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Houses of Tadoussac Barn The Barn has a long history, it is about 150 years old! Built shortly after the main Rhodes house in the 1870's, the Barn has been Kitchen, Scullery, IceHouse, Maid's Quarters, Chicken Coop, and Summer Cottage! Text & Photos Reilley Cottage Built in 1922 by Dr James and Nonie Stevenson, parents of the 3 Stevenson sisters. Text & Photos

PREVIOUS Dean Lewis Evans May Bethune and Emily Bethune NEXT PAGE The Evans family is in the middle of the Family Tree. Dean Lewis Evans married twice, and his wives were second cousins. May Bethune is the mother of Trevor Evans 1879-1938, who married Dorothy Rhodes 1892-1977, parents of Phoebe, Ainslie, Trevor and Tim. After May died Lewis Evans Sr married Emily Bethune, 20 years younger, and they surprised everyone with another Lewis Evans 1911-1988 (my father). When he was born his mother Emily was 45, father Lewis Evans was 65! Dad's half-brothers were a generation older, he even had a half-nephew who was older than he was. ​ Family Tree Evans Bethune Crooks Ewart Price Molson Carrington-Smith and others A famous name on the tree is Norman Bethune, Canadian physician and medical innovator. He is best known for his service in war time medical units during the Spanish Civil War and with the Communist Eighth Route Army during the Second Sino-Japanese War. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Norman_Bethune When Lewis Evans married Betty Morewood in 1944 it was the second Evans-Rhodes marriage. 25 years earlier his half-brother Trevor had married Dorothy Rhodes, who was first cousin to Betty's mother Carrie Rhodes Morewood! Got it? Emily Bethune's mother was a Ewart, and her grandmother was a Crooks. One relative is John Price (not related to the other Quebec/Tadoussac Prices), Dad's second cousin, who came to Canada from Scotland to go to medical school at McGill in the 1950's, and he often stayed with us in Tadoussac. He married Nancy Beattie. Doris Molson was Dad's third cousin on her mother (Dawson)'s side, she is also related through her father to the Tadoussac Smiths! (so you'll know if anyone asks) Lewis Evans Family, in 1900 and 1918, in Tadoussac Lewis Evans's first wife died in 1903 so say the year is 1900 ABOVE left to right Muriel 1877-1952 (23) Ruby 1885-1947 (15) Trevor 1879-1938 (21 very dapper) May 1848-1903 (52) Basil 1874-1958 (26) (is he a train conductor?) Lewis Evans 1846-1919 (54) unknown girl 2 unknown dogs Lewis Evans died in 1919 so say the year is 1918 BELOW left to right Basil 1874-1958 (44) Emily 1866-1947 (52) (same age as May in other photo!) Kae Evans 1909-2001 (9) Lewis Evans 1846-1919 (72) Miles Hudspeth 1908-2005 (10) Trevor 1879-1938 (39) Muriel 1877-1952 (41) Lewis Evans 1911-1988 (7) Where's Ruby? 1 unknown dog My grandfather Lewis Evans was born in 1846! He graduated from university in Confederation year 1867, and in 1873 he became rector at St Stephen's Church in Westmount, Montreal, where he remained for 46 years, living in the Rectory behind the church. He got married in 1873, and in 1884 he became minister at the Tadoussac Protestant Chapel (35 years). Photos above by William Notman, from the McCord Museum website. St Stephen Church, Westmount, Montreal I have a cigar box Presented to The Very Reverend Lewis Evans DD DCE Dean of Montreal By a few of his old parishioners as a slight token of their esteem and affection for him on the occasion of the 40th Anniversary of his appointment as Rector of Saint Stephens Church 2nd November 1873 1913 Dean Lewis Evans in Montreal, and his second wife Emily with their son Lewis Evans, circa 1912 "The Cottage" ~1915 and 100+ years later Tadoussac Tennis (& Croquet) Club, that's Emily Evans on the right ~1915, and 100+ years later! Cap à Jack 10 miles up the Saguenay, built ~ 1910 and demolished in the 1930's Lots more photos on the CAP À JACK page Cap à Jack Biography of Dean Lewis Evans in the Bios Section https://www.tidesoftadoussac.com/tadbios/evans%2C-thomas-frye-lewis Emily Evans with with her son Lewis Evans and Kae Evans. Lewis Evans has his own page... R Lewis Evans NEXT PAGE

TABLE DES MATIÈRES & DATES importantes en bas de cette page NEXT PAGE search! cherchez! TABLE OF CONTENTS & Key DATES at the bottom of this page DATES NAVIGATION use the Pull-Down Page Menus above OR use the NEXT PAGE buttons at right OR use the page photos below LA NAVIGATION utilisez les menus déroulants de la page ci-dessus OU utilisez les boutons NEXT PAGE à droite OU utilisez les photos de la page ci-dessous 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 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 Jim Williams Godfrey Rhodes William Rhodes 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 NEXT PAGE

Evans to Fitzmaurice Ancestry.com, Wikipedia, and a visit to the family ruins in Ireland! Warning - Contains obscure details of ancestors that may not even be yours NEXT PAGE This starts with someone we know, Thomas Frye Lewis Evans, the Dean, who was born in 1846 and came to Tadoussac to be our Protestant Minister from the 1890's until his death in 1919. He married twice, May Bethune (> Trevor Evans m Dorothy Rhodes > Phoebe Evans Skutezky & Ainslie Evans Stephen & Trevor Evans & Tim Evans> and then he married Emily Evans (> R Lewis Evans m Betty Morewood > Anne, Lewis, Tom, Alan Evans). Dean Lewis Evans' father was Francis Evans, born in 1803 in Ireland in the house shown here, which still exists. >>>>> Francis Evans came to Canada in about 1830 with his wife Maria Lewis, and had a parish in southern Ontario, near Simcoe. The Evans family came to Ireland from England in about 1600 (Robert Evans). Following a different line, I found other much older Irish ancestors. William Fitzmaurice 1633-1697 was the Baron of Kerry in Ireland, my 6-great grandfather (you have about 250 6-great grandparents) and he had a house that is now a very cool RUIN. Keep going, you're coming to the good part... So we're descended from all those Barons of Kerry through the FEMALE line All Daughters C Fitzmaurice Margery Cox Mary Gabbett Mary-Anne Thomas married Nicholas EVANS (Minor detail you can skip>> Unfortunately we jump out of the line just as they made it to EARL, Thomas Fitzmaurice in 1723 (he'd be my 5-great uncle). The Earls of Kerry seem to have moved back to England and have a pile in Wiltshire. Some have been british politicians including Lord Lansdowne who was GG of Canada 1883-1888 (a cousin!). Anyway in Wiki there's tons of stuff about all the Earls http://fitzmaurice.info/irish.html) The HOUSE, now a RUIN is in LIXNAW, Kerry, near Tralee, Ireland. As it says here they lived in this house for 500 years until it FELL INTO RUIN 1700's House Gazebo So I went there (June 2015). It's a very cool site, some curious cows and a few electric fences! In need of repairs. The Interior - the Living Room? Probably the Stairs Out in the back, a cute Gazebo, with a strange tunnel underneath. There were badger holes nearby so I didn't go in... The Family Tree? NEXT PAGE

R. Lewis Evans was an English Teacher who loved to write. Although his books are quite well-known, his short stories and articles belong mostly to the more distant past. It was during the 1940s and 1950s that magazine short stories were popular and sought after and Dad wrote over 20 of them. Most were published, and many are of interest especially to those of us who know and love the Lower St. Lawrence and Saguenay areas of Quebec, so I decided to get them out of the file and onto the web-site where they can be read once again. I've divided the stories into categories. While he wrote mostly river stories about the Tadoussac area, including some historical fiction, he also wrote 6 stories about World War II (4 of which overlap with our beloved river), and a number of odd inspirations, one biblical, several inspired by newspaper items, and even one (gasp!) Science Fiction. There are also some non-fiction articles which will be coming along later in the year. I love them all partly because he wrote about what he loved and I love it too, but partly because his characters are thoughtful, compassionate and real. I've included a few notes that he kept in the file. Some are news articles he drew his ideas from; others are comments he received from editors either printed in the magazine or sent along to him separately. I've also tried to reproduce the illustrations, duly credited, as all the stories that published were supported by visual art. Only one, Casual Enemy, has no illustrator mentioned. My guess is he drew that one himself. I've read all these stories several times in my efforts to get them up onto the web-site correctly and I've never tired of them. I hope you enjoy them. A fair warning: some readers might recognize a few people! Alan Evans NEXT PAGE R Lewis Evans More Stories "Zeb," he cried. "Zeb, come on up top. Bring your bucket. make it quick." In Case of Fire A Short Story by Lewis Evans (Published in The Standard, October 5th, 1946 - $60.00!) ILLUSTRATED BY MENENDEZ The old hand and the novice found hostility turned to friendship in a battle with death THE windward edge of the fire was below them now, a line that straggled across twenty miles of forest and ate its way in little salients doggedly westwards against the draught. Downwind, ahead of the aircraft, all was confusion for countless square miles—white smoke, and gray and brown, air-borne ashes, and occasionally the peach-glow of flame dimly reflected on the driving smoke. Don Ross, late of the RCAF, held the F-24 on its course, passing over the centre of the vast burning area where thousands of cords of Northern Quebec pulpwood were going up in smoke instead of fulfilling their destiny of providing Canadian and American papers with newsprint. With him in the cabin bronzed, graying Zeb Stearn sat with map on knee, pencilling in the present area of the fire for his report back to the Canadian Forestry Service and the Long Lake, Wolf Lake and River Beyond Pulp and Paper Company, which owned these limits. Old Zeb Stearn concentrated on the job and said nothing. He had been saying just that ever since they had taken off from the North Shore that morning. The northward border of the forest fire seemed to follow the curves of River Beyond, and Don Ross swung the aircraft in that direction. As they approached the river they could see that the fire had already jumped it in several places. Zeb Stearn noted them on his map. Suddenly Don peered at the river beyond the eastern edge of the fire, set the plane on a glide towards it, and then banked on a curve. He pointed, and Stearn followed his finger. A herd of caribou was fording the river to gain the safer north bank. Don turned to smile at Stearn, but the old fellow did not evince interest by even so much as a grunt. He was again working on the map. Don felt rather foolish, as though he had excitedly pointed out the Rhine to a man who had already made many operational tours. THE F-24 was now over the advancing eastern edge, of the fire, and the air was rough. Now and then the thermals rising from the hot earth bounced the plane uncomfortably upwards, and the cabin filled with the raw smell of smoke, making its occupants cough—the first sound Stearn had made so far, Don thought wryly. He started a slow climb to get above the smoke, and suddenly the engine sputtered, livened up again, and quit cold. Don worked at his controls, but nothing happened, and a great appreciation of the multiple engined aircraft he had known overseas was born in him in a flash. He shot a glance at Stearn. The older man’s face betrayed no emotion, but he was peering out at the landscape below — already looking for a spot for a forced landing, Don knew; and Don followed suit. Behind him was River Beyond, but like most northern rivers it was shallow, sown with rocks and seamed with sand and gravel bars—a landing there meant two shattered floats at the very least. To the south, beyond the path of the fire, was Wolf Lake, a perfect landing place, but with a cross wind and his present altitude he didn’t think he could make it. Downwind from the fire was the nearest water—he picked it out between waves of smoke—a tiny lake, almost round, possible for a landing, too small for a take-off. Don tried desperately to make up his mind—take a long chance on Wolf Lake, and maybe not make it and come down in the fire area, or land on this little pond and probably stay there, right in the path of the fire. Stearn grabbed his arm. "Wolf Lake,” he shouted. Don swung the gliding plane towards it, and as soon as he had done so he knew— knew for certain—they couldn’t make it. He shook his head and swung again, losing altitude rapidly. The little round lake appeared and disappeared through the smoke as though it were winking at him. "Okay, honey; here I come,” he murmured, and circled to come at it upwind. The tall spruce round it forced him to glide flatter than he wished, but he almost brushed their tops as he crossed them. The other side of the lake seemed to rush at him, a solid phalanx of dark spruces, but the pontoons took the water with a clumsy splash, the F-24 rocked forward as if she were going to stick her nose down, rocked back, and bucked gently into the matted bushes fringing the shore. “Well,” said Don, “here we are.” “And here we stay till we fry,” commented Stearn. “Why didn’t you try for Wolf Lake, where we could have fixed the engine and had room to take off?” “I knew I couldn’t make it,” said Ross. “It wouldn’t have been any fun putting down in the bush—and the fire.” “It was a chance,” said Stearn. “This is certainty. The fire will be here by tonight.” “We have plenty of water,” said Ross. “We can keep ourselves and the aircraft wet.” ZEB STEARN snorted. “Ever been close to a fire of this size?” he demanded. “Yes,” snapped Ross. “Mannheim.” “You weren’t as close to that as you will be to this, my boy. You try keeping the plane wet, and yourself wet, and breathing at the same time. Take my advice and drown quietly. It’s the more comfortable death.” “Oh, go jump in the lake,” said Don curtly as he opened the door. “I’m going to. I want to find what's wrong with this motor.” He dropped onto a pontoon. “Why?” demanded Stearn. “Even if you fix it you can't get out of here. “I'd feel a lot better if the engine could go, though.” “What're you going to do? Move it on top and take off straight up like a helicopter? We'll get to heaven soon enough without all that trouble.” “Aw, pipe down, and come and help me get this cowling off.” Stearn's reply was to settle back and light his pipe. For ten minutes Ross worked at the engine. The acrid smoke filtering through the bush and bellying out across the lake kept him coughing. Several times he turned the motor over without getting even a kick. At last he opened the cabin door. “Come on and have a crack at this thing,” he pleaded. “The smoke out here tastes much better than that ‘tabac canadien’ you’re inhaling, anyway.” “Fix the thing yourself. You're the pilot,” grunted Stearn. “Oh, come on. You know this engine much better than I do.” “How should I know anything about it?” Stearn's voice was heavy with sarcasm. "I'm too old to know about things like that.” The older man spoke with force, as though he were getting a weight off his chest. Ross stood looking at him for a moment. “Look, Zeb,” he said at length. “Let's have it. What's your gripe?” Stearn's eyes drilled him. “I'm too old – that's what they tell me. For years I fly this bush and never have any trouble—not like this, anyway—” he gestured at the tiny lake. “Then the war's over and they tell me that I’m too old, that young fellows like you must have my job, that I'm on the shelf. On the skids, more like,” he added bitterly. “Who says so?” demanded Ross. “When I got the orders to cover this fire,” said Stearn, “they gave me to understand very plainly that you were the pilot, and I was to leave the flying to you. I was to go just because I knew the country, because I have experience.” THERE was a silence. Don had only come to the base a week ago, but already he had heard the story that Zeb Stearn had learned his flying in World War I, had come to the bush in 1919, and long ago had been forced to reckon his air time in months instead of hours. He felt sorry for the old fellow, and admired his pride and his record. He felt that what he said next—and how he said it—was desperately important. “Well, you may be too old, and you may not—I haven’t seen you fly. But I’ll tell you two things: first, I’ve seen plenty of pilots who were too old at twenty-one; second, I’m darn glad that you’re along.” “Thanks,” said Zeb Stearn dryly. "It’s nice to be wanted on what looks like a fatal journey.” Ross grinned at him. “Come on and play with the engine.” Zeb Stearn climbed out of the cabin, a little stiffly. “Why do you want to fix it?” he demanded. “It’s just work for nothing.” “Feel a lot better when it’s in working order,” said Don, and Stearn snorted. “We can move it to the far side of the lake, keep it wet with buckets, and maybe save it.” Stearn turned on him almost savagely. “You talk a lot of hot air,” he shouted. “Save it for what? A curiosity for the caribou?” He ended up coughing. Ross gestured towards the yellow and black fuselage and the big CF and three more letters on the wing. “That’s the best mark there is for anyone looking for us,” he said shortly. That shot went home, for Zeb Stearn nodded and turned towards the engine. “Air intakes clogged up, I’ll bet,” he said. “Those ashes, maybe.” Inside ten minutes he proved himself right, and the engine exploded into life. Don Ross plunged waist deep into the water and weeds and brush of the lake edge and heaved on a pontoon. Slowly he worked the aircraft round and shoved out from shore. Live sparks were falling round them as they taxied to the down-wind edge of the pond, and when the motor was cut they heard for the first time the actual sound of the fire to the west, a faint menacing roaring that rode on the wind. Zeb Stearn listened to it for a few minutes and shook his head. “There'll be a hot time in the old town tonight” he quoted. “Put on all the clothes you have, get well soaked in the lake, and have a wet rag to tie over your face.” Don nodded. There were a canvas bucket and a galvanized iron one in the plane, and he was tying a length of rope to the handle of each. He got a blanket from a packsack in the cabin, wet it, and draped it over the nose of the aircraft. He climbed onto the wing top and sent a few preliminary buckets full splashing over wing, fuselage and tail, killing several hot sparks. The exertion made him pant a little, and his coughing became steady from then on. IN THE last of the afternoon light he saw a couple of porcupines and a skunk pass along the shore near by, all very intent on their business, which was travel. The faster moving animals and the larger ones must have cleared out long ago, he thought. Smoke snuffed out the last of the daylight, and the fire became visible, like a nearer after-glow of the sunset, silhouetting the tall timber on the west bank of the pond. Right opposite him, across the water, the trees seemed more widely spaced, and Don could see an inferno of flame roaring towards him. Now and then an evergreen ahead of the fire would flare with the roar of a rocket as its branches caught, and then the blackened trunk would be surrounded and hidden by flames. Don had a sudden qualm—the gas in the tank. Perhaps they should have tried to drain it off somewhere, but it was too late for that now. He went on lowering the bucket, dragging it up, sloshing the water on the aircraft. Below him he could hear old Zeb wheezing and coughing as he stumbled waist-deep from side to side underneath the plane, dashing water up at the fuselage and tail assembly. Now and then Don's clothing steamed out and began to feel hot, and he had to climb down and dunk himself in the water. He fought against the temptation to stay in its delightful coolness — each time the climb back seemed tougher, dragging his sodden clothes, and each time the plane was drier and hotter as the first bucketful dashed over it. The hot blast of the wind seared his throat and was painful in the lungs, and coughing was agony that never ceased. His thoughts became disjointed and he knew it and could do nothing to marshal them. In case of fire break glass . . . for use in case of fire . . . those funny axes like tomahawks — if he had one he could chop up the plane and save it from being burnt. Nuts — that was all wrong. Ice — that would be swell, a great big block of it on top the plane, melting and running down all round. Heat, hot as hell, hot air . . . “You talk a lot of hot air." Zeb had shouted . . . hot air bouncing the aircraft upwards — up — hey! wait a minute! Don slithered down into the water and ducked his head under. Hot air — thermals — there must be a lift from all this heat — quite some lift. In the red glare he measured the distance across the water — not enough, of course, but that place where the trees were more widely spaced — even as he looked the branches of the spruces flanking that gap went up with a roar and a fountain of sparks. “With those branches gone and the heat,” he thought, “there’s a chance.” “Zeb,” he croaked. “Zeb, come on up on top. Bring your bucket. Make it quick. He clambered up again, wincing as the heat blasted through the cloth muffling his face. Zeb dragged himself up, and Don told him. “We could hold her while we rev. her up,” he added, “and get a fast start.” Zeb Stearn manipulated his bucket in silence, and squinted at the far bank of the pond. “I don’t like the frying pan,” he said at last. “I'll take a crack at the fire with you." Don left him to sluice her down, and dragged a mooring rope from the cabin. He wrestled it into a sort of bridle on the rear struts of the undercarriage, stumbled ashore with the end, and took a turn round a tree. Already sparks had started fires on this side of the water, he noted. HE GOT up on top again at last, his mind snatching at the problems to be solved. “Go on down, Zeb. Get yourself cooled off, and then start her up. When she’s ripe race her a couple of times and I’ll come down.” Stearn literally fell into the water and Don could hear his coughs bubbling through the wetted mask. Get the blanket off the nose, chuck it in the lake . . . up with a bucket, slosh it on, up with a bucket — the branches seem burned out of that gap . . . the trunks are burning now . . . up with another . . . which pocket's my knife in? . . . got to get it . . . He felt the aircraft heave as Zeb got aboard again, and then the engine started. The slipstream blasted the heat at him and dashed the water away in spray. He couldn’t wait for Zeb to signal. He plunged down, got his head into the cabin door, groped for and found a packsack to wedge it open a bit against the slipstream. “You take her up,” he yelled at Stearn. “No,” shouted Zeb, “You take her — better chance . .” “You gotta take her,” Don yelled. “I’ve got to cut the rope. You couldn’t climb back in — Zeb Stearn nodded. He knew he was too old for that. “Give her the gun,” yelled Don. He had knife in hand now, and crouched on the pontoon, one hand gripping the door jamb, the other holding the blade on the quivering rod-like rope. The engine roared, the aircraft strained, and water squeezed from the taut rope. Don slashed and the plane leapt forward. Water and spray snatched, at his feet, hot air punched and tore at him. Inch by inch, straining and groaning, he fought his way into the doorway. Head and shoulders in, he felt the aircraft lift steeply. He panted and prayed. Zeb Stearn sat like a statue. There were flashes of fire and blackouts of smoke and then, suddenly, he gasped air that was fresh. With a last struggle he got his legs in, kicked the pack out, and the door slammed shut. He lay half on the floor, half on the seat for a minute. Zeb was coughing again, he noted, coughing continually, and he was heavy on the controls. You could feel it. “Take over,” the old man wheezed. “Can’t take it, I guess . . .” They changed places with the supreme care and slow effort of drunken men, and Zeb slumped in his seat. Don Ross settled his course by the stars and shivered. The cold was seeping through his wet clothes, blessed cold. Not good for the old man, though, he thought. “Get out of your clothes, Zeb,” he said. “Get a blanket or something.” Stearn moved slowly and said nothing. He seemed to be trying to stifle his coughing. Don suddenly realized that he was broken by the knowledge that he was too old — too old to climb into a moving plane, yes, but far worse than that — too old to fly it after that tough afternoon. Don eased the plane gently off course, steering a wide arc under the stars. “You sure lifted us out of that frying pan, Zeb,” he said. “Nice piece of judgment. I was glad to be out of that job.” ZEB STEARN said nothing, but went on fumbling with the blanket and coughing sporadically. Don tried again. “Check my course, will you, Zeb?” he asked. “I'm not sure of myself.” Zeb glanced at the sky, and gestured Ross back onto his former bearing. “Thanks,” said Don. “I'm a bit shaky on direction in these parts. You navigate, huh?” Zeb Stearn slowly straightened in his seat and cocked an eye at the sky. “Okay, I'll navigate,” he said. “Steady as you are.” There was a pause, and then Zeb added, “Don't you worry, Don. I'll get us home.” The End Note: 22 years after he wrote this story Dad was interested to find this short article in the Montreal Star, (Sept. 28, 1968) which tells of a similar, if less successful, situation. Team seek to salvage vintage plane from lake Kapuskasing Ontario, Sept. 28 — A federal team will go into a remote lake in this area next week to salvage an ancient seaplane that may be the last of its type in the world. The Curtiss HS-2L has been sitting in the silt in about five feet of water since 1925 or 1927, when the vintage “flying boat” made a crash landing on the lake. Air museums all over North America have sought one of the twin-engined H-boats, used as submarine hunters during the First World War, then as bush planes, but the one on the lake bottom is the world’s only confirmed find. R. W. Bradford, curator of the aviation and space division of the National Museum of Science and Technology, described it in Ottawa today as “a real find.” A team from his division will salvage the plane for the museum. The work may take a year. The HS-2L’s last flight was a colorful combination of ingenuity and farce but not tragedy. Bush Pilot Duke Schiller was forced down by engine failure on the tiny lake or so the story goes. The engine was repaired but to take off from the short lake, Schiller had the seaplane tied to a tree while he revved it up to full throttle. A woodsman was supposed to chop the rope at the appropriate time. The woodsman chopped but the rope was only partially severed. The fearless lumberjack then gave the rope a shake and it broke, hauling him into the lake as the seaplane burst away. Maybe it was the drag of the lumberjack but the plane didn’t gain quite enough altitude to get over the trees. It brushed them, then gently twisted back into the lake. No one was hurt but the plane was written off as a loss. The Fishermen Published in the Quebec Diocesan Gazette, (November, 1968) By Lewis Evans CARRYING the fishing rod, Joe left home at dawn for two reasons: he wanted to be a hero, and he couldn't stand another day of listening to his little brother Johnny whining. He really couldn't blame Johnny for whining, because Johnny was desperately hungry, and not old enough to understand why, or tough enough to be brave about it. Joe was both, because he was seven years old. But he was desperately hungry too, and had been ever since his father had had the accident at the mill, and was still too sick to work. Joe wasn't sure just how he could be a hero, but he figured if he could be the breadwinner even for one day his father would be pleased, and perhaps Johnny would stop whining for a while. The last time his father had gone fishing, on a holiday a week before his accident, he had taken Joe with him, and they had caught nine fat perch. Well, his father had done the actual catching, but Joe had helped by finding some of the worms for bait. As Joe ran down the valley path he had visions of coming home as proudly as his father, with nine perch dangling from a hooked twig. When he came to the place where the stream had undercut the valley side in flood-time, and had caused a small landslide, he stopped and put down the rod and started digging into the soft earth with his fingers. There was a worm - but he was too slow, and got only half of it. Those things could really move. There was another, and this time he was quicker, it took him about half an hour to get a dozen, and he shivered when he felt them wriggling in his pocket. He picked up the rod, and ran on down the valley, which flattened and widened out into grasslands as he neared the shore of the lake. The sun was higher now, and it was going to be hot. Where the stream flowed into the lake and the fishermen’s boats were drawn up it was too shallow for fishing from the shore, but a couple of hundred yards to his right there was a steep bank, and the water there was deeper closer to shore, and shaded at this hour by the height of the bank. Joe scrambled to the very edge of the bank and peered down. The lake water was very calm, and he could see the stones and pebbles dim and wavering on the bottom. He unwound the line from the rod, and impaled a wriggling worm on the hook. There was no barb on the hook, and Joe was afraid the worm would wriggle off, but that was a chance he had to take. He dropped the hook into the lake, and watched it waver down till it was on the bottom. He twisted the rod over and over so that it wound up the line a little and the hook hung about a foot above the pebbles. Then Joe began to learn how hard it was to be a hero. Nothing happened. The sun climbed higher, and it was getting hot. He tried to concentrate on the line where it passed through the surface, watching for any tremor that might be the sign of a bite. He felt a little dizzy, lying there staring down, and his eyes didn't focus very well. He pulled up now and again to check the worm, and twice found it had wriggled off and he had to put on a new one. He began to feel that nothing would ever happen, and he again raised the rod to check the worm. This time something did happen - the line went taut, and there was weight and a wriggle on the end. He scrambled to his feet and raised the tip. The rod bent a little, and there was a flash and then a splash on the surface. Joe heaved back and the perch soared over his head onto the grass behind him. He dropped the rod and fell on the perch, which had come off the hook, finally got hold of it, and banged its head on a stone, bruising his fingers. Triumphant, he laid the perch - it was a very small one - in a shady spot, and baited up. Where there had been one surely there were more. Sure enough, hardly had his hook broken the surface when he felt a tug. He jerked up and thrilled to the pull of the line. He swung the rod up violently, and it cracked and the tip sagged. He dropped it and snatched at the line, pulling hand over hand, and another perch came flipping to him over the edge of the bank. Two! But the rod - it was finished, it