Left to Die Page 22

  Even without anchor or lines, she was wedged firmly in the ice. Her modern generators proved fruitless to penetrate the storm when they powered up the ship’s big-gimballed night lights. They appeared to twinkle as the curtains of snow swept past, and the Stephano’s green starboard and red port lights could not be seen at all.

  Suddenly a noise blared through the storm like a foghorn coming from a lighthouse hidden in mist. It was the ship’s steam whistle sounding its call against the Arctic might. Unfortunately, it was miles to the lee of the men who were caught out on the ice.

  William J. Martin from St. John’s was a master mariner and the chief navigator on board the Stephano. Everyone called him Bill, except Abram Kean, who called him William. He kept a detailed log of the ship:

  Tuesday March 31st, A.D. 1914—11:20 A.M., Newfoundland’s crew walked on board, had ‘mug up’ and went on ice again about 11:50 A.M. Noon, wind increasing from S.E. with light snow. Barometer 29.50 and falling. 3:30 P.M., wind increasing to storm with blinding snow; ships horn kept going. 4:00 P.M. wind E. S.E. with heavy snow, blizzard and turning very cold.

  When the Stephano headed away from the Newfoundland’s sealers at full steam, Bill Martin grew anxious about their safety. As the day wore on and the weather worsened, he became more concerned. They picked up their own men from the ice early, as well as sealers from the Florizel, who were hunting in the same area. The Stephano and the Florizel were in contact by wireless, so they arranged a meeting and the Stephano’s men returned to their own ship.

  Most of the Stephano’s sealers who walked back to their ship didn’t see her until they were almost on top of her. Using compasses, they followed flags they had set in the ice earlier in the day and were drawn by the Stephano’s whistle, which sounded every five minutes. They had done well, hunting and killing seals all day, even though the area of their day’s hunt was among some slack and very dangerous ice. The pans were small and loose.

  One of the sealers who had walked aboard was Ambrose Conway from St. Bride’s. Conway had fallen through several times and was soaked to the bone. He was standing on deck, shivering, when Abram Kean appeared. Kean was wearing his greatcoat, which was covered in snow from the brief walk from the bridge. Kean directed his attention to his ice master, James Morgan, and asked him how they had fared with the killing. Morgan gave him his report and Kean walked away without comment while the sealers went below. Everyone was aboard and accounted for.

  Below deck the sealers removed their heavy canvas jackets and jumpers and hung them to dry. Steam rose from their clothing as the heat of the ship met the cold, wet garments. After hanging his clothes to dry, Ambrose hurried to the same place at the table where he had been sitting for days. He was a neat man and always cleaned his mug and turned it bottom up after finishing a meal. Now, though, his cup was upright, its rim was stained with tea, and the bottom of it was filled with soggy tea leaves.

  “Who the ’ell was using me mug?” he asked, looking around.

  No one knew or cared. One of the crew members who had been on board all day said, “Maybe it was one of the Newfoundland men who used yer mug.”

  “Newfoundland men? What are you talkin’ ’bout?” Conway asked.

  “The sealers from the Newfoundland, b’y, they was all aboard ’ere this marnin’, ’cept fer her skipper an’ firemen. Walked across from their vessel, they did. Must’ve been seven miles from the sout’east, I ’low. I couldn’t see the Newfoundland fer snow when they come on board.”

  “What was they here fer?”

  “How the ’ell would I know?”

  “Where’s ’em to now?” Conway looked all around, as if expecting to see the Newfoundland sealers aboard.

  “Dey’re gone, b’y. The skipper ordered ’em back on the ice quick as you please. Time the last ones was below, the first ones was leavin’ again. Hot tea fer some, col’ fer more, and none fer most. They stuffed their pockets wit’ hard bread and climbed over the side again.”

  “What time was the men from the Newfoundland put overboard?” asked Samuel Horwood, who was seated nearby. Horwood was a Stephano sealer from Carbonear. He had been picked up by the Florizel at 1:00 p.m. and had walked aboard the Stephano at four o’clock that evening. Horwood had been a seal hunter since 1879. This spring was his fourth one with Abe Kean. He was a hard, no-nonsense kind of man who spoke his mind.

  “Jest before noon,” answered the crewman.

