Jennie had the kind of voice that could carry far. When she spoke, heads turned, and seeing it was Jennie Hillier, the woman with opinions on everything, they simply nodded and smiled. Ralph could see that they agreed with what she was saying.
Ralph was in a musing frame of mind that evening and, as he sat there, he had a thought that their lives, all of them, were just like the logs on the River, sometimes hitching up and getting jammed, but with a bit of help, or sometimes on their own, they usually managed to get straightened out again.
He drained his glass and sat back to watch his sisters and nieces bring in his birthday cake with thirty candles. He missed Grandfather and wished he were still there, sitting in the old rocker by the stove.
That night Grandfather came to him in his dreams. He was in the old rocking chair, smoking his pipe. “My son, hard times are coming. Remember what I told you about being unable to stop what is happening. You will be caught up in the river of time that flows on and on. Don’t let anything drag you under. Care for the young white woman.”
18
Vern was having a hard time of it. He’d made a couple of trips out around White Bay, Green Bay and Notre Dame Bay, rounding up anyone who was willing to work as a scab. The A.N.D. Company recruiter went with him at first, but he got busy with something else, and Vern was left to scrounge around on his own. The lure of ten dollars for every man that he could coax into the taxi and up in the woods kept him at it.
Even Vern would later admit that he’d done some weird things. One time he picked up some fellows to go through Badger and up the Buchans Road to Millertown. Vern knew the pickets would give him a hard time, so, after he passed through Grand Falls he pulled into Rushy Pond, a small village between Windsor and Badger. Out behind a railway shed, in the darkness, Vern stopped the car.
“Okay fellas, get out. I need a little help here.”
The five passengers scrambled out, not knowing what to expect.
“Now then, see those railways tracks? Well, me sons, we’re going to put my car on those tracks and I’m going to drive you to Millertown Junction on the railway.”
The men started to protest. “Christ, ole man, that’s too dangerous.”
“Go on b’y, no one can drive on railways tracks, you’re nuts.”
“How are the tires going to fit on them there rails? Sure, they’re too big.”
“Aha, that’s where you are wrong,” Vern told them. “This is a Chrysler 300 and her chassis is wider than the span of the tracks. My tires will fit on either side.” Vern was pleased with himself to have thought of it. “Come on now. Give me a hand here. We’ll be there in a couple of hours.”
Vern put the car in neutral and got out. He kept the driver’s side door open and, giving the steering wheel an occasional twist to get her straight, he and the men pushed until she was over the rails with the tires straddling each side.
There was enough snow on the railbed to smooth the way a little – kind of bumpy in spots, but not too bad. The small trestle over Kitty’s Brook, one mile east of Badger, presented no problems, but Vern knew that the big trestle crossing Badger River was bare of snow. He was worried that he might have to turn back. With the Chrysler in second gear, he eased her along, bump, bump, bump. It took awhile, but he made it. Then, in the darkness, they sailed on through Badger on the snow-covered railway ties. It was a clear, frosty night. If it had been stormy, perhaps Vern would’ve thought twice about taking such a risk. He certainly was a daredevil, but he wasn’t crazy enough for that. Or was he?
Before the taxi got to Millertown Junction, they heard a train coming down the grade from the Gaff Topsails. The engineer had seen them and the mighty blast of his diesel’s horn sliced through the frosty night.
Vern jammed on the brakes.
“Come on men,” he yelled. “We have to drag the car off the rails. Quick! Quick! That train’s bearing down on us fast, and buddy can’t stop her on the grade.”
The scabs and Vern grabbed the car by the front end and, huffing and cursing, hauled the big Chrysler off the track. She came clear just in time as the huge diesel roared by, pulling twenty ore cars from the Buchans mines. The men fell back into the snow, exhausted and terrified.
And so the legend of Vern Crawford was born. The tale of driving on the railway tracks was told, and retold, and embellished along the way.
