It was now early winter, and the proper time to work in the woods.

“Do you think,” said Ben to Uncle Isaac, “I’d better hire Joe?”

“He asks great wages, but he’s the cheapest man you can hire, for all that. I’ve seen a man fall spars, so that they all had to be hauled out top foremost; it was like twitching a cat by the tail. Most men will break more or less masts, falling them, and soon throw away all their wages; but though Joe seems to be such a great heedless creature, there’s nothing pertains to falling, hauling, or rafting timber, that he don’t know; he can also shave shingles and rive staves, and will be just as profitable in stormy weather as at any other time.”

The next morning, as Ben and Joe were grinding their axes to attack the forest, they were very much surprised by a visit from Uncle Isaac.

“I felt,” said he, “as though I must look upon Elm Island once more, before the axe and firebrand went into it, and while it was as God made it. Perhaps it’s owing to my Indian bringing up, but I hate to see the forest fall; and when I have to go fifty miles to shoot a deer or a bear, the relish will be all taken out of life for me.”

“I feel very much as you do,” said Ben; “I know I shall spoil its beauty, but I see no other way to pay for it.”

“I’m not so sure of that; there’s no doubt but Congress, by and by, will give a bounty to fishermen; fishing is going to come up. Mr. Welch don’t want his money any more than a cat wants two tails; he told you to take your own time, and I’d take my time. I believe you can pay for this island by clearing only what you need for pasture and tillage. That will make quite a hole in your debt, and the rest you can pull out of the water.”

“But I don’t want to be a fisherman; I detest it; work all summer, and eat it all up in the winter; so much broken time, when it’s so windy you can’t fish, and can’t do anything else, for fear it will come good weather, and you will have to leave it.”

“That’s the right kind of talk; I like to hear you talk so; but you can fish till the land is yours—can’t you? All the time you are fishing, the timber will be growing, and then you can farm it to your heart’s content; farming is going to be a first-rate business, too. People round here are all stark mad about lumbering and fishing; they will touch anything but a hoe, and think barley ain’t worth thanking God for. Since the peace, the country is full of foreign goods, and they are ready to strip the land to get money to buy them. Nothing but French calico, silks, and satins, and all such boughten stuffs, will do for ‘my ladyship’ now. If people are going to work in the woods all winter, and drive the river and work in the mills all summer, I should like to know where the corn, hay, pork, and beef, to feed all these people that grow nothing, is to come from. I wonder if the people that stay at home and raise it won’t get a round price for it.”

“I’ve thought of that,” said Ben. “I know that a great many fishermen come here for supplies, must have them, and no time to run after them, and will give whatever the men ask that bring them alongside.”

“There’s another thing; this timber will be worth more every year it stands, because it will be growing scarce.” “O, Uncle Isaac, this is a great country; it won’t be till you and I, and our grandchildren, if we have any, are dead and gone.”

“That’s true; and it ain’t true there’s no end to the timber in the country; but the timber that is directly on the shore, where a vessel can go right to it, is growing scarce, more especially these big masts. The king’s commissioners scoured the sea-coast pretty well before the war; and masts and spars on an island like this, with a good harbor, where they can be got to the ship’s tackles with little expense, will, in a few years, bear a great price; for if timber is plenty, labor is not. Thank God, every one has enough to do; and it costs, I can tell you, to bring timber down a river thirty miles, to what it does to roll it off the bank, as you can here.”

“I see you are right; for I’m sure I don’t know of another island that is timbered like this. Others have all been cut, and burnt over by the fishermen setting fires in the summer; about half the timber on the islands is burnt up by mere carelessness.”

“You wouldn’t like to lose this brook—would you?”

“Lose the brook! I’d as soon lose the island; it would not be worth much without the brook.” “Well, just as sure as you clear the middle ridge, and the north-east end of the island where the springs are that feed it, and let the sun and wind in on the land, you’ll dry the brook.”

“Do you think so?”

