Blackstrap Hawco (65 page)

‘…mentions da whole tale 'ere,' Jacob is saying.

‘What's that?' asks Blackstrap. Drying his hands in the dish towel.

‘'Bout yer gran'fadder, Francis. It be 'im affer all. Me name's in 'ere. I dun't get da gist of it dough.' The lines deepen in Jacob's forehead and around his eyes. Although he smiles again quickly. ‘Dis feller's been read'n me bits o' it. Francis lived off dem shipwrecks on dat perilous stretch o' water 'long da southern shore, got all 'is needs from wreckage.' Jacob laughs. Slaps at his knee. ‘Christ. Ain't dat 'larious?'

Blackstrap stands by his father's chair. His eyes on the old book. The cover is made of leather, faded black. The edges are worn, black to dark brown, and look soft.

Bill Riche opens the cover. Shows Blackstrap the inside. Riche watches Blackstrap's face with pleasure. While he goes about turning the yellowed pages with handwriting on them.

‘It's something, isn't it?' says Riche.

Blackstrap grunts. Turns away to check the breadbox.

‘We found it in the wall of an old house on the Southern Shore. Wrapped in linen. A woman's dress with lace embroidery. We were able to make it out. Maybe a wedding dress.'

‘Yer granfadder were slaughtered by Beawtuks.'

‘Well.' Riche faces Jacob. Then glances back at Blackstrap who is smearing butter on a piece of plain bread. Then pouring molasses on top from a cardboard box. ‘I don't think he was slaughtered by the Beothuks, really. There's no mention of any sort of—'

‘'E were in da cumpany o' dem. Says so.' Jacob thumps the book with his fingertips.

Blackstrap holds the slice of bread in the flat of his palm. He bites off an edge. Chews up the salty fat taste of butter. The iron sweetness of molasses.

‘But there was—'

‘No doubt dey murdered 'im in 'is sleep. Bunch o' savages.'

‘He mentions in his journal that he traded with the Beothuks. What is fascinating, however, is that we believed Shanaditti was the last of the Beothuks. Well, not “we” particularly because we've heard reports of Beothuks surviving Shanaditti, but this is documented proof. Extremely valuable.' He raises his eyebrows. ‘From an historical standpoint.'

‘Slaughtered 'e were.' Jacob drags a finger across his own throat. Then winks at Blackstrap when Riche isn't looking. Torment the poor townie. Good for a lark.

Blackstrap chuckles while he eats.

‘There was no mention of animosity,' Riche quickly points out. Getting worried now. Needing to convince everyone in the room that the Beothuk wouldn't do such a thing. Indians not savages anymore. Not in these savageless days.

Tricky word, Blackstrap thinks. Animosity. He knows what it means, still chewing.

‘He died, didn't 'e?'

‘Yes.'

‘Christly Christ!' Jacob slaps the table, making Riche flinch. ‘'N dere were Beawtuks 'round dere. Pro'bly scalped da 'air right off 'is 'ed. Made a purse outta it or a toy fer one of dere liddle baby savages.'

‘Yes. Well—'

Jacob doesn't say another word. He leans back in his chair. Folds his arms and tilts back his head. Point made. No argument.

Bill Riche says, ‘But there's also mention of a woman in the diary. A ghost at that. Can you then speculate that the ghost killed Francis Hawco?' Riche checks Blackstrap. Like Blackstrap might understand, might go along with him, being the younger of the two Hawco men.

Blackstrap stares. Then shoves the rest of the bread into his mouth. Sweeps his palms together. He picks up the diary. Turns the pages. Butter stains here and there.

Riche's hands jerk in the air. Shoot toward the diary to hover near. His head bent on a pleading, suffering angle.

Blackstrap swallows. ‘This ours now?' he asks. Looking directly at Riche for a second.

