A journey on snow-shoes—Evils of snow-shoe travelling in spring—Value of tea to a tired man—Encamp in the snow—Isle Jérémie—Canoeing and boating on the gulf of St. Lawrence—Amateur navigating—Seven Islands—A narrow escape—Conclusion.
It was on a cold, bleak morning, about the beginning of March 1846, that I awoke from a comfortable snooze in my bedroom at Tadousac, and recollected that in a few hours I must take leave of my present quarters, and travel, on snow-shoes, sixty miles down the Gulf of St. Lawrence to the post of Isle Jérémie.
The wind howled mournfully through the leafless trees, and a few flakes of snow fell upon the window as I looked out upon the cheerless prospect. Winter—cold, biting, frosty winter—still reigned around. The shores of Tadousac Bay were still covered with the same coat of ice that had bound them up four months before; and the broad St. Lawrence still flowed on, black as ink, and laden with immense fields and hummocks of dirty ice, brought down from the banks of the river above. The land presented one uniform chilling prospect of bare trees and deep snow, over which I was soon to traverse many a weary mile.
There is nothing, however, like taking things philosophically; so, after venting my spite at the weather in one or two short grumbles, I sat down in a passable state of equanimity to breakfast. During the meal I discussed with Mr Stone the prospects of the impending journey, and indulged in a few excursive remarks upon snow-shoe travelling, whilst he related a few incidents of his own eventful career in the country.
On one occasion he was sent off upon a long journey over the snow, where the country was so mountainous that snowshoe walking was rendered exceedingly painful, by the feet slipping forward against the front bar of the shoe when descending the hills. After he had accomplished a good part of his journey, two large blisters rose under the nails of his great toes; and soon the nails themselves came off. Still he must go on, or die in the woods; so he was obliged to tie the nails on his toes each morning before starting, for the purpose of protecting the tender parts beneath; and every evening he wrapped them up carefully in a piece of rag, and put them into his waistcoat pocket—being afraid of losing them if he kept them on all night.
After breakfast I took leave of my friends at Tadousac, and, with a pair of snow-shoes under my arm, followed my companion Jordan to the boat which was to convey me the first twenty miles of the journey, and then land me, with one man, who was to be my only companion. In the boat was seated a Roman Catholic priest, on his way to visit a party of Indians a short distance down the gulf. The shivering men shipped their oars in silence, and we glided through the black water, while the ice grated harshly against the boat’s sides as we rounded Point Rouge. Another pull, and Tadousac was hidden from our view.
Few things can be more comfortless or depressing than a sail down the Gulf of St. Lawrence on a gloomy winter’s day, with the thermometer at zero! The water looks so black and cold, and the sky so gray, that it makes one shudder, and turn to look upon the land. But there no cheering prospect meets the view. Rocks—cold, hard, misanthropic rocks—grin from beneath volumes of snow; and the few stunted black-looking pines that dot the banks here and there only tend to render the scene more desolate. No birds fly about to enliven the traveller; and the only sound that meets the ear, besides the low sighing of the cold, cold wind, is the crashing of immense fields of ice, as they meet and war in the eddies of opposing currents. Fortunately, however, there was no ice near the shore, and we met with little interruption on the way. The priest bore the cold like a stoic; and my friend Jordan, being made, metaphorically speaking, of iron, treated it with the contemptuous indifference that might be expected from such metal.
In the evening we arrived at Esquimain River, where we took up our quarters in a small log-hut belonging to a poor seal-fisher, whose family, and a few men who attended a sawmill a short distance off, were the only inhabitants of this little hamlet. Here we remained all night, and prepared our snow-shoes for the morrow, as the boat was there to leave us and return to Tadousac. The night was calm and frosty, and everything gave promise of fine weather for our journey. But who can tell what an hour will bring forth? Before morning the weather became milder, and soon it began to thaw. A fine warm day, with a bright sun, be it known, is one of the most dreadful calamities that can befall a snowshoe traveller, as the snow then becomes soft and sticky, thereby drenching the feet and snow-shoes, which become painfully heavy from the quantity of snow which sticks to and falls upon them. In cold frosty weather the snow is dry, crisp, and fine, so that it falls through the network of the snow-shoe without leaving a feather’s weight behind, while the feet are dry and warm; but a thaw!—oh! it is useless attempting to recapitulate the miseries attending a thaw; my next day’s experience will show what it is.
