The Banks of Newfoundland

In the wake, so to speak, of Columbus, his fellow Genoese Giovanni Cabotto concluded that the wisest way to reach China sailing west would be to stick to the northern latitudes. If, after all, the Earth is a sphere, the distance west to Asia would be greatest near the equator, and shortest near the poles.

In any case, it seems there might have been an inconvenient continent in the way further south.

So began the quest for the fabled Northwest Passage.

John Cabot, as the English called him, secured letters patent from King Henry VII, and, in 1497, following the familiar northerly route from the west coast of Ireland, arrived somewhere. We are not sure where: perhaps Labrador, perhaps Newfoundland, perhaps Cape Breton. Newfoundlanders are certain he reached Bonavista—apparently, after all, an Italian name, meaning something not too far off from “Land Ho!” (“Beautiful Sight”). There were only so many Italian early explorers in these parts.

Newfoundland stamp, 1947. 

Of greater immediate importance, Cabotto spotted the teeming fish life of the Grand Banks, where the Labrador Current stirs the Gulf Stream—Canada’s first great article of commerce. From that time on, European fishing boats probably visited regularly.

Sadly, at this time, Ireland was in no condition to join in the piscatorial jamboree. England’s Henry II had rudely invaded and declared himself King back in the 12th century. For a time, what with the Hundred Years’ War and the Wars of the Roses and whatnot, England was busy elsewhere. But when Henry VIII came to the throne in 1509, with despotism one of his core values, the fate of Ireland, a small country next to a bigger country, was sealed. The sixteenth century in Ireland was given over to the four pale riders of the apocalypse.

In case you missed the reference.

Small nations next to large nations have suffered conquest from the beginning of time. But there has always been something especially energetic about the English vindictiveness towards Ireland. As Edmund Burke writes: “All the penal laws ... were manifestly the effects of national hatred and scorn towards a people whom the victors delighted to trample upon and were not at all afraid to provoke” (letter to Sir Hercules Langrishe).

Nor, contrary to much modern thinking, did this have anything in particular to do with religion. The English invasion of Ireland, and laws discriminating against the Irish, predated the Reformation. The very first English settlements banned the Irish from all trades. The Statutes of Kilkenny, passed in 1366, already banned the Irish from “English” churches. Irish styles of moustache, beard, horsemanship, or dress were illegal (Spencer, “A View of the Present State of Ireland,” 1597). A statute of Edward IV made it legal for any Englishman to kill any Irishman on his own authority (MacManus, p. 400), as well as to seize his property. Even after the Reformation, Edmund Spencer does not see religion as the only awkwardness with the Irish. He cites three issues, in this order: customs, laws, and religion (Spencer, 1597). And, when Mary I, Catholic and a friend to Catholics, came to the throne, she was no more a pal of Ireland than her Protestant predecessors. She did her best to have them all evicted.

So why did the English hate the Irish so? Nicholas Flood Davin considers it a question of land: the Irish had it, and the English desired it. But this does not quite tally. For most of the time the English were in Ireland, there was lots of free land freely available in the Americas, for free. There was little real need to take it from the Irish. It had to be for the sheer sport of it.

Burke holds it to be from contempt. “Every measure was pleasing and popular just in proportion as it tended to harass and ruin a set of people who were looked upon as enemies to God and man; indeed, as a race of savages who were a disgrace to human nature itself” (letter to Sir Hercules Langrishe).

This does seem to capture a certain feeling of later days, of the Irish as a “nation of helots,” in Davin’s phrase. Yet it too does not quite seem to fit the facts. The very early Statutes of Kilkenny, which set up a system of apartheid in Ireland, actually give this justification for downtreading the locals: “many English of the said land [Ireland], forsaking the English language, manners, mode of riding, laws and usages, live and govern themselves according to the manners, fashion, and language of the Irish enemies.”

Spencer later cites exactly the same concern.

The Irish Problem.

Unable to say exactly why this is happening, Spencer seems to blame original sin. The Solons of Kilkenny say simply that it is “contrary to reason.”

And yet, one does not often avidly imitate the language, manners, fashions, and usages of a culture one utterly despises and finds inferior.

One problem may be that these two particular cultures, English and Irish, were unusually incompatible in their interests. The Irish had always looked for leadership to their poets, artists, scholars, and monastics. They were and are an idealistic bunch. The English have always been, by contrast, a hard-headed and pragmatic lot: a “nation of shopkeepers,” in Napoleon’s phrase, saving their greatest admiration for competent accountants. You see such a divide, and such contempt, on many college campuses, between the liberal arts students and the engineers: C.P. Snow's “Two Cultures.” To the English, the Irish appeared (and appear) frivolous, indulgent, lawless, probably technically insane, wild in the way artists are wild. To the Irish, the English appeared porcine, dead on the inside, robotic, and not in serious contention for eternal salvation.

Yet this, too, does not seem sufficient. While some engineers may view poets and philosophers with contempt, few actually wish them dead. And again, you do not avidly imitate a culture you despise.

I think Spencer may be closer to the mark when he cites Genesis. It seems something as fundamental as that. Whether or not one accepts the Bible as Holy Writ, it is at least a collection of the best wisdom about human nature from several thousand years of mortal thought.

But our Biblical model may not be the sin of Adam and Eve, the original sin, but that of Cain.

Why does Cain kill Abel? Because he believes God favours his brother. “The Lord looked with favour on Abel and his offering, but on Cain and his offering he did not look with favour. So Cain was very angry...” (Genesis 4:4-5).

In the real world, despite all softheaded protestations of human equality, God does seem to favour some of us, and not others, with special gifts of grace: greater intelligence, greater musical ability, greater athleticism or physical grace, greater beauty, greater charm, greater eloquence. And the rest of us, if we are for just one moment honest, do not like it. Envy explains much in human affairs. I am reminded of an exchange I once had with an open anti-Semite, which at the time shocked me. Still does shock me, or I would not remember it. He pointed out that the Bible said the Jews were God’s chosen people. And he continued “That’s exactly why we have to keep them down. If we don’t, they'll control everything.”

Here is Cain’s sin, applied as the honest explanation for anti-Semitism.

An Irishman, according to Punch

Might it not also be the key to anti-Hibernianism? To Hiberniophobia?

After all, this sin of envy is so fundamental a part of human nature that it appears in the Bible as the second sin of history—that is, presumably, the second most fundamental sin. Third, if you count Lucifer’s pride. Arguably, it is also the sin of Pilate and the High Priests when they crucified Jesus: they knew he was innocent, and knew he was from God, and because of this they killed him.

It is one of the great secrets: we most hate others not when we think they are less than we are, but when we think they are better than we are. Perhaps especially if we think they are morally better.

But of course, most of us are not going to be as honest as my anti-Semitic acquaintance. Because, after all, if we were, we would be admitting they are better than we are, and that’s just what we cannot accept or tolerate. So we will always couch it in claims like Hitler’s “untermenschen” (subhuman) for the Jews―despite the historical truth that German Jews in the 1930s were better educated, more accomplished, and wealthier than the German average. In what sense could they really have been “subhuman”? Only in the sense that they weren’t. And this was their great fault.

This is awkward. After all, I am Irish myself, so it sounds bad for me to say it. But, by the nature of this particular sin, nobody not Irish is likely to say it. Except perhaps the Jews. Accordingly I am forced, tragically, against my will, by my commitment to truth above all to admit that the Irish are really a quite wonderful bunch of talented folk. They can sing, they can dance, they can tell jokes, they can compose a rhyme on a dime, they can climb moonbeams.

Deal with it.

So the Irish may be guilty of the sin, in English eyes, of being just too wonderful, yet not numerous enough to get away with it. In fact, nothing less seems capable of explaining the irrational animus. As Burke implies, the English tried to harm to the Irish even when it seemed against their own interests to do so.

The Reformation then simply gave the English another handy club with which to cudgel the Irish.

Beginning in 1607 the religion-based Penal Laws were introduced: a set of restrictions, in the words of Edmund Burke, “as well fitted for the oppression, impoverishment and degradation of a people, and the debasement in them of human nature itself, as ever proceeded from the perverted ingenuity of man.” Samuel Johnson wrote, “There is no instance, even in the Ten Persecutions, of such severity as that which the Protestants of Ireland exercised against the Catholics” (MacManus, p. 454). Irish Catholics were thenceforth unable to hold public office, unable to own guns; their homes could be searched without warrant; they were required to pay fines for not attending Anglican services; they were denied priests. Catholic-Protestant intermarriage was prohibited; Catholics could not vote; Catholics were barred from the professions; Catholics could not live in town or city; conversions to Catholicism were forbidden; Catholics could not buy land; Catholics could not be educated, could not attend school or university, even abroad, or be taught in their own homes; Catholics could not inherit land from a Protestant; but if one heir of a Catholic converted to Protestantism, all the land must go to her or him. Catholics could not own valuable horses, and were obliged to sell any horse they owned on demand for no more than five pounds. And so on and on—to try to give the complete list begins to sound like a rant. The morbidly curious are referred to Edmund Burke’s Tracts Relative to the Laws against Popery in Ireland, 1760-65.

This was in part a basic struggle between English and Irish values. To the English, it was obvious that one’s religion should come second to such practical considerations as one’s livelihood and the requirements of one’s sovereign. Englishmen, after all, had accepted Henry VIII’s new religion in obedient droves. Yet to the Irish, this was a perversion of values, an abomination of desolation. The overwhelming majority of the native Irish stayed Catholic, and could not be persuaded by these worldly inducements, no matter how severe, to surrender the faith.

Irish of the 16th Century.

As a result, the overwhelming majority of the Irish were directly affected by these Penal Laws. Even, in fact, Irish Protestants. Almost half the Protestants in Ireland since the Reformation have chosen Presbyterianism, not Anglicanism, and others Methodism—and some of the some of the same laws applied to them as well, as “Dissenters.” So even those Irish who were personally convinced by the arguments of the Reformation were largely not to be convinced by these material concerns.

It was a hard thing, however, because over time it reduced the great majority of the Irish to landless near-starvation. Or, for a large minority, starvation straight up.

As if just to show that being Protestant were not enough, so long as one were still willfully Irish, the English followed this up with a series of laws to limit Irish trade—laws that affected Protestant Anglican as much as Catholic. Ireland was barred from producing or exporting tobacco, glass, silk cloth, meat, butter, cheese, cattle, sheep, cotton cloth, linen, hempen cloth, woolens, wool, and, of course, fish—essentially, all of Ireland’s industries as soon as they appeared. Ireland was forbidden to build ships, and any foreign trade had to be through English ports in English ships with English crews (MacManus, pp. 483-92).

