by Gary Collins
“There was more,” said Phil. “That early winter, I was trappin’ the same area. I found a lovely red fox, dead. His jaws was filled wit red fur an’ bits of his own flesh. ’Twas pitiful to see. An’ the next day I was b’ilin’ me kettle over a crackling fire when a jay pitched on a limb above me. He was tremblin’ all over and begun to pick at ’is chest wit’ his bill, fedders flyin’. Never stopped peckin’ at his chest till he fluttered down dead at me feet!
“Bad t’ing to use poison on innocent animals. Don’t ’old wit’ it, I don’t. Nor sculpin’ seals wit’out killin’ ’em, either. Many said the trappers got what they deserved, a taste of their own medicine, like.” Again the sealers cried out their disgust against men who would torture animals. Many of them agreed the two trappers had gotten just what they deserved.
The yellow flame from one of the lanterns began guttering for more fuel. Someone found a two-gallon can half filled with coal oil and removed the lantern from its hook. He removed the stopper and poured oil from a short spout in the can, and the flame brightened as the wick absorbed the fuel. The sealer returned the lantern to its hook.
The wind outside the imprisoned ship gave a distant, moaning sound dulled by her wooden hull. The rushing of it past the masts and through the rigging was a higher pitch that rose and fell with the flaws. The sound of the ship’s timbers creaking and straining as they tried to resist the pressure of the ice on them was thunderous. She was so tightly wedged into the ice, even with the force of the wind on her superstructure she moved but little. One of the sealers placed his hand on the lower hull as if to test her strength and to reassure himself they were safe. He pulled his hand away in surprise. The ship felt as cold as ice.
“I ’ope this one’s strengt’ has ’ardened wit’ age an’ not weakened!”
“Oh, she’s still strong yet,” ventured young Cecil Mouland, not yet secure when talking with the sealers but trying to be a part of them. “I feels safe nuff aboard this one.”
The Newfoundland seemed to settle deeper into her icy cradle, as if to remind the men that between them and certain death from freezing were but her aged walls . . . and below them the waiting depths of the sea.
The air was pregnant with silence for a moment. The bogie pinged its heat. The boiling kettle on its top gave off a faint bubbling sound. The ship’s timbers rasped again. The wind from above came in howling gusts upon her deck, swirling with snow. Someone coughed, then spoke the minds of them all.
“By God, ol’ er not, I’m glad to be wrapped in her arms dis night! A man wouldn’t survive wit’out ’em, dat’s fer damn sure.”
A sealer who had been standing with his back against the hull suddenly walked toward the bogie. He turned his back to the stove, relishing in its warmth. “Still an’ all,” he said, “wood rots after a time, b’ys. Dem steel ships o’ the fleet, now, they’re safe enough.”
“Dere’s men aboard this one who’ve survived sech a night as this out on the ice away from deir ship,” one man said. “Maybe worse. The secon’ ’an’, Tuff, now, he was cast into the starm o’ the Greenlan’. Survived it, too. ’E won’t talk much about it, though. ’Appened not far from ’ere, too, alongside The Funks, I ’ear.”
“Uncle Reuben knows all about survivin’ a gale at the ice. In a steel ship, too! Tell us about it, Uncle Reub.”
Amazingly, these men, who were inches away from what could be their own watery grave, wanted to hear about other men who had faced their own perils at sea. Reuben Crewe had to be persuaded again, but after a while he shifted his weight to a half-sitting position on the bunk where he had been lounging. The wooden boards creaked under his weight. His face came half into the lamplight. Not yet fifty years old, Crewe’s body was bent. His features were rough and creased, more from years of toil and exposure to wind and weather than from some trait of his ancestors.
“Iron, she were, not steel! Big difference, dey tells me,” he began. His voice was deep and strong, a voice men listened to without interrupting. “SS Harlaw be name. She was built in Scotland in 1881, shorter than dis one, only a hundred and sixty-five foot long, she was. Owned be the New York, Newfoundland and Halifax Steamship Company. As sturdy-looking a cargo ship as a man ever sailed in. She was slow, though, wit’ only a seventy-one-’arsepower steam motor into ’er.”