Early on the following morning I jumped from my bed on the floor of the hut, and proceeded to equip myself for the march. The apartment in which I had passed the night presented a curious appearance. It measured about sixteen feet by twelve, and the greater part of this space was occupied by two beds, on which lay, in every imaginable position, the different members of the half-breed family to whom the mansion belonged. In the centre of the room stood a coarsely-constructed deal table, on which lay in confusion the remains of the preceding night’s supper. On the right of this, a large gaudily-painted Yankee clock graced the wall, and stared down upon the sleeping figures of the men. This, with a few rough wooden chairs and a small cupboard, comprised all the furniture of the house.
I soon singled out my man from among the sleeping figures on the floor, and bade him equip himself for the road—or rather for the march, for road we had none. In half an hour we were ready; and having fortified ourselves with a cup of weak tea and a slice of bread, left the house and commenced our journey.
My man Bezeau (a French Canadian) was dressed in a blue striped cotton shirt, of very coarse quality, and a pair of corduroys, strapped round his waist with a scarlet belt. Over these he wore a pair of blue cloth leggins, neatly bound with orange-coloured ribbon. A Glengarry bonnet covered his head; and two pairs of flannel socks, under a pair of raw seal-skin shoes, protected his feet from the cold. His burden consisted of my carpet-bag, two days’ provisions, and a blue cloth capote—which latter he carried over his shoulder, the weather being warm. My dress consisted of a scarlet flannel shirt, and a pair of étoffe du pays trousers, which were fastened round my waist by a leathern belt, from which depended a small hunting-knife; a foraging cap and deer-skin moccasins completed my costume. My burden was a large green blanket, a greatcoat, and a tin tea-kettle. Our only arms of offence or defence were the little hunting-knife before mentioned, and a small axe for felling trees, should we wish to make a fire. We brought no guns, as there was little prospect of meeting any game on the road; and it behoves one, when travelling on foot, to carry as little as possible.
Thus we started from Esquimain River. The best joke, however, of all was, that neither I nor my man had ever travelled that way before! All we knew was, that we had to walk fifty miles through an uninhabited country, and that then we should, or at least ought to, reach Isle Jérémie. There were two solitary houses, however, that we had to pass on the way; the one an outpost of the Hudson Bay Company, the other a saw-mill belonging to one of the lumber companies (or timber-traders) in Quebec. In fact, the best idea of our situation may be had from the following lines, which may be supposed to have been uttered by the establishment to which we were bound:—
“Through the woods, through the woods, follow and find me,
Search every hollow, and dingle, and dell;
To the right, left, or front, you may pass, or behind me,
Unless you are careful, and look for me well.”
The first part of our road lay along the shores of the St. Lawrence.
The sun shone brightly, and the drifting ice in the gulf glittered in its rays as it flowed slowly out to sea; but ere long the warm rays acted upon the snow, and rendered walking toilsome and fatiguing. After about an hour’s walk along the shore, we arrived at the last hut we were likely to see that day. It was inhabited by an Indian and his family. Here we rested a few minutes, and I renewed my snow-shoe lines, the old ones having broken by the way.
Shortly after this we passed the wreck of what had once been a fine ship. She lay crushed and dismasted among the rocks and lumps of ice which lined the desolate shore, her decks and the stumps of her masts drifted over with snow. Six short months before, she had bounded over the Atlantic wave in all the panoply of sail and rigging pertaining to a large three-master, inclosing in her sturdy hull full many a daring heart beating high with sanguine hopes, and dreaming of fame and glory, or perchance of home. But now, how great the change!—her sails and masts uprooted, and her helm—the seaman’s confidence and safeguard—gone; her bed upon the rocks and pebbles of a dreary shore; and her shattered hull hung round with icicles, and wrapped in the cold embraces of the wintry ocean. Few things, I think, can have a more inexpressibly melancholy appearance than a wreck upon a rocky and deserted shore in winter.
The road now began to get extremely bad. The ice, over which we had to walk for miles, had been covered with about six inches of water and snow. A sharp frost during the night had covered this with a cake of ice sufficiently strong to bear us up until we got fairly upon it, and were preparing to take another step, when down it went—so that we had a sort of natural treadmill to exercise ourselves upon all day; while every time we sank, as a matter of course our snowshoes were covered with a mixture of water, snow, and broken ice, to extricate our feet from which almost pulled our legs out of the sockets.
