Search:
A \ B \ C \ D \ E \ F \ G \ H \ I \ J \ K \ L \ M \ N \ O \ P \ R \ S \ T \ U \ V \ W \Z

Bowdoin Boys in Labrador by Jonathan Prince (Jr.) Cilley

J >> Jonathan Prince (Jr.) Cilley >> Bowdoin Boys in Labrador

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6



[Grand Falls] The falls proper are three hundred and sixteen feet
high, and just above the river narrows from two hundred and fifty to
fifty yards, the water shooting over a somewhat gradual downward
course and then plunging straight down with terrific force the
distance mentioned, and with an immense volume. The river is much
higher at times and the fall must be even grander, for while the party
was there the ground quaked with the shock of the descending stream,
and the river was nearly at its lowest point. At the bottom is a large
pool made by the change of direction of the river from south at and
above the falls to nearly east below. The canon begins at the pool and
extends as has been described, with many turns and windings, for
twenty-five miles through archaic rock. Above the falls in the wide
rapids, the bed was of the same rock, which seems to underlie the
whole plateau. In 1839, the falls were first seen by a white man, John
McLean, an officer of the Hudson Day Co., while on an exploring
expedition in that "great and terrible wilderness" known as Labrador.
His description is very general, but he was greatly impressed with the
stupendous height of the falls, and terms it one of the grandest
spectacles of the world. Twenty years later, one Kennedy, also an
employe of the Hudson Bay Co., persuaded an Iroquois Indian, who did
not share the superstitious dread of them common among the Labrador
Indians, to guide him to the thundering fall and misty chasm. He left
no account of his visit, however, and in fact, though one other man
reached them, and Mr. Holmes, an Englishman, made the attempt and
failed, no full account of the falls has been given to the world,
until Cary and Cole made their report. Above the falls as far as could
be seen, all was white water, indicating a fall of about one hundred
foot per mile. In the course of twenty-five or thirty miles there is a
descent of twelve hundred feet, nearly equal to the altitude of the
"Height of Land," as the interior plateau of Labrador is called, which
has probably been previously overestimated. The next forenoon was
spent in surveying and making what measurements could be made in the
absence of the instruments lost in the upset. At noon, after having
spent just twenty-four hours at Grand Falls, the party turned back.
The very fact of having succeeded, made distance shorter and fatigue
more easily borne, so they travelled along at a rattling pace,
surveying at times and little thinking of the disaster that had
befallen them. Camp was made on the river bank, beneath one of the
terraces which lined both sides.

Saturday Aug. 15th, the march back to the boat cache was resumed.
Towards night, as they approached the place, smoke was seen rising
from the ground, and fearing evil, the men broke into a run during the
last two miles. As Cary's journal puts it: "We arrived at our camp to
find boat and stores burnt and the fire still smoking and spreading.
Cole arrives first, and as I come thrashing through the bushes he sits
on a rock munching some burnt flour. He announces with an unsteady
voice: 'Well, she's gone.' We say not much, nothing that indicates
poor courage, but go about to find what we can in the wreck, and pack
up for a tramp down river. In an hour we have picked out everything
useful, including my money, nails, thread and damaged provisions, and
are on the way down river hoping to pass the rapids before dark,
starting at 5."

Their position was certainly disheartening. They were one hundred and
fifty miles from their nearest cache, and nearly three hundred from
the nearest settlement, already greatly used up, needing rest and
plenty of food; in a country that forbade any extended tramping inland
to cut off corners, on a river in most places either too rough for a
raft or with too sluggish a current to make rafting pay; and above
all, left with a stock of food comprising one quart of good rice,
brought back with them, three quarts of mixed meal, burnt flour and
burnt rice, a little tea, one can of badly dried tongue, and one can
of baked beans that were really improved by the fire. Add to this some
three dozen matches and twenty-five cartridges, blankets and what
things they had on the tramp to the falls, and the list of their
outfit, with which to cover the three hundred miles, is complete.
There was no time to be wasted, and that same night six miles were
made before camping. The next day the battle for life began. It was
decided that any game or other supplies found on the way should be
used liberally, while those with which they started were husbanded.
This day several trout were caught, line and hooks being part of each
man's outfit, and two square meals enjoyed, which proved the last for
a week. A raft was made that would not float the men and baggage, and
being somewhat discouraged on the subject of rafting by the failure,
another was not then attempted, and the men continued tramping.
Following the river, they found its general course between the rapids
and Lake Wanimikapo, S.S.E. During part of that day and all the next,
they followed in the track of a large panther, but did not get in
sight of him. Acting on the principle that they should save their
strength as much as possible, camps were gone into fairly early and
were well made; and this night, in spite of the desperate straits they
were in, both men enjoyed a most delightful sleep.

