The Gale of 1929 Page 7

  Strange thing about dreams, Thomas thought, eyeing the empty sea behind the Baltic’s thrashing stern. Some you remember, most you don’t. The vivid dream he had had that night before leaving the comfort of St. John’s harbour was still clear in his mind: the terrible gale, the days at sea, the near-wreck of his schooner. He didn’t remember a big ship in his dream. Dreams still couldn’t be believed in, he thought. In his dream he had seen one of his crew members drowned. But he had not seen the face.

  * * *

  For the crew of the Northern Light, the RMS Baltic was like a wonderland. The ship, though old, was still luxurious. The rescuers radioed a message to St. John’s informing officials the crew of the Northern Light were safely aboard and on their way to New York. The men were given cabins, where they slept under sweet-smelling blankets. They were served food, as much as they wanted. The passengers gave surplus clothing to fit the destitute seamen. The men from Newfoundland humbly accepted the Baltic’s hospitality. Until now they had had nothing but the clothes they stood in. All of their pockets were empty.

  Surprisingly, when the ship docked in New York, many of the men from Bonavista Bay were met by relatives. The New York newspapers had told the Yanks of their rescue. Thomas was met by his brother, who lived in that city. They travelled east aboard the Baltic again after a stay of four days in the city, this time to the Canadian port of Halifax. Here the crew of the Northern Light bade an emotional farewell to the men who had dragged them out of the sea. Arrangements were made in Halifax for passage for all five men aboard the SS Silvia.

  They arrived back in St. John’s harbour on December 19. The trip that had started on November 29 with only a few hours of sailing ahead of her had taken a gruelling twenty-one days. The last days of the old Northern Light had changed the lives of all who had sailed aboard her.

  3 Gander Deal

  Richard Squires was the prime minister of Newfoundland from 1919 until 1923. His party was called the Liberal Reform Party. One of his best friends and political allies was William Ford Coaker, who was also one of Squires’s cabinet ministers, and he—Coaker—carried the voice of the Newfoundland fishermen. He had formed a Fishermen’s Protective Union—the FPU—to aid the hard-working fishermen in their dealings against money-gouging merchants. Prior to Coaker’s union, fishermen were forced to live by the “truck trade.”

  When their salt- and sun-cured catch of cod was taken to market in the autumn of each year, they never received one penny for their produce. Instead they were given only staple foods and necessary tools—nets, twine, sailcloth, cordage, and always salt—in exchange for their entire summer’s work. The prices paid for the goods were of course set by the merchant. Ironically, so was the price paid for the fish. The provisions and supply prices were always inflated and the price set for the catch never seemed to catch up. It was a cruel, near-indentured system. Fishermen for the most part were simply allowed a bartered advance against next year’s catch of cod.

  Coaker and his union tried to change the entire system of the fishing industry. Not only did he have to battle the business people in his endeavours, but also some of the fishermen who were not sure of his ideas. Many of them were afraid to burn any bridges that linked them to the all-powerful merchants.

  It wasn’t only fishermen Coaker’s union was concerned about. He was also involved in the plight of the island’s loggers. The interior of the island was rich in softwoods, wood for houses, wood for shipbuilding, wood for pulp and paper. The Exploits, Newfoundland’s largest river, had already been harnessed to provide hydroelectric power for one pulp and paper company. The Anglo-Newfoundland Development Company, commonly referred to as the A.N.D. Company, had begun shipping newsprint since 1909.

  A company from England was interested in building another paper mill on the island’s west coast. World War I got in the way of their plans, but by the early 1920s they were ready. Bowaters changed the flow of Grand Lake, which is Newfoundland’s largest lake. They diverted its might into a brand new fore bay water channel at Deer Lake, produced electrical power, and sent it burning along brand new hydro lines to their mill. The power generated by the waters of the upper Humber reached the new pulp mill at the mouth of the Humber in Corner Brook long before the water did.

  Richard Squires used the development as a political platform in 1923. He boldly stated that he had “put the hum on the Humber.” The project was more often referred to as the “Humber Deal.”

