522 
FOREST AND STREAM 
April 26, 1913 
tom upward, while I was struggling for life in 
the ice cold lake. On the whole it was a near 
thing. I was already numb with cold, and no 
man can long continue to work and struggle in 
ice cold water. The only available landing point 
was directly to windward, and there was noth¬ 
ing that would float with a man aboard within 
two miles. It is surprising how coolly a man 
can take such a mishap when there is nothing 
else for it. I got on the capsized dugout, cleared 
it of the brush and grass which had formed the 
screen, found the paddle all right, and then be¬ 
thought me of the gun. I had taken the pre- 
cr-rtion — which I recommend to anyone shooting 
from a light birch or log canoe—of tying a 
strong line to the guard, the other end of the 
line being fast to the dugout, and, as there was 
some three yards’ play in the bight of the line, 
the gun would act as an anchor. It was hard 
to part with it, for besides being an heirloom, 
it had the mark of honest old Joe Manton on 
the barrels, and was hard to beat at long range, 
but there were no chances to spare, so I got out 
my knife and cut the line, then cut open my 
coat sleeves and sent the coat after the gun, 
cut open and took off the right boot—I could 
not manage the other—laid myself flat along the 
bottom of the dugout, headed for the wind’s eye, 
and commenced a fight for life with less ner¬ 
vousness than I have felt in making a shot at 
a squirrel. Jason had agreed to put in an ap¬ 
pearance at the landing with a torch on hearing 
the report of the gun, but the camp was half 
a mile to windward, and he might not have heard 
it, or the storm might deter him. Suppose I 
managed to reach the weather end of the lake, 
how was I to find the narrow channel not more 
than a yard wide and partially hidden by the 
loose grass? Was I really making headway at 
all, or going to leeward in spite of my incessant 
l)addling. and how long would I be able to hold 
out against fatigue and cold? were questions 
continually recurring as I worked with all the 
steadiness and vim I was master of, shouting 
loudly at intervals of a minute or two in the 
forlorn hope of being heard at the camp; but 
the only answer was the howl of the blast and 
the sullen plash of the little waves as they 
washed over the almost submerged prow of the 
dugout and dashed in my face. I was getting 
discouraged. I blamed Jason that he did not 
come according to agreement, and cursed my 
folly for attempting to shoot in such a storm 
from a ticklish little bread tray, which was 
hardly safe by daylight with smooth water under 
it. As I grew numb and weak, paddling with 
less vigor and slight hope, it was a wonder how 
vividly every past act of my life flitted before 
my mental vision—not for once, and then done, 
but the whole course was mapped out to the 
mind’s eye much as landscape is shown of a 
dark night by a vivid flash of lightning, or 
rather by a quick succession of flashes, and it 
was a marvel how sharply the angles of inci¬ 
dents stood out in several little peccadilloes 
which had almost passed out of previous 
memory at each successive flash. I had rather 
entertained the notion that I was what you 
would call an honorable, fair-dealing man—con¬ 
siderably better than the average; in fact, not 
exactly a saint. I did not set up for that, but 
(|uite as good a Christian as many who made 
much greater pretensions. That dismal night 
ride on the bottom of a capsized dugout, with 
a blinding snowstorm in my face, and only one 
spot of a yard’s breadth in which to make a 
landing, rather took the conceit out of me. Do 
what I could, the reckoning looked bad. It was 
in vain that I tried to call to mind some act of 
redeeming nobleness as an offset; conscience 
would not be cajoled. I actually felt too mean 
to die, and continued to struggle and paddle 
against hope, much as Larry kicked when being 
hung—out of pride. When it seemed impossible 
to hold out for five minutes longer, when the 
numbled, tired arms were on the point of re¬ 
fusing to work in obedience to the will, hope 
came in the fact that the little waves, which had 
been dashing in my face, no longer made even 
an audible ripple against the prow. I was close 
to the bog, for shore it could scarce be called, 
and I felt a thrill of hope as I struck out with 
renewed vigor. Then one hand got a hold of 
the rank marsh grass, then the other; the grass 
would stand a pull; it was fast by the roots, 
and I drew the dugout ahead with might and 
main, expecting it to stop at every fresh pull, 
but it did not. Was it chance which led the 
nose of that clumsy pine trough as straight to 
the narrow channel as I could have steered it 
in broad daylight? In the channel it was, at 
all events, and as I crabbed my way slowly 
along by tugging at the turfy bog on either side, 
a beacon of promise glimmered ahead, looking 
like—like. Jason coming with the torch, which 
it was. He came cautiously across the carpet 
of shaking turf, and stood on the tamarack poles 
which composed the landing just as I reached 
the same point. It was a capital occasion for 
a neat little speech, and Jason “improved” it. 
Helping me to an upright position, he thrust 
his hand into the breast of his gray shooting 
jacket, drew forth a half-pint flask, and pre¬ 
sented it at my unlucky head with the follow¬ 
ing remark: “Old Otard—drink!” Eloquence 
like that needs no eulogist and will not soon 
fade from memory. 