[Squirrel and Cranberries] After this some time every morning was
usually occupied in mending shoes. All sorts of devices were resorted
to to get the last bit of wear out of them, even to shifting from
right to left, but finally Cole had to make a pair of the nondescripts
from the leather lining of his pack, which lasted him to the vessel.
Cranberries were found during the day and at intervals during the
tramp, and were always drawn upon for a meal. About two quarts were
added to the stock of provision, and many a supper was made off a red
squirrel and a pint of stewed cranberries.

Wednesday, the 19th, another raft was made, which took the party into
the lake. This was more comfortable than tracking, yet they were in
the water for several hours while on the raft, which was made by
lashing two cross-pieces about four feet long on the ends of five or
six logs laid beside each other and from twenty to thirty feet long,
all fastened with roots, and having a small pile of brush to keep the
baggage dry. The still water of the lake made the raft useless, even
in a fresh, fair breeze, and so this one was abandoned two miles down,
and the weary tramping again resumed. Fortunately the water was so low
that advantage could be taken of the closely overgrown shore by
walking on the lake bed, and far better progress was made owing to the
firmer footing. Three days were used in getting down the lake, during
which time but one fish, a pickerel, was caught, where they had
expected to find an abundance.

At the foot of the lake, tracks were seen, which it was thought might
be those of hunters. It was learned later that they were more
probably tracks of Bryant's and Kenaston's party, who were following
them up and probably had been passed on the opposite side of the lake,
unnoticed in the heavy rain of the preceeding day. Some bits of meat
that had been thrown away were picked up and helped to fill the gap,
now becoming quite long, between square meals. Supper on this day is
noted in Cary's journal because they "feasted on three squirrels."
Having gotten out of the lake into rapid water, trout was once more
caught, and as on the following day, Sunday, the 23d, a bear's heart,
liver, etc., was found, and later several fish caught. The starvation
period was over.

In the afternoon another raft was built and the next day carried them
five miles down to the last cache. Though so terribly used up that the
odd jobs connected with making and breaking camp dragged fearfully,
and each day's advance had to be made by pure force of will, the men
felt that the worst was over and their final getting out of the woods
was a matter of time merely. At this cache, also, a note from Young
and Smith was found announcing their passage to that point all right
and in less time than expected, so they had drawn no supplies from the
stock there.

Tuesday, the 25th.--The day, by the way, that the Julia Decker and
party arrived at Rigolette according to plans, expecting to find the
whole Grand River party, and instead found only Young and Smith, who
had been waiting there about a week. Rafting was continued in a heavy
rain down to the Mininipi Rapids over which the raft was nearly
carried against the will of the occupants. At the foot of these rapids
a thirty mile tramp was begun, the raft that had carried them so well
for forty-five miles being abandoned, which took them past the Horse
Shoe and Gull Island Rapids and occupied most of the two following
days. The tracking was fair, and as starvation was over pretty good
time was made.

Thursday, the 27th.--A raft was made early in the morning that took
them by the Porcupine Rapids and landed them safely, though well
soaked, at the head of the first falls. Camp was made that night at
the first cache below the falls, forty miles having been covered
during the day.

