A Stroke in Time

by Gerard Doran

  The Blue Peter shot through the water as the rowers pushed her through the breeze that fanned out over the lake. The small lop breaking against the hull was no match for the six from Outer Cove.

  “That’s good, men. That’s good rowing. Feel her break through the current.” Watt counted the strokes in groups of seven. Seven catches, seven drives, seven finishes, seven recoveries. He liked that number. Five came too quickly and might make them rush the stroke. Ten was too long, especially late in a tight race. Ten could discourage a crew. To ask for multiples of ten hard strokes ran the risk of breaking a crew mentally. Seven was the perfect number. It never seemed like a number that couldn’t be reached, even when the men were tired and suffering.

  “Let her run. That was just under four minutes.” Watt stood up for the last time before they went to the start line. “Now, let’s get ready to try our start. We don’t want to cool down too much. Bury those blades.” He sat back down.

  “Same start as always. One half-sweep, then a second half, three-quarters of a stroke, then a full sweep. Seven full strokes at full pressure. Stop after the seventh.” Watt executed his commands with military precision. “Go!”

  The crew’s reaction was swift. They were like soldiers responding to a drill sergeant.

  “We’re up to speed on the sixth full stroke. No need to try another start.” Watt took a deep breath. “Let’s row to the start.”

  The early morning crowd was beginning to swell. The last of the tents were being raised. The crew’s final practice strokes took them past the Marquee wharf. The band, led by Professor Power, tuned its horns on a bandstand decorated with bunting and the flags of Britain and Newfoundland, “the two Greatest Nations.”

  “When we gets close to the stakes in the start area, listen only to my voice,” Watt said. The Blue Peter drifted along the shore, passing Gosse’s crew on stake one.

  Out of the corner of his eye, John looked across the small space of water that separated the two foes. He was quite certain Clements was looking his way, but he didn’t want to look at the man. At the last minute, he locked eyes with Clements. The hatred was mutual.

  “Move up, number three,” called Thompson through the bullhorn. All four coxes held the toggle ropes, which were tied to stakes, taut. People on the shore stopped walking to watch.

  “Are you ready, number one? Are you ready, number two? Are you ready, number three? Are you ready, number four? Are you all ready?” The committee boat had already rowed up to make sure the boats were in their proper places.

  The gun fired and the flag dropped out of the president’s hand. All four crews burst out of the start. The Kinsellas and the Roches jumped into an early lead in the Daisy. The light crosswind pushed the rippling waves against Blue Peter’s hull. Watt kept the tiller rope firm, making slight adjustments to keep the boat on course.

  “One minute,” Watt called to the crew. “We have a quarter length lead on Manning.” He didn’t tell them that Gosse’s crew was less than a quarter length behind them. “It’s early in the battle, men. All strokes must be hard. Full pressure on every single one—give it all you can. We’ll see who falters first.”

  It was a three-boat race at Woodley’s Gate. Watt knew Gosse’s crew was fast, but where had this Manning crowd come from? There were two Torbay crews up against two Outer Cove crews. He didn’t give a damn. He’d have liked to be right between them.

  Watt glanced at his watch as they began the approach to the turn. “Four minutes, twenty,” he called. Manning’s crew on stake three in the Glance was falling behind. Almost a boat length separated the lead crews and Manning. “We need extra effort here, men. We need to keep our boat speed. On the count of two, seven of your hardest.”

  Watt’s back banged against the back of his seat. The gap between the Blue Peter, the Red Cross, and Manning’s crew was widening. With four minutes gone, the Daisy was dead last.

  “We still got a quarter boat length on Gosse. The lead is ours at the turn. Let’s come away at the same.” The rudder shot a rooster tail into the air as the boat rounded the buoy. But their lead was suddenly eclipsed by Gosse’s sweep of the keg—there was a deadlock at the halfway point as the two crews came away from the turn.

  “Watch out, John!” Nugent shouted. The bow of the Glance, two lengths behind, was just entering the turn, heading directly toward Watt and his crew.

  “Stop rowing! Stop rowing!” Manning roared to his crew. “Hold water! Hold water!” he yelled, trying to slow his boat.

