A Stroke in Time

by Gerard Doran

  “Watt, they’re going to give us a berth. It’s not that easy to get on with another crew. The whole damn island wants a berth on the sealing ships.” Din pounded his fist on the table and rattled the whole kitchen. “You knows how it is with the outharbour men. No cash at all. It’s some cursed system we lives with, but they got it worse. Call it what you like, but when you goes to the hunt and you hits the big patch, you gets cash in your hand afterwards and you can thumb your nose at the merchants then, buy what you likes.

  “I wants to row, I do. I wants to eat, too. Have a bit of extra money. Maybe earn enough to start building a house in the fall. I’ve been to the hunt. I knows what you got to put up with. There’s no promise that seals will be found. Ships get stuck in the ice and some come back with empty holds.”

  “My son, you don’t have to sign to any company right away. Will you and Dan give another company some thought? You’re good hands at the swiling. Baine Johnston or any other outfit isn’t going to take a bunch of half-starved corner boys. The seal hunt is three months away. If you hooks onto another crew before the hunt opens, Baine Johnston won’t have any trouble finding replacements for you and Dan. That’s a guarantee.”

  Din felt like he was trying to stay level in a heaving boat on a stormy sea. Christmas was off to a rocky start, and St. Stephen’s Day had not lived up to its reputation for cordial and neighbourly visits. Why the Christ did Dan have to say anything to Bill Pine? And why did Pine have to shoot off his mouth to Watt? Maybe he was trying to make trouble because he hadn’t been picked to row. Din felt like he was about to dissolve in the heat of the kitchen and the heat of the words between him and Power and Whelan. Rowing was torture, on your muscles and on your head, pressing against all of your good sense and reasoning. Was it worth it? You were supposed to sacrifice, but what if you lost? He thought of how it felt to be moving in the shell down the pond, and his head cleared. Only another rower would understand. He would talk to his brother, but he wished Power and Whelan would disappear, so he did. He glanced at the kitchen window. His mother had moved away from it, and he could see Jack Nugent and Martin Boland coming through the yard—miracle of miracles! Din moved swiftly to the door.

  “Come on in, come in. I was just going over to Fox’s for a drink of hop beer. I needs one for sure.”

  Watt jumped to his feet. “You’re leaving us without an answer?”

  Din grabbed his coat from the hook near the stove. “Goodbye, Watt, John. I’ll tell Dan ye was here and ask him if he’ll agree to try for a berth with someone else. I knows I done wrong. I’ll try to fix it. Mother, will you get John and Watt a dipper of the brew I got in the back room?” He brushed past Watt and John. Martin and Jack smiled nervously and nodded at Watt and John before they set off to catch up to Din. “I’ll explain the whole works on the way over to the Rocky Hills,” came Din’s voice from the yard.

  “You’re home early, john. Thought you’d be gone all day. Must be going again soon, are you?” Kate was in the kitchen, bundling herself up against the weather, fixing her heavy shawl. “I’m taking Tommy over to Mother’s. We won’t be gone too long.”

  John hadn’t said a word since he walked into the house. It was hard to keep a calm face, but he didn’t want to show Kate the upset inside him.

  Kate pulled the wool cap down over Tommy’s ears, licked a finger, and drew it over a smudge by his mouth. “John, it’s Christmas. You should be coming with us, my son. Give up that old rowing foolishness. Sure, there’ll be enough time to talk about that before August. Ah, John, why don’t you give it up entirely?” She stood in front of him, her face sorrowful. “You can’t tell me you’d miss the sore hands and sore arse?”

  “Don’t be at me, Kate. I’m off to Mickey O’Brien’s now. There’s a whole crowd going there, and I’ll be clear of any rowing yarns. John Savage and the Kellys will be there, so it will be cattle talk.”

  “Oh, and if Bill Pine is up there, there won’t be any rowing talk at all, will there? He might have a few things to say about rowing or not rowing with Outer Cove.”

  John took her hands. She had put on her thickest mitts. “How did you know about Bill Pine?”

  “Oh, I have my ways of finding things out. For instance, what was said at the meeting at the liver house.” She laughed. “Have yourself a good time at O’Brien’s. Come on, Tommy, get a move on.”

