Still the dire messages from Burin kept coming. When Hollett visited St. Lawrence, soon after the Meigle left, he wrote to Squires: “The people are in a state of dire destitution. Immediate assistance is necessary.”
There was, though, no loss of life at St. Lawrence. The people had seen the waves coming and had headed for higher ground. Though rebuilding their town would be a long, hard task, men and women would sometimes cast their eyes to the sky and bless themselves, murmuring prayers of gratitude that no one had died that terrible night.
22
In Burin, Captain Dalton saw that Nurse Cherry had an escort to take her to the home of the local Nonia nurse, where she could stay and rest for a couple of days before returning home to Lamaline. She smiled as she left the ship, to his relief.
“Thank you for kidnapping me, Captain,” she said.
Dalton smiled back, almost confident that she was joking.
The skipper’s first order of business here was to meet with Magistrate Hollett so the two men could bring each other up-todate on the aftermath of the tsunami. When everything was straightened away on the Meigle, Dalton walked to Hollett’s home with the magistrate who had come to the dock to greet him. The captain noted that Hollett hadn’t lost any of the worried look he wore when Dalton first met him the other day.
“My wife has hardly seen me in days,” Hollett said. “And Lucy is so patient.” The two men sat in Hollett’s dark parlour on overstuffed chairs sipping tea that needed warming. In the high-ceilinged quiet of the place, Dalton could almost forget the high dose of tragedy he’d witnessed in recent hours. But Hollett leaned forward, eagerly.
“One of the strange things,” he said, “is that men from the schooners reported no disturbance at sea. The first inkling they had of disaster came from the debris they saw floating past. And what a sight that was…very unexpected, indeed, as you would know more than me, Captain.”
“That’s the way these tsunamis work, sir,” Dalton responded. “It’s the land that gets the damage, not the sea. They’re not storms at sea, at all. If you’re close to shore, you’ll feel a swell, but that’s all. I’ve never experienced one, myself, and I wasn’t out that night. I was safe at home in St. John’s where we thought there was an explosion at the mines on Bell Island, due to the noise the great wave made. Later I heard that St. John’s harbour had emptied for a few minutes. Then I knew there’d been a tsunami, or tidal wave, most people call it. But I knew old fellows who’ve seen the devastation they cause in the Indian Ocean and places south. They wreck entire villages and towns—people sometimes move away rather than rebuild in some cases. Never heard them do much damage this far north, though.”
“Nor have I,” Hollett answered. Dalton noted that he was wide-eyed in the manner of someone who still didn’t believe what was happening.
“We ran out of drugs on board,” Dalton reported. “There were a lot of sick people. Mosdell and the others, the nurses, said there was a lot of call for drugs because so many people don’t have enough bedclothes and they’re living in overcrowded conditions, passing on illnesses to each other. Then the shock and grief made them more vulnerable to illness.”
“So what did you do?”
“We went to St. Pierre and got more supplies. We were in Lamaline, which isn’t far from the French islands, when we ran out. And we knew there were just no stocks left anywhere on the Burin Peninsula. I must say, the French medical people were so helpful. The French authorities, too—they readily offered their port facilities to us most generously.”
“And thank God St. Pierre and Miquelon weren’t affected by the tidal wave,” Hollett added. “So far from their own government in Paris.”
“We didn’t bring sufficient building supplies, either,” Dalton said. “So I ordered ten thousand feet of lumber through the Manager of the Railway to go there on the Argyle. On the Meigle we had roofing supplies, nails, and glass, and we gave all that away, though, as I say, it was not nearly enough for every community.”
As Hollett spoke of the wreckage in the immediate area, Dalton sank into the overstuffed leather chair. He fixed his eyes on the intensity on the magistrate’s face. These were Hollett’s people, he realized—his family, friends, and neighbours.
