A Stroke in Time

by Gerard Doran

  “I’ll take the two of them.” Kate raised her hand and passed him the coins.

  Tommy peered at the pond whenever there was a gap between passing figures. A light breeze lapped the shoreline. Children rushed along, some with parents, some without. The gun fired, signalling the start or end of another race.

  “Number thirteen is the winner.”

  Kate looked at her tickets and nearly lost her breath. “I have it! I have it!” she cried, waving the cardboard pieces. The teacups, with their purple violets and gilt rims, were hers. She’d have tea out of one of them that evening, see if she wouldn’t.

  “Thanks be to God, Aunt Kate, before I starves to death.”

  She tucked the cups under one arm and put the other around the boy. “Come on, young Thomas, let’s go fill your belly.”

  Chapter

  28

  “Here comes Stephen Power up the lane. He got Mr. Savage with him. The old skipper wouldn’t miss a regatta.” Allan Ross was looking out the front window of his farmhouse. It was late afternoon, but the weather was still as pleasant as it had been in the morning. The shadows were a little longer, that was all.

  “John Savage must be seventy-five,” said Watt.

  “More like eighty,” Allan said, laughing. “They’re coming by to get their horse and head home, I’d say.”

  “Not before they comes in and has a cup of tea.” Agnes set out two more cups while her husband went to greet their new visitors.

  “Come in, gentlemen, come in. You’re not going to stay for the championship race?”

  “No, b’y. Skipper’s been here all day, and I got to get back at the hay,” said Stephen. He looked around. The house seemed to be full of rowers. Watt Power and John Whelan at the kitchen table; Dan and Din McCarthy slumped on the daybed; Jack Nugent, Martin Boland, and Din Croke standing in a group, talking.

  “Watt, did ye leave the pond right after the fishermen’s race?” Stephen pulled up a chair next to Watt and John.

  “As quick as we could get the hell out of there.” Watt folded his arms across his chest.

  “Well, I was there long after the race was over. All Torbay did was brag about their win. You should have seen them flashing those gold medals the governor gave them,” Stephen said with a grimace. “What a goddamn racket. You almost caught them coming back the pond, and you near three full lengths behind at one point, thanks to Manning. He didn’t have much to say to the Evening Telegram reporter when the fella asked what went wrong on the turn, the moron. I suppose there’s not much chance of you getting in the championship race.”

  “Ours isn’t a winning time.” Watt turned his head to look out the window that had the pond in its frame. “As you knows, it’s the two fastest winning times that makes the final. I just come back from the pond. I went over after all the races were done. The tradesmen got the second-fastest time, nine thirty-one and two-fifths. I had a word with Thompson and Mare. I told them that if the tradesmen don’t show up for the championship race, we’ll take their place. So we’re waiting on whether the tradesmen will row or not.” He dipped a spoon into his cold tea. “We’ll know shortly whether or not we got to row again.”

  “Listen to me, now. Listen to me.” Stephen placed one hand on John’s arm and the other on Watt’s. “I can’t stay to watch the big race, but I hopes you row in it. Teach that Torbay crew, that Neddy Gosse and his bunch, a bit of humility.”

  The hands on the clock moved toward five. John had sat at the table all afternoon, watching the crowds through the open window. Roars rose up often, as the daring, and often drunk, fell into the water as another attempt to reach the end of the greasy pole ended in failure.

  “I’m going over to see Thompson, to find out if he’s had any word on the tradesmen,” said Watt. “I suppose he knows the rules enough to know that if the tradesmen back out, we’re the crew that takes their place. Come with me, John. Could take me an hour to find Thompson.”

  Watt and John left the house and began the short walk to the Marquee. Surely they would find Kelly there. Just before they came to their destination, they met Warren and Murphy from the tradesmen’s crew staggering along the grassy slope.

  “Hey there, Watt. Hey, old-timer!” barked Murphy, nearly falling against Watt.

  “We got our win today, b’ys. You go get yours, now.” Warren grinned and flashed his gold medal. Then he started to sing. “The tradesmen are winners, winners are we.” He and Murphy clutched each other and stumbled past Watt and John, heading for the next tent that sold hop or spruce beer.

