south, and the fleet made all preparations to continue the voyage under
sail. Hardly, however, were they clear of the land when the wind fell
suddenly, and in a wonderfully short space of time the lake was like
a mill pond. An occasional puff of wind however, justified keeping
sails set, and so alternating from paddle to canvas, a broad expanse
was passed, and the "narrows" neared where mountains seemed trying to
shoulder one another into the lake, and where, as if they had fallen
off in the scuffle, several rocky, wood-crowned islands floated double
as it were, on the glassy water. By the time the shadow of the woods
was reached, all hands were glad to stop until the declining sun should
make motion a little more endurable, so a cool and shady nook was
selected where several hours were spent in meditative contemplation of
as lovely a panorama as ever rested the eyes of leisurely voyagers.
This _laisser aller_ fashion of cruising is the only really enjoyable
plan. Your restless spirits will push on and make their twenty-five
miles a day, rain or shine, but your philosopher is content it may be
with five or six, and recks not if he be obliged to cut his journey
short at its latter end. So the hours drifted slowly by until the
mountains threw their shadows across the lake, and a gentle breeze once
more invited action.
It took only an hour or two to run out from the shadow of the mountain
range, and see stretching out toward the north the low lying hills
which characterize the broad St. Lawrence Valley, for thitherward tend
in the Canadas all waters that run down hill. The lake, too, spread
out again, its edges bordered by extensive shallows whereon grew tall
graceful bulrushes, each of which rose six or eight feet or more above
the water, tapering beautifully and smoothly from near an inch in
diameter at the base, to a needle-like point at the top. Sometimes
when the wind was fresh, the cruisers would run in among them. There
was something peculiarly fascinating in thus flying through vast green
stretches of rustling, bending reeds. The breeze was almost wholly
checked near the water, but the peaks of the sails caught it above the
supple rushes, and the canoes went whistling through them, their sharp
bows dividing the green stems as they flew along, and a broad swath
bowing under the booms as they swung out to leeward.
Now and then a startled marsh hen, or wild fowl of some sort, would
rise almost from under the gunwales and go scuttling off, frightened
half to death at the unwonted invasion of her retreat. The solitude was
perfect.
[Illustration: "Green grow the Rushes, oh!"]
The canoeists could see nothing of one another when separated by a
few yards. Any one might have upset and been left far behind, before
the rest could have discovered his loss, and then the chance of ever
finding him would have been as one to a hundred. However the water
was only two or three feet deep, so that there was no actual danger.
Along such tracts as this the fleet coasted this afternoon, and there
was no apparent prospect of getting beyond, or through the reeds to
find a camp. The lake was wide, and it was not expedient to cross it
so near nightfall, and with a threatening sky. So sails were prudently
furled and the four cruisers paddled along hoping to find, somewhere,
an opening through which the land could be reached. The sky grew dark.
Rain began to plash around, and suddenly night shut down, with a cold
driving mist and not a glimmer of light to show the bearings, save
an occasional momentary gleam from one of the little light-houses
away off toward the north. The fleet had drawn out into the lake in
order to get a better sight at the coast line, and here it rode with
the heaving water all around, and no means of steering to a place of
safety. The Vice had taken the bearings with his compass, but now as
fast as a lantern was lighted to steer by, the wind blew it out, so
there was nothing for it but keep together, and steer by the sea.
After a somewhat anxious time, with startling suddenness, a long dark
wall seemed to rise through the rain and drive straight forward over
the lake. "Hold all" was the word for a moment, but there was no roar
of surf, only a whistling murmur as of a million wings. Then the dark
wall opened and the reeds were recognized as old friends. The course
in which the fleet was heading, had been entirely problematical, for
the wind was very gusty and variable, but it was certain that among
the countless slender stems was safety from the fiercest gale that ever
blew. Pushing inward for a hundred yards or so, the boats were moored
side by side, to sheaves of reeds, and their occupants proceeded to
make themselves as comfortable as was possible under the circumstances,
feeling, as the Cook remarked, better able than ever before to
appreciate the early experiences of Moses.
