Is E.A. Brown Dead? In 1894, Charles McCain published a History of the SS Beaver containing a chapter recounting the events of the night that Edward Brown disappeared. Does it contain clues to what really happened or an answer to the mystery that followed and the ultimate fate of his friend? You be the judge!
Is E.A. Brown Dead? In 1894, Charles McCain published a History of the SS Beaver containing a chapter recounting the events of the night that Edward Brown disappeared. Does it contain clues to what really happened or an answer to the mystery that followed and the ultimate fate of his friend? You be the judge!
[INTRO]
[00:00:09] ANNOUNCER: Hello and welcome to a bonus episode of The Open Door. Last time, Andrew and Sara explored questions surrounding the mysterious death of E.A. Brown.
In 1894, Edward Brown's friend, Charles McCain, published his History of the S.S. Beaver. It contains a chapter titled ‘The Sad Ending of the Author's Last Trip in Search of Old-Time Naval Relics’. Today, Andrew is going to read McCain's account of the fateful night his friend disappeared. Take it away, Andrew.
[00:00:49] AH: There is always something strangely impressive about the closing hours of each year, something which seems to penetrate to the very soul, imbuing man with a seriousness seldom experienced at any other time. To me, these hours will ever have a double significance, as the result of my last unfortunate trip to the scene of the wrecked steamer Beaver. The hands of the little nickel clock on the stand indicated the hour of seven in the evening on December 31st ,1892, as the office door suddenly opened, and a laughing voice exclaimed, “Hello, not ready yet?” Looking up, I beheld my old friend, E.A. Brown, standing in the doorway with his arms filled with parcels.
The yellow webbed feet protruding from one of these bespoke its contents, revealing the fact that the family festive board would be amply provided for on New Year's Day. Little did the poor fellow realize that never again in this life should he look upon the faces of his dear ones. Little did he realize that he was now leaving behind a few holiday gifts as the last token of a father's love, and that before another son should blot out the old year, his spirit would be with its maker. Laying his parcels on the table, he stood talking for a few minutes and then left the room saying, “I’ve forgotten the children's candy.”
After a lapse of probably 15 minutes, he again reappeared. By this time, everything was in readiness for the start. Our kit consisted of a lantern, two axes, a saw, two crowbars, a piece of rope, a sledgehammer, and a wedge. Throwing these over our shoulders, we started on our fatal errand. A few minutes’ walk down a side avenue brought us to Linton's boathouse at the foot of Carol Street. Here, everything was silent as the grave, save the dull ceaseless ripple of the sea and the chinks of the float on which the boat house is constructed. We found the place entirely deserted by the boatman and his attendants. As we had engaged a boat for this occasion on our return from the wreck the previous evening, we decided to select one for ourselves from the large number that was lying on the float.
Our mutual choice was the Alice, a four-oared cedar skiff, sharp at both ends but with ample seating accommodation for at least three people. Our reason for selecting this boat in preference to a larger one, which we'd been in the habit of using on similar occasions, was that it was much lighter. Therefore, we would be able to make better headway as we wish to return before midnight on account of this being Saturday evening.
Launching the skiff, we stowed our luggage carefully below the seats and then went in search of the necessary complement of oars. This proved a more laborious task than had the finding of a boat, as the apartments in which the oars were kept were all locked. In consequence of this, we were obliged to resort to a large pile of [inaudible 00:03:43] oars and paddles at the corner of the boathouse. However, after sorting and resorting this pile, we managed to get four oars, which although slivered and cracked and otherwise imperfect, we concluded would answer our purpose.
Returning to the boat, we tied each of the rowlocks with a cord to the gunwale so as to prevent their loss in case they should happen to jump out of place. This accomplished, we took our positions in the boat. Mr. Brown is stroke, while I manned the forward oars. As we pushed from the dock, the musical strains of a brass band floated over the waters, lending apparently new zeal to the oars as they cut the water with quickening stroke, sending phosphoric glowing eddies whirling in rapid succession along the side of our little craft.
