us, direct us, and we will obey,” eagerly responded one and all.
“Two of you follow me, then, for something dry, if we can find it, for a fire, and the rest go to kicking away and treading down the snow under the rock, with all your might!” sharply commanded the hunter, dashing his way towards the thickets, with hatchet in hand.
With that ready obedience which a superior in energy and experience will always command among his fellows, in emergencies like this, the men went to work in earnest. In a short time the snow was cleared away or beat down compactly over a space some yards in extent along the side of the rock, while the others soon returned with a supply of the driest wood to be found, together with an armfull of hemlock boughs, to strew over the beaten snow. The next thing requiring their attention was the all-important object of starting a fire. But in this they were doomed to sad disappointment. Their punkwood tinder had been so dampened by the snow sifting into their coat-pockets, where they had deposited it, that it could not be made to catch the sparks of the smitten steel. They then tried the flashing of their guns; but they had no paper, and could find no dry leaves or fleecy bark of the birch, and the finest splinters or shavings they could whittle, in the dark, from the clefts of the imperfectly dry pine, would not take fire from the light, evanescent flash of the powder in their pans. Again and again did they renew the doubtful experiment; but every succeeding trial, from the dampness of their material in the driving snow, and from the unmanageable condition of their benumbed fingers and shivering frames, became more and more hopeless, till at length they were compelled to relinquish wholly the fruitless attempt.
“This is a calamity, indeed!” exclaimed the hunter. “I feared it might be so from the first. Could we have foreseen the want, so as to have been on the lookout for material coming along, or have got here before dark, it might have been averted. But as it is, there is one resort left for us, if we would live in this terrible wind and cold till morning; and that is, to keep in constant and lively motion. Whoever lies down to sleep is a dead man!”
But he found it difficult to impress on the minds of most of them his idea of the danger of ceasing motion. They began to say they felt more comfortable now, and, being very tired, must lay down to take a little rest. Sharply forbidding the indulgence, the hunter sallied out, cut and trimmed two or three green beech switches, and returned with them to his wondering companions; when, finding Mark Elwood, in disregard of his warning, already down and dozing on a bunch of boughs under the rock, he sternly exclaimed:
“Up, there, in an instant!”
“O, let me lie,” begged the unconsciously freezing man: “do let me lie a little while. I am almost warm, now, but very, very sleepy,” he added, sinking away again into a doze.
Instantly a smart blow from the tough and closely-setting switch of the hunter fell upon the outstretched legs of the dozer, who cringed and groaned, but did not start. Another and another, and yet another, fell with the quickness and force of a pedagogue’s rod on the legs of an offending urchin, till the aroused, maddened and enraged victim of the seeming cruelty leaped to his feet, and, with doubled fists, rushed upon the assailant, who darted off into the snow and led his pursuer a doubling race of several hundred yards before he returned to the spot.
“There are some spare switches,” resumed the active and stout-hearted hunter, as he came in a little ahead of the puffing, reänimated, and now pacified Elwood; “take them in hand, and do the same by me, if you see me going the same way; it is our only salvation!”
But, notwithstanding all this preaching, and the obvious effects of this wholesome example, others of the company, deceived by the insidious sensation which steals upon the unsuspecting victims of such exposures, as the treacherous herald of their death,—others, in turn, required and promptly received the application of the same strange remedy. But this could not always last. The fatigue of their previously overtasked systems prevented them from keeping up their exertions many hours more; and, declaring they could bear up no longer, one after another sunk down under the rock; and even their hitherto indomitable leader himself now visibly relaxed, and at length threw himself down with the rest, feebly murmuring:
“I know what this feeling means; but it is so sweet! let us all die together!”
At that instant a shock, quickly followed by the loud, gathering rumblings of an earthquake, somewhere above them, suddenly aroused and brought every man to his feet. And the next moment an avalanche of snow, sweeping down the steep side of the rock-faced declivity above, shot obliquely over their heads to the level below, leaving them unharmed, but buried twenty feet beneath the outward surface.
