Newfoundland Stories (17 page)

One of his slayers, awed by Nonosbawsut's size, insisted on measuring him. Taking a piece of line from his pocket, he tied a small knot in one end of it to denote the bottom of the slain warrior's feet, and another at the top of his head. Later, when he was able to take a more accurate measurement, he asserted that the distance between the two knots was six feet, seven and one-half inches.

The slaying of Nonosbawsut was the death knell for the Beothuk race. Within ten years they would be extinct. His twenty-three-year-old wife, Demasduit, lived less than a year in confinement before dying of tuberculosis. Her niece, Shanawdithit, who surrendered herself to the white settlers four years later, survived six years in their world before succumbing to the same disease. Much of what is now known about Beothuk culture, their customs, traditions, and beliefs, was passed along by these two young women during their brief captivities.

When Shanawdithit drew her final breath in June 1829, the Beothuk people were no more.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This fiction narrative touches briefly on the 330-year history of the Beothuk, from their first encounter with the Corte-Reals in 1500 to the death of Shanawdithit in 1829. The Beothuk names used in the initial periods of this account are fictitious. It was not until the early nineteenth century that the names of a few of the Beothuk people then living became known, such as Demasduit, Shanawdithit, and Nonosbawsut, which are names familiar to most Newfoundlanders and Labradorians today.

Newfoundland historians differ in their opinions regarding the extent to which persecution by white settlers contributed to the eventual extinction of the Beothuk Indians. The compilation of accounts and stories contained in James P. Howley's
The Beothucks or Red Indians
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1915) seems to suggest that its impact was very significant, perhaps the greatest contributing factor of all. This view seems to be supported in some measure by Joseph R. Smallwood's
Encyclopedia of Newfoundland and Labrador
(St. John's: Newfoundland Book Publishers Limited, 1967, 1981) and his
Book of Newfoundland
(St. John's: Newfoundland Book Publishers Limited, 1967). Harold Horwood, in his article entitled “The People Who Were Murdered for Fun,” published in
Maclean's
magazine (October 10, 1959) also asserts this to be the case. In his article, Horwood strongly contends that from the very beginning, seasonal European fishermen and white settlers routinely killed the Beothuk whenever an opportunity arose, and quite often it was done just for the sport of it. He further argues that during the late 1700s and early 1800s, when the stakes for ownership of lucrative water rights and prime fur locations became much higher, the random and opportunistic killing of the Beothuk became organized and systematic, carried out primarily by the furriers of Notre Dame Bay.

Some other historians take a different view. Frederick Rowe, in his
Extinction: The Beothuks of Newfoundland
(Toronto: McGraw-Hill Ryerson, 1977), makes the argument that the impact of the white settlers on the demise of the Beothuk has been greatly overstated and suggests that the reputation of the Notre Dame Bay people, indeed all Newfoundlanders, has been much maligned because of this. Rowe dismisses the more extreme accounts of the massacre of the Beothuk as myths.

Ingeborg Marshall's
A History and Ethnology of the Beothuk
(Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen's Press, 1996) recognizes the seriousness of the slaughter of the Beothuk by the white settlers but concludes that the primary cause of their extinction was disease, as well as the lengthy hostility which existed between the Beothuk and the Mi'kmaq Indians of Newfoundland whose hunting grounds and living areas often overlapped.

Information about John Peyton, Sr. and Jr., was taken primarily from
River Lords: Father and Son
by Amy Louise Peyton (St. John's: Jesperson Publishing, 1987).

9
Mamashee is the Beothuk word for a large vessel. It is highly unlikely, however, that the Beothuk had ever seen anything as large as Corte-Real's ships before that time.

10
Tapathook is the Beothuk word for canoe. Varying in length from sixteen to twenty-two feet, they were constructed of caribou skins sewed over a framework of laths and gunnels, and curved upward at each end.

11
James P.Howley,
The Beothucks or Red Indians,
p. 8

THE NEW ROAD

“T
he mail boat seems to be running a bit late today, doesn't it?”

