by Byron White
Art took a last puff on the rolled Target cigarette he was smoking and flicked it over the cliff. Then he turned to the large rack of pulpwood that topped his sleds. Soon wood was hurtling into the gorge. As he worked, he noted his buddy Alb just ahead, who was the only man he knew who made work seem so effortless. Alb’s fluid motion was now pouring pulpwood off his rack in one steady stream.
Stan took one last glance back at Alb and Art.
They’re two fine men, he thought. Fine, honest, hard-working fellows. He knew he could count on them to give their best: to haul lots of wood and look after their horses, too. If I’m to get my wood to the river this year, I need men like those two.
AS HE HEADED UP the wood road, he reflected on Art’s horse, Jim. Most of the horses used by Bowater in the lumber woods were imported from mainland Canada. They were big horses, much larger than the smaller but sturdy Newfoundland ponies. The Newfoundland ponies were the mainstay in Newfoundland outports for work: pulling firewood, ploughing, and doing a hundred other everyday tasks. But here in the lumber woods thousands of cords of wood had to be moved to the rivers in the wintertime—winters that were sometimes unpredictable. It was important to move large quantities of wood as quickly as possible. To move this wood Bowater brought in large horses: Clydesdales, some Percherons, and large mixed breeds. These horses crossed the Cabot Strait by boat and were moved across Newfoundland by train. The horses went to the various Bowater woods districts along the way—districts such as Deer Lake, Baie Verte, and Glenwood. There was a belief, by some at the Glenwood office and among the camp operators, that the best horses were culled out before they reached Glenwood, the most easterly district.
Most of the imported horses came from the farming areas of rural Quebec. There the horses harvested logs from the farm woodlots, in addition to their other farm duties. The terrain in which they worked was flatter and less rough and rocky than in Newfoundland. There was also one other important difference—language!
The horses were trained to respond to French commands. They weren’t bilingual. Neither were the teamsters who were their new masters. These men were from the numerous outports that dotted Newfoundland’s coastline. When they spoke, the air was coloured by the sounds of impeccable old-country English. The language that these men spoke had changed little since their ancestors had arrived from Ireland and the south of England generations before. Initially, there was a period of adjustment before the animals understood what was being asked of them. In the early years, though, the men did not comprehend the adjustment the animals were facing. Few understood the overall picture.
The horses were uprooted from their homestead in Quebec, transported to the Cabot Strait, loaded onto a ferry, unloaded and put on a train, and finally packed into boxcars. Rattled and shaken across Newfoundland, they were unloaded at a strange location. In central Newfoundland this location was Glenwood. There, the horses were kept at the depot in what is now modern-day Appleton. From there they were loaded onto the old scow and floated up Gander Lake to the wood camps in the Southwest Gander River area: camps with numbers like 2, 3, 6, 9, 10, 12, 13, 15, 17, 21, and 26; and to camps 7 and 8 in the Hunts Cove area of the lake, as well as to Camp 5. Hundreds of horses were brought in for work in the lumber woods. The animals were leased to the contractors for wood haul-off.
At Camp 13, things worked a little differently. When Stan received his horses, if they appeared to be good work animals, he bought them outright. That way he gained more control over his operation. The problem was no one knew the particular history of each individual animal. Even the big shots in the regional offices were largely uninformed. Some of the horses were older than was estimated; some were worn out when they arrived; some of the mixed breeds were not designed for woods work; and some of the horses had obviously been mistreated. The latter, Stan thought, was the problem with Art’s horse, Jim. As Stan had stated earlier, Jim seemed to be becoming calmer and more controllable in Art’s care. Art was a quiet man and he took good care of his horse. Jim probably sensed Art’s gentleness and this had a calming effect on him.
Stan remembered his first encounter with Jim two years ago. He had needed another horse and called down to the Glenwood depot and talked to Ambrose Flynn. Ambrose ran the company store and warehouse. He had knowledge of the horses on location. There weren’t any animals left at the depot, only one big red one around 1,800 pounds. This horse was still there because none of the other contractors would take him. The horse had to be double-tethered and held in a sturdy stall. He was wild! On first arrival he had broken down his stall and snapped the ropes holding him. It had taken six men with poles and ropes to rein him in and get him under control. Now he was kept in a reinforced stall and was double-tied. His hay and oats were administered from outside the stall; even his water was brought in to him. Word had spread and, afterwards, no contractor would have anything to do with this horse. Ambrose conveyed this information to Stan.
