by Bob Chaulk
And then there was all the meat left on the ice, for hardly any of it was saved. Yet there were people at this time of year subsisting on bread, molasses and fat pork, while a few short miles away enough meat to feed a whole community for weeks would be left in a single day of slaughter. He abhorred the waste.
For hours he had been putting off the desire to change his position, but his need to relieve the numbness had become intolerable. He slowly pulled himself into a semi-sitting position and shifted his behind. Bending his good leg he steeled himself, reached forward and slid his broken leg sideways a few inches, causing a shot of pain to go through it as though he had just been gaffed.
“Aaagh!” he yelled in frustration, pounding both fists on the ice on either side and yelling into the darkness. “I’m fed up with this! I’m sick of being treated like a slave. I’m sick of the violence; I’m sick of the killing; I’m sick of the blood and the gore; the stink; the filth; the hauling; the seal finger; the falling into the water; the storms; this slow, damned death out here in the dark, all alone. Poor Darmy. Poor Jack. I shouldn’t have let you go, Jack,” he sobbed. “At least if you had stayed behind we could have died together.”
He stopped. No, that was wrong. Just because he was going to die didn’t mean Jackie would. Jackie had a chance; with luck he could make it.
He took a couple of breaths. “Sorry, Skipper; didn’t mean to make you jump outa your skin there.” Even with the cold he could feel himself sweating. “It’s only a dunched arse, Henry, b’y. You can stick it,” he reassured himself. “At least I warmed myself up a bit with that little fit,” he laughed ruefully in the direction of the pup. “Maybe I can manage with just a few little adjustments,” and he squirmed and moved slightly, careful not to interrupt the position of his injured leg.
Settled back again, he relived the drama of his encounter with the seal. He knew something bad had to happen—those jaws that could catch a darting mackerel would have no problem with a lumbering human being—but he had felt he had no choice. And Jackie had certainly shone in his moment of testing. He swung the gaff handle in the nick of time.
What would Simeon or Uncle Levi or his father have said about his own showing during the past five days? Would they fault him in any way? They would certainly say it was foolhardy to attack the bitch with nothing more than a gaff. In desperation, he had allowed himself to believe it could be done. And of course he had hesitated at that crucial moment when Jackie was in the water. Henry shuddered as he thought about how closely he had come to letting Jackie drown.
Oh, yes, there was much to find fault with. He thought gloomily that he would never have to answer to Simeon or Uncle Levi for his failures. His mother, bless her heart, would say, “But look at all the good things you done for him, Henry, my son. Look at how afraid he was and you were always patient and comforting to him when he was afraid, you provided him with food, and even though you had those awful fears yourself, you still managed to pull him out, and you even gave him your own socks, sure. He’s alive today because of you!”
Would he ever see her again or hear that comforting voice of forgiveness?
He could still visualize Jackie’s poker-faced gaze as he stepped up on the pinnacle and tried to keep the old dog occupied. He admired his confidence in setting out on his own for the long walk to shore, but Henry wondered if his young companion realized what was in store for him? He wondered if Jackie was even alive at this moment. Without a doubt, Henry’s life depended on his success, but even if he succeeded in getting ashore, that survival was not guaranteed. If Jackie looked out to sea from atop a cliff on North Twillingate Island tomorrow, he would have no idea which way to point a rescue party; he would see just water and ice stretching off for hundreds of miles in all directions with not a thing to use as a reference point. How would he ever be able to hit the tiny target that Henry presented? The little stash of blubber he had saved would not make enough smoke to be of consequence.
Time passed. He might have dozed off; he couldn’t be sure. He looked in the direction of the pup but it had gone and he was alone again. There was no breeze; the air was perfectly still. It was almost silent. It felt like it might be getting warm. He wondered if he was experiencing what men experienced when they died in battle. Simeon had told him about a man who died in his arms during a naval encounter speaking in his last minutes about feeling warm, even though it was freezing on the deck of the ship.
During his twenty-three years he had slept many times under the open skies, and often, as now, his mind wandered to the sad story of the last Beothuk Indians who had lived on the same islands now inhabited by his relatives and friends. He had often wondered if any of his ancestors had contributed to their demise. The last one would have been about his age. She officially died of tuberculosis but, lying alone on the ice, he wondered if she might have died from loneliness, in a city of strangers, knowing that she was the last of her people.
Thinking of the young Beothuk woman brought his thoughts, once again, to Emily. His heart had not stopped aching but he had accepted that he was not going to see her again. He would never experience the joy of sharing his life with her; of feeling her warm body next to him, lying naked in the darkness after making love; of raising a family with her. She would have such beautiful children.
No doubt, she would marry the minister. Henry didn’t even know his name; she would become Mrs. something or other.
Henry still loved her, but with a less selfish love now. He had been obsessed with being in her presence, impressing her, possessing her. Now, like the courtly love that medieval knights supposedly held for ladies they would never possess, he loved her from afar, and instead of her giving him happiness he wanted only for her happiness and well-being.
