Thunder from the Sea (3 page)

“And me, too,” Rowena interrupted.

“I don't know, Nancy. Why don't your folks teach you?”

She looked down at her feet. “Pa's too busy. And Ma can't read, although she pretends she can.” She reached over and grabbed Tom's sleeve. “Promise you won't tell
anyone
that my ma can't read. And don't tell
anyone
that you're goin' to teach me. I want to surprise Ma. And Bert would just make fun of me, see?”

“I didn't say I'd—”

“Let me know when we can start,” Nancy interrupted, getting up to leave. “When I'm older, if I can read, I can get a real job somewhere—maybe even in St. John's.” Nancy took Rowena's hand and headed down the shore. “Don't forget!”

Tom went back to pounding the hemp oakum into the cracks with angry wallops. How did he get himself into this? He'd been at Back o' the Moon one day and already he had to be a fisherman and a teacher as well! Even worse—Bert was just beggin' for a fight!

I'm biting off more than I can chew with those Bosworths
, he thought.

t
hat evening at supper, Tom could tell Fiona had made this first meal together a special event. The table was covered with a beautiful tablecloth. At a closer look Tom could see that it had been made from flour sacks and embroidered with daisies. Fiona lit candles in brass candlesticks. “The kerosene lanterns stink, but these candles smell right nice. They're made from real expensive beeswax, and we don't use them much.”

“Havin' Tom livin' with us is a big occasion,” Enoch said.

Fiona filled dinner plates with pot roast, carrots, and mashed potatoes and placed them on the table.

After saying grace, Enoch said, “We'll be gettin' up at dawn to go fishin'.”

“Bert said he and his pa would be comin' with us,” Tom said.

“Yes, we often go together,” Enoch told him. “Amos is a snapper—a skilled fisherman—even though he's somewhat of a bullamarue.”

“Bert's a bullamarue too,” said Tom. “He's a show-off and a bully!”

“He's just tryin' you out.”

“Well, I'll show him I'm not goin' to be bullied,” Tom stated.

“Ah, good for you!” Fiona applauded. “He needs someone to stand up to him. And I think he'll back down once he realizes he can't torment you.”

Enoch told Tom how his parents had built the house they were living in, and how his father had bought a boat with a real gasoline engine before he died. “He left me a good tight fishin' boat
and
a gas engine. Not many fishermen in these parts have their own engine,” Enoch said proudly.

“We're very lucky to have that boat,” said Fiona. “Don't know how we'd manage without it.”

“Amos pitches in for expenses and gasoline, and we work together most of the time.”

• • •

After a bedtime snack of tea and biscuits with blackberry jam, Tom said good night and went up to bed. He looked out his window and felt a twinge of sadness as he saw the northern lights shifting like windblown red and green curtains across the sky. He suddenly remembered his mother showing him these “merry dancers” when they lived on the Labrador.

Tom undressed and placed his watch under the pillow. The cool sheets smelled of fresh air, sunshine, and balsam. He could hear Fiona singing cheek music as she tidied up the kitchen. “Tooraloora Lorra Lou. Dally wally wooley moo.”

Tom felt homesick for the mission. He knew everyone there and what his place was. He recalled Georgie, his best friend. “We'll never have a ma and pa,” Georgie would say. “We're too old. We're not babies. All anyone would want from us is to work us to death.”

Was Georgie right? Was that all Enoch and his wife wanted from him? Another pair of hands to help around the fishing flakes and wharves? He didn't mind working, but he'd hoped for more
than a house and food. Still, Fiona and Enoch had been kind—fixing up the room for him and making him feel welcome.

Tom was drifting off when heard his name spoken from the parlor. He sat up and strained to listen. Enoch and Fiona were talking about
him
.

“I love havin' Tom here,” Fiona was saying. “He fills up an empty spot in our home.”

“I'm wonderin', though, how he'll be as a fisherman,” Enoch said. “He was right sick when we were comin' home on board the
Constance
.”

“Stop and think, Enoch,” Fiona scolded. “He's leavin' the only home he's ever known to come to this outlandish place to live with strangers. That's enough to make anyone nervous and sick. Besides, it was rough. I'd be chuckin' up my stomach out there myself.”

