The Devil's Own: A Romance of the Black Hawk WarParrish, Randall
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The Devil's Own: A Romance of the Black Hawk War
Parrish, Randall
Black Hawk War, 1832 -- Fiction
Suddenly the wrecked boat's bow grated against something immovable;
then became fixed, the stern swinging slowly about, until it also
caught, and I could feel the full volume of down-pouring water pressing
against my body. It struck with such force I was barely able to work
my way forward along the side of the half-submerged craft in an effort
to ascertain what it was blocking our progress. Yet a moment later,
even in that darkness, and obliged to rely entirely upon the sense of
touch, the truth of my situation became clear. The blindly floating
boat had drifted upon a snag, seemingly the major portion of a tree,
now held by some spit of sand. I struggled vainly in an attempt to
release the grip which, held us, but the force of the current had
securely wedged the boat's bow beneath a limb, a bare, leafless
tentacle, making all my efforts useless. The ceaseless water rippled
about me, the only sound in the silent night, and despairing of any
escape, I found a submerged branch on which to stand, gripped the boat
desperately to prevent being swept away, and waited for the dawn.
It seemed a long while coming, and never did man gaze on a more dismal,
ghastly scene than was revealed to me by those first gray gleams dimly
showing in the far east. All about stretched utter desolation;
wherever my eyes turned, the vista was the same--a wide stretch of
restless, brown water surging and leaping past, bounded by low-lying
shores, forlorn and deserted. There was no smoke, no evidence of life
anywhere visible, no sign of habitation; all was wilderness. The snag
on which I rested was nearly in the center of the great river, an ugly
mass of dead wood, sodden with water, forking out of the stream, with
grotesque limbs thrust up into the air. The force of the current had
driven the nose of the boat so firmly beneath one branch as to sink it
below the surface, making it impossible to be freed. In the dull light
I struggled hopelessly to extricate the craft, my feet slipping on the
water-soaked log. Twice I fell into the stream, barely able to clamber
back again, but my best efforts were without results. The increase in
light gave me by this time a wider view of my surroundings, but brought
with it no increase of hope. I was utterly alone, and only by swimming
could I attain either bank.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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