Roughing It In The Bush

by Susanna Moodie

  One short, happy week too soon fled away, and we were once more alone. In the fall, my husband expected the regiment in which he held his commission would be reduced, which would again plunge us into the same distressing poverty. Often of a night I revolved these things in my mind, and perplexed myself with conjectures as to what in future was to become of us. Although he had saved all he could from his pay, it was impossible to pay several hundreds of pounds of debt; and the steam-boat stock still continued a dead letter. To remain much longer in the wood was impossible, for the returns from the farm scarcely fed us; and but for the clothing sent us by friends from home, who were not aware of our real difficulties, we should have been badly off indeed.

  I pondered over every plan that thought could devise; at last, I prayed to the Almighty to direct me as to what would be the best course for us to pursue. A sweet assurance stole over me, and soothed my spirit, that God would provide for us, as He had hitherto done— that a great deal of our distress arose from want of faith. I was just sinking into a calm sleep when the thought seemed whispered into my soul, “Write to the Governor; tell him candidly all you have suffered during your sojourn in this country; and trust to God for the rest.”

  At first I paid little heed to this suggestion; but it became so importunate that at last I determined to act upon it as if it were a message sent from heaven. I rose from my bed, struck a light, sat down, and wrote a letter to the Lieutenant-Governor, Sir George Arthur, a simple statement of facts, leaving it to his benevolence to pardon the liberty I had taken in addressing him.

  I asked of him to continue my husband in the militia service, in the same regiment in which he now held the rank of captain, which, by enabling him to pay our debts, would rescue us from our present misery. Of the political character of Sir George Arthur I knew nothing. I addressed him as a man and a Christian; and I acknowledge, with the deepest and most heartfelt gratitude, the generous kindness of his conduct towards us.

  Before the day dawned, my letter was ready for the post. The first secret I ever had from my husband was the writing of that letter; and, proud and sensitive as he was, and averse to asking the least favour of the great, I was dreadfully afraid that the act I had just done would be displeasing to him; still, I felt resolutely determined to send it. After giving the children their breakfast, I walked down and read it to my brother-in-law, who was not only much pleased with its contents, but took it down himself to the post-office.

  Shortly after, I received a letter from my husband, informing me that the regiment had been reduced, and that he should be home in time to get in the harvest. Most anxiously I awaited a reply to my application to the Governor; but no reply came.

  The first week in August our dear Moodie came home, and brought with him, to our no small joy, J. E——, who had just returned from Ireland. E—— had been disappointed about the money, which was subject to litigation; and, tired of waiting at home until the tedious process of the law should terminate, he had come back to the woods, and, before night, was reinstated in his old quarters.

  His presence made Jenny all alive; she dared him at once to a trial of skill with her in the wheat-field, which E—— prudently declined. He did not expect to stay longer in Canada than the fall, but, whilst he did stay, he was to consider our house his home.

  That harvest was the happiest we ever spent in the bush. We had enough of the common necessaries of life. A spirit of peace and harmony pervaded our little dwelling, for the most affectionate attachment existed among its members. We were not troubled with servants, for the good old Jenny we regarded as an humble friend, and were freed, by that circumstance, from many of the cares and vexations of a bush life. Our evening excursions on the lake were doubly enjoyed after the labours of the day, and night brought us calm and healthful repose.

  The political struggles that convulsed the country were scarcely echoed in the depths of those old primeval forests, though the expulsion of Mackenzie from Navy Island, and the burning of the Caroline by Captain Drew, had been discussed on the farthest borders of civilisation. With a tribute to the gallant conduct of that brave officer, I will close this chapter:—

  The Burning of the Caroline.

  A sound is on the midnight deep—

  The voice of waters vast;

  And onward, with resistless sweep,

  The torrent rushes past—

  In frantic chase, wave after wave,

  The crowding surges press, and rave

  Their mingled might to cast

  Adown Niagara’s giant steep;

  The fretted billows foaming leap

  With wild tumultuous roar;

  The clashing din ascends on high,

  In deaf’ning thunders to the sky,

  And shakes the rocky shore.

  Hark! what strange sounds arise—

  ’Tis not stern Nature’s voice—

  In mingled chorus to the skies!

  The waters in their depth rejoice.

  Hark! on the midnight air

  A frantic cry uprose;

  The yell of fierce despair,

  The shout of mortal foes;

  And mark yon sudden glare,

  Whose red, portentous gleam

  Flashes on rock and stream

  With strange, unearthly light;

  What passing meteor’s beam

  Lays bare the brow of night?

  From yonder murky shore

  What demon vessel glides,

  Stemming the unstemm’d tides,

  Where maddening breakers roar

  In hostile surges round her path,

  Or hiss, recoiling from her prow,

  That reeling, staggers to their wrath;

  While distant shores return the glow

  That brightens from her burning frame,

  And all above—around—below—

  Is wrapt in ruddy flame?

  Sail on!—sail on!—No mortal hand

  Directs that vessel’s blazing course;

  The vengeance of an injured land

  Impels her with resistless force

  ’Midst breaking wave and fiery gleam,

  O’er-canopied with clouds of smoke;

  Midway she stems the raging stream,

  And feels the rapids’ thundering stroke;

  Now buried deep, now whirl’d on high,

  She struggles with her awful doom,—

  With frantic speed now hurries by

  To find a watery tomb.

