The Beothuk Expedition (5 page)

Oh Lord, the pain I have today! There is weather coming, I can swear to that. Thunderheads in the northeast and the wind and swell nearly doubling in the past two hours. And this blasted leg of mine—I need to put it up on something. There, that's better, though I know the pain will be unbearable before the day is out. What was I saying? Oh yes. Blister my tripes but the French have more swagger than common sense. Imagine cruising English waters with that little
Valeur
, when they know there are four English ships-of-war about. And to what end? To harass a few poor fishermen? Or more likely, to remind us that the French shore begins at Cape Bonavista. Which is what the treaty says, though the reality is quite different.

This all began in 1763, at the end of the Seven Years' War, when France was obliged to recognize our sovereignty over Newfoundland. In return, they were permitted to catch and dry fish between Cape Bonavista and Cape Riche, which is on the northern half of the island's west coast. But they were not content with that and struck upon a clever scheme to claim that Cape Riche was actually Cape Ray, at the southern extremity of the west coast. I ask you, has there ever been a more transparent fraud? They even said they possessed the maps to prove it! Imagine, if you will, an error of nearly three degrees north latitude, giving France the entire west coast of the colony.

Well, if that was their game, then we were equal to it. If they intended to twist the terms of the treaty, then what was to stop our own people from moving into the coves and harbours north of Cape Bonavista? That is exactly the case at present and the French have threatened war unless their rights to the shore are upheld. They even sent a naval squadron to back their demands a few years ago, which kept my hands full, I can tell you. England relented in the end and both sides accepted the original boundaries, though my orders say nothing about stopping the expansion of English enterprise along the northeast coast. My instructions are merely to prevent our people from interfering with the French fishery.

All of this has enraged France, of course, and given their naval officers a
cause célèbre
. In my opinion, it all comes down to a matter of interpretation. The treaty states that France shall have use of the shore to fish but there is nothing to specifically exclude the English. Tit for tat is what I call it, after their Cape Riche contrivance. Ah, it's a complicated enough business without them making it a point of honour. No doubt this little show with the
Valeur
is in reply to that unfortunate incident at Toulinguet last month. A French captain named Delarue was forced off his fishing room and now there is news that our people have burnt French premises at Quirpon as well. I suppose I shall have to write Governor d'Angeac at St. Pierre again, for all the good it will do. He will complain about our fishermen and say that he knows nothing of the
Valeur
's actions, and then he will wash his hands of the matter.

Mary and Joseph, how I wish the surgeon had taken off this leg when he had the chance. I have cursed him these twenty years for not doing so. May the Lord give me strength, for I shall have need of it, between this cursed weather and these damnable Frenchmen. Perhaps if I use this pillow, just so …

Jonah Squibb

Evening was upon us before the shallop was fully loaded with our sacks and kegs of provisions. From the
Guernsey
's stores I had drawn flour, cheese, dried peas, butter, dried plums, ship's biscuit and salted beef and pork. All we lacked was fresh meat, but the purser refused to give me so much as a small goat. He said that we would find what we needed in the settlements along the coast. I replied that there were no settlements on the coast—only fishing stations that had no livestock. His answer was that there would be plenty of game in the wild. This was true enough, although I feigned ignorance and argued until he gave me extra powder and shot for the small arms to be put on board. To all of this I added our empty water barrels, a box of tobacco leaf, a small cask of wine and another of Jamaica rum.

During this time, Lieutenant Cartwright occupied himself in getting charts and instruments from the ship's master. From the sound of their discussion, the man was none too happy to part with his precious items. Bolger had come on board to make an inspection of the guns and was good enough to stay and supervise the three
Liverpool
s in stowing the barrels. Frost was also aboard, with Greening, and they went aloft to inspect our mast and rigging. At about nine o'clock, with less than an hour of daylight remaining, Lieutenant Cartwright, his brother, his brother's servant and Reverend Stow came into the boat to look it over. My own sea chest had been shifted already and, with the exception of receiving the gentlemen's baggage, all was in order. The only complaint came from the chaplain, who was not enamoured of the strong smell of fish that hung over the shallop.

