The Badger Riot (32 page)

I wake up next morning to a cold kitchen. The damn oil stove is not lit anymore and the house is cold. It must have gone out several hours ago. The tank is full of oil, so there must be something in the line. This happens every now and then. I tinker with it, taking apart the oil line, spilling oil on the linoleum. I'll have to clean that up later. All of this, before I have my breakfast, only serves to make me cranky. I say a few choice swear words, guiltily enjoying the sound of them in my empty house. Sure enough, in the copper tubing I find a little piece of bark. “Blood of a bitch,” I mutter to myself.

So I put the damn oil line back onto the damn stove, relight it and boil the kettle. Our icebox has eggs and bacon, but that's too much trouble. The frying pan is still in the sink anyway, dirty from yesterday. So I forage around in the cupboard and get a half dozen Purity Jam Jams and that, with tea, is breakfast. My hands stink of stove oil, but I am halfway through the tea and Jam Jams before I notice it. I glance at the calendar. It's Tuesday, March the tenth.

As I sit there in the quiet, sipping my tea, I miss Ruth even more. If she were here now she would be bustling about the kitchen, fussing over me, making sure I had enough to eat. But most of all I miss her next to me at night. I heave a big sigh, take my cup over to the sink and add it to the pile of dirty dishes. I'll get around to washing them sometime before she comes home.

As I go out the door, I remember that I never wiped up the stove oil that dripped out of the line. There's a puddle on the floor behind the stove. Well, I'm not going back now. Bad luck to do that; everyone knows that it's bad luck to go back in the house right after you leave.

I go down to the A.N.D. Company garage. It's a mild March morning. The sun is glinting off the snowbanks as I stroll down Church Road. It's a relatively short street compared to High Street in Grand Falls or Water Street in St. John's. It might be a mile long and is arrow-straight. Residents say it's built on an old Beothuk trail.
People who come here always comment on the big twenty- or thirty-foot trees that line it. These stately trees probably looked down on the Beothuk as they look down on the goings-on today. Along the sides of the road the houses are well-built; most have white picket fences. Also on the street are three fine solid churches, which give the road its name. The United Church is at the southeast end, the Roman Catholic in the middle, and the Pentecostal toward the northwest end.

As I walk down the road, over on the left-hand side I see a crowd of men over by Mrs. Noel's house. They seem to be just milling about, having a smoke. The IWA rented the house a few months ago for loggers to stay during the strike. They're all strangers to me, so I just keep on my way. A couple of police cars pass by slowly and, although I don't know them either, I put my hand up to them hoping I look friendly. They seem to be keeping an eye on the Noel house and ignore me as they go by.

First, I head over to the forge shed. I need to get the blacksmith to make runner chains for my tractor and extras to take up in the woods with us. I while away an hour or more chatting to Jack Travers, the blacksmith, and to a couple of other men that come by. When Jack goes for his lunch I bid him goodbye, telling him I need to head up to the garage to check on the tractors. Old Jack says, “Rod b'y, you are one busy man. No one can say that you won't be ready for the haul-off when it comes – if it comes.”

I head out the door feeling pretty good about myself as I trot on over to the A.N.D. Company property. The boys are working away in the garage. They have the big garage door pulled up this morning to let in the fresh air and sunshine, and a couple of them are working on my tractor. Abe Miller, who manages transport for the Company, is there too, fixing the track on his Bombardier.

“Hey boys, how's it going?” I ask as I saunter up to them.

Abe turns his face away from his labours and looks up at me. “Hey there Rod, my son. Is there much on the go up your way this morning?” Abe lives in on Halls Bay Road.

“Yeah, I saw a lot of men up by the Noel house as I was walking
down the road. Nice few police around too. Looks like more than yesterday. Maybe they sent out more from St. John's.”

One of the mechanics speaks up. “That should never be happening. Dem police got no business out here in Badger. This little town is in some friggin' mess with all the goings-on here.”

The men talk together for awhile. I've used this downtime to get some general maintenance done on the tractor, and the mechanics are doing a good job with it. A few days ago I gave the head mechanic a bottle of rum on the sly and asked him if he could put me up first. And that's what he did. They replaced the fuel pump and the engine sleeves. There were repairs as well, to the final drive. They even replaced the track pads. The old tractor will be ready to go whenever this strike is over.

I spend the better part of the afternoon there helping Abe and chatting with the boys.

Around three o'clock, a Mountie car pulls up and from out of the back swaggers the Company manager. He's flanked by two Mounties. He never goes anywhere these days without police protection.

“Time to finish up, men. We need you all to secure this place,” says the manager. “We're securing all Company property. The situation in this town is a bit dangerous right now.” I look at the faces of the two tall Mounties with him and they look pretty serious.

Without a word, the mechanics put away their tools, pull down the garage door, and the manager locks up. The mechanics walk on over to the A.N.D. Company staff house where they're staying. The Mounties and the manager climb back in the police car. Abe asks them if he can get a ride home to Halls Bay Road. They offer me a ride too, but I tell them I'll be fine. Don't worry, I like to walk. I put my hand up to them, then continue to head back up Church Road alone.

