In the middle of all the commotion, the tallest man Jackie had ever seen appeared. Dressed in a long fur coat with a fur hat, he looked much too prosperous to be a seal hunter. He was talking in earnest to two equally well-dressed companions, pointing here and there, and discussing the whole scene being acted out before them.
The captain turned his attention to the next group of hunters. “Now then, Simeon, we'll drop your crowd off in brist of that next big hummock. That'll put you closer to that next patch.”
“We're all set, Skipper.”
“Who are
they
?” Jackie asked Henry, who was standing at the gunwale, staring down into the water as he waited for the word to spring over the side.
Henry glanced up. “The ones with the fancy coats? I think they're Americans.”
“'Mericans? Where do they come from?”
“Off ye go, me b'ys!” Simeon yelled, motioning with his arms.
Henry put one leg over, straddled the rail, and tentatively looked down at the black water. “What did you say?”
“From New York, are they?”
“Yeah, I s'pose so.” He tucked his gaff under his arm, eased himself down the line to the side stick, and sprang onto the ice.
Simeon stood on the side stick, grasping one of the ropes that suspended the beam about two feet above the black water sweeping below him. A small pan came by and in an instant he was on it. As it wobbled beneath his weight, he hopped to another, his toe skimming the water, and with the agility of a ballet dancer he flitted to another and then another until he was on the stable pack ice alongside his gang of sealers.
“Lije, what are you after fallin' overboard?” Simeon asked a sealer who was shaking water from his pants and boots.
“No, b'y, but I had like to,” Elijah Fogarty replied merrily. “I slipped on that balleycatter and down I went, souso, handy up to me arse. Just managed to catch meself before I went in any farther. I got to put a few more sparbles onto me boots when we get back, I guess. Don't worry; I'll manage.”
“You're soakin' wet, sure. Do you want to go back aboard and get some dry pants?”
“No, b'y; these are the only ones I got to me name. They'll freeze in a few minutes and make a good break against the wind.”
“All right then,” said Simeon. “I don't suppose you'd be able to catch up to the vessel now, anyways.”
The seals were almost a mile away and it was already mid-afternoon. Alternating between a fast walk and a trot, the ragtag group trekked across the ice, which was flat in places, but they sometimes had to climb over the pinnacles that formed where the ice floes got pushed atop one another in storms. When a sealer disappeared behind a pinnacle, Simeon kept watching until he reappeared. Like a diligent sheepdog, he shepherded his men, keeping an eye on the weather, the ice, and the ship until they were safely back aboard.
“Watch yourself there, Clyde!” he yelled as the ice rose beneath a novice sealer and he fell on his face. “Are you okay?”
“I think so,” the dazed man replied. “I'm not sure what happened. For a minute there everything was moving like I was drunk.”
“You haven't been holdin' out on us, have you, Clyde?” Darmy quipped as he hustled past. “You got a bottle o' rum back there and not sharin' it?”
“He don't need rum when he got the ice to make him tipsy, eh Clyde?” laughed Henry.
“You need to pay attention, Clyde,” said Simeon. “When one of those big waves comes up, you need to bend your knees and ride with it or you'll end up on your faceâbut I guess you already found that out, heh, heh. Here, give me your hand.” He helped the embarrassed young sealer to his feet. “And mind when the wave goes past and you get the trough or you'll find yourself up in the air, and then you'll be on your arse. I've seen fellers get seasick out here.”
“Right. Thanks, Simeon,” he replied hastily as he took off in the direction of the group.
Simeon watched him go. “How in hell did he get aboard when there's so many good fellers lookin' for a berth?” he muttered. “Somebody's relation, no doubt.”
As they closed in on the seals their excitement rose until, like gold-crazed prospectors, they started running towards their Eldorado. There was a thump, then another and another as the long-handled gaffs went into the air and down on the skulls of whitecoat harp seals. Like white pincushions looking up through big moist eyes, the newborn seals had been in the world for a matter of days when one fierce blow ushered each one back out. Barely mobile, they were an ideal prey and the sealers worked quickly to make the most of the time left in the day. The mothers slithered around, snapping at the sealers and trying in vain to protect their newborn offspring, who were soon awash in a sea of their own bright red blood. The steam rose into the cold air as the little warm bodies were divested of their valuable white coats, which the sealers called sculps.