  “’Twas snowin’ by then, fer God’s sake! Seven miles from their ship, did you say? Sout’east? They’ll never make it. The roughest of ice is off to the sout’east. Why didn’t the skipper keep ’em aboard fer the night?”

  “Why’re ye askin’ me fer?” replied the indignant crewman, as if he needed to defend himself. “I don’t know, b’y. Dey come aboard an’ ’ad a mug-up in jig time. The secon’ ’and bawled out fer ’em to get over the side an’ they went, that’s all I knows about it.”

  “I don’t like it, b’ys,” said Horwood.

  There came a murmur of concern from the other sealers gathered at the table. Anxious voices were heard all around. Some of them were angry: to think the Newfoundland’s crew had been ordered off the ship with heavy weather coming!

  “Nor do I,” said Mark Sheppard, who was from St. John’s. He had been sealing for three years previous and this was his first time aboard the Stephano. “’Twas between twelve and one when we left to come back to the Stephano. We couldn’t see ’er then. We could see along the line of flags, but not all the way. We come back mostly be the ship’s whistle. Our master watch, Abram Best, was along o’ the nar’west from us and didn’t come back wit’ us. We come back with our ice master, James Morgan.” He was concerned for the crew of the Newfoundland. “Someone should speak to the ol’ man about it.”

  “Dere’s a good many men aboard o’ this one who ent got the guts to confront the ol’ man,” said one man.

  “I’m not one of dem,” said Horwood. “I’ll go and speak to him about the Newfoundland’s men.”

  He rose from the table, climbed the companionway, and walked forward toward the bridge. The snow slammed against him as he walked and the wind howled through the rigging. He tried to face into the wind but the snow blinded him, so he hurried forward with his head down and entered the forward saloon. Crossing it to the stairs leading to the bridge, he met Samuel Kean. Samuel was Abram Kean’s brother; he had worked as wheelsman all day. Talking to Samuel was as good as talking to the captain himself, even if Horwood was a stranger to him. The sealers all called him Uncle Sam. The two men introduced themselves and talked about the weather for a minute. Then Horwood asked Kean straight out if he thought the sealers from the Newfoundland were still out on the ice.

  “If they stopped to kill seals, I’m afraid they did not get aboard,” answered Uncle Sam.

  “To my mind, if they stopped to kill seals or no, dey did not get aboard the Newfoundland,” said Horwood. “Dere’s a rumour ’board ship dat the glass is gone bottom up, which means the wind will come ’round from the nar’west and freeze like guns. Dat being the case, the men o’ the Newfoundland will perish on the ice, sir.”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Samuel Kean.

  “You can depend on it, Uncle Sam. ’Tis goin’ to be a bad job. These men will perish on the ice!”

  The two men wished each other a good night’s rest and departed the saloon. Uncle Sam headed toward the bridge to find the captain, while Horwood went below to join the rest of the sealers.

  When Uncle Sam walked on the bridge, Garland Gaulton was addressing Abram Kean about the Newfoundland men. Gaulton was one of the master watches of the Stephano who knew the Keans well. He was from Brookfield, Bonavista Bay, and had many friends as well as relatives among the Newfoundland sealers. Gaulton asked Abe Kean if he thought the crew of the Newfoundland had gotten aboard their ship all right.

 
; “Yes, most decided!” Kean growled in a dismissive tone.

  Gaulton walked away. While leaving the bridge, he heard the captain say to someone near him, “Keep the whistle sounding in case the Newfoundland’s crew are travelling towards us.”

  Outside the fortress of steel, the polar winds had tired of toying with the warm gusts daring into its realm. Now the north wind pushed it aside altogether and ripped around the Stephano, screaming through its rigging and yawing over the ship’s superstructure. Finding no entry, it bore away, seeking easier prey. Cavorting over the frozen plain, the wind spiralled and swirled and rejoiced when it found what it was looking for. Triumphant, it moved down to intercept the defenceless ice hunters who were stripped of all shelter.

  * * * * *

  A bitter cold came with the changing wind baffling out of the north. The fleeting spring-like warmth was over, and those who had not heeded the warnings, those who had discarded articles of warm clothing were paying a terrible price. The men’s necks, exposed with no coat collars to protect them, were burning with the frost. They turned up their shirt collars and drew their heads down between their shoulders, hoping to find some relief.

