CHAPTER III
IN THE LAND OF ADVENTURE
AT noon the next day, Sunday, June 21st, we put to sea from the last outpost of the United States that we should see until our return. As we circled the islands, a fishing boat filled with enthusiastic members of the Civitan Club, who had come all the way from Minneapolis to see us off, came alongside and throwing huge codfish aboard shouted the last farewells we heard in home waters from fellow citizens.
In a few moments a Bay of Fundy fog had swallowed us up, and the curtain had dropped on the last home setting. The day was fairly calm, but there was a long, oily swell which rolled the boat like a lazy pendulum. Moreover, the smoke from the exhaust was carried forward across the deck by a light, following breeze. In a few hours I began to notice a greenish pallor overspreading the faces of my shipmates, and, guided by my own feelings amidships, I had an intuition that my face was experiencing the same change. Soon a disheveled figure sprang from the forecastle companionway and made a dash for the rail. In a few moments another appeared bound for the same destination. I thought this was very funny, when suddenly the ship fetched a great roll, and I meditated with melancholy on my liberal indulgence at the dinner of the night before. Without stopping for further speculations I too joined in the mad scramble for the rail. Under the suasion of an unstable equilibrium the gastric organs have certain generous periods when they won’t keep a thing, and when they are in this mood they follow the example of time and tide and wait for no man. This lack of a sense of expediency on the part of these unfortunate organs caused several similar embarrassing situations from time to time. After completing my first session at the rail, I felt relieved—much relieved, and decided I was all through with such foolishness; so I sat down to await my trick at the wheel and to enjoy the adventures in mal de mer of the other unfortunates. But again my mirth ended in another dash for the rail. These upsets, however, did not permit of any laying off from regular duties, since the work had to be done and there were none too many of us to do it. Thus I stood my regular trick at the wheel, a task with which I was familiar from previous voyages, kept my regular watch and did whatever duties were assigned me despite a few protests on the part of my stomach. This state of affairs continued for the next three days until we reached Sydney, Nova Scotia.
Early on the morning of the second day out we rounded Cape Sable, the southernmost point in Nova Scotia, and laid a northerly course parallel to the coast heading for Cape Breton Island where Sydney is located. Here we were to take on water and fuel oil before squaring away for “The Labrador.”
Three days later on Wednesday morning, we reached Cape Breton Island and made our way into the spacious harbor of Sydney. The Peary, having preceded us, was lying at North Sydney loading coal and placing iron plates over the lower portholes, that they might not be broken by the ice.
We made our way to a supply dock in the lower end of Sydney harbor and began loading fuel and other supplies. Inasmuch as Sydney was the most outlying stop on our journey to offer tonsorial and other luxurious civilized conveniences, we availed ourselves of all the facilities that the town afforded. For awhile the barber shop was the center of interest, with the soda counter at the drug store running a close second. It was while we were in a drug store that an unprecedented thing happened. Mr. Raycroft, a friend of the Commander’s, who had accompanied us up to Sydney, entered the store, started to make a purchase, when suddenly he bolted into the street without a word of explanation. In a few moments he returned looking a few shades paler, and in reply to our anxious queries he told us that the unaccustomed steadiness of the building had made him feel sick, and he felt an urgent need of fresh air. That was the only case of “land sickness” in the memory of the oldest inhabitant.
After a voyage of general exploration about the town, we discovered the product for which Sydney is famous, and that is lobsters. Under the leadership of Ben Rigg, an ardent enthusiast on the subject of shellfish, we raided every lobster joint in town. One may easily imagine after our hollow days at sea that there was plenty of room for food. After visiting about five places and exhausting their limited supplies, we ended up about eleven o’clock in a Chinaman’s, where we gorged on more of these luscious crustaceans and on chop suey. None of us had nightmare, strange to say.
After three days of the strenuous life in Sydney, our preparations were complete, and we pulled out for the bleak and desolate Labrador, leaving instructions with the Peary to join us at Battle Harbor after completing her coaling.
We set sail for the Labrador with a feeling that we were at last entering the great unknown. From what we had heard and read concerning this region, none of us knew what to expect. But we had the best possible person on board to enlighten us; namely, Doctor Wilfred Grenfell, the famous Labrador missionary doctor. He was just returning from a trip around the world and had arrived in Sydney preparatory to going on to Battle Harbor. Being acquainted with the Commander, he came down, and as the Doctor was planning to leave on the next steamer, the Commander invited him to accompany us instead. In addition to Doctor Grenfell we were accompanied by another distinguished guest, Dr. Gilbert Grosvenor, President of the National Geographic Society, under whose auspices we sailed. Having voyaged with us to Sydney, he was so charmed with the life aboard ship that he continued with us to Battle Harbor. Thus we were well equipped with celebrities, come what might.