No doubt I ou'ght to have felt grateful for 
my deliverance, but I am almost ashamed to 
confess the first thought on finding myself 
once more on dry land was of the invaluable 
smooth-bore, which lay at the bottom of the 
little lake—supposing it to have had any bottom 
at all—and regret that I did not shorten the 
bight of the lanyard and try to save it. 
Before 9 o’clock we were all sitting cosily 
by the fire smoking and spinning yarns, the 
mountain man excelling in the latter accom¬ 
plishment ; not, I think, through natural talent 
so much as an aptitude for lying and absurd 
exaggeration. He was in the middle of an in¬ 
terminable story about a “time” he once had 
during a high flood on the Mississippi, where 
he had floated about for I don’t know how 
many days, with nothing to eat or drink but 
river water. The snow was still falling fast, 
the wind whistled drearily, and the camp-fire 
burned with a hearty crackling cheeriness, when 
a head was thrust in at the open front of the 
camp, and a deep hoarse voice saluted the party 
with, “Please, gen’l’men, wo’d you leff me come 
in an’ warm a minute? I’se ’bout done friz.” 
The head was a very large head with an im¬ 
mense mouth and a tremendous mass of matted 
wool, on the top of which rested the crown of 
a straw hat, the brim having evidently yielded 
to the pressure of circumstances over which the 
wearer had no control. “I’d be mightily ’bleeged 
to you gen’l’men ef you’d—” 
“Come in, man, come in, of course—why 
good God! the fellow’s a’most naked,” said the 
farmer. “Why, what in heaven’s name took you 
in the swamp such a night as this? Got lost?” 
“Yes, massa,” said the darky, advancing to 
the fire, and shivering like one in a fit of the 
ague. “Yes, I’se got lost shore enuff; I seed 
your fire more’n two hours ago, but, but I didn’t 
like to come—” 
“Oho,” said the mountain man Randolph, 
“you’re from the South, I reckon; here, take a 
pull at this.” 
The darky took a drink from the proffered 
flask and turned first one side then the other to 
the fire with nervous uneasiness. In size, the 
fellow was a giant; not less than six feet four 
in height, with square, heavy shoulders, arms 
heavy and long, gaunt and bony in form and 
feature, an unmitigated negro of the largest 
and strongest type, ragged almost to nakedness, 
gaunt from hunger and suffering, it was evident 
from this as well as from his idiomatic style of 
speech that he was a “fugitive from labor.” 
“Well,” continued Randolph, “you’ve had a 
good horn, you’re among friends, and you .may 
as well own up. Now, where did you come 
from? Tell the truth, ’cause you see ’twon’t 
do you no good to lie—you’re from Kaintuck, 
I reckon?” 
The darky kept stepping and turning un¬ 
easily with a half insane restlessness, and the 
mute, humble appeal of his look as he eagerly 
studied our faces by the fitful firelight was 
sufficient to e.xcite the sympathy of any decent 
man. 
“Yes, massa. I’ll tell de trufe; ’tain’t no use 
to hole out any longer. Ef I was alone I could 
Stan’ it, but I ain’t; I’se got a wife an’ a little 
gal out in de swamp. Oh, genTmen, we loves 
our freedom, an’ wese bin tryin’ to fin’ Canada 
—so long, mus’ be more ’n’ forty days now— 
an’ we can’t. Seem’s do every man’s hand was 
turned again us; twice we bin hunted, an’ dey 
put de dogs on us, but de Lord he led us on 
an’ turned our inimy de wrong way; now he’s 
leff us—de Lord’s leff' us. We could stan’ de 
heat, an’ de hunger, an’ de wet, but we can’t 
stan’ de snow an’ de cold. Oh, mas’r’s, ef one 
ob you sho’d come to my cabin cold an’ hungry 
an’ sufferin’ I’d gib you a crus’ an’ sech vittles 
as I had to gib in His name, an’ wouldn’t harm 
a hair of your head. Bar’s a woman out in de 
swamp, mos’ as white as you, an’ a poor little 
sick gal. Ef you can’t help us, take your guns 
an’ shoot us, but don’t send us back to be slaves.” 
And the great ignorant, awkward Iflack fel¬ 
low went down on his knees and pleaded for 
help in his sore need, as I never heard man plead 
before or since. Many of his sentences were in¬ 
coherent, and his allusions to scriptural texts 
were wild and frequently incorrect, but the bur¬ 
den of his plea, liberty—liberty and help for his 
suffering wife and child—was put with an agony 
of eloquence that brought tears to every eye in 
camp, save the stony, gray eyes of Randolph. 
“Bring your wife and child into camp at 
once,” said farmer Kelly. “They shall have any¬ 
thing the camp affords, and you shan’t be sent 
back to slavery, either. Here, light the torch 
and take yer back-track. By George! a man who 
will stand all that for his liberty deserves to 
have it.” 
[to be continued.] 
