by Gerard Doran
The rows on the pond after the meeting seemed like a new beginning. Practice by practice, the boat became a little faster. John didn’t look as often at the wash of the oars going by. The shortness and intensity of the practices seemed to invigorate the crew. On the pond, there was no tide, no miles of swells to make them weary. John now had to play close attention to his catch, adjusting its quickness as the boat speed quickened. He and Dan seemed to be connected at the hip, and also at the brain, when it came to the pace they had to set for the four behind them. Brief words were sometimes exchanged between John and Dan when they were in the shell. When Croke asked why they were allowed to talk in the boat, Boland told him they had their own private language and it was none of his business. John knew Watt didn’t know and didn’t care what he and Dan said to each other. In past races, despite the pressure, the pain, the sweating, and the sideways glances, he and Dan had always had a word or two for each other.
Watt sat at the rear of the skiff during every row the crew made on the ocean. He called those rows “the journey around Torbay Point.” It was either a journey from Outer Cove to Logy Bay or the reverse. He never omitted the name of a single landmark, be it a shoal or fishing berth. Like a good skipper, Watt praised the crew’s dedication to the three-mile rows. He also condemned the Torbay crew roundly and loudly, which made them row all the harder. “We’ll give them their fill of rowing! That nine twenty won’t be quick enough to beat us.”
“Here comes the crew from Outer Cove!” Children came running down from the fishing rooms to the cliff’s edge.
“I seen them first,” said Kitty Burke.
“No, you never, I did,” said her brother, watching the crew, covered in spray, pound headlong into the stiff westerly breeze, their backs bent to take on the last fifteen minutes against a headwind.
“Push to finish, men—I can see the chimneys in Dyer’s Cove.” Watt brought them in to land beneath the cliffs at Logy Bay. Wet and worn out, they tied up the boat to a ladder that led up the cliff face.
“Come have a mug-up, now, fellas, before we takes you back to Outer Cove. You must be nearly all in.” Pat Malone walked the men up to his fishing room, where there was fresh meat stew waiting. They sat outside on the soft moss, flanked by berry bushes, and ate.
“Mr. Malone, have you heard from Liz yet?” asked Dan.
“No, not yet, my son. Been almost two weeks now, though I don’t have to tell you that. I expects we’ll get a letter from her soon.” He offered the men more bread to sop up the stew, and fresh tea. “Not long till the races now, b’ys. Just a dozen or so days left.”
“The boat is setting up well,” Dan said, “but I’ve had enough of practising.” He spat a wad of tobacco into the grass and looked at the children playing where Liz played when she was a child, in a tiny corner at the edge of the sea. The lush green hills of Cadigan’s Side swept down to the fish flakes. Shafts of golden sunlight shone through breaks in the racing white clouds.
“Pining for me daughter, are you, Dan, b’y?” Pat Malone gave Dan a good-natured shove. “Eat up, you needs your strength. Liz won’t be too happy with you if you loses to Torbay on Regatta Day.”
“Who wants to ride back to Outer Cove with me?” Willy Cadigan shouted.
“Meself and young Croke will climb aboard with you, Willy,” said Watt.
Up the steep incline of the Rooms Road they went.
“When do you think we’ll row for time, Watt?” Croke asked.
“Don’t worry, my son. The new boat Sexton built is getting christened today. We’ll take her for a spin this evening. She will be quick. She got to be. If she’s really slick, we’ll need to get used to her. And she got to get used to the water. All that new wood needs to be primed up. We’re pretty smooth. I’d say that next week we’ll be the first crew going for a poke in that boat.”
“Going for a poke? What do you mean?”
“We’re going to row for time. Take a poke at the record set in 1885. You know, the nine twenty that Torbay matched in practice last week.” Watt took his stopwatch out of his breast pocket and dangled it in front of Croke and the rest of the crew.
“Why can’t we row for time in the Glance today? Could be windy next week. You know what it took to row nine twenty. What do you remember?”
“There was a slight tailwind as we were rowing down the pond, but we pushed hard, knowing the same wind would help us on the way home.”