The result of all this as of 1597 is described by Edmund Spencer:

“they weare brought to such wretchednes, as that anye stonye herte would have rewed the same. Out of everye corner of the woode and glenns they came creepinge forth upon theire handes, for theire legges could not beare them; they looked Anatomies [of] death, they spake like ghostes, crying out of theire graves; they did eate of the carrions, happye wheare they could find them, yea, and one another soone after, in soe much as the verye carcasses they spared not to scrape out of theire graves; and if they found a plott of water-cresses or shamrockes, theyr they flocked as to a feast for the time, yett not able long to contynewe therewithall; that in a shorte space there were none almost left, and a most populous and plentyfull countrye suddenly lefte voyde of man or beast” (Spencer, “A View of the Present State of Ireland,” 1597).

To be fair, Spencer blames the Irish.

All this being said, of course, the Irish of the time were no doubt primarily prevented from exploiting the wealth of the New World by their utter preoccupation with the Jewish question.

Over time, however, as individuals, many Irish made it across to Newfoundland. The very devastation that made it impossible for Ireland as a nation to profit from the Newfoundland fisheries made it desperately necessary for the Irish as individuals to get there.

Fishing ships from Exeter and Plymouth and other Western English ports discovered that, due to Irish poverty, supplies at Waterford were cheaper than at home—and Waterford was an easy stop on their way along the Irish Coast to the Grand Banks. Irish crew members, three-quarters-starved as they commonly were, were also cheaper to hire.

So, early on, a great number of Irish seamen came to be involved in the Newfoundland fisheries.

The fishing boats would go out every spring to the Banks, and return with their catch every autumn. Obviously, this could not be fresh fish. They had to be somehow preserved to last the season and the passage. The captains set up stations on the shore to dry the catch, preserving it for the homeward passage. Then they began leaving crew members over the winter, to set up the drying stations, to guard them, and to maintain them for the next season. The crewmen, almost always Irish, built shanties and homes.

Sometimes fishing captains would go bankrupt. Sometimes, as a result, they did not return the next summer, and overwintering crewmen were stranded in Newfoundland without pay.

Sometimes unscrupulous captains, or those in danger from their creditors, might also find it advisable to abandon crew members onshore for the sake of being able to carry home more fish.

Sometimes, too, starving Irish came over on their own dime as passengers for the sake of a job, any job. They would arrive in spring, and the inshore fishing would provide food, and they would be able to eat for the summer. Passage over was cheap—the fishing boats were riding empty. Passage home was not—the fishing boats were loaded with valuable cargo. So they stayed, through the harsh winters, and made a new home.

Soon—as early as 1681—ship captains figured out a profitable sideline. Since their ships came over to the Grand Banks empty in the spring, they began offering free passage to poor Irish women. On arrival, they would sell the women as brides to the lonely men in the outports, in exchange for fish.

English women, no doubt, were not so often in such straits that they could be lured out.

And so, despite official prohibition, settlement began, and it was primarily Irish. Specifically, it was mostly from Waterford and Wexford—it has been estimated that over 90% of Newfoundland’s Irish come originally from within 40 miles of Waterford town limits.

By 1720, official concern was raised about the number of “Irish Papists” settling in the country. By 1742, the Irish outnumbered the English in almost every settlement from St. John’s to Placentia. By 1765, Governor Palliser estimated that three quarters of the population was Irish (“Annual Return on the Fisheries and Inhabitants, etc., at Newfoundland for the year 1765,” Keough). By 1780, the Irish were two-thirds of the passengers coming out to Newfoundland each year. By 1798, the English governor claimed with alarm that nine-tenths of Newfoundlanders were Irish.

This was a real problem.

For centuries, as with the rest of Canada, England and France vied for ownership of Newfoundland. However, the English government for most of this time discouraged settlement in the new land. Claiming ownership of real estate, or erecting any building not directly related to the fishery, was illegal in British Newfoundland right up to 1813.

On the face of it, this seems odd, especially as ownership of the colony was disputed, and possession is nine points of the law.

The reason sometimes cited was that the British government wanted to protect the interests of the Devon fishermen, who saw shore settlements as competition for their own homeland fishing fleets. But why would this matter? Why would the interests of subjects in Devon be worth more than the interests of subjects in Newfoundland?

Because Devonians are English, and the majority of His Majesty’s subjects in Newfoundland were Irish. Irish were to be given no quarter.

The Irish were no more considered equal here than they were in Ireland. This is made explicit in an order by Governor Dorrill in 1755: all ships’ captains were required, on pain of the “greatest severity,” to return all crew and passengers they brought with them in the spring when they sailed home in the fall, because “a great number of Irish Roman Catholics are annually brought over here” (Michael J. McCarthy, The Irish in Newfoundland). In 1767, Governor Palliser ordered that all Irish houses in Newfoundland be pulled down. In 1766, the governor was concerned about “poor Irish women” coming across (McCarthy, ibid.). In 1770, Governor Bryon affirmed that “No man or woman who is a Papist and did not fish or serve in this harbour during the summer shall be permitted to remain here during the winter.” An order in 1777 strictly prohibited transporting any women from Ireland.

And yet they came. Worse, they stayed and bred.

The Penal Laws were applied in Newfoundland just as in Ireland—if inconsistently in both places. As in Ireland, Catholics could not hold office, bear arms, legally own real property, or run public houses. They paid a special tax. Their children had to be baptized in the Anglican Church, and their marriages solemnized there (Keough, The Slender Thread).

The Catholic Irish, of course, had to do without priests. The French Récollet father Baudoin writes in 1696 that “they have not a single minister of religion” in all their settlements (Prowse, p. 218). In 1755, an Irish priest was “hunted down” in the Conception Bay area: “The priest himself eluded authorities, but premises in which Mass had been said were burnt to the ground, and Roman Catholics who were known to have attended a Mass were subjected to harsh fines, and even exile” (Lahey, Raymond, “James Louis O’Donel in Newfoundland: The Establishment of the Roman Catholic Church,” Religion in Newfoundland and Labrador: The Beginnings. Hans Rollman ed., Memorial University of Newfoundland, 1993, p. 87). Similar priest hunts are recorded the same year at Harbour Grace and Carbonear. Homes and storehouses there too were burned down in punishment; attendees were exiled. Even local residents whose property was apparently used without their knowledge or permission had their buildings destroyed. The community of Renews still displays a flat “mass rock” reputedly formerly used as an altar for secret outdoor midnight masses. Local traditions speak of a priest who lived in Witless Bay disguised as a fisherman, and of another who was hidden in a cellar in Toad’s Cove (Keough).

Mass rock, Renews

This caused a certain amount of disaffection.

In 1752, a group of ten Irish men and women killed a magistrate, one William Keene. The motive was apparently both robbery and revenge. Robbery was one thing, and understandable; but revenge was another. It meant Keane was killed because he was a magistrate. This made it a civil insurrection! Even worse, it appeared that some other Irish knew something was up in advance, and none had informed. It all called for a crackdown on “popery” in the island. Four of the ten conspirators were hanged, and two of the bodies displayed in public as a warning to others. In 1794, two Irishmen were hanged, drawn, and quartered for another mob action that looked like insurrection: they tried to rescue a neighbour being press-ganged by the British Navy.

But, after all, was life in this New World really so bad? Perhaps not. Although the laws might have been the same, here the reach of the arm of English government was much shorter. For much of the island’s history, the governor of the colony was simply the captain of the first fishing ship that sailed into St. John’s that year. He generally had more on his mind than micromanaging the lives of onshore settlers; he was there for fish, netted, salted, and stowed. For even longer, the English governor went home to England every winter, and islanders were left for half of the year to manage their own affairs. Even were this not so, there was no way the tiny apparatus of government in St. John’s could closely supervise what went on in all the outports up and down the coast. They were accessible only by sea, and from the highlands any non-local vessel could be seen coming a long way off. If the authorities did find out something to one’s detriment, one could, in the worst case, probably slip away by small boat at short notice; or even take passage on a departing fishing vessel and be gone forever. A folk tradition held a group of “Masterless Men” always lived in the hills behind the shore settlements in complete freedom from the law, led by a man named Peter Kerrivan (Tammy Lawlor, “Secret Masses at Midnight,” Culture and Tradition, 2001).

This was the first, the original Wild West.

And there is the matter of land. Davin maintains, and I too believe, that nothing matters more to the Irishman historically than the land. In Newfoundland, because there was no legal settlement at all, nobody else owned the land either, or much cared about it. In practical terms, many land-starved Irish could no doubt clear and farm their own little secret plots. In Ireland they were, at best, still tenants risking eviction if the crop failed―or extra rent if it was too abundant.

If this were not attraction enough, there were always the French nearby—the Catholic French. For much of this time, the French were established in Placentia and points west—as they remain today in St. Pierre and Miquelon, just offshore.

For the English, this was not a fortunate thing. They settled along the North Coast, from Conception Bay west. This kept them as far as possible from any French raids, which were frequent (Birkenhead, The Story of Newfoundland, London, 1920, p. 82).

For the Irish, the situation was somewhat more ambiguous. They happily settled from St. John’s south along the Avalon Peninsula. This put them in between the English and the French. At worst, they probably cared far less whether they lived under English rule or French. At best, the French colonies offered safe haven should the English authorities prove difficult.

As early as 1697, thirty Irishmen are known to have fled Conception and Trinity Bays to join the French at Placentia. At the time, this would have been a significant portion of the Newfoundland population. In 1710, two Irish defectors arrived in Placentia with news of English war preparations (Francis Parkman, A Half-Century of Conflict, Vol. 1, loc. 268).

The French take St. John's again: 1762

Repeatedly, during war, the French were able to take and hold St. John’s and the Avalon settlements with little trouble. They could almost count on it: even if everything else went wrong on the North American front, they would probably end the war in possession of Newfoundland. In 1694, in order to convince them to stand against a French attack, English Captain Holman was obliged to threaten the residents of Ferryland with seizing their catches and burning down their houses (Prowse, p. 213). When, in 1696, during King William’s War, d’Iberville attacked the “English” settlements in the Avalon Peninsula, Father Baudoin, d’Iberville's chaplain, reports that the Irish settlers and seamen as often as not joined the French in the assault. D’Iberville faced little resistance anywhere.

