ELWOOD WORCESTER WAS BORN IN Massillon, Ohio, on May 16, 1862. As a young man working in a dingy, cramped railway office after the death of his father left his family in poverty, he had what for him was a life-changing experience. One day his dark office was suddenly filled with a brilliant unnatural light. From somewhere beyond the steady, surreal gleam of light, a strong but very clear, soft voice said, “Be faithful to me and I will be faithful to you.”
After that he became an ordained Episcopalian minister. He was the founder of the Emmanuel Movement of America, whose philosophy attributed physical, mental, and nervous problems as well as psychotherapy with the spiritual well-being of the human mind. Worcester founded the Boston Society for Psychic Research. His activities played a major role in helping with research for the dreaded disease tuberculosis.
But Worcester was something more. He was an avid sportsman. He went to great lengths and took advantage of every opportunity to experience the wonders of hunting and fishing all over North America. He regarded it as “one of my choice blessings that these pleasures have never palled on me.” The preacher would think nothing of walking the great distance along a terrible trail to Irondequoit Bay, in Lake Ontario, just to fish for a few yellow perch, several black bass, or even sunfish.
Having heard about the wonders of northern Canada and the largely unexplored regions of that vast country, he decided to go there. Worcester obtained rail passage to Quebec, where he arranged for four native Indians, who spoke no English and knew only a few words of the French language, to take him into the interior.
They left Lac-Saint-Jean, headwaters of the mighty Saguenay River, and made their laborious way north by canoe into the lonely, uninhabited wilderness of Quebec. Weeks later and several hundred miles away from any human habitation, Worcester had finally experienced enough of the north wilds. Blaming the whole unpleasant ordeal on his “four ignorant Indian guides,” he returned to the modern world vowing never to use Indians as guides again. Then he met Mattie Mitchell.
ANOTHER OF WORCESTER’S PASSIONS was reading, when he could find the time. He especially loved browsing through historical accounts about Canada, partly because of its self-proclaimed status as a sportsman’s paradise, and partly due to his recent disappointing foray into that north land.
What he found one day, while reading a historical work in the city of Philadelphia, was a riveting account of another northern country—Newfoundland. He relished the writings of John and Sebastian Cabot. The descriptions the two men had given about their “discovery” of the island of Newfoundland fascinated him. The Cabots had found scores of fishes “great and small.” Vast shoals of cod were taken from the virgin blue sea as easily as dipping them up with a simple basket. Silvery salmon and gleaming trout they scooped from the shallow rivers. They salted down barrels of the protein-rich fish.
Foraging upon the unspoiled land, Cabot’s men with their long-barrelled muskets brought back the carcasses of tender caribou and excited tales of “numberless fleet footed Deeres.” Their flesh too was salted for transport across the ocean. Animal skins for a fur-hungry England were stowed aboard their ships. All of these trophies, which were taken back to England, served as mere samples of what this “New World” had to offer to the explorers.
But of all the amazing events the Cabots had recounted, one of them stuck in Worcester’s mind above all of the rest. The man the English called John Cabot—whose birth name, Giovanni Caboto, was Italian, and whose only known signature appears as Zuan Chabotto—gave to Henry VII, the Tudor king of England, three wondrous pearls. The three pearls had been taken from the shells of freshwater mollusks pulled from just one of the countless rivers of that far-off “New Founde Land.”
This revelation, so boldly recorded by these European adventurers hundreds of years ago, played upon the good reverend’s mind. He was awakened in the middle of one winter’s night by a dream about pearls. He sat upright in his warm featherbed, and there and then decided to plan a trip north to Newfoundland the very next spring. As an added bonus, this big island was the only place left in the world where one could fly-fish Atlantic salmon freely.
Tales of caribou with antler points by the dozens, huge, shiny black bears unequalled anywhere could be hunted there. Worcester couldn’t wait for the winter to pass. This time, though, he would not allow Indians to guide him, if there were any on that island in the sea.
Worcester arrived on Newfoundland’s coal-burning ferry boat in early June and decided he would need a sturdy schooner for his coastal explorations of the river mouths. In the rugged outport town of Port aux Basques, where the ferry docked, he was told there wasn’t a schooner for sale. However, one of the fishermen knew of a “right smart scunner fer sale in Bay of Islands,” a deep fjord farther north along the island’s west coast.