Now, if ever, was the time to try the Purser's "Rob Roy cuisine."
He had imported it at great outlay of treasure from England and had
repeatedly explained its beauties, but having received it just on
the eve of departure from New York, he had never practically tested
its virtues, and the professional prejudices of the Cook were so
obstinately in favor of a wood fire, that he could never be persuaded
to use a substitute. This "cuisine" is a canoeing device invented by
Mr. Macgregor, the father of modern canoeing. In external appearance
it is a circular box of plated copper. The main part of the box is
used as a stew-pan, the top as a frying-pan. Moreover it contains,
compactly fitted, an alcohol blast-lamp, and a multitude of little
cooking contrivances which are admirable under circumstances like those
in which the command was now placed. The Purser knew by heart the
theoretical rules for managing the cuisine, but as has been stated, had
never put them in practice.
By the light of the little lanterns, he now took out the compact
apparatus, opened it, filled the lamp, placed the standard on his
forward deck, struck a match and applied it to the aperture. An
innocent, bluish flame appeared, flickered for a moment, gathered
strength, burst into a roar, shot upward three feet, shook itself,
and prepared seemingly to consume the entire fleet. The Purser shrank
backward as far as the narrow limits of his Chrysalid would allow, and
glared helplessly at the vicious little engine, while he made abortive
efforts to reduce it to decorum. The rest shipped their cables and
hauled off, leaving him to his fate.
"Kick it overboard."
"Put your hat on it."
"Blow it out."
"Douse that glim," were some of the directions shouted, as muskrats
skurried away into the darkness, and an owl and one or two bats
swooped within the circle of light to see what was up. But the Purser
remembered the bill he had paid, and resolved to risk his life rather
than lose his "cuisine."
As the roaring continued without abatement and with no disastrous
results, it presently occurred to the Cook that here was a splendid
heat going to waste. In a trice he had the coffee pot in position,
and in a marvelously short time more each man had a cup of hot coffee
and a rude sandwich, cut hap-hazard from a half soaked loaf. The Rob
Roy cuisine was unanimously voted a success, where for any reason an
ordinary fire cannot be lighted.
It is not pretended that a remarkably comfortable night followed this
episode, but it was much better than driving aimlessly before the wind
on the lake, and most of the party managed to get some sleep under
their rubber blankets. At any rate the expedition was safe, and its
members could listen without concern to the gale that roared a few feet
over their heads, but touched them not.
[Footnote 3:
Commodore
NOTE.--The Cook wishes it to be understood that
all his statements
Becky Sharp
Becky Sharp regarding the Cherub are strictly truthful, but
really when
Cook Cherub
Commodore says that the Becky Sharp--Well, space
will not admit of specifications.
* * * * *
Hurray! I had the last look at _that_ proof.
COMMODORE.]
[Illustration]
VI.
MY NATIVE LAND, FAREWELL.
Morning dawned on a somewhat forlorn set of castaways. Every man was
more or less damp, not to say wet, and the Vice with his bedraggled
mutton-chop whiskers presented a peculiarly lugubrious appearance as he
exasperated the Americans of the party by singing in the pitch of an
Irish "keen" the old Southern air "Maryland, My Maryland."
The day promised to be a fair one, and by sunrise land had been
reached, a fire built, dry clothes extracted from bags and water-tight
compartments, and amiability once more asserted its mild and benignant
sway over the depressed spirits of the command. This was the last day
on the lake, although its lower end was on a small scale what the
geographers might almost term a lacustrine river. It was broad, that
is, and at times nearly currentless. The nominal division between
lake and river, however, was marked by a railway bridge and here
it was understood the fleet must stop for official recognition by
her majesty's representative before crossing the Dominion line. The
town lay low along the lake shore, and under the shelter of a wooden
breakwater the fleet successfully effected a landing. The Commodore,
after a few moments spent in making himself look as respectable as
possible, set off on his official visit to the British Consulate. As he
departed, the Vice asked if the needed stores were not to be purchased
at this point, and before the expedition entered alien if not hostile
waters.
[Illustration: "But the Consul's brow was sad."]
