The Curse of the Labrador Duck

by Glen Chilton

  When I introduced myself at the front desk, a gentle little fellow buzzed Nigel Monaghan, Keeper of the museum’s Natural History Division. As we walked through the public galleries, Monaghan told me that the museum has about 2 million specimens in total, eight to ten thousand of which are birds. At the time of my visit, all of the bird specimens were being added to a computer database so that researchers around the world would be able to access the information. The museum hadn’t always been so committed to its birds. Damien Walsh of the Education and Outreach Department had told me that the museum had not had a curator of birds, or even a curator mildly interested in birds, for nearly one hundred years.

  The museum opened in 1857, two years before the publication of Darwin’s Origin of Species. Its opening was commemorated by a lecture by Dr. Davis Livingstone about his African adventures. Today, the museum is crowded and musty, but in an entirely appropriate sort of way. The grand old Victorian cabinets cannot have changed much since the museum opened. Admission is free, my favorite price for a museum. Exhibits are set out over four floors; the top two are encircling balconies that give the visitor unique perspectives on some of the larger displays below. The whole effect is bright, cheery, and grand without being too obvious about it. If you should wish to see one of Europe’s very few Labrador Ducks on public display, you will have to travel to the Dublin Natural History Museum on Merrion Street, where you will find him in cabinet 230, on the third level of exhibitions, between a pair of King Ducks, above some eiders, and below a female Bufflehead.

  Labrador Duck 13

  On that particular day, the Labrador Duck wasn’t on display but in a back workroom, waiting for me, perched on his two-tiered wooden base. It normally has a 20-inch-tall glass dome over the top, which probably explains why it is in such tremendous condition, despite having been on public display for as long as anyone can remember. For a long-dead duck, he looks very attentive. Someone had done a rather unfortunate paint and varnish job on the bill, making it pink with splashes of yellow and lime green. The bill is slightly darker on the left side, perhaps because that is his display side and has received more exposure to the light. His right leg is a bit bashed up, but otherwise he is in remarkably good shape.

  By the time I finished my examination of the duck and waved goodbye to my host, the museum had filled with enthusiastic visitors of all ages—pleasantly occupied without feeling cramped. This tells me that this particular museum should not give in to the temptation to modernize it. Even though visitors that day were not able to see the Labrador Duck, they did have the opportunity to see an amazing array of taxidermic mounts, including a Carolina Parakeet, a Passenger Pigeon, an Aukland Island Merganser, a Slender Bush Wren, and a Huia, all extinct. There is lots of nonbird stuff, too, but I confess to something of a bias for things with wings.

  Even though we don’t know exactly where the Dublin duck came from, or who had it before it left New York, we have a complete record from 1838 onward, which is not bad for a Labrador Duck. We know about Lt. Swainson, R.N., who got it from New York; Reverend Palmer Williams, who got it from Swainson; and Mrs. H. M. J. Barrington, who got it from Williams and then turned it over to the museum in Dublin. Oh yes, and the steamship Royal William. With very little digging, I found that the Royal William had been 144 feet long, 26 feet broad, 16 feet deep, weighed 785 tons, and could generate as much power as 540 motivated horses. According to my sources, she made only three round trips across the Atlantic between Liverpool and New York, in 1838 and 1839, but one of these trips had set some sort of record for speed of passage. Despite my best efforts in the Heraldic Museum and Genealogical Office, I learned nothing more about Lt. Swainson, Rev. Williams, or Mrs. Barrington.

  While I was having fun looking at ducks, Lisa also was having fun, pushing back the world’s ignorance about all things physiologic. While I was poking at things long dead, she was trying to keep folks from dying prematurely. In the spirit of mixing science with pleasure, the conference organizers had planned a mixer at the National Gallery for that evening. Opened to the public in 1864, the gallery boasts many hundreds of works of art, with representatives of all major European schools. I arrived a little before Lisa, and staked out a spot near paintings of naked women with large breasts, and took advantage of the young men and women with elegant white gloves who brought around trays of wine. I was just a tad sozzled by the time Lisa arrived.

