Chain Locker

by Bob Chaulk

  Jackie glanced towards Wints, who was standing with the rifle to his shoulder as a big paw emerged from the water and slapped down on the ice. For a second Jackie felt like he was Henry watching Simeon as the bear came aboard Uncle Levi’s schooner. With a gruesome fascination he waited for the satisfying moment when the bear’s head would be blown off.

  Wints fired again but, instead of the dramatic death Jackie had expected, with Henry finally finding release from his nightmares, he saw the huge bear, out of the water now, pawing the ice and eyeing Wints. “Shoot it! Kill it!” he screamed, venting all his guilt and frustration and anger upon the bear. There was something perverse about Wints’s hesitation to take its life while it wanted theirs so badly. He wanted to grab the gun and blow the bear’s head off himself, to avenge Henry at least for the dream.

  They managed to get Henry into the punt and laid him on the floor with his head cradled in Emily’s lap. “Is everybody aboard back there?” Wints yelled.

  “Yes. Come on.”

  He fired another couple of rounds while slowly backing away from the glowering bear.

  “That your Springfield rifle he’s usin’, Jim?” said Ches.

  “Yep.”

  “Five shot magazine, right?”

  “I know. One left.”

  “Well, ain’t it time he shot the son-of-a-bitch and got it over with?”

  Wints continued backing towards the boat until there was a clear path between the bear and the seal. The beast stampeded past him and attacked the carcass, glaring sideways at Wints with a low growl.

  “Man, look at the size of that thing,” one of Ches’s sons marvelled, as he started rowing.

  “That’s one fine fur, and I imagine he got a nice bit of fat onto ’n too,” said Ches. “I don’t know about that Wints, though. He don’t want for nerve, the way he stood his ground there, but why he wouldn’t shoot the friggin’ thing is a mystery to me. He could’ve ended up with a nice coat like his father got.”

  “Yeah,” said the other son. “They say that since he got shot himself he won’t shoot nothin’. Even quit huntin’. But we wouldn’t have had time to skin him anyways. P’raps we should come back out and see if we can find ’im again.”

  Emily had her mitts off and was stroking Henry’s cold face and talking quietly to him as they pulled away. “I can feel his pulse! He is alive; I knew it!” Emily yelled. “Oh, please hurry. We’ve got to get him to the hospital; his pulse is really faint. He’s so cold.”

  “See if you can get his jacket off,” said Jim, “and pile the blankets onto him. Jack, you crawl in under the blankets with him to help warm him up.”

  When Jackie was smaller and Hubert had slept over, he used to marvel at how cold Hubert’s feet were in the bed, but that was nothing compared to Henry’s whole body. “Man, he feels like a chunk of ice,” he groaned.

  The eastern sky was brightening as they headed towards Twillingate. Sunday morning was dawning; it was a week since they had been cast adrift. With Jim at the oars and Wints sculling, they made good time, arriving in Shoal Tickle by mid-morning. As they drew in, the town was awake and people headed out for Sunday morning church services. Curtains were pulled aside and faces appeared in windows, looking out over the water for some sign of the rescue party. As soon as they saw the boats approaching, men started appearing on the shore ice, as though reporting for duty. They hauled the punt through the tickle and into the harbour and dragged it down the shore. By the time they got Henry onto a sled and heading up to the hospital, a crowd of hushed churchgoers had gathered.

  Among them was the English minister who had emerged from the front door of St. Mark’s Church as the sombre procession approached. Everyone stepped aside as Basil came over to look at the figure on the sled—a gaunt, lifeless face devoid of colour, barely showing from under the blankets. Wints glanced at Basil and nodded, Jim nodded, some of the others said good morning. Emily, worn out and uncharacteristically unkempt, did not look up.

  Basil nodded gravely and walked back to the church. As he turned he heard Uriah Tizzard comment to his thin-lipped wife, “Now there’s a woman that’s willin’ to go through some trouble to get ’er man!”

  chapter forty-five

  In his long black robe and white collar, Reverend Basil Hudson stepped up to the podium of St. Mark’s, grasped the gold-coloured ribbon that served as a bookmark and opened the big Bible before him. He read his selected passage in his customary sober voice and concluded, “May God add His blessing to this reading from His Word.”

