“Yonder beneath the North Star lies our destination, Lad.”
Commander MacMillan, Dr. Grosvenor and Dr. Grenfell.
Battle Harbor.
After sailing for several days through the placid waters of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, we found ourselves at the entrance of the Straits of Belle Isle. Here we realized for the first time that we were really getting north, when the word was passed around to look out for bergs. I had heard much of the danger of icebergs, and an apprehensive shudder spread over my frame as I imagined what would happen if we should run on one unawares, for we were shrouded in one of the usual Straits fogs. In a short while our straining eyes discerned a dark object loom out of the fog on the starboard bow. At the time, I was at the wheel, and Dick Salmon was on the lookout. I gripped the spokes at the thought of how close this chill apparition was, but we were well to port, and in a few moments it melted into the mist.
A short time later after the excitement fomented by the berg had subsided, we began to notice signs of the proximity of land. Robbie clambered aloft into the crow’s nest to watch for shoal water, and the rest of us clustered into the bow for the same purpose. Suddenly out of the fog appeared a white line. It was breakers rolling across a long point. A hasty chorus of shouts to the helmsman resulted in an immediate altering of the course to parallel the land, instead of heading straight at it as we were when we first sighted it. It was in this dramatic manner that we made our acquaintance with The Labrador, and it was in a setting typical of this rugged country. One usually becomes acquainted with The Labrador by nearly running on it every time one approaches it during the early summer months, for at that time the land is almost perpetually shrouded in fog. Not long afterwards another line of breakers indicated the presence of a new exponent of terra firma. This disturber of the mariners’ peace was named Blanc Sablon, a reminder of the old days of the French domination. This entire south coast is sprinkled with French names and with French speaking people.
As the fog was still too thick for safe navigating along this treacherous coast, we put into the little settlement of Forteau. This is one of Doctor Grenfell’s stations, and he made us very welcome there. He also recommended the splendid trout fishing and issued us honorary fishing licenses for the neighboring creeks, since he was an honorary magistrate. Armed with this legal protection and also with rods and gear, we sallied forth to a likely looking brook to try conclusions with the wily denizens of the stream. It certainly seemed good to get our sea legs straightened out as we strolled up and down whipping the stream. After a few casts I felt a sudden tightening on my line, and the reel began to sing. For a minute I let it run; then I checked it abruptly in order to drive the hook well home. Then the fight was on. The fish threshed wildly in a vain endeavor to free himself, but I had him fast. There was about five minutes of play, and then I reeled him in. He was a fine specimen, weighing very nearly two pounds, and my hopes were high that we might obtain enough for all hands. In a moment I heard a yell from Mart, and looking in his direction I saw that he was holding aloft a trout fully as large as my own. Then we went at it with all our might, but the God of Fortune smiled no further, and at last tired and discomfited, we returned to the ship.
Early the next morning we were under weigh again for Battle Harbor. On our way out as we rounded Cape Point Amour we sighted what seemed to be a great cruiser sailing close to the Cape. As we drew nearer we saw that she was too far in for a large ship, and still closer inspection showed that she was hard and fast on the rocks. We then learned from the Commander that this was the British cruiser Raleigh which had run aground in a fog some years previous while endeavoring to make Forteau. We felt a twinge of pity that such a fine ship should rust out her heart on the bleak rocks of Labrador.
Continuing on up the coast, sometimes in fog and sometimes in beautiful clear weather, we were encompassed by a magnificent vista. On one hand the bleak and rugged hills of the shore-line, and on the seaward side a matchless panorama of schooners, dancing waves and icebergs. The schooners tacking in and out under full sail among the glistening bergs; the tall, majestic spires and turrets of the larger bergs dwarfing the tallest mast into insignificance; the dancing wavelets curtsying to the graceful schooners whose black hulls contrasted sharply against the whiteness and marvellous shades of ultramarine blue of the glacial ice, all combined to make an unforgettable picture.
Just as the shadows of evening had begun to creep up from the west and merge the glories of a perfect day into a matchless sunset, the rugged outline of Battle Island appeared bathed in a purple glow that made the hard unyielding rock look like rich dyed velvet. It was not long before we dropped anchor between the sheer rock walls of Battle Harbor.