The Badger Riot (38 page)

“We need to use your phone. The sergeant has to make a long-distance call.” The door opened on the passenger side and the officer got out.

The sergeant motioned for the reporter to stay outside while he and I went into the office.

“Mr. Elliott, is it?”

“Yes. Can I help you?”

“We went to your house and your wife told us where to find you.” He held out a piece of paper. “Here is a phone number in St. John's. Can you put the call through for me? Make it collect.”

All long-distance calls are routed through the main switchboard in Gander. It was an efficient system and the call went through quickly.

The sergeant took the phone, saying, “Please wait outside, Mr. Elliott. This is a private call.”

The reporter was still there, no doubt looking to get another story for his paper.

The Mountie was sitting behind the wheel of the car with the window down. “Will you give me a ride home after he's finished?” I asked him. “What about this reporter? He can go on, can't he?”

“Yes sir,” he answered. “He can leave. You get in the car with me to keep yourself warm.”

The Mountie was with the Grand Falls detachment and we knew each other slightly. The sergeant was on the phone for quite awhile, so we talked a bit. We talked of inconsequential things like the
weather, the ice in the River, the ruts in the road to Grand Falls, but not once did we discuss what had happened up by the Pentecostal Church on the road to Millertown. Neither of us spoke of the horror of a human being lying near death because of it.

When I got home the boys were in bed asleep. Amanda was sitting up with her mother.

“Go on to bed, Amanda,” I told her. “You have school tomorrow.”

She headed for the stairs, then stopped. “Dad, we all saw something this evening that we weren't supposed to see. Am I right?”

She was fourteen years old. How could I explain it to her? “Yes, you did, my child. I wish you hadn't, but it's too late to talk about that now. I hope you have enough sense to keep quiet. No matter who asks you – even if the police question you – always say you saw nothing.”

“Okay. Goodnight, Dad. Goodnight, Mom.”

Mary and I were ready to go to bed. There was another knock at the door. I opened it. Oh my Christ! It was Ralph Drum. Beside him was Tom Hillier. They slipped inside quickly.

Ralph whispered, “Alf, we got four fellas outside, two from somewhere out near Lewisporte and two more from somewhere down in White Bay. The police are hunting them down. We got more than a dozen hidden at various places around town.”

I looked at them both. Ralph had a black eye and Tom's lip was bleeding. The two of them looked as wild as hawks.

“What do you want me to do? Hide them? I have young children and no spare room.”

“You got the goat house, Alf,” said Tom. Big Tom Hillier was a quiet, gentle kind of man, mostly. People said he had a temper, though, and that he had practically beaten up a woods camp all by himself.

“Yes, Alf, you got the goat house. Just give me the key,” Ralph said, “and I promise not to let them touch your photo equipment.” Ralph knew how much I valued my stuff.

“No b'y. I'll go down with you. There are a dozen strips of film hung up to dry on the line. I need to take them down so the guys
won't get their heads tangled up in them.” I didn't say so, but most of the negatives were shots of the strike.

We went down the path in pitch-darkness to the goat house. I didn't need a light as I knew the little path well, and I dare say Ralph could see in the dark anyway. Tom had never been there before, and he stumbled along behind us. I knew his big frame would never get in the door of the little low building. He'd have to stand guard outside.

I cleared away the negative strips and put away the acids. Ralph went out and brought in the four strikers.

When he had the door closed, I screwed in the red bulb.

Well, whattya know? The fugitives that Ralph wanted me to help were the same boys who were going to beat up my telegraph office and kick my arse out the door!

The red light washed over their scared faces. They recognized me too, and Ralph knew that it was an awkward moment. I could see it in his face.

“Alf . . . I know you know them. But the boys are sorry they gave you a hard time about sending the message to Joey. Aren't you, boys?”

They coughed, cleared their throats and shuffled their feet. “Oh yes. Yes sir! We are. Guaranteed.”

“Jesus, Ralph, I've put a lot of money and effort into this photo setup. I don't want it wrecked, b'y.”

“No sir. We won't wreck it. We're sorry about before. We had a few drinks, ya know.”

Ralph corrected them. “Actually, you guys were loaded drunk that time.”

“Well, we're not drunk now, b'y. We just needs a place to hide from them Mounties, what?”

I had no choice. I couldn't allow the poor unlucky devils to be tossed in jail, when they were guilty of nothing more than being on strike. “Okay guys. But you dare touch any of my equipment and it will be your arses kicked out the door this time, right into the Mounties' arms. And don't piss in here. If you want to piss, go out
and do it now because, once you're inside, I'm locking the door behind me.”

They went outside again. I stood in the door alongside Big Tom. Our eyes were used to the dark now and I could make out the steam rising from four arcs of urine as they hit the snow.

We put the strikers back in the goat house and left them there. I snapped the padlock closed. If someone decided to investigate, it would look like what it was, an old, locked-up goat house.

Ralph and Tom went on their way, to round up others, I presumed, but I didn't ask. It was a time when the less you knew, the better off you were.

After the sergeant left, I walked up the aisle to the altar. I knelt at the railing where so many sinners had come to accept Jesus into their hearts.

I did what I could do best: I prayed. I was unsure of myself. Perhaps I was mistaken. The events had unfolded so fast, so swift and horrible. I stayed there for a long while. Then I got up, turned out the lights, locked the door and went into the parsonage.

An hour later, there was a knock at the back door. I walked over and looked out through the little window, wondering why the sergeant was knocking at the back door. But it wasn't the police. It was Tom Hillier standing on the step. I could barely make out his face in the darkness, but his size was enough for me to recognize him. Behind him were three dark figures. Well, no worries about them if Tom was with them. He was one of my flock, as were his parents. I opened the door.

