by Paul Almond
The week went by with me tormenting myself in such fashion. The boat got painted, and I set about the interior cabin. I wanted to enlist Lorna’s aid because I knew her feminine touch would add a great deal. But I vacillated back and forth. From the few conversations I’ve had with newlyweds, I realized this uncertainty was not unusual. It usually turned out to be a prelude to the actual wedding. Though in some cases, decisions had been made not to go ahead. So shouldn’t I look first at the reasons why we should not get married? And of course, my own mother’s second thoughts the day after her wedding carried some weight.
Well, I had gone over them during the preceding week, especially facing the fact she had been violated on that schooner, but I knew that would have absolutely no weight if the Lord were himself to decide. And now Friday morning, with so much done and only another week before the boat would be ready for its trip down the coast to St. Paul’s River, I’d have to come to a decision and act on it right away. And to confirm that prediction, didn’t the first large schooner of the season pull into our harbour at Mutton Bay and drop anchor?
It was a bit larger than the schooner from which I had rescued her but it did bring back in full force that scene with me rowing out in a fisherman’s boat to do battle with the captain, and the ensuing rescue.
All morning, I’d seen fishing craft rowing to and fro with seal pelts, homemade artefacts, and so on, which they bartered for vegetables, oil for the lamps, salt spare ribs, tea, molasses, flour, and other necessities of life that had run out during the long winter. There’d be some rejoicing tonight, for the bartered items would include the demon rum. Yes, today must be the day.
When I went home for my midday dinner, I found Aunt Minnie alone and the table laid for just the two of us. “Where’s Lorna?” I asked.
“She’s terble busy, Mr. John. She’s been racing around all day. She asked me if I would get dinner. Of course I said yes.” She put the plates on the table. “I’m not nearly as good a cook as Lorna, but I did my best. We got a nice brace of eggs from nests the lads found, and I made you an omelette.”
Well, I was so focussed on my problem of Lorna and asking for her hand, that I paid little attention to the lovely meal and went up to my room to reflect how on earth to propose. On bended knee? I smiled. Rather too old-fashioned. No, just simply, well, were we not such good friends? Just spit it out. But I wanted to be able to handle this whole matter in a way that would both please Lorna, and give me some satisfaction on my own.
As luck would have it, these thoughts were broken by sharp rappings on the front door, which then opened anyway and a voice called, “Mr. John! Mr. John.”
More pastoral duties just when I did not need them. Nothing for it, however, but to rise up and shuffle to the head of the stairs. “I’m here. What is it?”
“I been sent to get ya right away. Mr. Sammy John, in Tabacher, they need ya. Gotta go, I’m afraid,” the voice said and withdrew, shutting the front door.
I shook my head. What a job! Well, get dressed up and get going.
No question, as I walked up over the hills behind Mutton Bay, Sammy John Robertson was, in all senses, the patriarch. His own grandfather, Samuel Robertson, had been the first settler in Tabacher in the early part of this century. Had it been anyone else I might have begged off, but this man’s well-being certainly deserved my attention. His lineage demanded it; the seal factory was also his doing. I hoped he had not met with some serious accident. But like as not, something had come up that would tax my already depleted spirit even more. I quickened my pace.
Such a lovely day, so I tried to absorb it. The songbirds were doing their best to outvoice each other, while high above them the clouds tumbled and romped as they heralded more fine weather. My trail led up hill and down dale to Red Bay inlet. I crossed the isthmus and went smartly on to Tabacher Cove at the end of which lived Sammy John.
The heavy-set bewhiskered patriarch whom I had met before opened the door and ushered me in. I saw at once why I had been called. There, in the flesh, stood the great Wilfred Grenfell. As their clergyman, this meeting was de rigueur. Unthinkable for the great man to come and go and not be accorded a visit from their pastor. He was, in the few short years since he had visited the Atlantic Coast of Labrador and raised money to build a hospital in Battle Harbour, already a legend round about.
