The Badger Riot (37 page)

I was never to know what would have happened if I had gone out into the fray that evening, because at that moment the church door opened. It was a police officer in his greatcoat and fur cap. And I knew him. Oh my God, did You keep me here for him?

He took off his cap. “Father Murphy, I have to talk to you.” His dark hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat and his skin was pale. His eyes were frightened and glassy. “Can we go in back where I can't be seen?”

I sized him up. What had happened? “All right, then. Let's go this way,” I said, as I led the way in behind the altar.

He was Richard Fagan, married to Rod Anderson's daughter. He'd been coming back and forth to Badger for two or three years now. Even though Rod was a Protestant, his son-in-law was a Catholic. We'd chatted together a couple of times. I had even seen him at Mass once.

In the sacristy, his legs seemed to give out under him and he sat down abruptly. “Father, you know me, right? You know that Rod Anderson is my father-in-law, right?”

“Yes.”

He drew in a deep shaking breath. “Father, I think I have ruined my life. I hit my father-in-law with my nightstick, and I think he might be injured.”

I didn't know what to say. I looked at him and he looked at me.

“My son, start at the beginning. What has happened up the road? How did this come about? Did you and Mr. Anderson have a disagreement?”

“No, no, Father. He didn't even know I was here. I . . .” He hung his head and started to sob.

I pulled up a chair and sat down next to him. Laying my hand upon his shoulder I told him, “Take a deep breath now. Start from the beginning.”

Tom had said, “Run, Jennie,” and I ran. My feet had a mind of their own, and I was heading for Pap's house – up the track.

You might wonder why I didn't go on to my place and wait for my Tom, but we live in on Halls Bay Road, a long walk in a community gone insane with violence. Pap's house was no more than five minutes from the scene of the clash between loggers and police.

Then I met that friggin' Vern again. He'd scooted over the back road, got rid of his scabs somewhere and ditched his taxi too, all in the past half-hour. Now, here he was, standing innocently
on the side of the road alongside of Alf Elliott, the telegraph operator.

The anger erupted out of me. I grabbed him, shook him and screamed in his face. I don't know what I was saying, but the shock on Alf's face was enough to sober me a bit. I let him go and, instead of turning toward the track and Pap's house, I continued running down Church Road.

I don't know where I would have ended up. Perhaps I would have kept running until I reached Halls Bay Road. I just don't know. It was dark. There were people everywhere crying out in fear and shock.

Then I saw the Catholic Church, lit up like a beacon in the cruel night. I thought of its warm, smooth pews, the smell of incense, the statue of the Blessed Mother. Perhaps I'll drop in and rest a minute, I thought.

I cautiously opened the door. I hadn't been inside in years. Nothing had changed. As I crept to a seat and knelt down, I could still see myself up at the altar as a little girl making my first Holy Communion, so innocent in my white dress and veil.

And now here I was looking up at the same altar almost twenty-five years later, a thirty-year-old woman whose coat had the buttons gone where a cop had hauled me around. My blouse was undone too. There was blood on my bosom. Whose blood? Then I remembered it was the cop that Ralph had struck to keep me from being choked. As he was regaining consciousness I had held his head in my arms.

My hair was across my eyes and I had snot and tears on my face. I scrabbled in my pocket for a tissue. A hand held out a handkerchief. I looked up into Father Murphy's eyes, then back at the hanky. It was lovely and white and so nicely embroidered. I suppose the nuns did that; funny how irrelevant little things skitter across your mind at the strangest times.

“Father Murphy, I'm sorry. I should go on out. Were you locking up?”

“No, no Jennie. Stay, my child. Compose yourself. Pause a moment. Talk to God about whatever has happened to you.”

He knelt in the seat across from me and closed his eyes to pray. I prayed too. I asked God to look after my Tom, still out there somewhere; to protect Ralph, wherever he might be; to help the loggers whose government had declared them criminals and sent the black-coats to break their spirits by breaking their heads. I prayed to God that the policeman wouldn't die. If he did die, whose fault was it? Was it ours? Or was it the A.N.D. Company's and the Government's? Oh the poor man, to die out here in an unknown place. Somewhere he had a mother who was keeping vigil this night, waiting for word of her son.

I blessed myself and looked at Father. “If you wouldn't mind, Father, I'd like to make a confession and tell you what happened.”

