February 22, 1901„ The Pilots of Battery Island The lanterns flickered in the small cabin on Battery Island, dispersing shadows throughout the small enclosure. The three men huddled inside could barely hear themselves talk above the sound of the wind blowing against the cabin walls that creaked and trembled with the assault. The penetrating cold provoked the men to move closer to the fire, which appeared at any moment would catapault itself from the fireplace and start dancing around the room. The winter storm forced the men to raise their voices above the noise that rang all around them. Most times, however, it was easier to say nothing and just stare into the fire, until the flames had tantalized and teased them so much that the men forced themselves to move in order to shake off the effects. George Dickson pulled himself away from the fire and busied himself preparing Sunday dinner. It was his turn to be cook, and the meal he chose today was his favourite - salt cod and potatoes. He peeled the potatoes and placed them, along with the cod, into one large pot. Philip Townsend removed himself from the warmth of the open fireplace to the cold of the dinner table where he began to set out plates and knives. One man remained where he was. "Do you want some coffee, Dan?" Philip shouted to his cousin who continued to sit in front of the fire. Phillip felt he was too close and wondered how sick he might be. "What's that?" Dan said, straining to hear above the roar of the storm. His throat hurt as he talked. "He asked if you wanted some coffee." George said, taking the potatoes and fish over to the fire. Dan nodded and pulled the blanket he had wrapped around him tighter. He shivered noticeably beneath the blanket despite his nearness to the fire. "Don't get too close for God's sake,Dan. You'll be roasted alive." "I think I'd prefer it to the cold." Dan said in an raspy voice. "You're getting worse, Dan." "It's not the infection, I tell ya. It's just a bad cold." Dan argued, then grimaced. His throat felt like coarse sandpaper. He put his hand to his neck and massaged it. "You're whole family's got it, and you've got all the signs." George said. Dan looked at George, tried to talk but thought better of it, and continued rubbing his neck. "I don't know what you expect us to do, George. We're stuck out here until the storm's over." Philip said. "And by then we'll be all infected. We should have left two days ago when his symptoms started getting worse. " "Well we didn't, and if we put a boat out in the middle of this we'll all be dead. " "They shouldn't have stuck the damn pilot station out here in the first place." George continued. "Well they did, and we're here." The station was placed on Battery Island as ship traffic increased with the coming of the new railroad to Louisbourg six years earlier. The entrance to the harbour was narrow and difficult to navigate even for the most seasoned seaman. It was feared that an influx of ships unfamiliar with the harbour would bring about a tragedy that the newly incorporated town of Louisbourg did not wish to face. Dan said nothing while his cousin and George argued. George was right, they should have left earlier; but he couldn't tell them the obvious: that he had been infected by his children. "Here's your coffee, Dan." Philip said, as he placed a steaming metal cup of coffee on the floor in front of his brother. "I hope you can swallow it this time." Dan picked the cup up by the handle and began to sip the brew. Unfortunately he felt an all too familiar sharp pain in his throat when he swallowed, and the coffee was immediately discharged in a fit of coughing. The coffee spewed from Dan's mouth onto his blanket and the cold floor. He hadn't eaten or drank anything in almost two days. Coughing now uncontrollably, he threw the rest of the coffee onto the fire. Striking the hot embers, the liquid sizzled and raised a small vapour cloud. "We could make a go for it." George said, pointing out the window towards the town. He could see the dim flash of the Louisbourg lighthouse attempt to burst through the storm from a rocky promontory a half mile away. It was a futile gesture. George wasn't only afraid for himself anymore. Dan was a friend of his, and if he didn't drink something soon they were going to have a dead man on their hands. "You're crazy, George. We've got fifteen foot waves out there." Philip said as he handed a towel to Dan. "Yeah, but once we get inside of those breakers, it won't be that bad, " George said. He threw a piece of firewood on the fire, then poked at it with an iron, sending up a shower of sparks. The wind, finding the entrance to the chimney once more, rushed down and dispersed them throughout the cabin. It had fought the fire all day; the fire resisted and the men had witnessed the struggle. The fire reached for the men when the wind at its crest shot huge powerful gusts down the chimney. Then just as quickly losing its strength withdrew, drawing the flames straight as it left - whistling mournfully as it ascended into the storm. Outside an angry wind turned its attentions to the snow and