The Beothuk Expedition

by Derek Yetman

  “What is it, Mister Squibb?” he asked. “Is it a breeze?”

  “Aye, sir,” I replied. “And a promising one, I think.”

  “You there,” the lieutenant said to a midshipman who was standing nearby. “Inform the captain that we have a wind. And where is Frost? Where the devil is that bo’sun?”

  “On the booms, sir,” I said, “having the longboat secured.” I had observed over the course of our association that Mr. Cartwright was inclined to be excitable, particularly when time was of the essence. The normally composed features of his well-bred face became animated, his lips pursing and puckering and the nostrils of his thin nose flaring like the wings of a skate.

  “Mister Frost!” he called, the colour rising in his cheeks. The boatswain looked up from his task and shielded his eyes against the lowering sun. “All hands to the halyards. Be ready to square and trim at my command. We’ll catch what we can of this infant’s breath.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” The boatswain turned and issued his orders to the waiting watch. They hopped at his command—as well they might if they had any regard for the skin on their backs. Our Frost was not a man to be ignored when he required something done at once. He ruled his domain with a heart that was two parts stone and one part fatherly tyranny, and his manner had long ago earned him the nickname of “Hard” Frost. Even his mates, the petty officers who worked under him, regarded the boatswain with a wary eye when things were not on an even keel.

  Captain Palliser came on deck in his shirtsleeves, accompanied by the chaplain, and looked up at the sagging canvas. He said nothing as he waited for the evidence. A minute later, just as I was beginning to doubt it myself, the sails began to flutter and billow. Seven bells were struck in the second dogwatch and the captain remained where he was, the Reverend Stow beside him and mimicking his posture. I was guessing that the chaplain had no idea of what he was looking at, when suddenly the main royal filled with a crack, followed by the topgallant. The crew on deck and in the shrouds gave a spontaneous cheer and a shadow of approval crept across the captain’s face. Reverend Stow, a fawning look upon his horsy countenance, congratulated Mr. Palliser with the enthusiasm of one who’d witnessed the greatest of naval victories.

  For the rest of that evening we were favoured with a light easterly of four or five knots. Just after midnight, early in the middle watch, we cleared the northern tip of Baccalieu Island. We had the wind on our beam for the most part, though we tacked and sailed close-hauled from time to time to correct our shoreward drift. At dawn on the following day, I made Cape Bonavista in the circle of my glass with the wind rising steadily and veering sharply to the west. I sensed a blow approaching and was not far wrong, for soon the swell increased and dark clouds gathered on the northern horizon.

  The weather was of little concern on the quarterdeck, as we would soon be within the harbour and reasonably sheltered. Bonavista was not an ideal sanctuary for a ship of the line but it would serve if the need arose. I had been to the place several times as a boy and as we rounded Green Island, I saw the flakes that ringed the treeless plain below the cape. This was no longer the most northerly settlement on the coast but it was still the centre of the area’s prosperous fishery. I was thinking of old John Cabot, who was said to have sighted land here centuries before, when I realized that the tall masts of the Liverpool were nowhere to be seen. The rising wind quickly brought us to within half a league of shore and our sails were being reefed when I observed a boat emerging from the inner harbour. It was under a press of sail and heading for the Guernsey, and making heavy weather of it in the short swell. I summoned the gunner and conferred with him briefly before informing Mr. Cartwright of the vessel’s approach. He joined me at the rail with his tricorn hat in one hand and the remains of his breakfast in the other.

  “What do you make of it, Mister Squibb?” he asked through a mouthful of bread.

  I studied the boat through my glass. “She may have a message for us, sir. I can see no other reason to sail in the teeth of a coming gale.”

  The lieutenant grunted and watched our visitor, the wind snatching at his wig. “What the devil is it, do you think?” he asked. “I thought a sloop, but I’m damned if it doesn’t look more like a fishing shallop.”

