“You must know,” he observed, “that the timber which is sent from Canada to England is cut down from forests many hundreds of miles up the country. Numerous large and rapid rivers run into the great river Saint Lawrence. At the fall of the year gangs of woodcutters, under regular leaders, proceed up these rivers in canoes, with a supply of food, and every requisite, to enable them to spend the winter far from the haunts, of civilisation. Arrived at the forest they have selected for their operations, they build their habitations, and then set to work to cut down the trees they require. These, when shaped into square logs, as soon as snow has fallen, and ice covers the water, are dragged to the nearest stream. When spring returns, they are bound together in small rafts, and floated down towards the main river. Sometimes, when rapids occur, they are separated, and a few trees are allowed to glide down together. Slides have, of late years, been formed by the sides of the rapids, through which the timber descends without injury. At the foot of the rapids the rafts are re-formed, and ultimately, when they reach the Saint Lawrence, they are made so large that huts are built on them, in which their conductors live till they reach Quebec. This they frequently do not do till the end of the summer, when all the ships have sailed. The timber, therefore, remains in shallow docks at the mouth of the Charles River, which runs into the Saint Lawrence on one side of Quebec, till the following spring. The timber is often shipped through a large port in the bow of a ship, but a quantity is also piled upon deck, and lashed there to ring-bolts, making a ship with so great a weight above board very uneasy in a sea. Thus, I think, more accidents happen to the spars and rigging of timber-ships than to any other, though they have an advantage in floating longer than other craft.
“The Eagle was one of the first ships which left Quebec this year, with a crew of eighteen, all told fore-and-aft, with the captain’s wife and several passengers. Scarcely had we got clear of the Gulf when we fell in with bad weather; and about ten days afterwards, a heavy gale sprung up from the westward. It was night. The sea soon ran very high, and the ship being deep, and steering ill, before she could be got before the wind, it made a clear breach over her. There she lay helplessly in the trough of the sea, most of her bulwarks carried away, and the water pouring down her companion-hatch, and deluging the cabin. It soon found its way forward, and every instant we thought she would capsize. The captain ordered the main and mizzen topsail-sheets to be cut away, for there was no time to let them go, or clew-up the sails; but still the ship lay helpless and unable to answer her helm. Two men went to the helm, while others rigged relieving-tackles, and at length all the after-sail being taken off her, the headsail filled, and once more she ran before the wind. This was a great relief, but still the water was gaining on us. The seas continued rolling up after us high above the poop, and at length one broke on board, carrying the taffrail clean away, and sweeping the after-part of the deck. Had we not had safety-lines passed across the deck, the greater number of us would at once have been washed overboard. Our sufferings had now become intense, both from cold and hunger. All the provisions we could get at were spoiled with salt water, and the few clothes we had on were drenched also with water, and the wind pierced through them to our very bones. We still managed to keep a close-reefed foretop-sail on the ship, with a mainstay-sail and trysail, or we could not have avoided being constantly pooped. The gale, in a short time, increased in fury as the sea did in height. Again it made a clean breach over the ship. All the bulwarks were carried away; and the ring-bolts being torn from the decks, the deck timber, which consisted of large logs, was washed overboard, as were all our boats. At the same moment the foresail blew clean out of the bolt-ropes; and all those we could muster fit for duty had not strength sufficient to go aloft to set another. We knew well that our safety much depended on our being able to keep sail on the ship; but each man felt that his death would be the consequence if he attempted to go aloft, with that raging sea tumbling the ship about in every direction, the wind howling round him, and the torn sail flapping fiercely in his face. Still we managed to keep the ship before the wind, and thus, by easing the strain on her, she was prevented from going to pieces, which she would otherwise inevitably have done.
“Our first mate, James Carr, was a fine fellow. To look at him, you would not have supposed that he had so much endurance in his body. His spirit kept him up. When very few besides he and I could bear up, he went about the decks as if nothing unusual had occurred. He was a slight, fair man, and far from strongly-built; but he was a thoughtful, reading, and more than that, a religious man. Those who had led the wildest and most careless lives, and had no faith or hope to sustain them, were the first to succumb. I held out—first, because I believed that God would sustain me; and because I had a good constitution, which I had never injured by vice and debauchery, as too many of the rest had done. The captain was a good, kind man, and he did his best for us as long as his strength lasted. The little food we could get at was carefully husbanded, and all hands were put on short allowance. Many days thus passed away, the ship running before the wind, and still keeping together. At length the wind lulled, and we began to look forward with hope to the future. The caboose had hitherto stood, and the cook managed to light a fire in it, and to dress several meals, which we ate with comparative comfort. As long as there was a moderate breeze the ship ran steadily before it, but what many people would have thought an advantage, proved our greatest bane. Too much wind had injured us—too little almost destroyed us. It fell a dead calm; and this, far from bettering our condition, made the ship roll still more than ever, and soon reduced us to the condition in which you found us. The greater part of the bowsprit had already gone, the foremast was next rolled out of her, and then the mizzen-mast went—the mainmast must have been an unusually good stick, or that would have gone likewise. We had scarcely strength left to cut away the wreck. Hitherto, though all hands were growing daily weaker, no deaths had occurred, nor had anyone any particular sickness. However, anxiety of mind now helped to make our poor captain ill, and he took to his cot. The daily provision for each of us consisted also of but three ounces of bread, and half a pint of water. We agreed to this, because we felt that it was enough to sustain life for some time, and that it was better to have a little each day than have to go many days without any food at all. The officers proposed, however, before long, to diminish even this small allowance—though, by mixing a little spirits with the water, our food sustained us more than it would otherwise have done. Starvation, after a time, began to tell sadly on our tempers; and we, who had generally lived in good-fellowship with each other, spent the day in wrangling and peevishness. A breeze, however, had again sprung up, which seemed to steady the ship, though we could not keep her on her proper course. Such was the state of things, when one morning Mr Carr going on deck, as was his custom, to take a look-out, and to hoist our signal of distress, he shouted out, ‘Sail, ho!’
“How did our hearts leap with joy as we heard those words! We all crawled up as best we could to take a look at the stranger, which we hoped would save us. She saw us, and drew nearer. The captain got the mate and me to help him up on deck, and then, as he saw the approaching vessel, his heart bursting forth with gratitude, he called on us all to return thanks to God for the deliverance he hoped was at hand. His poor wife, who had held out bravely, and scarcely ever left his side, wept with joy at the thought that his life might yet be spared.
“‘Now, my lads, let’s see if we cannot get the ship somewhat clear of water,’ exclaimed Mr Carr, going to the pumps; ‘It will never do to have it said that we did nothing to help ourselves.’
“I believe he did this to employ the men’s minds till assistance could reach us. He set the example, which we all followed; and, weak as we were, we pumped away with such good-will that she rose perceptibly in the water, showing us that there was no leak to injure her.
“At last the stranger, a large brig, reached us, and heaving-to just to leeward, Mr Carr gave him an account of all that had happened to us.
“The master of the brig said that he was himself somewhat short of provisions, but would send us what he could venture to give in his own boat. We thanked him with grateful hearts. Still the boat did not come. There was some consultation on board; we could not tell what. A breeze from the westward again sprung up. It was a fair wind for the stranger.
“‘What’s he about now?’ exclaimed several voices, trembling with agitation.
“He put up his helm and filled his headsails.