This most predaceous race of sharks, although they never grow to a size dangerous to man, are nevertheless most bloodthirsty and implacable enemies to all the finny tribes inhabiting the waters of the North-west. They appear to live everywhere, in every harbour, up the long inland canals, in the lagoons, and nearly as far as the tide flows; the dogfish is ever to be found up the tidal rivers. Hunting in packs like wolves, they often chase a shoal of fish upon the shingle, then bite and maim six times as many as they can possibly eat. I have often seen them seize dead and even wounded birds, drag them below the surface, and tear them into shreds.
Angling where there are dogfish, and it is hard to discover a spot where they are not plentiful, is simply to waste time, and lose one’s temper; your bait hardly touches the water ere it is gorged, and an ugly dogfish dangles at the end of the line. To unhook the thief is a service of danger, unless knocked senseless, and his fearfully-armed jaws are propped open with a piece of stick. But, with all his faults, the dogfish is most useful and valuable to the Indians, who spear incredible numbers, split them, and take out their livers. From these fatty livers a quantity of clear oil is extracted, by heat and pressure, applied in such a clumsy manner, that at least one-third is wasted. I was credibly informed that one small tribe of Indians, living on the west coast of Vancouver Island, by their bungling process of oil-making, managed to obtain seven cwt. of oil in one season: surely oil making alone would pay a company a handsome return for a judicious outlay of skill and capital. Several naval surgeons have assured me they had fairly tested its curative powers—in diseases where oil is said to be efficacious—and found it in every respect quite equal to the finest cod-liver oil.
Whilst occupied in collecting the fishes previously described, the Honourable Hudson’s Bay Company’s steamer ‘Otter’ was about to make her usual trip to Fort Rupert, in order to carry up the necessary supplies to the chief trader in charge of the fort, and bring back to Victoria the furs traded during the year. Being a good opportunity to visit so remote a part of Vancouver Island (not accessible, at that time, in any other way), leave was obtained from His Excellency the Governor, and a passage provided for me.
On a bright but cold morning in October the ‘Otter’ twisted, puffed, and worked her way through the somewhat intricate passage leading out of Victoria Harbour. Leaving the harbour, the scenery opens out like a magnificent panorama, indescribably wild and beautiful. In front, the sharp jagged mountains of the coast range, wooded to the sea-line, tower in the far distance to the regions of eternal snow; to the left, the rounder hills of the island slope easily to the water’s edge, in grassy glades and lawnlike openings, belted with scrub-oaks; higher up, the hillsides are overshadowed by the Douglas pines and cedars; whilst just visible in our course, like a green speck, is the famed island of St. Juan; and bending away to the right, as far as eye could reach, dense forests look like one vast unbroken sea of green.
We had a delightful run along the coast and amidst islands, and anchored in the evening near the narrows. These same narrows are only used by the initiated as a short cut, being too risky for large vessels navigated by unskilled hands. There is a channel, a quarter of a mile long and seventy yards wide, between a small island and the Island of Vancouver. Through this rocky canal the tide rushes with fearful velocity. We ran it safely in the morning, although it struck me as being the most ticklish bit of navigation I ever experienced. Through these narrows, we were soon in Nanaimo, where we called for a supply of coals; the town, at this early stage of its history, consisting of about a dozen log-shanties, inhabited by the coal-miners and employés of the fur-trading establishment.
Whilst ‘coaling,’ a deputation of Indian braves, headed by a young chief, waited on the captain of the steamer. Squatted in a circle on the deck, and the all-essential pipe smoked, the object of their visit was disclosed. The Fort Rupert Indians, residing at the Indian village and trading-post we were en route to visit, had very recently made a raid on the Nanaimo savages. In the foray, the old chief had been killed, several braves seriously injured, and, what was worse than all, the favourite wife of the deceased dignitary had been seized, and carried off a slave. The young chief, it seems, had loved the wife of his predecessor, and was willing to pay any ransom for his lost darling. After a long ‘wa-wa’ (talk), the captain consented to effect a purchase, if possible, and bring back, on our return, the lost one to the arms of her sable lover.
We had a pleasant run across the Gulf of Georgia, and anchored at 10 p.m. in Billings’ Harbour (much like a small duck-pond), in Faveda Island. The next morning, again under weigh at 6 a.m., raining, as the captain said, ‘marlinespikes,’ we steamed past a group of islands, behind which is Malospina Strait. From this strait, Jarvis’s Inlet runs like an immense canal for a distance (I believe) of fifty miles inland.
Here the gulf widens out like the open sea, and little can be seen of the land until the extreme south-east point of Valdes Island is reached, known as Point Mudge, betwixt which and Vancouver Island is a narrow channel, not more than a mile in width, called Discovery Passage.
About a mile from its entrance, we passed a large Indian village, the home of the Tah-cul-tas, a powerful band, of most predatory habits, and generally at war with the different tribes north and south of them; they own a large fleet of canoes, a great many slaves, and scalp and plunder all they can lay hands on.