Tales From The Little, Illustrated, Golden Library - Tales of the Sea - The Canadian Shipwreckers - Emilio Salgari - Seventh Story

 The Canadian SHIPWRECKERS

MEMO

The following text may present outdated depictions that are in no way or form shared by the translator themself, and neither are they shared by the original author of these stories.

Please understand that these stories' depictions are a depiction of their time.

A good translator strives to transfer the originality, tone, and idea of a text from its language of birth to its guest language, all the while respecting the intent and style of the original author. 

These translated texts do not intend to bring offense, but just to share the adventures 

written by Captain Emilio Salgari. 

Adventures inspired by his love for traveling around the world, especially to far, foreign lands, his passion for ships and sailing in general, as well as his endless curiosity about other cultures and what's out there, beyond the horizon line.

VOCABULARY

quartermaster = officer who distributes supplies. (Source. 25.10.2025)

gunner = person who operates the cannon of a ship (historical). 

Nowadays, it refers to an artillery soldier. However, it is also a slang term for a hyper-competitive student, especially in law or medical school. (Source 1. 25.10.2025) (Source 2. 25.10.2025).

To nurse a drink = to drink a drink slowly.

topman = the man stationed in the top on a sailing vessel, responsible for the setting of the sails. (Source. 15.01.2026)

prow = may be used as a synonym for the more commonly used term, bow*, but it can also mean the most forward part of the bow that is above the waterline (the waterline is where the body of a ship meets the water). (Source. 17.10.2025).

*bow = the most forward point of a boat or ship. (Source. 17.10.2025).

bulwark = the extension of a ship's side above the level of the weather deck*. (Source. 28.10.2025)

*weather deck = a deck** that is continually exposed to the weater. (Source. 28.10.2025)

**deck = the floorlike covering of the horizontal sections, or compartments, of a ship or boat. Small vessels have only one deck; larger ships have two or three decks. (Source. 15.01.2026)

yard = a spar* on a mast from which sails are set. (Source. 28.10.2025).

*spar = a pole of wood or metal used in the rigging** of a sailing vessel to carry or support its sail. (Source. 28.10.2025).

**rigging = term used for the system of ropes, cables, and chains, which support and control the sailing ship's masts and sails. (Source. 28.10. 2025).

hawser = a cable or a heavy rope used to tow a ship. You can see a picture of it here (28.10.2025). (Source 1. 28.10.2025). It is also an unit of measure, and its equivalent is the tenth of a mile, that is 185 metres.(Source 2. 30.10.2025)

poudrin = a fine, icy rain that is found in Newfoundland. (Source. 25.10.2025).

port (nautical) = left side of the ship. (Source. 30.10.2025)

roller = a big, wide wave. (Source. 28.10.2025)

adze = a tool similar to an axe. (Source. 28.10.2025)

castaway = victim of a shipwreck. (Source. 13.11.2025)

🍁🍁🍁

That night, papa Miccò seemed in a bad mood.

The old sailor, that had at heart to recount us his amazing sea tales, sat near the fireplace in which a stump of fir log was blazing and, enraged, started smoking his pipe incessantly, without opening his lips.

The rest of us were bundled together around the fire that was filling our little home with smoke, an improvised home made of small, dry stone walls, large topgallant sails, and mats taken from the cabins in the control room, getting our frozen limbs warmed up.

It had been twelve days since our ship had sought refuge in one of those numerous fiords* of Norway, in order to repair the helm, the latter having suffered greatly during the last storm we had been in, and us, in order to keep an eye on the small shipyard, had set up an improvised camp on land.

What a horrible sight that strait was, wedged between high, sheer mountains that were already covered in snow.

No residents in that area, instead, many firs rich with resin would fall in front of our axes, in order to warm us up during the frigid nights.

In order to make the time pass by quicker, we would all gather in papa Miccò's tent, the old quartermaster gunner that had gone on as many journeys as there were hairs currently on his head.

We would bring with us a bottle of rhum and between a glass and a puffing of the pipe, we would entertain ourselves by listening to the stories of the old sailor.

That night it was freezing in the fiord. The snow, pushed forward by an ice-cold wind, was torn away from the nearby mountains, and swirled turbulently inside the dreary strait.