“So you had a good turn?”
“An excellent turn. My father was a damn good coxswain on the buoy. It was the fisherman’s race, a dandy four-boat race. At least that’s what we thought before the starter’s gun fired. It was never close. We rowed for time. We rowed away from them.” Watt pushed his hand through the air as if batting a fly. “Maybe that’s why we were so fast. Because we knew right away we were going to win. It did our hearts good.”
Croke moved closer to Watt. “Did you know how fast you were before you finished?”
“No, we never. We never give it no thought, we were too busy rowing. A race goes by that fast. Before you knows it, you’re starting to turn, and that’s about four minutes, thirty. Then all of a sudden you’re back to where the Virginia River comes into the pond. Just three minutes to go.” He grinned. “You hurt like hell and you’ve rowed about six minutes then.”
“You was beat out by then?” Croke said.
Watt’s hands were gesturing like an Italian’s. “Yes, but you can’t stop. You’re in a boat with six other men. You can’t let them down.” He took Croke’s hand and squeezed it. “You can’t let the people of the cove down, or your family, or all the people on the banks of the pond. You’d rather die than quit.”
“Don’t you suffer like a martyr?”
“Some do and some don’t.” Watt paused, and looked at Croke’s young, eager face. “Suffering is a great teacher, my son.”
Dan had been counting the days since Liz left, and the days remaining for him in the cove. The fishery had slowed down, but the first hay crop had to be cut and dried. The gardens needed tending, and there were always repairs, at home and at the stage. They were rowing six days a week: Monday in the skiff to Logy Bay, Tuesday on the pond, Wednesday in the skiff from Logy Bay back to Outer Cove, Thursday on the pond, and so on, until it ended on Saturday. Dan and the rest of them wished for a gale so they could get a break, but so far the winds had stayed away.
It was a week before the races when he returned home from the beach to find an envelope on the kitchen table.
“I was going by Dyer’s and they told me there was a piece of mail for you,” called Din from his bedroom.
Dan’s heart raced as he sat down at the table and carefully peeled the flap open.
July 19, 1901
Boston, Mass.
My Darling Dan,
It is twelve days since I arrived in Boston. I’ve been very busy, and that has helped keep me from thinking of you and my parents too much. I hope you are good. I misses you terribly, Dan. Aunt Annie’s children are ages one to eight, and they all seems to want me at the same time. But the Walshes are very good to me. Their house is some grand. They even got a bathroom, with a big porcelain tub! I was afraid to get in it first, it’s so deep, but now I gets in twice a week.
I took a ride on the subway one Sunday. It’s very fast. I likes the streetcars better. There’s some lot to see here. Aunt Annie takes me around with her when she can, and I goes by myself on Sundays, which is my day off. It’s a lonely day for me, walking around the streets of Boston wishing you was with me.
I have met a lot of people from home who moved here and are happy to stay. They mostly lives in the same spot and they visits each other all the time. I asked them all to our wedding—you better come down soon!
I wish I had got a picture of you, but the only one I ever seen is in the front room of your hous
e and I know your mother wanted to hang on to that.
Please write to me soon. I am hoping you knows when you will be coming to Boston. That way I can mark off the days on the little calendar Aunt Annie give to me. (It got roses on the front of it, like the ones I wants for my bouquet.)
All my love,
Liz (Star of Logy Bay)
P.S.—Beat Torbay in the races!
Watt decided that the last long row would be one week before the regatta. The crew would spend any extra time practising starts, turning the buoys, and, if there was a good pond, rowing for time. The extra rowing in the skiff had paid off. Torbay wanted the Red Cross; Sexton’s new shell was theirs to row. The Blue Peter cut through the water the way Sexton said it would, with little resistance.
“Who’s that, I wonder?” Din got up from the table in response to the sound of boots crossing the yard. The porch door was pushed open.
