by Paul Almond
Good lord, I had no idea such things were sanctioned on these passing ships. Frank crossed quickly to the high window, peeked out, waited a few moments, then shook my hand quickly and, looking in my eyes, wished me well. He prayed our paths might cross again in the not too distant future and, with apologies for his hasty withdrawal, was gone.
I remained behind for a while in the dim light of the lantern, which I then extinguished. I needed time to plan how I should go about this. But alas, not a plan entered my head. What a devilish task — coming hard upon the emotional trauma of burying the two dear little children. Well, nothing for it but find a fisherman to row me out, and do my best, no matter how bizarre the task and how inadequate I felt.
Chapter Four
I climbed the rope ladder onto the schooner deck with such trepidation and misgivings. What if Frank had been wrong? No, I trusted him. But then, how should I deal with the captain? What could I ever say to release this poor girl from her plight? Imagine, those sailors just having their way with her every night. If she had fought them off, she’d be in fear of her life. Especially if she went with her story to the captain. At the very thought, my ire rose and my resolution thickened into anger.
I had dressed for the funeral in my black cassock and tippet with my heavy coat thrown over so now I could clearly be seen as a man of God. I still felt nervous, nay terrified, for these schooner-men were a rough lot, and although a good many of the crew were churchgoers, many more were not. The few deckhands unloading freight into a rowboat seemed surprised as I clambered over the rail. One of them went off to get the captain while I waited, balanced between apprehension and determination.
Soon someone in a captain’s hat limped forward, a heavy black beard hiding his youth for he could have been under thirty some, though he wore the grizzled look of a sailor who had seen a good deal and suffered more. When he saw my clerical garb, he paused momentarily, and then came forward.
“Captain Clifford, at your service,” he said.
I introduced myself as a deacon and extended my hand. We shook perfunctorily.
“So you’ve probably come to ask my men to your church tomorrow. Well, I’m sorry, Deacon, but I have a schedule to keep and much as the crew will miss the great benefits bestowed upon them by a church service, I must obey my owners. I’m sorry, sir,” he finished, implying the interview was at an end.
As he half turned, I blurted out, “I haven’t come about the service tomorrow, Captain. Another matter, rather more grave, and certainly private.” He looked at me askance. “Is there somewhere we could talk out of earshot?”
The captain stiffened as if he knew what was coming. “Not sure we have time, good sir,” he growled. “We must be under way shortly.”
“I’m afraid I must insist,” my voice grew firmer, “or the consequences may be more dire than you anticipate.”
He eyed me with a new appreciation and, I would say, distaste. “Very well,” he jerked his hand and led me to the afterdeck behind the wheel, his open precinct. He turned and eyed me. We were both silent while I tried to form the right words. Then I came right out: “It concerns the young lady cook you have on board. I’m afraid —”
The captain cut me off. “Oh good sir, that’s a lot of rubbish. Of course I heard the rumours, nasty ones indeed, but only gossip. I myself questioned the maid a few days ago, and she put my mind at rest. So I let the matter drop.”
I eyed him. Now what? Obviously, Lorna was much too afraid to spill any beans while on board.
“So if that’s all you’ve come about, Deacon, I thank you for your trouble, and I’ll see you back to your fishing boat.”
“Sir, the only way you’ll see me back to my boat is with that lady.” I dared not speak her name.
He stopped, his face hardening. He was about to spit something out as he might at one of his men, but he thought better of it and collected himself. “That maid is my only cook for twenty hungry men.” He shrugged. “What can I do? My duty is to my men, and my cargo. I just cannot let her go.”
So there it was. Head-on confrontation.
Was I going to leave the maid to those nightly indignities, nay, vile tortures, and back off like some coward, though that course of action was the most simple? My hackles rose. “If that maid stays on the boat, captain, you will be placing your immortal soul in danger!”
“My immortal soul, sir, can take care of itself. Now please, do me the favour of leaving my ship. As captain in charge of the vessel, I demand you disembark forthwith!”