The extremely high pines and firs, bent by the wind, mournfully groaned as if they were lamenting about those more and more impetuous gusts of wind.

I don't know whether it was the cold or some other reason, but papa Miccò didn't seem eager to untie the tongue that night.

He would keep on inserting his thumb, by now incombustible, inside his goold, old, pipe and breathe in the smoke as his anger grew, as if there wasn't more than enough, too much even, smoke inside the tent.

"Come now, papa Miccò", I addressed him, annoyed by that silence. "What's going on through that mind of yours tonight that your face has such a scowling expression? Is it possible that our rhum has not yet inspired you or could it be that your tobacco is of awful quality?"

The old quartermaster turned his gaze to me, looking at me in silence for a few moments, then said, as if speaking to himself:

"Yeah, that night, the wind was howling the same way this one is currently descending upon this fiord."

I glanced at my crewmates, a bit surprised by these words. What wind was the old sailor talking about?

My crewmates uncorked the usual bottle of rhum, and pouring the quartermaster a glass, said to him:

"Leave the wind alone as you empty this glass, papa Miccò."

The old man nursed it, pulling away from the pipe, then proceeded to say, in a certain mysterious manner:

"I really could've used this, that night."

"What night?", we all asked.

Papa Miccò shook his head, then, after looking us all up and down with an unusual carefulness, resumed:

"Have you never been to Canada?"

"No, papa Miccò."

So you have never heard about Noël, the fisherman?"

"Never, papa Miccò."

"Fine young man.", the old man resumed, still speaking to himself. "What a fellow, my dear sailors!... There wasn't a swiftest topman in the entire British Navy, nor even in the American one. And yet, I had seen him fall to the blow of a harpoon dealt to him by none other than his own father! Ah! Shipwreckers! What a hateful bunch, those guys! Pirates are by far more preferable to deal with!"

"The shipwreckers!", we all exclaimed. "What story do you plan to tell us, papa Miccò?"

The old quartermaster phlegmatically refilled his pipe, lit it up again, emptied his glass, then resumed:

"I don't think they're still around, nowadays, but forty or so years ago, there were many of them on the coasts of Canada.

The sailors feared the shipwreckers more than the storms, the cliffs, or even the sharks.

All the coasts that form the immense mouth of the Saint Lawrence River, the largest river of both Canada and the Nova Scotia**, were back then populated by shipwreckers, the worst kind of lowlifes that were living off the misfortunes of poor sailors.

Nestled on those rocks indented by straits and small bays, they would anxiously look for storms and fogs.

When a ship would be violently slammed by the waves inside the gulf of Saint Lawrence, it could consider itself doomed.

The shipwreckers would light fires near the cliffs, making the poor sailors think those were the lights of some port, the former then just waiting for the ship to inevitable wreck itself against the cliffs and sink, something that never took too long to happen.

The crews, drowned by those scums, eagerly headed towards those fires, while their ships, instead of finding refuge from the anger of the waves, would shatter against the rocks.

Nobody could any longer hope to save themselves, because those shipwreckers would swoop down on the unfortunate ones that couldn't reach the coast, either ruthlessly killing them, or pushing them back under the waves.

How many ships were lost this way and how many offenses were committed by those ferocious thieves of the sea!... And how much fortune was gathered by those lowlifes from the remains of all those ships that they had sunk!...

That's enough, however: here's the story of Noël, the codfish fisherman."

Papa Miccò emptied another glass in order to wet his throat, relit the fire, and as we got closer to the fireplace, resumed:

"At the time, I had boarded an American ship that was trading between Nova Scotia and Norway.

We would load codfish in America and would bring back from Europe iron rails that was destined for the new lines that were then being built near lake Huron***.

It was a very beautiful three-master, had a great payload, rockproof, launched in the dry dock of Terra Nova**** two years prior, thus capable of braving the storms of the Atlantic Ocean.

I had become friends with a certain Noël, a Canadian that had once been a codfish fisherman and whose family was living on the Prince Edward Island, one of the largest ones present in the gulf of the Saint Lawrence River.