Accordingly, the English authorities had reason to view the Irish as “spyes, corupting & debauching his Majties Servants, and other his subjects to desert their Service and bring in a French power” (Capt. Michael Richards, Hearings at Fort William, 9-12 March 1702, Keough). “When the Enemy makes any Incursion upon us they [the Irish] doe take up armes and informe our Enemy and prove very treacherous and our greatest Enemy” (Remarks of Naval Officer Cummins in relation to Newfoundland, received at the Colonial Office via the House of Commons 25 February 1706, Keough). In 1738, Protestant English Newfoundlanders are said to “dred the consequense that may attend them in case of war” from the heavy Irish settlement (Van Brugh to Commissioners for Trade, 6 November 1738, Keough). In 1750, Governor Francis Drake writes that the Irish “are notoriously disaffected to the government, all of them refusing to take the oath of allegiance when tendered to them” (Drake, “Answers to the Queries Contained in His Majesty’s Instructions,” 22 November 1751, Keough). Governor Palliser in 1765 laments that the local Irish “always did and always will join an Invading Enemy.”

Obviously, the small Newfoundland Irish settlement had grievances against the home government.

Accordingly, one would surely have expected the colony of Newfoundland to have joined with the other English colonies in the American Revolution, would one not?

There was certainly fear, among the Protestants, that the Catholic Irish would rise. A number of the leading citizens of Renews wrote to the governor in 1778, “we are more in danger from some of them [Irish inhabitants], than from the Americans, as they are determined to plunder the Stores & turn Rebels” (Petition from the merchants and principal inhabitants of Renews to Montagu, 29 July 1778, quoted in Wileen Keough, The Slender Thread).

Yet nothing happened.

Nor, indeed, did it happen in Ireland, even though the Continental Congress also sent several letters to the Irish people, and invited Ireland, as well as Newfoundland and Quebec, to join the rebel colonies (Article XIII, Franklin’s proposed Articles for Confederation and Perpetual Union, 1775i). Instead of rising in arms, the Catholic Irish towns of Cork and Limerick even offered private rewards to those signing up to fight the American rebels.

What had happened?

The Plains of Abraham had happened. Sir Guy Carleton had happened. Although the French, as usual, held St. John’s and Newfoundland at the end of the Seven Years’ War, England found itself in possession of a large, new, solidly Catholic, colony in the New World.

So what did they do?

They made Catholicism legal. At least here, in this North American context.

Among other things, this proves one point. The English never hated the Irish because they were Catholic. They only hated Catholics because they were Irish.

This offered hope to the Catholic Irish of Newfoundland. To Catholics, the new United States offered nothing. Nothing but a closer Protestant government with a better reach.

There were, indeed, many Irish in America; but they were, at this time, almost exclusively Irish Protestants, the “Scots-Irish” of the US interior and South. The Catholic population of the thirteen rebel colonies was only about 1.6%. And most of the colonies had anti-Catholic laws just like the Penal Laws of England and Ireland.

But this republican rebelliousness was clearly not shared at first by their Catholic compatriots. After all, the last time the English got up to a revolution, they ended up with William of Orange and the Battle of the Boyne. The time before, they got Cromwell. The French Revolution, in turn, when it came, quickly turned murderously anti-Catholic in the Vendee. Royalism seemed historically to protect Catholics; revolution always seemed to favour Protestants. Joining another majority-Protestant power in rebellion did not seem in their interest.

And in Newfoundland, there were too few Protestant Irish to cause a real fight.

The British authorities seem to have noticed. Newfoundland, and Quebec, during the American Revolution, demonstrated that, in the context of the New World, Irish and Catholics might actually be usefully loyal. They were not going to side with the available enemy, so long as that enemy was Yankee or French Republican and not Catholic. So the anti-papist policies start to peter out in the 1770s and 1780s, in Newfoundland and in Ireland.

Bishop O'Donel

In 1782, in Ireland, although most restrictions on Catholics remained, Catholic priests and bishops were again allowed. In 1784, only two years later, Governor Campbell declared “freedom of conscience” in Newfoundland as well. The first Catholic chapel was built, and the first legal priest arrived, James Louis O’Donel (Prowse, p. 363). O’Donel was given by Rome the special authority, normally allowed only to bishops, to administer the sacrament of confirmation (ibid.). For centuries, no Newfoundlander had been able to share in this sacrament.

In 1796, O’Donel was formally and legally named bishop.

Partly, no question, this sudden loosening of restrictions on the Catholics was due to the fact that the English authorities did not really need any extra enemies at that moment.

By 1778, the British were at war with America, France, Spain, and Holland. They could no longer afford to be quite so high-handed with their remaining colonies, for they needed the colonies to take on their own defense.

In Ireland, Protestant settlers were allowed to arm and organize as the Irish Volunteers.

But the English may have trusted the wrong faction. The American Revolution did indeed quicken the hearts of many Irish Protestants. Lord Shelburne observed that in Ireland at this time, “in every Protestant or Dissenter’s house, the established toast is success to the Americans.” Edmund Burke, the great Irish parliamentarian, came early at Westminster to favour of the American rebels.

Although Protestant, these Irish volunteers saw themselves as Irish, not English; and, given the laws restricting Irish trade, their loyalty was not unquestionable. The English government, dependent upon 100,000 armed Irishmen in case of French invasion at such a difficult moment, had little choice but to offer concessions—in Ireland, and in Newfoundland.

Leaders of the United Irishmen

Despite these concessions, in 1798, there was a general insurrection in Ireland, led by a secret society called the United Irishmen. It was Protestant-led; but they advocated religious equality and Catholic emancipation, and so gained the attention now of Catholics as well. At the same time, according to the nervous estimate of Governor Walgrave, nine tenths of the population of Newfoundland was Irish (letter to the Duke of Portland, 1798).

Again Newfoundland did not rise. But when the rebellion in Ireland failed, many of its adherents were forced to flee: some to the United States, and some, if a few, to Newfoundland (Maguire, John, The Irish in America, loc. 356). The strongest element of the 1798 Irish rising, after all, was in Wexford, and almost all the Irish in Newfoundland were from the same area. The outports of Newfoundland would have been a good place to disappear.

These men were not yet prepared to give up the fight; either in Ireland or in Newfoundland. In Ireland, there was a later rebellion in 1803. In Newfoundland, beginning in February, 1800, rumours of disaffection spread through St. John’s. Forty to fifty members of the Royal Newfoundland Regiment, serving as the local garrison, secretly swore the oath to the United Irishmen, “to be true to the old cause, and to follow its leaders of whatever denomination.” The password was “Liberty or Death,” and the rebellion was to begin at 11 PM on the evening of Saturday, April 24. The time, according to an informant, was chosen because there was then a special service underway in the Anglican church. The officers would be present, and would not be carrying their weapons (Maguire, loc. 357). The conspirators, their own arms at the ready, were to meet behind the powder shed at Fort Townshend. This would give them immediate command of the garrison’s stores of ammunition, and, if they could quickly seize the fort, of the heights above the harbour. The plan was to descend on the church, kill all the officers who would not throw in with them, and then ...

Fort Townshend

What was to happen then is not clear. Perhaps Newfoundland would have been declared an independent republic, like America or France. Perhaps the fight would be taken to Ireland, as the Fenians later dreamed. More probably, the soldiers would have just righteously looted, then escaped to the rebel colonies to the south.

April 24 came. Eleven o’clock came. Nineteen soldiers showed up behind the powder shed. The rest were delayed by a function taking place at Fort William, which meant they could not slip away without being noticed. Nineteen did not seem like a terribly impressive number. Perhaps if they waited a little longer?

They could not know what had happened to their colleagues. Had they been found out?

Then worse happened. The alarm was heard on Signal Hill. Somehow, their plans had indeed been discovered. Deciding now the cause was lost, the nineteen Irish rebels scattered into the woods.

Over the next two weeks, the authorities managed to gather up sixteen. Two informed on the rest, five were hanged right there at the powder shed, and seven were sentenced to be shot later, at His Majesty’s convenience.

Three more Irish rebels are apparently still out there, waiting their chance. Including the arch-villain Murphy. Something might still happen at any time.

For the next few months, the English Newfoundland authorities were on tenterhooks. Having every reason to fear their own garrison, they quickly swapped troops with Halifax. Even so, they could not tell how far the conspiracy went, or whether its main blow had yet fallen. It was not auspicious that the two claimed ringleaders had not been caught. This suggested that they had some help and support in the community. Up to 400 local citizens were suspected of complicity, as well as residents of the Irish outports down the Avalon coast “almost to a man.”

The suspense grew worse as winter came. After the shipping season, sealed off by iced-in harbours, with no hope of aid from the homeland or the fleet, the authorities would be utterly vulnerable. Even a small insurrection could probably finish them all.

But spring came. The ice receded. The sun shone, and the fishing fleet returned.

The Irish dog had not barked.

The Newfoundland English believed they knew where credit lay for their salvation: with the new Catholic bishop, James O’Donel. The Newfoundland historian Prowse calls him the “saviour of their lives” (p. 364). Some even say he was the very one who informed on the St. John’s mutineers; others claim it was a mysterious scarlet woman in Ferryland.

There is no question that O’Donel opposed the uprising, and did whatever he could to keep the peace over the fall and winter. He wrote to his priests that they “should use every means to turn aside their flocks from the vortex of modern anarchy...[and] oppose with all the means in their power all plotters, conspirators, and favorers of the infidel French, … for the aim of this conspiracy is to dissolve all bonds, all laws, by which society is held together...” (Diocesan Statutes of 1801). That seems clear enough.

Diehard Irish rebels will no doubt fault O’Donel, and the Church hierarchy in Ireland, with here betraying the cause, and the interests of their flock. But the bottom line is this: O’Donel was ethically bound by the Catholic doctrine of the just war. War is an intrinsic evil. To be just, it must be meant to prevent some greater evil, and it must bear some reasonable chance of success.

This was certainly not the case in St. John’s in 1800. Granted that the local Irish could have overwhelmed the English magistrates. What then? The population of the island was 17,000 to 20,000. The next spring, England need only have sent a few men of war, and it would have been all over, with awful loss of life and probably of freedom.

And were the motives of the rebels pure? By this time, the French Republic, the model and ally of the United Irishmen, had turned on the Catholic Church. Churches throughout France had been seized, shut, or converted into “Temples of Reason.” Priests had been exiled or executed. Rome itself had been invaded, and the Pope held captive by revolutionary armies.

Crediting O’Donel and his priests for the failure of the uprising may be giving too little credit to the Newfoundland Irish themselves. It seems likely that the opinions of the Irish clergy and the opinions of the Irish laymen moved in sync. Indeed, Maguire, writing in the 1860’s, observes that “in no part of the world is there a more complete union of clergy and people than exists between the Catholic people and clergy of Newfoundland” (loc. 360). In the intimacy of the outports, under shared experiences good and bad, there would be little room for strongly different class consciousnesses to emerge.

