The Cartographer of No Man's Land: A Novel (35 page)

“Well, don’t you believe it about the horses,” Lady Bromley said briskly, taking the sack of groceries from Alvin. “He must have heard a rumor and taken it as fact. That’s what people do when they let their emotions blind them.”

Simon snapped to his grandfather’s defense. “That’s what
he
says about rumors. And it wasn’t him. It was George Mather, and he was there.”

“George of all people! I don’t know why you’d be talking with him nor trusting a single thing he says.” Behind her Alvin nodded in agreement. She paid for her purchases and left.

“Don’t you know George is nuts?” Zenus asked when the door banged shut.

A
WEEK LATER
the last vestiges of dirty snow melted away, and the air turned gentle with a hint of spring. Simon asked if Charlotte might be able to go for a short sail. Putnam Pugsley and Davy Hume were headed to Big Tancook to pick up a couple of rowboats. Lady Bromley wasn’t home, thankfully. Lord Bromley raised his glass of beer. “Take the girl out!” he wheezed. “She’s hardly seen the sun!” He leaned on the newel post. “Charlotte! Charlotte Plante! The MacGrath boy is here to carry you off to an island! Be home before supper and you’ll get away with it!”

It was a wet ride over. Charlotte plunked down on the floorboards of the cockpit, clutching her hat and pulling her unwieldy cloak around her. Simon tried to get her to sit up with him on the windward rail, but she shook her head.

“Afraid, girl? H’ain’t you never been onto a boat?” Putnam’s pale blue eyes shifted from her to the sails and back. “Didn’t bring the right clothes for it, did you?” He handed Davy the tiller and went forward to haul out a stiff old foresail, which he bundled around her. He was old and so thin that his cinched-up trousers ballooned around his hips. He looked frail enough to blow away, but his arms were sinewy and strong.

The
Glory B
, their Tancook knockabout schooner, heeled over in the wind, pounding through the waves with a steady spray off her bow. A comforting, rhythmic sound. Charlotte ducked down, head on her knees, and asked if a storm was coming. Said she didn’t know how to swim.

This set Putnam and Davy to laughing. “Oooo hee, look out now, I see a blue-wind storm comin’, eh Putnam!” Davy said.

Putnam squinted out off the port quarter. “You’d be sorely right, there, now Davy. Drop the main! Batten the hatches! She’s a-goin’ over!”

Charlotte looked wildly about, bracing herself against the thwart. Putnam and Davy laughed some more. Simon told them to quit it, and they did. “We’re having our bit of fun, m’dear. Not a storm in sight,” Putnam said. “And not a one of us knows how to swim, except Simon here. Why would we? T’wouldn’t take long to freeze to death in this water. Only reason Simon knows how is, like his father before him, he was dragged to some pond or other by his grandfather and made to learn. Eh, Simon?”

“May not be a storm coming, but let’s just hope we don’t run into one of the Kaiser’s subs,” Davy said ominously. “Simon, you keep a look-see for that signal tower the schoolteacher’s building on the other side of the Point.”

“It
isn’t
a signal tower,” Simon said. “It’s a
lookout tower
. Mr. Heist wants to get up above the trees at the edge of his place to see the bay.”

“That what he told you?” Davy asked.

“Yep.” Simon looked Davy in the eyes.

“Why’nt he cut them trees down, now, eh? Who builds a tower to see a view?”

“Just talk, Davy,” Putnam put in. “Don’t even know as he’d know how to pound a nail, let alone build a tower.”

“I hear he got some boys over to Blandford to come out and build it.”

Simon could hardly stand it. “Well, it
isn’t
true. I know for a fact, he isn’t trying to signal anyone.”

“Never know who’s who in this world. Them you think is one thing turn out to be another,” Davy said.

“A dark view of the world, there, Davy, m’boy,” Putnam noted.

“Talk is he won’t be rehired. Heard it from some as has boys in his class.”

“On grounds their boys won’t make it out of sixth grade?” Putnam answered.

“You can make fun all you want, Putnam.
Herr Heist
, is what some calls him. Wouldn’t that be right now, eh, Miss Plante?” But Charlotte didn’t seem to hear him. “I’m not saying I call him that, I’m just saying he’s sure to have folks over there on the other team.”

