Dark Clouds of the Morning

By Janet C. Burrill

Jennie Grayson found it almost impossible to live up to her mother Helen's expectations. As a result, they were frequently in conflict. A telegram summoned Jennie to nurse a terminally ill great-aunt in the town of Truro, sixty miles away from her home city of Halifax, Nova Scotia. The night before her departure, Jennie and Helen had an intense disagreement over Jennie's choice of whom she would marry. In a fit of anger, Jennie said unkind things to her mother. Could she ever be forgiven? On December 6, 1917, as she was no longer needed in Truro, Jennie made plans to return to Halifax. Then came shocking news that completely turned her world upside down. Two ships had collided near the waterfront of Halifax Harbour, one of which was carrying tons of munitions. On impact, a giant explosion occurred, which was the world's worst disaster at that time, killing and injuring thousands. Can Jennie and her extended family rise up from the tragedy and trauma to ultimately triumph?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Word Alive Press
• Release date: Jan 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781770694941

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Dark Clouds of the Morning

Janet C. Burrill

Dark Clouds of the morning

Copyright © 2011 Janet C. Burrill

All rights reserved. Neither this publication nor any part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

Places and events in this book are based on historical facts. Characters are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

EPUB Version ISBN: 978-1-77069-494-1

Word Alive Press

131 Cordite Road, Winnipeg, MB R3W 1S1

www.wordalivepress.ca

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Burrill, Janet C.

Dark Clouds of the Morning / Janet C. Burrill.

ISBN 978–1–77069–197–1

1. Halifax Explosion, Halifax, N.S., 1917––Fiction. I. Title.

PS8603.U7473D37 2010 C813’.6 C2010–907715–6

This book is lovingly dedicated to the memory of my beloved husband, Reverend Charles Burrill, a true man of God. He encouraged and supported me in this, my first book.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Epilogue

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Behind all successful authors is a team of wonderful people cheering them on to completion. I would be amiss if I didn’t express my heartfelt gratitude to those in my grandstand.

First, my dear daughters, Jane Streeter, Wanda Burill–Kowalczyk and Donna Bell, have been encouragers from the first page I typed.

Also, I have received much help in the form of critiques from the Halifax–Dartmouth Christian Writers’ Group.

Lastly, I want to thank Jen Jandavs–Hedlin, at Word Alive Press, for guiding me through every stage of the process. She was never too busy to answer my questions and offer guidance. As well, I am pleased with the fine cover design that graphic artist Nikki Braun fashioned for me. Finally, I am grateful to Tom Buller, my capable editor, who worked with me to make my book the finished product it has become.

May God bless you all. I praise Him for the talent He has given me to further the work of The Kingdom through the written word.

Janet C. Burrill

Halifax, Nova Scotia

January, 2011

1

December, 1917

Jennie Grayson turned up the collar of her shabby brown coat, attempting to close the gap around her neck, and tugged the brim of her felt hat down to meet the collar. Moving forward, she pushed open the door of the Dominion Textile Company on Halifax’s Robie Street. A gust of cold wind snatched the door from her hand, sending it crashing into the side of the building. Holding her hat on with one hand, Jennie leaned against the door with all her might, forcing it backward into its latch.

Oh, God, she cried out, how long must I work here in this place I hate? I could’ve been married to Carl Byers by now, living in a little place of my own, but Mama wouldn’t let me.

Jennie quickened her pace. It was late November, 1917, and the days were getting shorter. If she didn’t reach home before dark, her mother would worry. Tensions were bad enough between them without her having to face questions as to why she’d come home late.

Why can’t she be like other girls’ mothers? Jennie complained to the wind. Mama tries to rule my life. It’s always ‘Jennie don’t do this. Don’t go there. Where were you? Wait ‘till the war is over, Jennie, before you decide to marry Carl. You’ll regret it if you two marry before he goes overseas.’ Damn! I regret that I didn’t!

Dark clouds scudded across the sky. Rising winds whipped the Halifax harbour into a churning gray froth. Seagulls dipped and wheeled restlessly overheard. Chills ran down Jennie’s spine. Pulling her long coat closer about herself, head bent into the wind, she struggled up Robie Street, down Young Street, and finally crossed onto Needham Street, her home. Turning the knob of the kitchen porch, she stumbled, panting, through the door.

Helen Grayson came to meet her, anxiety adding a pucker to her already careworn face. Thank God you’re home, Jennie. We may be getting a storm tonight, and I was beginning to…

Worry? Jennie finished the sentence for Helen. Mama, you don’t do anything else. Noting the hurt in her mother’s eyes, Jennie immediately regretted her accusation.

