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Été à Tadoussac Summer 1920-1940 Page 7 of 7 Please help! If you have more photos If you have names that I don't have If you have notes I could add If you were there yourself! tomfevans@icloud.com S'il vous plaît aider! Si vous avez plus de photos Si vous avez des noms que je n'ai pas Si vous avez des notes que je pourrais ajouter Si vous y étiez! tomfevans@icloud.com NEXT PAGE PREVIOUS (More) Faces of Tadoussac (Plus) Visages de Tadoussac 1922 Lewis Evans with his mother Emily (Bethune) Evans Jim and Jean Alexander with grandparents Nan (Rhodes) Williams and Lennox Williams, and with their mother Gertrude (Williams) Alexander 1925 Jack Wallace, Nan Wallace (Leggat), Jean Alexander (Aylan-Parker), Jim Alexander Grace Scott 1925 Maye Hudspeth, Kae Evans Isobel (Billy) Morewood 1926 Left Ann Stevenson (Dewart) Right Elizabeth Stevenson (O'Neill) 1926 Erie Languedoc in her garden -- Note! -- Stevenson cottage being built in the background Smut the dog, Emily (Bethune) Evans, Kae Evans, the Stevenson sisters, Elizabeth (O'Neill) (note camera), Maggie (Reilley), Ann (Dewart), May Carrington Smith, Nan Gale at Evans camp at Cap a Jack 1924-25 Dorothy (Rhodes) Evans, Trevor Evans, Phoebe Evans (Skutezky), Ainslie Evans (Stephen) 1927-28 with Trevor Evans Jr 1931 Evans family with Alfred Hovington, Kate Von Iffland, and at right Maye Hudspeth 1931 Evans family with Tim Evans (baby) Kate Von Iffland, Muriel Evans (standing), Monica Rhodes, Betty Morewood (Evans) Lennox Williams with his wife Nan (Rhodes) Williams and his son Sydney Williams 1933 Jean and Jim Alexander, Syndey Williams, Gertrude and General Ron Alexander, Percival Tudor-Hart, Jack Wallace seated Mary (Williams) Wallace, Michael Wallace, Catherine Tudor-Hart, Lennox and Nan Williams Jack Wallace, ?, Betty Morewood (Evans), Bill Morewood, Michael Wallace, ?, ?, Phoebe Evans (Skutezky), Ainslie Evans (Stephen), ? Mary (Williams) Wallace Phoebe, Ainslie, Susie Russell, and Trevor Evans 1934 Iso (Price) & Guy & Ann (Van Alystyn) Smith Elizabeth (Stevenson) and Lionel O'Neill Helen Neilson Maggie (Stevenson) Reilley Catherine (Rhodes) and Percival Tudor-Hart Coosie Price The Alexander family, Gertrude (Williams), Jim, Jean, and Gen Ron Alexander Amatuer Theatre in the shed behind the upper Evans house Standing - Jack Wallace, Jim Alexander, Ron Alexander, Jack Wallace Mary Wallace, Nan Williams, Jean Alexander, Nan Wallace, ?, Lennox Williams, Gertrude Alexander Sydney Williams, Jim Williams, Susan Williams (Webster), ?, Joan Williams (Ballantyne), Michael Wallace Barbara Hampson (Alexander/Campbell) 1936 Jack Wallace, Jim and Jean Alexander, Nan Wallace (Leggat), Michael Wallace, Joan, Susan, and Jim Williams 1936 Standing Frank Morewood, Jim & Gertrude Alexander, ?, Sydney Williams Middle Nan Williams, Henry and Helen Price, Lennox Williams, Enid (Price) and Susan Williams Front Nan Wallace, Joan Williams, Mary Wallace, Ron Alexander 1937 Bill Morewood, Ainslie Evans, Billy Morewood, Jean Alexander, Betty Morewood (Evans) ???, Joan and Susan Williams 1937 Betty Morewood (Evans) and her parents Frank Morewood and Carrie (Rhodes) Morewood The first summer for the new cottage Le premier été pour le nouveau chalet Robin Molson, ?, ?, Verity Molson, Joan Williams (Ballantyne) Enid (Price) Williams with her children Jim, Susan, and Joan Williams and cousins Pam and Ann Smith Pam Smith (McCarter) 1937 Prices, Smiths and Williams Nan Wallace, Peggy T., Betty Morewood, Susie Russell, Joan Shaw, Mary Del Robertson, Mary Fowler, Jean Alexander, Jean? Bar Hampson, Helen Davis, Peggie Durnford, Mabel Warburton, Ainslie Evans Mary Hampson (Price), Ted Price, Mary Fowler Nan Wallace (Leggat) Jack Molson, Doris (Carrington Smith) Molson, Arthur Price Susan Williams, Ann Smith, Joan and Sheila Williams, Pam Smith, Jim Williams Bill Stephen Verity Molson, Eve, Ann and Pam Smith 1941 Sheila Williams (Campbell) and Penny Smith (Younger) PREVIOUS NEXT PAGE La FIN de L'été à Tadoussac 1920-1940 Tu l'as fait! Bien joué! 200 Photos Mais pas la fin Continuez ... >>> The END of Summer in Tadoussac 1920-1940 You made it! Well Done! 200 Photos But not the end Keep going...>>>

Circa 1880, the first Hotel Tadoussac and Dufferin House are built but no church, several houses on the beach Vers 1880, le premier Hôtel Tadoussac et Maison Dufferin sont construits, mais pas l'église, plusieurs maisons sur la plage 1940's - New hotel, large church, houses on the beach but not the same ones! Nouvel hôtel, grande église, des maisons sur la plage, mais pas les mêmes! 1940's - New hotel, large church, houses on the beach but not the same ones! Nouvel hôtel, grande église, des maisons sur la plage, mais pas les mêmes!

Grandchildren of William Rhodes, Quebec & Tadoussac, Quebec MORE of Tadoussac Grandchildren of William Rhodes and Anne Dunn Keep going! Lots more photos, more or less in chronological order, of the 18 Grandchildren, mostly in Tadoussac. Hopefully you can recognize them now! 1890 Frank and John Morewood, Lilybell Rhodes, Nancy Morewood, Carrie Rhodes (Morewood) and 3 babies 1891 Carrie Rodes (Morewood) and her mother Carrie Rhodes, Minnie (Rhodes) Morewood with Nancy and Frank, at Benmore 1890 Frank and Nancy Morewood, Jim Williams 1891 Jim Williams, Frank and Nancy Morewood, Lilybell Rhodes, at Brynhyfryd 1891 John and Frank Morewood, Carrie Rhodes (Morewood) (30 years later she married Frank...) 1892 Five Women (2 on left probably "help") and six kids on the beach below Brynhyfryd, what a zoo it must have been! 1892 Nancy Morewood and Jimmy Williams with Granny Anne Rhodes 1893 Charlie Rhodes and Uncle James Rhodes (William's brother) at Benmore 1893 Granny's 70th birthday (Col William died 2 years ago). Its a big family, 11 grandchildren in the picture. 1893 Granny's 70th birthday, same day. Kneeling in front is William Rhodes, Jr, Carrie's father. He lost his arm in an accident with a locomotive he was delivering to Mexico. Maybe he took the photo above, and Godfrey took this one? 1893 CharlieRhodes, Minnie Morewood, John Morewood, Carrie Rhodes mother and Carrie daughter, not sure, Frank Morewood in Tadoussac at Brynhyfryd, an amazing photo 1893 Jim and Mary Williams, Nancy, Frank and John Morewood, Carrie and 2 babies! You can see right through Brynhyfryd to the hills Three photos probably all at Benmore, 1894 GrannyCharlieDorothyNanMaryJim 1894 CharlieLilyJimmyMary?inWhite 1894 GrannyFrankJimmyCharlieMary For some reason no photos for 3 years, the next are 1897, kids are going up! 1897 Frank, John and Billy Morewood and Charlie Rhodes 1897 back Dorothy Rhodes (Evans), Nancy and Billy Morewood front Gertrude Williams (Alexander) Mary Williams (Wallace) The Williams kids 1899 Jimmy 11, Gertrude 8, Mary 9, Sidney the baby 1899 Bobby Morewood, Frank Morewood, Dorothy Rhodes 1899 back Nancy, Catherine, Mary middle Dorothy, Billy, Gertrude front Jimmy, Bobby, Bob Campbell Bob Campbell was a family friend who lived opposite Benmore in Quebec 1899 adults maybe Nan (Rhodes) Williams, maybe Katie (VonIffland) Rhodes, for sure Minnie (Rhodes) Morewood kids Billy Morewood Mary Williams (Wallace) Dorothy Rhodes (Evans) Nancy Morewood Bobby Morewood Fabulous outfits, hats 2 dolls 1899 Dorothy and Billy with Hem who was a friend of Granny's and spent a lot of time with the family 1899 Charlie, Nancy, Dorothy, Billy (same day) 1899 Nancy and Mary with their dolls 1899 Gertrude, Nancy, Dorothy 1899 Nancy Catherine Mary Billy Dorothy Gertrude 1902 Frank Morewood and Jim Williams Gertrude and Dorothy with the horse and buggy at Benmore Nancy Morewood, Catherine Rhodes, Frank Morewood circa 1901 2 photos from the same picnic on the beach at the far end of Moulin Baude. There was a sawmill up the hill and for a while there was a dock built out of slab wood from the mill. above back row Frank and john Morewood, Lily and Frances with their father Francis Rhodes, Dorothy with her father Army Rhodes front Nancy, Catherine and Charlie at right Nancy and Catherine, note the 2 others in the distance! A Fishing Expedition Lennox Williams and M. Poitras Jimmy, Charlie and John All they caught was 2 small fish? left Carrie Rhodes (Morewood) and others below Brynhyfryd below Catherine and Nancy It's a cool day on the Saguenay, on Therrien's yawl "Laura" back Charlie Rhodes, John Morewood, Phillippe Therrien, Jim Williams, Army Rhodes front Gertrude Williams, Billy Morewood, Dorothy Rhodes, Catherine Rhodes, Nancy Morewood 1902 Brynhyfryd back Carrie Rhodes and her mother Carrie, ?, Mr Jamison, Nancy Morewood, Hem Irvine, Bob Campbell, Lily Rhodes (Godfrey's wife) middle Granny Anne Dunn Rhodes front Billy Morewood, Nattalie Dodds, Dorothy Rhodes, Catherine Rhodes, Bobby Morewood NEXT PAGE How do I know who's who? It helps when I get this, thanks to somebody for writing the date and names! Who's in both photos? Bobby, Billy and Nancy Morewood, and Bob Campbell! 