“Yes, Mother,” Mary answered as she scanned the cove through the tiny pantry window and saw that, even in the shelter of the cove, tiny spumes of white foam whipped the water and wind squalls darted about randomly, darkening and agitating the surface wherever they touched.

That was why he was late. She knew that if it was this brisk here in the cove, it must be much rougher outside in the arm.

“Perhaps he won't be coming today,” she suggested.

“Oh, he'll be here, all right,” Maude insisted. “It'll be a frosty Friday when he won't come. He's just held up a little, I dare say.”

Even as her mother spoke, Mary spotted the unmistakable prow of Stephen Smith's white mail-boat bob past the point, skirt Devil's Rock, and begin to make its way across the cove.

“Yes, Mother, you're right. That's him coming in now.”

“That's good. And Mary dear–”

“I know, I know, put the kettle on. I'll get to it right away.”

Within minutes, Mr. Smith was depositing the heavy mailbag on the shining canvas floor of Maude Martin's kitchen, oblivious to the little pools forming at his feet as water dripped from his wet oilskins. Mary had often wondered why he always brought the bag to the kitchen, no matter what the weather was like, and left rain or snow or slush all over the place, instead of taking it directly to the post office door which was only twenty feet away. She had mentioned it to her mother only to be told, “It's because he wants to make sure he gets his little munch before he goes back,” and that had brought the issue to a close and it was never mentioned again.

“You poorman,” Maude fussed. “Now then, how about a nice cup of hot tea to warm you up?”

“Don't mind if I do, maid, haven't had a bite in me gut since early this morning.” He hoped that the tea, when it came, would be laced with a good drop of brandy. Sometimes it was, but not always. Today he could use it.

Mary emerged from the pantry with a plate of gingersnaps and cream crackers, poured a cup of tea, and set it all on the table. Mr. Smith sipped the tea expectantly and found it to his liking.

“Was it very bad coming down the arm today, Mr. Smith?” she asked.

“Yes, me darlin'. Tis not fit for anything out there. Any man with a grain of sense would stay home on a day like this, and the worst of it is that I got to turn around and go right back up again.”

“Well, you know that you can always bide here anytime you're stuck,” said Maude. “We've got lots of room.”

“Nah,” he replied, pausing between sips. “It's not really that bad. I've been out in a lot worse. It's just that sometimes I think I'm getting a bit too old to be at this racket.”

“Well, you won't have to worry about that very much longer, will you? The new road will be here soon.”

“No, maid, I won't.” He paused to study the bottom of his empty cup before continuing. Maude took the hint and told Mary to fill it up again.

After two or three drawn-out swallows to assure himself that the desired ingredient was still present, he continued. “Actually, next week will be my last run. After that the mail will be coming down by truck – and I'll be out of a job.”

“What a pity. What are you going to do?” The concern in Maude's voice was genuine.

“Well…” He hesitated. “I suppose I don't have much choice. Me and Everett talked about setting out the old cod trap again, that is, if it's not rotted out by now. It's been ten years or more since it was in the water. If that doesn't work out, I don't know what I'll do. Go in over the line, I suppose, and look for some kind of work in the lumber woods.”

“It's not fair,” Maude sympathized. “You'd think they'd have made a better arrangement than that, a pension or something, wouldn't you? And at your age, too. It's just not right.”

Then an odd thought crossed her mind. “Tis funny how things work out sometimes when you really stop and think about them. They say that one man's loss is another man's gain. And, here's you, going to be put out of work by the new road, but for all of us down here in the cove it's probably going to be the best thing that's ever happened to us. After all these years of isolation, we'll finally be connected to the rest of the world.”

Mary interrupted, “Mother, have you looked at the time?”

“Yes, dear,”Maude sighed. “I'll get started.”

Mary smiled to herself. She knew her mother well. She'd keep the people outside waiting a little longer. She always did. Then she'd fling open the door and, in her most officious voice, announce, “The post office is now open for business.”

