John Rousell laid his knife on the splitting table, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and stood back to survey his handiwork. He was satisfied by what he saw. The weir,2 now filled with salmon, was the product of almost four months of hard labour, back-breaking toil that had sometimes seemed unbearable and unending. Each rock and log, some of which had been fetched from a considerable distance, had been painstakingly placed in position one by one until a large deep pool had finally been created at the mouth of the river. It was there that the Atlantic salmon making their annual migration back to their spawning grounds were now trapped, waiting to be caught, gutted, and salted by Rousell at his leisure. A large percentage of these fish would be able to breach the weir to continue their journey upriver to lay their eggs, thus maintaining the salmon population of the river for future years. Enough, however, would linger in the coolness of the weir long enough to enable Rousell to take as many as he wanted.
Rousell had chosen his location well. This river, situated on the southwest corner of Hall’s Bay on the north coast of Newfoundland, was perfect for his purpose. The teeming mass of salmon in the weir was proof of the wisdom of his selection. As he rested briefly from his work, he felt a glowing sense of accomplishment, something which had eluded him for much of his life. From the moment he first arrived in Hall’s Bay, he had not only recognized the salmon potential of the place but had been struck by its beauty. He was one of only a handful of residents in the area at that time.
The crude hut he had hastily erected when he first arrived was the only jarring note in his surroundings. It was a rough structure known as a “leaning tilt” whose walls consisted of vertical tree trunks laid side by side aslant against a log frame upon which rested more horizontal logs, stuffed with boughs and moss, to form a roof. A gap in one of the walls, covered by an animal hide, served as a door, and a small hole in the roof allowed the smoke to escape from the tilt’s interior. He knew he would have to construct something much better before he could bring Mary out here to live with him. That was a task he planned to undertake in the fall, after he had delivered his summer’s catch of salmon to Exploits.
He had started the weir with his brother Tom. They had initially been partners in the enterprise, but after the first few weeks Tom had lost interest and wandered off into the interior, reappearing thereafter at odd intervals, and then for only a day or two at a time. Of the two, John was the stable one, and a fisherman. Tom was a roamer, a furrier driven by the desire to live alone and try to survive by his own wits in the wilderness far removed from the social fabric of the region. Neither of them had been deterred from coming to Hall’s Bay by its grisly history. Five previous white settlers, presumably the first in the area, had been slaughtered by Beothuk Indians, beheaded, and their heads left on stakes as a warning to other white men to stay away. That, however, was long in the past. The Rousells were not intimidated by the story or, indeed, even gave it much thought. They were both strapping men in the prime of their lives and fully confident in their ability to face whatever might confront them. In any event, the presence of Beothuk in this area was now a rare occurrence as the major portion of the Beothuk population had long since been driven inland where it was believed they congregated mainly around Red Indian Lake.
On that day the Red Indians were far removed from John Rousell’s mind. His brief rest over, he returned to his work. Dipping a large salmon from the weir and placing it on the table, he proceeded to gut it. A slash across the gills and a long incision along the fish’s underbelly quickly exposed its innards, which he removed with one efficient motion before tossing the processed fish into the tub with the others. The whole procedure had taken only a few seconds. Long practise had perfected his technique to the point where he could do it repeatedly and automatically without much thought. He dipped his net into the water to get another one. It was then that he realized he wasn’t alone. On the bank of the river, not more than fifty feet away, stood three individuals. He recognized immediately that they were Beothuk, two male adults and a boy. They were regarding him intently.
The men were tall, much taller than he was, and well proportioned. Their fierce appearance was heightened by the red ochre with which they had smeared their faces and bodies. They were armed with bows and arrows, and knives and hatchets hung from their belts. They had him cornered. Fear rooted Rousell to the spot. For a fleeting moment he thought about making a dash for his long-gun, which rested, primed and ready, against the tilt – seventy feet away. He knew, however, that he would receive an arrow in the back before he had taken more than a couple of steps. He was no match for them. They had all the advantages.
