The Riverman

S >> Stewart Edward White >> The Riverman

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"Hurry up! Hurry up!" he cried. "She can't last much longer!"

Indeed even to the men on the pile-driver, evidences of the pressure
sustained by the slender boom piles were not wanting. Above the
steady gurgle of the water and the intermittent puffing and other
noises of the work, they could hear a creaking and groaning of
timbers full of portent to those who could read the signs.

The driver's crew laboured desperately, hoisting the piles into the
carriage, tripping the heavy hammer, sending it aloft again, binding
feverishly the clumps of piles together by means of cables. Each
man worked with an eye over his shoulder, fearful of the power that
menaced him.

Two of the clumps had been placed and bound; a third was nearly
finished, when suddenly, with a crack and a roar the upper booms
gave way, projecting their logs upon the opening and the driver.

The half dozen members of the crew, caught utterly unaware in spite
of the half warning they had been receiving for an hour past, were
scattered by the winds of a panic. Two or three flung themselves on
their faces; several ran from one end of the scow to the other; one
leaped into the river! Imminent destruction seemed upon them.

Tom North, at the winch that operated the arm of the swing, however,
retained his presence of mind. At the first sag outward of the boom
piles he set in operation the machinery that closed the gate.
Clumsy and slow as was his mechanism, he nevertheless succeeded in
getting the long arm started. The logs, rushing in back of it,
hurried it shut. Immediately they jammed again, and heaped up in a
formidable tangle behind the barrier. Tom North, his little black
pipe between his teeth, stood calm, the lever of his winch in his
hand. A short three feet from the spot on which he stood, the first
saw log of the many that might have overwhelmed him thrust forward
its ugly head. The wash of the water lifted the huge pile-driver
bodily and deposited it with a crash half on the bank and half in
the water.

Instantly after the first break Orde had commenced running out over
the booms from the shore.

"Good boy, Tom!" he shot at North as he passed.

Across the breast of the jam he hurried, and to the other bank where
the pile-driver lay. The crew had recovered from their panic, and
were ashore gazing curiously underneath the scow. Captain Aspinwall
examined the supports of the derrick on deck.

"That was lucky," said Orde briefly to Aspinwall. "How's the
damage? Stove you in?"

"I--I don't think so," replied the captain, turning a rather
perturbed face to Orde.

"That's good. I'll send over the tug to help get her afloat. We've
got our work cut out for us now. As soon as you're afloat, blow
your whistle and I'll come over to tell you what to do."

"You don't expect me to work my driver under the face of that jam!"
cried the captain.

"Certainly," snapped Orde, wheeling.

"Not me!" said Aspinwall positively. "I know when I've got enough!"

"What's the matter?" asked Orde.

"It isn't safe," replied the captain; "and I don't intend to risk my
men or my driver."

Orde stood for a moment stock-still; then with a snort of anger he
leaped to the deck, seized the man by the neck and thrust him bodily
over the side to the bank.

Safe, you white-livered skunk!" he roared. "Safe! Go over in the
middle of that ten-acre lot and lie down on your face and see if you
feel safe there! Get out; the whole pack of you! I'm in charge
here now."

Captain Aspinwall picked himself up, his face red with anger.

"Get off my driver," he snarled. "Put that man off."

Orde seized a short heavy bar.

"This driver is requisitioned," said he. "Get out! I haven't time
to fool with you. I've got to save my logs."

They hesitated; and while they did so Tom North and some others of
the crew came running across the jam.

"Get a cable to the winch," Orde shouted at these as soon as they
were within hearing. "And get Marsh up here with the SPRITE. We've
got to get afloat."

He paid no more attention to the ejected crew. The latter, overawed
by the rivermen, who now gathered in full force, took the part of
spectators.

A few minutes' hard work put the driver afloat. Fortunately its
raft of piles had not become detached in the upheaval.

"Tom," said Orde briskly to North, "you know the pile-driver
business. Pick out your crew, and take charge."

In ten seconds of time the situation had changed from one of
comparative safety to one of extreme gravity. The logs, broken
loose from the upper temporary booms, now jammed against the swing
and against the other logs already filling the main booms. Already
the pressure was beginning to tell, as the water banked up behind
the mass. The fifteen-inch cables tightened slowly but mightily;
some of the piles began to groan and rub one against the other; here
and there a log deliberately up-ended above the level.

