Left to Die

by Gary Collins

  “Aye, ’tis a bit warm, me son. No buttercups showin’ yet, though, I ’low. Yer coat is better on than off,” Jesse Collins said.

  “Dere’s no guarantee we’ll get back dis day, my b’y,” Reuben continued, looking at the cloud cover as he spoke. “I don’t like the looks of the marnin’. ’Tis already closin’ in, an’ I saw a sun hound when I come on the ice. A wedder breeder, dis day is, I’m ’lowin’.”

  “Two, I saw!” said another sealer. “One on the souther side and one on the nart’ side. Close up, too! Which we all knows means wedder is ’longside! An’ two of ’em means the debt will be paid back double.” He too was studying the sky, and there was concern in his voice.

  Sun hounds are pinkish, reddish images of light, usually rectangular, which sometimes appear to one side of the rising sun, or sometimes on both sides. Fishermen swore by their presence and believed that the closer they were to the sun, the closer an impending windstorm. Two sun hounds meant there would be two winds. The second wind would shift around from the opposite direction of the first one and blow back twice as hard.

  Though the morning was warm with little wind, the sun had indeed clouded over and the sky was lowering. The men talked about the weather and about the Stephano, which was still a hard walk to the northwest; in fact, she looked even farther away now than when they had started, as if the ship was steaming away from them. But mostly they discussed the absence of seals. Then one of the sealers voiced his opinion openly.

  “I’m goin’ back to the Newfoundland, b’ys!” It was Tobias Cooper, a tough, experienced fisherman from Bonavista Bay.

  “Back? We can’t go back! We’ve no orders to go back!”

  “Orders? I don’t need orders from no man to return to ship wit’ nar seal in sight and a starm comin’ on,” Cooper replied.

  “What about the signal the skipper got from ol’ man Kean tellin’ ’im ’e’s found a patch of seals fer us?”

  “Signal? Bah! I never heard anyt’ing about no signal, b’y. An’ ol’ man Kean sharin’ his seals wit’ us? I don’t believe it!”

  Not all of the sealers had heard about the signal between Wes Kean and his father. With no master watches near them, they talked about what they should do. Cooper’s mind was made up, and he issued the challenge.

  “I’m goin’ back to our ship, b’ys. I’ll go be meself if I ’ave to! Who’s got guts enough to jine me?”

  Reuben Crewe looked all around for his son, Albert John. He was nowhere in sight.

  “I’ll be goin’ on,” he said, and without further comment he strode away after the scraggly line of sealers now well ahead of him.

  Joshua Holloway was having second thoughts, too. He looked for his brother, Phillip, but didn’t see him. He consulted with his friend Jesse Collins.

  “Don’t much matter to me one way or the other, Josh b’y. What do you ’ave in mind?”

  Josh stepped up on a high point of ice, searching for his brother. “Naw, Jess b’y, I’ll be goin’ on.”

  “Me too, then,” said Jesse.

  Jacob Dalton was listening to the argument without speaking. He was standing with Theophilus Chalk apart from the milling men. Dalton was warm and clutched his salt and pepper hat in his big hands. He had stuffed his mitts inside his coat pockets.

  “I’m not goin’ back, Offie,” he said quietly to his friend.

  “I’m goin’ wherever you goes, Jake b’y.”

  Jacob turned and followed the sealers headed toward the Stephano, with Offie following close behind. Cooper was walking back the way they had come. He spoke again to the men who were undecided.

  “I don’t like it, b’ys. I see all the makin’s of a bad starm comin’. The sky was blood red dis marnin’. Before dis day is over, you’ll wish yer cake was dough.”

  Thirty-three others joined him. Their leader, George Tuff, was close to a mile ahead, unaware that his ranks had broken.