The Meigle departed Burin on November 27 and dispatched the members of the relief expedition at Argentia at nine o’clock in the morning, where they caught the train. They were in St. John’s a few hours later, rushing to the prime minister’s office.
Squires was almost silent as he listened to Mosdell’s account of the destruction the tidal wave had wrought.
“The property losses are heaviest at St. Lawrence,” the doctor said.
The prime minister nodded.
“It’s to be expected, I suppose,” Mosdell continued. “It being the largest town on the boot.”
“Hollett keeps writing me,” Squires said slowly. “About the loss of life in particular. It’s greater than first thought, I’ve learned.”
“Twenty-seven,” Campbell said. “That’s the most accurate figure. Almost all women and children.”
Squires walked slowly around his large desk. The only sound in the room was his assistant’s breathing.
From behind his desk, the prime minister seemed to return to himself.
“There may be a solution at hand—to the damage, I mean,” he announced. “A South Coast Disaster Committee, under the governor’s patronage, was formed at a public meeting two nights ago. I’m the honorary president and Horwood is acting as chair. Hollett suggested a public subscription. A good idea. But the people were ahead of him—as I knew they would be.” He smiled; his colleagues smiled back in recognition of Squires’ trademark expression.
“They’ve begun house to house collections all over the city,” he continued. “And benefit concerts are being arranged.”
Mosdell nodded.
“The Evening Telegram has opened a public subscription as well,” he added. “That family has got to get in on everything. Hmmph! Well, they’ve got ten thousand dollars together for us in just a few days. According to what Hollett says and what you tell me, we’ll need every cent. All these public donations take pressure off the government. We’ll need the help after the true impact of the New York stock market crash begins to be felt.”
The other men said nothing for a few minutes. Then Campbell spoke up. “I’m sure other towns in the country will open their hearts and pocketbooks as well,” he said.
“Oh indeed!” Squires responded enthusiastically. “They’ve set up a subcommittee on outport contact. I’ve been told to expect large contributions from Grand Falls and Corner Brook in particular, where the paper mills are located.”
As Minister of Marine and Fisheries, Lake’s thoughts drifted to the hundreds of fishing villages on the northeast and west coast. He knew they were filled with people who would want to help but, like their counterparts on the south coast, cash was not important in their lives—fish was their currency.
“Is there a way for people to give non-cash gifts?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” Squires said. “A Kinds Committee has been set up to receive food and clothing and these have begun pouring in already. Harveys Ltd. has donated warehouse space near the railway station where everything can be stored before it’s sent to the Burin Peninsula.”
Lake’s mind harkened back to the snow and wind that had slowed the Meigle’s voyage along the coast.
“What are the plans for getting donations to the South Coast?” he asked. “And distributing them?”
“Hollett has stepped up to the plate,” Squires answered confidently. “We’ve appointed him the committee’s agent. He’ll settle the claims in a just and expedient manner.”
“It’ll be a massive job,” Lake said gravely. “He’ll need every support.” The other members of the relief expedition nodded and murmured “yes.”
“It’s a great relief that almost no breadwinners were killed,” Squires said, looking out the window now.
/> “It is, sir,” Mosdell said. “But it is an extremely serious situation all the same because hundreds of fishermen are in no position to earn a living this coming fishing season.”
“Literally thousands of fishing outbuildings are destroyed, completely flattened,” Lake added. “It is no easy task to rebuild them, especially in winter and without easy access to lumber.”
“Quite a few of them are grief-stricken, too,” Campbell said. “Having lost relatives, wives even, to the tidal wave.”
Squires turned away from the window and nodded. For a moment, a white cast returned to his face. Then he said, “That may be so. But our people are tough and resourceful, especially those in the outports. And the committee will give them the means to rebuild. I have great faith that everything is in hand.”
He glanced around the ornate room.
“I thank you all, gentlemen, for the service you have rendered to our country as members of the relief expedition.”
Mosdell had been about to ask Squires about further assistance from the Newfoundland government, but the prime minister had already disappeared from his office and was dashing down the hallway.
