The life of the party, Sue spent many summers at Bayview Cottage with her parents, Lex and Mary Smith Robbins, Susan Ann (Smith) The life of the party, Sue spent many summers at Bayview Cottage with her parents, Lex and Mary Smith Back to ALL Bios Susan Ann Robbins (Smith) 1942-2015 Sue was born on December 8th, 1942, in Quebec City to Mary Isobel Smith and Alexander (Lex) Harcourt Carington Smith (brother of Guy and Gordon Carington Smith). She passed in 2015 at the age of 72. Sue married Keith Gardner Robbins in July, 1967 at Tadoussac, Quebec in the Tadoussac Protestant Chapel with a reception following at Dufferin House. Keith and Sue had two children; daughter Joanne Robbins-Smith of Vancouver, BC and son Craig Robbins of Guelph, Ontario. Joanne married Sean Smith and has one son, Zachary. Craig married Vicky Thompson and have two sons, Kai and Beck. Sue is a first cousin to Ann Van Alstyne, Pam McCarter & Penny Younger (daughters of Guy Carington Smith) and Harcourt Smith and Eve Wickwire (son and daughter of Gordon Carington Smith). Along with family connections to Tadoussac, Sue was a close, life-long friend of Jannie Beattie. Sue’s parents (Lex and Mary) were previous owners of Bayview Cottage here in Tadoussac now owned by the Stairs family and as well for a while co-owned the museum house at the lake in Tad. Sue is remembered as being a fun-loving, charismatic, and wonderful person. From wacky hats and bad puns at family bonfires on Indian Rock, kooky custom poems penned for birthdays and family dinners, to dancing on tables with her skirt tucked into her undergarments at fancy lobster dinners, Sue was always herself and the life of the party. Sue also loved others without judgement. She made people feel comfortable without expectations. Sue radiated love. No matter what life threw her way she handled it with unshakable grace, characteristic poise and indomitable positivity. She was loved by all who met her. Sue loved Tadoussac and the family and friends who call it their second home. Photo below ?, Lewis and Betty Evans, Enid Williams, ?, Barbara O'Halloran, Guy Smith, Susan Smith Back to ALL Bios

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

An avid sportsman and sailor, Herbie's career in the military is unparalleled Smith, George Herbert Carington An avid sportsman and sailor, Herbie's career in the military is unparalleled Back to ALL Bios Herbert Carington Smith 1906 - 1966 Known as Herbie, Herbert Carington Smith was the third of four children born to Charles and Aileen Carington Smith. The family lived at Montmorency Falls, where he told of a life of skiing and skating to school, canoeing on the river, and sailing in the sea. Like his brother Noel, Herbie was an accomplished horse rider, and when he lived in Hereford, England, much later in life, he used to run the local pony club and annual camp. His engineering skills started early when he and a friend built a wall across a road one night, and on another occasion, craned a car onto the top of a roof when they tired of the boastful chap who owned it! He went to the Lower and Upper Canada College, before spending four years training at the Royal Military College in Kingston. Following in brother Noel's footsteps, Herbie joined the British Army as a Royal Engineer and studied at Cambridge University. From 1930 he was posted to Ordnance Survey Companies at Fort Southwick, Southampton, and Edinburgh. In 1931 he took part in a Trans-Atlantic Ocean race with the Royal Engineers. He had the last crew position as a cook and had to hastily ask his mother for cookery lessons! He told of having to put the dough for the bread in a tin, and take it to bed with him to make it rise. In 1933 he took part as a surveyor in an Oxford and Cambridge University expedition to Spitzbergen. In 1935 Herbie spent two and half years with the British Guiana-Brazil Boundary Commission. Then he served as Captain for another eighteen months with the 19th Field Survey Company, which included a tour in France with the British Expeditionary Force. He worked at survey and training centres in Scarborough, Derby, and then Ripon, as an instructor in Fields Works and Bridging. He also obtained his pilot’s licence at that time. Following this, he again visited Spitzbergen for special duties with Force 111, a joint Canadian, British and Norwegian operation largely composed of Canadian Sappers sent to evacuate the inhabitants, destroy fuel stocks and render all facilities useless to the enemy. He received a mention in despatches for saving a Sunderland flying boat from being driven ashore in a storm. He collected some French-Canadian soldiers, none of whom had ever handled an oar before and took out a small rowing boat. With that, he was able to get a line to the Sunderland and tow it to safety. He then went as General Staff Officer (Grade 1) on a liaison mission to Australia, where he was highly regarded, working with Australian and US intelligence. He served as a Special Operations Executive, and Officer of Strategic Services, taking part in the top-secret behind-the-lines network. His experience included battles at Salamanca, during August and September of 1943, Finischafen and Lae in September of 1943, The Admiralty Islands in March 1944, and Hollandia in April of 1944. He got experience being in charge of staff and working with Aerial Photography, Combined Ops, Jungle Warfare, Airborne, Mortars and Pioneer duties. He was in charge of small pockets of men, walking in and out of the jungle multiple times during 1943 and 1944 on missions that are still highly classified. It would seem that he was in Force 136, a far eastern branch of the British World War II intelligence organisation. Royal Engineers were involved in building the bridge over the River Kwai in 1942 and 1943. His next foreign tour took him back to the Far East as CRE to the British and Indian Divisional Engineers, British Commonwealth Occupation Force in Japan, and then in May 1948, to Command of the Engineer Training Centre, FAREFLY at Kluan, Malaya, until November of 1952. In Japan in 1947, the Lt Gen. Commander in chief of the British Commonwealth Occupation Force recommended him for the Order of the British Empire for his meritorious service in carrying out his duties most efficiently, making troops comfortable, hard-working, taking a keen interest in his work and because his mechanical aptitude was excellent. “Success of the engineering work in this formation 268 Indian Infantry Brigade Group, is entirely due to the organizational capacity of Colonel Smith and his untiring zeal and energy to see the task through. He carried out his task despite the great difficulties of lack of any precedence and procedure. He had to organize the procurement of the Engineer Store which in itself was a complicated task, and needed an officer of Colonel Smith's calibre.” In 1948, he was awarded Officer of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire following his engineering work and organizational skills in the Far East. He was mentioned in despatches in December 1949. His medals included The Pacific Star, British War Medal ribbons, France & Germany Star, and the Italy Star. Herbie met Alison (Ty) Gatey, a Major in the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, also working in intelligence, and they married in London in 1950. Their son, Anthony, was born in Malaya in 1951. Herbie used to love getting parcels from his sisters in Canada – they used to send blocks of maple sugar - and he loved slicing this on his porridge. He passed his love of swimming, rowing, riding and dogs on to his son and daughter. Herbie returned to the UK in May 1953 on promotion to Colonel, as Assistant Director of the Directorate of Royal Engineers at the Ministry of Supply in London. He had a passionate love of sailing and the sea, and as a member of the Royal Engineers Yacht Club, he was Skipper of the Right Royal. In the 1956 Channel Race, he saved the yacht, which was dismasted in a gale. He refused to abandon ship, despite offers to be taken off, and got the boat and crew, battered but safe, into Dunkirk. His final posting, in 1957, was as Commanding Officer of the Special Air Service base in Hereford, although it was officially known as the Territorial Army base. Herbie retired in 1960. When he retired from the Army Herbie spent some time working as a surveyor on the M4 motorway that was being built. He and Ty then moved to Keswick. He enjoyed rowing on the lake and climbing the mountains. The family used to go on a narrowboat every year on the canal. When his daughter was seven, he saved her life when she fell overboard and became trapped between the boat and the canal bank. He hooked her out with the boat hook. He was a warden at Crosthwaite Church in Keswick. He loved seeing his brother Noel and family in Scotland, and his sister Doris came over to England in 1954. He had plans to take the family to Canada in 1966, but sadly became ill that year and passed away just before his 60th birthday. His varied career well reflected his ever-inquiring mind, objectivity and problem-solving. A man of immense courage, with unfailing good humour and quiet enthusiasm, earned him universal respect and made him many friends. Eve Wickwire & Georgina Williams Back to ALL Bios

PREVIOUS NEXT PAGE ART There have been many artists in the families over the years, and of course the subject was often Tadoussac! If you would like add paintings/art of Tadoussac that you have, or that you have done yourself, please send them along! This is just the beginning. Use the pull-down menu above, or click on the name below. I l y a eu de nombreux artistes dans les familles au cours des années, et bien sûr le sujet était souvent Tadoussac! Si vous souhaitez ajouter peintures / art de Tadoussac que vous avez, ou que vous avez fait vous-même, s'il vous plaît envoyez-moi des photos! Ce n'est que le début. Utilisez le menu déroulant ci-dessus, ou cliquez sur le nom ci-dessous. Artists Lilybell Rhodes Paintings Tom Evans Paintings R Lewis Evans Stories 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 LITERATURE

Born in Chile, Sir William and his brother Henry came to Canada to run the family's Price Brothers Lumber Price, Sir William & Amelia Blanche (Smith) Born in Chile, Sir William and his brother Henry came to Canada to run the family's Price Brothers Lumber Back to ALL Bios Sir William Price 1867-1924 & Amelia Blanche Carrington (Smith) 1863-1947 William Price was born in Talca Chile to Henry Ferrier Price 1833-1898 and Florence Stoker Rogerson. He was the eldest of seven children, two of whom died in infancy. His surviving siblings were Henry Edward (Harry), Arthur John, Terracita (Terry), and Florence (Flo). Amelia Blanche Carrington Smith was born in Quebec City to Robert Herbert Carrington Smith 1825-1898 and Amelia Jane LeMesurier 1832-1917. She had six brothers and one sister. The three original ‘Price Brothers’ of what would become the Price Brothers Pulp and Paper Company were William Evan, Evan John, and David Edward. All three were bachelors. Having no legitimate heir, they persuaded their brother Henry Ferrier and his family, then living in Chile, to return to Canada. Their eldest son, William, arrived in Canada in 1879. After one semester at Bishop’s College School, he was sent to St Mark’s in England where he completed his studies in 1886 and started his apprenticeship with Price Brothers. In 1899, with the death of the last surviving ‘Price Brother’, he became sole proprietor, president and managing director of the family business. William inherited a tottering empire, heavily indebted, technically in receivership -- more one of potential than actual wealth. In the first decade of the 20th century, William planned and built a large newsprint mill in the town of Kenogami. The Kenogami Mill, the most productive newsprint mill in the world at that time, began operations in 1912. William associated with James Buchanan Duke, the legendary North Carolina tobacco tycoon and Max Aitken (Lord Beaverbrook), helped with financing for the Kenogami Mill and the development of hydroelectric power with the Ille Maligne Dam and Power Plant in which he and Duke were partners. In 1884 William married Amelia Blanche Smith at the Cathedral of the Holy Trinity in Quebec City. Three years his senior and a celebrated beauty, she would bear him eight children. The surviving six were John (Jack), Arthur Clifford (Coosie), Charles Edward, Willa (Glassco), Richard Harcourt (Dick) and Jean (Harvey). On August 7, 1914, William was asked, by the minister of the Militia, to build, in twenty days, a camp where troops could be assembled and trained. William shut down his establishments, moved his workforce to Valcartier, and built the camp on schedule. Quebec had been selected as the port of embarkation for the Canadian Expeditionary Force and William was appointed Director General of Embarkation. William was not a soldier. He had, however, joined Quebec’s militia 8th Royal Rifles and risen to Captain when he resigned in 1903. For his contribution to the War effort, William was knighted by King George V on January 1, 1915. On October 2nd, 1924, Sir William was taken down by a landslide on the Au Sable River behind the Kenogami Mill. His body was found ten days later in the Saguenay River at St. Fulgence. His grave lies at the end of Price Park in Kenogami on the point of a high cliff overlooking the confluence of the Au Sable and Saguenay Rivers where he lost his life. He would be pleased that the focus of the Sir William Price Museum in Kenogami is on the employees of the Company. He deeply appreciated their loyalty and work skills and touched their lives in ways their descendants remember fondly to this day. Sir William was foremost a family man, a patriot, an industrial visionary and a builder; amongst them, it is difficult to say which stood first. His wife did not share his fascination for a remote, largely wilderness area and his love of the outdoors and rarely came to the Saguenay/Lac St-Jean region. Nevertheless, he was a loving and inspirational father and nobody who knew him mentioned his name without talking of his affection for children. Along with his business, war efforts, political activities and sports William was President of the Quebec Harbour Commission in 1912 and Director of many companies including Union Bank, the Canadian General Electric Company, the Wayagamack Pulp and Paper Company Ltd., The Montreal Trust Company, The Quebec Railway, Light and Power Co., The Transcontinental Railway and the Prudential Trust Company. William’s first mention of Tadoussac is in a letter written during the summer of 1880 to his parents who were still in Chile. He tells of happy days spent in a canoe in the bay fishing for Tommy cod, perhaps hinting at the renowned salmon fisherman he would become. He did not spend much time in Tadoussac but he did acquire Fletcher Cottage, a lifelong source of pleasure for his wife. He also bought the Pilot House and the Harry Price House, which he gave to Harry for his family and as a place for their sister Terry to spend her summers. After Sir William’s untimely death Blanche moved from 145 Grande Allee to Ave de Bernier in Quebec City where she lived until her death in 1947. She was fortunate in her companion, Muriel Hudspeth, daughter of Dean Evans and his first wife. We are told Blanche was handsome and charming and though her memory faded her charm did not. During summers in Fletcher Cottage, her sister Edith (Edie) and brother Edmond were with her. Also in residence for the summer were many grandchildren - ten or more at times. By then she remembered only ‘long ago stories’ yet continued to extend a warm welcome and to look most elegant, dressed in black as she had since the death of her husband. She is buried in Mount Hermon Cemetery in Quebec City. Willa (Lal) Price Mundell From the Dictionary of Canadian Biography https://www.biographi.ca/en/bio/price_william_15E.html Back to ALL Bios

