The Beothuk Expedition (18 page)

“Pure of spirit!” he mocked. “The Red Indians? They're naught but the devil's servants, put upon this earth to serve their master. And naught but a fool thinks any different.” As he spoke his eyes blazed, though not with the light of Christian zeal. The affront left me at a loss for words.

“But you're partways right, preacher,” he said. “The Lord will have them. Oh yes, but not on the terms you might imagine. He'll have them as He commands us to deliver them. I have received His message and it's clear enough. To me belongs vengeance, sayeth the Lord!”

Those were the only words that Samuel Cooper ever spoke to me. As much as I regret it now, it did not occur to me that I should tell anyone what had passed between us.

Jonah Squibb

On the evening of the following day we prepared for our return journey to the sea. Mr. Cartwright was dejected and disheartened, and repeatedly expressed his regret at not having a boat to take us across the lake. He seemed convinced that, if we were able to climb the far-off mountain, we might see smoke or other evidence of the Red Indians. It was a last, desperate wish and in the end he had to settle for putting a name to that distant peak. He called it Mount Janus, for the Roman god of gates and beginnings.

We were ready to begin the long trek to the sea when it occurred to Cousens that the lake itself had not yet been named. Froggat immediately proposed that it be called Lake Cartwright. The lieutenant refused the suggestion with great humility, saying we had all shared in the privilege of being the first Europeans to set eyes upon it. Perhaps his reluctance had something to do with the inclusion of his brother in the name, and so I made a suggestion of my own, saying that it ought to be called Lieutenant's Lake, in his honour. He did not immediately protest, and so Reverend Stow declared the lake duly christened, to be known henceforth and always by that name. We sealed the act with a toast of water, and although we were tired and the rain had returned, at least our spirits were higher.

We had nothing to eat that night but it was not the hunger that kept us awake. Wolves had come to the river and we heard them soon after dark, howling and barking from all directions. We lay in the open with our guns close at hand, never daring to close our eyes as we listened to their hideous, mournful baying. They seemed to be everywhere, both near and far, though it may have been a trick of the night and the hills around us. When daylight came we stumbled onward, limbs dragging with fatigue and stomachs growling like the creatures that stalked us.

We had no food that day and spent the night as we had before, lying or sitting awake and listening to the wolves. The next morning Cousens shot a rabbit that we immediately dressed and hung over a smoky fire of damp wood. The rain had not lessened and the smell of roasting meat only made us more aware of our misery. We sat by the fire and shivered in our dripping clothes, knowing that it would be another three or four days before we reached the
Dove
. Our progress was further slowed by Reverend Stow, who was fevered and had taken to mumbling scraps of the Psalms. We were a sorry sight indeed, more savage in our appearance than anything else and also in our manners. When Mr. Cartwright cut the half-cooked rabbit into five pieces we devoured it shamefully, becoming ever more like the wolves that haunted us. The one bright moment in our day came that evening when we overtook Greening as he struggled downriver. He was a welcome addition to our party, though his feet were horribly torn and bloodied.

We began to crave sleep as much as food but to stop for any length of time would have been folly, as we might have starved to death where we lay. And yet, we could not go on without rest. On the third day we found a broad, flat rock in the river that provided some protection from the wolves and we lay down upon it. I was not more than twenty minutes into a troubled sleep when I was awakened by a commotion and a splashing in the water between the rock and the riverbank. I opened my eyes to see Froggat, who was our sentry, waist-deep and losing his footing on the slippery stones of the bottom. The current pulled him onto his back and for a moment only his hand showed above the water, holding one of our precious pistols aloft. A few yards farther on Reverend Stow was scrambling up the muddy bank.

Froggat resurfaced, coughing and shouting and bringing the others awake. The lieutenant and Cousens grabbed their muskets as they sat up, blinking and exclaiming in confusion. When Froggat had gained the shore and recovered his breath, we learned that Reverend Stow was delirious and running amok. Froggat had tried to stop him but the chaplain, like a man possessed, had gotten the better of him. Each of us looked to the forest, where only a rustling and snapping marked our companion's progress through the undergrowth. I quickly proposed that I join Froggat in pursuit while the others remained where they were. Lieutenant Cartwright seemed about to object but I swiftly gathered up my pack and jumped from the rock. “If we haven't returned in one hour,” I called over my shoulder, “carry on and we will follow you downriver.”