I softened. “I shall be happy to leave the ship sir, but only with the maid. And before you object, let me —”
“Object? I do object, and strongly. My crew comes first, no matter what rumours you may have heard. Gossip or no gossip, she stays here, she fulfills her signed obligations under which we took her on, she cooks, and you will kindly have nothing more to say on the subject! The ship is under my charge. I am the one completely responsible, and I —”
My turn to interrupt: “Exactly! As captain, you are completely responsible for what happens on your ship?”
“I am, sir. You know the law of the sea.”
“I do indeed.” I paused and leaned toward him. “What you have just said puts every wrong done to that woman squarely upon your head!” I let that sit, and then in a burst of anger went on, “If she has been violated,” he quickened as if slapped, “that, sir, will be your doing!”
His chin jutted out and I noticed his hand curl into a fist. “What are you daring to say, sir?”
I tensed. “I’m saying that at your next large port of call, I shall see to it that an officer of the law is waiting. I myself, as a gentleman of the cloth, will testify at the court hearing certain to follow. And then you, sir, may well spend the next ten years in jail!”
The captain held himself still, breathing heavily, staring at the floor. After some time, he spoke. “What proof have you got that she has been tampered with?”
I almost blurted out Frank’s name, but stopped myself. I took a gamble. “The maid herself. Once safe in custody, she will tell all. And if she does not arrive safely at that first port of call, you, sir, will then be tried for murder!” My ire was getting the better of me and I found myself shouting.
The captain paused, clearly thinking fast. Not often, I imagine, had he been so challenged.
“All right,” he said slowly, “I shall have a guard posted at her room and shall see that no harm comes to her for the rest of the trip.”
“I’m sorry, Captain, that is not good enough. I repeat: she is coming with me. Now please, let us not prolong this difficult conversation any further, or my parishioners in Harrington will be rowing out to support my demand.”
He stood for a long time, motionless. Then he nodded. “If there were any truth to these rumours, then you might have a point. I think you are wrong. But some doubt may exist, so you can take the maid and be damned!”
The good Lord must have nudged me, for I found myself saying angrily, “I shall never depart with that slur ringing in my ears. You will retract it, captain.”
He sighed, already bored with this interchange, his mind by now working perhaps, as a good master, on how to feed his crew. “Very well, I retract it.” He went out, summoned one of his men, gave orders, and headed off.
I walked to the railing, composing myself as best I could, waiting for what seemed an eternity while groups of crewmen stood around, muttering. Was I about to witness a mutiny?
In the doorway to the lower quarters, a really tall woman appeared, Lorna Maclean as I knew, but bent as if in pain, wrapped up in a shawl so as to hide her face. Carrying a meagre cloth bag, she limped forward like a cripple, climbed over and onto the rope ladder, and mutely descended, with me following.
I was not able to see her face until we arrived at the home of our lay reader, John Bobbitt, owner of one of the larger houses in Harrington Harbour. He had kindly agreed to put up clergy when they came through, for he had lost his wife three yea
rs ago in ’93. He was out at the moment, reputedly “seeing” someone, but his relative, Sarah, had come in to prepare our beds and arrange our last cup of tea before we retired. She looked up in alarm as our newfound charge was ushered in. Lorna, who still had not spoken, was by no means slight, being tall or even taller by inches than I was, with long stringy hair and a bold, rather gaunt, haunted face. As she dropped her shawl momentarily, I saw welts on one side of her face and a cut lip. Sarah immediately took charge and brought her into a bedroom where she bathed her face and got her into bed.
I quickly outlined the situation to Gene and recommended that Lorna see the local nurse. But as Gene reminded me, no doctor or nurse served in the Canadian Labrador. “We rely here on midwives, although there is Bill Ransom, who is handy with a pair of blacksmith’s tongs. For a dipper of bakeapple, he will pull your tooth.” He smiled, but this quickly vanished as he agreed we should send for the midwife. If such nameless goings-on had taken place, the young woman should be examined and evidence gathered, if we ever wished to press charges.
