Left to Die

by Gary Collins

  Kneeling at the foot of her bed were her husband and her son. Reuben was in shadow to the left of the boy and had his arm around his boy. Albert John was leaning across his father’s chest and was staring longingly at his mother with the moonlight full on his face. Though she didn’t hear anything, Mary knew her husband was praying. Her boy’s hands, covered with the new cuffs she had knitted, were clasped together under his chin, as if he too were praying. Her husband’s rugged face looked drawn and haggard and filled with regret. Her son’s face was a steely white, his cheeks looked puffy, and he was shivering all over. Mary Crewe neither swooned nor cried out, though she knew she was looking at the dying moments of her lifelong mate and her young son. The vision was so clear that Mary recognized her own unique double stitching in the clothes they were wearing. Instinctively, Mary reached toward her son.

  Her fingers were within a few inches of the boy when he and his father faded away on the moonbeam coming through the window. With a pitiful cry, Mary hurried to the window, threw the curtains aside, and stared out. The distraught woman fell to her knees and leaned her arms on the sill. Pressing both hands against the frosted pane, she wept. At first she saw nothing out the window, just the scudding clouds shadowing the bright moon. But as her hands melted the frost, she saw the harbour below filled with Arctic ice. Across it, the moon path led her gaze seaward. The ice glittered and sparkled in places like diamonds, but in others Mary saw scattered black forms. They could have been moon shadows or the forms of men. She felt the cold seeping through, but she held her hands there until she couldn’t bear it any longer. Drawing them away, she clasped them together for warmth and to begin the age-old supplication of women who pray to the Almighty for their men upon the sea.

  Mary stayed there on the cold floor as the frost stole across the pane again, clouding her view. She stayed there in the same position, sobbing and shivering and welcoming the cold, until her joints weakened and she slumped to the floor. She remained there, beneath the window, until the night turned to day.

  * * * * *

  Forty-Two nautical miles to the southeast from Elliston and from the window where Mary Crewe was kneeling, her husband, Reuben Crewe, and their son, Albert John, were also on their knees. The same moonlit night revealed a scene identical to that which showed itself to Mary in her tiny bedroom. Albert John Crewe was dying, cradled in his father’s arms. Reuben was strong enough to carry on alone, but he would not. He would rather die with his son.

  Reuben Crewe could not believe what was happening. He knew when the Stephano had turned away from them that they were in serious trouble. The reason why he had returned to the seal hunt was to look after the boy, and he had secretly thought it would not be necessary. His ordeal when the Harlaw had gone under the ice paled in comparison to the challenge that lay ahead of him. Reuben doubted if he was up to it, but with the life of his young son hanging in the balance, he would not die without a fight.

  Albert John had shrugged away his father’s concerns for several hours, but when the first night deepened and the blizzard rose to a terrific gale, the boy stayed near his father’s side. All through that terrible night he walked by his father’s side, sometimes behind him, and Reuben shielded him from the worst. Sometime during that night they had seen a man fall down and not rise again. It was the first time Albert had seen anyone die. In the full light of the next day, he saw many more die. Now it was night again, and still no one came to rescue them.

  Albert ate the cakes of hard bread he carried in his pocket and several more from his father, who told the boy he wasn’t hungry. He washed the bread down with snow, which he found took longer and longer to melt in his mouth. As the second night wore on, Albert wished he had worn the scarf his mother had hidden inside his bag. He would not feel embarrassed to wear it now.

  The night lost some of its clouds, and when the moon shone down on the field of death, Albert Crewe’s frostbitten feet gave out under him. He stumbled and fell face down on the ice. His father went to his side.

  “Get up, Albert John! You must get up, my son! You cannot lie down! ’Twill be the end of ye!”

  “I—I can’t get up, Pop! Me feet ent got no feelin’ in ’em! They doubled up under me. I’m awful cold, too, Pop. An’ sleepy. I’ll rest me eyes fer a bit.” The boy’s voice was low and incoherent. His father had to bend close to him to understand what his son was saying.