  Lo, poised upon the topmost surge,

  She shudders o’er the dark abyss;

  The foaming waters round her hiss

  And hoarse waves ring her funeral dirge;

  The chafing billows round her close;

  But ere her burning planks are riven,

  Shoots up one ruddy spout of fire,—

  Her last farewell to earth and heaven.

  Down, down to endless night she goes!

  So may the traitor’s hope expire,

  So perish all our country’s foes!

  Destruction’s blazing star

  Has vanish’d from our sight;

  The thunderbolt of war

  Is quench’d in endless night;

  Nor sight, nor sound of fear

  Startles the listening ear;

  Naught but the torrent’s roar,

  The dull, deep, heavy sound,

  From out the dark profound,

  Echoes from shore to shore.

  Where late the cry of blood

  Rang on the midnight air,

  The mournful lapsing of the flood,

  The wild winds in the lonely wood,

  Claim sole dominion there.

  To thee, high-hearted Drew!

  And thy victorious band

  Of heroes tried and true

  A nation’s thanks are due.

  Defender of an injured land!

  Well hast thou taught the dastard foe

  That British honour never yields

  To democratic infl
uence, low,

  The glory of a thousand fields.

  Justice to traitors, long delay’d,

  This night was boldly dealt by thee;

  The debt of vengeance thou hast paid,

  And may the deed immortal be.

  Thy outraged country shall bestow

  A lasting monument of fame,

  The highest meed of praise below—

  A British patriot’s deathless name!

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THE WHIRLWIND*

  Dark, heavy clouds were gathering in the west,

  Wrapping the forest in funereal gloom;

  Onward they roll’d, and rear’d each livid crest,

  Like Death’s murk shadows frowning o’er earth’s tomb.

  From out the inky womb of that deep night

  Burst livid flashes of electric flame.

  Whirling and circling with terrific might,

  In wild confusion on the tempest came.

  Nature, awakening from her still repose,

  Shudders responsive to the whirlwind’s shock,

  Feels at her mighty heart convulsive throes;

  Her groaning forests to earth’s centre rock.

  But hark!—What means that hollow, rushing sound,

  That breaks the death-like stillness of the morn?

  Red forked lightnings fiercely glare around,

  Sharp, crashing thunders on the winds are borne,

  And see yon spiral column, black as night,

  Rearing triumphantly its wreathing form;

  Ruin’s abroad, and through the murky light,—

  Drear desolation marks the spirit of the storm.

  S.S.

  The 19th of August came, and our little harvest was all safely housed. Business called Moodie away for a few days to Cobourg. Jenny had gone to Dummer, to visit her friends, and J. E—— had taken a grist of the new wheat, which he and Moodie had threshed the day before, to the mill. I was consequently left alone with the children, and had a double portion of work to do. During their absence it was my lot to witness the most awful storm I ever beheld, and a vivid recollection of its terrors was permanently fixed upon my memory.

  The weather had been intensely hot during the three preceding days, although the sun was entirely obscured by a blueish haze, which seemed to render the unusual heat of the atmosphere more oppressive. Not a breath of air stirred the vast forest, and the waters of the lake assumed a leaden hue. After passing a sleepless night, I arose, a little after day break, to superintend my domestic affairs. E—— took his breakfast, and went off to the mill, hoping that the rain would keep off until after his return.

  “It is no joke,” he said, “being upon these lakes in a small canoe, heavily laden, in a storm.”

  Before the sun rose, the heavens were covered with hard-looking clouds, of a deep blue and black cast, fading away to white at their edges, and in form resembling the long, rolling waves of a heavy sea—but with this difference, that the clouds were perfectly motionless, piled in long curved lines, one above the other, and so remained until four o’clock in the afternoon. The appearance of these clouds, as the sun rose above the horizon, was the most splendid that can be imagined, tinged up to the zenith with every shade of saffron, gold, rose-colour, scarlet, and crimson, fading away into the deepest violet. Never did the storm-fiend shake in the face of day a more gorgeous banner; and, pressed as I was for time, I stood gazing like one entranced upon the magnificent pageant.

  As the day advanced, the same blue haze obscured the sun, which frowned redly through his misty veil. At ten o’clock the heat was suffocating, and I extinguished the fire in the cooking-stove, determined to make our meals upon bread and milk, rather than add to the oppressive heat. The thermometer in the shade ranged from ninety-six to ninety-eight degrees, and I gave over my work and retired with the little ones to the coolest part of the house. The young creatures stretched themselves upon the floor, unable to jump about or play; the dog lay panting in the shade; the fowls half-buried themselves in the dust, with open beaks and outstretched wings. All nature seemed to droop beneath the scorching heat.

  Unfortunately for me, a gentleman arrived about one o’clock from Kingston, to transact some business with my husband. He had not tasted food since six o’clock, and I was obliged to kindle the fire to prepare his dinner. It was one of the hardest tasks I ever performed; I almost fainted with the heat, and most inhospitably rejoiced when his dinner was over, and I saw him depart. Shortly after, my friend Mrs. C—— and her brother called in, on their way from Peterborough.

