Blackstrap Hawco (27 page)

Catherine pressed through the mob that began parting to make way for Ace, even though he was still on the gangway, while eight-year-old Jacob trailed after his mother, watching up at the faces.

Hesitantly, Uncle Ace made his way down the plank, until he stood level upon the dock. He stared at the smiling woman, Catherine, who came to face him, then down at the boy, Jacob. Two of them near enough to touch. The dead were there before him. To think of them urged their eyes open from pitiful darkness. A single thought and the perished were
granted vision through his eyes, could witness life around him, but if he thought of the dead hour after hour, they would infuse him with their own being and his life would be driven out to be glutted entirely by their presence. Could these dead get any nearer than where they stood? Were they capable of touching? And then they did touch him. Hands on his arms. The way he stared prevented Catherine's and Jacob's truer affection from bounding forth. Uncle Ace gazed around, while Catherine noticed the slashes in his shirt and the stained bandage beneath it. His breath clouded thicker in the nippy air as he searched the dock, seeming to recognize one of the men, a man in a long fur coat and bowler hat.

Without word, Uncle Ace stepped away from Catherine and Jacob, evenly advanced toward Mister Bowering, staring at the man who had regained his good humour a few moments after the unloading of the dead. Ace checked over his shoulder to see the frozen men blindly trailing after his footsteps through the slushy snow, while he pressed through the jostle of bodies surrounding him. He then watched ahead, sighting Bowering who jovially raised up on his tiptoes to scan the vessel's deck, piled high with pelts, the hollow of the ship overflowing with fur and fat.

Surveying the man's fine overcoat, crisp shirt and tie, and shining bowler hat, Uncle Ace said:
I know ye, dead man.

‘What was that?' Bowering enquired, thinking that the sealer might have spoken, but uncertain, as words were not discernible through the celebratory gestures being bestowed upon him by his fellow businessmen: Harry Job, Peter Baird and Alan Duncan.

Drifting forward, Uncle Ace neared the man and carefully extended his leathery thumbless right hand, which the president grasped automatically, with vigour, happy to be mingling with a few of the sealers who had brought him such good fortune. Bowering's smile turned triumphant, brimming with professional delight and a hint of amusement at being approached by one of the rugged baymen. He turned toward the crowd and raised his other arm as a raucous cheer went up and photograph bulbs flashed, washing out the dead men who surrounded Bowering.
Show 'im wha' feel'n means
, they said, their fingers searching through Bowering's pockets, warming their fingertips in his eyes and in his mouth. All unknown to Bowering, evident only through the faint agitation he had begun to experience. He tried his best not to
show offence at the smell of the sealer, the stench of fat and blood caked and crusted onto his clothing, his bushy moustache and beard sparkling with frost, his hard deep eyes staring in a lost way that now registered concern in Bowering's mind.

Show 'im wha' feel'n means ta lose.

Mister Bowering turned toward the photographers, toward the cameras that had captured him in this congenial pose, and Uncle Ace with his blank stare. Merchant and sealer joined together in a gesture of camaraderie. Again Bowering smiled into the camera, but the new smile was strained as the hand clutching his continued to tighten. A bulb flashed and Bowering felt the hat flying from his head, not having witnessed Uncle Ace raising his scarred, grubby hand to slap it off, but thinking that the hat had been dislodged by the swell of the shifting crowd.

Carve da skin from 'is nose.

While Bowering bent uncertainly to retrieve his hat, Uncle Ace raked his fingers through his own greasy hair, then lowered his hand, mussing up Bowering's slicked-back hair in a way that guaranteed a few of the lice, his flourishing friends, would be transferred.

Straightening, Bowering stared at the man grimly, smoothing back his hair with his stiff fingers, then checked the palm of his hand.

Uncle Ace leaned toward Bowering's ear and whispered:
I seen ye done up in yer white hide. T'were glorious.

The president of Bowering Brothers could not make out the words that barely rose from the hollow of Uncle Ace's mouth as a grunting stutter. Regardless, he offered a hesitant smile, thinking that the man had put forth a statement of appreciation and congratulations.

Da holes o' 'is skin leak sweat. See.

