Chain Locker

by Bob Chaulk

  “You keep them for a while,” said Henry, “and if I need ’em I’ll know where they’re to. Now, let’s see if we can get you a gaff and you’ll be all set.”

  “I got one of those!” Jackie said triumphantly, and returned two minutes later with a brand new product of Eddie’s labours.

  “Okay, you go on down there now and I’ll come after you.”

  Jackie cautiously slid down one of the ropes, his long coat slowing him down. As he stepped off the side stick he went flying forward and landed on his hands and knees, his gaff bouncing along the ice. He was used to slipping and sliding on ice and didn’t realize how effectively the sparbles would grab hold. It was like having glue on the bottoms of his feet.

  “I guess you didn’t go on your arse after all,” Henry laughed. “You went on your face instead.” For his trouble Jackie received hoots and hollers from the previously bored onlookers aboard the ship, now guffawing as they anticipated his next mishap.

  “That was a fine jig,” one yelled. “What other steps do you know?”

  “They don’t mean anything,” Henry yelled over from the side stick. “Give them a bow, for the hell of it.”

  Jackie faced the ship, stood solemnly for a few seconds and bowed deeply, to the accompaniment of whistles and clapping from his audience. “I was just checking it out to see if it was soft enough to sleep on,” he yelled up to them. “I think it’s better than the coal.”

  “This ice is even more jumbled than it looks like from the deck,” he said to Henry.

  “Yeah, it’s rough, but perfect for learning how to copy without having to worry about falling overboard,” said Henry. “Get rid of that heavy coat and jump around a bit on the pinnacles to get used to the boots.”

  Jackie made a few halting steps.

  “What’s with the baby steps?” Henry chided gently. “Stick the gaff in and jump; you saw the boys doing it when they went for the rally yesterday. Pretend you’re a goat.”

  “Actually, that’s not something I ever dreamed of being.”

  “Come here. Let me show you how to use the gaff. This is your most important tool when you’re out on the ice. All a sealer needs is a gaff, a towrope, a sculpin’ knife and a sharpening steel to keep an edge on his knife. Now, look here. You got a good strong handle made outa dogwood—looks like this one is taller than you are—and then on the end is the hook and the point. You stick the point in the ice to help you get about. Like this, see. Give it a try, now. Good, not too bad at all.”

  “You use the hook to pull stuff towards you, right?”

  “Yep, for that and to pull yourself alongside other ice pans—and to tow your sculps, of course. But, the main thing is if you go overboard and there’s nobody to give you a hand getting out, you can hook the gaff into the ice and haul yourself out. And then you can even use the gaff for a half-assed paddle to row yourself; not much good but better than nothing.”

  “How do people survive falling into this water? Must be pretty cold.”

  “Hah! I guess it’s cold! You got to be darned quick to get yourself out while you still got the strength.”

  “And you use the gaff to kill the seals, right? Bat ’em over the head?”

  “That’s right.”

  “It’s hard to believe that kills them,” said Jackie, his eyebrows raised in doubt.

  “Hit them hard enough in the right place and you can’t go wrong. Any good sealer can do it with one whack.”

  Jackie made a few mock swings, pretending he was swatting a seal, as Henry watched with satisfaction and the audience aboard the Viking each passed judgement.

  “We need to find a couple of live ones for you to practice on,” said Henry. “How’s the time, I wonder. Our half hour must be just about up, is it?”

  “Yeah, I guess we better get back before Reub has a fit. Hey, what’s goin’ on over there?”

  Smoke poured from the Viking’s smokestack, and a dozen or more men were climbing down the side with a great sense of purpose. “Looks like we’re getting up steam,” said Henry. “I guess the skipper’s planning to clear away some space around the ship to take off some of the pressure.”

  “And Ed is back to work luggin’ coal to the firemen,” said Jackie. The work seemed endless.

  “She still looks jammed pretty solid to me, but I guess he’s got something up his sleeve,” Henry replied as they climbed back up the side of the ship. “You better get back to the galley so you don’t get your ass kicked.”