  “How do you bear the heat?” asked Mrs. C——. “This is one of the hottest days I ever remember to have experienced in this part of the province. I am afraid that it will end in a hurricane, or what the Lower Canadians term ‘L’Orage.’”

  About four o’clock they rose to go. I urged them to stay longer. “No,” said Mrs. C——, “the sooner we get home the better. I think we can reach it before the storm breaks.”

  I took Donald in my arms, and my eldest boy by the hand, and walked with them to the brow of the hill, thinking that the air would be cooler in the shade. In this I was mistaken. The clouds over our heads hung so low, and the heat was so great, that I was soon glad to retrace my steps.

  The moment I turned round to face the lake, I was surprised at the change that had taken place in the appearance of the heavens. The clouds, that had before lain so motionless, were now in rapid motion, hurrying and chasing each other round the horizon. It was a strangely awful sight. Before I felt a breath of the mighty blast that had already burst on the other side of the lake, branches of trees, leaves, and clouds of dust were whirled across the lake, whose waters rose in long sharp furrows, fringed with foam, as if moved in their depths by some unseen but powerful agent.

  Panting with terror, I just reached the door of the house as the hurricane swept up the hill, crushing and overturning everything in its course. Spell-bound, I stood at the open door, with clasped hands, unable to speak, rendered dumb and motionless by the terrible grandeur of the scene; while little Donald, who could not utter many intelligible words, crept to my feet, appealing to me for protection, and his rosy cheeks paled even to marble whiteness. The hurrying clouds gave to the heavens the appearance of a pointed dome, round which the lightning played in broad ribbons of fire. The roaring of the thunder, the rushing of the blast, the impetuous down-pouring of the rain, and the crash of falling trees were perfectly deafening; and in the midst of this uproar of the elements, old Jenny burst in, drenched with wet, and half-dead with fear.

  “The Lord preserve us!” she cried, “this surely is the day of judgment. Fifty trees fell across my very path, between this an’ the creek. Mrs. C—— just reached her brother’s clearing a few minutes before a great oak fell on her very path. What thunther!—what lightning! Misthress, dear!—it’s turn’d so dark, I can only jist see yer face.”

  Glad enough was I of her presence, for to be alone in the heat of the great forest, in a log hut, on such a night, was not a pleasing prospect. People gain courage by companionship, and in order to re-assure each other, struggle to conceal their fears.

  “And where is Mr. E——?”

  “I hope not on the lake. He went early this morning to get the wheat ground at the mill.”

  “Och, the crathur! He’s surely drowned. What boat could stan’ such a scrimmage as this?”

  I had my fears for poor John; but as the chance that he had to wait at the mill till others were served was more than probable, I tried to still my apprehensions for his safety.

  The storm soon passed over, after having levelled several acres of wood near the house, and smitten down in its progress two gigantic pines in the clearing, which must have withstood the force of a thousand winters. Talking over the effects of this whirlwind with my brother, he kindly sent me the following very graphic description of a whirlwind which passed through the town of Guelph in the summer of 1829.

  *“In my hunting excursions a
nd rambles through the Upper Canadian forests, I had frequently met with extensive wind-falls; and observed with some surprise that the fallen trees lay strewn in a succession of circles, and evidently appeared to have been twisted off the stumps. I also remarked that these wind-falls were generally narrow, and had the appearance of a road slashed through the forest. From observations made at the time, and since confirmed, I have no doubt that Colonel Reid’s theory of storms is a correct one, viz., that all wind-storms move in a circular direction, and the nearer the centre the more violent the force of the wind. Having seen the effects of several similar hurricanes since my residence in Canada West, I shall proceed to describe one which happened in the township of Guelph during the early part of the summer of 1829.

  *Written by Mr. Strickland, of Douro.

  “The weather, for the season of the year (May), had been hot and sultry, with scarcely a breath of wind stirring. I had heard distant thunder from an early hour in the morning, which, from the eastward, is rather an unusual occurrence. About 10 a.m., the sky had a most singular, and I must add a most awful appearance, presenting to the view a vast arch of rolling blackness, which seemed to gather strength and density as it approached the zenith. All at once the clouds began to work round in circles, as if chasing one another through the air. Suddenly the dark arch of clouds appeared to break up into detached masses, whirling and mixing through each other in dreadful commotion. The forked lightning was incessant, accompanied by heavy thunder. In a short time, the clouds seemed to converge to a point, which approached very near the earth, still whirling with great rapidity directly under this point; and apparently from the midst of the woods arose a black column, in the shape of a cone, which instantly joined itself to the depending cloud. The sight was now grand, and awful in the extreme. Picture to your imagination a vast column of smoke, of inky blackness, reaching from earth to heaven, gyrating with fearful velocity—bright lightnings issuing from the vortex; the roar of thunder—the rushing of the blast—the crash of timber—the limbs of trees, leaves, and rubbish, mingled with clouds of dust, whirling through the air;—you then have a faint idea of the scene.