‘Well, you have some rights, of course, but we were hoping you might consider donating the piece to the Newfoundland Museum in St. John's. It's an important artefact in that it relates certain stories about the Beothuks. Any sort of literature on the Beothuks is quite rare. They're all gone, you know. The Beothuks. Slaughtered. We killed them all.'

‘Wh-wee?' sputters Jacob. ‘Wha' sort of bullcrap are ye on about? I never laid no finger on any Beawtuk in me life. Frum what I 'erd dey were sweet liddle fellers though, if da trute be known. Right cute.'

Blackstrap watches the young man from the university, detecting a trace of an accent. Proper like, almost British. Blackstrap licks a finger. Flicks over a page.

The noise of the page turning sounding like a rip. It almost makes Riche come out of his skin. His hands flinch up from the table.

‘Where you from?' asks Blackstrap.

‘St. John's.'

Blackstrap studies Riche's face. Unconvinced. He flicks another page. This time with even more crumpling force than the first.

‘My parents are from England,' he admits. Like he's almost proud of it. His eyes trained on the journal.

‘Teachers, the lot of 'em.'

‘Yes.' Riche smiles. ‘Professors. How'd you guess?' The young fellow straightens his glasses. They look too small for him. The stems pressing into the sides of his head, maybe leaving dents all the way through to his skull.

‘Me wife's lot were frum across da big drink too,' says Jacob, but not like it's meant to make them closer.

Blackstrap snaps shut the diary. He keeps it in his hand. Wanders down the hall to check on his mother. His mother likes books. She used to read all the time. He remembers from when he was younger. She read books and letters. Wrote letters in return. He brought them to the post office for her. Stood in line in the morning. But there isn't much of that now. Her door is open a bit and she is sleeping. He hears her breathing. During the run of any day, he often stops there. Just to listen for her breathing. To make certain the air's going in and out. Ever since they had to take her to the hospital in an ambulance. It was close that time. She might have died, if the ambulance hadn't arrived when it had. That room in the hospital. Visiting her with nothing to say. But loving her. Loving her and frightened by the possible loss of that love. Frightened like he was mad at her for what she did.

Everyone knows now. An ambulance racing with its sirens blaring and red lights flashing. Past every house in Cutland Junction on Christmas morning. His father told his friends and the women gossip mongers, anyone who called trying to find out the news, that it was heart problems that had caused her spell of affliction. But they all knew better. It was heart problems, alright. The torment of a broken heart from burying two of her blessed children. The women in the community all knew about that. The men could say whatever they wanted. The men could go on with their lives. But the women knew what it really meant to stare dead-struck into that hollowing loss. It was a wonder any woman ever outlived it.

Blackstrap edges open the door to his mother's room. With book in hand, he steps in.

 

Out in the driveway, the truck is down more on the driver's side than the passenger's side. Blackstrap must have busted a spring with the load of wood on. Always something to bother a man. Climbing aboard, he sits behind the wheel and revs the engine. He thinks of his mother and the way she reached for that book. The look in her eyes when she heard what it was about. Waking up. Waking from a dream to something like an emergency. Alert. The secrets written in its pages. He wouldn't mind knowing what's in there himself, but would never ask her to read it to him. Not like he's a child or anything. She might offer sometime, if he hints around a bit. He watches through the windshield while Bill Riche talks on and on to Jacob, both of them in the driveway. Jacob backs Riche away from the house, toward the yellow VW. Riche hoists the strap of his woollen purse up on his shoulder while Jacob nods reassuringly. Agreeing with everything Riche says, Jacob pats him on the shoulder and keeps nodding and agreeing.

Jacob even opens the car door for Riche who keeps talking.

A slow smile grows on Blackstrap's lips. His father always with a bit of the devil in him.

 

(March, 1973)

The envelope is addressed to Jacob Hawco. Blackstrap can tell that much. He knows his father's name from seeing it on bills over the years. Hawco and the letter ‘J.'

‘You gonna sign fer it?' Fred asks from behind the post office counter.

