by Hubert Furey
I had never forgotten the picture of the captain on the bridge of his flaming ship, his broken arm limp, courageously going down with his ship.
“Was it like the Jervis Bay?”
I was still eager for an exciting tale. My mother continued her ironing with silent, regular strokes, pausing periodically to adjust a particular part of the garment. He removed a paper from the packet and shook some tobacco along its length before replying. He wasn’t articulate like the professor.
“No, it wasn’t like that . . .” He spoke very patiently. “Like I said, we had no guns. We just worked on the ships as they plugged along, trying to keep away from the submarines . . . trying to run away, if we could. We had to get all that stuff over there. There wasn’t a lot of what you call action. No, we didn’t shoot any guns or anything like that . . .”
I was starting to feel sorry for having begun the conversation and was looking for a way to end it. I became aware that my mother was looking up at me from her ironing, and I ventured on. I hoped my exasperation wouldn’t show.
“But, I mean, if you went through the war. . . . Well, did anything ever happen. . . . Did you ever see a submarine?”
I was desperate for drama, remembering all those war movies, hoping for some small exciting tidbit of information that would satiate my original enthusiasm.
He seemed to be paying no attention to me, absorbed as he was in rolling the paper carefully over the tobacco. He then slid his tongue expertly along the folded cigarette, tapped both ends on the back of his hand to seal in the tobacco, and placed it between his lips. He hunched his body to one side as he rifled around in his pocket for his lighter, which he simply held at a distance, making no move to light the cigarette.
“No, I must say, I never ever saw a submarine. . . . It was hard to see a submarine. . . . Ordinary deckhands like us wouldn’t be looking for them, anyway. . . . You’d never see them on top of the water. . . . Like where they came up mostly in the night. . . . And you’d never see a periscope . . .”
He paused as he closed the lighter and held it in his hand, next to the unlit cigarette.
For what seemed like a long time he looked far away into the distance, his face becoming very sad. When he finally came to himself and answered, he uttered a simple factual statement, almost an afterthought.
“I had seven ships torpedoed under me . . .”
My jaw dropped, but it was more a gesture of disbelief. The words didn’t really say anything. Their significance contrasted too sharply with the plainness of the form that uttered them. The conversation up to now, like the person, had been dull, commonplace, without interest.
“Seven ships, torpedoed . . .”
I left the words hanging in the air, still in disbelief, completely unable to digest the abruptness of their content.
He took no notice of me as he continued, absorbed in the horrific memory, his eyes toward the distance. The words came slowly, sadly.
“Seven big ships,” he repeated. “Seven big ships. . . . I saw a lot of good men go down. . . . A lot of good men . . .”
He was looking at the floor, his lighter again poised to ignite the cigarette which now dangled from his lower lip, his eyes still far away, his mind remembering. My mother continued her ironing with smooth, quiet, methodical strokes.
The shock of the statement, its sheer unexpectedness, had rendered me speechless. I could only stare open-mouthed at this fisherman, this very ordinary-looking fisherman, trying to comprehend the magnitude of the events the statement encompassed. It was simply impossible. I could only spew out senseless repetition.
“You were on . . . seven ships? . . . That were sunk . . .”
I had closed my book, and was paying closer attention, but exasperation had given way to skepticism. It was simply too hard to believe. He looked like he never left St. Mary’s Bay. He must have been reading my thoughts.
“Yes, b’y. Seven ships. . . . Seven big ships. . . . One big tanker, six cargo . . . big ships . . . they all went down . . .”
There was still no offence at the disbelief that was etched upon my face. He just lit his cigarette and straightened, rolling to one side as he put the lighter deep in his trousers pocket, then patting the outside to ensure that it was really there. Then he became silent again, smoking quietly as he gazed past my mother through the kitchen window. It was just too much to grasp.
“Seven ships? . . . All sunk . . . ?”
It was the most inane thing I could have said, but I was having difficulty making the transition. It was impossible. Why would anybody . . . ? Was he making it up? He had turned to look at me again, deliberately knocking some ash into the palm of his hand.
“All sunk,” he repeated. “All torpedoed . . .”
I could only stammer as the images pummelled my brain.
“And you . . . after the first one . . . you . . . I mean . . .”
I found myself staring at him, still trying to comprehend. I slowly counted seven ships in my mind, trying to appreciate the significance of the number. It was overpowering. I couldn’t believe the import of my next words.
“. . . you went back . . . six more times!”
His reply continued in that same simple, factual tone, as if it were supposed to be perfectly easy to understand. It was earnest, almost questioning, appealing to my rationality.
“Well, you had to go back, didn’t you. You couldn’t quit, could you! You couldn’t let the other b’ys down, could you . . . the b’ys that didn’t make it. You couldn’t do that. You had to do your duty. Sure, you had to do your job, didn’t you . . . like everybody else.”
