Thursday's Storm

by Darrell Duke

  The schooners Pauline King and the Lady Jane made it to Port Royal. When the crews of both schooners returned home to Fox Harbour, they told of the terrific gale, and the seas, mountains high, breaking from the bottom miles from shore. Schooner hulls were rendered useless, they said, and sails out of the control of any man. No matter how great his might.

  While many say the Annie Healy is lost, some friends and relatives of the crew still have hope the men are alive. Perhaps they were forced to shipwreck and are gathered around someone’s stove, drying off, warming up, drinking tea or moonshine and talking about how close they came to losing their lives. They’ll manage to get the Annie Healy off the rocks. And once things settle down, they’ll have her mended enough to tow back to Fox Harbour for repairs in no time.

  Telegraphs inquiring as to the whereabouts of the fathers, sons, and brothers aboard the missing schooner are sent around Placentia Bay. And from some of the things people are hearing back, the storm was gracious here compared to other places on the Island.

  The newspapers out of St. John’s dish out reports from all over Newfoundland concerning the storm’s havoc.

  A story of the Pride of Detroit’s landing at Harbour Grace, and its pilots flying to beat the around-the-world record, stirs no excitement here. They prefer to read or hear about what happened to this boat and that one, this fellow and that.

  Cis Davis has the only telephone in Fox Harbour and it hasn’t stopped ringing since yesterday. Charlie Sampson, Jr., finally gets through from Arvida, Quebec, where he works. He has to settle his nerves about a nightmare he had last night. A man, he says, appeared next to his bed, soaking wet in oilclothes.

  “I believe ’twas Father,” he told his mother. “I heard ’bout the storm. Were they out? Are they all right?”

  From other communities, relatives of the missing men and their families trickle in to Fox Harbour to offer support, however possible. They’re from Placentia, Argentia, Long Harbour, Ship Harbour, Red Island, Merasheen, and beyond. They, or their fathers, have fished for the Healys at some point in their lives. Some come in larger boats, anchored outside the harbour, while others arrive in skiffs, jackboats, dories, and punts. Heavy rope, gaffs, hooks of all sizes, and dip nets are carried on their big arms. They want to know the rights of the rumours and news, and they offer to join the locals in searching for men. One skiff is full of leftover sail canvas for bodies they’re certain to recover. At least they’ll be able to do the poor souls a bit of dignity, covered from the flies, what the fish haven’t already taken. Bock Barry from Red Island, known around the bay for his brute strength, says how his father fished from the Annie in 1902. He tells Mon McCue he’ll haul the schooner in himself if he has to.

  Most of the Fox Harbour men are long gone this morning, searching the coves and beaches up and down the bay for signs of the Annie Healy and her crew. The few men left around put down their hammers, mauls, and axes and walk to the water and what’s left of the wharves to help tie up the visitors’ boats. Together they walk to Healy’s premises and gather by the water. Billy Penny and Cyril Leary make a fire in a hurry and the kettle is boiling in no time.

  The men take sacks from their shoulders, lay them on the beach, and hand the shore boys rations of beans, peas, sugar, molasses, and mason jars of rhubarb, blueberry, and raspberry jams wrapped in linen seed cloth. These men, like most in Newfoundland, are poor fishermen themselves, but they haven’t lost anyone in the storm and there’s always a mouthful of food to be spared.

  “Take this stuff to the fam’lies of the men aboard the Big Annie,” one of the visitors says to Billy Penny, “an’ bring back the cloth, too.”

  The men drink tea from dirty, old mugs brought down from the store by the shore boys. Henry Healy pretends to count the mugs, and he gives a few dirty looks. No one pays him any mind, only to give him a drop of moonshine. He doesn’t speak, only grunts to let them know he knows they’re using his father’s mugs. And how many. He climbs the high flakes, sits where he can see the mugs, and keeps busy by calling out to Billy and Cyril to hurry up and get back to work. The men waste no time discussing all aspects of the storm and the best possible methods of search. They try to match stories and reports of debris with where the schooners were last known or thought to be.

