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 River Stories You Can't “Go Home China” Tonight (Published December 28th, 1946 in “The Standard” Newspaper) A Short Story By Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY MIKE MITCHELL He'd been thinking of it ever since he felt himself getting old The Eternity Bay would sign him on again and take him home to die AT A TABLE near the swinging kitchen doors of the small town café, old Charlie Sing stared at a page of the evening paper. The supper rush was over and the after-movie rush had not yet begun, and this was the time Charlie usually managed to consume a bowl of his chow-mein himself. Tonight the food lay untouched beside him, and a column of newsprint and a photograph held him under a spell. The photograph showed a smallish white river steamer, her single funnel belching black coal smoke, and the caption ran: “China Buys St. Lawrence Steamer: S.S. Eternity Bay for the Yangtse River.” The column below told how she had come out from Scotland under her own steam in 1910, how she had been laid up for the last sixteen years, how she was to be readied for sea at Sorel, and would make her way across the Pacific manned by a Chinese crew. The paper blurred before Charlie Sing's eyes, and he saw himself back in 1910, a man of thirty landing at Vancouver from an immigrant ship. Ten labouring years – ten lean years of toil it had taken to save that passage money to Canada, and for him at thirty Canada's West Coast had been a land of adventure. He had cooked in mining towns and lumber camps, and he had been chef in private houses in Victoria. He had had his ups and downs, and, he frankly admitted, his passion for fan-tan was responsible for most of the downs. After a few years he drifted east, seeking new worlds to be conquered by. One summer in Montreal he shipped as chef aboard the Eternity Bay , and from then till 1930 when she was replaced on the river by newer, faster, bigger ships he served in her throughout every navigation season. Those were the days — his smooth round face and his little round belly were well known all up and down the river then. He remembered it all well — the night run to Quebec, the gas-buoys in the narrow channels sweeping past to dance in the swells astern, the cat-calls and whistles as they passed the up boat near Three Rivers, the loom of Quebec in the summer dawns, and then the lower river . . . the tang of salt in the cool wind, the blue horizons and the great rolling mountains of the North Shore, the siren salute of the Prince Shoal Lightship as they rounded her to leave the St. Lawrence for the Saguenay, and that great river’s mountain-guarded canyon luring them up the path of the sunset . . . Charlie remembered that from a port-side scuttle in the galley he used to wave his tall white hat to the men on the red lightship as they rounded her, and they would wave back and yell, “Salut, Charlie! — Hi, Charlie!” “HEY, Charlie!” A hand came down on his shoulder. It was the boss. ‘‘Get cracking, Charlie — here comes the crowd.” Charlie stood up slowly. His round face was lined now, and the roundness of his paunch had begun to sag. He was getting old. ‘‘Sorry, boss,” he said, pocketing the newspaper. “I quit now.” ‘‘You’re quitting!” cried the boss. “You can’t do that! Not at this time of night, anyway. What’s the idea?” “Quit now,” repeated Charlie. “Go home China.” “You’re nuts!” exploded the boss. “You can’t ‘go home China' tonight!” “Yes, boss,” said Charlie evenly. “Goodbye, boss.” He went through the swing door and up to his room. His white cap and apron went into the fibre suitcase that held all his worldly goods except his cash, and that, wrapped in a clean white handkerchief, came out of a seam in the mattress. Charlie put on a coat and hat, picked up the suitcase, and stepped out into the night. Till dawn he sat in the station waiting-room with the still patience of his race, his one-way coach fare to the city sticking in his hatband. He had been thinking of going home to China for years now, ever since he had felt himself getting old. He liked Canada, but he didn’t want to die here; something called him to a bare terraced hillside in Hu-peh. It was clear in his mind now as it had been in reality forty years ago. He had tried to go a couple of times, but in the consul’s office they had explained that the wars made it all very difficult, and besides, he had never quite been able to save the price - or to hang on to what he had saved. But here was the old Eternity Bay , his old friend, bound for the Yangtse, manned by a Chinese crew, and a crew must eat. The Eternity Bay would sign him on again and take him home to die. THE Eternity Bay as she eased out of Sorel was not much as Charlie Sing remembered her. Her tricolour funnel was now a dull black, her once white upperworks were streaked with red and patched with grey paint, and the windows and scuttles of her freight deck were boarded over solidly against the high seas she would meet. But the same old Scottish engines, installed on Clydeside forty years ago, drove her smoothly down Lake St. Peter, and once more Charlie saw the gas-buoys, like little red and black men with arms akimbo, go swaying past from bow to stern. In the silver and blue morning they slipped through the narrows at Quebec, and as they approached the lower end of the Island of Orleans Charlie was pleased to see that the ship was taking the North Channel, the old familiar cruise route to the Saguenay. Late that afternoon Charlie leaned on the rail of a deck that had once been forbidden territory to him and his dark eyes probed the rolling contours of the capes for the entrance to the Saguenay. Slowly it opened out, that great chasm cutting through the mountains to the northwest, the fjord that the early explorers had hoped would prove to be a short cut to China - so someone had once told Charlie. Charlie Sing knew there was no short cut to China, but he half wished that when the steamer reached the Prince Shoal Lightship she would double her and head up the familiar channel to the Saguenay. He knew she’d just steam on straight past, though; he knew that for him the longest way round was the only way home, and he knew that he’d miss the whistle salute, the three long blasts and a short one of the old days. ABOARD the Prince Shoal Lightship, Number 7 , Old Alfred Tremblay watched the Eternity Bay develop out of a smudge of smoke off Cape Basque. It was the first time he had seen her for sixteen years, and he had missed her on the river. On she came, her familiar lines becoming more and more sharp to his eyes. He wished he could give her the old three blasts as a farewell, but those Chinks he’d heard had bought her - they might think it was some navigational signal or something . . . he’d let her pass in silence. As she drew abeam something white caught his eye, like a ghost from the olden days, and he raised his binoculars. A little round Chinaman leaned over her rail, waving a chef’s tall white hat. “Le Vieux Charlie, b’gosh!” cried Alfred, and he jumped on the whistle cord. With the echoes of the lightship’s foghorn drifting round her the old Eternity Bay ploughed beyond the waters on which she had spent the best years of her life, carrying towards the Gorges of the Yangtse-kiang a little round old Chinaman already homesick for the canyon of the Saguenay. The End Fisherman's Fancy (Published in New Liberty Magazine, Vol. 30, No. 7, September, 1953) By LEWIS EVANS ILLUSTRATED BY AILEEN RICHARDSON ONE of the ways in which Professor Keith Anson differed from the average bear was in the fact that bears habitually hole up in the Winter, but Keith went into solitary seclusion in the Summer. The observant might have added that there were other differences. Keith, for instance, nearly always walked on his hind legs, bears only seldom; Keith was writing a book on the life and customs of the Montagnais Indians, on which he was regarded as an authority, but while the bears or their forebears may have had an unpleasant, intimate knowledge of the Montagnais, it was unlikely that they would beat Keith into print. Seeking quiet and wanting to be on the spot for any further field work that might be required, Keith holed up in a tiny cottage overlooking the spot where the Saguenay River flowed into the St. Lawrence as it widened toward the sea. The village had once been a trading post, but was now a small Summer resort where single men were much in demand as partners in golf and tennis tournaments, fourths in bridge, and bundlers at bonfires on the beach. Keith, however, bearishly resisted all attempts to draw him into these social studies, and wrote furiously for the further luster of the university that employed him and the profit of the publishers who sold everything he turned out. But even professors sometimes tire of describing the Montagnais papoose’s substitute for diapers, and one evening Keith rummaged for his gear under boxes of bone arrowheads and went fishing. He left his car where the road ended and set off across the rocks to the point from which he intended to cast into the Saguenay current. To get there he had to pass in front of the McLeod cottage, and, watching his footing as he was, it was only as he came almost abreast of its verandah that a chatter of voices brought him to a sudden, self-conscious halt. A cocktail party was going on, and, worse than that, it had overflowed from the house to the verandah and even to the rocks between the house and the river. Worse still, it was a party to which he had been invited a few days ago. He had refused the invitation, for his chapter on skinning knives and the curing of pelts had been going well at the time and he begrudged the hours he would waste. Besides, Mr. McLeod, a retired lumber magnate, was an old bore, or said as much. Furthermore, he, Professor Keith Anson, was scared to death of Janet McLeod. Too often her strong, tanned face, her level gaze, her lithe figure in its expensive resort clothes came between him and a pageful of Montagnais squaws. She fascinated him and he wanted to know her better or forget her completely, but she was always arriving or leaving in her big convertible, and he remembered hearing that she was doing some work somewhere. He assumed that she was probably involved in some social welfare activity, more social than welfare. Certainly on the few occasions that he had met her, last Summer and this, he had felt that she was regarding him as a slum that needed to be cleared. And there he was, with his fly-rod and landing-net, obviously going to fish, and in the Saguenay River where nowadays few sea-trout were taken. TACT and self-consciousness had half turned him back towards his car when he heard his name. “Hello, there. Dr. Anson. Going fishing?” Arthur McLeod was advancing on him, glass in hand, and being obvious as usual. “No; I’m collecting butterflies that nest in tall trees,” was the retort that jumped into Anson’s mind with the speed that had insured his lecture-room discipline, but at McLeod’s shoulder was Janet, in what Keith surmised was a cocktail dress, half pleats and half suntan, and smiling. Keith admitted politely that he was going fishing. “Doubt they'll take a fly in tidal water this late in the season,” said McLeod. “Come, have a drink.” “Thanks, but I haven’t very long before dark,” said Keith, and as he spoke he resented McLeod’s assumption that he was going to use flies. He was, for it was the only kind of fishing that interested him, but had he been going to use a spinner or bait or a worm he would have felt that McLeod had prohibited him. “Well, I think you’re wasting your time,” said McLeod. “The only way to find out for sure is to fish,” returned Keith as pleasantly as he could manage, and he started to move on. “Hi, professor,” came another voice, and a new figure joined the group, carrying an empty glass in his hand and its contents not very well. “What do you expect to catch?” Keith recognized the man as Jimmy Woods, an athletic type whose car was constantly pulling dust clouds through the village as he shuttled from links to courts to pool and back. “I’ll be grateful for anything,” he said mildly, and added, “Even the exercise.” “Come and play a few sets with me at the club, if you want exercise,” said Woods. “No fish in the Saguenay anyway. Haven’t been for years. You’re wasting your time.” “Well, it’s my time,” said Keith. “Do you mind if I get on with it?” He nodded to the McLeods and moved on. “Good luck,” came Janet’s cool, amused voice, and Keith half turned and raised his rod in acknowledgement, and cursed himself for refusing that invitation to cocktails. THE sun was almost down to the purple hills in the northwest, and Keith's long shadow swam over the bare rocks ahead of him. He was heading for the rocky spit round which the Saguenay ebb rushed to fuse with the St. Lawrence, but to get there he had to skirt a little cove. Its waters were black and still, sheltered by the steep rocks that bracketed it, and in Keith it inspired fisherman’s fancies. “If I were a trout,” he thought, “would I buck the Saguenay ebb at this hour of the day? No—I would find some nice quiet eddy in a calm, dark cove like this, and I’d laze around and blow bubbles at some nice-looking trout in pleats and a sun-tan.” With that he clambered down towards the shore-line, slithering over the green and sea-weedy half-tide rocks. To save time he bent a cast to his line before he had left home, and he saw no reason to change the two flies on it, a Parmachene Belle as dropper and a Dark Montreal on the tail. He stripped line off his reel and cast, and cast again, gradually working out till he could reach a boulder awash offshore. Suddenly there was a swirl on the surface that had nothing to do with the tide or his line. With his heart in his mouth he resisted the urge for speed and cast again slowly, carefully. The Dark Montreal landed gently, there was a flurry of foam and the electric thrill that leaped from line to rod to wrist to heart, and the reel sang shrilly. Even as the trout took his line Keith thought, “If I can only play this right—if I can only land him and walk right back past McLeod and Woods, and when they ask me in their obvious way if I’m going home already, I can say casually, ‘Yes—I’ve got what I came for,’ and hold up a three pounder, for he's that if he's an ounce.” The trout tired and slowed and Keith got some line back. Gradually he worked the fish back into the cove, back close to the rock where he had hooked it. Suddenly the trout made another rush, perhaps with the instinct to foul the line in the rock's seaweed, and then there was another flurry on the surface. Keith just had time to think, “His girl-friend's hit the Parmachene Belle. Play them easy and you can give one to Janet and one to the old man—or better still, make Woods eat it raw..." and then the curve went out of his rod and his line swung lifelessly towards his feet, a futile foot of broken cast dangling from its end. The nylon had snapped above the upper fly. Professor Anson made several comments in Montagnais that would have impressed the aboriginals of the region, and reached to his hip-pocket for his fly-book. It was not there. He tried all his pockets, and even as he tried them, he remembered that he had put it in the glove compartment of his car lest a protruding hook should jig him behind the dorsal fin as he drove, as had happened once before. The sun's disc was halved by a black summit up the Saguenay. Ten minutes had already passed since he had left the McLeods. He could not go back so soon empty handed, as if he had given up. He could never admit that he had come without his fly-hook, and his parked car was within sight of their cottage. He climbed above the tide-line on the rocks, and sat down on the gray-white granite. So steep was the slope and so smooth the rock he was afraid his rod would slip into the river if he laid it down, but there was a strange little hole in the granite beside him, and he shoved the butt of his rod into it like a whip in a whip-socket. The sun was behind the hills now, and dusk swept down the river with the tide. A stray pulp log drifted past, and Keith thought of his beloved Montagnais swinging down in their canoes to trade their furs with the French in the bay around the point. It would be just about this time of year that the first ships arrived from France. What chapters of history had this rock he was sitting on known?—the French explorers and traders, the Indians, the Basque fishermen, perhaps even the Vikings before them. Something clicked in his brain almost with the thrill of the striking fish. He leaned over and lifted his rod butt from the little hole. What was the article he had read somewhere? Something by a fellow archaeologist about identifying the Vikings’ settlement by the holes they had driven in the rocks for the spike to which they moored their long ships . . . three-cornered holes they always were, the article had said. Keith Anson peered into the hole in the waning light. A three-cornered eye of rain water winked up at him. HE scrambled to his feet and measured the cove with his eye. A Viking long-ship would lie in it comfortably, even at low-water, and be well-sheltered from the northwest squalls that funneled down the Saguenay from time to time. And why not the Vikings? The fjord-like Saguenay would seem like home to them, even more than the inlets of the Atlantic coast . . . But if this hole at his feet was where the spike for the bow line, say had been driven, there would be another hole on the other side of the cove for the stern lines’ mooring, for they always moored bow and stern. Rod in hand, he started down the rocks to cross the little pebbly beach that formed the head of the cove. Seaweed crackled under his feet and suddenly he was falling, rod instinctively held high. His feet hit the beach, a stone rolled under his right foot and he lurched sideways against a boulder. His upheld rod arm took none of the shock and his shoulder and the side of his head thudded solidly on the rock. He sank to a sitting position, shocked into sickness. “A piece of pig rind,” said a rough voice. “None of your fancy furs and feathers for me. We always carried a few pigs between the thwarts. A bad trouble they were to our feet when we were at the sweeps, and a shifty ballast in a seaway, but we'd brine ’em on this side and they'd see us half-way home.” Keith Anson closed his eyes tighter still and pressed his hand to his ringing ears. A tall, bearded man stood looking down at him. He seemed to be wearing a kind of a skirt, and he had horns on his head. His hand was extended towards Keith, and a little strip of pork rind dangled from his fingers and swung to and fro as he spoke. “It’s the devil himself,” thought Keith, “and He’s come to tempt me from flyfishing. What will Mr. McLeod say?” “A little piece of pig rind,” repeated the voice through the beard. “They think it’s a small fish and they go for its head. You have to hook them on the first strike, though, for they won’t be fooled by it twice.” Keith rubbed his knuckles into his eyes and saw that they really were horns —horns on the side of a helmet. “Oh, there you are,” came a clear voice with laughter behind it, and Keith struggled dizzily to his feet. “I hope I didn’t disturb you,” went on Janet. “If I hadn’t, though, the tide would have in another hour or so. Did you have any luck?” “No,” said Keith. “That is, I hooked two beauties at once, and they took my flies.” “Oh?” Her tone reserved judgement on that one. Then, “And you stopped fishing after that?” “Well, I’d forgotten my fly-book.” “Then hadn’t you better go home—or come back to the house? There’s still a drink or two left.” “Oh no,” said Keith. “I haven’t caught your trout yet. You don’t have a small piece of pork rind, I suppose?” Janet took a step nearer and peered at him in the dusk. “Sorry; I came without my pig,” she said. “Are you sure you’re all right?” She got no answer. It took brains and perseverance to be a professor, and Keith Anson was using them. HIS shoulder muscles shot sparks as he unslung his landing-net, and his head nearly came away with his hat as he took it off to find an old fly with a broken snell in the band. With intense concentration and more luck than he may have deserved he got the end of his broken cast through the ring of the hook and tied a knot of no known design. He groped for his knife and cut a three inch strip from the leather sling of his landing-net, and ran the point and the barb of the hook through the end of the strip. “Watch,” he said, and moved carefully over the rocks to the spot from which he had hooked the trout. With already stiffening shoulder he cast, and cast again. Dimly he saw the swirl where the rising tide washed over the rock, and he cast over it. Suddenly his rod bent and his reel gave line with a screech. Reckless of the rod-tip he gave it the butt and shortened line. Foam flashed white on the black water. His shoulders stabbed at him. “Janet!” he cried. “Take the net. Can you land him?” She didn’t bother to reply but grabbed the net, sat down, and glissaded to the water’s edge. It was too dark for Keith to see the line, and he played the fish by the feel of the rod and the gleam and the sound and the swirls as they neared, disappeared, broke further out, and then so close to the rocks that he could not see them from where he stood. The strain on the line became less alive, more constant. “Now Janet,” he called, and even as he spoke the strain was lessened. She had netted the fish. Then came an exclamation, and more splashing. “You didn’t lose it?” he cried. “Keep a taut line,” called Janet. “What kind of a fisherman are you, anyway?” The splashing ceased. Then, “Give me some slack.” Keith lowered his rod-tip. His head was still throbbing, and dizziness came in waves. “Your line’s free,” came Janet’s voice from the darkness, and Keith reeled in. There was a pause... “Anything wrong!” Keith demanded. “Yes—no—it’s all right. I’m coming up. Reach me a hand.” She scrambled up beside him and held up the net. Its mesh bulged downward with the weight of two silvery bodies. “Two at once,” she breathed. “Do you always fish like this?” Keith gave the trout a passing glance and stared at Janet. Her skirt was wet and green-stained from her slide down the rocks. He hoped her sun-tan was undamaged, and noted there was much less of it in sight than there had been at the party. “I don’t like your sweater,” he said. “I’m sorry,” said Janet. “Oh, it’s a nice sweater,” said Keith, “but I like you better.” “Do you often talk in rhyme?” asked Janet. “Now and then; from time to time.” “We’d better go back to the cottage,” suggested Janet. “A drink might sober you up.” “Well,” began Keith, “I think I'd better get home . . .” “What’s the matter with our house?” demanded Janet. “You refuse our invitation to cocktails, then you come anyway, and go fishing, and now you won’t come in and let me show you off. The party’s over, except for Dad and Jim Woods, who’s probably draining the empty glasses. Come on.” BLINKING over a drink in the brightly-lit McLeod living room, Keith stared at Janet. It seemed to help his head. Arthur McLeod stared at the two trout lying on a piece of newspaper in the middle of the floor. Jim Woods stared at the lure on the end of Keith’s line and refused another drink. Janet stared at her hands which were clasped in her lap, and a little smile softened her mouth and half closed her eyes. “You must come up to our salmon river, my boy,” said Arthur McLeod. “I’d like to see you at work there. Have you ever tried that . . . that thing on salmon?” Keith shook his head and winced. “It only works on trout at certain stages of the tide,” he said, “and—er—under certain conditions.” “But two on a hook!” exclaimed Woods. “I’ve taken two on a cast myself, but two on a hook I can’t believe.” “Smarten up, Jimmy,” laughed Janet. “There’s the hook and there are the fish. Maybe he’s a better fisherman than you are.” Arthur McLeod settled himself back in his chair. “Did you ever read that tale of Napoleon Comeau’s in his book called 'Life and Sport on the North Shore'? It’s a rarity of Canadiana now—I have an autographed copy somewhere—but he tells of an angler on the Godbout River who lost a salmon one day because his line broke at the leader. . .’’ Keith closed his eyes. It sounded as if McLeod was set for the rest of the night. “And the next day,” continued his host, “fishing in another pool on the river, this fellow hooked a fish. He played it and brought it to the gaff, and what do you think? His hook was through the eye of the cast he had lost the day before!” "But one hook . . .’’ murmured Jim Woods, now staring at the trout, who stared right back. “Good night, Mr. McLeod,” he said abruptly. “Good night, Janet. Good night..." and his footsteps faded over the uneven rocks. “Why don’t you come up to our river, Keith?” asked Janet. He shook his head regretfully. “I'd love to,” he said, “but I’m finishing a book against a publisher’s dead line—” “On the Montagnais,” she said. “That’s right. How did you know?” “You told me — me and about two hundred other students, in one of your lectures last Winter.” “But you are not taking my course,” began Keith. “No, I was just curious. But you could bring your work up to our camp.” Keith hesitated. “There’s some field work I should do here. Nothing to do with the Montagnais. I have a theory that the Vikings visited the Saguenay." “You’re not basing it on the spike holes in the rocks, I hope,” said Janet. “Well, yes. Why not?” “I worked that one out a couple of years ago. The Saguenay shores are dotted with those holes. Some of them still have spikes and rings in them. They're moorings, all right, but they were put there for the lumber ships that sailed to the head of the river in the last century. When the wind dropped and the tide turned they held on the steep rocks of the nearest point so they wouldn't drift downstream.” Keith's eyes popped, and Mr. McLeod broke in. “Janet's doing some postgraduate work in archaeology,” he said. “She's doing some research for her degree right now. She spends most of the week messing about over at Basque Cove on the other side of the Saguenay. Claims she has found the site of the Basque fish curing station.” Keith turned to Janet. “I’d like to argue my Viking theory with you,” he said with a smile. Janet's level gaze met his and she paid him the compliment of believing that he knew she was smiling when she was not. “That might be interesting,” she said. “Good night, Mr. McLeod,” said Keith picking up his rod. “Thanks for the drink. Please have those trout for breakfast. Good night, Janet.” “Just a minute,” said Janet, and she followed him onto the verandah. “Here's something of yours,” she said, and held out her hand. Coiled in it were two trout flies, a Parmachene Belle and a Dark Montreal, joined by a length of nylon cast. “Your hook fouled your first cast,” she said. “But why did you—” began Keith. “I didn't like the way Jim ribbed you on your way to fish,” she explained. “I thought a build-up of your skill might be good for him—and you too.” Keith reached impulsively for her hands. “Thanks, Janet,” he said. “Ouch!” “What's wrong?” He held a hand towards the light from the window. The Dark Montreal was barb-deep in his palm. “I’m hooked,” he said. “I think you are,” murmured Janet. The End - A note from the editor!! ® Lewis Evans, who makes his Maclean’s debut with “Deserter’s Tide” (page 20), is a housemaster and English teacher at Bishop’s College, Lennoxville, Que. In publishing his story we may be striking a historic blow for the prestige of Mr. Evans’ profession. Recently, Mr. Evans recalls, he and one of his pupils sent stories simultaneously to the same paper; the pupil’s story was accepted and the teacher’s was rejected. Deserter's Tide (Published in Maclean's Magazine, March 15, 1947) by Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY DUDLEY GLOYNE SUMMERS The northeast extremity of Prince Shoal is marked by a light vessel moored on the alignment of the Saguenay River leading lights, 4.4 miles distant from the front light. The vessel is painted red with the letters Prince Shoal No. 7 in white on each side. The vessel has two masts and carries a red ball at the maintop masthead.