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The Anglican Dean of Montreal and the first of the Evans families to come to Tadoussac Evans, Thomas Frye Lewis, Marie Bethune, Emily Bethune & Cyril The Anglican Dean of Montreal and the first of the Evans families to come to Tadoussac Back to ALL Bios The Very Reverend Thomas Frye Lewis Evans 1846 – 1919 Marie Stewart (Bethune) 1850 – 1903 Emily Elizabeth (Bethune) 1866 – 1947 Cyril Lewis Evans 1882 – 1887 The Very Reverend Thomas Frye Lewis Evans served as a summer minister in Tadoussac for thirty-five years back between about 1884 and his death in 1919. He married Marie Stewart Bethune in 1874 and with her had five children, Basil (1873), Muriel (1877) Trevor (1879), Cyril (1882), and Ruby (1885). Little is known about Marie except that she was said to have been a lively and engaging woman and usually called May. She married Lewis Evans in 1873 at the age of twenty-three. She is named Maria in her birth record, and Marie in the marriage index, (and Marie on her plaque). Her full name was Maria Stewart Bethune, born in 1850, the second of four children (all girls) of Strachan Bethune (1821 - 1910) and Maria MacLean Phillips (1826 - 1901). She died in 1903 and is buried in The Mount Royal Cemetery. Included in that list of Marie’s children is Cyril who died at five years old. There is a small window in the back wall of the chapel that is dedicated to the memory of Cyril Lewis Evans. He died of hydrocephalus at the age of five. It is hard to imagine now how that tragedy played out, the little boy dying in 1887. Hydrocephalus (sometimes called water on the brain) can cause brain damage as a result of fluid buildup. This can lead to developmental, physical, and intellectual impairments caused by Cerebrospinal fluid (CSF) which flows through the brain and spinal cord under normal conditions. Under certain conditions, the amount of this fluid in the brain increases if there is a blockage that prevents it from flowing normally, or if the brain produces an excess amount of it. In the 1880s treatment for this condition was in its infancy, so it must have been a very difficult time for Cyril and his family. 6 After Marie’s death, the Dean married her cousin, Emily Elizabeth Bethune (1866 – 1947), and had one more child, Robert Lewis Evans (1911) when he was about sixty-five years old and Emily was forty-five. This family was not connected to any of the other summer cottage families until son Trevor, and later son Lewis married into the Rhodes family and both had cottages in Tadoussac. Dean Evans was the rector of St. Stephen's Church in Montreal, a church on Atwater Street, and stayed there for forty-six years. While there, he served as an Honourary Canon, Archdeacon, and then was named the fifth Dean of Montreal Diocese, but would only accept the position if he could stay at St. Stephen's and not move over to the Cathedral. In 1908 he was within a whisker of being elected Bishop. It was an actual split vote and they had to adjourn for three weeks to sort it out in typical Anglican political manoeuvring. They picked the other guy, John Craig Farthing. The Dean died in 1919. It is said that he had pneumonia, collapsed in the pulpit on a Sunday morning while delivering his sermon, and died a few days later. Very few of Dean Lewis Evans’s writings remain but it is clear from them that he was a devoted churchman and that he had worked hard to help in the development of the Anglican Diocese of Montreal. A school in the St. Henri district was named after him, and he was very insistent that all of the Anglican clergy should be able to speak French. In Tadoussac, he lived in what was then the furthest east Price house, the Beattie/Price house. It was built along with the other Price houses for the administrators of Price Brothers Lumber, but this one was lent to Dean Evans and he eventually acquired it by squatter’s rights. From him, it passed to his wife, Emily Elizabeth (Bethune) Evans, and then to their son, Lewis Evans, who sold it to James and Anne Beattie. The Dean had also owned a part of the tennis club property which he bought from the Price family, but he sold his portion to Jonathan Dwight and Mr Dwight sold it to the tennis club. Dean Evans was an avid fisherman and actually had built for himself a small log cabin about nine miles up the Saguenay on the west side of the river at a place called Cap à Jack. It seemed he needed a cottage to get away from his cottage! He had a little powerboat called Minota which he would take up there towing a couple of nor'shore canoes to fish out of. One of the local men, André Nicolas, in speaking about the Dean, said he had seen photos of the fishing camp on the website, tidesoftadoussac.com, that grandson Tom Evans set up. He said that where Lewis Evans had his camp was, and still is, the best place on the river to catch sea trout. It is interesting, a hundred years later, to hear a local fisherman say that the Dean got it right! Alan Evans Photos above Dean Lewis Evans, The Cottage in Tadoussac, Cap a Jack on the Saguenay, Emily with Lewis and Kae Photos below ~1900 Tadoussac Dean Lewis Evans (sitting), his first wife Marie, his 4 children Basil, Trevor (with pipe), Muriel and Ruby ~1918 Tadoussac back row Dean Lewis Evans with sons Basil, Trevor and Lewis front row second wife Emily (Mother of Lewis), Kae Evans, Miles and his mother Muriel Back to ALL Bios

