by Frank Galgay
So the trip went. Visiting hours in places where the steamer boothed, with a real party at the Lush’s in Jackson’s Arm. We rounded Cape John on New Year’s Eve and spent New Year’s Day at Little Bay Islands. Then the bad news. The Prospero was ordered to go to Lewisporte—not one of her ports of call—to get more freight and return north. We reached there on January 2nd and I got a job as assistant steward for two days to save hotel expenses. I was proud of my white jacket. There was no pay for this—just meals and a free room and surplus fruit. When the time came to leave the Prospero to join the Clyde to go to Fogo I had so many oranges that the hinges of my suitcase broke when going across the Deck and oranges went in all directions. At that moment the Captain came out through his door.
“Did you steal these oranges?” he asked.
“No, ” I replied, “I sove ’em up.”
So, imagine a trip that when I went to White Bay, took only 2 days, from Fogo had now taken some 13 days already and we were still a long way from home. The Clyde left, got stuck in the ice off Michael’s Harbour and the Captain decided to return to Lewisporte. Four of us got down over the side and started the long walk of nearly 80 miles to where we had to go. We did it in two days, covering 35 miles the first night and made Boyd’s Cove and the home of Mr. and Mrs. Pelly by 8 a.m. On the way there were Christmas parties to which we were invited—the hospitality was wonderful. We were the first to cross the run on ice to Change Islands and then Fogo and made it by dark on the 5th of January. After walking nearly 80 miles in two days, in very cold weather and over rough terrain in places, it would be expected that a rest was well earned.
But as I had been robbed of the kind of Christmas I had been used to I got word round to my old friends and by 4 o’clock we were out mummering and walked and talked to well after midnight. It was the last twelve days of Christmas and must be celebrated. Christmas Mumming in Newfoundland, which was called mummering, was a must in those days and so I concentrated all the mummering joy of twelve nights into one unforgettable fling.
Captain Job K. Barbour: He Spent Christmas Adrift on the Ocean
by Pat Doyle
“WE HAD COME TO regard ourselves now as playing a life and death game with the ocean, and with this was the thought that, as we had defeated it so often, it was only watching for the final change to take us off our guard and in one fell swoop send us all to Davy Jones’ locker.”
These were the thoughts running through the frantic mind of Captain Job K. Barbour of Newtown, Bonavista Bay, 46 Christmases ago as he, crewmembers and five passengers found themselves some 1,000 miles out into an angry and aggressive Atlantic Ocean, on a battered 100-foot coastal schooner—not knowing exactly where they were, where they were going, or how, and if they were going to get there.
They had left St. John’s on Nov. 28, 1929, for the 100-mile, 12-hour journey to Newtown—the hurricane weather and heavy seas struck—and they landed in North Scotland 48 days later, tired and weary men, with an extremely ill female passenger, but all joyously happy to be still alive.
Capt. Barbour, who now resides in St. John’s, says not a Christmas goes by without some reminiscing about Christmas Day, 1929, when he wondered if his life was all but over.
He wrote a book about his experiences, Forty-eight Days Adrift, in 1932, in which he detailed the story of his perilous adventure.
The story is recalled today with the aid of some excerpts from the book, as well as some thoughts from Capt. Barbour himself.
On Christmas Eve, 1919, the 125-ton Neptune II was “hove to” as a gale continued to rage.
“We made a special effort towards some kind of celebration in honor of the day and succeeded in boiling the kettle. The tea with bread, bologna sausage and onions proved for us a regular feast and we enjoyed it very much.”
For lunch they had a handful of raisins each.
For breakfast the next day—Christmas Day—they had bologna, for dinner they had a handful of raisins, and in addition, “to honor Christmas Day before we turned in, we had at 11 o’clock a little tea, some fruit and Pet milk.”
That was the only Christmas in his 77 years that Capt. Barbour was at sea—but it was an occasion that has overshadowed every Christmas since.
Job Kean Barbour was born at Newtown in 1898, the second son of Edward Barbour, and nephew of Samuel Barbour, who together had founded the firm of E. and S. Barbour, general merchants, around 1892.
Edward died in 1912, and the elder son, Lester, was killed in France during the First World War, leaving Job and his Uncle Samuel to carry on with the business.
