The Gale of 1929 Page 19
The captain’s wife, Lydia, and her daughter Doris were seated at the wedge-shaped table, fully clothed with winter coats, and wrapped around young Doris’s neck was a heavy, hand-knitted red scarf. Lydia was reading a well-worn Bible by the dismal light of a smoky lantern, which squeaked as it swung back and forth from its gimbal above her head. Young Doris asked where the cat was. It was a medium-sized male cat with mottled colours and it always sailed aboard the Effie May Petite. The cat was considered to be a wonderful hunter, the proof in that there was never a field mouse, or dreaded rat—always a feared pest that was known to board ships while tied to the wharves in the harbour of St. John’s—found aboard the schooner. There came a faint mewling sound amid the din of the storm and everyone looked around for the cat. The schooner’s bow rose high and fell back with a crashing sound and the flaws screamed above the deck of the schooner. Somewhere the cat meowed again, indistinct. It could have been anywhere in the shadowed cabin. Figuring the animal would bring the girl some comfort, some of the men began looking for it.
Roland Gaulton was passing the stove when he heard the sound again.
“Listen, b’ys! Sounds like it’s comin’ from the stove oven!” he said.
Everyone listened, but another flaw hit the schooner and, with its cacophony of noises, drowned out the sounds of the missing cat. The wind noise subsided, and then everyone heard it: the pitiful sound of the cat trapped in the hot oven. Gaulton pulled the door down and the frantic cat shot out onto the floor! The fur all over its body was burnt and singed. Crying in pain and terror, the smoking cat raced into the very eyes of the forecastle. Hidden in the dark recess of the schooner’s bows, the creature moaned in pain. It remained there and refused to come to the crew. Many hours later its pitiful cries calmed and it grew quiet.
* * *
Charlie Kean had earned his sea legs under the tutelage of Abram Kean, under whose stern watch no man dared buckle. The Keans were men born of the sea. This wasn’t Charlie Kean’s first time in a gale, even at night, but he hadn’t seen one with such ferocity. Kean had no fear for himself or for his crew. They were hand-picked and proven seamen and had sailed with him to the coast of Labrador many times under the worst of conditions. Not one of them would complain or show fear. But aboard his schooner tonight, riding out the storm, there was cause for Charlie Kean to be afraid. His wife and his precious child were aboard. Charlie was just as tough and just as capable a seaman as his uncle Abram, but Charlie Kean was a most compassionate man. He considered the welfare of all aboard his vessel to be his responsibility and no one else’s. And before harm came to his family, he would have himself lashed to the helm and die before the bare masts of the Effie May Petite.
On their first night out, the crew of the Effie May Petite had twice seen lights. They figured they belonged to one of the fleet that had left St. John’s along with them and that, being adrift on the same terrible sea, the owner could offer no assistance. But on this night they also spotted lights that would have had to come from ships. The spirits of everyone aboard lifted when they found out that a large ocean-going ship had been spotted. A bucket was filled with clothing doused with kerosene, tied to a gantline, and hoisted above the deck of the stricken schooner. The light flared and flashed as the wind knocked the bucket back and forth many times, and then it went out. The men repeated the same procedure again and again. But the ship disappeared over the humped sea without acknowledging in any way that they had seen the schooner. The crew of the Effie May Petite were alone again on an endless sea, wrapped in a cauldron of blackest night.
The Effie May Petite was thirteen years old. She was built in the town of Allendale in the county of Shelburne, Nova Scotia, in 1913 and was framed of stout Nova Scotian oak and solid spruce planking. Her first owner was Jeremiah Petite of English Harbour, Trinity Bay, in Newfoundland. Jeremiah named the schooner after two of his family members. The first time Charlie Kean had stepped onto the solid deck of the Effie May Petite he knew her worth. He wasn’t all that pleased with her name. He would have preferred to give the schooner a name of his own choosing, but this old rhyme came to him:
Change my skipper and my helm holds true;
But change my name and rough seas to you.
