The year was 1871, and Newfoundland, a rugged and unforgiving island battered by the Atlantic Ocean, was a place where the sea was both a livelihood and a peril. The coastal towns clung to the edge of the land like barnacles, isolated but interconnected by the intricate web of maritime trade, fishing, and survival. In the harbors, schooners like the Clara Mary were a common sight, their weather-beaten hulls groaning under the weight of codfish, oil, and supplies as they traversed the rocky coastlines, collecting and delivering cargo to sustain the people who called this harsh landscape home.

It was a time when Newfoundland was still a British colony, and the slow creep of modernity had not yet reached the shores of its remote outposts. The fishing villages, such as Placentia, Little Placentia, Fox Harbour, and Ship Harbour, were tight-knit communities, bound together by the shared struggle against the sea and the elements. The fishermen of these towns were hardy souls, their faces etched by years of salt spray and harsh winds, their hands thickened by hauling nets and lines in the freezing waters of the North Atlantic. Life here was simple but hard, and every day brought the threat of loss.

A Placentia Bay Captain

Among these seafarers was James Edward Croucher, a seasoned planter and captain from Placentia, a town nestled on the southeastern side of Placentia Bay. Born in 1821 in St. Margaret’s Bay, Nova Scotia, he moved to Newfoundland, where he made his mark as a seafarer and, briefly, a politician. In 1876, he took on the role of the first lighthouse keeper at Point Verde, a post he held for more than two decades until his death in 1897. He knew the waters intimately, and his schooner, the Clara Mary, was his livelihood. It was an unremarkable vessel by some standards, but to Croucher, it was more than a ship—it was his means of sustenance, a bridge between the remote fishing coves and the bustling town of St. John’s. Like many in these parts, his life was tied to the sea, and each journey could spell fortune or disaster.

On a September day in 1871, Croucher set sail from Placentia, his schooner heavy with a valuable cargo of dried codfish. With him were his loyal crew members: John Brawders, Edward Walsh, Patrick Green, and young boy Patrick Mooney, each with their own share of experience and grit. The Clara Mary was loaded with eighty quintals of fish from Michael and Stephen Rielley, two local suppliers. With the wind at his back, Croucher steered the vessel toward Ship Cove, a small but important inlet along the jagged coastline of Cape Shore. There, he took on an additional one hundred and seventy-five quintals of dried codfish, six casks of oil, and seven firkins of butter, all bound for St. John’s. The cargo belonged to the Brennans and Tobins, prominent merchants in the area, and Croucher knew the importance of delivering it safely.

By late afternoon, the Clara Mary arrived at Fox Harbour, where he collected eighty quintals of codfish from Thomas Duke, destined for Mr. Patrick Hogan of St. John’s. As dusk fell, the schooner made its way to Long Harbour, where seventy-five more quintals of codfish from a man named Griffiths were loaded onto the vessel, also for Hogan’s account.

For days, the Clara Mary sailed the dangerous waters of Newfoundland’s coastline, moving from one harbour to the next, a dance with the unpredictable Atlantic. But as the schooner headed back toward Placentia, the weather turned. The wind howled, and the waves, once a gentle swell, began to rise with malevolent intent. The ship’s course was set, but fate had other plans.

Disaster Strikes Near Ship Harbour Point

At two o’clock in the afternoon, just as the Clara Mary went into stays, she struck a sunken rock near Ship Harbour Point. The collision was swift and devastating. The hull groaned under the strain, and within minutes, water began to pour in. Despite Croucher’s best efforts to save the vessel, the schooner was taking on water too fast. The pumps were of no use, and the situation grew dire.

Desperate, Croucher ran the schooner aground on a nearby beach, hoping to salvage the cargo and perhaps the vessel itself. The tide was rising, and as the water crept up over the deck, the crew scrambled to save what they could. Oil, butter, and a few quintals of fish were hauled ashore, but most of the precious cargo was still onboard as the sea engulfed the ship. That night, under the rising tide, Croucher and his crew made a makeshift shelter using the mainsail as a tent. As darkness fell, they huddled on the cold beach, keeping a vigilant eye on the wreckage of the Clara Mary and hoping that dawn would bring relief.

But in Newfoundland, even in the isolation of the coast, news traveled fast. By five o’clock, two small jacks (boats) arrived from Little Placentia, their captains, Edmund Power and Thomas Rielley, offering assistance. Croucher struck a deal with the men: they could have half of the fish they managed to save in exchange for their help. It seemed a fair trade, given the circumstances. Leaving his crew to guard the wreck through the night, Croucher boarded Power’s boat and headed to Placentia, where he sent urgent telegrams to Messrs. Fox and Hogan in St. John’s, informing them of the disaster. He also sent word to the Brennans and Tobins, whose cargo was in jeopardy, and requested another craft to help salvage what remained of the fish.

Fishermen Descend on the Wreck

The next morning, Croucher returned to the wreck, but trouble had already arrived. As he passed the wreck site, he saw men in punts—small boats—moving suspiciously close to the ship. Among them was Philip Rielley, a servant of Alexander Burke of Little Placentia. Rielley, it seemed, had come to the wreck under Burke’s orders, intent on looting the stranded schooner.

When Croucher reached the Clara Mary, he discovered that the ship had been ransacked. Much of the rigging had been cut away, and a large portion of the fish was missing. Worse still, word had spread of the wreck, and now men from all over the surrounding harbors were descending on the site, determined to take what they could. Among them were Michael Fitzpatrick and Lewis Movelle of Ship Harbour, as well as Denis Kelly, a well-known figure from Fox Harbour.