Helen turned to tend a simmering pot on the cast iron range. Lifting the lid, she tested the contents with a fork. Done, she pronounced.

Jennie hung her coat on a peg near the kitchen door and smoothed her tousled blond bob. At a glance, she took in the spotless white tablecloth, on which was laid place settings for two. Thick slabs of homemade bread rested on a plate, beside another of molasses cookies. Helen carried the steaming pot from the stove, laying it on an iron trivet on the table. The lid was lifted, releasing the aroma of fresh haddock chowder, Jennie’s favourite meal. Tears clouded the girl’s blue eyes. Her mother had done this for her.

The two of them sat quietly, finishing their savory chowder. As a block of wood snapped in the range, Helen rose, lifted its cast iron cover, and added more fuel. She returned with a pot of fragrant tea, pouring a cup for each of them.

How different home used to be before The Great War, Helen mused. How happy it had been. Then she’d had the support of her husband Walter, who’d helped raise their two sons, John and Will, along with Jennie, the youngest. The war changed all that, snatching away her men, dragging them off to Europe to endure God only knew what. Now there remained only herself and Jennie. Jennie…perhaps she was too hard on her at times, but what would she do if any misfortune befell her? She was all she had left.

Helen pushed back a lock of gray hair from her wrinkled brow, securing it firmly with a pin. Having Jennie cut her hair had been a grief to her. It was becoming the custom for young ladies to bob their tresses, and Helen hated it. She would always wear a bun at the nape of her neck and a pompadour off her forehead.

Rising, Helen pushed her chair back under the table. I think I’ll knit awhile, she announced.

Jennie collected the dishes, carrying them to the sink. Reaching under it, she drew out a large tin dishpan, which she filled with hot water from the stove’s reservoir. To this she added a splash of cold water from their single tap.

I’ll wash the dishes, Mama, then I’ll knit, too. Maybe you can help me turn a heel on the sock I’m doing. Both women sat in wooden rockers drawn close to the warmth of the range. The yarn they worked with was khaki.

Wouldn’t it be great, Mama, if these socks I’m knitting went to Papa or one of our boys? Or maybe to Carl?

The troubled frown returned to Helen’s face. It would, she sighed. The trenches are cold and damp, and I’m sure a new pair of socks would be… Tears choked her words.

Don’t worry, Mama, Jennie soothed. They could be safe in barracks somewhere, or at least one of them could be.

Noting that she had made her mother’s tears flow anew by her thoughtless remark, Jennie tried a new tactic. Let’s think about the end of the war, Mama. The four of them will sail right into this harbour, along with hundreds of other returned men. They may not all be on the same troop ship, but they will come, Mama. You and I will go down to the docks every time a ship comes in. You’ll make pots and pots of that great chowder we had tonight for John and Will. You’ll make a big roast beef dinner for Papa, and chocolate cake for all.

Helen smiled through her tears.

Then, Jennie went on, I’ll make corned beef and cabbage for Carl. That’s what he likes best. Just as soon as he gets a job, we’ll be married. Think of it, Mama. Your little girl decked out in white, wearing your wedding veil. We’ll be married in our church. You’ll bake the cake, of course.

No, Helen’s eyes blazed. Her half–knit sock dropped to the floor as she fled the room.

Mama! Jennie chased after her. We’ve got to get to the bottom of this. You told me I oughtn’t to marry Carl before he went overseas. Now it seems you don’t want me to marry him at all. What is it? Don’t you like Carl? Is there something I don’t know? Answer me, Mama.

Helen sat crouched in the old Morris chair in the dark parlour. This had been her husband Walter’s favourite seat. What could she say to Jennie? How could she possibly make her understand? This generation didn’t want to listen to their elders.

Jennie stood facing her mother, hands upon her hips. Well?

Drawing her long, black skirt tightly around her legs, Helen sighed. It wouldn’t work, Jenny. You just wouldn’t be happy.

Not be happy? Jennie’s voice shrilled. How can you say such a thing? What do you know about Carl, anyway? He’s kind and romantic. He knows how to show me a good time on our evenings out. He makes me laugh. He’s promised me a nicer house than this old square box, a big one, like those on Young Avenue. He says he’ll get me a maid, so I won’t need to do housework. We’ll even have a motor car. Can you imagine it, Mama? A real motor car. Not many people in Halifax have one."

Jennie, Helen said, her voice weary, will all those things make you happy? Is that what you want in life, things?

Not things, Mama. It’s Carl I want. If things come with him, what’s wrong with that? Once he’s a returned man, Carl’s sure to get a job, a good–paying one. Returned men will be given the preference of the very best jobs.