Crewe was a born storyteller and was laying the foundation of his tale. He had everyone’s attention, including his son’s. Albert had heard his father tell the story of the Harlaw before, but only in bits and pieces and never with such passion. It was as if his father was speaking directly to him, warning him how things could be. Albert shrank deeper into the darkness of the ship and listened.
“We sailed from S’n John’s that spring, down along be the souther’ part of the island and out into the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Made good time, too, we did, no ice a’tall till we got to the wester side o’ the Gulf that year. We struck the young ’arps be the t’ousands jest nart’ o’ the Magdeline Islands. We killed ’em fer days, workin’ back and forth through the ice, pannin’ seals young an’ ol’ as we went. Ah, b’ys! Bloodied ’er decks, we did! Fat, too! She was as slippery as a barrel of eels in a gallon of snot!”
The sealers laughed with glee at Uncle Reuben’s description.
“Wit’ the steady flow of ice bearin’ down t’rough the Gulf, we was off Cape Nort’ near St. Paul Island on April 7, a day I’ll never ferget as long as I lives.”
Here Reuben paused and leaned farther out into the light. His unshaven face looked harsh and grizzled. Flecks of grey in his scraggly beard were picked up by the dull light, and his entire countenance looked sad.
“The morning begun civil enough, not much wind, and we started huntin’ swiles early. We seen two sun galls on either side of the sun jest after it rose, an’ we figured a blow was comin’. We took no worry o’ it, though. Our skipper was a good man and warned us to bide close to the ship. Dere was a good many seals all around. The ice was running along be the island pretty good, an’ a man had to be quick dodgin’ the pans!
“We killed seals all dat marnin’. The wind backed from the nort’east wit’out our noticin’, so deep into the slaughter we was. It was comin’ on snow, too, when we heard t’ree blasts from the Harlaw’s whistle. A signal to return to ship in a ’urry, dat was. All shroudy-lookin’, she was, wit’ the wind and snow comin’ on. We made her, though, wit’ not much trouble, not being too far from ’er.
“But makin’ the ship was not the safe ’aven we t’ought it was a’tall. We couldn’t get aboard ’er! She was all listed out on her port side like a draft ’arse scratchin’ against a picket fence. The gale o’ win’ had pressed the ice against ’er sides wit’out warnin’ an’ she looked like she was to tip over.”
Most of the sealers had never heard the story of the Harlaw before and sat gasping with amazement.
“Be now the win’ was howlin’ like dat new freight train comin’ down over the Trinity barrens,” Reuben went on. “The skipper was shouting orders like a madman. He was aboard of the Harlaw along wit’ a few men an’ was orderin’ grub and blankets and stuff hove over her side. We fellers on the ice scrambled fer it and put it in a pile. Still didn’t believe she was goin’ to go. We’d never seen anyt’ing like it! Didn’t t’ink ’twas possible! Oh, b’ys, it were a terrible t’ing to witness! A man’s refuge bein’ destroyed afore ’e’s very eyes, for dat’s what it was. The ol’ Harlaw was being devoured be the ice! It bulged against ’er and leaned ’er out on ’er port side with the press of it, till she slowly settled in the water.
“Her rigging gear clanked and clinked when she tipped over and we could ’ear the rumble of her innards fallin’ out o’ place. Scaldin’ ’ot water poured out o’ ’er boilers and sent a cloud of steam rising up from her doors. Now dat the ship was heeled over, the ice pans large an’ small slid up over her sides. Like a pack o’ white dogs on a downed
black sheep, it was! An’ we fellers stood all around stunned with the look of it, an’ nowhere to go but down into the blue drop!”
Crewe stopped talking long enough to lean forward and pull a dirty handkerchief out of his back pocket. He sat back down and blew loudly from his nose. No one said a word. The man had them enthralled.
“Then the skipper bawled out to us. ‘Fill yer pockets with grub, grab a few blankets, and make fer the goddamn islan’!’ ’Twas the first time we fellers’d ’eard the man curse, he was dat excited, you see. Kept ’is ’ead, though, the man did. Shouted fer us to get goin’. Stayed be’ind us like a shepherd, driving us on toward the island. ’E was the last to leave ’is ship, you see, in a way as ’tis fittin’ fer a skipper to be doin’. We bore off fer St. Paul Island, only a black shadow rising out o’ the driftin’ snow!
