NORTH SEA WORK
I have dwelt at length upon the experiences of the North Sea, because
trivial as they appear on the surface, they concern the biggest
problem of human life--the belief that man is not of the earth, but
only a temporary sojourner upon it. This belief, that he is destined
to go on living elsewhere, makes a vast difference to one's estimate
of values. Life becomes a school instead of a mere stage, the object
of which is that our capacities for usefulness should develop through
using them until we reach graduation. What life gives to us can only
be of permanent importance as it develops our souls, thus enabling us
to give more back to it, and leaves us better prepared for any
opportunities than may lie beyond this world. The most valuable asset
for this assumption is love for the people among whom one lives.
The best teachers in life are far from being those who know most, or
who think themselves wisest. Show me a schoolmaster who does not love
his boys and you show me one who is of no use. Our faith in our
sonship of God is immensely strengthened by the puzzling fact that
even God cannot force goodness into us, His sons, because we share His
nature.
These convictions, anyhow, were the mental assets with which I had to
begin work, and no others. A scientific training had impressed upon me
that big and little are very relative terms; that one piece of work
becomes unexpectedly permanent and big, while that which appears to be
great, but is merely diffuse, will be temporary and ineffective.
Experience has taught me that one human life has its limits of direct
impetus, but that its most lasting value is its indirect influence.
The greatest Life ever lived was no smaller for being in a carpenter's
shop, and largely spent among a few ignorant fishermen. The Scarabee
had a valid _apologia pro vita sua_ in spite of Dr. Holmes. Tolstoy on
his farm, Milton without his sight, Bunyan in his prison, Pasteur in
his laboratory, all did great things for the world.
There is so much that is manly about the lives of those who follow the
sea, so much less artificiality than in many other callings, and with
our fishermen so many fewer of what we call loosely "chances in life,"
that to sympathize with them was easy--and sympathy is a long step
toward love. Life at sea also gives time and opportunity for really
knowing a man. It breaks down conventional barriers, and indeed almost
compels fellowship and thus an intelligent understanding of the
difficulties and tragedies of the soul of our neighbour. That rare
faculty of imagination which is the inspiration of all great lovers of
men is not alone indispensable. Hand in hand with this inevitably goes
the vision of one's own opportunity to help and not to hinder others,
even though it be through the unattractive medium of the collection
box--for that gives satisfaction only in proportion to the sacrifice
which we make.
In plain words the field of work offered me was attractive. It seemed
to promise me the most remunerative returns for my abilities, or, to
put it in another way, it aroused my ambitions sufficiently to make me
believe that my special capacities and training could be used to make
new men as well as new bodies. Any idea of sacrifice was balanced by
the fact that I never cared very much for the frills of life so long
as the necessities were forthcoming.
The attention that Harold Begbie's book "Twice-Born Men" received, was
to me later in life a source of surprise. One forgets that the various
religions and sects which aimed at the healing of men's souls have
concerned themselves more with intellectual creeds than material,
Christ-like ends. At first it was not so. Paul rejoiced that he was a
new man. There can be no question but that the Gospels show us truly
that the change in Christ's first followers was from men, the slaves
of every ordinary human passion, into men who were self-mastered--that
Christ taught by what he was and did rather than by insistence on
creeds and words. It has been seeing these changes in men's lives, not
only in their surroundings, though those improve immediately, that
reconcile one to our environment, and has induced me to live a
life-time in the wilds.
Another movement that was just starting at this time also interested
me considerably. A number of keen young men from Oxford and Cambridge,
having experienced the dangers that beset boys from big English public
schools who enter the universities without any definite help as to
their attitude toward the spiritual relationships of life, got
together to discuss the question. They recognized that the formation
of the Boys' Brigade in our conservative social life only touched the
youth of the poorer classes. Like our English Y.M.C.A., it was not
then aristocratic enough for gentlemen. They saw, however, that
athletic attainments carried great weight, and that all outdoor
accomplishments had a strong attraction for boys from every class.
Thus it happened that an organization called the Public School Camps
came into being. Its ideal was the uplift of character, and the
movement has grown with immense strides on both sides of the
Atlantic.
