by Byron White
After lunch Stan worked with Heber Hurley and Uncle Charlie Ginn to repair a soft spot where a horse and sled had sunk into the snow, tearing up the trail. Once this section was repaired, Stan headed out to the pond to help Uncle Ben with the unloading. With the milder temperatures, most of the road maintenance crew was required to repair the haul-off road.
Gerald Head and Scott were heading off the pond as Stan approached. Billy Ginn and Min were not far behind. Since arriving in near the small brook, Min had hauled pulpwood without incident. This Stan noted with a considerable amount of relief.
Out on the ice, Uncle Aram Freake and his big reddish-brown horse, King, were just moving into position to begin unloading. Stan headed that way. Soon Stan, Uncle Aram, and Uncle Ben were busy unloading the rack of wood behind King. Where they were standing, several inches of water had seeped onto the ice surface.
“Skipper Stan, we’ll soon be finished haulin’ the wood in here,” Uncle Aram said.
“Yes, b’y. We should finish in another couple of days,” Stan replied.
“All we’ll have then is to haul the few hundred cords from the knobs out by Sou’west?”
“Yes. I had the men cut a few hundred cords of wood out there just in case we had a mild spurt like we had the last two winters,” Stan stated.
“Yes, Skipper, ’twas wonderful mild the last two winters,” Uncle Aram said as he stacked another piece of pulpwood. He knew that Stan didn’t want to have the teamsters lying around idle. This year Stan had arranged to have a few hundred cords near the river. This wood could be tail-dragged if the snow disappeared. In case of a mild, the men could keep working for a while. By that time, hopefully, the weather would be cold again.
“We were lucky this year,” Stan stated. “The weather hasn’t been too bad. We’ll haul that outside wood after this in here is finished. Then the haul-off will be over.”
“It’ll be good to get back to Boyd’s Cove and see the family,” Uncle Aram continued.
“Yes, b’y, it’ll be good to get home for a while. I think the men are looking forward to finishing up,” Stan said.
Uncle Aram nodded and Uncle Ben gave a contented puff on his pipe.
“Will you be coming back when we drive the wood out to Gander Lake?” Stan asked.
“No, Skipper, I don’t think I will,” Uncle Aram stated, then added, “I’ve got a few years on me old legs now.”
“Go on with ya!” Uncle Ben said. “You’re only a young gaffer yet.”
“To tell you the truth, I’m anxious to get home and rig out a few lobster traps,” Uncle Aram replied.
“Do you get many lobsters down your way in Boyd’s Cove?” Stan asked.
“Yes, we do fairly well, I s’pose.”
“By Jingoes, I’d like to have a lobster right now,” Stan said.
“You’ve probably had one of my lobsters, Skipper.”
“How so?” Stan asked.
“Well, I sell my lobsters to Lew Eveleigh at Notre Dame Fisheries there in Comfort Cove. I guess you’ve had a few.”
“Perhaps so, but I believe Lew takes a lot of his lobsters up to the Botwood area,” Stan said.
“That so?” Uncle Aram asked.
“Yes, I think so,” Stan added. “Anyway, Father will have a meal for me in the spring.”
“Skipper, talking of lobster makes me wish I was home tarring me punt right now,” Uncle Aram said.
“Hang on! Hang on! Finish the haul-off first!” Stan said, laughing.
“Not to worry, I won’t be leaving until all the pulpwood is off.”
“I know you won’t, Aram. I know you won’t,” Stan stated.
“But when we’re finished, I’ll be scurrying off faster than any lobster ever flapped back into the lobster trap parlour!” Uncle Aram added.
“Can’t say that I blame you,” Stan said with a grin.
“My only stop will be at Ferricks store in Lewisporte to pick up some patent leather shoes for my daughter Bernice and the kids,” Uncle Aram concluded.
The men stuck the last of the pulpwood up on the pile, and Uncle Aram took King’s reins and prepared to head off for another load. Uncle Ben used the brief respite to have a few puffs on his old pipe. Stan eyed him menacingly.
As Uncle Aram prepared to leave, Albert Oake and Arthur Brenton were coming out on the pond. Their big horses were straining to pull huge racks piled high with pulpwood.
