path: root/75927-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75927 ***





Transcriber’s Note

Page 23—the word ‘redpoles’ have been left as originally spelt.

Page 62—presbyterian changed to Presbyterian.

The Footnotes have been changed to a numeric order and placed at
the end of paragraphs they relate to.

The book cover is labelled - “Labrador and its people, Grenfell”,
whereas the book is officially entitled, “Vikings of to-day, or
life and medical work among the fishermen of Labrador.”




VIKINGS OF TO-DAY


[Illustration: S.S. PRINCESS MAY.]




    VIKINGS OF TO-DAY

    OR LIFE AND MEDICAL WORK
    AMONG THE
    FISHERMEN OF LABRADOR


    BY

    WILFRED T. GRENFELL, M.R.C.S.E., L.R.C.P.
    _Holder of the Board of Trade Certificate of Competency
    as Master Mariner_


    ILLUSTRATED FROM
    ORIGINAL PHOTOGRAPHS

    [Illustration]

    FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY
    NEW YORK CHICAGO TORONTO
    _Publishers of Evangelical Literature_


    Dedicated

    BY KIND PERMISSION TO

    HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUCHESS OF YORK,

    _whose practical and gracious interest in the welfare of
    these far-off “Toilers of the Deep” has served in
    no small way to assist this enterprise, and to
    fire with loyal affections the hearts of
    England’s sons across the sea_.




PREFACE

BY FREDERICK TREVES, F.R.C.S.,

_Surgeon to the London Hospital. Examiner in Surgery at the University
of Cambridge. Chairman of the Hospital Committee of the Mission to Deep
Sea Fishermen._


At the present time—near to the close of the nineteenth century—we
are being constantly reminded, with somewhat unpleasant persistence,
that the human race is degenerating and that the changes of decay are
most marked among the most civilised people. It is among the young
men especially that these unwelcome signs of the times are assumed to
be the more noticeable. It is claimed that the splendid physique and
the heroic courage of the British race are both deteriorating, and
that those who seek for the time of noble deeds and sturdy hearts must
turn back to the days of Elizabeth—to the stirring times of Drake and
Raleigh.

There is said to be no longer a field for that pluck and daring, or for
that determination and persistency, which at one period made the name
of the British famous throughout the world.

It would be idle, in this place, to inquire into the substance of these
moanings and regrets, and it would be reasonable perhaps to allow
that there may be some real or apparent element of truth in these
lamentations over the man of the present.

Be this as it may, it will be agreeable to those who are most concerned
in these forebodings to turn to the record contained in this volume,
while those who view with some disgust the fashionable youth of the
day, with his many effeminacies and affectations, will find in the
pages which follow some wholesome relief to their distaste.

Dr. Grenfell’s narrative will take the reader away from the heated,
unnatural and debilitating atmosphere of the modern city, from the
enervated crowd, from the pampered, self-indulgent colonies of men and
women who make up fashionable society, and will carry him to a lonely
land where all conventionalities vanish, and where man is brought into
contact with the simplest elements of life and with the rudimentary
problems of how to avoid starvation and ward off death from cold.

The present volume deals with a land of desolation, with a country
hard, relentless, unsympathetic and cruel, where, among fogs and
icebergs, a handful of determined men are trying to hold their own
against hostile surroundings and to earn a living in defiance of dreary
odds.

When the Mission to Deep Sea Fishermen resolved to send an expedition
to Labrador, it was evident that the man to go with it was Grenfell.
He was well known both at Oxford and in London as a hardy athlete; he
was a skilled and able surgeon; he was profoundly interested in Mission
work; and the sea had for him that magical attraction which a few
centuries ago emptied nearly every little cove and fishing hamlet in
Cornwall and Devon of its heartiest men, and carried them over the high
seas to the ends of the earth.

Grenfell went, and the good work of the Mission was established on the
Labrador. It was no little matter to bring into the hard and desperate
life of the Labrador fishermen a touch of kindly and practical sympathy
from the old country. It was no little matter to travel for many
hundreds of miles along a grim, inhospitable coast, where buoys and
beacons are unknown and where there is scarcely a bay or island which
has not been the scene of some lonely disaster.

It will be seen from this book that the race of Vikings is not
yet extinct, on the one hand, and that on the other the spirit of
enterprise and daring is not yet lost to the English people, and that
the modern rover of the sea differs from his predecessor in little save
the motive of his expedition.

Those who know how to value the comforts of an English home, and who
can appreciate the quiet content and the beauty of an English village,
will be induced by this book to feel no little sympathy for those whose
lives are cast among the dreary islands and deserted bays of Labrador.

  FREDERICK TREVES.




AUTHOR’S PREFACE


This book is intended to give a general account of the country and
people of Labrador, and to summarize the efforts made by the council
of the Mission to Deep Sea Fishermen, during the past three years,
to brighten the lives of the many brave toilers of the sea on that
desolate coast.

I have avoided the use of scientific terms, and have ventured to quote
from some of the few books on the subject without the permission of the
authors. Amongst these are Dr. Nansen’s _Eskimo Life_, Mr. Packard’s
_The Labrador Coast_, Dr. Harvey’s _Newfoundland, the Oldest British
Colony_, Crantz’s _Explorations in Greenland_, Hinde’s _Explorations in
Labrador_, Cartwright’s _Journals_, Rev. J. Moreton’s _Life and Work in
Newfoundland_.

The universal kindness and hospitality extended to the Mission Staff in
Labrador, Newfoundland and Canada, and the almost unlimited scope for
work, have made these three years, three of the most enjoyable in our
lives.

To his Excellency the Governor of Newfoundland Sir Terence O’Brien,
K.C.M.G., Chairman of the St. Johns Committee, among many others, our
warmest thanks are due.

The illustrations in this volume are from photographs taken on “Barnet
Plates” kindly presented to the Society by Messrs. Elliot & Fry.

  WILFRED T. GRENFELL.

 _March, 1893._




CONTENTS


                                        PAGE

    CHAPTER I.

    THE COUNTRY                           1


    CHAPTER II.

    NATURAL FEATURES                     10


    CHAPTER III.

    OF THE BIRDS AND LARGER FISHES       17


    CHAPTER IV.

    OF THE FUR-BEARING ANIMALS           28


    CHAPTER V.

    WE GO TO LABRADOR AND START WORK     40


    CHAPTER VI.

    DO PEOPLE LIVE IN LABRADOR?          50


    CHAPTER VII.

    JUST HOW FISH ARE CAUGHT             66


    CHAPTER VIII.

    THE TRUCK SYSTEM                     76


    CHAPTER IX.

    RESULTS OF THE FIRST VISIT           85


    CHAPTER X.

    OUR SECOND SEASON                   102


    CHAPTER XI.

    OUR VOYAGE CONTINUED                114


    CHAPTER XII.

    CONCLUSION OF SECOND VOYAGE         131


    CHAPTER XIII.

    ON DOGS AND DIFFICULTIES            143


    CHAPTER XIV.

    ON SEALS AND SEALERS                157


    CHAPTER XV.

    ON THE ESQUIMAUX                    174


    CHAPTER XVI.

    THE DEEDS OF HEROES                 194


    CHAPTER XVII.

    WE APPEAL FOR CANADIAN SYMPATHY     202


    APPENDICES.

    _A._ SOME MEDICAL STATISTICS        213

    _B._ SPIRITUAL AGENCIES IN LABRADOR 218

    _C._ TESTIMONIES TO THE WORK        221

    _D._ POVERTY OF THE PEOPLE          235

    _E._ THE FISHING SCHOONERS          238




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                PAGE

  S.S. _PRINCESS MAY_ _Frontispiece_

  ENTRANCE TO ST. JOHNS HARBOUR                   5

  A SHOAL OF CAPLIN JUMPING OUT ON TO THE BEACH  10

  ICEBERG IN AUGUST OFF TUB HARBOUR              17

  MY FIRST CARIBOU AND GUIDE                     21

  ESKIMO BOYS                                    28

  A BEAVER                                       33

  THE ALBERT IN BATEAUX HARBOUR                  45

  HUDSON BAY COMPANY’S POST AT RIGOLETTE         50

  FIELDS OF FISH DRYING IN THE HARBOUR           53

  BOAT RETURNING FROM THE TRAP                   66

  SNUG HARBOUR                                   69

  CARTWRIGHT STAFF                               76

  A VISIT FROM ESKIMO                            85

  MORAVIAN STATION, HOPEDALE 89

  THE _PRINCESS MAY_ IN HAMILTON INLET          102

  INTERIOR OF MALE WARD, INDIAN HARBOUR         105

  A NEWFOUNDLANDER’S HUT, LABRADOR              114

  INTERIOR OF INDIAN HARBOUR HOSPITAL           117

  THE S.S. _PRINCESS MAY_ IN MERCHANTMAN HARBOUR 131

  AN ESKIMO FAMILY, HOPEDALE                    137

  TEAM OF DOGS IN HARNESS                       143

  ESKIMO FAMILY                                 151

  THE S.S. _SIR DONALD_                         157

  ESKIMO ON AN ISLAND NEAR OKKAK                165

  ESKIMO IN REINDEER TENT, OKKAK                174

  TAKEN FROM AN ESKIMO GRAVE AT LONG ISLAND     181

  ESKIMO BRASS BAND                             205




VIKINGS OF TO-DAY




CHAPTER I

_THE COUNTRY_

[Illustration]


It is said that a recent trial, over a dispute about the fishery of
a small natural harbour in Labrador, called Tub Harbour, had reached
its third day, when his lordship, leaning over the desk, whispered to
counsel, “Where is Labrador”? Not to be caught, however, the counsel
whispered back, “In Tub Harbour, my lord.” Geography, it seems, is a
sadly neglected science.

Such being the case, I have ventured to describe the general features
of the country in the terse, accurate, graphic, and authoritative
words of the _Encyclopædia Britannica_.

“Labrador, properly so called,” says the _Encyclopædia_, “is the
peninsular portion of North America, bounded by the Gulf of St.
Lawrence, the North Atlantic, Hudson Straits, Hudson Bay, and vaguely
defined towards the S.W. by Rupert’s River, Mistassini River, and
Bersiamits River. Its greatest length is 1,100 miles, its greatest
breadth 700 miles. The area is approximately 420,000 square miles, that
is, as large as the British Isles, France, and Austria. The coast from
Blanc Sablon, a spot 85 miles up the Straits of Belle Isle, to Cape
Chidley at the entrance to Hudson Bay straits, and all the off-lying
islands, with the country inland about 70 miles, are under the
government of Newfoundland. The rest is part of the province of Quebec,
under Canadian rule.”

Sterile and forbidding it lies among fogs and icebergs, famous only
besides for dogs and cod. “God made this country last,” says an old
navigator. “He had no other view in end than to throw together here the
refuse of His materials as of no use to mankind.”

“As a permanent abode of civilized man,” says the _Encyclopædia
Britannica_, “Labrador is, on the whole, one of the most uninviting
spots on the face of the earth. A vast tableland occupies much of the
interior. This plateau, says Professor Hind, is pre-eminently sterile,
and where the country is not burned, caribou moss covers the rocks,
with stunted spruce, birch, and aspens in the hollows and deep ravines.
The whole is strewed with an infinite number of boulders often three
and four deep. Language fails to paint the awful desolation of the
tableland of the Labrador peninsula. The Atlantic coast is the edge of
a vast solitude of rocky hills, split and blasted by frosts, and beaten
by waves. Headlands, grim and naked, tower over the waters—often
fantastic and picturesque in shape—while miles and miles of rocky
precipices or tame monotonous slopes alternate with stony valleys,
winding away among the blue hills of the interior.”

The cliffs rise from the ocean to a height of from 500 to 1,000 feet.
The watershed of the interior plateau is on an average 150 miles from
the coast, and rises considerably over 5,000 feet. Near Cape Chidley
the hills are close to the sea, rising to the height of 6,000 feet,
and the view from the sea is magnificent. A powerful current coming
from Hudson Bay, combined with the great rise and fall of tide, renders
navigation here very dangerous. A high, bare peak of syenite, inland
from Cape Harrison, and known as Mount Misery, is visible seventy-five
miles.

We are accustomed to think of Columbus as discovering America, but it
seems certain that about the year 1000, while Northman and Saxon were
struggling for pre-eminence in this England of ours, bold Vikings from
Iceland visited Labrador. In the Sagas of Erik the Red and of Thorfinn
Karlsefne, we read of a strange land they visited and called Vinland[1]
or Wineland, which most probably was Labrador.

[Footnote 1: See Hon. L. G. Power’s paper on “Vinland,” read before the
Nova Scotia Historical Society in 1887.]

Now, it is needless to say grapes do not abound in Labrador, and we
southerners should not describe it now as the “Land of Wine.” But
we must remember that Erik came from Iceland, and was also possibly
addicted to the proverbial fault of travellers. Moreover, when Erik
returned from one of his voyages he called the land he had visited
“Greenland,” not with reference to its nature, because Biarni, a
contemporary voyager, describes it as a land of “mountains and high
ice hills,” but “he called it Greenland because, quoth he, people
will be attracted thither if the land has a good name.” An amusing
incident, which I quote from Mr. Power’s paper, arose out of this. When
Thorfinn Karlsefne and Snorri were making an endeavour to colonize the
“Vinland” they most inappropriately ran short of provisions. Now it
so happened they had with them Thorhall, the hunter. “He was a large
man and strong, black and like a giant, silent and foul-mouthed in his
speech, and always egged on Erik to the worst; he was a bad Christian;
he was well acquainted with uninhabited parts. Thorhall now suddenly
disappeared. They had previously made prayers to God for food, but
it did not come so quick as they thought their necessities required.
They searched after Thorhall three days, and found him on the top
of a rock; there he lay, and looked up in the sky and gaped with both
nose and mouth, and murmured something. They asked him why he had gone
there. He said it was no business of theirs. They bade him come home
with them, and he did so. Soon after, came there a whale, and they
went thither and cut it up, and no one knew what sort of whale it
was; and when the cook dressed it, they ate it, and all became ill in
consequence. Then said Thorhall: “The red bearded was more helpful than
your Christ; this have I got now for my verses that I sung to Thor, my
protector. Seldom has he deserted me. But when they came to know this
they cast the whole whale into the sea, and resigned their case to God.
Then the weather improved, and it was possible to row out fishing, and
they were not then in want of food, for wild beasts were caught on the
land, and fish in the sea, and eggs collected on the island.” Now, when
Thorhall bore water to the ship, and drank, then sang he this song:—

    “People told me when I came
      Hither, all would be so fine;
    The good Wineland, known to fame,
      Rich in fruits and choicest wine;
    Now the water pail they send
      To the fountain I must bend,
    Nor from out this land divine
      Have I quaffed _one drop_ of wine.”

[Illustration: Entrance to St. Johns Harbour.]

And when they were ready, and hoisted sail, then chanted Thorhall—


    “Let our trusty band
    Haste to Fatherland;
    Let our vessel brave
    Plough the angry wave;
    While those few who love
    Wineland, here may rove,
    Or, with idle toil
    Fetid whales may boil,
    Here on Furderstrand
    Far from Fatherland.”

So that Vinland, in the year 1000, to which this voyage had been made
because “the people of Brattahliel began to talk much about it,”
saying, “a voyage thither ought to be particularly profitable by
reason of the fertility of the soil,” appears to have turned out no
better than we found Labrador in 1891. The famous log-books of George
Cartwright,[2] written about 1790, give a more reliable account of
the country, and he appears at first to have found it profitable to
make voyages thither. The animals, and not the vegetables, engaged his
attention, and he would have made a remunerative business of it had
not first pirates and then privateers despoiled him of his ships, and
outfits, and wares.

[Footnote 2: _Journals of George Cartwright._]

In Labrador now, work as he may, one man cannot keep the wolf from the
door—the Eskimo and natives of the coast, the mountaineer and hunter
Indians of the interior, and the white settlers, are alike often face
to face with starvation. The two former are rapidly dying out, while
among the latter it is only where a settler has grown-up sons to work
with him, and a good supply of stock in boats, nets, traps and guns to
help him, that he can make anything approaching to what we in England
should consider a respectable living. Even with these helps, and with
steady, hard work, and with sound health, he seldom can hope to lay up
store against times of misfortune. True in England the poor often see
hard times, and have to face occasionally poverty and hunger. Moreover,
as Richard Whitbourne, that plucky British sea-dog, says,[3] “It hath
beene in some winters so hard frozen, aboue London bridge near the
court, that the tenderest faire ladies and gentlewomen that are in any
part of the world, who have beheld it, and great numbers of people,
have there sported on the ice many dayes, and have felt it colder
there, than men doe here, that live in Newfoundland.” Yet we must take
into consideration that here absolute want is the exception, there the
rule.

[Footnote 3: Richard Whitbourne.]




CHAPTER II

_NATURAL FEATURES_


Labrador rocks are of the oldest formation (Laurentian gneiss), and
destitute of remains of animal or plant life; so that they, too,
maintain the general harmony of desolation. On the south shore, lower
Silurian sandstones, red syenite, and one splendid mass of basalt,
known as the “Devil’s Table,” crop out.

[Illustration: A shoal of caplin jumping out on to the beach.]

The action of ice and fire are shown in marvellous manners on this
weird coast. Not only is every rock, mountain, and pinnacle crowned
with countless boulders, which seem but to need a shake to set myriads
tumbling down every incline, but the whole coast is carved and
chiselled in a wondrous manner by a glacial period that lasted much
longer than in Europe; while the fierce frost of winter has blasted
mighty rocks, and left, wherever a resting-place could be found, huge
fragments, jagged and rough, “hurled aloft, as they appear, by the
hands of Titans.”[4]

[Footnote 4: Packard’s _The Labrador Coast_.]

That long before the ice period volcanic fires helped to mould the
hills, is well shown by the out-crop here and again of trap rocks.
Especially near the hospital at Indian Harbour is this the case, where
the light and polished quartzite rocks are capped with black trap rocks
which have overflowed them. These rocks are marked with deep half-moon
shaped cuts, running east and west—done by ice—and “showing that
Hamilton Inlet, which at the mouth is forty miles wide, was once filled
with an enormous glacier.”[5]

[Footnote 5: _Ibid._]

Near Hopedale a beautiful blue and bronze iridescent felspar is found.
It is called labradorite,[6] and when polished glistens in the sunlight
like a peacock’s feather. It is used for brooches, and occasionally
for ornamenting buildings. We dropped anchor one night near an island
almost entirely composed of this.

[Footnote 6: _Ibid._, gives fuller information.]

Copper pyrites, mica, asbestos, with salts of some of the rarer metals,
such as yttrium and rubidium, have been found on the coast. One mining
company works for labradorite during the summer.

In the inlets and along the rivers some trees and arctic plants are
found. These are more especially spruces, larches, mosses, and lichens.
Birches, aspen, silver fir, willow, cherry, and mountain ash, however,
exist in favourable spots. I have seen good 60 ft. spars from the
end of Sandwich Bay. The trees get more and more dwarfed as one goes
north, and beyond the 59th parallel the merest scrub exists. The
botanical aspect, however, which chiefly interests the settlers, is
the number of edible berries, which form a valuable addition to their
articles of diet. These are bakeapples or cloudberries, cranberries,
whortleberries, bilberries, tea-berries, gooseberries, raspberries,
and currants. They are preserved in water, or in molasses when it is
obtainable, against the winter.

Very few vegetables can be grown, though with care, up the inlets a
few potatoes, cabbages, and turnip tops have been raised. The Moravian
missionaries have to cover their vegetables up at night to keep them
warm. This lack of vegetables is tritely expressed in the diary of a
gentleman wintering on the north coast; the entry describing his diet
runs as follows—

  —— ditto.
  —— ditto.
  —— ditto.
  —— ditto.
  —— found a blade of grass. Eat the whole of it.

Cartwright (1786) adds a list of his own of indigenous vegetable
delicacies—

  1. Young osier leaves.
  2. Red dock leaves.
  3. Scurvy grass.
  4. Alexander, or wild celery.
  5. Indian salad.
  6. Alpine plant.
  7. Fathen.

There is a charming catholicity about this old sea-dog and trapper.

The tips of the young spruce branches are used for making a
non-intoxicating beer, being boiled with molasses. When other tea gives
out, the leaves of _uva ursi_ are used. These are known as Labrador
tea.[7]

[Footnote 7: _Ledum latifolium_ is also called Labrador tea.]

The Saga of Lief Erikson thus describes a conversation between the
Viking and his old henchman Tyrker, who, for two or three days, had
wandered from the party: “Why wert thou so late, my fosterer, and
separated from the party?” “I have not been much further off, but still
I have something new to tell of: I found grapes and vines.” “But is
that true, my fosterer?” quoth Lief. “Surely is it true,” replied he;
“for I was bred up where there is no want of either vines or grapes.”
They said that next day they _filled their long boat_ with grapes. But
we must, I fear, consider this a “traveller’s licence,” as we must also
when old Richard Whitbourne describes the wild berries of Newfoundland.
“There the summer naturally produceth out of the fruitful woombe of
the earthe, without the labour of man’s hand, great plenty of greene
pease and fitches faire, round, full and wholesome ... great store
of hay also.... Then have you here strauberries red and white, and
as faire rasberries and gooseberries as there be in England; as also
multitudes of bilberries, which are called by some whortes, and many
other delicate berries, which I cannot name, in great abundance.

  Peares,
  Sowre cherries,
  Filberds,

of which divers times eating their fill, I never heard of any man whose
health was thereby any way impaired.”

The rivers contain salmon for about one month in the summer. These
seem, however, to be very susceptible to cold, and are seldom taken
north of Hopedale. In seasons when the drift ice remains long on the
coast the number of salmon caught is always largely diminished. They
seldom take a fly. On the other hand the trout are very voracious, very
large and numerous, and will rise at any bait.[8] They remain all the
year, and are easily caught in winter by cutting a hole in the ice and
letting down a hook with a bit of raw meat. The women largely replenish
their larder in this way. Cod are far and away the most important of
all Labrador products at present—they are called “fish,” and even in
legal terms are the only denizens of the sea recognised as “fish.” In
summer they come into shallow water, first in pursuit of a small fish
known as “caplin,” and then remain probably to spawn before seeking the
deeper water in winter. It is unlikely that in their migrations they
cross any large portion of the Atlantic.

[Footnote 8: There is a large salmon-trout fishery at Ungava.]

The caplin come to the shallow water in countless myriads to spawn.
They are somewhat like a sardine, only a little larger. At times they
blacken the water, and so crowd one another as they swim along the
very edge of the water in calm weather that every ripple of the sea
leaves numbers struggling on the strand, till at times the whole beach
is hidden by dead and dying fish. Further north these caplin visit the
shore later in the year. They are followed always by immense numbers of
cod. I have seen cod also so thick that even in deep water there seemed
no room for them, their backs being constantly out of water. This is
called the “caplin school,” and on the catch of cod during their visit
the success of a whole fishery will depend.

While the “caplin school” lasts the most intense excitement exists. The
men will work day and night, with scarcely an hour in twenty-four for
sleep, even eating their meals in their boats. The cod at this time
will not take bait, and are caught in traps in the way described in a
subsequent chapter, or are hauled in a huge seine, by which a “school”
is surrounded. Alas, sometimes so many icebergs are driven inshore,
that the precious time slips by without any opportunity of fishing,
though all the men, with boats and gear, are waiting on shore in the
greatest anxiety to be “up and at the fish.” The caplin are sometimes
smoked and kept for food, but usually are dried on the rocks for dog
food in winter. Messrs. Munn, of Harbour Grace, have tinned them like
sardines, and they are then excellent eating. The sea also affords
“hair” seals; these are caught in nets in the fall of the year, or are
shot swimming in the bays in summer time. Whales are common on the
coast, but the people now have no means of taking them. I saw two small
right-whales which had been washed up on the beach, and also one very
large sperm whale. Fourteen hundred gallons of oil was taken from his
head. So long ago as the 15th century, before the discovery of America,
Basque whalers are said to have fished these waters. In the far north,
at Ungava, the Hudson’s Bay people make a regular attempt to intercept
the large schools of porpoises. At times they will get as many as 150,
some individuals weighing a ton each. They are used for their skin
and fat, and their flesh for dog food. This is put raw into old flour
barrels, and then buried in the ground, usually in June, and in October
it will be dug up again. Decomposition will have made the flesh swell
up, and the barrels will have burst. As, however, the whole is now
frozen, the wood can be removed, and the barrel-shaped masses of frozen
and unsavoury flesh are stored away for the dogs’ repasts.




CHAPTER III

_OF THE BIRDS AND LARGER FISHES_


[Illustration: Iceberg in August off Tub Harbour.]

Herrings were once in great numbers on the coast, and were so much
larger and fatter than our English herring, that at times knaves have
found it worth while to imitate the “Labrador Herring” brand. Of late
years they have failed almost entirely to visit the coast, and fishery
stations have had to be abandoned where once the sea was “dry with fat
herring.” As many as 4,000 barrels have been surrounded with the seine
at one shoot of the net. The only other common fish is the sculpin,
pig-fish, or grubby. He is a voracious scavenger, and, in foul
companionship with his friend the flounder, may be seen sweltering on
the rotting heaps of offal which surround every Labrador fish-stage. He
appears to have no feelings, but one all-absorbing idea—“to swallow”
with his stupendous mouth. I have caught on the sharp-pronged jigger,
when fishing for “tom-cod” for breakfast, the same sculpin three times
in succession, until for self-protection it was necessary to club him
with a rowing pin.

The sleeper shark also infests the coast, and in hundreds gather to
devour the dead bodies of the baby seals left by the sealers in the
spring. It has a callous nature, and Scoresby tells us, on one occasion
while one was feeding on a dead whale, and scooping out at each bite
pieces as large as a man’s head, a sailor pierced it through with a
scythe knife. It took little notice, however, and went on feeding in
exactly the same spot. Mackerel appear in the straits of Belle Isle
only.

Two series of submarine banks lie off the Labrador shores, over which
it is shallow enough to fish with small boats and hand lines. These
have been estimated to cover an area of over 7,000 square miles. Over
these the northern current spreads countless animalculæ, in the form
of a vast ocean of living slime. This food attracts the bait fishes
especially, and they, in turn, attract the cod. No doubt also, this is
the attraction to the numerous whales, whose loud “blowing,” as they
laze along in the sunshine or hunt fish for their livelihood, alone
breaks at times the death-like silence in the lonely bays and inlets.
A large sperm whale, 70 feet long, was towed into Battle Harbour our
first year. This variety has large teeth, which are used by ivory
cutters. A Captain Clarke, writing in 1766, narrates how a sperm whale
charged one of his boats; it struck the bow with such violence that
it threw his son, who was harpooning, some feet into the air. The
whale turned and caught him in her devouring jaws as he came down. He
was heard to scream, and part of his body was seen hanging out of its
mouth, when it “sounded.” A small but beautiful whale, “as white as a
sheet,” is common on the coast. I have seen it caught in cod-traps.
Its skin makes excellent leather. The hump-back whale, and more rarely
the right-whale are also to be seen. The ferocious “thresher” whale
also visits us. It has terrible teeth, and one variety has also a huge
back-fin, six feet high, with which the fishermen say they have seen it
beating its prey to death.[9] Captain Scammon tells us of an attack by
three threshers on a huge cow-whale and her baby in a bay. “Like wolves
they flew at her throat, dragging her under water, the others charging
at her and leaping right over her. At last they killed the baby, and
when it sank kept diving down and coming up with large pieces of its
flesh. Meanwhile, the poor mother made her escape, leaving a long
track of blood behind her.” I have fired from my boat at the grampus,
but without success. Mr. Mackenzie, of the Hudson Bay Company, however,
told me he was once standing up in his small boat, waiting for a seal,
when he saw a grampus rising to the surface alongside. As its head
emerged from the water, he fired straight at the blow-hole, with the
result that the single explosive ball penetrated the animal’s brain,
and he rolled over dead without a struggle. Not an unfortunate issue as
far as the small boat was concerned.

[Footnote 9: Goode’s _United States Fisheries_.]

Pliny speaks of a whale 960 feet long! Another traveller’s license
I fear. A hundred feet is, as far as I know, an outside limit. The
whale-bone hangs from the roof of the mouth, is short in front and
behind, and is at best some six feet long. It is scythe-shaped, and
edged with long coarse fibres, which sweep over the huge soft tongue,
filtering off the slime on which these whales live. Three hundred and
fifty pieces are found on each side.

The narwhale, with his long tusk, eight feet long, with which he pokes
up the sea grass on which he feeds, was once common on this coast. Some
say he uses the tusk to bore holes through the ice, and so get air to
breathe. The tusk is really an incisor tooth, or two incisor teeth
enormously prolonged, and twisted round one another. Where no wood is
found the Eskimo hang their tents on these ivory rafters.

[Illustration: My first Caribou, and Guide.]

The sword-fish is a doubtful visitor, though he is taken off Greenland
and on the American coast. Many are the authentic accounts of ships
he has attacked and even sunk.[10] He will weigh as much as 600 lbs.,
and Professor Owen says, “he strikes with the accumulated force of
fifteen double-handed hammers, and its velocity is equal to that of
swivel shot.” In 1864 one, for which a sailor was angling, stove a hole
through the bottom of the ship _Dreadnought_, and so “the insurance
company had to pay £600 because an ill-tempered fish objected to be
hooked, and took revenge by running full tilt against copper sheathing
and wood planking.” Also in 1864 Captain Atwood took from the stomach
of a large shark a full-sized sword-fish, but the shark’s skin was
pierced with a dozen holes, showing how much the dainty morsel had
objected to being swallowed. Hanging with the armour of Christopher
Columbus at Siena, in Spain, is a sword of this fish, said to be “taken
from a _warrior_ they slew on nearing America.”

[Footnote 10: Goode’s _United States Fisheries_.]

The fowl of the air are a most important factor in Labrador life. Among
many land birds that do occur, far the most important are the willow
grouse and the spruce partridge. The former are large birds, tawny red
in summer, and white as driven snow in winter.[11] At that season many
depend on these birds to keep them from starvation, and even when a
settler’s ammunition has all run out, he can sometimes noose them with
string on the end of a long stick as they roost in the trees, so tame
are they. Like Alexander Selkirk’s animals—

[Footnote 11: The willow grouse very rarely take to the trees, the
spruce partridge almost always.]

