The Beothuk Expedition (2 page)

I was born on the Newfoundland station and, at the age of twenty-four, had spent much of my life at sea. I'd recently been posted as third lieutenant of the
Guernsey
, a fifty-gun man-of-war that had been launched well before my birth. Indeed, many judged her to be the slowest, leakiest tub in the whole of His Majesty's Navy, a distinction for which she had much competition. I'd sailed on her before, plying the Channel in pursuit of smugglers and keeping an eye on the French. It was in that storm-battered service that she'd become increasingly derelict. A cruise to the West Indies and a warm engagement with a Spanish privateer had done her no favours. Lately her poor joints had worked themselves loose and the movement of her parts required the rigging to be bowsed taut every other day. It was in this condition that she had sailed to the island as the flagship of Captain Hugh Palliser, the naval governor.

Our orders were to patrol the coast and to regulate the fishery, though in truth, the
Guernsey
spent as much time in port as she did at sea. Those long summer days of awaiting or undergoing repairs passed slowly for me, the ship being well manned and my duties light when we were not under sail. The officers stood their watches and went about a routine that was established by custom and decree, and yet I found time heavy upon my hands.

My principal distraction from the boredom of harbour life, aside from gunnery practice, was reading. I'd brought with me a number of books and with so few duties, had finished all but two of them. That very morning I'd resolved to read the remaining volumes in alternate fashion, in the vague hope of prolonging the pleasure. One was a fine octavo edition of Henry Fielding's
Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon
, full bound in polished calf. The other was a marbled board reprint of
Travels Through France and Italy
, from the former naval surgeon, Tobias Smollett. It was on the 15th day of August, the very day that we departed St. John's, that I began to read these narratives of travel in foreign parts. I had hoped to find in them a spiritual escape from the confines of the ship, but I was not to be so well rewarded. In fact, the authors' remarks on the human condition might well have been made from an observation of life on board the ancient
Guernsey
.

And so, on that August morning, as the sun rose and the shadows shortened, the order came to strike our moorings and prepare to sail on the falling tide. Boats were lowered and oarsmen bent to the task of towing our ship from the crowded harbour. I took my place on the quarterdeck, enjoying the first stir of excitement that precedes a welcome voyage. We passed through the anchorage in an orderly manner until we were into the Narrows and the boats were hoisted aboard. As the topsails fell, the deck came to life beneath our feet. Drawing abreast of the Devil's Cleft, that great vertical slash in the rock of Signal Hill, my ears fetched the roar of the sea from deep within. We were courting a westerly breeze, though faint, and once outside the Narrows, Mr. John Cartwright, our first lieutenant, called for all canvas. This was done handily enough, but my practiced eye detected a sloppy effort on the mainsail yard. One of the hands was a trifle slow in letting go his reefing lines and Frost, the boatswain, was quick to address him.

“Ahoy there, Greening!” he boomed. “Shall I send up your hammock, sir? Look lively, you whore's egg, or you'll know the taste of my rope, by God!” His words had their intended effect and young Greening scurried up the shroud to assist in setting the topgallant. I knew the lad to be Newfoundland born, and though he'd been raised on the water, he was unaccustomed to the precise workings of a man-o-war. But he did show promise, which was why the boatswain threatened him so frequently.

The
Guernsey
responded to the light airs as well as she could, her every timber groaning as the helm went over. For a long minute she wallowed indecisively. Then, ever so slowly, she turned her bow northward like an old whale that instinctively follows its path of migration. In fact, the ship had made the voyage north many times before and may have retained some sense of where her destination lay.

