Classic Christmas Stories (21 page)

Capt. Barbour lost little time sending a message to his mother back in
Newtown: “Arrived safely Tobermory, Scotland. All well.”

The next day his mother replied: “Thank God for your deliverance.
Never gave you up. Kind regards to Mrs. Humphries and crew. Take care
of yourself. Love, Mother.”

“Thank God!” Capt. Barbour exclaimed as he read the message. “She
is still alive.”

Capt. Barbour and his crew and passengers were treated royally in
Scotland but by the end of January most of the Newfoundlanders had
returned home.

The
Neptune
arrived back on April 25, and Capt. Barbour himself
returned to Newtown on May 8, to a wildly enthusiastic welcome.

It had been a perilous adventure, to say the least, but once again the
unshaken courage of the Newfoundlander in the face of adversity had
come to the fore.

That was a Christmas experience Capt. Barbour would just as soon
forget—but he never will.

by Father Michael Morris

I
RECALL AND RELATE a memory of a Christmas Eve on the
mission when, for some hours at least, I felt it was to be my last one
in this world, it will not be understood that I am adducing it in any
spirit of boastfulness of danger I have past through; but rather because,
during a short vacation the past summer, I was again sharply reminded
of the reality of the perils of missionary life—perils that are ever instant
and present to those noble pastors of souls who live and work for God
in the far-away outharbors, who, in storm and sunshine, are ever ready
to minister to their flocks along the wild coast of Newfoundland, or the
lonely shores of Labrador; and because there is hardly a mail reaches us
at this rough season that we don’t hear directly or indirectly of some hairbreadth escapes from the deadly peril, and it is only in the light of the
merry tone in which they refer to the dangers, one can read how truly
devoted they are to their work, and how lightly they think of personal
discomfort.

Many a time I have laughed, as I think of dreams I dreamed when
a novice in the Sanctuary of priestly duties, and the poetic ideal I had
of what Missionary life would be. One day, rambling through some
art shops in quaint old Brussels, I stumbled on a very beautiful picture
strongly appealing to the senses. It was entitled a
Sick Call
. The scene
was laid in Belgium, and the river scenery was exquisitely portrayed.
In a boat on the river, rowed by two stout oarsman, sat an aged priest
robed in surplice and stole, his hands crossed on his breast and his head
bent in prayer. He was bringing the Holy Sacraments to a dying person.
Around him sat some little acolyte boys bearing torches. Each of the boy’s
faces was a study in itself. In the bow of the boat sat another little fellow
with a bell in his hand, as he tried to peer into the distance. As the boat
passed along the river banks the peasants in the fields suspended their
work and knelt in reverence, and afar off as they approached the hamlet
you could see the friends of the dying person signalling the boatmen to
lean on their oars and hasten to the advent of the priest. There was not a
ripple save that of the oars stirring the placid waters; there was a peaceful
look mantling the whole scene, as if sensible of the presence of Nature’s
God. That picture I kept in my room at
All Hallows
, and many a time my
eyes wandered from my studies to look up at the scene and dream of a
time when it would be given to me to bring comfort to the couch of the
dying Christian. That picture served as my ideal of priestly life, but when
the reality came and I went on my first
sick calls
, there were none of the
pleasant surroundings suggested by the picture. Neither the green river
banks, or the pleasant fields, or the acolyte boys with their torches. Not
only that: I soon felt certain that as far as the poor Missionary himself was
concerned, a pair of deck boots, an Irish frieze and a stout linkum would
be more in keeping with the surroundings than soutane or surplice. But I
must hurry on with my story. I think it was my second Christmas on the
Mission, and things were beginning to have a more homelike look for me.
I was getting to know well the geography, so to speak, of my district, and
to look out for the kind of faces that in every little cove and creek gave me
a hearty welcome. The people were so scattered that one had to be almost
constantly travelling to get through the work. But for the greater feasts
of the Church there were certain headquarters or central stations where
we were expected, and so on this occasion I was pledged to be home to
Oderin for Christmas.

Accordingly, I pushed through with my work on the Burin side and
Sunday evening found me crossing Mortier Bay, on through Spanish
Room to Jean De Bay, where I was sure of a welcome from the hospitable
Coady family and a passage down the Bay the first chance. The weather
that year had been particularly rough, even for the month of December.
The winds had been blowing pretty fiercely and changeable. Old weatherwise people gave me as their explanation of it that we were having a
“Saturday moon, ” that, the old proverb says, come seven years too soon.
Most certainly the wind, veering as it did to an almost opposite point,
had lashed the ocean into a white foam and for miles the water along the
shore could be seen covered with wreaths of stringy froth, whilst, if you
climbed the headlands for a look out over the bay you could see away to
the south and east the treacherous low-lying western rocks breaking and
thundering with the rushing waters, sure index of stormy weather.

