The Loss of the Marion

by Linda Abbott

  Harry closed his eyes and had just dozed off when shouts from the dock roused him. He recognized Mick Drake’s voice. “You Frenchies couldn’t beat your way out of a paper bag!”

  “Whitey, shut up or . . .” A cough cut off the voice.

  “We have enough trouble with the Fleur de Lys without you adding to it,” Clive growled.

  “A bunch of old maids fights better than ye!” Gordy McCarthy laughed.

  Harry put his hands behind his head. “Will Gordy ever learn to keep his trap shut?” he muttered under his breath. Minutes later, a crowd of drunken men staggered into the sleeping quarters. Tom, now fully awake, shot up in bed. Dave LaCroix and Gordy Evans had bloody noses. Most of the others sported grazed knuckles. Mick Drake massaged his jaw.

  “What happened?” Harry asked, although he already knew the answer.

  “We had a free-for-all with the French crew,” Gordy boasted. “They never shut their mouths about what Captain Ike did, so we shut their mouths for them.”

  “We gave ’em a right beating, too,” Billy Evans said.

  Harry sighed. Had he been so reckless at this boy’s age?

  “That’ll show them not to mess with us,” Simon Whelan said. Blood oozed from a gash on his forehead.

  Tom looked sideways at him. “Your new missus might not agree.”

  Simon blushed.

  John Hodder rolled over. “Time some of you men grew up.”

  “I agree,” Henry Hodder said, his eyes on Gordy.

  Groans and moans escaped the crew as they crawled into their bunks.

  They woke at the usual time, although they were much slower in getting out of bed than the previous morning. Ike ate with the men, joking and acting like nothing had happened the night before. Harry, Tom, and Fred gave each other a look but said nothing.

  Ike rose from the table. “Hoist the sails,” he said, and went up to his cabin.

  The men set about the task. Harry listened to the creaking of the ship as the sails opened out. The anchor chain churned, grating as it lifted the anchor from the bottom of the harbour.

  Gordy stood at the steering wheel. “Ready to set sail,” he called out.

  Harry turned to go below deck when he saw Ike leave his cabin with a musket. He stood motionless while Ike raised the gun and fired it across the bow of the Fleur de Lys, where Captain Maurice stood talking with a crewmate. The French captain looked toward the sound just as the shot flew inches from his face and slammed into the door of the captain’s cabin, a foot above his head. Fishermen from both ships gaped at Ike.

  Harry crossed the deck. “Captain, why?”

  “I’ve sent Captain Maurice a message. One he needs to carefully consider.” Ike turned and went back to his cabin.

  The Marion’s men murmured among themselves, shock stamped on every face. No one replied to the threats and curses from the crew of the Fleur de Lys.

  Fred hurried over to Harry. “B’y, that was some show of defiance,” he said.

  Harry looked toward the captain’s cabin. “One I hopes we don’t live to regret.”

  Gordy steered the schooner away from the port and the sounds of growls and catcalls from the French trawler. It wasn’t until St. Pierre was a faint shadow that Harry felt the tension drain out of his body. An eerie silence descended on the men as they baited the trawls.

  Tom came up from below deck. A cool wind snaked around his neck and down his back. He buttoned his jacket and turned up the collar.

  The wind whipped at Harry’s hat. He looked up at the sky. Black clouds gathered in the distance. “A bad storm’s brewing,” he said. As if Mother Nature had heard the prediction, the dark clouds rumbled closer. Lightning bolts flared and seemed to reach down to the Marion. A tap, tap sounded as raindrop after raindrop spattered onto the deck, until it grew into a torrent that pounded the boards and bit into the skin.

  Tom blew on his hands to warm them. “I’d love to be lazing at home by my fireplace with a hot toddy.”

  “Steady as she goes,” Ike roared over the wind. Thunder boomed into the air like a discharged cannon. White specks floated on the horizon. “Icebergs ahead.”

  “That’s all we needs,” Harry muttered.

  The ship lilted. Harry and Tom grabbed hold of the rail. A wave soaked the two men. The schooner heaved, swaying from side to side as it beared down on the icebergs.

