Washika (4 page)

“Listen to me,” Alphonse called out to the boys. “Those logs will not jump off by themselves. Come on now. A few of you guys on shore there.”

“
Sacrament
!” André swore softly.

“Look at you,” Alphonse continued. “Five in a drive boat, that's nonsense. I want at least three over there. You, St-Jean. And you Lavigne. Who else?”

The boys in the drive boats leaned on their poles. Everyone had stopped working. There was only the
Madeleine
chugging her backwater.

“Me, I'll go,” said a voice at the rear of one of the drive boats.

It was François Gauthier. He was a tall, thin fellow with thick blond hair and very pale blue eyes. As he made his way forward in the drive boat, he carried his lunch pail and had his shirt and jacket draped over one arm.

André Guy had also stopped working. He stood in the water, watching François as he made his way to the
Madeleine
. He knew about François. So did Alphonse and everyone else. Everyone knew how much François disliked sandflies and mud and, most of all, how he disliked getting wet. In the thirty-one days that they had worked out of Washika Bay, François was known to have returned to camp wet only once, and that was because of a storm. It was such a certainty that François would not go into the water any deeper than the soles of his boots that, early in the morning on their way out to work, the smokers among them would give him their tobacco and papers to hold until it was time for a break.

François, along with St-Jean and Lavigne, went aboard the
Madeleine
. The two who remained in the drive boat poled back to where the logs were next to the second drive boat. Everyone had started working again. Only André Guy was not working. He stood in the water watching François.

“Well, well,” he said. ”Hey Gauthier, what's the matter? Find a leak in the boat?”

François did not answer. He, St-Jean, and Lavigne went about the business of preparing to go ashore. They placed their poles in the rack on the cabin roof and removed their life jackets. They entered the cabin then to pick out the best crochets they could find in the box. The crochets, the hooks used to work the four-foot logs, were not always the same. Sometimes the points were dulled or the wooden handles were cracked and could pinch your hand if you were not wearing gloves. The three boys then jumped off the bow onto shore. They had put on their shirts; their faces and exposed arms were shiny from the fly oil Alphonse had given them.

As the three boys worked their way along the shore, André Guy kept a close watch on their every move. He knew what could happen next. In fact, he knew what would happen next. He knew it as well as if he were there on shore himself. But he was ready. He held a good-sized four-foot log cradled in his left arm with the L-shaped point of his crochet well embedded at one end. He bent his back slightly so that the water just covered the log from view. He watched them and waited for them to come closer, to walk past where he was. It was an old trick and André was soaked anyway. He knew they would get to him eventually since he was closest to shore. Now, he waited for what he knew would be his only chance.

At last it was time. The boys approached the spot he had picked out in his mind. They walked in single file along the beach with François at the rear. As they moved directly in front of him, André let fly with the log, sending it high and parallel to the water. The old spruce hit the water flat, sending up a wall of dirty brown water.

Everybody cheered. André tipped his hat and bowed to the applauding crowd. He had achieved his revenge for what would surely happen to him some time during the day. The others were pleased to see justice done. It was too bad about St-Jean and Lavigne but they were happy to see François get a soaking for a change.

Alphonse also was pleased. It was too bad for the boys on shore but that was the way. It was always that way. He knew that André's little trick had cheered everybody up and now they would work well.

The three boys on shore went on to where the logs were. They tried pretending that nothing of any consequence had happened. But, it was difficult not to feel ridiculous standing there and seeing the water dripping off of their hard hats.

A
t a quarter to four in the afternoon Alphonse called to the boys that they had done enough work for one day and that it was time to head back. Beyond the
Madeleine
were the logs they had taken and the boom timbers stretched across the mouth of the bay and the open water with its blackness and its silver waves. On the opposite shore, the sun was just above the tall grey trees that stuck out of the water.