—St. Lawrence River Pilot, 1943 edition. CAPTAIN ALFRED TOMLINSON leaned over the counter of the lightship and his gaze followed the path of the Saguenay River as it reached between purple capes toward the sunset. It was nearly the end of his last season as master of the vessel, for he was old. He would retire to his little house in Tadoussac—he could just make out the lights of the village there, four and a half miles away at the mouth of the Saguenay, as they rivalled and gradually overcame the last of the daylight. He would be content there. Well, except in the northeasters he would be content. When the northeast winds drove fog and rain and heavy seas up the gulf he would be able to hear the minute-spaced moans of the Prince Shoal lightship’s foghorn, and often the deeper roar of some ocean freighter feeling her way between the St. Lawrence reefs toward the deep waters of the Saguenay, and he would not rest well in his little house ashore. But in the long summer days old age would be pleasant. There would be gossip on the steps of the general store, and there would be the summer visitors, always curious and asking questions in schoolbook French. They were always so surprised at his English name, when he and his family were as French Canadian as any Savard or Lapointe in the village. Some of them had run into the French Canadians with Scotch names around Murray Bay, McLarens and McLeods and Blackburns, and knew them for descendants of the soldiers disbanded by Murray and Naim after the fall of Quebec, but he always tried to explain that his story went back a little farther still. Strange name for a Canadien, you say? Yes . . . but Tomlinson of Tadoussac was a most unusual man! Slowly the lightship swung her stern away from the afterglow of the sunset and toward the darkness of the Gulf. A few pulp logs, tumbled from some schooner’s overloaded deck, drifted past. The ebb current was beginning. “An hour and twenty-nine minutes after high water,” old Alfred thought automatically. He did not marvel at the clocklike accuracy of the tides any more than a landsman is surprised at the punctuality of the sun, but he did have a feeling that he would miss these familiar swings of position when he was sitting out his old age on his cottage veranda. Perhaps he would keep a tide table by him and figure out from time to time just how the lightship would be pointing. It was so easy now – you could learn all about the river from the tide tables and pilot books. He'd never even heard of a pilot book when as a boy he'd learned his pilotage from his father – the Tomlinsons had been seamen for generations – but things were changing these days. Maybe he'd apply for a license next season, and run a salmon weir off the beach. If he felt he had the energy, he would. He'd always liked the idea of being a fisherman. The navigable waters of the St. Lawrence between White Island and Points aux Orignaux are divided into two channels, known as North and South Channels. These are separated, abreast of Riviere du Loup and Cape Dogs, by a bank which runs for a distance of about 24 miles, in a northeasterly and southwesterly direction, from White Island Reef to Hare Island Bank. On this bank are White Island with Hare Island North Reef, Hare Island with the adjacent Brandypot Islands, and Hare Island Reef with the islets which surmount it. THE night of June 22, 1759, was moonless and still. John Tomlinson, on anchor watch aboard the Goodwill transport, leaned over the bulwark near the bows and listened to the current plucking at the anchor chain. The ship had just swung around with the tide, and now her upflung bowsprit pointed like a challenging spear up the river toward Quebec, the French stronghold which was General Wolfe's objective. Quebec, however, was said to be over 40 leagues away and all John Tomlinson could see ahead in the gathering dusk were the masts of the Richmond frigate stabbing the sky, and beyond her again the low humps of the strangely named Brandypot Islets. To his right and ahead the long low curve of Hare Island looked like a great whale basking on the surface of the waters. From the Richmond the click-clock sound of caulking mallets, which had been going on since the vessel had come to anchor, now ceased with the descent of darkness. She had opened a seam above her waterline in the stormy weather encountered in the Gulf. Astern, John knew, were the Vanguard and Centurion, men-of-war; and somewhere farther down the river the flagship Sutherland with the General himself aboard her. The whole fleet was waiting out the darkness at anchor, for the French pilots tricked aboard down the river were not to be trusted. Old Alfred Killick, master of the Goodwill transport, would not let the pilot assigned to him have any say in handling the ship. He trusted no Frenchman, he claimed, and with a leadsman in the chains and himself on the foc's'le speaking trumpet in hand, he navigated the Goodwill into and out of the Shoal Island anchorages himself, judging the course by the set of the currents and the color of the water. A great navigator, old Killick, thought John, and a fine seaman. “If I must sail in this fleet, there's no one I’d rather sail under —but I should never have sailed at all.” He hunched his shoulders over the high bulwark. Three hours of his watch lay ahead of him, three hours for bitter thoughts of the happier past. John Tomlinson had been a fisherman, owner of his own boat sailing out of Plymouth; and in a heavy storm last winter he had struck the sands and lost her. Another craft had picked him up and put him ashore and he had sought revenge on fortune in the gin shops. There he had been picked up by a press gang and had awakened in the foc's'le of the Goodwill bound for Louisburg, which had been an English fortress for nearly a year now, thanks to this same General Wolfe. John was a seaman through and through, but he had been master of his own vessel, and now to be a mere unit in a watch galled him beyond bearing. He wanted his freedom, to make his own living by his own skill—by fishing. At several places on the journey up the estuary he had been filled with longing, for afar off along the shore he had seen boats tending nets. Fishermen were fishermen, whether French or English—when they weren't smugglers. John had been both in the English Channel, and he had met both. If these Frenchmen of the New World had anything in common with their brethren of Normandy and Brittany, John Tomlinson had no fears about getting along with them, and the idea of deserting this stinking, overcrowded transport had bedevilled his mind both day and night. But Admiral Saunders was no fool; he had suffered from deserters before. The fleet made no anchorages close to the mainland, but sought shelter only in the lee of barren islands. “Four nights ago it was Bic Island,” recounted John miserably to himself; “then two days off Green Island because of wind and a strong ebb tide, and now these godforsaken reefs and rocks and clumps of trees.” Only this afternoon, during the flood tide, six soldiers had leaped overboard from the Richmond and swum to the Brandypot Islet which was nearest Hare Island, thinking no doubt that it was joined to the larger island and that they could lose themselves in the bush there until the fleet had moved on. John and others aboard the Goodwill had learned from the poor frightened French pilot that the islands were joined only at low water; and sick at heart they had watched a boat pull away from the Richmond to the shore, and the Marines spread out across the islets like hunters beating for hares. The evening had been full of shouts and shots, and at last the boatload of Marines had rowed slowly back to the frigate – just the Marines. Vessels shelter northeastward of the Brandypots. The holding ground is good … In Brandypot Channel the ebb stream begins one hour after high water . . . the rate of the tidal streams is from 2 to 31/2 knots. BITS of driftwood, floated off the islands and reefs by the high tide, swept past the bows of the Goodwill in the ebb stream. John Tomlinson watched them idly at first, and then with attention. “That's a powerful stream,” he thought. “Being the ebb tide, it must run for six hours anyway. With a boat a man could be clear of the whole fleet long before the stream turned . . .” He continued to watch the flotsam as it whirled past, imagining himself keeping pace with it along the length of the transport's deck, and trying to figure its speed. Suddenly there was a rasping, a bump, and a swirl of water below him. He peered down. Something had fouled the cable and become wedged between it and the bluff bows of the transport; and the current fought with this new obstruction. John was about to call his watchmates to help him clear it, when curiosity prompted him to have a closer look, alone. He threw a glance over his shoulder. The bulk of his watchmates were below the break of the foc's'le huddled together and talking. They could have heard nothing. In a flash he was over the cathead climbing down among the complicated stays that secured the bowsprit to the stem of the ship. Hanging a few feet above the swirling water he could make out the object more clearly. It was a rough raft of planks that the Richmond’s men had floated alongside to stand on while they caulked that seam. They had left it moored alongside, and it had come adrift. John lowered himself till he was hanging by his hands from a stay, and his feet reached the raft. He kicked gently and the corner wedged against the ship's stem came free. He dropped onto the raft and fended it off from the bows with his hands. The high sheer of the Goodwill transport slid past him, and then he was alone in the darkness. To John's relief the raft's course paralleled the reef, edging in toward it and giving the rest of the fleet a wide berth. He had no desire to be a target for musketry. Soon those ships too were lost in the darkness. It was an uncanny feeling, for once the anchored vessels were out of sight he did not seem to be moving—the raft and the water in which it floated were as one, and there was no way of telling how fast they were moving over the bottom. “At least,” thought John Tomlinson wryly, “I am master of my own vessel once more.” He fell to examining his craft, more by touch than by vision. It appeared to be made of three great pine planks stoutly lashed together, designed to support two men provided their weight was evenly distributed along its length. John's groping hands searched along its edges and found what he had hoped for, the trailing length of rope that had been used to moor the raft to the Richmond’s side. He hauled it in and coiled it on the raft. It was, perhaps, 20 feet in length. John settled down to consider his position. He was adrift in the middle of a great tidal estuary 20 miles wide, and he had no means of controlling his craft. He did not regret his impulse to desert. He felt he had nothing to lose. With his fishing boat destroyed he had no stake in England, and as for Quebec—well, rumor had it that the French fortress was impregnable, and that the expedition in general and James Wolfe in particular were mad. John Tomlinson wanted no part in the fire ships and shot and shell that would no doubt greet the fleet as it laid siege to the capital of New France. No, he was glad he had left the Goodwill, but he wished that he had had the same chance when the fleet was nearer one shore or the other. Well, it was his job to navigate his vessel, and he must put his mind to it. What would old Alf Killick have done? The set of the currents and the color of the water . . . The water around him was black and mysterious, now silent and smooth, now breaking into ripples and swirls that he knew must be crosscurrents; but in the darkness he could tell no more. He could do nothing till dawn but swing his arms and rub his hands and legs to ward off the chill of this northern night. The first grey light filtering into the sky over the Gulf found the raft revolving aimlessly in confused and choppy waters. Malevolent little waves broke along its sides and kept John wet and chilled to the bone. As the light increased he stood up and tried to mark his position and progress. The raft had drifted downriver a mile or so beyond the end of the long spine of reefs of which Hare Island and the Brandypots formed the highest points. The ships were still plainly visible; and even as he watched, sails began to drop from the yards, and he could imagine the clacking of capstans and the tramp of feet on the deck as the fleet weighed in haste to make use of the favorable northeast wind and tide. Downriver, one lone spit of yellow sand appeared to be the only land between him and the Gulf—Red Islet, he had heard Killick call it as they had sailed past. The flood stream, on coming with strength from the South Channel, flows westward through the whole breadth of the passage between White Island Reef and Red Islet. At its strength it predominates and crowds the flood in the North Channel over against Lark Reef. THE northeasterly breeze increased in strength, but the low sun offset its chill, and John Tomlinson's clothing began to dry. He thought of Killick conning the Goodwill from the foc's'le and he studied the surrounding waters with attention. Those about the raft, off the tail of the reefs, were greenish, suggesting shallow water, and confused with current swirls. Between the raft and Red Islet, however, the waters were blue with ripples in the sunlight. There, thought John, the water must be moving against or across the wind. He stripped off his clothing and slid over the side. Kicking his feet strongly he propelled the raft before him. After two intervals when he had to climb back on the planks for rest and warmth he was in the rippled blue water. He climbed aboard and as he dressed himself he took careful bearings on several points on the distant shores. Then he crouched on the wet boards, trying to keep dry and trying not to think about the hunger that was becoming more and more demanding. When he judged half an hour had elapsed he again stood up and checked his bearings. The raft, he found, was now traveling westward, toward the mountainous left bank of the river which looked much less friendly than the lower levels of the right side. At any rate, he was moving shoreward, and he called down a blessing on old Killick. The northeast breeze was stiffening as the sun rose higher, and soon waves kept the planks continually awash. John gave up the struggle to keep dry, and later, when the raft was swept well into the north channel and he sighted a branch drifting on a parallel course some 30 yards away, he did not bother to remove his soaking shirt and breeches when he lowered himself into the water. He struck out for the branch, found it, and started back, pushing it before him. For a desperate moment of panic he thought he had lost his raft, but the waves breaking over it betrayed its position, and he regained it. The branch was a sorry substitute for a paddle, but John snapped off its smaller twigs and fell to work trying to help the raft along in its chosen direction. His exertion kept him warm, but after two hours’ steady paddling he was exhausted, and the mounting waves forced him to crouch and hold on with his hands if he was not to be washed away. A new sound gradually intruded upon his attention, he swayed to his feet and made out a low ridge of sand and boulders on which the waves were smashing. The raft was drifting toward this reef, but too slowly for his liking. Solid ground, even a reef, would be a welcome rest from the bucking raft. John plunged into the water and started kicking his raft in toward shore. At last it grounded in the surf and he staggered onto the sands, clutching the end of his length of rope. When he had rested he hauled the heavy planks beyond the breakers, collapsed on the sun-warmed stone, and slept. Lark Reef, a large extent of drying ground, is composed of sand and boulders . . . Along the eastern edge of the reef are stony ridges which are the last to cover on the rising tide. SPRAY dashing over his face woke John Tomlinson from his brief sleep. He struggled to his feet and his first glance was for his raft. One end floated, lifting to the waves, but the other was still grounded on the reef. He took stock of his position. The ridge on which he stood had dwindled to a width of a few yards and a length of some 30 paces. Confused seas all round showed where other ridges had covered and were being pounded by the waves. The northeaster had settled down to blow, and grey scud blotted out the sun. Sea birds wheeled and shrieked, and a flock of plovers, forced by the tide from lower banks, swooped to land on the extremity of the spit. John stooped for a stone. A shrewd throw into the midst of the flock left one bird flapping in a circle, a wing trailing, as the rest soared off with startled whistling. John pounced on the creature, dashed its life out and tore at its flesh. By the time he had got all the sustenance he could from the bird the waves were washing over his ridge, and he prepared to take once more to his raft. He poled out of the breakers with his branch, and finding the waves far greater than those earlier in the morning, he lashed himself to his planks with his length of rope. The ebb from the Saguenay River sets strongly over Lark Reef, and on meeting the ebb stream from the St. Lawrence sets up very heavy tide rips. For several hours the raft drifted aimlessly, incessantly buffeted by the short steep waves of shallow waters. Sometimes John, sounding with his branch, touched bottom, and prayed for the tide to fall and uncover enough land to give him shelter from the seas. In his heart he knew, however, that there was no prolonged safety on the reef – it would cover again at the next high tide, and that would be at night. The idea of repeating his present situation in the darkness appalled him. Finally a groping with the pole on the bottom showed him that he was moving rapidly – caught in a strong tidal stream. Soon his branch lost all contact with the bottom, and he knew he was being carried into deeper waters. For the first time real fear crowded into his mind. If the ebb carried him into mid-river he was lost. He knew that he could not survive the exposure of another night on the raft in such a wicked sea. Desperately he scrambled to his feet, swaying, falling, trying to keep his balance for a few seconds. On the North Shore a great canyon in the hills had opened to view – the gorge of some important tributary river, he realized. To its right he could just make out some dwellings circling a bay. If only he could get to the mainland somewhere near them! Again he gave his attention to the waters surrounding him. To his left they seemed smoother, and he realized with a surge of hope that there must be an eddy there caused by the reefs, its waters calmer because they were moving with the wind, not against it. He grabbed up his branch and paddled furiously. Slowly the unwieldy raft approached the line of foam that marked the edge of the eddy. Then his branch snapped. John lunged for the lower and longer piece, but the tide swept it out of reach. The raft revolved, half in one current, half in the other; then the powerful ebb stream took hold and swept it seaward. John crouched in the welter of waters, sick at heart. Waves seemed to rush at him from all directions, and all his strength was concentrated on staying aboard the raft. A great roaring came into his head and he thought his sanity was leaving him, but looking up he saw that he was being swept toward a wall of whiteness, where waves walled up and broke in confusion, and the next moment the raft was in the tide rip. John remembered the Goodwill sailing through one off Green Island, and how the whole ship had shuddered as it hit the battlefield of currents. He prayed that the lashing of the planks would hold. He fought for breath. The raft bucked like a horse, and tipping sharply, rolled him off. Clutching the rope, the end of which was made fast about his waist, he hauled himself back. A whirlpool caught the raft, which whirled around its outer circumference for moment and then slid in toward the vortex, gyrating madly. One end of the raft was sucked down, the other canted into the air for a second, and John again struggled to keep his head above the surface. The whirlpool faded, overcome by other current forces, and John hauled himself in on the rope once more, to find himself attached to but one of the three planks. The lashings had parted, and the other two had whirled away in the current. He got his arms over the plank and hung on. He doubted if he could have hauled himself onto the raft even if it had remained intact. Water temperatures in the St. Lawrence... Freezing temperatures were found at six fathoms, in midsummer, between Prince Shoal and Red Islet, where the cold temperatures are brought to the surface by the shoaling of the channel. Gradually the buffeting of the seas diminished, they became more regular, and the roaring of the tide rip receded. Suddenly it came into his mind that the water was less cold, that he felt it less. He reached a hand down and pinched a thigh. He felt nothing. He was getting numb. It would creep upward he knew, until it reached his shoulders and arms, till he no longer could hang on. A little block of wood bobbed in the waves before him – and another, and another. Little blocks of wood all in a neat line. Tie them together and make a raft. There's a length of rope with them already – all very convenient. Mustn't let the plank foul them, though – fishermen never foul nets. Nets take a lot of repairing. John Tomlinson came back to consciousness with a sense of familiarity, for every labored breath he drew was redolent of fish. He struggled to sit up, and slithered back among shining cod. A bearded man, steering with a great oar as the boat drove before the northeaster, smiled briefly at him and went on steering. “Would you have something to eat aboard?” croaked John in the coastal French he knew. The bearded man motioned to a basket under a thwart. Between munches of an enormous crust, John explained his position. The helmsman smiled. “The more of you to desert, the better for New France,” he said. “We welcome emigrés.” Tadoussac village is situated on a semicircular terrace of sand and clay at the head of the bay, which is backed by high rugged hills of granite. The village contains three churches, one of which is the oldest in Canada, having been erected in 1747. OLD Alfred Tomlinson, captain, retired, set the tiny ship model on the shelf in the Chapel of Saint Anne and stepped back to regard his handiwork. It was complete in all detail, down to the neat white lettering “Prince Shoal No. 7” on the red topsides, and up to the red ball at the maintop masthead. The model was a thank offering for a long life preserved from the dangers of the river. Old Alfred's glance shifted along the shelf to a ship model placed in the chapel in 1763. It was a heavy three-masted square-rigger, bluff in the bows, and her bowsprit raking upward at a sharp angle. On its stand was carved, “Goodwill—A. Killick, Master.” “Wonder why he wanted to remember the name of the captain of the ship he deserted from?” mused old Alfred. “And I wonder what the initial ‘A’ stood for?” He knelt a moment and thanked Saint Anne for all the John Tomlinsons and Alfred Tomlinsons that had been mariners on the St. Lawrence out of Tadoussac for nearly two centuries. Then he left the chapel and trudged with his old man's slow gait down toward the beach to inspect his salmon net. The End Home is the Sailor (Published by THE MONTREAL STANDARD, Date unknown) By Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY GEORGE RAE Marie had her choice between two sailors and did what many other women have done before. OLD Alphonse Savard pushed back his chair from the Sunday dinner table and started ramming home-grown leaf into his pipe. The room, kitchen and living-room combined, was hot from the stove and noisy with chatter. The windows, opaque with condensation, shut out the rawness of November weather. Alphonse liked to see the room that way, warm, comfortable, and alive, but his eyes as they drifted over the table littered with the confused remnants of the meal, showed anxiety rather than pleasure. There was his daughter, Marie-Laure, laughing at something dapper little Raymond Dubec, sitting beside her, had just said. Across from them sat Donat Brisson, shifting his long legs uncomfortably under the table, and saying nothing as usual; and as usual his eyes never left Marie-Laure. Donat Brisson was speaking for once. “No, Raymond,” he was saying. “My ship may be slower than yours, but she carries more cargo, and it’s cargo that pays.” “But it takes you half the season to go the hundred and fifteen miles from here to Quebec,” returned Dubec. “Where’s the money in that?” Brisson said nothing, and Marie-Laure laughed—unnecessarily, thought her father. Dubec’s exaggeration was not very funny. Alphonse shifted in his chair impatiently. He could not understand that girl. When Donat Brisson visited her she was natural and friendly, but as soon as Dubec appeared she became silly and laughed at nothing. She was not like his two older daughters, both married now, to farmers like himself. Sensible and steady they were, and always had been, and when good men had come courting them they had known what to do about it. But then they hadn’t been as pretty as Marie-Laure — nothing like. RAYMOND DUBEC was talking now, boasting of the new diesel engine in his schooner, and the speed it gave. Alphonse regarded him unfavorably. He was from higher up the river, a Baie St. Paul man, and his Sunday clothes were town clothes and unusual in St. Simeon, a blue suit with a light stripe, a gaudy tie, light brown shoes, and when he arrived he had been wearing a dove-grey fedora hat. Alphonse did not quibble about Raymond’s color scheme, but he felt strongly that town clothes were for townsmen, and here in St. Simeon—well, they might take a young girl’s eye, or even that of a woman like Selina, who ought to know better, but as for him . . . He turned to look at Donat as Raymond’s voice droned on about how he had cut down the time of this trip and that. Donat wore a pair of high leather boots, nail-studded, stout work trousers, a blue turtle-necked sweater, and a jacket that showed signs of rough wear. “He looks like a schooner man,” thought Alphonse with satisfaction, “and by gosh, there is no better captain on the North Shore. He knows the river.” “Dubec,” Brisson said suddenly, “we both have to make a trip to Riviere du Loup tomorrow, to load cement and bring it here for the new dam on the Riviere Noire. I bet you that my ship is the first back at the St. Simeon wharf, and with more cement aboard.” Raymond Dubec paused before replying. “Your ship can carry more than mine anyway,” he said reluctantly. “C’est entendu,” returned Donat. “What I mean is that I will not cut down the size of my load for the sake of speed. Each schooner will carry her full load.” “And you bet you’ll get back before me?” Raymond’s voice was mocking again. "What do you bet?” “I bet you the profits on the trip," said Donat, “and—” he turned to Marie-Laure and lifted his shoulders, “and perhaps Marie-Laure can add something ...” His voice trailed away, embarrassed. NO ONE in the room could mistake his meaning, least of all Marie-Laure. She looked from him to Raymond and back again to Donat, and knew that his challenge to the man was also a challenge to her — to make up her mind. She was about to speak when her mother said, “Marie-Laure!” It was a warning, she knew. It meant, “Take your time. Make no rash promises.” But the two men were waiting. She had to say something. She compromised. “What I will add the winner will find out,” she said, and threw each a man a smile that he could interpret for himself. Raymond Dubec got up, found his dove-grey hat, and said good-bye to Madame Savard. She smiled warmly, shook his hand, and told him that he was always welcome. Her whole expression implied that she hoped he would win the race — and Marie-Laure. He then shook hands with old Alphonse, and the girl went with him to the door and outside. As she came in again, Donat Brisson spoke hesitantly and shyly. “Marie-Laure, would you like to go for a walk with me, up the hill a little way, perhaps?” She looked at him curiously. "Raymond has gone to his schooner,” she said. “Are you not going to get yours ready?” “My schooner is ready. We’ll sail this evening.” “But he'll get the start of you” broke in