But, Jennie. What does Carl believe? I mean, does he…is he? What I mean is, I don’t believe he shares the faith you were raised with.

Mama, you’re impossible. Impossible and old–fashioned. Who else would ask a question like that? Well, he’s good and kind. He took me to church once before he went away. He isn’t used to going, but since he met me, he says he liked it, and we’ll go regularly once we’re married. Now doesn’t that satisfy you?

Helen began to tremble in the unheated dark room. If only Walter were here with her, he’d know how to talk wisdom to their daughter. She had been against him going to the war, but he’d been adamant. As a young man, he’d served with the Princess Louise Fusiliers overseas. Now the present military wanted to use Walter to train young soldiers, and he’d eagerly joined the worthy cause. Helen sighed. What I mean is, what are Carl’s values in life? Do you know if he’s addicted to alcohol, for instance, or maybe to gambling? Does live a good moral life, and do you know if he’d be faithful to you?

Oh, Mama, Jennie wailed, you don’t need to preach to me. You, who fret and worry—is that what you call a Christian? If so, I don’t want to be one. Carl knows how to enjoy life and make me happy. That’s Christian enough for me. The sharp peal of the doorbell invaded the chill atmosphere. I’ll go. Jenny dashed to the front door.

A uniformed young man stood on the step, a yellow envelope in his hand. Sign here, please. A telegram for Mrs. Grayson. Jennie signed. Behind her, Helen collapsed on the floor.

Mama. Jennie wiped her face with a cold, wet cloth. It’s alright, Mama. I read the telegram. It’s not about Papa or the boys.

A faint tinge of colour returned to Helen’s face. It’s not? she breathed.

No, it’s about Great Aunt Agnes in Truro. She’s had a stroke and is not expected to live. Cousin Ben wants you to come and…oh, Mama, you’re trembling and burning up with a fever. You can’t go to Truro. I’ll go up on the train myself, as soon as I can get away. I can probably get a couple of weeks off. I’ve worked so many extra hours filling in for girls who were sick, they owe it to me. I’ll get Aunt Bessie to come and stay with you. She’s good that way. Now up to bed with you, and don’t worry. We’ll be back together again soon.

The wind moaned eerily around the eaves that night, causing the women to sleep fitfully. Was it an omen of things to come?

2

Whoa! Tom Connolly’s breath came in frosty puffs. Nellie the mare tossed her mane, snorted, then stomped to a halt. Tom leapt from the buggy and fastened the horse’s reigns to the fence post outside a modest, gray–shingled home on Needham Street.

Mama, here’s Tom with Aunt Bessie, Jennie called from the foot of the stairs. She ran to open the front door just as Tom was helping his mother, Bessie, down from the high wagon seat.

Come in before you blow away. Jennie fought to hold the door as the two made their way up the wind–swept walk.

Phew, Bessie panted. Good to be inside. She tossed her coat and hat onto a nearby chair.

Come sit in this rocker, Aunt Bessie, Jennie invited. I’ve just made a fresh pot of tea.

No thanks. Bessie headed straight for the stairs. I’m going right up to your mother. Tea can wait.

Tom seated himself at the kitchen table. Well, Jennie, looks like troubles are pilin’ up on ya, with yer ma sick, an’ ole’ Aunt Agnes needin’ ya, on her death bed, while yer Pa an’ brothers are overseas in the war.

Tears flooded Jennie’s eyes. Turning away from Tom, she strode purposefully to the kitchen stove and lifted the lid, adding a fresh stick of wood to the already blazing fire. Seizing the poker, she jabbed furiously into the firebox, sending a shower of sparks upward. Why would Tom have to remind her of what she already knew? She felt she was fighting on too many fronts.

Tom rose from the table and gently led Jennie to the rocker. Cousin Jennie. The short, sandy–haired man laid a hand on her shoulder. I wasn’t meanin’ to upset ya. Trust me to say somethin’ awkward when all I meant was to sympathize.

Jennie looked up to meet Tom’s gaze. His eyes were watery, too.

Dear Tom. Jennie smiled. Who could be gentler than you? What you said was full of sympathy for my situation. I was just feeling overwhelmed, that’s all.

Tom’s freckled face beamed like the sunshine. One thing I’ve learnt. God’s always there through all our troubles, takin’ care of us every inch of the way. You an’ all your family will be in my prayers. Ya can count on that.

Bessie descended the creaking staircase. Her face, so like Tom’s, was creased with concern. She’s burning up, alright, and there’s a tight cough. Flu if ever I saw it.