  The Glance’s crew struck their oars against those of the Blue Peter. Watt reached out with his left hand and pushed the interfering boat away. Jack and Din began to row together with the bow-side oars. The cox of the Blue Peter wished he had longer arms so he could reach out and slug Manning.

  “There’s time enough left to make up this gap. We’re clear of Manning’s gang now. Pay attention.” They were coming to the Virginia River, and Torbay had a lead on them of almost two boat lengths of open water.

  “They’re getting desperate. They can’t hold that lead. Not like an Outer Cove crew can.” Watt raised his voice like a colonel in battle. “Let’s see if we can bring them back to us.” The Blue Peter was riding a slight tailwind and advancing rapidly, but there was a little more than two minutes left to the finish as they swept past Woodley’s Gate. One and one quarter lengths to make up, to salvage the race and season. Watt thought longingly of his pipe.

  “Those long rows to Logy Bay are paying off. We’re almost on their rudder.” Watt knew the effort to chase and reel in Torbay was taking its toll on the crew. The whole year was on the line.

  “You’re fine rowers, men. Better than the best sailors in the Royal Navy.” Watt had pushed them to within striking distance of the other boat. The nose of the Blue Peter was at the back of Gosse’s seat. The crews stormed past the Marquee wharf—they were less than a minute from the finish line.

  “They’re fading fast,” Watt said to John. “I’m at their rudder now.” He turned to the rest of the crew. “On two, men, bring up the rate.” They responded with vigour. John shortened the stroke and increased the rate for the final thirty seconds. He knew the count in the number of strokes remaining—eighteen to the finish.

  Watt watched Gosse’s crew speed up. They had doubtlessly heard him make the call to up the rate. “We’re closing, John. Hold that rate. Hold it!” The crews collapsed as the gun fired to signal the end of the race. Some men fell on their oars, others onto the feet of the rower behind them. The shells drifted aimlessly toward the shoreline.

  Dan leaned ahead and said to John, “I don’t think we got the bastards.” He pushed the words out between breaths. “I don’t think we caught them. We ran out of water.” He placed his hands on John’s shoulders for a moment. Then his tired arms fell away.

  Watt sat motionless. His eyes shifted to the right, where Torbay had begun to celebrate. Bright sunshine glanced off the still pond. Sweat flowed into his eyes. The breeze that had followed them up the pond had diminished. Inside Watt, a tempest was stirring.

  “We’re not staying for the results—we got second. Let’s get out of here now.” Watt’s bitterness seeped through the six soaked bodies sitting in front of him. They took their oars and began the slow row away. “After we dock, go straight to the meadow behind Summers’s and wait for me. I wants a meeting with Mr. Mare.”

  The words from the chief judge’s bullhorn became lost in the noise of the pond-side crowd and the clomping of hooves on the approach to the boathouse. “First place, in the Red Cross, Torbay, in the time of nine thirty and four-fifths seconds. Second place, in the Blue Peter, Outer Cove, in the time of nine thirty-two. Third place, in the . . .”

  People from Outer Cove waited on the dock with long faces. Watt nodded at them. The crew followed him to the back of the boathouse. “Stay here,” he said to them. He went around the buil
ding and entered it. When he got to the president’s office, he rapped on the door. Mare opened it.

  “Good morning, sir.” Watt reached out to shake the president’s hand. “Mr. Mare, I would like a couple of minutes of your time.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Power. Come in. Have a seat. Close race out there this morning. What happened at the turn?” He sat down behind his desk. “I’d rather talk to the crews after a race than before one. You know how some people are.”

  “What I knows, Mr. Mare, are the rules of the pond. We had the lead and the right of way coming out of the turn. Pat Manning didn’t give me the right of way. That’s what happened. It cost us the race.” Watt went to stand in front of the desk. “Now what chance have we got of rowing in the championship race?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Power. Everyone makes mistakes. What can we do to Mr. Manning now, suspend him? His season is over. They came last.”