The night air was clear and cold. Yet we plied our oars with a vengeance that soon sent the hot blood coursing through our veins, and that made our frail skiff seem like a thing of life as it bounded out into the darkness. One by one, the dim lights of the city faded from our view, until we rounded Brockton Point when suddenly the entire undulating island of glittering ark lights vanished from our view. A description of Vancouver's Harbour and adjunct waters at this juncture would best serve, unless already familiar with the place, to give the reader a clearer understanding of the course we took and of our perilous situation on the occasion of which I write.
Opening off the Gulf of Georgia, five miles north of the Fraser's mouth, is a large squarely formed sheet of water known as English Bay. The southern boundary of this bay is formed by a wooden promontory of the mainland, projecting out into the gulf a distance of some seven miles, where it suddenly terminates in a rounded bluff called Point Grey. The northern boundary, slightly concave, runs parallel to the southern, which in appearance it closely resembles, except that the land rapidly ascends from the water line until, only a few miles back, it terminates in snowcapped peaks 4,700 feet above the sea.
The square face of the peninsula on which stands the City of Vancouver extends nearly across the bay at right angles to its sides, thus supplying its eastern boundary and forming a bay five miles by seven in extent. At the southeast corner of this bay, the waters creep through a narrow channel to the east, a distance of some three miles, forming a beautiful lagoon known as False Creek, while at the northeast corner lies the entrance to the magnificent landlocked harbour of Burrard Inlet.
This harbour or sound extends 12 miles eastward with an average breadth of about two miles. While eight miles from its mouth along the North Shore Channel, a mile in width, runs four leagues to the northward, among jutting rocks and steep mountains, which in places plunge almost perpendicularly into 95 fathoms of cold calm sea, remarkable for its transparency and mirror-like surface. The principal bays of the inlet are situated on the South Shore, as the main channel and currents follow along the north bank, rendering the coastline on that side comparatively straight.
The waters enter Burrard Inlet through a narrow pass, scarcely a quarter of a mile in breadth, which gradually increases until Brockton Point is reached half a league beyond. Here, the narrow neck of water suddenly becomes a spacious bay, reaching nearly through the land to the south and almost unites the waters of False Creek. Thus, forming the peninsula on which the city proper is erected.
Just inside of Brockton Point lies Deadman's Island. While beyond this, a slender arm of the inlet known as Cole Harbour forces its way west towards English Bay, almost severing the triangular point from the mainland. This small pear-shaped peninsula comprises the famous Stanley Park, covering an extent of some 950 acres. Also, the Brockton Point athletic grounds are situated at its eastern extremity and which on state occasions are connected with the city by means of a steam ferry.
The waters of Burrard Inlet, including the north arm, cover an area of about 35 square miles and being tide waters, are raised and lowered twice each day through the narrow channel that opens from English Bay. During the shortest days of the year, these tides are exceedingly low about midnight. Then, again, during midsummer, when the days are the longest, the tides reach their lowest mark around noonday. At these two periods of the year, the rise and fall of the tide in this harbour is close to 14 feet, which causes the water as it nears low mark to rush through the gateway with terrific force for a couple of hours at each long tide. But during the remainder of the 12 months, the variation being considerably less, the current is much reduced.
During the low tides in the midsummer of 1892, the hall of the old Beaver rapidly disappeared, as relic seekers from far and near visited the wreck, eager to possess a souvenir of the pioneer steamer. Also during the month of December, when on many nights James Menzies, Edward Brown, and myself rode to the wreck and succeeded in getting almost everything, which then remained, worth carrying away, even to the walking beams or oscillating levers so that by the end of the year, nothing could be seen of the historic steamer Beaver save at very low tide, as the hull had been cut away, except the section of the very bottom on which rested a few chunks of iron and a promiscuous pile of old furnace brick.