“Betimes we looked back to see if ’twas real. It was true enough, all right. The Harlaw was down an’ the ice was pouring over her. We could ’ear plain the sounds of dat awful ice bein’ forced over her metal frame. She groaned in pain, b’ys, I swear to God she did. Then she was out o’ our sight an’ the island was near. My God, the speed of the ice was somet’ing to see. We had no way of tellin’, you see, out on the floe. But when we came in under the land and saw ’ow fast it was rushin’, b’y, we was shocked! Don’t forget now, b’ys, we was on dat ice an’ ’ad to jump off!
“The tide from the Gulf along with the force of the nodeast wind was forcing it along be dat island like a house afire! A man wouldn’t be able to row a punt wit’ it! The cliffs loomed above us, but along the shoreline the ice was bein’ crushed to pummy. Not only dat, the bloody ice was risin’ an’ fallin’ with the swell. We had our gaffs and used ’em to jump from pan to pan at times. And once when a feller fell through, two o’ us hooked ’im into ’is jacket an’ hauled ’im out!”
By now they were spellbound with Crewe’s story, and though they were eager to turn the page, they hated to read the last one. Their greatest fear, Reuben told them, was that the ice might run out. Visibility was poor by now, and the swell that was running could mean the tail end of the ice. They had no way of knowing if it was miles long or there was just a string left of it. The ice was very rough and difficult to walk on. Most of it was very hard ice that had accumulated over many years. Approaching St. Paul Island, the sound of the ice bearing upon the rocks was terrifying. It cracked and snopped like gunfire; it squeaked like wood and groaned with the pain of being forced onto the land. It split and cracked and was pummelled to slush against that terrible shore. But, thank God, the ice kept coming out of the drifting snow.
The sealers now looked like black-clad hobos scrambling to jump off a train. They had to walk quickly, parallel to the island, watch their chance, and then jump onto the slippery baddy catters. And behind them their captain kept yelling his support.
“Run, by God, run! Jump ashore! We’re ice hunters, by God, not a bunch of bloody schoolb’ys!”
And run and jump they did. Singly and in groups, they leaped ashore. They used their gaffs to haul themselves up and to find holds in the ice-encased shoreline. They shouted and yelled and cursed. A few of them fell through to their knees, some to their waists, but they were hauled back up to the dry land by their friends. At last, all but one was safe on St. Paul Island. The captain who had urged his men to safety was still out on the ice. He was weak from exertion. Now it was his men’s turn to yell their support to him, and soon, exhausted, he was hauled to the shore. The crew of the Harlaw had escaped death and were safe.
“Safe from the ice, we were. But a good lot o’ us was wet and numb wit’ the cold. St. Paul Island, as you may not know, is no more’n t’ree miles long, I ’lows, all growed over with tuckamore. Well, we all knows under the tuckamore trees can be found piles of dry crunnicks and wood good fer firin’. We still ’ad our gaffs, as I tol’ ’e. An’ we rooted out enough o’ dat dry, snarly wood wit’ ’em to get a fire goin’. We burned a ’ole in dat place, I can tell ’e. Still see it, I ’lows! We stood aroun’ the fire fer hours like a troop o’ mummers.
“We gnawed on ’ardtack and canned stuff froze solid till a ship seen our fire and hove in view out in the ice. The wind ’ad died be then and the tides slacked wit’ it. We still ’ad to get out on the ice to go aboard the rescue ship, but ’twas easy enough. Only a few fellers got wet, as is common. We was saved, but wit’ all o’ our ’ard work gone to the bottom of the Gulf. Not a penny fer us dat spring. ’Twas a ’ard blow, b’ys. I swore to me woman, Mary’s ’er name, I would come a-swilin’ no more. But ’ere I am again, trapped in the bowels of another one.”
Reuben finished his poignant tale and told no one why he had really come on this trip. He would not embarrass his boy by telling the others he had come to protect him. He knew Albert had been listening. He had seen the glow of his yellow hair in the dim light afforded by the smoky lantern. The boy sat drawing on a pipe, the flare from the spill falling on his eager young face.
For a while the sealers discussed in low tones what he had told them. It was an amazing yarn, and they realized the same could happen to any of them. But, as was their way, they soon dismissed that possibility. After all, they reasoned, there were two men aboard who had survived disasters on the ice. The chance of such a thing happening to them again was slim.
