by Bob Chaulk
The
Chain Locker
The
Chain Locker
A Novel by
Bob Chaulk
© 2010, Bob Chaulk
We gratefully acknowledge the financial support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP), and the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador through the Department of Tourism, Culture and Recreation for our publishing program.
All rights reserved. No part of this work covered by the copyrights hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any requests for photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed in writing to the Canadian Reprography Collective, One Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.
Cover design by Maurice Fitzgerald
Layout by Todd Manning
Printed on acid-free paper
Published by
KILLICK PRESS
an imprint of CREATIVE BOOK PUBLISHING
a Transcontinental Inc. associated company
P.O. Box 8660, Stn. A
St. John’s, Newfoundland and Labrador A1B 3T7
Printed in Canada by:
TRANSCONTINENTAL INC.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Chaulk, Robert
The chain locker / Robert Chaulk.
ISBN 978-1-897174-55-5
I. Title.
PS8605.H393C43 2010 C813'.6 C2010-901528-2
Notre Dame Bay
Dedicated to Hiram and Myrtle Chaulk (Perry),
who gave me a childhood filled with stories of
quirky characters they had known.
contents
author’s note
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter nine
chapter ten
chapter eleven
chapter twelve
chapter thirteen
chapter fourteen
chapter fifteen
chapter sixteen
chapter seventeen
chapter eighteen
chapter nineteen
chapter twenty
chapter twenty-one
chapter twenty-two
chapter twenty-three
chapter twenty-four
chapter twenty-five
chapter twenty-six
chapter twenty-seven
chapter twenty-eight
chapter twenty-nine
chapter thirty
chapter thirty-one
chapter thirty-two
chapter thirty-three
chapter thirty-four
chapter thirty-five
chapter thirty-six
chapter thirty-seven
chapter thirty-eight
chapter thirty-nine
chapter forty
chapter forty-one
chapter forty-two
chapter forty-three
chapter forty-four
chapter forty-five
chapter forty-six
chapter forty-seven
epilogue
author’s note
The protests, politics, and negative press surrounding the modern seal hunt have blurred the significance of what sealing has meant historically to the people of Newfoundland. It used to be a huge event, carried out by men of heroic courage, who risked their lives every time they stepped aboard the ships. Their final stories are told too briefly on too many gravestones: “…died in a blizzard at the ice field, April 1st, 1914 Aged 22 years.”
Called the greatest hunt in the world, the magnitude and brutality of the slaughter, and the resilience and resourcefulness of the hunters, astounded the few who witnessed it in its early years. But by 1931, it was a hunt in decline, the seal herds devastated after a century and a half of uncontrolled exploitation, the ships old and barely able to cope with the conditions, yet being driven harder than ever, with more sealers competing for fewer spaces. In 1840, 700,000 seals were taken; by the 1920s the annual average was down to just 145,000.
Though the characters and events in this book are fictional, they take place in the context of the true story of the SS Viking’s final voyage. One of the last of the “wooden walls,” so named because when a man stood on the ice facing her he was staring at a wall of solid hardwood the thickness of which was measured in feet, the Viking was built to take men to the far northern and southern latitudes in pursuit of oil from living creatures.
Like many of her sisters, she was next to impossible to live aboard—greasy, cold and smoky, her bones impregnated with the seal blubber and coal dust from dozens of sealing voyages, so overcrowded that on the outward journey the sealers slept on the coal that filled the ship’s holds. On the return voyage, they considered themselves fortunate if they got to sleep on piles of reeking pelts awash in oil, for that meant it had been a successful trip.
If a ship survived the years of abuse, the owners did not seem to know what to do with her when she got old; they certainly didn’t retire their sealing vessels when they were worn out, but kept them going until the sea finally took them.
In 2002 I interviewed the last survivor of the Viking, about his experience as an eleven-year-old stowaway in 1931. Although this is not his story, he provided many details of life aboard the ship and that conversation was the inspiration for this book.
chapter one
Jackie Gould looked up the gangway of the Eagle. It was narrow and icy, and had no rail to prevent a person from falling into the water below. His gaze moved up to a pair of arms folded across a broad chest and into the intimidating glare of a determined looking sentry, standing with feet splayed across the deck. As their eyes locked briefly, the message from the beefy lookout was unmistakable: “Just you try!”
“You remember when we used to make out that we were at the ice,” Jackie said to his companion, “and would go around the backyard and bat the rocks with the broom?”
“Yeah,” said Hubert, “and the time you pretended that the cat was a whitecoat and tried to whack her one?”
“Mom was some mad. She grabbed the broom from me and nailed me across the arse with it.”
Above the din of shouting men, barking dogs, and blaring horns, Jackie thought he recognized the familiar prattle of Eddie Carnell’s voice. Sure enough, Eddie and his buddies were soon alongside, ignoring Jackie and Hubert with all the effort they could muster. The sentry, evidently feeling a renewed call to duty, puffed his chest as though a hidden hand were pumping air into him from behind.
