The Last Cruise of the Shanghai

[MOVED by an irresistible longing for adventure, F. DeWitt Wells, formerly a municipal court judge of New York, his twenty-three-year-old son Jay, and a cousin, Chanler Chapman, together with two Scandinavian sailors, set sail from Bergen last summer in a ketch bound for America over the Viking trail. Their boat, the Shanghai, had been built in China of teakwood, and proved herself on a sixteen-thousandmile voyage to Copenhagen. She measured forty-seven feet over all, and sixteen feet three inches beam. She was double-ended, with a flush deck of teak, ketch rigged, with mainsail and small mizzen, and was equipped with a ten-horse-power kerosene motor, at best capable of five miles an hour.
Judge Wells purchased the Shanghai at Copenhagen, and with the assistance of the former owners and Chapman sailed to Bergen, where the boat was to be hauled up, painted, and provisioned for the voyage. Here the crew was augmented by the arrival of Jay Wells, and by the signing-on of two young Norwegians, Ask Bryndelson and ‘Tom.’ These five embarked from Bergen on the tenth of July, put in at the Faroe Islands on the thirteenth, and at Reykjavik, Iceland, on the twenty-first, where Tom was replaced by a twenty-year-old Dane, Arnold Bagerskov. Continuing by dead reckoning and without serious mishap, the Shanghai sailed from Iceland to Greenland, and thence to Battle Harbor, Labrador, Dr. Grenfell’s mission. Two thousand, nine hundred and seventy-eight miles had been covered. On August 15 they left on the last leg of their course, the seven hundred miles of water between Battle Harbor and Shelburne, Nova Scotia. The engine was misbehaving, and provisions were low. Here Judge Wells’s Odyssey may take up the narrative. — THE EDITOR]


WE had left Battle Harbor on August 15 at noon and had come through the Straits of Belle Isle and down the western coast of Newfoundland to the Bay of Islands. There we had stopped to repair our engine, which proved to be irreparable. We decided to push on without the aid of machinery, and on Thursday, the twenty-second, we tacked out the narrow twenty miles of Humber Arm and through the bay, and at dawn on the twenty-third we were off the outer light and into the Gulf of St. Lawrence.

For three days there was fog with light winds, and we were glad on the morning of the twenty-fifth to be in the ocean again, where we at least would have wind enough to sail and make some progress on the last leg of our long journey home.

Late in the day we took a tack in toward the shore, but there was a mild fog and a fresh wind, and we did not want to go too close, nor yet miss Cape Canso.

We did not make out the shore. We turned again and went southerly during the night, and in the morning we were out of sight of land, with no possibility of taking an observation or finding out just where we were. We could see a mile or so ahead and from time to time sighted a schooner. Deciding to locate our position, we again turned toward the shore and about eleven came on a fishing boat that was a little to the east of us.

There was a dory out fishing, so we drew near and spoke to the men on the smack and asked them where we were.

It seems we were about four miles off the Cranberry Island light-buoy, which is at the entrance into Canso. They gave us some fresh cod from their boatload. It was good to hear the fish come flopping down on the deck as they threw six or seven aboard. We were running short of provisions, had finished our keg of salt mutton which we had brought on deck from Bergen, and were just eating the last of the barrel of salted fish which had been lashed beside it.

It was too late to clean and cook the cod for lunch. Arnold as usual made us a meal of rice and tomatoes; we ate our biscuits and opened our last pot of jam — ‘tyttleberries’ was the jam — preserved Norwegian cranberries.

We soon made the light-buoy and sailed in until we were sure of Canso Light at Cranberry Island. We then could lay our course.

Canso is at the entrance of the Straits of Canso, between Nova Scotia and Cape Breton Island. White Point is noted for shipwrecks. It is almost the farthest southeastern point of Nova Scotia. From where we had spoken the fishing boat, it was about one hundred and ten to one hundred and twenty miles to Halifax.

The wind was light, the sea calm, and the barometer high as we turned seaward and went out almost southeast four or five miles from the coast. At seven the wind was stronger and I thought it safer to get away from a lee shore even though we were going miles away from our course, which was about west by south. We sailed away from seven to eight o’clock and, the wind being moderate but strong, we had all sails set, so that we must have made a good six knots during the hour, which brought us thirteen miles off the coast. For summer sailing this was an unnecessary precaution, but as we were so nearly home I was taking no risks.