An integral part of my summer holidays during these years was spent as
medical officer at one of these camps. For many reasons it was wise in
England to run them on military lines, for besides the added dignity,
it insured the ability to maintain order and discipline. Some
well-known commandant was chosen who was a soldier also in the good
fight of faith. Special sites were selected, generally on the grounds
of some big country seat which were loaned by the interested lord of
the manor, and every kind of outdoor attraction was provided which
could be secured. Besides organized competitive games, there was
usually a yacht, good bathing, always a gymkhana, and numerous
expeditions and "hikes." Not a moment was left unoccupied. All of the
work of the camp was done by the boys, who served in turn on orderly
duty. The officers were always, if possible, prominent athletes, to
whom the boys could look up as being capable in physical as well as
spiritual fields. There was a brief address each night before "taps"
in the big marquee used for mess; and one night was always a straight
talk on the problems of sex by the medical officers, whom the boys
were advised to consult in their perplexities. These camps were among
the happiest memories of my life, and many of the men to-day
gratefully acknowledge that the camps were the turning-point of their
whole lives. The secret was unconventionality and absolute naturalness
with no "shibboleths." The boys were allowed to be boys absolutely in
an atmosphere of sincere if not omniscient fervour. On one occasion
when breaking up camp, a curly-headed young rascal in my tent, being
late on the last morning--unknown to any one--went to the train in his
pajamas, hidden only by his raincoat. At a small wayside station over
a hundred miles from London, whither he was bound, leaving his coat in
the carriage, he ventured into the refreshment stall of the
waiting-room. Unfortunately, however, he came out only to find his
train departed and himself in his nightclothes on the platform without
a penny, a ticket, or a friend. Eluding the authorities he reached the
huge Liverpool terminus by night to find a faithful friend waiting on
the platform for him with the sorely needed overgarment.
No one was ever ashamed to be a Christian, or of what Christ was, or
what he did and stood for. However, to ignore the fact that the mere
word "missionary" aroused suspicion in the average English
unconventional mind--such as those of these clean, natural-minded
boys--would be a great mistake. Unquestionably, as in the case of
Dickens, a missionary was unpractical if not hypocritical, and mildly
incompetent if not secretly vicious. I found myself always fighting
against the idea that I was termed a missionary. The men I loved and
admired, especially such men as those on our athletic teams, felt
really strongly about it. Henry Martyn--as a scholar--was a hero to
those who read of him, though few did. Moreover, who does not love
Charles Kingsley? Even as boys, we want to be "a man," though Kingsley
was a "Parson Lot." It always seemed that a missionary was naturally
discounted until he had proved his right to be received as an ordinary
being. Once after being the guest of a bank president, he told me that
my stay was followed by that of their bishop, who was a person of
great importance. When the bishop had gone, he asked his two boys one
day. "Well, which do you like best, the bishop or the doctor?" "Ach,"
was the reply, "the bishop can't stand on his head." On another
occasion during a visit--while lecturing on behalf of the
fishermen--and doing my usual evening physical drill in my bedroom,
by a great mischance I missed a straight-arm-balance on a chair, fell
over, and nearly brought the chandelier of the drawing-room down on
the heads of some guests. That a so-called "missionary" should be so
worldly as to wish to keep his body fit seemed so unusual that I heard
of that trifle a hundred times.
The Church of Christ that is coming will be interested in the forces
that make for peace and righteousness in this world rather than in
academic theories as to how to get rewards in another. That will be a
real stimulus to fitness and capacity all round instead of a dope for
failures. It is that element in missions to-day, such as the
up-to-date work of the Rockefeller Institute and other medical
missions in China and India, which alone holds the respect of the mass
of the people. The value of going out merely to make men of different
races think as we think is being proportionately discounted with the
increase of education.
Our North Sea work grew apace. Vessel after vessel was added to the
fleet. Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, became interested, and besides
subscribing personally toward the first hospital boat, permitted it to
be named in her honour. According to custom the builders had a
beautiful little model made which Her Majesty agreed to accept. It was
decided that it should be presented to her in Buckingham Palace by the
two senior mission captains.
