7

Two days later, in heavy ice at mid-morning, the Stephano was passing Cape Freels, clearly visible on her port beam. She was plowing ahead in the wake of the Florizel a half-mile ahead of her. The Old Man was taking advantage of his son’s passage. Jake knew where they were. They had passed on the lee side of the Offer Island, barely six miles to sea from his home island. The Offer Ground, where he fished and where his father had drowned, was ice-covered and still, all the dangerous reefs hidden beneath the Great White Plain. His father’s grave was cloaked in white.

The two ships surged ahead while their handlers kept a close eye on the dangers meticulously scrawled on their charts. Jake stood by the rail, surrounded by men talking, shouting, and smoking. He could plainly see his island. He also knew that the smoke from the ships was visible from ashore and wondered if she was on the cliff, looking. But then he remembered her last words to him: I’ll come to our lookout every night to keep watch. It was daytime, and she was working and never allowed to leave for something as trivial as to watch ships passing. Still, Jake stared at his island until it closed with the land all around and was not an island anymore.

“The old Newfoundland, sir! Jammed solid, she is. Not a move in her,” the barrelman shouted to the men abaft the bridge door.

“Where away, me son?” came the question from the bridge rail.

“Narwest, I makes it, sir. Not far, though. No more’n three miles, I ’lows. Shut in be that long iceberg, she is.”

At this bit of news, the sealers rushed to better vantage points to see the stalled Newfoundland. They had not yet gone over the side to do any hunting and were becoming bored. These men were not used to being idle, and any change from making way through ice was welcomed.

Neither the Florizel nor the Stephano veered from their course to aid the Newfoundland. They plunged on by the stalled old ship, surging ahead, leaving son and brother behind. It was a given with ships passing that their handlers shouted greetings across the waters, usually good-natured taunts or insults—especially if they were competitors—but no one aboard the two modern steel ships shouted anything as they rushed by the scarred old wooden vessel. They could see the crew of their fellow sealers aboard the Newfoundland watching them with envy. Everyone respected the famous old ship and watched her in silence. She was the last of a breed of ships making her laborious way toward a glorious hunt. Then, after the two ships had passed her and their crews had rushed aft, there arose a great black plume of smoke from the Newfoundland. The Son had found a lead, and she was moving forward again. Aboard the two steel ships, triumphant shouts exploded from every throat.

————

Though Jake had seen seals every spring and had been a part of hunting them since he was nine years old—and even then he was good with the gun—he had never experienced the thrill of a real seal hunt before. The Stephano had separated from the Florizel sometime during the night, and now with the red dawn shedding the night shroud, the Old Man had slipped up a long, narrow lead of water through the ice and had found his quarry. It was said there were times when the ship was hove to in ice he would order silence, and that he alone could hear the cries of millions of birthing seals and catch the scent of a million whelps. Jake believed it all, for below and all around the Stephano, for as far as he could see, were countless numbers of seals.

The ship had steamed to the end of the lead and had now wedged her length into the Great White Plain, making an icy bridge for her hunters to leave. Seals were shuffling over the ice on their flippers while others perched on the low hummocks, staring at the huge beast that had dared enter their colony. Seals swam in the water leads, and more bobbed behind in the ship’s wake. The side-sticks were ordered over both sides of the ship, and the sealers went yelling and shouting and scrambling down. Flush with the primeval thrill of the hunt, the sealers went in search of their prey and the animals scattered.

Drawn to the scene by instinct or skill, other ships appeared to claim their share of the hunt. Five or so miles astern of the Stephano, the Newfoundland appeared to be jammed in ice again. The after derrick aboard the Stephano was ordered out. It stood boldly, etched against the clear morning sky. Most aboard believed it was the sign—supposedly a secret between the Old Man and the Son—for the father to let him know that, although they were hunting for competing businesses, he was among seals and should send his hunters. Skipper Joe in the Florizel was forcing his way through the ice. Black smoke poured out of that vessel’s stack, smudging an otherwise clear sky. The ice was now black with men running and adult seals desperately seeking cracks through which they could escape. The young seals, white save for their black eyes and noses, were left behind by panicked mothers. Huge saddleback gulls, busily tearing open bloody whelping bags, lifted into the air as the hunters approached. And the killing began.

Jake thought he would be hunting with the regular sealers, but he was mistaken. Though Tuff’s influence had secured him a berth, it had not guaranteed him a job as a hunter. There were many young would-be sealers aboard all the sealing ships who would never kill a seal. They were assigned menial tasks on board. For most of them, the only time they set foot on ice would be to help with dragging the heavy seal pelts to the ship.

Although many seals escaped below the ice pack through breathing holes or cracks in the ice, they had to rise again to breathe. The open lead of water behind the Stephano was the safest place for them to do so. They bobbed to the surface again and again in the leads and smaller swatches of water. They had nowhere else to go, and the captain of the Stephano was well aware of this. He sent marksmen with rifles after them. This type of hunting was called swatching. The marksmen were called gunners. Following them, with retrieving hooks fastened to strong bank lines to haul the seals from the water, bullets in nunny bags, and a loaded spare rifle, were their helpers, called dogs. Jake was one of them.