“I know,” Enoch admitted. “I've felt those waves in my gut many a time. Still, Tom's a scraggy boy, not too strong. Not like Bert.”

“If he were our own, we couldn't choose his build. He could be short and small like my father—who was a strong fisherman and captain, I might add, despite his size.” There was a pause,
and then Fiona went on. “Tom's a good lookin' boy. In fact, he's a bit like you with those sunbleached streaks in his coffee-colored hair.”

“Tom's a good worker,” Enoch went on. “He had that punt completely caulked in no time today.”

“I hope he'll feel at home here,” Fiona said.

“I just wish he'd open up to us more.”

“Be patient, m' dear. He's only been here one day!” Fiona replied.

Their voices became muted and Tom wondered what more they might be saying. Maybe it was just as well that he couldn't hear them. He lay back on the pillow. For so many years he had prayed for a family. Now, would he lose this one because he was too scraggy or too quiet?

Still, Enoch and Fiona had written to the mission for a boy to live with them. They wanted a lad who was good-hearted and the folks at the mission thought of Tom right away. They sent letters and pictures to the Murrays. That was how Fiona and Enoch chose Tom to come live with them.

He prayed silently, as he used to in his cot up north.
Dear Father in Heaven, please don't let me disappoint this family.
As he fell asleep he could
hear the rumbling of the incoming tide—the sound of gurgling waves and deep water—and the tick-tick-ticking of his grandfather's watch.

It was still dark when Fiona, carrying an oil lamp, peeked in his room the next morning. “Time to get up, Tom. Breakfast is ready. Put on warm clothes. It can be right cold and stormy on the sea, even in August.” She started to the stairs and came back. “Tom, I sure hopes you don't think I'm bein' bossy.”

“No. Thanks for remindin' me.” Tom dressed in his warm briggs with the leather patches on the knees, his rubber boots, and flannel shirt. He put his fisherman's knit sweater and hat in his nunny-bag.

“Enoch's already down on the wharves,” Fiona told him as she placed porridge, tea, and biscuits on the table.

Tom gobbled up his breakfast quickly for fear of keeping Enoch waiting. Then Fiona handed him a paper bag. “Here's your lunch, Tom. I don't think you'll get sick today. It's calm out there right now. You should have a good fishin' day.”

Tom went to the door. “See you tonight, Fiona,” he said. He sure didn't want her to know that he hadn't been fishing often, although while he was at the mission he had learned how to clean and dry fish and mend nets.

Enoch, Bert, and another man, whom Tom realized must be Amos, were packing the gear on a gray skiff. “Here he is!” Bert yelled when he saw Tom.

Tom jumped on board. No one seemed to notice or care that he was late.

“This here's my pa,” Bert said, jerking his thumb toward the robust, red-faced man who was putting oil into the engine through a funnel. He looked up and nodded at Tom.

Enoch and Bert were untangling nets. “Can I help?” Tom asked Enoch.

“We got 'em straightened out,” Enoch said. He climbed onto the wharf and untied the bow line. “Start 'er up, Amos,” he called to Bert's father. The engine coughed a few times, then rattled and stopped. Amos tried again, and this time the engine started.

“I'll do the stern line,” Tom offered. He had
hardly finished untying the knots when Amos put the boat's gear into reverse and began backing into the harbor. Then Amos navigated around the tall white-and-red markers that indicated shoal water. Soon they were heading east.

Bert pointed beyond the narrows and the scarlet sunrise. “Red in the mornin', sailors take warnin',” he recited.

“Yep, could be a storm today,” Amos yelled.

The waves began to pick up as they passed through the narrows. Hundreds of black-and-white puffins were nesting on the rocky cliffs of Eastern Head. Gulls dove around them looking for fish. “There's some seals brewin',” Enoch said, pointing to a reef where playful dotards rolled about and splashed their flippers. As the ocean spray tingled on his face, Tom had the same sense of freedom and excitement as the seals. In the distance, two giant icebergs glistened like blue jewels in the sun.

They spent the morning with nets and grapples, and by noon they had a decent catch in the hold. Bert hadn't caused Tom any trouble so far. They pulled in the nets and settled down to eat their
lunch. Fiona had made bologna and cheese sandwiches, and Tom felt so well that he ate every bite.