Orde took charge of the situation in its entirety, as a general
might. He set North immediately to driving clumps each of sixteen
piles, bound to solidity by chains, and so arranged in angles and
slants as to direct the enormous pressure toward either bank, thus
splitting the enemy's power. The small driver owned by the Boom
Company drove similar clumps here, there and everywhere that need
arose or weakness developed. Seventy-five men opposed, to the
weight of twenty million tons of logs and a river of water, the
expedients invented by determination and desperation.

As in a virulent disease, the symptoms developed rapidly when once
the course of the malady was assured. After the first rush, when
the upper booms broke, nothing spectacular occurred. Steadily and
relentlessly the logs, packed close together down to the very bed of
the stream, pressed outward against the frail defences. Orde soon
found himself forced from the consideration of definite plans of
campaign. He gave over formal defences, and threw his energies to
saving the weak places which rapidly developed. By the most
tremendous exertions he seemed but just able to keep even. So
closely balanced was the equilibrium between the improvisation of
defence and the increase of pressure behind the jam that it seemed
as if even a moment's breathing spell would bring the deluge. Piles
quivered, bent slowly outward--immediately, before the logs behind
them could stir, the pile-driver must do its work. Back and forth
darted the SPRITE and her sister-tug the SPRAY towing the pile-
drivers or the strings of piles. Under the frowning destruction
that a breath might loosen, the crews had to do their work. And if
ever that breath should come, there would be no chance for escape.
Crushed and buried, the men and their craft alike would be borne
with the breaking jam to an unknown grave in the Lake. Every man
knew it.

Darkness came. No one stopped for food. By the light of lanterns
the struggle went on, doubly terrifying in the mystery of night. By
day the men, practised in such matters, could at least judge of the
probabilities of a break. At night they had to work blindly,
uncertain at what moment the forces they could not see would cut
loose to overwhelm them.

Morning found no change in the situation. The water rose steadily;
the logs grew more and more restive; the defences weaker and more
inadequate. Orde brought out steaming pails of coffee which the men
gulped down between moments. No one thought of quitting. They were
afire with the flame of combat, and were set obstinately on winning
even in the face of odds. About ten o'clock they were reinforced by
men from the mills downstream. The Owners of those mills had no
mind to lose their logs. Another pile-driver was also sent up from
the Government work. Without this assistance the jam must surely
have gone out. Spectators marvelled how it held as it did. The
mass seemed constantly to quiver on the edge of motion. Here and
there over the surface of the jam single logs could be seen popping
suddenly into the air, propelled as an apple seed is projected from
between a boy's thumb and forefinger. Some of the fifteen-inch
cables stretched to the shore parted. One, which passed once around
an oak tree before reaching its shore anchorage, actually buried
itself out of sight in the hard wood. Bunches of piles bent,
twisted, or were cut off as though they had been but shocks of
Indian corn. The current had become so swift that the tugs could
not hold the drivers against it; and as a consequence, before
commencing operations, special mooring piles had to be driven. Each
minute threatened to bring an end to the jam, yet it held; and
without rest the dogged little insects under its face toiled to gain
an inch on the waters.

XXXIX

All that day and the next night the fight was hand to hand, without
the opportunity of a breathing space. Then Orde, bareheaded and
dishevelled, strung to a high excitement, but cool as a veteran
under fire, began to be harassed by annoyances. The piles provided
for the drivers gave out. Newmark left, ostensibly to purchase
more. He did not return. Tom North and Jim Denning, their eyes
burning deep in their heads for lack of sleep, came to Orde holding
to him symbolically their empty hands.

"No more piles," they said briefly.

"Get 'em," said Orde with equal brevity. "Newmark will have enough
here shortly. In the meantime, get them."

North and his friend disappeared, taking with them the crews of the
drivers and the two tugs. After an interval they returned towing
small rafts of the long timbers. Orde did not make any inquiries;
nor until days later did he see a copy of the newspaper telling how
a lawless gang of rivermen had driven away the railroad men and
stolen the railroad's property. These piles lasted five or six
hours. Tom North placed and drove them accurately and deliberately,
quite unmindful of the constant danger. A cold fire seemed to
consume the man, inflaming his courage and his dogged obstinacy.
Once a wing of the jam broke suddenly just as his crew had placed a
pile in the carrier. The scow was picked up, whirled around,
carried bodily a hundred feet, and deposited finally with a crash.
The instant the craft steadied and even before any one could tell
whether or no the danger was past, Tom cut loose the hammer and
drove that pile!

