A VOYAGE TO THE ARCTIC IN THE WHALER AURORA

The following is little more than a diary of a voyage made by me on the whaler Aurora of Dundee in 1884. I cannot imagine its being read by many, as the subject can only interest a few who have themselves gone down to the sea in ships.

The Arctic whaling industry is I fear becoming a thing of the past, and this prompts me to have the record of our successful voyage printed.

Some mention has been made of the Greely Relief Expedition, as the relief ships were with the whalers during the passage to Cape York from Newfoundland.

We were not brought in contact with the Chieftain at all during the cruise, but I have told the story of her disaster, as it was the most unfortunate occurrence of the year amongst the Arctic whalers, and for the data I am very much indebted to the Dundee Advertiser and to Mr. Allen Bell and Mr. Harvey of that paper for the trouble they have taken about it. I am also indebted to Mr. Robert Kinnis of Dundee for much interesting whaling information in the Appendix. As that gentleman possesses the records of all catches taken by British ships for more than a hundred years, he is in a position to supply very valuable data on the subject.

Mr. Walter Kinnis kindly supplied me with many photographs, as did Dr. Crawford, formerly of the Arctic, and Captain Murray of Dundee.

It has given me great pleasure recalling the scenes described. As I was very young at the time of the voyage they produced an indelible impression. Often since have I longed for a few weeks in Lancaster Sound, and to hear once more the inspiring shout "A fall!"

Being fond of adventure, and having read as many works on the subject as most boys of my age, it was with great pleasure that I looked forward to hearing a lecture delivered by Commander Cheyne, R.N. I was then at school, and our tutor thought it would be an education for us to hear him. The lecture was to me intensely interesting and the illustrations splendid. For days after I could not think of anything else. During study at night, I used to spend a good deal of time looking at a map of the Arctic seas, and picturing Melville Bay with its dangers. After leaving school, and while at college, I read Walter Scott's "Pirate." It told about the Orkneys and Shetlands, and its frequent allusions to the whaling industry set me thinking. I found myself often repeating:

"The ship, well laden as barque need be,

Lies deep in the furrow of the Iceland sea.

The breeze for Zetland blows fair and soft

And gaily the garland is fluttering aloft.

Seven good fishes have spouted their last,

And their jawbones are hanging from yard and mast;

Two are for Lerwick, and two for Kirkwall,

And three for Burgh-Westra, the choicest of all."

As there was no immediate chance of going to Greenland, why not see Shetland? So when the summer holidays came, I made my way to Edinburgh with two friends who had also read the "Pirate."

We found that steamers sailed from Leith and that the best of the fleet, the St. Magnus, would leave the next morning at six, so we took passage in her and visited Orkney and Shetland, thoroughly enjoying being off the beaten track.

One day we sat on the Nab Head at Lerwick and looked over a calm sea. In the distance a barque could be descried. Half an hour later we noticed her much closer, although no sails hung from her yards. Then we discovered that while barque rigged she could also steam, and when she anchored we found that she was a whaler, the Eclipse of the Peter Head,—Captain Gray. We went on board and were shown over the ship. Polar bear skins were stretched in frames drying, and we learned that she had 3,500 seals on board and 17 bottle-nosed whales, and, what was of far more consequence to me, that she carried a surgeon.

Years passed; I was a student at the University of Edinburgh and had every opportunity of learning about ships sailing from Scottish ports.

One day in November, 1883, I went to Dundee and, leaving the Tay Bridge station, made my way along the docks to a basin in which were several whalers. They were discharging cargo, and it was unnecessary to see them to know of their presence. Two of the ships, though small, were very beautiful to look at. They were the Jan Mayen and the Nova Zembla. Others, the Narwhal, Polynia, Esquimaux, Active, etc., were not so pretty, but they all had a fascination—they came from the romantic Arctic, and I went on board each one. Then I visited another dock where three ships lay together. They were the Arctic, the Aurora and the Thetis. It required no expert to tell that they were vessels of superior quality. I went on board the one nearest the shore, the Thetis, and interviewed the mate. He told me that all three ships would carry surgeons. The Arctic and Thetis were bound for Davis Straits, the Aurora for Greenland.

