THROUGH ONTO SUPERIOR
“I wonder if we have time to shoot the rapids again,” exclaimed Ted, his
blood a-tingle from the thrill of the dash through the swirling foam, as
the three of them walked up to the canal, the Indian towing his canoe.
“How much would you do it for, Chief?” The boy had first thought to call
the redman by his name, then, remembering that Captain Perkins had
avoided its use, he had employed the latter’s mode of address.
“Same price, two dollar,” grunted Afraid-of-his-wife.
“You certainly are a robber,” laughed Phil. “The second time is always
cheaper, you know.”
“Huh, you Yankee. Injun know. Yankee heap stingy. Help carry canoe back,
one dollar,” declared the redskin, while the boys roared, both at his
characterization of a Yankee and at his shrewdness in obtaining
assistance for the “carry” of more than a mile.
“What do you say, Phil, is it a go, or don’t you think we can afford
it?”
“I guess we can stand the expense, Ted, but we’d better wait before
making any bargain until we see how much time we have.”
The hurried approach of one of the Admiral’s deck hands settled the
matter, however.
“We’ve got a chance to lock through right now, and the skipper said you
was to get a move on,” panted the sailor.
“All right. Sorry, Chief, that we can’t help you tote your canoe back,”
said Phil, handing the redman his fee.
The Indian made no comment, however, simply pocketed his money, and then
sprang into his canoe, which he paddled vigorously toward the lock.
“Where’s he going?” inquired Ted, as they broke into a trot.
“To get into the lock and go through with us,” replied the sailor. “No
‘carrying’ for him. Why, I’ve seen a redskin wait half a day for a
chance to lock through rather than tote his canoe the mile.”
“I’ve always heard Indians were lazy,” commented Ted.
“Only one thing lazier and that’s a New Orleans roustabout. I’ve seen
the time down there when the shippers wanted to load cotton quick and
offered those niggers double wages, yet they wouldn’t lift a finger
’count of its being Sunday.”
As the three came within hailing distance of the Admiral, Captain
Perkins ordered them to hurry.
Already men were dragging her hawsers toward the spiles and cleats for
the first lock, and, jumping aboard, Phil and Ted hastened to the
bridge.
“If there’s a twenty-foot fall between Lake Superior and Lake Huron, how
in the world do we get up it?” asked the younger boy.
“Wait and see, don’t bother anybody with questions now,” quickly
admonished his brother, in a low voice.
And the warning was timely, for if there is one occasion more than
another on an ore carrier when officers and crew are busy, it is when
they are locking through the canal.
The second mate takes charge of the stern, giving orders to the men at
the lines both on shore and on the boat; the first mate renders similar
service at the bow, and the captain gives instructions to both,
regulates the speed of the vessel as she enters the locks, that she may
not ram the lock gates and thus put the entire canal out of commission,
at the same time taking care not to scrape or jam the plates against the
side of the canal—no trifling task with a boat whose beam is only a
couple of feet less than the width of the lock.
At last the Admiral was in position, held fast bow and stern by hawsers
running to each side of the canal.
“I don’t see anything happening yet,” observed Ted, in disappointment,
peering ahead intently.
“Just look astern and you will,” replied the captain.
Quickly both boys faced about and beheld several canal officials on the
bridges above the gates, which were slowly swinging shut. When at last
they were closed, the men turned the freight-car-brake like wheels which
regulate the sluices and dropped the bolts into place.
“Now turn around and look ahead again,” instructed the skipper.
On the bow lock another set of men were busy at the wheels, and as they
raised the sluices, water began to bubble and foam at the bottom of the
gates.
Soon the big carrier commenced to strain at her moorings, her hawsers
creaking and groaning.
“Why, the boat is rising,” exclaimed Ted, excitedly.
The skipper was giving his attention to his boat again, and the boy’s
comment was lost in the shouts of “Ease off a bit, bow! Ease off,
stern!” that were yelled at the line-tenders on the carrier.
Greater and greater became the volume of water rushing into the lock as
the gates were opened wider, and when they were full open, the Admiral
rode ten feet higher.
“Cast loose,” commanded Captain Perkins. When the line-tenders ashore
had received the word from the mates and obeyed, he pressed the button
for going ahead and the huge boat crept into the second lock.