Another time the A.N.D. Company recruiter told him to go to Millertown and pick up some scabs they had up there on the dam and bring them back to the Badger camp. It was a pitch-black night. Vern was driving along, doing about fifty on the icy, hard-packed snow of the Buchans highway. The radio was playing Hank Snow, and every once in awhile he was taking a swig from a flask of rum. He had only recently taken up drinking a drop every now and then to relieve the stress. The scab-running business was more wearing than he had anticipated.
Suddenly a dark shape appeared out of nowhere. It was a moose. Vern couldn’t stop in time, so he ducked down sideways on the seat, still holding the wheel steady as the moose came up over the bonnet, crashed through the windshield, and landed in the back seat.
The car slewed sideways into the snowbank on the side of the road and stalled out. Vern sat up and brushed off the glass shards that were all over him. There wasn’t a sound. Just him and the moose. He looked over the seat at the animal, wondering where he’d come from. Moose were common, but with the high snowbanks on the Buchans highway, Vern wondered how the animal had ever gotten out over and onto the road. Not very big, as moose go, he looked like he might be last year’s calf. Poor young devil wasn’t moving. Perhaps he’s broken his bloody neck. Otherwise he’ll kick the devil outta me car, Vern thought. Jesus, what a smell! Fresh moose shit. So much for that, got to get to Millertown.
He put the car in reverse. The Chrysler 300 had plenty of power, so she came out of the snowbank easily. Vern tipped the rum bottle up to his lips and took a good long swallow, floored the gas and off he went again, moose and all, toward Millertown, with Hank Snow singing The Wabash Cannonball and the cold wind blowing in his face, freezing the blood from the small glass cuts.
When he reached the Millertown dam there were six men waiting. Great. Sixty dollars. He got out of the car, three parts drunk and not giving a damn for anyone at that point.
“Boys, I got a passenger in the back seat. He needs some help to get out before you fellas gets in.”
Vern watched their faces as one of the men opened the door. They got some fright when they beheld the moose slumped in the back.
The six of them hauled the young animal out. They got some water, threw it in on the seat and cleaned up the shit. Someone had a piece of tarpaulin and laid it on the wet seat. Vern was no help. He was too drunk; he just sat on the snow and laughed and laughed.
He heard someone saying, “Sure, b’y, that’s fuckin’ Vern Crawford. Dey sez he’s crazy. He’s capable of anything. Didn’t you hear how he drives on the railway tracks?” And that made him laugh even more.
They got to Badger late in the night. Vern put the men on the A.N.D. Company steps, where Abe Miller met them and bunked them down for the night. Vern had his money. Millertown had a moose. The A.N.D. Company had their scabs. Hank Snow was singing I’m Movin’ On, and all was right with the world.
The next morning, when Vern went outside and looked at his taxi, last night’s happenings didn’t seem so funny anymore. He looked at his poor, worn darling. Her windshield was gone and the back seat was wet and smelly. The first order of business was to get her cleaned up, so up to Barrett’s Garage he went to nurse her back to health. Repairs were going to eat into his profits.
When the IWA called the loggers’ strike, the justice of it appealed to Ralph and his family and they supported the union. Most people of Badger and other logging communities thought the same way. They saw it as the wealthy pulp and paper tyrants versus the downtrodden loggers.
All the people of Badger took the dispute to heart, in one way or another. It became bitter and famil
ies turned against each other. Fathers, sons, uncles and cousins found themselves on opposite sides. It was the same story in other towns affected by the strike.People were much the same no matter where you went. And they all had their own reasons for doing what they did.
Ralph saw Vern every now and then spinning the wheels of his Chrysler around town, acting the bigshot. The two men didn’t get together anymore as they had done when they were boys. But when one of Ralph’s brothers told him that Vern was sneaking loads of scab workers through the lines, Ralph went looking for him.
Vern was in his driveway polishing the headlights of his taxi when Ralph called out, “Hey Vern, how ya doin’?”
Vern raised his head and looked at him. Ralph knew he was probably one of the last people Vern wanted to see. “Oh, hello Ralph b’y. Cold weather, what?”
Ralph came right to the point. “Vern, I hear you’re running scabs.”
“Who, me? Naw b’y. I wouldn’t do that, sure.” He stopped his polishing and stood with the rag in his hand, as if he wasn’t sure whether to run or stay.
