Cooking was done on a brick
platform, or fireplace, in the cabin, and the captain, the mate and all
hands sat around one large dish placed on the cabin floor and each
helped himself with his own spoon. A loaf of bread was passed around,
each cutting off a slice with his own sheath knife. But notwithstanding
simple food, frugal meals and primitive conditions, the hospitality was
genuine and against the background of our recent hunger, thirst and
general wretchedness, the place was heaven and our hosts were angels in
thin disguise.
In about ten days we were brought into St. Pierre, the French fishing
town on the small rocky island of Miquelon, off the Newfoundland coast,
the depot of the French fishing fleet and the only remaining foothold
for the French of the vast empire once held by them between the North
Atlantic and the Mississippi Valley. The American consul took us in
charge, sending us to a sailors' boarding house and giving each of us a
change of clothing. In another week we were sent on by steamer to
Halifax, consigned to the American consul at that port.
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