Chain Locker

by Bob Chaulk

  “Well, there’s more sensible ways for him to have fun than running off and drowning himself. I’m going to end up just like Mom, at home worried to death.”

  “Did your father or your brothers drown?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “There you go, then. She worried for nothing. Go to sleep.”

  “Don’t you talk to me like that! I’m not going to sleep. Why don’t you take some interest in raising him? I’ve tried to convince him to stay in school but all he talks about is becoming a sailor. He’s not old enough to make those kinds of decisions for himself. A good trimmin’ is what he needs, to knock some sense into him. Did you hear the way he talked to me at the supper table this evening?”

  “He’s getting bigger now,” said Tom. “He just wants to speak his mind.”

  “Well, he can speak his mind without being saucy. You’re gonna have to deal with him; I can’t handle him anymore.”

  “Right. Good night.”

  Across the hall, Jackie could make out snippets of the muffled conversation. By this time tomorrow, he would have listened to her nagging voice for the last time. He couldn’t wait.

  He sprang out of bed in the morning and glanced out the window to check the weather for his big day. It was dreary and gray—pretty normal—but nothing that would delay the departure of the fleet. Finding it hard to hide his excitement, he went through the Monday morning routine—breakfast, chores, preparing for school—in his normal, uncommunicative way, trying not to attract attention.

  He packed on all the warm clothes he could find, most of it purchased from the War Surplus store: long underwear beneath his khaki woolen pants, with puttees around the legs. He pulled a sweater over two heavy shirts and reached for the long army coat that made him look like a slightly undersized soldier ready for the trenches. His two sisters were upstairs in the middle of a squabble that was consuming his mother’s attention. He quietly dumped the books from his leather schoolbag behind the woodbin, filled the bag with bread from the pantry, and slipped out the door.

  Wet snow had fallen overnight, and now there was a light rain sprinkling, making the roads and pathways greasy. As he half-walked and half-slid his way down the hill to the harbour, he could see the black smoke rising from the coal-burning ships working up steam in preparation for getting underway. Perfect, he thought. There would be a minimum of waiting time and less chance to get discovered.

  Sealers from dozens of outport villages swarmed the city and the docks, some knowing and others hoping there would be a place for them on one of the nine steamships fitting out for this year’s hunt, most of them vessels that were household names in Newfoundland. With so many sealers and so few ships, competition to get a spot was intense, often leading men as well as boys to stow away. Lookouts were everywhere.

  As he stood on Harvey and Co.’s wharf, where he was supposed to meet Hubert Kelloway, Jackie caught a glimpse of Eddie Carnell and Michael Grandy weaving among the bystanders. Richard McCarthy had made it clear that he would not be going. The consequences of disobeying his father were too much for poor Dickie to abide, having suffered under his father’s harsh discipline for all of his short life. Jackie could not remember ever being struck by his father, and he knew nothing of the fear that his friends had for theirs. Maybe he would finally get his first ass-kicking when he returned. He would worry about that when the day came round.

  He spied the governor, surrounded by crowds of people waiting for his annual speech wishing the fleet safety and prosperity. Jackie looked around for the Archbishop, who usually showed up as well. Yes, there he was. Today was definitely the day; the Archbishop himself had given it divine sanction. He tried to keep his eyes on Eddie and Mike to see which ship they boarded. They had said they were going to try for one of the newer steel ships, which carried bigger sealing crews, among whom it would be easier to blend.

  Jackie soon lost sight of the older lads. Time passed. No Hubert. Either he had lost his nerve or his father had caught him. Off to Jackie’s left was a wooden, three-masted steamer, belching black smoke from her tall stack. He had seen her coming through the Narrows many times after a successful hunt, majestic with her sails set. He sauntered over.

  “Get outa the way!” a rude voice barked from behind, and three men marched up the gangway.

  “Is that the powder?” the gatekeeper asked. “Take it back aft. The bosun will tell you where it goes…hey, wait a minute.” The sentry ran to catch up with them. “You got a leak in one of them cans.”

