The Beothuk Expedition (10 page)

Jonah Squibb

The morning after our arrival at Fogo I received a visit from Reverend Stow. He surprised me, in fact, by leaving the comfort of the agent's house and seeking me out on board the
Dove
. I was equally amazed to see that he was not wearing his wig. I do not wish to sound cruel but the stubble of his scalp reminded me very much of the prickly hide of an animal. The fancy was apparently shared by Frost, who crowed a verse as the chaplain approached in a hired skiff: “
As I went to Bonner, I met a pig without a wig, upon my word of honour!
”

To what we owed this particular honour was unclear until he came alongside and announced that he would value my company on a ramble over the nearby hills. I had no objection, having come to friendly terms with the chaplain through our common interest in Dr. Johnson's wit, but I explained that Lieutenant Cartwright's orders prevented me from going so far. He suggested instead that we stroll the path around the harbour, to which I agreed.

The harbour at Fogo was little different from hundreds of others along the coast, except there was a higher proportion of families than single fishing servants. Flakes dominated the shoreline, with scattered stages and tilts, and as we made our way among them the smells of salted fish and wood smoke permeated all. Men and women worked side-by-side, the men cleaning and splitting the morning's catch while the women attended to the salting and drying. Children cut the livers, carried water or salt and otherwise helped where they were needed. All worked steadily and without pause, for their labour in these three or four months of fair weather would have to carry them through the winter, whether they remained here or returned to their villages in England or Ireland.

I had that morning finished reading the papers that the lieutenant had given me. These consisted of an account of the Red Indians written by Mr. Joseph Banks, the noted naturalist. Banks had been to Newfoundland with Captain Palliser two years earlier and had given him a copy of his notes on the subject. This had been given to Lieutenant Cartwright and thence to me, so that we might learn more about the subjects of our mission.

It was the opinion of that eminent scientist, who was at that moment accompanying Mr. Cook on his expedition to the Pacific, that there were not more than five hundred Red Indians remaining on the island. Banks believed them to be principally situated on this very coast and inland of the Bay of Exploits. He wrote that the settlers live in a state of continual warfare with them, destroying their canoes, food and houses at every opportunity. This has been the practice for at least fifty years, so that the Indians look upon us in exactly the same light as we do them. They kill our people and steal traps and nets whenever they have the advantage.

There had been terrible atrocities on both sides and more in recent years, as salmoniers and furriers moved northward and inland. A few years earlier, a shipmaster named Scott and five others had been killed in the Bay of Exploits. The body of one of them was brought to St. John's with the arrows still in it. Even more recently, a Captain Hall, for whom Hall's Bay is named, was murdered on his plantation. Banks wrote of the manner in which the Indians scalp their victims, for they are not content with just the hair. They skin the entire face down to the mouth. He had seen such a scalp that was taken from a fisherman named Sam Frye. The Indians had possession of it for a full year, and when it was recovered the features were so well preserved that it was recognized immediately as belonging to the unfortunate Frye. Although Mr. Banks had heard many such stories about the cruelty of the Red Indians, he concluded that “if half of what I have written about them is true, it is more than I expect.”

For their part, the settlers were no less savage, it seemed. The tales were sickening, and while Banks had difficulty believing them, there was every likelihood that they were founded upon an element of truth. It was in this frame of mind that I took the air with Reverend Stow. Given our purpose for being here, it was no surprise, therefore, when he opened our conversation on the very subject of the Red Indians. He spoke at some length about them and it soon became clear that he was less concerned with their persecution than with their spiritual salvation. It was also plain that he hadn't sought me out for my company alone, but rather to enlist me as an ally to his cause.

“I say, Mister Squibb,” he brayed as we picked our way over the muddy track, “have I not seen you in attendance at my Sunday service on board the
Guernsey
?”

“You have, sir,” I replied. “My guardian was a man of the cloth and I have no desire to break the church-going habit.” I neglected to say that the habit was less than regular and that I was not without my share of vices.

