by Gary Collins
Night had come. The ship was burned down for the night and Antle and a few others were gathered at the rail. Thin smoke trailed across from the two nearby ships. They too had their boilers banked for the night. Lights glimmered from their rigging, and now and then the sound of men laughing reached them. Stars appeared in the heavens and reached down over the slope of the sky, some of them so low they appeared to be dangling from the rigging of the sealing ships. Against the night sky, the ships appeared to be resting on the ice like great beasts that had risen up out of the sea only to become stranded on the Great White Plain.
“Bah! Sealers and skippers’re always blamin’ their luck on somet’ing,” said Cecil Mouland from his place next to Albert Crewe. “If ’twasn’t you it’d be somet’ing else, John b’y. A rope coiled agin’ the sun, or someone steppin’ across a gun, or settin’ sail on Friday the thirteenth! Which, as we all knows, was the day we left Flowers Island, the skipper’s ol’ home. All superstition, it is, and dere’s no mind to be paid to it.”
A door opened and light bathed the deck. The cook appeared, wearing a filthy apron. He was carrying two buckets filled with slops from the forward galley. Smoke from a short-stemmed pipe blew out through his clenched teeth. He promptly emptied both buckets over the side and onto the ice, then entered without speaking and slammed the door behind him.
“Sure, yer almost as ol’ as me”, said Albert. “I ’lows I would’ve stowed away meself this year if I ’adn’t a bert’, I was that set on swilin’.”
“Yer no worse than me, John. Snuck aboard wit’ another man’s name on me ticket, fer God’s sake,” Peter Lamb said in a low voice. “You could say I’m standin’ in another man’s shoes.” He had shared his secret with the others days ago. They were all good friends now.
“When we finds the seals there’ll be no talk of stowaways or names on tickets, either. We’ll load this one, we will! We’re all ice hunters now. ’Twill be a spring to remember!”
Cecil Mouland as a young man. (Photo courtesty of the Centre for Newfoundland Studies Archives Coll-115 Memorial University of Newfoundland)
Left: Cecil and Jessie Mouland travelling by ship. Right: Cecil Mouland working as crew on a Pastor Billy Graham crusade. (Photos courtesy of Jerdon Collins)
Cecil and Jessie Mouland. (Photo courtesy of the Centre for Newfoundland Studies Archives Coll-115 Memorial University of Newfoundland)
Abram Kean. Captain of the Stephano during the SS Newfoundland disaster, he was considered a villain by most. (Photo courtesy of The Rooms Provincial Archives Division, VA 164-7/R.P. Holloway)
SS Newfoundland, with Captain Westbury Kean insert. (Photo courtesy of the Centre for Newfoundland Studies Archives Coll-115 Memorial University of Newfoundland)
William J. Tippett, crew on the SS Newfoundland, rigged out in his Loyal Orange Order regalia. Brother to Norman Tippett, lost in the disaster. (Photo courtesy of Wilbert Goodyear)
Norman Tippett, sealer, victim of the SS Newfoundland disaster.
Brothers William and Norman Tippett. (Photos courtesy of Wilbert Goodyear)
The SS Newfoundland at the icefields. Note the dangerous open leads of water. (Photo courtesy of the Centre for Newfoundland Studies Archives Coll-115 Memorial University of Newfoundland)
With adrenalin pumping, sealers wait for the order to go over the side. (Photo courtesy of the Centre for Newfoundland Studies Archives Coll-115 Memorial University of Newfoundland)
Sealers with their gaffs walking over the ice. Note the open water between the pans, making falling in a common, life-threatening occurrence. (Photo courtesy of The Rooms Provincial Archives Division, VA 137-27/R.P. Holloway)
After the kill, the warm walk back to the ship with bundles of seal carcasses. (Photo courtesy of the Centre for Newfoundland Studies Archives Coll-115 Memorial University of Newfoundland)
After two days and nights of storms, frozen bodies and survivors of the crew of the SS Newfoundland are brought aboard ship. (Photo courtesy of the Centre for Newfoundland Studies Archives Coll-115 Memorial University of Newfoundland)
12
The first day of spring came on a Saturday and, according to Green’s log, it began with a raw, force three wind from the east. The wind changed and had become a moderate gale from the northwest by nightfall, turning even colder. The barometer was 29.55 and rising. Green didn’t know what the actual temperature was; the Newfoundland had no thermometer aboard.