The Irish in Newfoundland may not have had much. But they may have felt they had more than the folks at home, and that the future looked promising if things went as they were going. The Catholics had been allowed their priests and their sacraments, and even a bishop. Carleton had permitted full religious liberty in nearby Quebec; by this time they had a legislative assembly in which Catholic Irishmen could vote and hold office. Did that boat look worth rocking?

There is much wisdom in Hans Christian Andersen’s story of The Princess and the Pea. By comparison with the Newfoundland Irish, the American colonists who revolted, many of them slaveholders, and the Irish Protestants who led the United Irishmen, many of them large landholders, were historically pretty well off, even privileged. But a sense of grievance emerges not when one is badly treated, but when one is given treatment worse than one has come to expect. When the only life you know is terrible enough, you are terribly easily pleased.

And the lack of a rebellion in the winter of 1800-01 seems in turn to have further convinced the Newfoundland and the British authorities that they might be able to trust the Irish “papists” after all.

Pitt and Wellington strangling the English constitution in giving rights to Catholics.

In the meantime, restrictions against it lifted, the Irish presence in Newfoundland continued to grow. In 1803, new regulations were passed by the British parliament requiring better conditions for passengers on board English ships bound for the New World. This was meant to make matters better for emigrants, who until then were often shipped over like cattle. But this also made the transatlantic crossing too expensive for the Irish poor.

A loophole left ships bound for Newfoundland exempt. As a result, passage to Newfoundland was both significantly more awful, and significantly cheaper, than the alternatives. Poor Irish therefore poured into Newfoundland. In the first three decades of the nineteenth century, 30,000 to 35,000 new settlers arrived.

Like cattle, of course. Accounts are of ships arriving at St. John’s with many passengers dead. Some were expected to somehow provide their own food and water for the passage. Some had bread and water, tightly rationed. Swinging cats was often not feasible (Keogh, The Slender Thread).

In 1813, landholding in Newfoundland became legal, a further incentive to come from away. At the same time, the Napoleonic Wars and the War of 1812 boosted the Newfoundland fishery, as competitors for the English market were cut off by blockade. Meanwhile, the American colonies were closed by war to Irish settlement, diverting yet more of it to Newfoundland.

Dr, Cluny Macpherson of the Royal Newfoundland Regiment in Egypt, 1915.

In 1806, the Benevolent Irish Society was founded in St. John’s—the first philanthropic organization anywhere in North America. The full significance of this may not be immediately obvious. Recall the recent history, at that time, of Irish voluntary associations: the United Irishmen had been formed in Belfast in 1791, barely 15 years earlier. This was a secret non-denominational society pledged to end English influence over Ireland. In reaction, the Orange Order was also formed, in 1795. This was a secret society pledged to preserve the British connection and “Protestant ascendancy”: a clear dissent from the United Irishmen. The Benevolent Irish Society can be seen as a Canadian Irish response. Like the United Irishmen, it admitted all religions. But it pledged its members to “behave as good and Loyal subjects, zealously to exert themselves in support of the Laws of our Country.” Its members were sworn to attend church regularly, but “to avoid all controversy on Religious or Political subjects.” It was public, not secret, and had “no further object in view but to succor the distressed and promote Benevolence and good will to all Men.” (“Rules and Constitution of The Benevolent Irish Society,” 1806).

Unofficial but traditional Newfoundland flag: green for Irish, pink for English, white for peace.

This has become the Canadian Irish way, and the Canadian way. The Dudley Do-Right thing; the be nice and polite and always follow the rules thing; the one Canadian characteristic that foreigners find most astounding. The constitution of the society reads almost like a Mini Carta of subsequent Canadian politics.

Besides all the good work the Society accomplished directly, it gave the Irish a civil society and a forum to develop the skills of cooperation, negotiation, debate, and parliamentary procedure they needed for later electoral participation. It gave them a political voice and the ability to organize for their interests. And, probably most importantly, it created a model of Irish unity and a place for the Irish to congregate socially apart from the many sectarian organizations: the United Irishmen for the revolutionaries, the Orange Lodge for Protestants, the “Yellowbellies” from Wexford, the “Wheybellies” from Waterford, the “Clear-Airs” from Tipperary, the “Doones” from Kilkenny, and the “Dadyeens” from Cork—all active in Newfoundland. All of which had an unfortunate habit of meeting at any public gathering and trying to club one another into submission.

The Benevolent Irish Society was happily later imitated elsewhere in Irish Canada, notably in Halifax and in London, Ontario. Relations between the different strains of Irishmen in Canada have not always been tranquil, but one would like to think that this Benevolent Irish Society created a new Irish-Canadian model, and indeed a new Canadian model, of peace, order, and good government.

Non-Canadians may now wish to puke.

Also in 1806, Newfoundland had its first newspaper, the Royal Gazette; started, inevitably, as it seems almost all Canadian newspapers have been started, by an Irishman, John Ryan. At first, despite the publisher having recently voted with his feet as a United Empire Loyalist, it was under great suspicion as a possible Irish plot, and each issue had to be submitted to the government before being published. But it was a stride forward.

Our story must now move on. Too much by now was happening elsewhere. But before we leave the banks of Newfoundland, a postscript. According to the English governor, the population of Newfoundland was, in 1798, nine-tenths Irish. He may have been exaggerating; nobody had an accurate count. On top of that, the greatest Irish immigration came after that time, from 1803 to 1820.

And since then, there has been little immigration to Newfoundland from anywhere.

One would therefore naturally assume, would one not, that the overwhelming majority of Newfoundlanders today would be Irish? The Newfoundland accent is Irish; the Newfoundland music is Irish. Newfoundland is “the most Irish place outside Ireland.”

One would be wrong.

The latest Canadian census shows the ethnically Irish population of Newfoundland to be only 20%. For comparison, 40% identify themselves as “English.”

Where did all those Irish go? Fort MacMurray?

The answer is probably mostly found in another demographic category on the same census. The ethnicity of 53% of Newfoundlanders is “Canadian.”

On this census, ethnicity is self-reported.

In other words, the great majority of the Irish in Newfoundland have embraced “Canadian” as their ethnic identity. In contrast, virtually all those who were originally English see themselves still and forever as English. Along, quite probably, with a few of the Irish.

This illustrates the essential point about the Irish in Canada. They are the great Canadian secret. Scratch a Canadian, and he bleeds green.


i “Any other and every Colony from Great Britain upon the Continent of North America and not at present engag'd in our Association shall may upon Application and joining the said Association be receiv'd into this Confederation, viz. [Ireland] the West India Islands, Quebec, St. Johns, Nova Scotia, Bermudas, and the East and West Floridas; and shall thereupon be entitled to all the Advantages of our Union, mutual Assistance and Commerce.”

Our Lady of the Fjords

On June 24, 1905, this iceberg appeared in St. John's harbour, Newfoundland.

That, of course, was St. Jean Baptiste Day. St. Jean Baptiste is patron saint of French Canada. He is also patron saint of St. John's, which is named for him. And the reason it is named for him, in turn, is that Newfoundland was discovered by John Cabot on June 24.

Strange set of coincidences, no?

This Canadian photograph is the first photograph ever taken of an apparition of the Blessed Virgin.

Thanks and a tip of the Hatlo hat to ChurchPop.

The Last of the Beothuks

Shawandithit

“All gone widdun (asleep). Nance go widdun too, no more come Nance, run away, no more come.” - Shawandithit, “Nancy April,” last known Beothuk

You may think you know a little about the Beothuks, the aboriginal inhabitants of Newfoundland. There is a lot said and written about them. And you may be right. More likely, you are wrong.

For we know almost nothing about the Beothuks. Much of what is recorded is contradictory. It is mostly oral, at second or third hand, often originally from trappers and fisherfolk. Sailors' tales and urban legends. You know what they say about sailors' tales.

The perfect blank canvas on which to project the familiar noble savage, and a terrible genocide as a parable for the evils of civilization.

And so we must feature the Beothuks here. This, along with the smallpox blankets, is the other familiar genocide claim; the proof that the aboriginals were unjustly treated. The English settlers, we are told, hunted them for sport, to the point of extermination. When challenged, in the pages of the National Post, with the claim that there was no genocide against Indians in Canada, Stephen Maher writes, “Not genocide? Ask the Beothuks.” The Europeans “drove [the Beothuks] away from the coast, into the forest and barrens, where the ones who did not starve to death were hunted like animals” (Maher, National Post, June 11, 2015).

But in fact, the British and the Newfoundland government were not sure they existed.

When, in the first decade of the seventeenth century, a company formed in London with the far-fetched idea of planting a colony in Newfoundland, the charter noted "we being well assured that the same country adjoining to the aforesaid coastes, where our subjects use to fishe, remaineth so destitute and so desolate of inhabitants, that scarce any one salvage [savage] person hath in many years beene scene in the most parts thereof” (James Howley, The Beothuks or Red Indians: The Aboriginal Inhabitants of Newfoundland, Cambridge: 1915, p. 14. Howley took the trouble to collect in his one volume all written references to the Beothuks from the time of their actual existence, and living memory of it). In 1640, when an English expedition to Newfoundland loaded up with manufactures in hopes of trading with the Indians, they faced the public objection, “if there be a trade there must be somebody supposed with whom to trade, and there be noe natives, upon the island” (Sir David Kirke, quoted by Howley, p. 23).

As late as 1793, the matter was still in some dispute: “It has been doubted whether there are any Newfoundland Indians or not” (Commission of Enquiry into the Trade with Newfoundland, 1793, Howley, p. 54). After all, even if Indians have been very occasionally spotted, said Indians, being nomadic peoples, might just as well have come from the mainland, and be only visiting there. 

 In 1811, Lieutenant Buchan, following an expedition to Red Indian Lake in the mysterious interior, is able at last to assert, “it appears then that they are permanent inhabitants, and not occasional visitors” (Howley, p. 85). 

 Within twenty years, he was proven wrong. As of 1830, there were indeed no native Indians in Newfoundland. 

At least, there have been no confirmed sightings since.

Problem: how could the English have developed genocidal designs against the Beothuk, given that they were not sure they existed? You want to go out and exterminate unicorns? And, if the Beothuk population was so scant, why any drive, as is commonly claimed with the smallpox blankets, to be rid of them in order to take their land? 

