The Beothuk Expedition

by Derek Yetman

  Amelia Taverner

  I swear on George Toope’s grave that I didn’t know him at first. The women and me, we all seen the boat with the navy flag in the harbour when we went to turn the fish. We was all talking about it, the younger ones wondering if there’d be any handsome sailors to come ashore. I paid them no heed, what with having to keep an eye on young Ethan and all. I wondered if they was finally come to do something about them scofflaws and ruffians that’s been making our lives a misery. Then someone said there was an officer coming ashore, over by Uncle Benjamin’s boatworks. I looked up and seen this tall, skinny feller stumbling out of a rowboat. One of the girls said it’s no odds then, if they’s all like him. Everyone laughed, and we got on with the fish.

  A bit of time went by and then we seen this man again. He was walking the path above the landwash and coming towards our flakes. I could see he wasn’t near so old as we first thought, but he looked a rare sight. Right out of Revelations, he was, like one of them four horsemen, he was that drawn and deathly pale. His hat and blue coat was nearly white with salt and I seen better shoes on a beggar man. And then there was that strange scar around his eye, like a cobweb.

  He kept his head down as he come along, like he didn’t want anyone to look at him too close. I was bent over with an armload of fish when I realized who he was. Bent over with me head raised up like a goose and me eyes gone round as beach rocks. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing and I just stood there while he passed along. I was too stunned to say anything, and wouldn’t know what to say if I could.

  Lord above, if it wasn’t Jonah Squibb, after all these years. And still handsome, even if he did look like a scarecrow escaped from the garden. Oh, how it all come back to me then, all in a flood. How young we was and how much I missed him after they took him away. He blamed Uncle Benjamin for it until Reverend Lindsay, his guardian, put him right about what happened. It was the captain of the Hector who did it, pressing a young lad like that when he had no business dragging him off to sea. It near broke the poor reverend’s heart and mine, too. Uncle Benjamin was pleased enough about it, what with me being so sweet on Jonah and him being a poor orphan and all. But I didn’t care. I was a young maid and I was in love. He might have had the arse out of his pants for all I cared.

  I waited three years for that boy to come back. I’d get a letter now and again, even though I wrote to him nearly every week that passed. I know there’s always letters going astray and all, but near the end of the third year his letters stopped coming altogether. I knew there was something wrong and it had to be one of two things—either he was dead or he didn’t care about me anymore. Either way I was gutted and I thought I’d never get over it. Not in a million years.

  But life goes on, don’t it? One day I decided I had to pick up the pieces and that’s when I said I’d marry George Toope. He was a good enough man, though he was a drinker and not much use to a woman, if you take my meaning. It was a miracle that Ethan come along in that first year but there was no more after that. Which was just as well, ’cause he up and died of the scarletina the second year we was married.

  Oh sweet Lord, Jonah. If only you knew how much I cried when you left and how I kept on crying even after I was married. I kept telling myself that you was dead, just to make it easier, and after a while I believed it. Why didn’t you come back? Why didn’t you ever write and tell me you was alive? I can still feel the pain of it, just like it was yesterday. Only now I’m mad as a hornet, too. How could you do that to me when I was just a girl? I would’ve run away with you, gone to sea or anywheres else. I would have done anything just to be with you.

  And here you are, six years after I gave you up for dead. Smouching around the harbour like some thief caught out in the daylight. Yes, by God, I’m mad. And why shouldn’t I be? I want to know why you treated me like that. And why you never came back. I want you to know what I suffered because of you, to see what my life is like now, working the flakes from dawn till dark until I can’t straighten my back. A widow at twenty-four with a young one to feed and care for. When I could have been your wife. When I could have been the happiest woman alive.

  Jonah Squibb

  On our second day at Trinity, long after the melancholy sun had risen, I lay awake and considered all that was wrong with the world. I pondered in particular on the nature of human greed and how it is the cause of so many ills in our society. Wars were fought because of greed, and entire nations called to arms on the chance of gain. Countries were ravaged and civilizations laid to waste because of it. And then there was the smaller scale, the level at which greed destroys the soul and begets an indifference to compassion and even to life itself. It was greed that killed the Indian girl and it was greed that had set us against the Indians to begin with, in our avarice for furs and fish and our outrage at losing a trap or a net. It was greed that had kidnapped the child and it was greed that had sealed his fate.

  I had spent the previous day making enquiries around Trinity and had pieced together the sad and sordid tale. Reverend Balfour was the last I’d called upon, and he confirmed that the furriers had arrived in Trinity the day before us. They had an Indian boy in their possession and were attempting to sell him for a fraction of Mr. Palliser’s reward. Many were horrified to see so young a child in captivity and had refused to countenance the offer. Others, shrewder perhaps, had refused on the suspicion that the child was too young to serve the governor’s purpose. None had thought of paying the money to rescue the poor creature. In the end a buyer was found: an English captain who was leaving for Poole that very day with a cargo of number one fish. By the time we’d arrived at Trinity his ship was twenty hours gone and pursuit in the tiny Dove was impossible. The captain planned to show the boy to the rabble of Poole for a penny a head, or else he would sell him to a collector of New World curiosities.