wasn't much of a rod really, and his father could make another when he was better, but how could he, Joe, catch more perch? Two little ones wouldn't mean much at home, and without a rod he couldn't get the line far enough out from the bank. He unwound the line from the broken rod, wondering how else he could be a hero. Putting it in his pocket he felt the remaining worms, and thought of throwing them into the water. That would be nice for other perch, but not for the worms. Instead, he dropped them to fend for themselves in the shady spot, and picked up the two perch. They were so small he didn't bother with a twig to carry them, but stuck them in his pocket where the worms had been. He was aching with hunger and discouraged. How could he get something more than two little perch to take home? Suddenly he put his head back and sniffed. A gentle breeze was blowing down the hillside now, and the odour it carried was like an answer to his question. Someone at the little farm had been baking. Perhaps . . . Joe started up the hill, not knowing what he would do, but drawn irresistibly by the smell. There was the squat little farmhouse, and there, off to one side, was the hump of a clay bake-oven. Joe paused in the last cluster of bushes before the open ground around the farmhouse. There was the farmer's wife, laying her baking in a row to cool on a wooden bench in the shade thrown by the house. Joe stared, and his hand crept to find the size of the perch in his pocket. He could hear Johnny's whining, and see his father lying hopelessly on his mattress. The farmer's wife wiped her hand on her apron, took a look at the sky, and went into the house. A moment later she reappeared with a basket of linen, and went round to the back, out of sight. Joe moved forward, and then broke into a tip-toe run. he reached the bench, and snatched up as much bread as he could carry, ramming it under his arm, and darted back to the bushes, he looked back, panting. There was no movement. Crouching, he started away to his right, back towards the valley that led homewards. Keeping among bushes and trees wherever he could, he stumbled along, sweating. He felt the heat of the bread through his shirt, and the smell of it was almost unbearable. Ahead of him was the crest, and beyond was the valley, wide and grassy near its mouth. He reached the crest and stopped dead. The valley was full of people. Joe sank behind a bush and stared, he had never seen so many people in one place in all his life. He had never imagined that there were that many people in the world. What could they be doing there? For a moment the awful thought flashed in his head that they were all waiting for him, to catch him and punish him for stealing the bread. But they weren’t looking at him. They were all in groups of different sizes, some standing, some sitting, some moving about from one group to another, and all, it seemed, talking at once. What in the world could they be talking about? Joe straightened up and moved closer. He had never been more curious. Closer and closer till he was almost up to the nearest group. Why were they there? Suddenly a big strong man, just an ordinary fellow, a fisherman perhaps, turned and looked straight at Joe, and his eyes fell on the bread. He started towards Joe. Joe dropped the bread and turned to run, but in a couple of long strides the man had him by the arm, and swung him to a stop. “Here, my lad,” said the man, “not so fast. You have nothing to fear.” Joe looked up at him trembling. The man did not look angry. He was smiling down at Joe. “Where are you off to with all that bread?” he asked. "I . . . I don't know,” said Joe, and in his confusion he really didn't. “Well,” said the man. “I'll tell you what. How about letting me have the bread? I'll find some way of paying you back for it.” “But I need it,” cried Joe. “That's all right,” said the man. “I'll see you get some more. But right now you just let me have it, will you?” And with that the man stooped, and swept up the bread, took Joe by the arm again, and led him into the midst of the nearest group of people, and up to a tall gentleman in the centre. “What have you there, Andrew?” asked the tall gentleman. “There's a lad with five barley loaves,” answered the man called Andrew, “he is willing to help us.” Some strange impulse sent Joe's hand to his pocket. “I have a couple of fish too,” he said almost proudly, pulling them out. The tall gentleman smiled, and all the people around laughed when they saw the two small fishes. * * * “I think, Joe,” said his father after the men had gone, and Joe had told his story, “you'd better take some of those twelve baskets to the farmer's wife, it may be only fragments of bread and fish, but there is more than you and I and Johnny can use, and, as the gentleman said, it should not be wasted.” The End NOTE: I remember when Dad wrote this story, back in 1968. At chapel that morning at Bishop's College School where he taught, the lesson for the day had been from the Gospel of John, Chapter 6, Verses 1 - 14, The Feeding of the Five Thousand. For some reason Dad took an interest in the actor in the story with the smallest role, and of the smallest size. Dad went back to the staff room and spent every spare minute he had that day writing feverishly and telling his colleagues to go away! I have included the text of the gospel reading below: John 6:1-14 Revised Standard Version (RSV) Feeding the Five Thousand 6 After this Jesus went to the other side of the Sea of Galilee, which is the Sea of Tibe′ri-as. 2 And a multitude followed him, because they saw the signs which he did on those who were diseased. 3 Jesus went up on the mountain, and there sat down with his disciples. 4 Now the Passover, the feast of the Jews, was at hand. 5 Lifting up his eyes, then, and seeing that a multitude was coming to him, Jesus said to Philip, “How are we to buy bread, so that these people may eat?” 6 This he said to test him, for he himself knew what he would do. 7 Philip answered him, “Two hundred denarii[a] would not buy enough bread for each of them to get a little.” 8 One of his disciples, Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother, said to him, 9 “There is a lad here who has five barley loaves and two fish; but what are they among so many?” 10 Jesus said, “Make the people sit down.” Now there was much grass in the place; so the men sat down, in number about five thousand. 11 Jesus then took the loaves, and when he had given thanks, he distributed them to those who were seated; so also the fish, as much as they wanted. 12 And when they had eaten their fill, he told his disciples, “Gather up the fragments left over, that nothing may be lost.” 13 So they gathered them up and filled twelve baskets with fragments from the five barley loaves, left by those who had eaten.14 When the people saw the sign which he had done, they said, “This is indeed the prophet who is to come into the world!” Winged Victory PUBLISHED IN THE MONTREAL STANDARD November 1, 1947 ($50.00!) He'd been waiting since last Hallowe'en to show them he wasn't afraid anymore By Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY JEFF CHAPLEAU Pete cowered, and a sob of fear shook him “WELL, I made them for you,” said the old lady, and watched the light of excitement and anticipation flare up in Gordie’s seven-year-old eyes. He bounced off the chair by the kitchen table. “Oh Granny, did you? Can I see them? Can I see them right now?” “They’re upstairs. You’d better come up and try them on, in case they don’t fit.” Gordie shot out of the kitchen into the hall and up the long flight of stairs. The little old lady could hear his restless feet drumming their impatience on the floor above, but, spry as she was, she did hot hurry. “Wings, indeed!” she murmured as she started up the stairs. “What an imagination they have at that age!” When Granny Tompkins reached the top of the stairs she opened a large linen closet, and from the bottom shelf drew out a complicated black object. As she unfolded it it resolved itself into a pair of wings, and, between them, a sort of hood with pointed ears and nose, and slits for eyeholes. Gordie’s round eyes could not take it all in at once. They darted here and there, and his feet danced under him. He recognized parts of two huge old-fashioned black umbrellas — or was it one of them cut in half ? -— that made the framework of the wings and gave them their bat-like trailing edges. He remembered those umbrellas among countless other treasures he had seen in Granny’s marvellous attic. But over the umbrellas was some shiny black stuff, sewn on as though it were feathers, stuff that shook and rustled as the wings were moved, and the same material covered the head and shoulders. “Oh Granny!” cried Gordie. “They’re wonderful! Pete won’t have anything as good as this for his costume. Why — why he may even be scared of me in this!” Gordie became so enthralled at the prospect that his Granny had to shake the wings to recall his attention. “Here,” she said. “You’d better try them on. Why are you so worried about Peter Martin?” "OH,” said Gordie, as he struggled to get his arms into the tight sleeves that ran across the forward edge of the wings, “he thinks he’s pretty good. At the Hallowe’en Party last year he was dressed like a skeleton, and he kept jumping out and scaring people, and—” Gordie paused. “And?” “And he jumped out and scared me when I was passing the cemetery on the way home. I was dressed as a ghost and I tried to run and I fell down and I cried.” “And he’s never let you forget it all year, I suppose?” said Granny. She knew Peter Martin and had some idea of the constant battle Gordie had with him at school. Peter was a year older, but in the same class, and at everything but school-work he was just a little bit better and stronger and quicker than Gordie. “There,” said Granny. “They fit pretty well. How do you like them?” Gordie contorted himself trying to take in the general effect. “Can I go down to the hall and look in the big mirror?” he asked. “Of course,” said Granny. Gordie bounced to the head of the stairs. He was already savouring a triumph over Pete. “Whee! I’m a bat!” he cried, and he spread his wings and jumped down two steps at once. Then he emitted a shrill squeak of surprise and fear, which sounded quite bat-like, for his feet barely grazed the second step down, and he found himself floating swiftly and silently down into the gloom of the big hall below. Granny Tompkins gave a gasp of amazement and started down the stairs at a speed that did not look much like that of a seventy-year-old, but before she was half way down Gordie caught a wing-tip in the hatstand and crashed to the floor. “Gosh, Granny, they work!” he gasped, struggling to his feet. “Are you hurt, boy?” demanded the old lady. “Gee, Granny, you sure are smart. Betcha Pete’s granny can’t make a pair that really work.” Granny Tompkins took Gordie by the shoulders and shook him. “Listen to me,” she said. “They’re not supposed to work. It’s — it’s an accident. You must promise me never to try to fly with them again. You might break your neck, and then what would your mother say? Will you promise?” “Aw, Granny—” began the boy. “Promise!” demanded the old lady. “Or I’ll take them back and break them up.” “I promise,” said Gordie reluctantly, starting at his macabre reflection in the hall mirror. “Very well. Now get along with you to school. I’ll put these away so no one will know, and you can pick them up here on your way to the party.” She watched Gordie go down the path and turn left along the road past the cemetery and the church towards the school. He had not even thanked her, but Granny Tompkins was wise enough to realize that that was a compliment to the magnitude of the thing she had done for him. He would have thanked her for a doughnut, all right. The joyance in his gait was enough thanks for her. Note: This article is the one Dad had pulled from the paper to inspire his reluctant students: The Montreal Gazette. ADVENTUROUS WOMAN MAKES PAIR Of WINGS Virginiatown, Ont., Oct. 2/46. CP. An adventurous Virginiatown housewife has invented a pair of wings which she uses to jump from buildings 20 to 25 feet high. Mrs. Phil Golden, the mother of two children, began working on her wings two years ago after disecting birds in an attempt to learn how they fly. She made the wings of parachute silk and bits of plastic. They look like a mass of gigantic feather-like pockets built onto even larger feathers. These feathers or air pockets flush the air back through the larger feathers on to a plastic back. In so doing, a vacuum is formed underneath the outer feathers. The vacuum together with a movable outer attachment at the wing tips allows for the possibility of propulsion by means of earnest wrist action. Mrs. Golden said a weak heart so far has prevented her from more stringently testing her wings. Up until now she has been jumping from platforms at least 20 to 25 feet in height. Most of her "flying" has been done at night because she is shy of publicity. She started folding up the costume, but then she paused, and stood in the hall staring thoughtfully at the wings. “YAH! Gordie Allen — think you’re smart, eh? We all know you’re Gordie Allen.” The words ripped through Gordie’s disguise, and inside the black hood his face turned scarlet with disappointment and rage. Peter Martin was supposed to be a black cat, and he had a long black tail made of stuffed cotton stockings. Picking it up in one hand he swung it at the bat, and Gordie felt the umbrella ribs buckle under the blow. Powerless to retaliate, he turned to walk away, and another blow curled itself round his ankles and he fell to his knees. “Weren’t you scared to come?” went on the hateful voice. “Bet you went all the way round by Main Street so you wouldn’t pass the graveyard. “Bet you’re scared to pass it going home. Remember last year?” “I am not scared,” exploded Gordie, forgetting his incognito. “I’ll go past it any old time,” and he moved away, followed by Pete’s unbelieving laughter. There were witches on broomsticks and owls and ghosts and all sorts of spooky creatures in the big assembly hall, and the decorations were all orange and black, and there was even orange coloured stuff to drink and black candies that tasted much as they looked, and were probably designed to induce dreams of “things that go bump in the night.” GORDIE forgot all about Pete Martin for a while and began to enjoy himself again, but all of a sudden his stomach felt empty and his heart dropped into the void. Pete was nowhere to be seen! Gordie knew what that meant. The party was nearly over. Pete had gone to hide in the cemetery. When Gordie went past he would jump out and scare him. If Gordie detoured it he would broadcast the fact that he was afraid to pass it. Miserable, Gordie lingered in the coatroom as the children left. Finally, last of them all, he started homeward, his battered costume clutched under his arm. As he passed the church his steps slowed, and his ears and eyes strained to catch some forewarning of Pete’s onslaught. The tombstones loomed grey in the darkness to his right, and his footsteps grated loudly on the road. Suddenly, far ahead of him, there was a piercing shriek. He stopped, frozen stiff. Then there came the sound of running footsteps, pounding down the road towards him. He couldn’t move. “Gordie! Gordie!” It was Pete Martin, white-faced and panting. He grabbed Gordie by the arm and cowered behind him. “You should’ve seen it. It flew down out of the sky and landed right beside me . . . it was like a great big black bat with big black wings . . .” GORDIE tried to steady his voice. “Where were you?” he asked. “In the cemetery.” “Yeah — down at the end near the old Tompkins place, where there aren’t so many gravestones. I—I was waiting for you. . . . Come on, Gordie— go round by Main Street with me.” In all his confusion Gordie’s mind was able to realize that this was his great opportunity, if he only had the nerve to use it. “There’s nothing to be scared of in a cemetery,” he said stoutly. “Come on, Peter. I’ll take you past.” He gripped Pete’s arm, which made him feel a little braver himself, and set out. “We’re nearly past,” he whispered to the dragging Pete as the black shape of the Tompkins place loomed against the night sky ahead, and the tombstones on their right thinned out. Pete’s fingers sank into his arm. “Look,” he breathed, and pointed. Silhouetted over the roofline appeared a winged creature, and suddenly it launched itself into space, floating down towards the cemetery. Pete cowered, and a sob of fear shook him. Gordie braced himself. If it was Granny Tompkins practising flying with the wonderful wings she had hit upon, he wasn’t scared of her. If it wasn’t—well, they were nearly past, and the street lamps began in another hundred yards. “Come on,” he said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” And he led Pete on. NEXT morning Gordie fell in beside Granny Tompkins as they came out of church. “Enjoy your party?” she demanded. “Sure did,” said Gordie, and told her all, ending in triumph with the victory over Pete. “You sure are a wonderful grandmother,” he added. “I bet not many guys have grannies that can fly.” Granny Tompkins made no rejoinder, and after a short pause he clutched her arm. “It was you, Granny, wasn’t it? It was you who flew?” The old lady hesitated, and then glanced round to make sure no one else could hear them. “Yes,” she said. “It was your Granny, all right. Thought I’d scare that Pete for good and all. But don’t you breathe a word of it, Gordie.” She shot a frightened glance at the long line of respectable neighbours filing out of church. “Just think how folk would talk!” “He’d never go by it again, day or night,” she added to herself, “if I told him the truth.” She had gone to bed with a headache last night — right after supper. THE END Short Story 3300 words DEAD MAN STEERING by Lewis Evans UNPUBLISHED (Dad always said there was no accounting for publishers who couldn't recognize sheer genius when they saw it!) AHEAD in the darkness, a pair of red and green running lights, canted at a sharp angle, told Pete that a sailing vessel was beating up the Sound towards him. He stuck his head down the cabin companionway and called to his wife. “Ann, there's a yacht about a quarter of a mile ahead. Want to have another try at a night photo?” “Sure.” Ann left the supper she was fixing in the galley, grabbed up the necessary equipment, and came out into the cockpit. “Careful going forward,” warned Pete. “There's a fair sea running.” They took most of their photos from the forward deck of the cabin cruiser in order to keep their own wake out of the pictures. Pete had built a sort of sword-fisherman's pulpit just aft of the anchor bitts. “Don't worry about me,” said Ann, climbing round the edge of the bridge deck. “Concentrate on getting me a good angle and distance.” Pete altered course to pass close to the yacht on her leeward side, so that her angle of heel would present her deck to the camera. Experience had taught him that most yachtsmen liked to see all their favourite gadgets in a photo, and most of these were on deck. Pete cut down the speed, and the little cabin cruiser's exhaust made bobbling noises as her stern squatted and lifted in the quartering seas. He hoped that the motion of the boat wasn't too difficult for Ann's aim, and that their speed in passing the yacht wouldn't be too much for Anne's camera. It would have been better to turn and run with the yacht, but it was too late for that. The green starboard light was abeam, and the flashbulb went off. Pete got a momentary impression of a yawl under plain sail smashing along close-hauled, and then the blackness of the night contrasting with the white flesh left him blind. He closed his eyes tight for a moment, and then opened them, and could pick out once more the flashing lights of buoys and the shore lights a mile away. Ann clambered back into the cockpit. “Not bad,” she commented. “I got it at the end of a roll, so I don’t think the camera was moving too much.” She went below and back to her job as cook, and Pete advanced the throttle and steered for their anchorage at Porthaven, twenty minutes away. The worst of this racket, he thought, was that it looked to the outsider as if his wife did all the work. And so she did, as far as the photography went, but he was learning the job fast and had some outstanding pictures to his credit already. And the boat was his responsibility - its maintenance and navigation, and the selling end of the business too. He had become engaged to Ann during the war, when he was in the Navy and she was a photographer for a small town newspaper. He remembered the first date they'd had after he'd been demobilized. He remembered the canned music in the little restaurant, and the cuba libra on the table, and that he had had to drink it with his left hand because his right was gripping Ann's under the tablecloth. He remembered too how desperately they wanted to get married, and how they had got the idea that had made it possible. “Got a break last week,” Ann had told him. “Had to cover a sailing race for my paper - it was for a trophy the paper puts up every year. I was lucky and got a really perfect picture of the winner crossing the line, and now one of those boating magazines wants to buy it for a cover, and the owner of the yacht wants a dozen big prints.” “Yachtsmen love to have pictures of their boats,” Pete had said. “Guess it's because it gives them something to dream over through the winter.” “Yes, and they never can take them themselves, because they’re always aboard the boat at the most photogenic moments,” added Ann, and Pete had got the idea. “Look,” he cried. “We want to get married and have somewhere to live - the only thing I know is boats, the only thing you know is photography - “ “Not the only thing, Pete,” murmured Ann. “Well,” continued Pete after a pause while his eyes answered that one, “we get a boat out of what I saved in the Navy, and live on it, and follow the regattas and races and sell photos of their craft to owners. Why, we could go South in the winter and keep right on with the job.” And so it had worked out. “Sea-Photos, Inc.” was well established, and the thirty foot cabin cruiser Photofoam was beginning to be recognized and welcomed at regattas and yacht clubs. Pete eased the cruiser into the anchorage, put her into the wind and cut her way, and went forward to drop the anchor. After supper the cabin became a darkroom, and the day’s take was developed and printed. Later, when Pete had worked over Lloyd's Yacht Register and other lists, small prints were mailed to owners, with a price list of enlargements. “That flashlight job we took on the way home looks good on the negative,” said Ann. “I'm going to enlarge it right away.” Night photos were an experiment they were trying out - the novelty might be good advertisement. So far their attempts had been disappointing. He bent over the developer tray with Ann. He still got a kick out of watching a picture emerge on the white paper like a ship breaking out of a fog bank. Slowly the photograph materialized - much the same as the split second impression he had got at the moment of the flash. He made out the yacht's name, Mistress Mine , on a ring lifebuoy on the shrouds. Suddenly Ann drew in her breath sharply, plucked the enlargement out of the developer, slid it into the hypo, and pointed. Her finger indicated the only figure visible on the yacht - the helmsman in the cockpit. “Look, Pete, look!” she breathed. Pete bent closer. The man sat with the long tiller tucked under his arm, and his bare head was slumped forward and to one side, presenting his right profile to the camera. Down his cheek ran a dark smear. “That man's dead,” whispered Ann, and her voice shook. “Get a magnifying glass and turn up the light.” Pete took the lens and peered through it. He couldn't be sure, but it certainly looked as if that dark smear started from a round dark spot on the helmsman's temple - a spot that could be a bullet hole. “But Pete, it's impossible - the yacht sailing straight on like that....” “No, it's not. With a yawl close-hauled and well balanced, and the hold he has on the tiller, even if he is dead - that's what would happen. She'll plough straight on till the wind shifts or she piles into something.” Ann sat down suddenly. “But who – what....?” she began. “Look up Mistress Mine in the register,” ordered Pete. “I'm getting the hook up.” “But Pete,” cried Ann, “you can't handle this. Go ashore and phone the police.” “Meanwhile the yawl piles up and the evidence is lost.” He scrambled forward and hove on the ground tackle. In three minutes the Photofoam was at full speed, bucking the chop in the Sound. Ann came to his side at the wheel, the register in her hands and a flashlight to read it by. “'Mistress Mine , yawl, built 1938 by....'” “Skip that,” cut in Pete. “Who's the present owner?” “'Joseph D. Bartram,'” read Ann. “Oh, Pete, I know who he is - he's 'Little Joe' - he's a sort of successful racketeer. The paper I worked for used to have a lot to say about him. He's always mixed up in something shady like gambling and the black market, but he always keeps just out of trouble.” “Just the sort of guy who'd get himself bumped off,” commented Pete. “But who - ?” began Ann and her voice suddenly lowered. “Pete, the murderer might still be aboard.” “Uh-huh,” said her husband. “But why should we stick our necks out? If it's 'Little Joe' he probably got what was coming to him, and I'm not crazy to meet his murderer.” “Listen, Ducky,” said Pete; “our picture is very dramatic, but it might be a picture of a suicide, not a murder. If we find the Mistress Mine as she was in the picture, and no gun in Joe’s hand or on the cockpit floor, we know it was murder. Personally, I think we may find the yawl, but I don’t think we’ll find Joe.” “Why?” “Seems to me the murderer would plan to tip Joe overboard with a weight to keep him down, and leave the yacht drifting, as though he’d been knocked overboard by the boom in the dark. That has been known to happen to men sailing single-handed. No body, no crime - and no Joe. A perfect set-up.” “How does the murderer get away from the yacht himself, though?” asked Ann. “Maybe we'll be in time to find out,” said her husband. “The yawl carries a dinghy, but that would be missed. To make it a perfect crime he would have to be taken off by a pal in another boat, or better still sail the yawl in close to shore and swim. Then no one need know he was there.” There was a pause while Ann thought it over. “Pete,” she said, “if you're right the murderer must have been aboard when we took the photo.” “He must have been somewhere below,” said Pete. “My guess is he hid aboard, waited till Joe sailed her well offshore, and shot him from the darkness of the cabin.” “Well, what about our flash?” demanded Ann. “What would he think of that?” “I don't know. He wouldn’t see much from inside, especially when the portholes on the side near us were heeled 'way down almost to the water. I don't think he could help seeing a bit of a flash wherever he was. He might have thought we'd raked him with a spotlight for a second. I don't think anyone would think of a photoflash.” There was another pause, and again the girl broke it. “You'll be careful. Darling? If we find the yawl, I mean?” “Of course. You're the only wife I've got.” “I don't know why I married such a madman,” sighed Ann. “If there was any truth in what you said when you proposed,” said Peter quickly, “you couldn't resist my good looks and you were dying to get your hands on my money.” Ann let him have a left jab to the ribs and Pete slid an arm round her and sought safety in a clinch. The Photofoam ran down the Sound on long zig-zags. The breeze was moderating and the water calmer. It was after midnight now, and most pleasure craft were snug in anchorages, so Pete was not surprised when the first running lights he picked up turned out to be those of the Mistress Mine . As the cabin cruiser closed the distance between them Pete switched on his spotlight and caught the yawl in its beam. She was hove to, fore reaching a few yards and then luffing and falling off. “There's a man moving about in the cockpit,” he said. “Get your photoflash and give it to me. We'll be friendly and pretend we think it's 'Little Joe' - what's his other name?” “Bartram,” breathed Ann. Pete leaned beyond the side wing of the bridge and hailed. “Mistress Mine , ahoy! Do you need any help?” “Sounds just too romantic,” he heard Ann murmur behind him, and his brain took a split second off to think what a swell girl she was. “What boat's that?” demanded the man on the yawl sharply. “Take us alongside,” Pete told Ann, “and give me that camera.” He slung it round his neck and clambered forward. “Photofoam , of Sea-Photos, Inc.,” he shouted. “We saw you hove to, and thought you might be in trouble. Mr. Bartram, isn't it?" The direct beam of the spotlight was off him now, but Pete could make out the man steadying himself with his left hand on the cockpit coaming. His right was below its edge; Pete could guess what that hand held. “No trouble, thank you,” the man replied, and Pete felt he could almost hear the fellow's brain racing to explain his position. At length the explanation came out. “I am cruising single-handed,” he said, “and I was cold, so I hove to to go and get myself some warmer clothes and a drink.” He paused, and then asked as if he couldn't resist it, “How do you know my name?” “It's our business to know yachts and who owns them,” said Pete. “We take photos of them, you know. Mind if I take one now?” “Portrait of a murderer,” Pete's brain quoted at him. The flash was over and he was blinded again before the man's reply started. In the blackness Pete moved quickly to one side. He was afraid of a shot. “No - I don't mind a bit.” The words came smoothly and slowly, and Pete's impression was that the man on the yawl had everything figured out now. “How many have you aboard?” the voice went on. “Can't see a thing after that flash.” “Two,” replied Pete. “Myself and my wife.” Only a yard or two separated the craft now. “Come aboard and join me in a drink,” the smooth tones continued. “The boats will be okay alongside each other - there’s little wind now. Come along.” The last two words were edged with insistence. “Hell,” thought Pete. “I'm behind the eight ball now. He’s got to have the camera....” His stomach contracted as his mind added, “and he’s got to have us, too. We're too close - he can get us both if we try to scram.” The boats bumped gently. “Play along, play along with him,” Pete’s mind kept telling him. “Maybe you'll get a chance to slug him or something.” He moored the cruiser fore and aft and helped Ann out of the cockpit. She slipped and he caught her to him. “It’s 'Little Joe',” she breathed. Pete's brain reeled. 