I was of course anxious to know from the poor girl’s own lips her account, but we both saw that she should first avail herself of this safe haven and rest here for several days, before she would be in any condition to divulge what sufferings she had undergone.
In the morning, Gene and I offered the Lord’s Supper in a fully attended Communion service in the school building. Gene gave special prayers for the new church to be built by the combined efforts of the parish.
After our dinner at noon, we discussed what should be done with our new charge. Gene felt it was asking too much for John Bobbitt to take her on, so we agreed to bring her with us in the mission boat to Mutton Bay, the winter headquarters where I was to stay. “Aunt Minnie, being a widow in her seventies, would probably welcome a helping hand this year. In any case it would only be until spring, when she can return to her relatives in Nova Scotia.”
“Now you’ve mentioned several other aunts and uncles,” I interrupted Gene. “Don’t tell me you’re related to everyone?”
He laughed. “No, older people hereabouts are never called mister or missus. As a term of respect, you always say uncle or aunt.” And I fell right into the practice, for it was a charming one of which I heartily approved.
But early the next morning when we were due to leave, our charge lay dead asleep. After a quick discussion, it was decided we should leave her here, and give Mr. Bobbitt money to send her on the packet to Mutton Bay, whither I would return after our eastern voyage.
So off we went with Owen on the Evangeline, trusting the weather would hold. After a long and rather trying sail, we reached Mutton Bay that night and I met “Aunt” Minnie, where we stayed. We alerted her as to the new guest due shortly. I was tickled to learn that Mutton Bay was so-named because the French name, Baie des Moutons, which when applied to water actually meant Bay of White Caps had been mistranslated into Bay of Sheep, and this became Mutton Bay. I was reminded of our own Cape Despair, on the Gaspé, which comes from Cap d’Espoir, Cape of Hope!
The next day I walked over to the charming little church: above the central door, the front wall narrowed to form the beginnings of a steeple, which began in a curious triangle centred by a round window, on top of which sat the attractive bell tower: all in all a delight, for here I was entering my very own church. And the next morning, after this first service in my new parish, which included parishioners from the adjacent community of Tabacher (or La Tabatière) we took off again in the Evangeline, calling in at every inhabited outpost. By now most of the island fishing camps had been emptied — even the herring was pretty well over — and the inhabitants safely installed in their permanent quarters on the mainland.
We made it as far as Kecarpoui (pronounced here as Ke-cark-way) calling in to render prayers at the grouping of houses in Lake Sally (from the French: Lac Salé, Salt Lake). As we left, the sky began to darken, but we thought it better to keep going — we had so little time left before the weather would get even colder and slob ice begin appearing by the shores. We still had some days sailing to St. Paul’s River, but Owen knew of the occasional cove in this deeply indented shore where we could seek shelter, or even spend the night if we did not find an actual settlement.
Toward evening when we were looking for a safe harbour, the wind rose rather suddenly and with it, the sea. Soon Owen had trouble controlling the boat. Ahead, we could see a threatening cloud and below it, dark wafting curtains heralding rain.
“There’s a fine cove about a mile down,” Owen told us. “Let’s make a run for it.” Gene put on his raincoat and I went below to snaffle mine, with my scarf and hat. Not a happy situation!
The storm bore down on us more quickly than anyone imagined. I looked back. The inlet behind us was over a mile away. Worse, the whole mainland consisted of smooth granite across which the wind swept unimpeded. I heard Owen say, “I don’t think we’re going to make it. That wind is swinging. I’m going to turn about and try to make the lee of the island there, behind us.”
“You think that will do?”
“Never used it before, but as they say, any port in a storm.”
I could see he was trying to keep concern from sounding in his voice, but I was apprehensive. I confess, I don’t enjoy the sea. I was never attracted by fishing nor have I ever hankered after sailoring. I put up with the Evangeline as being the only means of travel here when there’s no snow, and I had made up my mind to make the best of it. But now as the boat started corkscrewing and diving into troughs of waves that had so quickly begun to build as seas began breaking over us, I was truly distressed. We were being driven onto island shoals at one side that were jagged and threatening.
