by Gerard Doran
“Jeez, Martin, don’t take much to get you riled up this morning. Have a rough night?” He stepped away from Martin as they walked down under the bridge toward the boats.
“No, b’y. I had a good sleep. The thought of that Tapper mouthing off poisons me. Tell me, what did that prate-box say?”
“He said, ‘We’ll be so far ahead of you on the pond Regatta Day, all you’ll see is the back of our heads.’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. In church, too.”
“You got to tell Watt,” said Martin. “In fact, tell everyone in the cove that Frankie boy is shooting off his gob again.” Martin reached his boat. He grabbed the thole-pins and jammed them into the holes in the gunwale. “Where’s Croke? He’s rowing with me this morning, isn’t he?”
“Here he comes.” Jack was anxious to steer clear of Martin’s angry face.
“Sorry I’m late, b’ys. Jeezly cow got off her rope and went clear of the yard. Found her down by the river. How are ye this morning?” Din Croke wiped the sweat from his brow with his shirtsleeve.
“I’m not feeling so good.” Martin threw a coil of rope into the boat, sending the oars flying out over the side.
“I hopes you’re not angry with me. Couldn’t let the cow roam free all day.”
“It’s not you, Din. Tell him, Jack. Tell Din about your not-so-holy experience at Mass yesterday.”
They shoved off from the landwash against a biting northwest wind. May was the month of Mary, but the weather was nothing like the gentle Mother of God today. Martin jumped in the bow as it cleared the shore. Din already had his oars out, single-handedly moving the boat out to sea before Martin could even begin to row.
“The wind is enough to cut ye,” Din grunted. “If we can make it to the Point in less than half an hour, we won’t be cold very long.” He and Martin settled in with the fine ash oars, clipping over the rising waves, driving the blades into the crest, pushing the punt away from the water.
“Old Watt don’t ever seem to stop thinking about the rowing,” Din mumbled, as he strained the muscles of his long frame to keep the boat off the shoals at Witty Cove. It wasn’t easy keeping in stroke with Martin. The punt bobbed and tipped, the waves almost coming over the bow. His arms began to tire. He pushed his feet against the bottom of the seat in front of him to keep the pressure on the oar. Martin had set a brutal pace.
“Watt’s a devil.” Martin laughed. “He’s hiding up there in the tuckamore, watching. Guaranteed.”
Martin could hear Din gasping for breath as they passed Half Way Rock. He didn’t ease the pace. Watt had told him to train Croke, and that’s what he would do.
Din didn’t lessen his efforts, either. He was too strong and too stubborn to surrender to the waves that broke against the sides of the small boat. His oars turned up huge white wakes with each drive of the blades. The punt flew across the water, against the tide. The boat and its contents seemed weightless. Ten minutes more to the nets. He was beginning to feel winded.
“How long will Watt have us practise on the pond when we first start?” Din hollered over the wind. “Fifteen minutes? Twenty?” A wave splashed into the boat, drenching one of his oar handles.
“It won’t be too long, rowing without stopping.”
“Won’t be as rough as this, neither.”
“What, are you getting tired?” Din shrugged his broad shoulders and Martin laughed. “We got a whole bunch of drills that Watt takes us through just to get our timing right. It will be at least a week, maybe ten spins, before we get used to those shells.” Martin took a deep pull on the fresh salt air. He was feeling the effects of their hard rowing, too. “My job today is to be your rate man, the stroke oar. I’m no John Whelan, but I’ve rowed behind John before, learned a few things. We can talk in this boat, but when we’re on the pond there’s no talking, unless you’re on the verge of death. At least, there’s no talking where you and I will sit.”
The boat went by Din’s salmon net at Klondike. A few hundred feet before the Point, Martin increased the stroke rate. The jump in pace confused Din. He struggled to keep up. “What are you doing, you bloody arse?” he gasped. “We’re almost there; time to slow down.”
“No talking, Din.” Martin kept his grin to himself.
They rowed the final few strokes to the net, crossed the lead rope anchored to the cliff, stopped rowing, and collapsed on their oars, chests heaving. Martin reached back to shake Din’s hand. When he released the sweaty grip, he looked down at his hands. They had blood on them—Din’s blood.
