Left to Die

by Gary Collins

  The men in charge of the watches were called master watches, and these were chosen by the skipper. This year, Wes had chosen Arthur Mouland from Bonavista, Thomas Dawson of Bay Roberts, and Sidney Jones and Jacob Bungay from Newtown to lead the sealers to the hunt. These men were chosen after careful consideration. They had to be experienced in the hunt and the ways of the ice as well as being capable of dealing with sometimes angry and unruly sealers. All four stepped on the bridge. George Tuff was present, as well as the navigator, Charles Green. The master watches were instructed to choose their sealers from those aboard, bearing in mind there were more to board at Fogo. For the most part, the master watches had already made up their minds who they would pick. Seasoned hunters were always prized. The watch that brought the most seals aboard was noted by the captains, and the master watch of such a group was assured a berth next year. The sealers’ names were shouted out and noted in a book.

  Then John Antle, the stowaway, was discovered.

  Wes Kean was furious. Like his father, Wes considered stowaways to be a bad omen aboard ship. Antle, normally with the bravado of youth on his side, stood shaking in front of the angry young captain.

  “’Ow the ’ell could you ’ave hid in my ship these many days? An’ you a mere slip of a boy!” Kean roared at the frightened boy before him. “Stealing grub from her, was ya? Well, by God, ar sheckle found in yer pockets will be took from ’e to pay fer it!”

  Antle tried to blurt out that he hadn’t stolen anything. He was given food along with the others. But Kean wasn’t finished with the boy yet.

  “You’ll be cast ashore on Fogo Isle. Ah, didn’t know we was puttin’ in there, did ’e!” yelled Kean, seeing the look of defeat in Antle’s eyes. It gave Kean some satisfaction.

  “Bad luck. The lot of ’e’s hidin’ away like a thief aboard a man’s vessel. I’d like to put ’e over the side now and make ’e walk ashore! God knows the bloody ice is ’eavy enough. Get below, sir! And be day you’ll muck coal fer the stokers and dump slops as is fit. And be night you can crawl back into yer hidey hole.” And with that, John Antle was dismissed.

  Charles Green, standing in the shadows, pitied the boy. Well, well, he thought, a streak from the old lion showing in the young cub, too!

  But time and circumstance have a way of changing all things. Two days later, the Newfoundland had barely made it past Cape Freels. At mid-morning of that day the huge ship Stephano, captained by Wes Kean’s father, and the Florizel, under the helm of Wes’s older brother, Joe Kean, loomed up astern of the Newfoundland. The Florizel was the flagship of her owners. She was also one of the world’s first icebreakers. Each ship had a black smokestack with a wide white border, and painted in the centre was the red cross of St. Andrew. In a short time the entire fleet was ahead of the lumbering Newfoundland.

  By 8:00 p.m. she was jammed in ice again. With hood seals on the ice and in the swatches of water around her, she burned down for the night. Wes Kean consulted with George Tuff and decided he would not stop at Fogo Island to pick up the rest of the seal hunters waiting there. The ice was just too heavy, and the closer they ran to the coast, the heavier it got. He would continue to the hunt without them. His ship would be short-handed by close to forty men, but he had no choice. John Antle didn’t know it yet, but he would be remaining aboard.

  * * * * *

  Then another stowaway was discovered, or, rather, decided to reveal himself.

  Theophilus Chalk had managed to elude discovery all this time. He was a tough-looking young man of seventeen from Little Catalina, just north of the bigger town of Catalina, in Trinity Bay. Theophilus rarely heard anyone use his Greek name, which meant “loved by God.” A few called him Theo, but he was better known as Offie.

  Theophilus had a more earthly friend, though, Jacob Dalton, also from Little Catalina. At twenty-four years old, Jake had been to the ice two years and was quickly earning a good name. Jacob was a bit devil-may-care and unafraid of any challenge. When Theophilus had failed to obtain a berth to the ice, and because the two men were friends, Jacob had agreed to help smuggle him aboard the Newfoundland.

