Thrilling Adventures by Land and Sea - James O. Brayman
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All had been so anxious in seeing the passengers and crew landed safely,
that they had not thought about providing for our future wants, and
nothing in the shape of provisions or baggage had been brought ashore.
After they had looked around them for a few moments, the boat was again
manned and the wreck was again explored for provisions, and a few pounds
of hard bread, part of a quarter of fresh beef and some boiled beef were
brought in, which was as one remarked, a "poor show" for a lunch for so
many sharp appetites. After having eaten this mouthful we proposed to
start with as many as possible for Eagle river, which was judged to be
about thirty-five miles distant, and a party of twenty-two in number
set out.
It was noon when we started, with our clothes still wet and heavy, and
little or nothing to eat. We worked our way slowly through the cedar
swamp; over logs and under logs, up ravines and down ravines, a crooked,
trackless, toilsome way, till the middle of the afternoon, when we met
two of our fellow passengers on their way back to the wreck. They had
been on some distance further, but worn out with the hardships of their
journey and hunger, they had turned back disheartened, and advised us to
do the same. But we decided to go on, and on we went, through the worst
cedar swamps in the world, till the thick woods began to grow dark with
the shades of evening, and till a number of the party became completely
exhausted with fatigue and hunger. We then concluded to encamp for the
night, although we could not have traveled in all the afternoon over
five miles, or about a mile an hour.
Without an axe, a few sticks were collected, and two or three poor fires
were kindled. All the bits of hard bread, and fresh beef, in all a
scanty meal for one person's supper, was produced and rationed out to
the twenty-two persons. Every one ate as sparingly as possible, and as
we were without tents, we lay down on the cold ground in our wet clothes
before the fire, and dozed and shivered with cold till daylight. As soon
as we could see to travel, we proceeded on our toilsome way, and after
walking about a mile we came to the trail that leads from Lake Superior
to Portage Lake, and saw two or three Indians pushing out through the
surf a bark canoe, which they soon jumped into and paddled away before
the wind. We tried to induce them to return, in hopes to procure
something from them to satisfy our craving hunger, but they scarcely
deigned to look back.
Some of our party had been from this trail to Eagle river, and it was
some consolation to meet with a land mark that was known. We now
commenced walking along the beach, which was composed of large pebbles,
covered in many places with logs and trees that had washed or tumbled in
from off the overhanging banks, making it as tiresome walking as can
well be imagined. Frequently, in order to keep the beach, we were
obliged to walk within reach of the dash of the waves, and were drenched
with the cold flood.
About two miles east of the Portage trail, we discovered near the edge
of the bank, which was some ten feet above the lake, the remains of a
human being. The clothes of a man, in a good state of preservation, half
covered the bleaching bones, the sad, sickening, unburied relics of some
poor "shipwrecked brother," who had here ended his voyage "o'er life's
stormy main." He had evidently chosen this spot where he could die
looking off upon the lake, from whence no succor came, and where he
could be easily discovered by the passer by. A description was taken by
one of our party of his clothes and the few articles found on them, and
we learned on inquiring at Eagle river, that they were undoubtedly the
remains of a Mr. Mathews, who got lost from the Algonquin mine a few
weeks previous. A brother of the deceased repaired to the spot as soon
as possible and brought down the remains for burial at Eagle harbor.
The morning had not far advanced when a number of our party began to lag
behind, exhausted from the effects of hunger and weakness, and it was
evident that some would have to be left behind, while some of the others
might possibly reach Eagle river that day and send assistance. We
confidently expected to find some provisions in a warehouse at Gratiot
river, twelve miles from Eagle river, and all had hopes to reach there
before night. A few of our party pushed forward as fast as possible, to
procure food and fires for those behind, but great was our
disappointment not to find a particle of provisions at that place.
We kindled a fire, and rested for a few minutes, till a number of our
party came up, the larger number being still far behind. It now became
more important than ever that some one should reach Eagle river, and
seven of our number determined to make the trial. We had now twelve
miles further to go, and in our miserable condition we traveled but
slowly, but the trail grew better as we proceeded, and we came in sight
of Eagle River about four o'clock in the afternoon, and under the
circumstances, a more pleasant, inviting village we do not recollect
ever to have seen before. Four or five of our party came through the
same evening, and a few others of another party came in the next day
with similar hardships.