  “They are so unacquainted with man
  Their tameness is shocking to me.”

A covey in a tree can be killed right out, if shot from the bottom
upwards, so that the falling bird does not disturb the rest. A common
entry of Cartwright’s[12] is, “Saw a covey of six grouse. Knocked off
all their heads with my rifle.”[13]

[Footnote 12: Cartwright’s _Journals_.]

[Footnote 13: To economize powder, the settlers frequently shoot these
birds with bows and arrows. The arrows are club-headed.]

The willow grouse in heavy weather bury themselves in the snow, only
the cock bird, who acts as sentry, keeping his head above ground
to watch for an enemy. Besides these “spruce” grouse, thrushes,
American robins, warblers, redpoles, snow buntings, sparrows, larks,
woodpeckers, crows, hawks, and owls occur. The snowy owl is an
exquisite white in winter, brown in summer, and a large bird. The jay,
also, is very common, filling the woods with its cries. Now and again
the beautiful gyrfalcon is seen, whilst the osprey, or sea eagle, also
breeds on the coast. All these birds are American varieties, and differ
slightly from our British species.

There is a great wealth of sea-birds, and until the last two years
the arctic curlew ranked first among these. I fear in Labrador we
class all our animals in a descending order, with the flesh-pot as
the basis. These curlew came north, in flocks which nearly darkened
the air, in September, feeding on the numerous berries, and returned
south in October. The last three years they have almost disappeared.
The settlers say that, owing to their depredations on the American
cornfields, poisoned wheat was laid out for them, and this led to their
wholesale destruction. Their annual visit can be ill spared indeed.

Perhaps one should mention next the Canada goose. Great numbers
of these breed near the great lakes or ponds. They are largely
graminivorous, and therefore do not combine the flavours of fish and
flesh, which we find so unpleasant in the gulls and divers. It is
usual, however, to catch these when young, and confine them in bounds,
for in this way not only is the flesh rendered much sweeter to the
palate, but since they grow very tame, they are used as decoys for
other geese. One man last year anchored out by one leg his tame decoy
goose, and so shot no less than thirty other geese. But, in his anxiety
for more, unwittingly left his pet too long in the water, with the
result that it died of cold; and so the goose with the golden—or in
this case “feathered”—eggs was lost. It shows these birds do feel the
cold. It is not waste to shoot a hundred geese the same day, for it is
only necessary to hang them up in rows outside the house on nails, and
they will remain frozen and fresh all winter.

Both eider ducks and the king eiders abound on the coast. In huge
flocks early in November they come to the south’ard, generally with
a north-east wind, and then in quick succession flock after flock,
taking almost all exactly the same line. Near Battle hospital is a
barren, rocky point known as “Gunning” Point. Here, under the above
circumstances, you can always find some half-dozen “Livyeres,” with
long guns and dogs, waiting for the flocks. It is difficult to say
whether the dogs or the guns are most remarkable. I measured one gun,
six feet two inches long, and when it was discharged it was always an
open question which end of it would do most damage, for the adventurous
hunter always loaded it “ten fingers” deep. When a flock pass, all
the guns are discharged simultaneously, and the ducks, which at times
respond in showers, are nominally divided equally.

But now comes the excitement. As a rule a huge Atlantic surf, with
these north-east winds, breaks over the point, and the splendid pluck
and endurance of the dogs is taxed to the uttermost. Dashing into the
waves, I have seen them repeatedly hurled back, bruised and winded,
high on to the ledges of rock, only to be dragged off by the return
wave and once more pounded on to the rocks. To avoid this, the brave
beasts hold on with the energy of despair, and many times have I noted
their bleeding paws, and nails torn off in the unequal struggle. Yet
they would at once return to the charge, and, waiting their chance,
leap right over the breaking crest, and so get clear of the surf. Once
they have seized a duck they never let it go, and I have often felt
sorely tempted even to jump in and give the brave creatures a hand,
when it seemed impossible for them to keep up the struggle any longer.
Yet, after being lost to view, engulfed by a huge breaker, one would
see soon a duck appear, and after it a dog’s head, still true to its
hazardous duty. Sometimes, however, they are really lost.

Petrels, loons, divers, gulls, guillemots, widgeon, teal, scoters,
puffins, shanks, sandpipers and other waders abound. These are shot in
the fall, and salted down for future consumption. Their eggs are also
collected for eating; and though we found even the eggs of the domestic
hen, when allowed to feed on fish remains, too highly flavoured to be
appetizing, yet I have seen healthy babies flourishing on gulls’ eggs.
Whitbourne, writing in 1612, speaks of the utility of the penguin—the
great auk was common then. He says, “These penguins are bigge as geese,
and flye not, for they haue but a short wing, and they multiply so
infinitely upon a certain flat Iland, that men drive them from thence
upon a boord into their boats by hundreds at a time; as if God had
made the innocency of so poore a creature to become such an admirable
instrument for the sustentation of man.” Then, as now, he says the
“fishermen doe bait their hookes with the flesh,” and also that they
were so fat that the men drew threads through under the skin and used
them as candles.




CHAPTER IV

_OF THE FUR-BEARING ANIMALS_


[Illustration: Eskimo Boys.]

For food purposes among land animals the caribou, which closely
resembles the reindeer, ranks first. These roam over the interior in
great quantities, feeding on the very plentiful Iceland moss. In winter
they scrape away the snow with their large cow-like hoofs to get at
it. In Newfoundland they are very plentiful in the interior, and Mr.
W. Tyrrell of Winnipeg told me, that on the west side of Hudson Bay
he found thousands, so tame they would eat out of his hands. They
migrate north in summer, and south in winter, due, says Rae, to their
“sense of polarity,” but I should presume in search of food. They are
difficult to find in the woods, for the colour of their skins varies
with the seasons, and always closely resembles their surroundings.
Unfortunately they are too far inland for the majority of settlers to
reach.

The stags have magnificent antlers, which are especially fine about
October, the rutting season. With these they fight fiercely, going down
on their knees, and striking with the powerful brow-antlers. I have
seen several pairs of “locked horns” that have been picked up, the poor
creatures having got these fixed and died side by side of starvation.

A hunter this fall, having skinned a young stag he had killed, put the
skin over him so that the horns, which were attached, came on his head.
He then walked out towards a herd of does, over which a fine stag was
keeping zealous watch as they grazed on the open marsh. They allowed
him to come within range, and then the stag, mistaking him for a rival,
actually charged down upon him.

Polar bears are not uncommon, and five were killed this season near
Cape Chidley. Captain Blandford, of the S.S. _Neptune_, told me that,
having sent some men ashore for water in a strange harbour near Cape
Chidley, they returned in great haste, calling for their guns, and
shouting, “Bears!” They were soon perceived from the ship to be firing,
shot after shot being heard in rapid succession, and great expectations
were raised of bear steak for dinner. At last the hunters returned
with downcast countenances. The bears proved to be only inflated heads,
which some Eskimo were using as buoys for their lines.

In one boat going out to their fish trap were seven men, six rowing,
and the skipper standing on the stern seat, steering with an oar.

Suddenly a large white bear was sighted swimming close to the boat.
There was no gun on board, and yet the men were loath to lose so rich a
prize. Chase was therefore given, and the skipper kept hurling at the
bear the large two-pronged lead “jigger,” with a stout line attached.
Each time he threw it the bear warded it off, striking it a smart blow
with his fore-paw. At last one jigger came fast, and then another, till
the bear, who seemed only bent on escape, and was now wearied with
repeated diving, was hauled near the boat, and first clubbed with an
oar, and then despatched with an axe.

Black bears are very common. They are, as a rule, herbivorous, eating
the wild berries, and insectivorous; but one night a settler I was
staying with showed me the skin of a large bear he had just trapped.
He was living at the mouth of a trout and salmon river, the entrance
to which he barred with nets. Two bears happening to observe some fish
struggling in the net on the surface of the water near the land were,
I suppose, tempted to feloniously sample the unexpected windfall, and
having once erred, continued their wild career. For the settler told
me they learnt regularly to come down and haul his nets, dragging them
to the land, and not only eating out the fish, but severely damaging
the nets. But punishment had been meted out to one in the form of a
charge of buckshot, to the other by a steel trap.

Cartwright thus illustrates the power of this bear: “We discovered
this morning the damage done by a polar bear to a cask of oil. It was
of strong oak staves, well secured by thick, broad hoops of birch. Yet
with one blow of his tremendous paw he had snapped off the four chime
hoops and broken the staves short off.”

The most valuable fur animals are the fox, otter, beaver, mink,
marten, and lynx. Musk-rats, squirrel, and hares are also plentiful.
The porcupine is not uncommon. One specimen I shot was larger than
a sucking pig. The long black hair, which almost obscures the short
quills, made it resemble a bear as it sat asleep on a bough at the top
of a fir tree. A bullet through the head brought it down at once, but
even when mortally wounded they will cling to the boughs, and you may
have to fell the tree. I saw a dog one day worrying one. The porcupine,
with its head well down, waited for the dog to come near, and then
switched round his tail end, on which are most spikes, with lightning
speed, hoping to leave some in his enemy’s nose. The quills are all
barbed, so that they “work in.” In this way they will kill dogs,
wolves, and foxes. A fox was found dead near Hopedale, its skin ruined
by festering sores, which, on examination, showed the ends of the black
and white quills. It is very amusing to see how easily it wards off an
enemy by always turning its back to him! When the dog was tired out,
the porcupine went up the nearest tree, had a good meal, and went to
sleep on a bough.

Black or “silver” fox skins are very valuable. For one good black skin
I have known £170 given by a Russian nobleman. The average retail
value of silver fox skins is nearly £50. Now the cunning of foxes is
proverbial, but Cartwright tells us a story of vulpine ingenuity in a
marten. One day he was going to travel a long distance, and desired
to leave a deposit of food for his return journey. He feared to bury
it, because foxes would be sure to find it, so climbing a tree he hung
it by a string from one of the branches. Shortly after a marten came
along, and espied the dainty morsel high over his head. Whether he had
watched old Cartwright climbing, or whether it was an inspiration, the
tale does not say, but in any case it climbed the tree also, gnawed
through the string, and then, with an appetite whetted by the exercise,
had a square meal at its leisure.

[Illustration: A Beaver.]

Walking one day through thick wood we came across a regular “pathway,”
the trees having been felled to make travelling easy. A glance at the
stumps showed that it was a road cut by beavers, to enable them to drag
their boughs of birch along more easily. The pathway led to a large
house on the edge of a lake, and, fortunately for us, the beaver was at
home. There were other houses on an island in the lake, and below them
all a large, strong dam, some thirty yards long, built the shape of a
half-moon, and below this two more complete dams across the river that
flowed out. The dams were made of large tree-trunks, with quantities
of lesser boughs, and were many feet thick, and very difficult to
break down. The houses were built half on land, half in the water. The
sitting-room is upstairs on the bank, and so is the “crew’s” bedroom,
and the front door made at least three feet below the surface to
prevent being “frozen out” in winter, or, worse still, “frozen in.”

The whole house was neatly rounded off, and so plastered with mud as to
be warm and weather-proof. This is done by means of their trowel-like
tails, which are also of great use in swimming. The house was so strong
that even with an axe we could not get in without very considerable
delay. In the deep pond they had dammed up, we found a quantity of
birch poles pegged out. The bark of these forms their winter food, and
is called “browse.” The beaver cuts off enough for dinner, and takes
it into his house. Sitting up, he takes the stem in his fore paws,
and rolls it round and round against his chisel-shaped incisor teeth,
swallowing the long ribands of bark thus stripped off. While entering
the house the stick often sets off a trap set for them. The trappers
say they do this purposely. When surprised they retreat to holes in the
bank, of which the entrances are hidden under water. These are called
“hovels.”

Beavers always work up wind when felling trees, and cut them on the
water side, so that they fall into the pond if possible, and the
wind helps to blow them home. This beaver we caught proved to be a
hermit—at least he was living alone. He may have been a widower of
unusual constancy. They do not destroy fish, their food in summer being
preferably the stem of the water-lilies. Otters occasionally kill and
eat beavers. When they call the beaver has to try and be “not at home.”
Of the other animals I have not space to say much. The blue-grey hare
is a large animal, and like all the others turns white in winter—so
wonderfully does God remember all His creatures.

The pretty little squirrel is very tame. Like a good sensible fellow
he makes round holes in the ground, and hides enough berries for his
“winter diet.”

The climate of Labrador is rigorous in the extreme, in spite of
the fact that in summer, especially in the inlets, the thermometer
sometimes registers 75° and even 80° F. Icefields from Baffin’s
Bay and Davis Strait block the coast from October to June, the sea
freezing entirely over all along the shore. Over this all the winter
travelling is done, but sometimes the commotion below so moves the
ice up and down that a team of dogs with their sledge will only move
backwards when a swell arises. The average temperature all the year
round is at Hopedale 27° F., at Nain 22·5° F., that is a mean average
temperature of 5° and 9·5° respectively of frost. During the months
the sea is open, countless islands of ice are driven all along the
coast, while snowslips often make the land dangerous. A settler, his
two sons, and son-in-law were ascending the slope of an island near
Sandwich Bay to witness the first break-up of the ice in spring, when
an avalanche of snow buried all but one son, who was a few yards behind
the rest. Rushing to where he saw his father last, and tearing away
the hard-frozen snow with hand and foot, he came eventually on his
father’s head, four feet below the surface. Though his father heard the
son searching, he could neither stir nor shout to guide him, from the
weight of snow over him. This man told me the sad story. The other two
lads were lost.

Storms of exceptional violence and of sudden onset occasionally visit
the coast. The wind seems to blow from all quarters at once, hurling
clouds of sea-water as dust, often mixed with icy spicules, far over
the land. A few years ago a vessel in Black Tickle, lying at anchor
near Gready, was carried up and left on the rocks twenty feet above
high-water line; at the same time £4,000 of damage was done, in that
one harbour alone, by all the stages with the summer’s voyage of fish
and all the boats being suddenly washed away. It was then October, and
snow was on the ground. All the survivors left as soon as possible. On
returning next year an old man of this vessel was found dead beneath
the snow, his hands crossed, his eyes bandaged. Evidently he had laid
himself out for burial. On October 9, 1867, in one of these sudden
gales, forty vessels were hurled on the rocks. Forty poor souls lost
their lives, and fifteen hundred people were cast ashore.

Again on October 26, 1885, in a similar hurricane 80 vessels were lost,
70 lives, and 2,000 men, women, and children left on the coast. The
Newfoundland Government had to send up special steamers to bring these
people home.

Easterly gales especially, as the water is deep, heave in a most
wonderful ground-swell. Close to the land, I have in our little steamer
been so low down in these great watery valleys, that, standing on deck,
we could not see even the tops of the hills over the crest of the next
wave. Admiral Bayfield says, “It bursts with fury right over islands
thirty feet in height, sending sheets of foam and spray, sparkling in
the sunbeams fifty feet up the sides of precipices.”

One feature, however, of rare beauty is peculiar to these Arctic
regions. I mean the Aurora Borealis. At times one radiant crown circles
the zenith; at others, vast columns of light advancing across the
heavens keep changing shape like battalions of men attacking, the
varying uniforms of these flying squadrons resplendent with every
shade of violet, red and gold; at others deadly pale phantoms creep
ghost-like upwards from the northern horizon, till the whole space
overhead is filled with quivering rays. Icebergs, till now invisible,
reveal their baneful presence; but almost before the sailor has time to
note their bearings, these transient glories are suddenly extinguished,
and the sea and sky are once more plunged into darkness, all the more
death-like for the contrast, so that men call it, “The dead at play.”
The weird mirage also serves to add mystery to these regions. Often
have we seen huge icebergs as if capsized, and hovering in the waves
of ether over the stern realities below, as though kissing them and
rejoicing in their power for evil.




[Illustration: Mountaineer Indians on the _Sir Donald_.]




CHAPTER V

_WE GO TO LABRADOR AND START WORK_


ON June 15, 1892, the good ship _Albert_, 97 tons register, and 151
displacement, was towed out of Great Yarmouth Harbour, and amidst many
farewells from wharves, quays and piers, spread her canvas for her
first transatlantic voyage. Trimmer ship never left port bound on such
a journey. Stout timbers, teakwood decks, iron hatches, new running
gear—nothing had been forgotten—and in light airs of summer or whole
gales in winter, I want no snugger vessel. The four voyages made by her
at present, under the care of Captain Trezise and his crew of eight
men, certainly deserve notice here.

1892. Bound out. From Fastnet Rock to St. Johns, Nineteen days.

Bound home. From St. Johns to Start Lighthouse. Twelve days.

1893. Bound out. From Fastnet Rock to St. Johns. Seventeen days.

Bound home. From St. Johns to Great Yarmouth. Twelve and a half days.

Our best twenty-four hours’ work was 240 miles, registered on two
harpoon logs. The fact that we registered under 100 tons, allowed us
to carry an uncertificated mate—Skipper Joe White, so well known
in the North Sea. It also made my certificate as a competent master
of some practical use. After visiting the mission vessel _Edward
Birkbeck_, at work among Manx and Irish fishermen off the south-west
coast of Ireland, we followed the course taken by Cabot in his caravel,
the _Matthew_, nearly 400 years ago, and made a landfall directly
opposite St. Johns Harbour. Here a scene of the wildest confusion
greeted us. The prosperous city we expected to see had been almost
blotted out by fire; and still amidst the ruins of churches, public
buildings and private dwellings, smoke and flames arose in all parts
of the city exultant and unsubdued, looking at night-time like glutted
vultures over their helpless prey. Warehouses, wharves, and even
vessels at anchor, had shared the same fate, so that landing at all
was a difficult matter at first. In the streets, here and there, were
disconsolate groups of men, excavating from tons of fallen masonry,
safes which had proved none too safe, and which, lying burnt,
battered, and discarded at intervals, served to enhance the sense of
general desolation.

From the harbour the first appearance suggested the ruins of Pompeii,
for the wooden houses of 12,000 people had gone up in smoke, leaving
only rows of blackened and scorched pillars rising from the charred
debris. On closer inspection, however, the illusion was dispelled, for
the pillars proved to be tottering brick chimneys, with two or three
half-destroyed fire-grates above one another, the whole being topped
by most prosaic cracked chimney-pots. Queer things had happened in
the general panic. Patients who had lain in bed for years “arose and
walked.” Barrels of dry goods were rolled pell-mell into the harbour,
whence they were subsequently fished out. Merchants gave general leave
to bystanders to save what they liked from their shops. Church pews
were packed with heterogeneous goods and chattels, which only served
to add to the conflagration when the sanctuary itself fell a victim to
the all-devouring flames. Title deeds, recent enactments of parliament,
ledgers, valuable manuscripts, were destroyed in scores; while, as
the fire occurred just before tea-time, thousands found themselves
houseless, hungry, dusty and “smoke-dried” by morning. To meet these
sudden needs every available building was thrown open for shelter,
while weak tea and light refreshments were served out, in every variety
of pot, kettle, and cauldron available, by cabinet ministers from the
steps of the Government buildings. The respected premier was to have
been seen at an early hour of the morning with a background of blazing
houses, in a most precarious position astride an angular roof, putting
out burning embers as they fell. Nor did the flames cry “Quarter” to
the episcopal apron, even his lordship escaping coatless. It was said
that a jeweller, who had at the last moment sent his assistant to put
valuables in the safe, found on opening it afterward a dust brush and
an old matchbox only. One man was noticed skurrying up the hill with a
feather mattress on his back, all unconscious it was brightly burning;
while one, like another Nero over another Rome, was seen playing a
piano in the open street, that had been hastily deposited there by its
flying owner. The musical tastes of the community were impressively
brought out by the fact that some dozen “borrowed” pianos were rescued
from houses in neighbouring villages, when authority was once more able
to cope with disorder.

Forest fires continued to rage in every direction for days and weeks
after, till the greater part of the peninsula of Avalon was treeless,
many country homesteads sharing the same fate as the city. In some
planter cottages I visited, I found men who had been fighting for their
lives, homes, and possessions for days with these forest fires. In some
cases the women, children, and goods had been carried out and deposited
for safety for two or three days on the edges of the great “ponds,” as
the huge lakes all over the country are called.

Most wise enactments on the part of the authorities prevented what
might have led to serious riots. All public-houses and liquor shops
were promptly closed, and several attempts at incendiarism were nipped
in the bud. Yet, amidst all their own troubles, the Newfoundlanders
found time to show us the greatest of kindnesses. So much so that it
would be invidious here to particularize one more than another. While
in St. Johns we visited every ship in harbour, giving away “readin’,”
and finding out all we could about the fishermen and fisheries. The
Hospital Mission ship, with her cargo of warm clothing, some of which
was at once in demand, her medicines, and her stores of healthy
literature, spoke practically of warm hearts in the old country,
still dear to all her distant children, and served to prove to this,
her oldest colony, that England is still a mother in more than name.
Hundreds of all classes and denominations poured down to see the
_Albert_ when once her mission was understood, for it took time to
realize that the lovely ship, with such admirable equipment, was
really free for the poor and sick of bleak Labrador. A pilot having
been provided for us in the person of Captain Nicholas Fitzgerald, the
_Albert_ sailed for Labrador.

[Illustration: The _Albert_ in Bateaux Harbour.—Flags up for Service.]

Dense fog prevailed for four days, so that the end even of our own
bowsprit was scarcely visible, the _Albert_ standing accordingly well
out to sea, “Brother Foghorn” having it all his own way. On the
fourth day we caught a glimpse of Cape Bauld, the north-east corner
of Newfoundland, and then the impenetrable veil dropped again. Our
only occupation had been our deep sea thermometer, which registered
generally from 28-30° Fahren. in two to three hundred fathoms. On
Sunday we once more sighted land. The foe had gone, and was replaced
by a bright clear day—not a cloud in the sky, not a ripple on the
dark blue water. Innumerable rocky islands and lofty headlands were
visible away on the port bow—some showing a bright yellow from the
mosses and lichens on them. Around us we could count thirty magnificent
icebergs—chips from the eternal Arctic ice. A school of whales were
sporting under our lee, every now and again throwing jets of glistening
water high into the air. The scene to our eager eyes was one indeed of
surpassing interest and beauty.

Our pilot’s experience was at once on trial, for only a very imperfect
survey exists of the coast. And not one single landmark, lightship,
buoy, or distinguishing mark exists to aid the mariner anywhere along
this dreary coast, a lack not remedied by the luxuriance of fogs and
icebergs. It stood the test well. He pronounced the spot “Roundhill
Island.”

After passing through a precipitous rocky entrance, half closed by a
stranded mountain of ice, on which the long swell of the Atlantic was
thundering, we dropped anchor off a long narrow creek, round which
our glasses revealed rude fishing stages and mud huts. The name of the
harbour was Domino.

Five minutes was long enough to bring several small boats alongside,
with eager inquiries as to who this strange vessel might be! Where
was it bound? what was its errand? while a few more minutes saw us
being swiftly rowed ashore to come and see G—— who had been “bad all
summer.”

Soon I was sitting in a tiny, dark mud hut, with neither glass in the
hole that served for light and air, nor a chimney to carry up the
smoke from the fire on the floor, through the large hole in the roof
intended for its escape. A groaning man sat doubled up on a rude bench
in a dark corner of the room, while his wife endeavoured to restrain
the super-abundant energy of a crowd of children. “Been ill long?”
I asked, after the usual greetings had been exchanged. “About three
weeks. Wish I could get home. There’s no chance for a sick man up
here.” Evidently he did not yet grasp the idea of our hospital ship.
“Well, we’ll see what can be done,” and the case was inquired into, and
found to my joy to be one for which relief could, by care, be obtained.
After some further talk, in which one or two fishermen joined, who
had entered during the examination, we had a few words of prayer for
God’s blessing on the means used, and left for the ship, leaving behind
us, for the _Albert’s_ first evening in Labrador, at least one poor
heart grateful—and thoughtful. A hearty service aboard and many minor
cases of sickness closed the day. Daylight again saw boats alongside
the _Albert_, and we were called to visit a poor Eskimo dying from
consumption. He had been brought from an island four days before, and
was lying in a lonely hut, hoping some day that he would be well enough
to get aboard the mail steamer for advice.

The poor house was indeed ill-calculated for a dying
man—ill-ventilated, ill-lighted, and dirty—with little clothing, and
still less food, semi-starvation was rapidly hastening on the end. Oh,
for a clean bed, a nurse, a hospital, to put such cases in, was the
whole talk over tea that evening. All was done that could be. Food,
medicine, and some warm clothing were taken him; but ere the _Albert_
came south again, death had claimed the poor fellow for its victim, and
closed the sad scene of human suffering; and the valley of shadows had
been crossed without the knowledge of a Saviour, who takes away all its
sting. At whose door will this fault be laid? Not more than once a year
does the sound of the glad tidings of God’s grace reach Spotted Island,
the home still of some fifty persons.

To avoid repetition, I must now content myself by giving a general
description of the people of this coast and their methods of earning a
living.




[Illustration: Hudson Bay Company’s Post, Rigolette.]




CHAPTER VI

_DO PEOPLE LIVE IN LABRADOR?_


Do people live in Labrador? There is a resident white population of
some 5,000 at least, scattered along the south and east coasts. They
call themselves “Livyeres.” North of these are Eskimos, and in the
interior Indians, known locally as “Mountaineers,” but actually they
are different branches of the old Algonquin race. The last returns were
as follows:—

  White population of St. Lawrence coast 4,411
  White population of Atlantic coast     2,416
  Eskimo on the coast                    1,700
  Indians of the interior                4,000
                                        ——————
                              Total     12,527
                                        ——————

These Indians, who once held North America from the “Rockies” to the
sea, have steadily decreased in numbers. As they live by hunting only,
the extensive forest fires, and depletion of fur-bearing animals,
have driven them further and further west. Whole encampments have
been reported “found dead from starvation.” Only occasionally do they
visit the coast, bringing furs with them to trade with the Hudson Bay
Company. They never take to sea fishing.

The Eskimo, of Mongolian origin, at one time were as far south as
Newfoundland. In 1780 a tribe 500 strong still dwelt along the Straits
of Belle Isle. Now almost all are north of Hamilton inlet; of these I
shall speak later.

Whence do the whites come? Some are said to be descendants of those
who fled the old country in press-gang days. In 1780 we hear of a crew
of convicts sent out there. Some are descendants of sailors wrecked
on the coast, or of Newfoundland and other fishermen who have been
left there. More come from those who have gone out in the service of
the Hudson Bay Company, while some few have emigrated directly there.
The largest settlement consists of about 100 persons, and with the
people of neighbouring coves numbers about 350. It is here where the
mission has built the first hospital ever known in Labrador. In May or
June every year the coast is visited by from 20 to 25,000 fishermen,
women and children. These arrive as soon as the ice is blown off the
coast by westerly winds. Most are from Newfoundland, some from Canada,
with occasional Americans buying fish. They come in every variety of
vessel—small and large, good, bad and indifferent—mostly of the
schooner type. They number about 1,000. Besides the crew, which varies
from five to ten men, with one or two women, most Newfoundland vessels
bring a number of people called “freighters.” These are landed at
various harbours, where they have left mud huts and boats the previous
year, and where they will fish all summer. The fish is “made” or cured
in Labrador, and sent in large vessels to the Mediterranean, Brazilian,
or English markets. Meanwhile, the schooner has gone further north in
search of a “fare” of fish. If successful, the fish will be salted,
and brought home “wet,” so that these vessels are called “green-fish
catchers.” As they come south they call for their “freighters,” with
their goods and chattels, who pay 25 cents per head per cwt. of fish
caught in return for their passage. The overcrowding on some of these
vessels returning is very great, and is made worse by the fact that
every year more vessels go than return. Besides the cargo of fish,
casks of oil, nets, boats, and general goods, perhaps thirty, forty,
or fifty men and women will be crowded into these small vessels, at
times with only room to lie down in the hold between the deck and the
cargo. On one small schooner of nineteen tons we counted fifty people,
thirty-four men and sixteen women. The women, many of whom have
children with them, are often very bad sailors. As a rule, they are
not allowed on deck except in port, and this voyage is a nightmare all
summer to numbers. They are pillars of pluck, many of these women. They
can handle an oar and sail a small boat with the best, and among them
are “Grace Darlings” only wanting an opportunity. They work chiefly at
cleaning fish and keeping the huts for the men, though some, I think
very wrongly, form part of the crews of the green fish catchers. The
Canadian schooners are larger—carry about eighteen men and no women.
The people consider Labrador very healthy, which I attribute to their
comparative immunity there from epidemic diseases. The damp mud huts,
often filled with snow till the very day they go in, the entire absence
of any sanitary provisions, combined always with either cold draughts
or too little ventilation, have, without any doubt, an ill effect on
the people, but more especially on the women, who occupy them.

[Illustration: Fields of Fish Drying—Emily Harbour.]

The fishermen are tall men, and broad to match, born to the sea,
and are accustomed, from their training at the seal fishery on the
ice, to be quick and active. No lighthouse, no buoy, no landmark aid
navigation on the Labrador coast. The charts are old, bad, incorrect,
incomplete and unreliable, while north of Hamilton inlet, _where
nearly all the schooners go for green fish_, there is practically no
chart at all, most of the surveying having been done by the keels and
bilges of devoted fishing schooners. Streams of icebergs, floating
all the summer to the southward before the polar current, render it
always unwise to stay at sea at night. With sudden calms and baffling
winds from high perpendicular cliffs, making a harbour without a tug
is always hard enough; but here, in addition, the constant and dense
fogs make it often impossible, without any kind of guide, even to
find a harbour at all; for in places shoals and ledges run out twenty
miles to seaward. Yet for all this shameful neglect on the part of the
Newfoundland Government, the weak defence is constantly made, “Not
many lives are lost.” That I know to be due solely to the consummate
seamanship and daring perseverance of the fishermen. Among many good
vessels, many are bad, and, worse still, are provided with but bad
tackle and holding-gear. The latter is an absolute essential, with the
liability that exists to sudden hurricanes, and I believe more vessels
are lost in Labrador from this one cause than all others put together.
Moreover many, as I have already pointed out, are greatly overcrowded.
More than once we saw vessels drifting to destruction, and once, when
holding on ourselves for all we were worth, we had the pleasure of
saving a comrade by running him a coir hawser, and so holding him on
the verge of the rocks after his own tackle had given out and the crew
had received brief notice to quit through the boiling surf.

