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By Margaret E. Graham
as told to her by the mill cook, Annie Graham
The summer of 1942 was very dry in Nova Scotia. In this land of sea
mists and fogs and sudden summer showers it was unusual to see the hills
so bare and brown in September; the aftergrass on the intervales
withered and sere; and even the earth itself baked and cracked in the
hot sun. Old-timers shook their heads and predicted "freshets" and
"floods" when the rains came.
But the rains did not come. All through that long, hot August it
remained dry. The clouds that we occasionally sighted on the horizon
either failed to materialize or passed us with a distant rumble of
thunder and a half-dozen huge drops immideately swallowed up by dust.
Three weeks of September passed with no change in the weather.
High on the upper reaches of the Stewiacke River, (a tributary of the
Shubemacadie) four miles beyond the last white farmhouse, the owner of
the sawmill glanced at the sky and wondered how much longer the weather
would hold. He wasn't worried about water to run the mill - a brand new
dam at the head of the natural amphitheatre in which the mill and camps
were situated, (just where the banks swung close together) held a pile
of water; - not like the old one half a mile upstream - no sir! If he
had to depend on that....
Lumber
camps
Not like ordinary banks were these on the upper reaches of the
Stewiacke, but steep and rugged and clothed with brush and trees and
stumps and rocks along which, at high water, the river rushed in a
torrent, but now trickled almost noiselessly, while the exposed
grey-white stones lay in their nakedness. Only below were built the
camps; the cook-house for the woods crew, the cook-house for the mill
crew, (I was cook for the mill crew that summer), the bunk houses, the
small camps for the cooks and their husbands, the out-buildings, and a
few other small camps for those who desired more privacy than the large
camps afforded.
At one time the river had divided into two channels; one skirting either
bank, making an island of higher ground in the centre, where the
buildings were placed; but at the time the dam was built, men and
bulldozers had deepened the channel by the far bank, and forced all the
water to go that way. The bulldozed rocks and gravel were piled as a
breastwork all the way from the dam to the bottom of the ampitheatre
where the banks closed in again. A road crossed the dry channel and
wound in a long steep curve, up the bank and there joined the main road.
This road followed the river down three miles then crossed it by a heavy
iron bridge, sitting on concrete abutments.
September 21,
1942
On Monday morning, September 21, the rain started. Not a gentle, misty
rain that would soak into the bosom of Mother Earth with life-giving
properties; not a gusty, wind-driven rain with snatches of sun through
the clouds, but a steady straight downpour without a let-up or break.
The men, most of whom had spent the week-end at home, returned early on
Monday morning, prepared to work, but the rain continued throughout that
day, all night; all day Tuesday there was no let up. In twos and threes
the men, tired of enforced idleness, melted away to their shack, or a
few others.
As the rain continued its steady downpour through Tuesday night and
Wednesday, things began to look grim. The gate of the dam had been
raised to relieve the pressure, and a torrent of muddy, racing water was
foaming down the bulldozed channel to disappear between the hills below.
Thursday morning, day-light did not come early. All night long the roar
of water had kept us uneasy and we slept only in snatches. But what
could possibly happen? Nothing! We were protected by a brand new dam, a
breastwork of rock and gravel, and within five minutes we could be
across the old channel and up the road if we must. But we wouldn't have
to - things like that just didn't happen.
'The
old dam's gone'
In the early, grey light one of the men took a five-cell flashlight and
went to, as he said, have "look-see". The rest stirred uneasily and
wondered if the rain were over. I sighed and got up and dressed - I knew
I would sleep no more that morning - I might as well get breakfast for
the handful of men who were left. My husband grumbled and tried to go
back to sleep without success. He got up and dressed. I took my time
getting breakfast. Why hurry? None of the men would work today anyway.
We heard the sound of the "flashlight man" returning, splashing through
the puddles. We all paused as he entered the camp. "The old dam's gone"
he announced, "Clean as a whistle". "But it can't be", my husband
argued, "it was there at dark last night". "Can't help that. It's gone
now, clear out of sight down the river, as far as I could see." "It'll
never make the turn" prophesied one, "Never get this far". But if it
does? I tried to keep the fear from my voice. "Don't worry" my husband
laughed, "That new dam will hold a dozen old dams or anything else that
comes down that river. Come on, let's have breakfast and get out of
here".
