The Beothuk Expedition (13 page)

The base for Cousens' enterprise was a large and well-maintained fishing room on a fertile peninsula. There were many flakes for drying salmon and an expansive garden with a variety of vegetables under cultivation. A log structure served as housing for his fishing servants, but as they were all at sea, it made suitable quarters for the crew. Cousens himself invited me to stay at his small house with the Cartwrights and Reverend Stow, which was kind of him, but I decided to remain on board the
Dove
with Froggat. He did insist that I come to dinner, and I arrived that evening to a feast of roasted caribou, sea ducks and the bounty of his garden.

Old Atkinson had prepared the meal, though the compliments at table were directed to his employer for retaining such a resourceful man. George Cartwright informed us that Atkinson had been with him since the war and had defended his baggage in the hottest battles of the European campaign. When peace arrived the servant had travelled with him to a posting in Minorca and had nursed him through a bout of malaria. Without the attentions of his loyal man, he avowed, he would certainly have perished.

Throughout the conversation Atkinson shuffled unheeded around the table. If he was conscious of being discussed he did not show it, and instead busied himself with removing plates and filling glasses. The excellent meal was enhanced by several jugs of claret that were drawn from a small cask, the very one that I'd put aboard the shallop when we parted company with the
Guernsey
. Toasts were proposed to my foresight, as well as to Cousens' hospitality. The jugs were in constant motion between cask and table and before long Reverend Stow bade us drink a bumper to the King. The others pushed back their chairs and stood as best they could, while the first lieutenant and I remained seated, as was our privilege as naval officers.

It being a Saturday, we also drank the toast of the day—to our sweethearts and wives. The mention of loved ones had little effect upon the good cheer of the company, though my own spirits began to slip. The wine and the toast had once more turned my thoughts to Amy Taverner, which in turn caused a melancholy humour to settle upon me. She was the only girl I had ever loved and I began to dwell upon my loss and the cruel hand that fate had dealt me. I believe I would have become maudlin had the lieutenant not stirred me with a shout.

“Mister Squibb!” he cried. “Come, sir, do not fall asleep on us. We must have a toast to the Navy and you are the very man to do it.” He turned to the others and said, “Mister Squibb has quite a reputation for phrasing a toast. I have heard it said that he nearly provoked a duel with a marquis once, over an adaptation of Hogarth's verse.”

The others shouted their approval and pounded the table, forcing me from my dismal turn of mind. I stood on slightly unsteady legs and the party fell silent.

“To the King and his Navy,” I said. To cries of “Hear! Hear!” I raised my glass: “
Where e're thy Navy spreads her canvas wings, homage to thee and peace to all she brings. The French and Spanish when thy flags appear, forget their hatred and consent to fear
.”

“Hear him! Hear him!” they cried, and there was much cheering and thumping of the table as we drank off the wine. Mr. Cousens asked me whether the lines were of my own composition, but before I had the chance to reply we were interrupted by the Reverend Stow.

“Certainly not, sir,” he declared. “They possess the grace and metre of having been penned by a poet, not by a man whose passion is yards and canvas and the like. I ask you, where is the poetry in a pitching, leaking ship? Can anyone answer me that?”

Our ecclesiastical guest had taken too much wine and his tongue was getting the better of him. He gestured for Atkinson to pour and the servant discretely allowed him half a glass. I ignored the chaplain and answered Cousens, saying that Edmund Waller had composed the verse more than a century ago.

Lieutenant Cartwright, his mind still lingering on the chaplain's comment, looked to him and said, “Come now, Reverend Stow. Surely you have been witness to things of beauty in the maritime world.”

“I will admit, sir,” the chaplain said with a slur, “that one's perspective of church spires or the buildings of a town may be enhanced from the sea. Otherwise there is little enough of beauty in a ship. The seagoing life would stink in my nostrils if I did not steep it in claret.” He took a draught of wine and added, “The Navy and all who serve in her may go to—”

We were never to know what Reverend Stow intended to say. A knock came to the door at that moment and the distraction caused him to spill wine over his waistcoat. Atkinson glided to his side and dabbed it with a cloth while I rose to answer the door. On opening it I found the gunner standing on the tiny porch, his battered hat in his hands.

