Newfoundland Stories (5 page)

By the end of August, John had stockpiled as much salted salmon as he could transport to the fish merchant in Exploits,
³
some forty miles away. Still, he hesitated to go and postponed his departure as long as possible because he had not heard from Tom since his last visit, and was worried. Finally, knowing that if he delayed much longer he ran the risk of losing his summer's catch in the hot weather, he set out. Closely following the coastline all the way lest he run into foul weather or some other peril in his small boat, he eventually made his way to Exploits without incident.

He remained there for almost a month, disposing of his catch and making plans with Mary for their future. Then, in late September, he set out once again for Hall's Bay to work on the tilt to get it ready for Mary. She had agreed to come back there with him the following spring.

His return journey by boat landed him in Hall's Bay two days later. The uneventful trip and calm weather, and his time spent with Mary, had restored his sense of contentment and purpose, and as he pulled his boat upon the bank at the mouth of the river, he felt energized and ready for the work ahead. His peace of mind, however, was about to be shattered.

As soon as he set foot ashore, he knew something was wrong. His instincts told him that something dreadful was about to happen. It was a sensation unlike anything he had ever experienced before. And then he saw it, not more than twenty feet from the tilt. There, impaled on a stake, was his brother's head, its sightless milky eyes staring vacantly into the distance. Close by, Tom's headless body rested on the ground. The bloated corpse still showed the mutilation that had been inflicted upon it at the time of death. The younger Rousell had clearly experienced the most horrific death imaginable.

John Rousell had difficulty fathoming the gruesome scene. Vomit welled up in his mouth and spewed onto the ground at the sight of his brother's decapitated body. His own body heaved uncontrollably and bitter bile burned his throat. His knees gave out and he fell to the ground. He was filled with disbelief, revulsion, and rage, and for one of the few times in his life he felt utterly helpless. And then he broke down and cried. He wept bitterly and long, until no more tears would come and, numbed, he finally rose to his feet to do what he had to do. He cursed himself over and over for having left the area without first knowing that his brother was alive and safe.

He buried Tom by the side of the river. He did not mark the grave because he feared the Beothuk might return and desecrate it. Then he got back in his boat and returned to Exploits, leaving his intended work on the tilt undone.

That winter was the worst of his life. He was haunted by guilt and the image of his brother's mutilated body. He could not shake from his mind the grisly scene that had confronted him at the river. Indeed, it would remain with him for the rest of his life. He abandoned his plans to return to Hall's Bay and the life he had planned there for Mary and himself. He never wanted to see the place again.

The period from January to March was one of the most severe in many years. Heavy snow came early and covered the ground to a considerable depth, making normal movement difficult and in some cases impossible. Winds pounded the north coast of Newfoundland for weeks on end, and John's energies, like those of most of the area's population, were expended in keeping himself and Mary warm and alive. Little else mattered. Time passed at an excruciatingly slow pace as the long nights and short days blended into an unbroken period of cold misery for all. With little else to occupy his time, the circumstances of Tom's death played heavily on his mind and left John depressed and melancholic for much of the time.

John Rousell, however, was nothing if not resolute and persevering, and as spring finally approached, he made a conscious effort to shake himself from his depression and to consider his options for the future. He and Mary talked at great length, until gradually, despite what had happened there, the thought of returning to Hall's Bay became entrenched in his mind. When he broached the subject with her, she, knowing how much he desired to go back, agreed to go with him even though the tilt was all he had to offer for her living accommodations. They would work on it together.

In early May, John's boat once again grounded onto the bank of the river, and he and Mary stepped ashore to begin their new life in Hall's Bay. She, like John, was immediately entranced by the beauty of the area. He showed her where Tom was buried, and she wept silently over his grave until he took her by the hand and gently led her away. Then he took her inside the tilt. As he expected, she was not impressed and let him know in no uncertain terms that cleaning it up and improving it would have to be their utmost priority.

John and Mary spent their first summer there, operating the salmon weir and preparing the site for their new home. In the fall they built a proper house for themselves and laid out a vegetable garden for planting the following spring. They would spend the rest of their lives there at the mouth of the river, raising a family in the process. In the early years they occasionally caught glimpses of tall red-skinned strangers helping themselves to a few salmon from the weir. With the passage of time, however, the periodic appearances of the Beothuk became fewer and fewer until they eventually failed to materialize at all. By then the Beothuk people were all but extinct. The remaining handful of this race had been pushed far back into the interior of Newfoundland by the ever encroaching presence of white settlers in the area, and within a few short years they would cease to exist at all.

It is clear that the Beothuk who had frequented the Hall's Bay area knew the Rousells, and in all likelihood understood that they were blood brothers. It is obvious, too, that they differentiated between the two men, recognizing the inherent goodness of John Rousell as well as the true nature of his brother Tom. Their retribution against the latter had been swift and merciless, while John Rousell and his family, on the other hand, were never threatened or, with the exception of the occasional loss of a few salmon, bothered in any way. It might even be argued that the deliverance of Tom's body to the weir by the Beothuk had been an act of kindness on their part. It enabled John to give his brother a proper burial, for the Beothuk themselves had a great belief in
Theehone,
the afterlife. Mary and John lived out their days on the river in Hall's Bay in peace and contentment, secure in their knowledge that they and their children were safe from any form of hostility from their aboriginal neighbours.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

The Rousell brothers, Tom and John, are also referred to by the names Rowsell and Roue in James P. Howley's
The Beothucks or Red Indians
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1915).

It is not known for sure how many Beothuk Tom Rousell actually killed in his time, but his reputation as an “Indian Killer” was well known throughout Notre Dame Bay. There is no doubt that he, and a number of others like him, contributed significantly to the eventual eradication of the Beothuk race. Starvation and white man's diseases, tuberculosis in particular, as well as the ongoing hostility with the Mi'kmaq, did the rest.