The journey to them was a far more serious undertaking than a winter
voyage on the Dogger Bank. However, arrayed in smart blue suits and
new guernseys and polished to the last degree, they set out on the
eventful expedition. On their return every one was as anxious to know
"how the voyage had turned out" as if they had been exploring new
fishing grounds around the North Cape in the White Sea. "Nothing to
complain of, boys, till just as we had her in the wind's eye to shoot
the gear," said the senior skipper. "A big swell in knee-breeches
opened the door and called out our names, when I was brought up all
standing, for I saw that the peak halliard was fast on the port side.
The blame thing was too small for me to shift over, so I had to leave
it. But, believe me, she never said a word about it. That's what I
call something of a lady."
At this time we had begun two new ventures, an institute at Yarmouth
for fishermen ashore and a dispensary vessel to be sent out each
spring among the thousands of Scotch, Manx, Irish, and French
fishermen, who carried on the herring and mackerel fishery off the
south and west coast of Ireland.
The south Irish spring fishery is wonderfully interesting. Herring and
mackerel are in huge shoals anywhere from five to forty miles off the
land, and the vessels run in and out each day bringing back the catch
of the night. Each vessel shoots out about two miles of net, while
some French ones will shoot out five miles. Thus the aggregate of nets
used would with ease stretch from Ireland to New York and back. Yet
the undaunted herring return year after year to the disastrous
rendezvous. The vessels come from all parts. Many are the large
tan-sailed luggers from the Scottish coasts, their sails and hulls
marked "B.F." for Banff, "M.E." for Montrose, "C.N." for Campbelltown,
etc. With these come the plucky little Ulster boats from Belfast and
Larne, Loch Swilly and Loch Foyle; and not a few of the hereditary
seafaring men from Cornwall, Devon, and Dorset. Others also come from
Falmouth, Penzance, and Exmouth. Besides these are the Irish
boats--few enough, alas, for Paddy is not a sailor. A good priest had
tried to induce his people to share this rich harvest by starting a
fishery school for boys at Baltimore, where net-making and every other
branch of the industry was taught. It was to little purpose, for I
have met men hungry on the west coast, who were trying to live on
potato-raising on that bog land who were graduates of Father D.'s
school.
There was one year when we ourselves were trying out the trawling in
Clew Bay and Blacksod, and getting marvellous catches; so much so that
I remember one small trawler from Grimsby on the east coast of England
making two thousand dollars in two days' work, while the Countess of
Z. fund was distributing charity to the poverty-stricken men who lived
around the bay itself. The Government of Ireland also made serious
efforts to make its people take up the fishery business. About one
million dollars obtained out of the escheated funds of the Church of
England in Ireland, when that organization was disestablished by Mr.
Gladstone, was used as a loan fund which was available for fishermen,
resident six months, at two per cent interest. They were permitted to
purchase their own boat and gear for the fishery out of the money thus
provided.
While we lay in Durham Harbour at the entrance to Waterford Harbour,
we met many Cornishmen who were temporarily resident there, having
come over from Cornwall to qualify for borrowing the money to get
boats and outfit. During one week in which we were working from that
port, there were so many saints' days on which the Irish crews would
not go out fishing, but were having good times on the land, that the
skippers, who were Cornishmen, had to form a crew out of their own
numbers and take one of their boats to sea.
One day we had landed on the Arran Islands, and I was hunting ferns in
the rock crevices, for owing to the warmth of the Gulf current the
growth is luxuriant. On the top of the cliffs about three hundred feet
high, I fell in with two Irishmen smoking their pipes and sprawling on
the edge of the precipice. The water below was very deep and they were
fishing. I had the fun of seeing dangling codfish hauled leisurely up
all that long distance, and if one fell off on the passage, it was
amusing to note the absolute insouciance of the fishermen, who assured
me that there were plenty more in the sea.
It has always been a puzzle to me why so few tourists and yachtsmen
visit the south and west coast of Ireland. Its marvellous wild, rock
scenery, its exquisite bays,--no other words describe them,--its
emerald verdure, and its interesting and hospitable people have given
me, during the spring fishing seasons that I spent on that coast, some
of the happiest memories of my life. On the contrary, most of the
yachts hang around the Solent, and the piers of Ryde, Cowes, and
Southampton, instead of the magnificent coast from Queenstown to
Donegal Cliffs, and from there all along West Scotland to the
Hebrides.
