Left on Labrador

C >> Charles Asbury Stephens >> Left on Labrador

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... Each day, as we got farther north, the sun set later, and rose
earlier; till, on the 28th of June, its bright red disk was scarcely
twenty minutes below the northern horizon.

... On the 3d of July we discerned Cape Farewell,--a mountainous
headland, crowned with snow, at a distance of fifteen or twenty
leagues.

From this point, Cape Resolution, on the north side of the entrance
into Hudson Straits, bears west ten degrees north, and is distant not
far from seven hundred miles. The wind serving, we bore away for it.

... During June and July, Hudson Straits are full of ice driving out
into the Atlantic. This ice forms in the winter in vast quantities in
the myriads of inlets and bays on both sides of the straits. The
spring breaks it up, and the high tides beat it in pieces. It is rare
that a vessel can enter the straits during June for the out-coming
ice; but by July it has become sufficiently broken up and dispersed to
allow of an entrance by keeping close up to the northern side, which
has always been found to be freest from ice in July and August; while,
on coming out in September, it is best to hug the southern main (land)
as closely as possible.

On our voyage up we had taken great pains to read and compare every
account we could find regarding both the ice and the general character
of the straits. Our plan was to make Cape Resolution, wait for a fair
wind, and slip into the straits early in the day, so as to get as far
up as possible ere night came on. A person who has never been there
can form no idea of the tremendous force with which the tide sets into
the straits, the velocity of the currents, and the amazing smash they
made among the ice....

CHAPTER III.

Cape Resolution.--The Entrance into Hudson's Straits.--The Sun
in the North-east.--The Resolution Cliffs.--Sweating among
Icebergs.--A Shower and a Fog.--An Anxious Night.--A Strange
Rumbling.--Singular Noises and Explosions.--Running into an
Iceberg.--In Tow.--A Big Hailstone drops on Deck.--Boarding an
Iceberg.--Solution of the Explosions.--A Lucky Escape.

"Land and ice, land and ice, ho!" sang out our old sea-dog from his
lookout in the bow.

'Twas the morning of the 7th of July. We had expected to make Cape
Resolution the evening before. Kit and I had been on deck till one
o'clock, watching in the gleaming twilight. Never shall I forget those
twilights. The sun was not out of sight more than three hours and a
half, and the whole northern semicircle glowed continuously. It shone
on the sails; it shone on the sea. The great glassy faces of the
swells cast it back in phosphorescent flashes. The patches of ice
showed white as chalk. The ocean took a pale French gray tint.
Overhead the clouds drifted in ghostly troops, and far up in the sky
an unnatural sort of glare eclipsed the sparkle of stars. Properly
speaking, there was no night. One could read easily at one o'clock.
Twilight and dawn joined hands. The sun rose far up in the north-east.
Queer nights these! Until we got used to it, or rather until fatigue
conquered us, we had no little difficulty in going to sleep. We were
not accustomed to naps in the daytime. As a sort of compromise, I
recollect that we used to spread an old sail over the skylight, and
hang up blankets over the bull's-eyes in the stern, to keep out this
everlasting daylight. We needed night. Born far down toward the
equinoxes, we sighed for our intervals of darkness and shadows. But we
got used to it after a fortnight of gaping. One gets used to any
thing, every thing. "Use is second nature," says an old proverb. It is
more than that: it is _Nature_ herself.

Land and ice, ho!

"Tumble out!" shouted Raed.

It was half-past three. We went on deck. The sun was shining brightly.
Scarcely any wind; sea like glass in the sunlight; ice in small
patches all about.

"Where's your land?" asked Wade.

"Off there," replied young Hobbs, pointing to the north-west.

Ah, yes! there it was,--a line of dark gray cliffs, low in the water.
Between us and them a dozen white icebergs glittered in the sun.

"Is that the cape, captain?" queried Kit.

"Must be," was the reply. "Same latitude. Can't be any thing else.
Answers to the chart exactly."

"Oh! that's Cape Resolution fast enough," said Raed. "Those cliffs
correspond with the descriptions, I should say."

"How far off?" asked Wade.

"Well, seven or eight leagues," replied the captain.

"The Button Islands, on the south side of the entrance, ought to be in
sight, to the south-west," remarked Raed, looking off in that
direction; "but I don't see them," he added.

The captain got his glass, and climbed up to the gaff of the foresail.

"Yes, there 'tis!" he shouted. "Low down; low land. No cliffs."

"Why are they called 'Button Isles' on the chart?" he asked, sliding
down the shrouds. "Is it because they resemble buttons?"

