Classic Christmas Stories (19 page)

by Alex A. Parsons

I
T WAS IN 1855 , the very year of the first election under our
present system of Responsible Government, that the thrilling incident, on which this story is based really took place. Few of my readers will remember it, because there are not so very many alive to-day who
were then old enough to be lastingly impressed with the details as they
appeared in the newspapers at that time.

The disaster to which I refer occurred at the entrance of a small
harbour on our Northern coast which I shall for the purposes of this
narrative, designate as “Indian Beach.” I take this name from the long
bank of sand that stretches around the head of the harbour, where,
according to tradition, the last of “the noble Red Men” of Newfoundland
used to meet every year at “the falling of the leaves” and hold a council
before going into winter quarters. And there appears to be some ground
for this tradition, because a few years ago, accompanied by one of “the
oldest inhabitants, ” I visited the Beach and examined the very spot where,
while digging out some sand the previous Spring, he discovered two stone
arrow-heads in a good state of preservation.

The fall of 1855 was an unusually backward one, and having been
preceded by a wet Summer, the fish crop was not harvested till the season
had been well advanced. As a result the fishermen were late in getting
“fixed up” and home for the winter. Only two schooners had “fitted
out” from Indian Beach that year for the Labrador fishery, the resident
population, for the most part, finding it more advantageous to look after
“the ground, ” and, at the same time, prosecute the voyage, during the
caplin school, off their own headlands.

One of those schooners had already arrived. The other, the
Sea
Nymph
, was still absent, but hourly expected from St. John's, where she
had landed her fish and taken on board a cargo of goods for the festive
season, almost every family at the Beach having had something shipped
by her. Eager eyes had been looking out for the
Nymph
several days, and
now Christmas Eve had come and still she did not put in an appearance.
It was generally believed that the schooner had left St. John's for home
some days before (there was no telegraphic communication at that time),
and, as the wind had veered round from the Southeast and risen to a
severe gale, with snow-squalls and heavy sea, much anxiety was felt for
her safety. The
Sea Nymph
was a staunch little vessel of fifty-two tons, and
had a crew of five, all told. These were handsome Harry Brewer—a young
giant in appearance—captain; William Jones, second hand; John Elliot,
Peter Goff and Eli Moores, seamen.

There was one passenger on board—a young Englishman named
Ralph Wilson—nephew of the only business man at Indian Beach—Mr.
Andrew LeSage of Jersey. Ralph had been at St. John's for some time
waiting for an opportunity to get North, and, when the
Sea Nymph
was
ready to sail, he gladly availed of Harry Brewer's offer of a passage, and
embarked by her. Ralph was “engaged” to his pretty cousin, Helen, Mr.
LeSage's only daughter; and, although they had not seen each other since
they were children, yet it was understood by the parents of both that they
were to be married the following June, and that Helen would shortly
return to England with Ralph and he father for that purpose.

But when Ralph and his uncle made this arrangement they were,
apparently, blissfully ignorant of the fact that an altogether different
understanding had already been arrived at between Harry and Helen.
Such, however, was the case. They had often met, and what more
natural than that they should love each other. Both were young and
impressionable, and so it happened that one night, only a week before
the
Sea Nymph
had left St. John's, as they sat in the shadow of the big fir
trees behind the Beach and looked out over the moonlit harbour, Harry
and Helen decided to unite their fortunes, without consulting anybody.

Thus matters stood on the eventful afternoon alluded to, when the
schoolmaster of the settlement rushed into Mr. LeSage's house with the
startling intelligence that the
Sea Nymph
had been driven ashore at Shoal
Point, near the entrance of the harbour, and, it was feared, all hands
would be lost. Hurriedly putting on his coat and hat, Mr. LeSage ran over
to the high ground overlooking the Point, and sure enough, there was the
ill-fated schooner pounding on the rocks, with the sea making a clean
breach over her. Already both masts had gone by the board, and it now
seemed as if the hull itself must go to pieces in a few minutes.

Trying to make the harbour in the snow storm, and believing his
course to be all right, Captain Brewer suddenly, just at the entrance,
discovered that the
Nymph
was too far to leeward to weather Shoal Point.
She was running under close-reefed foresail, and therefore would not
stay, even with much less wind, and it was impossible to wear her in time
to escape the rocks; so he let go both anchors, as the only remaining hope
of saving vessel and crew. But in that heavy sea the chains snapped like
whip-cord, and, without any check whatever, the unfortunate
Sea Nymph
rushed on to her doom!