  “You cannot! You must not sleep, Albert John.” The moonlight showed how badly his son’s condition had deteriorated. His face was blue and puffy with frostbite. He was shaking like a lone autumn leaf in a gale of wind and his teeth were chattering.

  “Oh my God! No! Not my boy, Lord! Take me, Lord, an’ keep my boy safe!” the anguished father cried.

  He went to his knees and pulled his dying son hard against his chest. Albert mumbled something Reuben could not understand, but he managed to get the boy on his knees beside him. He wrapped one arm around his son’s shoulders and pulled Albert’s head under the shelter of his coat. Albert tucked his folded hands under his chin. Reuben removed one of his mitts and placed his hand on the boy’s face. It was icy cold. Shivers came over the boy in spasms, and when they did they were so severe they shook both father and son. Albert’s chin quivered and he burst into tears. Reuben Crewe was crying, too, as he rocked his son back and forth.

  A group of men discovered them. Among them was Jacob Dalton, who began flising his arms back and forth.

  “Why are ye lying down, Uncle Reub? Yer always tellin’ us to keep movin’.”

  “’Tis Albert John, Jake b’y. He can’t walk, you see. An’ his face is awful cold.” Reuben looked up at the men standing around him. “I’ll warm ’im, though, b’ys, and then we’ll come along wit’ you fellers again.”

  “No, Uncle Reub, you can’t stay dere in the cold. You’ll freeze solid,” one of the sealers said. He reached down to help pull the old man to his feet, but Reuben pulled away from him.

  “’Ow can I stand to me feet wit’out my boy?” he asked. “I’ll keep ’im warm wit’ his head tucked under me arm. He’ll be all right. I promised his mother I would look out fer him, you see. ’Tis why I come back. An’ by God, I will. ’Ow can I walk into my Mary’s warm kitchen wit’out Albert John? What will I say to her when she asks me where the boy is? No, b’ys, I’ll bide yere and keep me promise to my Mary.”

  Tears came to the sealers’ eyes. They knew they could offer no help to the Crewes.

  “By God, wouldn’t I like to have ol’ man Kean in reach of my ’ands right now,” said Dalton, angrily clenching his big hands into fists.

  The ice hunters walked away from father and son. One of them looked back and noticed that the breath from only one of the figures was rising into the sky.

  Reuben Crewe watched his fellow sealers walk away. Jacob Dalton was singing again, but none of the others had joined him. Reuben’s knees were cramped and freezing cold from kneeling on the ice. He wanted to remove his hand from his son’s frozen face long enough to put his mitt back on, but the boy looked so peaceful he kept it there. He suddenly noticed that Albert John wasn’t shivering anymore.

  “Sleep well, my son,” he said quietly, “while I keeps watch.”

  * * * * *

  Phillip Holloway, the trapper, was faring well. So far he had come through the ordeal without serious incident. He had helped Jesse Collins keep the others going and had walked to keep warm without stopping. He was used to walking. His trapline was a long one over rough terrain. He was hungry now and dropping for sleep, but he marched along with the others, nodding and dozing on his feet as he went. He would have liked to have another orange. His brother, Josh, had taken two of them from the Stephano and had given him one last night. The two brothers had eaten them quickly before they could freeze solid in their pockets. Oranges were a rare treat, and Phil discovered he loved them. He slowed down and stopped walking. He had
to get some sleep. Just a few minutes would do him.

  “Not t’inkin’ of lying down, are ye, Phil?” bawled his friend Jesse Collins, who had come up behind him. Joshua and a few others from the Bonavista North area were with him.

  “Naw, Jess b’y, just feeling a bit groggy is all.”

  “Fred Collins has died, Phil b’y,” Josh said sadly.

  “We’re still on our feet, though, by God,” said Collins, not allowing the death of their friend to sink in. “Come on, b’ys, we’ve a boat to haul up on the other side of the ’arbour an’ the tide is leaving.”

  He pointed to a big swatch of moonlit water nearby, and with that the unstoppable Jesse Collins got the men swinging their arms and running around the imaginary harbour. Phil was revived by Jesse’s enthusiasm. Brushing aside the need for rest, he followed behind them. It took them nearly twenty minutes to navigate around the pan and return to the swatch of water.

