by Frank Galgay
Accordingly, I pushed through with my work on the Burin side and Sunday evening found me crossing Mortier Bay, on through Spanish Room to Jean De Bay, where I was sure of a welcome from the hospitable Coady family and a passage down the Bay the first chance. The weather that year had been particularly rough, even for the month of December. The winds had been blowing pretty fiercely and changeable. Old weatherwise people gave me as their explanation of it that we were having a “Saturday moon, ” that, the old proverb says, come seven years too soon. Most certainly the wind, veering as it did to an almost opposite point, had lashed the ocean into a white foam and for miles the water along the shore could be seen covered with wreaths of stringy froth, whilst, if you climbed the headlands for a look out over the bay you could see away to the south and east the treacherous low-lying western rocks breaking and thundering with the rushing waters, sure index of stormy weather.
A good night’s rest at Jean de Bay, and I awoke in capital spirits. Yes, there was every chance of a speedy passage down the Bay, for although it was blowing a pretty stiff breeze, there, to my delight, was the Nora Criena riding at her anchors; “and, as Capt. Joe is on his way down herring-catching, sure he’ll be only too delighted to land your reverence home;” so my host informed me when he came up to call me. In answer to my question, “Was it not blowing hard?” “Yes, it was; but it’s a snug bit of wind that Capt. Joe couldn’t manage with reefed sails.” So no wonder I was in good spirits. Mass over in the station house, a short instruction, the usual examination of the children and visitation of the sick and old and I am enjoying a capital breakfast and congratulating myself on the good luck of getting home a few days before the Feast—Christmas Day falling on Thursday—when, suddenly, my hopes were dashed by the arrival of a messenger who came to say there was a sick call. A sick call where? Frenchman’s Cove. Why, that was the very opposite point in the compass to where I was bound. I need hardly say that whatever other work may be shirked or put off, a sick call must be attended to. Now, Frenchman’s Cove was away over in Fortune Bay, and, to reach it by the only apology for a road, I must go back nearly to Burin, twenty miles from where I was, and thence some twenty-five miles by road, and, at that time, there was no other means of getting over save walking. However, some of the men knew of a shorter cut by going up Mortier Bay past Marystown; then, by taking a course across some frozen gulleys to Frederick’s Point, we could pick up the Garnish road.
I must acknowledge that it was with a heavy heart I saw Captain Joe and his trim little schooner sail away; and as I looked back from the hill-tops and saw her dipping her white wings to the wind that bore her merrily along, I felt that my chances of being home to Oderin for Christmas were few and far between. Still there was a chance, and I must make the most of it. If I say, then, that Christmas Eve saw me back again to Jean de Bay, it will be easily understood that I did not loiter much by the way, and (must I confess it?) when I awoke in my old quarters this time, I was sensible, not so much of pleasant, but rather mixed, sensations, one or two of which stood out in prominence, to wit: that I had such pains in every bone of my body as can only cured by a good breakfast of beefsteaks; and then, as an extinguisher to that, came the reflection that it was a fast-day. There was nothing to be gained by grumbling against the discipline of the pia mater, and as it was Christmas Eve, I must be up and doing, for every hour I lost minimized my chances of getting home. But what about the weather? What chance was there of a run down? “Very poor indeed, ” said Skipper Coady; “there’s little or no wind, and whatever there is, is ahead; but if it veers off anything to the nor’ad, Bill Davis I’ll land you down in his jack.” Yes, there was no mistake about it, the outlook was very unpropitious, and fate even seemed dead against us, for when getting the boat out through the gut, she ran aground on a sandbank, and we had to wait several hours before the tide floated her off. It was dinnertime before we were ready to sail, and then everyone was opposed to our starting. A winter’s evening out on the ocean was but a poor prospect. I had not at that time any experience that a nine years’ apprenticeship afterwards gave me, and so I persisted in going; and when I heard young Sam Davis say “he wasn’t a bit afraid but what we’d yank her along all right, ” I coaxed his elder brother, John, and another hand to come off with me. We pushed the jolly-boat off, said good-bye to the friends, and then, by way of a parting shaft and to keep up my own courage, I hinted to Sam that “these weatherwise skippers were only a lot of old women.” Poor Sam—I have used the expression “poor Sam;” I regret to say that the brave young soul found a watery grave some three years later. He and two other young fellows came for me for a sick call. They were never heard of. Two days after another crew came in search of them, and on our return we found the mast and some broken gear on the rock under Blow-Me-Down Hill. The boat had probably mistayed or capsized.