"I put you in that carrier to be DROVE!" he shouted viciously, "and
drove you'll be, if we ARE goin' to hell!"

When the SPRAY shouldered the scow back to position that one pile
was left standing upright in the channel, a monument to the blind
determination of the man.

Fortunately the wing break carried with it but a few logs; but it
sufficed to show, if demonstration were needed, what would happen if
any more serious break should occur.

Orde was everywhere. Long since he had lost his hat; and over his
forehead and into his eyes the strands of his hair whipped tousled
and unkempt. Miles and miles he travelled; running along the tops
of the booms, over the surface of the jam, spying the weakening
places, and hurrying to them a rescue. He seemed tireless,
omnipresent, alive to every need. It was as though his personality
alone held in correlation these struggling forces; as though were he
to relax for an instant his effort they would burst forth with the
explosion of long-pent energies.

Toward noon the piles gave out again.

"Where in HELL is Newmark!" exploded Orde, and immediately was
himself again, controlled and resourceful. He sent North and a crew
of men to cut piles from standing timber in farm wood lots near the
river.

"Haul them out with your winch," said he. "If the owners object,
stand them off with your peavies. Get them anyway."

About three of the afternoon the LUCY BELLE splattered up stream
from the village, carrying an excursion to see the jam. Captain
Simpson brought her as close in as possible. The waves raised by
her awkward paddle-wheel and her clumsy lines surged among the logs
and piles. Orde looked on this with distrust.

"Go tell him to pull out of that," he instructed Jimmy Powers "The
confounded old fool ought to know better than that. Tell him it's
dangerous. If the jam goes out, it'll carry him to Kingdom Come."

Jimmy Powers returned red-faced from his interview.

"He told me to go to hell," he said shortly.

"Oh, he did," snapped Orde. "I should think we had enough without
that old idiot!"

With the short nervous leaps of a suppressed anger he ran down to
where the SPRITE had just towed the Number One driver into a new
position.

"Lay me alongside the LUCY BELLE," he told Marsh.

But Simpson, in a position of importance at last, was disinclined to
listen. He had worn his blue clothes and brass buttons for a good
many years in charge only of boxes and barrels. Now at a stroke he
found himself commander over tenscore people. Likewise, at fifty
cents a head, he foresaw a good thing as long as high water should
last. He had risen nobly to the occasion; for he had even hoisted
his bunting and brought with him the local brass band. Orde,
brusque in his desire to hurry through an affair of minor
importance, rubbed the man the wrong way.

"I reckon I've some rights on this river," Captain Simpson concluded
the argument, "and I ain't agoin' to be bulldozed out of them."

The excursionists, typical "trippers" from Redding, Holland,
Monrovia and Muskegon, cheered this sentiment and jeered at Orde.

Orde nodded briefly.

"Marsh," said he to his captain in a low voice, "get a crew and take
them in charge. Run 'em off."

As soon as the tug touched the piling, he was off and away, paying
no further attention to a matter already settled. Captain Marsh
called a dozen rivermen to him; laid the SPRITE alongside the LUCY
BELLE, and in spite of Simpson's scandalised protests and an
incipient panic among the passengers, thrust aside the regular crew
of the steamship and took charge. Quite calmly he surveyed the
scene. From the height of the steamer's bridge he could see abroad
over the country. A warm June sun flooded the landscape which was
filled with the peace of early summer. The river seemed to flow
smoothly and quietly enough, in spite of the swiftness of its
current and the swollen volume of its waters. Only up stream where
the big jam shrugged and groaned did any element jar on the peace of
the scene; and even that, in contrast to the rest of the landscape,
afforded small hint to the inexperienced eye of the imminence of a
mighty destruction.

Captain Marsh paid little attention to all this. His eye swept
rapidly up and down where the banks used to be until he saw a cross
current deeper than the rest sweeping in athwart the inundated
fields. He swung over the wheel and rang to the engine-room for
half speed ahead. Slowly the LUCY BELLE answered. Quite calmly
Captain Marsh rammed her through the opening and out over the
cornfields. The LUCY BELLE was a typical river steamboat, built
light in the draught in order to slide over the numerous shifting
bars to be encountered in her customary business. When Captain
Marsh saw that he had hit the opening, he rang for full speed, and
rammed the poor old LUCY BELLE hard aground in about a foot of water
through which a few mournful dried cornstalks were showing their
heads. Then, his hands in his pockets, he sauntered out of the
pilot-house to the deck.