Din battled the swell, trying to keep his balance. He reached down into the water to grab the cork floats. The cold salt water stung the open cuts on his hand.
“Ah, damn it,” he said, grimacing.
“We’ll make quick work hauling this, Din.” Martin grabbed the net and started to pull it along the boat. “Let’s get at it, don’t want to be out here too long and catch a chill.” The wind cut across the water, making the boat roll as they struggled to haul the net. They worked the punt toward the tarnished silver reflection of a fish down in the choppy brine. The salmon, still alive and thinking perhaps that it would be free again, fought as they hoisted it into the boat. Martin whistled. “He’s some size—must be twenty pounds. Here come two more. All big ones today. ” They pulled the fish over the side.
Another shimmering flash deep in the water up ahead, then another. The mighty swimmers were trapped now, some of them drifting lifelessly under the swells, others struggling with the last ounce of strength in their powerful bodies to break clear of the mesh.
“These will bring a good price. Haul away, Din, haul away.”
They brought the net to the boat again and again, moving it through the water, checking every fathom. The work seemed easy when the catch was good. When the boat was full, they set the net back out, hoping tomorrow’s catch would be just as plentiful. Reaching the end, they tossed the marker buoy back into the sea and grabbed the oars.
“Don’t worry about me talking on the way to shore,” said Din. “I’m too tired to talk. Got to save my breath for the rowing.”
“We’ll check your net on the way back,” said Martin, laughing. “You’ll get a little break.” Thirty minutes to shore, he thought. The wind had shifted to the east, a tailwind to help them home. He looked at the sky. A silent prayer answered, perhaps.
Chapter
17
Kate took the pans of bread from the oven and tipped them upside down. The golden-brown loaves fell out on the oilcloth. She flipped them upright and covered their tops with butter. It gave off a sweet aroma as it melted.
“Aunt Kate,” asked Tommy. “Can I have the heel? With molasses?”
Kate sliced a thick piece and passed it to him. Steam puffed out of the cut loaf. “Here, Tommy. You knows where the molasses is.”
“I helped John plant the seed potatoes yesterday. Here’s how I did it.” Tommy placed one foot ahead of the other. “My feet are small, so two of my boots are as long as of one of Uncle John’s. That’s how far apart I put the seed potatoes in the garden.”
“You’re pretty clever to figure that out. Now eat your bread before it cools off.”
“Uncle John’s home.” Tommy looked out the window, his mouth full of bread.
John felt a sting in his buttocks as he rose from the seat of the cart. He reached down into the back of his pants and felt dampness. The chafed flesh was bleeding. So it begins, he thought. There was no getting past the blisters, aches, and pains of trying to win a championship. He shrugged his shoulders and began walking up the lane to the house, whistling, his coat draped over his shoulder, his cap in his hand. He opened the door to the porch. “Fresh bread. Give us a slice or two of that, missus. I’m gut-foundered.” John’s eyes widened as though he’d never seen the likes of Kate’s baking.
Kate got down a plate and cut
two slices from the loaf. “Tea’s in the pot. Supper is going to be a bit late. How was your first spin on the pond?” She glanced at Tommy and grinned. Tommy smiled. There was molasses stuck to both ends of his mouth.
“I shouldn’t say nothing outside the crew, but Croke has a fair bit to learn. He’s eager and strong, but he keeps driving the oar down in the water like he’s trying to kill something with it.” John took a sip of tea, washing the bread down. “The boat rocks a lot. Could be a number of reasons for that.” He swayed in the chair as he ate. After he was finished, he got up and went to the window that faced the ocean. Prince was leaning over the fence of the horse pound, looking at the house. “Watt will figure Croke out, make him a rower.” He scratched his stubbled chin, turned to Kate, and cracked a smile. “Tommy, you go out and take Prince some water, now. Come on, we goes and gets a bucketful.”
Prince began to neigh and toss his head as the porch door opened. His black mane flew in the warm June breeze. His round, dark eyes focused on the emerging figures.
“What’s he making that noise for?”