  Sam Cooper and Thomas Rowsell were gone as well. They’d sold the bye boat to a fisherman in Northwest Arm and were last seen walking into the woods with nothing but their muskets and their blood money. Where they were bound, no one could say, and none took the news harder than Grimes, who had been outwitted by his partners in crime. One lesson I had learned from all of this was that a greater greed will always seek to destroy a lesser one.

  In the evening I returned to the shallop with the news and all hands took it badly. Bolger urged me to pursue the Poole ship at once but even he knew how pointless it would be. There was another course of action that was on the minds of the crew and it was Frost who gave voice to it. He said that the blackguards might still be followed and seized, and made to answer for what they’d done. I said nothing as a murmur of agreement spread across the deck. In truth, I had been struggling with that question since leaving Toulinguet. Yes, they ought to be hunted and brought to justice, but what justice awaited them? They had broken no laws beyond those that govern us as moral beings, and judgment of that would only come from Heaven itself. Not even Captain Palliser had the power to try them, despite what I’d told the men, and if previous attempts were anything to judge by, I knew they would never be convicted.

  There was another option, of course. It had come to me early on but I’d pushed it from my mind as too reprehensible, too shameful to even consider. Now the foul possibility raised itself once more and I pondered again the pursuit of the two men, though not with the aim of arresting them. Who would ever know, aside from the two or three trusted men who would accompany me? Who would ever say a word against the deed, even if the truth became known? That they deserved to pay for their crime was beyond question. What lay unanswered was who possessed the moral authority to act upon it.

  A heated debate had broken out among the men as to what should be done. Froggat stood behind them, saying nothing and watching me closely, and as I met his eye I knew that he was following my thoughts. I also knew what he would say: to kill Cooper and Rowsell would make us no better than themselves. What did any one of us possess, in the end, but his own honour and convictions? To lose them woul
d reduce us to the level of those we despised. “Silence fore and aft,” I said, and the men fell quiet. I heard my voice, strangely distant, fill the void. “The chase is ended. We will pursue no further.”

  The shocked hush was broken by sighs and groans. I held up my hand. “Our orders were to recover the child. This is no longer possible, and we are obliged to return to the squadron. A report will be made and the boy will certainly be found in England.” The men shook their heads, doubtful and disgusted that it all should end this way.

  “Listen to me,” I said. “Who amongst us is fit to chase these villains through the forest for days, even weeks? Some of you have no shoes, for God’s sake. Frost and Greening, neither of you can walk properly with those injuries to your feet. Bolger and Jenkins, are either of you a match for a man who has lived his life in the forest? Are you able to follow his trail? And what will you do if he turns the hunter instead?”

  I saw a couple of nods and some shuffling of feet and knew they were coming around. I sealed the argument by pointing out that the furriers could not hide in the woods forever. Sooner or later, they would be found. With that I instructed Froggat to break open the rum. There was no more grumbling and before I went to my hammock I locked Grimes into the fore cabin for his own safety. I retained hope that in time he would face a court martial, and I wanted no man to cheat the hangman.

  That night an image of the child came into my dreams, based no doubt on what Reverend Balfour had told me. It was of a boy no older than seven years of age: thin, dirty and frightened. He was so tired that he fell asleep wherever he was allowed to stop. The furriers threw him scraps of dried meat from time to time, which he devoured with a hunger that was shocking to see. They had stripped him bare and used an alder switch to drive him before them. The image clung to my mind as I awoke and the dawn turned to day. It was the perfect picture of the greed that I had been reflecting upon, and I knew even then that I would live with it for the rest of my life.

  I found my feet and left the cramped cabin, emerging into the purple, melancholy light of dawn. A day of breathless calm was revealing itself and from deep within the bight a loon gave its haunting cry. The crew was stirring with murmured oaths, the results of last night’s indulgence now upon them. I did not begrudge the men their drink or the solace they found in it. There had been no joy or music—just the muted voices and lengthy silences of a wake. They had drunk with bitterness and disappointment as their companions and now they awoke to the company of empty failure.

  I ducked my head into the wash barrel and held it there, hoping to flush away the image of the frightened child. It did clear my head a little, enough to remember that the boat and crew were still my responsibility and my first duty of the day would be to replenish our stores. We were down to the last of everything and our hunger and exhaustion had not abated since our ordeal on the river.

  I released Grimes from his cell and sent him with Froggat and Jenkins to Lester’s stores, instructing them to procure what we needed. I put the rest of the crew to work in readying the vessel, with the intention of putting to sea as soon as the shore party returned. I did not have long to wait. They arrived in the jolly boat within the hour, laden with the usual casks and sacks of dried and salted provisions. While they were being stowed, my friend and I filled our pipes and sat on the stern. We said little, but after a time he remarked that he’d seen a large joint of mutton at the merchant’s storehouse. It was a pity, he said, that we lacked the means of roasting it on board the shallop.

  The mere mention of mutton set my mouth to watering. I also thought of the effect that such a meal would have upon the morale of the crew. Over the last few days there had been much wistful talk of fresh meat, potatoes and sleep. In an instant I convinced myself that time was no longer of the essence, and a moment after that, Froggat and Greening were back in the jollyboat. The joint would be put on His Majesty’s account, against all regulations, and a shilling would go to any man or woman in the town who would cook the damned thing for us.