  A cousin of Lize Foley’s has rowed all the way from The Rams. He says there’s wreckage in the bay, but mostly small stuff and nothing that looks like it might’ve come from the Annie Healy. The new schoolteacher, Jimmy Houlihan from Argentia, she tells him, will be here in a couple of days, and someone said they heard he has a radio. What a relief that will be. The Foleys’ daughter, Laura, is on her way home from Grand Falls. Lize will send her over to meet the new teacher and see if he’d mind sharing a bit of news from the radio.

  The next day little is different from the day before. Uncle Mick continues reading news from the papers to a houseful of people.

  Saturday, August 27, 1927

  The Daily News, St. John’s

  The Storm’s Aftermath

  . . . At the time of writing, ten deaths of Newfoundland seamen are recorded; whilst other messages point to the almost certainty of the number being considerably larger. The storm seems to have been general and other lands than ours have similarly suffered. Again the unsparing hand of death has brought tears and sorrow and suffering to the South West coast . . . Yearly the tale is told, and sometimes blows fall when least expected. A fair sky, gentle breezes and sparkling wavelets invite; and within a few brief hours the sky frowns, breezes become storms, and the placid sea is transformed into a seething, swirling cauldron of angry waters, and the toll of the sea is paid in the lives of men and the agonies of their wives and children: “For men must work and women must weep.”

  Devastation caused by the storm has set Newfoundland’s government into immediate action. It solicits donations to feed the Permanent Marine Disaster Fund, an account set up following the immense loss of life from the SS Newfoundland while sealing thirteen years earlier. Personal and business monetary contributions pour in.

  . . . Thanks to the generosity, the sympathy and the active aid of our mariners, travelers . . . and the public of Newfoundland, the Permanent Marine Disaster Fund has, so far, been enabled to bring a measure of relief to those in dire need. The work continues, and must continue, and it is inspiring to note the practical sympathy extended by those “that go down to the sea in ships, that do great business in great waters.” To the victims of the terrible storm the sympathies of the public go forth, and that this sympathy will find practical expression, if the need arises, the unfailing response of the last twelve years inspires confidence.

  Earlier in the summer, the Nova Scotia schooner Bluenose, famous for its speed, ran aground off Argentia, causing speculation the big race scheduled for September against the American schooner Columbia might not take place. But the Bluenose was repaired in time and ready to go. The storm, however, settled the score on this match. The Columbia was snatched by the sea, with all hands on board, off Sable Island, Nova Scotia, on Wednesday night.

  The Newfoundland Railway coastal steamer SS Argyle was on her way to Lamaline on the Burin Peninsula when her captain beached her at Morgan’s Island. Her full load of passengers and freight were safe. While riding out the storm, the Argyle’s anchor snapped. Forty-five fathoms of chain went with it. The mail boat lashed to the port side was smashed. With no guarantee of the steel ship floating at high tide, the steamer requested assistance. The coastal boat SS Glencoe came to the rescue, but after thirty-five minutes of strain in the heavy seas the tow lines broke. After the failed attempt to free the Argyle, the Glencoe was ordered to Merasheen Bank to assist a schooner in that area. The message came from another schooner en route from Cape St. Mary’s in the storm. The messenger described a schooner, a total wreck, about five miles southwest of Merasheen Bank.

  . . . head in a sinking condition . . .
impossible to render assistance. Men clinging to wreckage . . . Also another small boat and mass of wreckage. Could not locate any names.

  “Perhaps the Glencoe picked up survivors,” someone in Gran Kelly’s kitchen says, offering a bit of hope.

  “A proper Christian burial wouldn’t be too much t’ ask,” another whispers.

  But all hope soon disappears.

  The Evening Telegram

  August 27, 1927

  Terrible Loss of Life in Thursday’s Storm

  Feared Not Less Than 33 Perished –

  Many Vessels Wrecked

  A schooner reported missing off Merasheen Bank with men clinging to the wreckage has disappeared. She probably had a crew of seven.

  Ellen Kelly rattles the Daily News in her kitchen to hush the young ones playing out in the porch as thoughts of never seeing John again grow stronger.