Job first went to sea in 1912, as a cook, at the age of 14, and he kept going to sea mainly working in the coastal trade until 1935 when, at the age of 37, he settled down to concentrate on the family business.
While in Scotland in 1930, he had come across the Kelvin marine engine, and realizing the possibilities, he promptly obtained the Newfoundland agency for the family business, an agency which the firm still features.
Today the firm of E. and S. Barbour, with Capt. Job as president, is located on 152 Duckworth St., and his son, Lester, who has a bachelor of commerce degree, is working along with him.
Capt. Barbour’s misadventure in 1929-30 began innocently enough as the company’s vessel Neptune II, of which he was master, left Newtown on Nov. 7, with a cargo of dried codfish, cod oil and other things for St. John’s, where she arrived the following day, and in fine sunny weather, discharged the cargo in 17 days.
The 125-ton three-masted schooner was 100 feet long, 22 feet wide and 10 feet deep, and was built of oak. A Danish ship used for freighting across the Atlantic, she had been purchased by the Barbours in 1928.
When she sailed through the Narrows on the evening of Nov. 29 1929, with five crew members plus the skipper and five passengers, including one woman, on the return trip to Newtown, everything appeared normal and those on board were all of one mind, anticipating a “speedy and fair run home.”
Little did they suspect at that moment that without navigation chart or compass and practically without food or water, they would drift for 48 days at the mercy of the mighty Atlantic Ocean.
In fact, the lady passenger, Esther Humphries, wife of the bosom Peter Humphries—who along with one of the other passengers had just gotten to the Neptune minutes before she pulled away from the wharf in St. John’s beamed with pleasure as she remarked, “Oh, I’m so glad that I did not lose my passage. I’ll be home tomorrow morning with my family.”
Following his reference to that in his book, Capt. Barbour adds, “If a voice could only then have whispered in her ear, ‘No, Mrs. Humphries, the next land you will place your foot on will be the Bonnie Land of Scotland!’”
The Neptune sailed out the harbour late on the afternoon of Nov. 29 and by 9 p.m. the vessel began to experience a taste of what nature had in store for it.
A light snowfall had turned into a steady and severe snowstorm, hiding the sight of anything 50 yards of both sides of the vessel, and Mrs. Humphries was already too seasick to leave her berth.
By 5 a.m. the next day, the wind had increased to a hurricane, the vessel was shipping heavy seas at times, and salt water had gotten into the casks on deck containing the supply of fresh water, making it unfit for drinking and making tea.
The wind by then was blowing with such terrific force that the Neptune had no other choice but to run before it.
Tremendous seas were running by then, it was freezing hard, all the sails and ropes were frozen stiff and the deck was also thickly coated with ice.
All on board had put on all the warm clothing they could and though every one of the crew wore two pairs of mitts, their hands were “huge and swollen.”
As the drinking water had been spoiled, they were compelled to go “on allowance” of half a cup of tea in the morning and again at night, with an apple or orange or handful of raisins for dinner.
Then things got worse on Nov. 30 as the spanker boom broke in two pieces and the sail itse
lf suffered the same fate.
Being about 80 miles northeast of Cape Bonavista, under bare poles, they hoisted one jib and ran under that small sail alone.
Each steersman in turn was lashed to the wheel for an hour only, for as Capt. Barbour put it, “It was too cold for human flesh to stay there any longer.”
The next day, Dec. 1, the crew of the Neptune found themselves 150 miles northeast of Cape Bonavista and realized they had overshot their home port, Newtown, by 120 miles.
As the seas continued to run very high, the vessel became in outward appearance “one huge lump of ice from stem to stern, ” and the weight had made the hull settle down a foot or so below the usual waterline in normal times with a full freight on board.
As the days went gradually by, the heavy seas and stormy weather continued and the Neptune II continued to drift farther and farther away from home.
On Dec. 6, the vessel shipped a sea which filled her deck level to the rail and washed away the wheel house and steering gear.
The crew promptly rigged up two tackles, one on either side of the tiller, and with that makeshift apparatus, four men, two on each side, were required to do the steering and keep the vessel before the wind.
However, Pearce Barbour, the mate was able to get the broken wheel fixed up so that one man could again steer.