  Jackie glanced around. This was the appointed ship and now was the time. With the sentry occupied, he straightened himself up, took on the air of one accustomed to the sea, and marched nonchalantly up the narrow gangway and onto the Viking, trying his best not to look hasty. For the first time in his life, he found himself on the deck of a ship—and a sealing ship at that! There was a steady clamour around him as men loaded the last of the provisions and others shouted and waved to friends or relatives on shore. So far, nobody had noticed him, but where could he hide without detection for a day or two?

  Being on the ship when she left was no guarantee that he would be on her for the whole voyage. He had heard lots of stories about sealing craft turning back to rid themselves of stowaways. Even after they left St. John’s, they still had to sail along the eastern shore of the island, and as they headed north they would pass numerous communities where the ship could put in to shed the unwelcome addition to her company.

  He glanced astern towards the cabin: not a good choice. He wasn’t important enough to be in there so somebody was bound to ask him his business. Up towards the bow was the forecastle, where the crew was quartered. Not there either. It would be obvious that he was not a member of the crew. Farther towards the bow was an area where there seemed to be nobody. He walked forward towards a big set of gear wheels and spools—the windlass, he assumed, used to raise and lower the anchors. His eye followed the chains that emerged from the two hawsepipes where the anchors were suspended above the water, then along the deck and past the windlass until each chain dropped into a hole and disappeared down into the ship’s hull. He casually walked over and glanced down into one of them but could see only darkness.

  Near one hole was a small hatch. Not daring to look around, he calmly raised it. There was a ladder inside. He stepped on the first rung and descended to his armpits, then grasped the cover and pulled it down.

  chapter ten

  Inside it was still and dank like their cellar at home, but much colder. He could not see the bottom of the ladder in the dingy light. Gingerly, he felt his way down, and as his eyes adjusted he could discern great piles of something below. Two cone-shaped beams of faint light descended from the holes in the deck above, and a chain hung silently down the middle of each cone. Man, I bet your tongue would stick to that, he thought, looking at the layer of hoar frost on each chain. He got to the bottom and found himself surrounded by mountains of hairy, smelly rope as big around as his leg.

  This must be the chain locker, he thought as he pushed against one of the unyielding chains. Those must be connected to the anchors. This is perfect. They’ll never look for me down here. Glancing around for a place to sit, he realized that if the anchors went out, those giant ropes screaming their way up through the ceiling would give him a horrible thrashing. He made a mental note to stay clear of them. Perhaps this wasn’t such a great spot after all, he mused. Maybe I could jump on the ladder—or maybe I should just get the hell out of here altogether.

  But, he reconsidered, I guess there’s no reason for the anchors to go out while the ship is tied at the dock, and we should soon be on the move.

  He decided to stay where he was. He could hear next to nothing, so he settled away and waited for the ship to depart, getting colder as each hour of inactivity dragged by.

  The muffled sounds of the speeches had ceased long ago, and the Archbishop had probably pronounced his blessing and gone home. He was annoyed at himself for feeling lonely—and wh
ile they were still tied at the wharf! The long hours would be easier to bear if Hubert were here. What had become of him? he wondered. But feelings of loneliness were soon interrupted by yelling from above; it sounded like the lines were being cast off from the dock. All went quiet for a while and suddenly the ship started to shudder. At first he was not sure if this was good or bad but finally… movement! There was scraping and crunching from below and the occasional thump against the hull. Must be the ice, he thought, as the ungainly ship laboured to get out into the stream and join the lineup of ships headed out the harbour.

  He could sense the feeling of excitement that he had often heard Nimshi Crowe talk about in his father’s store: “As soon as the first pound of steam gets shot into the engine there’s only one thing on everybody’s mind, from the skipper right down to the galley-bitch: get ahead of everybody else. I don’t know how many times ships have runned into one another trying to be first through the Narrows and out of the harbour and, you know Tom, only one ship can get through at a time, but they used to take some awful chances, sir. You remember when the Bonaventure ran into the ass end of the first Beothic out here in the harbour?”

  “I think so,” Tom had replied, only half listening as he tried to take inventory.