  The Bellaventure took the lead in the recovery efforts. Here, her crew bring the living and the dead back to their ship. (Photo courtesy of the Centre for Newfoundland Studies Archives Coll-115 Memorial University of Newfoundland)

  The dead and injured sealers of the SS Newfoundland continue to be brought aboard the SS Bellaventure. (Photo courtesy of the Maritime History Archives)

  After two days and nights on the ice, a survivor is assisted aboard the SS Bellaventure. (Photo courtesy of the Centre for Newfoundland Studies Archives Coll-115 Memorial University of Newfoundland)

  A gruesome sight on the deck of the SS Bellaventure. Frozen bodies lay side by side. (Photo courtesy of the Centre for Newfoundland Studies Archives Coll-115 Memorial University of Newfoundland)

  The SS Bellaventure, shown here with a dangerous buildup of ice on her hull and decking. (Photo courtesy of the Maritime History Archives)

  By telegraph, citizens of St. John’s learned of the SS Newfoundland disaster. Friends, families, and curiosity seekers crowd on the waterfront to await the arrival of the rescue ship SS Bellaventure. (Photo courtesy of The Rooms Provincial Archives Division, VA 164-7/R.P. Holloway)

  Thousands of people line the St. John’s waterfront to get news of their relatives and friends. (Photo courtesy of the Centre for Newfoundland Studies Archives Coll-115 Memorial University of Newfoundland)

  Stockpiles of coffins awaiting the dead of the SS Newfoundland. (Photo courtesy of the Centre for Newfoundland Studies Archives Coll-115 Memorial University of Newfoundland)

  White sheets laid over chairs. Bodies were placed under the sheets in order to thaw before being identified and placed in coffins. (Photo courtesy of the Centre for Newfoundland Studies Archives Coll-115 Memorial University of Newfoundland)

  At the Harvey and Company wharf, a survivor is transferred to shore by stretcher. (Photo courtesy of the Centre for Newfoundland Studies Archives Coll-115 Memorial University of Newfoundland)

  Thomas Dawson survived the Newfoundland disaster. Here he is being brought ashore from the rescue vessel SS Bellaventure. (Photo courtesy of the Centre for Newfoundland Studies Archives Coll-115 Memorial University of Newfoundland)

  Cecil Mouland’s cousin, Ralph Mouland, being landed from the SS Bellaventure. (Photo courtesy of the Centre for Newfoundland Studies Archives Coll-115 Memorial University of Newfoundland)

  Landing survivors of the SS Newfoundland disaster.

  (Photo courtesy of the Maritime History Archives)

  The naval reserve was seconded to assist in transferring injured men to hospitals. Here, a survivor of the SS Newfoundland is being taken to an ambulance to care for his frostbitten limbs. (Photo courtesy of the Maritime History Archives)

  Bodies laid out for thawing. There seems to be little dignity, with so many people allowed in the room to satisfy their morbid curiosity. (Photo courtesy of the Centre for Newfoundland Studies Archives Coll-115 Memorial University of Newfoundland)

  Top and bottom: A long funeral procession through the streets of St. John’s. (Photos courtesy of the Maritime History Archives)

  16

  When his crew left the side of his ship, Wes Kean climbed the rigging and entered the barrel of the mainmast and stayed there all morning. With glasses in hand he watched every move his men made. They had left a smutty trail at first. After walking for days on the deck of the Newfoundland, their heavy boots were caked with coal dust. Kean had watched the sealers run and jump with apparent glee as their trek began. He smiled to himself, remembering his own forays for seals. Their broad column narrowed to a twisting single file after a few hundred feet. From his vantage point the men looked like a gigantic black eel meandering over the white plain. The company flags scattered throughout the troop appeared plain in his glass as the sealers fell into the march they we
re famous for: the sealers’ walk. Now they appeared as they had weeks before, when crossing the harbours to join their ships, a tough breed of men walking into history.

  Some of the men in the rear stopped and bunched together. At first he thought they were killing seals, but soon, even at that distance Kean could tell they were deep in discussion over something. He kept his glasses trained on them and waited. Finally, they broke up and began walking again.

  Kean pulled the glasses from his burning eyes. He thought he must have been mistaken. He wiped his eyes with a dirty handkerchief, raised his glasses again, adjusted them for a better view, and dropped them again in disbelief. It couldn’t be! He raised them again and stared long. There was no mistake. A group of his men were returning!