The chaplain gave me a horsey grin and said, “Well spoken, young sir. There are many officers who are less attentive to their religious duties, as you are no doubt aware. Cards, whores and drink seem to be the new Trinity.”

I thought for a moment that he was referring to the town as well as the divinity, but the wit was unintentional. I was nonetheless impressed by his frankness and replied that the Navy had always harboured its share of rakes and rascals.

“So it has, Mister Squibb,” he said, “and, while it is not the policy of the Church to admit it, for many there is little hope of redemption. However—” he paused and blew his nose into an embroidered handkerchief, “—there is much that may be done for this poor tribe of Red Indians. They live in a state of ignorance and merely await the word of God to change their heathen ways.”

“And what would you have them change?” I asked.

He shot me a look that bordered on suspicion. “Why, their warlike ways for one, sir.”

“But what of our own people? They appear equally brutish. It makes one wonder whether we live in a state of war by nature.”

He looked at me again, this time with the expression of one too clever to be tricked so easily. “Ah, but sir, you are using the argument of the philosopher Hobbes, with whom I cannot agree.”

“Would you not agree,” I countered, “that there are three natural causes of conflict amongst humans, as Hobbes suggests?”

“I would, sir. And as I recall they are competition, distrust and glory.”

“Indeed. And here we have the first two in large measure and a goodly element of the third. I suggest that until we remove them we shall have no lasting peace with these people.”

“You make an interesting point, Mister Squibb. But you will recall that these causes of war apply to man in his natural state, without the word of God to guide him.”

“And how,” I replied, “do you propose to convert the Red Indian when our own people set so poor an example of Christian virtue?” We stood to one side of the track to allow a dog-cart to pass. The large animal's tongue lolled in the morning heat and fish scales glittered in its matted black fur.

“This is a labour of faith, Mister Squibb,” the chaplain said through his handkerchief. “Not of example. Proverbs tells us that the desire of the righteous shall be granted.”

He was plainly avoiding my question but I chose not to press the point. He may not have the answer, I thought, but at least he has the conviction that the Indians' lives might be improved. He pocketed the handkerchief and looked at me, his eyes animated by a peculiar brightness.

“Every human has the capacity for love, sir. Would you not agree?”

I thought of creatures like Grimes but acknowledged his point with a nod.

“It is this love that serves as the medium of conjunction between man and his Creator. Salvation for us all, you see, can only be brought about by our love for each other. It is this very love that will allow us to form a new heaven from the human race.”

I could not say that I agreed with this, though he'd caught my interest with the sudden intensity of his manner and the fluttering and waving of his bony fingers.

“Of course, the new heaven could not be created before the Last Judgment,” he said, “as described in the Revelation of St. John the Divine.”

No doubt my blank look prompted him to quote: “I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away, and there was no more sea. And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming from God out of heaven.” He rolled his eyes ecstatically and added, “Now that the judgment has taken place, we are preparing for the great event. Imagine, sir, a new Jerusalem for mankind!”

He paused long enough for me to nod in feigned understanding. I was beginning to suspect that our odd, gangly chaplain was as mad as a hatter. “And when did this—this judgment—actually occur?” I asked.

The chaplain smiled happily. “Why, in 1757 of course.”

I nodded again, not knowing what else to do.

“You see,” he continued, “the new heaven will of course be populated by the souls of the devout, and also by the souls of those who existed in a natural state at the time of their passing. This includes individuals, even entire populations, who had no clear understanding of the Lord … who knew little or nothing of Christianity, but who lived as God had created them.”

I began to see a hint of light. “And this would apply to the souls of the Red Indians?” I offered.

“Precisely!” the chaplain beamed.

Lines from a poem of Alexander Pope came to my mind:
Lo, the poor Indian! Whose untutored mind sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind.
It occurred to me that under Reverend Stow's plan of populating the new heaven, the owners of these coveted souls would first of all have to be dead.