And though Kean was not a superstitious man, he kept the schooner’s christened name—though he considered that keeping her name hadn’t brought him much good luck on this sailing. Charlie Kean had no way of knowing it, but all of the schooners that had sailed out of St. John’s harbour on Friday evening were not faring as well as his. In fact, the Effie May Petite was one of the lucky ones. Aside from being stripped of her sails—most of which had been recovered and could be repaired—and despite being pounded day and night, the schooner was still in good condition. Virtually all of her deck cargo—which was usually the first to go in a gale—was still intact. Even the schooner’s lifeboat still tied on deck with only a few signs of minor chafing, was uninjured. This fact was as much accredited to the intrepid crew of the Effie May Petite as it was to her stalwart captain.
The gales continued for days. After all that time, even though the Effie May Petite had been beaten away ever eastward, she was now less than eighty miles southeast of the harbour entrance through which she had so eagerly sailed. It was Thursday, December 5. The winds had moderated some, though conditions were still dangerous; after days of gale-force winds, the sea surface was in torment. Great rolling hills of water undulated and flexed their frothy tops before sliding down to grey valleys, only to rise again expectantly.
Kean and his crew had retained the storm trysail and had added a reefed foresail and jib. Despite the schooner’s trial at sea, the little jib gave the vessel a determined, jaunty air as she reached again for the safety of the faraway land. But if the downed needle of the weather glass was any indication, which Kean checked by tapping with an anxious finger every hour, their ordeal was far from over. Then a great ship hove up over the undulating horizon, slid out of sight, and then bulged against the skyline once more. Her plunging bows were pointed toward the Effie May Petite.
* * *
The SS Meigle was just one of the ships that had been ordered to sea by the Newfoundland government to search for the northern schooner fleet. They had spent days searching the ocean for the missing schooners. The Meigle was 220 feet long, fashioned from steel in the Barclay, Culle and Company shipyard at Whiteinch, Glasgow. For the crew of the Effie May Petite, who ran shouting on deck at the unexpected sighting of the ship, she was heaven-sent. The ship, which was more than twice the size of the schooner, looked formidable as it poured black smoke out of her lone stack and bore down on them. It would take only one nudge from the steel ship to sink the schooner as quickly as a leaky dory.
Captain Burgess of the Meigle was well aware of the damage his ship could do to the wooden schooner. He veered to the windward of the smaller vessel. The smoke from her funnel faded as her engines were slowed and she hove to within hailing distance. Keeping the schooner in his lee, Burgess shouted across the rolling seas to Kean.
“Skipper Kean o’ the Effie May Petite?” The question came muffled over the water.
“An’ that I am, sir!” Kean shouted back.
“Are you prepared to abandon your vessel, sir?”
“Aban—aban—’deed I am not, sir!” came the incredulous reply.
“How may I assist you, then?”
“Tow my vessel to the nearest shore, sir! Any shore!”
The captain of the Meigle paused to consider Kean’s request, then said, “Stand by for my stern hawser, sir, and make it fast in your bows! We will give you plenty of scoop! Keep your helm, though, and drop your sails!” Another pause, then, “Good luck to you, Skipper!”
“My t’anks to ’ee, sir! I am in yer debt!”
With this brief discourse between the two captains concluded, a sudden puff of smoke billowed out of the Meigle’s stack
and she made sea room between them. The end of a huge line was paid out over the Meigle’s taffrail and it floated toward the pitching schooner in the ship’s wake. A man waiting on the deck of the Effie May Petite threw a cod jigger when the hawser came near. His first throw was successful and he pulled the towline to the starboard bow of the schooner, where it was hauled aboard by many eager hands and quickly fastened to the schooner’s forward bollard. The ship gained way and plucked the bow of the schooner to heel. The schooner came into the wind and the ship took her weight.
