Newfoundland Stories: The Loss of the Waterwitch & Other Tales

Newfoundland

Stories

Newfoundland

Stories

THE LOSS OF THE WATERWITCH

and other tales

ELDON DRODGE

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Drodge, Eldon, 1942-

Newfoundland stories : the loss of the waterwitch and other tales / Eldon Drodge.

ISBN 978-1-55081-331-9

I. Title

PS8557.R62N48 2010    C818'.6   C2010-905852-6

© 2010 Eldon Drodge

Cover Design: Alison Carr

Cover Photograph: John Nyberg

Layout: Rhonda Molloy

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We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $1.3 million in the arts in Newfoundland. We acknowledge the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador through the Department of Tourism, Culture and Recreation for our publishing activities.

PRINTED IN CANADA.

dedicated

to my four grandsons,

Daniel

Zachary

Benjamin

Jack

contents

The Loss of the Waterwitch

The Hanging of Eleanor Power

Two Brothers

Pius Carroll Goes Swiling

Home from the War

The Light in the Garden

On Gander Lake

The Skraeling

The Drunk

The Fugitive

Maggie’s Lament

Indian Killers

The New Road

What Happened at Devil’s Cove?

Some of these stories are based on actual events and real characters.

The others are purely from the imagination.

All embody the essence of Newfoundland, past and present.

THE LOSS OF

THE WATERWITCH

Samuel Spracklin, captain and owner of the Waterwitch , was worried. Having departed from St. John’s in the early evening, his schooner, with twenty-five passengers and crew on board, was beating into the teeth of a northwesterly gale in late November 1875, en route to her home port of Cupids in Conception Bay. After more than three hours of hard sailing under full canvas, the vessel was still only abreast of Flatrock, a mere fifteen miles out of St. John’s with another thirty-five miles to go, and the storm was intensifying. The other twenty-four people she was carrying, including Spracklin’s son, Samuel, Jr., were equally apprehensive. Darkness and driving snow had diminished visibility to almost zero and the Waterwitch was taking on water each time her gunnels were raked and pulled under by the oncoming waves.

The weather had been a bit on the rough side when they left, but Spracklin had been undeterred and had sailed without a moment’s hesitation. He had often taken his sturdy vessel out in weather as bad or worse without any problems. His ship’s load included the winter provisions – food, clothing, and other necessities they would need to sustain them through the coming winter months – and he was anxious to get home to Cupids with his cargo. This would be his last voyage for the year. Within the next couple of weeks the Waterwitch would be berthed in Cupids for the winter and would remain tied up there until the following spring.

He had reckoned on making Cape St. Francis inside of three or four hours, and would then be able to take his vessel home comfortably in the lee shore of Conception Bay. At the time of his departure, he could not have anticipated the serious deterioration in the weather or the sudden shifting of the wind from the northeast to northwesterly. He briefly considered turning around and heading back to St. John’s with the wind on their stern, but it was only a few more miles to the Cape, after which they should be okay, so he opted to continue on. With darkness and swirling snow limiting his vision and with no way of taking a reading to confirm his exact location, he was relying totally on his compass, his knowledge of winds and tides, and his long years of experience on the sea. Above all else, he knew that he dare not venture too close to the treacherous coastline in this area or he would run the risk of his schooner being dashed to pieces on the rocks.

Another hour of torturous progress saw them just off Pouch Cove, the last settlement before Cape St. Francis. The Waterwitch was by then being battered mercilessly, and the crew worked feverishly to keep her bow to the wind and to pump out the water that rushed in every time the schooner plummeted into the cavernous troughs that separated the towering waves. Most of the crew members were seasoned seamen, but few of them had ever experienced sea conditions as bad as this before. For despite Spracklin’s calculations, the wind and the tides had carried the vessel much closer to the rocky shore than anyone on board realized, and when this fatal mistake was discovered it was too late to do anything about it. The Waterwitch was minutes away from crashing onto the rocks, and Spracklin and his crew, knowing their vessel was doomed, frantically tried to lower canvas as they braced themselves for the impact.

The crash, when it came, was horrendous. Some on board, including the four women, were either thrown from the vessel and dashed against the rocks or cast into the churning water. Some were killed outright in the crash. Of the twenty-five who had started the voyage, only thirteen, including Spracklin and his son, were left alive, and barring divine intervention, they too would soon follow their unfortunate shipmates.

The Waterwitch was wedged between two large rocks at the base of a towering cliff and, with any luck, might conceivably remain intact there for a while. Spracklin knew, however, the ship would eventually be battered to pieces by the pounding sea. He concluded that their only chance for survival rested on one of them scaling the cliff, finding help, and getting back before the vessel was destroyed.

He decided that he would be the one to try to climb the cliff. He selected one other seaman from his remaining crew to accompany him, Richard Ford,¹ a man whom he knew from personal experience to be strong and daring, and one with whom he could place his complete trust. Their first major hurdle was to make it from the vessel onto the rocks and then to the cliff. The courageous manoeuvre required agility and precise timing, and both men, after a number of false starts, soon found themselves standing on a narrow ledge at the base of the cliff. Their ascent could not be delayed, for with every passing second they were exposed to the risk of being sucked into the sea by the pounding surf that drove at them and saturated their clothes.