"No," said Raed. "They were named for Capt. Button, who sailed through
here more than a century ago. He was one of those navigators who tried
so hard to find the 'north-west passage' by sailing through Hudson's
Straits. During the first half of the eighteenth century, the London
merchants sent out expeditions nearly every year in the hope of
finding a passage through here to China and India. This Button was one
of their captains."

"Then this low land to the south-west of us is Cape Chidleigh, is it
not?" said Wade.

"No," said Raed. "Cape Chidleigh is the main land of Labrador down to
the south-east of the Button Isles. You couldn't see that, could you,
captain?"

"Saw some high peaks to the south, far down on the horizon. Those are
on Labrador, I presume. Couldn't say whether they are the cape proper
or not. They are in about the direction of the cape as indicated on
the chart."

As the sun rose higher a breeze sprang up, and the sails filled. The
schooner was headed W.N.W. to run under the cape; Bonney being set to
watch sharp for the floating ice.

"Coffee, sar!" cried Palmleaf from the companion-way.

We went down to breakfast and talk over matters with the captain. It
was decided to work up under the cape, and so, hugging the land on the
north side as closely as possible, get into the strait as far as we
could that day. We all felt anxious; for though the sea was now
smooth, sky clear, and the wind fair, yet we knew that it was rather
the exception than the average. The idea of being caught here among
these cliffs and icebergs in a three-days' fog or a north-east gale,
with the whole fury of the Atlantic at our backs, was anything but
encouraging. The advice of the elder navigators, "to seize a favorable
day and get as far up the straits as possible," kept recurring to our
minds. The words had an ominous sound. They were the utterances of
many a sad experience.

"There never could be a better day nor a fairer wind," remarked the
captain.

"Now's our chance; I'm convinced of it," said Kit.

The mainsail, which had been taken in the previous evening, and the
topsail, were both set; and, the breeze freshening, "The Curlew"
rapidly gathered way. Considerable care had to be used, however, to
avoid the broad cakes of ice which were floating out all around us.
Small bits, and pieces as large as a hogshead, we paid no attention
to; let the cut-water knock them aside. But there were plenty of
large, angular, ugly-looking masses, which, if struck would have
endangered the schooner's side. These were sheered off from: so that
our course was made up of a series of curves and windings in and out.
It seemed odd to see so much ice, and feel the deadly chill of the
water, with so hot a sun on deck that the pitch started on the deal
planks. In our companion-way the thermometer rose to eighty-seven
degrees, with icebergs glittering at every point of the compass.

By eight o'clock, A.M., we were abreast the cliffs of Resolution
Island, at a distance of a couple of miles. With our glasses we
examined them attentively. Hoary, gray, and bare, they were, as when
first split out of the earth's flinty crust, and thrust above the
waves. The sun poured a flood of warm light over them; but no green
thing could be discerned. Either there was no soil, or else the bleak
frost-winds effectually checked the outcrop of life. To the south the
Button Islands showed like brown patches on the shimmering waves. The
width of the straits at this point is given on the chart at twelve
leagues,--thirty-six miles. We could see the land on either side.

By eleven, A.M., we were twenty miles inside the outer cape. The
cliffs continued on the north side, and the schooner was headed up
within a mile of them. There were no signs of reefs or sunken ledges,
however; and, on heaving the lead, a hundred fathoms of line were run
out without touching bottom. The cliffs seem thus to form the side of
an immense chasm partially filled by the ocean. Raed estimated their
height above the sea to be near four hundred feet. At the distance of
a mile they appeared to tower and almost impend over us.

Toward noon the wind flawed for half an hour, then dropped altogether.
The current, which was setting out to sea, began to drag us back with
it slowly. There wasn't a breath of air stirring. Blazes! how the sun
poured down! Guard got round in the thin shadow of the mainsail, and
actually lolled among icebergs. There we were stuck. That is one of
the disadvantages of a sailing-vessel: you have to depend on the
wind,--the most capricious thing in the universe. I suppose the
air-current had veered about from north-east to north, so that the
lofty cliffs intercepted them completely.

Dinner was eaten. One o'clock,--two o'clock. We were glad to take
refuge with Guard in the shade of the sails. All around us was a
stillness which passes words, broken loudly by our steps on the hot
deck, and the occasional graze of ice-cakes against the sides. We felt
uneasy enough. This calm was ominous.

"There's mischief brewing!" muttered Kit; "and here we are in the very
jaws of the straits!"