The morning was unusually mild and calm. From the deck of the Stephano, off to the southeast Jake could see the Newfoundland still stuck in ice. But headed their way was a curving, straggling line of black he knew were her men. The Son had seen the father’s signal and was sending his hunters over the field of ice to get his share of the slaughter.

“My dog, is ye?” was the Gunner’s greeting to Jake when they had gathered on the ice below the ship. Here at ice level, Jake could no longer see the string of men from the Newfoundland. He figured the Swiler and Tuff were among them, for sure. He looked forward to seeing them again, especially the Swiler.

“Y-yes, sir, I a-am.”

“You the feller they calls the Crackie?”

“Y-yes, s-sir.”

“Ha! A crackie for me dog, be Jeezus. Ha ha! And young as a pup, too, be Jeezus!” The Gunner roared with laughter and spat a stream of tobacco juice out of his mouth. It splattered upon the snow and drained down his iron, black-whiskered jaw which was shot through with steel. He didn’t bother to wipe his chin. Jake noticed the man had white, even teeth. It was a rarity among sealers.

“Smokes, I s’pose?”

“N-no, s-sir.”

“Ha! A wonder, that is! Good thing, though. Yary as a black duck, them swile bitches with pups are, be Jeezus. Kin smell baccy a mile downwin’, I says. See the smoke of it, too, I ’lows, with them eyes big as saucers up among the luster jugs. Ha!” Jake was to learn that though the Gunner was among the toughest of men, he was seldom in a bad mood and found mirth in almost everything he saw or did. They began walking toward the first swatch of water.

“Can load a rifle quick, can you?”

“Y-yes, s-sir, and I can sh-shoot, too!” Jake was eager to let the Gunner know what he could do

“Ha! I’ll do the Jeezus shootin’, you do the loadin’.”

“Y-yes, s-sir. J-just s-sayin’, is all.”

The Gunner explained to his dog what he expected of him, and said it harshly, with his characteristic short “Ha!” but piercing Jake all the while with blue, no-nonsense eyes as he told the boy he was to get it right the first time, be Jeezus. When they reached the swatch and he went into his crouch or crawl or stomach walk, Jake was to copy him. The spare rifle must be reloaded quickly and kept loaded no matter how scram with the cold his Jeezus fingers were. The rifle must always be slid to him under his right arm, barrel first and at full cock.

“And don’t shoot me, be Jeezus. Ha ha!”

When crawling over the ice, the rifle must be carried stock first. Otherwise he might get snow in the barrel. The Gunner said the line coiled over Jake’s shoulder with the light jigger attached to it would be used to haul the seals from the open water before they sank. The line must never be allowed to tangle and must always be recoiled with the sun—it was considered bad luck to coil a line counter-clockwise—and he should throw it out over the dead seals hard, quick, and true, be Jeezus. Jake had never heard so many “be Jeezuses” in his life.

They approached the first swatch of water, which was filled with seals now wary with the growing commotion around them. The Gunner went into a silent crouch, and the Crackie followed suit. Using the ice hummocks for cover, they crept closer until the Gunner determined he was in rifle range. He signalled Jake to silence and dropped to his right knee behind a shoulder-high clumper of ice. The ice beneath them undulated like a blanket spread on wind-tossed hay. The seals were in constant motion, rising up and down in the water, their nostrils flaring and steaming.

Jake watched the Gunner’s every move. He shifted the lump of tobacco he was chewing to the left side of his mouth, slid his right jaw along the smooth rifle stalk, squinted his left eye until the iron sights aligned to his liking, and squeezed the trigger. Crack! The Gunner dropped the rifle, and Jake slid the spare rifle, loaded and cocked, barrel first under the man’s right arm. Jake grabbed the spent firearm and quickly reloaded. Without raising his head, the Gunner repeated the motions. Crack! A blue wisp of gunpowder emitted from the rifle. Another: crack! Finally, the Gunner rose to his feet.

“Now, me Crackie! Quick, be Jeezus, afore they sinks! Sunk swiles is sunk coppers fer you and me!”

The Crackie needed no prompting. He was running toward the swatch before the Gunner was on his feet. Two seals were dead on the swatch surface, the greasy patches of water slowly staining with blood all around them. The Gunner had missed his last shot, and the live seals had disappeared below, followed by splashes of panic. Jake’s young legs sprinted easily toward the swatch. Dropping his gaff and nunny bag, he uncoiled the line and swung it high. The Gunner came up breathing hard. He was about to tell his dog that he was doing it all wrong, but it was too late. The jigger was already whipping through the air, the bank line following. Jake had thrown underhanded. The Gunner had never seen anyone throw like that before. The jigger plunged into the water just past one of the dead seals, and Jake yanked on the line. It hooked the seal, and both men hauled it through the water and onto the ice. The Gunner watched in amazement as Jake repeated the action. With the coil loose in his left hand, and with the jigger dangling from his right, Jake swung it around and around in the same underhanded manner as before—with the same accurate result. After they hauled the second seal upon the ice, the two men scrambled back to their ice blind. Already, seals were returning for air in the swatch. And the Gunner’s rifle went back into action. Crack! Crack!