They were not fully under way when a deep, sneaky roller reached up under the bow of the schooner and lifted her bows free of the water. At the same time the lumbering Meigle, hundreds of feet ahead, was falling down over the slope of a similar swell. The cable parted, like a housewife’s sewing thread, with a whip crack plainly heard aboard the schooner. The Effie May Petite was instantly broached to, and just like that she was adrift again. The schooner careened over on her beam ends before she righted herself, so slow was she to answer her helm without sail.
The Meigle’s wake turned white with the thresh of her propeller as she veered around, with black smoke pouring from her stack. Captain Burgess would not give up his charge as easy as that. The ship rounded well astern of the schooner, then slowed and steamed along her windward side again. This time a heavier line was dangling over her stern. A man on the deck of the schooner stood ready with jigger in hand again.
“The jigger line will not take the strain of that line!” yelled Kean. “Get a grab ’old! Quick, afore she passes!”
Another man grabbed a line with a small grapnel attached. He spun the grapnel twice before he released it, and again the towline was hooked on the first try. The crew manhandled the new cable up over the heaving sides of the schooner. The line was bigger than a man’s arm. The schooner’s bows suffered the same whiplike jerk as before when her drift was suddenly checked. She shivered from bow to stern at the indignity. Then, like a lost pup fighting at her leash, she finally settled into the pull for home. It was the first time Charlie Kean had been towed anywhere.
There came no excited shouts of joy as there had been on the first attempt. The crew of the Effie May Petite expected the line to part again at any time. But an hour later, after they had suffered many hard plucks and the line still held, they relaxed and breathed sighs of relief. Their time at sea was almost at an end.
* * *
They had been taken under tow around 9:00 a.m. As the day and the distance to land decreased, the wind increased and it started to snow again. The seas climbed higher. The Meigle slowed to lessen the plucking strain on the schooner. Then at 3:00 p.m. the line parted again and the Meigle disappeared under a scudding blanket of snow. The Effie May Petite went back into the storm, alone again.
Cries of disbelief went up aboard the schooner. The trysail was hurried aloft again in an attempt to gain some control over her rudder. These men would never give up the fight. Then, rising out of the blinding snow squall came the sound of the Meigle’s whistle. The ship was still searching for her charge. Pots were brought on deck and banged together until they were dented. The heads of oil drums were hammered, but in utter dismay the crew of the schooner heard the sound of their would-be rescuer fade away. The wind had risen as the day died and, as if taking what was rightfully its own, the west wind bore the battered vessel and its exhausted handlers away to sea once more.
* * *
On board the Meigle, Burgess cursed the cables that had broken. He was now in a quandary. He was getting dangerously low on fuel—he had been to sea for days searching for the schooners. Looking out the port bridge window he could see another, more dangerous problem. The snow was a drifting screen that even the powerful lights of his ship could not penetrate. The Effie May Petite had no modern means of communication. If she carried a light at all, it would be a dismal one. The captain’s fear was in cutting down the schooner he was so desperately trying to save in the stormy night. He had no choice but to go slow in his efforts to find the schooner. He also knew that, with every minute, the schooner was drifting farther and farther away from him. Certainly the schooner would be blown downwind, but on a night like this one she could be anywhere. He comforted himself with the knowledge that, when he had last seen her, the Effie May Petite had not been in any immediate danger of sinking. After three fruitless hours of searching for the schooner, he changed course and steamed for St. John’s harbour for more fuel.
* * *
They had heard the Meigle’s engine power up. They had listened with ears bent, hoping to hear the noise come closer, and listened further in disbelief and despair when amid the tempest the ship became no more that a soft drone that finally died. The elation everyone felt at being so near to the precious land was now replaced by chagrin at being cast away again to the wiles of a dreadful sea. Kean came forward to the forecastle and tried to allay their fears.
“The Meigle will find us again, b’ys. But you can see ’ow t’ick it is topside. It will take some doin’ fer Burgess to fine us. We’ve set the starm lanterns aloft. In the meantime, we’re doing a’right. We’ve plenty of grub—a bit short of water, I’ll grant ya, but we have survived the worst storms I ’ave ever seen. We’re goin’ to be a’right.”