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 More Stories "Zeb," he cried. "Zeb, come on up top. Bring your bucket. make it quick." In Case of Fire A Short Story by Lewis Evans (Published in The Standard, October 5th, 1946 - $60.00!) ILLUSTRATED BY MENENDEZ The old hand and the novice found hostility turned to friendship in a battle with death THE windward edge of the fire was below them now, a line that straggled across twenty miles of forest and ate its way in little salients doggedly westwards against the draught. Downwind, ahead of the aircraft, all was confusion for countless square miles—white smoke, and gray and brown, air-borne ashes, and occasionally the peach-glow of flame dimly reflected on the driving smoke. Don Ross, late of the RCAF, held the F-24 on its course, passing over the centre of the vast burning area where thousands of cords of Northern Quebec pulpwood were going up in smoke instead of fulfilling their destiny of providing Canadian and American papers with newsprint. With him in the cabin bronzed, graying Zeb Stearn sat with map on knee, pencilling in the present area of the fire for his report back to the Canadian Forestry Service and the Long Lake, Wolf Lake and River Beyond Pulp and Paper Company, which owned these limits. Old Zeb Stearn concentrated on the job and said nothing. He had been saying just that ever since they had taken off from the North Shore that morning. The northward border of the forest fire seemed to follow the curves of River Beyond, and Don Ross swung the aircraft in that direction. As they approached the river they could see that the fire had already jumped it in several places. Zeb Stearn noted them on his map. Suddenly Don peered at the river beyond the eastern edge of the fire, set the plane on a glide towards it, and then banked on a curve. He pointed, and Stearn followed his finger. A herd of caribou was fording the river to gain the safer north bank. Don turned to smile at Stearn, but the old fellow did not evince interest by even so much as a grunt. He was again working on the map. Don felt rather foolish, as though he had excitedly pointed out the Rhine to a man who had already made many operational tours. THE F-24 was now over the advancing eastern edge, of the fire, and the air was rough. Now and then the thermals rising from the hot earth bounced the plane uncomfortably upwards, and the cabin filled with the raw smell of smoke, making its occupants cough—the first sound Stearn had made so far, Don thought wryly. He started a slow climb to get above the smoke, and suddenly the engine sputtered, livened up again, and quit cold. Don worked at his controls, but nothing happened, and a great appreciation of the multiple engined aircraft he had known overseas was born in him in a flash. He shot a glance at Stearn. The older man’s face betrayed no emotion, but he was peering out at the landscape below — already looking for a spot for a forced landing, Don knew; and Don followed suit. Behind him was River Beyond, but like most northern rivers it was shallow, sown with rocks and seamed with sand and gravel bars—a landing there meant two shattered floats at the very least. To the south, beyond the path of the fire, was Wolf Lake, a perfect landing place, but with a cross wind and his present altitude he didn’t think he could make it. Downwind from the fire was the nearest water—he picked it out between waves of smoke—a tiny lake, almost round, possible for a landing, too small for a take-off. Don tried desperately to make up his mind—take a long chance on Wolf Lake, and maybe not make it and come down in the fire area, or land on this little pond and probably stay there, right in the path of the fire. Stearn grabbed his arm. "Wolf Lake,” he shouted. Don swung the gliding plane towards it, and as soon as he had done so he knew— knew for certain—they couldn’t make it. He shook his head and swung again, losing altitude rapidly. The little round lake appeared and disappeared through the smoke as though it were winking at him. "Okay, honey; here I come,” he murmured, and circled to come at it upwind. The tall spruce round it forced him to glide flatter than he wished, but he almost brushed their tops as he crossed them. The other side of the lake seemed to rush at him, a solid phalanx of dark spruces, but the pontoons took the water with a clumsy splash, the F-24 rocked forward as if she were going to stick her nose down, rocked back, and bucked gently into the matted bushes fringing the shore. “Well,” said Don, “here we are.” “And here we stay till we fry,” commented Stearn. “Why didn’t you try for Wolf Lake, where we could have fixed the engine and had room to take off?” “I knew I couldn’t make it,” said Ross. “It wouldn’t have been any fun putting down in the bush—and the fire.” “It was a chance,” said Stearn. “This is certainty. The fire will be here by tonight.” “We have plenty of water,” said Ross. “We can keep ourselves and the aircraft wet.” ZEB STEARN snorted. “Ever been close to a fire of this size?” he demanded. “Yes,” snapped Ross. “Mannheim.” “You weren’t as close to that as you will be to this, my boy. You try keeping the plane wet, and yourself wet, and breathing at the same time. Take my advice and drown quietly. It’s the more comfortable death.” “Oh, go jump in the lake,” said Don curtly as he opened the door. “I’m going to. I want to find what's wrong with this motor.” He dropped onto a pontoon. “Why?” demanded Stearn. “Even if you fix it you can't get out of here. “I'd feel a lot better if the engine could go, though.” “What're you going to do? Move it on top and take off straight up like a helicopter? We'll get to heaven soon enough without all that trouble.” “Aw, pipe down, and come and help me get this cowling off.” Stearn's reply was to settle back and light his pipe. For ten minutes Ross worked at the engine. The acrid smoke filtering through the bush and bellying out across the lake kept him coughing. Several times he turned the motor over without getting even a kick. At last he opened the cabin door. “Come on and have a crack at this thing,” he pleaded. “The smoke out here tastes much better than that ‘tabac canadien’ you’re inhaling, anyway.” “Fix the thing yourself. You're the pilot,” grunted Stearn. “Oh, come on. You know this engine much better than I do.” “How should I know anything about it?” Stearn's voice was heavy with sarcasm. "I'm too old to know about things like that.” The older man spoke with force, as though he were getting a weight off his chest. Ross stood looking at him for a moment. “Look, Zeb,” he said at length. “Let's have it. What's your gripe?” Stearn's eyes drilled him. “I'm too old – that's what they tell me. For years I fly this bush and never have any trouble—not like this, anyway—” he gestured at the tiny lake. “Then the war's over and they tell me that I’m too old, that young fellows like you must have my job, that I'm on the shelf. On the skids, more like,” he added bitterly. “Who says so?” demanded Ross. “When I got the orders to cover this fire,” said Stearn, “they gave me to understand very plainly that you were the pilot, and I was to leave the flying to you. I was to go just because I knew the country, because I have experience.” THERE was a silence. Don had only come to the base a week ago, but already he had heard the story that Zeb Stearn had learned his flying in World War I, had come to the bush in 1919, and long ago had been forced to reckon his air time in months instead of hours. He felt sorry for the old fellow, and admired his pride and his record. He felt that what he said next—and how he said it—was desperately important. “Well, you may be too old, and you may not—I haven’t seen you fly. But I’ll tell you two things: first, I’ve seen plenty of pilots who were too old at twenty-one; second, I’m darn glad that you’re along.” “Thanks,” said Zeb Stearn dryly. "It’s nice to be wanted on what looks like a fatal journey.” Ross grinned at him. “Come on and play with the engine.” Zeb Stearn climbed out of the cabin, a little stiffly. “Why do you want to fix it?” he demanded. “It’s just work for nothing.” “Feel a lot better when it’s in working order,” said Don, and Stearn snorted. “We can move it to the far side of the lake, keep it wet with buckets, and maybe save it.” Stearn turned on him almost savagely. “You talk a lot of hot air,” he shouted. “Save it for what? A curiosity for the caribou?” He ended up coughing. Ross gestured towards the yellow and black fuselage and the big CF and three more letters on the wing. “That’s the best mark there is for anyone looking for us,” he said shortly. That shot went home, for Zeb Stearn nodded and turned towards the engine. “Air intakes clogged up, I’ll bet,” he said. “Those ashes, maybe.” Inside ten minutes he proved himself right, and the engine exploded into life. Don Ross plunged waist deep into the water and weeds and brush of the lake edge and heaved on a pontoon. Slowly he worked the aircraft round and shoved out from shore. Live sparks were falling round them as they taxied to the down-wind edge of the pond, and when the motor was cut they heard for the first time the actual sound of the fire to the west, a faint menacing roaring that rode on the wind. Zeb Stearn listened to it for a few minutes and shook his head. “There'll be a hot time in the old town tonight” he quoted. “Put on all the clothes you have, get well soaked in the lake, and have a wet rag to tie over your face.” Don nodded. There were a canvas bucket and a galvanized iron one in the plane, and he was tying a length of rope to the handle of each. He got a blanket from a packsack in the cabin, wet it, and draped it over the nose of the aircraft. He climbed onto the wing top and sent a few preliminary buckets full splashing over wing, fuselage and tail, killing several hot sparks. The exertion made him pant a little, and his coughing became steady from then on. IN THE last of the afternoon light he saw a couple of porcupines and a skunk pass along the shore near by, all very intent on their business, which was travel. The faster moving animals and the larger ones must have cleared out long ago, he thought. Smoke snuffed out the last of the daylight, and the fire became visible, like a nearer after-glow of the sunset, silhouetting the tall timber on the west bank of the pond. Right opposite him, across the water, the trees seemed more widely spaced, and Don could see an inferno of flame roaring towards him. Now and then an evergreen ahead of the fire would flare with the roar of a rocket as its branches caught, and then the blackened trunk would be surrounded and hidden by flames. Don had a sudden qualm—the gas in the tank. Perhaps they should have tried to drain it off somewhere, but it was too late for that now. He went on lowering the bucket, dragging it up, sloshing the water on the aircraft. Below him he could hear old Zeb wheezing and coughing as he stumbled waist-deep from side to side underneath the plane, dashing water up at the fuselage and tail assembly. Now and then Don's clothing steamed out and began to feel hot, and he had to climb down and dunk himself in the water. He fought against the temptation to stay in its delightful coolness — each time the climb back seemed tougher, dragging his sodden clothes, and each time the plane was drier and hotter as the first bucketful dashed over it. The hot blast of the wind seared his throat and was painful in the lungs, and coughing was agony that never ceased. His thoughts became disjointed and he knew it and could do nothing to marshal them. In case of fire break glass . . . for use in case of fire . . . those funny axes like tomahawks — if he had one he could chop up the plane and save it from being burnt. Nuts — that was all wrong. Ice — that would be swell, a great big block of it on top the plane, melting and running down all round. Heat, hot as hell, hot air . . . “You talk a lot of hot air." Zeb had shouted . . . hot air bouncing the aircraft upwards — up — hey! wait a minute! Don slithered down into the water and ducked his head under. Hot air — thermals — there must be a lift from all this heat — quite some lift. In the red glare he measured the distance across the water — not enough, of course, but that place where the trees were more widely spaced — even as he looked the branches of the spruces flanking that gap went up with a roar and a fountain of sparks. “With those branches gone and the heat,” he thought, “there’s a chance.” “Zeb,” he croaked. “Zeb, come on up on top. Bring your bucket. Make it quick. He clambered up again, wincing as the heat blasted through the cloth muffling his face. Zeb dragged himself up, and Don told him. “We could hold her while we rev. her up,” he added, “and get a fast start.” Zeb Stearn manipulated his bucket in silence, and squinted at the far bank of the pond. “I don’t like the frying pan,” he said at last. “I'll take a crack at the fire with you." Don left him to sluice her down, and dragged a mooring rope from the cabin. He wrestled it into a sort of bridle on the rear struts of the undercarriage, stumbled ashore with the end, and took a turn round a tree. Already sparks had started fires on this side of the water, he noted. HE GOT up on top again at last, his mind snatching at the problems to be solved. “Go on down, Zeb. Get yourself cooled off, and then start her up. When she’s ripe race her a couple of times and I’ll come down.” Stearn literally fell into the water and Don could hear his coughs bubbling through the wetted mask. Get the blanket off the nose, chuck it in the lake . . . up with a bucket, slosh it on, up with a bucket — the branches seem burned out of that gap . . . the trunks are burning now . . . up with another . . . which pocket's my knife in? . . . got to get it . . . He felt the aircraft heave as Zeb got aboard again, and then the engine started. The slipstream blasted the heat at him and dashed the water away in spray. He couldn’t wait for Zeb to signal. He plunged down, got his head into the cabin door, groped for and found a packsack to wedge it open a bit against the slipstream. “You take her up,” he yelled at Stearn. “No,” shouted Zeb, “You take her — better chance . .” “You gotta take her,” Don yelled. “I’ve got to cut the rope. You couldn’t climb back in — Zeb Stearn nodded. He knew he was too old for that. “Give her the gun,” yelled Don. He had knife in hand now, and crouched on the pontoon, one hand gripping the door jamb, the other holding the blade on the quivering rod-like rope. The engine roared, the aircraft strained, and water squeezed from the taut rope. Don slashed and the plane leapt forward. Water and spray snatched, at his feet, hot air punched and tore at him. Inch by inch, straining and groaning, he fought his way into the doorway. Head and shoulders in, he felt the aircraft lift steeply. He panted and prayed. Zeb Stearn sat like a statue. There were flashes of fire and blackouts of smoke and then, suddenly, he gasped air that was fresh. With a last struggle he got his legs in, kicked the pack out, and the door slammed shut. He lay half on the floor, half on the seat for a minute. Zeb was coughing again, he noted, coughing continually, and he was heavy on the controls. You could feel it. “Take over,” the old man wheezed. “Can’t take it, I guess . . .” They changed places with the supreme care and slow effort of drunken men, and Zeb slumped in his seat. Don Ross settled his course by the stars and shivered. The cold was seeping through his wet clothes, blessed cold. Not good for the old man, though, he thought. “Get out of your clothes, Zeb,” he said. “Get a blanket or something.” Stearn moved slowly and said nothing. He seemed to be trying to stifle his coughing. Don suddenly realized that he was broken by the knowledge that he was too old — too old to climb into a moving plane, yes, but far worse than that — too old to fly it after that tough afternoon. Don eased the plane gently off course, steering a wide arc under the stars. “You sure lifted us out of that frying pan, Zeb,” he said. “Nice piece of judgment. I was glad to be out of that job.” ZEB STEARN said nothing, but went on fumbling with the blanket and coughing sporadically. Don tried again. “Check my course, will you, Zeb?” he asked. “I'm not sure of myself.” Zeb glanced at the sky, and gestured Ross back onto his former bearing. “Thanks,” said Don. “I'm a bit shaky on direction in these parts. You navigate, huh?” Zeb Stearn slowly straightened in his seat and cocked an eye at the sky. “Okay, I'll navigate,” he said. “Steady as you are.” There was a pause, and then Zeb added, “Don't you worry, Don. I'll get us home.” The End Note: 22 years after he wrote this story Dad was interested to find this short article in the Montreal Star, (Sept. 28, 1968) which tells of a similar, if less successful, situation. Team seek to salvage vintage plane from lake Kapuskasing Ontario, Sept. 28 — A federal team will go into a remote lake in this area next week to salvage an ancient seaplane that may be the last of its type in the world. The Curtiss HS-2L has been sitting in the silt in about five feet of water since 1925 or 1927, when the vintage “flying boat” made a crash landing on the lake. Air museums all over North America have sought one of the twin-engined H-boats, used as submarine hunters during the First World War, then as bush planes, but the one on the lake bottom is the world’s only confirmed find. R. W. Bradford, curator of the aviation and space division of the National Museum of Science and Technology, described it in Ottawa today as “a real find.” A team from his division will salvage the plane for the museum. The work may take a year. The HS-2L’s last flight was a colorful combination of ingenuity and farce but not tragedy. Bush Pilot Duke Schiller was forced down by engine failure on the tiny lake or so the story goes. The engine was repaired but to take off from the short lake, Schiller had the seaplane tied to a tree while he revved it up to full throttle. A woodsman was supposed to chop the rope at the appropriate time. The woodsman chopped but the rope was only partially severed. The fearless lumberjack then gave the rope a shake and it broke, hauling him into the lake as the seaplane burst away. Maybe it was the drag of the lumberjack but the plane didn’t gain quite enough altitude to get over the trees. It brushed them, then gently twisted back into the lake. No one was hurt but the plane was written off as a loss. The Fishermen Published in the Quebec Diocesan Gazette, (November, 1968) By Lewis Evans CARRYING the fishing rod, Joe left home at dawn for two reasons: he wanted to be a hero, and he couldn't stand another day of listening to his little brother Johnny whining. He really couldn't blame Johnny for whining, because Johnny was desperately hungry, and not old enough to understand why, or tough enough to be brave about it. Joe was both, because he was seven years old. But he was desperately hungry too, and had been ever since his father had had the accident at the mill, and was still too sick to work. Joe wasn't sure just how he could be a hero, but he figured if he could be the breadwinner even for one day his father would be pleased, and perhaps Johnny would stop whining for a while. The last time his father had gone fishing, on a holiday a week before his accident, he had taken Joe with him, and they had caught nine fat perch. Well, his father had done the actual catching, but Joe had helped by finding some of the worms for bait. As Joe ran down the valley path he had visions of coming home as proudly as his father, with nine perch dangling from a hooked twig. When he came to the place where the stream had undercut the valley side in flood-time, and had caused a small landslide, he stopped and put down the rod and started digging into the soft earth with his fingers. There was a worm - but he was too slow, and got only half of it. Those things could really move. There was another, and this time he was quicker, it took him about half an hour to get a dozen, and he shivered when he felt them wriggling in his pocket. He picked up the rod, and ran on down the valley, which flattened and widened out into grasslands as he neared the shore of the lake. The sun was higher now, and it was going to be hot. Where the stream flowed into the lake and the fishermen’s boats were drawn up it was too shallow for fishing from the shore, but a couple of hundred yards to his right there was a steep bank, and the water there was deeper closer to shore, and shaded at this hour by the height of the bank. Joe scrambled to the very edge of the bank and peered down. The lake water was very calm, and he could see the stones and pebbles dim and wavering on the bottom. He unwound the line from the rod, and impaled a wriggling worm on the hook. There was no barb on the hook, and Joe was afraid the worm would wriggle off, but that was a chance he had to take. He dropped the hook into the lake, and watched it waver down till it was on the bottom. He twisted the rod over and over so that it wound up the line a little and the hook hung about a foot above the pebbles. Then Joe began to learn how hard it was to be a hero. Nothing happened. The sun climbed higher, and it was getting hot. He tried to concentrate on the line where it passed through the surface, watching for any tremor that might be the sign of a bite. He felt a little dizzy, lying there staring down, and his eyes didn't focus very well. He pulled up now and again to check the worm, and twice found it had wriggled off and he had to put on a new one. He began to feel that nothing would ever happen, and he again raised the rod to check the worm. This time something did happen - the line went taut, and there was weight and a wriggle on the end. He scrambled to his feet and raised the tip. The rod bent a little, and there was a flash and then a splash on the surface. Joe heaved back and the perch soared over his head onto the grass behind him. He dropped the rod and fell on the perch, which had come off the hook, finally got hold of it, and banged its head on a stone, bruising his fingers. Triumphant, he laid the perch - it was a very small one - in a shady spot, and baited up. Where there had been one surely there were more. Sure enough, hardly had his hook broken the surface when he felt a tug. He jerked up and thrilled to the pull of the line. He swung the rod up violently, and it cracked and the tip sagged. He dropped it and snatched at the line, pulling hand over hand, and another perch came flipping to him over the edge of the bank. Two! But the rod - it was finished, it wasn't much of a rod really, and his father could make another when he was better, but how could he, Joe, catch more perch? Two little ones wouldn't mean much at home, and without a rod he couldn't get the line far enough out from the bank. He unwound the line from the broken rod, wondering how else he could be a hero. Putting it in his pocket he felt the remaining worms, and thought of throwing them into the water. That would be nice for other perch, but not for the worms. Instead, he dropped them to fend for themselves in the shady spot, and picked up the two perch. They were so small he didn't bother with a twig to carry them, but stuck them in his pocket where the worms had been. He was aching with hunger and discouraged. How could he get something more than two little perch to take home? Suddenly he put his head back and sniffed. A gentle breeze was blowing down the hillside now, and the odour it carried was like an answer to his question. Someone at the little farm had been baking. Perhaps . . . Joe started up the hill, not knowing what he would do, but drawn irresistibly by the smell. There was the squat little farmhouse, and there, off to one side, was the hump of a clay bake-oven. Joe paused in the last cluster of bushes before the open ground around the farmhouse. There was the farmer's wife, laying her baking in a row to cool on a wooden bench in the shade thrown by the house. Joe stared, and his hand crept to find the size of the perch in his pocket. He could hear Johnny's whining, and see his father lying hopelessly on his mattress. The farmer's wife wiped her hand on her apron, took a look at the sky, and went into the house. A moment later she reappeared with a basket of linen, and went round to the back, out of sight. Joe moved forward, and then broke into a tip-toe run. he reached the bench, and snatched up as much bread as he could carry, ramming it under his arm, and darted back to the bushes, he looked back, panting. There was no movement. Crouching, he started away to his right, back towards the valley that led homewards. Keeping among bushes and trees wherever he could, he stumbled along, sweating. He felt the heat of the bread through his shirt, and the smell of it was almost unbearable. Ahead of him was the crest, and beyond was the valley, wide and grassy near its mouth. He reached the crest and stopped dead. The valley was full of people. Joe sank behind a bush and stared, he had never seen so many people in one place in all his life. He had never imagined that there were that many people in the world. What could they be doing there? For a moment the awful thought flashed in his head that they were all waiting for him, to catch him and punish him for stealing the bread. But they weren’t looking at him. They were all in groups of different sizes, some standing, some sitting, some moving about from one group to another, and all, it seemed, talking at once. What in the world could they be talking about? Joe straightened up and moved closer. He had never been more curious. Closer and closer till he was almost up to the nearest group. Why were they there? Suddenly a big strong man, just an ordinary fellow, a fisherman perhaps, turned and looked straight at Joe, and his eyes fell on the bread. He started towards Joe. Joe