Chain Locker (16 page)

“How can I do that?”

“Do what?”

“See missin' fingers?” Jackie asked with a mischievous grin.

“What are you stunned or what?” Reub scowled from around the corner where he was making bread. “You just got to look at somebody's hand. If there's a finger missin' you'll see it right away.”

Jackie gave up. “Right. So, what's seal finger?”

Reub looked at him for a moment, wondering if he would be capable of understanding anything he was told. He decided to continue anyway. “I don't s'pose anybody knows what it is, really. Somethin' goes wrong with your finger. It just gets sore from draggin' the sculps. They're so slippery, see, that you got to cut a small hole in each one to stick your finger through so you can handle them. Sometimes after you been to the ice for a while and foolin' with the sculps all day long, day after day, pilin' them up, gettin' them organized for a tow and whatnot, well, your finger gets sore. You can't stop to let 'n get better—you got to keep goin', see b'y, to make your trip—and by the time you're back home he's after swellin' right up and hurts like the devil and he's like that for a long time…sometimes your whole arm can give out, sure… and then, when the swellin' finally goes down a few weeks later your finger just goes dead, no good for nothin'. You got to cut him off then 'cause he just gets in the way.”

“You cut your finger off?” Jackie gasped, his mouth hanging open.

“Cut 'n off with the pocketknife.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Not too much. He was dead, right?”

“But why would you do that?”

“Weren't you listenin'? I just told you the damn thing was no good and just got in the way.”

“But, couldn't you go to a doctor and get it fixed or somethin'?”

“Doctor! What doctor? There was no doctor. I cut it off and threw it in the stove.”

As Reub kneaded a batch of bread with his nine fingers, Jackie cleaned the pots from the Sunday dinner while trying to rid himself of a vision of Reub making bread with a freshly cut stub that oozed blood and turned the bread pink. He reflected on Henry telling him it was foolish and dangerous to stow away, accusing him of putting his life in danger just for the hell of it. It sounded too much like something Jackie's mother would say, and he was disappointed Henry did not understand how much he wanted to get away from home and go to sea. Henry ought to know about that, considering he was a sailor himself.

All told, things weren't going too badly. True, Reub was less than ideal and Jackie had hoped to be out clubbing seals by now instead of peeling potatoes and washing pans, but surely that would come eventually. He was settling in. He was in his sixth day at sea and was still wearing the clothes he had put on the day he stowed away. It looked like he would wear them continuously until he stepped ashore in a month or more. His mother would be disgusted, but being able to abandon personal hygiene with no repercussions was a bonus he had not anticipated. Seeing him cleaning pots and pans would certainly shock her. But seeing those roaches in the galley: now, that would send her into a fit.

He was where he wanted to be, in the company of men he admired. Even Ed, who was two grades ahead of him, and had always looked down his nose at him, was now treating him with uncommon civility. By sharing the lowest status aboard, they had become equals, almost friends.

Thinking about his mother reminded him that it was Sunday and he had not been to Mass, something he had done every Sunday for as long as he could remember. No doubt his mother was at church praying for his safety and forcing his sisters to do the same—he had trouble believing they would do it willingly. The idea of missing something that he had been told was essential to his future well-being made him uneasy, but it also gave him the same feeling of liberation he had experienced the first time he mooched from school. It was probably like cod liver oil—hard to get down but good for him in the long run. To be on the safe side he would be careful not to curse for the rest of the day or to have bad thoughts about anyone.

Captain Kean had taken the
Viking
as far west as he wanted for the day. Despite the long steam they had seen no seals but, with the vast ice field stretching off to the right, he was hoping that they would get into the fat tomorrow. He ordered the ship into the ice, intending to steam until dark or thereabouts, and then let the engine fires burn down for the night. Since leaving the ice field in the morning they had travelled all afternoon in open water, bumping the occasional clumper but not encountering any great amount of ice. Now they were moving into a narrowing area of open water, with thick ice to the right and the land of the French Shore to the left.

