THE FOREST FIRES. a amet THR RTORY OF PESYITEGO. DETAILS OF THE TERRIBLE DISASTER—SCENES Bi inci WA, WY aa oo AFFER THE FIRE. CORRESPONDENT OF THE PesnteGco, Oct. 20.—This letter, to give it 8 tees! habitation and name, is dated where Peabt 80 Was. In the glory of this (odian Summer afternoon I look out en the ghast!lcst clearing that ever lay before mortal eyes The sandy dreets glisten with frightful smooth pess, and calcined fragments are all that remain of im posing edifices and hundreds of peaceful homes. This eminons clearing is in the center of blackened, with ered forest of oak, pine, and tamarack, with a swilt river—the Peshtego—gliding silently through the center from north-east to south-west. Situated seven miles frem the Green Bay, on the Peshtego River, the town commanded all the lumber trade of the north en peninsula, snd grew rapidly into import anes se a frontier mart of Chicago. Built by an enterprising but lately singularly unfortunate Chi eago sufferer, Willism B. Ogden, the town Das bad but one purpose, to make money for its founder and keep up the lumber interests. But one industry breeds many, and fn time s railroad running seven miles to the bay connected the little city with the great chain of lakes. Great founderies and machine-shops rose on the banks of the river, and busy mill stood in ceaseless operation in with a rich and various growth of timber, and a trade of yeare stood always in prospective to her busy people. The great Northern Pacific Rallroad was to be tapped by a road even mow building to the place where Pesh sege wae, and every hamlet and town in northern Wis sonsin envied and admired the wonderful little city. the venter of the town. The banks of the Peshtego toem The keen eye of trade and speculation was not de eedved; population flocked in amain, and fully 2,000 poeple had established permanent homes. The site was well ehosen for beauty as well as business; the river at thie point runs through a slight bluff, which breaks into low flat before the stream escapes from tho borders of the town. The exccllent water-power, a8 well as the mmber interest, had determined the spot, and a mill was one of the first establishments in operation when the walls of the village began to rise. Below the mill the ground on either bank sloped gently into low, pebbly flats, which joined the water's edge a few rods from the senter of the town. The business and residence strects were while and well laid out, the houses prettily built and earefully painted, aud little ornamental gardens were froguent. The river cut the town pretty fairly in twain, the works and shops of the Peshteyo Company covering most of the north-eastern shore, whjle trade and business fer the main part held themselves on t1.8 sputli-western 2 Tho site Wai, and is to this day, unmistakably a ing. A solid wall of pine, oak, and tamarack hedge ta the desolate waste even now. As it stood, the pretty bustling village combined tle orderly enterprise of New England and the irrepressible vigor of the typical West ern “sity.” Roads cut through the forest communicated with a long line of prospering lumbering hamlets and thriving farms, to the west and south. The surrounding woods were interspersed with innumerable open glades, of crisp brown herbage and dried furze, which Lad for weeks glowed with the Autumn fires that infest these regions. Little heed was paid them, for the first rain would inevitably quench the flames. But the rain never came, and finally vallant battle was waged far and near against the slowly increasing fires. In this, asin other towns, the danger was thought |well warded off by the general precautions, The fire had raged up to the very outskirts of the town weeks before that fautal'Sun day and the fires get outward to fight the enemy. Every thing inflammable had apparently been taken out of harm's way on that memorable funaay. One careful oitizen traversed the western outskirt, and assured his peopie that no danger could cowe from that guarter. THE FIERY HURRICANE. The sharp air of early October had gent the people in from tho evening church services more promptly than usual, although numbers delayed to speculate on a great noise aud ado which set in ominously from the west. The housewives looked tremblingly at the fires and lights within and the men took a last look at the possibilities without; for many it was truly a last glimpse. The noise grew in volume, and came nearer and nearer with ter rifio erackling and detonations. The forest rocked and fessed twmultuously a dire alarm fell upon the impris ened village, for the swirling blasts came mow from every eide. In one awful instant, bofore expectation could give shape to the horror, a great flame shot