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Title: Through Keeweenaw
Author: Keith Henney
Release date: September 6, 2025 [eBook #76828]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Street & Smith Corporation, 1929
Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THROUGH KEEWEENAW ***
Through Keeweenaw
By Keith Henney
[Illustration: Fresh-water superstition.]
Even before the new skipper came aboard the _Chippewa_ in the
flour-covered pier in Superior, I knew that this trip was not going to
be like other trips. During all the seasons that I had been a radio
operator on the Great Lakes I had been hearing a strange tale about
him. Rumors, like Lake Erie squalls, are stirred up in a hurry, and
usually die down as quickly, but this one was different. It didn’t die.
It drifted about with the wind from one end of the Lakes to the other,
and windlike, it came first from one direction, then another.
The first time I heard it was one fine day near the beginning of my
first summer on the Lakes. We had been coasting down Lake Huron ahead
of a stiff breeze and were about to enter the river at Port Huron. My
eyes were on the tall, straight spruce poles of the Canadian radio
station at Sarnia, but, as we came near the lightship which guards the
entrance of the river, I noticed a marker and, as we passed it, I
thought I could see the masts of a ship a foot or two under water.
I could not be sure--I was young and romantic, and thought maybe I was
imagining things--and so the next time I had a chance I asked the chief
about it.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “That’s the _Herman Masterson_ that sank in that
big November blizzard last year. The oldest captain in the line lost
his grandson then. He had shipped as a cabin boy. He lost his wife in
pretty much the same way about twenty years ago.”
“Not in the same place, I hope,” I couldn’t help saying.
“No, she was lost at the west entrance to the Portage Lake Canal
through Keeweenaw. They say that’s why old man Trinder never became
skipper of one of the company’s passenger boats--he didn’t want to go
near the canal again, and our package carriers don’t make that passage.
Trinder and his wife were sailing the old _Betsy B_. They had been
married about ten years, but this was their first voyage together. The
old _Betsy_ went ashore in a fog while Trinder was hunting the west
entrance to the canal. I reckon he’s had enough to make him queer.”
I asked him what he meant by queer, but that was all the satisfaction I
could get, and no one else I asked ever said anything more definite. It
seemed almost as if they didn’t want to betray the old man’s weakness,
whatever it was. They did agree that if ever a man had had enough to
make him queer, it was old Captain Trinder. To lose a wife in Lake
Superior on his own schooner on their first trip together, and to lose
his grandson in Huron, and both of them so close to land they could
have swum ashore if the weather had been clear, was enough to unhinge
any man.
In spite of it his men liked him. He was a straightforward sailor. He
knew his lights from Port Colborne to Two Harbors. He did not drive his
men, and his company trusted him. Long ago, if he had cared for it, he
might have been given one of the passenger runs. And now he was about
to do the thing he had dreaded for many years, the thing that was the
ambition of all the other company skippers. He was to take charge of
their crack passenger boat for the trip from Superior and Duluth down
to Buffalo. Once more he was to go through the river where his wife was
lost. Once more he was to pass within a heavin’ line’s length of the
spot where his grandson followed the plunging _Masterson_ to the bottom
when she turned turtle.
* * * * *
Captain Trinder certainly did not look queer as he came aboard that day
in Superior while we were taking on the last few bags of flour. He was
a typical Great Lakes skipper, tall and straight in spite of his sixty
years. He looked like an old dog who had held the bones of all Great
Lakes waters in his teeth many times, and who knew what the St. Mary’s
was like in a blizzard.
We had arrived in Duluth the day before on our usual schedule, had
dumped ashore the passengers, some of whom were on their way to the
Yellowstone Park. Others were on a round trip on the “greatest inland
water voyage of the world,” as it was put in the advertisements sent to
the big eastern magazines. As soon as we got rid of the passengers we
crossed to Superior to take on our cargo for the trip down. Three hours
before sailing, the skipper had been carried back across into a
hospital in Duluth.
We had to have a new master. Fortunately Trinder’s carrier was in port.
No one else was within a day’s steam of us, and so Trinder brought
himself aboard.
By the time the last passenger had come on and the black gang had
hoisted their allotment of ice up the after decks and into the galley
ice boxes for iced water and tea and other stuff the fancy passengers
might need, the wind had chased the last of the high, white cumulus
clouds away and had brought up black ones in their place. The wind came
off the lake at such an angle that the narrow entrance to the harbor
was a most difficult opening to hit, and the waves broke on the long
spit that connects Duluth and Superior with vicious snaps that seemed
to punctuate the more sustained and higher notes of the wind. The sun
went down in a black and angry west, the whistle blew its departure
blast, the none-too-good orchestra struck up a brave air, and we backed
out into the harbor waters.