Mary's father, Jim, when he was alive, used to tease her mother and tell her she was vain, said she was “too proud for her own good.” And Mary always knew, despite her mother's hot denials, there was an element of truth in what her father said. During the week, whenever her mother met people somewhere in the small community, it was always “Hello, Aunt Sue, how are you feeling today, my dear?” or “Good morning, Uncle Ted, and where are you off to this fine day?” But on Thursday, when the post mistress in her took over, it was “Letter for Mrs. Susannah Harvey” and “Parcel for Mr. Theodore Penney.” Yes, Mary did know her mother's ways. But she knew something else, something far more important. She knew that her mother, despite the fact that she occasionally put on airs, was a good, decent woman with a kind heart who'd give anyone the clothes off her back if they needed them. And that, in the final analysis, Mary believed, counted above everything else.

Thursday was mail day – every week, weather permitting. As soon as the mail boat put in its appearance, people from all around the cove left whatever they were doing and converged slowly on the post office, which happened to be located in the front room of Maude Martin's house on the south side of the cove, once used as a bedroom but now renovated and fitted with its own exterior door. Anyone expecting a letter or package came with the hope that this would be the day it arrived. Others came on the off-chance that there might be something for them, too, while others, who probably hadn't received any mail in months, even years, simply came to see what was going on and to get whatever little bits of news or gossip happened to be going around the cove at that time. Some rowed over in their punts, while others came on foot. Nobody rushed. Rarely did anything different or exciting happen to break the monotony of the quiet life of the cove.

Mary always helped her mother with the distribution of the mail. She'd try to sort it as best she could and then hand each piece to Maude who would then call out the recipient's name. Maude did all the calling. Invariably, the major portion of the mailbag's contents, often more than half of it, would be for Simon Martin, the merchant. He rarely came with the rest of the crowd unless he was in a hurry to get something in particular. So his pile was usually put aside for him to collect later that evening or the following morning.

Mary enjoyed her work in the post office and looked forward to it every week. It wasn't so much the work itself as it was the opportunity to listen in on the various conversations that took place in the little crowded room. That was what she really liked, for Mary was a listener. As she sorted and passed the mail along to her mother, she could easily keep track of the many different discussions taking place. And today the main topic of discussion was the new road.

“They'll be bustin' through any day now,” boomed Uncle Noah.

“Yes,” agreed Aunt Em Harvey, whose house was the farthest one up on the flat and the closest one to the point where the new road would eventually enter the cove. “I can hear them bulldozers going all day long. They sound like they're getting closer and closer.”

“Won't it be wonderful?” Mary picked up from another separate chat taking place between Miriam and her sister Jane. “Sure, we'll be able to nip up to Clarenville whenever we want and be back again inside a couple of hours. I dare say if we left early enough in the morning we could even dart into St. John's and be back home again before dark.”

My God, there's never been a car in the cove, thought Mary, and already they're nipping up to Clarenville and darting in to St. John's. Oh well, it won't be long, I suppose.

Someone else said, “And not only that, they say that once the road is through, we'll get electricity, and telephones too before long. You just mark my words.”

And so the snippets of conversation went, straying occasionally to other topics, but invariably coming back to the new road. Then, finally, when Uncle Mose Hiscock cleared his throat, an expectant hush fell over the small room. When Uncle Mose spoke, people listened. Just about everybody in the cove deferred to him whenever he delivered his opinions or made his pronouncements. It was another of those things that Mary didn't quite understand. Perhaps it was his voice, for everything he said was delivered in a deep, funereal voice that made even the simplest utterance sound like some deep philosophical statement of great importance. Or maybe it was the fact the he was the three-quarters minister, who delivered the sermons and conducted the weddings, funerals, and baptisms during the first three weeks of every month and kept things going until the real minister made his scheduled appearance the last Sunday of the month. Whatever the reason, Mary thought, she wasn't convinced of his invincibility, for she had noticed, even if nobody else in the cove had, that he wasn't always right. He was wrong sometimes, just like everyone else. Yet everybody seemed to accept everything he said as gospel.