[The last pistol shot] Friday, they fully expected to reach Joe
Michelin's house and get the relief that was sadly needed, but as the
necessity for keeping up became less imperative, their weakness began
to tell on them more. Cary's shoes became so bad that going barefoot
was preferable, except over the sharpest rocks, and Cole's feet had
become so sore that as a last resort his coat sleeves were cut off and
served as a cross between stockings and boots. They were doomed to
disappointment, however, and compelled to camp at nightfall with four
or five miles bad travelling and the wide river between them and the
house. Fires were made in hopes of attracting the trapper's attention
and inducing him to cross the river in his boat, but as they learned
the next day, though they were seen, the dark rainy night prevented
his going over to find out what they meant. The last shot cartridge
was used that night on a partridge, and the red squirrels went
unmolested thereafter. This last shot deserves more than a passing
notice. In one sense these shot cartridges for Cole's pistol were
their salvation. Just before the expedition started from Rockland it
was remarked in conversation that the boat crew under DeLong, in the
ill-fated expedition of the "Jeanette", met their death by starvation
in the delta of the Lena, with the exception of two, Naros and
Nindermann, simply because their hunter, Naros, had only a rifle with
ball cartridges, the shot guns having been left on board the
"Jeanette;" that on the delta there was quite an abundance of small
birds which it was almost impossible to kill by a bullet and even when
killed by a lucky shot, little was left of the bird. Cole was
impressed by these facts and upon inquiring ascertained that the
pistol shot cartridges ordered by the expedition had been overlooked.
He energetically set about supplying the lack, and after persistent
search, almost at the last hour, succeeded in finding a small stock in
the city, which he bought out. To the remnant of this stock which
escaped the fire at Burnt Cache camp, as has been said, is the escape
of Cary and Cole from starvation largely due.

The value of these cartridges had day by day, on the weary return from
Grand Falls, become more and more apparent to the owner. At the
discharge of the last one, the partridge fell not to the ground, but
flew to another and remote cluster of spruces. To this thicket Cole
hastened and stood watching to discover his bird. Cary came up and
after waiting a little while, said, "It is no use to delay longer,
time is too precious." The value of this last cartridge forced Cole to
linger. He was reluctant to admit it was wasted. In a few minutes he
heard something fall to the ground, he knew not what it was, but with
eager steps pressed towards the place, and when near it a slight
flutter and rustling of wings led him to discover the partridge,
uninjured except that one leg was broken; that by faintness or
inability to hold its perch with one foot it had fallen to the ground.
The darkness and rain of that night then closing around them were
rendered less dark and disagreeable by the assurance that kind
Providence showed its hand when the help of an unseen power was needed
to deliver them from the perils of the unknown river. It rained hard
all the next forenoon, and as the river was rough, the men stayed in
camp, hoping Joe would come across, until noon, when a start was made
for the house. A crazy raft took them across the river, the waves at
times nearly washing over them, and landing on the other side, they
started on the last tramp of the trip, which the rain and thick
underbrush, together with their weakened condition, made the worst of
the trip. About 3 P.M., they struck a path, and in a few minutes were
once more under a roof and their perilous journey was practically
done.

Seventeen days had been used in making the three hundred miles, all
but about seventy-five of which were covered afoot. When they came in,
besides the blankets, cooking tins and instruments, nothing remained
of the outfit with which they started on the return except three
matches and one ball cartridge for the revolver, which, in Cole's
hands, had proved their main stay from absolute starvation. The
following day, Sunday, after having had a night's rest in dry clothes
and two civilized meals, Joe took them to Northwest River, where Mr.
McLaren, the factor of the Hudson Bay Company's posts showed them
every kindness till a boat was procured to take them to Rigolette. A
storm and rain, catching them on a lee shore and giving the already
exhausted men one more tussle with fortune to get their small vessel
into a position of safety, made a fitting end to their experiences.

