The Doryman (4 page)

Chapter Eight

O
ne morning Captain Brinton called Richard to the bridge. The Captain patted his chest, a habit he'd carried over from his asthmatic childhood, as the boy walked in slowly, tentatively. Clearly Richard was frightened to death of the Skipper, which, of course, Brinton easily recognized. He knew that the boy must surely fear being summoned by the Captain. No doubt he was afraid he'd be sent back home for some infraction that only the Skipper had noticed. Brinton surveyed the clothes stretched tight on the boy's growing body – he was covered in a sweater coat that seemed to be shrinking – and saw the paleness of his face. He tried to set the lad at ease.

“How old are you, son?” he asked in a low voice, trying to sound gentle.

“Fifteen, sir,” Richard answered, staring at the deck.

“Fifteen,” the Captain repeated, thinking the boy looked barely into his teens. He paused. “Well, I suppose that's an all right age for a boy to start Banks fishing. And your father is with you.”

“Yes, sir,” Richard said, still eyeing the deck.

“Relax, lad,” the Captain said. “I hope it's going well for you.”

“Yes, sir,” said Richard.

“Good, then,” Brinton answered. “Will you run up to the store for me and get this order? It's my personal order. I need tobacco and such for the spring trip. It's all written here.” He pulled a note from his breast pocket and glanced over it. “Can you read, young Hanrahan?”

“Yes, sir, a little, I mean, I ...” Richard's tongue seemed to be thick and unmoving.

“That's good, very good,” the Captain interrupted, trying to rescue the lad from the despair that was evident on his face. God, the boy would have to toughen up a little. “Anyway, the shopkeeper can read and so can the serving girls, so you'll have no trouble.”

Richard stood in his place.

“Well, be on with you, then,” the Captain said. “Off you go.”

Richard clutched the note in his right fist. Here at last was a chance to see some of Burin in daylight all by himself. The store was at the far end of Bull's Cove, and Richard made his way along the ruts in the road. The snow that had covered them most of the winter had melted from the heat of the abundant traffic.
It'll take awhile for the snow to melt at home
, Richard thought, there being such little traffic. Along the way, he passed two ladies with great feathered hats on their heads. Were the hats heavy? he wondered. He had never seen such high, fancy hats; in Little Bay, the women only wore bonnets. So pretty these were here. He tried to picture his mother in such a hat, but quickly decided it would not suit her. And where would she wear it?

One horse and rider after another went by him in both directions. Most of the horses were dark as the night. Only a few had thick legs and hooves like Hero back home. Richard realized that he was alone now, although he was surrounded by people and their noisy activity. No one was telling him how to push the wheelbarrow or paint the trim on a dory. The sternness that radiated from his father was left down there on the wharf while he was up here in the town. For the first time in many weeks, he felt the busy feeling in his head cease. He relished the feeling and settled into a relaxing stroll to the store.

Finally he reached it. It was in a large, flat-roofed building next to one of the grandest houses in Burin. The house, painted white like most in the town, had rows of windows and a fence that surrounded it. Richard's eyes settled on it. Then he walked up the steps to the store, slowly, taking it all in. He noticed the white letters on the window. He tried to read them:
so-ap
, what's that?
Ladies' dresses
. He recognized that one. Wouldn't it be something if he could save enough to buy his mother a dress? And maybe dresses for his little sisters? They would be so happy, and his mother could have a rest for a few evenings instead of blinding herself with needles and thread.
Hats
, that was an easy one: his surname started with “H”.
Wash-buckets
, he figured that one out. Same with
molasses
, and
rice
. But
S-ho-es
, he didn't know what that was. Darn, he wished he'd had more schooling. His heart cried out for the little classroom that had cocooned him those few winters, but that he'd left behind long ago, forever.

His thoughts were broken by a voice that sounded harsh at first. “Who are you?” it said. “What are you doing?”

Richard looked away from the window to see a blond boy, a head taller than himself. The boy was dressed in dark overalls and wore a clean heavy jacket over them. On his head was a work cap of the kind Richard had seen the tradesmen wear.