“Have you read
The Journal of Dreams
, Mister Squibb?” he asked.

“I have not,” I confessed. “Who is the author?”

Reverend Stow shook his stubbled head and clucked in mild rebuke. “My dear sir! Why, Emanuel Swedenborg, of course.”

“Ah, yes,” I said, feeling confidence return, “the mathematical philosopher and inventor.”

My companion nodded so vigorously I feared he would do himself an injury. “Yes, yes!” he squealed, “and visionary theologian as well.”

I searched the meager store of my memory for something more about Swedenborg. I knew that he was one of a multitude of intellectuals and lunatics who were seeking a reliable means of determining longitude at sea. His method required exact lunar tables, which depended upon the accuracy of John Harrison's marine chronometer. Of course, Harrison's invention had yet to be accepted by the Board of Longitude, which meant that Swedenborg's tables were questionable as well. Swedenborg, I recalled, was also said to commune with angels and had written treatises on his dreams of heaven and hell.

My mind drifted back to this marine chronometer, which was a subject of much discussion in the Navy. While we continued with our method of dead reckoning, which was little more than estimation, Harrison had brought his time-measuring instrument through four designs and many trials at sea. Each of these had been more successful than the last and the most recent test was to take place on Mr. Cook's expedition. But in spite of his success, Harrison was still considered “a mere mechanic” by Nevil Maskelyne, the Astronomer Royal.

We came to a fork in the path and I suggested that we retrace our steps. As we did so, the chaplain expanded upon his mission to populate this new heaven with the souls of heathen Indians. He went on at length and I soon found his logic too convoluted to follow. When we came to where Greening was waiting with the jolly boat, I bade him good day with some relief. As we rowed away he stood on the strand and waved us off with his handkerchief, an oddly incongruent figure on the rocky landwash.

Back on board the
Dove
the first sight to greet me was Froggat, sitting on a keg and drinking from the scuttlebutt. I was speechless for a moment but soon recovered my voice. “Friday! By all that is real, I hadn't expected to see you up! Why, not an hour ago you were lying as still as death.”

In my joy I caught him by the hand and pumped it with more vigour than was prudent, for he quickly pulled away and reached for more water. “How are you feeling, my friend?” I asked. “Is there anything you want? Food or—”

I was cut short by the sudden look of anger he turned upon me. It pierced me to the heart, and although I was taken aback I reasoned that he was still in the throes of his illness. In an attempt to disarm the moment, I said, “Perhaps sleep is what you have need of, my friend. Though you must not become an Abraham de Movrie.”

I laughed but the hostile stare did not waver. “De Movrie?” I prompted. “Surely you remember that we studied his theorems. He was the trigonometry master who slept longer and longer each day until, on the day that he slept twenty-four hours, he never awoke again.” I laughed again, hoping the memory would revive him.

Even as I watched, his eyes lost their fire as quickly as it had appeared. They seemed to glaze and turn flat, becoming devoid of all thought or emotion. It was clear to me that my friend was far from recovered. I placed a hand upon his arm and said, “Friday, you are not well. Let me help you to your hammock.”

“No!” he cried, pulling away from my hand as if it carried the plague. “No more! Get away!” His pupils were dilated with fear. His voice was as thin and strained as a sickly child's.

“You have been down with the scurvy, my friend,” I pleaded. “Your constitution is still unsettled. Please do me the favour of resting, if only for a while.”

I looked him in the eye and doubted whether he saw me at all. Small beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead and his hands trembled like halyards in the wind. I was about to call for help in getting him into the hammock when the voice of Lieutenant Cartwright came sharply to my ear. How had he gotten alongside the
Dove
without being seen? Then I remembered that Grimes had the watch.

“I see that Mister Froggat is up and about,” he said, his voice betraying his disappointment. “And only just in time. I had intended to order him ashore before we sailed.” He paused and I saw that he was looking at my friend more closely. “Though perhaps I may do so yet.”