  Their friendship, however, had another, much more binding element to it. Jacob Dalton was seeing young Offie’s pretty sister Delilah. Offie had walked with Jake and many others all the way to the city of St. John’s. He had walked aboard the vessel in full daylight, laughing and shouting with the others from the Catalina and Elliston area. Everyone loved young Offie and had covered for him right up to this day. Hearing Wes Kean’s tirade against the frightened stowaway John Antle had dampened Chalk’s spirit, and learning the ship was to stop at Fogo added to his fear of being put ashore. Now, emboldened with the knowledge that the ship would not make any more ports due to heavy ice conditions, Offie felt better. In any event, the well-liked Jake Dalton was his friend, and Jake Dalton had a good friend aboard, too—George Tuff.

  It was Tuff who brought the news of the second stowaway to Captain Kean. George found Wes Kean staring out the forward window on the bridge.

  “Another one? God almighty! Am I to be beset with treachery for the length of this voyage? Who the ’ell is ’e? Still suckin’ milk, I s’pose, is ’e?”

  “Chalk, sir, from Little Catalina. Seventeen years old, sir. Looks to be a good man. Strong-lookin’ and quick, like. ’E’s wit’ Jake Dalton.”

  “Dalton, eh? Catalina?”

  “Little Catalina, sir. One of the best o’ swilers. Been to the ice along wit’ me before. Tough as a gad an’ twice as strong! Dalton speaks well fer Chalk, sir. As do I, if Jake says so.”

  Kean’s anger quieted some. Dalton’s expertise and fearless attitude at the hunt had reached Kean’s ears before.

  “Still an’ all, we can’t have men sneakin’ aboard ship as they pleases, George b’y.”

  “No, sir.”

  “An example must be made, as ye know.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Send Chalk below with the other stowaway fer now an’ have ’im worked.”

  “Aye, sir.” Tuff turned to carry out the skipper’s order.

  “George! We’ll see about Dalton’s friend when the time comes. The young Antle, though, from S’n John’s, is to bide aboard. Is that clear?” Kean had heard the recommendation in Tuff’s words concerning the new stowaway. He knew George Tuff did not give his approval lightly.

  “Aye, sir,” Tuff said, and exited the bridge.

  10

  It was a fine, clear, moonlit night. Dark clouds fled across the white plain like flaws of wind scudding over a summer sea. The engine was shut down and the ship coasted with the ice floes. The night was quiet and still except for the sound of the moving ice. And then, unexpectedly, the moon darkened and the men aboard the Newfoundland were watching the lunar eclipse of March 12, 1914. For some of the younger sealers it was their first. The shadow of night descended like a cloak over the Great White Plain, but the silent ship was still faintly illuminated in a strange glow of light. Some of the older sealers were heard to whisper it was a bad omen.

  Cecil Mouland would never forget his first night aboard the Newfoundland. It was not at all like anything he had pictured it to be. He had cheered with the others when the ship entered Wesleyville harbour. She looked aged and unkempt but somehow reliable and dependable to him. At first sight he liked the old ship, at least from the outside. Proof of his berth was established and he went aboard with the others from the area. When he stepped on the deck of the Newfoundland for the first time, his cousin Ralph Mouland was with him. Also standing nearby was Cecil’s good friend from Doting Cove, Daniel Cuff. At twenty-nine years old, Daniel had just started a family with a child barely a month old. He was going to the hunt, he told Cecil, “to farden meself with a few dollars.”

  Before long Cecil grew to dislike the Newfoundland. She was overcrowded and filthy. He had not expected that at all. Men milled ab
out her decks in confusion. Her ’tween deck wasn’t high enough to walk in a fully upright position; a man had to walk bent over. Below this deck he could stretch to his full height again but the smell was worse. Cecil Mouland and many of the younger sealers ended up here. The bunks were built of rough lumber and appeared to be fastened to whatever space was available below the ship’s main deck. The upper bunks were so close to the ceiling and the bottom ones so close to the top ones, the men felt imprisoned when lying in them.

