Blackstrap Hawco (94 page)

Blackstrap watches the smoke drift from where the cannons have been emptied. He sees the men quickly load more cannonballs, the bores packed, and he snaps from his trance to load his own.

The cannons fire once again. More holes torn open in the side of the
Algarve
. There is concern on the deck now. Much concern. Gunshots are fired directly at the smaller boats. The fishermen take cover, ducking from their decks toward wheelhouses.

The larger scattered vessels from Spain, Russia, China and Japan remain where they are, watching, but not bothered by what might be going on.

Water begins to flood into the
Algarve
's hull. In a time shorter than what Blackstrap expected, distress signals are given.

The DFO plane flies lower, its belly near the heads of the fishermen.

In the distance, port side, a Canadian Coast Guard ship approaches. Painted red and white with a flag of the same colours.

The
Algarve
takes on water.

Blackstrap's stomach churns with nausea.

Another report of cannon fire strikes the hull toward the bow.

As suspected, the onboard pumping system cannot handle the rush of water through the scattered punctures. No more cannon fire is necessary.

It is only a matter of time before the ship begins to list. The ugly angle of it scaring Blackstrap into stillness. The heavy hull of a ship tilting toward him.

But everything is calm now. A blue sky. A tranquil sea.

Regardless, the fear rushes up in him.

The Portuguese men take to the lifeboats, but there are not enough. Never enough. Men toss pieces of wood or life preservers into the water. Then they leap from the ship, falling with arms whipping around. Others dive expertly to splash into the water, and are left floating as the boat lists on a 45-degree angle. The men in the water watch over their shoulders, and struggle to swim away. Blackstrap checks for the
positions of the other Bareneed boats. They have steamed in reverse, anticipating the swell from the ship soon to be submerged. More men jump over the sides of the
Algarve
. Splashes of entry all along the ocean. Other men stay aboard, leaned back against the old steel, like they're trying to keep the boat up, until fully facing gravity and they are forced to jump, practically flung.

The ship groaning a sound that blackens the sky. The swell from its sinking pushing at the lifeboats, almost smothering the men bobbing in the water, rocking the skiffs and shrimp boats. The swell from its sinking drifts everything backwards a hundred feet.

Blackstrap in a trance for moments, eyes trained on the sailors bobbing in the loppy swell of water. What now? He looks around his boat to aptly position himself to rescue the Portuguese. And notices the video camera aimed at the men struggling to swim toward and clutch on to the lifeboats. Rushing out of the wheelhouse, Blackstrap plucks the camera from the reporter's hands and hurls it overboard. At once, the reporter dives in after it.

 

The Newfoundlanders on the five Bareneed boats pull Portuguese sailors from the water with gaffs. They toss lines to the lifeboats and tow them along. All of this is done before the Search and Rescue helicopter arrives or the Coast Guard ship has a chance. Blackstrap makes certain that every man has been collected, every name accounted for. He loudly questions the captain, pointing to one man, then another. ‘One, two, three…' The captain calls out names across the water. The men reply, or others reply on behalf of the called name. The men talk crazily and point at Blackstrap. They argue as though they might kill one another, all of them stood cramped on the decks of the vessels. They call out to their shipmates, where other Portuguese are sat or stood on Bareneed boats or in lifeboats. They call out more names. People answer in reply. Some of them related, no doubt, by the way they look concerned checking for others.

Mutiny, Blackstrap thinks. What happens then? More of them than us. But where would they go? Where would they take the boats? He has already thought of this on land. They seem content to squabble among themselves or stand dripping wet, some of them shivering with blue lips,
maybe thankful just to be saved. They watch up at the helicopter in the sky or at other ships. An interesting diversion. A few of them have dry cigarettes that they share with the other men.

How are the men meant to get home? Blackstrap's head begins to hurt more. He had gone there with the intention of bringing harm to them, but he had saved them instead. Wasn't that how it was? No, a statement was being made. We won't stand for it anymore. He hadn't intended to hurt anyone. A ship would come for them. A Portuguese ship would take the sailors home. There were plenty of them fishing off the coast.