dropped the bread and turned to run, but in a couple of long strides the man had him by the arm, and swung him to a stop. “Here, my lad,” said the man, “not so fast. You have nothing to fear.” Joe looked up at him trembling. The man did not look angry. He was smiling down at Joe. “Where are you off to with all that bread?” he asked. "I . . . I don't know,” said Joe, and in his confusion he really didn't. “Well,” said the man. “I'll tell you what. How about letting me have the bread? I'll find some way of paying you back for it.” “But I need it,” cried Joe. “That's all right,” said the man. “I'll see you get some more. But right now you just let me have it, will you?” And with that the man stooped, and swept up the bread, took Joe by the arm again, and led him into the midst of the nearest group of people, and up to a tall gentleman in the centre. “What have you there, Andrew?” asked the tall gentleman. “There's a lad with five barley loaves,” answered the man called Andrew, “he is willing to help us.” Some strange impulse sent Joe's hand to his pocket. “I have a couple of fish too,” he said almost proudly, pulling them out. The tall gentleman smiled, and all the people around laughed when they saw the two small fishes. * * * “I think, Joe,” said his father after the men had gone, and Joe had told his story, “you'd better take some of those twelve baskets to the farmer's wife, it may be only fragments of bread and fish, but there is more than you and I and Johnny can use, and, as the gentleman said, it should not be wasted.” The End NOTE: I remember when Dad wrote this story, back in 1968. At chapel that morning at Bishop's College School where he taught, the lesson for the day had been from the Gospel of John, Chapter 6, Verses 1 - 14, The Feeding of the Five Thousand. For some reason Dad took an interest in the actor in the story with the smallest role, and of the smallest size. Dad went back to the staff room and spent every spare minute he had that day writing feverishly and telling his colleagues to go away! I have included the text of the gospel reading below: John 6:1-14 Revised Standard Version (RSV) Feeding the Five Thousand 6 After this Jesus went to the other side of the Sea of Galilee, which is the Sea of Tibe′ri-as. 2 And a multitude followed him, because they saw the signs which he did on those who were diseased. 3 Jesus went up on the mountain, and there sat down with his disciples. 4 Now the Passover, the feast of the Jews, was at hand. 5 Lifting up his eyes, then, and seeing that a multitude was coming to him, Jesus said to Philip, “How are we to buy bread, so that these people may eat?” 6 This he said to test him, for he himself knew what he would do. 7 Philip answered him, “Two hundred denarii[a] would not buy enough bread for each of them to get a little.” 8 One of his disciples, Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother, said to him, 9 “There is a lad here who has five barley loaves and two fish; but what are they among so many?” 10 Jesus said, “Make the people sit down.” Now there was much grass in the place; so the men sat down, in number about five thousand. 11 Jesus then took the loaves, and when he had given thanks, he distributed them to those who were seated; so also the fish, as much as they wanted. 12 And when they had eaten their fill, he told his disciples, “Gather up the fragments left over, that nothing may be lost.” 13 So they gathered them up and filled twelve baskets with fragments from the five barley loaves, left by those who had eaten.14 When the people saw the sign which he had done, they said, “This is indeed the prophet who is to come into the world!” Winged Victory PUBLISHED IN THE MONTREAL STANDARD November 1, 1947 ($50.00!) He'd been waiting since last Hallowe'en to show them he wasn't afraid anymore By Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY JEFF CHAPLEAU Pete cowered, and a sob of fear shook him “WELL, I made them for you,” said the old lady, and watched the light of excitement and anticipation flare up in Gordie’s seven-year-old eyes. He bounced off the chair by the kitchen table. “Oh Granny, did you? Can I see them? Can I see them right now?” “They’re upstairs. You’d better come up and try them on, in case they don’t fit.” Gordie shot out of the kitchen into the hall and up the long flight of stairs. The little old lady could hear his restless feet drumming their impatience on the floor above, but, spry as she was, she did hot hurry. “Wings, indeed!” she murmured as she started up the stairs. “What an imagination they have at that age!” When Granny Tompkins reached the top of the stairs she opened a large linen closet, and from the bottom shelf drew out a complicated black object. As she unfolded it it resolved itself into a pair of wings, and, between them, a sort of hood with pointed ears and nose, and slits for eyeholes. Gordie’s round eyes could not take it all in at once. They darted here and there, and his feet danced under him. He recognized parts of two huge old-fashioned black umbrellas — or was it one of them cut in half ? -— that made the framework of the wings and gave them their bat-like trailing edges. He remembered those umbrellas among countless other treasures he had seen in Granny’s marvellous attic. But over the umbrellas was some shiny black stuff, sewn on as though it were feathers, stuff that shook and rustled as the wings were moved, and the same material covered the head and shoulders. “Oh Granny!” cried Gordie. “They’re wonderful! Pete won’t have anything as good as this for his costume. Why — why he may even be scared of me in this!” Gordie became so enthralled at the prospect that his Granny had to shake the wings to recall his attention. “Here,” she said. “You’d better try them on. Why are you so worried about Peter Martin?” "OH,” said Gordie, as he struggled to get his arms into the tight sleeves that ran across the forward edge of the wings, “he thinks he’s pretty good. At the Hallowe’en Party last year he was dressed like a skeleton, and he kept jumping out and scaring people, and—” Gordie paused. “And?” “And he jumped out and scared me when I was passing the cemetery on the way home. I was dressed as a ghost and I tried to run and I fell down and I cried.” “And he’s never let you forget it all year, I suppose?” said Granny. She knew Peter Martin and had some idea of the constant battle Gordie had with him at school. Peter was a year older, but in the same class, and at everything but school-work he was just a little bit better and stronger and quicker than Gordie. “There,” said Granny. “They fit pretty well. How do you like them?” Gordie contorted himself trying to take in the general effect. “Can I go down to the hall and look in the big mirror?” he asked. “Of course,” said Granny. Gordie bounced to the head of the stairs. He was already savouring a triumph over Pete. “Whee! I’m a bat!” he cried, and he spread his wings and jumped down two steps at once. Then he emitted a shrill squeak of surprise and fear, which sounded quite bat-like, for his feet barely grazed the second step down, and he found himself floating swiftly and silently down into the gloom of the big hall below. Granny Tompkins gave a gasp of amazement and started down the stairs at a speed that did not look much like that of a seventy-year-old, but before she was half way down Gordie caught a wing-tip in the hatstand and crashed to the floor. “Gosh, Granny, they work!” he gasped, struggling to his feet. “Are you hurt, boy?” demanded the old lady. “Gee, Granny, you sure are smart. Betcha Pete’s granny can’t make a pair that really work.” Granny Tompkins took Gordie by the shoulders and shook him. “Listen to me,” she said. “They’re not supposed to work. It’s — it’s an accident. You must promise me never to try to fly with them again. You might break your neck, and then what would your mother say? Will you promise?” “Aw, Granny—” began the boy. “Promise!” demanded the old lady. “Or I’ll take them back and break them up.” “I promise,” said Gordie reluctantly, starting at his macabre reflection in the hall mirror. “Very well. Now get along with you to school. I’ll put these away so no one will know, and you can pick them up here on your way to the party.” She watched Gordie go down the path and turn left along the road past the cemetery and the church towards the school. He had not even thanked her, but Granny Tompkins was wise enough to realize that that was a compliment to the magnitude of the thing she had done for him. He would have thanked her for a doughnut, all right. The joyance in his gait was enough thanks for her. Note: This article is the one Dad had pulled from the paper to inspire his reluctant students: The Montreal Gazette. ADVENTUROUS WOMAN MAKES PAIR Of WINGS Virginiatown, Ont., Oct. 2/46. CP. An adventurous Virginiatown housewife has invented a pair of wings which she uses to jump from buildings 20 to 25 feet high. Mrs. Phil Golden, the mother of two children, began working on her wings two years ago after disecting birds in an attempt to learn how they fly. She made the wings of parachute silk and bits of plastic. They look like a mass of gigantic feather-like pockets built onto even larger feathers. These feathers or air pockets flush the air back through the larger feathers on to a plastic back. In so doing, a vacuum is formed underneath the outer feathers. The vacuum together with a movable outer attachment at the wing tips allows for the possibility of propulsion by means of earnest wrist action. Mrs. Golden said a weak heart so far has prevented her from more stringently testing her wings. Up until now she has been jumping from platforms at least 20 to 25 feet in height. Most of her "flying" has been done at night because she is shy of publicity. She started folding up the costume, but then she paused, and stood in the hall staring thoughtfully at the wings. “YAH! Gordie Allen — think you’re smart, eh? We all know you’re Gordie Allen.” The words ripped through Gordie’s disguise, and inside the black hood his face turned scarlet with disappointment and rage. Peter Martin was supposed to be a black cat, and he had a long black tail made of stuffed cotton stockings. Picking it up in one hand he swung it at the bat, and Gordie felt the umbrella ribs buckle under the blow. Powerless to retaliate, he turned to walk away, and another blow curled itself round his ankles and he fell to his knees. “Weren’t you scared to come?” went on the hateful voice. “Bet you went all the way round by Main Street so you wouldn’t pass the graveyard. “Bet you’re scared to pass it going home. Remember last year?” “I am not scared,” exploded Gordie, forgetting his incognito. “I’ll go past it any old time,” and he moved away, followed by Pete’s unbelieving laughter. There were witches on broomsticks and owls and ghosts and all sorts of spooky creatures in the big assembly hall, and the decorations were all orange and black, and there was even orange coloured stuff to drink and black candies that tasted much as they looked, and were probably designed to induce dreams of “things that go bump in the night.” GORDIE forgot all about Pete Martin for a while and began to enjoy himself again, but all of a sudden his stomach felt empty and his heart dropped into the void. Pete was nowhere to be seen! Gordie knew what that meant. The party was nearly over. Pete had gone to hide in the cemetery. When Gordie went past he would jump out and scare him. If Gordie detoured it he would broadcast the fact that he was afraid to pass it. Miserable, Gordie lingered in the coatroom as the children left. Finally, last of them all, he started homeward, his battered costume clutched under his arm. As he passed the church his steps slowed, and his ears and eyes strained to catch some forewarning of Pete’s onslaught. The tombstones loomed grey in the darkness to his right, and his footsteps grated loudly on the road. Suddenly, far ahead of him, there was a piercing shriek. He stopped, frozen stiff. Then there came the sound of running footsteps, pounding down the road towards him. He couldn’t move. “Gordie! Gordie!” It was Pete Martin, white-faced and panting. He grabbed Gordie by the arm and cowered behind him. “You should’ve seen it. It flew down out of the sky and landed right beside me . . . it was like a great big black bat with big black wings . . .” GORDIE tried to steady his voice. “Where were you?” he asked. “In the cemetery.” “Yeah — down at the end near the old Tompkins place, where there aren’t so many gravestones. I—I was waiting for you. . . . Come on, Gordie— go round by Main Street with me.” In all his confusion Gordie’s mind was able to realize that this was his great opportunity, if he only had the nerve to use it. “There’s nothing to be scared of in a cemetery,” he said stoutly. “Come on, Peter. I’ll take you past.” He gripped Pete’s arm, which made him feel a little braver himself, and set out. “We’re nearly past,” he whispered to the dragging Pete as the black shape of the Tompkins place loomed against the night sky ahead, and the tombstones on their right thinned out. Pete’s fingers sank into his arm. “Look,” he breathed, and pointed. Silhouetted over the roofline appeared a winged creature, and suddenly it launched itself into space, floating down towards the cemetery. Pete cowered, and a sob of fear shook him. Gordie braced himself. If it was Granny Tompkins practising flying with the wonderful wings she had hit upon, he wasn’t scared of her. If it wasn’t—well, they were nearly past, and the street lamps began in another hundred yards. “Come on,” he said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” And he led Pete on. NEXT morning Gordie fell in beside Granny Tompkins as they came out of church. “Enjoy your party?” she demanded. “Sure did,” said Gordie, and told her all, ending in triumph with the victory over Pete. “You sure are a wonderful grandmother,” he added. “I bet not many guys have grannies that can fly.” Granny