“Mister Bolger,” I said. “Is anything the matter?”

“Oh no, sir. Well, aside from Mister Froggat having another spell, that is. Went all funny and shaky again, he did.”

I was reaching for my hat when he added, “Though he's all of a piece now, sir. And sound asleep.” An awkward moment followed and I guessed there was another purpose to his visit.

“Is there anything else, Mister Bolger?”

“Aye, as a matter of fact there is, Mister Squibb. We was wondering—Hard Frost and me, that is—we was wondering if the men might have an extra tot o' grog, sir. We wouldn't ask 'cept the men will likely have to go without when we leaves for the wilderness.”

I considered this a moment and said, “I see no reason why they shouldn't. You have my permission, Mister Bolger.”

“Who is it, Mister Squibb?” the lieutenant called from the dining room.

“The gunner, sir.”

“What does he want?”

“He was asking about extra grog for the men, sir. I've told him—”

“Yes, by all means!” Mr. Cartwright said. “The men must have their grog. Allow them what they wish, in honour of our last night in civilized surroundings!”

I did not think this prudent but it would have been less prudent to argue the point.

“Well, there you have it, Mister Bolger,” I said, “But I hold you responsible for them. Especially Grimes. I have forbidden him any spirits, as you know.”

The gunner's blue-flecked lips drew back in a grin and he jammed the hat on the shiny dome of his head. “Never ye worry, sir. Me and Frost'll keep an eye on that bugger.”

He knuckled his forehead and turned to go, and then suddenly slapped his thigh. “Oh, sir! I nearly forgot. A man showed up 'bout an hour past. It were the damnedest thing—just tied his boat up alongside the
Dove
, he did, no more to it than that. Says his name is Sam Cooper. He's one of them furriers and him and Rowsell knows each other. Can't say I cares fer the look of him, but then I don't care fer the look of that Rowsell, neither. And, sir, tis the strangest thing but this Cooper is the same—”

A summoning cry from the lieutenant cut him short. The gunner quickly took his leave, fearing that the lieutenant had changed his mind about the rum. I returned to the room where Reverend Stow looked as if he were still at sea and having trouble controlling his stomach. But at least he'd stopped talking.

“Ah, there you are, Squibb,” Lieutenant Cartwright said. “Have another glass.” Our strained relations seemed to have been forgotten in the flow of wine.

I accepted the offer and caught the eye of our host. “Mister Cousens,” I said, “a man named Cooper has sought shelter in your outbuilding for the night. He says you will have no objection.”

“Cooper?” he said. “Not Sam Cooper?”

“Yes, I believe that is the name.”

Our host fell silent as he fingered his glass. “Well, well,” he said a moment later. “Gentlemen, Mister Squibb tells me that we have a visitor. It is none other than Sam Cooper, arrived here at Indian Point.” The rest of us looked at him without comprehending.

“This is the man I was telling you about. Sam Cooper is the only one to have ever travelled past the great falls on the River of Exploits.”

Lieutenant Cartwright and I exchanged looks. Such a guide would be worth his weight in treaties with the Indians.

“Then we must have a word with him,” the lieutenant said.

“Is he trustworthy, Mister Cousens?” I asked.

“I cannot answer that, as I barely know the man. But his employer certainly is not. I believe that Andrew Pinson's sharp practices are well known to yourselves and the governor. That man would trade his soul for a profit, and buy it back at less than the devil paid for it. As for Cooper, all I can say of him is that he is said to be extremely devout.”

“Devout?” George Cartwright exclaimed with a drunken grin. “A devout furrier?”

“Why, yes,” Cousens replied. “I recall my men saying that he is a man of extreme religious conviction.”

“A companion for our dear chaplain, then.” George Cartwright laughed.

The lieutenant and I looked at each other again. A Pinson man or not, as a guide he sounded too good to be true. “I believe I shall have a word with him,” I said.

“Yes, yes,” Cousens said. “But first, let us drink another toast of this excellent claret. Will you not join us in a bumper, Reverend Stow? Reverend Stow? Are you quite all right, sir?”