“I'm Richard,” he answered, wondering for the second time that day if he was in trouble.

“Oh, Richard who? And where are you from?” the bigger boy asked, his brow creased in seriousness.

“Hanrahan, from Little Bay,” Richard said.

“Oh. Good afternoon. I'm Peter, Peter Moulton from Salt Pond, but I live here in the harbour now.” His features softened, and Richard relaxed with the knowledge that the boy was merely curious. He nodded.

“What're you doing here then?” Peter asked.

“Fishing, well, getting ready for the spring trip,” Richard said, feeling a little surge of pride. “My father and I are on the
Laura Claire.
She's that big schooner down there.” He pointed to the dockside, where the activity looked like it was being carried out by little dolls far away.

“Hmmm. Aren't you too young for that, though? You're not very big. How old are you?” Peter asked.

“Fifteen, I turned fifteen on Christmas Eve,” Richard said. “I was born in 1888. How old are you?”

“You don't look that old. I'm sixteen,” said Peter. “And you haven't asked me what I do here, but I'm going to assume you're wondering and tell you anyway.” He paused and stared at Richard. “Well, I'm a shipwright.”

“A shipwright?” Richard repeated, not quite sure what Peter meant.

“Yes, well, I'm learning to be a shipwright,” Peter answered. “I'm an apprentice. I work with my uncles over there.” His arm flew in the direction of two large wooden buildings down by the water.

“Matty and Tim on our crew make boats in the winter,” Richard said, thinking of his fellow crew members. “That's winter work, building boats. Do you fish, too? Are you going on the spring trip?”

“No,” Peter shook his head. “I work here year-round. Lots of us stay ashore. The coopers, the sailmakers, blacksmiths, and tinsmiths. We never go out to the Banks. Or to the shore fishery, either. We stay here ashore.”

Richard could not fathom a man or boy who did not go to sea. He looked quizzically at Peter, scarcely believing what his ears were telling him. None of the men in Little Bay stayed ashore, not unless they were on their deathbeds.

“Boatbuilding is winter work for some men,” Peter continued. “For fellows who do the odd bit of building: dories and western boats. And lots of those fellows go to the Banks come spring. But for us, shipbuilding is year-round work.” His chest puffed up proudly. “Mostly we build schooners. We use models to start. I know how to pick the wood and saw the planking and frame for small schooners already. I can easily build a dory.”

As Richard's blue eyes stared up at him unblinking, he continued. “Lots and lots of schooners are being built in this country now. Hundreds of them, no, thousands. Schooners are the thing now. They'll be in Newfoundland forever.”

“I helped my father build a bulkhead for our double dory last week,” Richard ventured. “I liked doing it, it was good work.”

Peter nodded.

“I like shore work,” Richard added.

“Yes,” Peter said. “And that's only a small job, building a bulkhead for a dory. Imagine what it's like building schooners all the year round.” His eyes widened, and Richard nodded solemnly. Did he dare hope he could get work like this someday? Some of the men had said he was good at carpentry, a real quick learner, they'd said.

“Uh oh,” Richard said, suddenly remembering why he was here on the steps of the store. “I've got to go. I've got to get things for the Captain. Tobacco and such. I better hurry. I'll see you again, Peter.”

Peter tipped his cap in Richard's direction as the boy rushed into the store.

*

In the forecastle at night, Richard heard stories that he thought would scare the life out of him. He had grown up hearing of shipwrecks and drowned fishermen, but never had these tales seemed so real. He had seen his long-faced father and uncles bury the victims of storms and gales, but it never occurred to him how dangerous the Banks fishery really was. This was rapidly changing now as he lay in the hold of the
Laura Claire
.

Chapter Nine

T
here were literally thousands of shipwrecks off Newfoundland. A century before Richard went on his first trip to the Banks, one in eight of the ships that left Bristol heading for Newfoundland never made it. It's likely that they were lost, not near England but on the western side of the Atlantic, because the western side of an ocean is always the roughest. Since then, in the last forty years of the nineteenth century, more than 2,000 men died in almost 100 shipwrecks near Cape Race on Newfoundland's southeastern tip. Thousands of fishing vessels had been lost there and elsewhere on the island, including hundreds of schooners which were the hope and pride of the whole bay and the rest of the South Coast.