  Chapter

  11

  “John, John!” He felt Kate’s elbow in his side. “Listen!”

  He’d been dreaming of the pond, an oar dipping under the surface of the water, the grip of his hands on the wood. But Kate wouldn’t let him return there.

  “Someone’s knocking. Who could it be at this hour?”

  John shifted onto his side. He opened his eyes and blindly reached for the box of matches. He lit the lamp, got out of bed, hauled on his pants, and then climbed down the narrow stairway leading to the kitchen. The floor under his feet felt as cold as the ocean. The knocking came again, louder now as John reached the porch. As he put his hand on the latch, it was lifted from the other side, and a man and a thick drift of snow blew in.

  “Dear God, is that you, Peter? Peter Cahill? Step in out of that wind.”

  “I’m sorry to show up at such a shocking hour of the night, John,” said Peter’s trembling voice, “but young Mary, she got terrible pains in her stomach and they’re getting worse. My old horse will never get through this storm. We got to get her to town, to the General. I need a lend of Prince.”

  “I’m not sure if Prince will behave himself for anyone but me or Kate. I’ll take your girl to the hospital, but you or her mother will have to come in the sleigh with me. If this storm don’t get any worse, we can likely get to town in an hour and a half.”

  “John, you’re a good man.” Peter had stopped shivering, partly because of the warmth of the house, partly because of his relief in hearing John’s words. “I’ll head back to the house right away and get Mary and Bride ready. The wind is northeast. With any luck, the snow will stop soon.” He stepped out into the night and vanished in the blast of the storm.

  “I’ll be at your house in about twenty minutes, Peter,” John yelled at the snowy wall of darkness. He raced back up the stairs to tell Kate about young Mary, then dressed and fled the house.

  The wind howled around him as he fought his way from the house to the barn. The kerosene lamp dulled to a flicker, struggling to stay lit. He fought to open the barn door against the gusts pushing him backwards. When he entered the stable, Prince quickly rose up from the straw, turned his head toward John, and nickered. Giant snowflakes smacked against the window in front of Prince’s manger and slid down to frame the bottom of the sill, and the roof vent made a whistling sound that swept through the barn. John took the harness from the hooks along the wall. The rattle of the harness stirred Prince, and he began to shuffle his hooves.

  “Now, Prince, we got to head out into some weather. We got an important job to do. Go easy now, fella. Go easy.” John patted Prince gently on the neck.

  The wind pounded the cove and every single thing in it. Snow was blowing around the yard as John and Prince headed out through the gate. The horse took on the night and the squall as if he had taken on such things a hundred times before. John didn’t have to slap the reins or raise his voice over the howling gale to get the sleigh moving through the deepening snow. Prince’s urgency to get to the Cahills’ house seemed greater than John’s. The wind, though unabated, had changed slightly in direction, howling just as hard from the north. The gusts whipped up drifts that came almost to the horse’s girth. But at least the gale was at their backs.

  “She’s asleep,” Peter said. “The pain was too much for her. She’s tired right out. Bride will go with you. They’re bundled up warm. At least the wind won’t be in your face on the way out. God bless you, John.”

  John entered the Cahill house
and came out carrying Mary. Bride was at his side, holding her skirts tight to her sides. She made her way to the sleigh and climbed into the back of it, holding out her arms for her daughter. “Oh, John, John, my poor Mary,” Bride sobbed. “Heaven help us. Will we make it through this blizzard?”

  John could barely hear her words through the gale as he got up on the seat. Again, Prince seemed to sense his urgency. The horse plowed through the drifts relentlessly as they passed the wide-open fields of the Kelly and Pine farms. The tailwind seemed to quicken their pace. They encountered no other living soul on the long cold road to town.

  Down across the Ross farm they rode, and around the top of the pond. John quickly realized that the lane by the boathouse would likely be blocked with drifts. It would not do to try and climb that steep path. Then he remembered the narrow passage between the west prison wall and the cemetery. He snapped the reins for the first time during the long, difficult ride and headed for the opening to the graveyard.

  “Hey, Prince. Hey, boy. Gee up!”

  Still showing no signs of fatigue, the horse quickened his stride. The commotion caused Mary to stir. Mumbled words crept out from beneath the pile of blankets.