“Great cod! Take a look at that venomous sky,” Enoch said, pointing to black clouds that seemed to have suddenly gathered overhead. “There's a shockin' big squall headin' this way!”

Tom watched nervously as a line of black sea moved toward them. Heavy swells began to lift and drop their boat. White surf broke over the bow, splashing around their feet. Enoch began bailing water with the dory piggin. “Got to get the water out. We could swamp in these waves!” Tom found a pan and helped Enoch bail.

Hailstones the size of peas spattered the deck. Lightning streaked across the sky, followed by claps of thunder.

Amos started the motor and turned the boat toward shore. Enoch tossed rolls of canvas to Tom and Bert, who pulled the tarps over themselves. The hail soon stopped, but rain was pouring down in sheets. Enoch continued bailing and Tom, the canvas over his head, kept filling, then emptying his pan overboard as well.

As Tom peered from under the tarp he saw
something bobbing in the fearsome swells, something black. A seal? He squinted and called out to Amos. “There's somethin' in the water off the starboard side!”

Amos turned the wheel to the left, while Tom and Enoch scanned the surging waters in front of them.

“I see it!” Tom yelled. “Go slow!”

Amos cut the engine down while trying to keep the boat on an even keel. “What is it?”

Bert came out from under the tarp. “Why are we stoppin'?”

“Probably just a porpoise or a pothead whale,” Enoch said. “Anyway, it's gone.”

“No, there it is,” Tom shouted. “It's a dog!”

“Nonsense,” Amos said with a snort. “How could a dog be out here in the middle of the sea?”

Tom, who hadn't taken his eyes off the water, could now see a slick black head, with shining eyes aimed directly at him. The dog's huge paws paddled madly in the wild surf.

“It
is
a dog. We've got to save him!” Tom stood up untangling his feet from the tarp. “Come on!
Help me!” He reached over and slapped the side of the boat. “Here, boy. Here!”

Enoch yelled to Amos. “We've got to pull 'im on board broadside.”

Amos cut the gas down to idling. “It's too dangerous! We could swamp!”

“We can't even see in this rain,” Bert yelled. “Let him go! He ain't worth it!”

“Come on, Tom. You too, Bert!” Enoch pulled a net without grapples out from under the bow. “We'll try netting him.”

Tom and Enoch each took a side of the net. Muttering, Bert stayed as far from the starboard side as he could. “I'm not riskin' my life for a dumb dog!”

As the dog paddled to the side of the boat, Enoch was just able to cast the net under him. The dog's legs tangled in the net and he struggled to free them. “Get over here, Bert!” Enoch ordered. Grumbling, Bert obeyed, and the trio hoisted the net up onto the deck. The boat tipped perilously as the sopping dog was pulled aboard and water slipped over the gunwales. As soon as the dog was safely on board, Amos pushed the gas
lever, turned more to port, and the skiff leveled.

“Where in Sam Hill did that dog come from?” Amos yelled. “There ain't no boat anywheres around that I can see.”

“He's 'bout scared to death,” Tom said, untangling the dog's paws from the web of hemp ropes. “Poor feller,” he whispered. “Where'd you come from, eh?” The dog shook himself, spraying the group that crowded around him; then he whimpered and shivered as another clap of thunder rumbled.

“Looks like we got us a dog,” Bert yelled to his father.

“Looks like it,” Amos said.

Tom buried his face against the dog's wet fur. This was the beautiful Newfoundland dog he'd dreamed about, and now that he was really here, Tom didn't want to give him up, especially not to Bert.

As if reading Tom's thoughts, Enoch spoke up decisively. “Since Tom is the one who found him, he'll take care of him—until we find the owner, that is.”

Bert mumbled something to his father, but
Amos was too engrossed in heading the boat through the rain and waves to hear him.

Tom looked at Enoch gratefully, then wrapped the tarp around the dog and himself. He held his arms around the trembling animal and whispered cheek music into his ears while the skiff made its way to Back o' the Moon Island.

f
iona, in an oilskin raincoat, was waiting as hey pulled into the wharf and tied up the boat. “I was worried. Such a wild storm!” Her eyes fell upon the dog who peered out from under the tarp. “Where on earth did
that
come from?”