  The curvies handed to them were rough and smelled old and unclean, not at all like the clean quilts at home. No pillows were provided. When one of the men asked about them, he was scoffed at. “Pillows? Did ya t’ink you was shippin’ out aboard a bloody liner? Ya pillow is on yer back, b’y. Yer duffle.”

  Scattered all over were short, fat little coal-burning bogies for cooking, their funnels leading upwards, dangerously close through the seasoned wood. Hung near the bogies was one big bo’sun kettle capable of holding four or five gallons of water, to be used for the making of tea or for cooking food. Hung on the wall by rusty nails near each stove was a large, cast-iron frying pan. Cups and plates—there were no bowls—were made of tin, some that looked rusty. There was one cook assigned for the captain and officers, who ate forward and separate from the sealers. The sealers had to cook for themselves or designate a cook among them. They weren’t provided with any towels or soap or fresh water for washing their dishes or even themselves.

  No heads, either. The sealers were expected to urinate above deck. They defecated in galvanized buckets with long ropes attached and tossed them over the side of the ship, where they were sluiced clean and brought up to be used again and again.

  Mouland could handle everything except the unclean feel of it all. No spoons of silver had ever crossed his mother’s table, nor did she make beds with satin sheets, but she was clean. From her scrubbed wooden floor to the shine of her prized Crystal Crown stove in the kitchen, everything was spotless. But young Cecil was not a complainer and he figured he could endure it like the rest. Besides, he was going to the seal hunt, and when he returned he would be an ice hunter.

  Soon, Cecil met and walked the decks of the ship with men his own age. The young are always drawn to each other, and aboard the ship the living conditions were not forgotten but soon accepted. It was a time of wonder for them. They were away to the greatest hunt in the world. They knew nothing of the captain’s concern about heavy ice. For them it was a time of adventure. Every time the ship lurched to open water or bore her way through loose ice trying to make her way to the seals, they experienced revived excitement. They paced the ship and explored her every recess. They sucked the biting wind deep into their lungs like drink, and strained their eyes to see their first herd of seals. They revelled at the adventure they were embarking on. And there was something else that drove them: the expectation of making real money.

  “Nigh on two hundred dollars was what they made that year. Heard it a dozen times,” said one of them with yellow hair.

  “A fartune o’ money, that is, b’y,” came from another.

  “I heard ’twas a hundred and seventy-eight dollars, and the crop o’ fifteen or so dollars had to come out of that. Still a good dollar fer a man to have jinglin’ in his pocket,” ventured Cecil Mouland. “Never saw money like that where I come from.”

  “An’ where is that?” asked the blond one.

  “Dotin’ Cove. Jest nart’ o’ ’ere be the coast. Cecil’s my name. You?”

  “Elliston. Sout’ around the bill of Bonavist’ Cape a bit. Albert be name. First time fer me.”

  “Me too.”

  “Peet—er, I mean John, John is my name,” said Peter Lamb. “John Lundrigan. From Red Island in Placentia Bay, I am.”

  “Eh! My name’s John, too! John Antle. From S’n John’s, I am,” another joined in. He looked younger than any of them. “Never ’eard about no one making that kind o’ money at the seals meself.”

  “Oh, they done it, all right. In one of ol’ man Kean’s ships, it was. Four years ago. A bumper year, it was.”

  “What a feller could do wit’ that kind of money!”

  “I’d buy my sweetheart a ring,” said Mouland.

  “Spend a hundred and seventy-eight dollars on a ring? Must be a looker! What’s ’er name?”

  “Naw, b’y, I wouldn’t spend all of it on a ring. Jessie Collins is her name. I’d ’ave marryin’ money left over. That’s what’s in me mind.”

  “I’d buy a brand new ’armonica,” said Lamb. “Loves music, I do.”

  “Can play the mout’ organ, can ya?”

  “Well, I’m learnin’. ’Armonica. I got one. Smaller’n a mout’ organ, she is. ’Er sound is off a bit. Cowed, I ’lows.”

  “Play a tune fer us, will ya?”