About this time our work established a dispensary and social centre at
Crookhaven, just inside the Fastnet Lighthouse, and another in Tralee
on the Kerry coast, north of Cape Clear. Gatherings for worship and
singing were also held on Sundays on the boats, for on that day
neither Scotch, Manx, nor English went fishing. The men loved the
music, the singing of hymns, and the conversational addresses. Many
would take some part in the service, and my memories of those
gatherings are still very pleasant ones.
On this wild coast calls for help frequently came from the poor
settlers as well as from the seafarers. A summons coming in one day
from the Fastnet Light, we rowed out in a small boat to that lovely
rock in the Atlantic. A heavy sea, however, making landing impossible,
we caught hold of a buoy, anchored off from the rock, and then rowing
in almost to the surf, caught a line from the high overhanging crane.
A few moments later one was picked out of the tumbling, tossing boat
like a winkle out of a shell, by a noose at the end of a line from a
crane a hundred and fifty feet above, swung perpendicularly up into
the air, and then round and into a trap-door in the side of the
lighthouse. On leaving one was swung out again in the same fashion,
and dangled over the tumbling boat until caught and pulled in by the
oarsmen.
Another day we rowed out nine miles in an Irish craft to visit the
Skerry Islands, famous for the old Beehive Monastery, and the
countless nests of gannets and other large sea-birds. The cliffs rise
to a great height almost precipitously, and the ceaseless thunder of
the Atlantic swell jealously guards any landing. There being no davit
or crane, we had just to fling ourselves into the sea, and climb up as
best we could, carrying a line to haul up our clothing from the boat
and other apparatus after landing, while the oarsmen kept her outside
the surf. To hold on to the slippery rock we needed but little
clothing, anyhow, for it was a slow matter, and the clinging power of
one's bare toes was essential. The innumerable gannets sitting on
their nests gave the island the appearance of a snowdrift; and we soon
had all the eggs that we needed lowered by a line. But some of the
gulls, of whose eggs we wanted specimens also, built so cleverly onto
the actual faces of the cliffs, that we had to adopt the old plan of
hanging over the edge and raising the eggs on the back of one's foot,
which is an exploit not devoid of excitement. The chief difficulty
was, however, with one of our number, who literally stuck on the top,
being unable to descend, at least in a way compatible with comfort or
safety. The upshot was that he had to be blindfolded and helped.
One of our Council, being connected at this time with the Irish
Poor-Relief Board and greatly interested in the Government efforts to
relieve distress in Ireland, arranged that we should make a voyage
around the entire island in one of our vessels, trying the trawling
grounds everywhere, and also the local markets available for making
our catch remunerative. There has been considerable activity in these
waters of late years, but it was practically pioneer work in those
days, the fishery being almost entirely composed of drift nets and
long lines. It was supposed that the water was too deep and the bottom
too uneven and rocky to make trawling possible. We had only a sailing
vessel of about sixty tons, and the old heavy beam trawl, for the
other trawl and steam fishing boats were then quite in their infancy.
The quantity and variety of victims that came to our net were
prodigious, and the cruise has remained as a dream in my memory,
combined as it was with so many chances of helping out one of the most
interesting and amiable--if not educated--peoples in the world. It
happened to be a year of potato scarcity; as one friend pointed out,
there was a surplus of Murphys in the kitchen and a scarcity of
Murphys in the cellar--"Murphys" being another name for that vegetable
which is so large a factor in Irish economic life. As mentioned
before, a fund, called the Countess of Z.'s fund, had been established
to relieve the consequent distress, and while we were fishing in Black
Sod Bay, the natives around the shore were accepting all that they
could secure. Yet one steam trawler cleared four hundred pounds
within a week; and our own fine catches, taken in so short a while,
made it seem a veritable fishermen's paradise for us, who were
accustomed to toil over the long combers and stormy banks of the North
Sea. The variety of fish taken alone made the voyage of absorbing
interest, numbering cod, haddock, ling, hake, turbot, soles, plaice,
halibut, whiting, crayfish, shark, dog-fish, and many quaint monsters
unmarketable then, but perfectly edible. Among those taken in was the
big angler fish, which lives at the bottom with his enormous mouth
open, dangling an attractive-looking bait formed by a long rod growing
out from his nose, which lures small victims into the cavern, whence,
as he possesses row upon row of spiky teeth which providentially point
down his throat, there is seldom any returning.