[On board the Julia A. Decker] Tuesday at 4 P.M., they reached the
schooner and their journey was done. Amid the banging of guns and
rifles, yells of delight and echoes of B-O-W-D-O-I-N flying over the
hills, they clambered over the rail from the boat that had been sent
to meet them and nearly had their arms wrung off in congratulations
upon their success, about which the very first questions had been
asked as soon as they came within hearing. They were nearly deafened
with exclamations that their appearance called out, and by the
questions that were showered on them. At last some order was restored,
and after pictures had been made of them just as they came aboard,
dressed in sealskin tassock, sealskin and deerskin boots and
moccasins, with which they had provided themselves at Northwest River,
ragged remnants of trousers and shirts, and the barest apologies for
hats, they were given an opportunity to make themselves comfortable
and eat supper, and then the professor took them into the cabin to
give an account of themselves. It was many days before their haggard
appearance, with sunken eyes and dark rings beneath them, and their
extreme weakness disappeared.

The return trip of Young and Smith from Lake Waminikapo, who reached
Rigolette Aug. 18th, was made in five days to Northwest River, and
after resting two days, in two more to Rigolette. Their trip was
comparatively uneventful. At the foot of Gull Island Lake they met
Bryant and Kenaston, who with their party of Indians were proceeding
very leisurely and apparently doing very little work themselves. At
their rate of progress it seemed to our party very doubtful if they
ever reached the falls. They had picked up, in the pool at the foot of
the first falls, one of the cans of flour lost in the upset, some
fifty or sixty miles up the river, with its contents all right, and
strange to say not a dent in it, and returned it to Smith and Young
when they met them. That night, with the assistance of the officers
and passengers of the mail steamer, which lay alongside of us, a
jollification was held. Our return race to Battle Harbor, the last
concert of the Glee Club in Labrador waters, the exciting race over
the gulf with the little Halifax trader, the tussle with the elements
getting into Canso, the sensation of a return to civilization and
hearty reception at Halifax, and greeting at Rockland, must remain for
another letter.

* * * * *




ON BOARD THE JULIA A. DECKER,
ROCKLAND HARBOR, ME.,
September 23, 1891.


The staunch little schooner has once more picked a safe path through
the dangers of fog, rocks and passing vessels, and her party are
safely landed at the home port, before quite two weeks of the college
term and two weeks of making up had piled up against its members.

The crew that weighed anchor at Rigolette on the morning of September
2nd, when the wind came and the tide had turned, was a happy one, for
from Professor to "cookee" we all felt that we were truly homeward
bound, and that we had accomplished our undertaking without any cause
for lasting regret. The mail steamer, whose passengers had joined in
the jollification of the night preceding, being independent of the
wind, had started ahead of us. Another race was on with the "Curlew,"
this time a merely friendly contest, without the former anxiety as to
some other party's getting the lead of ours in the trip up the Grand
River. But the result was not different this time. A fine breeze kept
us going all day and the following night. But the next day the fog
came. It was no different from the cold, damp, land-mark obscuring
mist of the Maine coast in its facility in hiding from view everything
we most wanted to see in order to safely find the harbor that we knew
must be near at hand, though we could not tell just where. A headland,
looming up to twice its real height in the fog about it, was rounded,
and the lead followed in the hope that it would take us to the desired
haven. Soon a fishing boat hailed, and a voice, quickly followed by a
man, emerged from the fog and shouted that if we went farther on that
course we would be among the shoals. We were told we had passed the
mouth of the harbor, and so turning back, tried to follow our guide,
but he soon disappeared. Just at this moment when it seemed
impossible for us to find any opening, the fog lifted and we saw a
schooner's sail over one of the small islets that lay about us. Taking
our cue from that we poked into the next narrow channel we came to,
and getting some sailing directions from a passing boat, and from the
signal man stationed on a bluff to give assistance to strangers, we
glided into an almost circular basin, hardly large enough for the
vessel to swing in, set among steep rising sides, into which many ring
bolts were seen to be fastened, and perfectly sheltered from every
wind. The use for the ring bolts we found later. The fog kept rolling
over, and the little fishing vessels kept shooting in, till it seemed
the harbor would not hold another. As all sail had to be hauled down
before the vessels came in sight of the interior, the vessels seemed
literally to scoot into the basin. A few of the vessels were anchored
and kept from swinging by lines to the bolts, and the rest of the
fleet made fast to them. In all the number of vessels crowded into the
space where we hardly thought we could lie was about twenty. How they
would ever get out seemed a puzzle, but the next morning it was
accomplished, with a light fair wind, by all at once without accident
or delay. Had the wind been ahead, the ring bolts would have aided in
warping to a weatherly position.