A good night’s rest at Jean de Bay, and I awoke in capital spirits. Yes,
there was every chance of a speedy passage down the Bay, for although
it was blowing a pretty stiff breeze, there, to my delight, was the
Nora
Criena
riding at her anchors; “and, as Capt. Joe is on his way down
herring-catching, sure he’ll be only too delighted to land your reverence
home;” so my host informed me when he came up to call me. In answer
to my question, “Was it not blowing hard?” “Yes, it was; but it’s a snug bit
of wind that Capt. Joe couldn’t manage with reefed sails.” So no wonder I
was in good spirits. Mass over in the station house, a short instruction, the
usual examination of the children and visitation of the sick and old and
I am enjoying a capital breakfast and congratulating myself on the good
luck of getting home a few days before the Feast—Christmas Day falling
on Thursday—when, suddenly, my hopes were dashed by the arrival of
a messenger who came to say there was a
sick call
. A sick call where?
Frenchman’s Cove. Why, that was the very opposite point in the compass
to where I was bound. I need hardly say that whatever other work may
be shirked or put off, a sick call must be attended to. Now, Frenchman’s
Cove was away over in Fortune Bay, and, to reach it by the only apology
for a road, I must go back nearly to Burin, twenty miles from where I was,
and thence some twenty-five miles by road, and, at that time, there was
no other means of getting over save walking. However, some of the men
knew of a shorter cut by going up Mortier Bay past Marystown; then, by
taking a course across some frozen gulleys to Frederick’s Point, we could
pick up the Garnish road.

I must acknowledge that it was with a heavy heart I saw Captain
Joe and his trim little schooner sail away; and as I looked back from
the hill-tops and saw her dipping her white wings to the wind that bore
her merrily along, I felt that my chances of being home to Oderin for
Christmas were few and far between. Still there was a chance, and I must
make the most of it. If I say, then, that Christmas Eve saw me back again
to Jean de Bay, it will be easily understood that I did not loiter much by the
way, and (must I confess it?) when I awoke in my old quarters this time,
I was sensible, not so much of pleasant, but rather mixed, sensations,
one or two of which stood out in prominence, to wit: that I had such
pains in every bone of my body as can only cured by a good breakfast of
beefsteaks; and then, as an extinguisher to that, came the reflection that it
was a
fast-day
. There was nothing to be gained by grumbling against the
discipline of the
pia mater
, and as it was Christmas Eve, I must be up and
doing, for every hour I lost minimized my chances of getting home. But
what about the weather? What chance was there of a run down? “Very
poor indeed, ” said Skipper Coady; “there’s little or no wind, and whatever
there is, is ahead; but if it veers off anything to the nor’ad, Bill Davis I’ll
land you down in his jack.” Yes, there was no mistake about it, the outlook
was very unpropitious, and fate even seemed dead against us, for when
getting the boat out through the gut, she ran aground on a sandbank, and
we had to wait several hours before the tide floated her off. It was dinnertime before we were ready to sail, and then everyone was opposed to our
starting. A winter’s evening out on the ocean was but a poor prospect.
I had not at that time any experience that a nine years’ apprenticeship
afterwards gave me, and so I persisted in going; and when I heard young
Sam Davis say “he wasn’t a bit afraid but what we’d yank her along all
right, ” I coaxed his elder brother, John, and another hand to come off
with me. We pushed the jolly-boat off, said good-bye to the friends, and
then, by way of a parting shaft and to keep up my own courage, I hinted
to Sam that “these weatherwise skippers were only a lot of old women.”
Poor Sam—I have used the expression “poor Sam;” I regret to say that the
brave young soul found a watery grave some three years later. He and two
other young fellows came for me for a
sick call
. They were never heard of.
Two days after another crew came in search of them, and on our return
we found the mast and some broken gear on the rock under Blow-Me-Down Hill. The boat had probably mistayed or capsized.

The sails are up, the anchor tripped, and now we are away. For a few
hours, although the wind was right ahead and a northern tide running,
we still made some good headway, and were gradually slipping down the
shore. Later on, as the wind freshened and seemed to veer out south, we
stood out beyond the Stanley Rocks, thinking we might lie our course
down outside the islands. By this time evening was coming on, and I
found our skipper less communicative and looking more anxious. “What
do you think of it, Skipper John?” I said. “Bad, yer reverence—bad, ” was
the answer. “It much misgives me if we ar’nt in for a reg’lar drubbing.”
“Why do you say that?” “Why, ah! Don’t you see the swell that’s heaving
in? Haven’t you noticed the brassy look of the clouds lapping over one
another, mark my words, you’re in for a big breeze; and I’m half afraid,
as soon as the tide turns, we’ll have the snow.” Cold comfort that of a
Christmas Eve. What with the cheerless prospect and the biting cold
wind, I felt my courage oozing fast away. At last I ventured to suggest
going back. “Is it back, yer reverence, to a barred harbour? Why, there’s
a surf rolling on the beach at Jean de Bay now that would soon swamp
ourselves, not to talk about losing the boat. If we were once clear of the
islands before dark, and had a little sea room, I wouldn’t be so anxious.
Howsomever, ” he concluded, “we are in the hands of God now.”