"Now if you want to picnic," he told the astonished and frightened
excursionists, "go to it!"

With entire indifference to the water, he vaulted over the low rail
and splashed away. The rivermen and the engineer who had
accompanied him lingered only long enough to start up the band.

"Now you're safe as a cow tied to a brick wall," said the Rough Red,
whose appearance alone had gone far toward overawing the passengers.
"Be joyful. Start up the music. Start her up, I tell you!"

The band hastily began to squawk, very much out of time, and
somewhat out of tune.

"That's right," grinned the Rough Red savagely, "keep her up. If
you quit before I get back to work, I'll come back and take you
apart."

They waded through the shallow water in the cornfield. After them
wafted the rather disorganised strains of WHOA, EMMA. Captain
Simpson was indulging in what resembled heat apoplexy. After a time
the LUCY BELLE'S crew recovered their scattered wits sufficiently to
transport the passengers in small boats to a point near the county
road, whence all trudged to town. The LUCY BELLE grew in the
cornfield until several weeks later, when time was found to pull her
off on rollers.

Arrived at the booms Captain Marsh shook the loose water from his
legs.

"All right, sir," he reported to Orde. "I ran 'em ashore yonder."

Orde looked up, brushing the hair from his eyes. He glanced in the
direction of the cornfield, and a quick grin flickered across the
absorbed expression of his face.

"I should think you did," said he briefly. "I guess that'll end the
excursion business. Now take Number Two up below the swing; and
then run down and see if you can discover Tom. He went somewhere
after piles about an hour ago."

Down river the various mill owners were busy with what men they had
left in stringing defences across the river in case Orde's works
should go out. When Orde heard this he swore vigourously.

"Crazy fools," he spat out. "They'd be a lot better off helping
here. If this goes out, their little booms won't amount to a whiff
of wind."

He sent word to that effect; but, lacking the enforcement of his
personal presence his messages did not carry conviction, and the
panic-stricken owners continued to labour, each according to his
ideas, on what Orde's clearer vision saw to be a series of almost
comical futilities. However, Welton answered the summons. Orde
hailed his coming with a shout.

"I want a dredge," he yelled, as soon as the lumberman was within
distance. "I believe we can relieve the pressure somewhat by a
channel into Steam's bayou. Get that Government dredge up and
through the bayou as soon as you can."

"All right," said Welton briefly. "Can you hold her?"

"I've got to hold her," replied Orde between his clenched teeth.
"Have you seen Newmark? Where in HELL is Newmark? I need him for
fifty things, and he's disappeared off the face of the earth!
Purdy! that second cable! She's snapped a strand! Get a
reinforcing line on her!" He ran in the direction of the new danger
without another thought of Welton.

By the late afternoon casual spectators from the countryside had
gathered in some number. The bolder or more curious of these added
a further touch of anxiety to the situation by clambering out over
the jam for a better view. Orde issued instructions that these
should keep off the logs; but in spite of that, with the impertinent
perseverance of the sight-seer, many persisted from time to time,
when the rivermen were too busily engaged to attend to them, in
venturing out where they were not only in danger but also in the
way. Tom North would have none of this on his pile-driver. If a
man was not actually working, he had no business on Number One.

"But," protested a spectator mildly, "I OWN this driver. I haven't
any objections to your grabbing her in this emergency, even if you
did manhandle my captain; but surely you are not going to keep me
off my own property?"

"I don't give a tinker's damn who you are," replied North sturdily.
"If you're not working, you get off."

And get off he did.

The broad deck of the pile-driver scow was a tempting point from
which to survey the work, and the ugly jam, and the water boiling
angrily, and the hollow-eyed, dishevelled maniacs who worked
doggedly with set teeth as though they had not already gone without
two nights' sleep. North had often to order ashore intruders, until
his temper shortened to the vanishing point. One big hulking
countryman attempted to argue the point. North promptly knocked him
overboard into the shallow water between the driver and the bank.
He did not rise; so North fished for him in the most matter-of-fact
way with a boat hook, threw him on the bank unconscious, and went on
driving piles! The incident raised a laugh among the men.