Included among these pieces of iron was the centre portion of the main shaft, a piece of forging about seven and a half feet in length by six inches in diameter, with an 18-inch crank at each end. This shaft, my companion, Mr. Brown, regarded as one of the finest and most valuable relics in the whole craft, and he desired very much to secure it as an interesting ornament to place on the lawn in front of his fine new residence on Mount Pleasant, a suburb of the city.
Consequently, it was arranged that we should go out on New Year's Eve and free this piece from the rest of the wreckage and get it in shape to fasten under a large boat, which we intended to take out on the Monday night following. All pieces of iron that were too heavy to put aboard the boat we would fasten underneath by means of ropes passed around over the top of the gunwale. Then as the tide would raise the boat, the iron below would be floated. After which, we could row to the city carrying in this way with comparative ease pieces weighing many hundreds of pounds.
We'd also decided to totally abandon the wreck after Monday night, as it would be then very little left worth going after, especially after midnight when the trips were always accompanied by more or less hardship. Strange to say, we never realized that our lives were in danger or at least I never did, although we worked about the wreck scores of times when at certain stages of the tide the waters would rush past us with awful force. Then at other times, they would appear almost motionless.
The spot where the Beaver is wrecked is at the northwest corner of Stanley Park, just at the point where the waters of English Bay enter Burrard Inlet and where the channel at very low tide is scarcely more than 200 yards in width, while at its eastern extremity opposite Brockton Point, it's nearly a mile across. This water pass is called Lion Gate or the First Narrows. If you can picture the effect of 35 square miles of water, 14 feet in thickness flowing through this channel in six hours, then you will be able to grasp in a slight degree the force of the current, especially opposite the point where the remains of the Beaver relay, in which we struggled on the night in question.
As we rounded Brockton Point and entered the narrows, our boat at each stroke of the oars seemed to fairly rise from the water as it glided along in the strong tide. Despite the fact that the night was dark, the centre of the channel appeared quite light when compared to the inky blackness on either side, which was occasioned by the heavy dark foliage of the overhanging trees along the park side of the stream casting a lured reflection over the channel, which completely destroyed the water line. This being obliterated, we were unable to determine our rate of speed, as objects on the shore were indiscernible. Had it been otherwise, it's very probable that we would have seen our danger and ran the boat ashore where by waiting until about the turn of the tide, we could have continued our voyage with comparative safety.
A fine shell-paved driveway follows on the brow of the bank around Cole Harbour to Brockton Point. Then it's west along the narrows to its mouth, then South along the shore of English Bay back to the city. Again, as it skirts the narrows, many little ravines have been filled in small knoll’s level, giving a graceful ascent to this magnificent road as it gradually rises from the coiling waters until, at an elevation of 216 feet directly above the spot where the Beaver met her fate, an observation point is gained.
The vertical rocky face of this sheer precipice forms a most befitting monument in the background of the many photographs which have been produced of this faithful old steamer, once the pride of the great Hudson's Bay Company, as she quietly reposed on her last resting place. As our boat shot down the stream, the gently rising ground on our right made it appear as though we were sliding down a bank of water. Suddenly, there was an opening in the trees, in the midst of which stood a small frame building. This, although scarcely discernible, we had once recognized as the storehouse at the south end of the submerged city water pipelines.
As we swept past this clearing, which at once gave us our bearings and revealed the fact that only a few hundred yards of the channel yet remained, a feeling of uneasiness stole over me, as I now fully realized that we were in the clutch of a most terrific current. Never before had we visited the wreck with lighter hearts. Like the swan that singeth before its death, my companion had on this occasion seemed unusually cheerful and happy. But the dawn of the transformation scene was already visible. As the curtain gradually lifted, a sense of seriousness rapidly dispelled all merriment.
Our conversation, which during most of the trip had been about the world's Colombian affair and the pleasant times we would spend together among our friends and relatives in the east during the coming summer, was brought to a speedy termination as a rushing mass of encircling foam struck the side of our little craft and whirled it clear around before we were able to again head it down the channel. This was the first time that our Alice had been untrue to the oars. Although no words were spoken, I believe the sense of our perilous situation became mutually apparent, as we plunged on through the maddened eddies.