up in the western heavens, and in countless flery tongues struck downward into the village, piercing every object that stood in the town like a red-hot bolt. A deafening roar, mingled with blaste of electric flame, filled the air and paralyzed every eoul in the place. There was no beginning to the work of ruin; the flaming whirl wind swirled in an instant through the town. Shere is po diversity in general experience; all heard the first inexplicable roar; some aver that the earth shook, while a credulous few avow that the heavens opened, and the fire rained down from above. Moved by a common instinct, for all knew that the woods that encircled the town were impenetrable, every habitation was deserted to the flames, and the gasping multitude focked to the river. On the west the mad horde saw the pridge In flames in a score of places, and, turning sharply to the left, with one sccord, plunged into the water. Three hundred people wedged themselves in be tween the rolling booms, swayed to and fro by the cur rent, where they roasted in the hot breath of flame that bevered ahove them, and singed the bair on each head mementarily exposed above tho water. Here despairing men and women held their children till the cold water came as an ally to the flames, and deprived them of strength. Meantime the eastern bank wae densely crowded by the dying and the dead. Rushing to the river from this direction the swirling blasts met the victims full in the gace and mowed a swath through the fleeing throng. In halation was annihilation. Scores fell before the first Blast. A few were able to crawl to the pebbly flats, but so dreadfully disfigured that death must have been pref erable. All could not reach the river; eyen the groups that fell prone on tbe grateful dap flats suffered excru eisting agony. The flerce blaze playing in tremendous eounter currents above them on the bigher ground, wae sufficiently strong to set the clothes aflame, and the fly ing sand, heated as by a furnace, blistered the flesh wherever it fell. All that could break through the stifting slmoon had come to the river. In the red glare they could see the sloping bank covered with the bodies of those that fell by the way. Few living on the back streets succeeded in reaching the river, the hot breath of the fire cutting them down as they ran. But here mew danger befell. The cows, terrified by smoke and Same, rushed in a great lowing drove to the river brink. Women and children were trampled by the frightened brutes, and many losing their hold on the friendly loge were swept under the waters. IN THE FLAMES, This was tbe situation above the bridge; below, a no Jess harrowing thing bappened. The burning timbers of the mill, built at the edge of the bridge, blew and floated down upon the multitude assembled near the flats, and toflicted the most lamentable sufferings. The men fought this new death bitterly; those who were fortunate enough to have costs flung them over the heads of wives ond children, and dipped water with their hats on the $mprovised shelter. Scores had every shred of bair burned off in the Lattle, and many lost their lives in protecting others. The firemen had made an effort to save some of the buildings, and the bose was run from the river to some important edifice. The heat instantly stopped the attempt, but not before the hose swollen with water had been burned through in a hundred places. Although the onslaught of fire and wind had Been mstantaneous, and the destruction almost simulta neous, the flerce, stifling currents of heat cs seered through the air for hours. These ourrents were more fatal than the flames of the burning village. Tenorant of the extent of the fire and the frightful com Bimation of wind and flame, many of the company’s workmen, some with wives and children, shat they Selves up fu the great brick building and perished in the raging heats of the next half hour. Others on the re note streets broke for the clearing beyond the woods, death if the outside world h not slapped tn, and now b to be shortly on their feet again. {red of the bright, cheery little town ever being as it was, but complacently reckoned.” if the sc ones didn drive new-comers away by their silly stories, a new ple would make a new Peshtego. ou ever over the ground where a gain) had 8 and there are few that served during the war that have not, found dare bs muoh Jombisued of a substantipl ol seen, which the after’ fire were soft groups broke iu all directions in a wild panic of fight and terror. A few took refuge in a cleared field »ordering on the town, Here flat upon the ground, with faces pressed in the sand, the helpless sufferers lay and roasted. But few survived the dreadful agony. The next day