The spring equinox occurs when the earth’s invisible line at the equator crosses the sun’s centre. It is a time when the earth is in a neutral position on its axis, leaning neither toward nor away from the sun. Day and night are of equal length everywhere on the planet. It is the harbinger of warming days for the Northern Hemisphere.
But on this spring day the only warmth aboard the Newfoundland was from the smoke tumbling out of her stack as she pummelled against the ice. She was making little headway and there were no seals to be seen anywhere. The wind was too blustery and laced with snow for the sealers to be on deck. Most of them were below, the smell of more than 150 unwashed bodies blending with the odour of the ship’s bilge. But by now no one seemed to notice it. Despite the presence of several storm lanterns hung from the ceiling, the hold of the ship was still dark and filled with shadows.
The sealers were lounging on their lumber bunks or standing around in groups. Some were gathered around the bogies. A pot called “the slut,” big enough to cover most of the top of the stove, was burbling. At intervals the men poured scalding black tea into tin mugs. Some were leaning against the hull of the ship. There were no chairs or tables. They were sitting on kegs, boxes, or buckets, whatever was available. A dirty pack of coalies, or playing cards—even called the Devil’s picture books by some of the churchgoing sealers—was produced. The cards were torn and thick with use. Before he shuffled them, the dealer flicked a handful of flour over the cards to make them slippery and easier to deal out.
At times the sound of the ship being forced through the heavy ice was deafening. Sometimes it came as a loud scraping sound, as if the wooden hull were being cut open, a rumbling, pounding noise as the broken ice pans were turned over, an explosive din as the ship’s weight suddenly broke apart a particularly heavy pan. The engine pounded out its might. The propeller shaft sent a tremble throughout the ship. Sometimes the ship leaned back as her bows were driven onto the ice, where it rode smoothly for a short distance before falling down again, lurching and listing. It had become a monotonous, day in, day out, getting nowhere routine.
Their boredom was relieved only by the daily task of gathering ice to throw into the pinnacle tanks situated on the ship’s mid-deck. The boiler below, fed by pipes running down from the tanks while the ship’s engine was powered up, was at a constant boil. It drank water at an amazing rate and had to be replenished constantly. The men were sent over the side every day, while the ship was moving or stopped, to cut ice from the ridges to fill the tank. The tops, or pinnacles, of the ice pans were the easiest to gather. They chopped large clumps of ice with axes and lugged them to the ship’s side, where cargo netting was waiting. The loaded net was winched aboard and its contents dropped into the tanks. The water was always warm and the ice promptly melted. The tops of the tanks were wide open, and smoke from the stack rose overhead, only to settle on the water in a grimy scum of coal ash. The water from the same tanks was used for cooking as well as for tea. A large pot or kettle was skimmed over the filthy, rusty surface to brush aside the film, and then it was dipped and filled. Pinnacle tea, made from water obtained from clumpers of ice melted atop the bogies, was what the sealers used at every opportunity.
Periodically the sealers bent over the hot bogie and poked long, thin wooden spills they had made themselves into its drafter. The spills quickly caught fire and were plac
ed against the tobacco-packed pipes clenched between the men’s teeth. The smokers’ jaws contracted and their lips made a puffing sound until they exhaled a blue smoke. As is usually the way with smokers, when one started, it triggered the urge of all. The room was cloudy with smoke. The slanted beams of lantern light defined wide bands of thin smoke that moved toward the heat rising from the stove.
Many of the sealers preferred to chew their tobacco, spitting the juice on the floor at the base of the hot stove, where the floor was spattered and stained a reddish brown. But the aim of the chewers was not always true, and their spittle sometimes landed on the hot stove. It sizzled and gave off a heady smell that added to the room’s cloudy vapours. Again, no one seemed to mind.
