Newfoundland Stories (6 page)

Steering almost due north from that point, Captain Dickie told the sealers that they would probably have to steam another two hundred miles or more before they reached the large ice-fields which, at that time of the year, crept slowly southward from the polar cap, hopefully bringing with them the thousands of whitecoats whelped only days earlier. Another day saw them in thicker ice and a few seals were spotted but not enough to warrant stopping. Finally, on the fifth day, the lookouts reported a large seal herd to the starboard and Captain Dickie announced, “B'ys, it's time to go to work. We're in the fat.”

The seal hunt had begun. For the next fourteen days, with the exception of Sundays, the sealers, organized in watches of a dozen men or more, were dispatched to various locations on the ice to harvest as many seals as possible before the Raven came back to collect them before dark. At first light each morning, the men, armed with sealing gaffs and hauling ropes and having been fed a good breakfast, slipped over the side of the vessel onto the ice to begin their day's work. Pius watched them leave and wished that he was going with them.

When they returned at dusk, the bloodied sealers were ravenously hungry and the mountains of salted pork, figgy duffs, and gallons of hot tea that Pius had helped prepare invariably disappeared in short order. As busy as he was, this was Pius' favourite time of the day. He loved to listen to the sealers talking as they ate, and to hear them boast about their exploits out on the ice. Day after day, he was enraptured by the yarns they told and the ridiculous lengths they went to in striving to outdo each other. Pius resolved that before the voyage was over he would go out onto the ice with them.

By the fifteenth day, the hold of the Raven was almost filled, and Captain Dickie announced, “Another good day or two, b'ys, and we'll be heading for home.”

Pius knew he didn't have much time left. Tomorrow, he determined, would be his day.

He was up well before the sealers the next morning to help get breakfast ready before they went to work. Afterward, he observed the watches as they left the ship one by one until only one remained. When that group dropped over the side and proceeded outward in single file, Pius, unobserved, went with them. He carried with him a gaff and a rope he had hidden away the previous night. Keeping to the rear to avoid detection, he was on his way to realizing his dream.

Pius had walked almost a half mile before he was discovered. Abram Bussey, the watch leader, was livid and ordered him to return to the steamer. Pius' assertion that Captain Dickie had given him permission to come, a blatant lie, held no sway with Bussey – at least not at first. The boy's persistence, however, eventually created a niggling doubt in the watch leader's mind, and with the threat, “If I find out you've lied to me I'll skin you alive when we get back,” Pius was grudgingly permitted to tag along.

The weather, although overcast and cold, was calm and the air was still, perhaps eerily so. Pius felt no discomfort despite the scanty clothing he wore. The effort of keeping up with the others, in fact, had left him sweating slightly, and the feel of the sweat on his body felt good. He was looking forward to killing his share of whitecoats.

Within the space of two hours, the tranquility of the morning would be transformed into a maelstrom, and the ice-field would become a death trap. The first indicators were icy blasts from the northwest that sent the temperature plummeting. As the wind veered farther to the north, isolated snowflakes materialized and rapidly escalated into driving snow that stung the men's faces and reduced visibility to almost zero. At times they could barely see each other even though they were only a few feet apart. The temperature continued to drop, and the men knew they were in trouble. Bussey assembled the others. “B'ys, we're in for a hard time until the skipper comes for us,” he told them. “There's nothing to do but bide here and wait.”

Then he cautioned, “You've got to keep moving about. You can't stop or you might freeze. I'm sure the skipper will get here as soon as he can.”

Even as he said it, he, along with most of the others, knew that Captain Dickie might have difficulty locating them. They were not where the captain had dropped them off. For the seals which had been plentiful in that area the previous day had since disappeared, and Bussey, as watch master, had made the decision to search for them elsewhere. Consequently, they were at least three miles south of where the captain would expect them to be.

The storm raged all morning. At first, the stranded sealers mounded up snow to provide a barricade against the wind, but their efforts were futile and the snow blew away as quickly as they piled it up. Thus exposed, they had no other way to shelter themselves and keep warm. The more experienced among them bemoaned the fact that they didn't have any seal carcasses, for the oily bodies would burn efficiently and provide heat. As well, the stacked carcasses could serve as a windbreak. Unfortunately, the men were left to their own devices. Their only option was to keep shuffling around to keep the blood flowing in their freezing bodies.

Six miles away, Captain Dickie was worried. As soon as the storm erupted, he had gone to collect his men. By noon, all but Bussey's watch had been gathered in and were safely on board. He was sure, despite the driving snow, that he had gone to the correct location, to the area where he had left them. He ordered that the horn be blown continuously to let Bussey and the others know that he was in the vicinity, and sent men out onto the ice to look for them. After an hour of fruitless searching, he knew he would have to look elsewhere. He turned eastward, concluding that the sealers must be trying to make their own way back to the steamer. He did not know that Pius was among those he was searching for.

By mid-afternoon the storm had intensified, and the plight of the stranded men worsened. With darkness rapidly approaching, some of them began to lose hope. Some ceased their walking and sank onto the ice, too tired to continue and resigned to whatever fate might now befall them. Most of them now realized that their survival depended on Captain Dickie locating them, and prayed that the skipper would find them before it was too late.

Pius felt colder than he'd ever felt before. The shirt and windbreaker
he wore offered virtually no protection against the storm, and
the fierce northern wind pierced his body mercilessly without letup.
He tried to keep moving, but he knew he was freezing to death on his
feet. He was so numb and stiff he could barely move his arms and legs,
and each step in the blinding snowstorm required enormous effort.
With darkness now descending, he was frightened, and his mother's
words about men being lost on the ice each year rang loudly in his
mind. He was also afraid of what Abram Bussey might do to him if
he stopped. He had reached the point, however, where he could carry
on no longer and, despite Bussey's order, slumped down on the ice to
rest. As snow drifted around him and covered his exposed body, he
eventually drifted into unconsciousness.