The sails are up, the anchor tripped, and now we are away. For a few hours, although the wind was right ahead and a northern tide running, we still made some good headway, and were gradually slipping down the shore. Later on, as the wind freshened and seemed to veer out south, we stood out beyond the Stanley Rocks, thinking we might lie our course down outside the islands. By this time evening was coming on, and I found our skipper less communicative and looking more anxious. “What do you think of it, Skipper John?” I said. “Bad, yer reverence—bad, ” was the answer. “It much misgives me if we ar’nt in for a reg’lar drubbing.” “Why do you say that?” “Why, ah! Don’t you see the swell that’s heaving in? Haven’t you noticed the brassy look of the clouds lapping over one another, mark my words, you’re in for a big breeze; and I’m half afraid, as soon as the tide turns, we’ll have the snow.” Cold comfort that of a Christmas Eve. What with the cheerless prospect and the biting cold wind, I felt my courage oozing fast away. At last I ventured to suggest going back. “Is it back, yer reverence, to a barred harbour? Why, there’s a surf rolling on the beach at Jean de Bay now that would soon swamp ourselves, not to talk about losing the boat. If we were once clear of the islands before dark, and had a little sea room, I wouldn’t be so anxious. Howsomever, ” he concluded, “we are in the hands of God now.”
We had not long to wait before the gale was upon us. First came a sleet that froze on the sails and blocks and ropes, and then, like a thunderclap, a gust of wind struck the boat splitting our reefed foresail and throwing her almost on her beam ends. I suppose the splitting and tearing away of our foresail saved our lives, for the little boat was soon righted. Although she had taken in a good deal of water she was stemming bravely again. I was standing in the aft compartment where the pump is situated, and I worked away with a good will pumping out the water, for the skipper’s whole energies were needed at the helm, and the other two hands, after unbending the torn sail, had taken it down in the fore cuddy, where, by the light of the fire, they were trying to sew up the rents; “for we may have to heave her to, boys, ” said the skipper, “and we can’t do without the foresail.” Ah, me, how I wished now I was safely back in Jean de Bay. And now another horror was added to the situation when we discovered that the little wooden box containing the compass which in the evening had been placed alongside of the hatchway, had, when the squall struck us, rolled over to leeward and floated away on the ocean with loose gear that was on the deck. I don’t think I appreciated at the time what the loss of the compass meant, for I was conscious of a cold fear creeping over me, and I felt like one fascinated as I watched the waves rolling higher and higher, until one toppling over, struck the boat shivering every timber in her. I felt a cold streak of white foam sweep over me, wrapping me around in darkness that I thought must be the shadow of death. “Hold on for your life, ” I heard the skipper say, and I felt a stout arm gripping me like a vice, and when I had dashed away the water from my eyes and looked up, “Never fear, yer reverence, ” said the cheery old salt, “I dare say that will be the worst of them.” “Hello, there fore-ad, ” he shouted! Hello? “Come aft here one of you and cross the seas.�
�� Meaning that, whilst he did his best to steer, one of the crew was to stand up windward and make the sign of the Cross of Christ with every advancing wave that he thought might break over the little vessel. Wonderful and sublime faith! “Quid Timidi estis, ” said our Lord to the apostles, “Modica fidee?” Why should we be afraid? Was not the Lord in the tempest? I looked at the hard old weather-beaten face of the skipper; it was as calm and serene as if he were sitting by his Christmas fireside. He had said to me in the evening, “We are in the hands of God now.” He meant what he said.
