The Beothuk Expedition

by Derek Yetman

  The others shouted their approval and pounded the table, forcing me from my dismal turn of mind. I stood on slightly unsteady legs and the party fell silent.

  “To the King and his Navy,” I said. To cries of “Hear! Hear!” I raised my glass: “Where e’re thy Navy spreads her canvas wings, homage to thee and peace to all she brings. The French and Spanish when thy flags appear, forget their hatred and consent to fear.”

  “Hear him! Hear him!” they cried, and there was much cheering and thumping of the table as we drank off the wine. Mr. Cousens asked me whether the lines were of my own composition, but before I had the chance to reply we were interrupted by the Reverend Stow.

  “Certainly not, sir,” he declared. “They possess the grace and metre of having been penned by a poet, not by a man whose passion is yards and canvas and the like. I ask you, where is the poetry in a pitching, leaking ship? Can anyone answer me that?”

  Our ecclesiastical guest had taken too much wine and his tongue was getting the better of him. He gestured for Atkinson to pour and the servant discretely allowed him half a glass. I ignored the chaplain and answered Cousens, saying that Edmund Waller had composed the verse more than a century ago.

  Lieutenant Cartwright, his mind still lingering on the chaplain’s comment, looked to him and said, “Come now, Reverend Stow. Surely you have been witness to things of beauty in the maritime world.”

  “I will admit, sir,” the chaplain said with a slur, “that one’s perspective of church spires or the buildings of a town may be enhanced from the sea. Otherwise there is little enough of beauty in a ship. The seagoing life would stink in my nostrils if I did not steep it in claret.” He took a draught of wine and added, “The Navy and all who serve in her may go to—”

  We were never to know what Reverend Stow intended to say. A knock came to the door at that moment and the distraction caused him to spill wine over his waistcoat. Atkinson glided to his side and dabbed it with a cloth while I rose to answer the door. On opening it I found the gunner standing on the tiny porch, his battered hat in his hands.

  “Mister Bolger,” I said. “Is anything the matter?”

  “Oh no, sir. Well, aside from Mister Froggat having another spell, that is. Went all funny and shaky again, he did.”

  I was reaching for my hat when he added, “Though he’s all of a piece now, sir. And sound asleep.” An awkward moment followed and I guessed there was another purpose to his visit.

  “Is there anything else, Mister Bolger?”

  “Aye, as a matter of fact there is, Mister Squibb. We was wondering—Hard Frost and me, that is—we was wondering if the men might have an extra tot o’ grog, sir. We wouldn’t ask ’cept the men will likely have to go without when we leaves for the wilderness.”

  I considered this a moment and said, “I see no reason why they shouldn’t. You have my permission, Mister Bolger.”

  “Who is it, Mister Squibb?” the lieutenant called from the dining room.

  “The gunner, sir.”

  “What does he want?”

  “He was asking about extra grog for the men, sir. I’ve told him—”

  “Yes, by all means!” Mr. Cartwright said. “The men must have their grog. Allow them what they wish, in honour of our last night in civilized surroundings!”

  I did not think this prudent but it would have been less prudent to argue the point.

  “Well, there you have it, Mister Bolger,” I said, “But I hold you responsible for them. Especially Grimes. I have forbidden him any spirits, as you know.”

  The gunner’s blue-flecked lips drew back in a grin and he jammed the hat on the shiny dome of his head. “Never ye worry, sir. Me and Frost’ll keep an eye on that bugger.”

  He knuckled his forehead and turned to go, and then suddenly slapped his thigh. “Oh, sir! I nearly forgot. A man showed up ’bout an hour past. It were the damnedest thing—just tied his boat up alongside the Dove, he did, no more to it than that. Says his name is Sam Cooper. He’s one of them furriers and him and Rowsell knows each other. Can’t say I cares fer the look of him, but then I don’t care fer the look of that Rowsell, neither. And, sir, tis the strangest thing but this Cooper is the same—”

  A summoning cry from the lieutenant cut him short. The gunner quickly took his leave, fearing that the lieutenant had changed his mind about the rum. I returned to the room where Reverend Stow looked as if he were still at sea and having trouble controlling his stomach. But at least he’d stopped talking.