  At first he reasoned that one of them had fallen through and was returning to dry his clothes—a rare thing for any sealer to do. They usually pressed on, wet or no. Then he feared someone had broken a foot or even a leg. He had seen that happen before. In such an event he could see a couple of men returning with the injured man. But as he stared through his glass, he counted twenty-nine of them coming his way.

  Wes stayed in the barrel until he saw clearly the head of the group of sealers boarding his father’s ship. Shortly after it began snowing, the returning sealers were near and he was angry.

  He left the barrel and scampered down the ratlines. His glasses bounced on their lanyard around his neck as he went. He strode across the empty deck of his ship and burst through the bridge door, announcing his frustration to no one in particular.

  “A bunch of the men are returning! Twenty-nine of ’em, by God!”

  Bo’sun John Tizzard and Charles Green the navigation officer were there. Green had his own glasses trained on the men. “Thirty-four of them, sir!” he corrected Kean.

  “Worse again, then!” said Kean, picking up his glasses again.

  Kean stormed away from the bridge and glowered down at the sealers as they approached the side sticks.

  “What is the meanin’ of you men comin’ back aboard ship in the middle of a fine day?”

  “We didn’t see anyt’ing to go on fer, sir,” ventured Tobias Cooper. “We saw the crowd a’ead of us climbin’ the pinnacles looking fer seals an’ findin’ none, sir. Then we was outdistanced be the others. ’Twas plain wedder was coming on, so we come back, sir,” he finished, hoping for some agreement from the skipper. None came.

  Wes Kean took his text and spoke strongly. “Well b’ys, I’m purely disappointed in ye! If ye came back along wit’ yer master watch, I wouldn’t blame ye. I would blame ’im, though. I saw the sealers who went on board the Stephano an hour ago. Saw ’em do so wit’ me own eyes. Here’s the rub now, b’ys. The men who went aboard the Stephano are now in the seals, that I am sure of. You lot are not. You ’ave divided me crew and our chances fer a good hunt be twenty-nine men!”

  “Thirty-four men,” Charles Green said. He had appeared on deck unbeknownst to Kean.

  “A’right, then, dammit, thirty-four!” Kean glared at his navigator. Green was not helping their relationship much. Kean hated being corrected by anyone. “You are not supposed to be makin’ decisions o’ yer own accord,” he continued. “You must listen to yer master watch an’ no one else when on the ice. B’ys, ’twas by no means a ’ard walk, an’ you had the right to go along wit’ the master watch an’ return when he s’id so an’ not before. If a couple of fellers come back in company wit’ a buddy who’d fallen in the water or was crippled, or a man after a spell, figured he was not up to the walk, I’d ’ave no objection. But to give up the hunt when yer comrades ’ave gone on? I would not ’ave believed it!”

  The young skipper walked away as the sealers, looking just as dejected as they felt, made their way aboard the Newfoundland in the fast falling snow. John Antle, who was standing to one side, had heard all of the talk between the sealers and the skipper. He looked for his friends among the sealers who had returned, but they were not among them. Antle wished he had the courage to tell the captain that if he had been allowed to go a-sealing, they would be short by only thirty-three men.

  * * * * *

  News of the defection trickled up the line and finally reached George Tuff at around 11:30 a.m. He was surprised to hear it and said so. Tuff was thinking that by now Wes Kean had drawn a black line through the name of every one of those who had gone back. Looking back to the southeast, he couldn’t see the Newfoundland through the falling snow. However, the Stephano loomed over the ice in all of its modern splendour.

  “Oh, ain’t she a beaut, b’ys! First time I seen her up close. Big as Wester’ ’Ead, she is!”

  “The b’ys was right. All o’ her lights burning and ’tis not even nigh dark!”

  “I hope dey got the kettle on. I’m starved fer some of the good grub aboard of that one.”

  “She’s steamin’ towards us, by God! Jest listen to the sound of the ice rumblin’ under her bows!”