Since the wind dropped, the ice had seemed to thicken ahead. To the
southward, farther out from the shore, where the outward current was
stronger, we could see it driving along in a glittering procession of
white bergs. The wisdom of keeping on the north side of the strait was
apparent from this; though it seemed likely to cost us dear in the
consequent loss of the wind. On many of the larger cakes we could see
dark objects, which the glass disclosed to be seals, sunning.

Presently a dense mass of blue-black clouds loomed suddenly over the
brow of the cliffs.

"A shower!" cried Raed.

"A squall!" exclaimed old Trull.

"All hands take in sail!" shouted the captain.

Our Gloucester lads needed no further awakening. We all bore a hand,
and had the mainsail down on the boom, short order; and, while Wade
and I tried our hand at lashing it with the gaskets, the rest got down
the foresail and the topsail. The jib was not furled, but got ready to
"let go" in case of fierce gusts. Low, heavy peals of thunder began to
rumble behind the cliffs. The dark cloud-mass heaved up, till a misty
line of foamy, driving rain and hail showed over the flinty crags.
Bright flashes gleamed out, followed shortly by heavy, hollow peals.
The naked ledges added vastly, no doubt, to the tone of the
reverberations. The rain-drift broke over the cliffs; but the shower
passed mainly to the north-west. Only some scattered drops, with a few
big straggling pellets of hail, hit on the deck. An eddy of cool air
followed the gust. The jib puffed out on a sudden.

"Up with the foresail!" was the order.

It was at once set; and "The Curlew" started on in the wake of the
shower. The cloud passed across the straits diagonally to the
south-west. We could see it raining heavily on the ice-flecked water a
few miles farther up; and immediately the whole surface began to
steam. We watched it with considerable anxiety.

"It will be a fog, I'm afraid," groaned Raed.

"It's sure to be," said young Hobbs. "I never seed a scud on the
'Banks' but 'ut it was allus follered by a fog."

White-gray, cold-looking clouds began to drift along the sun from the
seaward. A sudden change in the air was felt. Cool, damp gusts swept
down from the crags. The thermometer was falling rapidly. It had stood
at ninety-four degrees just previous to the shower. Kit now reported
it at seventy-three degrees; and, in less than an hour, it had fallen
twenty degrees more. This sudden change was probably due to the
veering of the wind from east round to north. The cold blasts from
"Greenland's icy mountains" speedily dissipated our miniature summer.
There was a general rush for great-coats and thick jackets. Thin lines
of vapor streamed up from the water as the cold gusts swept across it.
The hot sunbeams falling on the sea had doubtless raised the
temperature considerably, despite the ice; and this sudden change in
the air could but raise a great mist. Yet I doubt whether Nature's
wonderful and legitimate processes were ever regarded with greater
disfavor and apprehension.

"The barometer's falling a good deal too," remarked the captain,
coming hastily up the companion-stairs. "Either a rain-storm, or a
smart gale from the north'ard: both, perhaps. We're in a tight place."

"What's to be done?" Raed asked.

"Hadn't we better try to beat out of the straits into the open sea
again, clear of the land and ice?" said Kit.

"Can't do it. It would take all night to do that, if there were no ice
to hinder. The gale will come before morning, if it comes at all; and
the entrance of the straits would be the worst possible place to
weather it."

"But, captain, what can we do?" Wade demanded, looking a little pale.

"Well, not much. We must keep on,--get as far up the straits as we
can; and then trust to good luck to escape being smashed or jammed.
The farther we get up the channel, the less we shall feel the violence
of a gale from the seaward."

It was a rather gloomy prospect. The sky was thickening, and darkening
rapidly. The mist kept streaming up from the water. What wind there
was continued fitfully. We kept the foresail and the jib set, and
jogged on, doubling amid the ice. Meanwhile the fog grew so dense,
that every thing was very dim at fifty yards. But for the mist, and
the danger of striking against large fragments of ice, we should have
set the mainsail and the topsail to make the most of our wind ere it
blew too hard; for it was plainly rising. Now and then a gust would
sigh past the sheets. Supper was eaten in squads of two and three. The
thermometer fell constantly. It grew so chilly, that we were glad to
slip down into the galley occasionally to warm our fingers at
Palmleaf's stove. Guard had already taken up his quarters there.

"Dis am berry suddin change," the darky would remark gravely to each
of us as we successively made our appearance. "Berry suddin. The
gerometum fallin' fast. Srink 'im all up, ser cold. Now, dis forenoon
it am quite comf'ble; warm 'nuf ter take a nap in the sun: but
now--oo-oo-ooo! awful cold!" And Palmleaf would move his sable cheek
up close to the hot stove-pipe, Guard all the time regarding him
soberly from the other side.

