Thrilling Adventures by Land and Sea - James O. Brayman
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The raft had been constructed without foresight or intelligence. It was
about sixty-five feet long and twenty-five broad, but the only part
which could be depended upon was the middle; and that was so small, that
fifteen persons could not lie down upon it. Those who stood on the floor
were in constant danger of slipping through between the planks; the sea
flowed in on all its sides. When one hundred and fifty passengers who
were destined to be its burden, were on board, they stood like a solid
parallelogram, without a possibility of moving; and they were up to
their waists in water.
The desperate squadron had only proceeded three leagues, when a faulty,
if not treacherous manoeuvre, broke the tow-line which fastened the
captain's boat to the raft; and this became the signal to all to let
loose their cables. The weather was calm. The coast was known to be but
twelve or fifteen leagues distant; and the land was in fact discovered
by the boats on the very same evening on which they abandoned the raft.
They were not therefore driven to this measure by any new perils; and
the cry of "_Nous les abandonons_!" which resounded throughout the line,
was the yell of a spontaneous and instinctive impulse of cowardice,
perfidy, and cruelty; and the impulse was as unanimous as it was
diabolical. The raft was left to the mercy of the waves; one after
another, the boats disappeared, and despair became general. Not one of
the promised articles, no provisions, except a very few casks of wine,
and some spoiled biscuit, sufficient for one single meal was found. A
small pocket compass, which chance had discovered, their last guide in a
trackless ocean, fell between the beams into the sea. As the crew had
taken no nourishment since morning, some wine and biscuit were
distributed; and this day, the first of thirteen on the raft, was the
last on which they tasted any solid food--except such as human nature
shudders at. The only thing which kept them alive was the hope of
revenge on those who had treacherously betrayed them.
The first night was stormy; and the waves, which had free access,
committed dreadful ravages, and threatened worse. When day appeared,
twelve miserable wretches were found crushed to death between the
openings of the raft, and several more were missing; but the number
could not be ascertained, as several soldiers had taken the billets of
the dead, in order to obtain two, or even three rations. The second
night was still more dreadful, and many were washed off; although the
crew had so crowded together, that some were smothered by the mere
pressure. To soothe their last moments, the soldiers drank immoderately;
and one, who affected to rest himself upon the side, but was
treacherously cutting the ropes, was thrown into the sea. Another, whom
M. Correard had snatched from the waves, turned traitor a second time,
as soon as he recovered his senses; but he too was killed. At length the
revolted, who were chiefly soldiers, threw themselves upon their knees,
and abjectly implored mercy. At midnight, however, they rebelled again.
Those who had no arms, fought with their teeth, and thus many severe
wounds were inflicted. One was most wantonly and dreadfully bitten above
the heel, while his companions were beating him upon the head with their
carbines, before throwing him into the sea. The raft was strewed with
dead bodies, after innumerable instances of treachery and cruelty; and
from sixty to sixty-five perished that night. The force and courage of
the strongest began to yield to their misfortunes; and even the most
resolute labored under mental derangement. In the conflict, the revolted
had thrown two casks of wine, and all the remaining water, into the sea;
and it became necessary to diminish each man's share.
A day of comparative tranquillity succeeded. The survivors erected their
mast again, which had been wantonly cut down in the battle of the night;
and endeavored to catch some fish, but in vain. They were reduced to
feed on the dead bodies of their companions. A third night followed,
broken by the plaintive cries of wretches, exposed to every kind of
suffering, ten or twelve of whom died of want, and awfully foretold the
fate of the remainder. The following day was fine. Some flying fish were
caught in the raft; which, mixed up with human flesh, afforded one
scanty meal.
[Illustration]
A new insurrection to destroy the raft, broke out on the fourth night;
this too, was marked by perfidy, and ended in blood. Most of the rebels
were thrown into the sea. The fifth morning mustered but thirty men
alive; and these sick and wounded, with the skin of their lower
extremities corroded by the salt water. Two soldiers were detected
drinking the wine of the only remaining cask; they were instantly thrown
into the sea. One boy died, and there remained only twenty-seven; of
whom fifteen only seemed likely to live. A council of war, preceded by
the most horrid despair, was held; as the weak consumed a part of the
common store, they determined to throw them into the sea. This sentence
was put into immediate execution! and all the arms on board, which now
filled their minds with horror, were, with the exception of a single
sabre, committed to the deep. Distress and misery increased with an
accelerated ratio; and even after the desperate means of destroying
their companions, and eating the most nauseous aliments, the surviving
fifteen could not hope for more than a few days' existence. A butterfly
lighted on their sail the ninth day, and though it was held to be a
messenger of good, yet many a greedy eye was cast upon it.