  Around the shuffling feet of those men who were able to walk lay the forms of others who were too weak from hypothermia and exhaustion to walk, too filled with despair. The falling snow was slowly burying them. One of the sealers stopped and lashed out with his foot, unceremoniously kicking first one and then another of the downed men.

  “Get on yer feet, fer God’s sake!” Jesse Collins roared at the top of his lungs. “What are yous l’id down fer? Nappy time fer ’e, is it? Nish as a bloody fish merchant, the lot of ‘e!”

  The men he had kicked were slowly getting up. Collins bent down and grabbed at them, hauling them to their feet.

  “Come on, b’ys, ’aul ’em up. Get ’em on der gams! We’re all ice hunters, by God. We stands our ground! We don’t lie down on it like mucked dogs!” Jesse continued shouting while others helped them to their feet. “Tramp now, b’ys! Tramp ’round the harbour wit’ us dis fine snowy night! Tramp yer feet and flise yer arms as we go! Rally on, b’ys, rally on!”

  Slowly, Collins revived the sealers’ spirits and got them going. Off they went, chasing Collins, flising and tramping “’round the harbour.”

  Flising was the tried-and-true method used by everyone from loggers to fishermen all around outport Newfoundland for keeping warm. A simple action, it involved flinging both arms as wide as they could go, then wrapping them in a quick, violent motion around the upper body as hard as possible. The harder the arms were slapped against the rib cage, the more heat they generated. Now the sealers looked like a troupe of mummers seeking Christmas merriment. They shouted and yelled and flised as they walked around the perimeter of the huge ice pan.

  But behind them, one of the forms lying prone on the ice had not risen to the call. Thomas Jordon from Pouch Cove was so cold he was shaking uncontrollably. He had never been so cold in his life. Jordon was among the sealers who had removed his coat and left it behind earlier that morning. He had fallen through shortly after leaving the Newfoundland and had gotten soaked to his waist, as had many others. Jordon figured he would get a chance to dry up when he boarded the Stephano and maybe even spend the night aboard the modern ship. He was one of the first men to board her and had even gotten a cup of hot tea. He had only started to remove his wet clothing when he was ordered back up and over the side before he even got a chance to finish his tea.

  He was wearing hand-knitted underwear. Sodden as it was, at first it chafed his inner thighs. Then the temperature dropped, the wool froze solid, and with every step he took it burned his skin. When the second hand called a halt for the night and ordered the sealers to group in their various watches to avoid overcrowding the pans, Jordon had stayed with his own group. He didn’t know if it was his watch, nor did he give a damn. He just wanted to stop and rest. Then he started shivering and his teeth began to chatter beyond his control. The shivers always started in his upper mid-spine and sent spasms all over his body. He slapped his hands together until the tips of his fingers stung with the pain of it, and when it pained so hard he couldn’t take it anymore, he stopped.

  Jordon wished he hadn’t left his coat behind. He had flung aside his heavy flagpole after the first two hours of walking and kept the flag. It was now wrapped around his neck like a rough scarf. The rough fabric was frozen solid, but it kept some of the biting wind and snow from his throat. His knees began twitching and shaking with the cold. He pressed his upper arms against his chest and bent his head between them, forcing his breath inside his shirt collar. It felt warm and comforting for a moment, and he decided he would lie down and curl up in the snow. His fingers were numb inside his wet cuffs. Both his hands were clenched into fists, his thumbs pulled out of the knitted thumb holes and held tightly between his fingers. Surprisingly, his uncovered ears didn’t feel cold. There was no feeling in them at all.

  A sudden urge to urinate came over him. He squeezed his thighs together, fighting the need, trying to hold his water back. Shaking all over, Jordon got up and turned his back to the wind as he removed his right cuff. He bent forward and fumbled with the buttons of his fly, his fingers burning with the sudden bite of the wind. Again and again he tried to force his fingers to grip the smooth buttons, but they would not answer. Jordon was shocked that his fingers were too scrammed with the cold to work. His need to pass water was becoming painful. He squirmed and twisted his legs. Finally, he pulled his left hand free of the other cuff to aid with the buttons. Bent double and shaking like a man with palsy, and with the merciless snow pelting his exposed neck, Jordon felt the first dribble of urine against his left thigh. It felt warm and soothing. Frantic, he tried to release the buttons, but it was too late. He urinated and couldn’t stop. The water ran down his leg, radiating heat wherever it went. Jordon gave up trying to stem the flow and let his bladder void itself. Tears filled his eyes. He could not remember wetting his pants in his lifetime and he was embarrassed. What was happening to him?

