Chain Locker

by Bob Chaulk

  “Reverend Hudson is here to see you, Emily,” her mother announced.

  “Good evening, Emily,” said Basil, in a professional but friendly voice.

  “Hello, Basil,” Emily replied, getting up from the table and giving a polite smile.

  There was an awkward silence as the three stood looking at one another. Across the room, Emily’s father was standing with the newspaper in his hand, waiting to be acknowledged.

  “I’ve come to pray with you, Emily, for the safe return of your friend,” Basil said smoothly. Then, noticing Emily’s father, he added, “Good evening Mr. Osmond.”

  “Good evening, Reverend,” Jim answered. With that out of the way, he sat back down and returned to his paper.

  “Perhaps you might want to sit in the parlour,” Emily’s mother suggested. “Sadie and Olive was over today and we had a cup of tea in there, so it should still be warm.” Emily shot her an accusing glance—Sadie and Olive did not rate a fire in the parlour on a weekday—and headed down the cold hall with Basil in tow. The parlour was indeed warm, thanks to a fire roaring in the stove. They sat across from one another. Emily waited for Basil to speak.

  He wore an expression of concerned confidence, as he set out to convince Emily that it was time to move on. Inside he was less sure of himself. “You look tired, Emily,” he said gently. “I know you must be worried about your friend. The strain is hard to bear when there is such uncertainty, not knowing if a person is alive or…that is, I want you to know that I am here to support you in this time of trial. If there is anything I can do, you know you need only ask.”

  “Thank you, Basil. I appreciate that.”

  “What is your friend’s name?”

  “His name is Henry and, Basil, he’s more than a friend; he’s…”

  “No,” he interrupted quietly. “No, Emily; you don’t need to tell me anything more. I know that this person was…is important to you and is in danger and that you are concerned for his safety.”

  “Yes, I am concerned for his safety,” Emily replied, looking down at her hands in her lap. “I wish I knew something, anything. It’s the not knowing that’s so hard.” She kept her head down and twisted her college ring around her finger. It appeared that she might be crying. Seeing her grief, Basil resented Henry, jealous that Emily seemed to have stronger feelings for Henry than for him.

  “I understand that there’s a young man or even a boy with him, and that they were last seen on a piece of ice drifting away. Do I have that right?”

  “I suppose that’s right,” she replied. “We don’t know very much other than what Simeon’s message said. We think there is a young man named John Gould with him. He’s on the missing list as a stowaway.”

  “Dear me, his parents must be worried. A stowaway. My, my.”

  “Yes.”

  After a moment Basil asked, “Would you like me to pray?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Emily had attended church all her life. She had a simple faith in a personal God and believed that it was important to pray in times of difficulty. She closed her eyes and listened as Basil prayed with heartfelt sincerity, with references to God’s goodness, His love and, above all, His power over nature and His ability to save Henry if He so chose. Her thoughts drifted to Henry’s open, friendly face. She could see him laughing and making her laugh; rowing the little rodney as she sat in the stern on a warm and calm summer’s day; berry picking last fall, the bushes blue with berries; pointing up at the constellations in the midnight sky and explaining how to navigate by the stars and impressing her with his vast capacity to remember details; skating on the harbour at Christmas; and, of course, his simple declaration of love to her. When Basil finished with “Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen,” she kept her head down, not wanting Basil to see the tears on her cheeks.

  “Emily dearest…” said Basil, with genuine concern in his voice as he put his arm around her.

  She gently pushed him away. “I would like to be alone now, Basil. Thank you for coming.”

  Basil rose reluctantly and went to the kitchen, where he spent a few minutes with Emily’s parents and then went on his way.

  On the walk home his mind was racing. What he had come to suspect had just been confirmed—he indeed had a rival and Emily had wanted to come clean. He had decided beforehand that there was nothing to be gained from knowing any of the details about Henry and his relationship with her. He had never seen him and never would because he was probably already dead or close to it. Better to achieve some goodwill by sparing her having to tell him the whole story.