It took him several days of walking and hitching boat rides with the friendly fishermen before he arrived in the Bay of Islands. Worcester was enchanted by the rawness of the place. It seemed like the entrance to every cove gave a more spectacular vista than the one before it: massive fjords, their many valleys and gorges filled with the lush green of virgin forests; waterfalls that fell from great heights, with silvery mists marking their fall below the treed skyline; high, flat-topped mountains came down to the sea edge; green canyons twisting around the mountain bases beckoned a man into their realms.
And all of it largely unexplored.
The young, ruddy-faced fisherman back in Port aux Basques who had told him about the schooner had not lied. The vessel was still available. Its owner was now unable to fish for a living.
Frank was a man in his mid-fifties, but his weathered face made him look much older. The man frequently coughed, and walked with a knotty wooden cane. Both men walked out over a large wharf to which the schooner was securely tied fore and aft with heavy manila lines.
A bright, hand-painted board with the name Danny Boy was attached to the vessel’s stern below her low taffrail. The tide was out, and Worcester knew the schooner was his as soon as he looked down on her neat, spotless single deck, with small double doors in her forecastle swung wide to allow the warm sun into the dark cabin.
Without climbing aboard, although the schooner’s owner had invited him to do just that, Worcester wanted to know the asking price. The man leaned heavily on the cane cut by his own hand, started to speak, and went into a spasm of coughing. He quickly recovered, spat a grey ball of phlegm down into the harbour water, and answered this way:
“I cut every stick out of the hills behind ye. Me boy was still in school then, but he helped with what he could, I will give him dat. Danny, his name is, but we all the time calls him Danny B’y. So we called the scunner after our b’y.” His voice seemed to weaken a bit at the mention of his son. Then he continued.
“Mucked the logs and crooked timbers fer her frame on me back and hand slide alike, in its turn. Chopped the timbers meself, I did, and nailed every plank from garbit to gunnel, rammed her tight as a drum wit’ oakum I spun wid me own two hands. ’Er decks are poured with heavy pitch too, dey is—not that cheap, runny tar that sticks to a man’s rubbers on hot days and always laiks.”
Here Frank turned away and coughed again before continuing. Worcester was fascinated with the man’s language. His rapid conversation was aided with arm and hand gestures just as quick. He pointed toward the forested hills, the long blue bay, the harbour, or the newly painted schooner as his talk warranted.
Frank’s chest-heaving cough produced another pearl-grey issue that he again spat over the wharf edge. Worcester thought he noticed flecks of blood mixed with the sputum as the man cleared his throat and continued his conversation as though he had not stopped.
“I wuz askin’ $1,900 fer ’er, sir, but she was just launched fer dis year’s fishin’ and she’ll laik a wee bit at first. ’Twill tek a few days fer ’er seams to plim up. She’ll laik nar drop after dat. So I’m askin’ $1,850, to ’low fer dat inconvenience every spring to the man wot buys ’er. I won’t change me mind on that price, though, sir. Dat’s me final one. An’ I feels right sure I won’t be gyppin’ a man wit’ it.”
Worcester smiled at the man’s honesty—when he finally figured out what he had said. When Frank explained what “plim” meant, he willingly agreed to the price.
“Cash on the barrelhead,” cautioned the wily old fisherman. When Worcester asked if there were any papers to sign, he replied, “A man’s ’and on it is good nuff fer me, sir.” Spitting into his right palm, he offered it to the American, who very reluctantly shook it—remembering the spitting—sealing the deal.
Worcester was now the proud owner of a handcrafted, thirty-nine-foot, seaworthy schooner. She was supposed to be forty feet long, Frank told him, but, “Da stem piece I cut ’ad a bit too much rake to it fer me likin’, so I shartened ’er keel a bit.”
Worcester decided not to ask what it all meant. Counting out the American bills, he told a beaming Frank he loved the boat just as she was and that he would move his gear aboard the Danny Boy immediately.
While Frank counted out the most money he had ever held in his hand—after being assured the odd-looking bills were not only good but worth more than the island’s currency, something he did not understand—Worcester asked him where he could obtain the services of a good local guide. He wanted someone who not only knew about hunting but also someone who knew the rivers well. Worcester never brought up his intention to search for freshwater clams.
Frank looked up from his money and replied without hesitation. “Mattie Mitchell is the man fer you, sir. He is an Injun man but as good as ar white man, better dan some of da ones I knows about.”
