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Historic photographs of Tadoussac Quebec in the 1800's and 1900's. A rich history of a beautiful place. TidesofTadoussac.com TABLE DES MATIÈRES & DATES importantes en bas de cette page TABLE OF CONTENTS & Key DATES at the bottom of this page DATES TADOUSSAC the oldest photos Maps & Images Hudson's Bay Station Anse à L'Eau Buildings Disappeared Main Street Rue Principale Golf View from High Up Drydock - La Cale Sèche Molson Museum Horses, Buggies and Cars The Dunes Shipwrecks The Old Wooden Wharf Yawls & Small Boats BOATS & SHIPS Bateaux Blancs - Steamers Canoes,Punts,Rowboats Ferries Ma rina Goelettes Dallaire's Boat Rivière SAGUENAY River Geology Moulins du Saguenay Saguenay Mills Cap a Jack Anchorages Lark Reef, La Toupie Endroits Intéressants 1930's 1950's High Tide Club Charlevoix Crater Houses/Maisons à Tadoussac et Québec Benmore, Quebec Rhodes Cottage Spruce Cliff Radford Fletcher Lilybell Rhodes ART Paintings by Tom Evans RHODES FAMILY Rhodes - Family Tree William Rhodes&Ann Smith William Rhodes & Anne Dunn Uncle James Rhodes Armitage Rhodes Godfrey Rhodes William Rhodes Jim Williams Rhodes Grandchildren EVANS FAMILY Francis Evans EVANS Dean Lewis Evans & May & Emily Bethune Betty and Lewis Evans RUSSELL William Russell & Fanny Eliza Pope CONTACT PAGE At the confluence of the St. Lawrence and Saguenay rivers, Tadoussac and its surrounding area were a meeting place and a crossroads for trade between First Nations people that have been here for 8000 years. These two major waterways enabled European explorers and traders to enter into the continent. Natives traded with Basques whalers and Breton cod fishermen as early as the 14th Century. As he was sailing up the St. Lawrence in 1535, Jacques Cartier was taken aback by the sheer beauty of the area and dropped anchor in the bay to visit. Pierre de Chauvin built a fur-trading post in 1600, the first building in New France. In May of 1603, Samuel de Champlain sealed an alliance between the French and the First Nations near Tadoussac. It was a commercial, military and foundational agreement that would lead to the establishment of Québec City five years later. After having lived off the fur trade, fishing and whaling, and then the forest industry, in 1864 the village built its first hotel to accommodate summer vacationers. Since then, tourism has been the pillar of local and regional socioeconomic life. Please email me more DATES to add to this list 1535 Jacques Cartier discovers the Saguenay Fjord 1600 Construction of a house and establishment of a fur trading post by Pierre de Chauvin 1647&1747 Chapel built 1838 Price Sawmill built 1848 Price Sawmill closed 1859 Hudson's Bay Post closed 1860 Brynhyfryd built 1861 Spruce Cliff built 1861 Molson Beattie house built 1862 Tadalac built 1864 Tadoussac Hotel built 1864 Powel/Bailey House built 1864 Cid's built 1865 Price Row built 1867 Protestant Chapel built 1869 A rudimentary road links Les Escoumins to Tadoussac 1870 Hudson's Bay Post Demolished 1873 (Spring) The Governor General of Canada, the Marquis Dufferin, builds his summer residence in Tadoussac. 1874 Establishment of a salmon fish farm by Samuel Wilmot in the former facilities of William Price at Anse-à-l'Eau. 1885-9 Église de la Sainte-Croix built 1899-1901 Tadoussac Hotel expansion 1912? Wharf built 1914 Piddington built Ivanhoe 1923 Bourgouin & Dumont Fire 1927 A ferry between Baie-Sainte-Catherine and Tadoussac is in service year round 1927 CSL St Lawrence Launched 1928 CSL Tadoussac and Quebec launched 1931 Destruction by fire of Radford House 1932 Destruction by fire of Brynhyfryd, rebuilt the same yea 1932 Maison Molson/Beattie or Noel Brisson built (Moulin Baude) 1936 Windward built 1942 New Hotel Tadoussac built 1942 Maison Chauvin reconstruction 1942 Power Station at Moulin Baude built 1946 Destruction by fire of Église de la Sainte-Croix 1948 Turcot House built 1950 Destruction by fire of the CSL Quebec at the wharf 1966 End of CSL boats 1986 Webster house built À la confluence du Saint-Laurent et de la rivière du Saguenay. Tadoussac et ses proches environs constituaient un lieu de rassemblement et un carrefour d’échanges entre Premières Nations, présentes sur le territoire depuis 8 000 ans. Ces cours d’eau majeurs ont permis aux explorateurs et aux commerçants venus d’Europe de pénétrer le continent. Dès le XIVe siècle, les autochtones ont commercé avec les chasseurs basques de baleines et les pêcheurs bretons de morue. En 1535, alors qu’il remonte le Saint-Laurent, Jacques Cartier est saisi par sa beauté du site et jette l'ancre dans la baie pour le visiter. Pierre de Chauvin y construit un poste de traite de fourrures en 1600, le premier bâtiment de la Nouvelle-France. En mai 1603, Samuel de Champlain scelle tout près de Tadoussac une alliance entre les Français et les peuples autochtones. Il s’agit d’une entente commerciale, militaire et d’établissement qui ouvre la voie à la fondation de Québec cinq ans plus tard. Après avoir vécu du commerce des fourrures, de la pêche et de la chasse à la baleine, puis de l’industrie forestière, c’est en 1864 que le village construit le premier hôtel pour accueillir les villégiateurs estivaux. Depuis, le tourisme constitue un pilier de la vie socioéconomique locale et régionale. S'il vous plaît écrivez-moi plus de DATES à ajouter à cette liste 1535 Jacques Cartier découvre le fjord du Saguenay 1600 Construction d'une maison et établissement d'un poste de traite des fourrures par Pierre de Chauvin 1647&1747 Chapelle construite 1838 Scierie Price construite 1848 Prix Scierie fermée 1859 Fermeture du poste de la Baie d'Hudson 1860 Brynhyfryd construit 1861 Spruce Cliff construite 1861 Maison Molson Beattie construite 1862 Tadalac construit 1864 Tadoussac Hôtel construit 1864 Construction de la maison Powel/Bailey 1864 Cid construit 1865 Price Row construit 1867 Chapelle protestante construite 1869 Une route rudimentaire relie Les Escoumins à Tadoussac 1870 Poste de la Baie d'Hudson démoli 1873 (printemps) Le gouverneur général du Canada, le marquis Dufferin, construit sa résidence d'été à Tadoussac. 1874 Établissement d'une pisciculture de saumon par Samuel Wilmot dans les anciennes installations de William Price à Anse-à-l'Eau. 1885-9 Église de la Sainte-Croix construite 1899-1901 Agrandissement de l'hôtel Tadoussac 1912 ? Quai construite 1914 Piddington construit Ivanhoe 1923 Destruction par le feu Bourgouin & Dumont 1927 Un traversier entre Baie-Sainte-Catherine et Tadoussac est en service à l'année 1927 CSL St Lawrence lancé 1928 CSL Tadoussac and Quebec lancé 1931 Destruction par le feu de Radford House 1932 Destruction par le feu de Brynhyfryd, reconstruit la même année 1932 Maison Molson/Beattie ou Noel Brisson built (Moulin Baude) 1936 Windward construit 1942 Nouvel Hôtel Tadoussac construit 1942 Reconstruction de la Maison Chauvin 1942 Construction de la centrale électrique du Moulin Baude 1946 Destruction par le feu de l'église de la Sainte-Croix 1948 Maison Turcot construite 1950 Destruction par le feu du CSL Québec au quai 1966 Fin des bateaux CSL 1986 Construction de la maison Webster DATES 50

From the 1800's until 1966 steamers travelled from Montreal, to Tadoussac and the Saguenay. White Boats Bateaux Blancs From the 1800's until 1966 many steamers travelled with goods and passengers between Lake Ontario, Montreal, Quebec, Tadoussac and the Saguenay River. On the lower St Lawrence it was one of the only means of transportation, and a popular trip for tourists. In the 1800's the steamers docked in Tadoussac at Anse à L'Eau (now the ferry wharf), until the wharf on Pointe d'Islet was built in the early 1900's. below circa 1960 Double Docking in Tadoussac Du XIXe siècle à 1966, de nombreux bateaux à vapeur transportaient marchandises et passagers entre le lac Ontario, Montréal, Québec, Tadoussac et le fleuve Saguenay. Sur le cours inférieur du Saint-Laurent, c'était l'un des seuls moyens de transport et une excursion très prisée des touristes. Au XIXe siècle, les bateaux à vapeur accostaient à Tadoussac à l'Anse à l'Eau (aujourd'hui l'embarcadère des traversiers), jusqu'à la construction du quai de la Pointe d'Islet au début du XXe siècle. Ci-dessous : vers 1960, double amarrage à Tadoussac. 1809 Maybe the first steamer on the St Lawrence Molson "Accommodation" 1809 Peut-être le premier bateau à vapeur sur le Saint-LaurentMolson « Accommodation » Edward Jump (c. 1832–1883) was a prolific illustrator known for his lively and often satirical sketches of 19th-century life in North America. "Murray Bay (now La Malbaie) - View of the Landing" "Murray Bay - Arrival of he Quebec Boat" "Trip to Salt Waters - Changing Steamers at Quebec" circa 1872 Edward Jump (vers 1832-1883) était un illustrateur prolifique, connu pour ses croquis vivants et souvent satiriques de la vie en Amérique du Nord au XIXe siècle. « Murray Bay (aujourd'hui La Malbaie) - Vue du quai » « Murray Bay - Arrivée du bateau de Québec » « Voyage en mer - Changement de vapeur à Québec » Vers 1872 1860'S Tadoussac August 1903 the "Carolina" hit the point at Passe Pierre on the Saguenay River, and was stranded as the tide went out. For the story go to the SHIPWRECKS page of their website. En août 1903, le « Carolina » a frappé la pointe de Passe Pierre sur la rivière Saguenay et s'est échoué à marée basse. Pour en savoir plus, consultez la page ÉPAVES de leur site web. SHIPWRECKS/NAUFRAGES circa 1900 "Meeting the Boat" Isobel Morewood (my Aunt Bill) and Carrie Rhodes (Morewood) my grandmother on the dock at Anse à L'Eau, Tadoussac Vers 1900 « L'arrivée du bateau » Isobel Morewood (ma tante Bill) et Carrie Rhodes (Morewood), ma grand-mère, sur le quai de l'Anse à l'Eau, à Tadoussac. "Saguenay" "Saguenay" at Anse à L'Eau Tadoussac below "Saguenay" at the Capes, 30 miles up the Saguenay River "Saguenay" on Vache Reef 1924 - CSL Saguenay on Vache Reef. When I (Patrick O'Neill) asked my mother (Elizabeth Stevenson O'Neill) how the ship came to be on the beach, she said that it got lost in the fog and made a wrong turn. She said the ship was pulled off the beach at high tide. It would have been a different story if the ship had run up on the rocks. The Saguenay must have been holed below the water line, because (above) clearly it did not float the first time the tide came in, and the water came IN. 1924 - CSL Saguenay Vache Reef. Quand j'ai (Patrick O'Neill) demandé à ma mère (Elizabeth Stevenson O'Neill) comment le navire est venu pour être sur la plage, elle a dit qu'il s'est perdu dans le brouillard et fait un mauvais virage.Elle a déclaré que le navire a été retiré de la plage à marée haute.Il aurait été une autre histoire si le navire avait heurté les rochers.Le Saguenay doit avoir été percé au-dessous de la ligne d'eau, parce que (ci-dessus) clairement il n'a pas flotté à la