In this way we plodded slowly and painfully along, till we came to a part of the shore where the ice had been entirely carried off, leaving the sandy beach uncovered for about two miles. We gladly took advantage of this, and, pulling off our snow-shoes, walked along among the shells and tangle of the sea-shore. At this agreeable part of our journey, while we walked lightly along, with our snow-shoes under our arms, I fell into a reverie upon the superior advantages of travelling in cold weather, and the delights of walking on sandy beaches in contrast with wet snow. These cogitations, however, were suddenly interrupted by our arrival at the place where the ice had parted from the general mass; so, with a deep sigh, we resumed our snow-shoes. My feet, from the friction of the lines, now began to feel very painful; so, having walked about ten miles, I proposed taking a rest. To this my man, who seemed rather tired, gladly acceded, and we proceeded to light a fire under the stem of a fallen tree which opportunely presented itself.
Here we sat down comfortably together; and while our wet shoes and socks dried before the blazing fire, and our chafed toes wriggled joyously at being relieved from the painful harness of the snow-shoes, we swallowed a cup of congou with a degree of luxurious enjoyment, appreciable only by those who have walked themselves into a state of great exhaustion after a hurried breakfast.
Greatly refreshed by the tea, we resumed our journey in better spirits, and even affected to believe we were taking an agreeable afternoon walk for the first mile or so. We soon, however, fell to zero again, as we gazed wistfully upon the long line of coast stretching away to the horizon. But there was no help for it; on we splashed, sometimes through ice, water, and snow, and sometimes across the shingly beach, till the day was far spent, when I became so exhausted that I could scarcely drag one foot after the other, and moved along almost mechanically. My man, too, strong as he was, exhibited symptoms of fatigue; though, to do him justice, he was at least seven times more heavily laden than I.
While we jogged slowly along in this unenviable condition, a lump of ice offered so tempting a seat that we simultaneously proposed to sit down. This was very foolish. Resting without a fire is bad at all times; and the exhausted condition we were then in made it far worse, as I soon found to my cost. Tired as I was before, I could have walked a good deal farther; but no sooner did I rise again to my feet than an inexpressible weakness overcame me, and I felt that I could go no farther. This my man soon perceived, and proposed making a fire and having a cup of tea; and then, if I felt better, we might proceed. This I agreed to; so, entering the woods, we dug a hole in the snow, and in half an hour had a fire blazing in it that would have roasted an ox! In a short time a panful of snow was converted into hot tea; and as I sat sipping this, and watching the white smoke as it wreathed upwards from the pipe of my good-natured guide, I never felt rest more delightful.
The tea refreshed us so much that we resumed our journey, intending, if possible, to reach Port Neuf during the night; and as we calculated that we had walked between fifteen and eighteen miles, we hoped to reach it in a few hours.
Away, then, we went, and plodded on till dark without reaching the post; nevertheless, being determined to travel as long as we could, we pushed on till near midnight, when, being quite done up, and seeing no sign of the establishment, we called a council of war, and sat down on a lump of ice to discuss our difficulties. I suggested that if we had not already passed the post, in all probability we should do so, if we continued to travel any farther in the dark. My companion admitted that he entertained precisely the same views on the subject; and, furthermore, that as we both seemed pretty tired, and there happened to be a nice little clump of willows, intermixed with pine trees, close at hand, his opinion was that nothing better could be done than encamping for the night. I agreed to this; and the resolution being carried unanimously, the council adjourned, and we proceeded to make our encampment.
First of all, the snow was dug away from the foot of a large pine with our snow-shoes, which we used as spades; and when a space of about ten feet long, by six broad, was cleared, we covered it with pine branches at one end, and made a roaring fire against the tree at the other. The snow rose all around to the height of about four feet, so that when our fire blazed cheerily, and our supper was spread out before it upon my green blanket, we looked very comfortable indeed—and what was of much more consequence, felt so. Supper consisted of a cup of tea, a loaf of bread, and a lump of salt butter. After having partaken largely of these delicacies, we threw a fresh log upon the fire, and rolling ourselves in our blankets, were soon buried in repose.