“That’s horse talk, young Thomas.” John laughed, and handed him the heavy bucket full of water. “You’re strong enough to carry this. Be careful you don’t spill it.”
Tommy staggered out into the yard and went to Prince’s enclosure, gripping the pail with both hands. Prince shuffled his hooves as the boy walked toward him. John watched them for a moment, then turned and went back in the house. Kate was sitting by the stove darning a sock. She looked up as he came in.
“So, John, tell me. What if Croke don’t work out with the crew? Is there anyone else you can get?”
“I don’t know, Kate. I haven’t given that a thought. We knew Croke was a risk. He’s like an ox, but rough.” He gulped the rest of his tea, which had cooled off. Kate’s question was something John didn’t want to hear voiced. He went to the window, looked out at Tommy watering Prince, and then returned to his chair.
“This bread is some good. Did you do something different to it?”
He rose again, walked to the stove, lifted the damper, and glared into the smouldering ashes. More than anyone else in the boat, perhaps even more than Watt, he did not want to forfeit meeting the Torbay crew at the starting line on Regatta Day. But if the crew failed to form . . . He couldn’t imagine it. He’d have to walk to Mass in St. John’s for the rest of his life if Torbay won. That would be his penance for losing.
“There’s no other men in the cove to pick from. The Roches and Kinsellas are going back at it this year. That’s another crew from here. You knows about that crowd. Rowing to keep their berths on the Terra Nova. Never much good at it, but we got to race against them, too.”
“John, will this be your last year?” She walked up behind him and wrapped her arms around him. “You’ll soon be thirty-seven, John,” she whispered in his ear. “You can’t row forever. You might hurt that strong back of yours. Now that wouldn’t be good, would it?” She kissed him on the neck.
John felt the warmth of her hands on his folded arms through the thin material covering them. “I’m pretty sure it’s my last year. Pretty damn sure.”
The kitchen door opened with a bang. “Prince wants more water.” Tommy handed a startled John the empty bucket.
Chapter
18
Ellen tossed a pan of bread crumbs to the hens in the yard and closed the screen door.
“Mother!” Dan thumped through the hallway. “Where’s Din?”
“He’s not back from the beach yet. What are you bawling out for? I’m just here in the porch.” Ellen shook her head. “Aren’t you going for a spin on the pond? My son, you better have something to eat, you can’t row on an empty stomach.”
“No, I got to go now. Tell Din to come by Liz’s on the way to the pond.” He took a dipper of water from the bucket and drank it down, water spilling from the sides of his mouth onto his shirt. He grabbed his mother and kissed her so hard she squeaked, and then he tore off out of the house. The hens scattered, clearing a path for him as he ran in all directions like a hawk. He slowed his pace only when he was nearly at Liz’s house. The evening sun was still high, and the warm blue haze seemed to be squeezing the water out of the air onto his overheated body. He took a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wiped his face and neck.
“Come in, Dan, come in and sit down. Let me get you some water.” Liz got a tumbler full of water and placed it on the table in front of him. She pulled up a chair beside him and reached for his free hand, which she held to her face. “I’m some happy you came by.”
Dan finished the water and slouched back in the chair, running one hand over his damp hair, the other hand over the back of Liz’s hand. She wrapped her hand around his.
“Dan, I wants to ask you something. Well, I wants to tell you something, too.” She looked down at their clasped hands and then up into his eyes. Her shoulders relaxed and she smiled at him. “What do you think about moving to Boston?”
He let go of her hand and pulled away.
“Let me explain, let me explain.” She reached out and recaptured his hand. “Mother’s sister in Boston is looking for some help with her family. Her husband’s a sea captain. They have six young children. I can’t stay here much longer, Dan, doing the same old thing, working now and again with the Freckers. I’m tired of living hand to mouth. I’m sick of the smell of fish.”
Dan got up and moved away from her, heading for the water jug. He felt as though he hadn’t had a drop to drink and his head was pounding, whether from the heat or his thoughts he couldn’t tell. He filled the glass and raised it to his mouth, but was unable to drink. He put the glass down and looked at her. “People will think we’re fools. Everyone came to celebrate with us, and they’re expecting a wedding. We’re going to build a house.” He picked up the glass and threw the water out the open window.