It was a mean night, and I knew that the steward’s boys would be busy
answering bells from the passengers before an hour was over. I stood
below the bridge deck, glorying in the coolness of the day after
roasting in our smelly Superior slip, and did not get the full thrust
of the wind until the captain had backed out into the harbor and turned
the _Chippewa’s_ nose toward the tiny traveling bridge that carries
pedestrians across the cut. Then I knew in an idle manner--wireless
operators don’t take much responsibility for such things--that the old
man might have trouble in poking the ship’s nose out into the black
night beyond.
Just as we were about to make the opening, a blunt-nosed ore carrier,
far down in the water, hove in sight, coming up swiftly with the wind
on her back. She headed for the opening to get out of the dusk into
quieter waters, just in time to prevent Trinder from making it.
He rang down the engines and then called for reverse so that we would
be out of the way of the “tin stack.” When she got through in her
lubberly manner, the _Chippewa_ was again aimed at the opening, but
this time the wind carried her so far off we threatened to pile up on
the breakwater.
The skipper again rang for reverse, and we backed out and tried again.
I remember him facing the wind and trying, I suppose, to get the feel
of his ship. He was used to heavier vessels, and his first trip out
with a boatload of passengers was not starting auspiciously. He heaved
over the anchor, reversed the engines slowly, pulling against the hook
until the nose of the _Chippewa_ was pointed straight at the center of
the cut. At the proper moment he called for half speed ahead, the deck
gang turned steam into the anchor winch, and as the chain came slowly
aboard, the _Chippewa_ eased out into the open Superior waters which
the wind had by this time lashed into fury.
It was a neat maneuver, but there was nothing queer about it. It was
straight seamanship, and a nasty problem had been solved as another
skipper in the same position might have solved it. The passengers
laughed and marveled, thinking this a part of every trip out. The
pitching of the ship in the long Superior rollers soon drove most of
them below, and after a whirl or two around the boat deck, I went to
the radio cabin to fill out what remained of the six-to-twelve watch.
When we got away from the shallower waters near the western end of the
lake the surface rollers quieted down into those long swells that mark
deep water. The ship steadied herself and assumed a comfortable heave
and fall that was pleasant rather than otherwise.
I sent the second operator to bed to wait his twelve-to-six watch, and
settled myself into the chair with the earphones on my head. There was
the usual amount of July static rolling in, and the usual lack of radio
traffic to bother my ears. I heard the Duluth station ask some one what
the weather was like near the Apostles. Two Canadians on their way to
Port Arthur passed the time of day, and that was about all.
It was around ten o’clock that there was a tap on the door. Expecting
some curious passenger I answered without much enthusiasm.
“Do you mind if I come in?” It was Captain Trinder.
“Not at all, sir, please do,” and I scrambled to my feet.
It was unusual, I thought, for a captain to be so polite.
He sat down in the dilapidated chair that had once had arms and looked
curiously about. I realized that he had never seen a radio before. The
package freighters were not compelled to carry wireless equipment--the
few dollars a month the operator got plus the rental of the apparatus
was enough to prevent the company from furnishing their skippers with
them.
The old man did not seem comfortable. I guessed that the clothes he
wore now were not those in which he commanded the package boats. He
wasn’t quite at home. But he was a kind old man, I thought, and I could
talk to him without any feeling of self-consciousness because I was in
the presence of a superior officer.
“Well, sir, it’s a bad night out, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said slowly, steadying himself against the heave of the ship.
“But it will quiet down before morning. Have you any weather reports?”
The junior had hauled something out of the ether, and I gave it to him.
It was the usual “moderate to strong southeast winds, overcast,” which,
of course, was confirmed by the weather we were going through. There
was nothing exciting or disturbing about it.
I explained that if the static wasn’t too bad I would get further
reports on the Upper Lakes from Arlington before I went off watch.
“Static?” he asked. He was very much interested in the radio, and the
thought occurred to me that he was leading up to something he wanted to
know about it.
When I let him listen to the intermittent crashes and rasps of summer
static, he was greatly impressed, and wanted to know if we ever heard
any one talk.
“You mean the human voice?” I asked.
“Yes,” he nodded. “I--I have heard that voices sometimes come in.
Voices of dead people.”
There it was. Out like a bolt from the blue! I froze to my chair, and
could think of nothing to say. This was what he wanted to know. He
looked very strange. The men had been right. He was queer.
I tried to laugh it off with a remark that I didn’t see how dead people
could talk, but more and more it seemed to him that the radio might be
the place where old friends could get together.