première marée haute, et l'eau est entrée au bateau! The next photo is beautiful. The collection of vessels tied together in Tadoussac Bay was a mystery, until the following explanation! This is very likely the rescue of the CSL Saguenay from the shipwreck above in 1924! Jean-Pierre Charest: A rescue. On the left, the rescue schooner G.T.D., second of this name. It is next to the tug LORD STRATHCONA, in service since 1903. If this event is later than 1915, the rescue duo belongs to Quebec Salvage & Wrecking Ltd, formerly owned by Geo. T. Davie. I note the presence of steam between the tug Lord Strathcona and the ship. There would be at least one rescue boiler running to operate a pump, which could mean damage to the hull and water infiltration. La photo suivante est belle. La collection de navires attachés ensemble dans la baie de Tadoussac était un mystère, jusqu'à l'explication suivante! C'est très probablement le sauvetage du CSL Saguenay du naufrage au dessus en 1924!Jean-Pierre Charest: Un sauvetage. À gauche, la goélette de sauvetage G.T.D., deuxième de ce nom. C'est à côté du remorqueur LORD STRATHCONA, en service depuis 1903. Si cet événement est postérieur à 1915, le duo de sauvetage appartient à Québec Salvage & Wrecking Ltd, anciennement propriété de Geo. T. Davie. Je note la présence de vapeur entre le remorqueur Lord Strathcona et le navire. Il y aurait au moins une chaudière de secours fonctionnant pour faire fonctionner une pompe, ce qui pourrait causer des dommages à la coque et à l'infiltration d'eau. New Era "St Lawrence" "Quebec" "Tadoussac" "Richelieu" Tadoussac 1920-1966 Cérémonie de pose de la quille de la coque numéro 495, le vapeur « St Lawrence » de la Canada Steamship Lines, en juin 1926. Elle mesurerait 329 pieds de long, 67 pieds de large et 20,3 pieds de long, avec un tonnage brut de 6328 tonnes. The St Lawrence on the sandbar!Remember when the CSL St Lawrence ran aground on the beach in Tadoussac?I was on the "Bonne Chance" coming down the Saguenay with Dad (so probably mid-1960s), and the St Lawrence was coming into the wharf. We waited for them (being smaller) so we were coming around behind them as they arrived at the wharf. We could hear the engines as they hit reverse to stop the boat as was the usual procedure, but instead of reverse the water shot out backwards from the props! The CSL boat shot forward and then stopped suddenly as it hit the sand bar. There was a slight pause and then a crash of broken glass as the dishes in the dining room hit the floor. Thanks to Susie & Patrick for the photo! There we are in the Bonne Chance!! This was taken shortly after it happened. The captain has it full reverse, but he's hard aground. The steam/smoke from the ship has created a rainbow! Le Saint-Laurent sur le banc de sable!Rappelez-vous quand la CSL St -Laurent s'est échoué sur la plage de Tadoussac ? J'étais sur la " Bonne Chance " descendre le Saguenay avec papa (probablement milieu des années 1960), et le Saint-Laurent venais dans le quai. Nous avons attendu pour eux (étant plus petit) afin que nous arrivions autour derrière eux comme ils sont arrivés au quai. Nous pouvions entendre les moteurs comme ils ont frappé inverse pour arrêter le bateau était la procédure habituelle, mais au lieu de renverser l'eau éjectés vers l'arrière des hélices! Le bateau de CSL tourné vers l'avant , puis s'arrêta brusquement comme il a frappé la barre de sable . Il y avait une légère pause, puis un accident de verre brisé comme les plats dans la salle à manger touchent le sol. Merci à Susie & Patrick pour la photo ! Nous voilà à la Bonne Chance !! Cela a été pris peu de temps après que le bateau ait échoué à terre. Le capitaine a fait marche arrière à fond, mais il est durement échoué. La vapeur/fumée du navire a créé un arc-en-ciel ! The ferry came over to try to pull her off, but the tide was dropping and there was no hope. Another CSL boat (the Richelieu) arrived later and did a clever backwards docking, so the boats were stern-to-stern, and much partying ensued. We went down to the beach at low tide that evening and tried to carve our initials in the bottom. By morning it was gone, floating off at high tide in the night, no harm done. Les ferries sont venus pour essayer de la retirer, mais la marée est en baisse et il n'y avait pas d'espoir. Un autre bateau de CSL ( Richelieu ) est arrivé plus tard et a fait un accueil intelligent en arrière, de sorte que les bateaux étaient poupe à poupe , et bien faire la fête a suivi. Nous sommes allés à la plage à marée basse, ce soir-là et j'ai essayé de tailler nos initiales dans le fond . Au matin, il avait disparu, flottant au large à marée haute dans la nuit, pas de mal a été fait. The "Richelieu" was the oldest of this group, its appearance was different, with no walkways along the side decks, it looks like cabins had private balconies. It was slower, and used for week-long cruises from Montreal, Trois Rivieres, Quebec, La Malbaie, Tadoussac, Chicoutimi. It would stay in Tadoussac overnight, and had a big bonfire on the back of Pointe d'Islet at night. Le « Richelieu » était le plus vieux de la flotte. Son apparence était différente : sans passerelles latérales, les cabines semblaient avoir des balcons privés. Plus lent, il effectuait des croisières d'une semaine au départ de Montréal, Trois-Rivières, Québec, La Malbaie, Tadoussac et Chicoutimi. Il passait la nuit à Tadoussac et un grand feu de joie était allumé chaque soir à l'arrière de la Pointe d'Islet. Tadoussac 1920-1966 Docking/Amarrage Double/Triple WHY double and triple Docking? sometimes it made sense, the "Richelieu" stayed overnight once a week, and then the next boat arrived for a 15 minute stopover. Probably sometimes it was just for the tourists, a fun photo-op!? These two photos were taken on the same day! Maybe this is 1951, the wharf being rebuilt after the Quebec fire of 1950, that's my guess. The three remaining boats getting together to celebrate the late "Quebec". Note they all have steam up, engines ready, this is not a simple manoeuvre! Pourquoi des accostages doubles et triples ? Parfois, cela se justifiait : le « Richelieu » y passait la nuit une fois par semaine, puis le bateau suivant arrivait pour une escale de 15 minutes. C'était sans doute aussi parfois pour les touristes, une occasion de prendre des photos amusantes ! Ces deux photos ont été prises le même jour ! Il s’agit peut-être de 1951, le quai étant en reconstruction après l’incendie de Québec de 1950 ; c'est mon hypothèse. Les trois autres bateaux se rassemblent pour célébrer la disparition du « Québec ». Remarquez que tous les moteurs sont en marche, la vapeur est allumée : ce n’est pas une manœuvre facile ! Meeting the Boat - Rencontre avec le Bateau Meeting the boat was great fun, welcoming people, watching the cars, people and luggage come up the gangway, and saying good-bye at the end of the summer. My mother Betty Morewood (Evans) is at the right, her father Frank Morewood sitting. Also Jim Alexander, Jean Alexander (Aylan-Parker), Gertrude (Williams) Alexander on board. L'accueil des passagers du bateau était très amusant, tout comme le fait de voir arriver les voitures, les gens et les bagages par la passerelle, et de se dire au revoir à la fin de l'été. 1930's 1930's Bill Morewood, Jack Wallace, Minny (Rhodes) Morewood and her son Frank, my grandfather and great Grandmother. 1930's back row Basil Evans and his brother Lewis Evans (my father) front row not sure x2, then Ann Stevenson (Dewart), Margaret Stevenson (Reilley) Kae Evans and ?? Maggie (Stevenson) Reilley Bishop Lennox Williams Below Nan Wallace (Leggat), Betty Morewood (Evans), Wallace brothers Jack and Michael, Frank Morewood and son Bill Joan (Ballantyne), Sheila (Campbell), Jim and Susan (Webster) Willams 1940's Betty and Lewis Evans (my parents) probably with one of Dad's aunts The Aylan-Parker family Painting by Tom Evans The Capes! Cap Éternité 32 miles from Tadoussac "TADOUSSAC" "QUEBEC" Lewis Evans had a cute schooner called the "Norouâ', and here it is sailing with the northwest wind! If you are wondering why they are cutting in front of the "Quebec", the steamer is going backwards leaving the wharf. 1946 Lewis Evans possédait une charmante goélette nommée « Norouâ », la voici naviguant au gré du vent du nord-ouest ! Si vous vous demandez pourquoi ils coupent la route devant le « Québec », c’est parce que le bateau à vapeur quitte le quai en marche arrière. 1946 August 14, 1950 the "Quebec" burned at the wharf in Tadoussac. Many more photos on the "Shipwrecks" page in this website. Le 14 août 1950, le « Québec » a brûlé au quai de Tadoussac. De nombreuses autres photos sont disponibles sur la page « Épaves » de ce site web. QUEBEC FIRE STEAMER ART These 3 Paintings by Frank Morewood circa 1930 Lewis Evans (my father) with his model of the "Tadoussac" and launched in Tadoussac Bay!! Lewis Evans (mon père) avec sa maquette du « Tadoussac » et mise à l'eau dans la baie de Tadoussac ! On the St Lawrence and Montreal Pointe au Pic, La Malbaie Montreal Excerpt from "Tides of Tadoussac" by Lewis Evans Chapter 1 Down the River "Send me a cab at five o'clock, and be sure the horse has a white star on his forehead." Year after year this was my father's order to the cab rank at St. Catherine and Atwater on a June afternoon, and the whimsy betrayed his excitement at setting off for his holiday combined with a summer chaplaincy on the Lower St. Lawrence. As for me at the age of five or so, excitement was no word for it. The cab was thrilling enough, but after it came the steamers, and after the steamers the long summer, the river, the beaches, the mountains. They let me ride on the box beside the driver, and we would clip-clop down Dorchester Street past the grand houses and the mysterious monastery, until I was lost in unfamiliar territory in Old Montreal, and then the docks with their strange sights and smells, and Victoria Pier, and the familiar, beloved sight of the wedding-cake superstructure and twin funnels of the Quebec boat - the paddle-wheeler "Quebec" or "Montreal". The gangway, the lobby, the row of stiff chairs, each with its polished brass spittoon, the brass-edged stairway with its ornately carved banisters, the carpets with an "R & O" design inherited from Canada Steamships Lines' predecessor the Richelieu and Ontario Navigation Company, the gingerbread woodwork, the narrow cabins, the upper bunk where you could see out the window — no wonder a little boy got little sleep, and came to wait for and love the incidents of the night. The buoys dancing past like little red and black soldiers with their hands on their hips; the stop at Sorel where always men seemed engaged in dropping iron pipes on other iron pipes; the swishing nothingness of Lake St. Peter; and, best of all, passing the upward-bound steamer, which swooped past in a