Suddenly, as we were talking, a horn--a genuine old-fashioned dinner-horn--pealed out, seemingly not a hundred yards ahead.

"Port your helm there!" shouted the skipper to Bonney, who was at the wheel. The old sea-dog, Trull, caught up a tin bucket setting near, and began drumming furiously; while the skipper, diving down the companion way, brought up a loaded musket, which he hastily discharged over his head.

"Shout, halloo, scream!" he sang out to us. "Make all the noise you can, to let them know where we are!"

The schooner sheered off, minding her helm; and, at the same moment, we saw the dim outline of a small vessel almost under the bows.

"What ship is that?" demanded Capt. Mazard.

"Schooner 'Catfish' of Gloucester," replied a boyish voice.

"Where bound?"

"Home."

"Can you give us the lat.i.tude?"

"Can't do it, skippy. Haven't seen the sun for a week. Not far from forty-five degrees, I reckon."

"Are we in any danger of Cape Race?"

"Not a bit. We're more than a hundred miles east of it, I think."

The little schooner, of not more than sixty tons, drifted slowly past.

There were seven hands on deck; all boys of sixteen and eighteen, save one. This is the training which makes the Gloucester sailors so prized for our navy.

... During the evening, we heard at a distance the deep, grum whistle of the Inman steamer going down to Halifax,--whistling at intervals to warn the fishermen. It continued foggy all night, but looked _thinner_ by nine next morning. The captain brought up an armful of out-riggers (a short spar three or four feet long to set in the side-rail, with a small pulley-block in the upper end to run a line through.)

"Now, boys," said he, setting the out-riggers, "we will try the cod.--Palmleaf! Palmleaf! Here, you sunburnt son! A big chunk of pork!"

"They won't bite it," said old Trull.

"I've sometimes caught 'em with it," replied the captain. "It's pork or nothing. We've no clams nor manhaden (a small fish of the shad family) to lure them."

The stout cod-hooks, with their strong linen lines, were reeved through the blocks, baited, and let down into the green water. For some time we fished in silence. No bites. We kept patiently fishing for fifteen minutes. It began to look as if old Trull was right.

Presently Kit jerked hastily.

"Got one?" we all demanded.

"Got something; heavy too."

"Haul him up!" cried the skipper.

Kit hauled. It made the block creak and the out-rigger bend. Yard after yard of the wet line was pulled in; and by and by the head of a tremendous fellow parted the water, and came up, one, two, three feet, writhing and bobbing about.

"Twenty pounds, if an ounce!" shouted young Donovan.

"Heave away!" cried the captain. "Now swing him over the rail!"

They were swinging him in, had almost got their hands on him, when the big fish gave a sudden squirm. The hook, which was but slightly caught in the side of its mouth, tore out. Down he went,--_chud!_

Such a yell of despair as arose! such mutual abuse as broke out all round! till, just at that moment, Wade cried, "I have one!" when all attention was turned to him. Slowly he draws it up. We were all watching. But 'twas a smaller one.

"About a seven-pounder," p.r.o.nounces the captain, safely landing him on deck, where he was unhooked, and left to wriggle and jump out his agonies.

A minute later, Raed had out a "ten-pounder;" and, having once begun to bite, they kept at it, until the deck grew lively with their frantic leaping.

"Got all we want!" cried the skipper, after about an hour of this sort of thing. "There's a good two hundred weight of them.--Here, Palmleaf, pick 'em up, dress 'em, and put 'em in pickle: save what we want for dinner.--Now, you Donovan and Hobbs, bear a hand with those buckets.

Rinse off the bulwarks, and wash up the deck."

"This is the kind of sport they have on a cod-fisher every day, I suppose," said Raed.

"Yes; but it gets mighty stale when you have to follow it for a month," replied Donovan. "I know what cod-fishing is."

... Toward noon the sun began to show its broad disk, dimly outlined in the white mists. The captain ran for his s.e.xtant; and an observation was caught, which, being worked up, gave our lat.i.tude at 45 35'. We had probably made in the neighborhood of thirty miles during the night: so that the _boys_ on "The Catfish" had given a very shrewd guess, to say the least. In the afternoon we had a fair breeze from the south-east. All sail was made, and we bowled along at a grand rate.