“I don’t think so—I know so. There’s a brook runs through my field. Long since I can remember it used to carry a saw-mill; but my father and I cleared the land, and the people at the source of it cleared theirs, and now it’s dry all summer, and but a little water in it early in the spring and late in the fall.”

“I’m glad you told me this; you know I’m a sailor, and don’t know much about such matters. I hope you’ll never be mealy-mouthed, but speak just as you think.”

“I’m an ignorant man, and have never been to school, and over the world, as you have; but I know about these sort of things, because I’ve either tried ’em, or seen other people try them; it’s jest my experience.”

When he had thus spoken he prepared to depart.

“Do stay to dinner, Uncle Isaac,” said Sally.

“It’s impossible; I ought to be at home this very minute; but I couldn’t help coming over here and freeing my mind;” and, dropping his oars into the water, he was in a moment round the eastern point.

This conversation made a deep impression upon Ben; he looked upon the island not merely as offering advantages for a living, but he loved it. All his ideas of beauty and sublimity were ingrafted upon these woods and shores; from boyhood he had been accustomed to go there with his father. Often, in the lonely hours of the middle watch on the ocean, had memory painted the green foliage of the birches drooping over the high ledge.

In many a black night of tempest, as he stood amid the pouring rain and flashing lightning, did his thoughts revert to that tranquil cove, reflecting from its bosom the overhanging rocks and trees, while the sunlight of a summer’s morning was glancing on the glossy breasts of the sea-ducks sporting in its calm waters.

Standing upon the beach where he had parted with his friend, he looked over the scene, and pictured to himself the middle ridge, shorn of its green coronal of majestic forest, covered with blackened stumps and the charred ruins of mighty trees. The interlacing network of tree-roots, ferns, and mosses of a thousand hues, that now adorned the rocks, burnt off, leaving them white and barren, and the bare bones of the soil sticking out. No shelter for fruit trees or crops, man or beast, and the supply of water greatly diminished; the sweet music of the brook hushed, and the multitudes of hawks and herons, who, notwithstanding their harsh notes, could ill be spared, banished forever, and the island left a shelterless rock in the ocean for the cold sea winds to whistle over.

He found that Sally shared his feelings in the fullest extent, and together they resolved to submit to any privations, and make every possible effort in order to save, at least, a good part of the forest.

The axes now went merrily from daylight till dark. They made a workshop of the front part of the house, and in stormy days made staves and shingles, as there were many trees, which, after they were cut, proved to have a hollow in the butt, or were “konkus,” and, though not suitable for spars, made good shingles. Sometimes an oak was in the way of a road, which, cut, made staves.

Ben, while privateering, had taken from a prize some fine rifles; two of these he sold, and bought a large yoke of oxen, and hiring four more, he began to haul his spars to the beach. As the distance was short, and the ground in general descending, he did not wait for snow, but hauled the smallest spars on the bare ground, leaving the large masts and bowsprits till the snow came. This was not so difficult as it might appear; for it is very different hauling in the woods from doing the same thing on a road. The ground was in most places covered with a network of roots, strewn with leaves and frozen, and the sled slipped over these quite easily; besides, wherever there was a hard spot, or a hollow, they cut small trees, peeled the bark off, and put them along the road for the sled to slip over, and thus, though they could not move the largest sticks in this way, they got along as fast with the others as though there was snow; for if they hauled smaller loads, having no snow to wade through, and no road to break, they went the oftener. Even when the snow came, his team was light to haul some of the biggest masts; but they made calculations take the place of strength, put rollers under the sticks, and helped the cattle with a tackle.

Thus they spent the winter. As the spring came on, how he longed to plough up the clear spot along the beach, to plant a few peas and potatoes, or set out a currant bush or two in the warm sunny ground, under the high ledge, that every time he passed it seemed to say, “Do plant me, Ben.” How much more difficult it was to let the wild geese alone, that were flying in vast flocks over his head! It made him half crazy to hear the guns of Uncle Isaac, John, and his father, who were letting into them right and left, as they went, bang, bang.