On the Tuesday following, Capt. McKay with the schooner Algonquin,
proceeded to the wreck, and brought off the captain, crew, and remaining
passengers, and all that could be saved of valuable property.
A JUNGLE RECOLLECTION.
The hot season of 1849 was peculiarly oppressive, and the irksome
garrison duty, at Cherootabad, in the south of India, had for many
months been unusually severe. The colonel of my regiment, the brigadier,
and the general, having successively acceded to my application for three
weeks' leave, and that welcome fact having been duly notified in orders,
it was not long before I found myself on the Coimbatore road, snugly
packed, guns and all, in a country bullock cart, lying at full length on
a mattress, with a thick layer of straw spread under it.
All my preparations had been made beforehand; relays of bullocks were
posted for me at convenient intervals, and I arrived at Goodaloor, a
distance of a hundred and ten miles, in rather more than forty
eight hours.
Goodaloor is a quiet little village, about eleven miles from
Coimbatore;--but don't suppose I was going to spend my precious three
weeks there.
All loaded, and pony saddled, let us start: the two white cows and their
calves; the mattress and blanket rolled up and carried on a Cooly's
head Shikaree, horsekeeper, and a village man, with the three guns,
while I, myself, bring up the rear. Over a few ploughed fields, and past
that large banian tree, the jungle begins.
In a small clump of low jungle, on the sloping bank of a broad, sandy
watercourse, the casual passer-by would not have perceived a snug and
tolerably strong little hut--the white ends of the small branches that
were laid over it, and the mixture of foliage, alone revealing the fact
to the observant eye of a practiced woodman. No praise could be too
strong to bestow on the faithful Shikaree; had I chosen the spot myself,
after a weeks' survey of the country, it could not have been more
happily selected.
To the deeply-rooted stump of a young tree on the opposite bank, one of
the white cows had been made fast by a double cord passed twice around
her horns. Nothing remains to be done: the little door is fastened
behind me, the prickly acacia boughs are piled up against it on the
outside, and my people are anxious to be off.
The poor cow, too, listens with dismay to the retreating footsteps of
the party, and has already made some furious plunges to free herself,
and rejoin the rest of the kine, who have been driven off, nothing
loth, toward home. Watch her: how intently she stares along the path by
which the people have deserted her. Were it not for the occasional stamp
of her fore leg, or the impatient side-toss of the head, to keep off the
swarming flies, she might be carved out of marble. And now a fearful and
anxious gaze up the bed of the nullah, and into the thick fringe of
Mimoso, one ear pricked and the other back alternately, show that
_instinct_ has already whispered the warning of impending danger.
Another plunge to get loose, and a searching gaze up the path; see her
sides heave. Now comes what we want--that deep low! It echoes again
among the hills: another and another. Poor wretch! you are hastening
your doom; far or near, the tiger hears you--under the rock or thicket,
where he has lain since morning, sheltered from the scorching sun, his
ears flutter as if they were tickled every time he hears that music; his
huge, green eyes, heretofore half closed, are now wide open, and, alas!
poor cow, gaze truly enough in thy direction; but he has not stirred
yet, and nobody can say in what direction giant death will yet
stalk forth.
The moon is up--all nature still; the cow, again on her legs, is
restless, and evidently frightened. Oh! reader, even if you have the
soul of a Shikaree, I despair of being able to convey in words a tithe
of the sensations of that solitary vigil: a night like that is to be
enjoyed but seldom--a red-letter day in one's existence.
Where is the man who has never experienced the poetic influence of a
moonlight scene! Fancy, then, such a one as here described; a crescent
of low hills--craggy, steep, and thickly wooded--around you, on three
sides, and above them, again, at twenty miles' distance, the clear blue
outline of the Neilgherry hills; in your front, the silver sand bed of
the dry watercourse divides the thick and somber jungle with a stream of
light, till you lose it in the deep shadows at the foot of the
hills--all quiet, all still, all bathed in the light of the moon,
yourself the only man for miles to come, a solitary watcher--your only
companion the poor cow, who, full of fears, and suspicious at every
leaf-fall, reminds you that a terrible struggle is about to take place
within a few feet of your bed, and that there will be noise and
confusion, when you must be cool and collected. Your little kennel would
not be strong enough to resist a determined charge, and you are alone,
if three good guns are not true friends.
Oh! that I could express sounds on paper as music is written in notes.