1902 back Frank Morewood, Bob Campbell, Sidney Williams, Minnie Morewood, her kids Bobby and Billy, Katie and Army Rhodes, Nan and Lennox Williams front Charlie Rhodes, unknown person, Nancy Morewood and Mary Williams on Donat Therrien's yacht "Laura" Note! 3 kids in the front row have cameras! Where are those photos? Charlie Rhodes, Jim Williams Billy Morewood, Dorothy Rhodes and a friend 1902 Godfrey Rhodes, Minnie Morewood, Dorothy Rhodes, unknown, Billy Morewood, Carrie Rhodes Pretending to launch a norshore canoe 1902 Brynhyfryd back John Morewood, Granny, Katie Rhodes, Hem, Mary Williams middle Minnie, Nancy, Bobby Morewood, Army Rhodes front unknown, Gertrude, Sidney and Nan Williams, Charlie Rhodes ~1905 Dorothy Rhodes, Jim, Nan and Lennox Williams, Minny and Bobby Morewood, unknown, Mary Williams front Sidney and Gertrude Williams, Granny, Nancy Morewood Frank, Bobby, Minnie Morewood, at the seawall below Brynhyfryd Lennox Williams, Dorothy Rhodes, Gertrude and Jim Williams, Bobby Morewood, Nan and Syd Williams ~1904 Bob Campbell, MaryWilliams, CarrieRhodes, Nancy Morewood on the street in Tadoussac Bobby and Nancy Morewood with Carrie Rhodes 1904 NancyMorewood and Mary Williams 1904 Mary Bob Sid Gertrude Nancy Mary Williams and Harriet Ross 1905 BillyMorewood, ??? Carrie Rhodes, Gertrude Williams, John Morewood 1905 Billy, Dorothy, Gertrude 1905 Billy, Mary, Dorothy, Minnie, Nancy 1905 Charles Jenning who is Catherine Rhodes (Tudor Hart)'s actual brother, she was adopted by Godfrey and Lily Rhodes. Nancy Morewood and Catherine are visiting the Jennings family somewhere in the US. Nancy Morewood, HarrietRoss, BobCampbell ~1905 Nancy, Catherine, Harriet Ross ~1905 Minny Gertrude Granny Nancy Catherine, Godfrey, Nancy Swimming in the bay! Cool looking boats in the background 1905 right Monica Rhodes and Gertrude Williams below Army Rhodes, Frank Morewood, Dorothy Rhodes, Granny Rhodes, Monica Rhodes, Mary Williams, Nancy Morewood at Brynhyfryd ~1906 Dorothy Rhodes, HarrietRoss, Billy Morewood, Lilybell Rhodes ~1908 Monica Rhodes, Sidney and Gertrude Williams, Katie, Dorothy and Charlie Rhodes Katie is Armitage Rhodes' second wife, Monica their daughter, Dorothy and Charlie his older children 1908 Sept 7 Granny Anne Rhodes' 85th at Benmore? back Lennox Williams 49. his son Jim 20, Nancy Morewood 20, Mary Williams 18 and her mother Nan 47, Billy Morewood 17, her mother Minny 51 and brother Frank Morewood 22 front Gertrude 17 and Sidney Williams 9, Hem, Granny 85, Bobby Morewood 11, Monica Rhodes 4 and her dad Army 60, Dorothy Rhodes 16 All 6 of the Williams family, 5 Morewoods missing dad Harry and oldest son John, Army with 2 of his children but not his wife. Harriet Ross, William Rhodes, Gertrude Williams. Billy Morewood, Sidney Williams, Minny Morewood, Mary Williams Prayers on the porch at Brynhyfryd! back Lennox and Sidney Williams front Nan Williams, , Dorothy Rhodes, Gertrude Williams, Evelyn Meredith (Jim's future wife) Mary Williams Mary, Lennox, Gertrude, Dorothy left Mary Williams, Carrie Rhodes, Nancy Morewood below Billy Morewood, Gertrude Williams, Punting Dorothy Rhodes, Gertrude Williams and others, probably Jim Williams at right Dorothy Rhodes and Harriet Ross Minny Morewood, Dorothy Rhodes, and Mrs Ross (Shirt's mother, if you know who Shirt is) Catherine Rhodes with Monica and baby Armitage (Peter) and their grandmother Mrs Von Iffland Siblings Frank, Bobby and Nancy Morewood with Sidney Williams in the foreground, lunch on the beach! 1905 Monica Rhodes and Gertrude Williams Harriet Ross, Dorothy Rhodes, Catherine and her father Godfrey Rhodes, together on a trip to Europe! The girls are all sidesaddle. Carrie Rhodes, Dorothy Rhodes, Billy Morewood l to r 1910 Dorothy (Dorsh) Rhodes (Evans) 18, Carrie Rhodes (Morewood) 29, Billy 19 and Nancy 22 Morewood 1910 Lennox and his kids Mary, Gert and Sid Williams, on the beach, they had a great seawall! Gone now ~1911 Monica, Dorothy, Katie and Peter Rhodes with Rachel Webb (Stairs) somewhere ~1914 Monica Rhodes, Nancy Morewood, Peter Rhodes, Gertrude Williams Dorothy and Gertrude and others and a couple of rowboats, somewhere on the Saguenay ~ 1910 Rachel Webb (Stairs), Gertrude Williams (Alexander) and Dorothy Rhodes (Evans) According to Ainslie (Evans) Stephen these 3 were at school together and this was how the Stairs family started coming to Tadoussac. More info if you have it please! ~1914 The Williams family Mary, Sid, Jim, Lennox, Nan and Gertrude, with Jim's future wife Evelyn Meredith (sitting, with the tie) and cousin Bobby Morewood. The Merediths had a summer place in St Patrice (near Riviere du Loup). Fun having a second photo taken at the same time, with the addition of an unknown lady (probably a maid) and 2 dogs! 1917 Nan Williams with Lilybell and her sister Gertrude Rhodes, the only photo I have of Gertrude 1917 Nan and Lennox Williams with Lily and Frances and May in the White Boat! The next 15 photos are from an album put together by Sidney Williams, starting in 1917 when he was 18, and he's in many of them. Bobby Morewood on the left, Sid on the right below Gertrude Williams and Lilybell Rhodes The photo below was taken at Cap a Jack, a cabin 10 miles up the Saguenay belonging to Dean Lewis Evans, who is on the right. They would have travelled in the Evans motorboat "Minota" 1917 WillaLennSidAdeleMay?NanLilyBellStCathBay 1918SydDoroLilyRachelGert right ~1923 Billy Morewood, Althea, Gertrude (Williams) below Bobby and Billy Morewood, Deane, Althea, MissYoung, Gertrude and Ron Alexander right Carrie Rhodes and Sid, Carrie's parents William and Carrie in the back seat below Phoebe Evans (Skutezky) and Nancy Morewood ~1923 Saguenay boat trip on Therrien yacht right Gertrude and Ron Alexander, Bobby Morewood below Sidney, friend, Gertrude and Lilybell ~1924 Katie Rhodes, Lilybell and Frances Rhodes, and Katie's daughter Armitage/Peter ~1926 Frances Rhodes, Billy Morewood, Jack, Nan and their mother Mary (Williams) Wallace ~1926 the guys are Lex Smith (Guy's brother) Bobby Morewood and Sidney Williams the girls are Althea, Ruth, and friend right ~1930 Dr McLean (who sold Tivoli to Dewarts), Erie Languedoc (mother of Adele, cousin of Russells, Stevensons) and Frank Morewood below 1932 Totie (Le Moine) Rhodes,Frances and Lilybell, Monica Rhodes ~1935 on the porch of Brynhyfryd back row Jean and Jim Alexander, Sidney Williams, Gertrude and Ron Alexander, Percy Tudor-Hart, Jack Wallace front row Mary and Michael Wallace, Catherine Tudor-Hart, Lennox and Nan Williams Brynhyfryd again, a year later? 1936? Perhaps the entire Williams Family? back row Jack Wallace, Jim and Ron Alexander, Jack Wallace middle row Mary Wallace, Nan Williams, Jean Alexander, Nan Wallace (Leggat), Enid (Price) Williams, Lennox Williams, Gertrude Alaxander front row Jim, Sid and Susan Williams (Webster), probably Ronnie Alexander, Joan Williams (Ballantyne), Michael Wallace ~1938 back not sure, Lilybell Rhodes, Jean Alexander (Aylan-Parker) front Ainslie Evans (Stephen), Betty Morewood (Evans). Phoebe Evans (Skutezky) teenagers! ~1936 with some Prices back unknown, Frank Morewood, Jim & Gertrude Alexander, unknown, Sidney Williams middle Nan Williams, Henry and ? Price, Lennox Williams, Enid (Price) Williams with Susan front Nan Wallace, Joan Williams, Mary Wallace, and probably Ronnie Alexander 1943 Brynhyfryd Photos taken with different cameras! l to r Jack Wallace, Billy Morewood, Ronnie Alexander, Mary Wallace, Sheila Williams (Campbell). The two kids behind Lennox Williams are war refugees, Simon Wallace and Sylvia Dixon, not related. Joan Williams (Ballantyne), Enid and Sidney Williams, holding a camera. Below Susan Williams (Webster) has joined the photo on the left, so she probably took the first photo, she has a camera! Ronnie looks a bit less unhappy, and Jack has switched sides, Sid has gone to take the picture. Lennox has put on his hat for the sun. ~1945 Phoebe Evans (Skutezky), Dorsh (Rhodes) Evans, Ainslie Evans (Stephen) at the cottage in Tadoussac. Billy, Monica, Lily ~1950 Sidney Williams (2nd from left) with the Morewood Family, Margaret, Bobby, Harry and Frank. ~1955 Billy Morewood, Anne Hargreaves (Cumyn), Frances Rhodes, and Anne's mother Armitage/Peter (Rhodes) Hargreaves ~1951 Gertrude Rhodes (Williams), Lilybell Rhodes, Jean (Alexander) and John Aylan-Parker, Joan Williams (Ballantyne), Nan (Wallace) Leggat, her mother Mary (Williams) Wallace and grandfather Lennox Williams Circa 1957 Our Aunt Bill was always cracking jokes, that's me Tom Evans and brother Alan, sister Anne, Granny Carrie on the Bonne Chance. Anne's friend Jane Kirkpatrick in the lower photo. ~1960 we have colour! Nora Ellwood, Mary and Lennox, Lilybell, Jean, son Ted and Mike Wallace on the wharf in Tadoussac. Leaving on the boat? 1961 My Granny Carrie (Rhodes) Morewood 80th Birthday party. Only 3 of the Rhodes grandchildren are there but familiar faces from the 1960's. That's me Tom Evans and my brother Alan giving her a birthday card before the party! below Grace Scott, Dorsh (Rhodes) Evans, Carrie (Rhodes) Morewood, Sidney Williams right Jack Molson and Sidney Williams Enid (Price) Williams, Mrs Turcot (background), Doris Molson, Rachel (Webb) Stairs, Carrie (Rhodes) Morewood Phoebe (Evans) Skutezky, Betty (Morewood) Evans, Ainslie (Evans) Stephen, and my parents Betty and Lewis Evans A nippy day on the Saguenay on the Bonne Chance! Miss Maloney (from BCS) with Carrie (Rhodes) Morewood and Billy Morewood Cousins getting together in a favourite spot! Dorothy (Dorsh) (Rhodes) Evans, Billy Morewood, and Carrie (Rhodes) Morewood Well done you made it to the end!! Remember that this was all about the 18 RHODES GRANDCHILDREN? Of course they are all gone now, here's the list in order of DOD. Jimmy Williams 1888-1916 28 Gertrude Rhodes 1896-1926 30 John Morewood 1884-1944 60 Frank Morewood 1886-1949 63 Nancy Morewood 1888-1946 58 Charley Rhodes 1890-? Gertrude Williams Alexander 1891-? Bobby Morewood 1897-1964 67 Armitage (Peter) Rhodes Hargreaves 1909-1969 60 Catherine Rhodes 1888-1972 84 Carrie Rhodes Morewood 1881-1972 91 Sidney Williams 1899-1972 73 Lily Bell Rhodes 1889-1975 86 Frances Rhodes 1892-1976 84 Isobel (Billy) Morewood 1891-1977 86 Dorothy Rhodes Evans 1892-1977 85 Monica Rhodes 1904-1985 81 Mary Williams Wallace 1890-1989 99 132 Please send me a note if you made it to the end and it made any sense! This hit counter counts hits on this page!