When she wrote that she had some things to sort out, he was puzzled about what they might be. But he had guessed it the moment Simeon told him the minister was at her house that evening. Simeon’s hesitation said it all. The pain he felt on thinking about it now was as real as it had been when he initially heard it, just before the first explosion. In the days after reading the letter he held the hope that she was still winnable; her words did not close the door, but it had been swinging in the wrong direction. Now it was shut.
He removed his bulky woolen mitt and reached into his pocket and brought out the letter. It was all he had from her. He brought it to his blistered lips and kissed it; he smelled the familiar trace of her perfume. In this place of death and desolation he found comfort in that faint hint of her lovely bouquet.
A raindrop plunked on his eyelid, startling him. Another struck his cheek. He held the letter in the palm of his hand and pulled his mitt back on. Pulling Jackie’s coat up over his face, he folded his arms, and closed his eyes as the cold rain fell upon him.
chapter forty-one
Emily and Ada stood silently in the predawn darkness watching as twelve men with two boats slowly worked their way across the ice of Shoal Tickle, the narrow body of water that separates North and South Twillingate islands.
“Oh my goodness, they’re working so hard. Poor Daddy,” said Emily.
In a grim voice, Ada replied, not unkindly, “He’s used to it.”
“I know. He’s worked so hard all his life.”
The dawn was breaking by the time the two groups got their boats past the edge of the solid ice two hundred yards offshore. Soon the oars were out and three men in each punt were working it out among the floes. The helpers slowly returned to shore, turning back often to check on the punts’ progress, watching, as if reluctant to accept that their small contribution to the rescue was over.
There was no wind and it was still above freezing. Melting snow combined with the rainwater to create little rivers that coursed down the hills. Looking up at the familiar paths she had run up and down as a child, Emily said, “Let’s go up the hill, Mama, where we can see better.”
“Okay, my dear. It’s not too slippery, is it?”
“It should be okay. Here, take
my arm.”
On the top of the hill, with their backs to the harbour, Emily and her mother had a clear view of the vast ocean.
“It’s some calm, isn’t it?” said Ada. “Just like oil. It’s not very often you can stand up here like this. I allow there isn’t enough wind to blow out a candle this morning.”
“The last time I was up here was just after school started last fall,” said Emily, remembering that it had been on an evening walk with Henry. “Every time I come up here I’m amazed at how big the ocean is.”
“Big and deadly; I hate it,” said Ada. “Not for a farm would you get me out onto it.”
“I know, Mama.”
“The hours and days I’ve spent worrying about your father and Billy out on that water—and you, too, sometimes,” she said, frowning at her. “It’s a wonder I’m not in the grave myself, from worry.”
“I know, Mama.” Emily’s voice grew desperate. “Oh Mama, how will they ever find them? There’s so much area to cover.”
“There’s going to be lots of boats out looking for them. There’s at least two going from Crow Head and two more from Back Harbour, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a few more get out there,” said Ada. “It would certainly be nice to see a bit of smoke out there somewhere. I imagine they’ll get another fire going today and the searchers will be guided right to them. You got to have hope, my dear.”
“I’m trying, Mama. Last night I was lying in bed trying to fall asleep and I was thinking of the first time I saw Henry, down in Cottle’s Island when they were building the schooner. Daddy asked me if I wanted to go with him and Bill because they would be painting the name on—”
“Oh yes, I remember that day. They already had the name painted on when you got there!”
“That’s right. They did it the day before because it was fine and they didn’t want to wait,” said Emily. “It was so beautiful, with all the fancy scrolling around our names. We were so excited to have our names on a vessel. Henry was way up on the mast helping a man do the rigging. I was so impressed with the way he could climb up and down the cable stays just using his hands.”
“He’s a strong boy, that’s for sure…and very mannerly.”
“He was such a show-off,” she said with an affectionate smile. “He could hang from the crosstree by one hand and tie a knot with the other. I couldn’t look. Mr. Horwood was always telling him to stop taking chances or he would ground him—literally.”
Ada couldn’t resist: “That’s the problem with those young fellows. They think they’re indestructible. It would do them good to have a little more fear.”
“His face was so brown from the sun, and right in the middle were those beautiful blue eyes. I love the way they shine when he smiles.”
The ice floes lay scattered on the black water for as far as they could see. Jim was pointing here and there as he directed his crew. “Isn’t it interesting,” said Emily, “how Daddy changes when he’s in charge of a group of men? He has such authority, compared to when he’s at home.”
“He always says that’s because men are easier to command than women,” Ada said warmly.
“There certainly isn’t another person I would rather see in charge out there today,” said Emily. “There’s nobody who knows these waters the way Daddy does. I was watching him getting ready last evening, how carefully he laid out the chart and drew the bearing that he got from the lighthouse keeper, figuring out the compass deviation and allowing for the tides and finally narrowing down to an area where he thought Henry might be. He has two lines drawn on the chart, one for his boat and one for Harold’s. If I remember correctly, his will be going along the shore for about a quarter of a mile and then he’ll turn and head out.”