The ship gave a sudden lurch and the men staggered to keep their balance. The hull rocked back and forth for a minute or so and then stopped dead.
“Jammed tight ag’in, b’ys,” someone said.
A door above was opened and slammed shut again. A man climbed down the companionway and confirmed the speaker’s comment.
“Jammed tight as a bloody drum, we is, and the riggin’ is singin’ the same ol’ tune! The h’ice is riftered half up ’er sides. Give her a good go that time, the skipper did. Never worked, though! She mounted the h’ice like a black ram on a white sheep! Fell back just as quick, too.” His vivid description brought uproarious laughter.
“I ’lows the seals will all be dipped be the time we finds ’em,” came from one of the sealers. Dipped was the word the sealers used to describe a seal pup’s first time in the water. After they took to the water, hunting them was all but futile.
Evening fell around them. The ship was wrapped in snow and cloaked with winter night and the snow kept coming. The wind howled out of the northwest, and the night was more like the first of winter than the last. After a time the snow had disguised the ship until she looked more a part of the Great White Plain than she did an old and brittle intruder.
The sealers dined on salt fish cooked in the same pot with onions and potatoes. The fish was not watered and still held enough salt to burn their lips. They drizzled melted butter all over it and ate their fill. After the meal they lounged around the stoves again. The talk was all about seals, the ice, the contrary winds, and skippers they had sailed with before. They talked about their wives and girlfriends and the money they hoped to earn.
“Cecil is buyin’ a ring fer his girl wit’ his money!” one of the men stated.
Some of the others laughed at him and Cecil Mouland was embarrassed. Then a firm, commanding voice spoke out of the shadows and no one laughed.
“Noble t’ing it is fer a young man to be pledgin’ his love to a woman. Powerful t’ing, a ring is. Silver is my favourite colour, but ’twas a gold one I slipped over my Mary’s ring finger. Dat was a while ago. Still loves ’er, I do. Misses her, too,” said Reuben Crewe.
Sitting on the floor with the stove between him and his father, Albert Crewe couldn’t believe his ears. He knew his father loved his mother dearly, but he had never heard him say he loved anyone. Albert loved his mother, too. The day he had left for St. John’s, she had slipped some money in his hand. “Every man needs a few jingles in his pocket,” she had said, smiling up at him. It was $7 in coin. He remembered how the coins were warm from his mother’s hand, as if she had held them for a long time. He knew it was the last cent his mother owned. Later, after he had been long gone from her, heading toward St. John’s, he was sorry for taking the money. While in St. John’s the boy had gone alone to one of the stores that sold jewellery and trinkets. It took him a while to decide what to buy for his mother. He finally settled on a matching pair of combs to hold her full head of hair in place. They were a glassy brown with a cloudy white inlay, which the merchant had told him was pearl. Albert paid $5.60 for the set of combs and kept them hidden in his bunk.
The sealers’ talk came around, as it always did, to hard times at sea, and especially of seal hunts and the method of killing them.
“’Eard last year a feller aboard the Stephano was caught skinnin’ a seal pup alive,” said one man.
“Damn an’ bugger right down on top of ’im,” another sealer responded angrily. “Why would a man do sech a t’ing? ’Tis not human to be tarturin’ dumb animals.”
“’Tis one t’ing to be killin’ ’em fer a man’s livin’. Skinnin’ ’em alive is somet’ing else altogether. A man as’d do sech a t’ing should be blacklisted!”
“Can’t see ’ow ’tis possible to do. Dey wriggles like a bloody eel,” said one logical-sounding voice. “Don’t ’old wit’ it a’tall. ’Taint right,” he finished.
“I’ve ’eard of sech t’ings afore,” said another. “But in all me days of swilin’ I never seen it done,.”
“Should ’ave ’is bloody knees broke!” came a vehement voice from the shadows.
“Talk is, ol’ man Kean, bad as ’e is, banned him from his ship fer life,” said the first sealer.
“Aye, an’ so ’e should,” came from another.