But Stan desperately needed another animal. For a moment he processed this information.
“Is he in good shape?” Stan asked.
“Yes, he’s a strong horse and fairly young is my guess,” Ambrose replied.
“I’ll take him,” Stan said without further hesitation. “Send him up. But tell the office crew I want him at a bargain price.”
Jim was shipped up Gander Lake on the old scow operated by Uncle Rube Snow.
“’Twas like I had da devil hisself aboard,” Uncle Rube reported. “He kicked and he farted and he fliced! I t’ought he was gonna ’ave us killed!”
The horse was encased in a sturdy stall and taken to Camp 13 on a flatbed truck. Ropes were coming off him like a spider’s web. With much manpower and Herculean effort, he was moved into a special section of the camp’s barn. Stan and Uncle Walt fed him hay and oats and got him used to the barn routine. It was important not to make sudden moves around Jim because he was very jittery. Eventually, it was possible to brush his coat by leaning over the stall. Brushing, it was noted, seemed to relax him. Eventually, the horse would even allow a man in the stall with him. Never, though, could anyone walk close behind him because he would strike out with his hooves.
Stan had Uncle Walt make a sled for Jim with special, sturdy shafts for pulling. Stan got the harness on him, hooked him to the sled and took him in the road. He returned with broken shafts, but over time, as the horse got adjusted, he settled in. Who, Stan wondered, could he get to use Jim in the haul-off? All the experienced teamsters were already paired up with their animals. The answer came in the form of Stan’s younger brother, Don. Don was working at Camp 13 during the initial start-up years. He was young and fearless and game for anything.
“I’ll use ’un, Stan,” Don had volunteered.
“Jingoes, Don b’y, I don’t know.”
“Don’t think I can handle ’un?”
“Jingoes. It’s not that!”
“What is it, then?” Don asked.
“I s’pose you can handle ’un as good as the next man, but . . .”
“But what?”
“I’ve looked into his eyes, and . . .”
“Yeah, I know, I’ve seen them, too,” Don said.
“There’s pure hatred in those eyes sometimes,” Stan continued.
“Well, somebody’s got to use him and it may as well be me.”
“Don b’y, I don’t know. He might do you harm.”
“I’ll keep my guard up and I’ll pair up with one of the more experienced teamsters at first.”
“Well . . .” Stan hesitated.
“I won’t take any chances around ’un.”
“Jingoes! I s’pose you can give it a try, but watch his every move!”
And so it was settled. Don would use Jim. Three of Stan’s younger brothers were working with him that year. Besides his brother, Allan (Stan’s right-hand man), there were Don and Charlie. Charlie was using ol’ Harry during the winter. Stan paired Don and Jim with them.
At first it was rough going. Many
evenings Don returned to camp ready to drop, every muscle and sinew in his body aching. Frequently, Jim broke the shafts on the sled and Don had to return to the barn early.
Over time, though, Jim settled in and he began to haul great loads of pulpwood to the river. Jim was big and powerful, and with guidance he was developing into a top-notch woods horse. Don beamed with satisfaction at his accomplishment. Stan noted the progress and worried less.
At Camp 13, the men worked long days. During the winter haul-off they left camp before light in the morning and returned to the campsite after dark. Except for Sundays, the teamsters never saw the campsite in daylight.
As the teamsters returned in the evening, each horse was taken to the barn and placed in its stall. The men took the harness and all the gear off their horse and hung it on the waiting pegs and railing. Then the men headed for the bunkhouse and a quick wash. This done, it was off to the cookhouse for supper. The men were ravenous after a long day of hard work.
Getting the harness and gear off Jim was a tricky business. Don was often the last of the teamsters to come to supper. One evening in late January, Don had Jim tethered and had hung the last piece of horse’s harness in place. He checked Jim’s tether once more and turned to leave the stall.