Three days more passed over in inexpressible anguish, when they
constructed a smaller and more manageable raft, in the hope of directing
it to the shore; but on trial it was found insufficient. On the
seventeenth day, a brig was seen; which, after exciting the vicissitude
of hope and fear, proved to be the Argus, sent out in quest of the
Medusa. The inhabitants of the raft were all received on board, and were
again very nearly perishing, by a fire which broke out in the night. The
six boats which had so cruelly cast them adrift, reached the coast of
Africa in safety; and after many dangers among the Moors, the survivors
arrived at St. Louis.
After this, a vessel was dispatched to the wreck of the Medusa, to carry
away the money and provisions; after beating about for eight days, she
was forced to return. She again put to sea, but after being away five
days, again came back. Ten days more were lost in repairing her; and she
did not reach the spot till fifty-two days after the vessel had been
lost; and dreadful to relate, three miserable sufferers were found on
board. Sixty men had been abandoned there by their magnanimous
countrymen. All these had been carried off except seventeen, some of
whom were drunk, and others refused to leave the vessel. They remained
at peace as long as their provisions lasted. Twelve embarked on board a
raft, for Sahara, and were never more heard of. Another put to sea on a
hen-coop, and sunk immediately. Four remained behind, one of whom,
exhausted with hunger and fatigue, perished. The other three lived in
separate corners of the wreck, and never met but to run at each other
with drawn _knives_. They were put on board the vessel, with all that
could be saved from the wreck of the Medusa.
The vessel was no sooner seen returning to St. Louis, than every heart
beat high with joy, in the hope of recovering some property. The men and
officers of the Medusa jumped on board, and asked if any thing had been
saved. "Yes," was the reply, "but it is all ours now;" and the naked
Frenchmen, whose calamities had found pity from the Moors of the desert,
were now deliberately plundered by their own countrymen.
A fair was held in the town, which lasted eight days. The clothes,
furniture, and necessary articles of life belonging to the men and
officers of the Medusa, were publicly sold before their faces. Such of
the French as were able, proceeded to the camp at Daceard, and the sick
remained at St. Louis. The French governor had promised them clothes and
provisions, but sent none; and during five months, they owed their
existence to strangers--to the British.
HUNTING THE MOOSE.
The habits of the moose, in his manner of defence and attack, are
similar to those of the stag, and may be illustrated by the following
anecdote from the "Random Sketches of a Kentuckian:"
Who ever saw Bravo without loving him? His sloe-black eyes, his glossy
skin, flecked here and there with blue; his wide-spread thighs, clean
shoulders, broad back, and low-drooping chest, bespoke him the true
stag-hound; and none, who ever saw his bounding form, or heard his
deep-toned bay, as the swift-footed stag flew before him, would dispute
his title. List, gentle reader, and I will tell you an adventure which
will make you love him all the more.
A bright, frosty morning in November, 1838, tempted me to visit the
forest hunting-grounds. On this occasion, I was followed by a
fine-looking hound, which had been presented to me a few days before by
a fellow-sportsman. I was anxious to test his qualities, and, knowing
that a mean dog will not often hunt well with a good one, I had tied up
the eager Bravo, and was attended by the strange dog alone. A brisk
canter of half an hour brought me to the wild forest hills. Slackening
the rein, I slowly wound my way up a brushy slope some three hundred
yards in length. I had ascended about half way, when the hound began to
exhibit signs of uneasiness, and, at the same instant a stag sprang out
from some underbrush near by, and rushed like a whirlwind up the slope.
A word, and the hound was crouching at my feet, and my trained Cherokee,
with ear erect, and flashing eye, watched the course of the
affrighted animal.
