When darkness had settled down, our men kindled a flaming fire of pine knots, in an iron basket attached to a pole that projected from the bow of the canoe, and seating my friend amidships between them, pushed off. They pulled against the stream, the bright light bringing out the stones at the bottom of the water in strong relief, exposing everything within a radius of twenty feet. Behind it stood the spearsman, erect, his quick eye glancing in every direction, the firelight falling upon his reddened visage and illuminating his many graceful attitudes. With rapid motion he swung the spear from side to side as any passing object attracted his attention, ready for the death-dealing blow. With perfect facility he kept command of the boat, shoving her bow from the rocks and guiding it through the proper channel; occasionally the spear was sent glancing through the water, and in a moment a grilse brought struggling to the surface and thrown into the bottom of the canoe, where the fire rays were reflected from his scales like the liquid gleam of the diamond.
It was a picturesque sight, the waving flame, the active spearsman, the graceful canoe, and the intense darkness around; but it was cruel and barbarous, and my friend desisted before many fish had suffered.
Next day returned us safe and sound to Wilson’s hospitable log mansion, where a hearty welcome awaited us. Our extra stores were divided among the men, a farewell spoken, the team once more harnessed, and we set out to join the stage at Boiestown for Chatham, on the road to the Nipisiquit.
A strange place is Boiestown; built by an American named Boies, it is a mere collection of unpainted shanty-like houses but with Yankee shrewdness, located upon a fine stream of never-failing water, with excellent mills and water power, it might have been a thriving place had not Boies, its presiding spirit, met with reverses. The maelstrom of lumber speculation had ingulfed him, and with him the prosperity of the town. There was no native capable of filling his place, and the glory of Boiestown had departed.
The stage was due at six o’clock, but at six o’clock it did not come, nor at seven, eight, nine nor ten. We told Wilson to return for us in the morning, and retired to rest in the nearest tavern, leaving word to be called when it did come.
At midnight there was a pounding at the door announcing the arrival of the conveyance that was to carry us and our baggage, two heavy trunks, seventy miles. It was a light one horse-wagon. We went to bed again, and next morning found the stage-driver still at Boiestown, having turned out his horse to graze.
Wilson, however, soon arrived, and we started on that dreary road, following the descent of the Miramichi to its mouth. There is one, and but one, pretty view in the entire seventy miles, and that is as you ascend the first mountain beyond Boiestown. Looking back, the peaceful valley that we had just left, stretching away to our camping-ground, lay basking in the sunlight. In the distance, scarcely visible among the trees, were the few houses that compose Campbelltown; nearer was the straggling village of Boiestown, and at our feet ran the placid river, leaving broad intervals upon its banks, and meandering between smiling islands. The hay was ripening in the meadow, the oats were still luxuriant in their fresh green, the bushes lined the occasional fences or marked out the narrow swamps, while here and there were dotted the majestic white pine, the towering spruce, the noble elm or the graceful willow, and a dead tree now and then stretched its ungainly limbs toward the clouds.
Beyond, however, we fell into one dull, dreary routine; civilization was behind us, the few farms once cultivated were falling back into their savage state, the houses tumbling down, the barns in their last stages of dilapidation, everywhere windows broken out, doors off their hinges, huge cracks in roof or walls, told of general decay. The people had fled, no one knew whither; and of the few that were left, the stupidity, avarice and extortion were incredible. They impose upon and annoy travellers and fishermen till they have almost driven them away. The stages fail to run or to connect as they undertake to do. No one appears to know their times of starting or arriving. Boats advertise to leave on days when they never have left, to stop at places that are not laid down on the map, but are colloquially applied to an entire district; and omit places where they do stop. No man knows anything except his own individual business, and but little of that. The inhabitants mainly draw their support from the river, and yet are busy day and night endeavoring to ruin it; the nets from opposite shores lap over one another or reach from bank to bank, and are set week in and week out, while there is a fish running; the smallest mesh is used, small enough to capture trout or herring. The few fish that do reach the spawning beds are chased with the merciless spear without cessation till long after they are worthless as food. Yet the people think the river has improved because the laws are partially enforced at its mouth. Netters complain of the spearers, and the spearers of the netters, but neither do anything but harm. The upper stream is alive with nets, although netting should be permitted nowhere above tide water.
The only crops of the region are potatoes, oats and hay; for nine months there is rigorous winter, and for three months cold weather. The great productions are black flies, midgets and mosquitoes. The Lord help such a people, for the people will never help themselves. Let my blessing remain with the land; I shall never return for it.
The river itself is not only lovely to contemplate but would afford to reasonable beings abundant support. In May and June the Gaspereau or alewives, a species of herring, Alosa Tyrannus, make their appearance in myriads, and ascend to the lakes to spawn; in June and July the beautiful sea trout appear in shoals and urge their course to the head-waters and the cool brooks; in July and August come the splendid salmon, struggling against every impediment that the wit of man, or want of wit, can place in their way, to perpetuate their species for that foolish man’s support, and build their nests in the broad sandy pools. The lively, energetic grilse come last, fighting vigorously to reach their sylvan homes. Not one of all these races is taken fairly or properly, nor when his destruction will do most good and the least harm.