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The office of the company, Wm. Steven & Son, was near by, so I left the ship very much excited. Here was almost a chance to visit the Arctic regions. Going over to the office, I learned that the captain of a whaler selected his own surgeon, and that Captain James Fairweather of the Aurora had just been there. I obtained his address, and calling a cab, was soon at his house. He was not in, but I waited. Seated in a room on the floor of which polar bear rugs were stretched, I began to realize that I was taking a rather serious step without consulting my parents. Before long the Captain entered, and after a little conversation, I arranged to sail as the Aurora's surgeon the following January. So without really meaning to go when I left my rooms in the morning, I found myself in the railway carriage on the way back to Edinburgh, booked for an unusual voyage.

During the winter I told some friends what I intended to do, and one of them at once went to Dundee and secured the Arctic, the captain of which was an Irishman. Another was also desirous of going, but said he would wait until I returned and told him how I liked it. However he too went in the end and we met in the north.

The Aurora was bound for the Newfoundland sealing first and afterwards for the Greenland whaling; that is to say, she would fish for bottlenosed whales on the east side of Greenland in the seas around Jan Mayen and Spitzbergen and make a shorter voyage of it than the Davis Straits ships.

To prepare myself for the experience I read what I could about Greenland, and was fascinated by the prospect of seeing its icy mountains and possibly some of its inhabitants; while the very word Spitzbergen suggested to me polar bears and icebergs. In January, 1884, a letter from the Captain told me he would sail about the end of the month and requested me to be in Dundee by the 29th.

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I bought a lot of unnecessary clothing, such as pilot-cloth suits lined with flannel. When the flannel became wet afterwards it wonderfully altered the fit of the things, so I removed it with my knife. I also laid in a supply of literature, arms and ammunition, and left the Waverley station at six on the morning of the 29th. Arriving at Dundee, I went to a hotel and then to the office, where I met the Captain, and went with him to the place where the men were signing on. Here I heard some one reading rapidly a lot about the nature of the voyage and what we would have to eat. When I left the building, I was a legal member of the Aurora's crew for the coming cruise, and my rating was that of surgeon, with pay as follows:

                             £. s. d

          Monthly pay        2 0 0

          Oil money per ton     2 0

          Bone per ton          4 0

          Seal skins per 1,000 1 0

I had to furnish my own cabin and to pay the market price for any trophy of my own shooting which I wanted to keep. As our voyage was in pursuit of Arctic animals and as I was a member of the crew sent for that purpose, of course this was quite right.

It was possible for me to increase the above pay by being in fast boats. Let me explain what I mean: when a boat first strikes a fish it is called a fast boat; and if the whale is killed, every one in the boat receives what is called striking money. The harpooner gets ten shillings for putting in the gun harpoon, and ten and six pence for the hand, or a guinea for both, while every member of the crew receives half a crown in either case.

It was my good fortune during the following eight months to increase my wages by two shillings and six pence in this way. Having fixed terms and other details I went on board the ship which was to be my home for some months to come. She was a pretty auxiliary barque of 386 tons registered. Her engines were about a hundred horse power. She had a top-gallant forecastle and a raised poop. Running forward from the poop was the engine room skylight, which ended at the funnel casing, and steps led from the poop to the main deck on each side of it. The funnel was painted buff, the ship outside was black, and the bulwarks inside white and blue. The bridge was across the engine room skylight and in front of the mizzenmast, an iron railing around the poop, offering no protection from the weather, while a companion opened aft in front of our two wheels. The pretty little cabin was furnished in pitch pine and leather. The Captain's room occupied the starboard side, while mine was on the port, both opening into the cabin. Forward of my room was that occupied by the first and second mates, and this looked into the passage at the foot of the stairs. Forward of the passage was the pantry and also the engineer's room. A locker in which things were stowed occupied the stern and opened into the cabin. Forward of the cabin table was a stove in which there was a cheerful fire, and in the square skylight hung a bird's cage and a garland, also some plants.

Finding out what I wanted for my room, I went into the town, ordered the things and had them sent down.