  Watt and John hastened their steps. When they came to the Marquee, Mare and Thompson were there, as expected. Watt approached them and began speaking as soon as he had their attention, but Mare cut him short. “The tradesmen will not be contesting the championship. Be at the boathouse with your crew at seven. You will be on stake four, buoy four. Torbay has stake two, buoy two.” Watt and John walked away from the Marquee in the direction of Ross’s farm, each knowing the other was sorely tempted to break into a run.

  “This is some crowd. Where are we going to, Aunt Kate?” She was practically dragging him along.

  “To the boathouse, Tommy. I told Mrs. McCarthy I’d meet her there. She wants to watch the last race, the championship race, with us.”

  “Will John and them be rowing in it? I heard some men talking back by that tent.”

  “It’s all the rumour, Tommy, but I don’t know. Dear Lord, I hope so.” Kate tightened her grip on Tommy’s hand as they bumped along between the hundreds upon hundreds of people on the shore near the penitentiary. “If they don’t row again, it will be a disaster. Poor John will be in some hard shape.”

  “Disaster.” Tommy looked up at her. “What’s a disaster?”

  “Oh, a shocking big mistake, Tommy. A big accident.”

  The late afternoon sun beat down on the trampled grass. Tommy and Kate shuffled along with the poor and the well-off, the sober and the drunk, the adults and children, the townies and the baymen. Smoke from wood fires billowed from the chimneys in the tents and the fires along the shore. The smell of cooked meat, onions, and fish mixed with the stink of sweat and alcohol.

  The crew was growing impatient. Watt gently tapped his pipe on the stove and surveyed the room. “What are you going to do about this evening?” He pointed at Dan, but looked at Din. “This might be your last row with your brother, my son. The same flesh and blood in the same boat. What are you two going to do about Torbay?” Watt walked to the window that overlooked the pond and stared out. Then he turned around and fixed his gaze on Martin and Jack. “Martin and Jack, you makes the wash for the others to match. You’re our strongest oars. What are you going to do about Torbay?” He looked at Croke. “Now, me lad.” Watt placed his gnarled hands on Croke’s shoulders. “You’re going to try and break the oar, aren’t you? That’s what you’re going to do about Torbay.”

  Watt walked to where John sat at the table. “I know what John’s going to do.” The sound of horse’s hooves clopping slipped through the open window, breaking the tense silence. “John is going to lead you to the finish line and make sure you’re there first. He’s going to set a rate that no other boat can match, but you will be able to follow him.” He placed his pipe in his pocket and looked at Croke. “Remember, keep your head in the boat. The race will be over before you knows it.”

  The walk from the farm ended at the steep downhill approach to the lake. Watt could see people from Outer Cove gathered at the dock, waiting for them. The crew went swiftly to where the Blue Peter was waiting for them. John straightened up his shoulders, remembering what Watt had said to them so often. “Always act like a king when you’re at the pond. It don’t matter if it’s practice or a race, once that oar is in your hand, you make sure you knows who you are.” The time for talk was over. There was no talking, even to the people who hung over the rai
l as he and the rest of the crew prepared the boat for her final battle of the day. Just as they were about to push off, the crowd along the rail parted for a man in a white dog collar. Father Clarke had arrived.

  “Make way,” cried Father Clarke. When he reached the two boats, he raised his right hand and carved the symbol of the Cross in the hazy summer air. The ruckus at the dockside stilled immediately. Some people knelt. “Bless these boats and the men in them, in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen,” said the priest, and a murmur went through the crowd. The rowers stared at their oars for a moment, and then they pushed off. The crowd was suddenly boisterous again, cheering them on.

  The evening was warm and cloudless. There was no wind. The crews worked their way through the final warm-up, making the lake ripple. Watt watched Torbay row to the start as he gave his final instructions. Then the Blue Peter glided to stake number four over the quiet evening water, moving closer and closer to the thousands watching the two shells.

  Croke glanced covertly at the masses. His family was gathered on the bank outside the penitentiary wall, shoulder to shoulder with the Flannigans, the Burkes, the Coadys, the Cadigans and many others who had come from Logy Bay. It was like a painting, and he was inside it. They all were.