  The government had other plans to harvest the island’s vast forest resources in different areas. Talks were under way which would involve yet another of the island’s major rivers in a timber agreement—the Gander River. It was called the “Gander Deal.”

  The founder of the FPU, William Coaker, was of course not only knowledgeable in these dealings, but as cabinet minister played a vital role in them. In 1922-23 the branch of the FPU known as the Union Shipbuilding Company built in its shipyard at Port Union, Trinity Bay, two schooners. And so it was, two vessels designed for fishing were launched hailing the names of logging ventures. One was named the Humber Deal. The other was christened the Gander Deal.

  The Barbours of Newtown bought them both. At first they gave some consideration to changing the names. After all, they were fishermen and knew little about the logging industry. They were strange names for fishing vessels, they thought, even given the reason for the names. Still, changing the name of a vessel after she had been launched was considered bad luck. Their names would remain.

  Manuel Barbour was master of the Gander Deal. She was built of Newfoundland winter-harvested timber in Trinity Bay. The island’s best and most plentiful hardwood, white birch, made up her framing. Thick planks of black spruce and juniper, the sturdiest of softwoods, comprised the decking and cabin construction. Her two masts were pine, also selected from the hills of Trinity Bay.

  The Gander Deal displaced sixty-eight tons of gross weight. She measured seventy-one feet from stem to stern and at her widest point was twenty-two feet. With her two masts fitted with fore and aft sails, the gaff-rigged schooner was ready to take her share of codfish from the waters of Labrador.

  Nineteen twenty-nine had been a good year for the crew of the Gander Deal. She had sailed into Newtown early that fall with her belly filled with Labrador fish. Now the process of making the fish began. With the schooner tied securely to the wharf, the fish was winched out of her hold with squeaking windlass. The codfish, which had been buried in salt—most of it for months—was thrown into waiting puncheons filled with sea water. Next, each fish was washed with a cloth in an effort to scrub away the salt residue as well as any remaining traces of blood from its flesh. Squeaky-wheeled wooden barrows and two-man hand carts carried the dripping fish all over the Barbour rooms to waiting flakes.

  Now the drying process began. Strong southwest autumn winds blowing out of the wooded bays gave the best days for drying. Women and men and even children shared in the work, spreading the fish in a heads-and-tails pattern on the flakes. A careful weather eye had to be kept as well, especially for the first couple of days. A hard scud of rain could spoil the fish before it had a chance to be cured by sun and wind. If rain threatened, the fish had to be carried into stages and sheds until the skies cleared. Fish farthest away was sometimes yaffled, or neatly stowed together on the flakes, and covered with ship canvas. This method had to be implemented quickly and done right. Fish thrown together in a lumpy pile would not do. It had to be stowed in such a manner as to allow it to breathe. It looked simple enough, but it took considerable skill to do it right.

  October month had been a good month for drying, with only a few days when everyone had to scravel the fish under cover. However, November came with a change in weather.

  “Dere’s nar day in dis mont’ to be trusted, b’ys,” said Manuel Barbour. “Still, we’re only needin’ another day er so fer the fish to flour and ’twill be made.”

  Properly
cured codfish would “flour” or take on a white, flourlike hue as the salt surfaced from the flesh. An expert yaffler could also tell when it was floured by the sound the fish made when he threw it together. This was always done at waist height. If the fish made a dry, slapping, almost clicking sound when it landed, it was just about done.

  * * *

  The Gander Deal left Barbour’s Tickle in Newtown for the trip to St. John’s in mid-November. The salty wet fish that had come out of her hold had been returned sun-dried and ready for market. The schooner rode higher now; the cured fish winched aboard was much lighter than when it had been winched out. Their run south with all sails drawing had been uneventful. Skipper Manuel didn’t have to wait long to get off-loaded. The Barbours did a flourishing business with many merchants in the old city. Already tied to the same pier was another Barbour schooner, the Neptune II captained by Job Barbour. They seldom waited in line. The weather was good for a day or so and the unloading of the cod went well. The Gander Deal took on supplies that would see many families through the coming winter. Then heavy northeast winds set in, bringing the taste of winter. For days the sailing vessels, all ready for home, couldn’t leave. The Barbours had to wait like everyone else.