“What do you mean, not rehired? He’s as loyal as anyone. My grandfather said!” Simon shouted over the wind at the two of them.

“Your grandfather? What’s he know about loyalty? Were it up to him, why—”

“The boy has spoken,” Putnam cut in, measuring out each word with a look that shut Davy up. “Boy’s father is over there, don’t forget.” He turned to Simon, “Any word, Simon?” Simon shook his head. “No word is a good word,” Putnam said.

Simon looked resolutely toward the bow. Fire Mr. Heist? He was the best teacher they’d ever had. Everyone said so.

Charlotte remained a muffled heap under the sail, and Simon sullen, so Putnam decided it was time for a story. Eyeing the clouds banking on the horizon, he asked Charlotte if she’d ever heard how a true blue-wind storm had come in on the Banks and blown Simon’s grandfather off them forever. “A finer schooner fisherman you’d never find,” he said. “A hard man, ran his boy hard, ran us hard, but knew where the fish was, like he had the ear of God.”

Charlotte asked what a blue-wind storm was. Simon was torn between wanting to impress her and worrying that the story might make her more afraid than she sadly appeared to be. He had so hoped she’d be good on the boat.

“There we was on the
Zebulon Keddy
. Things had been right calm,” Putnam began in his storytelling voice. “Then strange things happened. The temperature shifted of a sudden. Warmed up, but with pockets of cold with dead air in them. Everyone knew what that meant.” He waited until Charlotte asked “What?” to be sure he had a good audience.

“Gale coming, she’s gonna blow,” Putnam said with grave foreboding. “Blue-wind storm. Duncan, Simon Peter’s grandfather, got his boys back in right quick and got the dories stowed. The boat was hove-to, to ride it out. Wind came up like a bat out of hell. Murder and lights she blew, like we knew she would, and churned up the seas to match.” Another dramatic pause.

Charlotte obliged him. “Then what?” Her entire head was now out of the sail.

“Wind veered! That’s what. Come up even stronger. Sea went black. Foam roaring off the crests and waves a-roarin’ down over us. Other fellers were hove-to, but some tried to run her out. Even under bare poles, the seas were throwing green water over the bow, over the sides, over the stern! Fellers thought they might drown where they stood. When the seas calmed some and the wind lightened a bit, we could see the
Alice Miner
, a schooner from Gloucester. Them boys were running home, loaded to the gills with fish, they was. Nearly a full set flying. Greed driving their dash to get in ahead of the fleet.” He looked at her darkly.

“Ohhh, a race!” Charlotte whispered, eyes bright.

“A
race
? Not hardly, unless first-place trophy was best price for the catch. We’re talking Banks fishermen! Not fancy yacht racing!” He turned to Simon. “Where’d you get this girl, Simon Peter?”

“She’s from England,” Simon said.

“Ahhh . . . alright now. So the
Alice Miner
was overpowered, too much sail up. They were trying to haul them down when her masts snapped in two, one after the other. Her sails dragged in the seas and the seas were foaming at the mouth and pulling her sideways, then onto her side, and before they could cut the rigging, she was a goin’ over.” He looked from Charlotte to Simon. “But before she did, Duncan MacGrath steered smartly up to her under just enough sail to keep headway, steady in the wind without going into irons.”

“Irons! What’s that mean?” Charlotte sat up straighter.

Simon said, “You lose headway, which means you lose steerage, which means you can just be rolled over by a heavy sea.”

“Very nice, Simon.” Putnam lifted his cap, revealing a flash of his narrow bald head. “I’ve come near the end. Do I go on?”

“Yes!” Charlotte said.

Simon put in that Putnam’s father had been a collector in Newfoundland. Of course, then he had to explain that a collector was someone who went from village to village and was fed and put up for nights at a time, his job being to gather up stories and tell them.

“No finer teller of tales in all of Newfoundland,” Putnam said, allowing the interruption.

“Putnam here, not near as good as his father,” Davy put in.

Putnam noted that he didn’t have time to do this one justice, being as close as they were to Big Tancook, so he was giving the short version and was just as pleased to leave it there if he should suffer further disruption. He waited for encouragement, which he got from all three of them.