Tompkins made no rejoinder, and after a short pause he clutched her arm. “It was you, Granny, wasn’t it? It was you who flew?” The old lady hesitated, and then glanced round to make sure no one else could hear them. “Yes,” she said. “It was your Granny, all right. Thought I’d scare that Pete for good and all. But don’t you breathe a word of it, Gordie.” She shot a frightened glance at the long line of respectable neighbours filing out of church. “Just think how folk would talk!” “He’d never go by it again, day or night,” she added to herself, “if I told him the truth.” She had gone to bed with a headache last night — right after supper. THE END Short Story 3300 words DEAD MAN STEERING by Lewis Evans UNPUBLISHED (Dad always said there was no accounting for publishers who couldn't recognize sheer genius when they saw it!) AHEAD in the darkness, a pair of red and green running lights, canted at a sharp angle, told Pete that a sailing vessel was beating up the Sound towards him. He stuck his head down the cabin companionway and called to his wife. “Ann, there's a yacht about a quarter of a mile ahead. Want to have another try at a night photo?” “Sure.” Ann left the supper she was fixing in the galley, grabbed up the necessary equipment, and came out into the cockpit. “Careful going forward,” warned Pete. “There's a fair sea running.” They took most of their photos from the forward deck of the cabin cruiser in order to keep their own wake out of the pictures. Pete had built a sort of sword-fisherman's pulpit just aft of the anchor bitts. “Don't worry about me,” said Ann, climbing round the edge of the bridge deck. “Concentrate on getting me a good angle and distance.” Pete altered course to pass close to the yacht on her leeward side, so that her angle of heel would present her deck to the camera. Experience had taught him that most yachtsmen liked to see all their favourite gadgets in a photo, and most of these were on deck. Pete cut down the speed, and the little cabin cruiser's exhaust made bobbling noises as her stern squatted and lifted in the quartering seas. He hoped that the motion of the boat wasn't too difficult for Ann's aim, and that their speed in passing the yacht wouldn't be too much for Anne's camera. It would have been better to turn and run with the yacht, but it was too late for that. The green starboard light was abeam, and the flashbulb went off. Pete got a momentary impression of a yawl under plain sail smashing along close-hauled, and then the blackness of the night contrasting with the white flesh left him blind. He closed his eyes tight for a moment, and then opened them, and could pick out once more the flashing lights of buoys and the shore lights a mile away. Ann clambered back into the cockpit. “Not bad,” she commented. “I got it at the end of a roll, so I don’t think the camera was moving too much.” She went below and back to her job as cook, and Pete advanced the throttle and steered for their anchorage at Porthaven, twenty minutes away. The worst of this racket, he thought, was that it looked to the outsider as if his wife did all the work. And so she did, as far as the photography went, but he was learning the job fast and had some outstanding pictures to his credit already. And the boat was his responsibility - its maintenance and navigation, and the selling end of the business too. He had become engaged to Ann during the war, when he was in the Navy and she was a photographer for a small town newspaper. He remembered the first date they'd had after he'd been demobilized. He remembered the canned music in the little restaurant, and the cuba libra on the table, and that he had had to drink it with his left hand because his right was gripping Ann's under the tablecloth. He remembered too how desperately they wanted to get married, and how they had got the idea that had made it possible. “Got a break last week,” Ann had told him. “Had to cover a sailing race for my paper - it was for a trophy the paper puts up every year. I was lucky and got a really perfect picture of the winner crossing the line, and now one of those boating magazines wants to buy it for a cover, and the owner of the yacht wants a dozen big prints.” “Yachtsmen love to have pictures of their boats,” Pete had said. “Guess it's because it gives them something to dream over through the winter.” “Yes, and they never can take them themselves, because they’re always aboard the boat at the most photogenic moments,” added Ann, and Pete had got the idea. “Look,” he cried. “We want to get married and have somewhere to live - the only thing I know is boats, the only thing you know is photography - “ “Not the only thing, Pete,” murmured Ann. “Well,” continued Pete after a pause while his eyes answered that one, “we get a boat out of what I saved in the Navy, and live on it, and follow the regattas and races and sell photos of their craft to owners. Why, we could go South in the winter and keep right on with the job.” And so it had worked out. “Sea-Photos, Inc.” was well established, and the thirty foot cabin cruiser Photofoam was beginning to be recognized and welcomed at regattas and yacht clubs. Pete eased the cruiser into the anchorage, put her into the wind and cut her way, and went forward to drop the anchor. After supper the cabin became a darkroom, and the day’s take was developed and printed. Later, when Pete had worked over Lloyd's Yacht Register and other lists, small prints were mailed to owners, with a price list of enlargements. “That flashlight job we took on the way home looks good on the negative,” said Ann. “I'm going to enlarge it right away.” Night photos were an experiment they were trying out - the novelty might be good advertisement. So far their attempts had been disappointing. He bent over the developer tray with Ann. He still got a kick out of watching a picture emerge on the white paper like a ship breaking out of a fog bank. Slowly the photograph materialized - much the same as the split second impression he had got at the moment of the flash. He made out the yacht's name, Mistress Mine , on a ring lifebuoy on the shrouds. Suddenly Ann drew in her breath sharply, plucked the enlargement out of the developer, slid it into the hypo, and pointed. Her finger indicated the only figure visible on the yacht - the helmsman in the cockpit. “Look, Pete, look!” she breathed. Pete bent closer. The man sat with the long tiller tucked under his arm, and his bare head was slumped forward and to one side, presenting his right profile to the camera. Down his cheek ran a dark smear. “That man's dead,” whispered Ann, and her voice shook. “Get a magnifying glass and turn up the light.” Pete took the lens and peered through it. He couldn't be sure, but it certainly looked as if that dark smear started from a round dark spot on the helmsman's temple - a spot that could be a bullet hole. “But Pete, it's impossible - the yacht sailing straight on like that....” “No, it's not. With a yawl close-hauled and well balanced, and the hold he has on the tiller, even if he is dead - that's what would happen. She'll plough straight on till the wind shifts or she piles into something.” Ann sat down suddenly. “But who – what....?” she began. “Look up Mistress Mine in the register,” ordered Pete. “I'm getting the hook up.” “But Pete,” cried Ann, “you can't handle this. Go ashore and phone the police.” “Meanwhile the yawl piles up and the evidence is lost.” He scrambled forward and hove on the ground tackle. In three minutes the Photofoam was at full speed, bucking the chop in the Sound. Ann came to his side at the wheel, the register in her hands and a flashlight to read it by. “'Mistress Mine , yawl, built 1938 by....'” “Skip that,” cut in Pete. “Who's the present owner?” “'Joseph D. Bartram,'” read Ann. “Oh, Pete, I know who he is - he's 'Little Joe' - he's a sort of successful racketeer. The paper I worked for used to have a lot to say about him. He's always mixed up in something shady like gambling and the black market, but he always keeps just out of trouble.” “Just the sort of guy who'd get himself bumped off,” commented Pete. “But who - ?” began Ann and her voice suddenly lowered. “Pete, the murderer might still be aboard.” “Uh-huh,” said her husband. “But why should we stick our necks out? If it's 'Little Joe' he probably got what was coming to him, and I'm not crazy to meet his murderer.” “Listen, Ducky,” said Pete; “our picture is very dramatic, but it might be a picture of a suicide, not a murder. If we find the Mistress Mine as she was in the picture, and no gun in Joe’s hand or on the cockpit floor, we know it was murder. Personally, I think we may find the yawl, but I don’t think we’ll find Joe.” “Why?” “Seems to me the murderer would plan to tip Joe overboard with a weight to keep him down, and leave the yacht drifting, as though he’d been knocked overboard by the boom in the dark. That has been known to happen to men sailing single-handed. No body, no crime - and no Joe. A perfect set-up.” “How does the murderer get away from the yacht himself, though?” asked Ann. “Maybe we'll be in time to find out,” said her husband. “The yawl carries a dinghy, but that would be missed. To make it a perfect crime he would have to be taken off by a pal in another boat, or better still sail the yawl in close to shore and swim. Then no one need know he was there.” There was a pause while Ann thought it over. “Pete,” she said, “if you're right the murderer must have been aboard when we took the photo.” “He must have been somewhere below,” said Pete. “My guess is he hid aboard, waited till Joe sailed her well offshore, and shot him from the darkness of the cabin.” “Well, what about our flash?” demanded Ann. “What would he think of that?” “I don't know. He wouldn’t see much from inside, especially when the portholes on the side near us were heeled 'way down almost to the water. I don't think he could help seeing a bit of a flash wherever he was. He might have thought we'd raked him with a spotlight for a second. I don't think anyone would think of a photoflash.” There was another pause, and again the girl broke it. “You'll be careful. Darling? If we find the yawl, I mean?” “Of course. You're the only wife I've got.” “I don't know why I married such a madman,” sighed Ann. “If there was any truth in what you said when you proposed,” said Peter quickly, “you couldn't resist my good looks and you were dying to get your hands on my money.” Ann let him have a left jab to the ribs and Pete slid an arm round her and sought safety in a clinch. The Photofoam ran down the Sound on long zig-zags. The breeze was moderating and the water calmer. It was after midnight now, and most pleasure craft were snug in anchorages, so Pete was not surprised when the first running lights he picked up turned out to be those of the Mistress Mine . As the cabin cruiser closed the distance between them Pete switched on his spotlight and caught the yawl in its beam. She was hove to, fore reaching a few yards and then luffing and falling off. “There's a man moving about in the cockpit,” he said. “Get your photoflash and give it to me. We'll be friendly and pretend we think it's 'Little Joe' - what's his other name?” “Bartram,” breathed Ann. Pete leaned beyond the side wing of the bridge and hailed. “Mistress Mine , ahoy! Do you need any help?” “Sounds just too romantic,” he heard Ann murmur behind him, and his brain took a split second off to think what a swell girl she was. “What boat's that?” demanded the man on the yawl sharply. “Take us alongside,” Pete told Ann, “and give me that camera.” He slung it round his neck and clambered forward. “Photofoam , of Sea-Photos, Inc.,” he shouted. “We saw you hove to, and thought you might be in trouble. Mr. Bartram, isn't it?" The direct beam of the spotlight was off him now, but Pete could make out the man steadying himself with his left hand on the cockpit coaming. His right was below its edge; Pete could guess what that hand held. “No trouble, thank you,” the man replied, and Pete felt he could almost hear the fellow's brain racing to explain his position. At length the explanation came out. “I am cruising single-handed,” he said, “and I was cold, so I hove to to go and get myself some warmer clothes and a drink.” He paused, and then asked as if he couldn't resist it, “How do you know my name?” “It's our business to know yachts and who owns them,” said Pete. “We take photos of them, you know. Mind if I take one now?” “Portrait of a murderer,” Pete's brain quoted at him. The flash was over and he was blinded again before the man's reply started. In the blackness Pete moved quickly to one side. He was afraid of a shot. “No - I don't mind a bit.” The words came smoothly and slowly, and Pete's impression was that the man on the yawl had everything figured out now. “How many have you aboard?” the voice went on. “Can't see a thing after that flash.” “Two,” replied Pete. “Myself and my wife.” Only a yard or two separated the craft now. “Come aboard and join me in a drink,” the smooth tones continued. “The boats will be okay alongside each other - there’s little wind now. Come along.” The last two words were edged with insistence. “Hell,” thought Pete. “I'm behind the eight ball now. He’s got to have the camera....” His stomach contracted as his mind added, “and he’s got to have us, too. We're too close - he can get us both if we try to scram.” The boats bumped gently. “Play along, play along with him,” Pete’s mind kept telling him. “Maybe you'll get a chance to slug him or something.” He moored the cruiser fore and aft and helped Ann out of the cockpit. She slipped and he caught her to him. “It’s 'Little Joe',” she breathed. Pete's brain reeled. 