Tadoussac Historical Photos and Stories - History of Tadoussac PREVIOUS Mélange - Odds and Ends NEXT PAGE Meteorite hit Charlevoix - 100 million years before the Dinosaurs La météorite a frappé Charlevoix - 100 millions d'années avant les dinosaures The Charlevoix Crater is a large eroded meteorite impact crater. Only part of the crater is exposed at the surface, the rest being covered by the St Lawrence River. The original crater is estimated to have been 54 kilometres (34 mi) in diameter and the age is estimated to be 342 ± 15 million years (Mississippian). The projectile was probably a stony asteroid, at least 2 kilometres (1.2 mi) in diameter, and weighing an estimated 15 billion tonnes. Mont des Éboulements, situated in the exact centre of the crater, is interpreted as the central uplift, a consequence of elastic rebound. The impact origin of Charlevoix crater was first realized in 1965 after the discovery of many shatter cones in the area. Today, 90% of the people of Charlevoix live within this crater. Below, approaching La Malbaie from the east, The hills of Les Eboulements are visible on the horizon, this is the "uplift". Le Cratère de Charlevoix est un grand cratère érodé d'impact de météorite. Seule une partie du cratère est exposée à la surface, le reste étant couvert par le Fleuve St-Laurent. Le cratère d'origine est estimée à 54 km (34 mi) de diamètre et l'âge est estimé à 342 ± 15 millions d'années (Mississippiennes). Le projectile était probablement un astéroïde pierreux, au moins 2 kilomètres (1,2 miles) de diamètre, et pesant environ 15 milliards de tonnes. Mont des Éboulements, situé dans le centre exact du cratère, est interprété comme le soulèvement central, une conséquence de rebond élastique. L'origine de Charlevoix cratère d'impact a été réalisée en 1965 après la découverte de nombreux cônes d'éclatement dans la région. Aujourd'hui, 90% des gens de Charlevoix vivent dans ce cratère. Ci-dessous, l'approche de La Malbaie de l'est, les collines des Éboulements sont visibles à l'horizon, c'est le « soulèvement ». The High Tide Club This "club" is easy to join and has many members. You may be a member without knowing it. All you have to do, is look at a tide table and figure out when the biggest high tide in a cycle is, then go somewhere and observe the tide. This leads to comments like "wow, look how high the tide is!" The club was created by Alan Evans, who has done this many times. He even went to Passe Pierre once at night to observe the highest tide. A good time to enjoy the high tide is the twice annual drydock event, when the boats leave the drydock in the spring and return in the fall. This event usually happens at night, and is a good excuse for a big party in the drydock. It always coincides with the highest tides so the water is as deep as possible. Technical Note: The highest tides occur just after the full and new moons, when the alignment of the sun, earth and moon maximizes the sloshing effect that causes the tides. The high tide can be enhanced by a storm. The low pressure of the air actually results in higher water levels. Easterly winds push the water up the St Lawrence, raising water levels. The combined effect is called a storm surge, and can result in water levels much higher that expected. Unfortunately the biggest high tides in the summer occur at night, but at other times of the year they can occur in the daytime. La Club Marée Haute Ce «club» est facile à rejoindre et a plusieurs membres. Vous pouvez être un membre sans le savoir. Tout ce que vous avez à faire , c'est de regarder une table des marées et de comprendre quand la plus grande marée haute dans un cycle, puis aller quelque part et observer la marée. Cela conduit à des commentaires comme "wow, regardez la hauteur de la marée! "Le club a été créé par Alan Evans , qui a fait à de nombreuses reprises . Il est même allé Passe Pierre une fois la nuit pour observer la plus haute marée .Un bon moment pour profiter de la marée haute est l'événement annuel de la cale sèche, quand les bateaux quittent la cale sèche au printemps et le retour à l'automne. Cet événement se produit généralement la nuit, et est une bonne excuse pour une grande fête dans la cale sèche. Il coïncide toujours avec les plus hautes marées afin que l'eau est aussi profond que possible. Note technique: Les plus hautes marées coïncident avec les lunes pleines et nouvelles, lorsque l'alignement du soleil, de la terre et de la lune maximise l'effet de ballottement qui provoque les marées. La marée haute peut être améliorée par une tempête. La faible pression de l'air résulte en fait des niveaux d'eau plus élevés. Les vents d'est poussent l'eau vers le haut Saint-Laurent, ce qui soulève des niveaux d'eau . L'effet combiné est appelé une onde de tempête , et peut entraîner des niveaux d'eau beaucoup plus élevés que prévu. Malheureusement, les plus grandes marées élevées en été se produisent la nuit, mais à d'autres moments de l'année ils peuvent se produire dans la journée . November 2011 One of the highest tides ever seen in Tadoussac, the water flowed over the road by the boathouse and down into the drydock! Photos by Paulin Hovington. L'une des plus hautes marées jamais vu aTadoussac, l'eau coulait sur la route par le hangar à bateaux et descendre dans la cale sèche! What is that chunk of concrete and steel on the beach just beyond Pointe Rouge? It doesn't look like it could have drifted in on the tide! Photo by David Evans Quel est ce morceau de béton et d'acier sur la plage juste au-delà de la Pointe Rouge? Il ne semble pas que cela pourrait avoir dérivé dans la marée! from Patrick R. O'Neill: Actual story of concrete berm: Many years ago, when the current lighthouse was being built on Prince's Shoal, there was a need for gravel to stabilize the structure on the river bed. The idea was that gravel could be brought down from the gravel pit and loaded on to barges moored off Pointe Rouge. The berm was placed where it now sits by the contractor so that a bulldozer could be offloaded from a barge and made to climb up the incline to the top of Pointe Rouge. The berm was placed at the foot of a sand path from the beach to the first plateau. This hope proved false as the incline was too steep for a bulldozer. The idea was abandoned in favour of trucking the gravel from the quarry down to the CSL wharf, where it was dumped into barges. (That was a noisy and dusty summer as the rocks tumbled down steel chutes from the wharf to the barges!). The berm was not removed after the failure of the experiment, and it marks the amount of beach erosion that has occurred over the past 50 years. Just imagine how much sand has washed away from the hill to leave the berm so alone on the beach! My mother told me this story. de Patrick R. O'Neill : Histoire réelle de la berme en béton : Il ya plusieurs années , lorsque le phare actuel a été construit sur Shoal du Prince , il y avait un besoin de gravier pour stabiliser la structure sur le lit de la rivière . L'idée était que le gravier pourrait être ramené de la gravière et chargé sur des barges amarrées au large de Pointe Rouge . La berme a été placé là où il se trouve maintenant par l'entrepreneur afin qu'un bulldozer peut être déchargé à partir d'une barge et fait monter la pente au sommet de la Pointe Rouge . La berme a été placé au pied d'un chemin de sable de la plage pour le premier plateau . Cet espoir s'est révélé faux que la pente était trop raide pour un bulldozer . L'idée a été abandonnée au profit du camionnage gravier de la carrière au quai de CSL , où il a été jeté dans des barges . ( C'était un été bruyant et poussiéreux comme les roches dégringolaient chutes d'acier du quai pour les péniches ! ) .La berme n'a pas été retiré après l'échec de l'expérience, et il marque le montant de l'érosion de la plage qui a eu lieu au cours des 50 dernières années . Imaginez la quantité de sable a emporté de la colline de quitter la berme donc seul sur la plage ! Ma mère m'a raconté cette histoire . The sand comes and goes! 2016 Le sable vient et va! 2016 NEXT PAGE

Wedding picture of Fanny Eliza Pope and William Edward Russell. Quebec City 1874. Their children were Florence Loisa Maud, Willis, Fredercik, Leslie and Mabel Emily. William Edward Russell 1850-1893 & Fanny Eliza Pope NEXT PAGE PREVIOUS Fanny Eliza Pope on a bench in the backyard of Spruce Cliff.

Saguenay Geology The Saguenay River Geology[edit ] The geological origins of Saguenay Fjord National Park can be traced to the Grenville orogeny during the Precambrian era. This event is considered to be the beginnings to the Laurentian mountains . Around 200 million years ago, a rock basal complex between a north fault and a south fault collapsed, creating the Saguenay Graben . The graben was 250 kilometres (160 mi) long and 50 kilometres (31 mi) wide. During the last glacial period , the region was covered by ice sheets two to three kilometers deep. The ice sheets cut deep into the Saguenay graben, gouging the fjord in the process. The weight of the ice sheets also caused the region to sink. When the claciers melted around 10,000 years ago, the graben was flooded by seawater. The subsequent post-glacial rebound lifted the terrain, shaping the fjord valleys in the process. Saguenay Graben From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia I've always wondered about the Geology of the Saguenay. There's lots on the internet, this is from Wikipedia! Géologie Les origines géologiques du parc national du Fjord-du-Saguenay remontent à l'orogenèse de Grenville au cours de l'ère précambrienne. Cet événement est considéré comme le début des montagnes laurentiennes. Il y a environ 200 millions d'années, un complexe basal rocheux situé entre une faille nord et une faille sud s'est effondré, créant le graben du Saguenay. Le graben mesurait 250 kilomètres (160 mi) de long et 50 kilomètres (31 mi) de large. Au cours de la dernière période glaciaire, la région était recouverte de calottes glaciaires de deux à trois kilomètres de profondeur. Les calottes glaciaires ont entaillé profondément le graben du Saguenay, creusant ainsi le fjord. Le poids des calottes glaciaires a aussi causé l'affaissement de la région. Lors de la fonte des glaciers, il y a environ 10 000 ans, le graben a été inondé par l'eau de mer. Le rebond postglaciaire qui a suivi a soulevé le terrain, façonnant ainsi les vallées des fjords. The Saguenay Graben is a rift valley or graben in the geological Grenville Province of southern Quebec , Canada . It is an elongated flat-bottomed basin 250 km (155 mi) long and 50 km (31 mi) wide, bounded by normal faults running parallel to its length. Formation of the Saguenay Graben The time of formation of the faults related to the Saugenay Graben is still under debate because it is difficult to accurately measure the age of faulting. Evidence suggests it was either the opening of the Iapetus Ocean (600-400 Ma), or the opening of the Atlantic Ocean (195-170 Ma) that caused the faulting. During the opening of one of these oceans, fragmentation of the landmass occurred creating two fault planes, one to the North and one to the South. The resulting bedrock between dropped down along the normal faults, creating the Saguenay Graben. The extent of these faults are only known at the surface and therefore their extension and shape at depth is unknown. The faults associated with the Saguenay Graben have been the source for earthquakes , including the 1988 Saguenay earthquake . Glaciations The area was covered by ice sheets several times throughout the Pleistocene . The graben was located relatively parallel to the ice sheet movement and therefore caused it to become a preferred travel pathway for ice. The glaciers cut into the graben and widened it in some places as well as making it considerable deeper in others. After the retreat of the final ice sheet, there was considerable isostatic rebound . The total amount of rebound varied from 140 m on the north side and 120 m on the south side. Present day geography The lowlands within the graben have an altitude of between 100 and 200 m. To the east there is the Kenogami threshold which is characterized by having an altitude of 200 to 260 m. This threshold splits the graben into two physiographic regions; the Lac Saint-Jean region to the west and the Saguenay region to the east. The plateau around the Graben is between 200 and 800 m in altitude. The Saguenay River as well as the Lac Saint-Jean are both contained within the Saguenay Graben. Le Graben du Saguenay est une vallée du Rift ou graben située dans la province géologique de Grenville, dans le sud du Québec, au Canada. Il s'agit d'un bassin allongé à fond plat de 250 km (155 mi) de long et 50 km (31 mi) de large, délimité par des failles normales parallèles à sa longueur. Formation du Graben du Saguenay L'époque de formation des failles liées au graben de Saugenay fait encore l'objet de débats, car il est difficile de mesurer avec précision l'âge des failles. Les preuves suggèrent que c'est soit l'ouverture de l'océan Iapetus (600-400 Ma), soit l'ouverture de l'océan Atlantique (195-170 Ma) qui a causé la faille. Lors de l'ouverture de l'un de ces océans, la fragmentation de la masse continentale s'est produite, créant deux plans de failles, un au nord et un au sud. Le substrat rocheux résultant s'est effondré le long des failles normales, créant le Graben du Saguenay. L'étendue de ces failles n'est connue qu'en surface et donc leur extension et leur forme en profondeur sont inconnues. Les failles associées au graben du Saguenay ont causé des tremblements de terre, dont le tremblement de terre du Saguenay en 1988. Glaciations La région a été recouverte de calottes glaciaires à plusieurs reprises tout au long du Pléistocène. Le graben était situé relativement parallèlement au mouvement de la calotte glaciaire et en faisait donc une voie de déplacement privilégiée pour la glace. Les glaciers ont creusé le fossé et l'ont élargi à certains endroits et l'ont rendu considérablement plus profond à d'autres. Après le retrait de la dernière calotte glaciaire, un rebond isostatique considérable s'est produit. La quantité totale de rebond variait entre 140 m du côté nord et 120 m du côté sud. Géographie actuelle Les basses terres du graben ont une altitude comprise entre 100 et 200 m. À l'est se trouve le seuil de Kenogami qui se caractérise par une altitude de 200 à 260 m. Ce seuil divise le graben en deux régions physiographiques ; la région du Lac Saint-Jean à l'ouest et la région du Saguenay à l'est. Le plateau autour du Graben est situé entre 200 et 800 m d'altitude. La rivière Saguenay ainsi que le lac Saint-Jean sont tous deux contenus dans le graben du Saguenay.

