The Continental Monthly, Vol. 1, No. 4, April, 1862: Devoted To Literature And National PolicyVarious
History
The Continental Monthly, Vol. 1, No. 4, April, 1862: Devoted To Literature And National Policy
Various
Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals; United States -- Politics and government -- 19th century -- Periodicals
And so we started; the leader being old Bill, who to some end, that I
could not then divine, bore a boat-sail bundled on his back. Our first
business was to make way to our surf or life boat. This lay about three
miles from the village, reckoning as the crow flies, and was sheltered
under a rude house which stood on the shores of a bay opening by an
inlet into the sea. Our common way of gaining this house was through a
circuitous passage of the sounds; but these we soon discovered, in
consonance with a previous prediction of old Bill's, were entirely
frozen over save in certain parts of their channels; and hence, this
route being unnavigable for such boats as were at hand, which, without
exception, were light gunning and fishing skiffs, we were forced to
avail ourselves of a barely practicable land track of which we knew, and
which, as it led about among the marshes, was also circuitous. And the
necessity of choosing this land path added to our difficulties, in that
we were forced to provide ourselves with a small batteau and drag it
behind us, to be able to cross many ditches and sloughs with which it
was barred, and which, particularly along their edges, were never really
frozen. After toiling and battling for a long period, and at the same
time having to face the most painfully cutting wind that burst
unobstructedly over the level area of the marshes, we at last reached
the house wherein the life-boat lay, and when old Bill had scrutinized
its oars, and stored it with a mingled collection of cordage, canvas and
spars, we ran it into the water. But now another trouble arose. The bay,
like the sounds of which indeed it formed a part, was covered with
ice,--either in solid sheets, or that thick slush, peculiar to ocean
estuaries, which is chiefly known as 'porridge ice,'--and, from its
comparative shallowness, covered so densely, too, that if we had trusted
to getting our boat out of it by sheer rowing, it would have taken us
the entire day so to do. In this emergency nothing would serve but that
we must advance bodily into the water, and, crushing and clearing away
the ice with our feet, drag the boat, in a depth at least sufficient for
her to float, to the entrance of the inlet, where the current ran so
strongly that no ice could gather. After a severely trying amount of
labor, this point was finally gained, and we stood fairly in front of
the tall, thundering breakers; whereupon each man nimbly jumped to his
place in the craft, that of steersman being the post of old Bill.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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