"On the very summit of the ridge, full one hundred and fifty yards,
every limb standing out in bold relief against the clear, blue sky, the
stag paused, and looked proudly down upon us. After a moment of
indecision, I raised my rifle, and sent the whizzing lead upon its
errand. A single bound, and the antlered monarch was hidden from my
view. Hastily running down a ball, I ascended the slope; my blood ran a
little faster as I saw the gouts of blood' which stained the withered
leaves where he had stood. One moment more, and the excited hound was
leaping breast high on his trail, and the gallant Cherokee bore his
rider like lightning after them.
"Away--away! for hours we did thus hasten on, without once being at
fault, or checking our headlong speed. The chase had led us miles from
the starting-point, and now appeared to be bearing up a creek, on one
side of which arose a precipitous hill, some two miles in length, which
I knew the wounded animal would never ascend.
"Half a mile further on, another hill reared its bleak and barren head
on the opposite side of the rivulet. Once fairly in the gorge, there was
no exit save at the upper end of the ravine. Here, then, I must
intercept my game, which I was able to do by taking a nearer cut over
the ridge, that saved at least a mile.
"Giving one parting shout to cheer my dog, Cherokee bore me headlong to
the pass. I had scarcely arrived, when, black with sweat, the stag came
laboring up the gorge, seemingly, totally reckless of our presence.
Again I poured forth the 'leaden messenger of death,' as meteor-like he
flashed by us. One bound, and the noble animal lay prostrate within
fifty feet of where I stood. Leaping from my horse, and placing one knee
upon his shoulder, and a hand upon his antlers, I drew my hunting
knife; but scarcely had its keen point touched his neck, when, with a
sudden bound, he threw me from his body, and my knife was hurled from my
hand. In hunters' parlance, I had only 'creased him.' I at once saw my
danger, but it was too late. With one bound, he was upon me, wounding
and almost disabling me with his sharp feet and horns. I seized him by
his wide-spread antlers, and sought to regain possession of my knife,
but in vain; each new struggle drew us further from it. Cherokee,
frightened at the unusual scene, had madly fled to the top of the ridge,
where he stood looking down upon the combat, trembling and quivering in
every limb.
"The ridge road I had taken placed us far in advance of the hound, whose
bay I could not now hear. The struggles of the furious animal had become
dreadful, and every moment I could feel his sharp hoofs cutting deep
into my flesh; my grasp upon his antlers was growing less and less firm,
and yet I relinquished not my hold. The struggle had brought us near a
deep ditch, washed by the fall rains, and into this I endeavored to
force my adversary, but my strength was unequal to the effort; when we
approached to the very brink, he leaped over the drain. I relinquished
my hold and rolled in, hoping thus to escape him; but he returned to
the attack, and, throwing himself upon me, inflicted numerous severe
cuts upon my face and breast before I could again seize him. Locking my
arms around his antlers, I drew his head close to my breast, and was
thus, by great effort, enabled to prevent his doing me any serious
injury. But I felt that this could not last long; every muscle and fiber
of my frame was called into action, and human nature could not long bear
up under such exertion. Faltering a silent prayer to Heaven, I prepared
to meet my fate.
"At this moment of despair, I heard the faint bayings of the hound; the
stag, too, heard the sound, and, springing from the ditch, drew me with
him. His efforts were now redoubled, and I could scarcely cling to him.
Yet that blessed sound came nearer and nearer! Oh how wildly beat my
heart, as I saw the hound emerge from the ravine, and spring forward
with a short, quick bark, as his eye rested on his game. I released my
hold of the stag, who turned upon the new enemy. Exhausted, and unable
to rise, I still cheered the dog, that, dastard-like, fled before the
infuriated animal, who, seemingly despising such an enemy, again threw
himself upon me. Again did I succeed in throwing my arms around his
antlers, but not until he had inflicted several deep and dangerous
wounds upon my head and face, cutting to the very bone.
"Blinded by the flowing blood, exhausted and despairing, I cursed the
coward dog, who stood near, baying furiously, yet refusing to seize his
game. Oh! how I prayed for Bravo! The thoughts of death were bitter. To
die thus in the wild forest, alone, with none to help! Thoughts of home
and friends coursed like lightning through my brain. At that moment,
when Hope herself had fled, deep and clear over the neighboring hill,
came the baying of my gallant Bravo! I should have known his voice among
a thousand. I pealed forth in one faint shout, 'On Bravo, on!' The next
moment, with tiger-like bounds, the noble dog came leaping down the
declivity, scattering the dried autumnal leaves like a whirlwind in his
path. 'No pause he knew,' but, fixing his fangs in the stag's throat, he
at once commenced the struggle.
