The Sad Ending of the Author's Last Trip in Search of Old-Time Naval Relics.

T

HERE IS ALWAYS something strangely impressive about the closing hours of each year, a 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 nickle clock on the stand indicated the hour of seven on the evening of 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 sun should blot out the old year his spirit would be with its Maker.

Laying his parcels on a 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 fifteen minutes he again reappeared, and 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 sledge-hammer 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 boat house, at the foot of Carrall street. Here everything was silent as the grave, save the dull, ceaseless ripple of the sea in the chinks of the log-float on which the boat-house is constructed. We found the place entirely deserted by the boatman and his attendants, but 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 persons. Our reason for selecting this boat in preference to a larger one which we had been in the habit of using on similar occasions was that it was much lighter, and therefore we would be able to make better headway, as we wished 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, and in consequence of this we were obliged to resort to a large pile of culled oars and paddles at a corner of the boat-house. However, after sorting and re-sorting 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 as 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 sides 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 arc-lights vanished from our view.

A description of Vancouver's harbor and adjacent waters at this juncture will 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 wooded 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 snow-capped 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 land-locked harbor of Burrard Inlet. This harbor, or sound, extends twelve miles eastward with an average breadth of about two miles, while eight miles from its mouth, along the north shore, a channel a mile in width runs four leagues to the northward among jutting rocks and steep mountains, which in places plunge almost perpendicularly into ninety-five fathoms of cold, calm sea, remarkable for its transparency and mirrorlike 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 coast line 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 with the waters of False Creek, thus forming the peninsula on which the city proper is erected. Just inside of

Brockton Point lies Dead Man's Island, while beyond this a slender arm of the Inlet, known as Coal Harbor, forces its way west toward English Bay, almost severing the triangular point from the mainland. This small pear-shaped peninsula comprises the famous Stanley Park, covering in extent some nine hundred and fifty acres; also the Brockton Point athletic grounds, 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 thirty-five square miles, and being tidewater, are raised and loweren twice each day through the narrow channel that opens from English Bay. During the shortest days of the year the tides are exceedingly low about midnight; then again during midsummer, when the days are the longest, the tide reaches its lowest mark about noonday. At these two periods af the year the rise and fall of the tide in this harbor is close to fourteen 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 twelve months, the variation being considerably less, the current is much reduced.

During the low tides in the midsummer of 1892, the hull 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 rowed 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 all been cut away except a section of the 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.