During the evening the mail steamer caught us, and after putting a
little freight ashore, left us behind again. Here were some strange
epitaphs painted on the wooden slabs, also people ready to exchange or
sell at a far higher rate than we had hitherto paid, anything they
possessed for the cash which was all we had left to bargain with, the
available old clothes having been already disposed of.

It was hard to disabuse the minds of the people at Square Island
Harbor of the idea that we had come to seek gold or other valuable
mines, the reason being that several years before a party from the
States had spent considerable time prospecting in that vicinity and
partly opened one or two worthless mica quarries.

[A Bold Skipper] It was a glorious sight to see the fleet get under
way the next morning. Many a close shave and more bumps but no serious
collisions were caused by the twenty or more vessels crowding out
together through the narrow opening, each eager to get the first puff
from the fair breeze outside the lee of the cliffs. The whole fleet
was bound up the coast, but before many of the schooners had drifted
far enough out to catch the breeze it had failed, and only after an
hour or more of annoying experience with puffs from every quarter, did
the strong sea breeze set in. Sheets were trimmed flat aft, and all
settled down to beating up the coast. The Julia soon left the mass of
the fleet and before reaching Battle Harbor, where a long desired mail
was awaiting, had nearly overtaken the lucky ones who had drifted far
enough off shore to make a leading wind of the afternoon breeze.
During the calm a school of whales disported themselves in the midst
of the fleet, chasing one another, blowing and churning the water to
foam about us, apparently as though it was rare fun.

Late in the afternoon we approached the entrance to Battle Harbor, but
with the wind blowing directly out of the narrow, rocky and winding
entrance we wondered how we should get in. Our captain was equal to
the problem, however, and undeterred by the crowded state of the
harbor, within whose narrow limits were two large steamers, one or two
barks and several fishermen, performed a feat of seamanship the equal
of which, we were told, preserved in the traditions of the port, and
only half believed, as having been done once, thirty years before.

Getting about ten knots way on the vessel, and heading her straight
for the steamer nearest the mouth, we just brushed by the rocks of the
entrance, sheered a bit and shot past the steamer before her
astonished officers could utter a word of warning, and were traveling
up the harbor at a steamboat pace, the sails meanwhile rattling down,
and some of us on board wondering if we should not keep right on out
the other entrance to the harbor, while boats scurried out of our way,
two men in one fishing boat looking reproachfully at us as we missed
them by about two feet just after our fellow on lookout had reported
"nothing but a schooner in the way, sir;" and people rushed to their
doors and to the decks to see what was exciting such a commotion, just
as the anchor was let go with a roar and we quietly swung to and ran
our mooring line, as though we had done that thing all our lives.

Here about one hundred letters were brought aboard amid much
rejoicing, for many had not heard from home at all during the trip.

By the time we were ready to make what we hoped would prove the last
departure from a Labrador harbor, the next morning, the wind, which
had changed in the night and was blowing in exactly the opposite
direction, had become so strong that the little steam launch of Bayne
& Co., which had been tendered us to tow us out of the harbor, was not
powerful enough to pull the schooner against it. The other entrance,
for like all the rest this Labrador harbor was merely a "tickle" and
had its two entrances, was narrow, shoal, and had such short turns
that it seemed impossible to run so large a vessel as the Julia
through it. However, our impatience would not brook the uncertain
delay of waiting for the wind to change, so taking on board the best
pilot that town of pilots could afford, we made the attempt. Three
times we held our breaths, almost, as we anxiously watched the great
green spots in the water, indicating sunken rocks, glide under our
counter or along our side, while the steady voice of the weatherbeaten
old man at the fore rigging sounded "port," then in quick, sharp,
seemingly anxious tones, "now starboard--hard!" and again
"port--lively now," and the graceful vessel turned to the right or
left, just grazing the rock or ledge, as though she too could see just
how near to them it was safe to go and yet pass through without a
scrape. It was a decided relief to all, and the silence on board, that
had been broken only by the rush of wind and water, the pilot's voice
and the creaking of the wheel as it was whirled around by the skillful
hands of the captain, suddenly ceased, when the pilot left his place
and walked slowly aft, praising the admirable way in which the vessel
behaved at the critical points, and apparently unconscious that in the
eyes of twenty college boys he had performed an almost impossible
feat.

