“Fine sunset, sir. Fine sunset,” remarked Captain Bluntt, as he passed them on his way to the chart house.
“It promises a good day tomorrow, doesn’t it?” asked Remington
“Not so sure of that, sir. Not so sure of that.”
Captain Bluntt’s pessimistic prophecy of the morrow’s weather was well founded. When day broke the sea was enveloped in a blanket of fog—thick, stifling, impenetrable. The rigging dripped moisture, the decks were wet and slippery, the atmosphere was heavy, clammy, difficult to breathe.
For two days the fog lay over the sea like a pall. The North Star, her engines working at slow speed, felt her way cautiously, for she was in uncharted waters. The tremendous tides of Ungava Bay render navigation here dangerous, even under the most favorable conditions, and Captain Bluntt was not the man to take undue risks, though he was a fearless seaman, and in his time had done many dashing and daring deeds, when circumstances had demanded.
Following the fog came several hours of cold dismal rain, accompanied by sleet. Then the clouds broke, and as though some fairy hand had brushed them away, the sky cleared and the sun shone warm and beautiful to cheer the depressed world.
“And there lies Cape Wolstenholm, sir,” said Captain Bluntt, pointing toward a low-lying coast off their port bow. “We’ll soon be in Hudson Bay now, sir, and what’s your pleasure?”
“While the fine weather holds I think we’d better do some fishing,” answered Remington. “Besides, I think we all want to get ashore to stretch our legs.”
“As you say—as you say, sir! But we’ll have to locate some huskies, sir, and get a native pilot.”
Upon rounding Cape Wolstenholm, which occupies the northwestern extremity of the Labrador peninsula, the ship swung in close to the coast, and, proceeding with great care, the leadsman calling his fathoms, felt its way between several small islands, until, the following morning, a safe anchorage was found outside a large island near the head of Mosquito Bay.