Fondly to Thy cross I cling.
Nearer, my God, to Thee.
So sings the majestic hymn, and verily, I believe that old man, out on the wintery sea, clung as confidently to the Rock of Ages as any of the Blessed Martyrs of old, and that his heart was as near the Sacred Heart of his Saviour that night, as if he had the privilege of kneeling with the Judean shepherd’s by the Crib of Bethlehem.
And so for me the weary hours dragged on, alternating between hope and despair. With the broken sails we could not make much headway; and what with the pitch darkness and the pelting snow and the frozen water and the roaring breakers, added to the misery of not knowing where we were or how the wind might have veered, made the time seem long as eternity. Would the storm never tire? Would the snow never cease? It must have been between 10 and 11 o’clock when, the moon rising, though not in the least visible, lightened up the sky and let us see through the glinting of the snow what looked like high land right ahead of us. We immediately hove off from it, and then we strained our eyes on every side for some sign that we might know where we were. Suddenly some one saw away to the south-west what looked like the glimmer of light. Where were we? Back Beach of Oderin, said one. Flat Islands, said another. And if Oderin Beach, how did we come in through the Islands. “Well, sonny, ” said our skipper, “how we got in safe through the sunker’s be a mystery; only, as I often told you, God is a better pilot than you or me. Anyhow, the beach of Oderin it is, and if we can only get the foresail on her when we open the harbor, we’ll do it yet.” “Yes, ” said the echo in my heart, we’ll do it yet, and frozen as I was I felt life was sweet and worth fighting for, worth living. Pay away the sheet, me boys, for now we are away and if it were not for that impossibility of getting even a double-reefed foresail on her our hopes would be high; it would mean the harbour gained and anchorage safe. But still our skipper thought we would be able to beat to anchorage under reefed-mainsail and jib. The wind during the night had veered from S. E. to E. N. E., and as we made the mouth of the harbour we felt the full force of the stripe of wind. Trimming our sails close down, we stood across the Blue Beach, and when about half way over, like a flash of lightning, a squall struck the jib, and as it was frozen and stiff as a piece of sheet iron, it tore it away in piece. And now we were worse off than ever. The promised land was in sight, but we may not enter. Oh! For a few minutes of daylight, and how quickly the ready and willing hands would be out in a skiff to save us! “Out with the anchor, boys; God helping, it may hold us.” But when the chain was all paid out we found we were drifting, drifting away slowly but surely. Sometimes the anchor would catch for a few minutes, and then the drifting would re-commence, with a fresh gust of wind. But, dear reader, you must not imagine that we were all this while standing with our hands folded, watching the boat idly drifting to destruction. Skipper John hadn’t exhausted all his resources. Away in the harbour we could see the lights in a few of the houses of people who had not yet gone to bed. How could we make them see or hear us? We couldn’t hope to outroar the tempest; but Skipper John, ordering Sam to keep down a good fire, armed each of us with a blazing brand, which we, standing on the bow, kept waving above our heads, whilst Sam kept us replenished with fresh ones from the cuddy fire.
Dragging, drifting out on the rocks. Oh! Would they never see us! Yes, they will see us. Thank God they have seen us, for even now we can discern lights moving along by the water’s edge, and before half an hour— and yet what a time it seemed!—a skiff hails us and shoots along out of the darkness; cheery voices are around us—we are saved! After that, I think I must have partly lost consciousness—my clothes were frozen on me, and I was worn out by the fierce excitement of the storm—for my next recollection is finding myself lying in an arm chair before a warm fire in the snug little parlor of the Presbytery, and thinking that no fairy palace of an Eastern prince was ever as fair as this home of mine.
How gratefully I prayed that Christmas, how joyfully sang out Adeste, I leave you to judge. Indeed, I cannot wish any better wish than that all our little boys at Villa Nova, and all our dear friends in Newfoundland and elsewhere, may spend as glad and happy a Christmas this year of 1888 as I spent that memorable Christmas Eve on the mission.
