Man versus Sea

MAN versus SEA.

The Romance of a Lost Mine.

By Richard A. Haste.

The Wide World Magazine, January 1908. Vol. xx.—36.

Digitized by Doug Frizzle October 2017 for Stillwoods.Blogspot.Ca

A story that has never before been told — the strange tale of a mine which was for years well - nigh world - famous, but is now lost beneath the sea. “I have confined myself strictly to facts,” writes the author, “as gathered from the seventh report of the Bureau of Mines of Ontario and the caretaker of Silver Islet.”

THAT region lying about Lake Superior and including the “height of land”—the great ridge-pole of the roof of the continent — has always been a land of romance, a land of mystery. Here are laid the scenes of many, weird and beautiful legends. The rock-girt shores of the lake were the favourite walks of the Great Spirit. Here, according to the Indians, the maker of the world hid his treasures, and gave them into the keeping of Missibizi, the god of the sea. To this treasure-land, long ago, came strange people from the far south, the Mound-builders and the Aztecs, for copper. To this “shining big sea-water” came also, in a later day, those men of iron whose deeds make up the story of the Great Lone Land—a story that has never been fully told.

It is with one of these hidden treasures of this great lake that this story has to deal.

You who have been so fortunate as to take that most delightful of all summer journeys, the lake trip from Owen Sound or Sarnia to Port Arthur on one of the Canadian Pacific steamers, doubtless remember Thunder Cape, that bold promontory that guards the entrance to Thunder Bay and the twin harbours of Port Arthur and Fort William. No doubt your attention was called to Isle Royale, lying to your left as you approach the cape, and you learned, perhaps, some of its wonderful history. Perhaps, too, if it were a clear day, the captain gave you his binocular and directed your eyes to a low-lying island near the north shore not far from the base of Thunder Cape—a little island that seemed not so large as your hand, on which stand queer-shaped buildings, now partially wrecked and going to decay; but this you will not notice even with the glass. Silver Islet, it is called. Perhaps the captain told you of the lost mine beneath the lake; of the shafts and levels that honeycomb the rock more than a thousand feet below the surface of the water; of the tons and tons of silver that lay in sight when the cold waters of the lake “jumped the claim” and took possession of all save the upper works.

It may be you were told also of the dull shocks that are frequently felt, accompanied by low, rumbling thunder, though the sky is clear from horizon to horizon—the ghosts of imprisoned miners blasting for silver ore beneath the sea, say the superstitious natives.

It was, I think, in the year 1868 that a small party of miners, prospecting for copper at the base of Thunder Cape, chanced to land on a barren rock about a mile from shore to plant observation stakes. This rock was about sixty feet across, and rose not more than four feet above the mean level of the lake. It resembled the dome of a huge human skull, just rising out of the water.

Across this Skull Rock, as it was then called, ran a vein of galena, in which a few strokes of the pick revealed the presence of silver. A half-dozen powder-blasts were sufficient to detach all the ore-bearing rock above the waterline, but the vein was traceable some distance out into the lake, where, through the clear water, large nuggets of silver were visible. These were dislodged with crowbars, the men working up to their necks in the ice-cold water. The game, however, was worth the candle, for the ore thus taken out, sacked and shipped to Montreal, assayed seven thousand dollars per ton pure silver.

The location was owned by the Montreal Mining Company, Limited, a company of con­servative capitalists. In a way luck had favoured them, for here within their grasp was one of the fabled treasures of the lake. So far as human laws were concerned, it belonged to them. But—and it was a big but—the Great Spirit had placed it within the keeping of the sea. For three hundred miles to the east there is nothing to break the awful sweep of the wind. And when, at the call of the storm, the legions of the deep come forth, the little treasure-rock disappears, utterly lost in the spume and froth of the breakers. Where was the man or company of men who would presume to defy these giant powers and remove this jewel from its settings—this treasure from its keep?

The men composing the Montreal Mining Company were conservative, as I have already stated. They were willing and ready, in the pursuit of wealth, to raze hills and tunnel mountains; they were ready to sink shafts through the solid rock until they could feel the earth’s internal fires. In such cases the opposition to be encountered could be measured and provided for; but they shrank from measuring their strength against the unknown powers of the wind and sea. Therefore, they accepted an offer of two hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars and transferred Silver Islet and a number of surrounding mining locations to an American syndicate, headed by Alexander II. Sibley, of New York.