  He was perfectly correct, as the vessel might have been taken for either. It was a peculiar little craft of some forty feet in length, with a single mast instead of the ketch-rigged short main and mizzen that would normally equip a shallop. But she did have the hull of a Newfoundland boat, with an open hold for fish, although she’d been fitted with a decked stern and forecastle in the manner of a sloop. She carried a mainsail, fore staysail and jib, and oddly enough a bare yard was slung from her mainmast, signifying the ability to carry a topsail as well. The most surprising feature of her appearance, however, was the fact that she was armed.

  When I remarked as much to the lieutenant he exclaimed, “What!” and put the glass to his eye. “I think that Captain Palliser should—”

  “What the devil is this, Mister Cartwright?” The lieutenant flinched at the sound of the captain’s voice. “Why was I not informed of this vessel’s approach?” He was standing immediately behind us, the foppish chaplain at his side.

  “My apologies, sir,” the lieutenant replied. “We were just attempting to discern the vessel’s character before—”

  “Yes, yes,” the captain said, impatiently relieving him of the glass. “Your watch is it, Mister Squibb? What do you make of her, then?”

  I avoided Mr. Cartwright’s eye and said, “Four swivel guns, sir. One pounders, I should say, and the gunwales newly cut to accommodate them.”

  “And what sort of vessel is she?”

  “A large fishing shallop, sir. Sloop-rigged fore and aft. In a manner of speaking.”

  Mr. Palliser snorted his disapproval that boats should be rigged so contrary to convention. “You know your duty, Mister Squibb. What measures have you taken?”

  “I have instructed Mister Bolger to ready a pair of eighteens, sir.”

  “Very good, young sir. Well done, indeed. Speak to her master and report to me, Mister Cartwright. Armed, is she? We’ll see about this.”

  The captain limped off to his cabin with the chaplain at his heels, leaving Mr. Cartwright and myself in awkward silence. The lieutenant’s face, rarely a study in composure, was as rigid as the figurehead that graced our bow. The shallop made her way to the shelter of our lee with the muzzles of our guns following her approach.

  “The boat ahoy!” Mr. Cartwright sang across the water. “Name your vessel.”

  A sailor on the tiny forecastle gave him a puzzled look. “Can’t tell ye, sir,” he replied, “seein’ as how she got no name.”

  The lieutenant’s nostrils flared and he tried again. “Who are you and what is your business?” A seaman snickered in the mizzen shrouds above us but when I looked I was met with sober faces.

  “We’s off the Liverpool,” the man called. “This here is her hired boat. The cap’n left us behind to tell ye he’s sailed for the Change Islands.”

  “The Change Islands!” Mr. Cartwright exclaimed. “He was supposed to wait here for Captain Palliser.”

  “Aye, sir,” the man shouted against the wind, “only he heard of a French brig-o’-war bein’ seen there. He thought it best to go straight away.”

  The other two men in the shallop had by this time reduced her sail and the boat was beginning to roll in the swell. The first lieutenant seemed lost in thought and so I shouted, “Come alongside and make your report.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” was the reluctant reply and the man at the tiller steered towards us under staysail alone. We soon learned that the sailor who’d done the talking was a petty officer named Grimes. He smelled of rum and a sour stomach and was taken aside to be questioned by Lieutenant Cartwright. I was left in charge of the quarterdeck and ordered the gun crews to stand down and likewise the marines, who were sighting their muskets on the two nervous men in the shallop.
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  Mr. Cartwright made his report to the captain, after which I was summoned to the cabin. What sounded like a heated conversation ended as I entered the dayroom, where the three senior officers of the ship were gathered. “Ah, Mr. Squibb,” the captain said. “We have a change of plan. I want you to equip the shallop, or sloop or whatever the devil it may be, for a cruise of one month. You know what is needed, I am sure.”

  “How many crew shall I provision for, sir?”

  The captain glanced at the first lieutenant. “Eight, I should think. Yes, there’s the three men from the Liverpool, Revered Stow, Lieutenant Cartwright, Mister George Cartwright and Mister Cartwright’s servant. And yourself, of course.”

  Lieutenant Cartwright, his face somewhat flushed, turned to the captain and said, “If you will excuse me, sir, I have much to attend to.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course.”