Especially since the government policy for many years was to prohibit settlement in Newfoundland, and to refuse to recognize land ownership by Europeans. They feared it would interfere with the fishing fleet. As early as 1633, and in repeated statutes after that, European settlement in Newfoundland was prohibited by the British government. Ships were not to transport intended settlers, or leave any crew behind. Squatters already there were forbidden to cut trees or build structures within six miles of the coast. Land ownership was not recognized until the early nineteenth century (Government of Canada, Newfoundland: An Introduction to Canada's Newest Province, Ottawa, 1950, pp. 15-41; D. W. Prowse, A History of Newfoundland, London, 1895, p. 143). 

And so, despite what you read in the papers, there was no genocide against the Beothuks. 

You need not take my word for it. This is not controversial among historians. It is the consensus. Pick up Totten and Bartrop's Dictionary of Genocide. Turn to the entry for the Beothuks. “[T]he critical component of intent is absent. The British government did not pursue a policy aimed at the destruction of the Beothuk. … Modern day claims that the Beothuks were 'murdered for fun,' by the English settlers, who hunted them for 'sport' do the historical record less than justice and sow an unfortunate confusion in the mind of an unsuspecting public. Extinction came to the Beothuks of Newfoundland, but it did not come through genocide” (Totten and Bartrop, Dictionary of Genocide, Westport, CT, 2008, p. 39). Or take Miller's recent treatment of the history of Indians in Canada, Skyscrapers Hide the Heavens: “Older notions that the Europeans somehow 'used' the Mi'kmaq against the Beothuk are invalid, as is the controversial charge that Europeans hunted Beothuk for 'sport'…. [T]hey were not systematically hunted down, nor were they the objects of a campaign of genocide… Accusations of genocide in Newfoundland … diminish Europeans' humanity by accusing them of actions they did not perform” (Skyscrapers Hide the Heavens, J. R. Miller, U of T Press, 1989). 

So there. 

Granted, in a few outports on the northeast coast of Newfoundland, Beothuk Indians seem to have come into conflict with fishermen. Sir Joseph Banks writes, in 1766, "Our people, who fish in these parts, live in a continual state of warfare with them, firing at them whenever they meet with them, and if they chance to find their houses or wigwams as they call them, plundering them immediately, …” 

This, however, he does not understand as hunting anybody down. This was war. And there were two sides in the war. He goes on to say, "They in return, look upon us in exactly the same light as we do them, killing our people whenever they get the advantage of them, and stealing or destroying their nets, wherever they find them” (Howley, p. 28, from Journal of Sir Joseph Banks, 1766). 

Has Banks not, at least, proven the existence of the Beothuks? Not quite; he is only reporting second hand, and so offering oral traditions. He adds, "So much for the Indians: if half of what I have written about them is true, it is more than I expect, ..." (Howley, p. 28).

John Cartwright

In 1768, Governor Palliser commissioned Lieutenant John Cartwright to head into the unknown interior, to see if he could indeed find any local Indians, and if so to establish friendly relations. Cartwright too speaks of local conflict with the Beothuk, and unequivocally blames the English fisherpeople. 

“On the part of the English fishers, it is an inhumanity which sinks them far below the level of savages. The wantonness of their cruelties towards the poor wretches, has frequently been almost incredible. One well-known fact shall serve as a specimen. A small family of Indians being surprised in their wigwam, by a party of fishermen, they all tried to avoid if possible, the instant death that threatened them from the fire-arms of their enemies; when one woman, being unable to make her escape, yielded herself into their power. Seeing before her none but men, she might naturally have expected that her sex alone would have disarmed their cruelty; but to awaken in them still stronger motives to compassion, she pointed with an air of most moving entreaty to her prominent belly. Could all nature have produced another pleader of such eloquence as the infant there concealed? But this appeal, Oh, shame to humanity! was alas! in vain; for an instant stab, that ripped open her womb, laid her at the feet of those cowardly ruffians, where she expired in great agonies. Their brutal fury died not with its unhappy victim; for with impious hands they mutilated the dead body, so as to become a spectacle of the greatest horror. And that no aggravation of their crime might be wanting, they made, at their return home, their boasts of this exploit. Charity might even have prevailed in their favour, against their own report, and have construed their relation into an idle pretence only of wickedness, which, however, they were incapable of having in reality committed, had they not produced the hands of the murdered woman, which they displayed on the occasion as a trophy” (Cartwright, in Howley, p. 34). 

And again from Cartwright: 

“Some fishermen, as they doubled in their boat, a point of land, discovering a single defenceless woman with an infant on her shoulders, one of them instantly discharged at her a heavy load of swan shot, and lodged it in her loins. Unable now to sustain her burthen, she unwillingly put it down, and with difficulty crawled into the woods, holding her hand upon the mortal wound she had received, and without once taking off her eyes from the helpless object she had left behind her. In this dreadful situation she beheld her child ravished from her by her murderers, who carried it to their boat. ... but what feeling, what mode of disgust has nature implanted in the human heart, to express its abhorrence of the wretch who can be so hardened to vice as to conceive that he is entitled to a reward for the commission of such bloody deeds! One of the very villains concerned in this capture of the child, supposing it a circumstance that would be acceptable to the Governor, actually came to the writer of these remarks at Toulinguet, to ask a gratuity for the share he had borne in the transaction” (Cartwright, Howley, p. 34-5). 

Cartwright continues:

“[S]urprises in their wigwams have generally proved fatal to them, and upon sudden accidental meetings it has been the usual practice of the fishermen to destroy them unprovoked, while the terrified Indians have attempted nothing but to make their escape, of which the two cases I have mentioned are shocking instances. The fishermen generally even take a brutal pleasure in boasting of these barbarities. He that has shot one Indian values himself more upon the fact than had he overcome a bear or wolf and fails not to speak of it with a brutal triumph, especially in the mad hours of drunkenness” (Cartwright, Howley, p. 36). 

One can certainly see, from this, where the story of genocide came from. It may, indeed, have come completely from this government report, and the testimony of Cartwright. 

There remains, however, the possibility that Cartwright is not a reliable narrator. He may not be entirely fair to the fisherfolk, in putting all the blame on them. He writes, after all, in the first heady days of the Romantic period, when to be young, as Wordsworth put it, was very heaven. Never were savages nobler. Living in the innocence of nature, they could not themselves have been responsible for any sort of sinful act. Had they been, the fall would have ensued, and they would already be Europeans. They were necessarily as guiltless as the jaybirds or the bunny rabbits. 

If he is so influenced, Cartwright my simply be assuming a priori that the Beothuks cannot have been guilty of any comparable fault. But in the end he assumes this because he assumes they are less than human. 

Moreover, there is a certain odour of classism in Cartwright's condemnation of the very poor, poorly educated, lower-class fisherfolk. In telling the tale of the taking of the Beothuk child, Cartwright seems most upset at the fact that the orphaned child was put on display before the common riffraff. And for money! And so little money! 

“The woman was shot in August 1768, and to complete the mockery of human misery, her child was the winter following, exposed as a curiosity to the rabble at Pool for two pence apiece'” (Howley, p. 35; John Cartwright, “Remarks on the Situation of the Red Indians”). 

This sort of hoi polloi might even vote for Trump. 

Who started the fight? That, unfortunately, is lost in the Newfoundland fog. All of this happened where there was no law, and well beyond the reach of official records. 

“I was informed by Henry Rousell, residing in Hall's Bay,” says Thomas Peyton, a prominent figure on the northeast coast, “that the first five men who attempted to make a settlement in that Bay were all killed by the Indians. A crew came up from Twillingate shortly afterwards and found their bodies with the heads cut off and stuck on poles” (Howley, p. 282). 

So according to the fishermen, it began with the Beothuks. 

Much earlier, there also seems to have been conflict between the Beothuks and the French. “On October l0th, 1610, the Procureur of St. Malo made complaint that in the preceding year many masters and sailors of vessels fishing in Newfoundland, had been killed by the savages, and presented a request to Court that the inhabitants of St. Malo be allowed to arm two vessels to make war upon the savages, so that they might be able to fish in safety. Permission was obtained, and St. Malo fishermen fitted out every year, one or more vessels for this purpose. … The custom was continued at least until 1635” (Howley, p. 22). 

“In the harbor of Les Oyes(?), (St Julien)” reports Sir David Kirke, writing in or around 1638, “about eighty Indians assaulted a companie of French whilst they were pylinge up their fishinge, and slew seven of them; proceedinge a little further, killed nine more in the same manner, and clothinge sixteen of their company in the apparell of the slayne French, they went on the next day to the harbor of Petty Masters (Croc Harbor), and not being suspected by the French that were there, by reason of their habit, they surprised them at their work and killed twenty-one more. Soe, in two dayes having barbarously maymed thirty-seven, they returned home, as is their manner, in great triumph, with the heads of the slayne Frenchmen” (Kirke's Conquest of Canada, Howley, p. 23). 

Captain Wheeler, Commander of an English convoy, in 1684, attests, "The French ... are at utter variance with the Indians, who are numerous, and so the French never reside in winter, and always have their arms by them" (Howley, p. 24). 

Note that, given the general uncertainty, we cannot be sure these conflicts were with the Beothuks, as opposed to the Eskimo, Innu, or Micmac, any of whom might also have been passing through Newfoundland. But if there was early conflict between the Beothuk and the French, that is remarkable. The French had a talent for getting along well with Indians. And the French got along especially well, specifically, with the Innu and the Micmac. 

The fisherfolk, as Cartwright is apparently unaware or does not see fit to report, also had their tales of Beothuk atrocities. 

“An old man named George Wells, of Exploits Burnt Island, gave me the following information in 1886. ... His great uncle on his mother's side, Rousell of New Bay, ... was killed by them while taking salmon out of his pound (weir) in New Bay River. The Indians hid in the bushes and shot him with arrows, wounding him very severely. He ran back towards his salmon house where he had a gun tailed, but he fell dead before reaching it” (Howley, p. 270). 

“They frequently lay in ambush for the fishermen and even used decoys, such as sea birds attached to long lines. When the fishermen approached and gave chase to the birds, in their boats the Indians would gradually draw their decoys towards the shore, in order to get the boats within reach of their arrows. They sometimes used 'dumb arrows' all of wood, without any iron point, which by reason of their lightness fell short when fired off, thus leading the fishermen to believe they could approach nearer without running any risk, but when they did so they were met with a shower of well pointed and heavier arrows” (Howley, p. 270). 

Inspector Grimes of the Newfoundland Constabulary, a native of Notre Dame Bay, testified “how a party of fishermen were attacked in their boat by the Indians and all killed except one man who managed to effect his escape with an arrow sticking in his neck behind the ear. In this plight he reached his home with the boat” (Howley, p. 273).

