The first official residence of Newfoundland governors was established in 1781, inside the walls of Fort Townshend on the hills above the town of St. John’s. It was intended to act only as a summer residence during the fishing season, but even in this limited role it was regarded by its inhabitants as less than adequate. It was built of fir with heavy slate roofs that damaged the structure to the extent that rain dripped steadily into offices and bedrooms. Drifts of snow driven by winter gales filtered through the same nooks and crannies to pool beside beds and desks as early as September and as late as May each year. Successive governors ordered additional rooms and offices attached to the core of the building for their servants, for secretaries and clerks, the residence spiralling outward from its dysfunctional core like a malignant tumour. There were complicated labyrinths of long windowless corridors and passageways illuminated with borrowed light that trapped dampness and cold inside. Each room was equipped with a fireplace but the constant draughts made it impossible to maintain a comfortable temperature anywhere in the building.
The first governor to be saddled with the responsibility of year-round habitation, Vice Admiral Francis Pickmore, had spent a long miserable November in the governor’s house at the heel of the previous season. He wrote to His Majesty’s government, begging for money to construct a home that would better suit someone of his station and the extreme conditions a winter-long stay was likely to bring. The earl of Bathurst in his response cited economic circumstances in England as a deterrent to such extravagance.
Two weeks after the fire and not yet a full month into his first St. John’s winter, Pickmore sat in one of the relentlessly chilly offices trying to comprehend the enormity of the loss, the myriad implications. A second consecutive year of depressed markets for cod in Europe had left many of the island’s residents in a condition of severe impoverishment and much of the store of food stockpiled for the winter was consumed in the fire. Temperatures in November were already dipping twenty degrees below zero. At night, gangs of rowdies roamed the village, made reckless by hunger and the cold, beating and stealing from anyone they encountered on the streets.
Pickmore brought his handkerchief to his mouth. He said, “We’re in for one hellish winter, I expect.”
Buchan was standing across from the governor’s desk, his hat beneath his arm. “Likely so, sir.”
Pickmore looked up. His face was pale and bloated and somehow lifeless. Dank brown hair, large watery eyes. A drowned man, Buchan thought, a man too listless to be overwhelmed. “What are the estimates on the losses, Lieutenant?” the governor asked.
“A million pounds, at the least. A portion of that amount, perhaps a hundred thousand pounds, will be written off by insurance. Most of the fishermen have lost everything.”
“How many homeless?”
“Perhaps a thousand or more.”
Pickmore nodded. “How does that compare with those burned out in last year’s fire?”
“About on a par, I would say.”
“And these rals roaming the streets at night?” He waved his handkerchief.
“They seem as bold this winter as last. Public floggings tended to temper their mood somewhat. I’ve taken the liberty of setting up a small force of marines to patrol the town after dark.”
“Most commendable,” Pickmore said. There was a distracted quality to his voice that made his compliments sound like censure. “We are fortunate to have a man of your experience in these situations. I confess I would be at a loss where to begin with it all.”
Buchan inclined his head slightly. The previous winter’s fire, and the hardship and unrest among the inhabitants of St. John’s that resulted from it, had been the sole reason for installing a governor year-round in the colony. But Pickmore, he could see, and by the man’s own admission, was going to be of little help. “They are already starting to build shanties, Your Worship, along the same miserable paths. I think it might be best to discourage this until the spring when construction can be undertaken in a manner more carefully reasoned or we will find ourselves living in the same fire trap as always.”
The governor pursed his lips and nodded. “Agreed,” he said. He interrupted himself to cough a dark plug of phlegm into the white silk handkerchief he held in his left hand at all times. “It hardly seems creditable,” he said, “that a house could be built to hold the cold as this one does.” He got up from his seat and walked across to the fireplace where he placed two junks of wood onto the flames and reached for a third. He stood staring blankly at the flaring light.
Buchan said, “Is there anything further, sir?”
Pickmore turned with the junk of wood in his hand. He looked almost as if he was about to burst into tears. He said, “You don’t hold a very high opinion of me, do you, Lieutenant.”