I recognized him immediately from photos, his dark moustache, high forehead, the bearing of a man used to command, but with it all such warmth and grace, oh yes. He had travelled North America in search of funds to help the Labrador livyers, forgotten not only by the government of Newfoundland, but also, I regret, by Quebec and the rest of Canada. Dr. Grenfell was a walking saint.
I walked over and shook his hand warmly. “Dr. Grenfell, such a pleasure. Wonderful to have you in our little community.”
He smiled as he greeted me. “Well, Mr. John, your fame precedes you also, for Mr. Robertson here had been telling me how well you’re liked. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
He looked not much older than me, but in that short life he had accomplished so much. How humble I felt in his presence, knowing I had achieved so little. Mrs. Robertson served us the obligatory cups of tea and, as we went to sit down, I offered, “But perhaps I am interrupting?”
“I was just telling Dr. Grenfell ’ere,” Sammy John regained his rocking chair, “how my grandfather, Samuel Robertson, entertained John James Audubon and ’is crew way back in ’33.”
“Oh yes?” I had no idea who that was.
“You know, the bird fella. He put names on most o’ the birds, and he drew ’em too.”
“Oh yes.” I had heard something about that.
“You know, my ancestor, Old Samuel, ’e told ’im, and ’is son who came with ’im, all about them Basque fellas out there at the tip o’ Labrador, who’d came over whaling even long afore Jacques Cartier sailed these ’ere shores. “Parently ’e didn’t know about that.”
“Fascinating stuff, by George,” Dr. Grenfell threw in.
Fascinating or not, I wasn’t sure I believed it. No one on the Gaspé ever spoke of it.
“Yep, came on that boat of his, The Ripley, July twenty-first, eighteen thirty-three. My grandfather marked it down in the Bible — Audubon was such a famous fella. Didn’t like it here much though, hated that we ate birds’ eggs every spring.”
Well, if it were marked in a Bible, I could be sure it was true. We went on to share more of Sammy John’s and Dr. Grenfell’s experiences. The good doctor told us that when he’d first arrived from England, he could hardly believe the horrifying conditions. The livyers up the coast to Cartwright, Hopedale, and even beyond, had been all but forgotten by the local government, to whom they paid taxes in the Newfoundland capital of St. John’s: no doctors up there, no nurses, no teachers, nothing in the way of services in the many tiny outports strung along that vast coastline, though they faced the rough Atlantic’s wrath with its violent storms and harsh winters, which descended even earlier than ours and left a lot later in the spring. So of course, he’d had to act upon that. And off he’d gone to raise the money to help them. And raise it he did. “I heard over and over again,” Dr. Grenfell went on, “the words of my dear departed mother, quoting the one hundred and forty-third psalm, ‘Teach me to do today the thing that pleases Thee.’”
When he went on to say that here, a good ways inland along the gulf, things seemed not so bad, I butted in, “I’m not sure you’re right about that, sir. My parishioners are also in real need.”
“Hold on. I’ve seen little here to match anything out on that wild Atlantic coastline, I can tell you.” He emphasized his British accent with hand movements, delicate, but forceful.
“Nonetheless, I do presume,” I pressed my point home, “that you’ll be setting up another of your life-saving hospitals here.” Three years ago, he had opened the first one out at Battle Harbour, an island farther north on the Atlantic coast. Word of that travelled everywhere, with fishermen and schooners
coming to and fro.
“I’m dreadfully afraid, Reverend,” he went on to say, “I shan’t be opening any hospitals. I have too much to be done already, out where I have installed myself.”
I looked across at Sammy John, sitting in his rocking chair, smoking an enormous pipe and nodding. “Yes sir, ’e’s sure got ’is hands full up on that there Atlantic coast, we all knows it.”
Don’t say they were both against me!
“But Dr. Grenfell,” I pressed, “we do most definitely need your help, sir, just as much. We rely only on midwives, and bless my soul if they don’t do a splendid job. But they cannot save lives like a doctor might.”
He looked at me with warm but piercing eyes. “What about you, Mr. John? You have charge of this parish. Why don’t you go out and get yourself a hospital?”
