The Beothuk Expedition

by Derek Yetman

  As the senior officer, the blame was mine alone. I was wrong to trust Grimes in the working of the ship, even when there were so many mistrustful eyes to watch him. His intention could only have been to deliver us into the hands of the French, and in doing so to escape the justice that awaited him. It was even likely that he’d lost his reason, for John Wilkes’ influence had twisted his mind in dangerous directions. Whatever his motive, it was now my firm intent to put a ball between his shoulder blades. My finger tightened on the trigger, even as Greening leapt upon the forecastle and obstructed my line of fire. I saw him raise his boot to the worn seat of Grimes’ pants, and with arms flailing the traitor flew head first over the bow. A scream cut short was the last we knew of him.

  Or so I thought. In fact, he did not plunge into the sea at all. It was only as Frost and Greening began knotting and repairing the sheets and halyards that they discovered him hanging over the side, his foot entangled in the ropes that he’d hacked from the rigging. His fall had been arrested just short of the waves and his body had slammed with great force into the bow timbers. He hung there unconscious, his head and arms dragging in foam from our bow wave. Greening picked up the cutlass and stood over the rope. A single chop and Grimes would cease to exist. I saw him hesitate, and may God forgive me but I said nothing. To the man’s great credit, and to my shame, he threw the blade aside and took hold of the rope, his broad back straining as he drew the unconscious Judas onto the deck.

  Our jib was now trailing over the bow and checking our way, and Frost stood out on the plunging bowsprit to gather it in. It was a valiant act, though ultimately pointless, because it was the last thing he ever did upon this earth. With our speed diminished the Valeur had come up quickly on our starboard side. Without warning, her broadside thundered from sixty yards away. One shot passed between Froggat and myself, close enough to make my eyes water with the rush of air. Another holed us at the waterline and a third smashed through the gunwale, dismounting number three swivel and impaling Jenkins’ thigh with a two-foot splinter of wood. The fourth ball struck our bow, taking away the sprit and part of the stem. The boatswain went with it, and there was no question of his having survived. A great spray of blood on the flapping staysail was all that remained. We had no time to mourn his passing, or even to think of his loss, for the French were already reloading their guns.

  From the stern deck I looked down on a moonlit scene of frenzy and destruction. Jenkins writhed and screamed in the debris while Greening and Bolger struggled to clear the other gun. To fight on would be suicide, I knew, but I intended to make a final statement before pulling down our ensign. At my order the gunner pointed number one swivel and fired into the enemy. His shot bounced off her tumblehome and deflected upwards, severing the chain on her foremast yard.

  It was very strange that in the midst of all of this I should think of Amy Taverner. My heart was racing, my eyes burning from the smoke and my every sense attuned to the peril of our situation. And yet the notion that I would never see her again had entered my head, along with a feeling of calm acceptance. It passed over me like a wave and was gone in an instant, but the knowledge that I had experienced it lingered much longer. I looked across to the brig, where the French were clumsily pointing their weapons. Our own gun was ready for a second salvo and Bolger was waiting to time it with our roll. With the loss of the jib we were moving in every direction and he waited for what seemed an eternity until the right angle came to bear. The ball struck what remained of the stays on their foremast yard and it toppled to the deck in a tangle of ropes, canvas and scrambling men. I threw the rudder over and we sheered away, filling our sails and putting our stern to the brig before her guns could reply.

  I had no way of knowing it then, but the gunner’s shot would hamper the Valeur enough for us to put some miles between us. By the same token, however, I had no way of knowing that one of her guns would first wreak havoc upon us. In a surprising show of accuracy or good luck, the hissing ball took us square astern. It entered the aft cabin below my feet with a deadly shower of splinters and shards and passed through the full length of the sloop. Every man in the waist was struck by the wreckage, though by some miracle they were all left alive. The most seriously hurt was Bolger, who was thumped on the head by a stout piece of oak and was missing a good piece of his scalp. The ball passed into the forecastle cabin and lodged in our bow timbers, shaking loose a few planks but leaving us in no danger of sinking.