“You owe me a quarter, Frank,” Darmy yelled. “I got the first one.”
“Not yet, I don't,” Frank replied with a grunt as he dispatched his first seal. “The bet is for the first one sculped, not the first one killed.”
“Take 'er easy there, b'ys,” said Simeon calmly. “We got a long tow back. Pace yourselves, now.”
A few skilful, well-practised strokes of his razor-sharp sculping knife and Dorman had a pelt, along with a three-inch layer of fat. “All right, then, now you owe me a quarter. Satisfied?”
“Nice young fat, eh Simeon?” he said.
“That's the good stuff,” Simeon replied, with evident relish. “If we could fill the ship with the likes of this we'd have a fine heavy trip.”
This was the gold; the seal carcass was of no further interest, but since it was the day of first blood, they would take back enough meat for a feast.
Simeon watched the sky as they harvested the last remaining seals. “Okay, b'ys, time to get ourselves organized and head back to the ship before it gets too dark. When everybody gets a tow we'll pan the rest and mark them.”
Taking from his pocket a flag that identified the
Viking
, he tied it to a pole and inserted the pole into the pile of sculps for pickup in the morning.
Each man tied his towrope to a half-dozen or so sculps and they started back to the ship, a long line of men in single file. When they arrived at the pickup point, the ship was still a half-mile away, picking up another watch. So, even though it was dark, Simeon decided to take some of his men and return for another tow. They managed to get all the sculps back and saved themselves a trip in the morning.
Jackie was itching to get on the ice and have a go, but it was out of the question; Reub was responsible for him and he was protective to the point of aggravation. Back near the galley, Jackie watched as the steam winch snarled and hissed, picking the day's returns off the ice and swinging them onto the deck. The flippers, one still attached to each pelt, would be removed and cooked that evening. As the pelts swung on the cable, the flippers seemed to be waving hello to the jubilant workers on the deck, or perhaps it was goodbye to the glimpse of life they had experienced.
“Those are just skins, ain't they?” said Jackie. “Didn't you say they were bringing seals aboard?”
“Sculps, sealsâall the same thing as far as we're concerned,” said Reub. “What we care about is the pelt and the blubber, so it don't matter if the sculp is on a body or not; we still call it a seal.”
“But where does the meat come from, then? There are guys on every corner in St. John's sellin' seal meat. There's always guys coming to the door with wheelbarrows full of it.”
“My buddy and I done that one year when we couldn't get a berth,” said Reub. “We shot a couple dozen old seals and shipped them in to St. John's. Figured we'd make a dollar sellin' it from door to door. We sold a bit, but there was too many fellers at it. Hardly made enough to get back home on.
“What you're seein' on them fippers is pretty well all that gets sove on a vessel like this one. The meat's not worth nothin' compared to the sculps with the furs and the oil. Now, a lot of the St. John's fellers will try to salt a barrel or two to take home, but most of it gets left behind on the ice.”
“All right, there, John Gould⦔ Jackie turned to see Simeon bearing down on him. “Time to put you to work. Get down in the hold there and help those fellers with icing down the pelts.”
At last, a real job! He bolted down the ladder, where two men were arranging a flat layer of sculps while another shoveled crushed ice on them. “Take that shovel there and make yourself useful,” the man next to him ordered. “A layer of sculps, a layer of ice; a layer of sculps, a layer of ice. You got to cool them down as fast as ever you can, so the fat don't run into oil. Every drop that drips down into the bilge is money lost, my son. Bowrings'll clean all that up after the reckonin' and have it all to theirselves. So get a move on.”