As I was saying earlier, he was a fine example of a twenty-six year old, swift as a monkey, as well as extremely strong at the same time, and that all agreed he was, without the shadow of a doubt, one of the finest topmen of the British Navy.

He adored his parents and would frequently tell me about his father, an old fisherman of the Saint Lawrence River.

I, on the other hand, had heard from other sailors quite disheartening tales about his father. They had told me that they believed the latter to be one of the leaders of the shipwreckers of the Saint Lawrence River.

Whether those rumours were true or not, I can tell you that, in either case, the son did not resemble the old codfish fisherman in the slightest.

One day, we had set sail from Norway, with a load of rails, destined to Quebec City, the capital city of Canada*****.

Noël, upon learning that he was about to return to his homeland, did not shy away from sharing his joy with me.

"I'll finally be able to see my father again!", he would tell me. "It's been four long years since I've last hugged him, and you, Miccò, will come over to my house and stay for a few weeks!"

Despite the rumours that I had heard on account of his father, I couldn't bring myself to refuse such a kind offer."

"Maybe they were wrong.", I had told myself. "There's no way that such a wonderful young man could have such a lowlife for a father."

The crossing of the Atlantic Ocean had been a very merry one.

Our ship, after forty days, had arrived in view of Terra Nova, the famous island in whose waters every year can be fished zillions of excellent codfish.

Those areas are extremely dangerous due to the extremely thick fogs and because of certain winds called poudrin, that blow with such force that you can't possibly imagine.

And sure enough, one night, shortly after the sun had set, a thick fog sets down on the sea, hiding from view the shore of Terra Nova. 

Noël, heavily experienced in those areas, somewhat anxiously approached me and told me:

"We're in for an awful night."

"The ship is steady and the gulf of the Saint Lawrence River is right in front of us.", I answered him. "In a few days, we'll be in view of your island and you'll be able to finally hug your father."

"You're being encouraging, yet I am saddened.", the topman told me.

I looked at him in astonishment. In his accent, there was something somewhat anguished.

"What irrational fears are tormenting you?", I asked him. "We're a few leagues of tens away from your island and instead of being happy about it, your face looks as if you've just gone to a funeral."

"Soon enough we'll encounter the poudrin", he answered me, paying no mind to my words.

"Let it come."

"And it will shake us terribly."

"We're used to rolling."

"And you are not yet aware of the terrible dangers that await us in the gulf of the Saint Lawrence River.", he told me in a odd tone.

"What do you mean?", I asked.

"There are the shipwreckers.", he murmured in my ears.

Then he ran away to the stern, as if that confidence had burned his lips.

Meanwhile, the fog had gotten so dense to completely envelop us, and from the North there were coming certain freezing gusts of wind that would make our limbs go numb and heavily test the resistance of our sails.

The captain turned away from the southern coasts of Terra Nova and after a brief meeting with his officers, decided to seek refuge inside the port of Cape Breton Island, not daring to venture inside the gulf of Saint Lawrence.

Night had become so dark that we couldn't see anything around us. 

However, we could hear the growing roars of the waves that were shaking our poor ship something terrible.

But the captain hadn't accounted for the instability of the wind.

Just when he thought that he was a small distance away from the port of Cape Breton Island, the gusts of wind suddenly changed their direction towards the south, pushing us inside the completely-covered-in-fog gulf of Saint Lawrence.

Our situation was becoming more and more dire by the minute. We were completely at the mercy of the winds and the waves, and we couldn't figure out our exact location.

Some would claim that we had passed by the extreme point of Cape Breton Island and that we were sailing alongside the coasts of Prince Edward Island; others, that we were smack in the middle of the gulf.

Around 2 AM, a shout is heard: "There's a light to port******!"

In the midst of the mist, at a certain height, one could see a a bright spot vaguely gleaming, joined by a second one that was a bit farther away.

Were they the lights of some port or of the dreaded shipwreckers?

As I focused on them, I felt a touch on my shoulder.

"Do you think that those lights belong to a lighthouse?"

I turned around, coming face to face with Noël.

"Yes.", I answered.

"And I disagree with that.", he told me.

"My thoughts are the same as the captain's, because he just changed the direction of the ship, and is trying to approach those two bright lights."