Just ahead was the gateway. On our right, like a giant’s keep, the dark frowning cliff of Observation Point towered far above the object of our quest. While out beyond and away to the westward glittered the spray-decked waters of the gulf, as an indication that the moon had at last pierced the heavy storm clouds that banked high the eastern horizon. As we neared the fatal point, a gust of chilling sea breeze swept around the rocky bluff and lingered on our burning cheeks. Turning my head slightly, I cast an anxious glance across the port bow in the direction of the wrecked steamer. But it was only for an instant.
I grasped the oars with a firmer hand, as I noticed a snowy wall of hissing foam. The dreaded tide rip suddenly rose from the turbulent deep as though some unseen hand had at a single sweep gathered in all the angry waves and with ease erected a formidable living breastwork. Again, the boat gave a sudden lurch to starboard. As I turned around, I was startled to see my companion lying on his back against the gunwale, struggling to free himself from his left oar, which had been accidentally caught in the whirling tide, forcing the handle against his breast, and thus holding him in an almost helpless condition. Quick as thought, I jumped to the opposite side in order to right the craft but without avail.
The boat shot broadside under the foaming bank. Probably not more than a minute elapsed from the time it listed until we'd sunk completely beneath the tide, barely giving me time to explain, “Hang on to the boat.” I shall never, never forget the chilling indescribable sensation that passed over me, as the stinging, breath-stealing water engulfed us on that cold December night. The brain at such times must indeed be very active. A thousand different things appeared to rush through it at almost the same time. But despite all this confusion something kept telling me to hold on to the boat, and this I at once determined to do at all hazard.
In an instant, the unbroken panorama of childish scenes was floating across my vision. As a boy, I'd often listened with great interest to my father, a man experienced in boating and sailing, relate stories of how different men had lost their lives in the many lake disasters through attempting to swim ashore instead of clinging to the floating wreck. The most striking of these, which I now recall to mind, was in connection with the loss of the Schooner Mary Ann Rankin, which was wrecked on Sugarloaf Reef Lake Erie about a league west of Port Colborne light on October 31st, 1870.
It was a stormy day, he used to tell us, and the wind fairly screamed in the rigging of the fleet of stormbound ships that huddled together in the little harbour. Many a mariner’s glass scanned cautiously the foaming lake, and many a fervent prayer no doubt was borne away by chilling gusts, as they swept through the little village. But soon, intense excitement prevailed. Villagers and seamen alike faced the sand-driving storm and hurried westward along the surf-ridden shore.
There on the reef in the offing, a prey of the wind and the waves lay a helpless ship with here and there about the spray-wrapped hulk the clinging form of a seaman. “We couldn't see the poor boys perish out there without an attempt to save them. So though the sea ran wild and high, I called for volunteers to man the lifeboat,” said my father. At once, four trusty-looking chaps stepped to the front. These were John Cook, Walter Evans, John Stanhouse, and Alexander McGregor. How anxious every movement of the boat was watched as we beat our way through the cold surf towards the faded ship, but it was all to no purpose. After making the second attempt, we gave up in despair for, do our best, we couldn't force the swamped boat against the broken sea which swept over us.
Soon, however, the lifeboat was again seen to leave the shore and plunge wildly through the foaming billows. But this time, it was manned by a fresh crew. Alexander McGregor alone accepted. Right into the teeth of the freezing gale, they forced the little craft, but the wreck they never reached. As the southwest storm at length tossed the upturned boat upon the shore about a mile to leeward, it brought back but one of its crew. He alone had stuck by it and was saved. Of the vessel's crew, all except the woman cook who had been washed overboard before the vessel struck the reef were rescued for they bravely clung to their stranded ship until she went to pieces and then sought refuge on a portion of the hull, which finally drifted over the rocks into the bay where the sea being less boisterous, they were soon reached with a yawl.