  “My crew should never have been on stake four. We were told we were going to be on stake two, right next to Neddy Gosse in the Red Cross. Manning’s crew is young, inexperienced. They should have been on stake four, or somewhere out of my goddamn way. It’s their first year in the fishermen’s race. The Kinsellas and the Roches shouldn’t been on stake two. Thompson got the Outer Cove crews mixed up. My crew should have been on stake two, buoy two. Didn’t he know that Jim Roche and his crew are washed up? This captain, this Thompson chap, is an arse.” Watt’s face turned red. “Where’d he come from, anyway?”

  “He’s a cricket referee. A fine fellow.”

  “Cricket! Cricket! Mr. Mare, I wonders about your good sense, sir.”

  “Now, Mr. Power, I understand why you are upset, but insulting me isn’t going to change the outcome of the race. The rules weren’t followed. That’s unfortunate. Manning should have stopped rowing, held water, but he didn’t, at least not soon enough.” Mare got up from his desk, went past Watt, and opened the door. “You’ve made your point, Mr. Power. I will ask the captain to investigate the incident and report to me.”

  “I hopes you’re able to find him,” Watt said. “You could try one of them hop beer tents.” He started to leave, then turned back. “Something odd is going on. Someone switched one of Blue Peter’s oars for a dirty old damaged one last week. And now this mess on the turn.” Watt looked the president straight in the eyes. “I can’t prove what’s going on, but I knows something is. Good day to you, sir.” He went through the door and slammed it behind him.

  Watt stepped out of the boathouse. The wind had died down completely and the heat was intense. He went around to the back, where the crew sat in the shelter of a maple tree, passing around a bottle of water. He hoped it was water, anyway. Mike Snow was with them.

  “Where did you watch the race from, Snowy?” asked Watt.

  “Right at the turn. Looked like a set-up to me,” he said, spitting on the ground. “Manning’s crew is a bunch of youngsters. They shouldn’t have been on stake three. I don’t know why ye weren’t on stake two.”

  “Come on, b’ys. Let’s go back to Pittman’s and get our carriages,” said Watt.

  “What then?” asked Martin.

  “We’ll go over to Ross’s farm. Mr. Ross is expecting us.”

  Watt picked up his jacket from the ground and rustled through the pockets for his pipe. He looked at the crew. “When I sticks the tobacco in her, I’m going to pretend it’s Manning’s guts. Let’s go. We’ll head over to the farm, get a bit of grub in us, and try to figure this mess out.” He tried his pockets again. “Damn it, I left the bloody pipe in the carriage.”

  Chapter

  27

  “Tommy, wake up!” Kate called up the stairs. “It’s a grand fine day, there’s sure to be a regatta, my son.”

  Tommy rolled over. The sun was streaming in through the window. He jumped out of bed, his hair tangled, his eyes half open, and ran down the stairs to the kitchen, his small, bare feet barely touching the treads.

  Kate took one look at him and shook her head, smiling. “You go outside and use the toilet and then get back upstairs and have a wash, and I’ll comb them knots out of your hair. And then come get your breakfast. And you got to polish your new boots, show them townie boys how it’s done.” Kate pulled the boy to her warm body and kissed the top of his head.

  “I hope Uncle John won the race this morning,” said Tommy. Then he squirmed away from her and ran out the door.

  “They worked so hard all summer,” Kate called after him. “If they loses to Torbay, it’ll be the end of Watt Power.” She turned away from the door and began to prepare breakfast.

  Kate looked at Tommy and felt pride. He was dressed in a new white shirt and brown knee breeches with a jacket to match, and a cap that was a smaller version of the one John had worn out the door that morning. The boots glinted in the dim kitchen. She had sold enough fish in town over the summer to be able to afford to outfit him like a prince.

  “We’ll ride out to the races with Mrs. McCarthy. She got a friend on the Cove Road who’ll keep her horse and carriage for her, and we’ll walk from there to the pond.”

  “Do you think Outer Cove won the fishermen’s race?” Tommy squinted as Kate produced a comb, wetted it, and started on his tangles.

  “I don’t know, darling. I don’t know. Hard to say. Anything can happen with the rowing.” She gave his hair a final comb-through and then fetched her new, wide-brimmed hat with the silk flowers. Taking him by the hand, she said, “We’ll find out soon enough about the races, won’t we.”