  I was a little more soused by the time we joined a tour of the facility given by the lovely Shannon, who took us to some of her favorite pieces. She was particularly keen to show us works by Rubens, Monet, and Picasso. I found something vastly entertaining in the combination of great art and glasses of free wine. The tour ended with one of the gallery’s most prized pieces, the recently acquired The Taking of Christ. We were told that the painting had resided in the dining room of a Jesuit monastery in Dublin until 1990, when a painting restorer twigged that it had been painted by Caravaggio four hundred years before. Fueled by wine, I tried to bait Shannon. I asked if the painting was signed. No, it wasn’t. So, I asked, if it had managed to sit unrecognized for all this time, what were the chances that it hadn’t been painted by Caravaggio at all? No, no, Shannon assured me, it was a real Caravaggio. No doubt about it, she said. Absolutely sure.

  Back at the main reception area, large, dangerous packs of physiologists had formed, and it was time to wander into the night to find food to help sop up a bellyful of wine. Lisa rounded up a group of eight physiologists who she felt might be willing to talk about things other than physiology, and we wandered west through the Temple Bar area in search of a suitable establishment. Temple Bar is a model of urban regeneration, having been converted from rundown dockland to a center for culture and entertainment. According to the book of matches I found in my shirt pocket the next morning, we settled on a restaurant that described itself as the ideal venue for large parties, graduation celebrations, and corporate functions. It proved an ideal venue for getting a drink in my hand without delay. I looked around the table through something of a haze. Besides Lisa, my dinner companions were Tony Blair, Judy Jetson, Papa Smurf, Alanis Morissette, Sir Bob Geldof, Queen Gertrude of Belgium, Thomas Hardy, and Ed Sullivan. I was seated between Judy and Queen Gertrude, and took no exception to this whatsoever. As we drank and ate and drank some more, the conversation drifted around topics like global politics, global warming, art with breasts (both paintings and sculptures), programmed cell death, the nature of Canadian cuisine, and the relative merits of beer in Ireland, England, and Wales. Lisa steered me back to Trinity College.

  A RADIO ADVERTISEMENT from the Ireland tourism board told me to expect a “surprise every day.” Having measured my duck, I had a full day to explore, and I really, really wanted to be surprised. Pleasantly if possible. I didn’t think surprises would find me if I stuck to sites listed in tourist guides, so I decided to do a little exploring. I wanted to find some modest Irish treasure, something beautiful or romantic or tranquil that I could look back on in my old age and sigh. I reasoned that sensible cities are built on rivers, and that many of the most sensible cities are situated on rivers where they empty into the sea. And so, in an attempt to find what lay beyond the rather narrow limits of my Dublin tourist map, I headed north from Trinity College, aiming for the river Liffey and O’Connell Bridge. I had been told that O’Connell was the most important of the many bridges that cross the Liffey, and as good a spot as any to start my adventure.

  I found hell, which certainly was surprising. An endless stream of heavy lorries raced westward, perforated occasionally by commuter vehicles. The din echoed off the stone-fronted buildings to create a cacophonous crescendo. Pedestrians were not at all welcome, and the very few other pedestrians who braved O’Connell Bridge looked as disoriented as I felt. Looking for inspiration, I stood beside a statue of Daniel O’Connell, and felt sad that I had no idea who he had been. Perhaps I should have continued north along O’Connell Street, which has been described as Dublin’s answer to the
Champs-Elysées, but I didn’t. I might have marched up Moore Street and down Moore Lane, but I didn’t do that either. Instead, I tossed an imaginary coin and started east along the river.

  It is said that Dublin has leapt forward in the last fifteen years, after years of neglect, and that restored old buildings and redeveloped areas had replaced lots that previously sat derelict. When it comes to the region bordering the north and south shores of the Liffey, the city still has a long way to go. I found no trace of soul. I did, however, find a trace of Labrador Duck in the guise of an unlovely building with a plaque indicating that it had served as the original headquarters of the City of Dublin Steam Packet Company, whose ship Royal William had brought the duck to Ireland.