  The captain of the course gave his final instructions. John tried to spot Kate and Tommy on the crowded bank. He was sure he had heard the boy’s voice. Then the starter’s gun went off. All the birds near the water took flight in aimless panic. John’s attention shifted again. Now the boat was his entire world.

  Tommy looked down the pond through a slight gap between the people in front of him. He and Kate had fought their way close to the water, and although the two boats seemed large as life in the first moments of the race, they were small to him now. “Who’s winning, Aunt Kate, who’s winning?” He grabbed at her arm.

  “I think Outer Cove has the lead,” murmured a young gentleman peering through his spyglasses at the perfect catches of the six oars in the Blue Peter. They seemed like one set of blades chopping in and out of the water.

  “You’re wrong, buddy. Neddy Gosse’s crew has the lead,” said a swaying drunk, knocking the glasses from the man’s hands. They fell to his chest dangling by the strap.

  “Woodley’s Gate!” Watt roared. “We’re neck and neck. Every man give me your best work, your best effort. Row the way a good soldier fights.”

  The crew pulled the Blue Peter through the calm lake at such a speed they could feel a draft of humid air whisk past their heads.

  The roar of the crowd at the start of the race had turned into nervous chatter. Kate, Tommy, and Ellen watched as the boats approached the buoys. “Aunt Kate, Aunt Kate—sure, they looks just like them water beetles, don’t they, like the water beetles in the Big River.” Kate laughed and gave Tommy a poke in his ribs.

  “Oh, me poor old heart. I can’t tell who’s first,” said Ellen, her voice quivering. “Come on, boys, come on. Bring her around!”

  The Blue Peter sped along, its wake pushing out toward the Red Cross on the stroke side and the shore on the bow. The seconds moved swiftly as the two crews charged down the pond. Except for his lips, Watt was as still as a wizard in a trance. “Now, men, we need more pressure.” He saw the first signs of pain on their faces, but the boat continued to clip along. They rowed through the third minute.

  Over the heads of the Torbay crew, John saw the tall marsh grass at the mouth of the Virginia River. The Red Cross wasn’t giving an inch. The lead changed only when one crew finished a stroke and the other one began. There was a seesawing of small exchanges, Gosse pushing the six on the north side, Watt pushing back just as hard. The buoys were just seconds away.

  “More legs on the drive, men.” Watt hammered away at his crew with every word he could think of—and some that seemed foreign to him. He knew the depth of their pain.

  Reaching ahead to the catch, as if they were connected by one hinge, the six oars dived into the clear water like gannets. The crew pushed the footboards hard and pulled with their backs, each catch and drive made rhythmically and with full force. The Red Cross slipped slightly behind as the Blue Peter sped down the pond, its seven bodies animated by one soul.

  “We’re gaining. Great work!” Watt yelled. “Time to take the turn.” The boats slowed slightly as they began the 300-foot arc. “Bring her in hard, b’ys.” The Blue Peter cut across the wide arc around the keg. Nugent, Croke, and Dan quickened the stroke in rapid sequence. The stroke-side oars lightly shaved the swirling water, waiting for the call to join in. “Next stroke, Martin, now Denis, now John.” At last, the Blue Peter had gained a slight advantage. “We got them by a quarter length,” muttered Watt, as he eased the tension on the tiller ropes.

  John and Martin were pushing torrents of water toward the stern of the shell. “We have them by three seats, John,” Dan grunted. “The rate is spot on. Don’t change it.” John felt the hull of the shell slip over the dark surface of the lake. Every stroke was perfectly measured rhythm, power, and speed. The five behind him were keeping up.

  “Let’s have our first seven count,” Watt called. “We’ll open up some distance on Neddy’s boys.”

  Their strokes like a flurry of punches from a heavyweight boxer, the crew forced the Blue Peter up to full speed. The wake from its hull streamed out, entering the water around the Red Cross, which was slipping farther behind.

  “Virginia River,” Watt hollered. “We got half a length on ’em. Me back’s snapping against the board. Ye are starting to knock them down, but not enough. On two, let’s push those legs, right from the catch, full pressure for seven.”

  Jack and Martin continued to drive the water off their blades, turning the near-black water into white whirlpools.