  They returned with a basket of potatoes and turnips, and the welcome news that the clerk’s wife would roast the joint on her hearth. For the remainder of the morning I allowed the hands to lounge like lords at their leisure and this they did with artful pleasure. A few dozed while others smoked or mended their clothes, their heads and spirits improving as the day wore on. Shortly after noon we saw a boy waving from shore, a signal that the food was ready. Bolger and Greening volunteered for the task and the rest of the crew sharpened their knives and whetted their appetites on a small ration of rum. The potatoes and turnips had been set to boil on the shallop’s stove and everyone was in high good humour at the thought of the feast.

  When next I looked, the jollyboat had put out for the return trip with the gunner sitting in the sternsheets, looking for all the world like the King’s steward. He held the great steaming joint on a board across his knees while Greening bent his back to the oars. As inviting as the mutton looked, however, it was not the primary object of my attention, for I saw that we were soon to have a visitor. There was a third person in the boat, a woman who sat in the bow facing aft so that her face could not be seen. Her back was straight beneath a dark shawl and a plain grey bonnet covered her hair. I took her to be the clerk’s wife, though why she needed to accompany the roast was a mystery to me. Perhaps she intended to haggle over her fee.

  The jollyboat bumped alongside and the mutton was helped aboard by eager hands. The woman, her back to me, stood up and ignored Greening’s clumsy attempt to assist her. She gathered her skirts and apron and stepped deftly over the centre thwart. As she turned, I felt a downward rush of blood that caused my head to swim and threatened to topple me over. The face that looked up at me was older, and yet it was the one I’d carried in my mind these many years. The golden curls had darkened and there were lines on the fair forehead but there was no mistaking that this was the face that I had loved and mourned by turns. The hazel eyes were unchanged and they held me like a boatswain’s knot as she came handily up the side.

  The blood returned to my head with a speed that matched its descent and I felt my face flush red. My voice abandoned me entirely and I stood as dumb as a plank while the men looked on with amused or curious glances. They did not watch for long, as Froggat had unsheathed a cutlass and was attacking the great lump of meat. The crew fell to like a flock of terns, leaving me alone with the apparition before me. Indeed, she might have been a spirit raised from my past, for she had yet to speak or do anything but hold my eyes with that unflinching stare. I was at a loss for something to say or do until I thought to invite her into the cabin. I found my voice and did just that, to grins and nudges among the crew. I held the door ajar and she bent her head to enter. Inside, I positioned a stool for her and sat myself on another with the low table between us. She sat and a long moment passed before she spoke. When she did, her voice was no louder than a whisper but I heard it well enough.

  “May God damn your black heart, Jonah Squibb.”

  What had I expected her to say, when it came down to it? In my confusion, I had supposed she’d come aboard to say hello and to renew our acquaintance. I was, after all, an old childhood friend and she a respectable woman. I thought she might even say that it was nice to see me again. I was wrong, of course, and how wrong was made clear when she repeated her words in a louder voice. My tongue failed me still. Her face was a picture of sadness and hurt, though her eyes bore a hardness that hinted at an anger nurtured long and deep.

  “Why did you never come back?” she demanded. “Why did I never hear from you again?”

  I found my voice and replied, “Forgive me Amy, but—”

  “Forgive you!” she cried. “I will never forgive you for what you did to me, sir.”

  “But … but you chose to marry!” I protested. “You wrote to me. I still have the letter!”

  “What did you expect of me, Jonah?” A tremor had crept into her voice. “After all them months and months of never hearin
g a word from you? Of running down to the landwash every time a boat or a ship come into the harbour, hoping it was carrying a letter for me? What did you expect? I thought you was dead. Or worse, that everything you’d told me was empty lies.”

  I drew a shallow, unsteady breath. “Amy, I did write to you. Upon my soul. I wrote often but some of my letters went astray, as will happen when war—”

  “Yes, some might have gone astray,” she shot back, “but what of the rest?” Her voice broke again as she fought to keep her composure.

  “Others came back to me, Amy. I still have them.”

  In her eyes I saw a tiny flicker of doubt, the shock that a long-held conviction may have been mistaken. “You still have them?” she whispered.

  I reached behind me and threw open the lid of my sea chest. From beneath a spare shirt and my volumes of Fielding and Smollett, I drew out a packet of letters tied in a blue ribbon. The ribbon was faded and the papers foxed and stained from dampness and sea air, but her name and address could still be read on the outer pages. I laid the packet on the table and she stared at it. When she reached out, ever so gently, to touch the frayed ends of the ribbon, I saw that her hands were rough and red from labour.

  She said nothing, her lower lip between her teeth, until I untied the bow and offered her the topmost letter. It was one of the last I’d written at St. John’s six years before and the page shook in her hand as she read it, her tearful eyes following my words. They declared my love and a pledge to marry her as soon as I could find my way to Trinity. The letter had never left my ship because of a scheming purser and an officer who had made my life a torment.