Alphonse eased the
Madeleine
out, away from shore, towing the boom timber snubbed to her stern and rounding up the day's work. He took her back to the south side of the bay, to where the opposite end of the chain of boom timbers was held fast to an enormous old pine. The tree was now grey and lifeless with small holes and long narrow tracks left by beetles. The shore there was steep and rocky and the water black from its deepness. Alphonse snubbed one end of the boom to the other and then returned to where the students were waiting in the drive boats.

The two drive boats were tied, one behind the other, and then snubbed to the tugboat by a thick yellow rope knotted around one of the short metal posts sticking up through the deck at the stern. The drive boats were long narrow double-bowed vessels with wooden hulls painted an orange shade of red. When Alphonse returned the students boarded the tugboat, except for two who remained in the drive boats for the ride back to camp.

With the drive boats in tow Alphonse steered the
Madeleine
out of the bay and, at full throttle, headed north across open water for Washika Bay.

The students, one in each drive boat, were sleeping on the floor at the stern. They had their orange life jackets pulled up under their necks and their hard hats covering their eyes. One had taken off his boots and socks and, with his legs raised on the plank seat, cooled his feet in the breeze. There were black metal lunch pails on the floors of the boats and bundles of jackets and heavy checkered shirts. Hanging from the gunwales were several crochets with the curved steel of the hooks painted red and the wooden handles smooth and shiny from use.

André Guy had crawled up into the lifeboat on the cabin roof. The lifeboat was normally fastened with its bottom facing upward to keep the little dinghy from filling up with water during a rainstorm. André had rearranged things; flipping the tiny boat over and fastening it to the roof, he could sleep in the tiny boat and not have to worry about falling off the roof. He slept with his mouth open and his arms wrapped around his head. The rest of the students were scattered about the deck. Some were lying flat on the deck with their shirts open and their hard hats covering their faces. Others sat astern with their backs against the cabin wall. Several of the boys were up front, sitting in the shade of the cabin and enjoying the cool breeze the
Madeleine
made as she cut through the waves.

Henri Morin had been sitting at the stern when they left the bay. Later, he had traded places with François and sat at the bow, against the cabin wall, with his knees tucked up, his chin resting on his knees and his mackinaw draped over his shoulders. He tried to sleep but the noise of the engine travelled through the bones of his knees and his chin, and inside his head. It was no use. Three miles out from Lost Cabin Bay, he edged his way towards the door of the cabin, holding on to the rack on the roof. He went inside then and sat down on an overturned wooden box that had contained the dozens of crochets used by the students.

It was cool in the cabin. Alphonse stood at the wheel, staring ahead through the tall narrow windows.

“Want to take her?” he asked.

“No, not now,” Henri replied.

“Be a couple more days in there.”

“And after?”

“Pàgwàshka Bay, most likely. Maybe the islands.”

“Yeah?”

“There's tea if you like.”

Henri was shivering. He sat on the low wooden box with his heavy wool jacket buttoned up to the collar, his shoulders rounded up near his ears and his hands together between his knees.

“Go on, Henri. I've had enough.”

Henri unscrewed the plastic cup and placed it on the floor. He poured tea from the thermos. There was steam rising from the cup. He took a drink and then began to roll a cigarette.

“How long at Pàgwàshka?” he asked.

“Depends. Could be three, four days. Maybe a week.”

“That long, eh?”

“We'll have to finish up here first.”

“I'm sick of them, you know. Those damned
brûlots
, they're everywhere.”

“There's always a good breeze at Pàgwàshka.”

“Always?”

“Oh yes. You can be sure of that. Here Henri, take her for a while. Just keep her straight for the point there.”

Alphonse went astern to see how things were and to check the knot of yellow rope at the tow post and the towrope between the
Madeleine
and the two drive boats. He went there to stare at the westerly shore, to see how the sun made the trees look like silver slivers growing out from the water, to smoke a cigarette, and to feel the sun and the wind on his face.

There was only a strong breeze and the whitecaps seemed to disappear almost as quickly as they came. Henri corrected now and then, sighting over the anchor to keep her straight.