  It was the final shot of the skirmish, for it can hardly be called a battle. With the disabled Valeur dead in the water we limped northward, never keeping our heading for more than a minute because of the missing bowsprit. We zigzagged out of the Bay of Exploits, fluttering like an injured waterfowl and fearing that the predator would return for the kill. The men were in a sorry state, bruised and battered, and I called for a double ration of rum to bring them around. It was the only thing that remained of our provisions, the barrel of dodgy pork having been blown to kingdom come.

  I made my way forward to the gunner and found him conscious and lucid. As I inspected his wound he spoke with sadness of his old friend Frost, and all they had been through together. “Why, sir,” he said as I inspected his torn scalp, “him and me was boys together in the Leopard when Cap’n Palliser were a midshipman. Frost used to say he were bred to the sea on account o’ his mother being a mermaid. A fine man before the mast, was Hard Frost. He could hand, reef and steer before he were old enough to shave, and now me old shipmate’s gone and entered the port o’ heaven.”

  “We shall all miss him, master gunner,” I assured him as I dabbed at the wound.

  “He had a wife somewheres. Portsmouth, I think. He only seen her every three years or so, but I’d best try to find her all the same. I wonders sometimes if he didn’t know that his end were nigh. ‘Twere something he said to me when we was about to fight that brig. It were one o’ them foolish rhymes ‘o his: Sailing, sailing over the bounding main, Many a stormy wind shall blow ‘Ere Jack comes home again. Funny, ain’t it, sir? Like he knew he’d be clewing up his topsails afore long. And who can say? Maybe that’s how it is for us all when our time is up.”

  I left Bolger with his sorrow and another tot of rum before inspecting the damage fore and aft. A jagged hole gaped in the stern bulwark, throwing light upon a jumble of broken wood and torn hammocks. Everything in there had been smashed except my old sea chest, which had acquired a few new scars. The ball had exited the cabin and only nicked the mast in passing forward, which was another stroke of good luck. I put my head into the space beneath the forecastle and saw that it was equally ravaged. The door had been blown inward, shredding the hammocks that still hung from the beams and tearing apart the crew’s bags and chests. The four-pound shot was clearly visible, embedded between the stem and the connecting timbers. All this I saw at a glance, my attention being drawn to the sight of Jenkins on hands and knees in the rubble, blood seeping from the wound in his thigh. In the cabin’s dim light he was clawing through the mess, completely oblivious to my presence. Only then did I notice the pungently bitter aroma that penetrated the dust and smoke. The smell was vaguely familiar.

  Mine are not the keenest of wits, I will admit. For weeks the clues had been mounting around me and I’d been as blind as a jellyfish. Only at that moment did the truth finally dawn upon me, the smell transporting me back to the surgeon’s house in Bonavista. A woman was handing me a bowl of powdered medication and saying that the surgeon had been giving it to Froggat.

  At my feet, Jenkins licked the boards of a shattered sea chest and whimpered like a child.

  After two days of makeshift repairs and graceless sailing, we rounded the southern tip of Fogo Island. The sun was level with our stern rail and in the fading light we saw the squadron lying at our rendezvous in Man o’ War Cove. They were all there—the Guernsey, Liverpool, Lark, and Tweed—every spar properly squared and the sailors lining the decks to watch our strange little craft. I thought of a line from Fielding’s
Journal, in which he rightly observed that a fleet of ships is the noblest thing that the art of man has ever produced. The sight of so much strength and order cheered us, in spite of the poor spectacle we made. We must have looked like castaways, with our clothes torn and stiff with dried blood and salt, and ourselves haggard from want of food and sleep. The Dove herself was a woeful sight, her shot holes patched with scraps of wood and a ragged wound where her bowsprit should have been. All the same, I was proud of that little sloop and doubly so of her valiant crew.