'Little Joe' was the murderer, not the victim. Who, then, was the corpse? Bartram was awaiting them in the cockpit, his right hand in the huge side pocket of the heavy canvas hunting jacket he wore. He motioned them down the companionway ahead of him. “Whisky, rum, gin?” he asked. “Glad to have someone to drink with. Sit down, won't you?” Pete sat on a transom on one side of the central table, and Ann beside him. Joe moved past the table on its other side towards the door in the bulkhead at the forward end of the cabin. Beyond it was the galley, Pete guessed. “Whisky for me,” said Pete. “Ann?” “The same, thanks,” said Ann. She looked at her husband, and for a second her eyes crossed. Pete felt that his senses were leaving him, and then he got her warning - 'Little Joe' would probably fix those drinks, the two of them would go out like lights, and he would dispose of them and their films as he wished. Bartram was standing in the doorway, his left shoulder towards the cabin. Pete could bet that the gun was out of that right side pocket now and handy to grab. Bartram smoothly small-talked about the delights of night sailing and his sentences were punctuated by the clink of bottles on glasses. They couldn't refuse the drinks - that would just bring the gun out. They must drink, and go out like lights - out like lights - like a flash.... Pete remembered the way the photoflash had blinded him twice already that evening. He unslung the camera from his neck, and leaned over Ann as he put the sling over her head. “Here, Honey,” he said, “why don't you try a snap of this cabin? It's a swell job.” And he added under his breath, “You flash, I switch 'em.” Bartram placed the drinks on th e table, Ann's, Pete's, his own at the end nearer the galley. Ann stood up. “How about a picture, Mr. Bartram?” she smiled. “'The skipper at home' - that sort of thing.” She raised the camera. There was a pause and Pete imagined Bartram thinking, “One more doesn't matter - camera and all will be at the bottom of the Sound in a few minutes.” “Okay,” said 'Little Joe', leaning back against the side of the doorway, glass in left hand and his right in that side pocket again. Pete's heart sank, but Ann came through. “Put the drink down, if you don't mind. They spoil a photoflash - er - reflections, you know.” 'Little Joe' placed the glass on the table. “Ready?” asked Ann. “One, two, three....” Pete knew she was counting for his benefit and on three he shut his eyes. The flash was still perceptible through his eyelids, and he opened them quickly, reached out both hands, and switched his drink and Joe's. Then he looked up to find Joe passing a hand over his eyes and blinking. Pete copied him. “Some flash, eh, Mr. B?” he laughed. “Well, here's cheers.” He picked up his glass and knocked back about half of it. Thank Heaven it was whisky too - had 'Little Joe' decided on something different that gun would be out with his first sip. He was glad to see Ann fussing with the camera, not drinking. “Mud in your eye,” said Bartram, and to Pete it sounded as though, he meant it. The Sound had a muddy bottom. 'Little Joe' drained half his glass, and noticed Ann's preoccupation with her camera. “Drink up, lady,” he invited. He raised his glass to her. “Here's luck.” With that his knees folded and he crashed down across the table. Pete leapt on him to pinion his arms and yelled the one word “Rope” at Ann. Their haste was from fright rather than from necessity, for 'Little Joe' was out cold. In two minutes they had him trussed up, and Pete broke open the gun he had taken from his pocket. “One shell fired,” he commented. “But who at?” “At whom,” corrected Ann automatically. She was crumpled on a transom, white and shaking. Pete raised her head and kissed her. “Stick with me a little longer. Darling,” he said. “Pull yourself together.” He pointed forward. “There's a big sail-locker in the forepeak - that's probably where Joe hid when the other guy sailed the boat out into the Sound. But who was that other guy?" His eyes fell on a club bag on the port side berth. He started pulling out shirts, a toilet case, an opened envelope. “Ann,” he said, “ever heard of anyone called Victor Marsh?” “Sure,” said Ann. “He's an associate of 'Little Joe's'. He was up on a gambling rap last year. Got off with a fine or something, though.” “Listen.” Pete had the letter out of the envelope. “'Dear Vic: In reference to our conversation yesterday, about your borrowing the Mistress Mine next week end, you can pick her up at her moorings in Flounder River any time Saturday afternoon or evening. Have a good cruise, and don't worry about being single-handed - she handles very easily. Drop into the office Monday and tell me all about it. Joe.'" “Exit Vic,” commented Ann. “Don't let me hurry you, but don't you think we'd better scram? We're not close enough to land for Joe to swim ashore, so he must have been waiting for a pal to come and take him off.” Pete sprang into action. He lowered the yawl's sails, left them lying unfurled, and took her in tow. When they were some three miles on their course to Porthaven he caught a glimpse of a speedboat's white bow and red sidelight as she whipped by a mile away. Perhaps she was going to pick up 'Little Joe'.” By five in the chill dawn a sleepy Porthaven policeman was in charge of the yawl Mistress Mine and her passenger, police headquarters had been notified, and detectives were on their way. Once more the Photofoam dropped her hook. Pete yawned and stretched. “Bed, bed, beautiful bed!” he exulted. “Pete I'm going to develop those last two pictures first. If they're good we're famous.” “Aw Ann,” expostulated her husband, “for Pete's sake-” Ann smiled at him. “Okay; I'll come – for Pete's sake.” The End (Short Short Story) 1000 words (Date unknown. Sometime in the late 1970s or 1980s.) (Unpublished) FLASH POINT by Lewis Evans We on the planet Nereus, who have through these many aeons communicated with each other by thought-transmission, find it limiting to try to express ideas in the antiquated medium of language. However, as my report concerns the planet which calls itself ’Earth' (but which we know as The Flasher) it would seem appropriate, and an interesting exercise, to express the report, this time, in an 'Earth' language. I have chosen the language they called English, for it was, perhaps, used by most of the people responsible for the recent incident on their planet, though had the incident been delayed for a few of their years the Russian and Asiatic tongues might well have been by then the sole surviving languages. It is with this incident that my report is mainly concerned. We have, of course, been expecting it for some time, for these things generally run true to pattern, but the thing happened while the attention of most Nereans was centred on the Millenium Peace Celebrations on The Blusher (which in 'Earth' parlance, ironically enough, is called Mars after, of all things, a war god), and I was, by chance, the only close observer on this planet. My attention was first attracted to 'Earth' by my happening to notice the detonation on that planet of two nuclear explosions in short succession, evidence that the inhabitants had developed their intelligence and ability to the point where they had discovered and begun to make use of that type of energy. These first two explosions, which occurred at almost the same spot on the 'Earth's' surface, were shortly followed by others, of different intensity and at varying intervals and widely separated points. Assuming that the inhabitants of various parts of 'Earth's' surface were, as usual, at war with each other, I thought it might be interesting, and useful for our records, to have detailed information about the steps leading up to the inevitable climax of a nuclear competition, and so, through our normal channels, I arranged to obtain this information. I dispatched, therefore, a thought-conveyor of moderate size to 'Earth' from an orbit where it had been cruising until needed. It landed successfully in a good central position, and immediately went into action, receiving significant thought emanations from various parts of 'Earth', and relaying them to our receiving recorders here. The accuracy and delicacy of this thought-conveyor were well attested, by the way, almost as soon as it got there, by the fact that it immediately absorbed and passed on to Nereus the news of its own arrival. I record the actual item here as a quaint insight into 'Earth' lore, though, of course, it is scientifically ridiculous: “Saskatoon, Saskatchewan (an English language place name): Scientists here announced today that a meteorite ('Earth' name for our thought-conveyors) is believed to have fallen in barren lands near the northern borders of the province. An expedition under the leadership of Professor Hegstein is being organized to ascertain the exact locality of its crater and other scientific data.” (Though hardly credible to us, there is a widely accepted belief on 'Earth' that certain large circular declivities on the planet's surface mark the landing places of what they call meteorites. We, of course, know what really created these ancient craters, and the latest ones as well.) As soon as I began to correlate the information which came in from our thought-conveyor, I realized that my first conjecture had been wrong. The widely spread and sporadic detonations of a nuclear nature were merely the proving of scientific products by various inhabitants of 'Earth' who were, apparently, working independently of each other, and against 'Earth' time. It seems that each group felt that the more powerful and more numerous the items of nuclear energy it had, the less likely would any other group be to use its own stock against them. This state of affairs, with each group afraid of provoking the other, and yet equally afraid of falling behind in stock and power of nuclear energy, continued for some 'Earth' years, until I was almost convinced that the moments I devoted to its observation and record were being wasted, since the outcome was a foregone conclusion. However, curiosity as to the exact manner of the actual impulse which would promote the final incident prompted me to persevere in my observation. The primary impulse was one that appears to be second nature to the inhabitants of 'Earth', and one without which they do not seem able to survive for any extended period of their time – war. A trifling dispute between two small groups over the control of a small area of solid surface surrounded by liquid - or it may have been over a small area of liquid surrounded by solid, for the thought-conveyor did not seem to be able to gather the details, or perhaps did not consider them worth gathering - and all inhabitants of the planet ranged themselves in one or other of the two camps. Some desultory campaigning with antiquated weapons ensued, but each side existed in fear of the other initiating the use of nuclear energy. This situation might have continued until I was sure that the subject was not worth my momentary attention, had not the secondary impulse suddenly occurred. A single individual of one of the opposing groups, while controlling an air-borne vehicle on patrol over a large liquid area, feeling, no doubt, weary of the situation in general and of his own activity in particular, yawned uncontrollably. His primitive pressurized garment became disarranged, he made a sudden movement to adjust it, and triggered a nuclear item which his vehicle carried as a precaution against the surprise use of such by the other group. This item was detonated in the water area without damage to any inhabitants of the planet, but the detonation was recorded by both sides. At once each side assumed that the other had initiated a nuclear competition, and threw all its most potent weapons into the action. The result was an interesting - even spectacular - sight, and I was glad that I had not desisted from my observation a few moments earlier. First one and then another area of The Flasher, or 'Earth', was momentarily illuminated by the comparatively brilliant flashes that inspired our name for it. Beautifully patterned cloud formations occasionally obscured the play of light, and the emanations from our thought-conveyor became weak, confused, and distorted. Undoubtedly some of the larger detonations meant that the surface of the planet was again being pitted by large craters, and it amused me to conjecture that perhaps they in their turn would be explained by 'Earth' inhabitants of the future as the landing places of 'meteorites'. Hardly had it begun when all such activity ceased completely. The surface of the Flasher reappeared, unobscured by cloud or vapour, its well known features hardly altered, but with no illumination of any sort in any place. Needless to add, there was no communication whatever from our thought-conveyor, for a thought-conveyor cannot convey thoughts when there are none to convey. Such is my report of the most recent of such incidents on 'Earth'. Since we Nereans have been equipped to observe that planet, our records show that this is the fifth time that life on 'Earth' has destroyed itself, and, if the established pattern is repeated, in several Nerean years (or 'Earth' aeons) infinitesimal and primitive forms of life will gradually develop, and finally attain to the intellectual standard which is the prerequisite to the 'invention' of nuclear energy. Almost immediately, control of this medium will be lost, and it will once more destroy all life on the planet. If I thought that there was any hope that the pattern might be changed when next the inhabitants of The Flasher approached the flash point, I would be willing to take the time to observe the course of events. It would be an interesting study if they learned to live with and by what they have evolved, and it might even result in our having to discontinue the name The Flasher as inappropriate. (Short Short Story) (1000 words, Unpublished. Date unknown.) THE PLOTTER by Lewis Evans A great B-47 of a June-bug droned in through the open window of the class-room and started making bombing runs at the chandelier. Flak in the shape of Johnny Calder's Geometry book whizzed up and the dazed insect crashed on my desk. He was still