PREVIOUS Goelettes NEXT PAGE Listen to the Foghorn in the 1970's! Click on the button to hear Tadoussac Harbour Sounds recorded by Patrick O'Neill Waves and Foghorns! Foggy Night at the Beach - Partick O'Neill 00:00 / 00:00 Cliquez sur le bouton pour entendre Sons du Port de Tadoussac enregistré par Patrick O'Neill Des Vagues et des Cornes de Brume! Two terrific photographs from the 1940's. Above, one goelette down to its ribs and others that may be still in use. Lots of boats, canoes, and interesting buildings along the beach. Right, the cover of a book by Camille Pacreau who took many great photos of Tadoussac. Is it the same wreck, if so it has rotated 90 degrees!? Deux superbes photographies des années 40. Ci-dessus, une goelette détériorée et d'autres qui peuvent être encore utilisées. Beaucoup de bateaux, de canoës et de bâtiments intéressants le long de la plage. À droite, la couverture d'un livre de Camille Pacreau qui a pris de très belles photos de Tadoussac. Est-ce la même épave, si c'est le cas, elle a tourné de 90 degrés ! My father, Lewis Evans, was fascinated by the boats in Tadoussac, especially the goelettes. He wrote this magazine article in 1979. Mon père, Lewis Evans, était fasciné par les bateaux de Tadoussac, en particulier les goelettes. Il a écrit cet article de magazine en 1979. JEAN RICHARD The JEAN RICHARD was the last goélette to be built, and one of the biggest. There was an NFB film made about the construction. It often wintered in the dry dock in Tadoussac. The remains can still be found, in Ottawa ! Read on>> Le JEAN RICHARD fut la dernière goélette à être construite et l’une des plus grandes. Un film de l'ONF a été réalisé sur la construction. Il hivernait souvent à la cale sèche de Tadoussac. On peut encore trouver l'épave, à Ottawa! Lire la suite >> The best collection of photos of Goelettes is the Facebook page "Amateur Goelette de Bois du Quebec" (use the button). I've included a few photos and screen shots from this great site! Thanks to everyone for the photos La meilleure collection de photos de Goelettes est la page Facebook "Goelette amateur de Bois du Québec" (utilisez le bouton). J'ai inclus quelques photos et captures d'écran de ce site formidable! Merci à tous pour les photos! Amateur Goelette de Bois du Quebec Paul-Emile Carré, on the left and Philippe Lavoie during the launch of the last schooner of the St. Lawrence: JEAN RICHARD in 1959 JEAN RICHARD, built in Petite-Riviere-Saint-Francois in 1958, was the last Goelette from Charlevoix la JEAN RICHARD, construite a Petite-Riviere-Saint-Francois en 1958, fut la derniere goelette provenant de Charlevoix In 1965 I went to Tadoussac with my family and of course we visited the dry dock, that's me and my brothers on the left, photos by Lewis Evans. The Jean Richard is the biggest! En 1965, je suis allé à Tadoussac avec ma famille et, bien sûr, nous avons visité la cale sèche, c’est moi et mes frères à gauche, des photos de Lewis Evans. Le Jean Richard est le plus gros! JEAN RICHARD was renamed VILLE DE VANIER and used as a tour boat on the Ottawa River. Eventually it sank and was dumped in a stream off the Ottawa River, in Lac Leamy Park. JEAN RICHARD a été renommé VILLE DE VANIER et utilisé comme bateau-mouche sur la rivière des Outaouais. Finalement, il a coulé et a été déversé dans un ruisseau au bord de la rivière des Outaouais, dans le parc du lac Leamy. JEAN RICHARD is still there! Photos from Google Earth JEAN RICHARD est toujours là! Photos de Google Earth If you want to see it, it's easy! Park at the entrance to the graveyard on Boulevard Fournier in Gatineau (Hull). Cross the road and then the pedestrian Bridge , and walk along the shore to the site. It's not visible from the bridge, you have to go through a small forest. It's very impressive! (Summer or Fall is best, when water levels are low) Si vous voulez le voir, c'est facile! Garez-vous à l'entrée du cimetière du boulevard Fournier à Gatineau (Hull). Traverser la route puis le pont piétonnier et longer le rivage jusqu'au site. Ce n'est pas visible depuis le pont, il faut traverser une petite forêt. C'est très impressionnant! (L’été ou l’automne est préférable lorsque les niveaux d’eau sont bas) I went there and took these photos, in SEPTEMBER 2019. There was this object sitting on the bank, VERY heavy, probably lead ballast? That's probably why the Jean Richard has stayed in one place for 30 years. J'y suis allé et j'ai pris ces photos, en septembre 2019. Il y avait cet objet assis sur la rive, TRÈS lourd, probablement du lest de plomb? C'est probablement pourquoi le Jean Richard est au même endroit depuis 30 ans. NFB Film about the construction and launch of JEAN RICHARD. It is 30 minutes long but very interesting. Check out 25:25 for the launch JEAN RICHARD Film de l'ONF sur la construction et le lancement de JEAN RICHARD. C'est 30 minutes mais très intéressant. Départ à 25h25 pour le lancement H.A.B. The H.A.B. rested against the Tadoussac wharf in the late 1960's, where many photos were taken, several by me! The bottom of the boat can still be found on the beach near the Clay Cliffs at low tide. Le H.A.B. reposé contre le quai de Tadoussac à la fin des années 1960, où de nombreuses photos ont été prises, plusieurs par moi! Le fond du bateau peut encore être trouvé sur la plage près des Clay Cliffs à marée basse. Port Alfred, Saguenay, circa 1960 The H.A.B. in the dry dock at Tadoussac, with the yawl of Lewis Evans, circa 1965. Le H.A.B. en cale sèche à Tadoussac, avec le yawl de Lewis Evans, vers 1965. LOUIS G. In about 1958 the "Jamboree" (seen in the corner) cruised the St Lawrence with Lewis Evans, Coosie and Harold Price. Crossing the river in fog on the return trip they followed this goelette for a while, but it turned upriver and they had to strike out to Tadoussac alone in the fog, blowing! a manual foghorn. They were almost hit by a russian freighter that mistook them for a buoy, but lived to tell the tale and bring us the photo. Painting by Tom Evans Vers 1958, le «Jamboree» (vu dans le coin) a navigué le Saint-Laurent avec Lewis Evans, Coosie et Harold Price. En traversant la rivière dans le brouillard lors du retour, ils ont suivi cette goelette, mais ils se sont dirigés et ils ont dû frapper à Tadoussac seul dans le brouillard, soufflant! un brouillard manuel! Ils ont été presque frappés par un cargo russe qui les a trompés pour une bouée, mais a vécu pour raconter l'histoire et nous apporter la photo. Peinture de Tom Evans Below Louis G & CSL Bateaux Blancs ALYS In 1972 I was in Tadoussac with some friends, and two of them were travelling on to the Maritimes via the ferry at St Simeon. On the way to the ferry I took them down to Port au Persil, and we found the Goelette ALYS there on the beach. I had a RolleiFlex 2 1/4 camera and took these photos. En 1972, j'étais à Tadoussac avec des amis, et deux d'entre eux allaient dans les Maritimes par le ferry de Saint-Simeon. Sur le chemin nous sommes descendus à Port au Persil, et nous avons trouvé le Goelette ALYS là sur la plage. J'ai eu un RolleiFlex 2 1/4 appareil photo et a pris ces photos. Above, Aida and Peter Below, Peter and Tom Evans (moi même!) Sheila St Simeon 1972 St Simeon 1972 When signs were bilingual We had my Dad's Ford Station Wagon! Thanks Dad! We had fun! St Simeon 1972 Quand les signes étaient bilingues Nous avions le Ford Station Wagon de mon père! Merçi papa! Nous nous sommes amusés! The best collection of photos of Goelettes is the Facebook page "Amateur Goelette de Bois du Quebec" (use the button) where I found several earlier photos of ALYS in operation which I have included. La meilleure collection de photos de Goelettes est la page Facebook "Goelette amateur de Bois du Québec" (utilisez le bouton) où j'ai trouvé plusieurs photos d'ALYS en opération que j'ai inclus. Amateur Goelette de Bois du Quebec

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PREVIOUS Lilybell Rhodes 1889-1975 NEXT PAGE Lilybell Rhodes was the daughter of Francis Rhodes and Totie LeMoine, grandaughter of Col William Rhodes (of Benmore, Quebec) and of Canadian author, historian and past President of The Royal Society of Canada, Sir James McPherson Le Moine (1825-1912) of ‘Spencer Grange’ in Sainte-Foy Quebec. She studied art at Les Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Quebec City under Henry Ivan Neilson (Professor of Painting, Drawing and Anatomy), as well as with instructor and noted Canadian artist Jean Paul Lemieux. Several of Ms. Rhodes works are currently on display at the Bagatelle Museum (the house where she lived for many years) in Sainte-Foy Quebec. Lily and her sister Frances in 1913 Lilybell Rhodes était la fille de Francis Rhodes et Totie LeMoine, petite-fille du colonel William Rhodes (de Benmore, Québec) et de l'auteur canadien, historien et ancien président de la Société royale du Canada, Sir James McPherson Le Moine (1825-1912) de «Spencer Grange» à Sainte-Foy Québec. Elle a étudié l'art à Les Ecole des Beaux-Arts de la ville de Québec en vertu de Henry Ivan Neilson (professeur de peinture, de dessin et d'anatomie), ainsi qu'avec instructeur et a noté l'artiste canadien Jean Paul Lemieux. Plusieurs des œuvres Mme Rhodes sont actuellement exposées au Musée Bagatelle (la maison où elle a vécu pendant de nombreuses années) à Sainte-Foy Québec. Tadoussac from the Wharf 1935 (Tom/Heather Evans) Tadoussac du quai Tadoussac Wharf 1930's (George/Susie Bruemmer) Le quai de Tadoussac The colour pencil sketches below are from two small books that somehow ended up in my family. 1956-58 Les dessins au crayon de couleur ci-dessous sont de deux petits livres qui en quelque sorte ont fini dans ma famille. Kamouraska Quebec Tadoussac NEXT PAGE

Short Stories by R Lewis Evans R. Lewis Evans was an English Teacher who loved to write. Although his books are quite well-known, his short stories and articles belong mostly to the more distant past. It was during the 1940s and 1950s that magazine short stories were popular and sought after and Dad wrote over 20 of them. Most were published, and many are of interest especially to those of us who know and love the Lower St. Lawrence and Saguenay areas of Quebec, so I decided to get them out of the file and onto the web-site where they can be read once again. I've divided the stories into categories. While he wrote mostly river stories about the Tadoussac area, including some historical fiction, he also wrote 6 stories about World War II (4 of which overlap with our beloved river), and a number of odd inspirations, one biblical, several inspired by newspaper items, and even one (gasp!) Science Fiction. There are also some non-fiction articles which will be coming along later in the year. I love them all partly because he wrote about what he loved and I love it too, but partly because his characters are thoughtful, compassionate and real. I've included a few notes that he kept in the file. Some are news articles he drew his ideas from; others are comments he received from editors either printed in the magazine or sent along to him separately. I've also tried to reproduce the illustrations, duly credited, as all the stories that published were supported by visual art. Only one, Casual Enemy, has no illustrator mentioned. My guess is he drew that one himself. I've read all these stories several times in my efforts to get them up onto the web-site correctly and I've never tired of them. I hope you enjoy them. A fair warning: some readers might recognize a few people! Alan Evans NEXT PAGE R Lewis Evans War Stories Casual Enemy (As Published in “Boating Magazine”, Vol. 18, no. 3, April, 1942) by Lewis Evans PIERRE TREMBLAY put down his pipe and listened. The hollow chug of a diesel engine had suddenly broken the silence of the bay as some craft rounded the steep headland at its outer end. “No running lights,” the old French-Canadian murmured to himself, and then he smiled at his own comment, for his own little work boat, anchored close under the rugged hillside near the head of the bay, carried no riding light. The bays off the Saguenay River are deep—thirty to a hundred fathoms; small craft have to anchor close to shore in order to find bottom, and lights of any kind attract mosquitoes from the woods. The jarring clang of a bell slowed the engines of the incoming craft, and Pierre sat back and drew on his pipe again. She was the “Phantome”. He knew that engine bell—it had been cracked for years. The “Phantome” was a diesel-engined coaster with a shady history. Five years ago, meeting her under the same conditions, Pierre would have known that she was bootlegging cheap French liquor from St. Pierre and Miquelon in the Gulf of St. Lawrence to the dry counties up river. Not much money in that game now, though, and the “Phantome” had been out of it since her crew had had to jettison a cargo worth well over a thousand dollars, and the pursuing government patrol boat had just enough evidence to get Xavier Bouchard, the “Phantome’s” captain and Pierre’s sister’s son, two years in the Quebec jail. Well, he hoped that Xavier was up to nothing that might get him into trouble again. That jail sentence had nearly broken his mother’s heart, for she was a gentle and pious woman. Perhaps he was netting salmon—that would get him a fat fine if he were caught, but the government boats were too busy trying to keep the St. Lawrence free from German submarines these days to worry about coasting vessels breaking the Fish and Game Laws. Only a week ago a freighter had been torpedoed out in the Gulf, not so very many miles from the Saguenay. Two patrol boats had already claimed the destruction of the submarine. Why couldn’t Xavier get some honest work, and save Marie, his mother, the anxiety which was making her old before her time? Honest work was to