  “We’ll be sleepin’ in the lap o’ luxury dis night, b’ys. An’ ol’ man Kean hisself will tuck us in our blankies, ha ha!”

  “She looks like she’s skiddin’ over the ice. Dere’s power fer ’e, b’ys!”

  The Stephano was indeed steaming toward them. For a group of men standing on a sea of ice, the huge, grey ship pounding toward them at full power was a formidable sight. She foundered the ice away from her sides in huge broken pieces as she came. The ship was steaming through an area of thinner ice, or what the sealers called young ice, creating a dull booming noise that rattled their ears. Suddenly, one of the sealers cried out in disbelief.

  “Look at ’er, b’ys! She’s turnin’ away from us, by God!”

  The sealer was right: the Stephano was swinging around.

  * * * * *

  The second hand of the Stephano was Fred Yetman from Brookfield, Bonavista Bay. Yetman had been going to the seal hunt for thirty-four springs, six of them as second hand with Abe Kean. From the barrel, Yetman had seen the sealers from the Newfoundland on the ice earlier in the morning. At 9:00 a.m., he reported to Abram Kean that it looked like they were walking toward them.

  An hour later, Kean came out on the bridge from his private quarters. He was freshly groomed, looking as though he had just stepped out of a barber’s chair. Kean spoke to his first mate, walked forward to the window, and picked up a pair of binoculars. They were his personal pair, always adjusted to his preference, and no one else was allowed to use them. Abram Kean called the glasses “hoppers.” He studied the Newfoundland sealers wending their way toward his ship for a while and wondered who was leading them. As he watched, the line of men showed small and black against the ice as they rose up and settled back down again on the gentle swells. With the standard of their ship standing tall in their midst, they looked like crusaders forging their way across the frozen plains of Europe.

  The line curved and swung as the man leading them negotiated the many barriers in their path. Kean was all too familiar with the terrain of the icefields. He had been there before and had earned his captain’s stripe well.

  Abram Kean was born on Flowers Island, on the north side of Bonavista Bay, on July 8, 1855, at the very edge of the sea, where he had spent his entire life. At seventeen he was married to his father’s maid and went to the ice for the first time. From the beginning, Kean loved the physical act of seal hunting and possessed an innate understanding of the animal’s migration habits. Just ten years later, he had achieved such a reputation that Baine Johnston, the St. John’s sealing company, hired him as captain of their ship the Hannie and Bennie. Despite his bravado and bursting confidence, his first years at the ice had not been very successful. However, failure merely strengthened the man’s resolve. Now, at fifty-eight years old, he was a grizzled veteran of the hunt and had acquired a reputation for finding and killing seals few skippers could match. Some men respected him, even looked up
to him, but most feared him.

  Kean watched the struggling Newfoundland sealers make their way for a while. Finally, forty-five minutes later, he ordered the Stephano to power up and her helm over to intercept them. He called his chief cook to the bridge.

  “Have the kettle b’iled and prepare a mug-up fer the crew of the Newfoundland, who will be comin’ aboard shortly. Be snappy, min’! There will be no time fer dallyin’!”

  “Aye aye, Skipper,” the cook said.

  “And tell the b’ys on deck to show the Newfoundland sealers where to go to get their dinner. Advise them to make quick work of it and eat on their feet! ’Twill go down faster, as the sayin’ goes.”

  “Aye, Skipper.” The cook left the bridge.

  Soon, Kean could see the men clearly without the aid of his hoppers. His eyes were sharp and he knew the stride of the man leading them.

  “Westbury has chosen well, as I knew ’e would,” he thought out loud. “George Tuff in the van, as spry as you please, one of the finest men who ever came out of Bonavist’ Bay. Port the wheel!” he shouted. “’Ard over! Clum her way back into her wake!”

  “Aye, sir,” came from the first mate as he spun the big wheel to port.

  The ship heeled over like a racehorse that had been kicked in the ribs, and huge sheets of ice crumbled in her wake. Her engine was ordered stopped when she got close, and by 11:30 a.m. the Stephano was docked on the Great White Plain in the falling snow, waiting for the tired visitors.

  * * * * *