  The region along the Liffey was rich in promises of redevelopment of the portions of the waterfront no longer used for shipping. Blocklong signs on plywood fences described luxury housing development, but at that point in its genesis it was still a load of broken concrete and rusting machinery, and I was reduced to dodging heavy truck traffic where sidewalks had been demolished but not replaced. Around a boat basin, I found a series of partially occupied warehouses whose businesses had nothing at all to do with water. Moving further and further east, I finally came to the district still used for real shipping. Large wire fences kept me from getting anywhere near any real ships.

  Zigzagging back along the river’s north side, I finally found something that touched me. It was a series of statues of emaciated figures in remembrance of those who suffered and died as a result of the Great Famine starting in 1845, and the lack of assistance that followed. In particular it was a tribute to those Irish families that had emigrated to Canada, and so helped forge the nation as it exists today.

  THE NATIONAL MUSEUM of Ireland has an incredible archaeological collection, including material from the Stone Age onward. This is all housed in a magnificent building opened in 1890. The museum was hosting several special events and lectures through the summer. On the books was a special presentation on bats by Dr. Claire Cave, an example of nominative determinism almost as good as a bat biologist friend of mine who married a woman named Robin. The museum was also sponsoring a children’s art competition on the topic of Ireland’s watery places. And that very evening, I was due to give a lecture on Labrador Ducks.

  I like an audience, and have no objection to helping with advertising. I once did a radio interview promoting a talk while suffering a blinding migraine, with a corn snake wrapped around my neck. I hadn’t been asked to do any promotion for the talk in Dublin, except for providing them with a brief description. When Lisa and I arrived at the museum for my talk, we were surprised to see no posters, no bulletins…not much of anything. Indeed, the only advertising we found was in the museum’s booklet of summer events. It was buried on page 38, in blue ink on a slightly lighter blue background. And so I wasn’t altogether surprised to find that my audience consisted of just twenty people, including Lisa and two people who had helped to organize the talk.

  Despite the relatively small group, I danced and pranced, told Labrador Duck stories, and threw in a plug for the National Museums every chance I got. After the talk and the question period, one particularly well dressed, bejeweled, and enthusiastic fellow came up to ask additional questions and make supportive comments. His name was John McKenna, and he came across as someone who felt that life was a really good bit of fun. When we were tossed out of the museum a few minutes after my talk so that the building could be locked up, McKenna and his partner, Trish, invited Lisa and me out for a drink at a watering hole just down the street. We politely declined, claiming that it had been a long day. McKenna asked again, promising that it would be “just the one.” Again we declined. When McKenna asked again, we knew that there was no way to politely decline a third time. And so off we went to the Horseshoe Room at the Shelbourne Hotel.

  The decor of the bar has been described as understated Gatsby. I suppose this means lots of mirrors, wood, and brass. A Dublin landmark for fifty years, we were told that author James Joyce had frequented the Horseshoe, although I suspect he didn’t do a lot of his best imbibing there, having died several years before it opened. Lisa and I were dressed nicely, but I still felt out of place, surrounded by lawyers and parliamentarians in suits costing more than my first car. McKenna and Trish were able to put us immediately at our ease. McKenna had whiskey, Trish and Lisa had wine, and at McKenna’s suggestion I supped a Guinness. It is said that Guinness doesn’t travel well, and so this was my opportunity to drink it with the least amount of undesirable travel, having come from just down the road at St. James Gate.

  Trish was willing to sit back and look lovingly while McKenna held court. We wandered all over favorite topics, including jewelry, art, travel, history, and archaeology. McKenna described himself as the “fecker” who was costing the Irish government millions of euros by preventing them from running highways through areas of great archaeological significance. We pulled out some stationery and a pen so that McKenna could illustrate some fine points of Irish language and geography. After just a few minutes, the paper looked as though it had been attacked by a toddler holding a pen for the first time, which McKenna put down to his dyslexia.

  Just before the evening came to an end, McKenna signed over to us the copyright for an image that was going to make us rich. He scribbled it out in pen on another piece of paper. It was a stylized sketch of James Joyce, incorporating Joyce’s eyeglasses into the word Bloomsday, a festival held on June 16 each year to celebrate Joyce’s greatest novel Ulysses. I gather that if Dublin ever uses this logo, Lisa and I will be able to claim that we hold the rights to it, and sue the living daylights out of the city.

