The Beothuk Expedition

by Derek Yetman

  The reason for their sympathy had its origins in my interruption of service on board the Guernsey. In the previous winter I had spent some months ashore at Portsmouth, recovering from the scurvy. Until then, I’d served as the ship’s signal officer, a busy enough post and one that I confess to having enjoyed for the stimulation it offered. On my return to duty, I had hopes of taking up where I’d left off, but found instead that a midshipman of family and influence had been given my place. I was therefore assigned responsibility for the aft larboard guns and the men who were quartered there.

  I was disappointed, to be sure, but the change of circumstance did not bother me greatly. I made the most of my new duties and learned all that I could about the science of gunnery. I was equally resigned to the knowledge that things were unlikely to change in the near future. Favour and promotion were scarce in times of peace and scarcer still for those who had no one to hasten their preferment. However, a contrary view prevailed in the gunroom. There, the warrant officers were of the opinion that I had been most grievously wronged. They felt it augured ill for my chances of promotion, when in fact I had already come to terms with that reality. I would scarcely have given the matter another thought but they considered it an insult—if not an outrage—and one that ought to be addressed by the highest authority. That afternoon, as I sat to a glass of sugared rum with Frost and Simeon Bolger, the ship’s gunner, the topic was broached once more.

  “And have ye spoken to Mister Cartwright, sir?” Bolger asked. His elbows took up much of the space on the little table between us.

  “I have not,” I replied. “And I do not foresee doing so.” My reply was always the same and invariably caused the gunner to shake his bald head in frustration.

  “Tisn’t fair, sir. Tisn’t fair at all.” He clamped his pipe between two of the few teeth he possessed and fixed me with a narrowed eye. Bolger had sailed with me on the old Northumberland and felt it his due to take small liberties, which I neither encouraged nor dissuaded. Lately he’d been pressing me to have the first lieutenant intervene on my behalf.

  “Aye,” Frost joined in. “An injustice is what it is. An injustice what should be put to rights.” He shook his head as well, wagging the grey pigtail that fell halfway to his waist. His small eyes watched me from under a forehead that was hatched with scars and wrinkles. “Not right, sir,” he muttered. “Not right in the least.” I sipped my rum and did nothing to encourage them.

  The gunner scratched his prominent jaw, embedded blue grains of gunpowder visible beneath the stubble. His face and hands were peppered with the marks of countless ignitions, the tattoos of his profession. “And why would ye not talk to Mister Cartwright, sir?” Bolger persisted.

  I assumed a patient expression and replied, “My superiors have seen fit to put me at other quarters, Mister Bolger. It is not my place, nor that of anyone else”—I gave them both a meaningful look—“to question that decision.”

  The two men exchanged a glance and fixed me in their gaze. “Do ye think, sir,” the gunner asked, “that it might have to do with something in particular?” Before I could answer, he added: “Not meaning yer knowledge, sir. Oh, no! Why, I’ve known captains that haven’t yer mastery of signals, nor of navigation nor making sail. Oh no, there be something more, sir. There be something what keeps ye from having what’s rightfully yer due.”

  “Well, tis not his record o’ service, now, is it?” the boatswain countered. I sat back and tried not to smile. When they referred to me in the third person, it was an artful hint that I should heed what they had to say.

  “Nay, not his record of service,” the other exclaimed. “Why, ye only need look at him. His face bears his history, with them scars from the Battle of Quiberon Bay.”

  My hand moved of its own accord to the cobweb of white lines that radiated outward from my left eye. Frost nodded and said, “Strong he is, too.” He formed a fist with his gnarled right hand. “Not so much in body, being as skinny as the purser’s cat, but in spirit, and as bold a sailor as any you’ll see.” The large fist landed on the table for emphasis.

  “Aye,” said Bolger, “so the answer lies elsewhere, I’ll wager. Perhaps it got more to do with where a body is born or who a body knows.”

  Frost grunted his agreement.

  “Perhaps it got to do with a body not being seen as a proper gentleman. What with being an orphan and all, with no family nor connections.”