As he stood there waiting for the Beothuk to make their move, his fear and dread gave way to an overwhelming sadness that swept over him and blotted out everything else. He was going to die. His death would undoubtedly be a brutal one, yet his thoughts at that moment were of the life and the undone things he would be leaving behind, and of Mary waiting for him back in Exploits. She might never know what had happened to him.
Then he did something which he could never quite explain afterwards. It was a simple act, done instinctively without premeditation, a desperate last straw by a doomed man. He took the still writhing salmon from the dip-net and tossed it onto the grassy bank of the river in the vicinity of the Indians. He gestured toward the salmon-filled weir – a clear invitation to the Beothuk to take whatever they wanted. For what seemed like an eternity the Indians did not respond. Finally, one of the men nodded to the boy, who immediately sprang to retrieve the salmon before it could wriggle back into the water. A few seconds later, miraculously, the threesome melted back into the woods, leaving the shaken Rousell awash with relief – and still alive.
He clutched the splitting table to try to steady his trembling knees and shaking body, resisting the urge to sink onto the soft ground. He was exhausted. The encounter had drained him, and his perspiration-soaked body wanted only to rest for a while. Finally he made his way to the tilt, where he reached into its uppermost regions and extracted an earthen jug and its precious contents of dark rum. As he drank, the fiery liquid coursing through his body gave him comfort. He knew that soon the trembling would cease and his body would return to normal. He stayed in the tilt all that day and into the night, his long-gun never more than an arm’s reach away, until finally, despite his efforts to stay awake, he fell asleep and did not reawaken until late the following morning.
During the next two days his daily routine gradually returned to its normal state – almost. He resumed his work with one eye on the task at hand and the other on the nearby woods, ever watchful, with his long-gun never far from his side. Things would never be quite the same again. He was on constant alert now and aware for the first time of his vulnerability in this sparsely populated area.
And then his brother showed up. Tom Rousell arrived just before nightfall bearing a brace of rabbits which he and John quickly cooked into a hearty stew. When they had eaten, they retired to the tilt and the rum jug once again descended from its lofty position. There, in the dimly lit interior, John related to Tom his experience with the Beothuk three days earlier.
“I wish I’d been here,” Tom offered. “I would have had those dirty savages. They wouldn’t have gotten away from me.”
“Well,” John replied, “there was no real harm done, I suppose. I’m still alive to tell the tale, although I must admit I got the fright of my life. Anyway, if they come back again I’ll have my gun ready.”
The two brothers sipped rum, getting quietly drunk, and continued to talk into the night. Then, in the early hours of the morning, when he was quite intoxicated, Tom made a horrific admission.
“John,” he slurred, “I’ve got something to tell you.” He paused, as if reconsidering what he was about to say. Then he committed himself. “I’ve already killed a few of them, you know.”
“A few of what?” his startled brother asked.
“Savages, Red Indians,” Tom said. “Five in all.”
John was incredulous. “Why? When?”
“The first one was an accident. I came across two of them when we surprised each other in a clearing in the woods. They weren’t aware of my presence nor I of theirs. They were armed and one of them started to come at me so I shot him. Blew the bugger’s brains out, I did. The other one took off before I could reload. That was the beginning. Then, later, I was making my way through the woods one day when I noticed some movement in a bush that I didn’t think was right. So I moved in close and blasted into the bush, and sure enough, another one of the dirty devils was in there. Looked like a boy, probably trying to hide from me.”
“And the others?” John asked, dreading the answer.
“Well, by then I suspected they knew me and would be on the lookout for me. So I had to be extra careful. I took to following a different route along my trap-line as I figured that was where they might be waiting to ambush me. But I fooled them. And one day when I arrived to check one of my traps, there were three of them trying to take out a beaver that was caught. I chose my position well, where I would have time to reload before they could get to me.
“So I waited until the right moment, and I let go. It was a long shot, but I dropped one stone dead. The others came at me but I had time to reload and I got another one of the buggers. I was pretty sure that some of my shot hit the third one as well but he ran off. But he left a trail of blood that I could follow and pretty soon I came upon him. He was almost gone so I finished him off too. Got all three, I did. And then I got out of there,” he said. “Pass me the jug.”