So we started to eat our breakfast. The oil lamp gave a poor light, and
thus it was that no one saw the water seeping through the floor cracks
until I went to the stove for more food and felt it beneath my feet. My
startled gasp brought them all to their feet, and in an instant we were
all out of the door. And what a sight in the dull morning light! The old
dam had made the turn all right, a broken, twisted, but still solid mass
of rubbish, it had hit the new dam corner-wise, and where it had broken
through, the water was pouring down in a thunderous torrent carrying the
rock and gravel breastwork ahead of it.
Run for your
life
For one petrified second we watched, and even in that second we saw the
occupants of the other camps come to the doors and freeze as we had
frozen. Then with one accord, we started for the road up the bank - no
time to think of saving property, clothes, money or anything - only to
escape, and even as we ran we saw the whole structure of the dam bulge
far out, then, with a tremendous roar, collapse, old and new, in a
twisted mass before the onslaught.
But already we were too late! The old channel, crossing our escape route
up the bank, was already a swirling torrent, and only on the higher
ground of the centre could we keep our footing. THE DEAL PILE! Could we
make it? The nine-foot pile of hardwood deal stood between us and the
old channel. There were hundreds of tons of hardwood in that pile , but
could it withstand the awful battering rams that were coming down from
that broken dam? We had no time to question - no time for anything but
to try to get to that pile of lumber. Could I make it? My wet dress
clung to my legs and the water tore at my feet - could I pull my lagging
feet from that water? Could I climb that deal pile? Well, it was either
that or drown, so with a hand from my husband, I climbed!
But everyone had not made the deal pile. Two men in one of the private
shacks had come to the door, looked around, then went back in and shut
the door. Why? No one ever knew. The deal carrier who was in a shack
alone, was still there.
Ringside seat
From the deal pile, we had a ringside seat but one which few people
would covet. We saw the debris of the dams swept past, luckily the
heaviest part missed us; we saw trees uprooted that would have made logs
- rocks, stumps, anything that was in the path of the monster; we felt
the impact, as one thing after another banged against the lumber pile.
We felt the shudder as the water tore at us and we wondered, each in his
own heart, though none voiced it - "Would it hold?"
We saw the shack containing the deal carrier, lift on the water, turn
around, and sail slowly down stream and come to rest against a huge,
forked birch tree standing there. We watched, paralyzed and unable to
help, and saw him batter his way out through the roof and sieze the tree
and cling to it as his shack swung round and continued down stream,
leaving him across the fork of the tree above the swirling flood.
We saw the out-buildings topple and fall, the cook's camps, and then,
before our horrified eyes, we saw the shack containing the two men,
start - stop - start again like a houseboat setting forth; and then with
a violent swerve, topple and swing end -over-end in the raging torrent.
The men we did not see - their bodies were recovered days later, covered
with debris, miles down the river.
Bridge
toppled
Downstream the big iron bridge toppled and fell sideways, halting on its
side, with the floor-boards upright, catching the full force of the
current. Thus it travelled down river for over a mile, twisting and
grating over the rocks and gravel, nor did it stop until the river
widened into the intervales of the first farm. All down through the
valley the water covered the intervales and meadows. Cattle, pigs and
sheep were drowned in their barns and pastures. People and animals were
taken from their homes by boat or raft.
But we on the deal pile, knew nothing of this until much later. All day
we sat there, and all day the water raged around us. Late in the
afternoon the water seemed to quiet a bit, and less flotsam banged past.
Then, and then only, we saw signs of rescue - a brave man took his life
in his hands, and avoiding the rubbish as well as he could, and swimming
with the current, he brought us a life line and we were taken off. We
were cold and stiff, but no one in serious condition; the deal carrier
being the worst, as he had clung all day, to the tree.
Sometimes in the night, I think I hear the rushing of water or when the
house trembles in a high wind, I remember how that lumber pile
shuddered; but it was an experience I would just as soon forget!
Note:
References to the 1942 flood are contained in the diary of
Elmira Blaikie
between September 22, 1942, and October 2, 1942. References are also
included between the same dates in the diary of
Anabelle Johnson.
Note:
This
account is included in Stories of the Stewiacke Valley, which
were collected and printed during the Stewiacke Valley Bicentennial
celebrations in 1980. |
