The Badger Riot (3 page)

The midwife gave Bridey the caul and told her to dry it and keep it for the little girl. It would bring her luck, she said.

The name Assumpta didn't seem to suit the little girl with her bright copper hair, clear white skin, and green eyes. Everyone called her Jennie. There was a presence about her. She had a way of standing with her sturdy little legs planted apart, her eyes flashing, ready to take on anyone who crossed her and aroused her fiery temper.

The priest was offended that her parents weren't using the name Assumpta. After all, wasn't he the one who'd picked it out when the godparents had brought her to be baptized? “For a child to be named after the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary into Heaven is an honour beyond compare,” he said.

Bridey was secretly resentful that parents weren't allowed to be present at the baptism of children, and also that the priest had
changed her baby's name from Jennifer to Assumpta Jennifer. She didn't give a fig what he said about the name Assumpta, but she obediently answered, “Yes, Father,” and went off home, calling her sweet little girl Jennie.

After Jennie was born, Phonse came exactly nine months later. Then every year came another, until there were eleven. The last pregnancy, a set of twins, caused complications and Bridey nearly bled to death. Even Missus Annie, the midwife, was worried and sent for the A.N.D. Company doctor.

The only birth control that Bridey knew was to “pull out.” The priest said that birth control was sinful, although the rhythm method was allowed. Bridey couldn't get the hang of it. She was always so busy that she'd forget to count up the days and, besides, Ned would be impatient with her if she turned away from him in bed. What could she do?

Bridey's friend, Missus Crawford, was the kind of woman who knew a bit about everything. She and her husband and their little boy, Vern, had moved down from Buchans Junction a few years ago. Mr. Crawford worked as a sectionman on the railway, travelling up and down the tracks on a speeder to check the tracks for washouts and breaks. Missus Crawford had quickly integrated herself into the town and soon knew much more than Bridey did about the various residents.

After she recovered from the twins' birth, Bridey confided to Missus Crawford that the doctor had told her that having another baby would kill her.

“Look, maid,” said practical Missus Crawford, “you has to do something. It is a bigger sin for you to die and leave eleven young children. Some things are better left to women to decide, rather than priests.”

“So what will I do?” she ventured timidly. “I can't turn Ned away.”

“My dear,” whispered her friend, “don't you know about the things that women inserts into themselves?”

Bridey shook her head.

“Well, for one thing, there's the penny. Put it up just before; leave it there for twenty-four hours after. Same thing with a bit of muslin or cheesecloth soaked in vinegar.”

“How . . . how do I get it . . . up?”

“Jest the length of your forefinger, maid,” she tittered. “The man does the rest and he don't even know he's doing it.”

Bridey was too shy to ask Missus Crawford if she herself used the pennies and the vinegar or the rhythm method or the “pull-out.” The Crawfords only had little Vern, so she probably did.

In the Sullivan bed, Ned was none the wiser.

The first time Rod Anderson went with his father to negotiate a contract with the A.N.D. Company was an eye-opener for the young man. Eli Anderson was a woods contractor. The Company had already approved Rod to take over from the old man when he retired.

The Company manager at that time was Mr. Hughie Cole. They said he ruled Badger with an iron fist. He planked the contract down on his desk. “Now, Mr. Anderson, there it is. It's changed a bit. Profits are down, sir. Profits are down. We're looking for five thousand cords from you this year.”

Eli picked up the contract and read it. “You want an extra thousand cords for the same amount of money?”

“You have good cutting areas, Anderson. The swampers have been in and have your roads cut through for you. You should have no complaints.” Mr. Cole had steely, cold-grey eyes, and when he fixed them on a person there was no compromise.

“Can you give me a few minutes to go over this with my son, Mr. Cole? It is part of his training, you know.”

“Sure, sure, I'll leave you to it. Don't be too long. I'm a busy man.”

Hunched over the paper, shoulder to shoulder, the Andersons scrutinized the contract together. The two men looked very much alike, although they were unable to see the resemblance themselves. Both were big, barrel-chested men, with thick heads of
sandy-coloured hair. Both faces were square with cleft chins and keen green eyes.