  “Ah, there you are, Squibb,” Lieutenant Cartwright said. “Have another glass.” Our strained relations seemed to have been forgotten in the flow of wine.

  I accepted the offer and caught the eye of our host. “Mister Cousens,” I said, “a man named Cooper has sought shelter in your outbuilding for the night. He says you will have no objection.”

  “Cooper?” he said. “Not Sam Cooper?”

  “Yes, I believe that is the name.”

  Our host fell silent as he fingered his glass. “Well, well,” he said a moment later. “Gentlemen, Mister Squibb tells me that we have a visitor. It is none other than Sam Cooper, arrived here at Indian Point.” The rest of us looked at him without comprehending.

  “This is the man I was telling you about. Sam Cooper is the only one to have ever travelled past the great falls on the River of Exploits.”

  Lieutenant Cartwright and I exchanged looks. Such a guide would be worth his weight in treaties with the Indians.

  “Then we must have a word with him,” the lieutenant said.

  “Is he trustworthy, Mister Cousens?” I asked.

  “I cannot answer that, as I barely know the man. But his employer certainly is not. I believe that Andrew Pinson’s sharp practices are well known to yourselves and the governor. That man would trade his soul for a profit, and buy it back at less than the devil paid for it. As for Cooper, all I can say of him is that he is said to be extremely devout.”

  “Devout?” George Cartwright exclaimed with a drunken grin. “A devout furrier?”

  “Why, yes,” Cousens replied. “I recall my men saying that he is a man of extreme religious conviction.”

  “A companion for our dear chaplain, then.” George Cartwright laughed.

  The lieutenant and I looked at each other again. A Pinson man or not, as a guide he sounded too good to be true. “I believe I shall have a word with him,” I said.

  “Yes, yes,” Cousens said. “But first, let us drink another toast of this excellent claret. Will you not join us in a bumper, Reverend Stow? Reverend Stow? Are you quite all right, sir?”

  I slipped away a short time later and strolled across the clearing to where the crew was quartered. I opened the door and found the bunkhouse in lively form, with the gunner playing a tin whistle for all he was worth and Frost matching him on a concertina. The instrument looked like a child’s toy in the boatswain’s massive hands. Greening and Jenkins were dancing a reel and the others were clapping and stamping time.

  The music groaned to a halt when I entered the room. Bolger, redder of face than usual and perspiring heavily, nodded to me and said, “Just letting the lads enjoy theirselves, sir.”

  “Do not let me stop you, Mister Bolger. I am here to have a word with this man Cooper.”

  “Cooper? Why yes, sir. He’s just out there.” He pointed across the room to a rear door that opened onto the night. A man stood outside with his back to the light.

  “He’s a queer sort, sir,” Bolger said in a low voice. “Don’t seem to hold with rum nor music. But the oddest thing is—”

  “Thank you, Mister Bolger,” I said, caring nothing for the gossip of the crew. “Please carry on.” I crossed the room as Frost squeezed his concertina to life and the sailors resumed their steps. The man who stood outside turned at my approach.

  The wine may have played a part, though I believe it was pure astonishment that robbed me of speech. For a moment I could do nothing but stare at the face before me, or more truthfully, at
the pair of puckered white scars upon it. It was the very man we’d encountered at Fogo Harbour, which was what Bolger had been trying to tell me. It was beyond comprehension that he should turn up here, and so soon after our first meeting. As I wondered how this was possible, I found my voice and said, “My name is Squibb, third lieutenant of the Guernsey. How did you come to …?”

  The furrier’s bright eyes bespoke the cunning and quick instincts of a hunter. He saw my surprise easily enough and sniggered before answering in a grating, north country voice. On landing his cargo of furs at Fogo, he said, he’d learned that the Dove was on its way to the Bay of Exploits. Intending to return there himself, and having no desire to meet with the French brig-of-war again, he’d followed in our wake for safety’s sake. The explanation was reasonable enough, and I went straight to my reason for seeking him out.