Kelly arrived with his crew, including Billy Fowloo (Foley) and Patrick Sparrow, and despite Croucher’s protests, they began hauling fish out of the wreck. Kelly, bold and defiant, ignored Croucher’s warnings. When Croucher mentioned the Brennans’ fish, Kelly shrugged it off, claiming he would give it to them if it truly belonged to them. But by this point, chaos had erupted on the beach, and a mob of men – nearly twenty in total – were taking fish by the handful, defying Croucher and his hired salvagers. Fitzpatrick even threatened Croucher, holding out a pen he had taken from Croucher’s crew in a menacing manner, declaring that he would “put it in him or through him” if anyone tried to stop him. The scene quickly devolved into chaos as men fought over the spoils. Patrick Sparrow, one of Kelly’s crew, shook his fist in Croucher’s face, knocking off his hat and threatening to spill blood if challenged. Fearing for his life, Croucher had no choice but to stand by helplessly as the men looted the wreck.

By the time the Brennans and Tobins arrived in their hired boat craft to claim their cargo, it was too late—everything was gone. The wreck had been stripped of its valuables, and Croucher could do nothing but watch as the spoils of the Clara Mary were carried away.

Looters Confronted

In the days that followed, Croucher sought justice, filing a complaint with the authorities in St. John’s. With the help of the local police, he tracked down the stolen fish. The scene at Michael Fitzpatrick’s home and fishing shed in Ship Harbour was one of tense unease when the police, along with Judge D.W. Prowse and James Croucher, arrived. Fitzpatrick, who had initially denied any

involvement, led them to the woods behind his house, where stolen gear from the Clara Mary—blocks, ropes, and sails—lay hidden beneath a covering of boughs. Some of the gear was concealed along a narrow path, partially visible to anyone passing by, suggesting a hurried attempt to stash it away without much care for thorough concealment.

The atmosphere was heavy with tension as Fitzpatrick pointed out the hidden gear, aware that his earlier denial had collapsed under the weight of the evidence. Judge Prowse, stern but fair, reminded Fitzpatrick that this was his last chance to cooperate before facing harsher penalties. Fitzpatrick’s wife stood nearby, her face etched with fear and resignation, while Croucher surveyed the stolen gear with grim satisfaction. The damage was done, but some semblance of justice was being carried out.

In Fox Harbour, a similar confrontation played out at Denis Kelly’s premises. Kelly, known for his brash confidence, was unflinching as the police and Judge Prowse inspected his fishing stage. When questioned about the stolen fish, Kelly had previously insisted that if the fish belonged to Brennan, he would return it. However, the sight of the cod—damaged and mixed with Kelly’s own catch—was enough to incriminate him. Despite the evidence, Kelly’s swagger remained intact, showing no fear of the consequences. His defiance in the face of authority spoke volumes about the harsh, often lawless reality of life in these coastal communities at the time, where the line between survival and criminality was frequently blurred.

Much of the fish in Fox Harbour and Ship Harbour was already spoiled, ruined by the saltwater and exposure. Forty-two quintals of fish was found in Alexander Burke’s store in Little Placentia, he did not try to conceal that it was there. At Fox Harbour, found in Denis Kelly’s Stage and flake about twenty quintals of fish all in a damaged State. In Ship Harbour, six quintals of fish were found in a damaged state on Lewis Movelle’s flake, and about six quintals on Fitzpatrick’s flake, all of which was taken from the wreck. Philip Rielley declared in his hearing, that he was acting by directions or orders of Alexander Burke, his master, who sent him to the wreck. Fitzpatrick and Kelly would state “not guilty” when they were charged and thus a trial pushed forward.

The trial that followed was a spectacle for the small communities on the western side of Placentia Bay. It was not merely a case of theft but a reflection of the harsh realities of life along the coast. The law, as represented by Judge D.W. Prowse, was a distant and sometimes abstract concept in these remote towns, where survival often trumped morality. The men who looted the Clara Mary were not hardened criminals but fishermen and laborers, men who knew the value of a quintal of codfish and the desperation that came with a failed season.

In the courtroom, the testimonies painted a vivid picture of the wreck and its aftermath. Croucher described the moments after the Clara Mary struck the rock, the scramble to save the cargo, and the despair as men descended on the wreck like scavengers. John Brawders, one of Croucher’s crew, testified to seeing Fitzpatrick and Kelly taking fish and gear from the wreck, describing the threats made by Fitzpatrick and the chaos that ensued as more men arrived to claim their share of the spoils. Police Constable Richard Ryan recounted how Fitzpatrick had eventually led them to the hidden gear, his initial defiance giving way under the pressure of mounting evidence.

A Story of Desperation

The court record, with its dry and detailed account of the events, told only part of the story. Beneath the formal charges and witness testimonies lay a deeper narrative—a tale of survival in a land where the sea giveth and the sea taketh away, where every shipwreck was an opportunity and every storm a reminder of nature’s power. The men who stood trial were a product of their environment, shaped by the unforgiving landscape and the harsh economy of 19th-century Newfoundland.

In the end, justice was served, but the scars of that September day lingered in the minds of those who lived through it. For James Edward Croucher, the Clara Mary was more than just a ship—it was a symbol of the precarious balance between man and nature, a balance that could be upset by a single sunken rock or of men driven by desperation. Newfoundland, with its wild shores and isolated coves, was a place where the boundaries between right and wrong were often blurred by necessity in the 19^th century. And for the men who lived and died by the sea, every voyage was a gamble, with fate as their only guide.

Today, a small cove near the Atlantic Charter site at Ship Harbour Point is named “Croucher’s Cove,” no doubt named after the events of that fateful day in September 1871.