waves. Across the harbour, another part of the storm lashed out at Jack MacMullin as he made his way through the snow of Wolfe Street. He pulled at the brim of his hat to prevent it from blowing off and turned his head into the wind and driving snow as he made his way to the Catholic Church of Stella Maris. His Father was desperately sick, and he sought the guidance of the priest every Sunday after mass. Father Kiely came to Louisbourg only on Sundays from his parish in Main-A-Dieu - a small village ten miles from Louisbourg. This would all change once the new glebe house was completed sometime in the fall and Louisbourg had its own Catholic parish and a permanent priest. It couldn't be too soon for Jack. He knew his father wouldn't live to see another fall and Father Kiely had proved comforting to Jack with these Sunday encounters. The 133 foot steeple of Stella Maris was barely visible to Jack in the dense snow. "It's a wicked day, " Jack said aloud. He could see the steeple sway slightly in the wind, but the men who built the church, almost ten years before, built it strong. "God built that Church strong." Jack thought as he looked at the steeple that reached into the storm and defied the winds that whipped at it from the harbour. Erected near Battery Point, it presented a conspicuous structure to the ships that entered Louisbourg. Built on a hill in West Louisbourg, it stood proudly for all to see. Jack wondered, however, if any boat foolish enough to enter Louisbourg harbour on such a day would be able to see the steeple. "There'd be no pilot that would be so crazy to direct them anyway." Jack said for only the wind to hear as he tried to keep from thinking about his father. A sudden gust blew down from the north along the hollow of Jerrod's Brook and through Slattery’s field to strike Jack full on his right side. He shuddered and turned his back to shield his unprotected face from the wind's bite, stopped, faced the ocean, and waited for the gust to lose power. Then, from where he stood, Jack saw something that had to be a trick of the storm; he knew it often made people see things that weren't really there. Snow swirled around his feet, and the wind lifted the hat from his head as his heart slowed down and barely beat. Across the harbour the small pilot boat was being launched from Battery Island during a lull in the storm. Then just as quickly it overturned and vanished from sight. Unable to move Jack strained to see what his mind could not understand. "It's just a trick; what else could it be? God, it must be a trick. How could they on a day like this?" In a panic he looked around him in the hope that someone else could confirm what his mind was still trying to comprehend. There was no one to be seen as Jack reached up to rub the numbness from his cheeks. He was sure now that he saw the boat. It had overturned, vanished; men would be flailing in the freezing water, perishing in a frantic struggle for survival. He had to do something, but what. His heart beat again when he turned towards the silent and aloof steeple of Stella Maris." The Father will know what to do, "Jack said out loud to himself. Then he turned and started walking again, carefully putting one foot in front of the other. The snow crunched beneath his feet and pounded through his head. Soon he was running hard to the church. Fr. Kiely sent word into town by one of his helpers. It would be impossible, he knew, to launch a search until the storm abated. Men rushed from the town to the rocky cliffs near the lighthouse in the faint hope that they could save someone. Nothing could be seen, however, as monstrous waves washed up over the icy cliffs and drove them back. As the day progressed, the storm finally eased up; the waves slid back before they could reach over the cliffs, and the men of Louisbourg were finally able to brave the cold and treacherous waters of the harbour, launch their fishing boats, and head for the island in what now must have been a vain effort. "The devil must have gotten into those men." One of the men said when they reached the island. There was still a small flicker of hope that the men had managed to make it back to the island, and some even hoped that Jack MacMullin was tricked by the storm and that they would find all the men huddled around a fire, riding out the remaining remnants of the storm. "Men isolated…. It could make one do something crazy. All that time to think" It made no sense to anyone that three experienced men of the sea would attempt to leave the island on such a terrible day. At the cabin the searchers worst fears were realized: there were no signs of the men. They found a table set for three persons, but only two had eaten. Covering the rest of the small island quickly, no one living or dead, was found. Shattered scraps of the pilot boat were discovered; the rocks that surrounded Battery Island splintered it easily while working in tandem with the waves. No one could survive in those conditions. They hoped that at least the bodies could be recovered for the family's sake. But the ocean, which jealously hid its dead, denied even this.