January 30. Two acquaintances, whose identity I may indicate by the initials H. and P., turned up this day to see me off. I took them over the ship, but they were not very enthusiastic. We afterwards went around the docks and saw the other whalers getting ready for sea. Quantities of marmalade and dozens of hams were being put on board the Esquimaux. Two of the whalers had already departed, the Narwhal and Polynia, while others were not starting for a week to come; but as there were uncertainties about the western ocean's passage in winter, Captain Fairweather had decided not to wait longer than the 31st.

It snowed a little, which made the docks look dreary. I met the Captain's wife on board during the afternoon, also his brother, who had command of the Thetis.

The following day Armitage arrived. He brought me a big meerschaum pipe, and was delighted with the ship, so pleased that he visited many others to see if he could not secure a berth on one of them. But those carrying surgeons had their medical officers engaged. We wandered around the docks all the morning and at noon I went on board.

The Aurora left the dock at one P. M. and anchored for a short time in the river to pick up a few belated and more or less incapable members of the crew, and to land some stowaways.

My friends stood on the dockhead with hundreds of others to see us off, and as we passed through the gate, old shoes, oranges and other things were thrown on board.

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I was walking about the poop with my hands deep in the pockets of my pilot coat and looking at the sea of faces on the dock, when, stumbling over a chain, down I came with a crash in the most ignominious way. However a stumble and fall on board a whaler putting to sea generally passes unnoticed; one would attract more attention by standing up all the time! Thus the voyage began,—my position flat on deck, being in keeping with the best traditions of the trade!

CHAPTER II—VOYAGE TO NEWFOUNDLAND

"A thousand miles from land are we,

Tossing about on the roaring sea;

From billow to bounding billow cast

Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast."

Steaming down the river we landed quite a lot of stowaways at Broughty Perry about 4.30 P. M., just as it was becoming dark. Tea was served at five,—my first meal on board the Aurora.

The Captain and myself sat on the starboard side of the table. Wm. Adam, the mate, Alexander McKechnie, second mate, and Wm. Smith, chief engineer, sat on the other side.

Immediately after tea, I went to my room as we were crossing the bar and going out into a gale of wind. Everything was tumbling about, and knowing that in a very short time I should lose all interest in my surroundings, I began making things secure.

There were two berths. My bed was in the upper as it had a porthole, and most of my belongings were stowed in the lower.

A lot of tobacco had become loose, so I put the little packages of it between my bed and the side of the ship. The port was not screwed very tight and leaked badly for a week or so. This saturated the tobacco and generated an odor which added nothing to my comfort. The motion becoming very pronounced, I turned in, and being tired, slept well.

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February 1st. Footsteps overhead and the singing of shanties on deck awoke me at daybreak, but I was intensely ill, so stayed in bed all day. My room was illuminated by a small light set in the deck overhead and by a partially submerged port, so it was not cheerful. Above my head there was a book shelf. I tried to read, but could not feel interested as it was so very depressing to look forward to months and months of this sort of thing. Matters grew worse as the day went on, the climax being reached when rounding Duncansby Head; but respite came about midnight, when we crept into Long Hope and let go our anchor.

February 2nd. Shouting and crying awoke me in the morning, and opening the door of my cabin, I saw the Captain teaching two boys that the sea was a bad place to run away to. They had been under an upturned boat and the seas coming on board had almost drowned them out. Each boy promised that he would never do it again. They were given two tins of mutton and a small sack of ship's bread, and put on shore.

Long Hope is a well sheltered harbor, between the islands of Hoy and South Walls. There was a pronounced smell of turf smoke about the place and the land was half covered with snow.

Two other whalers were at anchor near by, the Narwhal and Polynia. They had left Dundee ten days before us and bad been weather bound here for that length of time.

I brought my gun up as there were some Richardson's skuas flying about, but I did not get a shot at one. The mate, however, shot a herring gull with it and this was the first splash of the ocean of blood shed by us during the voyage.

Breakfast was a cheerful meal and the horrors of the North Sea were soon forgotten.

At noon, the tide being favorable and the wind having gone down greatly, we all three steamed out into the Pentland Firth. The Polynia was the first to move; I heard her anchor chain clanking on board to a well-sung shanty. We started next, and as there were some good voices forward we tried to outdo the others. The Narwhal followed, never to return, as she was lost during the summer.