"I fear a catastrophe.", Noël answered me.

"I don't believe in your shipwreckers.", I said. "Such lowlifes can only exist in your fantasy."

Meanwhile, the ship was approaching those two bright lights, that were becoming clearer and clearer, despite the fog still being extremely thick.

The captain, genuinely thinking that he was in front of one of the small bays of the Prince Edward Island, had the crow's nests and all the topsails furled, and the anchors prepared.

The sea was terrible in that spot.

The waves, bouncing on the coast, would form scary whirlpools, and then would return to the open sea, fiercely bumping into the ones pushed by the wind. 

A deep anxiety took over all of us.

Our senses were warning us about a grave danger, yet, we were attracted to those two bright lights like moths to a flame, holding onto the hope that there we would find a shelter safe from the anger of the sea.

We weren't farther away than a few hawsers away from those two bright lights, when from the bow came a terrible cry:

"The reefs! The reefs!"

"Those are the lights of the shipwreckers!"

"We're doomed!"

A thundering tone broke over the chaos for but a moment:

"Prepare to turn around!"

It was easier said than done, with both the wind and the waves dragging us towards those damned reefs.

In that exact moment, the lowlifes that were hidden behind the rocks, waiting for our demise, put out the lights.

The wind had carried our screams over to them, and, certain of seeing our ship shattering, took away those lights that could have been used as guiding lights to shore for the lifeboats.

"Do you believe in the shipwreckers, now?", Noël asked me, as our crew members rushed to the maneuvers.

I don't remember what I had answered him. In that moment, I felt as if I had gone mad with fear."

Papa Miccò took a break from the story in order to recharge his pipe and wet his throat. Us, still gathered around the fire, were hanging on his every word, not taking our eyes off of the story teller.

A deep anxiety was present on our features, something that seemed to amuse the old sailor, because he took his time getting back to the story.

"Papa Miccò, did you get lost on the reefs of Prince Edward Island?", we asked.

The quartermaster lit up his pipe, blew two big clouds of smoke into the air, then resumed:

"My dear lads, I assure you, I had never come so close to death as I had that terrible night. All the maneuvers of the ship were in vain, due to the wind and the sheer, furious, violence of the waves.

We had just turned a quarter turn when the next shout came:

"Reefs to port!"

We were surrounded by rocks and in the palm of the shipwreckers' hands.

A sailor shouted: "It's every man for himself! The ship is done for!"

With the strike of a knife, I took off the bulwark a lifebuoy that I had noticed earlier.

I had barely put that cork ring on, stopping it under my armpits, when my ears caught a frightful racket.

The ship had just shattered against the reefs!

Without waiting for the waves to barge in on the deck and for the masts to fall down, I let myself take a fall in the waves.

Among the roaring of the sea, I could hear the heartwrenching screams of my crew mates and some hasty orders, followed by a complete silence.

The rollers were carrying me as if I was a feather. They were pushing me, hurling me in the foaming crests of the sea waves, then they would roll me while sinking me, making me gulp water to the point of bursting.

I had resigned myself to my fate, by then. It was impossible for the waves not to smash me against the reefs, on the contrary, I felt as if my legs were breaking apart, piece by piece.

After about a quarter hour, I saw near me something that was continuously fidgeting, something that seemed to have the shape of a human person; I called to it with what little voice I could muster and had heard Noël's voice in response.

"Can you swim, mate?", I asked him.

"I have a lifebuoy.", he replied.

"And the rest of our crew?"

"I think they got swallowed by the sea.", he answered me.

"And we will get crushed."

"Let yourself be carried by the waves.", he answered me. "I know where we are."

A water mountain separated us and that fine young man disappeared inside the fog.

I, following his advice, let myself be carried by the rollers, without opposing them.

Finally, I felt a hit, that was immediately followed by a sharp pain. I felt as if my hips were torn apart and my arms had fractured.

What happened afterwards? To this day, I don't remember.

When I had come to my senses, day was dawning and the fog was slowly lifting.

I had just gotten up, wondering whether I was still alive, or dead, when I saw someone slithering among down among the cliffs.

