I felt there was something coldly sequestered about Botho's lighthouse, and associated Botho with that feeling. The manicured summer lawn, white picket fence, goat bell nailed to the gate. Not a cobble was out of place in the low wall marking the path, past the supply shed down to Witless Bay Harbour. The lighthouse made me feel that even to appraise it from a distance was a kind of trespassing. All
the same, it had a stately presence, beautiful, secluded, yet visible on a clear day for miles. And of course with its rescuing light it had dramatic purpose. Like most lighthouses along the coast, ours had a lens system invented by Augustin Fresnel, a Frenchman whom we all read about in our history primer. I remember the new lights being delivered by schooner in 1907. The enormous crates each had DIAMOND HEATING AND LIGHTING COMPANY OF MONTREAL stenciled on its side. It took three men from the company nearly a month to construct the beehive-shape assembly of prisms and lenses. There was a small crowd, mostly children, from the village watching every day. Finally, the crew's foreman called a meeting and explained the new lights. He showed how Botho August could now use vaporized kerosene for a light source. The burners were 60 millimeters in size and used silk mantles to burn kerosene, much the way a hand-held lantern worked. The largest lights were rotated on a bath of mercury by a clockwork mechanism. There was a “bull's-eye” lens at the focal point; the light burning behind it was refracted and magnified into a powerful beam. The foreman stayed on an extra night to instruct Botho in more detail, and to show off the beam, which he did for hours on a fogless night. It turned into a kind of celebration and a few people concocted fireworks for the occasion. After the crew left for Montreal, Botho used both the vaporized kerosene and, for shadowing and pinpointing the beam in the old way, a household lamp filled with seal oil. Romeo once said that Botho could “draw a picture on the sea” with his seal-oil lamp.
The shutters were painted black. There was a forged
weathervane shaped like a whale, spout and all. The lighthouse loomed at the end of its brief peninsula with a splendid jurisdiction over the wooden structures of day-to-day village life; the older cottages, the newer two-story houses, the stilt houses on shelves of rock along the water, the ice-fishing shanties lined up off-season at the end of the sawmill road, cold storage shacks dug into hillsides, the seine gallows, trestles made of rough rails we called “starrigans,” used for drying newly barked nets.
I had had my closest look at Botho August long before the close look at his murdered body, however, when my family and assorted neighbors all had Canadian Thanksgiving at the widower Romeo Gillette's house, adjacent to his general store. In part, Romeo saw his annual Thanksgiving as a protest. “This is
Canadian
Thanksgiving, mind you,” he would never fail to say, beginning the prayer. “God, we ask that Newfoundland will get out from under the yoke of Great Britain. And soon. Amen.” The holiday dinner I am referring to here was in 1909, and I sat directly across from Botho August. Neither of us had chosen such an arrangement; when Romeo swung the school bell to call dinner, those were the chairs we were each standing next to.
It was a rare night of socializing for my family. My mother, Alaric, who was thirty-nine that year, had a slight build, dark brown eyes, and had as usual braided her black hair up in an inventive style. She wore a flower-print dress, exotic for Witless Bay, that her sister, Madeleine, had sent from Vancouver, and over it a cotton vest of her own design.
The dress had taken the better part of ten months to arrive and was accompanied by a chatty letter full of old news pinned to the lace end of a sleeve. “Even though I'm hearing it for the first time, it seems like stale news,” my mother had remarked, setting down the letter. “Still, her handwriting is lovely. And I know that overland mail takes an eternity. Besides, what are my sister's choices? To write about our childhood. To write about her present life. That's it. Or else, to try and predict the future, I suppose. Oh, that'd be definitely too risky for her. Definitely.”
My father, Orkney, was forty-three. He wore a Scottish herringbone suit he had bought from a tailor in Bonavista and a freshly laundered white shirt, starched and ironed, buttoned to the collar. Most men in Witless Bay wore knitted underwear all year round. It was lined with “fleece calico,” which kept it from being itchy next to the skin. My father's sentiment was, what will keep out the cold will keep out the heat. He was an accomplished carpenter, boat builder, and harvester of wild birds. He was as meticulous a person as I have yet to meet, in how he washed his face, wrung out the washcloth, squared it, hung it to dry; in how he scrubbed out his coffee mug; in how he tested the strength of each shoelace before tying it. “All things are connected in this world,” he would say, showing me how to drive a nail. He would sing a philosophical song: “The nail shall not forget the forge, the plank not the darkly woods,” the kind of verse hospitable to just about anything you might think of, object, animal, human being. My father
despised any sign of privilege, and he had the confidence of someone self-taught in a number of hands-on occupations from a young age. In all of this I admired him. Though he was occasionally edgy, capable of saying harsh things, he generally spoke well of people, perhaps more efficient in his assessments than generous. He seemed to harbor a very private system of prejudices. He kept his thoughts mostly to himself, though. I thought of him as a quiet man. His favorite response in the face of savage gossip, claim of insult, or just plain bad news was “Well, it's no matter to die for, now, is it.”
My father was of average height, I would say, solidly built, though he got on the thin side when he spent months harvesting birds, an enterprise he took part in every few years. He had thick black hair combed straight back from his forehead, salt-and-pepper sideburns. He had a handsome face, compromised by his older brother, Sebastian. My father called him Bassie. I thought of him as Uncle Bassie. My seldom-seen uncle. Bassie was a career bank robber, or that was the only steady occupation of his I knew about. He would send a letter every Christmas, often from a work camp or prison or local jail, asking for cigarettes, asking not to be forgotten.
When my father was ten, my father's story went, Bassie broke his jaw while teaching him to box, a rock in each fist. The break had gone unattended for too long; then it was improperly set, reset by a second doctor, and, when it finally mended, left my father's jaw misaligned, his lips having the effect of the wrong two jigsaw pieces forced together, never
fitting tightly. This affected his breathing at night. He may have breathed oddly during the day as well, but I did not notice. Lying in my bed all the way across the house, I would picture my father settling into his own bed, propped up by pillows, which allowed him to sleep. No doubt in part to cover the considerable scar, he had grown a beard as soon as he could. By Thanksgiving, 1909, his beard was white-grey.
At social gatherings my parents were attentive listeners, but each preferred the other to do the talking. They knew that their natural reticence would be more sharply featured if they sat next to each other, so they never did. That Thanksgiving, I remember, went by with my mother saying the hellos, my father telling Romeo, “Rare as I've ever seen, for a man to cook like you can,” both of them managing a few sentences during the meal, and my father saying goodbye for all three of us. They were good listeners, though, and I always got the impression that people liked them, my father in particular, and maybe even liked puzzling over their natures.
The meal was potluck. We had brought cod and sweet bread. Romeo had provided five wild turkeys. Botho August had contributed a dozen roasted puffins, those clownfaced birds the locals called sea parrots. There was a small population of them on the cliffs beneath the lighthouse, and thousands out on Witless Bay Island.
By that time I had earned a reputation in the village for painting and drawing birds. I had had work in journals and magazines. Romeo Gillette even had framed two of my
drawings of kittiwakes and hung them on the wall behind his counter.
Margaret arrived late and wedged her chair between mine and my mother's.
Right after Romeo's prayer, Botho August turned a puffin over on its platter with his fork and said, “Ever drawn one of these, Fabian?”
“Not a dead one. I only draw from life. From the wild.”
Botho stared at me, a hostile squint, as though I had talked down to him.
“Well,” he said, producing what I thought was an involuntary hiss, “this one here's got an awfully wild look about the eyes, wouldn't you agree, eh? Would you care to make a quick sketch before we hungry folks tear away at it?”
There was tense laughter all around. “No thanks,” I said. I then made certain to cut the first slice of puffin; in fact, I ate the entire bird. And from that moment until the last time I saw Botho August alive, he and I said barely a handful of words to each other.
Botho August was a tall man, over six feet, slim but wideshouldered, in top health, I imagine. What seemed to contradict his physical stature, though, was his frail skin, which freckled up and needed protection from the sun. He often wore his sleeves cuffed to the end, even on the hottest days. He wore a British sea captain's hat, which rankled Romeo, who took anything of British make personally. “Excepting ancestry,” he said.
“That
one can't help.” Botho had hair perhaps a shade lighter red than Margaret's, and wore it
longer than most men in Witless Bay wore theirs. He was, I would guess, a few years younger than my mother. He had a red-brown, short-cropped beard and blue-grey eyes. He had a way of coming alert, of both squinting and holding his eyebrows aloft. It was a look of impatient curiosity and resignation all at once, as though he had a predetermined notion of serious regard, and you either fit into it with your first few words or you did not. And if you did not, it was as though you had failed him in some personal and unforgivable way, and he would tilt his head at a surprising angle, squint, appeared as bored as a child in church on his birthday. It was a rudeness that provided both him and you with an immediate reason to turn and pace away as in a duel. He was a man who disagreed with the world, is how I thought of him. A man able to make judgements as easily as another man might flick a moth from a table, without afterthought or regret. I had seen him be cordial, yes, but in a way that seemed painful to him, not at all natural.
I feel obliged to say that schooner crews, lobstermen, and the like spoke highly of Botho, in terms of his operating the lighthouse. I worked with these men. I heard them talk. In Witless Bay, a lighthouse keeper held a sacred trust. Berserk gales, blanket fogs, fairy squalls, even zigzagging water spoutsâweather that had for centuries drowned sailors, lovers, fishermen, and indeed battered Witless Bay countless numbers of days and nights during any given yearâare what Botho had to contend with. So his profession lay at the heart of life and death to my neighbors; tuna
and sea-bass fishermen out in the before-dawn or evening hours, coming home well into the night; leggie and capelin fishermen; codfish trappers, lobstermenâall of whom made up the grandfathers, fathers, and sons of most of Witless Bay's families.
“Botho August can pin a schooner in trouble to the sea with that beam,” Romeo Gillette once said. “He can shade the beam just right and beckon a dory in, just like it was Jesus on the water following some holy-lit path home. He's damn good at that. We're lucky on that account to have hired him. But he'd rather be up in his crow's nest than down among common men. I'm not suggesting, mind you, that there's a judgement on his part toward us in all of that privacy. I'm saying that for Botho August, there's no card playing, no pissing off the dock after a drunk, no socializing for five minutes of obligation on the church steps, no church. He's a person with the distance in him.”
Anyway, back to the day that I drew the garganey. Leaving the lighthouse, I continued on past Gillette's store. His sign read: PROVISIONS / GILLETTE'S / GROCERIES in large black letters. It had a wide porch with four chairs nailed down and a rocking chair a customer could move here or there.
A quarter mile or so farther, on the way to the codfish drying flats, was the sawmill owned and operated by Boas LaCotte, and beyond the flats and down a rocky slope across a slat bridge were the wharf, dry dock, and four adjacent peninsulas. At the end of each peninsula was a single square-up
house; in that part of the village, people often visited by rowing a dinghy house to house.
Well past these peninsulas was old Helen Twombly's cold-storage shack, roofed in dirt and sod. It held her milk bottles and rectangular pats of butter. Even with dawn just breaking, I figured that Helen might be there, and she was. In 1911 she was eighty, and though her house was next to Gillette's store, since childhood I had thought of her as living more at her shack. In late spring she would plant flowers on its roof. Her garden was only a few steps away. She had had her husband, Emile, buried near the shack, forsaking the family plot in the cemetery west of the sawmill. I would often stop and watch Helen rearrange her milk bottles in her own finicky way, lifting, sorting. Bent as she was, you could almost balance a bottle on her back. No one person of course could have drunk as much milk as Helen hoarded. A lot went to waste. As children we believed that she drank only rancid milk; when we got older we learned that she drank it fresh as well as rancid, and that she considered milk as generally medicinal. “For which illnesses?” I once asked her. “For the ones I never get because I keep drinking the stuff” is what she said. When she came into the store, Romeo never hesitated or said, “Helen, come now, ten bottles!” He simply lifted the milk from its bin of ice blocks and set them on the counter, as Helen opened up her snap purse. She had enough money to get by. I think she poured milk into her parsnips and carrotsâwatered her garden with it, I mean. The garden had a milky air about it. The nozzle of her watering can was crusted white.