No good can come from signing for a letter at the post office. Everyone knows that. His father warned him years ago about such things. ‘Avoid it like da plague,' he'd said. Blackstrap glances at the envelope. A logo up in the corner with words printed under it.

‘Who's it frum?' asks Blackstrap.

Fred glances down at the envelope. ‘Memorial University,' he says, tapping the envelope with his fingertip. ‘Sin John's.'

Blackstrap checks over his shoulder, toward the big window and
beyond. Jacob sitting in the passenger seat of the idling pickup. His window rolled down while he talks with Larry Peters.

‘Hang on,' he says without looking at Fred. He goes out through the glass door into the frosty air. When he opens the driver's side, his father looks at him, a smile on Jacob's face from his conversation with Larry Peters. Larry Peters keeps talking, breath misting while watching toward the sky, then pointing over his shoulder. Something about a bunch of seals that've come ashore on the slob ice down in Bareneed. A bunch of locals down there feeding them with table scraps.

Jacob checks Blackstrap's face. He straightens his baseball cap and waits.

‘Letter ta sign fer,' says Blackstrap. ‘Frum da university.'

Jacob shakes his head once, then goes back to talking to Larry Peters, telling his own story about seals and the sorry state of the seal fishery now. The bastard mainlanders with their half-assed celebrities trying to make away with the seal hunt.

Blackstrap shuts the driver's door and goes back in.

‘He want it?' Fred asks.

Blackstrap shakes his head.

‘Sure?'

Blackstrap says nothing more.

Fred pokes through his drawer of rubber stamps and lifts one out. He turns it over to read the letters, then raises it and smacks the envelope. The letters in ink on the front spell a word.

‘Refused,' Fred says, laughing.

Blackstrap takes the rest of the mail, and leaves, irked by the memory of that young fellow who came with the diary. That letter was about the diary. It had to be. There's no way that Blackstrap will be giving the book back, not after finding out how his mother cares for it. How the diary has got her out of bed and seeming to be more alive than he can remember for years. She talks about it with him. The things that have happened to Francis Hawco, things no one knew before, like it makes her excited. She's even asked him to drive her to St. John's so she can go to the bookstore. He'll take her there after getting the mail. All he has to do is drop Jacob back home. Jacob avoids St. John's at all costs. ‘Da cars 'n signs 'n ever'tin confuses me eyes,' he often says of the city.

Jacob says ‘take 'er easy' to Larry Peters and leaves his window open, the air breezing in, sweet and crisp in the nostrils. They drive in silence, down into the valley and up again, tires thumping over the railway tracks and then curving east toward their road. Blackstrap glances at the dashboard clock. The train on the Carbonear line not due for another two hours.

‘Letter frum da university—' says Blackstrap.

‘Where?' Jacob eyes the mail on the seat between them.

‘Refused it.'

Jacob stares through the windshield, the land moving to both sides of them. His eyes shift back and forth, while he thinks hurriedly. ‘I'll burn da frig'n t'ing,' Jacob finally says, ‘'fore I let dose scoundrels 'av it ta sniff at 'n paw over. It's about me fadder, written in 'is 'and. Wha' good is it ta da likes of dem grave robbers? Want'n ta own pieces of every'ns life like dey ain't even got one ta call dere own.'

 

Chapter III – 1974

Patty Hearst

(March, 1974, 20 years old)

The far-off sound comes from several directions at once, bouncing off the icefields. A sputtering like something mechanical repeatedly chopping into the sky. As the sound grows louder, Blackstrap looks up from the fat and blood. Stares south to see the dot of the helicopter. Slowly lowering toward the ice where the men from the
Newfoundland Breaker
are at work skinning seals. He tightens up his thoughts and curses under his breath. They have been warned that the protesters were on their way.

Twelve days in a boat trapped in three-foot-thick ice. Not making a cent and fearing for the worst. The ice scraping and crunching at the sides of the longliner. Spooking the hell out of everyone in their sleep,
waking them to listen. Because two vessels had already gone down. Their hulls crushed by the pressure. Six men lost on one boat. The others rescued by chopper.