'Little Joe' was the murderer, not the victim. Who, then, was the corpse? Bartram was awaiting them in the cockpit, his right hand in the huge side pocket of the heavy canvas hunting jacket he wore. He motioned them down the companionway ahead of him. “Whisky, rum, gin?” he asked. “Glad to have someone to drink with. Sit down, won't you?” Pete sat on a transom on one side of the central table, and Ann beside him. Joe moved past the table on its other side towards the door in the bulkhead at the forward end of the cabin. Beyond it was the galley, Pete guessed. “Whisky for me,” said Pete. “Ann?” “The same, thanks,” said Ann. She looked at her husband, and for a second her eyes crossed. Pete felt that his senses were leaving him, and then he got her warning - 'Little Joe' would probably fix those drinks, the two of them would go out like lights, and he would dispose of them and their films as he wished. Bartram was standing in the doorway, his left shoulder towards the cabin. Pete could bet that the gun was out of that right side pocket now and handy to grab. Bartram smoothly small-talked about the delights of night sailing and his sentences were punctuated by the clink of bottles on glasses. They couldn't refuse the drinks - that would just bring the gun out. They must drink, and go out like lights - out like lights - like a flash.... Pete remembered the way the photoflash had blinded him twice already that evening. He unslung the camera from his neck, and leaned over Ann as he put the sling over her head. “Here, Honey,” he said, “why don't you try a snap of this cabin? It's a swell job.” And he added under his breath, “You flash, I switch 'em.” Bartram placed the drinks on th e table, Ann's, Pete's, his own at the end nearer the galley. Ann stood up. “How about a picture, Mr. Bartram?” she smiled. “'The skipper at home' - that sort of thing.” She raised the camera. There was a pause and Pete imagined Bartram thinking, “One more doesn't matter - camera and all will be at the bottom of the Sound in a few minutes.” “Okay,” said 'Little Joe', leaning back against the side of the doorway, glass in left hand and his right in that side pocket again. Pete's heart sank, but Ann came through. “Put the drink down, if you don't mind. They spoil a photoflash - er - reflections, you know.” 'Little Joe' placed the glass on the table. “Ready?” asked Ann. “One, two, three....” Pete knew she was counting for his benefit and on three he shut his eyes. The flash was still perceptible through his eyelids, and he opened them quickly, reached out both hands, and switched his drink and Joe's. Then he looked up to find Joe passing a hand over his eyes and blinking. Pete copied him. “Some flash, eh, Mr. B?” he laughed. “Well, here's cheers.” He picked up his glass and knocked back about half of it. Thank Heaven it was whisky too - had 'Little Joe' decided on something different that gun would be out with his first sip. He was glad to see Ann fussing with the camera, not drinking. “Mud in your eye,” said Bartram, and to Pete it sounded as though, he meant it. The Sound had a muddy bottom. 'Little Joe' drained half his glass, and noticed Ann's preoccupation with her camera. “Drink up, lady,” he invited. He raised his glass to her. “Here's luck.” With that his knees folded and he crashed down across the table. Pete leapt on him to pinion his arms and yelled the one word “Rope” at Ann. Their haste was from fright rather than from necessity, for 'Little Joe' was out cold. In two minutes they had him trussed up, and Pete broke open the gun he had taken from his pocket. “One shell fired,” he commented. “But who at?” “At whom,” corrected Ann automatically. She was crumpled on a transom, white and shaking. Pete raised her head and kissed her. “Stick with me a little longer. Darling,” he said. “Pull yourself together.” He pointed forward. “There's a big sail-locker in the forepeak - that's probably where Joe hid when the other guy sailed the boat out into the Sound. But who was that other guy?" His eyes fell on a club bag on the port side berth. He started pulling out shirts, a toilet case, an opened envelope. “Ann,” he said, “ever heard of anyone called Victor Marsh?” “Sure,” said Ann. “He's an associate of 'Little Joe's'. He was up on a gambling rap last year. Got off with a fine or something, though.” “Listen.” Pete had the letter out of the envelope. “'Dear Vic: In reference to our conversation yesterday, about your borrowing the Mistress Mine next week end, you can pick her up at her moorings in Flounder River any time Saturday afternoon or evening. Have a good cruise, and don't worry about being single-handed - she handles very easily. Drop into the office Monday and tell me all about it. Joe.'" “Exit Vic,” commented Ann. “Don't let me hurry you, but don't you think we'd better scram? We're not close enough to land for Joe to swim ashore, so he must have been waiting for a pal to come and take him off.” Pete sprang into action. He lowered the yawl's sails, left them lying unfurled, and took her in tow. When they were some three miles on their course to Porthaven he caught a glimpse of a speedboat's white bow and red sidelight as she whipped by a mile away. Perhaps she was going to pick up 'Little Joe'.” By five in the chill dawn a sleepy Porthaven policeman was in charge of the yawl Mistress Mine and her passenger, police headquarters had been notified, and detectives were on their way. Once more the Photofoam dropped her hook. Pete yawned and stretched. “Bed, bed, beautiful bed!” he exulted. “Pete I'm going to develop those last two pictures first. If they're good we're famous.” “Aw Ann,” expostulated her husband, “for Pete's sake-” Ann smiled at him. “Okay; I'll come – for Pete's sake.” The End (Short Short Story) 1000 words (Date unknown. Sometime in the late 1970s or 1980s.) (Unpublished) FLASH POINT by Lewis Evans We on the planet Nereus, who have through these many aeons communicated with each other by thought-transmission, find it limiting to try to express ideas in the antiquated medium of language. However, as my report concerns the planet which calls itself ’Earth' (but which we know as The Flasher) it would seem appropriate, and an interesting exercise, to express the report, this time, in an 'Earth' language. I have chosen the language they called English, for it was, perhaps, used by most of the people responsible for the recent incident on their planet, though had the incident been delayed for a few of their years the Russian and Asiatic tongues might well have been by then the sole surviving languages. It is with this incident that my report is mainly concerned. We have, of course, been expecting it for some time, for these things generally run true to pattern, but the thing happened while the attention of most Nereans was centred on the Millenium Peace Celebrations on The Blusher (which in 'Earth' parlance, ironically enough, is called Mars after, of all things, a war god), and I was, by chance, the only close observer on this planet. My attention was first attracted to 'Earth' by my happening to notice the detonation on that planet of two nuclear explosions in short succession, evidence that the inhabitants had developed their intelligence and ability to the point where they had discovered and begun to make use of that type of energy. These first two explosions, which occurred at almost the same spot on the 'Earth's' surface, were shortly followed by others, of different intensity and at varying intervals and widely separated points. Assuming that the inhabitants of various parts of 'Earth's' surface were, as usual, at war with each other, I thought it might be interesting, and useful for our records, to have detailed information about the steps leading up to the inevitable climax of a nuclear competition, and so, through our normal channels, I arranged to obtain this information. I dispatched, therefore, a thought-conveyor of moderate size to 'Earth' from an orbit where it had been cruising until needed. It landed successfully in a good central position, and immediately went into action, receiving significant thought emanations from various parts of 'Earth', and relaying them to our receiving recorders here. The accuracy and delicacy of this thought-conveyor were well attested, by the way, almost as soon as it got there, by the fact that it immediately absorbed and passed on to Nereus the news of its own arrival. I record the actual item here as a quaint insight into 'Earth' lore, though, of course, it is scientifically ridiculous: “Saskatoon, Saskatchewan (an English language place name): Scientists here announced today that a meteorite ('Earth' name for our thought-conveyors) is believed to have fallen in barren lands near the northern borders of the province. An expedition under the leadership of Professor Hegstein is being organized to ascertain the exact locality of its crater and other scientific data.” (Though hardly credible to us, there is a widely accepted belief on 'Earth' that certain large circular declivities on the planet's surface mark the landing places of what they call meteorites. We, of course, know what really created these ancient craters, and the latest ones as well.) As soon as I began to correlate the information which came in from our thought-conveyor, I realized that my first conjecture had been wrong. The widely spread and sporadic detonations of a nuclear nature were merely the proving of scientific products by various inhabitants of 'Earth' who were, apparently, working independently of each other, and against 'Earth' time. It seems that each group felt that the more powerful and more numerous the items of nuclear energy it had, the less likely would any other group be to use its own stock against them. This state of affairs, with each group afraid of provoking the other, and yet equally afraid of falling behind in stock and power of nuclear energy, continued for some 'Earth' years, until I was almost convinced that the moments I devoted to its observation and record were being wasted, since the outcome was a foregone conclusion. However, curiosity as to the exact manner of the actual impulse which would promote the final incident prompted me to persevere in my observation. The primary impulse was one that appears to be second nature to the inhabitants of 'Earth', and one without which they do not seem able to survive for any extended period of their time – war. A trifling dispute between two small groups over the control of a small area of solid surface surrounded by liquid - or it may have been over a small area of liquid surrounded by solid, for the thought-conveyor did not seem to be able to gather the details, or perhaps did not consider them worth gathering - and all inhabitants of the planet ranged themselves in one or other of the two camps. Some desultory campaigning with antiquated weapons ensued, but each side existed in fear of the other initiating the use of nuclear energy. This situation might have continued until I was sure that the subject was not worth my momentary attention, had not the secondary impulse suddenly occurred. A single individual of one of the opposing groups, while controlling an air-borne vehicle on patrol over a large liquid area, feeling, no doubt, weary of the situation in general and of his own activity in particular, yawned uncontrollably. His primitive pressurized garment became disarranged, he made a sudden movement to adjust it, and triggered a nuclear item which his vehicle carried as a precaution against the surprise use of such by the other group. This item was detonated in the water area without damage to any inhabitants of the planet, but the detonation was recorded by both sides. At once each side assumed that the other had initiated a nuclear competition, and threw all its most potent weapons into the action. The result was an interesting - even spectacular - sight, and I was glad that I had not desisted from my observation a few moments earlier. First one and then another area of The Flasher, or 'Earth', was momentarily illuminated by the comparatively brilliant flashes that inspired our name for it. Beautifully patterned cloud formations occasionally obscured the play of light, and the emanations from our thought-conveyor became weak, confused, and distorted. Undoubtedly some of the larger detonations meant that the surface of the planet was again being pitted by large craters, and it amused me to conjecture that perhaps they in their turn would be explained by 'Earth' inhabitants of the future as the landing places of 'meteorites'. Hardly had it begun when all such activity ceased completely. The surface of the Flasher reappeared, unobscured by cloud or vapour, its well known features hardly altered, but with no illumination of any sort in any place. Needless to add, there was no communication whatever from our thought-conveyor, for a thought-conveyor cannot convey thoughts when there are none to convey. Such is my report of the most recent of such incidents on 'Earth'. Since we Nereans have been equipped to observe that planet, our records show that this is the fifth time that life on 'Earth' has destroyed itself, and, if the established pattern is repeated, in several Nerean years (or 'Earth' aeons) infinitesimal and primitive forms of life will gradually develop, and finally attain to the intellectual standard which is the prerequisite to the 'invention' of nuclear energy. Almost immediately, control of this medium will be lost, and it will once more destroy all life on the planet. If I thought that there was any hope that the pattern might be changed when next the inhabitants of The Flasher approached the flash point, I would be willing to take the time to observe the course of events. It would be an interesting study if they learned to live with and by what they have evolved, and it might even result in our having to discontinue the name The Flasher as inappropriate. (Short Short Story) (1000 words, Unpublished. Date unknown.) THE PLOTTER by Lewis Evans A great B-47 of a June-bug droned in through the open window of the class-room and started making bombing runs at the chandelier. Flak in the shape of Johnny Calder's Geometry book whizzed up and the dazed insect crashed on my desk. He was still alive, so I swept him into my pocket for future reference and was hard at work, like everyone else, when the master on duty stuck his head in at the door to see what the disturbance was. I wondered whether this particular bug was fast on his feet. The night before I had won thirty-five cents in the dormitory when my June-bug had been the first to crawl from the centre to the circumference of a circle chalked on the floor. Then I had sat on him by mistake at Prayers that morning, and so had to build up a new racing stable. The blank pages of the exercise book on my desk caught my eye. Old Hawk-eye, the English master, a guy with the most extraordinary ideas, had been teaching us the short short story in class, and we were supposed to have one written for him by next day. A thousand words to write, and I had not even the first glimmerings of a plot. I could remember most of his lesson, though. “Short first paragraph,” he had told us; “jump right into the middle of action at the beginning. Get some dialogue on your first page if you can. And don’t forget that somewhere in the first third of your story there must be a clue to your surprise ending - your 'kick in the tale'.” That was one of Hawk-eye’s little jokes - the same every year, they tell me. He had droned on about development of tension up to a crisis where everything was right for the crooks or the communists, or wrong for the cops or the Yanks or the British, and then the sudden twist. Oh, I could remember all that, but my mind was still as blank as the pages. The only thing I could think of was how I hated evening preparation in springtime, with the windows wide open and the smell of fresh leaves and grass coming in from the playing fields. “Hey, Johnny,” I whispered. “Lend me a cigarette? I’m going out for a smoke.” Johnny looked impressed - smoking is against the law at our school for some ridiculous reason. He found a battered butt in his pocket and chucked it across. I waited till the master - it was Davies, the Science man, and he's a bit vague or I wouldn't have thought of skipping out - went past again in the classroom corridor, and then I whipped over the window-sill. There was an eight foot drop to the ground, but I knew there was an old plank near by that I could lean against the wall to help me back. I had found it near the carpentry shop and brought it over for just such an occasion. I ran across the quadrangle, keeping out of the splashes of light from the windows, and ducked round behind the dark mass of the gym. There I sat down and lighted Johnny's weed and tried to enjoy life, but that blasted story was still on my mind. Perhaps if I started with the crisis I might get somewhere, I thought. Let's see - the good guy has to be in a jam. His plane's on fire and he has left his parachute at home - no, that's too tough; I'd never get him out of that. Well, he's a paratrooper, and on his way down. He realizes that he is going to land in the shark-infested sea, so what does he do? I don't know. Let's make him drift down over a volcano, and just when he thinks he's done for the hot air from the cone sends him up again; kind of hard to persuade old Hawk-eye there wasn't too much accident in that, though.... Oh, the heck with it. The cigarette was down to the last half inch so I stamped it out and started back. Half way across the quadrangle a familiar voice from the school steps said, “Johnson, come here." It was Hawk-eye in person, having a pipe in the fresh air - a good idea too, if I know his pipes. I started thinking fast and getting nowhere, except closer to him. “What are you doing outside the building during preparation?” he demanded. “Well, sir,” I began, and then I had an idea, a poor thing, but mine own, as someone said before I did. “Well, sir, Mr. Davies told us all to bring a specimen of insect life to his biology class in the morning.” “Yes?” “Well, sir, that's why I'm out here. I suddenly remembered I didn't have one.” “And have you succeeded in getting your - er - specimen, Johnson?” “Yes, sir,” I said, and produced the June-bug from my pocket. “Get back to your class-room,” ordered Hawk- eye. It was too dark to see the expression on his face, but his voice sounded amused. I don't think he liked Davies much. That meant I had to go back by the corridor instead of through the window, but Davies was quelling a noise in another class-room, and I made it without being seen. “Okay?” asked Johnny Galder. “Hawk-eye pinched me in the quad,” I whispered, “but I talked my way past him. I'm all right if he doesn't check with Davies.” As I turned to the blank pages of my English exercise book the bell went for the end of preparation. The next morning in English period old Hawk- eye made us read out our stories. The first two were passable, in a comic-book sort of way; lots of screaming jets and chattering guns spitting death, and stuff like that. Johnny was the third boy he asked, and he had summarized a de Maupassant story in the hopes that Hawk-eye didn't know any French. He did, though, and an afternoon dropped out of Johnny's life forever. Then it was my turn. “I'm sorry, sir,” I apologized, “but I couldn't think of a plot.” Hawk-eye chose to be sarcastic. “You couldn't have written a story with a June-bug as the hidden clue, I suppose?” he suggested in honeyed tones. And as he measured out my doom I thought, “My gosh! I could have, at that!” The End Dad did submit this story for publication but it was soundly rejected with the following note. I include it because Dad thought the note was very funny and he always kept it clipped to the top of his manuscript. NEXT PAGE

PREVIOUS EVANS Arrival in Canada NEXT PAGE This page is about My great-grandfather Francis Evans 1801-1858, who came to Canada from Ireland with his wife Maria Lewis in 1842. They had 12 children, and lived near Simcoe in southern Ontario. Their 11th child was Thomas Frye Lewis Evans 1846-1919, my grandfather, who spent many summers in Tadoussac (see next page). According two other people's research, we are descended from a Welsh Prince of 1000 years ago, and two brothers who moved from Wales to Ireland in the 1400's. Francis Evans 1803-1858 The Evans family house in Ireland ​ ​ ​ The Evans family house is in the middle of Ireland! ​ ​ ​ From the Dictionary of Canadian Biography (slightly abridged) EVANS, FRANCIS, Church of England clergyman and educator; b. 1 Jan. 1801 in Lough Park, an estate near Castlepollard, County Westmeath (Republic of Ireland), son of Francis Evans; m. c. 1825 Maria Sophia Lewis, and they had six sons and six daughters; d. September 1858 in County Westmeath, and was buried in Castlepollard. ​ Francis Evans, a graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, arrived in Lower Canada in 1824, intent on entering the Anglican ministry. His decision to emigrate may have been influenced by the presence in the Canadas of his uncle, Thomas Evans , a soldier. Shortly after arriving he went back to Europe to marry, and then returned to the colony. On 11 Nov. 1826 he became a deacon, was appointed curate two days later to the Reverend Robert Quirk Short at Trois-Rivières, and was ordained priest on 27 Oct. 1827 by Bishop Charles James Stewart . Evans did well at Trois-Rivières, reporting in 1827 that his congregation had grown by one-third since his arrival even though there had been no increase in population. Nevertheless, he accepted a missionary posting to Upper Canada sponsored by the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel. In October 1828 he took his young, growing family to Norfolk County where St John’s, near the village of Simcoe in Woodhouse Township, became his home church. ​ He was the first Anglican clergyman to settle in Woodhouse, even though his parishioners, largely United Empire Loyalists and their descendants, had built the church some years before in anticipation of a permanent appointment. Like most Anglican clerics, Evans concentrated his efforts by ministering regularly to a few settled charges. He attempted, however, to preach occasionally in “every place that it is in my power to visit.” He found his labours well received. In 1830 he reflected, “It is particularly gratifying to perceive that the prejudices against our Establishment which were very prevalent are disappearing most rapidly.” ​ None the less, the privileged position of the Church of England ensured it and its servants a host of enemies. William Lyon Mackenzie , for one, twice publicly portrayed Evans as unfeeling and uncaring, characteristics allegedly typical of Anglican clergymen. In 1836 Evans found himself in the public eye again when Lieutenant Governor Sir John Colborne responded to the critics of the church’s claims to establishment by endowing 44 Anglican rectories, one of which went to Evans. The rectories, and Anglican pretensions generally, certainly helped bring about the Upper Canadian rebellion, which affected Evans dramatically. ​ In December 1837 Charles Duncombe and Eliakim Malcolm, responding to rumours that rebels had taken Toronto, mustered some 400 to 500 insurgents southwest of Brantford. On the night of 12 December Evans led a little loyalist band bearing messages through rebel lines to Brantford. The next day the rector bravely went to the insurgent camp “to expostulate,” as a fellow priest recorded, “with the deluded schismatics.” Evans brought news of the governor’s proclamation promising pardon for those returning peacefully home. For his efforts, he was detained. Fortunately, release came soon when the rebels dispersed upon discovering that Mackenzie had been defeated in Toronto and that forces, led by Allan Napier MacNab , were marching against them. But Evans could not escape controversy. In the trials that followed he testified against several prominent insurrectionists, thereby earning further ill will. On 2 Oct. 1838 a mob occupied the Congregational church in Burford Township to prevent his preaching there. ​ Eventually the clamour faded, and Evans settled back into an all too penurious routine. As was the custom with other clerics he had to supplement his meagre income by teaching. He first operated a boarding-school and began teaching at the district grammar school in Simcoe when it opened in 1839. As a teacher he took special interest in aspiring clergymen. He also laboured earnestly at his regular pastoral duties, establishing some 14 congregations in the surrounding district. He toiled for the Upper Canada Bible Society and spread the temperance message. At the time of his death he was an archdeacon and rural dean of Norfolk County. ​ These toils exhausted Evans. In 1855 Bishop John Strachan , who thought him “an active and zealous Missionary,” warned him that a continuance of his “usual labours” would be too much for him, and he was right. In a futile effort to recover his health Evans holidayed in Ireland in 1858 but died there between 5 and 7 September after spending only a week with a brother and sister. In Canada he left a monument of solid if unspectacular work and a large, well-educated family. Colin Frederick Read AND let's not forget his wife, Maria Sophia Lewis, who probably had a lot to do with the large, well-educated and successful family! She was b orn in Martock, Somerset, England on 1804 to Thomas Fry Lewis and Charlotte Georgina Forter. She passed away on 29 Jul 1881 in (interestingly) Québec City. St. John's Church, Woodhouse, just south of Simcoe Ontario #6 "Another son b 1845" is Thomas Frye Lewis Evans, the Dean who ended up in Tadoussac!>> This document at left was created in the 1950's, and has lots of information about the Evans and Lewis families and descendants. Several excerpts have been shown above if you don't want to read the whole thing! (The document at left is 38 pages and it's a pdf so you can read it - I made page 35!) ​ ​ NEXT PAGE

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

PREVIOUS R Lewis Evans 1911-1988 Betty Morewood Evans 1922-1993 NEXT PAGE Circa 1900 Tadoussac Dad's family before he was born, Dean Lewis Evans (sitting), his first wife May, his 3 children Basil, Trevor (with pipe) and Muriel. On May 7th, 1911, Emily Elizabeth (Bethune) Evans, at age 46, gave birth to her first and only child, Robert Lewis Evans. Her husband, the Reverend Dean Thomas Frye Lewis Evans, was 67 and the father of four adult children and already a grandfather. So baby Lewis entered this world with a readymade niece and nephew, and only nine years to get to know his father. Born in 1911, RLE held by his nephew Miles who was older than he was. RLE with his mother, Emily (Bethune) Evans RLE at Cap a Jack with his Dad Doris Molson and RLE on the beach in Tadoussac Dean Lewis Evans and his (second) family Miles Hudspeth and RLE on the beach in Tadoussac RLE with half-brothers Basil and Trevor Evans, about 1914 RLE with half-brother Trevor Evans, about 1916 RLE with friend Ralph Collyer Dad always loved this photo, with his friend Marjorique sailing a model of a lower-St Lawrence Yawl. Later he owned a boat almost exactly like this one, called the Bonne Chance. There he is, sailing with the dog Fancy. RLE and his dog at the cottage in Tadoussac RLE with his mother, and in a photo by Notman Above, RLE with his half-brothers Basil and Trevor, and father Dean Lewis Evans (Dean of Montreal), at the cottage in Tadoussac. At right on the same day, mother Emily, Kae, Miles and Muriel have joined in. St Stephen's Rectory in Montreal RLE beside Ann Dewart at Cap a Jack ​ RLE worked at a camp at Bon Echo, lots of sailing and building props circa 1930 RLE combining his interest in boats and stage sets! He seems to have mocked up an enormous miniature CSL boat and launched it! Lots of boats! The raft above wouldn't work in the Saguenay, probably above the dam at Moulin Baude, with Harry Dawson, cousin No complaints! RLE on a BOAT with 7 girls Below with the older crowd, tea at Pte a la Croix! Camping at Petit Bergeronnes above, and at Cape Eternity, probably by rowing in a nor-shore canoe Betty Morewood age about 16? on the Saguenay. It looks like Trevor Evans and Bill Morewood in the canoe. This photo was in RLE's photo album from the late 1930's, he married Betty in 1944. Late 1930's, RLE bought a small schooner built in Tancook Island, Nova Scotia, called it the Noroua The Tadoussac gang on the wharf circa 1939, l to r (Mickey) Ainslie Evans (Stephen), Mary Fowler, Marion Strong, Bill Morewood, Barbara Hampson (Alexander/Campbell), Jim Alexander (sitting), Teddy Price, Mary Hampson (Price), Evan Price, Jim Warburton, Jack Wallace, John Turcot RLE taught at Bishop's College School from 1933-1972. Above the only time I've ever seen him on skates much less in hockey gear. Notables include Graham Patriquin, Headmaster Grier, Oggy Glass, and RLE on the right. Mid-1930's, RLE is the coach, and on the team is EM Fisher, son of Evelyn (Meredith) Fisher, she is widow of Jim Williams (died in WW1, see his page). EM Fisher died in 2012. Small world in those days, they were definitely aware of the Tadoussac connection. RLE was a keen skier, coached the ski team at BCS. He broke his right arm badly in the 1930's, and this restricted movement meant he couldn't hold a gun properly (or salute) and it prevented him from serving in WW2. I didn't know about the cool car RLE owned until I went through these albums! He took it to Tadoussac in the winter in the 1939, left, "on the road between Cap a L'Aigle and St Simeon". Above on a sketchy ferry near Portneuf. Left in front of the Prep school at BCS. Below RLE teaching a class! RLE did this drawing of the Noroua and sent it to his future in-laws, the Morewoods, for a Christmas card - what could anyone want more than a picture of his boat! Betty (Morewood) Evans and R Lewis Evans on the beach in Tadoussac circa 1945? married but before kids? 1951 - the Noroua and the Bonne Chance together briefly at the wharf in Tadoussac. The Noroua was sold to someone in Ottawa, shown below on the delivery trip up the river, with John Price one of the crew. (Note I was born on July 4 1951 so I was probably a week or 2 old at this time! I made it to Tadoussac at the end of July, so I'm told) Mum and Dad in 1961 Us kids on a trip to Tad about 1963 Lewis, Tom, Alan, Anne. Lewis Evans in a Tadoussac with Betty 1961 at his desk in the Common Room at BCS and directing a play and all summer on the Saguenay The family in 1975 Back - Lew & Cathy, Alan, Heather, Tom and Rocky Front - Anne, Pauline Belton, Dad & Mum, Ian Kids - Carrie and Ian Belton Wedding of Tom and Heather 1976 Gord, Wilf, Heather, Joan, Gail (all Smiths) Heather, Hank Law, Tom, Suzanne Skolnick Mum, Dad, Alan, Anne, Cathy Kids - Ian and Carrie Belton NEXT PAGE about 1987 in Tadoussac Mum & Dad, Heather and I, and our kids Julia and Sarah R Lewis Evans died in 1988 at the age of 78. This biography is quite random, driven by the photographs that are available. Thus there's a lot missing, and many photos of boats! To be continued... On May 7th, 1911, Emily Elizabeth (Bethune) Evans, at age 46, gave birth to her first and only child, Robert Lewis Evans. Her husband, the Reverend Dean Thomas Frye Lewis Evans, was 67 and the father of five adult children and already a grandfather. So baby Lewis entered this world with a readymade niece and nephew, and only nine years to get to know his father. On October 19th, 1922, Caroline Annie (Rhodes) Morewood, at age 42, gave birth to her second child, Elizabeth Anne (Betty) Morewood. Her husband was her first cousin, Francis Edmund Morewood, who was 5 years her junior. Twenty months earlier, Carrie and Frank had produced a son, William Harold Morewood. On August 