The A.N.D. Company had it all spelled out. The contractor's responsibility was to cut a specified number of cords and see that the wood was on the riverbanks for the spring drive.

During that time, the onus was on the Andersons to organize the cut, to hire, shelter and feed the loggers, and to see to the keeping of the time sheets that tracked the number of cords each logger cut and the wages due him. All the food supplies and equipment specified in the agreement had to be bought from the Company stores at Company prices. The scalers came through every two weeks and scaled the cords.

The Company's responsibility was to supply and pay the scalers and to pay the loggers directly from its pay office. At the end of the season, when the contractor's expenses and the men's wages were taken out, what was left was the contractor's profit. As a dutiful son, Rod listened to his father's explanations.

Rod heard Mr. Cole's voice as he came back into the room. “What about it, young fella? Meets with your approval, does it?”

“Yes sir,” he replied, and his father signed up for another year. Rod couldn't help thinking that if his brother Melvin were here he'd be sitting on the same chair instead of him and enjoying every minute of this, his whole being concentrated on the prospect of cutting the wood, managing the camp, making a profit.

Life sure has a way of taking strange turns
, Rod thought glumly. Melvin was two years older than Rod, tall, dark and slight like their mother. It had been assumed that he would take over from the old man. From the time they were kids, their father had always drilled this into them. “Melvin is going to step into my logans when I gives it up,” he'd say. “And what are we going to get for you to do, Rod, me son?”

But Rod didn't know. He thought he might just follow along behind Melvin and the old man. Then, the summer he was thirteen and Melvin fifteen, their father took them to visit his brother, Aaron,
in Port aux Basques. Aaron was purser aboard the SS
Caribou
that steamed between Newfoundland and Canada.

The family took the train from Badger, up over the Topsails – Main, Mizzen and Gaff – through to Howley, Deer Lake and Corner Brook, and then on over to Port aux Basques. The train trip was a wonder of wonders for the two young boys. As the train rattled along, they raced from one end of her to the other, pretending to be conductors.

During their stay in Port aux Basques, Uncle Aaron was called back to work on his ship. He asked the boys if they'd like to go with him across to North Sydney for the night. Melvin and Rod were beside themselves with excitement.

Melvin was sick all the way over and on the way back. He allowed that he never wanted to see a drop of salt water again. Rod, however, fell in love. As the handsome new SS
Caribou
plowed through the waves, he felt an excitement like never before. His uncle recognized it, being the same way himself. It was a love for the sea. Rod left poor Melvin groaning in the bunk and dogged his uncle throughout the ship, exhilarated by the thought of the deep wild ocean beneath his feet, revelling in the feel of his body adjusting to its rhythm.

“You have a sailor there, Eli,” Uncle Aaron exclaimed when they got back. “Rod, my boy, if you wants to come over in the summer, I'll find you a spot on one of the boats fishing out of the Bay of Islands. You'll know after that if you really wants to be on the water or not.”

Eli was a bit taken aback. He'd never expected to have his youngest son take to the sea, but now he supposed that it made sense – two brothers, each taking different paths, as he and Aaron had done years ago.

Melvin went into the camps with his father every chance he got, apprenticing to step into the contractor's job. In the beginning he worked as water boy, carrying drinking water to the men. Another summer he was a cookee. After that he became a cutter. He loved the woods life as his brother loved the sea.

Rod worked the first summer on the fishing boats. The next summer, when he was fifteen, his uncle got him on the
Caribou
as a cabin boy. Rod knew that he had found his place in the world at last. Let Pop and Melvin have the Badger woods.

It was the winter of 1931. Rod was in the middle of grade eleven and Melvin, who had finished two years earlier, was working full-time with his father. Christmas was coming up. School was closed and Eli and Melvin had come down from the camp for the holidays.

Eli had the gout. He sat by the kitchen stove with his foot propped up on a pillow. “Boys, I needs you fellas to go in over the ridge and haul out them sticks we cut last summer. We'll get them sawed up over Christmas and have firewood enough for most of the winter.”