His expression hadn’t changed throughout—matter-of-fact, straightforward, not able to understand why I couldn’t. He drew more slowly on the cigarette, both arms resting on his knees. I sat motionless, grasping my book, unable to take my eyes off the weathered, bulky form across from me. I was trying to envision the seven ships sinking one by one: the explosions after the hits; the ships tilting and sliding beneath the waves; the frigid water of the North Atlantic claiming the dying, drowning sailors.
I pictured the man in front of me being plucked from the sea, again and again, oil-soaked and freezing and near-dead. And I pictured him walking up the gangplank of another merchant vessel, to sign on another ship, to risk his life one more time.
“Seven ships!”
My young inexperienced mind was fighting to disbelieve, to find something in the narration that could betray guile or deceit, something I could seize upon to point to the ridiculousness of the tale—but none existed. I found myself surrendering to the awesome power of the truthfulness that sat across from me, dressed in the everyday apparel of an aging Newfoundland fisherman.
Slowly, in the heat and smell of an outport kitchen, the silence broken only by the crackling of the burning wood and the continued rhythmic strokes of the iron in my mother’s hand, my mind grappled with the inconsistency before me. For me, courage and duty had always come in the form of Hollywood good looks and neatly tailored military uniforms! But courage in the form of a windburnt face, bundled up in clothes that reeked of the sea, perspiring heavily and smoking a cigarette of cheap tobacco!
I would have to do a lot of thinking about that.
A light knock on the door roused us, and his companion’s voice called to him from the doorstep. The motor was fixed and they should be heading back to their net. It wouldn’t do to have the salmon left overnight. It would be “drowned” and they wouldn’t be able to sell it.
He took another quick draw from the cigarette before again crossing the floor and depositing the butt in the grate of the stove. He then bent down and picked up his cap, grasping it firmly front and back and working it down over his head in an almost ritualistic fashion. He shook hands with my mother, holding her hand for a long time, looking at her. I could see his eyes mois
tening, but his voice gave no indication of the deep emotion he must have been experiencing.
“Your husband was a fine man, missus . . . a fine man . . . God rest his soul . . . a fine man . . .”
He turned to me to extend his hand in a gesture of farewell, his quiet eyes engaging mine. Perhaps he was remembering another young face just like mine, a face that his eyes had rested on, moments before disappearing forever from his sight in the heaving waters of the brutal North Atlantic. Then he walked slowly to the door, turning only to say “The best of luck to ye now” before edging his way through the porch and out.
I watched him from the kitchen window as he made his way to the wharf with his companion, both their heads moving in serious conversation. No doubt they were talking about horses or capelin, or wood or boats or salmon, how prices for fish were not getting any better. . . . I would have to look at those things differently now, to look beyond the ordinariness of the form, the everyday look of so many like him, to see the courage, the unshakable will, the loyalty and devotion that lay hidden underneath.
As he climbed down the ladder of the wharf, I wondered. What thoughts did he still carry within him? Did he think of stepping onto ships of death every time he stepped aboard his motorboat? Did he think of things like courage and supreme sacrifice, or did he simply go on—as he said—to do his duty, to the ones who never came back? When he looked at the ocean, did he still see the suffering faces of his comrades, burning or choking, gasping in agony before they slid forever into the silence of their icy graves?
He started the motor and stood at the tiller as he steered the motorboat out of view around the wharf. He had entered our house as a typical, ordinary Newfoundland fisherman, who, in the space of a moment, became an unforgettable hero . . .
Should I say an unlikely hero?
IN THE WOODS
The “gaps” are down, the ground is froze, the wood-paths choked with snow
Up in the dark to “tackle” the horse, as in the woods they go
Hay bag, oats bag, sharpened axe tied to a frosty seat
The grub bag has salt fish to roast, molasses bread the treat
Up the marshes through open “gaps,” past houses still abed
Each man the master of the day, on catamaran or sled
With chirp and taunt, impatient click, they urge the horses on
Following time-worn beaten paths ’cross bog and marsh and pond
Honed cold steel of runners smooth make a harsh and grating sound
As horses strain with snorting strength to tame the frozen ground
The rhythmic beat of well-shod hooves from every horse and mare
Make music with the jangling bells in the frosty, steamy air
But there’s no rush, there’s time to talk, and yarn and gossip too
And pass the news, “tarment” . . . and taunt the laggard in the crew
There’s many a laugh, a gibe, a joke, there might even be a song
(They wonder if Old Tom is ill, that he didn’t come along)
On mornings when the snow is deep, and mounting drifts hold sway
The long trail in has to be cleared (they’ll just beat the path that day)
So it’s every horse a turn up front, and when Old Jack’s tired out
Another horse steps in the lead, and takes his turn about