The action was repeated in this, and when the lock was filled, the
Admiral was on the level of Lake Superior and steamed on her course, her
line-tenders scrambling aboard as best they could, for it is the law of
the lakes that they must look out for themselves and not depend on a
skipper’s waiting for them.
Heaving lines and hawsers properly coiled and the log set, the crew
settled down to their routine, thankful for the days ahead of them of
straight sailing.
In the best of humour because he had been locked through the canal
without waiting for the passage of the entire down-bound fleet that had
been anchored at the Superior mouth of the canal, Captain Perkins told
the boys to bring their chairs to the bridge and pointed out the points
of interest on the fast-receding shores.
“Where going?” he asked, as Phil arose and started to leave the bridge.
“To the galley, to get a drink of ice water.”
“Just step into the pilot house, take the pail and line, and heave her
over.”
“But I want ice water, sir.”
“And you’ll get it. On the hottest day of summer the water in Superior
is always cold, practically ice-cold.”
Skeptical, Phil obeyed, but when he raised the water to his lips, he
found that the captain was right.
“What makes it so cold?”
“That is the question no one has yet answered satisfactorily. Superior
is a queer lake. There is less known about it and it is more feared than
any of the Great Lakes, even than Erie, where terrific storms come up in
a twinkling. You’ve found how cold the water is, and if you’ll look over
the side, you will notice that it is green, while the water in the other
lakes is blue. They say that no body which was drowned in Superior has
ever come to the surface, and, you know, in ordinary water a dead body
will rise in time.”
“Is that the reason the lake is so feared?” inquired Ted.
“Partly. The storms, when we do get them, are terrible. But the worst
thing is the fog—it comes as suddenly as the big winds on Erie. See that
light-house off the port bow?” And the skipper pointed to a column,
painted white with a red pinnacle, which was just visible on the end of
a barren promontory. “Well, that’s White Fish Point Light-house, and
there is nothing but white sand and scrub pine for miles in any shore
direction. About thirty miles southwest of the light-house is an
uncharted reef, at least it was uncharted five years ago, and that’s the
time I’m going to tell you about.
“I was bound down on the Queen, a little two-hundred-and-fifty-foot tub,
loaded with every ounce of copper we dared put in her. It was early in
December—owners took chances then running later into the winter that
they don’t take now—and it was bitter cold.
“Masts, cabins, deck, and rails were coated with ice, but the day broke
clear, after a misty snow. I was crowding the old tub because I knew if
the cold held, I’d be ice-bound at the Soo and unable to get through.
“Suddenly, along near the middle of the forenoon, a fog settled down on
us, almost before you could say the words. I slackened speed a trifle,
but not much, because I was afraid of ice. For three hours we plugged
along, blowing our fog-horn and holding our course, as we thought.
“All at once there sounded a series of reports, short and sharp, as
though somebody was exploding several sticks of dynamite, one at a time.
I knew quick enough we’d grounded, but before my first mate or I could
speak, there came a long, grating sound and the old tub began to settle.
“I tell you, it didn’t take us long to get into my cutter, the crew only
numbered twenty all told, and pull away from the Queen. We hadn’t gone
more than nine or ten fathoms when the old tub went down.
“Well, the fog still held and we knew we were off our course, but we
rowed and we rowed and we rowed. It seemed as though it grew colder
every minute, and after we’d rowed about six hours, the men’s hands and
feet began to freeze. But we kept at it.
“Some of the men began to whine that we were rowing straight out into
the lake, and when darkness came, with no shore in sight, I admit I lost
heart. However, I didn’t let my men know it, and just nine hours after
we took to the cutter, we caught the flash from old White Fish—and
perhaps it didn’t look good! The next day, we got word to the Soo and a
tug was sent for us.”
“What became of the Queen?” asked Phil, when a long pause announced that
the captain had finished his story.
“You saw that boat to which I tooted three times as we passed out of the
canal? Well, that is the Queen. The next summer, divers found she was
only in some thirty feet of water. Her cargo, what there was left, was
lightered; she was raised, dry-docked, fitted with new plates, and the
first mate who was with me then is now her master.”