“Well, I must be off to get another load or two before supper,” Uncle Aram said as he slapped the reins on King’s back.
King strained forward and Uncle Aram and the sled headed off toward the dam and then turned and disappeared behind the great stack of pulpwood that now spread out along the pond’s surface. As Uncle Aram left, Albert and Art moved into position and prepared to unload.
“You give Art a hand,” Stan said, turning to Uncle Ben, “and I’ll do the same with . . .” Stan’s words hung in the air.
“Help! Help!” The cry came from the far side of the stacked pulpwood.
“Help! Someone help!” Uncle Aram’s roar shattered the air.
Stan sprang into action and raced off along the tracks that Uncle Aram and King had made moments before. Uncle Ben, Albert, and Art were close on his heels. As the men rounded the corner they spied Uncle Aram kneeling on the ice. Just beyond, King’s head could be seen just above the pond’s surface. The big horse had broken through the ice and was struggling to keep his head above the frigid waters! The men sped forward.
Uncle Aram was standing now and his clothing was wet to the tops of his legs. King was in the water, still in the shafts, and struggling mightily to get up onto the ice. The front empty wood sled was in the water behind the horse. The rear sled, for the moment, was still on the ice at the pond’s surface.
“Easy, King! Easy, b’y.” Uncle Aram was now kneeling again so King could better see him. The horse’s eyes were wide with fear.
“Get the horse free of those sleds!” Stan shouted. “Alb, grab my feet!” Stan was lying on the ice now and snaking forward toward the flailing animal. Uncle Ben sprinted to the far side of the broken ice, stashed his pipe in his pocket, and repeated Stan’s actions. Art Brenton clung firmly to Uncle Ben’s long legs.
Stan reached the edge of the ice while King fought to keep his head above water. When the horse surged upward, Stan stretched forward to unhook the sled. But before he could succeed, King settled back down into the frigid water. For a moment Stan’s face and chest disappeared beneath the surface. Again King surged upward in an attempt to stay afloat. Stan rose with the horse and worked feverishly to free the animal. Albert held Stan’s feet in a viselike grip.
On the other side of the horse, Uncle Ben was receiving a similar baptismal. Art had Uncle Ben’s legs in a death grip. Again and again the horse fought, and again and again the men struggled to free him. Finally, the sleds were unhooked and Alb and Art pulled Stan and Uncle Ben to safety.
“Art, there’s a coil of rope at the far end of the wood there! Run and get it!” Stan shouted.
As Art sped off, the other four men grabbed the rear sled and tried unsuccessfully to pull it back clear of the horse.
“Aram, can you reach the horse’s reins?” Stan shouted. “Perhaps we can help when he tries to pull himself up on the ice.”
Uncle Aram stretched out toward the horse’s head while Uncle Ben held firmly to his heels. Uncle Aram grabbed the horse’s reins and the men stood to the side of the horse’s head, trying to guide and pull it onto the ice. King seemed to know what the men wanted and he struggled forward. With a great upward surge he rose high in the water, his great red chest pushing up onto the ice. But the ice buckled and King sank back into the gaping hole.
“Jingoes! We’ve got to get him out before he’s too far gone,” Stan stated. “Leave him alone for a minute until Art gets back with the rope.”
“Easy, b’y!” Uncle Aram said. “Easy, King! Easy.” King’s nostrils flared and his head spun frantically from side to side
, looking for some way to free himself.
By now Cyril Cooper and Les Weir had arrived at the pond. Seeing the turmoil, they raced forward to lend a helping hand. Art soon returned with the coil of rope and, after some difficult moments, Stan attached it to King’s neck.
“Grab the end of the rope and stretch it out in front there,” Stan ordered. Les Weir grabbed the rope and ran up the ice in front of King’s head.
“Okay, b’ys, everybody take hold of the rope. When King surges upward again, pull for all you’re worth!” Stan shouted. The men quickly strung out along the line.
“Come on, King b’y! Come on!” Stan said, shouting words of encouragement to the frightened animal. The great horse surged forward and the seven men strained on the rope. Up! Up! Up! King’s chest lifted onto the ice.
“Pull harder!” Stan shouted. “Harder!” But at the last minute King slid back down into the water. His head was momentarily half-submerged. The horse was frantic now and pure terror streamed from his eyes.