We had not long to wait before the gale was upon us. First came
a sleet that froze on the sails and blocks and ropes, and then, like a
thunderclap, a gust of wind struck the boat splitting our reefed foresail
and throwing her almost on her beam ends. I suppose the splitting
and tearing away of our foresail saved our lives, for the little boat was
soon righted. Although she had taken in a good deal of water she was
stemming bravely again. I was standing in the aft compartment where
the pump is situated, and I worked away with a good will pumping out
the water, for the skipper’s whole energies were needed at the helm, and
the other two hands, after unbending the torn sail, had taken it down
in the fore cuddy, where, by the light of the fire, they were trying to sew
up the rents; “for we may have to heave her to, boys, ” said the skipper,
“and we can’t do without the foresail.” Ah, me, how I wished now I
was safely back in Jean de Bay. And now another horror was added to
the situation when we discovered that the little wooden box containing
the compass which in the evening had been placed alongside of the
hatchway, had, when the squall struck us, rolled over to leeward and
floated away on the ocean with loose gear that was on the deck. I don’t
think I appreciated at the time what the loss of the compass meant,
for I was conscious of a cold fear creeping over me, and I felt like one
fascinated as I watched the waves rolling higher and higher, until one
toppling over, struck the boat shivering every timber in her. I felt a cold
streak of white foam sweep over me, wrapping me around in darkness
that I thought must be the shadow of death. “Hold on for your life, ” I
heard the skipper say, and I felt a stout arm gripping me like a vice,
and when I had dashed away the water from my eyes and looked up,
“Never fear, yer reverence, ” said the cheery old salt, “I dare say that will
be the worst of them.” “Hello, there fore-ad, ” he shouted! Hello? “Come
aft here one of you and cross the seas.” Meaning that, whilst he did his
best to steer, one of the crew was to stand up windward and make the
sign of the Cross of Christ with every advancing wave that he thought
might break over the little vessel. Wonderful and sublime faith! “
Quid
Timidi estis,
” said our Lord to the apostles, “
Modica fidee
?” Why should
we be afraid? Was not the Lord in the tempest? I looked at the hard old
weather-beaten face of the skipper; it was as calm and serene as if he
were sitting by his Christmas fireside. He had said to me in the evening,
“We are in the hands of God now.” He meant what he said.

Fondly to Thy cross I cling.

Nearer, my God, to Thee.

So sings the majestic hymn, and verily, I believe that old man, out on
the wintery sea, clung as confidently to the Rock of Ages as any of the
Blessed Martyrs of old, and that his heart was as near the Sacred Heart
of his Saviour that night, as if he had the privilege of kneeling with the
Judean shepherd’s by the Crib of Bethlehem.

And so for me the weary hours dragged on, alternating between hope
and despair. With the broken sails we could not make much headway; and
what with the pitch darkness and the pelting snow and the frozen water
and the roaring breakers, added to the misery of not knowing where we
were or how the wind might have veered, made the time seem long as
eternity. Would the storm never tire? Would the snow never cease? It
must have been between 10 and 11 o’clock when, the moon rising, though
not in the least visible, lightened up the sky and let us see through the
glinting of the snow what looked like high land right ahead of us. We
immediately hove off from it, and then we strained our eyes on every side
for some sign that we might know where we were. Suddenly some one
saw away to the south-west what looked like the glimmer of light. Where
were we? Back Beach of Oderin, said one. Flat Islands, said another. And
if Oderin Beach, how did we come in through the Islands. “Well, sonny, ”
said our skipper, “how we got in safe through the sunker’s be a mystery;
only, as I often told you, God is a better pilot than you or me. Anyhow,
the beach of Oderin it is, and if we can only get the foresail on her when
we open the harbor, we’ll do it yet.” “Yes, ” said the echo in my heart, we’ll
do it yet, and frozen as I was I felt life was sweet and worth fighting for,
worth living. Pay away the sheet, me boys, for now we are away and if it
were not for that impossibility of getting even a double-reefed foresail
on her our hopes would be high; it would mean the harbour gained and
anchorage safe. But still our skipper thought we would be able to beat to
anchorage under reefed-mainsail and jib. The wind during the night had
veered from S. E. to E. N. E., and as we made the mouth of the harbour we
felt the full force of the stripe of wind. Trimming our sails close down, we
stood across the Blue Beach, and when about half way over, like a flash of
lightning, a squall struck the jib, and as it was frozen and stiff as a piece
of sheet iron, it tore it away in piece. And now we were worse off than
ever. The promised land was in sight, but we may not enter. Oh! For a few
minutes of daylight, and how quickly the ready and willing hands would
be out in a skiff to save us! “Out with the anchor, boys; God helping, it
may hold us.” But when the chain was all paid out we found we were
drifting, drifting away slowly but surely. Sometimes the anchor would
catch for a few minutes, and then the drifting would re-commence, with a
fresh gust of wind. But, dear reader, you must not imagine that we were all
this while standing with our hands folded, watching the boat idly drifting
to destruction. Skipper John hadn’t exhausted all his resources. Away in
the harbour we could see the lights in a few of the houses of people who
had not yet gone to bed. How could we make them see or hear us? We
couldn’t hope to outroar the tempest; but Skipper John, ordering Sam to
keep down a good fire, armed each of us with a blazing brand, which we,
standing on the bow, kept waving above our heads, whilst Sam kept us
replenished with fresh ones from the cuddy fire.