The shivering came in waves. The cotton shirt scraped at his chest. He had been so stupid. Alphonse had warned him about it. He had been working in the water with his shirt off since lunchtime. When they had stopped for a break and sat in the drive boats smoking cigarettes, Alphonse had spoken to him about it. He told him that he had better put on his shirt and that, if he wanted to, he might work from one of the drive boats or from the stern of the
Madeleine
. After the break he had gone aboard the
Madeleine
and put his shirt on. It was only then that he could see the pink colour of his chest and how, whenever he touched it, his fingers left white marks that just as quickly turned to pink again.

Henri looked out through the window, along the thick cable to the anchor and, above it, to the point up ahead. He unbuttoned his jacket and then his shirt. In the shade of the cabin, the colour seemed to be even worse—a deep scarlet covered with goose bumps. Perhaps that was because of the shivering, he did not know. All he did know for sure was that the pain was much worse, like the colour, and that he was chilled throughout and he could not stop shivering. He had been so stupid. He had put his shirt on all right. He had put his shirt on as soon as Alphonse had spoken to him about it. He put on his shirt but he did not fasten the buttons. Instead, he had tied the ends like he had seen the girls in town do. Three times that day he had had to re-tie the shirt ends. Even with the ends tied, his shirt opened whenever the wind blew or he pushed the logs with his pike pole.

As Alphonse entered the cabin, Henri looked over the anchor and corrected to starboard.

“And, how's she going?”

“Pretty good.”

“And the burn?”

“Not so bad. A little worse maybe.”

“I'll take her now. Stay inside, Henri. Here, have some more tea.”

“Maybe I'll see the nurse.”

“Oh yes, as soon as we get in. That's a bad one you have. She'll fix you up, don't worry.”

Henri hung his life jacket from the railing behind him. He sat on the box with his back against the life jacket. He poured tea from the thermos and rolled a cigarette. He tried to keep his shirt from scraping against his chest. He tried not looking at it. Finally he decided not to even think about it until he could see the nurse at Washika. He listened to the roar of the
Madeleine
's diesel engine and the rhythm of her six pistons. He looked at the dark, almost black tea in the cup on the floor and tried matching the ripples in the teacup with the beat of the engine. He looked down at his scarlet chest and then he tried blowing smoke across it hoping that maybe it might do something.

A
lphonse eased up on the throttle and veered to port making a wide circle away from the point. Mouette or Sea Gull Point, which seemed to Henri to be nothing more than a long, narrow finger stretching out across the water, was an outcrop of grey weather-beaten rock, three feet above the surface of the water, that stretched out a hundred yards from the shoreline. There was not a tree to be seen, or flowers or grasses of any kind. There was nothing but a bed of solid rock, pockmarked with cavities and jagged edges and the whitish droppings of the gulls. There were sea gulls everywhere. As the
Madeleine
circled around the point, the gulls grew more excited. Some of the gulls sat on their nests barking loudly while others stood up on their nests and waddled awkwardly on their large webbed feet, stretching their wings and crying out to the sky above them. Seven gulls leaped from the rocks, flying low over the water to starboard and then astern, making a graceful sweep upwards and circling the
Madeleine
. They hovered above her with their beaks open and pointed downwards. All of them were screaming as if to chase the tugboat away.

For twenty years Alphonse had navigated the
Madeleine
around this point in exactly the same manner. His reason for doing so was simple and personal and had nothing to do with the safety of the tugboat or the solitude of the gulls. When the
Madeleine
and her two drive boats had reached midway between the point and the furthest northerly shore, Alphonse veered hard to starboard and headed east for Washika Bay.

Washika Bay was a mile wide at its mouth and the tugboat was well inside the bay and a half-mile from camp. Alphonse checked his watch. It was a quarter to five. He eased back on the throttle and sat up on the tall wooden stool behind him. He would maintain that speed until the last quarter mile and then, at full throttle, pull in to the dock at exactly five o'clock.