No, reader, you must do as I have done--you must be placed in a similar
situation, to hear and enjoy the terrible roar of a hungry tiger--not
from afar off, and listened for, but close at hand, and unexpected. It
was like an electric shock;--a moment ago I was dozing off, and the cow,
long since laid down, appeared asleep; that one roar had not died away
among the hills when she had scrambled on her legs, and stood with
elevated head, stiffened limbs, tail raised, and breath suspended,
staring, full of terror, in the direction of the sound. As for the
biped, with less noise, and even more alacrity, he had grasped his "Sam
Nock," whose polished barrels just rested on the lower ledge of the
little peep-hole; perhaps his eyes were as round as saucers, and heart
beating fast and strong.
Now for the struggle;--pray heaven that I am cool and calm, and do not
fire in a hurry, for one shot will either lose or secure my
well-earned prize.
There he is again! evidently in that rugged, stony watercourse, which
runs parallel, and about two hundred yards behind the hut. But what is
that? Yes, lightning: two flashes in quick succession, and a cold stream
of air is rustling through the half-withered leaves of my ambush. Taking
a look to the rear, through an accidental opening among the leaves, it
was plain that a storm, or, as it would be called at sea, a squall, was
brewing. An arch of black cloud was approaching from the westward, and,
the rain descending, gave it the appearance of a huge black comb, the
teeth reaching to the earth. The moon, half obscured, showed a white
mist as far as the rain had reached. Then was heard in the puffs of air,
the hissing of the distant but approaching downpour: more
lightning--then some large heavy drops plashed on the roof, and it was
raining cats and dogs.
How the scene was changed! Half an hour ago, solemn, and still, and
wild, as nature rested, unpolluted, undefaced, unmarked by man--sleeping
in the light of the moon, all was tranquillity; the civilized man lost
his idiosyncrasy in its contemplation--forgot nation, pursuits,
creed--he felt that he was Nature's child, and adored the God of Nature.
But the beautiful was now exchanged for the sublime, when that scene
appeared lit up suddenly and awfully by lightning, which now momentarily
exchanged a sheet of intensely dazzling blue light, with a darkness
horrible to endure--a light which showed the many streams of water,
which now appeared like ribbons over the smooth slabs of rod that lay on
the slope of the hills, and gave a microscopic accuracy of outline to
every object, exchanged as suddenly for a darkness, which for the
moment might be supposed the darkness of extinction--of utter
annihilation--while the crash of thunder over head rolled over the
echoes of the hills, "I am the Lord thy God."
The storm was at length over, the nullah run dry again. Damp and sleepy,
with arms folded and eyes sometimes open, but often shut, I kept an
indifferent watch, when the cow, struggling on her legs, and a groan,
brought me to my senses. There they were. It was no dream. A large
tiger, holding her just behind the ears, shaking her like a fighting
dog. By the doubtful light of the watery moon, did I calmly and
noiselessly run out the muzzle of my rifle.
I saw him, without quitting his grip of the cow's neck, leap over her
back more than once. She sank to the earth, and he lifted her up again.
At the first opportunity, I pulled trigger. The left hand missed, I
tried the right--it went off--bang!
Whether a hanging fire is an excuse or not, the tiger relinquished his
hold and was off with a bound. The cow staggered and struggled, and, in
few seconds, fell, and, with a heavy groan, ceased to move. The tiger
had killed the cow within a few feet of me, and escaped scathless.
Night after night did I watch for his return. I had almost despaired
of seeing him again, when, one night, about eleven o'clock,
my ears caught the echo among the rocks, and then the distant
roar--nearer--nearer--nearer; and--oh, joy!--answered. Tiger and
tigress!--above all hope!--coming to recompense me for hundreds of night
watchings--to balance a long account of weary nights in the silent
jungle, in platforms on trees, in huts of leaf and bramble, and in damp
pits on the water's edge--all bootless; coming--coming--nearer
and nearer.