The lieutenant had decided that we would go ashore before dark to attend to the water and the ailing midshipman. We would spend the night in the harbour before sailing in the
Guernsey
's wake in the morning. The boatswain being nearly finished his inspection, Lieutenant Cartwright suggested that we take the craft on a short cruise to test her sails before we parted company. Neither the boatswain nor I would acknowledge the soundness of his idea, given the strength of the wind, but he was determined to follow it through. In spite of the chaplain's protests, we were ordered to cast off from the lee of the
Guernsey
without delay.

The previously strong wind had risen a good deal while our vessel was being loaded. As soon as we left the protection of the ship's hull, we found ourselves in a gale that was rapidly approaching a storm. The shallop was well founded and built to carry a great weight of fish in a heavy sea, and she rode the swells handily enough under reefed main and staysail. With me at the helm, she came within a few points of the wind on the starboard tack before Lieutenant Cartwright ordered me to bear away. This put us broadside to the swell for a few moments, which was enough to turn Reverend Stow a deathly pale from either sickness or fright. A few nasty-looking waves, whipped up by the wind at the crest of a swell, gave us a wetting and I thought the poor chaplain would expire on the spot. He fell against the gunwale, throwing his arms around the barrel of a swivel gun, and there he stayed.

Events took a turn for the worse a moment later. The shallop had fallen off the wind and we were scarcely on a broad reach when the mainsail split with a crack as loud as a musket shot. Everyone but Reverend Stow looked up at the torn canvas, Frost swearing under his breath before ordering the rag hauled down. This was exactly the sort of calamity I'd feared and which can happen when sailing an unproven boat in a gathering storm. At Mister Cartwright's command I put the tiller over and pointed us for the
Guernsey
, even as I ordered the staysail loosened in order to scud with the wind astern.

It was here that a second calamity befell us. The staysail earring let go in a powerful gust, leaving the sail flapping like a sheet on a washline. The hands rushed to gather it in before Frost stopped them in their tracks with a barked order to unbend the jibsail. He was perfectly correct in this, of course, as a fluttering staysail was the least of our worries. We were now without control of the vessel and therefore at the mercy of the elements, which were quick to put us broadside to the wind and swell. The men jumped to the boatswain's command, but to my wonder Lieutenant Cartwright belayed the order, calling instead for the topsail. This in itself was not a poor decision, as a closely reefed topsail will serve as well as a jib in a pinch. But it did mean the loss of valuable time. The men had already begun to loosen the jib's lashing and now had to abandon the task.

Reverend Stow was not taking the excitement well. His face betrayed his terror at our situation and he clung to the gun as though it were something that would not drag him to the bottom the instant we broke apart. Our other gentleman, Mr. George Cartwright, was standing amidships with his hand on a shroud for balance. In profile he looked very much like his brother, except his smiling face displayed his ignorance of the danger we were in.

By now we were taking the brunt of the wind's fury and rolling like a puncheon in the mountainous swell. Frost was standing next to me, his face as dark as the lowering sky. He nodded in the direction of Reverend Stow and the two Cartwrights, and above the strumming and whistling of the wind in the rigging, I heard him say: “
Three wise men of Gotham went to sea in a bowl; if the bowl had been stronger, my poem would've been longer!
”

We drifted past the high stern of the
Guernsey
, where no particular attention was being paid to us, and were driving broadside for the rocks at the mouth of Bonavista Harbour. Greening and the three
Liverpool
s worked like demons and were finally able to set the small topsail. It filled immediately, and our bow swung away from the wind just as an enormous roller came under our stern. The shallop rose as if it were no more than a chip of wood and for an instant I felt the rudder come free of the water. We were lifted and propelled at the same time, and we felt a profound sense of helplessness as the wave hurled us deeper into the harbour. At that moment, above the roar of the tempest, I heard the voice of the chaplain wailing, “How vast is thy sea, O Lord, and how small is my boat!”