We then went about and laid our course west-southwest, which would bring us well out of sight of land by morning, but it was safer to run in again than to take any chances. We gave out the course to Arnold and Chapman, who were on watch. The barometer was 75.9. There had been no drop as the night came on.

About ten o’clock the wind was blowing hard. Ask went on deck and came down to say that we had better take in the mainsail. Chapman objected, but the best thing was to reduce sail. It was almost a gale, yet not worse than we had had many nights in the past between Iceland and Greenland or across Davis Strait coming to Labrador. The boat could lay to under staysail and mizzen and ship little water. It took Chapman, Ask, and Arnold the strenuous part of an hour to get in the heavy sail, while all the time the wind was blowing stronger. It was finally furled and we were running under the two sails, staysail and mizzen. Probably we were not sailing, but with the boat headed west-southwest we should run clear of land and by daylight know better what to do.

At twelve the wind was blowing a gale and the barometer had dropped eighteen points. We tried five times to go about and head away if possible. The sea was so heavy that the small boat would not come up into the wind, and to jib would have meant carrying away the sails we had set, with the danger of hurting some of the crew and perhaps washing someone overboard.

We had the tiller hard down to hold the head to the wind, and the mizzen, while keeping her head up, also prevented us from going about. While we were making the attempt, the staysail blew out and we were helpless.

It was like flames whipping and tearing the sail. It burned like a roaring flame, and in a minute ropes and sail were carried away in whirling, shredded tongues.

We got out the small jib; our hope was that if we could get it up we could lower the mizzen and possibly get about, but that would have been impossible in the heavy seas. Four times we tried. We had the ropes on the windlass, but there was no chance. The wind simply carried the sail bellying over the side, and at the best we could raise it only halfway up the stay. There was nothing more to do. As long as the mizzen held we could keep the boat headed against the wind. The waves were now fifty or sixty feet high and breaking over us occasionally.

It was the greatest pleasure to watch the Shanghai ride the gigantic seas, sliding down with grace, and climbing with an energy and surety that was unbelievable. She was brave, buoyant, unconquered. She fought and labored with a courage that seemed to destroy fear and cowardice in any of us. It was a curious psychology, but the very bravery of the boat in the storm inspired us all. I really think that none of us trembled. It was terrific. We realized that we were in a hurricane, that we were being blown on a lee shore, and that our fate was destruction.

There was yet the chance of delay: that the storm would abate or that if we held out until dawn we could be saved and direct the boat into some harbor. The double flash of Cranberry Light was abeam, but it was growing steadily nearer, and when sometimes on the top of a wave we saw flashes they were like two warning, terrifying eyes through the spray and wind.

We had on board the sea anchor and one hundred and twenty fathoms of three-inch rope. The sea anchor had never been rigged or used, but the long rope had been useful many times, once when we had tried to pull ourselves off a shoal at the Westman Islands, again in Greenland, when we had stretched it across the harbor at Narsak and made it fast to a rock, and again in the Bay of Islands, when we carried a small anchor out to pull us away from shore on the night the wind had given out.

Ask rigged the sea anchor. It was put over on the starboard bow and two drip bags filled with engine oil were put over the side. We also hung cables out to delay the leeway we were making.

The ship steadied and came about, heading to the southeast. I knew that we were doomed and I could not help feeling that the Shanghai knew it too. She was comparatively quiet and behaved as if she were crippled and hampered.

Her buoyancy was gone. She rode well to the sea anchor, but her vitality was low. She acted as if she were ill, and although we shipped little water she was anchored to the storm.

There was no rock above the spray and the white mountains of foam and water rose two or three hundred feet high when we looked out at them in the daylight.

After we put out the sea anchor, the oil drips, and gathered up some of the tangle of canvas and ropes, Chapman and Arnold came below for a rest. They had all been working since before midnight and it was after three. There was no reason why they should not get some rest, and they look off their boots and clothes and turned in.

They climbed into the upper bunks, but I had previously made up my mind that I was going to die with my pants and shoes on, and I carefully put two twenty-dollar bills in my pocket, and a watch and chain with which I had very personal associations. Attached to the chain are still the rusted keys of the cabins of the Shanghai.

It may have been twenty minutes or it may have been ten after they came below that I went up the companionway to look at my son at the rudder and Ask at the door of the engine-room in the cockpit, watching the vanishing light of the lighthouse.

It went out of sight, and there was yet the chance that we had drifted by the point. There was an open bay beyond, and four or five miles to the north the coast came out to a point called Whitehead. The longer we could last the more chance there was.