“Come in, come in, Croke, b’y. I’m having a feed of toutons. Hang on, now, till I gets you a plate.” Din filled a plate with the fried dough and pulled a chair back from the table for Croke. “I knows why you’re here. There’s only two things on your mind right now. When are we going for a poke and how fast do you think we will row?” Din laughed to kill himself.
“We can’t practise all summer and not know how fast we could have gone,” Croke said between swallows of touton.
“Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’d say we’ll go next Friday or Saturday, if we gets a good pond. Even if there’s a breeze, old Watt will ask us to be ready. He can estimate pretty close as to how much time even a small bit of wind will cost us.”
Croke poured more molasses over his toutons. “There’s iron in molasses, so they says. Glad I never bit down on a piece yet.” He grinned. “Sometimes I wishes my backside was made of iron so I wouldn’t get so many blisters on my arse.” The grin changed to a grimace as Croke shifted in his chair.
“We needs to get a few more spins in the new boat before we rows for time,” Din said. “You knows Watt decided that the last long row would be one week before the regatta. And whatever time we got left we’ll need to practise starts and turning the buoys with the Blue Peter. She’s some boat, ain’t she? Cuts through the water like a blade. Never seen the likes of her. One thing for sure, I’d like to beat Torbay until they’re black and blue. Them and that Red Cross. That boat don’t have a patch on ours.”
“McCarthy, you’re crazy.” Croke laughed. “That time they rowed in practice—what was it, nine twenty? That’s pretty quick.”
“I heard Watt say last practice that he thinks we’re seven or eight seconds faster than what they rowed.” Din wiped the molasses from his chin with one of Ellen’s good napkins. She’d kill him, but he’d deal with that later.
“So you think next week we’ll row for time?”
“Yes, b’y. Watt needs to know what we can do before Regatta Day.”
They tied up at Logy Bay, the last long row over. “We’ll row for time tomorrow evening,” Watt said. “If it’s windy, then Friday. If not Friday, then we’ll try Saturday. We’ve had enough practice in the Blue Peter. You’re a smooth crew and she’s a keen boat.”
Din felt like asking Watt a few questions, but he didn’t. No one did, although he knew they were all thinking the same things. Did Watt think they were ready? If there was a wind, would they row anyway? How windy did it have to be to cancel the poke? Torbay had already set the mark. They’d shown Outer Cove what they could do, and now it was the cove’s turn. Every man who held an oar during the final days of practice had a pit in his stomach. Not just the men of Outer Cove, but all the men in all the crews. You could almost smell the change in the air at the pond.
Chapter
23
Quidi Vidi could be breezy, loppy, or foggy at any time of the year, but during the final days leading up to the regatta, it was often beautifully calm. As the crew made their way to the boathouse, only the breaching brown trout broke the water’s dead calm.
“Now, men,” Watt began. He felt as if the pond behind him were waiting for the Blue Peter to come out onto it. The barns on the Ross farm were reflected in its clear mirror. He stood within a few feet of the crew. “There’s only five times.” He raised his hand, fingers spread wide. “Five times that you needs to listen to the times I will be calling out this evening. They’re when you gets to the minute post, the gate to Woodley’s house, the Virginia River, the turn, and the minute post coming back.” Watt knew the men were nervous, except for John, who was as still as someone in a trance.
“What time do you want us at the turn?” asked Nugent.
“Torbay did it in four minutes, thirty seconds. We need to match that.” Watt winked at him. “We aim to be faster.”
During the final strokes of the warm-up, John spotted Dr. Rendell’s chestnut mare and carriage under a tree on the Cottage Farm road. The two figures in the carriage were watching the crew approach the stakes. John quickly shifted his concentration back to the rowing.
Watt took out his stopwatch and let it run, stopped it, then rewound it. The crew went through their usual warm-up—ten minutes of light rowing—then they did a few practice starts at a race rate. The boat slowly drifted to the starting point. Watt reached down and grabbed the toggle rope. He choose stake two, buoy two. That’s the lane he hoped to be in for the fishermen’s race. The shell moved forward, the toggle rope stretching until it was tight to the stake.
“Are ye ready?” He checked his course bearing for the final time. “Go!”