blaze of light and flurry of foam, and always an exchange of shouts from freight deck to freight deck. Even at the age of five and ignorant of French I knew that the remarks were ones that my mother would not like me to understand. Quebec towering in the early morning mist, the mad scamper over to the Saguenay boat, and the real adventure began. We nearly always caught the first boat of the season, and the great question was — which one would it be? My parents hoped for the "Saguenay", then the last word in river steamers. She had been built in Scotland, and had crossed the ocean under her own steam. (How else? I always wondered, but never dared to ask.) She was the only screw-propelled vessel on the lower river line, and she was more punctual than the old paddle-wheelers. (A newly engaged couple about this time sailed in one of the older ships to seek the blessing of very Victorian parents at a down-river resort. Delayed by fog, the ship did not stop at their destination, but swept them unchaperoned through the night to the head of the Saguenay and back, to the horror of all concerned.) I hoped for the "Murray Bay", previously named the "Carolina" and later the "Cape Diamond", or the "St. Irenée", once the "Canada" and afterwards the "Cape St. Francis", for the policy was to change names after any accident, trifling or otherwise, or even, it seemed, after a new paint job. These ships were far more fun for a small boy, and there was far more to see, like the walking-beam, up on the top deck abaft the funnel, an enormous black steel diamond rearing up and down like a giant's see-saw against the sky. Then inside, amidships, there was an enclosure with windows bordered with coloured panes, where you could watch the shiny steel pistons from the walking-beam plunging up and down into the vitals of the ship to turn the drive-shaft of the paddle-wheels. And as you toured the deck you found your way blocked by the curved paddle-boxes; there was a glorious thumping and sloshing from within, and at full speed the water squirted at you from leaks between the boards. Freight deck jammed to the overhead beams, already an hour or two behind schedule, the first boat of the season would slide past the lush green hump of the Island of Orleans and head for the looming blue capes of the North Shore. The stops were many in those days — Baie St. Paul, Les Eboulements, St. Irenée, Pointe au Pic — an interminable stay for those bound for the lower river, but a good chance to walk the dog who had been explaining his point of view to the baggageman ever since Quebec — Cap à l'Aigle, St. Simeon. When the older ships made a bad landing and came alongside with a thump you could see the bulkheads of their wooden superstructures give slightly out of true to absorb the shock. At each wharf the furious unloading of freight, most fun for the onlooker but least for the stevedores if the tide was low. One man in front and half a dozen behind, the overloaded truck would take a tottering run across the gangway and at the steep and slippery ramp. Slower and slower as it neared the top, and then with a cheer from ship-side and shore spectators, over the crest onto the level wharf. And a loaded truck coming down, its handler skiing stiff-legged before it trying to brake, and then a mad run lest he be mowed down by his load. Then out on the widening estuary to meet the darkness flowing up from the Gulf, and the long sweep round the Prince Shoal Lightship into the mouth of the Saguenay. The welcoming lights of Tadoussac and its wharf in the little cove called Anse à l'Eau, dis-embarkation, the frenzied dog, the smiling caretaker who had come to meet you, the fourteen pieces of baggage and the seventeen checks, the buckboard ride through the sleeping village, the cottage with that smell of all summer cottages just reopened, the creaking stairs, the cold damp sheets, and the dreams of the steamer's paddles plunk-plunking up the deep Saguenay, if it was foggy her whistle sounding so they could time the echo from the cliffs, headed for Anse St. Jean, Chicoutimi, and her turn-around for Quebec. And all summer in Tadoussac lying ahead. Excerpt from "Tides of Tadoussac" by Lewis Evans Chapter 5 The Steamers For generations the river steamers were a vital part of the Tadous-sac summer, and we were brought up on tales of the ships that plied the river long before our time, their idiosyncracies and their misad-ventures, and the prowess of their captains and pilots. Ancient members of my family told of being aboard the "Carolina when she ran on a low point up the Saguenay one foggy night in 1903, and hawsers were run ashore to keep her from slipping off into deep water. And they in turn had heard of the "Canada", circa 1890, and the "Union" , her two funnels athwartships like a Mississippi stern-wheeler, and, beyond living memory, the little "Mon-tagnais" • • • Quebec Gazette, Oct. 3, 1822: A smail steamer called Le Mon-tagnais, built on a beautiful model, about 30 or 40 tons burthen, was launched from Goudie's shipyard this morning. We understand she is to make a trip to the King's Posts at the mouth of the Saguenay... Oct. 31: The steamboat Montagnais which was advertised to sail for the Saguenay on Thursday last, sailed on that day, and has not yet returned. It is generally thought that her size is not well calculated for such a voyage, several points in her passage offering serious obstacles by the boisterousness of the sea even in moderate winds... Nov. 4: A gentleman who went in the steamboat Montagnais to the Saguenay returned yesterday having left the boat about 45 miles below Quebec with the loss of anchor and other damage. The boat we understand sailed as far as Chicoutimi, a distance of upwards of 30 leagues from the mouth of the Saguenay. To the person with no other view than amusement, the scenery of that river, which presents nature in her most grand and romantic aspects, will afford great satisfaction. • • • In the twenties a new generation of river steamers arose to re-place the still efficient but ageing "Saguenay" and the last of the side-wheelers, the "Cape Diamond". There were some stop-gaps at this time too — notably the "Cape Eternity" , so slow that her name was twisted into many a laboured joke, and it was always said that she was used on the week-long rather than the three-day cruise because she couldn't do it in less. The "new" wharf in Tadoussac Bay was now extended, for the ships were too long to dock at the "old" wharf in Anse à l'Eau, where even the old paddle-wheelers, on a low spring tide, used to nudge their bows gently into the mud of the foreshore. One of these new ships was the "Richelieu", which took on the weekly cruise chore, stopping overnight at Chicoutimi, Tadoussac, Murray Bay, and Quebec, and thousands of Canadians and Americans must remember her with affection. For all her bulk she would wander down the Saguenay on a fine day like a small cruising yacht, poking into bays, playing tag with the odd island, and saluting with a ponderous blast the most insignificant of passing craft. The other three, the latest word in river-craft, handled daily sailings from Montreal to the head of the Saguenay. They were the "St. Lawrence", the "Quebec", and the "Tadoussac", over 300 feet in length, twin-screw, and built in the company's yards at Lauzon, the Canada Steamship Lines black-white-red colours proudly flaming from their twin funnels. With all their modernity, steam hawser winches, gift shops, recreation rooms, and dance bands, these ships soon achieved something of the individual characteristics of their predecessors. A brass-bound English captain of the "Quebec" maintained a running feud in the interests of discipline with light-hearted college students crewing as summer jobs. To them, fair passengers were fair game, and once the phone rang in the wireless cabin. "What are you doing with girls in there Mr. --?" demanded the captain's voice. "Showing them the wireless cabin, sir," replied Sparks. "It takes me only five minutes to show ladies the bridge." "Perhaps there is more to see in the wireless cabin, sir.... The same captain loved the steam siren, a sort of gigantic fire-truck-type banshee wail, and always used it in preference to thenormal whistle. As he was approaching a wharf one quiet day, the valve stuck or a spring broke, and the siren, billowing steam, mounted to an indescribable scream at the top of its range, and held it. Whoever had to climb the funnel to shut it off should have been decorated. The "Tadoussac", I think it was, suffered an embarrassing delay; a small boy took it into his head to see if the various safety items about the deck would float, or at least make a satisfactory splash. By the time he was caught so many life-belts and bits of fire prevention apparatus had gone overboard that the ship dared not proceed because of insurance and safety regulations. Even the "Richelieu" got in on the act, though this was years ago. A faulty gangway dropped some members of her tour between ship and wharf. A middle-aged lady, on being hauled from the salt water, pointed to her tour badge, "From Niagara to the Sea" , and observed, "I made it!" And then there was the glorious day when it actually happened. How many of us on wharves watching those ships gliding alongside have wondered "what would happen if...." and it did. Unaccountably, the "St. Lawrence" went Full Ahead instead of Full Astern, and quietly and efficiently beached herself like a canoe on the sand beyond the wharf, where she sat on an even keel but looking very foolish until a flood tide let her sneak off in the early hours of the morning. When one forgets for a moment their less dignified antics, and thinks of the runs these ships made, without a full day's idleness from mid-June to mid-September, decade after decade, almost always arriving as punctually and precisely as a train coming alongside a platform, (and this over 700 miles on one of the trickiest navigable rivers and estuaries in the world, fraught with strong tides, sudden squalls, and frequent blinding fogs), one is astounded at their long record of efficient service. Leave Montreal in the evening, down the dark, narrow, and crowded channels to Quebec in the soft summer morning, and down the blue and widening estuary, round the reefs and up the Saguenay gorge, arriving at Bagotville late at night and leaving atdawn. Down the Saguenay and up the St. Lawrence o black now against the sunset, into Montreal the next morning - and ready to sail again that night. And between Montreal and Montreal about fourteen comings-alongside wharves in tricky cur-rents, strong winds, and dense fogs. If the land-bound critics who made the caustic comments on bad landings, the occasional crash against the wharf, the broken hawser, the landing missed altogether, had ever imagined themselves in the position