Shawandithit's drawings of 'Beothuk life. 

From the Beothuk perspective, no doubt, even if they fired first, it was entirely within their natural rights to attack anyone trespassing on their lands. The Europeans were the trespassers. You can see their point. 

But you can also see the point of view of a poor fisherman living alone on the northeast shore, unacknowledged by the government, far from the protections of civilization. The Beothuk were taking any of his belongings left unattended; they were trying to kill him, his wife, and his children. He had three choices: get out the best he could, probably having nowhere else to go; lay down and die; or defend himself. Since the Indians were rarely seen, hardly seemed in full occupancy, and he was living off the sea, not their land, he also might not have seen their point about trespass. 

As for the government, Cartwright's allegations of conflict between fishermen and Indians on the northeast coast seem to have been news to them. A committee of enquiry was struck, and took testimony from, among others, Vice Admiral Edwards, governor from 1757 to 1759, and again 1789-90. "He knew one instance, in 1758, of a murder committed by some Irish hunters on the north part of the island; they fired into a wigwam, killed a woman with a child and brought away a girl of nine years old. Complaint was made to him by the Justices, and pains taken to catch the culprits, but without effect. The girl was brought home to England." If the miscreants had been caught, Edwards added, “he would have tried them at the Court of Oyer and Terminer.” But, at the same time, “Mr Cartwright never made any complaints to him of the cruel treatment of the Indians by the inhabitants, and he knows of no other instance of it" (Howley, p. 54). 

Being now apprised of the situation, however, the majestic cogs and little flywheels of government began to turn, and entirely on the side of the still semi-mythical Beothuks. Within the year after Cartwright's report, John Byron, the incumbernt governor, issued a proclamation: 

“WHEREAS it has been represented to the King, that the subjects residing in the said Island of Newfoundland, instead of cultivating such a friendly intercourse with the savages inhabiting that island as might be for their mutual benefit and advantage, do treat the said savages with the greatest inhumanity, and frequently destroy them without the least provocation or remorse. In order, therefore, to put a stop to such inhuman barbarity, and that the perpetrators of such atrocious crimes may be brought to due punishment, it is His Majesty's royal will and pleasure, that I do express his abhorrence of such inhuman barbarity, and I do strictly enjoin and require all His Majesty's subjects to live in amity and brotherly kindness with the native savages of the said island of Newfoundland. I do also require and command all officers and magistrates to use their utmost diligence to discover and apprehend all persons who may be guilty of murdering any of the said native Indians, in order that such offenders may be sent over to England, to be tried for such capital crimes as by the statute of 10 and 11 William III for encouraging the trade to Newfoundland is directed. 

Given under my hand, 

J. BYRON.” (Howley, p. 45) 

Note that, by this proclamation, the killing of an Indian was not just to be prosecuted as murder; it was actually a more serious crime. Unlike a mere murder, it was to be tried in England. As a practical matter, this was probably to ensure that local jurors could not club together in support of one of their own. But also as a practical matter, it made anyone charged with the murder of an aboriginal, innocent or guilty, liable for the costs of their passage to England. A significant burden for a poor fisherman in a Newfoundland outport. 

Just to make sure the message got through, the proclamation was re-issued by Commodore Robert Duff, Governor in 1775, and again by Governor Montague, in 1776 (Howley, p. 45). It was toughened by later governors. In 1807, for example, Governor Holloway issued this proclamation. 

“It having been represented to me that various acts of violence and inhuman cruelties, have been, at different times, committed by some of the people employed as Furriers [i.e., trappers], or otherwise, upon the Indians, the original Inhabitants of this Island, residing in the interior parts thereof, contrary to every principle of religion and humanity, and in direct violation of His Majesty's mild and beneficial Instructions to me respecting this poor defenceless tribe, I hereby issue this my Proclamation, warning all persons whatsoever, from being guilty of acts of cruelty, violence, outrage and robbery against them, and if any Person or Persons shall be found after this Proclamation, to act in violation of it, they will be punished to the utmost rigor of the law, the same as if it had been committed against myself, or any other of His Majesty's Subjects. And all those who may have any intercourse or trade with the said Indians, are hereby earnestly entreated to conduct themselves with peaceableness and mildness towards them, and use their utmost endeavours to live in kindness and friendship with them that they may be conciliated and induced to come among us as Brethren, when the public, as well as themselves, will be benefited by their being brought to a state of civilization, social order, and to a blessed knowledge of the Christian Religion. And I hereby offer a Reward of Fifty Pounds to such person or persons as shall be able to induce or persuade any of the male Tribe of Native Indians to attend them to the Town of St. John's, as also all expenses attending their journey or passage. The same Reward shall be paid to any person who shall give information of any murder committed upon the bodies of the aforesaid Indians and being proved upon the oath of one or more credible witnesses. I therefore call upon all Magistrates and other Officers of Justice, to promote to the utmost of their power, the intention of this Proclamation, by apprehending and bringing to justice all persons offending against the same. 

Given under my hand at Fort Townshend, St. John's, Newfoundland, the 30th July, 1807, 

J. HOLLOWAY. (Howley, p. 64-5). 

In 1813, Governor Keats's proclamation ended with these words: “[I]f any of His Majesty's subjects, contrary to the expression of these, His Royal Highness's commands, shall so far forget themselves, and be so lost to the sacred duties of Religion and Hospitality, as to exercise any cruelty, or be guilty of any ill-treatment towards this inoffensive people, they may expect to be punished with the utmost rigour of the Law” (Howley, p. 91). 

So there you are. Not a lot of ambiguity. With regard to the charge of officially sanctioned genocide, a very cold, non-smoking, gun. 

If anything, the government took the side of the Indians. Perhaps those of us of European descent should demand reparations. 

One hopes that there was some official intention, even if unspoken, to also prosecute and punish Beothuks who murdered fishermen. 

The conflict simply demonstrates that the natural state of man is, in Hobbes's phrase, a “war of all against all.” People of the palest possible skin, forced by the absence of government into such a situation, must act just as Indians did. 

George Cartwright, John Cartwright's brother, was asked by the commission of enquiry, “Had the Magistrates used any exertions to prevent those outrages?” Cartwright replied, "There are no Magistrates within that district, that he knew of,...." “And being asked, whether the Magistrates resident within any of the other districts were capable of preventing these horrors if they exerted themselves for that purpose, he said, 'He does not believe they could, because they reside at too great a distance'" (interview of George Cartwright. Commission of Enquiry into the Trade with Newfoundland, 1793, Howley, p. 51). It was all a consequence of having no government. 

“[S]uch has been the policy respecting this island,” John Reeves, Newfoundland's Chief Justice, agreed, “that the residents for many years had little benefit of a regular government for themselves, and when they were so neglected, it is not to be wondered that the condition of the poor Indians was never mended” (Commission of Enquiry into Trade with Newfoundland. Testimony of John Reeves, Chief Justice, Howley, p. 54-5). 

So, given that it was not genocide, what killed the Beothuks? 

In the first instance, what we have here is a failure to communicate. 

As noted, Europeans settlers had no cause to kill Indians. Just the reverse—Indians were valuable suppliers, advisors, labourers, and customers. 

This was the attitude of the English authorities from the beginning. They wanted a fur trade. When, early in the 1600s, the “Council and Company of the New-Found-Land Plantation” formed for the purpose of colonization, among the articles of incorporation was that the company's ships were to carry, duty-free, “...all other things necessary and for the use and desoine and trade with the people there, if any be inhabiting in that country or shall come out of other parts, there, to trade with the 'Plantation,' ..." (Howley, p. 14). It was almost their first thought. 

The problem is, to make this work, you need to establish communication, and make them understand that you want to trade. In many places, this was spontaneous. The Indians spontaneously offered to trade with Columbus almost as soon as he appeared anywhere. So too Cartier. But what do you do, with a new tribe, if they do not initiate the offer? For one thing, nobody speaks anybody else's language. In the case of the Beothuks, being an island people, rarely seen and obviously shy, to say the least, of any outsiders, this was a conundrum. There were also no other nearby tribes in friendly relation who could pass the hint, act as interpreters, or give them any information. 

Once Lieutenant Cartwright's expedition, in 1768, had confirmed that there probably were local Indians, the authorities tried to somehow establish contact. Aside from the material benefits to both Indians and themselves, this would bring the Beothuk, and the fishermen, within the protection of law. 

One strategy, tried on many occasions, was to leave “gifts” in any abandoned Indian dwelling, or at places the Indians were thought to frequent. 

This may have been counterproductive. It did not result, usually, in any trade, and never established a trading tradition. But it might have reinforced an idea, among the Indians, that they could take from the Europeans whatever they wanted. Perhaps it was all a gift. This idea might well have been already fostered by the European ban of settlement on the island. Without permanent residents, fishing parties were obliged to leave their shore stations, needed for the drying of the catch, untended each winter. Anything left there was available to any nearby Beothuks just for the taking. Able therefore to get Europeans goods without cost, there was that much less incentive among the Beothuks for any trade

Demasdiut

. 

The next idea was probably worse. Tried several times, it was to kidnap an Indian, treat them well, and then release them back to their tribe, to report on what a decent bunch of fellows the English were. When Sir John Guy set out in 1610 to found a colony for the Newfoundland Company, among his instructions were "And we would have you to assay by all good means to capture one of the savages of the country and to intreate him well, and to keep him and teach him our language, that you may after obtayne a safe and free commerce with them, which are strong there" (Prowse, p. 96). 

This involved one obvious difficulty: kidnapping is not naturally seen as a friendly act. When tried, it almost always led to killing at least one Indian—all in necessary “self-defense” while spiriting another off. Worse, kidnapped Indians had a nasty habit of dying of consumption in custody, making all the nice treatment, gifts and attention a bit of a waste. And probably leaving the distinct impression among surviving relatives at home that they had been murdered.

The kidnapping of Demasduit, as recalled by Shawandithit

Even Beothuk captives who did survive were apparently afraid to return to their people. “Shawnawdithit,” according to a resolution of the Beothuk Institute, formed for the protection and assistance of the Beothuk race, “the surviving female of those who were captured four years ago, by some fishermen, will not now return to her tribe, for fear they should put her to death” (information from Mr. Cormack. Howley, p. 184). “She feared to return to her tribe, believing that the mere fact of her residing amongst the whites for a time, would make her an object of hatred to the Red men” (Howley, p. 221). Demasduit, an earlier captive, when brought back inland, did not seem eager. First she would not get out of the boat, then declared “that she only wanted her child and that she would return with us” (Buchan's Report of Second Expedition, Howley, p. 121). Perhaps life among the Europeans was just too wonderful. Or perhaps she was worried about her fate should she return. 

