The Beothuk Expedition

by Derek Yetman

  I said nothing of this but as punishment for his complicity, I ordered Jenkins to stand watch for the remainder of the night. It was a lenient sentence and I believe it surprised him, for how could he know that my motive was to win him to my side? I reasoned that in the days and weeks to come I would need every thread of loyalty that I could cultivate. The truth is that I was beginning to have the gravest doubts about the future of this expedition. Mr. Cartwright had yet to inspire me with confidence and many in our party seemed unfit for what lay ahead.

  Shortly before dawn, while I was preparing my excuses for the first lieutenant, Bolger and Frost appeared alongside with the two culprits. Grimes was plainly under the influence of drink and had consumed enough to acquire a belligerent courage. He cursed and threatened Frost for his rough handling, though I saw no evidence of cuts or bruises upon him. I had expected to see them in worse condition and I threw the gunner a questioning glance.

  “We thought it best not to mark ’em, sir,” he said, “lest Mister Cartwright know what was up, like. We reckoned ye’d want to deal with ’em yourself.” I nodded my approval, when in fact I was at a complete loss as to what I should do. I could order a punishment, except it would have to be severe enough to match the offence and that would be impossible to hide from the first lieutenant. Or perhaps a more subtle approach was called for. Grimes and Rundle had formed a tight little knot that was in need of splitting if we were ever to have peace on this vessel. And perhaps I had just the means of bringing it about.

  The two men sat on the deck where they’d fallen, the petty officer drunkenly brazen while the others awaited my judgment. “Mister Bolger,” I said, “prepare this man for punishment.”

  The gunner dragged the snarling Grimes to his feet. “Wilkes and liberty!” he slurred as Bolger stripped him of his shirt. “No justice, no King!”

  So that was it. Recent events in England had already begun to infect the fleet. John Wilkes was the editor of The North Briton and his radical ideas of freedom and justice had inflamed the lower classes over the preceding months. He had offended many powerful men and had even been wounded in a duel with the secretary of the treasury. Once a colonel of militia and a member of parliament, he had been charged with sedition, libel and obscenity after attacking the authority of the King and the House of Commons.

  I was certainly aware of the man’s influence upon the idle and dissolute of England, but I was surprised to hear a sailor espouse his cause. London’s poor had rioted at Wilkes’ trial in April and had shown more interest in looting than in the principles of social justice. They had tried to free him from King’s Bench Prison and when the army was ordered up a number of the mob had been shot dead in St. George’s Fields. This had led to more violence, with the rioters attacking the houses of the Lord Mayor and the Prime Minister himself. As for Wilkes, he’d been sentenced in June to two years’ imprisonment and that was the last I’d heard of him. Until now.

  All of this went through my mind in an instant as Grimes was being seized to the barrel of the nearest swivel gun. With his shirt removed, it was clear that he was no stranger to the lash. The scars on his back told as much of his past as any court martial record. Greening could not hide his pleasure at tying the man’s arms, his grin provoking Grimes to swear even louder. When the task was done, the crew stood back and waited. I cleared my throat and adopted what I hoped was a grave and official voice:

  “Nehemiah Grimes of His Majesty’s Ship Liverpool—” The men were silent, their faces expectant. “You are to be punished for willfully disobeying the lawful orders of the commander of this vessel. My judgment is that your ration of spirits will be stopped from this moment on. You will also take a dozen lashes in the bargain.” The warrant officers exchanged looks of dismay. So light a sentence was unheard of. “Bring the cat, Mister Frost,” I said.

  “Aye, sir.” The instrument of discipline was brought out, its tarred grip tapering to nine strands of yard-long, tightly plaited leather. The boatswain flexed his arm in preparation, but I raised a hand to stop him.

  “Seaman Rundle. On your feet.” Assisted by Bolger’s grip on his ear, the man rose quickly. He was small and dark and one eye was clouded with cataracts. The good eye looked at me with half-hearted defiance. “Hand him the cat, Mister Frost,” I said. “Rundle will administer the dozen.” The astonished man’s mouth moved wordlessly as the boatswain thrust the whip into his hand and spun him around.

  “Now then,” I said. “For every lash that Mister Frost deems too lenient, you will earn an additional two for yourself. Do I make myself understood?” He nodded weakly as Grimes renewed his torrent of threats and abuse, this time directed at his shipmate. Rundle laid the first stroke across his back and Grimes roared, more in outrage than pain. The boatswain judged it to be the stroke of a kitten and added two to Rundle’s own punishment. He did not make the same mistake twice and this time Grimes had reason to howl. He continued to howl until the dozen were given and then the petty officer savagely administered the twelve and two that were Rundle’s reward.

  The immediate result of this was just as I’d hoped. The two offenders were in a rage at each other, in equal parts because of the pain and the humiliation. The warrant officers were impressed and Greening was delighted. I was somewhat pleased myself, having driven a wedge not only between Grimes and Rundle but between them and young Jenkins. I had also punished them effectively without the excessive force that would have disabled them from working. In short, I was wonderfully proud of myself, having sat in judgment with all the wisdom of Solomon. Or so I thought. In hindsight, I am able to see clearly the vanity of my assumptions. But is that not the province of every young man? As a junior officer I had much to learn about my own nature, to say nothing of the nature of those whom I had the misfortune to command.