Shortly after she struck the snow ceased to fall, and then Captain
Brewer and his crew could be seen, hatless and huddled together, on the
forecastle deck. They were clinging to whatever they could lay hold of, the
great wave at intervals going clean over the battered hull and drenching
them to the skin. It was impossible to render any assistance from the
land, as no boat available, no matter how well manned, would have the
slightest chance in that terrible sea. For a time it seemed as if all hope of
rescue had been abandoned by those on shore as well as on board.

Some of the former knelt and prayed to Heaven for help, while others
wrung their hands in despair and sobbed audibly enough to be heard
amidst the tempest. But there was one brave man among that crew of
fearless Newfoundland fishermen who had often faced “death in the
tempest” and escaped, and who, in spite of the odds against him, hoped
to escape again, and that man was Captain Harry Brewer. As the watchers
on shore stood there, expecting every moment to see the battered hull go
to pieces, or roll over and disappear with its living freight, they suddenly
saw a stalwart figure poise for a second on the weather bow of the wreck
then plunge into the angry waves as they seethed and foamed around
him. The form was that of Harry Brewer!

Fastening a line about his waist, and hastily giving instructions to
his shipmates as to what they should do in the event his efforts proving
successful, he made the heroic attempt to reach the shore by swimming.
The struggle that ensued was one that taxed all his powers of endurance,
great as they were. At times he would be lost to view for several seconds
and then appear again on the crest of some mighty wave, eliciting
frantic shouts of encouragement from the overwrought crowd on shore,
which, by this time, included almost every man, woman and child in the
settlement. But Harry Brewer's brave heart and sinewy arms buoyed him
up until a huge wave flung him against the shore, when some of those
who would willingly risk their lives to save him, rushed into the sea,
seized him with their strong hands, pulled him out of the receding water
and carried him to a place of safety, from which, exhausted as he was, he
continued to superintend the work of rescue.

The crew on the wreck then fastened a stronger rope to the line
brought ashore by their captain, and, when this was hauled in, the
dangerous task of getting the others on shore commenced. The end of the
line on board was securely tied to the stump of the foremast, about ten
feet above the deck, and then the men were pulled through the boiling
sea to the shore, most of them being badly bruised and scarcely able to
stand when lifted out of the water. The last to leave the schooner was
Ralph Wilson, the passenger. Although a rather frail looking man, as
compared with the others, yet he won the admiration of all on board by
his pluck and unselfishness during the trying ordeal through which they
had passed.

He might have been the first to be rescued after connection had been
made with the shore; but he persistently refused to go till all the others
had been landed. Then, fastening the line around his waist, he, too, was
drawn ashore. But, brave as he was, the strain and exposure proved too
much for him. He was unconscious when kind hands and sympathetic
hearts gently conveyed him to the hospitable home of his uncle. Here,
under the careful nursing of Helen, he soon recovered consciousness;
but next day, when the doctor called, he appeared to be suffering from a
severe chill and great nervous prostration. He rallied, however, and was
able to get about during the Winter; but, with the approach of Spring he
developed the symptoms of consumption, and, in May, returned to his
home in England, where he died six weeks after his arrival there.

On the following Christmas Eve Captain Harry Brewer and Miss
Helen LeSage were married in the little school-chapel at Indian Beach,
according to the rites of the Church of England, of which both were
members. In the fall of 1857, Mr. LeSage closed his business here and
returned to Jersey, taking Harry and Helen with him.

The following year Ralph Wilson's father died, leaving most of his
money and property to Helen. In the Spring of 1893 the writer, whilst
on board the outward bound Allan steamer, at Shea's wharf here, seeing
some friends off, had an introduction to a gentleman named Brewer, who
was then on his way from Liverpool to New York. He appeared to be
a good deal interested in Newfoundland affairs, and, in course of our
conversation I ascertained from him that he was a son of Captain Harry
Brewer, the hero of this stirring little Christmas Story.

by Canon George Earle

W
HAT WAS THE
PROSPERO
? Along with the
Portia
and
Glencoe
and
Maigle
[sic] and
Kyle
and
Sagona
and
Caribou
and
Clyde
and
Home
and
Susu
, she was one of the
Coastal Boats which served Newfoundland and Labrador communities
during the early years of this century and up to the Second World War
and, in a few cases, beyond. There were others like the
Bruce
and
Dundee
and the
Ethie
and
Fife
but I don’t need to name them all. Their story is
Newfoundland’s story; their visits were like the visits of kind relatives and
their loss was like that of old friends.

In Fogo we knew best the
Clyde
and
Home
and
Prospero
. Some of
the others would come on relief work when these three were either on
dock or replacing another that was, but they were never the same. In my
formative years and in those when I started to travel, it was the
Clyde
and
Captain Butcher, the
Home
with Captain Hounsell (who is still living)
and
Prospero
with Captain Jacob Kean. I never got to know him very well;
the first two were like friends, he was not.