Among the many memories of that coast which gave me a vision of the
land question as it affected the people in those days, one in
particular has always remained with me. We had made a big catch in a
certain bay, a perfectly beautiful inlet. To see if the local
fishermen could find a market within reach of these fishing grounds,
with one of the crew, and the fish packed in boxes, we sailed up the
inlet to the market town of Bell Mullet. Being Saturday, we found a
market day in progress, and buyers, who, encouraged by one of the new
Government light railways, were able to purchase our fish. That
evening, however, when halfway home, a squall suddenly struck our own
lightened boat, which was rigged with one large lugsail, and capsized
her. By swimming and manoeuvring the boat, we made land on the low,
muddy flats. No house was in sight, and it was not until long after
dark that we two shivering masses of mud reached an isolated cabin in
the middle of a patch of the redeemed ground right in the centre of a
large bog. A miserably clad woman greeted us with a warm Irish
welcome. The house had only one room and accommodated the live-stock
as well as the family. A fine cow stood in one corner; a donkey tied
to the foot of the bed was patiently looking down into the face of the
baby. Father was in England harvesting. A couple of pigs lay under the
bed, and the floor space was still further encroached upon by a goodly
number of chickens, which were encouraged by the warmth of the peat
fire. They not only thought it their duty to emphasize our welcome,
but--misled by the firelight--were saluting the still far-off dawn.
The resultant emotions which we experienced during the night led us to
suggest that we might assist toward the erection of a cattle pen.
Before leaving, however, we were told, "Shure t' rint would be raised
in the fall," if such signs of prosperity as farm buildings greeted
the land agent's arrival.
The mouth of Loch Foyle, one of the most beautiful bays in Ireland,
gave us a fine return in fish. Especially I remember the magnificent
turbot which we took off the wild shore between the frowning basalt
cliffs of the Giant's Causeway, and the rough headlands of Loch
Swilly. We sold our fish in the historic town of Londonderry, where we
saw the old gun Mons Meg, which once so successfully roared for King
William, still in its place on the old battlements. By a packet
steamer plying to Glasgow, we despatched some of the catch to that
greedy market. At Loch Foyle there is a good expanse of sandy and mud
bottom which nurses quite a harvest of the sea, though--oddly
enough--close by off Rathlin Island is the only water over one hundred
fathoms deep until the Atlantic Basin is reached. The Irish Sea like
the North Sea is all shallow water. Crossing to the Isle of Man, we
delayed there only a short while, for those grounds are well known to
the Fleetwood trawlers, who supply so much fish to the dense
population of North Central England. We found little opportunity of
trawling off the west of Scotland, the ocean's bottom being in no way
suited to it. On reaching the Western Hebrides, however, we were once
more among many old friends. From Stornaway on the Isle of Lewis alone
some nine hundred drifters were pursuing the retreating armies of
herring.
The German hordes have taught us to think of life in large numbers,
but were the herring to elect a Kaiser, he would dominate in reality
an absolutely indestructible host. For hundreds of years fishermen of
all countries have without cessation been pursuing these friends of
mankind. For centuries these inexhaustible hordes have followed their
long pathways of the sea, swimming by some strange instinct always
more or less over the same courses--ever with their tireless enemies,
both in and out of the water, hot foot on their tracks. Sharks,
dog-fish, wolf-fish, cod, and every fish large enough to swallow them,
gulls, divers, auks, and almost every bird of the air, to say nothing
of the nets set now from steam-propelled ships, might well threaten
their speedy extermination. This is especially true when we remember
that even their eggs are preyed upon in almost incalculable bulk as
soon as they are deposited. But phoenix-like they continue to reappear
in such vast quantities that they are still the cheapest food on the
market. Such huge numbers are caught at one time that they have now
and again to be used for fertilizer, or dumped overboard into the sea.