Here begins the active history of one of the world’s most famous mines—a history more dramatic in its details than novelist ever conceived.

It seems that when an unusual task is to be performed — when a Man is wanted — the times, with unerring instinct, bring him forth. Here was an Herculean task, and the first throw of the dice turned up the man—a modest mining engineer, William B. Frue.

There is something strongly feline about Lake Superior — it is so lithe and soft and caressing. In August and September, and often later, it is usually in a peculiarly gentle mood. Like a great tiger, it stretches itself in the warm sun and purrs and sleeps. It is so beautiful, and seems so harmless; yet beneath this calm and gentleness you can see the giant muscles swell as the great cat extends and contracts its claws in pure enjoyment of its latent power.

On one of these perfect days, September 1st, 1870, Superintendent Frue, with machinery, supplies, a crew of thirty-four men, and a great raft of timber, arrived at Silver Islet. There was not a ripple on the surface of the water. The basaltic ledges of Thunder Cape, even to the features of the Sleeping Giant, were duplicated in the water below. But Superintendent Frue knew the lake; he knew its moods. This one might last a day, a week, perhaps a month—not much longer, at any rate; and then!—

There was the Skull Rock—a mere foothold— a tiny island into which a shaft must be sunk down to the bowels of the earth, while around or over it broke the angry waters of this mighty brother of the sea. To sink that shaft and guard it against the fury of the lake was Superintendent Frue’s task.

It was finally decided to encircle the island with a crib of timber filled with rock to break the force of the waves, while a stone and cement coffer-dam was to furnish protection for the immediate mouth of the shaft.

With feverish haste the work was pushed ahead; eighteen hours was a day’s work. If only the cribbing could be got into place before the autumn storms began all might be well. One week, two weeks, a month passed, and still the great lake slept, unconscious or in contempt of the puny efforts of the human ants on Silver Islet. Day after day the sun rose as out of a mirror, and sank unclouded behind the shoulders of the Sleeping Giant.

Five weeks! The cribbing was done, the shaft was being sunk, and every day the precious metal was coming to the surface. Six weeks— seven weeks! The human ants were beginning to feel secure in their new abode. Then came the 26th of October.

It was three o’clock in the afternoon when the wind began to blow strong from the north-east. In half an hour the lake right to the horizon line was white with foam.

“It’s coming at last,” said Frue; “but we’re here first, and I think we’ll stay.”

When the second shift quitted work at six o’clock the waves were leaping the east breakwater, deluging the men outside the coffer-dam. From the rocky shore of Thunder Cape came the boom of the surf, like an incessant, rolling cannonade.

The little plunging tug had just arrived with the third shift, wet to the skin. The cribbing on the windward side was already trembling with the impact of the waves. To remain stubbornly would be useless, and might mean suicide. It was the first trial of strength, and the result, to the mind of the superintendent, was at least doubtful. Orders were therefore given for all hands to go ashore, to the mainland.

There was little sleep for Superintendent Frue that night. He had had first innings; he had had fair play; he had made his utmost score.

And now the sea was taking a hand in the game. All night he walked the beach and listened, guessing, as best he could, the progress of the battle. How the breakers roared—how the wind howled and shrieked as wave after wave came home!

Before sunrise the wind had died down, and by ten o’clock the sea had subsided to a sullen under-swell. Frue promptly went out to the scene of the conflict, and his heart sank at what he saw. Two hundred feet of the break­water had been carried away; the coffer-dam was a partial wreck, and, as if in rebuke, the storm had filled the shaft to the brim with the rock of the cribbing.

The company had agreed to give Frue a bonus of twenty-five thousand dollars, in addition to his salary, on condition that before September 1st, 1871— the first year of operation — he mined and shipped ore to the value of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, an amount sufficient to cover the original purchase price and the bonus. On the morning of October 27th that bonus appeared to Frue as far away as the moon. But under this apparently crushing defeat he lost neither his heart nor his head. He had learned something from the storm. He had learned something of the game as it was played by his antagonist. All hands were put to work; the cribbing was replaced and strengthened, the coffer-dam was restored, and the debris removed from the shaft. The sea remained quiet. Mining was resumed, and by the last day of November, when navigation closed, the plucky superintendent had the satisfaction of knowing that one hundred thousand dollars’ worth of silver ore had been shipped down the lake to Montreal.