Again, Uncle Ace grasped Mister Bowering's hand, squeezing and shaking it mechanically, fiercely with both of his, the crowd cheering as other men pressed nearer. Music punctured the air as the welcome band was signalled to strike up again.

Uncle Ace glared at Mister Bowering's smiling lips, lashing his hand up and down, until Bowering appeared worried that his flapping arm might be torn from its socket, and other associates from Bowering Brothers closed in on the scene, sensing that something was out of sorts. But before the men could gather closer, Uncle Ace, while muttering:
T'is
da suck o' da sea where ye finds yer true treasure
, hauled Bowering toward the bow of the boat, shoving aside the crowds, and – still clamped on to Bowering's hand – whirled to the side, lifting the dapper man from his feet and flinging him into the frigid Atlantic.

A shocked sideways descent through space and then a mighty splash as the president of Bowering Brothers landed on his back and was followed in by four frozen dead men who leapt after him, the first two grabbing hold of his wrists, while the remaining two gripped his ankles. With a terrified, air-gulping shout and flailing of deadened limbs, Bowering sank like a sack of stones.

A crowd of sealers had fallen in behind Ace Hawco, buffering him from the Bowering Brothers' men. No one willing to claim they witnessed the deed, no one willing to rush to the rescue, only one of Mister Bowering's anxious henchmen, Alan Duncan, pushing his way through, leaning over the edge of the high wharf, witlessly attempting to reach Bowering so far below, so witless in fact that one of the other sealers was obliged to raise the heel of his hobnailed boot and deliver a solid blow to the man's rump, driving him into the harbour, as well, for all of his foolish loyalty. And in after him freely went more of the frozen dead men.

Lord over them all

Haymarket Square bustled with cars and horse-drawn carriages. A streetcar rumbled along Duckworth Street, its image reflected in the windows of the rows of shops joined together in architectural prosperity.

‘I don't like the new uniforms,' Emily said, staring at the ticket taker. ‘The blue was much nicer than grey. They turn my stomach.'

‘Don't be so bloody rude,' her father said bluntly, unwilling to meet eyes with the obviously miffed ticket taker. Alan Duncan's head was sodden from a late night. Suffering the menace of such a punishing physical state, he regretted having promised to take Emily along with him the previous evening.

Emily knelt up on her seat, staring at her father's face, his eyes looking away. He was on his way to see Mister Bowering, the man who her
father always spoke of with such pleasure. She had heard as much from arguments between her mother and father, where her father never failed to put Mister Bowering ‘up on a pedestal,' as her mother said. Whatever that meant. Twisting, she stared back at the other people, studying their hard faces and their drab clothes. Jackie, their servant, had the same kind of sharp hard face. A lot of the people did in St. John's. They were of ‘low breeding,' a term used by her father, which also meant they were ‘Catlicks.' She wanted to call out, ‘Kiss me arse,' to all of them, one of her favourite expressions she'd heard in the schoolyard.

‘Why are we riding the streetcar with these people?' She turned to study her father's profile, his longish nose and tight small lips, his eyes set back in his head, his hair thinning along his forehead. Impulsively, she gave him a peck on the cheek.

‘Turn around in your seat,' he said, giving her face and attire a brisk look over.

Emily sighed as she plunked down.

Alan Duncan stared at his daughter, as though wondering what the child might mean to him. ‘I thought you would appreciate a ride on the streetcars. You always seem to be talking about them. The people on them. Well, here we are. With the riff-raff.'

‘I like to watch them go by. That doesn't mean I fancy riding them.'

Alan faced the front of the car, distracted, his eyes catching on the merchant stalls through the windows as they approached Haymarket Square.

‘I have a meeting.'

‘I know, with Mister Bowering, your hero. Is that why we're taking the streetcar? We have our own car, you know.' The clang of the streetcar bell overrode her words. She repeated, ‘Car.'

Alan sighed and stood, taking hold of his daughter's hand. ‘Come along. It was for an adventure. Something to take away as a memory.' Stepping down from the streetcar, Alan led his daughter among the crowds of farmers and fishermen peddling their wares. The vegetables looked fresh, with dirt still clinging to the carrot and potato. The fish, too, appeared wholesome, although there was no shortage of blue-arsed flies swirling and settling.