It must be remembered that Newfoundland, our oldest colony, exists
solely by its fishery; that one-third of its entire revenue is now
derived from this very Labrador fishery, that is some one-and-a-half
million dollars, and that in no other way could this harvest be reaped.
Moreover almost every man in Labrador may be called a fisherman, and
yet nothing is done for all their returns. Here is another method of
interpreting the value of the industry. It is said seventeen tons of
fish contain the nutritive value of 50 head of cattle, or 300 sheep.
Now the average yield for fifty years from the French and English
Fisheries is 2,300,000 cwt., that is 338,235 cattle, or 2,029,410 sheep.

The summer Labrador settlements are on islands or outside headlands,
and here both Newfoundlanders and “Livyeres” dwell, the latter retiring
up the bays and inlets, to be nearer wood and game, when the former
return to Newfoundland. There are about a dozen well recognised central
stations in Labrador, where agents representing the various merchants’
firms are stationed to collect the fish from the fishermen dealing with
their firm, and to ship it thence to market. These men have far better
houses than the rest, generally also a store from which the general
wants of their men are supplied. As a rule, advances are made of all
needful appliances and food to some better known fishermen.

These men are known as “Planters,” and employ under them so many men
and women on “share” or wages. Occasionally, also, the agent has some
men of his own, working for settled wages, who may be made to fish for
cod, to pack salmon, to load vessels, or do any work they are told.
When seven men fish one trap or seine net, the total catch is divided
into fourteen shares—seven for the planter and seven for the men.
That is one share each; a few dollars on the hundred quintals being
allowed the skipper of the “crew.” Or when a man fishes his own net
with four men, I saw the value divided into twelve shares—four for
the master, four for the trap, and one each for the men, so that each
man gets every twelfth fish. When hand-lining begins, and two men have
charge of each boat, every other fish belongs to the men, the owner
taking two out of four. A girl’s wages are £6 to £7 currency for the
season, and her keep. Each planter has his own hut, but his men often
live together. The huts are of logs with the chinks filled with moss
and covered with sods. Entrance is by a low doorway, and there is a
small window placed low down to prevent escape of heat. Warmth and
ventilation cannot co-exist in so small a space. A man a little over
a fathom long once visited Sir Donald Smith, when an agent on that
coast. To accommodate his legs at night a hole had to be cut in the
wall, and a box lined with dogskin fixed up outside. I saw one day a
fisherman moving house. The house was first wedged up on piles, then a
rope was put round it, and, with the help of a few neighbours, it was
dragged higher up the hill. Another house I saw had been dragged over
the harbour on the ice “to be nearer the fishing ground.” An American
stove, or more often an open fireplace (the smoke going out of a huge
chimney like in an Irishman’s cabin), serves for warmth and cooking.
The stove, anyhow, is a movable chattel, and accompanies its master to
his winter hut in the fall. Clothes are so expensive and so scanty that
every man is his own wardrobe, and he who puts his clothes in a drawer
must himself go naked. Thus a block of furniture is obviated. Bunks are
put up for the men or a partition boarded off, while the girls sleep in
a “lean-to,” called a “bunk-house,” or have a part partitioned off, or
hang an old curtain in front of their bunk in the smaller huts.

Some Newfoundland planters and agents provide boarded huts for their
“crowd,” but in all the arrangements are much the same. The Livyeres’
families have all their separate huts. Each “crew” has a fish stage,
alongside which the fish are brought in the boats. These stages
are built out on piles driven into the mud. Long poles, known as
“rounders,” are laid side by side across the tops of these, and form a
kind of flooring. The whole is then roofed in with poles and sods, in
order that fish-curing may proceed at night by costers’ lamps, or in
bad weather. Up the middle of the stage runs a table for splitting the
fish on. The green fish are hove up on to the stage with pitchforks,
seized by a woman who cuts off the head—“the header,” and passed
on to one who opens the throat—“the throater.” She passes it to a
man—“the splitter.” He, with great dexterity, cuts out the backbone
and flings the flesh into a tub of water for the “washer.” I have timed
a man split thirteen fish in one minute. It takes the tyro nearer
thirteen minutes to split one well. The offal is thrown through a hole
in the floor into the sea below, where every variety of scavenger fish
congregates. In Norway, and by Messrs. Munn of Newfoundland, the skins
and bones are made into a splendid glue, while the rest of the offal
is preserved for fish manure. The washed fish is next laid in pile
and salted. The “salter” is also a skilled mechanic. It is easy to
undersalt and easy to “saltburn,” or oversalt, whereby much valuable
salt is wasted. This salt comes all the way from Cadiz by the same
vessels that take the fish away. Next the fish is spread in the sun.
A fine day is waited for, and all hands turn to. Many a slip exists
between the cup and the lip, however. If the fish has lain too long,
it will be sodden, and go grey or dun. If the sun is too hot, it will
be sun-burnt. If rain comes, and it is wet and dry again, too often it
will be injured. It must be turned and returned. At last it is gathered
up into circular “piles,” back up, and tail to the centre. These piles
are covered over with birch rinds, and a few stones placed on the top
to keep the whole together till it is time to ship them away. They
are weighed into the ship, two quintals at a time, a “culler” looking
over them as they pass in and classifying them; and according to this
classification they are paid for. The receipt handed to the fishermen
runs thus:—

              Received from..............

  Large }
  Medium}    Merchantable fish
  Small }
  Madeira    Merchantable fish
  West India Merchantable fish
  Talqual    Merchantable fish
  Inferior   Merchantable fish
  Damp       Merchantable fish
  Dun        Merchantable fish
  Slimy      Merchantable fish
  Labrador   Merchantable fish
  And also ...... casks of ...... gallons of oil.

There is always a great race to get first to market, for the first
cargo always fetches a higher price. One fish planter ships his own
fish to England, and thus is able to get at times a better price than
that offered in St. Johns. On the other hand, he runs the risks of the
freight, insurance, etc.

No railway, public building, roads, drains, or such like things
exist in Labrador, and every man is a fisherman first, a handy man
after—boat or house-builder, blacksmith, cooper, curer, as the case
may be. Only three harbours do I know where liquor is sold: in one of
these two poor fellows were drowned through its influence last year.
No jail or police exist on the coast. A small revenue schooner, with a
justice of the peace on board, is responsible for maintaining the law
and preventing smuggling. The people are, as a rule, law-abiding; but
crimes, especially among the half-breeds and Eskimo, go unpunished.
In one settlement a lay reader and school teacher are established; in
another an aspirant to the Methodist ministry, while settlements up two
long inlets enjoy similar privileges. These men are all doing excellent
work, as is a Presbyterian student from Dalhousie University in the
Straits of Belle Isle.

Most school work can be done in winter, for in summer only those too
young to work can be spared; and if they are old enough to journey
alone to and from the school, they are old enough to do something at
the fishery. Only a small percentage of Livyeres can read or write.
Every summer it is usual for a Roman Catholic priest, a Methodist
minister, and an Anglican clergyman to visit as many stations as they
can on the first 400 miles of coast. They are passed along in boats
from place to place by the too willing people, who, irrespective of
creed, extend their kindly hospitality to all alike. In places wood
buildings have been put up voluntarily by the men in their spare time,
for Sunday services, conducted usually by one of themselves. Our own
gatherings, at times too large for the _Albert’s_ hold or these little
buildings, were held in fish stores ashore, cleared for the purpose, or
in the open air, one of the countless boulders serving for a natural
rostrum. I have seen the same place serve in the morning for Church of
England, in the afternoon for Wesleyan, in the evening for Salvation
Army, and pretty much the same congregation attending each. I have
known a Methodist meeting house on Sunday reconsecrated for Mass on
Monday. This absence of conventionality, this socialism on a basis of
kindly generosity, is most congenial to one from the old world.

Fresh meat and vegetables are alike hard to procure. No cow or horse
exists. The domestic animal world is represented only by the inevitable
dog; the vegetable by the stringy cabbage or struggling turnip, whose
leaves alone attain to economic value. To prevent scurvy in winter,
when fresh fish is not attainable, salt meat must be avoided, even
if they can afford to buy it. The following recipe is invented with
that end: “Dry the cod in the sun till it is so hard none can go
bad. In winter powder this, rub it up with fresh seal oil, and add
cranberries if you have any.” This dainty is known as “Pipsey.” These
people neither need nor expect luxuries; sugar and milk are very rarely
used—tinned milk being too expensive, molasses being cheaper than
sugar, and also margarine than butter. White rabbits, white grouse and
sea-birds help to eke out the winter’s diet.

But to be accurate, in two harbours I saw a pig, brought by the
Newfoundlanders. When they arrived the dogs were banished to a desert
island near. In one harbor we listened to much wailing. Two pigs
had been isolated on an island near, the fishermen enjoying daily
the bliss of anticipation. But alas! here the dogs proved equal to
the occasion. An on-shore wind had brought them the joyful news, and
that very morning the pigs disappeared, only a few blood-stained
bristles remaining to tell the story of the crime. In one harbour a
planter had brought a sheep, but its isolation had so developed its
affection for its owner that it followed him everywhere, and he could
not make up his mind to kill it. Goats fare a little better: they have
horns. Yet in one place three nights in succession a goat had been
missed. A team of runaway dogs was roaming near, but only approached
the houses under cover of night. All these animals are, however, the
perquisites of affluence, and belong almost entirely to the planters
from Newfoundland. Some few bring fowls, which eke out a perilous
existence on suffrance of the dogs. At the Hudson Bay Company’s station
of Rigolette, Mr. Wilson, the chief factor, told me that two of his
dogs got into his well-enclosed yard, and in four minutes killed eight
hens and tore four goats to pieces. Among all these people no resident
doctor exists, nor is skilled aid of any kind to be obtained in case
of need; for the few minutes in the summer that the mail steamer
stays in any harbour, and the irregular times of her calls, gives the
doctor on board no opportunity to render effective aid. When sickness
falls on the people no one knows what it is, or how to treat it. Not
knowing they are ill, men work on till a trifling ailment becomes a
matter of life and death. A slight accident with no “first aid” at
hand, permanently cripples a limb or destroys a valuable function,
such as sight. Bleeding unchecked from a simple wound deprives a
dependent family of the father and breadwinner. Many are the piteous
stories I have learnt of such cases since first, in 1892, the Gospel
Hospital-ship _Albert_ was sent out by warm hearts in Old England to
their brothers and sisters in this “region beyond.”

After all this description of Labrador, do you ask, as I do, why do
people stay here, when the fair farm lands of Canada are offered free
to all? There is a story that a solitary old woman in the wilds of
North America was one day visited by a gentleman from that “hub of
the universe,” Boston city. She asked him, “Where do you live?” “Oh,
hundreds of miles away—in Boston.” “How do you manage to live so far
away?” was the reply. To begin with, every one has a lingering belief
in his “ain countree.” The wild life to which these people are born has
a certain charm to others besides themselves. Sailors they are born
and bred. What else can they do? Some have been taken by the Canadian
Government to the southern side of the Gulf of St. Lawrence—the Arcady
of Longfellow—and yet have found eventually their way back. The fact
remains—here is an increasing English-speaking colony.




CHAPTER VII

_JUST HOW THE FISH ARE CAUGHT_


[Illustration: Boat returning from the Trap full of Fish.]

Cod (Gadus) = goad or rod fish—called in Norway stick or stock fish,
or in Spanish “baccalhao,” in Italian “mazza,” a club or rod—all of
which synonyms imply that a rod or stick is used in preserving the
fish. In Norway two are tied tail to tail, and then slung over a stick,
being then exposed to sun and air so many days—prescribed by law. The
Eskimo largely hang them from a rod by the gills after splitting and
salting them, but Newfoundlanders spread them out on poles, called
“flakes,” or on the natural rocks, called “bournes.” But “you must
first catch your hare, then cook him,” and seasons suitable being
very brief in these Arctic climates, the most rapid methods must be
adopted; and in cod-catching Newfoundland has eclipsed all her rivals.

In spring, nets only are used, for the fish are in shoals, feeding on
the myriads of caplin, a fish the size of a sardine, which are inshore
then to spawn. The most successful net is the cod-trap. Practically it
is a submerged parlour of net without a roof, but with a large door,
into which the cod are invited to walk by a long net leading to the
nearest headland of rock, and ending at the centre of the door. It is
all kept in position by heavy anchors. The distance from the rock is
from a hundred to a hundred and fifty yards. Cod are gregarious fish,
and, like sheep, follow a leader. When, therefore, one comes up against
the net as he swims near the rocks, he turns out into deeper water to
circumvent it, and so leads his confiding following directly into the
net. Here, being a platonic fish, he remains, indolently browsing on
the infusoria and ocean slime which collect about the twiny walls of
his prison. Suddenly a boat appears overhead, and a long telescope,
with a plain glass bottom—the fish glass—is pushed down into the
room, through which the trap-master is peering to see how many finny
prisoners there are. Now the door is pulled up, and now the floor is
rising—rising—rising, being passed along under the boat, until all
the frightened captives are huddled together in one seething mass near
the surface. Now a dipper is put in, and the jumping, struggling fish
are heaved into the boat. Soon the boat is full to the gunwale, and
still there are more prisoners. Large bags of net are produced and
filled with the rest of the fish. These, after being buoyed, are thrown
overboard to wait till they are “wanted.”

I have seen fifty to sixty hundredweight of fish taken in the same
trap time after time. Sometimes more are caught than the curers can
keep pace with. Then the fortunate trap-master allows his neighbours
to “haul the trap,” receiving in return a small proportion of cured
fish. Now certain positions are thought better than others for setting
these traps, with the result that there is every spring a race from
Newfoundland to get them, like our members of parliament race for
seats. The law does not allow traps to be set till a certain day, and
the leading net must be put out to secure the berth—a top hat on a
bench is not sufficient—and unless within four days the whole trap
is set, the claim becomes void. Thus, while the ice was still on the
shores of Labrador, a steamer was sent ahead with numbers of men, each
armed with “a trap leader,” to get ahead of the sailing schooners which
were working their perilous way along inside the floe ice. In one case,
after the best berths had thus been taken, the nets to complete the
traps did not turn up till after the prescribed four days. Meanwhile
another crew had pulled up their nets and pounced on the coveted
prizes. Again, some men were landed with “leaders” on one station late
at night. “No sail in sight. We’ll secure our berths to-morrow
morning.” During the night, however, a southerly wind brought in two
schooners, and during the hours of darkness these secured the prize
while the others slept.

[Illustration: Snug Harbour.]

The “cod-seine” ranks second in importance among nets in Labrador. It
is of prodigious size, up to 60 feet deep, requiring seven men to work
it, and is used either to bar an inlet, or to shoot round a shoal of
cod in deep water. The seine master stands, fish-glass in hand, high on
the bow of the seine skiff, as his stalwart crew, with eight huge pine
oars, drive the boat along, perhaps hour after hour. The vast net is
piled up on the stern, while one man stands on the thwarts, steering
with his oar like an Italian gondolier. Suddenly “Easy all!” is cried;
“Hold her up!” and the seine master peers down into the water with
his glass. A school of fish is on the bottom. Swiftly the net anchor
is dropped, and the net is paid out astern as the willing backs bend
to the oars and force the skiff round and home to the starting place,
marked by a gaily-painted buoy. Thus the whole school are enclosed. Now
the weighted foot rope is “gathered” together, the net has become one
vast bag, and the prisoners are dealt with as before, _i.e._ dipped out
and bagged off.

The gill net is rarely used in Labrador now. In Norway it is still a
favourite method. Twenty to twenty-four nets, eighty feet long and
about fifty feet deep, are “shot” in water of from twenty to sixty
fathoms, or even in ninety fathoms, as many as three to four thousand
cod being meshed at one time. Under certain circumstances nets are no
use, _e.g._, on the great banks, or late in the season in Labrador.
Lines must then be used, and it is advisable to use bait on the hook.
To us accustomed to row out and catch a few codling with a mussel, the
subject of “baits” has apparently little interest. But out here it has
become a subject of international importance. The fact is, mussels
are too soft, coming off the hook too readily, and also cod are a
fastidious fish, and will only condescend to swallow that “poisson”
which is in season. True, it is not essential to bait the hooks at
all. Instead you may take two large hooks, fix them back to back with
a piece of lead, which will act at once as bait and sinker. Lower this
to the bottom, and then keep jerking it up and down. Often you will
strike fish as fast as you can work, using one line in each hand. This
method, called “jigging,” eventually injures the fishery, probably
because numbers of fish escape after being wounded, and others follow
them, possibly to devour them, more than five being injured for one
caught. The fishermen say the injured warn their friends, but a fish’s
appreciation of pain is somewhat doubtful.

Sailors have told me of sharks which, after being caught and having
had their livers cut out, will continue to pursue and swallow the same
piece of pork as long as sufficient vitality remains in them to keep
pace with the vessel; nay, even that, after being cut in half, the “bow
end” will still wriggle after the bait, when the ship is becalmed in
the doldrums. But Jack is prejudiced against sharks.

Bait is necessary, however, in deep water, a fact that led the
Newfoundland Government to pass the famous “Bait Act,” rendering it
illegal to supply the French with bait in the hope of destroying their
banking industry. Alas! laws are easier to make than enforce, and the
worst sufferers were those who formerly made out of this supply an
honest livelihood.

Octopus and Squid is _facile princeps_ among baits for cod. Yet the
cod must be circumspect in indulging this weakness, and confine his
attention to those of tender years, for these cephalopods attain to
enormous size at times in these waters. Thus the Rev. Dr. Harvey
(F.R.S., Canada), of St. Johns, narrates how, while recently two
Newfoundlanders were out fishing in their little rowing boat, two
enormous arms rose out of the water, seized the boat, and endeavoured
to drag it below the surface. Fortunately a chopper lay at hand in the
boat, and the great beast, after losing two of his arms, sank amidst
volumes of black ink. The parts of arms cut off were nineteen feet
long, and are now preserved in St. Johns Museum. Shortly after another
was secured by Dr. Harvey, which had been found floating, dead. Its
grasp embraced forty feet. Again, in 1772 Cartwright caught one seven
feet long without head or tentacles. The beaks of these fish resemble
a parrot’s, and in large specimens are far more solid than human teeth.

Catching octopus is exciting work. A number of row-boats are anchored
close together outside some point of land, and the fishermen are lazily
jigging up and down a little bright red leaden weight, bristling with
wire spikes. Suddenly a stir—all are working with might and main. A
company of squids are passing and flying on the jiggers like vampires;
the red weights are being grabbed voraciously. Beware as you get him
on board. Suddenly he relaxes his grasp, and shoots out a jet of ink,
which smarts considerably in one’s eyes, and leaves weird patterns on
white linen. They swim backwards and at great pace after their prey.
Salted down, these squid fetch fifteen to fifty cents per hundred.
“Bankers” pay ten to twenty cents per hundred.

Caplin I have mentioned. They are taken in fine meshed seine nets or in
cast nets thrown from the shoulder like the “retiarius” of old threw
his.

Herrings form a very excellent bait. They are caught in gill nets
anchored out in likely spots, and these are emptied every day. Our
English drift nets are rendered impossible by the icebergs and sudden
storms, with no harbour lights in case of emergency at night, and
herring see the net in daytime. Herrings have been kept frozen, and
then found to serve as excellent bait. A new way to freeze these is to
half fill a barrel with broken ice, salt and herrings, and then roll
it well over and over. Thus a constant supply of bait at known places
might be maintained in fixed ice houses; a much needed arrangement, for
much time and money is lost by the uncertain supply of bait. Launce
or sand eels have often to be used, but can only be taken on sandy
bottoms, perhaps miles from a fishing station. Then several crews
club together, and lend men in turns to row the bait skiff as many as
twenty-four miles, sharing up the bait when it arrives. Occasionally
they pay shares for a small launch to keep up a regular supply. White
fish, a small fish taken in surface seines, are occasionally used, and
also sometimes whelks.




[Illustration: Cartwright Staff.]




CHAPTER VIII

_THE TRUCK SYSTEM_


Cod alone is fish in Labrador diction. Cod is the coin of the realm.
Money is scarcely known, and no other medium of exchange is used by the
people, whose _raison d’être_ almost is cod. All live on goods advanced
on credit, to be paid for by their catch of cod. This truck system, is
the next of kin to the old feudal system, and has long been extinct in
most civilized countries. It seems the early treatment of Newfoundland
by England is partly responsible for the rise of this baneful system,
which it is now difficult to remove. The struggling fisherman knows it
is a state of bondage, but cannot get out of it; the merchant knows its
disadvantages outweigh its profits; while the colony must recognise
that it is alone the cause of so many of its younger and more energetic
men leaving the country as soon as they can see their way to do so—for
no race loves its country with more patriotic affection than do
Newfoundlanders.

Up to the end of the eighteenth century no one was allowed to remain
in Newfoundland after the fishing season, each captain of a fishing
vessel being held responsible, under heavy penalty, to bring back all
his crew to England; while if any one did desert and remain behind to
be near the fishing grounds, and to reap the harvest of the sea for his
own benefit, his stage, and even house and goods, might be appropriated
by the first fishing captain out next year. This made it only possible
for fishermen to go out when some merchant capitalist would finance the
voyage, who, in return, repaid himself out of the fish caught.

Now many vessels were sent out, and though the catch of fish by any
individual vessel was uncertain—for fish set into one place one
year and another the next—the whole catch would generally repay the
merchant amply. But as in some cases all vessels of one merchant might
do badly, a large price was charged on goods advanced as a further
security for the merchant, that in any case he might be quite sure
to recoup himself for his outlay. And lastly, though there might be
no immediate return in fish or cash, yet the fishermen at once began
to accumulate a large nominal debt; and though possibly, and even
probably, they would never be able to liquidate this, yet the fact of
their being indebted to any particular merchant insured their fishing
for him year after year. Thus, perhaps, the best issue for the merchant
at settling time seemed in every case to be a debt by each man, but
not large enough to make the fisherman despair and so fish badly. Thus
the successful fisherman had to pay for his unsuccessful brother’s
deficits. The fishermen soon found this out, and were not only soured
against their suppliers, but lost the incentive to make any effort
to discharge their whole debts. The merchant now found it difficult
to make ends meet through bad debts, and was led to buy in the fish
himself, insisting on the fishermen not paying in cash, but fish.
Each year the commercial body fixed its own price for fish, punished
those of their men who sold the fish for cash if they could do so, and
themselves resold the fish in foreign markets, gaining a second profit
when possible. Thus large nominal debts arose, which in hundreds of
cases the men could never hope to liquidate. The spirit of pauperism
was directly fostered, the men becoming absolutely dependent on the
charity of their merchants, and in many cases from year to year never
knowing how much they really owed.

This system persists to-day, as an evil heirloom, dragging down both
merchant and fisherman. To-morrow’s labour is ever mortgaged ahead for
food to-day. At last a time comes when no longer any hope of return
from certain men can be expected. The advances are suddenly cut off,
and these men, deprived of their usual source of supply, fall back on
government relief, till to-day over one-third and nearly half of the
whole revenue of the country is spent in pauper relief. The recipients
are frequently able-bodied men, and yet they have no shame in accepting
it, looking on the government as an independent source of wealth,
and calling their annual six to twenty-four dollars “a government
appointment.”

Thus the system has played into the hands of idleness and dishonesty
also; for though all a man’s catch is nominally his merchant’s, he
is tempted to keep some part back and sell it elsewhere, that he may
have some ready money to spend when he returns. Thus one man who has
already more fish than would pay his own debt, will accept fish from
another heavily in debt, and turn it in to his merchant as his own,
handing over afterwards the money or goods he obtained in return to
his friend, and perhaps deducting a shilling a quintal for the risk
involved. A far more common way is to take and sell your fish right
away to another firm. All are generally glad to get fish anyhow; for
not only is it a loss to send away a ship without a full freight, but
also there is a great race to get vessels away first each year, as
the first in the market will realize a higher price for their cargo
throughout. To prevent this the various firms agreed at one time not
to buy fish from another merchant’s planters. But this fell through,
and now only a careful watch is kept on how much fish each man has as
the season progresses, and the amount compared with what he delivers
to his merchant. Any man caught alienating much fish would not receive
any advance in future, though most firms are anxious to get all the men
they can.

The advances are made in May or early June. When the fish has been put
on board the vessels for market in October, notes of credit are sent to
the merchants thus:—

  Received from......., .... qlts. ... qrs. ... lbs. of Labrador fish.

  To Messrs. ........., qlts. ... qrs. ... lbs. of Merchantable fish.

    Per Agent.......

Then, as soon as the total catch can be roughly estimated, the Chamber
of Commerce meet in St. Johns and decide what price they will give for
fish. The credit notes are at once cashable at that price, cargoes
being all insured. Each firm then credits its planters and men with
their catch at that price, and a balance is struck between the total
and the amount of each one’s advance in May. If a surplus remains, it
goes to provide the fisherman with his winter’s diet. Now a good catch
for a fisherman is 100 quintals of dry fish, or 300 quintals of green.
On an average 100 fish go to the quintal, that is, each man must
catch 30,000 fish. Each quintal is worth in St. Johns from 2-1/2 to 3
dollars, so that 275 dollars is a good season, less 30 dollars for salt
245 dollars, or about £50. It must be remembered many will only average
20 quintals some years, or 50 dollars, not £50. The average catch per
head for “bank” fishermen last year was 47-1/2 quintals. How often a
man will be dependent, therefore, on charity for a supply of food for
himself and his family during the winter becomes apparent.

Often the winter’s diet that can be laid in is all too small for
the needs of the family; and before the breaking up of the ice once
more allows cod-fishing to commence, and the planters to return
from Newfoundland, the poor Livyeres are reduced to living on “the
landwash.” “A short feast and a long famine” is a coast epigram.

Clothing is perhaps most difficult to find money for, and is apt to
become so scanty that the settler, for lack of proper protection from
the weather, cannot prosecute his fishing or hunting, especially where
the temperature falls to 50°, or even more, below zero. I met one
poor fellow who years before had missed his way home at night and had
had to sleep out in the open. He had lost both feet from frost-bite.
One can realize the need for woollen clothing. When near Winnipeg, in
North Manitoba, I saw a young Englishman, who had been caught out in
a blizzard, and had lost both hands and both feet at the wrists and
ankles from frost-bite. But a still more vicious circle is established
when, to procure food for this winter, a settler has to part with his
means of “killing a voyage” next summer. The following is a case in
point as related to me on the spot:—

Some three years ago, at Big Bight, a Mr. Olliver, with his wife and
five children, had fallen into great poverty. At last in spring, when
all his food was exhausted, he set out, taking his last possessions,
an old Jack plane and a trout net, with him. Having no dogs, he had
to travel afoot over the ice and snow. At last he came to the house
of the best-off settler about, Mr. Tosten Anderson, a Norwegian, and
a splendid fellow. When asked for food, Mr. Anderson, showing all the
flour he had, said, “To part with any more than I have done, means we
must all starve together.” This was thirty to forty miles from his own
home. He then went on twelve miles to a Mr. James Thomas, whose reply
was just the same. Two days later he reached Richard Blomfield’s house
on his way back. Here he met the same reply again. No more was heard
till three days later, when Blomfield was summoned to the Ollivers’
house. On the middle of the floor, his coat off and his gun by his
side, lay Mr. Olliver, shot through the head. In a heap in one corner
lay the three youngest children, scarcely dead from blows from an
axe lying near them. Apparently determined to spare those who might
provide for themselves, he had sent out first his wife and eldest
daughter to search for food, and his eldest boy to search for birds.
Mr. Blomfield told me he supposed that the cries of the hungry children
proved too much for the poor father. Truly Virginius of old acted in
much the same way.

This, of course, is an extreme case, and in order to arrive at
a fair conclusion, we took, as far as possible, a census of the
Livyeres—noting the numbers and ages of children—the proportion that
could read and write, and the number each had of gallons of molasses,
barrels of flour or pork, pounds of tea, and tobacco, which, alas,
nearly all use, however poor and unable to afford luxuries. That
a very large proportion had a quite insufficient quantity of food
became beyond question. It must be remembered it is not a question of
how much they can buy, but how much a supplier is willing to give to
people already heavily indebted to him, only a few being independent
enough to pay down for what they take. Government aid, sea birds,
seals, trout, willow grouse, and rabbits, _i.e._ arctic hares, are the
supplemental sources available. The Newfoundlanders are too often only
little better off than Labradormen, and I have many piteous accounts
of parents themselves suffering chronic starvation in order to supply
their little ones with the necessities of life. Soon, it is sincerely
to be hoped, the interior of Newfoundland will be opened up. All look
to the new railway to turn the attention of many to the cultivation of
the land, which will at least help to render existence more easy. It
is reasonable to hope also that the new sealing laws, the new fishery
restrictions, and Mr. Adolph Neilsen’s magnificent work at the fish
hatchery and lobster incubation, are the presages of happier times. But
the people can never be free, industrious, and contented, until the
truck system is dead and buried.[14]

[Footnote 14: December, 1894. And now the long impending crash has
come—both the banks of Newfoundland have failed, and ten out of twelve
merchants’ firms have had to suspend payment, while the masses of the
population are face to face with absolute starvation. The Truck System
has entailed ruin on all concerned in it, and has brought the country
to the verge of bankruptcy. There are not few, however, who see in
these terrible events the promise of better things. A better system
of trade must arise, a better relation between labour and capital, a
better era for this oldest of England’s colonies. “Whom the Lord loveth
He chasteneth.” God grant it may be so in this case.]




[Illustration: A visit from Eskimo.]




CHAPTER IX

_RESULTS OF THE FIRST VISIT_


November, 1892, saw the _Albert_ once more in St. Johns Harbour,
after having spent seventy-eight days on the coast. She had visited
many harbours, treated 900 patients, distributed much clothing and
literature, and collected much valuable information; while Mr. Adolph
Neilsen, superintendent of Newfoundland fisheries, who had joined the
_Albert_ during the greater part of her cruise, had been carrying on
scientific observations calculated to directly benefit the fishing
industry. Daily services had been held, at which thousands in all
had been present, and not a few had confessed openly aboard their
intention, by God’s help, to live new lives.