Alphonse. “You’ll never beat him if you don’t start now.” “The cement will not be delivered to the Riviere du Loup wharf until tomorrow morning,” said Donat. “If I get there before then I will just have to wait. I can sail at midnight and still be there in time, and — I’d like to walk with Marie-Laure.” Without a word the girl picked up a coat and the two went out. WHEN Marie-Laure and Donat returned from their walk Alphonse met them at the gate. “If you’re going down to the village, Donat,” he said, “I’ll give you a ride in the rig.” “Don’t bother, Monsieur Savard. I will walk—” but Alphonse was already half way to the stable. Suddenly Marie-Laure pointed down towards the village and its wharf. A schooner had backed out into the river and was swinging round. “There goes Raymond,” she said. Donat smiled at her. “It’s not who leaves first, but who comes home first,” he said. “And that was a nice walk.” Marie-Laure’s face was thoughtful. Her eyes never left the schooner far below, and the patch of foam churned up by the screw gradually lengthened into a long fading ribbon before she spoke. “Donat,” she said, “I have known you a long time, and I think you are a good man. I am very fond of you, and of Raymond too. But I do not know that I want to spend all my life in this village...” Donat Brisson too watched the little ship fading into the greyness. He sensed the importance of saying the right thing now, and his honesty fought with his desire to please the girl with an easy promise. The sound of the horse’s hooves on the stable flooring warned him that he must hurry with what he had to say. He straightened up from the gate on which he had been leaning and grasped the girl’s arms above the elbows, swinging her to face him. “Marie-Laure,” he said slowly, “you will not marry the one you are fond of; you will marry the one with whom you are in love. My work is on the river, and this village is my home, and I love you. None of those things will change.” He kissed her quickly and hard and let her go as Alphonse led the horse out of the stable. Marie-Laure stood still for a moment, looking at him, and then turned towards the house. The two men drove in silence until they were almost down to sea level and half way to the village. Then Alphonse turned to the young captain. “How can you hope to win against Raymond Dubec?” he demanded. “He has the faster ship.” Donat Brisson looked up at the sky, and then out over the river. “Wind's northeast,” he stated. “By tomorrow there will be fog. Unless I miss my guess the river will be blocked solid, and the navigation season is over. The government steamer went up a few days ago picking up the buoys as she went.” “And Dubec's a Baie St. Paul man,” mused Alphonse, as they approached the wooden covered bridge over the mouth of the Riviere Noire. “Yes, Monsieur Savard,” said Donat. “It won’t be a . . .” He stopped, for the horse's hooves and the wheels made such a hollow thunder on the rough flooring of the bridge that he could not be heard. Then they were out on the road again and climbing up into the village. “It won’t be a case, of speed,” he resumed. “It will be a case of local knowledge.” It was too dark when Donat Brisson's schooner left the wharf for Marie-Laure, watching from a window of the farmhouse, to see more than the white stern light. Far out in the river another stern light, shrunk to a pin-point, winked and vanished, and she knew that Raymond-Dubec had rounded Hare Island. ONE HAND behind him on the wheel, Donat Brisson leaned his head and shoulders out of the wheelhouse window and watched the two men on the deck near the bow. One was using the sounding line, and after each cast of the lead the other would make a signal with one arm or the other, and Brisson would swing his wheel. Sealed in a cold, wet fog, his schooner, La Belle du Nord , was paralleling the south shore of Hare Island, and her captain was using the old trick of running on the five fathom line. Whenever a sounding gave less than thirty feet he would alter course to port, away from the land; whenever the line showed more than the five fathoms he would close the land a little. For well over an hour Brisson had been skirting the nine mile length of Hare Island at half speed, sounding as he went, and never once seeing the land. He had decided to gamble on his skill and the sounding lead and try a short cut, Hare Pass, a narrow channel between the end of the island and Hare Island Reef. This would save him the five mile detour round the reef and was, he felt, his only chance to keep ahead of Dubec's faster ship, which must be overhauling him even now as he searched for the entrance to the channel. La Belle du Nord had completed her loading and left the Riviere du Loup wharf first. This was due mainly to the teamwork of Brisson, and his crew in loading, and the power and efficiency of the donkey-engine at the foot of the mast. “Dubec could not have left more than half an hour after we did,” reckoned Donat. “If he has kept wide of the island and used his speed he should be up with us.” His hand reached behind him to the engine-room telegraph, and he swung the lever to “Stop.” The vibration died away as the answering signal rang in the wheelhouse, and the schooner drifted slowly forward. The two men up forward were listening too, and one waved and pointed astern. Donat could hear it too — Dubec was using his speed all right, going full out by the sound of it, but he was not wide of the island — he would pass close to La Belle du Nord. Fleetingly Donat wondered if it were skill or ignorance that steered Dubec so close to Hare Island, but his thoughts were mainly concerned with the figures that came back to him from the leadsman — four-and-a-half and four fathom depths, and he had not turned shore wards. Donat knew what that meant — he was off the mouth of the Pass, and here was Dubec almost on top of him. If Raymond saw him heading through the Pass he might follow his lead, and then could easily beat him across the remaining half of the river to St. Simeon. “But,” thought Donat, “I can’t keep on or turn seaward till he's out of sight, or I'll never find the Pass again. I must stay here ...” He shouted an order to the men up forward and waited, listening to Dubec's approach. Then he leaned out of the window and jangled the brass bell that hung in front of the wheelhouse. A toot came from the siren of Dubec's schooner, now close astern, and her motors slowed as she cautiously approached La Belle du Nord . Dubec appeared at his wheelhouse door, and his voice came plainly over the water. “What's wrong? Waiting for a tow?” Donat Brisson stuck his head out of the window. “Engine trouble," he shouted curtly. “You can't win a race with your hook down,” jeered Dubec, and added something that Donat drowned with another jangle from the bell—the signal of a vessel at anchor. DUBEC’S SHIP drove on into the mist and was obliterated, and Donat rang for slow speed ahead. Two minutes later the leadsman called “Two fathoms!” and with only four feet of water under her keel La Belle du Nord cautiously entered Hare Pass. The odd length of chain Donat had ordered lowered through the hawse-pipe to fool Dubec into believing her to be anchored still dangled under her forefoot. “No bottom!” came the next shout and Donat rang for full speed. Hare Pass behind him and his mind already wrestling with the next problem. Out of the shelter afforded by the island the schooner rolled heavily in the gray seas, and the northeast wind drove the fog across her in clammy drifts. The rising tide would be pushing his ship upstream. Donat knew. He must allow for that on his compass, but how much? In the navigation season he would have been able to judge by the strength of the sounds of the two foghorns, one to the west of St. Simeon on Cap Saumon, the other to the east on Tête au Chien, but these were silenced for the winter. He must drive on, guessing at an allowance for drift, and hope for a lucky break in making his landfall. La Belle du Nord plunged on and Donat watched the compass and the clock. In a dense fog it was not a comfortable feeling to know you were headed at full speed towards the land, and as the forty minutes he judged it would take from Hare Island to the mainland dragged more and more slowly towards their end Donat was sorely tempted to slow down. Slowing down now might well lose him the race, but keeping on might lose him the schooner. The lead was no use to him here, for the North Shore was steep to, as they say – it dropped steeply into deep water, and the lead would give no warning until too late. Well, he had calculated forty minutes; he would stick to that. He would be a poor sort of captain if he could not trust his own judgement. Then the forty minutes were up, and the nervous void in his stomach turned back to normal as Donat stopped the engines. There was nothing ahead but the fog and the grey seas, but he sensed that the land was near – the smell of the wet earth mingled with the salt tang of the river. As the sound of his engines died from his ears another sound, like an echo, took its place. Raymond Dubec's schooner, downriver and a little farther out, was approaching the land at full speed. “The wharf,” thought Donat desperately, “it may be ahead of me, or upstream, or downstream to starboard. How can I tell? And Dubec is catching up everything I made by taking the Pass.” The sound of Dubec's engines drew abreast of the now stationary Belle du Nord , but downstream from her, and then ceased. He too was listening . . . and drifting closer to the shore than Donat. “Blind man's buff!” muttered Brisson “He may stumble on the wharf as soon as I. It's a matter of luck ...” FROM somewhere ashore, over the schooner's starboard bow, there drifted a faint rumbling sound. Donat listened tensely, racking his brain to identify it. It ceased for half a minute, and there came again. With a great leap of his heart Donat laughed aloud, swung the telegraph to full speed, and turned the ship downstream. Dubec's schooner was between her and the wharf, and La Belle du Nord passed within twenty yards of her rival. Dubec could see the chain still dangling through the hawse-pipe and into the water, and even Madame Savard would not have approved of his comments. A minute later Donat saw the black bulk of the wharf loom out of the fog. Word of the race must have gone round the village, for a small knot of people in the lee of a shed raised a faint cheer as La Belle du Nord drew alongside — all but one, a girl, who raised a hand in a single wave, and kept silence, waiting. Donat rang “Finished with Engines” and leapt ashore. On the wharf he paused a moment, looking at Marie-Laure before going to her, and as he paused he heard the exhaust of Raymond Dubec’s engines. The cheer had placed the wharf for him, and he was coming alongside. Then Marie- Laure smiled, and Donat felt as though the sun had broken through the fog. SUPPER was over in Alphonse Savard’s kitchen. Much of importance had been said during the meal, but it had all related to the future. Now Marie-Laure, sitting beside Donat with her hand in his, chose to bring up the past. “Donat,” she said, “we on the wharf could hear the schooners coming close, and then stopping to listen. Then you came straight to the wharf. How did you know where it was? You could see nothing.” Donat Brisson smiled at her, his old shyness still lingering in his eyes and voice. “I happened to hear a sound I recognized,” he explained. “A horse and cart crossing the covered bridge over the Riviere Noire. That bridge is down the shore to the east of the wharf, and it sounded pretty faint, so I figured the wharf must be between my ship and the sound.” “Local knowledge,” murmured old Alphonse at the head of the table. Through the customary haze of smoke he glanced at Selina. Now that Marie-Laure’s mind was made up her mother was accepting the match with a good grace, and busying herself cheerfully as ever about the stove. Alphonse ordered the younger children to bed, and looked back at the couple at the table. He liked the look of his future son-in-law. A good man, Donat Brisson. He knew the river. The old man's mouth creased into a wrinkled smile around his pipe-stem. That afternoon, driving homeward after taking Marie-Laure to the village, he had heard the sound of the schooners off-shore. It was not for nothing, then, that he, Alphonse Savard, had trotted his horse and wagon three times back and forth through the covered bridge. The End Strange Anchorage (Published in The Montreal Standard, Date unknown) by Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY MENENDEZ THE NORTHEAST wind was beginning to pile up a sea along the North Shore of the lower St. Lawrence as we swung the Dancing Lady broadside to the waves and reached into Basque Cove. George was up forward ready to drop the jib and lower the anchor. From somewhere in the twilit woods ashore I could hear someone using an axe or perhaps a heavy hammer – slow, measured blows. Half way up the cove, where the chart gave five fathoms, I shoved the tiller down and the tiny schooner came up into the wind, all sails slatting. Down came the jib, and George let the kedge go on the run, the chain rattling over the bow chock. As he paid out the slack I went forward to lower the foresail. George made fast and silence fell over the cove, only broken by the water sounds and the flapping of the mainsail. The hammering on shore had ceased, I noted. There was an indescribably swift whip through the air, something nicked one of the main shrouds, ripped through the sail and buzzed angrily off into the sea. “Don’t look now,” said George, “but someone is shooting at us.” He was flat on deck as he spoke, and as he had served in British M-L’s against E-Boats in the North Sea I figured he knew what he was talking about. I crouched beside him, wide-eyed, and felt very large. “Could be an accident,” I whispered, though I could almost have shouted without being heard ashore. “A hunter, maybe . . .” The rifle ashore put a full stop to my words and another slug droned over the boat. “Let’s get out of here,” said George urgently. “We’re not welcome.” Crouching on his knees he started heaving in the chain hand over hand. I crawled aft to the cockpit and backed the mainsail. As George yanked the hook off the bottom he let it hang and got the jib up. The Dancing Lady spun on her heel and reached for the mouth of the bay, felt the lift of the open water and the full force of the breeze, turned down wind and ran. George got the anchor stowed, set the foresail, and came aft. “I came cruising with you for a rest from the stress and strain of war,” he said. “What goes?” “Take over,” I said. “I’ve got to set the running lights.” I crouched in the shelter of the cabin doorway to light them, and told George about the hammering I'd heard as we entered the bay. “That lets out the idea of a careless hunter,” he said, “even if the second shot wasn’t enough. No one chops trees and shoots seals or what have you at the same time.” “Might be bootleggers,” I suggested. “They wouldn’t want us round, but I didn’t think there was much in that racket on the river since the war.” There was a pause, and then George said quietly, “Let’s find out.” “I’m not sailing back into that bay,” I stated. “One air vent in my mainsail is plenty.” “We passed another bay just before we came to Basque Cove. If we beat back offshore and anchor there we could investigate along the shore, and be gone by morning. No lights, though.” I squatted in the doorway and thought of dark and hostile woods and shivered. I looked at George bulking against the darkening sky. His very shape inspired confidence - he is short and wide and reminds you of a good-natured bear. He seems a slow mover till you see him on a football field or in a boxing ring, and then your mind is changed for you - and quickly. A good guy to have on your side, you feel, and if he turned up on the other you would be inclined to be very polite to him. I realized that if I didn't go back I’d regret it in all the bravery of safety later on, and I doused the red and green lanterns I had just lighted. THE DANCING LADY turned and, heeled well down, started smashing into the waves on an offshore tack. It was cold - or so I persuaded myself to account for my shivering. “Can we find that bay?” asked George. “What's it called, anyway?” I turned a flashlight on the chart. “Anse à la Puante - Skunk Cove,” I replied. “How sweet,” commented George. “We'll have to come in close when we're off Basque Cove, and parallel the shore. It'll be hard picking it out, but I’d hate to go into the wrong one.” “So would I,” said George emphatically. “What's inland from Basque Cove?’’ “The coast road runs along the top of the ridge. It's fairly well travelled. The chart marks a farmhouse or two on it above the cove - they must be visible from the river, or it wouldn't bother.” “We can't count on lights from them if there's dirty work going on,” said George. An hour later, with the foresail furled to kill our speed, we were heading towards shore somewhere, we thought, near Skunk Cove. It was black night, and we hoped that we would be able to pick up the line of waves breaking on the rocky coast before our keel took the ground. At the bow George was hanging onto the jib stay and being drenched to the knees by each wave we smashed. Suddenly he was beside me in the cockpit, slamming the tiller down. “ ‘Bout ship,” he snapped. The Dancing Lady came up into the wind, pitching hard, and fell off on the other tack. George pointed. Across our previous course, perhaps fifty yards away, moved a steady tumble of white water - the bow wave of a fairly large craft. We could hear the beat of her diesel above the wind and sea. “No lights,” said George. “No - look!” A shaft of light sprang out from the vessel - an ordinary coaster, she seemed to be - and searched the shoreline. It hovered on a rocky point, and we recognized it as the one to the east of Basque Cove. “That's a break,” I said. “If we come about again we can probably make our bay on the next tack.” The coaster's light went out, but as we were beating for Skunk Cove it blinked on again and we could see that she was entering Anse au Basque. WE CREPT into the strange bay, spilling wind from the mainsail. George had the lead going up forward, and at a whistle from him we came up into the wind and he let the anchor chain run through his hands. It went in silence that way, except for George's muttered comments as some of the skin of his palms went with it. We crawled about in the dark, furling the sails loosely and leaving everything ready for a quick exit. Then we dumped the plywood pram over the side. “What about the shotgun?” I suggested. “Think we ought to take it?” George considered. “No – we'll be bushwhacking - it’ll be a nuisance, and we'd probably not have the nerve to use it anyway. A flashlight each, and a dark sweater for me instead of this sweatshirt.” We rowed ashore and found a pebbly beach, stepped out and carried the pram a few yards up it, leaving it bow to the water and the oars ready to hand. We crept over the shale, cursing the shifting, uneven stones, and reached the rising rock of the main shoreline. We climbed, groping forward and bumping our knees. Soon we were into the bush that crowned the point, and there the noise of the wind in the trees covered our confusion. We broke out on the Basque Cove side, and my face dripped blood where branches had raked it. Below us, at the head of the cove, a light glimmered dimly. Faintly up the wind to us there came an irregular, hollow tumbling sound. “What's that?” I whispered. “My heart beating,” said George. “Come on.” We shinnied down the rocky slope and reached the beach, which was sandy and silent to walk on. George led the way to the cover of bushes on the inland side, and we crept forward towards the noise. He stopped suddenly and I bumped into him. “Logs,” he whispered. “That coaster's loading pulpwood.” “Well, so what?” I returned. “Let’s go home.” “People don’t ship logs in pitch darkness by choice,” he objected. “There’s something screwy.” “It wouldn’t be you?” I suggested, stumbling after him as he cut inland through the brush of the steep slope. Just as a new noise became audible he brought me up short again in time to prevent me walking slap into a wooden structure. “A log chute,” he whispered. “Slides them down the hill and drops them right into the coaster's hold.” I ran my hand over slippery, peeled poles, and nearly lost it as another four foot pulp log slithered down the trough. “Maybe the hammering was someone working on this. What now?” “We find out where they come from.” We climbed the hill, guiding ourselves by the chute, the scraping of the logs covering our groping footsteps. Perpendicular streaks of light showed ahead and we dropped to all fours. We could hear the bumping of logs landing on the head of the chute. Then a gasoline motor started up, the streaks wavered and faded, and the logs stopped coming. “Truck going for another load,” I whispered, but George was already on the move. Above us there was the black loom of a barn, between the loose planks of which the light had been visible. We crept round its side and saw its sliding doors gaping wide. We could still hear the truck motor - it seemed to be on the coast road, off to our right, and there was the bump of logs being loaded. “The chute goes right into the barn,” George whispered. “They drive the logs in and start them sliding.” “Nice set-up,” I murmured. "Convenient and private.” GEORGE grunted and moved across a cleared space of coarse grass towards another black shape - a small farmhouse. We rounded its corner and stopped dead. A blade of light stabbed out over a sagging shutter, seven feet above the ground. George went down on hands and knees and I stepped onto his shoulders and peered through the chink. It was an ordinary farm kitchen - big black and silver stove, cheap deal table, a mess of left-overs from a meal, a couple of chairs. In a wooden rocker by the stove sat a girl. Polo coat, blue slacks, saddle-shoes - you didn’t need the lipstick and page-boy hair-do to tell you she was no farmer’s daughter. She sat utterly still, her eyes wide and her face drawn with fear. I dropped down, drew George to the angle of the house, and told him, my mouth to his ear. “No one else in the room?” he breathed. “Not that I could see.” “Let me look.” Down I went and winced under George’s hundred and eighty pounds. Ten seconds later we were back at the corner of the house. “You missed something,” he whispered. “Corner by the window—man’s foot and the butt of a rifle he has across his knees. Don’t blame you for concentrating on the girl, though,” he added. “She’s a wow. Let’s get her out.” “Here comes the truck,” I said, and we ducked back to the wooded slope behind the barn. As the truck unloaded and the logs slid down the chute we made a plan. It was so simple I doubted it. “It’ll work,’’ said George. “He’ll be coming out of light into darkness.” The truck backed and turned and bumped off for another load. We went back to the house. George stepped to the window and knocked on the shutter. “Cheer up,” he said loudly in English. “We’ll get you out of this!” THE MAN in the room was no fool – he wouldn’t open the shutter with the light behind him, he couldn’t douse the light and still watch the girl. He jumped out of the room and bolted the door on her, opened the house door and ran out. I threw myself at his knees in a football “clip” and he grunted once as he sailed over me and hit the ground, once again as George landed on him and a third time as he got George's left jab under the jaw. I picked up the dropped rifle, George unbolted the door, and the girl was with us in a flash. The three of us hit for the woods behind the barn, and tumbled panting to the ground on the slope. “What goes on,” demanded George. “Who are you?” returned the girl. She spoke English with a trace of French accent. George told her why we were there, short and to the point. “They're highjacking pulp that belongs to the company my father manages,” she said. “I was driving home by myself from a visit in Tadoussac, and I saw the truck loading from the piles along the road. Our trucks, which take it to our mill down the coast, don’t work at night. I stopped and asked them what they thought they were doing and the first thing I know I had a gun pointed at me and they ordered me into that house. That seems like hours ago.” “Sure it's your pulp?” I asked. “I know it is,” she stated emphatically. “They sled it out of the woods north of here in winter. Ours are the only cutting limits for miles.” “Where's your car?” asked George. “Barn, maybe,” I suggested. “There's plenty of room. I’ll find out.” I started up the slope. “Watch out for that truck coming back.” warned George. “Gosh! I forgot Joe - they'll see him lying out in front. I'll get him while you see about the car.” We were both back inside a minute, George dragging an inert and heavily breathing Joe. “Car’s there,” I said. “No keys, though.” “Here comes the truck,” said the girl. We slithered down the slope, dragging the unconscious man. The rifle kept getting in my way, and I chucked it into the undergrowth. The logs started coming down the chute again, and half way to the shore Joe grunted and started to struggle. I heard George hit him again and he went back to sleep. “Let's fix this chute,” said George, and from his voice you could tell he was enjoying himself. He started heaving at a pair of the log supports. I put my shoulder to the trough and the whole thing suddenly gave, sagged sideways, and came apart at a join. Pulp logs tumbled into the bush and started to pile up. A shout drifted up from the beach. “I’m a moron!” muttered George. “We should have done it between truck-loads and they wouldn't have noticed for a while. Come on!” A flashlight - two - probed the woods below us, and we froze. They were climbing to check the chute. I CROUCHED under the trough well below the break and as the first man came abreast I grabbed his ankles and pulled. He crashed with a curse and I jumped on him. Only then it flashed on me that I'd been a fool - I should have let the first go on uphill to meet George and tackled the second, who was lunging at me. George grabbed a stick of pulp four or five inches thick and slung it end first through the air at the second man. It took him fair in the chest and you could hear ribs crack and the breath drive out of him. My friend and I rolled over and over down the slope till brought up by a leg of the chute. With the heel of my hand I slammed his head up against it and he lost interest. George grabbed a log of pulp four or five inches thick and slung it end first through the air. The three of us cut diagonally through the bush for the corner of the bay. The girl was game, but the climb over the point seemed interminable. As we struggled through the spur of bush the branches stabbed and tangled and clung, and she sobbed from sheer exhaustion and exasperation. On the far side I chanced using my flashlight to pick out a path and without a word George picked the girl up like a child and followed me down to the beach. “You two in the pram,” said George. “I'll swim,” and he plunged into the water. He got to the schooner as soon as we did and squelched forward to manhandle the anchor. I sweated up the main and in a matter of minutes we were sailing out of the bay. “We'll beat down the coast till we’re out of hearing,” I suggested, “and then start the auxiliary and head for the mill. O.K.?” “Yes, let them clean up the Basque Cove boys - I’ve had plenty,” said George through chattering teeth, and he scrambled into the little cabin in search of dry clothes. He tossed out a blanket and the girl wrapped herself up in it. My silence worried her. “What’s on your mind?” she asked. “That poor guy George mowed down with the log,” I said. “He may be dead.” “He may,” she agreed. There was a pause, and she spoke again, very quietly. “You realize, don’t you, that he was swinging at you with a ‘croche’ when George hit him?” Now a ‘croche’ is a sharp steel hook and is used for handling pulp logs. I felt suddenly sick, and it wasn’t the motion of the boat. THE DANCING LADY was curtseying to the dawn when George came out of the cabin and we all saw each other properly for the first time, scratched faces, bloody and dirty, torn clothes, battered hands. The girl laughed. “I’m not sure I wasn’t in more