Remembering his experience with the Quebec Indians, Worcester replied, “There must be a few white hunters and trappers around these parts that could show me around this country. I will need such a man for a few weeks and I will pay him, of course.”
“Dere are some as you say, sir, right smart hunters and good at trappin’, too, fer dat matter. But Mattie is still your man, sir.” And again gesticulating with his skinny arms, he went on. “I does some huntin’ and a bit of trappin’ too in the fall time. Dat’s after me voyage of fish ’as been made and shipped away, ya know. An’ I knows the hills pretty good meself.” Here Frank threw his arms wide, indicating the surrounding green mountains.
“But Mattie, sir, is a long cut above me er anyone else dat I knows of in dat regard. Dis man knows the country like the back of ’is own ’and an’ farther away dan dat. You won’t find no one close to ’e’s equals anywhere on dis coast, er any other one on dis island, sir. I knows him well, sir. Jes’ dis marnin’ he paddled along be me wharf in dat old canoe of ’is, on his way out the bay. Won’t be gone more dan two days, I figure. Didn’t have no gear aboard dat I could see. Don’t talk much, Mattie don’t—not like me, eh?” Here Frank smiled, showing strong, tobacco-stained teeth.
For the next two days, Worcester explored the village. He met almost all of the friendly men, a few of the women, and several of the children who followed the ’Merican man around.
ON THE THIRD EVENING, WITH THE SUN down behind the flat mountains and the gloaming casting long shadows out over the still fjord, Mattie Mitchell came paddling toward the schooner where Worcester stood waiting. The Indian was dipping his paddle into the water on the left side of the shallow canoe. Even at a distance, Worcester, who knew about canoes, could see the man was using the J-stroke, a method of paddling that at the end of each long stroke curved outward, which kept the craft straight without having to change sides.
The single paddle flashed and sparkled each time it drew quietly out of the black water. Just as quietly, it plunged back down to the full extent of the Indian’s powerful reach. The curved bow of the canoe pushed little bubbles ahead of itself as it came merrily along. The bubbles suddenly fell away from the small craft when Worcester called to the Indian, “Are you Mattie Mitchell, sir?”
“Yes,” came the simple reply from the straight-backed man sitting in the stern of the slowing craft.
“May I have a moment of your time, sir?” Worcester asked, hoping the man would paddle closer. The Indian neither moved nor answered for a moment. He and the canoe sat silhouetted like a painting in the still evening water.
One long pull of his paddle brought Mattie Mitchell within a few feet of the black schooner’s starboard side, where he stopped and looked up at the man whom he knew to be an American.
“You buy Frank’s Danny B’y schooner, maybe.” He made it sound like he already knew the answer.
“Indeed I have. I have made it my home these last few days. I am quite pleased with the purchase, though I have not sailed her yet,” replied Worcester.
“She plim up good yet?”
Pleased that he now understood the word, Worcester smiled down at the Indian. “Yes, the vessel has plimmed very well. I have pumped her only once in three days and that only took a few moments to do,” he said, pointing to the homemade wooden pump on the schooner’s deck.
Worcester decided this Indian was different than the ones he had encountered in Quebec. He changed the subject toward his reason for being here. “Frank tells me that you are an excellent hunter and trapper as well as a very knowledgeable person regarding the country around these parts.”
The canoe bobbed closer to the schooner. Mattie put his left hand against its sleek sides. Looking up, he said, “Frank is good man, fer a white feller. He cough too much, I t’ink. His Millie good woman, too. She bake best bread loaf.”
“Indeed she does. I have never tasted better. As a matter of fact, I have a loaf of Millie’s excellent bread aboard. The kettle is ready. Would you like a cup of tea?” Worcester asked, noting the concern for Frank evident in Mattie’s voice. He decided to stay away from that topic for now.
“You have sugar?” asked a hopeful Mattie, who was moving toward the wharf.
“A big jar of it sitting on the table below, as well as a full bag stored away in the hold. And you are welcome to as much of it as you would like.”
Worcester had made Mattie the right offer, especially after his long paddle up the bay. Two of Mattie’s favourite things were “live” tea, with lots of sugar, and fresh homemade bread.
Worcester had not come by this information by accident. He had shared a couple of evening meals with Frank and Millie while waiting for Mattie to show up. They had told him many things about their “favourite Injun.” They could say nothing bad about him. Millie had given Mattie many loaves of her bread, she told Worcester.