Turning Brims Ness sharp, we kept on the Orcadian side of the firth; and after passing Turn Ness, we laid our course for Cape Wrath. Across the water we could barely make out Thurso. The land lies rather low about the mouth of the Thurso river; but on the Hoy side the scenery was fine and we soon sighted the Old Man of Hoy. During my trip to Orkney and Shetland a few years before, I had spent several days on this island, so was interested in seeing it now from the sea on this dismal February afternoon. Its sombre cliffs are always grand, but the present atmospheric condition made the scene impressive.

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The Old Man of Hoy, in the simple language of the guide book, is, "An insular pillar composed of flagstones and shales. Across their denuded edges there stretches the band of amygdaloidal lava which is capped by the red sandstones to the height of four hundred fifty feet." I could make out the Ward Hill, but clouds lay low on its summit. Near there I had visited the celebrated Dwarfie Stone made famous by Scott in his "Pirate." It is a huge block of rock twenty-two feet by seventeen and seven deep. There is a passage in it with a bed like a ship's berth hewn out on each side, and it had been, of course, the home of a Trold.

I turned my back on this land of Trolds, and went down the quarter-hatch to see the second mate serving out lime-juice, tea, coffee, tobacco and sugar to the men. I heard their names called and had a good look at them as they came up. Our crew was a fine looking lot and the most respectable body of men one could find on any ship, unlike the New Bedford or San Francisco South Sea whalers, which carried very mixed crews of every color.

Most of our men had spent the greater part of their lives in Greenland waters, and though not well informed on current topics and very superstitious, they were self-respecting to a degree and absolutely fearless, and they were all of the same nationality.

Of course, life on board a whaler is much pleasanter than on any other sort of merchantman, because the ships are well found and the crews very large so that, except when actually engaged in sealing or whaling, they have an easy enough time.

The captains in the trade were very humane men, many of them scientific, and they treated their crews well. Amongst the harpooners were often found men who had themselves commanded ships and whose stars, no doubt, would again be in the ascendancy.

A few unsuccessful years, or the loss of a ship or two, would probably cost a man his command, and bad luck cannot be avoided.

Before the second mate had finished serving out I retired, as the ship was beginning to feel the heavy swell that was coming in, and by six P. M. I was absolutely "under the weather," and it was blowing hard from the northwest. We passed Cape Wrath about midnight. The following day a strong gale was blowing with snow and the engines were slowed down.

February 4th. Blowing a gale, reefed mizzen set and main topmast staysail, with the engines slowed down. During the morning a man was hurt. He was carried aft and held on the cabin table while I—very ill—and also held, sewed his scalp and dressed the wound.

February 5th. Strong gale. Ship under reefed mizzen and main staysail, steaming slow. High sea running and sun obscured all day.

This applies to the state of affairs on the 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th and 10th, during all of which time I enjoyed the horrors of mal de mer. I saw by the log that we had spent our days under fore and afters with a heavy sea running, but I made no original observations, keeping in my berth all the time, wondering during my conscious moments what brought me to sea and vowing that I would never set foot on a vessel again if spared this time.

The ship's dog (Jock) was a rather sociable and sympathetic collie. He spent a good deal of time with me, and I could not help admiring the old chap when I knew that he really did not belong to any one, but always turned up on the Aurora about sailing time and made the voyage with her. At St. John's, Jock had lots of friends and visited a good deal, but he was always on board on sailing day.

February 11th. A mere shadow of my former self, I got up and did not feel ill. My wash basin was in one corner of the room. I put my head against the corner above it and by sticking one foot against the side of the door and another against the lower berth, was able to apply a little water to my face, but the swing of the ship was so great that it swished nearly every drop out of the basin. I dressed and went to breakfast, feeling absolutely well and ravenously hungry. After breakfast, tucking my breeches inside my sea boots, I went on deck. The door opened aft. As I came out, the stem of the vessel sank low as the bows rose on the sea, and I saw a black mountain of water rolling from us. Getting to the mizzen rigging on the port side, I put my arms in the shrouds and stood on a spar lashed on deck. It was very dark for the hour and blowing the greatest storm that I had ever experienced, the wind fairly shrieking through the rigging.