5th, 1944, at the Coupe in Tadoussac, 33-year-old Lewis asked 21-one-year-old Betty to marry him. She said yes, and their lives came together on December 27th of that year. Until the Dean died in 1920, the Evans family had spent their winters in Montreal and every summer in their house in Tadoussac, which at that time was the farthest east Price brothers house, later sold to the Beatties. After his death, however, mother and son moved to Toronto for the winter, but still got to Tadoussac each year. Emily must have been concerned that her son should have male role models in his life, so she had him attend Trinity College School – a boys boarding school in Port Hope, ON. Lewis liked the school and had positive memories of it. This is remarkable because on a personal level, these were difficult years. At the age of 14, he was hit by a severe case of alopecia, an autoimmune disorder whereby one’s hair falls out, and over the next year or so, he lost all his hair. When asked how Lewis handled this in an often unsympathetic boarding school environment, one of his classmates said that such was his quick wit that any boy who set out to tease him was swiftly put in his place. Between graduating from TCS and starting at Trinity College in Toronto, Lewis was taken on a European tour by his mother. They travelled extensively and visited many specialists in an effort to reverse the effects of alopecia. The tour was wonderful, the hair did not come back, and perhaps worst of all, they missed their summer in Tadoussac. This was the only summer Lewis missed in his 77 years. It was after this tour that Lewis chose to wear a wig, a decision he frequently regretted especially in the heat of the summer. Meanwhile, Betty, one of Col. William Rhodes’s many great-grandchildren, was growing up in Doylestown, Pennsylvania. She attended the Baldwin School for girls and subsequently Bryn Mawr and University of Pennsylvania. Her family would spend time in Tadoussac most summers, renting rooms in Catelier House (now the Maison du Tourisme) but then, in 1936, her father designed and built a house, now called Windward. From then on, she never missed a summer visit. In 1948, Frank Morewood sold Windward to Betty and Lewis for $1, and suddenly, Lewis, whose mother had died the year before, found himself with two cottages in Tadoussac. He chose to keep Windward, partly because it was newer, partly because it was politic, partly because of its view, but especially because he could see his boat at its buoy in the bay! At university, Lewis had studied English, graduating in 1933, and Betty had majored in business, graduating in 1944. Lewis followed through on his plan to be a teacher, receiving offers from a school in Bermuda and one in Lennoxville. Because Lennoxville was closer to Tadoussac, he started his career in 1934 at Bishop’s College School from which he retired in 1972. He did take a year away to get his teaching credential at University of London where he was delighted to have a front-row seat for the abdication of King Edward VIII and was on the very crowded street watching the parade leading to the coronation of George VI. Any career plans Betty had upon graduation were trumped by her summer engagement and winter wedding... and in the fullness of time, by the arrival of Anne, Lewis, Tom and Alan. She was of the generation when women were mothers and homemakers, and to these functions, Betty added the role of steadfast supporter of all that her husband did, and BCS benefitted from her unpaid and often unknown contribution. For the first 18 years of their marriage, Lewis was a Housemaster. Betty knew all the boys and welcomed them into her home as a matter of course. Every teacher new to BCS was invited to Sunday dinner, and she frequently found herself hosting parties for faculty and friends. She has been called a world-class knitter and a world-class worrier (especially about her children no matter how old they were). Meanwhile, Lewis, who had moved to the Upper School after five years teaching in the Prep, was completely immersed in the life of the school – teaching, coaching, directing plays and running his residences. He was one of the pioneers of ski racing in the Eastern Townships, and spent many hours freezing at the bottom of a hill, clipboard in one hand and stop watch in the other. He was an example of service and character. When he died, one Old Boy remembered him as “an oasis of calm in an otherwise harsh and demanding school.” Indeed, he was. But his contributions went beyond BCS. From the mid-50s until his retirement in 1972, he spearheaded the Lennoxville Players, directing many plays from British farces to Broadway musicals. This was a group of amateur “actors” from all levels of the community who were, like their leader, looking for an enjoyable night out... and all proceeds to go to a local charity. In 1972, Betty and Lewis retired to Brockville, Ontario. Here, they joined Tadoussac friends, Rae and Coosie Price and Jean and Guy Smith who had already retired to this comfortable town on the eastern end of the Thousand Islands. From there, they travelled to Tadoussac – for many years by boat, almost 700 kilometers down the St. Lawrence in their cabin cruiser, Anne of/de Tadoussac. For all their lives, home was where the family was, but Tadoussac was where the family was at home. The village, the river, the tides, the mountains, the beaches, the people, all had a strong hold on their hearts. In late spring, the family would leave Lennoxville before dawn on the first morning after the last teachers’ meeting, and at the end of the summer, they would return the day before the first meeting for the coming school year. After retirement, the summer would extend from the May long weekend until Thanksgiving. An accomplished sailor and boatman, Lewis knew every cove and anchorage on the Saguenay, learned from his own experience, but even more, from local captains whom he respected and adored, and, it would seem, they held him in equal esteem. Over the years, his passion for boats gave way to his passion for fishing. There were many overnight trips up the Saguenay, often to the Marguerite, to fish the falling tide, then the rising, then up early to start again. One can still see him standing in hip-waders off the point above the crib, rod in hand, pipe upside down against the drizzle, as dawn was lighting the sky. Betty and Lewis were practicing Christians, and while their church in Lennoxville tended to be the BCS Chapel, the one that they were most committed to was the Tadoussac Protestant Chapel. Betty’s great-grandfather had been instrumental in its creation, and Lewis’s father, the Dean, had, for decades, been the summer priest. In 1972, Betty, undertook to organise several summer residents to needlepoint the altar kneeler cushions with images of local wild flowers, and for many years, Lewis served as the secretary on the church committee executive. They were also strong supporters of the Tadoussac Tennis Club. Though Lewis played more than Betty, each made a memorable comment about the game. In his later years, Lewis would stand on the court, ready to deliver a flat baseline forehand or backhand (being equally good at both) and declare, “I’ll do anything within reason, but I will not run!” Betty’s line was less attitudinal, but gives an insight to why she did not play as much: “I find every shot easy to get back except the last one!” And then there was golf, which Betty loved and Lewis tolerated, and Bridge, which… Betty loved and Lewis tolerated. Their love for Tadoussac is best articulated in Lewis’s book, Tides of Tadoussac, and his fascination with the history of the place in his fictional Privateers and Traders. Betty and Lewis were amused at the double numbers that marked their lives: Lewis born in ‘11, Betty in ‘22, Lewis graduates in ‘33, Betty in ‘44, marriage in ‘44... so it was not a surprise that in 1988, Lewis died at age 77. Betty survived him just 4 ½ years. Theirs was a great love, a love of each other, a love of family and friends, a love of people and community, and a love of place, and that love of place, of that place, of Tadoussac, has been inherited by each of their four children and by each of their families. God gave all men all earth to love, But, since our hearts are small, Ordained for each one spot should prove Beloved over all. Rudyard Kipling ​ written by Lewis Evans

PREVIOUS WELCOME/BIENVENUE to/à Tides of Tadoussac/ Marées de Tadoussac ​Please send me an email and tell me you saw the site! ​Tom Evans​ tomfevans@icloud.com This site is going to be a home for historic photographs of Tadoussac. Our ancestors came to Tadoussac in the mid-1800's and built a summer house in 1861. Over the years many other houses were built, and the families came to Tadoussac every year. They took many photographs, and together these photos illustrate the social history of the community. I'd like to thank all the people who have shown me their photographs! If you have photos or other historic material you would like to contribute, or any corrections to the information here, I'd love to hear from you! I copy the photos by taking pictures of them with a digital camera, it's fast and easy and non-destructive. If other people contribute to this site it could expand fast! So far I have collected almost 5000 photographs, there are over 1000 in the site, lots of work to do! But it is a pleasure to make these Materials available for everyone to see! I have added French using Google Translate, I apologize if it doesn't always make sense, please send corrections! Faites moi parvenir vos suggestions, vos documents, vos corrections ou vos commentaires à :Tom Evans (tomfevans@icloud.com ) Merci d’avance Ce site est destiné à recueillir des photos historiques de Tadoussac. Nos ancêtres sont venus à Tadoussac au milieu des années 1800 et y ont construit une résidence d’été en 1861. Au fil des années de nombreuses autres résidences ont aussi été construites et d’autres familles sont venues, chaque année, passer l’été à Tadoussac. Beaucoup de photos ont été prises. L’ensemble de ces images raconte l’histoire et la vie de notre communauté. Je tiens à remercier les personnes qui m’ont montré et prêté leurs photos ! Si vous en avez vous-mêmes ou possédez d’autres documents d’intérêt historique ; si vous désirez contribuer à la réalisation de cette «vitrine historique» sur Tadoussac ou si vous désirez faire des corrections aux renseignements qu’elle contient ; il me fera grand plaisir de les accueillir. About 1905 on the Terrien Yacht on the Saguenay - back - Frank Morewood, Bob Campbell (who is he?), Bobby Morewood, his mother Minnie Morewood, Kate VanIffland second wife of Armitage Rhodes. Middle - Sidney Williams and Billy Morewood, Nan Rhodes Williams and Lennox Williams. Front - Charlie Rhodes, ?, Nancy Morewood and Mary Williams Wallace. A l'époque 1905 sur le Yacht Terrien sur le Saguenay Note! 3 young people in the front row have cameras! ! 3 jeunes dans la première rangée ont des caméras! Mid 1860's. The old Hudson's Bay Post on the right, the back of the original Hotel, at the far left can be seen the 5 Price staff houses (they were all the same then, l to r Cote House, Ida's, Hovington's, Stairs', gap where the rectory is now, Beattie's). Also Spruce Cliff (behind trees) and old Brynhyfryd at the top of the bluff, no Barn or beyond. Dufferin House not built yet, the steeple of the old church is just visible above the hotel. Lots of landslides on the bank! Not many trees on the hills! Milieu des années 1860. Bay Post de la vieille Hudson sur la droite, à l'arrière de l'Hôtel original, à l'extrême gauche on peut voir les cinq maisons du personnel Price (ils étaient tous les mêmes; de gauche à droite Maison Cote, Chez Ida, Hovington, Stairs, écart où le presbytère est maintenant, Beattie). Aussi Spruce Cliff (derrière les arbres) et ancien Brynhyfryd au sommet de la falaise, aucune Barn ou au-delà. Maison Dufferin pas encore construite, le clocher de l'ancienne église est à peine visible au-dessus de l'hôtel. Beaucoup de glissements de terrain sur la rive! Pas beaucoup d'arbres sur les collines! Please send me an email. Comments, Corrections, Improvements, Additions, Photos, anything! Welcome ​ Tom Evans ​ 13 Rue Pc Languedoc CP 176 Tadoussac Qc G0T2A0 ​ 200 Clearview Ave #2730 Ottawa ON K1Z8M2 ​ tomfevans@icloud.com Tides of Tadoussac seemed the obvious name for the website, being the name of the book my dad (Lewis Evans) wrote about Tadoussac. We have copies if you want one

R. Lewis Evans was an English Teacher who loved to write. Although his books are quite well-known, his short stories and articles belong mostly to the more distant past. It was during the 1940s and 1950s that magazine short stories were popular and sought after and Dad wrote over 20 of them. Most were published, and many are of interest especially to those of us who know and love the Lower St. Lawrence and Saguenay areas of Quebec, so I decided to get them out of the file and onto the web-site where they can be read once again. I've divided the stories into categories. While he wrote mostly river stories about the Tadoussac area, including some historical fiction, he also wrote 6 stories about World War II (4 of which overlap with our beloved river), and a number of odd inspirations, one biblical, several inspired by newspaper items, and even one (gasp!) Science Fiction. There are also some non-fiction articles which will be coming along later in the year. I love them all partly because he wrote about what he loved and I love it too, but partly because his characters are thoughtful, compassionate and real. I've included a few notes that he kept in the file. Some are news articles he drew his ideas from; others are comments he received from editors either printed in the magazine or sent along to him separately. I've also tried to reproduce the illustrations, duly credited, as all the stories that published were supported by visual art. Only one, Casual Enemy, has no illustrator mentioned. My guess is he drew that one himself. I've read all these stories several times in my efforts to get them up onto the web-site correctly and I've never tired of them. I hope you enjoy them. A fair warning: some readers might recognize a few people! Alan Evans NEXT PAGE R Lewis Evans River Stories You Can't “Go Home China” Tonight (Published December 28th, 1946 in “The Standard” Newspaper) A Short Story By Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY MIKE MITCHELL He'd been thinking of it ever since he felt himself getting old The Eternity Bay would sign him on again and take him home to die AT A TABLE near the swinging kitchen doors of the small town café, old Charlie Sing stared at a page of the evening paper. The supper rush was over and the after-movie rush had not yet begun, and this was the time Charlie usually managed to consume a bowl of his chow-mein himself. Tonight the food lay untouched beside him, and a column of newsprint and a photograph held him under a spell. The photograph showed a smallish white river steamer, her single funnel belching black coal smoke, and the caption ran: “China Buys St. Lawrence Steamer: S.S. Eternity Bay for the Yangtse River.” The column below told how she had come out from Scotland under her own steam in 1910, how she had been laid up for the last sixteen years, how she was to be readied for sea at Sorel, and would make her way across the Pacific manned by a Chinese crew. The paper blurred before Charlie Sing's eyes, and he saw himself back in 1910, a man of thirty landing at Vancouver from an immigrant ship. Ten labouring years – ten lean years of toil it had taken to save that passage money to Canada, and for him at thirty Canada's West Coast had been a land of adventure. He had cooked in mining towns and lumber camps, and he had been chef in private houses in Victoria. He had had his ups and downs, and, he frankly admitted, his passion for fan-tan was responsible for most of the downs. After a few years he drifted east, seeking new worlds to be conquered by. One summer in Montreal he shipped as chef aboard the Eternity Bay , and from then till 1930 when she was replaced on the river by newer, faster, bigger ships he served in her throughout every navigation season. Those were the days — his smooth round face and his little round belly were well known all up and down the river then. He remembered it all well — the night run to Quebec, the gas-buoys in the narrow channels sweeping past to dance in the swells astern, the cat-calls and whistles as they passed the up boat near Three Rivers, the loom of Quebec in the summer dawns, and then the lower river . . . the tang of salt in the cool wind, the blue horizons and the great rolling mountains of the North Shore, the siren salute of the Prince Shoal Lightship as they rounded her to leave the St. Lawrence for the Saguenay, and that great river’s mountain-guarded canyon luring them up the path of the sunset . . . Charlie remembered that from a port-side scuttle in the galley he used to wave his tall white hat to the men on the red lightship as they rounded her, and they would wave back and yell, “Salut, Charlie! — Hi, Charlie!” “HEY, Charlie!” A hand came down on his shoulder. It was the boss. ‘‘Get cracking, Charlie — here comes the crowd.” Charlie stood up slowly. His round face was lined now, and the roundness of his paunch had begun to sag. He was getting old. ‘‘Sorry, boss,” he said, pocketing the newspaper. “I quit now.” ‘‘You’re quitting!” cried the boss. “You can’t do that! Not at this time of night, anyway. What’s the idea?” “Quit now,” repeated Charlie. “Go home China.” “You’re nuts!” exploded the boss. “You can’t ‘go home China' tonight!” “Yes, boss,” said Charlie evenly. “Goodbye, boss.” He went through the swing door and up to his room. His white cap and apron went into the fibre suitcase that held all his worldly goods except his cash, and that, wrapped in a clean white handkerchief, came out of a seam in the mattress. Charlie put on a coat and hat, picked up the suitcase, and stepped out into the night. Till dawn he sat in the station waiting-room with the still patience of his race, his one-way coach fare to the city sticking in his hatband. He had been thinking of going home to China for years now, ever since he had felt himself getting old. He liked Canada, but he didn’t want to die here; something called him to a bare terraced hillside in Hu-peh. It was clear in his mind now as it had been in reality forty years ago. He had tried to go a couple of times, but in the consul’s office they had explained that the wars made it all very difficult, and besides, he had never quite been able to save the price - or to hang on to what he had saved. But here was the old Eternity Bay , his old friend, bound for the Yangtse, manned by a Chinese crew, and a crew must eat. The Eternity Bay would sign him on again and take him home to die. THE Eternity Bay as she eased out of Sorel was not much as Charlie Sing remembered her. Her tricolour funnel was now a dull black, her once white upperworks were streaked with red and patched with grey paint, and the windows and scuttles of her freight deck were boarded over solidly against the high seas she would meet. But the same old Scottish engines, installed on Clydeside forty years ago, drove her smoothly down Lake St. Peter, and once more Charlie saw the gas-buoys, like little red and black men with arms akimbo, go swaying past from bow to stern. In the silver and blue morning they slipped through the narrows at Quebec, and as they approached the lower end of the Island of Orleans Charlie was pleased to see that the ship was taking the North Channel, the old familiar cruise route to the Saguenay. Late that afternoon Charlie leaned on the rail of a deck that had once been forbidden territory to him and his dark eyes probed the rolling contours of the capes for the entrance to the Saguenay. Slowly it opened out, that great chasm cutting through the mountains to the northwest, the fjord that the early explorers had hoped would prove to be a short cut to China - so someone had once told Charlie. Charlie Sing knew there was no short cut to China, but he half wished that when the steamer reached the Prince Shoal Lightship she would double her and head up the familiar channel to the Saguenay. He knew she’d just steam on straight past, though; he knew that for him the longest way round was the only way home, and he knew that he’d miss the whistle salute, the three long blasts and a short one of the old days. ABOARD the Prince Shoal Lightship, Number 7 , Old Alfred Tremblay watched the Eternity Bay develop out of a smudge of smoke off Cape Basque. It was the first time he had seen her for sixteen years, and he had missed her on the river. On she came, her familiar lines becoming more and more sharp to his eyes. He wished he could give her the old three blasts as a farewell, but those Chinks he’d heard had bought her - they might think it was some navigational signal or something . . . he’d let her pass in silence. As she drew abeam something white caught his eye, like a ghost from the olden days, and he raised his binoculars. A little round Chinaman leaned over her rail, waving a chef’s tall white hat. “Le Vieux Charlie, b’gosh!” cried Alfred, and he jumped on the whistle cord. With the echoes of the lightship’s foghorn drifting round her the old Eternity Bay ploughed beyond the waters on which she had spent the best years of her life, carrying towards the Gorges of the Yangtse-kiang a little round old Chinaman already homesick for the canyon of the Saguenay. The End Fisherman's Fancy (Published in New Liberty Magazine, Vol. 30, No. 7, September, 1953) By LEWIS EVANS ILLUSTRATED BY AILEEN RICHARDSON ONE of the ways in which Professor Keith Anson differed from the average bear was in the fact that bears habitually hole up in the Winter, but Keith went into solitary seclusion in the Summer. The observant might have added that there were other differences. Keith, for instance, nearly always walked on his hind legs, bears only seldom; Keith was writing a book on the life and customs of the Montagnais Indians, on which he was regarded as an authority, but while the bears or their forebears may have had an unpleasant, intimate knowledge of the Montagnais, it was unlikely that they would beat Keith into print. Seeking quiet and wanting to be on the spot for any further field work that might be required, Keith holed up in a tiny cottage overlooking the spot where the Saguenay River flowed into the St. Lawrence as it widened toward the sea. The village had once been a trading post, but was now a small Summer resort where single men were much in demand as partners in golf and tennis tournaments, fourths in bridge, and bundlers at bonfires on the beach. Keith, however, bearishly resisted all attempts to draw him into these social studies, and wrote furiously for the further luster of the university that employed him and the profit of the publishers who sold everything he turned out. But even professors sometimes tire of describing the Montagnais papoose’s substitute for diapers, and one evening Keith rummaged for his gear under boxes of bone arrowheads and went fishing. He left his car where the road ended and set off across the rocks to the point from which he intended to cast into the Saguenay current. To get there he had to pass in front of the McLeod cottage, and, watching his footing as he was, it was only as he came almost abreast of its verandah that a chatter of voices brought him to a sudden, self-conscious halt. A cocktail party was going on, and, worse than that, it had overflowed from the house to the verandah and even to the rocks between the house and the river. Worse still, it was a party to which he had been invited a few days ago. He had refused the invitation, for his chapter on skinning knives and the curing of pelts had been going well at the time and he begrudged the hours he would waste. Besides, Mr. McLeod, a retired lumber magnate, was an old bore, or said as much. Furthermore, he, Professor Keith Anson, was scared to death of Janet McLeod. Too often her strong, tanned face, her level gaze, her lithe figure in its expensive resort clothes came between him and a pageful of Montagnais squaws. She fascinated him and he wanted to know her better or forget her completely, but she was always arriving or leaving in her big convertible, and he remembered hearing that she was doing some work somewhere. He assumed that she was probably involved in some social welfare activity, more social than welfare. Certainly on the few occasions that he had met her, last Summer and this, he had felt that she was regarding him as a slum that needed to be cleared. And there he was, with his fly-rod and landing-net, obviously going to fish, and in the Saguenay River where nowadays few sea-trout were taken. TACT and self-consciousness had half turned him back towards his car when he heard his name. “Hello, there. Dr. Anson. Going fishing?” Arthur McLeod was advancing on him, glass in hand, and being obvious as usual. “No; I’m collecting butterflies that nest in tall trees,” was the retort that jumped into Anson’s mind with the speed that had insured his lecture-room discipline, but at McLeod’s shoulder was Janet, in what Keith surmised was a cocktail dress, half pleats and half suntan, and smiling. Keith admitted politely that he was going fishing. “Doubt they'll take a fly in tidal water this late in the season,” said McLeod. “Come, have a drink.” “Thanks, but I haven’t very long before dark,” said Keith, and as he spoke he resented McLeod’s assumption that he was going to use flies. He was, for it was the only kind of fishing that interested him, but had he been going to use a spinner or bait or a worm he would have felt that McLeod had prohibited him. “Well, I think you’re wasting your time,” said McLeod. “The only way to find out for sure is to fish,” returned Keith as pleasantly as he could manage, and he started to move on. “Hi, professor,” came another voice, and a new figure joined the group, carrying an empty glass in his hand and its contents not very well. “What do you expect to catch?” Keith recognized the man as Jimmy Woods, an athletic type whose car was constantly pulling dust clouds through the village as he shuttled from links to courts to pool and back. “I’ll be grateful for anything,” he said mildly, and added, “Even the exercise.” “Come and play a few sets with me at the club, if you want exercise,” said Woods. “No fish in the Saguenay anyway. Haven’t been for years. You’re wasting your time.” “Well, it’s my time,” said Keith. “Do you mind if I get on with it?” He nodded to the McLeods and moved on. “Good luck,” came Janet’s cool, amused voice, and Keith half turned and raised his rod in acknowledgement, and cursed himself for refusing that invitation to cocktails. THE sun was almost down to the purple hills in the northwest, and Keith's long shadow swam over the bare rocks ahead of him. He was heading for the rocky spit round which the Saguenay ebb rushed to fuse with the St. Lawrence, but to get there he had to skirt a little cove. Its waters were black and still, sheltered by the steep rocks that bracketed it, and in Keith it inspired fisherman’s fancies. “If I were a trout,” he thought, “would I buck the Saguenay ebb at this hour of the day? No—I would find some nice quiet eddy in a calm, dark cove like this, and I’d laze around and blow bubbles at some nice-looking trout in pleats and a sun-tan.” With that he clambered down towards the shore-line, slithering over the green and sea-weedy half-tide rocks. To save time he bent a cast to his line before he had left home, and he saw no reason to change the two flies on it, a Parmachene Belle as dropper and a Dark Montreal on the tail. He stripped line off his reel and cast, and cast again, gradually working out till he could reach a boulder awash offshore. Suddenly there was a swirl on the surface that had nothing to do with the tide or his line. With his heart in his mouth he resisted the urge for speed and cast again slowly, carefully. The Dark Montreal landed gently, there was a flurry of foam and the electric thrill that leaped from line to rod to wrist to heart, and the reel sang shrilly. Even as the trout took his line Keith thought, “If I can only play this right—if I can only land him and walk right back past McLeod and Woods, and when they ask me in their obvious way if I’m going home already, I can say casually, ‘Yes—I’ve got what I came for,’ and hold up a three pounder, for he's that if he's an ounce.” The trout tired and slowed and Keith got some line back. Gradually he worked the fish back into the cove, back close to the rock where he had hooked it. Suddenly the trout made another rush, perhaps with the instinct to foul the line in the rock's seaweed, and then there was another flurry on the surface. Keith just had time to think, “His girl-friend's hit the Parmachene Belle. Play them easy and you can give one to Janet and one to the old man—or better still, make Woods eat it raw..." and then the curve went out of his rod and his line swung lifelessly towards his feet, a futile foot of broken cast dangling from its end. The nylon had snapped above the upper fly. Professor Anson made several comments in Montagnais that would have impressed the aboriginals of the region, and reached to his hip-pocket for his fly-book. It was not there. He tried all his pockets, and even as he tried them, he remembered that he had put it in the glove compartment of his car lest a protruding hook should jig him behind the dorsal fin as he drove, as had happened once before. The sun's disc was halved by a black summit up the Saguenay. Ten minutes had already passed since he had left the McLeods. He could not go back so soon empty handed, as if he had given up. He could never admit that he had come without his fly-hook, and his parked car was within sight of their cottage. He climbed above the tide-line on the rocks, and sat down on the gray-white granite. So steep was the slope and so smooth the rock he was afraid his rod would slip into the river if he laid it down, but there was a strange little hole in the granite beside him, and he shoved the butt of his rod into it like a whip in a whip-socket. The sun was behind the hills now, and dusk swept down the river with the tide. A stray pulp log drifted past, and Keith thought of his beloved Montagnais swinging down in their canoes to trade their furs with the French in the bay around the point. It would be just about this time of year that the first ships arrived from France. What chapters of history had this rock he was sitting on known?