Exhausted but exhilarated, Jackie crawled up out of the hold and headed to the galley, where he knew Reub would be cooking up a scoff of fipper. The stench of blood and fat and guts had long ago ceased to bother him. His arms and back ached from moving coal to make room, then filling the space with pelts and shoveling barrel after barrel of ice onto them. His growling stomach brought back memories of his hungry days in the chain locker. Several men had offered him a slice of raw seal heart but he wasn't hungry enough for that. Slipping and sliding across the greasy deck, he arrived at the galley, where men were milling about and the jovial version of Reubâlong rumoured to existâwas taking a batch of roasted flippers and hearts out of the oven. “You're just in time there, gaffer. Have yourself a few o' these fippers. The hearts are for the Skipper so leave them alone. There's salt pork buns and tea there, too. You look like you're just about ready to keel over, heh, heh.”
“I am,” Jackie replied. âI'm also starved half to death. As my father likes to say, â“I could eat me shoes.”'
“No need of that. Get some of this down inside your shirt collars and you'll be number one again.”
Reub watched with approval as Jackie downed handfuls of the hot meat. “Some good, ain't it? You ever had seal before?”
“Lots of times. Mom makes flipper pie.”
“Did you try some raw?”
“Nah. I don't think I could ever be that hungry.”
“I been hungry enough lots of times, but I must say I'd rather 'ave it cooked, just the same. How did you find icin' down the pelts?”
“Hard work.”
“You're damn right 'tis hard work. After that maybe you won't whine so much about havin' to earn your keep in the galley.”
“Hah. I don't complain.”
“Hark o' you! If I had a quarter for every time you groaned about your work, I wouldn't be cookin' on no greasy old sealer.”
Like a reveler going from party to party, Jackie, well stuffed, left the galley and headed to the sealers' quarters, the hub of activity on the ship. Contentment reigned among the ice hunters, as men crowded inside to share the heat of the coal stove. As Jackie scanned the faces in the crowd, who should he see but Eddie Carnell standing below the steps. Ever since Henry said, “So you're one of the gaffers who stowed away!” Jackie had assumed there was at least one other stowaway aboard, but he didn't expect it would be somebody he knew. They exchanged knowing glances and he thought he might have seen a half smile crease Eddie's face. Jackie suppressed a grin, lest he be caught not showing appropriate reserve.
Hands and arms, covered to the elbows with dried blood, alternated between grasping dirty mugs of tea and waving the air for emphasis as the events of the day were told and retold. With a chopping motion, Dorman was describing the slaughter of one of his victims. “I was just ready to sculp him, sir, when the old one mishes into me, takes me by the back o' the leg and starts draggin', see? I don't know where she thought she was goin'!”
“Yes, b'y, I figured that old harp was goin' to haul the drawers right offa ya,” a man across the room roared with evident delight.
“'Twas as good as a concert, every bit as good.”
Another added, “Sure, Darmy, I got to say I thought you was done for. The way she had you by the leg 'tis a wonder she didn't take your foot right off or haul ya overboard.”
“Mister man, I'll tell you she had a mind to, but me buddy got 'er off from me. Give 'er a good kick, he did, right about the jowls. She give me a good bite, though, just the same.”
“'Twas nice, young fat, today,” Abner Jenkins opined, “though a couple of thousand more would have been nice.”
“A few thousand more, closer to the vessel, maybe, but I found that to be far enough away for my likin',” another estimation rang out. “I wouldn't want to have to scote a tow of sculps any farther than we come this evenin', especially if the weather was to turn.”
A voice in the crowd changed the topic: “What was the goin' on with that big camera they had rigged up?”
“Movin' picture,” somebody answered. “That's all I knows.” Then, seeing Simeon coming down the companionway, he asked, “Simeon, what was them fellers doin' with that big camera?”
“That's the Americans making a movin' picture,” Simeon replied. “The tall one is Mr. Frissell, Varick Frissell. I 'magine you never heard a name that queer before, eh Bot?” Bot, a Nova Scotian whose full name was Naboth Outhouse, allowed that it was indeed an unusual name.
“There was a crowd of them here last year,” Simeon continued. “They went out on the
Ungava
with actors that came up from the States to make a moving picture about the seal hunt.”
“The seal hunt? I can think of more interesting things to watch than that!” Bot replied, just one in a roomful of perplexed faces.