Ralph could see that Vern was scared and he suddenly remembered about the white man believing Indians would kill them. Vern and he used to joke about it when they were young. Perhaps he was remembering the old stories too.
Ralph put his face right up close to Vern’s and made himself look as fierce as he could. “By the Jesus, Vern, if you had never been a logger, if you never slept in them camps, I’d excuse you and say you were just some dumb fucker who didn’t know the difference. But you know the difference, Vern. Our men are fighting for their livelihood, and you’re aiding the A.N.D. Company by running scabs to the camps. This is about money, isn’t it? Fuckin’ money. You lousy son of a bitch.” Ralph was so angry with him that he wanted to shake Vern like the rat he was.
Vern turned and ran toward his house. Ralph yelled after him, “If I ever catches you, buddy, you can start saying your prayers.”
Rod Anderson was never to forget the evening of February seventh. It was after dark when Bill Hatcher came to his back door. Rod and Bill had known each others since they were youngsters. They went to school together, fished and hunted together, learned to smoke, chased after the girls. The fun had gone out of Rod after his illness and his brother Melv’s death. Rod withdrew into himself. But that didn’t daunt Bill. He kept niggling his friend to go places and was with him up to Buchans on the night he met Ruth, and was best man at his wedding.
As they grew up and Rod assumed responsibility of his father’s camp, Rod told Bill that he would think it a great favour if he came to work with him. Bill Hatcher was a good logger and knew the woods life well. However, Rod wanted him as his second hand. This meant that when he wasn’t in camp, Bill would be in charge. He’d keep track of the time sheets, the purchases from the van and the scaler’s reports, and deal with problems as they arose between the men, the cooks and cookees.
Bill was overwhelmed at first and told Rod that he wasn’t sure he was able to do it. But Rod eased him in slowly and, in no time at all, Bill became his trusted foreman. However, Bill’s loyalty was only to Rod, and not to the A.N.D. Company. When the IWA signed up the men for the union, Bill gave them his dollar too. When the strike was called, Bill went out on the picket line.
He had told Rod straight out, “Rod b’y, nothing against you and all the years we’ve been together, but I spends enough time with our men to know that they needs more than they’re getting. The Company don’t treat them fair. They don’t treat you fellas fair either. But I knows you can’t go out on a picket line, being a contractor.”
Rod had told Bill that he understood his position and wished him well.
In light of the fact that Bill now did picket line duty, Rod was surprised when he opened his back door and saw Bill on the step. “Bill, what are you knocking for? Come on in, b’y. What is it? What’s wrong?”
Bill was acting skittish and nervous and not his usual self at all. “Close the kitchen door,” he said. “Don’t turn on the light.”
They stood in the dark porch, the only light being the snowshine through the window.
“Badger is in some uproar out there, my son. Christ, the men are some fired up tonight.” He glanced nervously through the porch window. “Rod” – his voice was low and hurried – “there’s something going to happen tonight up on Sandy. The strikers are going up to drive the scabs out of the camps.”
“What? Why are you telling me this, Bill? Sure, you’re supposed to be a loyal union member, b’y. The others would kill you if they knew you were here.”
“I know. I know. But I owes you a lot, b’y. I’m just tipping you off, that’s all.” Bill hesitated. “Besides, Rod b’y, ’tis too late now. Not much you can do. I gotta go.”
Bill slipped out through the door leaving Rod standing in the dark porch trying to digest what he had just heard. He knew his camp would be the first the strikers would reach. My God, he thought, those poor, poor, foolish men. They shouldn’t be up there in the first place.
Ruth was waiting in the kitchen when Rod came in from the porch. “What is it, Rod? What did Bill want?”
“Nothing, Ruth. Nothing . . . well, yes, something. I think there might be trouble up on Sandy. Turn off the lights and crack open the front door.”
The Badger night was alive with sounds: groups of men running up and down the road, carrying torches, and shouting. In the distance, someone fired off a gun. The shot echoed on the frosty winter air. The glow of fire barrels could be seen here and there.