respectable company ashore,” she said. Her lipstick was smeared across her cheek, her hair tangled with pine-needles and twigs, and somewhere she had picked up the makings of a black eye - and still she was attractive. Seeing the look on George’s face I handed him the tiller, kicked the auxiliary into life, dived into the cabin, and with a hefty swig of the ship’s rum as breakfast I crawled into a bunk and left them to introduce themselves. The End Short Story 5500 words And Never Brought to Mind No Date and Unpublished - (Dad, or the publisher, or both, thought this story needed "back-dating to put it before the time of air and truck transport on the north shore.") by Lewis Evans The newspapers had great fun with the story at the time, for it is not often that a big river steamer piles up on a Lower St.Lawrence reef and still less often that she is saved from total destruction by a craft almost small enough to be picked up on her lifeboat davits. The headlines ran the gamut from the factual "Grounded Steamer Saved by Tiny Yawl" to the figurative "Mouse Saves Lion", but every account printed during the nine days' wonder missed the heart of the story. The reporters concentrated on the two vessels when they should have been interested in the two captains. They are both dead now. I see by the papers that Captain Boucher of the Orleans died a few weeks ago; Marjorique Gagnon, owner, captain - and often crew - of the yawl Marsouin , which means 'porpoise', has lain for some years under a wooden cross in his home churchyard. His funeral expenses were a charge upon the village. Marjorique was a scrawny little French-Canadian, bleary of eye, with a thin, hawk nose, a straggling moustache, an almost toothless mouth, and very little chin. He was illiterate, very poor, and my great friend. Long before I knew him he had somehow come into possession of the forty foot yawl Marsouin - heaven knows by what strange and possibly shady circumstance, for he never had the cold cash to purchase even her mainsail. In the summer season he used her to take tourists and fishermen from her home port, Tadoussac, up the Saguenay River or up and down the St.Lawrence. Sometimes he was chartered for a day's picnic, sometimes for a two weeks’ fishing trip, and that was how I had come to know him. My family had a summer cottage in the village and used to charter the Marsouin sometimes. I was crazy about boats and hung around the yawl all the time until I became a fixture; Marjorique got a willing and unpaid deckhand, my family felt that I was learning French, and I was in a ’teen-age heaven. One Sunday afternoon early in the season, just when the river boats were starting their summer schedule, Marjorique and I were aboard the yawl at her buoy in Tadoussac Bay. He was tinkering with the old truck engine that was the Marsouin’s auxiliary, and I was pumping out the old boat’s none too sweet bilge, when I saw, over the distant line of the reef which guards the mouth of the Saguenay, the white blur of the steamer coming down from Quebec. "There's the boat," I told Marjorique. "She’ll be in in an hour." Marjorique climbed out of the cockpit for a look. "It’s the Orleans ," he said; "and we're going over to the wharf to meet her." Most people in Tadoussac who have nothing better to do go down to meet the boat in the afternoon, but Marjorique and I usually had some job aboard the yawl, if we were not out with a trip. We were not much in the habit of meeting the steamers, and I was surprised. "What are we going to meet her for?" I asked. "I've got to go over these mooring lines." "Because she has a new captain this trip," said Marjorique. "Get your mooring lines and work on them in the cockpit while I tell you about him." I got a line that needed an eye-splice in the end and sat down near Marjorique as he went on with his work on the engine. His stories were usually worth listening to - tales of the old schooner days, or lumbering or hunting, told with the simple vividness that seems to be the gift of uneducated people. "It was last December," he said, "and there was far more ice in the river than is usual for that time of year. We had a very cold autumn, you remember. Well, Captain Samson of the Hare Island , the ship that makes the last trip with supplies to the villages on the North Shore before the river is closed for the winter, put out from Quebec on his usual run. Down past here, somewhere off the Seven Islands, he ran into fog and plenty of ice. He wasn't too sure where he was, and the ice was getting heavier all the time, so he turned back." "All the way back to Quebec?" I asked. "Yes," said Marjorique. "He was English." Marjorique never bothered to conceal his low opinion of any river man who was not a French-Canadian. A man not born and brought up on the St.Lawrence could never know it like a French-Canadian, he contended. I once reminded him that one English captain. Cook by name, had led a fleet of sixty sail right up to Quebec so that General Wolfe could take it from the French, and that although the said captain had had no charts he had not even scraped a keel. Majorique had simply replied that that might be so - he could not say, for he had never met this Captain Cook. So this time I let the implied slur on my countrymen go by. "When Samson got back to Quebec," he went on, "there was great excitement. Without those supplies in the Hare Island the North Shore settlements might starve before the river broke up in the spring. The directors of the steamship company tried to make Captain Samson sail back, but he refused. No one could make it, he said. The ice was already too thick; the ship might be lost, and he had a wife and family. The directors were frantic. The villagers could not be left to starve. Someone mentioned Adelard Boucher - he was captain of one of the smaller boats of the line, and he lives in Quebec in the winter. They sent for him. Could he take the Hare Island down the North Shore? Boucher said that he could, but he would not. They asked him why. 'Because Christmas is coming,' he said, 'and I wish to spend it at home.' The directors offered him five hundred dollars for the trip, and still he wouldn't go. They made it six hundred, and he agreed to take the ship on one condition. What was that? That if he got through they would give him command of the Orleans this summer, their newest and biggest passenger steamer. Well, the company's prestige was at stake, and maybe their government subsidy too - I don't know. Anyway, they promised him the Orleans . I hear they have given her former captain a port job. He was getting old." Marjorique paused to relight his pipe. He always smoked while working on the engine. I suppose I was too young or too ignorant to be frightened at the possibility of explosion. "Boucher took the Hare Island ," he continued, and left Quebec on the seventeenth of December. He got inside the ice below Seven Islands - " "How?" I interrupted. "Why did he make it when Samson couldn’t?" "He knew before he left Quebec the fog couldn’t last. The northwest wind prevails at that time of year, and it was bound to come soon. He knew too that there was a spring tide on the twentieth, and when there is a strong ebb the discharge from the Moisie and other rivers helps move the ice offshore - he counted on that and the offshore wind. You don’t learn that stuff from the Pilot Book. "Anyway, he got inside the ice and landed his cargo at all the villages. On Christmas Day he smashed his way out to the open water of the Gulf, and then sailed all the way down to Halifax and left the ship there for the winter. He came back to Quebec by train. He was home by New Year's Day. The directors were very happy and they have kept their promise and given him the Orleans . We are going to the wharf to pay our respects to Captain Boucher." "Smart fellow, eh?" I said. "Ever met him?" "Ever met him?" echoed Marjorique with scorn. "Listen to me - Adelard Boucher and I worked on the same coasting schooner as boys. He is my friend. That’s where we learned about the river - as deckhands on a schooner, and under sail." "And he rose from that to be captain - " I stopped short – to contrast Captain Boucher's and Captain Gagnon's current commands would not be tactful, but Marjorique was too proud of his old friend’s achievement to be embarrassed at his own failure to equal it, "He went to school in the winters," he explained. "I didn't. When the navigation closed my father used to get a job as cook in a lumber camp up by Lake St. John, and he took me along to help. I never went to school at all. Boucher learned to write and figure, got a job on the river steamers, sat for his examinations, got his papers, and - voila. Now, get the dinghy alongside while I clean myself up, and we will go to the wharf. We must be in good time." "Just a minute," I said. "What happened to Captain Samson?" Marjorique turned in the cabin doorway and shrugged. "I heard the company moved him up to the Great Lakes," he answered vaguely. "Gave him a freighter up there, I believe." When Marjorique reappeared he had on the newer of his two blue caps, and its shiny black peak gleamed in the afternoon sun. As I rowed away from the Marsouin I found, myself looking back at her and thinking how old and dingy she looked. From her old-fashioned perpendicular stem a new coat of white paint extended aft to a little beyond amidships. Then the paint and the ready cash had run out together and last year's weathered coat extended to the stern. Out beyond the mouth of the bay I could see the Orleans looming up, glistening white, her tiers of decks making her look like a great sea-going wedding-cake. I stole a glance at Marjorique. He was puffing at his pipe, and there was a look of happy anticipation on his face. Captain Boucher was a great man, and Captain Boucher was his friend. This was his great day. We left the dinghy tied to the rung of a ladder and climbed onto the wharf. There was quite a crowd, mostly French-Canadian villagers, it being too early in the season for many summer residents to have arrived. There were a few cars, quite a number of horse-drawn carriages for the tourists, and the hotel bus. The Orleans gave three blasts on her deep siren as she neared the wharf. In the port wing of her bridge I could see the head and shoulders of her captain as he prepared to dock his ship. The currents round the Tadoussac wharf run strongly, and I wondered what sort of a job he would make of it. Marjorique must have guessed my thoughts. “Just you watch this,” he said, and moved to the head of the gangway slip, where he could see everything. The Orleans came in fast - too fast, I thought, for ahead of the wharf the water shoaled suddenly. I looked up to see the stern, bronzed face of her captain peering down over the canvas dodger at the bridge end. His arm moved behind him and I could hear the engine-room telegraph jangle deep within the ship. She shuddered as her screws reversed; she slowed and stopped. She was so close to the wharf that her deckhands did not have to throw their lines - they just handed them to the men waiting to put them on the bollards. Captain Boucher gave her a kick forward on her spring line to bring her gangway port opposite the slip, and, still not deigning to look down at his telegraph, he rang "Finished with Engines". It was more like a train coming into a platform than a three hundred foot ship docking. Marjorique said nothing. He just looked at me, and the hand pulling at his straggly, iron-grey moustache failed to hide his smile. I looked up again at the bridge. Captain Boucher was still there, looking down at the crowds on the wharf. The gold leaves on his cap brim and the four gold rings on his sleeves caught the sun. He wore a stiff wing collar which added immeasurably to the dignity of that stern, handsome face above it. Then he turned and went into the wheelhouse. Soon he would come ashore to have a word with the wharf agent. Suddenly I realized that Marjorique was no longer happy. Now that the meeting was imminent he was nervous. Perhaps he had suddenly realized the great gulf between that starched and braided figure and the captain of the old yawl Marsouin . Nervous or not, he stood his ground at the head of the gangway slip, and I could understand how recognition from the great Captain Boucher would add to his importance in the village. The passengers had already come ashore, and now, between the hand-trucks unloading freight. Captain Boucher stalked across the gangway and up the slip towards us, his eyes ranging over the crowd. As he came close his cold, impersonal glance swept from Marjorique's blue cap over the frayed blue sweater, stained overall trousers, and down to the broken shoes, but the expression of his eyes did not change. I felt rather than saw Marjorique make an almost imperceptible move towards the captain - then his nerve failed him, he froze, and Boucher had gone. I tried to look as if the upperworks of the Orleans had been holding my undivided attention for some time, and my heart felt sick. At length Marjorique spoke. "Let's get back to work," he said, and walked away towards the dinghy. About three weeks later, in thick fog, the Marsouin put out from the wharf at Riviere du Loup on the South Shore to cross to Tadoussac. A party bound for the Maritimes and anxious to catch the Ocean Limited had chartered the yawl the day before to take them across the St.Lawrence and so save them a roundabout trip via the ferry higher up the river. We had spent the night alongside the wharf, and in the morning set out, fog or no fog, for there was a fishing party waiting for us in Tadoussac. Ahead, midway across the twenty-one mile breadth of the river, the White Island Lightship’s foghorn wailed - two short blasts separated by three seconds and then what seemed to me, as I steered towards the distant sound, an interminable interval of eighty-two seconds. To the eastwards Green Island’s explosive fog signal put a full stop to my thoughts every fifteen minutes with its thudding report. There was a freighter apparently feeling her way down the South Channel between us and the long spine of White Island Reef, and the note of her minute-spaced blasts was rather similar to that of the lightship. After a while I called Marjorique, who was cleaning up the cabin and getting it ready for his next guests, and told him about the freighter. He listened carefully for a few minutes. "She will pass well ahead of us," he said at length. "Can you sail any closer to the wind?" “Not without luffing,” I answered, for the light northeaster that had brought the fog seemed to be coming to us almost from the lightship. "Hold her as she is, then," said Marjorique. "Tide's still falling and should carry us far enough down to pass below the lightship." He was just going back through the cabin hatch when another whistle, deeper and more distant, held him. "River boat coming up the North Channel," he interpreted. "She's fast - she'll pass ahead of us too." Then he went below. I sailed on, listening to the doleful concert of the three ships ahead of us, and shivering as the cold clamminess of the fog worked through my heavy sweater. Our lung-operated horn lay within reach but I knew that blowing it was a waste of breath until a ship got really close. Marjorique was right, as usual. The river boat cut across our bows first, about two miles ahead of us, and seemed to be maintaining a good speed in spite of the fog. A few minutes later the freighter crossed our bows, perhaps a thousand yards ahead. I was trying to gauge the nearness of the lightship's blasts when suddenly I realized that there had been no sound from the river boat for several minutes. Then she blew - once, twice, and on and on. Marjorique popped up from the cabin like a ground-hog from its burrow and tensed, listening. In my excitement I let the Marsouin's head come up into the wind and her mainsail flapped loudly. Without a word the captain took the tiller and got her sailing again. Then he spoke. "She’s aground. She must have confused that freighter's blast upstream from her with the lightship's. Get up forward and watch for the lightship." I ran forward over the wet deck, climbed right out on the bowsprit and hung on by the jib-stay. The lightship’s signal was close ahead now, and suddenly I heard a man's voice shout something. A grey blur in the fog changed to the red hull of the vessel and I shouted to Marjorique and pointed. I could read the big white letters on her sides - "White Island Reef, No. 5" - as we passed downstream from her. A man appeared at her stern. "She’s piled up on the reef," he shouted. "Which boat?" demanded Marjorique. "The Orleans, I guess," came the reply. "It’s her day to go up." I looked back at Marjorique. He was gazing at the luff of the main, and his face was unreadable. Neither of us had mentioned the Orleans since that meeting on the Tadoussac wharf, and I had no idea what his feelings were. Then he put the helm up and started the sheets. The Marsouin’s head swung upstream and with the wind on her quarter she bucked the falling tide. The distress signal ahead had ceased, but occasionally some indefinable noise came through the fog, a hollow rumbling, a metallic clang. Later, I heard a faint shout and a fainter reply, and then I suddenly realized that I had been hearing for some time a sound of rushing water - the outlet from pumps, perhaps - and now this was loud and close. "There she is," I cried, and her great tiered stern, listing a little, loomed out of the fog on our port bow. "Get the mainsail in," shouted Marjorique, turning the Marsouin up into the wind, and as I ran to let go the halliards I saw in black letters on the white stern: Orleans of Montreal. The heavy gaff of the main swayed down, the old blocks squealing their pain, and I hastily secured the folds of grey canvas. Marjorique let the yawl come about under jib and jigger and we ghosted alongside the Orleans , lowering the two small sails as we went. I fended off with a boathook and we brought up gently alongside a gangway port. Passengers, portly in lifebelts, stared down at us from their boat stations on A and B decks, and were strangely quiet. The Third Officer appeared above us and Marjorique Gagnon hailed him. "Anything you want us to do?" The officer shrugged. "We’ve wirelessed to Quebec. They're sending salvage tugs, and the St. Simeon ferry is on her way to take off the passengers. She ought to be here in an hour, the tugs not for six. You got an engine in that yawl?" Marjorique told him we had. "You might take the passengers to the ferry," suggested the officer. "Tide’ll be dead low when she gets here and she won’t be able to come alongside. We could use our boats, but they have no power. I'll speak to the captain." By the time the ferry felt her way up to us through the fog with many questioning toots of her whistle and guided by jangles from the Orleans ' bell, the tide was out and the river boat was higher and drier than when we had found her. She had a pronounced list to port, away from us, and her bow, fast on the reef, was much higher than her stern. We loaded passengers from the lowest deck at the stern of the river boat and ferried them over to the tubby little steamer that drifted outside the five fathom line. Some of the passengers were frightened and quiet, others excited and noisy. Many of them tried their school-book French on me and I amused myself by replying in good French-Canadian and finally bidding them good-bye in perfect English. We made nine trips before the job was done, and the ferryboat steamed off for shore and safety. We tied up to the Orleans ’ stern again and Marjorique went aboard while I found myself something to eat. Then I dug out a chart and "The St.Lawrence River Pilot" from under a bunk. Marjorique had never been known to look at either of them, but regulations forced him to carry them whether he could read or not. I looked up our position and learned that the reef was a narrow ridge of slate three and a half miles long and three cables wide at its widest part....that the tidal streams set very strongly onto and over the reef, and should be carefully guarded against. I was trying to figure out what this would mean to the Orleans , when Marjorique returned and put the whole situation in a nutshell. "She’s in a spot," he said, shaking his head. "Her engine-room’s flooded - or was after she struck, and they had to draw her fires. It will be flooded again when the tide rises a bit more. She went on the reef at about three-quarter ebb, and when the tide gets above that again the currents are liable to slide her astern into deep water. Then she’ll sink, as her forward bulkhead is smashed." "How about the salvage tugs?" I asked. "They can’t get here much before high water. Unless he can hold her on the reef there may be nothing to salvage by then." "Wouldn’t his anchors hold him?" "Not unless they were away out ahead of him, on the far slope of the reef." I noted that our change from feminine to masculine pronouns showed that we were both thinking of Captain Boucher rather than of his ship. "Couldn't we carry them out for him?" I asked. Marjorique shook his head. "Those anchors weigh two or more tons each," he said. "You going to lift 'em aboard and then throw them in?" He paused, thinking. Then he suddenly took his pipe from his mouth and stared at me. "By gosh - it could be done though. Lower an anchor into one of his lifeboats, we tow it across the reef, and sink the lifeboat. He takes up the strain on his cable...." "How much water over the reef?" I asked. "About four feet now. Deep enough for us to cross in another hour." "Well, let's go and suggest it," I said. Marjorique looked at me hard. "Let the great Adelard Boucher think it out for himself," he said harshly. "He's the captain who never goes wrong, isn't he?" "Well, he went wrong this morning." Marjorique muttered something to the effect that I ought to know by now that pilots steered those ships, not the captain. "I'm going below to get some food," he added, and went. It seemed to me that whatever Boucher did it was at someone else's expense - there was Captain Samson, and the former master of the Orleans , and now, perhaps, the pilot. I sat in the cockpit and wondered whether, if Marjorique did get the Orleans ' anchors out, he would net any salvage money. Then the expression of Marjorique’s face as Boucher passed him by on the wharf came into my mind and made it up for me, and I clambered aboard the listing Orleans. Making my way forward I passed through her deserted lobby and up her carpeted stairs, coming out on deck at the bow, below the wheel-house. Captain Boucher, as impeccably dressed as ever and even more stern, was standing in front of the wheel-house in conference with his First Officer, who looked at me in surprise. "Who are you?" he demanded. "I’m from the yawl that took your passengers to the ferry," I explained in English. "I want to speak to the captain." "Well?" said Boucher. My heart was in my mouth, but I plunged into speech. "Marjorique - my captain - says your ship may be in trouble when the tide comes up. She may slide into deep water and sink. You know that, of course, sir. Well - we could get your anchors out ahead, sir - " and I stumblingly suggested our idea. Boucher said nothing when I finished but looked at the mate. Then he spoke. "Would our boats carry that weight?" The mate made a swift calculation aloud. "Thirty persons, average a hundred and fifty - that’s forty-five hundred pounds, two and a half tons - yes, sir, I think they would. But we have no steam for the winches." "We can pay out, though," said the captain. "If she slides astern she will take up the strain herself. They may hold her." He turned to me. "Good idea. Take your yawl round to the port bow." "There’s one thing, sir," I stalled. "My captain is Marjorique Gagnon. He sailed with you on a schooner as a boy. A few weeks ago he met you on the Tadoussac wharf and you didn't recognize him. If you yourself would go aboard the yawl and ask him to do this job, and show that you remember him, he - well, he'd do it." Captain Boucher stared at me hard for several moments and then turned to the mate and spoke quickly in French. "You know anything about this man and his boat?" "I've often seen it in Tadoussac and up the Saguenay. One of those old-fashioned yawls. He takes parties out for fishing and such. Been on the river for years." Boucher seemed lost in thought for a moment, murmuring "Marjorique Gagnon" half under his breath. When he swung back to me he was almost smiling. "Come along, young man. I remember your captain." As he swung down the ladder he gave an order to the mate. "Launch two boats from the port side." When we boarded the Marsouin Marjorique was still below. I called him up. "Salut, Marjorique!" greeted Boucher and held out his hand towards the surprised little man. "It’s a long time, a long time. We've both got old, eh, my friend?" Marjorique's toothless grin and the light in his bleary eyes made a lump come into my throat. He wiped his right hand on his thigh, shook hands, and could not speak. “I wonder if you'd do a job for me. Captain Gagnon - tow my anchors out over the reef?" went on the captain. "Well, of course!" cried Marjorique, and he threw me a look of triumph. "So you remember those days in the old St. Pierre du Nord, Adelard?" "She was a good schooner," said Boucher. "They don't build 'em like that any more." "By gosh, no!" said Marjorique. "In those days we had to sail, and we had no diesel engines to help us when the tide turned or the wind fell. That's what made sailors of us,..." His mind returned reluctantly to the present, and he swung to me. "Cast off the lines." "Round to the port side," said Boucher, boarding his own ship. "There should be water for your draught over the reef by now." The old truck engine coughed into life and we went round the Orleans ' stern. The wind had backed to the north and the fog was blowing away, but there was as yet little sea. One lifeboat was already under the port anchor and a man at the brakes of the anchor winch slacked off slowly. By the time the anchor came to rest on the floorboards only half the lifeboat’s freeboard showed above water. We lashed the Marsouin fast alongside the boat and then eased forward. The heavy cable clanked from the hawsepipe link by link and trailed us in an increasing sag. I swung the sounding lead and we crossed the ridge of the reef with two feet under our keel. As the water deepened Marjorique held the yawl in position against the drag of the chain with her engine running slowly. The lifeboat was a steel one, but fitted with drainage plugs. I jumped aboard and knocked them out, and she started to fill. As her weight gradually pulled the yawl over towards her I cut the lashings with an axe and the lifeboat went down with a rush, the drag of chain over her gunwale turning her over as she went. We heard the clash of the anchor on the stones below, and then the buoyancy tanks of the capsized lifeboat brought her wallowing to the surface, bottom up. We took her in tow and returned to the Orleans . The starboard anchor was harder - the Orleans ' list to port made it impossible to lower it straight into the boat, but Boucher's men did the best they could. We angled our way out off the starboard bow with the lopsided lifeboat, but before we had crossed the reef the drag of the chain and the off-centre weight in the lifeboat burst the lashings and dumped the anchor on the height of the reef. The salvage tugs were visible, ten miles up the river, black smoke streaming southwards from their fat funnels. Before they came up an eddy from the strengthened flood tide in the North Channel swung the Orlean's stern downstream. We could hear her port anchor drag and then dig in solidly on the upward slope across the reef. As the bow swung grindingly towards deep water the massive chain tautened - and held. Marjorique swore beautifully in his enthusiasm, and Captain Boucher shouted a cheer down from the bridge. Then the tugs came up, crowded with reporters, and took over. Marjorique thought of the fishing party that would be cursing our absence, and went below to start the motor up again. As we turned away from the Orleans he waved to the figure on her bridge, but Captain Boucher was already in conference with the tug captains, and did not notice the salute. I went and stood beside Marjorique at the tiller. "You might get some of the salvage for that