Hardly had the vessel with the last shipment got away when the mercury dropped to ten below zero. For a week it froze, covering parts of the lake with a heavy coating of ice, and then from the south-east came another storm.

It was a flank attack, and this time the sea, as if maddened by the persistence of the invaders, brought up its artillery and hurled tons upon tons of ice against the cribbing, which crumbled like an egg-shell before the tremendous onslaught. But this awful battering defeated its own purpose; the accumulation of ice soon formed a breakwater against which the waves beat out their fury. For three days and nights the storm raged; then the sea smoothed out, and again Frue took stock of the ruins. The coffer-dam remained, but most of the cribbing was gone. The foreman, after looking over the wreck, remarked, “You can’t make anything stop here.” But Frue thought differently.

Nature is the greatest of engineers, and he who would oppose her must adopt her plans and be ever ready to profit by a hint. The ice-gorge gave Frue the key to the situation. Taking advantage of the winter and the ice, he threw out a breakwater facing the south-east. This structure had a base of seventy-five feet, rose twenty feet above the surface, and was backed by cribbing and debris from the mine.

Work was prosecuted both underground and on the defences with little interruption until March 8th. Then the lake gathered its forces for what seemed not only another assault, but the commencement of a campaign of annihilation.

Masses of ice as large as the island itself were hurled against the groaning fortifications, which were soon driven bodily up the incline toward the centre of the island. Wave after wave leaped the breakwater, and it seemed that the lake would at last succeed in regaining the whole of the lost territory, and in driving the invaders permanently from the ground.

Storm succeeded storm, during the entire month, each assault more terrific than the last. There was no rest for the miners day or night. Every interval of calm was employed in repairing the breaks and in strengthening the weak places. At last, apparently defeated, the great lake withdrew its forces, and the superintendent for the first time saw in his mind’s eye the twenty-five-thousand-dollar bonus — and it was not far away.

At the close of the first year, the clean - up showed a gross output of nearly one million dollars. The bonus was immediately paid.

There seemed no longer any danger from storms. To all appearances the lake had given up the contest—abandoned the treasure to the spoilers, who, during the next two years, took out another million in silver.

Silver Islet had now become one of the wonder-mines of the world. The little island—the bare Skull Rock—had grown in the meanwhile to ten times its original size. It extended to the outer breakwaters, and supported not only the upper works of the mine, but machine-shops, store-houses, and permanent quarters for certain employes of the mine. From the eastern angle rose a lighthouse, while on the lee side were built great docks and breakwaters for the protection of the now important shipping. On the shore a town had sprung up—a town with churches and a school-house, great reducing works, club-rooms for the miners, and neat cottages for the families of five hundred workmen.

Frue was the magician who had wrought the change. He had found a barren and desolate rock a mile from the shore of a howling wilderness, and in three years had made it the centre of one of the most important enterprises on the continent. He had found the treasure he sought guarded by the most powerful and treacherous of natural forces. He had met every emergency, and at the end of three years was the apparent conqueror. But Nature never gives up a battle.

Ages ago, as if in sentient anticipation of what was to come, the lake had run a counter-mine underneath the island. The main shaft had reached the depth of three hundred feet when this counter-mine was struck. The imprisoned waters, under the enormous pressure, leaped forth fiercely, driving the miners from level to level. Despite the work of a four-inch pump, the water rose at the rate of ten feet per hour. Another six-inch pump was installed, but the two, working day and night, could barely keep the water below the fifth level. An order was dispatched for a pump with a twelve-inch plunger, but before it could arrive the lake made one more tremendous effort to demolish the upper works. A double attack from above and below seemed to have been planned. All previous storms were dwarfed—they were mere zephyrs compared to the hurricane that now swept down from the north-east. A breach was at once made in the breakwater and sixty feet of the structure carried away. Before the damage could be repaired another assault carried away three hundred and sixty feet of the cribbing, with the blacksmith’s shop and five thousand tons of rock. So violent was the wind that refuse rock flew about the island like hailstones. Fortunately the machinery remained intact and the pumps were kept going. At last the storm died away, the mammoth pump arrived, and slowly the waters were got under control. It was a well-planned attack, and the defenders won by a margin so small that an accident, however slight, would have turned the scale.