Later that night, after Ruth had gone upstairs to bed, there was another knock. This time it was Abe Miller, the A.N.D. Company transportation man.
“Rod, me son, they sez your camp got trashed.” He snarked snot into the back of his throat and spat into the snow. “They sez the strikers drove them poor buggers out in the snow.”
There’s no point of going up there in the middle of a cold, dark, February night, Rod thought. What’s done is done. “We’ll wait for daylight,” he told Abe.
“Very good, I’ll meet you by the River around seven.”
The next day dawned cold and windy, with a wind out of the northwest eddying the snow into drifts. As Abe and Rod approached the picket line down by the River, Rod could see several women standing around the fire barrel.
Ralph Drum nodded to them as they walked by. A couple of others said good morning. Rod and Abe got aboard the A.N.D. Company Bombardier snowmobile and went off across the frozen River and up the woods road. About halfway up, with the old Bombardier putt-putting along, they saw a line of strikers and Mounties straggling down. The wind is right in their faces and the poor things look froze to death. Some of them have to have frostbite. The Mounties too, Rod thought. Well, old Jack Frost doesn’t care if you’re the law or the lawless when he wants to bite.
Abe would probably have offered them a ride if they’d been going the same way. He wasn’t a bad fellow. Neither was Rod. They felt sorry the loggers who, after more than a month, had made no progress with their strike against the Company. But they had to look after their own jobs – Abe as the A.N.D. Company transportation man and Rod as an A.N.D. Company contractor.
The strikers had trashed the camp, all right. It was a miserable sight in the cold light of morning. Every window was broken out. The stovepipe was torn down from the roof. The door was yanked off its hinges and thrown down in the snow where it was quickly drifting over. Rod picked it up and stuck it by the side of the wall. He went inside and, even though he never spoke of his feelings on it to anyone afterward, he was terribly frightened by the destruction in front of him. The brutality and violence of the angry strikers was everywhere to be seen.
Abe was scared too. He stayed in the doorway with one eye on his snowmobile, as if he thought someone was going to grab it. But there was no one about. The place was long deserted.
The doorway opened into the forepeak, which was in shambles. The foreman’s time book was ripped to shreds. All the bottles of Gerald
S. Doyle medicines – Witch Hazel, Friar’s Balsam, Cough Syrup, Cod Liver Oil, Worm Powder – had been smashed. Someone had poured the cough syrup over the foreman’s bunk.
Rod was reluctant to visit the cookhouse, but it was unavoidable. Every bit of food was dumped out – flour, sugar, beans, tea, yeast, molasses. Name of God . . . we’ll never get this cleaned up. ’Tis better to put a match to it and burn the whole camp down.
The bunkhouse was worse, if that was possible. The scabs had banked down the stove for the night and it was still hot. When the rampaging strikers arrived, they’d hauled the stovepipe off the old oil drum and stuffed the scabs’ clothes down in it to burn. The stench of charred wool was heavy on the cold air of the bunkhouse.
Rod was sick to his heart with it all. What was going to become of them all? “Come on, Abe b’y, my eyes can’t take no more.”
Cecil Nippard wasn’t a member of the IWA, seeing as he wasn’t working as a logger at the time. But his father was a logger and a union member. He was assigned the picket line down by Peterview, near Botwood.
One evening, while Cecil was hanging around the pool hall in Windsor wishing someone would give him some change to play pool, a station wagon pulled up and a guy asked him if he had worked in the woods at some time. “Would you like to have an easy job now that the loggers are on strike?”
“At what?” asked Cecil.
“Oh, the A.N.D. Company wants some men to go up in their camps to man them, sort of. Not much to it.”
The old bitch stepmother was acting up pretty badly these days with Father on the picket line and not much money coming in, so Cecil agreed, just to get away from her.
He was driven to Badger where he and others were trucked up on Sandy and into a deserted woods camp. The men came from all parts of Newfoundland. None knew much about the work since none of them were loggers. They were just fellows who weren’t much good at any trade. One guy said, “They must’ve scraped the bottom of the barrel to get us.” Everyone thought that was a fine joke.
The Badger Riot Page 14