be had easily enough these days, though Pierre himself was not too sure what kind of a job he could pick up now that this work on the fish-hatchery dam was over. His had been the supply boat for that—a government project to build a salmon hatchery on the stream that emptied into the bay. Today the dam had been finished, the gang had been taken out by launch, and Pierre’s boat was loaded with shovels and picks, unused food stores, cement and dynamite. Ah well—he’d get something to do. There was work going on aboard the “Phantome” — sounded like heavy oil drums being rolled along the deck. Surely they would not be shifting their cargo at this time of night. Still no lights, and only occasionally came a subdued order. Pierre could see nothing — bateme, but the night was a black one. Then came the louder rumble of oil drums — empty ones. Pierre suddenly stood up and peered into the darkness. Surely Xavier could not be such a fool . . . but still, the St. Lawrence was a long way from Germany, and diesel engines needed fuel oil, and Xavier had always liked easy money . . . Quietly Pierre hauled in the painter of the ten-foot flat-bottomed boat that served him as tender. As he eased himself aboard he remembered to leave his pipe behind — the dynamite was stowed in the tender for safety’s sake. Two stealthy strokes with a paddle moved him away from his boat. The tide had begun to rise and a slight current set round the bay, drifting him towards the “Phantome”. At last he could make out the shape of the coaster, her stump mast, and the wheelhouse at her stern dimly silhouetted against the mouth of the bay. Pierre peered at her waterline . . . was there? . . . yes — a long, low, shelving shape protruded astern of the coaster. The submarine lay on the far side of the “Phantome”. Pierre worked his boat back against the tide, which was running more strongly now, and almost bumped his work boat before he saw it. He got aboard and sat down, holding the tender’s painter. Poor Marie — what would she do if Xavier got into trouble for this piece of work? And this might be only the first of many refueling episodes. Straightening up with decision, Pierre hauled his tender to that side of his boat farther from the “Phantome”. Leaning over, he worked fast. Once he paused to peer at the position of the coaster, once to dip his hand into the current slipping past the side of his boat, testing its strength. He rummaged in the cockpit and came up with a large reel of cod line, one end of which he secured to the tender. Leaning over the smaller boat and opening his coat wide as a shield, he struck a match. An end of fuse lay in the bottom; he lighted it and doused the match quickly. Manoeuvring the tender round the stern of his boat, he felt to make sure that the cod-line was not snarled, and then gave the tender a long, gentle push towards the “Phantome”. Sitting down, he carefully paid out the line as the little craft, in the grip of the tide, asked for it. The rumble of oil drums on the “Phantome” had ceased, and now came a clanking. She was weighing anchor. Pierre gave his tender more slack and felt her take it up. Slowly the coaster’s anchor chain clanked inboard, and her engine was started up. So much of the cod-line was now in the water that Pierre could not feel a definite pull from the tender, but he went on giving slack. The cracked engine bell jangled aboard the “Phantome”, and her propeller kicked ahead slowly. The clanking of the chain had ceased. Pierre found that the end of the cod-line was in his hand. Knowing the length of the line, and praying that his judgement of distance was right, he pulled in a fathom or two, and crouched in the cockpit. Suddenly there was a hoarse shout in the darkness — the tender had been seen. Pierre tensed, gripping the cockpit coaming. Then a flash lit the bay — lit up for a second the silver streak of the submarine stretching forward from the flash, three figures on the deck frozen in their movement, and the “Phantome” clear of the submarine and heading out of the bay. Pitch darkness blinded Pierre; a scrap of wood clattered into the cockpit beside him — of the tender’s gunwale, by the feel of it; his ears, deafened by the blast, heard dimly confused shouts and the hurried thump of the “Phantome’s” motor as she fled out of the bay. The old man, trembling a little, hauled up his anchor and started his motor. Expecting a fusillade of rifle shots at the very least, he zig-zagged along close to shore, heading for the open. No shots followed him, and he rounded the headland and dropped his hook in the next bay down the river. On such a night that explosion should have been heard in Tadoussac, two miles away at the mouth of the Saguenay. If so surely the patrol boat based there would investigate. Not long afterwards he heard the drone of the patrol boat. It swept up the Saguenay towards him, its searchlight probing. Pierre hastily lighted his running lights and got under way back towards the bay. The patrol boat caught up to him just off the headland. Pierre pointed towards the bay and was left rocking in the wake of the grey launch. By the time he had rounded the head the patrol boat was almost alongside the submarine, her searchlight and gun trained on it. There was no resistance, however, for the submarine was submerged and aground at the stern, her bow protruding from the surface at a sharp angle, her crew clinging to the deck. Apparently the blast had occurred near the stern, which had gone down, while the forward part of the hull remained buoyant. Pierre drifted up to the patrol boat. “What do you know about this?” demanded the Naval Reserve Lieutenant in command. Pierre explained, partly in French and partly in broken English, with expressive gestures, but not mentioning the “Phantome”, which by now should be far up the Saguenay, frightened to death but above suspicion. The Lieutenant expressed his amazement profanely, and added: “Meet us in Tadoussac. The government will be very grateful . . .” Marie would be grateful too, if she knew, thought Pierre. “And we'll get you a new tender and some more dynamite,” went on the officer. “Oh, the dynamite — it belonged to the government anyway,” said Pierre. The End He heard a yell and the sound of quick movement from the pit as he swooped towards it and tossed the grenade Monte Cassino Downhill (Published in The Montreal Standard, Spring of 1944) Lieutenant Johnny Martin takes a long chance on a tricky slope by Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY GEOFFREY TRAUNTER TO USE his own expression, Lieutenant Johnny Martin was skunked. He crouched and shivered in the hole he had scooped in the snowdrift under a stunted bush and mentally compared it with what the Americans called foxholes in the Pacific battle zones. The only fox that might condescend to call this "home,” thought Johnny, would be an Arctic fox. The miserable shelter in which he crouched was on the southwest shoulder of Monte Cassino, and below him was the valley in which lay one of the main roads to Rome, the valley up which units of the Fifth Army were advancing towards the town of Cassino. Johnny could see the road down there, about a thousand feet below him, and the gaps in it where the retreating Germans had blown up the culverts. He could see the railway line, too, with the twisted girders of a steel bridge sagging into a small river; the Fortresses had fixed that, in a precision daylight attack weeks ago. The slopes on which he lay, and all the other mountains in that jumble of southern spurs of the Appenines, were deep in snow on their summits but on the lower contours the snow became patchy, and down in the valleys mud reigned supreme. The regiment would be wallowing in it as usual, Johnny thought. The Italian weather had been horribly wet for weeks, and turning cold in December had resulted in the unusual amount of snow on the mountains. Well, he thought, at least his snowdrift, if cold, was cleaner than the mud down in the valley. Opposite him to his left were the slopes of a smaller valley running into the main one, and that was where his regiment was. His problem was to rejoin them. The considerable obstacle directly in his way was a small sector of the German defenses, consisting of a machine-gun nest in the lee of a knoll about halfway down the shoulder of the floor of this minor valley. In front of the nest and below the knoll stretched a mare’s nest of barbed wire, protecting the gunners from a frontal charge. Their field of fire covered the lower slopes of the mountain, where the snow gave way to grass and mud. Monte Cassino had been causing the Allies plenty of worry as they hammered their way through ancient Campania. It was crowned by the huge monastery which had been founded by St. Benedict in the year 529, but that historical fact held little interest for the men whose job it was to rid the mountain of Germans. They hoped that the monks had had the sense to clear out before their mountain became a military objective, and wanted desperately to know if the Germans had established any form of artillery in or near the monastery or the ruined castle just below the two valleys and could break up any advance in force towards Cassino. Air reconnaissance had failed to reveal any gun sites, but the two buildings afforded such opportunities for concealment that the risk of advancing without further information was too great—hence Lieutenant Martin’s uncomfortable presence on the mountain and on the wrong side of the remnants of the German rearguard. JOHNNY had been amongst the Canadians who had qualified as paratroopers at an American training camp early in the war, and last night he had been dropped onto the slopes of Monte Cassino from an ugly Lysander Army Reconnaissance aircraft. In the gray December dawn he had scrambled up and onto the monastery courtyard to find the snow lying clean and untracked, and the great stone well standing in the middle as it had stood through the centuries of war and peace. Then he had slithered down to the ruined castle and satisfied himself that the Germans had established no artillery in either place. Possibly, Johnny thought, they considered the buildings to obvious, too likely to be bombed flat by Allied planes. Into the first rays of the morning sun as it rose behind the Allied armies Lieutenant Martin had flashed the pre-arranged signal which told the watchers that the buildings hid nothing of military importance, and then he had started for home. Worming his way down the shoulder he had seen the machine-gun post. He had expected something of the sort somewhere, and after reconnoitering enough to find that there were other similar nests on other parts of the lower slopes which the advancing troops would probably have to silence by mortar fire, he decided that his only chance was to wait until dark or until the Allied advance had cleared the enemy from their positions. So he lay and shivered, and considered the terrain below him. As the hours crawled by the sun warmed him a little, and the surface of the snow melted. Like spring snow in the Laurentians, thought Johnny, and his memory conjured up visions of Hill 70 at St. Sauveur, and beer and singing in the pub at night, and ski races against Dartmouth, and the Quebec Kandahar on Mont Tremblant, in the days when he was a Red Bird and used to ski for McGill. He thought of standing on the brow of Hill 70 in the cold brightness of a Sunday morning and watching the Montreal train, looking ridiculously small from where he stood, pulling into the station, and the unbelievable number of skiers who poured out of it and fanned out towards their favorite hills. From the stationary locomotive a great white plume of steam would go up like a huge mushroom, and yet he would be looking down on its top, just as he was looking down on this valley and the occasional mushroom of smoke from a bursting shell as some German gunners far up the main road searched for the Allied advance units. SUDDENLY Johnny’s gaze centred on a movement halfway down the slope and well to the right of the machine-gun post. Working round the shoulder of the hill was a man in the white parka of a ski-trooper, and to Johnny’s incredulous eyes he appeared to be on skis. He had apparently come from the steep zigzag road which connected the monastery with the valley below, and where another of the enemy outposts was. From his actions as he traversed the hillside he appeared to be carrying a load, and Johnny figured it must be ammunition or food for the post directly below. His surprise diminished as he realized that the man would hardly dare approach the post in daylight without that white protection, for a field uniform would be seen against the snowy slope from the other side of the valley. Perhaps the Germans had some mountain-trained and equipped regiments here. Their organization was supposed to be efficient and controlled by such inflexible rules that they might easily have sent skis with troops who were to fight in mountainous country even if the mountains were in Southern Italy. The skier moved on and eventually came to the post, stooped to undo his harness, and then dropped out of sight over the lip of the emplacement. Johnny’s thoughts ran on the subject of skis and skiing. Looking down over the machine-gun nest by the knoll and its protecting wire, he idly wondered whether a good skier taking off from the knoll could clear that wire below it. It might be possible, he figured, as the lower face of the knoll was cutaway steeply and the wire ran close under the face. The landing would be too flat for comfort, he thought, but one could hardly expect a natural jump to have everything. If he had some skis he could wait for night and the moon, which was strong, and then run straight for the knoll, lob a