On arriving in a new harbour, our large blue flag, now known along
the whole coast as the herald of good things, had always proved
a sufficient call to prayers. We found no need for adventitious
attractions; where opportunities are so few, we found men and women
only too glad to come and join in simple praise to God for mercies
past, and prayer for the unknown future before them. Here the
uncertainty of things seen, renders things unseen more real, while
the impotence of man being so evident, makes the power of his Maker
more intensely felt, and the anxiety to be ever ready to meet Him more
deeply earnest. Even the sceptic has acknowledged it means something,
this “coming to Christ” of the fisherman. His faith, unburdened by
“higher criticisms,” or convenient interpretations, sees in his
Master’s words a call to follow Him, on earth as well as in heaven.
Often I have watched men tremble and hesitate, time after time, when
God’s Spirit seems striving with them, before the final step is taken.
For they count well the cost beforehand, and realize fully the weakness
of their own natures. But once “over the line” means _following_ Christ
to them—means coming out, being separate, marked men. The world sets
for them no higher standard than they set for themselves, and their
self-sacrificing fidelity to their ideal has stirred the heart of more
than one Christian worker. There is little half-and-half following,
little “coasting” for fear of “launching out,” such as saps to-day the
joy and rejoicing of thousands of professed Christians. A fisherman
knows if he has “tacked ship,” and is on the Lord’s side, or on the
other side. Often they say, “I should like to be”; almost never, “I
hope I am.”

For visiting places inaccessible to the ship, from the fact that they
lay among dangerous rocks, or up narrow creeks, or because they only
offered shelter to small boats, we had taken with us a twenty-five
foot whale-boat, the _Alfred_, which we rigged with two lug-sails
and a jib. In this we made many journeys. Once we capsized her; once
lost our way in the fog, and had a nasty half-hour, with wind rising,
and fearing we were making out to sea as we ran before it, till the
thunder of the surf warned us of the land, and the bottom of towering
cliffs, white with Atlantic breakers, broke suddenly into view. We
had to abandon the boat that night, and walk home over the hills; but
we managed to fetch her home, close-reefed under shelter of the back
of the islands, next day. It so happened that where we landed two
or three couples wanted marrying. No chance had offered for several
years, so one couple determined at once to return to the ship with us
for that ceremony, as we had at the time a visiting minister on board.
It was late at night before we got there, but we decided (1) any hour
was better than none, and (2) that in a lonely harbour, on a solitary
ship (and as they already had three children), “pronouncing the banns
might be dispensed with.” So we adjourned to the cabin, and proceeded
to business at once. The skipper was best man and I was witness,
while the steward and crew, who had previously decorated the cabin
with bunting, together with one or two Livyeres from the creek, were
congregation. After all was over, hard biscuits and tea were served,
in lieu of a wedding breakfast, while the occasion was honoured from
a few old fowling-pieces and by a couple of dynamite distress rockets
on the _Albert’s_ deck. Altogether, we visited in the _Alfred_ and the
_Albert_ some thirty-five harbours, exertions which so told on the
_Alfred’s_ constitution that now she is taking her last rest at Great
Yarmouth.

Our dingey also upset in Domino Run, when endeavouring to get ashore;
an accident which proved nearly fatal to the ship’s carpenter, for he
happened to come up under the sail, and was unable to swim. Happily it
only ended in an undignified rescue. A more serious accident happened
to the _Albert’s_ winch, for in Winsor Harbour, while letting go
the anchor, a catch got wrong and stripped off all the teeth of the
cog-wheels. After this we were unable to get our anchor in, except with
the help of a great many men, for it was impossible to replace the
cog-wheel on the Labrador. It was quite a sight on leaving harbours to
see often fifty men, who had come off voluntarily, “walking in” the
anchor by means of a system of pulleys, each as he came to the stern of
the ship trotting back to catch hold of the rope again near the bow,
a continuous chain of men being thus maintained, and all singing,
as they pulled, one of the old shanty songs to assist them to pull
together. The names of the harbours we entered were, if old Eskimo
names, long and unpronounceable, such as Nukasasuktok; if French, often
almost unrecognisable, thus Cape d’Espoir has become Cape Despair; if
English, often descriptive of some incident, such as Run-by-Guess,
Seldom-Come-By, Ice Tickle, Cutthroat Island, Split-Knife Harbour,
Bakeapple Bight, Tumbledown Dick Island, and so on.

[Illustration: Moravian Station, Hopedale.]

When visiting up the bays our chief enemies were always the mosquitos.
These are a very real scourge, for, like the black fly and sand fly,
which also exist in myriads, they bite very severely, and we found them
at times so thick that it was difficult to breathe without inhaling
them. Even the “Livyeres” seldom, if ever, get accustomed to them,
while it is at times impossible to send Newfoundland crews up inlets
for firewood.

Our medical cases had included many and various ailments, especially of
the eye, the lungs, and the skin. Many teeth, of course, had called for
attention; and the forceps had on more occasions than one been the way
to a man’s heart. If you do not believe this, try a week’s toothache at
sea without remedies.

Among many interesting cases was that of one poor fellow, who fourteen
days previously had accidentally shot off both his arms below the
elbows. Since that time he had lain on his back, with nothing but
an oily rag over the wounds. As we went into his hut he held up the
raw stumps piteously, from which, in each case, some inches of bare
bone protruded. What could be done was done to relieve his agony, but
the poor fellow died of exhaustion after an operation on the stumps.
The night we were leaving that harbour it was dark and blowing as I
clambered out over the rocks, to signal for the ship’s boat about
10 p.m. There I found waiting for me the poor man’s wife, who, in a
flood of tears, gratefully wrung my hands, till I too felt a choking
sensation about the throat. There was something so real in her sorrow,
now left still more lonely on that lonely coast.

One day a silver-haired old fisherman came aboard for advice. “All
my three sons died this summer from diphtheria, sir,” he told me. “I
buried them all the same week. My eldest was nineteen, and he lasted
out the fever; but he couldn’t swallow, and I did not know how to
feed him.” “What did you do?” “Well, I tied a split herring round his
throat—some say that is good—but he starved to death before my eyes.
It is hard for us now to get along, with no one to help me tend the
nets. You see I’m not so young now as I was.”

One poor woman, with a tumour of the leg, one day sent for “the mission
doctor.” She couldn’t walk for it, she said, and life had become a
burden. We told her, “An operation will make you quite well, and we can
put you to sleep while it is done.” She would not take chloroform,
however, and so we thought all was over. Next morning another message
summoned me to the cottage, where I found five strong men waiting.
“These men have promised to hold me, doctor, while you take that away.
But I may bawl, mayn’t I?” In quarter of an hour all was completed, and
my plucky patient was laughing loudest at the queer scene; for bawl
she had, indeed, “to keep me from thinking of it,” she said. But the
men held on well, and in ten days she was all healed, and was up and
walking.

Among our most interesting visits had been that to Hopedale, the most
southern station of the Moravian missionaries; but I must leave to a
later chapter a description of the Eskimo, of whom we saw a good deal.
There were three Moravians and their wives here, the oldest having
lived in Labrador twenty-seven years. Once a year they communicate with
England by the good ship _Harmony_, which, with its predecessors, has
been visiting the coast for one hundred and twenty years. These men are
true followers of the Saviour in the self-sacrificing spirit, which
draws them to live their lives out on so barren and deserted a coast.
At seven years old their children leave them for ever, to be educated
in Germany, and then find an occupation in life. In one harbour, Zoar,
was a lonely missionary and his wife, who had just sent home their
eighth and last child, a little girl of seven years. “Can you not bring
me a baby from England? we are so lonely now,” said the good man’s
wife to me. Even to get a wife they must write home, and one is chosen
by lot for them. After our visit, they wrote as follows:—

  HOPEDALE, LABRADOR,
  _September 7th_.

  _To the Council of the Mission to Deep Sea Fishermen._

 GENTLEMEN,—On behalf of the Moravian Mission here I would ask you
 to accept our warmest thanks for sending your ship, the _Albert_, to
 visit us and our people, cut off as we are for so many months in the
 year from the rest of the world. We feel by its visit that we are
 within your thoughts. For the comfort we have found in having our
 hands spiritually strengthened by the presence of other Christian
 men; for what benefit we have received from medical attendance in our
 Mission house and in our congregation; for the kind gift of books for
 our library, and for the blessing we had in joining these meetings
 kept, and for the pleasure we have had in meeting all those we met
 from the _Albert_, we beg you to accept our most hearty thanks. May
 our Lord and Saviour bless your work everywhere, as He has done it
 here among the fishermen and at our Station.

 With kind and brotherly love, we remain your brethren in Christ,

  P. M. HANSEN,
  _Moravian Missionary_.

In Hopedale Harbour we stayed many days, for hundreds of vessels kept
calling in on their way south; for winter was then approaching, and
already cod-trap boats going to their nets had had to cut through two
inches of new ice.

On our arrival in St. Johns it was thought advisable to report the
results and deductions from this experimental voyage. Accordingly his
Excellency the Governor, Sir Terence O’Brien, invited the leading
citizens acquainted with the fishery to meet at Government House. The
report showed that (1) much needless suffering, limbs and special
functions, besides life itself, were to be saved by the possibility
of obtaining skilled assistance in the first instance; the famous
sealing master, Captain Sam Blandford, who was present, stating that
while he had charge of the mail steamer plying on the coast, seventeen
unfortunate people had died aboard without possibility of proper
treatment. (2) That even that year twenty-nine persons had died at one
harbour in Labrador of diphtheria without being able to get a doctor’s
help—nay, more, no one would take their fish or visit them to trade a
winter’s supply. (3) That the doctor on the small mail steamer was so
short a time in each harbour, and the time of his arrival so uncertain,
that the people had little confidence in the few moments possible to
devote to each case, even if they were fortunate enough to see the
doctor at all, while it was impossible to undertake any serious case
with success. (4) That poverty and starvation directly result from
sickness or accident to the breadwinner being left untreated. After
the report the following proposition was moved by the Hon. A. Harvey,
and supported by Sir Wm. Whiteway, premier, and Sir Robert Thorborne,
ex-premier, which was carried unanimously:—

 “_Resolved_—That this meeting, representing the principal merchants
 and traders carrying on the fisheries, especially on the coast of
 Labrador, and others interested in the welfare of this colony, desires
 to tender its warmest thanks to the directors of the Deep Sea Mission
 for their philanthropic generosity in sending their Hospital ship
 _Albert_ to visit the fishing settlements on the Labrador coast....

 “Much of our fishing industry is carried on in regions beyond the
 ordinary reach of medical aid or of charity, and it is with the
 deepest sense of gratitude that this meeting learns of the amount of
 medical and surgical work done, besides all the other relief and help
 so liberally distributed. This meeting also desires to express the
 hope that the directors of the Mission may see their way to continuing
 the work thus begun, and should they do so they may be assured of the
 earnest co-operation of all classes of this community.”

His Excellency the Governor then nominated a committee to help to
perpetuate and extend the operations of the Mission in Labrador. One
merchant present, Mr. W. Baine Grieve, presented to the Mission a house
at Battle Harbour for the first hospital.

The _Albert_ soon after left for England. She reached Yarmouth on
December 1st, where she received a hearty reception from the many
friends of the work.

In the report of the Chamber of Commerce of Newfoundland the following
reference to the work was included:—

“A new feature worthy of mention in this report, affecting as it does,
more or less, the comfort of 20,000 or 30,000 of our people, was the
appearance on the Labrador coast of the Mission to Deep Sea Fishermen
ship _Albert_, outfitted by a philanthropic society in England,
non-sectarian in its lines, and intended to afford skilled medical
aid to, and provide to some extent for the mental and material wants
of our fishermen. This essay has been an unqualified success, and has
evoked from the recipients of its bounty expressions of deep gratitude,
while at the same time it has engendered in the breasts of all who
are interested in the welfare and prosperity of the Colony feelings
that must strengthen the bonds which bind this comparatively neglected
dependency to the Mother Country. The vivid portraiture, by the doctor
in charge, of his own personal experiences on the coast is likely to
result in well-organized co-operation by the Colony next season upon
the lines on which the Mission ship is being worked.”

And in February, 1893, the following resolution was received from the
St. Johns Committee:—

 “That this representative Committee will undertake to provide two
 suitable buildings which may be used as hospitals by the Mission to
 Deep Sea Fishermen, should the Council of the Mission signify their
 intention to continue their operations on the coast of Labrador, and
 the Committee will heartily co-operate in any other way that the
 Council of the Society may suggest.

 “That a copy of the foregoing resolution be forwarded to Dr. Grenfell
 for the information of the Society.

  “(Signed) {T. O’BRIEN, Governor, _Chairman_.
            {M. MONROE, _Secretary_.”

The council of the Mission replied that they were prepared to fit out a
second expedition, and to undertake the working of the two hospitals.

During the rest of February, March, and April the captain of the
_Albert_ and myself held meetings in various towns, in the endeavour
to raise money to carry on the work. Meanwhile we sent out directions
for the fitting up of the house given by Mr. Baine Grieve at Battle
Harbour, and also plans for a wooden hospital, to be built in sections
in St. Johns, for transference to Indian Harbour, at the entrance to
Eskimo Bay, one hundred and eighty miles further north.

In April an earnest appeal was made for money to obtain a steam launch,
to assist the _Albert_, by visiting otherwise inaccessible places,
and by towing her in and out of narrow harbours. At the same time
preparations were being pushed ahead at Yarmouth. The _Albert_ was once
more recalled from her work in the North Sea. She was victualled for
six months, refitted as far as necessary, and stored with the clothing,
woollens, and literature which had been in the process of collection
all winter. A crew was shipped, and by the 1st of May she was all ready
to sail. Our whaler had been knocked to pieces last year, and we had to
get a new boat to replace it, or trust still to the money coming in for
a steam launch.

Arrangements had been made for the _Albert_ to visit one or two English
seaports on her journey out, in order to solicit further help, amongst
others Exeter, Swansea, and Bristol, whence she was to sail direct to
St. Johns. Still the money had not come in. While, however, we were at
Bristol, our boat still unbought, the joyful news reached us, “Money
necessary for a launch has now come in.” The _Albert_ touched last of
all at Swansea, where a suitable rowing boat, the _Mary Grenfell_, was
presented to her. In Chester we found the most suitable launch for the
money we had—an oak-built, copper-fastened boat, with simple 9-inch
engine, six years of age, though only little work had been done in her.
She was forty-five feet long. Her great defect was her width, which
was only eight feet, so that, being carvel-built, she would roll most
dreadfully. However, while the _Albert_ sailed across to Queenstown we
fitted out the launch at a total cost of £325, and arranged to ship
it direct by Allan line steamer _Corean_ to St. Johns. On June 1st I
joined the _Albert_ at Queenstown, and next morning we set sail for
Newfoundland.

The hospital committee had meanwhile appointed A. O. Bobardt, M.B.,
M.R.C.S., of Melbourne, Australia, and King’s Hospital, and Eliot
Curwen, M.B., B.A., of Cambridge and the London Hospital, as medical
missionaries for the two hospitals. These sailed with us in the
_Albert_. They had also appointed Miss Cecilia Williams and Miss Ada
Carwardine to act as matrons and nurses under the doctors, and had
arranged for them to sail by the same steamer as the launch. We had
three dirty days on the way out, and once were at close quarters with a
large iceberg, but the _Albert_ again quitted herself well, and on our
arrival in St. Johns we again experienced the greatest of kindness. Our
committee had collected some fifteen hundred dollars. A meeting was at
once called, and a small executive of two members were appointed for
each hospital, the Hon. M. Monroe acting for Battle Harbour and Mr. W.
C. Job for Indian Harbour.

On the arrival of the launch she was at once put into order for
starting, while the nurses joined the _Albert_, as the best way to
reach their respective stations. Meanwhile the Indian Harbour hospital
was sent on by steamer to Labrador. But a pleasing function yet
remained to be done—the christening of the new launch. A telegram had
reached us that the Princess May, who had long been interested in the
Mission to Deep Sea Fishermen, had consented to allow it to be named
after her. Accordingly on May 6th, amidst much rejoicing and display
of bunting, Her Excellency Lady O’Brien christened our launch the
_Princess May_.




[Illustration: The _Princess May_ in Hamilton Inlet.]




CHAPTER X

_OUR SECOND SEASON_


On Friday, July 7th, with a steward, an engineer, and Dr. Bobardt as my
companion, the _Princess May_ left St. Johns for Labrador, the _Albert_
having left the previous day. It was not without some feelings of
misdoubt that we first encountered the swell of the Atlantic, knowing
we should not make harbour till night; and as we had two large bays
to cross, none of us being familiar with the coast, we had hoped for
a clear day to enable us to keep the land in sight; but here again we
were disappointed, for the rebound from the cliffs forced us to stand
out half a mile to sea, and a dense fog shut everything from view.
Not having yet given the launch a trial ourselves, and she being six
years of age, we were not surprised after the first five miles, when
the engineer sang out, “Sprung a leak, sir; shall we put back?” An
examination revealed the fact that we could stop the leak with a wood
plug; and so to disappoint some few “croakers,” who had “told us so,”
we settled to stand on. Our compass having only a card disc, and not
being filled with spirit to steady it, proved very unsteady, our narrow
width, of only eight feet, making us roll very rapidly. We adopted the
method of endeavouring to steer midway between the extreme points the
needle swung to, and then to keep one point inside our course so that
we should not run out to sea. Very shortly this resulted in bringing
us up straight before a perpendicular cliff. Evidently our compass was
incorrect. An examination revealed that its box had been screwed on
to the cabin with large iron screws, the proper binnacle having been
broken on the voyage out, and being still at the optician’s in St.
Johns. These we soon extracted, and making a fresh start to the nor’ard
sighted Bacalhao Island, about forty miles from St. Johns, at mid-day.

Not having sighted any more land by 5 p.m., we began to think it was
time to turn inshore, and after some time found ourselves suddenly
amidst numbers of ragged rocks and small islands. Our chart book
described on the north side of Trinity Bay some “Ragged Islands”; and
we guessed we had struck among these, so once more we stood out into
the fog. Shortly a weird noise attracted our attention. We stopped and
listened. Yes, it was a fog-horn. This confirmed our recent diagnosis
of “Ragged Islands,” and once more we knew where we were. Night saw
us safely berthed in Catalina Harbour, where we managed to coal ship
before going to rest. With no small feelings of satisfaction we went
below that night. True the locker was hard to lie on, but the anxiety
and subsequent success of that first day was a sure soporific, combined
with the fact that the previous night had been none too restful, for
we had then no confidence in the powers of the _Princess May_. Here we
found our compass was still incorrect, so we unshipped it altogether
and carried it forward, to be further from the magnetic influence of
certain iron handles. Right gaily we left harbour next morning, but
outside found a new experience. The wind had veered round and was
blowing on shore, with a chilling drizzly rain to enhance the effect of
the nasty lop of the sea. Our loose deck gear began to go overboard,
and among it our boat-hook took leave of us. Being heavy at one end it
disappeared from sight at once. It was gaily painted black and white,
and we were sorry to lose it, being our only one. As I looked back it
suddenly rose again, lifting its painted handle high out of water, as
if to ask for help. We couldn’t well desert it after that, and so went
round to pick it up. Our log has no record of the number of circles
we completed; but if the reader has ever pursued a stick with one
heavy end in a choppy sea, he will find it usually disappears just
as the vessel has completed the tedious manœuvres necessary to come
up to it. The next question was, should we venture further? The mail
steamer was just coming out behind us, and it wouldn’t look well to
give up. We would try for Cape Bonavista. By ten o’clock the Cape was
safely rounded, and the wind increasing we determined to lay into the
Bay, which is twenty-eight miles across. We should not have reached
Greenspond, north of the bay, that night, had we steamed the course we
intended; but after some hours steaming and seeing no land, we spied a
fishing boat, and went alongside for information as to our locality.
We found we were already across the bay to our great surprise and joy.
It appeared that Dr. Bobardt, who had steered all day, had headed two
points to the westward of his course.

[Illustration: Interior of Male Ward, Indian Harbour.]

We were loath to steam on Sunday, but our next run round Cape Freels
was a most difficult one, from the numberless off-lying rocks and
shoals. So when three a.m. showed a clear horizon and a calm sea, we
started off. Alas, fog fell on us shortly, and left us threading our
way through the labyrinth. Now and again we could see bottom, and at
times some rock near the surface, over which at intervals the swell
would break with a noise like thunder. The _Princess May_ did well
this day—covering eighty miles—and the mail steamer, which had only
just reached and was anchored for the night in Toulinguet Harbour,
was surprised to see us come in and tie up alongside. The fourth day
saw us on the French shore, as we rounded Cape John at mid-day. Here,
however, we met a strong head wind, against which we had no alternative
but to steam. Now, to provide some kind of cabin, a little house had
been built into the fore-part of the launch, with a square glass front,
being inside just about the size and shape of the ordinary ’bus. As we
steamed into the head sea, it was just up to this part of the cabin,
which projected a couple of feet above deck, that the launch dived,
with the result that a sort of water spout was thrown up and then
dropped on deck. Yet, as everything was closed up, no water got below,
and we managed to make a harbour to the north side of the headland. The
water, however, got everywhere but below, and we were glad of a change
after dropping anchor.

At almost all the places we called at along the French shore, we
found the people very poor and but little educated. Unfortunately
in Newfoundland the Sectarian School system prevails, with a most
disastrous result among these poor and scattered communities. In all
we found some who were anxious to avail themselves of the visit of a
doctor. In many no qualified medical man ever goes; and on the part
known to us, that is the east coast, there are none at all resident. In
the lonely harbour we were now in, called Pacquet, a man soon emerged
from the woods and came off to us in a boat. He was ill-clad and looked
equally ill-fed, and his boy, who was with him, was suffering from a
pustular disease of the skin, for which we prescribed. Though it was
warm where we were anchored the inlet was still partially choked by two
large icebergs, and our friend told us that want of a net, and indeed
any proper fishing gear, as yet prevented their getting any fish. The
mosquitos were here very numerous and very busy. It was impossible
almost to go ashore even for fresh water from the river at the head
of the inlet, and indeed when the dingey came back, a cloud of these
bloodthirsty pests followed her to the launch, and invited themselves
to spend the night in our already sufficiently crowded cabin. Professor
Hind narrates an Indian tradition that mosquitos were created for the
benefit of a saint, who, for disobedience, had been banished from
heaven to a desert part of the earth. In her solitude she prayed for
even flies as companions, whereupon mosquitos and black flies were
created. This gave her plenty of employment till it was time for her
to return, but the flies remained in order to teach men the folly of
trying to divert their attention from the consequences of their sins
by seeking amusement. Captain Whitbourne says they are of great use to
make the idle work.

We were early astir next morning, and took a course for the St. Barbe
Islands. But a breeze rising towards the land, we made a detour in
order to cross White Bay, which is eighteen miles at its narrowest
point, and so lay across till we were seven or eight miles only from
land. Then we again headed north, and by nine o’clock, with a good
breeze behind us, crossed Hare Bay and ran into St. Anthony Harbour.
During the day a curious mirage had for some time kept us under the
impression that we were hedged in by floe ice. We could see the
vertical edge, the gleaming white top, and what appeared to be even
cracks, fissures, and hummocks. It turned out to be only an optical
illusion, and we found that it kept retreating before us all the
afternoon like a will-of-the-wisp. At St. Anthony we were among friends
of last year, so were soon ashore, and the day closed with a hearty
service in the kitchen of the largest house.

The breeze increasing, delayed us a day in this port, but before
daylight on the 13th we left for an attempt to cross the Straits
of Belle Isle. As we rounded Cape Bauld a most magnificent crimson
light lit up the whole horizon. Against it stood out many stately
icebergs, rising weird and ghostly from the deep purple of the sea.
One of immense height looked just like some gigantic cathedral, its
gabled roof in the red glow shining like burnished gold, while ever
and anon the stillness preceding dawn was broken by the deep boom of
the Atlantic swell reverberating from some hollow chasm at its base,
suggesting a mighty organ played in its vast recesses. No sooner had
we passed it in silence than the engineer touched me on the arm and
pointed back at its lordly summit. “Look, sir! isn’t that some one on
the berg?” And there, sure enough, plain and sharp against the sky, on
the crest, stood the figure of a man. But our glasses soon dispelled
the illusion. It was but a pinnacle with a thin base, which, when thus
seen edgeways, so closely resembled a human figure.

From here we headed for the Sacred Islands, and a breeze making up the
straits, we ran in behind Cape Onion to see what sort of a day it was
going to be, before we ventured to cross the straits. I was surprised,
on landing, at the quantity and variety of wild flowers here.
There were represented among many others, saxifrages, umbellifers,
composites, ranunculi, primulas, and gentians. The insectivorous
“Drosera” is common on the heights, and the beautiful “Linnæus
borealis” nestles in among the scrub.

The country, viewed from the head, is very peculiar, being, as far as
the eye could range, one immense flat plain, with quite as much water
as dry land, from the innumerable winding ponds or lakes of fresh water.

By mid-day we ventured to make a start, and headed direct for Cape
Charles, close inside the island of Belle Isle. As we brought the
hills and steep cliffs of Labrador into view, we found there was still
much snow in the gulfs and crevices; while it was necessary carefully
to thread our way among the numbers of icebergs, which up to this
very week had been blocking the straits. By sundown we sighted the
flag-staff on Battle Island, and at 7.30 were once more alongside the
_Albert_. A crowded gathering below decks closed the day, all being
full of joy and hope at the prospect of another season’s work.

Next day the house given by Mr. Baine Grieve was inspected, and we
found that Mr. Hall, the agent for the fishery, had already placed it
almost in a condition for occupation. The _Albert’s_ crew also had
been at work—carpentering, painting, and landing heavy goods, such as
bedsteads, bedding, food, drugs, and furniture.

Meanwhile, the hospital for Indian Harbour, at the mouth of Hamilton
inlet, had been sent north, ready cut in sections in the coastal
steamer, _Winsor Lake_. Two carpenters had also been sent north to
work at its erection. Next day, therefore, our party divided again,
the _Albert_ going north to help with the second hospital, having on
board Dr. Curwen and Sister Williams, while I, in the _Princess May_,
went south along the straits of Belle Isle, Dr. Bobart and Sister
Carwardine remaining at Battle. This arrangement was rendered possible
by the agent extending his generous hospitality to the nurse and doctor
indefinitely.

Our first run took us to Red Bay, where we at once were among friends
of last year. Alas, poverty and want had laid their hands heavily on
this place, and some families had been nearly naked and next door to
starving all winter. Not only had 1892 been a poor fishery, but now
the best chance for 1893, viz. the caplin school of cod, had come and
gone, while densely packed ice, held in by persistent easterly winds,
had prevented the men getting their nets out.




[Illustration: A Newfoundlander’s Hut, Labrador.]




CHAPTER XI

_OUR VOYAGE CONTINUED_


On our arrival in a harbour our method was, as last year, to hoist
our blue flag to announce our arrival, to then visit any seriously
sick I could hear of, after which we had evening service in a shed,
stage, or house, and then, last of all, any could come for advice or
assistance. To every family or vessel a good bundle of reading was
given if they wished it, all the literature being selected at home as
healthy and suitable for fishermen. If any wanted God’s Word, that,
too, was to be had for asking for it; while a register was kept of
all the poor, describing as accurately as we could the nature of the
needs and deserts of each case, in order that when, at the end of the
year, we divided up the warm clothing we had brought out, it should
fall into the hands of the most deserving. In this way also we became
possessed of a valuable record for future reference. Thus in one house
when visiting a case, I found my patient to be the mother of a large
family. The poor thing, who, with self-sacrificing courage, had refused
to believe herself ill till she could get about no more, was lying on
one single wood form in a bare and dirty room, her head close to an old
cracked stove, behind which a crowd of shivering urchins were huddled
together. The sickness was acute bronchitis and pleurisy, made worse by
little clothing and less food. A haggard man meanwhile was pacing up
and down, nursing a screaming and hungry baby. I pulled the children
out from behind the stove for inspection; but their rags so failed to
cover them, that each hastened back at once after the ordeal to the
seclusion and warmth behind the old stove. The complete attire of one
bony little mite was an old trouser leg, into which he was packed like
a sack. All were alike barefooted.

Staying here over Sunday, I was the guest of a Labrador fisherman,
rather better off than the majority, an erect, grey-haired man of
about forty-five, standing some six feet two inches. His cottage,
built with his own hands, was a pattern of neatness and cleanliness,
but the bad seasons were compelling even him to desert the harbour,
and try squatting farther along the coast. He was still the fortunate
possessor, however, of a cod-trap (value about £80), by means of which
he still hoped to end the year out of debt. He was the class leader for
the neighbourhood, and had many years been standing on the Lord’s side,
and, indeed, after the Wesleyan Missionary for the Straits, he was the
backbone of the religious life of the place. Such an one, where every
detail of one’s life is known, must indeed be an “Epistle read of all
men,” of which fact he was well aware, as also, that his neighbours,
while unable or undesirous to read God’s word for themselves, measured
the claims of God on their own life very largely by his actions. This
we found to obtain more or less along the whole coast, especially among
these scattered communities, where little or no provision is made for
their spiritual needs. When therefore Sunday morning broke, and a
large iceberg was noticed drifting towards his cod-trap, threatening
to deprive him of his means of earning his daily bread, he at first
decided to go and spend the day working to save his net. But soon he
came back, saying, “I’ve decided not to go, doctor; there are those in
this harbour that only want a pretext for working on the Lord’s Day,
and I’ll not be the one to give it them.” As we climbed the hill to the
little wooden chapel I noticed him standing and greeting the people as
they came along, according to his custom, as if forgetful of the fact
that the mass of ice was at that moment probably robbing him of his
all. We had three _such_ services that day; the Wesleyan missionary,
the Rev. John Sidey, was present, and more than one of our hearts
were full at the evidence of the reality of God’s Spirit among this
out-of-the-way, isolated people. Long before sunrise on Monday, indeed
immediately after midnight, my good host was away in his boat after the
wreck of his cod-trap, and by breakfast had returned, his face radiant
with the same happy smile he always has, saying, “I _knew_ it would be
all right, doctor. The worst of the ice passed outside it; a few hours’
work, and we shall get it all right again.”

[Illustration: Interior of Indian Harbour Hospital.]

