Free The Beothuk Expedition by Derek Yetman Page A

Lieutenant Cartwright’s attention elsewhere, I had the canvas taken in and the men put to the sweeps. We rowed up the harbour and came alongside a number of brigs, where the lieutenant called for news of John Cousens. The reception he received was far from civil and some of the captains declared they had the spotted fever on board. I suspect that they took us for a press gang and were in no great hurry to join, or to rejoin, His Majesty’s Navy.
    Relying upon what little we could learn, we departed the arm at eight bells and struck out for Fogo Harbour. Lieutenant Cartwright was most anxious that we arrive there as soon as we could, perhaps out of concern for the health of Reverend Stow. The stench of fish offal and human waste in the arm had been bad enough but the southwesterly wind had become baffled and confused among the headlands. The result was a choppy sea that caused the chaplain to lose what little colour he had, to say nothing of the contents of his stomach.
    We were crossing the mouth of Shoal Bay when I gave the helm to the boatswain and went forward to check on Froggat. He was lodged in a hammock beneath the canopy and next to him was a sling containing Reverend Stow. The chaplain groaned at every movement of the vessel and acted as if he might expire at any moment. I ignored him and looked to my friend, whose face was grey and cold to the touch. This was not a symptom of scurvy that I had encountered before and my concern grew as I discovered his pulse to be very weak.
    The chaplain was not to be outdone for attracting sympathy. He groaned most horribly and fixed his mournful eyes upon me. “Mister Squibb,” he whispered hoarsely, “I fear I am done for, sir. Done for, I say.”
    It took every whit of patience I could muster to reply, “Nay, sir. You will recover soon enough, I am certain.”
    â€œAh, but sir,” he moaned, “You have no conception. Can you not sail this boat in a more delicate fashion? I declare that any man who would go to sea for pleasure would go to hell for a pastime.”
    My impatience was tempered by surprise on hearing Samuel Johnson quoted from so unexpected a quarter. I parried with a quote of my own, saying, “Your opinion of my sailing skills has been noted, sir. But I must tell you that criticism is a study by which men grow important at small expense.”
    The vicar opened a watery eye. “My apologies, young man,” he said. “I believe I may have misjudged you.”
    I filled a ladle with water from the scuttlebutt and held it for him to drink. “On that point, I believe your judgment to be sound, sir,” I replied.
    He looked at me sharply and slurped the water. Lying back in the hammock, he sighed, closed his eyes and asked, “Are you sincere in your opinion that I shall not die?”
    â€œYou have been seasick before,” I said. “A man used to vicissitudes cannot be so easily dejected.”
    The eye opened slightly. “Johnson again?”
    â€œI see that you suffer no mental impairment, Reverend. I think we may safely pronounce you out of danger. We will soon be in an open reach and the turbulence will subside.”
    â€œYour friend, Mister Squibb—will he live?”
    I looked at Froggat’s ashen face and replied, “I can only pray that he does. There is nothing more I can do for him.”
    The watch was nearly ended when I threw the tiller over and changed our tack to beat close-hauled into the harbour of Fogo. The islands that crowd the entrance make it an interesting business but with smart work, we came within the shelter of the surrounding hills and struck our sails. The chaplain had by then recovered and was the first one into the jolly boat when Greening let go the bower.
    A short time later the crowded boat ran onto the beach and to no one’s surprise, our passengers and first lieutenant made straight for the largest house. Lieutenant Cartwright paused long