I had on the line of my right-hand rod a Buel’s patent spoon, tin on the outside and red on the inside, brightened, by being rubbed with pumice stone, till it shone like burnished silver, and, with red ibis feathers wound round the treble hook, it glanced and sparkled through the water, visible at a great distance. On the left-hand rod the spoon was copper on the inside, and the hooks were wound with scarlet flannel, while that in my hand line had copper on the outside, brightly polished, but neither feathers nor flannel round the hooks. We passed down from the outer point of the island toward the lower part of the bay without success, but when returning inside, my right-hand rod suddenly bent, and the line slowly unwound from the reel, over which I had taken a couple of turns to prevent its rendering too rapidly; dropping the hand-line, which was made fast to the seat, I seized the rod, and turning it round and reaching my line, commenced to draw it in as lightly and delicately, but steadily as possible, just holding it between the tips of my fingers. The fish was large, and when he was about half-way in, having come thus far with no other objections than a few violent flounces, he made a fierce rush; instantly the line slipped with a steady but slight strain through my fingers, and he dashed off for some distance, but soon tired, he allowed me to pull him up to the side of the boat; once there, grasping the wire above the hook, I lifted him quickly over the side and threw him on the bottom, where he flounced about vigorously and with energy enough, if exhibited sooner, to have broken almost any line. Taking the hook carefully by the shank, I twisted it out of his mouth, and weighing him with the scales that were always in my pocket, found he weighed ten pounds.
Turning at the head of the little cove, we retraced our path and struck another fish, and so over and over again, some of them making violent but unavailing efforts to escape, others slapping off just as they were being lifted into the boat, others again coming in with their heads out of water like a yawl towed behind a steamboat. Sometimes it was the right-hand rod that bent, sometimes the left, then the hand-line felt the strain—often two and sometimes all three at once; it kept me busy, to say the least of it. The reels were of little use, as the boatman had to keep rowing to prevent the lines sinking to the bottom and catching in the weeds, which, in spite of all precautions they sometimes succeeded in doing, and the strain was consequently too great for them. The bottom of the boat was filled with the long-bodied, wolfish and ravenous devils, that snapped their jaws, struggled about, their eyes gleaming with impotent fury and merciless cruelty, as ugly looking a set as the sun ever shone upon; but as they were brought in, one after another, my oarsman was delighted.
We remained on the same spot, rowing round until satisfied we should get no more, when we headed over toward the Canadian shore, into the far-famed region of Eel Bay. The latter takes its name from a fly that is found in the fore part of July in immense numbers on the waters of this region. It appears to one who has small claims as an entomologist to be the May-fly or famous Green and Grey Drake of England. Some that I pressed and brought to the city were recognized at once by the English fly-makers, who were delighted to see an old friend, and made a number of them for me after the pattern, saying that there was but a shade of color between them and what they had so often prepared as the May-fly at home. These flies appear in myriads; when the wind is northerly, the waves will cover the dock at Cape Vincent with them several inches thick. Their body is long and so heavy that in the early morning, when their wings are damp with the dew, they cannot rise to fly and are readily picked up by their wings, which project invitingly above their backs. Eel Bay is named from the immense quantities of these flies that appear there; they constitute the principal food of the fish from which they derive their name, as well as of the cisco, black and rock bass, chubs, and probably many others. They rise with difficulty from the water, and fly heavily and slowly.
Our course carried us across the rapid current of the St. Lawrence, where my boatman was glad to have me haul in my lines, that dragged heavily, as there was no chance of taking fish. We were soon in the bay, an extensive reach formed by a bend in the St. Lawrence, lying upon one side, out of the force of the current, and filled with innumerable islands. It probably holds within itself a thousand isles. They are of all kinds, shape, form and appearance, some half a mile in extent, constituting a cultivated farm, others a bare rock scarcely projecting above the surface, some covered with a dense foliage, others furnishing a single tree, and many bare of tree, bush or grass. There is immense variety of appearance, but all are inconceivably picturesque. None are very high, but at times the rocks run straight up like a wall of stone, while others are long, low and flat. They are clustered together, often affording barely room for the boat to pass, and offer to the eye every variety of shape and foliage. Amid them we now wandered, admiring their bewitching beauty as they lay basking in the broad sunlight upon the calm bosom of the river. Seldom are they inhabited, and most of the primeval forest trees having been cut, they have grown up with a dense underwood, occasionally relieved by some tall monarch of the forest that has survived the fury of man.