We were steaming half speed and had a reefed mizzen and main staysail set. Looking forward, I saw the little ship taking tons of dark water over her bows. It came off the forecastle in a cataract, and rushing aft between the engine room and bulwarks, it surged upon the poop. We only had a few feet of free board and were making terrible weather of it. The atmosphere was full of water, as the tops of the waves were blown off in sheets. A great splash came over the quarter about this time and fairly engulfed me. Then I learned that it was better to wear one's sea boots inside instead of outside the trousers.

This was sufficient for the day, so I retired below to change and dry. During the evening, the Captain showed me our position on a chart which was glued to the cabin table under the cloth. We were not yet half way across.

The 12th, 13th and 14th were all equally awful, but I had my sea legs and a good appetite, so was thankful. The only pleasure I had was standing on the bridge and watching the ship burying her bows into the big seas and the water coming in tons over the forecastle and filling the main deck. She was indeed a wet ship in bad weather.

February 15th. The Captain said that he had never seen a lower barometer. A great gale was blowing and the ship was hove to. Bags of oil had been put out on the weather side, but the oil did not escape with sufficient freedom so they were hauled in and a lot of punctures made with a knife, but this did not improve matters much. It rendered the sea comparatively smooth to leeward and there was not so much spray flying, but tons of water tumbled over us and we spent a dreadful day. I tried the deck for awhile, but it was dangerous. At night the ship was laboring fearfully and continued to do so for days.

February 20th. Another fearful day. I had occasion to visit the topgallant forecastle to see the ship-keeper, who had hurt his knee. There was a line from the forecastle door to the main rigging for safety, as one was almost sure to be caught by a sea while going the length of the deck.

Two men came aft for me, and watching our chance, we reached the forecastle safe. Coming back, I decided to try it alone, so waited until a tremendous sea had broken over us, then before she had time to take another, I made a dash, but a body of water splashed over the starboard side and forced me to climb up the inside of the main rigging and stay there until some of it swept off the deck. Towards night the wind began to moderate a little.

February 21st. Pitching and tossing as usual. Cloudy, but not much wind; a nasty sea, however, and the canvas did not hold her steady. Really in a heavy gale the storm holds a ship down to some extent.

The next day, however, the weather had moderated, so I tried stoking and managed quite well. I also tried changing a fire, which was not such a success, but I kept steam up and it was an interesting experience.

An end comes to all things. On the morning of the 23rd the ship for the first time was on an even keel and some sun was shining through my deck light. Hitherto attempts at washing had been unsatisfactory, as the motion of the ship in a sea was so quick. Now, however, I indulged in a complete toilet, and with a feeling of self-respect went on deck. The day was cloudless and beautiful, the sea smooth as glass, and dotted over it were white specks of ice. In a very short time the pieces of ice became more numerous and larger, and when we were at breakfast we heard and felt the ship crushing and bumping amongst them. By eleven A. M. a breeze came up from the southeast and all sail was set, but by noon the ship stuck hard and fast in the ice, and presented to me a wonderful and beautiful sight.

Every stitch of canvas was set and drawing, and the engine going full speed, but still for a time we did not move. Now was my chance to walk about on the frozen sea, so I went out with the dog and we both enjoyed a race, keeping very close, however, for at any moment the Aurora might move. We came on board when the mate called, as a crack was appearing ahead of the ship. We were now two hundred twenty miles from St. John's, and expected to be in ice all the way. During the afternoon I went up to the foretop and Valentine thoroughly enjoyed a half hour gazing at the wonderful scene.

We were very seldom stuck for any length of time, a few bumps from the ship being generally sufficient to open a crack.

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A great many of the men were on deck most of the day, and certainly she was a heavily manned ship with her crew of sixty-five. Six of them belonged to the engine room, eight were harpooners, who lived in the topgallant forecastle, as did some of our tradesmen. Of these we had two carpenters, a cooper, blacksmith, and sailmaker. The specksioneer also lived there. He was the chief of the harpooners, a splendid old man called George Lyon. Sixteen of our men were from Shetland, a quiet, sober, industrious lot.