Suddenly, and without warning, Jim turned on him. Don felt the horse’s teeth grab his back. The next instant he was thrust heavenward and then slammed back to the floor of the stall. At the same time the horse’s great hoof with its iron shoe came crashing down, just missing Don’s foot. The horse was trying to trample him—to kill him with his hooves! Having missed the first time, the animal again flexed its powerful neck and thrust Don high in the air. Don’s mind raced. This time, he knew, the horse would not miss. As he was being hurtled down to a certain death, Don reached out with both arms and grabbed the upper railing on the horse’s stall. There was a tearing sound as the horse’s head continued downward, ripping the back out of Don’s coat.
“Help!” Don shouted as he moved to climb out over the stall, but it was too late. Jim had him again. This time the animal’s teeth were sunk in the back of Don’s work pants.
“Help!” Don cried. “Help me!” Don hung on for dear life as the horse tried to pull him off the railing. Glancing over his shoulder, Don could see Jim’s eyes in the glow of the lantern light. Pure, fiery hatred emanated from the animal.
“Help! Someone come and get me!” Don roared. “Come quick, Jim is trying to kill me!”
Jim’s head shook once more and Don’s arms started to come from the rails. Don kicked out and willed his arms to hold.
“Help! Someone help! I can’t hold on much longer!” Don hoped against hope that someone was still in the barn.
Suddenly, a giant form appeared over the railing in front of him. It was Uncle Walt Cooper, still in the barn feeding the horses. Uncle Walt drew back and sent his huge mallet of a fist into the side of Jim’s head. Again and again he drew back and hammered the horse below the eye. Finally, Jim snorted and released his grasp and Don scrambled to freedom. Shaken, Don stood in the aisle outside the horse’s stall. Jim stamped his hooves and stared at Don with dark, menacing eyes.
Word spread through the camp. What, the men wondered, would become of Jim? Would Skipper Stan ask one of them to take him? They didn’t relish the thought. The horse pulled a lot of wood, they knew, but he was wild. The horse had just tried to kill Don, the skipper’s brother. Perhaps the skipper would have the horse destroyed. What Stan did next surprised the new teamsters. To the older teamsters, it was vintage Stan.
The next morning, Don was back teaming with Jim. As was typical with Stan, he faced the issue directly. After supper, Stan and Don had had a blunt, no-nonsense discussion. Stan felt that Don should continue with Jim. Don was in complete agreement. He wasn’t going to let any horse get the best of him. Besides, what would the other teamsters think? A teamster bested by his horse? No. He would not be beaten by man or beast. Like Stan, Don was strong-willed and stubborn—he had his pride. Stan completely understood how Don felt, recognizing that he would do the same.
So the next day Don was back with Jim hauling pulpwood to the river. Stan had imposed only one condition. Charlie, Don’s other brother, was to stable his horse next to Jim. Charlie and Don were to leave the barn together. Under no condition was Don to be in the barn alone with the horse.
Don faced his fears and overcame them. He teamed with Jim for the rest of the winter. Together they pulled a lot of pulpwood and, in the end, he came in third among the teamsters. Don beamed at the result. Stan was pleased too and had voiced a “well done!” To Don, this was indeed high praise coming from Stan.
The next year, Charlie White had moved on to operate Camp 12. Don had gone with his brother, Charlie. The two older White brothers, Stan and Allan, remained and ran Camp 13.
The next year, young Arthur Brenton was teaming at Camp 13. He was given Jim. Transfer of master did not take place uneventfully. Jim, it seemed, wished to express his contempt for his new master as well. If you were going to use this unpredictable animal, you quickly learned where you stood.
One evening in the barn, the horse had tried for a repeat performance. This time it was Art’s turn to be tested. Luckily, fellow teamster Herbert Hurley was nearby and witnessed the scuffle. Herb quickly beat his lantern to pieces over Jim’s head as Art scrambled to freedom. This incident reinforced the idea that this animal was dangerous and not to be trusted. Even if he appeared quiet and settled, you did not let your guard down around Jim.