“Well, sir,” and I laughed out of nervousness, “if you have any one in
particular you would like to talk to, say, Napoleon or Julius Cæsar,
I’ll give them a buzz.”
This was too much for the old gentleman.
“Young man,” he said as he rose to leave me, “I don’t think you have
the proper respect for ship’s officers. When you are as old as I am you
may think differently.”
I was honestly sorry I had made light of his remark, and said so.
“It was somewhat startling to have such a question put to you right off
the bat, sir.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, “I know. I--I had hoped you might help me. I’ve
never been on board ship with wireless before,” and then his manner
became that of the captain of a vessel with several hundred passengers
aboard. “Let me know what the weather report says when it comes in.”
With that he was off. My emotions were somewhat mixed. I wished I had
not been alone with him, and wished I had not made light of his remark.
Now that he was gone, I wished that some one else were with me in that
stuffy, careening radio cabin on the aft end of the _Chippewa_.
After a while the nervousness wore off, and I made an entry or two in
the log book to show that I had not been asleep. It was soon time for
Arlington’s weather reports and time signals, and when the first dots
and dashes came through I knew that I would have no trouble in taking
down what he was sending. There was, as usual, a lot of stuff about the
weather in the Gulf and up and down from Hatteras and other places that
we didn’t care anything about, and finally came the report for the
Upper and Lower Lakes. There was nothing to indicate bad weather. In
fact, the report mentioned only moderate winds for the following day. I
rang the wheelhouse with the report and found the captain still up.
When I offered to read him the report, he said he would come and get it
himself. I had a feeling that he wanted to resume the conversation
about the dead and the radio, and wished that he would choose some
bright, sunshiny afternoon instead of the middle of the night.
He soon came in, however, and after perusing the report, asked the
meaning of upper and lower lakes. Like most operators, I had never
thought of it, and told him so, suggesting Upper Lakes meant Superior
and the upper parts of Michigan and Huron.
“I don’t like the sound of ‘Lower Lakes,’” he said, smiling not a bit.
There didn’t seem to be any answer to that, so I suggested that he
listen in for Arlington’s signals calling shipping board vessels with
orders. He jumped at the suggestion, and I plugged in another pair of
phones for him. To keep him interested until midnight, when the junior
came on watch, I started to put down what Arlington was saying. He was
immensely interested, and after Arlington signed off I dug up some
complicated weather reports he had sent in code and translated them for
the “Old Man.” I showed him how Arlington had sent out the wind
velocity, the barometer readings, the direction of wind, the
precipitation at many Great Lakes points such as Alpena, Marquette, and
others. This impressed him a lot, but he was a man of the old school,
and didn’t see how fellows in Washington could dope out what the
weather of Keeweenaw was going to be on the following day. He could
tell more by a sniff of the air and a look at the sky than a dozen
barometric charts of the United States would tell him.
He wanted to know how the radio signals got to our cabin, whether they
went through the air or the water, what happened if two ships listened
in at the same time, and a lot of other questions. When I tuned in the
station at the Canadian Soo he was struck by the difference in pitch.
“It’s just like a person,” he said, as though making a discovery.
“These different stations have different kinds of voices.”
Of course this was true, and I told him how we could tell one ship from
another by the tone of its signals, and how, sometimes, we could tell
which operator was at the key by the “fist” he had.
Finally he wanted to know why the weather report had not mentioned fog,
and I had to admit that I didn’t know.
“I never remember hearing a radio report mention fog,” I told him.
“Maybe it’s because fog is such a local affair and rather unpredictable.”
“Maybe so,” he replied, “but I think we will run into fog before
morning. At the entrance to the Portage River Canal we’ll get it.”
“That’s a bad place for fog,” I said without thinking.
“Yes, I lost my wife there in a fog.” And then he told me the story of
how he had run on shore during a fog twenty years before, and how his
wife had been drowned. It was not a long story, but it cost him
considerable effort to tell it.
“That’s why I have never been near Houghton and Hancock since,” he
said, and I could agree that it was sufficient reason.
With that he was gone, and as it was near midnight, I went to the bunk
room and woke the junior operator.
* * * * *
Some time after daylight I became aware of the intermittent three
blasts of the fog whistle. When the junior woke me at the end of his
watch he said we had been going through fog for about an hour, and that
it seemed to be getting thicker each minute. He remarked that the
captain was looking for a message from some one. The first mate came
into the mess room as I was downing a stack of flapjacks, and seemed
rather the worse for wear. The Old Man had had him up all night, he
said, either looking for fog or trying to get out of it.
We were due at the entrance to the channel at about eleven o’clock.