Standing on the forecastle, I watched the ship crunching through several miles of young ice. She never actually stopped once. Her bows would rise up on it, then huge slabs would tilt on end as she glided on. Sometimes a long crack would open and let her slide in to be almost stuck. By degrees she would gain way and probably steam into an open pool, to strike the opposite side with considerable force, thereby opening a crack in which she would repeat the performance. The engine is the secret of ice navigation. With canvas alone we would have been fast in the ice much of the time, while with heavier engines we could have gone through heavier ice. The night was fine, and we managed to keep moving on our course.

February 24th was a glorious day. One would scarcely expect to find such, weather in February in this neighborhood.

In the morning we passed through rather smooth ice. Occasionally there were large ponds and in many of these I saw seals. Sometimes they were plunging about in numbers, but generally a few heads only were visible looking at us inquisitively as we passed. There were no bergs in sight, but during the afternoon we passed some rafted ice which was piled up six or seven feet above the floes, and once we were fast for an hour in a rather heavy place, when I again tried the walking, but there was snow on the ice which was slightly frozen on the surface, and this made it heavy as one went through the crust. Towards evening the sky became cloudy; it was very cold, and snow was falling when I turned in for the night.

In the morning Cape Bonavista was in sight. It was my first view of this New World. All land was beautiful to me after a month at sea and this looked so attractive as we neared it that I wanted to settle on it for the rest of my life. However, we passed on, and during the day steamed through the narrows and tied up astern of the Arctic on the south side of St. John's harbor at what was known as Stevens Wharf.

The Arctic had sailed ten days after us and had made good weather of it as she was a long ship of nearly double our tonnage, but of nothing like our strength of build.

The Resolute's Wooden Funnel lute had also arrived. The latter on the way out had lost her funnel, so a pyramidal structure had been erected of wood lined with tin; this answered very well for a time. Some of her bulwarks had been carried away, especially forward of the main rigging on the port side. She was a fine ship, strong and well engined, but the North Atlantic in winter leaves its mark on the best.

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The Resolute was owned in St. John's and commanded by a St. John's captain; but she came out from Dundee, where she had been overhauled.

So ended my first trip across the Atlantic, and, until then, the most uncomfortable experience of my life.

CHAPTER III—NEWFOUNDLAND

"Such are the charms to barren states assyn'd,

Their wants but few, their wishes all confin'd."

Our first possession across the sea was Newfoundland, and I made the voyage to it 400 years after John Cabot, the discoverer. The Mathew of Bristol first sighted Cape Bonavista, which was the first point seen by the Aurora. Cabot was a Venetian sailing out of Bristol for a time, and for his great discovery, which gave England her vast American possessions, King Henry gave John ten pounds a year. Cabot is to-day very well thought of, but nothing much is known of what became of him. The name makes an attractive one for a Newfoundland dog. I have known several of them bear it, and it is a sort of geographical education to have them running around; but there is not any place of importance in the world called after this great mariner.

The coast of the country is forbidding, being rocky and bleak, except around some of the bays; the most beautiful of those seen by me being Bay of Islands on the west coast, which reminds one of Norway. Here and in the valley of the Humber, which runs into it, there is some very fertile land, and there are some scenes of peace and prosperity. But the general impression I have obtained after several visits to the country, is that life is a struggle for many of the inhabitants compared with what it is in any other colony which we possess. Newfoundlanders are true to the land of their birth, but one familiar with North America at large would never think of advising a colonist to push his fortune in this particular part of it, because the opportunities are comparatively few and the winters are too long for any working man to remain idle. In the interior the soil is as a rule shallow; there are thousands and thousands of acres of barrens, hundreds of lakes of different sizes and numbers of streams. Great areas of the country are grown over with small timber, the trees being so close together in places that one can hardly push through them. Much of the barren country is moss-grown and boggy, so that it cannot be travelled over by horses or mules; therefore, when one leaves the rivers, it is necessary to carry everything on one's back, and, as a result, travel in the interior is not much indulged in by the inhabitants. To add to the pleasure, mosquitoes and their cousins, the black flies, are in swarms. The whole interior is a deer forest of the first magnitude, teeming with caribou (Rangi-fer tarandus). These animals weigh about 300 pounds, and they are very gray about the head and shoulders. I have seen them standing among trees which were grown over with bearded moss, when it was difficult to tell the caribou from the trees. Some of the heads are splendid with a great deal of palmation and not at all like Greenland or polar American caribou in which the palmation is generally poor and the beam long and straggling, probably due to a difference of environment. Migrating to the northern part of the island in summer, they return in September and October to winter in the south, and the sportsman intercepting them on their autumnal trip can have his choice of heads.