I had hardly turned back across the cabin when there came a tremendous thud and crash. It was not in any specific place on the ship. It was simply an overwhelming, thundering blow. The lamp went out; water was pouring through the hatch and down the skylight. I lit the lamp. The lamp chimney was not broken, but the cabin was wrecked. Chapman and Arnold had been hurled from their bunks. Water was knee-deep on the cabin floor. The large teakwood table had been torn from its fastenings. I remember seeing a book floating about in the mess. It was the nautical almanac, and I wondered whether I ought to rescue it and preserve it for the next voyage.

Arnold picked himself up and I told him to get on his clothes and open the floor hatch to see how much water the boat was taking. He was dazed, but got on his boots and pants and went forward to the galley to find something to open the hatch in the floor. It was jammed and could not be lifted. He came back with an inadequate tablespoon and tried to pry it up. The spoon broke, but we did manage to open the hatch and found there was not a great deal of water in the hold.

It was the outer reef that we had struck. We had come over it and were alive. If the boat had been deeper we could not have passed. Had it been of lighter construction it would have been dashed to pieces. Had it been built of iron it would have been stove in and swamped at once. As a matter of fact, the construction of the boat was so stalwart, the beams and ribs of elmwood so massive, that although the shock was tremendous she yet held. I looked out. We could see nothing. Within three or four minutes we hit again.

There is nothing more rending and terrifying than when a boat strikes the rocks. It is a grinding, crushing shock like the end of a terrific fall — the blow of a great weight beating into your vitals. It was an agony of sickening thuds as we struck three times more. Finally we were pounding up against the face of a rock that rose black in the mist against the port side at an angle of fifty or sixty degrees. The spray and water were dashing against it and the waves were hammering us against it. There could not have been more than six or seven feet between the rail of the boat and the rock. Sometimes the ship yawed outward and again it was pounded closer.

My son was on deck with Ask. Chapman, Arnold, and I were in the cabin. My son had with him his torch flashlight, which in spite of the rain and sea was still alight. We threw the spotlight on the rock. Ask jumped and landed. Arnold threw him a rope, and he caught it. The rope was the other end of the heavy sea-anchor coil and for a moment it would not uncoil. Arnold went down to the engine-room to clear it. As we were lying on the deck, clinging to the rigging, it seemed an eternity before it began to pay out. Then Arnold jumped. His heavy rubber boots filled with water and submerged him. He managed to hold fast to the line and to kick off the boots. Ask pulled and a wave washed him up on to the face of the rock. He climbed above. Ask made a turn of the rope around a projecting piece of rock that was twenty or thirty feet above sea level. It was an extraordinary formation of the rock almost like a stanchion, but it gave enough hold for him to take in the slack. As he reached down with one hand and grabbed us, while with the other he pulled in, Arnold held on to the end of the rope.

My son then went over the side, and as he did so the ship gave a heavy lurch so that he seemed to be crushed between the ship and the rock. He clung with one hand to the rope and with the other fended himself off. Ask grabbed him, still clinging to the rope, out of the reach of the waves. My turn was next. We had been holding to the rigging and I had both arms around one of the towing-posts that was on the starboard side. Every wave completely submerged us and washed over the whole ship. My son on shore held the electric torch so that we could see what we were doing. Unfortunately, as I started, the water washed off my pants and they became entangled about my feet. I could have kicked them off, but I was bound not to lose them, for their pockets held my few earthly possessions. That foolish sense of property made me intent upon holding them.

As I threw myself over the side, holding the rope, I sunk deep in the water. It was only a moment, however, before I found myself against the face of the rock with Ask’s hand on my collar. My feet were still entangled, but I was able to get a knee-hold and in a moment was dragged to safety. Ask had almost torn the shirt from my back. Chapman came last, in underdrawers and bare feet. We all scrambled or climbed to safety above the waves.

Three or four minutes after that the ship broke and the decks disappeared, with only the masts above the water swinging and swaying with each pounding of the waves. We climbed to a farther height, into a hollow where there was a lee from the storm. There in some mossy turf we lay huddled together, striking each other to keep up circulation. Chapman and Arnold dug burrows in the wet moss, but as soon as I could I got to my feet. I preferred climbing and crawling to lying still.