  “Is that open water gettin’ any closer?” the captain yelled up to the lookout in the barrel.

  “It’s loosening up a bit out there,” the lookout replied, his eye to the telescope as he scanned the horizon on the left.

  “What about off to starboard?”

  “Completely jammed right outa sight.”

  “See ar swile?” he ventured.

  “Not a one. There’s two vessels jammed solid six or seven mile off the beam. I ’magine they’ll have a tough go of it.”

  “That’s too bad,” the captain said with a smile of intense satisfaction, while all within earshot exchanged grins.

  He had decided to use explosives only as a last resort. They cost money, and no sealing company spent a penny more than they could get away with. For now he would try the cheaper alternative. With long stabber poles the men prised and prodded the ice pans that had piled around the ship, as they tried to free the rudder. It took another hour of sliding, hauling and pushing to coax enough ice from behind the ship to make it worth trying to ram through.

  “Okay, b’ys, ye can knock off now and ’ave a spell,” the bosun ordered. “Okay, Cap’n, you got a bit of room back ’ere, ten foot or so.”

  “Half astern,” the captain ordered, and the ship slowly moved back as great chunks of ice sloshed and wallowed behind her. The two helmsmen, one grasping each side of the big wheel, strained to keep the rudder centred so the wheel did not fly out of their hands when the rudder contacted the solid ice.

  “Full ahead,” the captain roared theatrically, as though something spectacular was about to occur.

  Down in the belly of the Viking the two cylinders of the fifty-year-old Nylands engine thumped slowly back and forth as the propeller changed its direction of rotation and the ship laboured forward, with a distinct lack of conviction. The iron-clad bow struck the ice with an ineffective thud, and the Viking was soon sitting immobile with the propeller thrashing away at the stern. The captain, standing with feet apart and hands planted firmly on the rail of the bridge, uttered a low curse. “There’s not a wooden wall ever built with enough guts to get through this kind of ice,” he lamented. “I suppose if we build up more steam we’ll blow up the damned boiler and scald everybody to death down in the engine room. Bosun!”

  Within five minutes a keg of blasting powder was sitting out on the ice and a dozen or so men were busy digging holes ahead of the immobile ship, while another batch of onlookers milled about, quietly passing judgement on everything they observed.

  “Okay, some of you fellers come over here,” ordered the bosun, “Fill these cans with powder and…get rid o’ that cigarette! No smok-in’ around this powder now, none o’ ye, unless you want to meet your maker this morning! Git back, the whole lot o’ youse. Git back outa the way!”

  Returning to the task at hand, the nervous bosun ordered, “Now, fill up these cans with powder and stick one of these fuses down into it. Then, seal the whole top of the can with butter from that tub so the powder don’t get wet. Ralph: run over, will you, and see how they’re coming with the holes.”

  “Five more minutes,” Ralph reported back.

  “All right,” said the bosun. “Now, we’ll tie the can of powder to this pole, light the fuse, and shove it down into the hole. Let’s make sure we got a couple ready so we can set them off together.”

  Back in the galley, Jackie was jarred from the monotony of his chores by the loud crack of an explosion. The bow of the ship rose and slammed down, bringing a fl
ashback of his days in the chain locker. “Damnation!” Reub yelled, as his precious duff came close to going on the floor; scalding water slopped over the top of the pot and hissed on the stovetop. The thought of having to wrestle the huge steaming dumpling back into the pot motivated Jackie to scram onto the deck just in time to be peppered by a shower of ice chunks and water.

  “What are you fellers doin’ down there?” the captain screamed, his arms still in their protective position above his head after the deluge had subsided. “I said to loosen up the ice, not to blow us all to kingdom come! Stunned as me arse,” he growled under his breath, the words barely out of his mouth when a second deafening blast occurred, this one farther ahead of the vessel and only slightly less disconcerting to the worried skipper.

  “That’s enough, there, before youse kills somebody,” he bellowed.