Followed by the strangers, Tom hurried in and closed the door. I stood there in the little hallway, not sure what to expect. “Pastor, how you gettin' on? Sorry to disturb you.” I had the distinct feeling of being part of a play. Nothing was real. Here was Tom, playing a part, being polite – how was I getting on? Sorry to disturb me? Good Lord. And the three men, what parts were they playing? I knew without being told that they were fugitive strikers.

“We can't risk being seen, Pastor.” Tom reached over my shoulder and switched off the lights. “I'm wondering if you can put these gentlemen up for the night.”

“Are they being hunted down by the police?”

“Well, uh . . . yeah. We are all being hunted down, Pastor. Hunted down and dragged off to jail. I know my way around Badger and I won't get caught, but the boys here are strangers, from Notre Dame Bay, and they haven't got a clue where to go.”

Tom's big frame took up most of the space in the hallway. I moved into the kitchen with them. He continued. “So I thought you might help. They are Pentecostal, if that makes a difference.”

“That doesn't make a difference, my son. I cannot refuse you or them. This is a hard thing, Tom. A hard thing. Are you staying too?”

“No, Pastor, I'm going off again. I'm worried about Jennie.” He turned to the men. “Now boys, the Pastor will look after you. You might have to go up in the attic if the police come by.”

Tom went out the door, ducking his head automatically. The men and I looked at each other. “Boys, the police are coming here tonight. There's a sergeant who's been questioning me, but he didn't get to finish because he had to make a telephone call. He said he'd be back.”

“Do you have an attic, Pastor?” asked one of them.

There
was
an attic. I remembered seeing the hatch in the old back pantry when I first came to live here. I'd never gone up there, though. Cobwebs, dust and spiders are things I try to avoid. “Yes, there is an attic here. I should get you some food before you go up.”

We went into the back pantry. The tallest of them got up on a chair and lifted the hatch. He said they'd be able to swing up there when the time came. We left the hatch open and the chair ready in case they had to move fast. I knew that the sergeant might be back at any time.

So I got them a lunch – bologna sandwiches and cups of tea. I kept the light out in the kitchen, but there was enough light from the front room for us to see. It turned out that they were strangers to each other. The conversation around the table as they gulped
down their hurried meal was mostly “where's you from?” and “who's your father?” and “do you know such-and-such?” I couldn't join in. Being from St. John's, I didn't know anyone from White Bay or Notre Dame Bay.

I proposed a word of prayer before they disappeared into the dark upper reaches of my house. I was good at praying. Jonathan always said that the words slid off my tongue like warm molasses.
Oh, Jonathan, I wish you were here beside me now in my time of tribulation.

I gave the men a flashlight and some blankets. They climbed up into the attic. When he was hoisted up, the first man shone the flashlight around. “Ever been up here, Pastor? Buddy, there's some stuff here. You should see it.”

“Uh . . . yes, some other time.” No one would ever get me up there. Ugh! All that dust.

The boys replaced the hatch and I took away the chair. It was almost ten o'clock and still no sergeant. I sat down in the front room and took up my Bible. I needed a couple of good quotations for my Sunday sermon, quotations pertaining to violence and bloodshed.

Midnight. Still no police. He hadn't forgotten me. I'd see him in the morning. I was sure of that. I turned out the light and went to bed.

It didn't take long for Dad, my brothers and me to hurry away from the remains of the riot, across the road and home. Mom was relieved to see us. She held the door open for us as we came through the front gate.

“Are you all right? What happened? I was frantic with worry.”

“Oh Mom,” I cried. “My two feet are soaked from the snow that got into my fur-tops when I climbed up on the bank. And I ripped my nylons to pieces when I slid down over the bank.”

Mom tut-tutted. “Amanda, how many pairs of nylons do you tear up, at all? Get the wet stuff off right away before you catch cold.”

The kitchen was warm. I hauled off the ruined nylons and put on a pair of vamps. Then I turned down the tops of my boots and put them behind the stove to dry out for the morning.

Mom had baked rabbit for our supper. Around here folks ate a lot of wild meat – rabbit, moose, caribou, bear, even beaver. Dad always told us that it was the best thing for us, always available, and fresh too. The only fish we got, being so far inland, was trout and salmon, in season. Sometimes someone brought us something from places like Roberts Arm or King's Point – cod, or seal or herring. We picked and ate many kinds of berries too. Mom was forever boiling up pots of them and at every meal there would be a bottle of partridgeberry or blueberry jam on the table. We also had bakeapples, which I never liked very much, probably because they were so hard to pick. Or maybe it was the orange colour – a colour I never liked.

Supper was a strange affair that evening. None of us were really paying much attention to what we ate. My brothers, animated with excitement, were saying that they knew who did it, that everyone said they knew. Mom and Dad cautioned them to keep quiet. Dad said you cannot be heard accusing anyone without proof. You'd only get yourself in trouble.

A knock came on the door and Dad answered. When he came back to the table, he told Mom he had to go to the office for a reporter to use the phone.

No homework for us tonight. I turned on the television. Rex Loring was giving the CBC news. Ooh, he's so handsome. I did well in Current Affairs at school because he's so cute to watch.

Fidel Castro and the revolution in Cuba absorbed me. Castro and his guerilla army had taken over that country and ousted the dictator. The general opinion seemed to be that he wouldn't last long. Rebellions like that seldom did, people said. The teacher told us to write about it for our Current Affairs essay. I would've liked to write that I admired Fidel Castro for his rebellion, but that wasn't the accepted view and, if I wanted a good mark, I had to stay within the guidelines of the subject.