“Okay, King! That’s okay, b’y.” Uncle Aram said, trying to calm and reassure the panic-stricken horse.
“B’ys, we almost had him. We have to get him next time. It might be our only chance. That horse is tiring,” Stan stated. “Alb, you get on the end and anchor the rope.”
The men wrapped their woollen mittens around the rope and gripped it firmly in their hands. Each man dug in his heels and braced his feet for the next attempt.
“Come on, King! Get up! Come on, King!” Stan shouted.
King surged forward once more and the men strained on the rope. This time King’s chest and forelegs rose onto the ice. For a moment the horse was half kneeling, his hooves bent back under his body. With Herculean effort the men hauled on the rope. The horse struggled and then got one forward hoof and then the other up onto the ice.
“Pull! Pull! Put your backs into it!” Stan roared.
The men strained with every fibre and muscle in their body burning. Gradually, the big horse moved forward up onto the pond’s surface. Finally, all four of its legs were upon the ice. It staggered along and then stood still, as if in shock.
Stan ran forward and caught King’s bridle and coaxed him forward, away from the hole. The horse moved slowly ahead before stopping again. This time it gave its big body a shake, sending a shower of water and ice pellets from its sides.
“Good horse! Good ol’ King!” Uncle Aram shouted happily as he ran up to greet his horse. He reached up and rubbed the animal’s nose and patted the side of its neck.
King shook his head again and took another step forward. Stan smoothed his hand along the horse’s flanks. Speaking softly to the horse, Stan bent down and inspected the animal’s legs and hooves.
“He’ll be all right, Aram b’y. He’ll be all right,” Stan pronounced.
King gave a low whinny and turned his head sideways. He was staring directly back at Stan.
“King said that’s easy enough for you to say,” Cyril Cooper cut in with a chuckle. The sound of laughter rose from the pond. The tension had been broken.
“Goodness, Alb, you pulled a ton,” Stan said, turning to Albert, who had anchored the pull rope.
“No. Not a ton. Not a ton,” Albert replied modestly.
“You pulled a lot. You’re as strong as an ox,” Stan said. It was true; Albert Oake was a strong man. Albert smiled and said nothing. He appreciated the praise.
“Yes. Praise Albie now! He’s your favourite, all right,” Les Weir said, smiling.
“Jingoes, Les, you all pulled hard. We were lucky to get that horse out,” Stan replied.
“You’re no slouch yourself, Skipper,” Les said. “Uncle Walt Cooper says you’re one of the strongest men he’s ever met.”
“Comin’ from Uncle Walt, that’s high praise,” Cyril added. “Uncle Walt is a strong man himself.”
Stan turned to survey the scene. They had rested on their laurels long enough. Cold was starting to seep into his body. It was time to get things moving again.
“Uncle Aram,” Stan began, “take King and walk him around the pond and up the trail a ways. That should warm him up a bit.” Uncle Aram took the horse’s reins and headed off.
“I guess you fellows will be heading back to camp when Uncle Aram returns,” Cyril said, looking at Stan’s and Uncle Ben’s wet clothing.
“What?” Stan replied. “Back to camp now?” The thought had never entered his mind.
“I mean you’re all soaking wet: you, Uncle Ben, Uncle Aram, and the horse . . .” Cyril explained.
“Jingoes, Cyril! A drop of water never hurt anybody,” Stan stated. “Once we get back working we’ll be warm enough.”
“Speaking of work,” Alb began, “come on, Art, let’s finish unloading.”
“Yes, Cyril,” Les said. “There’s no point standin’ around yere jawin’ all day.” He turned to head back to the horses. Cyril turned and headed off with him.
“Alb!” Stan shouted. Alb stopped and turned around. “Alb, when you finish unloading, bring Paddy around. We’ll tie a rope onto King’s sleds and have Paddy pull them out.”
“Okay,” Alb replied just before he turned and rounded the great pile of wood and disappeared from view. Stan turned to Uncle Ben, who was still standing nearby.
“Ben,” Stan inquired, “How are you feeling? Are you cold?”
“A bit,” Uncle Ben admitted. “But I’ll be all right once I get back to work.”