  As he left the cabin, Lieutenant Tench, who had been looking on with a frown on his pallid face and a distinct air of disapproval, cleared his throat. “With the greatest respect, sir, I must urge—”

  “Enough, sir!” The captain’s firm voice was pitched somewhat loud. Tench’s lips tightened but the frown remained.

  I hesitated, wondering whether I should ask our destination, when the captain supplied the answer for me: “I am taking the Guernsey to Fogo immediately. Lieutenant Cartwright will take command of the shallop and will follow me tomorrow. If he does not find me there, he will carry on with his orders to establish contact with the Red Indians.”

  On hearing this, I could barely contain a smile—I was to be included in the expedition after all! I kept a serious face as Mr. Palliser continued: “In the event that I am not at Fogo, Mister Cartwright will seek out a planter there named John Cousens. He knows the area as well as any man and can provide advice on how to proceed. I am told he even has a Red Indian in his employ. His knowledge should be most valuable.”

  The captain limped to his writing chair and eased into it with a sigh. “Now then, Mister Squibb. When you have finished provisioning the vessel, I want you to take a watering party ashore. And while you are there, look in on a midshipman from the Liverpool, who is quartered at the surgeon’s house. The petty officer says that he is quite ill. Of course, he may be dead by now, in which case you must see him properly buried.”

  “Yes, sir. And captain?”

  “Yes?”

  “The swivel guns in the shallop, sir—I assume they came from the Liverpool’s quarterdeck?”

  “Yes, I suppose they did. What of it?”

  “Shall I have the gunner look them over, sir? To ensure they’re properly mounted and have enough powder and shot?” From the corner of my eye I saw Tench’s pale, disapproving face turn to me.

  “Yes, Mister Squibb. You may.”

  “And the shallop’s rigging, sir. Perhaps the boatswain could see that everything is in order?”

  “Of course, of course.”

  “And I should point out that she has no boat, sir. May I take our spare jolly boat in tow?”

  “Indeed you may. Sound thinking, Mister Squibb. Very sound indeed.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I withdrew from the room under two very different sets of eyes, one quite approving and the other as cold as a Newfoundland winter.

  Hugh Palliser

  Damn my eyes if it isn’t the Valeur again! Damn them if it isn’t. That boat has been the gall of my existence since I became governor and still the French persist in testing the limits of my patience. But this time they have gone too far. I will tolerate no more of this posturing and tomfoolery. Lurking around the Change Islands, are they? Not for long, I can promise you. The captains of the Liverpool, Lark and Tweed know the terms of our treaty with France. Any armed French vessel on this coast will be boarded and its officers arrested, and my ships may use what force they require. I shall soon put a stop to their excursions in that damnable brigantine. Even if I have to send it to the bottom.

  Oh Lord, the pain I have today! There is weather coming, I can swear to that. Thunderheads in the northeast and the wind and swell nearly doubling in the past two hours. And this blasted leg of mine—I need to put it up on something. There, that’s better, though I know the pain will be unbearable before the day is out. What was I saying? Oh yes. Blister my tripes but the French have more swagger than common sense. Imagine cruising English waters with that little Valeur, when they know there are four English ships-of-war about. And to what end? To harass a few poor fishermen? Or more likely, to remind us that the French shore begins at Cape Bonavista. Which is what the treaty says, though the reality is quite different.

  This all began in 1763, at the end of the Seven Years’ War, when France was obliged to recognize our sovereignty over Newfoundland. In return, they were permitted to catch and dry fish between Cape Bonavista and Cape Riche, which is on the northern half of the island’s west coast. But they were not content with that and struck upon a clever scheme to claim that Cape Riche was actually Cape Ray, at the southern extremity of the west coast. I ask you, has there ever been a more transparent fraud? They even said they possessed the maps to prove it! Imagine, if you will, an error of nearly three degrees north latitude, giving France the entire west coast of the colony.