Initially, I had thought it must have been some dog or some wolf, then I realized that it was a man covered in hair, that made him seem like a bear. In one hand, he had a harpoon, while in the other he held a small adze.

A flash of insight came over me! The terrible shipwreckers suddenly came to mind!

In my belt, I still had my knife. Pulling it out and standing up, however, even though I was completely achy, took but a moment.

The man with the harpoon stopped, with his weapon raised up, as if he was intent to hit me.

It was a sixty year old man, stocky and sturdy, with a long, grey beard, and with a pair of eyes that resembled those of a wild cat.

"If you think you'll be able to kill me, think again, you scoundrel!", I shouted, resolutely grasping the knife.

That man, seeing me determined to fight him tooth and nail, switched strategies and told me in a humble tone: 

"I am but a poor fisherman, rushing to the sailors' aid, and not a shipwrecker, as you initially thought. I saw your ship shattering against the reefs and I was hoping to arrive just in time to help someone."

"Who lit those bright lights?!", I shouted.

"My companions, in order to smoke the codfish caught today."

"Those bright lights sent us to our demise, having we taken them for the lights of a lighthouse!"

The old man was, or, rather, pretended to be, surprised.

"There are no lighthouses on this coast.", he then told me. "If the captain was no stranger to these parts, he should've known that. Are you hurt, Sir?"

"No, but I would like a fire.", I answered him. "I am freezing."

"Follow me to my shack and you shall find fire, rest and refreshment."

Was he a shipwrecker or was he truly just a poor fisherman? Had our captain truly been wrong?

Seeing as I was nearly naked, drenched, and bruised, I followed the old man, watching his every move like a hawk. I hadn't let go of my knife, keeping it ready to plant it between the shoulders of that man in case of a betrayal.

After having made me climb lots of cliffs, passing through trails that were accessible only to goats, he had me enter a scanty shack where there was burning a joyous fire.

He offered me a chair, then gave me a cracker, and a glass of whisky:

"Warm yourself up and drink without fear. In the meanwhile, I will go down to the beach, and see if I can save anyone else."

He had just left when, as I looked around, I saw a name written on one of the walls of the shack: Harry Noël! 

I immediately stood up. Harry Noël was the name of my friend, the topman! 

Another thought flashed through my mind: Noël's father really was a shipwrecker.

A heinous anguish came over me.

What if the father encountered the son...?

Paying no mind to the freezing cold, I leapt towards a corner of the room where I had seen a heavy, thick cloak, then ran outside, covering myself as well as I could.

The night was dark, but from that high rock that shack was on I could see errant lights along the beach.

Were they shipwreckers busy with gathering the remains of the ship that they themselved had sunk or just poor fishermen that were trying to save the sailors pushed to shore by the sea waves?

No, they couldn't be just poor fishermen; by now I was sure of it.

The darkness was impenetrable, the fog having fallen down once again, but the errants light served as a guide.

Risking myself on trails on which there was a constant danger of plummeting down in a gorge at a moment's notice and shattering my limbs, I had finally arrived on the edge of a cliff, that was almost sheer to the sea.

Day was starting to dawn by then, and a powerful blow of the wind lift up the thick fog.

Two hundred steps away from the shore, there was our ship, wedged between the rocks.

In what a deplorable state she was! A state brought upon her by sea waves and that terrible collision!

All the masts had fallen down on the deck, encumbering it with sails, ropes, and the bulwarks were no longer where were they supposed to be.

The rails were coming out from a huge gash on the prow, pushed outside by the waves, the latter passing through the cargo hold tumultuously.

Mast pieces, yards, crates, barrels, and furnitures from the dashboard were chaotically dancing on the rollers.

On the beach, there were about ten or twelve men, covered in hair, and armed with harpoons, were busying themselves by dragging to dry land the remnants of the shipwreck.

They were shouting and cackling, like hyenas on the prowl. They were proud of that catastrophe that they caused via those damned bright lights lit up specifically to deceive our captain.

Suddenly, while I was deep in thought as I watched that atrocious display, I heard one of those men shout:

"Look, there's a castaway clinging to the tip of a reef!"

"Is he still alive?", asked another.

"I can see him move."

"A good harpoon blow and he'll be thrown back into the sea."