And the sealers all murmured their disgust at such a cruel activity. These men were, by necessity, involved in a brutal trade. But they killed as humanely as was possible and despised acts of barbarism. Behind their rough facade, most of them were a caring breed of men.
Sitting under one of the lanterns, the men with the cards were playing stud poker. They were using matches for ante and listening to the talk around them. The time most loved by the sealers had come, as it did every night—for cuffers. Some of the men didn’t tell them well, but others were masters at it. Or, as one fellow was heard to say, “Dey kin tell a cuffer as’d make a man’s eyes water fer the want of it.”
Some of the yarns were short and funny.
“’Ad an ol’ muzzleloader dat used to snick every time afore she fired, he did. Never failed. Always hung fire the first time he pulled the trigger. Was out on Norder ’Ead one fine marnin’ waitin’ fer a shot o’ ducks. ’Ad four fingers in ’er! When dey come in shot, he pulled the trigger. The bloody gun went off and knocked ’im back on ’e’s ass. Ah! Bloody gert man ’e was, too. Could pick a king eider and keep all the fedders in one ’and!”
“Tell the one about the trappers from Brookfield, Phil,” said Jesse Collins.
Furrin’ Phil leaned against the hull. He was usually a shy man, but because the room was deep in shadow and he sensed the timing was right for his story, he began.
“Dere were two fishermen from Brookfield, as Jess said. They done a bit of trappin’ in the fall time, much as meself, after the cod was over and done wit’. Furs were fetchin’ a pretty good price dat year, especially long fur, like fox an’ lynx an’ beaver an’ such.”
Here Phil shifted uneasily, seeing they were all paying rapt attention to him. But he continued.
“They left a bit early in the year, before freeze-up. ’Twas a damp ol’ fall, been rainin’ off an’ on fer a week or more. One of ’em, can’t min’ ’is name—Jake, I t’ink—asked the doctor in Brookfield, who were a friend of ’is, fer a few doses of poison to take along wit’ ’im. Don’t ’ardly know why doctors ’ave poison all the time, but they do. ’Twas in powder form and the doctor told ’im ’twas tasteless.
“The b’ys set off inlan’ fer a fortnight of trapping. Gone fer t’ree weeks, they was, an’ still no sign of ’em.” Here Phil paused long enough to fill his pipe. He had the audience’s full attention by now. “A party o’ men was got up to go an’ look fer ’em. Not easy to fin’ a man in the deep woods with nar tree cut nor trail blazed. By a bit of good fartune, it had snowed a bit shortly after the trappers had left. Not much, but enough fer good tracking. And dat’s ’ow they found ’em.” He stopped to light his pipe.
“Never min’ yer bloody pipe, b’y! What ’appened to the two trappers?”
The sealers were well into Phil’s yarn by now and were eager to learn
the outcome. Phil patiently bent back from the stove, flaming spill in hand, and lit his pipe. He stepped back to his place while getting it fired good, then continued. He was enjoying it now.
“’Tweren’t a pretty sight they found. Dead, they were, the two of ’em. All nunnied up in a ball, they was, like a rabbit in a snare. Wit’ nar cap on their ’eads, their eyes all bloodshot an’ bulgin’ out of their sockets an’ their mout’s all jawed open, as if they died screamin’. The front of their clothes was ripped to shreds from neck to gut. The fellers who found ’em figured ’twas wil’ animals ’ad done it first. Then they seen pieces of cotton and wool gripped in their dead ’ands. The poor fellers’ flesh was ripped and torn open, too, like ’twas done be a cat! An’ pieces of their own flesh was hanging from their fingernails. ’Ad tore open their own flesh, they did!”
It took a while to figure out what had happened to the trappers, Phil explained, but the mystery was soon solved. Inside their two packs, all that remained of their food were a few crumbs of bread wrapped in paper. Next to it was what was left of the poisons, also wrapped in paper. The deadly powder had leached into the bread. They had eaten the food not knowing it had been poisoned; the doctor’s poison was tasteless. The men had died slow, horrible deaths. The toxin had acted like a fire in their digestive tracts, so severe they had tried to rip it out of their bodies.