  He looked solemnly out over the audience. “This morning, friends, I had intended to continue our series on the Beatitudes, but I have received news that prompts me to change my subject; grave news I’m afraid. Some of you were witnesses this morning as a group of brave searchers from this town returned with the body of a young man, who perished after a six-day struggle for survival on the cruel ice that buffets our little community. He was known to some in our town, a survivor from the sealing ship that you will recall was lost not far from here one short week ago. His companion, a boy of just thirteen years, braved the elements and walked alone through the dark night, arriving here yesterday morning. He found his way ashore in a desperate attempt to get help for his injured companion. Help came quickly but, alas, it was too late.

  “So, let us all, friends, remember his aged parents in our prayers. In the sunset of their lives they are faced with the heartbreaking reality of having lost their dear son. The Lord gave him to them and now the Lord has taken him back to Himself.

  “Life is very fragile. But Jesus said, ‘I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.’ This is the blessed hope of the Christian believer, the one who has put his trust in Jesus Christ for the salvation of his immortal soul.

  This young man, I understand, was a believer. If that were so then he is in heaven as we speak, resurrected to the joyous hope of eternal life. Friends, we know not when our time will arrive and is it not imperative that we be ready? The Bible says, ‘Watch therefore: for ye know not what hour your Lord doth come.’”

  An hour later he concluded his sermon, all of it extemporized in place of his prepared text on the sixth Beatitude, “Blessed are the pure in heart.” He delivered it as he did all his sermons—with the confidence of a man who knows he is right. He led the congregation in the closing hymn, with Mrs. Pardy, struggling to keep the tears away, accompanying in Emily’s place. He pronounced the benediction and left the podium, proceeding to the front door to greet his parishioners as they quietly departed.

  After saying goodbye to the last of them, he closed the door and walked to the front of the church, stopping by the organ. He picked up the book of sheet music from which Mrs. Pardy had played, still open at the hymn they had just sung. As he absently closed it, he noticed, printed in neat letters in the upper-right corner: Emily Osmond. He smiled as he read her name. Suddenly he felt very pastoral and had a strong wish to comfort Emily and her family in their loss. It was his calling, after all. He anticipated that she would need a lot of his attention during this time of sorrow, and he wanted to be there to help her through her grief. He was feeling very selfless. He checked his emotional state to see if he was gloating and decided that he was not.

  As he walked towards his office, pondering the optimal time to make the all-important visit, he heard the door open behind him. Before he could turn to see who it was, he heard the familiar voice of Sadie Gillard, gasping for breath. “Reverend, there’s been a miracle!” Her voice was fairly trembling with excitement. “They brought him in from the ice and he’s alive.”

  He stopped, paused and slowly turned around. “I beg your pardon?” “He’s alive!”

  “You mean the stowaway, of course?”

  “No, Henry. You know, the fellow from Cottle’s Island, Henry Horwood, my nephew. He’s alive! Praise the Lord. I just come from the hospital. They said he came to a few minutes ago. I rushed down to tell you the ne
ws because I knew you would want to know.”

  It was the first time Basil had heard the full name of his adversary. “But I understood that…I mean, when they brought him by in the boat…wasn’t he—”

  “I know. That’s what we all thought—that he was gone. But he just come to.”

  He looked at Sadie’s glowing face and heard her say again, “Praise the Lord,” while looking expectantly for some kind of agreement.

  After a moment he glanced away and replied faintly, “Yes, praise the Lord.”

  Sadie rushed off to spread the good news, closing the door with a thud that echoed through the empty building. Then, all was quiet. He was alone again, more alone than he had ever felt. He stared at the door, wishing that Ada would bustle through it with, “Reverend, with all that’s been going on I completely forgot to ask you over for dinner. You haven’t got another invitation, now, have you?”