Five hundred miles away, in her bed in St. John's, Bridie Carroll worried about the storm buffeting her house. Her windows rattled so violently she feared they would break, and gusts of wind shook the dwelling so viciously she thought it must surely topple from its foundation. She couldn't remember a storm of this intensity in many years. Yet, amidst all this, Pius was foremost on her mind.

She couldn't sleep. I'm just tormenting myself, she thought. This storm is just around here. It's probably as calm as a summer's day up there.

Still, no matter how she tried to reassure herself, Bridie couldn't
put herself at ease. She lay in her bed as the storm continued to punish
her house as she prayed over and over for Pius' safety. Finally, around
three o'clock in the morning, the winds abated and the sounds of
the storm ceased. It was then, there in the darkness of her bedroom as
she was finally beginning to doze off, that a noise caught her attention:
footsteps on the stairs. She sat up in her bed. Someone was coming up,
and then opening and shutting a door the door to Pius' room.

She wasn't afraid. She left her bed and went to her son's room. She opened the door and entered. She knelt at his empty bedside and prayed more fervently than ever before. At seven o'clock in the morning, as the first light of day filtered through the room's tiny curtained window, she finally arose. She returned to her own bed and slept as deeply and as untroubled as she had when she was a small child.

Pius, now encased in his icy cocoon, was oblivious to the storm raging about him. He was unaware that men were perishing all around him, succumbing one by one to their dire circumstances. He was in his own bed at the top of the stairs, yet he was freezing, and he had no blankets to cover himself and make himself warm. He couldn't move, and didn't know what to do. Then he heard her coming, as he knew she would. She came to his bedside and covered him with a thick heated quilt, then she bent down and kissed him gently on his forehead. She left, and warmth was restored to Pius' frozen body.

Sometime later he was jolted by the prolonged blaring of a ship's horn. Must be a steamer coming in through the St. John's narrows, he thought. But why is she blowing like that? Must be some kind of trouble on board.

Then he heard voices, muffled voices and words he couldn't understand. They came closer, until he distinctly heard a familiar voice say, “That makes seven. Poor devils, they perished where they stood. They didn't stand a chance. At least there's five still alive. Let's get them aboard first and then come back for the dead ones.”

The voices receded. Then Pius felt something nudge his body and another voice calling out, “Here, what's this?”

He felt hands pulling his mother's quilt off him. He reached up to tug it back, opened his eyes, and looked directly into the compassionate face of Captain Dickie. He sat up, then slowly rose to his feet, his ice-encrusted clothing frozen to his body. His rescuers were astonished. How could a youngster clad in only a canvas windbreaker survive when grown men dressed in much warmer clothing had been frozen to death? It defied all logic. They picked him up and carried him to the Raven.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

The seal fishery has historically been an important part of the economic structure of Newfoundland. The cost, however, has been extremely high in terms of the enormous loss of men and ships while
out to the ice.
While sealers were plying their trade on the vast ice-fields off Newfoundland's north coast and in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, there were always loved ones waiting at home for their safe return, fully aware of the extreme risks their men-folk were taking. “Pius Carroll Goes Swiling” is a fictional story about an eager and daring young man and his worried mother. Information for this story was based on
The Dictionary of Newfoundland English,
edited by G.M. Story, W. J. Kirwin, and J. D. A. Widdowson (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1982).

4
Swiling is an old Newfoundland term for sealing.

HOME FROM
THE WAR

I
n the fall of 1915, three young men left their tiny settlement in Notre Dame Bay on the north coast of Newfoundl and and made their way to the interior town of Grand Falls. There they caught the train to take them to the capital city of St. John's. This 330-mile trip was just the start of a longer and more terrible journey than they ever could have anticipated, a journey that would mark each of them forever and change them in ways they would never have imagined. They had left home united in a common purpose – to enlist in the First Newfoundland Regiment and to go off to war to fight for their country.

The morning of July 1, 1916, eight months later, saw them, along with 798 other Newfoundland soldiers, awaiting the order to rise from their trenches and advance to engage the enemy at close quarters.

Five months after that, the same three young men, none yet having seen his twentieth birthday, were welcomed back home by the people of their small village. The people rejoiced in the fact that the three had survived the Battle of the Somme while so many of their comrades had perished under the withering machine-gun fire they had faced that fateful day. Their homecoming was a cause for great celebration, for only 69 of the 801 soldiers who had attempted to cross the no-man's land that separated them from the Germans had been left unscathed. All the others had been either killed or wounded.

The three young men who came back to this village, however, were not quite the same boys who had left. They were aged beyond their years and damaged beyond repair. They were nothing like the lads the community had previously known, and were clearly incapable of ever returning to the lives they had known before the war. Nevertheless, in the outport way, they would, despite their infirmities, be embraced in a communal blanket of love and support for as long as they might live. In the eyes of some, however, they would always remain objects of pity and compassion.

Elijah was the oldest. He had been eighteen when he enlisted. John and Cecil, both seventeen at the time, had lied convincingly enough to the recruitment officer to get themselves enlisted as well. Elijah was the first to come back home. He arrived two weeks before the others.

Elijah had not been wounded in the fighting in France, at least not physically. No lasting scar of any type marred his body, and, from that perspective, he was as healthy and as robust as he had been on the day he left. But for him, the big guns of the Somme still thundered in his ears and the carnage of Beaumont Hamel was still vivid in his mind. He simply could not forget and could not find the daily rhythm needed to get on with the rest of his life. He was trapped in a cycle of continuing horror from which he could not escape.