"Of course not," said the Cook. "You can buy better things for half the
money in Canada."
"Under a monarchical government," added the Purser.
"That is undoubtedly the best plan," said the Commodore.
"Now look here. I'm a citizen of the United States," began the Vice,
but, the Purser, the Cook and the Commodore fled in as many different
directions and left him gesticulating solus upon the lonely shore.
Presently the Commodore returned, followed shortly by the British
Consul, who wished to assure himself that the squadron was not the
advance guard of a Fenian expedition. The Vice begged the right to
receive him officially in the Commodore's stead, and this favor
being granted, the Consul was treated to half an hour of impassioned
eloquence upon the rights of man.
Meanwhile the breeze freshened and inflated itself to the size of a
gale. Sloops and sail boats began to huddle together behind the little
breakwater. The custom-house officer kindly offered to find a trusty
guard for the canoes while their officers should go ashore, but the
suggestion was declined with thanks. The Purser longed to be on British
soil once more, the Vice was impatient to pat his own love of country
on the back, by observing how much more miserably England's subjects
exist than do those of his own happy land, the Commodore saw a fort
in the distance, which he and the Cook, having once been soldiers,
were impatient to inspect, and the Cook pined for Canada, because he
understood that the expeditionary butter pail might there be more
cheaply refilled. Then the humane custom-house officer appealed to
their sense of personal safety, to their regard for the friends and
creditors who might miss them if they were drowned, as they surely
would be if they ventured out in such a storm. But the eye of Britannia
was gazing upon the expedition from under the pith helmet of the
Consul, so the Commodore roared,
"Prepare to pass bridge! Strike standing rigging! Club and private
signals fore and aft!"
"One minute, Commodore," shouted the Vice, who was dancing frantically
about his boat, "where shall I display the flag of Our Country?" And
the Vice reverently drew a small American flag from his bosom.
"Display it in your pocket," replied the Commodore, rudely. "Forward!"
The Vice glared angrily, and got as far with a reply as to shout, "The
Alderman always--" when the sight of the Cherub, the Arethusela and the
Becky Sharp, dancing vivaciously on the big waves as their respective
commanders plied their paddles rapidly, each with the intention of
being the first to pass between the piles of the bridge and cross the
Dominion line, caused the Vice to become inspired with the strongest
sentiment acquired in the practice of statesmanship, namely, that
nothing is so disastrous as to be left behind. The wind being directly
abaft, there could be no possible doubt as to the fate of any commander
or boat that might be dashed against the piles, particularly if he
first got into the trough of the sea, and was cast up broadside. Each
man braced himself, leaning warily forward, each paddle performed
wondrous and unexpected gyrations in air, and the colors vanished and
darted up again like guidons in a cavalry fight. The commodorial helmet
was blown off at this juncture, and in recovering it the flag ship had
fallen some distance to the rear. Noting this with some disgust, the
Commodore successfully executed a tactical movement which redounded
greatly to his own glory. He shouted,
"On, first division, deploy column. Squadron into line; Guide Right,
March! (when manœuvering the squadron, the Commodore was everlastingly
bothered by unbidden reminiscences of army tactics, which led him to
enunciate orders applicable to the handling of a battalion instead of a
fleet).
The effect of this command was to subject the squadron to the moral
influence of discipline; it was also to arrest for an instant the
progress of the three boats which had distanced the Commodore's, for
it was the flagship itself that was at the right, and upon this the
squadron was to align itself. The principal effect was to give the wily
Commodore the advantage of a boat's length. The Vice comprehended the
trick only when it was too late, and the gnashing of his teeth could be
distinctly heard above the whistling of the gale. But if distanced by
trickery, he at least could console himself with patriotism, which is
the last refuge of a Statesman.[4] Wildly he snatched the flag of his
country from his pocket; proudly he waved it aloft as the nose of his
canoe shot safely between the piles. Gloriously the holy rag fluttered
in the air for an instant; then it wrapped a fold about a huge oak
splinter of one of the under-timbers of the bridge, which nearly
dislocated the Vice's shoulder in passing. Then it concluded to remain
where it was, and there it flutters to this day, to show to timorous
mariners where the gallant Vice passed the bridge. As for the Vice
himself, he dropped, his paddle as he emerged, several lengths behind
every body else, into the comparatively still water behind the bridge;
then he rubbed his agonized shoulder, and remarked, "Patriotism always
_did_ play the devil with Statesmen."