"I fell back completely exhausted. Blinded with blood, I only knew that
a terrible struggle was going on. In a few moments, all was still, and I
felt the warm breath of my faithful dog, as he licked my wounds.
Clearing my eyes from gore, I saw my late adversary dead at my feet, and
Bravo, 'my own Bravo,' as the heroine of a modern novel would say
standing over me. He yet bore around his neck a fragment of the rope
with which I had tied him. He had gnawed it in two, and, following his
master through all his windings, arrived in time to rescue him from a
horrible death.
"I have recovered from my wounds. Bravo is lying at my feet. Who does
not love Bravo? I am sure I do, and the rascal knows it--don't you,
Bravo? Come here, sir!"
PERILOUS ESCAPE FROM DEATH.
In the narrative of Moses Van Campen, we find the following incident
related. He was taken prisoner by the Seneca Indians, just after
Sullivan's expedition in the Revolution, on the confines of the white
settlements in one of the border counties of Pennsylvania. He was
marched through the wilderness, and reached the headquarters of the
savages near Fort Niagara. Here he was recognized as having, a year or
two previously, escaped, with two others, from his guard, five of whom
he slew in their sleep with his own hand.
[Illustration]
On this discovery being made, the countenances of the savages grew dark
and lowering. He saw at once that his fate was to be decided on the
principles of Indian vengeance, and, being bound, had but little hope of
escape. He, however, put on the appearance of as much unconcern as
possible. The Indians withdrew by themselves to decide in what manner
they should despatch their unhappy victim. They soon returned, their
visages covered with a demoniac expression. A few went to gathering
wood; another selected a spot, and soon a fire was kindled. Van Campen
looked upon these preparations, which were being made to burn him alive,
with feelings wrought up to the highest pitch of agony; yet he, with
much effort, appeared calm and collected. At last, when the preparations
were completed, two Indians approached, and began to unloose the cords
with which he was bound. To this he submitted. But the moment he was
fully loosed, he dashed the two Indians aside--felling one upon the
earth with a blow of his fist--and darted off toward the fort, where he
hoped to receive protection from the British officers. Tomahawks gleamed
in the air behind him--rifle balls whistled around--but onward still he
flew. One unarmed Indian stood in his path and intercepted him. With a
giant spring, he struck him in the breast with his feet, and bore him to
the earth. Recovering himself, he again started for the woods, and, as
he was running for life--with the fire and faggot behind him, and a
lingering death of torture--he soon outstripped all his pursuers. It
being near night, he effected his escape, arrived at the fort, and was
sent down the river to Montreal, to be out of the way of the savage
Senecas, who thirsted for his blood as a recompense for that of their
brethren whom he had slain.
FIRE IN THE FOREST.
"The summer of 1825 was unusually warm in both hemispheres, particularly
in America, where its effects were fatally visible in the prevalence of
epidemical disorders. During July and August, extensive fires raged in
different parts of Nova Scotia, especially in the eastern division of
the peninsular. The protracted drought of the summer, acting upon the
aridity of the forests, had rendered them more than naturally
combustible; and this, facilitating both the dispersion and the progress
of the fires that appeared in the early part of the season, produced an
unusual warmth. On the 6th of October, the fire was evidently
approaching New Castle; at different intervals fitful blazes and flashes
were observed to issue from different parts of the woods, particularly
up the northwest, at the rear of New Castle, in the vicinity of
Douglasstown and Moorfields, and along the banks of the Bartibog. Many
persons heard the crackling of falling trees and shriveled branches,
while a hoarse rumbling noise, not dissimilar to the roaring of distant
thunder, and divided by pauses, like the intermittent discharges of
artillery, was distinct and audible. On the 7th of October, the heat
increased to such a degree, and became so very oppressive, that many
complained of its enervating effects. About twelve o'clock, a pale,
sickly mist, lightly tinged with purple, emerged from the forest and
settled over it.