P. S.—There is one little incident connected with the rescue, I have forgotten to mention, and as it was one that my young friends in Oderin often reminded me of, it may not be fair to overlook it. They always maintained that, if it had not been for the little dance at Sammy Butler’s that Christmas Eve night, I might not be alive today to tell the story of the rescue. It appears that Sammy that night had given the young folk one of those enjoyable little parties traditional of the merry time. Some of the boys coming out on the balcony to cool themselves in the interval of a cotillion, saw the blazing brands, hurried off and launched a skiff and came to our assistance.
Nellie’s Christmas
by Retrospection
THE AUTUMN OF 1873 had been a remarkably fine one, but now, winter had commenced his rigorous reign in good earnest, and though a day or two before, everyone was saying it would be a green Christmas; a shift of wind to the north, and a continuous fall of snow for some hours, had effected a complete change in the aspect of nature. The black beetling cliffs, projecting crags, and huge boulders, which found the most prominent features of the scenery around Shelter Cove, a little fishing settlement on the north-east coast of Newfoundland, were now covered with a mantle of purest white, which softened their rugged and almost forbidding appearance, and as the short day drew to its close, and the storm cleared, and the setting sun cast its slanting rays on cliff and crag, and housetops, glinting and glistening in their snowy covering, it seemed beautiful as a scene from fairyland.
On this winter evening the village was a scene of busy activity, the stalwart fishermen engaged in cutting up wood for fuel, for tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and a good stock must be laid in; but especially must the “Christmas brand” or “Yule log” be prepared and lodged in its position across the “dog irons.”
The sound of axes rang out cheerily on the frosty air, while ever and anon, blending with it, came the report of firearms, with which the younger members of the community welcomed the joyous advent time, while the savoury whiffs which came forth as the cottage doors were opened, plainly indicated that the good wife was actively engaged within, making preparations for the festive season.
One house alone seems exempt from this cheerful hum of preparation. Larger and more pretentious than its neighbours, it indicated that its builders must have been men of some means, while an appearance of neglect and decay as plainly indicated that its present occupants were not basking in the sunshine of prosperity. On entering it we find ourselves in a capacious kitchen, one side of which is entirely occupied by the large, old-fashioned fireplace, in which a wood fire is burning; its cheery but fitful light, one moment revealing, and the next leaving in shadow, the dark wainscoted walls, the scanty furniture, and the sanded floor neatly swept in zig-zag lines, according to the custom of the times.
On a bench, or settle, by a fire, we observe a man in a half sitting, half recumbent position, and as the firelight flashes across his features it reveals one on whom age, care and sickness have traced their indelible footprints.
There is but one other occupant of the room, a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl of twelve years, meanly and thinly clad, but possessing a face of wondrous beauty, and sylph-like figure of surpassing gracefulness. S
he had just laid their evening meal on a small table, in a such position that the aged invalid might partake of the repast without moving from his seat, and the gentleness of her movements, and thoughtful kindness of her manner, show that her attendance on him is a labor of love.
There is little to tempt the appetite of a sick person, the food being of the coarsest description, and after sipping a cup of tea that old man lies back on his couch and watches his little attendant as she deftly and quickly clears away the tea-things. Having done so, and taking some sewing, she seats herself on a low stool, close by him, saying: “Grandfather, are you warm enough, or shall I get something to lay over you?”
“I am quite warm, my dear, with that nice fire.” As he speaks he lays his feeble hand on her head, saying: “Nellie, my darling, my only earthly comfort, this is a sad, a lonely Christmas Eve! Last year your dear grandmother was with us, but now she lies yonder in the graveyard, and only you and I are left, Nellie; and to-night my thoughts go back to the time when I led her forth from this very house, a fair young bride! The world went well with me then, Nellie! I was master and owner of as fine a brig as sailed out of St. John’s and fortune smiled on me for many years. Your father and your uncle John grew up strong, and brave, and true, such sons as my father might well be proud of. But, as time passed, the seal-fishery began to fail, and the steamers soon drove our noble fleet of sailing vessels out of the business.