‘You enjoy this hustle and bustle?' Alan asked. Clearing his throat, he
tried playing the part of concerned, reasonable parent. He glanced down at his daughter with an overconfident fatherly smile.

Emily nodded without looking at him, her eyes busy taking in all the sights. The women appealed to her most, the dresses and pretty hats that she studied, wondering how they might look on her or her mother. She stopped by a tall horse and gazed up at him.

‘Holy moley,' she exclaimed, enthralled by the massive thickness of the horse's neck, the restrained power of its bulk, all supported by such skinny legs. ‘Can we get a horse, Daddy?'

‘If you're a good little girl, I'll look into it. We'll have to find the proper stables. God only knows if such things exist here.'

Emily wandered along, only vaguely attuned to the pull of her father's progression. Moving into the shadowed entranceway of a low brick building, Emily stared back at the sight of another little girl of her age, dressed in dull clothes, a dirtiness about her, the girl coughing and coughing, having to stop in her tracks. TB, Emily thought. Never play with the TB children. A constant warning from her mother.

The door shut and there was silence. At once, the sickly smell of fresh paint mingled potently with an odour of dampness and rot. The stairs were narrow and Emily held the dark wooden banister, trailing behind her father who had now, much to Emily's relief, released hold of her hand.

‘Come along,' he said.

Emily refused to increase her pace, intently watching her hand skim along the smooth banister.

On the third flight of stairs, her legs became leaden and she called out, ‘Daddy, please carry me.' Her father trod back down over the stairs and swooped her up, hurrying up each step in a way that both pleased and frightened her. She regarded the side of her father's face. He was sweating and a patch of his sandy-blonde hair was glossily plastered to his temple beneath the brim of his felt hat.

At the top landing, he plopped her down on her feet and straightened his jacket. Through an opened doorway, an unoccupied desk sat in an outer office, papers stacked in three neat piles. Emily counted them and made note of it, playing games such as this, so she could tell her mother, ‘There were three stacks of paper on the desk,' and her mother would be impressed and proud of the keen observances of her daughter.

‘Can I come in, too?' Emily had been to many meetings like this and had always been made to busy herself in the outer offices. There was never anyone sitting at those desks, it being a Saturday or Sunday. The answer was usually a solid ‘no.'

‘Busy yourself out here. Leaf through the magazines. Pretend you're my personal secretary.' Her father offered a smile that meant something else and tapped on the inner door, the frosted glass rattling in a way that made Emily wish to hear it smash. The pretty sound it would make jingling to the floor.

A voice came from behind the door, ‘Come in.'

Her father did not check her again. He did, however, leave the door slightly open. Moving closer and to the side, Emily could see Mister Bowering rising from his chair, giving a merry salute and then a handshake before both of them took their seats.

‘Nice to see you, Alan.'

‘Nice to see you, too, Mister Bowering.'

‘How's your family?'

‘Fine.'

Emily sat, waiting for mention of her name, reference to the fact that she was waiting in the outer room, but her father didn't offer anything, making her feel abandoned, and so she frowned.

‘Well,' Mister Bowering laughed mildly. ‘Have you given further consideration to my offer?'

‘Yes, I have indeed. Over the past few days, I've weighed it out.'

‘And?'

‘And…I'm really not certain we're prepared to make that move…as much as we appreciate the offer.'

‘Ah, that's unfortunate.' There was pause, and when he spoke again, Mister Bowering's voice seemed to have been altered. ‘How can I convince you, Alan?'

‘I'm not certain how.'

Mister Bowering sighed. ‘I can't leave that incompetent in charge out there much longer. He's given far too much credit. I need someone with restraint, a strong man who won't buckle under the demands of those…fishermen.'

‘Yes, I understand.'

‘I must have an answer today. I've already informed Seaward of his removal.'

‘The positive points are quite obvious, but the negative aspects continue to pester me.'

‘Which are?'

‘The isolation.'

‘Bareneed is no more remote than any other place. Keep in mind the position you'll have there. You'll be lord over everything. Seaward has turned soft on me. Coaker has a bee in everyone's bonnet now. The Fishermen's Union. I need an associate with no fear of that.' Mister Bowering laughed outright, the laugh like a fat hole punched in the air. ‘And why should we fear it? The Union's a joke. It won't last. We're dealing with that.'