  “What in the name of God is that hanging off the cart up ahead?” Ellen looked at Kate, eyes wide, before turning back to the road. “Holy Mother of God! I believes that’s Mike. Mike Kinsella.”

  She eased Belle to a stop. “I think he’s dead. Hold on to Belle, Kate.” Ellen got out of the carriage and headed for the cart coming toward them. She grabbed the pony’s bridle. “Whoa there, girl.”

  The body of Mike Kinsella flopped over the side of the cart like a dead fish. His head was mere inches from the rocky road. Ellen reached down and tugged on his limp frame. His eyes suddenly popped open. They were bloodshot.

  “What in hell’s flames is going on?” He belched, and Ellen, wrinkling her nose, turned her head away from the smell of rum and vomit.

  “Were you in the race this morning?” Kate called from the carriage.

  Kinsella groaned. “Yes, Mrs. Whelan. We lost bad. Done for the day. So is Watt and his crew.”

  “What?” Tommy took his hat off, revealing a sweat-soaked head.

  “He’s been drinking, Tommy.” Kate shook her head and patted the boy on the arm.

  Ellen propped Kinsella up in the seat, complaining about the stink. “What do you mean, Watt’s crew is done for the day?” She gave him a shake. “Are you drunk and lying? I knows you’re drunk, that’s for sure.”

  He licked his lips, leaned forward, and tried to focus. “Mrs. McCarthy, I swears to God Almighty, John, Dan, Din, and them lost the fishermen’s race.” Kinsella flopped back in the seat, spittle clinging to his beard. “They had a bad turn at the buoys. Hard luck. That’s all I knows.” The slurred words came out like eels moving through weeds in a creek.

  “What else do you remember about the race, Mr. Kinsella?”

  “That’s all I knows, Mrs. Whelan. That’s all.” Kinsella, one eye closed, grabbed the reins and snapped them, drawling, “She’s a smart pony. She knows her way home.” The cart moved off.

  “Oh my.” Kate looked down at Ellen standing by the road.

  Ellen jumped up on the carriage like a bird on the wing. “Let’s get moving. I’m not saying Mike Kinsella is lying, but I knows what he said isn’t the whole truth.

  Kate nodded. “Let’s go, maid.”

  Tommy held on to Kate’s hand with the all the force he could muster. They had left Cottage Farm Road and ste
pped into the mass of people gathered by Quidi Vidi. His heart was beating rapidly and his stomach wasn’t right. He thought that maybe he was really hungry.

  “Where did all these people come from, Aunt Kate?” He gripped her hand even more tightly and huddled against her to protect himself from the bumping, rushing people milling in the afternoon heat. Kate smiled and waved at familiar faces.

  The banks of Quidi Vidi had become a village of tents. The smell of meat stews, fish stews, Jiggs’ dinner, hop beer, and sugary confections filled the air. Those drained of energy and money watched the newcomers arriving with excitement in their step.

  Tommy’s mouth filled with saliva. “Aunt Kate, I needs something to eat. I could take a bite out of the leg of the Lamb of God right now, I could. Sure, you must be hungry, too.”

  Kate dropped the boy’s hand and turned him to face her. “I don’t know where you got that kind of language, my son, but I never wants to hear it again. Do you understand?”

  Tommy’s eyes were stinging and his heart, which had settled down, was pounding again. He felt as if the sun had fallen out of the sky.

  When she saw his face, tormented and white, Kate had all she could do not to comfort him. But profanity was a serious sin. Better his heart should suffer for a short time than his immortal soul forever. He was so young—them older boys, it was, leading him astray. She forgot her resolution and bent down and wiped Tommy’s eyes. “Never mind, me darling. We’ll go get ourselves a big feed and keep the Lamb of God safe this one day at least.” The grin he gave her was better than the money in her pocket.

  “Support the BIS Orphanage,” shouted a ticket seller. “Two cents a ticket for a chance to win this lovely prize. Just a few left holding up the wheel.”

  “Wait, Tommy. I wants to buy a ticket on that set of china teacups.”

  “Two tickets left on this exquisite prize,” called the man, waving the final tickets in the air.