  “Mister Cartwright has a proposal for you, Cooper. He wishes to hire your services as a guide on the river. You see, the governor has given him the task of—”

  “I knows his task,” the man cut in. His voice had the quality of a keel being dragged over gravel. “He wants to find the Red Indians.”

  The crew had evidently told him as much, and so I said, “That is correct. We intend to make—”

  “Ye intends to make a truce with ’em.”

  I merely nodded, avoiding the certainty of further interruption. “Ye’ll be wastin’ yer time,” he rasped. “They’ll hear no talk of peace.”

  “Why, sir,” I responded lightly, “I was told that you are a Christian man. Surely you have faith in the ideal of peace?”

  Cooper’s bright eyes bored into mine. He said nothing and I sensed that he was turning the question over in his mind, examining it as he might examine a questionable pelt. His nose twitched as if he were trying to catch the scent of it as well.

  “And ye wants my help?” he said at length.

  “Yes. Mister Cartwright will pay you for your trouble, of course.”

  “Pay me?” the man said. “Why, tis not honest work he’s offering, now, is it?” There was another pause as his tongue flicked over thin, cracked lips. He appeared to be considering the proposal, and at last he said, “All right. I’ll guide him, sure enough. But only ’cause the Lord might have some purpose in me doin’ so.”

  “The Lord, you say? Then perhaps you believe the souls of the Red Indians should be saved?” The thought of another companion like Reverend Stow was unsettling.

  A sly grin twisted his mouth, and he replied, “Oh, I didn’t say that, now, did I, sir?”

  Israel Frost

  Oh, it were a grand old evening, sure enough. First chance the lads’ve had to kick up their heels in a fortnight. And when they was all done with dancing the hornpipe, they took to singing the old songs. Bolger give us “Black-eyed Susan,” which I never heard these ten years or more. Then Greening sung “Nancy Dawson,” which I been hearing every hour this month. I told him to learn something new, if he knows what’s good for ’im. I sung one meself, what I learned from the cook on the old Phoenix, called “Poor Jolly Sailor Lads.” Never heard it, you say? Why, I can sing it again. Ahem—

  Come all you pretty fair maids, a line to you I’ll write

  In ploughing of the ocean I take a great delight.

  On land you have no danger, no danger do you know

  While we poor jolly sailor lads ploughs on the ocean bold.

  When labouring men come home at night,

  they tell their girls fine tales

  Of what they been a-doing out in the new mown fields.

  Tis the cutting of the grass so short, tis all that they can do

  While we poor jolly sailor lads ploughs on the ocean blue.

  Here’s the night as dark as any pitch and the wind begins to blow,

  Our captain he commands us, all hands turn out below.

  Our captain he commands us our goodly ship to God,

  Jump up aloft my lively lads and strike topgallant yard.

  You see a storm is rising and we are all confound,

  Looking out every moment that we shall all be drowned.

  Cheer up, never be faint hearted, we shall see our girls again,

  In spite of all our danger we’ll plough the raging main.

  So now the wars are over and we are safe on shore,

  We’ll sing and we will dance me boys, as we have done before.

  We’ll sing and we will dance me boys, and spend our money free,

  And when our gold it is all gone we’ll boldly go to sea.

  Oh aye, she’s a grand tune. And we had a grand time of it, too. There were no fighting neither, though Grimes and young Greening was eyeing each other. A nasty piece o’ work is that Grimes. I seen his like before, mind you. And plenty of ’em. Most don’t carry much skin on their backs by the time they been in the fleet a year or two. Which is the only way o’ putting the fear o’ the Lord—and the bo’sun—into ’em.

  Mr. Squibb has other ideas, o’ course. Not that I’m saying the young gentleman is wrong in his thinking. Oh no, Mr. Squibb is sound enough, though he don’t have much experience in dealing with sea lice like Grimes. Take them few lashes that him and Rundle got from each other. It done the trick in keeping ’em apart fer a few days but it didn’t set Grimes to rights, now did it?