It must have been three-thirty or nearly four in the morning by the time we were out of the water and saved. Probably there was not an hour to wait until daylight, but in the darkness, with a raging sea lashing the shore, the flying spray, and the howling wind, it was long waiting. It was cold and dark. The water was thrown from the sea over the top of the bluff and the storm was relentless. Chapman and Arnold were but half clad. Ask insisted on my taking his woolen sweater and leather seaman’s waistcoat. My shirt had been stripped in the struggle to land and I was bare to the waist, but in my trousers pocket were a photograph, my watch and chain, and two twenty-dollar bills, soaked and limp.

There was a disgusting reaction toward trivialities, and the habits and property inhibitions of years kept thrusting themselves into my mind, notwithstanding the enveloping sense of thankfulness and gratitude that we were alive. I recollect no sense of terror, nor did I hear one word or exclamation of fright or fear from the other four. They were all efficient, intent, and possessed. Each did his utmost with courage, and each thought of the others. There was not a sign or gesture of selfishness, but a great glow of bravery. As one of us said, ‘What else was there to do?’

As the light came, we began to explore the rock where we were. There seemed nothing but sea and rock and wind. The bluff was about ninety feet high; the raging sea was to the north, to the south, and to the west. Reefs with mountains of white foam were all about; to the east the water was surging..

We climbed over to the seaward side and there against the bluff was the wreck of the Shanghai. The masts and part of the bow were still above water. We had hit the outer reef a half-mile out, which had given the first crushing blow. Then we had been blown in, dashing against rocks, and finally had been thrown against the bluff. There was a narrow outer point and we had been partly protected against the full force of the waves. It was a miracle how we had come over to the reef through the rocks and against the bluff, with yet enough protection from that narrow point to break the waves before they swamped us. It gave us enough time to get on the rock. It would have been impossible, guided by human hand, to have made the shore or to have come through the wild sea and the perilous reef.

Below us, the beautiful boat was pounding. Each blow was an agony. We watched it, helpless. The masts were thrown back and forth, swaying. Like protesting, entreating arms they stretched upward, calling for aid. There was a large hollow in the rock opposite, above the water — a small cave. As planks and wreckage were swirled across against it they were thrown twenty or thirty feet in the air and hurled in splinters, yet the hull and the masts stayed. There was a sob in Ask’s voice as he cried: ‘Oh, the Shanghai! Oh, the Shanghai!’

To the very last she was gallant; the masts stood up and she fought unyielding, although conquered. There was no weakening or crumbling, no sinking. The mizzenmast went first, and for a space the heavy mainmast stood alone; then there was a tremendous blow and over it went. No one was to sail the Shanghai again. The long voyage from China through the Indian Ocean, around the Cape of Good Hope, up the Coast of Africa to Denmark, from Copenhagen to Norway, to the Faroe Islands, to Iceland, Greenland, and America was over. The beautiful boat, — one of the most wonderful and perfect boats in the world, — the Shanghai, my dream ship, was gone.


We were bitterly cold as we lay now on the wet moss behind the shoulder of the bluff. Ask went down and came climbing back with something in his hand. It was the bottle of aqua vitae. He had found it on the ledge of the rock, unbroken, with the cork still in. Only the label was washed off. It had floated and been lifted gently to a ledge of the rock and out of the reach of the waves. It seemed a miracle of Providence. What that half-bottle of fiery warmth meant to the exhausted crew of the Shanghai!

Arnold Bagerskov said that it was just a month he had been on board. We had sailed from Reykjavik July 28. July 27 was his twenty-first birthday. It was now the morning of August 27, exactly a month since he had brought his clothes to the ship.

He had been lying curled up and trying to keep warm under a burrow of moss which he had dug up as a shelter from the wind. His hands and feet were scratched and bruised where he had been thrown against the rocks. When he jumped overboard to get to the shore he had on his boots and had found he could not do anything with his feet. His boots were too heavy, so he kicked them off. His feet were bleeding; my knees were raw, scratched and scraped against the rocks; the others had bruises. Chapman was barefooted and in his underclothes. Otherwise we were sound and unhurt, and we were warmer from the drink.

After Ask had found the bottle, Arnold climbed down and came back with a little round black case about three inches long. I did n’t remember having seen it before on the boat. It had evidently come from the medicine chest, which we had had no occasion to open during the voyage. It was made of hard rubber, with a screw top.

‘See what I found!’ he cried. He handed it to me and I unscrewed the top. It seems unbelievable, but inside was a full ounce of powdered aristol and bismuth, perfectly dry and unspoiled. It was the one thing needed for our cuts and bruises.