And so it goes, horse after horse have made a hardened road
A beaten path, made slick by sleds, to easy haul the load
But there’ll be no wood cut on that day, both horse and man are spent
So they’ll just mug-up in the woods and come back the way they went
Up in earnest the second day, and every day thereon
Through the Druke, past Hick’s Hump, skirting Whalen’s Pond
The Pinch is hard, and Suddard Point tests the driver’s skill
’Cross George’s Marsh, along the track, to tackle Saddle Hill
The way is smooth down the other side, with Third Pond on the right
Past Merner’s Knapps it’s even ground with the Snuff Box now in sight
One last marsh, one more hill, the Barrens yet to cross
Everything’s gone well so far, there’s been no slip or loss
The dawn gives way to daylight strong, though the wind is fierce and cold
But at long last the Barrens end and they watch the woods unfold
“Blackie boys” and old black spruce, “scaly varr” and birch
“Whitens” for stove kindling, sir, white as the painted church
So now they’re here and it’s down to work, in a grove by Jerdan’s Pond
And it’s cut and saw, limb and haul, work hard as the day wears on
No need to tether the faithful horse, he’s got his bag of hay
His oats bag resting close beside, he’ll not go far away
Most times they’re cutting firewood, the driest they can find
Then rails for fences in the spring, and stakes that they can rind
Saplings made a picket fence, “lungers” to build flakes
(Good “knees” for boat sterns will be found, whatever time it takes)
In days gone by, they’d search for logs for house and stable and shed
Everything came from the woods; every table, chair and bed
Prime logs were taken to a mill, powered by a waterfall
(In one small place the logs they cut built the parish hall)
The morning’s on and they’ve worked hard, and it’s time to take a spell
Axe and saw are laid aside when they hear that welcome yell
“Now, b’ys, it’s mug-up time, put the piper kettle on
Get some water to brew the tea; cut a hole in Biggin’s Pond”
Wrap salt fish from the old grub bag, in brown paper sapping wet
Throw it upon the burning brands—“No, it’s not ready yet”
The wet brown paper has to burn, then the fish is cooked just right
(They just can’t wait with watering mouths for that first delicious bite)
While they dine the saucy jays will pitch right at their feet
Chattering in their irksome way to beg a little treat
What’s left of the molasses bread will be their midday meal
They’re company enough around the fire, but watch them close, they steal
A leisured smoke (they roll their own) perhaps another tea
Then empty the kettle to douse the fire, they’ll want to leave at three
Back to work, cut more spruce, the load is not yet done
Then drag and heave, and stow it on, to beat the setting sun
Tauten the ropes with “bittensticks,” no precious wood slides out
“Tackle” the horse between the shafts, ’tis time to be moving out
Horse and man attack the path at a much more leisured pace
With a full load on, at the end of day, no need to rush or race
Back at home, unload the wood and stack it in a pile
Blanket the horse in a welcome stall, there’ll be supper in a while
Eat your fill, heave back a bit, then early “hit the hay”
At that time of year, except for storms, they’ll cut wood every day
That’s the way it was—”going in the woods”—in days now so long gone
They knew the name of every hill, every bog marsh, every pond
From the time the ice formed on the ponds, till it melted in the spring
It was “in the woods,” hear the horses snort, and the jingling sleigh bells ring
OUTPORT STAKEOUT
Where Uncle Jim Donnelly hid his moonshine was somewhat of a mystery in Tickles. I mean, where it was illegal and
all, it was important that it be kept well-hidden, especially when the Mounties were on the prowl day and night to stamp out what was nothing less than a heresy to that newly arrived mainland mind. The mystery was complicated by the fact that, no matter how much Uncle Jim made, or how much he sold to the b’ys in the wee hours of the morning, he never got caught with a solitary drop in the house.
“Yes, ’tis a mystery,” the postmistress would say as she lent all her weight to yet another airmail stamp going to the ’States.
“Yes, a mystery,” would adjoin the buyer of the stamp, as the seven pennies would be reluctantly counted out across the office counter.
And it was a mystery, a genuine outport mystery, one that warranted discussion every time the Mounties paid Uncle Jim another visit and came away empty-handed, even though it was well-known that the b’ys had been there till four o’clock that very morning “drinking ’er up.”
“Sure he’s got to be hidin’ it,” was Aunt Mag Maloney’s certain conviction as she craned over the counter to scrutinize J. J. Mahaney adjusting the scales under a slice of frying ham. In matters of this nature, at least in Aunt Mag’s mind, J. J. was somewhat suspect.
“Yes, he’s hidin’ it, to be sure,” affirmed J. J., as he studied the reading on the new scales to ensure the correct weight. Given Aunt Mag’s somewhat bellicose reputation, an ounce in the wrong direction could easily mean the beginning of an another outport civil war.
“Oh, there’s no doubt he’s hidin’ it . . .” rejoined Aunt Mag, still scrutinizing J. J. with a distrustful eye.
After which Aunt Mag would say goodbye to J. J. and they would both return to more important matters of the moment, he to despairing over the mountain of unpaid bills left over from the Great Depression, she to the post office to garner all the news she could before returning home to cook the midday meal.