  But there was no invitation to dinner today, from Ada or anybody else. He locked the church, went next door to his house and slumped down at the kitchen table. Half an hour later he had not moved, his coat and hat were still on, his face was buried in his hands. The house had grown cold. He got up to poke at the fire in the stove and throw in some wood. It flickered to life, grudgingly. He lay on the couch and looked up at the ceiling in unreserved loneliness and gloom.

  Emily had opted for one of her own kind, over him. She was gone and here he was, alone. Among all the people who listened to him every Sunday, he had not made a single friend that he could turn to, now that he needed one. Yes, he had a certain cachet among them, but it was respect for Reverend Hudson, not affection or friendship for Basil.

  What were they thinking about him now? That he had made an ass of himself? With an embarassed shudder, he thought of his long soliloquy about Henry’s death when Henry had been alive all the time. He told himself that he had only believed what everybody else thought was true, but he should not have assumed without asking Jim or Emily. He had been too eager to embrace the idea that Henry was dead, and had been too quick to capitalize on it in his sermon. He was seen as a messenger of truth and his flock accepted everything he told them, but surely now his credibility would dissolve like his dreams of a life with Emily.

  With a deep sigh, he stared at the ceiling, trying to lose himself in its intricate pattern.

  He awoke with a start, confused, his head throbbing. “Great God above!” he exclaimed. “I wished for the death of a fellow human being! God forgive me.”

  The little kitchen was almost dark. He pulled out his watch: 6:20. Nearly time for the evening service. He dreaded it, but it could not be avoided. With his coat and boots still on, he tramped over to the church to face what he was afraid would be the beginning of his punishment at the hands of a wrathful God.

  It was not what he had feared. His eye caught no indignant glances, his alert ears heard no snickers behind his back; his congregation was joyous, in wonder at the news of Henry’s deliverance. “Oh, my dear, what a miracle! The reverend himself didn’t even know it was comin’; he thought the poor young fellow had passed on. There’s no tellin’ the mind of the Lord.”

  “No, my dear, there ain’t.”

  I should be blessed with such simple faith, he thought miserably.

  He knew his loyal audience would be expecting references to the miracle of Henry’s recovery and an uplifting sermon on deliverance to make up for the funeral service he had delivered in the morning. Perhaps they were right; it could have been a miracle. He claimed to believe in such events and sometimes even taught about them, but in reality a miracle was something you read about that happened to people you didn’t know, far away and in a different time, missionaries usually, somewhere in a jungle. He couldn’t drum up much joy for them this evening. He gave them a few thoughts on the goodness of God—hardly a sermon. He filled most of the service with hymns, which required little effort from him and had the makings of a celebration as far as the congregation was concerned. They, at least, went home satisfied.

  He returned to his empty, forlorn house, angry at Henry for surviving and angry at the rescuers for finding him, angry at Emily for choosing Henry over him. And…could it be that he was also angry at God? The thought caused him both revulsion and fascination. Was God actually real enough to Basil that he could feel anger towards Him?

  He thumbed absently through his Bible, looking for some words of comfort, and tossed it back on the table. The language of his intended sermon came back to him: blessed are the pure in heart. He felt neither blessed nor pure in heart. How could he have prepared such a sermon while wishing for the death of another human being? Had he really wished for Henry’s death?

  He still had not slept when his housekeeper arrived early next morning to prepare his breakfast.

  “Reverend, you got to take better care of yourself,” she implored. “I seen your light on ’til all hours last night. I dare say you was up saying your prayers, were you? You lie down now and have a nap of sleep. I’ll come back a bit later and make you a bit o’ dinner.”

  “No, I’ll be fine, Mrs. Anstey. I’ll take care of myself today. You can come back tomorrow morning. How’s that?”

  “You’re a good man, Reverend, a true servant of the Lord.”

  He lay down again but he did not sleep. He thought of his conversation with Sadie. If anybody was pure in heart it was her. She knew that what he was trying to confide to her was wrong, but she gently left him the opportunity to correct himself. Perhaps, despite all his learning, there were things somebody like Sadie could teach him. And there were certainly things Emily’s father could teach him.