I oughtn’t to leave, Jennie moaned. If something happens to Mama, I’ll never…

Nonsense, Bessie interrupted. I’ve nursed a good many flu cases in my day. My chicken broth always brings them around. That, and honey for the cough. Maybe a mustard plaster…

Jennie looked at Bessie’s plump, comforting face and exhaled. You’re a blessing, Aunt Bess. You’ve always been there for any family member who had a need, whether it was a birth, sickness or a personal problem. Nobody is like you.

Jennie, Bessie said, her eye twinkling, never mind the blarney. Just give me some of that hot tea of yours.

Within the hour, Jennie and Tom were seated in the buggy and driving away from the Needham Street home. As they rounded the corner, Jennie turned for one last look at the place. Oh, Tom, I hope I’m doing the right thing by going up to Truro. I have the most uneasy feeling about leaving Mama. Suppose…

Nonsense, Tom countered in a tone like his mother Bessie’s. What could happen? Ya heard my Ma. She can cure anyone. Besides, yer needed with Great Aunt Agnes. Cousin Ben is helpless around sick people, bein’ a bachelor an’ all. Don’t envy ya none. Ben might be more trouble than poor ole’ Auntie.

Jennie sighed. What would she be getting into? Ben, she knew, was thought to be peculiar, probably the result of an overdose of coddling his widowed mother had inflicted upon her only child.

Aunt Agnes had possessed a loving heart. When her young niece, Helen, Jennie’s mother, had been tragically orphaned, Aunt Agnes had done all she could to help the sixteen–year–old raise her younger siblings. Many a meal she had carried to the young family. Often she had made or mended garments for them. More importantly, she had offered the young Helen a shoulder to cry on when she had needed it most. No wonder the Needham Street family loved Aunt Agnes. Now, in her great hour of need, how could a call for help be refused? At this point, Jennie was the only one who could answer that call.

As the horse clopped along Barrington Street to North Street Station, Jennie gazed appreciatively around her. Halifax had many beauty spots. Jennie’s special love was the harbour. It was the second largest in the world and sparkled like a sapphire when the sun graced it. Today, even though the wind made frothy whitecaps out of its gray depths, it displayed a moody charm.

Yesterday’s troubles, when she had felt at odds with her mother, had blown away like the windy night. Stormy though it still was, she was able to snuggle deeper into her coat without complaint about the biting cold or sting of the occasional ice pellet. Sturdy houses and shops rose on either side of Barrington Street. Everything in this area was modestly constructed, unlike the richer southern part of the city. Its familiarity comforted Jennie. Here in the north end, locally know as Richmond, she had grown up, and gone to school and church. This was where her family and friends dwelt and where she had employment. It was home.

A few horses and buggies met the pair as they rode along parallel to the tram tracks. Tom doffed his cap whenever he saw a lady in one of the buggies. Other carriages were travelling in the same southward direction, either ahead or behind them. The traffic having slowed their horse’s progress, Tom turned to Jennie. Any problem gettin’ off work for awhile?

Not too much. Jennie pushed her hat more firmly onto her head. At first the boss didn’t want to let me go. He said they needed every available person in wartime. I agreed that was true, but I reminded him of how many extra hours I’d spent filling in for girls when they were sick. There were lots of them, and he knew it. I’m seldom sick myself. He knows I’m a good worker, too. ‘If you’d rather that I not come back…’ I said to him. ‘No, no, Miss Grayson,’ he protested, ‘don’t quit. We need you. Stay in Truro as long as you’re needed. Your place will be here for you when you get back.’

Tom chuckled. You sure know how to get around people. Now me, I wouldn’t dare miss a shift at the sugar refinery, no matter what reason I had. Not even when Gracie had the croup an’ Myra’s new baby was bein’ born at the same time.

Jennie leaned forward, bracing against the wind. Tom, tell me about your family. I’m ashamed to say I haven’t been over in a long time.

Tom’s face brightened like the sun. Ah, well now, Maggie’s the oldest, ya’ know, an’ a right smart one. She’s fourteen an’ gettin’ good marks in grade nine. She can make good bread, too. Myra taught her. Martin and Murray, the twins, are next. They’re thirteen. They look alike, but there it ends. Martin is full of mischief, always up to somethin’. Murray likes readin’ an’ learnin’ things. Then there’s Lester. At only ten, he’s a whiz at ‘rithmetic, good on loadin’ the wood box, too. Gracie is six. She just started school and likes it. She’s a pretty one. Looks like her ma. Then there’s the baby. Tom’s eyes softened. Ellie’s just three months, but you should see her smile. ‘A livin’ doll,’ my Ma says. ‘Course this family couldn’t be that good without Myra. She’s the best little wife and mother a man ever had. Tom’s voice choked with tenderness.