The Neptune by then was on the edge of the Gulf Stream and in a few hours all the ice melted from the deck, sails and rigging.
While there were periods of lull, the stormy weather kept returning with hurricane winds and heavy seas, and the coastal vessel was taking a heavy beating in many ways.
As Capt. Barbour described it in his book: “We huddled in the forecastle and let the elements do what they liked with our ship. It was certain death to venture on deck.”
Even in the forecastle, however, they were not safe from the furey of the seas which swept under the doors and around barriers, flooding the floor knee-deep, drenching the crew and covering Mrs. Humphries in her berth.
For the most part, the people on board the Neptune were living on half a cup of tea twice a day, some biscuits, canned fruit and milk.
Despite the continuing battle with the elements, the crew and passengers kept up their spirits as best as possible and tried to make repairs to various pieces of equipment as was needed.
By Dec. 12, the Neptune was some 720 miles out in the Atlantic from the east coast of Newfoundland, and although the crew kept trying to set a course toward their homeland whenever they could, they were not really making much headway.
Two days later, one of the crew managed to catch some rain water that was devoid of salt; pork, cabbage and turnips were rounded up and put in the boiler, and it turned out to be “the best ‘scoff ’ that we ever had.”
It was the first cooked meal they had had since leaving St. John’s, Nov. 29.
The stormy weather and heavy seas gave repeat performances from time to time and the little Neptune was drifting around the Atlantic with no idea where she was and where she would eventually end up.
A couple of other vessels were sighted on occasion but due to the Neptune having no wireless, because of the heavy seas, and since Newfoundland crew didn’t know the flag language, they were unable to get assistance.
During the few days before Christmas, the sturdy vessel was “hove to” most of the time trying to sit out the hurricane weather and heavy seas.
On Dec. 24, the elements took no notice that it was Christmas Eve, and a heavy sea struck the ship with such force that George Bungay, who was in his bunk, five feet up, was thrown on the floor.
His head struck the hot stove and his side was also injured, so he had to be hefted back into the berth and lashed in so there wouldn’t be a re-occurrence of the mishap.
Christmas Day was spent rather uneventfully with the vessel making little headway.
Boxing Day, Dec. 26, with food and coal supplies getting short, the crew managed to get some more supplies out of the hatches.
In fact things looked so good for a while that day, they hoisted all available sail and ran 20 miles toward Newfoundland—only to run into another hurricane which forced them to heave to one again.
Finally, on Dec. 30, Capt. Barbour made up his mind that it would do no good to continue to attempt to get back to Newfoundland.
He called the crew on deck and said, “Our fresh water supply (from catching rain water) will last only a few days, our rigging and sails are worn out and we are nearly worn out ourselves.”
So they shaped their course for the British Isles, with the hope of getting to the English Channel.
The Neptune floundered on when it could but Dec. 31, New Year’s Eve, a part of New Year’s Day, she was hove to once again, as it was blowing a gale.
Mrs. Humphries was extremely ill by this time and it was thought she might die at any time, although she improved somewhat a little later.
The vessel made a little more headway before once again running into the rough weather.
Said Capt. Barbour, “We could see nothing but the wild waves and the circle of the horizon on all sides, at the mercy of winds and tides in the Atlantic, with no maps or charts or any aids to navigation, and even if we had sextant and quadrant, no one on board would have been able to use them.”
It was a New Year’s Day and night that wouldn’t be forgotten in a hurry.
The days and the nights went by and somehow the Newfoundland coastal vessel and all those aboard managed to survive to keep going and even to keep their spirits up, with scoff now and again and even some accordion music by one of the crew.
However, the crew were not getting much sleep and not knowing their whereabouts made them uneasy.
The food supplies were extremely low by now as well.
Land was finally sighted on Jan. 14, but the crew of the Neptune still had no idea where they were, whether the land was inhabited and if so, if the inhabitants spoke English.
Two days went by before the steamer Hesperus out of Scotland discovered the Neptune and came to rescue.
Capt. Barbour was “thunderstruck” when he was told he was in the north of Scotland.
As the steamer prepared to tow the Neptune to Tobermory, Capt. Barbour told the Scotchmen, “Men, you all look like angels to me.”