Copyright, National Geographic Society.
Rawson, MacMillan at the wheel, and Dr. Grosvenor.
On way to Sydney.
“Yonder beneath the North Star lies our destination, Lad.”
Commander MacMillan, Dr. Grosvenor and Dr. Grenfell.
Battle Harbor.
After sailing for several days through the placid waters of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, we found ourselves at the entrance of the Straits of Belle Isle. Here we realized for the first time that we were really getting north, when the word was passed around to look out for bergs. I had heard much of the danger of icebergs, and an apprehensive shudder spread over my frame as I imagined what would happen if we should run on one unawares, for we were shrouded in one of the usual Straits fogs. In a short while our straining eyes discerned a dark object loom out of the fog on the starboard bow. At the time, I was at the wheel, and Dick Salmon was on the lookout. I gripped the spokes at the thought of how close this chill apparition was, but we were well to port, and in a few moments it melted into the mist.
A short time later after the excitement fomented by the berg had subsided, we began to notice signs of the proximity of land. Robbie clambered aloft into the crow’s nest to watch for shoal water, and the rest of us clustered into the bow for the same purpose. Suddenly out of the fog appeared a white line. It was breakers rolling across a long point. A hasty chorus of shouts to the helmsman resulted in an immediate altering of the course to parallel the land, instead of heading straight at it as we were when we first sighted it. It was in this dramatic manner that we made our acquaintance with The Labrador, and it was in a setting typical of this rugged country. One usually becomes acquainted with The Labrador by nearly running on it every time one approaches it during the early summer months, for at that time the land is almost perpetually shrouded in fog. Not long afterwards another line of breakers indicated the presence of a new exponent of terra firma. This disturber of the mariners’ peace was named Blanc Sablon, a reminder of the old days of the French domination. This entire south coast is sprinkled with French names and with French speaking people.
As the fog was still too thick for safe navigating along this treacherous coast, we put into the little settlement of Forteau. This is one of Doctor Grenfell’s stations, and he made us very welcome there. He also recommended the splendid trout fishing and issued us honorary fishing licenses for the neighboring creeks, since he was an honorary magistrate. Armed with this legal protection and also with rods and gear, we sallied forth to a likely looking brook to try conclusions with the wily denizens of the stream. It certainly seemed good to get our sea legs straightened out as we strolled up and down whipping the stream. After a few casts I felt a sudden tightening on my line, and the reel began to sing. For a minute I let it run; then I checked it abruptly in order to drive the hook well home. Then the fight was on. The fish threshed wildly in a vain endeavor to free himself, but I had him fast. There was about five minutes of play, and then I reeled him in. He was a fine specimen, weighing very nearly two pounds, and my hopes were high that we might obtain enough for all hands. In a moment I heard a yell from Mart, and looking in his direction I saw that he was holding aloft a trout fully as large as my own. Then we went at it with all our might, but the God of Fortune smiled no further, and at last tired and discomfited, we returned to the ship.
Early the next morning we were under weigh again for Battle Harbor. On our way out as we rounded Cape Point Amour we sighted what seemed to be a great cruiser sailing close to the Cape. As we drew nearer we saw that she was too far in for a large ship, and still closer inspection showed that she was hard and fast on the rocks. We then learned from the Commander that this was the British cruiser Raleigh which had run aground in a fog some years previous while endeavoring to make Forteau. We felt a twinge of pity that such a fine ship should rust out her heart on the bleak rocks of Labrador.
Continuing on up the coast, sometimes in fog and sometimes in beautiful clear weather, we were encompassed by a magnificent vista. On one hand the bleak and rugged hills of the shore-line, and on the seaward side a matchless panorama of schooners, dancing waves and icebergs. The schooners tacking in and out under full sail among the glistening bergs; the tall, majestic spires and turrets of the larger bergs dwarfing the tallest mast into insignificance; the dancing wavelets curtsying to the graceful schooners whose black hulls contrasted sharply against the whiteness and marvellous shades of ultramarine blue of the glacial ice, all combined to make an unforgettable picture.
Just as the shadows of evening had begun to creep up from the west and merge the glories of a perfect day into a matchless sunset, the rugged outline of Battle Island appeared bathed in a purple glow that made the hard unyielding rock look like rich dyed velvet. It was not long before we dropped anchor between the sheer rock walls of Battle Harbor.