Fire in the Woods / Illustrated

by James De Mille

While he was speaking Pierre saw it. He saw a boat shooting out from a creek which emptied into the river. They had already passed its mouth, and the boat was fully a mile behind them; but still it seemed too near for safety, and almost too near for hope. They understood all at once. The soldiers, intent on capturing them, had hurried back to the creek where the boats usually lay, and one of these they had seized. It was a boat like their own, and in it there were a half dozen soldiers, armed, and full of the bloodhound instinct of pursuit. Their own boat was loaded down with fish, and even the aid of the oars did not seem sufficient to draw them away from their pursuers.

There was one thing which had to be done immediately, and this thing was suggested simultaneously to the minds of both of them. They must lighten their boat at all hazards. The fish were useless now; worse—they were an impediment.

“Over with them!” shouted Pierre, still rowing with one hand while he flung out the fish with the other. But Paul had already begun to do that very thing. Hearing Pierre’s words he passed his oar over to his brother, and then, gathering the fish up in both hands, he flung them out of the boat by armfuls. Meanwhile Pierre rowed with all his strength, and at the same time the wind never ceased to bear the boat along. But the same wind bore onward after them the boat of their pursuers, and the two brothers watched with anxious eyes the progress of those who followed on their track.

At last all the fish were flung overboard except about half a dozen, which were reserved for food. They felt the benefit of this very soon. Gradually the distance between themselves and their pursuers increased. By this time also the tide had turned, and swept them on at an ever accelerated rate of progress; and, although the same tide swept their enemies along after them, still their own speed was the greater, and every minute served to increase their chance of escape. For the boats were about equal in speed, and while their boat only had two inside, the other carried six, and therefore was over weighted in this race.

Several hours passed away, and the united action of wind and tide had carried onward pursuers and pursued many miles into the bay. There rose before them the frowning cliffs of Blomidon, and past this the current was setting in a swift stream, by which they were borne along. Now, too, the wind died away, and the tide alone remained. This caused a change for the worse. Thus far the lightness of their boat had favored them, so that their pursuers had fallen behind as much as four or five miles; but now, when it came to drifting, this difference was no longer in their favor, and the enemy, either from having caught a stronger current, or from some other reason, seemed to be slowly gaining upon them.

The question now arose, what was to be done? They could easily have landed here, scaled the cliff, and escaped in the woods. But that was not to be thought of except as a last resort. At all hazards they wished to keep the boat. If they fled to the woods their boat would be captured, and their fate might be a miserable death. With the boat, however, they might hope not only to save their lives, but perhaps to follow their friends, perhaps to rescue them; or at least, if such a thing as that should be beyond their powers, they could choose some new home, and have the means of living from the water, till the land should be ready to yield them sustenance. For these reasons they resolved to cling to the boat, and fly as long, and as far, as possible.

But however eager they were in their determination to escape, the enemy showed a resolve to pursue which was as obstinate as theirs. As they floated along they saw the other boat still following. The tide bore them on, in its course, down through the Straits of Minas, beneath the frowning cliffs that rise gloomily on one side, where Blomidon overhangs the water, past the rocks all covered with sea-weed, past long, bare sand flats, past the giant cliffs, which, torn and riven by earthquake or by tempest, rise at the extremity of the straits, and onward into the wide Bay of Fundy.

They had hoped that in this place a breeze might arise, but their hopes were disappointed. The water was smooth, and they were borne onward over an unruffled surface, by the strong tide, far down. Yet though there was no wind, they at length encountered something which to them, in that extremity, was no less welcome. Before them rose a wall of mist, shutting out all the scene beyond, hiding even the Haute, which lay so near. Into the entrance of this dense fog bank they were borne by the tide; and soon all surrounding scenes, all prospect of rock, and cliff, and distant shore, and overhanging sky, and all sight of their pursuers, were snatched from their eyes, and nothing remained but an all-surrounding blank, an opaque wall of unpenetrable fog.

At any other time such an occurrence would have plunged them into despair, but now it raised them out of despair into hope. At first they thought of rowing in some direction, but a little discussion served to dismiss this thought from their minds. In the first place, they could not tell in which direction to row; and in the second place, they thought that their pursuers would probably take to their oars, and if so, their best plan of escape would be to drift.

Hours had passed away since their flight commenced, and at length darkness came on. That darkness was most intense. There was not the slightest light to alleviate the gloom. Still even this darkness was a relief, for they felt more secure. In spite of the hope which they tried to entertain that their enemies had given up the chase, they could not get rid of a dark fear that they were still pursued, and a foreboding that with the return of light they might see them. And as the darkness seemed to bring safety, they bore it with patience, and resignation, and hope.