And now to face this.

The sky is a brilliant blue. Cloudless. The exact same throb of blue everywhere. The sun, burning overhead, causes the red to blaze against the snow. A perfect day for a visit from outsiders.

‘Just ignore 'em,' Captain Hynes calls out. ‘The whole spoon-fed lot of 'em.'

As the helicopter nears, all sound is smothered by the punching sweep of the rotor blades.

A television crew from the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation is on hand to document the arrival. Their helicopter had already touched down over an hour ago. With a reporter and film crew, wandering around the ice, trying to get important pictures. The worse the better. Stick their camera right up the seal's arse if they could. The reporter, a man Blackstrap has seen on television, asks questions. Some of the men answer shortly, grunting from their labour. Just to be polite. Others treat him like he doesn't even exist. No time for explaining what's important about making a living. What the seal hunt means to them. Why, sir, I just luvs da seal hunt. I truly does. How much, you ask? Well, b'y, I'd marry 'er if she'd 'av me, in me fil'ty blood-'n-fat-soaked rags. Yes, b'y, I would.

The noise from the approaching helicopter increases, making the seals yelp louder. When Blackstrap peeks up from the dead seal clamped between his boots, he sees the camera aimed at the helicopter that has just landed. No more than seventy feet up the ice. Blackstrap goes back to sculping the pelt away. A clean whispering slit, from throat to tail. When he looks up again, he catches sight of a silver-haired man. The leader by the looks of him. The way he stares out over the ice. Like he's stepping into a kingdom that once belonged to him, that had been magnificent. Occupied now by bloodthirsty barbarians. A true monarch, if there ever was one. Another man climbs out behind the first. Followed by a younger man and a woman. They look like they don't belong anywhere. Except in places of their own clean making. Spectators. Zipped up in brand-new winter gear. Spotless. Hair
combed just right for the cameras. Nice sunglasses. Expensive ones made by companies owned by poofters. So they don't go snow blind.

Blackstrap's sunglasses he bought at the corner gas station. From a counter rack for $3.99. He doesn't like the sight of the woman most. By the looks of her, she's never been to a place like this. And she will make a mess of herself. Because there is nothing to do here but slaughter things. Work. Why would anyone want to come and watch, if not because they've got time on their hands? Time to burn. Money to burn. Other people's money to burn. Other people's charity. Luxury time.

That place just not bred into the woman's head. Not a place for women or soft men wrongly dressed in clothes they think proper for the climate. Too warm for a day like this. Too warm if you plan on working. Getting your hands dirty. Nice clothes to be wearing if you want to stroll around, looking concerned and God-awfully wounded.

The cameraman hurries toward the helicopter. Another man with a microphone on a stick follows along. And the reporter comes up the rear. The reporter is shaking hands with the silver-haired man. The Lord over all cute creatures.

Blackstrap snorts. Looks down at the seal. Sculps away the hide. Rolls the seal over. A slosh of blood on his boots.

The helicopter engine is shut off. The rotor blades slow with a whine. Then comes the sound in his ears. He notices now because he is listening with the ears of the new arrivals. The shrieking of baby seals. A sound that will bring tears to the woman's eyes. Their bawling makes it sound like they're in pain. Even when they're not. It's just a sound they make. Doesn't matter if they're being killed or not.

The RCMP officer moves toward the new arrivals. The silver-haired man hands the officer a piece of paper. The officer looks it over while the reporter waits. The reporter checks the cameraman and the man with the microphone. Making sure everything is set up the way it's supposed to be. He points to a cord. One of the other men straightens it out.