The sound of clumpers bumping and thumping against the hull brought Henry up to the deck to see what was happening. In the waning light, he could see the hard, thick bow of the old ship cutting a swath through loose ice, sweeping the floes aside with authority, her magnificent bowsprit extending forward over the water, probing the darkness like a blind man's cane as it led the way forward. She might be hard to live aboard, but there was no denying that she was a fine old ship. He looked up at the few sails she was carrying, the big jib and flying jib bowed by the wind, and he felt privileged to be aboard. He pictured himself as an old man telling his grandchildren about his voyage aboard the
Viking
, built by descendents of the Norse longboat builders.

It was colder than it had been for the past few days and he was feeling the chill. Pulling on his large, loose homespun mittens—the product of his mother's labour—he placed his hands on the rail, his arms straight as he leaned on one leg like a man standing at a bar, looking back across the open water towards the land. He slowly bent his arms and leaned out, staring at the water racing past the ship's side. It mesmerized him.

Varick Frissell's huge black Newfoundland dog ambled by, sniffing around for attention. Named for the Genoese explorer who had first visited Newfoundland in 1497, Cabot looked like a small bear, but had a far better disposition. Henry thought of the family dog, Gunner, who used to tow him on a sled when he was a boy, and remembered how sad he had been when he got the news of the old dog's passing.

He reached down and felt Emily's letter in his pocket, where it had been for more than two weeks now. He kept rolling over in his mind something that Simeon had said to him during the walk to Lewisporte: “If I was you, I wouldn't stay at the ice for too long.”

What did Simeon mean by that? Was he just kidding Henry about becoming lonely or was there some hidden meaning in the comment? It seemed unlikely that Emily would confide in an older man like Simeon, but she might have said something to his wife, Sadie, her mother's afternoon tea partner and friend of many years.

Maybe she was intending to leave Twillingate before he returned, and he would never hear from her again. She had told him that if her parents had not been there she probably would not have returned after teachers' college, but would have stayed in St. John's or gone to Canada or the United States. But he knew her better than that—she was far too conscientious to leave in the middle of the school year.

What had changed? Why was she no longer happy with him?

His mind was finally forced to admit a possibility he had been avoiding: another man. He had been on the verge of asking Simeon a couple of times but had lost his nerve, embarrassed to let on that she was so important to him and wary of the stigma of having lost her to someone else—a huge indignity in a place where everybody knew everybody's business. But he was wretched, and his desire to know the truth was greater than his pride. He had to ask Simeon.

“How's she goin', 'inry?”

Henry turned to see the ever-cheerful Dorman walking towards him. Rallying his emotions, he replied, “Darmy, b'y, finest kind. What have you got there, now? Snowshoes? Planning on tailin' a few rabbit slips, are you?”

“Ha. No, I won't be goin' in the woods tonight, although I wouldn't mind a feed of rabbit about now; I was thinkin' if it wasn't too dark when the vessel got settled away for the night that I might see how they gets on in the slob ice. I'm not sure I'll have time, though.”

“I don't think that's a good idea, Darmy, seeing it's already duckish and it will probably be a dark night,” Henry replied.

“We'll see. If 'tis not too bad, how about comin' out with me to try 'em and pull me outa the water if I fall through?”

Shaking his head, Henry replied, “If you're foolish enough to try to walk on water like the Lord, I suppose I can haul you out if you end up like Saint Peter.”

“I'm not gonna try it unless there's nice thick slob—just like porridge; know what I mean?”

“Whatever you say, Darmy. By the way, have you seen any sign of Simeon?”

“Well now, b'y, when I last seen him, he was down with some of the boys havin' a cup o' tea.”

“Maybe I'll wander down and see how he's gettin' on.”

Dozens of men were sitting around the coal stove in the sealers' quarters, some toasting bread on the ends of their knives, some smoking, others gossiping or sipping tea or sleeping, one of them with his mouth wide open and snoring at full volume. Simeon was sitting with a group of three or four, slurping tepid tea and spinning a yarn. The thick white mug was as dirty as any aboard, but it had a small shiny area cleansed by Simeon's lips. Henry inched his way towards Simeon and tried to catch his eye.