Ships sank and lives were lost because there were no weather forecasts, or because those weather forecasts they did have were inadequate. Predicting weather for the island, where the cold Labrador Current clashes with the warm Gulf Stream, was much more of an art than a science, and notoriously difficult to do. Sometimes weather forecasts were rendered useless by sudden storms that no one expected, strong currents that defied study, and high winds and seas that daunted even the most experienced captains and mates. Often the winds carried rain, drizzle, and dense fog that reduced visibility at sea to almost nothing. Sometimes these storms escalated to August Gales, the demons that haunted the South Coast and its people. These gales were the violent aftermaths of hurricanes from the faraway south. They would often take the lives of fishermen.

Many schooner captains did not have good navigational aids. Magnetic compasses and sounding leads were all subject to error. Few captains had chronometers which could establish longitude and latitude; these were too expensive.

Sometimes, in the winds and the fog, vessels hit sunkers, large rocks lying in the water that easily tore ships to bits. Human error, too, brought on by fatigue, inexperience, or fear, also contributed to the shocking death toll. Every year on the South Coast the numbers of widows and orphans grew, but the men still fished. This was Newfoundland, and they had no choice if they were to eat and live.

The South Coast fishermen went right out to the Grand Banks, more than 150 miles off the southeast tip of the island. Famous as the world's richest fishing grounds, the Grand Banks had a depth of between twenty-five and ninety-five fathoms and were 36,000 square miles. They were a vast expanse of dangerous, grey waters and black sky. The Outer Bank, or Flemish Cap as some called it, is a continuation of the Grand Banks, extending even farther into the Atlantic Ocean. The Flemish Cap was as deep as 160 fathoms. The cod lived here: huge steak cod, bigger than some men, and with spines that seemed made of steel. And cod was Newfoundland currency.

These were not the only Banks, though. There were many more, totalling 75,000 square miles – the size of a respectable country on some continents. There was St. Pierre Bank, Green Bank, Whale Bank, and Mizzen Bank. The South Coast schooner fishermen knew these places like they knew the lay of the little rooms in their homes. They knew Banquereau, first named by the Basques, and the Virgin Rocks, where so many vessels were lost. Farther west, they fished off Burgeo Bank and Rose Blanche Bank. There was also Brown's Bank, LaHavre Bank, christened by the French, and many more. And there was Cape St. Mary's, the jewel in the crown. “Cape St. Mary's pays for all” was what the Placentia Bay fishermen reassuringly told each other.

Nations had fought over these Banks and the rich fish harvests they yielded as long as memory went and beyond. France, Spain, Portugal, England, Canada, America, Newfoundland, all these places had laid claim to the Banks on Newfoundland's doorstep. Shots had been fired and wars initiated. Cod was King and everyone wanted a part of it.

Chapter Ten

T
he men of the
Laura Claire
ended their shore work in Burin. The water tank behind the cookstove was filled and the hogshead in the galley loaded with provisions. The dories were in good repair; the trawls, tubs, and tables ready for what lay ahead. The men had been at it for well over a month and hadn't earned one cent in all that time, as Steve had told his shocked son some weeks before. They weren't paid anything for the preparation work. In fact, they often went into debt during this time. They needed new bait hooks from the merchants and new trawls, sometimes even new tubs for their trawls. They needed paint, too, for the dories, and rubber boots and oilskins and sou'westers, the hats they wore. All this added up and was marked against the money they would earn on the Banks. They usually bought from the same merchant who owned the schooner or western boat they were on.

Actually, they wouldn't earn any money at all. No coins or bills would be placed in their hands when the trip ended or the season was over. Instead, they were paid in kind, given by the merchant goods to the value of the total their fish was worth: sugar, flour, Kingfisher boots, tea, maybe some cloth. The numbers were the merchant's, and not all merchants were benevolent. The dorymen didn't question them.