Just west of the quaint old village of Port Colborne, upon a little mound of sand protected from the storms by a cluster of scraggy cedars and spreading shrubs of juniper stands, or did when the writer used to bat ball around the old stone schoolhouse, a neatly carved slab of marble erected by grateful people to the memory of E.H. Samuelson, Alexander McGregor, and another whose name I've forgotten, three heroic lads who gave their lives for their fellows.
At such times, a man who can swim is apt to take chances and to place too much confidence in his ability as a swimmer. This is probably the greatest reason why so many good swimmers lose their lives by drowning. So although I had learned to swim when a mere child and was always considered a fair swimmer by the boys at the port where I was reared, I now regarded my situation as fatal should I even attempt it. To let go of the boat meant that I could not hope to again catch it, as the eddies were almost sure to take it in one direction while I would be forced in another.
The boat sank very rapidly and seemed to be forced by a down current. Although it turned upside down, which allowed all the luggage to fall out with the exception of a crowbar which was afterward found sticking under the seats, it was some time before it rose to the surface. As we neared the top, I could just make out that my friend was standing upright on the bottom of the boat. Like myself, no doubt, the poor fellow thought that we were being carried along in the undercurrent and that possibly by standing on the boat, he might be able to reach his head above the water and thus find relief. Fully realizing that this was a most dangerous position and that at any time he was apt to be swept away by the rushing waters, I endeavoured to catch hold of him.
But before I could crawl along the keel to where he stood, the boat came to the surface. As it did, Mr. Brown dropped down and caught hold of it. There was no time to speak, scarcely to gasp. Then we were a second time submerged beneath the roaring torrent. By the transparency and feel of the water, I fancied that this time we were being forced upstream by a back current at no great distance below the surface. In my boyhood days, I used to practice diving a great deal and often had my playmates time me to see how long I could remain underwater without breathing, little dreaming that the time was coming when my life would depend on it.
Perhaps an explanation of how in my estimation this is best accomplished might be the means of saving someone's life, although I trust the reader may never have occasion to practically require this advice. Should you fall into the water, draw in all the airs your lungs are capable of holding, then close your mouth. As you sink below the surface, be as sparing of your breath as possible, allowing it to escape through the nose by degrees only as necessity compels. Keep the lips tightly compressed so as not to admit any water, and work your throat as though in the act of swallowing.
When the lungs are inflated or even partly so, it's comparatively an easy matter to rise to the surface. This in most instances may be accomplished by simply pawing with the hands and treading with the feet. Then gasp a fresh breath, and you're prepared for the next struggle. My opinion is that a person although unable to swim might exist for some time in the water by carrying out this plan and much longer than under ordinary circumstances.
It was on this particular point that the celebrated English swimmer, Captain James Webb, placed so much Reliance in his bold attempt to pass through the Niagara Whirlpool rapids in the summer of 1883. In conversation with a gentleman just before he started, he's claimed to have said, “If I can only manage to come to the surface at intervals of not more than five minutes, I think I shall have no difficulty in getting through.” If Captain Webb could remain under the water five minutes without breathing, he must have been an extraordinary man, as the great majority of people according to my experience would find three minutes quite sufficient. Still, we're told that such a thing is possible, and some of the pearl fishers have accomplished it.
However, whether the great swimmer overrated his staying qualities or was dashed to death of the sunken rocks, no person can truthfully say. Yet the fact remains that sometime later, his lifeless body was rescued from the river below. I might also say before resuming my narrative that many persons are of the opinion that a boat will sink as soon as it fills with water. But this is a mistake as a wooden boat will not sink unless it's forced down by an eddy or something of that like. Even then, it will rise to the surface sooner or later.
Of course, should the boat contain a cargo, ballast, or machinery of a sinkable nature, it would undoubtedly go to the bottom, unless it should happen to turn over and dump its burden. If a small boat containing two persons should capsize, in most cases, it would be safest for its occupants to crawl to opposite ends, as there they would have better control and not be so apt to lose their hold by the boat rolling over. They should also, in most instances, endeavour to keep the boat upside down, as a certain amount of air nearly always remains under a craft when in this position, which serves materially to counteract their own weight when resting on the boat's bottom.