At first we plowed our way blindly through the brush, until I thought it wise to take a bearing from my compass. Having established the direction in which our rock lay we moved ahead more cautiously, pausing now and then to listen for anything other than the ever-present cries of the wolves. The undergrowth was dense and we were soon scratched and bleeding. A little after this we came under close attack from a swarm of stouts that had scented our blood. Froggat groaned that our misery was now complete, but he led the way through the ever-thickening forest.

When next we stopped to listen and to consult our compass, we heard a cry—very faint but unmistakably that of a man. Ignoring the sharp twigs and thorns we thrashed our way forward until we could hear him more clearly. Fragments of words could be distinguished and minutes later we had the chaplain in our view. He was moving away from us, stumbling at every step and his clothes nearly torn to ribbons. At some point he had fallen into a bog and his lower half was black with mud. He had lost a shoe, his wig was gone and he was in full voice. Either his nerves had collapsed or he had lost his mind, for he was singing a hymn and flailing his arms like a choirmaster. My first concern was that the noise would attract the wolves, or some other form of life that was equally as dangerous.

I saw the figure in the leaves just as we were about to overtake Reverend Stow. It was not more than twenty feet from me and almost hidden by a curtain of foliage. I could see the partial outline of a body, or so I believed, for as I stared, the wind disturbed the leaves and the shape was no longer there. The sight had stopped me in my tracks and Froggat came to a forced halt behind me.

“For God's sake,” he gasped. “Don't stop now. Let us get him back to the river.” He moved around me and caught the tail of Reverend Stow's coat. I continued to stand and stare until I thought I detected a movement. Was it a trick of the wind or had I glimpsed an upraised hand?

“Jonah,” Froggat called. “I could use your help. It will take the two of us to manage him.”

Ignoring the plea, I moved cautiously towards the shifting leaves, my eyes glued to the spot as I freed the pistol from my belt. Had I checked the priming in the pan? Were ball and wadding still in the barrel? Like a conjuror's trick, the shape had dissolved again. Was it a man? I had a skin of gooseflesh as I reached out and pushed the leaves aside. There was nothing there but more branches and leaves. My eyes searched the forest floor in vain for any sign of a presence as Froggat called to me again. Should I tell him what I had seen, I wondered, or had I in fact seen anything at all?

My friend was urging the reverend to stop singing, and after another lingering moment I joined them. My presence seemed to calm the poor chaplain, and he smiled at me as if we had just met on a stroll round the quarterdeck. He hummed quietly to himself as we led him back to the river. Our journey from that point was slowed considerably, and after we met up with the others we had both the preacher and Greening to help along. The rain had not lessened and the river spilled its banks, forcing us at times to walk farther inland through the trees. We had nothing to eat on the third day or for most of the next, until I chanced that evening upon a large salmon trapped and splashing in a rocky pool. My first instinct was to jump on it before it escaped, for I could have eaten it alive. Reason prevailed, however, and I called the others to consider how best to capture it.

Froggat proposed shooting the fish with his pistol but I reasoned that the ball would refract in the water and miss its mark, and we had no desire to frighten the salmon into the river. I regretted not having a cutlass to run it through and it was then that Cousens suggested the method of fishing used by the Indians. A long, straight pole was hurriedly cut and to this we bound a knife with a strong cord, so that in a few minutes we had fashioned a spear. The fish was neatly impaled on the first attempt and it took all of my strength to hold the pole as it thrashed and threatened to cast itself into the river. Greening had already started a fire and the salmon was little more than warmed before we cut it into equal shares, unable to wait a second longer. How wonderful such a thing can taste to a starving man! And for a few hours it gave us strength, though it was more spiritual than physical.

That night we slept where we were and the next morning, as I roused myself for another tortuous day, I looked more closely at the pool in which the salmon had been trapped. Only then did I notice the stones that had been carefully laid, one upon the other, to keep the fish imprisoned. It was the work of human hands, I had no doubt, and my first thought was of the wraith-like figure I had seen the morning before. Could that mysterious presence have left the salmon for our sustenance? Was it a gesture of peace or compassion for our famished state? It was impossible to know. Perhaps it was a practice that the Indians employed for their own benefit, and we had merely stumbled upon it. All I can say is that it likely saved our lives, for we would not have been able to walk another mile without it.