“Dad, Dad!” The high-pitched voice of my son David was music to my ears. Thank God, the three of them were safe. Amanda looked at me with round frightened eyes. She didn't speak as she grabbed hold of my arm. The boys were talking a mile a minute. One more camera snap of the scared shocked townspeople and we were away and down the road to home.

My children were traumatized by what they had witnessed. I realized that they should never have been there, but who knew that they'd be in the midst of a riot and see bloodshed? Badger had been a small, safe town where children could run freely. Had this changed forever?

We were eating our supper and trying to behave like it was a normal evening. Amanda's face was white and strained as she picked at her food. The boys were naming names: So-and-so said he saw who did it, Dad. He said he saw this fellow hit the cop with a birch stick.

This was going to lead to trouble. Poor little youngsters. They didn't know the difference. I was stern and forceful with them. “Say nothing. Understand? Say nothing. You'll only bring
trouble upon us by repeating rumours. Keep quiet, no matter what someone asks you. Let the loggers and the police settle this.”

A knock sounded on the door. I opened it warily, half expecting it to be the Mounties. It was the reporter from the
Toronto Star
. He needed to file his story. Would I go with him to the telegraph office so he could telephone with some privacy?

He had a car and we drove down. The riot had happened two hours ago, but people were still on the move – Badger residents making their way home, and police prowling around, looking for loggers. No one in this town had ever experienced such a time. It was a wild night.

The reporter needed light to read his report into the phone. I didn't want to turn on the light, the tumult outside was such that police or strikers were sure to investigate. We used my big flashlight which I shone on his notebook as he read. His voice was urgent as he communicated to colleagues in Toronto the horror of what had taken place in faraway Central Newfoundland.

The police sergeant wanted to come inside the church. “It would be better if I could take your statement inside, Pastor Genge,” he said. “Perhaps you could show me where you were standing at the time of the altercation.”

I moved away from the blood splotch on the snow and slowly climbed the steps to the church. I felt the weight of grief upon me; grief for a lost cause, perhaps a lost life. I opened the door. It was dark inside and I reached to turn on the lights.

“No lights, Pastor, if you don't mind. First I want us to look out through the window.”

In the gloom I led the way over to the window overlooking the road. He stood beside me and we gazed out at the scene, visible because of the white snow. Most people had moved farther on down the road, encouraged to do so by the RCMP. The strikers, those who
had escaped, were long gone. The blood patch was visible even up here through the window. But now it looked black in the night. As we watched, an officer came by with a shovel, scooped it up and went off down the road carrying the stained snow. It was a hard thing to look at. The sergeant was affected, I could see. He turned away.

“Turn on the lights now, Pastor,” he said. He nodded to the other policeman who had accompanied him. “The constable here will write down your statement. So tell me what you saw.”

We sat in the back pew. I told no lies. I didn't paint the strikers as victims. I didn't paint the police as aggressors. They knew what had happened as well as I did.

He listened and the constable wrote in his black notebook.

“So, Pastor Genge, tell me. Did you see Constable Moss struck down?”

“Yes sir, I did. I saw him when he fell. That was when I ran into my house to get the towels. I felt that God had been preparing me for that moment all my life.”

“Hmm. Are you getting all of this, Constable?”

“Yes sir. I have it all down, sir.”

“Good. Now then, Pastor, I need you to tell me the name of the person who struck the blow, if you know it.”

The door of the church opened. The sergeant swung around. It was another policeman. “I thought I told you not to disturb me,” he barked.

The young constable looked scared. “Sorry sergeant, but a call just came through on the RCMP radio from Grand Falls. Our headquarters in St. John's wants you to call them right away.”

The sergeant looked at me. I could see the indecision in his eyes. Should he keep grilling me or should he obey the summons from headquarters? Headquarters won out. He turned to me. “Where's the nearest telephone?”

“Alf Elliott has one in the telegraph office. He'll go down and open up for you.” I told him how to get to Alf's house.

“Okay we'll go then,” he said to the constable. “I'll be back,
Pastor. Don't go anywhere. You can close up the church and I'll find you in your house.”

As I locked up the office after the reporter was finished his call to Toronto, a police car stopped. A Mountie screwed down the window. “Which one of you is the telegraph operator?”

“That's me,” I said, “and this gentleman is from the
Toronto Star
.”