Along the shore and on the hills that ringed the harbour, Emily could see people looking out at her father and his little group, and she took courage. These were her people, men and women shaped by the North Atlantic, out in the early morning—some of the men scanning the horizon with binoculars—because somebody was in peril on the sea. They could not read the Bible in Greek—or some of them in English for that matter—but she knew they could teach Basil a few things about faith. She knew they were quietly trusting for the safe return of the castaways.
With the bearing set and the oarsman sculling in the stern, they were finally underway. Jim took a moment to look up and wave to his wife and daughter. Expecting to see Ada waving and Emily perhaps throwing him a kiss, instead he saw Emily running towards him, yelling and waving her arms, as if she intended to hurl herself off the cliff. They could not hear her words but saw that she was pointing out to sea. Ada caught up to her. “They see us, Mama…over there, over there!” Ada joined in, pointing and waving. “One of them is standing up on the seat. Yes, over there, yes! I don’t think they can hear us. That way!”
The boat swung around and the man in the stern sculled frantically through the thick ice; occasionally one or two jumped onto the ice and manhandled the boat along, and once all three of them were out hauling and straining to get the boat over a solid area. The women stood speechless now as the boat arrived alongside a floe and two men got out. They carried something and placed it into the punt and started back to shore.
Ada and Emily watched intently as the boat turned around and headed in. “Can you see who it is, Mama?”
“No, my dear; they’re too far away. But I don’t think it was Henry.”
After helping her mother down the slope, Emily ran to the edge of the shore ice and waited as the punt slowly wound its way in. A feeling of foreboding was upon her. If this was the stowaway, then where was Henry? Had he been drowned? Had he succumbed to the cold?
“Take him home and get him warmed up,” her father said. “He don’t seem to be able to say anything, but he nodded that he was with Henry and that Henry is still alive. We’re headin’ right back out.”
They placed Jackie on a horse-drawn sleigh that had appeared when news of the rescue spread, and took him to Emily’s house.
At that moment Basil had just entered the hospital, to find a group of people gathered at the window. “Hello, Reverend, did you hear the news? They found one of the people off the sealer. They think it’s the young stowaway.”
His feeling of delight surprised Basil. He was pleased—there was no doubt about it—but it was caused by relief that the person rescued was not Henry. He put the thought out of his mind as he headed towards the women’s ward.
“Knock, knock. May I come in?”
“Why Reverend, what a nice surprise,” Gennie stammered, quickly smoothing out her blankets. He noted with satisfaction that her normally pale cheeks turned pink as she looked up.
“Please, call me Basil. Ah, doing some knitting, I see.”
“They’re all trying to teach me but I haven’t got much patience with it. I got to do something, though, to pass away the time in here, so I’m trying to stick with it.”
“Then, perhaps I can help. I brought you some books…”
As Basil chatted with Gennie, Ada and Emily were tending to Jackie. They put dry clothing on him and sat him on the daybed with a mug of hot tea. After a couple of slices of bread with Ada’s partridgeberry jam, some colour started to return to his pallid face and he smiled at the women.
“Can you speak?” Emily finally asked.
“Yes,” he whispered. The two women glanced with relief at one another.
“Are you John Gould?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Is Henry okay?” she asked cautiously.
The thought of Henry in pain out on the ice while he was safely here, in a warm house with a full belly, with two women fussing over him, overwhelmed Jackie and he burst into tears. Fearing the worst, Emily began to cry, too.
“But, John, didn’t you tell my husband that Henry was still alive?” Ada asked.
Wiping his eyes, Jackie replied, “Yes, ma’am. But he’s hurt pretty bad and can’t walk. We got to go back out there and get him before he drives a
way.”
“Yes, we do!” Emily replied firmly. “Can you lead us to him?”
“Emily, dear,” her mother said, “John is in no shape to go anywhere right now; he needs to sleep. Your father will find Henry.”
As if on cue, Jackie’s eyes started to droop. “So colourful…” he said dreamily.
“What’s colourful?”
“Everything,” he said, as his tired eyes drifted around the room.
“…so much ice and black water for so long that I forgot what red and green and yellow stuff looks like.”
His head was nodding and his eyelids were closing. “Lay down, now, my son,” said Ada, as she put a quilt over him and he fell into a deep sleep.
A quiet, akin to gloom, descended on the house as the morning dragged on. As Jackie slept, the two women hardly spoke. Emily sat at the kitchen table, distracted, her mind racing with questions about the extent of Henry’s injuries, glancing over at Jackie every few minutes to see if he had awakened. Ada sat quietly doing what she always did when she needed to calm down—knitting. The cat lay napping behind the stove. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked off the minutes and struck the hours. The fire in the stove burned down.
Nobody noticed when the house did not cool down. The temperature outside had risen dramatically.
With the window at her back, Ada had noticed the room getting dingier, as she strained to see her pattern. When she got up and looked out, she could barely see Simeon’s house next door. “Don’t tell me!” she lamented. “Not fog!”
In an instant Emily was at the window. “They’ll never find him in the fog,” she declared with dismay. “You don’t think they’ll call off the search, do you, Mama?”
