"He knew that the planks above him were on fire, but, remembering their thickness, he waited till the roaring of the flames had died away, and then with his head and hands turned them over and put out the fire by dashing up water with his hands. Although it was a cold night, and the water had at first chilled him, the heat gradually warmed him up until he felt quite comfortable. He remained in his den until daylight, frequently turning {p. 418} over the planks and putting out the fire, and then the worst had passed. The earth around was on fire in spots, house and mill were gone, leaves, brush, and logs were swept clean away as if shaved off and swept with a broom, and nothing but soot and ashes were to be seen."[1] In Wisconsin, at Williamson's Mills, there was a large but shallow well on the premises belonging to a Mr. Boorman. The people, when cut off by the flames and wild with terror, and thinking they would find safety in the water, leaped into this well. "The relentless fury of the flames drove them pell-mell into the pit, to struggle with each other and die--some by drowning, and others by fire and suffocation. None escaped. _Thirty-two bodies were found there_. They were in every imaginable position; but the contortions of their limbs and the agonizing expressions of their faces told the awful tale."[2] The recital of these details, horrible though they may be, becomes excusable when we remember that the ancestors of our race must have endured similar horrors in that awful calamity which I have discussed in this volume. James B. Clark, of Detroit, who was at Uniontown, Wisconsin, writes: "The fire suddenly made a rush, like the flash of a train of gunpowder, and swept in the shape of a crescent around the settlement. It is almost impossible to conceive _the frightful rapidity of the advance of the flames_. The rushing fire seemed to eat up and annihilate the trees." They saw a black mass coming toward them from the wall of flame: "It was a stampede of cattle and horses thundering toward us, bellowing moaning, and neighing as they galloped [1. See "History of the Great Conflagration," Sheahan & Upton, Chicago, 1871, p. 390. 2. Ibid., p. 386.] {p. 419}