  “Eighteen year ago, in 1913. I was aboard the Bonaventure. The ships was all lined up and heading for the Notch when all of a sudden the Beothic slowed down. We hit her some hard, ooh yes; we were too close to her, see, the old man all in a scravel to get goin’! If there had been anybody in the bow they would have been killed for sure. The poor old Beothic had to go back for repairs and missed the hunt. Some of those skippers serve their ships somethin’ barbarous and they don’t treat their men much better. They just got to be the first ones to the Front and then they’ll do anything to be the first one back with a full load. They say they don’t steal one another’s pelts but I’ve seen it happen. You pan a few hundred sculps and leave them out on the ice with nothing but the ship’s flag to keep watch over them; my sonny boy, that’s too much temptation for some fellers.”

  Jackie wished he could be on deck as the Viking took her place in the line of ships sailing towards the Narrows and on out the harbour. He had often stood on the top of Signal Hill, barely able to keep his balance against the winds screaming in from the Atlantic, high above what looked to him like toy ships coming and going through the Narrows. He used to imagine Paul Bunyan with his hunting knife cutting a thin slice through the cliffs as if they were a giant cheese, to let the waters of the Atlantic run into the bowl that was the harbour, the high cliffs on both sides making the way in and out precise and dangerous. So many times he had yearned to make the trip himself, and now that it was finally happening he was stuck in this dark prison, missing the whole show. Thinking about Nimshi Crowe’s story, he shuddered with the realization that if the Viking struck the stern of the ship in front of her, it might be the end of him.

  The blare of a loud horn made him jump. That must be the foghorn at Fort Amherst, he realized; we’re in the Narrows! A sharp turn to the left should soon indicate they were outside the harbour and bearing north towards Baccalieu Island. After what seemed like forever it finally came, along with a slow, constant roll of the ship. Jackie was officially off the island of Newfoundland for the first time in his life and aching to have a look back at his homeland and up at those brooding cliffs outside St. John’s harbour that he had climbed so many times.

  Cramped down among the coils of rope and chain, in a place not meant for any living being, Jackie soon became uncomfortably aware that the ship was no longer in the peaceful harbour. As she rose to meet the big waves rolling under her, he experienced more movement than if he had been anywhere else on the vessel, with the possible exception of the lookout’s barrel on the mainmast. Before long, the motion progressed from a gentle roll to a steady, monotonous pounding, as the bow climbed over each comber and crashed down into the trough and then rose again to meet the next one. A seat of chain and hard, damp rope did nothing to cushion the blows, and each time she came down, the impact reverberated through his body. As the hours passed, his head ached and he felt the occasional pain shoot up through his spine to the back of his neck.

  He thought about Dickie McCarthy and his ass-kicking father; there was no boot big enough to deliver the ass-kicking he was getting now. He felt like he was making up for all the times he had deserved one but had been spared. He kept shifting his position to spread the impact over his rear end, but he was quickly running out of unbruised spots.

  He wished he could see the water so he could prepare for the onslaught of each wave. Instead, he got caught unawares by each wall of water that, rather than rolling underneath, slammed into the right side of the ship’s bow, causing her to corkscrew and making Jackie’s head wobble violently as though it was on the spring neck of a toy clown. A couple of times his head banged against a timber, and though his woolen cap had prevented him from cracking his skull, it did nothing to help his headache. The effort of protecting himself from injury had initially warmed him up, but as the hours ground by he was getting cold again and more tired than he had ever been. To make matters worse, water had begun to run down through the two holes in the ceiling—not enough to put the ship in danger but certainly enough to make him wet, and that was the last thing he needed.

  For the first time since he had slipped out the back door of his home, his thoughts drifted to his family.

  chapter eleven

  Jackie’s family was certainly thinking about him. He was sometimes late for a meal but rarely ever absent for the whole event. Before dessert made it to the table his sisters proclaimed him guilty, their case based entirely on the fact that they were having raisin pie and he never, ever missed raisin pie. But if sisters are the accusers of wayward youth, then mothers are their loyal defenders. “Sure, you all heard him promise that he wouldn’t stow away. He’s just off somewhere with the boys and he’s lost track of time; that’s all.”