Me? How harshly that cut. Right now, I was having a hard time just doing the simple job I had been given; though the remark was, from his point of view, quite justified. “I’m delighted to find your faith in me so very firm, Doctor, but I’m afraid it’s not based in any reality. You see, I have only just graduated in Theology, from Bishop’s University...” He didn’t look impressed by this argument, so I went on, “This parish of St. Clement’s stretches four hundred and fifty miles, end to end, so I find it rather full-time.” I lifted my hands helplessly. “I wouldn’t even know how to start on that enterprise.”
“Can’t you learn? That’s what I had to do.”
I shook my head. “One day, perhaps.... But right now, I am convinced my main task is to open your eyes to our poverty here, and our great need that does exist — almost as much as in your own area: nurses, doctors, a hospital with real equipment.” I glanced at Sammy John. “I’m sure he agrees we do certainly need a fine medical facility such as the one in Battle Harbour.” I hoped I’d made my point.
“That’s for sure,” Sammy John echoed. Aha, so I had convinced him! “For sure, ya see, we all live ’ere by fishin’ cod, huntin’ seals in the winter, and that’s all we do. Maybe a bit of huntin’ of caribou or trapping a few animals for their furs and meat. But like Mr. John here says, we sure do have a demand fer a hospital.” He bent and tapped his pipe against the side of his spittoon.
I felt I might be making headway. I got up and began to pace. “You see, Dr. Grenfell, however well we may seem, this parish does have a crying need for good medical attention. If I am the one to bring you this news, so be it.” I stopped and looked at him. I could see that he’d been listening with both ears open.
“Well, I’ll do what I can,” he replied. “Meanwhile, I’m here tomorrow, that is Sunday, and could see people after your service. Monday I hope to sail to Harrington Harbour, where I might do the same. I’ll even try to get as far as Natashquan before returning home. I did outfit my little boat with some basic equipment. But this is mainly a trip of familiarization. Nothing can be decided until I get back to Newfoundland.”
I know that my face lit up with that news. “Now Dr. Grenfell, may I suggest that tomorrow you visit our beautiful new church over in Mutton Bay? I’d like you to preach, and I shall see that my wardens put it about our village, so that you’ll have a packed congregation. Then you can announce your intention to minister to their needs the rest of the afternoon.”
He rose from his chair. “Well sir, that’s an invitation I can’t very well refuse.”
We shook hands and turned as Mrs. Robertson announced, “Now, I got ’ere something you fellas’ll enjoy for your dinners.” She waved us to the table in the next room. “I’ve asked some relatives because Doctor, it’s a real occasion ’aving you ’ere.”
No point in recounting our continued conversations over dinner nor indeed how on Sunday, Dr. Grenfell was able to lift everyone’s spirit with his glorious and impromptu sermon. In the afternoon, a good many lined up on the dock to receive medical attention.
Chapter Twenty-One
Well, after leaving Sammy John’s, I went to check on Owen, to see that everything was right with the boat, before going to find Lorna. He had finished up for the weekend and I bade him goodbye and as I walked up to the house, I went over in my mind what I’d say, joyfully looking forward to what I believed might be the unique moment of my life. And tonight, with the demon rum flowing, might we all not join in a celebration at which I’d announce our decision to wed?
When I arrived, I got the shock of my life. Aunt Minnie sat alone at the table, trying to crochet something, but it was soon clear to me she was only taking her mind off what must’ve happened.
“Well well, Aunt Minnie, the boat looks to be getting in great shape.”
She nodded. Odd she didn’t look up and smile as usual. In fact, as I got out of my coat, I glanced at her and saw she looked close to tears.
“Well,” I said, “any chance of a cup of tea?”
“Of course, of course.” She went to the stove.
“And so where’s Lorna?” I asked. “Still working like a demon?”
Aunt Minnie turned and faced me, lips quivering. “No Mr. John, she’s left. They took her out to the schooner this afternoon.”
I felt as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped on me. No no, that’s much too weak — I felt as if a bolt of lightning had struck. I even felt a bit faint.