Keeping close along under the overhanging tree or rock, or passing into the open water with ever-changing scenery, we drew from the “vasty deep,” where the long pickerel weed could be seen reaching up toward the surface, one after another of those savage monsters, the Great Northern Pickerel. Without catching anything of wonderful size, we had taken an unusual number, when the calls of hunger warned us that the hours were fleeting faster than we thought.
Landing at the point of an island where there was a beautiful natural grove, we set to work to build a fire and prepare our fish for dinner. The pleasantest arrangement connected with this fishing is that each boat is provided with a basket of good cold fare, a frying-pan and the necessary means of cooking; and in the middle of the day it is customary for several to meet at an appointed island, and for the fishermen to have a jolly dinner. Although we were first to arrive, our companions were not long behind us, and the best fish, especially the black bass, were selected, cleaned, split open, and fried in the grease tried out of a few pieces of salt pork. Our provisions were combined and made quite a handsome picnic set-out, rendered more acceptable to our sharpened appetite by a few glasses of iced champagne. Of course we had our stories to tell: how skillfully we had landed this fish, or how unfortunately we had lost that; and one man, who had struck and almost landed a mascallonge, was agitated with mingled happiness and despondency. The days were long, our boatmen had had a hard tug of it, the shade was grateful, the champagne refreshing, our cigars excellent, and consequently no one was hurried. The wind, however, kept increasing, and after a couple of hours, pleasantly passed, we once more embarked and bid each other farewell till night.
My boatman struck well in toward the Canadian shore; but although we crossed places where he had had wonderful success on many a previous occasion, and of which there were extraordinary stories of mascallonge, our luck had deserted us. However, perseverance was rewarded; suddenly my hand-line was taughtened as though it had struck a log; for a moment it was still, then I felt the motion of the fish. The boatman instantly dropped his oars and reeled in as quickly as possible the other lines—just in time; for the fish, feeling he was caught, made one rush directly toward us. I drew in the line hand over hand, to have something to give out when he should make away again, but not nearly so fast as he moved. He passed close to us; we could see the broad back, the long nose, the fierce eye, the mighty length of the mascallonge.
“Turn the boat broadside toward him,” I whispered as he passed.
Away he went, the slack of the line hissed through the water as his increasing distance took it up, and partially deadened his way as he reached the end of it and came against the light though steady strain with which I held it. Giving to him, at first readily then more sparingly, I again turned him; this time he did not approach so near, but swung round well in-shore. Then, with a sudden rush, he came straight on, and flashed directly beneath the bottom of the boat. If the line once touched the rough surface, or caught in a splinter of the wood, we knew it would part like pack-thread. The oarsman tried to swing her round; there was no time; hastily gathering a few coils, I threw them into the water at the stern, and passing the line over my head, anxiously watched them sink. Suddenly they were taken up, the line in my hand taughtened and lifted out of water; it had not caught, and that danger was past. The struggle lasted long; again and again he darted away; once he nearly exhausted my line, and compelled me to use considerable force, but generally I held the least possible strain on him. Finally, he made one grand rush, was foiled, allowed himself to be drawn alongside, and was neatly gaffed by the boatman.
He was an immense fish, a triton even among pickerel of ten pounds. Beauty he certainly did not possess, but grandeur and ferocity marked every lineament. His huge head, immense jaws, and terrible teeth, his long, narrow body, large fins, and broad tail, and above all, his fierce, gleaming, savage eye, marked him as the undisputed master of the fresh waters. His enormous size and prodigious strength, the latter exemplified by his nearly springing over the gunwale, indicated that he had no match even in our extensive lakes, while his merciless ferocity, that would spare neither large nor small, friend nor foe, was but too apparent. His weight, as afterward ascertained, was thirty-five pounds, and his length was excessive proportionally to other fish. Although he fought well, he had not exhibited in the water the vigor he did out of it. Now that his fate was sealed, he lashed about, struggled and flounced as though his capture had just commenced, and scarcely showed an intimation of approaching death or surrender. It appears to be a peculiarity of the pickerel family that they exhibit their courage and strength too late, waiting till they are manacled before they fairly rouse themselves to the emergency. Their efforts consequently afford little pleasure to the sportsman or profit to themselves.