The horse stomped to a halt at Tom’s sharp Whoa!

Ever see such a grand buildin’? he enthused, trying to cover up the teary–eyed sentiment over his family.

Jennie dismounted and gazed up at the impressive architecture of the North Street Railway Station. Yes Tom, it’s probably the grandest in all of Canada, she said softly, reaching up to kiss his cheek. Her eyes misted. I want to thank you for all your help today, and Tom, I’m going to try to make up for my lack of visits. Life’s been so hectic since the war began. I’ll tell you what, though, just as soon as I get back from Truro, and Mama can spare me, I’ll take a run over and see you all. That’s a promise.

As the train puffed its way out of North Street Station and circled slowly around Bedford Basin, a sense of growing unease crept over Jennie. Startled gulls took flight from the sullen gray harbour. Jennie opened her purse and rummaged for her ticket. To cheer herself, she whispered to the stormy waves, I’ll soon be back with Mama, and I’ll go see Tom’s family like I agreed to do. A niggling thought crept into her mind. Will that really happen?

3

Tom urged his horse Nellie to hurry back along the windswept route he had come. Once he had her sheltered in the safety of the barn with a fresh bundle of hay to munch, Tom breathed a sigh of relief. Well, ole’ girl, Tom said, giving a comradely slap to the horse’s flank, ya can be thankful yer in for the day. I’ve got to face that wind an’ cold walk down to the Acadia Sugar Refinery, work there for hours, then walk all the way back. I would be warmer if I could have ya to provide my transportation, but I couldn’t leave ya out in the cold. Ah well, it’s good to have a job to go to. Whistling cheerily, Tom closed the creaking barn door and latched it.

Petite, dark–haired Myra looked up from the kitchen table where she was bathing baby Ellie. Come see, she invited.

Tom tossed his cap on a chair and crossed the floor. Oh, my little darlin’, he crooned to the small, plump body lying in the oval–shaped baby bathtub.

For a second Ellie lay still, her blue eyes widening with wonder. Then she broke into a wide, toothless grin, followed by a shriek of delight. Arms flailing, legs churning, Ellie splashed water over the table and high into the air.

Myra scooped up the wriggling baby from the tub and quickly wrapped a towel around her. Here. She plopped the squirming bundle into Tom’s arms. If you want Daddy that much, you can go to Daddy.

Tom held her carefully with one arm and dragged the kitchen rocker nearer the stove with the other. Cradling her over one shoulder, he rocked back and forth crooning, Daddy’s girl. Daddy’s girl.

Myra looked tenderly at the pair. Tom, with his shock of reddish hair, on whose shoulder nestled a small, round head crowned with red–gold wisps. The dampness from the towel began to seep through Tom’s shirt. Still he rocked, whispering endearments. The baby’s squeals turned to soft coos, then ceased altogether, as silky lashes came to rest on soft cheeks. The sun broke through the clouds, its rays streaming through the windowpane, glorifying the pair in the rocker with heads of burnished gold.

Myra gasped. If only I could preserve this moment forever. A tear streamed down her cheek.

Tom looked up and smiled. I have everything—her, the other children, an’ you, Myra. I’m so blessed.

A cloud covered the sun again. Myra shivered involuntarily.

You’ll soon need to leave for work, Tom. Better let me take Ellie. I’ll pour you a cup of hot tea.

Tom sighed and surrendered the warm bundle. Myra removed the damp towel and wrapped Ellie in a cozy blanket. I’ll dress her when she wakes, Myra said softly as she laid the sleeping baby in her cradle.

Tom sipped his tea, while Myra deftly began kneading a batch of dough, shaping it into smooth loaves.

How was everything over at Needham Street? How is Helen? Did you get Jennie to the train on time? Was the…

Whoa! Tom held up his hand. You’re worse’n Nellie when she gallops. Now, one thing at a time. First—yes, I got Ma settled in, takin’ charge like she allus’ does. Aunt Helen has a bad case of flu, Ma figgers. That got Jennie to worryin, thinkin’ maybe she oughtn’t to go. Ma told her that was nonsense. She could cure anything, she told Jennie. And yes, I got Jennie down to the station and left her there buyin’ her ticket. I couldn’t stay to see her off, or I’d be late for work. Waitin’ there a while won’t hurt her none. Funny thing though, Jennie fretted somethin’ awful about leavin’ her ma. Never saw her like that before.

Tom gulped his last mouthful of tea, picked up his lunch pail, kissed Myra, and headed off to the sugar refinery.

Myra waved to him through the window. "That is strange, she mused, Jennie being upset like that. She’s usually such a level–headed girl. ‘Course, she and Aunt