—the French explorers and traders, the Indians, the Basque fishermen, perhaps even the Vikings before them. Something clicked in his brain almost with the thrill of the striking fish. He leaned over and lifted his rod butt from the little hole. What was the article he had read somewhere? Something by a fellow archaeologist about identifying the Vikings’ settlement by the holes they had driven in the rocks for the spike to which they moored their long ships . . . three-cornered holes they always were, the article had said. Keith Anson peered into the hole in the waning light. A three-cornered eye of rain water winked up at him. HE scrambled to his feet and measured the cove with his eye. A Viking long-ship would lie in it comfortably, even at low-water, and be well-sheltered from the northwest squalls that funneled down the Saguenay from time to time. And why not the Vikings? The fjord-like Saguenay would seem like home to them, even more than the inlets of the Atlantic coast . . . But if this hole at his feet was where the spike for the bow line, say had been driven, there would be another hole on the other side of the cove for the stern lines’ mooring, for they always moored bow and stern. Rod in hand, he started down the rocks to cross the little pebbly beach that formed the head of the cove. Seaweed crackled under his feet and suddenly he was falling, rod instinctively held high. His feet hit the beach, a stone rolled under his right foot and he lurched sideways against a boulder. His upheld rod arm took none of the shock and his shoulder and the side of his head thudded solidly on the rock. He sank to a sitting position, shocked into sickness. “A piece of pig rind,” said a rough voice. “None of your fancy furs and feathers for me. We always carried a few pigs between the thwarts. A bad trouble they were to our feet when we were at the sweeps, and a shifty ballast in a seaway, but we'd brine ’em on this side and they'd see us half-way home.” Keith Anson closed his eyes tighter still and pressed his hand to his ringing ears. A tall, bearded man stood looking down at him. He seemed to be wearing a kind of a skirt, and he had horns on his head. His hand was extended towards Keith, and a little strip of pork rind dangled from his fingers and swung to and fro as he spoke. “It’s the devil himself,” thought Keith, “and He’s come to tempt me from flyfishing. What will Mr. McLeod say?” “A little piece of pig rind,” repeated the voice through the beard. “They think it’s a small fish and they go for its head. You have to hook them on the first strike, though, for they won’t be fooled by it twice.” Keith rubbed his knuckles into his eyes and saw that they really were horns —horns on the side of a helmet. “Oh, there you are,” came a clear voice with laughter behind it, and Keith struggled dizzily to his feet. “I hope I didn’t disturb you,” went on Janet. “If I hadn’t, though, the tide would have in another hour or so. Did you have any luck?” “No,” said Keith. “That is, I hooked two beauties at once, and they took my flies.” “Oh?” Her tone reserved judgement on that one. Then, “And you stopped fishing after that?” “Well, I’d forgotten my fly-book.” “Then hadn’t you better go home—or come back to the house? There’s still a drink or two left.” “Oh no,” said Keith. “I haven’t caught your trout yet. You don’t have a small piece of pork rind, I suppose?” Janet took a step nearer and peered at him in the dusk. “Sorry; I came without my pig,” she said. “Are you sure you’re all right?” She got no answer. It took brains and perseverance to be a professor, and Keith Anson was using them. HIS shoulder muscles shot sparks as he unslung his landing-net, and his head nearly came away with his hat as he took it off to find an old fly with a broken snell in the band. With intense concentration and more luck than he may have deserved he got the end of his broken cast through the ring of the hook and tied a knot of no known design. He groped for his knife and cut a three inch strip from the leather sling of his landing-net, and ran the point and the barb of the hook through the end of the strip. “Watch,” he said, and moved carefully over the rocks to the spot from which he had hooked the trout. With already stiffening shoulder he cast, and cast again. Dimly he saw the swirl where the rising tide washed over the rock, and he cast over it. Suddenly his rod bent and his reel gave line with a screech. Reckless of the rod-tip he gave it the butt and shortened line. Foam flashed white on the black water. His shoulders stabbed at him. “Janet!” he cried. “Take the net. Can you land him?” She didn’t bother to reply but grabbed the net, sat down, and glissaded to the water’s edge. It was too dark for Keith to see the line, and he played the fish by the feel of the rod and the gleam and the sound and the swirls as they neared, disappeared, broke further out, and then so close to the rocks that he could not see them from where he stood. The strain on the line became less alive, more constant. “Now Janet,” he called, and even as he spoke the strain was lessened. She had netted the fish. Then came an exclamation, and more splashing. “You didn’t lose it?” he cried. “Keep a taut line,” called Janet. “What kind of a fisherman are you, anyway?” The splashing ceased. Then, “Give me some slack.” Keith lowered his rod-tip. His head was still throbbing, and dizziness came in waves. “Your line’s free,” came Janet’s voice from the darkness, and Keith reeled in. There was a pause... “Anything wrong!” Keith demanded. “Yes—no—it’s all right. I’m coming up. Reach me a hand.” She scrambled up beside him and held up the net. Its mesh bulged downward with the weight of two silvery bodies. “Two at once,” she breathed. “Do you always fish like this?” Keith gave the trout a passing glance and stared at Janet. Her skirt was wet and green-stained from her slide down the rocks. He hoped her sun-tan was undamaged, and noted there was much less of it in sight than there had been at the party. “I don’t like your sweater,” he said. “I’m sorry,” said Janet. “Oh, it’s a nice sweater,” said Keith, “but I like you better.” “Do you often talk in rhyme?” asked Janet. “Now and then; from time to time.” “We’d better go back to the cottage,” suggested Janet. “A drink might sober you up.” “Well,” began Keith, “I think I'd better get home . . .” “What’s the matter with our house?” demanded Janet. “You refuse our invitation to cocktails, then you come anyway, and go fishing, and now you won’t come in and let me show you off. The party’s over, except for Dad and Jim Woods, who’s probably draining the empty glasses. Come on.” BLINKING over a drink in the brightly-lit McLeod living room, Keith stared at Janet. It seemed to help his head. Arthur McLeod stared at the two trout lying on a piece of newspaper in the middle of the floor. Jim Woods stared at the lure on the end of Keith’s line and refused another drink. Janet stared at her hands which were clasped in her lap, and a little smile softened her mouth and half closed her eyes. “You must come up to our salmon river, my boy,” said Arthur McLeod. “I’d like to see you at work there. Have you ever tried that . . . that thing on salmon?” Keith shook his head and winced. “It only works on trout at certain stages of the tide,” he said, “and—er—under certain conditions.” “But two on a hook!” exclaimed Woods. “I’ve taken two on a cast myself, but two on a hook I can’t believe.” “Smarten up, Jimmy,” laughed Janet. “There’s the hook and there are the fish. Maybe he’s a better fisherman than you are.” Arthur McLeod settled himself back in his chair. “Did you ever read that tale of Napoleon Comeau’s in his book called 'Life and Sport on the North Shore'? It’s a rarity of Canadiana now—I have an autographed copy somewhere—but he tells of an angler on the Godbout River who lost a salmon one day because his line broke at the leader. . .’’ Keith closed his eyes. It sounded as if McLeod was set for the rest of the night. “And the next day,” continued his host, “fishing in another pool on the river, this fellow hooked a fish. He played it and brought it to the gaff, and what do you think? His hook was through the eye of the cast he had lost the day before!” "But one hook . . .’’ murmured Jim Woods, now staring at the trout, who stared right back. “Good night, Mr. McLeod,” he said abruptly. “Good night, Janet. Good night..." and his footsteps faded over the uneven rocks. “Why don’t you come up to our river, Keith?” asked Janet. He shook his head regretfully. “I'd love to,” he said, “but I’m finishing a book against a publisher’s dead line—” “On the Montagnais,” she said. “That’s right. How did you know?” “You told me — me and about two hundred other students, in one of your lectures last Winter.” “But you are not taking my course,” began Keith. “No, I was just curious. But you could bring your work up to our camp.” Keith hesitated. “There’s some field work I should do here. Nothing to do with the Montagnais. I have a theory that the Vikings visited the Saguenay." “You’re not basing it on the spike holes in the rocks, I hope,” said Janet. “Well, yes. Why not?” “I worked that one out a couple of years ago. The Saguenay shores are dotted with those holes. Some of them still have spikes and rings in them. They're moorings, all right, but they were put there for the lumber ships that sailed to the head of the river in the last century. When the wind dropped and the tide turned they held on the steep rocks of the nearest point so they wouldn't drift downstream.” Keith's eyes popped, and Mr. McLeod broke in. “Janet's doing some postgraduate work in archaeology,” he said. “She's doing some research for her degree right now. She spends most of the week messing about over at Basque Cove on the other side of the Saguenay. Claims she has found the site of the Basque fish curing station.” Keith turned to Janet. “I’d like to argue my Viking theory with you,” he said with a smile. Janet's level gaze met his and she paid him the compliment of believing that he knew she was smiling when she was not. “That might be interesting,” she said. “Good night, Mr. McLeod,” said Keith picking up his rod. “Thanks for the drink. Please have those trout for breakfast. Good night, Janet.” “Just a minute,” said Janet, and she followed him onto the verandah. “Here's something of yours,” she said, and held out her hand. Coiled in it were two trout flies, a Parmachene Belle and a Dark Montreal, joined by a length of nylon cast. “Your hook fouled your first cast,” she said. “But why did you—” began Keith. “I didn't like the way Jim ribbed you on your way to fish,” she explained. “I thought a build-up of your skill might be good for him—and you too.” Keith reached impulsively for her hands. “Thanks, Janet,” he said. “Ouch!” “What's wrong?” He held a hand towards the light from the window. The Dark Montreal was barb-deep in his palm. “I’m hooked,” he said. “I think you are,” murmured Janet. The End - A note from the editor!! ® Lewis Evans, who makes his Maclean’s debut with “Deserter’s Tide” (page 20), is a housemaster and English teacher at Bishop’s College, Lennoxville, Que. In publishing his story we may be striking a historic blow for the prestige of Mr. Evans’ profession. Recently, Mr. Evans recalls, he and one of his pupils sent stories simultaneously to the same paper; the pupil’s story was accepted and the teacher’s was rejected. Deserter's Tide (Published in Maclean's Magazine, March 15, 1947) by Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY DUDLEY GLOYNE SUMMERS The northeast extremity of Prince Shoal is marked by a light vessel moored on the alignment of the Saguenay River leading lights, 4.4 miles distant from the front light. The vessel is painted red with the letters Prince Shoal No. 7 in white on each side. The vessel has two masts and carries a red ball at the maintop masthead.—St. Lawrence River Pilot, 1943 edition. CAPTAIN ALFRED TOMLINSON leaned over the counter of the lightship and his gaze followed the path of the Saguenay River as it reached between purple capes toward the sunset. It was nearly the end of his last season as master of the vessel, for he was old. He would retire to his little house in Tadoussac—he could just make out the lights of the village there, four and a half miles away at the mouth of the Saguenay, as they rivalled and gradually overcame the last of the daylight. He would be content there. Well, except in the northeasters he would be content. When the northeast winds drove fog and rain and heavy seas up the gulf he would be able to hear the minute-spaced moans of the Prince Shoal lightship’s foghorn, and often the deeper roar of some ocean freighter feeling her way between the St. Lawrence reefs toward the deep waters of the Saguenay, and he would not rest well in his little house ashore. But in the long summer days old age would be pleasant. There would be gossip on the steps of the general store, and there would be the summer visitors, always curious and asking questions in schoolbook French. They were always so surprised at his English name, when he and his family were as French Canadian as any Savard or Lapointe in the village. Some of them had run into the French Canadians with Scotch names around Murray Bay, McLarens and McLeods and Blackburns, and knew them for descendants of the soldiers disbanded by Murray and Naim after the fall of Quebec, but he always tried to explain that his story went back a little farther still. Strange name for a Canadien, you say? Yes . . . but Tomlinson of Tadoussac was a most unusual man! Slowly the lightship swung her stern away from the afterglow of the sunset and toward the darkness of the Gulf. A few pulp logs, tumbled from some schooner’s overloaded deck, drifted past. The ebb current was beginning. “An hour and twenty-nine minutes after high water,” old Alfred thought automatically. He did not marvel at the clocklike accuracy of the tides any more than a landsman is surprised at the punctuality of the sun, but he did have a feeling that he would miss these familiar swings of position when he was sitting out his old age on his cottage veranda. Perhaps he would keep a tide table by him and figure out from time to time just how the lightship would be pointing. It was so easy now – you could learn all about the river from the tide tables and pilot books. He'd never even heard of a pilot book when as a boy he'd learned his pilotage from his father – the Tomlinsons had been seamen for generations – but things were changing these days. Maybe he'd apply for a license next season, and run a salmon weir off the beach. If he felt he had the energy, he would. He'd always liked the idea of being a fisherman. The navigable waters of the St. Lawrence between White Island and Points aux Orignaux are divided into two channels, known as North and South Channels. These are separated, abreast of Riviere du Loup and Cape Dogs, by a bank which runs for a distance of about 24 miles, in a northeasterly and southwesterly direction, from White Island Reef to Hare Island Bank. On this bank are White Island with Hare Island North Reef, Hare Island with the adjacent Brandypot Islands, and Hare Island Reef with the islets which surmount it. THE night of June 22, 1759, was moonless and still. John Tomlinson, on anchor watch aboard the Goodwill transport, leaned over the bulwark near the bows and listened to the current plucking at the anchor chain. The ship had just swung around with the tide, and now her upflung bowsprit pointed like a challenging spear up the river toward Quebec, the French stronghold which was General Wolfe's objective. Quebec, however, was said to be over 40 leagues away and all John Tomlinson could see ahead in the gathering dusk were the masts of the Richmond frigate stabbing the sky, and beyond her again the low humps of the strangely named Brandypot Islets. To his right and ahead the long low curve of Hare Island looked like a great whale basking on the surface of the waters. From the Richmond the click-clock sound of caulking mallets, which had been going on since the vessel had come to anchor, now ceased with the descent of darkness. She had opened a seam above her waterline in the stormy weather encountered in the Gulf. Astern, John knew, were the Vanguard and Centurion, men-of-war; and somewhere farther down the river the flagship Sutherland with the General himself aboard her. The whole fleet was waiting out the darkness at anchor, for the French pilots tricked aboard down the river were not to be trusted. Old Alfred Killick, master of the Goodwill transport, would not let the pilot assigned to him have any say in handling the ship. He trusted no Frenchman, he claimed, and with a leadsman in the chains and himself on the foc's'le speaking trumpet in hand, he navigated the Goodwill into and out of the Shoal Island anchorages himself, judging the course by the set of the currents and the color of the water. A great navigator, old Killick, thought John, and a fine seaman. “If I must sail in this fleet, there's no one I’d rather sail under —but I should never have sailed at all.” He hunched his shoulders over the high bulwark. Three hours of his watch lay ahead of him, three hours for bitter thoughts of the happier past. John Tomlinson had been a fisherman, owner of his own boat sailing out of Plymouth; and in a heavy storm last winter he had struck the sands and lost her. Another craft had picked him up and put him ashore and he had sought revenge on fortune in the gin shops. There he had been picked up by a press gang and had awakened in the foc's'le of the Goodwill bound for Louisburg, which had been an English fortress for nearly a year now, thanks to this same General Wolfe. John was a seaman through and through, but he had been master of his own vessel, and now to be a mere unit in a watch galled him beyond bearing. He wanted his freedom, to make his own living by his own skill—by fishing. At several places on the journey up the estuary he had been filled with longing, for afar off along the shore he had seen boats tending nets. Fishermen were fishermen, whether French or English—when they weren't smugglers. John had been both in the English Channel, and he had met both. If these Frenchmen of the New World had anything in common with their brethren of Normandy and Brittany, John Tomlinson had no fears about getting along with them, and the idea of deserting this stinking, overcrowded transport had bedevilled his mind both day and night. But Admiral Saunders was no fool; he had suffered from deserters before. The fleet made no anchorages close to the mainland, but sought shelter only in the lee of barren islands. “Four nights ago it was Bic Island,” recounted John miserably to himself; “then two days off Green Island because of wind and a strong ebb tide, and now these godforsaken reefs and rocks and clumps of trees.” Only this afternoon, during the flood tide, six soldiers had leaped overboard from the Richmond and swum to the Brandypot Islet which was nearest Hare Island, thinking no doubt that it was joined to the larger island and that they could lose themselves in the bush there until the fleet had moved on. John and others aboard the Goodwill had learned from the poor frightened French pilot that the islands were joined only at low water; and sick at heart they had watched a boat pull away from the Richmond to the shore, and the Marines spread out across the islets like hunters beating for hares. The evening had been full of shouts and shots, and at last the boatload of Marines had rowed slowly back to the frigate – just the Marines. Vessels shelter northeastward of the Brandypots. The holding ground is good … In Brandypot Channel the ebb stream begins one hour after high water . . . the rate of the tidal streams is from 2 to 31/2 knots. BITS of driftwood, floated off the islands and reefs by the high tide, swept past the bows of the Goodwill in the ebb stream. John Tomlinson watched them idly at first, and then with attention. “That's a powerful stream,” he thought. “Being the ebb tide, it must run for six hours anyway. With a boat a man could be clear of the whole fleet long before the stream turned . . .” He continued to watch the flotsam as it whirled past, imagining himself keeping pace with it along the length of the transport's deck, and trying to figure its speed. Suddenly there was a rasping, a bump, and a swirl of water below him. He peered down. Something had fouled the cable and become wedged between it and the bluff bows of the transport; and the current fought with this new obstruction. John was about to call his watchmates to help him clear it, when curiosity prompted him to have a closer look, alone. He threw a glance over his shoulder. The bulk of his watchmates were below the break of the foc's'le huddled together and talking. They could have heard nothing. In a flash he was over the cathead climbing down among the complicated stays that secured the bowsprit to the stem of the ship. Hanging a few feet above the swirling water he could make out the object more clearly. It was a rough raft of planks that the Richmond’s men had floated alongside to stand on while they caulked that seam. They had left it moored alongside, and it had come adrift. John lowered himself till he was hanging by his hands from a stay, and his feet reached the raft. He kicked gently and the corner wedged against the ship's stem came free. He dropped onto the raft and fended it off from the bows with his hands. The high sheer of the Goodwill transport slid past him, and then he was alone in the darkness. To John's relief the raft's course paralleled the reef, edging in toward it and giving the rest of the fleet a wide berth. He had no desire to be a target for musketry. Soon those ships too were lost in the darkness. It was an uncanny feeling, for once the anchored vessels were out of sight he did not seem to be moving—the raft and the water in which it floated were as one, and there was no way of telling how fast they were moving over the bottom. “At least,” thought John Tomlinson wryly, “I am master of my own vessel once more.” He fell to examining his craft, more by touch than by vision. It appeared to be made of three great pine planks stoutly lashed together, designed to support two men provided their weight was evenly distributed along its length. John's groping hands searched along its edges and found what he had hoped for, the trailing length of rope that had been used to moor the raft to the Richmond’s side. He hauled it in and coiled it on the raft. It was, perhaps, 20 feet in length. John settled down to consider his position. He was adrift in the middle of a great tidal estuary 20 miles wide, and he had no means of controlling his craft. He did not regret his impulse to desert. He felt he had nothing to lose. With his fishing boat destroyed he had no stake in England, and as for Quebec—well, rumor had it that the French fortress was impregnable, and that the expedition in general and James Wolfe in particular were mad. John Tomlinson wanted no part in the fire ships and shot and shell that would no doubt greet the fleet as it laid siege to the capital of New France. No, he was glad he had left the Goodwill, but he wished that he had had the same chance when the fleet was nearer one shore or the other. Well, it was his job to navigate his vessel, and he must put his mind to it. What would old Alf Killick have done? The set of the currents and the color of the water . . . The water around him was black and mysterious, now silent and smooth, now breaking into ripples and swirls that he knew must be crosscurrents; but in the darkness he could tell no more. He could do nothing till dawn but swing his arms and rub his hands and legs to ward off the chill of this northern night. The first grey light filtering into the sky over the Gulf found the raft revolving aimlessly in confused and choppy waters. Malevolent little waves broke along its sides and kept John wet and chilled to the bone. As the light increased he stood up and tried to mark his position and progress. The raft had drifted downriver a mile or so beyond the end of the long spine of reefs of which Hare Island and the Brandypots formed the highest points. The ships were still plainly visible; and even as he watched, sails began to drop from the yards, and he could imagine the clacking of capstans and the tramp of feet on the deck as the fleet weighed in haste to make use of the favorable northeast wind and tide. Downriver, one lone spit of yellow sand appeared to be the only land between him and the Gulf—Red Islet, he had heard Killick call it as they had sailed past. The flood stream, on coming with strength from the South Channel, flows westward through the whole breadth of the passage between White Island Reef and Red Islet. At its strength it predominates and crowds the flood in the North Channel over against Lark Reef. THE northeasterly breeze increased in strength, but the low sun offset its chill, and John Tomlinson's clothing began to dry. He thought of Killick conning the Goodwill from the foc's'le and he studied the surrounding waters with attention. Those about the raft, off the tail of the reefs, were greenish, suggesting shallow water, and confused with current swirls. Between the raft and Red Islet, however, the waters were blue with ripples in the sunlight. There, thought John, the water must be moving against or across the wind. He stripped off his clothing and slid over the side. Kicking his feet strongly he propelled the raft before him. After two intervals when he had to climb back on the planks for rest and warmth he was in the rippled blue water. He climbed aboard and as he dressed himself he took careful bearings on several points on the distant shores. Then he crouched on the wet boards, trying to keep dry and trying not to think about the hunger that was becoming more and more demanding. When he judged half an hour had elapsed he again stood up and checked his bearings. The raft, he found, was now traveling westward, toward the mountainous left bank of the river which looked much less friendly than the lower levels of the right side. At any rate, he was moving shoreward, and he called down a blessing on old Killick. The northeast breeze was stiffening as the sun rose higher, and soon waves kept the planks continually awash. John gave up the struggle to keep dry, and later, when the raft was swept well into the north channel and he sighted a branch drifting on a parallel course some 30 yards away, he did not bother to remove his soaking shirt and breeches when he lowered himself into the water. He struck out for the branch, found it, and started back, pushing it before him. For a desperate moment of panic he thought he had lost his raft, but the waves breaking over it betrayed its position, and he regained it. The branch was a sorry substitute for a paddle, but John snapped off its smaller twigs and fell to work trying to help the raft along in its chosen direction. His exertion kept him warm, but after two hours’ steady paddling he was exhausted, and the mounting waves forced him to crouch and hold on with his hands if he was not to be washed away. A new sound gradually intruded upon his attention, he swayed to his feet and made out a low ridge of sand and boulders on which the waves were smashing. The raft was drifting toward this reef, but too slowly for his liking. Solid ground, even a reef, would be a welcome rest from the bucking raft. John plunged into the water and started kicking his raft in toward shore. At last it grounded in the surf and he staggered onto the sands, clutching the end of his length of rope. When he had rested he hauled the heavy planks beyond the breakers, collapsed on the sun-warmed stone, and slept. Lark Reef, a large extent of drying ground, is composed of sand and boulders . . . Along the eastern edge of the reef are stony ridges which are the last to cover on the rising tide. SPRAY dashing over his face woke John Tomlinson from his brief sleep. He struggled to his feet and his first glance was for his raft. One end floated, lifting to the waves, but the other was still grounded on the reef. He took stock of his position. The ridge on which he stood had dwindled to a width of a few yards and a length of some 30 paces. Confused seas all round showed where other ridges had covered and were being pounded by the waves. The northeaster had settled down to blow, and grey scud blotted out the sun. Sea birds wheeled and shrieked, and a flock of plovers, forced by the tide from lower banks, swooped to land on the extremity of the spit. John stooped for a stone. A shrewd throw into the midst of the flock left one bird flapping in a circle, a wing trailing, as the rest soared off with startled whistling. John pounced on the creature, dashed its life out and tore at its flesh. By the time he had got all the sustenance he could from the bird the waves were washing over his ridge, and he prepared to take once more to his raft. He poled out of the breakers with his branch, and finding the waves far greater than those earlier in the morning, he lashed himself to his planks with his length of rope. The ebb from the Saguenay River sets strongly over Lark Reef, and on meeting the ebb stream from the St. Lawrence sets up very heavy tide rips. For several hours the raft drifted aimlessly, incessantly buffeted by the short steep waves of shallow waters. Sometimes John, sounding with his branch, touched bottom, and prayed for the tide to fall and uncover enough land to give him shelter from the seas. In his heart he knew, however, that there was no prolonged safety on the reef – it would cover again at the next high tide, and that would be at night. The idea of repeating his present situation in the darkness appalled him. Finally a groping with the pole on the bottom showed him that he was moving rapidly – caught in a strong tidal stream. Soon his branch lost all contact with the bottom, and he knew he was being carried into deeper waters. For the first time real fear crowded into his mind. If the ebb carried him into mid-river he was lost. He knew that he could not survive the exposure of another night on the raft in such a wicked sea. Desperately he scrambled to his feet, swaying, falling, trying to keep his balance for a few seconds. On the North Shore a great canyon in the hills had opened to view – the gorge of some important tributary river, he realized. To its right he could just make out some dwellings circling a bay. If only he could get to the mainland somewhere near them! Again he gave his attention to the waters surrounding him. To his left they seemed smoother, and he realized with a surge of hope that there must be an eddy there caused by the reefs, its waters calmer because they were moving with the wind, not against it. He grabbed up his branch and paddled furiously. Slowly the unwieldy raft approached the line of foam that marked the edge of the eddy. Then his branch snapped. John lunged for the lower and longer piece, but the tide swept it out of reach. The raft revolved, half in one current, half in the other; then the powerful ebb stream took hold and swept it seaward. John crouched in the welter of waters, sick at heart. Waves seemed to rush at him from all directions, and all his strength was concentrated on staying aboard the raft. A great roaring came into his head and he thought his sanity was leaving him, but looking up he saw that he was being swept toward a wall of whiteness, where waves walled up and broke in confusion, and the next moment the raft was in the tide rip. John remembered the Goodwill sailing through one off Green Island, and how the whole ship had shuddered as it hit the battlefield of currents. He prayed that the lashing of the planks would hold. He fought for breath. The raft bucked like a horse, and tipping sharply, rolled him off. Clutching the rope, the end of which was made fast about his waist, he hauled himself back. A whirlpool caught the raft, which whirled around its outer circumference for moment and then slid in toward the vortex, gyrating