Newfoundland Stories (4 page)

While specific information about Eleanor Power's life is vague or unavailable, one fact is abundantly clear. Her punishment, in relation to all the others who were involved in the plot, was extremely harsh. It appears that she was made a scapegoat for the death of Keene, and that her hanging was meant to serve as a deterrent to the Irish population of St. John's and the surrounding area, which was well known for its rowdiness. A message greatly reinforced by the unprecedented hanging of a woman.

It is clear that Eleanor Power was singled out for an unjust and excessive punishment, especially in light of the fact that Keene's actual murderers went scot-free in the end. The fact that she herself had refused to participate in the last and fatal entry of the Keene residence was totally ignored by those who judged her. With the dubious distinction of being the first woman to be hanged in British North America, her body still lies today in an unmarked grave somewhere near the intersection of Water Street and Prescott Street in St. John's east end, where countless vehicle drivers and pedestrians pass over her grave every day unaware that she ever existed.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

The factors which prompted Governor Bonfoy's decision to pardon and free all of the participants in the plot except Eleanor and Robert Power are unclear. His decision may have been influenced by the groundswell of protest from the large and volatile Irish population of the area at the time. Their outrage against this unheard of hanging of a female was violent and extensive, particularly with respect to a woman deemed by many to be undeserving of the extreme punishment she received.

This story is based on information from
The Oldest City
by Paul O'Neill (St. John's: Boulder Publications, 1975) and the
Encyclopedia of Newfoundl and and Labrador,
edited by Joseph R. Smallwood (St. John's: Newfoundland Book Publishers Limited, 1967, 1981).

TWO
BROTHERS

J
ohn Rousell laid his knife on the splitting table, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and stood back to survey his handiwork. He was satisfied by what he saw. The weir,
²
now filled with salmon, was the product of almost four months of hard labour, back-breaking toil that had sometimes seemed unbearable and unending. Each rock and log, some of which had been fetched from a considerable distance, had been painstakingly placed in position one by one until a large deep pool had finally been created at the mouth of the river. It was there that the Atlantic salmon making their annual migration back to their spawning grounds were now trapped, waiting to be caught, gutted, and salted by Rousell at his leisure. A large percentage of these fish would be able to breach the weir to continue their journey upriver to lay their eggs, thus maintaining the salmon population of the river for future years. Enough, however, would linger in the coolness of the weir long enough to enable Rousell to take as many as he wanted.

Rousell had chosen his location well. This river, situated on the southwest corner of Hall's Bay on the north coast of Newfoundland, was perfect for his purpose. The teeming mass of salmon in the weir was proof of the wisdom of his selection. As he rested briefly from his work, he felt a glowing sense of accomplishment, something which had eluded him for much of his life. From the moment he first arrived in Hall's Bay, he had not only recognized the salmon potential of the place but had been struck by its beauty. He was one of only a handful of residents in the area at that time.

The crude hut he had hastily erected when he first arrived was the only jarring note in his surroundings. It was a rough structure known as a “leaning tilt” whose walls consisted of vertical tree trunks laid side by side aslant against a log frame upon which rested more horizontal logs, stuffed with boughs and moss, to form a roof. A gap in one of the walls, covered by an animal hide, served as a door, and a small hole in the roof allowed the smoke to escape from the tilt's interior. He knew he would have to construct something much better before he could bring Mary out here to live with him. That was a task he planned to undertake in the fall, after he had delivered his summer's catch of salmon to Exploits.

He had started the weir with his brother Tom. They had initially been partners in the enterprise, but after the first few weeks Tom had lost interest and wandered off into the interior, reappearing thereafter at odd intervals, and then for only a day or two at a time. Of the two, John was the stable one, and a fisherman. Tom was a roamer, a furrier driven by the desire to live alone and try to survive by his own wits in the wilderness far removed from the social fabric of the region. Neither of them had been deterred from coming to Hall's Bay by its grisly history. Five previous white settlers, presumably the first in the area, had been slaughtered by Beothuk Indians, beheaded, and their heads left on stakes as a warning to other white men to stay away. That, however, was long in the past. The Rousells were not intimidated by the story or, indeed, even gave it much thought. They were both strapping men in the prime of their lives and fully confident in their ability to face whatever might confront them. In any event, the presence of Beothuk in this area was now a rare occurrence as the major portion of the Beothuk population had long since been driven inland where it was believed they congregated mainly around Red Indian Lake.

On that day the Red Indians were far removed from John Rousell's mind. His brief rest over, he returned to his work. Dipping a large salmon from the weir and placing it on the table, he proceeded to gut it. A slash across the gills and a long incision along the fish's underbelly quickly exposed its innards, which he removed with one efficient motion before tossing the processed fish into the tub with the others. The whole procedure had taken only a few seconds. Long practise had perfected his technique to the point where he could do it repeatedly and automatically without much thought. He dipped his net into the water to get another one. It was then that he realized he wasn't alone. On the bank of the river, not more than fifty feet away, stood three individuals. He recognized immediately that they were Beothuk, two male adults and a boy. They were regarding him intently.

The men were tall, much taller than he was, and well proportioned. Their fierce appearance was heightened by the red ochre with which they had smeared their faces and bodies. They were armed with bows and arrows, and knives and hatchets hung from their belts. They had him cornered. Fear rooted Rousell to the spot. For a fleeting moment he thought about making a dash for his long-gun, which rested, primed and ready, against the tilt – seventy feet away. He knew, however, that he would receive an arrow in the back before he had taken more than a couple of steps. He was no match for them. They had all the advantages.

As he stood there waiting for the Beothuk to make their move, his fear and dread gave way to an overwhelming sadness that swept over him and blotted out everything else. He was going to die. His death would undoubtedly be a brutal one, yet his thoughts at that moment were of the life and the undone things he would be leaving behind, and of Mary waiting for him back in Exploits. She might never know what had happened to him.