  Gordy gripped the steering wheel. “Captain, them bergs are awful big.” One, the size of a horse and cart, walloped the side of the schooner. She rattled from stem to stern. The wheel slipped through Gordy’s hands and spun around until it was almost a blur. The men below lost their footing. Arms flailing, they slid like slippery fish over the wet boards, groping for anything to hang onto. Gordy and Ike grabbed the wheel and steadied the schooner. She edged forward, chunks of ice chomping at her.

  “All hands okay?” Ike shouted down.

  “A-okay,” Dave LaCroix yelled after a quick inspection around the ship.

  “Captain, there’s too many bergs,” Gordy roared, his hands and arms strained. “We needs to drop sails and wait out the storm.” His hat had blown off and his red hair was plastered to his head.

  A wave slopped over Ike and sent him crashing to the deck. Gordy held the wheel tight with cold, stiff fingers. “Captain, you okay?”

  Ike struggled to his feet, swaying with the roll of the ship. “Never mind about me.”

  Gordy swerved to avoid an iceberg as big as a house. “That bastard near did us in!” he bellowed.

  Sid Davies peered over the side through rain that stabbed at his eyes like tips of daggers. A dark shadow sliced through the rough sea. “Is that a ship?” He coughed out yellow mucus.

  Harry spit salty water out of his mouth. “Don’t see any sails. Could be a trawler.”

  “It’s closing in mighty fast,” Skit said. “Hope it’s not a German warship.” Another wave sunk the Marion low in the water, followed by two bigger ones. Icebergs packed around the schooner. Billy stumbled into Harry and clung to the rail, his face ashen.

  “Nothing to fret over,” Harry said. “We’ve tackled worse conditions than this before.”

  Lightning flashed. Thunder boomed. The mystery ship slipped closer. Please let it be a friendly one, Harry thought.

  Billy licked his lips. “I ain’t ever sailed in weather this bad.”

  Harry gripped the young man’s shoulder in a display of confidence. “You’ll be all right.”

  “Skit,” Tom screamed. “Watch out!” A sail snapped and fell across the deck. The tail end knocked Skit on the side of the head. The pipe dangled from the corner of his mouth as he dropped to his knees.

  Harry spun around to see Tom reach for the injured man, but he was yanked off his feet by a rush of water. Before Harry could react, another sail crumpled like a piece of paper over Ron and John Hodder. A scream rang out.

  Mick Drake hauled Skit to his feet. “All hands to the dories,” he yelled.

  Earle Fiander pulled Ron from under a sail. “Too late for that,” he said.

  Harry heard a boom, then a deafening groan like steel buckling, as he and Billy were thrown forward. Nellie’s rosary beads tumbled from his pocket and washed into the ocean on a wave.

  Chapter 5

  Joe, Sam, Bessie, and Marie chewed on egg sandwiches. “Pa’s been gone for eight days now,” Marie said. “I misses him.”

  Nellie poured tea for each of the children. “He’ll be home soon,” she said with a forced smile.

  “I misses my pa, too,” Bessie said.

  Nellie put the kettle back on the stove. The weather had grown cold and wet the day after the Marion departed. Today the temperature had dropped to forty-five degrees. She looked out the window, an unbreakable habit, before stepping away from the stove. Patches of fog lined
the entrance to the harbour. Halfway across, a dory bobbed on the rough waves. Dr. Fitzgerald cast a fishing line into the water, and Nellie knew that a genuine smile would be softening his features. He enjoyed outdoor life, particularly fishing and yachting. Age hadn’t interfered with either. The fog suddenly thickened and swallowed up the dory, partially concealing the doctor from view. Nellie wasn’t worried.

  Not until the whistle of a steamer sounded across the harbour.

  A steamship cleared the rocks and entered the harbour on a direct course for the doctor. Shrouded in a thin fog, his boat blended in with the grey water. The doctor seemed oblivious to anything but his pipe and fishing line, the latter of which dangled over the side of the dory. The steamer chugged closer. Nellie’s heart thumped. “Holy Mary Mother of God!” she cried out. “It’s gonna ram him.”