  Manuel Barbour decided to leave for home in the late evening of November 29. The Battery lighthouse had obtained a favourable forecast for the rest of the evening and night and the Cape Spear light confirmed it. Manuel had talked with his cousin Job Barbour after seeing two schooners leave the harbour. They both agreed to try for Catalina on the north side of Trinity Bay. The Gander Deal was much smaller than the Neptune II and got under way long before a tug arrived to tow the larger schooner out of the harbour.

  Outside the narrow entrance to St. John’s and with her sails taking the wind, the Gander Deal swung north to home. The lights of the city suddenly vanished from astern, the huge cliffs enclosing and hiding the comfort within. Now only a thin light came from the lanterns swinging from the tilting masts of the small schooner.

  Once, the crew on deck saw a light rise and fall ahead of them, then another one much farther north of their position winked and went out. The knowledge that others of their kind were afloat on this night gave them some comfort in the darkness.

  The schooner fared well along the coast. On this black night Manuel kept his vessel just off the land as far as Cape St. Francis with a freshening wind from the west.

  Leaving Cape St. Francis astern, Barbour took a direct course and steered farther west on a port tack to cross the bay at its narrowest point. The wind had increased, but they crossed Conception Bay and presently came under the lee of the land again. Manuel reasoned that if they could cross Trinity Bay as well as they had just made Conception Bay, they would be safely ashore in Catalina shortly before midnight. He also knew that when they had rounded Baccalieu Island there would be no turning back.

  Barbour stood at the helm. The wind came in strong gusts from the high, dark land rushing past their port side. The wind felt colder as he scanned the sky. He thought it might have veered farther north, or maybe it was just the effects of the headland they were passing. Weather patterns here could be very deceiving. Garfield Boland appeared at his side.

  “The glass is dropping fast, skipper. A blow, I ’lows.” Boland was a shareman aboard the schooner. He had sailed for the Labrador with Barbour in the early summer. At twenty years of age he was already a tough, well-seasoned sailor. Barbour respected Boland’s opinion.

  “Could be, Gar, b’y. Dis is not a good coast fer makin’ night port, though. ’Tis Catalina I’m hopin’ fer. We’ll have Green Island light to guide us in harbour there. ’Ow much did the glass drop?”

  “A few points fer sure. Look, Skipper, dere’s a light ahead of us! Dere it is again. I almos’ believes ’tis two lights. The udder scunners that left ahead of us, wit’out a doubt.” Like all seamen would be at a time like this, Boland was excited at the prospect of company headed in the same direction.

  Manuel followed Boland’s outstretched arm and stared ahead. Boland was right. He waited. The light rose above the tumbled horizon again and just as quickly slid out of sight. Barbour still stared ahead, waiting. Then he saw what he was waiting for. Two lights appeared at the same time, both well ahead of his schooner. Past the Baccalieu lighthouse light, for sure. They were also far apart from each other. He thought they stood farther to sea than they should be on a night like this.

  “Right you are, Gar, ’tis the vessels that left St. John’s ahead of us. Dere past Baccalieu and beatin’ into Trinity Bay. We’re going on.”

  Boland knew his captain would go on. The lights ahead made the decision easier for him. He would not be outdone by anyone.

  Captain Barbour had sailed north along these same shores many times before, day and night. In good weather he sometimes went through the tickle between Baccalieu Island and the mainland, but tonight he would not take the chance. He swung away from the land and headed outside the island. The schooner cleared the island of Baccalieu well enough and had put the Baccalieu north light astern when Barbour knew he had made a mistake.

  The temperature dropped by several degrees and it started to snow. He altered the course to round Grates Cove Point, the south cape of Trinity Bay. Just before they reached the point, he knew the wind had changed. Northwest, he was almost sure. He could feel the hard flaws slapping at the sails. It was a warning too late to heed.