grenade into the nest as he passed, and hope that his speed would take him clear of the wire before he landed. If the grenade did its job and if no other machine- gun covered that field of fire — and he had seen no other post close enough to do so — he might ski on down to the snow-line and find cover and perhaps his own advancing units beyond that. Oh, well — what was the use of wishing? — but it seemed silly that after volunteering for a special ski course and being bored to death learning to “bear-walk” and do the “crawl” all over the snowy flats of Petawawa he should need a pair of skis in Southern Italy, of all places. The sun was sloping westwards toward the Mediterranean, and the air was getting colder. Johnny Martin thought of the long night on the mountain – he did not dare seek shelter in the monastery or the old castle as some of the Germans might have the same idea. Another twelve hours before he could reasonably expect his friends to attack – Johnny shuddered. “If I stay here all night,” he said to himself with a smile that was a bit grim, “I shall probably wake up in the morning with a very bad cold in the head – if I wake up. And if the attack doesn't drive those Germans away, or if we don't attack at dawn, I may have to stay on and on.” Anything was better than that, he thought. If that fellow in the parka would start back, and if he could get his skis. . . Johnny got out his large scale map. There was Monte Cassino, there was the winding road from the monastery to the valley, and there was the contour line followed by the skier from the road to the macine-gun emplacement. Johnny's finger followed along the contour line and stopped where it swung deeply in towards the mountain and out again. That must be a stream or stream-bed seaming the slope, he knew. If he could meet the skier in that gully they would be invisible from anywhere but directly above or below; they would be, as it were, in a fold in the ground. JOHNNY MARTIN got going. He wriggled out of his foxhole, and keeping the height of the drift between him and the post below he crawled up the shoulder towards the ruined castle, and then bore to the left towards the upper end of the gully. He reached it and slithered into it. It was just what he had expected – a rocky stream-bed with a trickle of water from the day's melting, a trickle that would be a torrent if the weather warmed up a little. Johnny scrambled down it till he came to the tracks made by the skier crossing the gully on the way to the post, and then he crouched by a rock a little uphill from the tracks and where he could see them disappear around the shoulder of the slope. The sun had gone, and visibility was being cut down to a few yards, until at around nine o'clock the rising moon should increase it considerably. Finally Johnny heard the indescribable sound of skis over snow, and a figure loomed against the sky-line. The Canadian gripped the icy butt of his automatic and tensed himself for a spring. The skier slid into the gully, lost his balance as his ski tips hit the opposite slope, and crashed with a grunt. He grunted once more – a grunt of surprise – as Johnny jumped on him and slugged at his head with the heavy gun. Johnny struggled to strip off the man's parka and heard it rip as at last it came away. Then he freed the skis and picked them up, together with the single ski-pole the German had been using, and started climbing up the gully with his spoil. Back in his shelter in the drift Johnny waited while the moon cleared the silvery summits of the distant hills. His plan was a chancy one, he knew, but he could not face any more hours in the damp cold and inactivity. WAITING for the moonrise he adjusted the leather harness to fit his boots, and his thoughts went back to cable bindings and long arguments before log-fires on the merits of super-diagonal and other down-hill devices. “'The time has come,' the Walrus said . . .” murmured Johnny and stretched himself flat on his skis. Using his hands and feet as a seal uses its flippers he slowly and cautiously tobogganed down the slope as far as he dared. There was a bush a hundred yards or so above the emplacement, and there he stopped. Beyond was the clear, steep ground, ground bathed in moonlight where he would be spotted if he tried to sneak across, then the knoll with the shadow of the weapon pit to one side of it, and dimly seen below the knoll was the tangle of wire. Crouching, Johnny got his feet into the harness and produced his two grenades from under his parka. One he left on the ground by the bush – he would only have time to use one, and he didn't like the idea of taking a mighty tumble with enough explosive on his person to blow him to bits, safe though grenades were supposed to be until the pin was out. Slowly he straightened up and launched himself forward. His skis gathered way, and for a moment his mind flipped back to a mad moonlight race on Mount Baldy one March long ago – then he was checking with a forced stem in the yielding snow and pulling the pin from the grenade. His skis came parallel again and he heard a yell and the sound of a quick movement from the pit as he swooped towards it and tossed the grenade in. Then he was on the knoll with his knees bent deep, snapping straight as he crossed the lip of the mound, and he had a blurred impression of white ground surging up at him and a roar from behind him. His skis hit the snow and he wavered, steadied, hit a bump and crashed with a cracking sound that he hoped was breaking skis, not rifle fire. He struggled up to find one ski intact and the other broken off short behind his foot. On he plunged towards the darkness of the valley, trying to keep most of his weight on the unbroken ski. A clump of bushes loomed up and he swung round it in a forward leaning turn that would have been appreciated on the Taschereau run, only to see a great patch of snowless ground beyond it. He tried to stop but his skis bit the earth, and he somersaulted madly. In the first roll his head hit a chunk of half-frozen turf and he was unconscious as he hurtled into a depression in the ground where a very large Canadian sergeant and two men with evil designs upon the German machine-gun nest were setting up a mortar. EVER since dark the sergeant had been heaving his bulk forward from cover to cover to get within range of that emplacement. To have his prospective target blow up for no good reason at all was one thing, he thought, but to have a one hundred and eighty pound unconscious lieutenant impinge on his stomach at that time of night was something else again. Johnny Martin came to dizzily to hear the sergeant emphatically muttering what seemed to be a prayer – except that the words were in quite the wrong order. The End NOTE: It was the following article in the February 7th, 1944 edition of the Globe and Mail newspaper which gave Dad the idea for this story. The (fuzzy and difficult to read despite my best efforts) original is included below. Germans Shell Abbey Housing Own Troops Montecassino Monastery (arrow) high above the town of Cassino, was founded by St. Benedict in 529, on the site of ancient Temple of Apollo. By C. L. SULZBERGER - New York Times Special to The Globe and Mail. Copyright With the 5th Army in Italy, Feb. 5 (Delayed).—German artillery, for some peculiar and perverse reason, today shelled the famous old monastery atop Monte Cassino where the Benedictine Order was born, although there is every reason to believe some of their own troops were within the vast abbey which the enemy is believed using as an observation post. Shortly after 3 p.m. this correspondent happened to be looking at the historic landmark above the lacerated town of the same name, where American troops are slowly battling their way forward in vicious street fighting, when geysers of smoke billowed from the abbey, standing out clearly in the crisp, bright atmosphere. As the smoke drifted southward in huge clouds, careful scrutinizing through binoculars revealed no visible damage. In order to ascertain the reasons for this extraordinary event, since Lt.-Gen. Mark W. Clark has issued strictest orders to his army not to fire on the abbey or any other papal property or a series of specified clerical buildings unless it is a question of the most vital military necessity, the writer made a careful inquiry among American artillery officers. Major A. J. Peterson, Minneapolis, Minn., who observed the same bursts and then inquired of various artillery observation outposts in the immediate vicinity of the monastery, said: “We could identify the shell bursts. There was one direct hit on top of the abbey. Our observers were able to plot the direction of the shells. They came from the north, in the Atinia region, and from the northwest which areas are in enemy hands.” Meanwhile, further evidence of Nazi violation of those few courtesies remaining in modern warfare was received when a French prisoner who escaped last night informed Allied authorities the Germans were forcing British, American and French captives to carry ammunition and dig positions in the Cassino vicinity. These prisoners are forced to labor under the shellfire of Allied guns, and there have been casualties among them. The Frenchman escaped during the night in the confusion following an especially heavy Allied barrage on Cassino positions still held by the Germans. He said that to the best of his knowledge, 12 Englishmen, six Americans, and two Frenchmen still remained with the enemy as prisoners in his group, doing forced labor under fire. Of Assistance to the Enemy (Published in the Montreal Standard, Date unknown) By Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY BEN TURNER “AND SO,’’ concluded the announcer who was summarizing the news in French over Radio Rimouski that night, “of the ten German long-range bombers which made an attempt at five o’clock this morning to destroy the great dams at the head of the Saguenay River, seven were brought down by interceptor aircraft from Bagotville and Mont Joli before they reached their objective, one dropped its bomb load harmlessly into the waters of Lake St. John and was brought down by anti-aircraft fire, and the remaining two fled south from the fighters towards the St. Lawrence, jettisoning their bombs over uninhabited parts of the Laurentians. The crews of these two bombers are believed to have bailed out over the north shore of the St. Lawrence, as their aircraft were observed to crash in the river some miles off-shore. These men are being sought by military units and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. So ended the first enemy attempt to do to a Canadian industrial centre what the British succeeded in doing to the Mohne and Eder dams in Germany some time ago.” Old Captain Tremblay switched off the radio in the cabin of the coasting schooner St. Casimir, tied up at the wharf in Ste. Catherine’s Bay at the mouth of the Saguenay, and listened for a few moments to the comments of his companions as they continued their late meal. Outside, rain had come up on the rising east wind, and the three French-Canadians who formed his crew did not hurry over their food. They were in no haste to return to the rain-swept wharf and get on with the job of loading the St. Casimir with pulp logs. The Captain reached for his battered green-covered copy of “The St. Lawrence River Pilot” and turned to the chapter that dealt with the mouth of the Saguenay and the waters of the St. Lawrence in that vicinity, for he and his ship usually plied farther upstream, and his present route was not a familiar one. With his finger on the place he looked up. "Get going,” he ordered. “About twelve more cords to load. Tide’s full now. so the sooner we can sail the better — the ebb will be in our favor, and I don’t want to waste it.” “The three men, two deckhands and an engineer, put on their sodden caps and went out. Climbing the steep face of the dock they mounted the pile of four-foot pulp logs and bent to their work. With one hand they drove their short hooks into the logs and jerked them upwards, and then hook and free hand heaved them forward and downward into the semi-darkness to land with hollow thunder on the St. Casimir’s wooden deck, illumined by the half-hearted floodlight permitted by the dim-out regulations. When half an hour before midnight Captain Tremblay came out on the bridge to see how the work was going, the twelve cords on the wharf had become six and his men were on the schooner's deck converting the jumbled pile into a well-stowed deck load. The east wind had increased and even in Ste. Catherine’s Bay, sheltered by reefs from the open St. Lawrence, small waves were bunting the schooner against the wharf and her rubbing strake groaned from time to time on the massive piles. The Captain moved aft to slacken a taut mooring line, for the tide had dropped a foot or so. When he turned back there were four men on the deck amidships instead of three. As the newcomer’s shadow came between them and the light the workers straightened up from their task and stared. “Good evening,” said the stranger. “May I speak with your Captain?” He spoke in French, but each of the men listening knew at once that he was no French-Canadian. He was speaking careful school-book French, as most English-Canadians and Americans do. The engineer indicated Tremblay with a gesture and the stranger turned towards him. “Captain, you have a small boat—” he jerked his thumb aft, where the schooner’s lifeboat hung on davits across her stern— “and I want you or one of your men to take me out beyond the reefs to the St. Lawrence. I will pay you what you ask for your trouble.” “Impossible, monsieur,” exclaimed Tremblay. He motioned towards the pulp logs. “We have work to do and besides, the weather ...” He