In the Straits of Belle Isle we visited all the stations to Old Ford
Island, about 100 miles from the entrance. At L’Anse au Loup, Blanc
Sablon (the boundary between Canada and Newfoundland), and at Bonne
Esperance, we found large stations for fishing, with numbers of men
hard at work at the caplin school. We had quite a number of surgical
and medical cases, including two of true (sailor’s) scurvy from want
of proper food. At one place we were called to operate on the back
of a French settler, at another on the arm of a poor Newfoundland
schooner-man. In this last case I had the assistance of a Roman
Catholic priest who was journeying along the coast.

While visiting in Forteau Bay we passed close to the wreck of H.M.S.
_Lily_. We found here that a Beaver line steamer, the S.S. _Lake
Nepigon_, had recently run ashore. While journeying down the straits
she had struck on a whale-back iceberg, and was sinking head foremost,
like the _Victoria_, when her captain succeeded in grounding her
on one of the few bits of sand for miles. Her screw and rudder were
practically out of water when she took the bottom, with her bows in 27
feet. The doctor aboard had spent three days on shore near, and had
operated on one cancer of the lip and on an old compound dislocation
of the wrist in a young girl. These came to us to have the stitches
removed.

While returning from visiting a patient at Greenly Island in thick
fog, we were unfortunate enough to run the _Princess May_ ashore. It
was as dark as pitch at the time, and we had burnt all our flares out
while threading our way through a quantity of schooners at anchor. Two
men on the bows of the boat, after a long pause to search for some
guidance, had just given the word “all right ahead,” when we ran up on
a flat-topped rock, and found that high, almost perpendicular, cliffs
were only a few yards ahead. Throwing out our dingey, and removing
all superfluous weight from the bows, we succeeded shortly in getting
off; and guided by the stentorian shouts of some men from a schooner,
alternating with their fog-horn, we found our way alongside and made
fast to her. As we were too many even to lie down on the launch I went
aboard the schooner, the hospitable skipper of which insisted on my
turning into his bunk. He was only just back, apparently, with a load
of fish from his traps, and hearing the echo of our voices from the
cliffs had guessed something was wrong. He added, “there is fish to be
had now, and so I don’t turn in at all myself”; and sure enough, after
a shake down and some supper he and his crew disappeared into the foggy
darkness for a fresh load from the trap, while sleep reigned supreme on
board. He turned out to be a green-fish catcher, who was “making” his
fish on his vessel.

Further along the straits, at Bonne Esperance, we met with a more
serious mishap, for while returning from a visit up Salmon River our
propeller refused to rotate, and we had to depend on our sail. The
kindness of the first engineer of a sealing steamer (Mr. William
Crossman) anchored in the harbour set us all right again, however, for
he made us a complete set of new steel screws for our piston-top—our
own had given out, and we neither had means of making new ones, or
replacing them, in Labrador. After one or two other similar mishaps,
but having treated some one hundred and fifty patients, and having
received much kindness and a warm welcome wherever we had been, we
reached Battle Hospital again on the 29th of July. We brought a dying
fisherman the last 80 miles with us, which necessitated his sleeping
three nights in my cabin. He was still in the prime of life, but
pneumonia developed into gangrene of the lungs, and he subsequently
died in Battle Harbour Hospital.

The Sunday passed pleasantly and rapidly among the people here. After
evening service, held by the schoolmaster in the little church, we had
a good “fishermen’s meeting.” Dr. Bobardt was away all day visiting
sick people on a neighbouring island, and holding service among
them. No patients were yet allowed in hospital, though it now only
remained to cover the floors and get the stores in. Sister Carwardine
had therefore arranged for the nursing of one poor woman, on whom an
operation had been necessary, in a room of a cottage near at hand.

As the mail steamer was shortly expected, and would certainly bring
patients for the hospital, the following day was spent by all hands in
rendering the hospital inhabitable; and by evening our first patient
was comfortably located in a room on the ground floor, while the sister
spent her first night in hospital in an arm-chair.

Next day, before leaving for the north, Dr. Bobardt again being away
visiting, I was called on to bury a poor fellow, father of a family
of five, who had died from consumption in a neighbouring cove. The
burial-ground is a small plot at the bottom of a deep ravine on the
seaboard side of the island. On each side rose barren rocky crags,
behind was the bleak island top, while in front lay the great Atlantic,
bearing on its heaving bosom, as far as the eye could see, countless
mighty icebergs. As the sad procession wound along the defile, carrying
in its rude wood covering what was so recently a living, hopeful human
being; as they laid it in its last long resting-place amidst these cold
and desolate surroundings, the craving for something beyond the grave
burnt fiercely in every heart; while the joy of knowing of a Heavenly
Father, who has given us victory even over the grave, was realized as a
priceless possession which the world cannot give—no, nor sell either.

Our next object was to visit the coast up to Indian Harbour, calling
for coal and a few supplies left for us half-way up by the _Albert_, at
a place called Bateau. In making a narrow inlet called Francis Harbour,
we found much difficulty in getting in; for after long searching for
the entrance, it proved to be blocked with ice, and a circuitous method
inside an island was unknown to us. However, once inside the warmth
of our welcome made up for the suspense outside, and after service
in the neat and commodious parlour of the agent’s (Mr. Penny) house,
we had a _levée_ of sick visitors till midnight. We next entered a
deep narrow cleft in a high mountain, running parallel with the sea,
nowhere wider than a stone’s throw. It is very deep, and high hills of
bright red rocks rise abruptly on both hands. On the outer side are
perched houses and fishing stages. This is known as Venison Tickle. The
agent (Mr. Hawker) received us most warmly, and being himself doctor,
parson, planter, and all combined, took me round at once to the various
sick and injured. One poor old fisherman, suffering from apoplectic
paralysis, we sent to hospital at Battle, though we learnt from a
schooner that already it was nearly full.

Landing on a low island as we passed north, we found the eider-duck
nesting in considerable numbers, while in the little pools among the
rocks were young ducks and young gulls in numbers. Of the latter we
caught several for our stew-pot. We steamed thence fifteen miles to
Boulter’s Rock Harbour by a long narrow channel inside two enormous
islands, the passage being known as Squasho Run. Fog succeeded fog all
along this part of the coast, and it was only by the help of volunteer
local pilots we succeeded in finding many of the harbours.

One dark night, unable to find our way further, we dropped our anchor
inside some outlying islands called Seal Islands. It seemed to us that
we had hardly got straight and settled down for the night’s rest before
we heard a boat bumping against our side. In such a lonely place, and
in a thick drizzly fog at night, a superstitious person might well
have started. Soon we heard the soft tread of a mocassin over the
half-inch boarding which, covered with painted canvas, served us as a
roof; then a bustling at the hatchway door, and soon the broad face of
a half-breed Eskimo peered into the cabin. It appeared he had a very
sick daughter at his hut on the island, near which no doctor ever went.
He had heard of the _Princess May_ being about; and seeing our cabin
lights shining as he chanced to pass in his boat homewards, he had come
in search of assistance. Soon, swathed in oilskins, I was sitting in
the stern of his boat, while he swiftly rowed away into the darkness.
Landing, and following closely behind him over broken rock for some
quarter mile, brought me to his cottage, which, in true Labrador
fashion, was well filled with inhabitants. Among them I found two
seriously ill, one a young man of eighteen, the other a young married
woman of about thirty. On this poor woman it was necessary to operate
on our way south in order to save life even for the time; but as we
had no hospital open in winter, she had to be left in that crowded hut
to the tender mercies of the most unskilled of nurses, and though any
communication with the island has been impossible since, I fear she
will not have survived the winter.[15]

[Footnote 15: 1895. She has perfectly recovered, in the most marvellous
manner.—W. T. G.]

I was one day asked, a little further north, to visit a woman reported
to have been ill in bed for three months, and who was living up a bay
fully ten miles from any fishing station. At length, dropping our
anchor off the spot indicated, which was the mouth of a large salmon
river, we blew our whistle repeatedly to try and attract her husband’s
attention. After some time a small boat put out with one man sculling
in the stern. He seemed to approach warily, and the man piloting me
took in the situation in a moment. As soon as the small boat was
alongside, he greeted the oarsman with “It’s all up; come aboard and
surrender quietly, or you will be shot down.” The condemning reply came
back, “Indeed, sir, the river isn’t barred. It couldn’t be barred. No
nets would hold across it. It never has been barred. I wouldn’t bar
the river. You can come and see for yourself.” We got into his boat,
and he started with us to the shore, when I asked him if the launch
was safe at her anchorage, as darkness was coming on. The prompt reply
was that she would be aground on rocks at low water, and that we had
better steam across the inlet and anchor the other side, where it was
soft and good holding ground, at which our engineer at once proceeded
to get steam again. On landing, I asked for the sick woman, and was
shown into the most miserable dark hovel I ever saw. By a wretched
tin chimneyless lamp I examined my patient. She was lying clad in one
old petticoat on a few sacks spread over a kind of built-up bunk. Her
bodily ailments were fortunately not great, but as she told me, and I
believe truthfully, having no clothes to get up in, she was obliged to
stay where she was. Turning to go out, I stumbled over our boatman, who
at once commenced most profuse apologies. It appears he was just off
to destroy his “bar,” when my pilot had told him I was not an excise
officer, and the _Princess May_ was not a gunboat. So he went off to
tell the engineer the anchorage was good enough, I fear that is not the
only barred salmon river in Labrador.

Further north we steamed up Sandwich Bay, and visited, among other
places, Cartwright, now a Hudson Bay post, but founded about 1790 by
an English trader of that name. Here again we had a serious case to
deal with. A girl of fourteen had been ill with internal abscess for
between two and three years. She was sent to hospital after a trifling
operation, and remained there a month. When I returned south I found
her well and happy, and she told me she was only sorry she could not
live in hospital.

I was interested in examining at Cartwright a marble tomb, raised,
as the inscription proclaimed, “to commemorate the piety and zeal of
the founder of this colony.” Some humble lichens had, in the course
of time, grown in between the slabs, and with irresistible power had
forced them open, revealing to the prying eye within not the crumbling
dust of the departed trader, but a mighty demijohn of rum, no doubt
made mellow by long years of waiting. Alas! that there are those to-day
whose memory would be most aptly treasured by such an epigram, whom in
life, for their riches’ sake, a blinded world “delights to honour.”

We were now only two hands on the launch, the engineer and myself, for
our steward had returned to Battle Hospital. We were therefore anxious
to push ahead, and on August 10th we were glad to run into Indian
Harbour, and again “bring to” alongside the _Albert_. We found to our
sorrow that bad weather had prevented the landing of our hospital
till a month after we had expected; and, though all available hands
had been at work, it was found impossible to occupy it this season.
We therefore decided, as soon as the shell was finished and all done
that could be without cutting the chimneys, to board up the windows,
store the property in it, and leave it for the winter under care of
the nearest “Livyere.” Meanwhile Dr. Curwen and Nurse Williams would
remain on the _Albert_, and use it as their hospital. This place is
the centre of a very large number of stations, and they had already
found ample scope for work. Just before we left in the _Princess May_,
both doctor and sister were summoned over the island to treat a woman
on whom a fish stage had fallen, while they already had in the ship’s
hospital a young girl dying of consumption. The condition in which some
of our patients were when first admitted was horrible; the condition of
the women from the green-fish catchers especially; for with scarcely
any privacy, and scarcely any opportunities for washing, it was not to
be wondered at that vermin often abounded. The experience of both our
nurses tallied in this respect, and a good wash, clean clothes, and a
few days’ nursing always appeared to work marvels, even in apparently
hopeless cases. When it became evident that this poor girl must die,
she expressed her determination to go home by the first opportunity,
that, if possible, she might reach her family in Newfoundland before
the end came.

It was ten o’clock at night, and a blustering evening in Cape Webeck
Harbour, when we next met the mail steamer going south. With much
difficulty we got our poor patient into the boat, wrapped over and over
in clean blankets; two of us in the stern sheets holding the large
bundle in our arms, while Captain Trezise and his men rowed us down the
harbour. Getting her up the steamer’s side was, however, a still less
easy task, but was at last accomplished, and she was soon ensconced in
a bunk in the saloon. Fortunately we had decided that Nurse Williams
should now return to Battle Harbour to help Nurse Carwardine, for
the hospital there was now overflowing into huts around, and our
in-patients could be kept down to one or two. The nurse therefore was
able to tend to her wants during the journey down. Eventually she
reached St. Johns, where the Rev. Dr. Harvey most kindly met her,
got her to the train and off to her home; so that her last wish was
gratified, and she passed away peacefully among her loved ones.

At Cape Harrison we had a really hot Sunday, the flat cabin reflecting
the sun so fiercely from the water that our very paint began to
blister. Such a chance was not to be lost, and the fisherfolk gathered
from far and near. One company, who journeyed from their schooner in
King’s Arm, must have travelled some ten miles to us, rowing first to
Sloop Harbour, then walking over the high cape, and then rowing again
to Webeck Island; while even as we went to and fro from the meetings,
which, owing to the numbers, we were obliged to hold on the shore, we
heard sounds of hymns and praying from some of the mud huts we passed.
It was a day indeed to be remembered. Our longest single expedition
during this time had been to the Hudson Bay post of Rigoulette, up
Hamilton inlet, some fifty miles from the entrance. Here we had several
patients; and especially one little lad with a diseased bone in the
leg—part of this it was necessary to remove. At the operation we were
ably helped by the wife of the agent (Mr. Wilson), who proved herself
a most able nurse and assistant. The difference of temperature up this
long inlet is very marked, and we found the children of the house
actually picnicing outside the hut in a canvas tent. [Illustration:
The S.S. _Princess May_ in Merchantman Harbour.]




CHAPTER XII

_CONCLUSION OF SECOND VOYAGE_


Our next meeting with the _Albert_ was arranged for Hopedale, the
first station of the Moravian brethren. In the meanwhile we visited
such harbours as Ironbound Island, Ragged Islands, Roger’s Harbour,
Long Island, Ailik, Turnavik, and Winsor Harbour. Again we had one
or two serious cases: one poor fellow with cancer of the gullet; one
from whom it was necessary to amputate two fingers, and from another
one finger. While at Winsor Harbour, we decided to visit an off-lying
island, called “Double Island,” from which the Hopedale Eskimo had
their summer fishery. Unfortunately it is not even indicated on the
charts, and missing our way to it we got entangled among a series of
reefs. At sundown a strong northerly wind arose, making the water boil
in foaming breakers over the shallow patches. This however in reality
assisted us, for we were thus able to avoid the hidden dangers, as any
shallow likely to pick up the _Princess May_ was now a white seething
mass; indeed, I have found places where we saw the water break as deep
as five to fifteen fathoms. We had decided at last to “heave to” under
the lee of an island, keeping steam all night for fear of a shift of
wind, when through our glasses we descried against the horizon a ragged
tent. Steering for this we soon descried figures of some of the little
people skurrying to and fro after their fish as fast as they could go,
for the sky looked threatening, and they did not wish the fish to get
wet again. Our steam whistle at once caught their attention, and soon
two of their little boats came shooting out through the surf.

With their help we were safely moored fore and aft in a little narrow
creek, and a few minutes later saw us ashore. Amongst them we noticed
many friends of last year, especially a dear old man, a sort of
Christian father among them, named Daniel. A profuse hand-shaking
and welcoming ensued, and then they intimated they wished me to come
up to one of their tents. My Eskimo was exhausted, however, with
Auchenai—How do you do? (or, literally, Be ye strong?), and Aila,
yes, and a few other every-day expressions. When, therefore, I was
set down on a low box in the tent, with a space in front of me for
the patients to squat, and the rest of the ground available densely
packed with Esquimaux, I was confronted with the difficulties of a
veterinary surgeon. Among other things a toe, frost-bitten last winter,
had to be removed; apparently not such a painful operation as one might
have supposed at first, and one in which the patient appeared to take
a personal interest, from the proud fact that she occupied on that
account the position of most importance.

At Hopedale I left the _Albert_ again, and, joined by one of the
Moravian Brethren—a Dane (Rev. P. Hansen), proceeded at once further
north. Together we visited as far as Okkak, though the entire absence
of charts, and the innumerable islands and labyrinths, made us more
than once end up in a blind tickle. At Zoar we deposited our deck cargo
of coal, piling up wood on our cabin top instead, and lashing a ladder
against our foremast, from the top of which in the clear water it was
possible to see rocks in time to avoid them. We passed on our way
immense flocks of water-fowl. While in places the rocks shine with the
beautiful blue or yellow sheen of the Labrador felspar, the trees get
perceptibly fewer and smaller as Okkak is approached, the shrubs more
stunted, and the berries more scarce, until north of Hebron no trees at
all are found.

With much perseverance and labour the brethren at each station raise
a few potatoes, cabbages and flowers, but when trees are cut down
for wood they do not replace themselves in a man’s lifetime. It is
impossible in these pages to recount all the incidents of this part of
the trip. At each station I had numerous patients—Eskimo and white.
In the former cases my dear friend and whilom companion, the Rev. P.
Hansen, interpreted. At each station also we gathered daily for prayer
and exhortation, and for me the time passed all too quickly. Now,
however, the approach of winter was making itself felt. Schooners were
flying south before every favourable breeze, and in so small a boat as
the _Princess May_ no unnecessary delay was advisable. On the 8th of
September we again reached Hopedale, and were surprised to find the
_Albert_ still there.

A terrible tragedy had occurred in a neighbouring inlet. It appeared
some men fishing, from an island called East Turnavik, had gone up to
boil their tea-kettle at a solitary house on a promontory of Kipekok
Bay. On entering they at first found no one at home, but during the
process of tea-making came across two women lying on the floor of the
passage covered over with a counterpane. At first they thought they
were merely enjoying an afternoon sleep, but soon found both were
dead; hereupon they at once beat a hasty retreat to their own island,
and next day came back with half-a-dozen more men and the planter. A
search revealed two more dead women in an inner room, while no trace of
the two men who lived there could be found.

Next day, however, these returned with wood from the bay, saying they
had been away making coffins for the last four days. The circumstances
were so suspicious, and one of the men bore such an exceedingly
bad character on the coast—having been suspected of deeds as dark
before—that the two neighbouring planters advised an inquiry, and
sent up their steam launch to Hopedale for Dr. Curwen to come and make
an examination. From the evidence taken from the men, and the general
appearances of the case, he was convinced they had died of poisoning.
Eventually the head of the police was sent down from St. Johns, and,
confessing to another crime, the worst of the two men was taken away
and placed in Harbour Grace Jail for the winter.

Whilst endeavouring one night to navigate a narrow passage known as
“the Rattle,” the _Princess May_ had been suddenly caught by the
current, and at full speed taken a rocky bottom. The tide was falling
at the time, and all hopes of getting off before morning had to be
abandoned. Our ladder and some large blocks of wood lashed together
were therefore placed under her port bilge, and she was listed over on
to them by all the moveable weights we had. After a very uneasy night,
which fortunately held calm, we got safely off. It was necessary now
to inspect the launch’s bottom. We therefore grounded her in Hopedale
Harbour, and at low tide examined her outer casing. She proved to be
nastily dinted in one or two places: a bit of her keel was gone, and a
few inches of copper torn off here and there, but her hull was still
as sound as a drum. Not so her shaft. We found that it had worn very
considerably inside the propeller, and the outer end had so dropped
that another two inches and the screw would be unable to rotate. For
this we had no remedy, and had nothing for it but to “Go ahead.”
Sunday, the 10th of September, we spent in Hopedale, the harbour of
which was now crowded with no less than 100 schooners; and though the
Brethren put at our disposal their large chapel, capable of holding
some 400 people, Captain Trezise found it necessary in the evening to
hold an overflow service on the _Albert_.

[Illustration: An Eskimo Family, Hopedale.]

It was with no ordinary feelings of sorrow that we heard at Emily
Harbour that the _Albert_ had been ashore. To think of her splendid
frame and delicate lines the sport of these cruel jagged rocks was
heartrending. The beautiful little ship which had smiled at so many
storms, and carried those entrusted to her so many thousands of miles
so faithfully and safely. It appears she was trying to make West
Turnavik Harbour at night, and the pilot who came off from shore
mistook the blind entrance for the real one. Both anchors were at
the time ready for letting go, and the moment the mistake was noticed
were run out. But as the vessel swung to, her stern came down on the
rocks, and for nearly three hours bumped heavily. By the help of
Captain Bartlett and some sixty men she was eventually warped safely
off; but it was found necessary, in the dry dock at St. Johns, to
replace 35 feet of her keel.

Rough weather characterized our journey south, and, indeed, often
rendered it very difficult getting round the great capes at all. We
revisited, where possible, all the places we visited going north,
and also others we had been obliged to pass by. Thus we saw again
many of our former patients, distributed to many the clothing we were
able to allot them, and also had the joy of seeing once again, before
winter set in, some of those who were commencing in earnest to live
consecrated lives. When the weather kept us longer than we intended in
a harbour, we brought into use our magic lantern, for which we had some
beautiful slides of the life of Christ, Bible lands, and some simple
stories. This never failed to bring a crowd together, even if sleeping
the night in the building became necessary for those who came from too
far to return; and, indeed, we eventually often preceded our services
with the views through the magic lantern.

On Thursday, October 19th, we once more steamed into Battle Harbour,
where we found the _Albert_ had preceded us by a couple of days. Dr.
Bobardt and the sisters were still busy and in good health. Hospital
had been full all the time, and thirty-nine in-patients had been
treated. Only one other death had occurred in hospital—a young girl
from a schooner, who had died of cellulitis from neglected sores, which
had assumed the characteristics of erysipelas. We were delighted to
hear that the fishery here had been good. Mr. Hall, the agent, had
again been first away with a steamer loaded for market. After all
the time and attention he had so generously bestowed on our work, by
lending the launch when it could be spared, by loan of men for the
hospital, by entertaining nurses, doctors, and others, we could but
rejoice that his fishery had been a really successful one. Our only
regret now was that no hospital could be kept open during this winter.

Bad weather prevailed during our journey to St. Johns. The _Albert_, in
a gale, lost her boom, and blew away some canvas, while the delays to
the _Princess May_ on that coast, where no telegraphic communication
exists, gave rise to the impression that she was lost with all hands,
an impression heightened by the fact that the mail steamer, which
had encountered the same gale in the Straits of Belle Isle, had
noticed in the sea a small boat’s flag and flagpole resembling ours.
Unfortunately, therefore, it appeared in the English dailies that
we were missing. Except losing a good spirit compass and loose deck
paraphernalia, we had suffered no inconveniences. Indeed, being forced
to shelter in so many of the small harbours along the French shore,
gave us a valuable insight into the lives of the out-harbour people of
Newfoundland, and also the opportunities of helping many who need it
quite as much as do some on the Labrador.

At Toulinguet, on November 3rd, we met our old friend Captain Taylor,
of the mail steamer _Virginia Lake_, who showed us a written commission
to search all the islands for us between certain latitudes. Thence we
wired our whereabouts to St. Johns, but we heard subsequently that
that kindly office had been performed for us the day previously by the
captain of a schooner, who had passed us on his way south. The sealing
steamer _Neptune_ gave us a line across Trinity and Conception Bays,
and so, on the 7th, we ended our cruise for 1893 in St. Johns Harbour.

We found St. Johns in the excitement of a general election, and it
seemed as if there was little likelihood of our getting an audience
to listen to a report of the season’s work. However, Sir William
Whiteway kindly placed at our disposal the “Star-of-the-Sea” Hall, and
His Excellency Sir Terence O’Brien consented to preside at an evening
meeting. By the help of some good friends in St. Johns, some of our
most successful photographic plates were turned into lantern slides;
and not only was the large hall filled with friends and sympathisers,
but one hundred and fifty dollars were realized for the funds.

The _Albert_ sailed for home, having on board Dr. Curwen and the two
nurses, on Tuesday, December 28th, and after a wonderful passage,
entered Great Yarmouth Harbour on the thirteenth day, having
accomplished the long run at an average pace of nine English miles or
7·5 knots per hour.




[Illustration: A Team of Dogs in Harness.]




CHAPTER XIII

_ON DOGS AND DIFFICULTIES_


THE Esquimaux dog, unlike his Newfoundland congener, is by no means a
fiction, being an ubiquitous feature of Esquimaux life. Indeed, being
musical like his master, his propensity for nocturnal chorus keeps
him constantly in evidence; and, though he is never heard to bark, he
manages often to leave a deep impression on an incautious stranger.

On his dog’s pluck and endurance the master’s safety often depends, and
to his marvellous instinct for finding human habitations many a man,
hopelessly lost in a snowstorm on the icefield, owes his existence.
Yet the Eskimo, finding it ample trouble to satisfy his own needs,
never adds to his trouble by feeding his dogs in summer time, with the
result that the exigencies of existence have considerably sharpened
their faculties.

To look at, they closely resemble the grey wolf of the prairie, and
wolves mingling with the team would scarcely be recognised by an
untrained eye. Usually the dogs wander in summer around the land-wash,
in troops of say fifty, eating the offal below the fish stages; or when
caplin schools are close inshore, they wade into the water and swallow
the fish alive. Always lean and lank at this time of the year, they
never neglect to lay up against an evil day, a fact that becomes most
ludicrously apparent on these occasions, for they “swells wisibly.”

Perhaps the most interesting sight is to see them catching flounders.
The fish lie buried in the sand in shallow water, and as the dog’s paw
comes down on one it struggles to get away. He then literally “puts his
foot down,” and after it his head, which disappears under water only to
reappear with a struggling victim. This is carried kicking to the land,
to be devoured at leisure.

The door of the chapel at the Moravian station of Hopedale was one day
accidentally left ajar. Such a golden opportunity for a meal was not to
be wasted, and a company of dogs soon found its way in. Some tempting
hymn-books and litanies were shortly brought to light, redolent with
blubber from the thumbs of the worshippers. Needless to say they were
sacrificed at the only shrine dogs recognise.

On another occasion a similar oversight let them into the
tenderly-nurtured kitchen garden of the Brethren. The dogs rased
the cabbages to the ground, and even carried away with them the few
highly-prized wurzels.

Modesty is a virtue of which the Eskimo dog is seldom guilty. I was
visiting one day a bedridden patient. As the outer door opened, a
fragrant scent as of a dinner preparing was wafted outward. Suddenly
an avalanche swept me off my legs, and a pack of dogs, whisking the
stew-pot off the fire, began to fight savagely over its contents,
the more so as each, having burnt its nose in the boiling liquid,
attributed his affliction to his neighbour. Meanwhile the house filling
with steam and Eskimo imprecations, the latter rendered forcible by
long harpoon handles, made me almost sorry I had called.

An Eskimo’s financial condition may be gauged by the number of his
dogs, and no one with less than six would rank as “carriage folk.”
Eight to thirteen normally form a team, each being harnessed, by a
single walrus hide trace of a different length, to the komatik. The
leader will be some twenty-six yards away, which enables the team to
clamber over or round hummocky ice. The driver on these occasions jumps
off to help the sleigh over, while, to prevent breaking, the komatik
is made of numbers of short wide cross boards lashed by strong tendons
across two longitudinal pieces, no nails being used. The runners are
shod with ribs of whale, with iron, or with mud. A slot is made in the
snow and filled with soft mud, which at once freezes. This is next
frozen on to the wood, and then planed or chopped smooth with an adze.
As there are no reins, the leading dog is trained to obey the voice. At
the shout “Auk” he goes to the right, and at “Ra” to the left, and so
on, the others all following him. If those behind are not pulling well,
the leader will drop back among them and bite at them. They always
pull in the same place in a team. Thus three dogs, the whole team of
a poor man, were lent to pull with six others. They were first placed
in front, but would not pull, being frightened at so many dogs behind
them. When, however, the leader was left in front and the other two put
last of all, the whole team ran capitally. Mr. Young tells us he once
put a young dog in front of his old leader, a magnificent old fellow on
whom he always could rely in danger. Before he had, however, mounted
the komatik, he found the pup scampering away loose—the leader had
bitten through the traces. He refastened it three times, always with
the same result. At last he gave his old leader a good whipping. The
old dog’s spirit was completely broken by this treatment, and it so
felt its double disgrace, it was never, to the day of its death, the
same brave, trusty dog.

The dogs greatly enjoy their work, and when harnessed in get
tremendously excited, at times even turning on their own drivers. To
correct them a short whip, with an enormously long lash, all of walrus
hide, is so dexterously used that an expert driver can flick a piece
out of any particular dog’s ear.

Occasionally, a refractory dog is pulled in by its trace for
punishment. They know the meaning of this, and anticipate the beating
by a lively howling; so that merely to shorten a trace, may exert a
good moral effect on a team.

The “trail” is usually over the frozen sea, the land being too uneven.
Good dogs will cover from 70 to 100 miles in a day. When starting in
the morning the snow is covered with little icicles, formed by the
mid-day sun melting the frozen surface. As this is apt to make the
feet of the dogs bleed, they are shod with a bag of seal-skin, tied
round the ankle. Three small holes are cut for the claws. A pup shod
for the first time, holds up his paws in the air alternately; but
once he learns to appreciate the fact that shoes save his feet from
being cut, though he will always eat any ordinary piece of skin, such
as on a kayak or a skin boot, he rarely eats his own shoes. They do,
however, bite at, and eat the harness, especially of the dog in front
of them. Mr. Young[16] tells of a big dog which, though apparently
always hard at work, never seemed to get tired like the rest. It always
seemed to strain at its trace, and kept looking round, apparently for
the driver’s approval. His suspicions, however, were aroused, and one
day, cutting loose the trace, he fastened it by a single thread to the
komatik. Sure enough, the dog strained and worked as hard as ever, but
it _never broke the single thread_.

[Footnote 16: _Stories from Indian Wigwams_, R.T.S., by Rev. Egerton
Young.]

When the ice is good, dogs will maintain eight miles an hour, at other
times they can only advance at a walk; while, yet again, when the ice
is surging up and down over the sea, and wind and snow are against
them, the weight of the sleigh will even drag them backwards. These
dogs are exceedingly heavy, and their dragging power is enormous.
It takes a full-grown man to hold one in leash. A team of fifteen
dogs took six people on the sleigh “like a house on fire.” They are
very quick to recognise the danger of being cut off from the land,
especially when water comes over the ice, and they will then throw
their whole strength into the work. Many times when a driver, overtaken
by night, perhaps having missed the trail from heavy snow, and quite
exhausted gives up the unequal struggle, the unerring instinct of the
dogs finds full play, and they rarely fail to reach shelter of some
kind. At night the traces are unhitched and stamped down into the snow,
for lack of anything to tie them to. This keeps them from straying.
Their dole of food is then given them, probably rotten caplin and
seal blubber; after which they sleep out on the snow, even when the
temperature is 50° below zero. Yet if other dogs are near, and they can
get at them, most of the night will be spent fighting. It is often the
capacity for carrying food for the dogs that limits the journey. To
prevent this, the Moravians make depôts of dog food along the coast
during summer.