  Froggat put us alongside the Guernsey and I climbed the sidesteps with some effort to where Mr. Cartwright and Mr. Tench were waiting. The latter said nothing, neither welcoming nor acknowledging me, his gaze as ill-disposed as ever. Even Lieutenant Cartwright received me rather formally, I thought, after all that we had been through together. Still, he could not hide the anxiety in his voice as he asked me what news I had of the Indian child. It was passing strange that he did not inquire after the health of the men or notice that two of their number were missing. I told him what I knew and his shoulders fell as he listened. I could see that his failure upon the river lay heavily upon him.

  My words were listened to intently by Lieutenant Tench as well, and I imagined a brief hint of a smile on his stony countenance. I made my way to Captain Palliser’s cabin where he received me with great civility and listened carefully to my report. On hearing that I’d lost two men to the Valeur he scowled but said little, except to regret the loss of his boatswain. He remarked that Frost’s character may have been improvable but in the final sum he had been a fine sailor and an asset to the Guernsey. As for the Valeur, he said that he would dispatch the Lark straight away to search for her. Our noble frigate would have no joy, however, for a week later the Frenchman was spotted on the Grand Banks, sailing hard for France.

  On the subject of the child, the captain made no comment, other than to shake his head gravely. I could not help but wonder if he acknowledged the error of his reward or if he still held to its merit. I did suggest that the authorities at Poole be alerted, even though the message would arrive weeks after the ship in question. We both knew how unlikely the child’s recovery was, but he said that he would do everything in his power. The news that the furriers had evaded me drew no response, as if he’d expected as much. I felt badly enough about it, although I knew there was nothing I could have done to change the outcome.

  On the greater issue of the Red Indians, I told him with all respect that if something were not done their race would soon be harried to extinction. He heard me out and even acknowledged the truth of my prediction. In a weary voice he told me he’d been petitioning the Admiralty and Lords on this very matter since he became governor. What I had so clearly stated was obvious to any who had served on the Newfoundland station, he said, but the matter was as nothing to those in London. In governing an empire that would soon span the globe there were many things that did not receive the attention they deserved. There were more pressing issues in England itself, not least the public disorder being incited by John Wilkes. I apologized for my presumption but he waved it away, saying this was another argument against year-round settlement of the island. When the squadron departed in the fall there was nothing to deter those who remained, including those who would see the natives destroyed.

  Captain Palliser then turned to the subject of Grimes, who was at that moment being taken aboard the Guernsey in irons. Lieutenant Cartwright had provided an account of his suspected involvement in the Indian murder and abduction and I now recounted his actions during our encounter with the brig. The governor listened carefully, and then rang a small silver bell that summoned his clerk to the cabin. The order was given that Grimes would appear before a court martial the following morning, charged with treason and attempting to aid and abet the enemy. By my own reckoning, three and possibly four of the Articles of War had been violated, which made the verdict a certainty.

  The clerk withdrew and Mr. Palliser gave his attention to a document on his desk. I assumed the interview to have ended and made my bow to leave. It was then that I remembered to ask whether Froggat and Jenkins ought be returned to the Liverpool. I also enquired as to what should be done with the damaged sloop. Mr. Palliser rubbed his leg and considered the question.

  “They may return to their ship if they desire,” he said. “Or else they may remain with you.”

  I did not reply because I was at a loss to understand his meaning. Nor did I move to go, even as he returned to his document. An awkward moment passed while he picked up a quill and dipped it in ink to affix his signature. “Mister Squibb,” he said, “I am resolved to bring the rule of law to this coast, with or without the support of London. However, I cannot spare even one of my frigates for the task, not with so vast an area to patrol.” He handed me the paper and I took it, wondering what all of this had to do with me.

  “In view of the situation,” the governor continued, “I am giving you an acting appointment as chief naval officer and surrogate judge for the coast, from Trinity to Toulinguet, and beyond, if the situation demands. You will remain with your vessel, with a fresh crew and larger guns, of course. You may not keep my gunner, however. He must be returned to the Guernsey immediately.” He paused and looked me in the eye. “Well, sir? What have you to say?”