We settled on our course and I looked to the weather rail where Captain Palliser stood, his eyes hard fast upon the sails. He was a tall man of about forty-five years, his hair graying but his eyes as sharp as a seahawk's. I had come to know him as a fine seaman and a fair and reasonable officer in the bargain. He had been at sea from the age of eleven and had acquitted himself well as lieutenant of the
Essex
in an engagement off Toulon in 1744. He later took command of the
Weazle
sloop, where he found the sea room to demonstrate his full abilities. In short order he'd captured four French privateers, a feat that had earned him a captain's epaulets and command of a seventy-gun ship of war, all at the ripe old age of twenty-five. A misfortune befell him, however, on a cruise to Dominica. The ship's armourer carelessly struck fire to an arms chest, igniting the cartridge boxes and discharging every musket and pistol in the chest. The armourer and his mate were killed outright and the captain was badly wounded by three musket balls to the back, hip and shoulder. Having youth and health on his side, he recovered but remained lame in the left leg, and suffered great pain when the weather turned cold and damp.

In his five years as governor, Captain Palliser had introduced many improvements to the trade and defence of the colony, including new laws to govern shipping and a customs house for St. John's. And yet there were those who did not agree with his ideas or his methods of implementing them. These included the island's merchants, who were long accustomed to doing as they pleased. I was not familiar with all of his reforms but there was one that I would soon know more about.

Our destination that day was the harbour of Bonavista and I judged that it would take us a fortnight to get there in such an inferior breeze. Still, I was happy at the prospect of time to read my books and to study Mr. Cook's new coastal charts. That able gentleman had been the sailing master on my old ship, the
Northumberland
, in 1762, when he'd been kind enough to provide me with instruction in the navigational sciences. For that and for his patience, I was forever in his debt. Since that time James Cook had served the governor as marine surveyor of the island and Labrador. As master and commander of HMS
Grenville
he'd thoroughly charted the local waters, named harbours and even discovered new islands. The previous governor had persuaded the Admiralty to publish his charts, and now he was about to sail from Plymouth as captain of the
Endeavour
, bound for a lengthy cruise of exploration in the South Pacific. I was pleased that the reputation of my old teacher was so rapidly advancing.

The purpose of our own voyage that morning was to rendezvous with the frigate
Liverpool
, which was patrolling the northeast coast of the island. From Bonavista, we would proceed in company to the Isle of Fogo and join the other ships of the governor's squadron. These were the frigates
Lark
and
Tweed
, of thirty-two guns apiece, which were returning from provisioning the garrisons at Fort Pitt and Fort York in Labrador. Those new defences were another of Captain Palliser's ideas, undertaken to protect British interests and to prevent the French from trading with the natives. Another motive, no doubt, was to discourage settlement on that coast, for the governor viewed any increase in the year-round population as a threat to the Navy's supply of able seamen. Mr. Palliser was of the view that the migratory fishery was an ideal training ground for sailors, and those returning to England from the island were perfect candidates for recruiters or the press gangs. To me this seemed a flawed argument, for could not a larger resident population produce its share of sailors as well? And what of the benefits of year-round settlement to the colony's defence? Such lofty matters were not my concern, however, and my mind turned to other things as we altered course to greet a subtle change of wind.

I was happy to be at sea again and not only to escape the monotony of the harbour. In truth, I had a particular desire to leave St. John's because of melancholy thoughts that had troubled me while we lay at anchor. I had tried to ignore them but they were a constant shadow, plaguing me by day and disturbing my sleep at night. The reason for this was the memory of an event that had occurred there some six years before, on my last visit to the place. It was then that a letter had come into my hand, a letter that had served to change the course of my young life. It came from Amy Taverner, my childhood sweetheart at Trinity, and I had welcomed it with a joyful heart. My happiness was brief, however. I was not prepared for what she had written, not for the blow of learning that she had become engaged to another. My youthful world had collapsed like a mast shot through.

Because of that letter I had turned my back to Amy Taverner and to my home, giving my life over to the sea and to His Majesty's service. It was a life that suited me well enough, but after six years I had begun to pine for Newfoundland again. For what reason, I was at a loss to say. Was it the beauty of unspoiled Creation, the vast forests or the soaring capes and headlands? Or was it the very sea and air, those servants of nature's whims? It may have been the remembrance of my childhood or a longing for the happiness that I had been denied. In any event, I was drawn to this place as if by a spell, and more than once I'd felt like a fool for my attachment to this remote rock in the ocean. And yet the bond was real and the urge to return could not be ignored. But now I found it nearly as painful to be here as it had been to stay away. Six years had passed and still the wound refused to heal.