It seemed as though our little skiff would never rise. Still, although my breath was about exhausted and I thought my last hour had come, I resolved to drown clinging to the boat, as holding to this seemed my only possible chance of escape. But to my intense relief, the boat at last rose to the surface when to my utter disappointment, I discovered that my friend was missing. Sweeping a longing glance in every direction, my sight was suddenly arrested by the struggles of my companion in an eddy a short distance away, only still nearer the centre of the wild flood.
There was something so heartrending, so intensely sad about the ghastly pale face that struggled for life in the midst of that awful current that, for many months, it haunted me in my dreams. He seemed to realize that I was powerless to assist him and to prefer spending his last moments in silent supplication rather than waste them in shouting for aid for no doubt, he well realized that his moments in this life were rapidly drawing to a close and that it would be madness to expect human help to reach him in that secluded spot before the spark of life had fled.
No beseeching cry for help escaped his lips, only the simple question, “Have you got the boat?” This I answered in the affirmative and endeavoured to cheer him up as best I could by offering encouraging words, while at the same time, I did in all my power to take the upturned boat to him by laying it flat down and using my hands as paddles. He then seemed to put forth an almost superhuman effort to reach it but with little effect, as the effort only appeared to kindle the anger of the elements and their fiendish purpose.
The breeze now blowing against the whirling tide lashed it into a foam, in which without assistance no ordinary man, much less one little accustomed to the sea, could long expect to survive, especially when he had on a long pair of heavy rubber boots and unusually heavy clothing. As the heartless waters forced him back, an exclamation of utter hopelessness broke in trembling choking accents from his lips. My very blood seemed to freeze and reason itself to almost depart, as this last despairing cry, “Oh, my. Oh, my,” pierced the night and awoke the echoes of that dismal place.
Then the merciless sea swallowed up my dear friend to never again be seen in life, nor yet scarcely in death, for strange mystery lurks about the deep ever-changing waters of this channel which suggests the sad thought to ever pray upon the minds of the bereaved friends that in all likelihood the remains of the lost and loved one must ever wander in its watery shroud, tossed and restless in the cradle of the deep until that grey day when the sea and earth shall give up their dead.
Seldom, very seldom is the body of an unfortunate who sinks into the cold embrace of these waters to meet the death of that body ever recovered. Within the memory of the oldest white inhabitants on these shores, a number of Europeans have lost their lives here, while many a poor Indian has been snatched by the coiling waters from his chiseled canoe and hurried away to the happy hunting ground. It is hard to see one's friend perishing almost within reach and be powerless to help him.
I think now how truthfully I speak when I say that reason almost forsook me because several times, I was on the very verge of leaving that which I realized was my own safety, if even such it was, and swimming to the assistance of my struggling friend. Once, when I noticed how fruitless my attempts to reach him were, I raised partly up on the boat and stretched out my hands to make the plunge. Had my friend at that moment called out to me for help, I believe that I would no longer have listened to reason but would have gone to his aid, in which case, the world in all probability would never have known the true story of our fate.
Was it to relieve me from this terrible scene that an eddy at this moment seized the boat and dragged me beneath the surface? Restoring to no small degree the sense of my own perilous situation, I was now left alone to battle single-handed with the cruel waves, which as I once more rose to the surface, seemed to laughingly congregate and dance with heartless glee about the spot where my companion had succumbed. Several times after this, the boat was forced down. But I always managed to retain my hold until it came up again to the top.
Several times after this, the boat was forced down. But I always managed to retain my hold until it again came to the top. Although probably not more than 100 feet off the land and wrecked steamer when the boat first swamped, I had at once been swept out into the bay where soon the eddy ceased to be. Then as I lay there astride the upturned boat, gazing longingly at the fast receding shore, my situation, I assure you, was far from pleasant and one not easily pictured. Little fleecy clouds scattered across the grey distant moon, as it looked down in pity upon the desolate scene. Above the roar of the waters the only sound that had first reached my ear with the mocking echoes of my own frantic cries for help.