One day an old Eskimo arrived at Nachvak from Cape Chidley, a distance
of about 100 miles. When asked where his dog food was, he answered,
“Me go home to-morrow, then feed them,” showing the power of endurance
of these dogs. On one occasion during a long journey a traveller (P.
Mackenzie) shot some caribou deer, and taking all the meat he wanted,
pursued his journey. While building his snow hut for the night, a fresh
herd of deer passed within scent of the dogs. All, with the exception
of their leader, a small bitch, managed to free their traces and gave
chase. By chance they came on the dead quarry, and, falling to, at
once gorged themselves on it. As they, returned to the camp, one large
powerful dog was observed carrying a whole haunch in his mouth, and was
seen to go and lay it down in reach of the still captive little leader.

These dogs can be dangerous at times. Once the team of a settler living
in Seal Islands ran away. They came back savage as wolves, and it
transpired that they had killed and eaten a little girl, of seven years
old, while away. Of course their owner was forced to shoot them. This
tendency to wander was recently put to good use. A solitary settler and
his wife were suddenly struck down with influenza. The man developed
lung symptoms, and the woman also became too ill to feed either herself
or him. She could hardly crawl as far as the cupboard for food; and
they both stood in great danger of being starved, though food was in
the house. In this extremity the woman, who could write, scribbled on a
piece of paper, “Come over quickly,” and tied it round one of the dog’s
necks. The dog carried it to the nearest neighbour, a distance of ten
miles over the ice, and eventually returned with help. Possibly as the
old couple could no longer get about to give the dogs food, that might
account for its setting off for another house.

In the water the Eskimo dog is quite at home. I have known them swim
home from a desert island a good mile from land, and have watched them
playfully chasing one another’s tails as they swam about in that cold
water.

Fighting, however, is their chief diversion. Each team always has its
king, who maintains his position solely by his might. I have watched
from a boat a pack banished to an island in summer to keep them out of
mischief. As we rowed round, a fine young dog, with the only female
close alongside, moved by curiosity followed us out to the end of every
little promontory, but the rest all maintained a respectful distance
behind. Next week, when we passed again, we found he had been deposed,
and then woe betide him for some time. The entire pack seem to combine
to pay off their pent-up grudges against him, and at times he is so
harried he takes to the water. I have watched a late leader standing up
to his shoulders in water eyeing his tormentors to see if he could
escape unobserved; but every attempt he made to come ashore a combined
rush was made, and he was forced to retire again.

[Illustration: Eskimo Family.]

At night on travel a snow hut is built. Half an hour is long enough for
this. The snow is cut in blocks—nowadays usually with an old cavalry
sabre—from the inside of the circle chosen for the house. Thus the hut
goes down and up at the same time. A hole is left at the top for the
air, while a block is cut to fit into the door from the outside, after
all are in. If a tent is carried, it is of the usual reindeer skins,
sewn together with tendons. The sleeping bag is made of seal-skin with
the hair outside, and lined with reindeer skin with the hair inside.
Almost any cold can be borne in it; and if your family are travelling
with you, and share your bag, they are then said to be positively warm.
The skin boots always worn are so exquisitely sewn, that, like the
kayaks, they are quite watertight.

However, there is no water in Labrador in winter, for even the
perspiration from the men’s bodies, if they do violent work, freezes
inside the clothing; and, as in cases of Arctic explorers, it may
become necessary to take off one’s clothes at night to hammer out the
ice from the inside.

To do this sewing it is necessary to chew the edges of the skins soft.
One woman said to me, “Me no good now,” showing me that her teeth were
all too far worn down to be of any use in boot-making. The Eskimo’s
teeth meet one another, and do not overhang like Europeans’. Soft
bread gets so hard frozen that biscuits have to be carried, which,
with lumps of meat, are stowed away under their clothes next the skin,
in order to keep it soft. Spirits even will freeze in the bottle; but
neither whites nor Eskimo carry alcohol, or dare resort to it in cold
weather, if they had it. These people form an excellent apology for
total abstinence, as do the Laps, who drink only coffee. In England and
the United States cold weather is used as an apology for whisky. Drink
soon destroys the Eskimo. Yet they, like white men, willingly become
its slaves. They have even buried in their oil casks, water, molasses,
and old mouldy biscuits, in order to get fermented liquor, when once
habituated to it.

The Moravians have, however, kept the traffic in check, partly by not
teaching the Eskimo English, and partly by Christian teaching. One
dear old fellow—named Zacharias—had in his early days been expelled
by the Eskimo from Okkak for drunkenness and being a nuisance to the
community. Becoming a Christian under the preaching at Hopedale, he was
now seeking to get back to Okkak to show them what the grace of God can
do in the dark heart of a drunken Eskimo. Very practical are some of
these Eskimo Christians. One Nathaniel last winter, while going to his
sealing ground, was carried off to sea by the ice drifting off. When
eventually he managed to escape, he told the missionaries: “I felt
like Peter. I could not pray, though I thought I must die. I had not
lived a good life.” On another occasion a woman actually went and gave
back all the property she had won from another by gambling, when told
it was displeasing to God.

The following translation of letters from some much respected leaders
among them, gives an insight into their feelings and ideas. One wrote
to us as follows: “In spirit I am among you, my fellow-servants. Only a
little I want to say to you. Because the Lord, He helps us, you as well
as us—we in Labrador. In one faith and love in that which Jesus has
wrought for us, that we can walk through Him that strengthens us. Once
more we have reason to be thankful, because the physician came; we are
often reminded that our souls also must have medicine, _i.e._ the Word
of God. I salute you all. The Lord may help every one of us. You as
well as me. Zacharias. The one that is in Hopedale.”

Another wrote, “My wife and I and all the Eskimo wish very sincerely to
thank all the good believers on the other side of the sea, who in their
love have thought of us, and sent a doctor to help and assist us in
our illness. We do not understand the language of those you have sent
here, yet we rejoice that they are preaching the Word of God faithfully
to the many fishermen who work along the Labrador. My prayer and wish
are that the Lord will protect them on their journey, and bless you
and them in the work. My wife and I greet all those who love the Lord
Jesus Christ.”

  “DANIEL AND JOSEPHINA.”

When the missionaries desire to punish an Eskimo, it is generally done
by (1) refusing to allow him personally in the store; (2) ejecting him
from the choir or band; (3) cutting him off from communion. An Eskimo,
never having severer punishment, feels each of these very acutely.

Cartwright punished them much more summarily. In his dry way, he
remarks: “July 1. Having reproved an Eskimo in a very angry tone for
stealing a skein of thread, I gave him a few strokes with a stick. He
instantly made resistance; when catching him in my arms, I gave him
a cross buttock (a method of throwing unknown to them), and pitched
him with great force head first out of my tent. The rest applauded my
action as just, and had a high opinion of my lenity.”

Conveying Bible ideas to the Eskimo has not been easy. It must be
remembered they have never seen sheep or lambs, horse or mule, fruit
tree or corn, sowing or harvest. Nor have they much idea of kindness to
animals at all. Every animal but a dog is to be killed, and even their
dogs are to be kept at a considerable distance. But they are themselves
very grateful for kindness, as the above extracts show.




CHAPTER XIV

_ON SEALS AND SEALERS_


[Illustration: The S.S. _Sir Donald_.]

The hair seal, locally “swile,” affords to the Newfoundland fisherman
almost the only means of work in winter which will help him to eke out
the meagre living provided by his Labrador voyages. True, there is a
home frozen-herring trade, but it is limited to the west coast; and
also the new railway employs a certain number of men as long as the
inclemencies of winter allow work to proceed. But it is to the spring
sealing, or “going to the ice,” as they call it, that most look for
the extra few dollars to help fill the children’s mouths. Not long ago
every one could go to the ice, for then only sailing-boats went, and
the wealth reaped from the voyages passed mostly into the fishermen’s
pockets. Now all is revolutionized, and the sealing is in the hands
of half-a-dozen firms, that send out big steamers, carrying crews
numbering as many as three hundred men. Moreover, the value of seal-oil
has greatly decreased, and the expenses of the steamers eat up much of
the profit. There are not a few whom one hears growling, “Steam has
ruined Newfoundland.”

The hair seal, “Phoca Greenlandica,” must not be confounded with the
fur seal of the Pacific, for though the former is found in the Pacific,
the latter is never found in the North Atlantic. The fur seal is as a
rule larger, has much longer hands and feet in proportion to his body,
and also a much longer neck. He is apparently a much more powerful
swimmer. There are, however, several kinds of hair seal. The largest
is the hood seal. A truly magnificent animal, and one that shows
much courage in defending himself against his enemies. Sitting up on
his tail and hind legs, he defends himself with teeth and flippers,
protecting his head from injury by blowing out a bladder-shaped and
shot-proof excrescence on it. The usual method to kill a seal is to
hit it upon the nose with a club, called a seal-bat, but when once
fairly roused the bull hood seal is invulnerable there. An old sealer
described to me a battle between one of these fellows and a polar
bear, in which he told us the seal only yielded to be eaten after a
prolonged and bloody struggle. It takes two men at least to kill one,
for one man has to divert the animal’s attention by striking its tail,
while the other endeavours to hit it under the jaw as it turns round.

The most important hair seal, however, is the harp. It is the variety
which resort to the ice to breed in such countless thousands, and which
the sealing vessels go out in pursuit of. The process of breeding
is most interesting. The following account was given me by Captain
Blandford, of Newfoundland, perhaps the most successful of all the bold
sealing captains:—

“Soon after we got jammed in the ice there appeared from the water
four or five old seals, which scrambled up on to its surface. Within
five minutes there were 500 seals on it, and in half an hour 200,000
as nearly as we could guess. Scarcely had they come to rest on the ice
when they commenced throwing their young, and at once, after whelping,
those close to us, being somewhat frightened by the ship, jumped back
into the sea, leaving the little seals whimpering exactly like babies.”

The young are born about the 1st of March, and are very small, fat, and
snowy white, remaining so up till the 20th to 25th, _i.e._ about three
weeks, between which date and the 1st of April they are big enough to
take to the water. During this period they are known as “whitecoats.”
They grow so rapidly that you can almost see them growing, though on
the above occasion those close to the ship did not grow nearly as
rapidly as those farther away, for the dams were shy about coming to
give them suck.

The “whitecoats” are not large enough to kill until they are fourteen
days’ old, so that on this occasion the crew had to wait. Now, however,
by law no sailing vessel may leave for the ice until the 8th of March,
and no steamer till the 12th, under a penalty of $2,000, which gives
the seals a chance to get sizeable; nor is a vessel now allowed to make
a second voyage the same year, if she has once come back loaded. This
prevents the extermination of the mother seals. Great excitement always
exists when the sealers are about to start; sometimes it is necessary
to cut their way out of the harbour, in which they have been imprisoned
during the winter months, with dynamite, saws, and crowbars, the way
being cleared beforehand, that not an hour may be lost after the clocks
announce midnight of the 11th. This year, 1894, while blasting a way
out of the ice in Greenspond Harbour, the S.S. _Walrus_ was severely
damaged by the explosion of the dynamite, which shattered her bows, and
killed some of her men. The ice was ten feet thick.

The vessels may start from any part of the island, north or south, but
no one place is always best, the position of the seals varying every
season. There is much competition to get a place among the crews, and
the men are carefully selected for their pluck, energy, experience, and
physical capacities. These are queer-looking craft to the unaccustomed
eye these steam sealers of about 300 to 400 tons burden, with their
outside thick sheathing of hard wood, called “ice chocks,” and their
huge double stems, filled between with from nine to twelve feet of
solid oak, built for charging through floe ice. For when shut in the
steamer will back far enough to gain good impetus, and then dash full
at the weakest part of the floe. Usually the sloping forepost allows
the vessel to rise up on to the ice, the great weight then breaking
down into clear water. Anything loose on deck is of course upset, as
are any of the crew who happen not to be holding some support. All
are rigged with three masts, and can sail as well as steam; and the
screw being fixed in a slot can easily be pulled up out of the water
at these times. Each masthead is fitted with a barrel or crow’s nest,
from which a careful look-out for seals is constantly maintained. When
once discovered, the next thing is to keep them to yourself, and, if
possible, mislead any other vessels near, who might be apt to join in
and so lessen your prize. A captain, well known for his success, was
lately dogged in this way by a fresh hand. To mislead his rival the
captain steamed into one of the large bays, where, it so happened, he
got frozen in while the raw hand, turning out, caught a full voyage.

Once alongside the floe, the men jump off on to the ice, and at once
the work begins. Sometimes they work in pairs, one man shooting the
seals, and his chum, who is called “the dog,” following up, cutting
off the tail from the dead seal to “mark it,” and then gathering them
in heaps, and putting up a pole with a flag or a piece of liver as a
claim. These are then said to be “panned.” This is technically called
“swatching.” When shooting, 1,400 seals in a day is good work for a
crew, though they have killed 3,000; but when it is only necessary to
“club” them with the seal-bat, 25,000 have been killed in a day, and
47,000 in two days. Sculping (scalping?) is the next process—that is
taking off the skin and fat. This scarcely takes a minute. The seal is
thrown on its back, ripped up from chin to tail, and the fat and skin,
known as the “pelt,” are torn off. The body is no use, and is left on
the ice, except that occasionally the hearts are cut out and strung on
the hunter’s belts, as a reserve of food in case of necessity.

The mother seals show great sagacity in finding the particular hole,
through which she comes and goes for food, among so many thousand
others, and at once she finds her own little white pup. They will
evince much self-sacrifice in trying to rescue their offspring from
danger, at times carrying them in their fore flippers to escape being
nipped by ice, or drawing them into the water to teach them to swim.
Alas, after a sealer’s visit she will only find a quivering red corpse
when she returns. Let us hope she does not recognise it.

When another crew is also at work on the same patch of seals the
greatest expedition is naturally used, and under these circumstances
the seals will often only be “batted” and stunned, not stabbed to the
heart as well, before being skinned. It is this that has given rise to
the charges of cruelty, for the naked body has been seen to move around
after the operation. Otherwise there is no more cruelty in killing
seals than in killing cattle or poultry, and any man who is humane in
one will naturally be humane in the other; nor do I think you will find
anywhere a more humane set of men than you will among Newfoundland
fishermen.

Captain X. was once just forcing his way through ice towards a pack of
seals when he sighted a rival vessel coming up under his lee. Backing
out, he at once altered his course away from the seals to mislead the
other, but was too late to prevent them sighting his seals. The second
vessel, being much faster, now ran in between my friend and the ice,
and passing him on the starboard side gave the order “hard a starboard”
to force him out from his own cutting. Incensed at this, Captain X.
from the barrel shouted “hard a port,” and went straight for his
rival’s stem. Fortunately an intervening pan of ice prevented a fatal
accident, but he ran his bowsprit well over the other’s counter. All
hands from the foremost vessel were overboard and hard at work killing
and panning seals before Captain X. could land his men; so he shouted,
as his final order, “Hand aboard the dead seals; never mind killing
live ones,” and then, calmly descending, went and had refreshments with
the other captain in the other vessel’s cabin, while the crews were
left to fight it out as best they could. They are a brave, generous,
and skilful set of men, these sealing captains, and reck little of
danger or hardship.

Work proceeds during the night by torchlight, and the scattered fires,
with their ruddy glow on the heaps of dead seals and uncouth-looking
figures at work, must present indeed a weird sight. Now the pelts
have to be brought back to the ship; and in this work the physical
capacities of each hunter are tried to the utmost. Six pelts is a full
“tow” for one man. Often when the ice is hummocky, or perhaps broken up
into pieces, called “slob” ice, and it is necessary to jump from pan to
pan, or again when the distance from the ship is long, and the approach
of night or the fog render travelling almost impossible, are these men
tempted to abandon the hardly-won pelts, and get home themselves to the
ship and safety.

Sometimes one hunter will be long adrift from the steamer, and all the
rest being back, and all the seals in that patch boarded, the captain
is anxious to get off—how anxious, if the patch was a small one and
other seals are near, perhaps only a sealing captain knows,—for all
ships must be home by April 21st, full or empty. Yet though so much
depends on it a stray hunter has never yet been abandoned. It costs a
large sum to send these vessels to the ice, and a “clean ship” means a
big loss to the merchant, and no money for the men.

[Illustration: Eskimo on an Island near Okkak.]

Sharks, even in these latitudes, are not slow to gather at the smell
of slaughter, and can be caught with boathooks between the pans. It is
not a rare thing for men to slip off the pans into the water, and it
requires no little skill to get out again without help; for the water,
naturally, is very cold, and one is apt again and again to slip off
back into the water while trying to climb on to the ice. Acts of great
heroism are performed sometimes in rescuing a man thus endangered;
in one case, the pans being very small, it was not possible to stand
on one in order to pull the man out. The rescuer, therefore, quickly
throwing off his outer garments, came jumping from piece to piece,
making a grab at the struggling man as he passed, trying to push him on
far enough for him to catch hold. The second run he succeeded, but, of
course, himself ran great peril in the attempt. The vessels eventually,
loaded to the gunwales if they have been fortunate, return to St.
Johns, every hole and corner being used for stowing the pelts, so that
at times the crew will have to sleep wherever they can find a dry spot,
even on deck or in the boats.

Once in harbour, the fat is separated and put into enormous vats, the
oil being squeezed out from the blubber by their own weight, and being
eventually drawn off, clarified, and sold. Now, however, the blubber
is usually “rendered” by means of a steam mincer. The skins are salted
without being stretched, and are then exported “green,” for making
into leather for boot tops, gloves, etc. When the white coat is a year
old, he is dark in colour on the back, lighter on the belly, and is
known as a “bedlamer harp.” When he is three years old, a large black
saddle-shaped mark begins to appear over his back, and he is called a
full “bedlamer.” When he is four years old, the saddle is fully and
clearly marked, and the seal is then known as the “old harp.”

Seals, as is well known to those who visit Zoological Gardens, are very
easily tamed, and display almost the sagacity of dogs. Tales are told
of seals which have become so thoroughly tame that they will come and
lie before the fire, making friends with the dog and cat; while one,
when it had been found too expensive to keep, and had been taken out to
sea and dropped overboard, followed the boat ashore again and again,
even getting in at the window when the door had been shut against it.
The seal is used by the Eskimo for nearly everything. The stretched
coat of the bowel serves instead of glass. Their boats are entirely
of skin. Their clothing almost all skin. Their winter food almost all
seal meat and blubber. Dog food, dog harness, dog whips, etc., are all
of seal, or of walrus hide. Moreover, to the settlers, their skins for
boots and their fat for oil are invaluable.

In Labrador the “old harps” are caught either in the fall or spring,
when the sea is first freezing over or the ice first breaking up, and
always along shore, in one of the following ways. Strong twine nets,
with very large meshes, are anchored out on the bottom in about twenty
to thirty fathoms of water, off prominent headlands, or in the mouths
of bays and inlets known to be frequented by seals. These are buoyed
on the surface, and in these the seals mesh and drown themselves. This
industry is attended with much danger and hardship, for it involves
rowing out in all weathers in small boats to clear the nets. Sometimes
the buoys are under the ice, and the process known as “creeping” has to
be undertaken to find the nets at all, for it will not do to lose these
most valuable possessions.

If the nets are not recovered by New Year’s Day, they are lost; yet
occasionally they may be recovered immediately the ice goes in April,
when, the men tell me, both nets and seals in them are good; but if
much time elapses after the floe drifts off, both rot rapidly and are
destroyed by animalculæ.

Often hours must be spent “creeping,” and then, perhaps, only some
one else’s nets are taken, while all the while each must be carefully
watching the other to see he is not getting frostbitten. The nose,
ears, or chin will become frozen unknown to the owner and another will
cry out “your ears are dead,” the parts having turned snowy white.
Then begins the painful and tedious process of rubbing the part with
snow—woe betide the sufferer who goes in a heated room, or uses hot
water; for a certainty he will lose his ears or his nose—then the
creeping must be again proceeded with; or when the nets are partly
hauled bad weather will overtake them, perhaps a sudden squall from
the high land sweeps down on the little open boat, and the tragedy of
“the three fishers” is apt to be enacted over again. In one case, a man
described to me how, when out with his brother and another man, while
in the act of hauling into the boat a square flipper seal of larger
size than usual, the little craft capsized, and his brother, getting
cramp from cold, slipped off the bottom of the boat to which all three
were clinging. Fortunately, the other two managed, it being a calm day,
to hold on till a rescue was effected. It is cold work at best, and,
as one stalwart fellow said, “jest a bit hard, that when a man comes
home real hungry it should take him half an hour to get the ice off his
face before he can find his mouth.” “Yes,” chimed in another, “I lost
two toes and this ear,” showing that he had been cropped as if at the
pillory. I have myself seen the frozen breath hanging from men’s beards
and moustaches till, from nose to chest, it was one huge white mass.

The easier way of catching the “old harps” is with a submerged room
of net, resembling the cod-trap, with the difference that the wall
which is on the side the seals enter from is lowered to the bottom. A
watch is kept from the shore, and as soon as the seals enter the room
a rope attached to this wall is wound up on a capstan on the land, and
the seals are thus imprisoned. They are now given time to entangle
themselves in the net, and so get drowned, or the boat rows off and
the hunter shoots the seal before taking it out of the water; for the
seals would bite badly if given the chance. The net is thirty to forty
fathoms deep, and is set in about six to ten fathoms of water.

The last variety of hair seal is known as the “bay seal.” It frequents
the shores, bays, and mouths of fresh-water rivers, up which it breeds,
all the summer, and is caught either in mesh nets, or shot from a boat
as it puts up its head to breathe. This feat is rendered more easy by
the natural curiosity of the seal. As soon as it spies the boat it
raises its head and shoulders out of water to get a good view of the
stranger. If you now remain quite still, and especially if you can
imitate the “Hough, hough” of the animal, it will dive down and in a
minute come up nearer the boat. I have been almost ashamed to shoot as
it opened its large, human eyes, so full of inquisitiveness. “Bang!”
If you are a good shot, your seal will be dead, a bullet through his
brain, and you must at once row and pick him up while his few kicks
keep him afloat. I remember seeing one sink after being shot, as we
rowed off to the _Princess May_ from the shore one day. We stopped
over the spot, and peering down into the crystal water, could see him
ten fathoms down. Suddenly, one last kick—only it seemed a slight
movement—and the carcase rose to the surface for the last time. Up,
up! We watched it gyrating round and round, and as it reached the
surface, grabbed hold of one flipper and slung it into the boat. We
had one or two good meals off that fellow, for we hung him up from our
forestay, and the frosty air kept him sweet and fresh as long as we
needed him. Had he not arisen we should have got him up by means of our
“jiggers,” _i.e._, our heavy leaded hooks.

The Eskimo harpoon their seals from the kayak, occasionally shooting
it first; but shooting accurately from a kayak is no easy matter. The
harpoon is made of light wood, about three feet in length. On the end
of this is fixed a whole walrus tusk, to carry the loose barbed iron
top, and also to weight it and carry it truly home. As soon as the seal
is struck it dives, taking the harpoon with it, but as the harpoon
is attached by about twenty fathoms of walrus hide to an inflated
air-tight seal-skin, the hunter spies it, as soon as it comes up,
even if it ever succeeds in carrying the buoy down. A few strokes of
the paddle brings the kayak once more alongside, and the seal is soon
put _hors de combat_ with a lance, lashed on the back of the little
boat, and the hunter starts for home, or it is towed home alongside
the kayak. When one year old the bay seal is called a “jar seal,” and
its skin is poor; in the second year it is a “doter,” and becoming
speckled, in the third year, it is a “ranger,” and is then very
beautiful, being checkered silver and black all over.




[Illustration: Eskimo in Reindeer Tent, Okkak.]




CHAPTER XV

_ON THE ESQUIMAUX OR ESKIMO_


It was a still moonlight night, and the _Albert_ lay at anchor in one
of those numberless creeks in which the venturous fishermen hide away
their schooners, while in their small boats they are snatching from the
very edges of the reefs their precious fares of fish.

We were below decks, dressing the wounds of a fisherman in the
_Albert’s_ little cabin, the only sounds being the moan of my patient
or the lapping of the water against the ship’s side, when the silence
was suddenly broken by the sound as of many voices singing. The air was
very familiar:—

    “There’s a land that is fairer than day,
      And by faith we can see it afar,
    For our Father dwells over the way
      To prepare us a dwelling-place there.”

Mounting the gangway, I found the deck crowded by a number of the
quaintest little figures. They were dressed in skins, with snow-white
jumpers topped by long pointed cowls standing high up over their heads.
Some sat cross-legged on the bulwarks or hatches, while others, in
their seal-skin boots, were gliding noiselessly about in the moonlight,
till imagination conjured up “the merry elves” of childhood. The early
Norsemen called them skrellings or weaklings. They call themselves
Innuits, “the people,” because they say God went on creating till they
appeared, then He was satisfied, and created no more. Eskimo = raw meat
eater, and is a term of opprobrium conferred on them by the Indians.

Soon all were down in our main hold, chattering, laughing, and pleased
as children, at the _Albert’s_ fittings and at our attempts to
understand their remarks. The one that acted as leader spoke a little
broken English, and from him we learned that they had come from a group
of islands lying outside us with some boat-loads of dry fish for a
planter; that they had been puzzled by our strange rig, and so had come
aboard to see us.

When their leader had explained to them that we were a “Gospel ship,”
and had things to heal the sick, their merry, round, flat faces grew
sunnier than ever. All heads were uncovered at once, displaying mops
of long straight black hair, cut fringe-like level with the eyebrows.
Then they all broke out singing again, squatting all round the hold
on their haunches or on the floor, while, to our surprise, one seated
himself at the harmonium and played it excellently, others performing
on two concertinas and two cornets. They sang in parts in their own
language, but hymn tunes well known to us, so our crew all joined in,
and kept it up till the watch called “All hands off board.” Since
then we have seen and learnt much of this simple people; “Uskies” the
fishermen call them, and we all like them greatly.

Not many heathen Eskimo remain in Labrador, yet between Ungava
and Cape Chidley some are still to be found. They recognise a god
(Tongarsuk), a good spirit, and also lesser spirits (Tongaks), whom
he sends to tell the priests (angekoks) how to heal diseases, and
how to tell the weather. The Devil is a vague kind of female spirit,
apparently unnamed. These angekoks are really delphic oracles, who
make supposititious journeys to the bowels of the earth to consult
Tongarsuk. The journey must be in winter, in the dark at night time,
and the angekok remains alone in his hut with his head tied between his
legs, and his arms behind his back, while his soul is off to heaven or
hell. To become an angekok poglit, _i.e._ fat priest or chief priest,
his wandering spirit must be dragged by one toe to the sea by a white
bear, and there swallowed by a sea lion and the same white bear. Then
it must be spued up and return to his body, which is shut up in a dark
house. A drum and other noises are kept up during the ceremony.[17]

They have a vague tradition of a flood, saying that the world upset
once, and all but one man were drowned. They prove this by the fact of
shells being found high above the sea, and even the remains of a whale
on a high mountain. They believe in a future life and a happier one
than this, where there is perpetual summer, and they locate it at the
bottom of the sea, whence they get their richest possessions, or in the
bowels of the earth. Reindeer are there quite common, and their beloved
seals are ever ready, swimming in a large boiling kettle.[17]

[Footnote 17: _The Eskimo_, by Dr. F. Nansen.]

Nansen tells us they thought that all inanimate objects had spirits,
and that this is the reason that they buried with the warrior his boat
and weapons, and often figures like dolls, possibly to represent his
wives. I found several of these old graves, and two I examined. One,
evidently very ancient, was perched on a high central promontory,
overlooking the entrances to two bays; perhaps in order that as the
harp seals or wild birds passed, the warrior might, even in death,
look down upon those who of yore so oft paid tribute to his skill. The
body in every grave is simply laid on the surface on its back, in its
clothes—in one grave a female skeleton lay alongside a male one. Over
it is built a rude structure roofed with large flat stones, so that
the view should be unobstructed. In a small cache alongside the above
grave were two wooden figures of females, an ivory harpoon head and the
remains of the shaft, the skin-cleaning instruments, and the remains of
a stone lamp.

In another, further south, I found an iron sword about three feet long,
used for cutting snow blocks for snow houses, a dagger with a curved
blade, a clasp knife, an old pot of iron, a nail or needle case, a lead
buckle silvered over, a whetstone, and a few other simple household
implements, while in each case the remains of the kayak or canoe, the
paddle and the harpoon were lying near.

The skipper of a Newfoundland vessel told me how one of his men took
some frankincense from one of these graves. That night the crew were
startled by one of the hands shouting out, “There is a man in the
cabin!” though it was all dark at the time. A lamp was lit, and the
same man shouted, “There he goes, up the hatchway!” The others chaffed
him and blew out the light. Very soon shouts were again heard, “There
he is, an Eskimo, searching in Tom’s bunk.” After that the lamp was
kept lighted, and next day the grave was restored.

The early Moravian missionaries found it very difficult to convey
to the Eskimo the Bible teachings of our Saviour’s love and of God
as our Father. They had no word for love; neither sheep nor lambs,
seed-time nor harvest, silver nor gold were familiar to them, and all
the oriental similes of the sacred book were unintelligible. Yet the
missionaries’ Christ-like lives during 130 years have accomplished what
their words could not express.

In A.D. 1000 the Eskimo extended as far south as Newfoundland. In 1790
a tribe five hundred strong dwelt in the Straits of Belle Isle. Now
only a few dwell south of Hopedale, three hundred miles north of the
same straits, and only some two to three thousand north of that place.
Contact with white men has killed them off, at times by small-pox or
diphtheria, but usually by tubercular consumption. The two racial tides
now meet at Hopedale, and here the Eskimo appear least healthy.