“Mind you, I should not ’ave said give. ’Cause many’s a time he has tossed a good meal of trout upon the wharf on his way back up the arm. And sometimes deer meat, too, though I never once asked fer anyt’ing fer me loaf of bread.” The kindhearted woman clearly like Mattie Mitchell. Worcester trusted her judgment of the Indian.
Worcester and Mattie talked about fishing and hunting over two cups of hot tea in the warm forecastle. The American didn’t mention his desire to find pearls. When Mattie had finished the last cup of tea, along with several well-buttered slices of Millie’s bread, and mixed the tea dregs with sugar and had eaten that as well, he agreed to guide Worcester on a trip up the coast.
During his time with Frank over the next few days, Worcester became convinced the man had tuberculosis. Worcester was not a doctor, but he was a learned man and had seen many such cases. He carefully broached the subject to Frank privately one late, quiet evening while they sat on the bridge leading to his kitchen door. They were no less than 100 feet beyond the wharf where the schooner pulled gently at her moorings.
Frank looked around to see if Millie was near before he answered. They heard her inside the house busily cleaning up after their delicious evening meal. “You’re probably right about dat, Reveran’,” he said quietly. Both Frank and Millie refused to call him by any other name when they found out he was a man of the cloth.
Frank was smoking a short-stemmed pipe that he had filled with the rich-smelling American tobacco Worcester had brought. The good reverend liked a few draws from his own well-used briar after a good supper.
Frank had just finished his usual bout of coughing followed by a round of spitting. He always coughed more after a few lungfuls of pipe smoke. Worcester mentioned this to him. Frank coughed again and, when he was able to speak again, said in a low voice, “The TB is bad ’ere, Reveran’, all ’long the coast and ’round the island too. Dere’s hundreds of people dead from it, I ’ear.”
Frank looked toward the kitchen window, fearing Millie would hear him. “She fears the same as I do, ya know. Not stupid, is my Millie. We don’t talk about it much. We’ll be leavin’ fer Canada now in a few days. Goin’ up where me son is. ’Twas why I sold me scunner. Fer the passage money an’ a few dollars to have in me pocket when I gets dere. ’Tis easy fer a man good wit’ his ’ands to get good paying work up dere, me boy sez. ’Ouses gettin’ built up ever’where. I can do dat. Built dis one, I did.” He pointed to the neat home behind them.
“Dere’s more dan dat, too. Good doctors up dere. Our boy told us dat in a letter we got from ’im. Dey’ll fix me up fer sure. Dere’s a big lake where Danny lives, jest as big as the gulf out dere, he says.”
Here Frank pointed beyond the long, indented bay toward the hidden Gulf of St. Lawrence and continued. “’Twill break me ’eart to leave me cove, ya know. Millie’s nephew is taking over me ’ouse. Dey jes’ got married. Only to live in, ya know. An tek care of while we’re gone. I’m not selling me ’ouse. After I’m feelin’ better I’ll be back again. Can’t let me ’ouse an’ lan’ go. Wot’s a man got to come back to wit’ nar ’ouse and not even a piece of lan’ lef’ to call ’is own?”
As usual, Frank said what he had to say in his usual fast-talking manner without stopping. The hand that held his slow-burning pipe did all of his gesticulating this time. With every swing of his arm, toward the bay or his home or the white-curtained kitchen window, puffs of blue smoke trailed away from the bowl of the pipe.
He stopped to cough again. Worcester waited, expecting him to start talking again. But he didn’t continue. He just stared at the schooner that was no longer his, which kept tugging at her lines with a soft rubbing sound. Once, Frank’s hand brushed along both his eyes with his usual quick, animated movement.
Worcester knew that Frank and Millie’s son, Danny, had left to find work in Toronto last fall. The boy wanted something different, a weeping Millie had told him.
“Broke his father’s ’eart, Danny B’y did—an’ me own, too, watchin’ me only chil’ walk down ’longshore and ’eaded away from us. ’Twas some ’ard, b’y—excuse me, sir . . . Reveran’, I mean to say.”
Danny had left after the summer’s fishing was done. His parents, who loved their only child too much to deny him a different and likely better future than the one that lay before them, “scrimped” together enough money for their boy’s passage. Now, with a good paying job and a place of his own, he wanted his parents to join him. Worcester felt the pain this simple loving couple relayed to him over their son’s leaving. Now, staring out the bay, Worcester avoided looking at his new friend sitting beside him and wisely said nothing.