of persuading an unwieldy 7000 tons to kiss an immovable adjunct of the Canadian Shield, they might have been less vocal. Surely the long line of captains, French and English, and first officers and permanent pilots who conned these vessels through the years must have been among the most competent ship-handlers in the world. The "Quebec" was the first of the last generation to go. Her captain was faced, one calm, sunny afternoon, with a terrible choice. In mid-St. Lawrence fire broke out; should he stop and try to get his passengers off in boats, fight the fire, and save his ship? Or should he steam hell-bent for the nearest wharf, land his passengers, but fan the flames out of control? He elected the latter, and landed his passengers at Tadoussac, but the ship burned through the night to the waterline. At one eerie moment a valve let go, and the "Quebec's" deep whistle gave a final, long-drawn, fading salute. In 1966 the last three were withdrawn from the river, and many memories come crowding. Montreal would miss those white shapes slipping punctually under the Jacques Cartier Bridge, but Montreal had many other ships and whistles. It was the little villages below Quebec that would not be the same. No more the three long, deep blasts saying "Here I come" and the buggies racing to the wharf to pick up the tourists. No more the great swells of her wake breaking on the beaches to the delight of the children and the terror of the dogs. No more the moving fantasy of lights gliding up the dark Saguenay, while the trout fisherman in some silent cove slapped at the black-flies and waited for the swells to rock his boat to sleep. No more the sirens screeching at Capes Trinity and Eternity, and the sevenfold echoesrolling in the hills. No more the farewells, when the final whistle went, the mooring warps splashed into the water, and the distance widened between the summer lovers... Extrait de « Marées de Tadoussac » de Lewis Evans Chapitre 1 : Sur le fleuve « Envoyez-moi un taxi à cinq heures, et assurez-vous que le cheval porte une étoile blanche sur le front.» Année après année, tel était l’ordre que mon père donnait à la station de calèches de Sainte-Catherine et d’Atwater, un après-midi de juin. Cette fantaisie trahissait son enthousiasme à l’idée de partir en vacances, combinée à son ministère d’aumônier d’été sur le Bas-Saint-Laurent. Quant à moi, vers l'âge de cinq ans, le mot « enthousiasme » était bien faible. Le fiacre était déjà palpitant, mais après venaient les bateaux à vapeur, et après les bateaux à vapeur, le long été, le fleuve, les plages, les montagnes. Ils m'ont laissé monter dans la cabine à côté du conducteur, et on descendait la rue Dorchester au rythme des sabots, passant devant les belles maisons et le mystérieux monastère, jusqu'à ce que je me perde dans les méandres inconnus du Vieux-Montréal, puis les quais avec leurs images et leurs odeurs étranges, la jetée Victoria, et la vue familière et chère de la superstructure en forme de pièce montée et des deux cheminées du bateau « Québec » – le bateau à aubes « Québec » ou « Montréal ». La passerelle, le hall, la rangée de chaises rigides, chacune avec son crachoir en laiton poli, l'escalier aux bordures de laiton et à la rampe finement sculptée, les tapis à motif « R & O » hérités de la Richelieu and Ontario Navigation Company, prédécesseur de la Canada Steamships Lines, les boiseries ouvragées, les cabines étroites, la couchette du haut d'où l'on pouvait voir par la fenêtre – pas étonnant qu'un petit garçon dorme peu et s'attache aux événements de la nuit. Les bouées qui défilaient comme de petits soldats rouges et noirs, les mains sur les hanches ; L'escale à Sorel, où des hommes semblaient toujours s'affairer à emboîter des tuyaux de fer les uns sur les autres ; le néant bruissant du lac Saint-Pierre ; et, surtout, le passage du vapeur remontant le courant, qui filait dans un éclat de lumière et un tourbillon d’écume, accompagné invariablement de cris échangés d’un pont de marchandises à l’autre. Même à cinq ans, ignorant tout du français, je savais que ma mère ne voulait pas que je comprenne ces remarques. Le Québec se dressant dans la brume matinale, la course folle vers le bateau du Saguenay, et la véritable aventure commençait. On prenait presque toujours le premier bateau de la saison, et la grande question était : lequel ? Mes parents espéraient le « Saguenay », alors le summum des bateaux à vapeur fluviaux. Construit en Écosse, il avait traversé l'océan par ses propres moyens. (Comment autrement ? Je me le suis toujours demandé, sans jamais oser le demander.) C'était le seul bateau à hélice sur la ligne du bas fleuve, et il était plus ponctuel que les vieux bateaux à aubes. (À cette époque, un couple de jeunes fiancés embarqua sur l'un des plus vieux navires pour aller chercher la bénédiction de leurs parents, très victoriens, dans une station balnéaire en aval. Retardé par le brouillard, le bateau ne s'arrêta pas à destination, mais les emmena sans accompagnateur toute la nuit jusqu'à la source du Saguenay, puis retour, à la grande horreur de tous.) J'espérais qu'il s'agisse du « Murray Bay », anciennement appelé « Carolina » puis « Cape Diamond », ou du « St. Irenée », autrefois « Canada » puis « Cape St. Francis », car la politique était de changer de nom après le moindre accident, même mineur, ou même, semblait-il, après une nouvelle peinture. Ces navires étaient bien plus amusants pour un petit garçon, et il y avait bien plus à voir, comme la poutre de marche, sur le pont supérieur, derrière la cheminée : un énorme losange d'acier noir qui se dressait et s'abaissait comme la balançoire d'un géant face au ciel. À l'intérieur, au milieu du navire, se trouvait une enceinte vitrée aux vitres colorées, d'où l'on pouvait observer les pistons d'acier brillant de la poutre de marche s'actionner dans les organes vitaux du navire pour faire tourner l'arbre de transmission des roues à aubes. En traversant le pont, on se retrouvait parfois bloqué par les caissons incurvés des roues à aubes ; un glorieux clapotis s'en dégageait, et à pleine vitesse, l'eau jaillissait des fuites entre les planches. Le pont de marchandises, bondé jusqu'aux poutres supérieures, déjà en retard d'une heure ou deux, le premier bateau de la saison allait longer la luxuriante péninsule verdoyante de l'île d'Orléans et se diriger vers les imposants caps bleus de la Côte-Nord. Les escales étaient nombreuses à l'époque : Baie Saint-Paul, Les Éboulements, Sainte-Irénée, Pointe au Pic – un séjour interminable pour ceux qui descendaient le fleuve, mais une bonne occasion de promener le chien qui, depuis Québec, n'avait cessé d'expliquer son point de vue au bagagiste – Cap à l'Aigle, Saint-Siméon. Lorsque les vieux navires rataient leur accostage et s'échouaient avec fracas, on pouvait voir les cloisons de leurs superstructures en bois se déformer légèrement pour absorber le choc. À chaque quai, le déchargement frénétique des marchandises offrait un spectacle des plus divertissants pour les spectateurs, mais beaucoup moins pour les débardeurs à marée basse. Un homme en avant et une demi-douzaine derrière, le camion surchargé s'élançait en titubant sur la passerelle et la rampe abrupte et glissante. De plus en plus lentement à mesure qu'il s'approchait du sommet, il franchissait ensuite la crête sous les acclamations des spectateurs, aussi bien à bord que sur la rive, pour atteindre le quai plat. Puis, un camion chargé descendait, son chauffeur, les jambes raides, essayant de freiner, puis courant à toute vitesse pour ne pas être écrasé par son chargement. Suivant alors l'estuaire qui s'élargissait, on rejoignait l'obscurité remontant du Golfe, et le long détour autour du bateau-phare de Prince Shoal pour entrer dans l'embouchure du Saguenay. Les lumières accueillantes de Tadoussac et son quai dans la petite anse d'Anse à l'Eau, le débarquement, le chien frénétique, le gardien souriant venu à votre rencontre, les quatorze bagages et les dix-sept formalités d'enregistrement, la traversée du village endormi en chariot, le chalet à l'odeur caractéristique des chalets d'été qui viennent de rouvrir, les escaliers qui grincent, les draps froids et humides, et le rêve des pales du vapeur fendant les eaux profondes du Saguenay, son sifflement retentissant si fort qu'on pouvait en mesurer l'écho sur les falaises, cap sur Anse Saint-Jean, Chicoutimi, et son retour vers Québec. Et tout l'été à Tadoussac nous attend. Extrait de « Marées de Tadoussac » de Lewis Evans Chapitre 5 : Les bateaux à vapeur Pendant des générations, les bateaux à vapeur fluviaux ont été un élément essentiel de l’été à Tadoussac. Nous avons grandi bercés par les récits de ces navires qui sillonnaient le fleuve bien avant notre époque, leurs particularités, leurs mésaventures et le talent de leurs capitaines et pilotes. Des membres âgés de ma famille ont raconté avoir été à bord du « Carolina » lorsqu'il s'est retrouvé coincé dans une zone de faible tirant d'eau sur le Saguenay, par une nuit de brouillard en 1903. Des amarres ont été jetées à terre pour l'empêcher de sombrer en eaux profondes. Ils avaient aussi entendu parler du « Canada », vers 1890, et de l'« Union », avec ses deux cheminées transversales comme un bateau à aubes du Mississippi, et, depuis des temps immémoriaux, du petit « Montagnais ». • • • Gazette de Québec, 3 octobre 1822 : Un petit vapeur nommé Le Montagnais, construit sur un modèle élégant, d'environ 30 ou 40 tonnes, a été lancé ce matin du chantier naval de Goudie. Il semblerait qu'il doive se rendre aux Postes du Roi, à l'embouchure du Saguenay… 31 octobre : Le vapeur Montagnais, dont le départ pour le Saguenay avait été annoncé jeudi dernier, a appareillé ce jour-là et n'est pas revenu depuis. Elle est quand même revenue. On pense généralement que ses dimensions ne sont pas bien adaptées à un tel voyage, plusieurs points de son parcours présentant de sérieux obstacles en raison de la mer agitée, même par vents modérés… 4 novembre : Un monsieur parti à bord du bateau à vapeur Montagnais pour le Saguenay est revenu hier, ayant laissé le bateau à environ 45 milles en aval de Québec, suite à la perte de son ancre et à d'autres avaries. Le bateau, semble-t-il, a navigué jusqu'à Chicoutimi, à plus de 30 lieues de l'embouchure du Saguenay. Pour celui qui ne recherche que le divertissement, le paysage de ce fleuve, qui présente la nature sous ses aspects les plus grandioses et romantiques, est une source de grande satisfaction. • • • Dans les années 1920, une nouvelle génération de bateaux à vapeur fluviaux a vu le jour pour remplacer le « Saguenay », encore efficace mais vieillissant, et le dernier des bateaux à roues à aubes, le « Cape Diamond ». Il y a eu aussi quelques solutions de fortune à cette époque, notamment le « Cape Eternity », si lent que son nom a donné lieu à de nombreuses