The nomad life in skin tents has been abandoned for wooden and mud
huts. The seal-skin clothes have largely given way to inferior cotton
and European goods. The “blubber” food is largely replaced by “flour
and molasses.” The art of kayaking is nearly lost, and the Eskimo
have become less and less reliant on their own powers of procuring a
livelihood, while guns and powder have largely diminished the supply
of game. This has well been exemplified around the mission station
of Zoar. The Eskimo here had contracted a habit of taking out their
supplies from the Moravians, but secretly traded their fish and fur
with the nearest Hudson Bay station at Davis Inlet. Thus they ran up
large debts, which eventually the Brethren refused to increase. Soon
after, while two missionaries were in the store, some bullets were
fired right through the wooden walls. Fortunately no one was hurt. But
bad feelings had been roused, and at last it was found necessary to
close these stores altogether, with the result that the Eskimo have
been _obliged to leave_, and stay where they could buy provisions at
hand; and now the Eskimo are all gone, and the whole station is closed
for good. But this is only what civilization has done for aboriginal
races all the world over.

Thank God that in this case the Gospel both preceded and accompanied
commerce. To this alone I attribute the fact that after over 130
years any of the Eskimo do now remain. The Gospel has been received.
Many have passed from darkness to light, and so are in a position to
correspond to or resist the new environment of white men’s customs
and white men’s whisky. True the Eskimo in Labrador are being slowly
driven to a last stand. Thank God that stand is at Ramah, Hebron,
Okkak, Hopedale and Nain, around the devoted Christian missionaries of
the Moravian brethren, who for Christ’s sake spend their lives among
the hardships of this bleak and barren coast; and while Beothicks and
Red Indians have fallen victims to the God of mammon, remnants of this
gentle and harmless race still persist. Take away these Moravians from
Labrador, and the days of the Eskimo would soon be numbered.

[Illustration: Taken from an Eskimo Grave at Long Island.]

In the eleventh century Thorfinn Karlsefne describes the Skraellings
as “black and ill-favoured, with coarse hair on their heads, and large
eyes, with broad cheeks.” Cartwright, writing in 1790, says they were
quarrelsome among one another, and occasionally thievish. Cranz, in
1760, says they were degraded, immoral, and brutish in their heathen
state. Nansen thinks they led an ideal socialistic life, but founded, I
think, rather on a basis of inevitable union against starvation in bad
times than on a basis of Divine and brotherly love. They appear ever to
have been simple and confiding. Karlsefne says they came to visit his
men in Vinland and began to barter.

“These people would rather have red cloth than anything else; for this
they gave skins and real furs. For an entire fur-skin the Skraellings
took a piece of red cloth a span long, and bound it round their heads.
Thus went on traffic for a time, then the cloth began to fall short
among Karlsefne and his people, and they cut it asunder into small
pieces, which were not wider than the breadth of a finger, and still
the Skraellings gave just as much as before, and more.”

According to our code they are very immoral, yet seeing the conduct of
white men to one another and to themselves they always say of a good
man, “He is like an Innuit” (Eskimo). They themselves have no words for
cursing, and Nansen says also no words of opprobrium, such as liar,
scoundrel, or rowdy. Recently one in the far north of Labrador, who
already had seven wives, stole his son-in-law’s wife also—that is
his own daughter. The younger man bided his time, and then shot the
older one off his guard. Some twenty years ago a number came south to
the most northern Moravian station. One had cut on his gun-stock many
notches. On being asked what these meant, he explained they indicated
so many men craftily shot. On being told it was wrong, he promised not
to do it again. Polygamy is now done away with, and it is only in their
fishing-tents that different families sleep together. In some tents I
visited the only separations were marks made on the ground.

Yet they have learnt to repent of wrong-doing, and all their outbreaks
have ended in asking for forgiveness. They confess even murder to
the missionaries. I have met four who have done so. In all spiritual
matters they implicitly accept the Brethren’s teaching; nor do they
ever question the authority of the Bible; _e.g._, one man had a very
refractory boy, who was always annoying his teacher, and wilfully
disturbing the whole school. His father refused to punish him, for he
said he thought that must be wrong for a Christian. Nor would he alter
his decision till Solomon’s maxim on that point was shown him in black
and white. He then at once adopted Solomon’s view of the matter, and
“appealed to his son’s feelings” with a piece of walrus hide.

Other enemies, besides civilization, have helped to deplete the Eskimo
race. The early Vikings harried them on their visits to the coast.
Thorfinn Karlsefne mentions finding five Skraellings sleeping under
a boat. He adds, his men killed them; and similar incidents occurred
to others of these rovers. The Indians of the interior have always
been hostile to them, and in their battles with these the Eskimo have
generally come off second best.

We were shown the spot where tradition has it the Eskimo and
Montaignais Indians fought their last fight for mastery. A story to
which the finding of many stone arrow heads and knives lends some
colour. Off the mouth of a long river lies a large island, with a
smooth central plain, rising at each end to high broken rocks. On the
outer end clustered the humble huts of the Eskimos, with their fishing
gear lying around. One night, under cover of darkness, the Mountaineers
crept stealthily down the river in their large, double-ended, birch
war-canoes, and effected a landing, dragging the canoes up after them,
and then hiding themselves among the rocks. Next day, however, the
wary little Eskimo discovered their arrival, and pluckily determined
to attack them at once. It is easy to picture the wild scene that
followed. No doubt the little warriors fought desperately; but,
against their taller and more powerful adversaries, were at a great
disadvantage in a hand to hand conflict. Many having fallen in the
open, the remnant sought cover among the rocks at the outer end of
the island, only to be dislodged and driven back towards the sea.
Here, no doubt, the squaws—who still dress like men and partake in
all the expeditions—helped them to make one last stand for home and
children. Then came the skurry to the beach. Behind are the ruthless,
bloodthirsty “braves,” in front the mighty ocean. Picture the tiny
skin-boats, manned by the few survivors, darting out through Atlantic
surf, with probably wife and child hurriedly lashed on the back, as
they do sometimes at the present day. Think of the tragedies enacted,
as perhaps some obstacle prevented the kayaks getting away—some
refractory child, some accident to the frail craft at the last moment.
With fiendish yells the Indians are hurrying over the beach towards
them, more horrible from their weird war-paint. History only says the
settlement was exterminated.

Starvation also has lessened their numbers. Near Sir Leopold
McClintock’s winter quarters—where the darkness lasted for three
months—were camped some Eskimo. These people had neither fires nor
lights. Living in snow huts, into which they crawled on their bellies
through long snow tunnels, they lay huddled on one another for the sake
of the warmth. Their clothes were of duck-skins and other feathers
inside, and seal-skin outside. No wood existed anywhere near. Their
food consisted of raw seal meat, buried deep outside. Whenever hungry,
they would crawl out, eat about four pounds of raw meat, and crawl back
and sleep again as long as possible—almost hibernating like the black
bear. What would happen when the polar bear got at their meat supplies,
as he was only too likely to do?

Only this year (1894) the crew of the whaler _Balaena_ brought to
Dundee the horrible details of what might well be expected. The
_Balaena’s_ crew discovered on the shore, in a place far removed
from all animal life, the dead bodies of three Eskimos, and a number
of bleached human bones. These three—two men and one woman—were
evidently the last survivors of a larger party. Near to the bodies
three human heads were noticed—in each case the throat had been cut
and savagely hacked with a knife, while the brains had been extracted
through a hole in the skull. A smashed rifle and a bow and arrows were
lying near, and all the evidences of a severe struggle between the last
two male survivors. A blood-stained knife was taken from the woman’s
hand. It is probable the party had been waiting here (Elwin Bay) for
the arrival of the whalers in 1893. Alas! ice had prevented their
coming, and at last, among the patiently-expectant little people, an
awful tragedy had been enacted.

Less dramatic incidents also occur in Eskimo life. Thus, in one case
recently, an old tyrant had appropriated the fine new kayak of a poorer
man; and soon after this poor fellow was drowned while shooting deer
out of his old canoe, of which the skin covering was rotten. His son,
a young fellow under twenty, remained quiet a long time. One day,
however, he was taken out hunting by the old man. Whilst crossing
a wide river on the ice, the son dropped behind a step and blew the
other’s brains out.

On one or two occasions they have combined to attack the Moravian
Brethren. Thus in Hebron, on one occasion, they shut the missionaries
up in their house, not allowing them even to go and get water,
demanding that all the goods in the store should be handed over to
them. No resistance was made, except that the store was kept locked.
At the end of three days, which the Brethren had spent in prayer,
conviction seized the Eskimo, and they came and said they were very
sorry.

No stretch of imagination could call them an emotional people; some
are almost fatalists, and all are easily satisfied and careless of
the morrow. One day an Eskimo guide accompanied me out fishing. It
so happened that rain fell in great quantities, and as he had left
his skin “kossack,” or jumper, at home, he might reasonably have been
expected to seek shelter under one of the many rocks while I fished.
Not so. He remained seated all the time out in the rain as if he were a
mushroom. Late at night, after he had gone home, he came off again in
his “kayak” to the ship to see me. “My boy dead,” he said. “Why did you
not tell me he was ill? You knew we had medicine.” “No good; must die,”
he replied.

I went next morning to see the funeral. The Moravians have taught them
to bury beneath the surface. A hole had been dug in the sandy ground;
the body was put in, and the grave filled up with sand. An hour later
not a sign remained to mark the spot. It would never suggest itself to
them to visit it.

In 1790, Cartwright, falling in love with an Eskimo girl, asked
her hand from her husband Eketcheak, who had another wife himself.
The reply was, “She is no good to work. Have this one and her two
children.” Cartwright declined, saying he preferred the younger. “Take
them all then,” said the generous husband. Cartwright explained he did
not wish to trespass too much on his kindness. “Oh, you can give them
back at the end of the year if you don’t want to keep them.”

While we were in Okkak, an elderly squaw came to be treated for shaking
of the knees. It appeared that she had never before seen a steamboat,
and had received a severe fright at the arrival of the _Princess May_;
for she thought it was a man-of-war come to punish her son Rudolph,
who some time previously had shot his wife, being tired of her. Since
that incident Rudolph had become a Christian, but, as his crime was
still unpunished, by Moravian rule he could not be admitted to their
communion.

Remorse seemed to have seized him, and his one desire now was that his
crime might be expiated by receiving its punishment at the hand of man.
Naturally his mother was anxious.

This lack of emotion seems to prevent a due appreciation of the
principle of self-sacrifice. Thus, one day, while a heavy storm
was raging, some of those ashore noticed a party in great distress,
endeavouring to reach the mainland in one of their smaller boats. A
heavy surf was rolling in, and it would no doubt have been risky to go
out. So the idea of a rescue seems never to have suggested itself. The
people were drowned, and in telling the story themselves afterwards,
they said, shrugging their shoulders, “Kujana,” meaning, “It must
be,” or “I don’t care for it”—a solution which to them is perfectly
satisfactory.

Yet they do at times brave deeds. Once last winter Michael and Simeon
(they never have two names) in crossing from an island in their kayaks,
were overtaken by a kind of blizzard. Simeon became unconscious and
capsized. Michael, though himself almost _in extremis_, and having only
his tiny kayak to fight the storm in, managed to get his friend out of
the boat—into which they are usually laced—to put him on the back
of his own canoe, and to carry him safely to land. Needless to say no
Albert medal rewarded his brave deed. Unfortunately, the art of using
the kayak is rapidly becoming lost, largely because the foolish Eskimo
part with the seal-skins, necessary to cover their boats, in exchange
for cheap and useless European goods. At one time, with their skin
kossack or coat, laced over the opening, and fast round their wrists
and face, they could upset with impunity, for with a couple of deft
strokes with their paddles they were soon right way up again. Indeed,
in heavy seas they would purposely upset, and so get the force of the
broken water on the bottom or side of their boat, righting themselves
immediately the danger had passed. In sport one kayak would “leap-frog”
over another; or turning over on one side the “kayak man” would right
himself on the other in their merry dexterity. Alas! that so marvellous
an adaptation to the necessities of their lives should ever be
relegated to a forgotten past. Broken water does them no more harm than
it would to a swimming seagull, so exquisite is their buoyancy.

Generosity and vanity form a queer combination in many of them. On
one occasion, a family, which had long been struggling for the mere
necessaries of daily life, were fortunate enough to catch in their
large stone trap a black fox. With tears of joy the father took the
skin to the store. God had heard his prayers. He was credited with £9
worth of goods. When he got home, however, the well-filled cupboard
so filled his heart with vanity that he issued an invitation to all
his acquaintances “to come and eat and stay with him.” In two days the
supplies ran out, and already again the wolf of hunger besieged his
doors.

In another case a Newfoundland planter had left an Eskimo in charge
of his stores during the winter, giving him for himself a more than
generous winter’s diet. Soon his friends, with their chronic state of
hunger, came to pay him a visit. Without a thought as to consequences,
the visit was prolonged indefinitely, and soon the whole of them
were without provisions. The usual course to adopt next is to drive
on and visit the nearest settlement, till all alike are “commercial
travellers” in the same line of business. No wonder there is an Eskimo
saying, “Do not live near the komatik (or sleigh) track.”

Loyalty is said to be a marked feature in the Eskimo. They fully
believed at Hopedale that Her Majesty the Queen sits on a rock on the
look-out—as they do—in her anxiety for the arrival of the mission
ship _Harmony_. We were charged with many personal messages by them to
the Queen, expressing their deep sense of gratitude for sending the
_Albert_ out to them.

When they heard the English were at war in Egypt, they organized an
impromptu regiment, with a captain in a discarded policeman’s coat and
one odd epaulet, with which they proposed to the missionaries they
should proceed to the seat of war. Indeed, they took no denial, and
continued to drill till the opening of the sea turned their attention
once more to cod-fishing.

I must now close my few remarks about this interesting people. Some of
their habits, which to us are more repellant, I have purposely passed
over—such as their predilection for their meat to be “mikkiak,” or
partly rotten, and their uncleanliness. What we saw of the Eskimo we
liked: their gratitude for kindnesses done; their fortitude under
the knife, or in pain; their merriment and good-nature often under
circumstances most depressing. When talking to a dying Eskimo of
forty-five, who for a fortnight had lain in terrible agony with his
hands blown off, I asked the poor fellow if the pain was unbearable. He
answered simply, “It is nothing to what my Saviour bore in the Garden
for me.” His last words were singing Zinzendorf’s beautiful hymn:—

    “Jesus, day by day,
    Guide us on our way.”

It continues:—

        “Should the path us grieve,
        Thee we’ll never leave;
    Lord, in days of greatest sadness,
    Let us bear our cross with gladness;
        Trials mark the road
        Leading home to God.

        All our steps attend,
        Guide us to the end;
    Should the way be rough and dreary,
    With Thy strength support the weary;
        When our race is o’er,
        Open, Lord, Thy door.”




CHAPTER XVI

_THE DEEDS OF HEROES_


Some 18,000 people cluster around the shores of Trinity Bay, their
scattered villages and fishing hamlets nestling on its creeks and
coves. It was in February. The Ice King had laid his iron hand even
on the giant ocean, and the floe ice of the frozen sea stretched far
beyond the eye’s horizon. Yet these boldest among England’s sea-loving
sons were adding to their scanty stock of this world’s goods by
venturing far out among the treacherous ice in pursuit of seals.

The morning of the 27th broke bright and beautiful, enhanced by a
clear space of deep blue water between the shore and the inner edge
of the ice. The eager hunters were early astir, and snatching a hasty
breakfast, were soon off in their little boats, being but lightly clad,
to give their limbs freer play in the various vicissitudes of their
calling.

From Trinity, Green Bay, Ireland’s Eye, boat glided out after boat,
as the crack of the guns of those first afloat told of a prospect of
success, until over 220 men were out. “’Tis a strange and awful thing
to think, how often mortality stands on the brink of its grave without
any misgiving.”

Suddenly a dark cloud appeared in the north-east, with incredible
rapidity masses piled themselves together, and then in a moment,
from the heart of the black battalions, the tempest leaped in fury,
struck the now darkened waters, and converted the bay into a seething,
hissing cauldron. The temperature fell forty degrees, and the fierce
cold, with the piercing wind, seemed to freeze the very blood in the
veins. Gust followed gust, each more furious than the last, driving the
angry sea in foam-capped mountains on to the doomed fleet of boats.
Now began a desperate struggle for life, enough to appal the stoutest
hearts. Two alternatives only were possible—first to face the teeth
of the gale and row for their homes on the north shore; or, secondly,
run before it, and endeavour to clamber over the ice to the southern
side of the bay. Six boats tried the former. The spray, freezing as
it fell, drenched the men to their skin, covering both boats and men
with casings of solid ice. Slowly and painfully, in terrible danger
each moment of being swamped, they lessened the distance between
themselves and the shore. Suddenly a cry of despair arose from one of
the boats—the oars had snapped, and the boat was drifting to certain
destruction. Without a thought of the peril of the delay, and from the
increased burden they would have to carry, the nearest boat at once
went to their aid, and in that terrible sea took the perishing men on
board. One of the poor fellows, however, was soon dead from cold and
exhaustion. Ice began to form in thick masses on the bow and sides of
the deeply-laden boat, and as each wave struck her she rose more and
more heavily, until all saw the immediate need of lightening the boat.
With sad, mute faces the men looked at each other. The dead man lay at
the bottom of the boat, his white face and unclosed eyes turned towards
the sky. “Come, boys,” said the oldest man, “it can’t be helped; Isaac
must go overboard or we shall all be drowned.” Rapidly they raised the
body, now draped in its icy shroud. “In the name of God we commit this
body to the deep in sure, and certain hope of resurrection. Amen.” A
dull plash and the reverent funeral service was over. The boat seemed
now to float more buoyantly; but after another hour’s struggle for
life, the brother of him whose remains had already been given to the
sea, breathed his last. No doubt the horror of the scene had hastened
his end. The sad ceremonial had to be repeated at once, for the ice was
fast gaining and sinking the boat.

Benumbed and exhausted in this death battle, all hope was nearly over
when from the foremost boat a cry was raised which put fresh courage
in their hearts—Land, ho! It was the well known “Horse Chop” rocks.
Another desperate effort, and at last their keels touched the strand.
But, alas! for the poor fellows even then. Some, unable even to leave
the boats till helped by their companions, staggered feebly ashore,
and tried to crawl up the steep gulch from their landing place; but
strength failed them, and four more died after landing. It was a sad
ending to so brave a fight.

Deeds worthy of the highest praise were enacted in that gulch that
day, the stronger helping the weaker, and endeavouring to restore and
encourage those who were abandoning themselves to death. One tells
how “I saw Robert Bannister manage to crawl partly up the cliff on
his hands and knees. At last he just stopped, said, ‘God bless us,’
and died where he was. His son was lying dead near him.” The nearest
house was two miles away, but three men had now spied them. Hastily
making a fire of brushwood, they helped the still living up the cliff,
and putting some of their own garments on them, nursed some back to
life—but here two more poor fellows perished, while their rescuers
carried or helped them over that long two miles. Not one but suffered
terribly from frost-bite, especially one poor fellow who had given his
mittens to a lad without any.

There were still twenty-four boats missing. What of them? Ice-covered,
frost-bitten, and exhausted, some had reached harbours in the great
bay, situated not so directly in the teeth of the storm; but of those
who made for Bonaventure, Deer Harbour, Thoroughfare, and Ireland’s
Eye, only one had died in the boat. But now deeds of even greater
heroism were called for and performed. The men from Ireland’s Eye
found that far out in the storm were men from English Harbour and
Salmon Cove, who could not possibly reach home, and who might be
sheltering on some off-lying uninhabited island, certain to perish
during the night unless help were forthcoming. Food was partaken of,
a brief rest snatched, God’s protecting care besought, and once more
these heroes of the sea went out silently into that raging storm, from
which they had but just escaped with their lives. “Inasmuch as ye did
unto the least of these, My brethren, ye did it unto Me.” Two boats
were manned, and after fruitless search one returned safely, but empty
handed, to the shelter of the harbour. The other, through the darkness
of the falling night, saw at length a small light on a desolate spot
near Thoroughfare. Fierce joy burnt in those noble hearts, as they
strained every sinew to drive their stubborn craft through the now
almost forgotten dangers. Alas, a sorrowful sight awaited them. There
in their boat on the beach, amidst the roar of the storm, and the
thunder of the surf, lay two poor fellows silent in death—swathed
in their winding sheet of ice, and fast frozen to their boat. By the
fire were three fishermen, half dead themselves, trying to rekindle
the spark of life in two of their fast dying comrades. All were taken
back by the rescue party, and the living nursed back to life at the
nearest cottage. It was enough to move the most cynical to tears—wives
and mothers wildly wringing their hands in agony of heart; and those
strong men, with nerves of iron, wept like children.

The storm raged all Saturday night, and from many a little home the men
were still missing. During the long hours hope and despair alternated
in many anxious hearts, for all knew they had drifted across the bay,
and none knew what their fate might be.

At noon on Sunday a woman, at Heart’s Content, on the southern
side, happened to notice, far out in the bay, a small boat drifting
helplessly about. But for this all must have perished. Rescue parties
were at once formed, and soon five boats, with seventeen men, some in
the last stage of exhaustion from the exposure of that awful night,
were brought ashore. These men had spent the night on the ice; they
had broken up and burnt two boats, which, with the fat of two seals
they had killed, had kept off the worst of the cold, while some of the
fresh meat, roasted in the flames, had helped to assuage the pangs
of hunger and maintain the bodily heat. All these were more or less
severely frost-bitten, but, with the loss of fingers, toes, or heels,
all recovered. Later in the day the rest of the boats were seen, and
twenty-seven more men rescued. One of these men, Patrick Hanlan, thus
described his experiences:—

“The spray was continually going over us, and freezing, and we soon
saw it was impossible to reach land on the north side of the bay
without running the risk of freezing to death. After a time we gave
her a little sheet, and ran her for a pan of ice. Got out on the pan
and made a fire to get something to eat and drink. Just as we were
doing this, a sea broke over the pan, and washed everything off except
ourselves. We had to jump in our boat and run her before the gale
until about four in the afternoon. Just before dusk we caught up four
other boats with twelve men in them. We all hauled up our boats on a
large pan of ice, turned up the largest boats to make a shelter from
the wind, and made a fire. I had two seals in my boat, and we pelted
(_i.e._ skinned) them to burn the fat, breaking up one of the smaller
boats, also, to use as fuel. We were on the ice drifting up the bay
all night. It was bitterly cold, in spite of the big fire, and we had
to keep dancing and jumping to keep up our spirits, and to keep from
freezing. At dawn we were about five miles from Heart’s Delight. We
hauled our boats over some ice, and then rowed for land, which we
reached at nine o’clock. The people treated us with wonderful kindness,
doing all in their power to relieve us. Under Providence they saved our
lives, and we shall never forget their kindness.”[18]

[Footnote 18: For the above account of this Trinity Bay disaster I am
indebted to the Rev. Dr. Moses Harvey, LL.D., F.R.C.S., one of the
truest friends the fishermen ever had.—W. T. G.]

Enough has been said to show the stuff these men are made of, and there
is not space here to multiply stories that point to the same traits
of character, and that show the same self-sacrificing courage. Yet
with such the history of these perilous fisheries abounds. With which
statement of fact, gentle reader, I shall say adieu, thanking God if in
any way I may still be of service to these toilers of the sea.




CHAPTER XVII

_WE APPEAL FOR CANADIAN SYMPATHY_


[Illustration: A Missionary in Winter Dress.]

In November, 1893, Dr. Bobardt and myself visited Canada, with the
hope of getting help for our work, seeing that some Canadians would
at least benefit by it. In Halifax, Montreal, Ottawa, and Toronto we
found friendly audiences. St. Paul’s Church (Episcopal), the Brunswick
Street Methodist Church, and the Garison Chapel, all of Halifax, each
paid for the support of one cot for a year, promising to endeavour to
do so annually; while a small committee was organized in each place
to keep alive an interest in the work, and to help by sending clothes
and reading to St. Johns, Newfoundland, for us to carry to Labrador.
Governor Daly, General Montgomery Moore, and Bishop Courtney, of Nova
Scotia, were good enough to assist us in Halifax; while everywhere
the members of that admirable institution, “The Brotherhood of St.
Andrew,” extended their generous friendship to us. In Montreal, Sir
Donald Smith, Governor of the Hudson Bay Company, who himself had spent
thirteen years in charge of one of the Company’s stations, presented
a steamer to the Montreal Committee, to enable the work to be more
efficiently carried out. Dr. Roddick, of Montreal, also presented the
Mission with a sailing boat for Battle Harbour, called the _Urelia
McKinnon_. His Excellency the Governor-General, Lord Aberdeen, was
good enough to preside at the meeting at Ottawa, and express his
sympathy with the work. Indeed, for real interest and sympathy in every
philanthropic work, and it is grand to know in every distinctively
missionary work also, Canada is fortunate in possessing in both Lord
and Lady Aberdeen examples of a kind alas far too rare in these
so-called Christian days. A meeting was also held in Winnipeg, whither
we went on a holiday trip, and here the Lieut.-Governor, Sir John
Schultze, presided, and, with Lady Schultze, expressed great interest
in the work. Samuel Blake, Esq., Q.C., so well known in Canada for his
broad-minded Christian sympathies, was our chairman at Toronto. Our
days at Toronto possessed for me an interest never experienced before.
We fell on a great Missionary Convention, and from Mr. Warzawiak, of
New York, Dr. MacKay, of Formosa, Dr. Gordon, of Boston, Dr. Pierson,
of Philadelphia, and many other remarkable men, we heard of such
difficulties overcome, obstacles removed, and successes attained by the
Gospel in other fields in the missionary world, that it made one desire
to be at work in China, Africa, and North America all at once.

Reaching England in March, while preparations were being made for 1894,
I was enabled to visit the North Sea fleets. The English fishermen
expressed a most lively interest in their brethren over the sea, and
the warm-hearted admiral of the Red Cross fleet sent me a large flag,
that they might be “represented in Labrador.”

Dr. Curwen having gone to China for the London Missionary Society, and
Dr. Bobardt desiring to remain at home a year, our staff, consisting
of Dr. Willway, Dr. Bennett, and the two sisters, sailed direct for
Labrador in the _Albert_, while a volunteer Christian worker, who came
and acted as chief engineer (Mr. W. B. Wakefield), and myself, left for
Montreal, fitting out and despatching the S.S. _Princess May_, as we
passed through St. Johns, Newfoundland.

The _Albert_ had a long passage out, and meeting the outside of the
floe ice, had a tough three days working her way through; now charging
into large pans, now laying against masses piled up higher than her
masts. Captain Trezise reported her as at one time in great danger of
being overwhelmed by masses falling on to her decks. She, however,
got through safely, and her magnificent sea qualities and rapid
movements were more than ever before apparent to those in charge of her.

[Illustration: Eskimo Brass Band at Moravian Mission Station of
Hopedale.]

Having landed Dr. Bennett and Sister Carwardine at Battle Hospital,
she proceeded to Indian Harbour, where the hospital was rapidly placed
in working order. Here the little wood building almost came to an
inglorious and premature end by fire the first week of its existence;
and we were indebted to the strenuous efforts of a number of fishermen
for saving it from destruction, and to Commodore Curzon-Howe, of H.M.S.
_Cleopatra_, for landing a body of blue jackets to repair the damage,
enabling the work to proceed. The _Albert_ then returned and lay in
Battle Harbour, to await the arrival of our steamer, the _Sir Donald_.
Meanwhile, we had visited many stations from Montreal along the
Labrador coast on the north side the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Everywhere
we had had plenty of work to do: seeing sick people, operating
where necessary, holding services, and distributing literature. We
_everywhere_ found people deeply grateful for our visit, and glad to
gather to hear the Gospel. Many spoke eagerly of the hopes raised that
a third hospital would be erected in the Labrador or lower province of
Quebec, to which the sick could be carried, and were anxious to forward
a petition to Ottawa to that effect. We were everywhere entreated not
to allow this to be our last visit. At La Romaine, a station of the
Hudson Bay Company, we had a severe operation on a young Montaignais
Indian hunter—otherwise doomed to die—and when we left three days
later he was lying in his tent, on a clean bed of spruce boughs, on the
high-road to recovery. At the last places we visited, we took patients
aboard for Battle Hospital—one poor lad with a horrible affection of
the hip, a girl with a useless wrist and arm, a child with hip-joint
disease, and a sick woman for operation. All of these eventually
returned home benefited or cured.

Just before reaching Battle Harbour, with all our flags flying, our
brass polished, and our spirits wild with expectancy of seeing our
colleagues again, we suddenly struck a submerged rock, and for a few
minutes lay in danger of rolling over and sinking in deep water. All
hands behaved exceedingly well. Our boats were lowered, signals put
up for two schooners which happened to be passing, to “stand by,”
while kedge anchors were run out, in the endeavour to save the ship
by warping her off the rocks. After a time, assisted by a heavy tide
and the big ground swell, she came off and swung to her anchors in
the deep water. Alas, for us, she had almost better have remained a
complete wreck, for her keel and stem were broken, her rudder twisted,
her propeller gone, her engines broken, and her side bulged in.
Fortunately, we were able to travel over land to Battle Harbour; and
Mr. Baine Grieve’s agent sent thence his bait launch and towed the
_Sir Donald_ into harbour. Here we found the _Albert_, very anxious
about our long delayed arrival, but now overjoyed to see us in any
plight. As nothing could be done to repair the steamer in Labrador,
Captain Trezise undertook the exceedingly risky attempt to tow the _Sir
Donald_ to St. Johns, and this, after many exciting incidents and many
close shaves of losing her, he successfully accomplished. There she now
lies, undergoing repairs for another year’s work.

Meanwhile, I left with the _Urelia McKinnon_ for Indian Harbour
Hospital, and thence visited the Hudson Bay station at Rigolette, and
many other places between Indian Harbour and Battle.

Dr. Bennett was anxious to leave early for England, as he was appointed
by the London Missionary Society to Tien-Tsin Missionary Hospital in
China; and so, till winter drove the Newfoundland people off the coast,
Battle Hospital came under my charge. On November 1st the sisters and
myself left for Newfoundland, Dr. Willway remaining to hold the fort
alone till we could return in 1895. His arrangements were to visit, if
possible, as far as Blanc Sablon, and then returning to his hospital to
meet our good friend Mr. Wilson, of Rigolette, at Cartwright, to travel
with him north to Hopedale and Davis Inlet, and then to await at Battle
Hospital our return.