23
Some of the tension in Magistrate Hollett’s shoulders was finally released when he received news that the South Coast Disaster Committee had been formed and had begun receiving public donations from all over the country. His heart leapt when he heard that money had begun to trickle in from the United States, Canada, and England as well. It was all badly needed, he knew, and he would make sure it would be put to good use.
One of the villages Hollett was most concerned about was Port au Bras, another peninsula community with French roots. Migratory fishermen from St. Malo, France, christened the village “port of arms,” which might have been an indication of the sporadic ethnic conflicts over cod that marked Newfoundland history. By the late 1700s, both English and French settlers had made Port au Bras their permanent home, living in a collection of houses that seemed to tumble onto the rocks and almost into the sea. By 1900, three hundred people lived in the village. Known for its skilled fishing captains and masters of foreign-going trading vessels, there was something of the invincible about Port au Bras.
That ended on the night of November 18, as Port au Bras native Ern Cheeseman wrote in a letter to his brother, Jack:
Monday evening at 5.20 we had an earth tremor, all the houses and the ground shook for about 5 minutes. This put everyone in a panic. Women screamed and prayed and we stood silent and scared but we were just trying and had finally succeeded in quieting the women when we had a tidal wave of the worst kind. Enormous waves twenty feet high swept into the harbour…
Charlie Clarke’s store went first, taking Henry Dibbon’s with it into the Pond, taking everything as it came with a thunderous roar. It swept around by Ambrose’s up to Jack Bennett’s out our way bringing all the stores and houses that stood in its way. Then all the boats went mad (and) came in.
The harbour was cleaned (by) the first wave. Then the second one came and brought it all in again. Such noise and scrunching you never heard.
By this time we had all fled to the hills, the highest places we could find. From there we watched the third wave come and go. You could hear the poor humans who were caught, screaming women and men praying out loud. Oh God, Jack, it was terrible…
Fifty-three-year-old Tom Fudge had been in his stores with his two sons, John and Job, when the ground began to tremble. John, just entering his twenties, laughed at the unexpected sensation. Job, at thirteen, blanched and looked to his father for words of comfort.
“You’re not scared, are you, Job?” John teased.
Before Tom could answer, his wife, Jessie, appeared at the door, followed by the couple’s three daughters, Gertie, fifteen, Harriet, eleven, and Hannah, only nine. The two youngest girls held hands and Tom noticed that Hannah was walking on her tiptoes as if to protect herself from the rumbling of the earth.
“What’s going on, Tom?” Jessie asked urgently.
“I don’t really know,” her husband answered. “It must be some kind of earthquake, though they’re not generally known in Newfoundland. Usually they happen in warmer parts.”
“God save us!” said Jessie.
He looked at his daughters and then at white-faced Job.
“It won’t last long,” he said. “And it won’t be a powerful one like they have in the West Indies. Don’t fret now.”
Little Hannah looked up from under her chestnut curls and smiled at him. Tom winked at her. As the tremor died away, Jessie shooed her girls back to the house. Tom watched their long skirts swish as his wife and daughters went inside.
Not long afterwards, a wall of seawater rushed into the Fudges’ garden and pulled the family’s house away with it. Tom was still working in the nearby store with his sons. Oddly, the smell of kelp and salt filled Tom’s nostrils before he heard the roar of the wave. The smell jolted him and he jumped to the doorway to see rushing grey water where his house had been. He let out a deep cry and froze. Then he shouted at John and Job, “Get to high ground! Move! Quick!”
The boys ran from the store toward the hills, joining their panicked neighbours. At one point John turned around and called, “Come on, Dad!”
But he could no longer see his father.