The ledge on which they stood zigzagged steeply upward for about a hundred feet before terminating into the face of the cliff, and the two men were able to cover that valuable ground in short order. Then their real difficulties began. From there to the top there was nothing but slippery, precipitous granite. Searching for finger and foot holds, Spracklin and Ford began a journey more dangerous that any other they would ever undertake in their lifetimes: the remaining four hundred feet to the top. By virtue of great physical strength and enormous willpower, they inched their way upward. Twenty minutes later, they could no longer hear the shouts of the stranded men over the blasting of the wind.

They pressed their bodies tightly into the face of the cliff to keep from falling backward, as their numbed fingers guided their way in the darkness. In places, the cliff face was impossible to surmount, and the duo had to retreat or move laterally to try another approach. Frequent rests were needed to conserve their strength. Spracklin doubted that any of the others left on the schooner would have been capable of scaling this part of the cliff. Finally, sensing that they must be near the top, the two men marshalled the last of their waning energy for the final push to the summit. To their great relief, they were able to grasp the branches of the windswept spruce trees that overhung the edge of the cliff and pull themselves over the top. It had taken them almost half an hour to scale a height of five hundred feet.

Their job, however, was not yet done. They now had to find their way to a community and try to organize a party of rescuers. This presented Spracklin with another dilemma, for he didn’t know which way to go. He had already made a fatal error in allowing the Waterwitch to drift so close to the shore. He knew that if he guessed incorrectly now the people he had left behind would surely be doomed. The responsibility weighed heavily on his mind. He believed that his vessel had come ashore somewhere in the vicinity of Pouch Cove, but he wasn’t certain this was actually the case. If they had passed Pouch Cove before crashing and he went north, there was nothing but Cape Francis. If, on the other hand, they hadn’t quite reached Pouch Cove, and he went south, they would have to follow the cliffs all the way back to Shoe Cove, a distance of several miles. Both of these scenarios would be disastrous. His only chance of success rested on them getting to Pouch Cove.

Realizing that every minute was crucial, the captain wracked his mind. His gut told him south. After a quick exchange with Ford, they decided that this was the way they would go. This time his decision would prove correct.

The Waterwitch had been driven ashore about a mile from the community of Pouch Cove, a distance which can be comfortably covered in twenty minutes or less in normal conditions. Though in the obscuring storm, it took Spracklin and Ford almost twice that long to reach the most northerly house in the community. Fortunately, even though it was now well past midnight, a light still shone in its window.

Eli Langmead was startled by unruly pounding on his door. He hesitated briefly before answering, fearful of the mischief makers that might be afoot at this late hour. When he did open the door, he was shocked by the two storm-battered men who stood there. He saw immediately that they were utterly exhausted and on the verge of collapse. Spracklin poured out his story and implored Langmead to help him.

Within minutes, Langmead, with the fatigued sailors in tow, was raising the alarm in the community, knocking on almost every door he passed to recruit men for the rescue attempt. Among those he collected were Christopher Baldwin, William Langmead, William Nose worthy, Christopher Mundy, and Alfred Moores. These five men, along with Langmead himself, would play a dominant role in the events that unfolded over the next few hours.

Armed with lanterns and ropes, the men, led by Spracklin, hurried back toward the sea and the wounded Waterwitch .

Sounds like they came ashore in Horrid Gulch, Langmead suggested to Moores as they made their way toward the cliffs.

Yes, Moores replied. I believe you’re right. Then as an afterthought, he added, They couldn’t have picked a worse spot.

That, indeed, was the case. Horrid Gulch, aptly named, is a narrow inlet just northeast of Pouch Cove that is bounded by a 600-foot sheer precipice on the north and a 500-foot cliff on the south that is not quite as steep yet still extremely treacherous. The fishermen of the area always gave the gulch a wide berth because the sea thundered in there with such force that, even on the calmest of days, anyone entering ran the risk of being swept up by the inrushing tide and crushed against the rocky crag. It was on the south side of the gulch that the Waterwitch was grounded.

It was well after midnight when the rescue party reached the cliffs overlooking Horrid Gulch. Although they knew that the stricken schooner lay somewhere below them, in the darkness and the swirling snow, they could not pinpoint its exact location, nor, from where they stood, could they hear the cries of the marooned seamen. They hurriedly discussed their options and tried to decide the best way to proceed. Finally, Eli Langmead concluded, There’s only one way to do this. One of us has to go down to find them.

Alfred Moores, a forty-three-year-old Pouch Cove fisherman, had come to the same conclusion. He wondered who might step forward to volunteer. He was familiar with Horrid Gulch, having spent many hours of his youth roaming the cliffs between Pouch Cove and Cape St. Francis in search of berries and birds. He remembered that, as boys, he and his friends had often dared each other to venture partway down the cliff, and how, on the one occasion when he had foolishly attempted it, the dizzying sheer drop to the rocks below had prompted him to scramble back up again as quickly as he could. As a fisherman, he was familiar with the gulch from water level as well since he had to pass it every time he made his way to the fishing grounds, and he had often noted that it was probably one of the most dangerous spots on the coastline.

A large man in the prime of his life, Moores was arguably one of the strongest men there that night. His occupation and daily exposure to the elements had long since hardened him against the worst that Newfoundland seas had to offer, and when no other man stepped forward to volunteer to be lowered down over the cliff, he felt compelled to speak up. He wondered what his wife would say in the circumstances. With a family depending