  “Yes, but he’s been just dying to get out there and kill something, Mom,” said Alice. “Don’t you remember when him and Hubert made after poor Muffin with the broom?”

  “Oh, he was just playing. He wasn’t going to hurt her.”

  But as the evening wore on a great feeling of dread overtook her. Sending Alice up the road, Jackie’s mother went in the other direction to check with his friends, starting with Hubert, who clammed up like a prisoner left behind after the big breakout. There was still time to find him and have him put ashore, so Hubert said as little as he could get away with. He owed it to Jackie for telling Barb their plans. The others owed Jackie nothing: “Oh, for sure. He’s been talkin’ about it for weeks.”

  So, he stowed away on a sealing ship after all—the barefaced little liar! First thing the next morning she checked with Harvey’s and Bowring’s and Job Brothers to see if any of the ships had sent word of a stowaway.

  “If he’s aboard a sealing vessel I don’t suppose you’ll hear for a few days,” the man at Harvey’s cautioned her. “They won’t put him ashore if they’re past Cape St. Francis, and with this bad weather I imagine they’re too busy anyway. If there’s no wireless in a day or two, then he’s probably somewhere else.”

  “They won’t put him ashore?” she gasped. “What will happen to him?”

  “He’ll probably be aboard until the trip is finished. They’ll put him to work doing something to earn his keep.”

  “How long will that be?”

  “I wouldn’t think it would be much more than a month,” he assured her. “It depends on how long it takes them to get a load.”

  “A month! How will he manage? Sure, he didn’t take his toothbrush or any clean underwear.”

  The man gave her a kindly smile and shrugged.

  She reported him missing to the police and endured three long days of waiting before Bowring’s delivered the news that he had been found on the Viking. Her relief barely outweighed her anger. The nerve! He had lied so smoothly, tellin
g her he had no intention of running away, and he with the plans already in his head. It was more than a fib and he knew it!

  For the longest time Jackie tried simply to hang on in the hope that the weather would settle down, but the old ship that had survived so many battles with the northern ocean was now into one that seemed determined to avenge all the times she had emerged victorious. He had no idea how long they had been at sea; the scant light coming through the two holes had disappeared and eventually returned. That was hours ago, and he was emotionally and physically exhausted.

  If I have to take much more of this, he thought, I’ll be beat to a pulp. If the captain wants to go ashore and boot me off, then I don’t give a shit anymore. At least I proved to Eddie Carnell that I could do it.

  An hour later he was considering the unthinkable: showing himself. Doubtless, the captain would throw him off at the next opportunity, but it was that or risk being beaten to death in the chain locker.

  Struggling to his feet, hanging on to whatever he could find to keep from being pitched headlong, he made his way up the companionway and eased the hatch open a couple of inches. The scene he beheld through the thin slit stunned him. Torrents of dark water sloshed around the deck, crashing onto fixtures like rapids over rocks. The ship was being overwhelmed. There was no sign of the deckhouse and there was not a soul to be seen. The ghastly thought crossed his mind that everybody had been washed overboard, and he was left alone on the ship. Had the Viking ever had to cope with the likes of this? Surely not.

  But in that dire moment she rose like an angry beast turning on her tormentors, hurling the water from her decks like a bear flinging away a pack of wolves. She was fighting back and even though a wave slammed the cover down on his head, Jackie was buoyed by the knowledge that she was prevailing.

  Stealing another peek, he saw men. And they were swinging axes. At first Jackie feared they were chopping up the ship to end their misery. But no, they were knocking ice off the rigging and the deck. And there was somebody at the big wheel in the stern; two men, in fact. He was feeling better by the minute. Nimshi Crowe had told him stories about lashing the helmsman to the wheel to keep him from being swept overboard. There might be hope, after all. Raising the cover higher for a better look, he thought he saw somebody up in the crow’s nest, a lookout for icebergs, no doubt. Oh man, that poor bugger must be gettin’ the guts shook out of him, he thought, as the rolling ship sent the mast slicing through the air like a conductor’s baton.