We mended ourselves as well as we could, and from time to time went down the rocks to find pieces of planks and boards, an oar, the deck mop, the long heavy boat-hook. A mattress was washed ashore, with the linen cover; also a linen cover for a pillow — the pillow was gone. There was one of the leather-covered mattresses, a piece of lard, some candles, and three cans of kerosene from the engine-room. One, a five-gallon can, was leaking but nearly full. There were two twentyfive-gallon cans, too heavy to lift. We found a smashed plank from the bow. It was narrow and splintered at both ends, but on almost the only piece that was large enough to hold was painted the name of the boat, the letters S-H-A-N-G-H-A-I.

As the light grew we began to distinguish objects. To the south was the roaring sea. The line of the reef lay half a mile off. The sea breaking on it made a mountain of white foam higher than the cliff where we were. The rocks were almost continuous. It was unbelievable to think that we had come through. We looked to the west — open, angry sea. We looked to the north — tumult, waves, and anger. To the east we thought we could see land at one point. The light was faint, and the wind howling. We climbed down to a narrow point and found a surging gully of waves breaking from both directions, and a wild current. We were on a small island out at sea.

We gathered planks, and against the flat face of a rock we tried to build a shelter from the wind and cold. The linen cover we tore into a streamer and fastened it to the end of the boat-hook. Ask and I planted it in the moss on the top of the bluff. There could be no boats living outside in that weather, but it might be seen from shore and we might be rescued. There was no water on the island. We found blueberry bushes and a few ground-pine and spruce bushes, and with these we made a couch. Ask had kept in his pocket an old hunting-knife of mine. Once we thought we saw a house or hut, but when we came nearer it was a square boulder.

From time to time we climbed down to see if there might be anything to save. There was practically nothing, not a relic; no clothes, instruments, gear, ropes, parts, or anything of value. Everything was gone, smashed by the waves or carried to other rocks and washed out to sea. We were more interested in saving our lives. The question was, Where were we and how could we be rescued? How long could we last, with no water, food, or protection from the cold? We were still wet.

The light grew stronger, and across the point we thought we could see what looked like a hut. It was doubtful, but after a while we were certain and made out a fisherman’s hut, and farther off a group of buildings. They were gray, small, and silent. The question was, How to get to them? Ask was for plunging in. The gulch or, as it is called in Nova Scotia, the ‘ tickle ' was not wide, but the waves broke from both sides and the tide was racing through. The narrowest part, filled with rocks, was not more than a hundred feet across. It was like the rapids in a river, only with a high, breaking surf. I begged Ask to wait and see if the tide would not go down. He waited for a while, but it was hard to tell whether the water was getting higher or not.

He had given me his sweater and leather vest. With only shirt and pants he finally plunged into the broader part where the current was less. Four times he tried and was buffeted back. Finally he gained the opposite shore. We saw him go to the hut and over to the other buildings and then, running to the top of the hill, disappear. It was as if he had seen something. He was gone half an hour and, coming back, shouted across to us. The huts and buildings were empty. They were fishermen’s houses, used for lobstering. There was no sign of life. It was another island and at the other end was another wider gulch which he was going to swim. Beyond that was what looked like the mainland.

I was too feeble not to agree. My heart was pumping and the others were exhausted. It must have been seven o’clock in the morning by this time. The sun was coming out and the wind was falling. The hurricane was past, but the sea was still roaring and lashing. We climbed about, ate blueberries, and watched the gully. Gradually we saw more seaweed on the rocks and we knew that the water was falling. We watched. By ten o’clock the water was only knee-deep. Chapman and Jay waded across first to show how easy it was. I was thoroughly a coward. Arnold had been wearing a woolen scarf and tied it around my neck. I had torn up the rest of the linen mattresscover with which to bind Chapman’s and Arnold’s feet, which were bare and bruised.

I felt that I had had enough shocks for one night and that I could not swim the current if I should fall in the rapid water. I kept quietly feeling of my heart, which pained me. I discovered it was tender to the touch and swollen. Then I realized for the first time that I had been flung against the rock when I came ashore. This gave me courage, and with the help of an oar I was able to wade across and stumble my way through the furze bushes to the nearest hut. It was empty, with a seaman’s bunk on one side, a plank table, some three-legged stools, a window, and nothing else, and had been used when men came lobstering. Over the doorway someone had derisively painted: ‘London Hotel.’