The officer gives back the paper. Moves away. The four people from the helicopter roam toward the patch of men around Blackstrap. Off on an excursion, out for a jaunt in the fresh air. He feels his shoulders go tight. He becomes aware of his hand holding his sculping knife. The screeching as plain as anything. Points of sound on a deaf white field.
One of the men brings down a club on the head of a young seal. And Blackstrap feels disgust. Sounds of disbelief from the new arrivals. Cringes and Gasps Incorporated.

The way these people react makes him feel lousy.

The silver-haired man leads the group. He's talking like he's humble. But he's got something important to say. Like he's a sweet guy that everyone should listen to because he's put it all together nicely. He's thought it all out. The clear voice of informed reason. Every word said just so, written down somewhere for him. Maybe written out by his own hand before he says the words standing in front of a mirror. Watching himself to see how others will feel. He's an important guy. Knows he's good-looking. A charmer. Silver-tongued. He's from a group called Keep It Green. The green must stand for money. Because they make a good living. Trying to shut down other people's lives. A respectable racket to be in. If you're a know-it-all snotty mainlander. A colonialist. A bigot.

The taller man, behind the silver-haired man, comes up to one of the sealers. Introduces himself. His voice can be heard everywhere. It's a voice born for making speeches. The man's a senator from the United States. Here as an observer, he says. He talks like he's the most level-headed man alive. Like he wants to hear all sides of it, for the sake of the people he represents. His American countrymen. But he already has his mind made up. He's been brought aboard. He's just looking for ammunition to make his argument stronger, to get a ban on seal pelts in the US. The Newfoundlanders ignore the senator. Continue with their work. A senator is nothing to them.

But it is none of this that bothers Blackstrap. Not as much as the sight of the woman. Looking around at all the spilling red. Like she's stepped into some wide-open, cunt-ugly nightmare. Born to be slaughtered. Every living thing. The sound of the crying seal pups. She's horrified. Not a child ever pushed out of her. That's how she seems. A life too important for children.

The blood on the snow.

The red on the white.

The honest spillage.

The need to eat.

What he thinks
is he'd like to fuck her.

Right there in the mess of it.

Then she catches his eye.

‘Christ!' Blackstrap mutters. How to hold the knife now. How to make it look not so bad for her. He feels like dropping it, kicking it away from anywhere near him. Not mine, missus. Instead, he stabs harder. Stabs when he doesn't need to. Stabs at the carcass until blood is flicking everywhere. Spraying because the heart is still pumping. He will not silence it.

And his face is made blessedly warm.

A radio in one of the helicopters must have been switched on. Because Blackstrap suddenly hears music. Words plainly carrying across the still expanse of ice. Something about everybody kung-fu fighting.

The woman steps up alongside plump Billy Taylor. He's already huffing just to have her so near him. Like she's contagious. Billy tries leaning away a bit.

‘How does that make you
feel
?' the woman asks, her voice unsteady. Not her place to ask such a question. Why didn't she know that? Live the sheltered life, stay in the shelter.

Or bent over in the doorway of the chopper. Taking it from behind.

‘Move outta me way, missus,' says Billy with a voice that sounds half choked. ‘I'm tryin' ta work here.'

The woman waits, watches Billy labouring to keep up with the others. Tears already on her face. She slowly raises her fingertips and carefully dabs the tears away. Then, with head tilted despondently, she turns and steps away, up beside Blackstrap. He sees her leather boots. New as they can be. Expensive brand. They must've cost hundreds of dollars. Her feet must be really warm. Too warm. Her feet are probably sweating now. Stinking. Her toenails clipped nicely though. Painted pretty. Someone probably does it for her. She has on a pink snow suit. Expensive too. The brand name on the pocket. On her head, she's wearing a hat that looks like it's made out of beaver. Or maybe that's just her hair. The style of it.

‘How do you feel about what you're doing?' asks the woman. Her sad voice with an accent he cannot place. An accent clear as water. Pure and unmuddied.