  Phil was jogging along behind for the second time and was swinging his arms wildly when he felt the first taste of hot liquid in his throat. He knew immediately what it was: blood. He tried to ignore it and swallow it, pretending it was saliva. But it was no use. He stopped in the trail as hot blood bubbled out of his nose and erupted from his throat in a burst of red that covered the snow at his feet. It was the worst nosebleed he had ever experienced. It kept coming and he was afraid. He tried to call out to the men who had gone ahead of him, but his voice came out in a guttural, liquid sound that went nowhere. The tough trapper who had survived the cold was bleeding to death. He staggered on his feet near the dangerous black water. His balance was leaving him, but he had to stay on his feet. To lie down meant death. He used his hand to try and stop the blood from his nose, but there was just as much blood coming up out of his throat. His clothes were soaked with it and it blackened the snow around him. He staggered backwards and was surprised when he heard a splash of water.

  When the sealers made their round again, they saw a string of blood leading from the path to the water and couldn’t make sense of it. They called and called for their friend without success. But Joshua Holloway kept staring at the bloodied snow and knew what it meant.

  22

  Cecil Mouland was hungry. he fished inside his jacket pocket for another cake of the hard bread he had taken from the Stephano. The sea biscuits were like granite and he was tired of chewing them. They required teeth of iron to crack—he often broke the cakes open on his knee—but he had none left. His pocket was empty of bread, but his hand brought up a bag of chewing tobacco. He had completely forgotten about it. Holding the cloth bag tied with a string, the memory of the man who had given it to him filled his eyes with tears.

  His grandfather had gone to the ice for years and had endured many a time of bitter cold. He had told him he must keep his jaws moving above all else. Cecil’s grandfather was convinced that if he did this simple thing, his brain would never freeze. There was only one way to keep your jaws moving, he maintained, and that was to chew tobacco. Cecil had never chewed tobacco in his life. He had tried smoking it once or twice but had gotten into such a fit of coughing he had given up on it. There was another reason why he was against tobacco. His girlfriend, Jessie Collins, was a member of the Salvation Army and he had become a convert, also. The Army considered the use of tobacco to be sinful. When he became a “soldier” of that army, he had taken a sworn oath not to use it. Cecil had asked his grandfather if food would serve just as well to keep his jaws moving.

  “Ah, me darlin’ b’y,” he had said. “What ’appens to yer grub after you chews it fer a spell?”

  “Why, you swallows it!” said Cecil.

  “Swallies it indeed, my b’y! Nah, my son. Baccy’s the answer! Baccy and flisin’. ’Tis the proper t’ing to keep a man’s head straight and his bosom warm.”

  Now Cecil’s grandfather’s advice resounded in his ears and he loosed the string on his “baccy bag.” He placed the plug of tobacco in the corner of his jaw and gnawed off a piece. At first it didn’t taste too bad—a bit strong with a faintly sweet and spicy taste. Then, as his saliva warmed it and his teeth ground it to a pulp, it burned his tongue like hell! He wanted to spit the revolting substance out of his mouth, but he suddenly realized his jaws were warm for the first time in two days. He kept on chewing.

  He was on a pan with many other sealers, most of them still on their feet. Cecil fell in step with them again. Rolling his first wad of tobacco to the side of his jaw, he began singing a church hymn. He reasoned that as the tobacco was sinful, the singing of hymns might make it less so. He was surprised when many of the others joined in. Jacob Dalton’s voice was loudest of all. From other pans came the sound of men singing, too. The songs rose and faded as they stumbled on, their voices buoying their steps as they went.

  “Let the lower lights be burning, send a gleam across the wave / Some poor fainting struggling seaman, You may rescue You may save.”

  Many of them stared at the lights they had no hope of reaching and wept openly. They sang “For Those in Peril on the Sea” and “Throw Out the Lifeline.” All the hymns they sang represented the sea in a figurative sense, but some of them who raised their voices in song would not live to see another day on the cold Atlantic Ocean.