“Well, we’re not gettin’ past buddy there to get aboard of that one, that’s for damn sure,” Eddie’s raspy voice declared to Bruce Hutchings. “Look at the size of that brute. He’d take the head clear offa ya with one clout.”
“You’re not gettin’ me aboard none of ’em,” another voice announced.
“Aagh, what’s the matter with you, boy? You got no nerve.”
“I have so! I got nerve!” Richard McCarthy shot back. “I got loads o’ nerve. I also got an old man with big boots and he’ll plant one of his number twelves square onto my arse end if I try anything. I got into a row with him last night and he come across the room and grabbed me by the scruff o’ the neck and nearly shook the daylights outa me. Accused me of givin’ him the lip and said if I stowed away on one o’ these vessels I better not come home ’cause he’d boot my arse right up to the back of me head. Jeez!” He shoved his bare, red hands deep i
nto the pockets of his inadequate jacket and gave a miserable little shudder.
“It don’t matter anyway, Dickie,” said Ed soothingly. “This old tub will probably be on the bottom before she gets through the Notch. Let’s go look at the iron ships. Maybe there’s a way onto the Beothic.”
“Anybody got the word on when they’re leaving?” Jackie’s steady voice inquired of the older boys.
Ed, wiry and long-legged, stopped midstride and spun around like a square dancer. “Oh, Gould, I didn’t see ya there. So you’re gonna do it now, are ya?” he sneered as he sauntered back towards Jackie. “Sure, you haven’t got the guts.”
“You don’t think so, eh?” Jackie replied, staring the youth in the face. Eddie might be older but he was no bigger.
“I don’t think so; I know so!” said Ed, removing his hand from his pocket long enough to wave a boney finger in front of Jackie’s nose. “Who do you think you’re goin’ with? You’re not comin’ with us. You’re not old enough to pass for a proper hand.”
“That don’t make no difference to me,” said Jackie. “I got a buddy.”
“Who?” Bruce asked, casting a disdainful look in Hubert’s direction.
Jackie managed an unconvincing smirk. Even Bruce could see that Hubert wasn’t much of a partner.
Mike Grandy came to his defence. “Ed, sure what makes you think you can pull it off any better than Jack here can?” he asked, distracted by a smoldering butt a passerby had flicked to the ground. “Ow, get off me fingers!” His fist pounded an unidentified boot.
Popping the butt between his lips, he sucked furiously to resuscitate it. “He looks as old as you do.” And, nodding at the Eagle, “Jackie, go ahead now and give ‘er a shot. Let’s see what you’re made of.”
“And so I will, too, but I’m not ready yet. I’m gonna make sure I get on a ship just before she’s leaving so I don’t have to wait around and worry about gettin’ caught.”
“Looks like that one got her steam up. What’s wrong with her?” said Mike, his eyes nearly crossed as he coaxed a final puff from the cigarette’s soggy remains. “Go on up and tell buddy there that you’re the skipper and you’re comin’ aboard.” Flicking the butt away, he smirked to Dickie, “Can’t you see old Jack flyin’ through the air and rubbin’ his arse after buddy puts the boots to him?”
They wandered around the docks in the grey, slushy snow, in company with other boys and young men, some of them serious about stowing away and some of them merely dreamers. A blast of sleet blew off the harbour into their faces, and they turned their backs to the water. Despite the weather, they were enjoying the carnival atmosphere on the St. John’s waterfront. Yesterday there had been seven ships getting provisioned and today there were nine. Mike was pleased. If nothing changed he would win the bet they had going and collect a five-cent piece from each of his buddies. But there was still time—barely—for another ship to be hauled across from the south side of the harbour to join the nine, and then Bruce would collect the winnings. The three ships still docked across the harbour were a tired-looking trio, though, so Mike was optimistic.
As the others meandered off, Jackie stared beyond the ships to the Notch, the narrow slot in the cliffs where the harbour met the Atlantic Ocean. He had been alongside ships many times in his life, had uncles and cousins who were sailors, but the only time he had ever floated was on a raft on Mundy Pond. It was a disgrace; he was going to grow up a hangashore like his father. Looking up at the Eagle’s foretopmast, he pictured himself climbing the shrouds and stationing himself in the lookout’s barrel perched far above the deck, yelling orders down to the helmsman and guiding the ship through the ice as the captain nodded his approval and all below stared up in admiration.
“I guess your guts’d be all over the deck if you fell outa there,” said Hubert.
“Eh? What?”
“Where are ya gone to?”
“I’m here, b’y,” said Jackie. “Just thinkin’, that’s all.”
“How are we ever gonna get on board one of those vessels without getting caught?” Hubert groaned. “There’s guys everywhere, sure.”
“We’ll figure it out. This is it, Hube. When them ships cast off we’re gonna be aboard one of them. I’m not sayin’ it’ll be easy, but however hard it is, it’ll still be worth it. No more luggin’ water after school, no more gettin’ yelled at to go fill the coal bucket every time you get sat down. I mean, I’d walk to the Front just to get away from those friggin’ nuns, naggin’ the arse offa ya.”