Music nor words, dear reader, can stand me in any stead to convey the
sound to you; the first note like the trumpet of a peacock, and the rest
the deepest toned thunder. Stones and gravel rattled just behind the hut
on the path by which we came, and went, and a heavy step passed and
descended the slope into the nullah. I heard the sand crunching under
his weight before I dared to look. A little peep. Oh, heavens! looming
in the moonlight, there he stood, long, sleek as satin, and lashing his
tail--he stood stationary, smelling the slaughtered cow. No longer the
cautious, creeping tiger, I felt how awful a brute he was to offend. I
remembered how he had worried a strong cow in half a minute, and that,
with his weight alone, my poor rickety little citadel would fall to
pieces. As if the excitement of the moment was insufficient, the
monster, gazing down the dry watercourse, caught sight of his
companion, who, advancing up the bed of the nullah, stood irresolutely
about twenty yards off. The bully, who was evidently the male, after
smelling at the head, came round the carcass, making a sort of
complaisant purring--"humming a kind of animal song," and to it he went
tooth and nail.
As he stood with his two fore feet on the haunch, while he tugged and
tore out a beef-steak, I once more grasped old "Sam Nock," and ran the
muzzle out of the little port. The white linen band marked a line behind
his shoulders, and rather low, but, from the continued motion of his
body, it was some moments before eye and finger agreed to pull
trigger--bang! A shower of sand rattled on the dry leaves, and a roar of
rage and pain satisfied me, even before the white smoke, which hung in
the still air, had cleared away, to show the huge monster writhing and
plunging where he had fallen. Either directed by the fire, or by some
slight noise made in the agitation of the moment, he saw me, and, with a
hideous yell, scrambled up: the roaring thunder of his voice filled the
valley, and the echoes among the hills answered it, with the hootings of
tribes of monkeys, who, scared out of sleep, sought the highest
branches, at the sound of the well-known voice of the tyrant of the
jungle. I immediately perceived, to my great joy, that his hind quarters
were paralyzed and useless, and that all danger was out of the
question. He sank down again on his elbows, and as he rested his now
powerless limbs, I saw the blood welling out of a wound in the loins, as
it shone in the moonlight, and trickled off his sleek-painted hide, like
globules of quicksilver. As I looked into his countenance, I saw all the
devil alive there. The will remained--the power only had gone. It was a
sight never to be forgotten. With head raised to the full stretch of his
neck, he glared at me with an expression of such malignity, that it
almost made one quail. I thought of the native superstition of singeing
off the whiskers of the newly killed tiger to lay his spirit, and no
longer wondered at it. With ears back, and mouth bleeding, he growled
and roared in fitful uncertainty, as if he were trying, but unable, to
measure the extent of the force that had laid him low.
Motionless myself, provocation ceased, and without further attempt to
get on his legs, he continued to gaze on me; when I slowly lowered my
head to the sight, and again pulled trigger. This time, true to the
mark, the ball entered just above the breastbone, and the smoke cleared
off with his death-groan. There he lay, foot to foot with his victim of
last night, motionless--dead. My first impulse was to tear down the door
behind, and get a thorough view of his proportions; but remembering
that his companion, the tigress, had vanished only a short time ago
close to the scene of action, I thought it as well to remain where I
was; so, enlarging the windows with my hands, I took a long look, and
then jovially attacked the coffee without reference to noise, and fell
back on the mattress to sleep, or to think the night's work over. "At
last, I have got him: his skin will be pegged out to-morrow, drying
before the tent door." When my people came in the morning, they found me
seated on the dead tiger. Coolies were sent for to carry the beast, and
I gave the pony his reins all the way back to the tent.
FRASER'S MAGAZINE
[Illustration: ATTACK ON BOONESBOROUGH.]
ATTACK OF BOONSBOROUGH.
On the tenth of March, 1778, Daniel Boone, having been taken prisoner by
the Indians, was conducted to Detroit, when Governor Hamilton himself
offered one hundred pounds sterling, for his ransom; but so great was
the affection of the Indians for their prisoner, that it was positively
refused. Boone's anxiety on account of his wife and children was
incessant, and the more intolerable as he dared not excite the
suspicions of his captors by any indication of a wish to return home.
The Indians were now preparing for a violent attack upon the settlements
in Kentucky. Early in June, four hundred and fifty of the choicest
warriors were ready to march against Boonesborough, painted and armed in
a fearful manner. Alarmed at these preparations, he determined to make
his escape. He hunted and shot with the Indians as usual, until the
morning of the sixteenth of June, when, taking an early start, he left
Chillicothe and directed his steps to Boonesborough. The distance
exceeded one hundred and sixty miles, but he performed it in four days,
during which he eat only one meal. He appeared before the garrison like
one risen from the dead. He found the fortress in a bad state, and lost
no time in rendering it more capable of defence. He repaired the flanks,
gates, and posterns, formed double bastions, and completed the whole
in ten days.