It was not like the gunning nowadays, when a great lazy fellow goes all day to shoot a sandpiper or a sparrow; but there was profit as well as sport in it. Nevertheless, he manfully resisted temptation, and plied the axe.

“I’ll not live another spring without a gunning float,” said he to Joe, and dismissed the matter from his thoughts.

“What fools we are!” said Joe; “we’ve not had a drink of sap yet.” As he spoke, he struck his axe with an upward blow into the body of a rock maple, and stuck a chip in the gash; he then cut down a small hemlock, took off a length, and from it made a trough. The sap ran down the chip into the trough, and in a few hours they had enough to drink.

“How good that looks!” said Joe, as he got down on his hands and knees, and looked into the luscious liquid, as clear as crystal; “and it don’t taste bad, neither.”

The first thing Joe did the next morning was to visit the trough, expecting to find it full; but it was entirely empty.

“It was half full when I left it, and it must have run fast; what a fool I was I didn’t drink it all up! I know who’s got it,” cried he, as he noticed on a little patch of snow some tracks, that looked not unlike those made by the bare feet of little children, for they had been enlarged by the thawing of the snow; “they are that coon’s wife and children, that we killed when we were hewing timber. They will be nice neighbors, Ben, when you come to plant corn here.”

“I don’t care if they do eat a little corn; I want all the neighbors I can get. It will be first rate to know just where to go and get a coon when you want one. I shall be as well to do as the grand folks in England, and have my own game preserve; besides, if they get troublesome, I can kill them all with Sailor in a week, on a place no larger than this.”

There was no vessel in that vicinity larger than a fisherman’s, or a wood coaster. It required a vessel of larger size to carry such spars, and to have hired one from a distance would have eaten up a great part of their value. Determined at any risk to save a great part of the forest, he devised and executed a most audacious plan, that he might realize every dollar from the sale of his spars, by avoiding the great expense of transportation.

With a cool daring and skill, perfectly characteristic, he rolled his masts and spars on to the beach, where, by the help of the tide, he could handle them as he pleased, and built them somewhat into the shape of a vessel, securing the whole firmly together with cross-ties and treenails. He then made a large oar to steer with, which no one but himself could lift, that worked in a port, so that it could not slip out and float up. He then put a large timber across the stern, with deep notches cut in it, to hold the oar in whatever direction he placed it, in order that he might be able to leave it, and go to other parts of the raft to attend to other matters. A mast had been already built in when the raft was made; he bought an old mainsail that belonged to John Strout, made for the Perseverance, and put a cable, anchor, and boat-compass on board.

“I must have a chance to make a cup of tea,” said Ben; “for I shall be up nights, as there’s only one in a watch.”

They placed a large flat stone in the midst of the raft to build the fire on, and then made a fireplace with stones laid in clay, to prevent the wind from blowing the fire away from the kettle. Two crotches were then placed each side of the fireplace, and a pole put across to hang the tea-kettle on. Wood and water were now put on board; some dry eel-grass to lie down on; staves, shingles; and feathers, the results of gunning at odd times; and the preparations for the voyage were complete.

“Ben,” said his wife, “Joe says you are going to Boston on that thing alone?”

“I’m going to set out, Sally. I can tell you better when I come back, whether I get there or not.”

“Suppose you should get blown off to sea, and never be heard from again.”

“Suppose, what is more likely, I shouldn’t.”

“Suppose the raft should come to pieces.”

“Suppose it should stay together. We never shall save the woods, and the beach, and all the pretty things, if it costs half the spars are worth to get them to market.”

“Better lose the island than your life; what if there should come a big sea, and wash you overboard?”

“What, if when the angels were taking Elijah to heaven, they had let him drop?” Perceiving he had fully made up his mind, she said no more, but quietly set about preparing his food for the voyage. This was put under the canoe, which was turned bottom up on the raft, and lashed.