Tom Rousell took a final swig of rum, laid back upon the boughs that served as his bed, and, within seconds, was fast asleep.
Sleep for John, however, would not come. As drunk as he was, he was horrified by what his brother had told him. He had always known that Tom was rough and ready, but tonight he had witnessed a dark side of his brother that he had never seen before.
Two days later, Tom left again. After his disclosure in the tilt that night, neither he nor John had mentioned the matter again. John thought briefly, perhaps wishfully, that his brother might have made it all up. He knew in his heart, however, that that was not the case. It was all true. A tension that had never existed before now separated them. For the first time in their lives, they were uncomfortable in each other’s presence. John was glad to see his brother go.
John continued to do his work each day, albeit without the energy and enthusiasm that had previously marked his working hours. He was preoccupied with his brother’s wanton slaying of the Beothuk. He couldn’t reconcile Tom’s actions with the carefree sibling he’d grown up with and had looked after for much of his life. He wondered when and why Tom had changed so much. He could understand him killing in self-defence, as perhaps might be argued in the slaying of the first man, but certainly not the rest. That was murder, pure and simple. John was aware that the killing of Beothuk had been legislated in the early 1800s to be a criminal act punishable by the full force of the law. If found out, he knew that his brother might indeed have to forfeit his own life.
About three weeks after Tom left, John was jolted out of his usual early morning sluggishness when he emerged from the tilt to discover that the same three Beothuk, the two men and the boy, had reappeared. They were waist-deep in the weir spearing up salmon. They looked his way but did not pause in their activity. For a fleeting moment, John contemplated firing at them. Then he remembered that they had spared his life when they so easily could have killed him, as well as his open invitation to them to help themselves to his salmon. So he quickly dismissed the notion. Shortly thereafter the Beothuk, having taken all they wanted, left.
By the end of August, John had stockpiled as much salted salmon as he could transport to the fish merchant in Exploits,3 some forty miles away. Still, he hesitated to go and postponed his departure as long as possible because he had not heard from Tom since his last visit, and was worried. Finally, knowing that if he delayed much longer he ran the risk of losing his summer’s catch in the hot weather, he set out. Closely following the coastline all the way lest he run into foul weather or some other peril in his small boat, he eventually made his way to Exploits without incident.
He remained there for almost a month, disposing of his catch and making plans with Mary for their future. Then, in late September, he set out once again for Hall’s Bay to work on the tilt to get it ready for Mary. She had agreed to come back there with him the following spring.
His return journey by boat landed him in Hall’s Bay two days later. The uneventful trip and calm weather, and his time spent with Mary, had restored his sense of contentment and purpose, and as he pulled his boat upon the bank at the mouth of the river, he felt energized and ready for the work ahead. His peace of mind, however, was about to be shattered.
As soon as he set foot ashore, he knew something was wrong. His instincts told him that something dreadful was about to happen. It was a sensation unlike anything he had ever experienced before. And then he saw it, not more than twenty feet from the tilt. There, impaled on a stake, was his brother’s head, its sightless milky eyes staring vacantly into the distance. Close by, Tom’s headless body rested on the ground. The bloated corpse still showed the mutilation that had been inflicted upon it at the time of death. The younger Rousell had clearly experienced the most horrific death imaginable.
John Rousell had difficulty fathoming the gruesome scene. Vomit welled up in his mouth and spewed onto the ground at the sight of his brother’s decapitated body. His own body heaved uncontrollably and bitter bile burned his throat. His knees gave out and he fell to the ground. He was filled with disbelief, revulsion, and rage, and for one of the few times in his life he felt utterly helpless. And then he broke down and cried. He wept bitterly and long, until no more tears would come and, numbed, he finally rose to his feet to do what he had to do. He cursed himself over and over for having left the area without first knowing that his brother was alive and safe.
He buried Tom by the side of the river. He did not mark the grave because he feared the Beothuk might return and desecrate it. Then he got back in his boat and returned to Exploits, leaving his intended work on the tilt undone.