The great bay of Stornaway Harbour was so deeply covered in oil from
the fish while we lay there, that the sailing boats raced to and fro
before fine breezes and yet the wind could not even ripple the
surface of the sea, as if at last millennial conditions had
materialized. Many times we saw nets which had caught such quantities
of fish at once that they had sunk to the bottom. They were only
rescued with great difficulty, and then the fish were so swollen by
being drowned in the net that it took hours of hard work and delay to
shake their now distended bodies out again.
The opportunities for both holding simple religious services and
rendering medical help from our dispensary were numerous, and we
thought sufficiently needed to call for some sort of permanent effort;
so later the Society established a small mission room in the harbour.
Alcohol has always been a menace to Scotch life, though their
fishermen were singularly free from rioting and drunkenness. Indeed,
their home-born piety was continually a protest to the indulgence of
the mixed crowd which at that time followed King Henry. Scores of
times have I seen a humble crew of poor fishermen, who themselves
owned their small craft, observing the Sunday as if they were in their
homes, while the skippers of large vessels belonging to others fished
all the week round at the beck of their absent owners, thinking they
made more money in that way.
In 1891 the present Lord Southborough, then Mr. Francis Hopwood, and a
member of the Mission Board, returned from a visit to Canada and
Newfoundland. He brought before the Council the opportunities for
service among the fishermen of the northwest Atlantic, and the
suggestion was handed on to me in the form of a query. Would I
consider crossing the Atlantic in one of our small sailing vessels,
and make an inquiry into the problem?
Some of my older friends have thought that my decision to go was made
under strong religious excitement, and in response to some deep-seated
conviction that material sacrifices or physical discomforts commended
one to God. I must, however, disclaim all such lofty motives. I have
always believed that the Good Samaritan went across the road to the
wounded man just because he wanted to. I do not believe that he felt
any sacrifice or fear in the matter. If he did, I know very well that
I did not. On the contrary, there is everything about such a venture
to attract my type of mind, and making preparations for the long
voyage was an unmitigated delight.
The boat which I selected was ketch-rigged--much like a yawl, but more
comfortable for lying-to in heavy weather, the sail area being more
evenly distributed. Her freeboard being only three feet, we replaced
her wooden hatches, which were too large for handling patients, by
iron ones; and also sheathed her forward along the water-line with
greenheart to protect her planking in ice. For running in high seas we
put a large square sail forward, tripping the yard along the foremast,
much like a spinnaker boom. Having a screw steering gear which took
two men to handle quickly enough when she yawed and threatened to jibe
in a big swell, it proved very useful.
It was not until the spring of 1892 that we were ready to start. We
had secured a master with a certificate, for though I was myself a
master mariner, and my mate had been in charge of our vessel in the
North Sea for many years, we had neither of us been across the
Atlantic before. The skipper was a Cornishman, Trevize by name, and a
martinet on discipline--an entirely new experience to a crew of North
Sea fishermen. He was so particular about everything being just so
that quite a few days were lost in starting, though well spent as far
as preparedness went. Nothing was wanting when at last, in the second
week of June, the tugboat let us go, and crowds of friends waved us
good-bye from the pier-head as we passed out with our bunting
standing. We had not intended to touch land again until it should rise
out of the western horizon, but off the south coast of Ireland we met
with heavy seas and head winds, so we ran into Crookhaven to visit our
colleagues who worked at that station. Our old patients in that lonely
corner were almost as interested as ourselves in the new venture, and
many were the good eggs and "meals of greens" which they brought down
to the ship as parting tokens. Indeed, we shrewdly guessed that our
"dry" principles alone robbed us of more than "one drop o' potheen"
whose birth the light of the moon had witnessed.
As we were not fortunate in encountering fair winds, it was not until
the twelfth day that we saw our first iceberg, almost running into it
in a heavy fog. The fall in the temperature of the sea surface had
warned us that we were in the cold current, and three or four days of
dense fog emphasized the fact. As it was midsummer, we felt the change
keenly, when suddenly on the seventeenth day the fog lifted, and a
high evergreen-crowned coast-line greeted our delighted eyes. A lofty
lighthouse on a rocky headland enabled us almost immediately to
discover our exact position. We were just a little north of St. John's
Harbour, which, being my first landfall across the Atlantic, impressed
me as a really marvellous feat; but what was our surprise as we
approached the high cliffs which guard the entrance to see dense
columns of smoke arising, and to feel the offshore wind grow hotter
and hotter as the pilot tug towed us between the headlands. For the
third time in its history the city of St. John's was in flames.
