A boy's-eye view of the Arctic

by Kennett Longley Rawson

This was indeed a most precarious situation with the seas breaking aboard from all sides, and seeing that the engine could not hold the vessel in the wind against the seas, I eased her off a few points to relieve the grim danger of being pooped,—a danger almost unprecedented for a vessel heading into the seas. This easing off had the desired effect, and as the boys had taken in the staysail, I was able to fill away the foresail, and we were soon bounding along again in comparative safety. It took all my strength to hold that bucking wheel against the terrific forces striving to throw it up. Suddenly the cover of the wheelbox was lifted out from under me by the force of the wind and went flying off to leeward, and as the deck was heeled at such a terrific angle that it was practically impossible to stand on it with the seas breaking around my knees, I got into the wheelbox and thus managed to keep going.

Soon the Commander, Dick and Melkon returned from forward, and we settled down to ride it out as best we might. Suddenly an ominous slatting sounded through the shrill scream of the wind in the rigging. Holding our hands before our faces to shield them from the cutting spray, we fought our way forward to investigate. A hasty glance revealed that our foresail had been blown loose from the gaff laceline. This was a dangerous situation as the sail was likely to thrash to pieces. The Commander immediately gave the word to call all hands. In a moment Robbie came piling up from the cabin, and under his direction we started to haul down the sail. The Commander held the vessel in the wind while we labored. Five of us seized the downhaul, but we were ineffectually dragged back and forth across the deck by the terrible thrashing of the sail. At last I managed to catch a turn over a belaying pin, and then inch by inch we swayed it down. Luck was with us, and down it came without tearing. We were greatly relieved to have this important sail safe on deck with no further damage than the broken laceline. It required fast work to save it. This filled out an active and exciting evening.

Now the only reasonable course of action was to heave to and wait for the storm to abate, as it could not long blow with the fury it now displayed. But the little Bowdoin was slowly driven out to sea, since even with her engine going at full speed she was no match for the force of the gale. There she was flung about through the night, and there was little rest for our tired watch.

Morning at last dawned, and with it came sunlight and calmer weather, and by the time we again came on deck the vessel had resumed her course. The sparkling miles flew by, and before dark we were off Cape Sable. All day we had held our own in a race with the Peary, which had joined us off Halifax after the storm. But at Cape Sable the wind fell calm, and she soon forged ahead and was lost in the night.

All that night and all the next day the Bowdoin ploughed steadily onward, and at four o’clock the next afternoon Matinicus Rock, the farthest outpost of Maine, hove in sight, shortly to be followed by our goal—Monhegan Island. Not long afterwards we rounded the Island, and just before sundown we dropped anchor in Dead Man’s Cove.

We had hoped to make an early start on Saturday morning for Wiscasset where we were expected by many of our friends and well-wishers. But at three o’clock in the morning we were awakened by the shrill scream of a storm humming through the rigging. This storm later developed into the great gale of October 10th, known to every fisherman on the coast. We did not, however, immediately despair of being able to make the run to Wiscasset. When we roused out at breakfast time the wind had shown no sign of abating, and one look out to sea sufficed to demonstrate that any thought of departure that day was but an idle wish. I put my head above the level of the hatch and glanced about. The vessel was wallowing in a heavy swell which came rolling into Dead Man’s Cove from the west. The anchor chain stood out as taut and stiff as a bar of iron. The vessel’s stern tailed dangerously close to the wicked rocks astern which reared their ugly heads through a wall of breaking seas and flying spume. As the morning wove on, the storm increased in violence and our situation became precarious. Twice the sturdy fishermen of Monhegan bucked their way out from the inner harbor to warn us that our anchorage would soon become untenable, and it behooved us to get out while we still could. Eventually our stern approached within a few feet of the rocks, and the Commander decided we should have to go around the island into the inner harbor. To take the vessel out in the teeth of that roaring hurricane with a bent propeller such as we had, was a feat not lightly to be undertaken.

But as it was imperative, the Commander reluctantly gave the order to up anchor. Inch by inch our powerful winch brought the chain aboard. Soon it was up and down and the engine was started. Then a few more revolutions of the windlass and we were clear. The engine telegraph stood at full speed and yet the vessel barely moved. We watched breathlessly. Would she make it? Slowly the gap between us and the rocks widened. The vessel plunged her bow deep in the seas. All undaunted the little Bowdoin crept to windward. At last we rounded the outermost cape and with a sigh of relief the Commander put up the helm and we fairly blew to leeward around the remaining stretch of coast.

In a few moments we were safe once more in the inner harbor and the shrieking seventy-five mile an hour gale was powerless to tear us from our moorings. We were indeed fortunate to make a safe harbor as many a great ship disappeared in that hurricane and was never seen again. From all parts of the Atlantic seaboard reports rained in of shipwreck and disaster.

All that day and all the next the gale raged with unmitigated severity. On Sunday, however, the barometer began to rise and patches of blue sky showed through the leaden pale overhead. These signs that the weather would soon be on the mend were welcome to all hands, from the crew to the visitors. It appeared probable that a start might be made Monday morning. As it would still be rough, the ladies who had joined us at Battle Harbor were requested to go up to Wiscasset on the Peary that they might be spared the discomforts of a trip on the smaller vessel.

Monday morning arrived and the Peary gave a long toot on her siren and pulled out from the dock. She passed quite close to us and we observed that her decks were nearly deserted. Where were the ladies? In a few moments we knew. Boat after boat appeared, loaded to the gunwales with their numbers. Not more than a handful had gone on the Peary; contrary to all instructions they had refused to go on our consort, and insisted on going on the Bowdoin. We stared aghast at their temerity to disobey the Commander’s request. They came aboard with an air of assurance which showed that a well-planned conspiracy had been launched, but their disobedience was left unnoticed, strange to say. I think perhaps it would be more correct to those who have had experience with the wily sex to say, “As might have been expected.” A good many of them were soon seasick, but in a short time we had come into the quiet waters of Boothbay Harbor. Up the green bordered channels we picked our way, our decks crowded with cheering visitors. Slowly we reeled off the miles until at last we entered the Sheepscot, and then—then with flags flying we proceeded up the river, and at last amidst the roar of steam whistles and the cheers of the multitude assembled on the shore, the Commander uttered those long awaited words: “Let go.”