Next morning, on awaking, the first thing I became aware of was the fact that it was raining, and heavily too, in the shape of a Scotch mist. I could scarcely believe it, and rubbed my eyes to make sure; but there was no mistake about it at all. The sky was gray, cold, and dismal, and the blanket quite wet! “Well,” thought I, as I fell back in a sort of mute despair, “this is certainly precious weather for snow-shoe travelling!” I nudged my sleeping companion, and the look of melancholy resignation which he put on, as he became gradually aware of the state of matters, convinced me that bad as yesterday had been, to-day would be far worse.
When I got upon my legs, I found that every joint in my body was stiffer than the rustiest hinge ever heard of in the annals of doors! and my feet as tender as a chicken’s, with huge blisters all over them. Bezeau, however, though a little stiff, was otherwise quite well, being well inured to hardships of every description.
It is needless to recount the miseries of the five miles’ walk that we had to make before arriving at Port Neuf, over ground that was literally next to impassable. About nine o’clock we reached the house, and remained there for the rest of the day. Here, for three days, we were hospitably entertained by the Canadian family inhabiting the place; during this time it rained and thawed so heavily that we could not venture to resume our journey.
On the 16th the weather became colder, and Bezeau announced his opinion that we might venture to proceed. Glad to be once more on the move—for fears of being arrested altogether by the setting-in of spring had begun to beset me—I once more put on my snow-shoes; and, bidding adieu to the hospitable inmates of Port Neuf, we again wended our weary way along the coast. Alas! our misfortunes had not yet ceased. The snow was much softer than we anticipated, and the blisters on my feet, which had nearly healed during the time we stayed at Port Neuf, were now torn open afresh. After a painful and laborious walk of eight or nine miles, we arrived at a small house, where a few enterprising men lived who had penetrated thus far down the gulf to erect a saw-mill.
Here we found, to our infinite joy, a small flat-bottomed boat, capable of carrying two or three men; so, without delay, we launched it, and putting our snow-shoes and provisions into it, my man and I jumped in, and pulled away down the gulf, intending to finish the twenty miles that still remained of our journey by water. We were obliged to pull a long way out to sea, to avoid the ice which lined the shore, and our course lay a good deal among drifting masses.
Half an hour after we embarked a snow-storm came on, but still we pulled along, preferring anything to resuming the snow-shoes.
After a few hours’ rowing, we rested on our oars, and refreshed ourselves with a slice of bread and a glass of rum—which latter, having forgotten to bring water with us, we were obliged to drink pure. We certainly cut a strange figure, while thus lunching in our little boat—surrounded by ice, and looking hazy through the thickly falling snow, which prevented us from seeing very far ahead, and made the mountains on shore look quite spectral.
For about five miles we pulled along in a straight line, after which the ice trended outwards, and finally brought us to a stand-still by running straight out to sea. This was an interruption we were not at all prepared for, and we felt rather undecided how to proceed. After a little confabulation, we determined to pull out, and see if the ice did not again turn in the proper direction; but after pulling straight out for a quarter of a mile, we perceived, or imagined we perceived, to our horror, that the ice, instead of being stationary, as we supposed it to be, was floating slowly out to sea with the wind, and carrying us along with it. No time was to be lost; so, wheeling about, we rowed with all our strength for the shore, and after a pretty stiff pull gained the solid ice. Here we hauled the flat up out of the water with great difficulty, and once more put on our snow-shoes.
Our road still lay along shore, and, as the weather was getting colder, we proceeded along much more easily than heretofore. In an hour or two the snow ceased to fall, and showed us that the ice was not drifting, but that it ran so far out to sea that it would have proved a bar to our further progress by water at any rate.
The last ten miles of our journey now lay before us; and we sat down, before starting, to have another bite of bread and a pull at the rum bottle; after which, we trudged along in silence. The peculiar compression of my guide’s lips, and the length of step that he now adopted, showed me that he had made up his mind to get through the last part of the journey without stopping; so, tightening my belt, and bending my head forward, I plodded on, solacing myself as we advanced by humming, “Follow, follow, over mountain,—follow, follow, over sea!” etcetera.
About four or five o’clock in the afternoon, upon rounding a point, we were a little excited by perceiving evident signs of the axe having been at work in the forest; and a little farther on discovered, to our inexpressible joy, a small piece of ground enclosed as a garden. This led us to suppose that the post could not be far off, so we pushed forward rapidly; and upon gaining the summit of a small eminence, beheld with delight the post of Isle Jérémie.