madly. One end of the raft was sucked down, the other canted into the air for a second, and John again struggled to keep his head above the surface. The whirlpool faded, overcome by other current forces, and John hauled himself in on the rope once more, to find himself attached to but one of the three planks. The lashings had parted, and the other two had whirled away in the current. He got his arms over the plank and hung on. He doubted if he could have hauled himself onto the raft even if it had remained intact. Water temperatures in the St. Lawrence... Freezing temperatures were found at six fathoms, in midsummer, between Prince Shoal and Red Islet, where the cold temperatures are brought to the surface by the shoaling of the channel. Gradually the buffeting of the seas diminished, they became more regular, and the roaring of the tide rip receded. Suddenly it came into his mind that the water was less cold, that he felt it less. He reached a hand down and pinched a thigh. He felt nothing. He was getting numb. It would creep upward he knew, until it reached his shoulders and arms, till he no longer could hang on. A little block of wood bobbed in the waves before him – and another, and another. Little blocks of wood all in a neat line. Tie them together and make a raft. There's a length of rope with them already – all very convenient. Mustn't let the plank foul them, though – fishermen never foul nets. Nets take a lot of repairing. John Tomlinson came back to consciousness with a sense of familiarity, for every labored breath he drew was redolent of fish. He struggled to sit up, and slithered back among shining cod. A bearded man, steering with a great oar as the boat drove before the northeaster, smiled briefly at him and went on steering. “Would you have something to eat aboard?” croaked John in the coastal French he knew. The bearded man motioned to a basket under a thwart. Between munches of an enormous crust, John explained his position. The helmsman smiled. “The more of you to desert, the better for New France,” he said. “We welcome emigrés.” Tadoussac village is situated on a semicircular terrace of sand and clay at the head of the bay, which is backed by high rugged hills of granite. The village contains three churches, one of which is the oldest in Canada, having been erected in 1747. OLD Alfred Tomlinson, captain, retired, set the tiny ship model on the shelf in the Chapel of Saint Anne and stepped back to regard his handiwork. It was complete in all detail, down to the neat white lettering “Prince Shoal No. 7” on the red topsides, and up to the red ball at the maintop masthead. The model was a thank offering for a long life preserved from the dangers of the river. Old Alfred's glance shifted along the shelf to a ship model placed in the chapel in 1763. It was a heavy three-masted square-rigger, bluff in the bows, and her bowsprit raking upward at a sharp angle. On its stand was carved, “Goodwill—A. Killick, Master.” “Wonder why he wanted to remember the name of the captain of the ship he deserted from?” mused old Alfred. “And I wonder what the initial ‘A’ stood for?” He knelt a moment and thanked Saint Anne for all the John Tomlinsons and Alfred Tomlinsons that had been mariners on the St. Lawrence out of Tadoussac for nearly two centuries. Then he left the chapel and trudged with his old man's slow gait down toward the beach to inspect his salmon net. The End Home is the Sailor (Published by THE MONTREAL STANDARD, Date unknown) By Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY GEORGE RAE Marie had her choice between two sailors and did what many other women have done before. OLD Alphonse Savard pushed back his chair from the Sunday dinner table and started ramming home-grown leaf into his pipe. The room, kitchen and living-room combined, was hot from the stove and noisy with chatter. The windows, opaque with condensation, shut out the rawness of November weather. Alphonse liked to see the room that way, warm, comfortable, and alive, but his eyes as they drifted over the table littered with the confused remnants of the meal, showed anxiety rather than pleasure. There was his daughter, Marie-Laure, laughing at something dapper little Raymond Dubec, sitting beside her, had just said. Across from them sat Donat Brisson, shifting his long legs uncomfortably under the table, and saying nothing as usual; and as usual his eyes never left Marie-Laure. Donat Brisson was speaking for once. “No, Raymond,” he was saying. “My ship may be slower than yours, but she carries more cargo, and it’s cargo that pays.” “But it takes you half the season to go the hundred and fifteen miles from here to Quebec,” returned Dubec. “Where’s the money in that?” Brisson said nothing, and Marie-Laure laughed—unnecessarily, thought her father. Dubec’s exaggeration was not very funny. Alphonse shifted in his chair impatiently. He could not understand that girl. When Donat Brisson visited her she was natural and friendly, but as soon as Dubec appeared she became silly and laughed at nothing. She was not like his two older daughters, both married now, to farmers like himself. Sensible and steady they were, and always had been, and when good men had come courting them they had known what to do about it. But then they hadn’t been as pretty as Marie-Laure — nothing like. RAYMOND DUBEC was talking now, boasting of the new diesel engine in his schooner, and the speed it gave. Alphonse regarded him unfavorably. He was from higher up the river, a Baie St. Paul man, and his Sunday clothes were town clothes and unusual in St. Simeon, a blue suit with a light stripe, a gaudy tie, light brown shoes, and when he arrived he had been wearing a dove-grey fedora hat. Alphonse did not quibble about Raymond’s color scheme, but he felt strongly that town clothes were for townsmen, and here in St. Simeon—well, they might take a young girl’s eye, or even that of a woman like Selina, who ought to know better, but as for him . . . He turned to look at Donat as Raymond’s voice droned on about how he had cut down the time of this trip and that. Donat wore a pair of high leather boots, nail-studded, stout work trousers, a blue turtle-necked sweater, and a jacket that showed signs of rough wear. “He looks like a schooner man,” thought Alphonse with satisfaction, “and by gosh, there is no better captain on the North Shore. He knows the river.” “Dubec,” Brisson said suddenly, “we both have to make a trip to Riviere du Loup tomorrow, to load cement and bring it here for the new dam on the Riviere Noire. I bet you that my ship is the first back at the St. Simeon wharf, and with more cement aboard.” Raymond Dubec paused before replying. “Your ship can carry more than mine anyway,” he said reluctantly. “C’est entendu,” returned Donat. “What I mean is that I will not cut down the size of my load for the sake of speed. Each schooner will carry her full load.” “And you bet you’ll get back before me?” Raymond’s voice was mocking again. "What do you bet?” “I bet you the profits on the trip," said Donat, “and—” he turned to Marie-Laure and lifted his shoulders, “and perhaps Marie-Laure can add something ...” His voice trailed away, embarrassed. NO ONE in the room could mistake his meaning, least of all Marie-Laure. She looked from him to Raymond and back again to Donat, and knew that his challenge to the man was also a challenge to her — to make up her mind. She was about to speak when her mother said, “Marie-Laure!” It was a warning, she knew. It meant, “Take your time. Make no rash promises.” But the two men were waiting. She had to say something. She compromised. “What I will add the winner will find out,” she said, and threw each a man a smile that he could interpret for himself. Raymond Dubec got up, found his dove-grey hat, and said good-bye to Madame Savard. She smiled warmly, shook his hand, and told him that he was always welcome. Her whole expression implied that she hoped he would win the race — and Marie-Laure. He then shook hands with old Alphonse, and the girl went with him to the door and outside. As she came in again, Donat Brisson spoke hesitantly and shyly. “Marie-Laure, would you like to go for a walk with me, up the hill a little way, perhaps?” She looked at him curiously. "Raymond has gone to his schooner,” she said. “Are you not going to get yours ready?” “My schooner is ready. We’ll sail this evening.” “But he'll get the start of you” broke in Alphonse. “You’ll never beat him if you don’t start now.” “The cement will not be delivered to the Riviere du Loup wharf until tomorrow morning,” said Donat. “If I get there before then I will just have to wait. I can sail at midnight and still be there in time, and — I’d like to walk with Marie-Laure.” Without a word the girl picked up a coat and the two went out. WHEN Marie-Laure and Donat returned from their walk Alphonse met them at the gate. “If you’re going down to the village, Donat,” he said, “I’ll give you a ride in the rig.” “Don’t bother, Monsieur Savard. I will walk—” but Alphonse was already half way to the stable. Suddenly Marie-Laure pointed down towards the village and its wharf. A schooner had backed out into the river and was swinging round. “There goes Raymond,” she said. Donat smiled at her. “It’s not who leaves first, but who comes home first,” he said. “And that was a nice walk.” Marie-Laure’s face was thoughtful. Her eyes never left the schooner far below, and the patch of foam churned up by the screw gradually lengthened into a long fading ribbon before she spoke. “Donat,” she said, “I have known you a long time, and I think you are a good man. I am very fond of you, and of Raymond too. But I do not know that I want to spend all my life in this village...” Donat Brisson too watched the little ship fading into the greyness. He sensed the importance of saying the right thing now, and his honesty fought with his desire to please the girl with an easy promise. The sound of the horse’s hooves on the stable flooring warned him that he must hurry with what he had to say. He straightened up from the gate on which he had been leaning and grasped the girl’s arms above the elbows, swinging her to face him. “Marie-Laure,” he said slowly, “you will not marry the one you are fond of; you will marry the one with whom you are in love. My work is on the river, and this village is my home, and I love you. None of those things will change.” He kissed her quickly and hard and let her go as Alphonse led the horse out of the stable. Marie-Laure stood still for a moment, looking at him, and then turned towards the house. The two men drove in silence until they were almost down to sea level and half way to the village. Then Alphonse turned to the young captain. “How can you hope to win against Raymond Dubec?” he demanded. “He has the faster ship.” Donat Brisson looked up at the sky, and then out over the river. “Wind's northeast,” he stated. “By tomorrow there will be fog. Unless I miss my guess the river will be blocked solid, and the navigation season is over. The government steamer went up a few days ago picking up the buoys as she went.” “And Dubec's a Baie St. Paul man,” mused Alphonse, as they approached the wooden covered bridge over the mouth of the Riviere Noire. “Yes, Monsieur Savard,” said Donat. “It won’t be a . . .” He stopped, for the horse's hooves and the wheels made such a hollow thunder on the rough flooring of the bridge that he could not be heard. Then they were out on the road again and climbing up into the village. “It won’t be a case, of speed,” he resumed. “It will be a case of local knowledge.” It was too dark when Donat Brisson's schooner left the wharf for Marie-Laure, watching from a window of the farmhouse, to see more than the white stern light. Far out in the river another stern light, shrunk to a pin-point, winked and vanished, and she knew that Raymond-Dubec had rounded Hare Island. ONE HAND behind him on the wheel, Donat Brisson leaned his head and shoulders out of the wheelhouse window and watched the two men on the deck near the bow. One was using the sounding line, and after each cast of the lead the other would make a signal with one arm or the other, and Brisson would swing his wheel. Sealed in a cold, wet fog, his schooner, La Belle du Nord , was paralleling the south shore of Hare Island, and her captain was using the old trick of running on the five fathom line. Whenever a sounding gave less than thirty feet he would alter course to port, away from the land; whenever the line showed more than the five fathoms he would close the land a little. For well over an hour Brisson had been skirting the nine mile length of Hare Island at half speed, sounding as he went, and never once seeing the land. He had decided to gamble on his skill and the sounding lead and try a short cut, Hare Pass, a narrow channel between the end of the island and Hare Island Reef. This would save him the five mile detour round the reef and was, he felt, his only chance to keep ahead of Dubec's faster ship, which must be overhauling him even now as he searched for the entrance to the channel. La Belle du Nord had completed her loading and left the Riviere du Loup wharf first. This was due mainly to the teamwork of Brisson, and his crew in loading, and the power and efficiency of the donkey-engine at the foot of the mast. “Dubec could not have left more than half an hour after we did,” reckoned Donat. “If he has kept wide of the island and used his speed he should be up with us.” His hand reached behind him to the engine-room telegraph, and he swung the lever to “Stop.” The vibration died away as the answering signal rang in the wheelhouse, and the schooner drifted slowly forward. The two men up forward were listening too, and one waved and pointed astern. Donat could hear it too — Dubec was using his speed all right, going full out by the sound of it, but he was not wide of the island — he would pass close to La Belle du Nord. Fleetingly Donat wondered if it were skill or ignorance that steered Dubec so close to Hare Island, but his thoughts were mainly concerned with the figures that came back to him from the leadsman — four-and-a-half and four fathom depths, and he had not turned shore wards. Donat knew what that meant — he was off the mouth of the Pass, and here was Dubec almost on top of him. If Raymond saw him heading through the Pass he might follow his lead, and then could easily beat him across the remaining half of the river to St. Simeon. “But,” thought Donat, “I can’t keep on or turn seaward till he's out of sight, or I'll never find the Pass again. I must stay here ...” He shouted an order to the men up forward and waited, listening to Dubec's approach. Then he leaned out of the window and jangled the brass bell that hung in front of the wheelhouse. A toot came from the siren of Dubec's schooner, now close astern, and her motors slowed as she cautiously approached La Belle du Nord . Dubec appeared at his wheelhouse door, and his voice came plainly over the water. “What's wrong? Waiting for a tow?” Donat Brisson stuck his head out of the window. “Engine trouble," he shouted curtly. “You can't win a race with your hook down,” jeered Dubec, and added something that Donat drowned with another jangle from the bell—the signal of a vessel at anchor. DUBEC’S SHIP drove on into the mist and was obliterated, and Donat rang for slow speed ahead. Two minutes later the leadsman called “Two fathoms!” and with only four feet of water under her keel La Belle du Nord cautiously entered Hare Pass. The odd length of chain Donat had ordered lowered through the hawse-pipe to fool Dubec into believing her to be anchored still dangled under her forefoot. “No bottom!” came the next shout and Donat rang for full speed. Hare Pass behind him and his mind already wrestling with the next problem. Out of the shelter afforded by the island the schooner rolled heavily in the gray seas, and the northeast wind drove the fog across her in clammy drifts. The rising tide would be pushing his ship upstream. Donat knew. He must allow for that on his compass, but how much? In the navigation season he would have been able to judge by the strength of the sounds of the two foghorns, one to the west of St. Simeon on Cap Saumon, the other to the east on Tête au Chien, but these were silenced for the winter. He must drive on, guessing at an allowance for drift, and hope for a lucky break in making his landfall. La Belle du Nord plunged on and Donat watched the compass and the clock. In a dense fog it was not a comfortable feeling to know you were headed at full speed towards the land, and as the forty minutes he judged it would take from Hare Island to the mainland dragged more and more slowly towards their end Donat was sorely tempted to slow down. Slowing down now might well lose him the race, but keeping on might lose him the schooner. The lead was no use to him here, for the North Shore was steep to, as they say – it dropped steeply into deep water, and the lead would give no warning until too late. Well, he had calculated forty minutes; he would stick to that. He would be a poor sort of captain if he could not trust his own judgement. Then the forty minutes were up, and the nervous void in his stomach turned back to normal as Donat stopped the engines. There was nothing ahead but the fog and the grey seas, but he sensed that the land was near – the smell of the wet earth mingled with the salt tang of the river. As the sound of his engines died from his ears another sound, like an echo, took its place. Raymond Dubec's schooner, downriver and a little farther out, was approaching the land at full speed. “The wharf,” thought Donat desperately, “it may be ahead of me, or upstream, or downstream to starboard. How can I tell? And Dubec is catching up everything I made by taking the Pass.” The sound of Dubec's engines drew abreast of the now stationary Belle du Nord , but downstream from her, and then ceased. He too was listening . . . and drifting closer to the shore than Donat. “Blind man's buff!” muttered Brisson “He may stumble on the wharf as soon as I. It's a matter of luck ...” FROM somewhere ashore, over the schooner's starboard bow, there drifted a faint rumbling sound. Donat listened tensely, racking his brain to identify it. It ceased for half a minute, and there came again. With a great leap of his heart Donat laughed aloud, swung the telegraph to full speed, and turned the ship downstream. Dubec's schooner was between her and the wharf, and La Belle du Nord passed within twenty yards of her rival. Dubec could see the chain still dangling through the hawse-pipe and into the water, and even Madame Savard would not have approved of his comments. A minute later Donat saw the black bulk of the wharf loom out of the fog. Word of the race must have gone round the village, for a small knot of people in the lee of a shed raised a faint cheer as La Belle du Nord drew alongside — all but one, a girl, who raised a hand in a single wave, and kept silence, waiting. Donat rang “Finished with Engines” and leapt ashore. On the wharf he paused a moment, looking at Marie-Laure before going to her, and as he paused he heard the exhaust of Raymond Dubec’s engines. The cheer had placed the wharf for him, and he was coming alongside. Then Marie- Laure smiled, and Donat felt as though the sun had broken through the fog. SUPPER was over in Alphonse Savard’s kitchen. Much of importance had been said during the meal, but it had all related to the future. Now Marie-Laure, sitting beside Donat with her hand in his, chose to bring up the past. “Donat,” she said, “we on the wharf could hear the schooners coming close, and then stopping to listen. Then you came straight to the wharf. How did you know where it was? You could see nothing.” Donat Brisson smiled at her, his old shyness still lingering in his eyes and voice. “I happened to hear a sound I recognized,” he explained. “A horse and cart crossing the covered bridge over the Riviere Noire. That bridge is down the shore to the east of the wharf, and it sounded pretty faint, so I figured the wharf must be between my ship and the sound.” “Local knowledge,” murmured old Alphonse at the head of the table. Through the customary haze of smoke he glanced at Selina. Now that Marie-Laure’s mind was made up her mother was accepting the match with a good grace, and busying herself cheerfully as ever about the stove. Alphonse ordered the younger children to bed, and looked back at the couple at the table. He liked the look of his future son-in-law. A good man, Donat Brisson. He knew the river. The old man's mouth creased into a wrinkled smile around his pipe-stem. That afternoon, driving homeward after taking Marie-Laure to the village, he had heard the sound of the schooners off-shore. It was not for nothing, then, that he, Alphonse Savard, had trotted his horse and wagon three times back and forth through the covered bridge. The End Strange Anchorage (Published in The Montreal Standard, Date unknown) by Lewis Evans ILLUSTRATED BY MENENDEZ THE NORTHEAST wind was beginning to pile up a sea along the North Shore of the lower St. Lawrence as we swung the Dancing Lady broadside to the waves and reached into Basque Cove. George was up forward ready to drop the jib and lower the anchor. From somewhere in the twilit woods ashore I could hear someone using an axe or perhaps a heavy hammer – slow, measured blows. Half way up the cove, where the chart gave five fathoms, I shoved the tiller down and the tiny schooner came up into the wind, all sails slatting. Down came the jib, and George let the kedge go on the run, the chain rattling over the bow chock. As he paid out the slack I went forward to lower the foresail. George made fast and silence fell over the cove, only broken by the water sounds and the flapping of the mainsail. The hammering on shore had ceased, I noted. There was an indescribably swift whip through the air, something nicked one of the main shrouds, ripped through the sail and buzzed angrily off into the sea. “Don’t look now,” said George, “but someone is shooting at us.” He was flat on deck as he spoke, and as he had served in British M-L’s against E-Boats in the North Sea I figured he knew what he was talking about. I crouched beside him, wide-eyed, and felt very large. “Could be an accident,” I whispered, though I could almost have shouted without being heard ashore. “A hunter, maybe . . .” The rifle ashore put a full stop to my words and another slug droned over the boat. “Let’s get out of here,” said George urgently. “We’re not welcome.” Crouching on his knees he started heaving in the chain hand over hand. I crawled aft to the cockpit and backed the mainsail. As George yanked the hook off the bottom he let it hang and got the jib up. The Dancing Lady spun on her heel and reached for the mouth of the bay, felt the lift of the open water and the full force of the breeze, turned down wind and ran. George got the anchor stowed, set the foresail, and came aft. “I came cruising with you for a rest from the stress and strain of war,” he said. “What goes?” “Take over,” I said. “I’ve got to set the running lights.” I crouched in the shelter of the cabin doorway to light them, and told George about the hammering I'd heard as we entered the bay. “That lets out the idea of a careless hunter,” he said, “even if the second shot wasn’t enough. No one chops trees and shoots seals or what have you at the same time.” “Might be bootleggers,” I suggested. “They wouldn’t want us round, but I didn’t think there was much in that racket on the river since the war.” There was a pause, and then George said quietly, “Let’s find out.” “I’m not sailing back into that bay,” I stated. “One air vent in my mainsail is plenty.” “We passed another bay just before we came to Basque Cove. If we beat back offshore and anchor there we could investigate along the shore, and be gone by morning. No lights, though.” I squatted in the doorway and thought of dark and hostile woods and shivered. I looked at George bulking against the darkening sky. His very shape inspired confidence - he is short and wide and reminds you of a good-natured bear. He seems a slow mover till you see him on a football field or in a boxing ring, and then your mind is changed for you - and quickly. A good guy to have on your side, you feel, and if he turned up on the other you would be inclined to be very polite to him. I realized that if I didn't go back I’d regret it in all the bravery of safety later on, and I doused the red and green lanterns I had just lighted. THE DANCING LADY turned and, heeled well down, started smashing into the waves on an offshore tack. It was cold - or so I persuaded myself to account for my shivering. “Can we find that bay?” asked George. “What's it called, anyway?” I turned a flashlight on the chart. “Anse à la Puante - Skunk Cove,” I replied. “How sweet,” commented George. “We'll have to come in close when we're off Basque Cove, and parallel the shore. It'll be hard picking it out, but I’d hate to go into the wrong one.” “So would I,” said George emphatically. “What's inland from Basque Cove?’’ “The coast road runs along the top of the ridge. It's fairly well travelled. The chart marks a farmhouse or two on it above the cove - they must be visible from the river, or it wouldn't bother.” “We can't count on lights from them if there's dirty work going on,” said George. An hour later, with the foresail furled to kill our speed, we were heading towards shore somewhere, we thought, near Skunk Cove. It was black night, and we hoped that we would be able to pick up the line of waves breaking on the rocky coast before our keel took the ground. At the bow George was hanging onto the jib stay and being drenched to the knees by each wave we smashed. Suddenly he was beside me in the cockpit, slamming the tiller down. “ ‘Bout ship,” he snapped. The Dancing Lady came up into the wind, pitching hard, and fell off on the other tack. George pointed. Across our previous course, perhaps fifty yards away, moved a steady tumble of white water - the bow wave of a fairly large craft. We could hear the beat of her diesel above the wind and sea. “No lights,” said George. “No - look!” A shaft of light sprang out from the vessel - an ordinary coaster, she seemed to be - and searched the shoreline. It hovered on a rocky point, and we recognized it as the one to the east of Basque Cove. “That's a break,” I said. “If we come about again we can probably make our bay on the next tack.” The coaster's light went out, but as we were beating for Skunk Cove it blinked on again and we could see that she was entering Anse au Basque. WE CREPT into the strange bay, spilling wind from the mainsail. George had the lead going up forward, and at a whistle from him we came up into the wind and he let the anchor chain run through his hands. It went in silence that way, except for George's muttered comments as some of the skin of his palms went with it. We crawled about in the dark, furling the sails loosely and leaving everything ready for a quick exit. Then we dumped the plywood pram over the side. “What about the shotgun?” I suggested. “Think we ought to take it?” George considered. “No – we'll be bushwhacking - it’ll be a nuisance, and we'd probably not have the nerve to use it anyway. A flashlight each, and a dark sweater for me instead of this sweatshirt.” We rowed ashore and found a pebbly beach, stepped out and carried the pram a few yards up it, leaving it bow to the water and the oars ready to hand. We crept over the shale, cursing the shifting, uneven stones, and reached the rising rock of the main shoreline. We climbed, groping forward and bumping our knees. Soon we were into the bush that crowned the point, and there the noise of the wind in the trees covered our confusion. We broke out on the Basque Cove side, and my face dripped blood where branches had raked it. Below us, at the head of the cove, a light glimmered dimly. Faintly up the wind to us there came an irregular, hollow tumbling sound. “What's that?” I whispered. “My heart beating,” said George. “Come on.” We shinnied down the rocky slope and reached the beach, which was sandy and silent to walk on. George led the way to the cover of bushes on the inland side, and we crept forward towards the noise. He stopped suddenly and I bumped into him. “Logs,” he whispered. “That coaster's loading pulpwood.” “Well, so what?” I returned. “Let’s go home.” “People don’t ship logs in pitch darkness by choice,” he objected. “There’s something screwy.” “It wouldn’t be you?” I suggested, stumbling after him as he cut inland through the brush of the steep slope. Just as a new noise became audible he brought me up short again in time to prevent me walking slap into a wooden structure. “A log chute,” he whispered. “Slides them down the hill and drops them right into the coaster's hold.” I ran my hand over slippery, peeled poles, and nearly lost it as another four foot pulp log slithered down the trough. “Maybe the hammering was someone working on this. What now?” “We find out where they come from.” We climbed the hill, guiding ourselves by the chute, the scraping of the logs covering our groping footsteps. Perpendicular streaks of light showed ahead and we dropped to all fours. We could hear the bumping of logs landing on the head of the chute. Then a gasoline motor started up, the streaks wavered and faded, and the logs stopped coming. “Truck going for another load,” I whispered, but George was already on the move. Above us there was the black loom of a barn, between the loose planks of which the light had been visible. We crept round its side and saw its sliding doors gaping wide. We could still hear the truck motor - it seemed to be on the coast road, off to our right, and there was the bump of logs being loaded. “The chute goes right into the barn,” George whispered. “They drive the logs in and start them sliding.” “Nice set-up,” I murmured. "Convenient and private.” GEORGE grunted and moved across a cleared space of coarse grass towards another black shape - a small farmhouse. We rounded its corner and stopped dead. A blade of light stabbed out over a sagging shutter, seven feet above the ground. George went down on hands and knees and I stepped onto his shoulders and peered through the chink. It was an ordinary farm kitchen - big black and silver stove, cheap deal table, a mess of left-overs from a meal, a couple of chairs. In a wooden rocker by the stove sat a girl. Polo coat, blue slacks, saddle-shoes - you didn’t need the lipstick and page-boy hair-do to tell you she was no farmer’s daughter. She sat utterly still, her eyes wide and her face drawn with fear. I dropped down, drew George to the angle of the house, and told him, my mouth to his ear. “No one else in the room?” he breathed. “Not that I could see.” “Let me look.” Down I went and winced under George’s hundred and eighty pounds. Ten seconds later we were back at the corner of the house. “You missed something,” he whispered. “Corner by the window—man’s foot and the butt of a rifle he has across his knees. Don’t blame you for concentrating on the girl, though,” he added. “She’s a wow. Let’s get her out.” “Here comes the truck,” I said, and we ducked back to the wooded slope behind the barn. As the truck unloaded and the logs slid down the chute we made a plan. It was so simple I doubted it. “It’ll work,’’ said George. “He’ll be coming out