revoaled a piesure exeeoding in horror any bat tle-fleld. Mothers with children bugged closely lay in rigid groups, the clothes burned off and the poor flesh seared to criep, One mother, solicitous only for her babe, embalms her unutterable love in the terrible plo ture left on these woeful sahds. With her bare fingers she had scraped out a pit, as the soldiers did before Petersburg, and pressing the little one into this, she put her own body above it as a shield, and whou the day light came, both were dead—the little baby faco un scarred, but the mother burnt almost to cinders. themselves tus off from the river These hardy lumbermen are not wont to exaggerate, and the perfect accord of every story and incident cone firm every episode of this tragedy. Faithful to the helplesss, a stout woodman carried out on his shoulders one deadly sick of fever. He burrowed for the helpless body a sandy sepulchre, and then began tho struggle for his own life. He had lingered too long, and his scarred body wavs found near the refuge of the man his heroism had preserved. The tornado played through the desolated streets, and swept the river and the low land adjoining. The timber of the mill floating down among the people, made additional labor and danger, and daylight broke terribly on the saturated survivors before they dared drag their cramped limbs from the icy waters. The mingled crowd of men, women, and children, cows, and swine had held this watery refuge since 10 o'clock of the night before. Of the hundreds of human beings that entered the waters, not all escaped; the frightened cows trampled many under the waters; the blistering heat blinded many «ho groped hopelessly about in the current, and finally sunk. To this flay none can tell how great wae tho slaughter in the waters, After the burning heat of the night, a numbing chill followed, and the water-soaked group crawled over dead bodies and hot sands to ithe only blazing building in all the waste about them. Groups of dead were found within a stone’s throw of the water. Families rushing downward for a breathing place had been blown upon by the rush ing blasts and struck lifeless. The ghastly turong hud dled, shricking and bewailing, about the flaring embers, and the terrible roll of the missing was soon called from aud to end of the ashen waste, No vestige of human habitation remained, and the steaming, freczing, wretched group, crazed by the unutterable terror and despair, plead with each other to restore the lost oucs. The hot blasts of the night had blinded them, and they could but vaguely recognize one another in the murky light of the new day, AFTER THE CONFLAGRATION. Long after the flames had died out, when there was no more to feed on, the hot sands rendered moving about ‘an exquisite torture, and long into the dismal midday the survivors were confined to the narrow circuit near the river. As the day wore on, help came in glowly from the northward. Several railroad gangs bad escaped an nihilation, and one gang, led by an ex prize-tighter named Mulligan, came with promptness and efficiency to the rescue through miles of burning prairie and blockaded roads, On Sunday night something vver 2,000 people were assembled within the confines of this industrious, progperous city the dreadful morning light came upon a haggard, maniacal multitude of less than 700. When the work of resoue began it was found that a great pumber had escaped by the bed of the river and the northern road to the port, and, as the day advanced, half-naked stragglers, unkempt and: blackened, began to stream into the gparse settlement. As the molten sands cooled off, the woful work of recognition began, Peering into blackened faces, mothers, fathers, brothers trem Llingly sought out missing once. Rome, in the immeasurable anguish of the moment, had dashed themselves against the sands and let out the life with their own hands that the licking flames coveted. Men. too distant from the river toe hope for rescue or gnfety, had cut thd throats of their choking children, and were found in groups sometimes unscarred by the flames. In the streets, full twenty corpses were found with no apparent injury or abrasion. Fatuous tradesmen, in the sudden rush of fle, had thrown their valuables into wells for security; every well in the city was turned into a flaming pit.and the very waters half evapofated by the Leat. Survivors attest that women and children, cat off frow the rivers, were put into wells and covered with bedding. I have looked into wery well in the ash covered clearing, and there is no possibility that a living thing could have endured the flawes that boiled and seethed in thew. For bours the unreasoning search was continued by the famished