Thus, God willing, much good will be done, many sick and suffering
ones relieved, many cheered and assisted in their struggle for
existence, and, above all, the Gospel proclaimed in many homes where,
but for the “Labrador Mission,” its sound would never reach during the
long and weary winter months.[19]

[Footnote 19: Dr. Willway left for the North on January 9th, the sea
being then firmly frozen over.]




APPENDICES


APPENDIX A

_SOME MEDICAL STATISTICS._


There were treated from the _Albert_ in 1892 nine hundred patients, of
which one-third might be called serious cases. An epidemic of influenza
visited the coast, and this led to many cases of lung affections.
Affections of the eyes were also common, while minor surgical cases
were in great abundance. Seven operations were performed under
anæsthetics.

In 1893 there were treated:—

In Labrador, the Straits of Belle Isle, and on the French shore of
Newfoundland there were treated by—

                                               In-Patients. Out-Patients.

  Dr. Bobardt at Battle Hospital                   33            647
  Dr. Curwen on the Hospital ship _Albert_          3          1,052
  Dr. Grenfell on the steam launch _Princess May_   1            794
                                                   ——          —————
             That is a total of                    37          2,493


These cases, for the council’s better information and that of the
public, I analysed as follows. [Our case books are preserved in London
for reference.]


_Medical Cases._

  Diseases of—
     Digestive system                            633
     Respiratory and circulatory system          194
     Nervous system                               60
     Excretory system                             40
     Women                                        64
  Diseases of special organs—
     Eye (including 34 cases of night blindness) 211
     Ear                                          40
     Nose and throat                              93
     Skin                                        105
  Minor cases—Headaches, colds, strains          167
  Cases of rheumatism                             64


_Surgical Cases._

  Affections of the upper limbs                  306
  Affections of the lower limbs                   94
  General surgical cases—Glands, bones, special
    agues, rickets, tumour, fistula, etc.        188
  Sundry minor cases                             210
                                                ————
                                    Total      2,493

  Operations performed under chloroform           17
  Major operations without chloroform             11
  Minor surgical operations, including teeth     269

There were in Battle Harbour Hospital the following named cots or beds:
viz., Exeter, Brighton, Redhill, Hutchinson, Macpherson; also the John
Fountain Elvin and John Charles Harris memorial cots.

In the male ward were first the “Brighton cot.” This was occupied by a
poor Newfoundland fisherman whom I brought 80 miles in the _Princess
May_. He had consumption, and died after about two months in hospital.
His body alone reached his relatives in Newfoundland.

The second bed was the “Harris Cot.” There were three patients in this
bed this season. The first was suffering with pleurisy; the second had
to have his middle finger amputated, after a deep abscess of the hand;
the third also had a severely poisoned hand.

The third, the “Redhill Cot,” was occupied by a fisherman with
paralysis of the right arm and leg, and then by a poor fellow with
consumption.

The fourth, the “Hutchinson Cot,” was occupied by, first, a man with
a severely crushed hand; then by a poor fellow from far north, sent
back by the _Albert_ (he was suffering from ulcer of the stomach); and,
thirdly, by a French Canadian who was brought in a sealing steamer from
Canadian Labrador, with a deep abscess of the back.

The fifth, the “Exeter Cot,” was occupied, first, by a fisherman with
rheumatic fever and heart disease; second, by a man with excessive deep
inflammation of the arm and forearm; third, by a man with abscess in
the palm of his hand; fourth, by a young American with an affection
resulting from consumption in the system; fifth, by a very similar case
with a Newfoundlander.

The sixth, the “Macpherson Cot,” was in the female ward. First of all
it was occupied by a young girl who had to undergo a serious operation;
then by a woman who had come fifty miles down the Straits of Belle
Isle with an internal disease; then by a poor girl brought south in the
mail steamer from the cabin of one of the small fishing vessels. She
died in hospital. The poor thing was engaged to be married this summer.
Had she been able to come earlier for proper assistance there can be
no doubt her life would have been saved. The fourth patient in this
bed was a girl of eighteen. She had been suffering with an internal
abscess for nearly three years when I saw her first in Sandwich Bay
in the _Princess May_. After the operation we sent her by the mail to
Battle Hospital. Here she remained some weeks, and on returning south
in the _Princess May_, and again visiting Sandwich Bay, I found the
girl returned, a new creature altogether. “I should like to have stayed
always,” she told me.

  W. T. G.


 _The following are a few figures from my report rendered to the St.
 Johns Auxiliary Branch of the M.D.S.F._:—

In 1894, owing to the loss of the S.S. _Sir Donald_, and the fact
of the _Princess May_ being unable to reach the coast, the work of
the mission was much curtailed. Yet out of 1,306 patients treated a
much larger proportion were serious cases, and more patients availed
themselves of the hospitals. This number will no doubt increase.

There were treated this year by—

                                   In-Patients. Out-Patients.
  Dr. Bennett at Battle Hospital        27           444
  Dr. Willway at Indian Harbour         20           580
  Dr. Grenfell on the _Sir Donald_ and
    _Urelia McKinnon_                    4           231
                                        ——         —————
                              Total     51         1,255

These were—
              _Medical Cases._

  Diseases of—
      Digestive system                  226
      Respiratory system                130
      Nervous system                     55
      Excretory system                   45
      Women                              33
  Minor cases—Colds, headaches           73

              _Surgical Cases._
  Diseases of—

  Affections of the upper limbs          73
  Affections of the lower limbs          64
  General surgical affections, including
    glands, bones, fistula, etc.        140
  Minor surgery cases                   114
  Diseases of special organs—
      Eye                                90
      Ear                                27
      Nose and throat                    48
      Skin                               74
      Affection                          64
  Operations performed under anæsthetics 25
  Minor operations, including teeth     119
  In-patients                            51
                                      —————
            Grand total               1,306


APPENDIX B

_SPIRITUAL AGENCIES IN LABRADOR_,

SINCE JULY, 1892, AT WHICH TIME WE ARRIVED ON THE COAST.


There is a Wesleyan missionary fifty miles west of Battle, at Red Bay.
To visit all round his circuit and return must involve 250 to 300
miles’ travelling. It must be remembered all this visiting is done in
a small open boat in summer, at great risk in so dangerous a place as
the Straits of Belle Isle; and in winter over the ice with a komatik
and team of dogs. The Rev. J. Sidey was there three years, and is now
replaced by Rev. J. Antle.[20]

[Footnote 20: These Wesleyan missionaries are supported by the
Methodist Church of Canada.]

At Battle Harbour, as is well known to our readers, there is a wooden
church, but it has been in charge of a young teacher and lay reader
since we have been on the coast.

At Cartwright, thirty miles up Sandwich Bay, is another wooden church
and schoolroom combined. Here also is a lay reader and schoolmaster.
This would be about 150 miles up the coast from Battle Harbour. The
sphere of work does not, I think, extend at all outside Sandwich Bay.

Fifty miles above Indian Harbour, up Hamilton Inlet, is a young
Wesleyan minister. He has a small school and chapel on the south side
of the inlet. We had the pleasure of taking him in the _Princess May_
to his new sphere of work. His name is the Rev. G. Hollett, and his
sphere of work is Hamilton Inlet, I think as far in as the North West
river, that is eighty miles further, or 130 from Indian Harbour.

From Indian Harbour to Hopedale the settlers number from 260 to 300,
and are very poor and very scattered. The distance by sea is 150 miles,
and again consists of a series of long bays and off-lying islands.
There is no missionary or schoolmaster anywhere along this part of
the coast, though once in the winter one of the Moravians travels over
the ice as far south as Cape Harrison with his komatik and dogs, often
at great peril to his life. Northward of Cape Harrison are only a few
scattered European settlers, mixed among not less than 2,000 Eskimos.
These are mostly members of the Moravian Church. The Moravian stations
are from 50 to 100 miles apart.

To meet the spiritual needs of all these people, scattered as they are,
and of the 25,000 who visit the coast in summer—some 10,000 living
on their vessels all the year—we only heard of one clergyman of the
Church of England and one Wesleyan minister, with one Roman Catholic
priest, visiting during part of the summer. This year, 1893, we did
not hear of any peripatetic Wesleyan minister, and the only clergyman
was rather in pursuit of health; but we met in the Straits of Belle
Isle Bishop MacDonnel and the Rev. Father Lynch, of the Roman Catholic
Church. I must mention also that the Bible Society send a colporteur
every year to sell Bibles and testaments on the coast, though we did
not fall in with him this year, nor do I know how much of the coast he
travels over. Last year a tiny schooner, manned by three Salvation Army
captains, also visited the coast, partly fishing and partly preaching
the gospel. Among the fishermen themselves we met many earnest and
pious Christians, and as on the North Sea, so on this bleak coast we
have felt God’s presence quite as real and as near in the meetings on
board or in the huts as we have in great buildings and comfortable pews
in the old country.

Among past workers in Labrador I hear of the Rev. J. G. Curling, Rev.
Mr. Hutchinson, and Rev. Mr. Quintain. The last two spent many years in
Labrador, while the Rev. J. Bull spent three years at Battle Harbour.
The Right Rev. Llewellyn Jones, Bishop of Newfoundland and Bermuda,
has also visited the coast, as did Bishop Field, his predecessor. The
Rev. Father Lemoine, labouring among the Montaignais Indians of the
interior, also sometimes comes out on the coast during the summer.[21]

[Footnote 21: Bishop Jones sent three visiting clergymen to Labrador
this summer 1894.]


APPENDIX C

_A FEW TESTIMONIES TO THE WORK FROM THOSE WHO KNOW LABRADOR_


  _From the_ REV. F. S. HOLLETT, _Missionary of the
  Canadian Methodist Church at Rigolette_:—

  HAMILTON INLET,
  LABRADOR.

  DEAR DR. GRENFELL,—

... Any way that we can help you, we will be glad to do it. As you know
I can sympathise with you in the difficulties you meet with. D.V., we
hope to have a visit from you next year. May God bless you in your
noble work, and you will always remember,

  I am
  Your sincere brother in Christ,
  FRANK S. HOLLETT.

       *       *       *       *       *

_From_ DR. ROBERT MURRAY, _Editor of the “Presbyterian Witness”_:—

  HALIFAX,
  _December, 1894_.

  DEAR DR. GRENFELL,—

 ... From our Presbyterian teacher from Canadian Labrador we had most
 favourable reports of your work. I examined him personally on his
 return, as to what he had seen and heard.

 While he had not seen the hospitals and the doctors, he had heard most
 appreciative reports from fishermen ...

  Yours very truly,
  ROBERT MURRAY.

       *       *       *       *       *

_October 27, 1892._ A representative meeting of the colony of
Newfoundland was held at Government House, St. Johns. There were
present, amongst others, His Excellency the Governor, Sir Frederick
Carter (Judge of Supreme Court), Sir William Whiteway (Premier),
Major-General Dowell, R.A., Sir Robert Thorburn (late Premier), Hon. E.
D. Shea, Hon. Robert Bond (Colonial Secretary), Hon. A. Goodridge (late
Premier), Hon. A. W. Harvey, Hon. M. Munroe, and Messrs. W. Grieve, P.
Tessier, E. Duder, W. Job, E. Outerbridge, representing the merchant
firms, Captains the Hon. S. Blandford, W. Bartlett, N. Fitzgerald, J.
Watson, representing the Labrador planters, and Messrs. Ch. Emerson,
J. Withers,—Cohen, etc. After a discussion, in which several present
took part, it was proposed by Hon. W. A. Harvey, seconded by Sir Wm.
Whiteway, and when put by His Excellency the Governor unanimously
resolved:—

_Resolved._—“That this meeting, representing the principal merchants
and traders carrying on the fisheries, especially on the coast of
Labrador, and others interested in the welfare of this colony, desires
to tender its warmest thanks to the directors of the Deep Sea Mission
for their philanthropic generosity in sending their hospital ship
_Albert_ to visit the fishing settlements on the Labrador coast.

“Much of our fishing industry is carried on in regions beyond the
ordinary reach of medical aid or of charity, and it is with the
deepest sense of gratitude that this meeting learns of the amount of
medical and surgical work done, besides all the other relief and help
so liberally distributed. This meeting also desires to express the
hope that the directors of the Mission may see their way to continue
the work thus begun, and should they do so they may be assured of the
earnest support and co-operation of all classes of this community.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Subsequent to this great meeting the following resolution was passed
and forwarded to the Mission:—

 “That this representative committee will undertake to provide two
 suitable buildings, which may be used as hospitals by the Mission to
 Deep Sea Fishermen, should the Council of the Mission signify their
 intention to continue their operations on the coast of Labrador, and
 the Committee will heartily co-operate in any other way that the
 Council of the Society may suggest.

 “That a copy of the foregoing resolution be forwarded for the
 information of the society.

  (Signed) {T. O’BRIEN, Governor, _Chairman_.
           {M. MUNROE, _Secretary_.”

  MONTREAL, _December, 1893_.

A. BOBARDT, Esq., M.B., R.N., writing, says:—

       *       *       *       *       *

Often in Labrador have I been urged on to further work by noting how
much a Mission visit is appreciated, and how the people do enjoy a
meeting; and it seems a thousand pities that they cannot be brought
under regular spiritual influences.

       *       *       *       *       *

The small portable organ I had was most useful, and wherever I went it
was my _Fidus Achates_, tending to infuse more life into my meetings.
I found the people joined heartily in the hymns. Most of this visiting
was done by boat, and it was in this work that one recognised fully the
benefits of being able to handle an oar, and pull oneself wherever one
wished to go.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the hospital I had thirty-three in-patients, and in the nursing of
these I must pay tribute to Nurse Carwardine, who, by her unremitting
zeal and attention, made many of these poor fishermen know for the
first time what it was to be in a comfortable warm bed, and be
skilfully attended to.

       *       *       *       *       *

The comparison between them in hospital and in their own homes or
smacks is too extreme to be drawn, and they were very grateful for what
had been done for them.

One case for example:—A gunshot wound of the hand came to hospital,
and, though his hand was severely lacerated, he was able to return to
his home with a useful limb, after being five weeks in. If this case
had been left to itself, the young man must have either lost his arm,
or had a stiff and useless hand; and the latter is in the way of a
fisherman, who necessarily uses his hands so much in handling nets,
lines, ropes, oars, etc.

       *       *       *       *       *

Many at Battle and the surrounding coves are now thanking God for
His goodness in inspiring friends in England and elsewhere to send
clothing for them this fall; the look of delight when they received
their bundles was a treat to witness. On Tuesday, October 31st, we left
Battle Harbour, amidst the salutes from many “Brown Sallys” (guns).
We carried with us the pleasantest recollections, and the hope that
the work would grow and increase, bringing health, happiness, and much
comfort to these Labradorites.

  Sincerely yours,
  ALBERT BOBARDT.

       *       *       *       *       *

_From_ Rev. JNO. SIDEY, _now three years Wesleyan Missionary at Red
Bay_.

  _November, 1892._

 At the present time I believe there are but two ministers of the
 Gospel between Hopedale, the Moravian settlement, and Blanc Sablon,
 in the Straits of Belle Isle, a distance of over four hundred miles.
 Around the coast line numerous settlements are scattered along the
 route, and here in the best harbours are congregated during the
 summer season thousands of fishermen from Newfoundland, Canada, and
 the United States. They may, perhaps, the greater part of them, be
 attendants at the various churches when at home; but out here, removed
 from all religious influences, what wonder that they become dissipated
 and lost in the spiritual darkness that abounds on the coast. The
 Mission ship has visited these harbours, held services, and, if one
 may take as a criterion the work done here, and the interest aroused,
 a very favourable aspect is presented as to the spiritual portion of
 the work.

 But another and equally important phase of the work of the Mission
 on these shores calls for the earnest sympathy and encouragement of
 all who have interest in this noble enterprise—THE MEDICAL WORK. A
 doctor is provided by the Government for this shore, during the summer
 months, but as he is stationed on board the mail-boat, which only
 calls just to land the mails and freight at comparatively a few of
 the above-mentioned ports, his services are practically _nil_ to the
 greater portion of the community. Yet the record of sick and disabled
 fishermen is very large. Many have, year by year, to be sent home
 in the mail-boats at the expense of the Government, losing also a
 summer’s fishery, which in many cases might be avoided by a few days’
 careful attention on board such a ship as the _Albert_. In such cases
 it is not only the men themselves that suffer, but their families are
 often starving throughout the long cold winters that follow. It may
 be a bold suggestion, but perhaps worthy of a little consideration
 (in view of the many harbours and extent of the coast), that were the
 Society to substitute a small steam vessel for the _Albert_, much
 more effective work could be accomplished, as then during the course
 of the summer, at least, three trips instead of one might be made
 along the whole shore; disabled fishermen could be accommodated on
 board for a trip and carried back again without impeding the work of
 the Mission; a representation might also be made to the Newfoundland
 Government—who, according to repute, are at great expense to keep up
 the useless custom of sending a doctor in the mail-boat, and carrying
 home sick men—to do away with their arrangement, and grant a subsidy
 towards the maintenance of a steam vessel, which could do the same
 work far more effectually and, I doubt not, at less expense to them.

 One word more in favour of the support of the Mission on this coast.
 The system of trade, which is largely a credit and barter system,
 deprives the men of the use of cash, even what they have really
 earned; and until settling-up day in the fall, few feel themselves at
 liberty to draw upon their little portion for the necessary comforts
 of their toil; hence the distribution of the woollens, cuffs, etc.,
 comes as a great boon to many a poor fisherman whose hands are cut
 by the lines, or whose clothing, scant at all times, has become
 deplorable by the wear and tear of a seafaring life. The writer has
 seen much of this, and well knows how such gifts would be valued.

 I trust that, as one who has lived and worked upon the coast, and
 who knows by actual experience something of the need of the Labrador
 shore, that I have said enough to evoke the sympathy of all who are
 willing to give one thought to the toilers of the deep, to bestow
 upon your noble Society the means for extending their work in this
 direction. We are far away, but it should be remembered that a large
 quantity of fish is exported to England from Newfoundland; besides, we
 claim kindred, we are, for the most part, of the old British stock,
 and, above all, we are children of the same Heavenly Father who cares
 for all alike.

 May the Almighty bless the work already done, and touch the hearts of
 His children, so that the means may not be wanting when men are ready
 to sacrifice their all to undertake this noble task.

  Yours faithfully,
  JNO. C. SIDEY.

       *       *       *       *       *

Far away in that ice-bound, snow-clad country, there are men and women
struggling with poverty, hunger, and disease. Could our kind friends
at home, while sitting around their warm firesides with their dear
children, supplied with every want and comfort, take a peep into the
many miserable hovels, where men, women, and children are ill-fed,
poorly-clad (in some cases nearly naked), suffering from sickness; and
with no prospect of roughing the winter out, as all traders are gone,
their only resource is to apply to the nearest fishing station, perhaps
many miles away, for charity, which, I am thankful to say, is very
rarely refused to them—could our kind friends but get a peep at them,
I feel sure that they would be only too glad to do a little to relieve
their wants. There are many residents scattered far and wide, some in
fairly good circumstances, and there is, without doubt, an immense
field of labour, both spiritually and medically, and I trust that many
friends may be found to assist in this branch....

Hoping that I have been successful in showing you that there is,
indeed, a cry from Labrador: “Come over and help us.”

  JOSEPH F. TREZISE (late Master of _Albert_).

_December 8, 1892._

       *       *       *       *       *

  DEAR DR. GRENFELL,—

 The laudable work in which you are engaged has my warmest sympathy,
 and I trust that your endeavour in so good a cause will meet with the
 success it deserves.

 I visited the Labrador coast many years ago, as far north as Cape
 Harrison, and I then saw the many hardships endured by the hardy
 fishermen and their families. Yours is a most deserving charity.

 Trusting that you will have a large audience when you lecture in the
 city,

  Believe me,
  Yours very truly,
  ROBERT PATON MCLEA,
  Montreal, Canada.

       *       *       *       *       *

 MORAVIAN MISSIONS, SECRETARY’S OFFICE, 7, FURNIVAL’S INN, LONDON, E.C.

  _Nov. 3rd._

  _To_ F. H. WOOD, Esq., _Secretary Deep Sea Mission_.

  DEAR SIR,—

 I am commissioned by the Committee of our Society for the Furtherance
 of the Gospel to convey to your Mission our thanks, and those of our
 missionaries at Hopedale, for the visit of the _Albert_. They write
 very gratefully of the medical aid, and especially of the spiritual
 fellowship and impulse afforded them, and they expressed the hope that
 the visit may be repeated. They say there is no lack of work, and the
 Divine blessing will crown such faithful endeavours to minister to
 the scattered schoonermen and others along the coast.... We beg our
 Society for the Furtherance of the Gospel to express hearty thanks in
 our name, and that of the Eskimos....

  Yours faithfully,
  B. LA TROBE,
  _Secretary_.

       *       *       *       *       *

_From_ Rev. MOSES HARVEY, LL.D., F.R.S., _St. Johns_,

  _July, 1893._

 The great need of hospital work on Labrador is seen when it is
 considered how many cases occur of blindness, deformities, or loss
 of certain faculties, affecting the bread-winners of families, most
 of which might have been prevented if treated in time, and thus much
 personal suffering spared, and also a great loss to the community.
 During the season the medical men were able to render such aid that
 several who had been compelled to give up work found themselves
 capable of resuming their duties. When sick persons are thus saved
 from losing their season’s work, or saved the time and expense
 involved in returning to Newfoundland for advice, in cases of minor
 importance; or when, as happened in several instances during the
 season, the lives or limbs were saved, or, in some hopeless cases,
 life was prolonged so as to allow them to reach home and end their
 days in the bosom of their families, the value of this hospital work
 becomes more apparent.

 To the sick of Labrador these hospitals will be an inestimable boon.
 Only those who have known what it is to toss on a bed of pain, perhaps
 unable even at night to find rest, their tongue parched with thirst,
 and fever raging in their system, can properly appreciate the meaning
 of the skilful help of the physician, the delicate attention of the
 trained nurse, the hushed house, the subdued voices and the gentle
 light of the half-darkened room. When this is contrasted with the sad
 sight so often witnessed on Labrador, of delicate women, and even
 children, undergoing sufferings, which are hard to bear even amid
 the comforts and gentle attentions of home, on the dreary coast of
 Labrador, far from every helping hand, or in the dark hold of some
 small fishing vessel, where the atmosphere is poisonous, and the
 noises to the sick distressing and almost maddening, it is then we
 realize the value of the noble humane work in the hospitals erected on
 storm-beaten Labrador for the relief of suffering humanity. Who would
 not aid in such a good work!


DISTRIBUTION OF CLOTHING.

The _Albert_ brought from England a very large stock of clothing,
both new and cast-off, the gift of kind charitable friends. This was
distributed with the greatest care and discrimination, every precaution
being used to guard against imposition. The cases of utter or partial
destitution of clothing among families who reside permanently on
the Labrador coast, were numerous, and much timely aid was given,
especially to women and children. Food was also given in cases of
extreme destitution. Many families were thus helped to provide for the
long, cold winter of this region. There is no doubt that every spring
some families are driven to subsist on mussels and seaweed they can
gather along the land-wash. With ice on the coast no help can reach
them.


DISTRIBUTION OF BOOKS, PERIODICALS, AND TRACTS.

A very large supply of wholesome literature was carried on board the
Mission ship, and, wherever she went, was freely distributed among the
fishermen. Wherever it was found in any family that any one could read,
a gift was made either of illustrated or plain literature, or both.


RELIGIOUS SERVICES.

Wherever the _Albert_ or _Princess May_ called, when opportunity
offered, especially on Sundays, religious services were held, which
all were invited to attend. Hymns were sung, prayers offered, and
simple addresses given on Scriptural subjects. These services were much
appreciated among these lonely sea-toilers; and thus something was done
to make known that Gospel which has brought such blessings to mankind,
but without any reference to creed or sect being made.

The steam launch, _Princess May_, proved to be of great service in
the Mission work. Dr. Grenfell was enabled to go up uncharted bays
in her, so as to visit a large number of the small settlements which
would otherwise not have been within reach. He was thus able to make
a thorough examination into the condition of the residents, and to
collect accurate statistical information regarding them to an extent
never before attempted. In all, he visited eighty-seven different
settlements on the Labrador coast, as far north as Okkak. Dr. Curwen,
in the _Albert_, visited thirty-five more settlements; and Dr. Bobardt
visited all the places in the vicinity of Battle Harbour.


APPENDIX D

_POVERTY OF THE PEOPLE_


To gauge as accurately as possible the condition of the people, we
prepared as full a census of them—of their belongings, their families,
and their accomplishments—as we could. In this, during three years,
I have had the assistance of four medical men besides myself, of the
resident missionaries on the coast, and of the Moravian brethren
further north.

We find the people, as a rule, very poor, often reduced to the verge
of starvation. The causes we believe to be (1) depletion of fisheries
and fur-bearing animals, and bad seasons. (2) Inability to replenish
traps, guns, nets, boats, etc., when worn out. (3) Inability to secure
proper clothing and supplies of food when once they become overwhelmed
in debt. These causes have led to (4) loss of energy, apathy, and even
despair.

There are some families still comfortably off, but these are
impoverished by their own generosity, which impels them continually
to assist their poorer brethren. Where they are still well off, it is
generally because they have a number of grown-up unmarried sons, or
are in some harbour well separated from other settlers. This last
fact is more patent as one travels north. The census papers are in my
possession now. I will quote here some bad cases.

 Two families here quite destitute. R—— R—— and L—— R——. There
 was neither tea, molasses, nor flour in either house, and their
 clothing was literally dropping to pieces, while one boy was barefoot
 and the others had boots tied on to their feet by string to keep the
 pieces together. If ever hunger wrote its name clearly on people’s
 faces it was written on these people’s, the children being pale and
 bloodless, the woman haggard and careworn. The mother told me, in most
 pathetic way, “Even the berries will be covered deep in snow soon,
 and then we have only starvation to look to.” They had _no flour to
 face the winter_, and apparently no means of obtaining any. Neither
 family had seal nets, salmon nets, or cod nets, or could pay for twine
 to braid any, and both men showed me their powder-horns and shot-bags
 empty, or nearly so. I found on returning to the launch, the captain
 had given his bag of biscuits away to these people.

  W. T. G.

       *       *       *       *       *

 A—— P——. Seven children, very poor and ill-clad; very poor supply
 of food, miserable hut, no nets. The lay reader[22] found three inches
 of snow blow in and remain on the floor of the only room one night
 in winter he slept here. He found one counterpane and a pair of man’s
 trousers almost all the clothing the children had, including the
 eldest, a girl of fourteen. These had to stay indoors, of course, all
 winter.

 [Footnote 22: Mr. Dicks, of Cartwright.]

  W. T. G.

       *       *       *       *       *

 S—— B——. Seven children. Very poor, very naked, short of food, no
 apparatus to kill fish except a few hooks. Miserable one-roomed hut.

  W. T. G.

       *       *       *       *       *

 E—— O——. Wife and two undergrown boys; father has consumption.
 All very badly clothed; not a single flannel garment among them. No
 blankets; bedclothes in rags. One trout net; caught only enough fish
 for their consumption. Nine quintals last year, with which cleared
 part of his debt, and got one barrel of flour and two pounds of tea
 for his “winter diet.” Shot some birds and one seal. Now there is
 nothing but three pounds of broken biscuits in the house.

  ELIOT CURWEN.


APPENDIX E

_THE FISHING SCHOONERS_


I have spoken of these in a general way. Here are a few specimens of
notes from our diaries as to numbers of crews and “freighters” carried.

  B——. 34 tons. Crew, 7 men and 2 women.
            Passengers, 19 men and 16 women.

 A total of 44 souls. All passengers in one hold—no partitions. 23
 days out from home.

  F——. 19 tons. Crew, 6 men and 1 woman.
            Passengers, 28 men and 15 women.

 A total of 50 souls. No name or register on her.

  I——. 50 tons. Crew, 8 men and 2 women.
            Passengers, 75 men and 15 women.

 A total of 100 souls. Measured cubic space of one man, his wife, boy,
 girl, and two men, 8 ft. by 6 ft. by 3 ft.

  X——. _Brigantine_, 116 tons. 66 men, 24 women.

  Y——. Small schooner-rigged vessel, 5 tons.
  4 men, 1 woman, etc.

The larger merchants all send their crews down in steamers. This has
the double advantage of securing better accommodation, and immensely
shortening the passage. We are all strongly of the opinion that nothing
can be said in defence of allowing girls to form part of the regular
crews of the green-fish catchers, or of any fishing vessel. It appears
to be necessary that women should go down as passengers; and with
proper provisions there is no reason why they should not do so.

Here is the result of an accident to such a vessel this year.
Unfortunately I did not ascertain her tonnage.

On Thursday, the 14th inst., we left Spaniard’s Bay, bound to Horse
Harbour, Labrador, on a fishing voyage, having on board a number of
sixty-two souls, comprising men, women, and children. All went well,
until about eight miles north-east of Partridge Point (White Bay). On
the 17th inst., at 4 p.m., Sunday, while in a dense fog, the vessel
struck a large pan of ice, which crushed her bows in, causing her to
fill and sink in about eight or ten minutes. Five or six men succeeded
in getting on the pan of ice with a line, and secured it as best they
could to the pan. Unfortunately it could not be secured on board,
owing to the dreadful panic which was taking place; so she fell off a
considerable distance from the pan, preventing any one from getting on
the ice. A few boats were then thrown over, but before any one could
be taken on board the boats, the vessel sank, leaving men, women and
children floating among the wreckage in the water. Some of the few
boats filled, and were upset, leaving only two to pick up the men,
women and children, who were then struggling for their lives in the
water. After a very hard fight we managed to save fifty (including who
were in the boats), leaving twelve poor souls to meet a watery grave,
namely, eight men, two boys, and two young women. Some of the women
and children were almost totally naked, having jumped out of bed, and
had not time to even catch their clothes. These would have undoubtedly
died before many hours were over, as they were both wet and naked, had
not the schooner _Irene_, Captain Bursey, of Catalina, arrived at this
opportune moment, and quickly got us on board, and brought us into
Coachman’s Cove.

  I am, respectfully yours,
  HENRY GOSSE,
  Late Master of Schooner _Rose_.

SPANIARD’S BAY, _June 28th, 1894_.


Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75927 ***