Blackstrap Hawco (47 page)

 

Jacob Hawco was part of several uprisings against the merchants in Bareneed. He was named as a chief instigator in one document, although, as far as I could determine, he evaded arrest and trial. Despite being separated by unfortunate circumstances, Emily and Jacob would be reunited in the years to come.

1937

Where Blackstrap's father, Jacob, turns twenty and Emily's father is taken away

Zack Coffin, president of the Bareneed branch of the Fishermen's Protective Union, stood at the counter of the Bowering Brothers store. He had come to demand a look at the books that Alan Duncan kept with their expenses written out. William Coaker himself, who had visited Bareneed the previous night, had taught Zack about the crooked ways of digits as figured by the merchants.

Jacob Hawco was on hand to give Zack support, despite the fact that Jacob's mother, Catherine, had discouraged him from being seen with Zack, warning about the FPU and how it was organized at the Protestant Orange Lodge, claiming the union was anti-Catholic. The newly arrived parish priest, Father Burke, too, had made a point of discouraging Catholics from joining the union, claiming that Coaker was a ‘threat to society' and condemning the ‘materialism' of the union's demands. Jacob went along however, knowing that a change was due in how things were handled. At the FPU meetings, it was detailed how the merchants had taken advantage of the fishermen for decades, rigging the prices so that people came away with nothing more than the clearance of their debts for the most basic provisions (mostly clothing and food) conveniently purchased at the merchant store.

It was the weekend, so Emily Duncan was behind the counter. Weekdays saw her practicing piano, baking in aid of the Protestant church ladies, and knitting mittens and hats for the poor children down in the most impoverished section of Bareneed, the cove nearer to the
shore that her father referred to as ‘the gut.' She had been arranging tins of Gillett's Lye in the wooden cubby holes that comprised the back wall, having replaced the steel funnel with another, the previous having been purchased earlier that morning. A tricky bit of business, for she had to stand on a stool to reach where it was, and avoid the other articles that hung around it: the lanterns, kettles and rugs. When the bell rang over the door, signalling Jacob and Zack's arrival, she had spun around to see who it might be.

‘We're 'ere ta see yer fadder,' said Zack, in his lackadaisical manner of speech, while Jacob stood back, checking over a pair of overalls that were neatly folded among others on one of the divided wooden shelves.

‘I'm sorry, he's not here,' Emily replied, but her eyes took a peek toward the open doorway at the rear of the shop, for from there came a rummaging sound.

‘I t'inks 'e is,' said Zack.

Emily noticed Jacob stealing a quick look at her. He had always been the one to stand up for her at school when the Catholic boys hurled stones at Emily and sang out: ‘Dirty Protestant.' He had been the quiet and darkly handsome older one who had chased off the taunting boys, allowing Emily a clear run home up the hill toward her big house with its view of the bay. Friendless, she had grown up with her books, the British classics:
Wuthering Heights
,
Jane Eyre
,
Pride and Prejudice
, which were ordered by her mother from St. John's, and which she read again and again, the prevalence of doomed romantic isolation striking such a deep chord in her heart, the stark British landscapes so much similar, in brooding sentiment, to those in Newfoundland. She had spent most of her time in her room, warned by her father to keep clear of all those beneath her social standing (which seemed to be everyone), while watching out the window at the valley of shacks, with the fishermen dressed in greys and blacks, and striding about with their arms hung at their sides. She dreamed constantly of returning to England to live in that soulful place of her books, for despite the grimness of the tales, there was also a sense of monumental stature and importance that seemed lacking in this outport.

Lately, she had taken to going for walks into the hills and making notes and sketches of the flowers and trees in her journal. Occasionally,
she would come across a rabbit, fox or moose and would stand in wonder at the suddenness of life in all its vivid clarity. The fox, no different in size than a small dog, would sometimes remain still, studying her, and, once or twice, had even made movements toward Emily, which had both startled and thrilled her.

Presently, her father made more noise from the back room. She heard him muttering, as though he were searching for an item beyond memory's grasp. She looked at Zack, who stood, snorting breath through his nostrils, his cheeks turned a lovely shade of dusty pink, like the hue of a flower petal. She then checked for Jacob, who was now deeper toward the back, pretending interest in a few bolts of material and rolls of wallpaper that were laid up against a baby's high chair. Although Jacob had hung around with the other boys, he had rarely attended school in those early years when Emily first came to Bareneed. He was too busy salting fish or off in the woods cutting wood with his uncle Ace, the madman who never spoke a word to anyone.

‘Emily,' called her father, coming out of the back, his eyes briefly on the two men before realizing they were of no importance and so he went up to his daughter, his attention cast toward the ground, as though he could not meet her eye.

‘These two gentlemen are here to see you.'

‘What?' Alan glanced them over. ‘These two.'

‘We're here 'bout da books.'

‘Books? What books?'

‘Da ledgers.'

‘The ledgers are there.' He pointed to the two ledger books that were for sale in a cubby hole behind the brass cash register.

‘No, yer books. According ta Mr. Coaker we 'av a right ta look 'em over.'

‘Coaker!'

Emily backed away, her hand sliding along the lip of the long counter. She thought it might be a good time to leave, as her father's voice had adopted an edge of hostility.

‘I'm Coaker's man 'ere.'

‘Is that so? Well, I'm aware of the procedure.' At once, Alan turned and trod off toward the back room. The door was heard opening. A few
moments passed and then the door was slammed. Alan Duncan reappeared with a weighty black ledger. He set it down on the counter. ‘Zachery Coffin. Correct?'