In 1808, Governor Holloway hit upon a novel idea: make a painting, showing Indians trading happily with Europeans, and have it conveyed to the Beothuk, to plant the appropriate idea in their minds. A picture, after all, is worth a thousand words in a language they cannot understand. 

A painting was therefore commissioned in England. A Lieutenant Spratt was sent to the Bay of Exploits “in order to attempt a communication with the native savages of the Island.” With him, he carried the oil painting “which represented an officer of the Royal Navy in full dress shaking hands with an Indian chief, and pointing to a party of seamen behind him who were laying some bales of goods at the feet of the chief. Behind the latter were some male and female Indians presenting furs to the officers. Further to the left were seen an European and an Indian mother looking with delight at their respective children of the same size, who were embracing one another. In the opposite corner a British tar was courting, in his way, an Indian beauty” (Howley, p. 68).

Artist's reproduction (not the original) of Governor Holloway's trade painting.

Unfortunately, no Indians were found. Not so easy to trek an oil painting overland. 

The painting reportedly now hangs at Government House in St. John's. 

In 1810, burdened with gifts, Lieutenant David Buchan was sent by the governor to again attempt contact. He surprised a Beothuk camp, and seemed to make them understand his honourable intentions. At last, the desired commerce seemed at hand. 

“[F]rom the utmost state of alarm they soon became curious, and examined our dress with great attention and surprise. They kindled a fire and presented us with venison steaks, and fat run into a solid cake, which they used with lean meat. Everything promised the utmost cordiality; knives, handkerchiefs, and other little articles were presented to them, and in return they offered us skins. I had to regret our utter ignorance of their language, and the presents at a distance of at least twelve miles occasioned me much embarrassment; I used every endeavour to make them understand my great desire that some of them should accompany us, to the place where our baggage was, and assist bringing up such things as we wore, which at last they seemed perfectly to comprehend. Three hours and a half having been employed in conciliatory endeavours, and every appearance of the greatest amity subsisting between us; and considering a longer tarry useless, without the means of convincing them farther of our friendship, giving them to understand that we were going, and indicating our intention to return, four of them signified that they would accompany us. James Butler, corporal, and Thomas Bouthland, private of marines, observing this, requested to be left behind in order to repair their snow shoes; and such was the confidence placed by my people in the natives that most of the party wished to be the individuals to remain among them. I was induced to comply with the first request from a motive of showing the natives a mutual confidence, and cautioning them to observe the utmost regularity of conduct, at 10 a.m., having myself again shook hands with all the natives, and expressed, in the best way I could, my intentions to be with them in the morning, we set out. They expressed satisfaction by signs on seeing that two of us were going to remain with them, and we left them accompanied by four of them. ... Being under the necessity of going single, in turning a point one of the Indians having loitered behind, took the opportunity, and set off with great speed calling out to his comrade to follow. ... This incident was truly unfortunate, as we were nearly in sight of our fire place. ... He had however, evidently some suspicions, as he had frequently come and looked eagerly in my face, as if to read my intentions. ... In order to try the disposition of the remaining Indian he was made to understand that he was at liberty to go if he chose, but he showed no wish of this kind. At 3 p.m. we joined the rest of our party, when the Indian started at seeing so many more men; but this was of momentary duration, for he soon became pleased with all he saw; I made him a few presents and showed the articles which were to be taken up for his countrymen consisting of blankets, woollen wrappers, and shirts, beads, hatchets, knives and tin pots, thread, needles and fish hooks, with which he appeared much satisfied, and regaled himself with tea and broiled venison, …” 

The daily journal goes on: 

“Friday the 25th of Jan. — Wind NNE and boisterous with sleet. At 7 A.M. set out leaving only eight of the party behind. … At 2 P.M. we arrived at the wigwams, when my apprehensions were unfortunately verified; they were left in confusion, nothing of consequence remaining in them but some deer skins. 

Saturday 26th Jan. — Wind ENE, blowing strong, with sleet and freezing weather. As soon as it was light the crew were put in motion, and placing an equal number of blankets, shirts and tin pots in each of the wigwams, I gave the Indian to understand that those articles were for the individuals who resided in them. Some more presents were given to him, also some articles attached to the red staff, all of which he seemed to comprehend. At 7 a.m. we left the place intending to return the Monday following. Seeing that the Indian came on, I signified my wish for him to go back; he however continued with us, sometimes running on a little before in a zigzag direction, keeping his eyes to the ice as having a trace to guide him, and once pointed to the westward, and laughed. Being now about two-thirds of a mile from the wigwams, he edged in suddenly, and for an instant halted; then took to speed [ran off]. We at this moment observed that he had stopped to look at a body lying on the ice, he was still within half a musket-shot, but as his destruction could answer no end, so it would have been equally vain to attempt pursuit; we soon lost sight of him in the haze. On coming up we recognised with horror the bodies of our two unfortunate companions lying about a hundred yards apart; that of the corporal being first, was pierced by one arrow in the back; three arrows had entered that of Bouthland. They were laid out straight with their feet towards the river, and backs upwards; their heads were off, and carried away, and no vestige of garments left. Several broken arrows lying about and a quantity of bread, which must have been emptied out of their knapsacks; very little blood was visible” (“Narrative of Lieut. Buchan's Journey up the Exploits River in Search of the Red Indians in the Winter of 1810-1811”; Howley, pp. 77-80). 

Damn. 

The naive plans of civilized men, destroyed by the inevitable logic of total war. You mean that, given a decent chance, these people are not trying to kill us? What kind of suckers do you think we are?  According to Shawandithit, the last Beothuk, the tribe, left alone, had decided the Europeans must have gone to bring a larger contingent in order to wipe them out. Best to disappear. But first, kill the hostages so they cannot give any clues. 

In fairness, beyond the technical problems, the Beothuk seem to bear some responsibility here. They were in fact profoundly xenophobic, even by Indian standards. Several reports have it that, unlike all other Indians, they did not keep dogs. Might this suggest some kind of purity taboo? 

In trying to establish contact, what would you have done? 

The French, perhaps, would have sent in a few Jesuits to be tortured and killed, to establish their good character. The English, presumably, lacked volunteeers. 

This was unlucky primarily for the Beothuks. With a fur trade, instead of dying out, they might have prospered. Besides cool swag of all kinds, and, not incidentally, no longer being shot at, they might have acquired guns for both self-defense and the hunt. If this did not already ensure enough food at all times, furs could be bartered for additional victuals. Even if they had no furs to trade, it would have been in the European traders' self-interest, as we have seen elsewhere, to keep them alive in any extremity. 

But there were worse consequences of the Beothuk failure to truck and trade. There were lots of good-looking fur bearing beasts in Newfoundland: beaver, foxes, martens. Their policy of protectionism left a vacuum for others to fill. 

And not just European trappers, although they also came into conflict with the Beothuk. The French set up a post at Placentia, on the south coast. The Micmacs, familiar with the French and the fur trade, followed them. They began trapping in Newfoundland, and a thriving market in furs grew. 

But they were now in common direct contact with the Beothuk, who hated intruders, and in competition with them for resources. And they, having trading with the Europeans, had guns. The Beothuk, not trading, had none. 

Shawandithit was kidnapped from her family at about age twenty. At that age, she had two gunshot wounds, one in the hand and one in the thigh. Both, according to her, were from Micmacs. 

A neighbour relates that Shawandithit, living with Mr. Peyton on the northeast shore, “was greatly alarmed at the sight of two Micmacs who came once to visit him, and hid herself during their stay” (Howley, p. 26, from Jukes, Excursions in Newfoundland). “According to Mr. Peyton, she exhibited the greatest antipathy to the Micmacs, more especially towards one Noel Boss, whom she so dreaded that whenever he, or even his dog made their appearance, she would run screeching with terror and cling to Mr P. [Peyton] for protection” (Howley, p. 176, Extract of a disputation from R. A. Tucker, Esq. Administering to the Government of Newfoundland, to R. Horton, Esq., 1825). 

We hear there was a Micmac tradition that, at the beginning of the 17th century, just when firearms would have become available, “a great battle took place between the Micmacs and the Red Indians [Beothuk] at the head of Grand Pond (Lake), but as the former were then armed with guns they defeated the latter, and massacred every man, woman and child” (Howley, p. 269-70). Clearly, there was no love lost here. 

Like the Europeans, the Micmac had traditional complaints against the Beothuk. On meeting a Micmac in Bay of St George, one Lieutenant Chappell in 1818 asked him for information on the legendary “red Indians,” the Beothuk. Did they too, like the Catholic Micmac, worship God? “With a sneer of the most ineffable contempt, he replied. 'No; no look up to God: killee all men dat dem see, Red Indian no good'” (Lieutenant Chappell, 1818, The Voyage of the Rosamond; quoted Howley, p. 288). 

We need not, of course, accept that as the definitive word on the Beothuks. More like an indication of war of all against all. 

Here too, the Beothuk hostility to outsiders did not serve them well. They apparently had the general reputation among their neighbours of being hostile and warlike. Worse, they were big, strong, athletic, and very good at war; “invincible” (Cormack, 1822). They regularly fought with the Eskimo to their north, “whom they despised, and called the 'four paws,'”--i.e., brute beasts (Howley, p. 270). They also fought, according to Cartwright, with the “Canadians,” probably the Innu. “These Indians [the Beothuk] are not only secluded thus from any communication with Europeans, but they are ... effectually cut off from the society of every other Indian people. The Canadians have generally a strong hunt that range the western coast of Newfoundland, between whom and these natives reigns so mortal an enmity ... that they never meet but a bloody combat ensues” (John Cartwright, quoted by Howley, p. 35). 

So, as soon as their neighbours got firearms, they had a good idea of how best to use them. 

It is no great surprise, therefore, that the Beothuk were wiped out. The same thing happened to many other tribes; and over the same resource. Recall the Beaver Wars that raged across the eastern United States, wiping out Mohicans, Hurons, Erie, Neutrals. Moreover, remember that there were probably at all times very few Beothuks. At their peak, there might have been one or two thousand. If they had been some animal species, this would have automatically qualified them as “endangered.” Endangered because any slight environmental stress might at any time throw them into a demographic death spiral. 

We care uniquely much about the case of the Beothuks, among so many so much less familiar, largely because they happened to die out during the Romantic period. Halcyon noble savage days. Romantics also love ruins, deserted places, and melancholy. Here we get them all rolled up into one sad beautiful legend. 