But he was a good captain. With no highways in those days all
communities of any size were linked by the Coastal Boats from May to
December in the north and all year round on the S. W. Coast. The job of the
Clyde
was to link together weekly all the “places” in Notre Dame Bay and with
the train to Lewisporte; the job of the
Home
was from St. John’s to Change
Islands and back again on a weekly basis; the
Prospero
was assigned the run
from St. John’s to Cook’s Harbour, with special emphasis on big places like
Trinity, Fogo and Twillingate on the way and then every port in White Bay
and North. The
Kyle
went on to the Labrador and did the places down there.

And so, in 1933, after I had finished my two years at Memorial
University College and a Summer School in Teacher Training, I applied
for a school and found there was none. The depression had really hit, the
government was broke and Commission government was about to take
over and I had nothing to do.

And then out of the blue, late in August, a letter came from I. J.
Samson, superintendent of C. of E. Schools, offering me a small school
in Williamsport, White Bay, for four months at $20.00 per month. I took
it and “took” the
Prospero
and took off. When I got there two days later
I was told that last year’s teacher took one look at it and took the next
steamer back. But I was made of sterner stuff and took up residence. The
many uses of “took” are amazing!

My four months there, without roads or radio or telegraph, would be hard
for this generation to imagine. But they came to an end and the time came
to leave. Winter had set in way early that year and by the time the
Prospero
came on her last trip the harbour was frozen over and there was some doubt
if she would call in on her way back from Cook’s Harbour, so I joined her
on the way down. It was December 20. We never made Cook’s Harbour
as there was too much ice and we didn’t make Fogo for the same reason.
But being only 19 and with an enormous appetite I made every mealtime a
memorable event and used to help wash the dishes so I could get a bit more.
Meals were miles ahead of what the average family could afford and being
Christmas there was fruit—apples and oranges and even grapes, the height
of luxury in those days. And if there were a few apples or oranges left on the
table it wasn’t considered stealing but an extension of the meal to take them
to one’s stateroom. This I did on a grand scale. We spent Christmas Day in
St. Anthony. By now I knew the other passengers and nearly every member
of the crew so it was sort of family celebration. We couldn’t get right into St.
Anthony but after many hours going astern and then ahead we managed to
get some very solid ice and there stuck. The freight was loaded on the ice and
dog teams in relays hauled it to the township. A few of us walked ashore and
visited the Grenfell hospital and met all kinds of people. Even Captain Kean
was pleased to see us back on board; it being Christmas he smiled. Later we
became more friendly and I would have long chats with him in his cabin and
used to lace up his boots, which he found difficult.

So the trip went. Visiting hours in places where the steamer boothed,
with a real party at the Lush’s in Jackson’s Arm. We rounded Cape John on
New Year’s Eve and spent New Year’s Day at Little Bay Islands. Then the
bad news. The
Prospero
was ordered to go to Lewisporte—not one of her
ports of call—to get more freight and return north. We reached there on
January 2nd and I got a job as assistant steward for two days to save hotel
expenses. I was proud of my white jacket. There was no pay for this—just
meals and a free room and surplus fruit. When the time came to leave the
Prospero
to join the
Clyde
to go to Fogo I had so many oranges that the
hinges of my suitcase broke when going across the Deck and oranges went
in all directions. At that moment the Captain came out through his door.

“Did you steal these oranges?” he asked.

“No, ” I replied, “I sove ’em up.”

So, imagine a trip that when I went to White Bay, took only 2 days,
from Fogo had now taken some 13 days already and we were still a long
way from home. The
Clyde
left, got stuck in the ice off Michael’s Harbour
and the Captain decided to return to Lewisporte. Four of us got down
over the side and started the long walk of nearly 80 miles to where we had
to go. We did it in two days, covering 35 miles the first night and made
Boyd’s Cove and the home of Mr. and Mrs. Pelly by 8 a.m. On the way
there were Christmas parties to which we were invited—the hospitality
was wonderful. We were the first to cross the run on ice to Change Islands
and then Fogo and made it by dark on the 5th of January. After walking
nearly 80 miles in two days, in very cold weather and over rough terrain
in places, it would be expected that a rest was well earned.

But as I had been robbed of the kind of Christmas I had been used
to I got word round to my old friends and by 4 o’clock we were out
mummering and walked and talked to well after midnight. It was the last
twelve days of Christmas and must be celebrated. Christmas Mumming
in Newfoundland, which was called mummering, was a must in those
days and so I concentrated all the mummering joy of twelve nights into
one unforgettable fling.