The Beothuk Expedition (11 page)

It can only have been a reflex from his years of service that caused Froggat to stand at that moment and offer a bow. It was the automatic salute of a man who was not in his senses but it was enough to weaken the lieutenant's suspicion.

“Very well then,” he sniffed. “Perhaps he will do after all. Mister Squibb, I am expecting Mister Cousens with his Red Indian. As my second-in-command, you will accompany me to the interview, so step lively if you please. And bring your hat and sword. We must impress upon this savage the importance of our mission.”

I was relieved that John Cousens did not possess the character that I might have ascribed to him, were I to judge the man by his appearance alone. On any given day the Bedlam Hospital is able to turn out its inmates in more conventional attire. The lieutenant had gone to great lengths to ensure that he and I were presentably dressed, while Cousens seemed to have taken pains to ensure that he was not. He was wearing one, and possibly two, woolen caps topped by a shiny hat of mink's fur, the earflaps of which stuck out at right angles from his jaundiced face. Two or three coarse woolen shirts were layered onto his narrow frame and these fell to the tops of his canvas boots, which were tied above the knee. All worn in the oppressive heat of August.

This odd appearance was enhanced by a long clay pipe that protruded from beneath a nose of equally generous proportion. He took the pipe from his mouth only to speak, while the smoke encompassed his head like a tiny patch of fog. To his credit, Lieutenant Cartwright acted as if there were nothing unusual in all of this. He made our introductions without expression, and proceeded to deliver a long-winded discourse on the purpose and plan of our expedition. Cousens appeared to listen and stared back at us through the haze of smoke.

When the lieutenant had finished, we sat in silence, expecting a response of some kind. We sat thus for several minutes before the man raised his hand and took the pipe from his mouth. We fixed our attention upon him in full expectation of an utterance, but when it came it was only an ambiguous grunt. Clearly he was not disposed to conversation generally, which forced the lieutenant to address the matter more directly.

“I was hoping, Mister Cousens, that you might be of some assistance in our endeavour.” He was not to be so easily drawn out, however, and Lieutenant Cartwright continued: “In fact, sir, I had hoped that you would be kind enough to assist us in finding the Red Indians.”

Still nothing. The cloud wreathed in an easterly flow, orbiting the yellow face and the hat of mink's fur. The lieutenant cleared his throat in the silence and I knew that we would have to pose a question or else we would sit there all day.

“Mister Cousens,” I said, “The governor and Mister Cartwright would be deeply in your debt if you would arrange for a guide to take us into the interior by way of the River of Exploits. Are you able to do that for us, sir?”

The question seemed to have the desired effect, as he removed the pipe from his mouth and looked around for something to spit in. Seeing nothing appropriate in the tidy parlour, he swallowed reluctantly and turned his gaze on us.

“I am able, sir. But am I willing? That is more to the point.”

Lieutenant Cartwright looked to me before he replied. I was well enough acquainted with him to know that he was barely keeping his composure.

“Yes, I take your point, Mister Cousens. Of course the Crown will compensate you for your trouble and expense—”

“Keep your money,” came the response.

The lieutenant reddened but said nothing.

“What I require,” Cousens said, “is something that you cannot provide.”

“And that would be?”

“A guarantee that I will not lose my life by assisting you in such a ridiculous undertaking.” The pipe returned to his mouth and the cloud thickened.

The lieutenant flared and bristled, as well he might. I didn't care for the man's tone, either, though I was curious to hear him out. Before Lieutenant Cartwright could muster an answer, Cousens was pointing the stem of his pipe at him.

“Have you any idea, sir, of what you are inviting by going up that river?”

The lieutenant was not given a chance to reply.

“Only one white man has ever gone past the great falls and lived to speak of it. The river is the domain of the Red Indians, sir. Do not push them more than they have already been pushed or we will all pay the bloody
hayoot
.”

The lieutenant looked to me and I shook my head in reply. “Pay the what?” he asked.

“The
hayoot
—the devil, sir, in the language of the Red Indian.”