Bidding the negro keep coffee hot and ready for us, we would hurry on
deck again, and resume our places in the bow; for it required vigilant
eyes to look out for all the ugly ice-cakes among which the schooner
was driving. The weather grew thicker, and the sky darker. By
half-past ten, P.M., although the sun must have been still high above
the horizon, it was dark as one often sees it on a stormy night when
there is a moon in the heavens. In fact, it grew too dark to make out
the ice-patches; for, despite our watchfulness, at about five minutes
to eleven we struck against a large mass with a shock which made
things rattle down stairs. Guard barked, and Palmleaf showed a very
scared face in the companion-way.

"Where are your eyes there, forward?" shouted the captain. "Couldn't
you see that?"

Just then we grazed pretty heavily against another cake.

"It is really getting too dark for us, captain," said Raed.

"Take in the foresail, then."

The sail was at once furled. The jib was kept on, however, to hold us
steady. We were now merely breasting the current, and driving on a
little with the gusts. Soon it began to rain,--rain and snow together.
The dreariness and uncertainty of our situation can hardly be
imagined. We did not even know how near we were to the foot of the
cliffs, and could merely keep the schooner headed as she had been
during the afternoon.

"The main thing for us now is to keep her as nearly stationary as we
can," said the captain. "Between wind and water, I hope not to move
half a knot all night."

It was now nearly twelve.

"We may as well go below," said Kit. "No use standing here in the
rain when we can do no good."

We had been up nearly twenty-one hours since our last nap. Sleep will
have its tribute, even in the face of danger. Hastily flinging off our
wet coats, we lay down. The wind and rain wailed among the rigging
above. _Chuck-chock, chock-chuck_, went the waves under the stern;
while every few minutes a heavy jarring _bump_, followed by a long
raspy _grind_ along the side, told of the icy processions floating
past. Those were our lullabies that night. Truly it required a sharp
summoning of our fortitude not to feel a little home-sick. But we went
to sleep; at least I did, and slept a number of hours.

Voices roused me. The captain was standing beside our mattresses.

"Wake up!" he was saying. "Get up, and come on deck!"

At the same moment I heard, indistinctly, a strange, rumbling sound.

"What is it? what's the matter?" cried Kit, starting up.

"Oh! don't be scared; we've been hearing it for some time," replied
the captain. "Put on your rubber coats."

We did so, and followed him up the stairway. The rain and snow still
came fast and thick. The deck was soppy. Hobbs was at the wheel.
Donovan and Weymouth were forward. I could just make them out,
standing wrapped up against the bulwarks.

"Now hark!" said the captain.

We all listened. A heavy noise, like that of some huge flouring-mill
in full operation, could be plainly heard above the swash of the waves
and the drive and patter of the storm.

"Thunder?--no, it isn't thunder," muttered Raed.

"Breakers!" exclaimed Kit. "It's the sea on the rocks,--those
cliffs,--isn't it?"

"Trull," said the captain to that old worthy, who was just poking his
head up out of the forecastle,--"Trull, is that noise the surf?"

The veteran turned an experienced ear aport, listened a moment, and
then replied,--

"No, sir," promptly.

"Well, what in the world is it, then?"

The old salt listened again attentively. The steady rumble continued
without intermission.

"Don't know, sir," replied Trull, shaking his head. "Never heard any
thing like it."

"Are you sure it's not breakers?" demanded Kit. "I'm afraid we're
drifting on the rocks. It's dead ahead too!"

But neither the captain nor Trull nor Donovan could believe it was the
surf.

"We began to hear it over an hour ago," remarked the captain. "It
sounded low then; we could just hear it: but it grows louder. It's
either coming towards us, or else we are going towards it. I presume
the storm drives us with it considerably."

"I tell you that it is some dangerous reef!" exclaimed Kit; "some hole
or cavern which the water is playing through."

"It may be," muttered the captain. "Starboard the helm, Hobbs!"

At this instant a heavy, near explosion boomed out, followed
momentarily by another and another.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Raed.

"Cannon!" shouted Wade: "it's a vessel in distress!"

"Impossible!" cried the captain. "No ship would fire cannon here, even
if wrecked. There wouldn't be one chance in ten thousand of its being
heard by another vessel."

_Boom!_

"Hark! did you not hear that splashing noise that followed the
explosion?" demanded Kit.

We had all heard it; for, by this time, the sailors who were below had
come on deck. The heavy rumbling noise began afresh, and sounded
louder than before. We were completely mystified, and stood peering
off from the bulwarks into the stormy obscurity of the night.