gestured vaguely towards the rainy darkness off-shore, and through his mind went the words he had heard less than two hours before—“The crews of these two bombers are believed to have bailed out over the north shore of the St. Lawrence. . .” “Nonsense!” said the stranger rather abruptly, and he took a step nearer the Captain. “There is no sea to speak of, and I saw from the wharf that your boat has an engine. I will pay you well. I must insist.” Tremblay was silent, staring at the man before him, a tall, fair fellow, bareheaded, who kept his hands in the pockets of a raincoat so soaked and dirty as to be colorless in that dim light. At length he spoke. “No sir,” he said firmly. “It can’t be done.” It was no surprise to him when his words seemed to lift the stranger’s right hand— and Luger—out of the pocket. “Listen, Captain,” said the German. “I am in a hurry. You or one of your men must take me where I want to go — out beyond the mouth of the Saguenay.” “Submarine!” murmured the Captain, stating a fact rather than asking a question. “Ha!” said the other. “You’ve heard of the bombing. There are U-boats at points off the north shore tonight and we were instructed to get to them if we could. You see my position — I will stand no foolishness. Make up your minds — will one of you take me, or . . .” THE CAPTAIN’S eyes travelled over the German. The man was tired — that was obvious. His clothing bore the marks of a day-long battle with the Laurentian bush. A tired man, but the tired man held the gun, and was impatient. The Captain turned to his men. “Lower the boat,” he ordered. The three men turned slowly and shuffled aft to uncleat the falls, conscious all the time of the gun behind them. Captain Tremblay followed. He was under no illusion — that Nazi might shoot one or all of them, whether they did as he told them or not. The blocks squealed and the eighteen-foot boat slid towards the black water. Tremblay glanced over his shoulder and saw the German peering at the illuminated dial of a military pocket compass—but the Luger in his other hand was still on the job. He turned to the German, who was putting the compass back in his pocket. “I’ll go with you,” said Tremblay decisively - and out of the corner of his eye he noted his men’s heads turn suddenly toward him. “That little compass you have - it's no good in a small boat because of deviation caused by the engine . . . and there are reefs outside, you know, and cross-currents. You must have a man with you who knows these waters.” “And you know them?” asked the German drily. “I was born near here,” stated Tremblay, conscious of the stares of his crew, who knew well that he was a Baie St. Paul man. The German was no fool. He saw the men stare and he saw the craftiness in the Captain's eyes, so naive that he almost laughed aloud at it. He could trust him as far as he could see him — and not even that far in a small boat. “Good,” he said. “Get into the boat, then, and start the engine.” Tremblay’s stomach felt cold. He had tried to make the man suspect a trap, and he did not know whether he had succeeded. He turned and swung over the schooner's rail and dropped into the boat under her counter. The German moved up and straddled the rail so that he could watch both Tremblay and the men on deck. The Captain set about priming the engine. After a preliminary cough or two it spluttered to life. The Nazi swung his other leg over the rail. “You make one move from where you are and I'll shoot your Captain,” he threatened the three men on deck, and then he, too, dropped into the boat. “Cast off those ropes and then get back aboard,” he ordered Tremblay. “Back aboard?” echoed the Captain. “Maybe you know these waters too well. Get back,” snapped the German reaching for the clutch lever, and as the other took a grip on the ropes hanging over the schooner's stern he eased it forward. The propeller bit the water and the boat shot forward and was swallowed up in the windy darkness. As Captain Tremblay climbed over the rail the three men on the St. Casimir's deck looked at one another and then all broke out talking at once. The Captain said nothing but made straight for the cabin, where he slumped onto a chair by the table on which still lay the battered green pilot book, open as he had left it. The others followed him in, jabbering. “Why did you offer to take him?” demanded one of the deck hands angrily. The Captain looked up wearily. “Because I wanted him to go alone. I remembered your Marie, Jacques, back in Baie St. Paul. She seemed too eager for the wedding, so you jilted her.” The deck hand’s puzzled look slowly gave way to one of understanding. Suddenly the engineer broke in. “Shouldn’t we go ashore and find a telephone?” he asked. “Perhaps a patrol boat could be warned to pick him up.” The Captain roused himself. “Telephone? Yes one of you had better report about the submarine.” “But the airman,” insisted the engineer. "Couldn’t they—” “They won’t get him,” stated the Captain. The finality of his tone fixed their questioning glances on him, and in explanation he pushed the open pilot book across the table towards them. “Read that,” he said, pointing to a paragraph. “It’s what I was studying after supper.” The engineer picked up the St. Lawrence River Pilot and read the paragraph aloud. “ 'The Mouth of the Saguenay River . . . The ebb tide from the Saguenay River on meeting the ebb from the St. Lawrence sets up very heavy tide rips, so strong as to interfere with the steerage of a vessel. When these ebbs are opposed to a heavy easterly gale, a particularly dangerous cross-sea is raised, which is considered dangerous to small craft, and in which no boat could live’.” The End The Sitting Duck (Published in The Montreal Standard, Date unknown) By Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY GEOFFREY TRAUNTER THE LANDING BARGE lay as still as if she were floating on the fog rather than upon the waters of the North Sea. Somewhere, invisible, the sun was rising, and slowly the thick fog turned from black to grey. For the first time in hours the R.C.N.V.R. Lieutenant on the bridge could see the lines of his ship before him—that is if a medium sized landing barge can be said to have any lines at all. Lieutenant McNeil doubted it, and never could look at the scow-like bulk of his craft without seeing in his imagination the dashing motor-torpedo-boat he had hoped to command. At her very best speed his landing barge could hardly be called dashing, and for the greater part of an hour she had been anything but — she had been left powerless by a defective unit in her reduction gear. McNeil resisted the urge to go below again to see how repairs were progressing. He might as well stay where he was, and if he was sweating with impatience he knew well that the Petty Officer below was sweating too — sweating blood to get the repairs effected. Somewhere to the south and east was the attacking-force of which his craft was supposed to be a part — by now it should be fifteen miles away and almost grounding on the long, low sandy beaches of the Belgian coast, but there had been no sound of gunfire as yet. When his engines had failed he had had simply to drop out of the armada, the dense fog and strict radio silence preventing from letting even the commanding officer know of his plight. NO ONE but the commander of the force knew whether this attack was part of the real thing, the invasion itself, or merely one of the dress rehearsals or feints promised by the Prime Minister. Whatever it is, thought the Lieutenant as he gazed down into the waist of his ship, it will have to get along without those two tanks. He could just see them now, crouched one behind the other, facing the closed ramp at the bow, and their crews lounging round them and smoking. Suddenly McNeil raised his head and listened. Then he glanced at the Leading Seaman in the other wing of the bridge. He, too, had heard the faint throbbing and was peering into the blankness of the fog ahead. The Lieutenant crossed to him. “What do you make of it?” he asked quietly. “Sounds quite close, sir, but faint. Certainly not an aircraft — might be an M.T.B. or an E-boat throttled right down.” They listened again and the subdued hum continued, punctuated once by a faint clang. The killick swung toward McNeil. “Sub, sir!” he whispered urgently. “Surfaced and charging her batteries — that clang could have been a hatch-cover.” “Go forward,” ordered McNeil, “and tell ’em to keep completely quiet. Send someone below to tell the engine-room, too — and find out how much longer they’ll be.” “Aye, aye, sir.” The Leading Seaman slid down the ladder into the waist of the barge. The Lieutenant went from one to the other of the machine-gun crews at either end of the bridge and warned them. Their weapons were designed to ward off low-flying aircraft, and would be practically useless against the sub’s gun. The sun’s warmth could now be felt, and soon the fog would thin away. “That’ll be the pay-off,” thought McNeil, and resolved that while landing barges usually were known by numbers rather than by names, this one might well go down in history as “The Sitting Duck.” “Don’t know about history,” he added aloud, “but we might well go down.” THE IRONY of the situation struck him. For months as the junior officer in a Fairmile he had patrolled the Strait of Gibraltar hoping for a chance at a sub, and the nearest they had got was to let fly at a rock awash in the seas in the grey light of a dawn such as this. In consequence they had become the butt of their flotilla until a few weeks later when their flotilla leader made the same mistake himself with the same rock. Now, here he was with a sub within three hundred yards, and instead of commanding the M.T.B. or Fairmile that he had hoped for when he got his second stripe, instead of having a fighting ship to meet this opportunity, all he had under his feet was a glorified ferry-boat. The men were still lounging by their tanks, but their little motions and gestures of a moment ago had ceased. They were very still, very quiet. The Leading Seaman silently rejoined the Lieutenant on the bridge. He looked straight up into the sky above the ship, and then peered again towards the source of the steady humming. “Fog’s getting thinner, sir,” he said. “Whatever it is, it seems to be dead ahead.” McNeill resisted a light-headed temptation to say, “Wish it were dead, ahead,” and at that moment the Leading Seaman stiffened and pointed. Right over the ramp at the bows McNeil could make out a darker blur of fog. “Oh for a gun, a real gun,” he thought, and then swung towards the killick. “Lower the ramp,” he ordered, and threw himself down the ladder and made for the sergeant in charge of the forward tank, leaving the killick wondering if the Lieutenant had gone crazy. FOR MONTHS of the tank gunner's training he had been prepared to deal with various beach defences. Now as the ramp before him ponderously swayed outwards and sloped away to a level position he saw, framed in the gap, the silhouette of a submarine against the receding fog. “Gaw’ love me,” he muttered, spinning wheels efficiently, “join the Army and see the world." Figures rushed to the sub’s gun and it swung towards the landing barge. The tank gunner fired and as the barge shuddered at the shock there was a great splash close to the sub’s conning-tower. A shell from the sub screamed over the barge, carrying away the wireless mast. “Get his gun, blast you!” yelled McNeil in the general direction of the tank. He was back on the bridge and on either side of him the machine-guns were chattering ineffectually, for the sub’s gunners were protected by a gunshield. He afterwards thought that, though his words were inaudible in the surrounding bedlam, he had been rather rude to the tank gunner who, after all, was performing somewhat in the capacity of a guest artist. The tank’s second shell was over, but its third took the sub’s gun fair and square, and that was that. The figures on the sub's conning-tower disappeared and slowly her deck became awash — she was submerging. “Red, one-four-five, a ship, sir,” called the Leading Seaman. "Destroyer - one of the Hunt class, sir.” McNeil gave it a brief glance and then went on watching the disappearing conning tower. The sub had moved forward and was no longer ahead of the barge – the tank gunner could no longer see his target. IN A MATTER of seconds the destroyer plowed through the swirl left by the U-boat and let go a pattern of depth-charges. “That ought to fix 'em,” muttered the killick. Apparently the destroyer thought so too, for she paid no further attention to the sub but swung in a wide arc and steamed past fifty yards from the landing barge. MacNeil could see a figure in the wing of her bridge, and a megaphone pointed in his direction. “Quite a fighting ship you have there,” came the voice. “Good luck!” and the destroyer melted into the remnants of the fog, bent on her own urgent affairs. As an engine room artificer stepped up to MacNeil and said, “All set now, sir,” far to the southeast all hell broke loose. “The Sitting Duck” hauled up her ramp and set off towards it. The End Surprise Party Published in "The Standard" (date unknown, $20.00!) By Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY ROY DYER HIS SUBMARINE idling at periscope depth in the cold waters of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, Ober- leutnant Seidel watched the plume of smoke climb over the horizon. It was still too early to figure the ship’s course and manoeuvre into effective range, and far too early to identify the type of ship. “Well,” he thought to himself, “at least she is no Banks fishing schooner—not with that plume of smoke.” He still regretted the expenditure of his last but one torpedo on that fisherman