This establishment, like most of the others on the St. Lawrence, is merely a collection of scattered buildings, most of which are storehouses and stables. It stands in a hollow of the mountains, and close to a large bay, where sundry small boats and a sloop lay quietly at anchor. Upon a little hillock close to the principal house is a Roman Catholic chapel; and behind it stretches away the broad St. Lawrence, the south shore of which is indistinctly seen on the horizon. We had not much inclination, however, to admire the scenery just then; so, hastening down the hill, my man walked into the men’s house, where in five minutes he was busily engaged eating bread and pork, and recounting his adventures to a circle of admiring friends; while I warmed myself beside a comfortable fire in the hall, and chatted with the gentleman in charge of the establishment.
At Isle Jérémie I remained about six weeks; or rather, I should say, belonged to the establishment for that time, as during a great part of it I was absent from the post. Mr Coral, soon after my arrival, went to visit the Company’s posts lower down the St. Lawrence, leaving me in charge of Isle Jérémie; and as I had little or nothing to do in the way of business (our Indians not having arrived from the interior), most of my time was spent in reading and shooting.
It was here I took my first lessons in navigation—I mean in a practical way; as for the scientific part of the business, that was deferred to a more favourable opportunity—and, truly, the lessons were rather rough. The way of it was this:— Our flour at Isle Jérémie had run out. Indians were arriving every day calling loudly for flour, and more were expected; so Mr Coral told me, one fine morning, to get ready to go to Tadousac in the boat for a load of flour. This I prepared to do at once, and started after breakfast in a large boat, manned by two men. The wind was fair, and I fired a couple of shots with my fowling-piece, as we cleared the harbour, in answer to an equal number of salutes from two iron cannons that stood in front of the house. By-the-bye, one of these guns had a melancholy interest attached to it a few months after this. While firing a salute of fourteen rounds, in honour of the arrival of a Roman Catholic bishop, one of them exploded while the man who acted as gunner was employed in ramming home the cartridge, and blew him about twenty yards down the bank. The unfortunate man expired in a few hours. Poor fellow! he was a fine little Canadian, and had sailed with me, not many weeks before, in a voyage up the St. Lawrence. But to return. Our voyage, during the first few days, was prosperous enough, and I amused myself in shooting the gulls which were foolish enough to come within range of my gun, and in recognizing the various places along shore where I had rested and slept on the memorable occasion of my snow-shoe trip.
But when did the St. Lawrence prove friendly for an entire voyage? Certainly not when I had the pleasure of ploughing its rascally waters! The remainder of our voyage was a succession of squalls, calms, contrary winds, sticking on shoals for hours, and being detained on shore, with an accompaniment of pitching, tossing, oscillation and botheration, that baffles all description. However, time brings the greatest miseries to an end; and in the process of time we arrived at Tadousac—loaded our boat deeply with flour—shook hands with our friends—related our adventures—bade them adieu—and again found ourselves scudding down the St. Lawrence, with a snoring breeze on our quarter.
Now this was truly a most delectable state of things, when contrasted with our wretched trip up; so we wrapped our blankets round us (for it was very cold), and felicitated ourselves considerably on such good fortune. It was rather premature, however; as, not long after, we had a very narrow escape from being swamped. The wind, as I said before, was pretty strong, and it continued so the whole way; so that on the evening of the second day we came within sight of Isle Jérémie, while running before a stiff breeze, through the green waves which were covered with foam. Our boat had a “drooping nose,” and was extremely partial to what the men termed “drinking;” in other words, it shipped a good deal of water over the bows. Now it happened that while we were straining our eyes ahead, to catch a sight of our haven, an insidious squall was creeping fast down behind us. The first intimation we had of its presence was a loud and ominous hiss, which made us turn our heads round rather smartly; but it was too late—for with a howl, that appeared to be quite vicious the wind burst upon our sails, and buried the boat in the water, which rushed in a cataract over the bows, and nearly filled us in a moment, although the steersman threw her into the wind immediately. The sheets were instantly let go, and one of the men, who happened to be a sailor, jumped up, and, seizing an axe, began to cut down the main-mast, at the same time exclaiming to the steersman, “You’ve done for us now, Cooper!” He was mistaken, however, for the sails were taken in just in time to save us; and, while the boat lay tumbling in the sea, we all began to bail, with anything we could lay hands on, as fast as we could. In a few minutes the boat was lightened enough to allow of our hoisting the fore-sail; and about half an hour afterwards we were safely anchored in the harbour.