“Yeah, but we’ll have the Brothers next year,” said Hubert. “We’ll be all set.”
“All set to get the snot beat out of us, you mean. School is still school and it’s not where I want to be. I wanna be free of all that and have a good time.”
“Where do you think you’re going? On an ocean cruise aboard one of the Furness Withy boats? Sitting around on a soft chair while they serve you Gaden’s Lime? You’re talking about the seal hunt, my son.”
“Oh, I know, but you and me can take it, Hube. Just you wait and see. You’re not losin’ your nerve and backin’ out are you?”
“Me? Never!”
“Are you keeping your mouth shut, especially around Barb? You can’t tell a soul, now. Did you tell anybody?”
Hubert cleared his throat. “Ooh, no, cross my heart.”
“All right then.” Jackie stared at him for a moment and then grinned. “We’re gonna be sealers, Hube, ice hunters, with sealskin boots to our knees, out on the whelping ice.”
“Right.”
“Watch it, there!”
A snort in his ear startled Hubert and he skedaddled out of the way.
“He looked like he was gonna nibble the cap off your head,” Jackie mocked. “What did his breath smell like?”
“Oats and hay, I guess,” said Hubert, trying to look nonchalant. “I dunno. What’s their breath supposed to smell like?”
The singsong voice of the teamster guided the two horses as they backed a load of coal up to the Eagle. “Eeeeasy there, Belle; back, Molly, baaaack; that’s the girl; whoo, Molly, whoa, Belle.” Two yapping dogs pestered the horses and the frustrated driver snapped the reins at them, providing a brief moment of entertainment before Jackie and Hubert shuffled off in the direction of the other boys.
chapter two
Ada Osmond walked slowly to her kitchen window, folding her arms under her bosom and peering out as the last stars faded from the morning sky over Twillingate. Her only daughter Emily waved half-heartedly as she walked past the window, her sealskin boots swishing through the two inches of feathery snow that had settled overnight. Her long, heavy dress was covered by a stylish overcoat that she had bought from the Eaton’s catalogue with her first pay-cheque. She reminded Ada of her own grandmother, except she thought Emily was prettier than her grandmother had been—although it was getting more difficult to picture her grandmother’s face. She could certainly do with a little more fat on her frame, Ada reflected, but Emily liked to watch her figure, exactly as Ada’s grandmother had, which was odd for a woman whose pantry was rarely full enough to pose a threat. Her normally cheery daughter seemed heavy-hearted today and Ada’s own protective heart ached for her.
Fifteen minutes later, Emily arrived at the two-room schoolhouse on the edge of town. It was not much to look at, but she had an immense feeling of pride in the place where she had recently started her teaching career. Every morning of her first week, she had gazed with satisfaction at her new workplace, but this morning, as the late winter sun gave notice that it would soon appear, she looked morosely at the heavy ice grinding against the shoreline fifty feet away. Not today, she sighed inwardly. She laid her heavy leather briefcase on top of the bank of dry snow that Susie Potter’s father had shovelled from the steps late last evening, rummaged for the key in her pocket and unlocked the door. Instead of the stifling heat that usually came out of the place at this time of year, it was so cold inside that her breath formed a cloud before her face. War
m from the walk, she removed her coat, carefully folded it twice, and laid it on the highest shelf near her desk, away from the little hands that liked to rub the soft fur around the collar and cuffs. She lit a lamp, placed her briefcase on the desk, and started emptying it in preparation for the arrival of her thirty-nine pupils, the delight of her life. She was grateful to every one of them for making her teaching career as rewarding as she had hoped it would be, and she did not mind being in the oldest and smallest school in town, the proving ground for new teachers. She stood with a sheaf of papers in her hand, her mind drifting back through the weeks and months to the day she had come back home from college in St. John’s. She had been so nervous in the beginning.
Suddenly the door flew open. Emily jumped, as Genevieve Day stamped half a dozen times to beat the snow off her boots. “Jumpin’, dyin’, ’twould freeze the balls off a brass monkey out there. You talk about cold!”
Emily looked up at her friend and colleague, whose pale face had about as much colour as the snow that followed her in. “Good morning to you, too, Gennie. Honestly, I don’t know where you come up with some of those sayings of yours. Do brass monkeys have particularly durable private parts? Then again, being brass I suppose they would.”
“No idea. I heard Grandfather say that so many times it just rubbed off, I guess. He used to say it to get Nan goin’ and then he would look over at us and wink. It has nothing to do with monkeys’ privates, but to tell you the truth I can’t remember what it means. Something to do with cannonballs, I think. He told me once. Speaking of cold, what are you burning in that stove? Rocks?”
“Oh, my goodness, I forgot to light the stove!” Emily ran over and stuffed in some kindling. “My mind was completely taken up with something else.”
“Thinking about Lover Boy?”
“Oh, Gennie, don’t even joke about it. If those two don’t leave soon, I think I’ll lose my mind. I can’t stay in the house over the weekend with him there.”