It was as close a thing as ever I'd witnessed, much less experienced. If the wind had been another point northerly the sea would have careened us onto our beam ends and into the rocks. The small topsail had provided some control but I still had the tiller hard fast under my arm, trying to avoid the rocky lee shore. I managed to veer us off to windward before a strong gust put our starboard gunwale under, snapping a line and sending two kegs over the side.

In another breath or two we were safe and sound, though in a fine pickle all the same. The
Guernsey
was due to sail at any moment and here we were with her gunner and boatswain, plus young Greening, on board the shallop. To make matters worse, we could not take the boat back out, owing to the strength and direction of the wind and the lack of room to tack in the harbour mouth. Mr. Cartwright was thoroughly nettled, as was the chaplain, who had let go of the gun and was now demanding to be returned to the ship.

I knew, as did the warrant officers, that we would not be going near the
Guernsey
anytime soon. Captain Palliser could not wait for the weather to improve even if he had a mind to do so. The ship's bowers were barely holding her now and he would not ride the worsening storm at anchor. A parted cable would mean being driven ashore in the middle of the night and no captain would take that risk for want of two or three men, however useful they might be to his vessel.

I gave the tiller to Frost and clambered over the cargo to the first lieutenant, intending to tell him as much. But before I could speak, I heard him tell his brother and Reverend Stow that we were as good as stranded in the harbour. We were unlikely to see the
Guernsey
before Fogo, he said, if indeed then. I was pleased that he had a full appreciation of our situation, since he was largely to blame for it. His brother George merely shrugged at the news, his experience in the army having no doubt accustomed him to sudden changes of plan. The chaplain was not quite so accepting and griped loudly at the suggestion that he would have to make do with nothing more than the clothes on his back. He was a pitiful, if not a comic sight, with his mournful face and dripping wig. He was no soldier and even less a sailor and I could not help but wonder why he'd volunteered for this voyage.

To add to the chaplain's misery, it began to rain as we were securing the errant barrels and repacking our kegs. In short order it was coming on with a fury. I instructed the boatswain to rig canopies from the damaged sails while the seamen took to the sweeps and rowed us across the harbour. We soon came alongside a stage where two splitters, their canvas aprons and boots covered in blood and gurry, left the shelter of a storeroom and tied us fast. It was a prosperous fishing room with a good many flakes and stores and a substantial house in a nearby field. The men said it was owned by Mr. Joseph White and managed by his agent, Thomas Street. If Reverend Stow had found the smell of our boat offensive, I could only imagine what he thought of this place. The stench of fish would have stopped a town clock.

It was now coming on dark and Mr. Cartwright instructed me to go to the house of the local surgeon, that I might learn the condition of the sick midshipman from the
Liverpool
. I took one of the frigate's seamen with me as a guide and we crossed the harbour in the jolly boat, landing near a wooden shack that looked in danger of falling over in the wind. I knocked and stood for a time in the rain before a door of rough planks was unlatched and an untidy woman peered out at me. I told her my business and she admitted me reluctantly, insisting that my guide remain outside. This struck me as most inhospitable, until I remembered that the
Liverpool
sailors had been here for two weeks without an officer. They had probably raised the devil in that time.

My eyes began to water as soon as I stepped inside, the air being thick with smoke from a crude chimney of loose, flat stones. The surgeon was not at home, the woman said, but she would show me to the young gentleman. I followed her across the flagstone floor and into a tiny coffin of a room, where a thin form lay on its side, the face obscured beneath a counterpane. By the glow of her lamp, I saw the moisture and mildew on the walls and the scurrying vermin that disappeared into cracks and shadows.

“How long has he been ill?” I asked.

She looked down at the slight figure and shrugged. “Don't rightly know. 'E were bought 'ere nearly a fortnight past and 'e were sick when 'e come.”

“And what is the nature of his illness?”

“Master says 'e got da scurvy.”