Blackstrap Hawco (93 page)

‘The line,' says Blackstrap, trying to keep his tone serious, his eyes on Paddy.

The man glances back, sees Paddy whistling and watching the other ships. ‘I'd like permission to board.'

‘What's in the case?'

‘A camera. I'm a reporter.'

‘Where you from?'

‘The
Independent
.'

‘Dat a country?' asks Paddy.

‘No, a newspaper,' the man says to Paddy, then to Blackstrap, ‘I'm from Ireland originally.'

‘Ireland, eh.' Blackstrap thinks on this, something he had not planned on. A man who could make a telephone call and ruin everything. No question about it.

‘Get aboard.'

The announcement brings a look of shock and insult to Paddy's face.

The man tosses down the line with one hand and passes down the case with the other. Blackstrap receives the case. It's lighter than expected. The man puts one foot on the side of the boat, practically jumps onto the deck.

Paddy steps to the lip of the wharf, shrugging and trying to meet eyes with Blackstrap, but Blackstrap won't have any of it.

‘Keep a watch out,' is what Blackstrap says, then turns away. Back at the wheel, he eases the throttle down, heading from behind the massive headland. The other two skiffs trail after him. When the three boats clear the headland, they face the bigger shrimp boats, waiting there, idling.

Five boats in formation under a black sky, heading toward the black horizon, over the black sea.

 

The lights are pinpricks in the distance. The way the lights from the houses on land had been behind him, eight hours ago. The reporter has finally stopped talking. So many questions and no answers readily at hand. The reporter sits out on the deck in a chair salvaged from Jacob's old wrecked boat, the first
Bareneed's Pride
. Occasionally, he raises his camera and takes a picture of nothing Blackstrap imagines. A flash goes off, lighting up the nearest water. In the trail of moonlight, Blackstrap expects to see a glimmer of steel rising out of the sea. A stiff length of pipe or a whip of chain.

Blackstrap senses movement behind him and checks over his shoulder. The reporter taking out another camera. Video. Those things everywhere now. He aims ahead and begins talking. The reporter gives the time.

‘How far are we from land?' he calls out.

‘Hundred 'n seventy miles.' Blackstrap looks over his shoulder, sees the camera pointed at him, a blinding light switched on above it. He faces forward. He'd sooner toss that reporter overboard than give him another look. No matter if he's from Ireland or not.

‘Only a scrap of an accent left in ya,' says Blackstrap.

‘What?'

Blackstrap sees no point in repeating himself.

‘Accent?…Did you say “accent”?…Well, you learn to speak proper in this world. Reign of the great white eye. All that.'

‘You speak Irish?' This question louder.

‘No. You know, Irish never made it through one generation in Newfoundland. The language, I mean…You know that?'

Blackstrap hasn't understood the question.

‘The language. Only the people who came over spoke Irish. After that, not one of their children spoke it. Any idea why that was?'

Blackstrap says nothing. Hands on the wheel, watching ahead. The pinpricks of light grow a little bigger, like coming into a city at night, from far away on the black liquid highway. The Ranger lit up like that too.

‘They spoke English in Newfoundland. Learned English right away. I have a few pints with a university prof every now 'n again. He's an expert on the Irish in Newfoundland. The British wouldn't allow Irish to be spoken. Just like the missionaries with the Indians and Eskimos up north. Beat them if they didn't speak English.'

Blackstrap stood at the wheel, watching, not wanting any more part of conversation. That bright light still on over his shoulder, not helping him see. The glare in the glass. ‘Shut dat light off.'

‘What language do you think they speak here now?'

Blackstrap says shortly, ‘Newfoundese.'

The reporter laughs. ‘Most people can't understand a word from the old folks around the bay…I can't. Some of them. But I can understand their children. It's like that again. Irish gone. Then Newfoundese corrected out of existence. We're all just a bunch of mimics, after all, talking like in movies.'

‘Shut up, will ya,' he finally says. ‘And switch of dat fuh'k'n light.'

The reporter switches off the light. And everything seems calmer. He even hears the sound of the engine more clearly.