I slipped away a short time later and strolled across the clearing to where the crew was quartered. I opened the door and found the bunkhouse in lively form, with the gunner playing a tin whistle for all he was worth and Frost matching him on a concertina. The instrument looked like a child's toy in the boatswain's massive hands. Greening and Jenkins were dancing a reel and the others were clapping and stamping time.

The music groaned to a halt when I entered the room. Bolger, redder of face than usual and perspiring heavily, nodded to me and said, “Just letting the lads enjoy theirselves, sir.”

“Do not let me stop you, Mister Bolger. I am here to have a word with this man Cooper.”

“Cooper? Why yes, sir. He's just out there.” He pointed across the room to a rear door that opened onto the night. A man stood outside with his back to the light.

“He's a queer sort, sir,” Bolger said in a low voice. “Don't seem to hold with rum nor music. But the oddest thing is—”

“Thank you, Mister Bolger,” I said, caring nothing for the gossip of the crew. “Please carry on.” I crossed the room as Frost squeezed his concertina to life and the sailors resumed their steps. The man who stood outside turned at my approach.

The wine may have played a part, though I believe it was pure astonishment that robbed me of speech. For a moment I could do nothing but stare at the face before me, or more truthfully, at the pair of puckered white scars upon it. It was the very man we'd encountered at Fogo Harbour, which was what Bolger had been trying to tell me. It was beyond comprehension that he should turn up here, and so soon after our first meeting. As I wondered how this was possible, I found my voice and said, “My name is Squibb, third lieutenant of the
Guernsey
. How did you come to …?”

The furrier's bright eyes bespoke the cunning and quick instincts of a hunter. He saw my surprise easily enough and sniggered before answering in a grating, north country voice. On landing his cargo of furs at Fogo, he said, he'd learned that the
Dove
was on its way to the Bay of Exploits. Intending to return there himself, and having no desire to meet with the French brig-of-war again, he'd followed in our wake for safety's sake. The explanation was reasonable enough, and I went straight to my reason for seeking him out.

“Mister Cartwright has a proposal for you, Cooper. He wishes to hire your services as a guide on the river. You see, the governor has given him the task of—”

“I knows his task,” the man cut in. His voice had the quality of a keel being dragged over gravel. “He wants to find the Red Indians.”

The crew had evidently told him as much, and so I said, “That is correct. We intend to make—”

“Ye intends to make a truce with 'em.”

I merely nodded, avoiding the certainty of further interruption. “Ye'll be wastin' yer time,” he rasped. “They'll hear no talk of peace.”

“Why, sir,” I responded lightly, “I was told that you are a Christian man. Surely you have faith in the ideal of peace?”

Cooper's bright eyes bored into mine. He said nothing and I sensed that he was turning the question over in his mind, examining it as he might examine a questionable pelt. His nose twitched as if he were trying to catch the scent of it as well.

“And ye wants my help?” he said at length.

“Yes. Mister Cartwright will pay you for your trouble, of course.”

“Pay me?” the man said. “Why, tis not honest work he's offering, now, is it?” There was another pause as his tongue flicked over thin, cracked lips. He appeared to be considering the proposal, and at last he said, “All right. I'll guide him, sure enough. But only 'cause the Lord might have some purpose in me doin' so.”

“The Lord, you say? Then perhaps you believe the souls of the Red Indians should be saved?” The thought of another companion like Reverend Stow was unsettling.

A sly grin twisted his mouth, and he replied, “Oh, I didn't say that, now, did I, sir?”

Israel Frost

Oh, it were a grand old evening, sure enough. First chance the lads've had to kick up their heels in a fortnight. And when they was all done with dancing the hornpipe, they took to singing the old songs. Bolger give us “Black-eyed Susan,” which I never heard these ten years or more. Then Greening sung “Nancy Dawson,” which I been hearing every hour this month. I told him to learn something new, if he knows what's good for 'im. I sung one meself, what I learned from the cook on the old
Phoenix
, called “Poor Jolly Sailor Lads.” Never heard it, you say? Why, I can sing it again. Ahem—