Asked again for a head count of his men, the
Algarve
captain finally gives a nod and says, ‘Sure.' Portuguese sailors gesture in agreement, some more emphatically than others. The Newfoundland boats then head toward the other big ships, trying to drive them off with cannons still uncovered. But the other boats will not budge, their nets too costly to cut, until the DFO plane runs near them, the Coast Guard ship sails closer and a few of them cut their nets and steam off, their load illegal.

Many of the Portuguese gesture toward Blackstrap and argue more. At one point, one of them gets too rowdy. And Blackstrap storms out of the wheelhouse to stare him down. He feels his muscles tighten to snatch hold of the sailor by the sweater front. The other Portuguese go quiet while he scalds them with his look. But he does not move ahead. There is no need to punish anyone more than this. The sailors turn one way, lower their eyes, or edge back a few inches.

The language of disbelief muttered.

The Bareneed boats make wide circles while the foreign ships back off, again and again. The draggers veer east and steam away, but idle further off. The air is filled with airplanes and helicopters. Then another Coast Guard boat.

More big ships anchored miles in the distance.

Blackstrap had expected them all to leave the area belonging to Newfoundland, but there is no dividing line here. Where can a line be drawn in boundless miles of water? Blackstrap cannot fire at them because there is no room for the cannons to fire. No room for other crews on their decks. No men lost. He will not have it, although he
would like nothing more than to sink every last one of them. Leave the surface of the ocean bare.

Thirty minutes later, after refuelling from diesel carried by the shrimp boats, Blackstrap gives the order, and the five boats steam west toward unseen land.

Blackstrap thinks ahead, wondering what might happen when they arrive. He imagines Paddy there giving a few interviews already, stating the fishermen's case. Stood on the wharf in his loose grey sweater and with his big lips and missing teeth. Simple as that. Paddy the smart one. With an education at least, made to finish high school by his father putting the fear of God in him.

The Portuguese sailors talk low among themselves. A couple of them quietly inspect the cannon. They run their hands over it. A few squat and look into the barrel. Blackstrap smells smoke. Foreign cigarette smoke.

The reporter, back aboard after giving up on the video camera a while ago, won't say a word to Blackstrap. A merciful blessing, thinks Blackstrap. The reporter aims his still camera at the men and snaps photographs. Some smile or strike manly poses, and take draws from their cigarettes, while others turn their backs, their hands in the pockets of their coats which they had donned before the
Algarve
sank. And Blackstrap wonders about the cigarettes. He wouldn't mind trying one.

The sky is filling with more noise, not just two planes now, but others. Small planes. Private planes out for a look. And another helicopter. He leans to check through the glass. A helicopter flying low, straight out in front of him, swooping down to almost skim the water, then rising to tilt back. He sees one with the colours of the police. A white boat up ahead with purple stripes and the crown insignia of the RCMP racing toward them. A super-fast boat. It cuts the water nicely, with urgency. The big yellow Search and Rescue helicopter follows them in, keeping the same pace. The DFO plane cruises by overhead, not so low now, just biding time.

When the RCMP boat nears, it circles around the five Bareneed boats, racing fast as though trying to rope them in. The lights on the top of the boat are switched on which means the boats should all stop. They
do not. So the RCMP boat continues to circle, then rides between Blackstrap's boat and Donny Cole's. One of the police officers has a bull horn up to his mouth.

The Portuguese sailors watch the policemen. They smoke cigarettes. They tilt their chins up at one another. Comments are passed back and forth. The sailors then watch Blackstrap. This continues for an hour.

 

It is a relief to see the distant shore with dusk an hour off, to be sailing back into Bareneed. Whatever waits for him is home. Miraculously, the weather has co-operated. Seas of no great consequence.

As they near land, there are more helicopters overhead. One comes low and Blackstrap sees that the side door is off. A man sits there with a video camera aimed at him.

The water is getting crowded. Twenty-five or thirty boats from the area, off to the sides, leaving a clear path in. Dories. Sailboats. Skiffs. All there to see or welcome. People stood on the decks, watching in silence. A little boy jumping up and down, waving. Others start waving too. A man cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, ‘God bless ya, b'ys.'

They pass the headland in Bareneed, a bump like a nub on the head of a rocky giant. The cliffs toward the left. Houses seen along the road. People lining the shore, arms rising now, one by one, waving down the line.