‘What are you going to do when you reach the foreign vessels?' the reporter calls out.

‘Socialize,' says Blackstrap, watching ahead. The dots of light. A city afloat. The bright light behind him again, reflecting in the glass.

‘What was that?' The reporter's voice comes louder, clearer.

Blackstrap turns to see the light and camera hovering near the door. That light on again. ‘Outta the wheelhouse,' he barks.

The light backs away.

‘Turn that Christly thing off, I told ya.'

The light stays on.

‘Now,' Blackstrap shouts.

The light switches off.

‘'N keep it off.'

Blessed silence for a while. The flush in his face as he waits, thinking
what he might do next. He turns for the wheel. Every moment getting more important as they sail closer.

‘It's peaceful out here,' the reporter finally says, not able to keep his mouth shut, the sound of his own voice. ‘I thought it would be nastier. Violent seas and a bit of adventure. Sort of disappointing.'

Blackstrap glances back at the reporter, stares while his memory rages on its own. A man sitting in a chair on a calm sea. He hears the sound of an airplane engine, leans forward toward the glass and turns his head, strains a look up at the sky. Blinking lights from a plane. DFO, by the looks of it. He will not be stopped. He raises the radio, ‘This is
Bareneed's Pride II
. DFO plane overhead.' The other vessels make their acknowledgements.

Steadily they go. Not one of five engines slacking off.

 

As they near the foreign vessels, the sky begins to soften. The lights from the vessels lose their strength to dawn. No longer merely lights, they take on dimension. They are big boats made of steel. Sixty-foot draggers with massive nets trailing behind them, deep down on the ocean floor. Nets three hundred feet wide, two hundred feet high, like a huge mouth tearing at the bottom, scooping up every bit of life, netting twenty-five thousand pounds of fish in one haul.

The reporter stands off at Blackstrap's side. The video camera aimed at the nearest ship. ‘The
Algarve
,' he says.

‘Portuguese flag,' Blackstrap comments.

The reporter turns the camera to face Blackstrap who lifts the radio in hand.

‘Calling the
Algarve
,' says Blackstrap, easing up on the throttle. He waits, listens. Static. Engages the radio again. ‘Calling the
Algarve
.'

There comes an answer. Foreign words.

‘We are a battalion of Newfoundland fishermen. We will not leave this area until you have evacuated it.'

More foreign words.

‘English,' says Blackstrap. ‘English.'

Then a different voice, barely understandable. ‘Hel…lo.'

‘We are Newfoundland fishermen. We order you to move off this area.' Blackstrap waits, listens.

Static.

Nothing.

‘Calling
Algarve
.'

‘'Oo…are…you?'

‘We are fishermen. Newfoundland fishermen.'

The Bareneed vessels slow even more, halting in formation. Side by side, they make a line one hundred feet from the
Algarve
. Gradually,
Bareneed's Pride II
steams ahead, passing starboard of one of the shrimp boats, to idle at the forefront.

A voice replies through the radio, in a language unknown to Blackstrap.

‘English,' he hotly mutters to himself. ‘Fer fuck sakes.'

There is a silence and then a crackle of static: ‘Who es deez?'

‘Blackstrap Hawco.'

‘'Oo…you wunt?'

His words spoken clearly for the sake of understanding: ‘The…fishermen…of…Newfoundland…are…ordering…you…to…leave…these…waters.'

‘'Oo are you wid ahrders?'

The DFO plane cruises overhead, dropping lower for a better look.

‘This is the Canadian Department of Fisheries. Please identify yourself.'

The DFO on the radio now.

Blackstrap gives no response. They can see his call numbers by now. Enough light to make out the name too.

‘This is the Canadian Department of Fisheries.'

‘Calling the
Algarve
. If you do not leave these waters in five minutes, you will be attacked.'

There is no more sound.

Then another voice comes back. It is amused. ‘Attacked? You will ram us?' Another different voice: ‘Who are you? Are you police?'

Other larger vessels have started turning to face the confrontation. What might be happening. A ship flying a Japanese flag two hundred meters away. Starboard. No problem to see even at that distance. His eyes always with perfect vision. He looks up at the railing of the Portuguese boat. Sees two men with rifles aimed toward him. He makes a sound to himself.