One can almost taste and touch the Romantic feelings in Cormack's account of his last expedition overland to seek the Beothuks. It was this expedition, funded by the “Beothuk Institute” of which Cormack was founder and president, that established their ultimate non-existence. Coming across some picturesque empty wigwams, he meditates, almost in the tone of Shelley's Ozymandias, 

“We spent several melancholy days wandering on the borders of the east end of the lake, surveying the various remains of what we now contemplated to have been an unoffending and cruelly extirpated race. At several places, by the margin of the lake, small clusters of winter and summer wigwams in ruins” (quoted in Howley, p. 192). 

A perfect Romantic set piece; and civilization was the necessary villain. 

Some, in the Romantic spirit of a Cormack, maintain that, even if they did not actually shoot them down like rabbits, the Europeans were nevertheless wilfully responsible for the Beothuks' end. Settled civilizaion, after all, took their land, and drove them away from the coast into the “forests and barrens,” as Maher put it in the National Post. It left them with no means of subsistence. 

Who, after all, could expect an Indian to support himself in a forest? 

Even this, however, is not a fair accusation. 

Recall that European settlement was sparse, and even officially prohibited, for most of Newfoundland history—almost until after the Beothuks died out. Recall that the Europeans doubted there even were any aboriginal inhabitants. If there were always so few, how could they have crowded them out? 

Starvation does seem to have been an issue in the last days. When Shawandithit was abducted, she was starving, her sister was starving, and her mother was starving. She testified that many others of her tribe had died recently of hunger: “In the second winter afterwards [i.e., after the Buchan expedition; either 1813 or 1816; dates here are confused in the source], twenty-two had died about the river Exploits, and in the vicinity of Green Bay: and the third year also numbers died of hardship and want” (Howley, p. 227). 

However, Shawandithit was described as very tall. “She seemed about 22 years of age. ... Her complexion was swarthy, not unlike the Micmacs; her features were handsome; she was a tall fine figure and stood nearly six feet high, and such a beautiful set of teeth, I do not know that I ever saw in a human head” (Diary of Reverend William Wilson, quoted by Howley, p. 260). 

This accords with a general traditon that the Beothuks were quite tall.

“It has been customary on the part of fishermen and others to describe them as a race of gigantic stature and numerous instances are recorded to bear out this statement. Major George Cartwright, in speaking of the Indians he saw on an island in Dildo Run, says "One of them appeared to be remarkably tall" (Howley, p. 257). An anonymous writer in the Liverpool Mercury, present at the capture of Mary March (Demasduit), kidnapped in hopes of establishing relations, speaks of her husband, killed in the effort of capturing her, measuring six feet seven and a half inches. A man shot in Trinity Bay is described as a “huge savage,” and another seen by one Richards in Notre Dame Bay was “seven feet tall” (Howley, pp. 257-8). Buchan, in his 1811 expedition, does not discover them, at least at this late date, to be as tall as advertised. But he does still report them as taller than the average European, and “extremely healthy and athletic” (Howley, p. 86). 

One does not reach immense stature, as a rule, if one has been malnourished as a child. Yet even at the very end, Shawandithit was tall; and her childhood had ended only years before. 

Accordingly, any absence of food must have been a recent phenomenon. 

Indeed, when Cartwright ventured into the supposed “barrens” in 1768, the word that most occurs to him is “abundance.” 

“In the winter it seems they reside chiefly on the banks of the Exploits, where they are enabled to procure a plentiful subsistence, as appeared by the abundance of horns and bones that lay scattered about their wigwams at the deer fences…. [T]he channel of the Exploits, stretching itself directly across the regular and constant track of the deer, must necessarily insure to them abundance of venison” (John Cartwright, Howley, p. 33). “It will be readily admitted that a country intersected throughout with rivers and ponds and abounding with wood and marshy ground is well adapted for uncivilized life, and calculated for the vast herds of deer that annually visit it. This is proved by the incredible quantity of venison they had packed up, and there yet remained on the margin of the pond a vast number of carcases which must have been killed as the frost set in, many being frozen in the ice. The packs were nearly three feet in length, and in breadth and depth fifteen inches, closely packed with fat venison cleared of the bone, and in weight from 150 to 200 lbs., ...” (Cartwright; Howley, p. 86). 

So there you are—like starving in aisle three at Loblaw's. 

One way to get around this is to suppose or suggest that, even if the Europeans did not interfere with their traditional hunting grounds in the interior, the foreign presence on the coast ended their ability to gather fish and birds' eggs, their summer fare. There would be no obvious reason, of course, for the Europeans to interfere in their doing this; they did not want those resources, for the most part, themselves. If this is the case to be made, much or most of the blame must be put on Beothuk xenophobia. 

But even so, even if they had, Cartwright reports: “when we consider on the other hand that the two capes which form the bounds of their settlements are thirty leagues apart, that between them there is at least an island for every man in the largest of these computations [of Beothuk numbers], and that near twenty capacious bays and inlets deeply indent the intermediate part of the coast; we shall easily find shelter in the woods that overhang all these shores, for a much greater number of these savages, who have no temptation to expose themselves carelessly to sight” (Cartwright, quoted by Howley, p. 38). 

Does not sound that crowded.

Beothuk haunts and hangouts.

And it does not seem as though they really even ever needed to go to the coast. 

W.E. Cormack, our Romantic friend from the Beothuk Institute, did his first transit of the Newfoundland interior in search of the Red Indians in 1822, the very time they were apparently starving to death. Even then, he found a natural abundance. Moreover, he made his transit in summer, supposedly the fallow period, when the Beothuk were supposedly forced to head for the coast to survive. Loss of that access, then, if they ever lost it, cannot have been the critical factor. 

To prove the point, although this was not their motive, Cormack and his Micmac companion themselves easily lived off the land throughout their transit. 

“[G]rouse, ... the indigenous game bird of the country, rose in coveys in every direction, and snipes from every marsh. The birds of passage, ducks and geese, were flying over us to and fro from their breeding places in the interior and the sea coast; tracks of deer, of wolves fearfully large, of bears, foxes, and martens, were seen everywhere...[L]and berries were ripening, game birds were fledging, and beasts were emerging to prey upon each other. Everything animate or inanimate seemed to be our own. We consumed unsparingly our remaining provisions, confident that henceforward, ... the destruction of one creature would afford us nourishment and vigour for the destruction of others.” 

“One of the most striking features of the interior are the innumerable deer paths on the savannas. They are narrow and take directions as various as the winds, giving the whole country a chequered appearance. Of the millions of acres here, there is no one spot exceeding a few superficial yards that is not bounded on all sides by deer paths. … The paths tend from park to park through the intervening woods, in lines as established and deep beaten as cattle paths on an old grazing farm” (Howley, pp. 139-141). 

His list of tasty and nutritious natural resources goes on—but this is enough to make the point. Otherwise we are going to start sounding like the Newfoundland and Labrador Department of Tourism. 

Cormack runs across no Beothuk, but does meet Micmac, and Innu. Chatting with the Innu, native to Labrador, he learns the latter “had come to Newfoundland, hearing that it was a better hunting country than his own” (Cormack, Howley, p. 148). 

Obviously, the Europeans were not critically infringing on the Beothuk hunting grounds. The game was better than in Labrador, good enough even in the off-season to attract Indians from some distance. 

So how did the Beothuk starve in the midst of plenty? 

Not that strange—the Huron starved in similar circumstances. So did the Ethiopians, a few decades ago. Famine is often a consequence of war. 

The Innu, the Micmac, and Cormack had one big advantage over the Beothuk in their hunting: guns. What they saw, they could shoot. Lacking them, the Beothuks' method for catching the caribou, their main food source, was highly labour-intensive: they built fencing, forcing the migrating caribou to a point where they could be easily killed as they forded the river. The typical fence was a half mile long, doubled and running parallel, and had to be six to ten feet high, so the caribou could not jump over and escape. 

Once the Beothuk population, already marginal, dropped below a certain level, they might well rather suddenly no longer have the manpower to keep these fences in good repair. 

Add to that the fact that, if Micmac or Innu might be anywhere, and a European trapper might be anywhere else, and any of them would shoot a Beothuk on sight, and it looks hard to work outside, in small groups, in the open. Such long elaborate fencing could also be easily destroyed by an enemy at any point along its length. 

And what, do you suppose, was the one resource that Cormack, in his soulful wandering, found to be depleted? “The beaver, ..., Owing to the presence of the birch tree, ..., all the brooks and lakes in the basin of the interior have been formerly and many are still inhabited by beavers, but these have in many places been destroyed by Indians” (Howley, p. 142). The Beothuk no doubt prized the beaver for food, but these significant depradations suggest, here as elsewhere, the fur trade. 

The Beothuks were not trading in furs. 

With smallpox blankets, the accepted moral has been that the Indians should shy away from anything from the outside. They were better off keeping away from the Europeans, staying segregated, preserving their traditional culture in aspic, not mixing at parties. This is still and again the main thrust of current Canadian policy regarding Canada's Indians, Metis, and Eskimo. Integration bad; segregation good. Residential schools bad; reserves good. 

Yet this is exactly what the Beothuk did, to the letter and the dot or cross above it. They are the perfect case study in the recommended approach. They scrupulously avoided all contact with the filthy aliens, scrupulously preserved their culture just as it always had been, resisted any foreign intrusions. 

How well did that work out? 

The Cree, who shamelessly consorted with the Hudson's Bay Company from the start, are now the largest aboriginal group in Canada. Where are the mighty Beothuk? 

They may, granted, by this approach of non-approach, have avoided smallpox. We will probably never know, since they lived and died alone. We do know their segregation did not save them from tuberculosis. Every captive taken out of the interior seemed to have it. This was, historically, the second great scourge of the Indians everywhere. 

Not only did the Beothuk do all the “right” things; so did the helpful Europeans. They largely and for a long time left the land and the Beothuk alone, prohibiting development or even permanent settlement. Just as many have proposed for Indian lands today. 

And how well did that work out? Ask Shawandithit. 

Instead of helping them prosper, these seem to have been the two critical factors causing the Beothuk to cease to be. Had there been settlement, there would have been law and law enforcement. No eternal war of all. Had there been communication and trade, they would have had guns to protect themselves, trade to support them, and neighbours to turn to in their hour of need. 

Canadian First Nations today ought to take a lesson here. Apartheid does not work. All men are brothers in God's eyes. Staying put in the imaginary past is no option. 

There is no reason to repeat the errors of the Beothuks. If we do not learn from them, they have died in vain.