blagues laborieuses, et il a toujours été… Elle expliqua qu'elle était utilisée pour la croisière d'une semaine plutôt que de trois jours, car elle ne pouvait pas l'effectuer en moins de temps. Le « nouveau » quai de la baie de Tadoussac avait été agrandi, car les navires étaient devenus trop longs pour accoster à l'« ancien » quai d'Anse à l'Eau, où même les vieux bateaux à aubes, à marée basse de vives-eaux, effleuraient la vase du rivage. Un de ces nouveaux navires était le « Richelieu », qui assurait la croisière hebdomadaire, avec des escales d'une nuit à Chicoutimi, Tadoussac, Murray Bay et Québec. Des milliers de Canadiens et d'Américains se souviennent certainement d'elle avec affection. Malgré son gabarit imposant, elle descendait le Saguenay par beau temps comme un petit yacht de croisière, s'aventurant dans les baies, flirtant avec les îles et saluant d'un puissant coup de canon le plus insignifiant des navires de passage. Les trois autres, fleurons de la navigation fluviale, faisaient des traversées quotidiennes de Montréal jusqu'à l'embouchure du Saguenay. St. Le « Lawrence », le « Québec » et le « Tadoussac », longs de plus de 90 mètres, à deux hélices et construits dans les chantiers navals de la compagnie à Lauzon, arboraient fièrement les couleurs noir, blanc et rouge de la Canada Steamship Lines, qui flottaient au-dessus de leurs deux cheminées. Avec toute leur modernité – treuils à vapeur pour les amarres, boutiques de souvenirs, salles de loisirs et orchestres de danse –, ces navires acquirent rapidement un caractère propre, rappelant celui de leurs prédécesseurs. Un capitaine anglais autoritaire du « Québec » entretenait une querelle permanente, au nom de la discipline, avec des étudiants insouciants embauchés comme employés d'été. À leurs yeux, les passagers étaient des proies faciles, et un jour, le téléphone a sonné dans la cabine de radio. « Qu'est-ce que vous faites avec des filles là-dedans, monsieur… ? » a demandé la voix du capitaine. « Je leur fais visiter la cabine de radio, monsieur », répondit Sparks. « Ça me prend seulement cinq minutes pour faire visiter la passerelle aux dames. « Peut-être y a-t-il plus à voir dans la cabine de radio, monsieur… » Ce même capitaine adorait la sirène à vapeur, une sorte de gigantesque… Il utilisait toujours la sirène stridente, semblable à celle d'un camion de pompiers, de préférence au sifflet normal. Un jour, alors qu'il approchait d'un quai, la vanne se bloqua ou un ressort cassa, et la sirène, crachant de la vapeur, poussa un hurlement indescriptible à pleine puissance, et le maintint. Celui qui a dû grimper dans la cheminée pour l'éteindre aurait mérité une médaille. Le « Tadoussac », je crois, a connu un retard embarrassant ; un p'tit gars a eu l'idée de vérifier si les différents équipements de sécurité sur le pont flotteraient, ou du moins feraient un beau plongeon. Lorsqu'il fut rattrapé, tant de gilets de sauvetage et de pièces d'équipement anti-incendie étaient tombés à la mer que le navire n'osa pas repartir, par crainte des assurances et des règles de sécurité. Même le « Richelieu » s'y est mis, il y a des années. Une passerelle défectueuse a fait tomber certains membres de son excursion entre le navire et le quai. Une dame d'âge mûr, une fois sortie de l'eau salée, a montré son badge d'excursion, « De Niagara à la mer », et s'est exclamée : « J'y suis arrivée ! » Et puis, il y a eu ce jour mémorable où c'est arrivé. Combien d'entre nous, sur les quais, à regarder ces navires glisser le long du quai, on s'est demandé « et si… » et que ça se produisait. Inexplicablement, le « St. Lawrence » a mis le cap à toute vitesse au lieu de faire marche arrière, et s'est échoué silencieusement et efficacement comme un canot sur le sable au-delà du quai, où il est resté à l'horizontale, l'air bien ridicule, jusqu'à ce qu'une marée montante le laisse repartir au petit matin. Quand on oublie un instant leurs frasques moins glorieuses et qu'on pense aux traversées que ces navires effectuaient sans relâche, de la mi-juin à la mi-septembre, décennie après décennie, arrivant presque toujours avec la ponctualité et la précision d'un train à quai (et ce, sur plus de 1 100 kilomètres, sur l'un des fleuves et estuaires les plus difficiles à naviguer au monde, balayé par de forts courants, des grains soudains et des brouillards fréquents et aveuglants), on est stupéfait par leur long et efficace bilan. Quitter Montréal le soir, descendre les chenaux sombres, étroits et encombrés jusqu'à Québec par la douce matinée d'été, puis descendre l'estuaire bleu qui s'élargit, contourner les récifs et remonter les gorges du Saguenay, arriver à Bagotville tard dans la nuit et repartir à l'aube. Descendre le Saguenay et remonter le Saint-Laurent, maintenant noir au coucher du soleil, jusqu'à Montréal le lendemain matin – et prêts à repartir le soir même. Entre Montréal et Montréal, il a fallu une quinzaine d'accostages, dans des courants capricieux, des vents violents et un épais brouillard. Si les critiques terrestres, acerbes face aux mauvais accostages, aux chocs occasionnels contre le quai, aux amarres rompues et aux accostages manqués, s'étaient seulement imaginés à la tête d'un imposant navire de 7 000 tonnes, contraint d'accoster sur un majestueux Bouclier canadien, ils auraient sans doute été moins virulents. Il ne fait aucun doute que la longue lignée de capitaines, français et anglais, de seconds et de pilotes permanents qui ont manœuvré ces navires au fil des ans étaient parmi les plus compétents au monde. Le « Québec » fut le premier de la dernière génération à disparaître. Un après-midi calme et ensoleillé, son capitaine s'est retrouvé confronté à un choix terrible. Au beau milieu du Saint-Laurent, un incendie s'est déclaré : devait-il s'arrêter, tenter de faire débarquer ses passagers en canots, combattre le feu et sauver son navire ? Ou devait-il foncer à toute allure vers le quai le plus proche, débarquer ses passagers, quitte à attiser les flammes jusqu'à ce qu'elles deviennent incontrôlables ? Il a choisi la deuxième option et a débarqué ses passagers à Tadoussac, mais le navire a brûlé toute la nuit jusqu'à la ligne de flottaison. À un moment étrange, une soupape céda et le sifflement profond du « Québec » laissa échapper un dernier long et lointain salut. En 1966, les trois derniers navires ont été retirés du fleuve, et de nombreux souvenirs ont refait surface. Montréal regretterait ces silhouettes blanches glissant ponctuellement sous le pont Jacques-Cartier, mais Montréal avait bien d'autres navires et sifflets. Ce sont les petits villages en aval de Québec qui ne seraient plus jamais les mêmes. Plus jamais les trois longs et profonds sifflets annonçant leur arrivée, ni les voiturettes se précipitant vers le quai pour embarquer les touristes. Plus jamais les vagues déferlant sur les plages, pour le plus grand plaisir des enfants et la terreur des chiens. Finie la fantaisie émouvante des lumières glissant sur le sombre Saguenay, tandis que le pêcheur de truite dans une crique silencieuse giflait les mouches noires et attendait que la houle berce son bateau pour dormir. Plus de sirènes hurlant aux caps Trinity et Eternity, et les échos septuples roulant dans les collines. Finis les adieux, au coup de sifflet final, les funes s'écrasaient à l'eau, et la distance se creusait entre les amoureux de l'été... Robert Lewis Evans spent seventy-seven summers in Tadoussac. Through all those years, he loved it; he loved its people and its surroundings. His career as an English teacher at Bishop's College School in Lennoxville, Quebec, afforded him long summer vacations during which he explored every nook and cranny of Tadoussac on foot, and every bay and cove of the Saguenay by sailboat. He spent many hours researching anecdotes of days gone by through reading books and listening to his neighbours. His own training as an English teacher coupled with his interest in history and his flair as a social satirist made Lewis Evans unusually qualified to present the history of the golden years of this St. Lawrence resort. Tadoussac dates back even before Cartier and Champlain; the Evans connection, though not quite as ancient, also goes back a long way. Lewis's wife, Betty, was a great grand-daughter of Colonel William Rhodes, one of the first summer cottagers. Their love of this beautiful place, and of the people who live there, has now been passed on to the next generation, and so to the generations to come. Robert Lewis Evans a passé soixante-dix-sept étés à Tadoussac. Pendant toutes ces années, il a adoré cet endroit ; il aimait ses habitants et ses environs. Sa carrière d'enseignant d'anglais à l'école Bishop's College de Lennoxville, au Québec, lui offrait de longues vacances d'été durant lesquelles il explorait à pied chaque recoin de Tadoussac et en voilier chaque baie et anse du Saguenay. Il a passé de nombreuses heures à chercher des anecdotes d'antan en lisant des livres et en écoutant ses voisins. Sa formation d'enseignant d'anglais, combinée à son intérêt pour l'histoire et à son talent de satiriste social, a fait de Lewis Evans une personne exceptionnellement bien placée pour présenter l'histoire de l'âge d'or de cette station balnéaire du Saint-Laurent.Tadoussac remonte même à une époque antérieure à Cartier et Champlain ; le lien avec les Evans, bien que moins ancien, est aussi très ancien. La femme de Lewis, Betty, était l'arrière-petite-fille du colonel William Rhodes, l'un des premiers vacanciers. Leur amour pour ce lieu magnifique et pour les gens qui y vivent a été transmis à la génération suivante, et ainsi de suite aux générations futures. 150

Tadoussac Historical Photos and Stories - History of Tadoussac CLUB de TENNIS TADOUSSAC TADOUSSAC TENNIS CLUB 1890's - Houses at the top of the hill. The hotel was enlarged in 1898 so this is earlier, before golf? 1890 - Maisons en haut de la colline. L'hôtel a été agrandi en 1898 donc c'est plus tôt, avant de golf?

PREVIOUS Next Page - Prochaine Page >>> NEXT PAGE Goelettes These wonderful boats will get a page of their own eventually. Remember there were two of them on the corner of the bay for many years in the 1960's, with lots of broken glass (need photo!). I took this photo in about 1972, the goelette was twisted and sitting on the bottom. Note the hovercraft in the wharf. Also three identical boats that were doing some sort of nautical survey work that summer. Ces merveilleux bateaux auront une page de leur propre suite. Rappelez-vous, il y avait deux d'entre eux sur le coin de la baie depuis de nombreuses années dans les années 1960, avec beaucoup de verre cassé (besoin photo!). J'ai pris cette photo vers 1972, la goélette a été tordu et assis sur le fond. Remarque l'aéroglisseur dans le quai. Aussi trois bateaux identiques qui faisaient une sorte de travail d'enquête nautique en été.