Owner of Spruce Cliff Cottage, Grace was a churchwoman and teacher, and a long-time president of the Tadoussac Chapel Scott, Frances Grace Owner of Spruce Cliff Cottage, Grace was a churchwoman and teacher, and a long-time president of the Tadoussac Chapel Back to ALL Bios Francis Grace Scott 1904 - 1993 Francis Grace Scott was born in 1904, in Quebec City. She lived there until the age of eight when her family moved to Kenmore, New York. She was the daughter of Mabel Emily Russell and Charles Cunningham Scott. Grace taught English at Kenmore West High School for almost forty years. Kenmore was a suburb of Buffalo. Never having married, she lived in the same house for her whole life, looking after her parents. Grace had a commanding presence and was strict and disciplined. Her niece, Susie recalls summers in Tadoussac were quite structured and very social. Grace loved to know what was going on in the village and the door was always open for people to come and visit. For many years she was the President of the Tadoussac Protestant Chapel. One of her lasting legacies is taking her niece, Susie, to church every Saturday morning to practice the hymns for church on Sunday. Grace also had high ideals and morals reflecting the times she grew up in. She was an avid reader and always liked to discuss what people had just read, current events and American politics! She was a devoted lover of dogs, and had several black cocker spaniels. She loved to sit on the back porch with a dog on her lap, looking at the view. Grace loved Tadoussac, and couldn't wait to get there every summer. She inherited Spruce Cliff from her mother Mabel Emily Russell Scott. When summering in Tadoussac, Helen Price, Lily Bell Rhodes, and Adele Languedoc would often stay with her at Spruce Cliff. Her niece, Susie (Scott) Bruemmer also spent many summers staying with her and eventually inherited the cottage. Grace died at the age of eighty-eight in 1993 in Kenmore, N.Y. And is buried in Mount Hermon Cemetery in Quebec City with her parents. Brian Dewart Susie Bruemmer Photos below Mrs Christine Scott, Nonie and Elizabeth O'Neill, Grace Scott Susie Scott (Bruemmer), Aidan O'Neill, Bobby Scott, Katherine and Patrick O'Neill Adele Languedoc, Grace Scott, Elizabeth Stevenson (O'Neill), Phyllis Humphrys, Russell Scott, Shirley?, Margaret Stevenson (Reilley) Back to ALL Bios

Saguenay River Anchorages by Lewis Evans Saguenay Anchorages By R Lewis Evans 15

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

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

Views of Tadoussac from the Cross over 100 years View from High Up Vue d'en haut Circa 1880 Circa 1880 Circa 1895 Circa 1895 Circa 1900 Circa 1930 Circa 1935 Circa 1940 Circa 1945 The Church is gone L'église a disparu Circa 1947 Circa 1950 Circa 1965 Two interesting close-ups Both late 1800's Road behind Cid's going down into the gully And a house overlooking the lake Deux gros plans intéressants À la fin des années 1800 Route derrière Cid va descendre dans le ravin Et une maison surplombant le lac

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

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

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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

PREVIOUS NEXT PAGE Été à Tadoussac Summer 1920-1940 Page 2 of 7 The Summer Cottages Les Chalets d'été I count 17 summer cottages (?) in the 1930's By the 1960's there were about 25, today 45. Tivoli Stevenson (built in the 20's) Amberly Tudor-Hart Ivanhoe Windward (built 1936) Barn Brynhyfryd (old one burned circa 1932, rebuilt) Spruce Cliff Bailey Evans Bayview Dufferin House Fletcher Price Radford and Cap a Jack Je compte 16 chalets d'été Dans les années 1960 il y avait 25 Aujourd'hui environ 45! Ann Stevenson (Dewart), Elizabeth Stevenson (O'Neill), Margaret Stevenson (Reilley) Stevenson Cottage built in 1926 Ivanhoe front porch View from the hill behind Summer House with Dorothy Rhodes (Evans) and Phoebe Evans (Skutezky) and Ainslie Evans (Stephen) and the shed out back, no longer there. Windward built in 1936 The Barn Lennox Williams and his dog Brynhyfryd Burned circa 1932 Rebuilt 1933 Spruce Cliff Bailey Evans Cottage Lewis Evans and his dog Sandy Bayview Cottage Dufferin House Fletcher Cottage Radford in Anse a L'Eau circa 1926, R Lewis Evans with his gun, May Carrington Smith, Nan Gale, Ann (Dewart) Stevenson, Maggie(Reilley) Stevenson at Cap a Jack 10 miles up the Saguenay PREVIOUS NEXT PAGE

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