  He had struggled to maintain his composure after seeing the woman he loved distraught over another man. He could reasonably accuse Emily of being less than forthcoming—maybe even devious—for not telling him about Henry before. She, no doubt, having seen little of the world, had settled for this relationship with one of the locals, and when he had come into her life with so much more to offer her, she had been attracted to him. It was to be expected from a woman of her calibre. She was struggling with the situation he had put her in. She would need time.

  No doubt she was feeling a certain loyalty to the poor fellow, especially now that his life was in danger—as she saw it—but Basil had convinced himself that Henry would not be coming back. Nobody could survive out there on the ice; he marvelled that people survived as long as they did here on the land! There was nothing he could do to improve Henry’s situation, even if he wanted to, so he need not feel guilty about not wanting to. He would patiently wait until events played themselves out and Emily had come to terms with Henry’s death. He would help her put this short and painful episode behind her. He just had to make sure he did not let his own emotions lead him into saying something he would regret. It would be difficult, as it had been this evening, but he certainly had the advantage over his competitor. It was just a matter of time and patience.

  In time, Basil would take her as his bride to England, where she would live a far better life with him than she could have in this dreadful place, with the houses built on solid rock, practically no soil, a few stunted trees, and this ghastly winter. A life of toil in this place would lead her beauty to soon fade and she would grow old before her time. She would be much better off with him in England.

  Emily, meanwhile, lay in her bed, staring up at the ceiling. It was past midnight on the fifth night since the ship had been destroyed. She had had little sleep. The magnitude of the rescue effort was now well-known, not only in Newfoundland, but throughout North America. The story had even caught the attention of the United States media because of the three Americans aboard, one of whom, Varick Frissell, had already achieved a degree of fame because of his adventure films.

  There had not been a single encouraging word about Henry, not one tiny snippet on which she could place some hope. For a minute before she opened the letter, she allowed herself to believe that Henry had written it from St. John’s and that he was alive and well. But the story he related in the letter and his subsequent suffering had compounded her despondency. He needed her. She felt utterly helpless.

  The official reports said he was missing. If Simeon had any further news he would surely have sent another message. She thought about Henry’s parents. They too would only have the news that had come through Twillingate. She decided to go to Cottle’s Island to see them on Saturday if she could convince her father to take her on the horse and sleigh. It would be a welcome diversion for her and she was sure they would appreciate a visit.

  Basil had been very honourable this evening, she thought, closing her eyes. Not as overbearing as he had been recently. She was glad he had stopped her from telling him about Henry, even though he had a right to know. Her emotions were too close to the surface to have gotten through it. Basil was a complex individual. With his good looks, eloquence and intelligence, he could have distinguished himself in any number of professions. She wondered what had drawn him to the ministry, less a profession than a calling, supposedly for the humb
le and for those at least aspiring to serve. Basil had demonstrated no such aspirations from what she had observed. And why had he come to Twillingate, only to want to leave again so soon? She could understand his not liking the place, having no connection of any kind, but he should have checked it out before he came. That got her thinking about England, the faraway Mother country that she had been taught to honour and respect. To be patriotic here was to love not only Newfoundland, but also England and all things English; she had been singing “God Save the King” at public gatherings since she was old enough to talk.

  Going to England was not one of the options she had considered when she thought about leaving Twillingate. She had always thought of Canada or the United States. What would life be like as a minister’s wife in England, she wondered? No doubt a talented preacher like Basil would eventually have a large church in a sizeable community. She would have a high profile, in charge of women’s ministries perhaps, chairing committees and organizing parish events. That held a certain appeal, and a vicar ran little risk of drowning at sea. There might even be a household servant or two to attend to her. She was not sure how she would feel about that.