"This cloud soon retreated before a large, dark one, which, occupying
its place, wrapped the firmament in a pall of vapor. This incumbrance
retaining its position till about three o'clock, the heat became
tormentingly sultry. There was not a breath of air; the atmosphere was
overloaded; and irresistible lassitude seized the people. A stupefying
dullness seemed to pervade every place but the woods, which now
trembled, and rustled, and shook with an incessant and thrilling noise
of explosions, rapidly following each other, and mingling their reports
with a discordant variety of loud and boisterous sounds. At this time,
the whole country appeared to be encircled by a _fiery zone_, which,
gradually contracting its circle by the devastation it had made, seemed
as if it would not converge into a point while any thing remained to be
destroyed. A little after four o'clock, an immense pillar of smoke rose,
in a vertical direction, at some distance northeast of New Castle, for a
while, and the sky was absolutely blackened by this huge cloud; but a
light, northerly breeze springing up, it gradually distended, and then
dissipated into a variety of shapeless mists. About an hour after, or
probably at half past five, innumerable large spires of smoke, issuing
from different parts of the woods, and illuminated the flames that
seemed to pierce them, mounted the sky. A heavy and suffocating canopy,
extending to the utmost verge of observation, and appearing mere
terrific by the vivid flashes and blazes that darted irregularly through
it, now hung over New Castle and Douglass in threatening suspension,
while showers of flaming brands, calcined leaves, ashes, and cinders,
seemed to scream through the growling noise that prevailed in the woods.
About nine o'clock, P.M., or shortly after, a succession of loud and
appalling roars thundered through the forests. Peal after peal, crash
after crash, announced the sentence of destruction. Every succeeding
shock created fresh alarm; every clap came loaded with its own
destructive energy. With greedy rapidity did the flames advance to the
devoted scene of their ministry; nothing could impede their progress.
They removed every obstacle by the desolation they occasioned, and
several hundred miles of prostrate forests and smitten woods marked
their devastating way.
"The river, tortured into violence by the hurricane, foamed with rage,
and flung its boiling spray upon the land. The thunder pealed along the
vault of heaven--the lightning appeared to rend the firmament. For a
moment all was still, and a deep and awful silence reigned over every
thing. All nature appeared to be hushed, when suddenly a lengthened and
sullen roar came booming through the forests, driving a thousand massive
and devouring flames before it. Then New Castle and Douglasstown, and
the whole northern side of the river, extending from Bartibog to the
Naashwaak, a distance of more than one hundred miles in length, became
enveloped in an immense sheet of flame, that spread over nearly six
thousand square miles! That the reader may form a faint idea of the
desolation and misery, which no pen can describe, he must picture to
himself a large and rapid river, thickly settled for one hundred miles
or more on both sides of it. He must also fancy four thriving towns, two
on each side of this river, and then reflect that these towns and
settlements were all composed of wooden houses, stores, stables and
barns; that these barns and stables were filled with crops, and that the
arrival of the fall importations had stocked the warehouses and stores
with spirits, powder, and a variety of cumbustible articles, as well as
with the necessary supplies for the approaching winter. He must then
remember that the cultivated or settled part of the river is but a long,
narrow strip, about a quarter of a mile wide, lying between the river
and almost interminable forests, stretching along the very edge of its
precints and all around it. Extending his conception, he will see the
forests thickly expanding over more than six thousand square miles, and
absolutely parched into tinder by the protracted heat of a long summer.
"Let him then animate the picture, by scattering countless tribes of
wild animals, and hundreds of domestic ones, and even thousands of men
in the interior. Having done all this, he will have before him a feeble
outline of the extent, features, and general circumstances of the
country, which, in the course of a few hours, was suddenly enveloped in
fire. A more ghastly or a more revolting picture of human misery can not
well be imagined. The whole district of cultivated land was shrouded in
the agonizing memorials of some dreadful deforming havoc. The songs of
gladness that formerly resounded through it were no longer heard, for
the voice of misery had hushed them. Nothing broke upon the ear but the
accents of distress; the eye saw nothing but ruin, and desolation, and
death. New Castle, yesterday a flourishing town, full of trade and
spirit, and containing nearly one thousand inhabitants, was now a heap
of smoking ruins; and Douglasstown, nearly one-third of its size, was
reduced to the same miserable condition. Of the two hundred and sixty
houses and storehouses, that composed the former, but twelve remained;
and of the seventy that comprised the latter, but six were left. The
confusion on board of one hundred and fifty large vessels, then lying in
the Mirimachi, and exposed to imminent danger, was terrible--some burned
to the water's edge, others burning, and the remainder occasionally
on fire.