“Now, God be praised!” cried the hunter, at once comprehending what had happened, and starting forward to feel out what space was left them between their shielding rock in the rear and the wedged and compact slant snow-wall in front, which, with the no less deeply blocked ends, formed the roof and sides of their new and thus strangely built prison-house, “This is the work of Providence! We are now, at least, safe from the cold, as you will all, I think, soon have the pleasure of perceiving.”
“You are right, Mr. Phillips,” responded Carvil; “and it is strange some of us did not think of building a snow-house at the outset. Even the wild partridges, that in coldest weather protect themselves by burrowing in the snow, might have taught us the lesson.”
“Yes, but it has been far better done in the way God has provided for us. And we have only now to get our blood into full circulation to insure us safety and rest through the night; and let us do this by shaking out our boughs, and treading down the snow, as smooth as a floor, to receive them for our bedding.”
“It may be as you say about its being mild here, Mr. Phillips,” doubtingly observed Mark Elwood; “but it seems strange philosophy to me, that being inclosed in snow, the coldest substance in nature, should make us warmer than in the open air.”
“And still I suspect it is a fact, father,” said Claud. “The Esquimaux, and other nations of the extreme north, it is known, live in snow-houses, without fire, the whole of their long and rigorous winters.”
“O, Phillips is right enough about that,” added Codman, now evidently fast regaining his usual buoyancy of spirits; “yes, right enough about that, whether he was about that plaguey switching he gave us, or not. Why, I can feel a great change in the air here already! warm enough, soon; safe, at any rate; so, hurra for life and home, which, being once so honestly lost, will now be clear gain. Hurra! whoo-rah! whoo-rah-ee! Kuk-kuk-ke-o-ho!”
And the hunter was right, and the trapper was right. Their perils and physical sufferings were over. They were not only safe, but fast becoming comfortable. And, by the time they had trod down the snow as hard and smooth as had been proposed, and shaken out the boughs and distributed them for their respective beds, the air seemed as warm as that of a mild day in October. Their clothes were smoking and becoming dry by the evaporation of the dampness caused by the snow. Their limbs had become pliant, and their whole systems restored to their wonted warmth and circulation. And, wrapping themselves in their blankets, they laid down,—as they knew they could now safely do,—and were soon lost in refreshing slumber, from which they did not awake till a late hour the next morning.
“When they awoke, after their deep slumbers, they at once concluded, from the altered and lighter hue of all around them, as well as by their own feelings, that it must be day without; and with one accord commenced, with their hatchets, cutting and digging a hole through the wall of their snowy prison-house, in the place where they judged it most likely to be thinnest. After working by turns some thirty or forty minutes, and cutting or beating out an upward passage eight or ten yards in extent, they suddenly broke through into the open air. The roaring of the storm no longer greeted their ears. The terrible conflict of the elements, which yesterday kept the heavens and earth in such hideous commotion, was over and gone. Though it was as cold as in the depths of winter, the sky was almost cloudless; and the sun, already far on his diurnal circuit, was glimmering brightly over the dreary wastes of the snow-covered wilderness. By common consent, they then packed up, and immediately commenced beating their slow and toilsome way towards the nearest habitation, which was that of the old chief, now only about five miles distant, over land, on the shore of the lake below. With far less fatigue and other suffering, save that of hunger, than they had anticipated, they reached the hospitable cabin of Wenongonet before night. Here their wants were supplied; here an earnest discussion—in which they were aided by the shrewd surmises of the chief—was held, respecting the burning of their camp and the probable loss of their common property; and, finally, here, though the “Light of the Lodge” was absent at her city home, they were agreeably entertained through the night and succeeding day,—when, the lakes having become frozen over sufficiently strong to make travelling on the ice as safe as it was convenient and easy, they, on the second morning after their arrival at his house, bade their entertainer good-by, and set out for their homes in the settlement, which they respectively reached by daylight, to the great relief of their anxious and now overjoyed families and friends.