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LE MIROIR Stories/Histoires Le Miroir is published by the Municipality of Tadoussac, and they have asked for some photos and stories that illustrate the fascinating history of Tadoussac. As they come out they will be posted on this page in both languages! Le Miroir est publié par la Municipalité de Tadoussac et a demandé des photos et des histoires qui illustrent l'histoire fascinante de Tadoussac. À leur arrivée, ils seront affichés sur cette page dans les deux langues! UN PETIT PEIGNE CHEZ CID! Text from the book "Tides of Tadoussac" By R Lewis Evans Can you identify the people in this photo? In front of the door, Beth Dewart, Maggie Reilley, Geoff Izard, and at the right end MARIE CID POUVEZ-VOUS NOUS AIDER À IDENTIFIER LES PERSONNES SUR CETTE PHOTOS? À NOTER QUE MARIE CID SE TROUVE À L’EXTRÊME DROITE SUR LA PHOTO. We all know La Boheme in the middle of Tadoussac but some of us remember it fondly as the Marchand General du Pierre Cid. Pierre Cid was a Syrian who immigrated to Canada and settled in Tadoussac and after his death, three of his children, Joe, Marie, and Alexandrine ran the store right into their old age, living in the back of the building. Joe was a delightful man and ran the place. Marie, suffering from Parkinson's Disease, was small and shook constantly, but she was lovely to everyone, knew the price of everything in the store and could add in the tax in seconds. Alexandrine was quite the opposite. Not a believer in the idea that “the customer is always right,” she did not suffer fools gladly. Back in the days that the Canada Steamship Lines owned the Hotel Tadoussac the President of CSL came to stay at the hotel. The hotel staff were terrified. Criticism from the great man could cost them their jobs and they worked very hard to make sure everything was perfect. During his stay he decided to go play golf, and on his way there stopped his flashy big Cadillac outside the Marchand General. In he proudly walked in his canary yellow golfing outfit like a little Napoleon, looked at Alexandrine sternly, and said, “Je veux une peigne.” She made some grunt that sounded like a seal, shuffled off in her bedroom slippers into the gloom at the back of the store and returned with a used ice-cream bucket full of combs. He looked through them and said, “They're not very big, are they?” She looked him in the eye and replied in a voice that could be heard throughout the store, “Big enough for you. You don't have much hair anyway!” Tout le monde connait Le Café Bohème situé au coeur de Tadoussac, mais certains d’entre- nous s’en rappellent encore comme du Marchand Général Pierre Cid. Pierre Cid était un Syrien ayant immigré au Canada et qui s’était établi à Tadoussac. Après sa mort, trois de ses enfants, Joe, Marie et Alexandrine, ont pris la relève de la petite entreprise familiale jusqu’à leurs vieux jours, vivant dans la partie arrière du bâtiment. Joe était un homme charmant et était celui en charge du magasin. Marie, atteinte de la maladie de Parkinson, était petite et souffrait de tremblements constants. Elle était aimable avec tout le monde, connaissait les prix de tout ce qui se vendait en magasin et pouvait faire le calcul des taxes en quelques secondes seulement. Alexandrine était tout le contraire. N’adhérant pas à l’adage populaire voulant que le client aie toujours raison, elle n’avait que faire des imbéciles. Du temps où la Canada Steamship Lines était propriétaire de l’Hôtel Tadoussac, le président de la compagnie vint résider à l’Hôtel. Le personnel en était terrifié. Une mauvaise critique du grand patron pourrait leur coûter leur emploi et ils travaillèrent donc très fort afin de s’assurer que tout soit parfait. Lors de son séjour, monsieur le Président décida d’aller jouer au golf et en route, arrêta sa rutilante Cadillac devant le Marchand Général. Vêtu d’un habit de golf jaune canari, il entra dans le magasin d’un pas fier tel un petit Napoléon, adressa un regard sévère à Alexandrine et dit: « Je veux un peigne! ». Elle émit un petit grognement semblable à celui d’un phoque, trottina, pantoufles aux pieds, dans la pénombre de l’arrière-boutique et revint quelques instants plus tard avec un vieux pot de crème glacée rempli de peignes. Le Président y jeta un oeil et dit: «Ils ne sont pas très gros vos peignes.» Alexandrine le regarda droit dans les yeux et lui répondit d’une voix suffisamment forte pour être entendue à travers tout le magasin : «Ils sont bien assez gros pour vous. De toute façon, ce n’est pas comme si vous aviez beaucoup de cheveux !» Pierre Cid?

Grandchildren of William Rhodes, Quebec & Tadoussac, Quebec NEXT PAGE The 18 Tadoussac Grandchildren of William Rhodes and Anne Dunn PREVIOUS This is an amazing collection of photographs of the RHODES Family in Tadoussac, assembled from albums of many families. These folks are our ancestors, the people that enjoyed Tadoussac before we did. You will have heard of most of them, and if you are 40+ maybe you knew them. This page is LONG, hundreds of photos. But it's PHOTOGRAPHS, not much reading involved! Take the time to get to know some great people. This page introduces the older ancestors, the children of William and Anne Rhodes, but focuses on the 18 grandchildren who spent wonderful time in Tadoussac from the 1880's to the 1980's! Of the 18 only 8 have descendants, but there are now about 140 direct descendants who come to Tadoussac, and they have built 16 houses in Tadoussac! You may be one! 18 of the RHODES GRANDCHILDREN Carrie Rhodes Morewood 1881 John Morewood1884 Frank Morewood1886 Catherine Rhodes 1888 Nancy Morewood 1888 Jimmy Williams 1888 Lily Bell Rhodes 1889 Mary Williams Wallace 1890 Charley Rhodes 1890 Gertrude Williams Alexander 1891 Isobel (Billy) Morewood 1891 Frances Rhodes 1892 Dorothy Rhodes Evans1892 Gertrude Rhodes1896 Bobby Morewood 1897 Sidney Williams 1899 Monica Rhodes1904 Armitage (Peter) Rhodes Hargreaves 1909 (Omitted from this list are 5 who died in infancy, and 9 children of Bob Rhodes who lived in the US and didn't come to Tadoussac, so the total is really about 32). Peter de Rodes came from France to England in about 1600 William Rhodes 1791-1869 and Ann Smith -1827 lived in Bramhope Hall, England, near Leeds. Their second son, William Rhodes, moved to Quebec in 1842. He married Anne Catherine Dunn in 1846, granddaughter of Thomas Dunn of Quebec. The Rhodes Family lived at Benmore, Sillery, Quebec They built a summer cottage "Brynhyfryd" in Tadoussac in 1860, which was constantly expanded to accomodate the growing family. This is organized by family First the PARENTS (the children of William Rhodes and Anne Dunn) Then the GRANDCHILDREN William Rhodes (Jr) 1851-1921 Caroline Hibler 1848-1929 William was the third oldest of the five Rhodes boys. He worked for the Baldwin Locomotive Works in Philadelphia, and travelled the world delivering and assembling locomotives. They had one daughter. Carrie Rhodes Morewood 1881-1973 The oldest Grandchild, she was born in Australia, and lived in Doylestown and Bryn Mayr (near Philadelphia), and with her son Bill and his family in New Jersey. She summered in Quebec at Benmore and Tadoussac, and married her first cousin Frank Morewood. She is my grandmother, I knew her well! A lovely lady. Carrie, Frank, Bill and Betty(Evans) Morewood) Harry Morewood 1855-1916 Minnie Rhodes 1857-1942 Minnie was the 6th oldest of the Rhodes children, with 5 older brothers. The Morewood had 5 children, and much of the family lived at the Rhodes family home, Benmore in Quebec, until it was sold in the late 1940's. And of course summer in Tadoussac. Frank Morewood 1886-1949 Frank was an artist and architect, and designed several Tadoussac houses (Windward, Brynhyfryd, Turcot). He married his first cousin Carrie (above) and is my grandfather. They had 2 children, Bill and Betty. John Morewood 1884-1944 Nancy Morewood 1888-1946 Isobel (Billy) Morewood 1891-1977 at right Meeting the boat in Anse a L'Eau with her cousin/sister-in-law Carrie Rhodes circa 1910 Bobby Morewood 1897-1964 below, Bill and Ainslie Stephen, Harry Bob and Frank Morewood, Phoebe Morewood Family Photos Left Bill Morewood and Aunt Billy Morewood Right Aunt Margaret Bill and Betty (Evans) Morewood Bobby Morewood Godfrey Rhodes 1850-1932 Lily Jamison 1859-1939 Godfrey was second oldest, and he trained with his brother William in industrial mills in Pennsylvania. He inherited from his namesake, Uncle Godfrey Rhodes, and bought Cataraquai, a large estate in Sillery, Quebec, next door to the Rhodes family home Benmore. They had one daughter Catherine. Cataraquai in Quebec Catherine Rhodes 1888-1972 Catherine was very interested in art and an artist herself. She married Percival Tudor-Hart, a well known artist, and they built a large house in Tadoussac . He had two children from a previous marriage. Catherine lived at Cataraquia her whole life. Armitage Rhodes 1848-1909 Ida Alleman 1854-1893 Katie VonIffland 1867-1938 Armitage was the oldest, and had two children Charley and Dorothy (Dorsh) with his first wife, and two daughters with his second wife, Monica and Armitage (Peter). He lived at Benmore and spent a lot of time in Tadoussac at Brynhyfryd. Above Charley Rhodes with his mother in Montreal Charley Rhodes 1890-? Below Charley Rhodes with Uncle Jimmy Rhodes at Benmore Dorothy Rhodes Evans 1892-1977 at right Dorothy with Katie (VonIffland) Rhodes Below with Monica Dorothy Rhodes married Trevor Evans, and they had four children, Phoebe, Ainslie, Trevor and Tim. They bought the cottage Ivanhoe Dorothy (Dorsh) at right with a couple of her grandchildren Bill and Margie Stephen early 1950's at Hovington's Farm Monica Rhodes1904-1985 Armitage Rhodes and his second wife, Katie VonIffland, with Monica Below Monica Rhodes and her grandmother Anne (Dunn) Rhodes Armitage (Peter) Rhodes Hargreaves 1909-1969 above Dorothy, Peter, Katie (VanIffland) Rhodes above 1913 Peter with her grandmother MrsVonIffland below Katie (Von Iffland) Rhodes with Peter and Dorothy Francis Rhodes 1853-1926 Totie LeMoine 1859-1941 Francis was the fourth oldest and married a Québec girl, Totie LeMoyne, of "Spencer Grange", near Benmore, outside Québec. He studied mining and they lived in the US until James LeMoyne died and they came back to Quebec. They had 3 daughters, LilyBell, Frances and Gertrude. Spencer Grange still exists, at 1328, Avenue Duquet, Quebec Lily Bell Rhodes 1889-1975 above Lily and Frances with their father Francis, at the sand dunes Frances Rhodes 1892-1976 below 1916 at Spencer Grange Lily LucyLogan MargaretPrice GertrudeWA 1950 LilyBell and another cousin, Margaret Robes in Boston The third sister Gertrude Rhodes1896-1926 She studied medicine and when she was an intern in a Denver hospital she got sick and died at the age of 30. Nan Rhodes Williams with Lily and Gertrude, only one photo Caroline Anne (Nan) Rhodes 1861-1937 Lennox Williams 1859-1958 Nan was the second daughter, seventh child in the Rhodes family. She married Lennox Williams who became Bishop of Quebec, they lived in Quebec City and had 4 children. Nan inherited Brynhyfryd from her parents. Jim Williams 1888-1916 He is the oldest son of Lennox Williams and Nan Rhodes. Born in 1888, married Evelyn Meredith January 3, 1916. He was killed in the First World War at the Somme in November 18, 1916 at the age of 28. More photos at under the Williams Tab above Mary Williams Wallace 1890 - 1989 Mary and Jack Wallace owned Brynhyfryd for many years. They had one daughter Nan (Wallace) Leggat, and two sons Jack and Michael Wallace. ~1907 MaryWallace with HarrietRoss at left Mary with Robbie Leggat? early 1950's Gertrude Williams Alexander 1891-? Gertrude married Gen. Ronald Alexander and they had three children, Jim Alexander, Jean (Alexander) Aylan-Parker, and Ron Alexander above circa 1900 in front of Benmore below circa 1907 with her aunt Minnie (Rhodes) Morewood and her granny Anne (Dunn) Rhodes Canon Sidney Waldron Williams 1899-1972 Sidney Williams married Enid Price and they had four children, Joan, Susan, Jim and Sheila at right 1913 Donat Therrien, brother Jimmy and Sid The Williams family at Brynhyfryd circa 1914 Mary Syd Jim Evelyn Lennox&Nan Gertrude The Sidney/Enid Williams family circa Mary Syd Jim Evelyn Lennox&Nan Gertrude Do you think you are done? You are not! There's more Rhodes Grandchildren, mostly having fun together in Tadoussac! Keep going to the next page>>>> 190 NEXT PAGE

I'm a title. Click here to edit me I'm a paragraph. Click here to add your own text and edit me. It’s easy. Just click “Edit Text” or double click me to add your own content and make changes to the font. Feel free to drag and drop me anywhere you like on your page. I’m a great place for you to tell a story and let your users know a little more about you. This is a great space to write long text about your company and your services. You can use this space to go into a little more detail about your company. Talk about your team and what services you provide. Tell your visitors the story of how you came up with the idea for your business and what makes you different from your competitors. Make your company stand out and show your visitors who you are. At Wix we’re passionate about making templates that allow you to build fabulous websites and it’s all thanks to the support and feedback from users like you! Keep up to date with New Releases and what’s Coming Soon in Wixellaneous in Support. Feel free to tell us what you think and give us feedback in the Wix Forum. If you’d like to benefit from a professional designer’s touch, head to the Wix Arena and connect with one of our Wix Pro designers. Or if you need more help you can simply type your questions into the Support Forum and get instant answers. To keep up to date with everything Wix, including tips and things we think are cool, just head to the Wix Blog!