"Leave him to me, guys! Leave him to me!", a voice shouted, a voice that made my blood run cold as I recognized it: it was the voice of the old man that had led me to his shack.

I saw him stand up from behind a rock, holding his harpoon in his right hand, the adze in his left, and headed towards the reef, immersing himself in the water knee-high.

"Stop!", I yelled at the top of my lungs.

Had the roars of the waves covered my voice or was I too high for the shipwreckers to hear me?

Suddenly, I saw the sinister old man leap forward like a wild beast, raise his adze, and letting fall down on the castaway that was struggling on the tip of the reef. 

Almost immediately I had heard an excruciating, horrible scream, but it wasn't from the poor, struggling sailor, whom had fallen back into the sea with his skull split in two.

It was from the old shipwrecker.

I saw him move backwards, with his hands tangled up in his hair, his voice choked up as he kept repeating to himself:

"Harry! Harry Noël! My son! I killed my own son!"

Then, he proceeded to take off and crash into the waves.

***

The next day, on the beach, there were two bodies: that of Noël and that of his father...!"

🍁🍁🍁

Source of the tale. (28.10.2025)

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* The correct term is fjord and it refers to a long, narrow, sea inlet with steep sides or cliffs, created by a glacier. Fiord is what we would consider Salgarian penmanship. (Source. 21.10.2025)

** Nova Scotia is a province of Canada that is part of The Maritimes region. The Maritimes region consists of three provinces per total: Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, and Prince Edward Island. (Source 1. 25.10.2025) (Source 2. 25.10.2025)

*** Lake Huron is one of the five Great Lakes of North America (the other four being: Superior, Michigan, Erie, and Ontario). Its shores are shared by the Canadian province of Ontario and the U.S. state of Michigan. (Source 1. 25.10.2025) (Source 2. 25.10.2025)

**** In Canada, there are two Terra Nova: one is in the island of Newfoundland, and the other one is in Cape Breton Island. The story is referring, most likely, to the one from Newfoundland. 

The term "Terra Nova" comes from Portuguese and it means "New Earth" or "New Land". (Source 1. 25.10.2025) (Source 2. 25.10.2025).

***** Quebec City is the capital city of Quebec, the largest province of Canada. From 1851 to 1855 and from 1859 to 1865, the capital of Canada rotated between Kingston, Montreal, Toronto, Ottawa, and Quebec City. It was Queen Victoria (site checked: 25.10.2025) who had finally selected Ottawa as the capital city of Canada (which has not changed to this day), in 1857, the reason being that Ottawa is far from the American border and is situated on a cliff, thus making it easier to defend from a possible attack. (Source 1. 25.10.2025) (Source 2. 25.10.2025) (Source 3. 25.10.2025)

****** "There's a light to port!" = in this context, the word port is a nautical term that refers to the left side of the ship. A less... sailor-y way to say it would be:"There's a light on the left!" (Source. 28.10.2025).

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Personal Notes:

It is said that the stories written by Emilio Salgari are stories he would hear from sailors, when he would go to visit the dock.

His best and most known work, "Sandokan, The Tiger of Malaysia" has been proven to bear resemblance to true historical facts, starting with the firstly-thought-of-as-fictional island, Mompracem (currently known as Kuraman Island), and with the strong impression that Sandokan is no other than a fictional representation of Syarif Osman, who ruled Marudu (north of Borneo) (I recommend you go here for more information about Sandokan or Syarif Osman. Miss Bianca has done a marvelous job in finding, gathering, and translating information about Salgari and his works, especially those concerning the character of Sandokan).

Going by this, I strongly suspect that all of Emilio Salgari's stories are based on true, historical happenings and people, the sands of time mercilessly erasing most of their traces.

Emilio Salgari's stories feature places from all around the world; many of them feature places as far as possible from Europe itself. It is not far fetched that a story from your own hometown might be present in one of his writings, regardless of how remote or unknown you might think it might be to others.

If you know how to find the original, historical, sources of any of the stories present on this blog or if you even recognize one of them here as a local, known story (or legend) to you, please feel free to contact me.

I would love to put both the story written by Salgari and the historical one side by side and not let these names become forgotten.

Thank you very much for your assistance.