  “Good Lord!” she said aloud as her eyes popped open. “What am I doing, thinking about life with a man I don’t even love? Henry, darling, where are you? Are you already in heaven or are you living through hell out there somewhere? If only there were some news; if only there were something I could do for you; if only I could tell you how sorry I am...”

  chapter thirty-seven

  Henry and Jackie stood as the darkness descended, watching the same light they had seen last night. Tonight it seemed more consistent, and Henry was sure it was the Cape John light. As he stared up at the sky, trying to find a clear patch in the clouds with enough stars so he could perhaps figure out if they were north of the light or east of it, Jackie yelled, “Hey, there’s another light!”

  “What?” said Henry. “Where?”

  “Back there.”

  Henry turned and waited for the light to come round. He looked back and forth between the two lights. “You know something, Brud? That can only be one light.”

  “What one?”

  “Twillingate. That’s the Long Point light and we’re after drifting in the bay. My guess is that we’re about fifteen miles nor’west of Twillingate. You need to get down on your knees and pray to Mary and all the saints that we’ll get a northwest wind to drive us in there, because fifteen miles is still a long ways to go with no sails and no engine. I’m going to keep an eye on those lights and see if I can figure out our position. You get some sleep if you want.”

  Oh, how I wish this damned piece of ice had a keel, Henry thought halfway through the night, frustrated that it did not track in any predictable direction, but spun slowly at the whim of the wind and tide. By finding two pinnacles that he could line up with the light the way he would line up the sights on a rifle with a target, he had observed that sometimes the light was to the left of where he was aiming and at other times it was to the right, which told him that their floe spun clockwise sometimes and counterclockwise at other times. That didn’t surprise him but it made his task almost impossible. He spent the rest of the night in a fruitless effort to determine where they were. By dawn he was mentally and physically exhausted, but all his effort was of no consequence anyway.

  “Jack,” he said in a soft voice. It was almost light.

  “Yeah?”

  “Take a look.”

  “Smoke!” Jackie yelled as he looked around. “And there’s more over there.”

  “Looks like the good people of North Twillingate Island got their tea on for breakfast,” said Henry, with a big grin. “You must have said your prayers last night because we got a nice breeze o’ wind straight outa the north.” Seeing land for the first time since they had drifted away from the burning Viking had them whooping for joy and hugging one another.

  “I can’t see any houses, though.”

  “Don’t you worry; there’s houses there. There are half a dozen or more settlements in that direction.”

  “How long before somebody comes to get us?”

  “Not much chance of that. If we can’t see their houses, they certainly can’t see us. But we moved in the right direction during the night, because what I’m calling the Long Point light kept getting brighter, and just before daylight I lost sight of what I’m pretty sure now is the Cape John light. And with the sun starting to come up over there where we’re seeing the smoke, then that’s Twillingate; guaranteed.”

  “Oh man, I can’t believe it.”

  “And you know, Jack, even if we drift past Twillingate and farther in the bay, we would still be in line with New World Island; that’s where I’m from. We could hit Moreton’s Harbour or Tizzard’s Harbour. And if we drifted to the southeast we could hit Black Island or even Exploits. But the bay is froze up at some point, so if we continue the way we been moving we’ll probably hit the edge of that first and then we can walk ashore over solid ice. We could be on land by nightfall. Boy, we got ’er knocked!”

  As Jackie and Henry rejoiced in their good prospects, Agnes Tizzard was looking in on her mother-in-law, who was not feeling a hundred percent. “How are you, Freda?”

  “I’m not doin’ very good, maid. I suppose I looks like a streel, do I? I ain’t done a tap of work since I crawled outa bed. I feels like takin’ me bit o’ guts out and givin’ them a good scrubbin’ with lye soap and then hangin’ them out on the line to air them out a bit. Lord knows they needs it with some of the smells I been puttin’ out this mornin’.”

  “Have you took any medicine? You got some Radway’s Ready Relief around here somewhere, haven’t you?”

  “No. I had a couple o’ spoonfuls of Dr. Chase’s Nerve Food but it never done me no good. Some people swears by it but it never helps me.”