  The ponderous boatswain shook his head and sighed. “Blocked from promotion by birth. Aye, tis a sad thing the old Navy is come to.”

  “A sad thing indeed, mate. A very sad thing.”

  I was about to speak in my own defence, assuming they’d finished their discourse on social inequity, when Frost suddenly piped: “Birds of a feather will flock together, and so will pigs and swine. Rats and mice will have their choice and so will I have mine!”

  Impromptu recitations were a peculiarity of the boatswain. He was in the habit of bringing forth bits of doggerel verse, usually children’s rhymes, to suit any occasion. While this was rarely subtle, it was often amusing and I decided to let him have the final word. The boatswain, sensing he’d made his point well enough, allowed the subject to drop. The same could not be said of the gunner, who was tapping his lower tooth with the stem of his pipe.

  “What our Mister Squibb has need of,” he said at length, “is a patron who might advance his interests. Or a senior officer who might grease the blocks fer a deserving young gentleman.”

  The boatswain slurped his rum and said nothing.

  “Like our Cap’n Palliser, fer an instance,” Bolger said. “Now, if Mister Squibb was to perform some service fer him, as a volunteer like, then the cap’n would no doubt be grateful and in his debt. Wouldn’t that be so?”

  Frost grunted once more in a manner that conveyed his agreement.

  “Now what might that service be, I wonder?” the gunner mused. “If only there was some occasion—”

  “By thunder, there might be one at that!” the boatswain exclaimed, though in so pat a manner that I suspected them of having rehearsed their lines.

  “And what would that be?” Bolger asked, feigning surprise.

  “Why, haven’t the cap’n’s steward been putting it about that we’re going on to Fogo Island? And not just to meet the Lark and the Tweed, but to further Mister Palliser’s plan o’ finding the Red Indians? Ye must have heard, cause that steward can’t stop his tongue. I don’t know why the cap’n keeps him, I don’t.”

  “The Red Indians, ye say? What’s all this about?”

  “Why, Mister Palliser thinks they’ll all be killed off.”

  The exchange had by now caught my interest in spite of myself. I had heard many tales of the Red Indians as a boy in Trinity, though what I or anyone else actually knew of them amounted to very little. All I could say with certainty was that they were an elusive tribe that populated the interior wilderness and remote bays of the northeast coast. Like most people, I’d been led to believe that they rarely showed themselves except to attack or steal from our fishermen.

  “And how would Mister Squibb go about getting the cap’n’s gratitude, then?” Bolger asked.

  “Why, Mister Palliser aims to send Lieutenant Cartwright into the forest to find the Red Indians. The steward says he wants to make a treaty with ’em.”

  The gunner rubbed his blue-flecked jaw. “So?”

  “Well, the cap’n’s not going to send Mister Cartwright off alone, now is he? He’ll be wanting volunteers and if Mister Squibb was to step forward and acquit hisself, well, wouldn’t the cap’n be indebted to him and give him his signal post?” He added, with a meaningful wink, “Or even a promotion?”

  “By Christ, he might at that!” Bolger exclaimed. “Yes, he might at that.”

  I said nothing and concentrated on my rum while they tried to gauge my reaction. They would not have been able to tell but their little pantomime had impressed me very much, though not for the reason they’d intended. My cur
iosity was stirred not by the opportunity to advance my own interests, but by the rumour that Mr. Palliser would try to make peace with the Red Indians. If there were truth to the steward’s gossip then I would certainly wish to be part of such a remarkable expedition. The warrant officers toyed with their cups and took pains to appear indifferent. I looked through the open gunport and saw, far across the water, the cliffs of Cape St. Francis. Only then did I realize that the ship was no longer making way. The fitful westerly had died with our conversation and the Guernsey, like my two companions, had lapsed into an unusual silence.

  Hugh Palliser

  I am damned if I know how news travels so quickly aboard this vessel. Not an hour has passed since I informed Lieutenant Cartwright of my plan and already three people have come to my cabin door, asking to be sent on this expedition. I know it is impossible to keep anything from the ears of four hundred men so tightly packed on board a ship, but I should not be surprised if the Red Indians themselves have heard of my scheme.