This meant several hours of running through the fog. The skipper might
have anchored and waited until it lifted, but he naturally enough chose
to go ahead, hoping that as he neared the end of the five-hour run the
fog would have thinned enough to enable him to find the breakwater and
thence the entrance to the river. Above all things, he would want to be
on time on this, his first trip as captain of a passenger ship. If we
ran into anything in the fog--well, we’d better not. There was little
chance of our meeting anything except a tug or some other small boat.
Ore carriers went outside. No other passenger vessel of any size was
scheduled to be coming out of the Portage Lake Canal, and the small
twin towns which straddled it would be as somnolent under the sticky,
warm fog as two cats in the sun.
At eight o’clock the wheelhouse phone rang, and the skipper wanted to
know what the weather was in the canal. Of course. I could not tell
him, for there was no radio station there, but I told him I would try
to find out.
Starting up the old transmitter, I jerked out a few calls for any one
in the vicinity of the mouth of the canal, but no one answered. It was
as I thought, no ship large enough to carry wireless was anywhere near
the point toward which we were heading. The _Jenkins_, out in the lake,
reported no fog, and after a call or two, Duluth answered sleepily and
said no fog. So we were in for it. It might last an hour and it might
last the rest of the day.
As I was about to phone up this information the mate blustered in.
“Well, bud, what’s the news?” he roared at me. He was that way, roaring
at every one and everything. I suspected that he was some way miffed
because a new man had come aboard over his head and kept him from
taking the _Chippewa_ down on his own ticket.
“No news is good news,” I answered glibly enough. The fog didn’t bother
me. I was in no hurry. Houghton was a warm place in July, and since we
usually stayed there long enough for the passengers to go down a copper
mine but not long enough for the officers to have a spree on shore, I
saw no reason why an hour’s delay would prove anything but a gift.
“Never mind the bright remarks, bud. The Old Man wants a report on this
damn fog. What have you got?”
“Not a thing. The _Jenkins_ off Keeweenaw is in fair weather, and
Duluth reports sun and moderate breezes from the northwest.”
“All right. If that breeze gets us we’ll be O. K. And say, bud, keep an
ear out for some ship the old man thinks he’s going to get a message
from, will you?”
“I reckon it’s a message from the dead,” I said cryptically, but the
mate was gone.
Within an hour Captain Trinder came down. He looked rather bleary about
the eyes because of his long night’s vigil. If he had turned in when
leaving Duluth he would have at least got some sleep, because we didn’t
run into the fog until about five o’clock. But the watchman told me he
had gone all over the ship--he had never been on her before--from the
chain locker forward to the fan tail aft.
“Any news?” he said at once, just as though he fully expected me to
hand him a nice printed radiogram from the bottom of the lake.
“No, sir. Do you think the fog will hold on, sir?”
He didn’t answer my foolish question. How could any one tell how long a
fog would last?
“How near are we, captain?”
“Oh, we’ve got plenty of time yet. I’ve been keeping up speed, and we
ought to be within range of the foghorn in about an hour. But I’d like
to have word, though.”
With that he tore out, and I could hear him thumping across the deck
above as he went back to his point of vantage over the wheelhouse.
We slid along at our regular speed of between twelve and fifteen knots.
The fog clung almost to the water’s edge, and the small waves seemed
trying to dissolve it by lapping it up. There was not a breath of wind
except what went past us due to the steamer’s motion. This was wet and
warm, as though the weather were perspiring. I kept very close watch on
the radio signals that came along. They were few and far between. In
those days the range of a ship’s signals was not very great, and when
we neared the copper-laden hills around Calumet what signals there were
seemed to be swallowed up and reached us only as little, disconnected
blurbs of noise. There was no static, and if it had not been for the
fog, the day would have been perfect. The sun rose higher and higher,
and seemed trying its best to break through. At ten o’clock I picked up
a Canadian report indicating “fine weather, moderate variable winds.”
I was sorry for the skipper. For twenty years he had avoided this
passage, and now here he was near the spot where the end of his first
voyage with his wife had so tragically come. He was in a fog, and he
had the responsibility of three hundred passengers on his shoulders in
addition to other worries.
Suddenly the decreased throb of the engines told me that we were
slowing down. We must be near the entrance. I rushed to the deck above
to see what, if anything, had happened, in time to hear the gong below
stop the engines completely. We slowly came to rest, and the only sound
was the gentle lapping of the fog-laden waves against the sides of the
vessel, and the rhythmic push-push of the water pouring from the
engine-room vent into the lake. I could see the Old Man with his
quartermaster up on the canvas-covered deck above the wheelhouse.