It was soon after this that Superintendent Frue left the employ of the company and disappears from its history. The fortunes of this remarkable mine for the next ten years need not be recounted. The story differs but little from that of similar ventures. Deeper and deeper drove the shafts, and wider and wider extended the stopes and levels. In constant fear of the wind and sea from above, and the water from below, the work went on. Some years the out­put ran into the hundreds of thousands, but even then it barely paid running expenses.

At last a year came—a poor year—when the output fell far short of the operating expense. The indications were as good as ever, but the ore in hand did not seem to pan out well. The stockholders were called upon to make up the deficiency. There was grumbling and dissension. Rich ore to the estimated value of five hundred thousand dollars was visible in the roof of the first level, but its removal had hitherto been regarded as dangerous. Now, however, plans were decided upon for putting in a false roof and removing this lode.

The main shaft had now reached a depth of thirteen hundred feet below the lake level. Gigantic pumps, driven by powerful engines, were kept busy holding back the insidious sea. Storms might come and wreck the upper works, but storms subside and the ravages of the waves can be repaired; but this eternal assault from beneath could be resisted only by a tireless energy that never slumbered. Let the throbbing engines cease their work, let the pumps stop but for a day, and the battle of years would be lost.

It was November, 1884, and the coal was running low. Only a few hundred tons remained in the sheds on the island, and the hungry furnaces would soon devour that. But more was expected any day—the winter supply had already left the Lower Lakes; it should be somewhere on Lake Superior now. Day followed day, however, and it did not come. It was getting late, and navigation might close at any time. Work went on as usual—some slight accident, no doubt, had delayed the steamer; the coal was sure to come, the miners told themselves.

Day and night was heard the monotonous thud, thud, thud of the pumps; but all the time the coal was getting lower, and the sea was waiting—waiting.

It was an anxious Christmas for the folk of Silver Islet—that Christmas of 1884. There was hoping against hope for the arrival of the long-looked-for steamer. What if it should not come? Could it come now? The cold was intense, and already the ice had formed six inches thick in the bays, and the ice-field was creeping out into the lake, from which rose, like steam from a mighty cauldron, huge banks of cumulus clouds.

The New Year came—January 1st, 1885— and no coal. But instead there came a dog-team from Duluth, bearing the bitter news that a drunken captain with a cargo of a thousand tons of coal for Silver Islet had allowed his vessel to be caught in the ice at Houghton! The furnaces were put on half rations, in the vain hope that something might happen to bring relief. But at last a day came when the fires went out, the pumps stopped, and the exultant sea reclaimed its own.

Twenty-two years have passed since that fatal day, a generation has come and gone, but no. attempt has been made to fight back the sea and re-establish the mine. The island and the village that once stretched for a mile along the beach are abandoned and desolate—inhabited only by a caretaker whose nearest neighbours are at Port Arthur, twenty-five miles away by water. The great engines and the hoisting machinery on the island are rusting where they stand. The lighthouse has gone. The docks and breakwaters are rotting—they are at peace now with the sea, which, in contempt, has given them over to the slow tortures of time. Down in the drifts and galleries where men once wrought fishes stare with unblinking eyes at the slimy walls. On the mainland the great reducing plant, with its batteries, stamps, and vanners, is rapidly going to decay. Grass grows in the abandoned street, and at night hedgehogs hold high revel in the silent church and owls hoot from the rickety tower.

Why has this mine, with all its wealth, been left in the possession of the sea? I do not know. The caretaker will tell you strange stories of strange doings. He will tell you that sometimes, when the air is full of light, when the wind sleeps and the placid sea reflects the great blue bowl of heaven, the surface of the lake will suddenly heave in long low swells, and then smooth out again. Then, as from the depths of the earth, come low, rumbling sounds, muffled and indistinct, like a far-off cannonade. He will tell you, too, that at night, when the storm comes from the east and the air is filled with blinding wrack, ghostly lights flit about the treasure-island, and in the lulls of the wind you may distinctly hear the rumble of a hoisting cable and the rhythmic pulsations of a ghostly engine.

He will give you his theory — weird and uncanny—that, should the waters ever be driven back, nothing will be found but the barren walls of a barren mine.

I fear that years of almost uninterrupted solitude may have warped his imagination. Be that as it may, however, the fact remains that this silver fleece is guarded by a dragon that never sleeps—the omniscient power of the sea.