  * * * * *

  “Oh, Tommy, i think Outer Cove has the lead. Martin Boland seems closer than Tom Clements,” said Kate, biting a fingernail. “Dear God, come on, John, come on. Row harder, row!”

  “I can’t see!” Tommy wailed.

  “Do you want to see the race? I’ll raise you up, young fella,” said the drunk. He reached for Tommy, but staggered back and fell into the pond. There was a burst of laughter from the crowd.

  “Here,” said the man with the spyglasses. “Take these, and I’ll put you up on my shoulders.”

  “Mary have mercy on us, I believes they are in the lead,” shouted Ellen. “Come on Dan, come on, Din!”

  Mary Nugent wedged herself in next to Ellen and Kate.

  Tommy got down from the man’s shoulders so that he could jump up and down, which he did, over and over. “Uncle John’s going to win! He’s in the lead! Holy jumpin’s!”

  “Woodley’s Gate, men, two minutes to go. We got three quarters of a length. Hold that pressure! Hold it!” Watt yelled.

  The Blue Peter pushed on. John’s stroke was perfect. He felt like a clockwork man, as though someone had wound him up and he had no choice but to row half a second for the sweep, two thirds of a second for the recovery. He counted to himself over and over: one on the drive, one thousand on the recovery.

  “We got open water. We got open water. God bless ye, b’ys,” called Watt. “Less than a minute left. Thirty-five strokes to the finish. On two, John, bring up the rate.”

  John didn’t have to be told to bring up the rate. He knew Watt wanted the crew to row those last seconds as hard and fast as they could. Even now, each blade followed John’s stroke exactly, the crew’s catches slicing the water in quick succession, the shell still perfectly balanced after nine minutes of war.

  The gun fired to mark the end of the race. Outer Cove shot across the finish, the winners. The whole crew collapsed back onto each other with their final stroke. Neddy Gosse yelled and yelled, but his crew could give no more. Torbay, now three lengths back, gave what little they had left in defeat.

  The crowd on the dock wa
s in a frenzy, sensing that the record for time had been broken by the Blue Peter in her maiden championship race.

  “They done it, Aunt Kate!” Tommy suddenly felt the boiled dinner he had consumed heave in his stomach. He pushed through the human barrier in front of him until he was in front of the water. As he bent over, he felt a cool hand pull the hair away from his face.

  The Crokes, Bolands, and Nugents, standing beside the prison wall, watched the fury and speed with which their sons crossed the line. They cheered and hugged each other like excited children. The shallow water along the shoreline at the end of the lake was suddenly filled with dozens of people. Watt’s neighbours, the Malones, Ryans, and Kellys, plus many faces he couldn’t place, were there. Mike Snow, the Rings, and the Mallards jumped into the pond, splashing water over the victors.

  The crew in the Torbay shell were motionless, their heads bowed.

  Watt leaned ahead and grabbed John. “We done it, Whelan! You set the rate, and we done it. God love you, John. God love you.”

  The Blue Peter had come to rest a few feet from the shore. Kate and Ellen were there, waving, smiling, and blowing kisses. Tommy was jumping up and down, yelling, “Uncle John! Uncle John!” John heard him, and waved.

  “Do you think they broke the record?” asked Ellen.

  “I don’t know, my dear,” said Kate. “I’m some glad they won, though. There’d be no living with John if they’d lost. But look, that man is putting a bullhorn up to his mouth.”

  Mare stood on the judge’s platform. He waited for the crowd to calm down before he spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, here are the official results of the championship race.” The crowd grew silent. “In second place, Torbay, in the time of nine minutes and twenty-one seconds.” There was a short burst of applause. “In first place—and the 1901 St. John’s Regatta champions—Outer Cove, who have set a new course record of nine minutes, thirteen and four-fifths of a second.”

  Hats of all kinds flew into the air, and people danced jigs. The crew raised their hands above their heads and then slapped one another on the back. Martin and Jack stood up in the rocking shell, shook hands, and then embraced. Croke looked at the faces staring at him. It was like a dream, but, for the rest of his life, this day on Quidi Vidi would be more real to him than many of his days.