  The first of my visitors was Mr. George Cartwright, who is with us as the guest of his brother John. I judge him to be a most active and enterprising gentleman and so his request comes as no surprise. As an officer of the 37th Foot, he saw much action in the last war and his experience may prove useful. My only reservation lies in his fondness for killing things. When he is not shooting he is talking of shooting, and woe betide the bird, beast or fish that falls within his sights.

  No sooner had I returned to my dinner than another knock came to the door, this time from Mr. Squibb, my third lieutenant. He, too, had heard of my plan and was asking to be included in the party. I have no objection, I suppose, considering that he has served under Hawke and Colville and has favourable letters from both. Indeed, I have no reason to complain of his conduct on board the Guernsey either, unlike that of my other lieutenant, the insufferable Mr. Tench. Squibb may be somewhat bookish for my taste but I believe he will serve the purpose well enough and may even prove a level head when one is needed.

  My third caller was more of a surprise, I will admit. The last person I expected to see was the Reverend Neville Stow. Our ship’s chaplain has always struck me as a retiring individual, more suited to prayer and sermonizing than battling man and nature. I find him a peculiar sort, all elbows and knees and a great deal of nasal hee-hawing and snorting, much in the manner of a mule. I do him an injustice, no doubt, but he has the manner of a man who is far too secure in his own convictions. I am more at ease with those who would keep an open mind, particularly on so delicate a subject as the Red Indians.

  Still, the Reverend made a convincing case for being included, as the poor Indians are no doubt in need of Christian teaching. He also pointed out, somewhat impertinently I may say, that I have allowed the Moravian missionaries to go among the war-like Esquimaux of Labrador. That is true enough, though Jens Haven and his people have had little success thus far. In fact, I would not be surprised to learn that they had met an untimely end in that God-forsaken place. All the same, I have decided to allow Reverend Stow to accompany the expedition, so long as he does not prove a hindrance to its progress or its purpose.

  The matter of the Red Indians has been much upon my mind of late. Lieutenant Cartwright tells me that he has also been preoccupied with the subject, as would any person with even a trace of humanity. Cartwright’s principles may extend a touch too far, however. I have heard him expounding upon the need for reform in areas where the dog is best left sleeping. He openly advocates the abolition of Negro slavery, even in the company of men who own great estates in the Indies. And he is never shy to express his view that the American colonies should not be taxed to pay for the last war with France. These are nearly seditious sentiments but he is a competent officer who has risen quickly and shall go further still, if he learns to keep his mouth shut.

  The same cannot be said of Mr. Tench, however. He is a man well accustomed to keeping his mouth shut when it comes to his own dealings, though he is vocal enough in opposing my plan to pursue peace with the Red Indians. He claims it is far too late and they will not be moved, and in any event it is a venture with little return. I suspect there is a reason for his opinion, but like so many things about the man, it is deeply hidden.

  As I was saying, the poor savages of this island have been on my mind of late, their plight having been ignored for much too long. I am now bound and determined to change the course of their unfortunate history and I believe that an effort to make peace with them will prove to be the turning point. Indeed, it will be the first time that an offer of the King’s protection has ever been extended to them. There is much to be gained in this endeavour, not least the salvation of their heathen souls and the assurance of their loyalty to the Crown.

  Another advantage, which appeals to the merchants of the island, is that they may be enticed to trade with us. These men are eager for new supplies of furs from the interior in exchange for things the Indians require or for which they may develop a taste. It has been suggested that rum is a suitable commodity, it being the principal item of trade in Canada, where it is in great demand among the natives. There is certainly no lack of that substance here, as it is brought from the Jamaicas in return for salted cod to feed the slaves. But I believe the question may deserve further consideration.

  How the Red Indians came to be reduced to their present state is another vexing matter. There can be no doubt that our increased presence on the northeast coast has affected them, for they have lost territory that has traditionally yielded their food. Matters have not been aided in the least by those who have opened up this new frontier. They are a wild, ungovernable people and in some respects, as savage and barbarous as the Indians themselves. They have responded to the Indians’ pilfering with the greatest violence and God alone knows how many they have killed in years past, or how many will be killed in years to come if an end is not put to the practice at once.