2
A weir is a fence or enclosure set in a waterway for the taking of fish, usually located at the mouth of a river.

3
During the time period of this story, the settlement of Exploits was the major centre of the Notre Dame Bay salmon fishery and fur trade. It was there that John Peyton, Sr., and his family initially established and operated their extensive salmon and furrier enterprises.

PIUS CARROLL
GOES SWILING

F
rom her kitchen window, Bridie Carroll watched her son marching up the lane and could tell by his resolute stride that he had something on his mind. Pius was coming home with a purpose.

She wouldn't have to wait long to find out what it was. As soon as he opened the door, he called out, “Mother, you'll never guess what I've done now.”

Before she had time to open her mouth, he blurted out, “I'm going swiling.
⁴
I've got a berth with Captain Dickie.”

Bridie was floored. Her son often tried to surprise her and keep her in suspense while he made her guess whatever it was he was up to. Usually it was something trivial or relatively unimportant. Certainly nothing of this magnitude. Her every instinct told her to tell him no, he couldn't go, that he was too young and she needed him here with her. Yet she held her tongue. After all, her son, at seventeen, was a man, or almost. Perhaps there was another way.

“Oh, Pius,” she started, “you're just fooling me, aren't you? I'd be so worried about you out there in that dreadful weather. It's so dangerous. Every year men are lost, you know, and what for? Surely not the few paltry coppers they get out of it. They're just pawns of the merchants, that's all they are.”

“Don't worry,” Pius countered. “It won't be dangerous for me. I'm only going to be the cook's helper, that's all, and I won't even be out on the ice. I'll be on the steamer the whole time getting the sealers their meals.”

Then he added, “Captain Dickie told me that I'll be earning a half share and all the flippers I can sell when we get back.”

“But you don't have any clothes warm enough for going to the ice, and we haven't got the money to buy you any. You'll freeze to death.”

“Don't fret about that either,Mother.” The boy laughed. “I won't be cold. If anything, it will probably be too hot for me down there in the galley with the stove going full tilt all the time. I'll be leaving in three days time.”

“And what about me?” Bridie said. “How will I manage here by myself all that time?” She hated herself for saying it, yet added, “It's a hard time of the year, you know.”

“It'll only be for four or five weeks,” he told her. “And I'll have everything done for you before I go. You won't have to lift your hand to a thing while I'm gone, I promise you.

“Anyway,” he added, “I've got to run over and tell Mavis. Isn't it grand? To be able to do something I've always wanted to do, and be paid for it in the bargain.”

After he left, Bridie sat at the kitchen table and tried to come to grips with the idea that Pius would be going away. She just couldn't stand the thought of him leaving, even for only a few weeks. Worse still was the fact that he would be going to the ice with all its inherent risks. She was ashamed for having tried to make him feel guilty, but she still hadn't discounted the notion of trying to get him to change his mind. Maybe Mavis, his young girlfriend, would persuade him not to go, although Bridie knew in her heart that nothing the girl might say would deter Pius.

Bridie slept very little that night. She couldn't focus on anything else. Pius was her only child, and the two of them had lived alone together for the past twelve years, since her husband passed away. The boy had been only five at the time. Despite her loss and her occasional loneliness, their little house at the extreme end of the Lower Battery, the closest one to the ocean outside the St. John's narrows, had been a haven of contentment and security for her and her son. Pius' going now was a strong indication that he would be leaving her for good sometime, and the thought devastated her. He was the purpose of her life. Little else mattered.

Bridie had prayed for her son every night since he was born. Whenever he was out of her sight she always wondered where he was and what he was up to. Even now, despite the fact that Pius was a young man, she could never go to sleep, no matter what the hour, until she heard him come in and knew that he was safe. And tonight she prayed again, intensifying her prayers as she sought divine intervention. Finally she slept, and when she awoke in the morning she was reconciled to the fact that her son would be going swiling.

Pius, true to his word, spent the next two days ensuring that his mother would be well looked after while he was gone. He sawed, cleaved, and stored junks until he was certain there was enough firewood to keep her warm through his absence. He brought fresh water until the two large barrels out in the back porch were filled, and he put his hand to every other task and chore he could think of to make his mother's life a little easier. He even had the foresight to pay a visit to his Uncle Bill in the west end of St. John's to ask him to look in on his mother every now and then.

On Saturday morning, seventeen-year-old Pius, clad in his flannel shirt, long underwear, twill pants, canvas windbreaker, and rubber knee-boots, was among the large group of sealers crowding the rail of the Raven as she steamed slowly toward the narrows to begin her voyage to the Front, the large ice-fields off the northeast coast of Newfoundland. Shortly after Captain Dickie had given the order to ship anchor, Pius caught a glimpse of his house and was sure he saw his mother standing out in the garden waving to him. He waved back, unaware of the heartache he was causing.

For Pius, it was the beginning of a great adventure. Although he was busy down in the galley doing the countless chores assigned to him by the cook, he nevertheless found time to pop up on deck every now and then to take in the sights. The dipping and rolling of the vessel as she steamed along and the wind on his face were exhilarating, while the wake of the ship let him know that with each passing minute he was travelling farther away from home than he had ever been before. He revelled in every minute of his new experience.

For two days the
Raven
plodded on toward her destination, doing a steady eight knots. It wasn't until they passed Cape Freels, the headland that separates Bonavista Bay and Notre Dame Bay, that they began to encounter random patches of broken ice, the first they had seen since leaving St. John's. Having come more than three hundred miles without obstruction, they now had to proceed more cautiously. The ice, however, was not yet dense enough to seriously impede their progress.