  The bouts of shivering came again, worse than before. He was so tired and so cold, he had to lie down and rest. Staggering forward, he fell to his knees. His right foot had no feeling at all and would not support his weight, nor would it move when he willed it to. It didn’t even feel like a part of his body anymore. He stared all around, dumbfounded. It took a while to realize his foot was frozen. Another bout of shivering enveloped his body so violently his stomach convulsed and he vomited in great heaves. When it passed, he felt a little better. Letting himself fall gently down on the bitter snow, Thomas Jordon curled into the fetal position from which his life had begun and, thus comforted, his life blissfully ended.

  Richard McCarthy of Carbonear found Jordon’s body among the drifting snow at 10:00 p.m. Richard stared at the form in disbelief. Bending down, he touched Jordon to see if he was still alive. Jordon’s face was icy cold and had partly drifted over with snow and there was no movement from the man at all. Snow was drifting inside the man’s mouth. McCarthy wondered why he wasn’t crying. Why, when he felt such a God-awful loss deep in his gut, did no tears come to his eyes? Richard knew Thomas Jordon had a brother, Stephen, who had left the Newfoundland with the others. McCarthy had not seen him since. He wondered if he had died, too.

  McCarthy tried to close Jordon’s mouth, but it was frozen solid. He hauled Jordon’s cap down until it covered the man’s face. McCarthy walked to a nearby pan where George Tuff was with a group of thirty or so men. Tuff was walking and stamping his feet. With every step he took he was slapping his hands together and McCarthy heard him say, “’Tis ol’ man Kean’s fault. ’Tis ol’ man Kean’s fault.” With very word Tuff uttered, he slapped his hands harder. Tuff yelled to the sealers who were lying down to get on their feet, to keep moving at all cost. It was the only way they were going to survive.

  Some of them did as he ordered
and staggered on. Some tried and were too frozen to move. Some did not move at all. And the long night had only begun.

  19

  Stephen Jordon sat aboard the Newfoundland drinking a cup of tea. He had gone on the ice just as eagerly as the others early that morning. He was one of the men who had seen the two sun hounds, one on either side of the rising sun. To Stephen they looked like miniature suns with a hazy yellow cast. He knew they meant bad weather was not far off, probably from the southeast. Stephen was walking with his chum, William Evans, and by 10:00 a.m. he figured they had covered five or more miles toward the Stephano. To Stephen the ship still looked far away. Looking back at the Newfoundland, he was surprised he could barely see her through the falling snow.

  Maybe we should all turn back, he thought.

  As if reading his mind his friend, William said, “Let’s go back to our own ship, eh, Steve?”

  Before Stephen could answer, he heard Tobias Cooper from Bonavista say he was going back to the Newfoundland. The men standing around argued about it for a few minutes. In the end, most of them went on toward the Stephano, but Stephen and his friend Evans turned back and headed for their own ship with Tobe Cooper in the lead. Stephen heard the men behind them calling them sissies, and one even called them cowards, but they paid no heed and walked on toward the Newfoundland. It took four hours to follow their own trail back to the ship. Somewhere on that long walk back, Stephen Jordon found a coat by the path. He was sure it belonged to his brother, Tom. He wondered if he should take it with him or leave it behind. If his brother returned with the others that evening, they would have to follow this same path, so Stephen left the coat on the ice and walked on.

  He endured the dressing-down from Wes Kean as they approached their ship and replied, “I could see nutting ahead of us but death, sir.” By now visibility was less than a few hundred feet and Cooper pointed out this fact to their irate captain, but Kean raged on. Stephen walked aboard and entered the after hold, where he stayed until that evening. He went on deck to have a look at the weather before dark. The sky was filled with biting snow and he couldn’t see the bow of the Newfoundland when the flaws came. The blizzard the two sun hounds had promised was here.