I listened to this exchange with a returning sense of unease about our expedition. Threats and warnings have little effect upon my resolution, but I had been harbouring doubts about this scheme since our first misadventure off Bonavista and I could see no reason for renewed optimism now.

“Mister Cousens, our purpose is a peaceful one,” the lieutenant was saying “I am not about to ‘push' the Red Indians, as you put it. I have come to make a lasting peace with them. And I cannot do it properly without local knowledge. I would not wish it upon my conscience, sir, that our venture failed for want of a man to assist us.”

The planter sucked his pipe furiously until I could barely make out the shape of his hat. He said nothing and it appeared that we had momentarily gained the upper hand. The two men locked eyes until I felt compelled to break the silence in the room. “Mister Cartwright, I believe that Mister Cousens' Indian is waiting.” Some minutes before, I had seen a man peering through the window and he was now pacing outside the door.

“Very well,” the lieutenant said. “Show him in. Perhaps he may have some interest in saving the lives of his people.” The remark was intended to wound but Cousens did not twitch.

I arose and opened the heavy plank door, allowing a young man to come silently into the room. I gestured that he might take my chair but he shook his head and stood against the wall, his dark eyes moving from his master to the lieutenant. I remained where I stood, which gave me an opportunity to properly assess the first Red Indian I had ever seen.

I do not mean to be callous but Tom June was a great disappointment to me. Although I had no idea of what to expect, it was certainly not a youth of average build in the clothes of an ordinary fisherman. He bore no tattoos or designs of paint upon his face, nor was there a feather or bead about his person. Moccasins did not adorn his feet and I saw no evidence of a tomahawk hidden beneath his clothes. In the course of my naval career I had heard many tales about the various tribes of Canadian Indians that had fought alongside the French in the last war. These had coloured my expectation and led me to expect nothing less than an Iroquois warrior equipped for battle.

The lad who now stood before me was unremarkable in appearance. His long black hair was tied behind his head, just as I wore my own. His eyes were brown and widely set, and would have imparted a depth of thought or feeling but for their cautious, continuous shifting. His cheekbones were a trifle high and his skin was a shade of light copper, and yet we had Welshmen aboard the
Guernsey
with similar features. He said nothing but his dark eyes missed nothing, even as Lieutenant Cartwright stood up and spoke.

“Would you care to introduce us, sir?”

The planter removed his pipe and said with a sour note, “He knows who you are.”

His composure under strain, the lieutenant lifted the tails of his coat and sat down again. “Very well then. Does your man speak the King's tongue or must you interpret?”

“He speaks it well enough. And he understands more than you'd think.”

“Yes, let us hope so. Mister June, my name is John Cart-wright, lieutenant of His Majesty's Britannic Navy.”

The man gave no indication that he'd heard or understood, even as the lieutenant began to explain his mission. I wondered if Tom June had not adopted his master's taciturn nature. One trait which he certainly shared with Cousens was his impertinent manner, amply demonstrated when the lieutenant asked him to draw a map of where his people might be found.

“Me look like Captain Cook?” he retorted.

The gist of the meeting was that the Indian refused to assist us, either in guiding our party up the river or in supplying information on the whereabouts of his tribe. All we were able to learn was that a large lake existed at the headwaters of the Exploits River and that the Red Indians might be found in its vicinity. The only specific item he volunteered was that his father had kept a campsite in a cove on the lake, northeast of the river. It was little enough to go on but it was clear that we could expect no more. At a nod from Cousens, the boy left the room as quietly as he'd entered.

The planter had been silent throughout the interview. With Tom June gone he freed his mouth of the pipe and looked at the lieutenant. “Do you know the history of my man, sir?” he asked.

“No,” Lieutenant Cartwright replied. “I do not.”

“Perhaps you would care to hear it. The story may prove instructive to you.” His tone caused the lieutenant's nostrils to flare again, though he held his tongue in check.

“Tom June was brought to me ten years ago, in June of 1758. For the first year I thought he was mute. It was some time before anyone realized that the child was too terrified to speak, owing to what he'd witnessed. He was brought to me by two Irishmen, but do not ask me who they were. I never knew their names and I've not seen them since. They told me they'd found the boy wandering the shore of the Bay of Exploits, near Charles Brook, alone and hungry.