job," I suggested. "You should put in a claim." He looked at me in scorn as he rammed tobacco into his black pipe. "I did not do that job for the steamship company," he said emphatically. “I did it for my old friend, Adelard Boucher." "But the salvage claims will be paid by the insurance company," I urged. "It will not hurt Captain Boucher or his company, and you could get some of the stuff you need for the Marsouin - paint, and new canvas, and perhaps even a new engine...." Marjorique said nothing for a moment, and his eyes moved here and there over the shabby gear of the old yawl, perhaps envisioning her as she might look if he could give her the extensive overhaul she had needed for years. Then he spoke. "Listen: Adelard Boucher is a great captain and an important man. I am - well, you know what I am. But he remembered me after all these years - he is still my friend. I cannot make money from his misfortune - that is not the part of friendship." His tone of voice invited no argument. That autumn, in a Quebec paper, I came across an account of the enquiry into the grounding of the Orleans. Captain Boucher, I noted, had been absolved of all blame and commended for his seamanship in the crisis. His pilot had lost his certificate. One part of the account sticks in my memory. Salvage claims were being considered and Boucher, under oath, was being questioned by the steamship company’s representative. "Captain Boucher, the company felt that the captain of the small yawl which rendered some assistance at the time of the accident to your ship should receive some of the salvage money, although he had entered no claim. We got in touch with him, and he refused to put forward any claim on the grounds that anything he had done was a matter of friendship between him and you. You knew this Captain Gagnon?" "It seems he once worked in the same ship with me," Boucher was reported as replying. "To tell the truth, I had completely forgotten him. At the time of the accident I pretended to remember him - you know how one does - to avoid embarrassment, but I still find myself quite unable to recall him." I was glad that Marjorique Gagnon never looked at a paper. Perhaps, I thought, it was a good thing after all that he had never learned to read. The End (Short Story 4400 words - unpublished) Dead Reckoning by Lewis Evans ARM in arm, Lawrence and Jane Stewart were circling the promenade deck trying to walk off the effects of overeating at dinner, when the preliminary crackle of the public address system brought them to a halt. “Passengers are informed -” began the Deck Steward's voice, lacking something of its usual casual confidence, “passengers are informed that owing to the heavy fog the ship is coming to anchor in the shelter of Egg island.” There was a pause during which the loudspeaker crackled drily and the engine-room telegraph jangled in the distance. “The double flash you see every few seconds off our starboard bow is the Egg Island lighthouse. Seven Islands, our next port of call, is forty-five miles farther along the North Shore, and the ship is expected to arrive there tomorrow morning.” There was a final crackle and the speaker went dead. “Well, that won’t put us much off schedule,” commented Lawrence. “If it hadn't been for the fog we would have been there now, and we'd have stayed tied up to the wharf till tomorrow morning anyway. There's the light he mentioned - see it?” “I thought they didn't have to bother about fog nowadays,” said his wife. “Haven't they got radar and all that sort of thing?” “Yes, they have. But as it is the Tenth Province's maiden trip I guess they’re being especially careful. Look - you can just see the outline of the island - below the lighthouse. See the spray driving across it? These northeasters always bring thick weather in the Gulf. Golly, what a bleak hunk of rock! Come on - let's walk or we'll catch cold.” He swung Jane away from the rail and they stamped on around the deck. Suddenly she chuckled. “What are you laughing at?” he demanded. “Do you realize,” said Jane, “that this is the first stop since we left Quebec that the Deck Steward hasn't given us a lecture on the history of the place?” Lawrence grinned. As an employee of a Newfoundland pulp and paper company he had to make the St. Lawrence trip frequently, and derived a sort of amusement from the historical sketches given over the P.A. system of the Line's ships - part of a policy to popularize these cruises down the St. Lawrence to Canada's newest province. “I guess this stop caught him with his guidebook down,” he said. “Egg Island - I seem to remember something about it -” He broke off as the loudspeakers crackled again. “Oh-oh - he's looked it up, and here it comes.” “Passengers are reminded,” the Deck Steward announced smoothly, “that there will be 'horse-racing' in the Lounge at 8.30, and later in the evening there will be dancing.” “You can hardly call that an historical sketch,” said Jane. “I guess the island's too small to have any history.” “Egg Island - Ile aux Oeufs -” muttered her husband. “I can't help feeling there is something about it, something tragic or sinister. Maybe they aren't mentioning it on purpose, in case they frighten the passengers.” “Nonsense,” said Jane. “Let's go in and lose some money on the horses. I'm getting cold.” * * * * * DAWN in the Gulf meant danger in 1711, and Capitaine Joseph Paradis had two lookouts posted aloft before the first grey light appeared over the horizon beyond which lay the vast wastes of Newfoundland. Thus it was that as soon as visibility had extended to a range of three leagues a hail from the main truck warned him that a ship had been sighted at that distance to the south and east. Instantly he ordered the helmsman to put the patache Ste. Croix about, and to run to the north before the dawn breeze, but even as she squared away the lookout called down to the deck that the ship was wearing round and setting studding sails in pursuit. As the light increased Capitaine Paradis climbed the shrouds and took a long look at his pursuer, and as he looked his heart sank. She was English - he could tell by the lines of her hull - and she was a ship of war, for no English merchantman would have business that far inside the Gulf. She would overhaul his little vessel in a matter of hours, if the breeze held, and there was no sign of the only thing that would make escape possible – fog. Two hours later a puff of white smoke, like a new sail suddenly set with astonishing speed, appeared at the bows of the ship astern, and the thud of the cannon reached him just as a great splash erupted in the Ste. Croix's wake. Capitaine Paradis shrugged, gave a final glance around the horizon in a last hope for a miracle of fog, and ordered the patache hove to. The man-of-war came up into the wind a cable’s length away, with a great slatting of topsails and creaking of yards, and even as Capitaine Paradis spelt out the name Chester amid the gilt scrollwork of her stern, her gig was got away and pulled for the French vessel. Paradis met the English lieutenant at the break of the poop. “Lieutenant Parker, at your service, of Her Britannic Majesty’s ship Chester ,” announced the officer in tolerable French. “The compliments of Captain Popham, and will you come aboard.” This was hardly what Paradis expected. Usually, he had heard, the first to board a ship that offered no resistance was a prize crew, and the best that he and his men could look forward to was being battened below the hatches to make the voyage to England's Atlantic seaboard colonies on the wet coldness of the ballast. Perhaps, he thought, as he went over the side and dropped into the sternsheets of the gig, perhaps they did not consider his little vessel worth manning as a prize. In that case he would have expected a curt order to take to his boats, and the Ste. Croix to be set afire, or scuttled by a charge set in her bilges to blow the bottom out of her. The gig leapt over the water separating the two vessels, and Paradis was still wondering as she rounded to smartly under the Chester's main chains. He followed the lieutenant as he scrambled over the bulwark. As he made his way aft through the ship’s waist he saw the gun crews standing to their pieces, and, noting the weight of the guns he passed, he calculated that the Chester could reduce the Ste. Croix to splinters with one broadside. Lieutenant Parker waited at the top of the poop ladder for him to come abreast, and presented him to the captain of the Chester . “I congratulate you on your good sense, monsieur,” said Captain Popham in French so precise and carefully accented that Paradis suspected that he had been rehearsing the speech aloud as the gig approached. “By rounding to when you did you no doubt saved a number of lives. By showing further good sense you may save your vessel. We English have need of a pilot who is thoroughly familiar with the St.Lawrence, both river and gulf. If you are competent and willing to act in that capacity your vessel may proceed unharmed, and you will be paid five hundred pistoles for your services.” There was a pause. “And otherwise?” asked Paradis. Popham's eyes flickered to the gun crews in the waist. “Otherwise your ship will be destroyed forthwith,” he stated, “without opportunity to get her boats away.” “And I?” “You will he hanging from the main royal yard when we intercept the next vessel that may supply us with the pilot we need.” Paradis shrugged. “You make it difficult to refuse,” he said. He was thinking furiously. They would not dare the river with one ship. Somewhere below the horizon there must be a fleet. As a young man Joseph Paradis had manned the barricades of Quebec and watched Admiral Phips' expedition attack and ingloriously retire. Lately there had been rumours of another attempt on the part of the Colonies, aided by Old England, to oust the French from the St. Lawrence and so squeeze out their Indian allies whose scalping parties raided northern Massachusetts, Connecticut and New York. A fleet against Quebec! Well, he could not do anything to stop it if he were hanging at the Chester's yard arm, but if he agreed - the Ste. Croix, perhaps, would carry warning up the river, and as pilot - well, the St. Lawrence was full of reefs and cross-currents.... he wondered if the five hundred pistoles were to be paid in advance. “I will pilot you,” he said. Even as he spoke his mind told him that there was something in the arrangement that did not make sense, and even before Popham replied he knew what it was - the English in letting the Ste. Croix go must realize that she could give warning of their presence, and yet they had offered to let her proceed. Either they intended to break their agreement, or they were not afraid of a forewarned enemy, which argued an attack in great force. “Very good,” said the captain. “Lieutenant Parker will arrange quarters for you. I hope you will be comfortable.” “There are charts aboard my ship that are vital,” said Paradis. “I request permission to return for them.” It would be a chance to tell his crew what he had guessed of the situation. “Lieutenant Parker will have them brought aboard, if you will tell him where they are,” said Captain Popham coldly, and he turned away. So he was not to have an opportunity to speak to his crew again, but he realized that he must carry his bluff through. “My chest contains the things I need; it is in the cabin aft,” said Paradis. “If you will be so good as to have it brought -” He hoped that Parker would not force it for inspection, for it contained nothing but a change of clothes and other personal gear. There were no charts in it, nor would he have needed them if there were. After thirty years of fishing for cod in the Gulf and trading for furs along the North Shore, Joseph Paradis' grizzled, bearded head was full of knowledge of the river, of depths and shoals, of harbours and channels, of cross-currents and reefs. If any man could pilot a fleet safely to Quebec, he was that man. But, he wondered, was he man enough to prevent a fleet from reaching that heart of New France? The gig was returning with his chest, and the Ste. Croix sheeted home her jibs and fell away towards the north. Paradis glanced along the gun crews below him in the Chester's waist, but there was no sign that they intended to open fire. He looked again after his little vessel and wondered when he would see her again. Her helmsman raised an arm in farewell, and Paradis waved his cap. Then Lieutenant Parker was at his side, and ready to show him to his quarters. Two mornings later, on the 18th day of August, the Chester , surging along before a brisk northwestery raised the topsails of an English fleet beating laboriously northward toward the tip of Gaspé. Signal flags broke out, stiff in the breeze, as she made her report to the flagship, and almost immediately coloured bunting at the flagship’s trucks ordered the fleet to anchor in the shelter of Gaspé Bay. J oseph Paradis climbed a few yards up the mizzen shrouds of the Chester to survey the anchorage, and his heart sank. He could identify eight or nine ships of war, two vessels which he easily recognized by their rig as bomb ketches, for they had the appearance of a ship with her foremast missing, and no less than fifty craft of all rigs and sizes which he took to be transports for the military - and stragglers were still beating into the bay. No wonder, he thought, that the Chester had not prevented the Ste. Croix from carrying a warning to Quebec - there must be half as many fighting men in the expedition as there were souls all told in New France. He took off his woolen cap and ran fingers through a mop of iron grey hair. What could one man do against so great a fleet? Even if he succeeded in wrecking one or two ships, the rest would sheer off and save themselves. The best he could hope for was a chance to weaken the expedition. When he was ordered to accompany Captain Popham on a visit to the flagship Paradis was still without any semblance of a plan, and he sat in the sternsheets with his head bowed and such a preoccupied expression that Popham, resplendent in his number one uniform, mistook his attitude for one of despair. “Come, sir,” he said, stumbling over the French. “Things are not so bad. The admiral will not eat you.” “They say he has little stomach for eating anything, while he's at sea,” remarked Lieutenant Parker, at the steering oar, eyeing his captain alertly to see how he would take this impertinence. Popham grinned. “What a pair! The admiral was chosen by the general, and the general was chosen by Her Majesty because his sister, Mrs. Masham, is the current favourite at court. I hope Brigadier Hill knows more about leading the army than Walker knows about manoeuvering a fleet.” Suddenly he seemed to realize that he was being too frank with his junior. “Take that grin off your face and attend to your steering,” he snapped. “D'ye want to ram the flagship?” Joseph Paradis, who had traded now and then with peaceful English ships on the cod fisheries, caught enough to gather that Popham, whom he had seen to be a most competent seaman, had a low opinion of the admiral. Perhaps, then, the latter was not a competent seaman. It was up to him, thought Paradis, to establish that fact first - then perhaps he could see better what to do. The question was how he could find out. Sideboys manned the bulwark as Captain Popham went up the ladder, and bosuns’ pipes squealed. Paradis was told to wait in the draughty darkness of the half-deck while Popham was ushered into the great cabin aft. Other officers went in and out, and once there was great ceremony of bringing lanterns to light the half-deck and saluting of sentries and bowing of officers as a tall man in white knee breeches and wide skirted red coat and a full curling periwig came stooping under the deck beams. “Brigadier Hill,” Paradis heard an officer announce to those in the cabin, and there was a scraping of chairs as they rose to greet him. Paradis guessed that this dandy was the commander of the military side of the expedition. An hour passed, and the captains began to take their leave. Finally Paradis was called for. The great cabin was filled with tobacco smoke and the fumes of wine. At the head of the table sat a thin man in a splendid coat of blue brocade and a profusion of white lace at wrists and throat. He addressed himself to Paradis in adequate French, but his voice has like himself, reedy and thin, and the French pilot could hardly imagine him as an impressive figure on a quarterdeck in half a gale - or even in a flat calm, if it came to that. “I am Admiral Sir Hovenden Walker,” announced the little man. “I understand from the Captain of the Chester that you are willing and able to pilot this fleet to Quebec.” “Yes, monsieur,” said Paradis. “We will proceed as soon as this cursed northerly shifts,” went on the admiral. “Now tell me, are we likely to encounter much ice?” “None at all, sir,” said Paradis, taken aback. Ice in August! The odd berg off the Newfoundland coast, perhaps .... he wondered if he might not have misled the admiral on this point, but it was too late now. If they thought that they must have very little first hand knowledge of the river. His mind kept harking back to this as the admiral instructed him to transfer aboard the flagship, the Edgar , and traced on a chart the route he proposed to follow into the Gulf, a course closely parallelling the line of the South Shore. “It would be better to sail more in mid-river,” suggested Paradis. “There is a current flowing seaward along the Gaspé coast.” “A current? A strong current?” “It sometimes runs as much as three knots,” said Paradis. The admiral stared at his chart, and then at the pilot. Finally he turned to Hill, but that gentleman merely shrugged and poured himself another glass. “Preposterous!” exploded Walker, as though the pilot had invented the current just to annoy him. “We will follow this course, I tell you, until the river narrows and both shores may be seen.” Evidently he was a seaman who preferred to stay in sight of land, or else he did not wish to entrust the fleet to the Frenchman's navigation. The interview was ended, but Paradis felt he must make trial of the admiral's mettle. The subject of ice still seemed a possibility. “You have made provision, sir, to secure your ships against the ice in the winter, after you have taken Quebec?” asked Paradis. “What do the French do?” asked the admiral. “The large ships return to France,” said Paradis, “and the small ones we haul out.” “Can we not leave them moored in some sheltered spot?” “The water freezes clear to the bottom of the river,” stated Paradis boldly. “One hundred fathoms of solid ice. Your ships will be crushed.” Walker stared at Hill aghast. The latter shrugged. “Your problem,” he stated. “I hope to be comfortably on dry land at that time.” There was no doubt that the admiral believed the pilot's fantasy of the ice, and no doubt, thought Paradis, that he would believe almost anything. Paradis left the cabin deep in thought. If the admiral insisted on hugging the Gaspé coast and bucking the Gaspé Current there was little scope for him - that coast was clear of reefs and hidden dangers as far as Bic Island. The North Shore, however, was foul with small islands and reefs and shoals, and had he been given a free hand he would have led the fleet along that coast where an opportunity of damaging it might have presented itself. As it was, he could only pray for thick weather, and make what advantage he could of that. He was roused from his thoughts by Lieutenant Parker's voice. “I have brought your charts over, monsieur,” said the young man. “The captain says you are to remain aboard the Edgar .” “My charts? Ah, my sea-chest. Thank you,” said Paradis, and went to find his new quarters. Two mornings later the wind hauled into the east, and after weighing anchor and doubling Cape Gaspé the fleet had it on the port beam. This made the coast, which here trended northward, a lee shore, and Admiral Sir Hovenden Walker did not like the look of his proposed course. “Haul to the windward and give us an offing,” he demanded of his captain, Paddon, and the Edgar was swung a few points to eastward, followed by the rest of the fleet. The admiral turned to Paradis. “Now start earning your money,” he said. “You are to follow the south shore of the river at a distance of three leagues offshore,” and he went below. As the Gaspé coast faded out of sight in the wads of fog with which the easterly was plugging the great river mouth, Paradis' mind's eye ranged over the chart in his head. If he kept the fleet on this course he would soon be in mid-river, for the Gaspé shore trended away to the west, and if then he sailed westward, because of the sudden narrowing of the river at Pointe des Monts, he would meet the North Shore, where anything might happen. The question was whether the admiral of the Edgar's captain knew enough to doubt his course. That night and the following, the 21st, Admiral Walker insisted that the fleet be hove to, bows to the southward, and lookouts posted forward and aloft to warn the fleet at the first glimpse of the South Shore, which Paradis maintained was just beyond the range of visibility. Through the day of the 22nd the fleet surged on to the westward, and the wind strengthened and the fog thickened. At eight in the evening the signal was again made to heave to, bows to the southward, and Paradis, knowing full well that they must be within a couple of leagues of the North Shore, smiled in his beard as he suggested to the admiral that lookouts be doubled, so afraid was he of forereaching onto the dangerous South Shore, which was in reality seventy miles away. It was 10.30 that night, with the easterly still howling through the shrouds and driving scuds of broken wrack, through which the moon from time to time broke to gleam on the crests of heavy seas, that a lookout in the Edgar's main top screamed the one word – “Land!” Captain Paddon, on the quarterdeck, cursed as he made out breaking seas to leeward of the ship, and sent for the admiral. Paradis clung to the lee rail and waited for another gleam of moonlight to verify his suspicions and hopes. It came, brief and uncertain, but it showed him a low, treeless hump in the sea - Ile aux Oeufs - and already the Edgar must be in the shoal waters northeast of the island. There was nothing he could do. He had brought the fleet into danger, and the rest was up to the admiral. If, he thought, the admiral is a seaman he will size up the situation and bring the fleet off to windward. If he is the man I think he is, he will assume that this is the South Shore, and he will order the fleet northward - seaward, as he thinks. The officer returned alone. “The admiral is turning in,” he reported. “He says to make signal to the fleet to wear and bring to, bows to the northward, so that their forereaching will give them an offing off the South Shore.” The signal was made, and the Edgar herself rolled around. A great sea burst into an acre of foam a cable’s length ahead of the ship, and Paradis found his arm clutched by Goddard, a captain in Seymour’s Regiment, part of which was aboard the Edgar . “There are breakers all round us!” he cried. “You had better call the admiral again,” suggested the pilot. “There seems to be some error in our course.” He felt that if anyone could get the fleet into worse trouble Sir Hovenden Walker was the man. Goddard was off below on the run, and Paradis heard Captain Paddon issuing orders to let go the anchors in an attempt to keep the Edgar off the shoals. A gun boomed to northward, and Paradis guessed that other ships of the fleet were beginning to find the reefs. The admiral, shivering in a flapping boat-cloak, appeared on the quarterdeck just as the roar of chain from forward told of the first anchor being let go. He took one look at the breaking seas to leeward and gave his first sensible order. “Cut that cable,” he shrieked. “Cut and beat to windward.” Paddon shrugged and thundered the command, and the Edgar worked slowly round. Other guns boomed their helplessness and lights waved and flashed. Shouts and screams rode on the wind, and dimly in the intervals of moonlight could be seen ships, their masts at crazy angles, and the seas sweeping their decks from end to end. It began to look as if the Edgar might make her offing, as she had worked beyond the breakers, and to leeward now was the narrow channel between Egg Island and the North Shore. Joseph Paradis felt that his job was done, and low as was his opinion of the admiral, he did not relish another interview. He quietly slipped down the ladder to the waist. He groped about between the gun carriages but could not find anything to his purpose. He ran to his quarters and came back with his chest. It was a good, stout, watertight box, and should support him nobly in his bid for the mainland. He dumped its contents under the poop ladder, and, heaving the chest over the lee rail, slid over after it. * * * * * The Tenth Province's chain clanked slowly through the hawsepipe, and her screws turned slowly to hold her position in the sheltered channel between Egg Island and the North Shore. A misty sun shone over the rocky island, the white lighthouse with its vertical red stripe, and the breaking seas which were the only evidence of last night’s storm. The public address system hummed, crackled, and spoke. “First sitting for breakfast is now being served. The ship is expected to arrive at Seven Islands at 11 a.m. Egg Island, which we are now leaving to starboard - “ "He has looked it up,” chuckled Lawrence Stewart to his wife on their way from their cabin to the saloon. “Shush - listen,” she said. “....where Admiral Walker's expedition against Quebec was wrecked in 1711. The Admiral lost some nine ships and over seven hundred men, and the expedition turned back. Seven Islands, situated on Seven Islands Bay...” “I knew there was some history to Egg Island,” said Lawrence. “I remember now - Walker was about seventy miles off his course. He is supposed to have mistaken the North Shore for the South.” “How could anyone make such a stupid mistake?” said Jane. “Come on – I'm starving.” The End NEXT PAGE I found and copied this from Wikipedia about this expedition. (I guess with this work of fiction now we know what really happened!) This article is about the 1711 Quebec expedition. Henry St. John (later Lord Bolingbroke) organized the expedition Shipwreck summary Date: 22 August 1711 Summary: navigation accident Site: St. Lawrence River Fatalities: about 890 (705 soldiers, 150 sailors, 35 women) Operator: Royal Navy Destination: Quebec, New France The Quebec Expedition, or the Walker Expedition to Quebec, was a British attempt to attack Quebec in 1711 in Queen Anne's War, the North American theatre of the War of Spanish Succession. It failed because of a shipping disaster on the Saint Lawrence River on 22 August 1711, when seven transports and one storeship were wrecked and some 850 soldiers drowned; the disaster was at the time one of the worst naval disasters in British history. The expedition was planned by the administration of Robert Harley, and was based on plans originally proposed in 1708. Harley decided to mount the expedition as part of a major shift in British military policy, emphasizing strength at sea. The expedition's leaders, Admiral Hovenden Walker and Brigadier-General John Hill, were chosen for their politics and connections to the crown, and its plans were kept secret even from the Admiralty. Despite the secrecy, French agents were able to discover British intentions and warn authorities in Quebec. The expedition expected to be fully provisioned in Boston, the capital of colonial Massachusetts, but the city was unprepared when it arrived, and Massachusetts authorities had to scramble to provide even three months' supplies. Admiral Walker also had difficulty acquiring experienced pilots and accurate charts for navigating the waters of the lower Saint Lawrence. The expedition reached the Gulf of Saint Lawrence without incident, but foggy conditions, tricky currents, and strong winds combined to drive the fleet toward the northern shore of the Saint Lawrence near a place now called Pointe-aux-Anglais, where the ships were wrecked. Following the disaster, Walker abandoned the expedition's objectives and returned to England. Although the expedition was a failure, Harley continued to implement his "blue water" policy.