alive, so I swept him into my pocket for future reference and was hard at work, like everyone else, when the master on duty stuck his head in at the door to see what the disturbance was. I wondered whether this particular bug was fast on his feet. The night before I had won thirty-five cents in the dormitory when my June-bug had been the first to crawl from the centre to the circumference of a circle chalked on the floor. Then I had sat on him by mistake at Prayers that morning, and so had to build up a new racing stable. The blank pages of the exercise book on my desk caught my eye. Old Hawk-eye, the English master, a guy with the most extraordinary ideas, had been teaching us the short short story in class, and we were supposed to have one written for him by next day. A thousand words to write, and I had not even the first glimmerings of a plot. I could remember most of his lesson, though. “Short first paragraph,” he had told us; “jump right into the middle of action at the beginning. Get some dialogue on your first page if you can. And don’t forget that somewhere in the first third of your story there must be a clue to your surprise ending - your 'kick in the tale'.” That was one of Hawk-eye’s little jokes - the same every year, they tell me. He had droned on about development of tension up to a crisis where everything was right for the crooks or the communists, or wrong for the cops or the Yanks or the British, and then the sudden twist. Oh, I could remember all that, but my mind was still as blank as the pages. The only thing I could think of was how I hated evening preparation in springtime, with the windows wide open and the smell of fresh leaves and grass coming in from the playing fields. “Hey, Johnny,” I whispered. “Lend me a cigarette? I’m going out for a smoke.” Johnny looked impressed - smoking is against the law at our school for some ridiculous reason. He found a battered butt in his pocket and chucked it across. I waited till the master - it was Davies, the Science man, and he's a bit vague or I wouldn't have thought of skipping out - went past again in the classroom corridor, and then I whipped over the window-sill. There was an eight foot drop to the ground, but I knew there was an old plank near by that I could lean against the wall to help me back. I had found it near the carpentry shop and brought it over for just such an occasion. I ran across the quadrangle, keeping out of the splashes of light from the windows, and ducked round behind the dark mass of the gym. There I sat down and lighted Johnny's weed and tried to enjoy life, but that blasted story was still on my mind. Perhaps if I started with the crisis I might get somewhere, I thought. Let's see - the good guy has to be in a jam. His plane's on fire and he has left his parachute at home - no, that's too tough; I'd never get him out of that. Well, he's a paratrooper, and on his way down. He realizes that he is going to land in the shark-infested sea, so what does he do? I don't know. Let's make him drift down over a volcano, and just when he thinks he's done for the hot air from the cone sends him up again; kind of hard to persuade old Hawk-eye there wasn't too much accident in that, though.... Oh, the heck with it. The cigarette was down to the last half inch so I stamped it out and started back. Half way across the quadrangle a familiar voice from the school steps said, “Johnson, come here." It was Hawk-eye in person, having a pipe in the fresh air - a good idea too, if I know his pipes. I started thinking fast and getting nowhere, except closer to him. “What are you doing outside the building during preparation?” he demanded. “Well, sir,” I began, and then I had an idea, a poor thing, but mine own, as someone said before I did. “Well, sir, Mr. Davies told us all to bring a specimen of insect life to his biology class in the morning.” “Yes?” “Well, sir, that's why I'm out here. I suddenly remembered I didn't have one.” “And have you succeeded in getting your - er - specimen, Johnson?” “Yes, sir,” I said, and produced the June-bug from my pocket. “Get back to your class-room,” ordered Hawk- eye. It was too dark to see the expression on his face, but his voice sounded amused. I don't think he liked Davies much. That meant I had to go back by the corridor instead of through the window, but Davies was quelling a noise in another class-room, and I made it without being seen. “Okay?” asked Johnny Galder. “Hawk-eye pinched me in the quad,” I whispered, “but I talked my way past him. I'm all right if he doesn't check with Davies.” As I turned to the blank pages of my English exercise book the bell went for the end of preparation. The next morning in English period old Hawk- eye made us read out our stories. The first two were passable, in a comic-book sort of way; lots of screaming jets and chattering guns spitting death, and stuff like that. Johnny was the third boy he asked, and he had summarized a de Maupassant story in the hopes that Hawk-eye didn't know any French. He did, though, and an afternoon dropped out of Johnny's life forever. Then it was my turn. “I'm sorry, sir,” I apologized, “but I couldn't think of a plot.” Hawk-eye chose to be sarcastic. “You couldn't have written a story with a June-bug as the hidden clue, I suppose?” he suggested in honeyed tones. And as he measured out my doom I thought, “My gosh! I could have, at that!” The End Dad did submit this story for publication but it was soundly rejected with the following note. I include it because Dad thought the note was very funny and he always kept it clipped to the top of his manuscript. NEXT PAGE

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

Early summer residents about whom little is known Watt, Frances McIntosh Early summer residents about whom little is known Back to ALL Bios Frances MacIntosh Watt – d. 1876 and David Watt d. 1918 There is a window at the back of the church dedicated to the memory of Frances MacIntosh Watt but we have been able to find out very little about her. We know she died on July 1st, 1876 and that she was buried in Outremont, Montreal, Quebec at the Mont-Royal Cemetery. The tombstone is inscribed: FRS. MACINTOSH wife of DAVID A. WATT DIED 1ST JULY 1876 NEIL MACINTOSH, BROTHER ISABELLA McLEAN, cousin Her husband was originally named David Allan Poe and apparently changed his name to Watt. He went by Poe in the 1861 census and when he was married to Frances in 1857. However, he signed as D. A. P. Watt on the original chapel subscriber's list of 1866. David and Frances had four children, three girls, and a boy, but even in David’s obituary below the girls are not identified by name. He seems to have died in 1918. Mr. David Allan Watt Passed Away in 88th Year (Obituary) The death of Mr. David Allan Watt took place last Thursday at his residence, 285 Stanley Street. He was born in Ayrshire, Scotland, in 1830, and was thus eighty-eight years of age. He was educated at the Grammar School, Greenock, came to Canada in 1846, and was one of the organizers of the Corn Exchange, the Citizen’s League, and the Montreal Art Association. He was the editor of the Canadian Naturalist. In 1857 he married Miss Frances Macintosh, his wife predeceasing him in 1876. He is survived by his four children, Mrs. F. H. Whitmore and the Misses Watt, of Montreal, and Mr. Allan Watt, of Rocky Mount, N. C. Back to ALL Bios

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Paintings by Tom Evans, Tadoussac and the Saguenay River Tom Evans Paintings La plupart de mes peintures représentent Tadoussac et la rivière Saguenay. Les peintures disponibles sont au début. tomfevans@icloud.com Most of my paintings are of Tadoussac and the Saguenay River. Available paintings are at the beginning. tomfevans@icloud.com 357 TennisClubColour $450 16x20" 356 ConnaisseurChipStand $400 16x20" 355 AnsedeRoche2 $250 11x14" 336 Drydock 1964 $200 12"x16" 329 GibardReflections $300 16x24" 323 PointeRouge $400 20x20" 319 MicroBrasserie $300 14x18" 290 Loading pulplogs $350 16x20" 276 Kayaks 12x16" $200 363 LaBoule 4"x5" 361 Gulls in Tiderip 18x36" 359 WinterStUrbain 14x18" 354 AnsedeRoche1 11x14" 358 Bon Desir 353 Sunset&Moon TadBay 7x10" 350 1868 TadoussacBay 349 NS Canoe & W2 8"x8" 348 FerryintheIce 347 Sunset and Sailboat 346 BrynUpstairs 345 WinterMainStreet 16"x20" 344 Marina Evening 342 Horse and Buggy 16"x20" 340 Windward light at Night 14x18" 339 Cid's Roof 8x10 338 TrilliumatFlatRocks 337 Marguerite Low Tide 334 KidsinStream 333 CaleSeche 20x30" 332 Ferry on the Saguenay 331 Tadoussac! 20x30" 330 Passe Pierre Inlet 12x16" 327 RedCottage on the Beach 16x20" 324 Gulls over Water 322 Kids on PEI Beach 321 Red Canoe 16x20" 320 Tadoussac Bay 16x20" 318 WaitingfortheCSLBoat 1920's 24x30" 316 Bergeronnes1950 16x20 313 Girls waving at Freighter 12x16" 312 Whitboat Haulout 311 BiblioPlage 310 Village in Winter 16x20" 309 Cliff & Sailboat 308 Red Chairs & Sunset 307 Tadoussac Market 306 Webbling 304 Evening on the Bay 303 Hovington Farm $400 16x20" 301 Riptide 300 BonaparteGullsoffTadoussac 299 Webbling 298 TennisClub2 297 Sunset on Saguenay 296 Beach at Tadoussac August 2020 295 Cale Seche Houses ~1930's 294 Nor-Shore Canoe and Dory 293 TennisClub withSteps 292 View of Tadoussac 289 Goelette &CSLBoat2 288 Goelette &CSLBoat 16x20" 287 Houses onIndianRock 16x20" 285 HousesinCaleSeche 284 PointeBlancinYellowLight 281 Crack boat in the Bay 279 GibardMusiciansatNight 278 Jean Yvan rounding the point 277 Cid'satNight 274 Clouds over La Boule 273 HAB loading at Grosse Roche 272 Dufferin in Fall Colours 271 Cale Seche Boats and Houses 11x14 270 Cale Seche Houses&Laundry 269 Yawl Laura with Relatives 268 PassePierrePicnic 10x14" 267 Girl and dog at the lake 266 Tennis Club with players 262 Freighter at speed 261 ChapelHotelAptsBoardwalk 260 KidsStreetLaGreve 11x14" 259 Canoe at Cap a Jack 258 CSL Boat passing the Point 256 Belugas 255 Marina Boats and Tadoussac 254 Kids&BoatsatPetitsIsles 252 DebatPetitsIsles 250 Riptide Patio 249 Bonne Chance with LE & kids 248 Trillium with dingy 246wipSaguenayPointwithRays 246 Saguenay Point with Rays 245 CSL Landing 244 Tad Main Street 1930's 243 CoopViewHouses&TallShip 242 SaguenayRockswithLight 240 MauiBeach 239 StCatherine'sBay 238 Snowy Bank #2 237 StairsinFreighterCanoe 236 PinkRocksandSandDunes 235 3Boats & RedRoofs 231 Winter TadBeach1965 230 HoboEnteringDrydock 229 Caleche & CSL Boat 226 MicroBrasserie &people 225 Noroua&CSL 16x20" 224 SmallDunesKids&Dogs 223 Brynhyfryd (2) 222 Freighter (stern) 219 JacquesCartier 217 SnowyBank 215 TadStreetRedsGreens 212 Rocks&Iris 207 PilotHouse1950 206 wipFreighteratSpeed 205 YellowRowboat 203 HousesnearCoop2 202 AnsedeRocheGoelette 200 TadStreet&Market 199 SnowonPtRouge 198 TennisClubandBarn 197 FishingBoat&Hotel 194 GoeletteinFog 192 BayEvening&Lights 179 GoeletteAnsedeRoche 178 SeeingPeopleoffonCSL 176 SailboutTroudelaBoule 172 Windy Beach 169 Spruce Cliff Door Mural 167 Minke Whale on Windward 165 Ice on the Saguenay 164 Bonne Chance in Drydock 159 Tad from Indian Rock 1930's 158 New Cottage in Winter.jpg 155 Cid's.jpg 154 Black Duck (2).jpg 154 Black Duck Mosaic 2012.jpg 153 PointeNoir through Trees.jpg 152 St Catherine's Bay.jpg 151 lesgarsquiontconstruit lamaison1936.jpg 150 Rocks on Saguenay in Sun 149 Evan Landing at PtealaCroix.jpg 147 Cid's_Church inWinter.jpg 144 1860's Boats on Beach 142 SaguenayPointAutumn.jpg 141 Goelettes in Drydock.jpg 140 Tivoli.jpg 138 TadoussacHillside.jpg 133 Tile Mosaic Tad Bay & Saguenay 126 Houses near Coop with colour.jpg 113 Brynhyfryd in Sun.jpg 111 Pointe Noire and Freighter.jpg 110 Boats and Folks on Beach.jpg 109 Betatakin 2007.jpg 106 Tadoussac Village from Indian Rock 2007.jpg 104 Houses on the Bank 2007.jpg 102 Sunset Portugal.jpg 100 Two Red Boats2007.jpg 88 TadBayTilePanorama 86 Hockey Sunday mornings at Glendale.jpg 85 Poppies in Provence.jpg 83 Red Wall in Provence.jpg 81 McKenzie King Ruins.jpg 80 Provence Village.jpg 77 Thunderstorm over Dunes.jpg 69 St Irenee from hill.jpg 66 Red Boat Peggy's Cove.JPG 64 Algonquin Park Waterfall.jpg 62 Sailing the Trillium.jpg 59 Hotel in Quebec City with Red Roof.jpg 57 Saguenay Point below Cliffs #2.jpg 46 Indian Rock 2001.jpg 45 St Tite des Caps.jpg O 25 Walkers Red Rocks and Clay Cliffs.jpg 23 Old Wharf in Nova Scotia.jpg 21 Sandcastle Circle on the Beach in Tad.jpg 20 Cons'tn Navale dans la Cale Seche 1940 2003.jpg 17 Julia and Matt on Beach in Christian Island.jpg 16 Baccaro.jpg