All over the island, this system ruled their lives and was called the truck system. Rarely were Steve and the others ever out of debt. Some years they might crawl a little closer to the zero line on their accounts, but more often than not they sank further into debt, and they got just enough goods to get them through the winter until the spring trip. Sometimes they didn't get that much. It depended on the price of fish, and its quality. There were winters when they knew what it was to scrape the bottom of the flour barrel. There wasn't much satisfaction in this side of their lives. It was full of fear and worry. At these times they were thankful for the bounty of the land and sea, which kept hunger at bay; it offered them everything from dandelion greens to partridge to rich, dark seal meat and clams that they dug from the shore.

This trip the
Laura Claire
headed to St. Pierre Bank, not far from the only remaining land in North America over which France had control. As they sailed south past Chapeau Rouge – “Red Hat,” the French dubbed it – Richard watched the land and saw that its form kept changing. The voyage out was the only time the dorymen could relax, though Steve always found something to do, even if it was just scrubbing out the forecastle again.

“That's the way of Chapeau Rouge,” Steve remarked as he joined his son at the railing. He was silent for a minute, and all they could hear was the constant chop-chop of the waves.

Then he said suddenly, “Better get back to work now. Captain won't like dawdling. This ain't a holiday.”

*

Richard's heart pounded as he and his father rowed their dory away from the schooner before dawn two days later. It was strange being on the water like this, even before the first light of day. It gave him an eerie feeling. And a lonely one. It was as if the rest of the world had disappeared and they were floating even farther away from it.

At two-thirty that morning, Captain Brinton had taken soundings and dropped anchor. Then, at his command, the men had begun baiting up under a kerosene lamp attached to the mainsail. In the hold, which took up most of the belly of the schooner, they shovelled herring into baskets. Then they brought the baskets on deck, where they unloaded the herring and chopped it roughly with bait knives, trying not to get cut. Then they baited their hooks quickly in the cold black of the night. Richard's lips were chapped, but he hardly noticed this as he gobbled his breakfast of fish chowder after two hours of baiting.

They had hurriedly unstacked the dories and put the thwarts and bulkheads back in. Still rushing, they fixed kerosene lamps to the gunwales of each dory. In each little boat they put two tubs of baited trawl, two light kedge anchors and buoys, a large, two-pronged fork for pitching fish, an extra barrel of bait, a breadbox with a bit of grub in it, and an earthenware jug of fresh water for the inevitable thirst they would feel in the dark salt air. Their aim was to get as much fishing in as they could before nightfall and the dangers it brought.

Now, in the early dawn, his stomach churned as it had when they'd left Burin. Sometimes the food inside seemed to jump up into his chest, but he always managed to swallow it. He felt dizzy, too, and had to work hard to focus his eyes at times. In the bunk at night, it was as if his body were spinning like a top; in fact, the image of his little brother Jimmy spinning a top never left his head. It was seasickness, he reasoned, had to be. But he wouldn't dare let on, not to anyone. He didn't know what his father would say. Or the Captain. None of the other men seemed ill, and he didn't want to let anyone down. So he suffered through it and somehow managed to keep his grub inside. He didn't know that throwing up would bring at least some relief for a time. No one had told him this and he didn't ask.

Richard thought, and hoped, his sickness might disappear when he was in Dory Number 2 with his father. It was a smaller boat with no funny smells, and they'd be in the bracing fresh air. It wouldn't be unlike the shore fishery, he told himself.

But now he recalled that even off Beau Bois, a small boat was pretty sheltered, not like here on the open sea. And Little Bay was doubly sheltered. He'd never been out in storms or even rough weather, which he considered this to be, though it seemed not to faze his father. There was no denying he was a sufferer of seasickness. Did it ever get better? Did it go away? Was there anything for it? he wondered.