Art, like Don before him, continued to use Jim. From then on they were paired up with Albert Oake and his horse, Paddy. Where you saw one, you knew the other was close by. While he never came to completely trust Jim, Art developed a high regard for his work ethic. Together they pulled thousands of cords of wood for the camp and they were always among the top teamsters.
THIS JANUARY MORNING STAN’S thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone singing. He paused to listen and soon recognized the voice of his cousin, Bill Ginn. Interspersed with the singing were periods of low whistling. Obviously, Bill didn’t remember all the words, but he was happy. That was a good sign, Stan thought, for Bill was hauling a full load of pulpwood out the road with his horse, Min. Most days Bill did little singing because Min was the most stubborn, lazy, balky, most useless animal ever conceived for pulling pulpwood. He sometimes wondered why Stan kept her. He was sure no one but Bill Ginn had the patience to use such an animal. Whereas the better horses averaged from four to five round trips per day, Min was lucky to get in two or three. It was not unusual for Min to stop in her tracks and refuse to move. At times like this Bill would simply slap the reins and repeat “Click! Click! Get up, Min! Get up!”
“My, oh my!” he’d say. “Get up, Min!” his voice conveying a note of sadness rather than anger.
At such times when Min blocked the main road and impeded the movement of the other horses, Allan was called. Allan would take Min’s bridle in his hands with sheer strength and shout commands to get Min under way. It was as if Min enjoyed the game and waited for Allan to appear. On rare occasions, Min would refuse to move, even for Allan, at which point Skipper Stan would be called. With a line of horses waiting behind Min, Stan was not to be trifled with. Min would have to move. Obviously, softer tactics weren’t working, so rougher tactics were brought into play. Usually, a few quick cuts from a slender birch got Min in motion. Stan would still be fuming over the delay as Min and Bill moved on out the road.
On one occasion last winter, even the rigorous application of the birch switch had failed to impress Min. She had simply refused to move. In the end, the horse had to be disconnected from her sled and another horse brought up to move her load. If it happened again, Stan vowed, Min’s stay at Camp 13 would be severely shortened. Stan simply could not afford to have the haul-off impeded. The wood had to be transported to the river—time was of the essence and Stan could not afford the luxury of patience and sentimentality. The wood would go throu
gh. He had to be tough. This morning, though, all was well with man and beast.
As Stan walked inland away from the landing, he took the outbound trail from the ridge. This trail was used by the horses pulling full racks of pulpwood to the river. A separate return trail lay close by, which was utilized by horses going back with empty sleds. These roads ran roughly parallel to each other and were separated in most places by only a few feet. The two trails enabled a steady flow of traffic to and from the wood cutovers and the landing.
Soon after Min and Bill had gone by, Stan glimpsed another teamster heading out with a full load. This time it was Gerald Head and Scott. This was Gerald’s first year teaming. So far Stan was impressed. Gerald was among the first to be on the trail in the morning and one of the last back at camp in the evening. He took pride in his work and pushed himself.
So far so good, Stan thought. So far so good.
Shortly after Gerald passed by, Phil McCarthy and Kit came down the trail. Phil was from Grates Cove in Conception Bay. In addition to teaming, Phil also came to Camp 13 during “the cut.” The Southwest Gander region was quite a long way from Grates Cove, but Phil McCarthy was a faithful worker. He was a regular at Camp 13 and gave an honest effort.
Before Stan reached the intersection where the woods road crossed the road heading to camp, several of the teamsters had passed by on their way out to the river. It was shaping up to be a good day. Ed Layte from Birchy Bay with Dick, and Howard Parsons from Twillingate with Ned, passed by fully loaded with wood. Hedley Janes from Embree with old Bess had not been far behind, and next to Hedley, Uncle Aram Freake of Boyd’s Cove was heading out with King.
Well, Jingoes. If things hold it will be a fine day moving wood! Deep down, though, Stan knew a million and one things could go wrong. The twin burdens of worry and responsibility sat heavily on his broad shoulders. With axe in hand, Stan soldiered on in the trail.