Tadoussac Historical Photos of the Hudson's Bay Station in the mid 1800's. Hudson's Bay Station, Tadoussac Looking at many old photos I realized there were many of the Hudson's Bay Station at Tadoussac. En regardant de nombreuses vieilles photos j'ai réalisé qu'il y avait plusieurs de la station de la Baie d'Hudson à Tadoussac. Chief Factor Barnston and R.M. Ballantyne at Tadoussac, 1846 Winter was the favoured season for staff movements. This painting (by Charles Fraser COMFORT 1941) depicts three traders arriving at the Hudson's Bay Company trading post of Tadoussac, their new assignment. The central figure is Chief Factor George Barnston. R.M. Ballantyne is the figure on the left carrying the copper kettle and green blanket. Chef Factor Barnston et R.M. Ballantyne à Tadoussac 1846 Winter était la saison préférée pour les mouvements de personnel. Cette peinture (par Charles Fraser COMFORT 1941) dépeint trois commerçants arrivant à traite de la Compagnie de la Baie d' Hudson poste de Tadoussac , leur nouvelle affectation . La figure centrale est le facteur le chef George Barnston . R.M. Ballantyne est la figure de gauche portant la bouilloire de cuivre et couverture verte . These two remarkably similar images show Tadoussac in the early 1800's, when the Hudson's Bay Post stood alone on the bay. Ces deux images similaires montrent Tadoussac dans le début des années 1800, quand la Hudson's Bay Post était seul sur la baie. 1858 ~1868 And then it's gone! Dufferin House is not yet built in this photo, so the Hudson's Bay Station was demolished around 1870. Et puis il a disparu! Maison Dufferin n'est pas encore construit dans cette photo , la station de la Baie d'Hudson a été démolie vers 1870 . (From Hudson's Bay Archives) Tadoussac was a trading post and fishery. It was also the headquarters for the King's Posts 1821-1822, 1831-1851. It was operated by the Hudson's Bay Company during the trading season 1821-1822 and was again acquired by HBC in 1831. Tadoussac had been a trading post since it was founded by Francois Grave Sieur du Pont in 1600. In 1720 it was named as one of the King's Posts. Tadoussac was the headquarters of the King's Posts until the end of the outfit 1849. In 1851 Governor George Simpson noted that due to a decline in the fur trade, it was only necessary to maintain Tadoussac as a fishing post for the summer months. The vessels that had usually wintered at Tadoussac did so now at Quebec, where the marine stores for the district were kept. On April 4, 1859, Chief Factor Hector McKenzie wrote to Benjamin Scott, who was in charge of Tadoussac, and informed him that the HBC did not intend carrying on the salmon fisheries any longer. Early the same year the fishing material was sold to Henry Simard and he also acquired the salmon fisheries at Tadoussac, the use of the ice house, and store during the fishing season. ( De Archives de Hudson Bay) Tadoussac était un poste de traite et de la pêche . Il était également le siège des Postes du Roi 1821-1822 , 1831-1851 . Il a été opéré par la Compagnie de la Baie d' Hudson au cours de la campagne de commercialisation 1821-1822 et a de nouveau été acquis par HBC en 1831 . Tadoussac était un poste de traite , car il a été fondé par François Gravé Sieur du Pont en 1600 . En 1720, il a été nommé comme l'un des Postes du Roi . Tadoussac était le quartier général des Postes du Roi jusqu'à la fin de tenue de 1849 . En 1851, le gouverneur George Simpson a noté qu'en raison d'une baisse dans le commerce de la fourrure , il était seulement nécessaire de maintenir Tadoussac comme un poste de pêche pour les mois d'été. Les navires qui avaient généralement l'hiver à Tadoussac fait maintenant au Québec , où les magasins marines pour le quartier ont été conservés. Le 4 Avril 1859, l'agent principal Hector McKenzie a écrit à Benjamin Scott, qui était en charge de Tadoussac, et l'a informé que le HBC n'a pas l'intention portant sur la pêche du saumon tout plus longue. Au début de la même année le matériel de pêche a été vendue à Henry Simard et il a également acquis la pêche du saumon à Tadoussac , l'utilisation de la maison de glace, et de stocker pendant la saison de pêche . 14

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

The Parents of the William Rhodes who came to Canada and Tadoussac The RHODES Family Back in time, in England... William Rhodes 1791-1869 and Ann Smith ~1795-1827 Lived at Bramhope Hall, near Leeds, Yorkshire, England. The house no longer exists. Married 1817. Children Caroline 1818, James 1819, Ann 1820, William 1821 , Godfrey 1823, Francis 1825, and then Ann died in 1827. Everybody on the Rhodes family tree is descended from these two. about 1920 These lovely paintings of Ann Smith and William Rhodes are from about 1820, before photography was invented! Thanks to Ainslie Stephen and Lew Evans. These are the PARENTS of William Rhodes (1821-1892) who immigrated to Quebec City, married Anne Dunn, had 9 children, and built the original Brynhyfryd in Tadoussac in 1860. Ann Smith died in 1827, 2 years after her 6th child was born. William lived a further 42 years, and never remarried. He wrote many letters back and forth with son William in Canada, and over 100 letters between them and other family members (between 1836 & 1890) have been compiled (with illustrations & photographs) in a 300 page book! I have printed and distributed about 20 copies, if you would like to get in on the next printing let me know! William (the father) lived in England his whole life, but he did come to Canada once, as he was a military man, and he fought for the British in the War of 1812, mainly in the Eastern Townships/Richelieu River area. He helped Canada stay out of the hands of our southern neighbours! Well done GGGGrandPa! Bramhope is just north of Leeds inEngland 8

Tadoussac Historical Photos and Stories - Buildings Disappeared - Batiments Disparu Bâtiments qui ont disparu Buildings that have disappeared La PISCINE D'EAU SALÉE a été construite en même temps que le nouvel Hôtel Tadoussac, en 1942. De nombreuses personnes se souviennent de s'être baignées dans la piscine étant enfants. La photo est probablement une photo de tourisme de CSL. La piscine a été remplacée par la piscine actuelle devant l'hôtel, vers 1958. La charpente en ciment est toujours là, comblée et utilisée pour les tables de pique-nique et la biblio-plage de Tadoussac. The SALT WATER POOL was built at the same time as the new Hotel Tadoussac, in 1942. Numerous people remember swimming in the pool as children. The photo is probably a CSL tourism photo. The pool was replaced by the present pool in front of the hotel, around 1958. The cement frame is still there, filled in and used for picnic tables and the Tadoussac Beach Library. from a Williams photo album 1950's There's a video! on Youtube/ReelLife (Sorry ads...) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AmRgMGTP2FQ look at 3:35 1.5 minutes Il y a une vidéo ! sur Youtube/ReelLife (Désolé annonces...) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AmRgMGTP2FQ regardez à 3:35 1,5 minutes Vers les années 1940, la piscine semble en construction Circa 1940's the pool look like it is under construction Plus tard, des huttes de changement ont été ajoutées Later, change huts have been added Comments (Facebook) Finally, I am happy to see this swimming pool, in operation! Magnificent ! I had never seen this mythic swimming pool My brothers and I loved that pool By 1958 we were signed up to use the present pool I remember when it was empty with a lot of broken glass, 1960? That is where I learned to swim ... maybe one of those little kids? I remember this pool but thought I imagined it. We had a nice thing in Tadoussac Ho! The site of the biblio-plage! Definitely a spot predestined for projects that are out of the ordinary! Wow beautiful this pool and also I see the cruise ships arriving at the dock beautiful memory My parents met there - so the story goes ... at the pool? Yes. At the pool. Dad playfully tossed her bathing cap into the bay. A study had been carried out to assess the feasibility of bringing it back into office but the structure would have needed too many repairs. It should come back, it is great a little idea for the new mayor We should create a new one. Seawater and heated, it would be an attraction for Tadoussac If we managed to operate a seawater swimming pool in 1950, 71 years later what is stopping us from taking up the challenge? Thank you for this photo, for a long time I have imagined this saltwater pool ... I see it finally! We were born in the wrong era Commentaires (Facebook) Enfin, je suis content de voir cette piscine, en fonction ! Magnifique ! Je n'avais jamais vu cette piscine mythique Mes frères et moi avons adoré cette piscine En 1958, nous nous sommes inscrits pour utiliser la piscine actuelle Je me souviens quand c'était vide avec de verre brisé, 1960 ? C'est là que j'ai appris à nager... peut-être un de ces petits gamins?? Je me rappelle de cette piscine mais je pensais que j'avais imaginé. On s'est bien amusé à Tadoussac Ho ! Le site de la biblio-plage! Décidément un spot pré-destiné aux projets qui sortent de l'ordinaire ! Wow magnifique cette piscine et aussi je vois le bateaux de croisière qui arrivent au quai beau souvenir Mes parents se sont rencontrés là-bas, donc l'histoire se passe... à la piscine ? Oui. À la piscine. Papa a joyeusement jeté son bonnet de bain dans la baie. Une étude avait été menée pour évaluer la faisabilité de sa remise en fonction mais la structure aurait nécessité trop de réparations. Ça devrait revenir comme ça c'était super une petite idée pour le nouveau maire On devrait en creer une nouvelle. À l’eau de mer et chauffée, elle serait toute une attraction pour Tadoussac Si on a réussi à exploiter une piscine à l'eau de mer en 1950, 71 ans plus tard qu'est-ce qui nous empêche de relever le défi? Merci pour cette photo, depuis le temps que j'imagine cette piscine d'eau salée... Je la vois enfin! On est nées dans la mauvaise ère Left and above, 1950-1960, below 2022 4-5' more sand on the beach!! 