  The words were barely out when the steamer slammed into the front of the dory. Wood shattered and the doctor was lost from sight. “Joe, Sam,” Nellie said. “Come with me. A steamer’s run over Dr. Fitzgerald.” Bessie and Marie followed them to the wharf, running all out. Joe jumped in a dory. Sam untied it, scurried in, and grabbed the oars.

  Dr. Fitzgerald, a strong swimmer, yet burdened with warm clothing and rubber boats, struggled to stay afloat. His head sank below the surface. Bessie and Marie screamed. Nellie held her breath until he resurfaced.

  “We’re coming,” Sam yelled, and pushed off. He rowed as fast as he could. “Hold on!”

  “Bessie,” Nellie said. “Go get a blanket.” Bessie bounded up to the house and was back before her brother had rowed a few feet.

  The steamer’s captain lowered a lifeboat. It splashed down close to the dory’s wreckage. Shards of wood floated around the doctor. “Not likely,” he said, ignoring the rescue craft.

  “Are you crazy?” a voice boomed through a horn from the steamer’s deck. “Get in the dinghy.”

  “I have no intention of being rescued by you lot,” Dr. Fitzgerald shouted back.

  Sam pulled up next to him. “Hang on,” he said, and steadied the boat while Joe helped the doctor out of the water.

  “Thank you, young man,” Dr. Fitzgerald said, sitting on the seat next to Joe. “For a moment there I thought my Maker was ready to take me.”

  Sam swung the dory around and headed back to shore. “Why didn’t you get in the steamer’s dinghy?” he asked, a little breathless. Sweat covered his brow.

  Dr. Fitzgerald’s white hair stuck to his forehead. He pushed it away. “I refuse to be beholden to the very people who ran me over.”

  Joe gaped at him. “You’d rather drown than let them help you?”

  “It’s a matter of pride, boy.” He laid a firm hand on Joe’s arm. “I’m glad you and Sam showed up in the nick of time.”

  Dr. Fitzgerald climbed onto the wharf without assistance. Nellie heard his teeth chatter and wrapped a blanket around him. “Best get you dried before you catch your death.”

  His lips had a blue tinge to them. “My dear madam,” he said with a wink, “physicians never get sick.”

  “My dear doctor,” Nellie returned, “there’s always a first time for everything.” She shooed the children off to school and led the dripping man up the hill. She hung his clothes to dry by the fireplace and gave him a scalding hot cup of tea while she filled a bowl to the brim with soup.

  The doctor sipped the tea after adding three spoonfuls of sugar and a hint of milk. “That hit the spot,” he said. The steam condensed on his nose.

  Nellie sat down at the table, drumming her fingers and staring into space.

  The doctor stared at her a moment. “Want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

  Nellie’s eyes watered. “I feel in my heart that my Harry isn’t coming home ever again.”

  Dr. Fitzgerald patted her hand. “Now, now, my dear. Don’t think like that. They’re supposed to be out for at least a week.”

  “Before Harry left, I saw him on—”

  The back door flew open and smacked against the wall. “Doctor,” Joe said with urgency, “come to the convent quick. Dottie McEvoy is having her baby.”

  “Goodness. She’s a bit early. Run to my house for my medical bag and bring it to the convent,” he said, whipping on his clothes.

  Nellie accompanied the doctor, surprised he could maintain such a rapid pace.

  Dottie lay on the bed in Mother Patrick’s bedroom. Annie Cluett wiped her face with a wet cloth. The nun sat on the other side uttering words of encouragement. “Everyone out of the room except Annie,” Dr. Fitzgerald said as Joe ran in with the medical bag.

  Nellie and Mother Patrick paced up and down the hall outside the door. “Dottie brought me raisin tea buns,” the nun said. “We were having such a lovely chat. The next thing I knew, there was water all around her feet.”

  Dottie cried out, long and shrill.

  “Oh Sacred Heart,” Mother Patrick said, and blessed herself.

  Dottie screamed.

  “Gentle Mother of God!” Annie’s voice reached into the hallway. “I don’t believe this.”

  Nellie sprang to her feet and knocked on the door. “Are Dottie and the baby all right?”