Early the next morning we saw the first ice,--three or four low, irregular ma.s.ses, showing white on the sea, and bearing down toward us from the north-west with the polar current. This current, coming along the coast of Labrador, is always laden with ice at this season. To avoid it, we now bore away to the north-east, keeping for several days on a direct course for Iceland; then gradually--describing the arc of a circle--came round west into the lat.i.tude of Cape Farewell, the southern point of Greenland.

... Each day, as we got farther north, the sun set later, and rose earlier; till, on the 28th of June, its bright red disk was scarcely twenty minutes below the northern horizon.

... On the 3d of July we discerned Cape Farewell,--a mountainous headland, crowned with snow, at a distance of fifteen or twenty leagues.

From this point, Cape Resolution, on the north side of the entrance into Hudson Straits, bears west ten degrees north, and is distant not far from seven hundred miles. The wind serving, we bore away for it.

... During June and July, Hudson Straits are full of ice driving out into the Atlantic. This ice forms in the winter in vast quant.i.ties in the myriads of inlets and bays on both sides of the straits. The spring breaks it up, and the high tides beat it in pieces. It is rare that a vessel can enter the straits during June for the out-coming ice; but by July it has become sufficiently broken up and dispersed to allow of an entrance by keeping close up to the northern side, which has always been found to be freest from ice in July and August; while, on coming out in September, it is best to hug the southern main (land) as closely as possible.

On our voyage up we had taken great pains to read and compare every account we could find regarding both the ice and the general character of the straits. Our plan was to make Cape Resolution, wait for a fair wind, and slip into the straits early in the day, so as to get as far up as possible ere night came on. A person who has never been there can form no idea of the tremendous force with which the tide sets into the straits, the velocity of the currents, and the amazing smash they made among the ice....

CHAPTER III.

Cape Resolution.--The Entrance into Hudson's Straits.--The Sun in the North-east.--The Resolution Cliffs.--Sweating among Icebergs.--A Shower and a Fog.--An Anxious Night.--A Strange Rumbling.--Singular Noises and Explosions.--Running into an Iceberg.--In Tow.--A Big Hailstone drops on Deck.--Boarding an Iceberg.--Solution of the Explosions.--A Lucky Escape.

"Land and ice, land and ice, ho!" sang out our old sea-dog from his lookout in the bow.

'Twas the morning of the 7th of July. We had expected to make Cape Resolution the evening before. Kit and I had been on deck till one o'clock, watching in the gleaming twilight. Never shall I forget those twilights. The sun was not out of sight more than three hours and a half, and the whole northern semicircle glowed continuously. It shone on the sails; it shone on the sea. The great gla.s.sy faces of the swells cast it back in phosph.o.r.escent flashes. The patches of ice showed white as chalk. The ocean took a pale French gray tint.

Overhead the clouds drifted in ghostly troops, and far up in the sky an unnatural sort of glare eclipsed the sparkle of stars. Properly speaking, there was no night. One could read easily at one o'clock.

Twilight and dawn joined hands. The sun rose far up in the north-east.

Queer nights these! Until we got used to it, or rather until fatigue conquered us, we had no little difficulty in going to sleep. We were not accustomed to naps in the daytime. As a sort of compromise, I recollect that we used to spread an old sail over the skylight, and hang up blankets over the bull's-eyes in the stern, to keep out this everlasting daylight. We needed night. Born far down toward the equinoxes, we sighed for our intervals of darkness and shadows. But we got used to it after a fortnight of gaping. One gets used to any thing, every thing. "Use is second nature," says an old proverb. It is more than that: it is _Nature_ herself.

Land and ice, ho!

"Tumble out!" shouted Raed.

It was half-past three. We went on deck. The sun was shining brightly.

Scarcely any wind; sea like gla.s.s in the sunlight; ice in small patches all about.