“They were trying to sell him, you see, and had been up and down the coast, seeking offers. None had been forthcoming and now they were anxious to rid themselves of their burden. I took the child and gave them nothing. I wondered later why they hadn't simply killed him. But I suppose they'd made the mistake of letting it be known that he was in their possession.

“The truth of Tom's history came to me by his own admission when he was ten or eleven years of age. His story was confirmed by the confession of a man named Darby McGinn, who died a slow death in Toulinguet Harbour a year later. On his deathbed McGinn unburdened himself of a trip he'd made to Charles Brook with the two Irishmen who'd come to see me. They'd gone there for no other purpose than to raid an Indian encampment and to steal what furs they could find.”

Cousens gave his pipe a few short puffs and looked across the room at us. “They murdered Tom's mother, sir. And his brothers, sisters and aunts. The men were away hunting or else they would have been slaughtered, too. They found no furs of value, just a small boy who might be worth a shilling or two.”

He sniffed and looked at his pipe. “Now, supposing it was you or me who was Tom's father. How would you feel about a party of white men travelling to the very heart of your country, where white men had never dared to venture before? Would you not feel pushed, sir? Just a wee bit perhaps?”

The lieutenant did not reply. The expression on his face was, to me, a mixture of shock and profound sadness at what he was hearing. In that instant it occurred to me that John Cartwright actually cared about the fate of the Red Indians and that he wished to save them from such cruelty. It was a side of him that I had not seen before, or one that I had chosen to ignore. Our dealings had led me to dislike him for what I took to be his arrogance and pettiness. Had I been wrong in my judgment? Certainly it would not be the first time, or the last.

“Mister Cousens,” the lieutenant said in a quiet voice, “your story should be instructive to both of us, sir. While I have gained a greater understanding of the dangers involved in our plan, surely you see the absolute necessity of pursuing it without delay. The fate of Tom June's family must never be repeated. Never, I say! Can we live with ourselves if we do not attempt to change the course of their history? You must answer me that, sir.”

His plea did not fall upon indifferent ears. Cousens stood up and paced the room, smoke billowing in his wake. When he stopped he pointed his pipe at me. “And what say you, young sir? Will you follow this man into an unknown wilderness for the sake of a few heathen savages?”

“I will, sir!” I replied without hesitation. I cannot say who was more surprised, Lieutenant Cartwright or myself “Most willingly,” I added.

Cousens took another pace or two and turned to the lieutenant. “Then so be it! I will accompany you. Most willingly, as your man says. All we have need of is a guide, and I will do what I can to find one.”

He resumed his pacing and puffing as the lieutenant stood and offered me his hand. There was spontaneous goodwill in the gesture and I accepted it without reservation. He opened his mouth to say something but we were interrupted by his brother George, who must have been listening in the adjoining room. Old Atkinson came behind him bearing a bottle of port and four glasses on a silver tray, and a moment later we were drinking to the success of our noble expedition.

My spirits remained high until that evening, when I was standing on the beach and waiting for Greening and the boat to take me to the
Dove
. I turned at the sound of footsteps on the pebbled beach and was surprised to see Tom June approaching me with a solemn air. I bade him good day and for a moment he said nothing in reply. When he did speak, it was with a forthrightness that took me aback.

“Fancy coat navy man is one big fool,” he declared. I gaped at him like a simpleton, not knowing quite what to say. There was no doubt that he was referring to Lieutenant Cartwright and his gold and lace uniform. “Says he'll go to red men and talk. Huh! Crazy
bukashaman
. Crazy white man. They'll kill him quick, like others. More quick, when they see his gold buttons and know he's big fish. Kill you too, even if coat is plainer.”

I said nothing.

“English men not all bad,” he mused. “Maybe navy man not bad. No matter when all trust is gone. Too many English men now. Steal fish from rivers and starve the people. Kill them dead, no reason. English men greedy.”