Fire in the Woods / Illustrated

by James De Mille

“On the following day, the 7th, it was far worse. All through the preceding night the fires had been extending everywhere, and when day came it had an appearance different from anything ever known before. The sky had a deep purple tint, and immense clouds of black smoke rolled over the whole heavens. There was not a breath of wind, but everything was sunk into a calm so deep and profound that it seemed like the death of Nature. The heat was suffocating, the air thick and stagnant, so that breathing was difficult. No one could put forth the slightest exertion. Everybody lay about in a state of utter lassitude and listlessness, or tried in vain to find some cool place where the heat might be less oppressive.

“The most wonderful thing was the effect of all this upon the lower animals. The birds had all fled. The cattle in the fields seemed bewildered and terrified. They collected in groups, lowing piteously, and looking wildly around, eating nothing, but standing as though paralyzed. The dogs moaned, and crouched, and wandered restlessly out of doors and back again. But what was yet more astonishing was the behavior of the wild animals. Wolves, and bears, and hares, and foxes came from the woods to the open places, overcome with terror, and seeking refuge among the domestic animals.

“In spite of all this the people did not show much excitement. In the more lonely places they may have been frightened, but in the settlements they seemed simply listless. No one anticipated the terror that was approaching, or had any idea of the doom impending over the whole country. Strangely enough, the instinct of the lower animals was truer than the reason of man. As the fire was not yet visible, the people in the settlements made no preparations against it, nor did they even think that preparations were necessary. They knew, of course, that the heat and the unusual appearances were produced by fires in some place, but where it was, or how near it might be, they did not think.

“Evening came on, and at about seven o’clock a brisk wind suddenly sprang up. The sun set, and the darkness was intense beyond all description. And in that darkness nothing whatever was visible; there was something terrible beyond words in such deep gloom; but the wind went on and increased to a wilder degree, until at last it blew with extraordinary violence. Now, through the darkness a terrible sight became visible. All over the west and towards the north-west there shone a red glow, which grew brighter and brighter, until at last the whole skies were lightened up with flaming fires. The wind increased, coming from the west, until at length it blew a perfect hurricane; fiercer, more furious, more terrible than any in the memory of the oldest inhabitants here. Driven on by this fierce tempest, the fires spread with inconceivable rapidity, and all the west became a sea of fire, and above the woods vast flames shot up, furiously, far into the sky. There was no darkness now. It was driven away, and light had come; but the light was worse than the darkness had been.

“The hurricane increased, and the fires drove onward before it, and the fierce flames towered far up into the sky. Then there came a low moan from afar, which increased, and strengthened, and deepened, until at last it grew to a loud, appalling roar—a roar like sustained thunder, which still grew louder, and deeper, and nearer, and more awful. In the midst of this came the sound of crackling, like musketry volleys, and loud, tremendous explosions, like the discharge of cannon. And all this increased every minute, the fires sweeping onward more terribly, the roar of its advance gathering in intensity and volume, until at last the vast sheets of flame seemed to rise almost to the zenith. Overhead all the black smoke was now reddened in the glow of the fire, and there passed away over the sky a fierce torrent, bearing with it innumerable sparks, and blazing twigs, and branches of trees, which had been torn from the forest by the fire, and were now hurled through the air by the hurricane.

“Now there arose the wildest panic. All had been so sudden that there had been no time for thought—but even if there had been time, no thought could have availed. There was only one common impulse in all living things, whether man or beast, and that was escape. One cry only arose—the cry, ‘To the river! To the river!’ In this direction every one hurried, a confused crowd,—men, women, children, horses, cows, and dogs,—some carrying the old or the sick, others assisting the weak; fathers carrying their children, mothers their infants. Each seized what was most precious, and fled. All the time there were wild outcries—some of fear, others of hope, others of command, others of despair from some who had been separated from relatives, and were trying to find them again. Then they all hurried to the river; and some stood plunged in the water, others sought boats, others rafts, others floated on logs, while others sought the opposite shore, from which, however, the fires that spread even there soon drove them.

“And now the whole country, in all directions, blazed. The whole forest was as dry as tinder, and everywhere the floating sparks would fall upon the trees, and there would kindle fresh flames, which would sweep away before the hurricane like those behind. It was this that made the conflagration so swift and so universal.

“The morning at length came after that night of horror—the morning of the 8th of October; and never did human eye rest upon such a scene of desolation. The vast forests, the green meadows, the flourishing villages, the pleasant homes which a few hours before had formed one of the happiest countries in the world, was now one vast expanse of dust and ashes, out of which lowered the smouldering, blackened shafts of giant pine trees that had not been all consumed. The half-burned corpses of men, women, and children, cattle and wild beasts, strewed the forests, and in the dried-up beds of brooks and rivers lay the blackened bodies of burnt fishes. Six thousand square miles had been suddenly blasted by that unparalleled fire. And all this ruin had been wrought on that one night of horror.”

Such was the priest’s narrative of one of the most terrible fires on record—the great fire of Miramichi; a fire most remarkable for the astonishing rapidity of its course, and the thoroughness of its devastation. For, apart from other more immediate evils, it ruined the timber of all that country, turned fertile districts into barren wastes, and annihilated in one night all the resources of a great commerce.

To all this Bart listened with deep attention, and gained from it increased hope for Phil. For now he saw how different was this fire from the one of which he had been hearing, and how different the circumstances were. These woods were not dried like tinder, nor was it possible for a fire to spread so fast but that any living being could escape it. Besides, the woods were full of brooks and streams, and all these streams were full of fish; and Phil had his rod and lines, and was an expert fisherman. From all these thoughts he drew hope and confidence.