Page:The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 14.djvu/739

1864.] We, indeed, are feeble even in our purposes of travel. Not Kanes, Parrys, Franklins, not intrepid to brave the presence of the Arctic Czar, and look on his very face, with its half-year lights and shades,—we go only to see the skirts of his robe, blown southward by summer-seeking winds. But even the hope of this fills the Before with enchantment, and lures us like a charm.

Lures the ship, too, one would think: for how she flies! Fair wind and fog we had, where clear skies were looked for,—fair wind and clear skies, where we had expected to plough fog; Cape Sable forbears for once to hide itself; the shores of Nova Scotia are seen through an atmosphere of crystal and under an azure without stain, and on the third day the Gut of Canso is reached, and anchor cast in the little harbor of a little, dirty, bluenose villagette, ycleped "Port Mulgrave."

Port Mulgrave? Port Filth, Port Rum, Port Dirk-Knife, Port Prostitution, Port Fish-Gurry, Port everything unsavory and unconscionable!

"What news from the war?" asks Bradford of the first man, on landing.

Answer prompt. "Good news! Grant has been beaten, lost seventeen thousand men, and is making for Washington as fast as he can run!"

Respondent's visage questionable, however,—too dirty, and too happy. Hence further researches; and at last a man is found who (under prospects of trade) can contrive to tell the truth; and he acknowledges that even the Canadian telegraph has told no such story.

In the evening, as some of us go on shore, there is a drunken fight. Knives are drawn, great gashes given, blood runs like rain; the combatants tumble together into a shallow dock, stab in the mud and water, creep out and clench and roll over and over in the ooze, stabbing still, with beast-like, unintelligible yells, and half-intelligible curses. A great, nasty mob huddles round,—doing what, think you? Roaring with laughter, and hooting their fish-gurry happiness up to the welkin! Suddenly there is a surging among them; then Smith, our young parson, ploughs through, springs upon the fighters, who owe to nothing but extreme drunkenness their escape from the crime of murder. He clutches them,—jerks one this way, the other that, heedless of the still plunging knives,—fastens upon the worst hurt of the two, and drags him off. Are the lookers-on abashed? Never think it! They remonstrate! Smith jets at them fine sentences of fiery, rebuking eloquence. "Bah!" they say, "this is nothing; we are used to it!" It was their customary theatricals, their Spanish bull-fight; and they were little inclined to be robbed of their show.

"Smith, you ran great risk of your life," said one, as the intrepid man stepped on board, with a great gout of blood on his sleeve; "and your life is surely worth more by many times than that of the creatures you rescued."

"I know nothing about that; I only know that they have immortal souls, and are not fit to die."

"Nor to live either, unhappily," said another.

There was cod- and cunner-fishing while here. Trout, also, were caught in a pond a little inland,—good trout, too, though nothing, of course, to what we shall find in Labrador! Enjoy, while ye may, short pleasures, O trouters! for long tramps—and faces—are to succeed!

June 11. After prolonged northeast rain a bright day, and with it the setting of sail, a many-handed seesaw at the windlass, and departure.

"Well rid of that vile hole!" says one and another.

"Oh, but you'll be glad enough to see it three months hence," answers the experienced Bradford.

And we were!

The wind blew briskly down the Gut; the tide also, which, especially on the ebb, runs with force, helping to carry off the waters of the St. Lawrence, was against us; and the deer-footed schooner made haste slowly toward the west. Slower vessels failed, and were swept down by the tide; we crept on, crept