  BEFORE FLYING OUT of Dublin, I had one more opportunity to find a bit of the city to adore. The opportunity came in the form of a prebreakfast run. My earlier impressions about traffic noise had come at rush hour. Surely those impressions had been misplaced. Not so. Passing through the gates of Trinity College, I heard church bells chime 6:00, and yet the din of traffic was already at full roar. I hadn’t given up on my thesis that the best of a city should be somewhere near its biggest river, and so I set off, running west along the Liffey. I crossed at O’Connell Bridge, and again at Ha’penny Bridge. Then I ran across the Millennium Bridge, followed by the Grattan Bridge, the O’Donovan Rossa Bridge, and the Father Matthew Bridge. North on the Mellows Bridge, south on the Blackhall Palace Bridge, north on the Rory O’More Bridge, and south on the Frank Sherwin Bridge. At this point I ran out of bridges, and so ran back to Trinity College, having failed to fall in love with Dublin.

  I confess that my lack of passion for Dublin is probably completely my own fault. We were in the city less than four days. I met only a handful of its residents. I didn’t get to Phoenix Park or Dublin Zoo. I didn’t take in Dublin Castle or the National Botanic Gardens or the Museum of Childhood. Instead, I tried to find beauty by walking and running along the river Liffey. I had walked beyond the limits of my tourist map. Tourist maps are designed to keep tourists away from grotty building sites, heavy truck traffic, and unsympathetic architecture.

  So here is my compromise: if the Dublin tourist bureau were to invite me back for a longer visit, I would stick to the itinerary, and I would promise to enjoy myself. I would attend only preapproved festivals and take only guided tours. I would then write a glowing and complimentary article about the city at the end of my stay. I would be perfectly pleased to fly economy but would not say no to a room at the Shelbourne Hotel.

  Having made a careful examination of more than a dozen Labrador Ducks, I thought it was a good time to see where some of them had shuffled off.

  Chapter Eight

  A Traveler’s Guide to the Smells of East Coast Canada

  I am not a hunter. Indeed, I don’t know any vegetarians who are. In the past, quite a few people hunted Labrador Ducks, even though they reportedly tasted awful. The story goes that when a Labrador Duck carcass was brought to market in New York, it would hang there
until it rotted off the hook, because everyone knew how truly dreadful they tasted.

  Labrador Ducks presumably spent the summer breeding somewhere in northern Canada—Labrador might be a good guess. Although there is not a single record of anyone having ever killed a Labrador Duck on its breeding ground, it is safe to assume that it happened, but no one bragged about it. Labrador Ducks spent their winters in the vicinity of New York City. People killed lots and lots of these ducks on the wintering grounds around Long Island. It follows that those ducks must have flown between the breeding and wintering grounds, following the coast in both directions, and there are a few records of Labrador Ducks being shot while they were taking a short break on migration. Stopping for a snack and a rest, my poor little ducks were blasted away at by the citizens of New Brunswick and Nova Scotia. Having spent the summer tracking down stuffed ducks in Europe, I had just enough time for a visit to eastern Canada before getting back to my other duties.

  I knew of three scenes of Labrador Duck carnage. I had seen the adult drake in Liverpool that had been blasted while it rested in Halifax Harbour. The soul of the drake in Ottawa had been sent to heaven while visiting Pictou. I was soon to see a male in Chicago that had been unlucky enough to think that Grand Manan Island might be a nice place to have a nap. It was also time for me to see a live Labrador Duck.

  Waiting for me at Halifax International Airport with a smile and a warm hug was my dear friend Sarah Shima. In imagining Sarah, think of a slightly older and slightly less Goth Christina Ricci. Think of a lustrous china doll with a permanent, disarming smile, but a look in her eye suggesting evil thoughts. To share a few duck adventures with me, Sarah had driven all the way from her home in Knowlesville, New Brunswick, to Halifax, Nova Scotia.