‘They've got guns,' says the reporter.

‘Who cares.'

A gunshot goes off. A muffled ping.

Blackstrap looks up to see the rifle aimed toward the sky. Something thuds onto the deck and Blackstrap turns to see the reporter looking down. A grey bird with a black head and orange beak. A tern.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Nice shot,' says the reporter. ‘Can you eat them?'

‘This is the Canadian Coast Guard. Please identify yourself.' A Coast Guard ship in the area.

The DFO plane is so low the engine drills at Blackstrap's ears. He sees someone up there taking pictures through an opened door.

At once, fishermen are stood on the decks of the
Atlantic Charm
,
Amanda Jane
, the
Divinity
, the
Sacred Love
. All of them watching toward
Bareneed's Pride II
, awaiting the signal.

Stepping out on his deck, Blackstrap kicks the bird aside and brushes past the reporter. He goes to the flagpole, takes the rope in hand and hoists the Newfoundland flag. It flaps in the bit of morning breeze, making a sound that charms him.

The fishermen all spring to action, raising their flags. Then they begin untying the ropes from the tarps. The shapes of the objects hidden away on each boat identical. When the ropes are loosened, they pull off the tarps. One boat at a time, starting with the boat farthest down the line. Tarps yanked off to expose the iron black cannons set on wooden pedestals with wheels.

Six cannons collected from historic sites around the island, all aimed at the
Algarve
.

The Portuguese fishermen gather near the railing. They point. A few laugh and joke with one another. But two others straighten and slowly step back, realizing something deeper than laughter. More rifles are aimed over the railing. No longer at the sky. Five in total now.

A voice comes from a megaphone, from the overhead plane. All sorts of official words spoken, not one of them understandable. The speed and the height. All the words garbled, vibrating together.

The reporter watches the sky, but Blackstrap gives the plane no attention.

The position of his boat is exact. Side on. The anchor dropped. A clear shot over the edge of the hull. Soon, he'll drift out of line. Quickly, he takes a pouch from his pocket, loosens the drawstring, pours gunpowder into the vent and pokes the pouch away. He lifts the stick with its gasoline-soaked head, flicks open the Zippo from his pocket and the fabric blazes alive. A waver of orange and black, whooshing when he holds the flaming stick straight up above his head, and stands perfectly erect.

The Portuguese watch. A few of the rifles lift away, aim harmlessly toward the blue sky.

Blackstrap carefully lowers his arm, looking down to direct the fire to the ball on the cascabel. The black powder, wad and cannonball packed against it. Breathlessly, he brings the flame nearer the touch-hole, and waits, not knowing what to expect. They had tested the cannons offshore. The guns had worked then. But what about now? Hoping not to be made into a laughing stock. Cannonballs collected from museums and houses around the community. From the crawl spaces of old houses. Souvenirs found and kept. So many men with cannonballs just sitting in their homes. Conversation pieces of no true use to anyone until now.

An explosion sounds and the carriage jolts backwards, striking the reinforced steel, soundly denting it, one of the wheels nearly running over Blackstrap's boot. The percussion of the sound crackles and bounds and rebounds endlessly over the breadth of sea.

Across the water, the ball pops a clean hole in the side of the
Algarve
, high above the waterline. The action barely making a sound. There is silence all around, and then more laughter from the deck of the
Algarve
. Other faces watching down with interest, bodies straining to lean toward a look. A few smoking cigarettes, wondering what that tiny hole might mean.

The vessel toots its horn. An almost silly sound.

‘Good Christ,' says the reporter, video camera to eye.

The radio going from the wheelhouse. Warnings from official voices. Words recited about treaties. The Canadians always with something to say.

That's all there is to it. That's how it seems. The silence extended to hold the entire morning in a state of anticipation and grace. The hole
high above the waterline. But then three other cannons fire in succession. The booms not so loud at varied distances, each explosion ricocheting off the other.

Two more holes ripped in the side of the
Algarve
, closer to sea level.