of light into darkness.” The truck backed and turned and bumped off for another load. We went back to the house. George stepped to the window and knocked on the shutter. “Cheer up,” he said loudly in English. “We’ll get you out of this!” THE MAN in the room was no fool – he wouldn’t open the shutter with the light behind him, he couldn’t douse the light and still watch the girl. He jumped out of the room and bolted the door on her, opened the house door and ran out. I threw myself at his knees in a football “clip” and he grunted once as he sailed over me and hit the ground, once again as George landed on him and a third time as he got George's left jab under the jaw. I picked up the dropped rifle, George unbolted the door, and the girl was with us in a flash. The three of us hit for the woods behind the barn, and tumbled panting to the ground on the slope. “What goes on,” demanded George. “Who are you?” returned the girl. She spoke English with a trace of French accent. George told her why we were there, short and to the point. “They're highjacking pulp that belongs to the company my father manages,” she said. “I was driving home by myself from a visit in Tadoussac, and I saw the truck loading from the piles along the road. Our trucks, which take it to our mill down the coast, don’t work at night. I stopped and asked them what they thought they were doing and the first thing I know I had a gun pointed at me and they ordered me into that house. That seems like hours ago.” “Sure it's your pulp?” I asked. “I know it is,” she stated emphatically. “They sled it out of the woods north of here in winter. Ours are the only cutting limits for miles.” “Where's your car?” asked George. “Barn, maybe,” I suggested. “There's plenty of room. I’ll find out.” I started up the slope. “Watch out for that truck coming back.” warned George. “Gosh! I forgot Joe - they'll see him lying out in front. I'll get him while you see about the car.” We were both back inside a minute, George dragging an inert and heavily breathing Joe. “Car’s there,” I said. “No keys, though.” “Here comes the truck,” said the girl. We slithered down the slope, dragging the unconscious man. The rifle kept getting in my way, and I chucked it into the undergrowth. The logs started coming down the chute again, and half way to the shore Joe grunted and started to struggle. I heard George hit him again and he went back to sleep. “Let's fix this chute,” said George, and from his voice you could tell he was enjoying himself. He started heaving at a pair of the log supports. I put my shoulder to the trough and the whole thing suddenly gave, sagged sideways, and came apart at a join. Pulp logs tumbled into the bush and started to pile up. A shout drifted up from the beach. “I’m a moron!” muttered George. “We should have done it between truck-loads and they wouldn't have noticed for a while. Come on!” A flashlight - two - probed the woods below us, and we froze. They were climbing to check the chute. I CROUCHED under the trough well below the break and as the first man came abreast I grabbed his ankles and pulled. He crashed with a curse and I jumped on him. Only then it flashed on me that I'd been a fool - I should have let the first go on uphill to meet George and tackled the second, who was lunging at me. George grabbed a stick of pulp four or five inches thick and slung it end first through the air at the second man. It took him fair in the chest and you could hear ribs crack and the breath drive out of him. My friend and I rolled over and over down the slope till brought up by a leg of the chute. With the heel of my hand I slammed his head up against it and he lost interest. George grabbed a log of pulp four or five inches thick and slung it end first through the air. The three of us cut diagonally through the bush for the corner of the bay. The girl was game, but the climb over the point seemed interminable. As we struggled through the spur of bush the branches stabbed and tangled and clung, and she sobbed from sheer exhaustion and exasperation. On the far side I chanced using my flashlight to pick out a path and without a word George picked the girl up like a child and followed me down to the beach. “You two in the pram,” said George. “I'll swim,” and he plunged into the water. He got to the schooner as soon as we did and squelched forward to manhandle the anchor. I sweated up the main and in a matter of minutes we were sailing out of the bay. “We'll beat down the coast till we’re out of hearing,” I suggested, “and then start the auxiliary and head for the mill. O.K.?” “Yes, let them clean up the Basque Cove boys - I’ve had plenty,” said George through chattering teeth, and he scrambled into the little cabin in search of dry clothes. He tossed out a blanket and the girl wrapped herself up in it. My silence worried her. “What’s on your mind?” she asked. “That poor guy George mowed down with the log,” I said. “He may be dead.” “He may,” she agreed. There was a pause, and she spoke again, very quietly. “You realize, don’t you, that he was swinging at you with a ‘croche’ when George hit him?” Now a ‘croche’ is a sharp steel hook and is used for handling pulp logs. I felt suddenly sick, and it wasn’t the motion of the boat. THE DANCING LADY was curtseying to the dawn when George came out of the cabin and we all saw each other properly for the first time, scratched faces, bloody and dirty, torn clothes, battered hands. The girl laughed. “I’m not sure I wasn’t in more respectable company ashore,” she said. Her lipstick was smeared across her cheek, her hair tangled with pine-needles and twigs, and somewhere she had picked up the makings of a black eye - and still she was attractive. Seeing the look on George’s face I handed him the tiller, kicked the auxiliary into life, dived into the cabin, and with a hefty swig of the ship’s rum as breakfast I crawled into a bunk and left them to introduce themselves. The End Short Story 5500 words And Never Brought to Mind No Date and Unpublished - (Dad, or the publisher, or both, thought this story needed "back-dating to put it before the time of air and truck transport on the north shore.") by Lewis Evans The newspapers had great fun with the story at the time, for it is not often that a big river steamer piles up on a Lower St.Lawrence reef and still less often that she is saved from total destruction by a craft almost small enough to be picked up on her lifeboat davits. The headlines ran the gamut from the factual "Grounded Steamer Saved by Tiny Yawl" to the figurative "Mouse Saves Lion", but every account printed during the nine days' wonder missed the heart of the story. The reporters concentrated on the two vessels when they should have been interested in the two captains. They are both dead now. I see by the papers that Captain Boucher of the Orleans died a few weeks ago; Marjorique Gagnon, owner, captain - and often crew - of the yawl Marsouin , which means 'porpoise', has lain for some years under a wooden cross in his home churchyard. His funeral expenses were a charge upon the village. Marjorique was a scrawny little French-Canadian, bleary of eye, with a thin, hawk nose, a straggling moustache, an almost toothless mouth, and very little chin. He was illiterate, very poor, and my great friend. Long before I knew him he had somehow come into possession of the forty foot yawl Marsouin - heaven knows by what strange and possibly shady circumstance, for he never had the cold cash to purchase even her mainsail. In the summer season he used her to take tourists and fishermen from her home port, Tadoussac, up the Saguenay River or up and down the St.Lawrence. Sometimes he was chartered for a day's picnic, sometimes for a two weeks’ fishing trip, and that was how I had come to know him. My family had a summer cottage in the village and used to charter the Marsouin sometimes. I was crazy about boats and hung around the yawl all the time until I became a fixture; Marjorique got a willing and unpaid deckhand, my family felt that I was learning French, and I was in a ’teen-age heaven. One Sunday afternoon early in the season, just when the river boats were starting their summer schedule, Marjorique and I were aboard the yawl at her buoy in Tadoussac Bay. He was tinkering with the old truck engine that was the Marsouin’s auxiliary, and I was pumping out the old boat’s none too sweet bilge, when I saw, over the distant line of the reef which guards the mouth of the Saguenay, the white blur of the steamer coming down from Quebec. "There's the boat," I told Marjorique. "She’ll be in in an hour." Marjorique climbed out of the cockpit for a look. "It’s the Orleans ," he said; "and we're going over to the wharf to meet her." Most people in Tadoussac who have nothing better to do go down to meet the boat in the afternoon, but Marjorique and I usually had some job aboard the yawl, if we were not out with a trip. We were not much in the habit of meeting the steamers, and I was surprised. "What are we going to meet her for?" I asked. "I've got to go over these mooring lines." "Because she has a new captain this trip," said Marjorique. "Get your mooring lines and work on them in the cockpit while I tell you about him." I got a line that needed an eye-splice in the end and sat down near Marjorique as he went on with his work on the engine. His stories were usually worth listening to - tales of the old schooner days, or lumbering or hunting, told with the simple vividness that seems to be the gift of uneducated people. "It was last December," he said, "and there was far more ice in the river than is usual for that time of year. We had a very cold autumn, you remember. Well, Captain Samson of the Hare Island , the ship that makes the last trip with supplies to the villages on the North Shore before the river is closed for the winter, put out from Quebec on his usual run. Down past here, somewhere off the Seven Islands, he ran into fog and plenty of ice. He wasn't too sure where he was, and the ice was getting heavier all the time, so he turned back." "All the way back to Quebec?" I asked. "Yes," said Marjorique. "He was English." Marjorique never bothered to conceal his low opinion of any river man who was not a French-Canadian. A man not born and brought up on the St.Lawrence could never know it like a French-Canadian, he contended. I once reminded him that one English captain. Cook by name, had led a fleet of sixty sail right up to Quebec so that General Wolfe could take it from the French, and that although the said captain had had no charts he had not even scraped a keel. Majorique had simply replied that that might be so - he could not say, for he had never met this Captain Cook. So this time I let the implied slur on my countrymen go by. "When Samson got back to Quebec," he went on, "there was great excitement. Without those supplies in the Hare Island the North Shore settlements might starve before the river broke up in the spring. The directors of the steamship company tried to make Captain Samson sail back, but he refused. No one could make it, he said. The ice was already too thick; the ship might be lost, and he had a wife and family. The directors were frantic. The villagers could not be left to starve. Someone mentioned Adelard Boucher - he was captain of one of the smaller boats of the line, and he lives in Quebec in the winter. They sent for him. Could he take the Hare Island down the North Shore? Boucher said that he could, but he would not. They asked him why. 'Because Christmas is coming,' he said, 'and I wish to spend it at home.' The directors offered him five hundred dollars for the trip, and still he wouldn't go. They made it six hundred, and he agreed to take the ship on one condition. What was that? That if he got through they would give him command of the Orleans this summer, their newest and biggest passenger steamer. Well, the company's prestige was at stake, and maybe their government subsidy too - I don't know. Anyway, they promised him the Orleans . I hear they have given her former captain a port job. He was getting old." Marjorique paused to relight his pipe. He always smoked while working on the engine. I suppose I was too young or too ignorant to be frightened at the possibility of explosion. "Boucher took the Hare Island ," he continued, and left Quebec on the seventeenth of December. He got inside the ice below Seven Islands - " "How?" I interrupted. "Why did he make it when Samson couldn’t?" "He knew before he left Quebec the fog couldn’t last. The northwest wind prevails at that time of year, and it was bound to come soon. He knew too that there was a spring tide on the twentieth, and when there is a strong ebb the discharge from the Moisie and other rivers helps move the ice offshore - he counted on that and the offshore wind. You don’t learn that stuff from the Pilot Book. "Anyway, he got inside the ice and landed his cargo at all the villages. On Christmas Day he smashed his way out to the open water of the Gulf, and then sailed all the way down to Halifax and left the ship there for the winter. He came back to Quebec by train. He was home by New Year's Day. The directors were very happy and they have kept their promise and given him the Orleans . We are going to the wharf to pay our respects to Captain Boucher." "Smart fellow, eh?" I said. "Ever met him?" "Ever met him?" echoed Marjorique with scorn. "Listen to me - Adelard Boucher and I worked on the same coasting schooner as boys. He is my friend. That’s where we learned about the river - as deckhands on a schooner, and under sail." "And he rose from that to be captain - " I stopped short – to contrast Captain Boucher's and Captain Gagnon's current commands would not be tactful, but Marjorique was too proud of his old friend’s achievement to be embarrassed at his own failure to equal it, "He went to school in the winters," he explained. "I didn't. When the navigation closed my father used to get a job as cook in a lumber camp up by Lake St. John, and he took me along to help. I never went to school at all. Boucher learned to write and figure, got a job on the river steamers, sat for his examinations, got his papers, and - voila. Now, get the dinghy alongside while I clean myself up, and we will go to the wharf. We must be in good time." "Just a minute," I said. "What happened to Captain Samson?" Marjorique turned in the cabin doorway and shrugged. "I heard the company moved him up to the Great Lakes," he answered vaguely. "Gave him a freighter up there, I believe." When Marjorique reappeared he had on the newer of his two blue caps, and its shiny black peak gleamed in the afternoon sun. As I rowed away from the Marsouin I found, myself looking back at her and thinking how old and dingy she looked. From her old-fashioned perpendicular stem a new coat of white paint extended aft to a little beyond amidships. Then the paint and the ready cash had run out together and last year's weathered coat extended to the stern. Out beyond the mouth of the bay I could see the Orleans looming up, glistening white, her tiers of decks making her look like a great sea-going wedding-cake. I stole a glance at Marjorique. He was puffing at his pipe, and there was a look of happy anticipation on his face. Captain Boucher was a great man, and Captain Boucher was his friend. This was his great day. We left the dinghy tied to the rung of a ladder and climbed onto the wharf. There was quite a crowd, mostly French-Canadian villagers, it being too early in the season for many summer residents to have arrived. There were a few cars, quite a number of horse-drawn carriages for the tourists, and the hotel bus. The Orleans gave three blasts on her deep siren as she neared the wharf. In the port wing of her bridge I could see the head and shoulders of her captain as he prepared to dock his ship. The currents round the Tadoussac wharf run strongly, and I wondered what sort of a job he would make of it. Marjorique must have guessed my thoughts. “Just you watch this,” he said, and moved to the head of the gangway slip, where he could see everything. The Orleans came in fast - too fast, I thought, for ahead of the wharf the water shoaled suddenly. I looked up to see the stern, bronzed face of her captain peering down over the canvas dodger at the bridge end. His arm moved behind him and I could hear the engine-room telegraph jangle deep within the ship. She shuddered as her screws reversed; she slowed and stopped. She was so close to the wharf that her deckhands did not have to throw their lines - they just handed them to the men waiting to put them on the bollards. Captain Boucher gave her a kick forward on her spring line to bring her gangway port opposite the slip, and, still not deigning to look down at his telegraph, he rang "Finished with Engines". It was more like a train coming into a platform than a three hundred foot ship docking. Marjorique said nothing. He just looked at me, and the hand pulling at his straggly, iron-grey moustache failed to hide his smile. I looked up again at the bridge. Captain Boucher was still there, looking down at the crowds on the wharf. The gold leaves on his cap brim and the four gold rings on his sleeves caught the sun. He wore a stiff wing collar which added immeasurably to the dignity of that stern, handsome face above it. Then he turned and went into the wheelhouse. Soon he would come ashore to have a word with the wharf agent. Suddenly I realized that Marjorique was no longer happy. Now that the meeting was imminent he was nervous. Perhaps he had suddenly realized the great gulf between that starched and braided figure and the captain of the old yawl Marsouin . Nervous or not, he stood his ground at the head of the gangway slip, and I could understand how recognition from the great Captain Boucher would add to his importance in the village. The passengers had already come ashore, and now, between the hand-trucks unloading freight. Captain Boucher stalked across the gangway and up the slip towards us, his eyes ranging over the crowd. As he came close his cold, impersonal glance swept from Marjorique's blue cap over the frayed blue sweater, stained overall trousers, and down to the broken shoes, but the expression of his eyes did not change. I felt rather than saw Marjorique make an almost imperceptible move towards the captain - then his nerve failed him, he froze, and Boucher had gone. I tried to look as if the upperworks of the Orleans had been holding my undivided attention for some time, and my heart felt sick. At length Marjorique spoke. "Let's get back to work," he said, and walked away towards the dinghy. About three weeks later, in thick fog, the Marsouin put out from the wharf at Riviere du Loup on the South Shore to cross to Tadoussac. A party bound for the Maritimes and anxious to catch the Ocean Limited had chartered the yawl the day before to take them across the St.Lawrence and so save them a roundabout trip via the ferry higher up the river. We had spent the night alongside the wharf, and in the morning set out, fog or no fog, for there was a fishing party waiting for us in Tadoussac. Ahead, midway across the twenty-one mile breadth of the river, the White Island Lightship’s foghorn wailed - two short blasts separated by three seconds and then what seemed to me, as I steered towards the distant sound, an interminable interval of eighty-two seconds. To the eastwards Green Island’s explosive fog signal put a full stop to my thoughts every fifteen minutes with its thudding report. There was a freighter apparently feeling her way down the South Channel between us and the long spine of White Island Reef, and the note of her minute-spaced blasts was rather similar to that of the lightship. After a while I called Marjorique, who was cleaning up the cabin and getting it ready for his next guests, and told him about the freighter. He listened carefully for a few minutes. "She will pass well ahead of us," he said at length. "Can you sail any closer to the wind?" “Not without luffing,” I answered, for the light northeaster that had brought the fog seemed to be coming to us almost from the lightship. "Hold her as she is, then," said Marjorique. "Tide's still falling and should carry us far enough down to pass below the lightship." He was just going back through the cabin hatch when another whistle, deeper and more distant, held him. "River boat coming up the North Channel," he interpreted. "She's fast - she'll pass ahead of us too." Then he went below. I sailed on, listening to the doleful concert of the three ships ahead of us, and shivering as the cold clamminess of the fog worked through my heavy sweater. Our lung-operated horn lay within reach but I knew that blowing it was a waste of breath until a ship got really close. Marjorique was right, as usual. The river boat cut across our bows first, about two miles ahead of us, and seemed to be maintaining a good speed in spite of the fog. A few minutes later the freighter crossed our bows, perhaps a thousand yards ahead. I was trying to gauge the nearness of the lightship's blasts when suddenly I realized that there had been no sound from the river boat for several minutes. Then she blew - once, twice, and on and on. Marjorique popped up from the cabin like a ground-hog from its burrow and tensed, listening. In my excitement I let the Marsouin's head come up into the wind and her mainsail flapped loudly. Without a word the captain took the tiller and got her sailing again. Then he spoke. "She’s aground. She must have confused that freighter's blast upstream from her with the lightship's. Get up forward and watch for the lightship." I ran forward over the wet deck, climbed right out on the bowsprit and hung on by the jib-stay. The lightship’s signal was close ahead now, and suddenly I heard a man's voice shout something. A grey blur in the fog changed to the red hull of the vessel and I shouted to Marjorique and pointed. I could read the big white letters on her sides - "White Island Reef, No. 5" - as we passed downstream from her. A man appeared at her stern. "She’s piled up on the reef," he shouted. "Which boat?" demanded Marjorique. "The Orleans, I guess," came the reply. "It’s her day to go up." I looked back at Marjorique. He was gazing at the luff of the main, and his face was unreadable. Neither of us had mentioned the Orleans since that meeting on the Tadoussac wharf, and I had no idea what his feelings were. Then he put the helm up and started the sheets. The Marsouin’s head swung upstream and with the wind on her quarter she bucked the falling tide. The distress signal ahead had ceased, but occasionally some indefinable noise came through the fog, a hollow rumbling, a metallic clang. Later, I heard a faint shout and a fainter reply, and then I suddenly realized that I had been hearing for some time a sound of rushing water - the outlet from pumps, perhaps - and now this was loud and close. "There she is," I cried, and her great tiered stern, listing a little, loomed out of the fog on our port bow. "Get the mainsail in," shouted Marjorique, turning the Marsouin up into the wind, and as I ran to let go the halliards I saw in black letters on the white stern: Orleans of Montreal. The heavy gaff of the main swayed down, the old blocks squealing their pain, and I hastily secured the folds of grey canvas. Marjorique let the yawl come about under jib and jigger and we ghosted alongside the Orleans , lowering the two small sails as we went. I fended off with a boathook and we brought up gently alongside a gangway port. Passengers, portly in lifebelts, stared down at us from their boat stations on A and B decks, and were strangely quiet. The Third Officer appeared above us and Marjorique Gagnon hailed him. "Any­thing you want us to do?" The officer shrugged. "We’ve wirelessed to Quebec. They're sending salvage tugs, and the St. Simeon ferry is on her way to take off the passengers. She ought to be here in an hour, the tugs not for six. You got an engine in that yawl?" Marjorique told him we had. "You might take the passengers to the ferry," suggested the officer. "Tide’ll be dead low when she gets here and she won’t be able to come alongside. We could use our boats, but they have no power. I'll speak to the captain." By the time the ferry felt her way up to us through the fog with many questioning toots of her whistle and guided by jangles from the Orleans ' bell, the tide was out and the river boat was higher and drier than when we had found her. She had a pronounced list to port, away from us, and her bow, fast on the reef, was much higher than her stern. We loaded passengers from the lowest deck at the stern of the river boat and ferried them over to the tubby little steamer that drifted outside the five fathom line. Some of the passengers were frightened and quiet, others excited and noisy. Many of them tried their school-book French on me and I amused myself by replying in good French-Canadian and finally bidding them good-bye in perfect English. We made nine trips before the job was done, and the ferryboat steamed off for shore and safety. We tied up to the Orleans ’ stern again and Marjorique went aboard while I found myself something to eat. Then I dug out a chart and "The St.Lawrence River Pilot" from under a bunk. Marjorique had never been known to look at either of them, but regulations forced him to carry them whether he could read or not. I looked up our position and learned that the reef was a narrow ridge of slate three and a half miles long and three cables wide at its widest part....that the tidal streams set very strongly onto and over the reef, and should be carefully guarded against. I was trying to figure out what this would mean to the Orleans , when Marjorique returned and put the whole situation in a nutshell. "She’s in a spot," he said, shaking his head. "Her engine-room’s flooded - or was after she struck, and they had to draw her fires. It will be flooded again when the tide rises a bit more. She went on the reef at about three-quarter ebb, and when the tide gets above that again the currents are liable to slide her astern into deep water. Then she’ll sink, as her forward bulkhead is smashed." "How about the salvage tugs?" I asked. "They can’t get here much before high water. Unless he can hold her on the reef there may be nothing to salvage by then." "Wouldn’t his anchors hold him?" "Not unless they were away out ahead of him, on the far slope of the reef." I noted that our change from feminine to masculine pronouns showed that we were both thinking of Captain Boucher rather than of his ship. "Couldn't we carry them out for him?" I asked. Marjorique shook his head. "Those anchors weigh two or more tons each," he said. "You going to lift 'em aboard and then throw them in?" He paused, thinking. Then he suddenly took his pipe from his mouth and stared at me. "By gosh - it could be done though. Lower an anchor into one of his lifeboats, we tow it across the reef, and sink the lifeboat. He takes up the strain on his cable...." "How much water over the reef?" I asked. "About four feet now. Deep enough for us to cross in another hour." "Well, let's go and suggest it," I said. Marjorique looked at me hard. "Let the great Adelard Boucher think it out for himself," he said harshly. "He's the captain who never goes wrong, isn't he?" "Well, he went wrong this morning." Marjorique muttered something to the effect that I ought to know by now that pilots steered those ships, not the captain. "I'm going below to get some food," he added, and went. It seemed to me that whatever Boucher did it was at someone else's expense - there was Captain Samson, and the former master of the Orleans , and now, perhaps, the pilot. I sat in the cockpit and wondered whether, if Marjorique did get the Orleans ' anchors out, he would net any salvage money. Then the expression of Marjorique’s face as Boucher passed him by on the wharf came into my mind and made it up for me, and I clambered aboard the listing Orleans. Making my way forward I passed through her deserted lobby and up her carpeted stairs, coming out on deck at the bow, below the wheel-house. Captain Boucher, as impeccably dressed as ever and even more stern, was standing in front of the wheel-house in conference with his First Officer, who looked at me in surprise. "Who are you?" he demanded. "I’m from the yawl that took your passengers to the ferry," I explained in English. "I want to speak to the captain." "Well?" said Boucher. My heart was in my mouth, but I plunged into speech. "Marjorique - my captain - says your ship may be in trouble when the tide comes up. She may slide into deep water and sink. You know that, of course, sir. Well - we could get your anchors out ahead, sir - " and I stumblingly suggested our idea. Boucher said nothing when I finished but looked at the mate. Then he spoke. "Would our boats carry that weight?" The mate made a swift calculation aloud. "Thirty persons, average a hundred and fifty - that’s forty-five hundred pounds, two and a half tons - yes, sir, I think they would. But we have no steam for the winches." "We can pay out, though," said the captain. "If she slides astern she will take up the strain herself. They may hold her." He turned to me. "Good idea. Take your yawl round to the port bow." "There’s one thing, sir," I stalled. "My captain is Marjorique Gagnon. He sailed with you on a schooner as a boy. A few weeks ago he met you on the Tadoussac wharf and you didn't recognize him. If you yourself would go aboard the yawl and ask him to do this job, and show that you remember him, he - well, he'd do it." Captain Boucher stared at me hard for several moments and then turned to the mate and spoke quickly in French. "You know anything about this man and his boat?" "I've often seen it in Tadoussac and up the Saguenay. One of those old-fashioned yawls. He takes parties out for fishing and such. Been on the river for years." Boucher seemed lost in thought for a moment, murmuring "Marjorique Gagnon" half under his breath. When he swung back to me he was almost smiling. "Come along, young man. I remember your captain." As he swung down the ladder he gave an order to the mate. "Launch two boats from the port side." When we boarded the Marsouin Marjorique was still below. I called him up. "Salut, Marjorique!" greeted Boucher and held out his hand towards the surprised little man. "It’s a long time, a long time. We've both got old, eh, my friend?" Marjorique's toothless grin and the light in his bleary eyes made a lump come into my throat. He wiped his right hand on his thigh, shook hands, and could not speak. “I wonder if you'd do a job for me. Captain Gagnon - tow my anchors out over the reef?" went on the captain. "Well, of course!" cried Marjorique, and he threw me a look of triumph. "So you remember those days in the old St. Pierre du Nord, Adelard?" "She was a good schooner," said Boucher. "They don't build 'em like that any more." "By gosh, no!" said Marjorique. "In those days we had to sail, and we had no diesel engines to help us when the tide turned or the wind fell. That's what made sailors of us,..." His mind returned reluctantly to the present, and he swung to me. "Cast off the lines." "Round to the port side," said Boucher, boarding his own ship. "There should be water for your draught over the reef by now." The old truck engine coughed into life and we went round the Orleans ' stern. The