The sun came out and the wind died down. Outside the sea was raging. We lay about, dried our clothes, slept, and waited. What had become of Ask? Had he been able to swim the broader current and make the mainland? It seemed more questionable as the hours passed on. We were getting hungry and thirsty. I realized that with protection from the weather, and with the berries which grew about, we could hold out for several days until we were rescued or had gained strength to explore the island. The great question was fire and warmth. We had no covering and were hungry. If we could only get some kind of fire or find a way of making a light we could start a bonfire and attract attention. The other hut was full of lobster pots and buoys and we felt that we were justified in burning them up if it were necessary, but there was no way of starting a fire.

I had crawled into the board bunk in the hut and was thinking of the coming night. As I lay there I happened to notice an old match-box beside me. It was empty, but I began to wonder how it happened to be in the bunk. Possibly the fisherman who had left it there had been a lazy man who had been smoking in bed. Otherwise why should he have left it in the bunk rather than on the table or window ledge? I got up and began to explore the planks of the bunk and the chinks between them. There I found two — and only two — dry, untouched matches! I realized that with caution we could have our bonfire and warmth.

Arnold remembered the cans of kerosene that had been washed on the rocks from the Shanghai. He and Jay waded across again to the small island where we had come ashore. They brought over a leaking can of kerosene and three candles which they had picked up. If the wood for the fire were soaked with the kerosene it would certainly make a blaze and attract attention. We now had warmth and light for the night.

By four o’clock in the afternoon we had made up our minds that we should have to spend the night there. Ask, even if he had not been drowned, had found it too hard to get help, or that the sea was too dangerous for anyone to venture out in such weather.

Jay, across the island in another hut, had found a dried codfish skin on which had been left a few shreds of salt fish. We picked this off and ate it, although it made us more thirsty. We were still afraid to try the swampy rain-water which we found in the pools under the moss. There was not yet need to run further risks.

At five o’clock the others were lying in the grass at the side of the hut. I was inside trying to collect my thoughts and peace of mind. Suddenly there was a shout and halloo, and there outside were two Nova Scotian sailors, smiling, hearty, and vigorous. They were welcome savers of life.

Ask had tramped across the island without finding anything but the empty huts and a boathouse which we had seen. The island was deserted. He plunged into the current of the gully at the other end. The land across was another island, uninhabited and bare. By this time his knees were stiff and his legs and feet heavy. The water beyond was wide and the tide rushing. He could hardly swim. His shoes he still wore, but he was exhausted from the night of the shipwreck and the struggle up the bluff. He had run and was now swimming the third gulch. The tide was racing and the waves breaking. White Point consists of a series of three islands. The outermost, on which the Shanghai had struck, is called White Bluff. Beyond that are the reefs, and to the west is Dover Bay, where the transatlantic cable comes. The next island, to which we had crossed and where we were now waiting, was used for lobster-fishing during the season. This was the reason for the huts and shelters.

Ask was powerful and young and had won a championship for swimming in Norway. Finally he reached the mainland. No houses or any signs of habitation were in sight. He started running through the swamps and woods, not knowing where or how far he was going. Tearing through briers and stumps, over rocks, across streams, he found no road or path. He was headed east along the coast, with a wild desire for help. How many miles he went he does not know. The direct distance is about twelve miles, but he must have gone many more. Eventually he saw the spire of a church.

Running toward this, breaking a way through the underbrush, he came to a cleared space. There was a farmhouse with a woman standing by the door. He must have been a wild, terrifying sight coming from the woods, with black, disordered hair, bare throat and breast, torn shirt, breathless, gasping, exhausted.

‘What did you say to her?’

‘Nothing. I looked so wild she was afraid and went in and shut the door.’

He followed the road into the town of Canso. Men gathered about him. He told of the wreck, the need for help and rescue. They took him through the town and down to the wharves, where was the fishing station with smacks and schooners. Volunteers were called for. Captain MacDonald offered to go with his smack. Five brave men volunteered. Ask went with them. The sea was yet high, although the hurricane had passed. They sailed through the passage between the islands and came to the inner side. It would have been impossible to land on the outer. The boat lay to while they launched a dory. Ask had described as well as he could the position of the island and directed them to the place. The two men came in the dory through the surf, landed on a rock, walked across the island, and were about to cross to the smaller one where the Shanghai had been wrecked when they saw the fishermen’s hut where we were.

We had taken Arnold’s scarf and tied it to an oar and stuck it from the roof to make a signal. In an hour we were brought to the town of Canso and so were rescued.

Two days afterward we went by boat from Canso to Mulgrave, where we were to take the train through Halifax on our way to New York. We had all been outfitted with new clothes. Our adventure in the Shanghai was finished.