First generation summer residents of Tadoussac and builders of the first summer cottage Rhodes, Col. William and Anne Catherine (Dunn) First generation summer residents of Tadoussac and builders of the first summer cottage Back to ALL Bios Lieutenant Colonel the Honourable William Rhodes 1821-1892 & Anne Catherine (Dunn) 1823-1911 William Rhodes was born in 1821, at Bramhope Hall near Leeds, in England. His father, also named William Rhodes, was a wealthy farmer and a soldier who fought for the British in the War of 1812 in Canada. The older William was a Captain in the 19th Lancers, the former 19th Light Dragoons, and married Ann Smith. Young William was educated in France, and as a second son, he knew that he would not inherit, so his father bought him a commission in the army. He entered the British Army in May 1838 as an ensign in the 68th Foot (Durham Light Infantry). It was in August of 1841 that twenty-year-old William Rhodes came to Quebec from England as part of a military posting and served in Quebec from October 1842 to May 1844. He fell in love with the land, the river, the people, and eventually with a young lady from Trois Rivieres named Anne Dunn whom he planned to marry. The older William did not want his son to marry a colonial and pulled strings in the military to have him recalled but William returned and married Anne Dunn in the Anglican Cathedral of the Holy Trinity, Quebec City, in 1847, and left the army with the rank of captain. Anne Dunn’s grandfather, Thomas Dunn had come to Quebec in 1760, a year after General James Wolfe’s invasion. He administered Lower Canada from 1805 to 1807, and in 1811. Anne’s parents were Robert Dunn, who was an assistant to the Office of Civil Secretary, and Margaret Bell. Her maternal grandfather was Matthew Bell. In 1848, Captain Rhodes and Anne Dunn purchased the estate of Benmore on Chemin St. Louis in Sillery, where they settled and engaged in horticulture. The house remained in the Rhodes family for a hundred years and still stands, although today it is part of a condo development. William Rhodes was known for his experimental agriculture, learning what crops and cattle would best tolerate the Quebec environment. During the 1860s he got into business where he associated with Evan John Price and others and engaged with them in mining in the counties of Wolfe and Mégantic. He was one of the founders of the Union Bank of Lower Canada and of the Grand Trunk Railway, President of Company Warehouse Quebec and the Quebec Bridge Company which eventually built the first Quebec Bridge. He led a delegation on April 12th, 1888, to meet Sir John A. Macdonald and Sir Charles Tupper to lobby for funds to build the bridge. He helped to establish the Quebec and Richmond Railway and the North Shore Line, which later merged with the CPR. In politics, Rhodes was the MP for Megantic from 1854 to 1857. Later, he joined the Mercier cabinet as Minister of Agriculture and Colonization and was elected Liberal MP for Mégantic in the Legislative Assembly in a by-election in 1888. During this time, William and Anne produced five sons and four daughters over a twenty-year period and they were very eager that all of their children be educated and guided into a successful future. Rhodes was an avid hunter and outdoorsman, and the boys were taken on lengthy camping trips in the winter with friends, often returning to Quebec City with sleds loaded with enough game to provision the household for two months. The daughters in the family were not neglected in their education. In one of his many letters to the family in England, he wrote: “… the little girls have now music, dancing, and French masters, to say nothing of sewing machines, pudding making, and English writing. In fact, tuition and all its branches are the order of the day.” It was through his friendship with the lumber merchant Price family that William Rhodes first discovered Tadoussac. A businessman and politician at heart, it wasn't long before he was taking leadership here too. He built the anglophone community's first summer cottage in 1860, and his friends in the Russell family, also of Quebec City, built an exact copy right next door which is still in the Russell family-Spruce Cliff owned by Susie (Scott) Bruemmer. William Rhodes's cottage would have looked exactly like that at first, but then he extended it to accommodate his growing family and it burned down in 1932. Brynhyfryd is the second cottage, built in the same location. Robert Hale Powel was another friend who decided to build a summer cottage in Tadoussac. He bought the next lot, currently the Baileys. It is said the three friends, Rhodes, Russell, and Powel often played whist together. Perhaps it was during such a game that the opportunity was either offered or asked for that William’s sons, Armitage and Godfrey, move to Philadelphia to work in one of Powel’s rolling mills. The boys got experience like any other worker on the machine shop floors where the manual labour was hot and hard. They gradually moved up the ranks learning every aspect of the trade until they became executives in their own right, as leaders in the rail business. William Rhodes and Mr. Russell were part of a group that built the original Hotel Tadoussac in 1864, and it was in a meeting in that new hotel that they committed themselves to building the Protestant Chapel in 1866. His son Godfrey kept a diary that records camping trips when they would row locally built nor'shore canoes up to Baie St. Etienne to camp and fish. But for all the forays out into the wilds, William remained devoted to his first and only love. He wrote of Anne: “… I find her a valuable assistant, in interpreting to me the characters of the young men I have to deal with. (…) Few women have performed all their duties to their children so well and so unceasingly as my wife”. For all his work in business and politics, William Rhodes was a devoted father and, judging by photographs that have survived, he and Anne were lovers of their time with family in Tadoussac. One summer he wrote to a family member: “My family is all down at the seaside at Tadoussac. We are all together which is a great comfort, far preferable to having sons away in India or floating about the ocean on His Majesty’s ships.” Lt Colonel William Rhodes died at Benmore on February 17th, 1892, at the age of seventy. His death was quite unexpected. He had been well but took sick with La Grippe. After the funeral, celebrated in the Anglican Church of St. Michael, he was buried in Mount Hermon Cemetery. The Rhodeses had nine children and twenty grandchildren, all of whom spent significant time in Tadoussac, so it is worthwhile recording some of the descendants here. William’s wife Anne (Dunn) Rhodes outlived the Colonel by twenty years, and it is said that she was a sweet lady; however, with so many grandchildren she became a bit vague as to which child was which. Just imagine the struggle she would have in keeping her descendants straight today! The oldest son was Armitage, and his daughter Dorothy (Dorsh) married Trevor Evans. Their children are Phoebe, Ainslie, Trevor, and Tim, producing nine more Evans, Skutezkys, and Stevens. Next was Godfrey, who bought the estate Cataraqui in Quebec. He had two daughters: Gertrude who died in infancy; and Catherine, who married Percival Tudor-Hart and lived at the estate until her death in 1972. Godfrey built the Tudor-Hart Cottage in Languedoc Park here in Tadoussac. There are no descendants. The third son was William. His daughter Carrie would marry her first cousin, Frank. William and Godfrey had been sent to the United States to work in the railway business, so they lived in the US and William travelled around the world building railways. The fourth son, Francis, married a Quebec girl, Totie Le Moine, from Spencer Grange, another old house that’s still standing in Quebec – currently the official residence of the Lieutenant-Governor. Their two surviving daughters (of four) were Lily Bell and Frances, whom many of us remember fondly. Neither married nor had children. The fifth son was Robert Dunn Rhodes who settled in the United States and had eight children who led to Rhodes, Johnson, and Robes descendants who settled in the Boston area. The sixth child, and first girl, was Minnie Rhodes. She married Harry Morewood, an American, and they had five children including Frank Morewood who married his first cousin, William’s daughter, Carrie. It was Frank and Carrie who built Windward Cottage in 1936 and the Evans and Belton families are descendants. William’s other children were Isobel, known as Billy, John, and Nancy as well as Bobby who had two sons, Frank and Harry Morewood. Seventh, there was Nan who married Lennox Williams. Their children were: James, who was killed in World War I; Mary, the matriarch of the Wallace and Leggat families; Gertrude, who led to the Alexander and Aylan-Parker families; and Sydney, whose descendants include the Williams, Ballantynes, Websters, and Campbells. The eighth and ninth children were Fanny who died in infancy and Gertrude, who married, but died childless at twenty-six years old.   Photos above Anne Dunn and William Rhodes William Rhodes reading to grandsons John and Frank Morewood WR tying his snowshoes from a painting by Kreighoff Photos below The original Brynhyfryd in the 1860's painting by Friend The lawn at Brynhyfryd, WR and his wife are on the right, she seems to have a baby carriage Back to ALL Bios

Col William Rhodes and Anne Dunn Col. William Rhodes 1821-1892 Anne Catherine Dunn 1823-1911 Anne Dunn was the grandaughter of Hon.Thomas Dunn (1729-1818, Governor of Lower Canada in the early 1800's) William Rhodes was born at Bramhope Hall in Yorkshire in 1821, the son of William Rhodes 1791-1869 and Ann Smith ?-1827 Above, at Benmore with daughters Below, at Tadoussac with daughters and grandchildren John and Frank Morewood William Rhodes and his brother James At Benmore with daughter Minnie Col. & Mrs Rhodes and family on the lawn at Brynhyfryd about 1880's Family and friends early 1890's in Tadoussac Granny and some of her Grandchildren early 1900's Granny with family and friends about 1907 Biography of Col. William Rhodes from Quebec National Assembly website Né à Bramhope Hall, dans le Yorkshire, en Angleterre, le 29 novembre 1821, fils de William Rhodes, capitaine dans le 19th Lancers, l'ancien 19th Light Dragoons, et d'Ann Smith. Entra dans l'armée britannique en mai 1838, à titre d'enseigne dans le 68th Foot (Durham-Light Infantry); arriva au Canada en août 1841 et servit à Québec d'octobre 1842 à mai 1844. Retourna en Angleterre, mais revint dans la colonie en 1847; cette année-là, quitta les rangs de l'armée avec le grade de capitaine. En 1848, acheta le domaine de Benmore, à Sillery, où il s'établit et s'occupa d'horticulture. Engagé, avec Evan John Price et d'autres, dans l'exploration et l'exploitation minière dans les comtés de Wolfe et de Mégantic, pendant les années 1860. Administrateur de nombreuses compagnies, parmi lesquelles la Banque d'Union du Bas-Canada, dont il avait été l'un des fondateurs, et le Grand Tronc; fut président de la Compagnie d'entrepôt de Québec et de la Compagnie du pont de Québec, qu'il contribua à mettre sur pied, ainsi que des chemins de fer de Québec et Richmond, Québec et Trois-Pistoles, et de la Compagnie du chemin de fer de la rive nord. Élu député de Mégantic en 1854; appuya généralement les réformistes, puis les bleus. Ne s'est pas représenté en 1858. Entra au cabinet Mercier le 7 décembre 1888 en qualité de commissaire de l'Agriculture et de la Colonisation. Élu député libéral de Mégantic à l'Assemblée législative à une élection partielle le 27 décembre 1888. Défait en 1890; démissionna du cabinet le 27 juin. Cofondateur en 1851 de l'Association de la salle musicale de Québec. Président en 1883 et 1884 de la Société de géographie de Québec. Président de la Société d'horticulture; l'un des promoteurs du Mérite agricole, créé en 1890. Juge de paix. Lieutenant-colonel dans la milice, mais connu comme étant le colonel Rhodes. Décédé dans sa résidence de Benmore, à Sillery, le 16 février 1892, à l'âge de 70 ans et 2 mois. Après des obsèques célébrées dans l'église anglicane St. Michael, fut inhumé dans le cimetière Mount Hermon, le 19 février 1892. Avait épousé dans la cathédrale anglicane Holy Trinity, à Québec, le 16 juin 1847, Anne Catherine Dunn, fille de Robert Dunn, qui avait été assistant au cabinet du secrétaire civil, et de Margaret Bell; elle était la petite-fille de Thomas Dunn et de Mathew Bell. Juin 2009 Biography of Col. William Rhodes from Quebec National Assembly website Born in Bramhope Hall , Yorkshire , England, November 29, 1821 , son of William Rhodes , Captain in the 19th Lancers , the former 19th Light Dragoons, and Ann Smith. Entered the British army in May 1838 as an ensign in the 68th Foot ( Durham Light Infantry ) arrived in Canada in August 1841 and served in Quebec from October 1842 to May 1844. Returned to England, but returned to the colony in 1847 and left the ranks of the army with the rank of captain. In 1848, purchased the estate of Benmore, Sillery, where he settled and engaged in horticulture. Engaged with Evan John Price and others in exploration and mining in the counties of Wolfe and Mégantic, during the 1860s. Director of several companies, including the Union Bank of Lower Canada, where he was one of the founders, and the Grand Trunk. President of the Company Warehouse Quebec and Quebec Bridge Company, which he helped to establish, as well as railway Quebec and Richmond, Quebec City and Trois- Pistoles, the Company of the railway on the north shore . Elected MP for Mégantic in 1854, generally supported the reformists and the blues. Was not represented in 1858. Joined the Mercier cabinet December 7, 1888 as Commissioner of Agriculture and Colonization. Elected Liberal MP for Mégantic in the Legislative Assembly in a by-election December 27, 1888. Defeated in 1890 , resigned from the cabinet on June 27. Co-founder in 1851 of the Association of Quebec Music. President in 1883 and 1884 of the Geographical Society of Quebec. President of the Horticultural Society, one of the promoters of Agricultural Merit, created in 1890. Justice of the Peace. Lieutenant- Ccolonel in the militia, but known as Colonel Rhodes. Died at his home in Benmore, Sillery, February 16, 1892, at the age of 70 years and 2 months. After the funeral celebrated in the Anglican Church of St. Michael, was buried in Mount Hermon Cemetery , February 19, 1892. Married in the Anglican Cathedral of the Holy Trinity , Quebec City, June 16, 1847, Catherine Anne Dunn, daughter of Robert Dunn, who had been assistant to the Office of Civil Secretary , and Margaret Bell. She was the granddaughter of Thomas Dunn and Mathew Bell. June 2009 Longer (english) b iography on the Bios Page>> www.tidesoftadoussac.com/tadbios/rhodes%2C-col.-william-and-anne-catherine-(dunn) Col Rhodes made the cover of this magazine in 1998 put out by the National Archives, with an article about William Notman's Hunting Photographs, this one was taken in 1866. Col Rhodes was aquainted with the Canadian Painter Cornelius Krieghoff, in Quebec City, and bought several paintings from him. These paintings passed down through the family. Our family owned one called "Frozen River" which was sold at auction in the 1980's. It is now in the Art Gallery of Ontario in Toronto. Col Rhodes is actually in this painting by Krieghoff. The text at left describes the painting. 29