The boys were all for it. Men and boys alike looked forward to a trip in the woods for firewood. They'd take the horse and slide, food for a boil-up and, early in the morning, off they would go. Melvin and Rod went to bed with their plans in place for the next day.

But in the morning, Rod was sick. He had a cold on his chest and was running a fever. His mother made him stay in bed with a mustard plaster on his chest.

“That's all right, Pop,” Melvin said. “Sure there's nothing to that. I'll go in by myself. I don't have any cutting to do, just load the few logs and come on back.”

His father wasn't so sure. “No b'y, I'll go with you. Let me try and get me boot on over me gouty old foot.”

But the boot wouldn't go on. The minute the leather touched the toe, the searing pain almost sent the old man through the ceiling.

Though his parents weren't keen on his going, Melvin set out alone. To people born and raised in the woods towns, safety was bred into them. They took care how to chop a tree so the axe never cut into their foot, how to stand aside as the tree fell, and mark their way in the forest so as not to get lost. This little jaunt was without danger. The trees were cut. It was only load them on and come back.

The sticks of wood were in over the ridge, two miles west in on a woods road. It was almost noon on a nice sunny day when Melvin got there. He was in no hurry. The horse, a Newfoundland pony, was sure and steady. He'd get the wood, be home before dark and be down by Coleman's Restaurant later to meet his girlfriend. All was right with the world.

At home, Rod's cough got worse and his fever climbed higher. Around midday, his mother sent Eli to fetch the doctor. His father cut the toe out of his rubber boot, so that his swollen toe was sticking out, and walked down the road to find help for his son.

Lying in bed, burning up with a temperature of 105°F on the mercury thermometer, Rod tossed the covers off and shouted. His mother sat beside him, trying to keep a cold cloth on his forehead. There was a pan of water on the little table by his bed that his mother was using to wring out the cloth. His arm struck out blindly and sent it crashing to the floor.

In his delirium, Rod thought he heard Melvin's shout, the horse's whinny, and a crash. He cried out, “No, Melvin, no!” But there was only silence and blackness. Rod's fevered brain had had enough and he lapsed into unconsciousness.

He awoke to the sound of men's voices. His mother was still with him, and his father and the doctor were standing at the foot of the bed. “You have a sick young man there, Mr. Anderson. His temperature is what concerns me. I'll give you some medicine to help bring it down. Keep him calm and rested for the next few days.”

Rod struggled to get up. “Pop,” he wheezed. “Have to go and help Melv. Melv's in trouble.” He flopped back on the pillow as blackness closed over him once more.

When he awoke, wrung out with sweat, daylight was streaming in through the lace curtains. The wind buffeted the house from outside but underneath the sound he could hear someone sobbing. His chest hurt when he drew his breath, but the pain in his head was not quite as bad as before. His throat was raw, his voice hoarse.

“Hello? Mom? Pop? Hello?”

He heard movements and his mother and father came into the room. When he saw their faces, Rod knew something was terribly wrong. What was it? He remembered from his delirium images of his brother crying out.

“Where's Melv? Something happened to Melv.” The pain was coming back into his head.

His mother sat on the bed and took his hand. His father turned away and stood looking out the window. He sighed and cleared his throat. “Take it easy, my son. Take it easy. You've been pretty sick you know, though it seems you've turned the corner now.”

“Pop . . . please,” Rod whispered hoarsely. “I'm fine. Just tell me.” He lay back on the pillow.

Turning away from the window and toward his son, Eli's face looked like it had aged twenty years. He approached the bed and said softly, “I think we should wait awhile till you're feeling a bit better. First have a drop of warm broth your mother made for you. It will help build back your strength.”

Rod closed his eyes and dutifully submitted to the ministrations of his mother, but after a couple of sips his head fell back and he motioned that he'd had enough. His mother was fussing over him, straightening out the blankets, when Rod saw tears dropping down on the coverlet. She was crying quietly. He reached out and stilled his mother's hand.