  Well, if that was their game, then we were equal to it. If they intended to twist the terms of the treaty, then what was to stop our own people from moving into the coves and harbours north of Cape Bonavista? That is exactly the case at present and the French have threatened war unless their rights to the shore are upheld. They even sent a naval squadron to back their demands a few years ago, which kept my hands full, I can tell you. England relented in the end and both sides accepted the original boundaries, though my orders say nothing about stopping the expansion of English enterprise along the northeast coast. My instructions are merely to prevent our people from interfering with the French fishery.

  All of this has enraged France, of course, and given their naval officers a cause célèbre. In my opinion, it all comes down to a matter of interpretation. The treaty states that France shall have use of the shore to fish but there is nothing to specifically exclude the English. Tit for tat is what I call it, after their Cape Riche contrivance. Ah, it’s a complicated enough business without them making it a point of honour. No doubt this little show with the Valeur is in reply to that unfortunate incident at Toulinguet last month. A French captain named Delarue was forced off his fishing room and now there is news that our people have burnt French premises at Quirpon as well. I suppose I shall have to write Governor d’Angeac at St. Pierre again, for all the good it will do. He will complain about our fishermen and say that he knows nothing of the Valeur’s actions, and then he will wash his hands of the matter.

  Mary and Joseph, how I wish the surgeon had taken off this leg when he had the chance. I have cursed him these twenty years for not doing so. May the Lord give me strength, for I shall have need of it, between this cursed weather and these damnable Frenchmen. Perhaps if I use this pillow, just so …

  Jonah Squibb

  Evening was upon us before the shallop was fully loaded with our sacks and kegs of provisions. From the Guernsey’s stores I had drawn flour, cheese, dried peas, butter, dried plums, ship’s biscuit and salted beef and pork. All we lacked was fresh meat, but the purser refused to give me so much as a small goat. He said that we would find what we needed in the settlements along the coast. I replied that there were no settlements on the coast—only fishing stations that had no livestock. His answer was that there would be plenty of game in the wild. This was true enough, although I feigned ignorance and argued until he gave me extra powder and shot for the small arms to be put on board. To all of this I added our empty water barrels, a box of tobacco leaf, a small cask of wine and another of Jamaica rum.

  During this time, Lieutenant Cartwright occupied himself in getting charts and instruments from the ship’s master. From the sound of their discussion, the man was none too happy to part with his precious items. B
olger had come on board to make an inspection of the guns and was good enough to stay and supervise the three Liverpools in stowing the barrels. Frost was also aboard, with Greening, and they went aloft to inspect our mast and rigging. At about nine o’clock, with less than an hour of daylight remaining, Lieutenant Cartwright, his brother, his brother’s servant and Reverend Stow came into the boat to look it over. My own sea chest had been shifted already and, with the exception of receiving the gentlemen’s baggage, all was in order. The only complaint came from the chaplain, who was not enamoured of the strong smell of fish that hung over the shallop.

  The lieutenant had decided that we would go ashore before dark to attend to the water and the ailing midshipman. We would spend the night in the harbour before sailing in the Guernsey’s wake in the morning. The boatswain being nearly finished his inspection, Lieutenant Cartwright suggested that we take the craft on a short cruise to test her sails before we parted company. Neither the boatswain nor I would acknowledge the soundness of his idea, given the strength of the wind, but he was determined to follow it through. In spite of the chaplain’s protests, we were ordered to cast off from the lee of the Guernsey without delay.

  The previously strong wind had risen a good deal while our vessel was being loaded. As soon as we left the protection of the ship’s hull, we found ourselves in a gale that was rapidly approaching a storm. The shallop was well founded and built to carry a great weight of fish in a heavy sea, and she rode the swells handily enough under reefed main and staysail. With me at the helm, she came within a few points of the wind on the starboard tack before Lieutenant Cartwright ordered me to bear away. This put us broadside to the swell for a few moments, which was enough to turn Reverend Stow a deathly pale from either sickness or fright. A few nasty-looking waves, whipped up by the wind at the crest of a swell, gave us a wetting and I thought the poor chaplain would expire on the spot. He fell against the gunwale, throwing his arms around the barrel of a swivel gun, and there he stayed.