But walk we did, the whole of the fifth day until we shot two ducks on the river and nearly drowned ourselves retrieving them. We ate as we had before, impatiently and with little ceremony. Even Reverend Stow had ceased his humming and tore into his food with as much rapacity as the rest of us. That night we slept a little, our hunger appeased for the moment, the rain having lessened and the howling of the wolves becoming more distant. We were less than a day from Start Rattle and I prayed that some of the crew would be waiting there. Otherwise we would not have the strength to row ourselves to Peter's Arm.

We awoke to fog, a sure sign that we were nearing the coast, and by noon Greening swore that he could smell the sea. By mid-afternoon we could hear Start Rattle and a short time later we rounded a bend in the river and came upon a peculiar sight—a kettle hanging high up in the leafy green of a birch tree. It was suspended from a limb that overhung the bank and the soot had been carefully washed away so that the polished tin could be seen up and down the river. This was, we soon discovered, exactly the intent of the person who had placed it there. It was the kettle that Sam Cooper had been carrying.

Samuel Cooper

The Lord works in wondrous ways. No truer words was ever spoke. Take this providence that was laid before me now. The Lord put it in my reach, knowing I'd make the most of it. He surely did. But why would the Lord do such a thing for Sam Cooper, you might ask? Because He wants Sam to be the master of his own fate, is why, and be free to walk the path of the Almighty. And what does Sam have need of, to become his own man and follow the word of the Lord? Why it's plain and simple—he needs hard coin. It's hard coin that buys a man his freedom, and nothing else.

Merchants like Pinson pays us furriers in kind, with grub and traps and the like. Or rum for those who'll take it, and the devil's wages it is, too. We're slaves to them and their rum, our feet tied and never free to walk the path of righteousness and freedom. We can never leave this heathen place, but go on living in the woods like animals to make Pinson and his protectors rich. And we're always watching for them savages, watching all the time, lest the treacherous servants of Satan catch us unawares.

Oh yes, a man needs ready coin and to get it he got to make the most of what the Lord puts his way. The Almighty told me that. Told me straight out, He did. “Sam Cooper,” He says, “you wasn't put on this earth to be a slave to the likes of Pinson.” That's what He said. He also said I had to make the most of what He sends, which is why a man's got to have his wits about him, so he can grab the chance with both hands when it comes along. I knew I had that chance when I got to Fogo a fortnight past. Oh yes, as soon as I heard about the governor's reward I was back on the water and chasing that shallop. This is it, Sam lad, I said. Keep your wits about you.

And that's what I been doing all along. Keeping me wits and calculating me moves. And soon that hard coin will be mine, though first I had to get rid of that sinful Grimes. It was easy enough, I only had to tell him he'd hang for a deserter if he didn't go back. I told him we'd meet up later to share the reward, and off he went. Ha, ha! The Lord works in wondrous ways. Oh, He does indeed.

Jonah Squibb

The Indian woman had been dead for several days. She lay face down in the brush beneath the shining kettle, a neat round hole through the back of her skin dress. The rocks beneath her were dark with dried blood and I held my breath as I gently turned her over. The natural putrefaction was well advanced, but I judged her to have been of childbearing age, slim and rather tall. Her long, black hair hung loose and red ochre stained the flesh that remained on her forearms.

The process of decay was terrible enough, but nothing to the hideous mutilation. Her hands had been severed at the wrists and her face had been disfigured by what could only have been a very sharp knife. The butchery made me think of Joseph Banks and his journal, which I had read at Fogo. The naturalist had heard of similar outrages but dismissed them as nothing more than rumour. Now the terrible proof lay before our eyes. And if that were not enough, her final indignity had been provided by the wolves, which had eaten a good deal of her flesh. Young Greening retched in vain behind me, there being nothing in his stomach to lose. The others stood in silent horror, their exhausted faces twisted with the pain and strength of their emotions. That their fellow man could do such a thing was too unnatural, too loathsome to comprehend.