On this particular evening, I did as I'd done many times and tried to put thoughts of Amy Taverner from my mind. She was but a ghost from my past and one best forgotten if I was ever to be at peace again. Here now was the reality of my life— the lift of the
Guernsey
's quarterdeck, the island to windward and the great expanse of sea rolling out to meet the sky. It was all that I could wish for, and yet my desire to believe it did not make my heart grow lighter.

St. John's fell away as we lumbered north, turrs and hagdowns skimming our wake, our bow wave white, sails snapping in the uneven breeze. The dying sun lay off the larboard beam and lit the sea in a thousand jewels of light, broken only by the long swell that rose and fell between ship and shore. I watched as Skerries Bight and Small Point slipped past and Sugar Loaf Head loomed on our quarter. The ship's bell had just sounded the half-hour when I heard a low voice from near at hand. I turned to see the boatswain standing on the gangway, his grey head ducking in salute. He cast a wary eye at the captain's back and asked if the gunroom might have the pleasure of my company. My watch on deck was hours away and I accepted most happily, for Frost and the other warrant officers had at times invited me to their mess for a turn at cards or to share a bottle. It was kind of them, though I knew it was done out of misguided pity.

The reason for their sympathy had its origins in my interruption of service on board the
Guernsey
. In the previous winter I had spent some months ashore at Portsmouth, recovering from the scurvy. Until then, I'd served as the ship's signal officer, a busy enough post and one that I confess to having enjoyed for the stimulation it offered. On my return to duty, I had hopes of taking up where I'd left off, but found instead that a midshipman of family and influence had been given my place. I was therefore assigned responsibility for the aft larboard guns and the men who were quartered there.

I was disappointed, to be sure, but the change of circumstance did not bother me greatly. I made the most of my new duties and learned all that I could about the science of gunnery. I was equally resigned to the knowledge that things were unlikely to change in the near future. Favour and promotion were scarce in times of peace and scarcer still for those who had no one to hasten their preferment. However, a contrary view prevailed in the gunroom. There, the warrant officers were of the opinion that I had been most grievously wronged. They felt it augured ill for my chances of promotion, when in fact I had already come to terms with that reality. I would scarcely have given the matter another thought but they considered it an insult—if not an outrage—and one that ought to be addressed by the highest authority. That afternoon, as I sat to a glass of sugared rum with Frost and Simeon Bolger, the ship's gunner, the topic was broached once more.

“And have ye spoken to Mister Cartwright, sir?” Bolger asked. His elbows took up much of the space on the little table between us.

“I have not,” I replied. “And I do not foresee doing so.” My reply was always the same and invariably caused the gunner to shake his bald head in frustration.

“Tisn't fair, sir. Tisn't fair at all.” He clamped his pipe between two of the few teeth he possessed and fixed me with a narrowed eye. Bolger had sailed with me on the old
Northumberland
and felt it his due to take small liberties, which I neither encouraged nor dissuaded. Lately he'd been pressing me to have the first lieutenant intervene on my behalf.

“Aye,” Frost joined in. “An injustice is what it is. An injustice what should be put to rights.” He shook his head as well, wagging the grey pigtail that fell halfway to his waist. His small eyes watched me from under a forehead that was hatched with scars and wrinkles. “Not right, sir,” he muttered. “Not right in the least.” I sipped my rum and did nothing to encourage them.

The gunner scratched his prominent jaw, embedded blue grains of gunpowder visible beneath the stubble. His face and hands were peppered with the marks of countless ignitions, the tattoos of his profession. “And why would ye not talk to Mister Cartwright, sir?” Bolger persisted.

I assumed a patient expression and replied, “My superiors have seen fit to put me at other quarters, Mister Bolger. It is not my place, nor that of anyone else”—I gave them both a meaningful look—“to question that decision.”