Illustration by Terry Matthews
October 07, 1825 7:30am
The
dawn cracked like a scar on the cloudless sky. Dew lay miserly on the few remaining
plants. It had been four months since rain had fallen. John Jackson tended to his
duties as Sexton of St. Paul's Anglican Church in Bushville. The small but
dedicated congregation had erected the building in the Spring and Summer of
1825. It sat prominently on a knoll close to the river. John was honoured when
he was asked to oversee its maintenance and operation. He and his wife Ann had
lived in the Miramichi Valley for a decade. They had made the dangerous journey
from their native Scotland with two sons, William and Charles. The boys,
now
fifteen and thirteen, were joined by three brothers and a sister (Margaret). The
period leading to and a year after the voyage from Edenborough had been
unseasonably cold with constant rain. The crops failed, forcing the Jacksons and
thousands of other Europeans to escape famine. A volcanic eruption on Mount
Tambora, Indonesia, the previous year had spread a layer of ash across the
globe, blocking out the sun for months. The memory of that uncertain period had
dissolved with the promise of a brighter future for the young couple and their
children.
11:00am
John answered a loud
rapping on the vestry door. A terror-stricken resident grabbed John’s coat and
pulled him outside, pointing wordlessly to the western horizon. The azure blue
sky was erased by a coal black cloud thirty kilometres wide and towering kilometres
high. His first thoughts were the safety of Ann and the children. He raced to
their home and directed William and Charles to gather the bedding and soak it in
the river. He and the boys worked to place the wet materials on the wooden roof.
Ann was busy distracting the younger children while leading them to the cellar.
He reasoned their stone house would not be a source of ignition. If the fire
jumped across the one-quarter-mile river, they would be secure in the earthen crawlway.
2:00 p.m.
Word
had come from Nelson that Malcom's Chapel, the Catholic Church, had been
destroyed. In a miraculous turn of events, the rest of the community was
spared. Several ships loaded with masts bound for England had been caught in a
rain of flame and were charred to their water lines. Like most Miramichi
residents, John Jackson had no experience with forest infernos. But he had
studied the historical documents brought from congregants' homes to make a
church library.
One
of the papers described previous incidents which occurred in the region. He
recalled with fear and some hope one of the characteristics of a big blaze.
Crowning is a product of the firestorm. The superheated embers are carried at
extended intervals often giving the perception that a structure has combusted
spontaneously. Jackson prayed fervently that this phenomenon would spare him
and his family. John looked across to Rosebank and Douglastown. He wept as he
witnessed a single sheet of flame nearing forty metres in height and kilometres
in length bearing down on the area. Across the half-kilometre distance, he heard
the shrieks of terror from man and beast as they sought a common refuge in the
water.
John
began to realize that the Bushville side was not experiencing the worst
effects.
His thoughts turned to
how he might save his church. He ran the short distance to the church, where
earlier he had placed buckets of water around and sheets provided by
neighbours. He had placed a ladder high enough to gain access to the peak. Jackson
spent the remainder of the night laying the wet materials across the roof. The
valiant effort worked, and as the grey smoke filled, dawn broke, he felt a
moment of joy and triumph. As the black curtain diminished, John recognized a
fellow parishioner half stumbling up the wagon path from the direction of
John's home. His clothing was burnt, and his face blackened. His voice was strangled
from acrid smoke as he told Jackson the unimaginable news that Ann and three of
their beautiful children were dead.
October 08, 1825, 8:00am
John
Jackson looked over the site of his massive defeat. His lovely Ann and three of
their children were gone forever. Trapped in their stone house, they suffocated
as the waves of flame stole any oxygen in the area. The remaining children had
been taken to a temporary hospital. The sound of the painful screams calling
for their mother reverberated in his head. Mercifully, they later died from
their injuries.
Conversations
with his God, when he pondered risking the safety of his family to save his Church, left him wanting. Jackson died alone six months later in February 1826. Ann and
her children are buried in the cemetery of St. Paul's Anglican Church, which stands
intact today, a conflicted symbol of religious devotion and the recognition of
the price one person had paid for it.
Conclusion
Statistics
help explain the scope of the 1825 Miramichi fire. Sixteen thousand square km
(6,000 sq. miles) of forest land was burned in an area extending approximately
150 km (90 miles) northeast of Fredericton. The track of the fire moved to
Newcastle, Douglastown, Bartibogue on the west and Nelson, Bushville, Chatham
and Napan to the east. One hundred and sixty people died. Nine hundred homes
and structures were destroyed.
Over
the years, an idealized version of the recovery has become a legend. The
Miramichi is portrayed as a Phoenix, rising from the ashes, leading to the
re-emergence of a prosperous region. The truth is somewhere in the middle. The
town of Newcastle suffered the most deaths and property loss followed closely
by the hamlet of Douglastown. The initial fear that 3,000 woodsmen spread
throughout the Miramichi Valley had perished was proven unfounded.
In addition, there was a common belief that
the maelstrom had consumed all the lands. That also was overstated. Crowning
and spot fires leave sections of the forest untouched. A survey five years
after the fire concluded that a large portion of marketable timber remained
intact.
These
notations do not diminish the courage and determination of the Miramichi people.
Many immigrants decided to remain and rebuild their independent communities and
eventually their commitment to a united city over a century later. As time went
on, the population of the Miramichi Valley did not match the growth of
neighbouring counties, but it gradually recovered. The export of solid white
pine masts to the British Navy dropped. That was a result of negative press
more than a reduction in fibre availability. The vacuum was taken up as Britain
expanded its colonial possessions, needing more ships and supplies. And so, the
lapse in exports was short-term.
The
Miramichi region eventually assumed its place in the province of New Brunswick
and the Confederation of Canada. The fire of October 7, 1825, has become a
footnote of our history. The strength and determination of the people continue
to grow.
NOTE: The author gratefully acknowledges Alan
MacEachern's "The Miramichi Fire: A History" as a source document.