[Illustration: The United States Garrison.]
The squadron now drifted under the granite walls of a United States
fort, which commanded the approaches from Her Majesty's dominions. It
bore the marks of neglect usually seen in an unoccupied and unfinished
fort, but as the canoes drew near, signs of life manifested themselves
about the sally-port, and in less time than it takes to write it the
entire garrison had embarked and was advancing to reconnoitre the
approaching fleet. A parley ensued to the mutual edification of both
parties, and then the race for the Dominion line was resumed and easily
won by the Purser, who paddled into water so shoal that the mud was
visible just below the surface. He turned his boat on her centre as
rapidly as a man could do with a canoe of the Chrysalid pattern; then
he arose and exclaimed, as the Vice and the Cook drew up,
[Illustration: The Purser on British Soil.]
"Gentlemen, this is the first time in eight years that I've stood
upon British soil. 'God save the Queen!' say I, and three cheers"--
"You're not on British soil," interrupted the Vice; "you're on British
water." But the Purser, unmindful of the interruption, had got as
far as "hip, hip!"--when the motion of raising his hat destroyed his
equilibrium, and a second later he was more than knee deep in a hummock
of greyish-blue mud.
"Now you're on British soil," continued the Vice; "how do you like it
as far as you've got?"
But the unchanged ecstasy of the Purser's patriotic face banished from
the hearts of his companions any memories of '76 and 1812 that might
have been hiding there, and the three cheers were heartily given with a
supplementary "tiger," which was fully as noisy as if it had been one
of the tigers native to the royal lady's own Indian Empire.
The Purser extracted himself with some difficulty from his native clay,
and all paddled to a shelving beach for the noontide rest, the Cook
and the Commodore striking up "God save the Queen," out of compliment
to the Purser. The others joined in and the notes of the noble old
anthem rang far across the water until it was noticed that the Vice was
patriotically roaring the words:
"My Country 'tis of thee
Sweet land of libertee,"
instead of the original. The other two Americans, although they were
old United States soldiers, could not brook this gratuitous affront
to their English companion, so they vigorously attacked the Vice with
their paddles and spattered him till he was fain to cry "quarter."
Then the bows grated on the sand, and springing lightly ashore, the
Vice mounted a boulder and delivered himself as follows, while the
rest, dumb with amazement, sat in their boats to listen and applaud:
[5]"Far be it from me fellow-citiz--mariners, to disturb the harmony
of this joyful occasion. We are gathered tonight almost upon the very
spot where Chartreaux and Champlain and Vanjohn and Rouget Noir fit
the Injuns and made them knuckle to the Jesuit Fathers, with none to
molest nor make them afraid. Here subsequently Lord Howe and Commodore
Vanderbilt marched their squadrons and manœuvered their battalions,
and spliced the main brace, and shivered their timbers according to
the dictates of their own consciences. Did any of them ever go back on
their environment? No; contrariwise they harmonized, and shall we their
successors fail to do likewise? Never, gentlemen, never. It has been
hurled in our faces by the honorable gentleman from England, that the
great republic is rotten with corruption--that our highest officers
are not above peculation. Let me ask that honorable gentleman and his
allies (here the Statesman indicated the Commodore and the Cook,) if
any president of the United States ever stole corn meal and had his
disgraceful act perpetuated in his country's literature? I pause for a
reply. None? Then none has ever done such a deed. And yet, gentlemen,
it is recorded of one of the most exemplary of English monarchs that
he not only stole the then current equivalent of corn meal, but caused
it to be used on the royal table. I invite you to join me in singing a
song to the glory of Old England--one, two, three; sing!
(Air Auld Lang Syne.)
When good King Arthur ruled this land,
He was a goodly king.