Joseph et Rita ont réuni la communauté de Tadoussac pour partager la culture de leur époque. Joseph and Rita brought the Tadoussac community together to share in the culture of their time Villeneuve, Joseph & Rita Gingras Joseph et Rita ont réuni la communauté de Tadoussac pour partager la culture de leur époque. Joseph and Rita brought the Tadoussac community together to share in the culture of their time Back to ALL Bios Joseph Villeneuve 1904 – 1960 et Rita Gingras 1917 - 1979 Joseph Villeneuve a épousé Antonia Olsen le 24 septembre, 1929. Antonia était fille de Gunder Olsen et Antonia Dallaire à Tadoussac et Joseph était fils de Mathias Villeneuve et Domitille Vezeau. Tragiquement, Antonia et son fils mourront, tous les deux, à la naissance de l’enfant. Ils étaient victimes d’un médecin qui ne savait rien des accouchements et aimait la vue du sang. Certains disent qu’il n’était pas médecin, mais brancardier pendant la Première Guerre Mondiale et qu’il avait appris à couper bras et jambes pour abrégner les souffrances des blessés. Plusieurs personnes plaignirent des mauvais traitements de cet homme. Il opera à froid de l’appendicite un jeune garçon de Tadoussac, les jours de ce jeune homme étaient comptés. Il a échappé à la mort par miracle et surtout grâce aux bons soins d’une infirmière. Joseph se remaria dix ans plus tard avec Rita Gingras. Rita Gingras est née le 5 février, 1917. Son père était René Gingras et sa mère Annette Morin de Sacré-Cœur. Dès l’âge de sept ans, elle prend des leçons de piano avec Madame Louis Jean et Mademoiselle Antonia Olsen, la première épouse de Joseph Villeneuve. Comme professeure attitrée, c’est Mère Marie-Laure-de-Jésus, des Petites Franciscaines de Marie, excellente musicienne, qui lui fera passer ses diplômes de musique au Conservatoire de Chicoutimi. A quinze ans, elle obtiendra son diplôme de brevet supérieure qui correspond aujourd’hui au bacchalauréat. Rita était reconnue pour son talent d’accompagnatrice. Elle pouvait suivre n’importe qui à la note que ce soit un chanteur, un accordéoniste, un violoniste ou un musicien quelconque … Elle pouvait donc transposer n’importe quelle pièce musicale dans une autre tonalité et les chanteurs et musiciens appréciaient cette grande souplesse plutôt rare chez les pianistes. Elle épousa Joseph Villeneuve le 30 septembre 1939, il était veuf depuis 1929. Elle aura six enfants : René, Reine, Gaby, (bien connu comme historienne local et auteur du livre d’où provient cette biographie) Roland, Gilles, et Chantale. Rita joua un grand rôle au sein de la communauté Tadoussacienne. Elle était très près des gens, elle jouait toutes les messes du dimanche, les mariages et les funérailles. Elle exerçait le choeur de chant pour les évènements importants de l’année tels Noel, le Jour de l’An, Pâques, les mois du Rosaire etc… Elle était partout, dans les pièces de théâtre, à l’école pour les fêtes d’enfants, dans les concerts et même dans les bars. Joseph était autodidate – il a appris plusieurs métiers par lui-même. Il a été gérant de la Banque Nationale pendant plusieurs années. Il avait appris son métier de technicien en lisant dans les livres et en s’instruisant auprès de son bon ami, électricien, Jos Brisson. Il réparait radio, grille-pain, fer à repasser, bouilloire électrique, télévision etc …Il a ouvert une salle de cinéma où il passait des filmes de Tino Rossi, Fernandel, Bourvil, Laurel et Hardy, et les premiers filmes américains en couleur - ça coûtait .50 pour les adultes et .10 pour les enfants. La salle était inconfortable, mais les gens s’engouffraient trois fois par semaine pour voir les « petites vues », du vendredi au dimanche. Il a travaillé aussi au magasin chez Villeneuve et Frères. C’est d’ailleurs là, derrière le comptoir qu’il est mort, foudroyé par une crise cardiaque. C’était en 1960 et il avait seulement 56 ans. Toute sa vie, Rita notera les principaux évènements de la paroisse, les baptêmes, mariages et décès. Les gens se fiaient sur elle et ils avaient raison de le faire, elle était toujours dévouée et à son poste, prête à rendre service. C’est ce qu’elle fera jusqu’à la fin! Elle joua son dernier service funéraire le 14 septembre, 1979, alors qu’elle était très malade et décèdera le 11 décembre de la même année. Comme aimait à dire les gens du village après sa mort : « Elle en a marié du monde et elle en a enterré ». Elle accumulera la correspondance la plus importante et gardera précieusement les photographies de famille. Malheureusement, lors de l’expropriation de sa maison en 1971, beaucoup de ces documents précieux furent brulés dans la cour de la maison. Toutefois, elle a pu sauver les plus importants comme sa collection de partitions musicales. Rita savait communiquer à sa famille l'amour du passé, l'amour des choses anciennes, des traditions et des ancêtres. En 1979, l’abbé Jean Chevalier, curé de Tadoussac, avait demandé au Pape Jean-Paul 1er, de lui envoyer sa bénédiction papale en remerciement des 50 années qu’elle avait données à la paroisse. Il ne l’a reçue qu’au printemps, il était trop tard, la mort était déjà passée, même si, comme elle l’a dit pendant qu’elle était malade, elle avait encore des choses à faire... De : Les Vielles Familles de Tadoussac 1850 – 1950 par Gaby Villeneuve Joseph Villeneuve 1904 – 1960 et Rita Gingras 1917 - 1979 Joseph and Rita brought the Tadoussac community together to share in the culture of their time Joseph Villeneuve married Antonia Olsen on the 24th of September, 1929. Antonia was the daughter of Gunder Olsen et Antonia Dallaire in Tadoussac, and Joseph was the son of Mathias Villeneuve and Domitille Vezeau. Tragically, in childbirth, both Joseph’s wife, Antonia, and their son died. They were the victims of a “doctor” who knew nothing of birthing and was said to have loved the sight of blood. People said that he wasn’t a doctor, but had been a stretcher-bearer during the First World War and that he had been taught to amputate arms and legs to lessen the injuries of the wounded. Several people complained of bad treatments from this man. He operated on the appendix of a young boy in Tadoussac who nearly died as a result. The boy barely survived, mostly thanks to the good care of a nurse. Joseph was a widower for 10 years until he married Rita Gingras. Rita Gingras was born on February 5th, 1917. Her father was René Gingras and her mother was Annette Morin of Sacré-Cœur. From the age of 7 Rita took piano lessons with Madame Louis Jean and Mademoiselle Antonia Olsen, Joseph’s first wife. As a regular teacher it was Mother Marie-Laure-de-Jésus, of the Petites Franciscaines of Marie, an excellent musician, that helped her pass her diplomas of music at the Conservatoire de Chicoutimi. At 15 years old, she obtained her Superior Brevet Diploma which is the equivalent of a Baccalaureate today. Rita was recognized for her talent as an accompanist. She could follow any note from a singer, an accordionist, a violinist or any musician. She could transpose any piece of music into another tone and the singers and musicians appreciated this great flexibility which is rare among pianists. Rita married Joseph Villeneuve on the 30th of September, 1939, after he had been a widower for ten years. They had six children: René, Reine, Gaby, (well-known as a local historian and author of the book this biography came from) Roland, Gilles, and Chantale. Rita played a big role in the heart of the Tadoussac community. She was very close to the people and she played for all the Sunday Masses, the weddings and the funerals. She ran the choir practices for the special events of the year like Christmas, New Year’s, Easter, and the months of the Rosary. She was everywhere, involved with the theatre productions, at the school for the children’s partes, in the concerts, and even in the bars. Joseph was self-taught and learned many different trades by himself. He was manager of the National Bank for several years. He learned how to be a technician by reading books and by having instruction from his good friend, Jos Brisson, an electrician. He repaired radios, toasters, irons, electric kettles, televisions and other small appliances. He opened a movie house where he showed films of Tino Rossi, Fernandel, Bourvil, Laurel and Hardy, and the first American films in colour. They cost 50 cents for adults and 10 cents for children. The room was uncomfortable, but people filled it three times a week to see the "little shows", from Friday to Sunday. He also worked in the store at Villeneuve et Frères. It was there behind the counter that he died, struck down by a heart attack. It was 1960 and he was only 56 years old. All her life Rita played for the main events of the parish: the baptisms, the weddings and the funerals. People relied on her and they had reason to. She was always devoted to her work, ready to offer service. She did it right up until the end! She played her last service – a funeral – on the 14th of September, 1979. Then she became very sick and died on the 11th of December of the same year. As the people in the village liked to say: “She married everybody and buried everybody!” Rita kept a collection of the most important correspondence that she received and the precious photographs of the family. Sadly, during the expropriation of her house in 1971, many of these precious documents were burned in the heart of the house. Fortunately, she did save the most important pieces including her music. Rita passed on to her family her love of the past, her love of ancient things, and the traditions of the ancestors. In 1979, Fr Jean Chevalier, the priest of Tadoussac, asked Pope John-Paul 1st to send Rita a Papal Blessing and thanks for her 50 years of service to the church. It wasn’t received until the spring – it was too late – her death had already happened, even though as she said while she was sick, she still had things to do! From : Les Vielles Familles de Tadoussac 1850 – 1950 by Gaby Villeneuve Back to ALL Bios

Canoes, Punts, Rowboats Canots, Punts, Chaloupes Birchbark Canoe 1910 Canot d'écorce 1910 Godfrey, Lily, and Catherine Rhodes Plage Tadoussac Beach 1901 Godfrey Rhodes, Minnie (Rhodes) Morewood, Dorothy (Dorsh) Rhodes (Evans), ?, Billy Morewood, Carrie Rhodes (Morewood) 1901 Nancy Morewood, Catherine Rhodes (Tudor-Hart), Frank E Morewood K Ewart holding on tight K Ewart tenant serré Dean Lewis Evans et Marjorique pêchent près du Lark Reef 1910 Dean Lewis Evans and Marjorique fishing near Lark Reef, 1910 1900's The "WHITE BOAT" circa 1910 at the Marguerite Dressed all in white and pulling the boat to the shore of the Saguenay, 1917 Tout de blanc vêtu et en tirant le bateau à la rive de la rivière Saguenay, 1917 Nan (Rhodes) and Lennox Williams Lily and Frances Rhodes Mary Williams (Wallace) in the "White Boat" Pte a la Croix 1910's Lennox Williams Sydney Williams Adele Languedoc Mary Williams (Wallace) ? Lily Rhodes Nan (Rhodes) Williams Marjorie Gagné helped my father, Lewis Evans with his model of a Lower St Lawrence Yawl, about 1918. In 1951 Lewis Evans bought a very old yawl and restored it, the "Bonne Chance" shown at right in a painting by Tom Roberts. Majorque Gagné a aidé mon père, Lewis Evans avec son modèle d'un Yole Bas-St Laurent , vers 1918. En 1951, Lewis Evans a acheté un yole très vieux et le restaura, le "Bonne Chance" illustré à droite dans un tableau de Tom Roberts. Majorique Gagné was well known to the English-speaking community of Tadoussac, considered their handyman. He was called "inventive." (ingenious). For an insoluble problem, people didn't hesitate to ask his advice, and he always found a way out. He was small, walked and spoke quickly, and often spoke aloud to himself. LES VIEILLES FAMILLES DE TADOUSSAC, 1850-1950 Gaby Villeneuve Majorique Gagné était bien connu de la communauté anglophone de Tadoussac, il était considéré comme leur homme à tout faire. On le disait "patenteux", (ingénieux). Pour un problème insoluble, on n'hésitait pas a lui demander conseil et il trouvait toujours un moyen de s'en sortir. Il était petit, il marchait et parlait vite et se parlait souvent seul à voix haute. LES VIEILLES FAMILLES DE TADOUSSAC, 1850-1950 Gaby Villeneuve 1920's "Explorer" Jean Alexander (Aylan-Parker) and Jim Alexander Lewis Evans & Harry Dawson Baude River above the dam Bill Morewood, ?, Jack Wallace 1930's Bill and Frank E Morewood Ainslie Evans (Stephen) Betty Morewood (Evans) Phoebe Evans (Skutezky) Robin and Doris Molson Jack, Verity and Robin Molson 1930's Susan Williams (Webster), ?, Joan Williams (Ballantyne), Jim Williams, ?? Joan Williams (Ballantyne), ?? Harry Morewood, Jimmy Williams, Simon Wallace (friend), Joan Williams (Ballantyne), Frank Morewood, Susan Williams (Webster), Jennifer and Delia Tudor-Hart, Bobby Morewood Sheila Williams (Campbell), Penny Smith (Younger) 1942 Jimmy Williams, Susan Williams (Webster) 1942 Alan Findley, Betty, Anne and Lewis Evans, and dog Smitty in the punt! No Life Jackets 1950 Alan Findley, Betty, Anne and Lewis Evans, et le chien Smitty dans le punt! Pas de gilets de sauvetage 1950 Jim and Ted Aylan-Parker Jean (Alexander) Aylan-Parker 1955 ? & Willie Leggatt 1964 44

Pixie was known as a very creative contributor to life in Ottawa as well as travelling a great deal in Europe Palmer, Noeline (Pixie) Winnifred Smith Pixie was known as a very creative contributor to life in Ottawa as well as travelling a great deal in Europe Back to ALL Bios Noeline (Pixie) Winnifred (Smith) Palmer 1902 - 1986 Pixie Smith, daughter of George Carington Smith and Winnifred Dawes Smith, had one sister, Marion. She was born on Christmas Eve in 1902, and so was named Noeline. She strongly disliked her given name because she linked it to the children’s nursery rhyme “Jack Spratt could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean”. Thus, due to her diminutive size, she came to be called Pixie. Pixie grew up in Montreal, attended King’s Hall, Compton, and then married Leonard Charles Dunlop Palmer (1898-1982). She and Leo moved to Ottawa in Rockcliffe Park and raised two children, George (1924-2019) and Linda born in 1930. Leo’s job with TWA involved taking care of visiting diplomats from around the world. Pixie was well-known in the Ottawa community as a gracious hostess and wonderful conversationalist. Her creative decorations for their annual Christmas party even made the Ottawa Citizen newspaper. Pixie was also a very accomplished seamstress. Once George was grown, and following his career in theatre, Pixie often helped sew the costumes for The Ottawa Little Theatre Productions. She and Leo travelled extensively throughout Europe. Pixie devoted her life to her family, supporting her husband in his career and then caring for Leo after he retired and when he suffered from PTSD due to his wartime experiences. Pixie died in 1986, in Ottawa, and is buried in Beechwood Cemetery. Eve Wickwire Back to ALL Bios

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

James William Williams 1888-1916 & Evelyn Meredith 1889-1985 Jim Williams is the oldest son of Lennox Williams and Nan Rhodes. Born in 1888, married Evelyn Meredith January 3, 1916. He was killed in the First World War at the Somme in November 18, 1916 at the age of 28. Jim with some of his first cousins, Frank (Morewood) is my grandfather, about 1892. Jim with his mother Nan Rhodes Williams. Jim with his father Lennox Williams, about 1894. NEXT PAGE PREVIOUS Jim with Granny Anne Dunn Rhodes. Granny, Frank and Jimmy, Charlie Rhodes and Mary Williams Wallace at Benmore (Quebec). First cousins: Nancy, Catherine, Gertrude, Dorothy, Billy, Gertrude, Jim and Bob Campbell (?) Jim is at the bottom of this photo of his family and some friends. Jim with cousin Alice Burstall, not sure what's going on ... Granny and many first cousins, from left: Catherine, Sidney, Bobby, Charlie, Jim (center), Billy, Nancy, Gertrude, Gertrude, Dorothy. Frank Morewood and Jim were cousins and good friends Poitras, Jim, John, Lennox (his father), Charlie with some fish Evelyn Meredith Williams Prayers on the porch at Brynhyfryd? Evelyn Meredith is second from the right. Jim Williams and Evelyn Meredith Williams Sep 11th (1916?) My dear Nan & Daddy, I am writing this by the light of the moon at 2:30 AM, sitting on the fire step of a trench. Things are pretty quiet tonight – just occasional shots with a few bursts of machine gun fire. Our friend the Bosch is just 160 yards in front of us. I received a letter from you this morning – in fact I have had quite a number from you lately but have not had time to answer them. We will be leaving the trenches before long for a rest, bath and brush up generally. We will have had 24 days of it working 19 hours a day and very often 21. In the front line the officers go to bed at six a.m. and get about 4 hours sleep. The men are getting pretty tired. It is the first time in and 24 days is a longer period in trenches without a rest than any Canadian battalion has ever had. We have been fortunate as regards casualties though we have had quite a number. I had 3 men in my plat(oon) killed back in the reserve trench and two wounded. One of the men killed was an excellent NCO and an awfully nice fellow. I shan`t be able to replace him. Thank you for remembering me in your prayers. I expect they were answered last Tuesday night when we had quite a bombardment on. We blazed away at the Hun and their artillery replied. In the of trench which I was commanding it was like Hell let loose for a while. A man was blown in pieces ten yards from me, I was knocked down and the wind taken out of me – I got up and started on when another landed where I had been lying blew me along the trench – fortunately in toto and not in ( Narus partibus). I had to retire when the shelling ceased as I was a bit shaken up. I am all right now and think I got well out of it. They levelled about 30 yards of my trench with the ground, however a working party built it up again before the next morning. Our artillery gave three shots to their one so they have shown no inclination for another bout since then. Evelyn is now on the ocean on her way home. I think it was undoubtedly the wisest course for her to take. She will be happier at home and the climate will be more agreeable. We have had two or three gas alarms since we came to this place. They are rather terrifying at first. The gas has never reached us yet but on the occasion of the 1st alarm we really thought it was coming. One of my sentries said he heard the hissing noise it makes when coming out of the cylinder and shouted ``Here it comes!`` Gongs sounded – sirens blew and tin cans rattled all down the trench and we stood there waiting for it to come over the parapet with very mixed feelings I can assure you. It was a dark night with a drizzling rain and we couldn`t see a thing. A flare went up and the men looked very uncanny with their gas helmets on and the bigh goggles with a rubber tube sticking out in front to breathe out through and on top of it all their steel helmets. It was a great relief when the order came down about an hour afterwards to take helmets off as the gas had passed over some distance to our right. I have had three different servants during the last 3 days. The night I was biffed about my man while coming up a communication trench was blown six feet in the air. He was coming to join me, which he did – apparently none the worse for his ascent – the next day however he was a bit broken up and asked to be relieved so I got another man who wore his boots right down to his socks so I had to get another. In the meantime my first man has been wounded in 3 places – not seriously but he is hors de combat for some time. I think my present man will be kept on permanently. For a servant out here you do not want a valet who will keep your trousers nicely pressed but rather a stout fellow who will plough through mud and water after you with a bomb in one hand and a cup of hot coffee in the other. Well – the moon is on the wane and this luneral letter must end. I will now patrol my trench and see that all are awake. My love to my fair sister and brother and to yourselves. Your letters are very welcome. Your affectionate son J W Williams (transcribed by Jim's great neice Catherine) in France The Sackville Connection After Jim's death Evelyn Meredith married Donald Fisher of Sackville, New Brunswick, and she stayed in touch with the Williams family. We recently met their grandaughter Meredith Fisher (below right holding the photo with my wife Heather) and some of the photos above came from a Fisher album. Meredith also found in her attic a trunk full of photos and other items from World War One, belonging to her grandfather and to Jim Williams. In particular, there was a tie that appears in one of his (civilian) photos above, and his spats, with his signature on the back, shown below. Our daughter Sarah (and Al) recently moved to Sackville and opened a coffee shop (The Black Duck) and often see Meredith and her daughter Robin. Many of the Fisher family went to BCS, and must have known my father (who taught there for 39 years) and many other Tadoussac people. Also the Fishers have a summer house in St. Patrice, which is just on the west edge of Riviere du Loup. NEXT PAGE MORE LETTERS written by Jim Williams have been compiled into a very interesting book by Catherine Williams! Ask her to borrow a copy! I have a copy also in Tadoussac. The following was written by John Leggat Lieutenant James William Williams 87th Battalion (Canadian Grenadier Guards) Canadian Expeditionary Force James William Williams was my Great Uncle, the eldest of four siblings and the brother of my maternal grandmother Mary Wallace (nee Williams). He was born in Quebec City in January 1888. He was the son on the Rt. Rev. Lennox Williams, Anglican bishop of Quebec and his wife Nan (née Rhodes). He served as an officer in the 8th Battalion Royal Rifles of Canada (militia) and volunteered for overseas service in September of 1915 along with my maternal grandfather, Jack Wallace. At the time, they were both lieutenants in the Royal Rifles. Officers of the Canadian Grenadier Guards (87th Battalion) Jim Williams second from left, Jack Wallace second from right They proceeded overseas with the 87th Battalion Canadian Grenadier Guards in 1916. Before the battalion left Quebec City, Jim married Evelyn Fisher and Jack became engaged to my grandmother. After sailing to England in April 1916, the battalion was stationed there as part of the 12th Infantry Brigade (until June) and then 11th Infantry Brigade of the 4th Canadian Infantry Division until August of the same year. On August 11/12, the battalion crossed over to France and served the duration of the war as part of the 11th Infantry Brigade, 4th Canadian Infantry Division. Jack and Jim met up with another one of my uncles upon arriving in France. He was Ronald Alexander, a permanent force officer with the 24th Battalion (Victoria Rifles). At the time Ronald was serving as a major in the battalion and assumed command of the unit in November 2016. Ronald’s military career included staff appointments at RMC in the period between the wars. He retired as a major-general and commanded Pacific Command during WWII. He married Jim’s sister Gertrude in 2017. His memoires describe the conditions at the Somme in September and early October 1916: The Brickfields “On the 10th of September the [24th] Battalion arrived in “the Brickfields”. These consisted of the completely flat plain behind Albert. At 3:15 p.m. on the 29th of September we attacked the enemy’s front line, known as Regina trench, but failed to take it owing to uncut wire entanglements and withering fire. At 6:00 p.m. the enemy counter-attacked but we successfully stopped him. On the 29th and 30th, we were very heavily shelled not only by the enemy, but also with our own guns. We repulsed another enemy counter-attack. At 3:15 p.m. on 1 October our barrage went over our heads and we went over the top. The 5th C.M.R. on our left failed to get across, which left my left flank in the air. The 25th Battalion on my right was held up by wire. Some of the 24th Battalion succeeded in getting into a German trench, but whether it was Regina trench or not, we did not know. Our casualties had been very heavy and the whole situation looked very critical. That night we finally came to the conclusion that the 24th were in Kenora trench, but Regina trench everywhere was in enemy hands. On 2 October, the Battalion, or what was left of it, was relieved. In order to pick up the wounded in Nomansland, one of our stretcher bearers painted a red cross with jam on a white bandage and walked out holding it aloft. In a few minutes both sides were picking up their wounded under the protection of a white flag. Back in the Usna Valley the battle scared remnants of the [5th Infantry] brigade were fed from a field kitchen. They only totalled 600 and of these less than 100 were mine. There were tears running down the cheeks of Brig. Gen. Archie MacDonnell [RMC #151, Commandant RMC 1919 to 1925] as he stood and looked at what was left of his brigade” During this period my Uncle wrote these words to his parents: September 11th “I am writing this by the light of the moon at 2.30 a.m., sitting on the fire step of a trench. Things are pretty quiet tonight - just occasional shots with a few bursts of machine gun fire. Our friend the Bosch is just 160 yards in front of us. We will be leaving the trenches before long for a rest, bath and brush up generally. We will have had 24 days of it working 19 hours a day and very often 21. In the front line the officers go to bed at 6 a.m. and get about four hours sleep. The men are getting pretty tired. It is their first time in and 24 days is a longer period in trenches without a rest than any Canadian battalion has ever had. We have been fortunate as regards to casualties, though we have had quite a number. I had 3 men in my plot killed back in the reserve trench and two wounded. One of the men killed was an excellent NCO and an awfully nice fellow. I shan’t be able to replace him. Thank you for remembering me in your prayers. I expect they were answered last Tuesday night when we had quite a bombardment on. In the sector of trench which I was commanding it was like Hell let loose for a while. A man was blown to pieces ten yards from me. I was knocked down and the wind taken out of me - I got up & started on when another landed where I had been lying & blew me along the trench - fortunately in toto and not in nariis partibus. I had