  Four schooners foundered in Placentia Bay have been identified, along with some bodies. Three of the boats were lost between Patrick’s Cove and Point Verde Head, straight out from Placentia harbour.

  Newspaper writers continue to speculate, with vague attempts at discovering the truth of the Annie Healy’s demise.

  An unknown schooner floating bottom-up off Merasheen would have had a crew of at least seven men of whom nothing has been seen or heard.

  Each word read by Uncle Mick ensures more fear, panic, and yells for mercy on the poor souls drifting and tumbling in the grip of the fierce tides of the bay.

  The gaping holes in the hearts of those awaiting news at Fox Harbour widen. Word soon gets around that the mayday sent to the Glencoe to go to Merasheen Bank on Friday was in vain. The man who made the report passed the wreck about eleven o’clock Thursday morning. With communication lines still under repair along the coast, he couldn’t get the message out until the next day.

  More of the same finds its way onto the pages of the Daily News:

  James Bruce, Long Hr., reports seeing unknown boat turning bottom-up in the centre of bay. James Harris, St. Joseph’s, saw unknown boat submerged; both masts gone; . . . and two men clinging to wreckage. Made two attempts at rescue but failed.

  Speculation fills the hours spent on The Barrens picking berries and in gardens where vegetables still need tending to. Who were the men clinging to the wreckage? Jim King was definitely one of them, some say, given his known strength. But what difference does it make, others ask, when they’re all gone?

  Although it’s part of the story, no one knows for sure if the hatch that turned up in Long Harbour belonged to the Annie Healy.

  The days and nights following the storm are quiet ones in Fox Harbour. Folks lean on one another in a togetherness they’ve scarcely felt before. The young are not taunting the old nor getting into mischief for the sake of badness, offering no reasons for mothers or big sisters to scold. Teary-eyed children stay close to fathers and big brothers and uncles who are still alive while wives and mothers of the same tell their husbands and sons it could’ve easily been you and thank God you’re all right. Pad Mullins, John’s half-brother, thanks the Lord for his fall off the roof and the bad back which kept him off the Annie Healy. Mon McCue does the same for the terrible cold he’s still not rid of.

  Even though it’s a Saturday night, there are no parties, no lancers trampling kitchen floors, no circles of hands joined in freedom songs of Ireland, stomping their way to daylight. Boilers of soup are plentiful, but appetites scarce. And for a people who’d never dream of seeing food wasted or spoil, there is little chastising for bowls left half-full on kitchen tables, buttered buns with small bites taken. They’ll be soaked in tea and eaten the next morning.

  Men who have fished with the Annie’s lost crew drink their St. Pierre rum and homemade moonshine. They wear bold faces, and shed tears once everyone else goes home or to bed.

  Most are sick and tired of speculating, having discussed every possible scenario of how the Annie has met her doom. Reluctantly, they realize they know nothing, and agree it’s a waste of what energy they have left trying to figure out where the men ended up in the water.

  Some old men never give up, offering their opinions as fact. They say it was definitely the group of rocks off Argentia, The Mirrates, they struck while others say that’s impossible because she was bottom-up long before she reached the Argentia coastline. So it had to be the Virgins. But she was nowhere near there, having come across the bay from Marticot or Merasheen Bank.

  They agree to keep searching for a few more days, and also agree they’ll likely never stop looking for pieces of the schooner and the bodies of the men. Most say the whole thing is too much to take and, unless something or someone turns up, it’s better off, like all bad things, buried in the back of their minds.

  When word of the tragedy comes to Anne Furlong at her home, 24 Barnes Road in St. John’s, she faints and falls to the floor. She comes to only when her husband, Edward, holds smelling salts under her nose. The men aboard her family’s boat had been her lifelong friends, and her thoughts take her through memories of her childhood in Fox Harbour: the places she played with friends; how they cherished their little bit of free time; where, unlike in the city, distractions in the way of material things didn’t exist; and growing closer through constant interaction was inevitable. She remembers climbing the big rocks; the Crow Hill; The Neck; catching capelin in June month; The Isaacs; Daddy’s store; trips on his schooners to Little Placentia and Jobs Premises at Placentia; The Sound; Ville Marie Station; the endless sayings and nicknames; the sense of humour. All of these things and places and people are part of her.