This happened within about three or four hundred yards of the shore; yet the best swimmer in the world would have been drowned ere he reached it, as the water was so bitterly cold, that when I was bailing for my life, and, consequently, in pretty violent exercise, my hands became quite benumbed and almost powerless.
Shortly after this I was again sent up to Tadousac, in charge of a small bateau, of about ten or fifteen tons, with a number of shipwrecked seamen on board. These unfortunate men had been cast on shore about the commencement of winter, on an uninhabited part of the coast, and had remained without provisions or fire for a long time, till they were discovered by a gentleman of the Hudson Bay Company, and conveyed over the snow in sleighs to the nearest establishment, which happened to be Isle Jérémie. Here they remained all winter, in a most dreadfully mutilated condition, some of them having been desperately frozen. One of the poor fellows, a negro, had one of his feet frozen off at the ankle, and had lost all the toes and the heel of the other, the bone being laid bare for about an inch and a half. Mr Coral, the gentleman who had saved them, did all in his power to relieve their distress—amputating their frozen limbs, and dressing their wounds, while they were provided with food and warm clothing. I am sorry to say, however, that these men, who would have perished had it not been for Mr Coral’s care of them, were the first, upon arriving at Quebec the following spring, to open their mouths in violent reproach and bitter invective against him; forgetting that, while their only charge against him was a little severity in refusing them a few trifling and unnecessary luxuries, he had saved them from a painful and lingering death.
In a couple of days we arrived at Tadousac the second time, to the no small astonishment of my brother scribbler residing there. After reloading our craft, we directed our course once more down the gulf.
This time the wind was also favourable, but, unfortunately, a little too strong; so we were obliged, in the evening, to come to an anchor in Esquimain River. This river has good anchorage close to the bank, but is very deep in the lead, or current; this, however, we did not know at the time, and seeing a small schooner close to shore, we rounded to a few fathoms outside of her, and let go our anchor. Whirr! went the chain—ten! twelve! sixteen! till at last forty fathoms ran out, and only a little bit remained on board, and still we had no bottom. After attaching our spare cable to the other one, the anchor at last grounded. This, however, was a dangerous situation to remain in, as, if the wind blew strong, we would have to run out to sea, and so much cable would take a long time to get in; so I ordered my two men, in a very pompous, despotic way, to heave up the anchor again. But not a bit would it budge. We all heaved at the windlass; still the obstinate anchor held fast. Again we gave another heave, and smashed both the handspikes.
In this dilemma I begged assistance from the neighbouring schooner, and they kindly sent all their men on board with new handspikes; but our refractory anchor would not let go, and at last it was conjectured that it had got foul of a rock, and that it was not in the power of mortal man to move it. Under these pleasant circumstances we went to bed, in hopes that the falling tide might swing us clear before morning. This turned out just as we expected—or, rather, a little better—for next morning, when I went on deck, I found that we were drifting quietly down the gulf, stern foremost, all the sails snugly tied up, and the long cable dragging at the bows! Towards evening we arrived at Jérémie, and I gladly resigned command of the vessel to my first lieutenant.
One afternoon, near the middle of April, I sat sunning myself in the veranda before the door of the principal house at Isle Jérémie, and watched the fields of ice, as they floated down the Gulf of St. Lawrence, occasionally disappearing behind the body of a large pig, which stood upon a hillock close in front of me, and then reappearing again as the current swept them slowly past the intervening obstacle.
Mr Coral, with whom I had been leading a very quiet, harmless sort of life for a couple of weeks past, leant against a wooden post, gazing wistfully out to sea. Suddenly he turned towards me, and with great gravity told me that, as there was nothing particular for me to do at the establishment, he meant to send me down to Seven Islands, to relieve the gentleman at that post of his charge; adding, that as he wished me to set off the following morning at an early hour, I had better pack up a few things to-night.
Now, this order may not seem, at the first glance, a very dreadful one; but taking into consideration that Seven Islands is one hundred and twenty miles below the post at which I then resided, it did appear as if one would wish to think about it a little before starting. Not having time to think about it, however, I merely, in a sort of bantering desperation, signified my readiness to undertake a voyage to any part of the undiscovered world, at any moment he (Mr Coral) might think proper, and then vanished, to prepare myself for the voyage.
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 Go............