‘Yays.'

‘Good. I'll be pleased to show you your accounts, but those of the others are of no consequence to you. In fact, they're confidential and without the authorization of—'

‘I'll see mine, too,' said Jacob.

Alan Duncan squinted toward where Jacob Hawco lingered at the back of the store. ‘Aw, Mr. Hawco. Yes, of course, I'll dig out the records of your uncle, Ace Hawco, as well. I believe he still hasn't settled. There was the question of his debt a few years ago, yet my efforts to collect on behalf of the establishment proved futile. It seems he had no house to call his own, according to the deeds. The house that was once his was demolished and rebuilt as yours. Correct? Or so the deed states.'

Jacob stared. He tilted his head slightly one way, aware of Emily's eyes on him, yet unwilling to meet hers.

‘How clever,' added Alan Duncan.

‘I'm twenty year old.'

‘What?' Irked, Alan furrowed his brow.

‘I'm twenty year old.'

‘And? So?'

‘I believe your daughter's of 'bout da same age.' He did not so much as look at Emily.

‘What?' Alan said with a huff, his eyes flashing toward Emily, locking and then dipping to the ground. ‘I…what?' In confused confrontation, Alan then glared at Jacob, but could no longer meet his eyes either. It was known that any talk of his daughter turned him into a stuttering idiot.

Alan Duncan left the room and returned with two additional ledgers. The three books were opened in a row on the clear counter and the three men went over them, with Zack figuring additions and subtractions on pen and paper.

The entire inspection took over three hours, and when Jacob and Zack departed, Bowering Brothers store owed Zack's and Jacob's families over one hundred dollars a piece.

Amanda Duncan thought through the details that she would include in her letter to Annie Gull. She was seated at her writing desk with a view out the window toward sea, her pen poised in hand. Her eyes were trained on the horizon as though this searching look might arouse an image of Annie and what might be best written to her. Dusk was settling over the sea while her mind illuminated their excursion by train from St. John's to Brigus.

 

Dear Annie:

I hope this letter finds you well. It has been almost ten years since my last missive to you. I had been warned by Alan that any word of our new location might be of dire consequence. However, all seems well now and I cannot put off writing to you any longer. Enclosed with this note is the letter I wrote to you all those years ago (but never posted for fear of repercussions) on our arrival in Bareneed from St. John's.

I will write more about Emily's growth and education in the time to come. Please forgive my silence, although as a mother I fear such behaviour might be entirely unforgivable!

Faithfully yours,

Amanda Duncan

 

Dear Annie:

We have moved to Bareneed, an outport in Newfoundland, where we have set up shop in hopes of helping the poor fishermen. We ventured to Brigus by a special train and were most comfortable; Alan & I had cabins with beds next door to each other & a washstand – just like a tiny ship's cabin. Emily bunked down with me and took great delight in watching out the window at the landscape flashing by. We had an observation car and a dining saloon and our own kitchen. Our train ran up & down inlets of the sea, & along lakes & in & out of coves. The land itself is
¹
/
₄
water. I must send you a map that will show you how wild it is. 6,000 miles of coast with most of the outports accessible only by water.

From Brigus, we transferred to a boat to Bareneed, where we were met by a crowd and a doctor working away with a little girl
who had just been drowned. As you might imagine, such a meeting immediately put a damper on any good feelings of arrival. The sight of the little girl greatly upset Emily, for she stated that, in time, the girl might have been her dear friend. I later discovered that the girl was one of 11 children & there was nothing in the house – not even a shift in which to clothe the poor little body for the coffin. The poverty of the people and the size of their families are both appalling problems. When hearing me complain to Alan about the grievous state of things, Emily was quick to offer one of her better dresses for the little girl's burial.

In Bareneed, the fishermen are unorganized and are in fact serfs. For 300 years, they have been existing, and the major part of their earnings have gone to create about 300 wealthy families, one for every year of occupation. And that system of sweating still exists. It is a dreadful problem. The people are so apathetic – they have suffered so long there seems to be no energy in them.

Since arriving, I have been trying to help with the local schoolhouse and have made some inroads. The children are taught everything. At my suggestion, school now begins with the children washing their hands, faces, ears & necks and brushing their hair. Then they all clean their teeth. All of this is an entirely new experience for them.

This is a cruel county in many ways. Life is maintained by killing something – fish or seal or deer or beaver – or birds – and from their babyhood the children learn to kill. The result is indiscriminate killing. The caribou is supposed to be protected. The poacher goes out & kills, not one, but as many as he can, and then leaves the corpses rotting on the ground, just taking titbits for his consumption. The same with birds. They shoot for the sake of killing. The same with salmon in the rivers. They poach the salmon – ‘jigging' they call it – and often leave them lying on the bank – just kill for the sake of killing. And yet they are highly religious people.

In St. John's, I learned that the numbers of baby seals destroyed in the annual hunt are enormous. They say it is a dreadful scene. The seals cry pitifully just like babies, & tears come from their
eyes. The big seals are shot; the babies are killed with one blow of a club. It must be ghastly. This year the fleet has taken 190,000 – and 20,000 large seals. One ship came in with over 50,000 whitecoats, i.e. baby seals, on board. They only bring the skin for the fur. The carcass is left on the ice. A man comes home from sealing with £20 in his pocket and goes straight on the dole. And this though we have got 100,000 people on the dole of the island's 280,000 occupants. There is a general demoralization among a people who, a generation ago, were self-respecting, self-helpful people like the Scotch.

What is needed here is education, and we are arranging for that.