  “If complaining could make you better, you’d be able to leap across the tickle,” Agnes muttered.

  “Yes, and the longer I complains the better I feels, too. A couple o’ good days of complainin’ usually fixes me right up,” Elfreda replied.

  “Uh-huh,” said Agnes, rolling her eyes. “And I suppose the passage of time got nothing to do with it?”

  “I suppose if I took enough medicine to get me drunk I’d be feelin’ no pain, eh?”

  “Get drunk on Dr. Chase’s? Stop gettin’ on with your foolishness; you can’t do that.”

  “Sure, one time you could get drunk on any kind of medicine if you drank enough of it,” said Elfreda. “Herb Shears used to have cases of Dr. Baird’s Blood Purifier come on the coastal boat. Every time he got a batch, he would sneak down to his stage on Saturday evening and get hisself loaded—maggoty drunk he would be. Fronie would have to go down and drag him up for supper. He purified his blood all right!” she cackled, her thin lips parting to reveal three lonely teeth sticking up like tombstones. “Course he would never let rum touch his lips, being a good Salvation Army man. Oh, no. And then the next morning there he would be in barracks, sittin’ there right proper, just like he was better than the rest of us for showin’ up to church. Fronie was always scared to death that people would find out but everybody knew, sure.”

  “She shoulda known better,” said Agnes. “You can’t hide nothin’ from people around here. By the way, did you hear that they seen smoke out on the ice yesterday?”

  “Who seen smoke?”

  “Out to the lighthouse somebody seen it—the keeper, I suppose, or the keeper’s helper.”

  “You don’t say? Is they goin’ to send somebody out to see what it was? It might be somebody off that sealin’ vessel.”

  “Ri says the ice is too slack to walk on and too tight to get a boat through, so they can’t hardly do anything. I believe they’re hopin’ this northerly wind might jam the ice in some so they can get out onto it and see who it is.”

  “I wonder if ’tis the teacher’s boyfriend,” Elfreda said with a smirk.

  “If it is and he’s all ri
ght, then she’ll have to make up her mind on which boyfriend she wants,” said Agnes. “I don’t know what either one of them sees in ’er, meself. I finds her to be wonderful poor. Ri says there’s more meat on a fishhook.”

  “Dat Uriah shouldn’t be sizin’ up any woman ’cept you. Regardless, ’twould be nice if ’twas Henry an’ he was alive, the poor soul. My blessed—what is it—five nights out on the ice? Sure, that would have you drove, wouldn’t it? An’ havin’ a young b’y to take care of on top o’ that.”

  “Ri figures they got at least another night out there, if it is them. He says by the time the ice tightens up today ’twill be too late to go lookin’. And, of course, if they can’t spot anything from the lighthouse today, then it’s hardly worth sending a search party ’cause they won’t know what direction to go in.”

  “Tis a desperate situation, girl. Heaven help them, I sez.”

  Henry climbed down from atop a pinnacle as Jackie read his thoughts. “No?” he asked.

  Henry shook his head. “It’s a good ten miles and I can’t see any way for us to get ashore in these conditions. We’re on the biggest piece of ice around, and if we leave it and get stuck on a smaller one we could be in real trouble.”

  “Ain’t we been in real trouble for the last five or six days?”

  “No point in pushin’ our luck and makin’ it worse.”

  “You’re the boss,” he grumbled.

  “We’re still alive, Jack, because we been lucky and we haven’t done anything stupid so far. We have to be patient for a while longer. If the wind holds we should keep drifting in the bay and we’ll eventually bring up on something.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “What we really need is a few seals so we can send a good, clear signal ashore. I’d be surprised if anybody saw that little one yesterday. Even if you see a seal on another piece of ice, let me know. I’ll figure out a way to get the son-of-a-gun.”

  They stood together as they had done so many times, looking—for a seal, a boat, a way ashore, something. “Seeing the loose ice like this reminds me of a story my cousin Cyril Horwood told me one time—”