Trinder’s hair was standing on end. He had taken off his white collar,
put on for the benefit of passenger traffic, and now looked like the
skipper of any ore or freight carrier. His attitude was one of
excitement. He was listening for something, and I thought it was for
the foghorn at the entrance to the river.
Within a minute or two the lazy rasp of the horn floated in on the fog
from a point or two off the starboard bow. It seemed to me that once we
had heard the horn we ought to know where we were, but still the
_Chippewa_ did not move. Then the horn’s rasp came again, this time
from a wider angle to the starboard, and the next rasp came from
astern. Clearly the fog was varying the direction from which the sound
came to us. We could not rely on it. It was a fact, however, that we
were within a few thousand feet of the shore. The Old Man did not care
to risk the second ship he had taken to the mouth of the Portage Lake
Canal, let alone the three hundred pleasure seekers who lined the rail
and commented idly on the situation. They were mildly amused at the
disheveled appearance of the man who held their lives and a million
dollars’ worth of ship and cargo in his hand.
Finally he signalled the engine room, and we pushed ahead slowly.
Almost immediately, however, the engine-room gong clanged for stop, and
then reverse. Dead ahead I could see the lighthouse at the channel end
of the south breakwater slowly come into view and approach us as the
steamer pressed forward. But as I watched, the lighthouse receded from
us as quietly and stealthily as though it had come up to take a look at
us, the intruders.
For a few minutes we lay motionless outside in the fog. Then I heard
the horn again, now from our port quarter. It was eerie how that
foghorn followed us around. Then I heard the bell in the radio room
jangle, and I hurried below.
It was the skipper calling.
“Keep sharp lookout for word now,” he said.
“Who from, sir?” I asked.
“From her,” he answered curtly, and hung up. I hoped fervently that he
would either find the entrance by himself without dashing us all on the
breakwater to follow his wife to the bottom, or that the fog would
suddenly lift and reveal to us the heavily wooded shores paralleling
the narrow, sandy beach. There was nothing I could do but listen in,
but I got nothing. Then I sneaked out for another look into the fog.
We were going ahead again, and I could feel that our nose was turned so
that we would land farther out along the point. Suddenly the
engine-room bell clanged again. Again I saw the breakwater approach us
and recede, this time coming much closer than before, too close for the
comfort of some of the passengers near me. They were asking me about
the advisability of protesting to the skipper when he looked aft and
caught sight of me.
“Go below,” he roared at me, “and get that message. She’s calling.”
I knew there was no one calling, but there was nothing to do but go
down again. And then the unexpected happened. There was some one
calling!
“SSE, SSE, SSE,” it said over and over again in dots and dashes. It was
a strange signal, and the tone was unlike any I had ever heard on the
Lakes. Perhaps in my amazement the unfamiliarity of it was exaggerated,
but it was a queer signal.
“SSE, SSE, SSE,” it went on, and finally, after a whining crescendo, it
said, “SSE, Anna.” And that was all.
I wrote it out on a piece of paper and took it up on the bridge. The
captain looked at it, and a strange light came into his eyes. He dashed
into the wheelhouse, and pushing aside the quartermaster, slowly swung
the ship until her nose pointed south southeast. Then he rang for more
speed ahead. Once again the shore line came into view. We could see
both sides of the breakwater this time. We were aimed directly at the
center of the opening.
As we passed the crib at the end of the north breakwater I noticed a
small craft tied to it. Dimly I could see that on the stern was painted
the one word “Anna.”
This explained the strange signals and the bearing we had secured. I
suppose that from her position near the breakwater the Anna could see
our masts sticking up in the air. This explanation was not so
satisfactory later on when I called the _Anna_ again but got no word
from her.
Within five minutes we were steaming toward Houghton, where we arrived
not over half an hour late and with plenty of time for the passengers
to buy copper doodads and for me to learn through one of the men at the
railroad station that the _Anna_ was a Swedish boat that some foolhardy
youth from Stockholm had crossed the Atlantic in. He had relatives in
Minnesota. There was nothing strange about this--Swedish youths are
always doing foolish things--except the fact that Swedish vessels have
radio call letters beginning with S, so that the call “SSE” which I
heard was probably the call signal of the craft. It was apparently just
coincidence that the letters I had picked up gave us the bearing we
needed.
At six that night I went on watch, and later the skipper came in.
“Well, young man, I must thank you for getting that message this
morning. I always thought that if I ever got into trouble with fog I
would get a message from Anna.”
“Anna?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said simply. “My wife sent the message. Her name was Anna.”
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the December 1929 issue of
_Sea Stories_ magazine.]
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