  Going forward to assess the ice, he was pleased with the results. There was hope. “Okay, bosun, get a couple of men to muckle onto that powder keg and get it aboard. The rest of you fellers come on in and we’ll see if we can get underway.” Then, in an inaudible mutter, “If we still got a bow on this one.”

  Without waiting, he yelled down to the engine room, “For’ard half,” and the Viking plowed through the newly broken ice until she came to a stop. Men scrambled up the side, manhandling the powder keg and tools.

  “Back!” he ordered; the ship slid across the small but growing area of open water, and then, “Full ahead!” again. This time there was a decisive “crack” as the iron struck the ice, splitting it apart and pushing it aside. The ship gained another twenty feet before toiling to a halt.

  “Back!”

  Sensing that this might be their final opportunity, the last men on the ice ran to get aboard, leaping over open water to the moving side sticks and scrambling up over the rail. The ship lunged ahead and struck with a loud, satisfying bang, forcing pans of ice atop one another; the prop churned the sea astern, and the ship kept moving, huge chunks of ice sliding up the bow and along the sides, others breaking as the Viking smashed and beat her way, slowing under the strain of the load, until she barely made it into the small road of open water that curved to the left in the direction of the open sea and freedom.

  “My son, don’t it feel some good to be movin’ again!” one sealer said to his buddy as the ship travelled towards the northwest, paralleling the coast that lay over the horizon to their left. Everybody was upbeat. Henry joined Jackie at the rail just as the lookout yelled, “Cape John off the port bow.” They were approaching land for the first time in two days.

  “Looks like we’re coming up to the French Shore,” said Henry. “There’s a lighthouse in there on Gull Island that marks Cape John. This is an important navigation point for the Labrador schooners, the end of Notre Dame Bay.”

  “Yes, sure, there was piles of Frenchmen in this area at one time until we drove ’em all out,” a nearby sealer declared to his buddy.

  “Proper thing.”

  “What was all that about the Frenchmen?” Jackie inquired when the two raconteurs were out of earshot.

  “You mean about driving the Frenchmen out?” replied Henry.

  “Yeah.”

  “France used to have a treaty with England that allowed them to fish on certain parts of the coast, and the Newfoundlanders weren’t supposed to fish there. But they did anyway, like buddy just said.”

  “And they drove ’em out, eh?”

  “Actually, I think the treaty expired. It was a long time ago.”

  “Sounds like those guys don’t think too much of Frenchmen.”

  “We drove them out, my ass!” said Henry. “They probably never even met one. You ever known any Frenchmen?”

  “Don’t think so. Seen Portuguese and Spanish down on the waterfront at home.”

  “I remember the first Frenchmen I met. I was working one winter up to Millertown before I went to sea—working with the bucksaw, cutting wood for the mill in Grand Falls. My great uncle had the contract to supply fifty thousand of pulpwood over the winter, so I got on. The first night at the camp, my buddy and I were eating in the cookhouse and these three fellas across the table from us started goin’ on with the foolishest old gibberish you ever heard. They were looking at us and then one of them would say something and the other two would burst out laughing. We didn’t know what to make of it. At first we thought they were talking in unknown tongues like they do in that new Pentecost religion, but whatever it was we figured they must be making fun of us, so my buddy decides he’s not puttin’ up with anymore of that and he invites all three of them to go outside and settle it!

  “So one of them starts talkin’ in English and says no, no, they weren’t making fun of us at all, but talkin’ about a buddy of theirs up in Canada—New Brunswick, they were from. I guess I reminded them of him.”

  “There’s Frenchmen in New Brunswick?”

  “They got at least three, and they turned out to be the best kind of fellers.”

  chapter nineteen

  Sunday morning was well underway for most people in Twillingate when Gennie coaxed her body out of bed. She had never been one for early mornings and loved to sleep in on Sundays, being only an occasional churchgoer, but Emily had talked her into helping manage the children, who would be singing a couple of songs for the congregation. By the time Gennie finally strolled up to the church door, Emily was frantic. She hustled Gennie into the Sunday school room with Mrs. Pardy and the youngsters, and was just getting settled at the organ when Basil made his appearance.