"Are there volcanoes on these straits, suppose?" Wade asked.

No one had ever heard of any.

"There were none in my geography," said Raed. "But there may be one
_forming_."

Indeed, we were so much in doubt, that even this improbable suggestion
was caught at for the moment.

"But where's the fire and smoke?" replied Kit. "Methinks it ought to
be visible."

We could feel, rather than see, that the schooner was veering slowly
to the left, in obedience to her helm,--a fact which left no doubt
that we were, as the captain had surmised, drifting with the storm
against the current; or perhaps, before this, the tide coming in had
made a counter-current up the straits. The roaring noise was growing
more distinct every minute; till all at once Bonney, who was looking
attentively out from the bow, exclaimed,--

"What's that ahead, captain? Isn't there something?"

We all strained our eyes.

Dim amid the fog and rain something which seemed like a great pale
shadow loomed before the schooner. For a moment we gazed, uncertain
whether it were real, or an illusion of darkness; then Donovan
shouted,--

"Ice!--it's an iceberg!"

"Hard a-starboard!" yelled Capt. Mazard.

It was not a hundred feet distant. Old Trull and Bonney caught up the
pike-poles to fend off with. "The Curlew" drove on. The vast shadowy
shape seemed to approach. A chill came with it. A few seconds more,
and the bowsprit punched heavily against the ice-mountain. The shock
sent the schooner staggering back like a pugilist with a "blimmer"
between the eyes. Had we been sailing at our usual rate, it would have
stove in the whole bow. The storm immediately forced us forward again;
and the bowsprit, again striking, slid along the ice with a dull,
crunching sound as the schooner fell off sidewise.

"Stand by those pike-poles!" shouted the captain; for so near was the
iceberg, that we could easily reach it with a ten-foot pole from the
bulwarks.

Striking the iron spikes into the ice, the men held the schooner off
while she drifted past. The rumbling noise, louder than before, seemed
now to come from out the solid berg.

"Let's get away from this before it splits or explodes again!"
exclaimed Raed.

"Heavens! it sounds like a big grist-mill in full blast!" said Kit.

"More like a powder-mill, I should judge from the blasts we heard a
few minutes ago," remarked Wade.

More poles were brought up, and we all lent a hand to push off from
our dangerous neighbor. After fending along its massy side for several
hundred yards, we got off clear from an angle.

"Farewell, old thunder-mill!" laughed Kit.

But we had not got clear of it so easily: for the vast lofty mass so
broke off the wind and storm, that, immediately on passing it to the
leeward, we hadn't a "breath of air;" and, as a consequence, the berg
soon drifted down upon us. Again we pushed off from it, and set the
fore-sail. The sail merely flapped occasionally, and hung idly; and
again the iceberg came grinding against us. There were no means of
getting off, save to let down the boat, and tow the schooner out into
the wind,--rather a ticklish job among ice, and in so dim a light.
"The Curlew" lay broadside against the berg, but did not seem to chafe
or batter much: on the contrary, we were borne along by the ice with
far less motion than if out in open water.

"Well, why not let her go so?" said Kit after we had lain thus a few
minutes. "There doesn't seem to be any great danger in it. This side
of the iceberg, so far as I can make it out, doesn't look very
dangerous."

"Not a very seamanlike way of doing business," remarked the captain,
looking dubiously around.

"Catching a ride on an iceberg," laughed Weymouth. "That sort of thing
used to be strictly forbidden at school."

"But only listen to that fearful rumble and roar!" said Raed. "It
seems to come from deep down in the berg. What is it?"

"Must be the sea rushing through some crack, or possibly the
rain-water and the water from the melted ice on top streaming down
through some hole into the sea," said the captain.

"But those explosions!--how would you account for those?" asked Wade.

"Well, I can't pretend to explain that. I have an idea, however, that
they resulted from the splitting off of large fragments of ice."

On the whole, it was deemed most prudent to let the schooner lay where
she was,--till daylight at least. Planks were got up from below, and
thrust down between the side and the ice to keep her from chafing
against the sharp angles.

By this time it was near six o'clock, morning, and had begun to grow
tolerably light. The rain still continued, however, as did also the
bellowings inside the iceberg. Old Trull and Weymouth were set to
watch the ice, and the rest of us went down to breakfast. The schooner
lay so still, that it seemed like being on shore again. We had got as
far as our second cup of coffee, I recollect, when we were startled by
another of the same heavy explosions we had heard a few hours
previous. It was followed instantly by a second. Then we heard old
Trull sing out,--

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