“There’s hundreds of these craft on this coast,” remarked Captain Nickerson, “and they’re all fine-lined, able vessels. They’re built to sail fast and they’re rigged an’ sparred to stand the drag. They draw a lot of water aft and they carry a pile of iron and stone ballast. That’s why they can sail an’ make a passage while we’re lying-to. Even in this able packet, we wouldn’t dare to try to sail by the wind like those jokers in that snifter.”
Donald was profoundly impressed and he began to regard casting his lot with the North American Bank fishermen as something to be desired—a phase of seafaring with remunerative and romantic attractions, and when he saw more of them, crossing the southern edge of Western Bank, the spell of this adventurous, daring, sailorly life began to get a hold on his imagination, and he made up his mind to give it a trial. Incidents, related by Nickerson, of the camaraderie among the crews, their superb seamanship, and the good living aboard their vessels also influenced his decision to experience these things himself.
On a bright winter’s morning when the sea, ruffled by a moderate westerly breeze, rolled blue under a clear, cloudless sky, to the horizon, the skipper pointed over the port bow. “Old Nova Scotia’s showin’ up naow!” he said with a grin. “Ye’ll see the rocks and spruce in a while, and if it holds like this, we’ll drop the killick in Halifax to-day. We’re running in to the shores of God’s Country—Nova Scotia!” He uttered the last sentence with unusual feeling in his voice.... Judson Nickerson—hard-case blue-waterman, world ranger, and a perfect seaman—was glad to be nearing home after many years.
The faint haze on the horizon ahead defined itself, as they drew near, into wooded hills—green with spruce and coniferous trees—and patched, here and there with snow which gleamed dazzling white in the sunshine. A depression in the land, over which smoke could be discerned, marked the City of Halifax, and, ahead of them an Atlantic liner was standing in for the port.
Captain Nickerson was pacing up and down the quarter, smoking and talking to the runaway apprentices, and Thompson lounging aft. “You two chaps”—meaning Thompson and Jenkins—“will have no trouble in getting a ship for England here. You can either go as a passenger or ship as quarter-master or ’fore-the-mast. It’s only a ten-day jump across the pond and a mere hoot-in-hell to the fifteen thousand mile we’ve traversed in this hooker. There’s Chebucto Head to port an’ Devil’s Island to starb’d ... we’re gettin’ inside the harbor naow ... due north by compass takes her right up.” And he chatted and joked with the boys in buoyant spirits at getting home—a vastly different Nickerson from the bawling, truculent wind-jammer officer of other days.
Slipping along in smooth water, they found themselves once more encompassed by green earth and human habitation, and it was good to look upon by eyes wearied by countless leagues of restless sea. Herring Cove, with its fishermen’s cottages nestling among the winter greenery, slipped past to port, and the village looked snug and homey and “landish” to these world sailors. Thrumcap, Maugher’s Beach, and McNab Island glided by, and they lowered the stays’l for the last time as they ran through the passage of George Island at the neck of the harbor. The fair city of Halifax burst upon their vision then—row upon row of houses rising from the wharves and warehouses of Water Street to the Citadel Hill, which overlooked the eastern outpost to the Dominion which the Helen Starbuck had run the length of two oceans to span from west to east. Victoria to Halifax! A long traverse truly for a small schooner around the Horn, and when they let the headsails run and dropped the anchor behind George Island, Captain Nickerson smacked his fist on the wheel-box and laughed. “Victoria to Halifax raound Cape Stiff in a hundred an’ twenty days! Not too bad for a little hooker—not too bad! With a little more ballast and a couple more hands to fist sail in a breeze, we’d ha’ done it in a hundred! But, it was a fair sail ... a fair sail!”
Donald and Thompson pulled the skipper ashore, and loafed for an hour on Water Street. The paving stones felt hard to their feet after months of a vessel’s decks, and they kept their body muscles instinctively keyed up to meet the lurch and sway which did not come. “Looks something like an Old Country town,” said Thompson, after they had strolled around a bit. “Let’s get a newspaper an’ see what’s happened since we left. Chubby will want to know if there’s been anything doing in soccer.”
Captain Nickerson joined them after a while. “We’re to leave the schooner where she is,” he said. “The new owners will tow her in to their own wharf to-morrow. We’ll strike our flag and pay off in the morning.”
By the next day afternoon, they had their dunnage out of the Helen Starbuck and Donald cast a regretful glance at the wonderful little vessel in which they worked such a long, watery traverse. As he gazed at her lying quiet and still behind the Island, he thought of those wild and windy days “running the easting”; of Cape Horn and the Le-Maire Straits, the wild seas and the scorching calms “down to the south’ard!” Aye! these were romantic days—days he would never forget, and as he clambered up on the wharf, he waved an adieu to the anchored schooner. “Good-bye and good luck!” he murmured. “You’re a brave and gallant little ship—Helen Starbuck!”
The little band of adventurers parted company shortly afterwards—Olsen and Hansen to a boarding house where they would meet others of their kind, and Chubby and Thompson to try their luck at getting over to Liverpool by working their way, or as steerage passengers.