to retire when the shelling ceased as I was a bit shaken up. I am alright now & think I got well out of it. They levelled about 30 yards of my trench with the ground, however, a working party built it up again before the next morning. Our artillery gave three shots to their one so they have shown no inclination for another bout since then. We have had two or three gas alarms since we came to this place. They are rather terrifying at first. One of my sentries said he heard the hissing noise which it makes when coming out of the cylinders & shouted “here it comes”. Gongs sounded - sirens blew and tin cans rattled all down the trench and we stood there waiting for it to come over the parapet with very mixed feelings I can assure you. It was a dark night with a drizzling rain & we couldn’t see a thing. A flare went up & the men looked very uncanny with their gas helmets on & the big goggles with a rubber tube sticking out in front to breathe out through & on top of it all their steel helmets. It was a great relief when the order came down about an hour afterwards to take the helmets off as the gas had passed over some distance to our right. I have had five different servants during the last 3 days. The night I was biffed about my man, while coming up a communication trench was blown six feet in the air. He was coming to join me, which he did - apparently none the worse for his ascent - the next day however, he was a bit broken up & asked to be relieved so I got another man who wore his boots right down to his socks so I had to get another. In the meantime my first man has been wounded in 3 places-not seriously but he is hors de combat for some time. I think my present man will be kept on permanently. For a servant out here you do not want a valet who will keep your trousers nicely pressed but rather a stout fellow who will plough through mud and water after you with a bomb in one hand and a cup of hot coffee in the other!” November 2nd “We have been in this town for two days now. When I last wrote we expected to go into the front line that night and I had just about said my last prayers as we were in for something pretty heavy however, the weather put a stop to it and we were taken back here till things dry up a bit which is just as well as we hadn’t many men to carry on. Our ranks were badly depleted in our last tussle with the Hun. I am told that the Battalion was mentioned in dispatches for what we did. It is an awful country up there near the front. You cannot find four square yards which has not been ploughed up by a shell and dead Huns lie round all over the place, also our own dead, some of whom have been there for months and the stench is awful. One of our men found Harry Scott’s body and buried it. It is hard enough to get the wounded out of that place and as a rule all one can do for the dead is to recover their identification discs. The whole place is under shell fire all the time.” November 14th “I expect to be in the front line tonight but orders were changed and we are still in our dugouts in reserve. We provide working and carrying parties to go up to the front but I was not called on tonight. Errol Hall went up with one & Sam & I are waiting for him to return. We lost Todd in our last turn and I must write his father (he is in the CR in Mont) as I was the last officer to see him. I was sniped by the same chaps that got him but was fortunately missed. I had to go overland about 40 yards from the Bosch line in broad daylight. They were decent enough not to fire – if they had they could not have missed. The sniping came from further back. We had to go overland that day because the communication trenches were waist deep in mud. We had gone ahead to look over the trenches the battalion was to take over in the evening” Events of November 18th Shortly after 6:00 a.m. on November 18th the Canadian 11th Brigade attacked Desire Trench. The 87th Battalion was one of four of the Brigade in the assault that was supported by a heavy creeping artillery barrage. The brigade achieved its objective and two of its battalions, the 87th and the 38th continued on from Desire Trench to Coulée Trench and Grandcourt Trench, all by 9:00 a.m. Formations on the flanks, however, were not able to achieve the same results. The two battalions being in a rather precarious salient were ordered to return to the original objective, Desire Trench. It was during this withdrawal the Lieutenant Williams was killed by enemy machine gun fire. He was buried at Bapaume Military Cemetery. The action of the day is described in both the war diary of the 87th and the war diary of the 3rd Siege Battery RCA that was penned by my paternal grandfather Lt Col William Leggat, whose unit was among those providing artillery support on the day. Excerpts from the 87th Battalion War diary – November 18th “The objective was Desire Support Trench .... The night was extremely cold, the ground being frozen and a light snowfall about 3 a.m. had obscured all trace of the trench lines. The attack commenced a 6:10 a.m. and following the barrage closely, the objective was taken without a great deal of resistance by the enemy. Major F.E. Hall, Lieut. E.V. Hall, Lieut. J. W. Williams, Lieut. C.H. Eagley. Lieut R.G. Lefebvre. 39 other ranks and 2 machine guns proceeded on to Grandcourt Trench, part of which they captured taking in the operation some 112 Germans who were sent back to our lines under escort of wounded men. Owing to the attack on the left not being in position to push further, Major Hall was ordered to evacuate the Trench at dusk dropping back to Desire Support Trench. This was done but in so doing Major Hall and Lieut. Williams were killed and Lieut. Hall and Lieut. Eagley wounded. Casualties among officers 4 killed and 9 wounded, and among other ranks 26 killed. 50 missing and 148 wounded.” From the 3rd Siege Battery War Diary – November 18th “Opened fire today at 6:10a.m. in support of the attack on Desire Trench. The weather was thick, with flurries of snow and underfoot the ground was in dreadful condition. The following divisions took part in the attack. 4th Canadian Division, support by the 1st and 3rd Canadian Divisional Artillery; 19th Imperial Division, supported by the 11th and 25th Imperial and 2nd Canadian Divisional Artillery; 19th Imperial Division supported by the 17th, 18th and 19th Imperial Division Artillery and one Brigade R.H.A. We expended over 600 rounds on this task. Our troops gained their objective and pushed on to Coulee Trench where they were subject to heavy bombardment and were forced to retire to Desire Trench. It is reported that we took 1600 prisoners.” A poem by Frederick George Scott seems fitting. He was known as the Poet of the Laurentians. An Anglican Church minister, he joined the Canadian Army in 1914 at the age of 53 and went overseas as the Senior Chaplain of the 1st Canadian Division. ------------------------------------- A Grave in Flanders All night the tall trees overhead Are whispering to the stars; Their roots are wrapped around the dead And hide the hideous scars. The tide of war goes rolling by, The legions sweep along; And daily in the summer sky The birds will sing their song. No place is this for human tears. The time for tears is done; Transfigured in these awful years’ The two worlds blend in one. This boy had visions while in life Of stars and distant skies; So death came in the midst of strife A sudden, glad surprise. He found the songs for which he yearned, Hope that had mocked desire; His heart is resting now, which burned With such consuming fire. So down the ringing road we pass, And leave him where he fell. The guardian trees, the waving grass, The birds will love him well. St. Jans Capelle 1915 ---------------------------------- From In Sun and Shade, A book of Verse Canon Frederick George Scott, C.M.G., D.S.O. Dussault and Proulx Rgd, Quebec, 1926 Canon Scott’s son, Henry Hutton Scott, was an officer in the 87th Battalion. He was a close friend of Jim Williams and Jack Wallace. He was killed at Regina Trench on the 21st of October 1916 and is also buried at Bapaume Military Cemetery. Scott dedicated In Sun and Shade to his son with this short verse: “E’en as he trod that day to God, So walked he from his birth, In simpleness and gentleness, In honour and clean mirth Prepared by 8833 Colonel (ret’d) L. John Leggat – January 2018

Photos Historique Tadoussac 1860-1900 Tadoussac The oldest Photographs Les plus anciennes Photographies Photography was invented about 1839, and Tadoussac was a popular subject for well-know professional photographers such as William Notman (father and son) and Livernois from the 1860's. This page is a collection of the early photos, before personal cameras were invented (the first Kodak camera was 1888). The 1860's was a busy time in Tadoussac. The first summer residences were built in the early 1860's. The Tadoussac Hotel, the future Cid store, and the row of 5 houses on the main street were built in 1864. The Protestant Chapel was built in 1867. The old Hudson's Bay Post was on the lawn in front of the Hotel until 1870, which helps with figuring out the dates of the photos! Notice most of the trees have been cut all around Tadoussac! DATES may not be exact, a list of key dates may be found at the bottom of the CONTENTS page (please send dates!) https://www.tidesoftadoussac.com Thanks to McCord Museum, Hotel Tadoussac, BAnQ, and everyone who collects and loves old photographs! La photographie a été inventée vers 1839 et Tadoussac était un sujet prisé par des photographes professionnels reconnus tels que William Notman (père et fils) et Livernois dès les années 1860. Cette page est une collection des premières photos, avant l'invention des appareils photo personnels (le premier appareil photo Kodak date de 1888). Les années 1860 furent une période occupée à Tadoussac. Les premières résidences d'été ont été construites au début des années 1860. L'Hôtel Tadoussac, le futur magasin Cid, et la rangée de 5 maisons sur la rue principale ont été construits en 1864. La Chapelle protestante a été construite en 1867. L'ancien Poste de la Baie d'Hudson était sur la pelouse devant l'Hôtel jusqu'en 1870, ce qui aide à déterminer les dates des photos ! Remarquez que la plupart des arbres ont été coupés tout autour de Tadoussac! Les DATES peuvent ne pas être exactes, une liste des dates clés peut être trouvée au bas de la page CONTENU (veuillez envoyer les dates!) https://www.tidesoftadoussac.com Merci au Musée McCord, à l'Hôtel Tadoussac, à BAnQ et à tous ceux qui collectionnent et aiment les photographies anciennes ! 1860-1900 Maybe before the Hotel was built? Peut-être avant la construction de l'hôtel ? Hotel built 1864 Five Houses on Main Street built 1865 Powel/Bailey House not built in the first photo, but it is in the second photo Hudson's Bay Post is in these photos, it was demolished ~1870 Geology! With the lack of trees the different historical sea levels can be seen, with a "hanging beach" above the town, which would be level with the upper sand dunes to the east of town. Hôtel construit en 1864 Cinq maisons sur la rue Main construites en 1865 Powel/Bailey House n'est pas construit sur la première photo, mais il est sur la deuxième photo Hudson's Bay Post est sur ces photos, il a été démoli vers 1870 Géologie! Avec le manque d'arbres, les différents niveaux historiques de la mer peuvent être vus, avec une "plage suspendue" au-dessus de la ville, qui serait au niveau des dunes de sable supérieures à l'est de la ville. HUDSON'S BAY POST demolished ~1870 <<<Hanging Beach Powel/Bailey House Cote Ida Hovington Stairs Rectory Evans/Beattie Houses on the beach and a boat being built House on Main Street (right side, now Auberge Galouine) Still 1860's Maisons sur la plage et un bateau en construction Maison sur la rue Main (côté droit, maintenant Auberge Galouine) Toujours des années 1860 Joseph Hovington 1792-1878 Joseph Hovington, ancêtre de tous les Hovington du Québec, est né à Durham, en Angleterre, en 1792. Il est arrivé à Québec où il a été immédiatement embauché par la Compagnie de la Baie d'Hudson. Son travail consistait à commander la goélette chargée de transporter les fourrures des différents postes de traite jusqu'à Tadoussac, et de livrer, en échange, des marchandises et des provisions. Il était également responsable de la surveillance du poste de traite ; c'est lui qui tirait le canon chaque fois qu'un bateau entrait dans le port. À la fermeture de la compagnie en 1859, il a décidé de rester à Tadoussac. Il y était déjà bien établi, car une partie du terrain entre l'hôtel et la cale sèche lui appartenait, qu'il partageait avec ses fils. Il a ensuite travaillé pour la compagnie Price comme pilote sur le Saguenay pendant une dizaine d'années. En 1864, il a participé à la construction de l'hôtel de Tadoussac et en 1866 à celle de la chapelle protestante. Joseph est considéré comme le pionnier de Tadoussac. Ses nombreux descendants peuplent le Québec et sont mêlés à presque toutes les familles de Tadoussac. LES VIEILLES FAMILLES DE TADOUSSAC, 1850-1950 Gaby Villeneuve Joseph Hovington, ancestor of all the Hovingtons of Quebec, was born in Durham, England in 1792. He arrived in Quebec City where he was immediately hired by the Hudson's Bay Company. His job consisted of commanding the schooner responsible for transporting furs from the various trading posts to Tadoussac, and delivering, in exchange, trade goods and supplies. He was also responsible for monitoring the Trading Post; it was he who fired the cannon each time a ship entered the port. When the company closed in 1859, he decided to stay in Tadoussac. He was already well established there, as part of the land between the hotel and the drydock was his property, which he shared with his sons. He then worked for the Price Company as a pilot on the Saguenay for about ten years. In 1864, he participated in the construction of the Tadoussac Hotel and in 1866 in the construction of the Protestant chapel. Joseph is considered the pioneer of Tadoussac. His numerous descendants populate Quebec and are intermingled with almost all of Tadoussac's families. One more house on the beach! Une maison de plus sur la plage ! Chapelle de Tadoussac - rectangular windows were replaced with nicer windows, there doesn't seem to be a graveyard yet, still 1860's Chapelle de Tadoussac - les fenêtres rectangulaires ont été remplacées par de plus belles fenêtres, il ne semble pas encore y avoir de cimetière, toujours des années 1860 In the 1860's the Price Sawmill at Anse à L'Eau had been closed for more than 10 years. Below is a 'colourized' photo. Many other photos of Anse à L'Eau at https://www.tidesoftadoussac.com/anse-a-l-eau Dans les années 1860, la scierie Price à l'Anse à l'Eau était fermée depuis plus de 10 ans. Ci-dessous une photo "colorisée". Beaucoup d'autres photos de l'Anse à L'Eau à https://www.tidesoftadoussac.com/anse-a-l-eau CIrca 1860's, the future George Hotel, some new houses, and the Radford House. The lake is much smaller than today, many years before a dam was built. Vers les années 1860, le futur George Hotel, quelques nouvelles maisons et la Radford House. Le lac est beaucoup plus petit qu'aujourd'hui, bien des années avant la construction d'un barrage. The BRIDGE over the ravine is very interesting. Le PONT sur le ravin est très intéressant. A peine étions-nous montés dans la voiture de l'hôtel que nous nous trouvions en train de traverser au grand galop un pont de planches branlant. Les vieilles dames hurlaient de frayeur, tandis que notre Jean, d'une voix tonitruante, nous criait : « Il fait très noir ce soir, si vous voyez où vous êtes, vous faites peur ! Évidemment, ce cocher distingué qui arborait avec tant de désinvolture son vieux manteau miteux devait être natif de l'endroit. Dufferin House (left) was built in 1873 La maison Dufferin (à gauche) a été construite en 1873 circa 1880's some houses have been built on Pointe d'Islet Below a close-up of one of the houses vers 1880 quelques maisons ont été construites sur la Pointe d'Islet Ci-dessous un gros plan d'une des maisons Circa 1880's, my ancestors on the lawn of the Rhodes cottage, many more photos on another page https://www.tidesoftadoussac.com/rhodes-cottage-1 This photo is on a glass plate, there are some cracks and some pieces missing! My G-G-Grandmother Anne Dunn Rhodes in black, and William Rhodes is in the third photo, the only man! Also a baby carriage! Circa 1880's, mes ancêtres sur la pelouse du cottage Rhodes, beaucoup plus de photos sur une autre page https://www.tidesoftadoussac.com/rhodes-cottage-1 Cette photo est sur une plaque de verre, il y a quelques craquelures et quelques morceaux manquants ! Ma G-G-Grand-mère Anne Dunn Rhodes en noir. William Rhodes est sur la troisième photo, le seul homme ! Aussi un landau! Late 1800' s, the Mill has become a Fish Hatchery, and the dock is used for the Steamers, which was the primary method of transportation to Tadoussac. À la fin des années 1800, le moulin est devenu une écloserie et le quai est utilisé pour les bateaux à vapeur, qui étaient le principal moyen de transport vers Tadoussac. Église de la Sainte-Croix built 1885-9, and the hotel was expanded circa 1900, so this is 1890's. Above the main street is an empty sand dune! L'église de la Sainte-Croix a été construite de 1885 à 1889, et l'hôtel a été agrandi vers 1900, nous sommes donc dans les années 1890. Au-dessus de la rue principale se trouve une dune de sable vide ! Anse à L'Eau is still the only dock in Tadoussac, with a new pavilion. L'Anse à L'Eau est toujours le seul quai à Tadoussac, avec un nouveau pavillon. 76

The Sand Dunes at Tadoussac with Historical Photos, old houses, skiing, the marble kilns and more. The Sand Dunes - Les dunes de sable Moulin Baude circa 1965 circa 1900 A Pine Forest until 1845, when Thomas Simard built a sawmill and cut down all the trees. With some settler families who arrived to farm the thin soil, this was the original location of the village of Tadoussac. Une forêt de pins jusqu'en 1845, date à laquelle Thomas Simard construit une scierie et coupe tous les arbres. Avec quelques familles de colons qui sont arrivées pour cultiver le sol mince, c'était le lieu d'origine du village de Tadoussac. Moulin Baude Also known as the sand dunes, this area has changed substantially since Champlain first described it over 400 years ago, particularly beyond the clay cliffs where the land stretched way out towards where the channel markers are today, much of which is exposed at low tide. He talked about a peninsula jutting out into the river and forming a large natural bay, which provided a sheltered anchorage for his ships. However, the terrible earthquake of 1663, whose aftershocks lasted several months, significantly altered the shoreline, so that it no longer accurately reflects Champlain's early description. The present day sandy plateau and sand dunes were all pine forest until 1845, when Thomas Simard build a sawmill halfway down the hill near the Baude river, just below the stone house at the end of the dunes, and cut all the trees down to feed his mill. After that, several families of settlers appeared and began to farm the virgin soil.The lots and names of these families are indicated on the government cadastral maps made by surveyor Georges Duberger in 1852 at 1876. The hamlet formed by this small farming community was the original location of the village of Tadoussac, the present site then being owned by William Price and the Hudson Bay Company. Wandering around where the houses used to be, one can still find rusty old nails, broken bits of plates, clay pipes and other things. At the far end of the sand dunes, about a third of the way down the hill, was the site of the first sawmill. Down at the bottom, on the beach, there used to be a wharf made from large square timbers and slab wood. The ships would light offshore and a barge would be floated in and tied up at the wharf, resting on the exposed sand at low tide. It would take about a week to load the barge with lumber caught at the mill above. When it was full, it would be towed out to the waiting boat at high tide and the cargo would be reloaded from the barge onto the ship. Moulin Baude Aussi connue sous le nom de dunes de sable, cette zone a considérablement changé depuis que Champlain l'a décrite pour la première fois il y a plus de 400 ans, en particulier au-delà des falaises d'argile où la terre s'étendait jusqu'à l'endroit où se trouvent aujourd'hui les balises du chenal, dont une grande partie est exposée à marée basse. Il parlait d'une presqu'île s'avançant dans le fleuve et formant une grande baie naturelle, qui offrait un mouillage abrité à ses navires. Cependant, le terrible tremblement de terre de 1663, dont les répliques ont duré plusieurs mois, a considérablement modifié le rivage, de sorte qu'il ne reflète plus fidèlement la première description de Champlain. Le plateau sablonneux et les dunes de sable actuels étaient tous des forêts de pins jusqu'en 1845, lorsque Thomas Simard construisit une scierie à mi-hauteur de la colline près de la rivière Baude, juste en dessous de la maison en pierre au bout des dunes, et coupa tous les arbres pour nourrir son moulin. Après cela, plusieurs familles de colons sont apparues et ont commencé à cultiver la terre vierge. Les lots et les noms de ces familles sont indiqués sur les plans cadastraux gouvernementaux réalisés par l'arpenteur Georges Duberger en 1852 à 1876. Le hameau formé par cette petite communauté agricole était le emplacement d'origine du village de Tadoussac, le site actuel étant alors la propriété de William Price et de la Compagnie de la Baie d'Hudson. Errant là où se trouvaient les maisons, on peut encore trouver de vieux clous rouillés, des morceaux d'assiettes cassés, des tuyaux d'argile et d'autres choses. À l'extrémité des dunes de sable, à environ un tiers de la descente de la colline, se trouvait le site de la première scierie. Au fond, sur la plage, il y avait autrefois un quai fait de grosses poutres équarries et de planches de bois. Les navires partiraient au large et une barge serait mise à flot et amarrée au quai, reposant sur le sable exposé à marée basse. Il faudrait environ une semaine pour charger la barge avec du bois récupéré à l'usine située au-dessus. Lorsqu'il était plein, il était remorqué jusqu'au bateau en attente à marée haute et la cargaison était rechargée de la barge sur le navire. This text from Benny Beattie's book, "The Sands of Summer" Sawmill Scierie Moulin Baude Thomas Simard, one of the leading members of the Société des Pinières, known as the Twenty-One, who undertook to colonize the Saguenay region. He established a sawmill at Moulin Baude in 1845 and also at Petites Bergeronnes the following year. Thomas Simard Sr. married Euphrosine Brisson of La Malbaie in 1823. They had three sons: Isaïe, Thomas, and Narcisse. LES VIEILLES FAMILLES DE TADOUSSAC, 1850-1950 Gaby Villeneuve Thomas Simard un des membres importants de la Société des Pinières dit des Vingt-et-Un, qui entreprirent de coloniser le Saguenay. Il établiera d'ailleurs un moulin à scie au Moulin Baude en 1845 et aussi aux Petites Bergeronnes l'année suivante. Thomas Simard, père était marié à Euphrosine Brisson de la Malbaie en 1823. Ils eurent trois fils: Isaïe, Thomas et Narcisse Sawmill-Scierie Sawmill-Scierie Noël Brisson (1867-1945) was a farmer at Moulin-Baude, along with his brother Pépin. He built a stone house there in 1922 (it now serves as a reception building for Saguenay Park). Noël was a good lumberjack, which is why, behind the house, there was a sawmill that burned down in the early 1960s. LES VIEILLES FAMILLES DE TADOUSSAC, 1850-1950 Gaby Villeneuve Noël Brisson (1867-1945) était cultivateur au Moulin-Baude ainsi que son frère Pépin. Il y construira une maison de pierres en 1922, (elle sert aujourd'hui de bâtiment d'accueil pour le Parc Saguenay). Noël était un bon bûcheron, c'est pourquoi, derrière la maison, il y avait un moulin à scie qui brûlera au début des années 60. LES VIEILLES FAMILLES DE TADOUSSAC, 1850-1950 Gaby Villeneuve More evidence of the sawmill in these two photographs, with piles of slab wood (the wood cut off the outside of the trees)in the background Circa 1900 Davantage de preuves de la scierie sur ces deux photographies, avec des piles de dalles de bois (le bois coupé à l'extérieur des arbres) à l'arrière-plan Vers 1900 The first photo might be Piddingtons? The RHODES Family left to right Back row: Frank Morewood (14, my grandfather), his brother John Morewood with a turban, Lilybell and Frances Rhodes sitting on either side of their father Francis, Dorothy Rhodes (Evans) and her father Army Front row: Nancy Morewood, Catherine Rhodes (Tudor-Hart), Charley Rhodes La famille RHODES de gauche à droite Rangée arrière: Frank Morewood (14 ans, mon grand-père), son frère John Morewood avec un turban, Lilybell et Frances Rhodes assis de part et d'autre de leur père Francis, Dorothy Rhodes (Evans) et son père Army Première rangée: Nancy Morewood, Catherine Rhodes (Tudor-Hart), Charley Rhodes More about the Power generating Station on the "Batiments Disparu" page (click the arrow) Plus d'informations sur la Centrale électrique sur la page "Bâtiments Disparu" (cliquez sur la flèche) 37 years later! Peggy Durnford on the left married Elliot Turcot on the right. My mother Betty Morewood (Evans) is at the back, her father Frank Morewood was in the previous photograph. 1937 37 ans plus tard! Peggy Durnford à gauche a épousé Elliot Turcot à droite. Ma mère Betty Morewood (Evans) est à l'arrière, son père Frank Morewood était dans la photo précédente. 