The Beothuk Expedition
Read The Beothuk Expedition Online
Authors: Derek Yetman
Tags: #Fiction, #FIC014000, #Historical, #FIC019000
The Beothuk Expedition
DEREK YETMAN
The
Beothuk
EXPEDITION
Copyright © 2011 Derek Yetman
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Yetman, Derek, 1955-
The Beothuk expedition / Derek Yetman.
ISBN 978-1-55081-360-9
1. Cartwright, George, 1739-1819 â Fiction.
2. Beothuk Indians â Fiction. I. Title.
PS8597.E78B46 2011Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â C813'.54Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â C2011-906012-4
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for Brenda
Contents
The first faint aura of dawn seeped through the open ports, purple light giving shape and substance to the silent men around me. They were as I had imagined them in darkness, kneeling or crouching by the great guns, eyes straining for the first glimpse of their target in the foggy gloom. The cry of a gull and the creak of our timbers were the only sounds to disturb the awakening world. By slow degrees the shoreline emerged and the gun captains shifted their aim with a muffled clank of iron bars and the low rumble of wooden wheels.
Silence again as the shore grew distinct. I judged the moment with care and allowed another minute to pass. Then, at my nod, the gunner bellowed his command. His last word was neatly amputated by the deafening thunder of our quarter broadside. Teeth and eyeballs rattled in our skulls as the six great guns belched tongues of flame and shrieking metal. Behind it the din of shouting sailors and panicked livestock filled the air. Above it all, I heard the gunner cry: “Crows up, four!” Men and boys jumped to their tools, bare backs straining as number four gun, its barrel akimbo, was levered and cursed back onto its carriage.
“Swab and load!” roared the gunner. Smoke from the barrage drifted inboard, searing eyes and throats and obscuring my view of our target. A gap in the haze revealed it for an instantâ long enough for me to damn the sight of it: Every one of our eighteen-pound balls had gone wide or high, smashing into the wall of rock and causing a small avalanche of shale. I turned my attention inboard in time to see a terrified pig collide with the legs of a man carrying shot. Down he went, iron balls rumbling away and the squealing pig running harum scarum along the gundeck. A ship's boy abandoned his post and gave chase, narrowly dodging a vicious swipe from the marine guard. Boy and pig disappeared into the smoke and clamour as the guns, reloaded and primed, were run out for a second salvo. At my signal they bucked like iron horses, men clinging to the side tackles to check their recoil. The concussion entered my ears like a sailmaker's needle and through the billowing smoke I saw another half-dozen showers of rock fall from the face of the cliff.
A murmuring hush crept over the fifty-odd men as I gazed at the unmolested barrels that had been the object of our gunnery. I was not completely deaf, for I could still hear the pig, along with the hoots and jeers from the weather deck above us. I turned and not a man would meet my eye. The stench of powder, sweat and animal shit filled the airless space.
“House your guns, Mister Bolger,” I sighed, loud enough for all to hear. “No doubt the enemy has injured himself with laughter.” Sheepish grins and averted eyes were the only reply. “Powder to the magazine and see to number four straight away.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The gunner touched his forehead with a dirty finger.
“And have the pigs and goats returned to the manger,” I added.
The men cleared a path to the ladders and a moment later I emerged onto the upper deck and into daylight. I turned from the reproachful sight of the empty barrels on Southside Beach, reflecting that six years of peace had brought a new breed of sailor into the Navyâone who was slow to learn on what his survival depended. A pair of midshipmen walked past me, stifling grins as they made their way astern. On the quarterdeck, Mr. Tench, the second lieutenant, was gazing at the beach in smug amusement. I filled my pipe and moved to the larboard rail.
St. John's had changed but little since my last visit. A familiar eye could see that old Fort William had been strengthened and a new battery laid at Crow's Nest, though it was still the acres of drying fish that marked this outpost of empire. Wooden flakes ringed the harbour and blanketed the hills, their expanse broken here and there by a chimney or a roof. Such was the demand for space to dry fish that even the houses and roads were canopied with rough platforms, all laden with the salted wealth of the sea.
The harbour was now fully awake thanks to our antics, with schooners and brigs raising sail or signal or pumping their bilges. There was activity at every turn, for the ships were anchored only as long as it took to unload their catch or to stow the cured fish for a voyage to Portugal or the Indies. Gigs and dories moved among them, ferrying the men and supplies on which the fleet depended. My gaze moved along the hills and beyond the patchwork of flakes, to where tall stands of pine and spruce marked the edge of the island's great wilderness.
That dark and unexplored forest was the subject of much speculation amongst the men of my ship. Few of them had seen anything wilder than the park of an English manor, and tall tales and superstitions abounded on the lower decks, much to the amusement of the older hands. The Newfoundland woods were vast and unknown, to be sure, but as a boy I'd wandered freely there and seen nothing of the fairies or fearsome creatures conjured by simple minds. I smiled at the thought, unaware that the forest held things more terrible than even a sailor could imagine.