There were but four pieces of rope on the whole raft, for rope was high in those days: these were the cable, the canoe’s painter, and the sheet and halyards of the sail.

The logs were lashed with withes, as also the canoe, water, and other things. These withes were of enormous strength, though stiff and hard to handle; for many of them were as thick as a man’s wrist, which Ben twisted as though they had been willow switches.

Ben had not mentioned his plan to any one out of his own house, but, when the wind came in strong from the north-east, set sail just as the sun came up.

The first proceeding of John Rhines at this time of year, when he got out of bed, was to look out of his window, to see if there were any wild geese round that were anxious to be shot, that he might give the alarm to his father. No sooner did he espy the novel craft come out from the harbor, and proceed to sea, than going down stairs three steps at a time, he shouted, “Father! father! see what this is!”

“It is a raft, that has come down from the head of the bay, and is going over to Indian Creek Mill.”

“But it came from Elm Island; I saw it.”

“You thought it did; but it came down by it, and appeared to you to come from it.”

“No, father; it came right out of the harbor, for I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Get the glass, John; that will tell the story.” Resting the glass on the fence, he looked long and carefully. At length he said, “John, that’s your brother Ben on that raft. He’s got half an acre of spars, I verily believe—all they have cut this winter; well, he’s one of the kind to make a spoon or spoil a horn—always was.”

“But where’s he going to?”

“Boston, I expect; he’s steering that way, and is making first-rate headway, too.”

Forgetting all about his breakfast, John ran to Uncle Isaac’s, while Captain Rhines went in to tell the news to his wife.

“Ben’s going to Boston on a raft!” he shouted; “O, come quick, or he’ll be out of sight!”

They watched him from the hill, and then from the garret window, till he disappeared from view. “If the wind should come in fresh at north-west,” said Uncle Isaac, “no power on earth could prevent his going to sea, and that would be the end of him;” but, noticing the look of anxiety upon John’s face, he said, “Come in and take breakfast with us, and then we’ll see what your father thinks about it.”

“Don’t you think Ben’s running a great risk?” asked Uncle Isaac of Captain Rhines.

Now, Captain Rhines had never done much else, except to run risks, and therefore was not particularly sensitive on that score.

“It’s a risk, that’s certain; but then it’s a risk that’s well worth the running, to get such a tremendous raft of spars as that to market, as you may say, for nothing. The wind often holds easterly, this time of year, a fortnight; it’s our trade-wind; he is going every bit of four knots. I’ll risk Ben; he’s one of the kind that always come on their feet. There’s not another man in the world that looks as bad as he does, that would have got Sally Hadlock. Nobody else could have got Elm Island from Father Welch. I have been trying to buy it of him these twenty years; but he said it was his father’s before him, and he wouldn’t sell it, for he didn’t want to see it stripped; and he knew I would cut the timber off the first thing. No, I’ll risk Ben. Did I ever tell you what a Yankee trick he served a British man-of-war, when he was captain of a privateer?”

“No; what was it? I didn’t know he ever was captain.”

“Well, he never was, only in this way. Their captain was killed in action with an armed merchantman; Ben, being lieutenant, took charge, and acted as captain the rest of the cruise. You see, they were cruising off the coast, to try and cut off some of the English supply vessels, that were bringing provisions and ammunition to their armies, for our folks were mighty short of powder, and everything else, for the matter of that. They were lying by in a thick fog—not a breath of wind—couldn’t see your hand before you; and when the fog lifted at sunrise, they were right under the guns of a fifty-gun ship, that was off there looking out for the expected transports. No squeak for them. What does Ben do but strip off his clothes, get into his berth, and make the doctor bind his right leg and arm all up with splinters and bandages, as though they were broken, then bleed him, and put the blood over the wound, as though it had been done by a shot! John Strout was second mate; so he became first mate, or first lieutenant, when Ben took charge; you know he and Ben are like knife and fork—always together. The man-of-war put a prize captain and crew on board, and put Ben’s crew in irons, and ordered her into New York. They took him out of his berth, and put him between decks with his men, which was just what he wanted, though he groaned and took on terribly when they were moving him, it hurt him so; and the doctor said ’twas real barbarity to move a patient in his condition.