He stole three pecks of barley meal,
To make a bag-pudding.
A bag-pudding the Queen did make,
And stuffed it well with plums,
And in it put great lumps of fat,
As big as my two thumbs.
The King and Queen did eat thereof,
And noblemen beside,
And what they could not eat that night,
The Queen next morning fried.
(Great applause.)
"Can anything more clearly indicate a low moral sentiment than the
existence, and acknowledged popularity of this song? Fellow citizens
(carried away by the tide of eloquence the Statesman forgot to say
shipmates) and you, sir, whose alien friendship I am proud to own,
although the unfortunate accident of a foreign birth (for which I
cannot blame you,) opens a chasm between us--fellow citizens, I have
done. My native land is behind me. I now appeal for protection to
the Queen of England, and for the time being repudiate the American
Eagle--though with all his faults I love him still."
Amid thunders of applause the Vice jumped down and inquired why
luncheon was not ready.
After an hour's rest and refreshment in a sheltered nook, the squadron
proceeded on its way under paddle, the wind having died out, making
for a heavily wooded island visible several miles distant, on which it
was surmised there would be good camping ground. Islands indeed proved
to be the most satisfactory camping places that were found during the
expedition, and were invariably selected when practicable.
The squadron paddled socially along, side by side, until the Cook
stopped his stroke and fell behind. As he seemed to be engaged in
making some not very satisfactory arrangement of his luggage, the
Commodore ranged alongside and asked what was the matter.
"I can't fix my seat so as to be comfortable."
"Thought so."
"How do you fix yours?"
"Why this way," and the Commodore, vacated his seat, turning round and
sitting on his forward thwart, so as to afford an unobstructed view.
The two other canoes had now drawn near.
"Look at that," said the Vice. "He can stand up and turn round without
upsetting in that old tub of his."
"So can I," said the Cook, suiting the action to the word.
"So cannot we," said the Purser, and the Vice. "But what are you
looking at?"
It is a characteristic of Chrysalid canoeists that they never notice
anything outside of their own boats until they bring up all standing,
as it were, against it. Hence the Commodore's seat was a novelty to
them, and they gazed upon it with mute admiration.
[Illustration: A Canoe Seat.]
The blocks in which the cross-pieces rest, are screwed to the inside of
the canoe. The cross-pieces are ash sticks about an inch in diameter.
They are fourteen inches apart. Over and around them is passed a piece
of fourteen inch canvas, with grommets for lacing on the under side.
The seat should have a slight slope aft and should be so placed that a
back-board will rest conveniently against the after thwart or bulkhead.
If the cross-pieces spring too much, two bits of wood cut to fit
between them on either side of the canvas will make the whole structure
very firm and elastic. A simpler arrangement is a movable thwart made
of half-inch pine, with cross-pieces tongued and grooved across the
ends to prevent splitting. If made eighteen inches wide, such a thwart
may be used for a lee-board, as the canoeist should sit on or near the
bottom of his craft when under canvas.
"There are some advantages about Red Lake canoes," said the Vice.
"Very plebeian though," said the Cook, satirically; "their principal
mission is to go cruising with Chrysalids in the capacity of tenders."
"Yes," said the Vice, "I admit their carrying capacity."
"And their superior speed," said the Cook.
"And their great stability," added the Commodore. So with cheerful
chaff the fleet went on its way, and in a couple of hours was making
camp on a pretty island, evidently a resort for picnickers and which
was playfully called "Murderer's Isle," from an unpleasant episode of
early days.
The Commodore, having noted an abundance of drift lying about,
detailed himself to procure fire-wood, and stretched at full length
upon the dry sand, leisurely tossed fragments of wood toward the spot
where the Cook was engaged in the soothing attempt to light a fire with
damp paper and wet matches, and the Purser was scraping, within the
water's edge, a hole to be used after supper as a dish-pan, when the
expedition suddenly obtained its first foreign view of the picturesque.
From the shore of the main land there crept out something which at
first bore itself somewhat as indicated on the next page.
[Illustration: The Picturesque afar.]