It was optional with me whether I should walk through one hundred and twenty miles of primeval and most impassable forest, or paddle over an equal number of miles of water. Preferring the latter, as being at once the less disagreeable and more expeditious method, I accordingly, on the following morning, embarked in a small Indian canoe, similar to the one in which I had formerly travelled with two Indians in the North-West. My companions were—a Canadian, who acted as steersman; a genuine Patlander, who ostensibly acted as bowsman, but in reality was more useful in the way of ballast; and a young Newfoundland dog, which I had got as a present from Mr Stone while at Tadousac.
When we were all in our allotted places, the canoe was quite full; and we started from Isle Jérémie in good spirits, with the broad, sun-like face of Mike Lynch looming over the bows of the canoe, and the black muzzle of Humbug (the dog) resting on its gunwale.
It is needless to describe the voyage minutely. We had the usual amount of bad and good weather, and ran the risk several times of upsetting; we had, also, several breakfasts, dinners, suppers, and beds in the forest; and on the afternoon of the third day we arrived at Goodbout, an establishment nearly half-way between the post I had left and the one to which I was bound. Here we stayed all night, proposing to start again on the morrow. But the weather was so stormy as to prevent us for a couple of days trusting ourselves out in a frail bark canoe.
Early on the third morning, however, I took my place as steersman in the stern of our craft (my former guide being obliged to leave me here), and my man Mike squeezed his unwieldy person into the bow. In the middle lay our provisions and baggage, over which the black muzzle of Humbug peered anxiously out upon the ocean. In this trim we paddled from the beach, amid a shower of advice to keep close to shore, in case the big-fish—alias, the whales—might take a fancy to upset us.
After a long paddle of five or six hours we arrived at Pointe des Monts, where rough weather obliged us to put ashore. Here I remained all night, and slept in the lighthouse—a cylindrical building of moderate height, which stands on a rock off Pointe des Monte, and serves to warn sailors off the numerous shoals with which this part of the gulf is filled. In the morning we fortunately found an Indian with his boat, who was just starting for Seven Islands; and after a little higgling, at which Mike proved himself quite an adept, he agreed to give us a lift for a few pounds of tobacco. Away, then, we went, with:—
“A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
And a wind that followed fast,”
ploughing through the water in beautiful style.
The interior of our boat presented a truly ludicrous, and rather filthy scene. The Indian, who was a fine-looking man of about thirty, had brought his whole family—sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, wife, and mother—and a more heterogeneous mass of dirty, dark-skinned humanity I never before had the ill-luck to travel with. The mother of the flock was the most extraordinary being that I ever beheld. She must have been very near a hundred years old, as black and wrinkled as a singed hide, yet active and playful as a kitten. She was a very bad sailor, however, and dived down into the bottom of the boat the moment a puff of wind arose. Indians have a most extraordinary knack of diminishing their bulk, which is very convenient sometimes. Upon this occasion it was amusing to watch them settling gradually down, upon the slightest appearance of wind, until you might almost believe they had squeezed themselves quite through the bottom of the boat, and left only a few dirty blankets to tell the tale. Truly, one rarely meets with such a compact mass of human ballast. If, however, a slight lull occurred, or the sun peeped out from behind a cloud, there was immediately a perceptible increase in the bulk of the mass, and gradually a few heads appeared, then a leg, and soon a few arms; till at last the whole batch were up, laughing, talking, singing, eating, and chattering in a most uproarious state of confusion!
After the usual amount of storms, calms, and contrary winds, we arrived in safety at the post of Seven Islands, where I threw my worthy friend Mr Anderson into a state of considerable surprise and agitation by informing him that in the individual before him he beheld his august successor!
The establishment of Seven Islands is anything but an inviting place, although pretty enough on a fine day; and the general appearance of the surrounding scenery is lonely, wild, and desolate. The houses are built on a low sandy beach, at the bottom of the large bay of Seven Islands. The trees around are thinly scattered, and very small. In the background, rugged hills stretch as far as the eye can see; and in front, seven lofty islands, from which the bay and post derive their name, obstruct the view, affording only a partial glimpse of the open sea beyond. No human habitations exist within seventy miles of the place. Being out of the line of sailing, no vessels ever visit it, except when driven to the bay for shelter; and the bay is so large, that many vessels come in and go out again without having been observed. Altogether, I found it a lonely and desolate place, during a residence of nearly four months.