  He slowly came to the conclusion that he had to start over, not by running away as he had run to Twillingate to escape the pain of losing Madeline, but by facing his pain and growing from it. Perhaps the Twillingate that he despised was to be his salvation. He could not positively say that God had sent him here like He had sent Jonah to Ninevah, but no matter. Like Jonah, he had rained misery down on himself and like Jonah, he must redeem himself. He was going to learn how to serve God’s people right here in Twillingate; he had served himself long enough. He would concentrate on his flock, and even put some effort into befriending them instead of worrying about finding a wife. He would leave that to God and if God had no wife for him, then so be it.

  Word of the “miracle” travelled quickly around town. “I ’eard he was dead,” Elfreda Tizzard shouted next door to her daughter-in-law. “Wha’s he after comin’ alive?”

  Emily, Wints and Jackie sat in the hospital waiting room. “Thanks for all you did, Wints. You were truly heroic,” said Emily.

  “Happy to help. It’s good to have that debt finally repaid.”

  “Oh Wints, don’t talk like that. You don’t owe me anything.”

  “Not anymore,” he grinned.

  “I think you did the right thing by not shooting the bear. What a noble creature.”

  “To tell you the truth, I was of two minds and still am. I’ve been wondering if I did the right thing because I’m sure things could get pretty hairy if he managed to find his way into some settlement.”

  “If he does, I’m sure there will be no scarcity of men lining up for a shot at him.”

  “I suppose Ches and his two will blab it all over the place that Wints got no stomach for shootin’ anything.”

  “The legend of the infamous Wints the pacifist grows,” she said with a warm smile. “Who knows where he’ll strike next? Will your pig find emancipation from the smokehouse; will he put sweaters on newly sheared sheep to keep them warm?”

  “A sweater on a sheep! Ha, that’s a good one,” said Jackie and he went into a fit of laughter.

  “Good to hear somebody laughing,” the doctor declared as he entered the room. “We could use more of that around here. Would you be Miss Osmond?”

  “Yes!” she blurted, springing to her feet.

  “I understand you’ve had quite an adventure.”

  “We all have.” She qui
ckly introduced her companions. “How’s Henry’s leg? Did you find gangrene? Will you have to cut it off?”

  “I’m pleased to say that his leg will be fine,” he replied. “There’s no permanent damage. It’s broken, but recently enough that it could be set without complications. That frozen sealskin made a good splint when you moved him. I thought I had seen every possible benefit that seals could provide, but I guess there’s always one more.

  “Frankly, you got to him just in time. His body temperature was dangerously low. But he’s strong and healthy so I’m expecting a full recovery. He has some frostbite but it will heal.”

  “Oh, thank God.”

  “He should be able to see visitors in the morning. By the way, I found this in his hand. It looked personal so I didn’t read it but I saw your name at the bottom and assume it’s yours. I thought I should give it to you.” He handed Emily a dirty, damp and crumpled piece of paper. She smoothed it out and, recognizing her own handwriting, she quickly balled it up and shoved it deep into her pocket.

  Reassured that Henry was out of danger, the weary trio left the hospital. So tired she could barely walk, Emily insisted on doing one more thing before she went to bed. “Shall we go send that telegram, Jackie?”

  “Yeah. I been thinkin’ about what to say, but I might need some help to put it into words.”

  Emily nodded with the satisfaction of a teacher who has just heard the correct answer being recited to her.

  “Wait!” Jackie said with alarm. “It’s Sunday, ain’t it? The post office will be closed.”

  “Ah, but you forget, sir, that this is Twillingate and we have a secret weapon in the person of Ada Osmond. She can convince anybody to do anything for her.”

  “Like the post office man—even if the post office is closed?”

  “Precisely. My ever-diligent father should have already asked her to check with the postmaster. And, by the way, lest you think I didn’t notice: ain’t is not a word.”

  At the post office, he dictated the first line: “Safe in Twillingate.”