But presently, they were joined by the low pitiful wail of a foxhound on the mountainside. Gradually, the sounds weakened until they were finally lost in the murmuring surf. I knew that it would be several hours before I could hope to be driven ashore by the return tide. As my blood had already become chilled, I fully realized that unless assistance came, I must soon perish in the torturing icy waves, which ever on and on broke over me.
Just as the last hope was dying in my heart, a surging breaker swept past. As I struggled to retain my numbing grasp on the boat, it was turned over when to my great surprise I discovered an oar still hanging in one of the loose rocks. How it was that I did not notice this when the boat was right side up before? How that fork piece of iron managed to retain its slender hold on the oar until then is a mystery which, to me, will possibly never be satisfactorily explained.
As I thankful seized the oar and climbed inside the boat, it sank until the gunwale was some little distance below the surface. But by standing a trifle past the centre, the bow rose above the water and served as a helm. Thus, with the water to my waist and using the welcome oar for a paddle, which also served to keep my blood in circulation, I headed for the nearest land. If ever a fellow worked to save his life, I did.
As the joyful sound of the keel grating on the rocks at length reached my ears, I bounded into the water and dragged the boat after me until I reached the shore. My legs had become deadened with the cold. As I staggered out on the bank, it was with greatest difficulty that I had first managed to stand. But as long as there's hope, there seems to be strength. So determined on not giving up, I groped my way over the rough boulders in driftwood until the home of John Thomas, a rancher on the north shore of English Bay, was finally reached.
As I approached the gate, the savage bark of a watch dog roused the family. As the door opened, a cheerful gleam of warm light pierced the gloomy darkness. Reeling through the doorway, the most welcome I had ever seen, I fell exhausted into a large armchair, just as the unspoken word safe buzzed in my air. All through the remainder of that long night, I laid in a semiconscious condition with cold drops of perspiration creeping over my feverish body, ready to start at the seagull's momentary scream, which at intervals rang out above the ceaseless moaning surf.
Often, as those unearthly yells would sound upon the still night, I would partly awake only to find myself upon the couch in a half-sitting posture, staring wildly into the darkness. Not until I looked for some length into the grate of smouldering embers by my side and around at the dim walls of the cozy apartment could I be convinced that I had not heard my friend’s beseeching cry.
As the first sun of the New Year shed its gladdening radiance across the jewel crown cascades, flooding with grandeur the opulent valleys of the west, I bade the kind people adieu with a grateful heart and embarked once more in the Alice, which had been brought up to the landing and provided with an additional oar. It was now flood-tied. As I rode along the shore, telling those I chanced to meet of the sad accident and requesting a search for the body, everything seemed transformed.
The flurried bay was now a calm expanse of sparkling sea, while the tempestuous gorge had become a tranquil straight, beautiful beyond compare. Yet a shudder stole over me as I passed through the deceitful treacherous waters into the harbour. The chiming church bells pealed forth their pathetic note of welcome, just as I delivered to the city and my lost companion’s bereaved and crushed family the sad missive which settled with lightning flash across the continent, a fatality to head the press casualty column for 1893. Yes, a message to tick into the little way station of [inaudible 00:33:42], Ontario. Then enter an old farm homestead by the Chippewa. There to hush the merriment of the festive season and cause the eyes of an aged mother to grow heavy beneath the weight of unshed tears.
In the drowning of poor Ed Brown, I lost one of the best friends I ever had, a brother, except by kin. Only death itself can erase the memories of that true mutual friendship. We were born and reared only a few miles apart, almost within roar of old Niagara and since meeting in the west had quite naturally become fast friends. I still keep as a treasure the faithful old oar which so mysteriously appeared to rescue my life on that memorable New Year's Eve. As I write this true narrative, it is looking down from the wall as a witness to my experience on that fatal night.
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