“So, let’s see . . . we fellers see the
Alice Miner
is foundering bad. Duncan, expert helmsman as he was, pulls us up just close enough to throw out lifelines. Men in the water by then and men sliding off the deck, and us boys get the whole crew off except one—boy about your age, Simon Peter. The boy was tangled in the lines. The
Miner
was on her side by then, and t’wouldn’t be long. We make out the boy—see him carried high and dropped low in the troughs. Bobbing up and disappearing. Then finally he pops snug up next to the hull as the
Miner
starts to roll. But he couldn’t free himself from the rigging, and they couldn’t pull him in. Duncan couldn’t rest with that. ‘Unlash that dory!’ he shouts. ‘I’m going over to him.’ A bunch of boys try to drive some reason into him, but he gives them no heed. Over the dory goes and Duncan down in it, and that’s all the time it took for the
Alice Miner
to slip under the waves and drag that boy to the bottom. Fellers say on a cold, blue-wind night, when there’s a frosty moan about, you can still see his hand rising up from below.”

“Seen him myself of a time or two. Fellers say he’s still trying to grab ahold of Duncan,” Davy said. “Last time
I
heard it, Duncan was over the side and in the water swimming after the boy! Makes a much better story for my money.”

“Who told it that way?” Putnam asked hotly.

“None other than Dolf Chandler.”

“Well, he wan’t there, was he? Nor Wallace. Dolf got that story from the bottom of a bottle, is what. Duncan had ripped off his sou’wester and was about to jump in, but I’m telling you, that boy went down afore he made it. Duncan would have been sucked in the undertow if he’d a swum over. But he sees that boy go down and come back and sailed the
Zebulon Keddy
straight for home. Never went out again.”

“Never again?” Charlotte whispered.

“Never again,” Putnam said grimly, looking straight over the bow. “Not to the Banks, anyway. Sold the boat, had Reuben Heisler build him the
Lauralee
for coastal trade. Named the boat for his wife, in her grave two years, and the baby by the same name. Blamed himself, is what Ida Corkum says, for his wife’s death. That boy was the final straw. Never went to the Banks again.”

“Afraid that boy’s arm would drag him under,” Davy added with a shake of his head.

“Rightly so,” Putnam said. “Chased him right off the water.”

“So that’s why he didn’t let your dad . . .” Charlotte looked over at Simon.

“No he wasn’t!” Simon said. “He wasn’t
afraid
!” Up to now he’d only considered the heroic part of the story—saving the crew, all but one. “He came back to take care of Dad.”

“You’re full of complaints,” Davy said. “That boy is why he come back and why he stayed away. A story is a story. Is what it is.”

Putnam nodded solemnly as they eased the sheets and headed toward the Tancook harbor. Then he looked down at Charlotte. “How you feeling now, m’dear? I see some color back onto your cheeks. I believe you can come up without getting washed overboard. Take a seat next to me. Wind’s behind us, now. See? Makes a gentler ride. Help her up, Simon.”

Simon clasped her hands and leaned back, surprised at the supple strength of her grasp. Davy steadied her at the waist. “You’re a hefty one, you are. Good ballast, eh Putnam?” Davy winked. Charlotte sat just forward of Putnam, surprisingly reinvigorated. Putnam patted her knee and pointed. “See now? Big Tancook dead ahead.”

“Why’s it called Big Tancook?” she asked.

“Because it isn’t Little Tancook. That’s why. There’s Little Tancook over to port. And there be our rowboats tied to that stake. Simon, grab that boat hook and catch that line when I come around. We’ll tie them onto the stern.”

Simon hooked the line and knelt to untie the boats from the stake. Davy fended them off as Simon, with a bit of a swagger, walked the line back toward the stern just before he tripped on a cleat. It was Charlotte who caught the line that fell from his hand. And Charlotte who inched her way aft, balancing with newfound ease, to hand the line to Davy, who secured it to a ring on the stern.

“Well, now, m’dear,” said Putnam when the boats were lined up smartly behind them and the sails filled again, “you’re to come out with us any time. Teach the boy here how to stay upright.”