wind had backed to the north and the fog was blowing away, but there was as yet little sea. One lifeboat was already under the port anchor and a man at the brakes of the anchor winch slacked off slowly. By the time the anchor came to rest on the floorboards only half the lifeboat’s freeboard showed above water. We lashed the Marsouin fast alongside the boat and then eased forward. The heavy cable clanked from the hawsepipe link by link and trailed us in an increasing sag. I swung the sounding lead and we crossed the ridge of the reef with two feet under our keel. As the water deepened Marjorique held the yawl in position against the drag of the chain with her engine running slowly. The lifeboat was a steel one, but fitted with drainage plugs. I jumped aboard and knocked them out, and she started to fill. As her weight gradually pulled the yawl over towards her I cut the lashings with an axe and the lifeboat went down with a rush, the drag of chain over her gunwale turning her over as she went. We heard the clash of the anchor on the stones below, and then the buoyancy tanks of the capsized lifeboat brought her wallowing to the surface, bottom up. We took her in tow and returned to the Orleans . The starboard anchor was harder - the Orleans ' list to port made it impossible to lower it straight into the boat, but Boucher's men did the best they could. We angled our way out off the starboard bow with the lopsided lifeboat, but before we had crossed the reef the drag of the chain and the off-centre weight in the lifeboat burst the lashings and dumped the anchor on the height of the reef. The salvage tugs were visible, ten miles up the river, black smoke streaming southwards from their fat funnels. Before they came up an eddy from the strengthened flood tide in the North Channel swung the Orlean's stern downstream. We could hear her port anchor drag and then dig in solidly on the upward slope across the reef. As the bow swung grindingly towards deep water the massive chain tautened - and held. Marjorique swore beautifully in his enthusiasm, and Captain Boucher shouted a cheer down from the bridge. Then the tugs came up, crowded with reporters, and took over. Marjorique thought of the fishing party that would be cursing our absence, and went below to start the motor up again. As we turned away from the Orleans he waved to the figure on her bridge, but Captain Boucher was already in conference with the tug captains, and did not notice the salute. I went and stood beside Marjorique at the tiller. "You might get some of the salvage for that job," I suggested. "You should put in a claim." He looked at me in scorn as he rammed tobacco into his black pipe. "I did not do that job for the steamship company," he said emphatically. “I did it for my old friend, Adelard Boucher." "But the salvage claims will be paid by the insurance company," I urged. "It will not hurt Captain Boucher or his company, and you could get some of the stuff you need for the Marsouin - paint, and new canvas, and perhaps even a new engine...." Marjorique said nothing for a moment, and his eyes moved here and there over the shabby gear of the old yawl, perhaps envisioning her as she might look if he could give her the extensive overhaul she had needed for years. Then he spoke. "Listen: Adelard Boucher is a great captain and an important man. I am - well, you know what I am. But he remembered me after all these years - he is still my friend. I cannot make money from his misfortune - that is not the part of friendship." His tone of voice invited no argument. That autumn, in a Quebec paper, I came across an account of the enquiry into the grounding of the Orleans. Captain Boucher, I noted, had been absolved of all blame and commended for his seamanship in the crisis. His pilot had lost his certificate. One part of the account sticks in my memory. Salvage claims were being considered and Boucher, under oath, was being questioned by the steamship company’s representative. "Captain Boucher, the company felt that the captain of the small yawl which rendered some assistance at the time of the accident to your ship should receive some of the salvage money, although he had entered no claim. We got in touch with him, and he refused to put forward any claim on the grounds that anything he had done was a matter of friendship between him and you. You knew this Captain Gagnon?" "It seems he once worked in the same ship with me," Boucher was reported as replying. "To tell the truth, I had completely forgotten him. At the time of the accid­ent I pretended to remember him - you know how one does - to avoid embarrassment, but I still find myself quite unable to recall him." I was glad that Marjorique Gagnon never looked at a paper. Perhaps, I thought, it was a good thing after all that he had never learned to read. The End (Short Story 4400 words - unpublished) Dead Reckoning by Lewis Evans ARM in arm, Lawrence and Jane Stewart were circling the promenade deck trying to walk off the effects of overeating at dinner, when the preliminary crackle of the public address system brought them to a halt. “Passengers are informed -” began the Deck Steward's voice, lacking something of its usual casual confidence, “passengers are informed that owing to the heavy fog the ship is coming to anchor in the shelter of Egg island.” There was a pause during which the loudspeaker crackled drily and the engine-room telegraph jangled in the distance. “The double flash you see every few seconds off our starboard bow is the Egg Island lighthouse. Seven Islands, our next port of call, is forty-five miles farther along the North Shore, and the ship is expected to arrive there tomorrow morning.” There was a final crackle and the speaker went dead. “Well, that won’t put us much off schedule,” commented Lawrence. “If it hadn't been for the fog we would have been there now, and we'd have stayed tied up to the wharf till tomorrow morning anyway. There's the light he mentioned - see it?” “I thought they didn't have to bother about fog nowadays,” said his wife. “Haven't they got radar and all that sort of thing?” “Yes, they have. But as it is the Tenth Province's maiden trip I guess they’re being especially careful. Look - you can just see the outline of the island - below the lighthouse. See the spray driving across it? These northeasters always bring thick weather in the Gulf. Golly, what a bleak hunk of rock! Come on - let's walk or we'll catch cold.” He swung Jane away from the rail and they stamped on around the deck. Suddenly she chuckled. “What are you laughing at?” he demanded. “Do you realize,” said Jane, “that this is the first stop since we left Quebec that the Deck Steward hasn't given us a lecture on the history of the place?” Lawrence grinned. As an employee of a Newfoundland pulp and paper company he had to make the St. Lawrence trip frequently, and derived a sort of amusement from the historical sketches given over the P.A. system of the Line's ships - part of a policy to popularize these cruises down the St. Lawrence to Canada's newest province. “I guess this stop caught him with his guidebook down,” he said. “Egg Island - I seem to remember something about it -” He broke off as the loudspeakers crackled again. “Oh-oh - he's looked it up, and here it comes.” “Passengers are reminded,” the Deck Steward announced smoothly, “that there will be 'horse-racing' in the Lounge at 8.30, and later in the evening there will be dancing.” “You can hardly call that an historical sketch,” said Jane. “I guess the island's too small to have any history.” “Egg Island - Ile aux Oeufs -” muttered her husband. “I can't help feeling there is something about it, something tragic or sinister. Maybe they aren't mentioning it on purpose, in case they frighten the passengers.” “Nonsense,” said Jane. “Let's go in and lose some money on the horses. I'm getting cold.” * * * * * DAWN in the Gulf meant danger in 1711, and Capitaine Joseph Paradis had two lookouts posted aloft before the first grey light appeared over the horizon beyond which lay the vast wastes of Newfoundland. Thus it was that as soon as visibility had extended to a range of three leagues a hail from the main truck warned him that a ship had been sighted at that distance to the south and east. Instantly he ordered the helmsman to put the patache Ste. Croix about, and to run to the north before the dawn breeze, but even as she squared away the lookout called down to the deck that the ship was wearing round and setting studding sails in pursuit. As the light increased Capitaine Paradis climbed the shrouds and took a long look at his pursuer, and as he looked his heart sank. She was English - he could tell by the lines of her hull - and she was a ship of war, for no English merchantman would have business that far inside the Gulf. She would overhaul his little vessel in a matter of hours, if the breeze held, and there was no sign of the only thing that would make escape possible – fog. Two hours later a puff of white smoke, like a new sail suddenly set with astonishing speed, appeared at the bows of the ship astern, and the thud of the cannon reached him just as a great splash erupted in the Ste. Croix's wake. Capitaine Paradis shrugged, gave a final glance around the horizon in a last hope for a miracle of fog, and ordered the patache hove to. The man-of-war came up into the wind a cable’s length away, with a great slatting of topsails and creaking of yards, and even as Capitaine Paradis spelt out the name Chester amid the gilt scrollwork of her stern, her gig was got away and pulled for the French vessel. Paradis met the English lieutenant at the break of the poop. “Lieutenant Parker, at your service, of Her Britannic Majesty’s ship Chester ,” announced the officer in tolerable French. “The compliments of Captain Popham, and will you come aboard.” This was hardly what Paradis expected. Usually, he had heard, the first to board a ship that offered no resistance was a prize crew, and the best that he and his men could look forward to was being battened below the hatches to make the voyage to England's Atlantic seaboard colonies on the wet coldness of the ballast. Perhaps, he thought, as he went over the side and dropped into the sternsheets of the gig, perhaps they did not consider his little vessel worth manning as a prize. In that case he would have expected a curt order to take to his boats, and the Ste. Croix to be set afire, or scuttled by a charge set in her bilges to blow the bottom out of her. The gig leapt over the water separating the two vessels, and Paradis was still wondering as she rounded to smartly under the Chester's main chains. He followed the lieutenant as he scrambled over the bulwark. As he made his way aft through the ship’s waist he saw the gun crews standing to their pieces, and, noting the weight of the guns he passed, he calculated that the Chester could reduce the Ste. Croix to splinters with one broadside. Lieutenant Parker waited at the top of the poop ladder for him to come abreast, and presented him to the captain of the Chester . “I congratulate you on your good sense, monsieur,” said Captain Popham in French so precise and carefully accented that Paradis suspected that he had been rehearsing the speech aloud as the gig approached. “By rounding to when you did you no doubt saved a number of lives. By showing further good sense you may save your vessel. We English have need of a pilot who is thoroughly familiar with the St.Lawrence, both river and gulf. If you are competent and willing to act in that capacity your vessel may proceed unharmed, and you will be paid five hundred pistoles for your services.” There was a pause. “And otherwise?” asked Paradis. Popham's eyes flickered to the gun crews in the waist. “Otherwise your ship will be destroyed forthwith,” he stated, “without opportunity to get her boats away.” “And I?” “You will he hanging from the main royal yard when we intercept the next vessel that may supply us with the pilot we need.” Paradis shrugged. “You make it difficult to refuse,” he said. He was thinking furiously. They would not dare the river with one ship. Somewhere below the horizon there must be a fleet. As a young man Joseph Paradis had manned the barricades of Quebec and watched Admiral Phips' expedition attack and ingloriously retire. Lately there had been rumours of another attempt on the part of the Colonies, aided by Old England, to oust the French from the St. Lawrence and so squeeze out their Indian allies whose scalping parties raided northern Massachusetts, Connecticut and New York. A fleet against Quebec! Well, he could not do anything to stop it if he were hanging at the Chester's yard arm, but if he agreed - the Ste. Croix, perhaps, would carry warning up the river, and as pilot - well, the St. Lawrence was full of reefs and cross-currents.... he wondered if the five hundred pistoles were to be paid in advance. “I will pilot you,” he said. Even as he spoke his mind told him that there was something in the arrangement that did not make sense, and even before Popham replied he knew what it was - the English in letting the Ste. Croix go must realize that she could give warning of their presence, and yet they had offered to let her proceed. Either they intended to break their agreement, or they were not afraid of a forewarned enemy, which argued an attack in great force. “Very good,” said the captain. “Lieutenant Parker will arrange quarters for you. I hope you will be comfortable.” “There are charts aboard my ship that are vital,” said Paradis. “I request permission to return for them.” It would be a chance to tell his crew what he had guessed of the situation. “Lieutenant Parker will have them brought aboard, if you will tell him where they are,” said Captain Popham coldly, and he turned away. So he was not to have an opportunity to speak to his crew again, but he realized that he must carry his bluff through. “My chest contains the things I need; it is in the cabin aft,” said Paradis. “If you will be so good as to have it brought -” He hoped that Parker would not force it for inspection, for it contained nothing but a change of clothes and other personal gear. There were no charts in it, nor would he have needed them if there were. After thirty years of fishing for cod in the Gulf and trading for furs along the North Shore, Joseph Paradis' grizzled, bearded head was full of knowledge of the river, of depths and shoals, of harbours and channels, of cross-currents and reefs. If any man could pilot a fleet safely to Quebec, he was that man. But, he wondered, was he man enough to prevent a fleet from reaching that heart of New France? The gig was returning with his chest, and the Ste. Croix sheeted home her jibs and fell away towards the north. Paradis glanced along the gun crews below him in the Chester's waist, but there was no sign that they intended to open fire. He looked again after his little vessel and wondered when he would see her again. Her helmsman raised an arm in farewell, and Paradis waved his cap. Then Lieutenant Parker was at his side, and ready to show him to his quarters. Two mornings later, on the 18th day of August, the Chester , surging along before a brisk northwestery raised the topsails of an English fleet beating laboriously northward toward the tip of Gaspé. Signal flags broke out, stiff in the breeze, as she made her report to the flagship, and almost immediately coloured bunting at the flagship’s trucks ordered the fleet to anchor in the shelter of Gaspé Bay. J oseph Paradis climbed a few yards up the mizzen shrouds of the Chester to survey the anchorage, and his heart sank. He could identify eight or nine ships of war, two vessels which he easily recognized by their rig as bomb ketches, for they had the appearance of a ship with her foremast missing, and no less than fifty craft of all rigs and sizes which he took to be transports for the military - and stragglers were still beating into the bay. No wonder, he thought, that the Chester had not prevented the Ste. Croix from carrying a warning to Quebec - there must be half as many fighting men in the expedition as there were souls all told in New France. He took off his woolen cap and ran fingers through a mop of iron grey hair. What could one man do against so great a fleet? Even if he succeeded in wrecking one or two ships, the rest would sheer off and save themselves. The best he could hope for was a chance to weaken the expedition. When he was ordered to accompany Captain Popham on a visit to the flagship Paradis was still without any semblance of a plan, and he sat in the sternsheets with his head bowed and such a preoccupied expression that Popham, resplendent in his number one uniform, mistook his attitude for one of despair. “Come, sir,” he said, stumbling over the French. “Things are not so bad. The admiral will not eat you.” “They say he has little stomach for eating anything, while he's at sea,” remarked Lieutenant Parker, at the steering oar, eyeing his captain alertly to see how he would take this impertinence. Popham grinned. “What a pair! The admiral was chosen by the general, and the general was chosen by Her Majesty because his sister, Mrs. Masham, is the current favourite at court. I hope Brigadier Hill knows more about leading the army than Walker knows about manoeuvering a fleet.” Suddenly he seemed to realize that he was being too frank with his junior. “Take that grin off your face and attend to your steering,” he snapped. “D'ye want to ram the flagship?” Joseph Paradis, who had traded now and then with peaceful English ships on the cod fisheries, caught enough to gather that Popham, whom he had seen to be a most competent seaman, had a low opinion of the admiral. Perhaps, then, the latter was not a competent seaman. It was up to him, thought Paradis, to establish that fact first - then perhaps he could see better what to do. The question was how he could find out. Sideboys manned the bulwark as Captain Popham went up the ladder, and bosuns’ pipes squealed. Paradis was told to wait in the draughty darkness of the half-deck while Popham was ushered into the great cabin aft. Other officers went in and out, and once there was great ceremony of bringing lanterns to light the half-deck and saluting of sentries and bowing of officers as a tall man in white knee breeches and wide skirted red coat and a full curling periwig came stooping under the deck beams. “Brigadier Hill,” Paradis heard an officer announce to those in the cabin, and there was a scraping of chairs as they rose to greet him. Paradis guessed that this dandy was the commander of the military side of the expedition. An hour passed, and the captains began to take their leave. Finally Paradis was called for. The great cabin was filled with tobacco smoke and the fumes of wine. At the head of the table sat a thin man in a splendid coat of blue brocade and a profusion of white lace at wrists and throat. He addressed himself to Paradis in adequate French, but his voice has like himself, reedy and thin, and the French pilot could hardly imagine him as an impressive figure on a quarterdeck in half a gale - or even in a flat calm, if it came to that. “I am Admiral Sir Hovenden Walker,” announced the little man. “I understand from the Captain of the Chester that you are willing and able to pilot this fleet to Quebec.” “Yes, monsieur,” said Paradis. “We will proceed as soon as this cursed northerly shifts,” went on the admiral. “Now tell me, are we likely to encounter much ice?” “None at all, sir,” said Paradis, taken aback. Ice in August! The odd berg off the Newfoundland coast, perhaps .... he wondered if he might not have misled the admiral on this point, but it was too late now. If they thought that they must have very little first hand knowledge of the river. His mind kept harking back to this as the admiral instructed him to transfer aboard the flagship, the Edgar , and traced on a chart the route he proposed to follow into the Gulf, a course closely parallelling the line of the South Shore. “It would be better to sail more in mid-river,” suggested Paradis. “There is a current flowing seaward along the Gaspé coast.” “A current? A strong current?” “It sometimes runs as much as three knots,” said Paradis. The admiral stared at his chart, and then at the pilot. Finally he turned to Hill, but that gentleman merely shrugged and poured himself another glass. “Preposterous!” exploded Walker, as though the pilot had invented the current just to annoy him. “We will follow this course, I tell you, until the river narrows and both shores may be seen.” Evidently he was a seaman who preferred to stay in sight of land, or else he did not wish to entrust the fleet to the Frenchman's navigation. The interview was ended, but Paradis felt he must make trial of the admiral's mettle. The subject of ice still seemed a possibility. “You have made provision, sir, to secure your ships against the ice in the winter, after you have taken Quebec?” asked Paradis. “What do the French do?” asked the admiral. “The large ships return to France,” said Paradis, “and the small ones we haul out.” “Can we not leave them moored in some sheltered spot?” “The water freezes clear to the bottom of the river,” stated Paradis boldly. “One hundred fathoms of solid ice. Your ships will be crushed.” Walker stared at Hill aghast. The latter shrugged. “Your problem,” he stated. “I hope to be comfortably on dry land at that time.” There was no doubt that the admiral believed the pilot's fantasy of the ice, and no doubt, thought Paradis, that he would believe almost anything. Paradis left the cabin deep in thought. If the admiral insisted on hugging the Gaspé coast and bucking the Gaspé Current there was little scope for him - that coast was clear of reefs and hidden dangers as far as Bic Island. The North Shore, however, was foul with small islands and reefs and shoals, and had he been given a free hand he would have led the fleet along that coast where an opportunity of damaging it might have presented itself. As it was, he could only pray for thick weather, and make what advantage he could of that. He was roused from his thoughts by Lieutenant Parker's voice. “I have brought your charts over, monsieur,” said the young man. “The captain says you are to remain aboard the Edgar .” “My charts? Ah, my sea-chest. Thank you,” said Paradis, and went to find his new quarters. Two mornings later the wind hauled into the east, and after weighing anchor and doubling Cape Gaspé the fleet had it on the port beam. This made the coast, which here trended northward, a lee shore, and Admiral Sir Hovenden Walker did not like the look of his proposed course. “Haul to the windward and give us an offing,” he demanded of his captain, Paddon, and the Edgar was swung a few points to eastward, followed by the rest of the fleet. The admiral turned to Paradis. “Now start earning your money,” he said. “You are to follow the south shore of the river at a distance of three leagues offshore,” and he went below. As the Gaspé coast faded out of sight in the wads of fog with which the easterly was plugging the great river mouth, Paradis' mind's eye ranged over the chart in his head. If he kept the fleet on this course he would soon be in mid-river, for the Gaspé shore trended away to the west, and if then he sailed westward, because of the sudden narrowing of the river at Pointe des Monts, he would meet the North Shore, where anything might happen. The question was whether the admiral of the Edgar's captain knew enough to doubt his course. That night and the following, the 21st, Admiral Walker insisted that the fleet be hove to, bows to the southward, and lookouts posted forward and aloft to warn the fleet at the first glimpse of the South Shore, which Paradis maintained was just beyond the range of visibility. Through the day of the 22nd the fleet surged on to the westward, and the wind strengthened and the fog thickened. At eight in the evening the signal was again made to heave to, bows to the southward, and Paradis, knowing full well that they must be within a couple of leagues of the North Shore, smiled in his beard as he suggested to the admiral that lookouts be doubled, so afraid was he of forereaching onto the dangerous South Shore, which was in reality seventy miles away. It was 10.30 that night, with the easterly still howling through the shrouds and driving scuds of broken wrack, through which the moon from time to time broke to gleam on the crests of heavy seas, that a lookout in the Edgar's main top screamed the one word – “Land!” Captain Paddon, on the quarterdeck, cursed as he made out breaking seas to leeward of the ship, and sent for the admiral. Paradis clung to the lee rail and waited for another gleam of moonlight to verify his suspicions and hopes. It came, brief and uncertain, but it showed him a low, treeless hump in the sea - Ile aux Oeufs - and already the Edgar must be in the shoal waters northeast of the island. There was nothing he could do. He had brought the fleet into danger, and the rest was up to the admiral. If, he thought, the admiral is a seaman he will size up the situation and bring the fleet off to windward. If he is the man I think he is, he will assume that this is the South Shore, and he will order the fleet northward - seaward, as he thinks. The officer returned alone. “The admiral is turning in,” he reported. “He says to make signal to the fleet to wear and bring to, bows to the northward, so that their forereaching will give them an offing off the South Shore.” The signal was made, and the Edgar herself rolled around. A great sea burst into an acre of foam a cable’s length ahead of the ship, and Paradis found his arm clutched by Goddard, a captain in Seymour’s Regiment, part of which was aboard the Edgar . “There are breakers all round us!” he cried. “You had better call the admiral again,” suggested the pilot. “There seems to be some error in our course.” He felt that if anyone could get the fleet into worse trouble Sir Hovenden Walker was the man. Goddard was off below on the run, and Paradis heard Captain Paddon issuing orders to let go the anchors in an attempt to keep the Edgar off the shoals. A gun boomed to northward, and Paradis guessed that other ships of the fleet were beginning to find the reefs. The admiral, shivering in a flapping boat-cloak, appeared on the quarterdeck just as the roar of chain from forward told of the first anchor being let go. He took one look at the breaking seas to leeward and gave his first sensible order. “Cut that cable,” he shrieked. “Cut and beat to windward.” Paddon shrugged and thundered the command, and the Edgar worked slowly round. Other guns boomed their helplessness and lights waved and flashed. Shouts and screams rode on the wind, and dimly in the intervals of moonlight could be seen ships, their masts at crazy angles, and the seas sweeping their decks from end to end. It began to look as if the Edgar might make her offing, as she had worked beyond the breakers, and to leeward now was the narrow channel between Egg Island and the North Shore. Joseph Paradis felt that his job was done, and low as was his opinion of the admiral, he did not relish another interview. He quietly slipped down the ladder to the waist. He groped about between the gun carriages but could not find anything to his purpose. He ran to his quarters and came back with his chest. It was a good, stout, watertight box, and should support him nobly in his bid for the mainland. He dumped its contents under the poop ladder, and, heaving the chest over the lee rail, slid over after it. * * * * * The Tenth Province's chain clanked slowly through the hawsepipe, and her screws turned slowly to hold her position in the sheltered channel between Egg Island and the North Shore. A misty sun shone over the rocky island, the white lighthouse with its vertical red stripe, and the breaking seas which were the only evidence of last night’s storm. The public address system hummed, crackled, and spoke. “First sitting for breakfast is now being served. The ship is expected to arrive at Seven Islands at 11 a.m. Egg Island, which we are now leaving to starboard - “ "He has looked it up,” chuckled Lawrence Stewart to his wife on their way from their cabin to the saloon. “Shush - listen,” she said. “....where Admiral Walker's expedition against Quebec was wrecked in 1711. The Admiral lost some nine ships and over seven hundred men, and the expedition turned back. Seven Islands, situated on Seven Islands Bay...” “I knew there was some history to Egg Island,” said Lawrence. “I remember now - Walker was about seventy miles off his course. He is supposed to have mistaken the North Shore for the South.” “How could anyone make such a stupid mistake?” said Jane. “Come on – I'm starving.” The End NEXT PAGE I found and copied this from Wikipedia about this expedition. (I guess with this work of fiction now we know what really happened!) This article is about the 1711 Quebec expedition. Henry St. John (later Lord Bolingbroke) organized the expedition Shipwreck summary Date: 22 August 1711 Summary: navigation accident Site: St. Lawrence River Fatalities: about 890 (705 soldiers, 150 sailors, 35 women) Operator: Royal Navy Destination: Quebec, New France The Quebec Expedition, or the Walker Expedition to Quebec, was a British attempt to attack Quebec in 1711 in Queen Anne's War, the North American theatre of the War of Spanish Succession. It failed because of a shipping disaster on the Saint Lawrence River on 22 August 1711, when seven transports and one storeship were wrecked and some 850 soldiers drowned; the disaster was at the time one of the worst naval disasters in British history. The expedition was planned by the administration of Robert Harley, and was based on plans originally proposed in 1708. Harley decided to mount the expedition as part of a major shift in British military policy, emphasizing strength at sea. The expedition's leaders, Admiral Hovenden Walker and Brigadier-General John Hill, were chosen for their politics and connections to the crown, and its plans were kept secret even from the Admiralty. Despite the secrecy, French agents were able to discover British intentions and warn authorities in Quebec. The expedition expected to be fully provisioned in Boston, the capital of colonial Massachusetts, but the city was unprepared when it arrived, and Massachusetts authorities had to scramble to provide even three months' supplies. Admiral Walker also had difficulty acquiring experienced pilots and accurate charts for navigating the waters of the lower Saint Lawrence. The expedition reached the Gulf of Saint Lawrence without incident, but foggy conditions, tricky currents, and strong winds combined to drive the fleet toward the northern shore of the Saint Lawrence near a place now called Pointe-aux-Anglais, where the ships were wrecked. Following the disaster, Walker abandoned the expedition's objectives and returned to England. Although the expedition was a failure, Harley continued to implement his "blue water" policy.

"Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better." Albert Einstein These pages contain images of flora, fauna and feathered friends found in Tadoussac and nearby. One can only enjoy the true ambiance of the region if one notices what is sharing our space. All photos by Anne Evans Belton

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