“It’s a trifle unfortunate I hadn’t hove that rock out with the derrick. We’ll have to take hold if the log won’t swing clear,” he said.
The tree swung a little, and then the thinner head of it drove in among the boulders and stuck fast. In another moment a shout rose from a man standing on the ledge above the fall.
“Quite a batch of big logs coming along!” he called.
Nasmyth thrust his pipe into his pocket, and Wheeler, who watched him, nodded.
“They’ll jam and pile up,” said Wheeler. “I guess that’s what the other folks wanted. You have got to keep them clear.”
In another few moments Nasmyth was beating a suspended iron sheet, and while its clangour broke through the roar of the river the men floundered towards him over the shingle. One or two of them had axes, and 281 the rest, running into the shanty, brought out saws and handspikes. In the meanwhile a huge log crashed upon the one held fast, and there was no need to tell any of the men that those which followed would rapidly pile up into an inextricable confusion of interlocked timber. There was only one thing to be done, and that was to cut away the first log, which would hold them back, as soon as possible.
The men set to work, two or three of them running recklessly along the rounded top of the slippery trunk, which rolled a little as it hammered upon the rock. Mattawa, with a big crosscut saw, crouched on the half-submerged pile of stone, and a comrade, who seized its opposite handle, held himself somehow on the second trunk by his knees. It was difficult to understand how they could work at all, but they were accustomed to toiling under embarrassing conditions. The saw had hardly bitten through the bark when another log drove grinding against the rest, and Mattawa’s companion, who let the handle go, fell forward on his face. He was up again in a moment, and after that stuck fast while log after log drove smashing upon the growing mass. Sometimes the one he clung to rose up under him, and sometimes it sank until he crouched in the water while another great butt crept up upon it, and it seemed that he must be crushed between them. Still, the saw rasped steadily through the heaving, grinding timber. It was perilous work, but it was clear to all of them that it had to be done.
In the meanwhile Nasmyth and Gordon stood knee-deep amidst the white foam of the rapid. The water was icy cold, and it was with difficulty they kept their feet, while every now and then a shower of spray that leapt out from among the timber fell upon them. The logs were already two deep at that spot, and one great top ground steadily forward over the others as its pressed-down 282 butt was driven on by those behind. One could almost have fancied it was bent on escaping from the horrible confusion of piled-up trunks that moved on one another under the impact of the flood. More were sweeping on, and crash after crash rang through the hoarse clamour of the fall.
Nasmyth felt very feeble as he whirled the heavy axe about his head, for that mass of timber was impressively big. He had torn off his deer-hide jacket, and his soaked blue shirt gaped open to his waist at every heave of his shoulders. He stood in icy water, but the perspiration dripped from him as he swung with every blow. Though some men with good thews and sinews can never learn to use the axe to any purpose, he could chop, and the heavy blade he whirled rang with a rhythmic precision in the widening notch, then flashed about his head, and fell with a chunk that was sharp as a whip-crack into the gap again. In between Gordon’s axe swept down, and the blades flashed athwart each other’s orbits without a check or clash. It requires years to acquire that kind of proficiency with the axe, but the result is a perfecting of the co-operation between will and hardened muscle.
It was fortunate that both could chop, for the men with the crosscut appeared in difficulties. The tree bent on the pile of rock, and in straining closed the cut upon the saw. Another man who had joined them was endeavouring to hammer a wedge in, but with that crushing weight against him the attempt seemed futile. He persisted, however, and stood above the white froth of the rapid, a puny figure dwarfed by the tremendous rock wall, whirling what appeared to be a wholly insignificant hammer. His comrades were scattered about the grinding mass making ineffective efforts to heave a butt or top clear of the others with their handspikes, but there was clearly only one vulnerable point of attack, 283 and that was the one Nasmyth and Gordon were hewing at. Wheeler, who felt the tension, watched them, clutching hard upon an unlighted pipe. He was aware that if the mass of timber, which grew rapidly larger, once wedged itself fast, it might be a month or two before a flood broke it up; but he had also sense enough to recognize that, since most of the men’s efforts were futile, he might just as well sit still.