The Saga of Howard Blackburn

A tragic tale of a stormy sea, I sorrowf'ly relate, About a stalwart fisherman And his luckless dory mate. One Howard Blackburn was his name, In Nova Scotia born, As brave a man as sailed the seas To China or the Horn. He fished for cod and halibut, From Gloucester-by-the-Sea, And not a lad alive could do A better job than he. He traveled north in eighty-one, In Skipper Griffin's crew, Upon the schooner Grace L. Fears, A vessel tried and true. The ship was anchored on the Banks Of Newfoundland one day, And halibut was plentiful, The fishing records say. 'Twas February, cold and clear, With not a sign of snow, When Blackburn and his dory mate Both started in to row To haul the trawls that yesterday They'd set three miles from Grace. They labored long and skillfully, At energetic pace, Until their work was ably done. Then headed for their ship. "The wind has shifted," Blackburn said: "Twill be a heavy trip." Blinded by madly whirling snow And savage Arctic blast, They hardly saw a dory length, To sight their vessel's mast. They anchored in the open sea, But soon the anchor dragged, And as they weighed their dismal plight, Their dauntless spirits sagged. "We must be close to Grace," said Welch. "We'd better row some more." And so, they started eagerly, Much harder than before, And rowed with superhuman strength, But still the snowflakes fell; Their dory bottom filled with ice And all around, the swell Made rowing hard, with freezing hands, And Tom, unknowing, tossed His shipmate's mittens in the sea, At Herculean cost; For Howard, breaking up the ice With fingers turning numb, To have those mitts would well have paid A monumental sum. The ice weighed down the little craft And overboard they threw The absolute necessities Of every fishing crew. They saved a single halibut For food, if they had need: "They'll find us soon," assured Tom Welch, But Blackburn disagreed. They bailed and cried aloud for help, To silent Grace L. Fears; But anxious shouts fell fruitlessly On all but fishes' ears. Stranded and hopelessly marooned, Most desperately they prayed That Skipper Griffin's hardy crew Would hasten to their aid. Alas! the waves were piling high, And through that fearful night, They frantically did toss about And strove with main and might To keep their boat from foundering Or filling up with ice, Which Blackburn broke with mittless hands At overwhelming price. When daylight came, no ship was seen, Nor could they hear a sound Above the sea, and both despaired They ever would be found. Tom Welch was growing icy cold And positively numb, And cheerlessly he dwelt upon The torment yet to come. "We'll steer towards land," brave Blackburn said. "Newfoundland is our fate; A hundred miles, but certainly, We'll make it, soon or late." He looked at Tom who said no word, But sat with drooping head, And recognized his dory mate Was definitely dead. Poor Howard's hands were freezing fast, But with his iron will, He curved them round to hold the oars, And kept them there until He reached the shores of Newfoundland, Which most astounding feat, He brought to pass eventually, Despite the cold and sleet. For days he rowed unflinchingly, With Tom, his dory mate, Struck dumb forever, facing him, In solemn, frozen state. A gruesome row and doubly so, With frozen hands and feet, No shelter from the elements And naught to drink or eat. But Blackburn had the will to live, And courage few have known, And day by day he carried on, Unaided and alone, Until at last he saw the isle He'd dreamed of day and night, Whose snow-clad mountains greeted him, In dazzling, shining white. He landed on a river bank, A frigid, lonely spot, And found a barren, empty shack, With benches and a cot; But with his frozen hands and feet, He dared not linger long, So staggered on and thanked the Lord He still was young and strong. In time he found a trapper's hut And kindly fisher-folk, Who saw his plight and quickly put His injured parts to soak In brine, which caused such agony, That even Blackburn groaned- For all his early sins, he swore This suffering atoned. They buried poor Tom Welch at last, And said a simple prayer For him and those he'd left behind In sorrow and despair. And Howard thanked his lucky star, That he'd come through alive, And hoped his poor extremities Would finally revive. All through the winter months he lived In Lishman's humble home, Deprived by grievous agony, From hankering to roam. They tended him devotedly, But nothing they could do, Would save his toes and one poor foot And all his fingers too. But in the spring, in spite of all The torture he'd endured, He said goodbye and started home For Gloucester, nearly cured. And when the people greeted him And heard his tragic tale, They marveled at his fortitude Through ruthless storm and gale. They thought he'd never sail again, And set him up in style, On Main Street in a liquor shop, Where fishermen would wile Away an idle hour or two, And drink a glass of ale, And Blackburn's generosity Was never known to fail. And when his friends refused to take The money they had spent, He gave it to the Widows' Fund In payment-every cent. And through his later years he strove To give financial aid To those in need and many knew The lavish sums he paid. They thought he'd never sail again But twice he crossed the sea, And in a sloop he manned alone, Despite infirmity, In England and in Portugal, He disembarked with ease, And many welcomed heartily, This man from overseas. He sailed the Great Lakes region next— The Mississippi too, And still unsatisfied, prepared An ocean trip to do. He took a dory once again But met such brutal weather, His boat capsized and Blackburn dropped The project altogether. And as the years advanced he lived In Gloucester-by-the-Sea, And though he seldom mentioned it, He suffered silently, With torment in his damaged feet; But to his long life's end, He carried on courageously, A kindly, liberal friend. This tale of Howard Blackburn shows The hardihood and pluck Of one of Gloucester's fishermen, Who challenged wretched luck. It's one of many thousand tales Of heroes of the sea, Whose Spartan exploits fill the files Of immortality.