The sight stirs something in Blackstrap that troubles his breath.

It was worth the effort now. He sees through the fear that it was a simple enough action. Nothing went too badly. Clean and easy. He has not slept in days, thinking it all through. His nerves are still raw and rattled, even more so by the memory of that ship going under. Who will pay for that if the ship was fishing illegally? But every one of those sailors saved.

Sailing into the bay, he sees the cars and pickups parked facing the water. The thicker clumps of people gathered there. Someone toots their horn and then another horn starts up, until the air is alive with car horns blasting. Bells ring in reply from the brigade of boats. Hundreds of people are lined along the roads. Must be from every community around. They wave, some of them with both arms. They cheer and
whistle. Many of them sweep Newfoundland flags through the air. Two small children hold a Newfoundland flag, one on each end, barely big enough to keep a grip.

Blackstrap passes the towering headland, heading for the community wharf. He glances at the boat beside him. Donny Cole stood on the deck, making a muscle at the crowds and grinning. It makes Blackstrap laugh outright.

A roar of shouting and cheering. Louder and louder. Car horns blast as the five Bareneed boats return to port. Decks crowded with Portuguese sailors. Fresh from the water. The catch of the day.

 

(August)

Little Tuffy hangs up the telephone and stares at Blackstrap. Tuffy likes to look dramatic by holding the moment for a bit of fake suspense.

The hospital room is quiet. Glenn has just left. There for a visit with his video camera, documenting his brother's slow, miserable death. Asking questions that Tuffy laughed off. But Glenn keeping at it, trying to make Tuffy answer seriously, trying to make it all sink in and get the honest reaction.

It's 9.00 p.m. Visiting hours are almost done, but they let Blackstrap stay later. He just shuts the door and no one says anything to him. Still a bit of a celebrity with word after getting around. He's heard the nurses whispering about him, telling each other what he did out there to those foreign vessels. Sunk a whole bunch of them, they say. Using cannons just like a pirate.

‘She's looking fer ya,' says Tuffy mysteriously. ‘Others, too.' He grins and laughs. ‘She tol' me wh' ya did widt dat backhoe.' Tuffy laughs, slowly. ‘Ya needs your head examined. The way you gets on.' He grins and turns his head on the pillow to look out the big window of the Health Science Complex, seeing other things, imagining with the medication. ‘'N those cannons.' Tuffy squints. ‘Geez, b'y, I saw all that on TV. Blackass, the hero. Don't mess with you. You're a fuh'k'n genius.' He steals a peek back at Blackstrap, grins again. ‘When's da court date? Ya think you'll do time fer kidnapping them Portugee?'

Blackstrap shrugs. ‘Who knows.'

‘Good on ya.' Tuffy laughs quietly, then squints in pain, squints
harder and harder. ‘Christ!' he mutters. ‘I could throw up. If I didn't want ta make waste of dat good hospital food.'

Blackstrap stands. ‘You want something? A drink? I mean cola or something else.'

‘I'm alright.' He watches Blackstrap's face, then scans him up and down. ‘Nice ta be the hero, eh? I saw on the news how the Fishermen's Union paid yer bail. Good on dem.' He keeps watching Blackstrap like he doesn't know anything for a second or two. ‘How ya manage that?'

‘What? They offered.'

‘Naw, I never meant the bail.' Tuffy pauses, swallows, gives his head a slow shake, his eyes somewhere else. ‘I meant surviving everything.'

Blackstrap scoffs, turns away. ‘I never survived nothing.' It just comes out. He isn't even thinking it.

‘Wha'?'

He knows exactly what he meant, but he doesn't want to say more, not in the presence of this dying man.

It's a shame to feel alive. A mortal shame.

‘You survived. Look at ya stood there.'

He gives a blunt shake of his head. Glances back at Tuffy.

‘Christ, b'y. Look at the face on ya. You just need a drink, that's all.' Tuffy reaches by the bedside table. Groaning lowly, he opens the drawer and takes out a flask of rum.

Blackstrap watches Tuffy take a swig, then wince at the sting and tilt his head in agreement. ‘Sum good…If it weren't so god-bloody bad.' He holds the flask out to Blackstrap, the sweet smell reaching him. A nice smell in place of the foul ones in the room.