“But, Dan, I promised Mother I’d go help Aunt Annie. We’ll have a better life in Boston, we will. You’ll see.”
“I never said I’d go.”
She got up from the table and stood in front of him, taking his arm. “Dan, it’s a miserable hard life here. You knows how hard you works at the fish, you and Din. There’s lots of jobs for men in Boston, too. And they pays real well. Sure, they just built an underground tunnel for the trolley cars to ride along in, Aunt Annie said. Maybe they’ll build another one, and you could get a job working on it.”
“Liz, I works on the ocean, not under the ground.” He slipped out of her hold. “You got me in a spin. I know you talked about moving before, but I thought you were just dreaming.” He shook his head. “I don’t know, Liz. I don’t know. Why don’t we think about it after the wedding?”
“I’m going next week, Dan. Aunt Annie and them are paying for my passage.”
“Next week! God save me.”
“Yes, next week. You’ll come down after the races.” Her face was shining, and he didn’t have the heart to say another word. His knees felt as wobbly as if he’d walked to her house from Cape St. Francis instead of Outer Cove. “Aunt Annie needs help. If it don’t work out, we’ll just come back home.”
Din’s cheerful face appeared around the kitchen door. “B’ys oh b’ys, it’s some hot out still. Dan, me son, time to get moving. Although I can see why you’d be tempted to stay.” He winked at Liz, who turned pink.
“I’ll come back over after the rowing. I can’t think now.” Dan kissed Liz hard on the mouth and rushed out the door. His brother followed him.
“Jeez, Dan, don’t you ever slow down?” The two brothers got aboard the carriage. “You looks like you’re mad—or crazy.” Din laughed. “And you’re sweating like you just rowed a race.”
“Don’t laugh, Din. Wait till I tells you what Liz got on her mind.”
Din snapped the reins. The afternoon sun hung over the treetops beyond Dyer’
s like a giant gas lamp as they rounded Murphy’s Turn and headed out the road to St. John’s.
The waves on the pond rolled gently. The chilly air of spring had been driven far out to sea. In its place was a warm southwest wind which had ridden in on the Gulf Stream. The pond had awakened from its long hibernation. The boathouse was alive with young men readying shells for the year’s first practice.
Watt nodded to them all, but he didn’t speak. The time for gabbing was when the racing was over. Mike Snow was in his usual spot, he noted, leaning against the wood framing that supported the block and tackle for lifting the boats.
John approached Mike Snow. “Well, Snowy, how are things down in the Village? You rowing in the races this year, or are you just hanging around the pond looking for trouble?”
“No trouble around here, John. I knows what happens here on the pond during practice. It’s the same old game. Crews pretend they don’t see each other, and that gives them an excuse not to talk.” Snowy tried to hide his brown, broken teeth as he smiled. “You’re all alike.
“Torbay was out earlier this evening. Did a long row, must have been out there on the water for an hour.” He spat a wad of tobacco into the pond. “They didn’t look too green, that’s for sure. Kind of cocky, if you ask me.”
“No surprise there,” Watt said. “All hands ready? Push off.”
The shell moved away from the dock. The lake was calm, the boat was not. Croke seemed tense today, aggressively driving the oar deep into water, burying the blade out of sight, the water halfway up the shaft. Watt let them row for a while, hoping the boat would balance out. Then he stood up. “Everyone stop rowing.” The boat drifted to a stop. “I wants you to row in pairs for a few minutes, then fours.” He looked down at them, but made no eye contact. He didn’t have to. Everyone knew who was causing the problem.
“The boat is rocking too much. We needs to fix that.” Watt held the tiller ropes in one hand and pointed the index finger of the other at Din Croke. “Now, Croke, I wants you to watch the blade depth when John and Dan starts rowing. They’ll row first.” He let go of the ropes and stuck out his left arm. “Let me show you something.” He looked directly at Croke. “My left arm is the water level, my right hand is the blade.” He moved his right hand over and under his outstretched arm in an elliptical path. “Don’t lift the oar too high out of the water on the recovery, and don’t push the blade too deep on the drive. Ready, John? Ready, Dan? Show how it’s done.”