On the eighth of August, the enemy appeared. The attack upon the fort
was instantly commenced; and the siege lasted nine days, during which,
an almost incessant firing was kept up. On the twentieth of August, the
enemy retired with a loss of thirty-seven killed and a great many
wounded. This affair was highly creditable to the spirit and skill of
the pioneers.
THRILLING INCIDENTS OF BATTLE.
There is a man now living in East Dixfield, Oxford county, me, who
actually caught in his mouth a ball discharged from a musket. He was at
the battle of Bridgewater, in the war of 1812, and, while biting off the
end of a cartridge, for the purpose of loading his gun, was struck by a
ball, which entered on the left side of his face, knocking out eight of
his teeth, cut off the end of his tongue, and passed into his throat. He
raised it, went to the hospital, staid out the remainder of his
enlistment, and returned home with the bullet in his pocket.
The New Orleans Picayune, one of whose editors was an eye-witness of the
most of the leading battles in Mexico, copies the foregoing paragraph,
and appends to it the following relation:
We can relate an incident even more strange than this. At the siege of
Monterey, in 1846, and, while General Worth's troops were advancing to
storm the small fort, known as La Soldada, a man, named Waters, an
excellent soldier, belonging to Ben McCulloch's Rangers, caught a large
grape-shot directly in his mouth. It was fully the size of a hen's egg,
was rough, uneven in shape, and, in its course, completely carried out
the four upper teeth of the ranger, and part of the jaw, cut off the
four lower teeth, as with a chisel, split his tongue in twain, carried
away his palate, went through the back of his head, and, striking a
tendon, glanced down, and lodged under the skin on the shoulder-blade,
where it was extracted by a surgeon, and safely placed in the pocket of
Waters for future reference.
No man thought the wounded ranger could live, he could swallow neither
food nor water. We saw him two nights afterward, in a room in the
Bishop's Palace, which had been converted into a hospital, sitting bolt
upright among the wounded and the dying--for the nature of his terrible
hurt was such that he could not lie down without suffocating. His face
was swollen to more than twice its ordinary size--he was speechless of
course--his wants were only made known by means of a broken slate and
pencil, and he was slowly applying a wet sponge to his mouth,
endeavoring to extract moisture, which might quench the fever and
intolerable thirst under which he was suffering. By his side lay young
Thomas, of Maryland, a member of the same company, who was mortally
wounded the morning after, and who was now dying. Wounded men, struck
that afternoon in Worth's advance upon the Grand Plaza, were constantly
being brought in, the surgeons were amputating and dressing the hurts of
the crippled soldiers by a pale and sickly candle-light, and the groans
of those in grievous pain added a new horror to the scene, which was at
best frightful. We recollect, perfectly well, a poor fellow struck in
both legs by a grape-shot, while advancing up one of the streets. He was
begging lustily, after one of his limbs had been amputated, that the
other might be spared him, on which to hobble through the world. Poor
Thomas, as gallant a spirit as ever lived, finally breathed his last; we
brought Waters a fresh cup of water with which to moisten his wounds,
and then left the room to catch an hour's sleep; but the recollections
of that terrible night will not soon be effaced from my memory.
The above incident occurred on the night of the 23d and morning of the
24th of September, 1846. During the early part of the month of February
following, while passing into the old St. Charles, in this city, we were
accosted with a strange voice by a fine-looking man, who seemed
extremely glad to see us, although he had a most singular and
unaccountable mode of expressing himself. We recollected the eye as one
we had been familiar with, but the lower features of the face, although
in no way disfigured, for the life of us, we could not make out.
"Why, don't you know me?" in a mumbling, half-indistinct, and forced
manner, said the man, still shaking our hand vigorously. "I'm Waters."
And Waters it was, in reality, looking as well and as healthy as ever,
without showing the least outward sign that he had ever caught a
grape-shot in his mouth. A luxuriant growth of mustaches completely
covered his upper lip, and concealed any scar the iron missile might
have made; an imperial on his under lip hid any appearance of a wound at
that point; and, with the exception of his speech, there was nothing to
show that he had ever received the slightest injury about the face. His
tongue, which was terribly shattered, was still partially benumbed,
rendering articulation both difficult and tiresome; but he assured us he
was every day gaining more and more the use of it, and, in his own
words, he was soon to be "just as good as new"