  I was astounded, naturally enough. Somehow I managed to say that I was honoured by his trust, as indeed I was. It was a singular thing for a junior lieutenant to be given such a responsibility and I stammered something about more deserving officers than myself. Fortunately the governor’s attention had returned to his desk and he seemed not to hear. I took my leave, bowing as I backed from the cabin and nearly upsetting a stand of charts by the door.

  Froggat and Greening were waiting for me on deck and when I told them the news they congratulated me with honest good will. In the next breath they both declared their intention of remaining with the sloop. I was touched by their loyalty and thanked them sincerely, especially as I would be relying upon their skills and support. Still incredulous but reassured by the faith placed in me, I made my weary way to my old cabin deep within the Guernsey. It was just as I’d left it weeks before, the sailcloth walls still taut and everything in good order. Calling the steward, I ordered a bath and removed my clothes, the man swearing that he would sooner burn them than see them washed. After this my thoughts turned to other needs, a meal and sleep being foremost. I had stood watch for the better part of three days without a morsel and was in danger of dropping where I stood. I made my way to the wardroom and there I ate the better part of a stewed goat, washed down with a bottle of claret. Afterwards I dragged myself to my berth and slept for twelve straight hours, waking the next morning to a great clamour and banging alongside.

  My first thought on opening my eyes was not of the noise, nor of anything immediate to my senses. It was of Amy Taverner. I now regretted my hesitation in Trinity, and was plagued by the thought that I should have spoken of my feelings. What if she did harbour some sentiment for me? Perhaps I had missed something in her manner, some subtle hint or intonation. The idea filled me with alarm and confused my memory of what had actually passed between us. The harder I tried to remember, the less I was able to recall. Finally, and rashly, I formed the notion that I ought to visit her again, that I might know her mind, and her heart, more clearly. I lay thinking on it for some time, until confusion got the better of me and I dressed and went up to the quarterdeck.

  The source of the noise that had awoken me was soon obvious, for looking over the side I saw a crew of boatswain’s and carpenter’s mates swarming about the Dove. They had repaired and improved the little sloop almost beyond recognition. There was a new bowsprit and rigging, freshly planed wood and never a sign of a shot hole. The carpenter himself appeared and invited me on board to inspect the repairs. I descended the rope ladder and was surprised to find the little sloop fully provisioned and crewed by half a dozen volunteers. In fact, apart from the Guernsey’s people gathering up th
eir tools, she was ready to sail at a word from me.

  I had no time to bask in the glory of my new command, however, for I had several things that demanded my attention. With Greening’s help I winkled Jenkins out from the Guernsey’s lower deck where he lay shivering and moaning in a darkened corner. I had Greening take him on board the Dove while I proceeded to the sick berth. There I found the ship’s aged surgeon in his little dispensary, counting leeches in a jar. When I presented him with a sample of the powder that had been in Grimes’ shattered sea chest, he sniffed it once and put it to his tongue. Taking up a vial from a row on his desk, he uncorked it and passed it to me. The identically bitter pungence wafted past my nose.

  “Powder of opium” he croaked. “Opii pulvis. A most effective sedative and surgical anesthetic. But it must be used sparingly, of course. It is highly addictive.”

  His words were the glue that bound the pieces together. In Bonavista, with the collusion of that wretched surgeon, Grimes had kept Froggat in a state of insensibility while they made merry with his money. And Rundle and Jenkins had been under his influence, not by the threat of violence as I had supposed, but by their dependence upon him for the opiate. Froggat had told me of the Liverpool’s cruise to the Far East and that must have been where the substance was acquired and where their addiction began.

  I left the surgeon to his leeches and made my way to the captain’s cabin, where the court martial of Nehemiah Grimes was about to begin. His own captain from the Liverpool, the governor and another officer made up the tribunal, while the accused stood before them, hobbled and flanked by a pair of red-coated marines. I took my place at the back of the room alongside Lieutenants Cartwright and Tench as the charges were read. My statement was then entered into the record and Froggat and Bolger were called upon to confirm the account of events on board the Dove. Grimes listened with a contemptuous scowl, the chains clanking when he moved his feet. After hearing the evidence, the court asked if he had anything to say in his own defence.