  George Cartwright

  I declare that I am most impressed with these enterprising countrymen of mine. At Bonavista and here at Fogo I have encountered a good many fellows who seem to be making tidy fortunes for themselves. I only agreed to accompany my brother on this voyage for the excellent shooting to be had, but now my mind has turned firmly to the subject of trade. I have observed that the area is exceedingly rich in salmon and furs, and only a handful of traders are exploiting these opportunities. In fact, there are surprisingly few individuals involved in this harvest, apart from a few local planters and the agents of wealthy men in Poole.

  The cod fishery, on the other hand, is quite profitable but overly crowded. My brother tells me the French have some 450 vessels and 15,000 men on their shore, while we have nearly 20,000 men of our own. The two fleets are expected to take a million quintals this year, which is more than one hundred million pounds of salted fish! By contrast, only a half-million pounds of dried salmon are produced, even though it fetches a handsome price on the European market. The same may be said of the fur harvest, the numbers being quite small compared to what exists for the taking.

  I have been casting my eye about for a promising venture since leaving Minorca. The army was all well and good during the war, with hardly a dull moment, but in peace it holds few attractions for a man of my parts. Great events are taking place throughout the empire and the time was never better for a man to make his mark. I have heard that Samuel Hearne, the former Navy chap, is about to begin a two-year trek from Hudson’s Bay to the Arctic Ocean in search of the Northwest Passage. A Scot named James Finlay has reached the Saskatchewan River far to the west of Canada and has established his own trading post. And of course my brother has been cracking on about this fellow Cook. Great adventures are afoot and here in Newfoundland there is room for a man to test his mettle. Or perhaps in Labrador, where trade is still in its infancy.

  The biggest drawback would appear to be our poor relations with the Indians and Esquimaux. I am told that in Labrador they are most intractable and we have had only limited success in convincing them to barter. Brother John informs me that just this summer past they were bold enough to plunder a fish
ing station near Fort York. Of course, Lieutenant Lucas of the garrison there quickly taught them a lesson, killing twenty of the thieves and capturing several others. Captain Palliser also had the foresight to send three of the prisoners to England. They will soon learn that the great tribe of Englishmen is too numerous and powerful to oppose, and that they would do well to trade with us in peace.

  It seems that on the island we have even less to show after nearly two centuries of coming here. Captain Palliser is of the opinion that trade with the natives will never progress unless we establish a peaceful coexistence with them, and I am inclined to agree. I have learned a good deal about these savages since coming to Fogo. The people here often encounter them in the neighbouring islands. They call them Red Indians because they daub their bodies and clothing with red ochre clay—most curious, to be sure. One man has seen them travelling by canoe in search of eggs and shellfish and he says they are elusive creatures. I have a romantic notion of them silently paddling their boats of birch bark like wraiths in the mist of an evening. It is a singular, almost incredible fact, told to me by several people, that they journey as far out to sea as Funk Island, which is fully forty miles from the coast. They have been observed expertly spearing fish in the rivers, and in archery they are said to have an unerring hand. I am convinced that, with such skills and knowledge of the country, the Red Indians would make ideal partners in trade.

  In reflecting upon this, I have struck upon a scheme that would advance such a goal. I envision the establishment of a royal reserve, a place that would give the Indians the protection they require, while allowing them access to the land. They would then be able to supply their own needs as well as our demand for furs. This seems to me a capital solution and one that I intend to propose to Governor Palliser at the earliest opportunity. And if I were to become the agent or custodian of this royal reserve, then so much the better! My fortune would be made, to say nothing of the excellent hunting to be had.

  Jonah Squibb

  The morning after our arrival at Fogo I received a visit from Reverend Stow. He surprised me, in fact, by leaving the comfort of the agent’s house and seeking me out on board the Dove. I was equally amazed to see that he was not wearing his wig. I do not wish to sound cruel but the stubble of his scalp reminded me very much of the prickly hide of an animal. The fancy was apparently shared by Frost, who crowed a verse as the chaplain approached in a hired skiff: “As I went to Bonner, I met a pig without a wig, upon my word of honour!”

  To what we owed this particular honour was unclear until he came alongside and announced that he would value my company on a ramble over the nearby hills. I had no objection, having come to friendly terms with the chaplain through our common interest in Dr. Johnson’s wit, but I explained that Lieutenant Cartwright’s orders prevented me from going so far. He suggested instead that we stroll the path around the harbour, to which I agreed.

  The harbour at Fogo was little different from hundreds of others along the coast, except there was a higher proportion of families than single fishing servants. Flakes dominated the shoreline, with scattered stages and tilts, and as we made our way among them the smells of salted fish and wood smoke permeated all. Men and women worked side-by-side, the men cleaning and splitting the morning’s catch while the women attended to the salting and drying. Children cut the livers, carried water or salt and otherwise helped where they were needed. All worked steadily and without pause, for their labour in these three or four months of fair weather would have to carry them through the winter, whether they remained here or returned to their villages in England or Ireland.