“Close the hatches,” Owen ordered grimly. I helped Gene grab the companionway’s loose front cover as the wind tried to snatch it from us. We slid it down the vertical slots. Owen yelled over the building wind, “Any ropes, tie ’em down!” We both leapt to his command, grabbing any in sight, Gene doing the tying and me throwing loose ropes into the cockpit. After that, I slid the hatch covering into place over the companionway.
That cloud and its squall was bearing down on us so swiftly that I heard Owen’s frightened cry, “Sails, we’ve gotta get them sails down. She’s going to hit!”
Up ahead, the sky was black as night.
Gene tore at the sails and dropped the aft one, but the foresail stuck. The gale had not hit yet, but still Gene hollered, “Use a knife! Cut ’er away, she’s worse than I thought!”
“Where, where?” No knife in sight. Owen held out his. Frantically, Gene snatched it while I watched helplessly.
Just as we got the sails down, the storm struck us in all its fury — like being walloped by a sleighload of logs careening down a hill. The howling wind and horizontal driving rain made the waves buck like a frenzied horse. Spray lashed at us — and the boat tipped right over, almost on its side. I thought we were goners. But somehow, it righted itself. Gene kept gathering the sail in frantically and I helped lash it safe, falling as I did, then rising onto my battered knees.
With no sails, we drifted helplessly and the wind began heaving us directly at the rocky point of the island. I knew Owen could not swim, but although Gene and I could, five minutes in this icy water would finish us off. We just had to save the boat. But how?
I spied the oars and tried to unbind one, hoping to right the rocking vessel. Gene bent to help, but once the oar got free, a mighty gust tore it from my hands. Off it went into the waves.
Just as we were being surely driven right onto the jagged reef, Owen shouted, “The jib! Get some of the jib up, about four feet! Quick!”
We tumbled over each other as we clambered onto the deckhouse, the rain stinging our faces and making our eyes water, clinging to whatever we could find. We were blown sideways, down, and heeled over, but if we could just pull the jib up a bit...
Most of it was either loose on deck flapping about, or beating us about the legs, but we did need
some hoisted — we were losing the boat and our lives.
Somehow, I’ll never know how, we managed to clear a bit of that jib and haul it up enough — just the size of a tablecloth. With that to steady us, Owen managed to right the boat. Instead of drifting, we drew slowly ahead.
When we started to go before the wind, my heart in my mouth, I could see we had only narrowly missed the rocky reef. While the storm continued to harass us with its frenetic rain and blinding wind, we tore along before the gale into open water. Finally, I saw we were free, though with battered sails and tangled rigging, thoroughly wet and uncomfortable.
That night, as I lay on the tiny bunk with the rain still beating hard and the wind ravaging the waves, I said special prayers to the Lord for having saved us and our boat. And my mind turned, as it had several times on the voyage, to the tall young woman whom I had rescued. How was she faring? In a curious way, she seemed to have taken hold of my heart, her helplessness drawing me to her even more firmly. I hoped she was recovering nicely.
Chapter Five
We continued through autumn storms up past Eskimo Island to Blanc Sablon, and even beyond to L’Anse au Loup, our easternmost port of call. Here we turned around, close to the Strait of Belle Isle, that “ice-berg alley” lashed by Atlantic storms between the vast and frigid Labrador to the north and the British colony of Newfoundland to the south. I was pleased that my large parish went no further. By now I had an inkling of what lay in store for the next two years, or however long the Bishop decided.
This strung-out mission was by no means well off: subsistence living, I would be tempted to call it. On the Gaspé we do have rich years and lean years too, but here everything depended upon cod, and seals. When the cod did not run abundantly, no one cured enough fish to barter for winter provisions. And if the seal run was down, the dogs went hungry, the lack of pelts and oil made for a very hard winter. But the many close relationships meant that no one perished of starvation, though some years I gather they came perilously close. This year I prayed that the seal run would be good; I had enough on my hands without coping with mass starvation.