  * * * * *

  Hedley Payne of Greenspond was seventeen years old and at the seal hunt for the first time. He followed his master watch, Arthur Mouland, without question or complaint. He started with six cakes of hard bread in his pockets and chewed them slowly, making them last. He didn’t think about dying at all until his best friend dropped. Job Easton was walking beside Payne when he just fell over, curled up on the ice, and died. The sealers had to drag young Hedley Payne away from Job’s corpse.

  Joseph Randell was from Bonavista. He was thirty-five years old and had been to the ice for two years previous. Randell ate nine cakes of hard bread and sucked pieces of ice only when he had to get the pulpy bread down his throat. He held his urine until his bladder caused him pain and then forced himself to dribble it like a dog, holding his precious body heat inside as long as he could. He wore heavy, store-bought underwear lined with fleece. The sleeves of his rough canvas jacket chafed his wrists and left them frostbitten. He was on a pan where ten men had died, and when the eleventh fell down at his feet, Joseph could take it no more and walked away to join the living.

  John J. Howlett from Goulds was one of the men with William Pear when he died on the first night out. John couldn’t believe a man could die so easily, and it frightened him. Dog tired and cold, he wouldn’t allow his body to stop for rest. The fear of death kept him alive.

  Thomas Ryan was from Turks Cove, Trinity Bay. Though he was thirty-two years old and unmarried, this was his first year at the ice. He shipped aboard the Newfoundland as bo’sun’s mate and was considered one of the ship’s officers. Before leaving the Newfoundland early Tuesday morning, Thomas dined on a nourishing hash of meat, potatoes, and turnip served with bread, hot butter, and tea. Aboard the Stephano he was given more bread and butter and tea. He was in prime physical condition. He saw the first man in his company die just before dawn on Wednesday morning. The long night came again, and when it was over, in the full light of day, Ryan counted twenty-six dead men scattered around the pan. Many of them were friends and it sickened him so much he vomited in grief.

  This was nineteen-year-old Cecil Tiller’s third year at the hunt. He was from Newtown and knew George Tuff well. Tiller was a tough but easygoing fellow who took orders without question and feared nothing. He was sure they would be spending the night aboard the modern Stephano. He was looking forward to it. When Abe Kean ordered them back on the ice and the big ship disappeared in the mist of snow, Cecil was more disappointed than anything else. He stared in disbelief as hard men died. It wasn’t until he heard Jesse Collins say in his usual offhand, casual way, “The Greenland disaster won’t ’ave a peck on dis one,” that Tiller thoug
ht he could actually perish. Even with several frostbitten toes, he refused to give up.

  Wesley Collins was also from Newtown. He was nineteen years old, not married, and had no intention of ever getting married. He was a sombre, deep-thinking sort, and though he appeared distant, he was very friendly. He had an angular face which he always kept clean-shaven. Now it sported a grizzly beard and he didn’t like it, but a two-day beard was the least of Collins’s worries. He had fallen between the pans twice. His left leg was freezing and two of his toes were burning like fire. His right leg had no feeling at all. He kept walking with the others for as long as he could before the frost moved up his foot into his leg. It gave out and he went down, but he didn’t stop moving. For twenty-four hours he kept flising his arms and twisting his body as vigorously as he would have if he were standing. He would never give up.

  Theophilus Chalk and Jacob Dalton were not the only sealers who hailed from Little Catalina. The little fishing village on the north side of Trinity Bay had a long history of sealing. George Carpenter, age thirty-five, had shipped aboard the SS Newfoundland, as had Abel Tippett, fifty-six years, William J. Tippett, thirty-one, Norman Tippett, twenty-seven, and Edward Tippett (no relation to the other Tippetts), who was twenty-four years old.

  Late Wednesday night, the sealers from Little Catalina were gathered on the same ice pan with fifteen others. All of them were suffering from severe fatigue, frostbite, and hunger. Some were also suffering from despair and were heard to say many times, “We’re lef’ to die, b’ys! Dere’s no more’n that to it.” On this coldest of nights, after having gone so long without rescue, many more walked under the same cloud of despair.