“I can’t believe the Meigle’s lines broke as dey did, Skipper—the two of ’em! Sure dey mus’ ’ave been fousty!” came from one of the crew.
“Dey should’ve hanked another line to dat last one. Doubled ’em up,” another one said quietly.
“Dere’s only a coupla gallons of fresh water left in the fo’c’sle barrel, Skipper.”
“Ration it out fer drinking an’ not fer tea.”
“’Tis ’ard to swallow grub wit’out the tea, Skipper.”
“Drink the soda pop till ’tis all gone, den,” Kean said. “The boys’re tryin’ to fill a barrel with snow on deck. Though ’twill not be easy wit’ all that spray comin’ over ’er. Fetch some new cloth out of the sail locker. We’ve more patchin’ to do. Use the double naught duck,” he added.
“’Tis hard stuff to sew, Skipper. We can’t find nar file aboard to sharpen the awl with.”
“Do the best ya can, b’ys. ’Tis the tough stuff we need. I intend to tack fer the shore again at firs’ light.”
“Seems like we’ll ’ave a white Christmas, Skipper,” came from a shadowed bunk. The speaker was grinning and it lightened the mood.
“I’ll have every manjack aboard home long before Christmas,” Charlie Kean said, and with that he went back out to the windy deck of his schooner.
True to his word, the determined skipper was beating toward the land even before the first steely light of dawn came. Despite the constant watch changes, the crew were dead tired. These were men who frequently not only lived but thrived on the very cusp of danger, but there was a limit to their legendary strength and they were nearing it now.
* * *
Lydia and Doris had endured their own battle in the small cabin on the after deck. Several times during their first two nights at sea, when he entered the cabin, Kean had heard his daughter crying and the comforting softness of her mother’s voice. But as the terrible days and nights wore on his heart burst with pride to see his young daughter playing on a tossing bunk. Lydia had shared the same water ration as the rest of the crew, and when her daughter tired of the sweet drinks, Lydia gave up her own portion of water for Doris. Kean had seen seasoned seamen become violently ill under the constant pitch and roll of a schooner, but amazingly, neither his wife nor young daughter suffered from seasickness.
Monday came before they had tacked their way close enough to see the high, looming land. Kean figured it might be Cape Race, and he made ready to enter Trepassey Bay. The winds, now gale-force out of the northeast, bore down over the headlands like a winter demon.
The indefatigable Effie May Petite struggled to keep the land, but s
he was slowly losing ground. She made it back to land again and was beating her slow way just a few miles south of Cape Race when another ship showed itself on that windy sea. It was the SS Farnorth. The schooner’s distress flag, although tattered, caught the ship’s attention and the Farnorth veered toward them.
“Would you like a tow, Skipper?” was hailed from the bridge of the Farnorth as she hove to the windward of the Effie May Petite.
Charlie Kean looked briefly at the reams of the Meigle’s hawser, which still dangled uselessly over his starboard bow.
“I don’t think I will, sir! But if you could bide to the win’ard of us, we’ll make fer the lun of Trepassey Bay!”
“Aye to that, Skipper! We will stand to your win’ard side for as long as you need us! Good luck, sir!”
“My t’anks to you, sir!”
And so, with the big steamer cutting down on the northeast wind, the Effie May Petite finally came into the shelter of land under her own tattered sails. In the lee of Freshwater Point, on the southeastern edge of Trepassey Bay, Kean came alongside the Farnorth. Barrels of fresh water were hoisted aboard the schooner, and two of the schooner’s crew who had suffered bruises from their ordeal were transferred aboard the Farnorth. It would take considerable time to repair the schooner’s sails to make them suitable for controlled steering. The wind was still more than half a gale out of the northeast. Skipper Kean and the Farnorth captain discussed their options, and Kean relayed his recent experience under tow and his reluctance to have it repeated. A much heavier cable with nearly twenty fathoms of one-inch chain attached to it was secured between the two vessels.