  I have no means of knowing their truth but reports have reached me of men travelling into the forest for the sole purpose of hunting and killing these miserable creatures. They reason that if the Red Indians are destroyed, the pilfering will end, as I am sure it will, but at what cost? Wholesale murder to preserve a few traps and nets? If I do not act now, I am certain that the English nation, like the Spanish, may soon bear the indelible reproach of having destroyed an entire race of people.

  Another factor that enters into my consideration is the presence of the French in the area, along with their allies, the Mickmack Indians. I am convinced that they are carrying on a clandestine trade in furs when they have no rights to do so under the Treaty of Paris. The Mickmacks are moving ever deeper into the island in search of those furs, and confrontations with the Red Indians are inevitable, if not already taking place. I shudder at the outcome of such a conflict, when the French have armed their allies with muskets and their adversaries have nothing more than spears and arrows. The red man is pressed on all sides, it seems, and his only hope may lie in the success of our expedition.

  I am also continuing my efforts on the political front. For some time I have been petitioning the Colonial Office for authority to issue a proclamation, the wording of which I have already drafted. It reads thus: “Whereas it has been represented to the King that his subjects residing in the island of Newfoundland, instead of cultivating a friendly intercourse with the savages inhabiting that island, do treat the savages with the greatest inhumanity and frequently destroy them without the least provocation or remorse. In order, therefore, to put a stop to these atrocities and to bring the perpetrators of such crimes to justice, it is His Majesty’s royal will and pleasure to express his abhorrence of these acts and to enjoin his subjects to live in amity and brotherly kindness with the natives of the island. He also requires and commands that all magistrates and officers use their utmost diligence to discover and apprehend those persons who may be guilty of murdering the Indians, that such offenders may be sent to England to be tried for their crimes.”

  Of
course, I cannot say when this edict will be approved and I am not likely to hold my water until it is. Instead, I have another device in mind that may bring about the object of peace more quickly than any other. After much reflection, I have decided that it would be in the interest of all concerned if we were to capture a Red Indian and impress upon him or her our peaceful intentions. I have instructed my captains to make this known to all the fishermen and planters along the coast, and to inform them that a reward of £50 is offered to any man who can deliver such a captive.

  I have employed this strategy already in the case of the Esquimaux. A woman named Mikak was captured near Fort York last season and I have sent her and two children to England. There they will learn the King’s English and return to their people with assurances of our Christian intent. I am resolved to follow a similar course with the Red Indians, as this may be the only means to a lasting peace.

  Jonah Squibb

  It was an event that had no equal, either before or after, in the logs and lore of the Newfoundland station. The Guernsey lay becalmed for two days off Cape St. Francis and the captain himself was at a loss to explain it or do anything about it. He grew increasingly vexed as the day for our rendezvous with the Liverpool came and went, and all manner of things were attempted at his orders, including towing and warping ourselves in every direction in search of a breath of air. The sails were kept wetted night and day on the chance of drawing a breeze, however faint. As a last resort the sailors even fell to whistling. Others were stationed in the tops at all hours, watching for the slightest ripple on the water. If one were seen, imagined or not, the boats were manned and off we rowed to catch it. And to add to our frustration, the sun was uncommonly hot throughout. The men suffered a great deal at the oars and capstan, and one or two fell senseless from the rigging.

  It was all in vain, of course, for the wind returned in its own good time. Henry Fielding summed it up quite nicely, I thought, when he wrote in his Journal that “the most absolute power of a captain of a ship is very contemptible in the wind’s eye.” On the evening of the seventeenth it began as little more than a whisper, a vague hint of movement in the air. I detected it on the quarterdeck at the same instant as the men aloft. It took a moment to discern its direction but I soon judged it to be easterly. Our bow was then pointed in that direction and at my word the longboat quickly brought the ship about, the commotion bringing Lieutenant Cartwright on deck. The boat cast off her hawser and fell alongside to be hoisted in, even as I ordered more buckets of water aloft to wet the sails.