Then he did something which he could never quite explain afterwards. It was a simple act, done instinctively without premeditation, a desperate last straw by a doomed man. He took the still writhing salmon from the dip-net and tossed it onto the grassy bank of the river in the vicinity of the Indians. He gestured toward the salmon-filled weir – a clear invitation to the Beothuk to take whatever they wanted. For what seemed like an eternity the Indians did not respond. Finally, one of the men nodded to the boy, who immediately sprang to retrieve the salmon before it could wriggle back into the water. A few seconds later, miraculously, the threesome melted back into the woods, leaving the shaken Rousell awash with relief – and still alive.

He clutched the splitting table to try to steady his trembling knees and shaking body, resisting the urge to sink onto the soft ground. He was exhausted. The encounter had drained him, and his perspiration-soaked body wanted only to rest for a while. Finally he made his way to the tilt, where he reached into its uppermost regions and extracted an earthen jug and its precious contents of dark rum. As he drank, the fiery liquid coursing through his body gave him comfort. He knew that soon the trembling would cease and his body would return to normal. He stayed in the tilt all that day and into the night, his long-gun never more than an arm's reach away, until finally, despite his efforts to stay awake, he fell asleep and did not reawaken until late the following morning.

During the next two days his daily routine gradually returned to its normal state – almost. He resumed his work with one eye on the task at hand and the other on the nearby woods, ever watchful, with his long-gun never far from his side. Things would never be quite the same again. He was on constant alert now and aware for the first time of his vulnerability in this sparsely populated area.

And then his brother showed up. Tom Rousell arrived just before nightfall bearing a brace of rabbits which he and John quickly cooked into a hearty stew. When they had eaten, they retired to the tilt and the rum jug once again descended from its lofty position. There, in the dimly lit interior, John related to Tom his experience with the Beothuk three days earlier.

“I wish I'd been here,” Tom offered. “I would have had those dirty savages. They wouldn't have gotten away from me.”

“Well,” John replied, “there was no real harm done, I suppose. I'm still alive to tell the tale, although I must admit I got the fright of my life. Anyway, if they come back again I'll have my gun ready.”

The two brothers sipped rum, getting quietly drunk, and continued to talk into the night. Then, in the early hours of the morning, when he was quite intoxicated, Tom made a horrific admission.

“John,” he slurred, “I've got something to tell you.” He paused, as if reconsidering what he was about to say. Then he committed himself. “I've already killed a few of them, you know.”

“A few of what?” his startled brother asked.

“Savages, Red Indians,” Tom said. “Five in all.”

John was incredulous. “Why? When?”

“The first one was an accident. I came across two of them when we surprised each other in a clearing in the woods. They weren't aware of my presence nor I of theirs. They were armed and one of them started to come at me so I shot him. Blew the bugger's brains out, I did. The other one took off before I could reload. That was the beginning. Then, later, I was making my way through the woods one day when I noticed some movement in a bush that I didn't think was right. So I moved in close and blasted into the bush, and sure enough, another one of the dirty devils was in there. Looked like a boy, probably trying to hide from me.”

“And the others?” John asked, dreading the answer.

“Well, by then I suspected they knew me and would be on the lookout for me. So I had to be extra careful. I took to following a different route along my trap-line as I figured that was where they might be waiting to ambush me. But I fooled them. And one day when I arrived to check one of my traps, there were three of them trying to take out a beaver that was caught. I chose my position well, where I would have time to reload before they could get to me.

“So I waited until the right moment, and I let go. It was a long shot, but I dropped one stone dead. The others came at me but I had time to reload and I got another one of the buggers. I was pretty sure that some of my shot hit the third one as well but he ran off. But he left a trail of blood that I could follow and pretty soon I came upon him. He was almost gone so I finished him off too. Got all three, I did. And then I got out of there,” he said. “Pass me the jug.”

Tom Rousell took a final swig of rum, laid back upon the boughs that served as his bed, and, within seconds, was fast asleep.

Sleep for John, however, would not come. As drunk as he was, he was horrified by what his brother had told him. He had always known that Tom was rough and ready, but tonight he had witnessed a dark side of his brother that he had never seen before.

Two days later, Tom left again. After his disclosure in the tilt that night, neither he nor John had mentioned the matter again. John thought briefly, perhaps wishfully, that his brother might have made it all up. He knew in his heart, however, that that was not the case. It was all true. A tension that had never existed before now separated them. For the first time in their lives, they were uncomfortable in each other's presence. John was glad to see his brother go.

John continued to do his work each day, albeit without the energy and enthusiasm that had previously marked his working hours. He was preoccupied with his brother's wanton slaying of the Beothuk. He couldn't reconcile Tom's actions with the carefree sibling he'd grown up with and had looked after for much of his life. He wondered when and why Tom had changed so much. He could understand him killing in self-defence, as perhaps might be argued in the slaying of the first man, but certainly not the rest. That was murder, pure and simple. John was aware that the killing of Beothuk had been legislated in the early 1800s to be a criminal act punishable by the full force of the law. If found out, he knew that his brother might indeed have to forfeit his own life.

About three weeks after Tom left, John was jolted out of his usual early morning sluggishness when he emerged from the tilt to discover that the same three Beothuk, the two men and the boy, had reappeared. They were waist-deep in the weir spearing up salmon. They looked his way but did not pause in their activity. For a fleeting moment, John contemplated firing at them. Then he remembered that they had spared his life when they so easily could have killed him, as well as his open invitation to them to help themselves to his salmon. So he quickly dismissed the notion. Shortly thereafter the Beothuk, having taken all they wanted, left.