Another attraction is the salmon and trout fishing. The rivers, especially on the west coast, are well stocked, white trout being particularly numerous.

St. John's harbor is entered through the narrows. On the left, going in, there is the lighthouse; and on the right, or north side, the signal station. On this side is the city, lying at the foot of low hills, its principal street, Water Street, being parallel with the shore. From it run side streets down to the wharves and up the hill to the residences and churches. The Dundee ships lay on the south side, our yard being nearest the narrows. From it a path led out to the lighthouse point. A hundred yards from the ship one was on the hillside and without the pale of everything, because only a narrow fringe of buildings separated the south shore from the wilds. Along the water edge, between our ship and the lighthouse, one passed lots of fish flakes. These were constructed of a framework of vertical and horizontal poles covered over with spruce boughs upon which the split codfish were laid after being salted. The air circulated under and around them well and they soon dried. I saw codfish being dried on the beach in Shetland, but they were only spread on the shingle. There are no trees in Shetland from which poles could be made, but there is less precipitation there than in Newfoundland, so the fish dry well upon the shingle. It is over 300 years since the Newfoundland fisheries began to be worked. They proved the country's first attraction and there is nothing of the sort in the world like them. For the five years 1871 to '75 the export of dried cod was 1,333,009 quintals of 112 pounds. The Basques first appeared on the scene and a port on the west coast to-day bears their name, Port aux Basques. As early as 1527 an English shipmaster, on entering St. John's harbor, found eleven ships from Norway, one from Breton and ten from Portugal, all fishing.

In looking over the exports for 1881 one notices several interesting items; one is, 4,127 tons of cod-liver oil, another item is 300 barrels of cods' heads at $1.00 per barrel. I fancy, however, their use has not become very general yet when we know that only 300 barrels were exported, and that over sixty million cod were killed. When I speak of the cod fishing, I mean the Labrador as well as the Banks fishery. In fact, the former is probably the more fished of the two by the Newfoundlanders.

The day after our arrival our ship began discharging cargo, that is to say, taking off our whale-boats and launch, and taking out all supplies for the whaling voyage. Then they began sheathing the deck and bulwarks—even the floor of the cabin was covered with plank. Bunks were erected for the men in the 'tween decks, all stores removed from the quarter hatch and bunks put in there for the quartermasters, and the crow's-nest was hoisted up and made fast to the main mast, a few feet below the truck. The crow's-nest or barrel was a most comfortable place. One entered through a trap door in the bottom, and when this was closed there was no draught. Around the edge of the barrel and sticking out some distance there was an iron rail upon which the glass could rest, the latter being kept in a canvas bag or pocket inside. From there the ship was navigated, a wire going to the engine room and ringing the bell, but orders to the man at the wheel were called down. While these changes were taking place, in company with the surgeon of the Arctic, I wandered all over St. John's and the neighborhood, and enjoyed the hospitality of many residents. It was some distance around the end of the harbor to the city, but we could skate across if we liked. The weather was intensely cold and the land was covered with deep snow.

The Aurora having been converted into a sealer, and having taken on board her supplies and exchanged her beautiful whale-boats for a number of very crude looking punts, moved over to the north side of the harbor, and waited for sailing day to take her crew on board.

The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Voyage to the Arctic in the Whaler Aurora

A VOYAGE TO THE ARCTIC IN THE WHALER AURORA

By David Moore Lindsay, F. R. G. S.

"Our infant winter sinks, divested of its grandeur, should our eye astonish'd shoot into the frigid zone."

BOSTON: DANA ESTES & COMPANY PUBLISHERS

1911

DEDICATED

TO

SIR THOMAS MYLES