“The English in time of war were always short of seamen,—more so now than ever,—as they were fighting with us and France both; they had but few men to spare for a prize crew; they took out part of Ben’s crew, and put the rest in irons; made a captain of an old quartermaster, with two midshipmen for lieutenants; gave them about a dozen seamen, and three or four petty officers, thinking, as ’twas so short a run into port, there was no great risk of their meeting any Yankee cruiser. Ben knew very well there was no time to lose, and laid his plans with the doctor for re-taking the vessel that very night. They apprehended but little trouble from the seamen, who were most of them pressed men; but there were three marines to be got rid of,—one on the forecastle, and one at each gangway, and armed to the teeth. The doctor secured the key of the arm-chest as soon after twelve o’clock as the watch, who came below, were well asleep. Ben took off the splints and bandages, and crawling out of his hammock, wrenched the handcuffs from the wrists of eight of his men.”

“Who did he let loose?” said Uncle Isaac; “anybody I know?”

“Yes; John Strout, and black CÆsar, who was the strongest man in the vessel, except Ben.”

“I knew him; he was a slave to Seth Valentine, and he gave him his liberty when the war broke out.”

“And Calvin Merrithew, who was almost as stout; and Ed Griffin, brother to Joe, who was killed afterwards, with Jack Manley, in the Lee privateer. The rest of ’em didn’t belong round here.”

“I heard something about it at the time, but never heard the particulars. But were not these sailors armed?”

“No; they don’t allow sailors arms when about their duty; the marines do all the guard duty; the sailors are only armed in time of action. The doctor had a dog, who got the end of his tail jammed off a day or two before, under the truck of a gun carriage. The men, for deviltry, would touch it, to make him sing out; he got so at last, that if anybody pointed at it he would howl. They resolved to make the howl of the dog, which was too common to attract attention, a signal for action. They dressed themselves in the hats and coats of the watch who had turned in, that they might be taken in the dark for men-o’-war’s-men. CÆsar went up the main hatch, passed the sentry on the forecastle, and went into the head. As ’twas nothing uncommon for men to come up in the night, the marine took no notice of ’em. Merrithew, Ed Griffin, and another, lay at the steps of the main hatch, watching the marine there; Ben, John Strout, and the others at the after hatch. The doctor, who went and came without question, pinched the dog’s tail, who instantly began to howl. CÆsar felled the marine with a blow of his fist, and flung him overboard; Merrithew, rushing upon the marine at the hatchway, whose attention was occupied with the noise on the forecastle, flung him head foremost into the hold, while the others put on the hatches and barred them down. In the mean time Ben, rushing upon the sentry in the gangway, flung him against the lieutenant, who was pacing the deck, with such force as to fell him senseless on the planks, while the doctor locked the cabin doors, and the rest barred down the after hatches, then, seizing the boarding-pikes that were lashed to the main boom, joined their comrades. The seamen made little or no resistance. A terrible noise and swearing were now heard aft; the prize captain, having got up on the cabin table, with his head out of the skylight, was screaming to know why the doors were fastened, and what was the matter.

“‘Come out here and see, my little man,’ said Ben, reaching down, and taking him by both ears, he pulled him through the skylight, and set him astride a gun.

“‘Who are you?’ exclaimed the astonished commander.

“‘This,’ said the doctor, ‘is the man with the broken leg; he’s got well; I never had a patient mend so rapidly.’”

“I don’t think that was very civil treatment for a prisoner of war,” said Uncle Isaac.

“It was tit for tat,” said Captain Rhines. “In the first of the war the British frigates used to run our privateers down, and destroy all hands, and starve and maltreat our prisoners in their hulks; but they got more civil in the last of it. I tell you, Ben would stick a mast into Elm Island, and sail it to Boston, if he undertook it.”