  “Naw, b’y. I only plays fer meself. Not good enough fer people to be listenin’ to. P’raps if I had a new one, though.”

  “The price of a wedding ring, now! What d’you figure that could run a man? Never did see one in the shop in Dotin’ Cove,” Mouland interjected thoughtfully.

  “You never been to S’n John’s!” Antle chimed in. “Got everything a man could want in the stores in town. Lots of places to buy women’s stuff, too,” he boasted.

  At this Albert and a couple of others standing around laughed aloud, remembering one woman’s store in town.

  The boys talked on, about big plans and little ones, about home and family and sweethearts. About life. About living.

  The fortune of money the young sealers were referring to was actually just under $150. That was the amount due as the sealer’s share in 1910 aboard Kean’s ship, before the crop was deducted. It was still a great deal of money, though it had been an exceptional year. It all made little difference to the young hunters, who were sure this year would be even better.

  That night, Cecil Mouland turned in with all of his clothes on, or, as it was known, turned in ’round. Secretly he had a concern he shared with no one. He had been told that baby seals cried real tears just before you killed them and bawled like human babies. He didn’t know if he could actually kill one. He would worry about that when the time came. Despite the living conditions aboard the old Newfoundland, he liked her. When he got used to her smell there was a feel from the old vessel that stirred something in him. It was hard to explain. He just knew he felt secure and sheltered within her and believed she would keep him safe.

  * * * * *

  Westbury Kean did not share Cecil Mouland’s love for the wooden ship he commanded. He hated her. She was sluggish and cumbersome, hard to handle and slow to answer by the helm. Four years ago he had walked aboard the Newfoundland his first time as captain. Back then he thought she was the best ship afloat. He had been bursting with pride of having his very own command, but now it was his fourth year and he knew her limitations, and they were many.

  She was waterlogged after the salty Atlantic Ocean had soaked into her body for forty-two years. Her once powerful engine, which had been repaired many times, could no longer keep up with her burgeoning weight. She was underpowered. Compared to all the others of the fleet, she was also outdated. Wes envied his brother Joe’s Florizel and the sleek Stephano. Steel ships were the future and he wanted one. Aboard the Newfoundland, his ambitions for a career that mirrored his father’s were stymied. He caught glimpses of them now as they butted their powerful way through the ice looking for seals. The search was on, and out here it was every ship for herself, though they would all communicate with each other at times. All but him. He cursed under his breath his company’s decision to take away the wireless set. It had been aboard the vessel all summer as she went about her business, but when the Newfoundland was stripped down to her bare essentials for the seal hunt, her wireless set was not considered vital.

  Harvey and Company, headed by Alick J. Harvey, kept a str
ict set of ledgers. One of Newfoundland’s biggest firms, it had tried their tongs in many fires. They started the island’s first pulp and paper company at Black River in Placentia Bay as early as 1898. They owned and operated a slate quarry on Newfoundland’s biggest island, Random Island at Britannia. Their ships sailed all over the world. They were involved in everything from tar to tobacco, soaps to satins, and from fish to furs. Their bottom line was never in the red.

  The cost of the wireless apparatus had been minimal to Harvey’s. It had been long paid for, but the cost of paying a qualified person to run such a machine was a different matter altogether. It was common practice for everyone aboard a sealing vessel to take part in the hunt: the cook, the stokers, the boiler men, and even the captain. No one was exempt once the killing began. A man needed credentials to run a ship’s wireless. He would have to be a college man, and they did not come cheap. And they certainly would not be seal hunters. They would have to be paid on the dead. For Harvey’s, it would never do.

  Guglielmo Marconi was an Italian inventor who pioneered the concept of wireless transmission and was credited with the invention of radio. On December 12, 1901, he received a message relayed from Cornwall, England, to Signal Hill, Newfoundland. It changed history. It was invaluable to ships at sea. In 1909, Marconi won the Nobel Prize for his work. But one of Marconi’s best achievements, the greatest invention of the twentieth century—invented just beyond the roofs of Harvey and Company warehouses—had been pulled from Wes Kean’s vessel.

  * * * * *