The horrendous voyage was over and all aboard the Neptune, including Mrs. Humphries had survived.
The vessel had been severely battered and tossed all over the Atlantic Ocean, the crew and passengers had not gotten much sleep and had had little to eat, they had wondered from one day to the next if they would ever see dry land again, and they had fought hard to conquer the elements . . . but conquer them they did—and all lived to tell the tale.
Capt. Barbour lost little time sending a message to his mother back in Newtown: “Arrived safely Tobermory, Scotland. All well.”
The next day his mother replied: “Thank God for your deliverance. Never gave you up. Kind regards to Mrs. Humphries and crew. Take care of yourself. Love, Mother.”
“Thank God!” Capt. Barbour exclaimed as he read the message. “She is still alive.”
Capt. Barbour and his crew and passengers were treated royally in Scotland but by the end of January most of the Newfoundlanders had returned home.
The Neptune arrived back on April 25, and Capt. Barbour himself returned to Newtown on May 8, to a wildly enthusiastic welcome.
It had been a perilous adventure, to say the least, but once again the unshaken courage of the Newfoundlander in the face of adversity had come to the fore.
That was a Christmas experience Capt. Barbour would just as soon forget—but he never will.
Christmas Eve on the Mission
by Father Michael Morris
I RECALL AND RELATE a memory of a Christmas Eve on the mission when, for some hours at least, I felt it was to be my last one in this world, it will not be understood that I am adducing it in any spirit of boastfulness of danger I have past through; but rather because, during a short vacation
the past summer, I was again sharply reminded of the reality of the perils of missionary life—perils that are ever instant and present to those noble pastors of souls who live and work for God in the far-away outharbors, who, in storm and sunshine, are ever ready to minister to their flocks along the wild coast of Newfoundland, or the lonely shores of Labrador; and because there is hardly a mail reaches us at this rough season that we don’t hear directly or indirectly of some hairbreadth escapes from the deadly peril, and it is only in the light of the merry tone in which they refer to the dangers, one can read how truly devoted they are to their work, and how lightly they think of personal discomfort.
Many a time I have laughed, as I think of dreams I dreamed when a novice in the Sanctuary of priestly duties, and the poetic ideal I had of what Missionary life would be. One day, rambling through some art shops in quaint old Brussels, I stumbled on a very beautiful picture strongly appealing to the senses. It was entitled a Sick Call. The scene was laid in Belgium, and the river scenery was exquisitely portrayed. In a boat on the river, rowed by two stout oarsman, sat an aged priest robed in surplice and stole, his hands crossed on his breast and his head bent in prayer. He was bringing the Holy Sacraments to a dying person. Around him sat some little acolyte boys bearing torches. Each of the boy’s faces was a study in itself. In the bow of the boat sat another little fellow with a bell in his hand, as he tried to peer into the distance. As the boat passed along the river banks the peasants in the fields suspended their work and knelt in reverence, and afar off as they approached the hamlet you could see the friends of the dying person signalling the boatmen to lean on their oars and hasten to the advent of the priest. There was not a ripple save that of the oars stirring the placid waters; there was a peaceful look mantling the whole scene, as if sensible of the presence of Nature’s God. That picture I kept in my room at All Hallows, and many a time my eyes wandered from my studies to look up at the scene and dream of a time when it would be given to me to bring comfort to the couch of the dying Christian. That picture served as my ideal of priestly life, but when the reality came and I went on my first sick calls, there were none of the pleasant surroundings suggested by the picture. Neither the green river banks, or the pleasant fields, or the acolyte boys with their torches. Not only that: I soon felt certain that as far as the poor Missionary himself was concerned, a pair of deck boots, an Irish frieze and a stout linkum would be more in keeping with the surroundings than soutane or surplice. But I must hurry on with my story. I think it was my second Christmas on the Mission, and things were beginning to have a more homelike look for me. I was getting to know well the geography, so to speak, of my district, and to look out for the kind of faces that in every little cove and creek gave me a hearty welcome. The people were so scattered that one had to be almost constantly travelling to get through the work. But for the greater feasts of the Church there were certain headquarters or central stations where we were expected, and so on this occasion I was pledged to be home to Oderin for Christmas.