That winter was the worst of his life. He was haunted by guilt and the image of his brother’s mutilated body. He could not shake from his mind the grisly scene that had confronted him at the river. Indeed, it would remain with him for the rest of his life. He abandoned his plans to return to Hall’s Bay and the life he had planned there for Mary and himself. He never wanted to see the place again.
The period from January to March was one of the most severe in many years. Heavy snow came early and covered the ground to a considerable depth, making normal movement difficult and in some cases impossible. Winds pounded the north coast of Newfoundland for weeks on end, and John’s energies, like those of most of the area’s population, were expended in keeping himself and Mary warm and alive. Little else mattered. Time passed at an excruciatingly slow pace as the long nights and short days blended into an unbroken period of cold misery for all. With little else to occupy his time, the circumstances of Tom’s death played heavily on his mind and left John depressed and melancholic for much of the time.
John Rousell, however, was nothing if not resolute and persevering, and as spring finally approached, he made a conscious effort to shake himself from his depression and to consider his options for the future. He and Mary talked at great length, until gradually, despite what had happened there, the thought of returning to Hall’s Bay became entrenched in his mind. When he broached the subject with her, she, knowing how much he desired to go back, agreed to go with him even though the tilt was all he had to offer for her living accommodations. They would work on it together.
In early May, John’s boat once again grounded onto the bank of the river, and he and Mary stepped ashore to begin their new life in Hall’s Bay. She, like John, was immediately entranced by the beauty of the area. He showed her where Tom was buried, and she wept silently over his grave until he took her by the hand and gently led her away. Then he took her inside the tilt. As he expected, she was not impressed and let him know in no uncertain terms that cleaning it up and improving it would have to be their utmost priority.
John and Mary spent their first summer there, operating the salmon weir and preparing the site for their new home. In the fall they built a proper house for themselves and laid out a vegetable garden for planting the following spring. They would spend the rest of their lives there at the mouth of the river, raising a family in the process. In the early years they occasionally caught glimpses of tall red-skinned strangers helping themselves to a few salmon from the weir. With the passage of time, however, the periodic appearances of the Beothuk became fewer and fewer until they eventually failed to materialize at all. By then the Beothuk people were all but extinct. The remaining handful of this race had been pushed far back into the interior of Newfoundland by the ever encroaching presence of white settlers in the area, and within a few short years they would cease to exist at all.
It is clear that the Beothuk who had frequented the Hall’s Bay area knew the Rousells, and in all likelihood understood that they were blood brothers. It is obvious, too, that they differentiated between the two men, recognizing the inherent goodness of John Rousell as well as the true nature of his brother Tom. Their retribution against the latter had been swift and merciless, while John Rousell and his family, on the other hand, were never threatened or, with the exception of the occasional loss of a few salmon, bothered in any way. It might even be argued that the deliverance of Tom’s body to the weir by the Beothuk had been an act of kindness on their part. It enabled John to give his brother a proper burial, for the Beothuk themselves had a great belief in Theehone, the afterlife. Mary and John lived out their days on the river in Hall’s Bay in peace and contentment, secure in their knowledge that they and their children were safe from any form of hostility from their aboriginal neighbours.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Rousell brothers, Tom and John, are also referred to by the names Rowsell and Roue in James P. Howley’s The Beothucks or Red Indians (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1915).
It is not known for sure how many Beothuk Tom Rousell actually killed in his time, but his reputation as an “Indian Killer” was well known throughout Notre Dame Bay. There is no doubt that he, and a number of others like him, contributed significantly to the eventual eradication of the Beothuk race. Starvation and white man’s diseases, tuberculosis in particular, as well as the ongoing hostility with the Mi’kmaq, did the rest.
2 A weir is a fence or enclosure set in a waterway for the taking of fish, usually located at the mouth of a river.
3 During the time period of this story, the settlement of Exploits was the major centre of the Notre Dame Bay salmon fishery and fur trade. It was there that John Peyton, Sr., and his family initially established and operated their extensive salmon and furrier enterprises.