two nights ago. She had been running under auxiliary power, and with her stump masts he had mistaken her size in the gathering darkness. An investigation of her wreckage with the sub's searchlight had revealed several broken-backed dories and a mess of cleaned and salted codfish, and his second in command had looked for a moment as though he wanted to laugh. Ah, well, the destroyed schooner didn’t look so badly in the sub's logbook as “motor-driven coastal cargo ship.” Oberleutnant took another long look at the approaching vessel. She was no destroyer, anyway—her slow speed and broad beam told him that. He made out derricks on her foremast—that ruled out a corvette. She was steaming almost at right angles to his bows, and would pass about two miles ahead of him. He decided to close in, and grated an order to his second. The order echoed from man to man in the steel hull, and the sub began to move. Five minutes passed, and then Seidel slipped off his stool. “What do you make of her?” he asked his second in command, motioning him towards the eyepiece. That officer peered for a minute. “Flushdecked,” he muttered, “A tanker, sir but . . .” He hesitated, still peering. “But what?” “Her engines are amidships, sir. Unusual for a tanker.” Seidel took up his position at the periscope again and had another look. Then he lowered the periscope below the surface, ordered half-speed, and turned a superior smile on his puzzled second. No wonder the fellow was puzzled, thought Seidel—the ship was unusual, all right, but he knew what she was. Just before the war he had been on a training cruise and had put in at Bergen, and there he had seen a vessel with a peculiar stern like that. “She’s a whale factory,” he said, and laughed at the expression on the other’s face. “The Norwegians had such ships before the war — South Atlantic, mostly. There is a great ramp in the stern, and they used to pull a whale’s carcass aboard whole and do all the work of a whaling station while keeping up with the trawlers that did the actual harpooning. Our friends must be very short of ships if they’re using that tub for cargo-carrying.” He took another sight at the ship. He could see her ensign flying from a gaff on her mainmast, but it was either too dirty or too distant for him to tell whether it was Norwegian or British. His thoughts went to the single torpedo in the forward tubes, and to the long trip home. Then he looked at the expressionless face of his second in command and made his decision. He didn't want it said that he had expended his last two torpedoes on a fishing schooner and a whale factory, of all things. “We’ll surface and attack by gunfire,” he said. Bells rang and the gun crew got ready for their dash to action stations. The sub lifted towards the surface. ABOARD the ex-Norwegian whale-factory Odda a lookout had reported a periscope off the starboard bow, distant the best part of a mile. Gongs had clanged for action stations, and the ship held her course. The R.C.N.V.R. lieutenant on her bridge was pleased. “Not forty miles from where the Coastal Patrol plane reported wreckage of that schooner yesterday,” he thought. He glanced astern over his strange command and saw the men who handled the smoke-pots at their stations right aft. He could not see the old whale-ramp because of the superstructure amidships, but he could imagine the scene there . . . the fifty foot motor-launch in her sliding crib, her bow towards the Odda’s stern, her high-powered, specially cooled engines warmed and idling, her crew tense and watching the great steel flap which cut off the after end of the ramp from the sea, the rows of depth charges on the launch’s after deck. “Sub on starboard beam!" Two lookouts dead-heated on the shout. There she was, white water pouring from her decks, about half a mile off. As her gun crew swarmed on deck a machine-gun from the Odda started an intermittent chattering, and a gun crew staged a well-rehearsed rush for their antiquated weapon mounted on a bridge-like structure over the ramp astern. When their first shot eventually got away it raised a spout of foam just where they wanted it—three hundred yards wide of the sub and a little short. The first shell from the sub screamed over the Odda’s bows. The second hulled her forward, at the waterline. The lieutenant on the bridge thought of the watertight bulkheads and the whale-oil tanks now crammed with buoyant lumber, and grinned. His quartermaster, according to plan, swung the ship towards the sub to close the distance, and the sub altered course to port to evade any ramming action by the Odda . Another shell from the sub crossed the Odda’s bows and a fourth burst on the superstructure abaft her funnel. The whale-factory’s machine-gun fell silent, but it had not been hit. The smoke-pots astern burst into acrid life and their contents billowed over and around the Odda’s stern. The lieutenant snapped an order and a clang from far astern told him that the great flap had been lifted, and he could imagine the released crib sliding smoothly aft with its load. "Surprise, surprise!” he murmured happily to nobody in particular. The motor-launch’s heavily guarded screws were already turning as she took the water, and then she was out of the smoke and roaring for the sub, a heavy machine-gun on her bow searching for the gun crew, and echoed by renewed fire from the Odda’s guns. OBERLEUTNANT SEIDEL knew all about the “Q-ships” of the last war. He was not to be fooled by them, but this was different. He took one more amazed look at the grey shape bouncing towards him, ordered a crash dive, and threw himself down the conning-tower hatch. His gun crew, less three men who had been hit, scuttled for safety. As the sea foamed over the submerging U-boat the launch roared past parallel to her, not twenty feet away, and two ash-cans set for eight fathoms plopped into her seething wake. The Oberleutnant’s thoughts at this moment, freely translated into English, would have been “Let’s get to hell out of here,” which is precisely where he got. The End Down To Heaven (Published in “The Standard” Montreal, September 27, 1941, $12.50!) By L. EVANS He dropped to Earth and thought he was in heaven HIS packed parachute bumped clumsily against the back of his thighs as he crossed the dark field towards the sound of the idling motors. He tried to make himself believe that this was just another practice, that he was still in training, but the horrible emptiness in his middle gave him the lie. He was scared, and he was thankful that the darkness hid his face. He and his companions groped their way into the big transport and sat down. A dim light forward showed them the pilot and navigator, their heads bent over a map. Helmut stared at them fixedly, hoping that concentration of his mind would prevent him from being sick — sick with fear. Their job was simple, he thought. They just had to fly high to certain points, dump their living cargo, and fly home. Compared with his job theirs seemed easy, safe, comfortable. IT was the unknown that frightened a man thought Helmut. The plane crew knew what to expect in the way of danger - attack by fighter planes, anti-aircraft fire, or forced landing on land or sea. But he - Helmut - how could he know what was in store for him? Death, probably; death or capture certainly. But how? Before or after he had done his job on the power plant? How? A sentry’s rifle? A night watchman’s baton? A farmer’s pitchfork? Helmut shuddered and closed his eyes. The plane took off, climbed gradually, and steadied on its course. There’s the difference, thought Helmut suddenly. The plane crew’s brightest hope is return, and my brightest hope is capture. The very best I can expect is capture and internment. A fine thing my life is, when prison seems like heaven! The plane droned on through the black night, flying very high and very steadily. The parachutists began fidgeting with their equipment. They’re scared too, thought Helmut, but the younger ones, anyway, are partly afraid of failing in their task. They know only this stern life, and they are efficient. So am I, or I wouldn’t be here, but I am older. I can remember another way of life. The navigator made a signal, and two men moved towards the door. Another signal, and they were gone. The plane altered course, and in a few moments the navigator’s gloved hand reappeared. Two more men dived into darkness. MY objective is the third we come to thought Helmut, and the waiting is over. I am not afraid of the jump - I know all about that part of the job. I fear only the unknown future. The glove moved and Helmut flung himself into the blackness and cold. The opening ’chute jerked him savagely, and gradually his dizzy swinging slowed down. As he drifted downwards he tried to figure the direction and force of the wind, if any. That was the first thing - to fix his own position, and then to find the power plant. The little fear he felt about landing was lost in the great fear of the unknown future, and he felt little relief when he dropped on open ground, though it might have been a wood or a power line. His, efficient training showed as he quickly got rid of his parachute. He did not have to think - his hands busied themselves and the complicated tangle of ropes and material was stowed under a stunted bush. Luminous compass in hand, Helmut crouched, listening. The silence terrified him. He felt the whole hostile countryside of England round him, deadly still, but ready at any moment to extinguish this lone enemy by some unknown unpredictable action. Helmut forced himself to read the compass, putting it on the ground and getting as far from it as sight permitted, so that the metal in his equipment would not affect the needle. He was supposed to have been dropped two miles south of his objective; so he started to move northwards. If he did not find it in the first half hour he would start circling east and west. He crept on across the field, surprised that it took him so long to reach its boundary. He expected a hedge - England was covered with hedges, they said. HE encountered no hedge - he came to wire. A fine seven foot barbed wire fence, and on each side a barbed wire apron, arranged with ingenuity. Helmut stared at it in amazement. According to his instructions the power plant was the only important point in the district, and therefore the only one likely to be so protected. Could he have hit upon it already? He could cut his way through the fence, but those aprons would take time. He decided to move along the fence to the west, and perhaps he would find a spot where the aprons were less formidable. A hundred and fifty yards to the west he stopped. The fence made a right-angle turn - to the south. Helmut was inside the angle. His training made him turn east, retrace his steps, and he moved faster than before, with less regard for stealth. Two hundred yards or so, and another angle - turning south. His stomach cold as ice, Helmut threw one look over his shoulder and started cutting the wire. Whether he was inside the defenses of the plant or not he would need some means of exit. He would make a passage through the wire, and then find out what lay to the south. He cut rapidly and the apron gradually yielded a passage. Suddenly he paused. Someone was coming - a sentry? A flashlight flicked on and off. Helmut’s training sent his hand towards his gun. A cut end of wire scraped on the shears in his left hand. The flashlight’s beam cut the darkness, wavered, and then fixed on him. Helmut froze. A safety catch clicked. So this was the unknown. “Don’t move,” commanded the advancing voice. Then - “Wot the ’ell! It’s a ruddy parashooter! Come out of that, Jerry, you’re home. You’ve landed inside an internment camp." The End NEXT PAGE

PREVIOUS NEXT PAGE Été à Tadoussac Summer 1920-1940 Page 4 of 7 Meeting the Boat Rencontrer le Bateau Circa 1929 Back row Basil Evans, Lewis Evans, Margaret Stevenson (Reilley) not sure about the others Ralph Collyer and Kae Evans Left Jim Alexander with 2 ladies Above Jean Alexander (Aylan-Parker) with their mother Gertrude Williams (Alexander) Same day in 1934 - Gertrude, Jean, Rev Elton Scott, ?, and Jim on the boat, on the dock Frank Morewood and Betty Morewood (Evans) at right Circa 1935 The lady in the middle is Minnie (Rhodes) Morewood (1857-1942) at the age of 77. She is a daughter of William Rhodes, she lives at Benmore in Quebec, and spent summers in Tadoussac since she was a little girl in the 1860's. Her son Frank Morewood (my grandfather) is at the right, grandson Bill Morewood at left. Autour de 1935 La dame au milieu est Minnie (Rhodes) Morewood (1.857 à 1.942) à l'âge de 77. Elle est une fille de William Rhodes, elle vit à Benmore au Québec, et a passé des étés à Tadoussac depuis qu'elle était une petite fille dans les années 1860. Son fils Frank Morewood (mon grand-père) est à droite, le petit-fils Bill Morewood à gauche. Jack Wallace, John Turcot, Bill Morewood 1935 Phoebe Evans (Skutezky), Betty Morewood (Evans), Susie Russell, Ainslie Evans (Stephen), Frances Holland 1937 Susan Williams (Webster), Joan Williams (Ballantyne), Nan Wallace (Leggat), Jim Williams 1938 Phoebe Evans (Skutezky), HAROLD Price, Nan Wallace (Leggat), Betty Morewood (Evans), Ainslie Evans (Stephen) 1938 Ainslie Evans (Stephen), Betty Morewood (Evans), Susie Russell, Phoebe Evans (Skutezky), Frances Holland 1939 (again!) Phoebe Evans (Skutezky) Susie Russell Ainslie Evans (Stephen) Betty Morewood (Evans) PREVIOUS NEXT PAGE

PREVIOUS early 1900's >>>>>> This cottage was built in the 1870's by the secretary to Lord Dufferin, who had recently built Dufferin House. Ce chalet a été construit dans les années 1870 par le secrétaire de lord Dufferin, qui avait récemment construit Dufferin Chambre. 1930's Fletcher Cottage NEXT PAGE