  I had that morning finished reading the papers that the lieutenant had given me. These consisted of an account of the Red Indians written by Mr. Joseph Banks, the noted naturalist. Banks had been to Newfoundland with Captain Palliser two years earlier and had given him a copy of his notes on the subject. This had been given to Lieutenant Cartwright and thence to me, so that we might learn more about the subjects of our mission.

  It was the opinion of that eminent scientist, who was at that moment accompanying Mr. Cook on his expedition to the Pacific, that there were not more than five hundred Red Indians remaining on the island. Banks believed them to be principally situated on this very coast and inland of the Bay of Exploits. He wrote that the settlers live in a state of continual warfare with them, destroying their canoes, food and houses at every opportunity. This has been the practice for at least fifty years, so that the Indians look upon us in exactly the same light as we do them. They kill our people and steal traps and nets whenever they have the advantage.

  There had been terrible atrocities on both sides and more in recent years, as salmoniers and furriers moved northward and inland. A few years earlier, a shipmaster named Scott and five others had been killed in the Bay of Exploits. The body of one of them was brought to St. John’s with the arrows still in it. Even more recently, a Captain Hall, for whom Hall’s Bay is named, was murdered on his plantation. Banks wrote of the manner in which the Indians scalp their victims, for they are not content with just the hair. They skin the entire face down to the mouth. He had seen such a scalp that was taken from a fisherman named Sam Frye. The Indians had possession of it for a full year, and when it was recovered the features were so well preserved that it was recognized immediately as belonging to the unfortunate Frye. Although Mr. Banks had heard many such stories about the cruelty of the Red Indians, he concluded that “if half of what I have written about them is true, it is more than I expect.”

  For their part, the settlers were no less savage, it seemed. The tales were sickening, and while Banks had difficulty believing them, there was every likelihood that they were founded upon an element of truth. It was in this frame of mind that I took the air with Reverend Stow. Given our purpose for being here, it was no surprise, therefore, when he opened our conversation on the very subject of the Red Indians. He spoke at some length about them and it soon became clear that he was less concerned with their persecution than with their spiritual salvation. It was also plain that he hadn’t sought me out for my company alone, but rather to enlist me as an ally to his cause.

  “I say, Mister Squibb,” he brayed as we picked our way over the muddy track, “have I not seen you in attendance at my Sunday service on board the Guernsey?”

  “You have, sir,” I replied. “My guardian was a man of the cloth and I have no desire to break the church-going habit.” I neglected to say that the habit was less than regular and that I was not without my share of vices.

  The chaplain gave me a horsey grin and said, “Well spoken, young sir. There are many officers who are less attentive to their religious duties, as you are no doubt aware. Cards, whores and drink seem to be the new Trinity.”

  I thought for a moment that he was referring to the town as well as the divinity, but the wit was unintentional. I was nonetheless impressed by his frankness and replied that the Navy had always harboured its share of rakes and rascals.

  “So it has, Mister Squibb,” he said, “and, while it is not the policy of the Church to admit it, for many there is little hope of redemption. However—” he paused and blew his nose into an embroidered handkerchief, “—there is much that may be done for this poor tribe of Red Indians. They live in a state of ignorance and merely await the word of God to change their heathen ways.”

  “And what would you have them change?” I asked.

  He shot me a look that bordered on suspicion. “Why, their warlike ways for one, sir.”

  “But what of our own people? They appear equally brutish. It makes one wonder whether we live in a state of war by nature.”

  He looked at me again, this time with the expression of one too clever to be tricked so easily. “Ah, but sir, you are using the argument of the philosopher Hobbes, with whom I cannot agree.”

  “Would you not agree,” I countered, “that there are three natural causes of conflict amongst humans, as Hobbes suggests?”

  “I would, sir. And as I
recall they are competition, distrust and glory.”

  “Indeed. And here we have the first two in large measure and a goodly element of the third. I suggest that until we remove them we shall have no lasting peace with these people.”

  “You make an interesting point, Mister Squibb. But you will recall that these causes of war apply to man in his natural state, without the word of God to guide him.”

  “And how,” I replied, “do you propose to convert the Red Indian when our own people set so poor an example of Christian virtue?” We stood to one side of the track to allow a dog-cart to pass. The large animal’s tongue lolled in the morning heat and fish scales glittered in its matted black fur.

  “This is a labour of faith, Mister Squibb,” the chaplain said through his handkerchief. “Not of example. Proverbs tells us that the desire of the righteous shall be granted.”

  He was plainly avoiding my question but I chose not to press the point. He may not have the answer, I thought, but at least he has the conviction that the Indians’ lives might be improved. He pocketed the handkerchief and looked at me, his eyes animated by a peculiar brightness.

  “Every human has the capacity for love, sir. Would you not agree?”

  I thought of creatures like Grimes but acknowledged his point with a nod.

  “It is this love that serves as the medium of conjunction between man and his Creator. Salvation for us all, you see, can only be brought about by our love for each other. It is this very love that will allow us to form a new heaven from the human race.”

  I could not say that I agreed with this, though he’d caught my interest with the sudden intensity of his manner and the fluttering and waving of his bony fingers.