  There was a moment’s pause before Annie answered. “Come in and see for yourself.”

  Dottie lay back against a stack of pillows. She held a newborn in the crook of each arm.

  “Twins,” Nellie laughed. “Fred’s in for some surprise.”

  “Not to mention me,” Dottie said, exhaustion written all over her face. Her cheeks were red and her hair was plastered to her head. Nellie thought she had never looked so pretty or so healthy.

  Dr. Fitzgerald dried his hands on a towel. “As far as I can tell, they’re identical.”

  “I can’t wait for Fred to see his sons,” Dottie said, her eyes glued to her babies.

  Annie wiped Dottie’s forehead. “You three are staying with me until Fred gets back.” The new mother opened her mouth to object, but Annie held up a hand to silence her. “Listen to me, missy. Your ma was me best friend. She’d want me to look after her girl.”

  Dottie’s eyelids fluttered. “Thanks, Annie. I’m too tired to argue,” she said. “Oh no,” she cried out suddenly. “Fred only made one crib! It’s not big enough for two babies.”

  “Never you mind,” Annie said. “We’ll make do. In the meantime, I’ll get some men to fetch your crib. Nellie will help get you and the babies settled in my house.”

  “I got a crib,” Nellie said. “Joe and Sam will bring it over after school.”

  Dottie sighed and kissed each sleeping baby’s cheek. “It’d be perfect if Fred was here.”

  Days passed with Annie catering to Dottie and the twins, only allowing the new mother to tend to her babies. “I’m all right,” Dottie insisted on more than one occasion. “Let me help with the cooking and cleaning.”

  Annie brushed the protests away every time. “It takes time to get your strength back.”

  A week later, Dottie, Nellie, and Mother Patrick sat with Annie in her kitchen with a mug of tea and a slice of gingerbread. Dottie bit her nails. “Our menfolk should’ve been back long ago,” she said. “Why haven’t they returned?”

  Annie picked at a piece of gingerbread. “All fishing vessels should carry one of them Marconi wireless. That way we’d know why the Marion is late.”

  Mother Patrick voiced out loud what the other women wouldn’t—or couldn’t—say. “Do you think she’s run into trouble?”

  Dottie and Annie stared at the nun. Nellie hung her head. A baby’s cry broke the strained silence. “Fred’s coming home,” Dottie said. “He ain’t even seen his children yet.” Another wail came, and she ran from the room.

  Nellie leaned into the table, her face ashen. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of her. Our men won’t ever see hom
e again,” she said in a raspy voice.

  Annie squeezed her hand. “Love, that’s not a proper way to think.”

  Mother Patrick laid down her mug and folded her arms beneath the broad sleeves of her nun’s habit. “Child, why would you say such a terrible thing, let alone think it?”

  Nellie placed her palms down on the table. “I saw a token.”

  Annie stiffened. “Who was it?” she whispered.

  Nellie told them about the time she’d seen an apparition of Harry in a maze of fog on the wharf one morning, when he’d been at Tom’s house. “I had a bad feeling all along. I told Harry and begged him to stay home.”

  Mother Patrick blessed herself and murmured a short prayer.

  Annie went whiter than sugar. “Everyone knows a token means death,” she said. “I refuse to accept that about our Tommy and Harry.” Footsteps sounded on the stairs. “Dottie’s coming.” Annie lowered her voice. “Best she doesn’t hear about your token.”

  Mother Patrick stood up as Dottie came in. “I have a class to teach in twenty minutes.” She cracked what could be considered either a smile or a frown. “History. Joe’s favourite.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Nellie said. “I have to get supper ready.”

  When they reached the convent door, she parted from the nun and continued down the hill. A black schooner was anchoring in Burke’s Cove. “The Marion!” Nellie cried, and sprinted toward the wharf at the foot of her house. In a heartbeat she untied a dory. She rowed halfway across the harbour, when her smile died. The fishermen on deck weren’t the Marion’s crew. Nellie’s shoulders stooped and her movements slowed. She pulled into the wharf and watched wives, children, and parents greet their returning loved ones. Nellie knew them all, either personally or by sight.