“Jumpin’s, Ben! You gotta be cold, sure. You’re only skin and bones,” Stan asserted. “Beat your arms back and forth around your body to warm up.”
For a couple of moments the two men stood there on the ice flailing their arms back and forth against their bodies. From a distance they greatly resembled two grouse engaged in the spring drumming ritual. But the exercise worked. The activity generated heat and soon the two men were feeling warmer.
“Ben, if you didn’t smoke that old pipe so much, you might put on a few pounds, ” Stan said with a grin. “Come on. Let’s get that rope attached to King’s sleds before Alb gets here with Paddy.” Stan turned to walk away, but Uncle Ben didn’t move.
In all the excitement, Uncle Ben had forgotten about his pipe, but now that Stan had mentioned it, he had a powerful craving for a few puffs. He patted his breast pocket. The pipe was still there. He slid his long fingers inside, his face etched with pleasurable expectation. Suddenly, his expression changed. His lower lip quivered and his shoulders rounded and sagged. Slowly, he withdrew his hand from his pocket. His prize pipe lay in two pieces! No doubt it had happened as he lay on the ice trying to free King from the wood sleds. Uncle Ben just stood there and stared in disbelief.
Stan arrived at the far edge of the ice where the rear sled still pivoted half in and out of the slob-filled hole. He turned to give instructions to Uncle Ben, but Ben wasn’t there. Looking back he could see Uncle Ben still standing in his previous location staring blankly into space.
“Ben?” Stan shouted. “Are you all right?” For a moment he wondered if the dip in the cold water had adversely affected Uncle Ben more than it had first appeared.
Stan’s shout shook Uncle Ben’s mind away from his personal tragedy and he hurried across to where Stan was waiting.
“Ben,” Stan said, “Are you okay? You’re not still cold, are you?”
“No, Stan b’y. ’Tis not that.” Uncle Ben had dropped the term “skipper.” In this moment of great sadness, he was again talking man to man.
“What, then?” Stan was still worried. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“No. No. Nothing like that. ’Tis me pipe,” Uncle Ben said sorrowfully.
“Your pipe?” Stan repeated, half-shouting.
“I broke me pipe,” Uncle Ben replied sadly.
“Well! Well!” Stan said joyfully. “First you got baptized trying to free the horse, and now you’ll have to give up the baccy!”
Uncle Ben just sighed and said nothing. He was in no mood for jocularity. Stan looked up and studi
ed his old friend’s face. He could see that Uncle Ben was taking the news badly. Stan struggled mightily to suppress his own strong inclination to enjoy the moment.
“Ben b’y,” Stan began, “maybe you can repair the dirty old thing so it will last until you get home.”
Uncle Ben thought about this for a moment before replying. “I doubt it, Stan b’y, I doubt it,” he said, but hidden deep in Ben’s voice, Stan thought he detected a flicker of hope.
Again, Stan’s mind reflected on the time he had banned the sale of tobacco in the van at Camp 13. He marvelled at how it had caused a near-rebellion amongst the men. These were good men, solid men who would face the cold, the flies, the back-breaking labour, and even death itself with scarcely a grumble or complaint. But take away their baccy? Well! They became the most ornery, treacherous, contrary bunch of humankind to ever infect the planet.
Stan hoped the same transformation would not happen to Uncle Ben. Reluctantly, Stan hoped that Ben could make temporary repairs to his pipe. Uncle Ben was a valuable man and a capable, agreeable fellow. Stan didn’t want that to change.
Later, Alb returned with Paddy, and King’s wood sleds and rack were pulled back onto the ice’s surface. When Uncle Aram returned, the shafts and sleds were once again hooked up to King’s harness.
“Uncle Aram, if you’re not too cold, trot King around with the sleigh empty and then head back in and get another load of pulpwood,” Stan stated. Uncle Aram beat his arms around his chest and headed off.
After Uncle Aram had left, Stan and Uncle Ben inspected the hole where King had fallen through. Here, on the back side of the 1,000 and more cords of stacked wood, the ice had buckled and subsided. A crack had spread from the piled wood to the shoreline near the dam. The weather had not been overly cold lately, and now the ice had somehow weakened in this location.