  Looking regal and dignified in his black robe, he took a moment to arrange his notes. As the rich tones from the organ filled the church, he beckoned all to rise and he began singing the first hymn, his clear voice ringing out. With her small hands dancing across the keyboard and her feet pumping the pedals, Emily’s body moved subtly as it released its musical energy. Basil led them through the familiar words of the hymn, his arms waving like a maestro. “Rock of Ages, cleft for me; let me hide myself in Thee. Let the water and the blood…” It was the start of a lively couple of hours, the winter’s cold left outside, the realities of his listeners’ harsh existence postponed for a brief interval.

  Hearing the heartfelt songs of aspiration, Gennie was reminded of her mortality more than at any time in her life, and found herself thinking of her family and home. As the singing wound down, Emily nodded to her through the door, and Gennie put those thoughts aside. She and Mrs. Pardy scurried around getting the children lined up, and paraded them in front of the congregation for their brief performance. The two women kept a semblance of order, whispering to this one and motioning to that one, while Emily played the organ and sang along enthusiastically to keep them motivated and more or less on key. More interested in waving to parents and grandparents than in singing, the smallest ones wriggled while the whole audience held their breath lest the sound of their breathing distract the performers. A couple of little girls unconsciously gripped and then pulled the fronts of their dresses up to their chins as their worried mothers looked on helplessly. Elsie Porter’s brother Gerald, a fine singer whom Emily was counting on to lead the little group, stood and stared, his round eyes gawking at the audience, his mouth hanging open with only his breath—and little of that—coming out.

  The performance was a huge success anyway, and the applause was loud and long as everybody exchanged smiles and nods of approval.

  The new minister, declared by all to be “a good hand to preach,” stepped up to the podium armed with his large, dog-eared Bible. “Are you saved?” he thundered. “Have you been to Jesus for the cleansing power?” he implored, on his tiptoes while his body quivered with intensity. Then, pausing and looking solemnly out over his flock, he waited for the words to sink in. “Have you been washed in the blood of the lamb?” he asked in a more subdued voice. Saved or lost, they all loved to hear him speak, this mysterious pastor with his impeccable English.

  His audience, most of them solid church members, settled back a
nd listened with accord to the familiar words of the old conservative gospel, rich in metaphor and imagery. They nodded their agreement, secure in the knowledge that they could answer all three of the minister’s questions in the affirmative. Basil cranked it up, taking everybody to hell and dangling them above the firepit until their feet were hot, reminding them of their need for repentance. Most had taken the journey many times and always returned examining themselves—never wanting to be overconfident—to ensure that their final passage would not be in that direction. A few looked worried. Others said “Amen!” soliciting nods of agreement from the person beside them.

  She had only heard him a few times, but today Gennie carefully measured every one of Basil’s words and applied them to her own life. The message was making her uncomfortable and she found herself getting angry at him. This wandering around while he spoke annoyed her, too; why didn’t he stay behind the pulpit where he belonged instead of strutting around, the pompous so-and-so? He’s probably irked by having to shorten his sermon this morning to accommodate the youngsters, she thought. He should be paying more attention to his large flock instead of lavishing so much time on one person, and that person is much too easily taken in by his overtures. Yesterday’s conversation troubled her; she was sure that Emily had bolted because their discussion was getting too close to the truth.

  As Basil rumbled on, Gennie’s thoughts went to Henry, more deserving of Emily than anybody she could think of. In her opinion Henry was a better man for Emily—hardworking and intelligent and with a similar background. He was exceptionally good-natured and possessed of an unusual charm, which Basil, though suave and worldly, lacked. He was one of the few people who could make Gennie laugh; with the challenges of life in outport Newfoundland, a sense of humour was in some ways better than riches. Basil, on the other hand, was a bit of a stuffed shirt, which down-to-earth Gennie was not used to. And what was he doing in Twillingate anyway, one supposedly blessed with so much education and talent? Why wasn’t he the pastor of a big church in England making a name for himself?