4-5' de sable en plus sur la plage !! RESTAURANT de GOLFE Circa 1940 & 50's Un ancien restaurant de Tadoussac à côté du quai dirigé par Johnny Audet. Ses filles ont épousé Simard, Deschênes, Harvey, Gagné, il a également eu un fils Joseph dont la femme travaillait également au restaurant. C'était autrefois notre spot de billard préféré. Ce restaurant auquel j'ai beaucoup fréquenté dans les années 1950 était très occupé par les équipages des lignes de Canadian Steamship et nos armateurs. (Paulin Hovington) GULF RESTAURANT Circa 1940's & 50's An early Tadoussac restaurant beside the wharf run by Johnny Audet. His daughters married Simard, Deschenes, Harvey, Gagné, he also had a son Joseph whose the wife also worked at the restaurant. Used to be our favorite pool spot. This restaurant I attended a lot in the 1950's was very busy with the Canadian Steamship lines crews and our shipmen.. (Paulin Hovington) Il y avait aussi une cabane de pêcheur autour du coin sur le point où nous avons acheté du saumon! La dalle de ciment est toujours là. There was also a fisherman's hut around the corner on the point where we bought salmon! The cement slab is still there. HOTEL TADOUSSAC The largest building to have disappeared in Tadoussac is the Hotel Tadoussac! It was originally built in 1864. It was lengthened and then towers were added in about 1900. It was demolished in about 1942 to make way for the present Hotel Tadoussac. Le plus grand bâtiment à avoir disparu à Tadoussac est l'Hôtel Tadoussac! Il a été construit en 1864. Il a été rallongé, puis des tours ont été ajoutées vers 1900. Il a été démoli vers 1942 pour faire place à l’hôtel Tadoussac. Original Hotel original 1864-1900 Expanded Hotel élargie 1900-1942 Hotel Demolition 1942 THE HYDROELECTRIC POWER STATION The rebuilding of the hotel in 1942 likely provided an impetus for the town to build its hydro station. By then many Québec towns and villages smaller than Tadoussac and beyond the grids of the major power companies had electricity, so no doubt local residents would have been agitating for power for some years. The HydroElectric Power Station at Moulin a Baude, with water coming down a large pipe from the dam on the Baude River. Built in the early 1940's, it was enlarged to accommodate a second turbine and generator in 1954. The original station had one generator of about 200 kilowatts. A 450-kilowatt unit was added as demand for power grew. (Thanks to Gary Long, retired geographer in Sault Ste. Marie, studies the history of early hydroelectric development in Canada) Paulin Hovington: My grandpa Noel Brisson developed this electrical power and built the stone house at that time. LA CENTRALE HYDROELECTRIQUE La reconstruction de l'hôtel en 1942 a probablement incité la ville à construire sa centrale hydroélectrique. À l’époque, beaucoup de villes et de villages québécois plus petits que Tadoussac et au-delà des réseaux des grandes entreprises d’électricité disposaient de l’électricité. Les habitants de la région auraient sans doute agité depuis quelques années. La centrale hydroélectrique de Moulin a Baude, avec de l’eau descendant par un grand tuyau du barrage sur la rivière Baude. Construite au début des années 1940, elle a été agrandie pour accueillir une deuxième turbine et un groupe électrogène en 1954. La centrale originale avait un groupe électrogène d'environ 200 kilowatts. Une unité de 450 kilowatts a été ajoutée à la demande croissante d’électricité. (Merci à Gary Long, géographe à la retraite à Sault Ste. Marie, étudie l'histoire des premiers aménagements hydroélectriques au Canada) Paulin Hovington: Mon grand-papa Noel Brisson a déveloper ce pouvoir électrique et a construit la maison de pierres à cette occasion. A pipeline approximately 225 metres long ran from the dam to the powerhouse. The head of water on the turbines was 50.3 metres (165 feet). The Québec government nationalized electricity in 1963, and by 1966, Hydro-Québec had apparently closed the Moulin-a-Baude hydro station. Un pipeline d'environ 225 mètres de long reliait le barrage à la centrale. La tête d’eau des turbines était de 50,3 mètres (165 pieds). Le gouvernement du Québec nationalisa l'électricité en 1963 et, en 1966, Hydro-Québec avait apparemment fermé la centrale hydroélectrique de Moulin-à-Baude. In the photo below there is a Sawmill! More photos of the sawmill on the "Dunes" page. (click the arrow) Sur la photo ci-dessous il y a une scierie ! Plus de photos de la scierie sur la page "Dunes". (cliquez sur la flèche) POINTE ROUGE AND JESUIT GARDENS between Pointe Rouge and the Clay Cliffs circa1950 POINTE ROUGE ET DES JARDINS DES JÉSUITES entre Pointe Rouge et les falaises d'argile There was a navigation beacon on Pointe Rouge, probably circa 1900 Il y avait une balise de navigation sur Pointe Rouge, probablement vers 1900 Today Aujourd'hui Lionel and Elizabeth O'Neill FIRST NATIONS This drawing must be very old, showing native teepees on the plateau where Dufferin House now stands, and the small church and the Hudson's Bay Post in the background. The hotel is not built, maybe 1840. PREMIÈRES NATIONS Ce dessin doit être très ancienne, montrant des tipis indigènes sur le plateau où Dufferin House est maintenant, et la petite église et la Hudson's Bay Post sur le fond. L'hôtel n'est pas construit, peut-être 1840. 1887 Theodore Gagne, Huron of Loretteville opened a boutique of Amerindian souveniers near the wharf 1887 Theodore Gagne, Huron de Loretteville a ouvert une boutique de souvenirs amérindiens près du quai THE BEACH Many buildings on the beach have come and gone, not surprising considering the 17 foot tidal range, and the ice in the winter. Below, late 1860's, the Hotel Tadoussac, and the Hudson's Bay Post in front of the hotel. Boatbuilding on the beach, only one house on the main street, no church, no Cid store. LA PLAGE De nombreux bâtiments sur la plage sont venus et ont disparu, ce qui n'est pas surprenant compte tenu de l'amplitude des marées de 17 pieds et de la glace en hiver. Ci-dessous, fin des années 1860, l'Hôtel Tadoussac, et le Poste de la Baie d'Hudson devant l'hôtel. Construction de bateaux sur la plage, une seule maison sur la rue principale, pas d'église, pas de magasin Cid. Circa 1880's Circa 1890's Circa 1920's These boathouses were there until about the 1960's, my father Lewis Evans used the one on the right. Ces hangars à bateaux étaient là jusqu'à environ les années 1960, mon père Lewis Evans a utilisé l'un sur la droite. Robin Molson When I was a kid my Dad had an old yawl, the "Bonne Chance" on a buoy on the bay. We often parked the car at the top by the old church and came down those stairs to the beach, to get at the punt. There was a chain around the yard at the top made entirely of bottle caps strung together, 1000's of them. A few years ago (late 1990's?) there was a fundraising effort to buy the building which was very successful, and the building was demolished. Quand j'étais jeune, mon père avait un vieux yawl, la "Bonne Chance" sur une bouée dans la baie. Nous avons souvent garé la voiture au sommet pres de la vieille église et sommes descendus les escaliers à la plage. Il y avait une chaîne autour de la cour en haut entièrement en capsules de bouteilles enfilées, 1000 d'entre eux. Il y a quelques années (fin des années 1990?) il y avait un effort de collecte de fonds pour acheter le bâtiment qui était très réussie, et le bâtiment a été démoli. 1950 the house is one floor raised on stilts against the tide. Below the house is growing! Also the remains of the swimming pool. 1950 la maison est d'un étage sur pilotis. En dessous la maison s'agrandit ! Aussi les restes de la piscine. David & Lois Evans Artiste inconnu ! These cottages perched on the school wall for a brief period in the 1960's. Below that's Alan Evans tying his sailing dingy to the buoy, demonstrating safe boating technique. The punt was built by Lewis Evans, it had wheels to pull it up the beach. Ces chalets perchés sur le mur de l'école pour une brève période dans les années 1960. Ci-dessous, c'est Alan Evans attachant sa lugubre de la voile à la bouée, ce qui démontre la technique de la sécurité nautique. Le 'punt' a été construite par Lewis Evans, il avait des roues à tirer vers le haut de la plage. HOUSES ON INDIAN ROCK Pilot House is visible above on the right, it's the only one of these houses still in place. MAISONS SUR LE POINT D'ISLET Maison de Pilote est visible en haut à droite, il est le seul de ces maisons encore en place. Late 1800's Note from Lewis Evans: Les Maisons sur Pointe de l'Islet La plus proche de Pilot House, Johnnie Hovington, Capitaine de "Jamboree", Nicolas, Donat Therrien, Morneau Quand CSL les a expulsés en 1911 ils ont reconstruit autour de la cale sèche et derrière la cale sèche Dominique Desbiens Souvenir de Tadou!! Maisons de (squatters) vers 1900. Parmie les familles residentes de l'Islet, Maher, Caron, Boulianne, Gagnon; il y avait la Famille Morneau de mes Ancetres du coté de ma Grand Maman Maternelle (Florence Martel) sa Maman était une Morneau qui fesait partie de ces Familles qui furent expropriées (expulsées) graduellement entre 1890 et 1920. Ceux-ci partirent s'établirent aux Milles-Vaches et d'autres a S-C, Bergeronne, Escoumins Houses at the top of the hill, 1890's. Possibly one of these houses was moved into the park, now known as "Tivoli". Maisons en haut de la colline, 1890's. Peut-être l'une de ces maisons a été déplacé dans le parc, maintenant connu sous le nom "Tivoli". Rhodes Cottage Brynhyfryd, Tadoussac On Rue des Pionniers, built 1861, burned in 1932 and replaced the same year Rue des Pionniers, construit 1861, brûlé en 1932 et a remplacé la même année Rhodes Cottage Page Click/Cliquez Hudson's Bay Post, Tadoussac In front of the hotel, built about 1821, demolished about 1870 En face de l'hôtel, construit vers 1821, démoli vers 1870 Hudson's Bay Post Page Click/Cliquez Radford House, Tadoussac Built in the mid-1800's, enlarged in the 1870's, burned in 1932, home of Joseph Radford Construit au milieu des années 1800, agrandie dans les années 1870, brûlé en 1932, la maison de Joseph Radford Radford House Page Click/Cliquez 79