1937 Luge sur les dunes s'est avéré très dangereux Tobogganing on the dunes turned out to be very dangerous 1936 ?, Nan Wallace (Leggat)?, Elliot Turcot, ?, Boll Tyndale, Moulin Baude River 1937 ... Betty Morewood (Evans), Bar Hampson (Alexander/Campbell), JohnTurcot, ???, Nan Wallace (Leggat), Elliott Turcot, Peggy Tyndale, ? circa 1950 Skiing on the Dunes 1969 Ski sur les dunes 1969 THE MARBLE QUARRY Champlain and Jacques Cartier both mention the large white pillars of marble in Grande Anse, the next big bay east of Moulin Baude, which could be seen from ships way out in the St Lawrence. However, on closer examination, the white rock turned out to be not marble at all but limestone, and thus remained unexploited until the end of the 19th century. Father Charlevoix, the Jesuit historian and traveller also noticed these white outcrops on the shore, but finding that this strange marble would not polish, discarded it as poor quality stuff. Three round stone kilns, 15 feet high, were built on the shore beside the stream around 1880. The limestone veins were mined, and chunks of calcium carbonate were loaded into the ovens and fired at a very high heat. The rsult was a fine white caustic powder, calcium oxide (lime) which was put in bags and shipped across the river to Rivière du Loup, where it was sold for building purposes. Later, the chunks of white rockwere loaded onto a barge, whwas towed by the goélette "St. Jude" up to Port Alfred, where the limestone was used in the pulp and paper industry. Jude Tremblay, the first blacksmith in the village, and his family operated this industry until the mid 1930's, when the vein ran out of surface rock. A few pieces can still be found in the bed of the stream, which can be reached on a big low tide along the shore from Moulin Baude. (This is not an easy hike!) This area will be more accessible in a few years if the Dunes National Park is created as planned. This text from Benny Beattie's book, "The Sands of Summer" LA CARRIÈRE DE MARBRE Champlain et Jacques Cartier mentionnent tous les deux les grands piliers de marbre blanc de Grande Anse, la prochaine grande baie à l'est de Moulin Baude, que l'on pouvait voir depuis les navires dans le Saint-Laurent. Cependant, à y regarder de plus près, la roche blanche s'est avérée n'être pas du tout du marbre mais du calcaire, et est donc restée inexploitée jusqu'à la fin du XIXe siècle. Le père Charlevoix, l'historien jésuite et voyageur a également remarqué ces affleurements blancs sur la rive, mais constatant que ce marbre étrange ne se polirait pas, l'a jeté comme une matière de mauvaise qualité. Trois fours ronds en pierre de 15 pieds de haut ont été construits sur la rive à côté du ruisseau vers 1880. Les veines de calcaire ont été extraites et des morceaux de carbonate de calcium ont été chargés dans les fours et cuits à très haute température. Le résultat était une fine poudre caustique blanche, l'oxyde de calcium (chaux) qui était mise dans des sacs et expédiée de l'autre côté de la rivière jusqu'à Rivière du Loup, où elle était vendue à des fins de construction. Plus tard, les morceaux de roche blanche étaient chargés sur une péniche, remorquée par la goélette "St. Jude" jusqu'à Port Alfred, où le calcaire était utilisé dans l'industrie des pâtes et papiers. Jude Tremblay, le premier forgeron du village, et sa famille ont exploité cette industrie jusqu'au milieu des années 1930, lorsque la veine a manqué de roche de surface. On en trouve encore quelques morceaux dans le lit du ruisseau, accessible par une grande marée basse le long de la rive depuis Moulin Baude. (Ce n'est pas une randonnée facile!) Cette zone sera plus accessible dans quelques années si le Parc National des Dunes est créé comme prévu. Moulin Baude is a fantastic place! More photographs Moulin Baude est un endroit fantastique! Plus de photos The original settlers didn't settle where Tadoussac is now located, but a few miles away where no one lives anymore. In those early days the trees on the long flat plateau were cut down to feed the sawmill at Moulin Baude. The stumps were removed and the fragile soil was tilled. Several farms prospered for a while, but the good soil formed only a shallow layer on top of the sand, and it was soon exhausted or blown away. Eventually the original area of settlement became a desert, with great sandy dunes descending to the water some 200 feet below. Some older people remember their grandmothers saying that the first village was actually on a bit of land at the base of the cliffs, at the first point south of the dunes. A sandy road angles down through the woods to a small raised area on the shore between the beach and the hillside, where a survey map of 1852 indicates a number of buildings. But because of winter avalanches, the inhabitants move their dwellings to the plateau at the top of the cliff. After a time the farmers moved away from this sandy plateau, some up the Baude river where they found better soil around Sacré Coeur, and others into the curve of the bay near the fur trading post. With the construction of the hotel and a few cottages in the village, jobs became available and some farmers found work. This text from Benny Beattie's book, "The Sands of Summer" Les premiers colons ne se sont pas installés là où se trouve maintenant Tadoussac, mais à quelques kilomètres de là où plus personne n'habite. A cette époque, les arbres du long plateau plat étaient abattus pour alimenter la scierie de Moulin Baude. Les souches ont été enlevées et le sol fragile a été labouré. Plusieurs fermes ont prospéré pendant un certain temps, mais le bon sol n'a formé qu'une couche peu profonde au-dessus du sable, et il a rapidement été épuisé ou soufflé. Finalement, la zone de peuplement d'origine est devenue un désert, avec de grandes dunes de sable descendant jusqu'à l'eau à environ 200 pieds plus bas. Certaines personnes âgées se souviennent de leurs grands-mères disant que le premier village était en fait sur un bout de terre au pied des falaises, au premier point au sud des dunes. Une route sablonneuse descend à travers les bois jusqu'à une petite zone surélevée sur le rivage entre la plage et la colline, où une carte d'arpentage de 1852 indique un certain nombre de bâtiments. Mais à cause des avalanches hivernales, les habitants déplacent leurs habitations sur le plateau en haut de la falaise. Au bout d'un moment les paysans s'éloignèrent de ce plateau sablonneux, les uns remontant la rivière Baude où ils trouvèrent une meilleure terre autour du Sacré Coeur, les autres dans la courbe de la baie près du poste de traite des fourrures. Avec la construction de l'hôtel et de quelques chalets dans le village, des emplois sont devenus disponibles et certains agriculteurs ont trouvé du travail. 48

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

After serving in World War 2, Ernie fell in love for life with Phoebe and Tadoussac Skutezky, Ernie & Phoebe (Evans) After serving in World War 2, Ernie fell in love for life with Phoebe and Tadoussac Back to ALL Bios Ernest Skutezky 1918 - 2011 and Phoebe Maye (Evans) Skutezky – 1921 - 2008 Ernest Skutezky was born in Opava, then part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, now the eastern part of the Czech Republic, on 1st day of September, 1918, the son of Hans and Lily Skutezky. In the mid-1930s he attended Dundee Tech in Scotland to learn about the textile trade which was his father’s business in central Europe. In 1938, his father advised Ernest that he was moving the family to North America - the United States or Canada - to get away from the oppression being invoked by Nazi Germany. Apparently, he said if the destination for the family was Canada, he would come. Ernest was accepted in the Commerce program at McGill University and enrolled in the ROTC program. World War 2 began, but his father would not permit him to “join up” until he had completed his degree. He graduated with a Bachelor of Commerce Degree at McGill University in 1942, before joining the Canadian Army. After undergoing officer training at Brockville and Petawawa, he was posted to England. Ernest was commissioned as Lieutenant and was first in the artillery and then was seconded into intelligence. Two weeks after D-Day he landed at Juno Beach and his duties were to set up prisoner cages to interrogate prisoners. He also would travel by motorcycle to German holdout positions to encourage them to surrender using a megaphone in his German mother tongue. The holdouts were not always cooperative and answered with machine gun fire. He travelled with the Canadian advance all the way to Holland. Phoebe Maye Evans was born on the 12th May, 1921, in Montreal, Quebec. Her father was Trevor Ainslie Evans (born 1879) and her mother was Dorothy Gwendolyn Esther Rhodes who was born in 1892. The families of both Phoebe’s parents were summer residents of Tadoussac and both her parents served their country during the Great War. Phoebe was the eldest of four children which included Dorothy Ainslie Stephen, Trevor Armitage Evans and Rhodes Bethune (Tim) Evans. After the cessation of hostilities in Europe, Ernest was introduced to Tadoussac by his bride to be, Phoebe. Apparently, Phoebe indicated that he would have to like Tadoussac if they were to be married. He very sensibly did, and in August of 1945, Ernie married Phoebe at St. Matthias’ Church in Westmount, Quebec, where Phoebe had been baptised. Ernest became a fixture in Tadoussac and all it had to offer including tennis, golf and his Shark sail boat, Nirvana. Tadoussac reminded him of St. Gilgen, Austria on the Wolfgangsee where the family had a villa which was seized by the Nazis and sold to a German. The villa was later recovered. At home in Montreal, Phoebe was an enthusiastic member of the Montreal General Hospital auxiliary working in the Hospitality Shop, always making time to listen to those that needed that kindness. Her participation at the Atwater Club spanned half a century playing badminton and tennis well into her eighties. In the 1970s, Phoebe was crew to sailor husband Ernest, sailing in 420 regattas off Dorval Naval Base and upriver. Phoebe was always involved in her children’s activities either on the sidelines watching as a hockey Mom, choir mother, Tawny Owl or coaching Ringette. She was one of the 'pioneers' of Ringette, co-coaching a Canadian Championship Team. She was also a proud member of the 78th Fraser Highlanders. A lover of family, nature, and all its creatures great and small, Phoebe enjoyed being 'out in it' whether it was from 'le Petit Train de Nord' in the Laurentian mountains as a teenager and young adult, in the Morgan Arboretum well past middle age, or as a summer resident of Tadoussac, from the age of 3 months. She enjoyed the view and activity of the St. Lawrence and Saguenay Rivers and environs from her front verandah in her later years. She served on the Executive of the Tennis Club and the Tadoussac Protestant Chapel taking her turn arranging flowers and cleaning the Church for Sunday service. In the mid-seventies, Ernest commissioned Gaeten Hovington, a local wood sculptor, to carve a “Minke Trophy” to be awarded to the winners of an annual round-robin mixed doubles tennis tournament in the month of July to promote community participation, good sportsmanship and competitive play in tennis. The tournament continues to be played in July of every summer. Ernie and Phoebe’s legacy lives on in their 3 children: Michael (Judy Shirriff), Victoria, BC; Trevor (Gail Goodfellow), Montreal; Gwen (the late Alan Sawers), West Vancouver. He was the proud grandfather of Trevor, (Ben Fischer), West Vancouver; James, (Silje Albrigsten, Tromso, Norway) great granddaughter, Viktoria, great grandson William), Pemberton, BC; Ruth, (Jesse Wheeler, great grandsons Thomas and Max), North Vancouver, BC; Dorothy (Montreal), Charles (Brittany Cairns) and great grandson Harrison, Montreal and Evelyn (Michael Price), and great granddaughter Lilly Belle, Montreal; Christopher Sawers (Lace Kessler) and great granddaughters Stella, Charleigh and Isla and Gordon Sawers (Sarah Rush), great-granddaughter Avery and great-grandson Hudson), North Vancouver BC. Phoebe died in Tadoussac, Quebec on the 4th July, 2008, and Ernest died in Montreal on December 18, 2011. Ernest and Phoebe are interred together in the Memorial Garden on the grounds of the Tadoussac Protestant Chapel. Back to ALL Bios

Built in 1861 as a Tadoussac summer residence for Quebec businessman Willis Russell. PREVIOUS Spruce Cliff 1861----> NEXT PAGE Tadoussac 1864 Much of this was written by Lilybell Rhodes (1889-1975), whose family built the house next door, she was a great friend of Grace Scott and often stayed with Grace in the summer. With bits from Grace Scott, Benny Beattie, Susie Bruemmer, Ann Dewart, Brian Dewart. Willis Russell, born 1814, came from Vermont to Quebec City about 1840 in search of lumber interests. Liking Quebec, he sent for his wife Rebecca Page Sanborn and child, who came by stagecoach (under protest), to Quebec. He became very active in the hotel business [the St Louis, the Albion and the Russell Hotels], in municipal affairs, and among other accomplishments, he wrote a 100 page booklet entitled "Quebec As it was and As it is". Willis Russell biography in our Bios section https://www.tidesoftadoussac.com/tadbios/russell%2C-willis-%26-rebecca-page-(sanborn) In Quebec, he became friends with Colonel Rhodes, with whom he used to go fishing at the Marguerite River, where they were founding members of the Ste Marguerite Salmon Fishing Club. When Mr Russell first brought his family to Tadoussac, he rented a house in L'Anse a l'Eau. Doctors had recommended sea air for Wilis' ailing daughter, and the summer was sucessful. Then he, Colonel Rhodes, and Mr Powel of Philadelphia bought adjoining lots. Une grande partie de ceci a été écrite par Lilybell Rhodes (1889-1975), dont la famille a construit la maison voisine. Elle était une grande amie de Grace Scott et restait souvent avec Grace en été. Avec des morceaux de Grace Scott, Benny Beattie, Susie Bruemmer, Ann Dewart, Brian Dewart. Willis Russell, né en 1814, est venu du Vermont à Québec vers 1840 à la recherche d'intérêts forestiers. Aimant Québec, il fit venir sa femme Rebecca Page Sa nbo rn et son enfant, qui vinrent, sous protestation, en diligence à Québec. Il devient très actif dans l'hôtellerie [les hôtels St Louis, l'Albion et le Russell], dans les affaires municipales, et entre autres réalisations, il rédige un livret de 100 pages intitulé "Le Québec tel qu'il était et tel qu'il est". Biographie de Willis Russell dans notre section Bios https://www.tidesoftadoussac.com/tadbios/russell%2C-willis-%26-rebecca-page-(sanborn) À Québec, il se lie d'amitié avec le colonel Rhodes, avec qui il avait l'habitude d'aller pêcher à la rivière Marguerite, où ils étaient membres du Salmon Fishing Club. Lorsque M. Russell a amené sa famille à Tadoussac pour la première fois, il a loué une maison à L'Anse à l'Eau. Les médecins avaient recommandé l'air marin pour la fille malade de Wilis, et l'été a été un succès. Ensuite, lui, le colonel Rhodes et M. Powel de Philadelphie ont acheté des lots adjacents. Willis Russell's name on the screen on the front door! (actually probably his grandson wrote it) We need a photo of him and his wife! Willis Russell a écrit son nom sur l'écran de la porte d'entrée ! Colonel Rhodes was the first to build. Mrs Mary Wallace recently found a letter from Colonel Rhodes to his builder saying that his friend Mr Russell wanted a house built just like his, and "of as good lumber". Thus the two houses were almost identical, with bell cast roofs, the typical French Canadian roof at the time. The two ice houses were built side by side on property which a later survey revealed was on the Rhodes property. Consequently, Mrs Russel built another ice house attached to the kitchen. On the west side, Mr Russell and Mr Powel built their wash houses back to back with a single dividing wall and a single chimney. They were used for storage, and had wash tubs where an Indian woman used to do the laundry. Their respective outhouses were also back to back with a single dividing wall, and it was rumoured that conversations were carried onby various members of both houses through the wall. Grace and her brother were encouraged to visit the outhouse before dark, as a visit after dark necessitated lighting the lantern. Le colonel Rhodes a été le premier à construire. Mme Mary Wallace a récemment trouvé une lettre du colonel Rhodes à son constructeur disant que son ami M. Russell voulait une maison construite comme la sienne, et "d'aussi bon bois". Ainsi, les deux maisons étaient presque identiques, avec des toits en fonte de cloche, le toit typiquement canadien-français de l'époque. Les deux glacières ont été construites côte à côte sur une propriété qui, selon une enquête ultérieure, se trouvait sur la propriété de Rhodes. Par conséquent, Mme Russel a construit une autre glacière attenante à la cuisine. Du côté ouest, MM. Russell et Powel ont construit leurs lavoirs adossés avec un seul mur mitoyen et une seule cheminée. Ils étaient utilisés pour le stockage et avaient des bacs à laver où une femme indienne faisait la lessive. Leurs dépendances respectives étaient également dos à dos avec un seul mur de séparation, et la rumeur disait que des conversations étaient menées par divers membres des deux maisons à travers le mur. Grace et son frère ont été encouragés à visiter la dépendance avant la tombée de la nuit, car une visite après la tombée de la nuit nécessitait d'allumer la lanterne. Left, the original Rhodes Icehouse, which has partially sunk into the hole underneath which was dug for the ice! Right, the back to back washhouses on the Powel side of the property. À gauche, la glacière originale de Rhodes, qui s'est partiellement enfoncée dans le trou en dessous qui a été creusé pour la glace ! À droite, les lavoirs dos à dos du côté Powel de la propriété. When Willis Russell died in 1887, the property was left to his two surviving children, Agnes Ballard and William Edward, who bought out his sister's share. Left a widow in 1893, Mrs William Edward Russell continued spending her summers in Tadoussac. Mrs Russell used to sit on the front gallery at noon to greet golfers and tennis players as they walked home. Mrs Russell sometimes renting the cottage to Dr Johnathon Dwight of New York. [The Dwights created "Dwight Park" between the road and the bank, above Rhodes houses] It is said that one day a cow walked up the front porch right into the living room one afternoon when he was reading quietly. Lorsque Willis Russell mourut en 1887, la propriété fut laissée à ses deux enfants survivants, Agnes Ballard et William Edward, qui rachetèrent la part de sa sœur. Devenue veuve en 1893, Mme Russell continue de passer ses étés à Tadoussac. Mme Russell avait l'habitude de s'asseoir sur la galerie avant à midi pour saluer les golfeurs et les joueurs de tennis alors qu'ils rentraient chez eux. Mme Russell louait parfois le chalet au Dr Johnathon Dwight de New York. [Les Dwights ont créé "Dwight Park" entre la route et la banque, au-dessus des maisons de Rhodes] On raconte qu'un jour, une vache est montée par le porche directement dans le salon un après-midi alors qu'il lisait tranquillement. Left, William Edward Russell and Fanny Eliza Pope Russell In the late 1800's there was a boardwalk and gazebo at the edge of the bank, a great spot for family photos. The bank is not very stable, eventually the gazebo probably slid down the hill! À gauche, William Edward Russell et Fanny Eliza Pope Russell À la fin des années 1800, il y avait une promenade et un belvédère au bord de la rive, un endroit idéal pour les photos de famille. La berge n'est pas très stable, éventuellement le belvédère a probablement glissé en bas de la colline! In the 20th century, the Leslie Russells and the Scotts spent their holidays with Mrs Russell. Upon her death in 1936, the house was left to her four children, Leslie, Frederick, Nonie and Mabel (Mrs Scott) who bought out her brothers and sister. When Mrs Scott died in 1952, she left the house to her daughter Grace. [Nonie married Dr James Stevenson, they had 3 girls Margaret (Reilley), Elizabeth (O'Neill), and Ann (Dewart), who summered in Tadoussac in the Park!] Below Nonie Russell and James Stevenson ~1900 Grace Scott ~ 1930 Right ~1930's Ann, Margaret and Elizabeth Stevenson with their grandmother Mrs Russell Mrs. Russell's daughter in law, Connie (Home) Russell, wife of Frederick Russell, and the two young ones are John Leslie Russell and Lucille (Suzie) Russell, children of Frederick's brother (Leslie Allan Russell) Below right the girls and dogs Au XXe siècle, les Leslie Russell et les Scott passaient leurs vacances avec Mme Russell. À sa mort en 1936, la maison a été léguée à ses quatre enfants, Leslie, Frederick, Nonie et Mabel (Mme Scott) qui ont acheté la propriété à ses frères et sœur. Lorsque Mme Scott est décédée en 1952, elle a laissé la maison à sa fille Grace. [Nonie a épousé le Dr James Stevenson, ils ont eu 3 filles Margaret (Reilley), Elizabeth (O'Neill) et Ann (Dewart), qui ont passé l'été à Tadoussac in the Park!] The family used to bring a cow down with them from Quebec every year and keep it in the 'cow field' across the street, even though the children didn't like to drink 'cowy milk'. Drinking water was obtained from a spring half way down the bank, and was brought up in buckets suspended from a yoke on the maid's shoulders. Washing water was taken from two rain barrels at each corner of the house. Mint growing near the spring down the bank was gathered by the children for roast lamb. Local lamb was plentiful, as was salmon. (From Mrs Russell's account book 1904, salmon cost 10¢ a pound, wild strawberries 5¢ a glass). The property was taken care of by François Deschenes for many years, and then by his son Freddy. After Freddy's death most families chose Gauthier, but Mrs Russell hired his brother Louis as guardian. When the WIlliams house [next door] burned down in 1932, Louis' wife claimed to have saved the house by throwing her rosary on the roof. Before the time of screened porches, a smudge of bark and spruce bits was kept burning in a large iron kettle on the lawn to keep the black flies away. On the front gallery always hung a long tail of seaweed, which by its dryness or dampness indicated the type of weather to expect - or so we thought. Grace remembers that life was more formal in her youth. Everyone went to church on Sunday, and everyone was expected to be on time for meals. Rising bell rang at 8h00, and a breakfast bell at 8h30. A loud bell was rung outside for those on the beach. Kerosene lamps and candles provided light before electricity arrived in 1945. [link to hydro station] Every home had afternoon tea, a wonderful time for entertaining and visiting. Below Mrs Scott, Nonie and Elizabeth O'Neill, Grace Scott Susie (Scott) Bruemmer, Aidan O'Neill, Bobby Scott, Kathrine and Patrick O'Neill La famille avait l'habitude d'amener une vache avec eux du Québec chaque année et de la garder dans le « champ de vache » de l'autre côté de la rue, même si les enfants n'aimaient pas boire du « lait de vache ». L'eau potable provenait d'une source à mi-chemin sur la rive et était amenée dans des seaux suspendus à un joug sur les épaules de la bonne. L'eau de lavage provenait de deux barils de pluie à chaque coin de la maison. La menthe poussant près de la source en bas de la rive était cueillie par les enfants pour l'agneau rôti. L'agneau local était abondant, tout comme le saumon. (D'après le livre de comptes de Mme Russell de 1904, le saumon coûte 10 ¢ la livre, les fraises des bois 5 ¢ le verre). La propriété a été entretenue par François Deschênes pendant de nombreuses années, puis par son fils Freddy. Après la mort de Freddy, la plupart des familles ont choisi Gauthier, mais Mme Russell a embauché son frère Louis comme tuteur. Lorsque la maison Williams [à côté] a brûlé en 1932, la femme de Louis a affirmé avoir sauvé la maison en jetant son chapelet sur le toit. Avant l'époque des porches grillagés, une tache d'écorce et de morceaux d'épinette brûlait dans une grande bouilloire en fer sur la pelouse pour éloigner les mouches noires. Sur la galerie avant pendait toujours une longue queue d'algues qui, par sa sécheresse ou son humidité, indiquait le type de temps à attendre - du moins le pensions-nous. Grace se souvient que la vie était plus formelle dans sa jeunesse. Tout le monde est allé à l'église le dimanche, et tout le monde devait être à l'heure pour les repas. La cloche du lever a sonné à 8h00 et une cloche du petit déjeuner à 8h30. Une cloche bruyante sonnait à l'extérieur pour ceux qui se trouvaient sur la plage. Des lampes à kérosène et des bougies fournissaient de la lumière avant l'arrivée de l'électricité en 1945. [lien vers la centrale hydroélectrique] Chaque maison avait le thé de l'après-midi, un moment merveilleux pour se divertir et visiter. 35 NEXT PAGE

Matriarch of the Smith family in Tadoussac as her son, Robert Harcourt Smith, bought Dufferin House Smith, Amelia Jane (LeMesurier) Matriarch of the Smith family in Tadoussac as her son, Robert Harcourt Smith, bought Dufferin House Back to ALL Bios Amelia Jane (LeMesurier) Smith 1832-1917 Amelia Jane LeMesurier was born in Quebec City in 1832. She was the fourth daughter and one of twelve children of Henry LeMesurier and his wife Julie Guerout. In 1857 she married Robert Herbert Smith (1825-1898) also of Quebec City. He was involved in the Timber and Shipping business, and it is this business that may have brought the family to Tadoussac. They had eight children, Robert Harcourt (1858), Edith (1862, who married Henry Baring Powel), Amelia Blanche (1863, who married Sir William Price), Herbert (1866), Charles (1867), George (1870), Edmund (1874), and Arthur (1875). There are memorial plaques for all of these children except Edith. Amelia’s oldest son, Harcourt, was also in the lumber business and he bought Dufferin House from the Dale family. It may have been he who brought the Smith family to Tadoussac, currently in its sixth generation. Amelia Jane died in Quebec City in 1917 having been predeceased by her sons Robert Harcourt in 1913 and Herbert in 1915. She is buried with her husband in Mount Hermon Cemetery, in Quebec City. Because these are the first Smiths to come to Tadoussac it is worth noting here that first, it is unknown whether Amelia’s husband Robert ever holidayed here. It may be that Amelia and her other children only came after her son Harcourt bought Dufferin House in 1911. Also, because Amelia Blanche married Sir William Price, and Edith married Henry Baring Powel, the Smith, Price and Powel families became connected. Coosie Price, Harky Powel and brothers Lex, Gordon and Guy Smith were all first cousins. It should be noted that the name Carington is not part of the Smith surname, but a frequently used middle name.   Eve Wickwire Photos ~1906 shows Amelia Jane Lemesurier Smith, her son Robert Harcourt Carrington Smith, and his son Gordon Smith, father of Eve Wickwire! ~1894 the children George (1870), Herbert (1866) Robert Harcourt (1858), Amelia Blanche (1863, who married Sir William Price), Charles (1867) Arthur (1875), Edmund (1874) missing Edith (1862, who married Henry Baring Powel) Back to ALL Bios