  She sits, staring in over the rim of the burnt-black cast iron frying pan on top of the stove. The breeze rushing beneath the raised kitchen window sends the steam from the pan into a thousand wild dances before disappearing altogether. Anne watches the pile of food that was burnt to the bottom breathe inconsistent breaths atop the bubbling water. The pan, alive, steals her from her thoughts. A fountain of tiny drops of scalding water shoots in all directions.

  The pain of her sore feet is relieved a little by the heat from the stove; its warmth, wrapped around the bottoms of her legs, reaches the insides of her knees.

  Outside, now and then, sputtering noises from Model T’s fill the air, but never long enough to break her spell of misery and the feelings of guilt she doesn’t understand. The stove brings back a flood of memories. She’ll never forget the day it came on the train to Ville Marie station, how she waited for Daddy’s return with it in Tojori. The flame dies too much for her liking and she leans forward from the chair she’s hauled up close, grabbing a couple of sticks of wood. The little chrome spiral handle of the front door isn’t as hot as she thought it would be. With the long metal scraper, she hauls the embers into a pile and lays the two sticks on top. This time she leaves the front door open, throwing several more sticks of wood onto the burning mound. The sinking sun’s glare touches one lens of her eyeglasses, the ones she hardly wears but needs when writing. Into a small bottle of ink labelled T & M Winter she dips a pen and attempts to console her friends, now widows, and maybe even herself.

  “Dear Lize,” one letter begins. “How truly sorry I am for the loss of Jack . . .”

  It doesn’t seem enough.

  “Dear Bridge,” begins another. “I can’t believe what has happened. What the Lord has in mind for us, we obviously have no clue . . .”

  Anne is suddenly no longer an outsider the years away from Fox Harbour have allowed. She’s Annie Healy, the namesake for the boat—the boat these poor souls will be associated with forever. Somewhere in the cold, immeasurable waters of Placentia Bay lay the loves of these women she’s attempting to write, to comfort, and apologize to. A sudden symphony of blowing leaves plucked early by the storm around her home sends chills over her shoulders, and she gets up to shut the window.

  “Dear Liz,” she begins a
nother letter.

  The clock on her mantle tells her two hours have passed since she began this one.

  “Somehow, I feel a great responsibility for the loss of Pad and the others. My name engraved in the bow. And knowing you, you’ll say, ‘Don’t be so foolish.’ But I’m not sure how to feel or what to say at this awful time.”

  Anne’s heart is heavy. Her childhood memories stand ablaze in great clarity, and a lifetime of images of the dead men flashing from every nook of her imagination. John Mullins. Poor John. And they the best of friends. How, in the name of God, will she begin or end a letter to Bridget? And poor Charlie, he so sweet . . . and he and John and Jack cousins . . .

  A robin flutters its pretty wings before landing on the grass of her small front yard. Cars continue puttering up and down the road, as do young mothers and their babies in prams, just the way they had when she used to come in here, to the city, with her father so long ago. Now St. John’s is no bigger to her than Fox Harbour, in a way. She knows her way around, and has long gotten over the excitement of modern amenities that have yet to reach Placentia Bay. But Fox Harbour is still home. There things are always the same, and change thinks long and hard about coming, let alone staying.

  Men like Jack Foley and Charlie Sampson were people who made Fox Harbour feel like home to her—the same as it felt when she was a child, and then as a young woman. Always to the wharf, they were: waiting, smiling shyly, and eager to lend a big hand to help her from the boat. How will she ever face the place again in the absence of those men, in the presence of their wives and children?

  And Mr. Watt. What’s he saying about it all, she wonders. His old heart must be in a million pieces. Someone said he’s been up and down the bay in his dory ever since, looking for his favourite nephew and best friend, Pad Bruce. They won’t be surprised, they say, if he dies rowing.