The lost hunter: A tale of early times

by John Turvill Adams

"And her ungallant beau," said Anne, "made up the story, to cover his confusion."

"I am satisfied with it as it is," said Faith. "We pity and love Leelinau, now; her haughtiness and pride are forgotten in her misfortunes, and we remember her as one faithful unto death."

"Your tale reminds me," said Pownal, addressing Bernard, "that there is a tremendous freshet in the Wootúppocut, and that the waters are increasing. Suppose, if the ladies consent, we make up a party, to view it, to-morrow?"

The proposition was received with approbation by all, and it was agreed, that they would meet at the house of Mr. Armstrong, as the starting-point, on the afternoon of the next day. The evening being now considerably advanced, Faith's friends took their leave.

The nine o'clock bell was ringing, as the young people passed through the quiet streets. The custom of ringing a bell, at that hour, is one which has fallen into desuetude, although, once, almost universal in New England, and may be said to bear some relation to the vesper-bell, in Roman Catholic countries. Its avowed object, indeed, was not, as in the case of the latter, to call the people to prayers, but, its effect, perhaps, was the same; for, it marked the hour at which the population of the village were in the habit of retiring to rest; and, in those days of simple faith, many were the families whose members united together, before seeking their pillows, to return thanks for the blessings of the day, and ask for protection during the defenceless hours of the night. Luxury and dissipation have since crept in, and parties assemble, now, at an hour when they formerly broke up. We call ourselves more refined, but, it may admit of a doubt, whether all our show and parade are not purchased at too dear a rate, at the price of substantial comfort and happiness.

The shore was lined with spectators, when the little party approached the scene of the freshet. We do not know that we have succeeded in conveying a clear idea of the river we have attempted to describe. It may be recollected, that it was spoken of as one of the tributaries of the Severn, coming in from the East, and sweeping round that side of the town. The banks, on the side opposite, were high and precipitous; but, on the hither side—with the exception of the narrow passage through which the river poured itself into the Severn, and for a short distance above—the ground rose gently from the stream before it reached the foot of the hill, interposing a piece of comparatively level land. The road that ran on this flat spot, and connected the eastern portion (which, from the extempore character of its buildings, as well as from other causes we do not choose to mention, was called Hasty-Pudding), with the rest of the town, was, usually, in very high floods, overflowed. Such was the fact in the present instance, and boats were busily engaged in transporting persons over the submerged road. As you stood near the mouth of the river, and looked up the current, a scene of considerable interest, and, even grandeur, presented itself. At that time, the innumerable dams higher up the stream, that have been since constructed, had not been built, nor had the rocks, at the throat, been blasted to make a wider egress. The ice, which then rushed down, as it were by agreement, simultaneously and in huge blocks—but, now-a-days, at intervals, and broken up by falling over the dams—unable to escape in the eager rivalry of the cakes to pass each other, was jammed in the throat, and piled up high in the air, looking like ice-bergs that had floated from the North Pole. You saw the stream, at all times, rapid, and now, swollen vastly beyond its ordinary proportions, rushing with ten-fold force, and hurrying, in its channel, with hoarse sounds, the ice-cakes, which, in the emulous race, grated against, and, sometimes, mutually destroyed one another, to drive some under the icy barrier, thence to glide away to the ocean, and to toss others high above the foaming torrent on the collected masses, more gradually to find their way to the same bourne. Looking away from the channel, one saw the cakes caught in the eddies, whirled up against the banks, and, in some instances, forced into smoother and shoaler water, where they grounded, or were floated into little creeks and bays formed by the irregularities of the shores. These quiet places were, of course, on the side nearest the town, the opposite bank being too abrupt and the water too deep, for there was the channel, and there the water tore along with the greatest violence.

In one of these placid bays a party of school-boys were amusing themselves with getting upon the loose blocks and pushing them about like boats. The amusement appeared to be unattended with danger, the place being so far from the current, and the water but two or three feet deep. The children, therefore, were but little noticed, especially as they were at quite a distance from where the multitude of spectators was assembled, being considerably higher up and near the flat-land, bearing the undignified name which only historical accuracy compels us to introduce. After a time a cake, on which one of the boys was standing, began slowly to slip away from the shore. So gradually was this done that it was unobserved by the boys themselves until it had quite separated itself from the neighborhood of the other cakes, so that no assistance could be rendered, when one of his companions cried out to the little fellow upon it, to push for the shore. This he had already been attempting to do, but in spite of all exertions he was unable to come nearer. On the contrary, it was evident he was receding. The water had now become so deep that his pole could no longer reach the bottom. The current had drawn in the cake, and was sweeping it with its precious freight to destruction. The children set up a cry of alarm, which was heard by the spectators below, and first attracted their attention.

A thrill of horror ran through the crowd. Men drew in their breath hard, and women shrieked, unable to turn away their eyes, fastened by a terrible fascination on the peril. Horrid apprehensions invaded the mind of many a parent. The doomed boy might be his own son. Despairing glances were cast around in every direction for help. In vain: none could be given. There was time for nothing: with every second the child was swept more rapidly to destruction.

Meanwhile the brave little fellow, planted firmly on the centre of the cake, was balancing himself with the pole, and intrepidly confronting the danger he could not avoid. Not a cry escaped, nor did his self-possession desert him. As the vexed and whirling water raised up the one side or the other of his frail bark, he would incline his body in this or that direction to preserve the equilibrium, now standing upright and now cowering close to the surface of the uncertain footing. And now the block approached the throat, where the torrent ran the swiftest and was most turbulent. The child seemed to have escaped thus far by miracle, but now it appeared impossible he would be able to maintain his place. His head must become dizzy, his courage fail in the awful confusion of so many threatening dangers; the tormented waves must upset the block, or another must strike against it and cast the boy into the water. And now the cake has reached the icy barrier stretched across the stream. It strikes; it is sucked in below and disappears.

The spell-bound spectators, their eyes fastened upon the danger of the boy, had not noticed the figure of a man, who, descending the opposite bank, and clambering at considerable risk over the masses of heaped up ice, stood waiting for the approach of the child. So truly had he judged the sweep of the current, that he had planted himself upon the edge of the ice at the precise spot where the block struck. Reaching out his arm at the moment when it slipped beneath, he seized the boy by the collar of his jacket and drew him to the place on which he stood. As soon as the crowd caught sight of the man, they saw that it was Holden.