But flesh and blood has its limit of endurance; and that limit was
almost reached. Orde heard the first premonitions of reaction in
the mild grumblings that arose. He knew these men well from his
long experience with them. Although the need for struggle against
the tireless dynamics of the river was as insistent as ever;
although it seemed certain that a moment's cessation of effort would
permit the enemy an irretrievable gain, he called a halt on the
whole work.

"Boys," said he, irrelevantly, "let's have a smoke?"

He set the example by throwing himself full length against a
slanting pile and most leisurely filling his pipe. The men stared a
moment; then followed his example. A great peace of evening filled
the sky. The horizon lay low and black against the afterglow.
Beneath it the river shone like silver. Only the groaning, the
heave and shrugging of the jam, and the low threatening gurgle of
hurrying waters reminded the toil-weary men of the enemy's continued
activity. Over beyond the rise of land that lay between the river
and Stearn's Bayou could be seen the cloud of mingled smoke and
steam that marked the activities of the dredge. For ten minutes
they rested in the solace of tobacco. Orde was apparently more at
ease than any of the rest, but each instant he expected to hear the
premonitory CRACK that would sound the end of everything. Finally
he yawned, knocked the ashes from his pipe, and got to his feet.

"Now," said he, a new ring in his voice, "come on and let's get
something DONE!"

They responded to a man.

XL

By midnight the water seemed to have gone down slightly. Half the
crew snatched a little sleep. For several hours more the issue hung
aggravatingly in equilibrium. Then, with the opening of the channel
into Stearn's Bayou the heaviest pressure was relieved. For the
moment the acute danger point was passed.

Orde spent the next two days in strengthening the defences. The men
were able to take their quota of meals and of sleep. Merely the
working hours were longer than usual. Orde himself slept little,
and was still possessed by a feverish activity. The flood continued
at about the same volume. Until the water should subside, the
danger could not be considered completely over with.

In these few days of comparative leisure Orde had time to look about
him and to receive news. The jam had been successfully held at the
iron railroad bridge above Redding; but only by the most strenuous
efforts. Braces of oak beams had been slanted where they would do
the most good; chains strengthened the weaker spots; and on top of
all ton after ton of railroad iron held the whole immovably. Nolan
had enjoyed the advantage of a "floating" jam; of convenient
facilities incident to a large city; and of an aroused public
sentiment that proffered him all the help he could use. Monrovia,
little village that it was, had not grasped the situation. Redding
saw it clearly. The loss of the timber alone--representing some
millions of dollars' worth of the sawed product--would mean failure
of mill companies, of banks holding their paper, and so of firms in
other lines of business; and besides would throw thousands of men
out of employment. Furthermore, what was quite as serious, should
the iron bridge give way, the wooden bridges below could hardly fail
to go out. Railroad communication between eastern and western
Michigan would be entirely cut off. For a season industry of every
description would be practically paralysed. Therefore Nolan had all
the help he required. Every device known was employed to strengthen
the jam. For only a few hours was the result in doubt. Then as the
CLARION jubilantly expressed it, "It's a hundred dollars to an old
hat she holds!"

Orde received all this with satisfaction, but with a slight
scepticism.

"It's a floating jam; and it gets a push from underneath," he
pointed out. "It's probably safe; but another flood might send it
out."

"The floods are going down," said North.

"Good Lord; I hope so!" said Orde.

Newmark sent word that a sudden fit of sickness had confined him to
the house.

"Didn't think of a little thing like piles," said Orde to himself.
"Well, that's hardly fair. Joe couldn't have realised when he left
here just how bad things were."

For two days, as has been said, nothing happened. Then Orde decided
to break out a channel through the jam itself. This was a necessary
preliminary to getting the logs in shape for distribution. An
opening was made in the piles, and the rivermen, with pike-pole and
peavy, began cautiously to dig their way through the tangled
timbers. The Government pile-driver, which had finally been sent up
from below, began placing five extra booms at intervals down stream
to capture the drift as fast as it was turned loose. From the mills
and private booms crews came to assist in the labour. The troubles
appeared to be quite over, when word came from Redding that the
waters were again rising. Ten minutes later Leopold Lincoln Bunn,
the local reporter, came flapping in on Randall's old white horse,
like a second Paul Revere, crying that the iron bridge had gone, and
the logs were racing down river toward the booms.

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