As the schooner disappeared into the damp fog that was characteristic of the St. Pierre Bank, he grew frightened in the little dory. What would happen to them if a storm came up or a sudden tidal wave carried them away? He'd heard of tidal waves around here, and everyone knew there was no telling when a storm would erupt. Just how far from the ship were they? It seemed as if they had been rowing forever. In spite of the open air, Richard still felt queasy and his arms ached from rowing. His father's impatience with him was making him feel worse. Steve was like a rider pushing his horse to the limit. Richard was too tired and sick to realize that such slaving was his father's only insurance against a hungry belly.

Then they stopped rowing. Or, rather, Steve did, saying nothing, and Richard quit rowing, too. He hoped against hope that they'd have a little break now, maybe eat a bit of hardtack. As difficult as it was to get it down, hardtack was the only thing that his belly could tolerate.

But no, the next phase of work started immediately, as Steve set out their first line and tied the dory to the buoy at the far end of the trawl lines. There was a little rest, finally, though Richard could scarcely enjoy it as he rocked helplessly in the boat, fighting a rising queasiness. Steve looked at his son suspiciously but said nothing. Instead he lit a cigarette and smoked it, the wisps of smoke adding to the cocktail of smells and sensations threatening Richard's stability.

Then, suddenly, they began to underrun their trawls. They pulled up the line – the work giving Richard a welcome respite from thoughts of his plight – with Steve in the bow gaffing the fish off the hooks. Richard noted the cruelty of his father's actions, of any fisherman's actions, including his own, but he dismissed it and rebaited the hooks. Then he dropped the line back into the inky sea to wait for more fish.

Steve counted every shiny wet fish that appeared in their little boat.

“Count them yourself,” he ordered Richard. “Every fish. Never trust the skipper or anyone else to count them for you. You just don't know.”

Richard had learned that they would be paid by the fish, specifically the number of fish they caught. It didn't matter then to the fishermen if they caught small fish or huge ones; weight didn't matter, only numbers did.

Some five hours later they rowed back to the schooner. The dories had left the
Laura Claire
like the spokes of a wheel, going outward away from her and each other. Now they returned in balletic fashion.

Richard wondered how one dory's lines could get entangled in another with a system like this. He knew this happened, but he couldn't see how. He was afraid to ask, though. Besides, he didn't really care; he was feeling unwell again. He was cold, and his stomach refused to settle down. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed blood trickled down his father's right hand, but the older man ignored it and rowed as if his life depended on it.

Richard and Steve used pitchforks to unload the slimy, silvery cod from the dory onto the schooner. It was hard work. In the four fish crates they cut, throated and headed the fish, working as rapidly as they could. On the splitting tables, they quickly removed the backbones using square-topped knives with curved blades. In the two fish tubs they washed the dressed fish. Still hurrying all the while, they loaded it into the holds to be salted.

They threw gurry into the gurry kids, the large wooden pounds they'd built back in Burin, on deck.

“You can't dump gurry on the fishing grounds,” Steve said curtly to Richard, his hands bloody as he flung fish guts to the container. “It'd be bad for the water and the fish.” Richard nodded, grateful whenever his father spoke to him like he was just one of the men, but still feeling queasy.

Finally the Captain joined them in their work. He stood over the liver butt into which the men threw dozens, then hundreds, of cod livers of all sizes. Richard watched Captain Brinton take a fryer, a stove-like contraption with a grate and a fan-shaped funnel, and put it through a square hole in the top of the first butt. He heated the fryer with dry kindling and soft coal at first. Then he added hard coal after a while. When the oil was rendered out of the cod livers, the Skipper removed the fryer and placed it in the next butt to begin the process over again. There were four altogether.

“So that's how they make that rotten stuff,” Richard said to himself. He could taste the horrible oil in his mouth, remembering his mother's insistence that all her children swallow it every day in winter. The memory made his stomach begin flipping and flopping again.

When all their fish was finally salted, Steve jumped back into his dory and Richard followed him. Again they rowed out to the fishing grounds, again not saying a word, and again they fished and returned to the
Laura Claire
, where they gutted and salted their fish. They did this twice more that first day.

That night Richard was so exhausted even his stomach pains and spinning head could not keep him awake. For the first time since leaving Burin, he slept soundly.