  “Thank God, we’re almost there,” said Bride. “Don’t worry, Mary, my love. We’ll soon see the doctor.”

  John drove the sleigh up to the front of the hospital. He jumped down and helped Bride out, took Mary in his arms, and approached the door. The night porter came to his knock and helped the woman and the girl inside.

  Leading Prince behind the hospital, John found a barn and walked him into it, startling the few horses that were there. He put Prince in an empty stall and found some hay for him. Water would come later, when the horse had cooled down. He twisted up a wisp of straw and curried the horse dry. Someone had thrown a moth-eaten blanket on top of the oat bin. John took it off and placed it over his horse.

  He walked back to the hospital through the deep snow and knocked on the door. The porter let him in, saying, “I sent a man to go fetch the doctor. That young one is not too good, is she?”

  The oak clock on the wall read twenty minutes past three. The warmth from the cast-iron heater radiated through his damp clothes, causing John to drift into a semiconscious state, neither fully asleep nor fully awake. His thoughts raced with images of the blinding snow, of Prince in the hospital barn. Then nothing. The clocked ticked. His head fell forward.

  “Sir, sir.” John woke quickly, sitting up straight. “Sorry, miss. I fell asleep. How’s the girl, how’s Mary?”

  “Dr. Rendell would like a word with you,” said the nurse, a thick-featured woman with fair hair pulled up in a bun and rolls of fat that made her dress look shapeless.

  The man beside her was of medium height “Hello. You must have had quite a trip from Outer Cove in this weather. I’m Dr. Rendell.” He reached out to shake John’s hand. The fisherman’s rough hands clasped the soft, firmly fleshed hands of the surgeon. “The whole city is shut down. You are Mary’s father?”

  “No, sir. I’m a neighbour, sir. John Whelan. How is the girl? How’s Mary?”

  “She has appendicitis. She’ll have to have her appendix removed. I’ve given her something for the pain, so she’s easier now.” Dr. Rendell placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “You say you are John Whelan. John Whelan the rower?”

  “I’ve rowed in the races, yes.”

  “You’re the stroke with those Outer Cove crews that have won all the titles?”

  John shifted in his seat. “Yes, sir. Good crews, we had.”

  “You’re an extraordinary rower, Mr. Whelan. Everyone who follows the regatta knows your name and your record.” The doctor’s comments surprised John. They made him feel humble, somehow. “I’m keen to know what makes some rowers so refined, while others struggle to grasp the basics. I spend a lot of time on the water, sailing. I’ve never gotten the hang of rowing, I’m afraid.” Rendell laughed. “May I ask you a few questions about your expertise?”

  John had never engaged in this type of conversation with a common man, much less a highly educated person, and he was still adrift in the whirl of the night’s events. The encounter with Rendell seemed dreamlike and strange. The doctor was almost certainly Bob Sexton’s Dr. Herbert Rendell, but he was afraid to ask.

  The nurse returned with a tray holding a pot of tea and a plate with bread and butter on it. The two men sat down together at a small table. John felt himself coming around as he drank and ate. The tea was hot and strong, the bread light, the butter salty and sweet. He sat quietly, occupying himself with the food and drink.

  “Mr. Whelan, you’re of average build, about my size. Do you find it difficult sometimes to move the boat through the water? I mean, it all depends on force, and there are five others in the boat, too.”

  “Yes, indeed, it is hard sometimes. But it’s like I’m part of the boat. I works hard and the boat gives back.” John shrugged his shoulders. “The men behind me are dogs and I’m the tail wagging them.” He chuckled. “Great crewmates, I’ve had. All of them.” He looked at the windows on the other side of the room. The heat from the large radiators were keeping them free from the driving snow. The wind had shifted to the northwest and gained strength. The branches of tall maples snapped against the windows.

  “Dr. Rendell, sir.” John’s curiosity got the better of him. “I believes you’re the gentleman who gave Bob Sexton the plans for his new boat. My good friend Watt Power and I paid him a visit recently. It’s a fine craft he’s working on.” John looked at the doctor, at his smooth, clean hands. “I beg your pardon, sir, but how do you know so much about boats?”