She poured the tea and set it down beside me. I was stunned, immobile, my brain trying to come to grips with this horrendous news.
She touched me gently on my shoulder. I leapt up, jammed on my hat and coat, and tore out. I ran all the way down to the dock, not caring in the slightest that I must have looked some fool pursued by the devil.
The place was now mostly deserted, it being the end of the day. One old fisherman, Hollis Mansbridge, Perce’s father, was tying up his boat. He saw me standing there, panting, as if I’d seen a ghost. “We all done the bartering we could. She’s leaving.” He gestured to the schooner. “I reckon it’s a good day for us all ’ere, what with all the food and devil’s brew she brought. I heard tell of a party over at Willie Reid’s, Alice’s brother-in-law.”
“Uncle Hollis, please, you have to get me out to the schooner. Right away.” I looked out: the boat was swinging round; one of her two anchors had already been pulled up.
“No catching her now.” He went on coiling his rope
“We’ve got to try. Please Uncle Hollis. It’s so important. I just have to get to the schooner before she leaves. Please!”
He eyed me with an odd look. Certainly no one in Mutton Bay had seen me this frantic before. And then, bless his heart, he shrugged, undid the mooring from the bollard and motioned me down into his boat.
I looked out to the schooner, and then grabbed the second set of oars. “Let’s row together. We’ve got to catch her.”
As we started, I realized that he was used to a different pace. “Let’s try to row a bit faster,” I pleaded.
I kept looking over my shoulders. I saw that the sailors were in the process of weighing the second anchor but they’d seen us coming and one of them had gone to the captain. They gathered at the rail and a couple of the deckhands let down the rope ladder. I reached the ship and clambered up as quickly as I could. I was panting hard from the run down to the wharf and the rowing, to which I was not accustomed. I could hardly spit out the words, “You have a passenger — Lorna Maclean. May I see her, please.”
They looked at me in astonishment and the captain appeared. I realized I had better give him some explanation quickly. “I have to give her something,” I stuttered. “Very important, she’s got to take it with her. Can you get her, please?”
The captain, a much older man, must have had a genuinely good heart. “Don’t you worry, good sir,” he said, “I’ll hold the boat, but I’m afraid, I’ll have to ask you to be quick about it. The tide is right, and we must be pulling up anchor as soon as you’ve done.” He spoke to one of the sailors, who went below.
I waited what seemed an eternity. The sailor reappeared, shaking his head. “She won’t come.” He went
to join the others.
Not coming? I stood, not believing. What should I do? Go down myself?
And then, dressed like a princess in her new travelling clothes, Lorna appeared. So very pretty as always, but turning pale when she saw me.
I motioned her to come over so that we could speak in private. We went to the rail and together, we leaned on it, staring out at the village of Mutton Bay.
What should I say? This was my last chance. And I knew it. “You’re leaving.” How weak! But it was all I could think of.
“Jack, I left you a letter in the house. Didn’t you read it?”
“No, the minute I heard you were leaving, I jumped up and ran out. I had to stop you.”
“There’s no stopping me, Jack. I’m going home. I’ve had a wonderful winter here in Mutton Bay. You have been the most important person in my life. I shall never forget you.”
“Then why are you leaving?”
“It’s all in the letter.”
“But Lorna, I love you. Yes, I do.”
“And I love you, Jack. More than you ever imagined.”
“But I was planning on bringing you home this summer to meet the family. I promise. I’ve really been thinking about that. I’ve been thinking about us.”
“Jack, you sound desperate.”
“I am desperate.”
“Yes, but that is not how proposals should be, my love, my Jackie. You are not ready. And that is all.”
“But I do want to marry you,” I said firmly. “Yes I do.”
“Too late. It’s too late, Jack. I’ve gotten to know you pretty well over the last six months. You’re not ready. It’s as simple as that. I was ready and you were not. What else can I say?”
“But I’m ready now, I am,” I pleaded. “Please Lorna, please stay here, be my wife.”