“At 6 o'clock on the morning of December 12, with the winds howlin', and the snow beatin' against her sails, she struck the rocks on Gull Island—”

“And where did you say Gull Island is to?” Lloyd Verge asked. “Down off Tilt Cove?”

“She was going to Tilt Cove but Gull Island is off the bill of Cape John, just over here. We went by it today,” Simeon replied, “So, then, when she struck—”

“Walt, knock it off with that knife, will ya,” said Lloyd.

“What? You think I'm gonna overstir me tea or somethin'? Here, I'll go the other way and unstir it a bit.”

“I'll unstir you if you don't stop clunkin' your knife on that mug. Drink the stuff, b'y; it's stirred. Keep goin', Simeon.”

“So, when she struck she was down in a little gulley between the rocks, see, and she got wedged into a spot with enough shelter so that the people could manage to get off—hello, Henry. Wha's goin' on this evenin'?”

“Not too much, b'y. Just wastin' time. Have you got a few minutes to take a turn on the deck?” Henry asked.

“I was just tellin' the b'ys here about when the
Queen of Swansea
was lost on Gull Island. You've heard that story, I'm sure.”

“More than once. Finish it up; I can come back later.”

Sensing an opportunity to finally have a serious talk with his nephew, Simeon said, “No, no, these fellers ain't goin' nowhere. I'll just be one minute if you promise not to tell them how it ends.” He turned back to his audience. “So, they managed to get offa her but, of course, there wasn't a lick of shelter to be had on the island. On top of that, before they could salvage anything from the vessel, she slid off the ledge and down she went. So there they were, twelve people in a storm in December month, and no shelter or provisions.”

“So they must've all perished then, did they?”

“They survived the storm all right but, yes, they perished. Some hunters found them in the spring. The details of their story survived because some of them wrote down what was goin' on; they found it in their pockets. Don't go away, now; I'll be back in a minute and tell you how it all turned out.”

The cold struck Henry and Simeon as they emerged on the deck and strolled over to the mainmast. Simeon leaned his back against the mast, pulled out his tobacco pouch and removed a cigarette paper from the packet. Giving a slight shiver, he shook some tobacco into the paper. “A bit airsome, ain't it?”

“It is, 'tis a bit chilly,” said Henry, his words trailing off into the night.

“Heavy ice, too. The old man is pushin' 'er hard into it. We'll be shuttin' down for the night pretty soon, I expect.”

Henry declined the pouch that Simeon offered, and watched as he rolled a cigarette, clipped the end of it with his thumbnail to remove the loose tobacco, and placed the cigarette lightly between his lips. “Somethin' on your mind?” Simeon asked as he struck a match, his hands cupped close around it. Henry looked at Simeon's raised eyebrows and wondering eyes as the older man's face was illuminated by the matchlight. He half expected one of those bushy grey eyebrows to catch fire.

He hesitated slightly and responded, “Yes there is, Simeon.”

Simeon flicked the match across the deck, exhaling the smoke while picking a strand of tobacco from his tongue. He waited.

“You remember when we were walking up to the train? You said I shouldn't stay at the ice for too long. What did you mean by that?”

Simeon looked with a curious expression into Henry's face, obviously unsure of how to respond. He nervously shoved the cigarette between his pursed lips. It glowed fiercely as he took a draw and let the smoke come out of his mouth and nose in short puffs like a train engine. He pushed his hands into his pockets and turned his darkened face, covered in black and grey stubble, into the wind. Finally, he snatched the cigarette from his mouth with his thumb and two fingers and threw it on the deck, as though offended at it, and ground it into the deck with his toe. “Now, Henry, you know I'm not one to stick my nose into other people's business…”

Henry said nothing, waiting anxiously for an answer.

Simeon cleared his throat. “You heard there's a new minister?”

Henry felt like he had just been punched in the gut and his breath failed him for a second. “Yes, Em…” —he swallowed, unable to say her name out loud—“I was told there was a new minister.”