  Barbour figured he would try and cross Trinity Bay as he had done Conception Bay—at its narrowest point. He decided to try for the area around Ireland’s Eye, or even the lee of Random Island.

  He would not get the chance.

  The wind roared out of Trinity Bay as if spat from a gigantic funnel. It hit the Gander Deal broadside like a series of one-two punches that kept on coming. Her port bow reeled with the blow and she heeled to starboard like she was trying to dodge the onslaught.

  The sudden blast of cold wind caught the master of the schooner off guard and his yell to shorten sail died on his lips. He fought the wheel with all his might, trying to bring the schooner into the wind. Feeling the rudder give a little, for a moment he thought he might succeed. He heaved against the wheel again and it turned several spokes before it took the strain.

  My God, he thought, there’s something wrong with the rudder.

  The hurricane slammed into the schooner again till she turned away like a pony before an autumn wind. Barbour heard the sound of tearing sail overhead, followed by a great renting of cloth, a mad flapping of torn sails, the whipping sound of flayed ropes. An anguished shout escaped his own throat.

  “Fetch me a rope, Lou! I got to lash the wheel. I can’t ’old ’er. Oh my God, the sails’re tearin’ away from the spars!”

  The loosened sails were like a thing possessed, howling and lashing at their fetters. On that darkened, swaying deck with the hard-flung snow piercing their eyes, they couldn’t see how much cloth was left on the schooner.

  Lewis Burry, first mate, fought the dreadful roll of the schooner but managed to reach Barbour with a length of rope. He shouted over the wind, “I ’lows we’re on bare poles, Skipper.”

  Manuel only glanced aloft, saying nothing. For the time being he knew they were helpless. The two men, drenched to the bone, lashed the wheel secure. Water found its way inside the collars of their oilskins and trickled its icy way downward. The deck was awash, the sea a tormented roil of water.

  The two entered the forecastle door, then the wind had its way with them the rest of that terrible night. It taunted and pushed the waves, increasing their might with its fetch, bearing the Gander Deal swiftly away from the precious land. And on her after deck there was no one standing before the mast.

  * * *

  The long night spent in the cramped, heaving cabin was not pleasant. The mate’s fifteen-year-old son, Herbert Burry, was sick and confined to a narrow, damp bunk. His fathe
r wasn’t sure if it was all seasickness or not; it wasn’t the boy’s first time on the sea. By the age of fifteen, almost all boys around Pinchard’s Island were well used to the ocean that surrounded them. However, it was Herbert’s first time in a confined space in such conditions. Lewis knew it would try the most seasoned sailor.

  Manuel Barbour spent a sleepless night below the troubled deck of his vessel. Knowing he was powerless to guide her through the hurricane only increased his fears. He climbed the steps to the narrow opening next morning and peered out as dawn was trying to escape the clutch of night.

  Water surged and sucked along the deck and flushed over the coamings, and before he had a chance to shut the door it splashed down over the steps to the floor below. Someone shouted a curse. Barbour stood higher on the steps, his shoulders bent. He wouldn’t take the chance in sliding back the overhead section of the door.

  The deck of the Gander Deal was a mess. Ropes were twisted like felled tree branches, their frayed ends floating. The overpowering waves carried the spindrift over the bulwarks in white sheens. Only tattered remains of sail remained aloft. They beat a steady rhythm like an excited drummer trying to keep time on his snare.

  The stern of the schooner lifted, her taffrail at times etching the pale morning sky as she rose and fell in that terrible wasteland of wind and water. A huge wave foamed toward him and Barbour slammed the door shut. Water poured through the door joints and flushed down over the steps. He had confirmed what the crew already suspected. They were under bare poles, all right. He had noted something else, too, just before he had closed the door, and he wasn’t looking forward to telling his men.

  “The motorboat’s gone, b’ys. Seems like she broke from ’er lashin’ and got stove in be the mast. Only the kadie still screwed to ’er beddin’ left on deck. We might save the motor.”