  Last night I were watching Grimes real close like, ’specially when he thought I weren’t looking. I saw from the start how sweet he and that Rowsell is on each other, and now they’re after getting a third hook on their line. Who’s that, you say? Why, that God-botherin’ Cooper, is who. I don’t like the looks o’ him, I can tell you. And I don’t mean them scars. Someone said him and Mr. Squibb was much alike, as they bore their past on their faces. I said that might be true enough but the likeness ends there. Cooper may have somethin’ in common with Rowsell, them both bein’ furriers and all, but why are they splicing up with Grimes? Makes me wonder. Mind you, I’ll be watching ’em closer than a gull watches fer capelin. All the way up the river. You can bet yer last drop o’ grog on that.

  Jonah Squibb

  At the break of day, on the 24th of August, we sailed the Dove from Indian Point to Peter’s Arm and dropped our anchor. The two furriers followed in Sam Cooper’s bye boat. There we readied the jolly boat and stowed it with a week’s provisions, each man to carry fourteen pounds of hard bread and seven pounds of salted beef, together with a share of the weapons, kettles, spare powder and ammunition. If the journey lasted longer than seven days, we would have to hunt for our rations.

  The sky was clear with a light westerly playing outside the arm, but within it we lay in a calm that invited a great swarm of black flies to join our company. This added to the general misery of everyone aboard, myself included, for the previous night’s revelry had taken its toll. I was reminded of Fielding’s observation that there is nothing so idle and dissolute as a sailor on land. Indeed, Lieutenant Cartwright’s mood was not so expansive this morning and the men were generally lethargic. Reverend Stow had lost his breakfast on the trip over and even Frost, an old hand at debauchery, appeared the worse for wear. Bolger looked like death delayed, though I knew he would have put us all to shame in the hardships that lay ahead, had he been given the chance.

  As it was, the lieutenant informed him that he was to stay with the Dove. The gunner was far from pleased but he had the good sense to keep his lips together. Without further ado we wished him well, and he us, and we clambered over the side and into the jolly boat. It was close quarters, even with the furriers in their own craft. George Cartwright, Reverend Stow and John Cousens each sat between two oarsmen. Froggat took the bow while the first lieutenant and I were jammed in the sternsheets. Our number was twelve plus the two furriers, the addition of Cooper being a relief to the superstitious sailors.

  Froggat seemed a good deal better that day, at least in physical health. He showed no signs of impairment in scrambling into the boat, though he was uncommonly quiet. As a boy he had chattered like a magpie, even talki
ng in his sleep at times. Now he sat quietly in the bows, his hat pulled low over his eyes. There he stayed, as silent as the wide river beneath us, as we began our journey into the wilderness.

  The men rowed for three hours at a steady stroke and at nine o’clock we put ashore at Jumper’s Brook, a good three leagues from Peter’s Arm. Here we took a brief rest and a few mouthfuls of bread before carrying on. A short time later the walls of the forest moved closer to us as the river narrowed. At length we came to the salmon weirs belonging to John Cousens and under his direction we navigated the maze of woven sticks and netting. The traps had yielded him several hundred quintals of dried fish that spring, he said, and it had not been his best season. George Cartwright took a particular interest in this and posed many unwelcome questions on markets and prices.

  The current grew stronger as we progressed and after much effort on the part of the oarsmen, we arrived at Start Rattle. It was a little before noon when we beached the boats and unloaded our supplies. Each man was given his food and equipment and I armed Froggat with a pistol and the boatswain with a fowling piece. The Cartwrights and Cousens had their long-barreled muskets, as did the furriers. I equipped myself with a pistol and gave the remaining men a hatchet apiece. This brought a complaint from Grimes until Frost silenced him with a threatening fist.

  The lieutenant’s plan was to divide the party so that we would travel each shore, thereby increasing our chances of meeting with the Indians. He cautioned that we were not to fire our weapons in any circumstance, unless our very lives lay in the balance. This caused a new round of complaints, chiefly from his brother, who was incapable of restraint when a living creature came within range of his gun. With this and other matters settled, we bid adieu to the south bank party, consisting of George Cartwright, Reverend Stow, Frost, Greening, Rundle, Jenkins and Atkinson. The remainder of us—Lieutenant Cartwright, Cousens, Grimes, Rowsell, Cooper, Froggat, and myself—rowed across the river and dragged the two boats into the trees.