The Blue Peter moved away swiftly, driven by a rapid sequence of seven quick strokes followed by seven slightly slower strokes of increasing length.
“Great start, men. Now, on two, keep it out long and push that water back toward me.” The wake from Nugent and Boland’s oars went by Watt like a small twister. The boat sat high on the water—it ran beautifully. “Fifty-eight seconds, minute post.”
The shell cut through the pond, sending a gentle wake from its path to the shoreline. Watt knew the men were pushing their bodies to the limit, never surrendering to the pain creeping into their muscles.
“That’s how we’ll christen this boat, men. Every stroke gets the same pressure. Push those legs. Push those legs right at the catch.”
The crew could feel the moist air run past their heads, giving them some slight relief as they grew hot, the blood rushing through their veins. John knew that in five minutes they’d be fighting real agony, and no cool breeze could soften that. As he led the crew at a relentless pace, he was grateful that his back had healed.
Watt called out, “Two minutes, seven, Woodley’s Gate.” He glanced down at his watch and then back up, waiting. “We’re at the river. Three minutes, ten.” The boat was running magnificently and the crew looked fresh. “We’ve got a fast boat.” He would save his praise for the row back up the pond. “Thirty seconds and we’re at the turn.”
He slowly tugged the tiller ropes and the Blue Peter began the long arc of the advance toward the keg. Within seconds the buoy and the bow of the shell touched. “Hold water!” Denis and Martin lifted their oars clear of the buoy as it went by the side of the boat, the bow men—Nugent, Croke, and Dan—hauling hard to get the boat heading up the pond without losing too much speed.
“Four minutes, thirty,” Watt yelled. “That’s the time we wanted, men! Now, we need seven of your best strokes to get back up to speed. On the count of two, let’s have them.”
Lighting-quick catches grabbed the water, pushing it away from the boat. Watt started the seven count with vigour. “One, two, three . . .”
A cracking sound echoed across the water. The long shaft of Croke’s oar rushed by Dan’s blade. The Blue Peter drifted to a stop.
In his carriage under the tree, Dr. Rendell watched the boat suddenly slow down. “Pass me my glasses, Sexton. I can’t see what the hell is goi
ng on.” He put the opera glasses up to his eyes. “It looks like there are only five of them rowing.” He picked up the reins, turned the carriage around, and headed back up the road, watching the crew dock the boat, get out of it, and walk to the boathouse.
“Maybe we should wait until they comes out of the boathouse before we goes over,” Sexton said.
“No, I want to speak to them immediately. They had a good run going. I don’t know what happened to number three, but he stopped rowing.”
“Well, then let’s go up to King’s Bridge Road and take the long way back to the boathouse. Put those glasses down, sir, for the love of God, before we ends up out in the pond.”
Dr. Rendell tied his horse to a fencepost at the rear of Mr. Summers’ yard and he and Sexton went to the boathouse. Inside, Mr. Tilley, the caretaker, was examining the cracked shaft of an oar. Watt had told him that they were going to row the full course hard, and had asked if the Blue Peter was properly rigged and ready to go. Tilley had assured him it was. John looked at Croke, sensing that the man was proud of the strength he had displayed in breaking the oar, but he didn’t want to show it.
“It broke at the oarlock,” said Tilley. He passed the shaft to Sexton, who ran his hand carefully along its fine finish to the break in the wood. “It’s plain to see why they stopped rowing,” he said. “Where are the rest of the oars from the Blue Peter?”
“Over there.” Tilley motioned to the open storage area.
Sexton picked up an oar and eyed it, put it down, and picked up another.
“These oars all seem alike,” said Dr. Rendell.
“You’re right. They are all alike, but they’re not like the broken one. This oar don’t belong to the Blue Peter.” Sexton handed the shaft to the doctor. “See where it broke off? It’s brownish, dark there. Someone changed the oar on number three. They put an older, damaged one in its place.” Sexton turned to Tilley. “Do you let crews change oars around from boat to boat?”
“No, never. If an oar needs to be changed, I changes it.”