Blackstrap does not answer. There is another seal near him. A fat harp seal baring its teeth. Hissing. Jerking ahead to bite at him. He steps in front of the woman. Catches a sniff of her perfume. Pretty is what it does to his insides for a second or two. Then he raises his club and smacks it in the head. Crushing its skull. He rolls it over. Slices its belly while it flinches around. Not the cleanest view now. But worst for her. Show her the worst. He growls a little for good measure because it feels right. That sound in his throat. He even thinks of licking his fingers. Her question making him into a savage. And while he stabs at the seal, he hopes the blood will shoot out at her. It doesn't. So he rolls the carcass over onto her boots. And lets the insides spill and slosh. The steam rising for a good whiff.

He looks up at her. His red face. His grin. His evil laugh while he drags an arm across his lips, smearing a clear patch for a kiss.

The woman stumbles back. Her stunned expression. Frightened. Aghast, might be the right word. Those toenails inside those boots. Those perfect toes treated to everything. This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home…

What do you eat? Blackstrap wants to ask her. ‘There's blood in everything,' he says. More to himself. What the fuck do you eat, you teary-eyed, manicured, made-up whore? Bend over.

But the woman hasn't heard. She stares hard at his eyes. At the way he's watching her. How is he watching her? With a threat. How he is holding the sculping blade. Without looking behind herself, the woman backs away more, her boots leaving red prints. There is a shout from the senator. Because the woman is about to trip over a four-hundred-pound harp seal. The silver-haired man doesn't notice. He's being interviewed, his mouth not knowing how to stop. Because he's so good-looking. Because he's practiced at his trade.

And the woman trips. The woman falls. Good solid ice packed hard. So the woman doesn't have to worry about going through.

The senator can't get to her in time. The four-hundred-pound harp has already made a snap at her face. Tore a chunk clean from her cheek. The woman doesn't scream. Like she's never learned how. She is horrified though. Her gloved hand to her cheek. The blood brilliant on her white mitt, dripping away onto white. Her big eyes
looking there. Her own blood. Then to the men who have turned to watch.

The silver-haired man keeps talking. The reporter holds the microphone and nods. The silver-haired man makes a circle in the air with his hand. Gesturing out over the icefields.

The harp jerks ahead and bites the woman's fingers, clear through her mitts.

Billy Taylor starts toward the scene, his short legs struggling.

The senator tries getting close. But the harp won't let him. Whipping around, its jaw snaps and snaps. A whitecoat bellies near. Nips at the woman's hair. Messes up her hairdo. Pulling it loose from how it's pinned in place.

Now, the woman's screaming.

Blackstrap steps nearer. The other men have gathered round. And the reporter has finally shifted his eyes from the silver-haired man's face to notice the commotion.

The scream.

Not the baby seals.

The woman.

Everyone's moving now, as fast as they're able. Because something is screaming. Maybe they can make a good stash of money from it. It does sound desperate enough. The screaming. Effective.

The men do nothing. Blackstrap Hawco. Billy Taylor. Andrew Coombs. Peter Galway. They watch the woman surrounded by seals. Feeding time at the zoo.

The senator snatches a club. Starts beating at the seal. But he doesn't know what he's doing. It only pisses off the harp seal who growls and gets angrier. Snaps at the senator's shin. Chews on the woman's boot. She's huddled up in a ball.

Her blood.

Or the blood of a seal.

Who knows.

Other seals gather around and screech at the woman. They probably think she's one of their own. Screaming like she is.

‘Do something,' wails the senator, poking at the seals. But frightened too. Needing the men, the murderers, to do their job.

The reporter is turned with the camera aimed at what's going on. The world that will see how the woman was treated. The famous footage that will travel the globe in no time, to be spoken of as an indignity.

Blackstrap steps forward. Raises his club. Crashes it down on the head of the harp. The skull giving way. On the heads of the whitecoats. On the heads of the greycoats. Everything soon dead around the woman. Limp. Everything stopped. Only the woman moving. Whimpering. Crawling through the stillness. Only the woman saved. The sobbing woman spared.