The heat was fierce when we at last anchored, and had the height of
the blaze not passed, we should certainly have been glad to seek again
the cool of our icy friends outside. Some ships had even been burned
at their anchors. We could count thirteen fiercely raging fires in
various parts of the city, which looked like one vast funeral pyre.
Only the brick chimneys of the houses remained standing blackened and
charred. Smoke and occasional flame would burst out here and there as
the fickle eddies of wind, influenced, no doubt, by the heat, whirled
around as if in sport over the scene of man's discomfitures. On the
hillside stood a solitary house almost untouched, which, had there
been any reason for its being held sacred, might well have served as a
demonstration of Heaven's special intervention in its behalf. As it
was, it seemed to mock the still smouldering wreck of the beautiful
stone cathedral just beside it. Among the ruins in this valley of
desolation little groups of men darted hither and thither, resembling
from the harbour nothing so much as tiny black imps gloating over a
congenial environment. I hope never again to see the sight that might
well have suggested Gehenna to a less active imagination than Dante's.
Huts had been erected in open places to shelter the homeless; long
queues of hungry human beings defiled before temporary booths which
served out soup and other rations. Every nook and corner of house-room
left was crowded to overflowing with derelict persons and their
belongings. The roads to the country, like those now in the environs
of the towns in northern France, were dotted with exiles and belated
vehicles, hauling in every direction the remnants of household goods.
The feeling as of a rudely disturbed antheap dominated one's mind, and
yet, in spite of it all, the hospitality and welcome which we as
strangers received was as wonderful as if we had been a relief ship
laden with supplies to replace the immense amount destroyed in the
ships and stores of the city. Moreover, the cheerfulness of the town
was amazing. Scarcely a "peep" or "squeal" did we hear, and not a
single diatribe against the authorities. Every one had suffered
together. Nor was it due to any one's fault. True, the town
water-supply had been temporarily out of commission, some stranger was
said to have been smoking in the hay loft, Providence had not
specially intervened to save property, and hence this result. Thus to
our relief it was a city of hope, not of despair, and to our amazement
they were able to show most kindly interest in problems such as ours
which seemed so remote at the moment. None of us will ever forget
their kindness, from the Governor Sir Terence O'Brien, and the Prime
Minister, Sir William Whiteway, to the humblest stevedore on the
wharves.
I had expected to spend the greater part of our time cruising among
the fishing schooners out of sight of land on the big Banks as we did
in the North Sea; but I was advised that owing to fog and isolation,
each vessel working separately and bringing its own catch to market,
it would be a much more profitable outlay of time, if we were to
follow the large fleet of over one hundred schooners, with some thirty
thousand fishermen, women, and children which had just sailed North
for summer work along the coast of Labrador. To better aid us the
Government provided a pilot free of expense, and their splendid
Superintendent of Fisheries, Mr. Adolph Nielsen, also accepted the
invitation to accompany us, to make our experiment more exhaustive and
valuable by a special scientific inquiry into the habits and manner of
the fish as well as of the fishermen. Naturally a good deal of delay
had occurred owing to the unusual congestion of business which needed
immediate attention and the unfortunate temporary lack of facilities;
but we got under way at last, and sailing "down North" some four
hundred miles and well outside the land, eventually ran in on a
parallel and made the Labrador coast on the 4th of August.
The exhilarating memory of that day is one which will die only when we
do. A glorious sun shone over an oily ocean of cerulean blue, over a
hundred towering icebergs of every fantastic shape, and flashing all
of the colours of the rainbow from their gleaming pinnacles as they
rolled on the long and lazy swell. Birds familiar and strange left the
dense shoals of rippling fish, over which great flocks were hovering
and quarrelling in noisy enjoyment, to wave us welcome as they swept
in joyous circles overhead.