From the high land, Ern Cheeseman and dozens of other people saw Tom Fudge’s store swallowed by the tail end of the wave. They could hear the screams of women and children trapped in houses borne on the tidal wave, Jessie Fudge and her three daughters, among them. In short order, the first wave had torn eleven houses from the ground. It drove Bill and Mary Clarke’s twostorey, eight room house into Path End, a neighbouring inlet, where it would have to be towed down. It destroyed the house of Gus and Jessie Abbott and their six children and that of their kin, John and Annie Abbott, and their seven children. It swept away the house of eighty-one-year-old pensioner William Allen. Tom Fudge’s brother Job, after whom his younger son had been named, was in poor health; now his house was gone. John Dibbon, who lived alone, was homeless. So was sixty-seven-year-old Mary Dibbon, who was widowed by the tsunami. The house Thomas Brenton was building for his new wife, Alice, was engulfed by the tidal wave. Four of the Cheeseman households lost their homes to the violent water that night: those of fifty-five-year-old widower Thomas; twenty-three-year-old bachelor Joseph; and married couple, Jeremiah and Harriet, both fifty-seven.
As the first wave emptied the harbour, Ern Cheeseman and the others tried to follow what was happening, though their eyes could scarcely comprehend it. They tried to count the houses that were hauled up, and then to figure out who was on the high ground and who wasn’t. Ern saw young Job Fudge shivering on the hill not far away. Though he was well-dressed for a November evening, Ern realized the boy must be in shock. He approached young Job.
“Where’s the rest of your family, Job?” he asked gently.
“John is near the bottom of the hill trying to find Dad,” Job answered, his eyes staring at the dot below that represented his brother.
“And where did you last see your father?” Ern persisted quietly.
“Our house is gone and Dad’s gone to get it,” Job said. “Mommy and Gertie and Harriet and Hannah are in it. Dad’s gone to rescue them.”
“Take my jacket, Job,” Ern said, laying his coat over the boy’s shoulders. “It’s getting a little chilly.”
Ern leaned back on a boulder that emerged from the earth and buried his face in his hands. There wasn’t a single store left in the harbour. The houses were all out to sea now. He couldn’t see Tom Fudge from where he sat. He could hardly see Job’s older brother. His helplessness was in danger of congealing into red hot anger unless he did something with it.
He rose again.
“Job, you stay right here,” he said. “Don’t move. Promise me that. I’m going to get your brother.”
Ern bolted down the hill until he reached John.
“Come up to the high ground with me
,” he ordered the young man. “Your little brother needs you.”
“I’ve got to find Dad,” John protested. “Mother and the girls are swept away.”
“I know,” Ern said. “I’m sorry. But that wave is going to come in again—look at how empty the harbour is. And it might take you with it if you stay here. At this point you seem to be all Job has.”
John froze. “But my Dad… I… I…”
“Come with me,” Ern said, quietly but firmly.
John looked at the sea, then turned to follow his neighbour.
“We’ve got to hurry,” Ern added.
On top of the hill, Job’s shivering seemed to have subsided a little. The boy collapsed into his brother’s arms when he saw John. Not long after John and Ern reached the high ground, the second wave bombed its way into Port au Bras. It was even louder than the first. Now the hill was filled with the sound of mournful praying and cries of anguish and grief. The sobs of the Fudge brothers came full force now. They knew they had lost their sisters and their parents and were all alone in the world. Ern Cheeseman and their uncles and aunts made a ring around them in a vain effort to shield them from the pain they would feel for a lifetime.
The people of Port au Bras barely noticed the third wave, which tossed clapboard, barrels, and the remains of battered boats about the harbour. Turnips, heads of cabbage, and pieces of salt meat floated on the water. Ern Cheeseman wrote:
Everybody is miserable, nervous wrecks and in need of help immediately. All people who had food for the winter lost it in their stores. We must have flour, sugar, tea, molasses, beef, and pork immediately… Everything we have is gone and we are ruined…everything is dismal and breaks one’s heart to look at the harbour and then think of what it was like fifteen minutes before this terrible calamity.
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