The night was deep now and the wind seemed to be subsiding. The sealers had a last mug-up and sought their hard bunks. The men with the cards were still playing; one of them had a pile of matches and pipe spills gathered on the head of the keg on which they were playing.
From deep in the shadows came a growly voice directed at the card players: “If ya stays up wit’ the boys da night, ya still got to git up wit’ the men in the marnin’.”
The card players took the hint and stopped playing.
They talked for a while in the dark rows among their makeshift beds until they quieted down.
“Dere’s a fedder on its edge in me bunk, b’ys!” yelled someone from the dimness of the place.
The men laughed at the joke. The ship creaked as before. Someone started snoring. There came a faint sound of music from somewhere among the crude bunks. It was Peter Lamb practising on his cowed harmonica. Cecil Mouland knew the song the young man was playing was called “Hard Times.” He knew the song well.
“Stop the racket, b’y, an’ save yer breat’ fer snorin’!” shouted a sealer with a sleepy voice.
“Ah, leave the boy alone. A lullaby is jest the t’ing aboard o’ dis one!”
Cecil hummed silently, “Hard times, hard times come again no more,” and waited for the music to continue, but the sweet music didn’t come again.
And tucked tightly in its bed of ice, the Newfoundland slept.
George Tuff, standing in the shadows, had been listening. He had heard Crewe’s yarn, and he had heard the men speak of George’s own reluctance to tell of his ordeal aboard the Greenland. They were right. He seldom spoke of it. Unlike Reuben Crewe, who seemed to draw strength from the telling of his tale, George knew he would take no similar comfort. Walking forward, he went away to find his own bunk. He wasn’t used to living apart from the sealers. He didn’t consider himself an officer at all and secretly wished to be just one of the men again. He removed his outer clothing and, after a while, nodded off under the heavy quilts in his own berth. And then the cruel dreams of death, which he had relived for more sleepless nights than he could remember, came flooding back.
13
F or five more days the Newfoundland tacked her way across endless fields of ice. The scunners aloft in their barrels called down directions toward countless leads of water that led them nowhere. With powerful binoculars they scanned the ice for a way through for seals. Lining the port and starboard rails, the sealers kept their vigil, anxious to spot the harps. But they found nothing. The upper deck of the Newfoundland, covered with snow, was tracked by a thous
and footprints. Snow had piled against her doors and her upper works and drifted tight to her hatch coamings. And on the bridge of the ship, her restless young skipper strode back and forth like Ahab seeking his white whale.
The ice became heavy and tight again and the ship slowed to a crawl. The weather was clear with a light breeze out of the northwest. In frustration, Kean sent a few men off to the windward in the early morning to search for seals. They returned and reported having seen whitecoats—but only five of them.
Later on that day they saw more, and just before dark they had killed a total of fifteen whitecoats. Wes Kean was not pleased. The following day proved better, but not by much. They killed 300 young harps. For men who expected to kill thousands of seals, it merely whetted their appetite. And during all that time they saw no other ship, no high mast with a crow’s nest etching the sky, no sign of smoke abroad on the horizon—nothing. They were alone on a white sea.
The next day was just as bad, and Kean could not contain himself to his ship any more. He jumped over her side before noon and strode away to the west-southwest in the company of three other sealers. A swell came up, and after a while the men looked to be walking up and down on sloping, snowy hills, until they walked out of sight.
With Kean gone for the time being, Charles Green directed the Newfoundland’s course, when she could move at all. It was the first time Green gave an order on the ship.
Wes Kean and the others were gone for nearly five hours. They were first seen in the distance like tiny specks that might have been low-flying seabirds. Coming aboard the ship, Kean merely growled a greeting to any man who spoke to him. They had not found the seals, but others in the fleet had.
* * * * *
Three days earlier, ice observers on the northern part of the island of Newfoundland, just south of St. Anthony, had spotted a herd of seals riding on the ice far out to sea. The ice was black with their numbers, and the herd was so big it took the whole day for them to pass. The seal herd was estimated to be as long as sixty miles. The ice was speeding south. Wireless operators sent the exciting news south by the coast and it reached the operator in Twillingate, and he passed it on to the ships at the front.