After a hard pull to windward for two of us, to set the pilot ashore,
and a wet and rough time getting aboard again, and after our laugh at
the expense of the mate, who had cast off our shore warp, as we
started out of the harbor, and then had been unable to catch the
schooner, which was equally unable to wait for him in the narrow
passage, and who had, therefore, to row all the way after us at the
top of his speed, and only caught us when we lay to to send off the
pilot; we made everything snug and started down the straits, hoping to
reach Canso without further delay.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6
Copyright (c) 2007. bestextbooks.com. All rights reserved.

Why shouldn't Sarah Palin get a book deal?
Articles published by guardian.co.uk Books

The Blackbird of Belfast Lough keeps singing
Jean Hannah Edelstein: Left-leaning Americans should welcome books from Sarah Palin and Joe the Plumber

At least 13 ways of looking at a blackbird

Int én bec
    ro léic feit
    do rind guip
    glanbuidi
    fo-ceird faíd
    os Loch Laíg
    lon do craíb
    charnbuidi

This weird little scrap of Irish syllabic verse, probably from the 9th century, consists of just 24 syllables, broken up into eight short lines, which have somehow continued to echo in modern Irish verse: the little lyric seems to have stuck; it has proved itself, in Seamus Heaney's words, to have "staying power".

First used in a metrical tract of the 11th century to illustrate a metre called snám súad, the lyric might be translated, literally, as: "The little bird which has whistled from the end of a bright-yellow bill: it utters a note above Belfast Lough – a blackbird from a yellow-heaped branch" (in a translation by Gerard Murphy). Or perhaps: "The little bird has whistled from the tip of his bright yellow beak; the blackbird from a bough laden with yellow blossom has tossed a cry over Belfast Lough" (translation by David Greene & Frank O'Connor).

Perhaps the poem's recent appeal has something to do with the character of the plucky little bird singing out over Belfast – the site of so much tragedy during the past three decades. Blackbird = poet? That, at least, is one way of looking at it.

Poetic versions, and rewrites, and reinterpretations of the poem abound, by John Montague, and John Hewitt, and Seamus Heaney, and Thomas Kinsella (in The New Oxford Book of Irish Verse), and Tomás Ó Floinn (in modern Irish), and by the current director of the Seamus Heaney Centre for Poetry, Ciaran Carson.

Carson tells the story of how, when appointed as the first director of the Seamus Heaney Centre for Poetry, he saw a blackbird pecking around in the little garden outside the School of English and thought it might make an interesting symbol for the newly established centre for creative writing. And so "The Blackbird of Belfast Lough", in word and image, became the Centre's motto and emblem.

Some years later, as writer in residence at the Heaney Centre, I found myself in conversation with two artists, the brothers Oliver and Rory Jeffers. We'd occasionally meet, the three of us, on Saturday mornings to drink coffee and to talk about art and literature, and Oliver would sometimes bring along work-in-progress and Rory would try to explain to me the structure and meaning of the language of images (which I never understood). On a whim, and high on caffeine and big ideas, I thought I would invite a number of local and international artists to read "The Blackbird of Belfast Lough" in its original Irish and its English translations, and to make of it what they would. Which is how I found myself putting together an exhibition now on show at the Heaney Centre.

In his preface to the exhibition catalogue Seamus Heaney suggests that the images might be a way of keeping "the perpetual motion machine of art on the go". I couldn't – obviously – have put it better myself.

guardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2008 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds