The Gale of 1929 Read online

  * * *

  When the Beothic took up the slack on the tow line, the schooner shook like a hound with a new bone. Between the broad stern of the ship and the narrow bows of the Merry Widow were two hundred feet of raging wind and sea. When the Beothic was riding the top of a wave, its top frothing with spew, the schooner was bottomed out in a trough and the tow line disappeared beneath the water hillocks between them. And always the ship brought her charge to heel with a violent yank, like a running crackie on a short leash.

  Sometimes the Merry Widow jerked sideways in the wake of her rescuer. Sometimes she was yanked away from her line of drift, for whenever the rope between the two vessels slacked, the wind immediately turned her bows away. The schooner was taking more of a battering than when she had been borne away before the gale, and she was still leaking badly.

  Skipper Blackwood was no longer cold. He was sweating. He fought the helm at every pull from the stern of the Beothic, trying with all his might to keep a straight tow line. It was a largely useless battle in such seas. The gale increased. Night came, and aboard the schooner her crew members fought the endless fight with the pumps. The men serving their wheel tricks took comfort in the glowing stern lights from the Beothic.

  The hawser, snapping and tugging at her charge, disappeared over the steamer’s taffrail. It pulled the schooner up another heaving roller, this one higher than most. The vessel reached the summit, the wind like a mighty hand against her hull. Martin prepared himself for another bone-jarring drop.

  Then, the hawser pulled apart like sewing cotton! The end nearest the schooner whipped back in protest and wrapped its length in a tangled mess in the foremast rigging. The boat dropped from the wave height and in an instant turned before the wind, all in the same terrible dipping, plunging motion.

  “May the great God whom I worship!” burst from Blackwood’s throat. It began as a roar of defiance from a man who had fought the sea and the worst of elements. It ended in a moan of despair.

  Blackwood looked astern and caught one faint glimpse of the Beothic’s masthead lights as she climbed up over the rolling sea and yawed out of sight. And then the Merry Widow was alone and headed mercilessly away from home again.

  * * *

  Captain Billy Windsor spent as much time peering out the stern window of the bridge as he did the forward one. He wasn’t sure how long the tow line had separated before he noticed it hanging limply and uselessly over the stern rail. It could have been as long as several minutes. It took twenty minutes more for him to get the Beothic turned around in the mountainous seas that rolled across her bows. He ordered the helmsman to reverse their course. Windsor had another fear now. In trying to find the stricken schooner in the dark, his ship could very well cut her down. The Merry Widow carried no lights.

  They spent a few minutes on a direct course before Windsor realized the schooner wouldn’t be drifting straight at all. He decided on a slow, zigzag tack and hoped they could intercept the vessel. He felt a surge of anger at Blackwood for not carrying at least one light in the masthead.

  All through the night the Beothic lurched and rolled over that sea of fury, her crew staring out the salt-streaked windows with hands cupped for warmth. They saw nothing. Billy Windsor feared Blackwood’s schooner had gone under.

  * * *

  Aboard the drifting schooner, the men and women were in low spirits. As rough as the towing had been, it had meant rescue at last. Every wave climbed, every wrench of their tether had brought them closer to the land. But when the Merry Widow broke free and heeled away so violently, and now with no sign of the Beothic, all during that miserable night the exhausted people huddled below deck in defeat.

  Blackwood had lashed the wheel to keep her stern to the wind. There was no point in fighting the gale any more. All the men’s energies went into taking turns at the pumps. The schooner was leaking worse than ever, the tow had compromised her weakened planks even further, and they had no oil for their lamps.

  Blackwood approached Simon Kelloway in the darkness. “Are you sure dere’s not a drop of oil left, Sime, o’ man?”

  “Nar drop dat I could find, Skipper. The drum is dry,” came the response.

  Blackwood raised his voice in anger. “B’ys, you knows you should have kept a drop of oil fer the lamp. And ’tis not the lamp dere in the gimbal I’m talkin’ ’bout, either. ’Tis the one we should be swinging to the top riggin’. My God, we’re li’ble to be cut down be Billy Windsor’s ship!”

  Without sound or sight his wife, Emily, was at his side. “It’s not their fault, Mart. ’Tis mine. They gave me oil whenever I wanted it fer the stove. ’Twas the only way to dry the clothes and cook a bit.”

  Blackwood coughed. “B’ys, we’ve bin t’rough a rough time. Enough to take any man down. We all ’ave done what we had to do. You too, Emily, my dear. Make a butter light, Abe. ’Tis black as a lassie tub in ’ere.” Blackwood had lost his anger.

  Abram Best set to work to fashion a light. He filled a bowl with hard butter and placed it on the table, holding on to it the whole time, then tied a small button inside the centre of a piece of some coarse cloth, with the cloth ends twisted to a point two inches or so long. Abe rubbed the cloth liberally in butter with his hands. Pushing the button part in the centre of the butter, he lit the twisted end. A black smoke rose and a light flared to show the dark, haggard features of overtired, unshaven men. The two women’s long hair was dishevelled and tangled. The face of the young Frances looked almost as old and drawn as Emily’s. They didn’t care any more. Someone in the shadows smoked a pipe. It glowed for a minute as the smoker puffed. The tobacco smelled stale.

  The protesting wood that separated them from the tormented ocean creaked and groaned. The schooner was thrown sideways in a twisting, heaving movement and the men grabbed the pawl post for support. The butter light slid from the table and smashed to the dingy floor and the forecastle was plunged into dreary night again.

  Something crashed. Someone cursed. Someone climbed the steps and stepped out on that terrible deck to take his trick at the pump. He let in a dismal cast of light and cold air as he opened the hatch to take his leave. Water spilled down the companionway. Soon the door slammed shut above and those below were silent, each with his or her own personal misery.

  * * *

  Miraculously, the Beothic found them again before noon the next day. This time they fastened a stronger line to the schooner before Captain Billy set a course for Cape Spear, just south of St. John’s harbour. Unbelievably, the gale increased in strength and the Merry Widow was almost torn apart by the strain of her lifeline. Her bowsprit was lost, ripped from her bow by one of the waves.

  Three men made their way from the pump toward Martin Blackwood, who was at the helm. Samuel White spoke first.

  “She’s leakin’ more than we kin pump out of ’er, Skipper. She’s sprung a bad leak dis toime.”

  “Sam’s right, Skipper,” said Ephraim Stockley. “Accordin’ to how the water is peasin’ up from ’er bilge, I’d say she’s got a bad garbit leak. We can’t keep ’er free!”

  With bowed head and heavy heart, Martin Blackwood ordered the Red Ensign aloft once more.

  “Fly ’er on ’er back,” he said. He knew Billy Windsor would understand his meaning.

  * * *

  Aboard the Beothic, Windsor did, indeed, know the meaning of the upside down flag. It saddened him greatly. He knew the agony a captain would have had to endure to forsake his vessel. He also knew that to get the people off the schooner in such conditions would not only demand every sea skill he possessed, but tax them to the very limit.

  The hawser was chopped from the bows of the Merry Widow and the vessel immediately fell away before the wind. The Beothic bore up to the windward side of the schooner. Billy Windsor stood on the port side of his ship and yelled through a loud hailer across the frothy distan
ce to Skipper Blackwood.

  “I’m watchin’ for a chance to come alongside. We can’t use the lifeboats, you’ll ’ave to jump aboard my vessel. There is no other way.”

  Blackwood cupped his hands before his mouth and yelled back.

  “I’ll ’old ’er as steady as I can! She’s takin’ on water bad! Our two wemmin will be took off first!”

  He wasn’t sure if Windsor had heard him or not. Both captains prepared their vessels for the dangerous venture.

  The Beothic hove up along the starboard side of the schooner. With her formidable height rolling and heaving, the task looked impossible. The small wooden schooner pitching and tossing in the relative lun of the huge wallowing steel ship appeared about to be crushed. The feat that both masters were about to try was extremely difficult. The master of the Beothic had engine power to his rudder. The schooner master had a single triangle sail at the bow of his stricken schooner to aid his steering. Over it all the true masters, terrible wind and high wave, would try to best them both.

  On the starboard side of the schooner’s deck, ten black-clad figures clung to the naked rigging and awaited their fate. One of the women was shivering violently.

  Emily Blackwood couldn’t remember the last time she had been truly warm. She wasn’t sure if she was shivering because of the terrible cold or something else. She knew the decision to abandon the Merry Widow had taken a terrible toll on her man. It was the hardest order he had ever given, as if leaving the vessel was a betrayal to a living thing. This was why she was shivering, she realized. It was her vessel, too. Though she hadn’t stood on its deck or shared its life as Martin had, the Merry Widow was as much a part of her life as his. The living earned from the sea, all dependent on the schooner, was managed by her.

  Below the unsteady deck that she stood on was stored food and other basic needs that were to see them through the winter. Half of it was already ruined by sea water. Others as well depended on the precious cargo: the sharemen who stood beside her, as well as their families who waited on the land, the latter unaware that their meagre winter’s fare was about to be stolen by an unfeeling sea.

  Something else was stored below that was precious to Emily. All her life she had loved the piano. She played it a bit herself and people thought she played very well. Emily was a modest woman and would never admit she was good. She even played the organ at church, but most of all she wanted a piano of her own. To have it in her own home to play whenever she wanted to, during quiet times when she was alone, anxious times—and there were many—when her husband was away to sea. Music was always an inspiration to her. Emily and Martin had shopped for a piano while in the city of St. John’s. She had saved a few dollars for it. She had knitted several items to sell, including a beautiful sweater for a woman, several pairs of socks, and two dozen pairs of Bonavista Bay mitts—the forefinger and thumb portion connected to allow duck and seal hunters the ability to shoot from their muzzleloaders without removing their mitts.

  Martin had done well with this year’s fish and, despite the poor prices, had turned a small profit. With Emily’s portion to help, he had purchased not a piano but an organ. Emily was ecstatic, easily settling for the much cheaper instrument. In the store she had sat and run her fingers over its black and white keys, but hurriedly stood up when the male clerk approached. Still, she had felt guilty about spending their hard-earned money on such a luxury. Her husband assured her it gave him great pleasure to see her with the instrument. He had said, “Consider it an early Christmas gift.” He rarely told her he loved her, but she knew then.

  * * *

  The Beothic lumbered its way along the weather side of the Merry Widow. As she approached the schooner, her bulk warded against the might of the sea, shielding her from the brunt of it. The distance between the two vessels narrowed. Between them the protesting water rebelled, as if the sea didn’t know which way to go. It sent its fury upward as the distance shortened. Water was cast aside by the schooner and away from the steep hull of the ship. It met midway between the two vessels in a white fusion of power. It was fearful to look upon.

  Closer the Beothic came. It squeezed the water between them and pressed it away. Anxious white faces aboard the Beothic looked down on the puny deck of the Merry Widow. The crew of the schooner stared up at the shifting, rolling ship, which was dangerously close. There was no way they could get aboard the Beothic. It would never work. The huge ship crept closer until no more than a few feet separated them. Still she towered above the huddled people who sought her refuge.

  Then a great grey roller reached up under the Beothic, lifted her even higher, then sucked her down, down—lower than the wooden rail of the schooner. There would be no better opportunity than this one.

  “Jump! Fer gawd’s sake, jump, Emily!” came the shout from Blackwood. Emily never hesitated. She jumped down onto the steel deck of the ship. Frances Kelloway followed her with a scream.

  The Beothic’s crew grabbed the women as the others from the schooner scrambled aboard behind them. The steel sides rose again, scraping against the wooden rail of the schooner, leaving a gaping white wound. Then the ship passed and quickly fell away from the Merry Widow. All who had been on the weather deck of the schooner were saved. All save one lone man who still stood before the mast of his vessel. Martin Blackwood had kept his post and watched the others jump to safety. Only then did he leave the loose helm to its own devices.

  He half sprinted, half staggered across the forward deck, for now the sea attacked the schooner with a renewed vengeance. He knew he had only a few minutes before the ocean would finally win the war they had fought for days. He saw the Beothic turn toward him again. Skipper Billy would make another pass for him. He knew he would.

  Flinging the shutter aside, Blackwood slid down the steps, barely touching them as the schooner rolled almost onto her beam ends. Blackwood stumbled and fell against the table but made it to his locker. He pulled out a leather satchel containing money. Very little of it was his own. Most of it belonged to the fish makers. Even now, in this time of dire circumstance, Martin Blackwood put his responsibilities to the fore.

  The fish that had been caught off the coast of Labrador and salted away aboard the Merry Widow had to be made before it was sold. The people who did the work of making the fish were usually called “makers.” Their job was a simple but arduous one. The fish had to be spread on the flakes and turned at regular intervals, as well as hurried inside if it rained. The makers, who could be male or female, young or old, were paid a small fee for this service. It rarely exceeded twenty-five cents per quintal and could be as little as ten cents. No matter the price, a strict account was kept of the amount of fish each maker handled. Their few dollars were kept separate when the fish was sold. It was this money for which Blackwood had risked his life.

  A spray of water met him when he climbed the steps to the deck. The schooner tilted forward. At first he thought she was sliding down another wave, but when he emerged on deck he saw his schooner was settling by the head. The water was rapidly claiming the Merry Widow. Blackwood stuffed the satchel inside his soaked shirt and headed astern. The Beothic was chasing him, her blunt bows taking huge bites out of the sea. She yawed away to port and her bulwarks shipped water before she settled again in the following sea. The Merry Widow was under no human control this time, no steady hand to hold her. She tilted and leaned dramatically from side to side, her Plimsoll line lifting well above the water. It gave Blackwood one last desperate idea.

  Water spilled across the empty deck of his doomed schooner, washed around his feet, and surged calf high, chilling his legs. Blackwood reached for the ratlines and half pulled, half jumped into the starboard rigging. He clawed his way upward, then stopped about ten feet above the deck, wondering if he was high enough. He heard a flapping sound above his head. Looking up, the Ensign appeared jaunty, as if relishing the wind that held it parallel with the dec
k below, the upside down little Jack draining its colours. Blackwood climbed higher.

  A blast from the Beothic’s horn startled him. He hadn’t realized the ship was so close, her fuming bulk unsteady and frightening. His time of decision and last chance had come.

  Now the scene was as that of a great play set upon an immense watery stage, the two vessels at its centre. White faces lined the single aisle, the audience staring. Watching. Waiting. Clinging to the rigging aboard the Merry Widow, her curtains long since drawn, the lone actor awaited his cue. There would be no repeat performance.

  Blackwood was shivering. His body was shaking all over. His lower jaw trembled. His teeth chattered. The days of cold and misery and responsibility had caught up with the captain at a time when he needed his wits the most. The schooner leaned away to port, her helm spinning uselessly. The deck of the Merry Widow was awash and there wasn’t much time left. The schooner righted itself, slowly and reluctantly, as if the old vessel had had enough.

  The Beothic rose, insurmountable above Blackwood’s perch. Faces looked down from her decks, from her rails, from her black windows. One of the faces peered through trembling fingers. Martin hoped Emily wasn’t watching. The Merry Widow was riding another wave and climbing ever higher with the force of the approaching vessel. Her masts leaned to starboard as she rose, and Blackwood could see the Beothic settling lower and lower into the trough. She still wasn’t close enough.

  Then there was a plume of smoke from her stack as her engines powered up. Her bows swung rapidly away to starboard. Her broad stern swept toward the schooner as she veered away. The schooner’s masts tilted, and the figure clinging to the rigging was swung out from the mast like the fluttering flag above his head. The schooner crested the wave. She would reach no higher. The Baltic bottomed out and began to rise again.