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.
[Illustration: _Copyright, National Geographic Society._
Rawson, MacMillan at the wheel, and Dr. Grosvenor.
On way to Sydney.]
[Illustration: “Yonder beneath the North Star lies our destination,
Lad.”]
[Illustration: 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.