As I walk, I can see that there seems to be quite a lot more activity going on than there was this morning. There are dozens of people streaming past me – loggers, women and children. A man I don't know runs by me yelling, “Come on b'y, get a move on. We're going to block the road to Millertown.”

I guess he thinks I'm one of the loggers.

I suppose I don't actually look much different from a logger or, I suppose, a striker now. I wear the same kind of clothes: rough pants, wool socks, logans. My sweater might be a bit better quality and my coat might be warmer, but not outstandingly so. I am a contractor, but you don't see me in a suit, white shirt and tie. No sir, not Rod Anderson. I've always been a part of the men who work for me.

It has been a restless day for me. As the priest of a busy parish, it's strange for me not to have administrative duties anymore. The school is closed, the nuns are gone.

In the morning, I walk around Badger, now a cheerless place, strangers everywhere, the mood dangerous and ugly. This usually quiet, snow-blanketed little town looks ill-used and invaded.

There's a big police presence, more than previously. It looks like their numbers have swelled overnight. Some of them nod to me or tip their cap. There is no attempt at conversation. The officers look uncomfortable and out of place. Government has plunked them down in a place that doesn't have any setup to house and feed them. They've had to bunk in Grand Falls, eighteen miles away over a slippery, snow-covered gravel road.

Joey Smallwood has decertified the IWA, calling them foreigners and white slave traders. The Bishop has advised me to keep quiet on all issues. All right for him to say; he doesn't live here. He said not to show support to the loggers. Clergy all over the island have swung toward Joey in recent days. The battle is indeed lost.

After lunch I decide to go out and open up the church. Someone might need to pray or talk and I feel I should be available. Some ladies come in, bless themselves with holy water, genuflect to the altar, light candles and kneel to pray. I go down by the door so I can speak with them on their way out.

“Good afternoon, ladies. How are you doing today?”

“We're on our way up to the Buchans Road picket line, Father. We have to be there to support our men, you know.”

“And you came to pray?” I know they are loggers' wives; the famous ladies of the picket lines.

“Yes, Father, we needs all the prayers we can get. May God protect our men this evening.”

After they go, I pray awhile, read the scripture, straighten the altar a bit, but mostly I have one ear cocked to the shouts and screams out on the street. I want to lock up and go check it out, but something tells me that I should have the church open for anyone who might have need of a sanctuary. If ever a place of peace and calm was needed, it is now.

My house, the Anderson house, which has been in our family for three generations, is about three-quarters of the way up Church Road. As I approach, I can see a police bus parked by my front gate. Across the street, where the little side road crosses the track, there's another bus and two police cars. Everywhere, black coats of the Constabulary are moving around.

The scene puts me on edge, maybe because my son-in-law belongs to this same police force. They stand around, straight as arrows, with their fur hats on their heads. They're not attempting to stop anyone going up the road and I guess they're just there waiting for orders.

I walk over to my gate and stand there with my back to my house, looking around. People run past me. I see Alf Elliott's young girl, Amanda, and some of her friends skirt around the black coats and head up the road. I remember my daughter Audrey used to babysit her years ago. Children sure grow up fast. The Hatcher boys clamber over the back of their father's fence, taking a shortcut through the snowy gardens. They're on their way to join the crowd of people up by the church. It's close to four o'clock, with an hour or so of daylight left in the sky.

I think I hear someone say “Dickie.” I whip around, scanning the faces of the black coats. Richard can't be here, can he? I'd heard Becky Abernathy, Richard's adopted mother, call him Dickie once.
Audrey told me later that it was a sore point with Richard. He hated it, but some of his fellow police officers who had grown up with him still called him Dickie.

With those black fur caps, the policemen all look alike. I don't see anyone I recognize. There isn't a chance that Richard would be picked to come out here. If he were, wouldn't he have come by to see me? Or wouldn't Ruth or Audrey have let me know? However, Richard must know these men. He works with them; likely he's even friends with them. But I am not comfortable with approaching the uninviting group and asking.

My stomach growls and I remember that I haven't had anything since the Jam Jams this morning. But hunger or no hunger, I'm too curious to see what's going on. Besides, there is no point in going into the empty house. There's no wife waiting for me, no fire going, no supper cooked.

I too head up the road until I see the intersection with the Buchans Highway. There's a mass of loggers assembled, surrounding a taxi. They seem to be giving it a hard time, banging on the window and shaking the car. I look up on the snowbanks that are now lined with the people who have just passed by me. There's the young Elliott girl with her friends, and over on the other side I spy the young boys scampering around the legs of the adults.

I'm standing well back, almost into the alders, on the right-hand side of the road leading to the intersection. Suddenly, the police fall into formation. I never heard anyone give the order, but right away they start their march up the road. They are quite the sight as they go past, their bodies rigid in their march, with their nightsticks on their right shoulders, all swinging their left arms in unison.

The unit goes past the Pentecostal Church and out of sight. They must have turned about, probably up by the sawdust dump, because next I see them marching back down. I don't see what happens next, but suddenly the police are among the loggers and the loggers are among the police. Sticks are swinging on both sides. I hear screams from the women on the banks and children crying out.