  “Boats are my hobby. I’m a yachtsman, and I have an interest in the architecture of ships. Sexton is a wonderful workman. This boat may prove to be the best one ever rowed on Quidi Vidi.” He looked at the tired fisherman, at his big weathered hands which knew so much about the way of a small boat on the water. “So, Mr. Whelan, are you going to row in the new boat Sexton is making? It will be ready for this year’s regatta. Only the finishing left to do. He’s a gifted builder, very conscientious. This new boat will be very fast.”

  “I plans on rowing with a crew from the cove. But we’re not sure yet if all hands can make the bargain. There are some problems, sir, and . . .” John’s voice trailed off. He felt embarrassed for himself, talking about things that would be of no interest to this man.

  “What problems are those, Mr. Whelan?”

  “Two of the crew might row with Baine Johnston instead of us. They’re brothers, and Johnston made them an offer of a berth for the seal hunt. Baine Johnston wants them in their crew on Regatta Day. The catch is, to get the berths they got to promise not to row with anyone else. If the boys make a deal with them, we won’t have our crew.” John looked away, mumbling. “I’d like to win one more title on the pond, sir, for myself and for the cove. I wants to go back to the rowing because it’s what I does best.” John pointed at the window that faced the pond, frozen in the darkness of winter. “I loves the races. When I rows, I never feels pain, certainly not the way other men talks about it. Maybe because I’m thinking so hard on the stroke rate it keeps the hurt at bay.” His hand moved rhythmically. “Even if I’m not so strong anymore, I wants to lead those men. If I can do that, we won’t lose.”

  “I’m sure the crew trusts that you are still the same John Whelan who has claimed so many victories from the lake.” The doctor crossed his legs and smiled at John. “I have no doubt you can meet their expectations.” He stood up, walked to the window, rubbed the condensation away, and looked out.

  “I must get back to Mary. The child needs an operation right away.” He tugged at the stethoscope around his neck. “Looks like the storm is just about over. It will be daylight in a few hours. You might as well stay here until morning. We’ll find a bed for her mother.” He looked at the man who had braved a fierce storm t
o save a young girl’s life. “And, Mr. Whelan, I’ll tell Mrs. Cahill that there won’t be a fee.”

  John rose and reached to shake Dr. Rendell’s hand. “Thank you, sir. I’ll just go out back and check on my horse.”

  On the way to the shed, John reflected on the night’s business. Sometimes, strange things happened in the middle of a storm.

  Chapter

  12

  “Which one of you is going to Torbay today? One of you has to.” Ellen McCarthy polished the teapot to within an inch of its life.

  Her two sons looked at each other. “Why?” Dan asked, tying his bootlace. Din looked out the kitchen window. The sun was casting such a brilliant reflection off the snow he had to turn away. That was a good thing, then. “‘If Candlemas Day be clear and fine, the rest of winter is left behind; if Candlemas Day be rough and grum, there’s more of winter left to come.’”

  “Well, it’s clear and fine then, so one of ye has got to go to Torbay and bring home a piece of candle Father Clarke has blessed. I knows it’s cold, but you can dress up warm.”

  “Oh, Mother.” Dan rolled his eyes. “Do you really think them old candles do any good?”

  “If ye two are going after the seals, I needs to have a bit of one of those candles on hand before you leaves, so I can put a few drops of wax on your boots and caps and the rest of it.”

  “All right, Mother, all right. No need to shout. I’m not deaf like a haddock, and I’m in the kitchen, too.”

  “What time is the blessing of the candles?” asked Din.

  “Four o’clock, same as every year.”

  “What if the weather turns bad?” Din knew there was no chance of this, but still.

  “For heaven’s sake, b’ys. Do ye think ye might get lost going over there?” Ellen shook her head. “You never happens to get lost coming back from a dance in Torbay in the pitch black of night.” She lifted the damper off the stove and jabbed at the cinders. “One of ye go out to the linny and bring back an armful of wood. Two armfuls. It’s going to be a cold night, and I got to get another batch of dough in the oven. There’ll be fresh bread to take with you down to the Cobbler when you goes cutting wood.” She looked out the window toward the Rocky Hills. “Your poor father.” At last, she lowered her voice. “I can see him now, heading off with the horse hitched up to the wood slide. The cold winters, he did not mind. A flask of warm tea, a bit of salt fish, and some hardtack would do him almost a full day.”