Saltus Grammar School - Yearbook (Hamilton, Bermuda)

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33 we stopped at Pinkham Notch and bought souvenirs. We all agreed that the trip was wonderful except for our blistered feet and toes. John Barritt, VI. SHIP-WRECK It was on my first voyage that the most tragic ship-wreck I was ever in occurred. We were many miles at sea. I was a new hand, making my fi rst trip as an apprentice. Our ship was a four-masted schooner, out of Halifax, N.S., bound for Bermuda with a cargo of coal. It was a sweltering hot day, and all the crew that were off duty were lounging in the shade of the mainsail. There was not a bit of breeze, and our sails were hanging in great shapeless masses. The sea was as smooth as glass, and the sky looked like a great inverted blue bowl, with the sun a golden spot in its centre. There was not a sound, except the clattering of a swinging block, the scrape of a loose rope, and the sound of the captain ' s footsteps. He was pacing up and down the deck, his forehead wrinkled in a puzzled frown. Now and then he would gaze out towards the Northern horizon, as if trying to see over the rim. We did not know that the barometer was rapidly falling, and this is what worried the captain. At last, as if satisfied, he ordered all hands on deck, to take in all the sails, to batten down the hatches, and to tie all movable gear to the deck. I thought the captain had taken leave of his senses, but the captain ' s word is law at sea, so I and the rest of the grumbling seamen went aloft to take in sail. At last the sails were neatly furled, with the exception of one. We were going back to the deck, except for those luckless men furling that sail. On the way down, I happened to be facing the north. There, stretching from the East to the West was a purple haze that was bearing down on us with incredible speed. I was aware of a tiny whistling noise that grew, until it seemed to be breaking my ear-drums. All the sailors were running madly for the forecastle, but I ran aft to the captain. Just as I reached him a great gust of wind hit us. It seemed as solid as the face of a board, and had the captain and I not been sheltered by a deck house, we would have been swept overboard, as the man at the wheel had been. Our vessel heeled over until our lee-rail was under water. That sail that the men had been taking in, was blown out of its stays with a crack like a cannon shot. The mast, weakened by the shock went overboard, carrying with it five unfortunate seamen, and then remained by our side, held by numerous ropes, a tangled, splintered mass of wreckage. There was nothing for us to do but run before the wind with bare poles. To attempt to turn our bow into the wind would be impossible. The wreck of our once proud and stately mast, kept pulling us broadside to the waves. This made it necessary for it to be cut loose. The captain ordered me to

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32 A TRIP TO THE MT. WASHINGTON RANGE By Boys of Camp Hawthorne, Panther Lake, Raymond, Me. Before I begin to describe the mountain trip to Mt. Washington I think I ought to say something about Camp Hawthorne. It is a summer camp for boys, situated in the Maine woods on a cape of land of over one hundred acres extending into Panther Lake, (3 miles long and 1 mile broad) twenty-five miles directly inland from Portland Maine, near the village of Raymond. The camp season lasts from July 1st to August 27th, 1932. On August 2nd, 1931, fifteen campers, one junior councillor and two councillors left the camp by bus for Pinkham Notch, which is a hut belong- ing to the Appalachian Mountain Club, and sixty-five miles away at the foot of Mt. Washington. We had sandwiches, milk, and fruit for lunch by the roadside. We arrived at Pinkham Notch in the early part of the afternoon, and after we had picked out our bunks in the cabins, we hiked to Emerald Pool about three miles farther down the road. The pool was anything but emerald, but it was certainly cold. We started back and arrived about an hour before supper. In the meantime we tried to ring horseshoes. Next morning we were up bright and early; most of us took show ers while a few others, more lazily inclined, did not indulge. We had break- fast and started up the mountain trail about 8.15 a.m. At first the climb- ing was most exhausting, which necessitated frequent stops. In the after- noon we had become used to climbing and only stopped at long intervals. On this mountain trip chocolate bars and raisins are taken to refresh the boys between meals. We stopped at the Silver Cascades, a small but beautiful waterfall and again at Hermit Lake Shelter, where we had choco- late bars and raisins. Our next stop was the head wall where we ate our lunch which we had carried from Pinkham Notch. We then moved on to the Lake of the Clouds hut, where we picked our bunks. Nine of us went swimming for a little while only, as the altitude was about six thousand feet and the water was very cold. We then climbed to the peak of Mt. Washington, where we stayed for a couple of -hours. There is a hotel there owned by the Mount Washington Railway. They run a cog-wheel train up to the top of the Mountain for people who are not active enough to climb it. As the transportation of food to the hotel is difficult, it is very expensive. A good example of this is a dough-nut costing ten cents. Wednesday morning we started early and climbed Mts. Clay, Jeffer- son and the two Adams. We then came down to the Madison Spring Huts, where we met Camp Arcadia, a camp for girls. The clouds were very low, hanging around the hut. In a little while the rain was pouring down furi- ously upon the roof. We spent a most enjoyable evening playing cards with the girls of the camp until bed time. After breakfast we started down the mountain trail from Mt. Madison at 8.30 a.m. and arrived at the bottom about noon where we met the camp bus. On our way back

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34 go and get three men to help me do this job. I managed to get two; the others openly refused to leave the forecastle. I and my two helpers tied ropes around ourselves in case we were washed overboard. Then began the long and dangerous job of cutting away the ropes. Twice I was washed overboard, but each time managed to climb back by the rope to the deck, cut and bruised, but nevertheless more determined to finish the job. At last the job was done, and I returned to the captain, tired, half-drowned, but happy in the knowledge that I helped save the ship. Thus for many hours we were buffeted about by the storm-lashed sea and wind. With great clouds shutting out the heavens, ringing us in a little world of our own, and so low that they seemed to be touching our three remaining masts. Then the mate, stationed in the bow, cried Breakers ahead! With these words he scrambled aft, across our wave-washed deck. A few seconds before we struck, I saw the breakers, a great foam covered mass, that seemed as soft as cotton-wool, but was as hard as iron, and as sharp as swords. We struck. Two of the remaining masts went overboard, snapped off at the deck, but the mizzen mast tottered back and forth, and remained standing, held only by the stays. We struck with such force, that the boat was driven half way up the reef. The sailors in the forecastle must have been instantaneously killed, for where they were was now a mass of splintered wreckage. Nevertheless the captain tried to cut his way down to them, but the ship was fast breaking up. Our life-boats had been reduced to kindling wood, but we cut a mast loose, and tying ourselves to it, tried to reach shore. Before we managed to get away from the ship the mizzen mast came tumbling down, and hit the mate, breaking his arm and leg. The last I can remember was being lifted by a huge wave over the reefs. Something hit me on the head and I lost consciousness. I regained my senses a week later, and discovered we were wrecked on the north reefs of Bermuda. The captain and I were the only survivors. He was uninjured, but I was cut and bruised, and sore all over. The mate had reached the shore alive, only to die in hospital, of internal injuries, received by the falling mast. The captain was given another ship, and I sailed on her as his mate. R. L. Ferguson, VI. THE SCHOOL CLOCK ' S LAMENT Bong! Bong! Heigh-ho! Another day started. That new-fangled clock is striking eight. I can imagine its face, its proud ticking, waiting for the key of the school door to click in the lock. I can remember my first day. I can remember when two workmen put me up on the wall facing the door. I ticked away proudly and pati- ently waited for morning to come.